The Red Notebook

People love quoting Darwin out of context. Quote-mining, it’s called. Creationists are particularly prone to the practice—the one about the eye is one of their favourites— but Darwin groupies are not above cherry-picking their hero’s words from time to time, to prove some point or other.

So why shouldn’t I?

As a proud Brit, I am of the opinion—don’t try to gainsay me—that I live on the most beautiful island on this most wonderful of planets. The British countryside is second to none. Which is why I love walking in it so much. And, every time I repeat the same old walk, I delight in spotting something new to catch my interest.

So imagine my delight when I came across this lovely quote from the great man himself:

In England any person fond of natural history enjoys in his walks a great advantage, by always having something to attract his attention;

Correct as ever, Mr D.

A few years ago, I added the mysterious phrase Nothing For any Purpose to the bottom of the Red Notebook blog’s sidebar. I’ve never bothered to explain it before, as it was intended to be my own private little joke—and to act as a reminder that it doesn’t matter if nothing useful comes out of this blog.

The phrase is, as if you couldn’t have guessed, a Darwin quote. It is to be found in—or, more correctly, on the back of—the original Red Notebook. I will let Darwin scholar Sandra Herbert explain:

The Red Notebook is one of a series of notebooks kept by Charles Darwin during and immediately following his service as naturalist to the 1831-1836 surveying voyage of H.M.S. Beagle. It forms part of the collection of Darwin manuscripts at Down House in Kent, Darwin’s former home, and, since 1929, a museum in his honour. The notebook came to Down House by arrangement with the Darwin family following Sir George Buckston Browne’s purchase of the house for use as a museum. It is a well-made but otherwise ordinary pocket notebook, measuring 67/16″ × 315/16″ (164 mm × 99 mm), leather bound with a metal latch, which still works, and, as the name suggests, red in colour, although the original brilliance has faded. The leather cover is embossed with a border design on both sides. The front cover of the notebook bears the initials ‘R.N.’, written on a rectangular piece of white paper. On the back cover is pasted a similar piece of paper with the identical initials and the additional phrase ‘Range of Sharks’, referring to an entry within the notebook. There is also an ominous epigram written in larger letters across the back of the notebook: ‘Nothing For any Purpose’. All of these inscriptions are written in brown ink in Darwin’s handwriting.

Darwin clearly thought that his own Red Notebook did not contain anything useful. What better tribute could I pay the great man than ensuring that my own red notebook is equally unproductive?

Freedom of thought will best be promoted by that gradual enlightening of the human understanding which follows the progress of science. I have therefore always avoided writing about religion and have confined myself to science.

Charles Darwin, 1880
The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin (F. Darwin, Ed.)
(…but see comments below!)

Although Darwin undoubtedly did avoid writing about the thorny, old subject of religion, he did occasionally make passing comment on the subject, such as in this passage from The Voyage of the Beagle:

A strong desire is always felt to ascertain whether any human being has previously visited an unfrequented spot. A bit of wood with a nail in it, is picked up and studied as if it were covered with hieroglyphics. Possessed with this feeling, I was much interested by finding, on a wild part of the coast, a bed made of grass beneath a ledge of rock. Close by it there had been a fire, and the man had used an axe. The fire, bed, and situation showed the dexterity of an Indian; but he could scarcely have been an Indian, for the race is in this part extinct, owing to the Catholic desire of making at one blow Christians and Slaves.

In their book Darwin’s Sacred Cause, Desmond and Moore claim, with more than a little supporting evidence, that Darwin’s abhorrence of slavery heavily influenced his scientific thinking. It was certainly a subject very close to his heart—which perhaps goes some way to explaining his uncharacteristic dig at religion in the above passage.

Some of my friend’s cattle on the local moor

At the start of autumn, I sometimes help my farmer friend to bring her free-range beef cattle down from the local moor where they have been grazing throughout the summer. In winter, I help her to move them between various fields to ensure that they have enough grass to eat. In spring, I help return them to the moor.

Such experiences have given me a deep contempt for cattle, which I no longer try to conceal. Semi-wild cows are unbelievably stupid and wilful creatures. No force on Earth can compel them to go where they have decided they don’t want to go—even when it is in their own best interest.

