Effects Of Cross And Self Fertilisation In The Vegetable Kingdom

Effects Of Cross And Self Fertilisation In The Vegetable Kingdom
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Cross and self-fertilisation are interesting concepts. The beauty of nature is very much evident in every living activity in the vegetable kingdom. Self-fertilisation is observed when pollen of the same plant interacts with the ovule. We have such rare instances to state this phenomenon. While trying to understand the qualities developed through such self-fertilisation, it was further inferred that the progeny tends to perform inferior compared to the others. This was experimentally proven. Hybrid combinations have their own speciality being driven from two different species.

The inheritance of qualities from two different plants through cross pollination seems to give better traits in terms of the colour, strength and other aspects related fragrance. Same concept can be assimilated to human beings as well. When an offspring is a culmination of parents who are closely related in the same family though, tend to have traits that are similar to the members in the family.

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The Expression Of The Emotions In Man And Animals

Chapter XIV



The three leading principles which have determined the chief movements
of expression–Their inheritance–On the part which the will and
intention have played in the acquirement of various expressions–
The instinctive recognition of expression–The bearing of our
subject on the specific unity of the races of man–On the successive
acquirement of various expressions by the progenitors of man–
The importance of expression–Conclusion.

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I HAVE now described, to the best of my ability, the chief
expressive actions in man, and in some few of the lower animals.
I have also attempted to explain the origin or development of these
actions through the three principles given in the first chapter.
The first of these principles is, that movements which are serviceable
in gratifying some desire, or in relieving some sensation,
if often repeated, become so habitual that they are performed,
whether or not of any service, whenever the same desire or sensation
is felt, even in a very weak degree.

Our second principle is that of antithesis. The habit of voluntarily
performing opposite movements under opposite impulses has become
firmly established in us by the practice of our whole lives.
Hence, if certain actions have been regularly performed,
in accordance with our first principle, under a certain frame of mind,
there will be a strong and involuntary tendency to the performance
of directly opposite actions, whether or not these are of any use,
under the excitement of an opposite frame of mind.

Our third principle is the direct action of the excited nervous
system on the body, independently of the will, and independently,
in large part, of habit. Experience shows that nerve-force is
generated and set free whenever the cerebro-spinal system is excited.
The direction which this nerve-force follows is necessarily
determined by the lines of connection between the nerve-cells,
with each other and with various parts of the body.
But the direction is likewise much influenced by habit;
inasmuch as nerve-force passes readily along accustomed channels.

The frantic and senseless actions of an enraged man may be attributed
in part to the undirected flow of nerve-force, and in part to the effects
of habit, for these actions often vaguely represent the act of striking.
They thus pass into gestures included under our first principle;
as when an indignant man unconsciously throws himself into a fitting
attitude for attacking his opponent, though without any intention
of making an actual attack. We see also the influence of habit
in all the emotions and sensations which are called exciting;
for they have assumed this character from having habitually led
to energetic action; and action affects, in an indirect manner,
the respiratory and circulatory system; and the latter reacts on the brain.
Whenever these emotions or sensations are even slightly felt by us,
though they may not at the time lead to any exertion, our whole system
is nevertheless disturbed through the force of habit and association.
Other emotions and sensations are called depressing, because they
have not habitually led to energetic action, excepting just at first,
as in the case of extreme pain, fear, and grief, and they have ultimately
caused complete exhaustion; they are consequently expressed chiefly
by negative signs and by prostration. Again, there are other emotions,
such as that of affection, which do not commonly lead to action of any kind,
and consequently are not exhibited by any strongly marked outward signs.
Affection indeed, in as far as it is a pleasurable sensation,
excites the ordinary signs of pleasure.

On the other hand, many of the effects due to the excitement
of the nervous system seem to be quite independent
of the flow of nerve-force along the channels which have
been rendered habitual by former exertions of the will.
Such effects, which often reveal the state of mind of the person
thus affected, cannot at present be explained; for instance,
the change of colour in the hair from extreme terror or grief,–
the cold sweat and the trembling of the muscles from fear,–
the modified secretions of the intestinal canal,–and the failure
of certain glands to act.

Notwithstanding that much remains unintelligible in our present subject,
so many expressive movements and actions can be explained to a certain
extent through the above three principles, that we may hope hereafter
to see all explained by these or by closely analogous principles.

Actions of all kinds, if regularly accompanying any state
of the mind, are at once recognized as expressive.
These may consist of movements of any part of the body,
as the wagging of a dog’s tail, the shrugging of a man’s shoulders,
the erection of the hair, the exudation of perspiration,
the state of the capillary circulation, laboured breathing,
and the use of the vocal or other sound-producing instruments.
Even insects express anger, terror, jealousy, and love
by their stridulation. With man the respiratory organs are
of especial importance in expression, not only in a direct,
but in a still higher degree in an indirect manner.

Few points are more interesting in our present subject
than the extraordinarily complex chain of events which lead
to certain expressive movements. Take, for instance,
the oblique eyebrows of a man suffering from grief or anxiety.
When infants scream loudly from hunger or pain, the circulation
is affected, and the eyes tend to become gorged with blood:
consequently the muscles surrounding the eyes are strongly
contracted as a protection: this action, in the course
of many generations, has become firmly fixed and inherited:
but when, with advancing years and culture, the habit of
screaming is partially repressed, the muscles round the eyes
still tend to contract, whenever even slight distress is felt:
of these muscles, the pyramidals of the nose are less under the control
of the will than are the others and their contraction can be
checked only by that of the central fasciae of the frontal muscle:
these latter fasciae draw up the inner ends of the eyebrows,
and wrinkle the forehead in a peculiar manner, which we
instantly recognize as the expression of grief or anxiety.
Slight movements, such as these just described, or the scarcely
perceptible drawing down of the corners of the mouth, are the last
remnants or rudiments of strongly marked and intelligible movements.
They are as full of significance to us in regard to expression,
as are ordinary rudiments to the naturalist in the classification
and genealogy of organic beings.

That the chief expressive actions, exhibited by man and by
the lower animals, are now innate or inherited,–that is,
have not been learnt by the individual,–is admitted by every one.
So little has learning or imitation to do with several of them that they
are from the earliest days and throughout life quite beyond our control;
for instance, the relaxation of the arteries of the skin in blushing,
and the increased action of the heart in anger. We may see children,
only two or three years old, and even those born blind, blushing from shame;
and the naked scalp of a very young infant reddens from passion.
Infants scream from pain directly after birth, and all their
features then assume the same form as during subsequent years.
These facts alone suffice to show that many of our most important
expressions have not been learnt; but it is remarkable that some,
which are certainly innate, require practice in the individual,
before they are performed in a full and perfect manner; for instance,
weeping and laughing. The inheritance of most of our expressive actions
explains the fact that those born blind display them, as I hear from
the Rev. R. H. Blair, equally well with those gifted with eyesight.
We can thus also understand the fact that the young and the old of widely
different races, both with man and animals, express the same state
of mind by the same movements.

We are so familiar with the fact of young and old animals displaying
their feelings in the same manner, that we hardly perceive how remarkable
it is that a young puppy should wag its tail when pleased, depress its
ears and uncover its canine teeth when pretending to be savage,
just like an old dog; or that a kitten should arch its little back
and erect its hair when frightened and angry, like an old cat.
When, however, we turn to less common gestures in ourselves,
which we are accustomed to look at as artificial or conventional,–
such as shrugging the shoulders, as a sign of impotence, or the raising
the arms with open hands and extended fingers, as a sign of wonder,–
we feel perhaps too much surprise at finding that they are innate.
That these and some other gestures are inherited, we may infer from
their being performed by very young children, by those born blind,
and by the most widely distinct races of man. We should also bear
in mind that new and highly peculiar tricks, in association with certain
states of the mind, are known to have arisen in certain individuals,
and to have been afterwards transmitted to their offspring, in some cases,
for more than one generation.

Certain other gestures, which seem to us so natural that we might
easily imagine that they were innate, apparently have been learnt like
the words of a language. This seems to be the case with the joining
of the uplifted hands, and the turning up of the eyes, in prayer.
So it is with kissing as a mark of affection; but this is innate, in so far
as it depends on the pleasure derived from contact with a beloved person.
The evidence with respect to the inheritance of nodding and shaking
the head, as signs of affirmation and negation, is doubtful; for they
are not universal, yet seem too general to have been independently
acquired by all the individuals of so many races.

We will now consider how far the will and consciousness have come
into play in the development of the various movements of expression.
As far as we can judge, only a few expressive movements, such as those just
referred to, are learnt by each individual; that is, were consciously
and voluntarily performed during the early years of life for some
definite object, or in imitation of others, and then became habitual.
The far greater number of the movements of expression, and all
the more important ones, are, as we have seen, innate or inherited;
and such cannot be said to depend on the will of the individual.
Nevertheless, all those included under our first principle were at
first voluntarily performed for a definite object,–namely, to escape
some danger, to relieve some distress, or to gratify some desire.
For instance, there can hardly be a doubt that the animals which fight
with their teeth, have acquired the habit of drawing back their ears
closely to their heads, when feeling savage, from their progenitors
having voluntarily acted in this manner in order to protect their ears
from being torn by their antagonists; for those animals which do not
fight with their teeth do not thus express a savage state of mind.
We may infer as highly probable that we ourselves have acquired the habit
of contracting the muscles round the eyes, whilst crying gently,
that is, without the utterance of any loud sound, from our progenitors,
especially during infancy, having experienced, during the act of screaming,
an uncomfortable sensation in their eyeballs. Again, some highly
expressive movements result from the endeavour to cheek or prevent other
expressive movements; thus the obliquity of the eyebrows and the drawing
down of the corners of the mouth follow from the endeavour to prevent
a screaming-fit from coming on, or to cheek it after it has come on.
Here it is obvious that the consciousness and will must at first have come
into play; not that we are conscious in these or in other such cases
what muscles are brought into action, any more than when we perform
the most ordinary voluntary movements.

With respect to the expressive movements due to the principle
of antithesis, it is clear that the will has intervened,
though in a remote and indirect manner. So again with the movements
coming under our third principle; these, in as far as they are
influenced by nerve-force readily passing along habitual channels,
have been determined by former and repeated exertions of the will.
The effects indirectly due to this latter agency are often combined in a
complex manner, through the force of habit and association, with those
directly resulting from the excitement of the cerebro-spinal system.
This seems to be the case with the increased action of the heart
under the influence of any strong emotion. When an animal erects
its hair, assumes a threatening attitude, and utters fierce sounds,
in order to terrify an enemy, we see a curious combination of movements
which were originally voluntary with those that are involuntary.
It is, however, possible that even strictly involuntary actions,
such as the erection of the hair, may have been affected by the mysterious
power of the will.

Some expressive movements may have arisen spontaneously,
in association with certain states of the mind, like the
tricks lately referred to, and afterwards been inherited.
But I know of no evidence rendering this view probable.

The power of communication between the members of the same
tribe by means of language has been of paramount importance
in the development of man; and the force of language is much
aided by the expressive movements of the face and body.
We perceive this at once when we converse on an important subject
with any person whose face is concealed. Nevertheless there are
no grounds, as far as I can discover, for believing that any muscle
has been developed or even modified exclusively for the sake
of expression. The vocal and other sound-producing organs,
by which various expressive noises are produced, seem to form
a partial exception; but I have elsewhere attempted to show
that these organs were first developed for sexual purposes,
in order that one sex might call or charm the other.
Nor can I discover grounds for believing that any inherited movement,
which now serves as a means of expression, was at first voluntarily
and consciously performed for this special purpose,–like some
of the gestures and the finger-language used by the deaf and dumb.
On the contrary, every true or inherited movement of expression
seems to have had some natural and independent origin.
But when once acquired, such movements may be voluntarily
and consciously employed as a means of communication.
Even infants, if carefully attended to, find out at a very
early age that their screaming brings relief, and they soon
voluntarily practise it. We may frequently see a person
voluntarily raising his eyebrows to express surprise, or smiling
to express pretended satisfaction and acquiescence. A man often
wishes to make certain gestures conspicuous or demonstrative,
and will raise his extended arms with widely opened fingers
above his head, to show astonishment, or lift his shoulders
to his ears, to show that he cannot or will not do something.
The tendency to such movements will be strengthened or increased
by their being thus voluntarily and repeatedly performed;
and the effects may be inherited.

It is perhaps worth consideration whether movements at first used
only by one or a few individuals to express a certain state
of mind may not sometimes have spread to others, and ultimately
have become universal, through the power of conscious and
unconscious imitation. That there exists in man a strong tendency
to imitation, independently of the conscious will, is certain.
This is exhibited in the most extraordinary manner in certain
brain diseases, especially at the commencement of inflammatory
softening of the brain, and has been called the “echo sign.”
Patients thus affected imitate, without understanding every
absurd gesture which is made, and every word which is uttered
near them, even in a foreign language.[1] In the case of animals,
the jackal and wolf have learnt under confinement to imitate
the barking of the dog. How the barking of the dog, which serves
to express various emotions and desires, and which is so remarkable
from having been acquired since the animal was domesticated,
and from being inherited in different degrees by different breeds,
was first learnt we do not know; but may we not suspect
that imitation has had something to do with its acquisition,
owing to dogs having long lived in strict association with so
loquacious an animal as man?

[1] See the interesting facts given by Dr. Bateman on
`Aphasia,’ 1870, p. 110.

In the course of the foregoing remarks and throughout this volume,
I have often felt much difficulty about the proper application of
the terms, will, consciousness, and intention. Actions, which were
at first voluntary, soon became habitual, and at last hereditary,
and may then be performed even in opposition to the will.
Although they often reveal the state of the mind, this result was
not at first either intended or expected. Even such words as that
“certain movements serve as a means of expression” are apt to mislead,
as they imply that this was their primary purpose or object.
This, however, seems rarely or never to have been the case;
the movements having been at first either of some direct use,
or the indirect effect of the excited state of the sensorium.
An infant may scream either intentionally or instinctively to show
that it wants food; but it has no wish or intention to draw its
features into the peculiar form which so plainly indicates misery;
yet some of the most characteristic expressions exhibited by man
are derived from the act of screaming, as has been explained.

Although most of our expressive actions are innate or instinctive,
as is admitted by everyone, it is a different question whether we
have any instinctive power of recognizing them. This has generally
been assumed to be the case; but the assumption has been strongly
controverted by M. Lemoine.[2] Monkeys soon learn to distinguish,
not only the tones of voice of their masters, but the expression
of their faces, as is asserted by a careful observer.[3] Dogs well know
the difference between caressing and threatening gestures or tones;
and they seem to recognize a compassionate tone. But as far
as I can make out, after repeated trials, they do not understand
any movement confined to the features, excepting a smile or laugh;
and this they appear, at least in some cases, to recognize.
This limited amount of knowledge has probably been gained, both by
monkeys and dogs, through their associating harsh or kind treatment
with our actions; and the knowledge certainly is not instinctive.
Children, no doubt, would soon learn the movements of expression
in their elders in the same manner as animals learn those of man.
Moreover, when a child cries or laughs, he knows in a general manner
what he is doing and what he feels; so that a very small exertion
of reason would tell him what crying or laughing meant in others.
But the question is, do our children acquire their knowledge of expression
solely by experience through the power of association and reason?

As most of the movements of expression must have been
gradually acquired, afterwards becoming instinctive,
there seems to be some degree of _a priori_ probability that
their recognition would likewise have become instinctive.
There is, at least, no greater difficulty in believing this than
in admitting that, when a female quadruped first bears young,
she knows the cry of distress of her offspring, or than in admitting
that many animals instinctively recognize and fear their enemies;
and of both these statements there can be no reasonable doubt.
It is however extremely difficult to prove that our children
instinctively recognize any expression. I attended to this point
in my first-born infant, who could not have learnt anything
by associating with other children, and I was convinced that
he understood a smile and received pleasure from seeing one,
answering it by another, at much too early an age to have learnt
anything by experience. When this child was about four months old,
I made in his presence many odd noises and strange grimaces,
and tried to look savage; but the noises, if not too loud,
as well as the grimaces, were all taken as good jokes;
and I attributed this at the time to their being preceded
or accompanied by smiles. When five months old, he seemed
to understand a compassionate, expression and tone of voice.
When a few days over six months old, his nurse pretended to cry,
and I saw that his face instantly assumed a melancholy expression,
with the corners of the mouth strongly depressed;
now this child could rarely have seen any other child crying,
and never a grown-up person crying, and I should doubt whether
at so early an age he could have reasoned on the subject.
Therefore it seems to me that an innate feeling must have told
him that the pretended crying of his nurse expressed grief;
and this through the instinct of sympathy excited grief in him.

[2] `La Physionomie et la Parole,’ 1865, pp. 103, 118.

[3] Rengger, `Naturgeschichte der Saugethiere von Paraguay,’ 1830, s. 55.

M. Lemoine argues that, if man possessed an innate knowledge
of expression, authors and artists would not have found it
so difficult, as is notoriously the case, to describe and depict
the characteristic signs of each particular state of mind.
But this does not seem to me a valid argument.
We may actually behold the expression changing in an unmistakable
manner in a man or animal, and yet be quite unable, as I
know from experience, to analyse the nature of the change.
In the two photographs given by Duchenne of the same old man
(Plate III. figs. 5 and 6), almost every one recognized
that the one represented a true, and the other a false smile;
but I have found it very difficult to decide in what the whole
amount of difference consists. It has often struck me as a
curious fact that so many shades of expression are instantly
recognized without any conscious process of analysis on our part.
No one, I believe, can clearly describe a sullen or sly expression;
yet many observers are unanimous that these expressions can be
recognized in the various races of man. Almost everyone to whom I
showed Duchenne’s photograph of the young man with oblique eyebrows
(Plate II. fig. 2) at once declared that it expressed grief
or some such feeling; yet probably not one of these persons,
or one out of a thousand persons, could beforehand have told anything
precise about the obliquity of the eyebrows with their inner
ends puckered, or about the rectangular furrows on the forehead.
So it is with many other expressions, of which I have had
practical experience in the trouble requisite in instructing
others what points to observe. If, then, great ignorance
of details does not prevent our recognizing with certainty
and promptitude various expressions, I do not see how this
ignorance can be advanced as an argument that our knowledge,
though vague and general, is not innate.

I have endeavoured to show in considerable detail that all the chief
expressions exhibited by man are the same throughout the world.
This fact is interesting, as it affords a new argument in favour of
the several races being descended from a single parent-stock, which must
have been almost completely human in structure, and to a large extent
in mind, before the period at which the races diverged from each other.
No doubt similar structures, adapted for the same purpose, have often
been independently acquired through variation and natural selection
by distinct species; but this view will not explain close similarity
between distinct species in a multitude of unimportant details.
Now if we bear in mind the numerous points of structure having no
relation to expression, in which all the races of man closely agree,
and then add to them the numerous points, some of the highest
importance and many of the most trifling value, on which the movements
of expression directly or indirectly depend, it seems to me improbable
in the highest degree that so much similarity, or rather identity
of structure, could have been acquired by independent means.
Yet this must have been the case if the races of man are descended
from several aboriginally distinct species. It is far more probable
that the many points of close similarity in the various races are due
to inheritance from a single parent-form, which had already assumed
a human character.

It is a curious, though perhaps an idle speculation, how early in the long
line of our progenitors the various expressive movements, now exhibited
by man, were successively acquired. The following remarks will at least
serve to recall some of the chief points discussed in this volume.
We may confidently believe that laughter, as a sign of pleasure or enjoyment,
was practised by our progenitors long before they deserved to be called human;
for very many kinds of monkeys, when pleased, utter a reiterated sound,
clearly analogous to our laughter, often accompanied by vibratory movements
of their jaws or lips, with the corners of the mouth drawn backwards
and upwards, by the wrinkling of the cheeks, and even by the brightening
of the eyes.

We may likewise infer that fear was expressed from an extremely remote period,
in almost the same manner as it now is by man; namely, by trembling,
the erection of the hair, cold perspiration, pallor, widely opened eyes,
the relaxation of most of the muscles, and by the whole body cowering
downwards or held motionless.

Suffering, if great, will from the first have caused screams or groans to
be uttered, the body to be contorted, and the teeth to be ground together.
But our progenitors will not have exhibited those highly expressive
movements of the features which accompany screaming and crying until their
circulatory and respiratory organs, and the muscles surrounding the eyes,
had acquired their present structure. The shedding of tears appears
to have originated through reflex action from the spasmodic contraction
of the eyelids, together perhaps with the eyeballs becoming gorged
with blood during the act of screaming. Therefore weeping probably came
on rather late in the line of our descent; and this conclusion agrees with
the fact that our nearest allies, the anthropomorphous apes, do not weep.
But we must here exercise some caution, for as certain monkeys,
which are not closely related to man, weep, this habit might have been
developed long ago in a sub-branch of the group from which man is derived.
Our early progenitors, when suffering from grief or anxiety, would not have
made their eyebrows oblique, or have drawn down the corners of their mouth,
until they had acquired the habit of endeavouring to restrain their screams.
The expression, therefore, of grief and anxiety is eminently human.

Rage will have been expressed at a very early period by threatening
or frantic gestures, by the reddening of the skin, and by glaring eyes,
but not by frowning. For the habit of frowning seems to have been acquired
chiefly from the corrugators being the first muscles to contract round
the eyes, whenever during infancy pain, anger, or distress is felt,
and there consequently is a near approach to screaming; and partly
from a frown serving as a shade in difficult and intent vision.
It seems probable that this shading action would not have become habitual
until man had assumed a completely upright position, for monkeys
do not frown when exposed to a glaring light. Our early progenitors,
when enraged, would probably have exposed their teeth more freely than
does man, even when giving full vent to his rage, as with the insane.
We may, also, feel almost certain that they would have protruded their lips,
when sulky or disappointed, in a greater degree than is the case with
our own children, or even with the children of existing savage races.

Our early progenitors, when indignant or moderately angry,
would not have held their heads erect, opened their chests,
squared their shoulders, and clenched their fists, until they
had acquired the ordinary carriage and upright attitude
of man, and had learnt to fight with their fists or clubs.
Until this period had arrived the antithetical gesture of shrugging
the shoulders, as a sign of impotence or of patience, would not
have been developed. From the same reason astonishment would
not then have been expressed by raising the arms with open hands
and extended fingers. Nor, judging from the actions of monkeys,
would astonishment have been exhibited by a widely opened mouth;
but the eyes would have been opened and the eyebrows arched.
Disgust would have been shown at a very early period by
movements round the mouth, like those of vomiting,–that is,
if the view which I have suggested respecting the source
of the expression is correct, namely, that our progenitors
had the power, and used it, of voluntarily and quickly
rejecting any food from their stomachs which they disliked.
But the more refined manner of showing contempt or disdain,
by lowering the eyelids, or turning away the eyes and face,
as if the despised person were not worth looking at, would not
probably have been acquired until a much later period.

Of all expressions, blushing seems to be the most strictly human;
yet it is common to all or nearly all the races of man, whether or
not any change of colour is visible in their skin. The relaxation
of the small arteries of the surface, on which blushing depends,
seems to have primarily resulted from earnest attention directed
to the appearance of our own persons, especially of our faces,
aided by habit, inheritance, and the ready flow of nerve-force along
accustomed channels; and afterwards to have been extended by the power
of association to self-attention directed to moral conduct.
It can hardly be doubted that many animals are capable of appreciating
beautiful colours and even forms, as is shown by the pains
which the individuals of one sex take in displaying their beauty
before those of the opposite sex. But it does not seem possible
that any animal, until its mental powers had been developed to an
equal or nearly equal degree with those of man, would have closely
considered and been sensitive about its own personal appearance.
Therefore we may conclude that blushing originated at a very late
period in the long line of our descent.

From the various facts just alluded to, and given in the course
of this volume, it follows that, if the structure of our
organs of respiration and circulation had differed in only
a slight degree from the state in which they now exist,
most of our expressions would have been wonderfully different.
A very slight change in the course of the arteries and veins
which run to the head, would probably have prevented the blood
from accumulating in our eyeballs during violent expiration;
for this occurs in extremely few quadrupeds. In this case we should
not have displayed some of our most characteristic expressions.
If man had breathed water by the aid of external branchiae
(though the idea is hardly conceivable), instead of air through
his mouth and nostrils, his features would not have expressed his
feelings much more efficiently than now do his hands or limbs.
Rage and disgust, however, would still have been shown by movements
about the lips and mouth, and the eyes would have become
brighter or duller according to the state of the circulation.
If our ears had remained movable, their movements would have
been highly expressive, as is the case with all the animals
which fight with their teeth; and we may infer that our early
progenitors thus fought, as we still uncover the canine tooth
on one side when we sneer at or defy any one, and we uncover
all our teeth when furiously enraged.

The movements of expression in the face and body, whatever their origin
may have been, are in themselves of much importance for our welfare.
They serve as the first means of communication between the mother
and her infant; she smiles approval, and thus encourages her child
on the right path, or frowns disapproval. We readily perceive sympathy
in others by their expression; our sufferings are thus mitigated and our
pleasures increased; and mutual good feeling is thus strengthened.
The movements of expression give vividness and energy to our spoken words.
They reveal the thoughts and intentions of others more truly than do words,
which may be falsified. Whatever amount of truth the so-called science
of physiognomy may contain, appears to depend, as Haller long ago remarked,[4]
on different persons bringing into frequent use different facial muscles,
according to their dispositions; the development of these muscles being
perhaps thus increased, and the lines or furrows on the face, due to their
habitual contraction, being thus rendered deeper and more conspicuous.
The free expression by outward signs of an emotion intensifies it.
On the other hand, the repression, as far as this is possible, of all outward
signs softens our emotions.[5] He who gives way to violent gestures will
increase his rage; he who does not control the signs of fear will experience
fear in a greater degree; and he who remains passive when overwhelmed
with grief loses his best chance of recovering elasticity of mind.
These results follow partly from the intimate relation which exists between
almost all the emotions and their outward manifestations; and partly from
the direct influence of exertion on the heart, and consequently on the brain.
Even the simulation of an emotion tends to arouse it in our minds.
Shakespeare, who from his wonderful knowledge of the human mind ought
to be an excellent judge, says:–

Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit,
That, from her working, all his visage wann’d;
Tears in his eyes, distraction in ‘s aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing!
_Hamlet_, act ii. sc. 2.

[4] Quoted by Moreau, in his edition of Lavater, 1820, tom. iv. p. 211.

We have seen that the study of the theory of expression
confirms to a certain limited extent the conclusion that man
is derived from some lower animal form, and supports the belief
of the specific or sub-specific unity of the several races;
but as far as my judgment serves, such confirmation was
hardly needed. We have also seen that expression in itself,
or the language of the emotions, as it has sometimes been called,
is certainly of importance for the welfare of mankind.
To understand, as far as possible, the source or origin of
the various expressions which may be hourly seen on the faces
of the men around us, not to mention our domesticated animals,
ought to possess much interest for us. From these several causes,
we may conclude that the philosophy of our subject has well
deserved the attention which it has already received from several
excellent observers, and that it deserves still further attention,
especially from any able physiologist.

[5] Gratiolet (`De la Physionomie,’ 1865, p. 66) insists on the truth
of this conclusion.

The Descent Of Man

The Descent Of Man
Read Charles Darwin’s The Descent Of Man free online! Click on any of the links on the right menubar to browse through The Descent Of Man.

Charles Darwin was born in  Shrewsbury, Shropshire, on 12th February 1809. His father was a doctor and a financer and mother was a homemaker. He was from a wealthy and influential family of England.

He started his education in medicine from Edinburg university but he later changed his field of study from medicine to divinity.at Christ college Cambridge University.  But here also he was not getting interested in studies. He used to spend a lot of time examining nature science and beetle collection. Seeing his interest in natural science he was offered a position of natural scientist in HMS Beagle on a voyage to the coast of South America. On the voyage, he became interested in the finch and had a kept a curious eye how in each island their character changes. He also observed how they are adapting to the climate and other aspects of every island.

After coming back from the voyage for the next twenty years he worked on evolution and adaption of the species on different islands.

Influenced by the work of Malthus, Darwin came up with his theory of natural selection and gradual evolution.  He continuously reworked on this theory and finally in 1859 his book “origin of species by means of natural selection” was published. The book soon became the center of attention and had got widespread popularity. His ideas are still now accepted in scientific and nonreligious society.

Darwin was brought up in a church in England and was getting trained to be a priest. But after coming back from the voyage of South America he turned himself away from the church and became doubtful about the source of history that Bible provides. However, he never considered himself an atheist.  In his autobiography, he wrote he gave up Christianity as he disagrees with the statement that nonbelievers spend eternity in hell.

On 19th April 1882, he died. He was given a state burial at Westminster Abbey. He was a great naturalist, geologist, and biologist. Click on Bitcoin Loophole to learn more about him.


The Autobiography of Charles Darwin

The Autobiography of Charles Darwin
Read Charles Darwin’s The Autobiography of Charles Darwin free online! Click on any of the links on the right menubar to browse through The Autobiography of Charles Darwin.

Biological change was a long lived question left unnoticed. Charles Darwin was a real naturalist who tried to unfold the truth behind the evolution of living beings. His splendid research was a result of his hard work. He took on a five-year voyage throughout the world to get valuable insights for his research. The specimens that he collected contributed a lot to his analysis and later his scientific discovery. His extensive research was his priority.

He started breeding species to substantiate his theory. This was done to find and infer evidences to prove that species were not fixed but evolved over a period of time. He spent his research in wide varieties of plants and animals to bring a universal phenomenon. It is quite surprising to say that he had not left even the marine invertebrates. He used to dissect and examine its structure with other similar living beings n the surroundings. His comparisons with these structures and their distinctive characteristics dwelled deep on this thinking to figure out the best principles in the evolution of life on earth. On his research, he found slight variation in the body parts too were for specific reasons to fit in the locality. In some species, he found parasite like structures that could be an intermediated level in the different stages of growth bringing in different sexes.

The struggle for existence continued to hamper the living conditions for different organisms. This challenging environment created circumstances for them to evolve and flourish. Darwin’s books and literatures have been a great source of knowledge for all the generations coming next in line. Thus, it is very true to say that only a hard earned struggle will lead to historic discoveries. In the current world, we see a new digital concept flourishing on the trading arena. The Darwin’s concept of different analysis over a period of time to find certain exciting things is very closely evident in this aspect also. We have to learn the cryptocurrency market and invest on secure lines to incur profits. Bitcoin Code is a software system that can facilitate us in active trading with best brokers and algorithms in place. Start using it and experiment on the trading front with such sophisticated software systems.


The Descent Of Man

Chapter IV



The moral sense–Fundamental proposition–The qualities of social animals–
Origin of sociability–Struggle between opposed instincts–Man a social
animal–The more enduring social instincts conquer other less persistent
instincts–The social virtues alone regarded by savages–The self-regarding
virtues acquired at a later stage of development–The importance of the
judgment of the members of the same community on conduct–Transmission of
moral tendencies–Summary.

I fully subscribe to the judgment of those writers (1. See, for instance,
on this subject, Quatrefages, ‘Unite de l’Espece Humaine,’ 1861, p. 21,
etc.) who maintain that of all the differences between man and the lower
animals, the moral sense or conscience is by far the most important. This
sense, as Mackintosh (2. ‘Dissertation an Ethical Philosophy,’ 1837, p.
231, etc.) remarks, “has a rightful supremacy over every other principle of
human action”; it is summed up in that short but imperious word “ought,” so
full of high significance. It is the most noble of all the attributes of
man, leading him without a moment’s hesitation to risk his life for that of
a fellow-creature; or after due deliberation, impelled simply by the deep
feeling of right or duty, to sacrifice it in some great cause. Immanuel
Kant exclaims, “Duty! Wondrous thought, that workest neither by fond
insinuation, flattery, nor by any threat, but merely by holding up thy
naked law in the soul, and so extorting for thyself always reverence, if
not always obedience; before whom all appetites are dumb, however secretly
they rebel; whence thy original?” (3. ‘Metaphysics of Ethics,’ translated
by J.W. Semple, Edinburgh, 1836, p. 136.)

This great question has been discussed by many writers (4. Mr. Bain gives
a list (‘Mental and Moral Science,’ 1868, pp. 543-725) of twenty-six
British authors who have written on this subject, and whose names are
familiar to every reader; to these, Mr. Bain’s own name, and those of Mr.
Lecky, Mr. Shadworth Hodgson, Sir J. Lubbock, and others, might be added.)
of consummate ability; and my sole excuse for touching on it, is the
impossibility of here passing it over; and because, as far as I know, no
one has approached it exclusively from the side of natural history. The
investigation possesses, also, some independent interest, as an attempt to
see how far the study of the lower animals throws light on one of the
highest psychical faculties of man.

The following proposition seems to me in a high degree probable–namely,
that any animal whatever, endowed with well-marked social instincts (5.
Sir B. Brodie, after observing that man is a social animal (‘Psychological
Enquiries,’ 1854, p. 192), asks the pregnant question, “ought not this to
settle the disputed question as to the existence of a moral sense?”
Similar ideas have probably occurred to many persons, as they did long ago
to Marcus Aurelius. Mr. J.S. Mill speaks, in his celebrated work,
‘Utilitarianism,’ (1864, pp. 45, 46), of the social feelings as a “powerful
natural sentiment,” and as “the natural basis of sentiment for utilitarian
morality.” Again he says, “Like the other acquired capacities above
referred to, the moral faculty, if not a part of our nature, is a natural
out-growth from it; capable, like them, in a certain small degree of
springing up spontaneously.” But in opposition to all this, he also
remarks, “if, as in my own belief, the moral feelings are not innate, but
acquired, they are not for that reason less natural.” It is with
hesitation that I venture to differ at all from so profound a thinker, but
it can hardly be disputed that the social feelings are instinctive or
innate in the lower animals; and why should they not be so in man? Mr.
Bain (see, for instance, ‘The Emotions and the Will,’ 1865, p. 481) and
others believe that the moral sense is acquired by each individual during
his lifetime. On the general theory of evolution this is at least
extremely improbable. The ignoring of all transmitted mental qualities
will, as it seems to me, be hereafter judged as a most serious blemish in
the works of Mr. Mill.), the parental and filial affections being here
included, would inevitably acquire a moral sense or conscience, as soon as
its intellectual powers had become as well, or nearly as well developed, as
in man. For, FIRSTLY, the social instincts lead an animal to take pleasure
in the society of its fellows, to feel a certain amount of sympathy with
them, and to perform various services for them. The services may be of a
definite and evidently instinctive nature; or there may be only a wish and
readiness, as with most of the higher social animals, to aid their fellows
in certain general ways. But these feelings and services are by no means
extended to all the individuals of the same species, only to those of the
same association. SECONDLY, as soon as the mental faculties had become
highly developed, images of all past actions and motives would be
incessantly passing through the brain of each individual: and that feeling
of dissatisfaction, or even misery, which invariably results, as we shall
hereafter see, from any unsatisfied instinct, would arise, as often as it
was perceived that the enduring and always present social instinct had
yielded to some other instinct, at the time stronger, but neither enduring
in its nature, nor leaving behind it a very vivid impression. It is clear
that many instinctive desires, such as that of hunger, are in their nature
of short duration; and after being satisfied, are not readily or vividly
recalled. THIRDLY, after the power of language had been acquired, and the
wishes of the community could be expressed, the common opinion how each
member ought to act for the public good, would naturally become in a
paramount degree the guide to action. But it should be borne in mind that
however great weight we may attribute to public opinion, our regard for the
approbation and disapprobation of our fellows depends on sympathy, which,
as we shall see, forms an essential part of the social instinct, and is
indeed its foundation-stone. LASTLY, habit in the individual would
ultimately play a very important part in guiding the conduct of each
member; for the social instinct, together with sympathy, is, like any other
instinct, greatly strengthened by habit, and so consequently would be
obedience to the wishes and judgment of the community. These several
subordinate propositions must now be discussed, and some of them at
considerable length.

