The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, Volume I

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He kept up towards his children his delightful manner of expressing his
thanks; and I never wrote a letter, or read a page aloud to him, without
receiving a few kind words of recognition. His love and goodness towards
his little grandson Bernard were great; and he often spoke of the pleasure
it was to him to see "his little face opposite to him" at luncheon. He and
Bernard used to compare their tastes; e.g., in liking brown sugar better
than white, etc.; the result being, "We always agree, don't we?"

My sister writes:--

"My first remembrances of my father are of the delights of his playing with
us. He was passionately attached to his own children, although he was not
an indiscriminate child-lover. To all of us he was the most delightful
play-fellow, and the most perfect sympathiser. Indeed it is impossible
adequately to describe how delightful a relation his was to his family,
whether as children or in their later life.

"It is a proof of the terms on which we were, and also of how much he was
valued as a play-fellow, that one of his sons when about four years old
tried to bribe him with sixpence to come and play in working hours. We all
knew the sacredness of working-time, but that any one should resist
sixpence seemed an impossibility.

"He must have been the most patient and delightful of nurses. I remember
the haven of peace and comfort it seemed to me when I was unwell, to be
tucked up on the study sofa, idly considering the old geological map hung
on the wall. This must have been in his working hours, for I always
picture him sitting in the horsehair arm-chair by the corner of the fire.

"Another mark of his unbounded patience was the way in which we were
suffered to make raids into the study when we had an absolute need of
sticking-plaster, string, pins, scissors, stamps, foot-rule, or hammer.
These and other such necessaries were always to be found in the study, and
it was the only place where this was a certainty. We used to feel it wrong
to go in during work-time; still, when the necessity was great we did so.
I remember his patient look when he said once, 'Don't you think you could
not come in again, I have been interrupted very often.' We used to dread
going in for sticking-plaster, because he disliked to see that we had cut
ourselves, both for our sakes and on account of his acute sensitiveness to
the sight of blood. I well remember lurking about the passage till he was
safe away, and then stealing in for the plaster.

"Life seems to me, as I look back upon it, to have been very regular in
those early days, and except relations (and a few intimate friends), I do
not think any one came to the house. After lessons, we were always free to
go where we would, and that was chiefly in the drawing-room and about the
garden, so that we were very much with both my father and mother. We used
to think it most delightful when he told us any stories about the 'Beagle',
or about early Shrewsbury days--little bits about school-life and his
boyish tastes. Sometimes too he read aloud to his children such books as
Scott's novels, and I remember a few little lectures on the steam-engine.

"I was more or less ill during the five years between my thirteenth and
eighteenth years, and for a long time (years it seems to me) he used to
play a couple of games of backgammon with me every afternoon. He played
them with the greatest spirit, and I remember we used at one time to keep
account of the games, and as this record came out in favour of him, we kept
a list of the doublets thrown by each, as I was convinced that he threw
better than myself.

"His patience and sympathy were boundless during this weary illness, and
sometimes when most miserable I felt his sympathy to be almost too keen.
When at my worst, we went to my aunt's house at Hartfield, in Sussex, and
as soon as we had made the move safely he went on to Moor Park for a
fortnight's water-cure. I can recall now how on his return I could hardly
bear to have him in the room, the expression of tender sympathy and emotion
in his face was too agitating, coming fresh upon me after his little
absence.

"He cared for all our pursuits and interests, and lived our lives with us
in a way that very few fathers do. But I am certain that none of us felt
that this intimacy interfered the least with our respect or obedience.
Whatever he said was absolute truth and law to us. He always put his whole
mind into answering any of our questions. One trifling instance makes me
feel how he cared for what we cared for. He had no special taste for cats,
though he admired the pretty ways of a kitten. But yet he knew and
remembered the individualities of my many cats, and would talk about the
habits and characters of the more remarkable ones years after they had
died.

"Another characteristic of his treatment of his children was his respect
for their liberty, and for their personality. Even as quite a girl, I
remember rejoicing in this sense of freedom. Our father and mother would
not even wish to know what we were doing or thinking unless we wished to
tell. He always made us feel that we were each of us creatures whose
opinions and thoughts were valuable to him, so that whatever there was best
in us came out in the sunshine of his presence.

