‘The Effects of Cross and Self-Fertilisation’ was published in the
autumn of 1876; and the results there arrived at explain, as I believe,
the endless and wonderful contrivances for the transportal of pollen
from one plant to another of the same species. I now believe, however,
chiefly from the observations of Hermann Muller, that I ought to have
insisted more strongly than I did on the many adaptations for
self-fertilisation; though I was well aware of many such adaptations. A
much enlarged edition of my ‘Fertilisation of Orchids’ was published in
1877.
In this same year ‘The Different Forms of Flowers, etc.,’ appeared, and
in 1880 a second edition. This book consists chiefly of the several
papers on Heterostyled flowers originally published by the Linnean
Society, corrected, with much new matter added, together with
observations on some other cases in which the same plant bears two
kinds of flowers. As before remarked, no little discovery of mine ever
gave me so much pleasure as the making out the meaning of heterostyled
flowers. The results of crossing such flowers in an illegitimate
manner, I believe to be very important, as bearing on the sterility of
hybrids; although these results have been noticed by only a few
persons.
In 1879, I had a translation of Dr. Ernst Krause’s ‘Life of Erasmus
Darwin’ published, and I added a sketch of his character and habits
from material in my possession. Many persons have been much interested
by this little life, and I am surprised that only 800 or 900 copies
were sold.
In 1880 I published, with [my son] Frank’s assistance, our ‘Power of
Movement in Plants.’ This was a tough piece of work. The book bears
somewhat the same relation to my little book on ‘Climbing Plants,’
which ‘Cross-Fertilisation’ did to the ‘Fertilisation of Orchids;’ for
in accordance with the principle of evolution it was impossible to
account for climbing plants having been developed in so many widely
different groups unless all kinds of plants possess some slight power
of movement of an analogous kind. This I proved to be the case; and I
was further led to a rather wide generalisation, viz. that the great
and important classes of movements, excited by light, the attraction of
gravity, etc., are all modified forms of the fundamental movement of
circumnutation. It has always pleased me to exalt plants in the scale
of organised beings; and I therefore felt an especial pleasure in
showing how many and what admirably well adapted movements the tip of a
root possesses.
I have now (May 1, 1881) sent to the printers the MS. of a little book
on ‘The Formation of Vegetable Mould, through the Action of Worms.’
This is a subject of but small importance; and I know not whether it
will interest any readers (Between November 1881 and February 1884,
8500 copies have been sold.), but it has interested me. It is the
completion of a short paper read before the Geological Society more
than forty years ago, and has revived old geological thoughts.
I have now mentioned all the books which I have published, and these
have been the milestones in my life, so that little remains to be said.
I am not conscious of any change in my mind during the last thirty
years, excepting in one point presently to be mentioned; nor, indeed,
could any change have been expected unless one of general
deterioration. But my father lived to his eighty-third year with his
mind as lively as ever it was, and all his faculties undimmed; and I
hope that I may die before my mind fails to a sensible extent. I think
that I have become a little more skilful in guessing right explanations
and in devising experimental tests; but this may probably be the result
of mere practice, and of a larger store of knowledge. I have as much
difficulty as ever in expressing myself clearly and concisely; and this
difficulty has caused me a very great loss of time; but it has had the
compensating advantage of forcing me to think long and intently about
every sentence, and thus I have been led to see errors in reasoning and
in my own observations or those of others.
There seems to be a sort of fatality in my mind leading me to put at
first my statement or proposition in a wrong or awkward form. Formerly
I used to think about my sentences before writing them down; but for
several years I have found that it saves time to scribble in a vile
hand whole pages as quickly as I possibly can, contracting half the
words; and then correct deliberately. Sentences thus scribbled down are
often better ones than I could have written deliberately.
Having said thus much about my manner of writing, I will add that with
my large books I spend a good deal of time over the general arrangement
of the matter. I first make the rudest outline in two or three pages,
and then a larger one in several pages, a few words or one word
standing for a whole discussion or series of facts. Each one of these
headings is again enlarged and often transferred before I begin to
write in extenso. As in several of my books facts observed by others
have been very extensively used, and as I have always had several quite
distinct subjects in hand at the same time, I may mention that I keep
from thirty to forty large portfolios, in cabinets with labelled
shelves, into which I can at once put a detached reference or
memorandum. I have bought many books, and at their ends I make an index
of all the facts that concern my work; or, if the book is not my own,
write out a separate abstract, and of such abstracts I have a large
drawer full. Before beginning on any subject I look to all the short
indexes and make a general and classified index, and by taking the one
or more proper portfolios I have all the information collected during
my life ready for use.
