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4. (a) Dark soil field with a full moon. (b) Light soil with no moon.

5. (a) No moon plus dark brown coat had the highest predation level in the light soil enclosure
(38 mice were caught). (b) Full moon plus light brown coat had the highest predation level in the
dark soil enclosure.
6. Being on the contrasting soil is most deadly for both colors of mice.

7. The total number of mice caught on moonlit nights was about 77 and on nights with no moon
was about 95, so the dark nights seem to be slightly better overall for hunting for owls.

Interpret the Data

Figure 1.21 In the beach habitat, approximately 27 light models and 73 dark models were
attacked. In the inland habitat, approximately 76 light models and 24 dark models were attacked.

Suggested Answers for End-of-Chapter Essay Questions

See the general information on grading short-answer essays and a suggested rubric at the
beginning of this document.

7. Scientific Inquiry
Many legitimate hypotheses could be proposed to extend the investigation. Here is one example.
If the camouflage color has arisen through the processes of natural selection due to visual
predators, then you might wonder what would happen if a population of beach mice lived in an
area where predators were absent. It might be possible to do a long-term study in an area where
you excluded predators. Mice have fairly short generation times, so if predation is “naturally
selecting” lighter colored mice, then in the absence of predation you might predict the coat color
would not remain predominantly light in such an experimental population.

8. Scientific Inquiry
Students are asked to use a PubMed search to identify an abstract of an article authored or co-
authored by Hopi Hoekstra from 2014 forward. It is therefore expected that the range of abstracts
from which students might choose will grow as the Hoekstra lab generates additional
publications.

9. Focus on Evolution
Sample key points:
• Darwin used reasoning based on observations to develop his theory of natural selection as a
mechanism for evolution.
• His observations included:
o Heritable variations exist in each population.
o A population has more individuals than can be supported by the environment.
o Each species seems suited for its particular environment.
• He proposed that the best-adapted individuals in a population would outcompete others for
resources and disproportionately survive and produce more offspring, leading to an increase
in the adaptations seen in the population.
Sample top-scoring answer:
Based on many observations of different species, Darwin proposed his theory that evolution by
means of natural selection accounts for both the unity and diversity of life on Earth. He noticed
that variations existed among the individuals in a population and that these variations seemed to
be heritable. He also saw that populations could grow larger than could be supported by the
resources around them. Finally, he observed that species (like the different species of finches)
seemed to suit their environment. He proposed that the best-suited individuals in a population
would survive and reproduce more successfully that those less adapted to their environment, and
he called this “natural selection.” In Darwin’s view, this mechanism could account for both the
unity and diversity of features among species. The descent of organisms from a common
ancestor explains similar features, while the force of natural selection in different environments
accounts for differences between organisms.

10. Focus on Information

Common ancestry explains this observation. The thousand-some-odd genes shared by humans
and prokaryotes originated in early prokaryotes. They have been retained, with some
modification, over the billions of years of eukaryotic evolution. These genes no doubt code for
proteins and RNAs whose functions are essential for survival—for example, the genes that code
for ribosomal RNA, which is important for protein synthesis in both prokaryotes and eukaryotes.

11. Synthesize Your Knowledge

It’s difficult to pick out this gecko against the background of the tree trunk, because the gecko
itself looks like mossy bark. This coloration likely makes it harder for the gecko to be seen by
predators, thus enhancing its survival. This cryptic coloration pattern probably evolved over
generations. The members of a gecko population that more closely resembled their background
would have been less visible to predators, thus more likely to survive, reproduce, and leave
offspring. The offspring would inherit the genes that generated the mossy bark coloration, and
the offspring that blended in better would survive better and reproduce more successfully. Over
generations, the coloration would become a closer and closer match to the tree bark. (The mossy
leaf-tailed gecko is endemic to Madagascar, meaning it is found only there and nowhere else in
the world. Many endemic species live in Madagascar. This is because it is an island with land
features and climatic factors that have allowed evolution of many species in isolation.)
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
rejoiced, because I had always deprecated Mr. Carlyle’s influence,
and I thought this revelation of him would do much to destroy it. Mr.
Froude laughed good-humouredly, but naturally showed a little
consternation. His sentiment about the Saturday Reviewers, who at
that time buzzed round his writings and stung him every week, was
much that of a St. Bernard or a Newfoundland towards a pack of
snarling terriers. One day a clergyman very well known in London,
wrote to me after one of our little parties to beg that I would do him
the favour, when next Mr. Froude was coming to me, to invite him
also, and permit him to bring his particular friend Mr. X, who greatly
desired to meet his brother historian. I was very willing to oblige the
clergyman in question, and before long we had a gathering at our
house of forty or fifty people, among whom were Mr. Froude and Mr.
X. I knew that the moment for the introduction had arrived, but of
course I was not going to take the liberty of presenting any stranger
to Mr. Froude without asking his consent. That consent was not so
readily granted as I had anticipated. “Who? Mr. X? Let me look at
him first.” “There he is,” I said, pointing to a small figure half hidden
in a group of ladies and gentlemen. “That is he, is it?” said Mr.
Froude. “Oh, No! No! Don’t introduce him to me. He has the
Saturday Review written all over his face!” There was nothing to do
but to laugh, and presently, when my clerical friend came up and
urged me to fulfil my promise and make the introduction, to hurry
down on some excuse into the tea room and never reappear till the
disappointed Mr. X had departed.
I have kept 34 letters received from Mr. Froude during the years in
which I had the good fortune to contribute to Fraser’s Magazine
when he was the Editor, and later, when, as friends and neighbours
in South Kensington, we had the usual little interchange of message
and invitations. Among these, to me precious, letters there are some
passages which I shall venture to copy, assured that his
representatives cannot possibly object to my doing so. I may first as
an introduction of myself, quote one in a letter to my eldest brother,
who had invited him to stay at Newbridge during one of his visits to
Ireland. Mr. Froude wrote to him:—

“I knew your brother Henry intimately 30 years ago, and your

sister is one of the most valued friends of my later life.”
 His affection for Carlyle spoke in this eager refutation of some idle
story in the newspapers:
 “February 16th.

“There is hardly a single word in it which is not untrue. Ruskin is

as much attached to Mr. Carlyle as ever. There is not one of his
friends to whom he is not growing dearer as he approaches the end
of his time, nor has the wonderful beauty and noble tenderness of
his character been ever more conspicuous. The only difference
visible in him from what he was in past years is that his wife’s
death has broken his heart. He is gentler and more forbearing to
human weakness. He feels that his own work is finished, and he is
waiting hopefully till it please God to take him away.”

