No More Learning

We halted at the base of the Tête du Lion, a bold precipice
formed by the sudden cutting down of the ridge which flanks the
Val Tournanche to the right. From its base to the Matterhorn
stretches the Col du Lion; crossed for the first time in 1860, by
Mr. Hawkins, myself, and our two guides. We were now beside
a snow gully, which was cut by a deep furrow along its centre,
and otherwise scarred by the descent of stones. Here each man
arranged his bundle and himself, so as to cross the gully in the
minimum of time. The passage was safely made, a few flying
shingle only coming down upon us. But danger declared itself
where it was not expected. Joseph Maquignaz led the way up


## p. 15144 (#84) ###########################################

15144
JOHN TYNDALL
the rocks. I was next, Pierre Maquignaz next, and last of all
the porters.
Suddenly a yell issued from the leader: «Cachez-
vous ! » I crouched instinctively ágainst the rock, which formed
a by no means perfect shelter, when a bowlder buzzed past me
through the air, smote the rocks below me, and with a savage
hum flew down to the lower glacier. Thus warned, we swerved
to an arête; and when stones fell afterwards, they plunged to
the right or left of us.
In 1860 the great couloir which stretches from the Col du
Lion downwards was filled with a névé of deep snow. But the
atmospheric conditions which have caused the glaciers of Switz-
erland to shrink so remarkably during the last ten years have
swept away this névé. We had descended it in 1860 hip-deep in
snow, and I was now reminded of its steepness by the inclina-
tion of its bed. Maquignaz was incredulous when I pointed out
to him the line of descent to which we had been committed, in
order to avoid the falling stones of the Tête du Lion. Bennen's
warnings on the occasion were very emphatic, and I could under-
stand their wisdom now better than I did then.
When Mr. Hawkins and myself first tried the Matterhorn,
a temporary danger, sufficient to quell for a time the enthusi-
asm even of our lion-hearted guide, was added to the permanent
Fresh snow had fallen two days before; it had quite over-
sprinkled the Matterhorn, converting the brown of its crags into
an iron-gray; this snow had been melted and re-frozen, form-
ing upon the rocks an enameling of ice. Besides their physical
front, moreover, in 1860, the rocks presented a psychological
one, derived from the rumor of their savage inaccessibility. The
crags, the ice, and the character of the mountain, all conspired to
stir the feelings. Much of the wild mystery has now vanished;
.
especially at those points which in 1860 were places of virgin
difficulty, but down which ropes now hang to assist the climber.
The intrinsic grandeur of the Matterhorn, however, cannot be
effaced.
After some hours of steady climbing, we halted upon a plat-
form beside the tattered remnant of one of the tents employed by
me in 1862. Here we sunned ourselves for an hour. We subse-
quently worked upward, scaling the crags and rounding the bases
of those wild and wonderful rock-towers, into which the weather
of ages has hewn the southern ridge of the Matterhorn. The
work required knowledge, but with a fair amount of skill it is
ones.


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JOHN TYNDALL
15145
safe work. I can fancy nothing more fascinating to a man given
by nature and habit to such things than a climb alone among
these crags and precipices. He need not be theological; but if
complete, the grandeur of the place would certainly fill him with
religious awe.
Looked at from Breuil, the Matterhorn presents two summits:
the one, the summit proper, a square rock-tower in appearance;
the other, which is really the end of a sharp ridge abutting
against the rock-tower, an apparently conical peak. On this
peak Bennen and myself planted our flagstaff in 1862.
At some
distance below it the mountain is crossed by an almost horizon-
tal ledge, always loaded with snow, which from its resemblance
to a white necktie has been called the Cravate. On this ledge
a cabin was put together in 1867. It stands above the precipice
where I quitted my rope in 1862. Up this precipice, by the aid
of a thicker — I will not say a stronger — rope, we now scram-
bled; and following the exact route pursued by Bennen and
myself five years previously, we came to the end of the Cravate.
At some places the snow upon the ledge fell steeply from its
junction with the ciiff; deep step-cutting was also needed where
the substance had been melted and re-congealed. The passage,
however, was soon accomplished along the Cravate to the cabin,
which was almost filled with snow.
Our first need was water. We could of course always melt
the snow; but this would involve a wasteful expenditure of heat.
The cliff at the base of which the hut was built, overhung;
and from its edge the liquefied snow fell in showers beyond the
cabin. Four ice-axes were fixed on the ledge, and over them was
spread the residue of a second tent which I had left at Breuil
in 1862. The water falling upon the canvas flowed towards its
centre. Here an orifice was made, through which the liquid
descended into vessels placed to receive it. Some modification of
this plan might probably be employed with profit for the storing-
up of water for droughty years in England.
I lay for some hours in the warm sunshine, in presence of
the Italian mountains, watching the mutations of the air. But
when the sun sank, the air became chill, and we all retired to
the cabin. We had no fire, though warmth was much needed.
A lover of the mountains, and of his kind, had contributed an
India-rubber mattress; on which I lay down, a light blanket
being thrown over me, while the guides and porters were rolled


