“Undaunted he hies him
O’er ice-covered wild,
Where leaf never budded,
Nor spring ever smiled;
And beneath him an ocean of mist, where his eye
No longer the dwellings of man can espy.”
--SCHILLER.
As a traveller in search of Nature’s grandest works, Professor Tyndall
occupies a foremost place for his adventures in Alpine regions
previously regarded as unapproachable, as well as for his descriptions
of the views presented and the sentiments inspired by those peaks
of everlasting snow. The narrative of his achievements as an Alpine
traveller fills a larger volume than this one. Two or three specimens
must therefore suffice here. The following is the account he gave in a
letter to Faraday in August, 1858, of his ascent of Monte Rosa, which
was then considered much more difficult to climb than Mont Blanc:--
“I reached this mountain wild the day before yesterday. Soon after my
arrival it commenced snowing, and yesterday morning the mountains were
all covered by a deep layer. It heaped itself up against the windows
of this room, obscuring half the light. To-day the sun shines, and I
hope he will soon banish the snow, for the snow is a great traitor on
the glacier, and often covers smooth chasms which it would not be at
all comfortable to get into. I am here in a lonely house, the only
traveller. If you cast your eye on a map of Switzerland you will find
the valley of Saas not far from Visp. High up this valley, and three
hours above Saas itself, is the Distil Alp, and on this Alp I now
reside. Close beside the house a many-armed mountain torrent rushes,
and a little way down a huge glacier, coming down one of the side
valleys, throws itself across the torrent, dams it up, and forms the
so-called ‘Matmark See.’ Looking out of another window I have before
me an immense stone, the unshipped cargo of a glacier, and weighing
at least 1,000 tons. It is the largest boulder I have ever seen; it
is composed of serpentine, and measures 216,000 cubic feet. Previous
to coming here I spent ten days at the Riffel Hotel, above Zermatt,
and explored almost the whole of that glacier region. One morning
the candle of my guide gleamed into my room at three o’clock, and he
announced to me that the weather was good. I rose, and at four o’clock
was on my way to the summit of Monte Rosa. My guide had never been
there, but he had some general directions from a brother guide, and
we hoped to be able to find our way to the top. We first reached the
ridge above the Riffel, then dropped down upon the Görner glacier,
crossed it, reached the base of the mountain, then up a boss of rock,
over which the glacier of former days had flowed and left its mark
behind. Then up a slope of ice to the base of a precipice of brown
crags: round this we wormed till we found a place where we could assail
it and get to the top. Then up the slopes and round the huge bosses
of the mountain, avoiding the rifted portions, and going zigzag up
the steeper inclinations. For some hours this was mere child’s play
to a mountaineer--no more than an agreeable walk on a sunny morning
round Kensington Gardens. But at length the mountain contracted her
snowy shoulders to what Germans call a kamus--a comb, suggested, I
should say, by the toothed edges which some mountain ridges exhibit,
but now applied to any mountain edge, whether of rock or snow. Well,
the mountain formed such an edge. On that side of the edge which
turns toward the Lyskamm there was a very terrible precipice, leading
straight down to the torn and fissured _névé_ of the Monte Rosa
glaciers. On the other side the slope was less steep, but exceedingly
perilous-looking, and intersected here and there by precipices. Our
way lay along the ledge, and we faced it with steady caution and
deliberation. The wind had so acted upon the snow as to fold it over,
forming a kind of cornice, which overhung the first precipice to which
I have alluded. Our attack for some time was upon this cornice. The
incessant admonition of my guide was to fix my staff securely into
the snow at each step, the necessity of which I had already learned.
Once, however, while doing this, my staff went right through the
cornice, and I could see through the hole that I had made into the
terrible gulf below. The morning was clear when we started, and we
saw the first sunbeams as they lit the pinnacles of Monte Rosa, and
caused the surrounding snow summits to flush up. The mountain remained
clear for some hours, but I now looked upwards and saw a dense mass of
cloud stuck against the summit. She dashed it gallantly away, like a
mountain queen; but her triumph was short. Dusky masses again assailed
her, and she could not shake them off. They stretched down towards us,
and now the ice valley beneath us commenced to seethe like a boiling
cauldron, and to send up vapour masses to meet those descending from
the summit. We were soon in the midst of them, and the darkness
thickened; sometimes, as if by magic, the clouds partially cleared
away, and through the thin pale residue the sunbeams penetrated,
lighting up the glacier with a supernatural glare. But these partial
illuminations became rarer as we ascended. We finally reached the
weathered rocks which form the crest of the mountain, and through these
we now clambered up cliffs and down cliffs, walking erect along edges
of granite with terrible depths at each side, squeezing ourselves
through fissures, and thus jumping, swinging, squeezing, and climbing,
we reached the highest peak of Monte Rosa.
