modifications of structures are met with in nature which are manifestly
useless; it is even confidently stated that there are many which are
positively injurious to their possessor, and therefore could not
possibly have resulted from the action of natural selection of
favourable variations. Organs or modifications when in an incipient
condition are especially quoted as bearing upon this difficulty. But
here, it seems to me, we are continually appealing to a criterion by
which to test our theories of which we know far too little, and this
(though often relied upon as the strongest) is, in reality, the weakest
point of the whole discussion.
Of the variations of the form and structure of organic bodies we are
beginning to know something. Our museums, when more complete and better
organised, will teach us much on this branch of the subject. They will
show us the infinite and wonderful and apparently capricious
modifications of form, colour, and of texture to which every most minute
portion of the organisation of the innumerable creatures which people
the earth is subject. They will show us examples of marvellously
complicated and delicate arrangements of organs and tissues in many of
what we consider as almost the lowest and most imperfectly organised
groups of beings with which we are acquainted. But as to the use of all
these structures and modifications in the economy of the creatures that
possess them, we know, I may almost say, nothing, and our museums will
never teach us these things. If time permitted I might give numerous
examples in the most familiar of all animals, whose habits and actions
are matters of daily observation, with whose life-history we are as well
acquainted almost as we are with our own, of structures the purposes of
which are still most doubtful. There are many such even in the
composition of our own bodies. How, then, can we expect to answer such
questions when they relate to animals known to us only by dead
specimens, or by the most transient glimpses of the living in a state of
nature, or when kept under the most unnatural conditions in confinement?
And yet this is actually the state of our knowledge of the vast majority
of the myriads of living beings which inhabit the earth. How can we,
with our limited powers of observation and limited capacity of
imagination, venture to pronounce an opinion as to the fitness or
unfitness for its complex surroundings of some peculiar modification of
structure found in some strange animal dredged up from the abysses of
the ocean, or which passes its life in the dim seclusion of some
tropical forest, and into the essential conditions of whose existence we
have at present no possible means of putting ourselves in any sort of
relation?
How true it is that, as Sir John Lubbock says, “we find in animals
complex organs of sense richly supplied with nerves, but the functions
of which we are as yet powerless to explain. There may be fifty other
senses as different from ours as sound is from sight; and even within
the boundaries of our own senses there may be endless sounds which we
cannot hear, and colours as different as red from green of which we have
no conception. These and a thousand other questions remain for solution.
The familiar world which surrounds us may be a totally different place
to other animals. To them it may be full of music which we cannot hear,
of colour which we cannot see, of sensations which we cannot conceive.”
The fact is that nearly all attempts to assign purposes to the varied
structures of animals are the merest guesses and assumptions. The
writers on natural history of the early part of the present century, who
“for every why must have a wherefore,” abound in these guesses, which
wider knowledge shows to be untenable. Many of the arguments for or
against natural selection, based upon the assumed utility or equally
assumed uselessness of animal and vegetable structures, have nothing
more to recommend them. In fact, to say that any part of the
organisation of an animal or plant, or any habit or instinct with which
it is endowed, is useless, or even injurious, seems to me an assumption
which, in our present state of knowledge, we are not warranted in
making. The time may come when we shall have more light, but infinite
patience and infinite labour are required before we shall be in a
position to speak dogmatically on these mysteries of nature--labour not
only in museums, laboratories, and dissecting-rooms, but in the homes
and haunts of the animals themselves, watching and noting their ways
amid their natural surroundings, by which means alone we can endeavour
to penetrate the secrets of their life-history. But until that time
comes, though we may not be quite tempted to echo the despairing cry of
the poet, “Behold, we know not anything,” a frank confession of
ignorance is the most straightforward, indeed the only honest position
we can assume when questioned on these subjects.
However much we may be convinced of the supreme value of scientific
methods of observation and of reasoning, both as mental training of the
individual and in the elucidation of truth and advancement of knowledge
generally, it is impossible to be blind to the fact that we who are
engaged with the investigation of those subjects which are commonly
accepted as belonging to the domain of physical science are
unfortunately not always, by virtue of being so occupied, possessed of
that most precious gift, “a right judgment in all things.”
No one intimately acquainted with the laborious and wavering steps of
scientific progress (I can answer at least for one branch of it) can
look upon that progress with a perfect feeling of satisfaction.
Can it be said of any of us that our observations are always accurate,
the materials on which they are based always sufficient, our reasoning
always sound, our conclusions always legitimate? Is there any subject,
however limited, of which our knowledge can be said to have reached
finality?
