"To entertain the lag-end of my life
With quiet hours."
--_Henry IV._, Pt. I.
I was born at Down on 16th August 1848: I was christened at Malvern--a
fact in which I had a certain unaccountable pride. But now my only
sensation is one of surprise at having been christened at all, and a wish
that I had received some other name. I was never called Francis, and I
disliked the usual abbreviation Frank, while Franky or Frankie seemed to
me intolerable. I also considered it a hardship to have but one
Christian name. Our parents began by giving two names to the elder
children; but their inventive capacity gave way and the younger ones had
each but one. It seemed, too, a singular fact that--as they afterwards
confessed--they gave names which they did not especially like. Our
godfathers and godmothers were usually uncles and aunts, but this tepid
relationship was deprived of any conceivable interest by the fact that
the uncles were usually represented by the parish clerk. This, of
course, we only knew by rumour, but we realised that they gave no
christening mugs--a line of conduct in which I now fully sympathise. My
brother Leonard did indeed receive a silver spoon from Mr Leonard Horner,
but I fancy that this came to him on false pretences.
I have no idea at what age we began to go to church, but I have a general
impression of unwillingly attending divine service for many boyish years.
We had a large pew, lined with green baize, close beneath the clergyman's
desk, and so near the clerk that we got the full flavour of his
tremendous amens. I have a recollection of entertaining myself with the
india-rubber threads out of my elastic-sided boots, and of gently
tweaking them when stretched as miniature harp-strings. The only other
diverting circumstance was the occurrence of book-fish (Lepisma?) in the
prayer books or among the baize cushions. I have not seen one for fifty
years, and I may be wrong in believing that they were like minute
sardines running on invisible wheels. In looking back on the service in
Down church, I am astonished at the undoubted fact that whereas the
congregation in general turned towards the altar in saying the Creed, we
faced the other way and sternly looked into the eyes of the other
churchgoers. We certainly were not brought up in Low Church or
anti-papistical views, and it remains a mystery why we continued to do
anything so unnecessary and uncomfortable.
I have a general impression of coming out of church cold and hungry, and
of seeing the labourers standing about the porch in tall hats and green
or purple smock-frocks. But the chief object of interest was Sir John
Lubbock (the father of the late Lord Avebury), of whom, for no particular
reason, we stood in awe. He made it up to us by coming to church in a
splendid fluffy beaver hat. My recollection is that we often went only
to the afternoon service, which we preferred for its brevity. I have a
clear recollection of our delight when, on rainy Sundays, we escaped
church altogether.
A feature that distinguished Sunday from the rest of the week was our
singular custom of having family prayers on that day only. When we were
growing up we mildly struck at the ceremony, and my mother accordingly
dropped it on finding that the servants took no especial interest in it.
On Sundays we wore our best jackets, but I think that, when church was
over, we put on our usual tunics or blouses of surprising home-made fit.
But I clearly remember climbing (in my Sunday clothes) a holly-tree on a
damp Christmas Day, and meeting my father as I descended green from head
to foot. I remember the occurrence because my father was justly annoyed,
and this impressed the fact on me, since anything approaching anger was
with him almost unknown.
In our blouses we might with impunity cover ourselves with the thick red
clay of our country-side, and this we could always do by playing in a
certain pit where we built clay forts, etc. We used also to run down the
steep ploughed fields, our feet (grown with adhering clay to huge balls)
swinging like pendulums and scattering showers of mud on all sides. Then
we would come cheerfully home, entering by the back door and taking off
our boots as we sat on the kitchen stairs in semi-darkness and surrounded
by pleasant culinary smells.
In later years, when we used to take long winter tramps along our flinty
winding lanes, this unbooting on the back stairs was a prelude to eating
oranges in the dining-room, a feast that took the place of five o'clock
tea--not then invented.