“Snow had commenced to fall before we reached the top, and it now
thickened darkly. I boiled water, and found the temperature 184·92°
Fahr. But the snow was wonderful snow. It was all flower--the most
lovely that ever eye gazed upon. There, high up in the atmosphere,
this symmetry of form manifested itself and built up these exquisite
blossoms of the frost. There was no deviation from the six-leaved type,
but any number of variations. I should hardly have exchanged this dark
snowfall for the best view the mountain could afford me. Still, our
position was an anxious one. We could only see a few yards in advance
of us, and we feared the loss of our track. We retreated, and found
the comb more awkward to descend than to ascend. However, the fact
of my being here to tell all about it proves that we did our work
successfully. And now I have a secret to tell regarding Monte Rosa. I
had no view during the above ascent, but precisely a week afterwards
the weather was glorious beyond description. I had lent my guide to
a party of gentlemen, so I strapped half a bottle of tea and a ham
sandwich on my back, left my coat and neckcloth behind me, and in my
shirt sleeves climbed up Monte Rosa alone.” The latter act has been
described as a feat of daring never heard of before.
Between 1856 and 1862 he ascended Mont Blanc three times. One ascent,
made in 1859, was for the purpose of carrying into effect a proposal
he had made to the Royal Society some months previously to place
suitable thermometers at different stations between the top and the
foot of the mountain. On that occasion he was accompanied by his
friend Dr. Franklin, the notable guide Balmat, Mr. Alfred Wills, and
several porters. Professor Tyndall afterwards gave a graphic account
of the ascent to the British Association at Leeds, when he spoke in
the highest terms of the services rendered by Balmat. Mr. Wills says
he made the Leeds Town Hall ring with well-deserved applause as he
recounted to the first _savants_ in Europe the dangers Balmat had
undergone, and the courage and disinterestedness he displayed. The
ascent was made late in September in fearful weather, and in order
to cut a hole four feet deep in the solid glacier, Balmat used his
hands for shovelling out the ice and snow, till both hands were soon
found to be badly frost-bitten and quite black. When the circulation
began to return, after half-an-hour’s rubbing and beating, he suffered
great agony; and though he was for some time in danger of losing his
hands, he said he could have endured even that calamity in the cause of
science.
In August, 1861, Professor Tyndall succeeded in reaching the top of
the Weisshorn, a mountain 14,800 feet high, which he regarded as the
noblest peak in the Alps. People at the base described him and his two
guides as appearing like flies upon the summit. “I never,” he said
afterwards, “witnessed a scene that affected me like this one. I opened
my note-book to make a few observations, but soon relinquished the
attempt. There was something incongruous, if not profane, in allowing
the scientific faculty to interfere where silent worship seemed the
‘reasonable service.’” In like manner Principal Forbes, who preceded
but did not equal Professor Tyndall as an Alpine traveller, said that
“the seeds of a poetic temperament usually germinate amidst mountain
scenery, and we envy not the man, young or old, to whom the dead
silence of sequestered nature does not bring an irresistible sense of
awe--an experience which a picturesque writer has thus expressed: It
seems impious to laugh so near Heaven,” Hence probably the words of
Byron:--
“There stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, when we are _least_ alone;
A truth, which through our being then doth melt,
And purifies from self: it is a tone,
The soul and source of music, which makes known
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm,
Like to the fabled Cytherea’s zone,
Binding all things with beauty;--’twould disarm
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.”
