Dr Dryasdust, Sir Walter Scott and Philip Henry Gosse

 

Writers of historical novels face the challenge of maintaining accuracy when describing events, while introducing narrative that is a product of their imagination. Sir Walter Scott (above, in a portrait by Sir Henry Raeburn) met this head-on and addressed it in an Introductory Epistle to Ivanhoe where, writing to the imaginary Rev Dr Dryasdust in the person of Laurence Templeton, he has this to say [1]: 

The painter must introduce no ornament inconsistent with the climate or country of his landscape; he must not plant cypress trees upon Inch-Merrin, or Scottish firs among the ruins of Persepolis; and the author lies under a corresponding restraint. However far he may venture in a more full detail of passions and feelings, than is to be found in the ancient compositions which he imitates, he must introduce nothing inconsistent with the manners of the age; his knights, squires, grooms, and yeomen, may be more fully drawn than in the hard, dry delineations of an ancient illuminated manuscript, but the character and costume of the age must remain inviolate; they must be the same figures, drawn by a better pencil, or, to speak more modestly, executed in an age when the principles of art were better understood. His language must not be exclusively obsolete and unintelligible; but he should admit, if possible, no word or turn of phraseology betraying an origin directly modern. It is one thing to make use of the language and sentiments which are common to ourselves and our forefathers, and it is another to invest them with the sentiments and dialect exclusively proper to their descendants. 

I am conscious that I shall be found still more faulty in the tone of keeping and costume, by those who may be disposed rigidly to examine my Tale, with reference to the manners of the exact period in which my actors flourished: It may be, that I have introduced little which can positively be termed modern; but, on the other hand, it is extremely probable that I may have confused the manners of two or three centuries, and introduced, during the reign of Richard the First, circumstances appropriated to a period either considerably earlier, or a good deal later than that era. It is my comfort, that errors of this kind will escape the general class of readers. 

In the Epistle, he attacks “the repulsive dryness of mere antiquity”, but also states the importance of making history interesting to a wide readership, while maintaining much detail accuracy. Writers of historical novels are likely to face criticisms from academic historians who have a knowledge of detail that is “dry” (thus Dr Dryasdust) and, even if these historians imagine the behaviour of key characters, they do not promote it with dialogue or other supposed interactions. 

It is interesting that the renowned natural historian Philip Henry Gosse (above) also used a Dr Dryasdust in the Preface to “The Romance of Natural History”, writing [2]: 

There are more ways than one of studying natural history. There is Dr Dryasdust’s way; which consists of mere accuracy of definition and differentiation; statistics as harsh and dry as the skins and bones in the museum where it is studied. There is the field-observer’s way; the careful and conscientious accumulation and record of facts bearing on the life-history of the creatures; statistics as fresh and bright as the forest or meadow where they are gathered in the dewy morning. And there is the poet’s way; which looks at nature through a glass peculiarly his own; the aesthetic aspect, which deals, not with statistics, but with the emotions of the human mind,- surprise, wonder, terror, revulsion, admiration, love, desire, and so forth,- which are made energetic by the contemplation of the creatures around him. 

Gosse was very much a natural historian of the second category, while The Romance of Natural History set out to describe his attitude to the third, for he certainly had a poet’s approach in some of his writing. So, where did Gosse get the name Dr Dryasdust? The scientist working with skins and bones bears a close resemblance to an academic historian looking at texts and contemporary material in a library. So, did Gosse base his Dr Dryasdust on the one in the Introductory Epistle to Ivanhoe? We know that Gosse was an avid reader when he lived in Carbonear in Newfoundland as a teenager and Ann Thwaite records [3]: 

..on his very first Sunday in Carbonear, he was so ‘eagerly devouring’ The Fortunes of Nigel that he ‘did not go to meeting’. It was the first time that he had read Scott and it was Mr Elson [his employer, who was also the librarian of the Carbonear Book Society].. ..who had pulled it down from the shelf, recommending the novel to him. 

That Henry Gosse had read Ivanhoe is clear, as he quotes from that novel in Omphalos, his disastrous attempt to explain the potential conflict between the Biblical account of creation and ideas on geological time scales [3,4]. Omphalos was published in 1857 and it is likely that Henry had been familiar with Scott’s novel for thirty years. 

The evidence is thus strong that Henry Gosse based his Dr Dryasdust on the fictional character addressed by Scott. Both authors wanted to popularise their subject and both were likely to be faced with opposition from academic, “pure” circles. It’s a potential conflict that exists today, perhaps even more so. We’ve all seen docudramas and other media that make our blood boil with their use of imagination over fact and it’s unfortunate that sometimes the audience is not aware of the difference. Both Walter Scott and Henry Gosse certainly were. 

[1] http://www.telelib.com/authors/S/ScottWalter/prose/ivanhoe/ivanhoe000a.html 

[2] Philip Henry Gosse (1860) The Romance of Natural History. London, J. Nisbet and Co. 

[3] Ann Thwaite (2002) Glimpses of the Wonderful: The Life of Philip Henry Gosse 1810-1888. London, Faber and Faber. 

[4] Roger S. Wotton (2021) Walking with Gosse: Natural History, Creation and Religious Conflicts. e-book

 

 

 

Hedgerows, Constable and Hockney

Devonshire has 53,000 km of hedges and: 

the county has about one fifth of all the species-rich hedges in England. Together they are of international importance, as an historical, cultural, wildlife and landscape resource [1]. 

A typical scene of hedges in Devonshire is shown in the image above, taken by my namesake Robert Wotton [2], but a hedge is not just a hedge – they have a wide variety of structures and full descriptions can be found in the web pages of Devon County Council [3] and the Devon Hedge Group [2]: 

Across the county there are great variations in the structure of hedges and in the trees and shrubs which grow on them, reflecting location, origin, age and management. Tall beech hedges are characteristic of Exmoor and high ground in the Blackdown Hills; stone faced banks distinguish Dartmoor hedges and those of the Atlantic coast; willow is common on the wet clay soils of the Culm Measures between the moors; dogwood, spindle and wayfaring tree grow in hedges on limestone outcrops along the Channel coast; elm characterises the Redlands on either side of the River Exe; massive banks line mile after mile of sunken lanes in the South Hams; and wind-sculpted trees with gorse are distinctive of hedges of exposed coasts and uplands. 

