I am very glad you like the thing. The second instalment shall be no worse.

I grieve to say that my estimation of Balfour, as a thinker, sinks lower and lower, the further I go.

God help the people who think his book an important contribution to thought! The Gigadibsians who say so are past divine assistance!

We are very glad to hear the grandchild and mother are getting on so well.

Ever yours very truly,

T.H. Huxley.

Hodeslea, Eastbourne, March 8, 1895.

My dear Knowles,

The proofs have just arrived, but I am sorry to say that (I believe for the first time in our transactions) I shall have to disappoint you.

Just after I had sent off the manuscript influenza came down upon me with a swoop. I went to bed and am there still, with no chance of quitting it in a hurry. My wife is in the same case; item one of the maids. The house is a hospital, and by great good fortune we have a capital nurse.

Doctor says its a mild type, in which case I wonder what severe types may be like. ("But in the matter of aches and pains, restless paroxysms of coughing and general incapacity, I can give it a high character for efficiency." [To M. Foster, March 7.]) I find coughing continuously for fourteen hours or so a queer kind of mildness.

Could you put in an excuse on account of influenza?

Can't write any more.

Ever yours,

T.H. Huxley.

Hodeslea, Eastbourne, March 19, 1895.

My dear Knowles,

I am making use of the pen of my dear daughter and good nurse, in the first place to thank you for your cheque, in the second place to say that you must not look for the article this month. I haven't been out of bed since the 1st, but they are fighting a battle with bronchitis over my body.

Ever yours very faithfully,

For T.H.H., Sophy Huxley.

[The next four months were a period of painful struggle against disease, borne with a patience and gentleness which was rare even in the long experience of the trained nurses who tended him. To natural toughness of constitution he added a power of will unbroken by the long strain; and for the sake of others to whom his life meant so much, he wished to recover and willed to do everything towards recovery. And so he managed to throw off the influenza and the severe bronchitis which attended it. What was marvellous at his age, and indeed would scarcely have been expected in a young man, most serious mischief induced by the bronchitis disappeared. By May he was strong enough to walk from the terrace to the lawn and his beloved saxifrages, and to remount the steps to the house without help.

But though the original attack was successfully thrown off, the lung trouble had affected the heart; and in his weakened state, renal mischief ensued. Yet he held out splendidly, never giving in, save for one hour of utter prostration, all through this weary length of sickness. His first recovery strengthened him in expecting to get well from the second attack. And on June 10 he writes brightly enough to Sir J.D. Hooker:—]

Hodeslea, Eastbourne, June 10, 1895.

My dear Old Friend,

It was cheering to get your letter and to hear that you had got through winter and diphtheria without scathe.

I can't say very much for myself yet, but I am carried down to a tent in the garden every day, and live in the fresh air all I can. The thing that keeps me back is an irritability of the stomach tending to the rejection of all solid food. However, I think I am slowly getting the better of it—thanks to my constitutional toughness and careful nursing and dieting.

What has Spencer been trampling on the "Pour le merite" for, when he accepted the Lyncei? I was just writing to congratulate him when, by good luck, I saw he had refused!

The beastly nausea which comes on when I try to do anything warns me to stop.

With our love to you both,

Ever yours,

T.H. Huxley.

[The last time I saw him was on a visit to Eastbourne from June 22-24. I was astonished to find how well he looked in spite of all; thin, indeed, but browned with the endless sunshine of the 1895 summer as he sat every day in the verandah. His voice was still fairly strong; he was delighted to see us about him, and was cheerful, even merry at times. As the nurse said, she could not expect him to recover, but he did not look like a dying man. When I asked him how he was, he said, "A mere carcass, which has to be tended by other people." But to the last he looked forward to recovery. One day he told the nurse that the doctors must be wrong about the renal mischief, for if they were right, he ought already to be in a state of coma. This was precisely what they found most astonishing in his case; it seemed as if the mind, the strong nervous organisation, were triumphing over the shattered body. Herein lay one of the chief hopes of ultimate recovery.

As late as June 26 he wrote, with shaky handwriting but indomitable spirit, to relieve his old friend from the anxiety he must feel from the newspaper bulletins.]

Hodeslea, Eastbourne, June 26, 1895.

My dear Hooker,

The pessimistic reports of my condition which have got into the papers may be giving you unnecessary alarm for the condition of your old comrade. So I send a line to tell you the exact state of affairs.

There is kidney mischief going on—and it is accompanied by very distressing attacks of nausea and vomiting, which sometimes last for hours and make life a burden.

However, strength keeps up very well considering, and of course all depends upon how the renal business goes. At present I don't feel at all like "sending in my checks," and without being over sanguine I rather incline to think that my native toughness will get the best of it—albuminuria or otherwise.

Ever your faithful friend,

T.H.H.

Misfortunes never come single. My son-in-law, Eckersley, died of yellow fever the other day at San Salvador—just as he was going to take up an appointment at Lima worth 1200 pounds a year. Rachel and her three children have but the slenderest provision.

[The next two days there was a slight improvement but on the third morning the heart began to fail. The great pain subdued by anaesthetics, he lingered on about seven hours, and at half-past three on June 29 passed away very quietly.

He was buried at Finchley, on July 4, beside his brother George and his little son Noel, under the shadow of the oak, which had grown up into a stately young tree from the little sapling it had been when the grave of his first-born was dug beneath it, five and thirty years before.

The funeral was of a private character. An old friend, the Reverend Llewelyn Davies, came from Kirkby Lonsdale to read the service; the many friends who gathered at the grave-side were there as friends mourning the death of a friend, and all touched with the same sense of personal loss.

By his special direction, three lines from a poem written by his wife, were inscribed upon his tombstone—lines inspired by his own robust conviction that, all question of the future apart, this life as it can be lived, pain, sorrow, and evil notwithstanding, is worth—and well worth-living:—

Be not afraid, ye waiting hearts that weep; For still He giveth His beloved sleep, And if an endless sleep He wills, so best.]

CHAPTER 3.15.

He had intellect to comprehend his highest duty distinctly, and force of character to do it; which of us dare ask for a higher summary of his life than that?

[Such was Huxley's epitaph upon Henslow; it was the standard which he endeavoured to reach in his own life. It is the expression of that passion for veracity which was perhaps his strongest characteristic; an uncompromising passion for truth in thought, which would admit no particle of self-deception, no assertion beyond what could be verified; for truth in act, perfect straightforwardness and sincerity, with complete disregard of personal consequences for uttering unpalatable fact.

Truthfulness, in his eyes, was the cardinal virtue, without which no stable society can exist. Conviction, sincerity, he always respected, whether on his own side or against him. Clever men, he would say, are as common as blackberries; the rare thing is to find a good one. The lie from interested motives was only more hateful to him than the lie from self-delusion or foggy thinking. With this he classed the "sin of faith," as he called it; that form of credence which does not fulfil the duty of making a right use of reason; which prostitutes reason by giving assent to propositions which are neither self-evident nor adequately proved.

This principle has always been far from finding universal acceptance. One of his theological opponents went so far as to affirm that a doctrine may be not only held, but dogmatically insisted on, by a teacher who is, all the time, fully aware that science may ultimately prove it to be quite untenable.

His own course went to the opposite extreme. In teaching, where it was possible to let the facts speak for themselves, he did not further urge their bearing upon wider problems. He preferred to warn beginners against drawing superficial inferences in favour of his own general theories, from facts the real meaning of which was not immediately apparent. Father Hahn (S.J.), who studied under him in 1876, writes:—

One day when I was talking to him, our conversation turned upon evolution. "There is one thing about you I cannot understand," I said, "and I should like a word in explanation. For several months now I have been attending your course, and I have never heard you mention evolution, while in your public lectures everywhere you openly proclaim yourself an evolutionist." ("Revue des Questions Scientifiques" (Brussels), for October 1895.)

Now it would be impossible to imagine a better opportunity for insisting on evolution than his lectures on comparative anatomy, when animals are set side by side in respect of the gradual development of functions. But Huxley was so reserved on this subject in his lectures that, speaking one day of a species forming a transition between two others, he immediately added:—]

"When I speak of transition I do not in the least mean to say that one species turned into a second to develop thereafter into a third. What I mean is, that the characters of the second are intermediate between those of the two others. It is as if I were to say that such a Cathedral, Canterbury, for example, is a transition between York Minster and Westminster Abbey. No one would imagine, on hearing the word transition, that a transmutation of these buildings actually took place from one into other." [(Doubtless in connection with the familiar warning that intermediate types are not necessarily links in the direct line of descent.)