Professor Tyndall translated such sentiments into actions. At the time
when he began to ascend the highest of those Alpine peaks, accidents
of the most painful description were frequently reported as occurring
to travellers, owing to the absence of that more intimate knowledge of
the routes and methods of travelling which has since been acquired by
experience or revealed by science--knowledge which he himself rendered
generous and valuable aid in acquiring and diffusing. For instance,
while he was at Breuil on August 18th, 1860, intelligence reached him
that three Englishmen and a guide had perished on the Col-du-Géant. The
more he heard of the sad occurrence, he said, the stronger became his
desire to visit the scene of it. He accordingly went to Cormayeur on
the 22nd, and called on the resident French pastor, M. Curie, who had
visited the place and made a sketch of it. Accepting this gentleman’s
offer to accompany him, Professor Tyndall reached the Pavilion early on
the morning of Thursday, the 24th. “Wishing,” says the Professor, “to
make myself acquainted with every inch of the ground over which, from
the commencement of their _glissade_, the unfortunate men had passed, I
walked straight up from the Pavilion to the base of the rocky _couloir_
along which they had been precipitated. This _couloir_ was described as
being so dangerous that a chamois hunter had declined ascending it some
days before; but I secured at Cormayeur the service of an intrepid
man who had once made the ascent, and whom it was now my intention to
follow. We commenced our climb at the very bottom of the rocks, while
the pastor made a détour and joined us on the spot where the body of
the guide had been found. From this point upward, M. Curie shared the
dangers of the ascent--strongly, I confess, against my will--until
we reached the place where the rocks ended and the fatal snow slope
commenced. Here we parted company, he deeming it more prudent to
resort to a stony _arête_ to the right than to trust himself upon the
snow. I was urged by M. Curie to content myself with an inspection
of the place, but no inspection, however close, could have given the
information I desired. I asked my guide whether he feared the slope,
and his reply being negative, we entered upon the snow, and ascended
it along the course of the fatal _glissade_, the traces of which had
not been entirely obliterated. Among the rocks below we had frequent
and often melancholy occasion to assure ourselves that we were on the
proper track.... From the beginning to the end of this fatal track, I
made myself acquainted with its true character, and as I stood upon
the summit of the incline and scanned the ground over which I had
passed a feeling of augmented sadness took possession of me. There
was no sufficient reason for this terrible catastrophe. With ordinary
precaution the _glissade_ might in the first instance have been
avoided, and with average capacity to cope with such an accident the
motion might, I am persuaded, have been arrested after it commenced.”
He concluded a long letter to the _Times_, from which the foregoing
extract is taken, by saying that the guides of Chamouni ought to regard
this terrible disaster as a stain upon their order which it would
require years of services faithfully and wisely rendered to wipe away.
It is much easier to censure than to set a good example, and from that
point of view Professor Tyndall was blamed at the time for being so
severe in his strictures. Ere long, however, an opportunity occurred
which put his own resources to the severest test. While staying at
Pontresina in 1864, he, along with Mr. Hutchinson and Mr. Lee-Warner,
of Rugby, ascended the Piz Morteratch, a very noble mountain, which
was thought safe and easy to ascend. The top was reached without
any exceptional difficulty; but in descending they came to a broad
_couloir_ filled with snow, which, having been melted and refrozen,
appeared like a sloping wall of ice. The party were tied together, with
one guide named Jenni in front, and another named Walter in the rear.
Jenni cut steps in the ice, and then reached snow, which he expected
would give them a footing. As he led the party he said, “Keep carefully
in the steps, gentlemen; a false step here might detach an avalanche.”
The word was scarcely uttered, says the Professor, whose account has
been corroborated by his companions, “when I heard the sound of a
fall behind me, then a rush, and in a moment my two friends and their
guide, all apparently entangled together, whirled past me. I suddenly
planted myself to resist their shock, but in an instant I was in their
wake, for their impetus was irresistible. A moment afterwards Jenni
was whirled away, and thus, in the twinkling of an eye, all five of us
found ourselves riding downwards with uncontrollable speed on the back
of an avalanche which a single slip had originated.
“Previous to stepping on the slope, I had, according to habit,
made clear to my mind what was to be done in case of mishap; and
accordingly, when overthrown, I turned promptly on my face, and drove
my bâton through the moving snow, and into the ice underneath. No
time, however, was allowed for the break’s action; for I had held it
firmly thus for a few seconds only when I came into collision with
some obstacle and was rudely tossed through the air, Jenni at the same
time being shot down upon me. Both of us here lost our bâtons. We had
been carried over a crevasse, had hit its lower edge, and, instead of
dropping into it, were pitched by our great velocity far beyond it.
I was quite bewildered for a moment, but immediately righted myself,
and could see the men in front of me half buried in the snow, and
jolted from side to side by the ruts among which we were passing.
Suddenly I saw them tumbled over by a lurch of the avalanche, and
immediately afterwards found myself imitating their motion. This was
caused by a second crevasse. Jenni knew of its existence and plunged,
he told me, right into it--a brave act, but for the time unavailing.
By jumping into the chasm he thought a strain might be put upon the
rope sufficient to check the motion. But though over thirteen stone in
weight, he was violently jerked out of the fissure, and almost squeezed
to death by the pressure of the rope.