It may be well first to premise that I do not wish to maintain that any
strictly social animal, if its intellectual faculties were to become as
active and as highly developed as in man, would acquire exactly the same
moral sense as ours. In the same manner as various animals have some sense
of beauty, though they admire widely-different objects, so they might have
a sense of right and wrong, though led by it to follow widely different
lines of conduct. If, for instance, to take an extreme case, men were
reared under precisely the same conditions as hive-bees, there can hardly
be a doubt that our unmarried females would, like the worker-bees, think it
a sacred duty to kill their brothers, and mothers would strive to kill
their fertile daughters; and no one would think of interfering. (6. Mr.
H. Sidgwick remarks, in an able discussion on this subject (the ‘Academy,’
June 15, 1872, p. 231), “a superior bee, we may feel sure, would aspire to
a milder solution of the population question.” Judging, however, from the
habits of many or most savages, man solves the problem by female
infanticide, polyandry and promiscuous intercourse; therefore it may well
be doubted whether it would be by a milder method. Miss Cobbe, in
commenting (‘Darwinism in Morals,’ ‘Theological Review,’ April 1872, pp.
188-191) on the same illustration, says, the PRINCIPLES of social duty
would be thus reversed; and by this, I presume, she means that the
fulfilment of a social duty would tend to the injury of individuals; but
she overlooks the fact, which she would doubtless admit, that the instincts
of the bee have been acquired for the good of the community. She goes so
far as to say that if the theory of ethics advocated in this chapter were
ever generally accepted, “I cannot but believe that in the hour of their
triumph would be sounded the knell of the virtue of mankind!” It is to be
hoped that the belief in the permanence of virtue on this earth is not held
by many persons on so weak a tenure.) Nevertheless, the bee, or any other
social animal, would gain in our supposed case, as it appears to me, some
feeling of right or wrong, or a conscience. For each individual would have
an inward sense of possessing certain stronger or more enduring instincts,
and others less strong or enduring; so that there would often be a struggle
as to which impulse should be followed; and satisfaction, dissatisfaction,
or even misery would be felt, as past impressions were compared during
their incessant passage through the mind. In this case an inward monitor
would tell the animal that it would have been better to have followed the
one impulse rather than the other. The one course ought to have been
followed, and the other ought not; the one would have been right and the
other wrong; but to these terms I shall recur.


Animals of many kinds are social; we find even distinct species living
together; for example, some American monkeys; and united flocks of rooks,
jackdaws, and starlings. Man shews the same feeling in his strong love for
the dog, which the dog returns with interest. Every one must have noticed
how miserable horses, dogs, sheep, etc., are when separated from their
companions, and what strong mutual affection the two former kinds, at
least, shew on their reunion. It is curious to speculate on the feelings
of a dog, who will rest peacefully for hours in a room with his master or
any of the family, without the least notice being taken of him; but if left
for a short time by himself, barks or howls dismally. We will confine our
attention to the higher social animals; and pass over insects, although
some of these are social, and aid one another in many important ways. The
most common mutual service in the higher animals is to warn one another of
danger by means of the united senses of all. Every sportsman knows, as Dr.
Jaeger remarks (7. ‘Die Darwin’sche Theorie,’ s. 101.), how difficult it
is to approach animals in a herd or troop. Wild horses and cattle do not,
I believe, make any danger-signal; but the attitude of any one of them who
first discovers an enemy, warns the others. Rabbits stamp loudly on the
ground with their hind-feet as a signal: sheep and chamois do the same
with their forefeet, uttering likewise a whistle. Many birds, and some
mammals, post sentinels, which in the case of seals are said (8. Mr. R.
Brown in ‘Proc. Zoolog. Soc.’ 1868, p. 409.) generally to be the females.
The leader of a troop of monkeys acts as the sentinel, and utters cries
expressive both of danger and of safety. (9. Brehm, ‘Thierleben,’ B. i.
1864, s. 52, 79. For the case of the monkeys extracting thorns from each
other, see s. 54. With respect to the Hamadryas turning over stones, the
fact is given (s. 76), on the evidence of Alvarez, whose observations Brehm
thinks quite trustworthy. For the cases of the old male baboons attacking
the dogs, see s. 79; and with respect to the eagle, s. 56.) Social animals
perform many little services for each other: horses nibble, and cows lick
each other, on any spot which itches: monkeys search each other for
external parasites; and Brehm states that after a troop of the
Cercopithecus griseo-viridis has rushed through a thorny brake, each monkey
stretches itself on a branch, and another monkey sitting by,
“conscientiously” examines its fur, and extracts every thorn or burr.

Animals also render more important services to one another: thus wolves
and some other beasts of prey hunt in packs, and aid one another in
attacking their victims. Pelicans fish in concert. The Hamadryas baboons
turn over stones to find insects, etc.; and when they come to a large one,
as many as can stand round, turn it over together and share the booty.
Social animals mutually defend each other. Bull bisons in N. America, when
there is danger, drive the cows and calves into the middle of the herd,
whilst they defend the outside. I shall also in a future chapter give an
account of two young wild bulls at Chillingham attacking an old one in
concert, and of two stallions together trying to drive away a third
stallion from a troop of mares. In Abyssinia, Brehm encountered a great
troop of baboons who were crossing a valley: some had already ascended the
opposite mountain, and some were still in the valley; the latter were
attacked by the dogs, but the old males immediately hurried down from the
rocks, and with mouths widely opened, roared so fearfully, that the dogs
quickly drew back. They were again encouraged to the attack; but by this
time all the baboons had reascended the heights, excepting a young one,
about six months old, who, loudly calling for aid, climbed on a block of
rock, and was surrounded. Now one of the largest males, a true hero, came
down again from the mountain, slowly went to the young one, coaxed him, and
triumphantly led him away–the dogs being too much astonished to make an
attack. I cannot resist giving another scene which was witnessed by this
same naturalist; an eagle seized a young Cercopithecus, which, by clinging
to a branch, was not at once carried off; it cried loudly for assistance,
upon which the other members of the troop, with much uproar, rushed to the
rescue, surrounded the eagle, and pulled out so many feathers, that he no
longer thought of his prey, but only how to escape. This eagle, as Brehm
remarks, assuredly would never again attack a single monkey of a troop.
(10. Mr. Belt gives the case of a spider-monkey (Ateles) in Nicaragua,
which was heard screaming for nearly two hours in the forest, and was found
with an eagle perched close by it. The bird apparently feared to attack as
long as it remained face to face; and Mr. Belt believes, from what he has
seen of the habits of these monkeys, that they protect themselves from
eagles by keeping two or three together. ‘The Naturalist in Nicaragua,’
1874, p. 118.)

It is certain that associated animals have a feeling of love for each
other, which is not felt by non-social adult animals. How far in most
cases they actually sympathise in the pains and pleasures of others, is
more doubtful, especially with respect to pleasures. Mr. Buxton, however,
who had excellent means of observation (11. ‘Annals and Magazine of
Natural History,’ November 1868, p. 382.), states that his macaws, which
lived free in Norfolk, took “an extravagant interest” in a pair with a
nest; and whenever the female left it, she was surrounded by a troop
“screaming horrible acclamations in her honour.” It is often difficult to
judge whether animals have any feeling for the sufferings of others of
their kind. Who can say what cows feel, when they surround and stare
intently on a dying or dead companion; apparently, however, as Houzeau
remarks, they feel no pity. That animals sometimes are far from feeling
any sympathy is too certain; for they will expel a wounded animal from the
herd, or gore or worry it to death. This is almost the blackest fact in
natural history, unless, indeed, the explanation which has been suggested
is true, that their instinct or reason leads them to expel an injured
companion, lest beasts of prey, including man, should be tempted to follow
the troop. In this case their conduct is not much worse than that of the
North American Indians, who leave their feeble comrades to perish on the
plains; or the Fijians, who, when their parents get old, or fall ill, bury
them alive. (12. Sir J. Lubbock, ‘Prehistoric Times,’ 2nd ed., p. 446.)

Many animals, however, certainly sympathise with each other’s distress or
danger. This is the case even with birds. Captain Stansbury (13. As
quoted by Mr. L.H. Morgan, ‘The American Beaver,’ 1868, p. 272. Capt.
Stansbury also gives an interesting account of the manner in which a very
young pelican, carried away by a strong stream, was guided and encouraged
in its attempts to reach the shore by half a dozen old birds.) found on a
salt lake in Utah an old and completely blind pelican, which was very fat,
and must have been well fed for a long time by his companions. Mr. Blyth,
as he informs me, saw Indian crows feeding two or three of their companions
which were blind; and I have heard of an analogous case with the domestic
cock. We may, if we choose, call these actions instinctive; but such cases
are much too rare for the development of any special instinct. (14. As
Mr. Bain states, “effective aid to a sufferer springs from sympathy
proper:” ‘Mental and Moral Science,’ 1868, p. 245.) I have myself seen a
dog, who never passed a cat who lay sick in a basket, and was a great
friend of his, without giving her a few licks with his tongue, the surest
sign of kind feeling in a dog.

It must be called sympathy that leads a courageous dog to fly at any one
who strikes his master, as he certainly will. I saw a person pretending to
beat a lady, who had a very timid little dog on her lap, and the trial had
never been made before; the little creature instantly jumped away, but
after the pretended beating was over, it was really pathetic to see how
perseveringly he tried to lick his mistress’s face, and comfort her. Brehm
(15. ‘Thierleben,’ B. i. s. 85.) states that when a baboon in confinement
was pursued to be punished, the others tried to protect him. It must have
been sympathy in the cases above given which led the baboons and
Cercopitheci to defend their young comrades from the dogs and the eagle. I
will give only one other instance of sympathetic and heroic conduct, in the
case of a little American monkey. Several years ago a keeper at the
Zoological Gardens shewed me some deep and scarcely healed wounds on the
nape of his own neck, inflicted on him, whilst kneeling on the floor, by a
fierce baboon. The little American monkey, who was a warm friend of this
keeper, lived in the same large compartment, and was dreadfully afraid of
the great baboon. Nevertheless, as soon as he saw his friend in peril, he
rushed to the rescue, and by screams and bites so distracted the baboon
that the man was able to escape, after, as the surgeon thought, running
great risk of his life.

Besides love and sympathy, animals exhibit other qualities connected with
the social instincts, which in us would be called moral; and I agree with
Agassiz (16. ‘De l’Espece et de la Classe,’ 1869, p. 97.) that dogs
possess something very like a conscience.

Dogs possess some power of self-command, and this does not appear to be
wholly the result of fear. As Braubach (17. ‘Die Darwin’sche Art-Lehre,’
1869, s. 54.) remarks, they will refrain from stealing food in the absence
of their master. They have long been accepted as the very type of fidelity
and obedience. But the elephant is likewise very faithful to his driver or
keeper, and probably considers him as the leader of the herd. Dr. Hooker
informs me that an elephant, which he was riding in India, became so deeply
bogged that he remained stuck fast until the next day, when he was
extricated by men with ropes. Under such circumstances elephants will
seize with their trunks any object, dead or alive, to place under their
knees, to prevent their sinking deeper in the mud; and the driver was
dreadfully afraid lest the animal should have seized Dr. Hooker and crushed
him to death. But the driver himself, as Dr. Hooker was assured, ran no
risk. This forbearance under an emergency so dreadful for a heavy animal,
is a wonderful proof of noble fidelity. (18. See also Hooker’s ‘Himalayan
Journals,’ vol. ii. 1854, p. 333.)

All animals living in a body, which defend themselves or attack their
enemies in concert, must indeed be in some degree faithful to one another;
and those that follow a leader must be in some degree obedient. When the
baboons in Abyssinia (19. Brehm, ‘Thierleben,’ B. i. s. 76.) plunder a
garden, they silently follow their leader; and if an imprudent young animal
makes a noise, he receives a slap from the others to teach him silence and
obedience. Mr. Galton, who has had excellent opportunities for observing
the half-wild cattle in S. Africa, says (20. See his extremely interesting
paper on ‘Gregariousness in Cattle, and in Man,’ ‘Macmillan’s Magazine,’
Feb. 1871, p. 353.), that they cannot endure even a momentary separation
from the herd. They are essentially slavish, and accept the common
determination, seeking no better lot than to be led by any one ox who has
enough self-reliance to accept the position. The men who break in these
animals for harness, watch assiduously for those who, by grazing apart,
shew a self-reliant disposition, and these they train as fore-oxen. Mr.
Galton adds that such animals are rare and valuable; and if many were born
they would soon be eliminated, as lions are always on the look-out for the
individuals which wander from the herd.

With respect to the impulse which leads certain animals to associate
together, and to aid one another in many ways, we may infer that in most
cases they are impelled by the same sense of satisfaction or pleasure which
they experience in performing other instinctive actions; or by the same
sense of dissatisfaction as when other instinctive actions are checked. We
see this in innumerable instances, and it is illustrated in a striking
manner by the acquired instincts of our domesticated animals; thus a young
shepherd-dog delights in driving and running round a flock of sheep, but
not in worrying them; a young fox-hound delights in hunting a fox, whilst
some other kinds of dogs, as I have witnessed, utterly disregard foxes.
What a strong feeling of inward satisfaction must impel a bird, so full of
activity, to brood day after day over her eggs. Migratory birds are quite
miserable if stopped from migrating; perhaps they enjoy starting on their
long flight; but it is hard to believe that the poor pinioned goose,
described by Audubon, which started on foot at the proper time for its
journey of probably more than a thousand miles, could have felt any joy in
doing so. Some instincts are determined solely by painful feelings, as by
fear, which leads to self-preservation, and is in some cases directed
towards special enemies. No one, I presume, can analyse the sensations of
pleasure or pain. In many instances, however, it is probable that
instincts are persistently followed from the mere force of inheritance,
without the stimulus of either pleasure or pain. A young pointer, when it
first scents game, apparently cannot help pointing. A squirrel in a cage
who pats the nuts which it cannot eat, as if to bury them in the ground,
can hardly be thought to act thus, either from pleasure or pain. Hence the
common assumption that men must be impelled to every action by experiencing
some pleasure or pain may be erroneous. Although a habit may be blindly
and implicitly followed, independently of any pleasure or pain felt at the
moment, yet if it be forcibly and abruptly checked, a vague sense of
dissatisfaction is generally experienced.

It has often been assumed that animals were in the first place rendered
social, and that they feel as a consequence uncomfortable when separated
from each other, and comfortable whilst together; but it is a more probable
view that these sensations were first developed, in order that those
animals which would profit by living in society, should be induced to live
together, in the same manner as the sense of hunger and the pleasure of
eating were, no doubt, first acquired in order to induce animals to eat.
The feeling of pleasure from society is probably an extension of the
parental or filial affections, since the social instinct seems to be
developed by the young remaining for a long time with their parents; and
this extension may be attributed in part to habit, but chiefly to natural
selection. With those animals which were benefited by living in close
association, the individuals which took the greatest pleasure in society
would best escape various dangers, whilst those that cared least for their
comrades, and lived solitary, would perish in greater numbers. With
respect to the origin of the parental and filial affections, which
apparently lie at the base of the social instincts, we know not the steps
by which they have been gained; but we may infer that it has been to a
large extent through natural selection. So it has almost certainly been
with the unusual and opposite feeling of hatred between the nearest
relations, as with the worker-bees which kill their brother drones, and
with the queen-bees which kill their daughter-queens; the desire to destroy
their nearest relations having been in this case of service to the
community. Parental affection, or some feeling which replaces it, has been
developed in certain animals extremely low in the scale, for example, in
star-fishes and spiders. It is also occasionally present in a few members
alone in a whole group of animals, as in the genus Forficula, or earwigs.

The all-important emotion of sympathy is distinct from that of love. A
mother may passionately love her sleeping and passive infant, but she can
hardly at such times be said to feel sympathy for it. The love of a man
for his dog is distinct from sympathy, and so is that of a dog for his
master. Adam Smith formerly argued, as has Mr. Bain recently, that the
basis of sympathy lies in our strong retentiveness of former states of pain
or pleasure. Hence, “the sight of another person enduring hunger, cold,
fatigue, revives in us some recollection of these states, which are painful
even in idea.” We are thus impelled to relieve the sufferings of another,
in order that our own painful feelings may be at the same time relieved.
In like manner we are led to participate in the pleasures of others. (21.
See the first and striking chapter in Adam Smith’s ‘Theory of Moral
Sentiments.’ Also ‘Mr. Bain’s Mental and Moral Science,’ 1868, pp. 244,
and 275-282. Mr. Bain states, that, “sympathy is, indirectly, a source of
pleasure to the sympathiser”; and he accounts for this through reciprocity.
He remarks that “the person benefited, or others in his stead, may make up,
by sympathy and good offices returned, for all the sacrifice.” But if, as
appears to be the case, sympathy is strictly an instinct, its exercise
would give direct pleasure, in the same manner as the exercise, as before
remarked, of almost every other instinct.) But I cannot see how this view
explains the fact that sympathy is excited, in an immeasurably stronger
degree, by a beloved, than by an indifferent person. The mere sight of
suffering, independently of love, would suffice to call up in us vivid
recollections and associations. The explanation may lie in the fact that,
with all animals, sympathy is directed solely towards the members of the
same community, and therefore towards known, and more or less beloved
members, but not to all the individuals of the same species. This fact is
not more surprising than that the fears of many animals should be directed
against special enemies. Species which are not social, such as lions and
tigers, no doubt feel sympathy for the suffering of their own young, but
not for that of any other animal. With mankind, selfishness, experience,
and imitation, probably add, as Mr. Bain has shewn, to the power of
sympathy; for we are led by the hope of receiving good in return to perform
acts of sympathetic kindness to others; and sympathy is much strengthened
by habit. In however complex a manner this feeling may have originated, as
it is one of high importance to all those animals which aid and defend one
another, it will have been increased through natural selection; for those
communities, which included the greatest number of the most sympathetic
members, would flourish best, and rear the greatest number of offspring.

It is, however, impossible to decide in many cases whether certain social
instincts have been acquired through natural selection, or are the indirect
result of other instincts and faculties, such as sympathy, reason,
experience, and a tendency to imitation; or again, whether they are simply
the result of long-continued habit. So remarkable an instinct as the
placing sentinels to warn the community of danger, can hardly have been the
indirect result of any of these faculties; it must, therefore, have been
directly acquired. On the other hand, the habit followed by the males of
some social animals of defending the community, and of attacking their
enemies or their prey in concert, may perhaps have originated from mutual
sympathy; but courage, and in most cases strength, must have been
previously acquired, probably through natural selection.

Of the various instincts and habits, some are much stronger than others;
that is, some either give more pleasure in their performance, and more
distress in their prevention, than others; or, which is probably quite as
important, they are, through inheritance, more persistently followed,
without exciting any special feeling of pleasure or pain. We are ourselves
conscious that some habits are much more difficult to cure or change than
others. Hence a struggle may often be observed in animals between
different instincts, or between an instinct and some habitual disposition;
as when a dog rushes after a hare, is rebuked, pauses, hesitates, pursues
again, or returns ashamed to his master; or as between the love of a female
dog for her young puppies and for her master,–for she may be seen to slink
away to them, as if half ashamed of not accompanying her master. But the
most curious instance known to me of one instinct getting the better of
another, is the migratory instinct conquering the maternal instinct. The
former is wonderfully strong; a confined bird will at the proper season
beat her breast against the wires of her cage, until it is bare and bloody.
It causes young salmon to leap out of the fresh water, in which they could
continue to exist, and thus unintentionally to commit suicide. Every one
knows how strong the maternal instinct is, leading even timid birds to face
great danger, though with hesitation, and in opposition to the instinct of
self-preservation. Nevertheless, the migratory instinct is so powerful,
that late in the autumn swallows, house-martins, and swifts frequently
desert their tender young, leaving them to perish miserably in their nests.
(22. This fact, the Rev. L. Jenyns states (see his edition of ‘White’s
Nat. Hist. of Selborne,’ 1853, p. 204) was first recorded by the
illustrious Jenner, in ‘Phil. Transact.’ 1824, and has since been confirmed
by several observers, especially by Mr. Blackwall. This latter careful
observer examined, late in the autumn, during two years, thirty-six nests;
he found that twelve contained young dead birds, five contained eggs on the
point of being hatched, and three, eggs not nearly hatched. Many birds,
not yet old enough for a prolonged flight, are likewise deserted and left
behind. See Blackwall, ‘Researches in Zoology,’ 1834, pp. 108, 118. For
some additional evidence, although this is not wanted, see Leroy, ‘Lettres
Phil.’ 1802, p. 217. For Swifts, Gould’s ‘Introduction to the Birds of
Great Britain,’ 1823, p. 5. Similar cases have been observed in Canada by
Mr. Adams; ‘Pop. Science Review,’ July 1873, p. 283.)

We can perceive that an instinctive impulse, if it be in any way more
beneficial to a species than some other or opposed instinct, would be
rendered the more potent of the two through natural selection; for the
individuals which had it most strongly developed would survive in larger
numbers. Whether this is the case with the migratory in comparison with
the maternal instinct, may be doubted. The great persistence, or steady
action of the former at certain seasons of the year during the whole day,
may give it for a time paramount force.


Every one will admit that man is a social being. We see this in his
dislike of solitude, and in his wish for society beyond that of his own
family. Solitary confinement is one of the severest punishments which can
be inflicted. Some authors suppose that man primevally lived in single
families; but at the present day, though single families, or only two or
three together, roam the solitudes of some savage lands, they always, as
far as I can discover, hold friendly relations with other families
inhabiting the same district. Such families occasionally meet in council,
and unite for their common defence. It is no argument against savage man
being a social animal, that the tribes inhabiting adjacent districts are
almost always at war with each other; for the social instincts never extend
to all the individuals of the same species. Judging from the analogy of
the majority of the Quadrumana, it is probable that the early ape-like
progenitors of man were likewise social; but this is not of much importance
for us. Although man, as he now exists, has few special instincts, having
lost any which his early progenitors may have possessed, this is no reason
why he should not have retained from an extremely remote period some degree
of instinctive love and sympathy for his fellows. We are indeed all
conscious that we do possess such sympathetic feelings (23. Hume remarks
(‘An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals,’ edit. of 1751, p. 132),
“There seems a necessity for confessing that the happiness and misery of
others are not spectacles altogether indifferent to us, but that the view
of the former…communicates a secret joy; the appearance of the latter…
throws a melancholy damp over the imagination.”); but our consciousness
does not tell us whether they are instinctive, having originated long ago
in the same manner as with the lower animals, or whether they have been
acquired by each of us during our early years. As man is a social animal,
it is almost certain that he would inherit a tendency to be faithful to his
comrades, and obedient to the leader of his tribe; for these qualities are
common to most social animals. He would consequently possess some capacity
for self-command. He would from an inherited tendency be willing to
defend, in concert with others, his fellow-men; and would be ready to aid
them in any way, which did not too greatly interfere with his own welfare
or his own strong desires.

The social animals which stand at the bottom of the scale are guided almost
exclusively, and those which stand higher in the scale are largely guided,
by special instincts in the aid which they give to the members of the same
community; but they are likewise in part impelled by mutual love and
sympathy, assisted apparently by some amount of reason. Although man, as
just remarked, has no special instincts to tell him how to aid his fellow-
men, he still has the impulse, and with his improved intellectual faculties
would naturally be much guided in this respect by reason and experience.
Instinctive sympathy would also cause him to value highly the approbation
of his fellows; for, as Mr. Bain has clearly shewn (24. ‘Mental and Moral
Science,’ 1868, p. 254.), the love of praise and the strong feeling of
glory, and the still stronger horror of scorn and infamy, “are due to the
workings of sympathy.” Consequently man would be influenced in the highest
degree by the wishes, approbation, and blame of his fellow-men, as
expressed by their gestures and language. Thus the social instincts, which
must have been acquired by man in a very rude state, and probably even by
his early ape-like progenitors, still give the impulse to some of his best
actions; but his actions are in a higher degree determined by the expressed
wishes and judgment of his fellow-men, and unfortunately very often by his
own strong selfish desires. But as love, sympathy and self-command become
strengthened by habit, and as the power of reasoning becomes clearer, so
that man can value justly the judgments of his fellows, he will feel
himself impelled, apart from any transitory pleasure or pain, to certain
lines of conduct. He might then declare–not that any barbarian or
uncultivated man could thus think–I am the supreme judge of my own
conduct, and in the words of Kant, I will not in my own person violate the
dignity of humanity.


We have not, however, as yet considered the main point, on which, from our
present point of view, the whole question of the moral sense turns. Why
should a man feel that he ought to obey one instinctive desire rather than
another? Why is he bitterly regretful, if he has yielded to a strong sense
of self-preservation, and has not risked his life to save that of a fellow-
creature? or why does he regret having stolen food from hunger?

It is evident in the first place, that with mankind the instinctive
impulses have different degrees of strength; a savage will risk his own
life to save that of a member of the same community, but will be wholly
indifferent about a stranger: a young and timid mother urged by the
maternal instinct will, without a moment’s hesitation, run the greatest
danger for her own infant, but not for a mere fellow-creature.
Nevertheless many a civilised man, or even boy, who never before risked his
life for another, but full of courage and sympathy, has disregarded the
instinct of self-preservation, and plunged at once into a torrent to save a
drowning man, though a stranger. In this case man is impelled by the same
instinctive motive, which made the heroic little American monkey, formerly
described, save his keeper, by attacking the great and dreaded baboon.
Such actions as the above appear to be the simple result of the greater
strength of the social or maternal instincts rather than that of any other
instinct or motive; for they are performed too instantaneously for
reflection, or for pleasure or pain to be felt at the time; though, if
prevented by any cause, distress or even misery might be felt. In a timid
man, on the other hand, the instinct of self-preservation might be so
strong, that he would be unable to force himself to run any such risk,
perhaps not even for his own child.

I am aware that some persons maintain that actions performed impulsively,
as in the above cases, do not come under the dominion of the moral sense,
and cannot be called moral. They confine this term to actions done
deliberately, after a victory over opposing desires, or when prompted by
some exalted motive. But it appears scarcely possible to draw any clear
line of distinction of this kind. (25. I refer here to the distinction
between what has been called MATERIAL and FORMAL morality. I am glad to
find that Professor Huxley (‘Critiques and Addresses,’ 1873, p. 287) takes
the same view on this subject as I do. Mr. Leslie Stephen remarks (‘Essays
on Freethinking and Plain Speaking,’ 1873, p. 83), “the metaphysical
distinction, between material and formal morality is as irrelevant as other
such distinctions.”) As far as exalted motives are concerned, many
instances have been recorded of savages, destitute of any feeling of
general benevolence towards mankind, and not guided by any religious
motive, who have deliberately sacrificed their lives as prisoners(26. I
have given one such case, namely of three Patagonian Indians who preferred
being shot, one after the other, to betraying the plans of their companions
in war (‘Journal of Researches,’ 1845, p. 103).), rather than betray their
comrades; and surely their conduct ought to be considered as moral. As far
as deliberation, and the victory over opposing motives are concerned,
animals may be seen doubting between opposed instincts, in rescuing their
offspring or comrades from danger; yet their actions, though done for the
good of others, are not called moral. Moreover, anything performed very
often by us, will at last be done without deliberation or hesitation, and
can then hardly be distinguished from an instinct; yet surely no one will
pretend that such an action ceases to be moral. On the contrary, we all
feel that an act cannot be considered as perfect, or as performed in the
most noble manner, unless it be done impulsively, without deliberation or
effort, in the same manner as by a man in whom the requisite qualities are
innate. He who is forced to overcome his fear or want of sympathy before
he acts, deserves, however, in one way higher credit than the man whose
innate disposition leads him to a good act without effort. As we cannot
distinguish between motives, we rank all actions of a certain class as
moral, if performed by a moral being. A moral being is one who is capable
of comparing his past and future actions or motives, and of approving or
disapproving of them. We have no reason to suppose that any of the lower
animals have this capacity; therefore, when a Newfoundland dog drags a
child out of the water, or a monkey faces danger to rescue its comrade, or
takes charge of an orphan monkey, we do not call its conduct moral. But in
the case of man, who alone can with certainty be ranked as a moral being,
actions of a certain class are called moral, whether performed
deliberately, after a struggle with opposing motives, or impulsively
through instinct, or from the effects of slowly-gained habit.

But to return to our more immediate subject. Although some instincts are
more powerful than others, and thus lead to corresponding actions, yet it
is untenable, that in man the social instincts (including the love of
praise and fear of blame) possess greater strength, or have, through long
habit, acquired greater strength than the instincts of self-preservation,
hunger, lust, vengeance, etc. Why then does man regret, even though trying
to banish such regret, that he has followed the one natural impulse rather
than the other; and why does he further feel that he ought to regret his
conduct? Man in this respect differs profoundly from the lower animals.
Nevertheless we can, I think, see with some degree of clearness the reason
of this difference.

Man, from the activity of his mental faculties, cannot avoid reflection:
past impressions and images are incessantly and clearly passing through his
mind. Now with those animals which live permanently in a body, the social
instincts are ever present and persistent. Such animals are always ready
to utter the danger-signal, to defend the community, and to give aid to
their fellows in accordance with their habits; they feel at all times,
without the stimulus of any special passion or desire, some degree of love
and sympathy for them; they are unhappy if long separated from them, and
always happy to be again in their company. So it is with ourselves. Even
when we are quite alone, how often do we think with pleasure or pain of
what others think of us,–of their imagined approbation or disapprobation;
and this all follows from sympathy, a fundamental element of the social
instincts. A man who possessed no trace of such instincts would be an
unnatural monster. On the other hand, the desire to satisfy hunger, or any
passion such as vengeance, is in its nature temporary, and can for a time
be fully satisfied. Nor is it easy, perhaps hardly possible, to call up
with complete vividness the feeling, for instance, of hunger; nor indeed,
as has often been remarked, of any suffering. The instinct of self-
preservation is not felt except in the presence of danger; and many a
coward has thought himself brave until he has met his enemy face to face.
The wish for another man’s property is perhaps as persistent a desire as
any that can be named; but even in this case the satisfaction of actual
possession is generally a weaker feeling than the desire: many a thief, if
not a habitual one, after success has wondered why he stole some article.
(27. Enmity or hatred seems also to be a highly persistent feeling, perhaps
more so than any other that can be named. Envy is defined as hatred of
another for some excellence or success; and Bacon insists (Essay ix.), “Of
all other affections envy is the most importune and continual.” Dogs are
very apt to hate both strange men and strange dogs, especially if they live
near at hand, but do not belong to the same family, tribe, or clan; this
feeling would thus seem to be innate, and is certainly a most persistent
one. It seems to be the complement and converse of the true social
instinct. From what we hear of savages, it would appear that something of
the same kind holds good with them. If this be so, it would be a small
step in any one to transfer such feelings to any member of the same tribe
if he had done him an injury and had become his enemy. Nor is it probable
that the primitive conscience would reproach a man for injuring his enemy;
rather it would reproach him, if he had not revenged himself. To do good
in return for evil, to love your enemy, is a height of morality to which it
may be doubted whether the social instincts would, by themselves, have ever
led us. It is necessary that these instincts, together with sympathy,
should have been highly cultivated and extended by the aid of reason,
instruction, and the love or fear of God, before any such golden rule would
ever be thought of and obeyed.)

A man cannot prevent past impressions often repassing through his mind; he
will thus be driven to make a comparison between the impressions of past
hunger, vengeance satisfied, or danger shunned at other men’s cost, with
the almost ever-present instinct of sympathy, and with his early knowledge
of what others consider as praiseworthy or blameable. This knowledge
cannot be banished from his mind, and from instinctive sympathy is esteemed
of great moment. He will then feel as if he had been baulked in following
a present instinct or habit, and this with all animals causes
dissatisfaction, or even misery.

The above case of the swallow affords an illustration, though of a reversed
nature, of a temporary though for the time strongly persistent instinct
conquering another instinct, which is usually dominant over all others. At
the proper season these birds seem all day long to be impressed with the
desire to migrate; their habits change; they become restless, are noisy and
congregate in flocks. Whilst the mother-bird is feeding, or brooding over
her nestlings, the maternal instinct is probably stronger than the
migratory; but the instinct which is the more persistent gains the victory,
and at last, at a moment when her young ones are not in sight, she takes
flight and deserts them. When arrived at the end of her long journey, and
the migratory instinct has ceased to act, what an agony of remorse the bird
would feel, if, from being endowed with great mental activity, she could
not prevent the image constantly passing through her mind, of her young
ones perishing in the bleak north from cold and hunger.

At the moment of action, man will no doubt be apt to follow the stronger
impulse; and though this may occasionally prompt him to the noblest deeds,
it will more commonly lead him to gratify his own desires at the expense of
other men. But after their gratification when past and weaker impressions
are judged by the ever-enduring social instinct, and by his deep regard for
the good opinion of his fellows, retribution will surely come. He will
then feel remorse, repentance, regret, or shame; this latter feeling,
however, relates almost exclusively to the judgment of others. He will
consequently resolve more or less firmly to act differently for the future;
and this is conscience; for conscience looks backwards, and serves as a
guide for the future.

