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Darwiniana - Essays and Reviews Pertaining to Darwinism
by Asa Gray
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The North American reviewer's position, that the higher brute animals have comparatively little instinct and no intelligence, is a heavy blow and great discouragement to dogs, horses, elephants, and monkeys. Thus stripped of their all, and left to shift for themselves as they may in this hard world, their pursuit and seeming attainment of knowledge under such peculiar difficulties are interesting to contemplate. However, we are not so sure as is the critic that instinct regularly increases downward and decreases upward in the scale of being. Now that the case of the bee is reduced to moderate proportions,[III-19] we know of nothing in instinct surpassing that of an animal so high as a bird, the talegal, the male of which plumes himself upon making a hot-bed in which to batch his partner's eggs—which he tends and regulates the beat of about as carefully and skillfully as the unplumed biped does an eccaleobion.[III-20]

As to the real intelligence of the higher brutes, it has been ably defended by a far more competent observer, Mr. Agassiz, to whose conclusions we yield a general assent, although we cannot quite place the best of dogs "in that respect upon a level with a considerable proportion of poor humanity," nor indulge the hope, or indeed the desire, of a renewed acquaintance with the whole animal kingdom in a future life.

The assertion that acquired habitudes or instincts, and acquired structures, are not heritable, any breeder or good observer can refute.

That "the human mind has become what it is out of a developed instinct," is a statement which Mr. Darwin nowhere makes, and, we presume, would not accept. That he would have us believe that individual animals acquire their instincts gradually,[III-21] is a statement which must have been penned in inadvertence both of the very definition of instinct, and of everything we know of in Mr. Darwin's book.

It has been attempted to destroy the very foundation of Darwin's hypothesis by denying that there are any wild varieties, to speak of, for natural selection to operate upon. We cannot gravely sit down to prove that wild varieties abound. We should think it just as necessary to prove that snow falls in winter. That variation among plants cannot be largely due to hybridism, and that their variation in Nature is not essentially different from much that occurs in domestication, and, in the long-run, probably hardly less in amount, we could show if our space permitted.

As to the sterility of hybrids, that can no longer be insisted upon as absolutely true, nor be practically used as a test between species and varieties, unless we allow that hares and rabbits are of one species. That such sterility, whether total or partial, subserves a purpose in keeping species apart, and was so designed, we do not doubt. But the critics fail to perceive that this sterility proves nothing whatever against the derivative origin of the actual species; for it may as well have been intended to keep separate those forms which have reached a certain amount of divergence, as those which were always thus distinct.

The argument for the permanence of species, drawn from the identity with those now living of cats, birds, and other animals preserved in Egyptian catacombs, was good enough as used by Cuvier against St.-Hilaire, that is, against the supposition that time brings about a gradual alteration of whole species; but it goes for little against Darwin, unless it be proved that species never vary, or that the perpetuation of a variety necessitates the extinction of the parent breed. For Darwin clearly maintains—what the facts warrant—that the mass of a species remains fixed so long as it exists at all, though it may set off a variety now and then. The variety may finally supersede the parent form, or it may coexist with it; yet it does not in the least hinder the unvaried stock from continuing true to the breed, unless it crosses with it. The common law of inheritance may be expected to keep both the original and the variety mainly true as long as they last, and none the less so because they have given rise to occasional varieties. The tailless Manx cats, like the curtailed fox in the fable, have not induced the normal breeds to dispense with their tails, nor have the Dorkings (apparently known to Pliny) affected the permanence of the common sort of fowl.

As to the objection that the lower forms of life ought, on Darwin's theory, to have been long ago improved out of existence, and replaced by higher forms, the objectors forget what a vacuum that would leave below, and what a vast field there is to which a simple organization is best adapted, and where an advance would be no improvement, but the contrary. To accumulate the greatest amount of being upon a given space, and to provide as much enjoyment of life as can be under the conditions, is what Nature seems to aim at; and this is effected by diversification.

Finally, we advise nobody to accept Darwin's or any other derivative theory as true. The time has not come for that, and perhaps never will. We also advise against a similar credulity on the other side, in a blind faith that species—that the manifold sorts and forms of existing animals and vegetables—"have no secondary cause." The contrary is already not unlikely, and we suppose will hereafter become more and more probable. But we are confident that, if a derivative hypothesis ever is established, it will be so on a solid theistic ground.

Meanwhile an inevitable and legitimate hypothesis is on trial—an hypothesis thus far not untenable—a trial just now very useful to science, and, we conclude, not harmful to religion, unless injudicious assailants temporarily make it so.

One good effect is already manifest; its enabling the advocates of the hypothesis of a multiplicity of human species to perceive the double insecurity of their ground. When the races of men are admitted to be of one species, the corollary, that they are of one origin, may be expected to follow. Those who allow them to be of one species must admit an actual diversification into strongly-marked and persistent varieties, and so admit the basis of fact upon which the Darwinian hypothesis is built; while those, on the other hand, who recognize several or numerous human species, will hardly be able to maintain that such species were primordial and supernatural in the ordinary sense of the word.

The English mind is prone to positivism and kindred forms of materialistic philosophy, and we must expect the derivative theory to be taken up in that interest. We have no predilection for that school, but the contrary. If we had, we might have looked complacently upon a line of criticism which would indirectly, but effectively, play into the hands of positivists and materialistic atheists generally. The wiser and stronger ground to take is, that the derivative hypothesis leaves the argument for design, and therefore for a designer, as valid as it ever was; that to do any work by an instrument must require, and therefore presuppose, the exertion rather of more than of less power than to do it directly; that whoever would be a consistent theist should believe that Design in the natural world is coextensive with Providence, and hold as firmly to the one as he does to the other, in spite of the wholly similar and apparently insuperable difficulties which the mind encounters whenever it endeavors to develop the idea into a system, either in the material and organic, or in the moral world. It is enough, in the way of obviating objections, to show that the philosophical difficulties of the one are the same, and only the same, as of the other. IV

SPECIES AS TO VARIATION,

GEOGRAPHICAL

DISTRIBUTION,

AND SUCCESSION

(American Journal of Science and Arts, May, 1863)



Etude sur l'Espece, a l'Occasion d'une Revision de la Famille des Cupuliferes, par M. ALPHONSE DE CANDOLLE.— This is the title of a paper by M. Alph. De Candolle, growing out of his study of the oaks. It was published in the November number of the Bibliotheque Universelle, and separately issued as a pamphlet. A less inspiring task could hardly be assigned to a botanist than the systematic elaboration of the genus Quercus and its allies. The vast materials assembled under De Candolle's hands, while disheartening for their bulk, offered small hope of novelty. The subject was both extremely trite and extremely difficult. Happily it occurred to De Candolle that an interest might be imparted to an onerous undertaking, and a work of necessity be turned to good account for science, by studying the oaks in view of the question of species. What this term species means, or should mean, in natural history, what the limits of species, inter se or chronologically, or in geographical distribution, their modifications, actual or probable, their origin, and their destiny—these are questions which surge up from time to time; and now and then in the progress of science they come to assume a new and hopeful interest. Botany and zoology, geology, and what our author, feeling the want of a new term proposes to name epiontology, [IV-1] all lead up to and converge into this class of questions, while recent theories shape and point the discussion So we look with eager interest to see what light the study of oaks by a very careful experienced and conservative botanist, particularly conversant with the geographical relations of plants may throw upon the subject.

The course of investigation in this instance does not differ from that ordinarily pursued by working botanists nor, in deed are the theoretical conclusions other than those to which a similar study of other orders might not have equally led. The oaks afford a very good occasion for the discussion of questions which press upon our attention, and perhaps they offer peculiarly good materials on account of the number of fossil species.

Preconceived notions about species being laid aside, the specimens in hand were distributed, according to their obvious resemblances, into groups of apparently identical or nearly identical forms, which were severally examined and compared. Where specimens were few, as from countries little explored, the work was easy, but the conclusions, as will be seen, of small value. The fewer the materials, the smaller the likelihood of forms intermediate between any two, and—what does not appear being treated upon the old law-maxim as non-existent—species are readily enough defined. Where, however, specimens abound, as in the case of the oaks of Europe, of the Orient, and of the United States, of which the specimens amounted to hundreds, collected at different ages, in varied localities, by botanists of all sorts of views and predilections—here alone were data fit to draw useful conclusions from. Here, as De Candolle remarks, he had every advantage, being furnished with materials more complete than any one person could have procured from his own herborizations, more varied than if he had observed a hundred times over the same forms in the same district, and more impartial than if they had all been amassed by one person with his own ideas or predispositions. So that vast herbaria, into which contributions from every source have flowed for years, furnish the best possible data—at least are far better than any practicable amount of personal herborization—or the comparative study of related forms occurring over wide tracts of territory. But as the materials increase, so do the difficulties. Forms, which appeared totally distinct, approach or blend through intermediate gradations; characters, stable in a limited number of instances or in a limited district, prove unstable occasionally, or when observed over a wider area; and the practical question is forced upon the investigator, What here is probably fixed and specific, and what is variant, pertaining to individual, variety, or race?