“A long slope was before us which led directly downwards to a brow
where the glacier fell precipitously. At the base of the declivity ice
was cut by a series of profound chasms, towards which we were rapidly
borne. The three foremost men rode upon the forehead of the avalanche,
and were at times almost wholly immersed in the snow; but the moving
layer was thinner behind, and Jenni rose incessantly and with desperate
energy drove his feet into the firmer substance beneath. His voice,
shouting ‘Halt! Herr Jesus, halt!’ was the only one heard during the
descent. A kind of condensed memory, such as that described by people
who have narrowly escaped drowning, took possession of me, and my
power of reasoning remained intact. I thought of Bennen on the Haut
de Cry, and muttered, ‘It is now my turn.’ Then I coolly scanned the
men in front of me, and reflected that, if their _vis viva_ was the
only thing to be neutralised, Jenni and myself could stop them; but to
arrest both them and the mass of snow in which they were caught was
hopeless. I experienced no intolerable dread. In fact the start was
too sudden and the excitement of the rush too great to permit of the
development of terror.
“Looking in advance, I noticed that the slope for a short distance
became less steep and then fell as before. ‘Now or never we must be
brought to rest.’ The speed visibly slackened, and I thought we were
saved. But the momentum had been too great; the avalanche crossed the
brow and in part regained its motion. Here Hutchinson threw his arm
round his friend, all hope being extinguished, while I grasped my belt
and struggled to free myself. Finding this difficult, from the tossing,
I sullenly resumed the strain upon the rope. Destiny had so related
the downward impetus to Jenni’s pull as to give the latter a slight
advantage, and the whole question was whether the opposing force would
have sufficient time to act. This was also arranged in our favour,
for we came to rest so near the brow that two or three seconds of our
average motion of descent must have carried us over. Had this occurred,
we should have fallen into the chasm, and been covered up by the tail
of the avalanche. Hutchinson emerged from the snow with his forehead
bleeding, but the wound was superficial; Jenni had a bit of flesh
removed from his hand by collision against a stone; the pressure of the
rope had left black welts on my arms; and we all experienced a tingling
sensation over the hands, like that produced by incipient frost-bite,
which continued for several days. This was all.”
Another incident which illustrates the nature and variety of his
experience as a traveller he has himself described as prompted more
by the instincts of the mountaineer than by the curiosity of the man
of science. In 1868 he visited Vesuvius; and if he did not collect
information of much scientific value, he saw a good deal that was very
interesting. He said he was most struck with the condition of the
country all round Naples; it was so seething, and smoking, and hot,
showing the presence of vast subterranean fires. It was the same at
Vesuvius, where in one place at the entrance to a gallery in the side
of the mountain, he found a little boy quite naked, who volunteered to
enter the gallery and cook an egg which he held in his hand. Both the
Professor and his companion (Sir John Lubbock) determined to explore
the gallery. On doing so they found at the end of it a hot salt spring,
where they cooked the egg. The guide told them of a hotter gallery
adjoining, which they also explored; and a hotter one still being
pointed out, they likewise tried it and found it very hot indeed. They
also visited the grotto Del Cano, where the floor was covered with
carbonic acid gas, a broad stream of which flowed out of the mouth of
the cavern. There he performed what he called some of the commoner
Royal Institution experiments for the benefit of the natives. He
collected some of the heavy gas in his hat, carried it to a distance,
and then put out lighted matches by pouring the heavy gas over them. A
little dog being kept near the cave for the purpose of showing visitors
how easily the gas could half choke it, he protested against the
cruelty of that experiment. At Pompeii, he came to the conclusion that
the ashes which burned it could not have been of very high temperature
when they fell, having been much chilled by their previous passage
through the air. Among the evidences of this was the fact that a
fountain of pure lead, which was uncovered during the excavations, was
uninjured. The analysis of a piece which he took away with him showed
that the temperature of the ashes in which it was engulfed, was lower
than the melting point of lead. In ascending Vesuvius they crossed a
ridge which formed the ancient crater of the mountain; others had been
thrown up since, the latest being 300 feet higher than the ancient
one. Vesuvius, he said, was nineteen feet higher in 1868 than it had
ever been before in human history. In the midst of the smoking centres
of eruption, they listened to the noises in the mountain beneath, and
saw three discharges of red-hot stones from the crater. The wind was
so strong that one gust blew down Sir John Lubbock on his face. On
another occasion when they ascended the mountain, they were favoured
with a strong wind, and going further than the guide would lead them,
they went to the edge of the principal crater, and looked down into the
great central hole of the volcano itself, where they saw little but
smoke and a lurid glare. Sometimes they were enveloped in smoke and
sulphurous acid gas, but they avoided any risk from it by keeping well
to windward. As to the dispute among geologists on the question whether
the cones on the top of Vesuvius were made by eruption or upheaval,
he came to the same conclusion as Lyell, that they were craters of
eruption. It was afterwards estimated that during the eruption which
was in progress at the time of Professor Tyndall’s visit, Mount
Vesuvius emitted about 20,000,000 cubic feet of lava.
