CHAPTER 1.III. -- 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

his arms back 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 middle 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 went.

Indoors he sometimes used an oak stick like a little alpenstock, and

this was a sign that he felt giddiness.

In spite of his strength and activity, I think he must always have had a

clumsiness of movement. He was naturally awkward with his hands, and

was unable to draw at all well. (The figure representing the aggregated

cell-contents in 'Insectivorous Plants' was drawn by him.) This he

always regretted much, and he frequently urged the paramount necessity

of a young naturalist 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 many little bits 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 fine pair of scissors, held, as my father used to show,

with the elbow raised, and in an attitude which certainly would render

great steadiness necessary. He used to consider cutting 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 in making the sections. 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 once 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.

When walking he had a fidgetting movement with his fingers, which he has

described in one of his books as the habit of an old man. When he sat

still he often took hold of one wrist with the other hand; he sat with

his legs crossed, and from being so thin they could be crossed very far,

as may be seen in one of the photographs. He had his chair in the study

and in the drawing-room raised so as to be much higher than ordinary

chairs; this was done because sitting on a low or even an ordinary chair

caused him some discomfort. We used to laugh at him for making his tall

drawing-room chair still higher by putting footstools on it, and then

neutralising the result by resting his feet on another chair.

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 Dr. 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 eyebrows. His high forehead was

much 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 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. Like most delicate people he suffered from

heat as well as from chilliness; it was as if he could not hit the

balance between too hot and too cold; often a mental cause would make

him too hot, so that he would take off his coat if anything went wrong

in the course of his work.

He rose early, chiefly because he could not lie in bed, and I think he

would have liked to get up earlier than he did. He took a short turn

before breakfast, a habit which began when he went for the first time to

a water-cure establishment. This habit he kept up 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 into 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 Edition, page 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. (The basket in which she usually lay

curled up near the fire in his study is faithfully represented in Mr.

Parson's drawing, "The Study at Down.")

My father's midday 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 acres 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 wood, the

remnants of what was once a large wood, stretching away to the Westerham

road. I have heard my father say that the charm of this simple little

valley helped to make him settle at Down.

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 how unvarying his habits

have been.

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 whatever it might have been. 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 slowly in the garden with my mother or

some of his children, or making one of a party, sitting out 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

big 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 Dielytra. 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 a Mimosa leaf in

screwing itself out of a basin of water in which he had tried to fix

it. One must see the same spirit in his way of speaking of Sundew,

earth-worms, etc. (Cf. Leslie Stephen's 'Swift,' 1882, page 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.")

Within my memory, his only outdoor recreation, besides walking, was

riding, which he took to on 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

number 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. He was not, I think, naturally fond of horses, nor had he a high

opinion of their intelligence, and Tommy was often laughed at for

the alarm he showed at passing and repassing the same heap of

hedge-clippings as he went round the field. I think he used to feel

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.

Unluckily, Tommy one day fell heavily with him on Keston common. This,

and an accident with another horse, upset his nerves, and he was advised

to give up riding.

If I go beyond my own experience, and recall what I have heard him say

of his love for sport, etc., I can think of a good deal, but much of it

would be a repetition of what is contained in his 'Recollections.' At

school he was fond of bat-fives, and this was the only game at which he

was skilful. 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 midday 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 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.

He received many letters from 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 universal and 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. It

is difficult to say anything about the general tone of his letters,

they will speak for themselves. The unvarying courtesy of them is very

striking. I had a proof of this quality in the feeling with which Mr.

Hacon, his solicitor, regarded him. He had never seen my father, yet

had a sincere feeling of friendship for him, and spoke especially of

his letters as being such as a man seldom receives in the way of

business:--"Everything I did was right, and everything was profusely

thanked for."

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 people

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 generally

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 in 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 careless custom of throwing a spill into the fire

after it had been used for lighting a candle.

My father was wonderfully liberal and generous to all his children in

the matter of money, and I have special cause to remember his kindness

when I think of the way in which he paid some Cambridge debts of

mine--making it almost seem a virtue in me to have told him of them.

In his later years he had the kind and generous plan of dividing his

surplus at the year's end among his children.

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 a 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 rather inclined to take it literally.

