A few years ago I visited a little nondescrpt, somewhat rundown house on the main road running through Brandon, Vermont. It wasn't a house that meant anything special to most people, and it was only marked by a somewhat obscure sign. But it meant a great deal to me. It was where a great man was born--one of the greaest of the 19th century--my century. And if he hadn't been born we would never have had Abraham Lincoln.
I am more than gratified to learn that the house, where Stephen A. Douglas came into this world on April 23, 1813, had at long last been spruced up, given a visitor center, and dedicated to giving Douglas, the redoutable "Little Giant," his due. He was to become for a quarter of a century Lincoln's great rival in Illinois politics. From their dramatic rivalry the Union-dividing issue of slavery was defined and the greatest man of that century--one of the greatest of any century--was to emerge.
For most of that rivalry Douglas was the front-runner. He was the first to become a national figure, and a power in American politics--for a time the most powerful. His biggest drawback--he was wrong-headed about that great issue. He believed the problem of slavery should be resolved by the simple democratic principal of "popular sovereignty"--letting each territory decided for itself, by popular assent, whether or not to become a slave or free state when it entered the Union. Douglas did not care whether slavery was voted up or down as long as the people of the territory agreed about it. This was doubtless the right way to resolve most problems. But as Lincoln eloquently pointed out,slavery was different--a special case, a special evil, a moral wrong. It could not, must not, be dealt with in that fashion. It must be fought. And he fought it with all of his intelligence and eloqence.
In the end Lincoln's position--the great and true one, won out. And he rode it to the presidency. Although Douglas stood far above him in the national ken for most of the years of their rivalry, it was Lincoln who became the great one, and Douglas the also-ran. And the house on the main road in Brandon stood for years ignored and neglected--the fate of also-rans. But it was only because Lincoln emerged as Douglas's great rival that the nation come to know Lincoln at all--and to elect him president
The point is--if there had been no Douglas, the great foil for Lincoln's greater greatness, Lincoln would never have emerged from political obscurity.. The country owes the Little Giant at least a nod of lasting respect. Turning the little house where he was born into a commeration of his memory is fitting and long overdue.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The "Homosexual" Lincolln
That other prominent modern-day Lincoln tear-down tactic--racist being the other--that smacks strongly of looking at the past through the wrong-ended lens of the present is the theory that he was also a closet homosexual.
This theory gets all mixed up with the shortage of beds in Lincoln's time. In our time if a man sleeps with a man he must therefore be a homosexual. If a woman sleeps with a woman she must be a lesbian. And that is the main buttress of this argument that Lincoln was a homosesexual. He spent endless nights, particularly in his earlier years, sleeping in the same bed with another man--or men. But in Lincoln's time it was a question of a shortage of beds. There was not an overabundance of racks in his day, particularly on the frontier. This was before he married Mary Todd, then he started sleeping with her instead, and they produced four children.
It was not unheard of for two opposing candidates running for Congress in Illinois in Lincoln's time to travel together, hammer and defame one another on the stump all day, and then sleep congenially in the same bed at night. When Lincoln first came to Springfield in 1837 Joshua Speed offered to share his bed and Lincoln dumped his saddlebags in the upstairs room and accepted. It beat going in debt or sleeping out in the village square.
This shortage of beds permeated society right up into Lincoln's presidential years. Gettysburg was so crowded with bodies when Lincoln went there to deliver his immortal Gettyburg Address in November 1863 that the main speaker of the day, Edward Everett, spent a restless night worrying tht he was going to have to share his bed with the governor of Pennsylvania, who was arriving late. Everett's daughter, Charlotte, come with her father to this great event, was forced to sleep with two other women in the same bed. (Five in a bed was not said to be uncommon that night in Gettysburg, which was mobbed.) The three-in-one weight worked out to be too heavy for Charlotte's bed. It collapsed in the night, pitching Charlotte and her two sleeping comanions out on the floor.
Ånother "evidence" trotted out that Lincon must have been a homosexual was his preference for the company of men throughout his lifetime. But looked at not through the lens of the present, but of the past in which he lived, and for the kind of man he was--from which such matters should be viewed--Lincoln just wasn't all that handy with the ladies. Besides he loved telling stories and most of his stories were not fit for mixed company. Cover your ears, ladies.
