1892.
[The following letters are mainly of personal interest; some merely
illustrate the humorous turn he would give to his more intimate
correspondence; others strike a more serious note, especially those to
friends whose powers were threatened by overwork or ill-health.
With these may fitly come two other letters; one to a friend on his
re-marriage, the other to his daughter, in reply to a birthday letter.]
My wife and I send our warmest good wishes to your future wife and
yourself. I cannot but think that those who are parted from us, if they
have cognisance of what goes on in this world, must rejoice over
everything that renders life better and brighter for the sojourners in
it-- especially of those who are dear to them. At least, that would be
my feeling.
Please commend us to Miss --, and beg her not to put us on the "Index,"
because we count ourselves among your oldest and warmest friends.
[To his daughter, Mrs. Roller:--]
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, May 5, 1892.
It was very pleasant to get your birthday letter and the photograph,
which is charming.
The love you children show us, warms our old age better than the sun.
For myself the sting of remembering troops of follies and errors, is
best alleviated by the thought that they may make me better able to
help those who have to go through like experiences, and who are so dear
to me that I would willingly pay an even heavier price, to be of use.
Depend upon it, that confounded "just man who needed no repentance" was
a very poor sort of a father. But perhaps his daughters were "just
women" of the same type; and the family circle as warm as the interior
of an ice-pail.
[A certain artist, who wanted to have Huxley sit to him, tried to
manage the matter through his son-in-law, Hon. J. Collier, to whom the
following is addressed:--]
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, January 27, 1892.
My dear Jack,
Inclosed is a letter for you. Will you commit the indiscretion of
sending it on to Mr. A.B. if you see no reason to the contrary?
I hope the subsequent proceedings will interest you no more.
I am sorry you have been so bothered by the critter--but in point of
pertinacity he has met his match. (I have no objection to your saying
that your father-in-law is a brute, if you think that will soften his
disappointment.)
Here the weather has been tropical. The bananas in the new garden are
nearly ripe, and the cocoanuts are coming on. But of course you expect
this, for if it is unbearably sunny in London what must it be here?
All our loves to all of you.
Ever yours affectionately, Pater.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, February 1, 1892.
My dear Hooker,
I hear you have influenza rampaging about the Camp [The name of Sir J.
Hooker's house at Sunningdale.] and I want to point out to you that if
you want a regular bad bout of it, the best thing you can do is to go
home next Thursday evening, at ten o'clock at night, and plunge into
the thick of the microbes, tired and chilled.
If you don't get it then, you will, at any rate, have the satisfaction
of feeling that you have done your best!
I am going to the x, but then you see I fly straight after dinner to
Collier's per cab, and there is no particular microbe army in Eton
Avenue lying in wait for me.
Either let me see after the dinner, or sleep in town, and don't worry.
Yours affectionately,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, February 19, 1892.
My dear Hooker,
I have just received a notice that Hirst's funeral is to-morrow. But we
are in the midst of the bitterest easterly gale and snowfall we have
had all the winter, and there is no sign of the weather mending.
Neither you nor I have any business to commit suicide for that which
after all is a mere sign of the affection we have no need to prove for
our dear old friend, and the chances are that half an hour cold chapel
and grave-side on a day like this would finish us.
I write this not that I imagine you would think of going, but because
my last note spoke so decidedly of my own intention.
But who could have anticipated this sudden reversion to Arctic
conditions!
Ever yours affectionately,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, March 18, 1892.
My dear Donnelly,
My wife got better and was out for a while yesterday, but she is
knocked up again to-day.
It would have been very pleasant to see you both, but you must not come
down till we get fixed with a new cook and maid, as I believe we are to
be in a week or so. None of your hotel-going!
I mourn over the departure of the present cookie--I believe she is
going for no other reason than that she is afraid the house will fall
on such ungodly people as we are, and involve her in the ruins. That is
the modern martyrdom--you don't roast infidels, but people who can
roast go to the pious.
Lovely day to-day, nothing but east wind to remind one it is not
summer.--Crocuses coming out at last.
Ever yours very faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, March 27, 1892.