I spent my childhood in South Devon and spent hours walking through country lanes, and along the coast. Tall hedges and hills were very familiar parts of these “rambles” and the closed-in landscape always gave me a sense of security, even when the occasional sheep dog made a determined effort to round me up. Hedgerows, most often those alongside country lanes and paths (like those in the image above from the South Devon AONB web site), were the main source of my pressed flower collection. This is what I wrote about it in Walking with Gosse [4]: 

Anything connected with Nature was a hit with me and I was presented with a chance to show my ability as a naturalist during my final year at Primary School, when Miss Bedford, our class teacher, asked us to produce a pressed flower collection.. ..I soon became absorbed by the task and collected plants on solitary walks through local lanes and woods. After returning home from each foray, plants were identified with the help of books and then each was arranged between sheets of tissue paper that, in turn, were layered between heavy encyclopaedias. After pressing and drying, each flower was placed into a book with blue paper pages and held using thin strips of sticky paper, with the common name of each plant written alongside using white crayon. In a childlike way it was quite artistic (I knew nothing of Wedgwood jasperware pottery at this time, but you can imagine how the collection looked). 

Such an activity would likely be frowned upon today, but I loved it, although I didn’t go beyond thinking about the habits of each plant and how common it was – like all children, I enjoyed finding a rarity. This changed when I was older and was introduced to Max Hooper’s ideas on dating hedges, first promoted (interestingly enough) in the Devon Naturalists Trust Journal [5]. From studies on a large number of hedges, he conceived “Hooper’s Hypothesis” that the age of a hedge (in years) = the number of woody plant species in a 30-yard section x 110 [6]. Armed with this information, natural historians could date their local hedges, although Hooper stressed that it was a general rule and didn’t work for hedges that had their origins more than a thousand years ago. It was also recognised that this “rule of thumb” should be used in conjunction with local historical records. 

I had the pleasure of listening to Max Hooper talk about hedgerows when I was a postgraduate student in the Department of Zoology at the University of Durham. As a natural historian at heart, I enjoyed hearing about his ideas and also the enthusiastic way in which he delivered them. So many of our seminars were given by eminent scientists whose work seemed far away from nature and the environment, something that is even more pronounced fifty years on. He convinced me that being a natural historian was “a good thing” and that way of thinking has influenced much of my teaching. 

Aside from natural history, I’m also fascinated by art and, in the context of this essay, the way that depictions of hedges have been used by painters. John Constable painted the hedgerows of Suffolk as an integral part of compositions – as seen in Fen Lane, East Bergholt of ca. 1817 (see below). We do not have enough detail to date the hedges, but there is a contrast between the “wild” section and the part adjacent to the field on the left. Here, workers are busy, while we look down the lane that disappears round a bend, the track having come into the picture on the lower right side and then passing through a broken gate. The hedges emphasise this perspective and our eye passes to the floodplain of a river and then to a village on the other side of the valley, with its church on the right. Toiling workers, waterways, and churches all feature in many works by Constable and reflect his attitudes, beliefs and approach to Nature. He was conscious of being the son of a wealthy mill owner, was Christian, and knew how to depict landscapes that have been altered by human activity. The composition of Fen Lane, East Bergholt is satisfying and the hedges, together with the lane, draw us in, just as they would do if we encountered this scene in real life. 

Hedges were planted to mark out fields that either had different ownership, or different types of planting or grazing. They thus provide barriers and many English artists have used hedges to emphasise depth, or to partition a landscape into areas of different colour or texture. Of course, this is not just a feature of works by English painters, but I am confining myself to these in this essay. Among contemporary English artists, hedges feature in the recent work of David Hockney and I surmise that his feeling for East Yorkshire is similar to mine for South Devon: there is a sense of nostalgia in his work. In two examples, based on iPad drawings (see below), we observe winding roads with hedges in Spring, but we don’t have enough information to date any of the hedges “painted”. In both, we are reminded of the track shown in Constable’s painting of Fen Lane, yet we have no distant view, so we don’t know our destination. In an earlier watercolour (also shown below), Hockney demonstrates the role played by gaps in hedgerows, allowing us to see distant vistas (and further hedges). They invite us to look beyond limited confines. 

Landscape artists encourage us to look closely at our environment and the way that it changes over time. Hedges are features that may last for hundreds of years, as Max Hooper has shown, and there is much to see in these habitats if we take the rime to look, or do not remove them for our convenience. It’s one of the reasons why collecting blackberries, elderberries and rosehips is such a pleasurable occupation, for the avid collector keeps an eye on hedgerows from early spring through to harvest. It’s great to be so connected to Nature, just as one is when rock-pooling, walking through woods and over hills, and any other activity where the environment, and all it contains, dominates our thoughts. We all need to look outwards from time to time. 

[1] https://devonhedges.org/devon-hedges/ 

[2] https://devonhedges.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/1_Introduction.pdf 

[3] https://www.devon.gov.uk/historicenvironment/land-management/hedges-and-the-historic-environment/ 

[4] Roger S Wotton (2020) Walking with Gosse e-book 

[5] https://naturenet.net/blogs/2007/03/21/beyond-hoopers-hypothesis-hedgerow-survey-handbook-updated/ 

[6] https://naee.org.uk/hoopers-hedgerow-history-hypothesis/ 

 

 

Seth Mosley and Natural History

Jim (I never knew his second name) was the Warden of Moor House Field Station during my time there [1] and his duties were to look after the buildings of the Station and to assist in the running of the place. He also supported the research on grouse that was being conducted by a team of researchers using a wonderful black Labrador called Heather, that I loved. When I chatted to Jim, it was clear that he had first-hand, and expert, knowledge of dippers (Cinclus cinclus), but the only people to know about this were those that engaged him in conversation - there were no written records (of which I was aware). It led me to think about the wealth of information held by amateur natural historians and how this knowledge could be made available for a wider audience in the 2020s [2].

I don’t know what sparked Jim’s interest in natural history, but he was proud of being from the area of the Pennines around Moor House and I would imagine that his observations on dippers, and much other wildlife, stemmed from his early years. Perhaps from a parent, or a teacher, or from something that he read, or saw in museums? Fortunately, we know about the background, and interests, of one “working-class naturalist” – Seth Lister Mosley – from an excellent biography by Alan Brooke, a historian and activist from the same part of Yorkshire as Seth [3]. Unlike Jim, Seth influenced a wide audience although, until the publication of Alan Brooke’s book, his work was not well known to contemporary natural historians.

Nature’s Missionary [4] (see above) describes how Seth first became interested in natural history and how his interest developed into museum curation, a newspaper column, ideas on education, and in showing how humans need to be at one with the rest of the natural world. At first, he supported himself and his young family by working as a painter and decorator, but then natural history took over, as he branched out into collecting, illustrating, curating and writing. Seth acknowledged that his interest in plants and animals was nurtured by his father, James Mosley, who was a convicted poacher and an expert with guns, shooting birds that were subsequently stuffed and placed in cases [4]. He was an independent spirit and a secularist, while Seth’s mother was also a secularist, with a good knowledge of plants.

