I

When for the third or fourth time during the spring or summer I take my hoe and go out and cut off the heads of the lusty burdocks that send out their broad leaves along the edge of my garden or lawn, I often ask myself, “What is this thing that is so hard to scotch here in the grass?” I decapitate it time after time and yet it forthwith gets itself another head.  We call it burdock, but what is burdock, and why does it not change into yellow dock, or into a cabbage?  What is it that is so constant and so irrepressible, and before the summer is ended will be lying in wait here with its ten thousand little hooks to attach itself to every skirt or bushy tail or furry or woolly coat that comes along, in order to get free transportation to other lawns and gardens, to green fields and pastures new?

It is some living thing; but what is a living thing, and how does it differ from a mechanical and non-living thing?  If I smash or overturn the sundial with my hoe, or break the hoe itself, these things stay smashed and broken, but the burdock mends itself, renews itself, and, if I am not on my guard, will surreptitiously mature some of the burs before the season is passed.

Evidently a living thing is radically different from a mechanical thing; yet modern physical science tells me that the burdock is only another kind of machine, and manifests nothing but the activity of the mechanical and chemical principles that we see in operation all about us in dead matter; and that a little different mechanical arrangement of its ultimate atoms would turn it into a yellow dock or into a cabbage, into an oak or into a pine, into an ox or into a man.

I see that it is a machine in this respect, that it is set going by a force exterior to itself—­the warmth of the sun acting upon it, and upon the moisture in the soil; but it is unmechanical in that it repairs itself and grows and reproduces itself, and after it has ceased running can never be made to run again.  After I have reduced all its activities to mechanical and chemical principles, my mind seems to see something that chemistry and mechanics do not explain—­something that avails itself of these forces, but is not of them.  This may be only my anthropomorphic way of looking at things, but are not all our ways of looking at things anthropomorphic?  How can they be any other?  They cannot be deific since we are not gods.  They may be scientific.  But what is science but a kind of anthropomorphism?  Kant wisely said, “It sounds at first singular, but is none the less certain, that the understanding does not derive its laws from nature, but prescribes them to nature.”  This is the anthropomorphism of science.

If I attribute the phenomenon of life to a vital force or principle, am I any more unscientific than I am when I give a local habitation and a name to any other causal force, as gravity, chemical affinity, cohesion, osmosis, electricity, and so forth?  These terms stand for certain special activities in nature and are as much the inventions of our own minds as are any of the rest of our ideas.