But I’ve never had to get a cow into a boat.

Fortunately, if I ever find myself in the position of needing to get a cow into a boat, I now know exactly how to do it thanks to Charles Darwin, who observed how it is done and recorded the technique for posterity in his useful animal-husbandry manual, The Voyage of the Beagle:

The road to Cucao was so very bad that we determined to embark in a periagua. The commandant, in the most authoritative manner, ordered six Indians to get ready to pull us over, without deigning to tell them whether they would be paid. The periagua is a strange rough boat, but the crew were still stranger: I doubt if six uglier little men ever got into a boat together. They pulled, however, very well and cheerfully. The stroke-oarsman gabbled Indian, and uttered strange cries, much after the fashion of a pig-driver driving his pigs. We started with a light breeze against us, but yet reached the Capella de Cucao before it was late. The country on each side of the lake was one unbroken forest. In the same periagua with us, a cow was embarked. To get so large an animal into a small boat appears at first a difficulty, but the Indians managed it in a minute. They brought the cow alongside the boat, which was heeled towards her; then placing two oars under her belly, with their ends resting on the gunwale, by the aid of these levers they fairly tumbled the poor beast heels over head into the bottom of the boat, and then lashed her down with ropes.

So now we know. Thanks, Charles.

Charles Darwin was a great experimenter. In his later life at Down House, he conducted scores of weird and wonderful experiments on pigeons, fowl, plants, seeds, dogs, his own children, you name it; he would experiment on it. But he also found time to conduct some experiments during the Beagle voyage. He even got to perform an experiment on that most iconic of South American birds, the condor.

Condor, Canyon del Colca, Peru (cc gudi&cris)

Darwin describes his condor experiment in The Voyage of the Beagle. He gets off to what would nowadays be thought of as a pretty bad start:

April 27th. … This day I shot a condor. It measured from tip to tip of the wings, eight and a half feet, and from beak to tail, four feet.

He then describes the range and habits of condors before getting on to his experiment on some live, captive condors:

Remembering the experiments of M. Audubon, on the little smelling powers of carrion-hawks, I tried […] the following experiment: the condors were tied, each by a rope, in a long row at the bottom of a wall; and having folded up a piece of meat in white paper, I walked backwards and forwards, carrying it in my hand at the distance of about three yards from them, but no notice whatever was taken. I then threw it on the ground, within one yard of an old male bird; he looked at it for a moment with attention, but then regarded it no more. With a stick I pushed it closer and closer, until at last he touched it with his beak; the paper was then instantly torn off with fury, and at the same moment, every bird in the long row began struggling and flapping its wings. Under the same circumstances, it would have been quite impossible to have deceived a dog.

…a classic blind test—although it seems strange to use the phrase when experimenting on the sense of smell.

Darwin goes on to observe:

The evidence in favour of and against the acute smelling powers of carrion-vultures is singularly balanced. Professor Owen has demonstrated that the olfactory nerves of the turkey-buzzard (Cathartes aura) are highly developed, and on the evening when Mr. Owen’s paper was read at the Zoological Society, it was mentioned by a gentleman that he had seen the carrion-hawks in the West Indies on two occasions collect on the roof of a house, when a corpse had become offensive from not having been buried, in this case, the intelligence could hardly have been acquired by sight. On the other hand, besides the experiments of Audubon and that one by myself, Mr. Bachman has tried in the United States many varied plans, showing that neither the turkey-buzzard (the species dissected by Professor Owen) nor the gallinazo find their food by smell. He covered portions of highly-offensive offal with a thin canvas cloth, and strewed pieces of meat on it: these the carrion-vultures ate up, and then remained quietly standing, with their beaks within the eighth of an inch of the putrid mass, without discovering it. A small rent was made in the canvas, and the offal was immediately discovered; the canvas was replaced by a fresh piece, and meat again put on it, and was again devoured by the vultures without their discovering the hidden mass on which they were trampling. These facts are attested by the signatures of six gentlemen, besides that of Mr. Bachman.