This theory gets all mixed up with the shortage of beds in Lincoln's time. In our time if a man sleeps with a man he must therefore be a homosexual. If a woman sleeps with a woman she must be a lesbian. And that is the main buttress of this argument that Lincoln was a homosesexual. He spent endless nights, particularly in his earlier years, sleeping in the same bed with another man--or men. But in Lincoln's time it was a question of a shortage of beds. There was not an overabundance of racks in his day, particularly on the frontier. This was before he married Mary Todd, then he started sleeping with her instead, and they produced four children.
It was not unheard of for two opposing candidates running for Congress in Illinois in Lincoln's time to travel together, hammer and defame one another on the stump all day, and then sleep congenially in the same bed at night. When Lincoln first came to Springfield in 1837 Joshua Speed offered to share his bed and Lincoln dumped his saddlebags in the upstairs room and accepted. It beat going in debt or sleeping out in the village square.
This shortage of beds permeated society right up into Lincoln's presidential years. Gettysburg was so crowded with bodies when Lincoln went there to deliver his immortal Gettyburg Address in November 1863 that the main speaker of the day, Edward Everett, spent a restless night worrying tht he was going to have to share his bed with the governor of Pennsylvania, who was arriving late. Everett's daughter, Charlotte, come with her father to this great event, was forced to sleep with two other women in the same bed. (Five in a bed was not said to be uncommon that night in Gettysburg, which was mobbed.) The three-in-one weight worked out to be too heavy for Charlotte's bed. It collapsed in the night, pitching Charlotte and her two sleeping comanions out on the floor.
Ånother "evidence" trotted out that Lincon must have been a homosexual was his preference for the company of men throughout his lifetime. But looked at not through the lens of the present, but of the past in which he lived, and for the kind of man he was--from which such matters should be viewed--Lincoln just wasn't all that handy with the ladies. Besides he loved telling stories and most of his stories were not fit for mixed company. Cover your ears, ladies.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The "Racist" Lincoln
This is a tear-down, bring-down age we live in. And Abraham Lincoln has not been immune to attacks attempting to tarnish or destroy his standing as a great man and a great president. Two of the most recent ongoing attacks have painted him as a racist and as a homesexual. First, I will address the charge that he was a racist. The homosexuality will be the next in this march of the blogs.
The racist charge suffers from the same problem that much tear-down suffers from--viewing the past not through the prism of the past, but the prisim of the present. Historians call this "presentism" and it is an unhealthy disease. Those who accuse Lincoln of being a racist suffer from it.
Viewed in the context of the present, Lincoln could indeed be called a racist, indeed, a white supremecist. He said in his legendary debates with Stephen A. Douglas in 1858 that he believed the white man should always be superior to the black. But in that day virtually every white man, North and South, believed that--or said he did. Anybody who was running for public office had to believe it, or at least say he did, or he could never be elected.
But Lincoln had a very mild case of racism for his day--a trumped-up case. Douglas had the hard case--the one most whites sincerely had. Douglas believed the black man a hopelessly inferior being, born to be ruled by whites, with no rights to equality at all. Lincoln, boldly for his time, argued the case for the black man having been born equal to any white in the right to earn, own, keep, and eat his own bread. He fought boldly to keep slavery from spreading into the territories, looking to its eventual extinction everywhere. And in 1865, before his assassination, he saw passed the constitutional amendment freeing blacks from slavery everywhere, North and South. And that was the first step to eventual true black equality.
Lincoln was only as racist as he had to be in his time to get anything done. I don't believe he believed, for a minute, in the inferiority of the black man. I think the real Lincoln was reflected in something Frederick Douglass, the great ex-slave, orator, and most famous black man of Lincoln's time, said of him. After Douglass first met Lincoln in 1863, he said of him that Lincoln "was the first great man that I talked with in the United States freely, who in no single instance reminded me of the difference between himself and myself, of the difference of color...."
That, in my view is the definition of a thoroughgoing non-racist. And I believe that is what Lincoln was in his heart of hearts.
The racist charge suffers from the same problem that much tear-down suffers from--viewing the past not through the prism of the past, but the prisim of the present. Historians call this "presentism" and it is an unhealthy disease. Those who accuse Lincoln of being a racist suffer from it.