## p. 15146 (#86) ###########################################

15146
JOHN TYNDALL
up in sheepskins. The mattress was a poor defense against the
cold of the subjacent rock. I bore this for two hours, unwilling
to disturb the guides; but at length it became intolerable.
learning my condition, however, the good fellows were soon alert;
and folding a sheepskin around me, restored me gradually to a
pleasant temperature. I fell asleep, and found the guides prepar-
ing breakfast and the morning well advanced when I opened my
eyes.
It was past six o'clock when the two brothers and I quit-
ted the cabin. The porters deemed their work accomplished, but
they halted for a time to ascertain whether we were likely to
be driven back or to push forward. We skirted the Cravate, and
reached the bridge at its western extremity. This we ascended
along the old route of Bennen and myself to the conical peak
already referred to, which, as seen from Breuil, constitutes a kind
of second summit of the Matterhorn. From this point to the
base of the final precipice of the mountain stretches an arête,
terribly hacked by the weather, but on the whole horizontal.
When I first made the acquaintance of this savage ridge - called
by Italians the Spalla — it was almost clear of snow. It was now
loaded, the snow being beveled to an edge of exceeding sharp-
The slope to the left, falling towards Zmutt, was exceed-
ingly steep, while the precipices on the right were abysmal. No
other part of the Matterhorn do I remember with greater interest
than this. It was terrible, but its difficulties were fairly within
the grasp of human skill; and this association is more ennobling
than where the circumstances are such as to make you conscious
of your own helplessness. On one of the sharpest teeth of the
ridge Joseph Maquignaz halted, and turning to me with a smile,
remarked, “There is no room for giddiness here, sir. ” In fact,
such possibilities in such places must be altogether excluded from
the chapter of accidents of the climber.
It was at the end of this ridge, where it abuts against the last
precipice of the Matterhorn, that my second flagstaff was left in
1862. I think there must have been something in the light fall-
ing upon this precipice, that gave it an aspect of greater verti-
cality when I first saw it than it seemed to possess on the present
occasion. We had however been struggling for many hours pre-
viously, and may have been dazed by our exertion. I cannot
otherwise account for three of my party declining fatly to make
any attempt upon the precipice. It looks very bad, but no real
ness.


## p. 15147 (#87) ###########################################

JOHN TYNDALL
15147
climber with his strength unimpaired would pronounce it, without
trial, insuperable. Fears of this rock-wall, however, had been
excited long before we reached it. It was probably the addition
of the psychological element to the physical — the reluctance to
encounter new dangers on a mountain which had hitherto inspired
a superstitious fear -- that quelled further exertion.
Seven hundred feet, if the barometric measurement can be
trusted, of very difficult rock-work now lay above us. In 1862
this height had been underestimated by both Bennen and myself.
Of the 14,800 feet of the Matterhorn, we then thought we had
accomplished 14,600. If the barometer speaks truly, we had only
cleared 14,200.
Descending the end of the ridge, we crossed a narrow cleft
and grappled with the rocks at the other side of it. Our ascent
was oblique, bearing to the right. The obliquity at one place
fell to horizontality, and we had to work on the level round a
difficult protuberance of rock. We cleared the difficulty with-
out haste, and then rose straight against the precipice. Above
us a rope hung down the cliff, left there by Maquignaz on the
occasion of his first ascent. We reached the end of this rope,
and some time was lost by my guide in assuring himself that it
was not too much frayed by friction. Care in testing it was
doubly necessary; for the rocks, bad in themselves, were here
crusted with ice. The rope was in some places a mere hempen
core surrounded by a casing of ice, over which the hands slid
helplessly. Even with the aid of the rope in this condition
it required an effort to get to the top of the precipice, and
we willingly halted there to take a minute's breath. The ascent
was virtually accomplished, and a few minutes more of rapid
climbing placed us on the lightning-smitten top. Thus ended the
long contest between me and the Matterhorn.
The day thus far had swung through alternations of fog
and sunshine. While we were on the ridge below, the air at
times was blank and chill with mist; then with rapid solution
the cloud would vanish, and open up the abysses right and left
On our attaining the summit a fog from Italy rolled
over us, and for some minutes we were clasped by a cold and
clammy atmosphere. But this passed rapidly away, leaving above
us a blue heaven, and far below us the sunny meadows of Zer-
matt. The mountains were almost wholly unclouded, and such
clouds as lingered amongst them only added to their magnificence.
of us.


## p. 15148 (#88) ###########################################

15148
JOHN TYNDALL
on
4
1
The Dent d'Érin, the Dent Blanche, the Gabelhorn, the Mischabel,
the range of heights between it and Monte Rosa, the Lyskamm,
and the Breithorn, were all at hand, and clear; while the Weiss-
horn, noblest and most beautiful of all, shook out a banner to-
wards the north, formed by the humid southern air as it grazed
the crest of the mountain.
The world of peaks and glaciers surrounding this immediate
circlet of giants was also open to us up to the horizon. Our
glance over it was brief; for it was eleven o'clock, and the work
before us soon claimed all our attention. I found the débris of
my former expedition everywhere: below, the fragments of my
tents, and on the top a piece of my ladder fixed in the snow as
a flagstaff. The summit of the Matterhorn is a sharp horizontal
arête, and along this we now moved eastward. On our left was
the roof-like slope of snow seen from the Riffel and Zermatt;
our right were the savage precipices which fall into Italy.
Looking to the further end of the ridge, the snow there seemed
to be trodden down; and I drew my companions' attention to
the apparent footmarks. As we approached the place, it became
evident that human feet had been there two or three days pre-
viously. I think it was Mr. Elliot of Brighton who had made
this ascent,—the first accomplished from Zermatt since 1865.
On the eastern end of the ridge we halted to take a little food;
not that I seemed to need it, - it was the remonstrance of reason
rather than the consciousness of physical want that caused me
to do so.
We took our ounce of nutriment and gulp of wine (my only
sustenance during the entire day), and stood for a moment
silently and earnestly looking down towards Zermatt. There was
a certain official formality in the manner in which the guides
turned to me and asked, “Êtes-vous content d'essayer ? ” [“Are
you willing to try ? "] A sharp responsive “Oui! ” set us immedi-
ately in motion. It was nearly half past eleven when we quitted
the summit. The descent of the roof-like slope already referred
to offered no difficulty; but the gradient very soon became more
formidable.
One of the two faces of the Matterhorn pyramid, seen from
Zermatt, falls towards the Zmutt glacier, and has a well-known
snow plateau at its base. The other face falls towards the Furgge
glacier. We were on the former. For some time, however, we
kept close to the arête formed by the intersection of the two


