Section 103). With Regard to the Way in Which Plants Absorb and Fix the

"air" which he finds in their tissues, Hales is not clear; he does not in any way distinguish between respiration and assimilation. But as I have already said, he definitely asserts that plants draw "sublimed and exalted food" from the air.

As regards the action of light on plants, he suggests (p. 327) that "by freely entering the expanded surfaces of leaves and flowers" light may "contribute much to the ennobling principles of vegetation." He goes on to quote Newton (Opticks, query 30): "The change of bodies into light, and of light into bodies, is very conformable to the course of nature, which seems delighted with transformations." It is a problem for the antiquary to determine, whether or no Swift took from Newton the idea of bottling and recapturing sunshine as practised by the philosopher of Lagado. He could hardly have got it from Hales, since Gulliver's Travels was published in 1726, before Vegetable Staticks.

Nevertheless, Hales is not quite consistent about the action of light; thus (p. 351) he speaks of the dull light in a closely planted wood as checking the perspiration of the lower branches, so that "drawing little nourishment, they perish." This is doubtless one effect of bad illumination under the above-named conditions, but the check to photosynthesis is a more serious result. In his final remarks on vegetation (p. 375) Hales says in relation to green-houses, "It is certainly of as great importance to the life of the plants to discharge that infected rancid air by the admission of fresh, as it is to defend them from the extream cold of the outward air." This idea of ventilating greenhouses he carried out in a plant-house designed by him for the Dowager Princess of Wales, in which warm fresh air was admitted. The house in question was built in 1761 in the Princess's garden at Kew, which afterwards became what we now know as Kew Gardens. The site of Hales' greenhouse, which was only pulled down in 1861, is marked by a big wistaria which formerly grew on the greenhouse wall. It should be recorded that Sir W. Thiselton-Dyer {137a} planned a similar arrangement independently of Hales, and found it produced a marked improvement of the well-being of the plants.

It is worthy of note, that though Hales must have known Malpighi's theory of the function of leaves (which was broadly speaking the same as his own), he does not as far as I know refer to it. In his preface (p. ii.) he regrets that Malpighi and Grew, whose anatomical knowledge he appreciated, had not "fortuned to have fallen into this statical {137b} way of inquiry." I believe he means an inquiry of an experimental nature, and I think it was because Malpighi's theory was dependent on analogy rather than on ascertained facts that it influenced Hales so little.

There is another part of physiology on which Hales threw light. He was the first, I believe, to investigate the distribution of growth in developing shoots and growing leaves, by marking them and measuring the distance between the marks after an interval of time. He describes (p. 330) and figures (p. 344) with his usual thoroughness the apparatus employed; this was a comb-like object made by fixing into a handle five pins .25 inch apart from one another; the points being dipped in red-lead and oil, a young vine-shoot was marked with ten dots .25 inch apart. In the autumn he examined his specimen, and finds that the youngest internode or "joynt" had grown most, and the basal part having been "almost hardened" when he marked it, had "extended very little." In this--a tentative experiment--he made the mistake of not re-measuring his plants at short intervals of time, but it was an admirable beginning, and the direct ancestor of Sachs' {138a} great research on the subject. In his discussion on growth it is interesting to find the idea of turgescence supplying the motive force for extension. This conception he takes from Borelli. {138b}

Hales sees in the nodes of plants "plinths or abutments for the dilating pith to exert its force on" (p. 335); but he acutely foresees a modern objection {138c} to the explanation of growth as regulated solely by the hydrostatic pressure in the cell. Hales says (p. 335): "But a dilating spongy substance, by equally expanding itself every way, would not produce an oblong shoot but rather a globose one."

It is not my place to speak of Hales' work in animal physiology, nor of those researches bearing on the welfare of the human race which occupied his later years. Thus he wrote against the habit of drinking spirits, and made experiments on ventilation by which he benefited English and French prisons, and even the House of Commons; then too he was occupied in attempts to improve the method of distilling potable water at sea, and of preserving meat and biscuit on long voyages. {139a}

We are concerned with him simply as a vegetable physiologist, and in that character his fame is imperishable. Of the book which I have been using as my text, namely, Vegetable Staticks, Sachs says: "It was the first comprehensive work the world had seen which was devoted to the nutrition of plants and the movement of their sap. . . . Hales had the art of making plants reveal themselves. By experiments carefully planned and cunningly carried out he forced them to betray the energies hidden in their apparently inactive bodies." {139b} These words, spoken by a great physiologist of our day, form a fitting tribute to one who is justly described as the father of physiology.

IX NULLIUS IN VERBA {140}

There is a well-known story of Charles Darwin which I shall venture to repeat, because nothing can better emphasise the contrast between Shrewsbury School as it is and as it was.

Charles Darwin used, as a boy, to work at chemistry in a rough laboratory fitted up in the tool-house at his home in Shrewsbury. The fact that he did so became known to his school-fellows, and he was nicknamed "Gas." I have an old Delphine Virgil of my father's in which this word is scrawled, together with the name Miss Case, no doubt a sneer at his having come from Case's preparatory school. Dr. Butler, the Head Master, heard of the chemical work, and Charles Darwin was once publicly rebuked by that alarming person for wasting his time on such useless subjects. My father adds, "He called me very unjustly a poco curante, and as I did not understand what he meant it seemed to me a fearful reproach." A poco curante means of course "a don't-care person" or one who takes no interest in things, and might perhaps be translated by "slacker." I do not suppose that Dr. Butler is likely ever to be forgotten, but as it is, he is sure of a reasonable share of immortality as the author of a description so magnificently inappropriate. {141a}

This is the contrast I referred to; on one hand a Head Master in 1822 doing his best to discourage a boy from acquiring knowledge of a great subject in the best possible way, i.e. by experiment. And on the other, a Head Master of the same school in 1911 encouraging, with a wise zeal, the rational study of science as a regular part of the school course. It may not be possible to trace out the complete evolution of these Darwin Buildings, but I like to fancy that the germ from which they have sprung is that tool house at the Mount. {141b}

It is some comfort to us to know that Shrewsbury was not the only place which failed to educate my father in the regulation lines. When he left school he went to Edinburgh University to study medicine. But he found anatomy and materia medica intolerable, and the operating theatre was a horror. So he began to work at science in his own way. He learned to stuff birds from an old negro who had known Waterton. Of this instructor he says, "I used often to sit with him, for he was a very pleasant and intelligent man." He also caught sea beasts in the pools on the shore, and made one or two small observations, which were communicated to the Plinian Society.

Then he was sent to Cambridge with a view to taking Orders. He enjoyed himself riding and shooting, and especially in catching beetles in the fens. But also in more intellectual ways, as in listening to the anthem in King's Chapel, and looking at the pictures in the Fitzwilliam Museum. Henslow, the Professor of Botany treated him as a friend rather than as a pupil, and finally settled his career by sending him round the world in H.M.S. Beagle. He entered the ship an undergraduate, and left it after five years a man of science. I give these well known details to show how little he profited by any regular course of study either at Shrewsbury, Edinburgh, or Cambridge. His start in life depended on the recognition of his capacity by Henslow, and was nearly wrecked by FitzRoy, the Captain of the Beagle, suspecting that no one with a nose like my father's could be an energetic person.

Are we therefore to conclude that the best method of scientific education is to force a boy to work at uncongenial subjects? In the case of a genius it may not much matter what he is taught; he will succeed, in spite of his education. But for us lesser mortals it does matter. I am not going to talk about the way in which science should be taught in schools, a matter about which I am not competent to speak. What I shall speak of is the learning rather than teaching of the subject.

I once heard Lord Rayleigh refer to the necessity of putting one's subject-matter clearly before an audience, and he illustrated his point by the following story. Somebody, possibly a lady, came from listening to a lecture by Mr. So-and-So, and when asked what it was about, replied, "He didn't say." I shall follow Lord Rayleigh's advice and tell you that my subject is "Why science should be learned." Why it is worth while for a boy to give up some of his time to this particular form of knowledge, and what advantage he may expect to gain from so doing.

There are many possible reasons for a boy's learning science.

I Because he is told to. This is an excellent reason, but not inspiriting. II To get marks in an Entrance Scholarship examination. This is a virtuous reason but not intellectual. III To gain knowledge which will be of use when he comes to follow a profession, and wants to know physics in view of becoming an engineer, or physiology as a part of medical training. This is a worthy reason, but not a common one. IV Lastly, a boy may learn science because he wants to; because he finds it entertaining; because it satisfies an unreasoning desire to know how things in general work.

This is the best possible reason and the most efficient, and what I propose, is to inquire whether this wish to know something of science can be justified.

The word 'science' simply means knowledge, but it is usually applied to knowledge that can be verified. Thus we learn by heart that Queen Anne died in 1714. I believe this to be a fact, but I have no means of verifying it. But if I am told that putting chalk into acid will produce a heavy gas having the quality of extinguishing a lighted match, I can verify it. I can do the thing and see the results. I am now the equal of my teacher; I know it in the same way that he does. It has become my very own fact, and it seems to have the satisfactory quality that possession gives. This characteristic of scientific knowledge is not always recognised. I mean the profound difference between what we know and what we are told. When science began to flourish at Cambridge in the 'seventies, and the University was asked to supply money for buildings, an eminent person objected and said, "What do they want with their laboratories?--why can't they believe their teachers, who are in most cases clergymen of the Church of England?" This person had no conception of what the word 'knowledge' means as understood in science.

Another characteristic of science is that it makes us able to predict. I have already referred to the fact that Queen Anne is dead, and we know, or are told, that she died, as I said before, in 1714; we also know that George I. died in 1727, and George II. in 1760, but that would not enable us to predict that George III. would die in 1820. They are isolated facts not connected by the causal bond that knits together a series of scientific truths. And this is after all a fortunate thing for the peace of mind of reigning sovereigns.

It is said that you should never prophesy unless you know. But science is made up of prophecies. Some are famous, like the prediction of Adams and Leverrier that a new planet would be found in a stated position. Some are on a humbler scale, such as my father's prediction that a big moth would be found to carry the pollen of Hedychium by brushing it off with the tips of its hovering wings, a method of fertilisation unheard of at the time, which however proved to be the fact.

You may say that it does not matter whether the moth does this particular thing or not. This is no doubt true from a strictly commercial point of view. But in science all facts have some value. We should cultivate a point of view about facts the very reverse of that of the unknown person who said that all books are rather dull.

I once heard a celebrated physicist describe how he explained to an American business man an elaborate spectroscope for examining the sun. The American asked what good it was. The physicist explained that with it you can discover whether or no sodium exists in the sun. The American was silent for some time, and then said, "But who the 'nation cares whether there is sodium in the sun or not?" He had not the scientific spirit which does care about sodium in the sun.

Scientific discovery is, as I said, made up of a series of prophecies. You observe fact No. 1, and you say if this be so No. 2 ought to be true, and on examination you find this is true, and No. 2 suggests No. 3. Or else you find 2 not to be true; this makes you suspect your original fact, and on carefully going over your observation you find No. 1 was a mistaken observation. The successful man of science is one to whom familiar objects suggest those prophecies generally known as theories. My father was remarkable for not letting what seem to be trifling facts pass without suggesting to him a theory. The flies that are caught on the sundew must have been seen by innumerable people--but it remained for him to prove the truth of his guess that some plants possess digestive ferments like our own, and live on the insects they catch and digest.

The art of being guided by slight indications is sometimes called the method of Zadig, which I learn from Mr. Huxley's essay and not from Voltaire. Mr. Huxley points out that it is not only possible thus to prophesy what will happen, but also to determine what has happened; and he suggests that there should be a word 'backtell' as well as foretell. Zadig, who was an oriental philosopher, met one day the King's servants in great trouble about the loss of their master's favourite horse. When asked whether he had seen it he said, "A fine galloper, is it not? small hoofed, five feet high, tail 3.5 feet long. Cheek-pieces of the bit 23-carat gold, shoes silver." They of course begged to know where it was, and he said he had not seen it.

This will be recognised as the method of Sherlock Holmes, but it is also the method of science. Surely you would like to become scientific under the guidance of that great man. Of course you are not to be Watsons, but actual detectives, with Watsons of your own to admire you. And lest you should fear that the scientific method is alarmingly difficult, I may add that the method of Zadig or Sherlock Holmes, or of science in general, is nothing more than glorified common-sense.

It is difficult to talk about a subject which interests one without seeming to claim that it is superior to all others. I have not meant to imply this. I have only tried to explain in what way science differs from some other sort of knowledge. Nor do I wish to imply that the mind that excels in science is better or worse than that which one finds in a great literary man. An eminent oar is worthy of as much respect as a great cricketer, but he is eminent in a different way.

I am glad to think that there are points in which science, literature, and art are equally excellent--namely, in giving to mankind some of the deepest pleasures of which he is capable, in making him realise the wonder, the beauty and the romance of the world. I spoke of the power of science in knitting together isolated facts into a theory. And such a theory may become so all embracing that it is called a law of nature. Those great generalisations, the laws of gravity and the laws of evolution, or the laws of chemical combination, have a beauty and dignity which appeal to everyone.

And on the practical rather than on the theoretical, side there is wonder, and to my mind beauty, in the bigness and in the smallness of the spaces that man can deal with. The astronomer measures out his work, not by miles, but by the inconceivable distance that light can travel in a year. The man who studies bacteria measures by the micron, 25,000 of which go to the inch. To me there is more fascination in the very small than in the other extreme. It is wonderful to think that a plant--a big tree for instance--is made up of countless millions of cells, each of which was built by a minute protoplasmic body, which Huxley has compared to a delicate Ariel imprisoned like Shakespeare's sprite in an oak-tree.

There is a dramatic effect in even the simplest of experiments. I, for one, am never weary of the time-honoured demonstration of a water-plant giving off oxygen as it assimilates. A twig of Elodea in a large beaker of water gives off no bubbles in the dull light at the back of the room, but when close to the window it does so. And with proper precautions the rate of bubbling becomes an accurate measure of the intensity of assimilation. To complete the demonstration the experiment should be repeated with water which has been boiled, and therefore roughly freed from CO2, when the rate of bubbling is very greatly diminished. Finally, by blowing vigorously into the water it may be charged once more with CO2, and the normal rate of bubbling may be established.

There are of course innumerable experiments in pure chemistry and physics which have this romantic quality in the manner in which they reveal the secrets of the invisible structure of matter--but of these I have not much personal experience.

I think, too, that the human interest of science should always be encouraged. I mean that those classical experiments, by which great men have advanced human knowledge, should be shown: and performed moreover by the original methods, e.g. the discoveries of Black, Priestley and Cavendish.

