THE death of Charles Darwin focussed, as it were, into one concentrated glow the feelings of admiration, and even reverence, which had been growing stronger and stronger in the years since the “Origin of Species” was published. It soon became evident that a public funeral in Westminster Abbey was very generally called for, and this being granted, a grave was chosen in the north aisle and north-east corner of the nave, north of and side by side with that of Sir John Herschel, and ten or twelve feet only from that of Sir Isaac Newton. On April 26, 1882, a great representative host of scientists, literary men, politicians, and theologians assembled for the final scene. The pallbearers were the Dukes of Devonshire and Argyll, the Earl of Derby, Mr. J. Russell Lowell (then American Minister in London), Mr. W. Spottiswoode (President of the Royal Society), Sir Joseph Hooker, Mr. Alfred Russel Wallace, Professor Huxley, Sir John Lubbock, and Canon Farrar. The Bishop of Carlisle, preaching at the Abbey on the following Sunday, admitted that Darwin had produced a greater change in the current of thought than any other man, and had done it by perfectly legitimate means. He had observed Nature with a strength of purpose, pertinacity, honesty, and ingenuity never surpassed.

“The career of Charles Darwin,” wrote The Times on the day of his funeral, “eludes the grasp of personal curiosity as much as of personal enmity. He thought, and his thoughts have passed into the substance of facts of the universe. A grass plot, a plant in bloom, a human gesture, the entire circle of the doings and tendencies of nature, builds his monument and records his exploits.... The Abbey has its orators and ministers who have convinced senates and swayed nations. Not one of them all has wielded a power over men and their intelligences more complete than that which for the last twenty-three years has emanated from a simple country house in Kent. Memories of poets breathe about the mighty church. Science invokes the aid of imagination no less than poetry. Darwin as he searched, imagined. Every microscopic fact his patient eyes unearthed, his fancy caught up and set in its proper niche in a fabric as stately and grand as ever the creative company of Poets’ Corner wove from sunbeams and rainbows.”

“Our century is Darwin’s century,” said the Allgemeine Zeitung. The New York Herald described his life as “that of Socrates except its close.” The Neue Freie Presse said truly that his death caused lamentation as far as truth had penetrated, and wherever civilisation had made any impression.

A movement was at once set on foot for securing a worthy public memorial of Darwin. Subscriptions flowed in abundantly, and came from all countries of Europe, the United States, the British Colonies, and Brazil. Sweden sent the astonishing number of 2296 subscriptions; persons of all ranks contributed, from a bishop to a seamstress. Over £4,000 in all was subscribed, and it was resolved, in the first place, to procure the best possible statue. This work was entrusted to Mr. Boehm, R.A., with admirable results. Permission was obtained to place it in the great hall of the British Museum of Natural History, South Kensington, and here it was unveiled on June 9, 1885, by the Prince of Wales, who accepted the statue on behalf of the Trustees of the British Museum from Professor Huxley as representing the subscribers. It is agreed that the statue is excellent, the attitude easy and dignified, the expression natural and characteristic. The only defect is that the hands are unlike Darwin’s. The balance, about £2,200, remaining over from the fund, was given to the Royal Society to be invested for the promotion of biological studies and researches.

The conditions under which Darwin lived were just those in which, as The Saturday Review put it, his sweet and gentle nature could blossom into perfection. “Arrogance, irritability, and envy, the faults that ordinarily beset men of genius, were not so much conquered as non-existent in a singularly simple and generous mind. It never occurred to him that it would be to his gain to show that he and not some one else was the author of a discovery. If he was appealed to for help by a fellow-worker, the thought never passed into his mind that he had secrets to divulge which would lessen his importance. It was science, not the fame of science, that he loved, and he helped science by the temper in which he approached it. He had to say things which were distasteful to a large portion of the public, but he won the ear even of his most adverse critics by the manifest absence of a mere desire to shine, by his modesty, and by his courtesy. He told honestly what he thought to be the truth, but he told it without a wish to triumph or to wound. There is an arrogance of unorthodoxy as well as an arrogance of orthodoxy, and if ideas that a quarter of a century ago were regarded with dread are now accepted without a pang, the rapidity of the change of opinion, if not the change itself, is largely due to the fact that the leading exponent of these ideas was the least arrogant of men.”

