REMINISCENCES OF MY FATHER'S EVERYDAY LIFE.
It is my wish in the present chapter to give some idea of my father's
everyday life. It has seemed to me that I might carry out this object in
the form of a rough sketch of a day's life at Down, interspersed with
such recollections as are called up by the record. Many of these
recollections, which have a meaning for those who knew my father, will
seem colourless or trifling to strangers. Nevertheless, I give them in
the hope that they may help to preserve that impression of his
personality which remains on the minds of those who knew and loved
him--an impression at once so vivid and so untranslatable into words.
Of his personal appearance (in these days of multiplied photographs) it
is hardly necessary to say much. He was about six feet in height, but
scarcely looked so tall, as he stooped a good deal; in later days he
yielded to the stoop; but I can remember seeing him long ago swinging
back his arms to open out his chest, and holding himself upright with a
jerk. He gave one the idea that he had been active rather than strong;
his shoulders were not broad for his height, though certainly not
narrow. As a young man he must have had much endurance, for on one of
the shore excursions from the _Beagle_, when all were suffering from
want of water, he was one of the two who were better able than the rest
to struggle on in search of it. As a boy he was active, and could jump a
bar placed at the height of the "Adam's apple" in his neck.
He walked with a swinging action, using a stick heavily shod with iron,
which he struck loudly against the ground, producing as he went round
the "Sand-walk" at Down, a rhythmical click which is with all of us a
very distinct remembrance. As he returned from the midday walk, often
carrying the waterproof or cloak which had proved too hot, one could see
that the swinging step was kept up by something of an effort. Indoors
his step was often slow and laboured, and as he went upstairs in the
afternoon he might be heard mounting the stairs with a heavy footfall,
as if each step were an effort. When interested in his work he moved
about quickly and easily enough, and often in the midst of dictating he
went eagerly into the hall to get a pinch of snuff, leaving the study
door open, and calling out the last words of his sentence as he left the
room.
In spite of his activity, he had, I think, no natural grace or neatness
of movement. He was awkward with his hands, and was unable to draw at
all well.[53] This he always regretted, and he frequently urged the
paramount necessity to a young naturalist of making himself a good
draughtsman.
He could dissect well under the simple microscope, but I think it was by
dint of his great patience and carefulness. It was characteristic of him
that he thought any little bit of skilful dissection something almost
superhuman. He used to speak with admiration of the skill with which he
saw Newport dissect a humble bee, getting out the nervous system with a
few cuts of a pair of fine scissors. He used to consider cutting
microscopic sections a great feat, and in the last year of his life,
with wonderful energy, took the pains to learn to cut sections of roots
and leaves. His hand was not steady enough to hold the object to be cut,
and he employed a common microtome, in which the pith for holding the
object was clamped, and the razor slid on a glass surface. He used to
laugh at himself, and at his own skill in section-cutting, at which he
would say he was "speechless with admiration." On the other hand, he
must have had accuracy of eye and power of co-ordinating his movements,
since he was a good shot with a gun as a young man, and as a boy was
skilful in throwing. He once killed a hare sitting in the flower-garden
at Shrewsbury by throwing a marble at it, and, as a man, he killed a
cross-beak with a stone. He was so unhappy at having uselessly killed
the cross-beak that he did not mention it for years, and then explained
that he should never have thrown at it if he had not felt sure that his
old skill had gone from him.
His beard was full and almost untrimmed, the hair being grey and white,
fine rather than coarse, and wavy or frizzled. His moustache was
somewhat disfigured by being cut short and square across. He became very
bald, having only a fringe of dark hair behind.
His face was ruddy in colour, and this perhaps made people think him
less of an invalid than he was. He wrote to Sir Joseph Hooker (June 13,
1849), "Every one tells me that I look quite blooming and beautiful; and
most think I am shamming, but you have never been one of those." And it
must be remembered that at this time he was miserably ill, far worse
than in later years. His eyes were bluish grey under deep overhanging
brows, with thick, bushy projecting eye-brows. His high forehead was
deeply wrinkled, but otherwise his face was not much marked or lined.
His expression showed no signs of the continual discomfort he suffered.
When he was excited with pleasant talk his whole manner was wonderfully
bright and animated, and his face shared to the full in the general
animation. His laugh was a free and sounding peal, like that of a man
who gives himself sympathetically and with enjoyment to the person and
the thing which have amused him. He often used some sort of gesture with
his laugh, lifting up his hands or bringing one down with a slap. I
think, generally speaking, he was given to gesture, and often used his
hands in explaining anything (_e.g._ the fertilisation of a flower) in a
way that seemed rather an aid to himself than to the listener. He did
this on occasions when most people would illustrate their explanations
by means of a rough pencil sketch.
He wore dark clothes, of a loose and easy fit. Of late years he gave up
the tall hat even in London, and wore a soft black one in winter, and a
big straw hat in summer. His usual out-of-doors dress was the short
cloak in which Elliot and Fry's photograph[54] represents him, leaning
against the pillar of the verandah. Two peculiarities of his indoor
dress were that he almost always wore a shawl over his shoulders, and
that he had great loose cloth boots lined with fur which he could slip
on over his indoor shoes.
He rose early, and took a short turn before breakfast, a habit which
began when he went for the first time to a water-cure establishment, and
was preserved till almost the end of his life. I used, as a little boy,
to like going out with him, and I have a vague sense of the red of the
winter sunrise, and a recollection of the pleasant companionship, and a
certain honour and glory in it. He used to delight me as a boy by
telling me how, in still earlier walks, on dark winter mornings, he had
once or twice met foxes trotting home at the dawning.
After breakfasting alone about 7.45, he went to work at once,
considering the 1-1/2 hour between 8 and 9.30 one of his best working
times. At 9.30 he came in to the drawing-room for his letters--rejoicing
if the post was a light one and being sometimes much worried if it was
not. He would then hear any family letters read aloud as he lay on the
sofa.
The reading aloud, which also included part of a novel, lasted till
about half-past ten, when he went back to work till twelve or a quarter
past. By this time he considered his day's work over, and would often
say, in a satisfied voice, "_I've_ done a good day's work." He then went
out of doors whether it was wet or fine; Polly, his white terrier, went
with him in fair weather, but in rain she refused or might be seen
hesitating in the verandah, with a mixed expression of disgust and shame
at her own want of courage; generally, however, her conscience carried
the day, and as soon as he was evidently gone she could not bear to stay
behind.
My father was always fond of dogs, and as a young man had the power of
stealing away the affections of his sister's pets; at Cambridge, he won
the love of his cousin W. D. Fox's dog, and this may perhaps have been
the little beast which used to creep down inside his bed and sleep at
the foot every night. My father had a surly dog, who was devoted to him,
but unfriendly to every one else, and when he came back from the
_Beagle_ voyage, the dog remembered him, but in a curious way, which my
father was fond of telling. He went into the yard and shouted in his
old manner; the dog rushed out and set off with him on his walk, showing
no more emotion or excitement than if the same thing had happened the
day before, instead of five years ago. This story is made use of in the
_Descent of Man_, 2nd Edit. p. 74.
In my memory there were only two dogs which had much connection with my
father. One was a large black and white half-bred retriever, called Bob,
to which we, as children, were much devoted. He was the dog of whom the
story of the "hot-house face" is told in the _Expression of the
Emotions_.
But the dog most closely associated with my father was the
above-mentioned Polly, a rough, white fox-terrier. She was a
sharp-witted, affectionate dog; when her master was going away on a
journey, she always discovered the fact by the signs of packing going on
in the study, and became low-spirited accordingly. She began, too, to be
excited by seeing the study prepared for his return home. She was a
cunning little creature, and used to tremble or put on an air of misery
when my father passed, while she was waiting for dinner, just as if she
knew that he would say (as he did often say) that "she was famishing."
My father used to make her catch biscuits off her nose, and had an
affectionate and mock-solemn way of explaining to her before-hand that
she must "be a very good girl." She had a mark on her back where she had
been burnt, and where the hair had re-grown red instead of white, and my
father used to commend her for this tuft of hair as being in accordance
with his theory of pangenesis; her father had been a red bull-terrier,
thus the red hair appearing after the burn showed the presence of latent
red gemmules. He was delightfully tender to Polly, and never showed any
impatience at the attentions she required, such as to be let in at the
door, or out at the verandah window, to bark at "naughty people," a
self-imposed duty she much enjoyed. She died, or rather had to be
killed, a few days after his death.[55]
My father's mid-day walk generally began by a call at the greenhouse,
where he looked at any germinating seeds or experimental plants which
required a casual examination, but he hardly ever did any serious
observing at this time. Then he went on for his constitutional--either
round the "Sand-walk," or outside his own grounds in the immediate
neighbourhood of the house. The "Sand-walk" was a narrow strip of land
1-1/2 acre in extent, with a gravel-walk round it. On one side of it was
a broad old shaw with fair-sized oaks in it, which made a sheltered shady
walk; the other side was separated from a neighbouring grass field by a
low quickset hedge, over which you could look at what view there was, a
quiet little valley losing itself in the upland country towards the edge
of the Westerham hill, with hazel coppice and larch plantation, the
remnants of what was once a large wood, stretching away to the Westerham
high road. I have heard my father say that the charm of this simple
little valley was a decided factor in his choice of a home.