My dear Hooker,
I had to run up to town on Friday and forgot your letter. The x is a
puzzle--I will stick by the ship as long as you do, depend upon that. I
fear we can hardly expect to see dear old Tyndall there again. As for
myself, I dare not venture when snow is on the ground, as on the last
two occasions. And now, I am sorry to say, there is another possible
impediment in my wife's state of health.
I have had a very anxious time of it altogether lately. But sich is
life!
My sagacious grand-daughter Joyce (gone home now) observed to her
grandmother some time ago--"I don't want to grow up." "Why don't you
want to grow up?" "Because I notice that grown-up people have a great
deal of trouble." Sagacious philosopheress of 7!
Ever yours affectionately,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, April 3, 1892.
My dear Hooker,
As I so often tell my wife, "your confounded sense of duty will be the
ruin of you." You really, club or no club, had no business to be
travelling in such a bitter east wind. However, I hope the recent
sunshine has set you up again.
Barring snow or any other catastrophe, I will be at "the Club" dinner
on the 26th and help elect the P.R.S. I don't think I go more than once
a year, and like you I find the smaller the pleasanter meetings.
I was very sorry to see Bowman's death. What a first-rate man of
science he would have been if the Professorship at King's College had
been 1000 pounds a year. But it was mere starvation when he held it.
I am glad to say that my wife is much better--thank yours for her very
kind sympathy. I was very down the last time I wrote to you.
Ever yours affectionately,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, June 27, 1892.
My dear Foster,
My wife has been writing to Mrs. Foster to arrange for your visit,
which will be heartily welcome.
Now I don't want to croak. No one knows better than I, the fatal
necessity for any one in your position: more than that, the duty in
many cases of plunging into public functions, and all the guttle,
guzzle, and gammon therewith connected.
But do let me hold myself up as the horrid example of what comes of
that sort of thing for men who have to work as you are doing and I have
done. To be sure you are a "lungy" man and I am a "livery" man, so that
your chances of escaping candle-snuff accumulations with melancholic
prostration are much better. Nevertheless take care. The pitcher is a
very valuable piece of crockery, and I don't want to live to see it
cracked by going to the well once too often.
I am in great spirits about the new University movement, and have told
the rising generation that this old hulk is ready to be towed out into
line of battle, if they think fit, which is more commendable to my
public spirit than my prudence.
Ever yours,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, June 20, 1892.
My dear Romanes,
My wife and I, no less than the Hookers who have been paying us a short
visit, were very much grieved to hear that such a serious trouble has
befallen you.
In such cases as yours (as I am sure your doctors have told you)
hygienic conditions are everything--good air and idleness, CONSTRUED
STRICTLY, among the chief. You should do as I have done--set up a
garden and water it yourself for two hours every day, besides pottering
about to see how things grow (or don't grow this weather) for a couple
more.
Sundry box-trees, the majority of which have been getting browner every
day since I planted them three months ago, have interested me almost as
much as the general election. They typify the Empire with the G.O.M. at
work at the root of it!
Ever yours very faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, October 18, 1892.
My dear Romanes,
I throw dust and ashes on my head for having left your letter almost a
week unanswered.
But I went to Tennyson's funeral; and since then my whole mind has been
given to finishing the reply forced upon me by Harrison's article in
the "Fortnightly", and I have let correspondence slide. I think it will
entertain you when it appears in November--and perhaps interest--by the
adumbration of the line I mean to take if ever that "Romanes" Lecture
at Oxford comes off.
As to Madeira--I do not think you could do better. You can have as much
quiet there as in Venice, for there are next to no carts or carriages.
I was at an excellent hotel, the "Bona Vista," kept by an Englishman in
excellent order, and delightfully situated on the heights outside
Funchal. When once acclimatised and able to bear moderate fatigue, I
should say nothing would be more delightful and invigorating than to
take tents and make the round of the island. There is nothing I have
seen anywhere which surpasses the cliff scenery of the north side, or
on the way thither, the forest of heaths as big as sycamores.
There is a matter of natural history which might occupy without
fatiguing you, and especially without calling for any great use of the
eyes. That is the effect of Madeiran climate on English plants
transported there--and the way in which the latter are beating the
natives. There is a Doctor who has lots of information on the topic.