His travels and explorations in another part of the world where
Nature displays her operations on a grand scale, and where personal
achievement is the only recognised title to fame, were still more
memorable. When in June, 1851, Professor Tyndall came back from Germany
to England, he met on his way to the meeting of the British Association
at Ipswich “a man who has since made his mark upon the intellect of
his time,” and to whom he was ever afterwards attached by the strong
law of mental affinity. This was Professor Huxley, and both the young
scientists being then on the look out for work, they determined to
apply for the vacant chairs of natural history and physics in the
University of Toronto, but their applications were declined. Faraday,
who was Tyndall’s philosopher and friend in the matter, wrote a letter
urging him to apply for the Toronto appointment; but happily for
both of them and for the glory of British science, Toronto would not
have them, and England could not spare them. Twenty years after that
Professor Tyndall visited the United States, whence his reputation as a
scientific lecturer had preceded him. No people are so quick in their
observations of men and manners as the Americans, and it may therefore
be opportune here to give an American’s impressions of the man to whom
that people gave an enthusiastic reception in 1872. Mr. George Ripley
gave the following description of him:--
“Professor Tyndall has all the ardour of a reformer, without any
tendency to vague and rash speculations. Recognising whatever is
valuable in the researches of a former age, he extends a gracious
hospitality to new suggestions. With a noble pride in his favourite
branches of inquiry, he is not restricted to an exclusive range of
research, but extends his intellectual vision over a wide field of
observation. The English, as a rule, are inclined to be suspicious of
a man who ventures beyond a special walk in the pursuit of knowledge.
They have but little sympathy with the catholic taste which embraces
a variety of objects, and is equally at home in the researches of
science, the speculations of philosophy, the delights of poetry, and
the graces of elegant literature. But a single exception to this trait
is presented by Professor Tyndall. His mind is singularly comprehensive
in its tendencies, and betrays a versatility of aptitude and a reach
of cultivation, which are rarely found in unison with conspicuous
eminence in purely scientific pursuits. In his own special domain
his reputation is fixed. His expositions of the theory of heat and
light and sound, and of some of the more interesting Alpine phenomena,
are acknowledged to be masterpieces of popular statement, to which
few parallels can be found in the records of modern science. But, in
addition to this, he possesses a rare power of eloquence and manifold
attainments in different departments of learning. I do not know that
he has ever written poetry, but he is certainly a poet in the fire
of his imagination and in his love for all the forms of natural
beauty. Nor has he disdained to make himself familiar with the leading
metaphysical theories of the past age, in spite of the disrepute
and comparative obscurity into which science has been thrown by the
brilliant achievements of physical research. I noticed with pleasure
in his conversation his allusions to Fichte, Goethe, R. W. Emerson,
Henry Heine, and other superior lights of the literary world, showing
an appreciation of their writings which could only have been the fruit
of familiar personal studies. Besides the impression produced on a
stranger by his genius and learning, I may be permitted to say that I
have met with few men of more attractive manners. His mental activity
gives an air of intensity to his expression, though without a trace
of vehemence, or an eager passion for utterance. In his movements he
is singularly alert, gliding through the streets with the rapidity
and noiselessness of an arrow, paying little attention to external
objects; and, if you are his companion, requiring on your part a nimble
step and a watchful eye not to lose sight of him. Though overflowing
with thought, which streams from his brain as from a capacious
reservoir while his words ‘trip around as airy servitors,’ he is one
of the best of listeners, never assuming an undue share of the talk,
and lending an attentive and patient ear to the common currency of
conversation, without demanding of men the language of the gods. The
singular kindness of his bearing, I am sure, must proceed from a kind
and generous heart. With no pretence of sympathy, and no uncalled for
demonstrations of interest, his name will certainly be set down by the
recording angel as one who loves his fellow men.”
Such was the man who had now come amongst the Americans to enjoy their
hospitality and to enlighten them on the subject of light. He delivered
a course of lectures at Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and
Washington. At Boston, he said he would long gratefully remember his
reception on the occasion of his first lecture there, and that if he
was treated in the same manner elsewhere he would return to the old
country full of gratitude. Other places tried to outdo Boston in the
cordiality of their reception. The halls in which he lectured were
crowded by audiences described as distinguished for their appreciation
of learning and their enthusiasm in the presence of “the great
teacher.” His lectures were reported _verbatim_ with illustrations in
the daily newspapers; and the _New York Tribune_ published a cheap
reprint of them of which over 300,000 were sold.
