MY father, with a view of acquiring some information which might be of use to me at Cambridge, had consulted a tutor of one of the colleges, who was passing his long vacation at the neighbouring watering-place, Teignmouth. He dined with us frequently. The advice of the Rev. Doctor was quite sound, but very limited. It might be summed up in one short sentence: “Advise your son not to purchase his wine in Cambridge.”

Previously to my entrance at Trinity College, Cambridge, I resided for a time at Totnes, under the guidance of an Oxford tutor, who undertook to superintend my classical studies only.

During my residence at this place I accidentally heard, for the first time, of an idea of forming a universal language. I was much fascinated by it, and, soon after, proceeded to write a kind of grammar, and then to devise a dictionary. Some trace of the former, I think, I still possess: but I was stopped in my idea of making a universal dictionary by the apparent impossibility of arranging signs in any consecutive {26} order, so as to find, as in a dictionary, the meaning of each when wanted. It was only after I had been some time at Cambridge that I became acquainted with the work of “Bishop Wilkins on Universal Language.”

Being passionately fond of algebra, I had instructed myself by means of Ward’s “Young Mathematician’s Guide,” which had casually fallen into my hands at school. I now employed all my leisure in studying such math­e­mat­i­cal works as accident brought to my knowledge. Amongst these were Humphrey Ditton’s “Fluxions,” of which I could make nothing; Madame Agnesi’s “Analytical Institutions,” from which I acquired some knowledge; Woodhouse’s “Principles of Analytical Calculation,” from which I learned the notation of Leibnitz; and Lagrange’s “ThÉorie des Fonctions.” I possessed also the Fluxions of Maclaurin and of Simpson.

Thus it happened that when I went to Cambridge I could work out such questions as the very moderate amount of mathematics which I then possessed admitted, with equal facility, in the dots of Newton, the d’s of Leibnitz, or the dashes of Lagrange. I had, however, met with many difficulties, and looked forward with intense delight to the certainty of having them all removed on my arrival at Cambridge. I had in my imagination formed a plan for the institution amongst my future friends of a chess club, and also of another club for the discussion of math­e­mat­i­cal subjects.

In 1811, during the war, it was very difficult to procure foreign books. I had heard of the great work of Lacroix, on the “Differential and Integral Calculus,” which I longed to possess, and being misinformed that its price was two guineas, I resolved to purchase it in London on my passage to Cambridge. As soon as I arrived I went to the French {27} bookseller, Dulau, and to my great surprise found that the price of the book was seven guineas. After much thought I made the costly purchase, went on immediately to Cambridge, saw my tutor, Hudson, got lodgings, and then spent the greater part of the night in turning over the pages of my newly-acquired purchase. After a few days, I went to my public tutor Hudson, to ask the explanation of one of my math­e­mat­i­cal difficulties. He listened to my question, said it would not be asked in the Senate House, and was of no sort of consequence, and advised me to get up the earlier subjects of the university studies.

After some little while I went to ask the explanation of another difficulty from one of the lecturers. He treated the question just in the same way. I made a third effort to be enlightened about what was really a doubtful question, and felt satisfied that the person I addressed knew nothing of the matter, although he took some pains to disguise his ignorance.

I thus acquired a distaste for the routine of the studies of the place, and devoured the papers of Euler and other mathematicians, scattered through innumerable volumes of the academies of Petersburgh, Berlin, and Paris, which the libraries I had recourse to contained.

Under these circumstances it was not surprising that I should perceive and be penetrated with the superior power of the notation of Leibnitz.

At an early period, probably at the commencement of the second year of my residence at Cambridge, a friend of mine, Michael Slegg, of Trinity, was taking wine with me, discussing math­e­mat­i­cal subjects, to which he also was enthusiastically attached. Hearing the chapel bell ring, he took leave of me, promising to return for a cup of coffee. {28}

At this period Cambridge was agitated by a fierce controversy. Societies had been formed for printing and circulating the Bible. One party proposed to circulate it with notes, in order to make it intelligible; whilst the other scornfully rejected all explanations of the word of God as profane attempts to mend that which was perfect.