I have said that in one respect my mind has changed during the last
twenty or thirty years. Up to the age of thirty, or beyond it, poetry
of many kinds, such as the works of Milton, Gray, Byron, Wordsworth,
Coleridge, and Shelley, gave me great pleasure, and even as a schoolboy
I took intense delight in Shakespeare, especially in the historical
plays. I have also said that formerly pictures gave me considerable,
and music very great delight. But now for many years I cannot endure to
read a line of poetry: I have tried lately to read Shakespeare, and
found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated me. I have also almost
lost my taste for pictures or music. Music generally sets me thinking
too energetically on what I have been at work on, instead of giving me
pleasure. I retain some taste for fine scenery, but it does not cause
me the exquisite delight which it formerly did. On the other hand,
novels which are works of the imagination, though not of a very high
order, have been for years a wonderful relief and pleasure to me, and I
often bless all novelists. A surprising number have been read aloud to
me, and I like all if moderately good, and if they do not end
unhappily—against which a law ought to be passed. A novel, according to
my taste, does not come into the first class unless it contains some
person whom one can thoroughly love, and if a pretty woman all the
better.
This curious and lamentable loss of the higher aesthetic tastes is all
the odder, as books on history, biographies, and travels (independently
of any scientific facts which they may contain), and essays on all
sorts of subjects interest me as much as ever they did. My mind seems
to have become a kind of machine for grinding general laws out of large
collections of facts, but why this should have caused the atrophy of
that part of the brain alone, on which the higher tastes depend, I
cannot conceive. A man with a mind more highly organised or better
constituted than mine, would not, I suppose, have thus suffered; and if
I had to live my life again, I would have made a rule to read some
poetry and listen to some music at least once every week; for perhaps
the parts of my brain now atrophied would thus have been kept active
through use. The loss of these tastes is a loss of happiness, and may
possibly be injurious to the intellect, and more probably to the moral
character, by enfeebling the emotional part of our nature.
My books have sold largely in England, have been translated into many
languages, and passed through several editions in foreign countries. I
have heard it said that the success of a work abroad is the best test
of its enduring value. I doubt whether this is at all trustworthy; but
judged by this standard my name ought to last for a few years.
Therefore it may be worth while to try to analyse the mental qualities
and the conditions on which my success has depended; though I am aware
that no man can do this correctly.
I have no great quickness of apprehension or wit which is so remarkable
in some clever men, for instance, Huxley. I am therefore a poor critic:
a paper or book, when first read, generally excites my admiration, and
it is only after considerable reflection that I perceive the weak
points. My power to follow a long and purely abstract train of thought
is very limited; and therefore I could never have succeeded with
metaphysics or mathematics. My memory is extensive, yet hazy: it
suffices to make me cautious by vaguely telling me that I have observed
or read something opposed to the conclusion which I am drawing, or on
the other hand in favour of it; and after a time I can generally
recollect where to search for my authority. So poor in one sense is my
memory, that I have never been able to remember for more than a few
days a single date or a line of poetry.
Some of my critics have said, “Oh, he is a good observer, but he has no
power of reasoning!” I do not think that this can be true, for the
‘Origin of Species’ is one long argument from the beginning to the end,
and it has convinced not a few able men. No one could have written it
without having some power of reasoning. I have a fair share of
invention, and of common sense or judgment, such as every fairly
successful lawyer or doctor must have, but not, I believe, in any
higher degree.
On the favourable side of the balance, I think that I am superior to
the common run of men in noticing things which easily escape attention,
and in observing them carefully. My industry has been nearly as great
as it could have been in the observation and collection of facts. What
is far more important, my love of natural science has been steady and
ardent.
