Chapter XVI: Introduction (16)

I have mentioned this matter especially, because it is of some importance to me, and also because I do not find that there is any other opinion which I have ever published in any book or article, on morals or religion, which I now desire to withdraw, or even of which I care to modify the expression. It is a great happiness to me at the end of a long and busy literary life, to feel that I have never written anything of which I repent, or which I wish to unsay.

A collection of minor articles, with several fresh papers of a lighter sort,—an _Allegory_, _The Spectral Rout_, &c.—was also published by Trübner in 1867, under the name of _Hours of Work and Play_.

In 1872 Messrs. Williams & Norgate published a rather large collection of my Essays, under the name of _Darwinism in Morals and other Essays_. The first is a review of the theory of ethics expounded in Darwin’s _Descent of Man_. I argue that the moral history of mankind (so far as it is known to us) gives no support whatever to Mr. Darwin’s hypothesis that Conscience is the result of certain contingencies in our development, and that it might, at an earlier stage, have been moulded into quite another form, causing Good to appear to us Evil, and Evil Good.

“I think we have a right to say that the suggestions offered by the
highest scientific intellects of our time to account for its existence
on principles which shall leave it on the level of other instincts,
have failed to approve themselves as true to the facts of the case.
And I think, therefore, that we are called on to believe still in the
validity of our own moral consciousness, even as we believe in the
validity of our other faculties; and to rest in the faith (well-nigh
universal) of the human race, in a fixed and supreme Law, of which the
will of God is the embodiment and Conscience the Divine
transcript.”—_Darwinism in Morals_, p. 32.

In this same volume (included in the re-issue) are essays on _Hereditary Piety_ (a review of Mr. Galton’s _Hereditary Genius_); one on _The Religion of Childhood_, on Robertson’s _Life_; on “A French Theist” (M. Pécaut); and a series of studies on Eastern Religions; including reviews of Mr. Ferguson’s _Tree and Serpent Worship_ (with which Mr. F. was so pleased that he made me a present, of his magnificent book); Bunsen’s _God in History_, Max Muller’s _Chips from a German Workshop_, and Mrs. Manning’s _Ancient and Mediæval India_. Each of these is a careful essay on one or other of the oriental faiths referring to many other books on each subject. Beside these there are in the same volume two articles on _Unconscious Cerebration_ and _Dreams_, which excited some interest in their day; and seem to me (if I be not misled by vanity) to have forestalled a good deal which has been written of late years about the “subliminal” or “subjective” consciousness.

In 1875, Messrs. Ward, Lock & Tyler, for whose _New Quarterly Magazine_ I had written two long articles on _Animals in Fable and Art_ and the _Fauna of Fancy_, asked my consent to re-publishing them in their _Country House Library_. To this I gladly agreed, adding my article in the _Quarterly Review_ on the _Consciousness of Dogs_; and that in _the Cornhill_: “_Dogs whom I have met_.” The volume was prettily got up, and published under the name of “_False Beasts and True_.”

From the close of 1874, when I undertook the Anti-vivisection crusade, my literary activity dwindled down rapidly to small proportions. In the course of eight years I wrote enough magazine articles to fill one volume, published in 1882, and containing essays on _Magnanimous Atheism_; _Pessimism and One of its Professors_, and a few other papers, of which the most important,—the _Peak in Darien_,—gives its name to the book. It is an argument, (with many facts cited in its support,) for believing that the dying, as they are passing the threshold, not seldom become aware of the presence of beloved ones waiting for them in the new state of existence which they are actually entering.

After this book I wrote little for some years, but in 1888 I was asked to contribute an article to the _Universal Review_ on the _Scientific Spirit of the Age_. I gladly acceded, but the Editor desired to cut down my MS., so I published it as a book with a few other older papers; notably one on the _Town Mouse and the Country Mouse_; a half-humorous study of the _pros_ and _cons_ of Life in London, and Life in a Country house.

After this, again, I published two editions of a little compilation, the “_Friend of Man and His Friends the Poets_;” a collection (with running commentary) of Poems of all ages and countries relating to Dogs, which were likely, I thought, to aid my poor, four-footed friends’ claims to sympathy and respect.

Of my remaining books, the _Duties of Women_, and _The Modern Rack_ I shall speak in the chapters which respectively concern my work for Women, and the Anti-vivisection movement.

CHAPTER
XVI.
_MY LIFE IN LONDON IN THE SIXTIES AND SEVENTIES_
_JOURNALISM._

Journalism is, to my thinking, a delightful profession, full of interest, and promise of ever-extending usefulness. During the years in which I was a professional Journalist, when I had occasion to go into a Bank or a lawyer’s office, I always pitied the clerks for their dull, monotonous, ugly work, as compared with mine. If not carried on too long or continuously,—so that the brain begins to _churn_ leaders sleeping or waking (a dreadful state of things into which we _may_ fall),—it is pre-eminently healthy, being so full of variety and calling for so many different mental faculties one after another. Promptitude, clear and quick judgment as to what is, and is not, expedient and decorous to say; a ready memory well stored with illustrations and unworn quotations, a bright and strong style; and, if it can be attained, a playful (not saturnine) humour superadded,—all these qualities and attainments are called for in writing for a daily newspaper; and the practice of them cannot fail to sharpen their edge. To be in touch with the most striking events of the whole world, and enjoy the privilege of giving your opinion on them to 50,000 or 100,000 readers within a few hours, this struck me, when I first recognised that such was my business as a leader-writer, as something for which many prophets and preachers of old would have given a house full of silver and gold. And I was to be _paid_ for accepting it! It is one thing to be a “Vox clamantis in Deserto,” and quite another to speak in Fleet Street, and, without lifting up one’s voice, to reach all at once, as many men as formed the population of ancient Athens, not to say that of Jerusalem! But I must not “magnify mine office” too fondly!