The nature and strength of the feelings which we call regret, shame,
repentance or remorse, depend apparently not only on the strength of the
violated instinct, but partly on the strength of the temptation, and often
still more on the judgment of our fellows. How far each man values the
appreciation of others, depends on the strength of his innate or acquired
feeling of sympathy; and on his own capacity for reasoning out the remote
consequences of his acts. Another element is most important, although not
necessary, the reverence or fear of the Gods, or Spirits believed in by
each man: and this applies especially in cases of remorse. Several
critics have objected that though some slight regret or repentance may be
explained by the view advocated in this chapter, it is impossible thus to
account for the soul-shaking feeling of remorse. But I can see little
force in this objection. My critics do not define what they mean by
remorse, and I can find no definition implying more than an overwhelming
sense of repentance. Remorse seems to bear the same relation to
repentance, as rage does to anger, or agony to pain. It is far from
strange that an instinct so strong and so generally admired, as maternal
love, should, if disobeyed, lead to the deepest misery, as soon as the
impression of the past cause of disobedience is weakened. Even when an
action is opposed to no special instinct, merely to know that our friends
and equals despise us for it is enough to cause great misery. Who can
doubt that the refusal to fight a duel through fear has caused many men an
agony of shame? Many a Hindoo, it is said, has been stirred to the bottom
of his soul by having partaken of unclean food. Here is another case of
what must, I think, be called remorse. Dr. Landor acted as a magistrate in
West Australia, and relates (28. ‘Insanity in Relation to Law,’ Ontario,
United States, 1871, p. 1.), that a native on his farm, after losing one of
his wives from disease, came and said that, “he was going to a distant
tribe to spear a woman, to satisfy his sense of duty to his wife. I told
him that if he did so, I would send him to prison for life. He remained
about the farm for some months, but got exceedingly thin, and complained
that he could not rest or eat, that his wife’s spirit was haunting him,
because he had not taken a life for hers. I was inexorable, and assured
him that nothing should save him if he did.” Nevertheless the man
disappeared for more than a year, and then returned in high condition; and
his other wife told Dr. Landor that her husband had taken the life of a
woman belonging to a distant tribe; but it was impossible to obtain legal
evidence of the act. The breach of a rule held sacred by the tribe, will
thus, as it seems, give rise to the deepest feelings,–and this quite apart
from the social instincts, excepting in so far as the rule is grounded on
the judgment of the community. How so many strange superstitions have
arisen throughout the world we know not; nor can we tell how some real and
great crimes, such as incest, have come to be held in an abhorrence (which
is not however quite universal) by the lowest savages. It is even doubtful
whether in some tribes incest would be looked on with greater horror, than
would the marriage of a man with a woman bearing the same name, though not
a relation. “To violate this law is a crime which the Australians hold in
the greatest abhorrence, in this agreeing exactly with certain tribes of
North America. When the question is put in either district, is it worse to
kill a girl of a foreign tribe, or to marry a girl of one’s own, an answer
just opposite to ours would be given without hesitation.” (29. E.B.
Tylor, in ‘Contemporary Review,’ April 1873, p. 707.) We may, therefore,
reject the belief, lately insisted on by some writers, that the abhorrence
of incest is due to our possessing a special God-implanted conscience. On
the whole it is intelligible, that a man urged by so powerful a sentiment
as remorse, though arising as above explained, should be led to act in a
manner, which he has been taught to believe serves as an expiation, such as
delivering himself up to justice.

Man prompted by his conscience, will through long habit acquire such
perfect self-command, that his desires and passions will at last yield
instantly and without a struggle to his social sympathies and instincts,
including his feeling for the judgment of his fellows. The still hungry,
or the still revengeful man will not think of stealing food, or of wreaking
his vengeance. It is possible, or as we shall hereafter see, even
probable, that the habit of self-command may, like other habits, be
inherited. Thus at last man comes to feel, through acquired and perhaps
inherited habit, that it is best for him to obey his more persistent
impulses. The imperious word “ought” seems merely to imply the
consciousness of the existence of a rule of conduct, however it may have
originated. Formerly it must have been often vehemently urged that an
insulted gentleman OUGHT to fight a duel. We even say that a pointer OUGHT
to point, and a retriever to retrieve game. If they fail to do so, they
fail in their duty and act wrongly.

If any desire or instinct leading to an action opposed to the good of
others still appears, when recalled to mind, as strong as, or stronger
than, the social instinct, a man will feel no keen regret at having
followed it; but he will be conscious that if his conduct were known to his
fellows, it would meet with their disapprobation; and few are so destitute
of sympathy as not to feel discomfort when this is realised. If he has no
such sympathy, and if his desires leading to bad actions are at the time
strong, and when recalled are not over-mastered by the persistent social
instincts, and the judgment of others, then he is essentially a bad man
(30. Dr. Prosper Despine, in his Psychologie Naturelle, 1868 (tom. i. p.
243; tom. ii. p. 169) gives many curious cases of the worst criminals, who
apparently have been entirely destitute of conscience.); and the sole
restraining motive left is the fear of punishment, and the conviction that
in the long run it would be best for his own selfish interests to regard
the good of others rather than his own.

It is obvious that every one may with an easy conscience gratify his own
desires, if they do not interfere with his social instincts, that is with
the good of others; but in order to be quite free from self-reproach, or at
least of anxiety, it is almost necessary for him to avoid the
disapprobation, whether reasonable or not, of his fellow-men. Nor must he
break through the fixed habits of his life, especially if these are
supported by reason; for if he does, he will assuredly feel
dissatisfaction. He must likewise avoid the reprobation of the one God or
gods in whom, according to his knowledge or superstition, he may believe;
but in this case the additional fear of divine punishment often supervenes.


The above view of the origin and nature of the moral sense, which tells us
what we ought to do, and of the conscience which reproves us if we disobey
it, accords well with what we see of the early and undeveloped condition of
this faculty in mankind. The virtues which must be practised, at least
generally, by rude men, so that they may associate in a body, are those
which are still recognised as the most important. But they are practised
almost exclusively in relation to the men of the same tribe; and their
opposites are not regarded as crimes in relation to the men of other
tribes. No tribe could hold together if murder, robbery, treachery, etc.,
were common; consequently such crimes within the limits of the same tribe
“are branded with everlasting infamy” (31. See an able article in the
‘North British Review,’ 1867, p. 395. See also Mr. W. Bagehot’s articles
on the Importance of Obedience and Coherence to Primitive Man, in the
‘Fortnightly Review,’ 1867, p. 529, and 1868, p. 457, etc.); but excite no
such sentiment beyond these limits. A North-American Indian is well
pleased with himself, and is honoured by others, when he scalps a man of
another tribe; and a Dyak cuts off the head of an unoffending person, and
dries it as a trophy. The murder of infants has prevailed on the largest
scale throughout the world (32. The fullest account which I have met with
is by Dr. Gerland, in his ‘Ueber den Aussterben der Naturvolker,’ 1868; but
I shall have to recur to the subject of infanticide in a future chapter.),
and has met with no reproach; but infanticide, especially of females, has
been thought to be good for the tribe, or at least not injurious. Suicide
during former times was not generally considered as a crime (33. See the
very interesting discussion on suicide in Lecky’s ‘History of European
Morals,’ vol. i. 1869, p. 223. With respect to savages, Mr. Winwood Reade
informs me that the negroes of West Africa often commit suicide. It is
well known how common it was amongst the miserable aborigines of South
America after the Spanish conquest. For New Zealand, see the voyage of the
“Novara,” and for the Aleutian Islands, Muller, as quoted by Houzeau, ‘Les
Facultes Mentales,’ etc., tom. ii. p. 136.), but rather, from the courage
displayed, as an honourable act; and it is still practised by some semi-
civilised and savage nations without reproach, for it does not obviously
concern others of the tribe. It has been recorded that an Indian Thug
conscientiously regretted that he had not robbed and strangled as many
travellers as did his father before him. In a rude state of civilisation
the robbery of strangers is, indeed, generally considered as honourable.

Slavery, although in some ways beneficial during ancient times (34. See
Mr. Bagehot, ‘Physics and Politics,’ 1872, p. 72.), is a great crime; yet
it was not so regarded until quite recently, even by the most civilised
nations. And this was especially the case, because the slaves belonged in
general to a race different from that of their masters. As barbarians do
not regard the opinion of their women, wives are commonly treated like
slaves. Most savages are utterly indifferent to the sufferings of
strangers, or even delight in witnessing them. It is well known that the
women and children of the North-American Indians aided in torturing their
enemies. Some savages take a horrid pleasure in cruelty to animals (35.
See, for instance, Mr. Hamilton’s account of the Kaffirs, ‘Anthropological
Review,’ 1870, p. xv.), and humanity is an unknown virtue. Nevertheless,
besides the family affections, kindness is common, especially during
sickness, between the members of the same tribe, and is sometimes extended
beyond these limits. Mungo Park’s touching account of the kindness of the
negro women of the interior to him is well known. Many instances could be
given of the noble fidelity of savages towards each other, but not to
strangers; common experience justifies the maxim of the Spaniard, “Never,
never trust an Indian.” There cannot be fidelity without truth; and this
fundamental virtue is not rare between the members of the same tribe: thus
Mungo Park heard the negro women teaching their young children to love the
truth. This, again, is one of the virtues which becomes so deeply rooted
in the mind, that it is sometimes practised by savages, even at a high
cost, towards strangers; but to lie to your enemy has rarely been thought a
sin, as the history of modern diplomacy too plainly shews. As soon as a
tribe has a recognised leader, disobedience becomes a crime, and even
abject submission is looked at as a sacred virtue.

As during rude times no man can be useful or faithful to his tribe without
courage, this quality has universally been placed in the highest rank; and
although in civilised countries a good yet timid man may be far more useful
to the community than a brave one, we cannot help instinctively honouring
the latter above a coward, however benevolent. Prudence, on the other
hand, which does not concern the welfare of others, though a very useful
virtue, has never been highly esteemed. As no man can practise the virtues
necessary for the welfare of his tribe without self-sacrifice, self-
command, and the power of endurance, these qualities have been at all times
highly and most justly valued. The American savage voluntarily submits to
the most horrid tortures without a groan, to prove and strengthen his
fortitude and courage; and we cannot help admiring him, or even an Indian
Fakir, who, from a foolish religious motive, swings suspended by a hook
buried in his flesh.

The other so-called self-regarding virtues, which do not obviously, though
they may really, affect the welfare of the tribe, have never been esteemed
by savages, though now highly appreciated by civilised nations. The
greatest intemperance is no reproach with savages. Utter licentiousness,
and unnatural crimes, prevail to an astounding extent. (36. Mr. M’Lennan
has given (‘Primitive Marriage,’ 1865, p. 176) a good collection of facts
on this head.) As soon, however, as marriage, whether polygamous, or
monogamous, becomes common, jealousy will lead to the inculcation of female
virtue; and this, being honoured, will tend to spread to the unmarried
females. How slowly it spreads to the male sex, we see at the present day.
Chastity eminently requires self-command; therefore it has been honoured
from a very early period in the moral history of civilised man. As a
consequence of this, the senseless practice of celibacy has been ranked
from a remote period as a virtue.

The Voyage Of The Beagle

Chapter III



Monte Video.
Excursion to R. Polanco.
Lazo and Bolas.
Absence of Trees.
Capybara, or River Hog.
Molothrus, cuckoo-like habits.
Carrion Hawks.
Tubes formed by Lightning.
House struck.


JULY 5, 1832.

In the morning we got under way, and stood out of the splendid
harbour of Rio de Janeiro. In our passage to the Plata, we saw
nothing particular, excepting on one day a great shoal of
porpoises, many hundreds in number. The whole sea was in places
furrowed by them; and a most extraordinary spectacle was presented,
as hundreds, proceeding together by jumps, in which their whole
bodies were exposed, thus cut the water. When the ship was running
nine knots an hour, these animals could cross and recross the bows
with the greatest ease, and then dash away right ahead. As soon as
we entered the estuary of the Plata, the weather was very
unsettled. One dark night we were surrounded by numerous seals and
penguins, which made such strange noises, that the officer on watch
reported he could hear the cattle bellowing on shore. On a second
night we witnessed a splendid scene of natural fireworks; the
mast-head and yard-arm-ends shone with St. Elmo’s light; and the
form of the vane could almost be traced, as if it had been rubbed
with phosphorus. The sea was so highly luminous, that the tracks of
the penguins were marked by a fiery wake, and the darkness of the
sky was momentarily illuminated by the most vivid lightning.

When within the mouth of the river, I was interested by observing
how slowly the waters of the sea and river mixed. The latter, muddy
and discoloured, from its less specific gravity, floated on the
surface of the salt water. This was curiously exhibited in the wake
of the vessel, where a line of blue water was seen mingling in
little eddies with the adjoining fluid.

JULY 26, 1832.

We anchored at Monte Video. The “Beagle” was employed in surveying
the extreme southern and eastern coasts of America, south of the
Plata, during the two succeeding years. To prevent useless
repetitions, I will extract those parts of my journal which refer
to the same districts, without always attending to the order in
which we visited them.

MALDONADO is situated on the northern bank of the Plata, and not
very far from the mouth of the estuary. It is a most quiet,
forlorn, little town; built, as is universally the case in these
countries, with the streets running at right angles to each other,
and having in the middle a large plaza or square, which, from its
size, renders the scantiness of the population more evident. It
possesses scarcely any trade; the exports being confined to a few
hides and living cattle. The inhabitants are chiefly landowners,
together with a few shopkeepers and the necessary tradesmen, such
as blacksmiths and carpenters, who do nearly all the business for a
circuit of fifty miles round. The town is separated from the river
by a band of sand-hillocks, about a mile broad: it is surrounded on
all other sides by an open slightly-undulating country, covered by
one uniform layer of fine green turf, on which countless herds of
cattle, sheep, and horses graze. There is very little land
cultivated even close to the town. A few hedges made of cacti and
agave mark out where some wheat or Indian corn has been planted.
The features of the country are very similar along the whole
northern bank of the Plata. The only difference is, that here the
granitic hills are a little bolder. The scenery is very
uninteresting; there is scarcely a house, an enclosed piece of
ground, or even a tree, to give it an air of cheerfulness. Yet,
after being imprisoned for some time in a ship, there is a charm in
the unconfined feeling of walking over boundless plains of turf.
Moreover, if your view is limited to a small space, many objects
possess beauty. Some of the smaller birds are brilliantly coloured;
and the bright green sward, browsed short by the cattle, is
ornamented by dwarf flowers, among which a plant, looking like the
daisy, claimed the place of an old friend. What would a florist say
to whole tracts, so thickly covered by the Verbena melindres, as,
even at a distance, to appear of the most gaudy scarlet?

I stayed ten weeks at Maldonado, in which time a nearly perfect
collection of the animals, birds, and reptiles, was procured.
Before making any observations respecting them, I will give an
account of a little excursion I made as far as the river Polanco,
which is about seventy miles distant, in a northerly direction. I
may mention, as a proof how cheap everything is in this country,
that I paid only two dollars a day or eight shillings, for two men,
together with a troop of about a dozen riding-horses. My companions
were well armed with pistols and sabres; a precaution which I
thought rather unnecessary; but the first piece of news we heard
was, that, the day before, a traveller from Monte Video had been
found dead on the road, with his throat cut. This happened close to
a cross, the record of a former murder.

On the first night we slept at a retired little country-house; and
there I soon found out that I possessed two or three articles,
especially a pocket compass, which created unbounded astonishment.
In every house I was asked to show the compass, and by its aid,
together with a map, to point out the direction of various places.
It excited the liveliest admiration that I, a perfect stranger,
should know the road (for direction and road are synonymous in this
open country) to places where I had never been. At one house a
young woman who was ill in bed, sent to entreat me to come and show
her the compass. If their surprise was great, mine was greater, to
find such ignorance among people who possessed their thousands of
cattle, and “estancias” of great extent. It can only be accounted
for by the circumstance that this retired part of the country is
seldom visited by foreigners. I was asked whether the earth or sun
moved; whether it was hotter or colder to the north; where Spain
was, and many other such questions. The greater number of the
inhabitants had an indistinct idea that England, London, and North
America, were different names for the same place; but the better
informed well knew that London and North America were separate
countries close together, and that England was a large town in
London! I carried with me some promethean matches, which I ignited
by biting; it was thought so wonderful that a man should strike
fire with his teeth, that it was usual to collect the whole family
to see it: I was once offered a dollar for a single one. Washing my
face in the morning caused much speculation at the village of Las
Minas; a superior tradesman closely cross-questioned me about so
singular a practice; and likewise why on board we wore our beards;
for he had heard from my guide that we did so. He eyed me with much
suspicion; perhaps he had heard of ablutions in the Mahomedan
religion, and knowing me to be a heretic, probably he came to the
conclusion that all heretics were Turks. It is the general custom
in this country to ask for a night’s lodging at the first
convenient house. The astonishment at the compass, and my other
feats of jugglery, was to a certain degree advantageous, as with
that, and the long stories my guides told of my breaking stones,
knowing venomous from harmless snakes, collecting insects, etc., I
repaid them for their hospitality. I am writing as if I had been
among the inhabitants of Central Africa: Banda Oriental would not
be flattered by the comparison; but such were my feelings at the

The next day we rode to the village of Las Minas. The country was
rather more hilly, but otherwise continued the same; an inhabitant
of the Pampas no doubt would have considered it as truly alpine.
The country is so thinly inhabited, that during the whole day we
scarcely met a single person. Las Minas is much smaller even than
Maldonado. It is seated on a little plain, and is surrounded by low
rocky mountains. It is of the usual symmetrical form, and with its
whitewashed church standing in the centre, had rather a pretty
appearance. The outskirting houses rose out of the plain like
isolated beings, without the accompaniment of gardens or
courtyards. This is generally the case in the country, and all the
houses have, in consequence, an uncomfortable aspect. At night we
stopped at a pulperia, or drinking-shop. During the evening a great
number of Gauchos came in to drink spirits and smoke cigars: their
appearance is very striking; they are generally tall and handsome,
but with a proud and dissolute expression of countenance. They
frequently wear their moustaches, and long black hair curling down
their backs. With their brightly coloured garments, great spurs
clanking about their heels, and knives stuck as daggers (and often
so used) at their waists, they look a very different race of men
from what might be expected from their name of Gauchos, or simple
countrymen. Their politeness is excessive; they never drink their
spirits without expecting you to taste it; but whilst making their
exceedingly graceful bow, they seem quite as ready, if occasion
offered, to cut your throat.

On the third day we pursued rather an irregular course, as I was
employed in examining some beds of marble. On the fine plains of
turf we saw many ostriches (Struthio rhea). Some of the flocks
contained as many as twenty or thirty birds. These, when standing
on any little eminence, and seen against the clear sky, presented a
very noble appearance. I never met with such tame ostriches in any
other part of the country: it was easy to gallop up within a short
distance of them; but then, expanding their wings, they made all
sail right before the wind, and soon left the horse astern.

At night we came to the house of Don Juan Fuentes, a rich landed
proprietor, but not personally known to either of my companions. On
approaching the house of a stranger, it is usual to follow several
little points of etiquette: riding up slowly to the door, the
salutation of Ave Maria is given, and until somebody comes out and
asks you to alight, it is not customary even to get off your horse:
the formal answer of the owner is, “sin pecado concebida”–that is,
conceived without sin. Having entered the house, some general
conversation is kept up for a few minutes, till permission is asked
to pass the night there. This is granted as a matter of course. The
stranger then takes his meals with the family, and a room is
assigned him, where with the horsecloths belonging to his recado
(or saddle of the Pampas) he makes his bed. It is curious how
similar circumstances produce such similar results in manners. At
the Cape of Good Hope the same hospitality, and very nearly the
same points of etiquette, are universally observed. The difference,
however, between the character of the Spaniard and that of the
Dutch boor is shown, by the former never asking his guest a single
question beyond the strictest rule of politeness, whilst the honest
Dutchman demands where he has been, where he is going, what is his
business, and even how many brothers, sisters, or children he may
happen to have.

Shortly after our arrival at Don Juan’s one of the largest herds of
cattle was driven in towards the house, and three beasts were
picked out to be slaughtered for the supply of the establishment.
These half-wild cattle are very active; and knowing full well the
fatal lazo, they led the horses a long and laborious chase. After
witnessing the rude wealth displayed in the number of cattle, men,
and horses, Don Juan’s miserable house was quite curious. The floor
consisted of hardened mud, and the windows were without glass; the
sitting-room boasted only of a few of the roughest chairs and
stools, with a couple of tables. The supper, although several
strangers were present, consisted of two huge piles, one of roast
beef, the other of boiled, with some pieces of pumpkin: besides
this latter there was no other vegetable, and not even a morsel of
bread. For drinking, a large earthenware jug of water served the
whole party. Yet this man was the owner of several square miles of
land, of which nearly every acre would produce corn, and, with a
little trouble, all the common vegetables. The evening was spent in
smoking, with a little impromptu singing, accompanied by the
guitar. The signoritas all sat together in one corner of the room,
and did not sup with the men.


So many works have been written about these countries, that it is
almost superfluous to describe either the lazo or the bolas. The
lazo consists of a very strong, but thin, well-plaited rope, made
of raw hide. One end is attached to the broad surcingle, which
fastens together the complicated gear of the recado, or saddle used
in the Pampas; the other is terminated by a small ring of iron or
brass, by which a noose can be formed. The Gaucho, when he is going
to use the lazo, keeps a small coil in his bridle-hand, and in the
other holds the running noose, which is made very large, generally
having a diameter of about eight feet. This he whirls round his
head, and by the dexterous movement of his wrist keeps the noose
open; then, throwing it, he causes it to fall on any particular
spot he chooses. The lazo, when not used, is tied up in a small
coil to the after part of the recado. The bolas, or balls, are of
two kinds: the simplest, which is chiefly used for catching
ostriches, consists of two round stones, covered with leather, and
united by a thin plaited thong, about eight feet long. (See Chapter
11.) The other kind differs only in having three balls united by
the thongs to a common centre. The Gaucho holds the smallest of the
three in his hand, and whirls the other two round and round his
head; then, taking aim, sends them like chain shot revolving
through the air. The balls no sooner strike any object, than,
winding round it, they cross each other, and become firmly hitched.
The size and weight of the balls varies, according to the purpose
for which they are made: when of stone, although not larger than an
apple, they are sent with such force as sometimes to break the leg
even of a horse. I have seen the balls made of wood, and as large
as a turnip, for the sake of catching these animals without
injuring them. The balls are sometimes made of iron, and these can
be hurled to the greatest distance. The main difficulty in using
either lazo or bolas is to ride so well as to be able at full
speed, and while suddenly turning about, to whirl them so steadily
round the head, as to take aim: on foot any person would soon learn
the art. One day, as I was amusing myself by galloping and whirling
the balls round my head, by accident the free one struck a bush,
and its revolving motion being thus destroyed, it immediately fell
to the ground, and, like magic caught one hind leg of my horse; the
other ball was then jerked out of my hand, and the horse fairly
secured. Luckily he was an old practised animal, and knew what it
meant; otherwise he would probably have kicked till he had thrown
himself down. The Gauchos roared with laughter; they cried out that
they had seen every sort of animal caught, but had never before
seen a man caught by himself.

During the two succeeding days, I reached the farthest point which
I was anxious to examine. The country wore the same aspect, till at
last the fine green turf became more wearisome than a dusty
turnpike road. We everywhere saw great numbers of partridges
(Nothura major). These birds do not go in coveys, nor do they
conceal themselves like the English kind. It appears a very silly
bird. A man on horseback by riding round and round in a circle, or
rather in a spire, so as to approach closer each time, may knock on
the head as many as he pleases. The more common method is to catch
them with a running noose, or little lazo, made of the stem of an
ostrich’s feather, fastened to the end of a long stick. A boy on a
quiet old horse will frequently thus catch thirty or forty in a
day. In Arctic North America the Indians catch the Varying Hare by
walking spirally round and round it, when on its form: the middle
of the day is reckoned the best time, when the sun is high, and the
shadow of the hunter not very long. (3/1. Hearne’s “Journey” page

On our return to Maldonado, we followed rather a different line of
road. Near Pan de Azucar, a landmark well known to all those who
have sailed up the Plata, I stayed a day at the house of a most
hospitable old Spaniard. Early in the morning we ascended the
Sierra de las Animas. By the aid of the rising sun the scenery was
almost picturesque. To the westward the view extended over an
immense level plain as far as the Mount, at Monte Video, and to the
eastward, over the mammillated country of Maldonado. On the summit
of the mountain there were several small heaps of stones, which
evidently had lain there for many years. My companion assured me
that they were the work of the Indians in the old time. The heaps
were similar, but on a much smaller scale, to those so commonly
found on the mountains of Wales. The desire to signalise any event,
on the highest point of the neighbouring land, seems a universal
passion with mankind. At the present day, not a single Indian,
either civilised or wild, exists in this part of the province; nor
am I aware that the former inhabitants have left behind them any
more permanent records than these insignificant piles on the summit
of the Sierra de las Animas.

The general, and almost entire absence of trees in Banda Oriental
is remarkable. Some of the rocky hills are partly covered by
thickets, and on the banks of the larger streams, especially to the
north of Las Minas, willow-trees are not uncommon. Near the Arroyo
Tapes I heard of a wood of palms; and one of these trees, of
considerable size, I saw near the Pan de Azucar, in latitude 35
degrees. These, and the trees planted by the Spaniards, offer the
only exceptions to the general scarcity of wood. Among the
introduced kinds may be enumerated poplars, olives, peach, and
other fruit trees: the peaches succeed so well, that they afford
the main supply of firewood to the city of Buenos Ayres.

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level countries, such as the Pampas, seldom appear favourable to
the growth of trees. This may possibly be attributed either to the
force of the winds, or the kind of drainage. In the nature of the
land, however, around Maldonado, no such reason is apparent; the
rocky mountains afford protected situations; enjoying various kinds
of soil; streamlets of water are common at the bottoms of nearly
every valley; and the clayey nature of the earth seems adapted to
retain moisture. It has been inferred, with much probability, that
the presence of woodland is generally determined by the annual
amount of moisture (3/2. Maclaren, article “America” “Encyclopedia
Brittannica.”); yet in this province abundant and heavy rain falls
during the winter; and the summer, though dry, is not so in any
excessive degree. (3/3. Azara says “Je crois que la quantité
annuelle des pluies est, dans toutes ces contrées, plus
considérable qu’en Espagne.”–Volume 1 page 36.) We see nearly the
whole of Australia covered by lofty trees, yet that country
possesses a far more arid climate. Hence we must look to some other
and unknown cause.

Confining our view to South America, we should certainly be tempted
to believe that trees flourished only under a very humid climate;
for the limit of the forest-land follows, in a most remarkable
manner, that of the damp winds. In the southern part of the
continent, where the western gales, charged with moisture from the
Pacific, prevail, every island on the broken west coast, from
latitude 38 degrees to the extreme point of Tierra del Fuego, is
densely covered by impenetrable forests. On the eastern side of the
Cordillera, over the same extent of latitude, where a blue sky and
a fine climate prove that the atmosphere has been deprived of its
moisture by passing over the mountains, the arid plains of
Patagonia support a most scanty vegetation. In the more northern
parts of the continent, within the limits of the constant
south-eastern trade-wind, the eastern side is ornamented by
magnificent forests; whilst the western coast, from latitude 4
degrees South to latitude 32 degrees South, may be described as a
desert; on this western coast, northward of latitude 4 degrees
South, where the trade-wind loses its regularity, and heavy
torrents of rain fall periodically, the shores of the Pacific, so
utterly desert in Peru, assume near Cape Blanco the character of
luxuriance so celebrated at Guayaquil and Panama. Hence in the
southern and northern parts of the continent, the forest and desert
lands occupy reversed positions with respect to the Cordillera, and
these positions are apparently determined by the direction of the
prevalent winds. In the middle of the continent there is a broad
intermediate band, including central Chile and the provinces of La
Plata, where the rain-bringing winds have not to pass over lofty
mountains, and where the land is neither a desert nor covered by
forests. But even the rule, if confined to South America, of trees
flourishing only in a climate rendered humid by rain-bearing winds,
has a strongly marked exception in the case of the Falkland
Islands. These islands, situated in the same latitude with Tierra
del Fuego and only between two and three hundred miles distant from
it, having a nearly similar climate, with a geological formation
almost identical, with favourable situations and the same kind of
peaty soil, yet can boast of few plants deserving even the title of
bushes; whilst in Tierra del Fuego it is impossible to find an acre
of land not covered by the densest forest. In this case, both the
direction of the heavy gales of wind and of the currents of the sea
are favourable to the transport of seeds from Tierra del Fuego, as
is shown by the canoes and trunks of trees drifted from that
country, and frequently thrown on the shores of the Western
Falkland. Hence perhaps it is, that there are many plants in common
to the two countries: but with respect to the trees of Tierra del
Fuego, even attempts made to transplant them have failed.

During our stay at Maldonado I collected several quadrupeds, eighty
kinds of birds, and many reptiles, including nine species of
snakes. Of the indigenous mammalia, the only one now left of any
size, which is common, is the Cervus campestris. This deer is
exceedingly abundant, often in small herds, throughout the
countries bordering the Plata and in Northern Patagonia. If a
person crawling close along the ground, slowly advances towards a
herd, the deer frequently, out of curiosity, approach to
reconnoitre him. I have by this means, killed from one spot, three
out of the same herd. Although so tame and inquisitive, yet when
approached on horseback, they are exceedingly wary. In this country
nobody goes on foot, and the deer knows man as its enemy only when
he is mounted and armed with the bolas. At Bahia Blanca, a recent
establishment in Northern Patagonia, I was surprised to find how
little the deer cared for the noise of a gun: one day I fired ten
times from within eighty yards at one animal; and it was much more
startled at the ball cutting up the ground than at the report of
the rifle. My powder being exhausted, I was obliged to get up (to
my shame as a sportsman be it spoken, though well able to kill
birds on the wing) and halloo till the deer ran away.

The most curious fact with respect to this animal, is the
overpoweringly strong and offensive odour which proceeds from the
buck. It is quite indescribable: several times whilst skinning the
specimen which is now mounted at the Zoological Museum, I was
almost overcome by nausea. I tied up the skin in a silk
pocket-handkerchief, and so carried it home: this handkerchief,
after being well washed, I continually used, and it was of course
as repeatedly washed; yet every time, for a space of one year and
seven months, when first unfolded, I distinctly perceived the
odour. This appears an astonishing instance of the permanence of
some matter, which nevertheless in its nature must be most subtile
and volatile. Frequently, when passing at the distance of half a
mile to leeward of a herd, I have perceived the whole air tainted
with the effluvium. I believe the smell from the buck is most
powerful at the period when its horns are perfect, or free from the
hairy skin. When in this state the meat is, of course, quite
uneatable; but the Gauchos assert, that if buried for some time in
fresh earth, the taint is removed. I have somewhere read that the
islanders in the north of Scotland treat the rank carcasses of the
fish-eating birds in the same manner.

The order Rodentia is here very numerous in species: of mice alone
I obtained no less than eight kinds. (3/4. In South America I
collected altogether twenty-seven species of mice, and thirteen
more are known from the works of Azara and other authors. Those
collected by myself have been named and described by Mr. Waterhouse
at the meetings of the Zoological Society. I must be allowed to
take this opportunity of returning my cordial thanks to Mr.
Waterhouse, and to the other gentleman attached to that Society,
for their kind and most liberal assistance on all occasions.) The
largest gnawing animal in the world, the Hydrochaerus capybara (the
water-hog), is here also common. One which I shot at Monte Video
weighed ninety-eight pounds: its length, from the end of the snout
to the stump-like tail, was three feet two inches; and its girth
three feet eight. These great Rodents occasionally frequent the
islands in the mouth of the Plata, where the water is quite salt,
but are far more abundant on the borders of fresh-water lakes and
rivers. Near Maldonado three or four generally live together. In
the daytime they either lie among the aquatic plants, or openly
feed on the turf plain. (3/5. In the stomach and duodenum of a
capybara which I opened, I found a very large quantity of a thin
yellowish fluid, in which scarcely a fibre could be distinguished.
Mr. Owen informs me that a part of the oesophagus is so constructed
that nothing much larger than a crowquill can be passed down.
Certainly the broad teeth and strong jaws of this animal are well
fitted to grind into pulp the aquatic plants on which it feeds.)
When viewed at a distance, from their manner of walking and colour
they resemble pigs: but when seated on their haunches, and
attentively watching any object with one eye, they reassume the
appearance of their congeners, cavies and rabbits. Both the front
and side view of their head has quite a ludicrous aspect, from the
great depth of their jaw. These animals, at Maldonado, were very
tame; by cautiously walking, I approached within three yards of
four old ones. This tameness may probably be accounted for, by the
Jaguar having been banished for some years, and by the Gaucho not
thinking it worth his while to hunt them. As I approached nearer
and nearer they frequently made their peculiar noise, which is a
low abrupt grunt, not having much actual sound, but rather arising
from the sudden expulsion of air: the only noise I know at all like
it, is the first hoarse bark of a large dog. Having watched the
four from almost within arm’s length (and they me) for several
minutes, they rushed into the water at full gallop with the
greatest impetuosity, and emitted at the same time their bark.
After diving a short distance they came again to the surface, but
only just showed the upper part of their heads. When the female is
swimming in the water, and has young ones, they are said to sit on
her back. These animals are easily killed in numbers; but their
skins are of trifling value, and the meat is very indifferent. On
the islands in the Rio Parana they are exceedingly abundant, and
afford the ordinary prey to the Jaguar.

The Tucutuco (Ctenomys Brasiliensis) is a curious small animal,
which may be briefly described as a Gnawer, with the habits of a
mole. It is extremely numerous in some parts of the country, but it
is difficult to be procured, and never, I believe, comes out of the
ground. It throws up at the mouth of its burrows hillocks of earth
like those of the mole, but smaller. Considerable tracts of country
are so completely undermined by these animals that horses, in
passing over, sink above their fetlocks. The tucutucos appear, to a
certain degree, to be gregarious: the man who procured the
specimens for me had caught six together, and he said this was a
common occurrence. They are nocturnal in their habits; and their
principal food is the roots of plants, which are the object of
their extensive and superficial burrows. This animal is universally
known by a very peculiar noise which it makes when beneath the
ground. A person, the first time he hears it, is much surprised;
for it is not easy to tell whence it comes, nor is it possible to
guess what kind of creature utters it. The noise consists in a
short, but not rough, nasal grunt, which is monotonously repeated
about four times in quick succession (3/6. At the R. Negro, in
Northern Patagonia, there is an animal of the same habits, and
probably a closely allied species, but which I never saw. Its noise
is different from that of the Maldonado kind; it is repeated only
twice instead of three or four times, and is more distinct and
sonorous: when heard from a distance it so closely resembles the
sound made in cutting down a small tree with an axe, that I have
sometimes remained in doubt concerning it.): the name Tucutuco is
given in imitation of the sound. Where this animal is abundant, it
may be heard at all times of the day, and sometimes directly
beneath one’s feet. When kept in a room, the tucutucos move both
slowly and clumsily, which appears owing to the outward action of
their hind legs; and they are quite incapable, from the socket of
the thigh-bone not having a certain ligament, of jumping even the
smallest vertical height. They are very stupid in making any
attempt to escape; when angry or frightened they utter the
tucu-tuco. Of those I kept alive, several, even the first day,
became quite tame, not attempting to bite or to run away; others
were a little wilder.

The man who caught them asserted that very many are invariably
found blind. A specimen which I preserved in spirits was in this
state; Mr. Reid considers it to be the effect of inflammation in
the nictitating membrane. When the animal was alive I placed my
finger within half an inch of its head, and not the slightest
notice was taken: it made its way, however, about the room nearly
as well as the others. Considering the strictly subterranean habits
of the tucu-tuco, the blindness, though so common, cannot be a very
serious evil; yet it appears strange that any animal should possess
an organ frequently subject to be injured. Lamarck would have been
delighted with this fact, had he known it, when speculating
(probably with more truth than usual with him) on the
gradually-ACQUIRED blindness of the Aspalax, a Gnawer living under
ground, and of the Proteus, a reptile living in dark caverns filled
with water; in both of which animals the eye is in an almost
rudimentary state, and is covered by a tendinous membrane and skin.
(3/7. “Philosoph. Zoolog.” tome 1 page 242.) In the common mole the
eye is extraordinarily small but perfect, though many anatomists
doubt whether it is connected with the true optic nerve; its vision
must certainly be imperfect, though probably useful to the animal
when it leaves its burrow. In the tucu-tuco, which I believe never
comes to the surface of the ground, the eye is rather larger, but
often rendered blind and useless, though without apparently causing
any inconvenience to the animal; no doubt Lamarck would have said
that the tucu-tuco is now passing into the state of the Aspalax and

Birds of many kinds are extremely abundant on the undulating grassy
plains around Maldonado. There are several species of a family
allied in structure and manners to our Starling: one of these
(Molothrus niger) is remarkable from its habits. Several may often
be seen standing together on the back of a cow or horse; and while
perched on a hedge, pluming themselves in the sun, they sometimes
attempt to sing, or rather to hiss; the noise being very peculiar,
resembling that of bubbles of air passing rapidly from a small
orifice under water, so as to produce an acute sound. According to
Azara, this bird, like the cuckoo, deposits its eggs in other
birds’ nests. I was several times told by the country people that
there certainly is some bird having this habit; and my assistant in
collecting, who is a very accurate person, found a nest of the
sparrow of this country (Zonotrichia matutina), with one egg in it
larger than the others, and of a different colour and shape. In
North America there is another species of Molothrus (M. pecoris),
which has a similar cuckoo-like habit, and which is most closely
allied in every respect to the species from the Plata, even in such
trifling peculiarities as standing on the backs of cattle; it
differs only in being a little smaller, and in its plumage and eggs
being of a slightly different shade of colour. This close agreement
in structure and habits, in representative species coming from
opposite quarters of a great continent, always strikes one as
interesting, though of common occurrence.

