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SOME REMINISCENCES

OF THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY

It is now more than two years since the career of one of the most distinguished and remarkable men of our time came to its lamented close--the career of the late Thomas Henry Huxley.

The greatness of the loss his death occasioned will but become more evident to the multitude of friends who mourn him and to men of science, as their own days lengthen without a sign of anyone arising to fill the vacant place. No man now living can reasonably hope to see his like again.

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It is surely very fitting that this journal should record details and aspects of the life of one who so powerfully influenced the century the name of which it bears.

It also seems fitting that witness as to what manner of man he was should here be testified to, not only by entirely acquiescent friends, but also by opponents; not only by those to whom he was always kind, but also by some who have known the vigour of his enmity as well as his amity; the force of his blows in hostile encounter, as well as the firmness of his friendly grasp.

Professor Huxley was a good friend indeed-firm, generous, energetic, loyal, and affectionate. Great as he was in intellect, his goodness of heart to his friends was yet more worthy of esteem. He was also, what Dr. Johnson admired, 'a good hater.' He professed to love his friends and hate his enemies,' and what honest man, aspiring after no counsel of evangelical perfection, could be expected to do more?

But, as he would have been the first to affirm, conflict and calm judgment can hardly co-exist. It is only as the epoch of controversy sinks into the past, that we are enabled to rise to a juster view of combats and combatants of bygone days, as the higher we ascend some bare hillside the better we can appreciate the lie of the land about us.

It is with peculiar pleasure that I avail myself of the opportunity now afforded me, to record some of my reminiscences of Professor Huxley, to declare my own special obligations to him, and endeavour to depict him as he revealed himself to one who saw him in many

aspects, and who for more than a decade of years was, treated as, an intimate confidential friend.

and was

But not only should I hesitate, I should absolutely refuse, to set down any of the following personal details concerning myself, did I not know that, devoid of any importance as they must be in themselves, their enumeration will help to throw light upon a personality so intensely interesting as is that of Professor Huxley. On that account I feel they may be welcome to many persons, especially those who had the privilege of knowing him.

But it is in no way my intention here to disclaim the divergence which existed between our views, nor to represent that time and wider knowledge have abolished it. To assert its existence is not only truthful, but may be useful; for not a few persons may thereby become the better inclined to accept my testimony as to how many, varied and profound, were his claims upon the affectionate regard of those who knew him well. Such a regard I bore him, for I was ever sensible of his many admirable qualities, even when he was most estranged from me. Yet if it is not my intention to disclaim divergences of view, still less is it my purpose to enter upon any statement concerning them here. My only object is to portray, to the best of my power, his personal qualities and conduct as I experienced them. But, before proceeding to do so, I would endeavour to point out to how great an extent those most disposed to attack positions he championed, may find in the modes in which he acquired and held the views they dissent from, additional reasons for individual sympathy and esteem, while fully alive to the superficial nature of his philosophy and his blindness (shared by so many) to some of nature's profoundest lessons.

In early life, as he told me, and has since told the world, he became captivated by the philosophical doctrines of the late Sir William Hamilton; and Hamilton and Mansel are mainly responsible for an agnosticism which is the logical outcome of their teaching— and his mind was a very logical one. He also, as was under the circumstances most natural, became greatly attracted to the doctrines of Descartes and Locke. The former may indeed be called, as Huxley called him, 'the father of modern philosophy,' and also, as I have named him, the modern philosophical heresiarch.' In Locke's Essay concerning Human Understanding, the idealism of Berkeley and the scepticism of Hume were both latent; the latter being the only logical resting-place for any clear thinker who has once accepted the principles of Hobbs, Locke, and Berkeley.

But if Huxley's philosophical position is thus explicable (through the effect of special circumstances upon an exceptionally gifted intellect), candour demands the admission that the position he took up in opposing various theologians was largely due to his honest and vigorous moral sense.

All injustice and insincerity were revolting to him, and he had a vivid perception of the duty incumbent upon all of us to make good use of our reason, and not to prostitute it by giving credence to propositions which are neither self-evident nor adequately proved. In many a talk with me he strongly insisted on this duty, the violation of which he would speak of as the sin of faith.' He was led, not unnaturally, so to speak, since amongst those who assailed him that word, 'faith,' was often used in an altogether irrational sense, as if we had some intellectual faculty besides our reason to appeal to, or as if it could be either a duty or a merit to accept religious statements upon insufficient evidence, though, of course, we are often bound to act upon a balance of probabilities.

The extravagances in which some of his theological opponents indulged have been extreme. One even went so far as to affirm that a doctrine may be not only held, but insisted on, by a teacher who is, all the time, fully aware that science may ultimately prove it to be quite untenable. Huxley's honest and vigorous good sense enabled him to see with a distinctness, not so common in the 'sixties' as in the 'nineties,' the moral obligation of caution in credence, and, above all, in assertion. The attitude of science is emphatically a questioning attitude, while for consistent Theists doubt has a distinctly religious character. Few things could be more shocking to them than to be called upon to give assent to doubtful propositions. Every man of science worthy of the name must not only withhold it, but should declare that he holds even things he considers to be proved, in such a way as to be ready to examine and weigh whatever seemingly important evidence may be freshly brought to light against them. This he regards as a duty, and condemns as nothing less than blasphemous, the notion that we may trifle with our highest faculties, for the right use of which, if for anything, we are every one of us responsible.

Nothing in our day could well be more prejudicial to the cause of religion than that any of its distinguished representatives should show hostility to the progress of science. But it is impossible to deny that not a few such persons have shown themselves so inimical, with the result (as I personally know) that some choice minds have been estranged from Christianity.