Geniality and genuine humour must be remembered as among the many delightful traits in Darwin’s character. Mr. Edmund Yates, in his “Celebrities at Home” (second series), describes his as a laugh to remember, “a rich Homeric laugh, round and full, musical and jocund.” “At a droll suggestion of Mr. Huxley’s, or a humorous doubt insinuated in the musical tones of the President of the Royal Society (Sir Joseph Hooker), the eyes twinkle under the massive overhanging brows, the Socratic head, as Professor Tyndall loves to call it, is thrown back, and over the long white beard rolls out such a laugh as we have attempted to describe.”

Exceptionally good-hearted and sympathetic as a man, Darwin discovered his life-work, and did it, in spite of a most powerful hindrance, in the best possible manner, with the least possible waste of force. But, more than doing his work, he set others to work, incited them, suggested to them, aided them, scattered among them seeds which, finding fertile soil, sprang up and bore fruit a hundredfold. His greatness is as much in what be caused others to do as in what he did himself. Even in arousing antagonism, though by the gentlest means, he did a great work, for he secured examination and criticism in such bulk that the whole world was leavened by his doctrine; and in controversy no man has any disagreeable reminiscence of him. Many have cause to bless the day when they first came into communication with Darwin, to find him welcome them, encourage them, place his own vast stores of knowledge and thought at their disposal, and, best of all, make them love him naturally as a dear friend.

Darwin’s was one of those open and frank minds which are entrenched behind no rampart of isolating prejudice, and elevated on no platform of conscious superiority. It was equally natural to him to ask and to give information. No one ever was more accessible to all who genuinely sought his aid in their inquiries or their projects; no one ever more truly sought information from all quarters whence truth was attainable. Hence the mass of his letters to all kinds of persons is enormous, and only a small proportion, probably, will ever be published. His letters are like his conversation, free, frank, without a trace of arriÈre pensÉe, praising others where possible—and no man ever found it more possible to praise others more genuinely—depreciating himself and his work most unduly. “You so overestimate the value of what I do,” he writes on one occasion, “that you make me feel ashamed of myself, and wish to be worthy of such praise.” Again, “You have indeed passed a most magnificent eulogium on me, and I wonder that you were not afraid of hearing ‘oh, oh,’ or some other sign of disapprobation. Many persons think that what I have done in science has been much overrated, and I very often think so myself, but my comfort is that I have never consciously done anything to gain applause.” Here we see the scientific man occupying the highest possible moral standpoint as a seeker after truth. His election as one of the honorary members of the Physiological Society was to him a “wholly unexpected honour,” and a “mark of sympathy” which pleased him in a very high degree.

“Work,” he writes on another occasion, “is my sole pleasure in life.” “It is so much more interesting to observe than to write.” So long as he could devise experiments and mark the results he continued to do it, rather than prepare his voluminous notes on many subjects for publication. “Trollope, in one of his novels, gives as a maxim of constant use by a brickmaker, ‘It is dogged as does it,’ and I have often and often,” wrote Darwin, “thought this is a motto for every scientific worker.” How faithfully he adopted it himself those who read through any one of his experimental books can appreciate. He habitually read or heard some good novel as a recreation, and took a by no means restricted interest in general literature.

Considering how usual it is for leading thinkers to be drawn into controversy, even when most desirous of avoiding it, it is remarkable how little Darwin was mixed up with hotly-debated questions. “I hate controversy,” he writes, “and it wastes much time, at least with a man who, like myself, can work for only a short time in a day.” One of the few occasions on which he appeared as a champion of a cause was on the question of vivisection, in which a chivalrous feeling led him to intervene with the following letter to Professor Holmgren, of Upsala University, which was published in The Times of April 18, 1881. “I thought it fair,” he wrote, “to bear my share of the abuse poured in so atrocious a manner on all physiologists.”