You may trust anything but his physic.
[The rest of the letter gives details about scientific literature
touching Madeira.
A piece of advice to his son anent building a house:--]
September 22, 1892.
Lastly and biggestly, don't promise anything, agree to anything, nor
sign anything (swear you are an "illiterate voter" rather than this
last) without advice--or you may find yourself in a legal quagmire.
Builders, as a rule, are on a level with horse-dealers in point of
honesty--I could tell you some pretty stories from my small experience
of them.
[The next, to Lord Farrer, is apropos of quite an extensive
correspondence in the "Times" as to the correct reading of the
well-known lines about the missionary and the cassowary, to which both
Huxley and Lord Farrer had contributed their own reminiscences.]
Hodeslea, October 15, 1892.
My dear Farrer,
If YOU were a missionary
In the heat of Timbuctoo
YOU'd wear nought but a nice and airy
Pair of bands--p'raps cassock too.
Don't you see the fine touch of local colour in my version! Is it not
obvious to everybody who understands the methods of high a priori
criticism that this consideration entirely outweighs the merely
empirical fact that your version dates back to 1837--which I must admit
is before my adolescence? It is obvious to the meanest capacity that
mine must be the original text in "Idee," whatever your wretched
"Wirklichkeit" may have to say to the matter.
And where, I should like to know, is a glimmer of a scintilla of a hint
that the missionary was a dissenter? I claim him for my dear National
Church.
Ever yours,
T.H. Huxley.
[The following is about a document which he had forgotten that he
wrote:--]
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, November 24, 1892.
My dear Donnelly,
It is obvious that you have somebody in the Department who is an adept
in the imitation of handwriting.
As there is no way of proving a negative, and I am too loyal to raise a
scandal, I will just father the scrawl.
Positively, I had forgotten all about the business. I suppose because I
did not hear who was appointed. It would be a good argument for turning
people out of office after 65! But I have always had rather too much of
the lawyer faculty of forgetting things when they are done with.
It was very jolly to have you here, and on principles of Christian
benevolence you must not be so long in coming again.
Ever yours,
T.H. Huxley.
I do not remember being guilty of paying postage--but that doesn't
count for much.
[The following is an answer to one of the unexpected inquiries which
would arrive from all quarters. A member of one of the religious orders
working in the Church of England wrote for an authoritative statement
on the following point, suggested by passages in section 5 of Chapter 1
of the "Elementary Physiology":--When the Blessed Sacrament,
consisting, temporally and mundanely speaking, of a wheaten wafer and
some wine, is received after about seven hours' fast, is it or is it
not "voided like other meats"? In other words, does it not become
completely absorbed for the sustenance of the body?
Huxley's help in this physiological question--and his answer was to be
used in polemical discussion--was sought because an answer from him
would be decisive and would obviate the repetition of statements which
to a Catholic were painfully irreverent.]
Hodeslea, February 3, 1892.
Sir,
I regret that you have had to wait so long for a reply to your letter
of the 27th. Your question required careful consideration, and I have
been much occupied with other matters.
You ask (1), whether the sacramental bread is or is not "voided like
other meats"?
That depends on what you mean, firstly by "voided," and, secondly, by
"other meats." Suppose any "meat" (I take the word to include drink) to
contain no indigestible residuum, there need not be anything "voided"
at all--if by "voiding" is meant expulsion from the lower intestine.
Such a meat might be "completely absorbed for the sustenance of the
body." Nevertheless, its elements, in fresh combinations, would be
eventually "voided" through other channels, e.g. the lungs and kidneys.
Thus I should say that under normal circumstances all "meats" (that is
to say, the material substance of them) are voided sooner or later.
Now, as to the particular case of the sacramental wafer and wine.
Taking their composition and the circumstances of administration to be
as you state them, it is my opinion that a small residuum will be left
undigested, and will be voided by the intestine, while by far the
greater part will be absorbed and eventually "voided" by the lungs,
skin, and kidneys.
If any one asserts that the wafer and wine are voided by the intestine
as such, that the "pure flour and water" of which the wafer consists
pass out unchanged, I am of opinion he is in error.