The walls of the town were placarded with broadsides, and posters were sent from house to house. One of the latter form of advertisement was lying upon my table when Slegg left me. Taking up the paper, and looking through it, I thought it, from its exaggerated tone, a good subject for a parody.

I then drew up the sketch of a society to be instituted for translating the small work of Lacroix on the Differential and Integral Lacroix. It proposed that we should have periodical meetings for the propagation of d’s; and consigned to perdition all who supported the heresy of dots. It maintained that the work of Lacroix was so perfect that any comment was unnecessary.

On Slegg’s return from chapel I put the parody into his hands. My friend enjoyed the joke heartily, and at parting asked my permission to show the parody to a math­e­mat­i­cal friend of his, Mr. Bromhead.4

The next day Slegg called on me, and said that he had put the joke into the hand of his friend, who, after laughing heartily, remarked that it was too good a joke to be lost, and proposed seriously that we should form a society for the cultivation of mathematics.

The next day Bromhead called on me. We talked the subject over, and agreed to hold a meeting at his lodgings {29} for the purpose of forming a society for the promotion of analysis.

At that meeting, besides the projectors, there were present Herschel, Peacock, D’Arblay,5 Ryan,6 Robinson,7 Frederick Maule,8 and several others. We constituted ourselves “The Analytical Society;” hired a meeting-room, open daily; held meetings, read papers, and discussed them. Of course we were much ridiculed by the Dons; and, not being put down, it was darkly hinted that we were young infidels, and that no good would come of us.

In the meantime we quietly pursued our course, and at last resolved to publish a volume of our Transactions. Owing to the illness of one of the number, and to various other circumstances, the volume which was published was entirely contributed by Herschel and myself.

At last our work was printed, and it became necessary to decide upon a title. Recalling the slight imputation which had been made upon our faith, I suggested that the most appropriate title would be—

The Principles of pure D-ism in opposition to the Dot-age of the University.9

In thus reviving this wicked pun, I ought at the same time to record an instance of forgiveness unparalleled in history. Fourteen years after, being then at Rome, I accidentally read in Galignani’s newspaper the following paragraph, dated Cambridge:—“Yesterday the bells of St. Mary rang on the election of Mr. Babbage as Lucasian Professor of Mathematics.” {30}

If this event had happened during the lifetime of my father, it would have been most gratifying to myself, because, whilst it would have given him much pleasure, it would then also have afforded intense delight to my mother.

I concluded that the next post would bring me the official confirmation of this report, and after some consideration I sketched the draft of a letter, in which I proposed to thank the University sincerely for the honour they had done me, but to decline it.

This sketch of a letter was hardly dry when two of my intimate friends, the Rev. Mr. Lunn and Mr. Beilby Thompson,10 who resided close to me in the Piazza del Populo, came over to congratulate me on the appointment. I showed them my proposed reply, against which they earnestly protested. Their first, and as they believed their strongest, reason was that it would give so much pleasure to my mother. To this I answered that my mother’s opinion of her son had been confirmed by the reception he had met with in every foreign country he had visited, and that this, in her estimation, would add but little to it. To their next argument I had no sat­is­fac­tory answer. It was that this election could not have occurred unless some friends of mine in England had taken active measures to promote it; that some of these might have been personal friends, but that many others might have exerted themselves entirely upon principle, and that it would be harsh to disappoint such friends, and reject such a compliment.

My own feelings were of a mixed nature. I saw the vast field that the Difference Engine had opened out; for, before I left England in the previous year, I had extended its mechanism to the tabulation of functions having no constant {31} difference, and more par­tic­u­lar­ly I had arrived at the knowledge of the entire command it would have over the computation of the most important classes of tables, those of astronomy and of navigation. I was also most anxious to give my whole time to the completion of the mechanism of the Difference Engine No. 1 which I had then in hand. Small as the admitted duties of the Lucasian Chair were, I felt that they would absorb time which I thought better devoted to the completion of the Difference Engine. If I had then been aware that the lapse of a few years would have thrown upon me the enormous labour which the Analytical Engine absorbed, no motive short of absolute necessity would have induced me to accept any office which might, in the slightest degree, withdraw my attention from its contrivance.