The Sand-walk was planted by my father with a variety of trees, such as
hazel, alder, lime, hornbeam, birch, privet, and dogwood, and with a
long line of hollies all down the exposed side. In earlier times he took
a certain number of turns every day, and used to count them by means of
a heap of flints, one of which he kicked out on the path each time he
passed. Of late years I think he did not keep to any fixed number of
turns, but took as many as he felt strength for. The Sand-walk was our
play-ground as children, and here we continually saw my father as he
walked round. He liked to see what we were doing, and was ever ready to
sympathize in any fun that was going on. It is curious to think how,
with regard to the Sand-walk in connection with my father, my earliest
recollections coincide with my latest; it shows the unvarying character
of his habits.
Sometimes when alone he stood still or walked stealthily to observe
birds or beasts. It was on one of these occasions that some young
squirrels ran up his back and legs, while their mother barked at them in
an agony from the tree. He always found birds' nests even up to the last
years of his life, and we, as children, considered that he had a special
genius in this direction. In his quiet prowls he came across the less
common birds, but I fancy he used to conceal it from me as a little boy,
because he observed the agony of mind which I endured at not having seen
the siskin or goldfinch, or some other of the less common birds. He used
to tell us how, when he was creeping noiselessly along in the
"Big-Woods," he came upon a fox asleep in the daytime, which was so much
astonished that it took a good stare at him before it ran off. A Spitz
dog which accompanied him showed no sign of excitement at the fox, and
he used to end the story by wondering how the dog could have been so
faint-hearted.
Another favourite place was "Orchis Bank," above the quiet Cudham
valley, where fly- and musk-orchis grew among the junipers, and
Cephalanthera and Neottia under the beech boughs; the little wood
"Hangrove," just above this, he was also fond of, and here I remember
his collecting grasses, when he took a fancy to make out the names of
all the common kinds. He was fond of quoting the saying of one of his
little boys, who, having found a grass that his father had not seen
before, had it laid by his own plate during dinner, remarking, "I are an
extraordinary grass-finder!"
My father much enjoyed wandering idly in the garden with my mother or
some of his children, or making one of a party, sitting on a bench on
the lawn; he generally sat, however, on the grass, and I remember him
often lying under one of the big lime-trees, with his head on the green
mound at its foot. In dry summer weather, when we often sat out, the
fly-wheel of the well was commonly heard spinning round, and so the
sound became associated with those pleasant days. He used to like to
watch us playing at lawn-tennis, and often knocked up a stray ball for
us with the curved handle of his stick.
Though he took no personal share in the management of the garden, he had
great delight in the beauty of flowers--for instance, in the mass of
Azaleas which generally stood in the drawing-room. I think he sometimes
fused together his admiration of the structure of a flower and of its
intrinsic beauty; for instance, in the case of the big pendulous pink
and white flowers of Diclytra. In the same way he had an affection,
half-artistic, half-botanical, for the little blue Lobelia. In admiring
flowers, he would often laugh at the dingy high-art colours, and
contrast them with the bright tints of nature. I used to like to hear
him admire the beauty of a flower; it was a kind of gratitude to the
flower itself, and a personal love for its delicate form and colour. I
seem to remember him gently touching a flower he delighted in; it was
the same simple admiration that a child might have.
He could not help personifying natural things. This feeling came out in
abuse as well as in praise--_e.g._ of some seedlings--"The little
beggars are doing just what I don't want them to." He would speak in a
half-provoked, half-admiring way of the ingenuity of the leaf of a
Sensitive Plant in screwing itself out of a basin of water in which he
had tried to fix it. One might see the same spirit in his way of
speaking of Sundew, earthworms, &c.[56]
Within my memory, his only outdoor recreation, besides walking, was
riding; this was taken up at the recommendation of Dr. Bence Jones, and
we had the luck to find for him the easiest and quietest cob in the
world, named "Tommy." He enjoyed these rides extremely, and devised a
series of short rounds which brought him home in time for lunch. Our
country is good for this purpose, owing to the number of small valleys
which give a variety to what in a flat country would be a dull loop of
road. I think he felt surprised at himself, when he remembered how bold
a rider he had been, and how utterly old age and bad health had taken
away his nerve. He would say that riding prevented him thinking much
more effectually than walking--that having to attend to the horse gave
him occupation sufficient to prevent any really hard thinking. And the
change of scene which it gave him was good for spirits and health.
If I go beyond my own experience, and recall what I have heard him say
of his love for sport, &c., I can think of a good deal, but much of it
would be a repetition of what is contained in his _Recollections_. He
was fond of his gun as quite a boy, and became a good shot; he used to
tell how in South America he killed twenty-three snipe in twenty-four
shots. In telling the story he was careful to add that he thought they
were not quite so wild as English snipe.
Luncheon at Down came after his mid-day walk; and here I may say a word
or two about his meals generally. He had a boy-like love of sweets,
unluckily for himself, since he was constantly forbidden to take them.
He was not particularly successful in keeping the "vows," as he called
them, which he made against eating sweets, and never considered them
binding unless he made them aloud.
He drank very little wine, but enjoyed and was revived by the little he
did drink. He had a horror of drinking, and constantly warned his boys
that any one might be led into drinking too much. I remember, in my
innocence as a small boy, asking him if he had been ever tipsy; and he
answered very gravely that he was ashamed to say he had once drunk too
much at Cambridge. I was much impressed, so that I know now the place
where the question was asked.
After his lunch he read the newspaper, lying on the sofa in the
drawing-room. I think the paper was the only non-scientific matter which
he read to himself. Everything else, novels, travels, history, was read
aloud to him. He took so wide an interest in life, that there was much
to occupy him in newspapers, though he laughed at the wordiness of the
debates, reading them, I think, only in abstract. His interest in
politics was considerable, but his opinion on these matters was formed
rather by the way than with any serious amount of thought.
After he had read his paper, came his time for writing letters. These,
as well as the MS. of his books, were written by him as he sat in a huge
horse-hair chair by the fire, his paper supported on a board resting on
the arms of the chair. When he had many or long letters to write, he
would dictate them from a rough copy; these rough copies were written on
the backs of manuscript or of proof-sheets, and were almost illegible,
sometimes even to himself. He made a rule of keeping all letters that he
received; this was a habit which he learnt from his father, and which he
said had been of great use to him.
Many letters were addressed to him by foolish, unscrupulous people, and
all of these received replies. He used to say that if he did not answer
them, he had it on his conscience afterwards, and no doubt it was in
great measure the courtesy with which he answered every one which
produced the widespread sense of his kindness of nature which was so
evident on his death.
He was considerate to his correspondents in other and lesser things--for
instance, when dictating a letter to a foreigner, he hardly ever failed
to say to me, "You'd better try and write well, as it's to a foreigner."
His letters were generally written on the assumption that they would be
carelessly read; thus, when he was dictating, he was careful to tell me
to make an important clause begin with an obvious paragraph, "to catch
his eye," as he often said. How much he thought of the trouble he gave
others by asking questions, will be well enough shown by his letters.
He had a printed form to be used in replying to troublesome
correspondents, but he hardly ever used it; I suppose he never found an
occasion that seemed exactly suitable. I remember an occasion on which
it might have been used with advantage. He received a letter from a
stranger stating that the writer had undertaken to uphold Evolution at a
debating society, and that being a busy young man, without time for
reading, he wished to have a sketch of my father's views. Even this
wonderful young man got a civil answer, though I think he did not get
much material for his speech. His rule was to thank the donors of books,
but not of pamphlets. He sometimes expressed surprise that so few
thanked him for his books which he gave away liberally; the letters
that he did receive gave him much pleasure, because he habitually
formed so humble an estimate of the value of all his works, that he was
genuinely surprised at the interest which they excited.
In money and business matters he was remarkably careful and exact. He
kept accounts with great care, classifying them, and balancing at the
end of the year like a merchant. I remember the quick way in which he
would reach out for his account-book to enter each cheque paid, as
though he were in a hurry to get it entered before he had forgotten it.
His father must have allowed him to believe that he would be poorer than
he really was, for some of the difficulty experienced over finding a
house in the country must have arisen from the modest sum he felt
prepared to give. Yet he knew, of course, that he would be in easy
circumstances, for in his _Recollections_ he mentions this as one of the
reasons for his not having worked at medicine with so much zeal as he
would have done if he had been obliged to gain his living.
He had a pet economy in paper, but it was rather a hobby than a real
economy. All the blank sheets of letters received were kept in a
portfolio to be used in making notes; it was his respect for paper that
made him write so much on the backs of his old MS., and in this way,
unfortunately, he destroyed large parts of the original MS. of his
books. His feeling about paper extended to waste paper, and he objected,
half in fun, to the habit of throwing a spill into the fire after it had
been used for lighting a candle.
He had a great respect for pure business capacity, and often spoke with
admiration of a relative who had doubled his fortune. And of himself
would often say in fun that what he really _was_ proud of was the money
he had saved. He also felt satisfaction in the money he made by his
books. His anxiety to save came in great measure from his fears that his
children would not have health enough to earn their own livings, a
foreboding which fairly haunted him for many years. And I have a dim
recollection of his saying, "Thank God, you'll have bread and cheese,"
when I was so young that I was inclined to take it literally.