Here is evidence of his deep enjoyment of Nature. He writes,

October 31st, from Dereen, Kenmare:—

“I return to London most reluctantly at the end of the week. The

summer refuses to leave us, and while you are shivering in the
North wind we retain here the still blue cloudlessness of August.
This morning is the loveliest I ever saw here. The woods swarm
with blackbirds and thrushes, the ‘autumn note not all unlike to
that of spring.’ I am so bewitched with the place that (having
finished my History) I mean to spend the winter here and try to
throw the story of the last Desmond into a novel.”

In reply to a request that he would attend an Anti-vivisection

meeting at Lord Shaftesbury’s house, he wrote:—

“Vivisection is a hateful illustration of the consequences of the

silent supersession of Morality by Utilitarianism. Until men can be
brought back to the old lines, neither this nor any other evil
tendency can be really stemmed. Till the world learns again to
hate what is in itself evil, in spite of alleged advantages to be
derived from it, it will never consent to violent legal restrictions.”
 His last letter from Oxford is pleasant to recall:—

“I am strangely placed here. The Dons were shy of me when I

first came, but all is well now, and the undergraduates seem really
interested in what I have to tell them. I am quite free, and tell them
precisely what I think.”

I do not think that Mr. Froude was otherwise than a happy man.
He was particularly so as regarded his feminine surroundings, and a
most genial and indulgent husband and father. He had also intense
enjoyment both of Nature and of the great field of Literature into
which he delved so zealously. He once told me that he had visited
every spot, except the Tower of London (!) where the great scenes of
his History took place, and had ransacked every library in Europe
likely to contain materials for his work; not omitting the record
chambers of the Inquisition at Simancas, where he spent many
shuddering days which he vividly described to me. He also greatly
enjoyed his long voyages and visits to the West Indies and to New
Zealand; and especially the one he made to America. He admired
almost everything, I think, in America; and more than once
remarked to me (in reference particularly to the subject of mixed
education in which I was interested): “The young men are so nice!
What might be difficult here, is easy there. You have no idea what
nice fellows they are.” There was, however, certainly something in
Mr. Froude’s handsome and noble physiognomy which conveyed the
idea of mournfulness. His eyes were wells of darkness on which, by
some singularity, the light never seemed to fall either in life or when
represented in a photograph; and his laugh, which was not
infrequent, was mirthless. I never heard a laugh which it was so hard
to echo, so little contagious.
The last time I ever saw Mr. Froude was at the house of our
common friend, Miss Elliot, where he was always to be found at his
best. Her other visitors had departed and we three old friends sat on
in the late and quiet Sunday afternoon, talking of serious things, and
at last of our hopes and beliefs respecting a future life. Mr. Froude
startled us somewhat by saying he did not wish to live again. He felt
that his life had been enough, and would be well content not to
awake when it was over. “But,” said he, in conclusion, with sudden
vigour, “I believe there is another life, you know! I am quite sure
there is.” The clearness and emphasis of this conviction were parallel
to those he had used before to me in talking of the probable
extension of Atheism in coming years. “But, as there IS a God,” said
Mr. Froude, “Religion can never die.”
 CHAPTER
XVIII.
MY LIFE IN LONDON IN THE SEVENTIES
AND EIGHTIES.
SOCIAL

I must not write here any personal sketch however slight of my

revered friend Dr. Martineau, since he is still,—God be thanked for
it!—living, and writing as profoundly and vigorously as ever, in his
venerable age of 89. But the weekly sermons which I had the
privilege of hearing from his lips for many years, down to 1872,
beside several courses of his Lectures on the Gospels and on Ethical
Philosophy which I attended, formed so very important, I might say,
vital a part of my “Life” in London, that I cannot omit some account
of them in my story.
Little Portland Street Chapel is a building of very moderate
dimensions, with no pretensions whatever to ecclesiastical finery;
whether of architecture, or upholstery, or art of any kind. But it was,
I always thought, a fitting, simple place for serious people to meet to
think in; not to gaze round them in curiosity or admiration, or to be
intoxicated with colours, lights, incense and music; as would seem to
be the intention of the administrators of a neighbouring fane! Our
services, I suppose, would have been pronounced cold, bare and dull
by an habitué of a Ritualistic or Romanist church; but for my own
part I should prefer even to be “cold,” (which we were not) rather
than allow my religious feelings to be excited through the
gratification of my æsthetic sense.
On this matter, however, each one must speak and choose for
himself. For me I was perfectly satisfied with my seat in the gallery in
that simple chapel, where I could well hear the noblest sermons and
see the preacher of whom they always seemed a part; his “Word” in
the old sense; not (like many other men’s sermons) things quite
apart from the speaker, as we know him in his home and in the
street. Of all the men with whom I have ever been acquainted the one
who most impressed me with the sense,—shall I call it of congruity?
or homogeneity?—of being, in short, the same all through, was he to
whom I listened on those happy Sundays.
They were very varied Sermons which Dr. Martineau preached.
The general effect, I used to think, was not that of receiving Lessons
from a Teacher, but of being invited to accompany a Guide on a
mountain-walk. From the upper regions of thought where he led us,
we were able,—nay, compelled,—to look down on our daily cares and
duties from a loftier point of view; and thence to return to them with
fresh feelings and resolutions. Sometimes these ascents were very
steep and difficult; and I have ventured to tell him that the richness
of his metaphors and similes, beautiful and original as they always
were, made it harder to climb after him, and that we sometimes
wanted him to hold out to us a shepherd’s crook, rather than a
jewelled crozier! But the exercise, if laborious, was to the last degree
mentally healthful, and morally strengthening. There was a great
variety also, in these wonderful sermons. To hear one of them only, a
listener would come away deeming the preacher par éminence a
profound and most discriminating Critic. To hear another, he would
consider him a Philosopher, occupied entirely with the vastest
problems of Science and Theology. Again another would leave the
impression of a Poet, as great in his prose as the author of In
Memoriam in verse. And lastly and above all, there was always the
man filled with devout feeling, who, by his very presence and voice
communicated reverence and the sense of the nearness of an all-
seeing God.
I could write many pages concerning these Sunday experiences;
but I shall do better, I think, if I give my readers, who have never
heard them, some small samples of what I carried away from time to
time of them, as noted down in letters to my friend. Here are a few of
them:

