Darwin's Origin of Species Page 2

  Life took an exciting twist when his father took him away from school early, and in 1825 sent him and his brother Erasmus to Edinburgh Medical School, where he began studying medicine. In those days students paid on an individual basis for whichever medical courses were necessary – anatomy, midwifery, physic, materia medica – a much more informal arrangement than today. Very young men could attend the university by taking a handful of courses before they settled down to serious study. After a diligent start, sixteen-year-old Darwin found the realities of early nineteenth- century medicine upsetting. Two ‘very bad’ operations, one on a child, convinced him he would never make a doctor (this was long before the age of anaesthetics) and he left in 1827.

  During that short period, however, he was exposed to some of the most formative influences of his youth, influences that lasted right through to his death. Biographers regularly go back to Darwin’s Edinburgh years, convinced that the seeds of all his later thinking lie there – and to a large degree they are right. Edinburgh University was the leading centre in Britain for science and medicine. It kept abreast of continental research and offered classes, both inside and outside the university, on all aspects of modern science. Darwin took Thomas Hope’s chemistry class and Robert Jameson’s natural history course, the latter supported by a fine natural history museum. He liked the museum very much. There he met a local taxidermist, a freed slave called John Edmonston, who had arrived in Scotland from the West Indies, who taught him how to stuff birds; and he spent pleasant hours talking with the curator William Macgillivray about shells and birds. Jameson’s course introduced him to the subject of geology and he became aware of contemporary debates about the history of the earth and fossils – although he said he hated Jameson’s dry and dusty lectures, and vowed never to pursue the subject again.

  Darwin also enjoyed a lot of independent practical natural history work. He joined the Plinian Society, a small student society, where he met Robert Grant, a charismatic university lecturer in the medical school who approved of French developmental anatomy and evolutionary views. Under Grant’s guidance Darwin began observing soft-bodied marine organisms from the North Sea, and made his first discovery in science, on the ova of Flustra, a kind of gelatinous ‘sea-mat’, that was announced at the Plinian Society on 27 March 1827. He found that the ‘ova’ were not eggs at all, but free-swimming larvae.

  Grant dramatically broadened Darwin’s perspectives. He took him into Edinburgh’s scientific circles, and encouraged him to expand his natural history interests. From him Darwin acquired a lifelong fascination with ‘generation’ (sexual and asexual reproductive processes) and the embryology of invertebrates like molluscs, sponges and polyps. Grant encouraged Darwin to read Lamarck’s System of Invertebrate Animals (1801) and one day burst out in praise of Lamarck’s views on transmutation (sometimes also called transform- ism; the word ‘evolution’ was not used at that time). Darwin recalled that he listened, as far as he knew, with little effect on his mind. Yet he had already read his grandfather’s book on the laws of life and health, the Zoonomia (1794–96) which included a short section setting out a theory of development very similar to Lamarck’s. By then Erasmus Darwin and Lamarck had been dead for several decades but were by no means regarded as old-fashioned. They were highly valued by radical thinkers in the 1820s for their bold biological theories in the Enlightenment tradition, especially for their trans- mutationary ideas. Grant used these ideas, appropriately updated, to propose sponges as the basic organism from which all other forms developed to make the evolutionary tree. Darwin therefore left Edinburgh with much wider intellectual horizons than many young men of his age. He had already learned to see the value of lofty questions about origins and causes, and directly encountered evolutionary explanations for the patterns of life, although there is no reason to think that he became an evolutionist at that time.