In the examination of these rich materials, certain characters were found to vary upon the same branch, or upon the same tree, sometimes according to age or development, sometimes irrespective of such relations or of any assignable reasons. Such characters, of course, are not specific, although many of them are such as would have been expected to be constant in the same species, and are such as generally enter into specific definitions. Variations of this sort, De Candolle, with his usual painstaking, classifies and tabulates, and even expresses numerically their frequency in certain species. The results are brought well to view in a systematic enumeration:

1. Of characters which frequently vary upon the same branch: over a dozen such are mentioned.

2. Of those which sometimes vary upon the same branch: a smaller number of these are mentioned.

3. Those so rare that they might be called monstrosities. Then he enumerates characters, ten in number, which he has never found to vary on the same branch, and which, therefore, may better claim to be employed as specific. But, as among them he includes the duration of the leaves, the size of the cupule, and the form and size of its scales, which are by no means quite uniform in different trees of the same species, even these characters must be taken with allowance. In fact, having first brought together, as groups of the lowest order, those forms which varied upon the same stock, he next had to combine similarly various forms which, though not found associated upon the same branch, were thoroughly blended by intermediate degrees:

"The lower groups (varieties or races) being thus constituted, I have given the rank of species to the groups next above these, which differ in other respects, i.e., either in characters which were not found united upon certain individuals, or in those which do not show transitions from one individual to another. For the oaks of regions sufficiently known, the species thus formed rest upon satisfactory bases, of which the proof can be furnished. It is quite otherwise with those which are represented in our herbaria by single or few specimens. These are provisional species—species which may hereafter fall to the rank of simple varieties. I have not been inclined to prejudge such questions; indeed, in this regard, I am not disposed to follow those authors whose tendency is, as they say, to reunite species. I never reunite them without proof in each particular case; while the botanists to whom I refer do so on the ground of analogous variations or transitions occurring in the same genus or in the same family. For example resting on the fact that Quercus hex, Q. coccifera, Q. acutifolia, etc., have the leaves sometimes entire and sometimes toothed upon the same branch, or present transitions from one tree to another, I might readily have united my Q. Tlapuxahuensis to Q. Sartorii of Liebmann, since these two differ only in their entire or their toothed leaves. From the fact that the length of the peduncle varies in Q. Robur and many other oaks, I might have combined Q. Seemannii Liebm. with Q. salicifolia Nee. I have not admitted these inductions, but have demanded visible proof in each particular case. Many species are thus left as provisional; but, in proceeding thus, the progress of the science will be more regular, and the synonymy less dependent upon the caprice or the theoretical opinions of each author."

This is safe and to a certain degree judicious, no doubt, as respects published species. Once admitted, they may stand until they are put down by evidence, direct or circumstantial. Doubtless a species may rightfully be condemned on good circumstantial evidence. But what course does De Candolle pursue in the case—of every-day occurrence to most working botanists, having to elaborate collections from countries not so well explored as Europe—when the forms in question, or one of the two, are as yet unnamed? Does he introduce as a new species every form which he cannot connect by ocular proof with a near relative, from which it differs only in particulars which he sees are inconstant in better known species of the same group? We suppose not. But, if he does, little improvement for the future upon the state of things revealed in the following quotation can be expected:

"In the actual state of our knowledge, after having seen nearly all the original specimens, and in some species as many as two hundred representatives from different localities, I estimate that, out of the three hundred species of Cupuliferae which will be enumerated in the Prodromus, two-thirds at least are provisional species. In general, when we consider what a multitude of species were described from a single specimen, or from the forms of a single locality, of a single country, or are badly described, it is difficult to believe that above one-third of the actual species in botanical works will remain unchanged."

Such being the results of the want of adequate knowledge, how is it likely to be when our knowledge is largely increased? The judgment of so practised a botanist as De Candolle is important in this regard, and it accords with that of other botanists of equal experience.

"They are mistaken," he pointedly asserts, "who repeat that the greater part of our species are clearly limited, and that the doubtful species are in a feeble minority. This seemed to be true, so long as a genus was imperfectly known, and its species were founded upon few specimens, that is to say, were provisional. Just as we come to know them better, intermediate forms flow in, and doubts as to specific limits augment."

De Candolle insists, indeed, in this connection, that the higher the rank of the groups the more definite their limitation, or, in other terms, the fewer the ambiguous or doubtful forms, that genera are more strictly limited than species tribes than genera, orders than tribes, etc. We are not convinced of this Often where it has appeared to be so, advancing discovery has brought intermediate forms to light, perplexing to the systematist. "They are mistaken, we think more than one systematic botanist will say, "who repeat that the greater part of our natural orders and tribes are absolutely limited," however we may agree that we will limit them. Provisional genera we suppose are proportionally hardly less common than provisional species; and hundreds of genera are kept up on considerations of general propriety or general convenience, although well known to shade off into adjacent ones by complete gradations. Somewhat of this greater fixity of higher groups, therefore, is rather apparent than real. On the other hand, that varieties should be less definite than species, follows from the very terms employed. They are ranked as varieties, rather than species, just because of their less definiteness.

Singular as it may appear, we have heard it denied that spontaneous varieties occur. De Candolle makes the important announcement that, in the oak genus, the best known species are just those which present the greatest number of spontaneous varieties and sub-varieties. The maximum is found in Q. Robur, with twenty-eight varieties, all spontaneous. Of Q. Lusitanica eleven varieties are enumerated, of Q. Calliprinos ten, of Q. coccifera eight, * etc. And he significantly adds that "these very species which offer such numerous modifications are themselves ordinarily surrounded by other forms, provisionally called species, because of the absence of known transitions or variations, but to which some of these will probably have to be joined hereafter." The inference is natural, if not inevitable, that the difference between such species and such varieties is only one of degree, either as to amount of divergence, or of hereditary fixity, or as to the frequency or rarity at the present time of intermediate forms.

This brings us to the second section of De Candolle's article, in which he passes on, from the observation of the present forms and affinities of cupuliferous plants, to the consideration of their probable history and origin. Suffice it to say, that he frankly accepts the inferences derived from the whole course of observation, and contemplates a probable historical connection between congeneric species. He accepts and, by various considerations drawn from the geographical distribution of European Cupuliferae, fortifies the conclusion—long ago arrived at by Edward Forbes—that the present species, and even some of their varieties, date back to about the close of the Tertiary epoch, since which time they have been subject to frequent and great changes of habitation or limitation, but without appreciable change of specific form or character; that is, without profounder changes than those within which a species at the present time is known to vary. Moreover, he is careful to state that he is far from concluding that the time of the appearance of a species in Europe at all indicates the time of its origin. Looking back still further into the Tertiary epoch, of which the vegetable remains indicate many analogous, but few, if any, identical forms, he concludes, with Heer and others, that specific changes of form, as well as changes of station, are to be presumed; and, finally, that "the theory of a succession of forms through the deviation of anterior forms is the most natural hypothesis, and the most accordant with the known facts in palaeontology, geographical botany and zoology, of anatomical structure and classification: but direct proof of it is wanting, and moreover, if true, it must have taken place very slowly; so slowly, indeed, that its effects are discernible only after a lapse of time far longer than our historic epoch." In contemplating the present state of the species of Cupuliferae in Europe, De Candolle comes to the conclusion that, while the beech is increasing, and extending its limits southward and westward (at the expense of Coniferae and birches), the common oak, to some extent, and the Turkey oak decidedly, are diminishing and retreating, and this wholly irrespective of man's agency. This is inferred of the Turkey oak from the great gaps found in its present geographical area, which are otherwise inexplicable, and which he regards as plain indications of a partial extinction. Community of descent of all the individuals of species is of course implied in these and all similar reasonings.

An obvious result of such partial extinction is clearly enough brought to view The European oaks (like the American species) greatly tend to vary that is they manifest an active disposition to produce new forms Every form tends to become hereditary and so to pass from the state of mere variation to that of race and of these competing incipient races some only will survive. Quercus Robur offers a familiar illustration of the manner in which one form may in the course of time become separated into two or more distinct ones.

To Linnaeus this common oak of Europe was all of one species. But of late years the greater number of European botanists have regarded it as including three species, Q. pedunculata, Q. sessiliflora, and Q. pubescens. De Candolle looks with satisfaction to the independent conclusion which he reached from a long and patient study of the forms (and which Webb, Gay, Bentham, and others, had equally reached), that the view of Linnaeus was correct, inasmuch as it goes to show that the idea and the practical application of the term species have remained unchanged during the century which has elapsed since the publication of the "Species Plantarum." But, the idea remaining unchanged, the facts might appear under a different aspect, and the conclusion be different, under a slight and very supposable change of circumstances. Of the twenty-eight spontaneous varieties of Q. Robur, which De Candolle recognizes, all but six, he remarks, fall naturally under the three sub-species, pedunculata, sessiliflora, and pubescens, and are therefore forms grouped around these as centres; and, moreover, the few connecting forms are by no means the most common. Were these to die out, it is clear that the three forms which have already been so frequently taken for species would be what the group of four or five provisionally admitted species which closely surround Q. Robur now are. The best example of such a case, as having in all probability occurred through geographical segregation and partial extinction, is that of the cedar, thus separated into the Deodar, the Lebanon, and the Atlantic cedars—a case admirably worked out by Dr. Hooker two or three years ago. [IV-2] A special advantage of the Cupuliferae for determining the probable antiquity of existing species in Europe, De Candolle finds in the size and character of their fruits. However it may be with other plants (and he comes to the conclusion generally that marine currents and all other means of distant transport have played only a very small part in the actual dispersion of species), the transport of acorns and chestnuts by natural causes across an arm of the sea in a condition to germinate, and much more the spontaneous establishment of a forest of oaks or chestnuts in this way, De Candolle conceives to be fairly impossible in itself, and contrary to all experience. From such considerations, i.e., from the actual dispersion of the existing species (with occasional aid from post-tertiary deposits), it is thought to be shown that the principal Cupuliferae of the Old World attained their actual extension before the present separation of Sicily, Sardinia and Corsica, and of Britain, from the European Continent.