When letters were finished, about three in the afternoon, he rested in
his bedroom, lying on the sofa, smoking a cigarette, and listening to a
novel or other book not scientific. He only smoked when resting, whereas
snuff was a stimulant, and was taken during working hours. He took snuff
for many years of his life, having learnt the habit at Edinburgh as a
student. He had a nice silver snuff-box given him by Mrs. Wedgwood, of
Maer, which he valued much--but he rarely carried it, because it tempted
him to take too many pinches. In one of his early letters he speaks of
having given up snuff for a month, and describes himself as feeling
"most lethargic, stupid, and melancholy." Our former neighbour and
clergyman, Mr. Brodie Innes, tells me that at one time my father made a
resolve not to take snuff, except away from home, "a most satisfactory
arrangement for me," he adds, "as I kept a box in my study, to which
there was access from the garden without summoning servants, and I had
more frequently, than might have been otherwise the case, the privilege
of a few minutes' conversation with my dear friend." He generally took
snuff from a jar on the hall-table, because having to go this distance
for a pinch was a slight check; the clink of the lid of the snuff-jar
was a very familiar sound. Sometimes when he was in the drawing-room, it
would occur to him that the study fire must be burning low, and when one
of us offered to see after it, it would turn out that he also wished to
get a pinch of snuff.
Smoking he only took to permanently of late years, though on his Pampas
rides he learned to smoke with the Gauchos, and I have heard him speak
of the great comfort of a cup of _mate_ and a cigarette when he halted
after a long ride and was unable to get food for some time.
He came down at four o'clock to dress for his walk, and he was so
regular that one might be quite certain it was within a few minutes of
four when his descending steps were heard.
From about half-past four to half-past five he worked; then he came to
the drawing-room, and was idle till it was time (about six) to go up for
another rest with novel-reading and a cigarette.
Latterly he gave up late dinner, and had a simple tea at half-past seven
(while we had dinner), with an egg or a small piece of meat. After
dinner he never stayed in the room, and used to apologise by saying he
was an old woman who must be allowed to leave with the ladies. This was
one of the many signs and results of his constant weakness and
ill-health. Half an hour more or less conversation would make to him the
difference of a sleepless night and of the loss perhaps of half the next
day's work.
After dinner he played backgammon with my mother, two games being played
every night. For many years a score of the games which each won was
kept, and in this score he took the greatest interest. He became
extremely animated over these games, bitterly lamenting his bad luck
and exploding with exaggerated mock-anger at my mother's good fortune.
After playing backgammon he read some scientific book to himself, either
in the drawing-room, or, if much talking was going on, in the study.
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; he used also, I believe, to hum a little Otaheitan song. From
his want of ear he was unable to recognise a tune when he heard it
again, but he remained constant to what he liked, and would often say,
when an old favourite was played, "That's a fine thing; what is it?" He
liked especially parts of Beethoven's symphonies and bits of Handel. He
was sensitive to differences in style, and enjoyed the late Mrs. Vernon
Lushington's playing intensely, and in June 1881, when Hans Richter paid
a visit at Down, he was roused to strong enthusiasm by his magnificent
performance on the piano. He enjoyed good singing, and was moved almost
to tears by grand or pathetic songs. His niece Lady Farrer's singing of
Sullivan's "Will he come" was a never-failing enjoyment to him. He was
humble in the extreme about his own taste, and correspondingly pleased
when he found that others agreed with him.
He became much tired in the evenings, especially of late years, and left
the drawing-room about ten, going to bed at half-past ten. His nights
were generally bad, and he often lay awake or sat up in bed for hours,
suffering much discomfort. He was troubled at night by the activity of
his thoughts, and would become exhausted by his mind working at some
problem which he would willingly have dismissed. At night, too, anything
which had vexed or troubled him in the day would haunt him, and I think
it was then that he suffered if he had not answered some troublesome
correspondent.
The regular readings, which I have mentioned, continued for so many
years, enabled him to get through a great deal of the lighter kinds of
literature. He was extremely fond of novels, and I remember well the way
in which he would anticipate the pleasure of having a novel read to him
as he lay down or lighted his cigarette. He took a vivid interest both
in plot and characters, and would on no account know beforehand how a
story finished; he considered looking at the end of a novel as a
feminine vice. He could not enjoy any story with a tragical end; for
this reason he did not keenly appreciate George Eliot, though he often
spoke, warmly in praise of _Silas Marner_. Walter Scott, Miss Austen,
and Mrs. Gaskell were read and re-read till they could be read no more.
He had two or three books in hand at the same time--a novel and perhaps
a biography and a book of travels. He did not often read out-of-the-way
or old standard books, but generally kept to the books of the day
obtained from a circulating library.
His literary tastes and opinions were not on a level with the rest of
his mind. He himself, though he was clear as to what he thought good,
considered that in matters of literary tastes he was quite outside the
pale, and often spoke of what those within it liked or disliked, as if
they formed a class to which he had no claim to belong.
In all matters of art he was inclined to laugh at professed critics and
say that their opinions were formed by fashion. Thus in painting, he
would say how in his day every one admired masters who are now
neglected. His love of pictures as a young man is almost a proof that he
must have had an appreciation of a portrait as a work of art, not as a
likeness. Yet he often talked laughingly of the small worth of
portraits, and said that a photograph was worth any number of pictures,
as if he were blind to the artistic quality in a painted portrait. But
this was generally said in his attempts to persuade us to give up the
idea of having his portrait painted, an operation very irksome to him.
This way of looking at himself as an ignoramus in all matters of art,
was strengthened by the absence of pretence, which was part of his
character. With regard to questions of taste, as well as to more serious
things he had the courage of his opinions. I remember, however, an
instance that sounds like a contradiction to this: when he was looking
at the Turners in Mr. Ruskin's bedroom, he did not confess, as he did
afterwards, that he could make out absolutely nothing of what Mr. Ruskin
saw in them. But this little pretence was not for his own sake, but for
the sake of courtesy to his host. He was pleased and amused when
subsequently Mr. Ruskin brought him some photographs of pictures (I
think Vandyke portraits), and courteously seemed to value my father's
opinion about them.
Much of his scientific reading was in German, and this was a serious
labour to him; in reading a book after him, I was often struck at
seeing, from the pencil-marks made each day where he left off, how
little he could read at a time. He used to call German the "Verdammte,"
pronounced as if in English. He was especially indignant with Germans,
because he was convinced that they could write simply if they chose, and
often praised Professor Hildebrand of Freiburg for writing German which
was as clear as French. He sometimes gave a German sentence to a friend,
a patriotic German lady, and used to laugh at her if she did not
translate it fluently. He himself learnt German simply by hammering away
with a dictionary; he would say that his only way was to read a sentence
a great many times over, and at last the meaning occurred to him. When
he began German long ago, he boasted of the fact (as he used to tell) to
Sir J. Hooker, who replied, "Ah, my dear fellow, that's nothing; I've
begun it many times."
In spite of his want of grammar, he managed to get on wonderfully with
German, and the sentences that he failed to make out were generally
difficult ones. He never attempted to speak German correctly, but
pronounced the words as though they were English; and this made it not a
little difficult to help him, when he read out a German sentence and
asked for a translation. He certainly had a bad ear for vocal sounds, so
that he found it impossible to perceive small differences in
pronunciation.
His wide interest in branches of science that were not specially his own
was remarkable. In the biological sciences his doctrines make themselves
felt so widely that there was something interesting to him in most
departments. He read a good deal of many quite special works, and large
parts of text books, such as Huxley's _Invertebrate Anatomy_, or such a
book as Balfour's _Embryology_, where the detail, at any rate, was not
specially in his own line. And in the case of elaborate books of the
monograph type, though he did not make a study of them, yet he felt the
strongest admiration for them.
In the non-biological sciences he felt keen sympathy with work of which
he could not really judge. For instance, he used to read nearly the
whole of _Nature_, though so much of it deals with mathematics and
physics. I have often heard him say that he got a kind of satisfaction
in reading articles which (according to himself) he could not
understand. I wish I could reproduce the manner in which he would laugh
at himself for it.
It was remarkable, too, how he kept up his interest in subjects at
which he had formerly worked. This was strikingly the case with geology.
In one of his letters to Mr. Judd he begs him to pay him a visit, saying
that since Lyell's death he hardly ever gets a geological talk. His
observations, made only a few years before his death, on the upright
pebbles in the drift at Southampton, and discussed in a letter to Sir A.
Geikie, afford another instance. Again, in his letters to Dr. Dohrn, he
shows how his interest in barnacles remained alive. I think it was all
due to the vitality and persistence of his mind--a quality I have heard
him speak of as if he felt that he was strongly gifted in that respect.
Not that he used any such phrases as these about himself, but he would
say that he had the power of keeping a subject or question more or less
before him for a great many years. The extent to which he possessed this
power appears when we consider the number of different problems which he
solved, and the early period at which some of them began to occupy him.
It was a sure sign that he was not well when he was idle at any times
other than his regular resting hours; for, as long as he remained
moderately well, there was no break in the regularity of his life.
Week-days and Sundays passed by alike, each with their stated intervals
of work and rest. It is almost impossible, except for those who watched
his daily life, to realise how essential to his well-being was the
regular routine that I have sketched: and with what pain and difficulty
anything beyond it was attempted. Any public appearance, even of the
most modest kind, was an effort to him. In 1871 he went to the little
village church for the wedding of his elder daughter, but he could
hardly bear the fatigue of being present through the short service. The
same may be said of the few other occasions on which he was present at
similar ceremonies.