Or if it happens to any of us as to
A man who looks at glass
On it may stay his eye,
Or if he pleases through it pass
And then the heavens espy,
are not those heavens which are beyond the immediate objects of our
observation coloured by our prejudices, pre-possessions, emotions, or
imagination, as often as they are defined by any profound insight into
the depth of nature’s laws? In most of these questions an open mind and
a suspended judgment appear to me the true scientific position,
whichever way our inclinations may lead us.
For myself, I must own that when I endeavour to look beyond the glass,
and frame some idea of the plan upon which all the diversity in the
organic world has been brought about, I see the strongest grounds for
the belief, difficult as it sometimes is in the face of the strange,
incomprehensible, apparent defects in structure, and the far stranger,
weird ruthless savagery of habit, often brought to light by the study of
the ways of living creatures, that natural selection, or survival of the
fittest, has, among other agencies, played a most important part in the
production of the present condition of the organic world, and that it is
a universally acting and beneficent force continually tending towards
the perfection of the individual, of the race, and of the whole living
world.
I can even go farther and allow my dream still thus to run:
Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill....
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy’d,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete.
II
MODERN MUSEUMS[2]
The Museums Association is one of the youngest of the numerous social
organisations which it is thought expedient at the present day to
constitute, in order to give facilities for the interchange of ideas on
subjects interesting to a special group of men. It is, indeed, only in
the fourth year of its existence, and this is the first time that a
meeting has been held in London, the centre in which are gathered the
great national collections, and in which reside so considerable a number
of persons engaged in their custody. The association claims York as its
birthplace, and Liverpool, Cambridge, and Manchester have in succession
afforded it hospitality and enjoyed the advantage of its presence.
We all meet with one object in view. We are all impressed with the
value--with the necessity, I should say--of the Museum (using the word
in its widest sense, as a collection of works of art and of nature) in
the intellectual advance of mankind.
How could art make any progress, how could it even exist, if its
productions were destroyed as soon as they were created, if there were
no museums, private or public, in which they could be preserved and made
available to mankind now and hereafter? How could science be studied
without ready access to the materials upon which knowledge is built up?
In many branches of science the progress is mainly commensurate with the
abundance and accessibility of such materials.
Though the first duty of museums is, without question, to preserve the
evidence upon which the history of mankind and the knowledge of science
is based, any one acquainted with the numerous succession of essays,
addresses, lectures, and papers, which constitute the museum literature
of the last thirty years, must recognise the gradual development of the
conception that the museum of the future is to have for its complete
ideal, not only the simple preservation of the objects contained in it,
but also their arrangement in such a manner as to provide for the
instruction of those who visit it. The value of a museum will be tested
not only by its contents, but by the treatment of those contents as a
means of the advancement of knowledge. Though this is the general
consensus of opinion, as expressed in the literature just referred to,
there is naturally still much divergence as to the best methods by which
this ideal may be carried out, and there are still many practical
difficulties to be overcome before the views so ably advocated on paper
can be reduced to the test of actual performance. It is with a hope of
assisting in the solution of these difficulties that this Association
has been founded.
If in the few words with which I am expected to preface the real work of
the meeting I shall be found to dwell too exclusively upon the subject
of natural history museums, I must apologise to many friends and members
of the Association who are present. It must be distinctly understood
that under the word museum we include collections of all kinds formed
for the advancement of any branch of knowledge, except those specially
devoted to books, which already are cared for by the “Library
Association”--on the model of which ours was formed. I hope that in our
papers at this meeting and in future presidential addresses we shall
have all branches of museum work fairly represented.
It is my fate to have been born what is commonly called a “naturalist.”
I hardly remember the time when I was not a possessor of a museum, but
it always took a distinctly biological direction. Hence, although by no
means unappreciative of other branches of museum work, I shall confine
myself chiefly to that part of the subject upon which I can speak from
personal experience. Even in this branch, time will compel me to limit
myself to observations upon some of the larger questions connected with
our subject, leaving details for discussion in our subsequent meetings.
One great difference between the work of the curator of an art museum
and that of one devoted to what are called natural history subjects, is
that in the case of the former the specimens he has to preserve and
exhibit come into his hands very nearly in the condition in which they
will have to remain. A picture, a vase, a piece of old armour, or a
statue, beyond a certain amount of tender care in cleaning and
repairing, which is more or less mechanical in its nature, is ready for
its place upon the museum shelves. But this is far from being the case
with the greater number of natural objects. Not only do they require
special methods of preservation, but very often their value as museum
specimens depends entirely upon the skill, labour, patience, and
knowledge expended upon them. In specimens illustrating biological
subjects the highest powers of the museum curator are called forth. A
properly-mounted animal or a carefully-displayed anatomical preparation
is in itself a work of art, based upon a natural substratum. In few
branches of museum work has there been greater progress in late years
than in this, and few offer still further scope for development.