On the other hand, if any one maintains that the material substance of
the wafer persists, while its accidents change, within the body, and
that this identical substance is sooner or later voided, I do not see
how he is to be driven out of that position by any scientific
reasoning. On the contrary, there is every reason to believe that the
elementary particles of the wafer and of the wine which enter the body
never lose their identity, or even alter their mass. If one could see
one of the atoms of carbon which enter into the composition of the
wafer, I conceive it could be followed the whole way--from the mouth to
the organ by which it escapes--just as a bit of floating charcoal might
be followed into, through, and out of a whirlpool.
[On October 6, 1892, died Lord Tennyson. In the course of his busy
life, Huxley had not been thrown very closely into contact with him;
they would meet at the Metaphysical Society, of which Tennyson was a
silent member; and in the "Life of Tennyson" two occasions are recorded
on which Huxley visited him.
November 11, 1871.
Mr. Huxley and Mr. Knowles arrived here (Aldworth) on a visit. Mr.
Huxley was charming. We had much talk. He was chivalrous, wide, and
earnest, so that one could not but enjoy talking with him. There was a
discussion on George Eliot's humility. Huxley and A. both thought her a
humble woman, despite a dogmatic manner of assertion that had come upon
her latterly in her writings. (Op. cit. 2 110.)
March 17, 1873.
Professor Tyndall and Mr. Huxley called. Mr. Huxley seemed to be
universal in his interest, and to have keen enjoyment of life. He spoke
of "In Memoriam". (Ibid. 2 143.)
With this may be compared one of Mr. Wilfrid Ward's reminiscences
("Nineteenth Century" August
1896).
"Huxley once spoke strongly of the insight into scientific method shown
in Tennyson's 'In Memoriam', and pronounced it to be quite equal to
that of the greatest experts."
This view of Tennyson appears again in a letter to Sir M. Foster, the
Secretary of the Royal Society:--]
Was not Tennyson a Fellow of the Royal Society? If so, should not the
President and Council take some notice of his death and delegate some
one to the funeral to represent them? Very likely you have thought of
it already.
He was the only modern poet, in fact I think the only poet since the
time of Lucretius, who has taken the trouble to understand the work and
tendency of the men of science.
[But this was not the only side from which he regarded poetry. He had a
keen sense for beauty, the artistic perfection of expression, whether
in poetry, prose, or conversation. Tennyson's talk he described thus:
"Doric beauty is its characteristic--perfect simplicity, without any
ornament or anything artificial." And again, to quote Mr. Wilfrid
Ward's reminiscences:--
Tennyson he considered the greatest English master of melody except
Spenser and Keats. I told him of Tennyson's insensibility to music, and
he replied that it was curious that scientific men, as a rule, had more
appreciation of music than poets or men of letters. He told me of one
long talk he had had with Tennyson, and added that immortality was the
one dogma to which Tennyson was passionately devoted.
Of Browning, Huxley said]: "He really has music in him. Read his poem
"The Thrush" and you will see it. Tennyson said to me," [he added],
"that Browning had plenty of music IN him, but he could not get it OUT."
Eastbourne, October 15, 1892.
My dear Tyndall,
I think you will like to hear that the funeral yesterday lacked nothing
to make it worthy of the dead or the living.
Bright sunshine streamed through the windows of the nave, while the
choir was in half gloom, and as each shaft of light illuminated the
flower-covered bier as it slowly travelled on, one thought of the
bright succession of his works between the darkness before and the
darkness after. I am glad to say that the Royal Society was represented
by four of its chief officers, and nine of the commonalty, including
myself. Tennyson has a right to that, as the first poet since Lucretius
who has understood the drift of science.
We have heard nothing of you and your wife for ages. Ask her to give us
news, good news I hope, of both.
My wife is better than she was, and joins with me in love.
Ever yours affectionately,
T.H. Huxley.
[On his way home from the funeral in Westminster Abbey, Huxley passed
the time in the train by shaping out some lines on the dead poet, the
form of them suggested partly by some verses of his wife's, partly by
Schiller's
Gib diesen Todten mir heraus,
Ich muss ihn wieder haben [Don Carlos, scene 9.],
which came back to his mind in the Abbey. The lines were published in
the "Nineteenth Century" for November 1892. He declared that he
deserved no credit for the verses; they merely came to him in the train.
