and warmth and darkness; and all this is
given to him so that he may live and work and think. What would man be
without darkness, without the rest afforded by night? Probably crazy. What
would he be without sunshine? Perhaps an Esquimau or a mole. But how
remarkable it is that as the tree always reproduces itself, so also does
man. The son differs from the father, and yet how like they are. Where is
the form which retains the continuous resemblance to itself, and yet
leaves to each separate person freedom and individuality? Whence comes
this purpose in all nature? That is an old question which has received
many answers, both wise and foolish. Unfortunately men so frequently
forget what has already been attained, and then begin again at the
beginning. Darwin was an industrious and delicate observer, and showed
admirable power of combination. But he was no philosopher, and never
sought to be one. He was of opinion that everything in nature which
appeared to show purpose proceeded from the survival of the fittest. But
that is no answer. We ask, Why does the fittest survive? And what is the
answer? Because only the fittest survives. And when we come to Natural
Selection, who is the selector that selects? These are nothing but
phrases, which have long been known and long since been abandoned, and
still are always warmed up again. If we recognise in nature purpose or
reason, then we have a right to conclude that the source of it lies in the
eternal reason, in the eternally rational. Behind all objects lies the
thought or the idea. If there are rational ideas in nature, then there
must be a rational thinker. Behind all trees--oaks, birches, pines--lies the
thought, the idea, the form, the word, the _logos_ of tree. Who made or
thought it before ever the first tree existed? We can never see a tree; we
see only an oak, a birch, a pine, never a tree. But the thought or idea of
tree meets us, realised and diversified in all trees. This is true of all
things. No one has ever seen an animal, a man, a dog, but he sees a St.
Bernard, a greyhound, a dachshund, and strictly not even that. What, then,
is it that is permanent, always recurring in the dog, by means of which
they resemble each other, the invisible form in which they are all cast?
That is the thought, the idea, the _logos_ of dog. Can there be a thought
without a thinker? Did the ideas in nature, the millions of objects which
make up our knowledge, fall from the clouds? Did th