But to return to his reply:—]

"Here in my teaching lectures [he said to me] I have time to put the facts fully before a trained audience. In my public lectures I am obliged to pass rapidly over the facts, and I put forward my personal convictions. And it is for this that people come to hear me."

[As to the question whether children should be brought up in entire disregard to the beliefs rejected by himself, but still current among the mass of his fellow-countrymen, he was of opinion that they ought to know] "the mythology of their time and country," [otherwise one would at the best tend to make young prigs of them; but as they grew up their questions should be answered frankly. (The wording of a paragraph in Professor Mivart's "Reminiscences" ("Nineteenth Century", December 1897, P. 993), tends, I think, to leave a wrong impression on this point.)

The natural tendency to veracity, strengthened by the observation of the opposite quality in one with whom he was early brought into contact, received its decisive impulse, as has been told before, from Carlyle, whose writings confirmed and established his youthful reader in a hatred of shams and make-believes equal to his own.

In his mind no compromise was possible between truth and untruth. (As he once said, when urged to write a more eulogistic notice of a dead friend than he thought deserved], "The only serious temptations to perjury I have ever known have arisen out of the desire to be of some comfort to people I cared for in trouble. If there are such things as Plato's 'Royal Lies' they are surely those which one is tempted to tell on such occasions. Mrs. — is such a good devoted little woman, and I am so doubtful about having a soul, that it seems absurd to hesitate to peril it for her satisfaction.") [Against authorities and influences he published "Man's Place in Nature," though warned by his friends that to do so meant ruin to his prospects. When he had once led the way and challenged the upholders of conventional orthodoxy, others backed him up with a whole armoury of facts. But his fight was as far as possible for the truth itself, for fact, not merely for controversial victory or personal triumph. Yet, as has been said by a representative of a very different school of thought, who can wonder that he should have hit out straight from the shoulder, in reply to violent or insidious attacks, the stupidity of which sometimes merited scorn as well as anger?

In his theological controversies he was no less careful to avoid any approach to mere abuse or ribaldry such as some opponents of Christian dogma indulged in. For this reason he refused to interpose in the well-known Foote case. Discussion, he said, could be carried on effectually without deliberate wounding of others' feelings.

As he wrote in reply to an appeal for help in this case (March 12, 1883):—]

I have not read the writings for which Mr. Foote was prosecuted. But, unless their nature has been grossly misrepresented, I cannot say that I feel disposed to intervene on his behalf.

I am ready to go great lengths in defence of freedom of discussion, but I decline to admit that rightful freedom is attacked, when a man is prevented from coarsely and brutally insulting his neighbours' honest beliefs.

I would rather make an effort to get legal penalties inflicted with equal rigour on some of the anti-scientific blasphemers—who are quite as coarse and unmannerly in their attacks on opinions worthy of all respect as Mr. Foote can possibly have been.

[The grand result of his determination not to compromise where truth was concerned, was the securing freedom of thought and speech. One man after another, looking back on his work, declares that if we can say what we think now, it is because he fought the battle of freedom. Not indeed the battle of toleration, if toleration means toleration of error for its own sake. Error, he thought, ought to be extirpated by all legitimate means, and not assisted because it is conscientiously held.

As Lord Hobhouse wrote, soon after his death:—

I see now many laudatory notices of him in papers. But I have not seen, and I think the younger men do not know, that which (apart from science) I should put forward as his strongest claim to reverence and gratitude; and that is the steadfast courage and consummate ability with which he fought the battle of intellectual freedom, and insisted that people should be allowed to speak their honest convictions without being oppressed or slandered by the orthodox. He was one of those, perhaps the very foremost, who won that priceless freedom for us; and, as is too common, people enter into the labours of the brave, and do not even know what their elders endured, or what has been done for themselves.

With this went a proud independence of spirit, intolerant of patronage, careless of titular honours, indifferent to the accumulation of worldly wealth. He cared little even for recognition of his work. "If I had 400 pounds a year" [A sum which might have supported a bachelor, but was entirely inadequate to the needs of a large family.], he exclaimed at the outset of his career, "I should be content to work anonymously for the advancement of science." The only recognition he considered worth having, was that of the scientific world; yet so little did he seek it, so little insist on questions of priority, that, as Professor Howes tells me, there are at South Kensington among the mass of unpublished drawings from dissections made by him, many which show that he had arrived at discoveries which afterwards brought credit to other investigators.

He was as ready to disclaim for himself any merits which really belonged to his predecessors, whether philosophical or scientific. He was too well read in their works not to be aware of the debt owed them by his own generation, and he reminded the world how little the scientific insight of Goethe, for instance, or the solid labours of Buffon or Reaumur or Lamarck, deserved oblivion.

The only point on which he did claim recognition was the honesty of his motives. He was incapable of doing anything underhand, and he could not bear even the appearance of such conduct towards his friends, or those with whom he had business relations. In such cases he always took the bull by the horns, acknowledged an oversight or explained what was capable of misunderstanding. The choice between Edward Forbes and Hooker for the Royal Society's medal, or the explanations to Mr. Spencer for not joining a social reform league of which the latter was a prominent member, will serve as instances.]

The most considerable difference I note among men [he wrote], is not in their readiness to fall into error, but in their readiness to acknowledge these inevitable lapses.

[For himself, he let no personal feelings stand in the way when fact negatived his theories: once convinced that they were untenable, he gave up Bathybius and the European origin of the Horse without hesitation.

The regard in which he was held by his friends was such that he was sometimes appealed to by both parties in a dispute. He was a man to be trusted with the confidence of his friends.] "Yes, you are quite right about 'loyal,'" [he writes to Mr. Knowles], "I love my friends and hate my enemies—which may not be in accordance with the Gospel, but I have found it a good wearing creed for honest men." [But he only regarded as "enemies" those whom he found to be double-dealers, shufflers, insincere, untrustworthy; a fair opponent he respected, and he could agree to differ with a friend without altering his friendship.

A lifelong impression of him was thus summed up by Dr. A.R. Wallace:—

I find that he was my junior by two years, yet he has always seemed to me to be the older, mainly no doubt, because from the very first time I saw him (now more than forty years ago), I recognised his vast superiority in ability, in knowledge, and in all those qualities that enable a man to take a foremost place in the world. I owe him thanks for much kindness and for assistance always cordially given, and although we had many differences of opinion, I never received from him a harsh or unkind word.

To those who could only judge him from his controversial literature, or from a formal business meeting, he often appeared hard and unsympathetic, but never to those who saw beneath the surface. In personal intercourse, if he disliked a man—and a strong individuality has strong likes and dislikes—he would merely veil his feelings under a superabundant politeness of the chilliest kind; but to any one admitted to his friendship he was sympathy itself. And thus, although I have heard him say that his friends, in the fullest sense of the word, could be reckoned on the fingers of one hand, the impression he made upon all who came within the circle of his friendship was such that quite a number felt themselves to possess his intimacy, and one wrote, after his death: "His many private friends are almost tempted to forget the public loss, in thinking of the qualities which so endeared him to them all."

Both the speculative and the practical sides of his intellect were strongly developed. On the one hand, he had an intense love of knowledge, the desire to attain true knowledge of facts, and to organise them in their true relations. His contributions to pure science never fail to illustrate both these tendencies. His earlier researches brought to light new facts in animal life, and new ideas as to the affinities of the creatures he studied; his later investigations were coloured by Darwin's views, and in return contributed no little direct evidence in favour of evolution. But while the progress of the evolution theory in England owed more to his clear and unwearied exposition than to any other cause, while from the first he had indicated the points, such as the causes of sterility and variation, which must be cleared up by further investigation in order to complete the Darwinian theory, he did not add another to the many speculations since put forward.

On the other hand, intense as was his love of pure knowledge, it was balanced by his unceasing desire to apply that knowledge in the guidance of life. Always feeling that science was not solely for the men of science, but for the people, his constant object was to help the struggling world to ideas which should help them to think truly and so to live rightly. It is still true, he declared, that the people perish for want of knowledge. "If I am to be remembered at all," he writes (see volume 2), "I should like to be remembered as one who did his best to help the people." And again, he says in his Autobiographical Sketch, that other marks of success were as nothing if he could hope that he "had somewhat helped that movement of opinion which has been called the New Reformation."

This kind of aim in his work, of taking up the most fruitful idea of his time and bringing it home to all, is typified by his remark as he entered New York harbour on his visit to America in 1876, and watched the tugs hard at work as they traversed the bay.] "If I were not a man," [he said], "I think I should like to be a tug."