“Mr. Martineau preached of aiming at perfection. At the end he

drew a picture of a soul which has made such struggles but has
 failed. Then he supposed what must be the feeling of such a soul
entering on the future life, its regrets; and then inquired what
influence being lifted above the things of sense, the nearness to
God and holiness would have on it? Would it then arise? Yes! and
the Father would say, ‘This my son was dead and is alive again; he
was lost and is found for evermore.’ I cannot tell you how beautiful
it was, how true in the sense of those deepest intuitions which I
hold to be certainly true because they bear with them the sense of
being absolutely highest, the echo of a higher harmony than
belongs to our poor minds. He seemed, for a moment, to be talking
in the old conventional way about repentance when too late; and
then burst out in faith and hope, so far transcending all such ideas
that one felt it came from another source.”
“Mr. Martineau gave us a magnificent sermon on Sunday. I was
in great luck not to miss it. One point was this. Our moral
judgments are always founded on what we suppose to be the
inward motive of the actor, not on the mere external act itself,
which may be mischievous or beneficent in the highest degree,
without, properly-speaking, affecting our purely ethical judgment
—e.g., an unintentional homicide. Now, if, (as our opponents
affirm) our Moral Sense came to us ab extra, merely as the current
opinion which society has attached to injurious or beneficial
actions, then we should not thus decide our judgment by the
internal, but by the external and visible part of the act, by which
alone society is hurt or benefitted. The fact that our moral
judgment regards internal things exclusively, is evidence that it
springs from an internal source; and that we judge another,
because we are compelled to judge ourselves in the same way.”

Here is a Note I took after hearing another Sermon:—

“Sunday, June 23rd.

“‘If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our

sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’
“There are two ways of looking at Sin common in our time. One
is to proclaim it so infinitely black that God cannot forgive it except
 by a method of Atonement itself the height of injustice. The other is
to treat it as so venial that God may be counted on as certain to
pass it over at the first moment of regret; and all the threats of
conscience may be looked on as those of a nurse to a refractory
child, threats which are never to be executed. The first of these
views seems to honour God most, but really dishonours Him, by
representing Him as governing the world on a principle abhorrent
to reason and justice. The second can never commend itself save to
the most shallow minds who make religion a thing of words, and
treat sin and repentance as trivial things, instead of the most awful.
How shall we solve the mystery? It is equally unjust for God to
treat the guilty as if they were innocent, and the penitent as if they
were impenitent. Each fact has to be taken into account, and the
most important practical consequences follow from the view we
take of the matter. First we must never lose hold of the truth, that,
as Cause and Effect are never severed in the natural world, and the
whole order of nature would fall to ruin were God ever to interfere
with them, so likewise Guilt and Pain are, in His Providence,
indissolubly linked; and the order of the moral world would be
destroyed were they to be divided. But beside the realm of Law, in
which the Divine penalties are unalterable, there is the free world
of Spirit wherein our repentance avails. When we can say to God,
‘Put me to grief—I have deserved it. Only restore me Thy love,’ the
great woe is gone. We shall be the weaker evermore for our fall, but
we shall be restored.”

The following remarks were in a letter to Miss Elliot:—

“January, 1867.

“I wish I could write a résumé of a Sermon which Mr. Martineau

preached last Sunday. Just think how many sermons some people
would make of this one sentence of his text (speaking of the
longing for Rest):—‘If Duty become laborious, do it more fervently.
If Love become a source of care and pain, love more nobly and
more tenderly. If Doubts disturb and torture, face them with more
earnest thought and deeper study!’
 “This was not a peroration, but just one phrase of a discourse
full of other such things.
“It seems to me that the spontaneous response of our inner souls
to such ideas is just the same proof of their truth as the shock we
feel in our nerves when a lecturer has delivered a current of
electricity proves his lesson to be true.”
“January, 1867.

“While you were enjoying your Cathedral, I was enjoying Little

Portland Street Chapel, having bravely tramped through miles of
snow on the way, and been rewarded. Mr. Martineau said we were
always taunted with only having a negative creed, and were often
foolish enough to deny it. But all Reformation is a negation of error
and return to the three pure articles of faith—God, Duty,
Immortality.... The distinction was admirably drawn between
extent of creed and intensity of faith.”

On February 5th, 1871, Mr. Martineau preached:—

“Philosophers might and do say that all Religion is only a

projection of Man himself on Nature, lending to Nature his own
feelings, brightened by a supreme Love or shadowed by infinite
displeasure. Does this disprove Religion? Is there no reliance to be
placed on the faculties which connect us with the Infinite? We have
two sets of faculties: our Senses, which reveal the outer world; and
a deeper series, giving us Poetry, Love, Religion. Should we say
that these last are more false than the others? They are true all
round. In fact, these are truest. Imagination is true. Affection is
true. Do men say that Affection is blind? No! It is the only thing
which truly sees. Love alone really perceives. The cynic draws over
the world a roof of dark and narrow thoughts and suspicions, and
then complains of the close, unhealthy air. Memory again is more
than mere Recollection. It has the true artist-power of seizing the
points which determine the character and reconstructing the image
without details. Suppose there be a God. By what faculties could we
know Him save by those which now tell us of Him. And why should
they deceive us?”
 Alas! the exercise of preaching every Sunday became too great for
Dr. Martineau to encounter after 1872, and, by his physician’s
orders, those noble sermons came to an end.
Beside Dr. Martineau, I had the privilege of friendship with three
eminent Unitarian Ministers, now alas! all departed—Rev. Charles
Beard, of Liverpool, for a long time editor of the Theological Review;
the venerable and beloved John James Tayler; and Rev. William
Henry Channing, to whom I was gratefully attached, both on account
of religious sympathies, and of his ardent adoption of our Anti-
vivisection cause, which he told me he had at first regarded as
somewhat of a “fad” of mine, but came to recognise as a moral
crusade of deep significance. Among living friends of the same body,
I am happy to number Rev. Philip Wicksteed, the successor of Dr.
Martineau in Portland Street and the exceedingly able President of
University Hall, Gordon Square,—an institution, in the foundation of
which I gladly took part on the invitation of Mrs. Humphry Ward.
A man in whose books I had felt great interest in my old studies at
Newbridge, and whose intercourse was a real pleasure to me in
London, was Mr. W. R. Greg. I intensely respected the courage which
moved him, in those early days of the Fifties, to publish such a book
as the Creed of Christendom. He was then a young man, entering
public life with the natural ambitions which his great abilities
justified, and the avowal of such exorbitant heresies (nothing short of
pure Theism) as the book contained, was enough at that date to spoil
any man’s career. He was a layman, too, and man of the world, “Que
Diable allait il faire, writing on theology at all?” That book remains
to this day a most valuable manual of arguments and evidences
against the Creed of Christendom; set forth in a grave and reverent
spirit and in a clear and manly style. His Enigmas of Life had, I
believe, a larger literary success. The world had moved much nearer
to his standpoint; and the Enigmas concern the most interesting
subjects. We had a little friendly controversy over one passage in the
essay, Elsewhere. Mr. Greg had laid it down that, hereafter, Love
must retreat from the discovery of the sinfulness of the beloved; and
that both saint and sinner will accept as inevitable an eternal
separation (Enigmas, 1st Edit., p. 263). To this I demurred
strenuously in my Hopes of the Human Race (p. 132–6). I said, “The
poor self-condemned soul whom Mr. Greg images as turning away in
an agony of shame and hopelessness from the virtuous friend he
loved on earth, and loves still at an immeasurable distance,—such a
soul is not outside the pale of love, divine or human. Nay, is he not,—
even assuming his guilt to be black as night,—only in a similar
relation to the purest of created souls, which that purest soul holds to
the All-holy One above? If God can love us, is it not the acme of
moral presumption to think of a human soul being too pure to love
any sinner, so long as in him there remains any vestige of affection?
The whole problem is unreal and impossible. In the first place, there
is a potential moral equality between all souls capable of equal love,
and the one can never reach a height whence it may justly despise the
other. And, in the second place, the higher the virtuous soul may
have risen in the spiritual world, the more it must have acquired the
god-like Insight which beholds the good under the evil, and not less
the god-like Love which embraces the repentant Prodigal.
In the next edition of his Enigmas (the 7th), after the issue of my
book, Mr. Greg wrote a most generous recantation of his former
view. He said:—