The degree to which certain birds use smell to detect food is still a controversial topic. Most birds seem to have a poor sense of smell, but others such as kiwis and certain sea birds do seem to make use of it while foraging/hunting for food. Although turkey vultures seem to have a good sense of smell, experiments have shown that it does not appear sufficiently acute to detect odours from high altitude.

167 years after Darwin performed his condor experiment, the controversy continues.

The hapless fox from the Chiloé Archipelago wasn’t the only canid remarked upon by Charles Darwin in the popular write-up of his world tour. Amongst the others was the Falklands fox, which Darwin writes about in chapter 9 of The Voyage of the Beagle:

The only quadruped native to the island; is a large wolf- like fox (Canis antarcticus), which is common to both East and West Falkland. I have no doubt it is a peculiar species, and confined to this archipelago; because many sealers, Gauchos, and Indians, who have visited these islands, all maintain that no such animal is found in any part of South America.

Molina, from a similarity in habits, thought that this was the same with his “culpeu”; but I have seen both, and they are quite distinct. These wolves are well known from Byron’s account of their tameness and curiosity, which the sailors, who ran into the water to avoid them, mistook for fierceness. To this day their manners remain the same. They have been observed to enter a tent, and actually pull some meat from beneath the head of a sleeping seaman. The Gauchos also have frequently in the evening killed them, by holding out a piece of meat in one hand, and in the other a knife ready to stick them. As far as I am aware, there is no other instance in any part of the world, of so small a mass of broken land, distant from a continent, possessing so large an aboriginal quadruped peculiar to itself. Their numbers have rapidly decreased; they are already banished from that half of the island which lies to the eastward of the neck of land between St. Salvador Bay and Berkeley Sound. Within a very few years after these islands shall have become regularly settled, in all probability this fox will be classed with the dodo, as an animal which has perished from the face of the earth.

How the Falklands fox (also known as the Falklands wolf or warrah) got to the Falkland Islands, which lie 480km from the South American mainland, is still something of a mystery. Recent genetic analyses show that the animal’s closest living relative is the maned wolf of South America. But these analyses also indicate that the two canids’ lineages diverged over 6 million years ago—and canids do not appear in the South American fossil record until 2.5 million years ago. From this we can infer that, if absolute genetic dating is to be trusted (concerning which, I personally entertain some doubts), the two lineages most likely evolved in North America. We should expect, therefore, to find more recent ancestors of the Falklands fox in the South American fossil record. One possible candidate for such an ancestor is Dusicyon avus from Patagonia, which went extinct 6,000 to 8,000 years ago.

It is believed that the ancestors of the Falklands fox must have crossed over to the islands during the last ice age (which ended 11,500 years ago), when the lower sea-level probably caused a land-bridge between the Falkland Islands and the South American mainland. Darwin’s view was that they might have crossed to the Falkland Islands on icebergs (see below). Another, very unlikely suggestion is that the fox is descended from domesticated foxes transported to the islands by the Yaghan people of Tierra del Fuego, who used culpeos as hunting dogs. But there is no archaeological evidence that any humans visited the Falkland Islands before the British first arrived there, and, as Darwin himself pointed out (see above) culpeos are quite distinct from Falkland foxes.

The Falkland fox “Canis antarcticus” from Mammalia, Part 2 No. 1 of The Zoology of the Voyage of H.M.S. Beagle by George R. Waterhouse (Charles Darwin ed.)

En route home to Blighty aboard HMS Beagle in 1835, Darwin wrote up some Ornithological and Animal Notes from the voyage, in which he included some observations about the Falklands fox:

Out of the four specimens brought home in the Beagle, three will be seen to be darker coloured, they come from the East Is^d. The fourth is smaller & rusty coloured, & is from the West Is^d. — Mr Lowe, who has been acquainted with these Islands for twenty years, & who is an accurate observer of Nature, asserts that this difference between the Foxes of the two Is^ds is invariable & constant. He says he has long since observed it. — An accurate comparison of these specimens will be interesting. I have omitted to add that the difference was corroborated by the officers of the Adventure. —

