SOMEWHERE ON THE TRAIL, August 24th. Though we rose at six and labored frantically, we didn't get off until ten. No fish for breakfast, either. The cattle prowled and marauded to the end. But bathing before sunrise in a freezing, frothing mountain brook created by God for you alone is a sensation that purges the soul of fear.

We crossed the divide, leaving Indian land behind, and are now lunching at a considerably lower level on the edge of the sheep country. We left the Mexican wagon road for a herder's trail awhile back. So far only cattle, including bulls with curly heads and horns, which, when they catch sight of our cavalcade, come charging down from the peaks with prodigious roars. I am glad I had that protective bath.

SULPHUR SPRINGS, August 25th. We are intentionally lazy this morning. Although we ourselves cook, wash up, make fires, prepare the packs, and saddle our own horses, our Indian grandfather seems to need a bit of spoiling. If only we had a young Indian boy along to do the chores! Santiago should be reserved for ornamental pursuits and for finding the trail.

He led us like a magician through the beautiful park like sheep valleys of Santa Rosa and San Antonio. Miles upon miles of great, grass-grown reaches with streams flowing through them and rolling hills on either side-hills soft as velvet to the eye, with here and there a huge pointed blue spruce standing alone. Like an English estate upon a giant and solitary scale. But the only lord of this estate, except ourselves, was, yesterday afternoon, a wild Mexican cowboy, galloping like the wind.

At one point it was necessary to cross the bright-green, quaking bottom land, and make, without a trail, for Sulphur Springs. The horses were nervous.

"More bad here," Santiago ominously exclaimed. "I-me go 'head." And ahead he went, tracing a winding path over the bog with a crooked little stick

which he shook and jiggled like a wand. After him trotted the rattling pack horse, after the pack horse Buck and Billy, all safely guided by that crooked stick.

We paused on a hill to breathe freely, and our guide volunteered a reminis

cence.

"I camp here with two li'l' ladies." "With Mrs. Parsons?"

"No, that other time. Two li'l' ladies from Philadelphia" (quizzical expression dawns). "He camp. I—me fish.

But li'l' ladies he want know too much. I- -me tired, I-me headache. All time come say: 'Santiago, how cut rod? Santiago, how catch fish?' . . . Oo, two li'l' ladies from Philadelphia make me tired."

What will he say in future of two li'l' ladies from New York?

We had rather hoped to go home via Jemes Springs and Jemes Pueblo, but time fails, and we must return by the same route from Sulphur Springs.

"You camp the Puyé to-morrow?" We gave a firm assent.

What Was it for

"Mm! Very far. Start seven, get up four. I-me no time fish. . . . Povrecito, I put him back. tenderness in the old voice! the worms, or for a fisherman cheated of his rights?

For the first time he sat by the fire and told stories in the dark. How you catch wild turkeys in the snow by whistling on two bones from a turkey's shoulder. How the San Ildefonsos were besieged on their Black Mesa. . . . Now he is asleep, and so is my friend. The sky is crystalline, with stars piercingly bright. The trunks of the pines are like sharp black shafts that shoot from earth to eternity. Stars, trees, soul of man, all merged to-night for me in one creative unity.

THE PUYÊ, August 26th.

I now know, once for all, that cold forested peaks and inclosed mountain valleys make less appeal to me than the vast, bright-colored, sunny landscape in which I habitually live. The sensation of again getting out into the view sets something free. Santiago feels as I do. The watchful gnome of the mountains is gone; the genial sage has returned. And here, as at the pueblo, more than there, Santiago is our host, as some wise old Greek peasant might be one's host at Delphi. He had a private trail, short and steep, to lead us up from the cañon. Like the cañon, the Puyé is on Santa Clara land. He knows every cave in this wonderful, semicircular, yellow-pink cliff, every stone in the crumbling "community house" on top of the plateau. The Khiva is his pride. For did he not help Doctor Hewett in the excavations made by the School of American Research some years ago? Did not his own ancestors inhabit these caves? The Puyé is his ancestral heritage.

fortuitous. This hilltop, littered with piles of pale stone and fragments of ancient decorated pottery, all overgrown with bright yellow and red flowers and scented, gray-green sage, recalls the marble-scattered hillside of the sacred precinct. And the view from the Puyé is finer and more soul searching, if anything, than the view from the Delphic theater. Sitting against a warm wall of rock at sunset, my eyes follow the Rio Grande all the way from where it cuts a deep channel through the rocky gorge below the Rito de Los Frijoles to where it loses itself in another gorge below the dim Taos Mountains. The beautiful length of the green valley lies between, along the glowing bloodpurple of the Sangre de Cristo. Those mountain-sides, like the river and the cliffs, have a long history to tell, a geologic history bared to one's sight, and dramatic as the life of man through the ages.

As the glow dims, one notes ever more and more detail. Cañon upon cañon, peak upon peak, rock upon rock, tree upon tree. If only Gertrude were here!

I can almost make out, if I try, a little mud house under a rocky knoll, in a certain familiar green valley.

I can see a brown neighbor with a pointed hat gazing with a friendly-yes, now really friendly-expression of welcome from his white portal. I can hear warm American voices of greeting in the ranches below in the apple orchards.

I shall not be sorry to get back to Tesuque to-morrow. Tesuque is home. But why, comes echo, make New Mexico home? Why own a half share in a mud house so far from New York and New England?

acquainted with them to accept man's essentially animal nature have become more abundant and unmistakable, while the theories of evolution have, as a result of further study and increasing knowledge, shown themselves to a great extent untenable. Much light has been cast of late on the history of life, but in some respects it seems more mysterious than ever before.

