Darwin

I

Any formal life of Darwin should be written by a thoroughly trained and equipped scientist, and indeed no such life could be better than that written by Darwin’s son forty years ago. But one who, without special scientific qualifications, is profoundly interested in the characters and souls of men, all men, may perhaps be justified in making an intimate study of a man whose influence upon other men, for good and evil both, has been enormous, and who was himself one of the simplest, purest, noblest, most candid, most lovable, most Christian souls that ever lived.

By an extraordinary coincidence Charles Robert Darwin was born in Shrewsbury, England, on the same day, February 12, 1809, on which Abraham Lincoln was born in Hardin County, Kentucky. Darwin belonged to an excellent old English family on his father’s side and his mother was one of the Wedgwoods, of ceramic fame. His paternal grandfather, Erasmus, was a physician, a poet, and a scientist. Darwin’s father was an able and successful physician. He would have liked his son to be the same, but the son had not the taste for it. Failing medicine, the church was considered, but seemed equally unpromising. Education at Edinburgh and at Cambridge did not yield very much. In those days the classics were the basis and this boy had little interest in the classics. He liked field sports and outdoor life. Above all, he liked animals and plants, liked to observe and to describe them, and to record his observations, and this interest grew more and more absorbing.

In 1831, at the age of twenty-two, Darwin obtained the position of naturalist on the government ship, Beagle, and for five years he was absent from England, exploring the southern hemisphere and carefully recording his observations on every sort of scientific subject, which were later published in his printed journal. Soon after his return home, he married his cousin, Emma Wedgwood, a noble and charming woman, and a little later, in 1842, he settled at the small village of Down, in the county of Kent, and made his home there until his death in 1882. He inherited a considerable property, which was later increased from his books. He had a large family of sons and daughters, ten in all, and his life was half chronic invalidism and half intense devotion to scientific study and thought, or rather, the two elements were inextricably intertwined.

As a result of his observations on the Beagle, Darwin became possessed with the idea, which of course had occurred to various thinkers before him, from the Greeks to Lamarck, that life had not been created in distinct manifold forms, but had developed in all its variety, including even man, from a few forms, or even from one. To entertain the idea in the abstract was comparatively simple; but to explain the process of development was the puzzle, until Darwin hit upon what seemed to him the clue in what he called ‘natural selection,’ or, as Spencer termed it, ‘the survival of the fittest.’ For twenty years Darwin patiently worked out experimental proof of this theory, and then in 1859 he published ‘The Origin of Species,’ a book which is generally admitted to be one of the most important in the whole history of science. During the remaining twenty years of his life he devoted himself to endless further experiment, and the results were embodied in numerous volumes, chief among which was ‘The Descent of Man.’ His views were from the first the subject of fierce controversy, and in many details they are still so, and will continue to be. But it may safely be said that in the scientific world the evolution of life, or more technically, modification by descent, which is so inseparably associated with Darwin’s name, is an accepted principle, and Darwin himself had the great and satisfying triumph of living until this acceptance was perceived to be general, if not universal. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, close to the last resting-place of Newton.

The basis, or at any rate one of the most fundamental elements of Darwin’s character, was the instinct and habit of observing the external world, and we can best approach him by considering this habit in others and in him. It is astonishing how little most of us see. We live in a world of shadows and dream outlines, piecing out reality by convenient abstractions, which pass in memory like worn current counters, with little resemblance to actual fact. A tree to us is vaguely a tree: the structure of its bark, the shape of its leaves do not enter our world. A man and a woman are simply—a man and a woman. Unless we are specially called upon to do so we do not note details of feature or gesture or garment. This vagueness, this abstraction of vision, is what Théophile Gautier referred to in his celebrated phrase, ‘I am a man for whom the visible world exists.’[1] And he amplified his idea by saying that of twenty-five persons who come into a room, twenty-four will go out and not be able to tell you the color of the wall-paper, whereas he could tell that and pretty much everything else. To such an observing temperament life is a matter of visual detail, of sensuous detail of every kind.

There are people who look out and people who look in, and of course there are all sorts of degrees between the two extremes. Some people are wholly preoccupied with their own inner life, their thoughts, their emotions, their experiences. It is only by the pressure of necessity that they force themselves into connection with the world about them, and then it is under protest, and their thoughts leap back, as by a spring, to internal matters, as soon as the pressure is removed. Others live in the swift, diverting movement of the external world and lose their own destiny and almost their identity in the play of it. ‘Let me alone to observe till I turn myself into nothing but observation,’ says the old poet.[2] The observation may be for a serious scientific purpose. It may be for endless entertainment and pure, inexhaustible delight. As Sterne has it: ‘What a large volume of adventures may be grasped within this little span of life by him who interests his heart in everything and who, having eyes to see what time and chance are perpetually holding out to him as he journeyeth on his way, misses nothing he can fairly lay his hands on.’[3]

As there are some persons who naturally observe, so there are some who observe certain things, and not others. Women are apt to be more acute observers than men: their senses are more keen and their minds less preoccupied. But their vision is usually limited to the things that interest them. A woman will go into a friend’s house and tell you every detail of furnishing, will describe the friend’s dress with finished minuteness. But she may take a walk through the fields and not be able to remember a single flower or insect. On the other hand, very great scientists will not miss a spider in the grass, but the color of a ribbon may escape them.

