# The Story of Evolution/Chapter VI

The long Archaean period, into which half the story of the earth is so unsatisfactorily packed, came to a close with a considerable uplift of the land. We have seen that the earth at times reaches critical stages owing to the transfer of millions of tons of matter from the land to the depths of the ocean, and the need to readjust the pressure on the crust. Apparently this stage is reached at the end of the Archaean, and a great rise of the land—probably protracted during hundreds of thousands of years—takes place. The shore-bottoms round the primitive continent are raised above the water, their rocks crumpling like plates of lead under the overpowering pressure. The sea retires with its inhabitants, mingling their various provinces, transforming their settled homes. A larger continent spans the northern ocean of the earth.
In the shore-waters of this early continent are myriads of living things, representing all the great families of the animal world below the level of the fish and the insect. The mud and sand in which their frames are entombed, as they die, will one day be the "Cambrian" rocks of the geologist, and reveal to him their forms and suggest their habits. No great volcanic age will reduce them to streaks of shapeless carbon. The earth now buries its dead, and from their petrified remains we conjure up a picture of the swarming life of the Cambrian ocean.
A strange, sluggish population burrows in the mud, crawls over the sand, adheres to the rocks, and swims among the thickets of sea-weed. The strangest and most formidable, though still too puny a thing to survive in a more strenuous age, is the familiar Trilobite of the geological museum; a flattish animal with broad, round head, like a shovel, its back covered with a three-lobed shell, and a number of fine legs or swimmers below. It burrows in the loose bottom, or lies in it with its large compound eyes peeping out in search of prey. It is the chief representative of the hard-cased group (Crustacea) which will later replace it with the lobster, the shrimp, the crab, and the water-flea. Its remains form from a third to a fourth of all the buried Cambrian skeletons. With it, swimming in the water, are smaller members of the same family, which come nearer to our familiar small Crustacea.
Shell-fish are the next most conspicuous inhabitants. Molluscs are already well represented, but the more numerous are the more elementary Brachiopods ("lampshells"), which come next to the Trilobites in number and variety. Worms (or Annelids) wind in and out of the mud, leaving their tracks and tubes for later ages. Strange ball or cup-shaped little animals, with a hard frame, mounted on stony stalks and waving irregular arms to draw in the food-bearing water, are the earliest representatives of the Echinoderms. Some of these Cystids will presently blossom into the wonderful sea-lily population of the next age, some are already quitting their stalks, to become the free-moving star-fish, of which a primitive specimen has been found in the later Cambrian. Large jelly-fishes (of which casts are preserved) swim in the water; coral-animals lay their rocky foundations, but do not as yet form reefs; coarse sponges rise from the floor; and myriads of tiny Radiolaria and Thalamophores, with shells of flint and lime, float at the surface or at various depths.
This slight sketch of the Cambrian population shows us that living things had already reached a high level of development. Their story evidently goes back, for millions of years, deep into those mists of the Archaean age which we were unable to penetrate. We turn therefore to the zoologist to learn what he can tell us of the origin and family-relations of these Cambrian animals, and will afterwards see how they are climbing to higher levels under the eye of the geologist.
At the basis of the living world of to-day is a vast population of minute, generally microscopic, animals and plants, which are popularly known as "microbes." Each consists, in scientific language, of one cell. It is now well known that the bodies of the larger animals and plants are made up of millions of these units of living matter, or cells—the atoms of the organic world—and I need not enlarge on it. But even a single cell lends itself to infinite variety of shape, and we have to penetrate to the very lowest level of this luxuriant world of one-celled organisms to obtain some idea of the most primitive living things. Properly speaking, there were no "first living things." It cannot be doubted by any student of nature that the microbe developed so gradually that it is as impossible to fix a precise term for the beginning of life as it is to say when the night ends and the day begins. In the course of time little one-celled living units appeared in the waters of the earth, whether in the shallow shore waters or on the surface of the deep is a matter of conjecture.