This view once adopted, and this course once entered upon, has to be pursued farther. Quercus Robur of Europe with its bevy of admitted derivatives, and its attending species only provisionally admitted to that rank, is very closely related to certain species of Eastern Asia, and of Oregon and California—so closely that "a view of the specimens by no means forbids the idea that they have all originated from Q. Robur, or have originated, with the latter, from one or more preceding forms so like the present ones that a naturalist could hardly know whether to call them species or varieties." Moreover, there are fossil leaves from diluvian deposits in Italy, figured by Gaudin, which are hardly distinguishable from those of Q. Robur on the one hand, and from those of Q. Douglasii, etc., of California, on the other. No such leaves are found in any tertiary deposit in Europe; but such are found of that age, it appears, in Northwest America, where their remote descendants still flourish. So that the probable genealogy of Q. Robur, traceable in Europe up to the commencement of the present epoch, looks eastward and far into the past on far-distant shores.

Quercus Ilex, the evergreen oak of Southern Europe and Northern Africa, reveals a similar archaeology; but its presence in Algeria leads De Candolle to regard it as a much more ancient denizen of Europe than Q. Robur; and a Tertiary oak, Q. ilicoides, from a very old Miocene bed in Switzerland, is thought to be one of its ancestral forms. This high antiquity once established, it follows almost of course that the very nearly-related species in Central Asia, in Japan, in California, and even our own live-oak with its Mexican relatives, may probably enough be regarded as early offshoots from the same stock with Q. hex.

In brief—not to continue these abstracts and remarks, and without reference to Darwin's particular theory (which De Candolle at the close very fairly considers)—if existing species, or many of them, are as ancient as they are now generally thought to be, and were subject to the physical and geographical changes (among them the coming and the going of the glacial epoch) which this antiquity implies; if in former times they were as liable to variation as they now are; and if the individuals of the same species may claim a common local origin, then we cannot wonder that "the theory of a succession of forms by deviations of anterior forms" should be regarded as "the most natural hypothesis," nor at the general advance made toward its acceptance.

The question being, not, how plants and animals originated, but, how came the existing animals and plants to be just where they are and what they are, it is plain that naturalists interested in such inquiries are mostly looking for the answer in one direction. The general drift of opinion, or at least of expectation, is exemplified by this essay of De Candolle; and the set and force of the current are seen by noticing how it carries along naturalists of widely different views and prepossessions—some faster and farther than others—but all in one way. The tendency is, we may say, to extend the law of continuity, or something analogous to it, from inorganic to organic Nature, and in the latter to connect the present with the past in some sort of material connection. The generalization may indeed be expressed so as not to assert that the connection is genetic, as in Mr. Wallace's formula: "Every species has come into existence coincident both in time and space with preexisting closely-allied species." Edward Forbes, who may be called the originator of this whole line of inquiry, long ago expressed a similar view. But the only material sequence we know, or can clearly conceive, in plants and animals, is that from parent to progeny; and, as De Candolle implies, the origin of species and that of races can hardly be much unlike, nor governed by other than the same laws, whatever these may be.

The progress of opinion upon this subject in one generation is not badly represented by that of De Candolle himself, who is by no means prone to adopt new views without much consideration. In an elementary treatise published in the year 1835, he adopted and, if we rightly remember, vigorously maintained, Schouw's idea of the double or multiple origin of species, at least of some species—a view which has been carried out to its ultimate development only perhaps by Agassiz, in the denial of any necessary genetic connection among the individuals of the same species, or of any original localization more restricted than the area now occupied by the species. But in i855, in his "Geographic Botanique," the multiple hypothesis, although in principle not abandoned, loses its point, in view of the probable high antiquity of existing species. The actual vegetation of the world being now regarded as a continuation, through numerous geological, geographical, and more recently historical changes, of anterior vegetations, the actual distribution of plants is seen to be a consequence of preceding conditions; and geological considerations, and these alone, may be expected to explain all the facts—many of them so curious and extraordinary—of the actual geographical distribution of the species. In the present essay, not only the distribution but the origin of congeneric species is regarded as something derivative; whether derived by slow and very gradual changes in the course of ages, according to Darwin, or by a sudden, inexplicable change of their tertiary ancestors, as conceived by Heer, De Candolle hazards no opinion. It may, however, be inferred that he looks upon "natural selection" as a real, but insufficient cause; while some curious remarks upon the number of monstrosities annually produced, and the possibility of their enduring, may be regarded as favorable to Heer's view.

As an index to the progress of opinion in the direction referred to, it will be interesting to compare Sir Charles Lyell's well-known chapters of twenty or thirty years ago, in which the permanence of species was ably maintained, with his treatment of the same subject in a work just issued in England, which, however, has not yet reached us.

A belief of the derivation of species may be maintained along with a conviction of great persistence of specific characters. This is the idea of the excellent Swiss vegetable palaeontologist, Heer, who imagines a sudden change of specific type at certain periods, and perhaps is that of Pictet. Falconer adheres to somewhat similar views in his elaborate paper on elephants, living and fossil, in the Natural History Review for January last. Noting that "there is clear evidence of the true mammoth having existed in America long after the period of the northern drift, when the surface of the country had settled down into its present form, and also in Europe so late as to have been a contemporary of the Irish elk, and on the other hand that it existed in England so far back as before the deposition of the bowlder clay; also that four well-defined species of fossil elephant are known to have existed in Europe; that "a vast number of the remains of three of these species have been exhumed over a large area in Europe; and, even in the geological sense, an enormous interval of time has elapsed between the formation of the most ancient and the most recent of these deposits, quite sufficient to test the persistence of specific characters in an elephant," he presents the question, "Do, then, the successive elephants occurring in these strata show any signs of a passage from the older form into the newer?"

To which the reply is: "If there is one fact which is impressed on the conviction of the observer with more force than any other, it is the persistence and uniformity of the characters of the molar teeth in the earliest known mammoth and his most modern successor . . . Assuming the observation to be correct, what strong proof does it not afford of the persistence and constancy, throughout vast intervals of time, of the distinctive characters of those organs which arc most concerned in the existence and habits of the species? If we cast a glance back on the long vista of physical changes which our planet has undergone since the Neozoic epoch, we can nowhere detect signs of a revolution more sudden and pronounced, or more important in its results, than the intercalation and sudden disappearance of the glacial period. Yet the 'dicyclotherian' mammoth lived before it, and passed through the ordeal of all the hard extremities it involved, bearing his organs of locomotion and digestion all but unchanged. Taking the group of four European fossil species above enumerated, do they show any signs in the successive deposits of a transition from the one form into the other? Here again the result of my observation, in so far as it has extended over the European area, is, that the specific characters of the molars are constant in each, within a moderate range of variation, and that we nowhere meet with intermediate forms." . . .

Dr. Falconer continues (page 80):

"The inferences which I draw from these facts are not opposed to one of the leading propositions of Darwin's theory. With him, I have no faith in the opinion that the mammoth and other extinct elephants made their appearance suddenly, after the type in which their fossil remains are presented to us. The most rational view seems to be, that they are in some shape the modified descendants of earlier progenitors. But if the asserted facts be correct, they seem clearly to indicate that the older elephants of Europe, such as E. meridionalis and E. antiguus, were not the stocks from which the later species, E. primigenius and E. Africanus sprung, and that we must look elsewhere for their origin. The nearest affinity, and that a very close one, of the European E. meridionalis is with the Miocene E. planifrons of India; and of E. primigenius, with the existing India species.

"Another reflection is equally strong in my mind—that the means which have been adduced to explain the origin of the species by 'natural selection,' or a process of variation from external influences, are inadequate to account for the phenomena. The law of phyllotaxis, which governs the evolution of leaves around the axis of a plant, is as nearly constant in its manifestation as any of the physical laws connected with the material world. Each instance, however different from another, can be shown to be a term of some series of continued fractions. When this is coupled with the geometrical law governing the evolution of form, so manifest in some departments of the animal kingdom, e. g., the spiral shells of the Mollusca, it is difficult to believe that there is not, in Nature, a deeper-seated and innate principle, to the operation of which natural selection is merely an adjunct. The whole range of the Mammalia, fossil and recent, cannot furnish a species which has had a wider geographical distribution, and passed through a longer term of time, and through more extreme changes of climatal conditions, than the mammoth. If species are so unstable, and so susceptible of mutation through such influences, why does that extinct form stand out so signally a monument of stability? By his admirable researches and earnest writings, Darwin has, beyond all his contemporaries, given an impulse to the philosophical investigation of the most backward and obscure branch of the biological sciences of his day; he has laid the foundations of a great edifice; but he need not be surprised if, in the progress of erection, the superstructure is altered by his successors, like the Duomo of Milan from the Roman to a different style of architecture."

