The popular fame of Mr Kirby rests upon the _Introduction to
Entomology_, a work (partly written by him) full of interesting facts
respecting the economy of the insect world. Amongst the scientific,
his reputation depends on a variety of elaborate papers which he wrote
for learned societies on subjects connected with natural history. For
sixty years previous to the conclusion of his long life in 1850, he
had devoted the leisure of a parsonage to that delightful study, and
being a diligent and accurate observer, and an elegant and
entertaining writer, he had attained the highest rank amongst the
British naturalists of his day. It appears, from a memoir just
published,[2] that Mr Kirby was born in 1759, and settled in 1782 in
the cure of Barham, near Ipswich, where he was ultimately rector, and
which he only left for his last long-home sixty-eight years
thereafter. In an age of sluggish theology, he was an earnest minister
and zealous controversialist, all the time that he was cultivating a
taste for natural objects. This is equally unexpected and creditable.
And yet it does not appear that his personal conduct was characterised
by anything like rigour, for, as an example, we find, from the journal
of an entomological excursion in 1797, that it was commenced on a
Sunday afternoon, and involved one other Sunday of constant
travelling. A reference of the dates to an almanac enables us to
establish this fact, so unlike the spirit of a zealous man in our
times.
Of the sister sciences of nature, botany first attracted Mr Kirby's
regards. 'This he pursued in no hasty or superficial manner, but with
the greatest perseverance and research. It was not enough for him to
know a plant by sight, and to ascertain its proper name, but he
compared the minutest parts of inflorescence and fructification; he
sought for the most trifling differences in those nearly allied, and
studied with a keen but generous criticism the various theories of
writers on the science, from the earliest age to the time of the
immortal Linnè. Of every plant he met with, even to the daisy and
primrose, the whole physiological structure was thoroughly
investigated; he discovered, or rather observed, what it was which
enabled some plants to endure great changes of temperature, while
others perished--the formation which enabled some to live in water,
while others flourished in the most dry and arid sands; he carefully
marked the causes which combined to clothe even rocks with verdure, in
consequence of the wonderful structure of the plants inhabiting them,
enabling them to live as it were by the suction of their numerous
mouths, rather than by nourishment transmitted by a root in contact
with that which would refuse to yield the ordinary food of plants. And
as he thus marked all these peculiar adaptations of plants to their
respective situations, his mind was by a constant train of thought
directed from the beauty and wondrous mechanism of the creature, to
contemplate the supreme and ineffable glory of the Creator.'
With a mind so predisposed and so fitted for the study of entomology,
a casual occurrence of a trivial nature was sufficient to awaken and
give it direction. 'Observing accidentally, one morning, a very
beautiful golden bug creeping on the sill of my window, I took it up
to examine it, and finding that its wings were of a more yellow hue
than was common to my observation of these insects before, I was
anxious carefully to examine any other of its peculiarities; and
finding that it had twenty-two beautiful clear black spots upon its
back, my captured animal was imprisoned in a bottle of gin, for the
purpose, as I supposed, of killing him. On the following morning,
anxious to pursue my observation, I took it again from the gin, and
laid it on the window-sill to dry, thinking it dead; but the warmth of
the sun very soon revived it: and hence commenced my further pursuit
of this branch of natural history.'
A Dr Gwyn of Ipswich was his preceptor in this study. 'Though now in
his seventy-fifth year, so much was the good old doctor interested in
the pursuit of his friend, that he would frequently walk over to
Barham, a distance of five miles, to see what had been the success of
recent perambulations. The parsonage-house was then approached by a
narrow wicket, with posts higher than the gate, and often, while
working in his garden, or sitting in his parlour, Mr Kirby would look
up and see, to his great delight, the shovel hat of his facetious
friend adorning one post, and the cumbrous wig and appertaining
pig-tail ornamenting the other. And soon the kind old man would walk
in with his bald head, as he used to say, cool and ready for the
investigation. These visits were always hailed with pleasure, the
delights of which were still fresh in the memory of Mr Kirby, and
would call forth expressions of affectionate gratitude, even when
nearly half a century had elapsed, after his friend and Mæcenas, as he
loved to call him, had gone to his rest.'
There seems no room to doubt, that his studies tended not merely to
the happiness of Mr Kirby's life, but to its duration. It is at the
same time abundantly evident, that much hard work was undergone. He
carried on a most laborious correspondence with other naturalists,
often extending a letter to the dimensions of a pamphlet: this
altogether over and above his practical researches and his published
writings. He took good-humoured views of most things, and was not
easily put out of temper. A slight dash of absence of mind increased
that quaintness of character so often found in zealous students. On an
entomological excursion with two friends, Mr Marsham and Mr Macleay,
it happened on their arriving at an old-fashioned wayside inn, that
'there was only one large room for them, with three beds in it. The
arrangement having been made for the night, according to the custom of
the time, three nightcaps were laid upon the dressing-table. Mr Kirby
retired before his companions, and was soon sound asleep. Perceiving
no caps ready for them, his friends inquired for what they considered
the due appurtenances of the pillow: they were assured by the hostess
that three nightcaps were laid upon the table, but they stoutly
averred they had not seen them; the landlady no less stoutly
maintaining her side of the question. What actually passed in her own
mind did not transpire, but she appealed to the first gentleman as
being the only one who could throw light upon the subject; when, lo
and behold! as soon as his head appeared, in answer to the hasty
summons, the three nightcaps appeared at the same time upon it, one
being dragged over the other, much to the amusement not only of those
present, but also of those who long after heard the tale.'