From the time of my second journey to Italy I obtained employment, as I have mentioned, as Correspondent to the _Daily News_, with whose Italian politics I was in sympathy. I also wrote all sorts of miscellaneous papers and descriptions for the _Spectator_, the _Reader_, the _Inquirer_, the _Academy_, and the _Examiner_. When in London I was engaged on the staff of the short-lived _Day_ (1867); and much lamented its untimely eclipse, when my friend Mr. Haweis, unkindly “chaffed” me by mourning over it:—

“_Sweet_ Day!
How _cool_! how bright!”

I was paid, however, handsomely for all I had written for it, and a few months later I received an invitation from Mr. Arthur Arnold (since M.P. for Salford) to join his staff on the newly-founded _Echo_. It was a great experiment on the part of the proprietors, Messrs. Petter & Galpin, to start a half-penny paper. Such a thing did not then exist in England, and the ridicule it encountered, and boycotting from the news-agents who could not make enough profit on it to satisfy themselves, were very serious obstacles to success. Nevertheless Mr. Arnold’s great tact and ability cleared the way, and before many months our circulation, I believe, was very large indeed. My share in the undertaking was soon arranged after a few interviews and experiments. It was agreed that I should go on three mornings every week at ten o’clock, to the office in Catherine Street, Strand, and there in a private room for my own use only, write a leading article on some social subject after arranging with the editor what it should be. I am proud to say that for seven years from that time till I retired, I never once failed to keep my engagement. Of course I took a few weeks’ holiday every year; but Mr. Arnold never expected his contributor in vain. Sometimes it was hard work for me; I had a cold, or was otherwise ill, or the snow lay thick and cabs from South Kensington were not to be had. Nevertheless I made my way to my destination punctually; and, when there, I wrote my leader, and as many “Notes” as were allotted to me, and thus proved, I hope, once for all, that a woman may be relied on as a journalist no less than a man. I do not think indeed, that very many masculine journalists could make the same boast of regularity as I have done. My first article appeared in the third number of the _Echo_, December 10th, 1868, and the last on, or about, March, 1875. Of course at first I found it a little difficult to write exactly what, and how much was wanted, neither more nor less; but practice made this easier. I wrote, of course, on all manner of subjects, politics excepted; but chose in preference those which offered some ethical interest,—or (on the other hand) an opening for a little fun! The reader may see specimens of both, _e.g._, the papers on the great _Divorce Case_; _Lent in Belgravia_; and on _Fat People_; _Sweeping under the Mats_, &c., in _Re-echoes_, a little book compiled from a selection of my _Echo_ articles which Tauchnitz reproduced in his library. A few incidents in my experience in Catherine Street recur to me, and may be worth recording.

Terrible stories of misery and death were continuously cropping up in the reports of Coroners’ Inquests, and I found that if I took these reports as they were published and wrote leading articles on them, we were almost sure next day to receive several letters begging the Editor to forward money (enclosed) to the surviving relations. It became a duty for me to satisfy myself of the veracity of these stories before setting them forth with claims for public sympathy; and in this way I came to see some of the sadder sides of poverty in London. There was one case I distinctly recall, of a poor lady, daughter of a country rector, who was found (after having been missed for several days, but not sought for) lying dead, scarcely clothed, on the bare floor of a room in a miserable lodging-house in Drury Lane. I went to the house and found it a filthy coffee-house, frequented by unwashed customers. The mistress, though likewise unwashed, was obviously what is termed “respectable.” She told me that her unhappy lodger was a woman of 40 or 50, perfectly sober and well conducted in every way. She had been a governess in very good families, but had remained unemployed till her clothes grew shabby. She walked all day long over London for many weeks, seeking any kind of work or means of support, and selling by degrees everything she possessed for food. At last she returned to her wretched room in that house into which it was a pain for any lady to enter,—and having begged a last cup of tea from her landlady, telling her she could not pay for it, she locked her door, and was heard of no more. Many days afterwards the busy landlady noticed that she had not seen her going in or out, and finding her door locked, called the police to open it. There was hardly an atom of flesh on the poor worn frame, scarcely clothes for decency, no food, no coals in the grate. “_Death from Starvation_” was the only possible verdict. When the case had been made public, relatives, obviously belonging to a very good class of society, came hastily and took away the corpse for burial in some family vault. The sight, the sounds, the fetid smells of that sordid lodging-house as endured by that lonely, dying, starving lady, will haunt me while I live.