I remember him many years ago at a christening; a memory which has
remained with me, because to us children his being at church was an
extraordinary occurrence. I remember his look most distinctly at his
brother Erasmus's funeral, as he stood in the scattering of snow,
wrapped in a long black funeral cloak, with a grave look of sad reverie.
When, after an absence of many years, he attended a meeting of the
Linnean Society, it was felt to be, and was in fact, a serious
undertaking; one not to be determined on without much sinking of heart,
and hardly to be carried into effect without paying a penalty of
subsequent suffering. In the same way a breakfast-party at Sir James
Paget's, with some of the distinguished visitors to the Medical
Congress (1881), was to him a severe exertion.
The early morning was the only time at which he could make any effort of
the kind, with comparative impunity. Thus it came about that the visits
he paid to his scientific friends in London were by preference made as
early as ten in the morning. For the same reason he started on his
journeys by the earliest possible train, and used to arrive at the
houses of relatives in London when they were beginning their day.
He kept an accurate journal of the days on which he worked and those on
which his ill health prevented him from working, so that it would be
possible to tell how many were idle days in any given year. In this
journal--a little yellow Letts's Diary, which lay open on his
mantel-piece, piled on the diaries of previous years--he also entered
the day on which he started for a holiday and that of his return.
The most frequent holidays were visits of a week to London, either to
his brother's house (6 Queen Anne Street), or to his daughter's (4
Bryanston Street). He was generally persuaded by my mother to take these
short holidays, when it became clear from the frequency of "bad days,"
or from the swimming of his head, that he was being overworked. He went
unwillingly, and tried to drive hard bargains, stipulating, for
instance, that he should come home in five days instead of six. The
discomfort of a journey to him was, at least latterly, chiefly in the
anticipation, and in the miserable sinking feeling from which he
suffered immediately before the start; even a fairly long journey, such
as that to Coniston, tired him wonderfully little, considering how much
an invalid he was; and he certainly enjoyed it in an almost boyish way,
and to a curious degree.
Although, as he has said, some of his aesthetic tastes had suffered a
gradual decay, his love of scenery remained fresh and strong. Every walk
at Coniston was a fresh delight, and he was never tired of praising the
beauty of the broken hilly country at the head of the lake.
Besides these longer holidays, there were shorter visits to various
relatives--to his brother-in-law's house, close to Leith Hill, and to
his son near Southampton. He always particularly enjoyed rambling over
rough open country, such as the commons near Leith Hill and Southampton,
the heath-covered wastes of Ashdown Forest, or the delightful "Rough"
near the house of his friend Sir Thomas Farrer. He never was quite idle
even on these holidays, and found things to observe. At Hartfield he
watched Drosera catching insects, &c.; at Torquay he observed the
fertilisation of an orchid (_Spiranthes_), and also made out the
relations of the sexes in Thyme.
He rejoiced at his return home after his holidays, and greatly enjoyed
the welcome he got from his dog Polly, who would get wild with
excitement, panting, squeaking, rushing round the room, and jumping on
and off the chairs; and he used to stoop down, pressing her face to his,
letting her lick him, and speaking to her with a peculiarly tender,
caressing voice.
My father had the power of giving to these summer holidays a charm which
was strongly felt by all his family. The pressure of his work at home
kept him at the utmost stretch of his powers of endurance, and when
released from it, he entered on a holiday with a youthfulness of
enjoyment that made his companionship delightful; we felt that we saw
more of him in a week's holiday than in a month at home.
Besides the holidays which I have mentioned, there were his visits to
water-cure establishments. In 1849, when very ill, suffering from
constant sickness, he was urged by a friend to try the water-cure, and
at last agreed to go to Dr. Gully's establishment at Malvern. His
letters to Mr. Fox show how much good the treatment did him; he seems to
have thought that he had found a cure for his troubles, but, like all
other remedies, it had only a transient effect on him. However, he found
it, at first, so good for him, that when he came home he built himself a
douche-bath, and the butler learnt to be his bathman.
He was too, a frequent patient at Dr. Lane's water-cure establishment,
Moor Park, near Aldershot, visits to which he always looked back with
pleasure.
Some idea of his relation to his family and his friends may be gathered
from what has gone before; it would be impossible to attempt a complete
account of these relationships, but a slightly fuller outline may not be
out of place. Of his married life I cannot speak, save in the briefest
manner. In his relationship towards my mother, his tender and
sympathetic nature was shown in its most beautiful aspect. In her
presence he found his happiness, and through her, his life--which might
have been overshadowed by gloom--became one of content and quiet
gladness.
The _Expression of the Emotions_ shows how closely he watched his
children; it was characteristic of him that (as I have heard him tell),
although he was so anxious to observe accurately the expression of a
crying child, his sympathy with the grief spoiled his observation. His
note-book, in which are recorded sayings of his young children, shows
his pleasure in them. He seemed to retain a sort of regretful memory of
the childhoods which had faded away, and thus he wrote in his
_Recollections_:--"When you were very young it was my delight to play
with you all, and I think with a sigh that such days can never return."
I quote, as showing the tenderness of his nature, some sentences from an
account of his little daughter Annie, written a few days after her
death:--
"Our poor child, Annie, was born in Gower Street, on March 2, 1841, and
expired at Malvern at mid-day on the 23rd of April, 1851.
"I write these few pages, as I think in after years, if we live, the
impressions now put down will recall more vividly her chief
characteristics. From whatever point I look back at her, the main
feature in her disposition which at once rises before me, is her buoyant
joyousness, tempered by two other characteristics, namely, her
sensitiveness, which might easily have been overlooked by a stranger,
and her strong affection. Her joyousness and animal spirits radiated
from her whole countenance, and rendered every movement elastic and full
of life and vigour. It was delightful and cheerful to behold her. Her
dear face now rises before me, as she used sometimes to come running
downstairs with a stolen pinch of snuff for me, her whole form radiant
with the pleasure of giving pleasure. Even when playing with her
cousins, when her joyousness almost passed into boisterousness, a single
glance of my eye, not of displeasure (for I thank God I hardly ever cast
one on her), but of want of sympathy, would for some minutes alter her
whole countenance.
"The other point in her character, which made her joyousness and spirits
so delightful, was her strong affection, which was of a most clinging,
fondling nature. When quite a baby, this showed itself in never being
easy without touching her mother, when in bed with her; and quite lately
she would, when poorly, fondle for any length of time one of her
mother's arms. When very unwell, her mother lying down beside her,
seemed to soothe her in a manner quite different from what it would have
done to any of our other children. So, again, she would at almost any
time spend half-an-hour in arranging my hair, 'making it,' as she called
it, 'beautiful,' or in smoothing, the poor dear darling, my collar or
cuffs--in short, in fondling me.
"Besides her joyousness thus tempered, she was in her manners
remarkably cordial, frank, open, straightforward, natural, and without
any shade of reserve. Her whole mind was pure and transparent. One felt
one knew her thoroughly and could trust her. I always thought, that come
what might, we should have had, in our old age, at least one loving
soul, which nothing could have changed. All her movements were vigorous,
active, and usually graceful. When going round the Sand-walk with me,
although I walked fast, yet she often used to go before, pirouetting in
the most elegant way, her dear face bright all the time with the
sweetest smiles. Occasionally she had a pretty coquettish manner towards
me, the memory of which is charming. She often used exaggerated
language, and when I quizzed her by exaggerating what she had said, how
clearly can I now see the little toss of the head, and exclamation of
'Oh, papa, what a shame of you!' In the last short illness, her conduct
in simple truth was angelic. She never once complained; never became
fretful; was ever considerate of others, and was thankful in the most
gentle, pathetic manner for everything done for her. When so exhausted
that she could hardly speak, she praised everything that was given her,
and said some tea 'was beautifully good.' When I gave her some water,
she said, 'I quite thank you;' and these, I believe, were the last
precious words ever addressed by her dear lips to me.
"We have lost the joy of the household, and the solace of our old age.
She must have known how we loved her. Oh, that she could now know how
deeply, how tenderly, we do still and shall ever love her dear joyous
face! Blessings on her![57]
"April 30, 1851."
We, his children, all took especial pleasure in the games he played at
with us, and in his stories, which, partly on account of their rarity,
were considered specially delightful.
The way he brought us up is shown by a little story about my brother
Leonard, which my father was fond of telling. He came into the
drawing-room and found Leonard dancing about on the sofa, to the peril
of the springs, and said, "Oh, Lenny, Lenny, that's against all rules,"
and received for answer, "Then I think you'd better go out of the room."
I do not believe he ever spoke an angry word to any of his children in
his life; but I am certain that it never entered our heads to disobey
him. I well remember one occasion when my father reproved me for a piece
of carelessness; and I can still recall the feeling of depression which
came over me, and the care which he took to disperse it by speaking to
me soon afterwards with especial kindness. He kept up his delightful,
affectionate manner towards us all his life. I sometimes wonder that he
could do so, with such an undemonstrative race as we are; but I hope he
knew how much we delighted in his loving words and manner. He allowed
his grown-up children to laugh with and at him, and was generally
speaking on terms of perfect equality with us.
He was always full of interest about each one's plans or successes. We
used to laugh at him, and say he would not believe in his sons, because,
for instance, he would be a little doubtful about their taking some bit
of work for which he did not feel sure that they had knowledge enough.