After all, the real fun of science begins when one finds out something that was not known before. This is what is rather pompously called original research. It is interesting to see in my father's life how the sporting instinct gave way to the love of discovery. To show this passionate love of sport, he mentions that when as a boy he had just shot his first snipe, his hands trembled so that he could hardly reload his gun. Yet the same boy on the voyage of the Beagle found out how much more entrancing than shooting was the chase of new facts and new theories, and he handed over his gun to his servant. And something of this delight one may have as the merest learner. You are not likely to find out things that nobody knew before, but you may easily find out things quite new to yourself--which to you personally are as good as the brand-newest discovery. Lastly, there is another excellent reason for scientific work, namely, that the bodily welfare of the human race and of its friendly animals and plants depends on accurate knowledge of the nature and behaviour of everything in the world. It is this truth that makes us believe that every fact has its value. Its value may remain unrecognised for long periods, and then it may suddenly find its place in the great jig-saw puzzle of knowledge. The two most exciting sciences just now seem to me to be Physics and Pathology; one as bringing us nearer to the knowledge of the structure of matter, the other in disentangling the causes of deadly and mysterious diseases such as malaria, diphtheria, hydrophobia, sleeping sickness, in a manner and with a success hitherto undreamt of. But because the advances in these sciences are so brilliant and hopeful, no civilised worker will venture to despise the pursuits of less fortunate people whose work seems rather humdrum. There are botanists who spend their whole lives in describing and classifying dried plants in a herbarium. But these are really doing highly valuable work, for the simple reason that we cannot make any accurate use of plants until they have names. I am omitting the purely commercial use of such work, which is very great. I only want to insist that the mere naming of living things is an indispensable stone in the building of the palace of science. All who work at science may recognise that they belong to a guild which makes for the happiness of the human race. And this they must do, not with any pride, but humbly acknowledging how small is their personal share in the total of progress.

The Darwin Buildings, that is to say, the three new laboratories which are open to-day, were absolutely needed to carry out the Head Master's plan of giving every boy in the School a chance of learning science. When I say that at the present time 270 boys under five masters are at work in the laboratories, you will realise to what good use they are being put. As I happen to represent the Royal Society on your Governing Body it is especially satisfactory to me to know that science is here taught on the principle expressed by the motto of the Society: "Nullius in verba," that is to say, not in other people's words, but in your own observation lies the path of Science.

X SIR GEORGE DARWIN {152a}

George Howard, the fifth {152b} child of Charles and Emma Darwin, was born at Down, July 9th, 1845. Why he was christened {152c} George, I cannot say. It was one of the facts on which we founded a theory that our parents lost their presence of mind at the font, and gave us names for which there was neither the excuse of tradition nor of preference on their own part. His second name, however, commemorates his great-grandmother, Mary Howard, the first wife of Erasmus Darwin. It seems possible that George's ill-health and that of his father were inherited from the Howards. This, at any rate, was Francis Galton's view, who held that his own excellent health was a heritage from Erasmus Darwin's second wife. George's second name, Howard, has a certain appropriateness in his case, for he was the genealogist and herald of our family, and it is through Mary Howard that the Darwins can, by an excessively devious route, claim descent from certain eminent people, e.g. John of Gaunt. This is shown in the pedigrees which George wrote out, and in the elaborate genealogical tree published in Professor's Pearson's Life of Francis Galton. George's parents had moved to Down in September 1842, and he was born to those quiet surroundings of which Charles Darwin wrote, "My life goes on like clockwork, and I am fixed on the spot where I shall end it." It would have been difficult to find a more retired place so near London. In 1842 a coach drive of some twenty miles was the only means of access to Down; and even now that railways have crept closer to it, it is singularly out of the world, with little to suggest the neighbourhood of London, unless it be the dull haze of smoke that sometimes clouds the sky. In 1842 such a village, communicating with the main lines of traffic only by stony tortuous lanes, may well have been enabled to retain something of its primitive character. Nor is it hard to believe in the smugglers and their strings of pack-horses making their way up from the lawless old villages of the Weald, of which the memory then still lingered. {153}

George retained throughout life his deep love for Down. For the lawn with its bright strip of flowers, and for the row of big lime trees that bordered it; for the two yew trees between which we children had our swing, and for many another characteristic which had become as dear and as familiar to him as a human face. He retained his youthful love of the "Sand-walk," a little wood far enough from the house to have for us a romantic character of its own.

George loved the country round Down, and all its dry chalky valleys of ploughed land, with "shaws," i.e. broad straggling hedges on their crests, bordered by strips of flowery turf. The country is traversed by many foot-paths; these George knew well and used skilfully in our walks, in which he was generally the leader. His love for the house and the neighbourhood was, I think, entangled with his deepest feelings. In later years his children came with their parents to Down, and they vividly remember his excited happiness, and how he enjoyed showing them his ancient haunts.

In this retired region Charles Darwin's children led a singularly quiet life, practically without friends, and dependent on their brothers and sisters for companionship. George's earliest recollection was of drumming with his spoon and fork on the nursery table because dinner was late, while a barrel-organ played outside. Other memories were less personal; for instance, the firing of guns when Sebastopol was supposed to have been taken. His diary of 1852 shows a composite interest in current events and in the picturesqueness of Natural History: "The Duke is dead. Dodos are out of the world."

He perhaps carried rather far the good habit of re-reading one's favourite authors. He told his children that for a year or so he read through every day the story of Jack the Giant Killer, in a little chap-book with coloured pictures. He early showed signs of the energy which marked his character in later life. I am glad to remember that I became his companion and willing slave. There was much playing at soldiers, and I have a clear remembrance of our marching with toy guns and knapsacks across the field to the Sand-walk. There we made our bivouac with gingerbread, and milk warmed (and generally smoked) over a "touch-wood" fire. I was a private while George was a sergeant, and it was part of my duty to stand sentry at the far end of the kitchen-garden until released by a bugle-call from the lawn. I have a vague remembrance of presenting my fixed bayonet at my father to ward off a kiss, which seemed to me inconsistent with my military duties. Our imaginary names and heights were written up on the wall of the cloak-room. George, with romantic exactitude, made a small foot rule of such a size that he could conscientiously record his height as 6 feet, and mine as slightly less, in accordance with my age and station.

Under my father's instruction George made spears with weighted heads, which he hurled with remarkable skill by means of an Australian throwing stick. I used to skulk behind the big lime trees on the lawn in the character of victim, and I still remember the look of the spear flying through the air with a certain venomous waggle. Indoors, too, we threw at each other wooden javelins, which we received on beautiful shields made by the village carpenter and decorated with coats of arms.

Heraldry was a serious pursuit of his for many years, and the London Library copies of Guillim and Edmonson {156} were generally at Down. He retained a love of the science through life, and his copy of Percy's Reliques is decorated with coats of arms admirably drawn and painted. In later life he showed a power of neat and accurate draughtsmanship, and some of the illustrations in his father's books, e.g. in Climbing Plants, are by his hand.

His early education was given by governesses, but the boys of the family used to ride twice or thrice a week to be instructed in Latin by Mr. Reed, the Rector of Hayes--the kindest of teachers. For myself, I chiefly remember the cake we used to have at 11 o'clock, and the occasional diversion of looking at the pictures in the great Dutch Bible. George must have impressed his parents with his solidity and self-reliance, since he was more than once allowed to undertake alone the 20-mile ride to the house of a relative at Hartfield in Sussex. For a boy of ten to bait his pony and order his luncheon at the Edenbridge inn was probably more alarming than the rest of the adventure. There is indeed a touch of David Copperfield in his recollections as preserved in family tradition. The waiter always said, "What will you have for lunch, Sir?" to which he replied, "What is there?" and the waiter said, "Eggs and bacon"; and though he hated bacon more than anything else in the world, he felt obliged to have it.

On August 16th, 1856, George was sent to school. Our elder brother, William, was at Rugby, and his parents felt his long absences from home such an evil that they fixed on the Clapham Grammar School for their younger sons. Besides its nearness to Down, Clapham had the merit of giving more mathematics and science than could then be found in public schools. It was kept by the Rev. Charles Pritchard, {157} a man of strong character, and with a gift for teaching mathematics by which George undoubtedly profited. In, I think, 1861 Pritchard left Clapham and was succeeded by the Rev. Alfred Wrigley, a man of kindly mood but without the force or vigour of Pritchard. As a mathematical instructor I imagine Wrigley was a good drillmaster rather than an inspiring teacher. Under him the place degenerated to some extent; it no longer sent so many boys to the Universities, and became more like a "crammer's" and less like a public school. My own recollections of George at Clapham are coloured by an abiding gratitude for his kindly protection of me as a shrinking and very unhappy "new boy" in 1860.

George records in his diary that in 1863 he tried in vain for a Minor Scholarship at St. John's College, Cambridge, and again failed to get one at Trinity in 1864, though he became a Foundation Scholar in 1866. These facts suggested to me that this capacity as a mathematician was the result of slow growth. I accordingly applied to Lord Moulton, who was kind enough to give me his impressions:

My memories of your brother during his undergraduate career correspond closely to your suggestion that his mathematical power developed somewhat slowly and late. Throughout most, if not the whole, of his undergraduate years he was in the same class as myself and Christie, the ex-Astronomer Royal, at Routh's. {158a} We all recognised him as one who was certain of being high in the Tripos, but he did not display any of that colossal power of work and taking infinite trouble that characterised him afterwards. On the contrary, he treated his work rather jauntily. At that time his health was excellent and he took his studies lightly, so that they did not interfere with his enjoyment of other things. {158b} I remember that as the time of the examination came near I used to tell him that he was unfairly handicapped in being in such robust health and such excellent spirits.

Even when he had taken his degree I do not think he realised his innate mathematical power. . . . It has been a standing wonder to me that he developed the patience for making the laborious numerical calculations on which so much of his most original work was necessarily based. He certainly showed no tendency in that direction during his undergraduate years. Indeed, he told me more than once in later life that he detested arithmetic, and that these calculations were as tedious and painful to him as they would have been to any other man, but that he realised that they must be done, and that it was impossible to train anyone else to do them.

As a Freshman he 'kept' (i.e. lived) in A 6, the staircase at the N.W. corner of the New Court, afterwards moving to F 3 in the Old Court, pleasant rooms entered by a spiral staircase on the south side of the Great Gate. Below him, in the ground floor room, now used as the College offices, lived Mr. Colvill, who remained a faithful but rarely seen friend as long as George lived.

Lord Moulton, who, as we have seen, was a fellow pupil of George's at Routh's, was held even as a Freshman to be an assured Senior Wrangler, a prophecy that he easily made good. The second place was held by George, and was a much more glorious position than he had dared to hope for. In those days the examiners read out the list in the Senate House at an early hour, 8 a.m. I think. George remained in bed and sent me to bring the news. I remember charging out through the crowd the moment the magnificent "Darwin of Trinity" had followed the expected "Moulton of St. John's." I have a general impression of a cheerful crowd sitting on George's bed and literally almost smothering him with congratulations. He received the following characteristic letter from his father: {159}

DOWN, Jan. 24th .

My dear old fellow,

I am so pleased. I congratulate you with all my heart and soul. I always said from your early days that such energy, perseverance and talent as yours would be sure to succeed: but I never expected such brilliant success as this. Again and again I congratulate you. But you have made my hand tremble so I can hardly write. The telegram came here at eleven. We have written to W. and the boys.

God bless you, my dear old fellow--may your life so continue.

Your affectionate Father, CH. DARWIN.

In those days the Tripos examination was held in the winter, and the successful candidates got their degrees early in the Lent Term. George records in his diary that he took his B.A. on January 25th, 1868; also that he won the second of the two Smith's Prizes--the first being the natural heritage of the Senior Wrangler. There is little to record in this year. He had a pleasant time in the summer, coaching Clement, the nephew of Sir Charles Bunbury, at his beautiful place Barton Hall in Suffolk. In the autumn he was elected a Fellow of Trinity, as he records, "with Galabin, young Niven, Clifford, [Sir Frederick] Pollock, and [Sir Sidney] Colvin." W. K. Clifford was the well-known brilliant mathematician who died comparatively early.

Chief among his Cambridge friends were the brothers Arthur, Gerald, and Frank Balfour. The last-named was killed, aged 31, in a climbing accident in 1882 on the Aiguille Blanche near Courmayeur. He was remarkable both for his scientific work and for his striking and most lovable personality. George's affection for him never faded. His daughter remembers her father (not long before his death) saying with emotion, "I dreamed Frank Balfour was alive." I imagine that tennis was the means of bringing George into contact with Mr. Arthur Balfour. What began in this chance way grew into an enduring friendship, and George's diary shows how much kindness and hospitality he received from Mr. Balfour. George had also the advantage of knowing Lord Rayleigh at Cambridge, and retained his friendship through his life.

In the spring of 1869 he was in Paris for two months working at French. His teacher used to make him write original compositions, and George gained a reputation for humour by giving French versions of all the old Joe Millers and ancient stories he could remember.

It was his intention to make the Bar his profession, {161} and in October 1869 we find him reading with Mr. Tatham, in 1870 and 1872 with the late Mr. Montague Crackenthorpe (then Cookson), and in November 1871 he was a pupil of Mr. W. G. Harrison. The most valued result of his legal work was the friendship of Mr. and Mrs. Crackenthorpe, which he retained throughout his life. During these years we find the first indications of the circumstances which forced him to give up a legal career--namely, his failing health and his growing inclination towards science. {162} Thus in the summer of 1869, when we were all at Caerdeon in the Barmouth valley, he writes that he "fell ill," and again in the winter of 1871. His health deteriorated markedly during 1872 and 1873. In the former year he went to Malvern and to Homburg without deriving any advantage. I have an impression that he did not expect to survive these attacks, but I cannot say at what date he made this forecast of an early death. In January 1873 he visited Cannes, and "came back very ill." It was in the spring of this year that he first consulted Dr. (afterwards Sir Andrew) Clark, from whom he received the kindest care. George suffered from digestive troubles, sickness, and general discomfort and weakness. Dr. Clark's care probably did what was possible to make life more bearable, and as time went on his health gradually improved. In 1894 he consulted the late Dr. Eccles, and by means of the rest-cure, then something of a novelty, his weight increased from 9 stone to 9 stone 11 pounds. I gain the impression that this treatment produced a permanent improvement, although his health remained a serious handicap throughout his life.

Meanwhile he had determined on giving up the Bar, and settled in October 1873, when he was 28 years old, at Trinity in Nevile's Court next the Library (G 4). His diary continues to contain records of ill-health and of various holidays in search of improvement. Thus in 1873 we read, "Very bad during January. Went to Cannes and stayed till the end of April." Again in 1874, "February to July very ill." In spite of unwellness he began in 1872-3 to write on various subjects. He sent to Macmillan's Magazine {163a} an entertaining article, "Development in Dress," where the survivals in modern costume were recorded and discussed from the standpoint of evolution. In 1873 he wrote "On beneficial restriction to liberty of marriage," {163b} a eugenic article for which he was attacked with gross unfairness and bitterness by the late St. George Mivart. He was defended by Huxley; and Charles Darwin formally ceased all intercourse with Mivart. We find mention of a "Globe Paper for the British Association" in 1873. And in the following year he read a contribution on "Probable Error" to the Mathematical Society {163c}--on which he writes in his diary, "found it was old." Besides another paper in the Messenger of Mathematics, he reviewed "Whitney on Language," {163d} and wrote a "Defence of Jevons" which I have not been able to trace. In 1875 he was at work on the "Flow of Pitch," on an "Equipotential Tracer," on slide rules, and sent a paper on "Cousin Marriages" to the Statistical Society. {164a} It is not my province to deal with these papers; they are enumerated here as showing his activity of mind and his varied interests,--features in his character which were notable throughout life.