Entertaining ourselves the opinion that something more than natural selection is requisite to account for the orderly production and succession of species, we offer two incidental remarks upon the above extract.

1. We find in it—in the phrase "natural selection, or a process of variation from external influences"—an example of the very common confusion of two distinct things, viz., variation and natural selection. The former has never yet been shown to have its cause in "external influences," nor to occur at random. As we have elsewhere insisted, if not inexplicable, it has never been explained; all we can yet say is, that plants and animals are prone to vary, and that some conditions favor variation. Perhaps in this Dr. Falconer may yet find what he seeks: for "it is difficult to believe that there is not in nature a deeper-seated and innate principle, to the operation of which natural selection is merely an adjunct." The latter, which is the ensemble of the external influences, including the competition of the individuals them selves, picks out certain variations as they arise, but in no proper sense can be said to originate them

2. Although we are not quite sure how Dr Falconer in tends to apply the law of phyllotaxis to illustrate his idea, we fancy that a pertinent illustration may be drawn from it in this way. There are two species of phyllotaxis, perfectly distinct, and we suppose, not mathematically reducible the one to the other, viz.: (1.) That of alternate leaves, with its vane ties and (2.) That of verticillate leaves, of which opposite leaves present the simplest case That although generally constant a change from one variety of alternate phyllotaxis to an other should occur on the same axis, or on successive axes, is not surprising, the different sorts being terms of a regular series—although indeed we have not the least idea as to how the change from the one to the other comes to pass But it is interesting and in this connection perhaps instructive, to remark that while some dicotyledonous plants hold to the verticillate, i.e., opposite-leaved phyllotaxis throughout, a larger number—through the operation of some deep seated and innate principle which we cannot fathom—change abruptly into the other species at the second or third node, and change back again in the flower, or else effect a synthesis of the two species in a manner which is puzzling to understand. Here is a change from one fixed law to another, as unaccountable, if not as great, as from one specific form to another.

An elaborate paper on the vegetation of the Tertiary period in the southeast of France, by Count Gaston de Saporta, published in the Annales des Sciences Naturelles in 1862, vol. xvi., pp. 309-344—which we have not space to analyze—is worthy of attention from the general inquirer, on account of its analysis of the Tertiary flora into its separate types, Cretaceous, Austral, Tropical, and Boreal, each of which has its separate and different history—and for the announcement that "the hiatus, which, in the idea of most geologists, intervened between the close of the Cretaceous and the beginning of the Tertiary, appears to have had no existence, so far as concerns the vegetation; that in general it was not by means of a total overthrow, followed by a complete new emission of species, that the flora has been renewed at each successive period; and that while the plants of Southern Europe inherited from the Cretaceous period more or less rapidly disappeared, as also the austral forms, and later the tropical types (except the laurel, the myrtle, and the Chamaerops humilis), the boreal types, coming later, survived all the others, and now compose, either in Europe, or in the north of Asia, or in North America, the basis of the actual arborescent vegetation. Especially "a very considerable number of forms nearly identical with tertiary forms now exist in America, where they have found, more easily than in our soil—less vast and less extended southward—refuge from ulterior revolutions," The extinction of species is attributed to two kinds of causes; the one material or physical, whether slow or rapid; the other inherent in the nature of organic beings, incessant, but slow, in a manner latent, but somehow assigning to the species, as to the individuals, a limited period of existence, and, in some equally mysterious but wholly natural way, connected with the development of organic types: "By type meaning a collection of vegetable forms constructed upon the same plan of organization, of which they reproduce the essential lineaments with certain secondary modifications, and which appear to run back to a common point of departure."

In this community of types, no less than in the community of certain existing species, Saporta recognizes a prolonged material union between North America and Europe in former times. Most naturalists and geologists reason in the same way—some more cautiously than others—yet perhaps most of them seem not to perceive how far such inferences imply the doctrine of the common origin of related species.

For obvious reasons such doctrines are likely to find more favor with botanists than with zoologists. But with both the advance in this direction is seen to have been rapid and great; yet to us not unexpected. We note, also, an evident disposition, notwithstanding some endeavors to the contrary, to allow derivative hypotheses to stand or fall upon their own merits—to have indeed upon philosophical grounds certain presumptions in their favor—and to be, perhaps, quite as capable of being turned to good account as to bad account in natural theology.[IV-3]

Among the leading naturalists, indeed, such views—taken in the widest sense—have one and, so far as we are now aware, only one thoroughgoing and thoroughly consistent opponent, viz., Mr. Agassiz.

Most naturalists take into their very conception of a species, explicitly or by implication, the notion of a material connection resulting from the descent of the individuals composing it from a common stock, of local origin. Agassiz wholly eliminates community of descent from his idea of species, and even conceives a species to have been as numerous in individuals and as wide-spread over space, or as segregated in discontinuous spaces, from the first as at the later period.

The station which it inhabits, therefore, is with other naturalists in no wise essential to the species, and may not have been the region of its origin. In Agassiz's view the habitat is supposed to mark the origin, and to be a part of the character of the species. The habitat is not merely the place where it is, but a part of what it is.

Most naturalists recognize varieties of species; and many, like De Candolle, have come to conclude that varieties of the highest grade, or races, so far partake of the characteristics of species, and are so far governed by the same laws, that it is often very difficult to draw a clear and certain distinction between the two. Agassiz will not allow that varieties or races exist in Nature, apart from man's agency.

Most naturalists believe that the origin of species is supernatural, their dispersion or particular geographical area, natural, and their extinction, when they disappear, also the result of physical causes. In the view of Agassiz, if rightly understood, all three are equally independent of physical cause and effect, are equally supernatural.

In comparing preceding periods with the present and with each other, most naturalists and palaeontologists now appear to recognize a certain number of species as having survived from one epoch to the next, or even through more than one formation, especially from the Tertiary into the post-Tertiary period, and from that to the present age. Agassiz is understood to believe in total extinctions and total new creations at each successive epoch, and even to recognize no existing species as ever contemporary with extinct ones, except in the case of recent exterminations.

These peculiar views if sustained will effectually dispose of every form of derivative hypothesis.

Returning for a moment to De Candolle's article, we are disposed to notice his criticism of Linnaeus's "definition" of the term species (Philosophia Botanica, No. 157): "Species tot numeramus quot diversae formae in principio sunt creatae"— which he declares illogical, inapplicable, and the worst that has been propounded. "So, to determine if a form is specific, it is necessary to go back to its origin which is impossible A definition by a character which can never be verified is no definition at all."

Now as Linnaeus practically applied the idea of species with a sagacity which has never been surpassed and rarely equaled and indeed may be said to have fixed its received meaning in natural history, it may well be inferred that in the phrase above cited he did not so much undertake to frame a logical definition, as to set forth the idea which, in his opinion, lay at the foundation of species; on which basis A.L. Jussieu did construct a logical definition—"Nunc rectius definitur perennis individuorum similium successio continuata generatione renascentium." The fundamental idea of species, we would still maintain, is that of a chain of which genetically-connected individuals are the links. That, in the practical recognition of species, the essential characteristic has to be inferred, is no great objection—the general fact that like engenders like being an induction from a vast number of instances, and the only assumption being that of the uniformity of Nature. The idea of gravitation, that of the atomic constitution of matter, and the like, equally have to be verified inferentially. If we still hold to the idea of Linnaeus, and of Agassiz, that existing species were created independently and essentially all at once at the beginning of the present era, we could not better the propositions of Linnaeus and of Jussieu. If; on the other hand, the time has come in which we may accept, with De Candolle, their successive origination, at the commencement of the present era or before, and even by derivation from other forms, then the "in principio" of Linnaeus will refer to that time, whenever it was, and his proposition be as sound and wise as ever.

In his "Geographie Botanique" (ii., 1068-1077) De Candolle discusses this subject at length, and in the same interest. Remarking that of the two great facts of species, viz., likeness among the individuals, and genealogical connection, zoologists have generally preferred the latter,[IV-4] while botanists have been divided in opinion, he pronounces for the former as the essential thing, in the following argumentative statement:

"Quant a moi, j'ai ete conduit, dans ma definition de l'espece, a mettre decidement la ressemblance au-dessus de caracteres de succession. Ce n'est pas seulement a cause des circonstances propres au regne vegetal, dont je m'occupe exclusivement; ce n'est pas non plus afin de sortir ma definition des theories et de la rendre le plus possible utile aux naturalistes descripteurs et nomenclateurs, c'est aussi par un motif philosophique. En toute chose il faut aller au fond des questions, quand on le peut. Or, pourquoi la reproduction est-elle possible, habituelle, feconde indefiniment, entre des etres organises que nous dirons de la meme espece? Parce qu'ils se ressemblent et uniquement a cause de cela. Lorsque deux especes ne peuvent, ou, s'il s'agit d'animaux superieurs, ne peuvent et ne veulent se croiser, c'est qu'elles sont tres differentes. Si l'on obtient des croisements, c'est que les individus sont analogues; si ces croisements donnent des produits feconds, c'est que les individus etaient plus analogues; si ces produits euxmemes sont feconds, c'est que la ressemblance etait plus grande; s'ils sont fecond habituellement et indefiniment, c'est que la ressemblance interieure et exterieure etait tres grande. Ainsi le degre de ressemblance est le fond; la reproduction en est seulement la manifestation et la mesure, et il est logique de placer la cause au-dessus de l'effet."

