To Alexander Cumming   27th June 1853¹

Queenwood 27th June 1853.

My dear Alexander

This is a wild evening at Queenwood; the wind is blowing, the windows shaking and the branches of the shrubs outside are tossed hither and thither. The wheat field at the opposite side of the road is furrowed with waves which roll up the side of the hill to the avenue at the top. It is a beautiful thing this wave motion and strange how the simple motion of the ears of corn to and fro can produce such an extraordinary progressive motion of the surface, just as the simple up and down motion of the particles of water can produce the waves of the sea.

For some time back I have been troubled with a headache which always attacks me when I commence thinking, it has been brought on I believe by thinking too much and I must endeavour to drive it away by thinking little – or at least if I think at all it must be on something pleasant. To day I have not attempted to do anything and this evening an occupation suggested itself to me which, as I find a pleasure in it, instead of making my head worse will make it better – the occupation is that of writing to you.

Prompted by this selfish motive – the simple motive of pleasing myself and making my headache better I take up my pen. But why in the name of fortune do I write to you? Why not take up my journal and write there to my heart’s content and thus spare myself the penny stamp.² To all these questions I must answer ‘I dont know! Perhaps somebody might account for it by saying ‘oh you like Alexander perhaps’ but this does not solve the riddle, for if any body asked me ‘why do you like him?’ I should still be forced to answer ‘I dont know’. I dont know how it is that sometimes even at night and when it would be all the better for my head if I were fast asleep the thought of one or two particular boys should present itself to my mind, and that I should experience underneath my chest where anatomists say the heart lies, a certain feeling of warmth like that experienced by cold feet on a winter night when a bottle of hot water is placed against them. I am profoundly ignorant of the cause of all this, but I am very thankful that such feelings are granted to me, as a cold heart is far more dreary and uncomfortable than cold feet, bad as they are. But you will wonder to find me writing in this way, and perhaps you thought when I spoke of waves that I was going to preach science to you, but here you are mistaken. Indeed the feeling that was uppermost in my mind when the thought of writing to you occurred to me was that which a person experiences on separating from a friend for a long time – perhaps for ever – and who is unwilling to depart without saying goodbye. I dont know whether I shall see you again, or whether I must not content myself for the future with these midnight visits, when with the eye of my mind I shall look into your face and feel the bottle of water shedding its warmth underneath my ribs. I shall not be here when you come back, I shall be in Berlin, but even then I shall think of you and in my own silent way pray God to bless you. In Berlin I shall remain until the end of the year and afterwards my vocation will be that of Professor of Natural Philosophy in the Royal Institution³ Albermarle St. London. Thus you see I am to teach you no more, perhaps see you no more unless you cheer me sometimes by a visit to London. I am to be succeeded by a gentleman named Hirst⁴ – a friend of my own who has spent three years at the Universities of Marburg and Berlin and is now in Paris. I think you heard him lecture once here.⁵ He is a very able young man, indeed I have rarely met one with so powerful a mind and the chief point is that his heart is as good as his head. I hope you will like each other – I hope he will love you ten times better than I do, and if he can contrive to do this you will be well beloved indeed. In writing thus far I have never mentioned George,⁶ but I have thought of you both all through. Mr. Edmondson tells me that you are to bring two little brothers back with you, – how I should like to see them – but I shall be far away when you return. I hope you will take care of your brothers, and what is the best possible way of taking care of them ? not by giving them good advice, though this may be well, but by showing them a worthy example. In my view all else is worthless, no matter what our tongues may utter it is our characters that really speak. A man’s nature radiates through him – a good boy – which I define to be an upright, truthful, loving, brave boy; works by a kind of magnetism instead of by words. But I must draw to a close. I must fancy my arms around your neck and that I am giving you a last kiss (what an old woman of a fellow I am to talk thus!). I know that you are ignorant of most of the vices and follies of the world – ignorant of many practices which are destructive even to boys – keep clear of them my son. Keep your heart and thoughts above them. Recollect the first temptation to sin of any kind is always the most easily strangled – strangle the first my boy and preserve your freedom. I hang upon these last lines, the thoughts within me are like the sound of dying music, but I must end them and bid you good bye. Do your duty my son – that’s the grand maxim, and if too many duties present themselves do the nearest and you will gain insight by the effort. And now I throw my arms round you – press you closely to my heart – give you the kiss before alluded to and say once more good bye.

Your affectionate friend | John Tyndall.⁷

RI MS JT/1/TYP/1/1/255–256

LT Typescript Only