[_Nature_, April 27th, 1882]
Very few, even among those who have taken the keenest interest in the
progress of the revolution in natural knowledge set afoot by the
publication of "The Origin of Species," and who have watched, not without
astonishment, the rapid and complete change which has been effected both
inside and outside the boundaries of the scientific world in the attitude
of men's minds towards the doctrines which are expounded in that great
work, can have been prepared for the extraordinary manifestation of
affectionate regard for the man, and of profound reverence for the
philosopher, which followed the announcement, on Thursday last, of the
death of Mr. Darwin.
Not only in these islands, where so many have felt the fascination of
personal contact with an intellect which had no superior, and with a
character which was even nobler than the intellect; but, in all parts of
the civilised world, it would seem that those whose business it is to feel
the pulse of nations and to know what interests the masses of mankind, were
well aware that thousands of their readers would think the world the poorer
for Darwin's death, and would dwell with eager interest upon every incident
of his history. In France, in Germany, in Austro-Hungary, in Italy, in the
United States, writers of all shades of opinion, for once unanimous, have
paid a willing tribute to the worth of our great countryman, ignored in
life by the official representatives of the kingdom, but laid in death
among his peers in Westminster Abbey by the will of the intelligence of the
nation.
It is not for us to allude to the sacred sorrows of the bereaved home at
Down; but it is no secret that, outside that domestic group, there are many
to whom Mr. Darwin's death is a wholly irreparable loss. And this not
merely because of his wonderfully genial, simple, and generous nature; his
cheerful and animated conversation, and the infinite variety and accuracy
of his information; but because the more one knew of him, the more he
seemed the incorporated ideal of a man of science. Acute as were his
reasoning powers, vast as was his knowledge, marvellous as was his
tenacious industry, under physical difficulties which would have converted
nine men out of ten into aimless invalids; it was not these qualities,
great as they were, which impressed those who were admitted to his intimacy
with involuntary veneration, but a certain intense and almost passionate
honesty by which all his thoughts and actions were irradiated, as by a
central fire.
It was this rarest and greatest of endowments which kept his vivid
imagination and great speculative powers within due bounds; which compelled
him to undertake the prodigious labours of original investigation and of
reading, upon which his published works are based; which made him accept
criticisms and suggestions from anybody and everybody, not only without
impatience, but with expressions of gratitude sometimes almost comically in
excess of their value; which led him to allow neither himself nor others to
be deceived by phrases, and to spare neither time nor pains in order to
obtain clear and distinct ideas upon every topic with which he occupied
himself.
One could not converse with Darwin without being reminded of Socrates.
There was the same desire to find some one wiser than himself; the same
belief in the sovereignty of reason; the same ready humour; the same
sympathetic interest in all the ways and works of men. But instead of
turning away from the problems of Nature as hopelessly insoluble, our
modern philosopher devoted his whole life to attacking them in the spirit
of Heraclitus and of Democritus, with results which are the substance of
which their speculations were anticipatory shadows.
The due appreciation, or even enumeration, of these results is neither
practicable nor desirable at this moment. There is a time for all things--a
time for glorying in our ever-extending conquests over the realm of Nature,
and a time for mourning over the heroes who have led us to victory.
None have fought better, and none have been more fortunate, than Charles
Darwin. He found a great truth trodden underfoot, reviled by bigots, and
ridiculed by all the world; he lived long enough to see it, chiefly by his
own efforts, irrefragably established in science, inseparably incorporated
with the common thoughts of men, and only hated and feared by those who
would revile, but dare not. What shall a man desire more than this? Once
more the image of Socrates rises unbidden, and the noble peroration of the
"Apology" rings in our ears as if it were Charles Darwin's farewell:--
"The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways--I to die and you to
live. Which is the better, God only knows."