So, perhaps the Falkland fox was actually two species living on the two main Falkland Islands. If so, it would have made another wonderful example of closely related species living on adjacent islands, as was to be the case with Darwin’s more famous examples of the Galápagos mockingbirds, tortoises and finches. Indeed, Darwin wrote about the Falkland fox again in passing in his ornithological notes, in an extremely famous passage about the Galápagos mockingbirds, in which he first questioned the stability of species:

… I have specimens [of Galápagos mockingbirds] from four of the larger Islands; the two above enumerated, and (3349: female. Albermarle Isd.) & (3350: male: James Isd). — The specimens from Chatham & Albermarle Isd appear to be the same; but the other two are different. In each Isld. each kind is exclusively found: habits of all are indistinguishable. When I recollect, the fact that the form of the body, shape of scales & general size, the Spaniards can at once pronounce, from which Island any Tortoise may have been brought. When I see these Islands in sight of each other, & possessed of but a scanty stock of animals, tenanted by these birds, but slightly differing in structure & filling the same place in Nature, I must suspect they are only varieties.

The only fact of a similar kind of which I am aware, is the constant | asserted difference — between the wolf-like Fox of East & West Falkland Islds.

— If there is the slightest foundation for these remarks the zoology of Archipelagoes — will be well worth examining; for such facts would undermine the stability of Species.

But, by the time Darwin came to edit The Zoology of the Voyage of H.M.S. Beagle, he was no longer of the opinion that the Falklands fox comprised two distinct species, commenting:

… Mr. Gray, of the British Museum, had the kindness to compare in my presence the specimens deposited there by Captain Fitzroy, but he could not detect any essential difference between them.

Had Darwin been more convinced that the Falklands fox comprised two species, he might well have given it/them more prominence in On the Origin of Species. As it was, however, the poor creature only earns a passing mention:

… as yet I have not found a single instance, free from doubt, of a terrestrial mammal (excluding domesticated animals kept by the natives) inhabiting an island situated above 300 miles from a continent or great continental island; and many islands situated at a much less distance are equally barren. The Falkland Islands, which are inhabited by a wolf-like fox, come nearest to an exception; but this group cannot be considered as oceanic, as it lies on a bank connected with the mainland; moreover, icebergs formerly brought boulders to its western shores, and they may have formerly transported foxes, as so frequently now happens in the arctic regions.

Nowadays, the Falkland fox is known by the scientific name Dusicyon australis, meaning literally foolish dog of the south—a reference to the animal’s absence of fear of humans.

Perhaps it was this lack of fear which was the beast’s undoing. For Darwin’s prophesy turned out to be tragically accurate: the once-common species was hunted by American fur traders in the 1830s, and was later persecuted by Scottish settlers wishing to protect their sheep.

It is believed that the last individual Falkland fox was killed at Shallow Bay, West Falkland in 1876.

In Europe, foxes have a reputation for cunning going back at least as far as the days of the Seventh Century B.C.E. poet Archilochus, who famously observed that the fox knows many things; the hedgehog one great thing.

Not so the hapless fox encountered by Charles Darwin in the Chiloé Archipelago:

In the evening we reached the island of San Pedro, where we found the Beagle at anchor. In doubling the point, two of the officers landed to take a round of angles with the theodolite. A fox (Canis fulvipes), of a kind said to be peculiar to the island, and very rare in it, and which is a new species, was sitting on the rocks. He was so intently absorbed in watching the work of the officers, that I was able, by quietly walking up behind, to knock him on the head with my geological hammer. This fox, more curious or more scientific, but less wise, than the generality of his brethren, is now mounted in the museum of the Zoological Society.

The species, which now has the scientific classification Lycalopex fulvipes and the highly appropriate common name Darwin’s fox, is still extremely rare, and and is listed as critically endangered by the World Conservation Union.

Darwin’s fox (cc Prof. Fernando Bórquez Bórquez)

Darwin made quite a habit of braining specimens with his geological hammer, which I got to examine at the London Natural History Museum’s wonderful Darwin exhibition a couple of years ago. I did not notice any spots of blood.

What do you buy for the complete Darwin groupie? My friend Bill certainly knew:

Some recently uncovered missing links

Awesome! Thanks, Bill.