Mr. Swainson has well remarked, that with the exception of the
Molothrus pecoris, to which must be added the M. niger, the cuckoos
are the only birds which can be called truly parasitical; namely,
such as “fasten themselves, as it were, on another living animal,
whose animal heat brings their young into life, whose food they
live upon, and whose death would cause theirs during the period of
infancy.” (3/8. “Magazine of Zoology and Botany” volume 1 page
217.) It is remarkable that some of the species, but not all, both
of the Cuckoo and Molothrus should agree in this one strange habit
of their parasitical propagation, whilst opposed to each other in
almost every other habit: the molothrus, like our starling, is
eminently sociable, and lives on the open plains without art or
disguise: the cuckoo, as every one knows, is a singularly shy bird;
it frequents the most retired thickets, and feeds on fruit and
caterpillars. In structure also these two genera are widely removed
from each other. Many theories, even phrenological theories, have
been advanced to explain the origin of the cuckoo laying its eggs
in other birds’ nests. M. Prévost alone, I think, has thrown light
by his observations on this puzzle: he finds that the female
cuckoo, which, according to most observers, lays at least from four
to six eggs, must pair with the male each time after laying only
one or two eggs. (3/9. Read before the Academy of Sciences in
Paris. L’Institut 1834 page 418.) Now, if the cuckoo was obliged to
sit on her own eggs, she would either have to sit on all together,
and therefore leave those first laid so long, that they probably
would become addled; or she would have to hatch separately each egg
or two eggs, as soon as laid: but as the cuckoo stays a shorter
time in this country than any other migratory bird, she certainly
would not have time enough for the successive hatchings. Hence we
can perceive in the fact of the cuckoo pairing several times, and
laying her eggs at intervals, the cause of her depositing her eggs
in other birds’ nests, and leaving them to the care of
foster-parents. I am strongly inclined to believe that this view is
correct, from having been independently led (as we shall hereafter
see) to an analogous conclusion with regard to the South American
ostrich, the females of which are parasitical, if I may so express
it, on each other; each female laying several eggs in the nests of
several other females, and the male ostrich undertaking all the
cares of incubation, like the strange foster-parents with the

I will mention only two other birds, which are very common, and
render themselves prominent from their habits. The Saurophagus
sulphuratus is typical of the great American tribe of
tyrant-flycatchers. In its structure it closely approaches the true
shrikes, but in its habits may be compared to many birds. I have
frequently observed it, hunting a field, hovering over one spot
like a hawk, and then proceeding on to another. When seen thus
suspended in the air, it might very readily at a short distance be
mistaken for one of the Rapacious order; its stoop, however, is
very inferior in force and rapidity to that of a hawk. At other
times the Saurophagus haunts the neighbourhood of water, and there,
like a kingfisher, remaining stationary, it catches any small fish
which may come near the margin. These birds are not unfrequently
kept either in cages or in courtyards, with their wings cut. They
soon become tame, and are very amusing from their cunning odd
manners, which were described to me as being similar to those of
the common magpie. Their flight is undulatory, for the weight of
the head and bill appears too great for the body. In the evening
the Saurophagus takes its stand on a bush, often by the roadside,
and continually repeats without change a shrill and rather
agreeable cry, which somewhat resembles articulate words: the
Spaniards say it is like the words “Bien te veo” (I see you well),
and accordingly have given it this name.

A mocking-bird (Mimus orpheus), called by the inhabitants
Calandria, is remarkable, from possessing a song far superior to
that of any other bird in the country: indeed, it is nearly the
only bird in South America which I have observed to take its stand
for the purpose of singing. The song may be compared to that of the
Sedge warbler, but is more powerful; some harsh notes and some very
high ones, being mingled with a pleasant warbling. It is heard only
during the spring. At other times its cry is harsh and far from
harmonious. Near Maldonado these birds were tame and bold; they
constantly attended the country houses in numbers, to pick the meat
which was hung up on the posts or walls: if any other small bird
joined the feast, the Calandria soon chased it away. On the wide
uninhabited plains of Patagonia another closely allied species, O.
Patagonica of d’Orbigny, which frequents the valleys clothed with
spiny bushes, is a wilder bird, and has a slightly different tone
of voice. It appears to me a curious circumstance, as showing the
fine shades of difference in habits, that judging from this latter
respect alone, when I first saw this second species, I thought it
was different from the Maldonado kind. Having afterwards procured a
specimen, and comparing the two without particular care, they
appeared so very similar, that I changed my opinion; but now Mr.
Gould says that they are certainly distinct; a conclusion in
conformity with the trifling difference of habit, of which,
however, he was not aware.

The number, tameness, and disgusting habits of the carrion-feeding
hawks of South America make them pre-eminently striking to any one
accustomed only to the birds of Northern Europe. In this list may
be included four species of the Caracara or Polyborus, the Turkey
buzzard, the Gallinazo, and the Condor. The Caracaras are, from
their structure, placed among the eagles: we shall soon see how ill
they become so high a rank. In their habits they well supply the
place of our carrion-crows, magpies, and ravens; a tribe of birds
widely distributed over the rest of the world, but entirely absent
in South America. To begin with the Polyborus Brasiliensis: this is
a common bird, and has a wide geographical range; it is most
numerous on the grassy savannahs of La Plata (where it goes by the
name of Carrancha), and is far from unfrequent throughout the
sterile plains of Patagonia. In the desert between the rivers Negro
and Colorado, numbers constantly attend the line of road to devour
the carcasses of the exhausted animals which chance to perish from
fatigue and thirst. Although thus common in these dry and open
countries, and likewise on the arid shores of the Pacific, it is
nevertheless found inhabiting the damp impervious forests of West
Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego. The Carranchas, together with the
Chimango, constantly attend in numbers the estancias and
slaughtering-houses. If an animal dies on the plain the Gallinazo
commences the feast, and then the two species of Polyborus pick the
bones clean. These birds, although thus commonly feeding together,
are far from being friends. When the Carrancha is quietly seated on
the branch of a tree or on the ground, the Chimango often continues
for a long time flying backwards and forwards, up and down, in a
semicircle, trying each time at the bottom of the curve to strike
its larger relative. The Carrancha takes little notice, except by
bobbing its head. Although the Carranchas frequently assemble in
numbers, they are not gregarious; for in desert places they may be
seen solitary, or more commonly by pairs.

The Carranchas are said to be very crafty, and to steal great
numbers of eggs. They attempt, also, together with the Chimango, to
pick off the scabs from the sore backs of horses and mules. The
poor animal, on the one hand, with its ears down and its back
arched; and, on the other, the hovering bird, eyeing at the
distance of a yard the disgusting morsel, form a picture, which has
been described by Captain Head with his own peculiar spirit and
accuracy. These false eagles most rarely kill any living bird or
animal; and their vulture-like, necrophagous habits are very
evident to any one who has fallen asleep on the desolate plains of
Patagonia, for when he wakes, he will see, on each surrounding
hillock, one of these birds patiently watching him with an evil
eye: it is a feature in the landscape of these countries, which
will be recognised by every one who has wandered over them. If a
party of men go out hunting with dogs and horses, they will be
accompanied, during the day, by several of these attendants. After
feeding, the uncovered craw protrudes; at such times, and indeed
generally, the Carrancha is an inactive, tame, and cowardly bird.
Its flight is heavy and slow, like that of an English rook. It
seldom soars; but I have twice seen one at a great height gliding
through the air with much ease. It runs (in contradistinction to
hopping), but not quite so quickly as some of its congeners. At
times the Carrancha is noisy, but is not generally so: its cry is
loud, very harsh and peculiar, and may be likened to the sound of
the Spanish guttural g, followed by a rough double r r; when
uttering this cry it elevates its head higher and higher, till at
last, with its beak wide open, the crown almost touches the lower
part of the back. This fact, which has been doubted, is quite true;
I have seen them several times with their heads backwards in a
completely inverted position. To these observations I may add, on
the high authority of Azara, that the Carrancha feeds on worms,
shells, slugs, grasshoppers, and frogs; that it destroys young
lambs by tearing the umbilical cord; and that it pursues the
Gallinazo, till that bird is compelled to vomit up the carrion it
may have recently gorged. Lastly, Azara states that several
Carranchas, five or six together, will unite in chase of large
birds, even such as herons. All these facts show that it is a bird
of very versatile habits and considerable ingenuity.

The Polyborus Chimango is considerably smaller than the last
species. It is truly omnivorous, and will eat even bread; and I was
assured that it materially injures the potato-crops in Chiloe, by
stocking up the roots when first planted. Of all the
carrion-feeders it is generally the last which leaves the skeleton
of a dead animal, and may often be seen within the ribs of a cow or
horse, like a bird in a cage. Another species is the Polyborus
Novae Zelandiae, which is exceedingly common in the Falkland
Islands. These birds in many respects resemble in their habits the
Carranchas. They live on the flesh of dead animals and on marine
productions; and on the Ramirez rocks their whole sustenance must
depend on the sea. They are extraordinarily tame and fearless, and
haunt the neighbourhood of houses for offal. If a hunting party
kills an animal, a number soon collect and patiently await,
standing on the ground on all sides. After eating, their uncovered
craws are largely protruded, giving them a disgusting appearance.
They readily attack wounded birds: a cormorant in this state having
taken to the shore, was immediately seized on by several, and its
death hastened by their blows. The “Beagle” was at the Falklands
only during the summer, but the officers of the “Adventure,” who
were there in the winter, mention many extraordinary instances of
the boldness and rapacity of these birds. They actually pounced on
a dog that was lying fast asleep close by one of the party; and the
sportsmen had difficulty in preventing the wounded geese from being
seized before their eyes. It is said that several together (in this
respect resembling the Carranchas) wait at the mouth of a
rabbit-hole, and together seize on the animal when it comes out.
They were constantly flying on board the vessel when in the
harbour; and it was necessary to keep a good look-out to prevent
the leather being torn from the rigging, and the meat or game from
the stern. These birds are very mischievous and inquisitive; they
will pick up almost anything from the ground; a large black glazed
hat was carried nearly a mile, as was a pair of the heavy balls
used in catching cattle. Mr. Usborne experienced during the survey
a more severe loss, in their stealing a small Kater’s compass in a
red morocco leather case, which was never recovered. These birds
are, moreover, quarrelsome and very passionate; tearing up the
grass with their bills from rage. They are not truly gregarious;
they do not soar, and their flight is heavy and clumsy; on the
ground they run extremely fast, very much like pheasants. They are
noisy, uttering several harsh cries, one of which is like that of
the English rook, hence the sealers always call them rooks. It is a
curious circumstance that, when crying out, they throw their heads
upwards and backwards, after the same manner as the Carrancha. They
build in the rocky cliffs of the sea-coast, but only on the small
adjoining islets, and not on the two main islands: this is a
singular precaution in so tame and fearless a bird. The sealers say
that the flesh of these birds, when cooked, is quite white, and
very good eating; but bold must the man be who attempts such a

We have now only to mention the turkey-buzzard (Vultur aura), and
the Gallinazo. The former is found wherever the country is
moderately damp, from Cape Horn to North America. Differently from
the Polyborus Brasiliensis and Chimango, it has found its way to
the Falkland Islands. The turkey-buzzard is a solitary bird, or at
most goes in pairs. It may at once be recognised from a long
distance, by its lofty, soaring, and most elegant flight. It is
well known to be a true carrion-feeder. On the west coast of
Patagonia, among the thickly-wooded islets and broken land, it
lives exclusively on what the sea throws up, and on the carcasses
of dead seals. Wherever these animals are congregated on the rocks,
there the vultures may be seen. The Gallinazo (Cathartes atratus)
has a different range from the last species, as it never occurs
southward of latitude 41 degrees. Azara states that there exists a
tradition that these birds, at the time of the conquest, were not
found near Monte Video, but that they subsequently followed the
inhabitants from more northern districts. At the present day they
are numerous in the valley of the Colorado, which is three hundred
miles due south of Monte Video. It seems probable that this
additional migration has happened since the time of Azara. The
Gallinazo generally prefers a humid climate, or rather the
neighbourhood of fresh water; hence it is extremely abundant in
Brazil and La Plata, while it is never found on the desert and arid
plains of Northern Patagonia, excepting near some stream. These
birds frequent the whole Pampas to the foot of the Cordillera, but
I never saw or heard of one in Chile: in Peru they are preserved as
scavengers. These vultures certainly may be called gregarious, for
they seem to have pleasure in society, and are not solely brought
together by the attraction of a common prey. On a fine day a flock
may often be observed at a great height, each bird wheeling round
and round without closing its wings, in the most graceful
evolutions. This is clearly performed for the mere pleasure of the
exercise, or perhaps is connected with their matrimonial alliances.

I have now mentioned all the carrion-feeders, excepting the condor,
an account of which will be more appropriately introduced when we
visit a country more congenial to its habits than the plains of La

In a broad band of sand-hillocks which separate the Laguna del
Potrero from the shores of the Plata, at the distance of a few
miles from Maldonado, I found a group of those vitrified, siliceous
tubes, which are formed by lightning entering loose sand. These
tubes resemble in every particular those from Drigg in Cumberland,
described in the “Geological Transactions.” (3/10. “Geological
Transactions” volume 2 page 528. In the “Philosophical
Transactions” 1790 page 294, Dr. Priestley has described some
imperfect siliceous tubes and a melted pebble of quartz, found in
digging into the ground, under a tree, where a man had been killed
by lightning.) The sand-hillocks of Maldonado, not being protected
by vegetation, are constantly changing their position. From this
cause the tubes projected above the surface; and numerous fragments
lying near, showed that they had formerly been buried to a greater
depth. Four sets entered the sand perpendicularly: by working with
my hands I traced one of them two feet deep; and some fragments
which evidently had belonged to the same tube, when added to the
other part, measured five feet three inches. The diameter of the
whole tube was nearly equal, and therefore we must suppose that
originally it extended to a much greater depth. These dimensions
are however small, compared to those of the tubes from Drigg, one
of which was traced to a depth of not less than thirty feet.

The internal surface is completely vitrified, glossy, and smooth. A
small fragment examined under the microscope appeared, from the
number of minute entangled air or perhaps steam bubbles, like an
assay fused before the blowpipe. The sand is entirely, or in
greater part, siliceous; but some points are of a black colour, and
from their glossy surface possess a metallic lustre. The thickness
of the wall of the tube varies from a thirtieth to a twentieth of
an inch, and occasionally even equals a tenth. On the outside the
grains of sand are rounded, and have a slightly glazed appearance:
I could not distinguish any signs of crystallisation. In a similar
manner to that described in the “Geological Transactions,” the
tubes are generally compressed, and have deep longitudinal furrows,
so as closely to resemble a shrivelled vegetable stalk, or the bark
of the elm or cork tree. Their circumference is about two inches,
but in some fragments, which are cylindrical and without any
furrows, it is as much as four inches. The compression from the
surrounding loose sand, acting while the tube was still softened
from the effects of the intense heat, has evidently caused the
creases or furrows. Judging from the uncompressed fragments, the
measure or bore of the lightning (if such a term may be used) must
have been about one inch and a quarter. At Paris, M. Hachette and
M. Beudant succeeded in making tubes, in most respects similar to
these fulgurites, by passing very strong shocks of galvanism
through finely-powdered glass: when salt was added, so as to
increase its fusibility, the tubes were larger in every dimension.
(3/11. “Annales de Chimie et de Physique” tome 37 page 319.) They
failed both with powdered feldspar and quartz. One tube, formed
with pounded glass, was very nearly an inch long, namely .982, and
had an internal diameter of .019 of an inch. When we hear that the
strongest battery in Paris was used, and that its power on a
substance of such easy fusibility as glass was to form tubes so
diminutive, we must feel greatly astonished at the force of a shock
of lightning, which, striking the sand in several places, has
formed cylinders, in one instance of at least thirty feet long, and
having an internal bore, where not compressed, of full an inch and
a half; and this in a material so extraordinarily refractory as

The tubes, as I have already remarked, enter the sand nearly in a
vertical direction. One, however, which was less regular than the
others, deviated from a right line, at the most considerable bend,
to the amount of thirty-three degrees. From this same tube, two
small branches, about a foot apart, were sent off; one pointed
downwards, and the other upwards. This latter case is remarkable,
as the electric fluid must have turned back at the acute angle of
26 degrees, to the line of its main course. Besides the four tubes
which I found vertical, and traced beneath the surface, there were
several other groups of fragments, the original sites of which
without doubt were near. All occurred in a level area of shifting
sand, sixty yards by twenty, situated among some high
sand-hillocks, and at the distance of about half a mile from a
chain of hills four or five hundred feet in height. The most
remarkable circumstance, as it appears to me, in this case as well
as in that of Drigg, and in one described by M. Ribbentrop in
Germany, is the number of tubes found within such limited spaces.
At Drigg, within an area of fifteen yards, three were observed, and
the same number occurred in Germany. In the case which I have
described, certainly more than four existed within the space of the
sixty by twenty yards. As it does not appear probable that the
tubes are produced by successive distinct shocks, we must believe
that the lightning, shortly before entering the ground, divides
itself into separate branches.

The neighbourhood of the Rio Plata seems peculiarly subject to
electric phenomena. In the year 1793, one of the most destructive
thunderstorms perhaps on record happened at Buenos Ayres:
thirty-seven places within the city were struck by lightning, and
nineteen people killed. (3/12. Azara’s “Voyage” volume 1 page 36.)
From facts stated in several books of travels, I am inclined to
suspect that thunderstorms are very common near the mouths of great
rivers. Is it not possible that the mixture of large bodies of
fresh and salt water may disturb the electrical equilibrium? Even
during our occasional visits to this part of South America, we
heard of a ship, two churches, and a house having been struck. Both
the church and the house I saw shortly afterwards: the house
belonged to Mr. Hood, the consul-general at Monte Video. Some of
the effects were curious: the paper, for nearly a foot on each side
of the line where the bell-wires had run, was blackened. The metal
had been fused, and although the room was about fifteen feet high,
the globules, dropping on the chairs and furniture, had drilled in
them a chain of minute holes. A part of the wall was shattered as
if by gunpowder, and the fragments had been blown off with force
sufficient to dent the wall on the opposite side of the room. The
frame of a looking-glass was blackened, and the gilding must have
been volatilised, for a smelling-bottle, which stood on the
chimney-piece, was coated with bright metallic particles, which
adhered as firmly as if they had been enamelled.


The Voyage Of The Beagle

Chapter II



Rio de Janeiro.
Excursion north of Cape Frio.
Great Evaporation.
Botofogo Bay.
Terrestrial Planariae.
Clouds on the Corcovado.
Heavy Rain.
Musical Frogs.
Phosphorescent Insects.
Elater, springing powers of.
Blue Haze.
Noise made by a Butterfly.
Wasp killing a Spider.
Parasitical Spider.
Artifices of an Epeira.
Gregarious Spider.
Spider with an unsymmetrical Web.


APRIL 4 TO JULY 5, 1832.

A few days after our arrival I became acquainted with an Englishman
who was going to visit his estate, situated rather more than a
hundred miles from the capital, to the northward of Cape Frio. I
gladly accepted his kind offer of allowing me to accompany him.

APRIL 8, 1832.

Our party amounted to seven. The first stage was very interesting.
The day was powerfully hot, and as we passed through the woods,
everything was motionless, excepting the large and brilliant
butterflies, which lazily fluttered about. The view seen when
crossing the hills behind Praia Grande was most beautiful; the
colours were intense, and the prevailing tint a dark blue; the sky
and the calm waters of the bay vied with each other in splendour.
After passing through some cultivated country, we entered a forest
which in the grandeur of all its parts could not be exceeded. We
arrived by midday at Ithacaia; this small village is situated on a
plain, and round the central house are the huts of the negroes.
These, from their regular form and position, reminded me of the
drawings of the Hottentot habitations in Southern Africa. As the
moon rose early, we determined to start the same evening for our
sleeping-place at the Lagoa Marica. As it was growing dark we
passed under one of the massive, bare, and steep hills of granite
which are so common in this country. This spot is notorious from
having been, for a long time, the residence of some runaway slaves,
who, by cultivating a little ground near the top, contrived to eke
out a subsistence. At length they were discovered, and a party of
soldiers being sent, the whole were seized with the exception of
one old woman, who, sooner than again be led into slavery, dashed
herself to pieces from the summit of the mountain. In a Roman
matron this would have been called the noble love of freedom: in a
poor negress it is mere brutal obstinacy. We continued riding for
some hours. For the few last miles the road was intricate, and it
passed through a desert waste of marshes and lagoons. The scene by
the dimmed light of the moon was most desolate. A few fireflies
flitted by us; and the solitary snipe, as it rose, uttered its
plaintive cry. The distant and sullen roar of the sea scarcely
broke the stillness of the night.

APRIL 9, 1832.

We left our miserable sleeping-place before sunrise. The road
passed through a narrow sandy plain, lying between the sea and the
interior salt lagoons. The number of beautiful fishing birds, such
as egrets and cranes, and the succulent plants assuming most
fantastical forms, gave to the scene an interest which it would not
otherwise have possessed. The few stunted trees were loaded with
parasitical plants, among which the beauty and delicious fragrance
of some of the orchideae were most to be admired.

The great site of climbing parasitic plants reminds us of the parasitic nutrition where the parasite gets it readymade food from the host plant. This is established by maintaining a lower water potential than the host. These plants do not contain chlorophyll, the necessary elements required for photosynthesis. Some examples of this include the

  • Cuscuta
  • Santalaceae

As the sun rose,
the day became extremely hot, and the reflection of the light and
heat from the white sand was very distressing. We dined at
Mandetiba; the thermometer in the shade being 84 degrees. The
beautiful view of the distant wooded hills, reflected in the
perfectly calm water of an extensive lagoon, quite refreshed us. As
the vênda here was a very good one, and I have the pleasant, but
rare remembrance, of an excellent dinner, I will be grateful and
presently describe it, as the type of its class. (2/1. Vênda, the
Portuguese name for an inn.) These houses are often large, and are
built of thick upright posts, with boughs interwoven, and
afterwards plastered. They seldom have floors, and never glazed
windows; but are generally pretty well roofed. Universally the
front part is open, forming a kind of verandah, in which tables and
benches are placed. The bedrooms join on each side, and here the
passenger may sleep as comfortably as he can, on a wooden platform
covered by a thin straw mat. The vênda stands in a courtyard, where
the horses are fed. On first arriving, it was our custom to
unsaddle the horses and give them their Indian corn; then, with a
low bow, to ask the senhôr to do us the favour to give us something
to eat. “Anything you choose, sir,” was his usual answer. For the
few first times, vainly I thanked providence for having guided us
to so good a man. The conversation proceeding, the case universally
became deplorable. “Any fish can you do us the favour of giving
?”–“Oh no, sir.”–“Any soup?”–“No, sir.”–“Any bread?”–“Oh no,
sir.”–“Any dried meat?”–“Oh no, sir.” If we were lucky, by
waiting a couple of hours, we obtained fowls, rice, and farinha. It
not unfrequently happened that we were obliged to kill, with
stones, the poultry for our own supper. When, thoroughly exhausted
by fatigue and hunger, we timorously hinted that we should be glad
of our meal, the pompous, and (though true) most unsatisfactory
answer was, “It will be ready when it is ready.” If we had dared to
remonstrate any further, we should have been told to proceed on our
journey, as being too impertinent. The hosts are most ungracious
and disagreeable in their manners; their houses and their persons
are often filthily dirty; the want of the accommodation of forks,
knives, and spoons is common; and I am sure no cottage or hovel in
England could be found in a state so utterly destitute of every
comfort. At Campos Novos, however, we fared sumptuously; having
rice and fowls, biscuit, wine, and spirits, for dinner; coffee in
the evening, and fish with coffee for breakfast. All this, with
good food for the horses, only cost 2 shillings 6 pence per head.
Yet the host of this vênda, being asked if he knew anything of a
whip which one of the party had lost, gruffly answered, “How should
I know? why did you not take care of it?–I suppose the dogs have
eaten it.”

Leaving Mandetiba, we continued to pass through an intricate
wilderness of lakes; in some of which were fresh, in others salt
water shells. Of the former kind, I found a Limnaea in great
numbers in a lake, into which the inhabitants assured me that the
sea enters once a year, and sometimes oftener, and makes the water
quite salt. I have no doubt many interesting facts in relation to
marine and fresh-water animals might be observed in this chain of
lagoons which skirt the coast of Brazil. M. Gay has stated that he
found in the neighbourhood of Rio shells of the marine genera solen
and mytilus, and fresh-water ampullariae, living together in
brackish water. (2/2. “Annales des Sciences Naturelles” for 1833.)
I also frequently observed in the lagoon near the Botanic Garden,
where the water is only a little less salt than in the sea, a
species of hydrophilus, very similar to a water-beetle common in
the ditches of England: in the same lake the only shell belonged to
a genus generally found in estuaries.

(PLATE 9. VAMPIRE BAT (Desmodus D’Orbigny). Caught on back of
Darwin’s horse near Coquimbo. Head, full size.)

Leaving the coast for a time, we again entered the forest. The
trees were very lofty, and remarkable, compared with those of
Europe, from the whiteness of their trunks. I see by my notebook,
“wonderful and beautiful flowering parasites,” invariably struck me
as the most novel object in these grand scenes. Travelling onwards
we passed through tracts of pasturage, much injured by the enormous
conical ants’ nests, which were nearly twelve feet high. They gave
to the plain exactly the appearance of the mud volcanoes at
Jorullo, as figured by Humboldt. We arrived at Engenhodo after it
was dark, having been ten hours on horseback. I never ceased,
during the whole journey, to be surprised at the amount of labour
which the horses were capable of enduring; they appeared also to
recover from any injury much sooner than those of our English
breed. The Vampire bat is often the cause of much trouble, by
biting the horses on their withers. The injury is generally not so
much owing to the loss of blood, as to the inflammation which the
pressure of the saddle afterwards produces. The whole circumstance
has lately been doubted in England; I was therefore fortunate in
being present when one (Desmodus d’orbignyi, Wat.) was actually
caught on a horse’s back. We were bivouacking late one evening near
Coquimbo, in Chile, when my servant, noticing that one of the
horses was very restive, went to see what was the matter, and
fancying he could distinguish something, suddenly put his hand on
the beast’s withers, and secured the vampire. In the morning the
spot where the bite had been inflicted was easily distinguished
from being slightly swollen and bloody. The third day afterwards we
rode the horse, without any ill effects.

APRIL 13, 1832.

After three days’ travelling we arrived at Socêgo, the estate of
Senhôr Manuel Figuireda, a relation of one of our party. The house
was simple, and, though like a barn in form, was well suited to the
climate. In the sitting-room gilded chairs and sofas were oddly
contrasted with the whitewashed walls, thatched roof, and windows
without glass. The house, together with the granaries, the stables,
and workshops for the blacks, who had been taught various trades,
formed a rude kind of quadrangle; in the centre of which a large
pile of coffee was drying. These buildings stand on a little hill,
overlooking the cultivated ground, and surrounded on every side by
a wall of dark green luxuriant forest. The chief produce of this
part of the country is coffee. Each tree is supposed to yield
annually, on an average, two pounds; but some give as much as
eight. Mandioca or cassava is likewise cultivated in great
quantity. Every part of this plant is useful: the leaves and stalks
are eaten by the horses, and the roots are ground into a pulp,
which, when pressed dry and baked, forms the farinha, the principal
article of sustenance in the Brazils. It is a curious, though
well-known fact, that the juice of this most nutritious plant is
highly poisonous. A few years ago a cow died at this Fazênda, in
consequence of having drunk some of it. Senhôr Figuireda told me
that he had planted, the year before, one bag of feijaô or beans,
and three of rice; the former of which produced eighty, and the
latter three hundred and twenty fold. The pasturage supports a fine
stock of cattle, and the woods are so full of game that a deer had
been killed on each of the three previous days. This profusion of
food showed itself at dinner, where, if the tables did not groan,
the guests surely did; for each person is expected to eat of every
dish. One day, having, as I thought, nicely calculated so that
nothing should go away untasted, to my utter dismay a roast turkey
and a pig appeared in all their substantial reality. During the
meals, it was the employment of a man to drive out of the room
sundry old hounds, and dozens of little black children, which
crawled in together, at every opportunity. As long as the idea of
slavery could be banished, there was something exceedingly
fascinating in this simple and patriarchal style of living: it was
such a perfect retirement and independence from the rest of the
world. As soon as any stranger is seen arriving, a large bell is
set tolling, and generally some small cannon are fired. The event
is thus announced to the rocks and woods, but to nothing else. One
morning I walked out an hour before daylight to admire the solemn
stillness of the scene; at last, the silence was broken by the
morning hymn, raised on high by the whole body of the blacks; and
in this manner their daily work is generally begun. On such
fazêndas as these, I have no doubt the slaves pass happy and
contented lives. On Saturday and Sunday they work for themselves,
and in this fertile climate the labour of two days is sufficient to
support a man and his family for the whole week.

APRIL 14, 1832.


Leaving Socˆgo, we rode to another estate on the Rio Macƒe, which
was the last patch of cultivated ground in that direction. The
estate was two and a half miles long, and the owner had forgotten
how many broad. Only a very small piece had been cleared, yet
almost every acre was capable of yielding all the various rich
productions of a tropical land. Considering the enormous area of
Brazil, the proportion of cultivated ground can scarcely be
considered as anything compared to that which is left in the state
of nature: at some future age, how vast a population it will
support! During the second day’s journey we found the road so shut
up that it was necessary that a man should go ahead with a sword to
cut away the creepers. The forest abounded with beautiful objects;
among which the tree ferns, though not large, were, from their
bright green foliage, and the elegant curvature of their fronds,
most worthy of admiration. In the evening it rained very heavily,
and although the thermometer stood at 65 degrees, I felt very cold.
As soon as the rain ceased, it was curious to observe the
extraordinary evaporation which commenced over the whole extent of
the forest. At the height of a hundred feet the hills were buried
in a dense white vapour, which rose like columns of smoke from the
most thickly-wooded parts, and especially from the valleys. I
observed this phenomenon on several occasions: I suppose it is
owing to the large surface of foliage, previously heated by the
sun’s rays.

While staying at this estate, I was very nearly being an
eye-witness to one of those atrocious acts which can only take
place in a slave country. Owing to a quarrel and a lawsuit, the
owner was on the point of taking all the women and children from
the male slaves, and selling them separately at the public auction
at Rio. Interest, and not any feeling of compassion, prevented this
act. Indeed, I do not believe the inhumanity of separating thirty
families, who had lived together for many years, even occurred to
the owner. Yet I will pledge myself, that in humanity and good
feeling he was superior to the common run of men. It may be said
there exists no limit to the blindness of interest and selfish
habit. I may mention one very trifling anecdote, which at the time
struck me more forcibly than any story of cruelty. I was crossing a
ferry with a negro who was uncommonly stupid. In endeavouring to
make him understand, I talked loud, and made signs, in doing which
I passed my hand near his face. He, I suppose, thought I was in a
passion, and was going to strike him; for instantly, with a
frightened look and half-shut eyes, he dropped his hands. I shall
never forget my feelings of surprise, disgust, and shame, at seeing
a great powerful man afraid even to ward off a blow, directed, as
he thought, at his face. This man had been trained to a degradation
lower than the slavery of the most helpless animal.

APRIL 18, 1832.


In returning we spent two days at Socˆgo, and I employed them in
collecting insects in the forest. The greater number of trees,
although so lofty, are not more than three or four feet in
circumference. There are, of course, a few of much greater
dimension. Senhôr Manuel was then making a canoe 70 feet in length
from a solid trunk, which had originally been 110 feet long, and of
great thickness. The contrast of palm trees, growing amidst the
common branching kinds, never fails to give the scene an
intertropical character. Here the woods were ornamented by the
Cabbage Palm–one of the most beautiful of its family. With a stem
so narrow that it might be clasped with the two hands, it waves its
elegant head at the height of forty or fifty feet above the ground.
The woody creepers, themselves covered by other creepers, were of
great thickness: some which I measured were two feet in
circumference. Many of the older trees presented a very curious
appearance from the tresses of a liana hanging from their boughs,
and resembling bundles of hay. If the eye was turned from the world
of foliage above, to the ground beneath, it was attracted by the
extreme elegance of the leaves of the ferns and mimosae. The
latter, in some parts, covered the surface with a brushwood only a
few inches high. In walking across these thick beds of mimosae, a
broad track was marked by the change of shade, produced by the
drooping of their sensitive petioles. It is easy to specify the
individual objects of admiration in these grand scenes; but it is
not possible to give an adequate idea of the higher feelings of
wonder, astonishment, and devotion, which fill and elevate the


APRIL 19, 1832.

Leaving Socˆgo, during the two first days we retraced our steps. It
was very wearisome work, as the road generally ran across a glaring
hot sandy plain, not far from the coast. I noticed that each time
the horse put its foot on the fine siliceous sand, a gentle
chirping noise was produced. On the third day we took a different
line, and passed through the gay little village of Madre de De“s.
This is one of the principal lines of road in Brazil; yet it was in
so bad a state that no wheel vehicle, excepting the clumsy
bullock-wagon, could pass along. In our whole journey we did not
cross a single bridge built of stone; and those made of logs of
wood were frequently so much out of repair that it was necessary to
go on one side to avoid them. All distances are inaccurately known.
The road is often marked by crosses, in the place of milestones, to
signify where human blood has been spilled. On the evening of the
23rd we arrived at Rio, having finished our pleasant little

During the remainder of my stay at Rio, I resided in a cottage at
Botofogo Bay. It was impossible to wish for anything more
delightful than thus to spend some weeks in so magnificent a
country. In England any person fond of natural history enjoys in
his walks a great advantage, by always having something to attract
his attention; but in these fertile climates, teeming with life,
the attractions are so numerous, that he is scarcely able to walk
at all.

