London life; the substance of it was in the South Kensington labora- 

 tory. Every morning, at ten o'clock, Huxley appeared on the dais and 

 began his lecture, which usually lasted an hour and a half. As a class- 

 room lecturer, I have never known his equal; the clear, beautiful style, 

 for which his writings were famed, was equally characteristic of his 

 lectures and he spoke with unhurried, but unhesitating fluency. Though 

 he wrote what he was going to say, he spoke without notes and he was 

 a remarkably good blackboard draughtsman. He was the only man I 

 ever listened to who could give me a very fair idea of an animal that 

 I had never seen. 



When an undergraduate at Princeton, I had devised a method of 

 rapid note-taking that enabled me to record the entire substance of a 

 lecture, provided that it were written out the same evening, when mem- 

 ory could supplement the notes. It was a laborious undertaking to write 

 twenty or thirty pages every evening, no matter what the evening's 

 engagement might be. In Huxley's course I filled eight notebooks, 

 which I afterwards had bound into two fat volumes. Towards the end 

 of the course, the lectures kept getting longer and longer, until they 

 passed the two-hour mark. After the course was over, I met the "eminent 

 man" on the stair one morning and he asked me: "Do you make a fair 

 copy of your notes?" "Yes, Sir, always." "Well, would you mind letting 

 me see your notes for the last few lectures? I haven't written them out 

 and I should like to see what I have actually been saying." Needless to 

 say, I felt immensely complimented and hastened to comply with the 

 request. Those notes, with additions and corrections from Huxley's 

 own hand, are among my most cherished possessions. 



From eleven-thirty to one and from two to four, we were at work 

 in the laboratory, dissecting, working with the microscope and making 

 drawings. At irregular intervals, the Professor himself made a tour of 

 the laboratory, stopping at each man's table, examining and comment- 

 ing on his drawings and answering questions. The demonstrator, who 

 was always present, was T. J. Parker, a son of the eminent anatomist, 

 W. Kitchen Parker. "Tom," whom every one liked, afterwards went to 

 New Zealand as a professor in the University of Dunedin and died very 

 prematurely. G. B. Howes, of whom I have previously spoken as the 

 successor, first of Parker and then of Huxley, was the extremely skilful 

 preparator and artist of the laboratory. He and I developed an intimate 

 friendship. The course was, in all respects, admirable and the method 

 was brought to this country by H. Newell Martin, of Cambridge, who 



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