From another point of view observation may be deliberately exclusive. A trained observer may find that general vision distracts him, and that to follow up his special object it is necessary to put all other sights and sounds out of consideration entirely. Bradford Torrey used to say, and no doubt it is the experience of all naturalists, that if he went to look for a special flower, he saw flowers only, and was quite oblivious to birds, while on bird days a rare blossom might be passed unnoticed.

Naturally the most common matter of observation, the one which is more or less forced upon the attention of all of us, is humanity. We may be indifferent to trees and stones, but our pleasure, our labor, our existence depend upon a more or less constant study of the human beings whose existence interlocks at every point with ours. Therefore, from the earliest times of record there have been profound observers of humanity, persons who have examined the human aspect and the human heart, as read through that aspect, with the most persistent zeal and the most unwearying delight. In the vivid phrase of one of the most acute of these, ‘I glutted myself with observation.’ And even those of less gormandizing tendency find the analysis of the human subject one of the most inexhaustible pleasures that this world affords. All through the study of Darwin I shall have occasion to refer to one of Darwin’s contemporaries who in a different line of research was an equally brilliant and significant exemplification of the scientific spirit, Sainte-Beuve. As Darwin devoted years upon years to patient investigation of the secrets of the natural world, so Sainte-Beuve with the same patience, the same labor, the same infinite and ever-varied curiosity, probed human hearts, all sorts of human hearts, and portrayed them with unfailing accuracy and sympathy. He said of himself, using the strictly scientific expression: ‘I analyze, I herborize, I am a naturalist of souls.’[4]

But in dealing with Darwin we are in the main concerned with the field of so-called natural science, with the varying aspects of the material world, which we are apt to sum up under the term, nature. General observation of this world is, of course, also as old as man. Greek, Hebrew, Egyptian, all ancient records, contain scientific facts of importance and interest to-day. Sophocles and Vergil had an exquisite sense of the exact beauty of birds and flowers. The vision of Chaucer and Shakespeare was as acute as that of Gautier, so far as they chose to employ it. At the same time we must recognize that with the middle of the eighteenth century a new interest in nature arose. The literature of Rousseau and Cowper, of Keats and George Sand, reflected the external world in a far different fashion from anything before imagined, and Linnæus, Cuvier, and many others laid the foundations of modern scientific study, which the nineteenth century developed until it overshadowed every branch of learning both for theoretical abundance and for practical utility.

It must of course be recognized that in many cases the observation of nature is not practiced for the pure pleasure of it, but serves some ulterior object or interest. There is first the obvious practical gain from such observation. Agriculture has undergone a complete revolution in the last hundred years, and this revolution has been brought about by the various developments of scientific research. Darwin’s vast investigations showed the intimate connection between the theories of the scientist and the practical experiments of the breeder.

On the other side there is the observation of the artist. Ruskin pointed out long ago, how fine, how subtle, how delicate was the vision of the great painters, how perfect their skill in rendering the exact sense impression of natural objects. In the same way, it is not often considered what wealth of accurate record we have in the poets and novelists. Gautier, for whom the visible world existed, was a poet. He saw shapes and contours and colors, saw them to render them in words that interpreted as perfectly as words can. The great French novelists who followed Gautier and learned from him were in the same way admirable observers and recorders. Darwin himself did not scorn to use the observation of the English novelist Mrs. Oliphant and he refers to her as ‘an excellent observer.’[5]

But there is such a thing as observation for the pure love of it, which is used neither to improve the breed of chickens or tomatoes, nor to make effective and salable copy, nor even to generate and sustain theories about the organization of the cosmos. There is a pure, inexhaustible delight in just living with the insects and the birds, in merging one’s own existence, one’s own soul in the mysterious abundance and ecstasy of the universal life, without thought of any ulterior object to be achieved in any way whatsoever. White of Selborne felt nature in this fashion. So did Richard Jefferies. So did the French naturalist and observer, Fabre. I know few works that have more of the charm of personal delight than Bates’s ‘Naturalist on the Amazons,’ a book which I have read and re-read and shall read again. Bates was interested in the Darwinian theories and worked at them. But his passion for the forest life was quite independent of any theories and it is expressed with an engaging, absolute simplicity, without the slightest pretence at literary ornament or effect.

