12 February: Boreham on Charles Darwin

The Integrity of Science
This, the birthday of Charles Darwin, furnishes an opportunity of stressing the essential virtue of the phase of life that Darwin so conspicuously adorned. Darwin was only 22 when, through the influence of his old teacher, Prof. J. S. Henslow, he was invited to set out on a five-year cruise as naturalist without pay on H.M.S. Beagle. The tall young student's first reactions to the novel idea were by no means favourable. He eyed the project dubiously. Few ambitious youths of 22 lightly forgo, for five long years, the opportunity of earning money. But, the longer he pondered it, the more attractive the adventure seemed, and he finished up by accepting the invitation with schoolboy enthusiasm. To the last day of his long and useful life he congratulated himself on that decision. "The voyage of the Beagle," he would tell his friends, "stands out as the most important event in my life; it determined my whole career." Moreover, it enriched our literature with several volumes, the direct outcome of observations made in the course of the tour.

In addition to "The Voyage of the Beagle," one of the most fascinating and informative travel stories ever penned, the enterprise led also to the writing of "The Zoology of the Beagle" and other masterpieces. The "Quarterly Review" said of "The Voyage of the Beagle" that it contains ample material for deep thinking; it abounds in the vivid description that fills the mind's eye with brighter pictures than any painter can present; whilst it is marked by the charm arising from the freshness of heart which is thrown over these virgin pages by a strong intellectual man and an acute and profound observer.

The Whole Truth, And Nothing But The Truth
Prof. J. A. Thomson defines the scientific temper as consisting of three cardinal and fundamental virtues. A man must have, he says, a clear and unbiased vision; he must exhibit a caution that can never be marred by impatience to reach a conclusion; and he must possess a genuine passion for facts. Huxley spoke of "that enthusiasm for truth, that fanaticism of veracity, which is a greater treasure than much learning, a nobler gift than the power of increasing knowledge." It is to the everlasting credit of the world of science that it has frequently produced monumental examples of this intellectual chastity; but, among those illustrious names, there is none that, in the sheer transparency of his soul and in his absolute loyalty to his vision, shines with a brighter lustre than Darwin's.

With Darwin, honesty was an instinct. In his earliest autobiographical records he tells the stark truth about himself with brutal candour. One of his sons, Sir Francis Darwin, as a small boy, once asked his father, in the presence of a number of famous men and women, if he was ever tipsy. Most men so situated would have hedged, prevaricated, or turned the question aside as a joke. But not Darwin. "I am ashamed to say that I once was—at Cambridge," he replied, with characteristic frankness and circumstantial exactitude. Sir Francis Darwin confesses, in his biography of his renowned sire, that the stark veracity and crystalline honesty of that straightforward answer made an indelible impression on his own childish mind. Once as a boy, Darwin pitilessly thrashed a puppy. He was moved to this act of tyranny by the sheer exuberance of power. He was the master; the puppy was his slave. A minute later he felt thoroughly ashamed. In the ordinary way, the incident would have passed into oblivion. But Darwin felt that the man who writes an autobiography must tell the whole truth: and he therefore pillories himself for all the world to see.

Does The Exception Prove The Rule?
This admirable trait marked all his researches. Through long years of patient investigation, Darwin would discover that thousands of specimens in given circumstances behave in a particular way. The evidence would appear overwhelming; but just as he was about to generalise on these harmonious observations, and to announce the confident conclusion to which all the facts so steadily pointed, he would suddenly come upon a specimen that, under identically similar conditions, behaved in a radically different way. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to have dismissed the recalcitrant phenomenon with the cheap sophistry that the exception proves the rule. But so plausible a way of escape is inconsistent with the best traditions of science; and Darwin, with impeccable fidelity to truth, immediately abandoned the premature conclusion as untenable. "The little beast is doing just what I did not want him do," Darwin would exclaim, and, without a moment's delay, he would evacuate the position to which years of research had led him.

One evening towards the end, Darwin entertained Prof. G. J. Romanes at his Kentish home. His son, Sir Francis Darwin, was also present. The conversation, turning to the ability of magnificent scenery to awaken emotions of reverence, Darwin casually remarked that he had never experienced that sensation so powerfully as when standing on the slopes of the Cordilleras. Shortly afterwards he retired for the night. But a couple of hours later, clad in dressing-gown and slippers, he reappeared to tell the two younger men, who were still lingering beside the fire, that he had unwittingly misled them. "It was in the forests of Brazil," he said, "and not among the Cordilleras, that I was most overcome by the sensation of reverence. I could not sleep until I had corrected myself. It might conceivably affect your conclusions." It was a small thing, a mere matter of personal taste and sentiment; but the old man, true to the last to the finest traditions of the scientific temper, felt that his memory had betrayed him into a position from which he must frankly and openly withdraw. There, as in a cameo, is reflected both the spirit of Charles Darwin and the spirit of all true science.

F W Boreham