Another incident (in January, 1869) had a happier conclusion. There was a case in the law Reports one day of a woman named Susannah Palmer, who was sent to Newgate for stabbing her husband. The story was a piteous one as I verified it. Her husband was a savage who had continually beaten her; had turned her out of the house at night; brought in a bad woman in her place; and then had deserted her for months, leaving her to support herself and their children. After a time he would suddenly return, take the money she had earned out of her pocket (as he had then a legal right to do), sell up any furniture she possessed; kick and beat her again; and then again desert her. One day she was cutting bread for the children when he struck her, and the knife in her hand cut him; whereupon he gave her in charge for “feloniously wounding”; and she was sent to jail. The Common Sergeant humanely observed as he passed sentence that “Newgate would be ten times better for her than the hell in which she was compelled to live.” It was the old epitaph exemplified:

“Here lies the wife of Matthew Ford,
Whose soul we hope is with the Lord;
But if for Hell she’s changed this life
‘’Tis better than being Mat. Ford’s wife!’”

Having obtained through John Locke (the well-known Member for Southwark, who had married my cousin) a special permit from the Lord Mayor, I saw the poor, pale creature in Newgate and heard her long tale of wrong and misery. The good Ordinary of the jail felt deeply with me for her; and when I had seen the people who employed her as charwoman (barbers and shoemakers in Cowcross Street) and received the best character of her, I felt justified in appealing, in the _Echo_, for help for her, and also in circulating a little pamphlet on her behalf. Eventually, when Mrs. Palmer left Newgate a few weeks later, it was to take possession, as _caretaker for the chaplain_, of nice, tidy rooms where she and her children could live in peace, and where her brutal husband could not follow her, since the place belonged legally to the chaplain.

When there was a dearth of interesting news on the mornings of my leader-writing, it was my custom to send for a certain newspaper, the organ of the extreme Ritualistic party, and out of this I seldom failed to extract _Pabulum_ for a cheerful article! One day, just after the 29th of September, I found such a record of folly,—vestments, processions, thuribles, and what not, that I proceeded with glee to write a leader on _Michaelmas Geese_. Next day, to my intense amusement, there was a letter at the office addressed to the author of the article, in which one of the “Geese,” whom I had particularly attacked and who naturally supposed me to be a man, invited me to come and dine with him, and “talk of these matters over a good glass of sherry and a cigar!” The worldly wisdom which induced the excellent clergyman to try and thus “silence my guns” by inducing me to share his salt; and his idea of the irresistible attractions of sherry and cigars to a “poor devil” (as he obviously supposed) of a contributor to a half-penny paper, made a delightful joke. I had the greatest mind in the world to accept the invitation without betraying my sex till I should arrive at his door in the fullest of my feminine finery, and claim his dinner; but I was prudent, and he never knew who was the midge who had assailed him.

The incident reminds me of another journalistic experience not connected with the _Echo_, which throws some light on certain charges recently discussed about “commissions” given to newspaper writers who puff the goods of tradesmen under the guise of instructing the public in the latest fashions in dress, furniture and _bric-à-brac_. It was the only case in which any bribe of the kind ever came to my door. Some _grandes dames_ anxious for the health of work-girls, had opened a millinery establishment in Clifford Street on purely philanthropic lines, and begged me to write an appeal in the _Times_ for support for it. After visiting the beautiful, airy workrooms and dormitories, I did this with a clear conscience (of course gratuitously) to oblige my friends on the Committee. Next day a smart brougham drove to my door in Hereford Square, and an exquisitely dressed lady got out of it, and sent in her card, “Madame D——.” I was so grossly ignorant of fashionable millinery, that I did not know that my visitor was then at the very apex of that lofty commerce. She remonstrated on my injustice in praising the Clifford Street establishment, when _her_ girls were exactly as well lodged and fed. “Would I not come and see for myself, and then write and say so equally publicly?” I agreed that this would be only fair, and fixed an hour for my inspection; on which she gracefully thanked me and departed, murmuring as she disappeared that she would be happy to present me with “_Une jolie toilette!_” Poor woman! She had come to the only gentlewoman perhaps in London to whom a “toilette” by Madame D—— offered no attractions at all, and to whom (even if I would have accepted one) it would have been useless, seeing that I never wore anything but the simply-made skirts and jackets of my maid’s manufacture. Of course I visited and justly praised her establishment, as I had promised; and I suppose she long expected me to come and claim her “_jolie toilette!_”

There was another story of which the memory is in my mind closely associated with a dear young friend,—Miss Letitia Probyn, who helped me ardently in my efforts, very shortly before her untimely death, while bathing, at Hendaye near Arcachon. The case of a woman named Isabel Grant moved us deeply. The poor creature, in a drunken struggle with her husband at supper, had cut him with the bread knife in such manner that he died next day. Her remorse was most genuine and extreme. She was sentenced to be hanged; and just at the same time an Irishman who had murdered his wife under circumstances of exceptional brutality and who had from first to last gloried in his crime, was set free after a week’s imprisonment! We got up a Memorial for Isabel Grant, Miss Probyn’s family interest enabling her to obtain many influential signatures; and we contrived that both the cases of exceptional severity to the repentant woman and that of lenity to the unrepentant man, should be set forth in juxtaposition in a score of newspapers. In the end Isabel Grant obtained a commutation of her sentence.