## p. 15149 (#89) ###########################################

JOHN TYNDALL
15149
faces of the pyramid; because nodules of rock jutted from it
which offered a kind of footing. These rock protuberances helped
us in another way: round them an extra rope which we carried
was frequently doubled, and we let ourselves down by the rope
as far as it could reach, liberating it afterwards (sometimes with
difficulty) by a succession of jerks. In the choice and use of
these protuberances the guides showed both judgment and skill.
The rocks became gradually larger and more precipitous, a good
deal of time being consumed in dropping down and doubling
round them. Still we preferred them to the snow slope at our
left as long as they continued practicable.
This they at length ceased to be, and we had to commit
ourselves to the slope. It was in the worst possible condition.
When snow first falls at these great heights it is usually dry,
and has no coherence. It resembles to some extent flour, or
sand, or sawdust. Shone upon by a strong sun, it partly melts,
shrinks, and becomes more consolidated; and when subsequently
frozen it may be safely trusted. Even though the melting of
the snow and its subsequent freezing may only be very partial,
the cementing of the granules adds immensely to the safety of
the footing. Hence the advantage of descending such a slope
before the sun has had time to unlock the rigidity of the night's
frost. But we were on the steepest Matterhorn slope during the
two hottest hours of the day, and the sun had done his work
effectually. The layer of snow was about fifteen inches thick.
In treading it we came immediately upon the rock, which in
most cases was too smooth to furnish either prop or purchase. It
was on this slope that the Matterhorn catastrophe occurred; it is
on this slope that other catastrophes will occur, if this mountain
should ever become fashionable.
Joseph Maquignaz was the leader of our little party; and a
brave, cool, and competent leader he proved himself to be. He
was silent, save when he answered his brother's anxious and
oft-repeated question, Es-tu bien placé, Joseph ? ” Along with
being perfectly cool and brave, he seemed to be perfectly truth-
ful. He did not pretend to be “ bien placé » when he was not,
nor avow a power of holding which he knew he did not possess.
Pierre Maquignaz is, I believe, under ordinary circumstances, an
excellent guide, and he enjoys the reputation of being never
tired. But in such circumstances as we encountered on the Mat-
terhorn he is not the equal of his brother. Joseph, if I may
»


## p. 15150 (#90) ###########################################

15150
JOHN TYNDALL
-
use the term, is a man of high boiling point, his constitutional
sangfroid resisting the ebullition of fear. Pierre, on the con-
trary, shows a strong tendency to boil over in perilous places.
Our progress was exceedingly slow, but it was steady and
continued. At every step our leader trod the snow cautiously,
seeking some rugosity on the rock beneath it. This however
was rarely found, and in most cases he had to establish a me-
chanical attachment between the snow and the slope which bore
it. No semblance of a slip occurred in the case of any one of
us; and had it occurred, I do not think the worst consequences
could have been avoided. I wish to stamp this slope of the
Matterhorn with the character that really belonged to it when
I descended it; and I do not hesitate to say that the giving way
of any one of our party would have carried the whole of us to
ruin. Why, then, it may be asked, employ the rope ? The rope, I
reply, notwithstanding all its possible drawbacks under such cir-
cumstances, is the safeguard of the climber. Not to speak of the
,
moral effect of its presence, an amount of help upon a dangerous
slope that might be measured by the gravity of a few pounds is
often of incalculable importance; and thus, though the rope may
be not only useless but disastrous if the footing be clearly lost,
and the glissade fairly begun, it lessens immensely the chance of
this occurrence.
With steady perseverance, difficulties upon a mountain, as
elsewhere, come to an end. We were finally able to pass from
the face of the pyramid to its rugged edge, where it was a great
relief to feel that honest strength and fair skill, which might
have gone for little on the slope, were masters of the situation.
Standing on the arête, at the foot of a remarkable cliff gable
seen from Zermatt, and permitting the vision to range over the
Matterhorn, its appearance is exceedingly wild and impressive.
Hardly two things can be more different than the two aspects of
the mountain from above and below. Seen from the Riffel, or
Zermatt, it presents itself as a compact pyramid, smooth and
steep, and defiant of the weathering air. From above, it seems
torn to pieces by the frosts of ages; while its vast facettes are so
foreshortened as to stretch out into the distance like plains. But
this underestimate of the steepness of the mountain is checked
by the deportment of its stones. Their discharge along the side
of the pyramid to-day was incessant; and at any moment, by de-
taching a single bowlder, we could let loose a cataract of them,
1


