BOYS’ MUSEUMS[9]

It is a strange and interesting fact in human nature that among thousands of boys who do not take the slightest interest in anything pertaining to what is commonly called “Natural History,” there are here and there, at all events among all cultivated nations, some few to whom it is an absorbing passion, affording more delight than anything else in life. Very often this is only a passing phase, affecting boys chiefly between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, and then entirely dying away, but with some it persists through life, materially modifying the whole course of existence. This curious condition of mind, or “idiosyncrasy” as physicians call it, is not confined to particular races or nations; the Japanese have it as well as Europeans and Americans. Nor is it limited to any particular position in the social or educational scale. No one could have had it in a more intense form than the poor Scotch shoemaker, Thomas Edward, child of some of the humblest people of the land, whose biography by Samuel Smiles I presume all readers of this magazine are acquainted with. On the other hand, there have been few keener naturalists and collectors than the late Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria, and in England at the present time few, if any, can yield in this respect to the heir of the wealthy house of Rothschild, the owner of the finest private zoological museum in the world.

One great peculiarity of this condition of mind is that, though it does occasionally run in families, more often it arises as it were spontaneously in one member of a family, without any inherited predisposition or any external circumstance, as far as is known, leading to it. Indeed, it is often most strongly developed when the circumstances seem most adverse, and where no encouragement whatever has been given to pursue it. I am especially in a position to become acquainted with all the symptoms of what I may call this affection, as from my official position fathers and mothers of boys attacked by it continually consult me as to how the inclination or passion for natural history should be treated in view of the future career of the boy--whether it should be peremptorily suppressed, or whether and in what direction it should be developed, and above all, what are the prospects of its leading to obtaining a livelihood. Having a strong sympathy with boys of such tastes, I have generally availed myself of the opportunity of a little talk with them, and have given them such advice as seemed best in the particular case. As to natural history as the regular occupation of one who has no other means of living, I have little to say that is favourable, as it is about the worst paid and least appreciated of all professions. The only thing that I can say for it is that the prospects are brightening, surely if slowly, both in Europe and America. It is, I firmly believe, a profession of the future. The only way to judge of what is coming is to look back at the past, and note the changes that have been recently and are still taking place. The opportunities for pursuing natural history with some sort of remuneration, small as they are, are undoubtedly greater now than they were twenty or thirty years ago.

With the general spread of education, lectureships, demonstratorships, and curatorships are every year becoming more numerous, and there is no reason to suppose that this excellent state of things will not continue. But still, before advising any one to take up natural history as a profession, I must be convinced of his really intense and abiding interest in the subject, and of his zeal and determination to pursue it at whatever sacrifice of ease or comfort, his readiness “to scorn delights and live laborious days” in fact. Some boys seem to be so devoted to it as to be incapable of applying themselves to anything else. If this is really the case, I generally advise parents to let them go on if possible, giving them the best education in the subject that is available, and letting them take their chance of obtaining an appointment when they are fit for one. The difficulty with such cases is that to pursue natural history with any chance of profit in these days a considerable knowledge of other subjects, especially modern languages, is absolutely indispensable. The continually-increasing amount of scientific literature which must be taken account of in every branch of natural history has much changed the conditions of study required for it, as has also the growing tendency to give appointments solely on the results of competitive examination. In no case would I discourage the taste altogether, but I more often advise some other means of making a living, holding on to natural history as a recreation and relaxation. To a soldier or sailor, for instance, a love of natural history is the greatest possible blessing, and still more to the man of independent fortune. They are often saved by it from all kinds of evil which want of wholesome occupation engenders. Their life becomes a continuous delight, instead of being a burden to themselves and others. Especially to those mainly engaged in absorbing money-making pursuits, the refreshment of an occasional excursion into the realms of nature need not be insisted on. It is perfectly obvious to all who have ever had an opportunity of observing it.

With an early love of natural history is almost always associated a love of collecting, and probably there is no better way of becoming familiar with a subject than by making a collection of objects illustrating it. The value of all knowledge depends a great deal upon the amount of labour and time spent in acquiring it. The easy methods of which we make too much boast in the present day, handbooks, pictures, lectures, well-arranged public museums, etc., have their drawbacks and snares as well as their advantages. They are all helps if properly used, but they will not supersede, and nothing will ever supersede, the downright hard personal work by which all solid, lasting knowledge must be gained. The value of making a collection of any kind of specimens about which you wish to know something is that you are forced to spend time and thought over them, to look at them, carefully to prepare them and compare them, to arrange and name them. In proportion as a collection has had all this done to it will be its value. That a museum depends for its utility, not upon its contents, but upon the mode of arrangement of its contents, is now a trite saying. An ill-arranged museum has been well compared to the letters of the alphabet tossed about indiscriminately, meaning nothing; a well-arranged one to the same letters placed in such orderly sequence as to produce words of counsel and instruction. Far more, however, than the intrinsic value of the collection, in the case of the beginner, is its value as a means of education to the owner. The arrangement of a collection not only teaches the nature and properties of the objects contained in it; it also stimulates a desire to know more of the similar objects not contained in it, but to be found in other and larger collections. Still more important than this, as an educator, it calls out many valuable practical qualities: originality, order, neatness, perseverance, taste, power of discriminating small differences and resemblances, all of which will be found useful in other spheres of life.