In 1875 the proprietors of the _Echo_ sold the paper to Baron Grant; and Mr. Arnold and I at once resigned our positions as Editor and Contributor. He had created the paper,—I may say even more,—had created first-class, half-penny journalism altogether; and it was deeply regretted that his able and judicious guidance was lost to the _Echo_. After an interval, the paper was redeemed from the first purchaser’s hands by that generous gentleman, Mr. Passmore Edwards, than whom it could have no better Proprietor.

I wrote on the whole more than 1,000 leading articles, and a vast number of Notes, for the _Echo_ during the seven years in which I worked upon its staff. The contributors who successively occupied the same columns of second leaders on my off-days were willing, (as I believe Mr. Arnold desired), to adopt on the whole the general line of sentiment and principle which my articles maintained; and thus I had the comfort of thinking that, as regarded social ethics, my work had given in some measure the tone to the paper. It was _my pulpit_, with permission to make in it (what other pulpits lack so sadly!) such jokes as pleased me; and to put forward on hundreds of matters my views of what was right and honourable. We did not profess to be “written by gentlemen for gentlemen.” The saturnine jests, the snarls and the pessimisms of the clubs were not in our way; and we did not affect to be _blasés_, or to think the whole world was going to the dogs. There were of course subjects on which a Liberal like Mr. Arnold and a Tory like myself differed widely; and then I left them untouched, for (I need scarcely say) I never wrote a line in that or any other paper not in fullest accordance with my own opinions and convictions, on any subject small or great. The work, I think, was at all events wholesome and harmless. I hope that it also did, now and then, a little good.

After the sudden and unexpected termination of my connection with the _Echo_ I accepted gladly an engagement, not requiring personal attendance, on the staff of the _Standard_, and wrote two or three leaders a week for that newspaper, for a considerable time. At last the Vivisection controversy came in the way, when I resigned my post in consequence of the appearance of a pro-vivisecting paragraph. The editor assured me generally of his approval of my crusade, and I wrote a few articles more, but the engagement finally dropped. My time had indeed become too much absorbed by the other work to carry on regular Journalism with the needful vigour.

It may interest women who are entering the profession in which I found such pleasure and profit, to know that as regards “filthy lucre,” I found it more remunerative than writing for the best monthly or quarterly periodicals. I did both at the same period; often sitting down to spend some hours of the afternoon over a “Study of Eastern Religion” or some such subject, when I had gone to the Strand and written my leader and notes in the forenoon. Putting all together and the profits of my books, (which were small enough,) I made by my literary and journalistic work at one time a fair income. This golden epoch ended, however, when I threw myself into the Anti-vivisection movement, after which date I do not think I have ever earned more than £100 a year, and for the last 12 years not £20. I suppose in my whole life I have earned nearly £5,000, rather more than my whole patrimony. What my poor father would have felt had he known that his daughter eked out her subsistence by going down in all weathers to write articles for a half-penny newspaper in the Strand, I cannot guess. My brothers happily had no objection to my industry, and the eldest—who drew, as usual with elder sons in our class, more money every year from the family property than I received for life,—kindly paid off my charges on the estate and added £100 a year to the proceeds, so that I was thenceforth, for my moderate wants, fairly well off, especially since I had a friend who shared all expenses of housekeeping with me.

In reviewing my whole literary and journalistic life as I have done in these two chapters, I perceive that I have been from first to last _an Essayist_; almost _pur et simple_. I have done very little in any other way than to try to put forward—either at large in a book or in a magazine article, or, lastly, in a newspaper-leader—which was always a miniature essay,—an appeal for some object, an argument for some truth, a vindication of some principle, an exposure of what I conceived to be an absurdity, a wrong, a falsehood, or a cruelty. At first I had exaggerated hopes of success in these endeavours. Books had been a great deal to me in my own solitary life, and I far over-estimated their practical power. When editors and publishers readily accepted my articles and books, and reviewers praised them, I fancied, (though they never sold very freely,) that I was really given the great privilege of moving many hearts. But by degrees as years went on I felt the sorrowful limitation of literary influence. Sometimes I was wild with disappointment and indignation when critics lauded the “style” of my books while they never so much as noticed the _purpose_ for sake of which I had laboured to make them good and strong literature.

For my own part I have shunned Review-writing; partly (as regarded newspaper criticism) for the rather sordid reason that it involves the double labour of reading and writing for the same pay per column, but generally, and in all cases, because I cannot say,—as dear Fanny Kemble used to remark in a sepulchral voice (quite falsely), “_I am nothing if not critical_.” On the contrary, I am several other things, and very little critical; and the pain and deadly injury I have seen inflicted by a severe review is a form of cruelty for which I have no predilection. It is necessary, no doubt, in the literary community that there should be warders and executioners at the public command to birch juvenile offenders, and flog garrotters, and hang anarchists; but I never felt any vocation for those disagreeable offices. The few reviews I have ever written have been properly Essays on given subjects, taking some book which I could honestly praise for a peg. As in the old Egyptian _Book of the Dead_ the soul of the deceased protests, among his forty-two abjurations,—“I have not been the cause of others’ tears,”—so, I hope, I may say, I have given no brother or sister of the pen the wound (and often the ruinous loss) of a damaging critique of his or her books. If my writings have given pain to any persons, it can only have been to men whose dead consciences it would be an act of mercy to awaken, and towards whom I feel not the smallest compunction. Briefly I conclude in this book, (doubtless my last), a long and moderately successful literary life, with no serious regrets, but with much thankfulness and rejoicing for all the interest, the pleasure and the warm and precious friendships which the profession of letters has brought to me ever since I entered it,—just forty years ago,—when William Longman accepted my _Intuitive Morals_.