Another example of the pleasantries that sometimes enliven the path of
the naturalist. It is related by Mr Spence, and refers to the time
when that gentleman was engaged with Mr Kirby in preparing the work
which has for ever combined their names. 'Mr (now Sir William J.)
Hooker was at that time staying at Barham, and being desirous to have
pointed out to him, and to gather with his own hands, a rare species
of _Marchantia?_ from its habitat, first discovered by Mr Kirby, near
Nayland, some miles distant, it was agreed we three should walk
thither, entomologising by the way, and after dinner proceed to the
hedge-bank where it grew. Entering the head inn-yard on foot, with
dusty shoes, and without other baggage than our insect-nets in our
hands, we met with but a cool reception, which, however, visibly
warmed as soon as we had desired to be shewn into the best
dining-room, and had ordered a good dinner and wine. We intended to
walk back in the evening, but as the bank where the _Marchantia?_ grew
was a mile or two out of the direct road, and it came on rain, we
ordered out a postchaise, merely saying we wanted to drive a short way
on a road which Mr Kirby indicated to the postilion.
'When we arrived at the gate of the field where the bank was, the rain
had become very heavy; so, calling to the postilion to stop and open
the door, we scampered out of the chaise, all laughing, and hastily
telling him to wait there, without other explanation we climbed over
the gate, and not to be long in the rain, set off running as fast as
we could along the field-side of the hedge, to the bank we were
looking for. We saw amazement in the face of our postilion at what
possible motive could have made three guests of his master clamber
pell-mell over a gate into a field that led nowhere, in the midst of a
heavy shower of rain, and then run away as if pursued; and it was the
expression in his countenance which caused our mirth, which was
increased to peals of merriment when we saw that, instead of waiting
for us at the gate, as we had directed, he mounted his horses with all
speed, and pushed on in a gallop along the road on the other side of
the hedge, evidently to circumvent our nefarious plan (as he
conceived) of bilking his master both of our dinners and the
chaise-hire. When the cessation of our uncontrollable mirth had
allowed us to gather specimens of our plant, perceiving through the
hedge whereabouts we stopped, he also halted to watch our motions, and
when he saw us run back, he obeyed our orders to return to the
gate--where we got into the chaise, still in a roar of laughter at the
whole affair, and at his awkward attempt to explain away his not
having waited for us there, as we had directed, and evident high
satisfaction at bringing back in triumph to our inn the three cheats
whose intended plans he had so cleverly frustrated, as he no doubt
told his master; to whom, being too much amused with the adventure, we
did not make any explanation, but left it to form one of the
traditions of the inn.'
When a man excels in anything, it must always be of some consequence
to know what were his habits, and what external means he employed, in
connection with his particular gift. Mr Spence says: 'There were two
circumstances in Mr Kirby's study of insects, by which I was always
forcibly struck on my visits to him at Barham. The first was the
little parade of apparatus with which his extensive and valuable
acquisitions were made. If going to any distance, he would put into
his pocket a forceps-net and small water-net, with which to catch
bees, flies, and aquatic insects; but, in general, I do not remember
to have seen him use a net of any other description. His numerous
captures of rare and new Coleoptera were mostly made by carefully
searching for them in their haunts, from which--if trees, shrubs, or
long grass, &c.--he would beat them with his walking-stick into a
newspaper; and, collected in this way, he would bring home in a few
small phials in his waistcoat pockets, and in a moderate-sized
collecting-box, after an afternoon's excursion, a booty often much
richer than his companions had secured with their more elaborate
apparatus. The second circumstance in Mr Kirby's study of insects, to
which I allude, was the deliberate and careful way in which he
investigated the nomenclature of his species. Every author likely to
have described them was consulted, their descriptions duly estimated;
and it was only after thus coming to the decision that the insect
before him had not been previously described, that he placed it in his
cabinet under a new name. It was owing to this cautious mode of
proceeding--which young entomologists would do well to follow--that he
fell into so few errors, and rendered such solid service to the
science; and a not less careful consideration was always exercised by
him in the forming of new genera, and in his published descriptions of
new species, as his admirable papers in the _Linnæan Transactions_
amply testify.'
Considering how well Mr Kirby performed his professional duties, how
much he did to advance his favourite science, and how greatly he
contributed to the happiness of society within the sphere of his
personal influence, his may truly be said to have been a _well-spent
life_. On this account, Mr Freeman's memoir may be recommended to the
notice of many who are not as yet conscious of the charms of
entomology.