We are justified in concluding that they were at least as rudimentary in structure and life as the lowest inhabitants of nature to-day. The distinction of being the lowest known living organisms should, I think, be awarded to certain one-celled vegetal organisms which are very common in nature. Minute simple specks of living matter, sometimes less than the five-thousandth of an inch in diameter, these lowly Algae are so numerous that it is they, in their millions, which cover moist surfaces with the familiar greenish or bluish coat. They have no visible organisation, though, naturally, they must have some kind of structure below the range of the microscope. Their life consists in the absorption of food-particles, at any point of their surface, and in dividing into two living microbes, instead of dying, when their bulk increases. A very lowly branch of the Bacteria (Nitrobacteria) sometimes dispute their claim to the lowest position in the hierarchy of living nature, but there is reason to suspect that these Bacteria may have degenerated from a higher level.
Here we have a convenient starting-point for the story of life, and may now trace the general lines of upward development. The first great principle to be recognised is the early division of these primitive organisms into two great classes, the moving and the stationary. The clue to this important divergence is found in diet. With exceptions on both sides, we find that the non-moving microbes generally feed on inorganic matter, which they convert into plasm; the moving microbes generally feed on ready-made plasm—on the living non-movers, on each other, or on particles of dead organic matter. Now, inorganic food is generally diffused in the waters, so that the vegetal feeders have no incentive to develop mobility. On the other hand, the power to move in search of their food, which is not equally diffused, becomes a most important advantage to the feeders on other organisms. They therefore develop various means of locomotion. Some flow or roll slowly along like tiny drops of oil on an inclined surface; others develop minute outgrowths of their substance, like fine hairs, which beat the water as oars do. Some of them have one strong oar, like the gondolier (but in front of the boat); others have two or more oars; while some have their little flanks bristling with fine lashes, like the flanks of a Roman galley.
If we imagine this simple principle at work for ages among the primitive microbes, we understand the first great division of the living world, into plants and animals. There must have been a long series of earlier stages below the plant and animal. In fact, some writers insist that the first organisms were animal in nature, feeding on the more elementary stages of living matter. At last one type develops chlorophyll (the green matter in leaves), and is able to build up plasm out of inorganic matter; another type develops mobility, and becomes a parasite on the plant world. There is no rigid distinction of the two worlds. Many microscopic plants move about just as animals do, and many animals live on fixed stalks; while many plants feed on organic matter. There is so little "difference of nature" between the plant and the animal that the experts differ in classifying some of these minute creatures. In fact, we shall often find plants and animals crossing the line of division. We shall find animals rooting themselves to the floor, like plants, though they will generally develop arms or streamers for bringing the food to them; and we shall find plants becoming insect-catchers. All this merely shows that the difference is a natural tendency, which special circumstances may overrule. It remains true that the great division of the organic world is due to a simple principle of development; difference of diet leads to difference of mobility.
But this simple principle will have further consequences of a most important character. It will lead to the development of mind in one half of living nature and leave it undeveloped in the other. Mind, as we know it in the lower levels of life, is not confined to the animal at all. Many even of the higher plants are very delicately sensitive to stimulation, and at the lowest level many plants behave just like animals. In other words, this sensitiveness to stimuli, which is the first form of mind, is distributed according to mobility. To the motionless organism it is no advantage; to the pursuing and pursued organism it is an immense advantage, and is one of the chief qualities for natural selection to foster.
For the moment, however, we must glance at the operation of this and other natural principles in the evolution of the one-celled animals and plants, which we take to represent the primitive population of the earth. As there are tens of thousands of different species even of "microbes," it is clear that we must deal with them in a very summary way. The evolution of the plant I reserve for a later chapter, and I must be content to suggest the development of one-celled animals on very broad lines. When some of the primitive cells began to feed on each other, and develop mobility, it is probable that at least two distinct types were evolved, corresponding to the two lowest animal organisms in nature to-day. One of these is a very minute and very common (in vases of decaying flowers, for instance) speck of plasm, which moves about by lashing the water with a single oar (flagellum), or hair-like extension of its substance. This type, however, which is known as the Flagellate, may be derived from the next, which we will take as the primitive and fundamental animal type. It is best seen in the common and familiar Amoeba, a minute sac of liquid or viscid plasm, often not more than a hundredth of an inch in diameter. As its "skin" is merely a finer kind of the viscous plasm, not an impenetrable membrane, it takes in food at any part of its surface, makes little "stomachs," or temporary cavities, round the food at any part of its interior, ejects the useless matter at any point, and thrusts out any part of its body as temporary "arms" or "feet."