[Two incidents may be cited to show that he did not entirely fail of appreciation among those whom he tried to help. Speaking of the year 1874, Professor Mivart writes ("Reminiscences of T.H. Huxley," "Nineteenth Century", December 1897.)

I recollect going with him and Mr. John Westlake, Q.C., to a meeting of artisans in the Blackfriars Road, to whom he gave a friendly address. He felt a strong interest in working-men, and was much beloved by them. On one occasion, having taken a cab home, on his arrival there, when he held out his fare to the cabman, the latter replied, "Oh no, Professor, I have had too much pleasure and profit from hearing you lecture to take any money from your pocket—proud to have driven you, sir!"

The other is from a letter to the "Pall Mall Gazette" of September 20, 1892, from Mr. Raymond Blaythwayt, on "The Uses of Sentiment":—

Only to-day I had a most striking instance of sentiment come beneath my notice. I was about to enter my house, when a plain, simply-dressed working-man came up to me with a note in his hand, and touching his hat, he said, "I think this is for you, sir," and then he added, "Will you give me the envelope, sir, as a great favour?" I looked at it, and seeing it bore the signature of Professor Huxley, I replied, "Certainly I will; but why do you ask for it?" "Well," said he, "it's got Professor Huxley's signature, and it will be something for me to show my mates and keep for my children. He have done me and my like a lot of good; no man more."

In practical administration, his judgment of men, his rapid perception of the essential points at issue, his observance of the necessary limits of official forms, combined with the greatest possible elasticity within these limits, made him extremely successful.

As Professor (writes the late Professor Jeffery Parker), Huxley's rule was characterised by what is undoubtedly the best policy for the head of a department. To a new subordinate, "The General," as he was always called, was rather stern and exacting, but when once he was convinced that his man was to be trusted, he practically let him take his own course; never interfered in matters of detail, accepted suggestions with the greatest courtesy and good humour, and was always ready with a kindly and humorous word of encouragement in times of difficulty. I was once grumbling to him about how hard it was to carry on the work of the laboratory through a long series of November fogs, "when neither sun nor stars in many days appeared."] "Never mind, Parker," [he said, instantly capping my quotation], "cast four anchors out of the stern and wish for day."

[Nothing, indeed, better illustrates this willingness to listen to suggested improvements than the inversion of the order of studies in the biological course which he inaugurated in 1872, namely, the substitution of the anatomy of a vertebrate for the microscopic examination of a unicellular organism as the opening study. This was entirely Parker's doing. "As one privileged at the time to play a minor part," writes Professor Howes ("Nature" January 6, 1898 page 228), "I well recall the determination in Parker's mind that the change was desirable, and in Huxley's, that it was not. Again and again did Parker appeal in vain, until at last, on the morning of October 2, 1878, he triumphed."

On his students he made a deep and lasting impression.

His lectures (writes Jeffery Parker) were like his writings, luminously clear, without the faintest disposition to descend to the level of his audience; eloquent, but with no trace of the empty rhetoric which so often does duty for that quality; full of a high seriousness, but with no suspicion of pedantry; lightened by an occasional epigram or flashes of caustic humour, but with none of the small jocularity in which it is such a temptation to a lecturer to indulge. As one listened to him one felt that comparative anatomy was indeed worthy of the devotion of a life, and that to solve a morphological problem was as fine a thing as to win a battle. He was an admirable draughtsman, and his blackboard illustrations were always a great feature of his lectures, especially when, to show the relation of two animal types, he would, by a few rapid strokes and smudges, evolve the one into the other before our eyes. He seemed to have a real affection for some of the specimens illustrating his lectures, and would handle them in a peculiarly loving manner; when he was lecturing on man, for instance, he would sometimes throw his arm over the shoulder of the skeleton beside him and take its hand, as if its silent companionship were an inspiration. To me his lectures before his small class at Jermyn Street or South Kensington were almost more impressive than the discourses at the Royal Institution, where for an hour and a half he poured forth a stream of dignified, earnest, sincere words in perfect literary form, and without the assistance of a note.

Another description is from the pen of an old pupil in the autumn of 1876, Professor H. Fairfield Osborn, of Columbia College:—

Huxley, as a teacher, can never be forgotten by any of his students. He entered the lecture-room promptly as the clock was striking nine (In most years the lectures began at ten.), rather quickly, and with his head bent forward "as if oppressive with its mind." He usually glanced attention to his class of about ninety, and began speaking before he reached his chair. He spoke between his lips, but with perfectly clear analysis, with thorough interest, and with philosophic insight which was far above the average of his students. He used very few charts, but handled the chalk with great skill, sketching out the anatomy of an animal as if it were a transparent object. As in Darwin's face, and as in Erasmus Darwin's or Buffon's, and many other anatomists with a strong sense of form, his eyes were heavily overhung by a projecting forehead and eyebrows, and seemed at times to look inward. His lips were firm and closely set, with the expression of positiveness, and the other feature which most marked him was the very heavy mass of hair falling over his forehead, which he would frequently stroke or toss back. Occasionally he would light up the monotony of anatomical description by a bit of humour.

Huxley was the father of modern laboratory instruction; but in 1879 he was so intensely engrossed with his own researches that he very seldom came through the laboratory, which was ably directed by T. Jeffery Parker, assisted by Howes and W. Newton Parker, all of whom are now professors, Howes having succeeded to Huxley's chair. Each visit, therefore, inspired a certain amount of terror, which was really unwarranted, for Huxley always spoke in the kindest tones to his students, although sometimes he could not resist making fun at their expense. There was an Irish student who sat in front of me, whose anatomical drawings in water-colour were certainly most remarkable productions. Huxley, in turning over his drawing-book, paused at a large blur, under which was carefully inscribed, "sheep's liver," and smilingly said], "I am glad to know that is a liver; it reminds me as much of Cologne cathedral in a fog as of anything I have ever seen before." [Fortunately the nationality of the student enabled him to fully appreciate the humour.

The same note is sounded in Professor Mivart's description of these lectures in his Reminiscences:—

The great value of Huxley's anatomical ideas, and the admirable clearness with which he explained them, led me in the autumn of 1861 to seek admission as a student to his course of lectures at the School of Mines in Jermyn Street. When I entered his small room there to make this request, he was giving the finishing touches to a dissection of part of the nervous system of a skate, worked out for the benefit of his students. He welcomed my application with the greatest cordiality, save that he insisted I should be only an honorary student, or rather, should assist at his lectures as a friend. I availed myself of his permission on the very next day, and subsequently attended almost all his lectures there and elsewhere, so that he one day said to me, "I shall call you my 'constant reader.'" To be such a reader was to me an inestimable privilege, and so I shall ever consider it. I have heard many men lecture, but I never heard any one lecture as did Professor Huxley. He was my very ideal of a lecturer. Distinct in utterance, with an agreeable voice, lucid as it was possible to be in exposition, with admirably chosen language, sufficiently rapid, yet never hurried, often impressive in manner, yet never otherwise than completely natural, and sometimes allowing his audience a glimpse of that rich fund of humour ever ready to well forth when occasion permitted, sometimes accompanied with an extra gleam in his bright dark eyes, sometimes expressed with a dryness and gravity of look which gave it a double zest.

I shall never forget the first time I saw him enter his lecture-room. He came in rapidly, yet without bustle, and as the clock struck, a brief glance at his audience and then at once to work. He had the excellent habit of beginning each lecture (save, of course, the first) with a recapitulation of the main points of the preceding one. The course was amply illustrated by excellent coloured diagrams, which, I believe, he had made; but still more valuable were the chalk sketches he would draw on the blackboard with admirable facility, while he was talking, his rapid, dexterous strokes quickly building up an organism in our minds, simultaneously through ear and eye. The lecture over, he was ever ready to answer questions, and I often admired his patience in explaining points which there was no excuse for any one not having understood.

Still more was I struck with the great pleasure which he showed when he saw that some special points of his teaching had not only been comprehended, but had borne fruit, by their suggestiveness in an appreciative mind.

To one point I desire specially to bear witness. There were persons who dreaded sending young men to him, fearing lest their young friends' religious beliefs should be upset by what they might hear said. For years I attended his lectures, but never once did I hear him make use of his position as a teacher to inculcate, or even hint at, his own theological views, or to depreciate or assail what might be supposed to be the religion of his hearers. No one could have behaved more loyally in that respect, and a proof that I thought so is that I subsequently sent my own son to be his pupil at South Kensington, where his experience confirmed what had previously been my own.

As to science, I learnt more from him in two years than I had acquired in any previous decade of biological study.

