[II]
In the early autumn of 1889, the writer of this paper had the good fortune to be present at the Newcastle meeting of the British Association. Newcastle-upon-Tyne, standing at the very gateway of Scotland and looking out from the Tyne upon the great North Sea, is a famous old city in English history, that lay directly in the path of conquest and migration and was literally cradled in war, alternately rocked by Scandinavian or Dane, Saxon or Norman, Englishman or Scot. To-day it is big, prosperous, and progressive; even in the midst of peace perpetually sounding the note of preparation for war. True to its oldest and best traditions it is staunchly loyal to the Crown, proudly proclaiming its fealty on every coast, from the mouths of mighty guns cast in its own Cyclopean shops. From the days of the Scandinavian sea-rover through centuries of ruthless conflict she has stood out stoutly against the enemies of England, just as to-day her long sea-front of solid wall resists the encroachments of the Northern sea.
Here the shipbuilder is ceaselessly busy, constructing in his immense yards the great modern ship with its heart of fire and frame of steel. In any large yards the whole scheme of construction in all its branches may be seen at a glance, from the laying of the keel to the launching of the ship. The best work in modern engineering can be seen on the Tyne; and this is not surprising when we remember that upon the banks of this river the Locomotive was born, giving to this aggressive contemporary people a command of the earth as complete as their immemorial mastery of the sea. So enormous is the demand for fuel in the shipyards of the North-east Coast that it will take but a few centuries of work in these busy shops to exhaust the supply. The old proverb has lost its point. The most careless or unobservant tourist may see the steam-drawn trains "carrying their coals" to Newcastle, now, at all hours.
Nor does the Northern farmer sit with idle hands. All industries rest upon him. The farms are small, but the joint product is large. Thousands of farm laborers in Northumberland have each their "three acres and a cow." The Northern cattle-market in Newcastle would have filled the Highland caterans with delight. The weekly supply of cattle exceeds two thousand; the number of sheep is not less than twenty thousand. This was nearly twenty years ago. What must it be now? But even thus, how it speaks for the varied gifts and exhaustless vigor and vitality of this old Northumbrian race! Their rage for "river improvement" carries a lesson for men of their blood elsewhere. Between 1860 and 1889 the material dredged from the bed of the river Tyne amounted to more than eighty millions of tons. "Now,"—it was said at the Newcastle meeting—"there are more vessels entering and leaving this port than any other in the world." Among the outgoing vessels at that time was a gallant Norwegian barque which bore the name of "Longfellow." A few years before—a score, perhaps—the writer had seen upon a famous track in Kentucky a racer of great note who bore the same illustrious name—almost a contemporaneous compliment from widely separate branches of the same race. But what more enduring than the singer's own verse?—
"Once as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea."
A fit place of meeting—this old gateway of the North—for a select body of England's brilliant, busy, clear-headed and practical savants, and especially for that marvelously fruitful mid-century "section" which here first received supreme scientific recognition, having been organized at the Newcastle meeting by the British Association in 1863.
"THE MAP THAT TELLS THE STORY."
Though the youngest of the sections, its proceedings are singularly fascinating and the attendance always large. The meeting was held in the reading-room of the Free Library. Upon a long, low platform to the left of the entrance there sat facing the audience, a group, not of "scientists," but of really scientific men, their names as familiar to the English reading world as household words. The central figure of the group, Sir William Turner of Edinburgh, was the chairman of the section—a man of striking personality, who read a paper on Weismann and his theories which was listened to with closest attention, the novelty of the doctrines eliciting many expressions of doubt or dissent, though presented by the author of the paper with singular lucidity, fairness, and force. Sir William graced his position well, not merely by reason of intellectual gifts, but by virtue of a personal dignity which admirably comported with his commanding presence. He was a large, handsome man, with a robust frame, an erect carriage, and a notably aggressive air. Seated near him, and firmly supporting his somewhat heavy presence, were a number of men with world-renowned names—Francis Galton, famous for his studies in heredity and the publication of an epochal work; Sir Henry Acland, a learned anthropologist and medical scholar—a thinker of deep and varied scientific resource; Boyd Dawkins, the pioneer "Cave Hunter" and writer upon prehistoric archæology; John Evans, an able, learned, and industrious writer upon archæological themes; Doctor Bruce, the eminent historian of the Roman Wall; General Pitt Rivers, equally famous as soldier and savant, a quiet, dark-faced gentleman of easy, pleasant manners, dressed in the plainest fashion and judiciously expending an income of £30,000 a year. His large benefactions for scientific purposes made him truly a Prince of Science, gracious, munificent, and wise. The most striking and conspicuous figure in this solid English line was George Romanes, then in his prime and in apparently perfect health, tall, erect, dark-haired, with pale, handsome features and scholarly, high-bred air—a most impressive personification of intellectual pride and strength. As he sat in the midst of that animated group, cold, proud, silent but keenly observant, he vividly recalled the figure of the famous Kentuckian who once presided over the United States Senate, calmly noting the portents of impending war. In both, one easily discerned the same high qualities of intellect, resolution, and reserved force. By the side of the stately Romanes there sat the learned and vivacious Canon Isaac Taylor, slender, gray-haired, keen-eyed, alert, humorous, and full of tact—one of those clerical scholars and gentlemen who have done so much for English literature and have been a characteristic charm of English social life—men most admirably depicted by the novelist Bulwer in his better moods. Canon Taylor was the most animated figure in this noble English group. Near him sat two foreigners, each in curiously striking contrast with the other; one of these, a tall, ruddy, broad-shouldered blonde, with a strong, lithe, well-knit frame, an eager, alert expression, and a somewhat restless air, was the celebrated Scandinavian explorer Fridjof Nansen, then just twenty-six years of age, but already made world-famous by his recent explorations in the polar seas. At the left of the young Scandinavian, and presenting a remarkable contrast to that impressive figure, there sat a somewhat older man of small stature, of compact, vigorous frame, of clear, dark complexion, keen, clear, thoughtful eyes, and features typically French. The reader recognizes the description at once. It is our old friend, Du Chaillu, who has come to the northern coast of England, and standing in the very pathway of old Scandinavian invasions and confronting some of England's best thinkers upon their own ground, has calmly looked out upon the "grim—troubled" sea of England's Saxon King and boldly proclaimed his theory of the direct Scandinavian origin of the English race.