Segue to Part Two
Contemporary challenges to all three central commitments of Darwinism (the legs
of the tripod in my chosen metaphor, or the "essence" of the theory in the
legitimate use of a word generally shunned by evolutionary biologists) prompted
me to write this book. Such forms of debate set the mainsail of scholarly life, and
cynics may be excused for suspecting the academic equivalent of glitz and
grandstanding when their colleagues proclaim major unhappiness with received
wisdom. This cynicism merits special attention when Charles Darwin serves as a
target—for the demise of Darwinism has been trumpeted more often than the guard
changes at Buckingham Palace, notwithstanding the evident fact that both seem to
stand firm as venerable British institutions. (I state nothing new here: Kellogg
(1907) began his wonderful book, the basis for my style of exposition, by refuting
a German proclamation, then current, about the Sterbelager, or death-bed, of
Darwinism—see Dennert, 1904, for an English translation of the book that inspired
Kellogg's long and celebrated rejoinder.)
If continuity breeds respect—and what other criterion could an evolutionist
propose in this volatile vale of tears? —then the most persuasive rejoinder to a
charge of superficial and ephemeral grandstanding must lie in the documentation
of long persistence and serious attention for a given critique. Persistence, of course,
need not imply cogency; Lord only knows the lengthy pedigree of stupidity. But an
analog to natural selection also operates in the world of ideas, and truly silly
notions do get weeded out at certain levels of intellectual competence. Moreover,
only a small subset of our forebears ranks as brilliant thinkers. When we can
designate a critique as both longstanding in general and seriously supported by
scholars in this subset, then such arguments should command our respect and
attention. (Brilliance, of course, only implies cogency, not correctness. Cultural
biases and simple lack of information can lead even the most gifted minds to firm
convictions that seem risible today. But I do assert that brilliant scholars, while
often as wrong as anyone else, devise their positions for interesting and instructive
reasons. We may now reject Lyell's strict views about substantive uniformity, and
Paley will find few modern devotees for his natural theology. But we must not
write these men off—and we will learn much by studying the reasons for their
distinctive attitudes.)
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