“The force of these objections to my delineation cannot be

gainsaid, and ought not to have been overlooked. No doubt a soul
that can so love and so feel its separation from the objects of its
love, cannot be wholly lost. It must still retain elements of recovery
and redemption, and qualities to win and to merit answering
affection. The lovingness of a nature—its capacity for strong and
deep attachment—must constitute, there as here, the most hopeful
characteristic out of which to elicit and foster all other good. No
doubt, again, if the sinful continue to love in spite of their
sinfulness, the blessed will not cease to love in consequence of their
blessedness.”

Later on he asks:—

“How can the blessed enjoy anything to be called Happiness if

the bad are writhing in hopeless anguish?” “Obviously only in one
way. By ceasing to love, that is, by renouncing the best and purest
 part of their nature.... Or, to put it in still bolder language, ‘How,—
given a hell of torment and despair for millions of his friends and
fellow men—can the good enjoy Heaven except by becoming bad,
and without being miraculously changed for the worse?’”

The following flattering letters are unluckily all which I have kept
of Mr. Greg’s writing:—

“Park Lodge, Wimbledon Common, S.W.,

“February 19th.

“My Dear Miss Cobbe,

“I have been solacing myself this morning, after a month of

harrowing toil, with your paper in the last Theological, and I want
to tell you how much it has gratified me.
“I don’t mean your appreciative cordiality towards myself, nor
your criticisms on a portion of my speculations, which, however
(though I fancy you have rather misread me), I will refer to again
and try to profit by. I daresay you are mainly right, the more so as I
see Mr. Thom in the same number remonstrates in an identical
tone.
“That your paper is, I think, not only beautiful in thought and
much of it original, but singularly full of rich suggestions, and one
of the most real contributions to a further conception of a possible
future that I have met with for long. It is real thought—not like
most of mine, mere sentiment and imagination.
“I don’t know if you are still in town, or have began the
villegiatura you spoke of when I last saw you, but I daresay this
note will be forwarded.
“When did No. 1 appear?
“I particularly like your remark about self-reprobation, p. 456,
and from 463 onward. By the way, do you know Isaac Taylor’s
‘Physical Theory of Another Life?’ It is very curious and
interesting.
“Yours faithfully,
 “W. R. Greg.
“I have just finished an Introduction (about 100 pp.) to a new
edition of “The Creed of Christendom,” which will be published in
the autumn, and it contains some thoughts very analogous to
yours.”

“Park Lodge, Wimbledon Common, S.W.,

“August 6th.

“My dear Miss Cobbe,

“I have read your Town and Country Mouse with much

pleasure. I should have enjoyed your Paper still more if I had not
felt that it was suggested by your intention to cut London, and the
desire to put as good a face upon that regrettable design as you
could. However you have stated the case with remarkable fairness.
I, who am a passionate lover of nature, who have never lived in
Town, and should pine away if I attempted it, still feel in the
decline of years the increasing necessity of creeping towards the
world rather than retiring from it. I feel, as one grows old, the want
of external stimulus to stave off stagnation. The vividness of
youthful thought is needed, I think, to support solitude.
“I retired to Westmoreland for 15 years in the middle of life when
I was much worn, and it did me good: but I was glad to come back
to active life, and I think my present location—Wimbledon
Common for a cottage, within 5 miles of London, and coming in
five days a week—is perfection.
“I daresay you may be right; but all your friends will miss you
much—I not the least.
“Yours faithfully,
“W. R. Greg.”

Mr. Greg’s allusion to my Town and Country Mouse reminds me

of a letter which was sent me by some unknown reader on the
publication of that article. It repeats a famous story worth recording
as told thus by an ear-witness who, though anonymous is obviously
worthy of credit.

“Athenæum Club,
“Pall Mall, S.W.

“Will Miss Cobbe kindly pardon the liberty taken by a reader of

her delightful ‘Town and Country Mouse’ in venturing to substitute
the true version of Sir George Lewis’ too famous dictum?
“In the hearing of the writer he was asked (by one of his
subordinates in the Government) as they were getting into the
train, returning to town,
“‘Well! How do you like life in Herefordshire?’
“‘Ah! It would be very tolerable, if it were not for the
Amusements’—was his reply.
“Miss Cobbe has high Authority for the mis-quotation: for the
Times invariably commits it; and the present writer has again and
again intended to correct it, and failed to execute the intention.
“If they are pleasures, they are pleasures; and the paradox is
absurd, instead of amusing; but the oppressive stupidity of many of
the ‘Amusements’ (to the Author of ‘Influence of Authority,’ &c.!)
may well call up in the mind the sort of amiable cynicism, which
was a feature of his own character.
“On arriving late and unexpectedly at home for a fortnight’s
Rest, he found his own study occupied by two young ladies (sisters)
as a Bedroom—it being the night of Lady Theresa’s Ball! With his
exquisite good nature he simply set about finding some other
roost; and all the complaint he ever made was that, which has
become perhaps not too famous!”