In the early days of which I was speaking, we had schoolroom tea with our
governess, while our parents dined in peace at about 6.30. We came down
after our tea, rushing along the dark passage and descending the stairs
with that rhythmic series of bangs peculiar to children. I do not know
that we were really frightened at passing certain dark doorways, but I
certainly remember enjoying a sort of sham terror. One of these doors
led into my mother's room and also to a store-room; I cannot think that
this had any "night fears" for us, because it smelt so strongly of such
everyday earthly things as soap and tallow candles. Why it was placed
next to the bedroom I do not know. I have no clear remembrance of what
we did in the evenings, but I seem to see a round table and a moderator
lamp, such as occurs in John Leech's pictures in _Punch_. I have also a
faint recollection of black-coated uncles sitting by the fire and not
unnaturally objecting to our making short-cuts across their legs. It was
no doubt a pity that we were not reproved for our want of consideration
for the elderly, and that, generally speaking, our manners were
neglected. One of our grown-up cousins was reported to have called our
midday dinner "a violent luncheon," and I do not doubt that she was
right. We were fortunate in having a set of simple, kindly,
old-fashioned servants with whom we could be on friendly terms. Thus it
happens that recollections cluster about the kitchen and pantry. I have
a vague remembrance of a Welsh cook, Mrs Davis, who was very kind to us
in spite of constant threats of "tying a dish-cloth to your tail," which,
so far as I know, remained a threat, and was indeed never understood by
me. We certainly could generally extract gingerbread and other good
things from Daydy, as we called Mrs Davis. The butler, Parslow, was a
kind friend to us all our lives. I do not remember being checked by him
except in being turned out of the dining-room when he wanted to lay the
table for luncheon, or being stopped in some game which threatened the
polish of the sideboard, of which he spoke as though it were his private
property. He had what may be called a baronial nature: he idealised
everything about our modest household, and would draw a glass of beer for
the postman with the air of a seneschal bestowing a cup of malvoisie on a
troubadour. He would not, I think, have disgraced Charles Lamb's friend
Captain Burney, who welcomed his guests in the grand manner to the
simplest of feasts. It was good to see him on Christmas Day: with how
great an air would he enter the breakfast-room and address us:--"Ladies
and Gentlemen, I wish you a happy Christmas, etc. etc." I am afraid he
got but a sheepish response from us. Among the outdoor servants there
were three whom I remember well. There was Brooks, the general outdoor
man, who acted as gardener, cowman, etc. He had dark eyes and a
melancholy, morose face. Of him I have told elsewhere {56a} the
following anecdote:--
Brooks had been accused by the other gardener of using foul language, and
was hailed before my father to be judged. I, as a little boy, standing
in the hall, heard my father say, "You know you are a very bad-tempered
man." "Yes, sir" (in a tone of deep depression). "Then get out of the
room--you ought to be ashamed of yourself." At this point I rushed
upstairs in vague alarm and heard no more.
Brooks lived in a cottage close to the cow-yard, with his wife, in whom I
took an interest because her name was Keziah, and because she was the
best smocker in the village. I have a vague recollection of a private in
the Guards to whom I was introduced as a son of Brooks--a statement I
regarded as surprising. Mrs Brooks was as melancholy as her husband, and
I remember many years later, when the pair were pensioned off in the
village, hearing Brooks say in her presence, "She ain't no comfort to me,
sir." To this she made no retort, though a _tu quoque_ would have been
most just.
The under-gardener, Lettington (the man who objected to being sworn at),
was a kindly person and a great friend of mine. It was he who taught me
to make whistles {56b} in the spring and helped me with my tame rabbits.
He also showed me how to make brick-traps for small birds, and a more
elaborate trap made of hazel twigs. In this last I remember catching a
blackbird: I imagine that I must have been rather afraid of my captive,
for the unfortunate bird escaped leaving its tail in my hands. I do not
think I ever wanted to kill the few other birds caught in traps, but let
them go free. I clearly remember looking with envy and admiration at
Bewicke's woodcuts of traps, _e.g._ that of the woodcock springe, and
another of a sieve propped up over grain sprinkled as bait.