As an experimenter Darwin was by no means overconfident either in his methods or his power of obtaining results. He simply took the best means open to him, or that he could devise, applied them in the best way known to him, and calmly studied the result. “As far as my experience goes,” he wrote, in reference to experimental work, “what one expects rarely happens.” On another occasion, after working like a slave at a certain investigation, “with very poor success;” he remarks, “as usual, almost everything goes differently to what I had anticipated.” How few investigators have the magnanimity which appears in this confession. But more than this, it is an indication of the rare patience with which he stuck at a subject till he knew all he could read or discover or develop in connection with it. It was “dogged” that did it; “awfully hard work” sometimes. In reference to an attempt of his to define intelligence, which he regarded as unsatisfactory, after remarking that he tried to observe what passed in his own mind when he did the work of a worm, he writes: “If I come across a professed metaphysician, I will ask him to give me a more technical definition with a few big words, about the abstract, the concrete, the absolute, and the infinite. But sincerely, I should be grateful for any suggestions; for it will hardly do to assume that every fool knows what ‘intelligent’ means.”

Inasmuch as it must necessarily be of great interest to know the attitude which so great a thinker as Darwin adopted towards Christianity, revelation, and other matters of theology, we give unabridged two letters which were written without a view to publication, and were published after his death without the authorisation of his representatives. Having been widely published, however, it is right that they should be given here.

The first of these was sent in 1873 to N. D. Deedes, a Dutch gentleman, who wrote to ask Darwin his opinion on the existence of a God:

The second letter was addressed to Nicholas, Baron Mengden, a German University student, in whom the study of Darwin’s books had raised religious doubts. It is dated June 5, 1879. The following is a re-translation of a German translation:

It should be added that he was greatly averse to every form of militant anti-religious controversy, and always deprecated it. He would have been the last to desire that his words should be quoted as of scientific authority, or as being more than the results of his own thought on questions which were not the subject of his life study. Let those who think that his having expressed these views is a regrettable blow to orthodox Christianity, set against it the enormous service Darwin did to reasonable natural theology by giving an intelligible key to the explanation of the universe. And let all men remember that genuine honesty such as Darwin’s cannot possibly hinder the interests or the spread of truth. His declaration that “man can do his duty,” implies his conviction that man may know what his duty is; and very many noble spirits besides Darwin have not found it possible to advance with certainty beyond this point.

As to Darwin’s place in literature, that is due supereminently to his thoughts. In his expression of them he had the saving quality of directness, and usually wrote with simplicity. Incisive he was not ordinarily; caution of his type harmonises ill with incisiveness. But what he lost thereby he gained in solidity and in permanence. Sometimes, as we have pointed out, his imagination carried him beyond his usual sober vein, and then he showed himself aglow with feeling or with sympathetic perception.

But when we speak of his imagination we pass at once to the other side of his mind—if indeed any such patient inquiry as his could have been maintained except for the imaginative side of him. This lit up his path, buoyed him in difficulties and failures, suggested new expedients, experiments, and combinations. The use of imagination in science has never been more aptly illustrated nor more beneficial than in his case. Darwin, more than any other man perhaps, showed the value, if not the essentiality, of “working hypotheses”; and if any man now wants to progress in biology, he will be foolish if he does not seek such and use them freely, and abandon them readily if disproved.

Darwin imagined grandly, and verified his imaginings as far as one man’s life suffices; and no man can do more. And Darwin won, as far as a man can win, success during his lifetime. As Professor Huxley said, in lecturing on “The Coming of Age of ‘The Origin of Species,’” “the foremost men of science in every country are either avowed champions of its leading doctrines, or at any rate abstain from opposing them.” His prescience has in less than a generation been justified by the discovery of intermediate fossil forms of animals too numerous to be here recounted. The break between vertebrate and invertebrate animals, between flowering and non-flowering plants, between animal and plant, is now bridged over by discoveries in the life histories of animals and plants which exist to-day. Embryo animals and plants are now known to go through stages which repeat and condense the upward ascent of life; and they give us information of the greatest value as to lost stages in the path. We can, as it were, see the actual track through which evolution may have proceeded. “Thus,” says Professor Huxley, “if the doctrine of evolution had not existed, palÆontologists must have invented it, so irresistibly is it forced upon the mind by the study of the remains of the Tertiary mammalia which have been brought to light since 1859;” and again, “so far as the animal world is concerned, evolution is no longer a speculation, but a statement of historical fact.”