## p. 15151 (#91) ###########################################

JOHN TYNDALL
15151
soon
which flew with wild rapidity and with a thunderous clatter down
the mountain. We once wandered too far from the arête, and
were warned back to it by a train of these missiles sweeping
past us.
As long as our planet yields less heat to space than she
receives from the bodies of space, so long will the forms upon
her surface undergo mutation; and as as equilibrium in
regard to heat has been established, we shall have, as Thomson
has pointed out, not peace but death. Life is the product and
accompaniment of change; and the selfsame power that tears the
flanks of the hills to pieces is the mainspring of the animal and
vegetable worlds. Still there is something chilling in the contem-
plation of the irresistible and remorseless character of those infi-
nitesimal forces, whose integration through the ages pulls down
even the Matterhorn. Hacked and hurt by time, the aspect of
the mountain from its higher crags saddened me. Hitherto the
impression that it made was that of savage strength; but here we
had inexorable decay.
This notion of decay, however, implied a reference to a period
when the Matterhorn was in the full strength of mountainhood.
My thoughts naturally ran back to its possible growth and origin.
Nor did they halt there; but wandered on through molten worlds
to that nebulous haze which philosophers have regarded, and
with good reason, as the proximate source of all material things.
I tried to look at this universal cloud, containing within itself
the prediction of all that has since occurred; I tried to imagine
it as the seat of those forces whose action was to issue in solar
and stellar systems, and all that they involve. Did that form-
less fog contain potentially the sadness with which I regarded the
Matterhorn? Did the thought which now ran back to it simply
return to its primeval home? If so, had we not better recast our
definitions of matter and force ? for if life and thought be the
very flower of both, any definition which omits life and thought
must be inadequate if not untrue.
Questions like these, useless as they seem, may still have a
practical outcome. For if the final goal of man has not been
yet attained, if his development has not been yet arrested, who
can say that such yearnings and questionings are not necessary to
the opening of a finer vision, to the budding and the growth
of diviner powers? Without this upward force could man have
risen to his present height? When I look at the heavens and the


## p. 15152 (#92) ###########################################

15152
JOHN TYNDALL
are
earth, at my own body, at my strength and weakness of mind.
even at these ponderings, and ask myself, Is there no being or
thing in the universe that knows more about these matters than
I do? — what is my answer? Supposing our theologic schemes of
creation, condemnation, and redemption to be dissipated; and the
warmth of denial which they excite, and which, as a motive force,
can match the warmth of affirmation, dissipated at the same time:
would the undeflected human mind return to the meridian of
absolute neutrality as regards these ultra-physical questions? Is
such a position one of stable equilibrium ?
Such the questions, without replies, which could run
through consciousness during a ten-minutes' halt upon the weath-
ered spire of the Matterhorn.
We shook the rope away from us, and went rapidly down the
rocks. The day was well advanced when we reached the cabin,
and between it and the base of the pyramid we missed our way.
It was late when we regained it, and by the time we reached the
ridge of the Hörnli we were unable to distinguish rock from ice.
We should have fared better than we did if we had kept along
the ridge and felt our way to the Schwarz See, whence there
would have been no difficulty in reaching Zermatt; but we left
the Hörnli to our right, and found ourselves incessantly checked
in the darkness by ledges and precipices, possible and actual. We
were afterwards entangled in the woods of Zmutt, carving our
way wearily through bush and bramble, and creeping at times
along dry and precipitous stream-beds. But we finally struck the
path and followed it to Zermatt, which we reached between one
and two o'clock in the morning.
THE CLAIMS OF SCIENCE
From the Belfast Address)
T
RACE the line of life backwards, and see it approaching more
and more to what we call the purely physical condition.
We come at length to those organisms which I have com-
pared to drops of oil suspended in a mixture of alcohol and
water. We reach the protogenes of Haeckel, in which we have
"a type distinguishable from a fragment of albumen only by its
finely granular character. " Can we pause here? We break a


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JOHN TYNDALL
15153
magnet and find two poles in each of its fragments. We con-
tinue the process of breaking; but however small the parts, each
carries with it, though enfeebled, the polarity of the whole. And
when we can break no longer, we prolong the intellectual vision
to the polar molecules.
Are we not urged to do something sim-
ilar in the case of life? Is there not a temptation to close to
some extent with Lucretius, when he affirms that “Nature is seen
to do all things spontaneously of herself, without the meddling
of the gods”? or with Bruno, when he declares that Matter is
not that 'mere empty capacity which philosophers have pictured
her to be, but the universal mother, who brings forth all things
as the fruit of her own womb”? Believing as I do in the con-
tinuity of nature, I cannot stop abruptly where our microscopes
cease to be of use. Here the vision of the mind authoritatively
supplements the vision of the eye. By an intellectual necessity I
cross the boundary of the experimental evidence, and discern in
that Matter — which we, in our ignorance of its latent powers,
and notwithstanding our professed reverence for its Creator, have
hitherto covered with opprobrium — the promise and potency of
all terrestrial life.
If you ask me whether there exists the least evidence to prove
that any form of life can be developed out of matter, without
demonstrable antecedent life, my reply is that evidence considered
perfectly conclusive by many has been adduced; and that, were
some of us who have pondered this question to follow a very
common example, and accept testimony because it falls in with
our belief, we also should eagerly close with the evidence referred
But there is in the true man of science a wish stronger than
the wish to have his beliefs upheld, -namely, the wish to have
them true; and this stronger wish causes him to reject the most
plausible support if he has reason to suspect that it is vitiated
by error. Those to whom I refer as having studied this ques-
tion, believing the evidence offered in favor of "spontaneous gen-
eration to be thus vitiated, cannot accept it. They know full
well that the chemist now prepares from inorganic matter a vast
array of substances which were some time ago regarded as the
sole products of vitality. They are intimately acquainted with
the structural power of matter as evidenced in the phenomena
of crystallization. They can justify scientifically their belief in its
potency, under the proper conditions, to produce organisms. But
in reply to your question, they will frankly admit their inability
XXVI–948
to.
.
1


