Part 44

FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCKLAND.

Most of those whose lives are sketched in this volume lived to be old men; but Frank Buckland, the pet and pride of thousands in England, died in his prime, almost at the beginning of his fame; a man of whose life our "Popular Science Monthly" says, "None more active, varied, and useful is recorded in scientific biography."

He was the oldest son of the Dean of Westminster, Dr. William Buckland, and was born December 17, 1826, at Christ Church, Oxford, of which cathedral his father was canon at that time.

"I was told," says Frank, in later years, "that, soon after my birth, my father and my godfather, the late Sir Francis Chantry, weighed me in the kitchen scales against a leg of mutton, and that I was heavier than the joint provided for the family dinner that day. In honor of my arrival, my father and Sir Francis went into the garden and planted a birch tree. I know the taste of the twigs of that birch tree well. Sir Francis Chantry offered to give me a library. 'What is the use of a library to a child an hour old?' said my father. 'He will live to be sorry for that answer,' said Sir Francis. I never got the library.

"One of my earliest offences in life was eating the end of a carriage candle. For this, the birch rod not being handy, my father put me into a furze bush, and therein I did penance for ten minutes. A furze bush does not make a pleasant lounge when only very thin summer garments are worn."

The father, Dean Buckland, was distinguished as a man of letters, and for his geological research. The mother, as is often the case with sons of genius, was a remarkable woman, who idolized her boy, and who received in return an affection unusual in its intimacy and confidence.

She began to write about him early, in her journal. "At two and a half years of age," she says, "he never forgets either pictures or people he has seen. Four months ago, as well as now, he would have gone through all the natural history books in the Radcliffe Library, without making one error in miscalling a parrot, a duck, a kingfisher, an owl, or a vulture."

On taking him to see the camelopard and kangaroos in Windsor Park, she says, "He ran about with the latter and the other live animals without the least fear, though he got thrown down by them. He is a robust, sturdy child, sharp as a needle, but so volatile that I foresee some trouble in making him fix his attention."

When three and a half, she says, "he certainly is not at all premature; his great excellence is in his disposition, and apparently very strong reasoning powers, and a most tenacious memory as to facts. He is always asking questions, and never forgets the answers he receives, if they are such as he can comprehend. If there is anything he cannot understand, or any word, he won't go on till it has been explained to him. He is always wanting to see everything made, or to know how it is done; there is no end to his questions, and he is never happy unless he sees the relations between cause and effect."

At four he began collecting specimens of natural history. At this time a clergyman brought some fossils to Dr. Buckland. Calling his son, who was playing in the room, the Dean said, "Frankie, what are these?"

"They are the vertebrae of an ichthyosaurus," lisped the child, unable to speak plainly.

Mrs. Buckland gave her boy a small cabinet, which now bears this inscription: "This is the first cabinet I ever had; my mother gave it to me when about four years old, December, 1830. It is the nucleus of all my natural-history work. Please take care of the poor old thing."

"In his early home at Christ Church," says Frank Buckland's brother-in-law, George C. Bompas, in his interesting life of the naturalist, "besides the stuffed creatures, which shared the hall with the rocking-horse, there were cages full of snakes, and of green frogs, in the dining-room, where the sideboard groaned under successive layers of fossils, and the candles stood on ichthyosauri's vertebrae. Guinea-pigs were often running over the table, and, occasionally, the pony, having trotted down the steps from the garden, would push open the dining-room door, and career round the table, with three laughing children on his back; and then, marching through the front door, and down the steps, would continue his course round Tom Quad.

"In the stable yard and large wood-house were the fox, rabbits, guinea-pigs, and ferrets, hawks and owls, the magpie and jackdaw, besides dogs, cats, and poultry, and in the garden was the tortoise (on whose back the children would stand to try its strength), and toads immured in various pots, to test the truth of their supposed life in rock cells."

The boy Frank naturally developed a taste for natural history in the midst of such surroundings. At nine years of age, he was sent to school at Cotterstock, in Northamptonshire, and at twelve was elected scholar of Winchester College.

He tells an interesting experience on his entrance. "Immediately after chapel, the old stager boys all came round the new arrivals, to examine and criticise them. I perfectly recollect one boy, H., to whose special care my poor confiding mother had entrusted her innocent, unsuspecting cub, coming up to me with a most solemn face, and asking me if I had brought with me a copy of the school-book, 'Pempe moron proteron.' I said I had not. 'Then,' said he, 'you must borrow one at once, or the doctor,' i. e. Dr. Moberly, the head master, 'will be sure to flog you to-morrow morning, and your college tutor, one of the praefects, will also lick you.'

"So he sent me to another boy, who said he had lent his 'Pempe moron proteron,' but he passed me on to a third, he on to a fourth; so I was running about all over the college till quite late, in a most terrible panic of mind, till at last a good-natured praefect said, 'Construe it, you little fool.' I had never thought of this before. I saw it directly: Pempe (send) moron (a fool) proteron (further). So the title of this wonderful book, after all, was, 'Send a fool further.' I then went to complain to H.; he only laughed, and shied a Donnegan's Lexicon at my head."

