James Clerk Maxwell

Deep St. Mary’s bell had sounded, And the twelve notes gently rounded Endless chimneys that surrounded My abode in Trinity. (Letter G, Old Court, South Attics), I shut up my mathematics, That confounded hydrostatics— Sink it in the deepest sea! In the grate the flickering embers Served to show how dull November’s Fogs had stamped my torpid members, Like a plucked and skinny goose. And as I prepared for bed, I Asked myself with voice unsteady, If of all the stuff I read, I Ever made the slightest use. Late to bed and early rising, Ever luxury despising, Ever training, never “sizing,” I have suffered with the rest. Yellow cheek and forehead ruddy, Memory confused and muddy, These are the effects of study Of a subject so unblest. Look beyond, and see the wrangler, Now become a College dangler, Court some spiritual angler, Nibbling at his golden bait. Hear him silence restive Reason, Her advice is out of season, While her lord is plotting treason Gainst himself, and Church or State. See him next with place and pension, And the very best intention Of upholding that Convention Under which his fortunes rose. Every scruple is rejected, With his cherished schemes connected, “Higher Powers may be neglected— His result no further goes.” Much he lauds the education Which has raised to lofty station, Men, whose powers of calculation Calculation’s self defied. How the learned fool would wonder Were he now to see his blunder, When he put his reason under The control of worldly Pride. Thus I muttered, very seedy, Husky was my throat, and reedy; And no wonder, for indeed I Now had caught a dreadful cold. Thickest fog had settled slowly Round the candle, burning lowly, Round the fire, where melancholy Traced retreating hills of gold. Still those papers lay before me— Problems made express to bore me, When a silent change came o’er me, In my hard uneasy chair. Fire and fog, and candle faded, Spectral forms the room invaded, Little creatures, that paraded On the problems lying there. Fathers there, of every college, Led the glorious ranks of knowledge, Men, whose virtues all acknowledge Levied the proctorial fines; There the modest Moderators, Set apart as arbitrators ’Twixt contending calculators, Scrutinised the trembling lines. All the costly apparatus, That is meant to elevate us To the intellectual status Necessary for degrees— College tutors—private coaches— Line the Senate-house approaches. If our Alma Mater dote, she’s Taken care of well by these. Much I doubted if the vision Were the simple repetition Of the statements of Commission, Strangely jumbled, oddly placed. When an awful form ascended, And with cruel words defended Those abuses that offended My unsanctioned private taste. Angular in form and feature, Unlike any earthly creature, She had properties to meet your Eye whatever you might view. Hair of pens and skin of paper; Breath, not breath but chemic vapour; Dress,—such dress as College Draper Fashions with precision due. Eyes of glass, with optic axes Twisting rays of light as flax is Twisted, while the Parallax is Made to show the real size. Primary and secondary Focal lines in planes contrary, Sum up all that’s known to vary In those dull, unmeaning eyes. Such the eyes, through which all Nature Seems reduced to meaner stature. If you had them you would hate your Symbolising sense of sight. Seeing planets in their courses Thick beset with arrowy “forces,” While the common eye no more sees Than their mild and quiet light. “Son,” she said (what could be queerer Than thus tête-a -tête to hear her Talk, in tones approaching nearer To a saw’s than aught beside? For the voice the spectre spoke in Might be known by many a token To proceed from metal, broken When acoustic tricks were tried. Little pleased to hear the Siren “Own” me thus with voice of iron, I had thoughts of just retiring From a mother such a fright). “No,” she said, “the time is pressing, So before I give my blessing, I’ll excuse you from confessing What you thought of me to-night. “Powers!” she cried, with hoarse devotion, “Give my son the clearest notion How to compass sure promotion, And take care of Number One. Let his college course be pleasant, Let him ever, as at present, Seem to have read what he hasn’t, And to do what can’t be done. Of the Philosophic Spirit Richly may my son inherit; As for Poetry, inter it With the myths of other days. Cut the thing entirely, lest yon College Don should put the question, Why not stick to what you’re best on? Mathematics always pays.” As the Hag was thus proceeding To prescribe my course of reading, And as I was faintly pleading, Hardly knowing what to say, Suddenly, my head inclining I beheld a light form shining; And the withered beldam, whining, Saw the same and slunk away. Then the vision, growing brighter, Seemed to make my garret lighter; As when noisome fogs of night are Scattered by the rising sun. Nearer still it grew and nearer, Till my straining eyes caught clearer Glimpses of a being dearer, Dearer still than Number One. In that well-remembered Vision I was led to the decision Still to hold in calm derision Pedantry, however draped; Since that artificial spectre Proved a paltry sub-collector, And had nothing to connect her With the being whom she aped. I could never finish telling You of her that has her dwelling Where those springs of truth are welling, Whence all streams of beauty run. She has taught me that creation Bears the test of calculation, But that Man forgets his station If he stops when that is done. Is our algebra the measure Of that unexhausted treasure That affords the purest pleasure, Ever found when it is sought? Let us rather, realising The conclusions thence arising Nature more than symbols prizing, Learn to worship as we ought. Worship? Yes, what worship better Than when free’d from every fetter That the uninforming letter Rivets on the tortured mind, Man, with silent admiration Sees the glories of Creation, And, in holy contemplation, Leaves the learned crowd behind!

