and some organs discharge their functions with so much appearance of
provision, that we are apt to think they must owe their development
to sense of need and consequent contrivance, but this opinion is
fantastic; the appearance of design is delusive; what we are tempted
to see as an accumulated outcome of desire and cunning, we should
regard as mainly an accumulated outcome of good luck.

Let us take the eye as a somewhat crucial example. It is a seeing-
machine, or thing to see with. So is a telescope; the telescope in
its highest development is a secular accumulation of cunning,
sometimes small, sometimes great; sometimes applied to this detail
of the instrument, and sometimes to that. It is an admirable
example of design; nevertheless, as I said in "Evolution Old and
New," he who made the first rude telescope had probably no idea of
any more perfect form of the instrument than the one he had himself
invented. Indeed, if he had, he would have carried his idea out in
practice. He would have been unable to conceive such an instrument
as Lord Rosse's; the design, therefore, at present evidenced by the
telescope was not design all on the part of one and the same person.
Nor yet was it unmixed with chance; many a detail has been doubtless
due to an accident or coincidence which was forthwith seized and
made the best of. Luck there always has been and always will be,
until all brains are opened, and all connections made known, but
luck turned to account becomes design; there is, indeed, if things
are driven home, little other design than this. The telescope,
therefore, is an instrument designed in all its parts for the
purpose of seeing, and, take it all round, designed with singular
skill.

Looking at the eye, we are at first tempted to think that it must be