Huxley knew not only from history, but from personal experience, how trying such opposition can be, and most of us who have striven for the more recently recognised scientific truths, or ethical intuitions, have also experienced the same short-sighted opposition. Who, then, can wonder that a nature so keen, vigorous, and combative as that of Professor Huxley should have been stirred to its depths, and that he should have hit out 'straight from the shoulder' in reply to violent or insidious attacks, the stupidity of which sometimes merited scorn as well as anger?

I repeat he hated injustice and loathed insincerity. He felt, and

naturally resented, the injustice he had met with in the earlier days of his career, and he may well, sometimes, have suspected the sincerity of men who opposed assertions the truth of which were, in his eyes, as clear as the sun at noonday.

The first time I saw Professor Huxley was in January 1858 at the Royal Institution, where he was giving a course of lectures1 on The Principles of Biology. It is almost needless to say that his teaching, both its manner and matter, made a profound impression on me. The audience he addressed is a notoriously difficult one2 to lecture to, but, as in all other cases, he very quickly knew his public and adjusted himself to it with admirable skill.

It was on the 22nd of February, 1859, that I was introduced to him in the Palæontological and Mineral Gallery of the British Museum in Great Russell Street, by the then keeper of that department, the late Mr. G. R. Waterhouse, who had been my friend from childhood, and who was loved, as well as esteemed, by all who knew him.

Huxley was then in his thirty-fourth year. He had a well-knit, strong frame, rather tall than short, with deep-set dark eyes, bright and full of expression. His hair was black and rather long, and he wore whiskers, his chin and upper lip being shorn. His manner was dignified with a slight reserve, yet, withal, kindly, even at this first interview.

The conversation was mainly concerning certain fossil reptiles; questions as to fact and as to speculative possibilities, with some criticisms on assertions which had been too confidently and hastily made. The quick and bright intelligence he showed, seizing at once upon essential points, was very noticeable. But two characteristics especially struck me. The first was the remarkable mobility of his countenance -the way in which his face would light up,' and the rapid changes of expression it could assume as the character of the conversation changed. The second was the frankness and fulness with which his judgments about certain problems were expressed.

This latter characteristic struck me the more because on the same spot, but a few days earlier, I had asked Professor Owen what was his opinion about the affinities of the dodo, a view as to its being

1 He first lectured in Albemarle Street in 1856, when he gave a course of twelve lectures on Physiology and Comparative Anatomy. These were continued in 1857. Afterwards he gave two courses on Ethnology-in 1866 and 1867-and, last of all, two lectures on Dogs in 1880. Besides these, he gave twenty-two lectures on Friday evenings; the first on the 13th of April, 1852, and the last on the 11th of May, 1883.

2 On account of the great difference of knowledge possessed by different members of the audience. Huxley told me that on one occasion, after a lecture on the 'Nervous System,' a lady came to the table and said, 'I am so much obliged for your charming lecture; so very interesting and so clear. But there was one point I did not quite understand.' 'Thank you, madam, I shall be very pleased if I can explain to you any point I may have insufficiently expressed.' 'Well, Professor Huxley, what I want to ask is about what you called the cerebellum. I did not quite gather whether it is inside the skull or outside.'

In

a great ground pigeon having been then recently expressed. spite of my long friendship with him all I could get him to say was -with a benign smile and shake of the head-'I think it's a dodo!'

Thenceforth I saw Professor Huxley at not unfrequent intervals -as we resided in the same region-but it was not till the autumn of 1861 that neighbourly good will began to ripen into intimacy, and we occasionally took a walk together. On these rare and highly valued occasions I became more and more impressed with the lucidity of his thought and the admirable clearness with which he gave expression to it, with the extent and varied nature of his reading, and his evidently exceptional power of memory.

I have just referred to the late Sir Richard Owen, and everyone knows the strenuous controversy which arose between him and Huxley as to various points of anatomy. I was in the somewhat trying position of being a friend of both parties and thinking them both right and both wrong. It seemed to me that, with respect to two questions at least, they were regarding opposite sides of the same shield, each contending for what was a truth, though but a partial one.

It was then (1861) more than a dozen years since Owen had promulgated a theory derived from Goethe and Oken. It proclaimed that there is no essential difference between the skull and the backbone, that the skull is but the uppermost part of the spine, and is composed of an essentially similar series of bony arches; the only distinction being that whereas the backbone is made up of a number of small bony arches (vertebra), the skull consists of a few such, greatly expanded and modified in form. Owen thus put forward an English version of one part of that system which had been known in Germany as Natur-Philosophie.

Huxley's critical mind demanded much more positive proof for the truth of this doctrine, as promulgated, than was forthcoming. Some contradictions and impossibilities I had myself detected in it (as had a young rising naturalist, Mr. H. N. Turner, junior, who would have attained great eminence had not his life been cut short), though accepting it (as did Mr. Turner) as an imperfect expression of a deeper truth.

Huxley adopted as his test the process of the development of the embryo, and on the 21st of October 1861 he presented me with his Croonian Lecture, the study of which made it impossible to maintain Owen's theory. This theory received its coup de grâce from Huxley's first course of lectures as Hunterian Professor, which were delivered in the theatre of the Royal College of Surgeons in 1863.

There is, so far as I know, no single surviving supporter of the theory then so fatally attacked. Nevertheless, that the head is an essentially segmented structure greatly modified, and segmented originally as was, and to a much greater extent is, the trunk, are

VOL. XLII-No. 250

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