Now it is plain that in an age of increasing microbic cannibalism the toughening of the skin would be one of the first advantages to secure survival, and this is, in point of fact, almost the second leading principle in early development. Naturally, as the skin becomes firmer, the animal can no longer, like the Amoeba, take food at, or make limbs of, any part of it. There must be permanent pores in the membrane to receive food or let out rays of the living substance to act as oars or arms. Thus we get an immense variety amongst these Protozoa, as the one-celled animals are called. Some (the Flagellates) have one or two stout oars; some (the Ciliates) have numbers of fine hairs (or cilia). Some have a definite mouth-funnel, but no stomach, and cilia drawing the water into it. Some (Vorticella, etc.), shrinking from the open battlefield, return to the plant-principle, live on stalks, and have wreaths of cilia round the open mouth drawing the water to them. Some (the Heliozoa) remain almost motionless, shooting out sticky rays of their matter on every side to catch the food. Some form tubes to live in; some (Coleps) develop horny plates for armour; and others develop projectiles to pierce their prey (stinging threads).
This miniature world is full of evolutionary interest, but it is too vast for detailed study here. We will take one group, which we know to have been already developed in the Cambrian, and let a study of its development stand for all. In every lecture or book on "the beauties of the microscope" we find, and are generally greatly puzzled by, minute shells of remarkable grace and beauty that are formed by some of these very elementary animals They are the Radiolaria (with flinty shells, as a rule) and the Thalamophora (with chalk frames). Evolution furnishes a simple key to their remarkable structure.
As we saw, one of the early requirements to be fostered by natural selection in the Archaean struggle for life was a "thick skin," and the thick skin had to be porous to let the animal shoot out its viscid substance in rays and earn its living. This stage above the Amoeba is beautifully illustrated in the sun-animalcules (Heliozoa). Now the lowest types of Radiolaria are of this character. They have no shell or framework at all. The next stage is for the little animal to develop fine irregular threads of flint in its skin, a much better security against the animal-eater. These animalcules, it must be recollected, are bits of almost pure plasm, and, as they live in crowds, dividing and subdividing, but never dying, make excellent mouthfuls for a small feeder. Those with the more flint in their skins were the more apt to survive and "breed." The threads of flint increase until they form a sort of thorn-thicket round a little social group, or a complete lattice round an individual body. Next, spikes or spines jut out from the lattice, partly for additional protection, partly to keep the little body afloat at the surface of the sea. In this way we get a bewildering variety and increasing complexity of forms, ascending in four divergent lines from the naked ancestral type to the extreme grace and intricacy of the Calocyclas monumentum or the Lychnaspis miranda. These, however, are rare specimens in the 4000 species of Radiolaria. I have hundreds of them, on microscopic slides, which have no beauty and little regularity of form. We see a gradual evolution, on utilitarian principles, as we run over the thousands of forms; and, when we recollect the inconceivable numbers in which these little animals have lived and struggled for life—passively—during tens of millions of years, we are not surprised at the elaborate protective frames of the higher types.
The Thalamophores, the sister-group of one-celled animals which largely compose our chalk and much of our limestone, are developed on the same principle. The earlier forms seem to have lived in a part of the ocean where silica was scarce, and they absorbed and built their protective frames of lime. In the simpler types the frame is not unlike a wide-necked bottle, turned upside-down. In later forms it takes the shape of a spirally coiled series of chambers, sometimes amounting to several thousand. These wonderful little houses are not difficult to understand. The original tiny animal covers itself with a coat of lime. It feeds, grows, and bulges out of its chamber. The new part of its flesh must have a fresh coat, and the process goes on until scores, or hundreds, or even thousands, of these tiny chambers make up the spiral shell of the morsel of living matter.
With this brief indication of the mechanical principles which have directed the evolution of two of the most remarkable groups of the one-celled animals we must be content, or the dimensions of this volume will not enable us even to reach the higher and more interesting types. We must advance at once to the larger animals, whose bodies are composed of myriads of cells.
The social tendency which pervades the animal world, and the evident use of that tendency, prepare us to understand that the primitive microbes would naturally come in time to live in clusters. Union means effectiveness in many ways, even when it does not mean strength. We have still many loose associations of one-celled animals in nature, illustrating the approach to a community life. Numbers of the Protozoa are social; they live either in a common jelly-like matrix, or on a common stalk. In fact, we have a singularly instructive illustration of the process in the evolution of the sponges.
