At the time of a visit to London in 1856 this famous house was standing, and remained as it was when the owner left it, about a half century before. The exterior of the house would not attract special attention; but within, the whole world could not, perhaps, furnish a parallel. Anvils and forges, files and hammers, grindstones and tempering-troughs, furnaces and huge bellows, had converted the panelled and wall-frescoed drawing-room into the shop of a blacksmith. In the spacious dining-room chemical apparatus occupied the place of furniture. Electrical machines, Leyden-jars, eudiometers, thermometric scales, philosophical instruments, were distributed through the chambers. The third story, save two bed-chambers,—one for the housekeeper, the other for the footman,—had been fitted up for an observatory. The lenses and achromatic glasses, tubes and specula, concave mirrors, and object-prisms, and the huge, rough old telescope, peering through the roof, were still there as their owner had left them. All appliances of housekeeping were absent, and Cavendish House was destitute of all comforts, for which the owner had no taste.
In this house Cavendish lived for nearly half a century, totally isolated from the world and all human sympathies. He seldom or never visited relatives, and they were never guests at his house. He had several servants, all of whom were males, with one exception. He was shy of women, and did not like to have them come in his way. If he saw his female servant in any of the rooms, he would order her away instantly, or fly himself to other quarters. Rarely, during all the years of his solitary life, did a woman cross his threshold; and, when one did, he would run from her as if she brought the plague. His servants were all trained to silence, and in giving his orders the fewest words possible were used. His meals were served irregularly, whenever in the intervals of absorbing labors, he could snatch a fragment of time. He uniformly dined upon one kind of meat,—a joint of mutton; and he seemed to have no knowledge that there were other kinds in the market.
Upon one occasion he had invited a few scientific friends to dinner at Cavendish House, and when his servant asked him what he should provide, "A leg of mutton!" said Cavendish. "It will hardly be enough," said the servant. "Well, then get two." "Anything else, sir?" "Yes, get four legs of mutton."
His dress was peculiar,—a snuff-colored coat reaching to his knees, a long vest of the same color, buff breeches, and a three-cornered hat. With him the fashion never changed; he had but one suit; not an extra coat, hat, or even two handkerchiefs. When his wardrobe gave out, and he was forced to see his tailor, he became very nervous. He would walk the room in agony, give orders to have the tailor sent for, and then immediately countermand the same. His shoes for fifty years were of one pattern; and when he took them off they were put in one place behind a door, and woe to the servant who accidentally displaced them. He hung his old three-cornered hat on one peg at his house, and when he attended the meetings of the Royal Society he had a peg in the hall known as "Cavendish's peg." If, through accident, it was taken by some member before his arrival, he would stop, look at the occupied peg, and then turn on his heel, and go back to his house. When he went to the meetings, he walked in the middle of the street, never on the sidewalk; and he invariably took the same route. Upon reaching the steps leading to the rooms, he would stop, hesitate, put his hand on the door-handle, and look about timidly, and sometimes return at a rapid pace.
His cane, which he carried for fifty years, he placed upright in his left boot, which he took off at the door, covering his foot with a slipper. Once inside the rooms of the Royal Society, and surrounded by the most distinguished men of England and the world, he became excessively shy, and read his wonderful papers in an awkward manner. Applause of any kind he could not bear; and if in conversation any one praised his researches or papers, he would turn away abruptly, as if highly indignant. If he was appealed to as authority upon any point, he would dart away, and perhaps quit the hall for the evening. This man of great genius and vast acquirements was incapable of understanding or enduring praise or flattery. He sought in every possible way to escape recognition or notice, listened attentively to conversation, but seldom asked questions; never spoke of himself, or of what he had accomplished in the world of science.
Cavendish was a man possessed of vast wealth, and, when he died, he was the richest bank-owner in all England.
"At the age of forty, a large accession came to his fortune. His income already exceeded his expenditure. Pecuniary transactions were his aversion. Other matters occupied his attention. The legacy was therefore paid in to his bankers. It was safe there, and he gave it no more heed. One of the firm sought to see him at Clapham. In answer to the inquiries of the footman as to his Business, the banker replied to see Mr. Cavendish personally. 'You must wait, then,' responded the servant, 'till he rings his bell.' The banker tarried for hours, when the long-expected bell rang. His name was announced. 'What does he want?' the master was heard to ask. 'A personal interview.' 'Send him up.' The banker appeared.
"'I am come, sir, to ascertain your views concerning a sum of two hundred thousand pounds placed to your account.'
"'Does it inconvenience you?' asked the philosopher. 'If so, transfer it elsewhere.'
"'Inconvenience, sir? By no means,' replied the banker. 'But pardon me for suggesting that it is too large a sum to remain unproductive. Would you not like to invest it?'