The picture is completed by Professor Howes in the "Students' Magazine" of the Royal College of Science:—

As a class lecturer Huxley was facile princeps, and only those who were privileged to sit under him can form a conception of his delivery. Clear, deliberate, never hesitant nor unduly emphatic, never repetitional, always logical, his every word told. Great, however, as were his class lectures, his working-men's were greater. Huxley was a firm believer in the "distillatio per ascensum" of scientific knowledge and culture, and spared no pains in approaching the artisan and so-called "working classes." He gave the workmen of his best. The substance of his "Man's Place in Nature", one of the most successful and popular of his writings, and of his "Crayfish", perhaps the most perfect zoological treatise ever published, was first communicated to them. In one of the last conversations I had with him, I asked his views on the desirability of discontinuing the workmen's lectures at Jermyn Street, since the development of working-men's colleges and institutes is regarded by some to have rendered their continuance unnecessary. He replied, almost with indignation], "With our central situation and resources, we ought to be in a position to give the workmen that which they cannot get elsewhere," [adding that he would deeply deplore any such discontinuance.

And now, a word or two concerning Huxley's personal conduct towards his pupils, hearers, and subordinates.

As an examiner he was most just, aiming only to ascertain the examinee's knowledge of fundamentals, his powers of work, and the manner in which he had been taught. A country school lad came near the boundary line in the examination; though generally weak, his worst fault was a confusion of the parts of the heart. In his description of that organ he had transposed the valves. On appeal, Huxley let him through, observing, most characteristically, "Poor little beggar, I never got them correctly myself until I reflected that a bishop was never in the right." (The "mitral" valve being on the left side.) Again, a student of more advanced years, of the "mugging" type, who had come off with flying colours in an elementary examination, showed signs of uneasiness as the advanced one approached. "Stick an observation into him," said Huxley. It was stuck, and acted like a stiletto, a jump into the air and utter collapse being the result.

With his hearers Huxley was most sympathetic. He always assumed absolute ignorance on their part, and took nothing for granted. (This was a maxim on lecturing, adopted from Faraday.) When time permitted, he would remain after a lecture to answer questions; and in connection with his so doing his wonderful power of gauging and rising to a situation, once came out most forcibly. Turning to a student, he asked, "Well, I hope you understood it all." "All, sir, but one part, during which you stood between me and the blackboard," was the reply: the rejoinder, "I did my best to make myself clear, but could not render myself transparent." Quick of comprehension and of action, he would stand no nonsense. The would-be teacher who, wholly unfitted by nature for educational work, was momentarily dismissed, realised this, let us hope to his advantage. And the man suspected of taking notes of Huxley's lectures for publication unauthorised, probably learned the lesson of his life, on being reminded that, in the first place, a lecture was the property of the person who delivered it, and, in the second, he was not the first person who had mistaken aspiration for inspiration.

Though candid, Huxley was never unkind...

Huxley never forgot a kindly action, never forsook a friend, nor allowed a labour to go unrewarded. In testimony to his sympathy to those about him and his self-sacrifice for the cause of science, it may be stated that in the old days, when the professors took the fees and disbursed the working expenses of the laboratories, he, doing this at a loss, would refund the fees of students whose position, from friendship or special circumstances, was exceptional.

As for his lectures and addresses to the public, they used to be thronged by crowds of attentive listeners.

Huxley's public addresses (writes Professor Osborn) always gave me the impression of being largely impromptu; but he once told me: "I always think out carefully every word I am going to say. There is no greater danger than the so-called INSPIRATION OF THE MOMENT, which leads you to say something which is not exactly true, or which you would regret afterwards."

Mr. G.W. Smalley has also left a striking description of him as a lecturer in the seventies and early eighties.

I used always to admire the simple and business-like way in which Huxley made his entry on great occasions. He hated anything like display, and would have none of it. At the Royal Institution, more than almost anywhere else, the lecturer, on whom the concentric circles of spectators in their steep amphitheatre look down, focuses the gaze. Huxley never seemed aware that anybody was looking at him. From self-consciousness he was, here as elsewhere, singularly free, as from self-assertion. He walked in through the door on the left, as if he were entering his own laboratory. In these days he bore scarcely a mark of age. He was in the full vigour of manhood and looked the man he was. Faultlessly dressed—the rule in the Royal Institution is evening costume—with a firm step and easy bearing, he took his place apparently without a thought of the people who were cheering him. To him it was an anniversary. He looked, and he probably was, the master. Surrounded as he was by the celebrities of science and the ornaments of London drawing-rooms, there was none who had quite the same kind of intellectual ascendancy which belonged to him. The square forehead, the square jaw, the tense lines of the mouth, the deep flashing dark eyes, the impression of something more than strength he gave you, an impression of sincerity, of solid force, of immovability, yet with the gentleness arising from the serene consciousness of his strength—all this belonged to Huxley and to him alone. The first glance magnetised his audience. The eyes were those of one accustomed to command, of one having authority, and not fearing on occasion to use it. The hair swept carelessly away from the broad forehead and grew rather long behind, yet the length did not suggest, as it often does, effeminacy. He was masculine in everything—look, gesture, speech. Sparing of gesture, sparing of emphasis, careless of mere rhetorical or oratorical art, he had nevertheless the secret of the highest art of all, whether in oratory or whatever else—he had simplicity. The force was in the thought and the diction, and he needed no other. The voice was rather deep, low, but quite audible, at times sonorous, and always full. He used the chest-notes. His manner here, in the presence of this select and rather limited audience—for the theatre of the Royal Institution holds, I think, less than a thousand people—was exactly the same as before a great company whom he addressed at [Liverpool], as President of the British Association for the Advancement of Science. I remember going late to that, and having to sit far back, yet hearing every word easily; and there too the feeling was the same, that he had mastered his audience, taken possession of them, and held them to the end in an unrelaxing grip, as a great actor at his best does. There was nothing of the actor about him, except that he knew how to stand still, but masterful he ever was.

Up to the time of his last illness, he regularly breakfasted at eight, and avoided, as far as possible, going out to that meal, a "detestable habit" as he called it, which put him off for the whole day. He left the house about nine, and from that time till midnight at earliest was incessantly busy. His regular lectures involved an immensity of labour, for he would never make a statement in them which he had not personally verified by experiment. In the Jermyn Street days he habitually made preparations to illustrate the points on which he was lecturing, for his students had no laboratory in which to work out the things for themselves. His lectures to working-men also involved as much careful preparation as the more conspicuous discourses at the Royal Institution.

This thoroughness of preparation had no less effect on the teacher than on the taught. He writes to an old pupil:—]

It is pleasant when the "bread cast upon the water" returns after many days; and if the crumbs given in my lectures have had anything to do with the success on which I congratulate you, I am very glad.

I used to say of my own lectures that if nobody else learned anything from them, I did; because I always took a great deal of pains over them. But it is none the less satisfactory to find that there WERE other learners.

[As for the ordinary course of a day's work, the more fitful energy and useless mornings of the earliest period in London were soon left behind. He was never one of those portentously early risers who do a fair day's work before other people are up; there was only one period, about 1873, when he had to be specially careful of his health, and, under Sir Andrew Clark's regime, took riding exercise for an hour each day before starting for South Kensington, that he records the fact of doing any work before breakfast, and that was letter-writing.

Much of the day during the session, and still more when his lectures were over, would thus be spent in original research, or in the examination and description of fossils in his official duty as Paleontologist to the Survey. As often as not, there would be a sitting of some Royal Commission to attend; committees of some learned society; meetings or dinners in the evening; if not, there would be an article to write or proofs to correct. Indeed, the greater part of the work by which the world knows him best was done after dinner, and after a long day's work in the lecture-room and laboratory.

He possessed a wonderful faculty for tearing out the heart of a book, reading it through at a gallop, but knowing what it said on all the points that interested him. Of verbal memory he had very little; in spite of all his reading I do not believe he knew half a dozen consecutive lines of poetry by heart. What he did know was the substance of what an author had written; how it fitted into his own scheme of knowledge; and where to find any point again when he wished to cite it.

In his biological studies his immense knowledge was firmly fixed in his mind by practical investigation; as is said above, he would take at second hand nothing for which he vouched in his teaching, and was always ready to repeat for himself the experiments of others, which determined questions of interest to him. The citations, analyses, maps, with which he frequently accompanied his reading, were all part of the same method of acquiring facts and setting them in order within his mind. So careful, indeed, was he in giving nothing at second hand, that one of his scientific friends reproached him with wasting his time upon unnecessary scientific work, to which competent investigators had already given the stamp of their authority. "Poor—," was his comment afterwards, "if that is his own practice, his work will never live." On the literary side, he was omnivorous—consuming everything, as Mr. Spencer put it, from fairy tales to the last volume on metaphysics.