The few observations which I was enabled to make were almost
exclusively confined to the invertebrate animals. The existence of
a division of the genus Planaria, which inhabits the dry land,
interested me much. These animals are of so simple a structure,
that Cuvier has arranged them with the intestinal worms, though
never found within the bodies of other animals. Numerous species
inhabit both salt and fresh water; but those to which I allude were
found, even in the drier parts of the forest, beneath logs of
rotten wood, on which I believe they feed. In general form they
resemble little slugs, but are very much narrower in proportion,
and several of the species are beautifully coloured with
longitudinal stripes. Their structure is very simple: near the
middle of the under or crawling surface there are two small
transverse slits, from the anterior one of which a funnel-shaped
and highly irritable mouth can be protruded. For some time after
the rest of the animal was completely dead from the effects of salt
water or any other cause, this organ still retained its vitality.

I found no less than twelve different species of terrestrial
Planariae in different parts of the southern hemisphere. (2/3. I
have described and named these species in the “Annals of Natural
History” volume 14 page 241.) Some specimens which I obtained at
Van Dieman’s Land, I kept alive for nearly two months, feeding them
on rotten wood. Having cut one of them transversely into two nearly
equal parts, in the course of a fortnight both had the shape of
perfect animals. I had, however, so divided the body, that one of
the halves contained both the inferior orifices, and the other, in
consequence, none. In the course of twenty-five days from the
operation, the more perfect half could not have been distinguished
from any other specimen. The other had increased much in size; and
towards its posterior end, a clear space was formed in the
parenchymatous mass, in which a rudimentary cup-shaped mouth could
clearly be distinguished; on the under surface, however, no
corresponding slit was yet open. If the increased heat of the
weather, as we approached the equator, had not destroyed all the
individuals, there can be no doubt that this last step would have
completed its structure. Although so well known an experiment, it
was interesting to watch the gradual production of every essential
organ, out of the simple extremity of another animal. It is
extremely difficult to preserve these Planariae; as soon as the
cessation of life allows the ordinary laws of change to act, their
entire bodies become soft and fluid, with a rapidity which I have
never seen equalled.

I first visited the forest in which these Planariae were found, in
company with an old Portuguese priest who took me out to hunt with
him. The sport consisted in turning into the cover a few dogs, and
then patiently waiting to fire at any animal which might appear. We
were accompanied by the son of a neighbouring farmer–a good
specimen of a wild Brazilian youth. He was dressed in a tattered
old shirt and trousers, and had his head uncovered: he carried an
old-fashioned gun and a large knife. The habit of carrying the
knife is universal; and in traversing a thick wood it is almost
necessary, on account of the creeping plants. The frequent
occurrence of murder may be partly attributed to this habit. The
Brazilians are so dexterous with the knife that they can throw it
to some distance with precision, and with sufficient force to cause
a fatal wound. I have seen a number of little boys practising this
art as a game of play, and from their skill in hitting an upright
stick, they promised well for more earnest attempts. My companion,
the day before, had shot two large bearded monkeys. These animals
have prehensile tails, the extremity of which, even after death,
can support the whole weight of the body. One of them thus remained
fast to a branch, and it was necessary to cut down a large tree to
procure it. This was soon effected, and down came tree and monkey
with an awful crash. Our day’s sport, besides the monkey, was
confined to sundry small green parrots and a few toucans. I
profited, however, by my acquaintance with the Portuguese padre,
for on another occasion he gave me a fine specimen of the
Yagouaroundi cat.

Every one has heard of the beauty of the scenery near Botofogo. The
house in which I lived was seated close beneath the well-known
mountain of the Corcovado. It has been remarked, with much truth,
that abruptly conical hills are characteristic of the formation
which Humboldt designates as gneiss-granite. Nothing can be more
striking than the effect of these huge rounded masses of naked rock
rising out of the most luxuriant vegetation.

I was often interested by watching the clouds, which, rolling in
from seaward, formed a bank just beneath the highest point of the
Corcovado. This mountain, like most others, when thus partly
veiled, appeared to rise to a far prouder elevation than its real
height of 2300 feet. Mr. Daniell has observed, in his
meteorological essays, that a cloud sometimes appears fixed on a
mountain summit, while the wind continues to blow over it. The same
phenomenon here presented a slightly different appearance. In this
case the cloud was clearly seen to curl over, and rapidly pass by
the summit, and yet was neither diminished nor increased in size.
The sun was setting, and a gentle southerly breeze, striking
against the southern side of the rock, mingled its current with the
colder air above; and the vapour was thus condensed: but as the
light wreaths of cloud passed over the ridge, and came within the
influence of the warmer atmosphere of the northern sloping bank,
they were immediately redissolved.

The climate, during the months of May and June, or the beginning of
winter, was delightful. The mean temperature, from observations
taken at nine o’clock, both morning and evening, was only 72
degrees. It often rained heavily, but the drying southerly winds
soon again rendered the walks pleasant. One morning, in the course
of six hours, 1.6 inches of rain fell. As this storm passed over
the forests which surround the Corcovado, the sound produced by the
drops pattering on the countless multitude of leaves was very
remarkable, it could be heard at the distance of a quarter of a
mile, and was like the rushing of a great body of water. After the
hotter days, it was delicious to sit quietly in the garden and
watch the evening pass into night. Nature, in these climes, chooses
her vocalists from more humble performers than in Europe. A small
frog, of the genus Hyla, sits on a blade of grass about an inch
above the surface of the water, and sends forth a pleasing chirp:
when several are together they sing in harmony on different notes.
I had some difficulty in catching a specimen of this frog. The
genus Hyla has its toes terminated by small suckers; and I found
this animal could crawl up a pane of glass, when placed absolutely
perpendicular. Various cicadae and crickets, at the same time, keep
up a ceaseless shrill cry, but which, softened by the distance, is
not unpleasant. Every evening after dark this great concert
commenced; and often have I sat listening to it, until my attention
has been drawn away by some curious passing insect.

At these times the fireflies are seen flitting about from hedge to
hedge. On a dark night the light can be seen at about two hundred
paces distant. It is remarkable that in all the different kinds of
glowworms, shining elaters, and various marine animals (such as the
crustacea, medusae, nereidae, a coralline of the genus Clytia, and
Pyrosoma), which I have observed, the light has been of a
well-marked green colour. All the fireflies, which I caught here,
belonged to the Lampyridae (in which family the English glowworm is
included), and the greater number of specimens were of Lampyris
occidentalis. (2/4. I am greatly indebted to Mr. Waterhouse for his
kindness in naming for me this and many other insects, and giving
me much valuable assistance.) I found that this insect emitted the
most brilliant flashes when irritated: in the intervals, the
abdominal rings were obscured. The flash was almost coinstantaneous
in the two rings, but it was just perceptible first in the anterior
one. The shining matter was fluid and very adhesive: little spots,
where the skin had been torn, continued bright with a slight
scintillation, whilst the uninjured parts were obscured. When the
insect was decapitated the rings remained uninterruptedly bright,
but not so brilliant as before: local irritation with a needle
always increased the vividness of the light. The rings in one
instance retained their luminous property nearly twenty-four hours
after the death of the insect. From these facts it would appear
probable, that the animal has only the power of concealing or
extinguishing the light for short intervals, and that at other
times the display is involuntary. On the muddy and wet gravel-walks
I found the larvae of this lampyris in great numbers: they
resembled in general form the female of the English glowworm. These
larvae possessed but feeble luminous powers; very differently from
their parents, on the slightest touch they feigned death, and
ceased to shine; nor did irritation excite any fresh display. I
kept several of them alive for some time: their tails are very
singular organs, for they act, by a well-fitted contrivance, as
suckers or organs of attachment, and likewise as reservoirs for
saliva, or some such fluid. I repeatedly fed them on raw meat; and
I invariably observed, that every now and then the extremity of the
tail was applied to the mouth, and a drop of fluid exuded on the
meat, which was then in the act of being consumed. The tail,
notwithstanding so much practice, does not seem to be able to find
its way to the mouth; at least the neck was always touched first,
and apparently as a guide.

When we were at Bahia, an elater or beetle (Pyrophorus luminosus,
Illig.) seemed the most common luminous insect. The light in this
case was also rendered more brilliant by irritation. I amused
myself one day by observing the springing powers of this insect,
which have not, as it appears to me, been properly described. (2/5.
Kirby’s “Entomology” volume 2 page 317.) The elater, when placed on
its back and preparing to spring, moved its head and thorax
backwards, so that the pectoral spine was drawn out, and rested on
the edge of its sheath. The same backward movement being continued,
the spine, by the full action of the muscles, was bent like a
spring; and the insect at this moment rested on the extremity of
its head and wing-cases. The effort being suddenly relaxed, the
head and thorax flew up, and in consequence, the base of the
wing-cases struck the supporting surface with such force, that the
insect by the reaction was jerked upwards to the height of one or
two inches. The projecting points of the thorax, and the sheath of
the spine, served to steady the whole body during the spring. In
the descriptions which I have read, sufficient stress does not
appear to have been laid on the elasticity of the spine: so sudden
a spring could not be the result of simple muscular contraction,
without the aid of some mechanical contrivance.

On several occasions I enjoyed some short but most pleasant
excursions in the neighbouring country. One day I went to the
Botanic Garden, where many plants, well known for their great
utility, might be seen growing. The leaves of the camphor, pepper,
cinnamon, and clove trees were delightfully aromatic; and the
bread-fruit, the jaca, and the mango, vied with each other in the
magnificence of their foliage. The landscape in the neighbourhood
of Bahia almost takes its character from the two latter trees.
Before seeing them, I had no idea that any trees could cast so
black a shade on the ground. Both of them bear to the evergreen
vegetation of these climates the same kind of relation which
laurels and hollies in England do to the lighter green of the
deciduous trees. It may be observed that the houses within the
tropics are surrounded by the most beautiful forms of vegetation,
because many of them are at the same time most useful to man. Who
can doubt that these qualities are united in the banana, the
cocoa-nut, the many kinds of palm, the orange, and the bread-fruit

During this day I was particularly struck with a remark of
Humboldt’s, who often alludes to “the thin vapour which, without
changing the transparency of the air, renders its tints more
harmonious, and softens its effects.” This is an appearance which I
have never observed in the temperate zones. The atmosphere, seen
through a short space of half or three-quarters of a mile, was
perfectly lucid, but at a greater distance all colours were blended
into a most beautiful haze, of a pale French grey, mingled with a
little blue. The condition of the atmosphere between the morning
and about noon, when the effect was most evident, had undergone
little change, excepting in its dryness. In the interval, the
difference between the dew point and temperature had increased from
7.5 to 17 degrees.

On another occasion I started early and walked to the Gavia, or
topsail mountain. The air was delightfully cool and fragrant; and
the drops of dew still glittered on the leaves of the large
liliaceous plants, which shaded the streamlets of clear water.
Sitting down on a block of granite, it was delightful to watch the
various insects and birds as they flew past. The humming-bird seems
particularly fond of such shady retired spots. Whenever I saw these
little creatures buzzing round a flower, with their wings vibrating
so rapidly as to be scarcely visible, I was reminded of the sphinx
moths: their movements and habits are indeed in many respects very


Following a pathway I entered a noble forest, and from a height of
five or six hundred feet, one of those splendid views was
presented, which are so common on every side of Rio. At this
elevation the landscape attains its most brilliant tint; and every
form, every shade, so completely surpasses in magnificence all that
the European has ever beheld in his own country, that he knows not
how to express his feelings. The general effect frequently recalled
to my mind the gayest scenery of the Opera-house or the great
theatres. I never returned from these excursions empty-handed. This
day I found a specimen of a curious fungus, called Hymenophallus.
Most people know the English Phallus, which in autumn taints the
air with its odious smell: this, however, as the entomologist is
aware, is to some of our beetles a delightful fragrance. So was it
here; for a Strongylus, attracted by the odour, alighted on the
fungus as I carried it in my hand. We here see in two distant
countries a similar relation between plants and insects of the same
families, though the species of both are different. When man is the
agent in introducing into a country a new species this relation is
often broken: as one instance of this I may mention that the leaves
of the cabbages and lettuces, which in England afford food to such
a multitude of slugs and caterpillars, in the gardens near Rio are

During our stay at Brazil I made a large collection of insects. A
few general observations on the comparative importance of the
different orders may be interesting to the English entomologist.
The large and brilliantly-coloured Lepidoptera bespeak the zone
they inhabit, far more plainly than any other race of animals. I
allude only to the butterflies; for the moths, contrary to what
might have been expected from the rankness of the vegetation,
certainly appeared in much fewer numbers than in our own temperate
regions. I was much surprised at the habits of Papilio feronia.
This butterfly is not uncommon, and generally frequents the
orange-groves. Although a high flier, yet it very frequently
alights on the trunks of trees. On these occasions its head is
invariably placed downwards; and its wings are expanded in a
horizontal plane, instead of being folded vertically, as is
commonly the case. This is the only butterfly which I have ever
seen that uses its legs for running. Not being aware of this fact,
the insect, more than once, as I cautiously approached with my
forceps, shuffled on one side just as the instrument was on the
point of closing, and thus escaped. But a far more singular fact is
the power which this species possesses of making a noise. (2/6. Mr.
Doubleday has lately described (before the Entomological Society,
March 3, 1845) a peculiar structure in the wings of this butterfly,
which seems to be the means of its making its noise. He says, “It
is remarkable for having a sort of drum at the base of the fore
wings, between the costal nervure and the subcostal. These two
nervures, moreover, have a peculiar screw-like diaphragm or vessel
in the interior.” I find in Langsdorff’s travels (in the years
1803-7 page 74) it is said, that in the island of St. Catherine’s
on the coast of Brazil, a butterfly called Februa Hoffmanseggi,
makes a noise, when flying away, like a rattle.) Several times when
a pair, probably male and female, were chasing each other in an
irregular course, they passed within a few yards of me; and I
distinctly heard a clicking noise, similar to that produced by a
toothed wheel passing under a spring catch. The noise was continued
at short intervals, and could be distinguished at about twenty
yards’ distance: I am certain there is no error in the observation.

I was disappointed in the general aspect of the Coleoptera. The
number of minute and obscurely coloured beetles is exceedingly
great. (2/7. I may mention, as a common instance of one day’s (June
23rd) collecting, when I was not attending particularly to the
Coleoptera, that I caught sixty-eight species of that order. Among
these, there were only two of the Carabidae, four Brachelytra,
fifteen Rhyncophora, and fourteen of the Chrysomelidae.
Thirty-seven species of Arachnidae, which I brought home, will be
sufficient to prove that I was not paying overmuch attention to the
generally favoured order of Coleoptera.) The cabinets of Europe
can, as yet, boast only of the larger species from tropical
climates. It is sufficient to disturb the composure of an
entomologist’s mind, to look forward to the future dimensions of a
complete catalogue. The carnivorous beetles, or Carabidae, appear
in extremely few numbers within the tropics: this is the more
remarkable when compared to the case of the carnivorous quadrupeds,
which are so abundant in hot countries. I was struck with this
observation both on entering Brazil, and when I saw the many
elegant and active forms of the Harpalidae reappearing on the
temperate plains of La Plata. Do the very numerous spiders and
rapacious Hymenoptera supply the place of the carnivorous beetles?
The carrion-feeders and Brachelytra are very uncommon; on the other
hand, the Rhyncophora and Chrysomelidae, all of which depend on the
vegetable world for subsistence, are present in astonishing
numbers. I do not here refer to the number of different species,
but to that of the individual insects; for on this it is that the
most striking character in the entomology of different countries
depends. The orders Orthoptera and Hemiptera are particularly
numerous; as likewise is the stinging division of the Hymenoptera;
the bees, perhaps, being excepted. A person, on first entering a
tropical forest, is astonished at the labours of the ants:
well-beaten paths branch off in every direction, on which an army
of never-failing foragers may be seen, some going forth, and others
returning, burdened with pieces of green leaf, often larger than
their own bodies.

A small dark-coloured ant sometimes migrates in countless numbers.
One day, at Bahia, my attention was drawn by observing many
spiders, cockroaches, and other insects, and some lizards, rushing
in the greatest agitation across a bare piece of ground. A little
way behind, every stalk and leaf was blackened by a small ant. The
swarm having crossed the bare space, divided itself, and descended
an old wall. By this means many insects were fairly enclosed; and
the efforts which the poor little creatures made to extricate
themselves from such a death were wonderful. When the ants came to
the road they changed their course, and in narrow files reascended
the wall. Having placed a small stone so as to intercept one of the
lines, the whole body attacked it, and then immediately retired.
Shortly afterwards another body came to the charge, and again
having failed to make any impression, this line of march was
entirely given up. By going an inch round, the file might have
avoided the stone, and this doubtless would have happened, if it
had been originally there: but having been attacked, the
lion-hearted little warriors scorned the idea of yielding.

Certain wasp-like insects, which construct in the corners of the
verandahs clay cells for their larvae, are very numerous in the
neighbourhood of Rio. These cells they stuff full of half-dead
spiders and caterpillars, which they seem wonderfully to know how
to sting to that degree as to leave them paralysed but alive, until
their eggs are hatched; and the larvae feed on the horrid mass of
powerless, half-killed victims–a sight which has been described by
an enthusiastic naturalist as curious and pleasing! (2/8. In a
Manuscript in the British Museum by Mr. Abbott, who made his
observations in Georgia; see Mr. A. White’s paper in the “Annals of
Natural History” volume 7 page 472. Lieutenant Hutton has described
a sphex with similar habits in India, in the “Journal of the
Asiatic Society” volume 1 page 555.) I was much interested one day
by watching a deadly contest between a Pepsis and a large spider of
the genus Lycosa. The wasp made a sudden dash at its prey, and then
flew away: the spider was evidently wounded, for, trying to escape,
it rolled down a little slope, but had still strength sufficient to
crawl into a thick tuft of grass. The wasp soon returned, and
seemed surprised at not immediately finding its victim. It then
commenced as regular a hunt as ever hound did after fox; making
short semicircular casts, and all the time rapidly vibrating its
wings and antennae. The spider, though well concealed, was soon
discovered, and the wasp, evidently still afraid of its adversary’s
jaws, after much manoeuvring, inflicted two stings on the under
side of its thorax. At last, carefully examining with its antennae
the now motionless spider, it proceeded to drag away the body. But
I stopped both tyrant and prey. (2/9. Don Felix Azara volume 1 page
175, mentioning a hymenopterous insect, probably of the same genus,
says he saw it dragging a dead spider through tall grass, in a
straight line to its nest, which was one hundred and sixty-three
paces distant. He adds that the wasp, in order to find the road,
every now and then made “demi-tours d’environ trois palmes.”)

The number of spiders, in proportion to other insects, is here
compared with England very much larger; perhaps more so than with
any other division of the articulate animals. The variety of
species among the jumping spiders appears almost infinite. The
genus, or rather family of Epeira, is here characterized by many
singular forms; some species have pointed coriaceous shells, others
enlarged and spiny tibiae. Every path in the forest is barricaded
with the strong yellow web of a species, belonging to the same
division with the Epeira clavipes of Fabricius, which was formerly
said by Sloane to make, in the West Indies, webs so strong as to
catch birds. A small and pretty kind of spider, with very long
fore-legs, and which appears to belong to an undescribed genus,
lives as a parasite on almost every one of these webs. I suppose it
is too insignificant to be noticed by the great Epeira, and is
therefore allowed to prey on the minute insects, which, adhering to
the lines, would otherwise be wasted. When frightened, this little
spider either feigns death by extending its front legs, or suddenly
drops from the web. A large Epeira of the same division with Epeira
tuberculata and conica is extremely common, especially in dry
situations. Its web, which is generally placed among the great
leaves of the common agave, is sometimes strengthened near the
centre by a pair or even four zigzag ribbons, which connect two
adjoining rays. When any large insect, as a grasshopper or wasp, is
caught, the spider, by a dexterous movement, makes it revolve very
rapidly, and at the same time emitting a band of threads from its
spinners, soon envelops its prey in a case like the cocoon of a
silkworm. The spider now examines the powerless victim, and gives
the fatal bite on the hinder part of its thorax; then retreating,
patiently waits till the poison has taken effect. The virulence of
this poison may be judged of from the fact that in half a minute I
opened the mesh, and found a large wasp quite lifeless. This Epeira
always stands with its head downwards near the centre of the web.
When disturbed, it acts differently according to circumstances: if
there is a thicket below, it suddenly falls down; and I have
distinctly seen the thread from the spinners lengthened by the
animal while yet stationary, as preparatory to its fall. If the
ground is clear beneath, the Epeira seldom falls, but moves quickly
through a central passage from one to the other side. When still
further disturbed, it practises a most curious manoeuvre: standing
in the middle, it violently jerks the web, which is attached to
elastic twigs, till at last the whole acquires such a rapid
vibratory movement, that even the outline of the spider’s body
becomes indistinct.

It is well known that most of the British spiders, when a large
insect is caught in their webs, endeavour to cut the lines and
liberate their prey, to save their nets from being entirely
spoiled. I once, however, saw in a hot-house in Shropshire a large
female wasp caught in the irregular web of a quite small spider;
and this spider, instead of cutting the web, most perseveringly
continued to entangle the body, and especially the wings, of its
prey. The wasp at first aimed in vain repeated thrusts with its
sting at its little antagonist. Pitying the wasp, after allowing it
to struggle for more than an hour, I killed it and put it back into
the web. The spider soon returned; and an hour afterwards I was
much surprised to find it with its jaws buried in the orifice
through which the sting is protruded by the living wasp. I drove
the spider away two or three times, but for the next twenty-four
hours I always found it again sucking at the same place. The spider
became much distended by the juices of its prey, which was many
times larger than itself.

I may here just mention, that I found, near St. Fé Bajada, many
large black spiders, with ruby-coloured marks on their backs,
having gregarious habits. The webs were placed vertically, as is
invariably the case with the genus Epeira: they were separated from
each other by a space of about two feet, but were all attached to
certain common lines, which were of great length, and extended to
all parts of the community. In this manner the tops of some large
bushes were encompassed by the united nets. Azara has described a
gregarious spider in Paraguay, which Walckanaer thinks must be a
Theridion, but probably it is an Epeira, and perhaps even the same
species with mine. (2/10. Azara’s “Voyage” volume 1 page 213.) I
cannot, however, recollect seeing a central nest as large as a hat,
in which, during autumn, when the spiders die, Azara says the eggs
are deposited. As all the spiders which I saw were of the same
size, they must have been nearly of the same age. This gregarious
habit, in so typical a genus as Epeira, among insects, which are so
bloodthirsty and solitary that even the two sexes attack each
other, is a very singular fact.

In a lofty valley of the Cordillera, near Mendoza, I found another
spider with a singularly-formed web. Strong lines radiated in a
vertical plane from a common centre, where the insect had its
station; but only two of the rays were connected by a symmetrical
mesh-work; so that the net, instead of being, as is generally the
case, circular, consisted of a wedge-shaped segment. All the webs
were similarly constructed.

FERONIA, 1889.)


The Voyage Of The Beagle

Chapter I


Porto Praya.
Ribeira Grande.
Atmospheric Dust with Infusoria.
Habits of a Sea-slug and Cuttle-fish.
St. Paul’s Rocks, non-volcanic.
Singular Incrustations.
Insects the first Colonists of Islands.
Fernando Noronha.
Burnished Rocks.
Habits of a Diodon.
Pelagic Confervae and Infusoria.
Causes of discoloured Sea.


After having been twice driven back by heavy south-western gales,
Her Majesty’s ship “Beagle,” a ten-gun brig, under the command of
Captain Fitz Roy, R.N., sailed from Devonport on the 27th of
December, 1831. The object of the expedition was to complete the
survey of Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego, commenced under Captain
King in 1826 to 1830–to survey the shores of Chile, Peru, and of
some islands in the Pacific–and to carry a chain of chronometrical
measurements round the World. On the 6th of January we reached
Teneriffe, but were prevented landing, by fears of our bringing the
cholera: the next morning we saw the sun rise behind the rugged
outline of the Grand Canary Island, and suddenly illumine the Peak
of Teneriffe, whilst the lower parts were veiled in fleecy clouds.
This was the first of many delightful days never to be forgotten.
On the 16th of January 1832 we anchored at Porto Praya, in St.
Jago, the chief island of the Cape de Verd archipelago.

The neighbourhood of Porto Praya, viewed from the sea, wears a
desolate aspect. The volcanic fires of a past age, and the
scorching heat of a tropical sun, have in most places rendered the
soil unfit for vegetation. The country rises in successive steps of
table-land, interspersed with some truncate conical hills, and the
horizon is bounded by an irregular chain of more lofty mountains.
The scene, as beheld through the hazy atmosphere of this climate,
is one of great interest; if, indeed, a person, fresh from sea, and
who has just walked, for the first time, in a grove of cocoa-nut
trees, can be a judge of anything but his own happiness.

The Cocoa bean is the fruit produced by a cocoa tree that is used to make the different world-famous chocolates. The site web indicates that there are two main species of cocoa

  • The Criollo which is known to be the cocoa princess with excellent flavour and aroma
  • The Forastero which is a higher yielding type

The island
would generally be considered as very uninteresting, but to any one
accustomed only to an English landscape, the novel aspect of an
utterly sterile land possesses a grandeur which more vegetation
might spoil. A single green leaf can scarcely be discovered over
wide tracts of the lava plains; yet flocks of goats, together with
a few cows, contrive to exist. It rains very seldom, but during a
short portion of the year heavy torrents fall, and immediately
afterwards a light vegetation springs out of every crevice. This
soon withers; and upon such naturally formed hay the animals live.
It had not now rained for an entire year. When the island was
discovered, the immediate neighbourhood of Porto Praya was clothed
with trees (1/1. I state this on the authority of Dr. E.
Dieffenbach, in his German translation of the first edition of this
Journal.), the reckless destruction of which has caused here, as at
St. Helena, and at some of the Canary islands, almost entire
sterility. The broad, flat-bottomed valleys, many of which serve
during a few days only in the season as watercourses, are clothed
with thickets of leafless bushes. Few living creatures inhabit
these valleys. The commonest bird is a kingfisher (Dacelo
Iagoensis), which tamely sits on the branches of the castor-oil
plant, and thence darts on grasshoppers and lizards. It is brightly
coloured, but not so beautiful as the European species: in its
flight, manners, and place of habitation, which is generally in the
driest valley, there is also a wide difference.

One day, two of the officers and myself rode to Ribeira Grande, a
village a few miles eastward of Porto Praya. Until we reached the
valley of St. Martin, the country presented its usual dull brown
appearance; but here, a very small rill of water produces a most
refreshing margin of luxuriant vegetation. In the course of an hour
we arrived at Ribeira Grande, and were surprised at the sight of a
large ruined fort and cathedral. This little town, before its
harbour was filled up, was the principal place in the island: it
now presents a melancholy, but very picturesque appearance. Having
procured a black Padre for a guide, and a Spaniard who had served
in the Peninsular war as an interpreter, we visited a collection of
buildings, of which an ancient church formed the principal part. It
is here the governors and captain-generals of the islands have been
buried. Some of the tombstones recorded dates of the sixteenth
century. (1/2. The Cape de Verd Islands were discovered in 1449.
There was a tombstone of a bishop with the date of 1571; and a
crest of a hand and dagger, dated 1497.) The heraldic ornaments
were the only things in this retired place that reminded us of
Europe. The church or chapel formed one side of a quadrangle, in
the middle of which a large clump of bananas were growing. On
another side was a hospital, containing about a dozen
miserable-looking inmates.

We returned to the Vênda to eat our dinners. A considerable number
of men, women, and children, all as black as jet, collected to
watch us. Our companions were extremely merry; and everything we
said or did was followed by their hearty laughter. Before leaving
the town we visited the cathedral. It does not appear so rich as
the smaller church, but boasts of a little organ, which sent forth
singularly inharmonious cries. We presented the black priest with a
few shillings, and the Spaniard, patting him on the head, said,
with much candour, he thought his colour made no great difference.
We then returned, as fast as the ponies would go, to Porto Praya.

Another day we rode to the village of St. Domingo, situated near
the centre of the island. On a small plain which we crossed, a few
stunted acacias were growing; their tops had been bent by the
steady trade-wind, in a singular manner–some of them even at right
angles to their trunks. The direction of the branches was exactly
north-east by north, and south-west by south, and these natural
vanes must indicate the prevailing direction of the force of the
trade-wind. The travelling had made so little impression on the
barren soil, that we here missed our track, and took that to
Fuentes. This we did not find out till we arrived there; and we
were afterwards glad of our mistake. Fuentes is a pretty village,
with a small stream; and everything appeared to prosper well,
excepting, indeed, that which ought to do so most–its inhabitants.
The black children, completely naked, and looking very wretched,
were carrying bundles of firewood half as big as their own bodies.

Near Fuentes we saw a large flock of guinea-fowl–probably fifty or
sixty in number. They were extremely wary, and could not be
approached. They avoided us, like partridges on a rainy day in
September, running with their heads cocked up; and if pursued, they
readily took to the wing.

The scenery of St. Domingo possesses a beauty totally unexpected,
from the prevalent gloomy character of the rest of the island. The
village is situated at the bottom of a valley, bounded by lofty and
jagged walls of stratified lava. The black rocks afford a most
striking contrast with the bright green vegetation, which follows
the banks of a little stream of clear water. It happened to be a
grand feast-day, and the village was full of people. On our return
we overtook a party of about twenty young black girls, dressed in
excellent taste; their black skins and snow-white linen being set
off by coloured turbans and large shawls. As soon as we approached
near, they suddenly all turned round, and covering the path with
their shawls, sung with great energy a wild song, beating time with
their hands upon their legs. We threw them some vintéms, which were
received with screams of laughter, and we left them redoubling the
noise of their song.

One morning the view was singularly clear; the distant mountains
being projected with the sharpest outline, on a heavy bank of dark
blue clouds. Judging from the appearance, and from similar cases in
England, I supposed that the air was saturated with moisture. The
fact, however, turned out quite the contrary. The hygrometer gave a
difference of 29.6 degrees, between the temperature of the air, and
the point at which dew was precipitated. This difference was nearly
double that which I had observed on the previous mornings. This
unusual degree of atmospheric dryness was accompanied by continual
flashes of lightning. Is it not an uncommon case, thus to find a
remarkable degree of aerial transparency with such a state of

Generally the atmosphere is hazy; and this is caused by the falling
of impalpably fine dust, which was found to have slightly injured
the astronomical instruments. The morning before we anchored at
Porto Praya, I collected a little packet of this brown-coloured
fine dust, which appeared to have been filtered from the wind by
the gauze of the vane at the masthead. Mr. Lyell has also given me
four packets of dust which fell on a vessel a few hundred miles
northward of these islands. Professor Ehrenberg finds that this
dust consists in great part of infusoria with siliceous shields,
and of the siliceous tissue of plants. (1/3. I must take this
opportunity of acknowledging the great kindness with which this
illustrious naturalist has examined many of my specimens. I have
sent (June 1845) a full account of the falling of this dust to the
Geological Society.) In five little packets which I sent him, he
has ascertained no less than sixty-seven different organic forms!
The infusoria, with the exception of two marine species, are all
inhabitants of fresh-water. I have found no less than fifteen
different accounts of dust having fallen on vessels when far out in
the Atlantic. From the direction of the wind whenever it has
fallen, and from its having always fallen during those months when
the harmattan is known to raise clouds of dust high into the
atmosphere, we may feel sure that it all comes from Africa. It is,
however, a very singular fact, that, although Professor Ehrenberg
knows many species of infusoria peculiar to Africa, he finds none
of these in the dust which I sent him. On the other hand, he finds
in it two species which hitherto he knows as living only in South
America. The dust falls in such quantities as to dirty everything
on board, and to hurt people’s eyes; vessels even have run on shore
owing to the obscurity of the atmosphere. It has often fallen on
ships when several hundred, and even more than a thousand miles
from the coast of Africa, and at points sixteen hundred miles
distant in a north and south direction. In some dust which was
collected on a vessel three hundred miles from the land, I was much
surprised to find particles of stone above the thousandth of an
inch square, mixed with finer matter. After this fact one need not
be surprised at the diffusion of the far lighter and smaller
sporules of cryptogamic plants.

The geology of this island is the most interesting part of its
natural history. On entering the harbour, a perfectly horizontal
white band in the face of the sea cliff, may be seen running for
some miles along the coast, and at the height of about forty-five
feet above the water. Upon examination, this white stratum is found
to consist of calcareous matter, with numerous shells embedded,
most or all of which now exist on the neighbouring coast. It rests
on ancient volcanic rocks, and has been covered by a stream of
basalt, which must have entered the sea when the white shelly bed
was lying at the bottom. It is interesting to trace the changes,
produced by the heat of the overlying lava, on the friable mass,
which in parts has been converted into a crystalline limestone, and
in other parts into a compact spotted stone. Where the lime has
been caught up by the scoriaceous fragments of the lower surface of
the stream, it is converted into groups of beautifully radiated
fibres resembling arragonite. The beds of lava rise in successive
gently-sloping plains, towards the interior, whence the deluges of
melted stone have originally proceeded. Within historical times no
signs of volcanic activity have, I believe, been manifested in any
part of St. Jago. Even the form of a crater can but rarely be
discovered on the summits of the many red cindery hills; yet the
more recent streams can be distinguished on the coast, forming
lines of cliffs of less height, but stretching out in advance of
those belonging to an older series: the height of the cliffs thus
affording a rude measure of the age of the streams.

During our stay, I observed the habits of some marine animals. A
large Aplysia is very common. This sea-slug is about five inches
long; and is of a dirty yellowish colour, veined with purple. On
each side of the lower surface, or foot, there is a broad membrane,
which appears sometimes to act as a ventilator, in causing a
current of water to flow over the dorsal branchiae or lungs. It
feeds on the delicate seaweeds which grow among the stones in muddy
and shallow water; and I found in its stomach several small
pebbles, as in the gizzard of a bird. This slug, when disturbed,
emits a very fine purplish-red fluid, which stains the water for
the space of a foot around. Besides this means of defence, an acrid
secretion, which is spread over its body, causes a sharp, stinging
sensation, similar to that produced by the Physalia, or Portuguese

I was much interested, on several occasions, by watching the habits
of an Octopus, or cuttle-fish. Although common in the pools of
water left by the retiring tide, these animals were not easily
caught. By means of their long arms and suckers, they could drag
their bodies into very narrow crevices; and when thus fixed, it
required great force to remove them. At other times they darted
tail first, with the rapidity of an arrow, from one side of the
pool to the other, at the same instant discolouring the water with
a dark chestnut-brown ink. These animals also escape detection by a
very extraordinary, chameleon-like power of changing their colour.
They appear to vary their tints according to the nature of the
ground over which they pass: when in deep water, their general
shade was brownish purple, but when placed on the land, or in
shallow water, this dark tint changed into one of a yellowish
green. The colour, examined more carefully, was a French grey, with
numerous minute spots of bright yellow: the former of these varied
in intensity; the latter entirely disappeared and appeared again by
turns. These changes were effected in such a manner that clouds,
varying in tint between a hyacinth red and a chestnut-brown, were
continually passing over the body. (1/4. So named according to
Patrick Symes’s nomenclature.) Any part, being subjected to a
slight shock of galvanism, became almost black: a similar effect,
but in a less degree, was produced by scratching the skin with a
needle. These clouds, or blushes as they may be called, are said to
be produced by the alternate expansion and contraction of minute
vesicles containing variously coloured fluids. (1/5. See
“Encyclopedia of Anatomy and Physiology” article “Cephalopoda.”)

