To Thomas Archer Hirst   Sunday morning | Oct. 17th 1852

Queenwood Sunday morning | Oct. 17^th 1852

My dear Tom,

I rose this morning with the intention of devoting this day to the gods, to an endeavour to refresh myself in some way by a communion with the higher powers; it was a raw cold morning, I sponged myself and drew on my clothes – too light perhaps for the season, for I wear no flannel. I sat for a time in a room without a fire and felt my chest and throat begin to tickle; the breakfast hour arrived, I had two flowing cups of good hot tea, meanwhile the maid constructed a fire for me and there it is bubbling and flirting and sparkling before me, while I, sitting at a respectful distance, can pursue my primitive thought in comfort. Little incidents of this kind have always a tendency to degrade this body of mine in my eyes to the position of an instrument merely, a kind of flute, harpsichord, bass fiddle, or what you will, through which a performer behind plays sweetly or indifferently as the case may be. How inextricably woven both are though! I cannot conceive of what the spirit would be without its instrument – a Paganini¹ perhaps deprived of his string – silent! But still less can I confound spirit and instrument, both are necessary to the outward and visible result which we behold, but still they are not identical. Here before me is a little engraving of the Duke of Wellington which I cut out of last week’s Punch² and have nailed over my chimney piece – I like to hold communion with men like the Duke. Silently looking at his picture, with the British Lion lying beneath him, I am more instructed in fortitude and courage than by the perusal of a volume upon these subjects. If I had money I would surround myself with the portraits of great men – I admire strength and like to feel strong and still I do not admire this alone. I would not confine myself to the portraits of great men which should make my atmosphere one of heroism, but if I had a little more money still, I would add a few portraits of beautiful women. I am very sensitive to such influences. I have kissed pictures of beautiful maidens when a boy and I believe I could do so still. A girl is such a transparent thing and the soul’s beauty is deduced by such sweet inferences from the play of mind within the eyes and upon the cheek – feeling or imagination would perhaps be a better word than ‘mind’. O, I should like the communion of a girl of fine feelings which should diffuse their aroma through the sterner stuff of which I am myself composed. But are such to be found? Is it not far better for me to be content with the portraits [wherein] I can separate the ideal from the real and convert the former into spiritual nutriment. In the portrait the mind beholds the essence of loveliness – it does not dwell upon the defects which doubtless appertain to the original; but dwells, like memory, upon the sunshine and flowers of the idea before it and forgets the shadows and the weeds. But where am I wandering? I scarcely know where.– I was going to say something with regard to Wellington, was I not? I dwell upon his career, and picture those masses of men which he moved upon the continent. Here was an instance of the degradation before alluded to on the grand scale. What moved those serried columns? what lifted those tons of human flesh over the red walls of Badajoz.³ Look at the terrible amount of mechanical energy developed suddenly by the few words ‘up guards and at them!’ at Waterloo.⁴ what did it all? the soul of one man. This soul caused columns to crash, walls to tumble and the earth to quake beneath the tramp of thundering squadrons. The soul I represent to my mind as something like a pure force, now a force is modified by the medium through which it passes – a solar ray for instance in its passage through a crystal, – and thus the force of the soul is modified in passing through the human understanding, the understanding controls and applies a force of which it is neither the creator nor generator; hence the model man is he who has soul in abundance and understanding commensurate. Subtract from Wellington his cool understanding and his force will dissipate itself like steam under no pressure; subtract from him his soul and you reduce him to the condition of an eye which sees how things ought to be done but is impotent to enact what it sees. In life it must be acknowledged that the soul’s force is the thing most needed. [The] material wants of men are sufficient to keep the understanding active; but the understanding [deriving] its activity from such sources tends to become degenerate if not diabolical. Even in my own little experience it is the want of spiritual force which I have oftenest to deplore; and yet I believe it to be perennially accessible, that god has provided sources of strength and exaltation for the sons of man if they only seek them [fait[h]fully]. But the gauds and trumpery, nay even the reputed excellences of the world must not stand in our way here. To be the recipient of this bounty, the possessor if this force of the spirit, necessitates this willing sacrifice of what the world pronounces desirable – yea the sacrifice of scientific reputation if need be, although this seems to rest upon a spiritual basis. When I see great men squabbling about questions of priority I know that they have not the spirit; that their object is fame and the admiration of men; whereas a communion with the spirit is so satisfying, so exalting, so expanding in its nature as to degrade the differences of scientific men into the squabbles of children quarrelling about a toy.

A sweet silence reigns around me where I sit Tom. I hear nothing save the cawing of some rooks, the song of a cockrobin and an occasional spurt from my fire. The boys are all gone to church and their absence is a relief to me. I wished last night to have a cottage somewhere in the midst of a wood of pines where I might see the trees

tossing their cones

to the day song of their waterfall tones⁵

for I was wearied of Science and the clatter of boys, and lo! this Sunday morning has descended gently and gives me the repose I wished for.

I feel a kind of degradation in stepping down from the platform from which I have hitherto addressed thee to say something of secular matters. I am glad you have taken lodgings – just proceed on your way as if this Galway matter⁶ had no existence. I wrote to you a few days ago⁷ inclosing notes of introduction to Magnus, Dove and duBois Reymond.⁸ I did not know that you had arrived in Berlin⁹ so therefore addressed them poste restante. Send me word what the cost of the Thermo saüle¹⁰ is and I will contrive to send the money somehow. I had a letter from D^r Bence Jones¹¹ a man of some eminence in London, asking me to undertake a translation of the physical portion of the Giessen Jahres Bericht; a portion of which I will probably undertake. In a note received from the same gentleman yesterday¹² he tells me that he has been speaking of me to the Revd. M^r Barlow the Secretary of the Royal Institution as likely to deliver a good course of lectures and asks me if I would engage to deliver a lecture on some Friday evening either before or after Easter.¹³ I will see what can be done. You are aware I suppose that the ‘scientific memoirs’ are now edited by four persons of which I am one. Francis has the chemistry, Henfrey the Botany, Huxley the zoology and Tyndall Natural Philosophy.¹⁴ Tell DuBois Reymond when you see him that I have already marked the two papers of his friend Helmholtz which appear in Pogg. 8 and 9 for the Phil. Mag. both will appear.¹⁵

God grant that I may be always ready to listen with reverent attention to the admonition of a friend who is competent to give it — I received thy letter boy¹⁶ — never shrink from telling me your mind, for your counsel is ever sweet to me.

ever thine John.

You have already¹⁷ made the acquaintance of Prof. Poggendorf. Greet him from me kindly when you see him, and should you ever meet M^rs Poggendorf present my respects.

RI MS JT/1/T/554