Our supreme American example of this life in nature, and perhaps the supreme example anywhere, is Henry Thoreau. Thoreau had his speculations, and some persons relish them. But it seems as if no other human being had ever left the record of such complete self-abnegation in the external world as Thoreau’s. His soul not only turns to that of the birds and flowers, it is that of the birds and flowers, and he is never, never making observations to serve a purpose. He is simply existing in the universal existence for the joy of it: ‘I have given myself up to nature; I have lived so many springs and summers and autumns and winters as if I had nothing else to do but live them, and imbibe whatever nutriment they had for me; I have spent a couple of years, for instance, with the flowers chiefly, having none other so binding engagement as to observe when they opened; I could have afforded to spend a whole fall observing the changing tints of the foliage. Ah, how I have thriven on solitude and poverty!’[6]

II

Of the numerous records of simple natural observation and experience few are more charming than Darwin’s ‘Journal of the Voyage of the Beagle,’ in which he notes what he saw and heard by land and sea during those years of adventure in the southern hemisphere. All through this book, as indeed in all his books, it is evident that the instinct and habit of observing were inborn and constant, and all those who write about Darwin make this instinct at least the foundation of his scientific eminence.

Asa Gray, who had given his life to botany, writes: ‘What a skill and genius you have for these researches! Even for the structure of the flower of the Ophyrideæ I have to-night learned more than I ever knew before.’[7] Professor Osborn says, more generally: ‘Rare as were his reasoning powers, his powers of observation were of a still more distinct order. He persistently and doggedly followed every clue; he noticed little things which escaped others; he always noted exceptions and at once jotted down facts opposed to his theories.’[8] And the editors of Darwin’s letters put the whole matter with concise effectiveness in speaking of ‘that supreme power of seeing and thinking what the rest of the world had overlooked, which was one of his most striking characteristics.’[9]

Darwin’s own comments on observation are frequent and most interesting. Little inclined as he was to self-praise, in the charming autobiographical sketch which begins the ‘Life,’ he frankly states his merits in this regard: ‘I think that I am superior to the common run of men in noticing things which easily escape attention, and in observing them carefully. My industry has been nearly as great as it could have been in the observation and collection of facts.’[10] Exact, systematic, patient study of what is actually seen seems to him the basis of all great scientific work, and he repeatedly emphasizes the importance of it. ‘It is well to remember that Naturalists value observations far more than reasoning.’[11] Again, ‘I have come not to care at all for general beliefs without the special facts. I have suffered too often from this.’[12] And observation is not only a duty, it is a delight. The arrangement of facts, the deduction of theories from them, thought, reasoning, argument, these are labor and pain. But to watch the insects and the flowers, by long and careful attention to make them yield all their secrets, this is no labor, but an exquisite diversion, which never fails: ‘A naturalist’s life would be a happy one if he had only to observe, and never to write.’[13]

It is evident, further, that Darwin’s observation was by no means confined to natural science, but was quick, acute, and constant in all the different phases and interests of life. Naturally his books deal with little besides his scientific work, but the record of the Beagle shows interest and appreciation of many things outside of this work altogether. An eye so carefully trained could not fail to distinguish and perceive all sorts of minute points that others would pass over. His readiness to note other things besides those he was looking for shows in the piquant comment on wide experimenting: ‘It may turn out a mare’s nest, but I have often incidentally observed curious facts when making what I call “a fool’s experiment.”’[14]

It is especially curious to note Darwin’s observation of himself. To be sure, he disclaims any philosophical study in this regard: ‘I have never tried looking into my own mind.’[15] Nevertheless, whether he tried or not, he was curiously alive to what went on there, and he records what he finds with the singular candor which appears in his treatment of his own affairs as well as of others. The very hesitation with which he speaks of self-analysis increases the value of his results: ‘If I can analyze my own feelings (a very doubtful process).’[16] And when he does make a statement, it is all the more reliable and all the more far-reaching from the moderation and reserve with which it is advanced.