We are not yet convinced. We still hold that genealogical connection, rather than mutual resemblance, is the fundamental thing—first on the ground of fact, and then from the philosophy of the case. Practically, no botanist can say what amount of dissimilarity is compatible with unity of species; in wild plants it is sometimes very great, in cultivated races often enormous. De Candolle himself informs us that the different variations which the same oak-tree exhibits arc significant indications of a disposition to set up separate varieties, which becoming hereditary may constitute a race; he evidently looks upon the extreme forms, say of Quercus Robur, as having thus originated; and on this ground, inferred from transitional forms, and not from their mutual resemblance, he includes them in that species. This will be more apparent should the discovery of transitions, which he leads us to expect, hereafter cause the four provisional species which attend Q. Robur to be merged in that species. It may rightly be replied that this conclusion would be arrived at from the likeness step by step in the series of forms; but the cause of the likeness here is obvious. And this brings in our "motif philosophique."

Not to insist that the likeness is after all the variable, not the constant, element—to learn which is the essential thing, resemblance among individuals or their genetic connection—we have only to ask which can be the cause of the other.

In hermaphrodite plants (the normal case), and even as the question is ingeniously put by De Candolle in the above extract, the former surely cannot be the cause of the latter, though it may, in case of crossing, offer occasion. But, on the ground of the most fundamental of all things in the constitution of plants and animals—the fact incapable of further analysis, that individuals reproduce their like, that characteristics are inheritable—the likeness is a direct natural consequence of the genetic succession; "and it is logical to place the cause above the effect."

We are equally disposed to combat a proposition of De Candolle's about genera, elaborately argued in the "Geographie Botanique," and incidentally reaffirmed in his present article, viz., that genera are more natural than species, and more correctly distinguished by people in general, as is shown by vernacular names. But we have no space left in which to present some evidence to the contrary.

V

SEQUOIA AND ITS HISTORY

THE RELATIONS OF NORTH AMERICAN

TO NORTHEAST ASIAN AND TO

TERTIARY VEGETATION

(A Presidential Address to the American Association for the Advancement of Science, at Dubuque, August, 1872)



The session being now happily inaugurated, your presiding officer of the last year has only one duty to perform before he surrenders the chair to his successor. If allowed to borrow a simile from the language of my own profession, I might liken the President of this Association to a biennial plant. He flourishes for the year in which he comes into existence, and performs his appropriate functions as presiding officer. When the second year comes round, he is expected to blossom out in an address and disappear. Each president, as he retires, is naturally expected to contribute something from his own investigations or his own line of study, usually to discuss some particular scientific topic.

Now, although I have cultivated the field of North American botany, with some assiduity, for more than forty years, have reviewed our vegetable hosts, and assigned to no small number of them their names and their place in the ranks, yet, so far as our own wide country is concerned, I have been to a great extent a closet botanist. Until this summer I had not seen the Mississippi, nor set foot upon a prairie.

To gratify a natural interest, and to gain some title for addressing a body of practical naturalists and explorers, I have made a pilgrimage across the continent. I have sought and viewed in their native haunts many a plant and flower which for me had long bloomed unseen, or only in the hortus siccus. I have been able to see for myself what species and what forms constitute the main features of the vegetation of each successive region, and record—as the vegetation unerringly does—the permanent characteristics of its climate.

Passing on from the eastern district, marked by its equably distributed rainfall, and therefore naturally forest-clad, I have seen the trees diminish in number, give place to wide prairies, restrict their growth to the borders of streams, and then disappear from the boundless drier plains; have seen grassy plains change into a brown and sere desert—desert in the common sense, but hardly anywhere botanically so—have seen a fair growth of coniferous trees adorning the more favored slopes of a mountain-range high enough to compel summer showers; have traversed that broad and bare elevated region shut off on both sides by high mountains from the moisture supplied by either ocean, and longitudinally intersected by sierras which seemingly remain as naked as they were born; and have reached at length the westward slopes of that high mountain-barrier which, refreshed by the Pacific, bears the noble forests of the Sierra Nevada and the Coast Ranges, and among them trees which are the wonder of the world. As I stood in their shade, in the groves of Mariposa and Calaveras, and again under the canopy of the commoner redwood, raised on columns of such majestic height and ample girth, it occurred to me that I could not do better than to share with you, upon this occasion, some of the thoughts which possessed my mind. In their development they may, perhaps, lead us up to questions of considerable scientific interest.

I shall not detain you with any remarks—which would now be trite—upon the size or longevity of these far-famed Sequoia-trees, or of the sugar-pines, incense-cedar, and firs associated with them, of which even the prodigious bulk of the dominating Sequoia does not sensibly diminish the grandeur. Although no account and no photographic representation of either species of the far-famed Sequoia-trees gives any adequate impression of their singular majesty—still less of their beauty—yet my interest in them did not culminate merely or mainly in considerations of their size and age. Other trees, in other parts of the world, may claim to be older. Certain Australian gumtrees (Eucalypti) are said to be taller. Some, we are told, rise so high that they might even cast a flicker of shadow upon the summit of the Pyramid of Cheops. Yet the oldest of them doubtless grew from seed which was shed long after the names of the pyramid-builders had been forgotten. So far as we can judge from the actual counting of the layers of several trees, no Sequoia now alive sensibly antedates the Christian era.

Nor was I much impressed with an attraction of man's adding. That the more remarkable of these trees should bear distinguishing appellations seems proper enough; but the tablets of personal names which are affixed to many of them

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in the most visited groves—as if the memory of more or less notable people of our day might be made enduring by the juxtaposition—do suggest some incongruity. When we consider that a hand's breadth at the circumference of any one of the venerable trunks so placarded has recorded in annual lines the lifetime of the individual thus associated with it, one may question whether the next hand's breadth may not measure the fame of some of the names thus ticketed for adventitious immortality. Whether it be the man or the tree that is honored in the connection, probably either would live as long, in fact and in memory, without it.

One notable thing about the Sequoia-trees is their isolation. Most of the trees associated with them are of peculiar species, and some of them are nearly as local. Yet every pine, fir, and cypress of California is in some sort familiar, because it has near relatives in other parts of the world. But the redwoods have none. The redwood—including in that name the two species of "big-trees"—belongs to the general Cypress family, but is sui generis. Thus isolated systematically, and extremely isolated geographically, and so wonderful in size and port, they more than other trees suggest questions.

Were they created thus local and lonely, denizens of California only; one in limited numbers in a few choice spots on the Sierra Nevada, the other along the Coast Range from the Bay of Monterey to the frontiers of Oregon? Are they veritable Melchizedeks, without pedigree or early relationship, and possibly fated to be without descent? Or are they now coming upon the stage—or rather were they coming but for man's interference—to play a part in the future? Or are they remnants, sole and scanty survivors of a race that has played a grander part in the past, but is now verging to extinction? Have they had a career, and can that career be ascertained or surmised, so that we may at least guess whence they came, and how, and when?

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Time was, and not long ago, when such questions as these were regarded as useless and vain—when students of natural history, unmindful of what the name denotes, were content with a knowledge of things as they now are, but gave little heed as to how they came to be so. Now such questions are held to be legitimate, and perhaps not wholly unanswerable. It cannot now be said that these trees inhabit their present restricted areas simply because they are there placed in the climate and soil of all the world most congenial to them. These must indeed be congenial, or they would not survive. But when we see how the Australian Eucalyptus-trees thrive upon the Californian coast, and how these very redwoods flourish upon another continent; how the so-called wild-oat (Avena sterilis of the Old World) has taken full possession of California; how that cattle and horses, introduced by the Spaniard, have spread as widely and made themselves as much at home on the plains of La Plata as on those of Tartary; and that the cardoon-thistle-seeds, and others they brought with them, have multiplied there into numbers probably much exceeding those extant in their native lands; indeed, when we contemplate our own race, and our particular stock, taking such recent but dominating possession of this New World; when we consider how the indigenous flora of islands generally succumbs to the foreigners which come in the train of man; and that most weeds (i.e., the prepotent plants in open soil) of all temperate climates are not "to the manner born," but are self-invited intruders—we must needs abandon the notion of any primordial and absolute adaptation of plants and animals to their habitats, which may stand in lieu of explanation, and so preclude our inquiring any further. The harmony of Nature and its admirable perfection need not be regarded as inflexible and changeless. Nor need Nature be likened to a statue, or a cast in rigid bronze, but rather to an organism, with play and adaptability of parts, and life and even soul informing the whole. Under the former view Nature

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would be "the faultless monster which the world ne'er saw," but inscrutable as the Sphinx, whom it were vain, or worse, to question of the whence and whither. Under the other, the perfection of Nature, if relative, is multifarious and ever renewed; and much that is enigmatical now may find explanation in some record of the past.

