I wish that hospitals could be turned into places for experiment more than they are, in the following perfectly humane direction. Suppose two differe… - Francis Galton

The number of strokes of the paint brush that go to making a picture is of some scientific interest, so I venture to record two personal experiences. Some years ago I was painted by , a well known German artist, when, finding it very tedious to sit doing nothing, I amused myself by counting the number of strokes per minute that he bestowed on the portrait. He was methodical, and it was easy to calculate their average number, and as I knew only too well the hours, and therefore the number of minutes, I sat to him, the product of the two numbers gave what I wanted to learn. It was 20,000. A year and a half ago I was again painted by the late lamented artist , whose method was totally different from that of Graef. He looked hard at me, mixing his colours the while, then, dashing at the portrait, made his dabs so fast that I had to estimate rather than count them. Proceeding as before, the result, to my great surprise, was the same, 20,000. Large as this number is, it is less than the number of stitches in an ordinary pair of knitted socks. In mine there are 100 rows to each 7 inches of length, and 102 stitches in each row at the widest part. Two such cylinders, each 7 inches long, would require 20,000 stitches, so the socks, though they are only approximately cylinders, but much more than 7 inches long, would require more than that number.

A collection of living magnates in various branches of intellectual achievement is always a feast to my eyes; being, as they are, such massive, vigorous, capable-looking animals.

In the earlier part of his memoir, Sir Bartle Frere had compared our mode of treating uncivilized races to that of the Romans. He heartily wished that the resemblance held in certain essential points. Our military hold was as firm, our tolerance of local customs was as great, our dealings were as just, and more just than theirs. But we did not amalgamate with them as the Romans did, we did not intermarry; by means of our missionaries we pressed upon them a form of religion which was not the most congenial. Our civilization was stiff. This, and much more, was pointed out in a very able and most pathetic memoir by Mr. Blyden, the present Minister of Liberia to England, who is a full-blooded negro. The article appeared in Frazer’s Magazine some years ago, and it showed the repressive effect of White civilization upon the Negroes, as contrasted with that of the Mohammedans. It was a shame to us as an Imperial nation, that representatives of the many people whom we governed, did not find themselves more at home among us. They seldom appeared in such meetings as the present one; they did not come to England. We did not see them in the streets. It was very different in ancient Rome, where the presence of foreigners from all parts of the then known world was a characteristic feature of every crowd. He did not now suggest any action, but merely wished to lay stress on this serious drawback to our national character as rulers of a great Empire. He thought they were greatly indebted to Sir Bartle Frere for introducing to public notice so important a subject as the best form of conduct of civilized races towards their less civilized neighbours, and he trusted that it would meet with that full and many-sided discussion which so important a question deserved.