his thoughts, is also a part of nature.
Slowly, gradually, and laboriously one thought is transformed into a different thought, as in all likelihood one animal species is gradually transformed into new species. Many ideas arise simultaneously. They fight the battle for existence not otherwise than do the Ichthyosaurus, the Brahman, and the horse.
A few remain to spread rapidly over all fields of knowledge, to be redeveloped, to be again split up, to begin again the struggle from the start. As many animal species long since conquered, the relicts of ages past, still live in remote regions where their enemies cannot reach them, so also we find conquered ideas still living on in the minds of many men. Whoever will look carefully into his own soul will acknowledge that thoughts battle as obstinately for existence as animals. Who will gainsay that many vanquished modes of thought still haunt obscure crannies of his brain, too faint-hearted to step out into the clear light of reason? What inquirer does not know that the hardest battle, in the transformation of his ideas, is fought with himself.
Similar phenomena meet the natural inquirer in all paths and in the most trifling matters. The true inquirer seeks the truth everywhere, in his country-walks and on the streets of the great city. If he is not too learned, he will observe that certain things, like ladies' hats, are constantly subject to change. I have not pursued special studies on this subject, but as long as I can remember, one form has always gradually changed into another. First, they wore hats with long projecting rims, within which, scarcely accessible with a telescope, lay concealed the face of the beautiful wearer. The rim grew smaller and smaller; the bonnet shrank to the irony of a hat. Now a tremendous superstructure is beginning to grow up in its place, and the gods only know what its limits will be. It is not otherwise with ladies' hats than with butterflies, whose multiplicity of form often simply comes from a slight excrescence on the wing of one species developing in a cognate species to a tremendous fold. Nature, too, has its fashions, but they last thousands of years. I could elucidate this idea by many additional examples; for instance, by the history of the evolution of the coat, if I were not fearful that my gossip might prove irksome to you.
We have now wandered through an odd corner of the history of science. What have we learned? The solution of a small, I might almost say insignificant, problem—the measurement of the velocity of light. And more than two centuries have worked at its solution! Three of the most eminent natural philosophers, Galileo, an Italian, Römer, a Dane, and Fizeau, a Frenchman, have fairly shared its labors. And so it is with countless other questions. When we contemplate thus the many blossoms of thought that must wither and fall before one shall bloom, then shall we first truly appreciate Christ's weighty but little consolatory words: "Many be called but few are chosen."
Such is the testimony of every page of history. But is history right? Are really only those chosen whom she names? Have those lived and battled in vain, who have won no prize?
I doubt it. And so will every one who has felt the pangs of sleepless nights spent in thought, at first fruitless, but in the end successful. No thought in such struggles was thought in vain; each one, even the most insignificant, nay, even the erroneous thought, that which apparently was the least productive, served to prepare the way for those that afterwards bore fruit. And as in the thought of the individual naught is in vain, so, also, it is in that of humanity.
Galileo wished to measure the velocity of light. He had to close his eyes before his wish was realised. But he at least found the lantern by which his successor could accomplish the task.
And so I may maintain that we all, so far as inclination goes, are working at the civilisation of the future. If only we all strive for the right, then are we all called and all chosen!
WHY HAS MAN TWO EYES?
Why has man two eyes? That the pretty symmetry of his face may not be disturbed, the artist answers. That his second eye may furnish a substitute for his first if that be lost, says the far-sighted economist. That we may weep with two eyes at the sins of the world, replies the religious enthusiast.
Odd opinions! Yet if you should approach a modern scientist with this question you might consider yourself fortunate if you escaped with less than a rebuff. "Pardon me, madam, or my dear sir," he would say, with stern expression, "man fulfils no purpose in the possession of his eyes; nature is not a person, and consequently not so vulgar as to pursue purposes of any kind."
Still an unsatisfactory answer! I once knew a professor who would shut with horror the mouths of his pupils if they put to him such an unscientific question.
But ask a more tolerant person, ask me. I, I candidly confess, do not know exactly why man has two eyes, but the reason partly is, I think, that I may see you here before me to-night and talk with you upon this delightful subject.
Again you smile incredulously. Now this is one of those questions that a hundred wise men together could not answer. You have heard, so far, only five of these wise men. You will certainly want to be spared the opinions of the other ninety-five. To the first you will reply that we should look just as pretty if we were born with only one eye, like the Cyclops; to the second we should be much better off, according to his principle, if we had four or eight eyes, and that in this respect we are vastly inferior to spiders; to the third, that you are not just in the mood to weep; to the fourth, that the unqualified interdiction of the question excites rather than satisfies your curiosity; while of me you will dispose by saying that my pleasure is not as intense as I think, and certainly not great enough to justify the existence of a double eye in man since the fall of Adam.
But since you are not satisfied with my brief and obvious answer, you have only yourselves to blame for the consequences. You must now listen to a longer and more learned explanation, such as it is in my power to give.
As the church of science, however, debars the question "Why?" let us put the matter in a purely orthodox way: Man has two eyes, what more can he see with two than with one?
I will invite you to take a walk with me? We see before us a wood. What is it that makes this real wood contrast so favorably with a painted wood, no matter how perfect the painting may be? What makes the one so much more lovely than the other? Is it the vividness of the coloring, the distribution of the lights and the shadows? I think not. On the contrary, it seems to me that in this respect painting can accomplish very much.
The cunning hand of the painter can conjure up with a few strokes of his brush forms of wonderful plasticity. By the help of other means even more can be attained. Photographs of reliefs are so plastic that we often imagine we can actually lay hold of the elevations and depressions.
But one thing the painter never can give with the vividness that nature does—the difference of near and far. In the real woods you see plainly that you can lay hold of some trees, but that others are inaccessibly far. The picture of the painter is rigid. The picture of the real woods changes on the slightest movement. Now this branch is hidden behind that; now that behind this. The trees are alternately visible and invisible.
Let us look at this matter a little more closely. For convenience sake we shall remain upon the highway, I, II. (Fig. 20.) To the right and the left lies the forest. Standing at I, we see, let us say, three trees (1, 2, 3) in a line, so that the two remote