It is well known that the horny texture to which we commonly give the name of sponge is the former tenement and shelter of a colony of one-celled animals, which are the real Sponges. In other groups the structure is of lime; in others, again, of flinty material. Now, the Sponges, as we have them to-day, are so varied, and start from so low a level, that no other group of animals "illustrates so strikingly the theory of evolution," as Professor Minchin says. We begin with colonies in which the individuals are (as in Proterospongia) irregularly distributed in their jelly-like common bed, each animal lashing the water, as stalked Flagellates do, and bringing the food to it. Such a colony would be admirable food for an early carnivore, and we soon find the protective principle making it less pleasant for the devourer. The first stage may be—at least there are such Sponges even now—that the common bed is strewn or sown with the cast shells of Radiolaria. However that may be, the Sponges soon begin to absorb the silica or lime of the sea-water, and deposit it in needles or fragments in their bed. The deposit goes on until at last an elaborate framework of thorny, or limy, or flinty material is constructed by the one-celled citizens. In the higher types a system of pores or canals lets the food-bearing water pass through, as the animals draw it in with their lashes; in the highest types the animals come still closer together, lining the walls of little chambers in the interior.
Here we have a very clear evolutionary transition from the solitary microbe to a higher level, but, unfortunately, it does not take us far. The Sponges are a side-issue, or cul de sac, from the Protozoic world, and do not lead on to the higher. Each one-celled unit remains an animal; it is a colony of unicellulars, not a many-celled body. We may admire it as an instructive approach toward the formation of a many-celled body, but we must look elsewhere for the true upward advance.
The next stage is best illustrated in certain spherical colonies of cells like the tiny green Volvox (now generally regarded as vegetal) of our ponds, or Magosphoera. Here the constituent cells merge their individuality in the common action. We have the first definite many-celled body. It is the type to which a moving close colony of one-celled microbes would soon come. The round surface is well adapted for rolling or spinning along in the water, and, as each little cell earns its own living, it must be at the surface, in contact with the water. Thus a hollow, or fluid-filled, little sphere, like the Volvox, is the natural connecting-link between the microbe and the many-celled body, and may be taken to represent the first important stage in its development.
The next important stage is also very clearly exhibited in nature, and is more or less clearly reproduced in the embryonic development of all animals. We may imagine that the age of microbes was succeeded by an age of these many-celled larger bodies, and the struggle for life entered upon a new phase. The great principle we have already recognised came into play once more. Large numbers of the many-celled bodies shrank from the field of battle, and adopted the method of the plant. They rooted themselves to the floor of the ocean, and developed long arms or lashes for creating a whirlpool movement in the water, and thus bringing the food into their open mouths. Forfeiting mobility, they have, like the plant, forfeited the greater possibilities of progress, and they remain flowering to-day on the floors of our waters, recalling the next phase in the evolution of early life. Such are the hydra, the polyp, the coral, and the sea-anemone. It is not singular that earlier observers could not detect that they were animals, and they were long known in science as "animal-plants" (Zoophytes).
When we look to the common structure of these animals, to find the ancestral type, we must ignore the nerve and muscle-cells which they have developed in some degree. Fundamentally, their body consists of a pouch, with an open mouth, the sides of the pouch consisting of a double layer of cells. In this we have a clue to the next stage of animal development. Take a soft india-rubber ball to represent the first many-celled animal. Press in one half of the ball close upon the other, narrow the mouth, and you have something like the body-structure of the coral and hydra. As this is the course of embryonic development, and as it is so well retained in the lowest groups of the many-celled animals, we take it to be the next stage. The reason for it will become clear on reflection. Division of labour naturally takes place in a colony, and in that way certain cells in the primitive body were confined to the work of digestion. It would be an obvious advantage for these to retire into the interior, leaving the whole external surface free for the adjustment of the animal's relations to the outer world.
Again we must refrain from following in detail the development of this new world of life which branches off in the Archaean ocean. The evolution of the Corals alone would be a lengthy and interesting story. But a word must be said about the jelly-fish, partly because the inexpert will be puzzled at the inclusion of so active an animal, and partly because its story admirably illustrates the principle we are studying. The Medusa really descends from one of the plant-like animals of the early Archaean period, but it has abandoned the ancestral stalk, turned upside down, and developed muscular swimming organs. Its past is betrayed in its embryonic development. As a rule the germ develops into a stalked polyp, out of which the free-swimming Medusa is formed. This return to active and free life must have occurred early, as we find casts of large Medusae in the Cambrian beds. In complete harmony with the principle we laid down, the jelly-fish has gained in nerve and sensitiveness in proportion to its return to an active career.