James made a living as a taxidermist at a time when many people, of all social classes, delighted in having display cases of birds – and also of butterflies and moths. It is not known whether he used Charles Waterton’s method of preserving bird skins [5], but mention of arsenic as a curing agent in Nature’s Missionary, together with the use of the term “stuffing”, suggests a more traditional approach. Although the various museums that Seth curated contained many cabinets of birds and insects, he was also keen to rear insects and became expert in identifying various pest species. In time, Seth turned away from the practice of preparing cases of exhibits and was a strong advocate of studying wildlife in its natural habitat, making drawings and notes of what he saw, and that practice formed the basis of a regular newspaper column that made Seth well known, both locally and to a wider readership. “He was always pleased when he was acknowledged by strangers or interest was expressed in his column”. [4]

Seth organised rambles for groups to various places around Huddersfield and he also enjoyed solitary walks. Alan Brooke [4] quotes Seth on the importance to him of this activity: 

I never walk into the country on a bright, sunny day, especially when I am alone and therefore have the opportunity to think as I walk along, but I become filled with happiness that I am anxious to get back to put my thought down on paper..

It’s a feeling that many of us have in walking alone in the countryside and, in this, there is a parallel between Seth and Rousseau [6], although there is no knowing whether Seth was familiar with Rousseau’s writings about walking in Nature or about education, another passion that occupied Seth. He believed that we are all part of Nature and that we must recognise this – a sentiment that is even more important today than it was then, when increasing industrialisation was beginning to have such an adverse effect on the environment. His ideas on conservation mirror those of Charles Waterton of the Walton Hall estate near Wakefield, a short distance from Huddersfield [7]. As Seth said in a quote in Alan Brooke’s book [4]: 

The secret of a happy life is to find out what there is in Nature and make ourselves partners in the concern.

His deep knowledge of the natural world was also important in Seth’s religious development, as he left the secular views of his younger days and became a Methodist, believing that all that he saw reflected God. He was not a literal creationist, but a firm supporter of evolutionary theory and he disliked “the narrow interpretation which the materialistic scientists on the one hand, and narrow minded religionists on the other put upon the Bible account, each refusing to see the question from the other’s point of view.” [4] Quite what he felt about Henry Gosse and his strict adherence to the account in Genesis [8] can be imagined, although he would surely have admired Gosse as a natural historian.

Seth’s religious and mystical views are difficult to pin down but, in addition to conducting Christian Nature Study Mission rambles, he preached in local churches whenever asked and he also brought religious thinking into his newspaper column (he was warned not to bring his missionary work into his job as a museum curator). It is difficult for those with strong religious views to stop themselves from proselytising, but it is easy to forgive this trait in Seth, just as one can with Henry Gosse. Even if the two natural historians would disagree on fundamentals, there is no doubting the importance of religious views to each and their shared wonder of the natural world that shone through in all that they did. 

I’ve no idea what Jim’s religious views were, but that is not important to me as he loved Nature, just like Seth and Henry. We need heroes like these.

[1] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2018/04/tempus-fugit.html 

[2] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2021/11/outsiders-and-world-of-scientific.html

[3] https://undergroundhistories.wordpress.com/

[4] Alan Brooke (2022) Nature’s Missionary. Huddersfield, Huddersfield Local History Society

[5] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2013/12/charles-waterton-taxidermy-and.html

[6] Jean-Jacques Rousseau (2011 [in translation by Russell Goulbourne]) Reveries of the Solitary Walker. Oxford, Oxford University Press

[7] Brian Edginton (1996) Charles Waterton: A Biography. Cambridge, The Lutterworth Press.

[8] Roger S Wotton (2020) Walking with Gosse: Natural History and Religious Conflicts. e-book.

 

I would like to thank Alan Brooke for making me aware of Seth Mosley and the excellent book that tells the in-depth story of a remarkable man.

 

 

Evangelical Christianity: reflections on the views of George Eliot, George Henry Lewes and Philip Henry Gosse

Evangelical Christians play important roles in George Eliot’s first two novels: Scenes of Clerical Life (really three separate novellas in one volume) and Adam Bede. As is well known, George Eliot (see above) was the pen name of Marian (earlier Mary Ann, or Mary Anne) Evans and her interest in evangelical Christianity came from when she attended schools in Nuneaton and Coventry. In her Introduction to the Oxford World’s Classics edition of Scenes of Clerical Life, Josie Billington writes [1]: 

As an adolescent, coming of age in just the period – the 1830s – she writes of in Scenes, Mary Anne Evans was swept up in the religious current of Evangelicalism.. ..If the Oxford Movement sought to turn back the legacy of the Reformation, Evangelicalism sought to complete what the Reformation had begun, expunging the ceremony and sacrament which were the remaining formal vestiges of Roman Catholicism and rediscovering the vital puritan impulses of original Protestantism.. ..Evangelicalism offered a belief that was hard and uncompromising, yet passionately earnest and totalizing, which in the first half of the nineteenth century had a profound impact not just on the rural towns of England, but on the nation’s cultural and intellectual life in general. 

Never fully committed to evangelical Christianity, Marian went on to reject it, while retaining sympathies for the “good side” of some of those who believed wholeheartedly in this approach. Her views are discussed in an essay by Donald C. Masters [2]: 

While George Eliot (1819-1880) came to dislike the Evangelical viewpoint, her treatment of Evangelicals, particularly in her early novels, was much more sympathetic than that of other Victorian novelists.. ..Like many other disillusioned Christians she retained her belief in the Christian ethic. She liked the Evangelicals in spite of their doctrines and what she regarded as their naïveté and narrowness, because they made people better.. 

..Her early letters.. ..suggest that her acceptance of Evangelical principles was merely an intellectual process. She never made the complete personal commitment that is the secret and core of the Evangelical position.. ..She had lost faith in the Bible, the essential basis of the Evangelical tradition and described it.. ..as “histories consisting of mangled truth and fiction.” 

Many of us who have encountered evangelical Christianity, and subsequently turned away from it without making “the commitment”, can recognise George Eliot’s feelings. I have described my own experience [3]: 

My last contact with formal Christianity came at Torquay Boys’ Grammar School, where I went to meetings of the Christian Union, in which my elder brother was a leader. We sat around a table and listened to speakers, or to tapes of Billy Graham preaching. We also had prayer meetings when we all had to take part. Prayers were for the usual things connected with our salvation but, being a school, we also prayed for masters who were Christian, to boost their religious, as well as their educational, mission. I always dreaded prayer meetings and was not comfortable at any of the other meetings either. Unlike some of those present, I found Billy Graham strange and rather too energetic, and neither could I summon up much enthusiasm for a guest speaker who spent many minutes propounding the correct pronunciation of Bethphage. 

