Passages from the Life of a Philosopher

Official visit to see the Difference Engine in 1829 — Extract from a letter from the late General Sir William Napier — Loss of the troopship “Birkenhead” — The Author accompanies the Duke to the Exhibition of 1851 — Fixed in the crowd, the Duke plays with a child of two years old — The late Countess of Wilton asks a question about the Difference Engine — The Author’s explanation — The Duke’s remark — Sketch of one portion of the Duke’s in­tel­lec­tual character — University Addresses — The Duke helps a dumpy fellow to see the Queen — The Author saves a Master of Arts from hanging — The Duke and the Ninth Bridgewater Treatise — The Duke an economist of time — Character of the French Marshals. MY acquaintance with the late Duke of Wellington commenced in an official visit from himself and Mr. Goulburn, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, to inspect the drawings and works of the Difference Engine No. 1. This was in November, 1829. Afterwards I met the Duke in private society at the houses of one or two of his intimate friends, and sub­se­quent­ly I was honoured not unfrequently by receiving him at my own. During the Exhibition of 1851 I very often accompanied him in his examination of the contents of that building. I made no notes of any of the conversations, some of them highly interesting, which occurred on such occasions, because I felt that the habit of recording privately the conversations with our acquaintances was a breach of faith towards the individual, and tended to destroy all confidence in society. {174} I now perceive, when it is too late, that a rigid adherence to that rule has deprived me of the power of relating circumstances of the greatest interest to survivors, and of the highest credit to himself. I should not even have adverted to the subject in the present work, had I not observed in the fourth volume of the life of the late General Sir Charles Napier of Scinde a passage which, if not explained, might lead to the erroneous inference that I had myself proposed to speak to the Duke of Wellington on a certain military subject, whereas I only did so at the repeated desire of Sir Charles himself. 〈THE LOSS OF THE BIRKENHEAD.〉 The following is a portion of a letter from General Sir Charles Napier to his brother, General Sir William Napier, extracted from “The Life of Sir Charles Napier,” vol. iv., p. 347:— TO GENERAL W. NAPIER; 1852. “May 2nd. “I met Babbage at Miss Burdett Coutts. He talked about the ‘Birkenhead,’ and was very eager, saying, ‘Cannot you speak to the Duke of Wellington?’ ‘No; it would seem a criticising of his conduct.’ ‘Well, I, as a civilian, may.’ ‘Yes; and you will do good, for the Duke alluded to the subject at the Royal Academy dinner an hour ago.’ Babbage did so at once, asking him to move in the matter; and the Duke said he would. I also spoke to Hardinge, who told me he had had a mind to allude to it in his speech at the dinner, but feared it might seem a reflection on the Duke.” “I have been told that the Duke is only awaiting an official despatch from Harry Smith, or Cathcart, about the {175} ‘Birkenhead,’ to act. This is probable, as being like his cautious way, but, to my thinking, not well in this case.” The matter referred to arose thus. Several years ago a troop-ship, named the “Birkenhead,” was wrecked on the African coast, near the Cape of Good Hope. A very small portion only of the troops were saved. According to the testimony of the survivors, the discipline and order which prevailed on board up to the final catastrophe was admirable, and almost beyond example. If any human means could have saved those invaluable lives, such discipline would have largely contributed to the result. Sharing the general regret at this severe loss, and sympathising deeply with the feelings of the surviving relatives, it occurred to me that very simple and inexpensive means were available, which if employed, would at the least afford a melancholy consolation to the afflicted relatives, might be retained with becoming pride in their families, and would also add to the respectability of the social position of the soldier. Observing that military offences punished by a court-martial were made public by being read at the head of every regiment, I suggested that in certain cases publicity should be given by the same means to noble acts of forbearance or of self-devotion. In the case of the “Birkenhead,” in which ship small detachments of several regiments were lost, I suggested that an order should be issued, stating— The circumstances under which the loss occurred, and the nation’s approbation of the conduct of the departed. That their names should be read at the head of their respective regiments. That an official letter, signed by the colonel or other proper {176} officer of each regiment, describing the nature of the service under which the loss occurred, and conveying to the nearest surviving relative the expression of the high approbation the Government entertained of such heroic conduct. Such official testimonials would soothe the feelings of many a relative, would become objects of just pride amongst the relations of the departed, and be handed down as heir-looms in many a village circle. 〈SIR CHARLES NAPIER APPROVES.〉 