The Baroque Cycle: Quicksilver, the Confusion, and the System of the World Read Online Free Page A

“For all of his gears are to no purpose without a primum mobile, a source of motive power—”
    “The Franklin boy!” and all turn to look at Ben.
    “Today it might be young Ben, tomorrow perhaps little Godfrey Waterhouse will step into Ben’s shoes. Later perhaps a rodent on a tread-mill. But in any case, the vis viva is conducted into Dr. Waterhouse’s gear-boxes by—what? Anyone?” The Don cups a hand to an ear Socratically.
    “Shafts?” someone guesses.
    “Cranks!” another shouts.
    “Ah, excellent! Our colleague Waterhouse is, then, a Doctor of—what?”
    “Cranks!” says the entire College in unison.
    “And so devoted is our Doctor of Cranks to his work that he quite sacrifices himself,” says the Don admiringly. “Going many days uncovered—”
    “Shaking the gear-filings from his sleeves when he sits down to break bread—”
    “Better than pepper—”
    “And cheafer!”
    “Are you, perhaps, coming to join his Institute, then?”
    “Or foreclose on’t?” Too hilarious.
    “I have heard of his Institute, but know little of it,” Enoch Root says. He looks over at Ben, who has gone red in the neck and ears, and turned his back on all to nuzzle the horse.
    “Many learned scholars are in the same state of ignorance—be not ashamed.”
    “Since he came to America, Dr. Waterhouse has been infected with the local influenza, whose chief symptom is causing men to found new projects and endeavours, rather than going to the trouble of remedying the old ones.”
    “He’s not entirely satisfied with Harvard College then!?” Enoch says wonderingly.
    “Oh, no! He has founded—”
    “—and personally endowed —”
    “—and laid the cornerstone—”
    “—corner-log, if truth be told—”
    “—of—what does he call it?”
    “The Massachusetts Bay Colony Institute of Technologickal Arts.”
    “Where might I find Dr. Waterhouse’s Institute?” Enoch inquires.
    “Midway from Charlestown to Harvard. Follow the sound of grinding gears ‘til you come to America’s smallest and smokiest dwelling—”
    “Sir, you are a learned and clear-minded gentleman,” says the Don. “If your errand has aught to do with Philosophy, then is not Harvard College a more fitting destination?”
    “Mr. Root is a Natural Philosopher of note, sir!” blurts Ben, only as a way to prevent himself bursting into tears. The way he says it makes it clear he thinks the Harvard men are of the Unnatural type. “He is a Fellow of the Royal Society!”
    Oh, dear.
    The Don steps forward and hunches his shoulders like a conspirator. “I beg your pardon, sir, I did not know.”
    “It is quite all right, really.”
    “Dr. Waterhouse, you must be warned, has fallen quite under the spell of Herr Leibniz—”
    “—him that stole the calculus from Sir Isaac—” someone footnotes.
    “—yes, and, like Leibniz, is infected with Metaphysickal thinking—”
    “—a throwback to the Scholastics, sir—notwithstanding Sir Isaac’s having exploded the old ways through very clear demonstrations—”
    “—and labors now, like a possessed man, on a Mill—designed after Leibniz’s principles—that he imagines will discover new truths through computation !”
    “Perhaps our visitor has come to exorcise him of Leibniz’s daemons!” some very drunk fellow hypothesizes.
    Enoch clears his throat irritably, hacking loose a small accumulation of yellow bile—the humour of anger and ill-temper. He says, “It does Dr. Leibniz an injustice to call him a mere metaphysician.”
    This challenge produces momentary silence, followed by tremendous excitement and gaiety. The Don smiles thinly and squares off. “I know of a small tavern on Harvard Square, a suitable venue in which I could disabuse the gentleman of any misconceptions—”
    The offer to sit down in front of a crock of beer and edify these wags is dangerously tempting. But the Charlestown waterfront is drawing near, the slaves already shortening their strokes;