In one field quite remote from what is usually considered natural science, that of physiognomy and expression, Darwin’s observation is especially interesting, though of course he connected this line of research, as so many others, with his general scientific theory. His book on ‘The Expression of the Emotions’ is one of the most entertaining and profitable of all for the general reader, and it is instructive to note, how early, how persistently, and how faithfully he collected memoranda on this comparatively collateral issue. The use of what was immediately about him, of his own personal experience in daily living, is especially significant in this regard. For the study of expression he felt that unconsciousness in the subject was a prime requisite. Hence the study of infants, who were perfectly indifferent to your investigations, was peculiarly profitable, and almost from the moment his children were born, Darwin began to make notes on their expressions of pain and pleasure, all the little subtle indications of desire and need, which mothers use instinctively but which fathers are not commonly apt to register as scientific data. The curious paper, published in Mind, called ‘The Biography of a Child,’ gives many of Darwin’s notes on this subject, and repeated references in ‘The Expression of the Emotions’ show what fruitful use he made of those notes at a later period. The minuteness with which he observed and reflected is well shown in this passage on childrens’ crying: ‘I ought to have thought of crying children rubbing their eyes with their knuckles, but I did not think of it, and cannot explain it. As far as my memory serves, they do not do so whilst roaring, in which case compression would be of no use.... I wish I knew more about the knuckles and crying.’[17]

The observation not only records the larger and more violent manifestations of passion, but is constantly on the watch for those trifling signs of feeling which appear and flit away in trivial social intercourse. Take this account of an animated conversation: ‘Another young lady and a youth, both in the highest spirits, were eagerly talking together with extraordinary rapidity; and I noticed that, as often as the young lady was beaten, and could not get out her words fast enough, her eyebrows went obliquely upwards, and rectangular furrows were formed on her forehead. She thus each time hoisted a flag of distress; and this she did half-a-dozen times in the course of a few minutes.’[18]

Nor is he content with his own observations, but in this, as in wider researches, he perpetually appeals to his friends for assistance, opens their eyes and sharpens their wits, to see and record matters which they would assuredly never have thought of for themselves. Note the care and tact with which he makes his requests: ‘I beg you, in relation to a new point for observation, to imagine as well as you can that you suddenly come across some dreadful object, and act with a sudden little start, a shudder of horror; please do this once or twice, and observe yourself as well as you can, and afterwards read the rest of this note, which I have consequently pinned down.’[19]

It is, however, in the regions of natural science more particularly so-called that Darwin’s observation is inexhaustibly rich, varied, exciting, and suggestive. He himself puts it very simply and effectively, when he says, ‘I was born a naturalist.’[20] At the age of ten his curiosity was intensely stimulated by the varying aspects of insects and he considered the desirability of collecting them. In one of his letters, Darwin gives an amusing illustration of this youthful enthusiasm for collecting. One day he had caught two most interesting beetles and was holding one in each hand, when he discovered a third, ‘a sacred Panagæus crux-major!’ ‘I could not bear to give up either of my Carabi, and to lose Panagæus was out of the question; so that in despair I gently seized one of the Carabi between my teeth, when to my unspeakable disgust and pain the little inconsiderate beast squirted his acid down my throat, and I lost both Carabi and Panagæus.’[21]

The delight of observation, which began in childhood, continued to old age, and increased instead of weakening. When he was fatigued and worn with writing and theorizing, when illness tormented him and weakness rendered more concentrated effort impossible, it was a relief to turn to the simple contemplation of facts, and the budding and fading of flowers and the varied activity of insects offered at all times diversion and contentment. Sometimes he dwells upon the larger aspects of such contemplation, the joy of discovery, the excitement of finding what has never been found before. Again and again in his southern voyages this excitement appears: ‘In these wild countries it gives much delight to gain the summit of any mountain. There is an indefinite expectation of seeing something very strange, which, however often it may be balked, never failed with me to recur on each successive attempt.’[22] Or the pleasure may come in what seem the humblest, smallest things, in what is to ordinary persons negligible, or even repulsive. One of Darwin’s most attractive books, perhaps with ‘The Expression of the Emotions,’ the most attractive from the casual reader’s standpoint, is that in which he gathers together the results of his study of earthworms, a study which had continued through years of patient and thoughtful investigation of a subject which, even from the naturalist’s point of view, would not seem one of the most fruitful or engaging.

The fundamental principal of all scientific observation is accuracy, and no one knew this better than Darwin. No one understood better than he the subtle, treacherous influences that are always at work, distracting, impairing, and distorting exact and lucid vision. There is the danger of seeing what we are accustomed to see and therefore think we see. There is the danger of seeing what others have seen and described before us. There is the supreme danger of seeing what we wish to see, what accords with some preconceived theory or dogma. Against all these dangers Darwin tried to be ever on his guard, and he is constantly warning others of them and emphasizing the importance of pure accuracy and the enormous difficulty of it. ‘Good heavens, how difficult accuracy is!’[23] Among all the merits of the scientist he values accuracy highest, the instinct and the ability to record facts correctly: ‘I value praise for accurate observation far higher than for any other quality.’[24] And especially in one admirable passage he stresses and reiterates both the difficulty and the value: ‘Accuracy is the soul of Natural History. It is hard to become accurate; he who modifies a hair’s breadth will never be accurate.... Absolute accuracy is the hardest merit to attain, and the highest merit.’[25]

Among the various elements of accuracy, that of statement, as well as of observation, is of course of the utmost importance, yet is too apt to be overlooked. Even those who are careful in their actual observing, may in their report of their observations be much less so. Words are misleading and inadequate things, and the tricks they have played with scientific accuracy have been deplorable. There is the strange ease of mere misstatement. There is the natural tendency to overstate. There is the tendency to clarify verbally what in fact is more or less confused or the opposite difficulty of making verbally clear what the senses may perceive with singular lucidity.