There were tracts for us to hand out in the school, delivered in bulk from the Evangelical Tract Society.. ..I couldn’t hand out such things and had quite a collection by the time I stopped attending the Christian Union. 

It is not difficult, then, to see how personal experience of religious groups affects one’s reading of George Eliot’s novels. Like Marian, I rejected the thinking of evangelical Christians (on many grounds) and, like her, try to see their good human qualities, although I worry about their tendency to proselytise to those going through hard times. 

In addition to Evangelicals, another feature of George Eliot’s novels is the presence of young children, often described in detail and forming important threads to the various storylines. Marian loved children, but she was unable to have any of her own. The reason was not biological, as far as I know, more that she didn’t marry until she was in her sixties and spent most of her adult life living with George Henry Lewes (see above), who was already married and had children. If “living in sin” was bad enough in the eyes of many in Victorian society, having children while in such a relationship would be viewed very severely indeed. Certainly, Marian’s cohabitation with Lewes caused much pain to her upright family and this, in turn, was the source of much sadness to her. 

The couple had a very close relationship, with Marian depending on George for reassurance and advice. He was from a theatrical family and both acted in, and wrote, plays: he also wrote novels, was an expert on Goethe, published an outstanding review of philosophy through the ages, contributed to many leading artistic journals, and was also what we would now call a networker [4]. Although unprepossessing in appearance (some called him ugly), he was popular for his conversation and energy and he knew many of the movers and shakers in Victorian literary society. He was one himself. 

Lewes met Marian through John Chapman, the publisher of the Westminster Review [5]. Chapman was a “free-thinker” and Marian lived in his household, where relationships between Mr and Mrs Chapman, their governess, and Marian were complicated. In Ashton’s account [5] we read that Chapman “visited Marian Evans’ room, where she played the piano for him and taught him German.” It was all too much for Mrs Chapman and Marian left the household, but returned in 1851 when Chapman asked her back to help him as part of the editorial team on the Review, where her “sharp brain, wide knowledge, willing labour, and ability to deal tactfully yet firmly with touchy contributors” [5] was invaluable. 

During 1852, Marian was spending much time with Herbert Spencer, the philosopher and biologist to whom she had been introduced by Chapman, and they “were so often in one another’s company that ‘all the world is setting us down as engaged’, Marian would have liked nothing better, but Spencer was less keen.” [5] The result was that, in 1853, Lewes replaced Spencer in her affections and this was the start of a deep relationship that only ended with Lewes’ death. He was a great support to Marian and advised her during her first, tentative steps as a novelist and he played the same role after she had become famous and was being hailed as a very significant writer. Marian had come a long way from those evangelical Christian schooldays in Warwickshire and Lewes had also progressed in his interests. Like his hero Goethe, he then became interested in practical science. 

In the early years of his relationship with Marian, Lewes had been chided by T.H.Huxley as a “’mere’ book scientist ‘without the discipline and knowledge which result from being a worker also’”. This came after a review that Lewes had written and it perhaps inspired him to join the Victorian craze for the study of marine natural history. The leading figure in popularising this interest was Philip Henry Gosse, who had written A Naturalist’s Rambles on the Devonshire Coast (1853, centred on Torquay and Ilfracombe), The Aquarium (1854) and Tenby (published in March 1856, centred on the Welsh seaside town). Lewes read all these books and, in the summer of 1856, he and Marian left for Ilfracombe (where they befriended another enthusiast, Mr Tugwell, the curate of Ilfracombe) and then Tenby; following this with visits to the Scilly Isles and Jersey in spring and early summer of 1857. It was during the first section of this marine shore adventure that the pair discussed the possibility of Marian’s writing a novel. The Sad Fortunes of the Rev Amos Barton was commenced in the autumn of 1856 and became the first part of Scenes of Clerical Life published, anonymously, in instalments in Blackwood’s Magazine through 1857 and as a book in two volumes in 1858. She was not an enthusiast for studying shore life, so Lewes’ avid work on the coast allowed Marian time to think about the content of her embryo novel. 

Lewes’ work was published in instalments in Blackwood’s Magazine through 1856/7 and came out in book form, published by Blackwood and Sons and dedicated to Richard Owen, as Sea-side Studies in 1858. In the preface, Lewes pays homage to Huxley (perhaps the latter’s comment stung?) and there are frequent references to Gosse throughout the book. Both men showed a particular interest in sea anemones and, indeed they had a dispute over one aspect of the biology of some of these animals [6]. It is interesting to make a comparison of the two men. 

Whereas Lewes was a free-thinking agnostic (if he must be classified), Philip Henry Gosse (above) was a strict believer in the literal truth of the Bible [3] and an evangelical Christian. In 1857 he moved to St Marychurch in Torquay after the death of his wife Emily, who had accompanied him to Torquay, Ilfracombe and Tenby on the collecting trips that resulted in his earlier books. Emily was a writer of religious tracts (like those I failed to hand out during my school days) and as deeply committed as her husband to evangelical Christianity. Her painful death, leaving Henry Gosse with his young son Edmund (later Sir Edmund), was the main reason that he decided to move. 

At the time of the move to Torquay, he was expecting high sales of his book Omphalos, that was to be published in late autumn 1857, and he was looking forward to the attention that it would bring. Although there are many references to God and Creation in Henry’s books, Omphalos saw him tackle head-on the conflict between the Biblical Creation and the idea of geological time scales, that were becoming accepted by the mid-1850s. It is subtitled “an attempt to untie the geological knot” and it was Henry’s attempt to ease an obvious conflict: his idea being that rock strata and fossils were all created over the short period of the Biblical Creation. In Omphalos, he showed a thorough knowledge of geology and palaeontology and knew that large time periods were involved, but clung to his odd theory, for which he was duly mocked. Through all the difficulties of 1857, Henry didn’t question his beliefs; rather he became even more ensconced in evangelical Christianity. He reduced his attendance at meetings of the learned societies and didn’t have much personal contact with members the scientific community, although he had correspondence with many people, including Darwin. 

There are many that still adhere to the Creationist views shown by Henry Gosse, although they make little attempt to provide a rational explanation to account for the differences between their views and those of the scientific community. At least Henry made an attempt, even if his explanation was unacceptable to both scientists and believers; Charles Kingsley, for example, chastised Gosse for suggesting the God appears to be telling lies [3]. It seems that evangelical Christians who believe in the literal truth of the Bible have the opinion that there can be no opposition to their view and cannot tolerate any other explanations. 