On the other hand, he was only too much inclined to take a favourable
view of our work. When I thought he had set too high a value on anything
that I had done, he used to be indignant and inclined to explode in mock
anger. His doubts were part of his humility concerning what was in any
way connected with himself; his too favourable view of our work was due
to his sympathetic nature, which made him lenient to every one.
He kept up towards his children his delightful manner of expressing his
thanks; and I never wrote a letter, or read a page aloud to him, without
receiving a few kind words of recognition. His love and goodness towards
his little grandson Bernard were great; and he often spoke of the
pleasure it was to him to see "his little face opposite to him" at
luncheon. He and Bernard used to compare their tastes; _e.g._, in liking
brown sugar better than white, &c.; the result being, "We always agree,
don't we?"
My sister writes:--
"My first remembrances of my father are of the delights of his playing
with us. He was passionately attached to his own children, although he
was not an indiscriminate child-lover. To all of us he was the most
delightful play-fellow, and the most perfect sympathiser. Indeed it is
impossible adequately to describe how delightful a relation his was to
his family, whether as children or in their later life.
"It is a proof of the terms on which we were, and also of how much he
was valued as a play-fellow, that one of his sons when about four years
old tried to bribe him with sixpence to come and play in working hours.
"He must have been the most patient and delightful of nurses. I remember
the haven of peace and comfort it seemed to me when I was unwell, to be
tucked up on the study sofa, idly considering the old geological map
hung on the wall. This must have been in his working hours, for I always
picture him sitting in the horse hair arm chair by the corner of the
fire.
"Another mark of his unbounded patience was the way in which we were
suffered to make raids into the study when we had an absolute need of
sticking plaster, string, pins, scissors, stamps, foot rule, or hammer.
These and other such necessaries were always to be found in the study,
and it was the only place where this was a certainty. We used to feel it
wrong to go in during work time; still, when the necessity was great, we
did so. I remember his patient look when he said once, 'Don't you think
you could not come in again, I have been interrupted very often.' We
used to dread going in for sticking plaster, because he disliked to see
that we had cut ourselves, both for our sakes and on account of his
acute sensitiveness to the sight of blood. I well remember lurking about
the passage till he was safe away, and then stealing in for the plaster.
"Life seems to me, as I look back upon it, to have been very regular in
those early days, and except relations (and a few intimate friends), I
do not think any one came to the house. After lessons, we were always
free to go where we would, and that was chiefly in the drawing-room and
about the garden, so that we were very much with both my father and
mother. We used to think it most delightful when he told us any stories
about the _Beagle_, or about early Shrewsbury days--little bits about
school life and his boyish tastes.
"He cared for all our pursuits and interests, and lived our lives with
us in a way that very few fathers do. But I am certain that none of us
felt that this intimacy interfered the least with our respect and
obedience. Whatever he said was absolute truth and law to us. He always
put his whole mind into answering any of our questions. One trifling
instance makes me feel how he cared for what we cared for. He had no
special taste for cats, but yet he knew and remembered the
individualities of my many cats, and would talk about the habits and
characters of the more remarkable ones years after they had died.
"Another characteristic of his treatment of his children was his respect
for their liberty, and for their personality. Even as quite a little
girl, I remember rejoicing in this sense of freedom. Our father and
mother would not even wish to know what we were doing or thinking unless
we wished to tell. He always made us feel that we were each of us
creatures whose opinions and thoughts were valuable to him, so that
whatever there was best in us came out in the sunshine of his presence.
"I do not think his exaggerated sense of our good qualities,
intellectual or moral, made us conceited, as might perhaps have been
expected, but rather more humble and grateful to him. The reason being
no doubt that the influence of his character, of his sincerity and
greatness of nature, had a much deeper and more lasting effect than any
small exaltation which his praises or admiration may have caused to our
vanity."[58]
As head of a household he was much loved and respected; he always spoke
to servants with politeness, using the expression, "would you be so
good," in asking for anything. He was hardly ever angry with his
servants; it shows how seldom this occurred, that when, as a small boy,
I overheard a servant being scolded, and my father speaking angrily, it
impressed me as an appalling circumstance, and I remember running up
stairs out of a general sense of awe. He did not trouble himself about
the management of the garden, cows, &c. He considered the horses so
little his concern, that he used to ask doubtfully whether he might have
a horse and cart to send to Keston for Sundew, or to the Westerham
nurseries for plants, or the like.
As a host my father had a peculiar charm: the presence of visitors
excited him, and made him appear to his best advantage. At Shrewsbury,
he used to say, it was his father's wish that the guests should be
attended to constantly, and in one of the letters to Fox he speaks of
the impossibility of writing a letter while the house was full of
company. I think he always felt uneasy at not doing more for the
entertainment of his guests, but the result was successful; and, to make
up for any loss, there was the gain that the guests felt perfectly free
to do as they liked. The most usual visitors were those who stayed from
Saturday till Monday; those who remained longer were generally
relatives, and were considered to be rather more my mother's affair than
his.
Besides these visitors, there were foreigners and other strangers, who
came down for luncheon and went away in the afternoon. He used
conscientiously to represent to them the enormous distance of Down from
London, and the labour it would be to come there, unconsciously taking
for granted that they would find the journey as toilsome as he did
himself. If, however, they were not deterred, he used to arrange their
journeys for them, telling them when to come, and practically when to
go. It was pleasant to see the way in which he shook hands with a guest
who was being welcomed for the first time; his hand used to shoot out in
a way that gave one the feeling that it was hastening to meet the
guest's hands. With old friends his hand came down with a hearty swing
into the other hand in a way I always had satisfaction in seeing. His
good-bye was chiefly characterised by the pleasant way in which he
thanked his guests, as he stood at the hall-door, for having come to see
him.
These luncheons were successful entertainments, there was no drag or
flagging about them, my father was bright and excited throughout the
whole visit. Professor De Candolle has described a visit to Down, in his
admirable and sympathetic sketch of my father.[59] He speaks of his
manner as resembling that of a "savant" of Oxford or Cambridge. This
does not strike me as quite a good comparison; in his ease and
naturalness there was more of the manner of some soldiers; a manner
arising from total absence of pretence or affectation. It was this
absence of pose, and the natural and simple way in which he began
talking to his guests, so as to get them on their own lines, which made
him so charming a host to a stranger. His happy choice of matter for
talk seemed to flow out of his sympathetic nature, and humble, vivid
interest in other people's work.
To some, I think, he caused actual pain by his modesty; I have seen the
late Francis Balfour quite discomposed by having knowledge ascribed to
himself on a point about which my father claimed to be utterly ignorant.
It is difficult to seize on the characteristics of my father's
conversation.
He had more dread than have most people of repeating his stories, and
continually said, "You must have heard me tell," or "I daresay I've told
you." One peculiarity he had, which gave a curious effect to his
conversation. The first few words of a sentence would often remind him
of some exception to, or some reason against, what he was going to say;
and this again brought up some other point, so that the sentence would
become a system of parenthesis within parenthesis, and it was often
impossible to understand the drift of what he was saying until he came
to the end of his sentence. He used to say of himself that he was not
quick enough to hold an argument with any one, and I think this was
true. Unless it was a subject on which he was just then at work, he
could not get the train of argument into working order quickly enough.
This is shown even in his letters; thus, in the case of two letters to
Professor Semper about the effect of isolation, he did not recall the
series of facts he wanted until some days after the first letter had
been sent off.
When puzzled in talking, he had a peculiar stammer on the first word of
a sentence. I only recall this occurring with words beginning with w;
possibly he had a special difficulty with this letter, for I have heard
him say that as a boy he could not pronounce w, and that sixpence was
offered him if he could say "white wine," which he pronounced "rite
rine." Possibly he may have inherited this tendency from Erasmus Darwin
who stammered.[60]
He sometimes combined his metaphors in a curious way, using such a
phrase as "holding on like life,"--a mixture of "holding on for his
life," and "holding on like grim death." It came from his eager way of
putting emphasis into what he was saying. This sometimes gave an air of
exaggeration where it was not intended; but it gave, too, a noble air of
strong and generous conviction; as, for instance, when he gave his
evidence before the Royal Commission on vivisection, and came out with
his words about cruelty, "It deserves detestation and abhorrence." When
he felt strongly about any similar question, he could hardly trust
himself to speak, as he then easily became angry, a thing which he
disliked excessively. He was conscious that his anger had a tendency to
multiply itself in the utterance, and for this reason dreaded (for
example) having to reprove a servant.
It was a proof of the modesty of his manner of talking, that when, for
instance, a number of visitors came over from Sir John Lubbock's for a
Sunday afternoon call, he never seemed to be preaching or lecturing,
although he had so much of the talk to himself. He was particularly
charming when "chaffing" any one, and in high spirits over it. His
manner at such times was light-hearted and boyish, and his refinement of
nature came out most strongly. So, when he was talking to a lady who
pleased and amused him, the combination of raillery and deference in his
manner was delightful to see. There was a personal dignity about him,
which the most familiar intercourse did not diminish. One felt that he
was the last person with whom anyone would wish to take a liberty, nor
do I remember an instance of such a thing occurring to him.
When my father had several guests he managed them well, getting a talk
with each, or bringing two or three together round his chair. In these
conversations there was always a good deal of fun, and, speaking
generally, there was either a humorous turn in his talk, or a sunny
geniality which served instead. Perhaps my recollection of a pervading
element of humour is the more vivid, because the best talks were with
Mr. Huxley, in whom there is the aptness which is akin to humour, even
when humour itself is not there. My father enjoyed Mr. Huxley's humour
exceedingly, and would often say, "What splendid fun Huxley is!" I think
he probably had more scientific argument (of the nature of a fight) with
Lyell and Sir Joseph Hooker.