"A few nights afterwards," says Frank, "I dreamt I was wandering on the seashore, and that a crab was pinching my foot. Instantly awakening, I experienced a most frightful pain in my great toe. I bore it for a while, until at last it became so intense that I had to jump up with a howl of agony; all was quiet, but the pull continued, and I had to follow my toe and outstretched leg out of bed. I then found a bit of netted whipcord tight round it; but the whipcord was so ingeniously twisted among the beds, that it was impossible to find out who had pulled it. I returned to bed as savage as a wounded animal. The moment I was settled, the boys all burst into a shout: 'Toe fit tied! By Jove, what a lark!' This barbarous process is called 'toe fit tie' because there is a line in Prosody which begins, 'To fit ti, ut verto verti.' Hence the origin of this Winchester custom."

A school friend says of Frank at this time: "Imagine a short, quick-eyed little boy, with a shock head of reddish brown hair (not much amenable to a hair-brush), a white neck-cloth tied like a piece of rope with no particular bow, and his bands sticking out under either ear as fancy pleased him,--in fact, a boy utterly indifferent to personal appearance, but good-tempered and eccentric, with a small museum in his sleeve or cupboard, sometimes a snake, or a pet mouse, or a guinea-pig, or even a hedge-hog. In the summer he would be always in the hedgerows, after birds, weasels, or mice, or in the water-meadows, after crayfish, tomculls, and other fish which hide under stones.... In fact, he was a born naturalist."

Another says: "Frank set up a sort of amateur dispensary or hospital. He had a patient or two. One man I remember, with a bad hand, who used to come down to College Gate at twelve o'clock to consult him and be experimented upon. In his toys (cupboard) he had various bottles and specimens, one very highly treasured possession being a three-legged chicken.

"His own natural disposition was of the sweetest and gentlest. I never saw him in a passion, though he used to get a good deal teased at one time for his untidiness. But he always had a bright smile amidst it all, and was ready to do anything for anybody immediately after. One thing used to strike me very much about him, and that was his exceeding love for his mother. Boys are generally reticent upon this point, but Frank seemed never tired of telling me about his, and how much he owed her....

"In school hours he was a painstaking and conscientious worker, never leaving his lessons or preparing his task quicker or better than when he had some pet, a dormouse or sometimes a snake, twisting and wriggling inside his college waistcoat, which, having found its way out at his boots, would be carefully replaced under the waistcoat, to go through the same journey again."

While at Winchester, Frank determined to become a surgeon, and chose as a parting gift from one of his tutors, instead of Goldsmith's poems, "Graham's Domestic Medicine." At his request, his parents sent him a lancet, with which he bled his college mates, if they were courageous enough to submit to the operation, offering each one sixpence as an inducement. Nevertheless, when, in vacation, he witnessed an amputation at the Infirmary, he fainted.

When Frank left Winchester, Bishop Moberly said, "I always had the utmost satisfaction in him as a school-boy; and I look back with very great regard to his simple, earnest character, and his devotion to the studies which have made him so well known. To me he was just what I always found him, full of curious information, excellently kind-tempered and affectionate."

In 1844, at the age of eighteen, Frank entered Christ Church, Oxford. Here he turned the court between his college rooms and the canon's gardens into a menagerie. He owned a young bear, Tiglath Pileser, Jacko the monkey, an eagle, a jackal, besides marmots, guinea-pigs, squirrels, and dormice, an adder and other snakes, tortoises, green frogs and a chameleon. Skeletons and stuffed specimens were numerous.

Many of these pets strayed away. The marmot got into the chapter-house, and the eagle stationed himself in the chapel doorway, and attacked those who wished to enter.

Dr. Liddon tells of being invited to Frank's rooms, to breakfast with him. "The marmots, which had hibernated in the cellar below, had just, as he expressed it, 'thawed.' There was great excitement; the creatures ran about the table, as entitled to the honors of the day; though there were other beasts and reptiles in the room too, which in later life would have made breakfasting difficult. Speaking of reptiles, one very early incident in my Oxford life was joining in a hunt of Frank's adder. It had escaped into Mr. Benson's rooms, and was pursued into the bedroom by a group of undergraduates, who had, however, different objects in view. Frank certainly had the well-being of the adder chiefly at heart, the rest of us, I fear, were governed by the lower motive of escaping being bitten anyhow--if consistently with the adder's safely, well--if not, still of escaping. Eventually, the adder was caught, I believe, without great damage.

"One day I met Frank just outside Tom Gate. His trousers pockets were swollen out to an enormous size; they were full of slow-worms in damp moss. Frank explained to me that this combination of warmth and moisture was good for the slow-worms, and that they enjoyed it. They certainly were very lively, poking their heads out incessantly, while he repressed them with the palms of his hands....