It way be well to stop a moment to review the history of the belief that man is related to the higher animals and is part and parcel of the whole order of nature. Spencer and Darwin did not originate this notion.

The tendency to think that the earth and all its inhabitants came about gradually is a very old one, and can be traced back to the early Greek philosophers. It was beautifully set forth two thousand years ago by the Roman poet, Lucretius, in his treatise On the Nature of Things. Then the Hebrew or Babylonian belief was introduced into Europe that all things had been created in less than a week out of nothing, and that man had been freshly formed in the image of God on the sixth day of creation. By the eighteenth century-a hundred years before Spencer and Darwin took up the question-the study of the bodily resemblances of man and the higher mammals, and the discovery of the fossil remains in ancient rocks, revived the conjectures of Lucretius on a new plane of ever-increasing knowledge. Rousseau, in discussing the original nature of man, takes account of those of his time who believed that man's ancestors had once been hairy quadrupeds. The great naturalist, Buffon, emphasized the close anatomical resemblances between man and the higher animals, and said that it seemed as if nature might, if sufficient time were allowed, "have developed all organized forms from one original type." Lamarck, in Napoleon's time, wrote his famous treatise on evolution (Zoological Philosophy). This sought to explain development by the transmission of

acquired characters which favored the improvement of species. Fifteen years before Darwin's great work appeared Robert Chambers, who prudently concealed his authorship, was preparing to shock the English public by his Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation, in which he says that the facts of geology induce him to classify the human species among the mammalia. So Darwin is in no way original in his assumption of man's animal ancestry, but only in the extraordinarily careful manner in which he sets forth the history of evolution as then known, and especially the ingenious suggestions he makes as to how the process proceeded. "Darwinism," as understood by paleontologists and biologists, means Darwin's theories of sexual and natural selection, the struggle for existence and the survival of the "fittest" of those variations which are always occurring in each generation of any plant or animal. In this sense "Darwinism" is perhaps as dead as Mr. Bryan or Senator Rash of Kentucky would care to see it. But it is dead because much that was unknown to Darwin has since been discovered, and if he were now alive he would be the first to confess that his explanations appear to have little or no value to-day.

Darwin's Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favored Races in the Struggle for Life, which appeared in 1859, gave the first impetus to a general discussion of man's animal origin. Few people took the pains to read this careful, learned, and cautious work, but many there were to condemn it on hearsay. It was deemed not only a rejection of God's own word, but an attempt to dethrone Him. A French prelate happily phrased the sentiments of a great part of the clergy and laity when he said, "These infamous doctrines have their only support in the most abject passions. Their father is pride, their mother impurity, their offspring revolutions. They come from hell and return thither, taking with them.

the gross creatures who blush not to proclaim them."1

But geologists and those familiar with biological and anatomical facts found the new ideas congenial to them. Sir Charles Lyell confessed that he was forced to change his opinions in view of Darwin's book. Huxley and Asa Gray supported its general conclusions. John Fiske reconciled evolution satisfactorily to himself and his many readers with a continued belief in God and in the immortality of the soul. Henry Drummond in his Lowell Lectures (1893) assigned to disinterested care and compassion a great role in the survival of the fittest, and in his Natural Law in the Spiritual World he discovered, comfortably enough, that evolution was but a new name for Calvinism. Patrick Geddes, while he did not represent evolution as exactly a pink-tea party, shoved the ravening maw and the bloody tooth and claw into the background. Accordingly, many onlookers decided that evolution was neither so impious nor so horrid as at first supposed. It could be accepted in a vague way without either dethroning God or degrading man. Of course, a vast number of religious people never accepted the idea, but they got used to seeing the word evolution more and more commonly used; and, meanwhile, mankind seemed neither conspicuously better nor worse for the new theories.

Indeed, the vocabulary of the geologist and biologist began to find its way into the discussions of human civilization and human struggles, and played a great part in sociological speculations from Spencer on. Huxley clearly saw the danger of this. He urges that what we call goodness and virtue "involve a course of conduct which, in all respects, is opposed to that which leads to success in the cosmic struggle for existence." In dealing with human aspirations we must be on our guard against "the gladiatorial theory of existence" (Evo

1Quoted by Andrew D. White in his History of the Warfare of Science with Theology (I, p. 73), where the reader will find a convenient summary of the mid-Victorian controversy.

lution and Ethics). The Neo-Darwinism of a General Bernhardi quite outruns the militarism of the biological struggle for existence. Civilization, which is the peculiar and unique achievement of a single species of animals, is so peculiar and so unique that, while in a sense "subject to the cosmic process," it must be dealt with according to its own methods of development. While recent discoveries in embryology, heredity, sex, and so forth have a fundamental relation to the advancement of civilization, they belong to a realm which must not be confused with the history of human ideals and social adjustment.

But without going into this rather complicated matter, it may be noted that the open warfare between those who thought that they accepted evolution and those who knew that they did not died down at the end of the nineteenth century, but has now been revived in a somewhat modified form. This renewal of the controversy is due in part to the survival of much ancient ignorance and misunderstanding on the one hand, and the progress of critical investigation on the other. The irreconcilables have been encouraged to renew their attacks by the rumors which reach them that all the more progressive biologists agree that Darwin's theories are inadequate to explain evolution. So they jump to the welcome conclusion that evolution has died with Darwinism.

Darwinism, in the sense of Darwin's theory of why evolution has taken place, may be dead or dying; but this, as we have seen, in no way affects the acceptance of man's animal origin; for this belief rests on observed facts, which have been reinforced rather than weakened in the last twenty-five years. These facts belong to three general categories. First, there are the unmistakable indications to be found in fossil remains that life began hundreds of millions of years ago with simple water creatures; and it was a long time before the fishes introduced a backbone; and long after that before we have