He used to say that it grieved him to find that for the friends of his
later life he had not the warm affection of his youth. Certainly in his
early letters from Cambridge he gives proofs of strong friendship for
Herbert and Fox; but no one except himself would have said that his
affection for his friends was not, throughout life, of the warmest
possible kind. In serving a friend he would not spare himself, and
precious time and strength were willingly given. He undoubtedly had, to
an unusual degree, the power of attaching his friends to him. He had
many warm friendships, but to Sir Joseph Hooker he was bound by ties of
affection stronger than we often see among men. He wrote in his
_Recollections_, "I have known hardly any man more lovable than Hooker."
His relationship to the village people was a pleasant one; he treated
them, one and all, with courtesy, when he came in contact with them, and
took an interest in all relating to their welfare. Some time after he
came to live at Down he helped to found a Friendly Club, and served as
treasurer for thirty years. He took much trouble about the club, keeping
its accounts with minute and scrupulous exactness, and taking pleasure
in its prosperous condition. Every Whit-Monday the club marched round
with band and banner and paraded on the lawn in front of the house.
There he met them, and explained to them their financial position in a
little speech seasoned with a few well-worn jokes. He was often unwell
enough to make even this little ceremony an exertion, but I think he
never failed to meet them.
He was also treasurer of the Coal Club, which gave him a certain amount
of work, and he acted for some years as a County Magistrate.
With regard to my father's interest in the affairs of the village, Mr.
Brodie Innes has been so good as to give me his recollections:--
"On my becoming Vicar of Down in 1846, we became friends, and so
continued till his death. His conduct towards me and my family was one
of unvarying kindness, and we repaid it by warm affection.
"In all parish matters he was an active assistant; in matters connected
with the schools, charities, and other business, his liberal
contribution was ever ready, and in the differences which at times
occurred in that, as in other parishes, I was always sure of his
support. He held that where there was really no important objection, his
assistance should be given to the clergyman, who ought to know the
circumstances best, and was chiefly responsible."
His intercourse with strangers was marked with scrupulous and rather
formal politeness, but in fact he had few opportunities of meeting
strangers, and the quiet life he led at Down made him feel confused in a
large gathering; for instance, at the Royal Society's _soirees_ he felt
oppressed by the numbers. The feeling that he ought to know people, and
the difficulty he had in remembering faces in his latter years, also
added to his discomfort on such occasions. He did not realise that he
would be recognised from his photographs, and I remember his being
uneasy at being obviously recognised by a stranger at the Crystal Palace
Aquarium.
I must say something of his manner of working: a striking characteristic
was his respect for time; he never forgot how precious it was. This was
shown, for instance, in the way in which he tried to curtail his
holidays; also, and more clearly, with respect to shorter periods. He
would often say, that saving the minutes was the way to get work done;
he showed this love of saving the minutes in the difference he felt
between a quarter of an hour and ten minutes' work; he never wasted a
few spare minutes from thinking that it was not worth while to set to
work. I was often struck by his way of working up to the very limit of
his strength, so that he suddenly stopped in dictating, with the words,
"I believe I mustn't do any more." The same eager desire not to lose
time was seen in his quick movements when at work. I particularly
remember noticing this when he was making an experiment on the roots of
beans, which required some care in manipulation; fastening the little
bits of card upon the roots was done carefully and necessarily slowly,
but the intermediate movements were all quick; taking a fresh bean,
seeing that the root was healthy, impaling it on a pin, fixing it on a
cork, and seeing that it was vertical, &c.; all these processes were
performed with a kind of restrained eagerness. He gave one the
impression of working with pleasure, and not with any drag. I have an
image, too, of him as he recorded the result of some experiment, looking
eagerly at each root, &c., and then writing with equal eagerness. I
remember the quick movement of his head up and down as he looked from
the object to the notes.
He saved a great deal of time through not having to do things twice.
Although he would patiently go on repeating experiments where there was
any good to be gained, he could not endure having to repeat an
experiment which ought, if complete care had been taken, to have told
its story at first--and this gave him a continual anxiety that the
experiment should not be wasted; he felt the experiment to be sacred,
however slight a one it was. He wished to learn as much as possible from
an experiment, so that he did not confine himself to observing the
single point to which the experiment was directed, and his power of
seeing a number of other things was wonderful. I do not think he cared
for preliminary or rough observations intended to serve as guides and to
be repeated. Any experiment done was to be of some use, and in this
connection I remember how strongly he urged the necessity of keeping the
notes of experiments which failed, and to this rule he always adhered.
In the literary part of his work he had the same horror of losing time,
and the same zeal in what he was doing at the moment, and this made him
careful not to be obliged unnecessarily to read anything a second time.
His natural tendency was to use simple methods and few instruments. The
use of the compound microscope has much increased since his youth, and
this at the expense of the simple one. It strikes us nowadays as
extraordinary that he should have had no compound microscope when he
went his _Beagle_ voyage; but in this he followed the advice of Robert
Brown, who was an authority in such matters. He always had a great
liking for the simple microscope, and maintained that nowadays it was
too much neglected, and that one ought always to see as much as possible
with the simple before taking to the compound microscope. In one of his
letters he speaks on this point, and remarks that he suspects the work
of a man who never uses the simple microscope.
His dissecting table was a thick board, let into a window of the study;
it was lower than an ordinary table, so that he could not have worked at
it standing; but this, from wishing to save his strength, he would not
have done in any case. He sat at his dissecting-table on a curious low
stool which had belonged to his father, with a seat revolving on a
vertical spindle, and mounted on large castors, so that he could turn
easily from side to side. His ordinary tools, &c., were lying about on
the table, but besides these a number of odds and ends were kept in a
round table full of radiating drawers, and turning on a vertical axis,
which stood close by his left side, as he sat at his microscope-table.
The drawers were labelled, "best tools," "rough tools," "specimens,"
"preparations for specimens," &c. The most marked peculiarity of the
contents of these drawers was the care with which little scraps and
almost useless things were preserved; he held the well-known belief,
that if you threw a thing away you were sure to want it directly--and so
things accumulated.
If any one had looked at his tools, &c., lying on the table, he would
have been struck by an air of simpleness, make-shift, and oddity.
At his right hand were shelves, with a number of other odds and ends,
glasses, saucers, tin biscuit boxes for germinating seeds, zinc labels,
saucers full of sand, &c., &c. Considering how tidy and methodical he
was in essential things, it is curious that he bore with so many
make-shifts: for instance, instead of having a box made of a desired
shape, and stained black inside, he would hunt up something like what he
wanted and get it darkened inside with shoe-blacking; he did not care to
have glass covers made for tumblers in which he germinated seeds, but
used broken bits of irregular shape, with perhaps a narrow angle
sticking uselessly out on one side. But so much of his experimenting was
of a simple kind, that he had no need for any elaboration, and I think
his habit in this respect was in great measure due to his desire to
husband his strength, and not waste it on inessential things.
His way of marking objects may here be mentioned. If he had a number of
things to distinguish, such as leaves, flowers, &c., he tied threads of
different colours round them. In particular he used this method when he
had only two classes of objects to distinguish; thus in the case of
crossed and self-fertilised flowers, one set would be marked with black
and one with white thread, tied round the stalk of the flower. I
remember well the look of two sets of capsules, gathered and waiting to
be weighed, counted, &c., with pieces of black and of white thread to
distinguish the trays in which they lay. When he had to compare two sets
of seedlings, sowed in the same pot, he separated them by a partition of
zinc-plate; and the zinc-label, which gave the necessary details about
the experiment, was always placed on a certain side, so that it became
instinctive with him to know without reading the label which were the
"crossed" and which the "self-fertilised."
His love of each particular experiment, and his eager zeal not to lose
the fruit of it, came out markedly in these crossing experiments--in the
elaborate care he took not to make any confusion in putting capsules
into wrong trays, &c. &c. I can recall his appearance as he counted
seeds under the simple microscope with an alertness not usually
characterising such mechanical work as counting. I think he personified
each seed as a small demon trying to elude him by getting into the wrong
heap, or jumping away altogether; and this gave to the work the
excitement of a game. He had great faith in instruments, and I do not
think it naturally occurred to him to doubt the accuracy of a scale, a
measuring glass, &c. He was astonished when we found that one of his
micrometers differed from the other. He did not require any great
accuracy in most of his measurements, and had not good scales; he had an
old three-foot rule, which was the common property of the household, and
was constantly being borrowed, because it was the only one which was
certain to be in its place--unless, indeed, the last borrower had
forgotten to put it back. For measuring the height of plants, he had a
seven-foot deal rod, graduated by the village carpenter. Latterly he
took to using paper scales graduated to millimeters. I do not mean by
this account of his instruments that any of his experiments suffered
from want of accuracy in measurement, I give them as examples of his
simple methods and faith in others--faith at least in instrument-makers,
whose whole trade was a mystery to him.