This pure love has, however, been much aided by the ambition to be
esteemed by my fellow naturalists. From my early youth I have had the
strongest desire to understand or explain whatever I observed,—that is,
to group all facts under some general laws. These causes combined have
given me the patience to reflect or ponder for any number of years over
any unexplained problem. As far as I can judge, I am not apt to follow
blindly the lead of other men. I have steadily endeavoured to keep my
mind free so as to give up any hypothesis, however much beloved (and I
cannot resist forming one on every subject), as soon as facts are shown
to be opposed to it. Indeed, I have had no choice but to act in this
manner, for with the exception of the Coral Reefs, I cannot remember a
single first-formed hypothesis which had not after a time to be given
up or greatly modified. This has naturally led me to distrust greatly
deductive reasoning in the mixed sciences. On the other hand, I am not
very sceptical,—a frame of mind which I believe to be injurious to the
progress of science. A good deal of scepticism in a scientific man is
advisable to avoid much loss of time, but I have met with not a few
men, who, I feel sure, have often thus been deterred from experiment or
observations, which would have proved directly or indirectly
serviceable.
In illustration, I will give the oddest case which I have known. A
gentleman (who, as I afterwards heard, is a good local botanist) wrote
to me from the Eastern counties that the seed or beans of the common
field-bean had this year everywhere grown on the wrong side of the pod.
I wrote back, asking for further information, as I did not understand
what was meant; but I did not receive any answer for a very long time.
I then saw in two newspapers, one published in Kent and the other in
Yorkshire, paragraphs stating that it was a most remarkable fact that
“the beans this year had all grown on the wrong side.” So I thought
there must be some foundation for so general a statement. Accordingly,
I went to my gardener, an old Kentish man, and asked him whether he had
heard anything about it, and he answered, “Oh, no, sir, it must be a
mistake, for the beans grow on the wrong side only on leap-year, and
this is not leap-year.” I then asked him how they grew in common years
and how on leap-years, but soon found that he knew absolutely nothing
of how they grew at any time, but he stuck to his belief.
After a time I heard from my first informant, who, with many apologies,
said that he should not have written to me had he not heard the
statement from several intelligent farmers; but that he had since
spoken again to every one of them, and not one knew in the least what
he had himself meant. So that here a belief—if indeed a statement with
no definite idea attached to it can be called a belief—had spread over
almost the whole of England without any vestige of evidence.
I have known in the course of my life only three intentionally
falsified statements, and one of these may have been a hoax (and there
have been several scientific hoaxes) which, however, took in an
American Agricultural Journal. It related to the formation in Holland
of a new breed of oxen by the crossing of distinct species of Bos (some
of which I happen to know are sterile together), and the author had the
impudence to state that he had corresponded with me, and that I had
been deeply impressed with the importance of his result. The article
was sent to me by the editor of an English Agricultural Journal, asking
for my opinion before republishing it.
A second case was an account of several varieties, raised by the author
from several species of Primula, which had spontaneously yielded a full
complement of seed, although the parent plants had been carefully
protected from the access of insects. This account was published before
I had discovered the meaning of heterostylism, and the whole statement
must have been fraudulent, or there was neglect in excluding insects so
gross as to be scarcely credible.
The third case was more curious: Mr. Huth published in his book on
‘Consanguineous Marriage’ some long extracts from a Belgian author, who
stated that he had interbred rabbits in the closest manner for very
many generations, without the least injurious effects. The account was
published in a most respectable Journal, that of the Royal Society of
Belgium; but I could not avoid feeling doubts—I hardly know why, except
that there were no accidents of any kind, and my experience in breeding
animals made me think this very improbable.
So with much hesitation I wrote to Professor Van Beneden, asking him
whether the author was a trustworthy man. I soon heard in answer that
the Society had been greatly shocked by discovering that the whole
account was a fraud. (The falseness of the published statements on
which Mr. Huth relied has been pointed out by himself in a slip
inserted in all the copies of his book which then remained unsold.) The
writer had been publicly challenged in the Journal to say where he had
resided and kept his large stock of rabbits while carrying on his
experiments, which must have consumed several years, and no answer
could be extracted from him.
My habits are methodical, and this has been of not a little use for my
particular line of work. Lastly, I have had ample leisure from not
having to earn my own bread. Even ill-health, though it has annihilated
several years of my life, has saved me from the distractions of society
and amusement.
Therefore my success as a man of science, whatever this may have
amounted to, has been determined, as far as I can judge, by complex and
diversified mental qualities and conditions. Of these, the most
important have been—the love of science—unbounded patience in long
reflecting over any subject—industry in observing and collecting
facts—and a fair share of invention as well as of common sense. With
such moderate abilities as I possess, it is truly surprising that I
should have influenced to a considerable extent the belief of
scientific men on some important points.