by Peter Raby
In March, his review of Darwin’s The Descent of Man appeared in the Academy. Darwin had continued to keep Wallace abreast of the book’s progress; he knew that it was bound to give offence, now that he was unequivocally addressing man – it was half killing him with fatigue and, he confessed, ‘I much fear will quite kill me in your estimation.’18 That was not true; but Wallace refused to accept that man’s brain could develop simply by the laws of natural selection alone. It was not the descent from the ape that bothered him, but the mechanism by which this had occurred. Man’s
absolute erectness of posture, the completeness of his nudity, the harmonious perfection of his hands, the almost infinite capacities of his brain, constitute a series of correlated advances too great to be accounted for by the struggle for existence of an isolated group of apes in a limited area.19
Wallace expressed his disagreements firmly, but politely. In fact, the tone of Darwin’s argument was not all that different from Wallace’s approach, humanitarian, even perfectionist in places. Wallace, though, by this time convinced that a spiritual dimension existed outside human consciousness, remained unwavering in his belief that man’s moral dimension was imparted from without.
Wallace continued to look for a suitable home, and trusting in his own business sense as well as his practical experience as a surveyor and builder, he decided to start from scratch. He found a four-acre site on the edge of the village of Grays, twenty miles east of London on the north bank of the Thames, and bought a ninety-nine-year lease. The site comprised a disused chalkpit, an acre on the plateau above it, and another acre or so of sloping but cultivatable ground. There were splendid views looking eastward down the Thames, and south across the river to the Kent hills, and with sand and gravel above the chalk there was good drainage. He commissioned an architect and, to take advantage of the gravel and a local cement works, decided to have the house built largely of concrete. He also organised his own water supply, sinking a well a hundred feet into the chalk and installing a small iron windmill to pump the water up. Wallace and his engineering friend Geach did most of this work themselves, and soon an ample – and free – supply of water was obtained for the house and garden. Wallace made frequent visits to inspect the progress of the building, and to check that the gravel was being thoroughly washed. In September, he was already busy stocking the garden. He wrote to Hooker, asking if he could collect a few seeds of hardy plants from Kew, and Hooker responded with a collection of herbaceous seeds, roots of perennials, and shrubs. Halfway through the contract, the builder failed to appear one morning, leaving his men’s wages unpaid. The architect sacked the builder, and Wallace took on the job of supervising the completion. He also found himself in receipt of a stream of bills for materials that the builder had ducked. In Holly House, Annie gave birth to William, on 30 December 1871: ‘Bertie has got a brother,’ Wallace reported to Fanny. ‘Annie is pretty well. The baby weighs more than Bertie did, & seems to be about an inch taller, and decidedly better looking than Bertie was at the same age. I am now more busy than ever at the house as we are just doing the waterworks & internal fittings.’20 The house was finally ready for the family to move into on 25 March 1872, a few weeks after he was elected a Fellow of the Linnean Society.
For someone whose finances were slightly precarious, the Dell was an extremely ambitious project. Wallace was a little better off as a result of his mother’s death; he also sold the bulk of his entomological collections, the butterflies going to William Hewitson, and accepted a rather badly paid commission from Lyell, checking the manuscript and proofs for a new edition of The Antiquity of Man. But the house was built on a grand scale, and even had a four-roomed entrance lodge for the gardener. There was a hall, drawing room, dining room, library and conservatory on the ground floor, four principal bedrooms, dressing room and bathroom on the first floor, and four more bedrooms, or nurseries above – plenty of room for children, and servants. The rooms were spacious, high ceilinged, full of light; the style plain, but with well-chosen decorations, such as the tiles and coloured glass in the hall. Outside, the grounds were beautifully laid out, both in terms of economy – walled gardens, greenhouses, a fowl house – and pleasure: walks and terraces, ponds, a fountain, a croquet lawn, and, eventually, a rich variety of flowers and shrubs and trees. Wallace had visited Darwin in his secluded and spacious country retreat at Downe. The Dell was to be his personal paradise, a haven for the scientific naturalist, and a secure, healthy environment for his wife and children. A horned toad that John had sent him from California roamed happily in his study. The limited railway service made attending evening meetings in London difficult – but that was a small price to pay.21
The months passed peacefully, with research on geographical distribution punctuated by delightful plantings and plannings outdoors. Even a letter from Cole at South Kensington, saying that there was not enough money to pay a separate director of the Bethnal Green Museum, did not alarm him unduly, though it led to his accepting a number of examining jobs, and prompted him towards a wider range of journalism for the odd guineas it brought. As well as his steady output on scientific topics, he began to expand the scope of his articles, letters and reviews in the direction of social issues: for example, he wrote a piece for Macmillan’s Magazine on ‘Disestablishment and Disendowment: with a Proposal for a really National Church of England’, and a long letter to the editor of the Daily News on ‘Free-trade Principles and the Coal Question’.