While in America he did not miss an opportunity not only of inspecting
but of exploring its grandest cataract. With him the roar of the
waterfall was early a subject of scientific investigation. At a meeting
of the British Association in 1851 he showed by some simple experiments
that water falling for a certain distance into another vessel of water
would produce neither air-bubbles nor sound; but that, as soon as the
distance is so increased that the end of the column becomes broken into
drops, both air-bubbles and sounds, varying from the hum of the ripple
to the roar of the cataract and of the breaker, were produced. About
the same time he published a paper in the _Philosophical Magazine_
for the purpose of showing that in waterfalls sound was produced by
the bursting of the bubbles, and he therein stated that “were Niagara
continuous and without lateral vibration, it would be as silent
as a cataract of ice. It is possible, I believe, to get behind the
descending water at one place; and if the attention of travellers were
directed to the subject, the mass might perhaps be _seen through_. For
in all probability it also has its ‘contracted sections;’ after passing
which it is broken into detached masses, which, plunging successively
upon the air-bladders formed by their precursors, suddenly liberate
their contents, and thus create the thunder of the waterfall.”
On the 1st of November, 1872, he visited Niagara, and not only got
behind the descending water, but “saw through” it, and afterwards
graphically described it. He states that “the season” being then
over, the scene was one of weird loneliness and beauty. On reaching
the village he at once proceeded to the northern end of the American
Fall. After dinner he, accompanied by a friend, crossed to Goat Island
and went to the southern end of the American Fall. “The river is here
studded with small islands. Crossing a wooden bridge to Luna Island,
and clasping a tree which grows near its edge, I looked long at the
cataract which here shoots down the precipice like an avalanche of
foam. It grew in powder and beauty as I gazed upon it. The channel,
spanned by the wooden bridge, was deep, and the river there doubled
over the edge of the precipice, like the swell of a muscle, unbroken.
The ledge here overhangs, the water being poured out far beyond the
base of the precipice. A space, called the Cave of the Winds, is thus
inclosed between the wall of rock and the cataract.
“At the southern extremity of the Horseshoe is a promontory, formed by
the doubling back of the gorge, excavated by the cataract, and into
which it plunges. On the promontory stands a stone building called
the Terrapin Tower, the door of which had been nailed up because of
the decay of the staircase within it. Through the kindness of Mr.
Townsend, the superintendent of Goat Island, the door was opened to
me. From this tower, at all hours of the day, and at some hours of
the night, I watched and listened to the Horseshoe Fall. The river
here is evidently much deeper than the American branch; and instead of
bursting into foam where it quits the ledge, it bends solidly over and
falls in a continuous layer of the most vivid green. The tint is not
uniform but varied; long stripes of deeper hue alternating with bands
of brighter colour. Close to the ledge over which the water falls, foam
is generated, the light falling upon which and flashing back from it is
shifted in its passage to and fro, and changed from white to emerald
green. Heaps of superficial foam are also formed at intervals along
the ledge, and immediately drawn down in long white striæ. Lower down,
the surface, shaken by the reaction from below, incessantly rustles
into whiteness. The descent finally resolves itself into a rhythm, the
water reaching the bottom of the fall in periodic gushes. Nor is the
spray uniformly diffused through the air, but is wafted through it in
successive veils of gauze-like texture. From all this it is evident
that beauty is not absent from the Horseshoe Fall, but majesty is its
chief attribute. The plunge of the water is not wild, but deliberate,
vast, and fascinating.”
On the first evening of his visit the guide to the Cave of the Winds,
a strong-looking and pleasant man, told him that he once succeeded in
getting almost under the green water of the Horseshoe Fall. Professor
Tyndall asked whether the guide could lead him to that spot to-morrow.
Such a cool question coming from a slender and refined-looking man
seemed to non-plus the guide; but on being assured that where he
would lead the Professor would endeavour to follow, the guide, with a
smile, said “Very well, I shall be ready for you to-morrow.” They met
according to agreement on the morrow. First the Professor had to change
his clothes drawing on two pairs of woollen pantaloons, three woollen
jackets, two pairs of socks, and a pair of felt shoes, which supply of
woollens the guide said would preserve him from cold. Over all was put
a suit of oil-cloth, and the Professor was advised to carry a pitchfork
as his staff. It was decided to take the Horseshoe first as being the
most difficult of access. Descending the stairs they commenced to
cross the huge boulders which cover the base of the first portion of
the cataract, and among which the water pours in torrents. They got
along without difficulty till they came to a formidable current, and
the guide on reaching the quietest part of it, told the Professor that
this was their greatest difficulty; “if we can cross here,” he said,
“we shall get far towards the Horseshoe.” The guide entered the torrent
first, and was soon up to the waist in water. He had to wade his way
among unseen boulders which increased the violence of the current.
