[155] His brother Thomas, who had retired from the Navy with the rank of captain, had died (unmarried) some years before at the jointure house (Shiel Hill), Kinnordy, where he had resided with one of his sisters.
[156] A marble bust, a copy by Theed of the original executed by Gibson, is placed near the grave.
CHAPTER XII.
SUMMARY.
In stature, Sir Charles Lyell[157] was rather above the middle height, somewhat squarely built, though not at all stout, with clear-cut, intellectual features, and a forehead, broad, high, and massive. He would have been a man of commanding presence, if his extremely short sight had not obliged him to stoop and peer into anything he wished to observe. This defect, in addition to the weakness of his eyes was a serious impediment in field work. As Professor Ramsay remarked in 1851, after spending a few days with him in the south of England, he required people to point things out to him, and would have been unable to make a geological map, "but understood all when explained, and speculated thereon well."[158] This defect of sight, according to Sir J. W. Dawson, who had been his companion in more than one excursion in Canada, was at times even a source of danger. The expression of his face was one of thoughtful power and gracious benignity.[159] "In his work, Lyell was very methodical, beginning and ending at fixed hours. Accustomed to make use of the help of others on account of his weak sight, he was singularly unconscious of outward bodily movement, though highly sensitive to pain. When dictating, he was often restless, moving from his chair to his sofa, pacing the room, or sometimes flinging himself full length on two chairs, tracing patterns on the floor, as some thoughtful or eloquent passage flowed from his lips. But though a rapid writer and dictator, he was sensitively conscientious in the correction of his manuscript, partly from a strong sense of the duty of accuracy, partly from a desire to save his publisher the expense of proof corrections. Hence passages once finished were rarely altered, even after many years, unless new facts arose."
The characteristic with which anyone who spent some time in Charles Lyell's company was most impressed, was his thirst for knowledge, combined with a singular openness, and perfect fairness of mind. He was absolutely free from all petty pride, and from "that common failing of men of science, which causes them to cling with such tenacity to opinions once formed, even in the face of the strongest evidence."[160] Ramsay wrote of him,[161] "We all like Lyell much; he is anxious for instruction, and so far from affecting the bigwig, he is not afraid to learn anything from anyone.[162] The notes he takes are amazing." No man could have given a stronger proof of candour and plasticity of mind and of his care for truth alone than Lyell did in dealing with the question of the origin of species. From the first he approached it without prejudice. So long as the facts adduced by Lamarck and others appeared to him insufficient to support their hypotheses, he gave the preference to some modification of the ordinarily accepted view—that a species began in a creative act—but after reading Darwin's classic work,[163] and discussing the subject in private, not only with its author, but also with Sir J. Hooker and Professor Huxley, he was convinced that Darwin was right in his main contention, though he held back in regard to certain minor points, for which he thought the evidence as yet insufficient. Of his conduct in this matter, Darwin justly wrote: "Considering his age, his former views, and position in society, I think his action has been heroic."[164] Dean Stanley, in the pulpit of Westminster Abbey, on the Sunday following the funeral, summed up in a few eloquent sentences the great moral lesson of Lyell's life. "From early youth to extreme old age it was to him a solemn religious duty to be incessantly learning, fearlessly correcting his own mistakes, always ready to receive and reproduce from others that which he had not in himself. Science and religion for him not only were not divorced, but were one and indivisible."[165]
To ascertain the truth, and to be led by reason not by impulse, that was Lyell's great aim. Sedgwick once[166] criticised his work in terms which, in one respect, seem to me curiously mistaken: "Lyell ... is an excellent and thoughtful writer, but not, I think, a great field observer ... his mind is essentially deductive not inductive." The former criticism, as has been already admitted, is just, but the latter, pace tanti viri, seems to me the reverse of the truth. Surely there never was a geologist whose habits and methods were more strictly inductive than Lyell's. He would spare no pains, and hardly any expense, to ascertain for himself what the facts were; he abstained from drawing any conclusion until he had accumulated a good store; he compared and marshalled them, and finally adopted the interpretation with which they seemed most accordant. This interpretation, however, would be modified, or even rejected, if new and important facts were discovered. Surely this is the method of induction; surely this is the mode of reasoning adopted by Darwin and by Newton, and even by Bacon himself. But Sedgwick, great man as he was, almost unrivalled in the field, more brilliant, though less persevering than Lyell, was not always quite free from prejudices; and it may be noted that he more than once stigmatises an opinion which he dislikes by declaring it not to be in accordance with inductive methods. Sir Joseph Hooker's judgment was far more accurate: "One of the most philosophical of geologists, and one of the best of men"[167]; or that of Charles Darwin himself: "The science of geology is enormously indebted to Lyell—more so, as I believe, than to any other man who ever lived."[168]
Lyell felt a keen interest in the broader aspect of political questions, and this not only in his own country,[169] though he took little or no share in party struggles, for the vulgarity of the demagogue and the coarseness of the hustings were offensive to a man of such refinement. His opinions harmonised with his scientific habits of thought, always progressive, but never extravagant. He was in favour of greater freedom in education, of the restriction of class privileges, and of an extension of the franchise, but he saw clearly that anything like universal suffrage, as the world is at present constituted, would only mean giving a preponderating influence to those least competent to wield it; that is, to the more ignorant and easily deluded. As in such cases the glib tongue would become more potent than the voice of reason, the demagogue than the statesman, he feared that the standard of national honour would be almost inevitably lowered, and national disaster be a probable result. That all men are equal and entitled to an equal share in the government—a dogma now regarded in some circles as almost sacred—would have been repudiated by him with the quiet scorn of a man who prefers facts to fancies, and inductive reasoning to sentimental rhapsody. A partisan he could not be, for he saw too clearly that in political matters truth and right were seldom a monopoly of any side, and though by no means wanting in a certain quiet and restrained enthusiasm, he had almost an abhorrence of fanaticism. One example may serve for many, to indicate the way in which he regarded both this spirit and any difficult question. Naturally he had a strong dislike to slavery; he fully recognised the injustice and wrong to the negro, and the evil effects upon the master. Nevertheless, after visiting the Southern States, and giving the impressions of his journey, he thus expresses himself: "The more I reflected on the condition of the slaves, and endeavoured to think on a practical plan for hastening the period of their liberation, the more difficult the subject appeared to me, and the more I felt astonished at the confidence displayed by so many anti-slavery speakers and writers on both sides of the Atlantic. The course pursued by these agitators shows that, next to the positively wicked, the class who are usually called 'well-meaning persons' are the most mischievous in society." He then points out how a strong feeling against slavery had been springing up in Virginia, Kentucky, and Maryland; how the emancipation party had been gaining ground, and slavery steadily retreating southwards, but "from the moment that the abolition movement began, and that missionaries were sent to the Southern States, a reaction was perceived—the planters took the alarm—laws were passed against education—the condition of the slave was worse, and not a few of the planters, by dint of defending their institutions against the arguments and misrepresentations of their assailants, came actually to delude themselves into a belief that slavery was legitimate, wise, and expedient—a positive good in itself."[170] At a subsequent period he speaks of Mrs. Beecher Stowe's famous book, "Uncle Tom's Cabin," as "a gross caricature." But in the great struggle between the Northern and Southern States, his sympathies went with the former. It was the fairness of his criticisms, and his hearty appreciation of the good side in American institutions, that won him many friends and made his books welcome on that side of the Atlantic.