That the two species of redwood we are contemplating originated as they are and where they are, and for the part they are now playing, is, to say the least, not a scientific supposition, nor in any sense a probable one. Nor is it more likely that they are destined to play a conspicuous part in the future, or that they would have done so, even if the Indian's fires and the white man's axe had spared them. The redwood of the coast (Sequoia sempervirens) had the stronger hold upon existence, forming as it did large forests throughout a narrow belt about three hundred miles in length, and being so tenacious of life that every large stump sprouts into a copse. But it does not pass the bay of Monterey, nor cross the line of Oregon, although so grandly developed not far below it. The more remarkable Sequoia gigantea of the Sierra exists in numbers so limited that the separate groves may be reckoned upon the fingers, and the trees of most of them have been counted, except near their southern limit, where they are said to be more copious. A species limited in individuals holds its existence by a precarious tenure; and this has a foothold only in a few sheltered spots, of a happy mean in temperature, and locally favored with moisture in summer. Even there, for some reason or other, the pines with which they are associated (Pinus Lambertiana and P. ponderosa), the firs (Abies grandis and A. amabilis), and even the incense-cedar (Libocedrus decurrens), possess a great advantage, and, though they strive in vain to emulate their size, wholly overpower the Sequoias in numbers. "To him that hath shall be given." The force of numbers eventually wins. At least in the commonly-visited groves Sequoia gigantea is invested in its

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last stronghold, can neither advance into more exposed positions above, nor fall back into drier and barer ground below, nor hold its own in the long-run where it is, under present conditions; and a little further drying of the climate, which must once have been much moister than now, would precipitate its doom. Whatever the individual longevity, certain if not speedy is the decline of a race in which a high death-rate afflicts the young. Seedlings of the big trees occur not rarely, indeed, but in meagre proportion to those of associated trees; T small indeed is the chance that any of these will attain to "the days of the years of their fathers." "Few and evil" are .: the days of all the forest likely to be, while man, both bar-barian and civilized, torments them with fires, fatal at once to seedlings, and at length to the aged also. The forests of California, proud as the State may be of them, are already too scanty and insufficient for her uses. Two lines, such as may be drawn with one sweep of a brush over the map, would cover them all. The coast redwood—the most important tree in California, although a million times more numerous than its relative of the Sierra—is too good to live long. Such is its value for lumber and its accessibility, that, judging the future by the past, it is not likely, in its primeval growth, to outlast its rarer fellow-species.

Happily man preserves and disseminates as well as destroys. The species will doubtless be preserved to science, and for ornamental and other uses, in its own and other lands; and the more remarkable individuals of the present day are likely to be sedulously cared for, all the more so as they become scarce.

Our third question remains to be answered: Have these famous Sequoias played in former times and upon a larger stage a more imposing part, of which the present is but the epilogue? We cannot gaze high up the huge and venerable trunks, which one crosses the continent to behold, without wishing that these patriarchs of the grove were able, like the

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long-lived antediluvians of Scripture, to hand down to us, through a few generations, the traditions of centuries, and so tell us somewhat of the history of their race. Fifteen hundred annual layers have been counted, or satisfactorily made out, upon one or two fallen trunks. It is probable that close to the heart of some of the living trees may be found the circle that records the year of our Saviour's nativity. A few generations of such trees might carry the history a long way back. But the ground they stand upon, and the marks of very recent geological change and vicissitude in the region around, testify that not very many such generations can have flourished just there, at least in an unbroken series. When their site was covered by glaciers, these Sequoias must have occupied other stations, if, as there is reason to believe, they then existed in the land.

I have said that the redwoods have no near relatives in the country of their abode, and none of their genus anywhere else. Perhaps something may be learned of their genealogy by inquiring of such relatives as they have. There are only two of any particular nearness of kin; and they are far away. One is the bald cypress, our Southern cypress, Taxodium, inhabiting the swamps of the Atlantic coast from Maryland to Texas, thence extending—with, probably, a specific difference—into Mexico. It is well known as one of the largest trees of our Atlantic forest-district, and, although it never—except perhaps in Mexico, and in rare instances—attains the portliness of its Western relatives, yet it may equal them in longevity. The other relative is Glyptostrobus, a sort of modified Taxodium, being about as much like our bald cypress as one species of redwood is like the other.

Now, species of the same type, especially when few, and the type peculiar, are, in a general way, associated geographically, i.e., inhabit the same country, or (in a large sense) the same region. Where it is not so, where near relatives are separated, there is usually something to be explained. Here is an instance. stance. These four trees, sole representatives of their tribe, dwell almost in three separate quarters of the world: the two redwoods in California, the bald cypress in Atlantic North America, its near relative, Glyptostrobus, in China.

It was not always so. In the Tertiary period, the geological botanists assure us, our own very Taxodium or bald cypress, and a Glyptostrobus, exceedingly like the present Chinese tree, and more than one Sequoia, coexisted in a fourth quarter of the globe, viz., in Europe! This brings up the question, Is it possible to bridge over these four wide intervals of space and the much vaster interval of time, so as to bring these extraordinarily separated relatives into connection? The evidence which may be brought to bear upon this question is various and widely scattered. I bespeak your patience while I endeavor to bring together, in an abstract, the most important points of it.

Some interesting facts may come out by comparing generally the botany of the three remote regions, each of which is the sole home of one of these genera, i.e., Sequoia in California, Taxodium in the Atlantic United States,[V-1] and Glyptostrobus in China, which compose the whole of the peculiar tribe under consideration.

Note then, first, that there is another set of three or four peculiar trees, in this case of the yew family, which has just the same peculiar distribution, and which therefore may have the same explanation, whatever that explanation be. The genus Torreya, which commemorates our botanical Nestor and a former president of this Association, Dr. Torrey, was founded upon a tree rather lately discovered (that is, about thirty-five years ago) in Northern Florida. It is a noble, yew like tree, and very local, being, so far as known, nearly confined to a few miles along the shores of a single river. It seems as if it had somehow been crowded down out of the Alleghanies into its present limited southern quarters; for in cultivation it evinces a northern hardiness. Now, another species of Torreya is a characteristic tree of Japan; and one very like it, if not the same, inhabits the mountains of Northern China—belongs, therefore, to the Eastern Asiatic temperate region, of which Northern China is a part, and Japan, as we shall see, the portion most interesting to us. There is only one more species of Torreya, and that is a companion of the redwoods in California. It is the tree locally known under the name of the California nutmeg. Here are three or four near brethren, species of the same genus, known nowhere else than in these three habitats.

Moreover, the Torreya of Florida is associated with a yew; and the trees of this grove are the only yew-trees of Eastern North America; for the yew of our Northern woods is a decumbent shrub. A yew-tree, perhaps the same, is found with Taxodium in the temperate parts of Mexico. The only other yews in America grow with the redwoods and the other Torreya in California, and extend northward into Oregon. Yews are also associated with Torreya in Japan; and they extend westward through Mantchooria and the Himalayas to Western Europe, and even to the Azores Islands, where occurs the common yew of the Old World.

So we have three groups of coniferous trees which agree in this peculiar geographical distribution, with, however, a notable extension of range in the case of the yew: 1. The redwoods, and their relatives, Taxodium and Glyptostrobus, which differ so as to constitute a genus for each of the three regions; 2. The Torreyas, more nearly akin, merely a different species in each region; 3. The yews, still more closely related while more widely disseminated, of which it is yet uncertain whether they constitute seven, five, three, or only one species. Opinions differ, and can hardly be brought to any decisive test. However it be determined, it may still be said that the extreme differences among the yews do not surpass those of the recognized variations of the European yew, the cultivated races included.

It appears to me that these several instances all raise the very same question, only with different degrees of emphasis, and, if to be explained at all, will have the same kind of explanation.

Continuing the comparison between the three regions with which we are concerned, we note that each has its own species of pines, firs, larches, etc., and of a few deciduous-leaved trees, such as oaks and maples; all of which have no peculiar significance for the present purpose, because they are of genera which are common all round the northern hemisphere. Leaving these out of view, the noticeable point is that the vegetation of California is most strikingly unlike that of the Atlantic United States. They possess some plants, and some peculiarly American plants, in common—enough to show, as I imagine, that the difficulty was not in the getting from the one district to the other, or into both from a common source, but in abiding there. The primordially unbroken forest of Atlantic North America, nourished by rainfall distributed throughout the year, is widely separated from the western region of sparse and discontinuous tree-belts of the same latitude on the western side of the continent (where summer rain is wanting, or nearly so), by immense treeless plains and plateaux of more or less aridity, traversed by longitudinal mountain-ranges of a similar character. Their nearest approach is at the north, in the latitude of Lake Superior, where, on a more rainy line, trees of the Atlantic forest and that of Oregon may be said to intermix. The change of species and of the aspect of vegetation in crossing, say on the forty-seventh parallel, is slight in comparison with that on the thirty-seventh or near it. Confining our attention to the lower latitude, and under the exceptions already specially noted, we may say that almost every characteristic form in the vegetation of the Atlantic States is wanting in California, and the characteristic plants and trees of California are wanting here.