February 20th. – This day has been memorable in the annals of Valdivia, for the most severe earthquake experienced by the oldest inhabitant. I happened to be on shore, and was lying down in the wood to rest myself. It came on suddenly, and lasted two minutes, but the time appeared much longer. The rocking of the ground was very sensible. The undulations appeared to my companion and myself to come from due east, whilst others thought they proceeded from south-west: this shows how difficult it sometimes is to perceive the directions of the vibrations. There was no difficulty in standing upright, but the motion made me almost giddy: it was something like the movement of a vessel in a little cross-ripple, or still more like that felt by a person skating over thin ice, which bends under the weight of his body. A bad earthquake at once destroys our oldest associations: the earth, the very emblem of solidity, has moved beneath our feet like a thin crust over a fluid; – one second of time has created in the mind a strange idea of insecurity, which hours of reflection would not have produced. In the forest, as a breeze moved the trees, I felt only the earth tremble, but saw no other effect. Captain Fitz Roy and some officers were at the town during the shock, and there the scene was more striking; for although the houses, from being built of wood, did not fall, they were violently shaken, and the boards creaked and rattled together. The people rushed out of doors in the greatest alarm. It is these accompaniments that create that perfect horror of earthquakes, experienced by all who have thus seen, as well as felt, their effects. Within the forest it was a deeply interesting, but by no means an awe- exciting phenomenon. The tides were very curiously affected. The great shock took place at the time of low water; and an old woman who was on the beach told me that the water flowed very quickly, but not in great waves, to high- water mark, and then as quickly returned to its proper level; this was also evident by the line of wet sand. The same kind of quick but quiet movement in the tide happened a few years since at Chiloe, during a slight earthquake, and created much causeless alarm. In the course of the evening there were many weaker shocks, which seemed to produce in the harbour the most complicated currents, and some of great strength.

—Charles Darwin
The Voyage of the Beagle, Ch. 14

The earthquake that Darwin witnessed first-hand in 1835 destroyed the town of Concepcíon. Here’s hoping today’s massive Concepción earthquake is less severe.

Reminiscing about his father, Charles Darwin’s son Francis wrote:

In the evening, that is, after he had read as much as his strength would allow, and before the reading aloud began, he would often lie on the sofa and listen to my mother playing the piano. He had not a good ear, yet in spite of this he had a true love of fine music. He used to lament that his enjoyment of music had become dulled with age, yet within my recollection his love of a good tune was strong. I never heard him hum more than one tune, the Welsh song “Ar hyd y nos,” which he went through correctly;

Ar hyd y nos—better known to us heathen English as All Through the Night—is a classic Welsh folk tune. Perhaps Darwin was familiar with it having been brought up near the Welsh border.

I think it’s delightful that we know which tune Darwin used to hum to himself. Especially since it is such a wonderful, moving tune:

Happy 201st birthday, Mr D.

Iechyd da!

Colin Purrington FCD of the Axis of Evo has requested examples of Darwin/evolution-related postal art for Darwin Day. So I put together this post card:

Colin, the card’s in the post.

So that was Darwin Year, was it? I was unsurprisingly correct this time last year when I said that we were going to be hearing an awful lot about Charles Darwin over the next twelve months, ranging from the enlightening to the utter bollocks. True to my word, I did my best to ignore the party-poopers. I hope they didn’t spoil your celebrations either.

The United Nations has declared 2010 to be the International Year of Biodiversity. Good for them: I endorse this decision wholeheartedly.

But the UN isn’t the only organisation which gets to classify years. To mark the centenary of the death of Florence Nightingale, some have chosen to promote 2010 as the International Year of the Nurse, while the South African Sports Minister has dubbed it the International Year of African Football. The Chinese, as is their wont, will be referring to most of 2010 as the Year of the Tiger.

So how will the Friends of Charles Darwin be referring to 2010, I hear you ask. Silly question, if I might say so…

The Friends of Charles Darwin hereby declare 2010 to be Darwin Year.

As all true Darwin groupies know, every year is Darwin Year.

Take a short trip as the lapwing flies 14 miles north-east of where I am writing these words, crossing Brontë Country, past Keighley, and over the legendary Ilkley Moor, then head back in time exactly 150 years to the day, and you might well chance upon Charles Darwin taking the waters at White Wells Bath House.