Viewed in the context of the present, Lincoln could indeed be called a racist, indeed, a white supremecist. He said in his legendary debates with Stephen A. Douglas in 1858 that he believed the white man should always be superior to the black. But in that day virtually every white man, North and South, believed that--or said he did. Anybody who was running for public office had to believe it, or at least say he did, or he could never be elected.
But Lincoln had a very mild case of racism for his day--a trumped-up case. Douglas had the hard case--the one most whites sincerely had. Douglas believed the black man a hopelessly inferior being, born to be ruled by whites, with no rights to equality at all. Lincoln, boldly for his time, argued the case for the black man having been born equal to any white in the right to earn, own, keep, and eat his own bread. He fought boldly to keep slavery from spreading into the territories, looking to its eventual extinction everywhere. And in 1865, before his assassination, he saw passed the constitutional amendment freeing blacks from slavery everywhere, North and South. And that was the first step to eventual true black equality.
Lincoln was only as racist as he had to be in his time to get anything done. I don't believe he believed, for a minute, in the inferiority of the black man. I think the real Lincoln was reflected in something Frederick Douglass, the great ex-slave, orator, and most famous black man of Lincoln's time, said of him. After Douglass first met Lincoln in 1863, he said of him that Lincoln "was the first great man that I talked with in the United States freely, who in no single instance reminded me of the difference between himself and myself, of the difference of color...."
That, in my view is the definition of a thoroughgoing non-racist. And I believe that is what Lincoln was in his heart of hearts.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Writers
If I didn't have a tin ear I would be playing a banjo all the time. But alas, when it comes to pitch, I am equipped as U. S. Grant was. We have none. He said he could recognize only two tunes--"Yankee Doodle" and everything else. I am a bit better off than that, but not by much. When I start singing in the car, Kathleen turns up the radio.
So I try to make my music with words. And when I write history I try to write an entirely factual narrative--as factual as the sources permit--but make it read like fiction. Don't ask me how that is done. I have no idea. It is with writing a good narrative as Somerset Maugham said it was with writing a novel. There are three basic rules to writing a novel, Maugham said. Only three. Unfortunately nobody knows what they are.
I know great writing when I read it. And my favorite three writers down the years have been Shakespeare, the greatest in the English language, Ambrose Bierce the maddeningly clever 19th century satirist, and Abraham Lincoln, whose picture we all carry around with us in our wallets and purses on our $5 bills. Shakespeare in my book of greats is the greatest who ever put quill to paper. I have no idea how he could be so greatly eloquent and poetic so all the time--in nearly every line of every play.
As for Bierce, how can anybody resist his Devil's Dictionary and its wild definitions? Who else would think to define alone as "being in bad company," or noise as "the chief product of civilization," or a clarinet as "an instrument of torture played by a person with cotton in his ears," or an accordian as "an instrument in harmony with the sentiments of an assassin."
(Which reminds me of what Oscar Wilde said about bagpipes: "Thank God they don't smell.")
As for Lincoln, no president has ever written better than that self-taught hick from the sticks. I cry whenever I read, "We are not enemies but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearth-stone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angles of our nature."
Or these words by that great man who was himself touched by those better angels: "With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan -- to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations."
And on and on. And to think those guys wrote it all themselves, without ghost writers, speech writers, or research assistants.
So I try to make my music with words. And when I write history I try to write an entirely factual narrative--as factual as the sources permit--but make it read like fiction. Don't ask me how that is done. I have no idea. It is with writing a good narrative as Somerset Maugham said it was with writing a novel. There are three basic rules to writing a novel, Maugham said. Only three. Unfortunately nobody knows what they are.
I know great writing when I read it. And my favorite three writers down the years have been Shakespeare, the greatest in the English language, Ambrose Bierce the maddeningly clever 19th century satirist, and Abraham Lincoln, whose picture we all carry around with us in our wallets and purses on our $5 bills. Shakespeare in my book of greats is the greatest who ever put quill to paper. I have no idea how he could be so greatly eloquent and poetic so all the time--in nearly every line of every play.
As for Bierce, how can anybody resist his Devil's Dictionary and its wild definitions? Who else would think to define alone as "being in bad company," or noise as "the chief product of civilization," or a clarinet as "an instrument of torture played by a person with cotton in his ears," or an accordian as "an instrument in harmony with the sentiments of an assassin."