To return to Lettington. It was he who helped my father in his
experiments on the crossing of plants: he lived to a great age, dying as
a pensioner many years later. My father used to tell with amusement how
Lettington never failed to remind him of a bad prophecy:--"Yes, sir, but
you said so-and-so would happen." The third outdoor man was Thomas
Price, generally known as the Dormouse on account of his somnolent manner
of working. We, as boys, believed him to be a deserter from the army on
account of the military set of his shoulders, and because he had arrived
in the village an unknown wanderer. He was a bachelor and spent more
than was wise on beer. For the last few years of his life my mother made
him save money by the simple process of retaining part of his wages in
her own hands. In this way he unwillingly acquired some 20 or 30 pounds,
but as he refused to leave it to those who took care of him in his last
illness, it went to the Crown, to whom I hope it made up for the loss of
T. Price's very doubtful military services.
In later years it occurred to us that the methods of gardening at Down
were antiquated, and we persuaded our parents to engage an active young
Scotchman whom I will call X, and who was placed in command of Lettington
and the Dormouse (the gloomy Brooks having been pensioned). The two old
servants were dreadfully bustled by X, and I well remember their flushed
faces after the first morning's digging in the serious Scotch manner.
After a time, finding that matters were very little looked after, X began
some mysterious dealings in cows with a neighbouring farmer, and it was
suddenly discovered that a cow had disappeared. I remember my shame at
finding I did not know how many cows we ought to have, nor could I swear
to their personal appearance. But by dint of cross-examination I was
enabled to draw up a statement of how cow A had been sold, cow B bought,
and cow C exchanged for cow D, etc. Finally the ingenious X was
discharged, and the rejoicing Lettington and Dormouse reinstated. But
before this fortunate conclusion, I had at my father's bidding taken
steps to obtain a summons against X. I remember thinking what a fool I
should look when cross-examined before the magistrates. Another
circumstance is impressed on my mind. The affair occurred in that
remarkable October in which the trees were greatly injured by a
snowstorm, and as I drove in a dog-cart through Holwood Park in search of
the summons, I thought, as the trees cracked like pistols, that it was
hardly worth while being crushed to death for the sake of any number of
cows. Finally X was not prosecuted, and departed in peace.
To return to my childhood: I came between George and Leonard, and was a
companion to both of them, but I do not think we made a trio as Leonard
and Horace and I did more or less. I have a clear recollection of
Leonard in a red fez, and bare legs covered with scratches, but I cannot
distinctly call up images of the others. I seem to remember a great deal
of purposeless wandering with my younger brothers; but with George,
playing was an organised affair in which I was an obedient subordinate,
as I have described in _Rustic Sounds_. Our chief game was playing at
soldiers; we had toy guns to which home-made wooden bayonets were fixed,
knapsacks, and I think shakos--whether we had any uniform coats I cannot
remember. In the cloakroom under the stairs our names and heights were
recorded, and George conscientiously constructed a short foot-rule so
that our height should come to something like six feet. I had to keep
sentry at the far end of the kitchen garden until released by a
bugle-call. George being a sergeant was exempt from sentry work, and was
merely responsible for the bugle-blowing. Indoors there was much playing
with tin soldiers. I remember a regiment of dragoons whose coats my
mother had laboriously reddened with sealing-wax to convert them into
British soldiers. The troopers were in a ferocious charging attitude
with swords raised, but the blades were mostly broken, and I innocently
believed that they were all raising crusts of bread to their mouths.
Another indoors game was the hurling of darts at one another in the long
passage upstairs; we had wooden shields on which the javelins used to
strike briskly enough, since they were weighted with lead. On these
occasions we were knights or men-at-arms, but out of doors we were
savages. George could hurl hazel-spears, using the Australian
throwing-stick, an art I never acquired, but I was fond of slinging
stones. To make a sling a bit of leather was necessary, and this meant a
visit to the village cobbler, Parker by name, who was a short, sallow man
with the bristling chin which, according to Dickens, {60} is the
universal attribute of cobblers. I remember the pleasure of sending,
with my sling, a pebble crashing into the big ash-tree in the field from
what seemed to me a great distance.