This cuttle-fish displayed its chameleon-like power both during the
act of swimming and whilst remaining stationary at the bottom. I
was much amused by the various arts to escape detection used by one
individual, which seemed fully aware that I was watching it.
Remaining for a time motionless, it would then stealthily advance
an inch or two, like a cat after a mouse; sometimes changing its
colour: it thus proceeded, till having gained a deeper part, it
darted away, leaving a dusky train of ink to hide the hole into
which it had crawled.

While looking for marine animals, with my head about two feet above
the rocky shore, I was more than once saluted by a jet of water,
accompanied by a slight grating noise. At first I could not think
what it was, but afterwards I found out that it was this
cuttle-fish, which, though concealed in a hole, thus often led me
to its discovery. That it possesses the power of ejecting water
there is no doubt, and it appeared to me that it could certainly
take good aim by directing the tube or siphon on the under side of
its body. From the difficulty which these animals have in carrying
their heads, they cannot crawl with ease when placed on the ground.
I observed that one which I kept in the cabin was slightly
phosphorescent in the dark.


In crossing the Atlantic we hove-to, during the morning of February
16th, 1832, close to the island of St. Paul’s. This cluster of
rocks is situated in 0 degrees 58′ north latitude, and 29 degrees
15′ west longitude. It is 540 miles distant from the coast of
America, and 350 from the island of Fernando Noronha. The highest
point is only fifty feet above the level of the sea, and the entire
circumference is under three-quarters of a mile. This small point
rises abruptly out of the depths of the ocean. Its mineralogical
constitution is not simple; in some parts the rock is of a cherty,
in others of a feldspathic nature, including thin veins of
serpentine. It is a remarkable fact that all the many small
islands, lying far from any continent, in the Pacific, Indian, and
Atlantic Oceans, with the exception of the Seychelles and this
little point of rock, are, I believe, composed either of coral or
of erupted matter. The volcanic nature of these oceanic islands is
evidently an extension of that law, and the effect of those same
causes, whether chemical or mechanical, from which it results that
a vast majority of the volcanoes now in action stand either near
sea-coasts or as islands in the midst of the sea.


The rocks of St. Paul appear from a distance of a brilliantly white
colour. This is partly owing to the dung of a vast multitude of
seafowl, and partly to a coating of a hard glossy substance with a
pearly lustre, which is intimately united to the surface of the
rocks. This, when examined with a lens, is found to consist of
numerous exceedingly thin layers, its total thickness being about
the tenth of an inch. It contains much animal matter, and its
origin, no doubt, is due to the action of the rain or spray on the
birds’ dung. Below some small masses of guano at Ascension, and on
the Abrolhos Islets, I found certain stalactitic branching bodies,
formed apparently in the same manner as the thin white coating on
these rocks. The branching bodies so closely resembled in general
appearance certain nulliporae (a family of hard calcareous
sea-plants), that in lately looking hastily over my collection I
did not perceive the difference. The globular extremities of the
branches are of a pearly texture, like the enamel of teeth, but so
hard as just to scratch plate-glass. I may here mention, that on a
part of the coast of Ascension, where there is a vast accumulation
of shelly sand, an incrustation is deposited on the tidal rocks, by
the water of the sea, resembling, as represented in Plate 4,
certain cryptogamic plants (Marchantiae) often seen on damp walls.
The surface of the fronds is beautifully glossy; and those parts
formed where fully exposed to the light, are of a jet black colour,
but those shaded under ledges are only grey. I have shown specimens
of this incrustation to several geologists, and they all thought
that they were of volcanic or igneous origin! In its hardness and
translucency–in its polish, equal to that of the finest
oliva-shell–in the bad smell given out, and loss of colour under
the blowpipe–it shows a close similarity with living sea-shells.
Moreover in sea-shells, it is known that the parts habitually
covered and shaded by the mantle of the animal, are of a paler
colour than those fully exposed to the light, just as is the case
with this incrustation. When we remember that lime, either as a
phosphate or carbonate, enters into the composition of the hard
parts, such as bones and shells, of all living animals, it is an
interesting physiological fact to find substances harder than the
enamel of teeth, and coloured surfaces as well polished as those of
a fresh shell, re-formed through inorganic means from dead organic
matter–mocking, also, in shape, some of the lower vegetable
productions. (1/6. Mr. Horner and Sir David Brewster have described
(“Philosophical Transactions” 1836 page 65) a singular “artificial
substance resembling shell.” It is deposited in fine, transparent,
highly polished, brown-coloured laminae, possessing peculiar
optical properties, on the inside of a vessel, in which cloth,
first prepared with glue and then with lime, is made to revolve
rapidly in water. It is much softer, more transparent, and contains
more animal matter, than the natural incrustation at Ascension; but
we here again see the strong tendency which carbonate of lime and
animal matter evince to form a solid substance allied to shell.)

We found on St. Paul’s only two kinds of birds–the booby and the
noddy. The former is a species of gannet, and the latter a tern.
Both are of a tame and stupid disposition, and are so unaccustomed
to visitors, that I could have killed any number of them with my
geological hammer. The booby lays her eggs on the bare rock; but
the tern makes a very simple nest with seaweed. By the side of many
of these nests a small flying-fish was placed; which I suppose, had
been brought by the male bird for its partner. It was amusing to
watch how quickly a large and active crab (Graspus), which inhabits
the crevices of the rock, stole the fish from the side of the nest,
as soon as we had disturbed the parent birds. Sir W. Symonds, one
of the few persons who have landed here, informs me that he saw the
crabs dragging even the young birds out of their nests, and
devouring them. Not a single plant, not even a lichen, grows on
this islet; yet it is inhabited by several insects and spiders. The
following list completes, I believe, the terrestrial fauna: a fly
(Olfersia) living on the booby, and a tick which must have come
here as a parasite on the birds; a small brown moth, belonging to a
genus that feeds on feathers; a beetle (Quedius) and a woodlouse
from beneath the dung; and lastly, numerous spiders, which I
suppose prey on these small attendants and scavengers of the
waterfowl. The often-repeated description of the stately palm and
other noble tropical plants, then birds, and lastly man, taking
possession of the coral islets as soon as formed, in the Pacific,
is probably not quite correct; I fear it destroys the poetry of
this story, that feather and dirt-feeding and parasitic insects and
spiders should be the first inhabitants of newly formed oceanic

The smallest rock in the tropical seas, by giving a foundation for
the growth of innumerable kinds of seaweed and compound animals,
supports likewise a large number of fish. The sharks and the seamen
in the boats maintained a constant struggle which should secure the
greater share of the prey caught by the fishing-lines. I have heard
that a rock near the Bermudas, lying many miles out at sea, and at
a considerable depth, was first discovered by the circumstance of
fish having been observed in the neighbourhood.


As far as I was enabled to observe, during the few hours we stayed
at this place, the constitution of the island is volcanic, but
probably not of a recent date. The most remarkable feature is a
conical hill, about one thousand feet high, the upper part of which
is exceedingly steep, and on one side overhangs its base. The rock
is phonolite, and is divided into irregular columns. On viewing one
of these isolated masses, at first one is inclined to believe that
it has been suddenly pushed up in a semi-fluid state. At St.
Helena, however, I ascertained that some pinnacles, of a nearly
similar figure and constitution, had been formed by the injection
of melted rock into yielding strata, which thus had formed the
moulds for these gigantic obelisks. The whole island is covered
with wood; but from the dryness of the climate there is no
appearance of luxuriance. Half-way up the mountain some great
masses of the columnar rock, shaded by laurel-like trees, and
ornamented by others covered with fine pink flowers but without a
single leaf, gave a pleasing effect to the nearer parts of the


The day has past delightfully. Delight itself, however, is a weak
term to express the feelings of a naturalist who, for the first
time, has wandered by himself in a Brazilian forest. The elegance
of the grasses, the novelty of the parasitical plants, the beauty
of the flowers, the glossy green of the foliage, but above all the
general luxuriance of the vegetation, filled me with admiration. A
most paradoxical mixture of sound and silence pervades the shady
parts of the wood. The noise from the insects is so loud, that it
may be heard even in a vessel anchored several hundred yards from
the shore; yet within the recesses of the forest a universal
silence appears to reign. To a person fond of natural history, such
a day as this brings with it a deeper pleasure than he can ever
hope to experience again. After wandering about for some hours, I
returned to the landing-place; but, before reaching it, I was
overtaken by a tropical storm. I tried to find shelter under a
tree, which was so thick that it would never have been penetrated
by common English rain; but here, in a couple of minutes, a little
torrent flowed down the trunk. It is to this violence of the rain
that we must attribute the verdure at the bottom of the thickest
woods: if the showers were like those of a colder clime, the
greater part would be absorbed or evaporated before it reached the
ground. I will not at present attempt to describe the gaudy scenery
of this noble bay, because, in our homeward voyage, we called here
a second time, and I shall then have occasion to remark on it.

Along the whole coast of Brazil, for a length of at least 2000
miles, and certainly for a considerable space inland, wherever
solid rock occurs, it belongs to a granitic formation. The
circumstance of this enormous area being constituted of materials
which most geologists believe to have been crystallised when heated
under pressure, gives rise to many curious reflections. Was this
effect produced beneath the depths of a profound ocean? or did a
covering of strata formerly extend over it, which has since been
removed? Can we believe that any power, acting for a time short of
infinity, could have denuded the granite over so many thousand
square leagues?

On a point not far from the city, where a rivulet entered the sea,
I observed a fact connected with a subject discussed by Humboldt.
(1/7. “Personal Narrative” volume 5 part 1 page 18.) At the
cataracts of the great rivers Orinoco, Nile, and Congo, the
syenitic rocks are coated by a black substance, appearing as if
they had been polished with plumbago. The layer is of extreme
thinness; and on analysis by Berzelius it was found to consist of
the oxides of manganese and iron. In the Orinoco it occurs on the
rocks periodically washed by the floods, and in those parts alone
where the stream is rapid; or, as the Indians say, “the rocks are
black where the waters are white.” Here the coating is of a rich
brown instead of a black colour, and seems to be composed of
ferruginous matter alone. Hand specimens fail to give a just idea
of these brown burnished stones which glitter in the sun’s rays.
They occur only within the limits of the tidal waves; and as the
rivulet slowly trickles down, the surf must supply the polishing
power of the cataracts in the great rivers. In like manner, the
rise and fall of the tide probably answer to the periodical
inundations; and thus the same effects are produced under
apparently different but really similar circumstances. The origin,
however, of these coatings of metallic oxides, which seem as if
cemented to the rocks, is not understood; and no reason, I believe,
can be assigned for their thickness remaining the same.


One day I was amused by watching the habits of the Diodon
antennatus, which was caught swimming near the shore. This fish,
with its flabby skin, is well known to possess the singular power
of distending itself into a nearly spherical form. After having
been taken out of water for a short time, and then again immersed
in it, a considerable quantity both of water and air is absorbed by
the mouth, and perhaps likewise by the branchial orifices. This
process is effected by two methods: the air is swallowed, and is
then forced into the cavity of the body, its return being prevented
by a muscular contraction which is externally visible: but the
water enters in a gentle stream through the mouth, which is kept
wide open and motionless; this latter action must, therefore,
depend on suction. The skin about the abdomen is much looser than
that on the back; hence, during the inflation, the lower surface
becomes far more distended than the upper; and the fish, in
consequence, floats with its back downwards. Cuvier doubts whether
the Diodon in this position is able to swim; but not only can it
thus move forward in a straight line, but it can turn round to
either side. This latter movement is effected solely by the aid of
the pectoral fins; the tail being collapsed and not used. From the
body being buoyed up with so much air, the branchial openings are
out of water, but a stream drawn in by the mouth constantly flows
through them.

The fish, having remained in this distended state for a short time,
generally expelled the air and water with considerable force from
the branchial apertures and mouth. It could emit, at will, a
certain portion of the water, and it appears, therefore probable
that this fluid is taken in partly for the sake of regulating its
specific gravity. This Diodon possessed several means of defence.
It could give a severe bite, and could eject water from its mouth
to some distance, at the same time making a curious noise by the
movement of its jaws. By the inflation of its body, the papillae,
with which the skin is covered, become erect and pointed. But the
most curious circumstance is, that it secretes from the skin of its
belly, when handled, a most beautiful carmine-red fibrous matter,
which stains ivory and paper in so permanent a manner, that the
tint is retained with all its brightness to the present day: I am
quite ignorant of the nature and use of this secretion. I have
heard from Dr. Allan of Forres, that he has frequently found a
Diodon, floating alive and distended, in the stomach of the shark;
and that on several occasions he has known it eat its way, not only
through the coats of the stomach, but through the sides of the
monster, which has thus been killed. Who would ever have imagined
that a little soft fish could have destroyed the great and savage

MARCH 18, 1832.


We sailed from Bahia. A few days afterwards, when not far distant
from the Abrolhos Islets, my attention was called to a
reddish-brown appearance in the sea. The whole surface of the
water, as it appeared under a weak lens, seemed as if covered by
chopped bits of hay, with their ends jagged. These are minute
cylindrical confervae, in bundles or rafts of from twenty to sixty
in each. Mr. Berkeley informs me that they are the same species
(Trichodesmium erythraeum) with that found over large spaces in the
Red Sea, and whence its name of Red Sea is derived. (1/8. M.
Montagne in “Comptes Rendus” etc. Juillet 1844; and “Annales des
Sciences Naturelles” December 1844.) Their numbers must be
infinite: the ship passed through several bands of them, one of
which was about ten yards wide, and, judging from the mud-like
colour of the water, at least two and a half miles long. In almost
every long voyage some account is given of these confervae. They
appear especially common in the sea near Australia; and off Cape
Leeuwin I found an allied, but smaller and apparently different
species. Captain Cook, in his third voyage, remarks that the
sailors gave to this appearance the name of sea-sawdust.

Near Keeling Atoll, in the Indian Ocean, I observed many little
masses of confervae a few inches square, consisting of long
cylindrical threads of excessive thinness, so as to be barely
visible to the naked eye, mingled with other rather larger bodies,
finely conical at both ends. Two of these are shown in Plate 6
united together. They vary in length from .04 to .06, and even to
.08 of an inch in length; and in diameter from .006 to .008 of an
inch. Near one extremity of the cylindrical part, a green septum,
formed of granular matter, and thickest in the middle, may
generally be seen. This, I believe, is the bottom of a most
delicate, colourless sac, composed of a pulpy substance, which
lines the exterior case, but does not extend within the extreme
conical points. In some specimens, small but perfect spheres of
brownish granular matter supplied the places of the septa; and I
observed the curious process by which they were produced. The pulpy
matter of the internal coating suddenly grouped itself into lines,
some of which assumed a form radiating from a common centre; it
then continued, with an irregular and rapid movement, to contract
itself, so that in the course of a second the whole was united into
a perfect little sphere, which occupied the position of the septum
at one end of the now quite hollow case. The formation of the
granular sphere was hastened by any accidental injury. I may add,
that frequently a pair of these bodies were attached to each other,
as represented above, cone beside cone, at that end where the
septum occurs.

I will here add a few other observations connected with the
discoloration of the sea from organic causes. On the coast of
Chile, a few leagues north of Concepcion, the “Beagle” one day
passed through great bands of muddy water, exactly like that of a
swollen river; and again, a degree south of Valparaiso, when fifty
miles from the land, the same appearance was still more extensive.
Some of the water placed in a glass was of a pale reddish tint;
and, examined under a microscope, was seen to swarm with minute
animalcula darting about, and often exploding. Their shape is oval,
and contracted in the middle by a ring of vibrating curved ciliae.
It was, however, very difficult to examine them with care, for
almost the instant motion ceased, even while crossing the field of
vision, their bodies burst. Sometimes both ends burst at once,
sometimes only one, and a quantity of coarse, brownish, granular
matter was ejected. The animal an instant before bursting expanded
to half again its natural size; and the explosion took place about
fifteen seconds after the rapid progressive motion had ceased: in a
few cases it was preceded for a short interval by a rotatory
movement on the longer axis. About two minutes after any number
were isolated in a drop of water, they thus perished. The animals
move with the narrow apex forwards, by the aid of their vibratory
ciliae, and generally by rapid starts. They are exceedingly minute,
and quite invisible to the naked eye, only covering a space equal
to the square of the thousandth of an inch. Their numbers were
infinite; for the smallest drop of water which I could remove
contained very many. In one day we passed through two spaces of
water thus stained, one of which alone must have extended over
several square miles. What incalculable numbers of these
microscopical animals! The colour of the water, as seen at some
distance, was like that of a river which has flowed through a red
clay district; but under the shade of the vessel’s side it was
quite as dark as chocolate. The line where the red and blue water
joined was distinctly defined. The weather for some days previously
had been calm, and the ocean abounded, to an unusual degree, with
living creatures. (1/9. M. Lesson “Voyage de la Coquille” tome 1
page 255, mentions red water off Lima, apparently produced by the
same cause. Peron, the distinguished naturalist, in the “Voyage aux
Terres Australes,” gives no less than twelve references to voyagers
who have alluded to the discoloured waters of the sea (volume 2
page 239). To the references given by Peron may be added,
Humboldt’s “Personal Narrative” volume 6 page 804; Flinder’s
“Voyage” volume 1 page 92; Labillardière, volume 1 page 287;
Ulloa’s “Voyage”; “Voyage of the Astrolabe and of the Coquille”;
Captain King’s “Survey of Australia” etc.)

In the sea around Tierra del Fuego, and at no great distance from
the land, I have seen narrow lines of water of a bright red colour,
from the number of crustacea, which somewhat resemble in form large
prawns. The sealers call them whale-food. Whether whales feed on
them I do not know; but terns, cormorants, and immense herds of
great unwieldy seals derive, on some parts of the coast, their
chief sustenance from these swimming crabs. Seamen invariably
attribute the discoloration of the water to spawn; but I found this
to be the case only on one occasion. At the distance of several
leagues from the Archipelago of the Galapagos, the ship sailed
through three strips of a dark yellowish, or mud-like water; these
strips were some miles long, but only a few yards wide, and they
were separated from the surrounding water by a sinuous yet distinct
margin. The colour was caused by little gelatinous balls, about the
fifth of an inch in diameter, in which numerous minute spherical
ovules were embedded: they were of two distinct kinds, one being of
a reddish colour and of a different shape from the other. I cannot
form a conjecture as to what two kinds of animals these belonged.
Captain Colnett remarks that this appearance is very common among
the Galapagos Islands, and that the direction of the bands
indicates that of the currents; in the described case, however, the
line was caused by the wind. The only other appearance which I have
to notice, is a thin oily coat on the water which displays
iridescent colours. I saw a considerable tract of the ocean thus
covered on the coast of Brazil; the seamen attributed it to the
putrefying carcass of some whale, which probably was floating at no
great distance. I do not here mention the minute gelatinous
particles, hereafter to be referred to, which are frequently
dispersed throughout the water, for they are not sufficiently
abundant to create any change of colour.

There are two circumstances in the above accounts which appear
remarkable: first, how do the various bodies which form the bands
with defined edges keep together? In the case of the prawn-like
crabs, their movements were as coinstantaneous as in a regiment of
soldiers; but this cannot happen from anything like voluntary
action with the ovules, or the confervae, nor is it probable among
the infusoria. Secondly, what causes the length and narrowness of
the bands? The appearance so much resembles that which may be seen
in every torrent, where the stream uncoils into long streaks the
froth collected in the eddies, that I must attribute the effect to
a similar action either of the currents of the air or sea. Under
this supposition we must believe that the various organised bodies
are produced in certain favourable places, and are thence removed
by the set of either wind or water. I confess, however, there is a
very great difficulty in imagining any one spot to be the
birthplace of the millions of millions of animalcula and confervae:
for whence come the germs at such points?–the parent bodies having
been distributed by the winds and waves over the immense ocean. But
on no other hypothesis can I understand their linear grouping. I
may add that Scoresby remarks that green water abounding with
pelagic animals is invariably found in a certain part of the Arctic


The Different Forms Of Flowers On Plants Of The Same Species

Chapter II



The oxlip a hybrid naturally produced between Primula veris and vulgaris.
The differences in structure and function between the two parent-species.
Effects of crossing long-styled and short-styled oxlips with one another and
with the two forms of both parent-species.
Character of the offspring from oxlips artificially self-fertilised and cross-
fertilised in a state of nature.
Primula elatior shown to be a distinct species.
Hybrids between other heterostyled

Heterostyly is a type of polymorphism, here the morphological structure of flowers are decorated in a way to avoid, for example, the length of style and stigma differs relatively for different species. the heterostyly flowers may be divided into two groups such as distylous flower and tristylous flower. Click look here to know more.

species of Primula.
Supplementary note on spontaneously produced hybrids in the genus Verbascum.

The various species of Primula have produced in a state of nature throughout
Europe an extraordinary number of hybrid forms. For instance, Professor Kerner
has found no less than twenty-five such forms in the Alps. (2/1. “Die
Primulaceen-Bastarten” ‘Oesterr. Botanische Zeitschrift’ Jahr 1875 Numbers 3, 4
and 5. See also Godron on hybrid Primulas in ‘Bull. Soc. Bot. de France’ tome 10
1853 page 178. Also in ‘Revue des Sciences Nat.’ 1875 page 331.) The frequent
occurrence of hybrids in this genus no doubt has been favoured by most of the
species being heterostyled, and consequently requiring cross-fertilisation by
insects; yet in some other genera, species which are not heterostyled and which
in some respects appear not well adapted for hybrid-fertilisation, have likewise
been largely hybridised. In certain districts of England, the common oxlip–a
hybrid between the cowslip (P. veris, vel officinalis) and the primrose (P.
vulgaris, vel acaulis)–is frequently found, and it occurs occasionally almost
everywhere. Owing to the frequency of this intermediate hybrid form, and to the
existence of the Bardfield oxlip (P. elatior), which resembles to a certain
extent the common oxlip, the claim of the three forms to rank as distinct
species has been discussed oftener and at greater length than that of almost any
other plant. Linnaeus considered P. veris, vulgaris and elatior to be varieties
of the same species, as do some distinguished botanists at the present day;
whilst others who have carefully studied these plants do not doubt that they are
distinct species. The following observations prove, I think, that the latter
view is correct; and they further show that the common oxlip is a hybrid between
P. veris and vulgaris.

The cowslip differs so conspicuously in general appearance from the primrose,
that nothing need here be said with respect to their external characters. (2/2.
The Reverend W.A. Leighton has pointed out certain differences in the form of
the capsules and seed in ‘Annals and Magazine of Natural History’ 2nd series
volume 2 1848 page 164.) But some less obvious differences deserve notice. As
both species are heterostyled, their complete fertilisation depends on insects.
The cowslip is habitually visited during the day by the larger humble-bees
(namely Bombus muscorum and hortorum), and at night by moths, as I have seen in
the case of Cucullia. The primrose is never visited (and I speak after many
years’ observation) by the larger humble-bees, and only rarely by the smaller
kinds; hence its fertilisation must depend almost exclusively on moths. There is
nothing in the structure of the flowers of the two plants which can determine
the visits of such widely different insects. But they emit a different odour,
and perhaps their nectar may have a different taste. Both the long-styled and
short-styled forms of the primrose, when legitimately and naturally fertilised,
yield on an average many more seeds per capsule than the cowslip, namely, in the
proportion of 100 to 55. When illegitimately fertilised they are likewise more
fertile than the two forms of the cowslip, as shown by the larger proportion of
their flowers which set capsules, and by the larger average number of seeds
which the capsules contain. The difference also between the number of seeds
produced by the long-styled and short-styled flowers of the primrose, when both
are illegitimately fertilised, is greater than that between the number produced
under similar circumstances by the two forms of the cowslip. The long-styled
flowers of the primrose when protected from the access of all insects, except
such minute ones as Thrips, yield a considerable number of capsules containing
on an average 19.2 seeds per capsule; whereas 18 plants of the long-styled
cowslip similarly treated did not yield a single seed.

The primrose, as every one knows, flowers a little earlier in the spring than
the cowslip, and inhabits slightly different stations and districts. The
primrose generally grows on banks or in woods, whilst the cowslip is found in
more open places. The geographical range of the two forms is different. Dr.
Bromfield remarks that “the primrose is absent from all the interior region of
northern Europe, where the cowslip is indigenous.” (2/3. ‘Phytologist’ volume 3
page 694.) In Norway, however, both plants range to the same degree of north
latitude. (2/4. H. Lecoq ‘Geograph. Bot. de l’Europe’ tome 8 1858 pages 141,
144. See also ‘Annals and Magazine of Natural History’ 9 1842 pages 156, 515.
Also Boreau ‘Flore du centre de la France’ 1840 tome 2 page 376. With respect to
the rarity of P. veris in western Scotland, see H.C. Watson ‘Cybele Britannica’
2 page 293.)

The cowslip and primrose, when intercrossed, behave like distinct species, for
they are far from being mutually fertile. Gartner crossed 27 flowers of P.
vulgaris with pollen of P. veris, and obtained 16 capsules; but these did not
contain any good seed. (2/5. ‘Bastarderzeugung’ 1849 page 721.) He also crossed
21 flowers of P. veris with pollen of P. vulgaris; and now he got only five
capsules, containing seed in a still less perfect condition. Gartner knew
nothing about heterostylism; and his complete failure may perhaps be accounted
for by his having crossed together the same forms of the cowslip and primrose;
for such crosses would have been of an illegitimate as well as of a hybrid
nature, and this would have increased their sterility. My trials were rather
more fortunate. Twenty-one flowers, consisting of both forms of the cowslip and
primrose, were intercrossed legitimately, and yielded seven capsules (i.e. 33
per cent), containing on an average 42 seeds; some of these seeds, however, were
so poor that they probably would not have germinated. Twenty-one flowers on the
same cowslip and primrose plants were also intercrossed illegitimately, and they
likewise yielded seven capsules (or 33 per cent), but these contained on an
average only 13 good and bad seeds. I should, however, state that some of the
above flowers of the primrose were fertilised with pollen from the polyanthus,
which is certainly a variety of the cowslip, as may be inferred from the perfect
fertility inter se of the crossed offspring from these two plants. (2/6. Mr.
Scott has discussed the nature of the polyanthus (‘Proceedings of the Linnean
Society’ 8 Botany 1864 page 103), and arrives at a different conclusion; but I
do not think that his experiments were sufficiently numerous. The degree of
infertility of a cross is liable to much fluctuation. Pollen from the cowslip at
first appears rather more efficient on the primrose than that of the polyanthus;
for 12 flowers of both forms of the primrose, fertilised legitimately and
illegitimately with pollen of the cowslip gave five capsules, containing on an
average 32.4 seeds; whilst 18 flowers similarly fertilised by polyanthus-pollen
yielded only five capsules, containing only 22.6 seeds. On the other hand, the
seeds produced by the polyanthus-pollen were much the finest of the whole lot,
and were the only ones which germinated.) To show how sterile these hybrid
unions were I may remind the reader that 90 per cent of the flowers of the
primrose fertilised legitimately with primrose-pollen yielded capsules,
containing on an average 66 seeds; and that 54 per cent of the flowers
fertilised illegitimately yielded capsules containing on an average 35.5 seeds
per capsule. The primrose, especially the short-styled form, when fertilised by
the cowslip, is less sterile, as Gartner likewise observed, than is the cowslip
when fertilised by the primrose. The above experiments also show that a cross
between the same forms of the primrose and cowslip is much more sterile than
that between different forms of these two species.

The seeds from the several foregoing crosses were sown, but none germinated
except those from the short-styled primrose fertilised with pollen of the
polyanthus; and these seeds were the finest of the whole lot. I thus raised six
plants, and compared them with a group of wild oxlips which I had transplanted
into my garden. One of these wild oxlips produced slightly larger flowers than
the others, and this one was identical in every character (in foliage, flower-
peduncle, and flowers) with my six plants, excepting that the flowers of the
latter were tinged of a dingy red colour, from being descended from the

We thus see that the cowslip and primrose cannot be crossed either way except
with considerable difficulty, that they differ conspicuously in external
appearance, that they differ in various physiological characters, that they
inhabit slightly different stations and range differently. Hence those botanists
who rank these plants as varieties ought to be able to prove that they are not
as well fixed in character as are most species; and the evidence in favour of
such instability of character appears at first sight very strong. It rests,
first, on statements made by several competent observers that they have raised
cowslips, primroses, and oxlips from seeds of the same plant; and, secondly, on
the frequent occurrence in a state of nature of plants presenting every
intermediate gradation between the cowslip and primrose.

The first statement, however, is of little value; for, heterostylism not being
formerly understood, the seed-bearing plants were in no instance protected from
the visits of insects (2/7. One author states in the ‘Phytologist’ volume 3 page
703 that he covered with bell-glasses some cowslips, primroses, etc., on which
he experimented. He specifies all the details of his experiment, but does not
say that he artificially fertilised his plants; yet he obtained an abundance of
seed, which is simply impossible. Hence there must have been some strange error
in these experiments, which may be passed over as valueless.); and there would
be almost as much risk of an isolated cowslip, or of several cowslips if
consisting of the same form, being crossed by a neighbouring primrose and
producing oxlips, as of one sex of a dioecious plant, under similar
circumstances, being crossed by the opposite sex of an allied and neighbouring
species. Mr. H.C. Watson, a critical and most careful observer, made many
experiments by sowing the seeds of cowslips and of various kinds of oxlips, and
arrived at the following conclusion, namely, “that seeds of a cowslip can
produce cowslips and oxlips, and that seeds of an oxlip can produce cowslips,
oxlips, and primroses.” (2/8. ‘Phytologist’ 2 pages 217, 852; 3 page 43.) This
conclusion harmonises perfectly with the view that in all cases, when such
results have been obtained, the unprotected cowslips have been crossed by
primroses, and the unprotected oxlips by either cowslips or primroses; for in
this latter case we might expect, by the aid of reversion, which notoriously
comes into powerful action with hybrids, that the two parent-forms in appearance
pure, as well as many intermediate gradations, would be occasionally produced.
Nevertheless the two following statements offer considerable difficulty. The
Reverend Professor Henslow raised from seeds of a cowslip growing in his garden,
various kinds of oxlips and one perfect primrose; but a statement in the same
paper perhaps throws light on this anomalous result. (2/9. Loudon’s ‘Magazine of
Natural History’ 3 1830 page 409.) Professor Henslow had previously transplanted
into his garden a cowslip, which completely changed its appearance during the
following year, and now resembled an oxlip. Next year again it changed its
character, and produced, in addition to the ordinary umbels, a few single-
flowered scapes, bearing flowers somewhat smaller and more deeply coloured than
those of the common primrose. From what I have myself observed with oxlips, I
cannot doubt that this plant was an oxlip in a highly variable condition, almost
like that of the famous Cytisus adami. This presumed oxlip was propagated by
offsets, which were planted in different parts of the garden; and if Professor
Henslow took by mistake seeds from one of these plants, especially if it had
been crossed by a primrose, the result would be quite intelligible. Another case
is still more difficult to understand: Dr. Herbert raised, from the seeds of a
highly cultivated red cowslip, cowslips, oxlips of various kinds, and a
primrose. (2/10. ‘Transactions of the Horticultural Society’ 4 page 19.) This
case, if accurately recorded, which I much doubt, is explicable only on the
improbable assumption that the red cowslip was not of pure parentage. With
species and varieties of many kinds, when intercrossed, one is sometimes
strongly prepotent over the other; and instances are known of a variety crossed
by another, producing offspring which in certain characters, as in colour,
hairiness, etc., have proved identical with the pollen-bearing parent, and quite
dissimilar to the mother-plant (2/11. I have given instances in my work ‘On the
Variation of Animals and Plants under Domestication’ chapter 15 2nd edition
volume 2 page 69.); but I do not know of any instance of the offspring of a
cross perfectly resembling, in a considerable number of important characters,
the father alone. It is, therefore, very improbable that a pure cowslip crossed
by a primrose should ever produce a primrose in appearance pure. Although the
facts given by Dr. Herbert and Professor Henslow are difficult to explain, yet
until it can be shown that a cowslip or a primrose, carefully protected from
insects, will give birth to at least oxlips, the cases hitherto recorded have
little weight in leading us to admit that the cowslip and primrose are varieties
of one and the same species.

Negative evidence is of little value; but the following facts may be worth
giving:–Some cowslips which had been transplanted from the fields into a
shrubbery were again transplanted into highly manured land. In the following
year they were protected from insects, artificially fertilised, and the seed
thus procured was sown in a hotbed. The young plants were afterwards planted
out, some in very rich soil, some in stiff poor clay, some in old peat, and some
in pots in the greenhouse; so that these plants, 765 in number, as well as their
parents, were subjected to diversified and unnatural treatment; but not one of
them presented the least variation except in size–those in the peat attaining
almost gigantic dimensions, and those in the clay being much dwarfed.

I do not, of course, doubt that cowslips exposed during SEVERAL successive
generations to changed conditions would vary, and that this might occasionally
occur in a state of nature. Moreover, from the law of analogical variation, the
varieties of any one species of Primula would probably in some cases resemble
other species of the genus. For instance I raised a red primrose from seed from
a protected plant, and the flowers, though still resembling those of the
primrose, were borne during one season in umbels on a long foot-stalk like that
of a cowslip.

With regard to the second class of facts in support of the cowslip and primrose
being ranked as mere varieties, namely, the well-ascertained existence in a
state of nature of numerous linking forms (2/12. See an excellent article on
this subject by Mr. H.C. Watson in the ‘Phytologist’ volume 3 page 43.):–If it
can be shown that the common wild oxlip, which is intermediate in character
between the cowslip and primrose, resembles in sterility and other essential
respects a hybrid plant, and if it can further be shown that the oxlip, though
in a high degree sterile, can be fertilised by either parent-species, thus
giving rise to still finer gradational links, then the presence of such linking
forms in a state of nature ceases to be an argument of any weight in favour of
the cowslip and primrose being varieties, and becomes, in fact, an argument on
the other side. The hybrid origin of a plant in a state of nature can be
recognised by four tests: first, by its occurrence only where both presumed
parent-species exist or have recently existed; and this holds good, as far as I
can discover, with the oxlip; but the P. elatior of Jacq., which, as we shall
presently see, constitutes a distinct species, must not be confounded with the
common oxlip. Secondly, by the supposed hybrid plant being nearly intermediate
in character between the two parent-species, and especially by its resembling
hybrids artificially made between the same two species. Now the oxlip is
intermediate in character, and resembles in every respect, except in the colour
of the corolla, hybrids artificially produced between the primrose and the
polyanthus, which latter is a variety of the cowslip. Thirdly, by the supposed
hybrids being more or less sterile when crossed inter se: but to try this fairly
two distinct plants of the same parentage, and not two flowers on the same
plant, should be crossed; for many pure species are more or less sterile with
pollen from the same individual plant; and in the case of hybrids from
heterostyled species the opposite forms should be crossed. Fourthly and lastly,
by the supposed hybrids being much more fertile when crossed with either pure
parent-species than when crossed inter se, but still not as fully fertile as the

For the sake of ascertaining the two latter points, I transplanted a group of
wild oxlips into my garden. They consisted of one long-styled and three short-
styled plants, which, except in the corolla of one being slightly larger,
resembled each other closely. The trials which were made, and the results
obtained, are shown in tables 2.14, 2.15, 2.16, 2.17 and 2.18. No less than
twenty different crosses are necessary in order to ascertain fully the fertility
of hybrid heterostyled plants, both inter se and with their two parent-species.
In this instance 256 flowers were crossed in the course of four seasons. I may
mention, as a mere curiosity, that if any one were to raise hybrids between two
trimorphic heterostyled species, he would have to make 90 distinct unions in
order to ascertain their fertility in all ways; and as he would have to try at
least 10 flowers in each case, he would be compelled to fertilise 900 flowers
and count their seeds. This would probably exhaust the patience of the most
patient man.

