I did not write yesterday because we were spending the day with Mr. Teesdale, in his house at Down, and did not get back again till past the post hour. We went over to pay a call upon Darwin. He and his wife were at home, and as kind and glad to see us as possible. The servant gave our names wrongly to them, and they thought we were a very old couple whom they know, called Norman. So old Darwin came in with a huge canister of snuff under his arm--old Norman being very partial to this luxury--and looked very much astonished at finding us. He was as grand and good and bright as ever. In to-day's 'Times' you will see a letter by 'F.R.S.' which is worth reading, as are all the productions of his able pen. I have been applied to by the Editor of the 'Encyclopædia Britannica' to supply an article on 'Instinct.' This I am writing. We are all quite well, except that I have had a cold, which is now going away. With united love to all, yours ever the same, GEORGE. One evening Mr. Romanes personally 'conducted' Mr. Darwin to the Royal Institution to hear a lecture by Dr. Sanderson on 'Dionæa.' A burst of applause greeted Mr. Darwin's entrance, much to that great man's surprise. Earlier in the day he had half timidly asked Mr. Romanes if there would be room at the Royal Institution for him. In 1882 came the great sorrow of Mr. Darwin's death. The following letters show something of what the loss was to the ardent disciple, the loyal-hearted friend. _To Francis Darwin, Esq._ 18 Cornwall Terrace, Regent's Park, N.W.: April 22, 1882. My dear Darwin,--I did not write because I thought it might trouble you, but I sent some flowers yesterday which did not require acknowledgment. Even you, I do not think, can know all that this death means to me. I have long dreaded the time, and now that it has come it is worse than I could anticipate. Even the death of my own father--though I loved him deeply, and though it was more sudden, did not leave a desolation so terrible. Half the interest of my life seems to have gone when I cannot look forward any more to his dear voice of welcome, or to the letters that were my greatest happiness. For now there is no one to venerate, no one to work for, or to think about while working. I always knew that I was leaning on these feelings too much, but I could not try to prevent them, and so at last I am left with a loneliness that never can be filled. And when I think how grand and generous his kindness was to me, grief is no word for my loss.