“I remember Hopkins telling me, when speaking of Maxwell, either just before or just after his degree, ‘It is not possible for that man to think incorrectly on physical subjects’; and Hopkins, as you know, had had, perhaps, more experience of mathematical minds than any man of his time.” The last clause is part of a quotation from a diary kept by Mr. Lawson at Cambridge, in which, under the date July 15th, 1853, he writes:-- “He (Hopkins) was talking to me this evening about Maxwell. He says he is unquestionably the most extraordinary man he has met with in the whole range of his experience; he says it appears impossible for Maxwell to think incorrectly on physical subjects; that in his analysis, however, he is far more deficient. He looks upon him as a great genius with all its eccentricities, and prophesies that one day he will shine as a light in physical science--a prophecy in which all his fellow-students strenuously unite.” How many who have struggled through the “Electricity and Magnetism” have realised the truth of the remark about the correctness of his physical intuitions and the deficiency at times of his analysis! Dr. Butler, a friend of these early days, preached the University sermon on November 16th, 1879, ten days after Maxwell’s death, and spoke thus:-- “It is a solemn thing--even the least thoughtful is touched by it--when a great intellect passes away into the silence and we see it no more. Such a loss, such a void, is present, I feel certain, to many here to-day. It is not often, even in this great home of thought and knowledge, that so bright a light is extinguished as that which is now mourned by many illustrious mourners, here chiefly, but also far beyond this place. I shall be believed when I say in all simplicity that I wish it had fallen to some more competent tongue to put into words those feelings of reverent affection which are, I am persuaded, uppermost in many hearts on this Sunday. My poor words shall be few, but believe me they come from the heart. You know, brethren, with what an eager pride we follow the fortunes of those whom we have loved and reverenced in our undergraduate days. We may see them but seldom, few letters may pass between us, but their names are never common names. They never become to us only what other men are. When I came up to Trinity twenty-eight years ago, James Clerk Maxwell was just beginning his second year. His position among us--I speak in the presence of many who remember that time--was unique. He was the one acknowledged man of genius among the undergraduates. We understood even then that, though barely of age, he was in his own line of inquiry not a beginner but a master. His name was already a familiar name to men of science. If he lived, it was certain that he was one of that small but sacred band to whom