I was there, and we took
several long walks together. Nothing seemed to escape his
observation. My brother had just completed the recovery of
many hundred acres of tidal marsh by embankments. Owen, who
was greatly interested, explained what would be the effect
upon the sandiest portion of this, in years to come; what the
chemical action of the rain would be, how the sand would
eventually become soil, how vegetation would cover it, and
how manure render it cultivable. The splendid crops now
grown there bear testimony to his foresight. He had always
something instructive to impart, stopping to contemplate
trifles which only a Zadig would have noticed.
'I observe,' said he one day, 'that your prevailing wind here
is north-west.'
'How do you know?' I asked.
'Look at the roots of all these trees; the large roots are
invariably on the north-west side. This means that the
strain comes on this side. The roots which have to bear it
loosen the soil, and the loosened soil favours the extension
and the growth of the roots. Nature is beautifully
scientific.'
Some years after this, I published a book called 'Creeds of
the Day.' My purpose was to show, in a popular form, the
bearings of science and speculative thought upon the
religious creeds of the time. I sent Owen a copy of the
work. He wrote me one of the most interesting letters I ever
received. He had bought the book, and had read it. But the
important content of the letter was the confession of his own
faith. I have purposely excluded all correspondence from
these Memoirs, but had it not been that a forgotten collector
of autographs had captured it, I should have been tempted to
make an exception in its favour. The tone was agnostic; but
timidly agnostic. He had never freed himself from the
shackles of early prepossessions. He had not the necessary
daring to clear up his doubts. Sometimes I fancy that it was
this difference in the two men that lay at the bottom of the
unfortunate antagonism between Owen and Huxley. There is in
Owen's writing, where he is not purely scientific, a touch of
the apologist. He cannot quite make up his mind to follow
evolution to its logical conclusions. Where he is forced to
do so, it is to him like signing the death warrant of his
dearest friend. It must not be forgotten that Owen was born
more than twenty years before Huxley; and great as was the
offence of free-thinking in Huxley's youth, it was nothing
short of anathema in Owen's. When I met him at Holkham, the
'Origin of Species' had not been published; and Napier and I
did all we could to get Owen to express some opinion on
Lamarck's theory, for he and I used to talk confidentially on
this fearful heresy even then. But Owen was ever on his
guard. He evaded our questions and changed the subject.
Whenever I pass near the South Kensington Museum I step aside
to look at the noble statues of the two illustrious men. A
mere glance at them, and we appreciate at once their
respective characters. In the one we see passive wisdom, in
the other militant force.
CHAPTER XLI
BEFORE I went to America, I made the acquaintance of Dr.
George Bird; he continued to be one of my most intimate
friends till his death, fifty years afterwards. When I first
knew him, Bird was the medical adviser and friend of Leigh
Hunt, whose family I used often to meet at his house. He had
been dependent entirely upon his own exertions; had married
young; and had had a pretty hard fight at starting to provide
for his children and for himself. His energy, his abilities,
his exceeding amiability, and remarkable social qualities,
gradually procured him a large practice and hosts of devoted
friends. He began looking for the season for sprats - the
cheapest of fish - to come in; by middle life he was
habitually and sumptuously entertaining the celebrities of
art and literature. With his accomplished sister, Miss Alice
Bird, to keep house for him, there were no pleasanter dinner
parties or receptions in London. His CLIENTELE was mainly
amongst the artistic world. He was a great friend of Miss
Ellen Terry's, Mr. Marcus Stone and his sisters were
frequenters of his house, so were Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Woolner
the sculptor - of whom I was not particularly fond - Horace
Wigan the actor, and his father, the Burtons, who were much
attached to him - Burton dedicated one volume of his 'Arabian
Nights' to him - Sir William Crookes, Mr. Justin Macarthy and
his talented son, and many others.
The good doctor was a Radical and Home Ruler, and attended
professionally the members of one or two labouring men's
clubs for fees which, as far as I could learn, were
rigorously nominal. His great delight was to get an order
for the House of Commons, especially on nights when Mr.
Gladstone spoke; and, being to the last day of his life as
simple-minded as a child, had a profound belief in the
statemanship and integrity of that renowned orator.
As far as personality goes, the Burtons were, perhaps, the
most notable of the above-named. There was a mystery about
Burton which was in itself a fascination. No one knew what
he had done; or consequently what he might not do. He never
boasted, never hinted that he had done, or could do, anything
different from other men; and, in spite of the mystery, one
felt that he was transparently honest and sincere. He was
always the same, always true to himself; but then, that
'self' was a something PER SE, which could not be
categorically classed - precedent for guidance was lacking.
There is little doubt Burton had gipsy blood in his veins;
there was something Oriental in his temperament, and even in
his skin.