Meanwhile, the garden was a constant diversion. Plants and cuttings travelled backwards and forwards between Grays and Hurstpierpoint, with every family visit. ‘Thanks for the Hypericum,’ he wrote to his father-in-law. ‘It came in beautiful order, & I planted it out at once under the north garden wall, where it will be less burnt up till it grows strong.’ The crocuses were out, but the laurels had suffered in the cold north winds: a problem he grappled with throughout his time at the Dell. Could Mitten bring half-a-dozen good strong cuttings of two or three kinds of willow, for planting on the rough banks? ‘We shall be very glad to see you and Rose. Suppose you come Sunday week, then Rose can stay till Annie comes to you, & can remain to take care of me & the children.’ Then, taking advantage of the Mitten pharmacy, he put in an order for some super strength pills – the current samples were what the Yankees would call ‘cruel mild’: ‘It takes 3 or 4 to produce the least effect on me. Can you make them three times as strong so that one pill will do, as I am not a good hand at swallowing them & wd. rather have one large than 3 small ones. If so send me a box.’22
Wallace’s spiritualist connections and convictions were never kept separate from the rest of his life. He corresponded and shared experiences with St George Mivart, for example, whose book Genesis of Species so ruffled Darwin, giving him a letter of introduction to Mrs Guppy at Naples; and Arabella Buckley, Lyell’s secretary, was an enthusiastic experimenter, allowing herself to be mesmerised, and used as a channel for communications. Miss Buckley became a close friend and confidante to Wallace, and she was one of the few people to whom he could express his grief when his son Bertie died in 1874, at the age of six. Bertie, who had been ailing for some time, was staying with his mother at Hurstpierpoint; Wallace was with him only the day before his death, and had suggested a homoeopathic course of treatment. If it had been tried a fortnight earlier, he was pretty sure it might have saved him: ‘Our orthodox medical men are profoundly ignorant of the subtle influences of the human body in health and disease, and thus do nothing in many cases which Nature would cure if assisted by proper conditions.’23 Wallace was back at the Dell when he learned the sad news.
Arabella Buckley’s letter of condolence was gentle, and sweetly expressed: ‘I am so grieved to hear that my little pet is gone, I had thought him long out of danger & now he has slipped away from us & we shall not be able to watch him grow up & take his place in this world.’ But it is clear that, for the spiritualists, death was not an insuperable barrier. It would be a comfort to Mrs Wallace that she had the
power of hearing of Bertie, if not from him, whenever she cultivated it.
How wonderful it is how completely Spiritualism alters one’s idea of death; but I think it increases one’s wish to know what they are doing – you have so many friends who can get information for you & I suppose Mrs Guppy having known dear little Bertie would be able to learn a good deal. I wonder who will take care of him & educate him for you.24
Because her own mediumship was so uncertain, and because her late sister Janie and her friends did not know Bertie, she thought she would be unlikely to learn anything reliable herself. Nevertheless, that evening she made the attempt and faithfully recorded every detail.
(Question – Would it be possible for you to learn anything of Bertie Wallace?) We are going to try and find out about him, & let you know. Janie jumps at the opportunity of doing something for Mr Wallace who has been the means of bringing you to us – and if … (nothing more came).
The next morning, the communication resumed.
I want to tell you about Bertie Wallace. He is here under the care of his uncle Herbert Wallace who is watching over him. The mama is wanting to hear of him & little Bertie ought not to try and communicate yet but if she asks, his grandmamma may be able to …
Another interval ensued.
We want to tell you that Bertie Wallace is here; he is fast asleep and his uncle Herbert watches over him. He will wake soon and all is ready for him. His Mama will hear of him if she asks his grandmamma or even his uncle, they are anxious to tell her that it is well with him. He is weary with long restlessness and weakness but his sleep will revive him. We cannot tell you more now. We write this at the instance of Herbert Wallace who cannot write with you himself.
There then follow Arabella Buckley’s hesitations and misgivings, which have the effect of authenticating the message:
‘Question. Is any of this my own imagination?’ ‘No it is not your own at all.’ ‘Question. May I really give this to Mr Wallace as a communication?’ ‘We gave you these words. You are making your own difficulties.’25
Wallace, for all the comfort he received from such assurances, was devastated by Bertie’s death. In the future, he would do his best to avoid the subject, and, if it did arise, his eyes would fill with tears. But he clearly believed long before this event that spiritualism could create a bridge between the two states of existence. The intensity of his grief, and the nature of the communications, served only to strengthen his faith, adding a dimension of the deepest feeling to his closely argued writings on the subject. On 14 March, he carried out an experiment with Mrs Guppy. She accompanied him to a professional photographer’s, Hudson’s, to try to obtain ‘ghost-pictures’. ‘Before going to Hudson’s,’ Wallace records, ‘I sat with Mrs G., and had a communication by raps to the effect that my mother would appear on the plate if she could.’ Three photographs were taken, and on each a second figure appeared on the plate: two of these Wallace identified as images of his mother, although unlike any photograph taken of her during her lifetime.