Lewes took a very different approach, as described by David Williams [4]: 

He thinks, or at any rate he wishes, that the scientific explorers and the religious no-compromise men.. .. can be brought together to ‘sit round a table’, as we put it, that Huxley and Darwin can amicably confer with the tractarians and the Evangelicals and come out of the room with a formula acceptable to both sides. 

There has been movement among some evangelical Christians and we are all familiar with the little car badge of a fish with limbs, bearing the word “Darwin” at its centre. Perhaps the only major difference for many is whether there was a Creator, or whether all that we see around us is the result of chance events. 

After the adverse comments about Omphalos, Henry Gosse spent much time collecting marine creatures from the shores of South Devon [3]. He was in the throes of producing his major monograph on sea anemones, that was to be a standard work on these animals for many years and is still consulted today. It contains brilliant illustrations, as Gosse was a very capable artist in watercolours [7]. 

In a letter sent to Tugwell in November 1856, Lewes writes [8]: 

It would be a pleasant thing for you to write the monograph on Actinae with W. Thompson; & as to the money, you can’t expect much from such labour, but may consider yourself lucky to be free of expense. At the same time you have a formidable rival in Gosse, who is I believe engaged on a monograph. 

This shows Lewes’ respect for Gosse as an expert in sea anemones, but in a later letter to Hutton on 5th May 1859 we read [8]: 

Gosse’s book is too poor for a review; & I have long been making notes of the history I shall sketch which will I hope be far more entertaining than a review. 

I assume that Lewes is referring here to Omphalos, as Actinologica Britannica appeared in book form in 1860, having previously been published in twelve parts from 1858-1860 [9]. Despite their disagreement over some points [6], Lewes clearly respected Gosse as a natural historian. 

We know that Lewes and Marian visited Torquay in 1868 and, while the former continued with dissections for a future publication, Marian was preparing ideas for Middlemarch and it is possible that there were some indirect references to Torquay in that book [10]. We also learn that Marian and Lewes enjoyed walks at Babbacombe, adjacent to St Marychurch [10], and one wonders whether they called on Gosse, or encountered him while walking. I cannot find reference to a meeting and would be intrigued to know how it might have gone and what Marian would have made of this evangelical Christian and a man who was not afraid of proselytising. The urge to spread the Gospel came through in many of Henry Gosse’s books, but rarely with the intensity of the extraordinary conclusion of A Year at the Shore, published in 1865, three years before George and Marian arrived in Torquay [11]: 

I cannot conclude this volume without recording my solemn and deliberate protest against the infidelity with which, to a very painful extent, modern physical science is associated. I allude not only to the ground which the conclusions of modern geologists take, in opposition to the veracity of the “God which cannot lie,” though the distinct statements which He has made to us concerning Creation are now, as if by common consent, put aside, with silent contempt, as effete fables, unworthy of a moment’s thought, and this too before vast assemblages of persons, not one of whom lifts his voice for the truth of God. These assaults are at least open and unmasked. But there is in our scientific literature, and specially in that which takes a popular form, a tone equally dangerous and more insidious. It altogether ignores the awful truths of God’s revelation, that all mankind are guilty and condemned and spiritually dead in Adam; that we are by nature children of wrath; that the whole world lieth in the wicked one; and that the wrath of God abideth on it: it ignores the glorious facts of atonement by the precious blood of Christ, and of acceptance in Him. It substitutes for these a mere sentimental admiration of nature, and teaches that the love of the beautiful makes man acceptable to God, and secures His favour. How often do we see quoted and be-praised, as if it were an indisputable axiom, the sentiment of a poet who ought to have known better,–

 

“He prayeth best who loveth best

All things, both great and small;” –

 

a sentiment as silly as it is unscriptural; for what connexion can there be between the love of the inferior creatures, and the acceptableness of a sinner praying to the Holy God? It is the intervention of Christ Jesus, the anointed Priest, which alone gives prayer acceptance… There is no sentimental or scientific road to heaven. There is absolutely nothing in the study of created things, however single, however intense, which will admit sinful man into the presence of God, or fit him to enjoy it. If there were, what need was there that the glorious Son, the everlasting Word, should be made flesh, and give His life a ransom for many? … If I have come to God as a guilty sinner, and have found acceptance, and reconciliation, and sonship, in the blood of His only-begotten Son, then I may come down from that elevation, and study creation with advantage and profit; but to attempt to scale heaven with the ladder of natural history, is nothing else than Cain's religion; it is the presentation of the fruit of the earth, instead of the blood of the Lamb … This will be, in all probability, the last occasion of my coming in literary guise before the public: how can I better take my leave than with the solemn testimony of the Spirit of God, which I affectionately commend to my readers, – … THERE IS NO WAY INTO THE HOLIEST BUT BY THE BLOOD OF JESUS. FINIS. 

Henry Gosse was not only a proselytising evangelical Christian, but the leader of his group of Brethren in St Marychurch. He thus retreated into his own support group and this made it increasingly difficult for him to accept any religious views other than those he supported. It was religious differences, and the views of Henry on who one should have as friends, that was the basis of the conflict with his son, Edmund, described (with some elaboration?) in the latter’s famous book Father and Son [12]. This volume, more than any other work, has shaped our view of Henry [3], a pity as, if one could find a way of negotiating the religious hurdle, with all its side effects, he was a very nice man and would certainly be good company on rambles or on the shore. 

As we have seen, Marian Evans and Geoge Lewes were more accepting of those with religious differences and the former certainly recognised these human sides of evangelical Christians, although she was aware of their dogmatism and inflexibility. I think they would have enjoyed meeting Gosse, but what would Henry make of them? He would balk at their lack of faith in his version of Christianity and he would also strongly disapprove of their relationship. Henry did re-marry after the tragic death of Emily and his second wife, Eliza, while also being a member of the Brethren appeared to be a little more flexible in her approach to Edmund’s “sinfulness” than was his father. Edmund was also helped in his relationship with his father by his wife, the painter Nellie Epps, whom I have described as a “Nineteenth Century Wonder Woman” [13]. Nellie’s sister, Laura Alma-Tadema drew a profile of Marian in 1877 [14] and it would be amusing to know what the artist felt about her sitter and what views she shared with the Gosse family. 

 

[1] Josie Billington (1988) Introduction to George Eliot’s Scenes of Clerical Life. Oxford, Oxford University Press World’s Classics. 