TABLE 2.14. Crosses inter se between the two forms of the common Oxlip.

Column 1: Illegitimate union.
Short-styled oxlip, by pollen of short-styled oxlip: 20 flowers fertilised, did
not produce one capsule.

Column 2: Legitimate union.
Short-styled oxlip, by pollen of long-styled oxlip: 10 flowers fertilised, did
not produce one capsule.

Column 3: Illegitimate union.
Long-styled oxlip, by its own pollen: 24 flowers fertilised, produced five
capsules, containing 6, 10, 20, 8, and 14 seeds. Average 11.6.

Column 4: Legitimate union.
Long-styled oxlip, by pollen of short-styled oxlip: 10 flowers fertilised, did
not produce one capsule.

TABLE 2.15. Both forms of the Oxlip crossed with Pollen of both forms of the
Cowslip, P. veris.

Column 1: Illegitimate union.
Short-styled oxlip, by pollen of short-styled cowslip: 18 flowers fertilised,
did not produce one capsule.

Column 2: Legitimate union.
Short-styled oxlip, by pollen of long-styled cowslip: 18 flowers fertilised,
produced three capsules, containing 7, 3, and 3 wretched seeds, apparently
incapable of germination.

Column 3: Illegitimate union.
Long-styled oxlip, by pollen of long-styled cowslip: 11 flowers fertilised,
produced one capsule, containing 13 wretched seeds.

Column 4: Legitimate union.
Long-styled oxlip, by pollen of short-styled cowslip: 5 flowers fertilised,
produced two capsules, containing 21 and 28 very fine seeds.

TABLE 2.16. Both forms of the Oxlip crossed with Pollen of both forms of the
Primrose, P. vulgaris.

Column 1: Illegitimate union.
Short-styled oxlip, by pollen of short-styled primrose: 34 flowers fertilised,
produced two capsules, containing 5 and 12 seeds.

Column 2: Legitimate union.
Short-styled oxlip, by pollen of long-styled primrose: 26 flowers fertilised,
produced six capsules, containing 16, 20, 5, 10, 19, and 24 seeds. Average 15.7.
Many of the seeds very poor, some good.

Column 3: Illegitimate union.
Long-styled oxlip, by pollen of long-styled primrose: 11 flowers fertilised,
produced four capsules, containing 10, 7, 5, and 6 wretched seeds. Average 7.0.

Column 4: Legitimate union.
Long-styled oxlip, by pollen of short-styled primrose: 5 flowers fertilised,
produced five capsules, containing 26, 32, 23, 28, and 34 seeds. Average 28.6.

TABLE 2.17. Both forms of the Cowslip crossed with Pollen of both forms of the

Column 1: Illegitimate union.
Short-styled cowslip, by pollen of short-styled oxlip: 8 flowers fertilised, did
not produce one capsule.

Column 2: Legitimate union.
Long-styled cowslip, by pollen of short-styled oxlip: 8 flowers fertilised,
produced one capsule, containing 26 seeds.

Column 3: Illegitimate union.
Long-styled cowslip, by pollen of long-styled oxlip: 8 flowers fertilised,
produced three capsules, containing 5, 6 and 14 seeds. Average 8.3.

Column 4: Legitimate union.
Short-styled cowslip, by pollen of long-styled oxlip: 8 flowers fertilised,
produced 8 capsules, containing 58, 38, 31, 44, 23, 26, 37, and 66 seeds.
Average 40.4.

TABLE 2.18. Both forms of the Primrose crossed with Pollen of both forms of the

Column 1: Illegitimate union.
Short-styled primrose, by pollen of short-styled oxlip: 8 flowers fertilised,
did not produce one capsule.

Column 2: Legitimate union.
Long-styled primrose, by pollen of short-styled oxlip: 8 flowers fertilised,
produced two capsules, containing 5 and 2 seeds.

Column 3: Illegitimate union.
Long-styled primrose, by pollen of long-styled oxlip: 8 flowers fertilised,
produced 8 capsules, containing 15, 7, 12, 20, 22, 7, 16, and 13 seeds. Average

Column 4: Legitimate union.
Short-styled primrose, by pollen of long-styled oxlip: 8 flowers fertilised,
produced 4 capsules, containing 52, 52, 42, and 49 seeds, some good and some
bad. Average 48.7.

We see in Tables 2/14 to 2/18 the number of capsules and of seeds produced, by
crossing both forms of the oxlip in a legitimate and illegitimate manner with
one another, and with the two forms of the primrose and cowslip. I may premise
that the pollen of two of the short-styled oxlips consisted of nothing but
minute aborted whitish cells; but in the third short-styled plant about one-
fifth of the grains appeared in a sound condition. Hence it is not surprising
that neither the short-styled nor the long-styled oxlip produced a single seed
when fertilised with this pollen. Nor did the pure cowslips or primroses when
illegitimately fertilised with it; but when thus legitimately fertilised they
yielded a few good seeds. The female organs of the short-styled oxlips, though
greatly deteriorated in power, were in a rather better condition than the male
organs; for though the short-styled oxlips yielded no seed when fertilised by
the long-styled oxlips, and hardly any when illegitimately fertilised by pure
cowslips or primroses, yet when legitimately fertilised by these latter species,
especially by the long-styled primrose, they yielded a moderate supply of good

The long-styled oxlip was more fertile than the three short-styled oxlips, and
about half its pollen-grains appeared sound. It bore no seed when legitimately
fertilised by the short-styled oxlips; but this no doubt was due to the badness
of the pollen of the latter; for when illegitimately fertilised (Table 2.14) by
its own pollen it produced some good seeds, though much fewer than self-
fertilised cowslips or primroses would have produced. The long-styled oxlip
likewise yielded a very low average of seed, as may be seen in the third
compartment of Tables 2.15 to 2.18, when illegitimately fertilised by, and when
illegitimately fertilising, pure cowslips and primroses. The four corresponding
legitimate unions, however, were moderately fertile, and one (namely that
between a short-styled cowslip and the long-styled oxlip in Table 2.17) was
nearly as fertile as if both parents had been pure. A short-styled primrose
legitimately fertilised by the long-styled oxlip (Table 2.18) also yielded a
moderately good average, namely 48.7 seeds; but if this short-styled primrose
had been fertilised by a long-styled primrose it would have yielded an average
of 65 seeds. If we take the ten legitimate unions together, and the ten
illegitimate unions together, we shall find that 29 per cent of the flowers
fertilised in a legitimate manner yielded capsules, these containing on an
average 27.4 good and bad seeds; whilst only 15 per cent of the flowers
fertilised in an illegitimate manner yielded capsules, these containing on an
average only 11.0 good and bad seeds.

In a previous part of this chapter it was shown that illegitimate crosses
between the long-styled form of the primrose and the long-styled cowslip, and
between the short-styled primrose and short-styled cowslip, are more sterile
than legitimate crosses between these two species; and we now see that the same
rule holds good almost invariably with their hybrid offspring, whether these are
crossed inter se, or with either parent-species; so that in this particular
case, but not as we shall presently see in other cases, the same rule prevails
with the pure unions between the two forms of the same heterostyled species,
with crosses between two distinct heterostyled species, and with their hybrid

Seeds from the long-styled oxlip fertilised by its own pollen were sown, and
three long-styled plants raised. The first of these was identical in every
character with its parent. The second bore rather smaller flowers, of a paler
colour, almost like those of the primrose; the scapes were at first single-
flowered, but later in the season a tall thick scape, bearing many flowers, like
that of the parent oxlip, was thrown up. The third plant likewise produced at
first only single-flowered scapes, with the flowers rather small and of a darker
yellow; but it perished early. The second plant also died in September; and the
first plant, though all three grew under very favourable conditions, looked very
sickly. Hence we may infer that seedlings from self-fertilised oxlips would
hardly be able to exist in a state of nature. I was surprised to find that all
the pollen-grains in the first of these seedling oxlips appeared sound; and in
the second only a moderate number were bad. These two plants, however, had not
the power of producing a proper number of seeds; for though left uncovered and
surrounded by pure primroses and cowslips, the capsules were estimated to
include an average of only from fifteen to twenty seeds.

From having many experiments in hand, I did not sow the seed obtained by
crossing both forms of the primrose and cowslip with both forms of the oxlip,
which I now regret; but I ascertained an interesting point, namely, the
character of the offspring from oxlips growing in a state of nature near both
primroses and cowslips. The oxlips were the same plants which, after their seeds
had been collected, were transplanted and experimented on. From the seeds thus
obtained eight plants were raised, which, when they flowered, might have been
mistaken for pure primroses; but on close comparison the eye in the centre of
the corolla was seen to be of a darker yellow, and the peduncles more elongated.
As the season advanced, one of these plants threw up two naked scapes, 7 inches
in height, which bore umbels of flowers of the same character as before. This
fact led me to examine the other plants after they had flowered and were dug up;
and I found that the flower-peduncles of all sprung from an extremely short
common scape, of which no trace can be found in the pure primrose. Hence these
plants are beautifully intermediate between the oxlip and the primrose,
inclining rather towards the latter; and we may safely conclude that the parent
oxlips had been fertilised by the surrounding primroses.

From the various facts now given, there can be no doubt that the common oxlip is
a hybrid between the cowslip (P. veris, Brit. Fl.) and the primrose (P.
vulgaris, Brit. Fl.), as has been surmised by several botanists. It is probable
that oxlips may be produced either from the cowslip or the primrose as the seed-
bearer, but oftenest from the latter, as I judge from the nature of the stations
in which oxlips are generally found (2/13. See also on this head Hardwicke’s
‘Science Gossip’ 1867 pages 114, 137.), and from the primrose when crossed by
the cowslip being more fertile than, conversely, the cowslip by the primrose.
The hybrids themselves are also rather more fertile when crossed with the
primrose than with the cowslip. Whichever may be the seed-bearing plant, the
cross is probably between different forms of the two species; for we have seen
that legitimate hybrid unions are more fertile than illegitimate hybrid unions.
Moreover a friend in Surrey found that 29 oxlips which grew in the neighbourhood
of his house consisted of 13 long-styled and 16 short-styled plants; now, if the
parent-plants had been illegitimately united, either the long- or short-styled
form would have greatly preponderated, as we shall hereafter see good reason to
believe. The case of the oxlip is interesting; for hardly any other instance is
known of a hybrid spontaneously arising in such large numbers over so wide an
extent of country. The common oxlip (not the P. elatior of Jacq.) is found
almost everywhere throughout England, where both cowslips and primroses grow. In
some districts, as I have seen near Hartfield in Sussex and in parts of Surrey,
specimens may be found on the borders of almost every field and small wood. In
other districts the oxlip is comparatively rare: near my own residence I have
found, during the last twenty-five years, not more than five or six plants or
groups of plants. It is difficult to conjecture what is the cause of this
difference in their number. It is almost necessary that a plant, or several
plants belonging to the same form, of one parent-species, should grow near the
opposite form of the other parent-species; and it is further necessary that both
species should be frequented by the same kind of insect, no doubt a moth. The
cause of the rare appearance of the oxlip in certain districts may be the rarity
of some moth, which in other districts habitually visits both the primrose and

Finally, as the cowslip and primrose differ in the various characters above
specified,–as they are in a high degree sterile when intercrossed,–as there is
no trustworthy evidence that either species, when uncrossed, has ever given
birth to the other species or to any intermediate form,–and as the intermediate
forms which are often found in a state of nature have been shown to be more or
less sterile hybrids of the first or second generation,–we must for the future
look at the cowslip and primrose as good and true species.

Primula elatior, Jacq., or the Bardfield Oxlip, is found in England only in two
or three of the eastern counties. On the Continent it has a somewhat different
range from that of the cowslip and primrose; and it inhabits some districts
where neither of these species live. (2/14. For England, see Hewett C. Watson
‘Cybele Britannica’ volume 2 1849 page 292. For the Continent, see Lecoq
‘Geograph. Botanique de l’Europe’ tome 8 1858 page 142. For the Alps see ‘Annals
and Magazine of Natural History’ volume 9 1842 pages 156 and 515.) In general
appearance it differs so much from the common oxlip, that no one accustomed to
see both forms in the living state could afterwards confound them; but there is
scarcely more than a single character by which they can be distinctly defined,
namely, their linear-oblong capsules equalling the calyx in length. (2/15.
Babington ‘Manual of British Botany’ 1851 page 258.) The capsules when mature
differ conspicuously, owing to their length, from those of the cowslip and
primrose. With respect to the fertility of the two forms when these are united
in the four possible methods, they behave like the other heterostyled species of
the genus, but differ somewhat (see Tables 1.8 and 1.12.) in the smaller
proportion of the illegitimately fertilised flowers which set capsules. That P.
elatior is not a hybrid is certain, for when the two forms were legitimately
united they yielded the large average of 47.1 seeds, and when illegitimately
united 35.5 per capsule; whereas, of the four possible unions (Table 2.14)
between the two forms of the common oxlip which we know to be a hybrid, one
alone yielded any seed; and in this case the average number was only 11.6 per
capsule. Moreover I could not detect a single bad pollen-grain in the anthers of
the short-styled P. elatior; whilst in two short-styled plants of the common
oxlip all the grains were bad, as were a large majority in a third plant. As the
common oxlip is a hybrid between the primrose and cowslip, it is not surprising
that eight long-styled flowers of the primrose, fertilised by pollen from the
long-styled common oxlip, produced eight capsules (Table 1.18), containing,
however, only a low average of seeds; whilst the same number of flowers of the
primrose, similarly fertilised by the long-styled Bardfield oxlip, produced only
a single capsule; this latter plant being an altogether distinct species from
the primrose. Plants of P. elatior have been propagated by seed in a garden for
twenty-five years, and have kept all this time quite constant, excepting that in
some cases the flowers varied a little in size and tint. (2/16. See Mr. H.
Doubleday in the ‘Gardener’s Chronicle’ 1867 page 435, also Mr. W. Marshall
ibid. page 462.) Nevertheless, according to Mr. H.C. Watson and Dr. Bromfield
(2/17. ‘Phytologist’ volume 1 page 1001 and volume 3 page 695.), plants may be
occasionally found in a state of nature, in which most of the characters by
which this species can be distinguished from P. veris and vulgaris fail; but
such intermediate forms are probably due to hybridisation; for Kerner states, in
the paper before referred to, that hybrids sometimes, though rarely, arise in
the Alps between P. elatior and veris.

Finally, although we may freely admit that Primula veris, vulgaris, and elatior,
as well as all the other species of the genus, are descended from a common
primordial form, yet from the facts above given, we must conclude that these
three forms are now as fixed in character as are many others which are
universally ranked as true species. Consequently they have as good a right to
receive distinct specific names as have, for instance, the ass, quagga, and

Mr. Scott has arrived at some interesting results by crossing other heterostyled
species of Primula. (2/18. ‘Journal of the Linnean Society Botany’ volume 8 1864
page 93 to end.) I have already alluded to his statement, that in four instances
(not to mention others) a species when crossed with a distinct one yielded a
larger number of seeds than the same species fertilised illegitimately with its
own-form pollen, though taken from a distinct plant. It has long been known from
the researches of Kolreuter and Gartner, that two species when crossed
reciprocally sometimes differ as widely as is possible in their fertility: thus
A when crossed with the pollen of B will yield a large number of seeds, whilst B
may be crossed repeatedly with pollen of A, and will never yield a single seed.
Now Mr. Scott shows in several cases that the same law holds good when two
heterostyled species of Primula are intercrossed, or when one is crossed with a
homostyled species. But the results are much more complicated than with ordinary
plants, as two heterostyled dimorphic species can be intercrossed in eight
different ways. I will give one instance from Mr. Scott. The long-styled P.
hirsuta fertilised legitimately and illegitimately with pollen from the two
forms of P. auricula, and reciprocally the long-styled P. auricula fertilised
legitimately and illegitimately with pollen from the two forms of P. hirsuta,
did not produce a single seed. Nor did the short-styled P. hirsuta when
fertilised legitimately and illegitimately with the pollen of the two forms of
P. auricula. On the other hand, the short-styled P. auricula fertilised with
pollen from the long-styled P. hirsuta yielded capsules containing on an average
no less than 56 seeds; and the short-styled P. auricula by pollen of the short-
styled P. hirsuta yielded capsules containing on an average 42 seeds per
capsule. So that out of the eight possible unions between the two forms of these
two species, six were utterly barren, and two fairly fertile. We have seen also
the same sort of extraordinary irregularity in the results of my twenty
different crosses (Tables 2.14 to 2.18), between the two forms of the oxlip,
primrose, and cowslip. Mr. Scott remarks, with respect to the results of his
trials, that they are very surprising, as they show us that “the sexual forms of
a species manifest in their respective powers for conjunction with those of
another species, physiological peculiarities which might well entitle them, by
the criterion of fertility, to specific distinction.”

Finally, although P. veris and vulgaris, when crossed legitimately, and
especially when their hybrid offspring are crossed in this manner with both
parent-species, were decidedly more fertile, than when crossed in an
illegitimate manner, and although the legitimate cross effected by Mr. Scott
between P. auricula and hirsuta was more fertile, in the ratio of 56 to 42, than
the illegitimate cross, nevertheless it is very doubtful, from the extreme
irregularity of the results in the various other hybrid crosses made by Mr.
Scott, whether it can be predicted that two heterostyled species are generally
more fertile if crossed legitimately (i.e. when opposite forms are united) than
when crossed illegitimately.


In an early part of this chapter I remarked that few other instances could be
given of a hybrid spontaneously arising in such large numbers, and over so wide
an extent of country, as that of the common oxlip; but perhaps the number of
well-ascertained cases of naturally produced hybrid willows is equally great.
(2/19. Max Wichura ‘Die Bastardbefruchtung etc. der Weiden’ 1865.) Numerous
spontaneous hybrids between several species of Cistus, found near Narbonne, have
been carefully described by M. Timbal-Lagrave (2/20. ‘Mem. de l’Acad. des
Sciences de Toulouse’ 5e serie tome 5 page 28.), and many hybrids between an
Aceras and Orchis have been observed by Dr. Weddell. (2/21. ‘Annales des Sc.
Nat.’ 3e serie Bot. tome 18 page 6.) In the genus Verbascum, hybrids are
supposed to have often originated in a state of nature (2/22. See for instance
the ‘English Flora’ by Sir J.E. Smith 1824 volume 1 page 307.); some of these
undoubtedly are hybrids, and several hybrids have originated in gardens; but
most of these cases require, as Gartner remarks, verification. (2/23. See
Gartner ‘Bastarderzeugung’ 1849 page 590.) Hence the following case is worth
recording, more especially as the two species in question, V. thapsus and
lychnitis, are perfectly fertile when insects are excluded, showing that the
stigma of each flower receives its own pollen. Moreover the flowers offer only
pollen to insects, and have not been rendered attractive to them by secreting

I transplanted a young wild plant into my garden for experimental purposes, and
when it flowered it plainly differed from the two species just mentioned and
from a third which grows in this neighbourhood. I thought that it was a strange
variety of V. thapsus. It attained the height (by measurement) of 8 feet! It was
covered with a net, and ten flowers were fertilised with pollen from the same
plant; later in the season, when uncovered, the flowers were freely visited by
pollen-collecting bees; nevertheless, although many capsules were produced, not
one contained a single seed. During the following year this same plant was left
uncovered near plants of V. thapsus and lychnitis; but again it did not produce
a single seed. Four flowers, however, which were repeatedly fertilised with
pollen of V. lychnitis, whilst the plant was temporarily kept under a net,
produced four capsules, which contained five, one, two, and two seeds; at the
same time three flowers were fertilised with pollen of V. thapsus, and these
produced two, two, and three seeds. To show how unproductive these seven
capsules were, I may state that a fine capsule from a plant of V. thapsus
growing close by contained above 700 seeds. These facts led me to search the
moderately-sized field whence my plant had been removed, and I found in it many
plants of V. thapsus and lychnitis as well as thirty-three plants intermediate
in character between these two species. These thirty-three plants differed much
from one another. In the branching of the stem they more closely resembled V.
lychnitis than V. thapsus, but in height the latter species. In the shape of
their leaves they often closely approached V. lychnitis, but some had leaves
extremely woolly on the upper surface and decurrent like those of V. thapsus;
yet the degree of woolliness and of decurrency did not always go together. In
the petals being flat and remaining open, and in the manner in which the anthers
of the longer stamens were attached to the filaments, these plants all took more
after V. lychnitis than V. thapsus. In the yellow colour of the corolla they all
resembled the latter species. On the whole, these plants appeared to take rather
more after V. lychnitis than V. thapsus. On the supposition that they were
hybrids, it is not an anomalous circumstance that they should all have produced
yellow flowers; for Gartner crossed white and yellow-flowered varieties of
Verbascum, and the offspring thus produced never bore flowers of an intermediate
tint, but either pure white or pure yellow flowers, generally of the latter
colour. (2/24. ‘Bastardzeugung’ page 307.)

My observations were made in the autumn; so that I was able to collect some
half-matured capsules from twenty of the thirty-three intermediate plants, and
likewise capsules of the pure V. lychnitis and thapsus growing in the same
field. All the latter were filled with perfect but immature seeds, whilst the
capsules of the twenty intermediate plants did not contain one single perfect
seed. These plants, consequently, were absolutely barren. From this fact,–from
the one plant which was transplanted into my garden yielding when artificially
fertilised with pollen from V. lychnitis and thapsus some seeds, though
extremely few in number,–from the circumstance of the two pure species growing
in the same field,–and from the intermediate character of the sterile plants,
there can be no doubt that they were hybrids. Judging from the position in which
they were chiefly found, I am inclined to believe they were descended from V.
thapsus as the seed-bearer, and V. lychnitis as the pollen-bearer.

It is known that many species of Verbascum, when the stem is jarred or struck by
a stick, cast off their flowers. (2/25. This was first observed by Correa de
Serra: see Sir J.E. Smith’s ‘English Flora’ 1824 volume 1 page 311; also ‘Life
of Sir J.E. Smith’ volume 2 page 210. I was guided to these references by the
Reverend W.A. Leighton, who observed this same phenomenon with V. virgatum.)
This occurs with V. thapsus, as I have repeatedly observed. The corolla first
separates from its attachment, and then the sepals spontaneously bend inwards so
as to clasp the ovarium, pushing off the corolla by their movement, in the
course of two or three minutes. Nothing of this kind takes place with young
barely expanded flowers. With Verbascum lychnitis and, as I believe, V.
phoeniceum the corolla is not cast off, however often and severely the stem may
be struck. In this curious property the above-described hybrids took after V.
thapsus; for I observed, to my surprise, that when I pulled off the flower-buds
round the flowers which I wished to mark with a thread, the slight jar
invariably caused the corollas to fall off.

These hybrids are interesting under several points of view. First, from the
number found in various parts of the same moderately-sized field. That they owed
their origin to insects flying from flower to flower, whilst collecting pollen,
there can be no doubt. Although insects thus rob the flowers of a most precious
substance, yet they do great good; for, as I have elsewhere shown, the seedlings
of V. thapsus raised from flowers fertilised with pollen from another plant, are
more vigorous than those raised from self-fertilised flowers. (2/26. ‘The
Effects of Cross and Self-fertilisation’ 1876 page 89.) But in this particular
instance the insects did great harm, as they led to the production of utterly
barren plants. Secondly, these hybrids are remarkable from differing much from
one another in many of their characters; for hybrids of the first generation, if
raised from uncultivated plants, are generally uniform in character. That these
hybrids belonged to the first generation we may safely conclude, from the
absolute sterility of all those observed by me in a state of nature and of the
one plant in my garden, excepting when artificially and repeatedly fertilised
with pure pollen, and then the number of seeds produced was extremely small. As
these hybrids varied so much, an almost perfectly graduated series of forms,
connecting together the two widely distinct parent-species, could easily have
been selected. This case, like that of the common oxlip, shows that botanists
ought to be cautious in inferring the specific identity of two forms from the
presence of intermediate gradations; nor would it be easy in the many cases in
which hybrids are moderately fertile to detect a slight degree of sterility in
such plants growing in a state of nature and liable to be fertilised by either
parent-species. Thirdly and lastly, these hybrids offer an excellent
illustration of a statement made by that admirable observer Gartner, namely,
that although plants which can be crossed with ease generally produce fairly
fertile offspring, yet well-pronounced exceptions to this rule occur; and here
we have two species of Verbascum which evidently cross with the greatest ease,
but produce hybrids which are excessively sterile.

The Descent Of Man

Chapter I



Nature of the evidence bearing on the origin of man–Homologous structures
in man and the lower animals–Miscellaneous points of correspondence–
Development–Rudimentary structures, muscles, sense-organs, hair, bones,
reproductive organs, etc.–The bearing of these three great classes of
facts on the origin of man.

He who wishes to decide whether man is the modified descendant of some pre-
existing form, would probably first enquire whether man varies, however
slightly, in bodily structure and in mental faculties; and if so, whether
the variations are transmitted to his offspring in accordance with the laws
which prevail with the lower animals. Again, are the variations the
result, as far as our ignorance permits us to judge, of the same general
causes, and are they governed by the same general laws, as in the case of
other organisms; for instance, by correlation, the inherited effects of use
and disuse, etc.? Is man subject to similar malconformations, the result
of arrested development, of reduplication of parts, etc., and does he
display in any of his anomalies reversion to some former and ancient type
of structure? It might also naturally be enquired whether man, like so
many other animals, has given rise to varieties and sub-races, differing
but slightly from each other, or to races differing so much that they must
be classed as doubtful species? How are such races distributed over the
world; and how, when crossed, do they react on each other in the first and
succeeding generations? And so with many other points.

The enquirer would next come to the important point, whether man tends to
increase at so rapid a rate, as to lead to occasional severe struggles for
existence; and consequently to beneficial variations, whether in body or
mind, being preserved, and injurious ones eliminated. Do the races or
species of men, whichever term may be applied, encroach on and replace one
another, so that some finally become extinct? We shall see that all these
questions, as indeed is obvious in respect to most of them, must be
answered in the affirmative, in the same manner as with the lower animals.
But the several considerations just referred to may be conveniently
deferred for a time: and we will first see how far the bodily structure of
man shews traces, more or less plain, of his descent from some lower form.
In succeeding chapters the mental powers of man, in comparison with those
of the lower animals, will be considered.


It is notorious that man is constructed on the same general type or model
as other mammals. All the bones in his skeleton can be compared with
corresponding bones in a monkey, bat, or seal. So it is with his muscles,
nerves, blood-vessels and internal viscera. The brain, the most important
of all the organs, follows the same law, as shewn by Huxley and other
anatomists. Bischoff (1. ‘Grosshirnwindungen des Menschen,’ 1868, s. 96.
The conclusions of this author, as well as those of Gratiolet and Aeby,
concerning the brain, will be discussed by Prof. Huxley in the Appendix
alluded to in the Preface to this edition.), who is a hostile witness,
admits that every chief fissure and fold in the brain of man has its
analogy in that of the orang; but he adds that at no period of development
do their brains perfectly agree; nor could perfect agreement be expected,
for otherwise their mental powers would have been the same. Vulpian (2.
‘Lec. sur la Phys.’ 1866, page 890, as quoted by M. Dally, ‘L’Ordre des
Primates et le Transformisme,’ 1868, page 29.), remarks: “Les differences
reelles qui existent entre l’encephale de l’homme et celui des singes
superieurs, sont bien minimes. Il ne faut pas se faire d’illusions a cet
egard. L’homme est bien plus pres des singes anthropomorphes par les
caracteres anatomiques de son cerveau que ceux-ci ne le sont non seulement
des autres mammiferes, mais meme de certains quadrumanes, des guenons et
des macaques.” But it would be superfluous here to give further details on
the correspondence between man and the higher mammals in the structure of
the brain and all other parts of the body.

It may, however, be worth while to specify a few points, not directly or
obviously connected with structure, by which this correspondence or
relationship is well shewn.

Man is liable to receive from the lower animals, and to communicate to
them, certain diseases, as hydrophobia,

Hydrophobia is the fear of drinking or swimming in the water, in short, we can say when someone suffers from fear of water. This psychological condition is the previous term for rabies. Because in the late stage of this deadly disease person finds it difficult to swallow water that is why fears to drink it. click useful source to know more.

variola, the glanders, syphilis,
cholera, herpes, etc. (3. Dr. W. Lauder Lindsay has treated this subject
at some length in the ‘Journal of Mental Science,’ July 1871; and in the
‘Edinburgh Veterinary Review,’ July 1858.); and this fact proves the close
similarity (4. A Reviewer has criticised (‘British Quarterly Review,’ Oct.
1st, 1871, page 472) what I have here said with much severity and contempt;
but as I do not use the term identity, I cannot see that I am greatly in
error. There appears to me a strong analogy between the same infection or
contagion producing the same result, or one closely similar, in two
distinct animals, and the testing of two distinct fluids by the same
chemical reagent.) of their tissues and blood, both in minute structure and
composition, far more plainly than does their comparison under the best
microscope, or by the aid of the best chemical analysis. Monkeys are
liable to many of the same non-contagious diseases as we are; thus Rengger
(5. ‘Naturgeschichte der Saugethiere von Paraguay,’ 1830, s. 50.), who
carefully observed for a long time the Cebus Azarae in its native land,
found it liable to catarrh, with the usual symptoms, and which, when often
recurrent, led to consumption. These monkeys suffered also from apoplexy,
inflammation of the bowels, and cataract in the eye. The younger ones when
shedding their milk-teeth often died from fever. Medicines produced the
same effect on them as on us. Many kinds of monkeys have a strong taste
for tea, coffee, and spiritous liquors: they will also, as I have myself
seen, smoke tobacco with pleasure. (6. The same tastes are common to some
animals much lower in the scale. Mr. A. Nichols informs me that he kept in
Queensland, in Australia, three individuals of the Phaseolarctus cinereus;
and that, without having been taught in any way, they acquired a strong
taste for rum, and for smoking tobacco.) Brehm asserts that the natives of
north-eastern Africa catch the wild baboons by exposing vessels with strong
beer, by which they are made drunk. He has seen some of these animals,
which he kept in confinement, in this state; and he gives a laughable
account of their behaviour and strange grimaces. On the following morning
they were very cross and dismal; they held their aching heads with both
hands, and wore a most pitiable expression: when beer or wine was offered
them, they turned away with disgust, but relished the juice of lemons. (7.
Brehm, ‘Thierleben,’ B. i. 1864, s. 75, 86. On the Ateles, s. 105. For
other analogous statements, see s. 25, 107.) An American monkey, an
Ateles, after getting drunk on brandy, would never touch it again, and thus
was wiser than many men. These trifling facts prove how similar the nerves
of taste must be in monkeys and man, and how similarly their whole nervous
system is affected.

Man is infested with internal parasites, sometimes causing fatal effects;
and is plagued by external parasites, all of which belong to the same
genera or families as those infesting other mammals, and in the case of
scabies to the same species. (8. Dr. W. Lauder Lindsay, ‘Edinburgh Vet.
Review,’ July 1858, page 13.) Man is subject, like other mammals, birds,
and even insects (9. With respect to insects see Dr. Laycock, “On a
General Law of Vital Periodicity,” ‘British Association,’ 1842. Dr.
Macculloch, ‘Silliman’s North American Journal of Science,’ vol. XVII. page
305, has seen a dog suffering from tertian ague. Hereafter I shall return
to this subject.), to that mysterious law, which causes certain normal
processes, such as gestation, as well as the maturation and duration of
various diseases, to follow lunar periods. His wounds are repaired by the
same process of healing; and the stumps left after the amputation of his
limbs, especially during an early embryonic period, occasionally possess
some power of regeneration, as in the lowest animals. (10. I have given
the evidence on this head in my ‘Variation of Animals and Plants under
Domestication,’ vol. ii. page 15, and more could be added.)

The whole process of that most important function, the reproduction of the
species, is strikingly the same in all mammals, from the first act of
courtship by the male (11. Mares e diversis generibus Quadrumanorum sine
dubio dignoscunt feminas humanas a maribus. Primum, credo, odoratu, postea
aspectu. Mr. Youatt, qui diu in Hortis Zoologicis (Bestiariis) medicus
animalium erat, vir in rebus observandis cautus et sagax, hoc mihi
certissime probavit, et curatores ejusdem loci et alii e ministris
confirmaverunt. Sir Andrew Smith et Brehm notabant idem in Cynocephalo.
Illustrissimus Cuvier etiam narrat multa de hac re, qua ut opinor, nihil
turpius potest indicari inter omnia hominibus et Quadrumanis communia.
Narrat enim Cynocephalum quendam in furorem incidere aspectu feminarum
aliquarem, sed nequaquam accendi tanto furore ab omnibus. Semper eligebat
juniores, et dignoscebat in turba, et advocabat voce gestuque.), to the
birth and nurturing of the young. Monkeys are born in almost as helpless a
condition as our own infants; and in certain genera the young differ fully
as much in appearance from the adults, as do our children from their
full-grown parents. (12. This remark is made with respect to Cynocephalus
and the anthropomorphous apes by Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire and F. Cuvier,
‘Histoire Nat. des Mammiferes,’ tom. i. 1824.) It has been urged by some
writers, as an important distinction, that with man the young arrive at
maturity at a much later age than with any other animal: but if we look to
the races of mankind which inhabit tropical countries the difference is not
great, for the orang is believed not to be adult till the age of from ten
to fifteen years. (13. Huxley, ‘Man’s Place in Nature,’ 1863, p. 34.)
Man differs from woman in size, bodily strength, hairiness, etc., as well
as in mind, in the same manner as do the two sexes of many mammals. So
that the correspondence in general structure, in the minute structure of
the tissues, in chemical composition and in constitution, between man and
the higher animals, especially the anthropomorphous apes, is extremely


[Fig. 1. Shows a human embryo, from Ecker, and a dog embryo, from
Bischoff. Labelled in each are:

a. Fore-brain, cerebral hemispheres, etc.
b. Mid-brain, corpora quadrigemina.
c. Hind-brain, cerebellum, medulla oblongata.
d. Eye.
e. Ear.
f. First visceral arch.
g. Second visceral arch.
H. Vertebral columns and muscles in process of development.
i. Anterior extremities.
K. Posterior extremities.
L. Tail or os coccyx.]