## p. 15154 (#94) ###########################################

15154
JOHN TYNDALL
»
to point to any satisfactory experimental proof that life can be
developed save from demonstrable antecedent life.
As already
indicated, they draw the line from the highest organisms through
lower ones down to the lowest; and it is the prolongation of this
line by the intellect beyond the range of the senses that leads
them to the conclusion which Bruno so boldly enunciated.
The “materialism ” here professed may be vastly different
from what you suppose, and I therefore crave your gracious
patience to the end. « The question of an external world,” says
Mr. J. S. Mill, "is the great battle-ground of metaphysics. ” Mr.
Mill himself reduces external phenomena to "possibilities of sen-
sation. ” Kant, as we have seen, made time and space « forms »
of our own intuitions. Fichte, having first by the inexorable logic
of his understanding proved himself to be a mere link in that
chain of eternal causation which holds so rigidly in nature, vio-
lently broke the chain by making nature, and all that it inherits,
an apparition of his own mind. And it is by no means easy to
combat such notions. For when I say I see you, and that I have
not the least doubt about it, the reply is, that what I am really
conscious of is an affection of my own retina.
And if I urge
that I can check my sight of you by touching you, the retort
would be that I am equally transgressing the limits of fact; for
what I am really conscious of is, not that you are there, but that
the nerves of my hand have undergone a change. All we hear,
and see, and touch, and taste, and smell, are, it would be urged,
mere variations of our own condition, beyond which, even to the
extent of a hair's-breadth, we cannot go. That anything answer-
ing to our impressions exists outside of ourselves is not a fact,
but an inference, to which all validity would be denied by an
idealist like Berkeley, or by a skeptic like Hume. Mr. Spencer
, .
takes another line. With him, as with the uneducated man, there
is no doubt or question as to the existence of an external world.
But he differs from the uneducated, who think that the world
really is what consciousness represents it to be. Our states of
consciousness are mere symbols of an outside entity, which pro-
duces them and determines the order of their succession, but the
real nature of which we never know. In fact, the whole
process of evolution is the manifestation of a' Power absolutely
inscrutable to the intellect of man. As little in our day as in the
days of Job can man by searching find this Power out. Con-
sidered fundamentally, then, it is by the operation of an insoluble
can


## p. 15155 (#95) ###########################################

JOHN TYNDALL
15155
-
mystery that life on earth is evolved, species differentiated, and
mind unfolded, from their prepotent elements in the unmeasur-
able past. There is, you will observe, no very rank materialism
here,
The strength of the doctrine of evolution consists, not in an
experimental demonstration (for the subject is hardly accessible
to this mode of proof), but in its general harmony with scientific
thought.
From contrast, moreover, it derives enormous relative strength.
On the one side, we have a theory (if it could with any pro-
priety be so called) derived, as were the theories referred to at
the beginning of this address, not from the study of nature, but
from the observation of men - a theory which converts the
Power whose garment is seen in the visible universe into an
artificer, fashioned after the human model, and acting by broken
efforts as a man is seen to act. On the other side, we have
the conception that all we see around us, and all we feel within
us, - the phenomena of physical nature as well as those of the
human mind,- have their unsearchable roots in a cosmical life
(if I dare apply the term), an infinitesimal span of which is
offered to the investigation of man. And even this span is only
knowable in part. We can trace the development of a nervous
system, and correlate with it the parallel phenomena of sensation
and thought. We see with undoubting certainty that they go
hand in hand. But we try to soar in a vacuum the moment
we seek to comprehend the connection between them. An Archi-
medean fulcrum is here required which the human mind cannot
command; and the effort to solve the problem, to borrow a com-
parison from an illustrious friend of mine, is like the effort of
a man trying to lift himself by his own waistband. All that
has been here said is to be taken in connection with this funda-
mental truth. When nascent senses are spoken of, when the
differentiation of a tissue at first vaguely sensitive all over
. » is
spoken of, and when these processes are associated with the
(
modification of an organism by its environment,” the same paral-
lelism, without contact or even approach to contact, is implied.
Man the object is separated by an impassable gulf from man the
subject. There is no motor energy in intellect to carry it without
logical rupture from the one to the other.
Further, the doctrine of evolution derives man in his total-
ity from the interaction of organism and environment through
(
>>
(