Unlike Darwin, to whom scientific research was at length the only thing engrossing enough to make him oblivious of his never-ending ill-health, to the gradual exclusion of other interests, literary and artistic, Huxley never lost his delight in literature or in art. He had a keen eye for a picture or a piece of sculpture, for, in addition to the draughtsman's and anatomist's sense of form, he had a strong sense of colour. To good music he was always susceptible. (To one breaking in upon him at certain afternoon hours in his room at South Kensington, "a whiff of the pipe" (writes Professor Howes), "and a snatch of some choice melody or a Bach's fugue, were the not infrequent welcome.") He played no instrument; as a young man, however, he used to sing a little, but his voice, though true, was never strong. But he had small leisure to devote to art. On his holidays he would sometimes sketch with a firm and rapid touch. His illustrations to the "Cruise of the Rattlesnake" show what his untrained capacities were. But to go to a concert or opera was rare after middle life; to go to the theatre rarer still, much as he appreciated a good play. His time was too deeply mortgaged; and in later life, the deafness which grew upon him added a new difficulty.

In poetry he was sensitive both to matter and form. One school of modern poetry he dismissed as "sensuous caterwauling": a busy man, time and patience failed him to wade through the trivial discursiveness of so much of Wordsworth's verse; thus unfortunately he never realised the full value of a poet in whom the mass of ore bears so large a proportion to the pure metal. Shelley was too diffuse to be among his first favourites; but for simple beauty, Keats; for that, and for the comprehension of the meaning of modern science, Tennyson; for strength and feeling, Browning as represented by his earlier poems—these were the favourites among the moderns. He knew his eighteenth-century classics, but knew better his Milton and his Shakespeare, to whom he turned with ever-increasing satisfaction, as men do who have lived a full life.

His early acquaintance with German had given him a lasting admiration of the greatest representatives of German literature, Goethe above all, in whose writings he found a moral grandeur to be ranked with that of the Hebrew prophets. Eager to read Dante in the original, he spent much of his leisure on board the "Rattlesnake" in making out the Italian with the aid of a dictionary, and in this way came to know the beauties of the "Divina Commedia". On the other hand, it was a scientific interest which led him in later life to take up his Greek, though one use he put it to was to read Homer in the original.

Though he was a great novel-reader, and, as he grew older, would always have a novel ready to take up for a while in the evening, his chief reading, in German and French as well as English, was philosophy and history.

His recreations were, as a rule, literary, and consisted in a change of mental occupation. The only times I can remember his playing an outdoor game are in the late sixties, when he started his elder children at cricket on the common at Littlehampton, and in 1871 when he played golf at St. Andrews. When first married, he promised his wife to reserve Saturday afternoons for recreation, and constantly went with her to the Ella concerts. About 1861 she urged him to take exercise by joining Mr. Herbert Spencer at racquets; but the pressure of work before long absorbed all his time. In his youth he was extremely fond of chess, and played eagerly with his fellow-students at Charing Cross Hospital or with his messmates on board the "Rattlesnake". But after he taught me the game, somewhere about 1869 or 1870, I do not think he ever found time for it again.

His principal exercise was walking during the holidays. In his earlier days especially, when overwrought by the stress of his life in London, he used to go off with a friend for a week's walking tour in Wales or the Lakes, in Brittany or the Eifel country, or in summer for a longer trip to Switzerland. In this way he "burnt up the waste products," as he would say, of his town life, and came back fresh for a new spell of unintermittent work.

But on the whole, the amount of exercise he took was insufficient for his bodily needs. Even the riding prescribed for him when he first broke down, became irksome, and was not continued very long, although his bodily machine was such as could only be kept in perfect working order by more exercise than he would give. His physique was not adapted to burn up the waste without special stimulus. I remember once, as he and I were walking up Beachy Head, we passed a man with a splendid big chest. "Ah," said my father regretfully, "if I had only had a chest like that, what a lot of work I could have done."

When, in 1872, he built his new house in Marlborough Place, my father bargained for two points; one, that each member of the family should have a corner of his or her own, where, as he used to say, it would be possible to "consume their own smoke"; the other, that the common living-rooms should be of ample size. Thus from 1874 onwards he was enabled to see something of his many friends who would come as far as St. John's Wood on a Sunday evening. No formal invitation for a special day was needed. The guests came, before supper or after, sometimes more, sometimes fewer, as on any ordinary at-home day. There was a simple informal meal at 6.30 or 7 o'clock, which called itself by no more dignified name than high tea—was, in fact, a cold supper with varying possibilities in the direction of dinner or tea. It was a chance medley of old and young—friends of the parents and friends of the children, but all ultimately centring round the host himself, whose end of the table never flagged for conversation, grave or gay.

Afterwards talk would go on in the drawing-room, or, on warm summer evenings, in the garden—nothing very extensive, but boasting a lawn with an old apple-tree at the further end, and in the borders such flowers and trees as endure London air. Later on, there was almost sure to be some music, to which my father himself was devoted. His daughters sang; a musical friend would be there; Mr. Herbert Spencer, a frequent visitor, was an authority on music. Once only do I recollect any other form of entertainment, and that was an occasion when Sir Henry Irving, then not long established at the Lyceum, was present and recited "Eugene Aram" with great effect.

In his "London Letters" Mr. G.W. Smalley has recorded his impressions of these evenings (Another interesting account from the same pen is to be found in the article "Mr. Huxley," Scribner's Magazine, October 1895.), at which he was often present:—

There used to be Sunday evening dinners and parties in Marlborough Place, to which people from many other worlds than those of abstract science were bidden; where talk was to be heard of a kind rare in any world. It was scientific at times, but subdued to the necessities of the occasion; speculative, yet kept within such bounds that bishop or archbishop might have listened without offence; political even, and still not commonplace; literary without pretence, and when artistic, free from affectation.

There and elsewhere Mr. Huxley easily took the lead if he cared to, or if challenged. Nobody was more ready in a greater variety of topics, and if they were scientific it was almost always another who introduced them. Unlike some of his comrades of the Royal Society, he was of opinion that man does not live by science alone, and nothing came amiss to him. All his life long he has been in the front of the battle that has raged between science and—not religion, but theology in its more dogmatic form. Even in private the alarm of war is sometimes heard, and Mr. Huxley is not a whit less formidable as a disputant across the table than with pen in hand. Yet an angry man must be very angry indeed before he could be angry with this adversary. He disarmed his enemies with an amiable grace that made defeat endurable if not entirely delightful.

As for his method of handling scientific subjects in conversation:—

He has the same quality, the same luminous style of exposition, with which his printed books have made all readers in America and England familiar. Yet it has more than that. You cannot listen to him without thinking more of the speaker than of his science, more of the solid beautiful nature than of the intellectual gifts, more of his manly simplicity and sincerity than of all his knowledge and his long services.

But his personality left the deepest impression, perhaps, upon those who studied under him and worked with him longest, before taking their place elsewhere in the front ranks of biological science.

With him (Professor A. Hubrecht (Of Utrecht University.) writes), we his younger disciples, always felt that in acute criticism and vast learning nobody surpassed him, but still what we yet more admired than his learning was his wisdom. It was always a delight to read any new article or essay from his pen, but it was an ever so much higher delight to hear him talk for five minutes. His was the most beautiful and the most manly intellect I ever knew of.

So, too, Professor E. Ray Lankester:—

There has been no man or woman whom I have met on my journey through life, whom I have loved and regarded as I have him, and I feel that the world has shrunk and become a poor thing, now that his splendid spirit and delightful presence are gone from it. Ever since I was a little boy he has been my ideal and hero.

While the late Jeffery Parker concludes his Recollections with these words:—

Whether a professor is usually a hero to his demonstrator I cannot say; I only know that, looking back across an interval of many years and a distance of half the circumference of the globe, I have never ceased to be impressed with the manliness and sincerity of his character, his complete honesty of purpose, his high moral standard, his scorn of everything mean or shifty, his firm determination to speak what he held to be truth at whatever cost of popularity. And for these things "I loved the man, and do honour to his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any."

Even those who scarcely knew him apart from his books, underwent the influence of that "determination to speak what he held to be truth." I may perhaps be allowed to quote in illustration two passages from letters to myself—one written by a woman, the other by a man:—

"'The surest-footed guide' is exactly true, to my feeling. Everybody else, among the great, used to disappoint one somewhere. He—never!"