The most interesting entry in his diary for 1875 is a "Paper on Equipotentials much approved by Sir W. Thomson." This is the first notice of an association of primary importance in George's scientific career. Then came his memoir, "On the influence of geological changes in the earth's axis of rotation." Lord Kelvin was one of the referees appointed by the Council of the Royal Society to report on this paper, which was published in the Philosophical Transactions in 1877.

In his diary, November 1878, George records, "Paper on tides ordered to be printed." This refers to his work, "On the bodily tides of viscous and semi-elastic spheroids, etc.," published in the Phil. Trans. in 1879. It was in regard to this paper that his father wrote to George on October 29th, 1878: {164b}

My dear old George,

I have been quite delighted with your letter and read it all with eagerness. You were very good to write it. All of us are delighted, for considering what a man Sir William Thomson is, it is most grand that you should have staggered him so quickly, and that he should speak of your 'discovery, etc.' . . . Hurrah for the bowels of the earth and their viscosity, and for the moon and for the Heavenly bodies, and for my son George (F.R.S. very soon). . . . {165a}

The bond of pupil and master between George Darwin and Lord Kelvin, originating in the years 1877-8, was to be a permanent one, and developed, not merely into scientific co-operation, but into a close friendship. Sir Joseph Larmor has recorded {165b} that George's "tribute to Lord Kelvin, to whom he dedicated Volume I of his Collected Papers {165c} . . . gave lively pleasure to his master and colleague." His words were:

Early in my scientific career it was my good fortune to be brought into close personal relationship with Lord Kelvin. Many visits to Glasgow and to Largs have brought me to look up to him as my master, and I cannot find words to express how much I owe to his friendship and to his inspiration.

During these years there is evidence that he continued to enjoy the friendship of Lord Rayleigh and of Mr. Balfour. We find in his diary records of visits to Terling and to Whittingehame, or of luncheons at Mr. Balfour's house in Carlton Gardens, for which George's scientific committee work in London gave frequent opportunity. In the same way there are many records of visits to Francis Galton, with whom he was united alike by kinship and affection.

Few people indeed can have taken more pains to cultivate friendship than did George. This trait was the product of his affectionate and eminently sociable nature, and of his characteristic energy and activity. In earlier life he travelled a good deal in search of health, {166} and in after years he attended numerous congresses as a representative of scientific bodies. He thus had unusual opportunities of making the acquaintance of men of other nationalities, and some of his warmest friendships were with foreigners. In passing through Paris he rarely failed to visit M. and Mme d'Estournelles and "the d'Abbadies." It was in Algiers in 1878 and 1879 that he cemented his friendship with the late J. F. MacLennan, author of Primitive Marriage; and in 1880 he was at Davos with the same friends. In 1881 he went to Madeira, where he received much kindness from the Blandy family--doubtless through the recommendation of Lady Kelvin.

Cambridge.

We have seen that George was elected a Fellow of Trinity in October 1868, and that five years later (October 1873) he began his second lease of a Cambridge existence. There is at first little to record: he held at this time no official position, and when his Fellowship expired he continued to live in College, busy with his research work, and laying down the earlier tiers of the monumental series of papers which he gave to the world. This soon led to his being proposed (in November 1877) for the Royal Society, and elected in June 1879. The principal event in this stage of his Cambridge life was his election in 1883 as Plumian Professor of Astronomy and Experimental Philosophy. {167} His predecessor in the Chair was Professor Challis, who had held office since 1836, and is now chiefly remembered in connection with Adams and the planet Neptune. The professorship is not necessarily connected with the Observatory, and practical astronomy formed no part of George's duties. His lectures being on advanced mathematics usually attracted but few students; in the Long Vacation, however, when he habitually gave one of his courses, there was often a fairly large class. George's relations with his class have been sympathetically treated by Professor E. W. Brown, {168} than whom no one can speak with more authority, since he was one of my brother's favourite pupils.

In the late '70's George began to be appointed to various University Boards and Syndicates. Thus from 1878-82 he was on the Museums and Lecture Rooms Syndicate. In 1879 he was placed on the Observatory Syndicate, of which he became an official member in 1883 on his election to the Plumian Professorship. In the same way he was on the Special Board for Mathematics. He was a member of the Financial Board from 1900-1 to 1903-4, and on the Council of the Senate in 1905-6 and 1908-9. But he never became a professional syndic--one of those virtuous persons who spend their lives in University affairs. In his obituary of George (Nature, December 12, 1912), Sir Joseph Larmor writes:

In the affairs of the University, of which he was an ornament, Sir George Darwin made a substantial mark, though it cannot be said that he possessed the patience in discussion that is sometimes a necessary condition to taking a share in its administration. But his wide acquaintance and friendships among the statesmen and men of affairs of the time, dating often from undergraduate days, gave him openings for usefulness on a wider plane. Thus, at a time when residents were bewailing even more than usual the inadequacy of the resources of the University for the great expansion which the scientific progress of the age demanded, it was largely on his initiative that, by a departure from all precedent, an unofficial body was constituted in 1899 under the name of the Cambridge University Association, to promote the further endowment of the University by interesting its graduates throughout the Empire in its progress and its more pressing needs. This important body, which was organised under the strong lead of the late Duke of Devonshire, then Chancellor, comprises as active members most of the public men who owe allegiance to Cambridge, and has already by its interest and help powerfully stimulated the expansion of the University into new fields of national work, though it has not yet achieved financial support on anything like the scale to which American seats of learning are accustomed.

The Master of Christ's writes:

May 31st, 1915.

My impression is that George did not take very much interest in the petty details which are so beloved by a certain type of University authority. 'Comma hunting' and such things were not to his taste, and at meetings he was often rather distrait, but when anything of real importance came up he was of extraordinary use. He was especially good at drafting letters, and over anything that he thought promoted the advancement of the University along the right lines he would take endless trouble--writing and re-writing reports and letters till he got them to his taste. The sort of movements which interested him most were those which connected Cambridge with the outside world. He was especially interested in the Appointments Board. A good many of us constantly sought his advice, and nearly always took it: but, as I say, I do not think he cared much about the 'parish pump,' and was usually worried at long meetings.

Professor Newall has also been good enough to give me his impressions:

His weight in the committees on which I have had personal experience of his influence seems to me to have depended in large measure on his realising very clearly the distinction between the importance of ends to be aimed at and the difficulty of harmonising the personal characteristics of the men who might be involved in the work needed to attain the ends. The ends he always took seriously--the crotchets he often took humorously, to the great easement of many situations that are liable to arise on a committee. I can imagine that to those who had corns his direct progress may at times have seemed unsympathetic and hasty. He was ready to take much trouble in formulating statements of business with great precision--a result doubtless of his early legal experiences. I recall how he would say, "If a thing has to be done, the minute should if possible make some individual responsible for doing it." He would ask, "Who is going to do the work? If a man has to take the responsibility, we must do what we can to help him, and not hamper him by unnecessary restrictions and criticisms." His helpfulness came from his quickness in seizing the important point and his readiness to take endless trouble in the important work of looking into details before and after the meetings. The amount of work that he did in response to the requirements of various Committees was very great, and it was curious to realise in how many cases he seemed to have diffidence as to the value of his contributions.

But on the whole, the work which he was able to carry out, in addition to professional duties and research, was in matters of general importance unconnected with the University. To these we shall return.

In 1884 he became engaged to Miss Maud Du Puy of Philadelphia. She came of an old Huguenot stock, descending from Dr. John Du Puy, who was born in France in 1679, and settled in New York in 1713. They were married on July 22nd, 1884, and this event happily coloured the remainder of George's life. As time went on, and existence became fuller and busier, she was able by her never-failing devotion to shield him from fatigue and anxiety. In this way he was helped and protected in the various semi-public functions in which he took a principal part. Nor was her help valued only on these occasions, for indeed the comfort and happiness of every day was in her charge. There is a charming letter {171} from George's mother, dated April 15th, 1884:

Maud had to put on her wedding-dress in order to say at the Custom-house in America that she had worn it, so we asked her to come down and show it to us. She came down with great simplicity and quietness . . . only really pleased at its being admired and at looking pretty herself, which was strikingly the case. She was a little shy at coming in, and sent in Mrs. Jebb to ask George to come out and see it first and bring her in. It was handsome and simple. I like seeing George so frivolous, so deeply interested in which diamond trinket should be my present, and in her new Paris morning dress, in which he felt quite unfit to walk with her.

Later, probably in June, George's mother wrote {172a} to Miss Du Puy, "Your visit here was a great happiness to me, as something in you (I don't know what) made me feel sure you would always be sweet and kind to George when he is ill and uncomfortable." These simple and touching words may be taken as a true forecast of his happy married life.

In March 1885 George acquired by purchase the house Newnham Grange, {172b} which remained his home to the end of his life. It stands at the southern end of the 'Backs,' within a few yards of the river where it bends eastward in flowing from the upper to the lower of the two Newnham water-mills. I remember forebodings as to dampness, but they proved wrong--even the cellars being remarkably dry. The house is built of faded yellowish bricks, with old tiles on the roof, and has a pleasant home-like air. It was formerly the house of the Beales family, {173a} one of the old merchant stocks of Cambridge. This fact accounts for the great barn-like granaries which occupied much of the plot near the high road. These buildings were in part pulled down, thus making room for a lawn tennis court, while what was not demolished made a gallery looking on the court, as well as play-room for the children. At the eastern end of the property a cottage and part of the granaries were converted into a small house of an attractively individual character, for which I think tenants have hitherto been easily found among personal friends. One of the most pleasant features of the Grange was the flower-garden and rockery on the other side of the river, reached by a wooden bridge and called "the Little Island." {173b} The house is conveniently close to the town, yet has a most pleasant outlook, to the north over the Backs while there is the river and the Fen to the south. The children had a den or house in the branches of a large copper beech tree overhanging the river. They were allowed to use the boat, which was known as the Griffin, from the family crest with which it was adorned. None of them were drowned, though accidents were not unknown; in one of these an eminent lady and well-known writer, who was inveigled on to the river by the children, had to wade to shore near Silver Street bridge owing to the boat running aground.

The Darwins had five children, of whom one died an infant: of the others, Charles Galton Darwin has inherited much of his father's mathematical ability, and has been elected to a Mathematical Lectureship at Christ's College. He is now in the Army, and employed in research work in France. The younger son, William, has a commission in the 18th Battalion of the Durham Light Infantry, and is now working with his brother. George's elder daughter is married to Monsieur Jacques Raverat. Her skill as an artist has perhaps its hereditary root in her father's draughtsmanship. The younger daughter, Margaret, is married to Mr. Geoffrey Keynes.

George's relations with his family were most happy. His diary never fails to record the dates on which the children came home, or the black days which took them to school. There are constantly recurring entries in his diary of visits to the boys at Marlborough or Winchester, or of the journeys to arrange for the schooling of the girls in England or abroad. The parents took pains that their children should have opportunities of learning conversational French and German.

George's characteristic energy showed itself not only in these ways but also in devising bicycling expeditions and informal picnics for the whole family, to the Fleam Dyke, to Whittlesford, or other pleasant spots near home; and these excursions he enjoyed as much as anyone of the party. As he always wished to have his children with him, one or more generally accompanied him and his wife when they attended congresses or other scientific gatherings abroad.

His house was the scene of many Christmas dinners, the first of which I find any record being in 1886. These meetings were often made an occasion for plays acted by the children; of these the most celebrated was a Cambridge version of Romeo and Juliet, in which the hero and heroine were scions of the rival factions of Trinity and St. John's.

Games and Pastimes.

As an undergraduate George played tennis--not the modern out-door game, but that regal pursuit which is sometimes known as the game of kings and otherwise as the king of games. When George came up as an undergraduate there were two tennis courts in Cambridge, one in the East Road, the other being the ancient one that gave its name to Tennis Court Road, and was pulled down to make room for the new buildings of Pembroke. In this way was destroyed the last of the College tennis courts of which we read in Mr. Clark's History. I think George must have had pleasure in the obvious development of the tennis court from some primaeval farm-yard in which the pent-house was the roof of a shed, and the grille a real window or half-door. To one brought up on evolution there is also a satisfaction about the French terminology which survives in e.g. the Tambour and the Dedans. George put much thought into acquiring a correct style of play; for in tennis there is a religion of attitude corresponding to that which painfully regulates the life of the golfer. He became a good tennis player as an undergraduate, and was in the running for a place in the inter-University match. The marker at the Pembroke court was Henry Harradine, whom we all sincerely liked and respected, but he was not a good teacher, and it was only when George came under Henry's sons, John and Jim Harradine, at the Trinity and Clare court, that his game began to improve. He continued to play tennis for some years, and only gave it up after a blow from a tennis ball in January 1895 had almost destroyed the sight of his left eye.

In 1910 he took up archery, and zealously set himself to acquire the correct mode of standing, the position of the head and hands, etc. He kept an archery diary in which each day's shooting is carefully analysed and the results given in percentages. In 1911 he shot on 131 days: the last occasion on which he took out his bow was September 13, 1912.

I am indebted to Mr. H. Sherlock, who often shot with him at Cambridge, for his impressions. He writes: "I shot a good deal with your brother the year before his death; he was very keen on the sport, methodical and painstaking, and paid great attention to style, and as he had a good natural 'loose,' which is very difficult to acquire, there is little doubt (notwithstanding that he came to archery rather late in life) that had he lived he would have been above the average of the men who shoot fairly regularly at the public meetings." After my brother's death Mr. Sherlock was good enough to look at George's archery note-book. "I then saw," he writes, "that he had analysed them in a way which, so far as I am aware, had never been done before." Mr. Sherlock has given examples of the method in a sympathetic obituary published (p. 273)in The Archer's Register. {177} George's point was that the traditional method of scoring is not fair in regard to the areas of the coloured rings of the target. Mr. Sherlock records in his Notice that George joined the Royal Toxophilite Society in 1912, and occasionally shot in the Regent's Park. In 1912 he won the Norton Cup and Medal (144 arrows at 120 yards.)

There was a billiard table at Down, and George learned to play fairly well, though he had no pretension to real proficiency. He used to play at the Athenaeum, and in 1911 we find him playing there in the Billiard Handicap, but a week later he records in his diary that he was "knocked out."

Scientific Committees.

George served for many years on the Solar Physics Committee and on the Meteorological Council. With regard to the latter, Sir Napier Shaw has at my request given me his impressions: {178}

It was in February 1885, upon the retirement of Warren De la Rue, that your brother George, by appointment of the Royal Society, joined the governing body of the Meteorological Office, at that time the Meteorological Council. He remained a member until the end of the Council in 1905, and thereafter, until his death, he was one of the two nominees of the Royal Society upon the Meteorological Committee, the new body which was appointed by the Treasury to take over the control of the administration of the Office. . . .

The Commissioners, collectively known as the Meteorological Council, were a remarkably distinguished body of Fellows of the Royal Society, and when Darwin took the place of De la Rue, the members were men subsequently famous, as Sir Richard Strachey, Sir William Wharton, Sir George Stokes, Sir Francis Galton, Sir George Darwin, with E. J. Stone, a former Astronomer Royal for the Cape. . . .