As to the limits of the truth of Darwin’s theory, Professor Huxley, writing on “Evolution in Biology,” in “The EncyclopÆdia Britannica,” says: “How far natural selection suffices for the production of species remains to be seen. Few can doubt that, if not the whole cause, it is a very important factor in that operation; and that it must play a great part in the sorting out of varieties into those which are transitory, and those which are permanent. But the causes and conditions of variation have yet to be thoroughly explored; and the importance of natural selection will not be impaired, even if further inquiries should prove that variability is definite, and is determined in certain directions rather than in others, by conditions inherent in that which varies.”

We have not space to describe the importance of the work Darwin did in, or bearing on, entomology, changing its face and vastly elevating its importance. A volume might be compiled from his writings on this subject, as reference to Professor Riley’s excellent summary (Darwin Memorial Meeting, Washington, 1882) will readily show. Nor can we recount his important work in other branches of biology further than has been already done in the foregoing pages. To do so would require much more than a volume of this size.

One special department may perhaps claim notice on the ground of its supposed non-scientific character. Dr. Masters (Gardeners’ Chronicle, April 22, 1882) says of Darwin’s service to horticulture: “Let any one who knows what was the state of botany in this country even so recently as fifteen or twenty years ago, compare the feeling between botanists and horticulturists at that time with what it is now. What sympathy had the one for the pursuits of the other? The botanist looked down on the varieties, the races, and strains, raised with so much pride by the patient skill of the florist as on things unworthy of his notice and study. The horticulturist, on his side, knowing how very imperfectly plants could be studied from the mummified specimens in herbaria, which then constituted in most cases all the material that the botanist of this country considered necessary for the study of plants, naturally looked on the botanist somewhat in the light of a laborious trifler.... Darwin altered all this. He made the dry bones live; he invested plants and animals with a history, a biography, a genealogy, which at once conferred an interest and a dignity on them. Before, they were as the stuffed skin of a beast in the glass case of a museum; now they are living beings, each in their degree affected by the same circumstances that affect ourselves, and swayed, mutatis mutandis, by like feelings and like passions. If he had done nothing more than this we might still have claimed Darwin as a horticulturist; but as we shall see, he has more direct claims on our gratitude. The apparently trifling variations, the variations which it was once the fashion for botanists to overlook, have become, as it were, the keystone of a great theory.”

A valuable summary of Darwin’s influence on general philosophic thought has been given by Mr. James Sully, in his article, “Evolution in Philosophy,” in “The EncyclopÆdia Britannica,” 9th ed., vol. viii. He, like many other thinkers, considers that Darwin has done much to banish old ideas as to the evidence of purpose in nature. Mr. Sully’s views are not entirely shared, however, by Professor Winchell, an able American evolutionist (“EncyclopÆdia Americana,” vol. ii.) who considers that the question of teleology, or of purpose in nature, is not really touched by the special principle of natural selection, nor by the general doctrine of evolution. The mechanical theorist may, consistently with these doctrines, maintain that every event takes place without a purpose; while the teleologist, or believer in purpose, may no less consistently maintain that the more orderly and uniform we find the succession of events, the more reason is there to presume that a purposeful intelligence is regulating them. It is certainly impossible to show that the whole system of evolution does not exist for a purpose. The ranks of the evolutionists, and even of the Darwinians, as a fact, embrace believers in the most diverse systems of philosophy, including many of those who accept Christ’s teaching as an authoritative Divine revelation. May not this diversity among Darwinians itself teach hope? Darwinism is held with vital grip and will therefore not become a dead creed, a fossil formula. The belief that every generation is a step in progress to a higher and fuller life contains within it the promise of a glorious evolution which is no longer a faint hope, but a reasoned faith.

Here let us leave Charles Darwin; a marvellously patient and successful revolutioniser of thought; a noble and beloved man.