I. I come from fields of fractured ice, Whose wounds are cured by squeezing, Melting they cool, but in a trice, Get warm again by freezing. Here, in the frosty air, the sprays With fern-like hoar-frost bristle, There, liquid stars their watery rays Shoot through the solid crystal. II. I come from empyrean fires— From microscopic spaces, Where molecules with fierce desires, Shiver in hot embraces. The atoms clash, the spectra flash, Projected on the screen, The double D, magnesian b, And Thallium’s living green. III. We place our eye where these dark rays Unite in this dark focus, Right on the source of power we gaze, Without a screen to cloak us. Then, where the eye was placed at first, We place a disc of platinum, It glows, it puckers! will it burst? How ever shall we flatten him! IV. This crystal tube the electric ray Shows optically clean, No dust or haze within, but stay! All has not yet been seen. What gleams are these of heavenly blue? What air-drawn form appearing, What mystic fish, that, ghostlike, through The empty space is steering? V. I light this sympathetic flame, My faintest wish that answers, I sing, it sweetly sings the same, It dances with the dancers. I shout, I whistle, clap my hands, And stamp upon the platform, The flame responds to my commands, In this form and in that form. VI. What means that thrilling, drilling scream, Protect me! 'tis the siren: Her heart is fire, her breath is steam, Her larynx is of iron. Sun! dart thy beams! in tepid streams, Rise, viewless exhalations! And lap me round, that no rude sound May mar my meditations. VII. Here let me pause.—These transient facts, These fugitive impressions, Must be transformed by mental acts, To permanent possessions. Then summon up your grasp of mind, Your fancy scientific, Till sights and sounds with thought combine Become of truth prolific. VIII. Go to! prepare your mental bricks, Fetch them from every quarter, Firm on the sand your basement fix With best sensation mortar. The top shall rise to heaven on high— Or such an elevation, That the swift whirl with which we fly Shall conquer gravitation.

At quite uncertain times and places, The atoms left their heavenly path, And by fortuitous embraces, Engendered all that being hath. And though they seem to cling together, And form “associations” here, Yet, soon or late, they burst their tether, And through the depths of space career. So we who sat, oppressed with science, As British asses, wise and grave, Are now transformed to wild Red Lions, As round our prey we ramp and rave. Thus, by a swift metamorphosis, Wisdom turns wit, and science joke, Nonsense is incense to our noses, For when Red Lions speak, they smoke. Hail, Nonsense! dry nurse of Red Lions, From thee the wise their wisdom learn, From thee they cull those truths of science, Which into thee again they turn. What combinations of ideas, Nonsense alone can wisely form! What sage has half the power that she has, To take the towers of Truth by storm? Yield, then, ye rules of rigid reason! Dissolve, thou too, too solid sense! Melt into nonsense for a season, Then in some nobler form condense. Soon, all too soon, the chilly morning, This flow of soul will crystallize, Then those who Nonsense now are scorning, May learn, too late, where wisdom lies.

In the sad November time, When the leaf has left the lime, And the Cam, with sludge and slime, Plasters his ugly channel, While, with sober step and slow, Round about the marshes low, Stiffening students stumping go Shivering through their flannel. Then to me in doleful mood Rises up a question rude, Asking what sufficient good Comes of this mode of living? Moping on from day to day, Grinding up what will not “pay,” Till the jaded brain gives way Under its own misgiving. Why should wretched Man employ Years which Nature meant for joy, Striving vainly to destroy Freedom of thought and feeling? Still the injured powers remain Endless stores of hopeless pain, When at last the vanquished brain Languishes past all healing. Where is then his wealth of mind— All the schemes that Hope designed? Gone, like spring, to leave behind Indolent melancholy. Thus he ends his helpless days, Vex’t with thoughts of former praise— Tell me, how are Wisdom’s ways Better than senseless Folly? Happier those whom trifles please, Dreaming out a life of ease, Sinking by unfelt degrees Into annihilation. Or the slave, to labour born, Heedless of the freeman’s scorn, Destined to be slowly worn Down to the brute creation. Thus a tempting spirit spoke, As from troubled sleep I woke To a morning thick with smoke, Sunless and damp and chilly. Then to sleep I turned once more, Eyes inflamed and windpipe sore, Dreaming dreams I dreamt before, Only not quite so silly. In my dream methought I strayed Where a learned-looking maid Stores of flimsy goods displayed, Articles not worth wearing. “These,” she said, with solemn air, “Are the robes that sages wear, Warranted, when kept with care, Never to need repairing.” Then unnumbered witlings, caught By her wiles, the trappings bought, And by labour, not by thought, Honour and fame were earning. While the men of wiser mind Passed for blind among the blind; Pedants left them far behind In the career of learning. “Those that fix their eager eyes Ever on the nearest prize Well may venture to despise Loftier aspirations. Pedantry is in demand! Buy it up at second-hand, Seek no more to understand Profitless speculations.” Thus the gaudy gowns were sold, Cast off sloughs of pedants old; Proudly marched the students bold Through the domain of error, Till their trappings, false though fair, Mouldered off and left them bare, Clustering close in blank despair, Nakedness, cold, and terror. Then, I said, “These haughty Schools Boast that by their formal rules They produce more learned fools Than could be well expected. Learned fools they are indeed, Learned in the books they read; Fools whene’er they come to need Wisdom, too long neglected. “Oh! that men indeed were wise, And would raise their purblind eyes To the opening mysteries Scattered around them ever. Truth should spring from sterile ground, Beauty beam from all around, Right should then at last be found Joining what none may sever.”

I. PLACE. —A small alcove with dark curtains. The class consists of one member. SUBJECT.—Thomson’s Mirror Galvanometer.

Rigid Body (sings). Gin a body meet a body Flyin’ through the air, Gin a body hit a body, Will it fly? and where? Ilka impact has its measure, Ne’er a ane hae I, Yet a’ the lads they measure me, Or, at least, they try. Gin a body meet a body Altogether free, How they travel afterwards We do not always see. Ilka problem has its method By analytics high; For me, I ken na ane o’ them, But what the waur am I?