I do not think that Darwin addressed himself spontaneously to meteorological problems, but he was always ready to help. He was very regular in his attendance at Council, and the minutes show that after Stokes retired, all questions involving physical measurement or mathematical reasoning were referred to him. There is a short and very characteristic report from him on the work of the harmonic analyser, and a considerable number upon researches by Mr. Dines or Sir G. Stokes on anemometers. It is hardly possible to exaggerate his aptitude for work of that kind. He could take a real interest in things that were not his own. He was full of sympathy and appreciation for efforts of all kinds, especially those of young men, and at the same time, using his wide experience, he was perfectly frank and fearless not only in his judgment but also in the expression of it. He gave one the impression of just protecting himself from boredom by habitual loyalty and a finely tempered sense of duty. My earliest recollection of him on the Council is the thrilling production of a new version of the Annual Report of the Council which he had written because the original had become more completely 'scissors and paste' than he could endure.

After the Office came into my charge in 1900, so long as he lived I never thought of taking any serious step without first consulting him, and he was always willing to help by his advice, by his personal influence and by his special knowledge. For the first six years of the time I held a college fellowship, with the peculiar condition of four public lectures in the University each year and no emolument. One year, when I was rather overdone, Darwin took the course for me, and devoted the lectures to Dynamical Meteorology. I believe he got it up for the occasion, for he professed the utmost diffidence about it, but the progress which we have made in recent years in that subject dates from those lectures and the correspondence which arose upon them.

In Council it was the established practice to proceed by agreement and not by voting; he had a wonderful way of bringing a discussion to a head by courageously 'voicing' the conclusion to which it led, and frankly expressing the general opinion without hurting anybody's feelings. . . .

It is not easy to give expression to the powerful influence which he exercised upon all departments of official meteorology without making formal contributions to meteorological literature. He gave me a note on a curious point in the evaluation of the velocity equivalents of the Beaufort Scale, which is published in the Office Memoirs No. 180, and that is all I have to show in print, but he was in and behind everything that was done, and personally, I need hardly add, I owe to him much more than this or any other letter can fully express.

On May 6, 1904, the year of the South African meeting, he was elected President of the British Association.

On July 29, 1905, he embarked with his wife and his son Charles, and arrived on August 15 at the Cape, where he gave the first part of his Presidential Address. Here he had the pleasure of finding as Governor, Sir Walter Hely-Hutchinson, whom he had known as a Trinity undergraduate. He was the guest of the late Sir David Gill, who remained a close friend for the rest of his life. George's diary gives his itinerary--which shows the trying amount of travel that he went through. A sample may be quoted:

August 19 Embark, ,, 22 Arrive at Durban, ,, 23 Mount Edgecombe, ,, 24 Pietermaritzburg, ,, 26 Colenso, ,, 27 Ladysmith, ,, 28 Johannesburg.

At Johannesburg he gave the second half of his Address. Then on by Bloemfontein, Kimberley, Bulawayo, to the Victoria Falls, where a bridge had to be opened. Then to Portuguese Africa on September 16, 17, where he made speeches in French and English. Finally he arrived at Suez on October 4, and got home October 18.

It was generally agreed that his Presidentship was a conspicuous success. The following appreciation is from the obituary notice in The Observatory, January 1913, p. 58:

The Association visited a dozen towns, and at each halt its President addressed an audience partly new, and partly composed of people who had been travelling with him for many weeks. At each place this latter section heard with admiration a treatment of his subject wholly fresh and exactly adapted to the locality.

Such duties are always trying, and it should not be forgotten that tact was necessary in a country which only two years before was still in the throes of war.

In the autumn he received the honour of being made a K.C.B. The distinction was doubly valued as being announced to him by his friend Mr. Balfour, then Prime Minister.

From 1899 to 1900 he was President of the Royal Astronomical Society. One of his last Presidential acts was the presentation of the Society's Medal to his friend M. Poincare.

He had the unusual distinction of serving twice as President of the Cambridge Philosophical Society, once in 1890-92 and again 1911-12.

In 1891 he gave the Bakerian Lecture {182a} of the Royal Society, his subject being "Tidal Prediction." This annual praelection dates from 1775, and the list of lecturers is a distinguished roll of names.

In 1897 he lectured at the Lowell Institute at Boston, and this was the origin of his book on Tides, published in the following year. Of this Sir Joseph Larmor says {182b} that "it has taken rank with the semi-popular writings of Helmholtz and Kelvin as a model of what is possible in the exposition of a scientific subject." It has passed through three English editions, and has been translated into many foreign languages.

International Associations.

During the last ten or fifteen years of his life George was much occupied with various International bodies, e.g. the International Geodetic Association, the International Association of Academies, the International Congress of Mathematicians, and the Seismological Congress.

With regard to the last named it was in consequence of George's report to the Royal Society that the British Government joined the Congress. It was however with the Geodetic Association that he was principally connected.

Sir Joseph Larmor (Nature, December 12, 1912) gives the following account of the origin of the Association:

The earliest of topographic surveys, the model which other national surveys adopted and improved upon, was the Ordnance Survey of the United Kingdom. But the great trigonometrical survey of India, started nearly a century ago, and steadily carried on since that time by officers of the Royal Engineers, is still the most important contribution to the science of the figure of the earth, though the vast geodetic operations in the United States are now following it closely. The gravitational and other complexities incident on surveying among the great mountain masses of the Himalayas early demanded the highest mathematical assistance. The problems originally attacked in India by Archdeacon Pratt were afterwards virtually taken over by the Royal Society, and its secretary, Sir George Stokes, of Cambridge, became from 1864 onwards the adviser and referee of the survey as regards its scientific enterprises. On the retirement of Sir George Stokes this position fell very largely to Sir George Darwin, whose relations with the India Office on this and other affairs remained close, and very highly appreciated, throughout the rest of his life.

The results of the Indian survey have been of the highest importance for the general science of geodesy. . . . It came to be felt that closer co-operation between different countries was essential to practical progress and to coordination of the work of overlapping surveys.

For the further history of George's connection with the Association, I am indebted to the Secretary, Dr. van d. Sande Bakhuyzen.

On the proposal of the Royal Society the British Government, after having consulted the Director of the Ordnance Survey, in 1898, resolved upon the adhesion of Great Britain to the International Geodetic Association, and appointed as its delegate, G. H. Darwin. By his former researches and by his high scientific character, he, more than any other, was entitled to this position, which would afford him an excellent opportunity of furthering, by his recommendations, the study of theoretical geodesy. . .

We cannot relate in detail his valuable co-operation as a member of the Council in the various transactions of the Association, for instance, on the junction of the Russian and Indian triangulations through Pamir, but we must gratefully remember his great service to the Association when, at his invitation, the delegates met in 1909 for the 16th General Conference in London and Cambridge.

With the utmost care he prepared everything to render the Conference as interesting and agreeable as possible, and he fully succeeded. Through his courtesy the foreign delegates had the opportunity of making the personal acquaintance of several members of the Geodetic staff of England and its colonies, and of other scientific men, who were invited to take part in the Conference; and when after four meetings in London the delegates went to Cambridge to continue their work, they enjoyed the most cordial hospitality from Sir George and Lady Darwin, who, with her husband, procured them in Newnham Grange happy leisure hours between their scientific labours.

At this conference Darwin delivered various reports, and at the discussion on Hecker's determination of the variation of the vertical by the attraction of the moon and sun, he gave an interesting account of the researches on the same subject made by him and his brother Horace more than 20 years ago, which unfortunately failed from the bad conditions of the places of observation.

In 1912 Sir George, though already over-fatigued by the preparations for the Mathematical Congress in Cambridge, and the exertions entailed by it, nevertheless prepared the different reports on the geodetic work in the British Empire, but, alas, his illness prevented him from assisting at the conference at Hamburg, where they were presented by other British delegates. The conference thanked him, and sent him its best wishes, but at the end of the year the Association had to deplore the loss of the man who in theoretical geodesy as well as in other branches of mathematics and astronomy stood in the first rank, and who for his noble character was respected and beloved by all his colleagues in the International Geodetic Association.

Sir Joseph Larmor writes: {186}

Sir George Darwin's last public appearance was as president of the fifth International Congress of Mathematicians, which met at Cambridge on August 22-28, 1912. The time for England to receive the congress having obviously arrived, a movement was initiated at Cambridge, with the concurrence of Oxford mathematicians, to send an invitation to the fourth congress held at Rome in 1908. The proposal was cordially accepted, and Sir George Darwin, as doyen of the mathematical school at Cambridge, became chairman of the organising committee, and was subsequently elected by the congress to be their president. Though obviously unwell during part of the meeting, he managed to discharge the delicate duties of the chair with conspicuous success, and guided with great verve the deliberations of the final assembly of what turned out to be a most successful meeting of that important body.

Personal Characteristics.

His daughter, Madame Raverat, writes:

I think most people might not realise that the sense of adventure and romance was the most important thing in my father's life, except his love of work. He thought about all life romantically, and his own life in particular; one could feel it in the quality of everything he said about himself. Everything in the world was interesting and wonderful to him, and he had the power of making other people feel it.

He had a passion for going everywhere and seeing everything; learning every language, knowing the technicalities of every trade; and all this emphatically not from the scientific or collector's point of view, but from a deep sense of the romance and interest of everything. It was splendid to travel with him; he always learned as much as possible of the language, and talked to everyone; we had to see simply everything there was to be seen, and it was all interesting, like an adventure. For instance, at Vienna I remember being taken to a most improper music hall, and at Schonbrunn hearing from an old forester the whole secret history of the old Emperor's son. My father would tell us the stories of the places we went to with an incomparable conviction and sense of the reality and dramaticness of the events. It is absurd, of course, but in that respect he always seemed to me a little like Sir Walter Scott. {187}

The books he used to read to us when we were quite small, and which we adored, were Percy's Reliques and the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. He used often to read Shakespeare to himself, I think generally the historical plays; also Chaucer, Don Quixote in Spanish, and all kind of books like Joinville's Life of St. Louis in the old French.

I remember the story of the death of Gordon told so that we all cried, I think; and Gladstone could hardly be mentioned in consequence. All kinds of wars and battles interested him, and I think he liked archery more because it was romantic than because it was a game.

During his last illness his interest in the Balkan war never failed. Three weeks before his death he was so ill that the doctor thought him dying. Suddenly he rallied from the half-unconscious state in which he had been lying for many hours, and the first words he spoke on opening his eyes were, "Have they got to Constantinople yet?" This was very characteristic. I often wish he was alive now, because his understanding and appreciation of the glory and tragedy of this war would be like no one else's.

His daughter Margaret writes:

He was absolutely unselfconscious, and it never seemed to occur to him to wonder what impression he was making on others. I think it was this simplicity which made him so good with children. He seemed to understand their point of view, and to enjoy with them in a way that is not common with grown-up people. I shall never forget how when our dog had to be killed he seemed to feel the horror of it just as I did, and how this sense of his really sharing my grief made him able to comfort me as nobody else could.

He took a transparent pleasure in the honours that came to him, especially in his membership of foreign Academies, in which he and Sir David Gill had a friendly rivalry or "race," as they called it. I think this simplicity was one of his chief characteristics, though most important of all was the great warmth and width of his affections. He would take endless trouble about his friends, especially in going to see them if they were lonely or ill; and he was absolutely faithful and generous in his love.

After his mother came to live in Cambridge I believe he hardly ever missed a day in going to see her, even though he might only be able to stay a few minutes. She lived at some distance off, and he was often both busy and tired. This constancy was very characteristic. It was shown once more in his many visits to Jim Harradine, the marker at the tennis court, on what proved to be his death-bed.

His energy and his kindness of heart were shown in many cases of distress. For instance, a guard on the Great Northern Railway was robbed of his savings by an absconding solicitor, and George succeeded in collecting some 300 pounds for him. In later years, when his friend the guard became bedridden, George often went to see him. Another man whom he befriended was a one-legged man at Balsham, whom he happened to notice in bicycling past. He took the trouble to see the village authorities, and succeeded in sending the man to London to be fitted with an artificial leg.

In these and similar cases there was always the touch of personal sympathy. For instance, he pensioned the widow of his gardener, and he often made the payment of her weekly allowance the excuse for a visit.

In another sort of charity he was equally kindhearted, viz., in answering the people who wrote foolish letters to him on scientific subjects--and here as in many points he resembled his father.

His sister, Mrs. Litchfield, has truly said {190} of George, that he inherited his father's power of work and much of his "cordiality and warmth of nature, with a characteristic power of helping others." He resembled his father in another quality, that of modesty. His friend and pupil, Professor E. W. Brown, writes:

He was always modest about the importance of his researches. He would often wonder whether the results were worth the labour they had cost him, and whether he would have been better employed in some other way.

His nephew Bernard, speaking of George's way of taking pains to be friendly and forthcoming to anyone with whom he came in contact, says:

He was ready to take other people's pleasantness and politeness at its apparent value and not to discount it. If they seemed glad to see him, he believed that they were glad. If he liked somebody, he believed that the somebody liked him, and did not worry himself by wondering whether they really did like him.

Of his energy we have evidence in the amount of material contained in his collected works. There was nothing dilatory about him, and here he again resembled his father, who had markedly the power of doing things at the right moment, and thus avoiding waste of time and discomfort to others. George had none of a characteristic which was defined in the case of Henry Bradshaw, as "always doing something else." After an interruption he could instantly reabsorb himself in his work, so that his study was not kept as a place sacred to peace and quiet.

His wife is my authority for saying that although he got so much done, it was not by working long hours. Moreover, the days that he was away from home made large gaps in his opportunities for steady application. His diaries show in another way that his researches by no means took all his time. He made a note of the books he read, and these make a considerable record. Although he read much good literature with honest enjoyment, he had not a delicate or subtle literary judgment. Nor did he care for music. He was interested in travels, history, and biography, and as he could remember what he read or heard, his knowledge was wide in many directions. His linguistic power was characteristic. He read many European languages. I remember his translating a long Swedish paper for my father. And he took pleasure in the Platt Deutsch stories of Fritz Reuter.

The discomfort from which he suffered during the meeting at Cambridge of the International Congress of Mathematicians in August 1912 was, in fact, the beginning of his last illness. An exploratory operation showed that he was suffering from malignant disease. Happily he was spared the pain that gives its terror to this malady. His nature was, as we have seen, simple and direct, with a pleasant residue of the innocence and eagerness of childhood. In the manner of his death these qualities were ennobled by an admirable and most unselfish courage. As his vitality ebbed away his affection only showed the stronger. He wished to live, and he felt that his power of work and his enjoyment of life were as strong as ever, but his resignation to the sudden end was complete and beautiful. He died on December 7, 1912, and was buried at Trumpington.

HONOURS, MEDALS, DEGREES, SOCIETIES, ETC.

Order. K.C.B. 1905.

Medals. {192a}

1883. Telford Medal of the Institution of Civil Engineers.

1884. Royal Medal. {192b}

1892. Royal Astronomical Society's Medal.

1911. Copley Medal of the Royal Society.

1912. Royal Geographical Society's Medal.

Offices.

Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, and Plumian Professor in the University.

Vice-President of the International Geodetic Association, Lowell Lecturer at Boston U.S. (1897).

Member of the Meteorological and Solar Physics Committees.

Past President of the Cambridge Philosophical Society, {193} Royal Astronomical Society, British Association.

Doctorates, etc., of Universities.

Oxford, Dublin, Glasgow, Pennsylvania, Padua (Socio onorario), Gottingen, Christiania, Cape of Good Hope, Moscow (honorary member).

Foreign or Honorary Membership of Academies, etc.

Amsterdam (Netherlands Academy), Boston (American Academy), Brussels (Royal Society), Calcutta (Math. Soc.), Dublin (Royal Irish Academy), Edinburgh (Royal Society), Halle (K. Leop.-Carol. Acad.), Kharkov (Math. Soc.), Mexico (Soc. "Antonio Alzate"), Moscow (Imperial Society of the Friends of Science), New York, Padua, Philadelphia (Philosophical Society), Rome (Lincei), Stockholm (Swedish Academy), Toronto (Physical Society), Washington (National Academy), Wellington (New Zealand Inst.).

Correspondent of Academies, etc., at

Acireale (Zelanti), Berlin (Prussian Academy), Buda Pest (Hungarian Academy), Frankfort (Senckenberg. Natur. Gesell.), Gottingen (Royal Society), Paris, St. Petersburg, Turin, Istuto Veneto, Vienna. {194}

XI WAR MUSIC

AN ADDRESS TO A SOCIETY OF MORRIS DANCERS DECEMBER 21, 1914

According to the Dictionary of Music {195} the military march is meant "not only to stimulate courage but also to ensure the orderly advance of troops." In other words, military music serves to incite and to regulate movement. But these cannot always be discriminated. The tramp tramp of marching soldiers is ordered by the rhythm of the band. This is obvious, but we cannot say how far the bravery of the tune puts strength into tired legs, and this would be incitement,--and how far it is the unappeasable rhythm that forces the men to keep going, and this may perhaps be called regulation. There are occasions when the trumpet comes as a signal to troops waiting to make some sublime effort, and where the fierce imperious sound has a lift and a sting which perhaps no pre-concerted signal of a weaker type could give. This is an example of incitement, but in as much as it determines the moment of attack it is also a regulating agent.

Marching is still of importance,--in spite of the part taken by railways in modern strategy. I should like to know whether the magnificent marches of the Russians are made to the accompaniment of a band or of the regimental choir. One sees in our volunteer army the tendency to sing on the march. But it must be allowed that neither words or tunes are particularly inspiring. The Englishman is habitually afraid of being solemn, and though his marching songs may contain good things they are apt to be treated in a light spirit. There is one which includes the words, "Rule, Rule, Britannia!" and "God Save the Queen!" but these famous phrases serve as chorus to lighthearted fragments, e.g. nursery rhymes, such as "Little Miss Muffett." I regret to add that even this classic is not respectfully used. It should run, "There came a great spider and sat down beside her and frightened Miss Muffett away." I forget the precise words of the parody, except its ending, "And Little Miss Muffett said, 'Bother the creature!'" I still remember the fine effect of German soldiers heard many years ago singing the "Wacht am Rhein" on the march. Once, too, I listened to Zouaves, and no greater contrast can be imagined. It was hardly more than a murmur, a chatter of diverse scraps, and had no inspiring effect. These magnificent troops may need no artificial stimulus, but ordinary folk are certainly kept going by martial music. I remember, as a boy, marching to the tune of the "British Grenadiers," which has foolish words, and is not striking from a musical point of view, but it seemed to take us along. This march-tune comes in finely in Rudyard Kipling's story of the Drums of the Fore and Aft. An untried British regiment is cut up by Afghans and retires in a helter-skelter rush, leaving behind two boys of the Band, who strike up the "British Grenadiers" with the solitary squeak of a fife and the despairing roll of a drum. The answer comes in a great cheer from the Highlanders and Gurkas waiting on the heights, and in a charge that turns defeat into victory. I wish that Kipling had allowed the boys to survive, but the tragedy of their death is after all the effective close. To return to marching-tunes. For average people all that is needed is a well marked rhythm: "John Brown's body," etc., is an admirable march, though taken from its context of tramping soldiers it is hardly a fine tune. But so far as words are concerned it must be allowed that the refrain, "His soul goes marching along," is in the right mood for a war song.

It may be objected that if all I want is rhythm I should be satisfied with instruments of percussion alone. To this I reply that the effect of drums is splendidly martial. I was at Aix at the outbreak of the war, and every day the regiment quartered there used to march out to the music of drums, and of bugles which played simple tunes on the common chord. When the buglers were out of breath, the drums thundered on with magnificent fire, until once more the simple and spirited fanfare came in with its brave out-of-doors flavour--a romantic dash of the hunting song, and yet with something of the seriousness of battle. And indeed this is the sort of melody that suits the dauntless spirit of our allies. As I watched these men, so soon to fight for their country, I was reminded of that white-faced boy pictured by Stevenson, striding over his dead comrades, the roll of his drum leading the living to victory or death. Drums are said (incorrectly I believe) to be made of donkey's skin, and Stevenson imagines how, after death, the poor beast takes this magical revenge for the blows received in life, by leading cruel man to destruction. The old English military music seems to have been played by drums alone. King Charles I issued a warrant in the following words: {198a} "Whereas . . . the March of this our nation so famous in all honourable achievements and glorious warres of this our Kingdom in forraigne parts was through the negligence and carelessness of drummers . . . so altered and changed from the ancient gravity and majestic thereof as it was in danger utterly to have been lost and forgotten. . . ." He therefore wills and commands drummers to play only what is recorded in the curious old notation of that day. It must be remembered that drums and trumpets had something of the sacredness of Royalty in the 17th century. No one was allowed to play them in public without a license from the Sergeant Trumpeter, {198b} an officer who certainly existed a few years ago, and may, for all I know, still survive. In the 17th century it was a post of some dignity, and gave its holder the title of Esquire.

During the great retreat in the winter of 1914 the effect of music was magnificently illustrated. Mr. Conan Doyle {199} writes, "Exhausted as the troops were, there could he no halt or rest until they had extricated themselves from the immediate danger. At the last point of human endurance they still staggered on through the evening and the night time, amid roaring thunder and flashing lightning, down the St. Quentin road. Many fell from fatigue, and having fallen continued to sleep. . . . In the case of some of the men the collapse was so complete that it was almost impossible to get them on. Major Tom Bridges, of the 4th Royal Irish Dragoons being sent to round up and hurry forward 250 stragglers at St. Quentin, found them nearly comatose with fatigue. With quick wit he bought a toy drum, and accompanied by a man with a penny whistle he fell them in and marched them, laughing in all their misery, down the high road towards Ham." When he stopped he found that the men stopped also, so he was compelled to march and play the whole way to Roupy.

In Sir Henry Newbolt's Song of the Great Retreat (The Times, Dec. 16, 1914), this triumphant success is described:

"Cheerly goes the dark road, cheerly goes the night, Cheerly goes the blood to keep the beat: Half a thousand dead men marching on to fight, With a little penny drum to lift their feet."

This song ought to be especially interesting to our Society, because the effect of a small drum and a penny whistle is roughly the same as that of the pipe and tabor, and these are the traditional instruments for English Folk Dances. It is perhaps worth noting that they must in old days have been used in war, for there is an illustration in an ancient manuscript of a taborer piping at the head of a body of troops marching out from a town.

Man is a social animal, and his natural strength lies in community of action with his fellows. It is this which gives music its power over masses of men, the pulsation of the drum, the blare of the answering trumpets, or the strident voice of the bagpipe cry to them in tones which cannot be misunderstood, binding them into a brotherhood of courage and obedience. But a society of Morris Dancers does not need to be reminded of the noble effect of human movement controlled by music. The word 'caper' has somewhat ridiculous associations, but we have learned to respect it for what it implies: the finely ordered strenuous movement of strong bodies leaping in rhythmic dance. It suggests something pagan and prehistoric, a physical religion of astonishing beauty. Some of our Morris men are now giving all the vigour of their young bodies to a great and just cause. Let us wish them a victorious home-coming.

XII THE TEACHING OF SCIENCE {201}

It is not difficult to sympathise with what Dr. Birkbeck aimed at in founding the College which bears his name. His idea seems to have been, that whatever a man's calling may be, he is the better for accurate knowledge of the things with which he deals. This is a sufficiently obvious statement. But if for the word 'accurate' we substitute 'scientific,' it is no longer a platitude--at least it is not so in the ears of the semi-educated. For we can still find people who believe in the "practical man" as opposed to one whom they probably call a scientist. One would like to know more of the conception of science formed by the unscientific. They are probably unaware that science is eminently practical in asserting that only to be true which rests on wide and accurate generalisation. It is also practical wisdom to hold, as science does, that truth is temporary and relative, and is in fact merely the best conclusion that can be drawn in the present state of knowledge. To many people science is wearisome and somewhat ridiculous, and these qualities appear in the naturalist of fiction. Thus when even George Eliot draws a coleopterist, he is made a feeble old man shuffling to and fro among his ridiculous beetles. And on the French stage I have seen a botanist treated in the same spirit.

Positiveness and bumptiousness are also supposed to be our attributes. In the 'New Republic' the characters said to represent Huxley and Clifford are completely disguised by their pompous pretentiousness.

It is not difficult to describe the ideals of science, but it is only too easy to fall short of them. It is easy for instance to become a sectarian, to belong to a school, and to be literally incapable of fairness towards the opposition. This was plainly seen at the incoming of evolution, and it was one of the many glories of Sir Charles Lyell that he could accept the 'Origin of Species,' and that, in the words of Hooker, he could under-pin his work with an evolutionary foundation and find his edifice stronger than ever. But we need not consider the battles of giants; we are much more likely to be concerned with the mentally dwarfed or deformed--with the dangerous man who makes positive statements on insufficient data, or suffers from that other vice of not being able to confess ignorance. The only lectures which impressed me, as an undergraduate at Cambridge, were those of the late Sir George Humphry; and his most striking words were confessions of complete ignorance about many parts of physiology. Here is an instance of an opposite state of things, of a want of courage. An eminent chemist was asked why common salt thrown on the fire gives a blue flame. Now the chemist was a German, and having been brought up in that land of stoves, probably had not performed an experiment so easily made in the home of open fires. So he rashly answered, "It does not burn blue, it is impossible, sodium-salts give a yellow flame." On this my friend fetched the salt and threw a handful on to the glowing coals--with the result that the eminent chemist rose up and fled in silence from the room. He gave an admirable example of how not to behave. He ought not in the first place to have denied the fact a priori, and when he was convicted he should have been glad to learn.

It has been said that in scientific work accuracy is the most valuable quality and the hardest to attain. Accuracy alone may strike us as a dull quality to be so highly rated. When a given result has been obtained in eleven successive experiments, and fails on the twelfth occasion, it is the accurate-minded man who makes a wise use of the failure. It ought to arouse in us a flame of curiosity, lighting in us a whole posse of theories, which force us to vary our procedure and finally enable us to solve the difficulty.

Most of us are inclined to treat an unexpected result in a cavalier spirit, pushing it aside as "only an exception," whereas it should be received as possibly a personage of distinction in disguise, and not as a rude disturber of our pet ideas.

A class of experimentalists exists from whom we all suffer--namely, cooks. How happy we should be if they possessed this lively desire to understand their own lapses from good cookery! It may be urged in excuse, that although the essence of cooking is the application of heat to food, not one cook in a thousand has a thermometer in her oven. I hope that some of the ladies who have in these laboratories learned to believe in accuracy, will become missionaries among the ignorant and insist on this simple reform.

There is a type of accuracy of a very different kind which may become an actual vice. For instance, the desire to weigh things to 1-10 mg. which should only have been weighed to a centigram, measuring to 1-10 mm., and calculating averages to several places of decimals. In such a science as Botany this may be positive waste of time. Sachs, the great German botanist, in whose laboratory I worked, was never tired of complaining of this "sogenannte Genauigkeit," (this so-called accuracy). I am told that Lord Rayleigh, whose physical inquiries demand in some cases excessive and minute accuracy, has a wonderful instinct for knowing when and where he may relax his methods.

I have been compelled to use the words 'science' and 'scientific' because these terms have become firmly adherent to a group of subjects such as Physics, Chemistry, Geology, Botany, etc., and cannot now be detached from them. Unfortunately 'scientific' is used in another sense as implying accuracy of experimental method and in deduction from results. So that in calling ourselves scientific men we run the risk of seeming to claim a monopoly of method, as though we pretended to be somehow superior to the trained workers in other branches. The current use of the word seems therefore to cast unjust suspicion on literature. I wish that the word science could be restored to its original meaning of knowledge, or the art of knowing; but words (like organisms) are evolved, and against evolution the gods fight in vain. In any case I hope it will be believed that in speaking of knowledge I have taken instances from what is usually called science, not out of disrespect to literature, but like Dr. Johnson in a different affair--from ignorance.

I imagine Dr. Birkbeck to have had no idea that this institution would be so extensively used for preparing people for examinations. I doubt whether he would have liked it, but respect to the pious memory of a founder may be exaggerated, and since there is no getting rid of examinations, the next best thing is to make the art of coaching as little harmful as may be to pupil and teacher. I do not mean to speak slightingly of coaching as a whole, for a great deal of it is only a very skilful way of imparting knowledge, but it will be allowed that some of it is not educative in a broad sense.

You will remember that Mr. Brooke, in Middlemarch, was in the habit of mildly investigating questions which he always threw over because he foresaw they would "carry him too far." I confess to feeling very like Mr. Brooke when I attempt to balance the interests of teacher and student. In that comfortable period, the 18th century, things were all in favour of the teacher. The poet Gray, who was Professor of History at Cambridge, could never decide whether to lecture in Latin or English, and ended by never lecturing at all.

It is now easier to find cases where the teacher is the victim and slave of his pupils, and has no time or strength to continue his own education.

This has at least two bad results, and probably more than that number: (1) From want of time for reading the teacher can hardly avoid falling behind in a rapidly progressive subject such as one of the natural sciences, and consequently the University or College that enslaves him is injuring its own property. (2) He has no time to do any original work, and this is even worse for him (and therefore, as before, for the College). He ceases to be on intimate terms with the plants or animals or chemical substances with which he has to deal, and his teaching must necessarily lose that vigour and freshness that comes from first-hand personal knowledge. It is downright cruelty to deny time for research to those who vehemently desire to add something to the fabric of human knowledge.

The hampered teacher reminds me of a certain migratory bird living with clipped wings in a Zoological Garden: when the migrating season came round the unfortunate prisoner started to walk, and was to be seen pressing its breast against the bars at the north end of its pen. I hope that nowadays all Colleges realise that they must not prison their birds, but give them the means of satisfying their natural instinct for fresh and self-gained knowledge. The students are in one way better off than their masters, since laboratory work is generally new to them and has therefore some of the charm of discovery.