A few of his mental characteristics, bearing especially on his mode of
working, occur to me. There was one quality of mind which seemed to be
of special and extreme advantage in leading him to make discoveries. It
was the power of never letting exceptions pass unnoticed. Everybody
notices a fact as an exception when it is striking or frequent, but he
had a special instinct for arresting an exception. A point apparently
slight and unconnected with his present work is passed over by many a
man almost unconsciously with some half-considered explanation, which is
in fact no explanation. It was just these things that he seized on to
make a start from. In a certain sense there is nothing special in this
procedure, many discoveries being made by means of it. I only mention it
because, as I watched him at work, the value of this power to an
experimenter was so strongly impressed upon me.
Another quality which was shown in his experimental work, was his power
of sticking to a subject; he used almost to apologise for his patience,
saying that he could not bear to be beaten, as if this were rather a
sign of weakness on his part. He often quoted the saying, "It's dogged
as does it;" and I think doggedness expresses his frame of mind almost
better than perseverance. Perseverance seems hardly to express his
almost fierce desire to force the truth to reveal itself. He often said
that it was important that a man should know the right point at which to
give up an inquiry. And I think it was his tendency to pass this point
that inclined him to apologise for his perseverance, and gave the air of
doggedness to his work.
He often said that no one could be a good observer unless he was an
active theoriser. This brings me back to what I said about his instinct
for arresting exceptions: it was as though he were charged with
theorising power ready to flow into any channel on the slightest
disturbance, so that no fact, however small, could avoid releasing a
stream of theory, and thus the fact became magnified into importance. In
this way it naturally happened that many untenable theories occurred to
him; but fortunately his richness of imagination was equalled by his
power of judging and condemning the thoughts that occurred to him. He
was just to his theories, and did not condemn them unheard; and so it
happened that he was willing to test what would seem to most people not
at all worth testing. These rather wild trials he called "fool's
experiments," and enjoyed extremely. As an example I may mention that
finding the seed-leaves of a kind of sensitive plant, to be highly
sensitive to vibrations of the table, he fancied that they might
perceive the vibrations of sound, and therefore made me play my bassoon
close to a plant.[61]
The love of experiment was very strong in him, and I can remember the
way he would say, "I shan't be easy till I have tried it," as if an
outside force were driving him. He enjoyed experimenting much more than
work which only entailed reasoning, and when he was engaged on one of
his books which required argument and the marshalling of facts, he felt
experimental work to be a rest or holiday. Thus, while working upon the
_Variations of Animals and Plants_ in 1860-61, he made out the
fertilisation of Orchids, and thought himself idle for giving so much
time to them. It is interesting to think that so important a piece of
research should have been undertaken and largely worked out as a pastime
in place of more serious work. The letters to Hooker of this period
contain expressions such as, "God forgive me for being so idle; I am
quite sillily interested in the work." The intense pleasure he took in
understanding the adaptations for fertilisation is strongly shown in
these letters. He speaks in one of his letters of his intention of
working at Sundew as a rest from the _Descent of Man_. He has described
in his _Recollections_ the strong satisfaction he felt in solving the
problem of heterostylism.[62] And I have heard him mention that the
Geology of South America gave him almost more pleasure than anything
else. It was perhaps this delight in work requiring keen observation
that made him value praise given to his observing powers almost more
than appreciation of his other qualities.
For books he had no respect, but merely considered them as tools to be
worked with. Thus he did not bind them, and even when a paper book fell
to pieces from use, as happened to Mueller's _Befruchtung_, he preserved
it from complete dissolution by putting a metal clip over its back. In
the same way he would cut a heavy book in half, to make it more
convenient to hold. He used to boast that he had made Lyell publish the
second edition of one of his books in two volumes, instead of in one, by
telling him how he had been obliged to cut it in half. Pamphlets were
often treated even more severely than books, for he would tear out, for
the sake of saving room, all the pages except the one that interested
him. The consequence of all this was, that his library was not
ornamental, but was striking from being so evidently a working
collection of books.
He was methodical in his manner of reading books and pamphlets bearing
on his own work. He had one shelf on which were piled up the books he
had not yet read, and another to which they were transferred after
having been read, and before being catalogued. He would often groan over
his unread books, because there were so many which he knew he should
never read. Many a book was at once transferred to the other heap,
marked with a cypher at the end, to show that it contained no passages
for reference, or inscribed, perhaps, "not read," or "only skimmed." The
books accumulated in the "read" heap until the shelves overflowed, and
then, with much lamenting, a day was given up to the cataloguing. He
disliked this work, and as the necessity of undertaking the work became
imperative, would often say, in a voice of despair, "We really must do
these books soon."
In each book, as he read it, he marked passages bearing on his work. In
reading a book or pamphlet, &c., he made pencil-lines at the side of the
page, often adding short remarks, and at the end made a list of the
pages marked. When it was to be catalogued and put away, the marked
pages were looked at, and so a rough abstract of the book was made. This
abstract would perhaps be written under three or four headings on
different sheets, the facts being sorted out and added to the previously
collected facts in the different subjects. He had other sets of
abstracts arranged, not according to subject, but according to the
periodicals from which they were taken. When collecting facts on a large
scale, in earlier years, he used to read through, and make abstracts, in
this way, of whole series of journals.
In some of his early letters he speaks of filling several note-books
with facts for his book on species; but it was certainly early that he
adopted his plan of using portfolios, as described in the
_Recollections_.[63] My father and M. de Candolle were mutually pleased
to discover that they had adopted the same plan of classifying facts. De
Candolle describes the method in his _Phytologie_, and in his sketch of
my father mentions the satisfaction he felt in seeing it in action at
Down.
Besides these portfolios, of which there are some dozens full of notes,
there are large bundles of MS. marked "used" and put away. He felt the
value of his notes, and had a horror of their destruction by fire. I
remember, when some alarm of fire had happened, his begging me to be
especially careful, adding very earnestly, that the rest of his life
would be miserable if his notes and books were destroyed.
He shows the same feeling in writing about the loss of a manuscript, the
purport of his words being, "I have a copy, or the loss would have
killed me." In writing a book he would spend much time and labour in
making a skeleton or plan of the whole, and in enlarging and
sub-classing each heading, as described in his _Recollections_. I think
this careful arrangement of the plan was not at all essential to the
building up of his argument, but for its presentment, and for the
arrangement of his facts. In his _Life of Erasmus Darwin_, as it was
first printed in slips, the growth of the book from a skeleton was
plainly visible. The arrangement was altered afterwards, because it was
too formal and categorical, and seemed to give the character of his
grandfather rather by means of a list of qualities than as a complete
picture.
It was only within the last few years that he adopted a plan of writing
which he was convinced suited him best, and which is described in the
_Recollections_; namely, writing a rough copy straight off without the
slightest attention to style. It was characteristic of him that he felt
unable to write with sufficient want of care if he used his best paper,
and thus it was that he wrote on the backs of old proofs or manuscript.
The rough copy was then reconsidered, and a fair copy was made. For this
purpose he had foolscap paper ruled at wide intervals, the lines being
needed to prevent him writing so closely that correction became
difficult. The fair copy was then corrected, and was recopied before
being sent to the printers. The copying was done by Mr. E. Norman, who
began this work many years ago when village schoolmaster at Down. My
father became so used to Mr. Norman's handwriting, that he could not
correct manuscript, even when clearly written out by one of his
children, until it had been recopied by Mr. Norman. The MS., on
returning from Mr. Norman, was once more corrected, and then sent off to
the printers. Then came the work of revising and correcting the proofs,
which my father found especially wearisome.
When the book was passing through the "slip" stage he was glad to have
corrections and suggestions from others. Thus my mother looked over the
proofs of the _Origin_. In some of the later works my sister, Mrs.
Litchfield, did much of the correction. After my sister's marriage
perhaps most of the work fell to my share.
My sister, Mrs. Litchfield, writes:--
"This work was very interesting in itself, and it was inexpressibly
exhilarating to work for him. He was so ready to be convinced that any
suggested alteration was an improvement, and so full of gratitude for
the trouble taken. I do not think that he ever forgot to tell me what
improvement he thought I had made, and he used almost to excuse himself
if he did not agree with any correction. I think I felt the singular
modesty and graciousness of his nature through thus working for him in a
way I never should otherwise have done."
Perhaps the commonest corrections needed were of obscurities due to the
omission of a necessary link in the reasoning, evidently omitted through
familiarity with the subject. Not that there was any fault in the
sequence of the thoughts, but that from familiarity with his argument he
did not notice when the words failed to reproduce his thought. He also
frequently put too much matter into one sentence, so that it had to be
cut up into two.
On the whole, I think the pains which my father took over the literary
part of the work was very remarkable. He often laughed or grumbled at
himself for the difficulty which he found in writing English, saying,
for instance, that if a bad arrangement of a sentence was possible, he
should be sure to adopt it. He once got much amusement and satisfaction
out of the difficulty which one of the family found in writing a short
circular. He had the pleasure of correcting and laughing at obscurities,
involved sentences, and other defects, and thus took his revenge for all
the criticism he had himself to bear with. He would quote with
astonishment Miss Martineau's advice to young authors, to write straight
off and send the MS. to the printer without correction. But in some
cases he acted in a somewhat similar manner. When a sentence became
hopelessly involved, he would ask himself, "now what _do_ you want to
say?" and his answer written down, would often disentangle the
confusion.
His style has been much praised; on the other hand, at least one good
judge has remarked to me that it is not a good style. It is, above all
things, direct and clear; and it is characteristic of himself in its
simplicity bordering on naivete, and in its absence of pretence. He had
the strongest disbelief in the common idea that a classical scholar must
write good English; indeed, he thought that the contrary was the case.
