CAMBRIDGE 71 



poems published under his initials contains some gems. 

 He had lost a favourite male cousin in youth whose 

 death affected him deeply and gave the chief motive 

 to the book of poems in question. 1 



My second long vacation was spent with a reading 

 party in Aberfeldy, in Perthshire, under the guidance 

 of two tutors as usual, of whom one was Arthur 

 Cayley (1821-1895), whose mathematical work soon 

 gained a world-wide reputation. He and Sylvester 

 ( 1 814-1897) became the two leading mathematicians 

 of England. Cayley was reputed to be the more solid, 

 Sylvester the more daring and brilliant. I saw 

 much of Sylvester a dozen or more years after the 

 date of which I now speak, and for a brief time also 

 at the English Lakes. He was a great friend of 

 Cayley, and corresponded with him very often about 

 his own numerous new ideas, becoming subsequently 

 depressed or elated according to the tenor of the 

 answer. Over and over again I have heard him say, 

 " I must send this to Cayley," or again, " Cayley has 

 pointed out a difficulty." He was charmingly naive, 

 and both were men of prodigious mental power. 

 When the time came for adjudging the Copley Medal to 

 one or other of them, the highest honour of the Royal 

 Society, which it annually bestows on the foremost 

 man in science of whatever branch, in all Europe, 

 there was much discussion as to which of the two 

 should first have it. I was a member of its Council 



1 One of the verses still haunts my memory and deserves repro- 

 duction : 



" The brook sings not so cheerily as of yore, 

 The young spring leaf is withered and upcurled, 

 The rose is scentless, and the sunbeam cold, 

 Truly there's something wanting in the world." 