  Darwin’s father was not pleased about his son’s change of direction. After a few terse discussions at home, and extensive coaching in all the Latin and Greek that he had forgotten from school, Darwin shortly afterwards entered Christ’s College, Cambridge, to read for an ‘ordinary’ degree, the usual start for taking holy orders in the Anglican Church. While the family was not particularly religious, entering the church as a vicar was an accepted route to a respectable middle-class profession in Victorian times and several members of the Darwin and Wedgwood circle were competent country parsons. Rather in the tradition of the Reverend Gilbert White, author of The Natural History of Selborne, young men with appropriate social and educational credentials could expect to find a comfortable niche in a country parish with plenty of time to pursue natural history or sporting interests. Darwin later said in his Autobiography that he was content with the idea of becoming a clergyman, though he felt one or two fleeting religious doubts. Afterwards he was well aware of the irony. ‘Considering how fiercely I have been attacked by the orthodox it seems ludicrous that I once intended to be a clergyman’.1 His father had evidently impressed on him the importance of gaining a profession: he could not depend on a full private income from inheritance alone. ‘You care for nothing but shooting, dogs, and rat-catching, and you will be a disgrace to yourself and all your family,’ Dr Darwin once declared, to his son’s mortification. If not medicine, then the church seems to have been the likely subject of their conversations.

  These years at Cambridge University were extremely significant for Darwin’s later life, although not quite in the way that either Darwin or his father expected. Because of this, historians of science have combed through his experiences there, seeking even the smallest hint about his future preoccupations. All agree that the academic environment at Cambridge was very unlike Edinburgh and that the switchback ride from a coolly austere medical context to the lush theological pastures of Cambridge was decisive. Darwin’s later achievements, in fact, can conveniently be characterized as a mix of Edinburgh and Cambridge ideas – the two traditions sparking insights off each other. At Cambridge Darwin entered the elite social and intellectual milieu he was to occupy for the rest of his days, and the friendships he made proved enduring. Of these, John Stevens Henslow (1796–1861), the young professor of botany, and Adam Sedgwick (1785–1873), an equally young professor of geology, were most important. He became acquainted with the scientist-philosopher William Whewell and the naturalist-parson Leonard Jenyns. His closest personal friend was his cousin William Darwin Fox, also at the university training to become an Anglican clergyman. For a couple of terms they shared rooms together, as well as some student debts and a dog.

  Darwin had a fabulous three years. The lecture schedule was undemanding and there was plenty of time to indulge natural history interests. In the company of his cousin, Darwin became a passionate amateur entomologist, knowledgeable enough about beetle classification to send a minor contribution to the author of an authoritative textbook. He hunted foxes, shot game birds, swapped natural history specimens with his friends, played cards and enjoyed life with a wide circle of acquaintances. ‘I got into a sporting set, including some dissipated low-minded young men. We used often to dine together in the evening, though these dinners included men of a higher stamp, and we sometimes drank too much, with jolly singing and playing at cards afterwards. I know that I ought to feel ashamed of days and evenings thus spent, but as some of my friends were very pleasant and we were all in the highest spirits, I cannot help looking back to these times with much pleasure.’2

  On the academic side, as well as struggling through the required courses in mathematics, classics and theology, he went to Henslow’s botany lectures and (in his final year) Sedgwick’s public lecture course on geology. Henslow obviously liked Darwin very much – perhaps seeing something of promise in him – and began to invite him to evening parties where he could meet some of the eminent men of the university. On his advice, Darwin read widely, afterwards citing John Herschel’s Preliminary Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy (1830) and Alexander von Humboldt’s Personal Narr
ative (English translation 1814–29) as inspirational.

  In particular Darwin engaged with the theological views of Archdeacon William Paley, initially as part of his syllabus and then as independent reading. Darwin was expected to be able to answer questions in the final examinations on Paley’s Evidences of Christianity and Moral Philosophy. After he graduated, he read the last of Paley’s trilogy, Natural Theology (1802), with its argument that the adaptation of living beings to their surroundings was so perfect that it proved the existence of God. How could such perfect design have come about, stated Paley, except from the careful hands of a designer? If a watch were accidentally found on a path, we would be entirely justified in thinking that it had been constructed by a skilled craftsman according to some design or plan. Such intricate mechanisms do not suddenly appear out of nothing, like magic. They are made by a maker. So, Paley argued, the world about us must be considered in the same way as the watch.