I see no escape from the conclusion that some spiritual being, acquainted with my mother’s various aspects during life, produced these impressions on the plate. That she herself still lives and produced these figures may not be proved; but it is a more simple and natural explanation to think that she did so, than to suppose that we are surrounded by beings who carry out an elaborate series of impostures to dupe us into a belief in a continued existence after death.26
Wallace, grieving over Bertie, was calmed by his belief in the continued life of the spirit. It gave him an inward strength, and serenity, which never left him. The immediate result was a two-part article, ‘A Defence of Modern Spiritualism’, for the Fortnightly Review in May and June, and a collection of three essays, On Miracles and Modern Spiritualism, later the same year. The publication of the first instalment raised Wallace’s spiritualist profile, and he began to receive invitations to seances by the better-known practitioners. ‘Try Burns, 15 Southampton Row,’ Wallace advised Francis Galton. ‘He knows all the mediums & all about them … When my whole article is out I should be glad to hear from you what is said about it in scientific circles – that is by men who will take the trouble really to read it – few I am afraid.’27 Sir Charles Lyell had read Wallace’s paper in the Fortnightly, Miss Buckley reported, and passed on Huxley’s experience of detecting the precise moment at a seance in which the medium put the chair upon the table – ‘a most clear case of imposture’.28 But Wallace had made the leap of faith, and was impervious to the brisk debunkings of Huxley, or the caustic dismissals of Carpenter.
The blow of Bertie’s death halted the variety of Wallace’s writing for a while. In his manuscript notes for his autobiography, there are fewer entries for 1875 than for any other year; but at least he had one major task to distract him: the completion, and then the proofs, of Geographical Distribution. This was turning into a monumental work, and Alfred Newton became his mentor and honorary editor. Wallace described the book’s plan to him in detail – in the maps the seas would be coloured in bands to show the depths, so that ‘isolation by deep seas’ could be illustrated. He added a postscript; ‘I think I must call the Book, – “The Geographical Distribution of Land Animals” or the dredging men will be down upon me, for leaving out the “most important part of the animal kingdom” etc. etc.’29 He sent Newton whole chunks of text for noting – ‘the more you note & criticise, the greater favour I shall esteem it’ – and all through March, April and May the manuscript and annotations shuttled between Grays and Cambridge. Wallace was especially relieved to have his bird references checked:
To you who have studied birds all your life & have the literature by heart, it must seem stupid of me to use different names for the same genus. Please therefore remember that my study of birds began with my Eastern journey, – & that the Birds of Europe & N. America are mostly as strange to me as the birds of Africa.30
Wallace, in this work, was extrapolating from his detailed knowledge of the Amazon, and above all the Archipelago, to survey distribution throughout the world; at the centre of his thinking was the ‘line’, and he acknowledged that it was Huxley who was ‘the first to give me a place in Geography’, in the Proceedings of the Zoological Society, 1868, ‘because he there says – “coincide with what may be called Wallace’s line”’.31 The flow of questions and requests continued: where do woodcocks come from? And getting the academic genera correct for his references was even trickier than the birds – were ‘Professors’ at private schools or Colleges recognisable? Were Ph.D.s not recognisable in England – though Huxley, for one, referred to ‘Dr Sclater’: ‘Pray enlighten me.’32 The flurry ceased for three weeks, while Wallace tackled his batch of South Kensington examination papers, an annual chore but increasingly essential to his budget.
The two large volumes of The Geographical Distribution of Animals were widely praised. Nature called it ‘the first sound treatise on zoological geography’. Darwin expressed ‘unbounded admiration’ – it would be the basis ‘of all future work on Distribution’.33 His only cavil – ironic, coming from him – was that Wallace had not given ‘very numerous references’, a charge the author cheerfully admitted – he was ‘dreadfully unsystematic’.34 Hooker referred to it in his presidential address to the British Association as ‘one of the two most important general works on distribution which have appeared since the foundation of this Association’. The other was Alphonse de Candolle’s Géographie Botanique.35 Wallace broadly adopted the six major regions Sclater had suggested in his study of bird distribution, refining the concept with additional sub-regions, and introducing the concept of time. There were a number of Wallace specialities, including his suggestion that mammals had originated in the north, and then spread to the rest of the world. Overall, it was a magisterial and deeply thought-out account of the broad principles of animal distribution.
Basking in the book’s publication and positive reception, Wallace put the Dell on the market and prepared for
a move south of London to Rosehill, Dorking, in Surrey. He gave a range of reasons: the north winds blighted the garden; the railway line to Charing Cross made attendance at evening meetings possible again; living south of London would mean easier access to Annie’s family in Sussex. But there were financial considerations. The Dell, fully up and running now, was a substantial property to maintain, and it was an immediately realisable asset. The auctioneers aimed at the top of the market – excellent detached residence, unusually attractive pleasure grounds, capital walled kitchen gardens stocked with the finest wall and pyramid fruit trees, ‘the whole presents a variety of charms which it is scarcely possible to describe, and can hardly be surpassed in England’. It made Wallace sound like a landed gentleman of the most leisured kind: ‘The Property is admirably adapted for Gentlemen fond of hunting, the Essex hounds being constantly at hand. It is also conveniently placed for yachting, being about a mile from the Thames and within one hour’s sail of the sea.’36 The Wallaces left the Dell in July, without much regret, except for the work that had gone into the garden. (‘The vendor reserved the right to take away all the flowers and bulbs he wished.’)