"I do not think his exaggerated sense of our good qualities, intellectual
or moral, made us conceited, as might perhaps have been expected, but
rather more humble and grateful to him. The reason being no doubt that the
influence of his character, of his sincerity and greatness of nature, had a
much deeper and more lasting effect than any small exaltation which his
praises or admiration may have caused to our vanity."

As head of a household he was much loved and respected; he always spoke to
servants with politeness, using the expression, "would you be so good," in
asking for anything. He was hardly ever angry with his servants; it shows
how seldom this occurred, that when, as a small boy, I overheard a servant
being scolded, and my father speaking angrily, it impressed me as an
appalling circumstance, and I remember running up stairs out of a general
sense of awe. He did not trouble himself about the management of the
garden, cows, etc. He considered the horses so little his concern, that he
used to ask doubtfully whether he might have a horse and cart to send to
Keston for Drosera, or to the Westerham nurseries for plants, or the like.

As a host my father had a peculiar charm: the presence of visitors excited
him, and made him appear to his best advantage. At Shrewsbury, he used to
say, it was his father's wish that the guests should be attended to
constantly, and in one of the letters to Fox he speaks of the impossibility
of writing a letter while the house was full of company. I think he always
felt uneasy at not doing more for the entertainment of his guests, but the
result was successful; and, to make up for any loss, there was the gain
that the guests felt perfectly free to do as they liked. The most usual
visitors were those who stayed from Saturday till Monday; those who
remained longer were generally relatives, and were considered to be rather
more my mother's affair than his.

Besides these visitors, there were foreigners and other strangers, who came
down for luncheon and went away in the afternoon. He used conscientiously
to represent to them the enormous distance of Down from London, and the
labour it would be to come there, unconsciously taking for granted that
they would find the journey as toilsome as he did himself. If, however,
they were not deterred, he used to arrange their journeys for them, telling
them when to come, and practically when to go. It was pleasant to see the
way in which he shook hands with a guest who was being welcomed for the
first time; his hand used to shoot out in a way that gave one the feeling
that it was hastening to meet the guest's hands. With old friends his hand
came down with a hearty swing into the other hand in a way I always had
satisfaction in seeing. His good-bye was chiefly characterised by the
pleasant way in which he thanked his guests, as he stood at the door, for
having come to see him.

These luncheons were very successful entertainments, there was no drag or
flagging about them, my father was bright and excited throughout the whole
visit. Professor De Candolle has described a visit to Down, in his
admirable and sympathetic sketch of my father. ('Darwin considere au point
de vue des causes de son succes.'--Geneva, 1882.) He speaks of his manner
as resembling that of a "savant" of Oxford or Cambridge. This does not
strike me as quite a good comparison; in his ease and naturalness there was
more of the manner of some soldiers; a manner arising from total absence of
pretence or affectation. It was this absence of pose, and the natural and
simple way in which he began talking to his guests, so as to get them on
their own lines, which made him so charming a host to a stranger. His
happy choice of matter for talk seemed to flow out of his sympathetic
nature, and humble, vivid interest in other people's work.

To some, I think, he caused actual pain by his modesty; I have seen the
late Francis Balfour quite discomposed by having knowledge ascribed to
himself on a point about which my father claimed to be utterly ignorant.

It is difficult to seize on the characteristics of my father's
conversation.

He had more dread than have most people of repeating his stories, and
continually said, "You must have heard me tell," or "I dare say I've told
you." One peculiarity he had, which gave a curious effect to his
conversation. The first few words of a sentence would often remind him of
some exception to, or some reason against, what he was going to say; and
this again brought up some other point, so that the sentence would become a
system of parenthesis within parenthesis, and it was often impossible to
understand the drift of what he was saying until he came to the end of his
sentence. He used to say of himself that he was not quick enough to hold
an argument with any one, and I think this was true. Unless it was a
subject on which he was just then at work, he could not get the train of
argument into working order quickly enough. This is shown even in his
letters; thus, in the case of two letters to Prof. Semper about the effect
of isolation, he did not recall the series of facts he wanted until some
days after the first letter had been sent off.