His own comparison of them with the sheaf of professed poets' odes
which also appeared in the same magazine, comes in a letter to his
wife, to whom he sent the poem as soon as it appeared in print.]
I know you want to see the poem, so I have cut it and the rest out of
the "Nineteenth" just arrived, and sent it.
If I wore to pass judgment upon it in comparison with the others, I
should say, that as to style it is hammered, and as to feeling human.
They are castings of much prettier pattern and of mainly
poetico-classical educated-class sentiment. I do not think there is a
line of mine one of my old working-class audience would have boggled
over. I would give a penny for John Burns' thoughts about it.
(N.B.--Highly impartial and valuable criticism.)
[He also wrote to Professor Romanes, who had been moved by this new
departure to send him a volume of his own poems:--]
Hodeslea, November 3, 1892.
My dear Romanes,
I must send you a line to thank you very much for your volume of poems.
A swift glance shows me much that has my strong sympathy--notably
"Pater loquitur," which I shall read to my wife as soon as I get her
back. Against all troubles (and I have had my share) I weigh a
wife-comrade "treu und fest" in all emergencies.
I have a great respect for the Nazarenism of Jesus--very little for
later "Christianity." But the only religion that appeals to me is
prophetic Judaism. Add to it something from the best Stoics and
something from Spinoza and something from Goethe, and there is a
religion for men. Some of these days I think I will make a cento out of
the works of these people.
I find it hard enough to write decent prose and have usually stuck to
that. The "Gib diesen Todten" I am hardly responsible for, as it did
itself coming down here in the train after Tennyson's funeral. The
notion came into my head in the Abbey.
Ever yours very faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.
[This winter also Sir R. Owen died, and was buried at Ham on December
23. The grave ends all quarrels, and Huxley intended to be present at
the funeral. But as he wrote to Dr. Foster on the 23rd:--]
I had a hard morning's work at University College yesterday, and what
with the meeting of the previous evening and that infernal fog, I felt
so seedy that I made up my mind to go straight home and be quiet...
There has been a bitter north-easter all day here, and if the like has
prevailed at Ham I am glad I kept out of it, as I am by no means fit to
cope with anything of that kind to-day. I do not think I was bound to
offer myself up to the manes of the departed, however satisfactory that
might have been to the poor old man. Peace be with him!
[But the old-standing personal differences between the two made it
difficult for him to decide what to do with regard to a meeting to
raise some memorial to the great anatomist. He writes again to Sir M.
Foster, January 8, 1893:--]
What am I to do about the meeting about Owen's statue on the 21st? I do
not wish to pose either as a humbugging approver or as a sulky
disapprover. The man did honest work, enough to deserve his statue, and
that is all that concerns the public.
[And on the 18th:--]
I am inclined to think that I had better attend the meeting at all
costs. But I do not see why I should speak unless I am called upon to
do so.
I have no earthly objection to say all that I honestly can of good
about Owen's work--and there is much to be said about some of it--on
the contrary, I should be well pleased to do so.
But I have no reparation to make; if the business were to come over
again, I should do as I did. My opinion of the man's character is
exactly what it was, and under the circumstances there is a sort of
hypocrisy about volunteering anything, which goes against my grain.
The best position for me would be to be asked to second the resolution
for the statue--then the proposer would have the field of personal
fiction and butter-boat all to himself.
To Sir W.H. Flower.
December 28, 1892.
I think you are quite right in taking an active share in the movement
for the memorial. When a man is dead and can do no more harm, one must
do a sum in subtraction:--
merits, deserts over x+x+x
and if the x's are not all minus quantities, give him credit
accordingly. But I think that in your appeal, for which the Committee
will be responsible, it is this balance of solid scientific merit--a
good big one in Owen's case after all deductions--which should be alone
referred to. If you follow the example of "Vanity Fair" and call him "a
simple-minded man, who had he been otherwise, would long ago have
adorned a title," some of us may choke.
Gladstone, Samuel of Oxford, and Owen belong to a very curious type of
humanity, with many excellent and even great qualities and one fatal
defect--utter untrustworthiness. Peace be with two of them, and may the
political death of the third be speedy and painless!