  This natural theological standpoint dominated Cambridge teaching across the board, although not without criticism, and formed the cornerstone of Cambridge natural science. The Christian God, it was said, had created a world in which everything had its place and was designed to do its job properly – a point of view originally popular throughout the learned world in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and which gained special support in Britain in the early nineteenth century. The physical world was thought to be governed by natural laws that ran like clockwork and even the underlying structure of society appeared to mirror a carefully regulated and well-designed piece of machinery. For many people at that time the image of God was not that of an absolute monarch, sending miracles and thunderbolts, but of a careful, all-seeing guardian who arranged everything to run efficiently. Natural theology, indeed, was commonly regarded by the British cultural establishment as one of the strongest bulwarks against social unrest because it reinforced ideas of stable hierarchy, a powerful antidote against civil insurgencies and rebellion. Theological doctrine, in this regard, was fully integrated into the political and social ethos of the most influential men of the early years of the century – the Cambridge network, as it has been characterized.

  Paley’s clear language gave Darwin great pleasure. ‘The logic of this book [Evidences of Christianity] and as I may add of his Natural Theology gave me much delight… I was charmed and convinced by the long line of argumentation.’3 Many of Darwin’s later investigations of animal and plant adaptations were undertaken partly to provide an alternative to the perfect design described so eloquently by Paley. In a more literary, emotional sense, Paley also gave Darwin the words with which to express appreciation of the marvellous intricacy of natural beings, the glint of an insect wing or the small sacs of nectar at the base of flowers for bees to suck. While Darwin eventually discarded all notions of a designer- god, he always kept alive the sense of wonder that he had learned from Paley and never quite abandoned those early feelings of worship.

  Second, it was Cambridge that handed him the future in the form of the Beagle voyage. All these youthful incidents and carefree developments would probably have come to nothing if Darwin had not gone on the long sea voyage that transformed his life. Initially, after his final examinations in 1831, he intended simply to enjoy himself until returning to Cambridge in the autumn for theological training. Inspired by reading Humboldt’s travels he wanted to make a natural history expedition to Tenerife with Henslow, but the logistics overwhelmed them and the plans never really got off the ground. So his other professorial friend, Adam Sedgwick, took Darwin as an assistant for two weeks on his summer fieldwork examining the earliest known rocks in Wales. Sedgwick taught him geology in the field and introduced him to the rationale for sound scientific decisions. These two weeks gave Darwin a lifelong love for geological theorizing on a large scale. He then went to his uncle’s country house for the August shooting.

  On his return to Shrewsbury, Darwin found a letter from Henslow offering him a voyage around the world on a British surveying ship, HMS Beagle. The invitation had come through several hands and was very unusual, even in its day. It originated from Captain Robert FitzRoy (1805–65), who requested permission from the Hydrographer of the British Admiralty to take with him a gentleman who could make good use of the journey for collecting natural history specimens. Such a gentleman would share the captain’s facilities as a guest and was expected to pay his own way. The elite social network that linked government, naval administration and the old universities had led to a number of Cambridge professors being consulted – at one point Henslow himself thought he would like to go. So did Leonard Jenyns. But each felt that his parish commitments obliged him not to pursue it. As a result, Henslow thought Darwin was ‘the very man they are in search of’.4 It was not an official position, nor was it an offer to be the ship’s naturalist, although in effect this did become the case. Robert FitzRoy was a young man himself, only four years older than Darwin, who was deeply interested in science and new developments in marine navigation. He believed that the voyage would offer a fine opportunity to advance British science.

  At first Dr Darwin felt his son should not accept. The whole plan was ‘a wild scheme’ he declared. Disappointed, Darwin wrote down his father’s objections. Prime among them was ‘disreputable to my character as a clergyman hereafter… I should never settle down to a steady life… you should consider it as again changing my profession… that it would be a useless undertaking.’5 Fortunately, Dr Darwin was persuaded otherwise by his brother-in-law, Josiah Wedgwood the second. The rest of the summer passed in a flurry of eager organization. ‘The voyage of the Beagle has been by far the most important event in my life and has determined my whole career,’ declared Darwin.6 To the end of his days he would still thrill to the memory of that extraordinary experience.

