We have already seen what care Darwin took at all times in regard to his childrens’ comfort in money matters. There was the same solicitude in all their affairs, as to their education, their conduct, and especially their prospects and their pursuits and occupations in life. He was always ready with advice and counsel when they were wanted. But he did not intrude them unduly, and above all things he did not insist upon their acceptance, or urge that his opinion and maxims should be made the rule of procedure. How admirably characteristic is his saying that ‘he hoped none of his sons would ever believe anything because he said it, unless they were themselves convinced of its truth.’[126] It is, it seems to me, merely delightful to feel that through all this interest and affection Darwin was constantly using his children, as he used himself, and everybody else, as material for the abstract scientific observation which was the main interest of his life. ‘My first child was born on December 27th, 1839,’ he tells us, ‘and I at once commenced to make notes on the first dawn of the various expressions which he exhibited.’[217] How many fathers would have done as much? And the constant, watchful observation was continued at all times. But it did not in the least interfere with the abundant, overflowing, sympathetic affection. And the affection was not distant, of the sort which adores but cannot enter in. His son indeed points out that health prevented his father’s romping with the children or taking part in any rough play. But he shared their games, so far as he could, with eager interest and keen enjoyment, and made them feel that he was one of themselves and as themselves. When they all went off on a holiday, he entered into it with a youthfulness of enthusiasm which intensified the enthusiasm of everybody. He liked to have the children about, even if they interrupted his work, as they too frequently did; such a multitude of them in a house would be likely to. Especially when they were ill, his sympathetic care and watchfulness were soothing and comforting. His daughter quotes one of his cousins as a witness that ‘in our house the only place where you might be sure of not meeting a child, was the nursery. Many a time, even during my father’s working hours, was a sick child tucked up on his sofa, to be quiet, and safe, and soothed by his presence.’[218] Dread of the children’s illness and death at times haunted and oppressed him. Thus he writes to Hooker: ‘To the day of my death I shall never forget all the sickening fear about the other children, after our poor little baby died.’[219] And the depth of his grief after losing his little daughter Annie appears quietly but profoundly in the letters written at that time.