The outstanding figure of the entire history of evolution is Charles Darwin. Whether or not he deserves all of the prominence that has been given him is a question--a question that probably must be answered in the negative. We are very apt to lionize the victor while we ignore those who made the victory possible, whether it be won in science, politics, or warfare. Among certain circles today there is an undeniable tendency to over-praise Darwin; to talk and think as though he were the first and the last truly great evolutionist. It is becoming with Darwin as Harris found it with Shakespeare: “He is like the Old-Man-of-the-Sea on the shoulders of our youth; he has become an obsession to the critic, a weapon to the pedant, a nuisance to the man of genius.” If we substitute ‘popularizer’ for ‘critic,’ Harris’ sentence will apply to Darwin without further modification. There is a popular misconception that a great and successful scientist must of necessity be a man of great genius; nothing of the sort is true. Take the average “authority” away from his specialty, and he is a very commonplace individual; take him with it, and he is often little more than a remarkably durable and precise human machine. Neither biographers nor critics have shown us any good reasons for considering Charles Darwin an exceptionally great man. He was a highly successful scientist, but at the same time he was aided to success by the condition of science during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and his personal fortune. In this connection it will be worth our while to examine the opinions of Carlyle, as reported by Frank Harris. The two were discussing notables of the century, and Harris brought up the name of Darwin. Carlyle described the two brothers as “solid, healthy[12] men, not greatly gifted, but honest and careful and hardworking ...” and speaking of a conversation with Charles Darwin after his return from the “Beagle” voyage, said: “I saw in him then qualities I had hardly done justice to before: a patient clear-mindedness, fairness too, and, above all, an allegiance to facts, just as facts, which was most pathetic to me; it was so instinctive, determined, even desperate, a sort of belief in its way, an English belief, that the facts must lead you right if you only followed them honestly, a poor, groping, blind faith--all that seems possible to us in these days of flatulent unbelief and piggish unconcern for everything except swill and straw.”[13] We need not, like Carlyle, abuse this “allegiance to facts”; it is the foundation-stone of all reliable scientific work, and the scientist who abandons it is sure to bring disaster to himself and his work. And yet, to maintain that fact-hunting is, of necessity, a mark of genius is absurd.