"He was so splendidly brave that one can never repay one's debt to him for his example. He made all pretence about religious belief, and the kind of half-thinking things out, and putting up in a slovenly way with half-formed conclusions, seem the base thing which it really is."

CHAPTER 3.16.

1895.

[I have often regretted that I did not regularly take notes of my father's conversation, which was striking, not so much for the manner of it—though that was at once copious and crisp,—as for the strength and substance of what he said. Yet the striking fact, the bit of philosophy, the closely knitted argument, were perfectly unstudied, and as in other most interesting talkers, dropped into the flow of conversation as naturally as would the more ordinary experiences of less richly stored minds.

However, in January 1895 I was staying at Eastbourne, and jotted down several fragments of talk as nearly as I could recollect them. Conversation not immediately noted down I hardly dare venture upon, save perhaps such an unforgettable phrase as this, which I remember his using one day as we walked on the hills near Great Hampden]:—"It is one of the most saddening things in life that, try as we may, we can never be certain of making people happy, whereas we can almost always be certain of making them unhappy."

[JANUARY 16.

At lunch he spoke of Dr. Louis Robinson's experiments upon simian characteristics in new-born children. He himself had called attention before to the incurved feet of infants, but the power of hanging by the hands was a new and important discovery. (Professor H.F. Osborn tells this story of his:—"When a fond mother calls upon me to admire her baby, I never fail to respond; and while cooing appropriately, I take advantage of an opportunity to gently ascertain whether the soles of its feet turn in, and tend to support my theory of arboreal descent.")

He expressed his disgust with a certain member of the Psychical Research Society for his attitude towards spiritualism]: "He doesn't believe in it, yet lends it the cover of his name. He is one of the people who talk of the 'possibility' of the thing, who think the difficulties of disproving a thing as good as direct evidence in its favour."

[He thought it hard to be attacked for] "the contempt of the man of science" [when he was dragged into debate by Mr. Andrew Lang's "Cock Lane and Common Sense", he saying in a very polite letter}: "I am content to leave Mr. Lang the Cock Lane Ghost if I may keep common sense." "After all," [he added], "when a man has been through life and made his judgments, he must have come to a decision that there are some subjects it is not worth while going into."

JANUARY 18.

I referred to an article in the last "Nineteenth Century", and he said]:—"As soon as I saw it, I wrote, 'Knowles, my friend, you don't draw me this time. If a man goes on attributing statements to me which I have shown over and over again—giving chapter and verse—to be the contrary of what I did say, it is no good saying any more.'"

[But would not this course of silence leave the mass of the British public believing the statements of the writer?]

"The mass of the public will believe in ten years precisely the opposite of what they believe now. If a man is not a fool, it does him no harm to be believed one. If he really is a fool, it does matter. There never was book so derided and scoffed at as my first book, "Man's Place in Nature", but it was true, and I don't know I was any the worse for the ridicule.

"People call me fond of controversy, but, as a fact, for the last twenty years at all events, I have never entered upon a controversy without some further purpose in view. As to Gladstone and his "Impregnable Rock", it wasn't worth attacking them for themselves; but it was most important at that moment to shake him in the minds of sensible men.

"The movement of modern philosophy is back towards the position of the old Ionian philosophers, but strengthened and clarified by sound scientific ideas. If I publish my criticism on Comte, I should have to re-write it as a summary of philosophical ideas from the earliest times. The thread of philosophical development is not on the lines usually laid down for it. It goes from Democritus and the rest to the Epicureans, and then the Stoics, who tried to reconcile it with popular theological ideas, just as was done by the Christian Fathers. In the Middle Ages it was entirely lost under the theological theories of the time; but reappeared with Spinoza, who, however, muddled it up with a lot of metaphysics which made him almost unintelligible.

"Plato was the founder of all the vague and unsound thinking that has burdened philosophy, deserting facts for possibilities, and then, after long and beautiful stories of what might be, telling you he doesn't quite believe them himself.

"A certain time since it was heresy to breathe a word against Plato; but I have a nice story of Sir Henry Holland. He used to have all the rising young men to breakfast, and turn out their latest ideas. One morning I went to breakfast with him, and we got into very intimate conversation, when he wound up by saying, 'In my opinion, Plato was an ass! But don't tell any one I said so.'"

We talked on geographical teaching; he began by insisting on the need of a map of the earth (on the true scale) showing the insignificance of all elevations and depressions on the surface. Secondly, one should take any place as centre, and draw about it circles of 50 or 100 miles radius, and see what lies within them; and note the extent of the influence exerted by the central point. At the same time, one should always compare the British Isles to scale. For instance, the Aegean is about as big as Britain; while the smallness of Judaea is remarkable. After the Exile, the Jewish part was about as big as the county of Gloucester. How few boys realise this, though they are taught classical geography.

"The real chosen people were the Greeks. One of the most remarkable things about them is not only the smallness, but the late rise of Attica, whereas Magna Graecia flourished in the eighth century. The Greeks were doing everything—piracy, trade, fighting, expelling the Persians. Never was there so large a number of self-governing communities.

"They fell short of the Jews in morality. How curious is the tolerant attitude of Socrates, like a modern man of the world talking to a young fellow who runs after the girls. The Jew, however he fell short in other respects, set himself a certain standard in cleanliness of life, and would not fall below it. The more creditable to him, because these vices were the offspring of the Semitic races among whom the Jew lived.

"There is a curious similarity between the position of the Jew in ancient times and what it is now. They were procurers and usurers among the Gentiles, yet many of them were singularly high-minded and pure. All too with an intense clannishness, the secret of their success, and a sense of superiority to the Gentile which would prevent the meanest Jew from sitting at table with a proconsul.

"The most remarkable achievement of the Jew was to impose on Europe for eighteen centuries his own superstitions—his ideas of the supernatural. Jahveh was no more than Zeus or Milcom; yet the Jew got established the belief in the inspiration of his Bible and his Law. If I were a Jew, I should have the same contempt as he has for the Christian who acted in this way towards me, who took my ideas and scorned me for clinging to them."

[January 21.

Yesterday evening he again declared that it was very hard for a man of peace like himself to have been dragged into so many controversies.] "I declare that for the last twenty years I have never attacked, but always fought in self-defence, counting Darwin, of course, as part of myself, for dear Darwin never could nor would defend himself. Before that, I admit I attacked —, but I could not trust the man." [A pause.] "No, there was one other case, when I attacked without being directly assailed, and that was Gladstone. But it was good for other reasons. It has always astonished me how a man after fifty or sixty years of life among men could be so ignorant of the best way to handle his materials. If he had only read Dana, he would have found his case much better stated than ever he stated it. He seemed never to have read the leading authorities on his own side."

[Speaking of the hesitation shown by the Senate of London University in grappling with a threatened obstacle to reform, he remarked]: "It is very strange how most men will do anything to evade responsibility."

[January 23.

At dinner the talk turned on plays. Mr. H.A. Jones had sent him "Judah", which he thought good, though] "there must be some hostility—except in the very greatest writers—between the dramatic and the literary faculties. I noticed many points I objected to, but felt sure they met with applause. Indeed in the theatre I have noticed that what I thought the worst blots on a piece invariably brought down the house."

[He remarked how the French, in dramatic just as in artistic matters, are so much better than the English in composition, in avoiding anything slipshod in the details, though the English artists draw just as well and colour perhaps better.

The following sketch of human character is not actually a fragment of conversation, though it might almost pass for such; it comes from a letter to Mrs. W.K. Clifford, of February 10, 1895:—]

Men, my dear, are very queer animals, a mixture of horse-nervousness, ass-stubbornness and camel-malice—with an angel bobbing about unexpectedly like the apple in the posset, and when they can do exactly as they please, they are very hard to drive.

[Whatever he talked of, his talk never failed to impress those who conversed with him. One or two such impressions have been recorded. Mr. Wilfrid Ward, whose interests lie chiefly in philosophy and theology, was his neighbour at Eastbourne, and in the "Nineteenth Century" for August 1896 has given various reminiscences of their friendly intercourse.

His conversation (he writes) was singularly finished, and (if I may so express it) clean cut; never long-winded or prosy; enlivened by vivid illustrations. He was an excellent raconteur, and his stories had a stamp of their own which would have made them always and everywhere acceptable. His sense of humour and economy of words would have made it impossible, had he lived to ninety, that they should ever have been disparaged as symptoms of what has been called "anecdotage."

One drawback to conversation, however, he began to complain of during the later seventies.]

