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What’s perfect on poor earth?
Is not the bird
At whose sweet song the forests ache with love
Shorn of all beauty? Is the bittern’s cry
As merry as the lark’s? The lark’s as soft
As the lost cuckoo’s? Nay, the lion hath
His fault; and the elephant (though sage as wisdom)
May grieve he lacks the velvet of the pard.
Barry Cornwall.
There was never yet philosopher
That could endure the toothache patiently.
Shakespeare.
That would be an unsuccessful
picture which was all light and no shadow ; that would be an inferior school
of music which dealt only in concords ; that would be a poor biography which
told only the better part and threw a veil over the rest; nay, may it not be
said that that would be a poor life which could recount no progression by
antagonism,—no harmony from discord,—no light shining the brighter out of
the darkness,—no falls, and therefore no risings again,—no temptations, and
therefore no victories?
This certainly could not be said of David Brewster, for it was not
untruthfully affirmed of him that he had been “a man of war from his youth.”
Life was no bed of roses to him. Almost every step was trod with a
difficulty, not the less difficult, that it was often entirely of his own
creating; whilst those that really existed he made more difficult by a power
of magnifying them as by the lens of one of his own powerful microscopes.
This exaggeration was not only of feeling, but still more of expression. He
used the strongest language to express what to other minds would have been a
comparatively small trial or event,—the smallest circumstances connected
with food, servants, visits, journeys, or such like, were created by a
naturally irritable temper and finely strung nerves into serious events, and
if the slightest thing went wrong, were commented on in terms so distressed
as would have led a stranger to believe that some calamity of unusual
magnitude had occurred. In that work to which his practical life was much
devoted—the reformation of abuses wherever found—it is easy to see that this
habit of feeling and of expression did not tend to make it an easy or a
placid task. During the years of Brewster’s connection with the University
of St. Andrews, constant and many were the causes of irritation—the feuds
and the lawsuits in which he was engaged. The affairs of the ancient
University, as before stated, had undoubtedly fallen under a lax
administration, and many of his principal measures were those 6f wise
practical reform. To those behind the scenes it appeared very evident that
while in many cases he was right in the main, he was often wrong in his way
of carrying out the right thing, and always thoroughly and singularly
unconscious of any fault in himself. The strength of expression, the calm
stinging terseness of his letters, and the exaggerated views he would take
of a slight failure of business habits, did not tend to conciliation. His
power of telling sarcasm was indeed very great,—it was a weapon which he too
much delighted to use, and which came too easily to his hand when it wielded
the pen; his entire freedom from it in daily life and speech was, however,
as remarkable,—I cannot remember hearing him make use of a sarcastic word or
expression.
Dr. James Taylor writes:—“He saw so clearly the justice and propriety of the
measures which he thought fit to adopt, that he could not comprehend how any
man, unless blinded by self-interest or prejudice, could fail to approve of
his procedure, and hence he never hesitated to denounce in the most
unmeasured terms the motives and the conduct of his opponents. He professed,
indeed, to act upon a theory which he used to defend with great
ingenuity—that the public are so apathetic and indifferent that it is
necessary to employ the strongest language to rouse them to a sense of the
existence of even the most flagrant abuses. He had no belief in the efficacy
of ‘the soft answer which tumeth away wrath,; and was not sparing in the use
of his great powers of sarcasm, which told with tremendous effect on those
who had the misfortune to incur his displeasure. I remember that on one
occasion, after a keen though friendly discussion, during our daily walk, in
which he bore with great good-humour my remonstrances respecting the
vehemence of the language he was in the habit of employing towards his
colleagues, he sent for my perusal a volume of the Edinburgh Review,
containing the celebrated article on Dr. Hampden’s case, by Dr. Arnold of
Rugby, with all the abusive epithets and denunciations it contained—and they
were not few—underlined. He heartily enjoyed the triumph he had thus gained
over me in being able to adduce such high authority in favour of his own
opinion and practice.”