California has no magnolia nor tulip trees, nor star-anise tree; no so-called papaw (Asimina); no barberry of the common single-leaved sort; no Podophyllum or other of the peculiar associated genera; no nelumbo nor white water-lily; no prickly ash nor sumach; no loblolly-bay nor Stuartia; no basswood nor linden-trees; neither locust, honey-locust, coffeetrees (Gymnocladus) nor yellow-wood (Cladrastis); nothing answering to Hydrangea or witch-hazel, to gum-trees (Nyssa and Liquidambar), Viburnum or Diervilla; it has few asters and golden-rods; no lobelias; no huckleberries and hardly any blueberries; no Epigaea, charm of our earliest Eastern spring, tempering an icy April wind with a delicious wild fragrance; no Kalmia nor Clethra, nor holly, nor persimmon; no catalpa-tree, nor trumpet-creeper (Tecoma); nothing answering to sassafras, nor to benzoin-tree, nor to hickory; neither mulberry nor elm; no beech, true chestnut, hornbeam, nor iron-wood, nor a proper birch-tree; and the enumeration might be continued very much further by naming herbaceous plants and others familiar only to botanists.

In their place California is filled with plants of other types—trees, shrubs, and herbs, of which I will only remark that they are, with one or two exceptions, as different from the plants of the Eastern Asiatic region with which we are concerned (Japan, China, and Mantchooria), as they are from those of Atlantic North America. Their near relatives, when they have any in other lands, are mostly southward, on the Mexican plateau, or many as far south as Chili. The same may be said of the plants of the intervening great Plains, except that northward in the subsaline vegetation there are some close alliances with the flora of the steppes of Siberia. And

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along the crests of high mountain-ranges the Arctic-Alpine . flora has sent southward more or less numerous representatives through the whole length of the country.

If we now compare, as to their flora generally, the Atlantic United States with Japan, Mantchooria, and Northern China—i.e., Eastern North America with Eastern North Asia, half the earth's circumference apart—we find an astonishing similarity. The larger part of the genera of our own region, which I have enumerated as wanting in California, are present in Japan or Mantchooria, along with many other peculiar plants, divided between the two. There are plants enough of the one region which have no representatives in the other. There are types which appear to have reached the Atlantic States from the south; and there is a larger infusion of subtropical Asiatic types into temperate China and Japan; among these there is no relationship between the two countries to speak of. There are also, as I have already said, no small number of genera and some species which, being common all round or partly round the northern temperate zone, have no special significance because of their occurrence in these two antipodal floras, although they have testimony to bear upon the general question of geographical distribution. The point to be remarked is, that many, or even most, of the genera and species which are peculiar to North America as compared with Europe, and largely peculiar to Atlantic North America as compared with the Californian region, are also represented in Japan and Mantchooria, either by identical or by closely-similar forms! The same rule holds on a more northward line, although not so strikingly. If we compare the plants, say of New England and Pennsylvania (latitude 450_470), with those of Oregon, and then with those of Northeastern Asia, we shall find many of our own curiously repeated in the latter, while only a small number of them can be traced along the route even so far as the western slope of the Rocky Mountains. And these repetitions of East American types in Japan

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and neighboring districts are in all degrees of likeness. Sometimes the one is undistinguishable from the other; sometimes there is a difference of aspect, but hardly of tangible character; sometimes the two would be termed marked varieties if they grew naturally in the same forest or in the same region; sometimes they are what the botanist calls representative species, the one answering closely to the other, but with some differences regarded as specific; sometimes the two are merely of the same genus, or not quite that, but of a single or very few species in each country; in which case the point which interests us is, that this peculiar limited type should occur in two antipodal places, and nowhere else.

It would be tedious, and, except to botanists, abstruse, to enumerate instances; yet the whole strength of the case depends upon the number of such instances. I propose therefore, if the Association does me the honor to print this discourse, to append in a note a list of the more remarkable ones.[V-2] But I would here mention certain cases as specimens.

Our Rhus Toxicodendron, or poison-ivy, is very exactly repeated in Japan, but is found in no other part of the world, although a species much like it abounds in California. Our other poisonous Rhus (R. venenata), commonly called poison-dogwood, is in no way represented in Western America, but has so close an analogue in Japan that the two were taken for the same by Thunberg and Linnaeus, who called them both R. vernix.

Our northern fox-grape, Vitis Labrusca, is wholly confined to the Atlantic States, except that it reappears in Japan and that region. The original Wistaria is a woody leguminous climber with showy blossoms, native to the middle Atlantic States; the other species, which we so much prize in cultivation, W. Sinensis, is from China, as its name denotes, or perhaps only from Japan, where it is certainly indigenous.

Our yellow-wood (Cladrastis) inhabits a very limited district on the western slope of the Alleghanies. Its only and very near relative, Maackia, is confined to Mantchooria.

The Hydrangeas have some species in our Alleghany region: all the rest belong to the Chino-Japanese region and its continuation westward. The same may be said of Philadelphus, except that there are one or two mostly very similar species in California and Oregon.

Our May-flower (Epigaea) and our creeping snowberry, otherwise peculiar to Atlantic North America, recur in Japan.

Our blue cohosh (Caulophyllum) is confined to the woods of the Atlantic States, but has lately been discovered in Japan. A peculiar relative of it, Diphylleia, confined to the higher Alleghanies, is also repeated in Japan, with a slight difference, so that it may barely be distinguished as another : species. Another relative is our twin-leaf (Jeffersonia) of the Alleghany region alone: a second species has lately turned up in Mantchooria. A relative of this is Podophyllum, our mandrake, a common inhabitant of the Atlantic United States, but found nowhere else. There is one other species of it, and that is in the Himalayas. Here are four most peculiar genera of one family, each of a single species in the Atlantic United States, which are duplicated on the other side of the world, either in identical or almost identical species, or in an analogous species, while nothing else of the kind is known in any other part of the world.

I ought not to omit ginseng, the root so prized by the Chinese, which they obtain from their northern provinces and Mantchooria, and which is now known to inhabit Corea and Northern Japan. The Jesuit Fathers identified the plant in Canada and the Atlantic States, brought over the Chinese name by which we know it, and established the trade in it, which was for many years most profitable. The exportation of ginseng to China probably has not yet entirely ceased. Whether the Asiatic and the Atlantic American ginsengs are to be regarded as of the same species or not is somewhat uncertain, but they are hardly, if at all, distinguishable.

There is a shrub, Elliottia, which is so rare and local that it is known only at two stations on the Savannah River in Georgia. It is of peculiar structure, and was without near relative until one was lately discovered in Japan (Tripetaleia), so like it as hardly to be distinguishable except by having the parts of the blossom in threes instead of fours—a difference not uncommon in the same genus, or even in the same species.

Suppose Elliottia had happened to be collected only once, a good while ago, and all knowledge of the limited and obscure locality were lost; and meanwhile the Japanese form came to be known. Such a case would be parallel with an actual one. A specimen of a peculiar plant (Shortia galacifolia) was detected in the herbarium of the elder Michaux, who collected it (as his autograph ticket shows) somewhere in the high Alleghany Mountains, more than eighty years ago. No one has seen the living plant since or knows where to find it, if haply it still flourishes in some secluded spot. At length it is found in Japan; and I had the satisfaction of making the identification.[V-3] A relative is also known in Japan; and a less near one has just been detected in Thibet.

Whether the Japanese and the Alleghanian plants are exactly the same or not, it needs complete specimens of the two to settle. So far as we know, they are just alike; and, even if some difference were discerned between them, it would not appreciably alter the question as to how such a result came to pass. Each and every one of the analogous cases I have been detailing—and very many more could be mentioned—raises the same question, and would be satisfied with the same answer.

These singular relations attracted my curiosity early in the course of my botanical studies, when comparatively few of them were known, and my serious attention in later years, when I had numerous and new Japanese plants to study in the collections made, by Messrs. Williams and Morrow, during Commodore Perry's visit in 1853, and especially, by Mr. Charles Wright, of Commodore Rodgers's expedition in 1855. I then discussed this subject somewhat fully, and tabulated the facts within my reach.[V-4]

This was before Heer had developed the rich fossil botany of the arctic zone, before the immense antiquity of existing species of plants was recognized, and before the publication of Darwin's now famous volume on the "Origin of Species" had introduced and familiarized the scientific world with those now current ideas respecting the history and vicissitudes of species with which I attempted to deal in a moderate and feeble way.

My speculation was based upon the former glaciation of the northern temperate zone, and the inference of a warmer period preceding and perhaps following. I considered that our own present vegetation, or its proximate ancestry, must have occupied the arctic and subarctic regions in pliocene times, and that it had been gradually pushed southward as the temperature lowered and the glaciation advanced, even beyond its present habitation; that plants of the same stock and kindred, probably ranging round the arctic zone as the present arctic species do, made their forced migration southward upon widely different longitudes, and receded more or less as the climate grew warmer; that the general difference of climate which marks the eastern and the western sides of the continents—the one extreme, the other mean—was doubtless even then established, so that the same species and the same sorts of species would be likely to secure and retain foothold in the similar climates of Japan and the Atlantic United States, but not in intermediate regions of different distribution of heat and moisture; so that different species of the same genus, as in Torreya, or different genera of the same group, as redwood, Taxodium, and Glyptostrobus, or different associations of forest-trees, might establish themselves each in the region best suited to the particular requirements, while they would fail to do so in any other. These views implied that the sources of our actual vegetation and the explanation of these peculiarities were to be sought in, and presupposed, an ancestry in pliocene or earlier times, occupying the higher northern regions. And it was thought that the occurrence of peculiar North American genera in Europe in the Tertiary period (such as Taxodium, Carya, Liquidambar, sassafras, Negundo, etc.) might be best explained on the assumption of early interchange and diffusion through North Asia, rather than by that of the fabled Atlantis.