CHAPTER
XVII.
_MY LIFE IN LONDON IN THE SIXTIES AND SEVENTIES._
_SOCIAL._

When we had settled down, as we did rapidly, into our pretty little house in South Kensington, we began soon to enjoy many social pleasures of a quiet kind. Into Society (with a big _S_!), we had no pretensions to enter, but we had many friends, very genuine and delightful ones, ere long; and a great many interesting acquaintances. Happily death has spared not a few of these until now, and, of course, of them I shall not write here; but of some of those who have “gone over to the majority” I shall venture to record my recollections, interspersed in some cases with their letters. I may premise that we were much given to dining out, but not to attending late evening parties; and that in our small way we gave little dinners now and then, and occasionally afternoon and evening parties,—the former held sometimes in summer under the lime trees behind our house. I attribute my long retention of good health to my persistence in going to bed before eleven o’clock, and never accepting late invitations.

I hope I shall be acquitted of the presumption of pretending to offer in the scrappy _souvenirs_ I shall now put together any important contribution to the memoirs of the future. At best, a woman’s knowledge of the eminent men whom she only meets at dinner parties, and perhaps in occasional quiet afternoon visits, is not to be compared to that of their associates in their clubs, in Parliament and in all the work of the world. Nevertheless as all of us, human beings, resemble diamonds in having several distinct facets to our characters, and as we always turn one of these to one person and another to another, there is generally some fresh side to be seen in a particularly brilliant gem. The relation too, which a good and kindly man (and such I am happy to say were most of my acquaintances) bears to a woman who is neither his mother, sister, daughter, wife or potential wife, but merely a reasonably intelligent listener and companion of restful hours, is so different from that which he holds to his masculine fellow-workers,—rivals, allies or enemies as they may be,—that it can rarely happen but that she sees him in quite a different light from theirs. Englishmen are not eaten up with _Invidia_, like Italians and Frenchmen, such as made D’ Azeglio say to me that it was a positive danger to a statesman to win a battle, or gain a diplomatic triumph, so much envy did it excite among his own party. In our country, men, and still more emphatically, women, glory enthusiastically in the successes of their friends, if not of others. But the masculine mind, so far as I have got to the bottom of it, (as George Eliot says, “it is always so superior—_what there is of it_!”), is not so quick in gathering impressions of character as ours of the softer (and therefore, I suppose, more waxlike) sex; and when fifty men have said their say on a great man I should always wish to hear _also_ what the women who knew him socially had to add to their testimony. In short, dear Fanny Kemble’s “_Old Woman’s Gossip_” seems to me admissible on the subject of the character and “little ways” of everybody worthy of record.

It was certainly an advantage to us in London to be, as we were, without any kind of ulterior aim or object in meeting our friends and acquaintances, beyond the pleasure of the hour. We never had anything in view in the way of social ambition; not even daughters to bring out! It was not “_de l’Art pour l’Art_,” but _la Société pour la Société_, and nothing beyond the amusement of the particular day and the interest of the acquaintanceships we had the good fortune to make. We had no rank or dignity of any kind to keep up. I think hardly any of our friends and _habitués_ even knew who we were, from Burke’s point of view! I was really pleased once, after I had been living for years in London, to find at a large dinner-party, where at least half the company were my acquaintances, that not one present suspected that I had any connection with Ireland at all. Our host (a very prominent M.P. at the time) having by chance elicited from me some information on Irish affairs, asked me, “What do you know about Ireland?” “Simply that the first 36 years of my life were spent there,” was my reply; which drew forth a general expression of surprise. The few who had troubled themselves to think who I was, had taken it for granted that I belonged to a family of the same name, _minus_ the final letter, in Oxfordshire. In a country neighbourhood the one prominent fact about me, known and repeated to everyone, would have been that I was the daughter of Charles Cobbe of Newbridge. I was proud to be accepted and, I hope, liked, on the strength of my own talk and books, not on that of my father’s acres.

We did not (of course) live in London all the year round, but came every summer to Wales to enable my friend to look after her estate; and I went every two or three years to Ireland, and more frequently to the houses of my two brothers in England,—Maulden Rectory, in Bedfordshire, and Easton Lyss, near Petersfield,—where they respectively lived, and where both they and their wives were always ready to welcome me affectionately. I also paid occasional visits at two or three country houses, notably Broadlands and Aston Clinton, where I was most kindly invited by the beloved owners; and twice or three times we let our house for a term, and went to live on one occasion in Cheyne Walk, and another time at Byfleet. We always fell back, however, on our dear little house in Hereford Square, till we let it finally to our old friend Mrs. Kemble, and left London for good in the spring of 1884.