On the other hand, if he caused distress and trouble to others, it was but a
tithe of what he caused to himself. A troublesome Senatus meeting, or a
quarrel with a brother professor, caused him a distress, a gloom, a shadow
over his life, which those little dreamed of who saw him bright and genial
in society. It was impossible, however, not to see and admire the real
placability which mingled with all the vehement and distressed feelings. Few
men more strikingly united a capacity for suffering, with a temperament
which could forget the depths through which it passed, so that times which
seemed fullest of discomfort and. trial, looked to him in the retrospect
bright with happiness. When the affair was over and gone, and the
thunder-cloud was spent, he could become as intimate and friendly with those
who had most deeply wounded him as if nothing had happened, and if his life
were one of battles, it was not without victories, as the true and touching
words of his last days testify, “I die at peace with all the world.”
Whatever the causes, and wherever is due the principal blame of all the St.
Andrews troubles, their rumour went before him to the Scottish metropolis,
and much fear was expressed lest there might be a repetition there of the
same scenes; yet the same parties said, eight years after, “Would that Sir
David Brewster could have lived for ever; we shall never see his like
again.” The minutes of the University Court of Edinburgh expressed their
grief “for him as one whose warm interest in the University never abated to
the last, and who on the many occasions on which he presided over their
deliberations, or was associated with them in business, evinced the sagacity
of a clear and disciplined intellect, and the courtesy of a kind and
Christian gentleman, while each member of it feels that by his death he has
lost a valued and respected friend.” One professor writes, “ I had the
happiness of being associated with your father as a member of the Senate
during the eight years in which he presided as Principal of the University
of Edinburgh, where he formed fresh friendships, and never made an enemy,
nor, so far as I know, excited even a passing unkind feeling amongst us. His
strong academical sympathies and expressions were of inestimable advantage
to the University.” A member of the University Court writes, “I almost
uniformly differed from him on ‘University politics,’ and yet his kindness
and courtesy were invariable, and I uniformly found him thoroughly tolerant
of opposition. I remember, for example, calling at Allerly with Professor
Crawford, soon after Dr. Playfair announced his intention of standing for
the University representation. I was then doing my utmost to secure the
return of the Dean of Faculty (now Lord Justice-Clerk Moncreiff), whom I
expected to see ousted from his seat for the city of Edinburgh. I expressed
my views with considerable warmth, when Sir David quietly said, ‘Now, that
is a strong statement of the Dean of Faculty’s claims, just hear what I have
to say for Dr. Playfair.’ I adhered to my side, and he never again even
alluded to the subject.”
It must not be forgotten, however, that Sir David Brewster left St. Andrews
reluctantly, carried with him warm and cordial feelings to his colleagues,
of whom a more modern school had arisen, and left behind many attached
friends and admirers.