(Which reminds me of what Oscar Wilde said about bagpipes: "Thank God they don't smell.")
As for Lincoln, no president has ever written better than that self-taught hick from the sticks. I cry whenever I read, "We are not enemies but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearth-stone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angles of our nature."
Or these words by that great man who was himself touched by those better angels: "With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan -- to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations."
And on and on. And to think those guys wrote it all themselves, without ghost writers, speech writers, or research assistants.
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Face for Any Age
I was asked the other day, as I have been asked many times before, if Lincoln, given his looks and his antic, unpolitical body, could be elected president in this day and age. The common wisdom is, absolutely not, that this is the age of television when looking presidential on the tube, and everywhere else, is an essential element of electoral success. Ugly doesn't win votes, and Mr. Lincoln was said to be ugly--whatever that means.
He himself rather admitted to it. When Stephen Douglas at one point in their quarter decade political rivalry in Illinois accused him of being two-faced, Lincoln replied, "If I had another face, do you think I would wear this one?"
Wear it he did, since he had no other. And he was elected president in spite of it. Whether his looks helped or didn't was a wash. My general opinion, supported by absolutely no facts one way or the other, is that Mr. Lincoln was so bright, so sensitive, so informed, so tuned to the people and to the issues of the times, that no matter how he looked on the relentless tube, he would have made adjustments and probably done quite well. Nobody much thought he could be nominated, let alone elected, back then. But he was, and then four years later reelected. Nobody would think he could be elected today, but he likely could, given his political genius.
This whole thing about being ugly, as we all know, is in the eye of the beholder. I happen to think Lincoln was a very handsome man. And here I am pleased to recount the story of a lady in Lincoln's time who agreed with me.
She was the mother of a soldier, and her soldier-son had been sentenced to death or long imprisonment for a crime with extenuating circumstances. She was one of Congressman Thaddeus Stevens's constituents from Pennsylvania, and he brought her to Lincoln, a very busy man, to plea for his life. After a full hearing on the matter, Lincoln turned to Stevens and asked, "Mr. Stevens, do you think this is a case which will warrant my interference?"
"With my knowledge of the facts and the parties," Stevens replied, "I should have no hesitation in granting a pardon."
"Then," Lincoln said, "I will pardon him."
The mother, overwelmed, with feelings too deep to utter speech, walked in silence out of the White House with Stevens. Part way out she halted, turned to him, and exclaimed, "I knew it was a copperhead lie!" Copperheads were Democrats who vigorously advocated peace with the Confederacy, letting it go independent if necessary with slavery and everything else intact--anything to end the war. They were not exceedingly popular either with Republlicans or Democrats supporting a war to victory a reunited Union.
The mother's sudden statement puzzled Stevens."What do you refer to, Madam?" he asked.
"Why, they told me he was an ugly looking man," she said. "He is the handsomest man I ever saw in my life."
Then as now, beauty--or lack of it--is only skin deep.
He himself rather admitted to it. When Stephen Douglas at one point in their quarter decade political rivalry in Illinois accused him of being two-faced, Lincoln replied, "If I had another face, do you think I would wear this one?"
Wear it he did, since he had no other. And he was elected president in spite of it. Whether his looks helped or didn't was a wash. My general opinion, supported by absolutely no facts one way or the other, is that Mr. Lincoln was so bright, so sensitive, so informed, so tuned to the people and to the issues of the times, that no matter how he looked on the relentless tube, he would have made adjustments and probably done quite well. Nobody much thought he could be nominated, let alone elected, back then. But he was, and then four years later reelected. Nobody would think he could be elected today, but he likely could, given his political genius.
This whole thing about being ugly, as we all know, is in the eye of the beholder. I happen to think Lincoln was a very handsome man. And here I am pleased to recount the story of a lady in Lincoln's time who agreed with me.
She was the mother of a soldier, and her soldier-son had been sentenced to death or long imprisonment for a crime with extenuating circumstances. She was one of Congressman Thaddeus Stevens's constituents from Pennsylvania, and he brought her to Lincoln, a very busy man, to plea for his life. After a full hearing on the matter, Lincoln turned to Stevens and asked, "Mr. Stevens, do you think this is a case which will warrant my interference?"