But, as we all know, 24th November, 1859 was no typical day in Darwin’s quack water treatment. It was the day on which his most famous book was published. On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life sold out on its first day, and has never been out of print since. It is a classic text. Arguably one of the most important books in the history of science. And, rather surprisingly, it is still remarkably accessible to the lay reader…

What do you mean, you’ve never read On the Origin of Species? Surely you jest! Really? You really haven’t read On the Origin of Species? Trust me, it’s not that hard. OK, so maybe it isn’t exactly a page-turner, but we’re talking about one of the great revolutionary books here—and it’s written in plain English, for ordinary mortals like you and me. You certainly can’t say that about Newton’s Principia. In fact, I’m struggling to think of another revolutionary scientific text you can say that about.

Yes, Origin is dated in one or two places—and plain wrong in one or two more—but Darwin’s great work has withstood the trials and tribulations of the last 150 years remarkably well. The gentle genius’s long argument still hold true. More so than ever, in fact, as we now have 150 years of extra evidence to back it up.

So if you consider yourself a Darwin groupie, or simply well-read, yet you still haven’t read the great man’s most important work, why not make today’s 150th anniversary of its publication the perfect excuse to start reading the damn thing?

You never know, you might just learn something.

Marina Warner (LRB 09-Apr-2009) states that Edward Heron-Allen ‘wrote the definitive work on barnacles’. Polymath that Heron-Allen undoubtedly was, as is usually the case in matters biological, the definitive work on barnacles is by Charles Darwin, namely his series of monographs on living and fossil cirripedia (1851-55).
–
Richard Carter, FCD
The Friends of Charles Darwin

See also: Royal Society podcast – The Singular Life of Edward Heron-Allen FRS (mp3)

There is none so blind as those who will not see, but those who are absolutely determined to see something will often do so, even when it’s not there. Psychologists call it confirmation bias, and it manifests itself in almost any situation in which one truly wants to believe something: canals on Mars; the blatant off-sidedness of the goal against your team; the utter adorability of your children; the latest ‘evidence’ in support of your favourite conspiracy theory. If you’re after evidence to bolster your existing beliefs, seek and ye shall almost certainly find!

Of course, the classic example of confirmation bias is the countless sightings of the Virgin Mary in pieces of toast, cappuccino foam, wood grain, and just about every other bizarre location you might care to mention. If such manifestations are indeed the Lord’s work, then He really does move in mysterious ways. In reality, these ‘sightings’ are nothing more than vague, coincidental likenesses blown out of all proportion by people who have a very particular way of looking at the world.

In fairness to those who think they see the Virgin Mary in the stains on their bathroom wallpaper, the human mind is very much programmed to recognise facial features, so it’s hardly surprising that we occasionally see faces when they’re not really there. The British comedian Dave Gorman has an excellent set of photographs of ‘faces’ he has spotted in inanimate objects. There is also a Flickr Grilled Cheese Virgin photo pool.

Even us hoary, old sceptics aren’t immune from recognising human faces where they are clearly not. In my own case, I have never spotted the Virgin Mary—well, OK, there was that one time in that pub in Wales—but, last month in Cambridge, I did clearly discern the face of none other than Charles Darwin in a cluster of brachiopods in the Sedgwick Museum:

The image of Darwin in some brachiopods recently

What do you mean you don’t see it? And you have the cheek to call yourself a Darwin groupie! The brachiopods do not lie!

It’s the dawn of a new era!

As a 100%, card-carrying, take-no-prisoners atheist, Richard Dawkins, like myself, must rue the fact that he will never get to meet his hero Charles Darwin in any sort of afterlife. Unlike me, however, Dawkins can console himself with the fact that he appears to have met the great man in a previous existence.

On Ash Wednesday, 20th February, 1828, five young men from Christ’s College, Cambridge signed their names in the Registrary’s book, thereby becoming undergraduates at the university. John van Wyhe‘s excellent little booklet Darwin in Cambridge includes an image of their signatures:

Darwin’s and Dawkins’s signatures

That’s right, 181 years ago, Charles Robert Darwin and Richard Dawkins stood shoulder-to-shoulder and confirmed in writing that they were fully paid-up members of the Church of England.