Partly from this cause, and partly from the fact that art has for a
longer period and to a greater degree engaged the attention of civilised
man than nature, the methods of preservation, arrangement, and
exhibition of works of art are on the whole further advanced than are
those of natural objects. But no one can deny that there is still in
many galleries devoted to the exhibition of works of art of various
kinds great room for improvement. There is generally far too great
crowding; too many objects so placed that the tallest man cannot see
them properly, even when standing on tiptoe; too many others placed so
low that they can only be examined by lying down on the floor; too many
completely spoiled by the juxtaposition of incongruous objects, or by
unsuitable settings. It is only in a very few public museums (I may
instance, as a conspicuous example, the splendid museum of antiquities
at Naples) that the immense advantage to be gained by ample space and
appropriate surroundings in aiding the formation of a just idea of the
beauty and interest of each specimen contained in it can be properly
appreciated. Correct classification, good labelling, isolation of each
object from its neighbours, the provision of a suitable background, and
above all of a position in which it can be readily and distinctly seen,
are absolute requisites in art museums as well as in those of natural
history. Nothing detracts so much from the enjoyment and advantage
derived from a visit to a museum as the overcrowding of the specimens
exhibited. The development of the new museum idea, to be spoken of later
on, will be one way by which this can be remedied in the public
galleries; but if museums are what they ought to be, and what I venture
to believe they will be in the future, the question of space on a
considerably larger scale than has hitherto been thought of will have to
be faced. This is of course mainly a matter of expense, and after all
but a small matter compared with expenditure now considered necessary in
other directions. There are persons who think the country made a
tremendous effort in building so much as is yet finished of the new
Natural History Museum in the Cromwell Road, and shake their heads at
the expenditure asked for either to complete that establishment by the
erection of the wings at the sides, or to finish the neighbouring South
Kensington Museum in such a manner as worthily to hold its collections,
both of art and science. Others would grudge the further expansion of
the magnificent series of treasures of ancient and mediæval art in the
British Museum at Bloomsbury, of which the country has such just reason
to be proud. Let such persons consider that the largest museum yet
erected, with all its internal fittings, has not cost so much as a
single fully-equipped line-of-battle ship, which in a few years may be
either at the bottom of the sea, or so obsolete in construction as to be
worth no more than the materials of which it is made. Not that I am
deprecating the building of ships necessary for our protection, but
rather wishing to show that the cost of such museums as are still
required for the proper education of the nation is not such as would
produce any sensible impression upon its financial position.
I may make a still more apposite comparison, and point to the vast sums
of money spent by this nation upon the whole subject of education now
and a few years ago. The total estimate for what is called “Class IV.,
Education, Science, and Art,” for the financial year 1883-84, amounted
to £4,748,556. In ten years it has grown to nearly double that amount,
the estimate for 1893-94 being £9,172,216, the increase being mainly due
to what is termed “Public Education.” The amount spent upon the
development of museums is comparatively insignificant. The British
Museum vote (including the library and the natural history branch) has
only increased during the same decade from £146,019 to £157,500.[3] The
cost of the various museums maintained by the Science and Art Department
shows little appreciable augmentation, except in the case of that at
Dublin, where I am glad to see £19,035 is now put down instead of the
£13,602 of the former period. Compared with the whole amount expended
upon other methods of education, national expenditure upon museums and
art galleries is at present very small.
In reference to this subject one cannot help considering how much might
have been done if only a moderate portion of that large sum of money
obtained a few years ago by the tax on brewers, and handed over to the
County Councils to spend in promoting technical education, had been used
for erecting museums, which might have taken a permanent place in the
education of the country. Every subject taught, in order to make the
teaching real and practical, should have its collection, and these
various collections might all have been associated in the county museum
under the same general management. The staff of teachers would assist in
the curatorial work, and thus a well-equipped central college for
technical education might have been formed in every county, sending out
ramifications into the various districts in which the need of special
instruction was most felt, and being also the parent of smaller branch
museums of the same kind wherever they seem required.
But it is not only in the buildings that the expense of the museums of
the future will have to be met. Another great advance must be made
before they can be placed upon a satisfactory footing, and perform the
functions that can be legitimately expected of them. This is in the
elevation of the position and acquirements of those who have the care of
them. As I have said on a previous occasion, “What a museum really
depends upon for its success and usefulness is not its building, not its
cases, not even its specimens, but its curator.”