I think the first real acquaintances we made in London (whether through Mrs. Somerville or otherwise I cannot recall) were Sir Charles and Lady Lyell, and their brother and sister, Col. and Mrs. Lyell. The house, No. 73, Harley Street—in after years noticeable by its bright blue door, (so painted to catch Sir Charles’ fading eyesight on his return from his daily walks), became very dear to us, and I confess to a pang when it was taken by Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone after the death of our dear old friends. Like Lord Shaftesbury’s house in Grosvenor Square, pulled down after his death and replaced by a brand new mansion in the latest Londonesque architecture, there was a “bad-dreaminess” about both transformation scenes. The Lyells regularly attended Mr. Martineau’s chapel in Little Portland Street, as we did; and ere long it became a habit for us to adjourn after the service to Harley Street and spend some of the afternoon with our friends, discussing the large supply of mental food which our pastor never failed to lay before us. Those were never-to-be-forgotten Sundays.

Sir Charles Lyell realised to my mind the Man of Science as he was of old; devout, and yet entirely free-thinking in the true sense; filled with admiring, almost adoring love for Nature, and also (all the more for that enthusiasm), simple and fresh-hearted as a child. When a good story had tickled him he would come and tell it to us with infinite relish. I recollect especially his delight in an American boy (I think somehow connected with our friend Mr. Herman Merivale), who, being directed to say his prayers night and morning, replied that he had no objection to do so at _night_, but thought that “a boy who is worth anything can take care of himself _by day_.”[21] Another time we had been discussing Evolution, and some of us had betrayed the impression that the doctrine, (which he had then recently adopted), involved always the survival of the _best_, as well as of the “fittest.” Sir Charles left the room and went downstairs, but suddenly rushed back into the drawing-room, and said to me all in a breath, standing on the rug: “I’ll explain it to you in one minute! Suppose _you_ had been living in Spain three hundred years ago, and had had a sister who was a perfectly common-place person, and believed everything she was told. Well! your sister would have been happily married and had a numerous progeny, and that would have been the survival of the fittest; but _you_ would have been burnt at an _auto-da-fè_, and there would have been an end of you. You would have been unsuited to your environment. There! that’s Evolution! Good-bye!” On went his hat, and we heard the hall door close after him before we had done laughing.

Sir Charles’ interest in his own particular science was eager as that of a boy. One day I had a long conversation with him at his brother, Colonel Lyell’s hospitable house, on the subject of the Glacial period. He told me that he was employing regular calculators at Greenwich to make out the results of the ice-cap and how it would affect land and sea; whether it would cause double tides, &c. He said he had pointed out (what no one else had noticed) that the water to form this ice-cap did not come from another planet, but must have been deducted from the rest of the water on the globe. Another day I met him at a very imposing private concert in Regent’s Park. The following is my description of our conversation in a letter to my friend, Miss Elliot:—

“Sir Charles sat beside me yesterday at a great musical party at the
D.’s, and I asked him, ‘Did he like music?’ He said, ‘Yes! _for it
allowed him to go on thinking his own thoughts._’ And so he evidently
did, while they were singing Mendelssohn and Handel! At every interval
he turned to me. ‘Agassiz has made a discovery. I can’t sleep for
thinking of it. He finds traces of the Glaciers in tropical America.’
(Here intervened a sacred song.) ‘Well, as I was saying, you know
230,000 years ago the eccentricity of the earth’s orbit was at one of
its maximum periods; and we were 11,000,000 miles further from the sun
in winter, and the cold of those winters must have been intense;
because heat varies, not according to direct ratio, but the squares of
the distances.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘but then the summers were as much
hotter?’ (Sacred song.) ‘No, the summers wern’t! They could not have
conquered the cold.’ ‘Then you think that the astronomical 230,000
years corresponded with the glacial period? Is that time enough for
all the strata since?’ (Handel.) ‘I don’t know. Perhaps we must go
back to the still greater period of the eccentricity of the orbit
three million years ago. Then we were 14 millions of miles out of the
circular path.’ (Mendelssohn.) ‘Good-bye, dear Sir Charles—I must be
off.’

“Another day last week, he came and sat with me for two hours. I would
not light candles, and we got very deep into talk. I was greatly
comforted and instructed by all he said. I asked him how the modern
attacks on the argument from Design in Nature, and Darwin’s views,
touched him religiously? He replied, ‘Not at all.’ He thought the
proofs in Nature of the Divine Goodness quite triumphant; and that he
watched with secret pleasure even sceptical men of science whenever
they forget their theories, instinctively using phrases, all
_implying_ designing wisdom.”

I remember on another occasion Sir Charles telling me with much glee of two eminent Agnostic friends of ours who had been discussing some question for a long time, when one said to the other, “You are getting very _teleological_!” To which the friend responded, “I can’t help it!”

At another of his much prized visits to me (April 19th, 1866) he spoke earnestly of the future life, and made this memorable remark of which I took a note: “The further I advance in science, the less the mere physical difficulties in believing in immortality disturb me. I have learned to think nothing too amazing to be within the order of Nature.”

