268 WORK AT CAMBRIDGE 



Knubley of Magdalene, a " birdy " man ; Frank Balfour, 

 very popular, of course, with everybody; Richard 

 Lydekker, tire- d quatre epingles, as the French say, a 

 great swell with a future before him in the world of 

 science; and Ernest Muggeridge of King's,* the only non- 

 Etonian of the thirteen undergraduates of that College, 

 a keen entomologist, with whom — in company with our 

 present Slade Professor of Fine Art, Edward Prior — 

 I used to make excursions to the Northamptonshire 

 woods. Frank Darwin I remember, and G. R. Crotch, 

 University Sub-Librarian, a mighty beetle-hunter before 

 the Lord. Duppa Crotch too, I believe, was often there, 

 though I think at a somewhat later period — Shakesperian 

 and autophagist. For, with what truth I know not, the 

 story ran that while chopping wood one day he inadver- 

 tently severed a digit. To take it to the cook and order 

 it for dinner was, as the reporters say, the work of an 

 instant. Anxious, as a true student of Nature, to prove 

 everything, he was loth to lose such a God-sent oppor- 

 tunity for a blameless cannibalism. Later came Adam 

 Sedgwick, Bateson, Marr, Dr. Sharp, A. H. Evans, 

 Barrett-Hamilton and a host of others well-known in the 

 world of science to whom I need not further allude. 



Newton welcomed, me very warmly that first evening, 

 I remember, and questioned me about where I had been 

 and what I had done. I felt that in his eyes it was some- 

 thing to be an habitu6 of Stevens's, more to have worked 

 the Copinshay cliflfs in search of eggs, and still more, 

 perhaps, to have camped on the Qvikkjokk f jells. But 

 although these facts may have prepossessed him in my 

 favour I really ascribe the special warmth of my welcome 



* Muggeridge was a man of very fine character and most lovable 

 disposition. He was a great friend of Henry Bradshaw. who wrote " No 

 one can ever know how much I owe to Ernest ... as any one must who 

 saw much of him and did not find the strength in himself to do the right 

 which he knew he ought to do. . . . The memory of such a friend is a 

 thing to help one on in life as few other things except his living self 

 could do." He died in Hongkong in 1879, and years afterwards I sought 

 in vain for his grave in the " Happy Valley " there. His remains, as 1 

 later discovered, had been brought back to England. 



