As a class lecturer Huxley was facile princeps, and only those who were privileged to sit under him can form a conception of his delivery.  Clear, deliberate, never hesitant nor unduly emphatic, never repetitional, always logical, his every word told.  Great, however, as were his class lectures, his working-men’s were greater.  Huxley was a firm believer in the “distillatio per ascensum” of scientific knowledge and culture, and spared no pains in approaching the artisan and so-called “working classes.”  He gave the workmen of his best.  The substance of his “Man’s Place in Nature”, one of the most successful and popular of his writings, and of his “Crayfish”, perhaps the most perfect zoological treatise ever published, was first communicated to them.  In one of the last conversations I had with him, I asked his views on the desirability of discontinuing the workmen’s lectures at Jermyn Street, since the development of working-men’s colleges and institutes is regarded by some to have rendered their continuance unnecessary.  He replied, almost with indignation], “With our central situation and resources, we ought to be in a position to give the workmen that which they cannot get elsewhere,” [adding that he would deeply deplore any such discontinuance.

And now, a word or two concerning Huxley’s personal conduct towards his pupils, hearers, and subordinates.

As an examiner he was most just, aiming only to ascertain the examinee’s knowledge of fundamentals, his powers of work, and the manner in which he had been taught.  A country school lad came near the boundary line in the examination; though generally weak, his worst fault was a confusion of the parts of the heart.  In his description of that organ he had transposed the valves.  On appeal, Huxley let him through, observing, most characteristically, “Poor little beggar, I never got them correctly myself until I reflected that a bishop was never in the right.” (The “mitral” valve being on the left side.) Again, a student of more advanced years, of the “mugging” type, who had come off with flying colours in an elementary examination, showed signs of uneasiness as the advanced one approached.  “Stick an observation into him,” said Huxley.  It was stuck, and acted like a stiletto, a jump into the air and utter collapse being the result.

With his hearers Huxley was most sympathetic.  He always assumed absolute ignorance on their part, and took nothing for granted. (This was a maxim on lecturing, adopted from Faraday.) When time permitted, he would remain after a lecture to answer questions; and in connection with his so doing his wonderful power of gauging and rising to a situation, once came out most forcibly.  Turning to a student, he asked, “Well, I hope you understood it all.”  “All, sir, but one part, during which you stood between me and the blackboard,” was the reply:  the rejoinder, “I did my best to make myself clear, but could not render myself transparent.”