With our united best wishes, ever yours very faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.
[And on January 22, 1893, he writes of the meeting:--]
My dear Hooker,
...What queer corners one gets into if one only lives long enough! The
grim humour of the situation when I was seconding the proposal for a
statue to Owen yesterday tickled me a good deal. I do not know how they
will report me in the "Times", but if they do it properly I think you
will see that I said no word upon which I could not stand
cross-examination.
I chose the office of seconder in order that I might clearly define my
position and stop the mouths of blasphemers--who would have ascribed
silence or absence to all sorts of bad motives.
Whatever the man might be, he did a lot of first-rate work, and now
that he can do no more mischief he has a right to his wages for it.
If I only live another ten years I expect to be made a saint of myself.
"Many a better man has been made a saint of," as old Davie Hume said to
his housekeeper when they chalked up "St. David's Street" on his wall.
We have been jogging along pretty well, but wife has been creaky, and I
got done up in a brutal London fog struggling with the worse fog of the
New University.
I am very glad you like my poetical adventure.
Ever yours affectionately,
T.H. Huxley.
[This speech had an unexpected sequel. Owen's grandson was so much
struck by it that he wrote asking Huxley to undertake a critical
account of his anatomical work for his biography,--another most
unexpected turn of events. It is not often that a conspicuous opponent
of a man's speculations is asked to pass judgment upon his entire work.
[See below.]
At the end of the year an anonymous attack upon the administration of
the Royal Society was the occasion for some characteristic words on the
endurance of abuse to his old friend, M. Foster, then Secretary of the
Royal Society.]
December 5, 1892.
My dear Foster,
The braying of my donkey prevented me from sending a word of sympathy
about the noise made by yours...Let not the heart be vexed because of
these sons of Belial. It is all sound and fury with nothing at the
bottom of it, and will leave no trace a year hence. I have been abused
a deal worse--without the least effect on my constitution or my comfort.
In fact, I am told that Harrison is abusing me just now like a
pickpocket in the "Fortnightly", and I only make the philosophical
reflection, No wonder! and doubt if the reading it is worth half a
crown.
Ever yours affectionately,
T.H. Huxley.
[The following letter to Mr. Clodd, thanking him for the new edition of
Bates' "Naturalist on the Amazons", helps to remove a reproach
sometimes brought against the Royal Society, in that it ignored the
claims of distinguished men of Science to membership of the Society:--]
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, December 9, 1892.
My dear Mr. Clodd,
Many thanks for the new edition of "Bates." I was reading the Life last
night with great interest; some of the letters you have printed are
admirable.
Lyell is hit off to the life. I never read a more penetrating
character-sketch. Hooker's letter of advice is as sage as might be
expected from a man who practised what he preached about as much as I
have done. I shall find material for chaff the next time my old friend
and I meet.
I think you are a little hard on the Trustees of the British Museum,
and especially on the Royal Society. The former are hampered by the
Treasury and the Civil Service regulations. If a Bates turned up now I
doubt if one could appoint him, however much one wished it, unless he
would submit to some idiotic examination. As to the Royal Society, I
undertake to say that Bates might have been elected fifteen years
earlier if he had so pleased. But the Council cannot elect a man unless
he is proposed, and I always understood that it was the res angusta
which stood in the way.
It is the same with --. Twenty years ago the Royal Society awarded him
the Royal Medal, which is about as broad an invitation to join us as we
could well give a man. In fact, I do not think he has behaved well in
quite ignoring it. Formerly there was a heavy entrance fee as well as
the annual subscription. But a dozen or fifteen years ago the more
pecunious Fellows raised a large sum of money for the purpose of
abolishing this barrier. At present a man has to pay only 3 pounds a
year and no entrance. I believe the publications of the Society, which
he gets, will sell for more. [The "Fee Reduction Fund," as it is now
called, enables the Society to relieve a Fellow from the payment even
of his annual fee, in that being F.R.S. costs him nothing.]
So you see it is not the fault of the Royal Society if anybody who
ought to be in keeps out on the score of means.
Ever yours very faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.