Hales’ belief that plants draw part of their food from the air, and again, that air is the breath of life, of vegetables as well as of animals (p. 148), arebased upon a series of chemical experiments performed by himself. Not being satisfied with what he knew of the relation between “air” (by which he meant gas) and the solid bodies in which he supposed gases to be fixed, he delayed the publication ofVegetable Staticksfor some two years, and carried out the series of observations which are mentioned in his title-page as “An attempt to analyse the air, by a great variety of chymio-statical experiments,” occupying 162 pages of his book.[133]
The theme of his inquiry he takes (Vegetable Staticks, p. 165) from “the illustrious SirIsaac Newton,” who believed that “dense bodies by fermentation rarify into several sorts of Air; and this Air by fermentation, and sometimes without it, returns into dense bodies.”
Hales’ method consisted in heating a variety of substances,e.g.wheat-grains, pease, wood, hog’s blood, fallow-deer’s horn, oyster-shells, red-lead, gold, etc., and measuring the “air” given off from them. He also tried the effect of acid on iron filings, oyster-shells, etc. In the true spirit of experiment he began by strongly heating his retorts (one of which was a musket barrel) to make sure that no air arose from them. It is not evident to me why he continued at this subject so long. He had no means of distinguishing one gas from another, and almost the only quality noted is a want of permanence,e.g.when the CO2 producedwas dissolved by the water over which he collected it. Sir E. Thorpe[134a]points out that Hales must have prepared hydrogen, carbonic acid, carbonic oxide, sulphur dioxide, and marsh gas. It may, I think, be said that Hales deserved the title usually given to Priestley, viz. “the father of pneumatic[134b]chemistry.”
Perhaps the most interesting experiment made by Hales is the heating of minium (red-lead) with the production of oxygen. It proves that he knew, as Boyle, Hooke and Mayow did before him, that a body gains weight in oxidation. Thus Hales remarks: “That the sulphurous and aereal particles of the fire are lodged in many of those bodies which it acts upon, and thereby considerably augments their weight, is very evident in Minium or Red Lead, which is observed to increase in weight in undergoing the action of the fire. The acquired redness of the Minium indicating the addition of plenty of sulphur in the operation.” He also speaks of the gas distilled from minium, and remarks: “It was doubtless this quantity of air in the Minium which burst the hermetically sealed glasses of the excellentMr. Boyle, when he heated the Minium contained in them by a burning glass” (p. 287).
This was the method also used by Priestley in his celebrated experiment of heating red-lead in hydrogen, whereby the metallic lead reappearsand the hydrogen disappears by combining with the oxygen set free. This was expressed in the language of the day as the reconstruction of metallic lead by the addition of phlogiston (the hydrogen) to the calx of lead (minium). Thorpe points out the magnitude of the discovery that Priestley missed, and it may be said that Hales too was on the track, and had he known as much as Priestley it would not have been phlogiston that kept him from becoming a Cavendish or Lavoisier. What chiefly concerns us, however, is the bearing of Hales’ chemical work on his theories of nutrition. He concludes that “air makes a very considerable part of the substance of Vegetables,” and goes on to say (p. 211) that “many of these particles of air” are “in a fixt state, strongly adhering to and wrought into the substance of” plants.[135a]He has some idea of the instability of complex substances, and of the importance of the fact, for he says[135b]that “if all the parts of matter were only endued with a strongly attracting power, [the] whole [of] nature would then become one unactive cohering lump.” This may remind us of Herbert Spencer’s words: “Thus the essential characteristic of living organic matter, is that it unites this large quantity of contained motion with a degree of cohesion that permits temporary fixity of arrangement” (First Principles, § 103). With regard to the way in which plants absorb and fix the “air” which he finds in theirtissues, 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, query30): “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, sinceGulliver’s Travelswas published in 1726, beforeVegetable 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 aplant-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 developingshoots 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 ¼ inch apart from one another; the points being dipped in red-lead and oil, a young vine-shoot was marked with ten dots ¼ 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 notproduce 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.
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 apoco curante, and as I did not understand what he meant it seemed to me a fearful reproach.” Apoco curantemeans 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 reasonableshare 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 studymedicine. But he found anatomy andmateria medicaintolerable, 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 theBeagle, 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 orno 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 3½ 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 atheory. 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, whenthe 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 theBeaglefound 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 asthe 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 humblyacknowledging 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.
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 descentfrom 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’sLife 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 farenough 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 showedsigns 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 manyyears, 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’sReliquesis 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.inClimbing 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 LordMoulton, 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.
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[1868].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.
Down,Jan.24th[1868].
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 thebrothers 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 hislife. 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 toMacmillan’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 theMessenger 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 thePhilosophical Transactionsin 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 thePhil. 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 SirWilliam 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]
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 SirWilliam 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.
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 recordsof 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 ofPrimitive 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.
We have seen that George was elected a Fellow of Trinity in October 1868, and that five yearslater (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 theresources 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.
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 theresources 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:
May31st, 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. Thesort 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.
May31st, 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. Thesort 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 helpfulnesscame 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.
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 helpfulnesscame 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 Americathat 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.
Maud had to put on her wedding-dress in order to say at the Custom-house in Americathat 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 theGriffin, 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 Englandor 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 ofRomeo and Juliet, in which the hero and heroine were scions of the rival factions of Trinity and St. John’s.
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 ofPembroke. In this way was destroyed the last of the College tennis courts of which we read in Mr. Clark’sHistory. I think George must have had pleasure in the obvious development of the tennis court from some primæval farm-yard in which thepent-housewas the roof of a shed, and thegrillea real window or half-door. To one brought up on evolution there is also a satisfaction about the French terminology which survives ine.g.theTambourand theDedans. 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)inThe 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 hisNoticethat 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.”