Brewster’s character was peculiarly liable to misconstruction from its
distinctly dual nature; it was made up of opposites, and his peculiarly
impulsive temperament and expressions laid him open to the charge of
inconsistency, although he never recognised it in himself, conscious that he
spoke what was consistent with the point of view whence he took his
observations at the time. Accustomed to look at every subject with the
critical investigation of the man of science, he yet united the feelings of
the man of impulse, and he spoke as moved by either habit. Nothing could
show this better than his views and feelings with regard to clairvoyance and
spirit-rapping. Like many Scotchmen of genius and intellect, he had had a
strong leaning to the superstitious from the days of the steeple vault and
the cottage under the apple-tree, balanced, however, by a scientific mind,
which required proof and demonstration for whatever came before it. His own
quaint confession, that he was “afraid of ghosts, though he did not believe
in them,” was as near the truth as possible. Living in an old house,
haunted, it was said, by the learned shade of George Buchanan, in which
certainly the strangest and most unaccountable noises were frequently heard,
his footsteps used sometimes to perform the transit from his study to his
bedroom, in the dead of night, in double-quick time, and in the morning he
used to confess that sitting up alone had made him feel quite “eerie.” On
one of these occasions, when the flight had been more than usually rapid, he
recounted having distinctly seen the form of the late Rev. Charles Lyon,
then Episcopal clergyman of St. Andrews, and an attached friend of his own,
rising up pale and grey like a marble bust. He often mentioned his relief
when he found that nothing had occurred to his friend, and pointed out what
a good ghost story had thus been spoiled. A certain pleasurable excitement
was combined with this “eeriness,” and many will recollect the charm of his
ghost stories, recounted with so much simplicity and earnestness, and
uraisemblance of belief, as on one occasion to be rewarded by the perplexing
compliment of a fair young listener at Ramornie fainting dead away. On the
other hand, he was equally fond of giving natural and scientific
explanations of ghostly marvels, and used to dwell with great interest upon
the difficulties of evidence in everything connected with the supernatural,
pointing out the unconscious deviations from exact testimony given by
persons of undoubted rectitude under the influence of prepossession. Much of
this mingled feeling he carried with him into his investigations of
clairvoyance and its kindred marvels. He really wished to believe in many
wonders to which his constitution of mind utterly refused credence, and this
feeling, combined with a characteristic courtesy and wish to please, often
misled those into whose pretensions he was most critically examining. On one
occasion, when the exhibition of a lady clairvoyante moved his companion to
an expression of indignant unbelief, which was declared to be the cause of
failure, his gentleness and courtesy, smoothing away difficulties,
apologising for the mistakes of the supernatural powers, and giving every
facility for greater success, prevented the dim-sighted clairvoyante from
recognising the equal but far more philosophical unbelief which was brought
to bear upon her case. He always affirmed that, of the many cases which had
thus come within his ken, he liad never seen anything so wonderful as to
render a natural explanation impossible, though, of a few, he said frankly
that he could neither see nor understand the solution. He latterly took even
deeper views of this school of wonders, searching the Scriptures minutely
for passages describing the spirits that “peeped and muttered” of old, or
those whose “lying wonders” are yet to come, and giving it as his belief
that, if modern spiritualism with its manifestations were a truth, it might
be a fulfilment of the prophesied work of the evil one and his agents. His
views of the important service, or suffering, or enjoyment of all parts of
the spiritual creation were so high, that even in such an aspect of the
case, he had special difficulty in believing that spiritual agents were
likely to confine their operations to chairs and tables, badly spelt
letters, and mawkish sentiments conveyed from the world of awful thought and
intelligence.
Perhaps nearly allied to his tendency to the superstitious, there was a
certain want of self-control, a curious timidity, and a dread of pain, which
he used to express with a naivete which was irresistibly amusing. Several of
these stories became quite legendary. Mrs. Harford Battersby writes as
follows :—
“In illustration of the great philosopher’s singular timidity, my father
used to tell the following story:—At the time Lord Rosse’s telescope was
drawing so many scientific men across the channel, he was asked if he were
going too : c Oh no !’ he said, ‘ he was too much afraid of the sea.’ My
father tried to represent to him what a simple matter it was ; he thought
nothing of it himself; he just went straight to bed on going on board, and
awoke on arriving at his destination ; Sir David exclaimed in unaffected
horror, ‘ What! go to your naked bed1 in the middle of the ocean?’
“Another favourite story somewhat betrayed the philosopher’s want of
self-control: he was talking of a severe fit of toothache he had had, and my
father asked him, ‘What did you do?’ (meaning what remedy had he applied).
‘Do?’ said Sir David, ‘I just sat and roared.' He always declined to have
recourse to dentistic operations, never having had a tooth drawn ; and his
answer to the proposal of any such operation always was, “What! would you
have me part with one of the bones of my body?”