The hypothesis supposed a gradual modification of species in different directions under altering conditions, at least to the extent of producing varieties, sub-species, and representative species, as they may be variously regarded; likewise the single and local origination of each type, which is now almost universally taken for granted.

The remarkable facts in regard to the Eastern American and Asiatic floras which these speculations were to explain have since increased in number, especially through the admirable collections of Dr. Maximowicz in Japan and adjacent countries, and the critical comparisons he has made and is still engaged upon.

I am bound to state that, in a recent general work[V-5] by a distinguished European botanist, Prof. Grisebach, of Jotting, these facts have been emptied of all special significance, and the relations between the Japanese and the Atlantic United States flora declared to be no more intimate than might be expected from the situation, climate, and present opportunity of interchange. This extraordinary conclusion is reached by regarding as distinct species all the plants common to both countries between which any differences have been discerned, although such differences would probably count for little if the two inhabited the same country, thus transferring many of my list of identical to that of representative species; and then by simply eliminating from consideration the whole array of representative species, i.e., all cases in which the Japanese and the American plant are not exactly alike. As if, by pronouncing the cabalistic word species, the question were settled, or rather the greater part of it remanded out of the domain of science; as if, while complete identity of forms implied community of origin, anything short of it carried no presumption of the kind; so leaving all these singular duplicates to be wondered at, indeed, but wholly beyond the reach of inquiry.

Now, the only known cause of such likeness is inheritance; and as all transmission of likeness is with some difference in individuals, and as changed conditions have resulted, as is well known, in very considerable differences, it seems to me that, if the high antiquity of our actual vegetation could be rendered probable, not to say certain, and the former habitation of any of our species or of very near relatives of them in high northern regions could be ascertained, my whole case would be made out. The needful facts, of which I was ignorant when my essay was published, have now been for some years made known—thanks, mainly, to the researches of Heer upon ample collections of arctic fossil plants. These are confirmed and extended by new investigations, by Heer and Lesquereux, the results of which have been indicated to me by the latter.[V-6] The Taxodium, which everywhere abounds in the miocene formations in Europe, has been specifically identified, first by Goeppert, then by Heer, with our common cypress of the Southern States. It has been found fossil in Spitzbergen, Greenland, and Alaska—in the latter country along with the remains of another form, distinguishable, but very like the common species; and this has been identified by Lesquereux in the miocene of the Rocky Mountains. So there is one species of tree which has come down essentially unchanged from the Tertiary period, which for a long while inhabited both Europe and North America, and also, at some part of the period, the region which geographically connects the two (once doubtless much more closely than now), but which has survived only in the Atlantic United States and Mexico.

The same Sequoia which abounds in the same miocene formations in Northern Europe has been abundantly found in those of Iceland, Spitzbergen, Greenland, Mackenzie River, and Alaska. It is named S. Langsdorfii, but is pronounced to be very much like S. sempervirens, our living redwood of the Californian coast, and to be the ancient representative of it. Fossil specimens of a similar, if not the same, species have recently been detected in the Rocky Mountains by Hayden, and determined by our eminent palaeontological botanist, Lesquereux; and he assures me that he has the common redwood itself from Oregon in a deposit of tertiary age. Another Sequoia (S. Sternbergii), discovered in miocene deposits in Greenland, is pronounced to be the representative of S. gigantea, the big tree of the Californian Sierra. If the Taxodium of the tertiary time in Europe and throughout the arctic regions is the ancestor of our present bald cypress—which is assumed in regarding them as specifically identical— then I think we may, with our present light, fairly assume that the two redwoods of California are the direct or collateral descendants of the two ancient species which so closely resemble them.

The forests of the arctic zone in tertiary times contained at least three other species of Sequoia, as determined by their remains, one of which, from Spitzbergen, also much resembles the common redwood of California. Another, "which appears to have been the commonest coniferous tree on Disco," was common in England and some other parts of Europe. So the Sequoias, now remarkable for their restricted station and numbers, as well as for their extraordinary size, are of an ancient stock; their ancestors and kindred formed a large part of the forests which flourished throughout the polar regions, now desolate and ice-clad, and which extended into low latitudes in Europe. On this continent one species, at least, had reached to the vicinity of its present habitat before the glaciation of the region. Among the fossil specimens already found in California, but which our trustworthy palaeontological botanist has not yet had time to examine, we may expect to find evidence of the early arrival of these two redwoods upon the ground which they now, after much vicissitude, scantily occupy.

Differences of climate, or circumstances of migration, or both, must have determined the survival of Sequoia upon the Pacific, and of Taxodium upon the Atlantic coast. And still the redwoods will not stand in the east, nor could our Taxodium find a congenial station in California. Both have probably had their opportunity in the olden time, and failed.

As to the remaining near relative of Sequoia, the Chinese Glyptostrobus, a species of it, and its veritable representative, was contemporaneous with Sequoia and Taxodium, not only in temperate Europe, but throughout the arctic regions from Greenland to Alaska. According to Newberry, it was abundantly represented in the miocene flora of the temperate zone of our own continent, from Nebraska to the Pacific.

Very similar would seem to have been the fate of a more familiar gymnospermous tree, the Gingko or Salisburia. It is now indigenous to Japan only. Its ancestor, as we may fairly call it—since, according to Heer, "it corresponds so entirely with the living species that it can scarcely be separated from it"—once inhabited Northern Europe and the whole arctic region round to Alaska, and had even a representative farther south, in our Rocky Mountain district. For some reason, this and Glyptostrobus survive only on the shores of Eastern Asia.

Libocedrus, on the other hand, appears to have cast in its lot with the Sequoias. Two species, according to Heer, were with them in Spitzbergen. L. decurrens, the incense cedar, is one of the noblest associates of the present redwoods. But all the rest are in the southern hemisphere, two at the southern extremity of the Andes, two in the South-Sea Islands. It is only by bold and far-reaching suppositions that they can be geographically associated.

The genealogy of the Torreyas is still wholly obscure; yet it is not unlikely that the yew-like trees, named Taxites, which flourished with the Sequoias in the tertiary arctic forests, are the remote ancestors of the three species of Torreya, now severally in Florida, in California, and in Japan.

As to the pines and firs, these were more numerously associated with the ancient Sequoias of the polar forests than with their present representatives, but in different species, apparently more like those of Eastern than of Western North America. They must have encircled the polar zone then, as they encircle the present temperate zone now.

I must refrain from all enumeration of the angiospermous or ordinary deciduous trees and shrubs, which are now known, by their fossil remains, to have flourished throughout the polar regions when Greenland better deserved its name and enjoyed the present climate of New England and New Jersey. Then Greenland and the rest of the north abounded with oaks, representing the several groups of species which now inhabit both our Eastern and Western forest districts; several poplars, one very like our balsam poplar or balm-of-Gilead tree; more beeches than there are now, a hornbeam, and a hop-hornbeam, some birches, a persimmon, and a planer-tree, near representatives of those of the Old World, at least of Asia, as well as of Atlantic North America, but all wanting in California; one Juglans like the walnut of the Old World, and another like our black walnut; two or three grapevines, one near our Southern fox grape or muscadine, another near our Northern frostgrape; a Tilia, very like our basswood of the Atlantic States only; a Liquidambar; a magnolia, which recalls our M. grandiflora; a Liriodendron, sole representative of our tulip-tree; and a sassafras, very like the living tree.

Most of these, it will be noticed, have their nearest or their only living representatives in the Atlantic States, and when elsewhere, mainly in Eastern Asia. Several of them, or of species like them, have been detected in our tertiary deposits, west of the Mississippi, by Newberry and Lesquereux. Herbaceous plants, as it happens, are rarely preserved in a fossil state, else they would probably supply additional testimony to the antiquity of our existing vegetation, its wide diffusion over the northern and now frigid zone, and its enforced migration under changes of climate.[V-7] Concluding, then, as we must, that our existing vegetation is a continuation of that of the tertiary period, may we suppose that it absolutely originated then? Evidently not. The preceding Cretaceous period has furnished to Carruthers in Europe a fossil fruit like that of the Sequoia gigantea of the famous groves, associated with pines of the same character as those that accompany the present tree; has furnished to Heer, from Greenland, two more Sequoias, one of them identical with a tertiary species, and one nearly allied to Sequoia Langsdorfii, which in turn is a probable ancestor of the common California redwood; has furnished to Newberry and Lesquereux in North America the remains of another ancient Sequoia, a Glyptostrobus, a Liquidambar which well represents our sweet-gum-tree, oaks analogous to living ones, leaves of a plane-tree, which are also in the Tertiary, and are scarcely distinguishable from our own Platanus occidentalis, of a magnolia and a tulip-tree, and "of a sassafras undistinguishable from our living species." I need not continue the enumeration. Suffice it to say that the facts justify the conclusion which Lesquereux—a scrupulous investigator—has already announced: that "the essential types of our actual flora are marked in the Cretaceous period, and have come to us after passing, without notable changes, through the Tertiary formations of our continent."

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