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JOHN TYNDALL
countless ages past. The human understanding, for example, -
that faculty which Mr. Spencer has turned so skillfully round
upon its own antecedents,- is itself a result of the play between
organism and environment through cosmic ranges of time.
Never surely did prescription plead so irresistible a claim. But
then it comes to pass that, over and above his understanding,
there are many other things appertaining to man whose pre-
scriptive rights are quite as strong as those of the understanding
itself. It is a result, for example, of the play of organism and
environment, that sugar is sweet and that aloes are bitter, that
the smell of henbane differs from the perfume of a rose. Such
facts of consciousness (for which, by the way, no adequate rea-
son has yet been rendered) are quite as old as the understand-
ing; and many other things can boast an equally ancient origin.
Mr. Spencer at one place refers to that most powerful of pas-
sions, the amatory passion, as one which when it first occurs is
antecedent to all relative experience whatever; and we may pass
its claim as being at least as ancient and valid as that of the
understanding. Then there are such things woven into the text-
ure of man as the feelings of awe, reverence, wonder; and not
alone the sexual love just referred to, but the love of the beau-
tiful, physical, and moral, in nature, poetry, and art. There is
also that deep-set feeling, which since the earliest dawn of his-
tory, and probably for ages prior to all history, incorporated itself
in the religions of the world. You who have escaped from these
religions into the high-and-dry light of the intellect may deride
them; but in so doing you deride accidents of form merely, and
fail to touch the immovable basis of the religious sentiment in
the nature of man. To yield this sentiment reasonable satisfac-
tion is the problem of problems at the present hour.
tesque in relation to scientific culture as many of the religions
of the world have been and are,- dangerous, nay destructive, to
the dearest privileges of freemen as some of them undoubtedly
have been, and would, if they could, be again,- it will be wise
to recognize them as the forms of a force, mischievous if per-
mitted to intrude on the region of knowledge, over which it holds
no command, but capable of being guided to noble issues in the
region of emotion, which is its proper and elevated sphere.
All religious theories, schemes, and systems, which embrace
notions of cosmogony, or which otherwise reach into the domain
of science, must, in so far as they do this, submit to the control
And gro-
>


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JOHN TYNDALL
15157
source.
of science, and relinquish all thought of controlling it. Acting
otherwise proved disastrous in the past, and it is simply fatuous
to-day. Every system which would escape the fate of an organ-
ism too rigid to adjust itself to its environment, must be plastic
to the extent that the growth of knowledge demands. When
this truth has been thoroughly taken in, rigidity will be relaxed,
exclusiveness diminished, things now deemed essential will be
dropped, and elements now rejected will be assimilated. The lift-
ing of the life is the essential point; and as long as dogmatism,
fanaticism, and intolerance are kept out, various modes of lever-
age may be employed to raise life to a higher level. Science itself
not unfrequently derives a motive power from an ultra-scientific
Whewell speaks of enthusiasm of temper as a hindrance
to science; but he means the enthusiasm of weak heads. There
is a strong and resolute enthusiasm in which science finds an
ally; and it is to the lowering of this fire, rather than to the
diminution of intellectual insight, that the lessening productive-
ness of men of science in their mature years is to be ascribed.
Mr. Buckle sought to detach intellectual achievement from moral
force. He gravely erred; for without moral force to whip it into
action, the achievements of the intellect would be poor indeed.
It has been said that science divorces itself from literature;
but the statement, like so many others, arises from lack of
knowledge. A glance at the least technical writings of its lead-
ers — of its Helmholtz, its Huxley, and its Du Bois-Reymond -
would show what breadth of literary culture they command.
Where among modern writers can you find their superiors in
clearness and vigor of literary style ? Science desires not isola-
tion, but freely combines with every effort towards the bettering
of man's estate. Single-handed, and supported not by outward
sympathy but by inward force, it has built at least one great
wing of the many-mansioned home which man in his totality
demands. And if rough walls and protruding rafter-ends indi-
cate that on one side the edifice is still incomplete, it is only
by wise combination of the parts required, with those already
irrevocably built, that we can hope for completeness. There
is no necessary incongruity between what has been accomplished
and what remains to be done. The moral glow of Socrates, which
we all feel by ignition, has in it nothing incompatible with the
physics of Anaxagoras which he so much scorned, but which he
would hardly scorn to-day.


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JOHN TYNDALL
3
And here I am reminded of one amongst us, hoary but still
strong, whose prophet-voice some thirty years ago, far more than
any other of his age, unlocked whatever of life and nobleness lay
latent in its most gifted minds; one fit to stand beside Socrates
or the Maccabean Eleazar, and to dare and suffer all that they
suffered and dared, — fit, as he once said of Fichte, “to have
been the teacher of the Stoa, and to have discoursed of beauty
and virtue in the grove of Academe. ” With a capacity to grasp
physical principles which his friend Goethe did not possess, and
which even total lack of exercise has not been able to reduce to
atrophy, it is the world's loss that he, in the vigor of his years,
did not open his mind and sympathies to science, and make its
conclusions a portion of his message to mankind. Marvelously
endowed as he was, equally equipped on the side of the heart
and of the understanding, he might have done much towards
teaching us how to reconcile the claims of both, and to enable
them in coming times to dwell together in unity of spirit, and
in the bond of peace.
And now the end is come. With more time or greater strength
and knowledge, what has been here said might have been better
said, while worthy matters here omitted might have received fit
expression. But there would have been no material deviation
from the views set forth. As regards myself, they are not the
growth of a day; and as regards you, I thought you ought to
know the environment which, with or without your consent, is
rapidly surrounding you, and in relation to which some adjust-
ment on your part may be necessary. A hint of Hamlet's, how-
ever, teaches us all how the troubles of common life may be
ended; and it is perfectly possible for you and me to purchase
intellectual peace at the price of intellectual death. The world is
not without refuges of this description; nor is it wanting in per-
sons who seek their shelter, and try to persuade others to do the
same. The unstable and the weak will yield to this persuasion,
and they to whom repose is sweeter than the truth. But I would
exhort you to refuse the offered shelter, and to scorn the base
repose; to accept, if the choice be forced upon you, commotion
before stagnation, the leap of the torrent before the stillness of
the swamp.
In the course of this address I have touched on debatable ques-
tions, and led you over what will be deemed dangerous ground;
and this partly with the view of telling you that as regards


