388 



LIFE OF PROFESSOR HUXLEY chap, xxi 



Are there no science classes in Southampton ? There used 

 to be, and I suppose is, a Hartley Institute. 



If you want to consult books you cannot otherwise obtain, 

 take this to the librarian, give him my compliments, and say I 

 should be very much obliged if he would help you. — I am, yours 

 very faithfully, T. H. Huxley. 



Great was Huxley's astonishment when he learned in 

 reply that his correspondent was a casual dock labourer, 

 and had but scanty hours of leisure in which to read and 

 think and seek into the recesses of nature, while his means 

 of observation consisted of a toy microscope bought for a 

 shilling at a fair. Casting about for some means of lending 

 the man a helping hand, he bethought him of the Science 

 and Art Department, and wrote on December 30 to Sir J. 

 Donnelly : — 



The Department has feelers all over England — has it any at 

 Southampton? And if it has, could it find out something about 

 the writer of the letters I enclose ? For a " casual docker " they 

 are remarkable; and I think when you have read them you will 

 not mind my bothering you with them. (I really have had the 

 grace to hesitate.) 



I have been puzzled what to do for the man. It is so much 

 easier to do harm than good by meddling — and yet I don't like 

 to leave him to " casual docking." 



In that first letter he has got — on his own hook — about as 

 far as Buff on and Needham 150 years ago. 



And later to Professor Howes : — 



Hodeslea, Eastbourne, Feb. 12, 1894. 



My dear Howes — Best thanks for unearthing the volumes 

 of Milne-Edwards. I was afraid my set was spoiled. 



I shall be still more obliged to you if you can hear of some- 

 thing for S . There is a right good parson in his neighbour- 

 hood, and from what he tells me about S I am confirmed 



in my opinion that he is a very exceptional man, who ought 

 to be at something better than porter's work for twelve hours 

 a day. 



The mischief is that one never knows how transplanting a 

 tree, much less a man, will answer. Playing Providence is a 

 game at which one is very apt to burn one's fingers. 



