John Tyndall to Faraday   1 July 1855

Hotel Manchester | 1 Rue De Grammont | Paris, 1st, July.

My dear Mr Faraday

The sun shines straight into my bedroom this glorious Sunday morning, but the light he sends which beautifies the world and makes the heart of man joyful is accompanied by heat which dulls the brain and makes a man lazy. Two principles operate upon me at present, the old duality of the moral world - the love of ease and indulgence which would prompt me to stretch myself on my bed, and the sense of duty which urges me to write to you. For the present however the latter has triumphed, and I hope it will triumph to the end. The close of the day I saw you last saw me in Hampshire¹ where I remained for a week to get some writing done, and on Friday the 15th at midnight we loosed from the Docks at Southampton and steered for Jersey. I say ‘we‘ as I have a chemical companion along with me². Our passage to Jersey was in the highest degree abominable, I never suffered so much in my life. The wind had been high during the day, but the evening was calm and pleasant, and I promised myself quite an agreeable passage. The sea however continued to swing furiously although the cause of its oscillation had ceased to act: we were tossed up and down and the consequences may be imagined by those who have had the felicity of experiencing the more exalted phases of sea sickness. All on board were ill - the strongest gave way and the stomachic perturbation was universal. We reached Jersey safely and were obliged to continue there until the following Tuesday as there was no boat previously to France. I say ‘obliged‘ for though Jersey might be a pleasant place for 3 days residence still with the exception of one day the weather was so bad that we were confined to our hotel. On Tuesday the 19th we set sail for St Malo and reached the place after a passage of four hours and a half. Here we gave our portmanteaus in charge to the Messageries who had them transmitted to Paris there to await our arrival, and with sufficient baggage to do for a foot journey of a fortnight we commenced our campaign through France. At St Malo we saw the tomb of Chateaubriand³. His bones are bedded in a rock on an island which when the tide recedes can be reached by footpassengers from the main land. When we were there the sun was shining on his tomb and the billows breaking and moaning against the rugged rocks beneath it. The place I believe had been one of the scenes of the poet’s boyhood and at his own request he was buried here. From St Malo we walked to Dinan in Brittany - a place beautifully situated - The country round is richly wooded, while the contour of the land and the colouring of the rocks are beautiful. A magnificent viaduct has recently been thrown over a ravine near the town, which adds its picturesqueness to that of the scenery. Most of the stone we saw was a delapated granite, and it was manifestly stratified; at least its crystalline plates were so arranged as to lie flat as if they had been pressed into their position by the superincumbent weight. The rocks which presented this appearance were quite friable, and their aspect was perhaps calculated to throw some light upon the obscure question of slate cleavage. From Dinan we proceeded to a place called Dol. Thence to Avranches, whence we paid a visit to the celebrated Mont St Michel - a rock to attain which we had [to] traverse a league of flat strand which is covered at High Tides, and to wade here and there knee deep through water. On this wild rock a monastery was built ages ago, a most splendid piece of architecture which is now in a state of capital preservation. Its life was an oscillation between the tempests of war and the calm of religion - It is now a prison, and the splendid rooms, the Knights chamber and the refectory of the monks are converted into weaving rooms, where the prisoners work. I never saw a richer country than that which stretches from Dinan to Dol and from Dol to Avranches: Here and there you have views of vast extent and great beauty. The country is well wooded and through the foliage the rich green of the crops and the enclosures reveals itself. Apple trees are strewn every where and you meet cider at all turns[.] The people appear to like it much, indeed in many of the poorer cabarets you can get nothing but cider. To me it is not much pleasanter than vinegar. The villages at a distance with their brown and aged roofs look very picturesque, but they are vile within - In nothing is the difference between English and Continental life so strikingly exhibited as in the villages. Throughout the region which I have mentioned dirt is universal - Comparing the glorious country with the dwellings of the people, the words of Heber’s⁴ hymn were often in my mouth.

“Man alone is vile”⁵

This inattention to cleanliness is by no means the result of poverty. In dirty houses you often see solid pieces of furniture with old massive brass ornaments which are scrupulously polished while there are holes in the dirty earthen floor. The people do not appear to have that sense of household harmony which is everywhere present among the wives of England and the consequence is the presence of such incongruities as I have mentioned. As regard cleanliness comfort and good order the Hotel de Londres at Avranches is pleasant to think of. The way to the heart of a savage is said to be through his stomach and certainly the excellence of the fare in the hotel spoken of, combined with the moderation of the charge has given it a pleasant place in my memory. The scenery about Avranches is delightful. We always made a point of visiting the churches in each town. There is something soothing in the cool tranquil air of these places, and however one may dissent from their present uses, a solemn and religious feeling is natural in such places. I like them best empty. When the priest is present his theological mechanics ruins the earnestness and tranquility of the impressions otherwise attainable. You rarely find the churches without a stray worshipper - sometimes a dozen or more, almost all of them are women. Hence we might argue that they are either the chief saints or the chief sinners in France. Some of them you see with earnest countenances deeply engaged in their devotions, many, however mutter their prayers as mechanically as if they were repeating their multiplication table. They yawn and look unuterably vacant. At Avranches we had a solemn High Mass conducted for the soul of an inhabitant who had fallen before Sebastopol. A coffin and all adjuncts were there, but the Crimea held the body. This Romish faith must have had a wonderful, and I think on the whole a beneficial effect upon a half savage world. It seems vigorous now in France, but it is only seeming - its days are numbered, but with the instinct of an old man on the brink of the grave it still clings tenaciously to life. Women are its chief supporters at the present day and I suppose the reason is that they have more feeling and less intellect than men - I think I ought to ask you not to read this heretical utterance to Mrs Faraday or Miss Barnard. But I must hasten. Having passed through Caen, Havre, Rouen we reached Paris yesterday - I have as yet seen nobody but purpose calling upon some people to day. And now I will ask you to excuse the infliction of this badly written letter. With kind remembrances to Mrs Faraday and Miss Barnard

Believe me most faithfully Yours | John Tyndall

I shall leave the hotel tomorrow. And if you should have any thing to say to me the address

14 Rue du Cirque. Would be safest | J.T.