In writing, he sometimes showed the same tendency to strong expressions
that he did in conversation. Thus in the _Origin_, p. 440, there is a
description of a larval cirripede, "with six pairs of beautifully
constructed natatory legs, a pair of magnificent compound eyes, and
extremely complex antennae." We used to laugh at him for this sentence,
which we compared to an advertisement. This tendency to give himself up
to the enthusiastic turn of his thought, without fear of being ludicrous
appears elsewhere in his writings.
His courteous and conciliatory tone towards his reader is remarkable,
and it must be partly this quality which revealed his personal sweetness
of character to so many who had never seen him. I have always felt it to
be a curious fact, that he who has altered the face of Biological
Science, and is in this respect the chief of the moderns, should have
written and worked in so essentially a non-modern spirit and manner. In
reading his books one is reminded of the older naturalists rather than
of any modern school of writers. He was a Naturalist in the old sense of
the word, that is, a man who works at many branches of science, not
merely a specialist in one. Thus it is, that, though he founded whole
new divisions of special subjects--such as the fertilisation of flowers,
insectivorous plants, &c.--yet even in treating these very subjects he
does not strike the reader as a specialist. The reader feels like a
friend who is being talked to by a courteous gentleman, not like a pupil
being lectured by a professor. The tone of such a book as the _Origin_
is charming, and almost pathetic; it is the tone of a man who, convinced
of the truth of his own views, hardly expects to convince others; it is
just the reverse of the style of a fanatic, who tries to force belief on
his readers. The reader is never scorned for any amount of doubt which
he may be imagined to feel, and his scepticism is treated with patient
respect. A sceptical reader, or perhaps even an unreasonable reader,
seems to have been generally present to his thoughts. It was in
consequence of this feeling, perhaps, that he took much trouble over
points which he imagined would strike the reader, or save him trouble,
and so tempt him to read.
For the same reason he took much interest in the illustrations of his
books, and I think rated rather too highly their value. The
illustrations for his earlier books were drawn by professional artists.
This was the case in _Animals and Plants_, the _Descent of Man_, and the
_Expression of the Emotions_. On the other hand, _Climbing Plants_,
_Insectivorous Plants_, the _Movements of Plants_, and _Forms of
Flowers_, were, to a large extent, illustrated by some of his
children--my brother George having drawn by far the most. It was
delightful to draw for him, as he was enthusiastic in his praise of very
moderate performances. I remember well his charming manner of receiving
the drawings of one of his daughters-in-law, and how he would finish his
words of praise by saying, "Tell A----, Michael Angelo is nothing to
it." Though he praised so generously, he always looked closely at the
drawing, and easily detected mistakes or carelessness.
He had a horror of being lengthy, and seems to have been really much
annoyed and distressed when he found how the _Variations of Animals and
Plants_ was growing under his hands. I remember his cordially agreeing
with 'Tristram Shandy's' words, "Let no man say, 'Come, I'll write a
duodecimo.'"
His consideration for other authors was as marked a characteristic as
his tone towards his reader. He speaks of all other authors as persons
deserving of respect. In cases where, as in the case of ----'s
experiments on Drosera, he thought lightly of the author, he speaks of
him in such a way that no one would suspect it. In other cases he treats
the confused writings of ignorant persons as though the fault lay with
himself for not appreciating or understanding them. Besides this general
tone of respect, he had a pleasant way of expressing his opinion on the
value of a quoted work, or his obligation for a piece of private
information.
His respectful feeling was not only admirable, but was I think of
practical use in making him ready to consider the ideas and observations
of all manner of people. He used almost to apologise for this, and would
say that he was at first inclined to rate everything too highly.
It was a great merit in his mind that, in spite of having so strong a
respectful feeling towards what he read, he had the keenest of instincts
as to whether a man was trustworthy or not. He seemed to form a very
definite opinion as to the accuracy of the men whose books he read; and
employed this judgment in his choice of facts for use in argument or as
illustrations. I gained the impression that he felt this power of
judging of a man's trustworthiness to be of much value.
He had a keen feeling of the sense of honour that ought to reign among
authors, and had a horror of any kind of laxness in quoting. He had a
contempt for the love of honour and glory, and in his letters often
blames himself for the pleasure he took in the success of his books, as
though he were departing from his ideal--a love of truth and
carelessness about fame. Often, when writing to Sir J. Hooker what he
calls a boasting letter, he laughs at himself for his conceit and want
of modesty. A wonderfully interesting letter is given in Chapter X.
bequeathing to my mother, in case of his death, the care of publishing
the manuscript of his first essay on evolution. This letter seems to me
full of an intense desire that his theory should succeed as a
contribution to knowledge, and apart from any desire for personal fame.
He certainly had the healthy desire for success which a man of strong
feelings ought to have. But at the time of the publication of the
_Origin_ it is evident that he was overwhelmingly satisfied with the
adherence of such men as Lyell, Hooker, Huxley, and Asa Gray, and did
not dream of or desire any such general fame as that to which he
attained.
Connected with his contempt for the undue love of fame, was an equally
strong dislike of all questions of priority. The letters to Lyell, at
the time of the _Origin_, show the anger he felt with himself for not
being able to repress a feeling of disappointment at what he thought was
Mr. Wallace's forestalling of all his years of work. His sense of
literary honour comes out strongly in these letters; and his feeling
about priority is again shown in the admiration expressed in his
_Recollections_ of Mr. Wallace's self-annihilation.
His feeling about reclamations, including answers to attacks and all
kinds of discussions, was strong. It is simply expressed in a letter to
Falconer (1863): "If I ever felt angry towards you, for whom I have a
sincere friendship, I should begin to suspect that I was a little mad. I
was very sorry about your reclamation, as I think it is in every case a
mistake and should be left to others. Whether I should so act myself
under provocation is a different question." It was a feeling partly
dictated by instinctive delicacy, and partly by a strong sense of the
waste of time, energy, and temper thus caused. He said that he owed his
determination not to get into discussions[64] to the advice of
Lyell,--advice which he transmitted to those among his friends who were
given to paper warfare.
If the character of my father's working life is to be understood, the
conditions of ill-health, under which he worked, must be constantly
borne in mind. He bore his illness with such uncomplaining patience,
that even his children can hardly, I believe, realise the extent of his
habitual suffering. In their case the difficulty is heightened by the
fact that, from the days of their earliest recollections, they saw him
in constant ill-health,--and saw him, in spite of it, full of pleasure
in what pleased them. Thus, in later life, their perception of what he
endured had to be disentangled from the impression produced in childhood
by constant genial kindness under conditions of unrecognised difficulty.
No one indeed, except my mother, knows the full amount of suffering he
endured, or the full amount of his wonderful patience. For all the
latter years of his life she never left him for a night; and her days
were so planned that all his resting hours might be shared with her. She
shielded him from every avoidable annoyance, and omitted nothing that
might save him trouble, or prevent him becoming overtired, or that might
alleviate the many discomforts of his ill-health. I hesitate to speak
thus freely of a thing so sacred as the life-long devotion which
prompted all this constant and tender care. But it is, I repeat, a
principal feature of his life, that for nearly forty years he never knew
one day of the health of ordinary men, and that thus his life was one
long struggle against the weariness and strain of sickness. And this
cannot be told without speaking of the one condition which enabled him
to bear the strain and fight out the struggle to the end.
FOOTNOTES:
[52] From the _Century Magazine_, January 1883.
[53] The figure in _Insectivorous Plants_ representing the aggregated
cell-contents was drawn by him.
[54] _Life and Letters_, vol. iii. frontispiece.
[55] The basket in which she usually lay curled up near the fire in his
study is faithfully represented in Mr. Parson's drawing given at the
head of the chapter.
[56] Cf. Leslie Stephen's _Swift_, 1882, p. 200, where Swift's
inspection of the manners and customs of servants are compared to my
father's observations on worms, "The difference is," says Mr. Stephen,
"that Darwin had none but kindly feelings for worms."
[57] The words, "A good and dear child," form the descriptive part of
the inscription on her gravestone. See the _Athenaeum_, Nov. 26, 1887.
[58] Some pleasant recollections of my father's life at Down, written by
our friend and former neighbour, Mrs. Wallis Nash, have been published
in the _Overland Monthly_ (San Francisco), October 1890.
[59] _Darwin considere au point de vue des causes de son succes_
(Geneva, 1882).
[60] My father related a Johnsonian answer of Erasmus Darwin's: "Don't
you find it very inconvenient stammering, Dr. Darwin?" "No, Sir, because
I have time to think before I speak, and don't ask impertinent
questions."
[61] This is not so much an example of superabundant theorising from a
small cause as of his wish to test the most improbable ideas.
[62] That is to say, the sexual relations in such plants as the cowslip.
[63] The racks in which the portfolios were placed are shown in the
illustration at the head of the chapter, in the recess at the right-hand
side of the fire-place.
[64] He departed from his rule in his "Note on the Habits of the Pampas
Woodpecker, _Colaptes campestris_," _Proc. Zool. Soc._, 1870, p. 705:
also in a letter published in the _Athenaeum_ (1863, p. 554), in which
case he afterwards regretted that he had not remained silent. His
replies to criticisms, in the latter editions of the _Origin_, can
hardly be classed as infractions of his rule.