The result of this consultation with my two friends was, that I determined to accept the Chair of Newton, and to hold it for a few years. In 1839 the demands of the Analytical Engine upon my attention had become so incessant and so exhausting, that even the few duties of the Lucasian Chair had a sensible effect in impairing my bodily strength. I therefore sent in my resignation.

In January, 1829, I visited Cambridge, to fulfil one of the first duties of my new office, the examination for Dr. Smith’s prizes.

These two prizes, of twenty-five pounds each, exercise a very curious and important influence. Usually three or four hundred young men are examined previously to taking their degree. The University officers examine and place them in the order of their math­e­mat­i­cal merit. The class called Wranglers is the highest; of these the first is called the senior wrangler, the others the second and third, &c., wranglers. {32}

All the young men who have just taken their degree, whether with or without honours, are qualified to compete for the Smith’s prizes by sending in notice to the electors, who consist of the three Professors of Geometry, Astronomy, and Physics, assisted oc­ca­sion­al­ly by two official electors, the Vice-Chancellor and the Master of Trinity College. However, in point of fact, generally three, and rarely above six young men compete.

It is manifest that the University officers, who examine several hundred young men, cannot bestow the same minute attention upon each as those who, at the utmost, only examine six. Nor is this of any importance, except to the few first wranglers, who usually are candidates for these prizes. The consequence is that the examiners of the Smith’s prizes constitute, as it were, a court of appeal from the decision of the University officers. The decision of the latter is thus therefore, necessarily appealed against upon every occasion. Perhaps in one out of five or six cases the second or third wrangler obtains the first Smith’s prize. I may add that in the few cases known to me previously to my becoming an examiner, the public opinion of the University always approved those decisions, without implying any censure on the officers of the University.

In forming my set of questions, I consulted the late Dean of Ely and another friend, in order that I might not suddenly deviate too much from the usual style of examinations.

After having examined the young men, I sat up the whole night, carefully weighing the relative merits of their answers. I found, with some mortification, that, according to my marks, the second wrangler ought to have the first prize. I therefore put aside the papers until the day before the decision. I then took an unmarked copy of my questions, and put new {33} numbers for their respective values. After very carefully going over the whole of the examination-papers again, I arrived almost exactly at my former conclusion.

On our meeting at the Vice-Chancellor’s, that functionary asked me, as the senior professor, what was my decision as to the two prizes. I stated that the result of my examination obliged me to award the first prize to the second wrangler. Professor Airy was then asked the same question. He made the same reply. Professor Lax being then asked, said he had arrived at the same conclusion as his two colleagues.

The Vice-Chancellor remarked that when we altered the arrangement of the University Examiners, it was very sat­is­fac­tory that we should be unanimous. Professor Airy observed that this sat­is­fac­tion was enhanced by the fact of the remarkable difference in the tastes of the three examiners.

The Vice-Chancellor, turning to me, asked whether it might be permitted to inquire the numbers we had respectively assigned to each candidate.

I and my colleagues immediately mentioned our numbers, which Professor Airy at once reduced to a common scale. On this it appeared that the number of marks assigned to each by Professor Airy and myself very nearly agreed, whilst that of Professor Lax differed but little.

On this occasion the first Smith’s prize was assigned to the second wrangler, Mr. Cavendish, now Duke of Devonshire, the present Chancellor of the University.

The result of the whole of my after-experience showed that amongst the highest men the peculiar tastes of the examiners had no effect in disturbing the proper decision.

I held the Chair of Newton for some few years, and still feel deeply grateful for the honour the University conferred {34} upon me—the only honour I ever received in my own country.11

I must now return to my pursuits during my residence at Cambridge, the account of which has been partially interrupted by the history of my appointment to the Chair of Newton.

Whilst I was an undergraduate, I lived probably in a greater variety of sets than any of my young companions. But my chief and choicest consisted of some ten or a dozen friends who usually breakfasted with me every Sunday after chapel; arriving at about nine, and remaining to between twelve and one o’clock. We discussed all knowable and many unknowable things.