The great inequalities in the conditions of men and the sufferings of many seemed to be his strongest reasons for believing in another life. He added: “Aristotle says that every creature has its instincts given by its Creator, and each instinct leads to its good. Now the belief in immortality is an instinct tending to good.”

After the death of his beloved wife—the truest “helpmeet” ever man possessed—he became even more absorbed in the problem of a future existence, and very frequently came and talked with me on the subject. The last time I had a real conversation with him was not long before his death, when we met one sweet autumn day by chance in Regent’s Park, not far from the Zoological Gardens. We sat down under a tree and had a long discussion of the validity of religious faith. I think his argument culminated in this position:—

“The presumption is enormous that all our faculties, though liable to
err, are true in the main, and point to real objects. The religious
faculty in man is one of the strongest of all. It existed in the
earliest ages, and instead of wearing out before advancing
civilization, it grows stronger and stronger; and is, to-day, more
developed among the highest races than ever it was before. I think we
may safely trust that it points to a great truth.”

Here is another glimpse of him from a letter:—

“After service I went to Harley Street, Sir Charles, I thought,
looking better than for a long time. He thinks the caves of Aurignac
can never be used as evidence; the witnesses were all tampered with
from the first. He saw a skeleton found at Mentone 15 feet deep, which
he thinks of the same age as the Gibraltar caves. The legs were
distinctly platycnemic, and there was also a curious process on the
front of the shoulder—like the breast of a chicken. The skull was
full-sized and good. I asked him how he accounted for the fact that
with the best will in the world we could not find the _least_
difference between the most ancient skulls and our own? He said the
theory had been suggested that all the first growth went to brain, so
that very early men acquired large brains, as was necessary. This is
not very Darwinian, is it?”

It is the destiny of all books of Science to be soon superseded and superannuated, while those of Literature may live for all time. I suppose Sir Charles Lyell’s _Principles of Geology_ has undergone, or will undergo, this fate ere long; but the magnanimity and candour which made him, in issuing the 10th edition of that book, abjure all his previous arguments against Evolution and candidly own himself Darwin’s convert, was an evidence of genuine loyalty to truth which I trust can never be quite forgotten. He was, as Prof. Huxley called him, the “greatest Geologist of his day,”—the man “who found Geology an infant science feebly contending for a few scattered truths, and left it a giant, grasping all the ages of the past.” But to my memory he will always be something more than _an_ eminent man of Science. He was the type of what _such men ought to be_; with the simplicity, humility and gentleness which should be characteristic of the true student of Nature. Of the priestlike arrogance of some representatives of the modern scientific spirit he had not a taint. In one of his last letters to me, he said:

“I am told that the same philosophy which is opposed to a belief in a
future state undertakes to prove that every one of our acts and
thoughts are the necessary result of antecedent events, and conditions
and that there can be no such thing as Free-will in man. I am quite
content that both doctrines should stand on the same foundation; for
as I cannot help being convinced that I have the power of exerting
Free-will, however great a mystery the possibility of this may be, so
the continuance of a spiritual life may be true, however inexplicable
or incapable of proof.

“I am told by some that if any of our traditionary beliefs make us
happier and lead us to estimate humanity more highly, we ought to be
careful not to endeavour to establish any scientific truths which
would lessen and lower our estimate of Man’s place in Nature; in
short, we should do nothing to disturb any man’s faith, if it be a
delusion which increases his happiness.

“But I hope and believe that the discovery and propagation of every
truth, and the dispelling of every error tends to improve and better
the condition of man, though the act of reforming old opinions causes
so much pain and misery.”

It will give me pleasure if these few reminiscences of my honoured friend send fresh readers to his excellent and spirited biography by his sister-in-law Mrs. Lyell, Lady Lyell’s sister, who was also his brother, Colonel Lyell’s wife; the mother of Sir Leonard Lyell, M.P.

I saw a great deal of Dr. Colenso during the years he spent in England; I think about 1864–5. He lived near us in a small house in Sussex Place, Glo’ster Road (not Sussex Place, Onslow Square), where his large family of sons and daughters practised the piano below stairs and produced detonations with chemicals above, while visitors called incessantly, interrupting his arduous and anxious studies! He was in all senses an iron-grey man. Iron-grey hair, pale, strong face, fine but somewhat rigid figure, a powerful, strong-willed, resolute man, if ever there were one, and an honest one also, if such there have been on earth. His friend, Sir George W. Cox, who I may venture to call mine also, has, in his admirable biography, printed the three most important letters which the Bishop of Natal wrote to me, and I can add nothing to Sir George’s just estimate of the character of this modern _Confessor_. I will give here, however, another letter I received from him at the very beginning of our intercourse, when I had only met him once (at Dr. Carpenter’s table); and also a record in a letter to a friend of a _tête-à-tête_ conversation with him, further on. I have always thought that he made a mistake in returning to Natal, and that his true place would have been at the head of a Christian-Theistic Church in London:—

“23, Sussex Place, Kensington,
“Feb. 6th, 1863.

“My Dear Miss Cobbe,

“I thank you sincerely for your letter, and for the volume which you
have sent me. I have read the preface with the deepest interest—and
heartily respond to _every_ word which you have written in it. A
friend at the Cape had lent me a German edition of De Wette, which I
had consulted carefully. But, about a fortnight ago, a lady, till then
a stranger to me, sent me a copy of Parker’s Edition. I value it most
highly for the sake both of the Author’s and Editor’s share in it. But
the criticism of the present day goes, if I am not mistaken,
considerably beyond even De Wette’s, in clearing up the question of
the Age and Authorship of the different parts of the Pentateuch. I
shall carefully consider the Tables of Elohistic and Jehovistic
portions, as given in De Wette; but, in many important respects, my
conclusions will be found to differ from his, and, as I think, upon
certain grounds. De W. leant too much to the judgment of Stäbelin.

“The above, however, is the only one of Th. Parker’s works, which has
yet come into my hands, till the arrival of your book this morning.
When I repeat that every word of your Preface went to my very
heart—and that many of them drew the tears from my eyes and the prayer
from my heart that God would grant me grace to be in any degree a
follower of the noble brother whose life you have sketched, and whose
feet have already trodden the path, which now lies open before me—you
will believe that I shall not leave long the rest of the volume
unread. But, whatever I may find there, your Preface will give comfort
and support to thousands, if only they can be brought to read it.
Would it not be possible to have it printed separate, as a _cheap
Tract_? It would have the effect of recommending the book itself, and
Parker’s works, generally, to multitudes, who might otherwise not have
them brought under their notice effectively? I think if largely
circulated it might help materially the progress of the great work, in
which I am now engaged.

“You will allow me, I hope, to have the pleasure of renewing my
acquaintance with you, by making a call upon you before long—and may I
bring with me Mrs. Colenso, who will be very glad to see you?

“Very truly yours,
“JO. NATAL.

“Please accept a copy of my ‘Romans,’ which Macmillan will send you.
The _spirit_ of it will remain, I trust, abiding, though much of the
_letter_ must now be changed.”

Writing of Dr. Colenso to a friend in February, 1865, I said:—

“I never felt for him so much as last night. We came to talk on what
we felt at standing so much alone; and he said that when the extent of
his discoveries burst on him he felt as if he had received a
paralyzing electric shock. A London clergyman wrote to him the other
day to give him solemn warning that he had led one of his parishioners
to destruction and drunkenness. Colenso answered him, that ‘it was not
_he_ who led men to doubt of God and duty, but those teachers who made
them rest their faith on God and Duty on a foundation of falsehood
which every new wave of thought was sweeping away.’ The clergyman
seems to have been immensely dumbfounded by this reply.”

Another most interesting man whom I met at Dr. Carpenter’s table was Charles Kingsley.

One day, while I was still a miserable cripple, I went to dine in Regent’s Park and came rather late into a drawing-room full of company, supported by what my maid called my “_best_ crutches!” The servant did not know me, and announced “Miss Cobble.” I corrected her loudly enough for the guests to hear, in that moment of pause: “No! Miss Hobble!” There was of course a laugh, and from the little crowd rushed forward to greet me with both hands extended, a tall, slender, stooping figure with that well-known face so full of feeling and tenderness—Charles Kingsley. “At _last_, Miss Cobbe, at _last_ we meet,” he said, and a moment later gave me his arm to dinner. This greeting touched me, for we had exchanged, as theological opponents, some tolerably sharp blows for years before, but his large, noble nature harboured no spark of resentment. We talked all dinner-time and a good deal in the evening, and then he offered to escort me home to South Kensington—a proposal which I greedily accepted, but, somehow, when he found that I had a brougham, and was not going in miscellaneous vehicles (in my best evening toggery!) from one end of London to the other at night, he retracted, and could not be induced to come with me. We met, however, not unfrequently afterwards, and I always felt much attracted to him; as did, I may mention, my friend’s little fox terrier, who, travelling one day with her mistress in the Underground, spied Kingsley entering the carriage, and incontinently leaving her usual safe retreat under the seat made straight to him, and without invitation, leaped on his knee and began gently kissing his face! The dog never did the same or anything like it to any one else in her life before or afterwards. Of course, my friend apologised to Mr. Kingsley, but he only said in his deep voice, “Dogs always do that to me,”—and coaxed the little beast kindly, till they left the train.

The last time I saw Canon Kingsley was one day late in the autumn some months before he died. Somebody who, I thought, he would like to meet was coming to dine with me at short notice, and I went to Westminster in the hope of catching him and persuading him to come without losing time by sending notes. The evening was closing, and it was growing very dark in the cloisters, where I was seeking his door, when I saw a tall man, strangely bent, coming towards me, evidently seeing neither me nor anything else, and absorbed in some most painful thought. His whole attitude and countenance expressed grief amounting to despair. So terrible was it that I felt it an intrusion on a sacred privacy to have seen it; and would fain have hidden myself, but this was impossible where we were standing at the moment. When he saw me he woke out of his reverie with a start, pulled himself together, shook hands, and begged me to come into his house; which of course I did not do. He had an engagement which prevented him from meeting my guest (I think it must have been Keshub Chunder Sen), and I took myself off as quickly as possible. I have often wondered what dreadful thought was occupying his mind when I caught sight of him that day in the gloomy old cloisters of Westminster in the autumn twilight.