Another pursuit was walking on stilts, of which we had two kinds; on the
smaller ones even girls had been known to walk, but of the larger (which
I remember as of imposing height) only the male sex was capable. The
garden at Down was originally a bare and windy wilderness, but our
parents constructed mounds of raw red clay on which laurel and box
finally grew and made shelter. One of these mounds, covered with dwarf
box-trees, was known to us as the Pyrenees, and our pleasure was to
traverse the passes on stilts. There was a slight sense of danger and a
certain romance in climbing the heights from the lawn and descending in
what was legally a part of the orchard, where the last of the limes grew
and a particular crab-tree of which I was fond.
Then there were two swings, one of the orthodox kind between those twin
yew-trees that gave a special character to the lawn, and one consisting
of a long rope fixed high up on the tall Scotch fir that grew on the
mound. The rope of the latter had a short cross-bar at its lower end
which served as a seat or a handle. There were various tricks, some of
which were almost sure to bump the head of a strange child against the
tree trunk, to our private satisfaction.
A similar rope hanging from the ceiling of the long passage at the top of
the house supplied a more complicated set of tricks, which all had
special names. Of these, I remember that _spangle_ meant a method of
sitting on one side of the cross-bar at the end of the rope. The stairs
leading to the second floor jutted out into the passage; we used to stand
with one foot on each banister-supporting post and make it a
starting-point for a swing on the rope, also a landing-place, and if we
succeeded in getting back into position with a foot on each banister-post
we were pleased with ourselves, especially if it was done at night
without a light. The rope, working on the hooks fixed into the ceiling,
made a grinding or squeaking noise which must have been annoying to
guests, especially when mixed with much crashing and banging and
shouting.
In later years we played stump cricket and lawn tennis, but in the early
days of which I am thinking the only game I clearly remember was the
practice of the village cricketers in our field. It seems improbable,
yet I am decidedly of opinion that the pitch was the footpath, the unmown
condition of the grass making bowling elsewhere an impossibility; on the
other hand it made fielding an easy affair. I remember clearly the runs
being recorded by notches cut on a stick, a method of scoring which has
its place in literature in the match between All Muggleton and Dingley
Dell. {62}
It is curious to remember how solitary our life was. We had literally no
boy-friends in the whole neighbourhood; there were plenty of boys within
reach but we never amalgamated with them, and were, I imagine, despised
by them as outside the pale of Eton-dom. No opportunity was made for us
to learn to shoot; I used to wander with a gun and shoot an occasional
hare and various blackbirds, but I never had even the meanest skill, and
after suffering miseries of shame at one or two shooting-parties I am
glad to think I gave it up.
Fishing there was none in our dry country, and it was only very much
later, on the beautiful Dovey in North Wales, that I learned something of
the art.
Riding we did learn in a casual, haphazard way, and some of us hunted a
little with a mild pack (the Old Surrey) in our bad hunting country--but
all this was much later and hardly concerns my present subject.
The best practice I had as a boy was riding twice or thrice a week (from
perhaps my tenth to my twelfth year) to Mr Reed, Rector of Hayes, to be
taught Latin and a little arithmetic. Our ponies were shaggy, obstinate
little beasts, who had the strongest possible dislike of their duties. I
remember well how my pony turned round and round, and at last consented
to proceed till a new excuse occurred for a bolt towards home. It was a
secret delight to me when one of my brothers was beaten in the pony-fight
and was brought ignominiously home.
Mr Reed was the kindest of teachers, and after a short spell of Latin he
used to give me a slice of cake and allow me to look at the wonderful
pictures in an old Dutch Bible. Even under the mild discipline of this
kindest of men I used to dissolve in tears over my work.