At the time of the Franco-Prussian war, as will be remembered by

everyone living at the time in London, the cleavage between the
sympathisers with the two contending countries was almost as sharp
as it had previously been during the American War between the
partizans of the North and of the South. Dean Stanley was one of our
friends who took warmly the side of the Germans, and I naturally
sent him a letter I had received from a Frenchman whom we both
respected, remonstrating rather bitterly against the attitude of
England. The Dean, in returning M. P.’s letter wrote as follows[24]:—

“Deanery, March 25th, 1871.

“Dear Miss Cobbe,

“Although you kindly excuse me from doing so, I cannot but

express, and almost, wish that you could convey to M. P. the
melancholy interest with which we have read his letter. Interesting
of course it is but to us—I know not whether to you—it is deeply
sad to see a man like M. P. so thoroughly blind to the true situation
of his country. Not a word of repentance for the aggressive and
unjust war! not a word of acknowledgment that, had the French, as
they wished, invaded Germany, they would have entered Berlin
and seized the Rhenish provinces without remorse or
compunction!—not a spark of appreciation of the moral superiority
by which the Germans achieved their successes! I do not doubt that
excesses may have been committed by the German troops; but I
feel sure that they have been exceeded by those of the French, and
would have been yet more had the French entered Germany.
“And how very superfluous to attack us for having done just the
same as in 1848! Our sad crime was not to have prevented the war
by remonstrating with the French Emperor and people in July,
1870, and of that poor P. takes no account! Alas! for France!
“Yours sincerely,
“A. P. Stanley.”

The following is a rather important note as recording the Dean’s

sentiments as regarded Cardinal Newman. I cannot recall what was
the paper which I had sent him to which he alludes. I think I had
spoken to him of my friendship with Francis Newman, and of the
information given me by the latter that he could never remember his
brother putting his hand to a single cause of benevolence or moral
reform. I had asked him to solicit his support with that of Cardinal
Manning (already obtained) to the cause for which I was then
beginning to work,—on behalf of animals.

“Jan. 15th, 1875.

“My dear Miss Cobbe,

“I return this with many thanks. I think you must have sent it to
me, partly as a rebuke for having so nearly sailed in the same boat
of ignorance and inhumanity with Dr. Newman.
“I have just finished, with a mixture of weariness and nausea, his
letter to the Duke of Norfolk. Even the fierce innuendoes and
deadly thrusts at Manning cannot reconcile me to such a mass of
cobwebs and evasions. When the sum of the theological teaching of
the two brothers is weighed, will not ‘the Soul’ of Francis be found
to counterbalance, as a contribution to true, solid, catholic (even in
any sense of the word) Christianity, all the writings of John Henry?
“I have sent my paper on Vestments to the Contemporary.
“Yours sincerely,
“A. P. Stanley.

“Read it in the light of his old letter to B. Ullathorne, published

in (illegible).”

The papers on “Vestments,” to which Dean Stanley alludes, had

interested and amused me much when he read it at Sion College, and
I had urged him to send it to one of the Reviews. Here is a report of
that evening’s proceedings which I sent next day to my friend Miss
Elliot.

“January 14th, 1875.

“I do so much wish you had been with us last night at Sion

College. Dean Stanley was more delightful than ever. He read a
splendid paper, full of learning, wit, and sense on Ecclesiastical
Vestments. In the course of it, he said, referring to the position of
 the altar, &c., that on this subject he had nothing to add to the
remarks of his friend, the Dean of Bristol, ‘whose authority on all
matters connected with English ecclesiastical history was
universally admitted to be the best.’ After the reading of his paper,
which lasted an hour and a quarter, that odious Dr. L—— got up,
and in his mincing brogue attacked Dean Stanley very rudely. Then
they called on Martineau, and he made a charming speech,
beginning by saying he had nothing to do with vestments, having
received no ordination, and might for his part repeat the poem
“Nothing to Wear!” Then he went on to say that if the Church were
ever to regain the Nonconformists, it would certainly not be by
proceeding in the sacerdotal direction. He was much cheered. Rev.
H. White made, I thought, one of the best speeches of the evening.
Altogether, it was exceedingly amusing.”

On the occasion of the interment of Sir Charles Lyell in

Westminster Abbey, I sent the Dean, by his request, some hints
respecting Sir Charles’ views and character, and received the
following reply:

“February 25th, 1875.

“My dear Miss Cobbe,

“Your letter is invaluable to me. Long as was my acquaintance

with Sir Charles Lyell, and kind as he was to me, I never knew him
intimately, and therefore most of what you tell me was new. The
last time he spoke to me was in urging me with the greatest
earnestness to ask Colenso to preach. Can you tell me one small
point? Had he a turn for music? I must refer back to the last
funeral (when I could not preach) of Sir Sterndale Bennett, and it
would be a convenience for me to know this, Yes or No.
“You will come (if you come to the sermon) and any friends,—
thro’ the Deanery at 2.45 on Sunday.
“Yours sincerely,
“A. P. Stanley.”
 Some time after this I sent him one of my theological articles on
the Life after Death. He acknowledged it thus kindly:—

“Deanery, November 2nd.

“Dear Miss Cobbe,

“Many thanks. Your writing on this subject is to me more nearly

to the truth—at least more nearly to my hopes and desires—than
almost any others which are now floating around us.
“Yours sincerely,
“A. P. Stanley.”

This next letter again referred to one of my books—and to Cardinal

Newman:—

“October 12th, 1876.

“My dear Miss Cobbe,

“Many thanks for your book. You will see by my letter last night
that I had already made good progress in it; as borrowed from the
Library. I shall much value it.
Do not trouble yourself about Newman’s letter. I am much more
anxious that the public should see it than that I should. I am
amazed at the impression made upon me by the “Characteristics”
of Newman. Most of the selections I had read before; but the net
result is of a farrago of fanciful, disingenuous nonentities; all
except the personal reminiscences.
“Yours truly,
“A. P. Stanley.”