In what I have said to-night I have confined myself to Natural Science, in which alone I have had experience of teaching or examining. On the literary side of things I am, I fear, a Philistine, or enfant terrible. I belong to that class of persons (which has at least the merit of being very large) who have hardly opened a Greek or Latin book since the day they passed their Little-go.

I grudge the time that is given at school to making small boys groan over books not well suited to them, while French and German are, or were in my day, all but untaught. If I had had good oral teaching in modern languages (such, for instance, as that given at the Perse School in Cambridge) I could forgive my teachers. We should without tears have learned to talk fluently and write correctly in at least one modern language, and for the sake of this I could perhaps have borne the weariness of Greek and Latin grammar. If it were not for the tyranny of examinations, classical teaching might be put to its proper use, which is not to serve as an instrument of torture, but to enable us to read ancient authors.

I would teach Latin and Greek only to older boys, and by the method in which we all learn a modern language--that is when we have the advantage of being at once teacher and learner. I mean by reading quickly, with a translation if necessary; at first without understanding half of what we read, but gradually picking up words as we go along. This is how I learned to read easy Italian. By the advice of the late Henry Sidgwick I began on a bad Italian translation of a French novel, because such a version, being full of French idioms more or less literally translated, is easier than idiomatic Italian. The right book to begin on is a good murder story, such as one of Gaboriau's, which are fortunately to be had in bad Italian. What would an old fashioned teacher of Greek and Latin have said to this! In my own case I feel that the difficulty of reading the classics was good discipline, and so far educational. In Henry Sidgwick's method one is carried along by the detective business, and learns Italian words as a child picks up its own language, by context and re-iteration. It will be said that this method is not applicable to Latin and Greek, and that even if it were so, it would not be educative. I confess I do not expect my words to sink into the hearts of the teachers of what are unkindly called the dead languages. The great Moloch of examination has constantly to be supplied with human children, to say nothing of grown-up people. Some escape, but how many are reduced to ashes?

I have said nothing about what should have been my theme, namely, the beginning of the College year. To my thinking beginnings have something of the melancholy that seems more appropriate to endings. Sad associations tend to adhere to all that has the quality of periodicity. I for one feel this when spring once more puts on the familiar look with which our childhood and youth seemed to mingle on equal terms, but which upbraids us now we are no longer young.

And in a more work-a-day spirit Monday morning is sad. I think this is so because the conception Next Week is full of the ghosts of dead resolutions. No doubt it was on Monday mornings that Mr. Shandy renewed his vow to have the hinge of the parlour door mended, which I think remained unrepaired to the end of the book.

But after all, this gloomy point of view belongs to the onlooker, not to the actors in the rhythm of things. Each particular Monday is a new-born entity, and doubtless feels a pleasurable excitement in its brief life. And to the actual snowdrops and winter aconites that pierce the cold ground, spring is a new and glorious experience. In this academic springtime (which chances to occur in autumn) the onlooker need have no morbid feelings, only perhaps a touch of envy of those whose College life begins to-day.

XIII PICTURESQUE EXPERIMENTS

To those who have never made experiments on plants it may seem that 'picturesque' is an odd term to apply to laboratory methods. But to an experimentalist the adjective does not seem overstrained. There is not merely the pleasure of seeing a prediction verified--that may be experienced in more everyday matters. There is a peculiar delight in the discovery of a method of revealing some detail in the natural history of living things. I remember vividly the pleasure which I felt when I first tried the experiment on Sorghum, described in the essay on the Movements of Plants in this volume. {210} I hoped that the seedlings would curve in the elaborate manner shown in Fig. 4. But I had so little expectation of success that I did not explain the object of the trial to my laboratory assistant, and it came as a shock of delight when he told me that the seedlings had "curled up like corkscrews." I do not think that it is an exaggeration to say, that this result is a picturesque illustration of the distribution of gravitational sensitiveness in plants. The instances in the present essay are not concerned with the movements of plants, and are so far less interesting, but I think the reader will not refuse them the same adjective.

We all know that in plants--from the smallest weed to the giant trees of America--there flows a stream of water from the root to the topmost leaf. Nevertheless, it is an experience to have ocular proof of this life-giving current. A branch of laurel is so arranged that it has to suck up the water it needs through a coarse thermometer tube, dipping into a beaker. The laurel does not wither, and we know therefore that it is continuously supplied with water. If the beaker is removed we shall see the absorption, for the thermometer tube does not remain full of water; a minute column of air is seen at its lower end which rapidly increases in size, and finally when the tube is emptied of its water-content, bubbles of air escape one after another into the larger tube, which contains the cut end of the branch. This, the simplest possible experiment, is nevertheless a vivid ocular proof of the laurel's power of absorbing water. It can be shown that the sucking power of the branch depends on its leaves, for if these are removed the rate of the current is very greatly diminished. It can also be proved that it depends on some quality of the leaf surface, for if a new specimen is taken, and if the lower sides of its leaves are rubbed with vaseline, the rate of absorption will be seen to diminish very greatly. Greasing the upper surface of the leaves does not produce this result, and when we examine the two surfaces it is found that the lower one is riddled with innumerable microscopic holes (stomata), while the upper side of the leaf has no such apertures. The stomata in fact are the arbiters of what shall pass in or out of the body of the leaf; they are the gate-keepers who regulate both export and import. They are known by actual inspection (with a microscope) to close at night: the result of this is that the evaporation of the leaves is much slower at night, and this is true when allowance has been made for the fact that evaporation is also checked at night by the dampness of the air.

The microscopical inspection of stomata is not a completely satisfactory method of discovering to what degree they are open. It has, however, been my good fortune to resuscitate and simplify a method of studying the stomatal condition. The method was many years ago tried in a hopelessly cumbersome form by a German, but never came into use. My apparatus is described in the Proceedings of the Royal Society, {212} and is known as the Porometer. Its essential part is shown in Fig. 7. It consists of a funnel-shaped tube, having a broad flange, which is cemented on to the stomata-bearing surface of a leaf. The leaf is represented by the obliquely shaded object and is enormously magnified. To the upper orifice of the funnel is fixed a rubber tube, and by means of it steady suction can be supplied. The result is that a current of air is drawn through the stomata into the leaf, and then out of the leaf into the cavity of the porometer. The rate of this current is an index of the degree to which the stomata are open. With this apparatus a number of interesting points can be determined.

Fig. 8 shows the effect of alternate periods of light and darkness. The fall of the curve represents partial closure, and is seen to occur in the periods of darkness (black), and to rise when the plant is re-illumined. These changes are necessarily accompanied by rise and fall in the evaporation of the leaf, but into the question of the accuracy of this correlation I shall not enter.

There are other methods of demonstrating the movements of the stomata. Stahl had the happy inspiration of making use of the colour-changes of cobalt chloride. A piece of filter paper soaked in a 5 p.c. solution of this salt is blue when dried, and turns pink in damp air. A dry piece of this material, applied with proper precaution to the stomata-bearing surface of a leaf, rapidly changes to pink if the stomata are open. When, however, the same trial is made on the upper surface of a leaf, where stomata do not occur, no such change occurs. If two leaves are treated at the same time, one in the normal position and the other upside down, it is delightful to watch the appearance of a pink picture of that leaf whose stomatic surface is in contact with the paper, while no such change takes place over that which exposes no stomata to the tell-tale material. Another method was discovered by the accident of finding in an old house in Wales a Chinese figure of a man, cut out of a thin shaving of horn, which writhed and twisted when placed on the hand. It was clearly very sensitive to moisture, and it seemed possible that horn-shavings might be used to test the condition of the stomata. The first difficulty was to obtain a supply of this material. Having discovered from the P.O. Directory that there were two horn-pressers in London I proceeded to visit one of them somewhere in Hoxton. He turned out to be of a highly suspicious disposition, but his wife had more discernment, and persuaded him that I was a harmless customer, with no designs on trade secrets, and I finally obtained what I wanted. A delicate strip of horn was fixed to a little block of cork and placed on a leaf, and to my delight showed the stomata to be open by violently curving upwards. It was only necessary to fix a graduated arc to the cork, and to fasten a delicate hair on to the horn so as to serve as index. The instrument is not of course accurately quantitative, but it does at least show whether the stomata are nearly shut, moderately open, or widely so. Rough as it is I found it good enough for determining a number of interesting facts in the physiology of stomata. {215a}

I now pass on to a different subject, the all-important process on which the life of green plants depends, an act therefore by which our own existence and that of all other animals is conditioned. I mean the process known as assimilation. This is the truly miraculous feat of using as a source of food the carbonic acid gas (CO2) which exists in minute quantities in the atmosphere. The plant is in fact a carbon-catching machine, and the machine is driven by the energy of the sun, and can therefore only work in light. The eminent Russian botanist, Timiriazeff, in a lecture on this subject {215b} before the Royal Society, made a witty use of Gulliver's Travels--a book not commonly quoted as an authority in scientific matters. He pointed out that the philosophers of Lagado, who were extracting sun-beams from cucumbers, were not doing anything absurd. On the contrary, since the cucumbers had been built with the help of sunshine, it was a reasonable expectation that energy corresponding to the sunshine should be obtainable. This indeed is what we do when we drive a steam engine by burning coal which ages ago was built by vegetable machinery driven by sunlight.

It is possible to show the existence of this process by very simple experiments. The most direct, but the least interesting, experiment is to take two similar plants, and expose plant A to an atmosphere containing CO2 while B is in air freed from that gas. Both specimens are placed in bright light, and after a sufficient interval of time their leaves are tested for the presence of starch. This is a simple matter; the green colouring matter is washed out of them by means of alcohol, and they are then placed in a dilute solution of iodine, which has the property of staining starch purple. It is always pleasant to see the leaf that had been supplied with CO2 turn blue, while the starved leaf remains a hungry yellow.

Some of the prettiest methods of demonstrating this process depend, not on the manufacture of starch in the leaf, but on the fact that an assimilating plant sets free oxygen, by breaking up the molecule CO2, building the carbon (C) into its own tissues, and letting the oxygen (O) go free. A beautiful method was discovered on these lines by Engelmann, which I was never tired of seeing year after year in my Cambridge class. Defibrinated bullock's blood is freed from air by means of an air pump and charged with CO2. In the course of this process it acquires the dingy tint of venous blood. A single leaf of the American weed (Elodea) is mounted on a glass slide in a drop of this blood and covered by an ordinary cover slip. Then comes the dramatic moment: the preparation is exposed to sunshine, and in 3 or 4 minutes a delicate scarlet border begins to appear round the leaf and grows rapidly, making a curious sunset effect in contrast with dingy purple of the venous blood. The meaning is very clear; the Elodea leaf in sunshine took the carbon from the CO2, and the oxygen thus set free gave the venous blood the scarlet hue characteristic of the arterial condition. Professor Farmer has designed a striking method based on another well-known experiment of Engelmann's. A drop of water containing the products of decay, and therefore swarming with bacteria, supplies the test. A drop of this fluid is placed on a glass slip, one or two delicate leaves of a green water plant (Elodea) are added, and a square of thin glass is placed on it. Round the edges of the cover-slip the preparation must be sealed with a preparation of wax, which melts at a low temperature, and when cold serves to prevent the preparation drying; it also isolates it from the surrounding atmosphere. After making sure under the microscope that the bacteria are in active movement, the glass slip is placed in the dark for some 3 or 4 hours. It is then examined, and the bacteria will be found to have ceased to move because they and the leaves between them have consumed the oxygen dissolved in the water, and bacterial activity being dependent on oxygen naturally came to an end. The preparation is placed under the microscope and illumined with bright incandescent gas, and after a short time the bacteria begin to stir and are soon once more whirling in their insensate dance. The reason is obvious--the green leaves under the influence of light were able to seize the carbon from the CO2, and the O thus set free put the bacteria in motion. The bacterial dance is therefore evidence of the act of assimilation carried on by the Elodea leaf.

Yet another method is worth mention, viz., that of Boussingault. The plant is placed in an inverted glass vessel resting in a dish of water, and is filled with hydrogen mixed with a percentage of CO2. Inside the vessel a fragment of phosphorus is suspended, and as a small amount of oxygen is sure to be mixed with the hydrogen the phosphorus will be oxygenated and white fumes will fill the vessel. The observer must wait until these clouds have subsided, which may need a couple of hours. This must take place in the dark, and as soon as the atmosphere is clear, the whole preparation is placed in bright light, when obvious clouds will again appear--a proof that oxygen has been set free by the assimilation of the green plants. With this example I must bring my short series of experiments to a close, with the hope that my readers may not deny that they are picturesque.

XIV DOGS AND DOG LOVERS

"The more I see of men, the more I like dogs."--ARCHBISHOP WHATELY. {219}

Why is it that some people do not like dogs? There are those who dislike other people's dogs just as they dislike strange children. This is a point of view which is comprehensible though unattractive. Still, in comparison with those who do not like dogs at all this class seem positively amiable. I knew a lady with the most perfect understanding of the qualities of human beings, whether bad or good, yet she had no sympathy with dogs. She would be kind to them, as an external duty to all living things, but a dog had absolutely no place in her heart. What made this blindness seem all the more incomprehensible was the fact that she could love a bullfinch; she could not therefore plead that she loved humanity so much that she had no love left for beings of another sort. After all, it may be that not to care for dogs is no more a blemish than a lack of musical ear, which is not a sign of general dullness of artistic perception since it is found in some poets. We must accordingly allow that not to love dogs is not a sign of a black heart or a debased nature. A dog lover will grant this to be an unavoidable intellectual conclusion, but in the secret corners of his mind he will feel something more hostile than mere Christian pity for these emotionally deformed people. If he holds Erewhonian doctrines he would like to send for the family straightener, and bear with fortitude the punishment inflicted on his friends and relations.

I fear that we, the dog lovers, are, by those who do not share our tastes, held to be unbalanced persons, who intrude their passions on the reasonable and well bred. They object to us as victims of perverted instincts, who talk unknown dog-language in and out of season. It is not clear to me why we care so much for dogs. Is it, in truth, an exaggeration, or an offshoot of that love of the helpless young of our own kind which natural selection develops in social animals? This is not necessarily maternal, as we see in the story of the heroic male baboon, who risked his life in saving a young one from a pack of baying hounds. {220a} Or is it an instinct developed in a hunting tribe--a blind tendency to take good care of the food-providers (at the expense of starving aunts and grandmothers), such as we see among the Fuegians, who explained that, "Doggies catch otters--old women no." {220b}

However this may be, it is I think certain that the love of dogs is an unreasoning passion, having all the force of an instinct. In a story by Miss Wilkins we see how the love even of a cat may come to be regarded as a human right or need. The old woman who had lost her cat (he afterwards emerged half starved from the cellar), rebelled against the will of God. She allowed that the happiness of husband and children was possibly not to be expected by everyone, but "there was cats enough to go all round."