Speaking in the presence of a number of gentlemen who are curators of
museums, do not let me be misunderstood. I do not mean that you are not
zealous in the cause and make great sacrifices for it, and do all you
can under the often difficult circumstances in which you are placed; but
what I mean is--and I am sure you will one and all agree with me when I
say it--you are not properly appreciated by the public, and the
importance and difficulties of your position are by no means
sufficiently understood.
In a civilised community the necessities of life, to say nothing of
luxuries (which we do not ask for), but the bare necessities of a man of
education and refinement, who has to associate with his equals, and
bring up his children to the life of educated and refined people,
involve a certain annual expenditure, and the means afforded by any
occupation for this necessary expenditure give a rough and ready test of
the appreciation in which such occupation is held.
Now, a curator of a museum, if he is fit for his duties, must be a man
of very considerable education as well as natural ability. If he is not
himself an expert in all the branches of human knowledge his museum
illustrates, he must be able to understand and appreciate them
sufficiently to know where and how he can supplement his own
deficiencies, so as to be able to keep every department up to the proper
level. His education, in fact, must be not dissimilar to that required
for most of the learned professions. Skill, manual dexterity, and good
taste are also most valuable. He must, in addition, if he is to be a
success in his vocation, possess various moral qualifications not found
in every professional man--punctuality, habits of business, conciliatory
manners, and, above all, indomitable and conscientious industry in the
discharge of the small and somewhat monotonous routine duties which
constitute so large a part of a curator’s life. Such being the
requirements of the profession, let us see what are the inducements
offered to men to take it up as a means of livelihood. I really am sorry
to have to speak of such a sordid subject, but I know it is one you
naturally shrink from talking of yourselves. You would be the last
people in the world to take the remedy, now so often resorted to by
other classes, into your own hands. A strike of curators is hardly to be
contemplated. Remember, also, that I am not speaking of this subject in
your interest, or the interests of any individuals. Whether any of you
personally should have your emoluments, your social position, your
opportunities for good, improved, is not now with me an object of
concern: it is in the interest of that great question, the advance of
the museum as a means of educating, cultivating, and elevating mankind,
that I am speaking--an advance that can only be effectively made when
the curatorship of a museum is looked upon as an honourable and
desirable profession for men of high intellectual acquirements.
Let me take a few examples of the inducements to enter this profession
at the present time. I have before me some recent advertisements. The
curator of the Museum of the Philosophical and Literary Society of one
of the largest and most flourishing of our manufacturing cities is
offered £125 a year for his services. In another town, smaller and less
wealthy, it is true, “a resident curator, meteorological observer, and
caretaker, is wanted for the museum and library buildings, at a salary
of £50 per annum, with rooms, coal, and gas. Applicants are to state age
and _scientific_ qualifications.”
In a recent newspaper discussion upon the establishment of a museum in
one of the midland counties, after it had been pointed out that one of
the prime necessities of such an institution was a provision for the
maintenance of a curator, a leading gentleman of the district, a zealous
and sympathetic advocate of the cause, perfectly acquiescing in this
view, suggested that £100 a year should by all means be set aside for
this purpose!
It is frequently my lot to be consulted by anxious parents of sons who
develop a taste for museum work, as to what such a taste will lead to if
cultivated. I need hardly say that, however much I may wish our ranks to
be recruited by such enthusiastic aspirants,--boys often of great
ability and promise,--I cannot conscientiously offer much encouragement.
The best I can say is, that I hope things will be better in the future
than they are at present. As far as the Metropolitan museums are
concerned there has been some improvement, and I think that indications
are not wanting that this improvement will continue and extend.
I have referred at the beginning of this address to the great amount of
recent literature upon the museum question, consisting largely of
depreciation of the old ways of arranging museums, of suggestions for
their improvement in the future, and mainly of the development of what
may be called _the new museum idea_. What this idea is was tersely
expressed nearly thirty years ago by the late Dr. John Edward Gray in
his address to the British Association at Bath (1864) as President of
Section D, when near the close of his long career as administrator of a
collection which by his exertions he had made the largest of the kind in
the world. Dr. Gray laid down the axiom that the purposes for which a
museum was established were two--“first, the diffusion of instruction
and rational amusement among the mass of the people, and, secondly, to
afford the scientific student every possible means of examining and
studying the specimens of which the museum consists.” He then continued:
“Now, it appears to me that in the desire to combine these two objects,
which are essentially distinct, the first object--namely, the general
instruction of the people--has been to a great extent lost sight of and
sacrificed to the second without any corresponding advantage to the
latter, because the system itself has been thoroughly erroneous.”