When letters were finished, about three in the afternoon, he rested in

his bedroom, lying on the sofa and 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 some 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.

The reading aloud often sent him to sleep, and he used to regret losing

parts of a novel, for my mother went steadily on lest the cessation of

the sound might wake him. 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 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 recognize 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 made a little list of all the pieces which he especially liked among

those which my mother played--giving in a few words the impression that

each one made on him--but these notes are unfortunately lost. 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 much 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, when

he 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 person's letter.

The regular readings, which I have mentioned, continued for so many

years, enabled him to get through a great deal of 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.

I do not think that his literary tastes and opinions were 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 taste, 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 always 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 great

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 Dr. F. Hildebrand 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

really 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 of it. 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 Mr.

Geikie, afford another instance. Again, in the 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 it seemed an extraordinary and

abnormal 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 interval of many years, he again 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 Lett'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. Even

if he were leaving home for no more than a week, the packing had to be

begun early on the previous day, and the chief part of it he would do

himself. 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 extent.

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.

One of the happy memories of this time [1879] is that of a delightful

visit to Grasmere: "The perfect day," my sister writes, "and my father's

vivid enjoyment and flow of spirits, form a picture in my mind that I

like to think of. He could hardly sit still in the carriage for turning

round and getting up to admire the view from each fresh point, and even

in returning he was full of the beauty of Rydal Water, though he would

not allow that Grasmere at all equalled his beloved Coniston."

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, etc.; at Torquay he observed the

fertilisation of an orchid (Spiranthes), and also made out the relations

of the sexes in Thyme.

He was always rejoiced to get home after his holidays; he used greatly

to enjoy 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.

Some of these absences from home, however, had a depressing effect on

him; when he had been previously much overworked it seemed as though

the absence of the customary strain allowed him to fall into a peculiar

condition of miserable health.

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 paid many visits to Moor Park, Dr. Lane's water-cure establishment in

Surrey, not far from Aldershot. These visits were pleasant ones, and

he always looked back to them with pleasure. Dr. Lane has given his

recollections of my father in Dr. Richardson's 'Lecture on Charles

Darwin,' October 22, 1882, from which I quote:--

"In a public institution like mine, he was surrounded, of course, by

multifarious types of character, by persons of both sexes, mostly very

different from himself--commonplace people, in short, as the majority

are everywhere, but like to him at least in this, that they were

fellow-creatures and fellow-patients. And never was any one more genial,

more considerate, more friendly, more altogether charming than he

universally was."...He "never aimed, as too often happens with good

talkers, at monopolising the conversation. It was his pleasure rather

to give and take, and he was as good a listener as a speaker. He never

preached nor prosed, but his talk, whether grave or gay (and it was each

by turns), was full of life and salt--racy, bright, and animated."

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 may 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.

"Beside 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!

"April 30, 1851."

We his children all took especial pleasure in the games he played at

with us, but I do not think he romped much with us; I suppose his health

prevented any rough play. He used sometimes to tell us stories, which

were considered especially delightful, partly on account of their

rarity.

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, which was

forbidden, for the sake 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. How often, when a man, I have wished when my father

was behind my chair, that he would pass his hand over my hair, as he

used to do when I was a boy. 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, etc.; 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.

We all knew the sacredness of working-time, but that any one should

resist sixpence seemed an impossibility.

"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 horsehair 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. Sometimes too he read aloud to his

children such books as Scott's novels, and I remember a few little

lectures on the steam-engine.

"I was more or less ill during the five years between my thirteenth and

eighteenth years, and for a long time (years it seems to me) he used to

play a couple of games of backgammon with me every afternoon. He played

them with the greatest spirit, and I remember we used at one time to

keep account of the games, and as this record came out in favour of him,

we kept a list of the doublets thrown by each, as I was convinced that

he threw better than myself.

"His patience and sympathy were boundless during this weary illness, and

sometimes when most miserable I felt his sympathy to be almost too keen.

When at my worst, we went to my aunt's house at Hartfield, in Sussex,

and as soon as we had made the move safely he went on to Moor Park for

a fortnight's water-cure. I can recall now how on his return I could

hardly bear to have him in the room, the expression of tender sympathy

and emotion in his face was too agitating, coming fresh upon me after

his little absence.