[2] Donald C. Masters (1962) George Eliot and the Evangelicals. The Dalhousie Review 41: 505-512. 

[3] Roger S Wotton (2020) Walking with Gosse: Natural History, Creation and Religious Conflicts. e-book. 

[4] David Williams (1983) Mr George Eliot: A Biography of George Henry Lewes. London, Hodder and Stoughton. 

[5] Rosemary Ashton (2008) Lewes, George Henry (1817-1878). https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/16562 

[6] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-human-side-of-science.html 

[7] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2017/04/stunning-biological-illustrations.html 

[8] William Baker (ed.) (1995) The Letters of George Henry Lewes Volume 1. Victoria, Canada, ELS Editions. 

[9] R.B.Freeman and Douglas Wetheimer (1980) Philip Henry Gosse: A Bibliography. Folkestone, Wm. Dawon & Sons. 

[10] Kathleen McCormack (2005) George Eliot’s English Travels: Composite characters and coded communications. Abingdon, Routledge. 

[11] Philip Henry Gosse (1865) A Year at the Shore. London, Alexander Strahan. 

[12] Edmund Gosse (1907) Father and Son: A Study of Two Temperaments. London, William Heinemann Ltd. 

[13] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2017/08/nellie-epps-nineteenth-century-wonder.html 

[14] https://www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait/mw01628 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Homage to the Torbay Express

Growing up in South Devon, I appreciated how lucky I was to be able to walk around the coast and through country lanes, lined by deep hedges, to woods and meadows with abundant wild flowers. Solitary walks were a source of solace from unhappy times and they also enabled me to recognise the importance of the natural world; something that has stayed with me ever since. It influenced my choice of subjects to study in the Sixth Form at school and then at university, and, although I could be called a scientist, I prefer to think of myself as a natural historian, as physical sciences are still a bit of a mystery to me and the study of biosciences is now dominated by one animal, rather than the wide range of animals, plants and micro-organisms that make up most of the natural world.

My other passion as a boy was trainspotting [1] and we were lucky in having a large number of trains bringing visitors to Torbay, especially on summer Saturdays. One train stood out: this was the Torbay Express that ran daily from Paddington to Kingswear and I looked on it with both admiration and envy; the former coming from the condition of whichever Castle Class locomotive pulled the train in the 1950s, and envy because I felt that there was no chance of me travelling on anything so prestigious. The Torbay Express was second only to the Cornish Riviera Express (called the Reveera by us) that didn’t come along our line and, as its name suggests, went to Plymouth and then on to Cornwall. Like “The Torbay”, it was not a train used much by holidaymakers; more by those in business and similar occupations, or by those who preferred smart, and rapid, travel.

The Torbay Express was originally called the Torbay Limited and ran on the GWR’s direct line through Berkshire, Wiltshire and Somerset, rather than on the earlier main line through Bristol. After Taunton, the line climbed to Whiteball tunnel and then entered Devonshire (an image of the express at this point is shown below, together with one of the train entering Exeter, where it made its first stop in the 1950s).

 

O.S.Nock [2] describes the journey on to Torbay: 

Emerging from the western end of Parsons Tunnel [see image below] the coastwise prospect is completely changed and extends to the rocky islets at the entrance to Tor Bay that we shall see at closer range later. The red cliffs are higher than ever here though less dramatic in their formation, but the sea wall, an invaluable protection for the railway in winter, is a favourite promenade for the holiday-makers of Teignmouth, whether they are railway enthusiasts or not.. 

..The line runs through the back of Teignmouth town between high retaining walls, in Dartmoor granite, but quickly enough on the left hand side there come delightful glimpses across the harbour, boat yards, and the estuary of the River Teign, with the beautiful little town of Shaldon beneath the high red cliff of the Ness.

The description by Nock continues after the Torbay Express has run through Newton Abbot (see image above) and then on through Kingskerswell and Torre to its next stop in Torquay: 

The present main station, by Livermead Sands, is near enough to the beach for some enticing glimpses of the waters of Tor Bay, and as the train starts away for the south, and negotiates some sharp though short gradients the line comes right out above the beach [at Hollicombe] and the full beauty of Torquay’s situation and its superb and rugged coastline is displayed. At this stage in the journey the prospect is soon cut off, by the houses of Paignton.. 

..On leaving Paignton, and climbing on to the cliff edge beyond Goodrington Sands (see image below) the wide panorama over the entire sweep of Tor Bay reveals some of its interesting and complex geological features. The red sandstone cliffs of Dawlish and Teignmouth recur at Paignton, in an even deeper shade of red, but at each end of the bay, on the north side extending outwards from Torquay to Hope’s Nose, and at the south beyond Brixham to Berry Head, the tattered and splintered rock formations from “London Bridge” to the outlying Thatcher and Oar Stones, and Berry Head itself are examples of carboniferous limestone, and provide such striking and spectacular cliff structure as to cause at least one eminent geographer to compare it with those of the Mediterranean Riviera resorts.

Passing over the summit at Churston the express then ran down to the beautiful Dart valley, skirting along the river bank to the terminus at the small town of Kingswear at the mouth of the river. Remaining passengers could then travel over to Dartmouth by ferry, the town having a railway station but no railway lines (there were never any!). What a contrast it must have seemed to London and its suburbs, and what a pleasure to be able to study the landscape from a railway carriage as it passes down the line.

All this was for the passengers. Trainspotters could either find a location where the express sped past or see it at Exeter, Torquay or Paignton. There, the polished locomotive could be admired and one could take in its metallic, oily and smoky smells after the rapid, and hard-working, journey down from London. All very special memories and, as Nock points out in his descriptions of the section of line through South Devon, a link between the wonders of steam locomotives and the geology of the terrain through which the Torbay Express passed at the end of its journey. Geology is part of natural history after all, but my main interest in that subject did not involve distant views, rather in what plants and animals could be seen first-hand on shores, or in hedgerows, and what could be seen with a simple microscope.

I still like steam locomotives and, as my career has shown, I have an abiding love of natural history. Both started when I was in a boy in Torbay and I’m pleased that, in this regard at least, I have failed to grow up.

 

[1] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2021/07/memories-of-privet-in-torbay.html

[2] O.S.Nock (1985) Great British Trains: An evocation of a memorable age in travel. London, Pelham Books.