But this principle is best illustrated in the other branch of the early many-celled animals, which continued to move about in search of food. Here, as will be expected, we have the main stem of the animal world, and, although the successive stages of development are obscure, certain broad lines that it followed are clear and interesting.
It is evident that in a swarming population of such animals the most valuable qualities will be speed and perception. The sluggish Coral needs only sensitiveness enough, and mobility enough, to shrink behind its protecting scales at the approach of danger. In the open water the most speedy and most sensitive will be apt to escape destruction, and have the larger share in breeding the next generation. Imagine a selection on this principle going on for millions of years, and the general result can be conjectured. A very interesting analogy is found in the evolution of the boat. From the clumsy hollowed tree of Neolithic man natural selection, or the need of increasing speed, has developed the elongated, evenly balanced modern boat, with its distinct stem and stern. So in the Archaean ocean the struggle to overtake food, or escape feeders, evolved an elongated two-sided body, with head and tail, and with the oars (cilia) of the one-celled ancestor spread thickly along its flanks. In other words, a body akin to that of the lower water-worms would be the natural result; and this is, in point of fact, the next stage we find in the hierarchy of living nature.
Probably myriads of different types of this worm-like organisation were developed, but such animals leave no trace in the rocks, and we can only follow the development by broad analogies. The lowest flat-worms of to-day may represent some of these early types, and as we ascend the scale of what is loosely called "worm" organisation, we get some instructive suggestions of the way in which the various organs develop. Division of labour continues among the colony of cells which make up the body, and we get distinct nerve-cells, muscle-cells, and digestive cells. The nerve-cells are most useful at the head of an organism which moves through the water, just as the look-out peers from the head of the ship, and there they develop most thickly. By a fresh division of labour some of these cells become especially sensitive to light, some to the chemical qualities of matter, some to movements of the water; we have the beginning of the eyes, the nose, and the ears, as simple little depressions in the skin of the head, lined with these sensitive cells. A muscular gullet arises to protect the digestive tube; a simple drainage channel for waste matter forms under the skin; other channels permit the passage of the fluid food, become (in the higher worms) muscular blood-vessels, and begin to contract—somewhat erratically at first—and drive the blood through the system.
Here, perhaps, are millions of years of development compressed into a paragraph. But the purpose of this work is chiefly to describe the material record of the advance of life in the earth's strata, and show how it is related to great geological changes. We must therefore abstain from endeavouring to trace the genealogy of the innumerable types of animals which were, until recently, collected in zoology under the heading "Worms." It is more pertinent to inquire how the higher classes of animals, which we found in the Cambrian seas, can have arisen from this primitive worm-like population.
The struggle for life in the Archaean ocean would become keener and more exacting with the appearance of each new and more effective type. That is a familiar principle in our industrial world to-day, and we shall find it illustrated throughout our story. We therefore find the various processes of evolution, which we have already seen, now actively at work among the swarming Archaean population, and producing several very distinct types. In some of these struggling organisms speed is developed, together with offensive and defensive weapons, and a line slowly ascends toward the fish, which we will consider later. In others defensive armour is chiefly developed, and we get the lines of the heavy sluggish shell-fish, the Molluscs and Brachiopods, and, by a later compromise between speed and armour, the more active tough-coated Arthropods. In others the plant-principle reappears; the worm-like creature retires from the free-moving life, attaches itself to a fixed base, and becomes the Bryozoan or the Echinoderm. To trace the development of these types in any detail is impossible. The early remains are not preserved. But some clues are found in nature or in embryonic development, and, when the types do begin to be preserved in the rocks, we find the process of evolution plainly at work in them. We will therefore say a few words about the general evolution of each type, and then return to the geological record in the Cambrian rocks.
