A Vision of a Wrangler, of a University, of…

Deep St. Mary’s bell had sounded,

And the twelve notes gently rounded

Endless chimneys that surrounded

My abode in Trinity.

(Letter G, Old Court, South Attics),

I shut up my mathematics,

That confounded hydrostatics—

Sink it in the deepest sea!

In the grate the flickering embers

Served to show how dull November’s

Fogs had stamped my torpid members,

Like a plucked and skinny goose.

And as I prepared for bed, I

Asked myself with voice unsteady,

If of all the stuff I read, I

Ever made the slightest use.

Late to bed and early rising,

Ever luxury despising,

Ever training, never “sizing,”

I have suffered with the rest.

Yellow cheek and forehead ruddy,

Memory confused and muddy,

These are the effects of study

Of a subject so unblest.

Look beyond, and see the wrangler,

Now become a College dangler,

Court some spiritual angler,

Nibbling at his golden bait.

Hear him silence restive Reason,

Her advice is out of season,

While her lord is plotting treason

Gainst himself, and Church or State.

See him next with place and pension,

And the very best intention

Of upholding that Convention

Under which his fortunes rose.

Every scruple is rejected,

With his cherished schemes connected,

“Higher Powers may be neglected—

His result no further goes.”

Much he lauds the education

Which has raised to lofty station,

Men, whose powers of calculation

Calculation’s self defied.

How the learned fool would wonder

Were he now to see his blunder,

When he put his reason under

The control of worldly Pride.

Thus I muttered, very seedy,

Husky was my throat, and reedy;

And no wonder, for indeed I

Now had caught a dreadful cold.

Thickest fog had settled slowly

Round the candle, burning lowly,

Round the fire, where melancholy

Traced retreating hills of gold.

Still those papers lay before me—

Problems made express to bore me,

When a silent change came o’er me,

In my hard uneasy chair.

Fire and fog, and candle faded,

Spectral forms the room invaded,

Little creatures, that paraded

On the problems lying there.

Fathers there, of every college,

Led the glorious ranks of knowledge,

Men, whose virtues all acknowledge

Levied the proctorial fines;

There the modest Moderators,

Set apart as arbitrators

’Twixt contending calculators,

Scrutinised the trembling lines.

All the costly apparatus,

That is meant to elevate us

To the intellectual status

Necessary for degrees—

College tutors—private coaches—

Line the Senate-house approaches.

If our Alma Mater dote, she’s

Taken care of well by these.

Much I doubted if the vision

Were the simple repetition

Of the statements of Commission,

Strangely jumbled, oddly placed.

When an awful form ascended,

And with cruel words defended

Those abuses that offended

My unsanctioned private taste.

Angular in form and feature,

Unlike any earthly creature,

She had properties to meet your

Eye whatever you might view.

Hair of pens and skin of paper;

Breath, not breath but chemic vapour;

Dress,—such dress as College Draper

Fashions with precision due.

Eyes of glass, with optic axes

Twisting rays of light as flax is

Twisted, while the Parallax is

Made to show the real size.

Primary and secondary

Focal lines in planes contrary,

Sum up all that’s known to vary

In those dull, unmeaning eyes.

Such the eyes, through which all Nature

Seems reduced to meaner stature.

If you had them you would hate your

Symbolising sense of sight.

Seeing planets in their courses

Thick beset with arrowy “forces,”

While the common eye no more sees

Than their mild and quiet light.

“Son,” she said (what could be queerer

Than thus tête-a -tête to hear her

Talk, in tones approaching nearer

To a saw’s than aught beside?

For the voice the spectre spoke in

Might be known by many a token

To proceed from metal, broken

When acoustic tricks were tried.

Little pleased to hear the Siren

“Own” me thus with voice of iron,

I had thoughts of just retiring

From a mother such a fright).

“No,” she said, “the time is pressing,

So before I give my blessing,

I’ll excuse you from confessing

What you thought of me to-night.

“Powers!” she cried, with hoarse devotion,

“Give my son the clearest notion

How to compass sure promotion,

And take care of Number One.

Let his college course be pleasant,

Let him ever, as at present,

Seem to have read what he hasn’t,

And to do what can’t be done.

Of the Philosophic Spirit

Richly may my son inherit;

As for Poetry, inter it

With the myths of other days.

Cut the thing entirely, lest yon

College Don should put the question,

Why not stick to what you’re best on?

Mathematics always pays.”

As the Hag was thus proceeding

To prescribe my course of reading,

And as I was faintly pleading,

Hardly knowing what to say,

Suddenly, my head inclining

I beheld a light form shining;

And the withered beldam, whining,

Saw the same and slunk away.

Then the vision, growing brighter,

Seemed to make my garret lighter;

As when noisome fogs of night are

Scattered by the rising sun.

Nearer still it grew and nearer,

Till my straining eyes caught clearer

Glimpses of a being dearer,

Dearer still than Number One.

In that well-remembered Vision

I was led to the decision

Still to hold in calm derision

Pedantry, however draped;

Since that artificial spectre

Proved a paltry sub-collector,

And had nothing to connect her

With the being whom she aped.

I could never finish telling

You of her that has her dwelling

Where those springs of truth are welling,

Whence all streams of beauty run.

She has taught me that creation

Bears the test of calculation,

But that Man forgets his station

If he stops when that is done.

Is our algebra the measure

Of that unexhausted treasure

That affords the purest pleasure,

Ever found when it is sought?

Let us rather, realising

The conclusions thence arising

Nature more than symbols prizing,

Learn to worship as we ought.

Worship? Yes, what worship better

Than when free’d from every fetter

That the uninforming letter

Rivets on the tortured mind,

Man, with silent admiration

Sees the glories of Creation,

And, in holy contemplation,

Leaves the learned crowd behind!