When puzzled in talking, he had a peculiar stammer on the first word of a
sentence. I only recall this occurring with words beginning with w;
possibly he had a special difficulty with this letter, for I have heard him
say that as a boy he could not pronounce w, and that sixpence was offered
him if he could say "white wine," which he pronounced "rite rine."
Possibly he may have inherited this tendency from Erasmus Darwin, who
stammered. (My father related a Johnsonian answer of Erasmus Darwin's:
"Don't you find it very inconvenient stammering, Dr. Darwin?" "No, sir,
because I have time to think before I speak, and don't ask impertinent
questions.")

He sometimes combined his metaphors in a curious way, using such a phrase
as "holding on like life,"--a mixture of "holding on for his life," and
"holding on like grim death." It came from his eager way of putting
emphasis into what he was saying. This sometimes gave an air of
exaggeration where it was not intended; but it gave, too, a noble air of
strong and generous conviction; as, for instance, when he gave his evidence
before the Royal Commission on vivisection and came out with his words
about cruelty, "It deserves detestation and abhorrence." When he felt
strongly about any similar question, he could hardly trust himself to
speak, as he then easily became angry, a thing which he disliked
excessively. He was conscious that his anger had a tendency to multiply
itself in the utterance, and for this reason dreaded (for example) having
to scold a servant.

It was a great proof of the modesty of his style of talking, that, when,
for instance, a number of visitors came over from Sir John Lubbock's for a
Sunday afternoon call he never seemed to be preaching or lecturing,
although he had so much of the talk to himself. He was particularly
charming when "chaffing" any one, and in high spirits over it. His manner
at such times was light-hearted and boyish, and his refinement of nature
came out most strongly. So, when he was talking to a lady who pleased and
amused him, the combination of raillery and deference in his manner was
delightful to see.

When my father had several guests he managed them well, getting a talk with
each, or bringing two or three together round his chair. In these
conversations there was always a good deal of fun, and, speaking generally,
there was either a humorous turn in his talk, or a sunny geniality which
served instead. Perhaps my recollection of a pervading element of humour
is the more vivid, because the best talks were with Mr. Huxley, in whom
there is the aptness which is akin to humour, even when humour itself is
not there. My father enjoyed Mr. Huxley's humour exceedingly, and would
often say, "What splendid fun Huxley is!" I think he probably had more
scientific argument (of the nature of a fight) with Lyell and Sir Joseph
Hooker.

He used to say that it grieved him to find that for the friends of his
later life he had not the warm affection of his youth. Certainly in his
early letters from Cambridge he gives proofs of very strong friendship for
Herbert and Fox; but no one except himself would have said that his
affection for his friends was not, throughout life, of the warmest possible
kind. In serving a friend he would not spare himself, and precious time
and strength were willingly given. He undoubtedly had, to an unusual
degree, the power of attaching his friends to him. He had many warm
friendships, but to Sir Joseph Hooker he was bound by ties of affection
stronger than we often see among men. He wrote in his 'Recollections,' "I
have known hardly any man more lovable than Hooker."

His relationship to the village people was a pleasant one; he treated them,
one and all, with courtesy, when he came in contact with them, and took an
interest in all relating to their welfare. Some time after he came to live
at Down he helped to found a Friendly Club, and served as treasurer for
thirty years. He took much trouble about the club, keeping its accounts
with minute and scrupulous exactness, and taking pleasure in its prosperous
condition. Every Whit-Monday the club used to march round with band and
banner, and paraded on the lawn in front of the house. There he met them,
and explained to them their financial position in a little speech seasoned
with a few well worn jokes. He was often unwell enough to make even this
little ceremony an exertion, but I think he never failed to meet them.

He was also treasurer of the Coal Club, which gave him some work, and he
acted for some years as a County Magistrate.

With regard to my father's interest in the affairs of the village, Mr.
Brodie Innes has been so good as to give me his recollections:--

"On my becoming Vicar of Down in 1846, we became friends, and so continued
till his death. His conduct towards me and my family was one of unvarying
kindness, and we repaid it by warm affection.