On reaching the shallower water on the other side, he stretched his
arm across to the Professor and asked him to follow. “I looked,” says
the undaunted traveller, “down the torrent as it rushed to the river
below, which was seething with the tumult of the cataract. I entered
the water. As it rose around me, I sought to split the torrent by
presenting a side to it; but the insecurity of the footing enabled it
to grasp the loins, twist me fairly round, and bring its impetus to
bear upon the back. Further struggle was impossible, and feeling my
balance hopelessly gone, I turned, flung myself towards the bank I had
just quitted, and was instantly swept into the shallower water.”
The oil-cloth covering, which was too large for him, was now filled
with water, and notwithstanding this incumbrance, the guide urged him
to try again. After some hesitation he determined to do so. Again
he entered the water, again the torrent rose, again he wavered; but
instructed by the experience of his first misadventure, he so adjusted
himself against the stream that he was able to remain upright. At
length they were able to clasp hands, and on thus reaching the other
side he was told that no traveller had ever been there before. Soon
afterwards he was again taken off his feet through trusting to a piece
of treacherous drift, but a protruding rock enabled him to regain his
balance. As they clambered over the boulders the weight of the thick
spray now and then caused them to stagger. Among such volumes of spray
nothing could be seen. “We were,” he says, “in the midst of bewildering
tumult, lashed by the water which sounded at times like the cracking of
innumerable whips. Underneath this was the deep resonant roar of the
cataract. I tried to shield my eyes with my hands and look upwards;
but the defence was useless. My guide continued to move on, but at a
certain place he halted, and desired me to take shelter in his lee and
observe the cataract. On looking upwards over the guide’s shoulder
I could see the water bending over the ledge, while the Terrapin
Tower loomed fitfully through the intermittent spray gusts. We were
right under the tower. A little farther on the cataract, after its
first plunge, hit a protuberance some way down, and flew from it in a
prodigious burst of spray; through this we staggered. We rounded the
promontory on which the Terrapin Tower stands, and pushed, amidst the
wildest commotion, along the arm of the Horseshoe until the boulders
failed us and the cataract fell into the profound gorge of the Niagara
River. Here my guide sheltered me again, and desired me to look up. I
did so, and could see as before the green gleam of the mighty curve
sweeping over the upper ledge, and the fitful plunge of the water as
the spray between us and it alternately gathered and disappeared. My
companion knew no more of me than that I enjoyed the wildness; but
as I bent in the shelter of his large frame, he said: ‘I should like
to see you attempting to describe all this.’ He rightly thought
it indescribable.” Their egress was nearly as adventurous as their
entrance. They had another struggle with the torrent which proved such
a formidable barrier in entering, but they succeeded in crossing it
without serious mishap.
He next endeavoured to see the fall from the river below it; but on
reaching the base of the Horseshoe he found the water so violent, and
the rock and boulders so formidable, that after a fierce struggle the
attempt to go further had to be relinquished. He therefore returned
along the base of the American Fall. “Seen from below,” says the
Professor, “the American Fall is certainly exquisitely beautiful,
but it is a mere fringe of adornment to its nobler neighbour, the
Horseshoe. At times we took to the river, from the centre of which
the Horseshoe Fall appeared especially magnificent. A streak of cloud
across the neck of Mont Blanc can double its apparent height, so here
the green summit of the cataract, shining above the smoke of spray,
appeared lifted to an extraordinary elevation.”[4]
In his American lectures he never appeared to miss an opportunity of
telling his audience that the pursuit of scientific truth should be
conducted regardless of monetary considerations, and that the men who
had made the great discoveries in science that had so enriched the
world were not actuated by the love of money. At New York he said the
presence there for six inclement nights of an audience, embodying to a
great extent the mental force and refinement of the city, showed their
sympathy with scientific pursuits. “That scientific discovery may put
not only dollars into the pockets of individuals but millions into the
exchequers of nations the history of science amply proves, but the
hope of its doing so is not the motive power of the investigator. It
never could be the motive power.... You have asked me to give these
lectures, and I cannot turn them to better account than by asking
you to remember that the lecturer is usually the distributor of
intellectual wealth amassed by better men. It is not as lecturers but
as discoverers that you ought to employ your highest men. Keep your
sympathetic eye upon the originator of knowledge. Give him the freedom
necessary for his researches; above all things avoiding that question
which ignorance so often addresses to genius--What is the use of your
work? Let him make truth his object, however impracticable for the
time being that truth may appear. If you cast your bread thus upon the
waters, then be assured it will return to you though it may be after
many days.”