Although his timidity had the dual element—displayed long before in the
Grammar School and playground of Jedburgh—of never “fearmg the face of man,”
he exhibited much of it in connection with the lower creation. The whole
canine race he looked upon as imbued with probable hydrophobia, while cats
he declared gave him an electric shock each time one entered the room. A pet
cat, however, having been surreptitiously introduced into the old house, it
one day trotted into the forbidden precincts of the philosopher’s
room—looked straight at him—jumped on his knee—put a paw on each shoulder,
and kissed him as distinctly as a cat could. He was so surprised at her
audacity, and so touched by Her affection, that he quite forgot to feel the
electric shock; his heart was won—from that time they were fast friends, and
every morning the cat’s breakfast-plate was replenished by his own hands.
One day she disappeared, to the unbounded sorrow of her master ; nothing was
heard of her for nearly two years, when pussy walked into the house, neither
hungry, thirsty, nor footsore—made her way without hesitation to the
study—jumped on my father’s knee—placed a paw on each shoulder—and kissed
him exactly as on the first day! The joy of the reunion was quite touching,
although it was never known where she had been during her aberrations ; and
when, a year or two after, pussy was obliged to be shot, owing to disease
produced by over-gastronomic indulgence, the distress produced by the event
was so great, that, by mutual consent, we never had another favourite.
The humility, true and unfeigned, of Brewster, was so marked a
characteristic, that it cannot pass unnoticed here. Those who knew him best
and watched him closest saw it as clearly as those who met him only in
society. It pervaded his life; although there was also the dual element
which is found in all successful workers, intense consciousness of the
powers which he really possessed. None knew better what he had done and
could do ; none knew better the limits which the Highest had put upon his
intellect; “Hitherto shalt thou come, and no further.” Though, like his
master Newton, he was well aware of the value and variety of the pebbles he
was able to gather on the shore, yet, like Newton, he saw and recognised the
far-stretching ocean of knowledge, in which he could but lave his feet, and
nought but humility was possible. It is interesting to compare the account
of this quality in the mind of the one philosopher written by the pen of the
other :—
“The modesty of Sir Isaac Newton, in reference to his great discoveries, was
not founded on any indifference to the fame which they conferred, or upon
any erroneous judgment of their importance to science. The whole of his life
proves that he knew his place as a philosopher, and was determined to assert
and vindicate his rights. His modesty arose from the depth and extent of his
knowledge, which showed him what a small portion of nature he had been able
to examine, and how much remained to be explored in the same field in which
he had himself laboured. In the magnitude of the comparison he recognised
his own littleness, and a short time before his death, he uttered this
memorable sentiment:—"do not know what I may appear to the world, but to
myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and
diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier
shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered
before me.’ What a lesson to the vanity and presumption of philosophers,—to
those especially who have never even found the smoother pebble or the
prettier shell! What a preparation for the latest inquiries and the last
views of the decaying spirit—for those inspired' doctrines which alone can
throw a light over the dark ocean of undiscovered truth!”
In a letter from Sir Isaac to Mr. Hooke, on some controverted point in
science, the biographer puts into italics the following brief and beautiful
sentence, so expressive of genuine humility and appreciation of others:—“If
I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”
It has been said that there is no connection between merit and modesty
except the letter m, but all who have been brought into contact with
first-class minds will acknowledge thankfully the profound humility which
has been their general law. Though there is no rule without exception, yet
even those exceptions might, upon examination, be found deficient in some
important elements of greatness—perhaps too clear-sighted to the pebbles,
and too short-sighted for the ocean.
It was not only that Brewster’s humility was reverential with regard to that
which is highest and beyond, but it was also reverential with regard to that
which was around and beneath. His own craving after knowledge made him ever
on the outlook for it in others, and marvellous was the gift he had of
drawing it out or creating it.
One, himself the possessor of genial gifts and genius, remarked,— “When I
have been with other great men, I go away saying, ‘What clever fellows they
are!’ but when I am with Sir David Brewster, I say, ‘What a clever fellow I
am!’ ”This jocular testimony had much truth in it, as many of far less
intellect will recollect,—so strange a gift had he of keeping his own
knowledge out of sight, and drawing forth gifts in others, unexpectedly even
to themselves. That he enjoyed the honours which his merits had won is very
true, but he disliked flattery or any unnecessary allusion to his successes;
and when with fond pride any compliment was repeated to him, the invariable
reply was, “Oh, don’t tell me any flummery.”
