Strauss, who wrote some poems of great and lasting beauty; Feuerbach, and others. Even Büchner, the boldest and most advanced of them all, has written poetry under a pseudonym.[1] Darwin took only two books with him in the little cabin of his ship, Lyell’s _Geology_ and _Paradise Lost_. There is a complete gallery of fine water-colours in Haeckel’s house to-day that have been brought from three quarters of the globe. His son Walter has inherited the artistic gift, and become a painter. It might be said that a good landscape-painter would hardly recompense us for the loss of the philosopher and scientist that Haeckel became in the nineteenth century. The simple steel pen, the inspired pencil of the thinker, did more for humanity in his hand than could have been done by the most splendid colour-symphonies of the most inspired landscape-painter. I have often thought this as I looked over, in the evening at Haeckel’s house, the then unpublished treasures of his artistic faculty. A work like his _History of Creation_ has counted for a stratum in the thought of humanity. What are even the masterpieces of a Hildebrandt in comparison with it! Yet there was undoubtedly the note of genius in these drawings; some of them showed more than Hildebrandt’s cleverness (we know to-day that Hildebrandt’s highly coloured pictures did not even approximate to the real natural light of southern scenes) and glow of colour. It seemed to me that here again the man had dreams of a lost love: a dream of the gay, wandering _pittore_, who asks nothing but a sunset in violet, carmine, and gold, instead of being the sober unriddler of the world’s problems. Since that time the house of Fr. Eugen Köhler, to which we owe the fine new edition of Naumann’s classic work on birds, with its coloured plates, has undertaken to publish Haeckel’s water-colours, as “Travel Pictures,” in a splendid and monumental work. Footnote 1: Büchner’s brother tells how, when Ludwig furtively brought to him the manuscript of _Force and Matter_, he at once guessed it was a romance or an epic that so much secret work had been expended on. [Trans.]