Photograph credits (in sequence) R.J.Blenkinsop; S.Creer; Ben Brooksbank;  R.J.Blenkinsop; and Derek Cross.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

School summer holidays in the early 1960s

I attended Torquay Boys’ Grammar School from 1958-1965 (now demolished to make way for housing – see the image below, taken by Tom Jolliffe, just before the end [1]). Weekdays for 36 weeks of the year were spent learning some interesting things, some that were needed to pass examinations, and other activities like Games and Gym that someone considered to be good for me. There were a few excellent masters, some that were good, and then the rest, but, fortunately, only one or two that were very unpleasant. Of these, some were bullies and some so struck the fear of God into us that it was a relief when their classes ended. 

It was not a disappointment when summer holidays came around and Assembly on the last day of term always featured “Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing”, sung with something of a sense of relief. One year, the piano in the Hall was modified by having drawing pins inserted in all the hammers and the student who played had a look of mock surprise at the resulting sound. Of course, we enjoyed this thoroughly, although we knew better than to laugh. Some masters smirked a little, but “Joe”, the Head Master, took it personally and looked like thunder. “Joe” was John Harmer MA (Cantab.) FRAS and he always appeared in an immaculate gown that somehow added to his sense of importance.

It was said that “Joe” was handy with a cane, a punishment that was confined to the privacy of his office. There was no chance of me finding out as I was always well-behaved, going through my school career with just a single detention and only one whacking. That came from “Hoppy” Hopwood when he discovered several of us in our form room when we should have been in the playground. “Hoppy” taught music and was very enthusiastic about his subject and also in giving taps with his black plimsoll. They were a feature of many music lessons.

 Anyway, at the end of the summer term there was six weeks break, but this coincided with the large influx of tourists to the holiday towns of Torbay. At the start of my career at TBGS that was good, as the increased number of trains meant some good trainspotting, but I tired of that in early adolescence as I wanted to get away from the crowds of holidaymakers. My interest then turned to walking around the coast and in the countryside, and I couldn’t resist looking in rock pools and streams, and being astonished by all the different animals and plants that I saw. 

The other passion was to buy Holiday Runabout Tickets, sometimes in pairs. These allowed unlimited travel over specified local railway lines and, as many small branch lines were still open, a chance to explore parts of Devon, Somerset and Dorset in a way that couldn’t be done on foot or by bus (no-one in our family had a car). Some of the branch line trains consisted of a single carriage pulled by a small steam engine and they wound their way through the countryside at a leisurely pace, stopping at small stations that were often far from the villages that they were built to serve. On one trip from Torrington to Halwill Junction, our train picked up a freight wagon en route and towed that down the line, a practice that I had never experienced before, but a regular feature of this form of rural transport at the time. 

There were few passengers on these trains and it was inevitable that the lines would be closed for economic reasons, but I was so pleased to have had the chance to ride over them (you can get some of the atmosphere by viewing a videoclip [2]). It’s no wonder that I became a fan of John Betjeman.

What a splendid contrast it all was to school life and I looked forward to these summer holiday journeys very much for a couple of years. After the branch lines closed, I developed other interests, while maintaining my passion for walking and natural history. The latter are constants that have been with me throughout the last sixty years; the Grammar School buildings and the branch lines disappearing into the world of nostalgia.

[1] Tom Jolliffe / Former Torquay Boys' Grammar School / CC BY-SA 2.0

[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ak9WgSYzQ50&ab_channel=ACEWEO-

 

Homage to Sir Alister Hardy – Natural Historian and Artist

In describing new discoveries, or when writing for a wider audience, natural historians in the past accompanied their observations with illustrations, some of which were made by others and some of which they made themselves. At the forefront of natural historian/illustrators is Philip Henry Gosse, whose father, a professional artist, taught his son to paint in watercolour, a medium that he used to great effect. He also made a large number of line drawings. 

Nowadays, there are many means of producing beautiful and informative illustrations using photography and digital methods and we see the beginning of the transition to these media in Alister Hardy’s “The Open Sea: The World of Plankton”. The book is illustrated by black-and-white photographs taken by Douglas P. Wilson and line drawings and paintings made by Hardy himself. Wilson encountered problems when taking photographs of deep-sea animals that had been brought to the surface as the accurate portrayal of their colours required long exposures that were not practical in the 1950s. This is what Hardy wrote [1]: 

It was my hope, and that of the editors, that in addition to his black-and-whites Dr Wilson would have been able to contribute a series of colour photographs of the living plankton and especially of the richly pigmented animals from the ocean depths. At that time the electronic flash was only just being developed and he felt unable to attempt them. 

It’s a reminder of how much we take beautiful images, films, videos, etc. for granted in the modern era.  In the Introduction to “The Open Sea: The World of Plankton” Hardy describes his technique for making illustrations and this is worth quoting in full [1]: 

All save seven of the 142 drawings in the plates were made from living examples or, in a few cases, from those taken freshly from the net when some deep-water fish and plankton animals were dead on reaching the surface.. .. It may be of interest to record how the drawings were made. All the animals, except the larger squids and jelly-fish, were drawn either swimming in flat-glass dishes placed on a background of millimetre squared paper where they were viewed with a simple dissecting lens, or on a slide under a compound microscope provided with a squared micrometer eyepiece; in either case the drawings were first made in outline on paper which had been ruled with faint pencil lines into squares which corresponded to those against which the specimen was viewed. In this way the shape and relative proportions of the parts could be drawn in pencil and checked and rechecked with the animal until it was quite certain they were correct. The outline was then gone over with the finest brush to replace the pencil by a permanent and more expressive water-colour line; were rubbed out and the full colouring of the drawing proceeded with. 

Here are some examples (more are given at the end):  

It is tempting to suggest that their style, especially the dark-field paintings, were influenced by the illustrations in Gosse’s “A Naturalist’s Rambles on the Devonshire Coast” [2]. Certainly, both natural historians appreciated that a lively text is boosted by quality images, but few have the talent, and patience, of Gosse and Hardy. 

“The Open Sea: The World of Plankton” was completed at a time when natural history was beginning to be overtaken by deterministic approaches for the study of living organisms. After the structure of DNA was elucidated by Crick and Watson [and others], many began to see the possibility of understanding living creatures by looking at their biochemistry linked to their genetics. This bottom-up approach now dominates academic Biology, and even ecologists, who look at very complex systems with many variables, are fond of reductionist modelling in an attempt to understand what they observe and measure. 

Alister Hardy (above) was appointed Linacre Professor of Zoology at Oxford University in 1945, one of the most prestigious appointments offered by any university. In the biography written to celebrate his life, published by the Royal Society [3], we read: 

In his inaugural address he looked forward to the encouragement of field studies in ecology and behaviour. In his teaching the direction was away from comparative anatomy and towards general zoology. His colleague, Dr Peter Brunet, saw him as foremost a naturalist who encouraged observation rather than analysis. Physicochemical explanations of life, which left no room for awe, did not attract him. There was still a nature mystic within him. 