  Today the fame of this voyage sometimes makes it hard to remember that its purpose was not to take Darwin around the world but to carry out British Admiralty instructions. The ship had been commissioned to complete and extend an earlier hydrographical survey of South American waters that had taken place from 1825 to 1830. FitzRoy had joined the Beagle two years into that former voyage. The area was significant to the government for commercial, nationalistic and naval reasons, buttressed by the Admiralty’s marked enthusiasm for practical scientific advance and preoccupation with accurate naval charts and safe harbours. In fact the Hydrographer’s Office was renowned for sending out a great many surveying expeditions in the lull after the Napoleonic wars to promote and exploit British interests overseas. FitzRoy’s interest in science encouraged him to equip the ship for its second voyage with several sophisticated instruments and a number of chronometers for taking longitude measurements around the globe. The voyage lasted from December 1831 to October 1836, during which time they visited the Cape de Verd Islands, the Falkland Islands, many coastal locations in South America, including Rio de Janeiro, Buenos Aires, Tierra del Fuego, Valparaiso and the island of Chiloé, followed by the Galápagos Islands, Tahiti, New Zealand, very briefly Australia and Tasmania, and the Keeling (Cocos) Islands in the Indian Ocean, concluding with the Cape of Good Hope, St Helena and Ascension Island. Darwin made several long inland expeditions on his own in South America, including a tour across the Andes. Whenever possible, he arranged with FitzRoy to be dropped off and picked up at various points.

  The high profile of the voyage has sometimes also led to Captain Robert FitzRoy being harshly misrepresented. He was hardly the bible-waving caricature that is usually described in the literature. Admittedly there is a poignant symbolism in these two men travelling the world together, the one a sincere religious believer, the other en route to destroying the presence of God in nature. Yet at that time FitzRoy was a keen amateur geologist with rather advanced non-biblical views. He gave Darwin the first volume of Charles Lyell’s landmark volume, The Principles of Geology (1830–33) and discussed with him some of the theories it contained. Darwin received the other two volumes during the voyage. It was only afterwards tha
t FitzRoy became a pronounced biblical fundamentalist. There is no evidence that they disagreed about religion on board ship, although it is evident from their writings that personal relations were sometimes strained. They argued, a couple of times very intensely, but the arguments were about each other’s manners not religion. On the whole they managed very well. Darwin usually ate with the captain and talked about all kinds of things with him as a friend, while sharing a cabin and workspace with two junior officers, the mate and assistant surveyor John Lort Stokes and fourteen-year-old midshipman Philip Gidley King. On the way home, Darwin and FitzRoy jointly wrote a short newspaper article praising the work of the Anglican missionaries on Tahiti. Images of Darwin alone with his thoughts on board the Beagle, arguing about religion with the captain, a solitary naturalist voyaging through strange seas of thought, is attractive but only true in part.

  These five years on the Beagle voyage were the making of him. Some of them were spent galloping around on hired horses, striking camp in new places every night, hunting game for supper with companions from the ship, discussing the news from back home and enjoying himself; they were an extension of the carefree days as a Cambridge undergraduate. It seems very likely, in fact, that he was chosen for the voyage partly because of his cheerful ability to join in with the ship’s activities, which combined pleasantly with his cultivated background and skill in shooting and hunting. There were plenty of occasions to display such attributes. In Montevideo the Beagle men marched into town armed to the teeth to quell a political uprising. In Tasmania they attended a very fine concert. In the far south they were nearly capsized by a calving glacier. Out in the forest near Concepción Darwin felt the earth buckle under his feet in a major earthquake. He swam in coral lagoons, was entranced by birdsong in a tropical forest, and contemplated the stars from the top of a pass on the Cordillera de los Andes. In Brazil, his passionate heart burned with indignation about slavery, still a legal system under Portuguese rule, and he listed some terrible tales in his diary: facts so revolting, he said, that if he had heard them in England he would have thought them made up for journalistic effect.