In 1873 his advice appeared to be like seed sown in good ground, for
immediately after his visit several munificent gifts were made by
private individuals for the promotion of science. His example was also
as worthy as his teaching. The profits of his lectures, amounting to
nearly 3,000_l._, he gave as a contribution towards the establishment
of a fund for the advancement of theoretic science and the promotion
of original research, especially in the department of physics. In the
first instance the interest of the fund was to be applied to assisting
and supporting two American students with a decided talent for physics;
so that they might thus be able to spend at a German university at
least four years, of which three should be devoted to the acquisition
of knowledge and the fourth to original investigation. Some difficulty
being experienced by the trustees in selecting suitable persons, they
represented to Professor Tyndall, after some years of experience,
that the object aimed at by him would probably be better accomplished
by placing the administration of the fund in the hands of some one
or more educational institutions, where numbers of young men were
always on trial, and where suitable subjects for his benefaction would
probably be more easily found. In 1885 Professor Tyndall, acting on
this advice, divided the money, which had increased from 13,000$ to
32,000$, into three equal parts, and gave one part to Columbia College,
one to Harvard University, and one to the University of Pennsylvania.
On February 4th, 1873, he was entertained at a farewell banquet at New
York “in the great hall of the finest restaurant in the world.” On that
occasion he stated with regard to the work done and the reception of
that work during his visit to America, that nothing could be added to
his cup of satisfaction; his only drawback related to the work undone;
for he carried home with him the consciousness of having been unable
to respond to the invitations of the great cities of the west; but
the character of his lectures, the weight of instrumental appliances
which they involved, and the fact that every lecture required two
days’ possession of the hall--a day of preparation and a day of
delivery--entailed heavy loss of time and even severe labour. He then
returned to England, where he found many friends ready to welcome him.
Next year (1874) he was President of the British Association, and
the address which he delivered at the annual meeting, held that year
in Belfast, caused some sensation among “the orthodox.” For this he
was not unprepared. He admitted that he had touched on debateable
questions, and gone over dangerous ground--and this partly with
the view of telling the world that as regards religious theories,
schemes, and systems which embrace notions of cosmogony, science
claims unrestricted right of search. The address was condemned by
the unscientific as veiled materialism, and a flood of sermons and
pamphlets were published to expose its “heresies.” One writer went
so far as to publish “an inquiry of the Home Secretary as to whether
Professor Tyndall had not subjected himself to the penalty of persons
expressing blasphemous opinions.”
It seemed to be generally forgotten that Professor Tyndall had stated
before the British Association in 1868 that the utmost the materialist
“can affirm is the association of two classes of phenomena, of whose
real bond of union he is in absolute ignorance. The problem of the
connection of body and soul is as insoluble in its modern form as it
was in the pre-scientific ages. If you ask him whence is this ‘matter,’
who or what divided it into molecules, he has no answer. Science
also is mute in reply to these questions. But if the materialist is
confounded and science rendered dumb, who else is entitled to answer?
To whom has the secret been revealed? Let us lower our heads and
acknowledge our ignorance one and all.” In 1874 he desired to set forth
equally “the inexorable advance of man’s understanding in the path of
knowledge, and the unquenchable claims of his emotional nature, which
the understanding can never satisfy. And if, still unsatisfied, the
human mind, with the yearning of a pilgrim for his distant home, will
turn to the mystery from which it has emerged, seeking so to fashion
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, in opposition
to all the restrictions of Materialism, I would affirm this to be a
field for the noblest exercise of what, in contrast with the _knowing_
faculties, may be called the _creative_ faculties of man.”
Next year, in introducing Sir John Hawkshaw as President of the
British Association, Professor Tyndall said his successor would steer
the Association through calm water, which would be refreshing after
the tempestuous weather which “rasher navigators had thought it their
duty to encounter rather than to avoid.” Carlyle says we pardon genial
weather for its changes, but the steadiest climate of all is that of
Greenland.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] For the descriptions of the Falls of Niagara and of
the adventure on the Piz Morteratch we are indebted to
the kindness of Professor Tyndall, who readily granted
permission to quote them from his copyright works.