I think it impossible to account for the especial affection that we bear to certain dogs. Dogs are, as I have said, in a degree like our children; they come to us and they have to be tended, fed, and guarded, and in these services we learn to love them. And when our affection is reflected back to us from the thing we love, it gains an especially touching quality. In the case of dogs our affection is certainly not a response to any inherent charm obvious to all the world--and here again they resemble children. The dog I loved best was an inferior Irish terrier, who gave me much trouble and anxiety. He was constantly fighting; he barked fiercely at innocent visitors. He killed chickens, and for this I had to beat him cruelly, tie him up and leave him trembling with a dead victim round his neck, a punishment for which I still feel remorse, though it saved him from being shot as a criminal, and cured him of his murderous tendency for many years. Pat was not a clever dog, and when striving to learn certain simple tricks he used to fall into abysses of miserable stupidity, and give up all hope of winning the biscuit earned by his fellow-dog, a Scotch terrier, with all the intelligent certainty of his nation. Pat had one attractive physical quality; he was perfectly sweet and clean; indeed his adoring family compared his scent to that of new mown hay; he had also a smooth head, which was compared, by one enthusiastic admirer, to a putting-green. He had the attractive and not very common quality of grinning--tucking up his lips and showing the teeth, but producing the effect of a smile, and expressing a shy and apologetic frame of mind.

Pat lived with a bad tempered Scotch terrier called Whisk, whom I liked for his strong character and intellectual acquirements, but I had no great affection for him. He could not bear being spoken to or even looked at while he ate his dinner, and would growl with his mouth full, in a terrific manner, if so disturbed. In the same ferocious spirit he would growl and snap if his basket was accidentally kicked when he was dozing in the evening, and however much we apologised he would take each expression of regret as a fresh insult, and answer them all with growls, which gradually died away in sleep.

We only once had a big dog, and he was not a success though he was an agreeable person. We bought him and his brother, two very fat mastiff puppies, at North Berwick, and brought them south. The one pleasant incident in the journey was the question of a German in Edinburgh station: "Madam, who are these dogs?" We gave away one and kept the other, who bore the magnificent name of Tantallon, soon abbreviated into Tan. He had many friendly habits, but they were on too large a scale for domestic life. He had, for instance, a way of placing a dirty paw on the table cloth at meals, and he knocked down street children by trying to lick their faces and (so rumour said) by wagging his tail. He frightened cab horses into hysterics, and their drivers fell off and claimed damages. He ate with enjoyment the embroidered perambulator-cushion of a neighbour, who was discovered looking on while Tan tore strips off the cushion with that powerful upward movement of the head and neck which few cushions can withstand. Finally poor Tan had to be given away, and was lost sight of.

These rough outlines of the characters of some of our dogs are meant to show that the reasons for loving dogs are not patent, and that we cannot complain if the words, used by a little girl in Punch towards a couple of earwigs, should be applied to us and our dogs, "Nasty creatures! I cannot think how they can care for each other."

Stevenson's essay {223} on The Character of Dogs is not entirely satisfactory. It is surely a one-sided view of the dog that "he is vainer than man, singularly greedy of notice, singularly intolerant of ridicule, suspicious like the deaf, jealous to the degree of frenzy, and radically devoid of truth." It is hardly possible that he should be vainer than man; and in the dog, vanity is a far simpler and more lovable thing than the complex and offensive passion in his master. His greed for notice and his jealousy are part of his great love for his master. I do not remember that Stevenson ever speaks of the passionate love (not for mankind, but for one special person) which burns in the heart of a dog. It is a singular omission--and I cannot but think it intentional. If so he was wise, for it certainly does not lend itself to the manner which Stevenson adopts towards dogs. No doubt I may be led into sentimentality and general wearifulness in attempting to describe what seems to me the most striking characteristic of dogs--their great and enduring power of loving. It may be that "the day of an intelligent small dog is passed in the manufacture and laborious communication of falsehood." But he does not lie when he says quite plainly how greatly he loves his master. Nor do I agree that a small spoiled dog would prate interminably, and still about himself. I think he would say, "I love you" rather often, but that bears repetition. I know a Schipperke whose main interest in life is his dinner, but when his mistress was ill he had only two desires, to lie on her bed and to bite the doctor for approaching her. He had to be dragged out for a walk instead of eagerly begging for one. Was this an elaborate falsehood? Was it pretence? Was it conventionality?

A dog can hardly be expected to plead guilty when detected in crime. He jumps off the forbidden bed when he hears someone coming, and, being unaware that the warm place on the counterpane will betray him, he assumes a calm and happy air. But this is a lie so natural that I for one cannot blame the liar.

In my life with dogs I have felt much more clearly their desire to speak, and to speak truth, than the wish to deceive. I had an old Scotch terrier, who in his youth, before I knew him, had been called Nigel, no doubt because he was black and small, but as he grew up he somehow acquired the uncouth name of Scrubbins. At one stage of his career he was condemned to death for eczema. I begged him off, and he lived some five years with me, and was cured of his eczema by the devoted care of a servant. He was a dog of large heart, who, while he cared for others, was especially devoted to me. In his old age his eyes became dim and his limbs stiff. He had a pathetic way of standing staring into my eyes, or with difficulty getting his paws on to my knees to ask to have his head rubbed, an attention of which he never wearied. No one could doubt that this was his expression of the mutual love that bound us to each other. This was the indestructible impression produced, and it is useless to tell me that he may have been striving to conceal some crime, or at least some base and worldly point of view. When sentiment is applied to facts, rational conclusions are apt to be rare--but without a share of sentiment there might have been no facts to record.

There are innumerable cases proving the devotion of dogs--a passion surviving the master's death, and prolonged until the dog himself dies. Such is the story of the heroic dog seen to watch his master's dead body in South America, keeping the vultures off it, and only allowing himself an occasional rush to the river for water, until he too died. What is there here but a passion of love? We may call it instinct, but what is the love of a human mother?

A dog differs from his master in not taking offence; you may tread on his tail and he will only apologise for being in your way. But I have known a dog bite his mistress when she interfered with him in a fight, while he was beside himself with anger. In the same way an unhappy dog caught in a trap may be so maddened with pain as to attempt to bite those who seek to free him, but these are extreme cases. It is again part of this same lovable quality of dogs that they are not given to moods. They are always ready to welcome us and to wag tails when we notice them.

M. Anatole France shows in some ways a sympathy with dogs, and a sensitiveness to their mental attitudes, finer and more true than anything in Stevenson's essay. The misery of Riquet {226} over the demenagement of his master, M. Bergeret, is admirably drawn. Riquet begins by barking fiercely when "des hommes inconnus, mal vetus, injurieux et farouches" invade his beloved house, and ends in being lifted in silent misery and shut up in a portmanteau. Riquet soon becomes too human, but he does at least show his adoration of M. Bergeret, in mourning over the desecration and removal of "ton fauteuil profond--le fauteuil ou nous reposions tous les soirs, et bien souvent le matin, a cote l'un de l'autre."

No. XII. of the Pensees de Riquet does not bear on the love that subsists between dog and man; it goes deeper however, for it shows that men as well as dogs are dominated by instinctive night fears which unite them by a most ancient and enduring bond. Riquet says: "A la tombee de la nuit des puissances malfaisantes rodent autour de la maison," a fact obvious to all children. There is (No. XII.)an admirable comic prayer to his master beginning, "O mon maitre Bergeret, dieu de carnage, je t'adore." But it seems to me to miss the true flavour of doggishness.

Professor A. C. Bradley {227} strives to show that Shakespeare "did not care for dogs." His opinion is worthy of respect, and all the more that he seems to be a dog lover himself. At least, so I interpret what he says of Shakespeare: "To all that he loved most in men he was blind in dogs, and then we call him universal!" "What is significant," he says, "is the absence of sympathic allusion to the characteristic virtues of dogs, and the abundance of allusions of an insulting kind."

I had always imagined that the description of the hounds in "A Midsummer's Night's Dream" was written by one who liked dogs as individuals, not merely as a picturesque piece of hunting apparatus. But Professor Bradley's contrary opinion is probably the sounder. In the same way I think that the passage in "Lear," "Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart," etc., could only have been written by one who understood the shock which the little dogs' behaviour gave the King. On the other hand, I agree that Shakespeare does not sympathise with the admirable conduct of Launce, who sat in the stocks to save his dog from execution for theft.

Scott was a genuine dog lover. It is on record that he excused himself for not keeping an engagement on the score of the death of an old friend, that friend being his bulldog Camp. His deerhounds Bran and Maida are, like the Duke of Wellington's horse Copenhagen, known to all the world. I am glad to think that Scott's dogs are preserved in several of his portraits. In his books there are two types of dogs, Dandie Dinmonts' Pepper and Mustard who have given their master's name to a breed and are real dogs of flesh and blood. Or again, Harry Bertram's Wasp, who helps to save Dandie from the thieves. But there is also the theatrical dog, Roswal, in The Talisman, who springs at the throat of Conrad of Montserrat and saves his master's honour. Between these come Gurth's dog, Fangs, slightly tinged by the "tushery" of Ivanhoe, but still striking and pathetic. I keep still my sympathy with Gurth, who swears "by S. Edmund, S. Dunstan, S. Withold and S. Edward," that he will never forgive Cedric for having attempted to kill his dog, "the only living creature that ever showed me kindness."

But apart from his love of dogs Scott shows that he can use them with splendid dramatic effect; for instance, when Dugald Dalgetty and the Child of the Mist are escaping from the Duke of Argyll's prison, how we thrill as the distant baying of those deadly trackers, the bloodhounds, strikes on the ear of the fugitives.

I am not clear as to what was Dickens' personal attitude towards dogs, but he certainly understood the passion of the dog lover.

The man who ousted David Copperfield from the box-seat in the London Coach {229a} remarked, "'Orses and dorgs is some men's fancy. They're wittles and drink to me--lodging, wife and children, reading, writing, and 'rithmetic--snuff, tobacker, and sleep." Probably we should have felt, as Mr. Pickwick did on a similar occasion, {229b} that it would have been well if horses and dogs had been 'washing' also. I doubt, in fact, whether we should have enjoyed his company, or even whether we should have felt him a dog lover of our own sort--but we should not be too nice, and must allow some merit to his form of the passion.

Another of Dickens's characters, Mr. Sleary, {229c} of "the Horse Riding," has a much more attractive way of caring for animals. His theory of how a dog he has lost found him again always pleases me. The dog is believed to set on foot inquiries among his friends. "You don't happen to know a person of the name of Sleary, do you? Person of the name of Sleary in the Horse-Riding way--stout man--game eye?" The inquiries were successful; and I like, too, the frankly sentimental account of the appearance of the clown's dog after his master's death, and the dog's search for the clown's little girl:--

"We was getting up our Children in the Wood one morning, when there comes into our Ring by the stage door a dog. He had travelled a long way, he was in very bad condition, he was lame, and pretty well blind. He went round to our children, one after another, as if he was a-seeking for a child he knowd; and then he come to me, and throwed himself up behind, and stood on his two forelegs, weak as he was, and then wagged his tail and died."

I might doubtless give other instances of well-known men who were lovers of dogs, {230a} but I shall refrain from further quotation. The instincts of man are being purged of the brutality by which they are too often characterised, and what are clumsily called dumb animals have benefited side by side with human beings. It is not yet true that even a merciful man is merciful to his beast, but in England, at any rate, it is recognised that actual cruelty to animals is wrong, but even this is not always the case among other nations. My father used to tell us how, when his horse was exhausted, he lagged behind his S. American companion who shouted, "Spur him! Don Carlos, spur him! he is my horse," and simply could not understand my father's motive. But I am glad to remember that even among rough people, in uncivilised ages, a sense of humanity to animals was not unknown. Busbecquius {230b} records that in Constantinople an angry crowd assembled before a shop in which was exhibited a living bird with its mouth forcibly opened to show its huge gape.

Cruelty is often said to be the outcome of ignorance and stupidity rather than of innate brutality. I wish I could believe this: in any case it is an evil which must be not merely held in check but rooted out. All lovers of animals owe a debt of gratitude to the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, not only for their great organisation for the prevention and punishment of brutalities, but also, and perhaps especially, for their guidance of public opinion.

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THE END.

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PRINTED BY W. HEFFER AND SONS LTD., CAMBRIDGE, ENLGAND.

NOTES.

{3} Lundy's Land, and other Poems, by Duncan Campbell Scott, Toronto.

{5} I have an antiquarian interest in the penny whistle as being a poor relation of the "recorder" of our forefathers.

{8} A Naturalist's Calendar, by Leonard Blomefield (formerly Jenyns). Cambridge University Press, 1903.

{9} Life and Letters, Vol. II., p. 114.

{13} This, the first Galton Lecture, was delivered before the Eugenics Education Society, February 16th, 1914, and is, by permission, reprinted, with some changes, from the Eugenics Review, 1914.

{15} The passage quoted is from Galton's autobiographic Memories, page 165. I have necessarily drawn largely on this delightful book, and have not generally thought it necessary to give references.

{21} Major L. Darwin had been President of the Royal Geographical Society.

{23} In Memories, p. 310, he criticises the statistical methods of this work.

{24} Macmillan's Magazine, XII., p. 327.

{25} Hereditary Genius, p. 2.

{26a} He had already allowed Professor Seward and myself to publish them in More Letters of Charles Darwin.

{26b} Memories, p. 290.

{27a} Hereditary Genius p. 9

{27b} Ibid., p. 31.

{28} Memories, p. 305.

{29} Macmillan's Magazine, XII., p. 327.

{30} Essays in Eugenics, p. 1.

{31a} Essays in Eugenics, p. 1.

{31b} Ibid., p. 35.

{32a} Essays in Eugenics, p. 37.

{32b} Ibid., p. 42.

{34a} More Letters, II., pp. 43 and 50.

{34b} One Volume Edit. 1894, p. 617.

{35} Macmillan's Magazine, XII., p. 326.

{36} Evening lecture delivered at the Glasgow meeting of the British Association, September 16, 1901. Reprinted with alterations, from Nature, November 14, 1901.

{40} See their papers in the Deutsch Bot. Ges., 1900, and my summary in a paper read before the British Association, 1905.,

{41} The root must of course be in a glass of water, and therefore exposed to light.

{45} Cohn's Beitrage, 1894.

{47} Pfeffer, in the Annals of Botany, September 1894. Further details in Czapek's paper in Pringsheim's Jahrb., 1895.

{48} F. Darwin, Annals of Botany, December 1899.

{51a} Life and Habit, 1878.

{51b} Butler's term.

{53a} See James Ward, Naturalism and Agnosticism, i. 283

{53b} Science and Culture, Collected Essays, i.

{53c} Loc. cit. p. 288.

{56} Strictly speaking--florets.

{58a} C. Darwin. Climbing Plants.

{58b} Galium aparine.

{63a} Literary Studies, Vol. 1., p. 303.

{63b} Memoir, p. 155.

{64a} Memoir, p. 147.

{64b} Ibid., p. 132.

{66} Memoir, p. 148.

{73} Memoir, p. 348.

{74a} Not the Royal residence of that name.

{74b} Mr. Austen Leigh, Memoir, p. 140, quotes from Sir Denis Le Marchant that Fanny Price was a "prime favourite" of Sydney Smith. Mr. F. Myers I remember speaking to me of his especial admiration for Mansfield Park and Fanny.

{82} Times, Dec 6, 1910, Educational Supplement.

{85} See, however, a footnote in No. IX. of this volume, p. 141.

{94} Studies in Literature, 1891, p. 100.