I mentioned these views to several of my acquaintances, and the idea seemed to meet with general approbation. I found my military friends fully alive to the advantage of such a course for the benefit of the service, and also as a consolation to surviving relatives. Amongst others, I proposed it to the late General Sir Charles Napier. He highly approved of the plan, about which we had several conversations. In one of these I suggested that he should mention it to the Duke of Wellington; to which Sir Charles replied, “No, I could not do that: you should tell him yourself.” I smiled at the notion, not thinking that my friend was in earnest. A short time after I met Sir Charles Napier at a large evening party. We were sitting together on a sofa talking: he resumed the plan I had proposed, spoke of it with much approbation, and concluded by saying, “You ought to tell the Duke of it.” I replied that I had thought he was only joking when he had on a former occasion made the same ob­ser­va­tion. “No, indeed,” said Sir Charles; “I am serious. The Duke will attend to what you say more than to any of us.” “If you really think so,” I replied, “I will follow your counsel. I hope,” I added, “the Duke may excuse me as a civilian for speaking about it, but after such an expression of your opinion I feel bound to take that course.” {177} 〈MENTIONED TO THE DUKE.〉 The conversation then turned upon other subjects, when shortly after the Duke of Wellington was announced. “There,” observed Sir Charles, “is the Duke, now go and talk to him about it.” I promised to do so at a proper opportunity. After the Duke had made his bow to the lady of the house, and recognised and conversed with many of his friends, I threw myself in his way. On the Duke shaking hands with me, I remarked that I was par­tic­u­lar­ly glad to meet him, because an idea had occurred to me in which I thought he would take an interest. He stepped with me a little out of the crowd, and I then stated shortly my views. The Duke paid great attention to the subject; made several remarks upon it; and when we separated, I felt satisfied that he took a strong interest in it. I thought, however, that he had applied the idea rather more to the officers, whilst my main object was the interests of the privates. Much later in the evening I was taking some refreshment in another room, when the Duke entering, saw and rejoined me. He reverted to the subject; I observed that though officers and privates should have the same official acknowledgment, yet that the Commander-in-Chief and the Government possessed other more substantial means of benefiting the surviving relatives of the officers than of the privates. We had some further conversation about it, and I then felt quite satisfied that he both understood and approved of it. I rather think the Duke of Wellington moved in the House of Lords for certain papers, on which he intended to found some measure of the kind; but his death, shortly after, put an end to the question. During the year 1851 I very frequently accompanied the Duke of Wellington to the Exhibition, or met him there by {178} appointment at the crystal fountain. Sometimes one or two of his particular friends, usually ladies, were invited to join the party. On the first occasion I spoke to one of the attending police, simply for the purpose of facilitating our passage if we should get into a great crowd, which, of course, did oc­ca­sion­al­ly happen. In these cases the policeman a little preceded us, and it was very interesting to observe the sudden changes in the countenances of those whom the constable gently touched in order to accelerate our passage. On the first slight pressure of the policeman’s hand upon the arm of John Bull, he looked round with indignation: but when the policeman quietly asked him to be so good as to allow the Duke of Wellington to pass, the muscles of John Bull’s countenance relaxed into a grateful smile: he immediately made way, and in several cases thanked the officer for giving him an opportunity of seeing the Duke. During the most crowded of those days we at one period became entirely blocked up and stationary for upwards of ten minutes. Our intelligent companion was himself wedged in, at a short distance from us. Just in front of us stood a woman with a child in her arms of about two years old, who was leaning over its mother’s shoulder. 〈THE DUKE PLAYS WITH A CHILD.〉 The Duke began to play with the infant, pretending to touch its ear with his finger, and then to touch its nose. The mother was gratified,—the child was charmed. At last the crowd almost suddenly broke up, and we went on. After we had advanced about a dozen paces I said to the Duke of Wellington, “I must step back to speak to the mother of your young friend.” I then asked her if she knew the gentleman who had been playing with her child for the last ten minutes: she said “No, Sir.” I told her it was the Duke of Wellington. Her surprise and delight were equally great. {179} I desired her to tell her boy when he grew up that, when an infant, the Duke of Wellington had played with him. I then returned and told the Duke the object of my mission. His approbation was indicated by a happy smile. One morning the Duke of Wellington called in Dorset Street with the late Countess of Wilton, to whom he wished me to show the Difference Engine. Its home was at that period in my drawing-room. We sat round it whilst I explained its mode of action, and made it calculate some small Table of numbers. 〈LADY WILTON’S REMARK ON DIFFERENCE ENGINE.〉 When I had concluded my explanation, Lady Wilton, addressing me, said, “Now, Mr. Babbage, can you tell me what was your greatest difficulty in contriving this machine?” I had never previously asked myself that question; but I knew the nature of it well. It arose not from the difficulty of contriving mechanism to execute each individual movement, for I had contrived very many different modes of executing each: but it really arose from the almost innumerable combinations amongst all these contrivances—a number so vast, that no human mind could examine