One thing was very noticeable in Brewster’s mental formation, which is not
in itself a rare gift amongst men of success. In Joseph John Gurney’s
expressive language, he was “a whole man to whatever he did.” Whatever
subject he was engaged in he made completely his own, and brought everything
to bear upon it, becoming quite absorbed in its individuality. The rarity of
this power of absorption in his case was its combination with so much
versatility ; and he more than fulfilled Lord Brougham’s definition of “a
perfectly educated man,—one who knows something of everything, and
everything of something.” His mind was like his own kaleidoscope, full of
countless beautiful bits, all forming into many beautiful wholes. It was the
case with lighter subjects as well as those of his own demesne. He rarely
read a novel, but when he did he became quite absorbed in the characters,
discussing and criticising them as if each were a living being. One day he
picked up Uncle Tom’s Cabin at a railway station, and was soon absorbed in
its perusal. The curious glances at him of the other passengers drew my
attention, and I saw that he was in tears, quite unconscious of observation.
On arriving at his destination, nothing was done or thought of till he had
finished the story. On another occasion, when reading Macaulay’s History of
England, for the purpose of reviewing it, which he afterwards did
enthusiastically, he became so completely interwoven with the exciting
events, that when my mother one day entered his study, she was astonished by
the exclamation, with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, “Only think what
that villain James has done next!” causing a moment’s perplexity as to who
the offending individual might be.
At St. Leonard’s College one morning I was surprised to find my father, an
hour earlier than usual, established at the breakfast table, upon which was
his microscope and an extraordinary-looking old volume, sent for from the
University library, at an unprecedentedly early hour that morning. It was
upon a very unsavoury subject, and it contained engravings unfavourable to
breakfast-eating, being neither more nor less than a full and particular
account of the natural history of the pediculus and its congeners! The night
before, in examining microscopically a piece of mica, my father had descried
imbedded in it some specimens of ancient and minute insect life, which were
new to him, and which he thought might bear a family likeness to the figures
in the old book. Portraits were at once taken of the interesting
individuals, specimens were sent to friends, amongst others to Miss Mary
King (Mrs. Ward), who also took likenesses, and the result was a very
interesting paper on the “Acari found in mica.” His delight in the
discovery, his complete absorption for the time in the subject, and his
eagerness in describing and exhibiting the hideous little mite, stand out in
memory as one instance of that wonderful freshness and vigour of mind which
he brought to bear upon his work day by day.
His versatility of pursuits and interests, combined with his extreme
accessibility, naturally produced an immense network of correspondence. The
letters that remain, from all degrees and conditions of people, on every
possible variety of subject, are really a curiosity, and being mostly
answered with care and punctuality, show what treasures of replies may yet-
be gathered in. Letters from working men abound ; many upon the most
abstruse points of science; some upon mechanical inventions; others
detailing observations of light and colour; one writes “ because he is
haunted by an idea about a lens;” another thanks him for “half promises
fully performed;” another for his “inspiring letter;” lady authoresses
thanked him for “a helping hand;” most, indeed, abounding in expressions of
gratitude. His letters from men eminent in every department of science,
literature, rank, peace or war, would drive an autograph-collector into
raptures of covetous delight. His habits of minute observation were very
remarkable ; a valuable gift in till, and capable of being highly
cultivated, it was in him both natural and acquired to the uttermost. In the
walk, at the meal, on the journey, in society, in solitude, there was a
constant observing and experimenting upon some common daily
circumstance,—the colours and forms of plants, the eye-balls of fish and
other creatures, the habits of gold-fish, the gambols of mice, abounding in
his old house, the scratching of snail-shells on the window, the jewels and
the tinted ribbons of his lady visitors, the patterns of wall-papers and
carpets, the shadows of carriage-blinds, the apparent evolutions of
telegraph wires or iron railings seen during rapid movement, the blues and
violets of distant mountains, the formation of the rose-petals, the surfaces
of silk, satin, cotton-wool, swan’s-down, etc., were all matters of
interest, expanding into higher relation with some scientific truth or
discovery. Such a habit of mind was necessarily accompanied by the intense
love of scenery, which has been already alluded to, and we find it breathing
through many of his finest compositions.