Here again Darwin is constantly on the watch. Memory is misleading and accounts based upon it are apt to be untrustworthy: ‘I foolishly trusted to my memory, and was much annoyed to find how hasty and inaccurate many of my remarks were.’[26] Words are inadequate, blundering, they will not render the finer, more delicate shades: ‘A difference may be clearly perceived, and yet it may be impossible, at least I have found it so, to state in what the difference consists.’[27] One cannot be too careful, too scrupulous, about one’s statements, or too anxious to correct them, when one has made a mistake. And Darwin gets up in the middle of the night and arouses a slumbering friend to explain that, after all, he felt the sense of the sublime more fully in the forests of Brazil than on the top of the Cordilleras.[28]

When one is so mistrustful of one’s own records one cannot always accept implicitly the narratives of others. Darwin is eager to get the accounts of other observers, and is singularly deferential to their opinions. At the same time he is gently and watchfully critical, and knows well how to estimate the ability of those with whom he deals. One of the most interesting remarks upon the skill of his methods in obtaining information, and one that every one who reads him carefully will confirm, is Sir William Turner’s comment upon ‘his care in avoiding leading questions.’[29]

And if Darwin was insistent upon accuracy in records, he was also extraordinarily thorough and exact in mathematical matters and measurement. He speaks of abstract mathematics as having been one of the neglected elements of his education,[30] but he shunned no amount of pains and toil in calculating, wherever he felt it necessary to work out his results. In his books which record the investigation of detail there is an almost incredible amount of slow and careful research involving exact counting and weighing and measuring. ‘I was compelled to count under the microscope above 20,000 seeds of Lythrum salicaria,’ he says casually in one instance,[31] and there are innumerable others of the same kind. In all these calculations the possibility of error haunts him and he does his best to eliminate it, yet still the possibility is there: ‘Although I always am endeavoring to be cautious and to mistrust myself, yet I know well how apt I am to make blunders.’[32] If he blundered, what shall be said of some of us? Most interesting and characteristic is the trait, pointed out by his son, that he assumed with singular naïveté the absolute accuracy of the instruments that came to him: ‘He had great faith in instruments, and I do not think it naturally occurred to him to doubt the accuracy of a scale or measuring glass.’[33] Yet further, ‘it was characteristic of him that he took scrupulous pains in making measurements with his somewhat rough scales.’[34]

As he was exact and particular in calculation and measurement, so he shrank from no amount of detail, did not hesitate to carry his investigations to the last point of minuteness, whenever the full and solid breadth of result demanded it. Apparently nothing escaped him. It was not only what he was looking for, but he noted and seized oddities and exceptions for their larger bearing and for future profit. As his son says, ‘A point apparently slight and unconnected with his present work is passed over by many a man almost unconsciously with some half-considered explanation, which is in fact no explanation. It was just these things that he seized on to make a start from.’[35] Thus, on any subject that came up, his memory or his notes could almost always be appealed to. As Sir Thomas Farrer puts it, ‘What interested me was to see that on this as on almost any other point of detailed observation, Mr. Darwin could always say, “Yes, but at one time I made some observations myself on this particular point; and I think you will find, etc., etc.”’[36]

To appreciate this minuteness and thoroughness, it is necessary to examine the less known and less popular books, such as the ‘Cross and Self Fertilization’ and the ‘Different Forms of Flowers.’ In these one is overwhelmed with Darwin’s persistence in examining and noting trivial details. And perhaps most impressive of all is to turn over the pages of the two immensely solid volumes on Cirripedes. For many years Darwin devoted himself to the study of these unexciting barnacles, sometimes wearying, sometimes rebelling, but always keeping at his task until he had completed it. He himself sometimes wondered whether such prolonged toil at mere description was wholly worth while; but Huxley believed that the mental discipline was of the greatest possible profit to Darwin’s later work. In any case the exhaustive thoroughness of it is indeed exemplary. How far this goes may be suggested by one quotation out of many: ‘I cannot too strongly impress on any one intending to study this class, not to trust to external characters; he must separate and clean and carefully examine the internal structure and form of the compartments and more especially of the opercular valves.’[37] And the examination, in Darwin’s case, applied to hundreds of specimens of minute barnacles gathered and sent to him from all parts of the world.