One day I had been calling on him at the Deanery, and said to him,
after describing my office in Victoria Street and our frequent
Committee meetings there: “Now Mr. Dean, do you think it right and
as it ought to be, that I should sit at that table as Hon. Sec. with Lord
Shaftesbury on my right, and Cardinal Manning on my left,—and
that you should not sit opposite to complete the “Reunion of
Christendom?” He laughed heartily, agreed he certainly ought to be
there, and promised to come. But time failed, and only his honoured
name graced our lists.
The following is the last letter I have preserved of Dean Stanley’s
writing. It is needless to say how much pleasure it gave me:—

“October 16th, 1876.

“Dear Miss Cobbe,

“I have just finished re-reading with real admiration and

consolation your “Hopes of the Human Race.” May I ask these
questions: 1. Is it in, or coming into, a second edition? If the latter,
is it too much to suggest that the note on p. 3 could, if not omitted,
be modified? I appreciate the motive for its insertion, but it makes
the lending and recommending of the book difficult. 2. Who is ‘one
of the greatest men of Science’—p. 20? 3. Where is there an
authentic appearance of the Pope’s reply to Odo Russell—p. 107?
“Yours sincerely,
“A. P. Stanley.”

I afterwards learned from Dean Stanley, one day when I was

visiting him at the Deanery after his wife’s death, that he had read
these Essays to Lady Augusta in the last weeks of her life, finding
them, as he told me, the most satisfactory treatment of the subject he
had met; and that after her death he read them over again. He gave
me with much feeling a sad photograph of her as a dying woman,
after telling me this. Mr. Motley the historian of the Netherlands,
having also lost his wife not long afterwards, spoke to Dean Stanley
of his desire for some book on the subject which would meet his
doubts, and Dean Stanley gave him this one of mine.
Dean Stanley, it is needless to say, was the most welcome of guests
in every house which he entered. There was something in his high-
mindedness, I can use no other term, his sense of the glory of
England, his love of his church (on extremely Erastian principles!) as
the National Religion, his unfailing courtesy, his unaffected
enjoyment of drollery and gossip, and his almost youthful excitement
about each important subject which cropped up, which made him
delightful to everyone in turn. There was no man in London I think
whom it gave me such pleasure to meet “in the sixties and seventies”
as the “Great Dean”; and he was uniformly most kind to me. The last
occasion, I think, on which I saw him in full spirits was at a house
where the pleasantest people were constantly to be found,—that of
Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, in Cornwall Gardens. Renan and his wife
were there, and I was so favoured as to be seated next to Renan;
Dean Stanley being on the other side of our tactful hostess. The Dean
had been showing Renan over the Abbey in the morning, and they
were both in the gayest mood, but I remember Dean Stanley
speaking to Renan with indescribable and concentrated indignation
of the avowal Mr. Gladstone had recently made that the Clerkenwell
explosion had caused him to determine on the disestablishment of
the Irish Church.
I have found an old letter to my friend describing this dinner:—

“I had a most amusing evening yesterday. Kind Mrs. Simpson

made me sit beside Renan; and Dean Stanley was across the
corner, so we made, with nice Mrs. W. R. G. and Mr. M., a very
jolly little party at our end of the table. The Dean began with grace,
rather sotto voce, with a blink at Renan, who kept on never
minding. His (Renan’s) looks are even worse than his picture leads
one to expect. His face is exactly like a hog, so stupendously broad
across the ears and jowl! But he is very gentlemanly in manner,
very winning and full of fun and finesse. We had to talk French
with him, but the Dean’s French was so much worse than mine that
I felt quite at ease, and rattled away about the Triduos at Florence
(to appease the wrath of Heaven on account of his Vie de Jésus),
and had some private jokes with him about his malice in calling the
Publicans of the Gospels ‘douaniers,’ and the ass a ‘baudet!’ He
said he did it on purpose; and that when he was last in Italy
numbers of poor people came to him, and asked him for the lucky
number for the lotteries, because they thought he was so near the
Devil he must know! I gave him your message about the Hengwrt
 MSS., and he apologised for having written about the ‘mesquines’
considerations which had caused them to be locked up, [to wit, that
several leaves of the Red Book of Hergest had been stolen by too
enthusiastic Welsh scholars!] and solemnly vowed to alter the
passage in the next edition, and thanked you for the promise of
obtaining leave for him to see them.
“I also talked to M. Renan of his Essay on the Poésie de la Race
Celtique, and made him laugh at his own assertion that Irishmen
had such a longing for ‘the Infinite’ that when they could not attain
to it otherwise they sought it through a strong liquor ‘qui s’appelle
le Whiskey.’”

Sir Mountstuart Grant Duff’s delightful volume on Renan has

opened to my mind many fresh reasons for admiring the great
French scholar, whose works I had falsely imagined I had known
pretty well before reading it. But when all is said, the impression he
has left on me (and I should think on most other people) is one of
disappointment and short-falling.
M. Renan has written of himself the well-known and often
laughed-at boast: “Seul dans mon siècle j’ai pu comprendre Jésus
Christ et St. François d’Assise!” I do not know about his
comprehension of St. Francis, though I should think it a very great
tour de force for the brilliant French academician and critic to throw
himself into that typical mediæval mind! But as regarded the former
Person I should say that of all the tens of thousands who have
studied and written about him during these last nineteen centuries,
Renan was in some respects the least able to “comprehend” him. The
man who could describe the story of the Prodigal as a “délicieuse
parabole,” is as far out of Christ’s latitude as the pole from the
equator. One abhors æsthetics when things too sacred to be
measured by their standard are commended in their name. Renan
seems to me to have been for practical purposes a Pantheist without
a glimmer of that sense of moral and personal relation to God which
was the supreme characteristic of Christ. When he translates Christ’s
pity for the Magdalenes as jealousy “pour la gloire de son Père dans
ces belles créatures;” and introduces the term “femmes d’une vie
équivoque” as a rendering for “sinners,” he strikes a note so false that
no praise lavished afterwards can restore harmony.
 The late Lord Houghton was one of the men of note who I met
occasionally at the houses of friends. I had known him in Italy and he
was always kind to me and invited me to his Christmas parties at
Frystone, which were said to be delightful, but to which I did not go.
For a poet he had an extraordinarily rough exterior and blunt
manner. One day we had a regular set-to argument lasting a long
time. He attacked the order of things with the usual pessimist
observations on all the evil in the world, and implied that I had no
reasonable right to my faith. I answered as best I could, with some
earnestness, and he finally concluded the discussion by remarking
with concentrated contempt: “You might almost as well be a
Christian!” Next day I went to Westminster Abbey and was sitting in
the Dean’s pew, when, to my amusement Lord Houghton came in
just below, with a party of ladies and took a seat exactly opposite me.
He behaved of course with edifying propriety, but I could not help
reflecting with a smile on our argument of the night before, and
wondering how many members of that and similar congregations
who were naturally counted by outsiders as faithful supporters of the
orthodox creed, were as little so, au fond, as either Lord Houghton or
I.
With Carlyle, though I saw him very frequently, I never
interchanged more than a few banal words of civility. When his
biography appeared, I was, (as I frankly told the illustrious
biographer) exceedingly glad that I had never given him the chance
of attaching one of his pungent epigrams to my poor person. I had
been introduced to him by a lady at whose house he happened to call
one afternoon when I was sitting with her, and where he showed
himself (as it seems to me the roughest men invariably do in the
society of amiable Countesses),—extremely apprivoisé. Also I
continually met him out walking with one or other of his great
historian friends, who were also mine, but I avoided trespassing on
their good nature; or addressing him when he walked up and down
alone daily before our door in Cheyne Walk,—till one day when he
had been very ill, I ventured to express my satisfaction in seeing him
out of doors again. He then answered me kindly. I never shared the
admiration felt for him by so many able men who knew him
personally, and therefore had means which I did not possess, of
estimating him aright. To me his books and himself represented an
anomalous sort of human Fruit. The original stock was a hard and
thorny Scotch peasant-character, with a splendid intellect
superadded. The graft was not wholly successful. A flavour of the old
acrid sloe was always perceptible in the plum.
The following letter was received by Dr. Hoggan in reply to a letter
to Mr. Carlyle concerning Vivisection:

“Keston Lodge, Beckenham,

“28th August, 1875.

“Dear Sir,

“Mr. Carlyle has received your letter, and has read it carefully.
He bids me say, that ever since he was a boy when he read the
account of Majendie’s atrocities, he has never thought of the
practice of vivisecting animals but with horror. I may mention that
I have heard him speak of it in the strongest terms of disgust long
before there was any speech about public agitation on the subject.
He believes that the reports about the good results said to be
obtained from the practice of vivisection to be immensely
exaggerated; with the exception of certain experiments by Harvey
and certain others by Sir Charles Bell, he is not aware of any
conspicuous good that has resulted from it. But even supposing the
good results to be much greater than Mr. Carlyle believes they are,
and apart too from the shocking pain inflicted on the helpless
animals operated upon, he would still think the practice so
brutalising to the operators that he would earnestly wish the law on
the subject to be altered, so as to make Vivisection even in
Institutions like that with which you are connected a most rare
occurrence, and when practised by private individuals an
indictable offence.
“You are not sure that the operators on living animals ‘can be
counted on your fingers.’ Mr. Carlyle with an equal share of
certainty believes Vivisection and other kindred experiments on
living animals to be much more largely practised, and that they are
by no means uncommonly undertaken by doctors’ apprentices and
‘other miserable persons.’
 “You are mistaken if you look upon the Times as a mirror of
virtue; on this very subject when it at first began to be publicly
discussed last winter, it printed a letter from ... which your letter
itself would prove to be altogether composed of falsehoods.
“With Mr. Carlyle’s compliments and good wishes,
“I remain, dear Sir,
“Yours truly,
“Mary Carlyle Aitken.”

Mr. Carlyle supported our Anti-vivisection Society from the outset,

for which I was very grateful to him; but having promised to join our
first important deputation to the Home Office, to urge the
Government to bring in a Bill in accordance with the
recommendations of the Royal Commission, he failed at the last
moment to put in an appearance, having learned that Cardinal
Manning was to be also present. I was told that he said he would not
appear in public with the Cardinal, who was, he thought, “the chief
emissary of Beelzebub in England!” When this was repeated to me,
my remark was:—“Infidels is riz! Time was, when Cardinals would
not appear in public with infidels!”
Nothing has surprised me more in reading the memoirs and letters
of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle than the small interest either of them seems
to have felt in the great subjects which formed the life-work of their
many illustrious visitors. While humbler folk who touched the same
circles were vehemently attracted, or else repelled, by the political,
philosophical and theological theories and labours of such men as
Mazzini, Mill, Colenso, Jowett, Martineau and Darwin, and every
conversation and almost every letter contained new facts, or
animated discussions regarding them, the Carlyles received visits
from these great men continually, with (it would seem) little or no
interest in their aims or views one way or the other, in approval or
disapproval; and wrote and talked much more seriously about the
delinquencies of their own maidservants, and the great and never-to-
be-sufficiently-appealed-against cock and hen nuisance.
I had known Cardinal Manning in Rome about 1861 or 1863 when
he was “Monsignor Manning,” and went a little into English society,
resplendent in a beautiful violet robe. He was very busy in those days
making converts among English young ladies, and one with whom
we were acquainted, the daughter of a celebrated authoress, fell into
his net. He had, at all times, a gentle way of ridiculing English doings
and prejudices which was no doubt telling. One of the stories he told
me was of an Italian sacristan asking him “what was the Red Prayer
Book which all the English tourists carried about and read so
devoutly in the churches?” (of course Murray’s Hand-books).[25]
A few years afterwards when he had returned to England as
Archbishop of Westminster, I met him pretty frequently at Miss
Stanley’s house in Grosvenor Crescent. He there attacked me
cheerfully one evening: “Miss Cobbe I have found out something
against you. I have discovered that Voltaire was part-owner of a
Slave-ship!”
“I beg you to believe,” said I, “that I have no responsibility
whatever respecting Voltaire! But I would ask your Grace, whether it
be not true that Las Casas, the saintly Dominican, founded Negro
Slavery in America?” A Church of England friend coming up and
laughing, I discharged a second barrel: “And was not the Protestant
Saint, Newton of Olney,—much worse than all,—the Captain of a
Slave-ship?”[26]
One evening at this pleasant house I was standing on the rug in
one of the rooms talking to Mr. Matthew Arnold and two or three
other acquaintances of the same set. The Archbishop, on entering
shook hands with each of us, and we were all talking in the usual
easy, sub-humorous, London way when a tall military-looking man, a
Major G., came in, and seeing Manning, walked straight up to him,
went down on one knee and kissed his ring! A bomb falling amongst
us would scarcely have been more startling; and Manning,
Englishman as he was to the backbone under his fine Roman
feathers, was obviously disconcerted, though dignified as ever.
In a letter to a friend dated Feb. 19th, 1867, I find I said:

“I had an amusing conversation with Archbishop Manning the

other night at Miss Stanley’s. He was most good-humoured,
coming up to me as I was talking to Sir C. Trevelyan, about Rome,
and saying ‘I am glad you think of going to Rome next winter, Miss
Cobbe. It proves you expect the Pope to be firmly established there
 still.’ We had rather a long talk about Passaglia who he says has
recanted,—[a fact I heard strongly contradicted later.] Mr. J. (now
Sir H. J.) came behind him in the midst of our talk and almost
pitched the Archbishop on me, with such a push as I never saw
given in a drawing-room! The Dean and Lady Augusta came in
later, and she asked eagerly: ‘Where was Manning?’ having never
seen him. He had gone away, so I told her of the enthusiastic
meeting which had afforded a spectacle to us all an hour before,
between him and Archdeacon Denison. It was quite a scene of
ecclesiastical reconciliation; a ‘Reunion of Christendom!’ (They
had been told each that the other was in the adjoining room, and
Archdeacon Denison literally rushed with both hands outspread to
meet the Cardinal, whom he had not seen since his conversion.)”