"With my knowledge of the facts and the parties," Stevens replied, "I should have no hesitation in granting a pardon."
"Then," Lincoln said, "I will pardon him."
The mother, overwelmed, with feelings too deep to utter speech, walked in silence out of the White House with Stevens. Part way out she halted, turned to him, and exclaimed, "I knew it was a copperhead lie!" Copperheads were Democrats who vigorously advocated peace with the Confederacy, letting it go independent if necessary with slavery and everything else intact--anything to end the war. They were not exceedingly popular either with Republlicans or Democrats supporting a war to victory a reunited Union.
The mother's sudden statement puzzled Stevens."What do you refer to, Madam?" he asked.
"Why, they told me he was an ugly looking man," she said. "He is the handsomest man I ever saw in my life."
Then as now, beauty--or lack of it--is only skin deep.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Lincoln and Yogi
Lincoln, as everybody knows, was two-faced, even though he told Stephen Douglas "If he had another face, do you think I would wear this one?" But he could have been a poster boy for the two faces of drama--comedy and tragedy. He was at the same time one of the most melancholy, sad-looking of men, and yet one of the most preeminent joke tellers of his time. And not all of his jokes were sanitized.
Breaking through his melancholy--perhaps because of it--would come rib-aching, funny stories. As he admitted, he told jokes, usually very pertinent and tailored to the occasion, in part simply to whistle away sadness in a very sad time in our history. But nobody told a better story or enjoyed it more than Lincoln. Nobody read the comic writers of the time, such as Petroleum V. Nasby, and enjoyed them more, often reading them aloud to the sober-sided Radicals of his party, who only wanted to hear of victories won and slavery undone.
I would loved to have been in Rochester, Illinois, the night of June 16, 1842, when ex-Democratic President Martin Van Buren was touring Illinois. Lincoln, an avid Whig, had campaigned mightily to defeat the "Little Magician" in the presidential election campaign of 1840. Van Buren had lost the election and two years later was touring Illinois. Lincoln's Democratic foes in the state didn't much cotton to his politics, but they prized his way with a story. So their welcoming committee persuaded him to come with them to help entertain Van Buren in Rochester, half a dozen miles from Springfield. Lincoln went, and deep into the night he swapped stories with Van Buren, until, it is said, the ex-president called a halt to ease his sides, aching from laughter.
Lincoln would probably have enjoyed the proliferation of comedy in today's world, both spoken and written. In that connection, when I think of Lincoln and laughter, I somehow think of Yogi Berra, the celebrated Hall of Fame baseball player who perhaps didn't intend what he said to be laugh-provoking. But he is famous for provoking it anyhow. And I do believe Lincoln would have resonated with Yogi.
Who could resist such Yogiisms as, "This guy has fouled up the position so bad, I don't think anybody will ever play it again," or "Nobody goes there anymore; it is too crowded," or "If they don't wanna to come to the ball park, how you gonna stop 'em," or "When you come to a fork in the road, take it," or "We're lost, but we're making good time," or "Always go to other people's funerals; otherwise they won't go to yours," or his classic "It is deja vu all over again."
Yogi has uttered a lot of wonderful things, even while saying "I really didn't say everything I said." Lincoln would not have been any more able to resist him than we are. The two of them together have might have caved in Van Buren's aching sides altogether.
Breaking through his melancholy--perhaps because of it--would come rib-aching, funny stories. As he admitted, he told jokes, usually very pertinent and tailored to the occasion, in part simply to whistle away sadness in a very sad time in our history. But nobody told a better story or enjoyed it more than Lincoln. Nobody read the comic writers of the time, such as Petroleum V. Nasby, and enjoyed them more, often reading them aloud to the sober-sided Radicals of his party, who only wanted to hear of victories won and slavery undone.
I would loved to have been in Rochester, Illinois, the night of June 16, 1842, when ex-Democratic President Martin Van Buren was touring Illinois. Lincoln, an avid Whig, had campaigned mightily to defeat the "Little Magician" in the presidential election campaign of 1840. Van Buren had lost the election and two years later was touring Illinois. Lincoln's Democratic foes in the state didn't much cotton to his politics, but they prized his way with a story. So their welcoming committee persuaded him to come with them to help entertain Van Buren in Rochester, half a dozen miles from Springfield. Lincoln went, and deep into the night he swapped stories with Van Buren, until, it is said, the ex-president called a halt to ease his sides, aching from laughter.