It is a great misfortune [he remarked to Professor Osborn] to be deaf in only one ear. Every time I dine out the lady sitting by my good ear thinks I am charming, but I make a mortal enemy of the lady on my deaf side.

[In ordinary conversation he never plunged at once into deep subjects. His welcome to the newcomer was always of the simplest and most unstudied. He had no mannerisms nor affectation of phrase. He would begin at once to talk on everyday topics; an intimate friend he would perhaps rally upon some standing subject of persiflage. But the subsequent course of conversation adapted itself to his company. Deeper subjects were reached soon enough by those who cared for them; with others he was quite happy to talk of politics or people or his garden, yet, whatever he touched, never failing to infuse into it an unexpected interest.

In this connection, a typical story was told me by a great friend of mine, whom we had come to know through his marriage with an early friend of the family. "Going to call at Hodeslea," he said, "I was in some trepidation, because I didn't know anything about science or philosophy; but when your mother began to talk over old times with my wife, your father came across the room and sat down by me, and began to talk about the dog which we had brought with us. From that he got on to the different races of dogs and their origin and connections, all quite simply, and not as though to give information, but just to talk about something which obviously interested me. I shall never forget how extraordinarily kind it was of your father to take all this trouble in entertaining a complete stranger, and choosing a subject which put me at my ease at once, while he told me all manner of new and interesting things."

A few more fragments of his conversation have been preserved—the following by Mr. Wilfrid Ward. Speaking of Tennyson's conversation, he said:—

Doric beauty is its characteristic—perfect simplicity, without any ornament or anything artificial.

Telling how he had been to a meeting of the British Museum Trustees, he said:—]

After the meeting, Archbishop Benson helped me on with my great-coat. I was QUITE OVERCOME by this species of spiritual investiture. "Thank you, Archbishop," I said, "I feel as if I were receiving the pallium."

[Speaking of two men of letters, with neither of whom he sympathised, he once said:—]

Don't mistake me. One is a thinker and man of letters, the other is only a literary man. Erasmus was a man of letters, Gigadibs a literary man. A.B. is the incarnation of Gigadibs. I should call him Gigadibsius Optimus Maximus.

[Another time, referring to Dean Stanley's historical impressionability, as militating against his sympathies with Colenso, he said:—]

Stanley could believe in anything of which he had seen the supposed site, but was sceptical where he had not seen. At a breakfast at Monckton Milnes's, just at the time of the Colenso row, Milnes asked me my views on the Pentateuch, and I gave them. Stanley differed from me. The account of Creation in Genesis he dismissed at once as unhistorical; but the call of Abraham, and the historical narrative of the Pentateuch, he accepted. This was because he had seen Palestine—but he wasn't present at the Creation.

[When he and Stanley met, there was sure to be a brisk interchange of repartee. One of these occasions, a ballot day at the Athenaeum, has been recorded by the late Sir W.H. Flower:—

A well-known popular preacher of the Scotch Presbyterian Church, who had made himself famous by predictions of the speedy coming of the end of the world, was up for election. I was standing by Huxley when the Dean, coming straight from the ballot boxes, turned towards us.] "Well," [said Huxley], "have you been voting for C.?" ["Yes, indeed I have," replied the Dean.] "Oh, I thought the priests were always opposed to the prophets," [said Huxley.] "Ah!" replied the Dean, with that well-known twinkle in his eye, and the sweetest of smiles, "but you see, I do not believe in his prophecies, and some people say I am not much of a priest."

A few words as to his home life may perhaps be fitly introduced here. Towards his children he had the same union of underlying tenderness veiled beneath inflexible determination for what was right, which marked his intercourse with those outside his family.

As children we were fully conscious of this side of his character. We felt our little hypocrisies shrivel up before him; we felt a confidence in the infallible rectitude of his moral judgments which inspired a kind of awe. His arbitrament was instant and final, though rarely invoked, and was perhaps the more tremendous in proportion to its rarity. This aspect, as if of an oracle without appeal, was heightened in our minds by the fact that we saw but little of him. This was one of the penalties of his hard-driven existence. In the struggle to keep his head above water for the first fifteen or twenty years of his married life, he had scarcely any time to devote to his children. The "lodger," as he used to call himself at one time, who went out early and came back late, could sometimes spare half an hour just before or after dinner to draw wonderful pictures for the little ones, and these were memorable occasions. I remember that he used to profess a horror of being too closely watched, or of receiving suggestions, while he drew. "Take care, take care," he would exclaim, "or I don't know what it will turn into."

When I was seven years old I had the misfortune to be laid up with scarlet fever, and then his gift of drawing was a great solace to me. The solitary days—for I was the first victim in the family—were very long, and I looked forward with intense interest to one half-hour after dinner, when he would come up and draw scenes from the history of a remarkable bull-terrier and his family that went to the seaside, in a most human and child-delighting manner. I have seldom suffered a greater disappointment than when, one evening, I fell asleep just before this fairy half-hour, and lost it out of my life.

In those days he often used to take the three eldest of us out for a walk on Sunday afternoons, sometimes to the Zoological Gardens, more often to the lanes and fields between St. John's Wood and Hampstead or West End. For then the flood of bricks and mortar ceased on the Finchley Road just beyond the Swiss Cottage, and the West End Lane, winding solitary between its high hedges and rural ditches, was quite like a country road in holiday time, and was sometimes gladdened in June with real dog-roses, although the church and a few houses had already begun to encroach on the open fields at the end of the Abbey Road.

My father often used to delight us with sea stories and tales of animals, and occasionally with geological sketches suggested by the gravels of Hampstead Heath. But regular "shop" he would not talk to us, contrary to the expectation of people who have often asked me whether we did not receive quite a scientific training from his companionship.

At the Christmas dinner he invariably delighted the children by carving wonderful beasts, generally pigs, out of orange peel. When the marriage of his eldest daughter had taken her away from this important function, she was sent the best specimen as a reminder.]

4 Marlborough Place, December 25, 1878.

Dearest Jess,

We have just finished the mid-day Christmas dinner, at which function you were badly wanted. The inflammation of the pudding was highly successful—in fact Vesuvian not to say Aetnaic—and I have never yet attained so high a pitch in piggygenesis as on this occasion.

The specimen I enclose, wrapped in a golden cerecloth, and with the remains of his last dinner in the proper region, will prove to you the heights to which the creative power of the true artist may soar. I call it a "Piggurne, or a Harmony in Orange and White."

Preserve it, my dear child, as evidence of the paternal genius, when those light and fugitive productions which are buried in the philosophical transactions and elsewhere are forgotten.

My best wishes to Fred and you, and may you succeed better than I do in keeping warm.

Ever your loving father,

T.H. Huxley.

[Later on, however, the younger children who kept up the home at Marlborough Place after the elder ones had married or gone out into the world, enjoyed more opportunities of his ever-mellowing companionship. Strongly as he upheld the conventions when these represented some valid results of social experience, he was always ready to set aside his mere likes and dislikes on good cause shown; to follow reason as against the mere prejudice of custom, even his own.

Severe he might be on occasion, but never harsh. His idea in bringing up his children was to accustom them as early as possible to a certain amount of independence, at the same time trying to make them regard him as their best friend.

This aspect of his character is specially touched upon by Sir Leslie Stephen, in a letter written to my mother in July 1895:—

No one, I think, could have more cordially admired Huxley's intellectual vigour and unflinching honesty than I. It pleases me to remember that I lately said something of this to him, and that he received what I said most heartily and kindly. But what now dwells most in my mind is the memory of old kindness, and of the days when I used to see him with you and his children. I may safely say that I never came from your house without thinking how good he is; what a tender and affectionate nature the man has! It did me good simply to see him. The recollection is sweet to me now, and I rejoice to think how infinitely better you know what I must have been dull indeed not more or less to perceive.

As he wrote to his son on his twenty-first birthday:—]

You will have a son some day yourself, I suppose, and if you do, I can wish you no greater satisfaction than to be able to say that he has reached manhood without having given you a serious anxiety, and that you can look forward with entire confidence to his playing the man in the battle of life. I have tried to make you feel your responsibilities and act independently as early as possible—but, once for all, remember that I am not only your father but your nearest friend, ready to help you in all things reasonable, and perhaps in a few unreasonable.

[This domestic happiness which struck others so forcibly was one of the vital realities of his existence. Without it his quick spirit and nervous temperament could never have endured the long and often embittered struggle—not merely with equanimity, but with a constant growth of sympathy for earnest humanity, which, in early days obscured from view by the turmoil of strife, at length became apparent to all as the tide of battle subsided. None realised more than himself what the sustaining help and comradeship of married life had wrought for him, alike in making his life worth living and in making his life's work possible. Here he found the pivot of his happiness and his strength; here he recognised to the full the care that took upon itself all possible burdens and left his mind free for his greater work.

