There is a dramatic effect in even the simplest of experiments. I, for one, am never weary of the time-honoured demonstration of a water-plant giving off oxygen as it assimilates. A twig of Elodea in a large beaker of water gives off no bubbles in the dull light at the back of the room, but when close to the window it does so. And with proper precautions the rate of bubbling becomes an accurate measure of the intensity of assimilation. To complete the demonstration the experiment should be repeated with water which has been boiled, and therefore roughly freed from CO2, when
the rate of bubbling is very greatly diminished. Finally, by blowing vigorously into the water it may be charged once more with CO2, and the normal rate of bubbling may be established.
There are of course innumerable experiments in pure chemistry and physics which have this romantic quality in the manner in which they reveal the secrets of the invisible structure of matter—but of these I have not much personal experience.
I think, too, that the human interest of science should always be encouraged. I mean that those classical experiments, by which great men have advanced human knowledge, should be shown: and performed moreover by the original methods, e.g. the discoveries of Black, Priestley and Cavendish.
After all, the real fun of science begins when one finds out something that was not known before. This is what is rather pompously called original research. It is interesting to see in my father’s life how the sporting instinct gave way to the love of discovery. To show this passionate love of sport, he mentions that when as a boy he had just shot his first snipe, his hands trembled so that he could hardly reload his gun. Yet the same boy on the voyage of the Beagle found out how much more entrancing than shooting was the chase of new facts and new theories, and he handed over his gun to his servant. And something of this delight one may have as the merest learner. You are not likely to find out things that nobody knew before, but you may easily find out things quite new to yourself—which to you personally are as good as
the brand-newest discovery. Lastly, there is another excellent reason for scientific work, namely, that the bodily welfare of the human race and of its friendly animals and plants depends on accurate knowledge of the nature and behaviour of everything in the world. It is this truth that makes us believe that every fact has its value. Its value may remain unrecognised for long periods, and then it may suddenly find its place in the great jig-saw puzzle of knowledge. The two most exciting sciences just now seem to me to be Physics and Pathology; one as bringing us nearer to the knowledge of the structure of matter, the other in disentangling the causes of deadly and mysterious diseases such as malaria, diphtheria, hydrophobia, sleeping sickness, in a manner and with a success hitherto undreamt of. But because the advances in these sciences are so brilliant and hopeful, no civilised worker will venture to despise the pursuits of less fortunate people whose work seems rather humdrum. There are botanists who spend their whole lives in describing and classifying dried plants in a herbarium. But these are really doing highly valuable work, for the simple reason that we cannot make any accurate use of plants until they have names. I am omitting the purely commercial use of such work, which is very great. I only want to insist that the mere naming of living things is an indispensable stone in the building of the palace of science. All who work at science may recognise that they belong to a guild which makes for the happiness of the human race. And this they must do, not with any pride, but humbly
acknowledging how small is their personal share in the total of progress.
The Darwin Buildings, that is to say, the three new laboratories which are open to-day, were absolutely needed to carry out the Head Master’s plan of giving every boy in the School a chance of learning science. When I say that at the present time 270 boys under five masters are at work in the laboratories, you will realise to what good use they are being put. As I happen to represent the Royal Society on your Governing Body it is especially satisfactory to me to know that science is here taught on the principle expressed by the motto of the Society: “Nullius in verba,” that is to say, not in other people’s words, but in your own observation lies the path of Science.
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SIR GEORGE DARWIN [152a]
George Howard, the fifth [152b] child of Charles and Emma Darwin, was born at Down, July 9th, 1845. Why he was christened [152c] George, I cannot say. It was one of the facts on which we founded a theory that our parents lost their presence of mind at the font, and gave us names for which there was neither the excuse of tradition nor of preference on their own part. His second name, however, commemorates his great-grandmother, Mary Howard, the first wife of Erasmus Darwin. It seems possible that George’s ill-health and that of his father were inherited from the Howards. This, at any rate, was Francis Galton’s view, who held that his own excellent health was a heritage from Erasmus Darwin’s second wife. George’s second name, Howard, has a certain appropriateness in his case, for he was the genealogist and herald of our family, and it is through Mary Howard that the Darwins can, by an excessively devious route, claim descent