"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 or

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, though he admired the pretty ways of a kitten.

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 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."

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, etc. 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 Drosera, 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 door, for having come to see him.

These luncheons were very 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. ('Darwin considere au

point de vue des causes de son succes.'--Geneva, 1882.) 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 dare say 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

Prof. 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. (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.")

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 scold a servant.

It was a great proof of the modesty of his style 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.

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 very 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 used to march

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 some 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.

Dr. Lane has described (Lecture by Dr. B.W. Richardson, in St. George's

Hall, October 22, 1882.) how, on the rare occasion of my father

attending a lecture (Dr. Sanderson's) at the Royal Institution, "the

whole assembly...rose to their feet to welcome him," while he seemed

"scarcely conscious that such an outburst of applause could possibly

be intended for himself." The quiet life he led at Down made him feel

confused in a large society; 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: one characteristic of it

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 his 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, etc; all these processes were

performed with a kind of restrained eagerness. He always 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, etc., 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

succeeded the first time--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 observation 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 Robt.

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 always 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, etc., 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," etc. 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, etc., lying on the table, he would

have been struck by an air of simpleness, make-shift, and oddness.

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, etc., etc. 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, etc., 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, etc., 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 were 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, etc., etc. 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 or

measuring glass, etc. 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. For small

objects he used a pair of compasses and an ivory protractor. It

was characteristic of him that he took scrupulous pains in making

measurements with his somewhat rough scales. A trifling example of his

faith in authority is that he took his "inch in terms of millimeters"

from an old book, in which it turned out to be inaccurately given.

He had a chemical balance which dated from the days when he worked at

chemistry with his brother Erasmus. Measurements of capacity were made

with an apothecary's measuring glass: I remember well its rough look

and bad graduation. With this, too, I remember the great care he took

in getting the fluid-line on to the graduation. 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 works 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 cotyledons of Biophytum 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. (This is

not so much an example of superabundant theorising from a small cause,

but only of his wish to test the most improbable ideas.)

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 this 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 Drosera 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. 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 Muller'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 made Lyell publish the

second edition of one of his books in two volumes instead of 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,

either marked with a cypher at the end, to show that it contained no

marked passages, 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, etc., 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 different subjects. He had other sets of abstracts

arranged, not according to subject, but according to periodical. 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

periodicals.

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.' (The racks on which the portfolios were placed are

shown in the illustration, "The Study at Down," in the recess at the

right-hand side of the fire-place.) 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 to be 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 hand-writing, 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.

It was at this stage that he first seriously considered the style of

what he had written. When this was going on he usually started some

other piece of work as a relief. The correction of slips consisted in

fact of two processes, for the corrections were first written in pencil,

and then re-considered and written in ink.

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 always 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 used to

forget to tell me what improvement he thought that 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.

"He did not write with ease, and was apt to invert his sentences both in

writing and speaking, putting the qualifying clause before it was clear

what it was to qualify. He corrected a great deal, and was eager to

express himself as well as he possibly could."

Perhaps the commonest corrections needed were of obscurities due to the

omission of a necessary link in the reasoning, something which he had

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 used to 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 got

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

as he did in conversation. Thus in the 'Origin,' page 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 had 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 the 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 the 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, dimorphism, etc.--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 wants to

force people to believe. 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 morally beautiful, 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

made use of 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. There is a wonderfully interesting letter which he wrote

to my mother bequeathing to her, in case of his death, the care of

publishing the manuscript of his first essay on evolution. This letter

seems to me full of the 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 wide and general fame as he attained to.

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 (He departed from his rule in

his "Note on the Habits of the Pampas Woodpecker, Colaptes campestris,"

'Proc. Zool. Soc.,' 1870, page 705: also in a letter published in the

'Athenaeum' (1863, page 554), in which case he afterwards regretted

that he had not remained silent. His replies to criticisms, in the later

editions of the 'Origin,' can hardly be classed as infractions of his

rule.) 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.

LETTERS.

The earliest letters to which I have access are those written by my

father when an undergraduate at Cambridge.

The history of his life, as told in his correspondence, must therefore

begin with this period.