It is hardly necessary to emphasize the enormous amount of labor implied and involved in all these self-imposed tasks of Darwin. Although circumstances compelled him to give a large part of his life to repose, he was by nature a worker. It is true that he sometimes speaks jokingly of his idleness: ‘I have been of late shamefully idle, i.e., observing instead of writing, and how much better fun observing is than writing.’[38] But as Huxley well points out, Darwin generally means by idleness ‘working hard at something he likes when he ought to be occupied with a less attractive subject.’[39] And Darwin’s own more serious comment is, ‘I am a pretty man to preach, for I cannot be idle, much as I wish it, and am never comfortable except when at work.’[40] He complains of fatigue, he forces himself to seek recreation, relaxation; but even when his body is at rest, his mind tends to work, refuses to stop working, finds its only real relief in change of occupation and thought.

And as the labor is impressive, so is the patience. The man was naturally nervous, restless, eager. He wanted results, like the rest of us. Yet after he had conceived a theory which he thought destined to subvert the whole realm of science, he waited twenty years for the thorough observation and testing necessary to put the theory into even tentative form. Of all the great scientific qualities perhaps patience is the most essential and the most difficult, and surely patience never had a more supreme exemplar than Charles Darwin. Sometimes even his enduring persistence is temporarily shaken: ‘My cirripedial task is an eternal one; I make no perceptible progress. I am sure that they belong to the hour-hand, and I groan under my task.’[41] But though he may groan, he never yields. As his son admirably says of him: ‘He used almost to apologize for his patience, saying that he could not bear to be beaten, as if this were rather a sign of weakness on his part.... Perseverance seems hardly to express his almost fierce desire to force the truth to reveal itself. He often said that it was important that a man should know the right point at which to give up an inquiry. And I think it was his tendency to pass this point that inclined him to apologize for his perseverance, and gave the air of doggedness to his work.’[42] The intensity of such patience is best appreciated by those who all their lives have scamped and hurried and slighted and touched a thousand things without ever going to the bottom of a single one.

III

Nothing illustrates better the patience of Darwin, and of course also of hundreds of other scientists who are working as he worked in unknown laboratories all over the world, than the process of simple waiting so often necessary to obtain results. Nature demands time, often enormous time, and the brevity of human life and the evanescence of human opportunity mean nothing to her. The careful working out of scientific investigation requires the study of successive generations, sometimes of many, the sowing of the seed and the gathering of the blossom, the close observation of the individual from conception to death, which can be carried on only through long periods of time. The observer must keep a dozen lines of study in his mind, must maintain them side by side, and must be always ready to turn from one to the other, as some new development arises that demands his attention. It was in this phase of long, renewed, continued, enduring watchfulness that Darwin was preëminent. As well appears in his son’s record: ‘I think it was all due to the vitality and persistence of his mind—a quality I have heard him speak of as if he felt that he was strongly gifted in that respect. Not that he used any such phrases as these about himself, but he would say that he had the power of keeping a subject or question more or less before him for a great many years.’[43] Very little examination of Darwin’s books is required to show how amply and constantly this power was exercised.

And to give such patience and taste for continuity their full effect there is needed almost a passion for system, for orderly arrangement, and the habit of putting not only things but thoughts in their proper places, so that they can be called upon at the right moment in the right way. Darwin himself describes his elaborate method of indexing the books that he read and the notes that he made, so that whenever he wished to deal with any special subject, he could turn at once to material bearing upon it: ‘Before beginning on any subject I look to all the short indexes and make a general and classified index, and by taking the one or more proper portfolios I have all the information collected during my life ready for use.’[44]

Such systematic habits of working both demand and imply an orderly and economical use of time. Owing to his limitations of health, Darwin’s working time was extremely limited, but he made the most of it. Every usable hour was allotted, and the utmost profit and result were extracted from it. No doubt such sense of pressure is in itself not very beneficial to health, but it means an immense amount of work accomplished. The time was employed thriftily as well as intelligently: ‘He saved a great deal of time through not having to do things twice.’[45] And everywhere there is the feeling of the value of minutes which is indicated in Dante’s saying,

Or as Darwin himself expresses it: ‘A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.’[47]

Still another element of observation richly illustrated in Darwin, and closely connected with the patience and the continuity, is the element of comparison. Observation by itself, the mere accumulation of curious detail, does not get us very far. Observations must be bound together, one with another, they must be connected and related, intertwined into results and conclusions, often remote and far-reaching, or they do not begin to attain all their possible significance. In Darwin’s own phrase: ‘As you say, there is an extraordinary pleasure in pure observation; not but what I suspect the pleasure in this case is rather derived from comparisons forming in one’s mind from allied structures.’[48] This more elaborate process of comparison, however, leads us at once to the methods of deliberate experiment for a special purpose, and will therefore be more fully and naturally considered in the next chapter.