When I was twelve years old, _i.e._ in the summer of 1860, I went to the
Grammar School at Clapham kept by Rev. Charles Pritchard. I was two
years under Pritchard, and when he left {63} I remained under his
successor, Rev. Alfred Wrigley, until I went up to Trinity College,
Cambridge, 1866. Wrigley had none of the force of Pritchard, nor had he,
I fancy, his predecessor's gift of teaching. Mathematics formed a great
part of our curriculum, and for these I had no turn. I am, however,
grateful to Wrigley for having made me work out a great many logarithmic
calculations which had to be shown up (as he expressed it) in a "neat,
tabular form." As I have said in my article on my brother George in
_Rustic Sounds_, my "recollections of George at Clapham are coloured by
an abiding gratitude for his kindly protection of me as a shrinking and
very unhappy 'new boy' in 1860."
From school I went to Trinity College, Cambridge. I lodged first with a
tailor called Daniells in Bridge Street, nearly opposite to the new
chapel of St John's--the slow rise of which I used to watch from my
windows. Afterwards I moved into rooms on the ground floor to the left
of the New Court Gate that leads out into the Backs. Why the architect
made the sitting-rooms look into the Court and all its mean stucco
decorations I cannot imagine. My bedroom looked out on the Backs and its
avenue of lime-trees, where the nightingales sang through the happy May
nights.
I hardly made any permanent friends till my second year, when I had the
good fortune to become intimate with Edmund Gurney and Charles Crawley,
both of whom died early. Crawley was drowned in a boating accident in
which he tried in vain to save the women of the party. Edward Stirling,
an Australian, has only recently (1919) died. I am glad to think that my
undergraduate friends (except those removed by death) are still my
friends.
Among the Dons who were friendly to students of natural science the first
place must be given to Alfred Newton, the Professor of Zoology, who most
kindly invited us to come to his rooms in Magdalene any and every Sunday
evening. There we smoked our pipes and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. We
had the advantage of meeting older members of the University. It was in
this way I became acquainted with G. R. Crotch, of St John's, who was an
assistant in the University Library. He was a strikingly handsome man
with a long silky beard and wonderful eyes. His passion was Entomology,
and he had a great knowledge of the Coleoptera, and used sometimes to
take me out beetle-catching, but I never became a collector. He was
eccentric in his habits; for instance, he dressed entirely in black
flannel--shirt, coat, and trousers--which were made for him by Brown, the
tailor, who was a brother entomologist. He finally gave up his
librarianship and went off beetle-catching to the United States, where he
died in what would have been miserable conditions but for the tender care
bestowed on him by a complete stranger, whose name I have unfortunately
forgotten. There, too, I occasionally saw Clifford, the well-known
mathematician, who died early--also Kingsley on at least one occasion. I
remember him, too, at the New Museums (where I was dissecting some beast
or other) reproving me for my white shirt, and telling me that flannel
was far more suitable for dissections. John Willis Clark (who afterwards
became Registrary of the University) was then Curator of the New Museums,
and encouraged me to work in his department, and I well remember my pride
when my preparation of a hedgehog's inside was added to the Museum. J.
W. Clark was the kindest of men, and I, like many another undergraduate,
used to dine with him and his mother at Scrope House. There some of us
were introduced for the first time to good claret. I remember Mrs Clark
(rather a masterful old lady) saying, "Drink your wine like a good boy
and don't talk nonsense," as though these precepts contained the whole
duty of undergraduate man. J. W. Clark was the patron and director of
the undergraduates' Amateur Dramatic Society (the A. D. C.), and
occasionally took a part himself. I have a clear recollection of hearing
him (attired in red tights) exclaim in his peculiar pronunciation, in
which the letters _l_ and _r_ were indistinguishable, "I am the srave of
the ramp."
I had left to the last the man whose kindness towards me as an
undergraduate I valued most highly, and whose friendship it is still my
good fortune to possess--I mean Henry Jackson, now Professor of Greek,
but at that time a Trinity lecturer. I have an image of him walking up
and down his room in Neville's Court with a pipe in his mouth (which
burned more fiercely than did the pipes of other men), and talking with a
humour and enthusiasm which were a perpetual delight. A literary
venture, _The Tatler in Cambridge_, originated among undergraduates under
the editorship of the present Canon Mason. To this I contributed a paper
_On the Melancholy of Bachelors_, which was accepted, chiefly, I think,
through the kindness of E. Gurney. I shall never forget my delight when,
on the day of its publication, Henry Jackson came round to my rooms to
tell me that he liked it.