It was a joy to him to sit quite still, gazing quietly on a lovely scene and
“looking away from himself,” as he expressively phrased it. Travelling also
was a delight, especially in any new country ; the liveliness of his remarks
and the perpetual calls for sympathetic admiration being not always
thoroughly appreciated by over-wearied fellow-travellers; nor was it only
scenery to which his love and admiring appreciation was devoted—it extended
to every work of God. The following beautiful anecdote of this feature of
his character has already been given in Sir James Simpson’s interesting
Address before the Royal Society of Edinburgh :—
“A near connection, but not a relative, who in former years often lived in
his house, and latterly formed one of the three loving watchers by his
deathbed, writes me this characteristic and striking anecdote :—When we were
living in his house at St. Andrews twelve years ago, he was much occupied
with the microscope ; and, as was his custom, he used to sit up studying it
after the rest of the household had gone to bed. I often crept back into the
room on the pretence of having letters to write, or something to finish, but
just to watch him. After a little he would forget that I was there, and I
have often seen him suddenly throw himself back in his chair, lift up his
hands, and exclaim, ‘Good God! Good God! how marvellous are Thy works.’
Remembering these scenes, I, on Sunday morning (the day before he died) said
to him that it had been given to him to show forth much of God’s great and
marvellous works, and he answered, ‘Yes, I found them to be great and
marvellous, and I have felt them to be His.’
Associated with these characteristics there was the early and late love of
poetry, and the wish to write it himself, which has been already noticed.
His ear for rhyme and rhythm was peculiarly good, though he was himself
conscious of the lack of poetic fire and expression, which are gifts
distinct from the deep inner sense and love of poetry. His prose, however,
was often far less prosaic than his poetry, and the music and consonance of
its stately march show that within him there were the elements of the true
poet. My earliest recollection is that of sitting upon his knee while he
read aloud Gertrude of Wyoming, his voice faltering and his eyes filling
with tears at the more pathetic passages. “Sir Walter’s” poems were also
read aloud in the same way. His strong wish was to have those of his family
who manifested any scribbling tendency to turn their attention entirely to
poetical composition, and he therefore wholly discouraged at first any prose
attempts.
His charm in society was great; he mingled in it without thought of himself,
contented and grateful because of the universal kindness he received, and
ever on the watch to see and admire something good and beautiful in others.
One clever old lady who much prized his homage, said in a quaint pet one
day, “It’s no use to be admired by Sir David,—he admires everybody ! ” It is
also told that “ his manner towards the gentler sex, old and young, had in
it an indescribable air of deference and chivalrous respect which was
singularly winning, and made him a universal favourite among them. During
the fierce strife which he waged with the St. Andrews Professors, they used
to complain with a vehemence highly comical that the ladies utterly refused
to believe that the gentle and high-bred Principal could give utterance to
the violent and abusive language which his colleagues ascribed to him in
their wordy war.”