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JOHN TYNDALL
15159
these questions, science claims unrestricted right of search. It is
not to the point to say that the views of Lucretius and Bruno,
of Darwin and Spencer, may be wrong.
Here I should agree
with you, deeming it indeed certain that these views will under-
go modification. But the point is, that whether right or wrong,
we ask the freedom to discuss them. For science, however,
no exclusive claim is here made; you are not urged to erect
it into an idol. The inexorable advance of man's understanding
in the path of knowledge, and those unquenchable claims of his
moral and emotional nature which the understanding can never
satisfy, are here equally set forth. The world embraces not only
a Newton, but a Shakespeare; not only a Boyle, but a Raphael;
not only a Kant, but a Beethoven; not only a Darwin, but a Car-
lyle. Not in each of these, but in all, is human nature whole.
They are not opposed, but supplementary; not mutually exclusive,
but reconcilable. And if, unsatisfied with them all, the human
mind, with the yearning of a pilgrim for his distant home, will
turn to the Mystery from which it emerged, seeking so to fash-
ion it as to give unity to thought and faith;- so long as this is
done not only without intolerance or bigotry of any kind, but
with the enlightened recognition that ultimate fixity of conception
is here unattainable, and that each succeeding age must be held
free to fashion the Mystery in accordance with its own needs,-
then, casting aside all the restrictions of materialism, I would
affirm this to be a field for the noblest exercise of what, in con-
trast with the knowing faculties, may be called the creative
faculties of man.
« Fill thy heart with it,” said Goethe, "and then name it as
thou wilt. ” Goethe himself did this in untranslatable language.
Wordsworth did it in words known to all Englishmen, and which
may be regarded as a forecast and religious vitalization of the
latest and deepest scientific truth :-
“For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,-
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime


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JOHN TYNDALL
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thoughts,
And rolls through all things. ”
1
.


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15161
TYRTÆUS, ARCHILOCHUS,
AND THEIR SUCCESSORS IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF
GREEK LYRIC
(700-450 B. C. )
BY H. RUSHTON FAIRCLOUGH
«Their songs divine
Who mixed for Grecian mouths heaven's lyric wine. ”
- SWINBURNE, (On the Cliffs. )
T is hardly necessary, 'I imagine, to insist upon the intrinsic
and permanent value of Greek poetry. As a body of liter-
ature, Greek poetry is the richest legacy that the modern
world has received from ancient times. The epic poems of Greece,
the Iliad and Odyssey, whether we regard them as the work of one
mind or the still more wonderful result of a school of bards, are in
their freshness, strength, and artistic beauty without a rival in the
early literature of nations. Greek tragedy under the masters, Æschy-
lus, Sophocles, and Euripides, comprises works of consummate genius,
which take rank with the highest tragic art of all times. Greek
comedy, at least that of Aristophanes, is unique in the history of
literature; and in later times the pastoral Muse of Theocritus sings
with a delicacy and sweetness that have never been surpassed.
In the sphere of lyric poetry Greece was no less great; but of the
ancient lyric writers the modern world is for certain reasons compar-
atively ignorant.
The Iliad and Odyssey have come down to us in their entirety.
In the case of the dramatists, though only a tithe of what they
wrote has survived, still so prolific were these masters, that that tithe
is very considerable. But the lyric writers have met misfortune at
the hands of time. In the case of many, their works are completely
lost; and as for the rest, mere scraps and fragments of their songs
are all that we can pick up. The only lyric poet of whom we can
know much, because much of him is preserved, is Pindar; and Pin-
dar's grand triumphal odes, written as they were to celebrate the
glories of victors in a chariot or foot race, a boxing or wrestling
match, are so elaborate and difficult of construction, and so alien in


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15162
TYRTÆUS, ARCHILOCHUS, ETC.
spirit to modern literary taste, that it is no easy matter to appre-
ciate his grandeur.
It may be asked why the great bulk of Greek lyric verse has dis-
appeared. The main answer is to be found in the essential character
of that poetry. It was song-poetry; i. l. , poetry composed for singing,
the soul of which vanished when the music passed away. After the
loss of Greek independence, Greek music rapidly degenerated. The
music composed by the poets of the classical period was too severe
and noble for the Greeks of later days. The older songs, therefore,
were no longer sung; and the poetry, minus its music, giving way
to shallow and sensational compositions, passed into oblivion.
Scanty however as are the fragments of Greek lyric poetry, these
scanty fragments are of priceless value. The little we possess makes
every lover of literature pray that among the rediscovered treasures
of antiquity, to which every year of late has made valuable contribu-
tions, many more of these lost lyrics may come to light.
In one sense or another, singing was characteristic of nearly all
forms of Greek poetry. The earliest conditions of epic recitation
may be realized from certain scenes in the Odyssey. In one passage
(viii. 62 ff. ) the shipwrecked Odysseus is a guest in the palace of King
Alcinous. The feast is spread, and the great hall is thronged with
Phæacians, when in the midst appears the blind Demodocus, led by
the King's herald, who sets the minstrel on a high chair inlaid with
silver, hangs up his lyre, and brings him a basket of bread and a
goblet of wine. After the feast the minstrel is stirred by the Muse
to sing the deeds of famous men, and his theme is a quarrel between
Odysseus and Achilles, “whereof the fame had reached the wide
heaven. ” At another feast (i. 325 ff. ) the suitors of Penelope compel
Phemius the minstrel to take his lyre and sing to them.
deals with the return of the Achæans from Troy; and as he sings,
Penelope in an upper room, with tears in her eyes, listens to the
strain.
Thus epic poetry, at least in the earliest times, was sung to the
lyre; but this singing was probably unlike the later recitations by
the rhapsodists, for the verse of Homer is unsuited for melodies, and
Greek writers uniformly distinguish epic from lyric, — the former
being narrative poetry, the latter song poetry.
Even elegiac poetry was not regarded by the Greeks as lyric; and
yet elegiac verse was originally sung to the music of the flute, an
instrument used both on mournful occasions and also at festive social
gatherings. But as melodies were found to be inappropriate with the
hexameter of epic verse, so their use was not long continued with
the elegiac couplet, which in its metrical form is so closely allied to
the hexameter.
His lay