The starfish, the most familiar representative of the Echinoderms, seems very far removed from the kind of worm-like ancestor we have been imagining, but, fortunately, the very interesting story of the starfish is easily learned from the geological chronicle. Reflect on the flower-like expansion of its arms, and then imagine it mounted on a stalk, mouth side upward, with those arms—more tapering than they now are—waving round the mouth. That, apparently, was the past of the starfish and its cousins. We shall see that the earliest Echinoderms we know are cup-shaped structures on stalks, with a stiff, limy frame and (as in all sessile animals) a number of waving arms round the mouth. In the next geological age the stalk will become a long and flexible arrangement of muscles and plates of chalk, the cup will be more perfectly compacted of chalky plates, and the five arms will taper and branch until they have an almost feathery appearance; and the animal will be considered a "sea-lily" by the early geologist.
The evidence suggests that both the free-moving and the stalked Echinoderms descend from a common stalked Archaean ancestor. Some primitive animal abandoned the worm-like habit, and attached itself, like a polyp, to the floor. Like all such sessile animals, it developed a wreath of arms round the open mouth. The "sea-cucumber" (Holothurian) seems to be a type that left the stalk, retaining the little wreath of arms, before the body was heavily protected and deformed. In the others a strong limy skeleton was developed, and the nerves and other organs were modified in adaptation to the bud-like or flower-like structure. Another branch of the family then abandoned the stalk, and, spreading its arms flat, and gradually developing in them numbers of little "feet" (water-tubes), became the starfish. In the living Comatula we find a star passing through the stalked stage in its early development, when it looks like a tiny sea-lily. The sea-urchin has evolved from the star by folding the arms into a ball.
The Bryozoa (sea-mats, etc.) are another and lower branch of the primitive active organisms which have adopted a sessile life. In the shell-fish, on the other hand, the principle of armour-plating has its greatest development. It is assuredly a long and obscure way that leads from the ancestral type of animal we have been describing to the headless and shapeless mussel or oyster. Such a degeneration is, however, precisely what we should expect to find in the circumstances. Indeed, the larva, of many of the headless Molluscs have a mouth and eyes, and there is a very common type of larva—the trochosphere—in the Mollusc world which approaches the earlier form of some of the higher worms. The Molluscs, as we shall see, provide some admirable illustrations of the process of evolution. In some of the later fossilised specimens (Planorbis, Paludina, etc.) we can trace the animal as it gradually passes from one species to another. The freshening of the Caspian Sea, which was an outlying part of the Mediterranean quite late in the geological record, seems to have evolved several new genera of Molluscs.
Although, therefore, the remains are not preserved of those primitive Molluscs in which we might see the protecting shell gradually thickening, and deforming the worm-like body, we are not without indications of the process. Two unequal branches of the early wormlike organisms shrank into strong protective shells. The lower branch became the Brachiopods; the more advanced branch the Molluscs. In the Mollusc world, in turn, there are several early types developed. In the Pelecypods (or Lamellibranchs—the mussel, oyster, etc.) the animal retires wholly within its fortress, and degenerates. The Gastropods (snails, etc.) compromise, and retain a certain amount of freedom, so that they degenerate less. The highest group, the Cephalopods, "keep their heads," in the literal sense, and we shall find them advancing from form to form until, in the octopus of a later age, they discard the ancestral shell, and become the aristocrats of the Mollusc kingdom.
The last and most important line that led upward from the chaos of Archaean worms is that of the Arthropods. Its early characteristic was the acquisition of a chitinous coat over the body. Embryonic indications show that this was at first a continuous shield, but a type arose in which the coat broke into sections covering each segment of the body, giving greater freedom of movement. The shield, in fact, became a fine coat of mail. The Trilobite is an early and imperfect experiment of the class, and the larva of the modern king-crab bears witness that it has not perished without leaving descendants. How later Crustacea increase the toughness of the coat by deposits of lime, and lead on to the crab and lobster, and how one early branch invades the land, develops air-breathing apparatus, and culminates in the spiders and insects, will be considered later. We shall see that there is most remarkable evidence connecting the highest of the Arthropods, the insect, with a remote Annelid ancestor.
We are thus not entirely without clues to the origin of the more advanced animals we find when the fuller geological record begins. Further embryological study, and possibly the discovery of surviving primitive forms, of which Central Africa may yet yield a number, may enlarge our knowledge, but it is likely to remain very imperfect. The fossil records of the long ages during which the Mollusc, the Crustacean, and the Echinoderm slowly assumed their characteristic forms are hopelessly lost. But we are now prepared to return to the record which survives, and we shall find the remaining story of the earth a very ample and interesting chronicle of evolution.