"In all parish matters he was an active assistant; in matters connected
with the schools, charities, and other business, his liberal contribution
was ever ready, and in the differences which at times occurred in that, as
in other parishes, I was always sure of his support. He held that where
there was really no important objection, his assistance should be given to
the clergyman, who ought to know the circumstances best, and was chiefly
responsible."

His intercourse with strangers was marked with scrupulous and rather formal
politeness, but in fact he had few opportunities of meeting strangers.

Dr. Lane has described (Lecture by Dr. B.W. Richardson, in St. George's
Hall, October 22, 1882.) how, on the rare occasion of my father attending a
lecture (Dr. Sanderson's) at the Royal Institution, "the whole
assembly...rose to their feet to welcome him," while he seemed "scarcely
conscious that such an outburst of applause could possibly be intended for
himself." The quiet life he led at Down made him feel confused in a large
society; for instance, at the Royal Society's soirees he felt oppressed by
the numbers. The feeling that he ought to know people, and the difficulty
he had in remembering faces in his latter years, also added to his
discomfort on such occasions. He did not realise that he would be
recognised from his photographs, and I remember his being uneasy at being
obviously recognised by a stranger at the Crystal Palace Aquarium.

I must say something of his manner of working: one characteristic of it
was his respect for time; he never forgot how precious it was. This was
shown, for instance, in the way in which he tried to curtail his holidays;
also, and more clearly, with respect to shorter periods. He would often
say, that saving the minutes was the way to get work done; he showed his
love of saving the minutes in the difference he felt between a quarter of
an hour and ten minutes' work; he never wasted a few spare minutes from
thinking that it was not worth while to set to work. I was often struck by
his way of working up to the very limit of his strength, so that he
suddenly stopped in dictating, with the words, "I believe I mustn't do any
more." The same eager desire not to lose time was seen in his quick
movements when at work. I particularly remember noticing this when he was
making an experiment on the roots of beans, which required some care in
manipulation; fastening the little bits of card upon the roots was done
carefully and necessarily slowly, but the intermediate movements were all
quick; taking a fresh bean, seeing that the root was healthy, impaling it
on a pin, fixing it on a cork, and seeing that it was vertical, etc; all
these processes were performed with a kind of restrained eagerness. He
always gave one the impression of working with pleasure, and not with any
drag. I have an image, too, of him as he recorded the result of some
experiment, looking eagerly at each root, etc., and then writing with equal
eagerness. I remember the quick movement of his head up and down as he
looked from the object to the notes.

He saved a great deal of time through not having to do things twice.
Although he would patiently go on repeating experiments where there was any
good to be gained, he could not endure having to repeat an experiment which
ought, if complete care had been taken, to have succeeded the first time--
and this gave him a continual anxiety that the experiment should not be
wasted; he felt the experiment to be sacred, however slight a one it was.
He wished to learn as much as possible from an experiment, so that he did
not confine himself to observing the single point to which the experiment
was directed, and his power of seeing a number of other things was
wonderful. I do not think he cared for preliminary or rough observation
intended to serve as guides and to be repeated. Any experiment done was to
be of some use, and in this connection I remember how strongly he urged the
necessity of keeping the notes of experiments which failed, and to this
rule he always adhered.

In the literary part of his work he had the same horror of losing time, and
the same zeal in what he was doing at the moment, and this made him careful
not to be obliged unnecessarily to read anything a second time.

His natural tendency was to use simple methods and few instruments. The
use of the compound microscope has much increased since his youth, and this
at the expense of the simple one. It strikes us nowadays as extraordinary
that he should have had no compound microscope when he went his "Beagle"
voyage; but in this he followed the advice of Robt. Brown, who was an
authority in such matters. He always had a great liking for the simple
microscope, and maintained that nowadays it was too much neglected, and
that one ought always to see as much as possible with the simple before
taking to the compound microscope. In one of his letters he speaks on this
point, and remarks that he always suspects the work of a man who never uses
the simple microscope.