At one time we resolved ourselves into a Ghost Club, and proceeded to collect evidence, and entered into a considerable correspondence upon the subject. Some of this was both interesting and instructive.

At another time we resolved ourselves into a Club which we called The Extractors. Its rules were as follows,—

• 1st. Every member shall communicate his address to the Secretary once in six months.
• 2nd. If this communication is delayed beyond twelve months, it shall be taken for granted that his relatives had shut him up as insane.
• 3rd. Every effort legal and illegal shall be made to get him out of the madhouse. Hence the name of the club—The Extractors. {35}
• 4th. Every candidate for admission as a member shall produce six certificates. Three that he is sane and three others that he is insane.

It has often occurred to me to inquire of my legal friends whether, if the sanity of any member of the club had been questioned in after-life, he would have adduced the fact of membership of the Club of Extractors as an indication of sanity or of insanity.

During the first part of my residence at Cambridge, I played at chess very frequently, often with D’Arblay and with several other good players. There was at that period a fellow-commoner at Trinity named Brande, who devoted almost his whole time to the study of chess. I was invited to meet him one evening at the rooms of a common friend for the purpose of trying our strength.

On arriving at my friend’s rooms, I found a note informing me that he had gone to Newmarket, and had left coffee and the chessmen for us. I was myself tormented by great shyness, and my yet unseen adversary was, I understood, equally diffident. I was sitting before the chess-board when Brande entered. I rose, he advanced, sat down, and took a white and a black pawn from the board, which he held, one in either hand. I pointed with my finger to the left hand and won the move.

The game then commenced; it was rather a long one, and I won it: but not a word was exchanged until the end: when Brande uttered the first word. “Another?” To this I nodded assent.

How that game was decided I do not now remember; but the first sentence pronounced by either of us, was a remark by Brande, that he had lost the first game by a certain move of his white bishop. To this I replied, that I thought he was {36} mistaken, and that the real cause of his losing the game arose from the use I had made of my knight two moves previously to his white bishop’s move.

We then immediately began to replace the men on the board in the positions they occupied at that particular point of the game when the white bishop’s move was made. Each took up any piece indiscriminately, and placed it without hesitation on the exact square on which it had stood. It then became apparent that the effective move to which I had referred was that of my knight.

Brande, during his residence at Cambridge, studied chess regularly several hours each day, and read almost every treatise on the subject. After he left college he travelled abroad, took lessons from every celebrated teacher, and played with all the most eminent players on the Continent.

At intervals of three or four years I oc­ca­sion­al­ly met him in London. After the usual greeting he always proposed that we should play a game of chess.

I found on these occasions, that if I played any of the ordinary openings, such as are found in the books, I was sure to be beaten. The only way in which I had a chance of winning, was by making early in the game a move so bad that it had not been mentioned in any treatise. Brande possessed, and had read, almost every book upon the subject.

Another set which I frequently joined were addicted to sixpenny whist. It consisted of Higman, afterwards Tutor of Trinity; Follet, afterwards Attorney-General; of a learned and accomplished Dean still living, and I have no doubt still playing an excellent rubber, and myself. We not unfrequently sat from chapel-time in the evening until the sound {37} of the morning chapel bell again called us to our religious duties.

I mixed oc­ca­sion­al­ly with a different set of whist players at Jesus College. They played high: guinea points, and five guineas on the rubber. I was always a most welcome visitor, not from my skill at the game; but because I never played more than shilling points and five shillings on the rubber. Consequently my partner had what they considered an advantage: namely, that of playing guinea points with one of our adversaries and pound points with the other.

Totally different in character was another set in which I mixed. I was very fond of boating, not of the manual labour of rowing, but the more in­tel­lec­tual art of sailing. I kept a beautiful light, London-built boat, and oc­ca­sion­al­ly took long voyages down the river, beyond Ely into the fens. To accomplish these trips, it was necessary to have two or three strong fellows to row when the wind failed or was contrary. These were useful friends upon my aquatic expeditions, but not being of exactly the same calibre as my friends of the Ghost Club, were very cruelly and disrespectfully called by them “my Tom fools.”

