Essays Upon Heredity and Kindred Biological Problems. Weismann August

young, inexperienced birds. Unfortunately the observations upon these points are far too indefinite to enable us to draw conclusions.

      There is again the frequently-quoted instance of the young pointer, ‘which, untrained, and without any example which might have been imitated, pointed at a lizard in a subtropical jungle, just as many of its forefathers had pointed at partridges on the plain of St. Denis,’ and which, without knowing the effect of a shot, sprang forward barking, at the first discharge, to bring in the game. This conduct must not be attributed to the inheritance of any mental picture, such as the effect of a shot, but to the inheritance of a certain reflex mechanism. The young pointer does not spring forward at the shot because he has inherited from his forefathers a certain association of ideas,—shot and game,—but because he has inherited a reflex mechanism, which impels him to start forward on hearing a report. We cannot yet determine without more experiments how such an impulse due to perception (‘Wahrnehmungstrieb,’ Schneider) has arisen; but, in my opinion, it is almost inconceivable that artificial breeding has had nothing to do with it; and that we are here concerned—not with the inheritance of the effects of training—but with some predisposition on the part of the germ, which has been increased by artificial selection.

      The necessity for extreme caution in appealing to the supposed hereditary effects of use, is well shown in the case of those numerous instincts, which only come into play once in a lifetime, and which do not therefore admit of improvement by practice. The queen-bee takes her nuptial flight only once, and yet how many and complex are the instincts and the reflex mechanisms which come into play on that occasion. Again, in many insects the deposition of eggs occurs but once in a life-time, and yet such insects always fulfil the necessary conditions with unfailing accuracy, either simply dropping the eggs into water, or carefully fixing them on the surface of the earth beneath some stone, or laying them on a particular part of a certain species of plant; and in all these cases the most complicated actions are performed. It is indeed astonishing to watch one of the Cynipidae (Rhodites rosae) depositing her eggs in the tissue of a young bud. She first carefully examines the bud on all sides, and feels it with her legs and antennae. Then she slowly inserts her long ovipositor between the closely-rolled leaves of the bud, but if it does not reach exactly the right spot, she will withdraw and re-insert it many times, until at length, when the proper place has been found, she will slowly bore deep into the very centre of the bud, so that the egg will reach the exact spot, where the necessary conditions for its development alone exist.

      But each Cynips lays eggs many times, and it may be argued that practice may have led to improvement in this case; we cannot however, as a matter of fact, expect much improvement in a process which is repeated, perhaps a dozen times, at short intervals of time, and which is of such an excessively complex nature.

      It is the same with the deposition of eggs in most insects. How can practice have had any influence upon the origin of the instinct which leads one of our butterflies—(Vanessa levana)—to lay its green eggs in single file, as columns, which project freely from the stem or leaf, so that protection is gained by their close resemblance to the flower-buds of the stinging-nettle, which forms the food-plant of their caterpillars?

      Of course the butterfly is not aware of the advantage which follows from such a proceeding; intelligence has no part in the process. The entire operation depends upon certain inherent anatomical and physiological arrangements:—on the structure of the ovary and oviducts, on the simultaneous ripening of a certain number of eggs, and on certain very complex reflex mechanisms which compel the butterfly to lay its eggs on certain parts of certain plants. Schneider is certainly right when he maintains that this mechanism is released by a sensation, arising from the perception (whether by sight or smell, or both together) of the particular plant or part of the plant upon which the eggs are to be laid52. At any rate, we cannot, in such cases, appeal to the effects of constant use and the transmission of acquired characters, as an explanation; and the origin of the impulse can only be understood as a result of the process of natural selection.

      The protective cocoons by which the pupae of many insects are surrounded also belong to the same category, and improvement by practice is entirely out of the question, for they are only constructed once in the course of a life-time. And yet these cocoons are often remarkably complex: think, for instance, of the cocoon spun by the caterpillar of the emperor moth (Saturnia carpini), which is so tough that it can hardly be torn, and which the moth would be unable to leave, if an opening were not provided for the purpose; while, on the other hand, the pupa would not be defended against enemies if the opening were not furnished with a circle of pointed bristles, converging outwards, on the principle of the lobster pot, so that the moth can easily emerge, although no enemy can enter. The impulse which leads to the production of such a structure can only have arisen by the operation of natural selection—not, of course, during the history of a single species, but during the development of numerous, consecutive species—by gradual and unceasing improvements in the initial stages of cocoon-building. A number of species exists at the present day, of which the cocoons can be arranged in a complete series, becoming gradually less and less complex, from that described above, down to a loosely-constructed, spherical case in which the pupa is contained.

      The cocoon spun by the larva of Saturnia carpini differs but little in complexity from the web of the spider, and if the former is constructed without assistance from the experience of the single individual—and this must certainly be admitted—it follows that the latter may be also built without the aid of experience, while there is neither reason nor necessity for appealing to the entirely unproved transmission of acquired skill in order to explain this and a thousand other operations.

      It may be objected that, in man, in addition to the instincts inherent in every individual, special individual predispositions are also found, of such a nature that it is impossible that they can have arisen by individual variations of the germ. On the other hand, these predispositions—which we call talents—cannot have arisen through natural selection, because life is in no way dependent upon their presence, and there seems to be no way of explaining their origin except by an assumption of the summation of the skill attained by exercise in the course of each single life. In this case, therefore, we seem at first sight to be compelled to accept the transmission of acquired characters.

      Now it cannot be denied that all predispositions may be improved by practice during the course of a life-time,—and, in truth, very remarkably improved. If we could explain the existence of great talent, such as, for example, a gift for music, painting, sculpture, or mathematics, as due to the presence or absence of a special organ in the brain, it follows that we could only understand its origin and increase (natural selection being excluded) by accumulation, due to the transmission of the results of practice through a series of generations. But talents are not dependent upon the possession of special organs in the brain. They are not simple mental dispositions, but combinations of many dispositions, and often of a most complex nature: they depend upon a certain degree of irritability, and a power of readily transmitting impulses along the nerve-tracts of the brain, as well as upon the especial development of single parts of the brain. In my opinion, there is absolutely no trustworthy proof that talents have been improved by their exercise through the course of a long series of generations. The Bach family shows that musical talent, and the Bernoulli family that mathematical power, can be transmitted from generation to generation, but this teaches us nothing as to the origin of such talents. In both families the high-water mark of talent lies, not at the end of the series of generations, as it should do if the results of practice are transmitted, but in the middle. Again, talents frequently appear in some single member of a family which has not been previously distinguished.

      Gauss was not the son of a mathematician; Handel’s father was a surgeon, of whose musical powers nothing is known; Titian was the son and also the nephew of a lawyer, while he and his brother, Francesco Vecellio, were the first painters in a family which produced a succession of seven other artists with diminishing talents. These facts do not, however, prove that the condition of the nerve-tracts and centres of the brain, which determine the specific talent, appeared for the first time in these men: the appropriate condition surely existed previously in their parents, although it did not achieve expression. They prove, as it seems to me, that a high degree of endowment in a special direction, which we call talent, cannot have arisen

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Compare Schneider, ‘Der thierische Wille.’