His dissecting table was a thick board, let into a window of the study; it
was lower than an ordinary table, so that he could not have worked at it
standing; but this, from wishing to save his strength, he would not have
done in any case. He sat at his dissecting-table on a curious low stool
which had belonged to his father, with a seat revolving on a vertical
spindle, and mounted on large castors, so that he could turn easily from
side to side. His ordinary tools, etc., were lying about on the table, but
besides these a number of odds and ends were kept in a round table full of
radiating drawers, and turning on a vertical axis, which stood close by his
left side, as he sat at his microscope-table. The drawers were labelled,
"best tools," "rough tools," "specimens," "preparations for specimens,"
etc. The most marked peculiarity of the contents of these drawers was the
care with which little scraps and almost useless things were preserved; he
held the well-known belief, that if you threw a thing away you were sure to
want it directly--and so things accumulated.

If any one had looked at his tools, etc., lying on the table, he would have
been struck by an air of simpleness, make-shift, and oddness.

At his right hand were shelves, with a number of other odds and ends,
glasses, saucers, tin biscuit boxes for germinating seeds, zinc labels,
saucers full of sand, etc., etc. Considering how tidy and methodical he
was in essential things, it is curious that he bore with so many make-
shifts: for instance, instead of having a box made of a desired shape, and
stained black inside, he would hunt up something like what he wanted and
get it darkened inside with shoe-blacking; he did not care to have glass
covers made for tumblers in which he germinated seeds, but used broken bits
of irregular shape, with perhaps a narrow angle sticking uselessly out on
one side. But so much of his experimenting was of a simple kind, that he
had no need for any elaboration, and I think his habit in this respect was
in great measure due to his desire to husband his strength, and not waste
it on inessential things.

His way of marking objects may here be mentioned. If he had a number of
things to distinguish, such as leaves, flowers, etc., he tied threads of
different colours round them. In particular he used this method when he
had only two classes of objects to distinguish; thus in the case of crossed
and self-fertilised flowers, one set would be marked with black and one
with white thread, tied round the stalk of the flower. I remember well the
look of two sets of capsules, gathered and waiting to be weighed, counted,
etc., with pieces of black and of white thread to distinguish the trays in
which they lay. When he had to compare two sets of seedlings, sowed in the
same pot, he separated them by a partition of zinc-plate; and the zinc
label, which gave the necessary details about the experiment, was always
placed on a certain side, so that it became instinctive with him to know
without reading the label which were the "crossed" and which were the
"self-fertilised."

His love of each particular experiment, and his eager zeal not to lose the
fruit of it, came out markedly in these crossing experiments--in the
elaborate care he took not to make any confusion in putting capsules into
wrong trays, etc., etc. I can recall his appearance as he counted seeds
under the simple microscope with an alertness not usually characterising
such mechanical work as counting. I think he personified each seed as a
small demon trying to elude him by getting into the wrong heap, or jumping
away altogether; and this gave to the work the excitement of a game. He
had great faith in instruments, and I do not think it naturally occurred to
him to doubt the accuracy of a scale or measuring glass, etc. He was
astonished when we found that one of his micrometers differed from the
other. He did not require any great accuracy in most of his measurements,
and had not good scales; he had an old three-foot rule, which was the
common property of the household, and was constantly being borrowed,
because it was the only one which was certain to be in its place--unless,
indeed, the last borrower had forgotten to put it back. For measuring the
height of plants he had a seven-foot deal rod, graduated by the village
carpenter. Latterly he took to using paper scales graduated to
millimeters. For small objects he used a pair of compasses and an ivory
protractor. It was characteristic of him that he took scrupulous pains in
making measurements with his somewhat rough scales. A trifling example of
his faith in authority is that he took his "inch in terms of millimeters"
from an old book, in which it turned out to be inaccurately given. He had
a chemical balance which dated from the days when he worked at chemistry
with his brother Erasmus. Measurements of capacity were made with an
apothecary's measuring glass: I remember well its rough look and bad
graduation. With this, too, I remember the great care he took in getting
the fluid-line on to the graduation. I do not mean by this account of his
instruments that any of his experiments suffered from want of accuracy in
measurement, I give them as examples of his simple methods and faith in
others--faith at least in instrument-makers, whose whole trade was a
mystery to him.