{98} The military drum and fife band is spoken of as "the drums"; there is no such person as a fifer, he is described as a drummer.

{100a} The Elements of Musick Display'd, etc., by William Tans'ur, Senior Musico Theorico, London, 1772, p. 103.

{100b} It is a pleasure to express my indebtedness to Mr. Cockerell, Director of the Fitzwilliam Museum at Cambridge, for his kindness in searching, in my interest, for old illustrations of the pipe and tabor. I have given some account of them in an appendix to this essay.

{102a} Kemp's Nine Daies Wonder: Performed in a Daunce from London to Norwich, by A. Dyce, Camden Society, 1840.

{102b} See Strutt's Sports and Pastimes, Edit. 2, 1810, Plate XIV., p. 124.

{103a} Welch, Christopher. Six Lectures on the Recorder and other flutes in relation to Literature, 1911, p. 255.

{103b} Recorders used to be known as flutes, while what we call flutes were described as German or transverse flutes. Purists desire to revive this nomenclature, and would call the taborer's pipe a flute or fipple-flute.

{104a} For details of the fingering see the appendix to this article.

{104b} Praetorius, Organographia, being the second volume of his Systagma Musici, 1618, where a figure is given in Plate IX. See Breitkopf and Hartel's reprint of Praetorius, also Galpin's Old English Instruments of Music, 1910.

{105a} See also Mahillon, Catalogue descriptif et analytique du Music instrumental du Conservatoire royal de Bruxelle, 1909, Vol 2, p. 282.

{105b} Harmonie Universelle, contenant la theorie et la pratique ce la musique, by M. Mersenne, Fol. 1636-7, Vol II, p. 232.

{105c} Stanford and Forsyth History of Music, 1916, p. 44.

{106} Op. Cit. 1912, Vol 4, p. 214.

{107} See p. 267.

{108a} Mr. Galpin, however, uses another grip; he crooks the little finger and presses against the lower end of the pipe, of course without occluding the bore at all. In the early drawings reproduced by Strutt (see ante p. 102) the taborers show as a rule three fingers only. This is practically Luca della Robbia's grip, since the little finger could hardly show in these small illustrations. In Welch's book on the Recorder (p. 195) is a figure (reproduced from Mahillon) of a Basque holding his 3-holed pipe in a different way, viz., with the ring finger underneath and the little finger unemployed. I find it impossible to hold the pipe in this manner.

{108b} Various editions appeared from 1661 to 1683. See Welch, loc. cit., p. 61.

{109a} Mr. Galpin says that they are found on an ancient Egyptian drum.

{109b} Mahillon's Catalogue, iii., p. 377.

{110a} A German writer has suggested that this position allows the musician to beat the drum with his head!

{110b} According to Mahillon, Catalogue iii., p. 377, to play the tabor and pipe is called in Provencal "tutupomponeyer."

{115} Reprinted by permission of the Syndics of the Cambridge University Press from The Makers of British Botany.

{116a} In 1699 Newton was made Master of the Mint and appointed Whiston his deputy in the Lucasian Professorship, an office he finally resigned in 1703 (Brewster's Life of Newton, 1831, p. 249).

{116b} "There, if anywhere, his dear shade must linger," Trevelyan, Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay (1 volume edit. 1881, p. 55).

{117} Black's discovery of CO2, however, was published in 1754, seven years before Hales died, but Priestley's, Cavendish's and Lavoisier's work on O and H was later.

{118a} 1837, III. p. 389.

{118b} Vegetable Staticks, p. 346.

{119} Sachs, Geschichte, p. 502. Malpighi held similar views.

{120} Sachs, Geschichte, p. 499.

{121} Quoted by Caroc, in his paper read before the Cambridge Archaeological Society on King's Hostel, etc., and "Printed for the Master and Fellows of Trinity College," in 1909.

{122} He also held the living of Farringdon in Hampshire where he occasionally resided.

{123a} Dict. Nat. Biog.

{123b} With a certain idleness Pope reduces him to plain Parson Hale, for the sake of a rhyme in the Epistle to Martha Blount, 1, 198.

{124} The original reads "deigned not," an obvious slip.

{125} This he does by means of a network of threads .25 inch apart. Pfeffer, Pflanzenphysiologie, ed. 1, 1. p. 142, recommends the method and gives Hales as his authority.

{126a} Pflanzenphysiologie, 1865 (Fr. Trans. 1868), p. 254.

{126b} He gives it as 15.8 square inches, the only instance I have come across of his use of decimals.

{126c} Arbeiten, II. p. 182.

{126d} See Sachs' Pflanzenphys. 1865 (Fr. Trans. 1868), p. 257, where the above correction is applied to Hales' work.

{127a} Vegetable Staticks, p. 5.

{127b} Ibid., p. 14.

{128a} Vegetable Staticks, p. 41.

{128b} Janse in Pringsheim's Jahrb. XVIII. p. 38. The later literature is given by Dixon in Progressus Rei Bot. III., 1909, p. 58.

{129a} Compare F. von Hohnel, Bot. Zeitung, 1879, p. 318.

{129b} This is also shown by experiment xc, Vegetable Staticks, p. 123.

{130a} The method by which Hales proposed to record the depth of the sea is a variant of this apparatus.

{130b} Vegetable Staticks, p. 92.

{130c} According to Sachs (Geschichte, p. 509) Ray employed this method.

{130d} Other facts showed that the "gapped" branches did not behave quite normally.

{131a} He refers (p. 141) to what is in principle the same experiment (see Fig. 27) as due to Mr. Brotherton, and published in the Abridgement of the Phil. Trans. II. p. 708.

{131b} He notices that the swelling of the bark is connected with the presence of buds. The only ring of bark which had no bud showed no swelling.

{133} It appears that Mayow made similar experiments. Dict. Nat. Biog. s.v. Mayow.

{134a} History of Chemistry, 1909, I. p. 69.

{134b} Hales made use of a rough pneumatic trough, the invention of which is usually ascribed to Priestley (Thorpe's History of Chemistry, I. p. 79)

{135a} He speaks here merely of the apples used in a certain experiment, but it is clear that he applies the conclusion to other plants.

{135b} Vegetable Staticks, p. 313. It should be noted that Hales speaks of organic as well as inorganic substances.

{137a} The above account of Hales' connexion with the Royal Gardens at Kew is from the Kew Bulletin, 1891, p. 289.

{137b} I am indebted to Sir E. Thorpe for a definition of statical "Statical (Med.) noting the physical phenomena presented by organised bodies in contradiction to the organic or vital." (Worcester's Dictionary. 1889.)

{138a} Arbeiten, I.

{138b} Borelli, De Motu Animalium, Pt. II. Ch. xiii. According to Sachs, Ges. d. Botanik, p. 582, Mariotte (1679) had suggested the same idea.

{138c} Nageli, Starkekorner, p. 279.

{139a} See his Philosophical Experiments, 1739.

{139b} Geschichte d. Botanik, p. 515 (free translation).

{140} An Address on the occasion of the opening of the Darwin Laboratories at Shrewsbury School, October 20, 1911.

{141a} In the Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, Vol. I., are given my father's autobiographical recollections. He wrote (pp. 31-32): "Nothing could have been worse for the development of my mind than Dr. Butler's school, as it was strictly classical, nothing else being taught, except a little ancient geography and history." This seems to be an exaggeration, as the following list shows. It is taken from Samuel Butler's Life and Letters of Dr. Samuel Butler, 1896, Vol I., p. 196. The "weekly course of instruction for the fifth and sixth forms, under Dr. Butler," is given, and the items which are not classical are as follows:--

Monday.--English History follows Grecian and Roman history. The rest of a very full day is classical.

Tuesday.--Half-holiday. All classical except that the Masters of accomplishments attend in the afternoon.

Wednesday.--All classical.

Thursday.--Half-holiday. All classical except a "Lecture in algebra" for the sixth and upper fifth forms.

Friday.--All classical.

Saturday.--All classical except "Lecture in Euclid to sixth and upper fifth."

{141b} Charles Darwin's home at Shrewsbury.

{152a} Reprinted, with corrections (by the kind permission of the Syndics of the University Press), from Vol. v. of Sir G. Darwin's Scientific Papers. The biographical sketch of my brother is reproduced in a somewhat abbreviated version and does not contain Prof. E. W. Brown's contribution.

{152b} The third of those who survived childhood.

{152c} At Maer, the Staffordshire home of his mother.

{153} Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, Vol. 1., p. 319.

{156} Guillim, John, A Display of Heraldry, 6th ed., folio 1724. Edmonson, J., A Complete Body of Heraldry, folio, 1780.

{157} Afterwards Savilian Professor of Astronomy at Oxford. Born 1808, died 1893.

{158a} The late Mr. Routh was the most celebrated mathematical "Coach" of his day.

{158b} Compare Charles Darwin's words: "George has not slaved himself, which makes his success the more satisfactory" (More Letters of C. Darwin, Vol. II., p. 287).

{159} Emma Darwin, A Century of Family Letters, 1915, Vol. II., p. 187.

{161} He was called in 1874 but did not practise.

{162} As a boy he had energetically collected Lepidoptera during the years 1858-61; the first vague indications of a leaning towards physical science may perhaps be found in his joining the Sicilian eclipse expedition, December, 1870--January, 1871. It appears from Nature, December 1, 1870, that George was told off to make sketches of the Corona.

{163a} Macmillan's Magazine, 1872, Vol. XXVI., pp. 410-416.

{163b} Contemporary Review, 1873, Vol. XXII., pp. 412-426.

{163c} Not published.

{163d} Contemporary Review, 1874, Vol. XXIV., pp. 894-904.

{164a} Journal of the Statistical Society, 1875, Vol. XXXVIII., pt. 2, pp. 153-182, also pp. 183-184, and pp. 344-348.

{164b} Probably he heard informally at the end of October what was not formally determined till November.

{165a} Emma Darwin, A Century of Family Letters, 1915, Vol. II., p. 233.

{165b} Nature, December 12, 1912.

{165c} It was in 1907 that the Syndics of the Cambridge University Press asked George to prepare a reprint of his scientific papers, which were published in five volumes. George was deeply gratified at an honour that placed him in the same class as Lord Kelvin, Stokes, Cayley, Adams, Clerk Maxwell, Lord Rayleigh, and other men of distinction.

{166} Thus in 1872 he was in Homburg, 1873 in Cannes, 1874 in Holland, Belgium, Switzerland and Malta, 1876 in Italy and Sicily.

{167} The voting at University elections is in theory strictly confidential, but in practice this is unfortunately not always the case. George records in his diary the names of the five who voted for him and of the four who supported another candidate. None of the electors are now living. The election occurred in January, and in June he had the great pleasure and honour of being re-elected to a Trinity Fellowship. His daughter, Madame Raverat, writes: "Once, when I was walking with my father on the road to Madingley village, he told me how he had walked there on the first Sunday he ever was at Cambridge with two or three other freshmen; and how, when they were about opposite the old chalk pit, one of them betted him 20 pounds that he (my father) would never be a professor of Cambridge University: 'and' said my father, with great indignation, 'he never paid me.'"

{168} In the second part of the Preface to the fifth volume of Sir G. H. Darwin's Scientific Papers, 1916.

{171} Emma Darwin, A Century of Family Letters. Privately printed, 1904. Vol. II., p. 350.

{172a} Emma Darwin, A Century of Family Letters, 1915, Vol. II., p. 266.

{172b} At that time it was known simply as Newnham, but as this is the name of the College, and was also in use for a growing region of houses, the Darwins christened it Newnham Grange. The name Newnham is now officially applied to the region extending from Silver Street Bridge to the Barton Road.

{173a} The following account of Newnham Grange is taken from C. H. Cooper's Memorials of Cambridge, 1866, Vol. III., p. 262 (note): "The site of the hermitage was leased by the Corporation to Oliver Grene, 20 September, 31 Eliz. . It was in 1790 leased for a long term to Patrick Beales, from whom it came to his brother, S. P. Beales, Esq., who erected thereon a substantial mansion and mercantile premises now occupied by his son, Patrick Beales, Esq., alderman, who purchased the reversion from the Corporation in 1839." Silver Street was formerly known as Little Bridges Street, and the bridges which gave it this name were in charge of a hermit, hence the above reference to the hermitage.

{173b} This was to distinguish it from the "Big Island," both being leased from the town. Later George acquired in the same way the small oblong kitchen garden on the river bank, and bought the freehold of the Lammas land on the opposite bank of the river.

{177} The Archer's Register for 1912-1913, by H. Walrond. London, The Field Office, 1913.

{178} As here given they are abbreviated.

{182a} See Prof Brown's Memoir, p. xlix.

{182b} Nature, 1912. See also Prof. Brown's Memoir, p. I.

{186} Nature, December 12, 1912.

{187} Compare Mr. Chesterton's Twelve Types, (1903), p. 190. He speaks of Scott's critic in the Edinburgh Review: "The only thing to be said about that critic is that he had never been a little boy. He foolishly imagined that Scott valued the plume and dagger of Marmion for Marmion's sake. Not being himself romantic, he could not understand that Scott valued the plume because it was a plume, and the dagger because it was a dagger."

{190} Emma Darwin, A Century of Family Letters, 1915, Vol., II., p. 146.

{192a} Sir George's medals are deposited in the Library of Trinity College, Cambridge.

{192b} Given by the Sovereign on the nomination of the Royal Society.

{193} Re-elected in 1912.

{194} The above list is principally taken from that compiled by Sir George for the Year-Book of the Royal Society, 1912, and may not be quite complete. It should be added that he especially valued the honour conferred on him in the publication of his collected papers by the Syndics of the University Press.

{195} Dictionary of Music, ed. I., s.v., March.

{198a} Dictionary of Music, s.v., March.

{198b} Dictionary of Music, s.v. Sergeant Trumpeter. When the office was revived in 1858 it was given to a clarinet player and then to a bassoonist. Before this date it was not even necessary to be a musician to hold the office. The salary is 100 pounds per annum.

{199} The British Campaign in France and Flanders, 1914, pp. 117 and 118.

{201} An Address given at Birkbeck College, London, on September 29th, 1913.

{210} See p. 50.

{212} A new method of estimating the aperture of stomata. B., Vol. 84, 1911.

{215a} Phil. Trans., B. vol 190, 1898.

{215b} See above, p. 136.

{219} Quoted by Professor A. C. Bradley in his Oxford Lectures on Poetry, 1909, p. 341.

{220a} Descent of Man, 1871, Vol. 1., p. 75.

{220b} Charles Darwin's Journal of Researches, etc., ed. 1860, p. 214.

{223} Memories and Portraits.

{226} Crainquebille, Riquet, etc., (n.d.)

{227} Oxford Lectures on Poetry, 1909, pp. 340, 341.

{229a} David Copperfield, Chap. xix.

{229b} "Its board and lodging to me, is smoke." Pickwick, Chap. xx.

{229c} In Hard Times, Chap. viii. I have ventured to omit the elaborate lisp with which Mr. "Thleary" speaks in the original.

{230a} See for instance the Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, Vol 1, p. 113.

{230b} C. T. Forster's Life and letters of Ogier de Busbecq, 1881.