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TYRTÆUS, ARCHILOCHUS, ETC.
15163
no
Still less lyric in character was the iambic verse of satire, which
was first perfected by Archilochus of Paros. Iambic metre, the metre
of English blank verse, is (as Aristotle long ago perceived) of all
verse forms the least removed from prose. And yet the iambics of
Archilochus, according to Plutarch, were sometimes sung. More fre-
quently this verse was given in recitative with musical accompani-
ment.
Both elegiac and iambic poetry, then, though originally lyrical, at
an early time lost their distinctly lyrical character; and even if their
recitation at a funeral or in camp or round the banqueting-board was
accompanied by music, yet they were more regarded by the
Greeks as lyrical than were the poems of Homer. For the sake of
convenience, however, and because of their subject-matter, these forms
are usually included under the head of lyric poetry by historians of
Greek literature.
During the epic period in Greece, lyric poetry existed mainly in
an embryonic, undeveloped state. Epic poetry held undisputed sway
till near the end of the eighth century before our era. Then began
a movement in the direction of political freedom. Oligarchies and
democracies took the place of ancient monarchies; the planting of col-
onies and the extension of commerce gave an impetus to the spirit
of enterprise and individual development; and the citizen began to
assume his proper rôle as a factor in the life of the State.
It was coincident with this change that lyric poetry — the poetry
thať voiced, not the ancestral glory of kings and princes, but the
feelings and experience of the individual — entered upon its course of
artistic development. The Ionians of Asia Minor were perhaps the
first Greeks among whom democratic institutions came to life. They
were certainly the most active in commercial and colonizing enter-
prises by land and sea, as well as the first to enter the hitherto un-
explored field of speculative philosophy.
To the student of Greek history, lyric poetry is very significant.
Without it we should hardly realize the great extent of the Greek
world toward east and west. Greece would mean little more than
Athens and Sparta. But lyric poetry widens ‘our vision.
Here we
learn of the wealth and luxury of the Asiatic Ionians, of the oble
chivalry and refinement of life in the Æolian isles of the Ægean sea,
of the beauty and grace of festal celebrations in the Dorian Pelopon-
nesus, in southern Italy and distant Sicily. Then comes Pindar, the
heroes of whose triumphal odes are Greeks hailing from all corners
of the known world,— from the coasts of the Black Sea, or the col-
onies of far-off Libya and remote Gaul.
In Ionic Greece the new poetry took two forms, - elegiac and
iambic. The structure of elegiac verse shows its close connection
with the epic; for it is written in couplets, of which the first line is
-


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15164
TYRTÆUS, ARCHILOCHUS, ETC.
1
i
the ordinary hexameter as employed by Homer, and the second the
same line abbreviated to five feet. The name elegy, however, indi-
cates the presence of a foreign element; for it comes from that of a
plaintive instrumental dirge, in vogue among certain tribes of Asia
Minor, especially the Phrygians, to which people belonged Olympus, a
musical reformer of the eighth century. As adopted by the Greeks,
elegy was not confined to mournful themes, but its application varied
as much as that of the flute, the Asiatic instrument which at first
accompanied it.
The earliest Greek elegists of whom we have any records are Cal-
linus and Tyrtæus, who lived as contemporaries at the beginning of
the seventh century B. C. Callinus, it is true, is a rather shadowy
personage; but he was regarded by the Greeks as the inventor of
elegy, and is known to have lived at Ephesus in Ionia, at a time
when Asia Minor was overrun by hordes of Cimmerians, who came
down from the northern shores of the Black Sea.
Tyrtæus, according to tradition, was born in Attica; but his poetic
career centres in Sparta. Here, during and after the second Messe-
nian war, there was much civic discord; and both Tyrtæus the poet
and Terpander the musician are said to have been publicly invited
by the Lacedæmonians to apply the resources of art in inspiring a
lofty patriotism, and thus healing the wounds of the body politic.
The lame Attic schoolmaster for tradition thus describes Tyrtaus
was eminently successful in his noble task; and the Spartans not
only conferred upon the poet the rare favor of citizenship, but did
him the greater honor of preserving his poems from age to age, and
revering them as national songs. These were sung by the soldiers
round the camp-fires at night; and the officers rewarded the best singer
with extra rations. Tyrtæus also composed choruses for groups of old
men, young men, and boys, the general character of which may be
inferred from the following popular ditty, which was sung to a dance
accompaniment:-
(a) In days of yore, most sturdy youths were we.
(6) That we are now: come, watch us, if
(c) But we'll be stronger far than all of you. *
.
you will.
Famous too were the marching-songs of Tyrtæus, which were
accompanied by flute music, and sung by the soldiers advancing to
battle. These were written in the tripping anapæstic measure, and
in the Dorian dialect.