His kindness and love of children were marked. Many of mature age can recall
some little act of his thoughtful, cheerful kindness long years ago. One
lady tells me what an impression a trifling circumstance made upon her in
her childhood. She had asked the philosopher to draw something in her album,
he took it to his room, and after many patient attempts brought it the next
morning, with a mortified confession that he had completely failed ; and
then, to make up for this mutual disappointment, he drew a few lines with
pen and ink on one page of the album, folded it down, and produced by
blotting it the figure of a symmetrical vase,—a simple but pretty
experiment, with which I have seen him keep a whole circle of young people
in amused and varied occupation. The following playful letter to the
daughter of his friend Mr. Lyon, shows the kind way in which he remembered
the requests of others; having been asked to use his influence that a son
might be allowed to study art, which was not the profession desired by his
father:—
“My dear Jessie,—I had a walk of nearly two hours with your papa yesterday,
and after settling a deep theological question, we had a long talk about
James. I think I made an impression upon him, so far as to induce him to
think seriously of sending him to the School of Design. Your papa thinks
that you have too exalted an opinion of James’s powers, though he admitted
that he had ‘a wonderful talent for painting horses,’—as if this were all he
could do. You must therefore make James turn his hand upon cows, pigs, and
poultry, and, if possible, empty Noah’s ark upon any of the carpet canvasses
you can command. I would recommend also the more poetical subject of Daniel
in the Lions’ Den, and if after this you fail in your plans, which a lady
seldom does when she chooses to lay them well down, I would recommend as
James’s last resource a picture of a herd of Covenanters on the hill-side,
in which he may place me, in the richest caricature, either of a deacon or
an elder. Your papa has just been here asking me to attend a sermon which he
is to deliver to-day at three o’clock, which I of course will do. I told him
that I was going to write to you, without mentioning the subject, so that
you must follow up what I have done.—I am, my dear Jessie, ever most truly
yours, D. Brewster.
“St. Leonard’s College,
Nov. 5th, 1850.”
A contradictory feature of my father’s habits was the order which prevailed
in the midst of apparent confusion. No “ antiquary” more dreaded the advent
of a housemaid or a duster, and yet all his books, papers, and instruments
were in a state of perfect arrangement and preparedness for his own use,
although unintelligible to others. His powers of contrivance and “garrin’”
the most unlikely things “do” his bidding were to an amusing extent. Much of
his apparatus to unlearned eyes appeared a mass of bits of broken glass,
odds and ends of brass, tin, wire, old bottles, burned corks, and broken
instruments. Yet it was kaleidoscopic in its nature, and all resulted in
effective and beautiful work. Experiments in the midst of this dusty medley
formed the chosen and delightful occupation of his life. Writing was
performed “doggedly” as the labour and the duty, but the long dark passages,
the round hole or chink in the shutter, the ingeniously cobbled instrument,
as well as his more elaborate telescopes and microscopes, formed the
material of his greatest earthly enjoyment. He always on these occasions
indulged in a sort of low purring whistle, which, though utterly destitute
of music, was the sweetest of sounds in the ears of those who loved him, for
then it was known that he was entirely free from all malaise of mind or
body.
Since I wrote the above I have received a letter1 which seems to me so
descriptive of some “ characteristics” of my father, that I make no apology
for quoting from it:—
“In anything Sir David had not himself studied he was singularly receptive,
making his inquiries with a sort of child-like earnestness that was very
touching in one so stored with knowledge. With all his amazing keenness and
subtlety of intellect, and the glancing acuteness with which he would detect
any fallacy, it always struck me, notwithstanding, that it seemed to come
more natural to him to believe and accept than merely to start objection.
His mind seemed more inclined to belief than to doubt, except in so far as
his keenness of vision guarded against anything like credulity. He was a
most patient listener, and was singularly fair and courteous in
conversational discussion. If at any time he started an objection, he was of
all men I ever met the readiest to admit the full force of anything that
might be said in answer. Sometimes, indeed, as is mentioned also of Goethe,
he would take up an argument against his own opinions that struck him,
repeat it in his own words, and present it with greater force and precision.
Those who did not know his way, would sometimes fancy he had accepted their
conclusion, when thus, in the exercise of mere logical clearness and candour,
he was but admitting, as he felt it, the weight of an individual argument.
With those less candid or less logical than himself, his very frankness and
candour in discussion would thus sometimes lead to misconception. After such
free admission of the force of their argument, they were surprised to find
him afterwards still retaining his own views.” |