As to the more practical side of observation, one is largely impressed with all the difficulties and drawbacks of it, when pursued on any considerable scale, and certainly Darwin’s life affords abundant illustration of these, some peculiar to himself and some of a more general nature which beset most naturalists more or less.

There are the difficulties that always attend extensive field and outdoor work. In a voyage such as that of the Beagle, in a small sailing ship a hundred years ago, there were the elements of actual danger. Darwin was the last person to enlarge upon his courage in meeting these or in disregarding them. Of his childhood he says: ‘I remember how very much I was afraid of meeting the dogs in Barker Street, and how at school I could not get up my courage to fight: I was very timid by nature.’[49] But repeated experiences during the voyage of the Beagle make it evident that the timidity was overcome by a calm and intelligent comprehension of conditions and necessities. Perhaps the most interesting illustration is Darwin’s attitude toward an earthquake in South America: ‘I have had ill luck, however, in only one little earthquake having happened. I was lying in bed when there was a party at dinner in the house; on a sudden I heard such a hubbub in the dining-room; without a word being spoken, it was devil take the hindmost and who should get out first; at the same moment I felt my bed slightly vibrate in a lateral direction. The party were old stagers, and heard the noise which always precedes a shock; and no old stager looks at an earthquake with philosophical eyes.’[50]

Worse perhaps than the specific, exceptional dangers were the constant annoyances and discomforts. Food was often insufficient, ill-prepared, and indigestible. Cold was wearing and heat was wearing. There was exposure to all sorts of weather, there was the torment of insects, there was endless, inescapable fatigue, which could not be remedied or avoided, but just had to be borne and forgotten in the excitement of great or even little objects to be attained. Glimpses here and there, never unduly emphasized, show what these trials were and how they were met: ‘The road, from some recent rain, was full of little puddles of clear water, yet not a drop was drinkable. I had scarcely been twenty hours without water, and only part of the time under a hot sun, yet the thirst rendered me very weak. How people survive two or three days under such circumstances, I cannot imagine.’[51] To put up with discomforts during a camping trip of a few weeks or months is one thing. To endure them constantly for five years implies a very pretty enthusiasm for the cause of science.

Besides these external drawbacks to observation, there are others more subjective and personal. A minor aspect of these has interested me, because it shows such a delightful mixture of human feeling and scientific curiosity. As we shall have occasion to amplify later, Darwin was remarkable for tenderness, for sympathy, for affectionate and kindly interest, not only in humanity generally and in animals, but especially in those directly connected with him. Yet his investigations of expression led him, forced him, to a calm and cold-blooded analysis of situations and emotions which at the same time made the strongest appeal to his sympathies. All through his children’s infancy he pursued the practice of making notes on them, yet it is most curious to trace the play of personal emotion in combination with the abstract research, and the working of this well appears in his son’s remark: ‘It was characteristic of him that (as I have heard him tell), although he was so anxious to observe the expression of a crying child, his sympathy with the grief spoiled his observation.’[52] A more impersonal example is his careful record as to a woman whom he studied in a railway carriage, watching with minute attention the movement of her depressores anguli oris, which appeared to indicate extreme distress: ‘As her countenance remained as placid as ever, I reflected how meaningless was this contraction, and how easily one might be deceived. The thought had hardly occurred to me when I saw that her eyes suddenly became suffused with tears almost to overflowing and her whole countenance fell. There could now be no doubt that some painful recollection, perhaps that of a long-lost child, was passing through her mind.’[53] And so instances of intense individual suffering became generalized into typical cases of scientific record.

Far more important, however, in Darwin’s career, as a drawback to scientific observation, than any intrusions of subjective sympathy, were the bitter, persistent limitations of physical illness and weakness. During a very large part of his life he was tormented by nervous indigestion, manifesting itself, under any strain, in persistent nausea. This first appeared in the ever-returning and unconquerable sea-sickness which made all his southern voyages a misery. When the ocean was at all boisterous the malady prostrated him, and those who know how absolutely prostrating sea-sickness is will appreciate the positive heroism which enabled him to prosecute his journey and his researches with such a handicap.

After his return to England the trouble continued to hound and haunt him through all his later years. He never could work for more than a small portion of the day. The excitement of visitors always upset him. There were long periods when any work was impossible and often an absorbing investigation had to be laid aside altogether just at the most critical point, laid aside so completely that not only actual labor but even thought was prohibited. The idleness which he detested was forced upon him for a very large part of his days and hours and the spirit framed for such constant and intense activity was obliged to discipline itself to the most irksome and profitless repose.