It is an approach that is valuable, and natural history should be taught more extensively in our current age: a contrast to the mechanistic view that promotes the idea that answers will eventually be found for nearly everything about living creatures, communities and ecosystems. 

Gosse promoted the idea of a sense of wonder in many of his books, especially in “The Romance of Natural History” that was published in two series in 1860 and 1861 [4,5]. Gosse was driven by a profound belief in the literal truth of the Bible and saw everything in terms of God’s Creation. Hardy’s mysticism was less rigid and more wide-ranging and he went on to establish a foundation dedicated to “a future science of natural theology” [6], the papers of which are now held at the University of Wales Trinity Saint David at Lampeter [7]. Whether one uses theistic, or atheistic, explanations, a sense of awe at what one sees in the natural world is invaluable for interpreting our sense of being. 

Hardy and Gosse are fascinating natural historians from whom we can learn much. 

(Of course, I had no possibility of meeting Gosse in person and I never met Alister Hardy, who died as recently as 1985. However, I claim one small claim to contact with the latter, as one of my University Tutors was Michael Hardy, Sir Alister Hardy’s son).

[1] Alister C. Hardy (1956) The Open Sea. Its Natural History: The World of Plankton. London, Collins New Naturalist. 

[2] Philip Henry Gosse (1853) A Naturalist’s Rambles on the Devonshire Coast. London, John Van Voorst. 

[3] Norman Bertram Marshall (1986) Alister Clavering Hardy, 10th February 1896 – 22nd May 1985. https://doi.org/10.1098/rsbm.1986.0008 

[4] Philip Henry Gosse (1860) The Romance of Natural History [First Series]. London, J. Nisbet & Co. 

[5] Philip Henry Gosse (1861) The Romance of Natural History [Second Series]. London, James Nisbet & Co. 

[6] Cyril Lucas (2004) Hardy, Sir Alister Clavering. Oxford Dictionary of National Biography https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/31196 

[7] https://www.uwtsd.ac.uk/library/alister-hardy-religious-experience-research-centre/ 

“The Sea is not made of Water”

Adam Nicolson has a passion for the shore, especially that in the part of Scotland where he created rock pools to aid his observations. “The Sea is not made of Water: Life between the Tides” describes the natural history of these pools, and of the shore in general, and the book also gives colourful accounts of local legends about where sea meets land. A third strand (pun intended) is based on philosophy, both ancient and more recent, and the whole is an enjoyable, and stimulating, read.

Nicolson's three pools were constructed by “excavating”, damming a channel and by creating a barrier to prevent water escaping at low tide. Each was thus different in topography and in the plants and animals that colonised; some long-term, others as short-term visitors. After an Introduction on “The Marvellous” (a title borrowed from Gosse’s “The Romance of Natural History: Second Series”), the book has chapters on sandhoppers, prawns, winkles, crabs, and anemones. Each is thoroughly researched and invitingly written and we learn much of the habits of the featured animals and also about their habitat and mini-ecosystems. Throughout, Nicolson adopts a rather anthropomorphic approach illustrated by these examples:

Can invertebrates have emotions?

Klein and Barron are convinced that invertebrates such as these prawns ‘are aware of the world (including the state of the mobile body within the world), and that this aware-ness feels a certain way to the organism that has it.’

[Of sandhoppers] They feed, nibbling on the weeds, and from time to time they also start to look after themselves, their little hands and feet feeling over the surface of their own shell-coat for any grains or fragments that might be abrading it..

Sandhoppers’ genes have learned to overwhelm the processing capabilities of their predators.

These crabs approach life with impressive displays of delicacy and discrimination, clearly recognising that only by looking after themselves will they survive.

[Of sea anemones] The cut edges naturally push together and rejoin to form a smaller animal. Those cut surfaces know each other as part of one thing and are happy to fuse.

These are just a few examples of the tone set, sometimes quoting anthropomorphic comments by the authors of scientific papers, and, while it results in lively description, it grates with me. When looking at rock pools, I feel a sense of wonder, but it is not a sense that requires projections of human feelings and nor does it require access to philosophy that is anyway a human construct. Indeed, I find reading philosophy very difficult and I admit that I don’t understand much of it, despite reading and re-reading what various distinguished philosophers have written. This might be because I am not very intelligent, but I like to think it is down to an acceptance that we will never understand much about the world around us, despite the claims of scientists using mechanistic approaches. The feeling of the unbelievable complexity of the natural world produces a profound sense of awe and that is good enough for me. I feel the same way when trying to understand geological time scales and the extent of the Universe.

What Nicolson shows is the delight that can be obtained from looking at Nature and, especially the nature of the aquatic world, something that is very different to the terrestrial world with which we are much more familiar. Shores represent a transition between the two and it is little wonder that they became so fascinating for nineteenth century observers, especially for those who could afford a microscope, in what was an explosion of interest, and discovery, at that time. The fascination continues today, as anyone who includes a visit to rock pools during a family holiday at the seaside will agree. Some of us keep that fascination for life.

My first experience of marine shores came as a child growing up in South Devon and, although I can only rarely re-visit the areas that meant so much to me when I was young, I am fortunate to have the “Shores of South Devon” website [1] and its associated Facebook page. There are regular entries, by enthusiastic experts, on what they have seen on their visits to favourite spots along the coast and there are also images, and videos, shot by SCUBA divers to show habitats and organisms that are less familiar to most of us. I am very grateful to the organisers and to all those who post their observations - Facebook has its good sides.

Having moved inland to go to university, my interests turned to a fascination with streams and rivers, firstly with the animals they contained and then with the processes, and transformations, that resulted from the animals’ activities. I then moved on to consider what happens at the microscopical scale and the part played by microorganisms, and their by-products, in the cycling or organic matter. In the end, I discovered that, much as I read and researched, I was getting further and further away from gaining an understanding of the aquatic world and, just as with geological time and the dimensions of the Universe, I became even more awestruck as a result.

In his review of Nicolson’s book in the Financial Times, Caspar Henderson posed the question “Where did life begin?”. Of course, we will never know and we have such a problem defining what we mean by life – do we mean self-replicating molecules, the first cell, cells that can split, or what? My own definition refers to the origins of the first cell and this was my response to the question that Henderson asked [2]. I think the first cell resulted from events on a very ancient shore, but a more popular view is that life began around some kind of hydrothermal vent. Was it a singular event and, if so, what were the chances of it occurring? Cue more awe. 

[1] https://shoresofsouthdevon.org.uk/

[2] Letter to the Editor, Financial Times 26th June 2021