I must now return to my more serious employments. It was at the
suggestion of E. C. Stirling that I became a medical student and began to
work for the Natural Sciences Tripos. In order to get more time for the
last-named examination I kept my small stock of mathematics simmering as
it were, and managed (without giving much time to the subject) to get a
mathematical degree as fifth among the Junior Optimes in 1870. I had the
pleasure of being coached for this examination by James Stuart--the only
man, I imagine, who ever made mathematics entertaining and even amusing
to an unmathematical pupil.
I then had a clear year in which I could devote myself to Natural
Science. I did not succeed in finding a coach who was of any use to me.
But in Comparative Anatomy I did a fair amount of undirected work: in
this way I dissected a good many creatures such as slugs and snails and
freshwater mussels, dragonflies, etc. I have a dim recollection of
catching the mussels in the Cam with Gordon Wigan, the son of the
celebrated actor--and indeed that kindly personage joined us in one of
our boating expeditions.
On leaving Cambridge I went to St George's Hospital with the intention of
becoming a practising physician. But happily for me the Fates willed
otherwise. The late Dr Cavafy of St George's Hospital urged me to learn
something of Histology, and sent me to Dr Klein, whose pupil I had the
good fortune to become at the Brown Institute. I have elsewhere {67}
said something of my debt of gratitude to Dr Klein. Under his guidance I
produced a paper which served as a thesis for my M.B. degree. I had
another interesting experience during my time at St George's. I used to
go to the Zoological Society's dissecting-room, where the late Dr Garrod
(the Prosector) allowed me to investigate some of the daily quota of dead
animals. But it was not of any real educational value, I fancy. Still
it may have helped the impetus of Klein's teaching to suggest that
medicine {68a} should be given up and that I should become the assistant
to my father.
The old nursery at Down had been turned into a laboratory, and when (on
the death of my wife) I came to live in the house of my parents, they
converted the billiard-room into a sitting-room for me.
During the following years I went to work under Sachs at Wurzburg and
afterwards under De Bary at Strassburg. Sachs was most kind and helpful,
and under his direction I contributed a small paper to his _Arbeiten_. I
made some good friends at Wurzburg--Stahl, who is now Professor of Botany
at Jena; Kunkel, the Pharmacologist, who died young; the Finlander
Elfving, who is now Professor of Botany at Helsingfors; and Goebel, now
the well-known Professor of Botany at Munich. He and I walked side by
side to receive our degrees at the 1909 meeting in Cambridge. {68b} I
had the great pleasure of seeing Elfving on the same occasion, and we
have never ceased to correspond, though at irregular intervals. I had
once the satisfaction of receiving Stahl as my guest at Cambridge. He is
still Professor of Botany at Jena, and in spite of rather weak health has
published a mass of good work.
I am sorry to think that my relationship with Sachs came to an unhappy
ending. I published what seemed to me a harmless paper, in which I
criticised some of his researches. I wrote to him on the subject but
received no answer. Partly on account of his silence and partly to pay a
visit to a friend, I travelled to Wurzburg. I found Sachs in the Botanic
Garden; he seemed to wish to avoid me, but I went up to him and asked him
why he was angry with me. He replied: "The reason is very simple; you
know nothing of Botany and you dare to criticise a man like me." I had
no opportunity of replying, for at that moment one of his co-professors
addressed him, asking if he could spare a moment. "Very willingly, Herr
Professor," said Sachs, and walked off without a word to me. And that
was the last I saw of the great botanist. I was undoubtedly stupid, but
I do not think he showed to advantage in the affair.
I continued to work with my father at Down, and in spite of the
advantages I gained by seeing and sharing in the work of German
laboratories, I now regret that so many months were spent away from him.