It made no difference in the intensity or the persistence of his scientific preoccupations. Perhaps if he had abandoned his pursuits altogether and had contented himself with an indolent and externally diversified existence, he might have enjoyed reasonable health. But he would not yield for a moment. His whole soul was in the studies, the pursuits, the investigations that enthralled and inspired him, and life without them would have been inconceivable. ‘We have come here for rest for me, which I have much needed; and shall remain here for about ten days more, and then home to work, which is my sole pleasure in life.’[54] That is the constant note. In the midst of his travels he wrote home: ‘My mind has been since leaving England, in a perfect hurricane of delight and astonishment, and to this hour scarcely a minute has passed in idleness.’[55] The body might lag and drag and harass and torment, but the spirit lived in just such a hurricane of excitement and enthusiasm always.

IV

It must be recognized that even in the pure habit of observation for itself, whether in the natural world or otherwise, there is a charm for those who are born for it. Curiosity is a natural instinct with most of us, and there is inexhaustible entertainment in letting the spirit lie fallow within, while the external world plays upon it with an endless succession of picturesque incidents and highly colored circumstance. At the same time, and especially in the realm of nature, it is astonishing what a difference even a little knowledge makes. Most of us walk through the fields and woods like blind men, utterly oblivious of all the fascinating secrets which await our eyes and ears if we were only alive to them. As one who has always delighted in solitary wood walks merely for their associative beauty, I at least can bewail the deplorable ignorance as to plants and birds and insects which makes it impossible for me even to interrogate them intelligently. Lack of time or natural indolence have prevented my accumulating the knowledge which would put all these things in their proper relations and make them tell a story which the trained and expert observer instantly and instinctively reads in them. It is comforting to find even Darwin complaining of the same ignorance and the same blindness, when he gets into surroundings that are strange to him. Thus in his earlier voyaging, he notes: ‘One great source of perplexity to me is an utter ignorance whether I note the right facts, and whether they are of sufficient importance to interest others.’[56] And again even more vividly: ‘It is positively distressing to walk in the glorious forest amidst such treasures and feel they are all thrown away upon one.’[57]

Then with the coming of a little knowledge the observation is enriched, transfigured, glorified. Hear what Thoreau says of even the apparently dry and profitless acquisition of nomenclature: ‘With the knowledge of the name comes a distincter recognition and knowledge of the thing. That shore is now more describable and poetic even. My knowledge was cramped and confined before, and grew rusty because not used—for it could not be used. My knowledge now becomes communicable and grows by communication.’[58] Knowledge in one branch amplifies and steadies observation in that branch. Knowledge of many branches connects them and makes each one throw light on all the others. Record of others’ observations or of your own through several years give each new year double significance and fruitfulness. As Thoreau again puts it: ‘I soon found myself observing when plants first blossomed and leafed, and I followed it up early and late, far and near, several years in succession, running to different sides of the town and into the neighboring towns, often between twenty and thirty miles in a day.’[59] If your attention gets fixed upon some special point to be elucidated, every walk you take, and almost every step brings out some development which you did not consider or imagine before. In short the enrichment of knowledge doubles, triples, quintuples your vision, since it teaches you what to look for, and even while it sometimes betrays, teaches you what to see.

But if mere general scientific knowledge is so stimulating and so enlarging in the realm of observation, how infinitely more fruitful is the Darwinian view of the interrelated development of all life including that of man. Whatever may be said, whatever we may have to say later, of the injurious action of this view upon the status of man himself, there can be no question as to the transforming, magical effect of it upon the study of the natural world. Before the evolutionary attitude, the observation of plants and animals was at best a mere gratification of curiosity. The proper study of mankind was man, and the investigation of birds and insects was only distraction and diversion. But the instant it appeared that all the threads of life were intertwined and that in disentangling even the slightest of them you might be getting the clue to the riddle of the whole, all was changed. When it comes to be felt that the history of man, of his instincts, of his passions, of his powers, of his future, of his fate, is written in his past, and that past is to be studied, if at all, in the history of the humblest creatures who are animated by the same mysterious impulse of life that moulds and governs him, the interest of natural observation is increased a thousandfold. It is not exaggerating to say that the study of natural history is an entirely different pursuit since Darwin from what it was before.

It is evident that Darwin himself was constantly and immensely impressed by the profound significance thus added to scientific research. A passage in his earlier note-books shows how the idea was beginning to take hold of him: ‘If we choose to let conjecture run wild, then animals, our fellow brethren in pain, disease, death, suffering and famine—our slaves in the most laborious works, our companions in our amusements—they may partake of our origin in one common ancestor—we may be all melted together.’[60]

A striking concrete illustration of the community of life, even in the humblest forms, appears in the book on earthworms and suggests Emerson’s poetical version of the same idea,