I think Prof. Dawkins has some explaining to do.

Darwin’s wen

I have a bit of a soft spot (no pun intended) for Charles Darwin’s wen: that fleshy little bump slightly to the right of his nose—or to the left of his nose as you look at it. You must have noticed it. You were just too polite to point it out, that’s all.

One reason I have a soft spot for Darwin’s wen is that I have a similar wen in almost exactly the same location. In my case, you really might not have noticed it, because it is considerably less pronounced than Darwin’s. If it’s pronounced wens you’re interested in, it’s far more likely that your eye will have been drawn to the far more substantial wen on the left side of my forehead—although you’ll no doubt have been too polite to ask for a closer look. But I digress.

Wens are benign, little tumours which you should keep an eye on, just in case they decide to stop being benign. They can be removed through a simple operation under local anaesthetic, but I’ve held on to mine as I’m rather attached to them (and vice versa).

Darwin’s wen should be a cause of minor celebration. It is the one noticeable blemish breaking the otherwise perfect bilateral symmetry of his physiognomy. To put it another way, it is the one facial feature which can give us cast-iron proof that an image of the great man has been tampered with. If Darwin’s wen appears to the right of his nose (or to the left as we’re looking at him), all is well and good with the world. If, however, the wen appears on the wrong side of Darwin’s nose (i.e. his left side, our right), we are looking at a mirror image of the great man—an image which has no doubt been turned around by some graphic designer to make it fit more aesthetically into some artty-farty context or other.

I have previously written about how you can use Darwin’s buttons to spot when you’re dealing with his mirror image. But the wen provides an important indicator when it is not possible to discern Darwin’s buttons.

Take, for example, this poster from the recent Darwin exhibition, hanging in pride of place on this Darwin groupie’s study wall:

Wen graphic designers attack! Darwin mirrored!

Shame on you, Natural History Museum! We all realise that the hand was Photoshopped in (and we’ll let you off the fridge magnet howler), but was it really necessary to turn Darwin’s face round the wrong way?

The University of Cambridge Zoological Museum has a rather wonderful box of beetle specimens collected by Charles Darwin when he was at the university. The young Darwin had an inordinate fondness for beetles.

Darwin’s beetle collection

Darwin’s son, Sir Frances Darwin, donated his father’s beetles to the university. The collection was originally in a cabinet. Unfortunately, in the 1870′s, one G. R. Crotch began sorting some or all of the collection into boxes, all but one of which was later lost/misplaced.

• More of my photos of Darwin’s beetle collection
• View as slideshow
• Michael Barton’s photo of me taking the beetle photos

Charles Darwin to John Stevens Henslow (18-May-1832):

St Jago [modern-day Porto Praya in the Cape Verde Islands] is singularly barren & produces few plants or insects.—so that my hammer was my usual companion, & in its company most delightful hours I spent.—

On the coast I collected many marine animals chiefly gasteropodous (I think some new).— I examined pretty accurately a Caryophyllea & if my eyes were not bewitched former descriptions have not the slightest resemblance to the animal.— I took several specimens of an Octopus, which possessed a most marvellous power of changing its colours; equalling any chamaelion, & evidently accommodating the changes to the colour of the ground which it passed over.—yellowish green, dark brown & red were the prevailing colours: this fact appears to be new, as far as I can find out.

Darwin was hopelessly wrong about the colour-changing ability of octopuses being a new observation. But never mind: the good news is that one of Darwin’s St Jago octopuses is still alive and kicking preserved for posterity in Cambridge, and I have photos to prove it:

Darwin’s octopus

The accompanying label

Dr John van Wyhe, FCD on his Darwin groupie bike yesterday

Heart-felt thanks to Dr John van Wyhe, FCD, who kindly showed Michael Barton, FCD and me around Charles Darwin’s old room at Christ’s College, Cambridge yesterday. Dr van Wyhe recently oversaw the refurbishment of the room, recreating how it would have looked in Darwin’s day. The result is rather special—down to the basket for Darwin’s dog!

And the really good news was that we were allowed to take photographs!

More on Darwin’s college rooms here. My photos from Darwin’s room below: