Chapter IV: Oxford (3)

It is comparatively easy to set our teeth and face the inevitable
with 'a grin;' but the 'highest bravery' is to hide our anguish
with a smile. I do think I make a decently good Stoic, but
confess that in times like this Christians have the pull.
Nevertheless, I have often thought of the words, 'I am not
in the least afraid to die,'[120] and wondered, when my time
should come, I would be able to say them. But now I know that
I can, and this even in the bitterness of feeling that one's
work is prematurely cut short.... 'Somewhat too much of this,'
however. What I want to tell you is that I managed to get to
London on Friday for the purpose of consulting my doctors as to
my prospects. They take a more hopeful view than I expected,
_i.e._ notwithstanding that I have had three attacks in one year
(in both eyes and now in the brain), it is not _inevitable_
that I should have another for years to come, provided that I
become a strict teetotaller, vegetarian, hermit, and abstainer
from work. In short, 'that my rule of life,' 'the exemplar' for
my 'imitation,' is to be that of a tortoise. Hence it does not
appear that there is any immediate necessity for saying farewell
to my friends, and hence also I will not bother you by falling in
with your kind proposal to come over from Cambridge to see me,
much as I should like to see you in any case. But if you would
care to pay a visit to Oxford any time between this and to-morrow
week (16th), when I shall start for the vicinity of Nice, we
should both be awfully glad to put you up. I think Dyer will
probably be with us from Saturday to Monday (14 to 16).

With our united very kind regards to all,

Yours ever sincerely,
G. J. ROMANES.

Then came the journey to Costebelle, which he describes as follows:

_To James Romanes, Esq._

Hôtel l'Ermitage, Costebelle: November 4, 1893.

My dearest James,--I ought to have answered long ago the kind
letter which I received from you just as I was driving to the
Oxford station, and read in the train. But I am still such a
wretched invalid that I shrink from the smallest exertion,
whether of body or mind. I caught a violent cold in crossing
the Channel, which kept me in bed for three days at Amiens,
and left me so weak that I had to further break the journey at
Paris, Lyons, and Marseilles--finally arriving here with a still
feverish temperature. But this has now subsided.

We found not only Paris but quite as much Lyons and Marseilles in
a state of delirium over the Russian fleet officers, with whom
we were muddled up all the way, greatly to our inconvenience.
This was especially the case on leaving Lyons, where the railway
officials, after having put our luggage (containing our circular
notes) in the railway station, locked the doors of the latter
in our faces, when the police and military officials hurried us
down the hill again in the town (in the rudest of ways) till
the arrival of the Russians nearly an hour after our train was
timed to depart. We had no doubt that our hand baggage had all
been carried off in our railway carriage without us and without
labels; but on at last getting into the station found that our
train had not started.

This is one of the most charming places I have ever seen. The
hotel is situated on the top of a hill which slopes for a mile to
the sea, and which is thickly clothed with pine and olive woods
in all directions. The climate admits of our sitting out of doors
without overcoats or shawls till sunset, amid the most wonderful
profusion of aromas I have ever met with.

_To the Dean of Christ Church._

Costebelle: November 28, 1893.

My dear Dean,--In the firmament of my friendships there is no
such star as yourself, and I find it belongs to them all that the
darker and the colder the night becomes, the more brightly do
they shine.

It is quite certain that 'the South has not yet rendered its
full service,' inasmuch as it has not rendered me any service at
all. If anything I am worse than when I left Oxford. My muscular
power, indeed, has somewhat improved, but my nervous exhaustion
seems to be growing upon me, week by week; so that I am now able
to walk but very little--to hope, not much, to think, not at all.

The truth is that my ailment, whatever it is, is not to be
reached by climatic influences: it belongs to those mysterious
internal changes, which Darwin ascribes to what he calls 'the
nature of the organism'--'variations which to our ignorance
appear to arise spontaneously.' Hence, I am out of harmony with
my environment, whatever the environment may be. And, as this
Spencerianism applies to my spiritual, no less than to my bodily
organisation, it would seem that somehow or other I have been
born into a wrong world--like those poor Porto Santo rabbits,
which I took home with me last year, and the history of which
I think I told you. However, I do not intend to grumble at the
visible universe until I shall have had an opportunity of looking
round the edge and seeing what is behind.

Most of our time is spent in sheer idleness, or rather, I should
say, _all_ of my time, and that proportion of my wife's which
is spent in reading to me--chiefly novels, poetry, and history.
Yesterday, we had Coppée's play 'Le Pater,' which I know you have
read. For the length of it, I think it is as powerful a piece of
dramatic writing as I have ever read.

Very few worries find their way to L'Ermitage. The worst at
present is the choice of the next 'Romanes Lecturer.' Owing to
his accident, Helmholtz has blocked the way for the last two
months, but now promises a final reply in the course of a few
days. If he does come, I hope the University will give him the
D.C.L.

With our united kindest regards to Mrs. Paget, whose messages to
me are of more benefit than all my doctor's drugs (now that is a
thing I 'would rather have expressed otherwise'!) and yourself,

I remain, ever your affectionate friend,
G. J. ROMANES.

For a while all went well, he liked the place, and was able to work a little, and to have many books read to him. He had taken out Dr. Martineau's 'Study of Religion,' and other philosophical books, and he also plunged into poetry, reading Wordsworth chiefly.

In December came what seemed to be a severe gastric attack, with other alarming symptoms, and for a few hours he seemed to be dying. But this passed off, and although he was kept in bed for three weeks he grew better, and in some ways there seemed grounds for fresh hope.

For a few days in January he was under the care of a cousin with two trained nurses, and his letters home were surprisingly bright.

His wife's maid, of whom he was very fond, was terribly ill in January, and he writes:

Give Jane my love, and tell her I never forget how good she was
to me when I thought I was dying in her arms at Boar's Hill.

And again he wrote:

So glad to hear the operation has been successful. Congratulate
her from me. Tell her I heartily wish I were in her place as to
this, but that nevertheless I have not 'lost heart.' I am now
certainly stronger, and if I could only submit my cranial cavity
to Tom's[121] hands for removal of anything disagreeable, I
should be comparatively joyful.

The weather is glorious. Marian is at mass, having read me one of
Church's sermons.

Please tell John to send me a couple of hundred cigarettes (to
prevent influenza!).

When you come out you will not find me a kill-joy; the danger
will rather be that of my scandalising you all by riotous conduct
on Sunday.

And certainly he was astonishingly bright when his wife returned to him. It was on a Sunday afternoon, and his first proposition was, 'The church bell is tinkling, let's go to church.' It was the twenty-eighth of January, and the brightness and gladness of two of the Evening Psalms were oddly appropriate, and chimed in with feelings of a greater gladness dawning on him, for he was leaving the strange land in which for years he had not been able to sing 'The Lord's Song.'

And then began a time, often saddened by hours of intense physical exhaustion and physical depression, but also of what can only be called growth in holiness, in all that comes from nearness to God.

In the early autumn and winter there had been sad moments when still the clouds of darkness, of inability to grasp the Hand of God stretched out to meet him, hung over him, but in these months there had been the same growth.

One to whom he often spoke of the deepest things of life and of death will never forget his saying one day just after the attack of illness in December: 'I have come to see that cleverness, success, attainment, count for little; that goodness, or, as F. (naming a dear friend) would say, "_character_," is the important factor in life.'

For in early days Mr. Romanes had attached, so it seemed to some of those who knew him best, an undue importance to intellect, to cleverness, to intelligence, and the same person to whom he said the few words just quoted had often discussed with him the relative value of goodness and of intellect.

By goodness is meant perfect and complete goodness, not such as that of which it has been said, 'It is the business of the wise to rectify the mistakes of the good.'

And as weeks passed on he would often plan a country house and a life in which 'good works' were to have a share.

He had always had a high ideal of what Love and Faith should bring about, and in the last months of his life he said to one whom he dearly loved, 'Darling, if you believe what you say you believe, why should you mind so much?' With absolute resignation he gave up all his ambitions, the old longing for distinction, for greater fame, and yet he did not lose for one moment the old interest in his scientific work.

Two papers of his were read at the Royal Society in October 1892. The first described experiments undertaken by Mr. Romanes, the primary object of which was to ascertain whether seeds which had been kept out of contact with air for a lengthy period of time still possessed the power of germination. The method adopted was as follows: a certain number of seeds were taken from each packet, mustard, cress, beans, peas, &c., being the kinds employed, and having been weighed in a chemical balance were sealed up in tubes which had previously been exhausted of air, and kept exposed to the vacuum for a period of fifteen months. At the end of that time they were removed from the tubes and sown in flower-pots buried in moist soil. In some cases, after the seeds had been in the vacuum tubes for three months, they were transferred to other tubes charged with pure gases, such as oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen, carbon monoxide, or with aqueous or chloroform vapour, and there kept for a further period of twelve months, when they were sown as before.

In all cases the same number of seeds, of similar weights to those sealed up in the tubes, were taken from each packet, kept in ordinary air for the fifteen months, and then sown as control experiments.

The results clearly showed that the germinating power of the seeds was hardly, if at all, affected either by being exposed to the vacuum or to the atmospheres of the various gases and vapours. Further, in no single case, in the hundreds of seeds so treated, did the plants produced from them differ from the standard types grown from the control seeds even in the smallest degree.

The second paper described experiments in heliotropism, which had been undertaken by Mr. Romanes with the object of ascertaining whether plants would bend towards a light that is not continuous, but intermittent.

Mustard seedlings, grown in the dark until they were about one or two inches high, were used in all the experiments; they were either placed in a dark room and exposed to flashes of light in the form of electric sparks passed at regular intervals, or they were put in a camera obscura, before which was placed a Swan burner or arc lamp, the light from which was rendered intermittent by the regular opening and shutting of the photographic shutter. The heliotropic effect on the seedlings was found in all cases to be very marked, the most vigorous ones beginning to bend towards the light ten minutes after the flashing began, bending through 45° in as many minutes, and often through another 45° in as many minutes more. By protecting half of the seedlings from the interrupted light, by means of a cardboard cap, then after the experiment uncovering them and exposing that half for the same duration of time to constant sunlight, Mr. Romanes found that the bending was less in this latter case, that is, when the light was continuous. This result was confirmed by placing two sets of plants under exactly similar conditions before a Swan burner, the light from which was constant for one set of seedlings, and rendered intermittent for the other set by working the flash shutter; in all cases the interrupted light caused the plants to start bending more quickly, and through a greater angle in a given time.

As regards the rate the flashes must succeed one another to produce this heliotropic effect, Mr. Romanes found that sparks passed at the rate of fifty in an hour would cause considerable bending in half an hour. It is of interest to note that in no single case was there any green colouring matter produced, the seedlings remaining colourless even when the sparks were passed at the rate of 100 per second continuously during forty-eight hours.

Dr. Sanderson writes:

Friday, November 17.

My dear Romanes,--There was a rather interesting discussion
at the R.S. on your paper about the fresh experiments with
seedlings. It was objected that there was no evidence that the
effects were not due to one-sided drying of the stems of the
seedlings, and ---- wanted to know whether sufficient precautions
were taken to guard against this. I suppose that he meant heat
effects. I said that, under the conditions of this experiment, I
could not see how any 'drying effect' could possibly take place.

My suggestion is that it would be worth while to add a note, if
you think of the impossibility of any effect, excepting a light
effect, being concerned. I asked Foster just now, and he agreed
with me that it would be useful. I ought to add that it was
admitted that the observation was a new one which promised to
have very important bearings.

I am writing this in great haste. I trust that you are enjoying
Costebelle.

Very truly yours,
T. BURDON SANDERSON.

At this time Mr. Romanes had a very interesting correspondence with the Rev. G. Henslow, on the subject of the direct action of the environment on plant structures.

Ealing: October 19, 1893.

Dear Mr. Romanes,--If you are in town on November 16, I should
be very glad indeed if you could come to the Linnean Society,
and criticise my paper which I am going to read: 'On the origin
of plant structures by self-adaptation to the environment,
exemplified by desert and xerophyllous plants.'

In this and in subsequent letters Mr. Henslow explained the subject-matter of his paper, and as it formed the basis of the correspondence, a brief analysis, furnished by Mr. Henslow in a later letter, is here inserted.

The object of the paper is to show that the origin of varieties
and species--as far as the vegetative organs are concerned--is
solely due to climatic causes. For the acquired (somatic)
characters become more or less hereditary if the same environment
be maintained. But plants possess every degree in their
capacities either of _reverting_, _changing_, or of _stability_.

The result is that I do not see any necessity for natural
selection at all in Nature, for the following reasons.

Variations are often _indefinite_ in cultivation, especially
after several years. Therefore to secure a useful race
_artificial selection_ is necessary. On the other hand,
_variation_ is _definite_ in Nature, _all_ the seedlings varying
in one and the same direction, _i.e._ towards equilibrium with
the environmental forces. Darwin knew of this fact, and you have
abundantly described it. _But Darwin failed to see that this
definite variation in Nature is the rule, and not the exception._
Hence, as he admits, natural selection is not wanted at all
[_i.e._ _if_ all variations are definite in Nature].

Moreover, it is contended that climatic variations are of no
great, even of any useful importance. This may be so, for all
I know, with animals; but it is _precisely the reverse with
plants_. I took my illustrations from desert plants, and showed
that their remarkable characteristics, which give the _facies_
to desert plants, are on the one hand the direct results of
the excessive drought, heat, light, &c. On the other, they are
just those features which enable the plants to live under their
extremely inhospitable environment. These characters are the
minute leaves, hardening of woody tissues, thick cuticle, dense
clothing of hair, wax, storage of water tissues, &c.; so that the
whole economy of the plant, including its specific characters,
is _all_ climatically acquired. Although some may vary when the
plants are grown in ordinary gardens, such is no more than one
would expect on _a priori_ grounds to be the case.

I would limit natural selection, as far as plants are concerned,
to _three_ things:

1. Mortality among seedlings with the survival of the _strongest_.

I do not say 'fittest,' because it is ordinarily understood to
mean that the survivors have some _morphological features_, by
which they are benefited, which lead on finally to specific
characters.

I do not find this to be the case. Take an instance of great
contrast. Sow 100 seeds of the water (submerged) _Ranunculus
fluitans_ in a garden. They _all_ grow up as _aërial_ plants,
_i.e._ they vary as they grow precisely in the same way. It is
only the _weakest_ (from badly nourished seeds) which get crowded
out of existence. Here, then, is _definite variation without the
aid of natural selection_. _Ex uno disce omnes._

2. _Delimitation of varieties and species_ by the
_non-reproduction_ of intermediate forms.

It is generally said that if 'good species' are isolated, the
intermediate forms have been killed off by natural selection.
I maintain that they were _never reproduced_. Thus if A has
passed by successive generations, A′, A″, A‴, &c., to A^n; A and
A^n being now only in existence, then A′, A″, &c., represented
a _single generation_ apiece, each offspring being one degree
nearer to A^n, but could never be reproduced, as the environment
was continually acting upon the whole series, urging each
generation forwards till it became stable in A^n.

This is precisely what takes place in cultivating a wild plant
like the parsnip. Each year the grower selects a slightly
improved form, till the required type is fixed. The 'Student'
is now A^n, a more or less permanently fixed form, each of
the intermediate forms, lasting one year, having ceased to be
reproduced.

3. The geographical distribution of varieties and species by
_self-adaptation_.

That is, if a number of plants migrate to a new locality with
new environmental conditions, half of them may die; because
they cannot adapt themselves; the other half may live--change,
and become fixed forms, by their power of adaptation. The final
conclusion of the whole is that plants require nothing more than
climatic influences, to which their protoplasm may respond. The
result is new varietal or specific characters. Then, if the
same environment lasts, these become gradually more and more
fixed and hereditary, but one can never tell beforehand but
that the oldest plant in creation may not change again as soon
as it finds a new environment.... This is what a long study of
plants and experiments has led me to; and it is not a conclusion
arrived at solely by 'thinking out' or evolving from my own
consciousness--like the German camel!

Hoping you are progressing,

Believe me, yours sincerely,
GEORGE HENSLOW.

Hôtel l'Ermitage, Costebelle, Hyères, France: October 29, 1893.

Dear Mr. Henslow,--You will correctly infer from this address
that I shall not be able to attend the Linnean Society meeting on
the 16th prox. For two or three years past my health has been
breaking up, and several months ago I had a stroke of paralysis.
So I have had to knock off all work, and have just arrived here
to spend the winter--finding your letter, forwarded from Oxford,
awaiting me.

It has interested me very much, and some time I should like to
see the paper to which it refers, whether in MS. or print. As far
as I can gather, you are spontaneously following in the footsteps
of Asa Gray, Nägeli, and some other botanists. But, it seems to
me, this self-adaptation doctrine is equivalent to an _a priori_
abandoning of all hope to obtain any naturalistic explanation
of the phenomena in question. It simply refers the facts of
adaptation immediately to some theory of design, and so brings us
back again to Paley, Bell, and Chalmers. As when a child asks why
a flower closes at night, and we answer him: Because God has made
it so, my dear. _C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la science._

But do not mistake me. My quarrel is with the term
self-adaptation, which seems to imply causes of a
non-naturalistic kind. Which, of course, is quite a different
thing from doubting whether the naturalistic explanation given
by Darwin is adequate to meet all the facts. I am myself more
and more given to question 'the all-sufficiency of natural
selection,' and this, whether or not use-inheritance is one of
the supplementary factors. But that there are some hitherto
undiscovered factors of this kind where many of the phenomena
of adaptation are concerned, I am more and more disposed to
suspect. Nevertheless I believe, in the light of analogy, that
they will all prove to be natural causes, and therefore not
correctly definable as due to 'self-adaptation.'

My hemiplegia has given me a terrible shake, so I cannot write
much. Indeed, this is the longest of the few letters which I have
written since my attack. So please excuse seeming bluntness, and
believe me to remain,

Ever yours, very truly and most interestedly,
GEO. J. ROMANES.

P.S.--Of course you would not in any case expect to find so much
variability of the _conspicuously indefinite_ kind in nature as
in cultivation. For, by hypothesis, natural selection is present
in the one case (to destroy useless variations) while absent in
the other. But I allow this does not apply to the examples you
give me. Only remember the point in publishing your paper.

Hôtel Costebelle, Hyères: February 10, 1894.

Dear Mr. Henslow,--I am much indebted to you for all your most
interesting letters, and also for prospect of receiving your
books. Although forbidden to write letters myself, or to think
about anything as yet, I must send a few lines, pending arrival
of the books and papers, giving my general impression of your
views as set out in your correspondence.

Briefly, it seems to me that your argument is perfectly clear
up to a certain point, but then suddenly becomes a _petitio
principii_. In other words, so far as your view is critical
of natural selection considered as a _hypothetical cause_
of adaptive evolution, I can well believe you have adduced
a formidable array of facts. But I fail to follow, when
you pass on to the constructive part of your case--or your
suggested substitute for natural selection in self-adaptation.
For self-adaptation, I understand, consists in results of
_immediate response to stimuli supplied by environment_. But,
if so, surely the statement that all the adaptive machinery of
plant-organisation is due to self-adaptation is a mere begging of
the question _against_ natural selection _unless it can be shown
how self-adaptation works in each case_. Now I do not find any
suggestion as to this. And yet this is obviously the essential
point; since, _unless it can be shown how self-adaptation
works_--_i.e._ that it is a _vera causa_, and not a mere word
serving to re-state the facts of adaptive evolution. We have got
no further in the way of _explanation_ than the physician, who
said, that the reason why morphia produces sleep is because it
possesses a soporific quality.

Observe, I purposely abstain from considering your criticism
of natural selection, which, although perfectly lucid and
possibly justifiable, yet certainly does admit of the answer
that incipient variations of a _fortuitous_ kind under nature
_may_ often be inconspicuous (while Wallace shows that in
animals they are, as a matter of fact, usually considerable).
But we need not go into this. The interesting point to all of
us must be the constructive part of your work; and I have
tried to explain _my_ difficulty with regard to it. _Why should
protoplasm be able to adapt itself_ into the millions of diverse
mechanisms of nature by converse with environment? The theory of
natural selection gives a logically possible, even if it be a
biologically inadequate answer. But I cannot see that the theory
of self-adaptation does, _unless it can be shown that there is
some sufficient reason why_, say a _direct-environment should
produce self-adaptation_ in the direction of hairs, a marine one
in that of fleshiness, &c. &c.

I have been very frank, because I know you, and therefore that
this is what you would prefer. But I am too ill to make myself
clear in a letter. I wish you could stop here for a day on your
way home, by which time I shall probably have read your books,
and we might discuss the whole business before I publish mine on
the Post-Darwinian Theories.

With very many thanks,

I remain yours very truly,
G. J. ROMANES.

Hôtel Costebelle, Hyères: February 24, 1894.

Dear Mr. Henslow,--Nothing can be more clear than are all your
letters, and the last one, I take it, sets at rest the only
question which I had to ask. For it expressly answers that, in
your own view, hypothesis of 'self-adaptation' is a _statement_
rather than an _explanation_ of the facts. Nevertheless, it
is also to some certain extent advanced as an explanation on
Lamarckian lines, for in your books (for which I much thank
you) you attribute adaptive mechanism in flowers to thrusts,
strains &c. caused by insects. But here, if I may say so, it
does not seem to me that you sufficiently deal with an obvious
criticism, viz. How is it so much as conceivable that protoplasm
should always respond to insect irritation adaptively, when
we look to the endless variety and often great elaboration of
the mechanism? Similarly as regards the inorganic environment,
Lamarck's hypothesis of _use_-inheritance (_i.e._ mere increase
and decrease of parts as due to inherited efforts of greater
or less development by altered flow of nutrition) was at least
theoretically valid. But how can you extend this to structures
which, though _useful_, are never _active_, so as to modify flow
of nutrition, _e.g._ hard shells of nuts, soft pulp of fruits,
&c.? Here it is that natural selection theory has the pull. And
so of adaptive _colours_, _odours_, and _secretions_? I confess
that, even accepting inheritance of acquired characters, I
could conceive of 'self-adaptation' alone producing all such
innumerable and diversified adjustments only by seeing with
Newman (in his 'Apologia') an angel in every flower.

Besides, I do not see why you are shut up to this, even on your
own principles. For surely, be there as much self-adaptation in
Nature as ever you please, it would still be those individuals
(or _incipient types_) _which best respond_ to stimulation
(_i.e._ most adaptively do so) that, other things equal, would
survive in the struggle for existence, and so be naturally
selected. In other words, I do not see why you should accept
natural selection as regards 'vigour' of seedlings, and nowhere
else.

I quite accept the validity of your criticism of my physiological
selection in your book, supposing your 'self-adaptation' true
to the extent you suppose. But otherwise what you say tells
in favour of physiological selection, at least, excepting the
statement as to new allied species originating as a rule on
distant areas from parent types. This, however, is certainly an
erroneous statement, though I should like to know how you came to
make it.

I much wish I could write more or meet you. For, notwithstanding
apparent bluntness (for brevity's sake), I see you are one of the
few evolutionists who think for yourself.

With many thanks, yours very truly,
G. J. ROMANES.

I am not against your criticism of natural selection, for I have
always thought there must be some other additional principle of
adaptation at work.

Grand Hôtel, Costebelle, Hyères (Var): March 12.

Dear Mr. Henslow,--My husband has much enjoyed your long and
clear letter which I have just read to him. He is too ill to
reply himself, but he will dictate a few notes to me to send to
you.

Yours very truly,
ETHEL ROMANES.

(A) I cry 'Peccavi' _as regards natural selection co-operating
with self-adaptation_. Since you show that, even if it does, you
are not concerned with this fact--_i.e._ of the _development of
the adaptation_, but only with its origin.

(B) All the same, however, we must remember that where high
elaboration of mechanism is concerned, the question as to the
_causes of its development_ become of more importance than those
_of its origin_; _e.g._ even if self-adaptation be conceived
capable of making a _first step_ towards producing the exquisite
mechanism of a bivalve shell, by discriminate variation, _how is
it conceivable_ that it should _go on_ through _the odd millions
of successive steps_ of improvement needed to produce the perfect
mechanism in which the great wonder of adaptation really occurs?

I can conceive of _no natural process to accomplish this
development_ even in one such case of mechanism _other than
natural selection_. Let alone the 'endless variety' of elaborate
mechanism elsewhere.

(C) Of course, if you could _prove_ that indiscriminate
variations have not occurred in wild plants, but only under
cultivation, _you would destroy Darwinism_--_in toto_. But is the
proposition credible _a priori_; or sustainable _a posteriori_,
&c.?

I suppose you have read Wallace on the subject as regards wild
animals, and if you were to make similar _measurements_ with
regard to _wild plants_, you would obtain analogous results.

I remember as a boy having a game of who could find most
specimens of fern-leaved clover in a given time, or even two
leaves of clover which would be exactly alike in all respects.
But I have already discussed the matter of definite and
indefinite variability in 'Darwin and after Darwin.'

(D) I will let the question of Use-Inheritance in relation to
seemingly Passive Organs, go by default against me, as it is
rather a side issue and would need much writing to discuss. The
same applies to your remarks on Teleology. As regards both points
I agree with your observations.

(E) Touching varieties as found in different areas from parent
types, I suppose you heard how carefully Nägeli has gone into the
subject, with the result that after making allowances for defects
of isolation, change of environment, &c., only about _five per
cent. of species of plants seem to have originated on distant
areas_, while Wallace has shown that some such proportion applies
to animals.

(F) As regards plants having been brought under cultivation,
and yielding variations that prove heredity, I knew there were
innumerable cases where artificial selection had been brought
into play. But of course they are all out of court until the
question on which you are engaged has been decided in your
favour, _i.e._ until you have succeeded in _disproving natural
selection_ as analogous or parallel to artificial. It was
for this reason I mentioned the case of parsnips, where the
hereditary variations seem to have taken place in the _first
generation_ after transplanting, and therefore without leaving
time for selection of any kind to have come into play.

Hôtel Costebelle, Hyères: March 29.

Dear Mr. Henslow,--I am still terribly ill and cannot write
much. We must have a talk. Could you come to Oxford any day you
like and be our guest? I think we might derive mutual benefit. I
shall be there from the middle of April till I do not know when.
Why not come on May 2, to hear Weismann give his lecture in the
afternoon?

I much wish you would save seed of any fixed local varieties of
plants you may find to be in seed, while you are in Malta (or
bulbs), in order to see whether plants grown from them in England
will or will not prove fully fertile. This is in relation to
my own theory of physiological selection, according to which
isolation produces segregation of type; in the same way as it
does that of a language--viz. by prevention of intercourse with
the parent type and consequently with an independent history of
variation. Where the isolation is due to physical barriers (as
at Malta) there is no need for any sexual differentiation to
originate a species. But on common areas, sexual differentiation
is the only means of securing the isolation. Therefore (I say)
we can see why Jordan's French varieties all prove sterile with
their parent forms, and I should expect your Malta varieties to
prove fertile with _theirs_ elsewhere.

G. J. R.

Costebelle: April 15, 1894.

Dear Mr. Henslow,--Yes, please write when you get back,
suggesting any time you may find convenient for spending a day
or two with us at 94 St. Aldate's, Oxford (immediately opposite
Christ Church). I cannot talk long at a time, but I think the
meeting will be of use to both.

Of course 'Isolation _produces_ segregation of type,' is only
a short-hand expression, meaning--_indiscriminate variation
being supposed_--isolation supplies a necessary condition to
segregation of type by upsetting the previous stability that was
due to free inter-crossing.

I quite agree that Darwin _very greatly_ over-estimated the
_benefit_ of inter-crossing, as I am showing in my forthcoming
book on 'Physiological Selection.' But this is quite a different
thing from his having _made too much of inter-crossing_ as
a condition to stability of type; I do not think that this
_can_ be made too much of. Indeed, how is it conceivable that
there ever can be _divergence_ of type without _isolation_ of
some kind having first occurred at the origin, and throughout
the growth of every branch? Moreover, I agree with you about
self-fertilisation, but see in it a form of physiological
selection; it is one kind of sexual isolation, or prevention
of inter-crossing with neighbouring individuals. So that the
more perfectly it obtains in any given type, the better chance
there is for that type to become a new species by independent
variability--and this whether or not the _independent_
variability is likewise _indiscriminate_ (or in _your_
terminology 'indefinite').

In my last letter I referred to the works of Jordan and Nägeli
for any number of '_facts_ in _Nature_ of varieties _arising
among_ the type forms.' I will show you the passages when we
meet. But even in cases of 'local varieties,' where a variety
has a habitat of its own _surrounded by the type-form_, I should
expect experiment would often (though by no means always) show
some degree of _cross-infertility_ between the two, pointing to
pre-potency (_i.e._ early stages of physiological selection)
being the origin of the divergence.

Before we meet I wish you would try to think of any plants which
can be propagated by cuttings (or otherwise asexually) which are
known to be modifiable by changed conditions of life in the first
generation. I understand you that in some cases the seed of such
a plant _will not revert_--when sown in its natural environment,
though, of course, the rule is that it does. Well, in either
case, I should much like to try whether a cutting &c. from the
transplanted (and therefore modified) tubers &c. would revert
to its ancestral character. When retransplanted to its natural
environment, much would follow from result of such an experiment
as regards Weismannism.

Yours very and always truly,
G. J. ROMANES.

P.S.--Of course in saying 'on common areas, sexual
differentiation is the only means of securing the isolation,' I
did not include self-fertilising plants--any more, _e.g._ than
insect fertilising where changes in the instincts of insects may
cause sexual isolation.

I leave for Oxford to-morrow.

These months were made very happy to him by the fact that three friends, Mrs. and Miss Church and the Rev. R. C. Moberly,[122] were staying in the same hotel. He often alludes in his letters to the intense pleasure these friends gave him, and speaks of how much he owed to their tenderness and sympathy, and to their perception when to come and when to stay away.

Many books were heard and read by him. Mr. Gore's Bampton Lectures were read aloud to him, and he liked them even better than when he heard them preached. Several other theological books were read, and of all these the one which bears marks of most careful study is Pascal's 'Pensées.' He used Mr. C. Kegan Paul's translation. The copy he had at Costebelle, which used to lie by his bedside, is marked and annotated. It is the last book he read to himself in his own careful and student-like fashion. He also wrote some notes of advice to his boys.

At this time he began to make notes for a work which he intended to be a supplement or an answer to the 'Candid Examination of Theism.' As he went on, his notes grew--so it seemed to one who read them--increasingly nearer Faith, but of them the world can now judge.

He said one day, while scribbling down notes, 'If anything happens to me before I can work them up into a book, give them to Gore. He will understand.'

Nothing can be more erroneous than to suppose that the change in point of view was sudden, or due to any fear of death, or that it caused mental suffering to the author of 'Thoughts on Religion,' or that he was influenced by anyone, priest or layman.

There will always be unconscious influence, and it probably was not altogether in vain that two or three of Mr. Romanes' greatest and most intimate friends were Christian as well as intellectual men. But of influence and argument and persuasion, as most people imagine them, there was nothing. Discussions many, during the past years, but to these he owed little.

It is written, that those who seek find, and to no one do these words more fitly apply.

During these months Mr. Romanes read many books of a religious nature; particularly and pre-eminently he liked to have Dean Church read aloud, and he also liked Mr. Holland's 'City of God' and Mr. Illingworth's sermons, particularly one on 'Innocence,' which he asked for more than once. He also read much poetry, Miss Rossetti and Archbishop Trench being especial favourites at this time.

To himself he read or had read to him the Bible and Thomas à Kempis, and he liked Dr. Bright's Ancient Collects, and in part Bishop Andrewes' Devotions. He never would read or have anything read to him which did not ring true to him and which he could not appreciate; for instance, the Pleadings of Our Lord's Physical Sufferings in Andrewes' Devotions for Friday were very distasteful to him.

He often went to the English Church for short services, and on Easter Monday Dr. Moberly gave him Holy Communion, for which he had asked and for which he wished.

In the week before Easter he felt very ill, and said, 'I wish Moberly (who had gone away for a few days) were here, and we could have that Celebration; I don't think I shall live till Easter.' But this passed away, and on Easter Day he was peculiarly bright, and in the evening said, 'I have written this poem to-day.'

It is impossible to resist the wish to insert it here:

_HEBREWS_ xi. 10 (_or_ ii. 10).

'Amen, now lettest Thou Thy servant, Lord,
Depart in peace, according to Thy Word:
Although mine eyes may not have fully seen
Thy great salvation, surely there have been
Enough of sorrow and enough of sight
To show the way from darkness into light;
And Thou hast brought me, through a wilderness of pain,
To love the sorest paths if soonest they attain.

'Enough of sorrow for the heart to cry--
"Not for myself, nor for my kind, am I:"
Enough of sight for Reason to disclose,
"The more I learn the less my knowledge grows."
Ah! not as citizens of this our sphere,
But aliens militant we sojourn here,
Invested by the hosts of Evil and of Wrong,
Till Thou shalt come again with all Thine angel throng.

'As Thou hast found me ready to Thy call,
Which stationed me to watch the outer wall,
And, quitting joys and hopes that once were mine,
To pace with patient steps this narrow line,
Oh! may it be that, coming soon or late,
Thou still shalt find Thy soldier at the gate,
Who then may follow Thee till sight needs not to prove,
And faith will be dissolved in knowledge of Thy love.'

From the manuscript it is difficult to determine what was the motto of the poem, Hebrews xi. or Hebrews ii.; the latter is more probable, at least so it seems to the present writer.

On the 28th Mr. Romanes wrote a letter to the Dean of Christ Church, which, besides some items of personal interest, and of expressions of affection too intimate to be given, contains the following:

Costebelle: March 28, 1894.

My dear Paget,--I have had to abandon letter writing for
several weeks past, as the least effort, even in the way of
conversation, produces exhaustion in a painful degree. So, as
usual, I had to ask my wife to answer your kind letter yesterday.
But this morning I feel a little bit better, so I should like to
have a try. She has gone to church, and therefore, as I could not
even hear her read the letter which she posted to you yesterday,
there is likely to be some repetition.

* * * * *

Oddly enough for my time of life, I have begun to discover the
truth of what you once wrote about logical processes not being
the only means of research in regions transcendental. It is too
large a matter to deal with in a letter, but I hope to have a
conversation with you some day, and ascertain how far you will
agree with a certain 'new and short way with the Agnostics.'

* * * * *

Yours ever sincerely and affectionately,
GEO. J. ROMANES.

He had all his old interest in psychical research, and a friend, Mrs. Crawfurd, of Auchinames, who shared this interest, used to beguile many weary hours with ghost stories, and he and she used to 'cap' each other's narratives.

There were pleasant people in the hotels around, and the bright sunshine and balmy air were great sources of enjoyment to him. Dr. Bidon, of Hyères, was unfailing in constant kindness, and it would be ungrateful not to say how much was owed to the kind landlord, M. Peyron, and to Madame Peyron.

The journey to England was apparently borne without undue fatigue, and the home coming was very bright, with joyous meeting with his children and with various friends. The only difficulty was to keep him quiet enough. It was said one day, 'When you go home you must not see too many people.' 'Oh, no,' he replied, 'I only want to see Paget, and Dr. Sanderson, and Gore, and Philip (Waggett), and Mrs. Woods, and Ray Lankester, and ----' but he stopped, laughing, the list was already so long and would soon have been doubled. For a few days his wife was away, and during this brief absence a very dear friend, Miss Rose Price, the daughter of the Master of Pembroke, died.

He writes:

_To Mrs. Romanes._

How glad I am you are still mine! I have just returned from
Rose's funeral, which was all but too much for me. As you know,
I have seen other such things on a grander scale, but never any
approach to this one in point of beauty and pathos. The College
Chapel was completely filled with members of the University, with
wives and daughters, yet all personal friends of hers, including
all members of the family, the poor Master separated from the
rest in his official seat. All the undergraduates of Pembroke
were present, each provided with a lovely wreath, carried in
procession to the grave. The whole of the east end was one mass
of white flowers, the coffin with its own flowers being placed in
the middle of the aisle. The procession walked first all round
the quad, and then through Christ Church Meadows, being met at
Holywell by the choir.[123]

This is the last letter I shall write. All well here, and the
Interlopers[124] know me now. Weismann accepts invitation to
lecture, and is on his way on purpose. I have obtained an
invitation from the Royal Society for him to the 'soirée.'

Four weeks more, and the writer of this letter was also borne through Christ Church Meadow, and laid to rest near the young girl whom he had made his friend, and whose death he deeply mourned.

It was thought at this time that a country home would be possibly better for him. Many drives were taken in search of houses or of possible sites for building, and he was often positively boyish and merry during these expeditions.

He began to devise experiments again, and also set to work to arrange his papers and manuscripts in the most methodical way. As has been said he had already arranged that if he died before completing 'Darwin, and after Darwin,' Professor Lloyd Morgan should finish it and publish it, and any other scientific papers, an arrangement to which Mr. Lloyd Morgan most kindly consented. To Mr. Gore were bequeathed the fragmentary notes now published under the title 'Thoughts on Religion.'

On May 3 came the third Romanes Lecture. It was given by Professor Weismann, and was a worthy successor to the two which had preceded it.

Mr. Romanes was glad to meet Professor Weismann, and enjoyed the pleasant talk he and his distinguished opponent had in his house after the lecture.

On the seventh of May he went to London to consult doctors, and for the last time he stayed with his two dear friends, Sir James and Lady Paget.

He saw one or two people and was, as one friend said, 'just his dear merry old self, chaffing and being chaffed.'

He enjoyed music as much as ever, and on the nineteenth of May he went to a concert given by the Ladies' Orchestral Society.

He was often at the Museum, and he wrote frequently of the experiments he was devising, all bearing on Professor Weismann's theory; in these he was assisted by Dr. Leonard Hill.

He wrote several times to Professor Schäfer, and on May 19, four days before his death, in the midst of a long letter too technical to be given, he says, 'All I can do now for science is to pay.'

He still took much interest in Oxford life, and one of the last things he did was to vote against the introduction of the English Language and Literature School.

Cathedral was more than ever a pleasure to him, and he used often to slip in for bits of the service, particularly if some particular service or anthem was going to be given. Especially he loved a few special anthems; Brahms' 'How lovely are Thy dwellings fair' being a great favourite.

He used to go down to the 'Eights' when they began, and on almost the very last day of his life he was with difficulty dissuaded from writing a letter to the 'Times,' strongly supporting the Christ Church authorities whose proceedings in some disturbances in the College had been criticised. On Whit Sunday, for the last time, he went to the University Sermon, which happened to be preached by the Bishop of Lincoln, and which greatly impressed Mr. Romanes, brought as he was for the first time under the spell of one who has influenced more than one generation of Oxford men.

And as the days went on, there was a curious feeling of preparation for some change. He made all his arrangements and was quite calm, quite gentle, even merry at times; now and then the weary fits of physical lassitude or of headache would prostrate him, but when these were past he would placidly begin some bit of work.

On Thursday in Whit week he went to the eight o'clock Celebration of Holy Communion in the Latin Chapel of Christ Church, and in the course of that day he said, 'I have now come to see that faith is intellectually justifiable.' By-and-by he added, 'It is Christianity or nothing.'

Presently he added, 'I as yet have not that real inward assurance; it is with me as that text says, "I am not able to look up," but I feel the service of this morning is a means of grace.'

This was almost the last time he ever spoke on religious subjects.

With Mr. Philip Waggett there had been in these last days some talks, and the two friends, united as they had been in earlier years by their common interest in science, and in those problems which all who think at all must sooner or later face, now found themselves in closer and fuller agreement than either could at one time have believed possible.

Sunday, the twentieth of May, was his birthday and that of his eldest son, and had always been a family festa. He was bright and merry, went to Magdalen to see Mrs. Warren, saw for the last time Dr. Paget, and had a little talk about his 'Thoughts on Religion' with Mr. Gore, whom he went to hear preach in one of the Oxford churches. And on Monday he keenly enjoyed a small luncheon party, consisting of the Master of Balliol, Mr. Gore, and Miss Wordsworth, saying that Poetry, Science, Theology, Philosophy were all represented, and that he would have such-like little parties every now and then, they were so refreshing and did not tire him.

One or two special friends came in to see him on these last days, and he had planned to go and stay at a country house belonging to the President of Trinity, which had been with characteristic kindness put at his disposal.

On Wednesday, May 23, he seemed particularly well; he wrote a letter to the Editor of the 'Contemporary Review' and did some bits of work. It was Sir James and Lady Paget's Golden Wedding day, and he despatched a telegram of congratulation to them. (The very last bit of shopping he ever did was to buy a present for that Golden Wedding, which reached those for whom it was intended after he was dead.)

He came into his study about twelve, and asked that the book in which he was then interested, 'Some Aspects of Theism,'[125] might be read aloud; but before the reading began he changed his mind, and said he would lie down in his bedroom and be read to there. On lying down he complained of feeling very ill, said a few loving words to one who was with him, and became unconscious. His children and the Dean came to him, but he did not recover enough to know them, and passed away in less than an hour: _Ex umbris et imaginibus in veritatem_.

Five days later he was laid to rest in Holywell Cemetery, after an early Celebration in Christ Church, the first part of the service being said in the cathedral which he had loved so much, and which had brought him so much comfort in the last weeks of life.

His favourite hymn, 'Lead, kindly Light,' was sung, and the service was said in part by the friend who had been with him on his wedding-day, given him his first Communion after the illness began, and who had been bound up with many joys and sorrows;[126] and in part by Mr. Philip Waggett, who had been to him as a young brother, more and more loved, during the seven years in which they had walked and talked as friends, the friend known as 'Carissime.' (One other special friend, Mr. Gore, was prevented by illness from coming.)