Lincoln would probably have enjoyed the proliferation of comedy in today's world, both spoken and written. In that connection, when I think of Lincoln and laughter, I somehow think of Yogi Berra, the celebrated Hall of Fame baseball player who perhaps didn't intend what he said to be laugh-provoking. But he is famous for provoking it anyhow. And I do believe Lincoln would have resonated with Yogi.
Who could resist such Yogiisms as, "This guy has fouled up the position so bad, I don't think anybody will ever play it again," or "Nobody goes there anymore; it is too crowded," or "If they don't wanna to come to the ball park, how you gonna stop 'em," or "When you come to a fork in the road, take it," or "We're lost, but we're making good time," or "Always go to other people's funerals; otherwise they won't go to yours," or his classic "It is deja vu all over again."
Yogi has uttered a lot of wonderful things, even while saying "I really didn't say everything I said." Lincoln would not have been any more able to resist him than we are. The two of them together have might have caved in Van Buren's aching sides altogether.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Lincoln and Darwin
Much is being made in this bicentennial year of Lincoln's birth of the stunnning coincidence that Charles Darwin was also born on the very same day, February 12, 1809. Nobody can possibly think of another world class coincidence like it, short of the surreal fact that Thomas Jefferson and John Adams died on the same day in 1826--and on July 4, yet.
But Lincoln and Darwin--two of the preeminent giants of the 19th millenium, born on the same day in the same year--only hours apart! And what a chronological couple those two make! No two men have left such huge handprints on our world. Lincoln, by seeing the Union through the agony of civil war and disunion, saved the America that has became arguably the greatest and most powerful nation on the planet, and the beacon of republican and democratic government that nearly all nations strive to emulate. In succeeding, he also rooted out slavery in its last major entrenched stronghold in the world. Had he not succeeded, history would have been entirely different. He left us a legacy that has endured and survived the test of time.
And so did Darwin leave a huge world-changing legacy that has stood the test of time. He unlocked the secret of all life on earth with his study of the origin and evolution of species, including man. His core theory for a century and a half has stood the test of the most intense scrutiny in the history of science. And it has endured. One scientist has said "I am struck with the fact daily that the more information we accumlate, the more validation we find of Darwin's theory." Another has said, "I think this [today] is a new golden age of evolutionary science. But what we're really doing is fleshing out Darwin's idea in ever greater detail." Indeed, as yet another scientist has said, "Darwin didn't know 99 percent of what we know," but, "the 1 percent he did know was the most important part."
What these two giants left us, the important part they left us, whether they knew it would be so or not, is even more mind-boggling than the fact they were born on the same day. Life has its wonders.
But Lincoln and Darwin--two of the preeminent giants of the 19th millenium, born on the same day in the same year--only hours apart! And what a chronological couple those two make! No two men have left such huge handprints on our world. Lincoln, by seeing the Union through the agony of civil war and disunion, saved the America that has became arguably the greatest and most powerful nation on the planet, and the beacon of republican and democratic government that nearly all nations strive to emulate. In succeeding, he also rooted out slavery in its last major entrenched stronghold in the world. Had he not succeeded, history would have been entirely different. He left us a legacy that has endured and survived the test of time.
And so did Darwin leave a huge world-changing legacy that has stood the test of time. He unlocked the secret of all life on earth with his study of the origin and evolution of species, including man. His core theory for a century and a half has stood the test of the most intense scrutiny in the history of science. And it has endured. One scientist has said "I am struck with the fact daily that the more information we accumlate, the more validation we find of Darwin's theory." Another has said, "I think this [today] is a new golden age of evolutionary science. But what we're really doing is fleshing out Darwin's idea in ever greater detail." Indeed, as yet another scientist has said, "Darwin didn't know 99 percent of what we know," but, "the 1 percent he did know was the most important part."
What these two giants left us, the important part they left us, whether they knew it would be so or not, is even more mind-boggling than the fact they were born on the same day. Life has its wonders.
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