He had always a great tenderness for children. "One of my earliest recollections of him," writes Jeffery Parker, "is in connection with a letter he wrote to my father, on the occasion of the death, in infancy, of one of my brothers. 'Why,' he wrote, 'did you not tell us before that the child was named after me, that we might have made his short life happier by a toy or two.' I never saw a man more crushed than he was during the dangerous illness of one of his daughters, and he told me that, having then to make an after-dinner speech, he broke down for the first time in his life, and for one painful moment forgot where he was and what he had to say. I can truly say that I never knew a man whose way of speaking of his family, or whose manner in his own home, was fuller of a noble, loving, and withal playful courtesy."

After he had retired to Eastbourne, his grandchildren reaped the benefit of his greater leisure. In his age his love of children brimmed over with undiminished force, unimpeded by circumstances. He would make endless fun with them, until one little mite, on her first visit, with whom her grandfather was trying to ingratiate himself with a vast deal of nonsense, exclaimed: "Well, you are the curioustest old man I ever seen."

Another, somewhat older, developed a great liking for astronomy under her grandfather's tuition. One day a visitor, entering unexpectedly, was astonished to find the pair of them kneeling on the floor in the hall before a large sheet of paper, on which the professor was drawing a diagram of the solar system on a large scale, with a little pellet and a large ball to represent earth and sun, while the child was listening with the closest attention to an account of the planets and their movements, which he knew so well how to make simple and precise without ever being dull.

Children seemed to have a natural confidence in the expression of mingled power and sympathy which, especially in his later years, irradiated his "square, wise, swarthy face" ("There never was a face, I do believe" (wrote Sir Walter Besant of the portrait by John Collier), "wiser, more kindly, more beautiful for wisdom and the kindliness of it, than this of Huxley."—The "Queen", November 16, 1895.), and proclaimed to all the sublimation of a broad native humanity tried by adversity and struggle in the pursuit of noble ends. It was the confidence that an appeal would not be rejected, whether for help in distress, or for the satisfaction of the child's natural desire for knowledge.

Spirit and determination in children always delighted him. His grandson Julian, a curly-haired rogue, alternately cherub and pickle, was a source of great amusement and interest to him. The boy must have been about four years old when my father one day came in from the garden, where he had been diligently watering his favourite plants with a big hose, and said: "I like that chap! I like the way he looks you straight in the face and disobeys you. I told him not to go on the wet grass again. He just looked up boldly, straight at me, as much as to say, 'What do YOU mean by ordering me about?' and deliberately walked on to the grass."

The disobedient youth who so charmed his grandfather's heart was the prototype of Sandy in Mrs. Humphry Ward's "David Grieve". When the book came out my father wrote to the author: "We are very proud of Julian's apotheosis. He is a most delightful imp, and the way in which he used to defy me on occasion, when he was here, was quite refreshing. The strength of his conviction that people who interfere with his freedom are certainly foolish, probably wicked, is quite Gladstonian."

A year after, when Julian had learned to write, and was reading the immortal "Water Babies", wherein fun is poked at his grandfather's name among the authorities on water-babies and water-beasts of every description, he greatly desired more light as to the reality of water-babies. There is a picture by Linley Sambourne, showing my father and Owen examining a bottled water-baby under big magnifying glasses. Here, then, was a real authority to consult. So he wrote a letter of inquiry, first anxiously asking his mother if he would receive in reply a "proper letter" that he could read for himself, or a "wrong kind of letter" that must be read to him.

Dear Grandpater,

Have you seen a Waterbaby? Did you put it in a bottle? Did it wonder if it could get out? Can I see it some day?

Your loving

Julian.

To this he received the following reply from his grandfather, neatly printed, letter by letter, very unlike the orderly confusion with which his pen usually rushed across the paper—time being so short for such a multitude of writing—to the great perplexity, often, of his foreign correspondents.]

HODESLEA, STAVELEY ROAD, EASTBOURNE, March 24 1892.

My dear Julian

I never could make sure about that Water Baby. I have seen Babies in water and Babies in bottles; but the Baby in the water was not in a bottle and the Baby in the bottle was not in water.

My friend who wrote the story of the Water Baby, was a very kind man and very clever. Perhaps he thought I could see as much in the water as he did—There are some people who see a great deal and some who see very little in the same things.

When you grow up I dare say you will be one of the great-deal seers and see things more wonderful than Water Babies where other folks can see nothing.

Give my best love to Daddy and Mammy and Trevenen—Grand is a little better but not up yet—

Ever

Your loving

Grandpater.

[Others of his family would occasionally receive elaborate pieces of nonsense, of which I give a couple of specimens. The following is to his youngest daughter:—]

Athenaeum Club, May 17, 1892.

Dearest Babs,

As I was going along Upper Thames

Street just now, I saw between Numbers 170 and 211 ( (primary parenthesis) but you would like to know what I was going along that odorous street for. Well, it was to inquire how the pen with which I am now writing—( (2nd parenthesis) you see it is a new-fangled fountain pen, warranted to cure the worst writing and always spell properly) (2nd parenthesis)—works, because it would not work properly this morning. And the nice young woman who took it from me—( (3rd parenthesis) as who should say you old foodle!) (3rd parenthesis) inked her own fingers enormously ( (4th parenthesis) which I told her I was pleased they were her fingers rather than mine) (4th parenthesis)—But she only smole. ( (5th parenthesis) Close by was another shop where they sold hose—( (6th or 7th parenthesis) indiarubber, not knitted)—( (nth parenthesis) and warranted to let water through, not keep it out); and I asked for a garden syringe, thinking such things likely to be kept by hosiers of that sort—and they said they had not any, but found they had a remnant cheap ( (nnth parenthesis) price 3 shillings) which is less than many people pay for the other hosiers' hose) (end of parentheses) a doorpost at the side of the doorway of some place of business with this remarkable notice:

RULING GIRLS WANTED.

Don't you think you had better apply at once? Jack will give you a character, I am sure, on the side of the art of ruling, and I will speak for the science—also of hereditary (on mother's side) instinct.

Well I am not sure about the pen yet—but there is no room for any more.

Ever your loving

Dad.

Epistolary composition on the model of a Gladstonian speech to a deputation on women's suffrage.

[The other is to his daughter, Mrs. Harold Roller, who had sent him from abroad a friend's autograph-book for a signature:—]

Hodeslea, Eastbourne, November 1, 1893.

The epistle of Thomas to the woman of the house of Harold.

1. I said it was an autograph-book; and so it was.

2. And naughty words came to the root of my tongue.

3. And the recording angel dipped his pen in the ink and squared his elbows to write.

4. But I spied the hand of the lovely and accomplished but vagabond daughter.

5. And I smole; and spoke not; nor uttered the naughty words.

6. So the recording angel was sold;

7. And was about to suck his pen.

8. But I said Nay! give it to me.

9. And I took the pen and wrote on the book of the Autographs letters pleasant to the eye and easy to read.

10. Such as my printers know not: nor the postman—nor the correspondent, who riseth in his wrath and curseth over my epistle ordinary.

[This to his youngest daughter, which, in jesting form, conveys a good deal of sound sense, was the sequel to a discussion as to the advisability of a University education for her own and another boy:—]

Hodeslea, Eastbourne, May 9, 1892.

Dearest Babs,

Bickers and Son have abased themselves, and assure me that they have fetched the Dictionary away and are sending it here. I shall believe them when it arrives.

As a rule, I do not turn up when I announce my coming, but I believe I shall be with you about dinnertime on Friday next (13th).

In the meanwhile, my good daughter, meditate these things:

1. Parents not too rich wish to send exceptionally clever, energetic lad to university—before taking up father's profession of architect.

2. Exceptionally clever, energetic lad will be well taught classics at school—not well taught in other things—will easily get a scholarship either at school or university. So much in parents' pockets.

3. Exceptionally clever, energetic lad will get as much mathematics, mechanics, and other needful preliminaries to architecture, as he wants (and a good deal more if he likes) at Oxford. Excellent physical school there.

4. Splendid Art museums at Oxford.

5. Prigs not peculiar to Oxford.

6. Don Cambridge would choke science (except mathematics) if it could as willingly as Don Oxford and more so.

7. Oxford always represents English opinion, in all its extremes, better than Cambridge.

8. Cambridge better for doctors, Oxford for architects, poets, painters, and-all-that-sort-of-cattle (all crossed out).