Man is developed from an ovule, about the 125th of an inch in diameter,
which differs in no respect from the ovules of other animals. The embryo
itself at a very early period can hardly be distinguished from that of
other members of the vertebrate kingdom. At this period the arteries run
in arch-like branches, as if to carry the blood to branchiae which are not
present in the higher Vertebrata, though the slits on the sides of the neck
still remain (see f, g, fig. 1), marking their former position. At a
somewhat later period, when the extremities are developed, “the feet of
lizards and mammals,” as the illustrious Von Baer remarks, “the wings and
feet of birds, no less than the hands and feet of man, all arise from the
same fundamental form.” It is, says Prof. Huxley (14. ‘Man’s Place in
Nature,’ 1863, p. 67.), “quite in the later stages of development that the
young human being presents marked differences from the young ape, while the
latter departs as much from the dog in its developments, as the man does.
Startling as this last assertion may appear to be, it is demonstrably

As some of my readers may never have seen a drawing of an embryo, I have
given one of man and another of a dog, at about the same early stage of
development, carefully copied from two works of undoubted accuracy. (15.
The human embryo (upper fig.) is from Ecker, ‘Icones Phys.,’ 1851-1859,
tab. xxx. fig. 2. This embryo was ten lines in length, so that the drawing
is much magnified. The embryo of the dog is from Bischoff,
‘Entwicklungsgeschichte des Hunde-Eies,’ 1845, tab. xi. fig. 42B. This
drawing is five times magnified, the embryo being twenty-five days old.
The internal viscera have been omitted, and the uterine appendages in both
drawings removed. I was directed to these figures by Prof. Huxley, from
whose work, ‘Man’s Place in Nature,’ the idea of giving them was taken.
Haeckel has also given analogous drawings in his ‘Schopfungsgeschichte.’)

After the foregoing statements made by such high authorities, it would be
superfluous on my part to give a number of borrowed details, shewing that
the embryo of man closely resembles that of other mammals. It may,
however, be added, that the human embryo likewise resembles certain low
forms when adult in various points of structure. For instance, the heart
at first exists as a simple pulsating vessel; the excreta are voided
through a cloacal passage; and the os coccyx projects like a true tail,
“extending considerably beyond the rudimentary legs.” (16. Prof. Wyman in
‘Proceedings of the American Academy of Sciences,’ vol. iv. 1860, p. 17.)
In the embryos of all air-breathing vertebrates, certain glands, called the
corpora Wolffiana, correspond with, and act like the kidneys of mature
fishes. (17. Owen, ‘Anatomy of Vertebrates,’ vol. i. p. 533.) Even at a
later embryonic period, some striking resemblances between man and the
lower animals may be observed. Bischoff says that “the convolutions of the
brain in a human foetus at the end of the seventh month reach about the
same stage of development as in a baboon when adult.” (18. ‘Die
Grosshirnwindungen des Menschen,’ 1868, s. 95.) The great toe, as
Professor Owen remarks (19. ‘Anatomy of Vertebrates,’ vol. ii. p. 553.),
“which forms the fulcrum when standing or walking, is perhaps the most
characteristic peculiarity in the human structure;” but in an embryo, about
an inch in length, Prof. Wyman (20. ‘Proc. Soc. Nat. Hist.’ Boston, 1863,
vol. ix. p. 185.) found “that the great toe was shorter than the others;
and, instead of being parallel to them, projected at an angle from the side
of the foot, thus corresponding with the permanent condition of this part
in the quadrumana.” I will conclude with a quotation from Huxley (21.
‘Man’s Place in Nature,’ p. 65.) who after asking, does man originate in a
different way from a dog, bird, frog or fish? says, “the reply is not
doubtful for a moment; without question, the mode of origin, and the early
stages of the development of man, are identical with those of the animals
immediately below him in the scale: without a doubt in these respects, he
is far nearer to apes than the apes are to the dog.”


This subject, though not intrinsically more important than the two last,
will for several reasons be treated here more fully. (22. I had written a
rough copy of this chapter before reading a valuable paper, “Caratteri
rudimentali in ordine all’ origine dell’ uomo” (‘Annuario della Soc. d.
Naturalisti,’ Modena, 1867, p. 81), by G. Canestrini, to which paper I am
considerably indebted. Haeckel has given admirable discussions on this
whole subject, under the title of Dysteleology, in his ‘Generelle
Morphologie’ and ‘Schopfungsgeschichte.’) Not one of the higher animals
can be named which does not bear some part in a rudimentary condition; and
man forms no exception to the rule. Rudimentary organs must be
distinguished from those that are nascent; though in some cases the
distinction is not easy. The former are either absolutely useless, such as
the mammae of male quadrupeds, or the incisor teeth of ruminants which
never cut through the gums; or they are of such slight service to their
present possessors, that we can hardly suppose that they were developed
under the conditions which now exist. Organs in this latter state are not
strictly rudimentary, but they are tending in this direction. Nascent
organs, on the other hand, though not fully developed, are of high service
to their possessors, and are capable of further development. Rudimentary
organs are eminently variable; and this is partly intelligible, as they are
useless, or nearly useless, and consequently are no longer subjected to
natural selection. They often become wholly suppressed. When this occurs,
they are nevertheless liable to occasional reappearance through reversion–
a circumstance well worthy of attention.

The chief agents in causing organs to become rudimentary seem to have been
disuse at that period of life when the organ is chiefly used (and this is
generally during maturity), and also inheritance at a corresponding period
of life. The term “disuse” does not relate merely to the lessened action
of muscles, but includes a diminished flow of blood to a part or organ,
from being subjected to fewer alternations of pressure, or from becoming in
any way less habitually active. Rudiments, however, may occur in one sex
of those parts which are normally present in the other sex; and such
rudiments, as we shall hereafter see, have often originated in a way
distinct from those here referred to. In some cases, organs have been
reduced by means of natural selection, from having become injurious to the
species under changed habits of life. The process of reduction is probably
often aided through the two principles of compensation and economy of
growth; but the later stages of reduction, after disuse has done all that
can fairly be attributed to it, and when the saving to be effected by the
economy of growth would be very small (23. Some good criticisms on this
subject have been given by Messrs. Murie and Mivart, in ‘Transact.
Zoological Society,’ 1869, vol. vii. p. 92.), are difficult to understand.
The final and complete suppression of a part, already useless and much
reduced in size, in which case neither compensation nor economy can come
into play, is perhaps intelligible by the aid of the hypothesis of
pangenesis. But as the whole subject of rudimentary organs has been
discussed and illustrated in my former works (24. ‘Variation of Animals
and Plants under Domestication,’ vol. ii pp. 317 and 397. See also ‘Origin
of Species,’ 5th Edition p. 535.), I need here say no more on this head.

Rudiments of various muscles have been observed in many parts of the human
body (25. For instance, M. Richard (‘Annales des Sciences Nat.,’ 3rd
series, Zoolog. 1852, tom. xviii. p. 13) describes and figures rudiments of
what he calls the “muscle pedieux de la main,” which he says is sometimes
“infiniment petit.” Another muscle, called “le tibial posterieur,” is
generally quite absent in the hand, but appears from time to time in a more
or less rudimentary condition.); and not a few muscles, which are regularly
present in some of the lower animals can occasionally be detected in man in
a greatly reduced condition. Every one must have noticed the power which
many animals, especially horses, possess of moving or twitching their skin;
and this is effected by the panniculus carnosus. Remnants of this muscle
in an efficient state are found in various parts of our bodies; for
instance, the muscle on the forehead, by which the eyebrows are raised.
The platysma myoides, which is well developed on the neck, belongs to this
system. Prof. Turner, of Edinburgh, has occasionally detected, as he
informs me, muscular fasciculi in five different situations, namely in the
axillae, near the scapulae, etc., all of which must be referred to the
system of the panniculus. He has also shewn (26. Prof. W. Turner,
‘Proceedings of the Royal Society of Edinburgh,’ 1866-67, p. 65.) that the
musculus sternalis or sternalis brutorum, which is not an extension of the
rectus abdominalis, but is closely allied to the panniculus, occurred in
the proportion of about three per cent. in upwards of 600 bodies: he adds,
that this muscle affords “an excellent illustration of the statement that
occasional and rudimentary structures are especially liable to variation in

Some few persons have the power of contracting the superficial muscles on
their scalps; and these muscles are in a variable and partially rudimentary
condition. M. A. de Candolle has communicated to me a curious instance of
the long-continued persistence or inheritance of this power, as well as of
its unusual development. He knows a family, in which one member, the
present head of the family, could, when a youth, pitch several heavy books
from his head by the movement of the scalp alone; and he won wagers by
performing this feat. His father, uncle, grandfather, and his three
children possess the same power to the same unusual degree. This family
became divided eight generations ago into two branches; so that the head of
the above-mentioned branch is cousin in the seventh degree to the head of
the other branch. This distant cousin resides in another part of France;
and on being asked whether he possessed the same faculty, immediately
exhibited his power. This case offers a good illustration how persistent
may be the transmission of an absolutely useless faculty, probably derived
from our remote semi-human progenitors; since many monkeys have, and
frequently use the power, of largely moving their scalps up and down. (27.
See my ‘Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals,’ 1872, p. 144.)

The extrinsic muscles which serve to move the external ear, and the
intrinsic muscles which move the different parts, are in a rudimentary
condition in man, and they all belong to the system of the panniculus; they
are also variable in development, or at least in function. I have seen one
man who could draw the whole ear forwards; other men can draw it upwards;
another who could draw it backwards (28. Canestrini quotes Hyrtl.
(‘Annuario della Soc. dei Naturalisti,’ Modena, 1867, p. 97) to the same
effect.); and from what one of these persons told me, it is probable that
most of us, by often touching our ears, and thus directing our attention
towards them, could recover some power of movement by repeated trials. The
power of erecting and directing the shell of the ears to the various points
of the compass, is no doubt of the highest service to many animals, as they
thus perceive the direction of danger; but I have never heard, on
sufficient evidence, of a man who possessed this power, the one which might
be of use to him. The whole external shell may be considered a rudiment,
together with the various folds and prominences (helix and anti-helix,
tragus and anti-tragus, etc.) which in the lower animals strengthen and
support the ear when erect, without adding much to its weight. Some
authors, however, suppose that the cartilage of the shell serves to
transmit vibrations to the acoustic nerve; but Mr. Toynbee (29. ‘The
Diseases of the Ear,’ by J. Toynbee, F.R.S., 1860, p. 12. A distinguished
physiologist, Prof. Preyer, informs me that he had lately been
experimenting on the function of the shell of the ear, and has come to
nearly the same conclusion as that given here.), after collecting all the
known evidence on this head, concludes that the external shell is of no
distinct use. The ears of the chimpanzee and orang are curiously like
those of man, and the proper muscles are likewise but very slightly
developed. (30. Prof. A. Macalister, ‘Annals and Magazine of Natural
History,’ vol. vii. 1871, p. 342.) I am also assured by the keepers in the
Zoological Gardens that these animals never move or erect their ears; so
that they are in an equally rudimentary condition with those of man, as far
as function is concerned. Why these animals, as well as the progenitors of
man, should have lost the power of erecting their ears, we cannot say. It
may be, though I am not satisfied with this view, that owing to their
arboreal habits and great strength they were but little exposed to danger,
and so during a lengthened period moved their ears but little, and thus
gradually lost the power of moving them. This would be a parallel case
with that of those large and heavy birds, which, from ihabiting oceanic
islands, have not been exposed to the attacks of beasts of prey, and have
consequently lost the power of using their wings for flight. The inability
to move the ears in man and several apes is, however, partly compensated by
the freedom with which they can move the head in a horizontal plane, so as
to catch sounds from all directions. It has been asserted that the ear of
man alone possesses a lobule; but “a rudiment of it is found in the
gorilla” (31. Mr. St. George Mivart, ‘Elementary Anatomy,’ 1873, p. 396.);
and, as I hear from Prof. Preyer, it is not rarely absent in the negro.

[Fig. 2. Human Ear, modelled and drawn by Mr. Woolner. The projecting
point is labelled a.]

The celebrated sculptor, Mr. Woolner, informs me of one little peculiarity
in the external ear, which he has often observed both in men and women, and
of which he perceived the full significance. His attention was first
called to the subject whilst at work on his figure of Puck, to which he had
given pointed ears. He was thus led to examine the ears of various
monkeys, and subsequently more carefully those of man. The peculiarity
consists in a little blunt point, projecting from the inwardly folded
margin, or helix. When present, it is developed at birth, and, according
to Prof. Ludwig Meyer, more frequently in man than in woman. Mr. Woolner
made an exact model of one such case, and sent me the accompanying drawing.
(Fig. 2). These points not only project inwards towards the centre of the
ear, but often a little outwards from its plane, so as to be visible when
the head is viewed from directly in front or behind. They are variable in
size, and somewhat in position, standing either a little higher or lower;
and they sometimes occur on one ear and not on the other. They are not
confined to mankind, for I observed a case in one of the spider-monkeys
(Ateles beelzebuth) in our Zoological Gardens; and Mr. E. Ray Lankester
informs me of another case in a chimpanzee in the gardens at Hamburg. The
helix obviously consists of the extreme margin of the ear folded inwards;
and this folding appears to be in some manner connected with the whole
external ear being permanently pressed backwards. In many monkeys, which
do not stand high in the order, as baboons and some species of macacus (32.
See also some remarks, and the drawings of the ears of the Lemuroidea, in
Messrs. Murie and Mivart’s excellent paper in ‘Transactions of the
Zoological Society,’ vol. vii. 1869, pp. 6 and 90.), the upper portion of
the ear is slightly pointed, and the margin is not at all folded inwards;
but if the margin were to be thus folded, a slight point would necessarily
project inwards towards the centre, and probably a little outwards from the
plane of the ear; and this I believe to be their origin in many cases. On
the other hand, Prof. L. Meyer, in an able paper recently published (33.
‘Uber das Darwin’sche Spitzohr,’ Archiv fur Path. Anat. und Phys., 1871, p.
485.), maintains that the whole case is one of mere variability; and that
the projections are not real ones, but are due to the internal cartilage on
each side of the points not having been fully developed. I am quite ready
to admit that this is the correct explanation in many instances, as in
those figured by Prof. Meyer, in which there are several minute points, or
the whole margin is sinuous. I have myself seen, through the kindness of
Dr. L. Down, the ear of a microcephalous idiot, on which there is a
projection on the outside of the helix, and not on the inward folded edge,
so that this point can have no relation to a former apex of the ear.
Nevertheless in some cases, my original view, that the points are vestiges
of the tips of formerly erect and pointed ears, still seems to me probable.
I think so from the frequency of their occurrence, and from the general
correspondence in position with that of the tip of a pointed ear. In one
case, of which a photograph has been sent me, the projection is so large,
that supposing, in accordance with Prof. Meyer’s view, the ear to be made
perfect by the equal development of the cartilage throughout the whole
extent of the margin, it would have covered fully one-third of the whole
ear. Two cases have been communicated to me, one in North America, and the
other in England, in which the upper margin is not at all folded inwards,
but is pointed, so that it closely resembles the pointed ear of an ordinary
quadruped in outline. In one of these cases, which was that of a young
child, the father compared the ear with the drawing which I have given (34.
‘The Expression of the Emotions,’ p. 136.) of the ear of a monkey, the
Cynopithecus niger, and says that their outlines are closely similar. If,
in these two cases, the margin had been folded inwards in the normal
manner, an inward projection must have been formed. I may add that in two
other cases the outline still remains somewhat pointed, although the margin
of the upper part of the ear is normally folded inwards–in one of them,
however, very narrowly. [Fig.3. Foetus of an Orang(?). Exact copy of a
photograph, shewing the form of the ear at this early age.] The following
woodcut (No. 3) is an accurate copy of a photograph of the foetus of an
orang (kindly sent me by Dr. Nitsche), in which it may be seen how
different the pointed outline of the ear is at this period from its adult
condition, when it bears a close general resemblance to that of man. It is
evident that the folding over of the tip of such an ear, unless it changed
greatly during its further development, would give rise to a point
projecting inwards. On the whole, it still seems to me probable that the
points in question are in some cases, both in man and apes, vestiges of a
former condition.

The nictitating membrane, or third eyelid, with its accessory muscles and
other structures, is especially well developed in birds, and is of much
functional importance to them, as it can be rapidly drawn across the whole
eye-ball. It is found in some reptiles and amphibians, and in certain
fishes, as in sharks. It is fairly well developed in the two lower
divisions of the mammalian series, namely, in the monotremata and
marsupials, and in some few of the higher mammals, as in the walrus. But
in man, the quadrumana, and most other mammals, it exists, as is admitted
by all anatomists, as a mere rudiment, called the semilunar fold. (35.
Muller’s ‘Elements of Physiology,’ Eng. translat. 1842, vol. ii. p. 1117.
Owen, ‘Anatomy of Vertebrates,’ vol. iii. p. 260; ibid. on the Walrus,
‘Proceedings of the Zoological Society,’ November 8, 1854. See also R.
Knox, ‘Great Artists and Anatomists,’ p. 106. This rudiment apparently is
somewhat larger in Negroes and Australians than in Europeans, see Carl
Vogt, ‘Lectures on Man,’ Eng. translat. p. 129.)

The sense of smell is of the highest importance to the greater number of
mammals–to some, as the ruminants, in warning them of danger; to others,
as the Carnivora, in finding their prey; to others, again, as the wild
boar, for both purposes combined. But the sense of smell is of extremely
slight service, if any, even to the dark coloured races of men, in whom it
is much more highly developed than in the white and civilised races. (36.
The account given by Humboldt of the power of smell possessed by the
natives of South America is well known, and has been confirmed by others.
M. Houzeau (‘Etudes sur les Facultes Mentales,’ etc., tom. i. 1872, p. 91)
asserts that he repeatedly made experiments, and proved that Negroes and
Indians could recognise persons in the dark by their odour. Dr. W. Ogle
has made some curious observations on the connection between the power of
smell and the colouring matter of the mucous membrane of the olfactory
region as well as of the skin of the body. I have, therefore, spoken in
the text of the dark-coloured races having a finer sense of smell than the
white races. See his paper, ‘Medico-Chirurgical Transactions,’ London,
vol. liii. 1870, p. 276.) Nevertheless it does not warn them of danger,
nor guide them to their food; nor does it prevent the Esquimaux from
sleeping in the most fetid atmosphere, nor many savages from eating
half-putrid meat. In Europeans the power differs greatly in different
individuals, as I am assured by an eminent naturalist who possesses this
sense highly developed, and who has attended to the subject. Those who
believe in the principle of gradual evolution, will not readily admit that
the sense of smell in its present state was originally acquired by man, as
he now exists. He inherits the power in an enfeebled and so far
rudimentary condition, from some early progenitor, to whom it was highly
serviceable, and by whom it was continually used. In those animals which
have this sense highly developed, such as dogs and horses, the recollection
of persons and of places is strongly associated with their odour; and we
can thus perhaps understand how it is, as Dr. Maudsley has truly remarked
(37. ‘The Physiology and Pathology of Mind,’ 2nd ed. 1868, p. 134.), that
the sense of smell in man “is singularly effective in recalling vividly the
ideas and images of forgotten scenes and places.”

Man differs conspicuously from all the other primates in being almost
naked. But a few short straggling hairs are found over the greater part of
the body in the man, and fine down on that of the woman. The different
races differ much in hairiness; and in the individuals of the same race the
hairs are highly variable, not only in abundance, but likewise in position:
thus in some Europeans the shoulders are quite naked, whilst in others they
bear thick tufts of hair. (38. Eschricht, Uber die Richtung der Haare am
menschlichen Korper, Muller’s ‘Archiv fur Anat. und Phys.’ 1837, s. 47. I
shall often have to refer to this very curious paper.) There can be little
doubt that the hairs thus scattered over the body are the rudiments of the
uniform hairy coat of the lower animals. This view is rendered all the
more probable, as it is known that fine, short, and pale-coloured hairs on
the limbs and other parts of the body, occasionally become developed into
“thickset, long, and rather coarse dark hairs,” when abnormally nourished
near old-standing inflamed surfaces. (39. Paget, ‘Lectures on Surgical
Pathology,’ 1853, vol. i. p. 71.)

I am informed by Sir James Paget that often several members of a family
have a few hairs in their eyebrows much longer than the others; so that
even this slight peculiarity seems to be inherited. These hairs, too, seem
to have their representatives; for in the chimpanzee, and in certain
species of Macacus, there are scattered hairs of considerable length rising
from the naked skin above the eyes, and corresponding to our eyebrows;
similar long hairs project from the hairy covering of the superciliary
ridges in some baboons.

The fine wool-like hair, or so-called lanugo, with which the human foetus
during the sixth month is thickly covered, offers a more curious case. It
is first developed, during the fifth month, on the eyebrows and face, and
especially round the mouth, where it is much longer than that on the head.
A moustache of this kind was observed by Eschricht (40. Eschricht, ibid.
s. 40, 47.) on a female foetus; but this is not so surprising a
circumstance as it may at first appear, for the two sexes generally
resemble each other in all external characters during an early period of
growth. The direction and arrangement of the hairs on all parts of the
foetal body are the same as in the adult, but are subject to much
variability. The whole surface, including even the forehead and ears, is
thus thickly clothed; but it is a significant fact that the palms of the
hands and the soles of the feet are quite naked, like the inferior surfaces
of all four extremities in most of the lower animals. As this can hardly
be an accidental coincidence, the woolly covering of the foetus probably
represents the first permanent coat of hair in those mammals which are born
hairy. Three or four cases have been recorded of persons born with their
whole bodies and faces thickly covered with fine long hairs; and this
strange condition is strongly inherited, and is correlated with an abnormal
condition of the teeth. (41. See my ‘Variation of Animals and Plants
under Domestication,’ vol. ii. p. 327. Prof. Alex. Brandt has recently
sent me an additional case of a father and son, born in Russia, with these
peculiarities. I have received drawings of both from Paris.) Prof. Alex.
Brandt informs me that he has compared the hair from the face of a man thus
characterised, aged thirty-five, with the lanugo of a foetus, and finds it
quite similar in texture; therefore, as he remarks, the case may be
attributed to an arrest of development in the hair, together with its
continued growth. Many delicate children, as I have been assured by a
surgeon to a hospital for children, have their backs covered by rather long
silky hairs; and such cases probably come under the same head.

It appears as if the posterior molar or wisdom-teeth were tending to become
rudimentary in the more civilised races of man. These teeth are rather
smaller than the other molars, as is likewise the case with the
corresponding teeth in the chimpanzee and orang; and they have only two
separate fangs. They do not cut through the gums till about the
seventeenth year, and I have been assured that they are much more liable to
decay, and are earlier lost than the other teeth; but this is denied by
some eminent dentists. They are also much more liable to vary, both in
structure and in the period of their development, than the other teeth.
(42. Dr. Webb, ‘Teeth in Man and the Anthropoid Apes,’ as quoted by Dr. C.
Carter Blake in Anthropological Review, July 1867, p. 299.) In the
Melanian races, on the other hand, the wisdom-teeth are usually furnished
with three separate fangs, and are generally sound; they also differ from
the other molars in size, less than in the Caucasian races. (43. Owen,
‘Anatomy of Vertebrates,’ vol. iii. pp. 320, 321, and 325.) Prof.
Schaaffhausen accounts for this difference between the races by “the
posterior dental portion of the jaw being always shortened” in those that
are civilised (44. ‘On the Primitive Form of the Skull,’ Eng. translat.,
in ‘Anthropological Review,’ Oct. 1868, p. 426), and this shortening may, I
presume, be attributed to civilised men habitually feeding on soft, cooked
food, and thus using their jaws less. I am informed by Mr. Brace that it
is becoming quite a common practice in the United States to remove some of
the molar teeth of children, as the jaw does not grow large enough for the
perfect development of the normal number. (45. Prof. Montegazza writes to
me from Florence, that he has lately been studying the last molar teeth in
the different races of man, and has come to the same conclusion as that
given in my text, viz., that in the higher or civilised races they are on
the road towards atrophy or elimination.)

With respect to the alimentary canal, I have met with an account of only a
single rudiment, namely the vermiform appendage of the caecum. The caecum
is a branch or diverticulum of the intestine, ending in a cul-de-sac, and
is extremely long in many of the lower vegetable-feeding mammals. In the
marsupial koala it is actually more than thrice as long as the whole body.
(46. Owen, ‘Anatomy of Vertebrates,’ vol. iii. pp. 416, 434, 441.) It is
sometimes produced into a long gradually-tapering point, and is sometimes
constricted in parts. It appears as if, in consequence of changed diet or
habits, the caecum had become much shortened in various animals, the
vermiform appendage being left as a rudiment of the shortened part. That
this appendage is a rudiment, we may infer from its small size, and from
the evidence which Prof. Canestrini (47. ‘Annuario della Soc. d. Nat.’
Modena, 1867, p. 94.) has collected of its variability in man. It is
occasionally quite absent, or again is largely developed. The passage is
sometimes completely closed for half or two-thirds of its length, with the
terminal part consisting of a flattened solid expansion. In the orang this
appendage is long and convoluted: in man it arises from the end of the
short caecum, and is commonly from four to five inches in length, being
only about the third of an inch in diameter. Not only is it useless, but
it is sometimes the cause of death, of which fact I have lately heard two
instances: this is due to small hard bodies, such as seeds, entering the
passage, and causing inflammation. (48. M. C. Martins (“De l’Unite
Organique,” in ‘Revue des Deux Mondes,’ June 15, 1862, p. 16) and Haeckel
(‘Generelle Morphologie,’ B. ii. s. 278), have both remarked on the
singular fact of this rudiment sometimes causing death.)

In some of the lower Quadrumana, in the Lemuridae and Carnivora, as well as
in many marsupials, there is a passage near the lower end of the humerus,
called the supra-condyloid foramen, through which the great nerve of the
fore limb and often the great artery pass. Now in the humerus of man,
there is generally a trace of this passage, which is sometimes fairly well
developed, being formed by a depending hook-like process of bone, completed
by a band of ligament. Dr. Struthers (49. With respect to inheritance,
see Dr. Struthers in the ‘Lancet,’ Feb. 15, 1873, and another important
paper, ibid. Jan. 24, 1863, p. 83. Dr. Knox, as I am informed, was the
first anatomist who drew attention to this peculiar structure in man; see
his ‘Great Artists and Anatomists,’ p. 63. See also an important memoir on
this process by Dr. Gruber, in the ‘Bulletin de l’Acad. Imp. de St.
Petersbourg,’ tom. xii. 1867, p. 448.), who has closely attended to the
subject, has now shewn that this peculiarity is sometimes inherited, as it
has occurred in a father, and in no less than four out of his seven
children. When present, the great nerve invariably passes through it; and
this clearly indicates that it is the homologue and rudiment of the
supra-condyloid foramen of the lower animals. Prof. Turner estimates, as
he informs me, that it occurs in about one per cent. of recent skeletons.
But if the occasional development of this structure in man is, as seems
probable, due to reversion, it is a return to a very ancient state of
things, because in the higher Quadrumana it is absent.

There is another foramen or perforation in the humerus, occasionally
present in man, which may be called the inter-condyloid. This occurs, but
not constantly, in various anthropoid and other apes (50. Mr. St. George
Mivart, ‘Transactions Phil. Soc.’ 1867, p. 310.), and likewise in many of
the lower animals. It is remarkable that this perforation seems to have
been present in man much more frequently during ancient times than
recently. Mr. Busk (51. “On the Caves of Gibraltar,” ‘Transactions of the
International Congress of Prehistoric Archaeology,’ Third Session, 1869, p.
159. Prof. Wyman has lately shewn (Fourth Annual Report, Peabody Museum,
1871, p. 20), that this perforation is present in thirty-one per cent. of
some human remains from ancient mounds in the Western United States, and in
Florida. It frequently occurs in the negro.) has collected the following
evidence on this head: Prof. Broca “noticed the perforation in four and a
half per cent. of the arm-bones collected in the ‘Cimetiere du Sud,’ at
Paris; and in the Grotto of Orrony, the contents of which are referred to
the Bronze period, as many as eight humeri out of thirty-two were
perforated; but this extraordinary proportion, he thinks, might be due to
the cavern having been a sort of ‘family vault.’ Again, M. Dupont found
thirty per cent. of perforated bones in the caves of the Valley of the
Lesse, belonging to the Reindeer period; whilst M. Leguay, in a sort of
dolmen at Argenteuil, observed twenty-five per cent. to be perforated; and
M. Pruner-Bey found twenty-six per cent. in the same condition in bones
from Vaureal. Nor should it be left unnoticed that M. Pruner-Bey states
that this condition is common in Guanche skeletons.” It is an interesting
fact that ancient races, in this and several other cases, more frequently
present structures which resemble those of the lower animals than do the
modern. One chief cause seems to be that the ancient races stand somewhat
nearer in the long line of descent to their remote animal-like progenitors.

In man, the os coccyx, together with certain other vertebrae hereafter to
be described, though functionless as a tail, plainly represent this part in
other vertebrate animals. At an early embryonic period it is free, and
projects beyond the lower extremities; as may be seen in the drawing (Fig.
1.) of a human embryo. Even after birth it has been known, in certain rare
and anomalous cases (52. Quatrefages has lately collected the evidence on
this subject. ‘Revue des Cours Scientifiques,’ 1867-1868, p. 625. In 1840
Fleischmann exhibited a human foetus bearing a free tail, which, as is not
always the case, included vertebral bodies; and this tail was critically
examined by the many anatomists present at the meeting of naturalists at
Erlangen (see Marshall in Niederlandischen Archiv fur Zoologie, December
1871).), to form a small external rudiment of a tail. The os coccyx is
short, usually including only four vertebrae, all anchylosed together: and
these are in a rudimentary condition, for they consist, with the exception
of the basal one, of the centrum alone. (53. Owen, ‘On the Nature of
Limbs,’ 1849, p. 114.) They are furnished with some small muscles; one of
which, as I am informed by Prof. Turner, has been expressly described by
Theile as a rudimentary repetition of the extensor of the tail, a muscle
which is so largely developed in many mammals.

The spinal cord in man extends only as far downwards as the last dorsal or
first lumbar vertebra; but a thread-like structure (the filum terminale)
runs down the axis of the sacral part of the spinal canal, and even along
the back of the coccygeal bones. The upper part of this filament, as Prof.
Turner informs me, is undoubtedly homologous with the spinal cord; but the
lower part apparently consists merely of the pia mater, or vascular
investing membrane. Even in this case the os coccyx may be said to possess
a vestige of so important a structure as the spinal cord, though no longer
enclosed within a bony canal. The following fact, for which I am also
indebted to Prof. Turner, shews how closely the os coccyx corresponds with
the true tail in the lower animals: Luschka has recently discovered at the
extremity of the coccygeal bones a very peculiar convoluted body, which is
continuous with the middle sacral artery; and this discovery led Krause and
Meyer to examine the tail of a monkey (Macacus), and of a cat, in both of
which they found a similarly convoluted body, though not at the extremity.

The reproductive system offers various rudimentary structures; but these
differ in one important respect from the foregoing cases. Here we are not
concerned with the vestige of a part which does not belong to the species
in an efficient state, but with a part efficient in the one sex, and
represented in the other by a mere rudiment. Nevertheless, the occurrence
of such rudiments is as difficult to explain, on the belief of the separate
creation of each species, as in the foregoing cases. Hereafter I shall
have to recur to these rudiments, and shall shew that their presence
generally depends merely on inheritance, that is, on parts acquired by one
sex having been partially transmitted to the other. I will in this place
only give some instances of such rudiments. It is well known that in the
males of all mammals, including man, rudimentary mammae exist. These in
several instances have become well developed, and have yielded a copious
supply of milk. Their essential identity in the two sexes is likewise
shewn by their occasional sympathetic enlargement in both during an attack
of the measles. The vesicula prostatica, which has been observed in many
male mammals, is now universally acknowledged to be the homologue of the
female uterus, together with the connected passage. It is impossible to
read Leuckart’s able description of this organ, and his reasoning, without
admitting the justness of his conclusion. This is especially clear in the
case of those mammals in which the true female uterus bifurcates, for in
the males of these the vesicula likewise bifurcates. (54. Leuckart, in
Todd’s ‘Cyclopaedia of Anatomy’ 1849-52, vol. iv. p. 1415. In man this
organ is only from three to six lines in length, but, like so many other
rudimentary parts, it is variable in development as well as in other
characters.) Some other rudimentary structures belonging to the
reproductive system might have been here adduced. (55. See, on this
subject, Owen, ‘Anatomy of Vertebrates,’ vol. iii. pp. 675, 676, 706.)

The bearing of the three great classes of facts now given is unmistakeable.
But it would be superfluous fully to recapitulate the line of argument
given in detail in my ‘Origin of Species.’ The homological construction of
the whole frame in the members of the same class is intelligible, if we
admit their descent from a common progenitor, together with their
subsequent adaptation to diversified conditions. On any other view, the
similarity of pattern between the hand of a man or monkey, the foot of a
horse, the flipper of a seal, the wing of a bat, etc., is utterly
inexplicable. (56. Prof. Bianconi, in a recently published work,
illustrated by admirable engravings (‘La Theorie Darwinienne et la creation
dite independante,’ 1874), endeavours to shew that homological structures,
in the above and other cases, can be fully explained on mechanical
principles, in accordance with their uses. No one has shewn so well, how
admirably such structures are adapted for their final purpose; and this
adaptation can, as I believe, be explained through natural selection. In
considering the wing of a bat, he brings forward (p. 218) what appears to
me (to use Auguste Comte’s words) a mere metaphysical principle, namely,
the preservation “in its integrity of the mammalian nature of the animal.”
In only a few cases does he discuss rudiments, and then only those parts
which are partially rudimentary, such as the little hoofs of the pig and
ox, which do not touch the ground; these he shews clearly to be of service
to the animal. It is unfortunate that he did not consider such cases as
the minute teeth, which never cut through the jaw in the ox, or the mammae
of male quadrupeds, or the wings of certain beetles, existing under the
soldered wing-covers, or the vestiges of the pistil and stamens in various
flowers, and many other such cases. Although I greatly admire Prof.
Bianconi’s work, yet the belief now held by most naturalists seems to me
left unshaken, that homological structures are inexplicable on the
principle of mere adaptation.) It is no scientific explanation to assert
that they have all been formed on the same ideal plan. With respect to
development, we can clearly understand, on the principle of variations
supervening at a rather late embryonic period, and being inherited at a
corresponding period, how it is that the embryos of wonderfully different
forms should still retain, more or less perfectly, the structure of their
common progenitor. No other explanation has ever been given of the
marvellous fact that the embryos of a man, dog, seal, bat, reptile, etc.,
can at first hardly be distinguished from each other. In order to
understand the existence of rudimentary organs, we have only to suppose
that a former progenitor possessed the parts in question in a perfect
state, and that under changed habits of life they became greatly reduced,
either from simple disuse, or through the natural selection of those
individuals which were least encumbered with a superfluous part, aided by
the other means previously indicated.

Thus we can understand how it has come to pass that man and all other
vertebrate animals have been constructed on the same general model, why
they pass through the same early stages of development, and why they retain
certain rudiments in common. Consequently we ought frankly to admit their
community of descent: to take any other view, is to admit that our own
structure, and that of all the animals around us, is a mere snare laid to
entrap our judgment. This conclusion is greatly strengthened, if we look
to the members of the whole animal series, and consider the evidence
derived from their affinities or classification, their geographical
distribution and geological succession. It is only our natural prejudice,
and that arrogance which made our forefathers declare that they were
descended from demi-gods, which leads us to demur to this conclusion. But
the time will before long come, when it will be thought wonderful that
naturalists, who were well acquainted with the comparative structure and
development of man, and other mammals, should have believed that each was
the work of a separate act of creation.