The plan of our voyage was thus:—I sent my servant to the apothecary for a thing called an Ægrotat, which I understood, for I never saw one, meant a certificate that I was indisposed, and that it would be injurious to my health to attend chapel, or hall, or lectures. This was forwarded to the college authorities.

I also directed my servant to order the cook to send me a large well-seasoned meat pie, a couple of fowls, &c. These were packed in a hamper with three or four bottles of wine and one of noyeau. We sailed when the wind was fair, and rowed when there was none. Whittlesea Mere was a very {38} favourite resort for sailing, fishing, and shooting. Sometimes we reached Lynn. After various adventures and five or six days of hard exercise in the open air, we returned with our health more renovated than if the best physician had prescribed for us.

During my residence at Cambridge, Smithson Tennant was the Professor of Chemistry, and I attended his lectures. Having a spare room, I turned it into a kind of laboratory, in which Herschel worked with me, until he set up a rival one of his own. We both oc­ca­sion­al­ly assisted the Professor in preparing his experiments. The science of chemistry had not then assumed the vast development it has now attained. I gave up its practical pursuit soon after I resided in London, but I have never regretted the time I bestowed upon it at the commencement of my career. I had hoped to have long continued to enjoy the friendship of my entertaining and valued instructor, and to have profited by his introducing me to the science of the metropolis, but his tragical fate deprived me of that advantage. Whilst riding with General Bulow across a drawbridge at Boulogne, the bolt having been displaced, Smithson Tennant was precipitated to the bottom, and killed on the spot. The General, having an earlier warning, set spurs to his horse, and just escaped a similar fate.

My views respecting the notation of Leibnitz now (1812) received confirmation from an extensive course of reading. I became convinced that the notation of fluxions must ultimately prove a strong impediment to the progress of English science. But I knew, also, that it was hopeless for any young and unknown author to attempt to introduce the notation of Leibnitz into an elementary work. This opinion naturally {39} suggested to me the idea of translating the smaller work of Lacroix. It is possible, although I have no recollection of it, that the same idea may have occurred to several of my colleagues of the Analytical Society, but most of them were so occupied, first with their degree, and then with their examination for fellowships, that no steps were at that time taken by any of them on that subject.

Unencumbered by these distractions, I commenced the task, but at what period of time I do not exactly recollect. I had finished a portion of the translation, and laid it aside, when, some years afterwards, Peacock called on me in Devonshire Street, and stated that both Herschel and himself were convinced that the change from the dots to the d’s would not be accomplished until some foreign work of eminence should be translated into English. Peacock then proposed that I should either finish the translation which I had commenced, or that Herschel and himself should complete the remainder of my translation. I suggested that we should toss up which alternative to take. It was determined by lot that we should make a joint translation. Some months after, the translation of the small work of Lacroix was published.

For several years after, the progress of the notation of Leibnitz at Cambridge was slow. It is true that the tutors of the two largest colleges had adopted it, but it was taught at none of the other colleges.

It is always difficult to think and reason in a new language, and this difficulty discouraged all but men of energetic minds. I saw, however, that, by making it their interest to do so, the change might be accomplished. I therefore proposed to make a large collection of examples of the differential and integral calculus, consisting merely of the statement of each problem and its final solution. I foresaw that if such a {40} publication existed, all those tutors who did not approve of the change of the Newtonian notation would yet, in order to save their own time and trouble, go to this collection of examples to find problems to set to their pupils. After a short time the use of the new signs would become familiar, and I anticipated their general adoption at Cambridge as a matter of course.

I commenced by copying out a large portion of the work of Hirsch. I then communicated to Peacock and Herschel my view, and proposed that they should each contribute a portion.

Peacock considerably modified my plan by giving the process of solution to a large number of the questions. Herschel prepared the questions in finite differences, and I supplied the examples to the calculus of functions. In a very few years the change was completely established; and thus at last the English cultivators of math­e­mat­i­cal science, untrammelled by a limited and imperfect system of signs, entered on equal terms into competition with their continental rivals.