In later years, I received at least half-a-dozen notes from time to

time from his Eminence asking for details of our Anti-vivisection
work, and exhibiting his anxiety to master the facts on which he
proposed to speak at our Meetings. Here are some of these notes:—

“Archbishop’s House, Westminster, S.W.,

“June 12th, 1882.

“Dear Miss Cobbe,

“I should be much obliged if you would send me some recent

facts or utterances of the Mantegazza kind, for the meeting at Lord
Shaftesbury’s. I have for a long time lost all reckoning from
overwork, and need to be posted up.
“Believe me, always faithfully yours,
“Henry E., Card. Archbp.”

“Cardinal Manning to Miss F. P. C.

“Eastern Road, Brighton.

“Dear Miss Cobbe,

 “I can assure you that my slowness in answering your letter has
not arisen from any diminution of care on Vivisection. I was never
better able to understand it, for I have been for nearly three weeks
in pain day and night from neuralgia in the right arm, which makes
writing difficult.
“I have not seen Mr. Holt’s Bill, and I do not know what it aims
at.
“Before I can say anything, I wish to be fully informed. The Bill
of last year does not content me.
“But we must take care not to weaken what we have gained. I
hope to stay here over Sunday, and should be much obliged if you
could desire someone to send me a copy of Mr. Holt’s Bill.
“Has sufficient organised effort been made to enforce Mr. Cross’s
Act?
“Believe me, always yours very truly,
“Henry E., Card. Archbp.”

“Archbishop’s House, Westminster, S.W.,

“June 22nd, 1884.

“Dear Miss Cobbe,

“I will attend the meeting of the 26th unless hindered by some

unforeseen necessity, but I must ask you to send me a brief. I am so
driven by work that for some time I have fallen behind your
proceedings. Send me one or two points marked and I will read
them up.
“My mind is more than ever fixed on this subject.
“Believe me, yours faithfully,
“Henry E., Card. Archbp.”

“Archbishop’s House, Westminster, S.W.,

“January 27th, 1887.

“My dear Miss Cobbe,

 “For the last three weeks I have been kept to the house by one of
my yearly colds; but if possible I will be present at the Meeting of
the Society. If I should be unable to be there I will write a letter.
“I clearly see that the proposed Physiological and Pathological
Institute would be centre and sanction of ever advancing
Vivisection.
“I hope you are recovering health and strength by your rest in
the country?
“Believe me, always faithfully yours,
“Henry E., Card. Archbp.”

“Archbishop’s House, Westminster, S.W.,

“July 31st, 1889.

“My dear Miss Cobbe,

“My last days have been so full that I have not been able to write.
I thank you for your letter, and for the contents of it. The highest
counsel is always the safest and best, cost us what it may. We may
take the cost as the test of its rectitude.
“I hope you will go on writing against this inflation of vain glory
calling itself Science.
“Believe me, always, very truly yours,
“Henry E., Card. Archbishop.”

At no less than seven of our annual Meetings (at one of which he

presided) did Cardinal Manning make speeches. All these I have
myself reprinted in an ornamental pamphlet to be obtained at 20,
Victoria Street. The reasons for his adoption of our Anti-vivisection
cause, were, I am sure, mainly moral and humane; but I think an
incident which occurred in Rome not long before our campaign
began may have impressed on his mind a regret that the Catholic
Church had hitherto done nothing on behalf of the lower animals,
and a desire to take part himself in a humane crusade and so rectify
its position before the Protestant world.
 Pope Pio IX. had been addressed by the English in Rome through
Lord Ampthill, (then Mr. Odo Russell, our representative there)—
with a request for permission to found a Society for Prevention of
Cruelty to Animals in Rome; where, (as all the world knows) it was
almost as deplorably needed as at Naples. After a considerable delay,
the formal reply through the proper Office, was sent to Mr. Russell
refusing the (indispensable) permission. The document conveying
this refusal expressly stated that “a Society for such a purpose could
not be sanctioned in Rome. Man owed duties to his fellow men; but
he owed no duties to the lower animals therefore, though such
societies might exist in Protestant countries they could not be
allowed to be established in Rome.”
The late Lord Arthur Russell, coming back from Italy to England
just after this event, told me of it with great detail, and assured me
that he had seen the Papal document in his brother’s possession; and
that if I chose to publish the matter in England, he would guarantee
the truth of the story at any time. I did very much choose to publish
it, thinking it was a thing which ought to be proclaimed on the
housetops; and I repeated it in seven or eight different publications,
ranging from the Quarterly Review to the Echo. Soon after this, if I
remember rightly, began the Anti-vivisection movement, and almost
immediately when the Society for Protection of Animals from
Vivisection (afterwards called the Victoria Street Society) was
founded, by Dr. Hoggan and myself, Cardinal Manning gave us his
name and active support. He took part in our first Deputation to the
Home Office, and spoke at our first meeting, which was held on the
10th June, 1876, at the Westminster Palace Hotel. On that occasion,
when it came to the Cardinal’s turn to speak, he began at once to say
that “Much misapprehension existed as to the attitude of his Church
on the subject of duty to animals.” [As he said this, with his usual
clear, calm, deliberate enunciation, he looked me straight in the face
and I looked at him!] He proceeded to say: “It was true that man
owed no duty directly to the brutes, but he owed it to God, whose
creatures they are, to treat them mercifully.”
This was, I considered a very good way of reconciling adhesion to
the Pope’s doctrine, with humane principles; and I greatly rejoiced
that such a mezzo-termine could be put forward on authority. Of
course in my private opinion the Cardinal’s ethics were theoretically