It matters less what are the contents of a museum than that there should be some definite object in bringing them together. To be a mere “snapper-up of unconsidered trifles” is not forming a museum. The subject chosen to be illustrated by the specimens collected should not be of indefinite extent, but have some natural limit. This alone will enable the collector to attain to the highest goal in the happiness of his occupation: the filling in of all the vacant spaces when the framework of his collection is completed. The richer a series is, the greater joy there is in adding to it what still remains wanting. Limits to collections of natural history objects are of two kinds. Either a particular natural group of animals or plants may be selected, as shells, butterflies, mosses, seaweeds, etc., or any subdivision of these great groups; or else the products of particular localities, preferably of course that in which the collector lives, may only be regarded. A combination of these two methods of limitation will generally lead to the most manageable and profitable amateur museum. Suppose, for instance, our young friend were to set himself the task of collecting and preserving all the fossils or all the land and freshwater shells, or all the birds’ eggs, or all the beetles, to be found within a radius, say, of ten miles round his dwelling-place, what a fund of knowledge he would acquire not only of the appearance of the individual specimens, but of their natural surroundings and habits! And what delightful rambles he would have in the open air, with eyes and ears intently appreciative of all the varied beauties of the lovely world in which we dwell, lost, unfortunately, to so many who pass through it with none of these interests and pleasures!

Although a collection, with a definite object, of specimens obtained, prepared, and arranged by one’s self is the ideal of a boy’s museum, I do not say that the possession of a few miscellaneous articles, which are sure to be given by kind friends as soon as the taste for possessing them is recognised, may not sometimes be an advantage, especially as a help in stimulating inquiry and knowledge. My first “museum” was, as I recollect, very much of this nature. It was contained in a large, flat, shallow box with a lid, and I made cardboard trays which filled and fitted the bottom of the box, and kept the various specimens separate. Everything was carefully labelled, and there was also a manuscript catalogue in a copy-book. No boy should ever be allowed to keep any sort of museum without a catalogue in which the history of every specimen and the date at which it came into his possession are carefully entered. When the box was outgrown it was superseded by a small cabinet with drawers, then by a cupboard; but before I had left the parental home for college, an entire small room was dignified by the name of my “museum.” It was the love of curatorship which thus grew up within me, without the remotest external influence or inherited predisposition towards it, as none of my relatives had any interest in such pursuits, that determined my after career, and led to such success as I have met with in it. My boyish fondness for dissecting animals and preparing their skeletons at that time could find no nearer outlet in any academic career than in the pursuits of a medical student; and the anatomical museum of my college was at first to me a much greater subject of interest than the wards of the hospital--so much so in fact, that while still in my second year of studentship the curatorship falling vacant, I was asked to undertake the office. Here I was in my glory, and although later on the more practical work of the surgical profession had its attractions also,--attractions which at one time nearly carried me off into the stream of London hospital practice,--I finally returned to the old love, and through a succession of fortunate incidents, the museum under my care, instead of the one little box with which I began, is now the largest, most complete, and magnificently housed in the world.

I need hardly say that in all my subsequent career I have always looked back at my early attempts at curatorial work with especial satisfaction. The educational power of all work done when young can never be overestimated. The sooner knowledge is acquired the more valuable it is. You have it so much longer and it becomes so much more a part of yourself. One of the first specimens I possessed was a little stuffed bird with a brown back and white underneath, and a very short tail. I saw it in the window of a pawnbroker’s shop in my native town, Stratford-on-Avon. I often passed the shop, and looked at it with wonder and admiration. At last I summoned up courage to ask its price. “Three pence,” was the answer. This was a serious consideration; but the financial difficulty being overcome, I carried the bird home in triumph. Having access to a copy of Bewick’s _British Birds_, I identified it as the dipper or water ousel, and even learnt its scientific name, _Cinclus aquaticus_. It was wretchedly stuffed. Though more than fifty years have passed since I saw it last, for during an absence at school, it, with many other treasures, fell into places where “moth and rust do corrupt,” its appearance is still fixed in my mind’s eye, with its hollow back and crooked legs sticking out of impossible parts of its body; but I was not then so critical as I have since become. My only reason for mentioning it is because that bird became part of my permanent stock of ornithological knowledge, and ever since, whether by a mountain stream in the Highlands of Scotland, or a rocky river in the Harz or Thuringian Forests in Germany, when I see a dipper flitting over the rushing water or diving beneath the surface, it seems an old familiar friend of my childhood.

Another specimen of which I have a very vivid recollection was labelled in the handwriting of the kind donor, “Bone from Kirkdale Cave, Yorkshire.” It was given to me by an old gentleman who lived in the neighbourhood, and whose large collection of geological specimens was a great delight to me to look over. It was a perfectly valueless fragment from a scientific point of view, not having characters enough to identify the animal to which it belonged, being little more in fact than a chip from the surface of a long bone, of which thousands were found in the cave. But it woke up a train of interest in me, leading to the whole subject of caves and their bygone inhabitants, and the reading of Buckland’s _Reliquiæ Diluvianæ_; while ever since Kirkdale Cave has stood out among all other caves, with a sort of romantic halo conferred upon it in my mind by the present of that fragment of bone with all its early associations. These are only two instances out of any number I could tell of the ways in which a boy’s museum may become a source of knowledge and of interest that may last through life.