Table of Contents

ONE: Newsboy in London

TWO: Four Tickets

THREE: The Restless Apprentice

Four: The Answer

FIVE: From Davy to Faraday-Again

SIX: Assistant m the Laboratory

SEVEN: The Continental Tour

EIGHT: Good-By, London!

NINE: The Violet Vapor

TEN:The Shooting Party

ELEVEN: Back at the Royal Institution

TWELVE: Sarah Barnard, A Discovery

THIRTEEN: Flight to Ramsgate

FOURTEEN: The Oily Liquid

FIFTEEN: Fellow of the Royal Society

SIXTEEN: The Year 1831

SEVENTEEN: Pension Trouble

EIGHTEEN: Last Period

Index

MICHAEL FARADAY

From Errand Boy to Master Physicist

BY HARRY SOOTIN

To my wife

Copyright

First Edition Published in the United States by

Julian Messner, Inc.

Copyright, 1954 by Harry Sootin

Second Edition Published by

Ebooks for Students, Ltd.

All rights reserved.

August, 2017.

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ONE

Newsboy in London

The pale blue draperies at the small window to the right of the door were pulled aside slightly. The newsboy outside the neat brick house became aware that he was being watched. He didn’t mind; in fact, he had gotten to expect a personal examination at every stop. Finally a servant opened the door and eyed him inquiringly.

“I’m from Mr. Riebau’s, the bookbinder,” the boy explained.  “Oh yes, I remember you.” The woman motioned for the newsboy to enter.

Clutching his cloth-covered bundle tightly under his arm, the boy had barely crossed the threshold when the master—a tall, bald, bespectacled doctor—rushed up excitedly.

“Come in, lad, come in!” The doctor was all smiles and kept rubbing his hands expectantly, like a child awaiting a treat. “You have that book for me? Let me see it. Put your load right down here by the fire.”

The newsboy grinned as he set his bundle down, glad for a chance to get warm. This was one of the nice things about delivering books and newspapers in London in 1805. People who loved books were usually so kind, so pleasant. And the more important the customer, the kindlier and more pleasant he was likely to be. What was there in books, he often wondered, which seemed to take the harshness out of people?

Soon the boy was down on his knees before a roaring fire, trying, with stiff fingers, to undo the strings of his bundle while the good doctor danced around him impatiently. Finally he pulled the precious book out from under a pile of newspapers and magazines, and handed it to the doctor without a word.

The book was Shakespeare’s Complete Works, beautifully bound in morocco leather and artistically decorated in gold. The doctor fondled it as if it were a newborn baby. For a while the happy man was speechless. He just gazed at the thick volume, stroked its soft leather covers, and thumbed at random from one familiar page to another, beaming with pleasure.

‘‘Beautiful … beautiful,” he kept murmuring half to himself. “And to think how ragged it looked before!” Then, noticing the boy’s observant eyes, he said, “My father—it was his favorite book. How he would have loved to see it now!”

The lad smiled. “Mr. Riebau does fine work. All of his customers remark on it when I make my rounds.”

The doctor suddenly became aware of the newsboy as a human being. He looked at the brown-haired youth with interest, noting the quiet gray eyes set wide apart in a well-shaped but rather large head.

“What’s your name, my boy?” he asked as his eyes swept over the pale face, thin body, and outercoat that was several sizes too large. Very shrewdly, the doctor guessed that there was an older brother in the boy’s family—probably the original owner of the coat.

“Michael, sir. Michael Faraday,” the boy answered as he began retying his bundle.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen, sir.”

“Do you help Mr. Riebau bind books?”

“No, sir. I only deliver the books and newspapers—or call for  them when they have been lent out.”

“Why don’t you learn the trade? Mr. Riebau is one of the best craftsmen in England. Those French bookbinders! There’s nobody like them. They’re artists!”

Michael straightened. “I’d like to learn bookbinding, sir. But it takes money to be accepted as an apprentice.”

“But have you ever asked Mr. Riebau?” persisted the kindly doctor.

“No, sir—not yet. You see, my older brother is still a blacksmith’s apprentice—and my father can't afford to pay for another apprenticeship.”

“It's a shame!” cried the doctor, shaking his head. “Here's a wonderful opportunity to learn bookbinding from a master craftsman—and you can’t take advantage of it. I’ll have to speak to Mr. Riebau about you when I see him next week.” Suddenly his voice became gentle. “What does your father do, Michael?”

“He’s a blacksmith, too, sir—a journeyman blacksmith. But he doesn’t always work. Things haven’t been easy for him lately, sir. Mother thinks blacksmithing is getting to be too much for his health.”

Michael was all buttoned up now and ready to leave. The doctor put his hand on the boy’s shoulder as he ushered him to the door.

“There must be a way for you to do it, Michael,” he said. “Bookbinding is a wonderful craft, an art—and England needs young men who can learn it. We can’t just lead the world in industry. We need books, science, learning, art. Good day, Michael! Good day! I must remember to speak to Mr. Riebau about you.”

Michael was pleased but not too excited by the incident. It had happened several times before, with different booklovers, during the year he had been errand boy for Mr. Riebau. Some remembered to make good their promises, while others, as absent-minded as they were well-meaning, quickly forgot.

He was aware, of course, that Mr. Riebau was satisfied with his services. Any bookbinder would be pleased with an errand boy who didn’t linger on the streets of London to watch the sights. Michael would get through his day’s visits quickly, and keep an accurate record of his deliveries and pickups. What employer could ask more of a boy?

On this particular afternoon he had four more calls to make, and it was quite dark by the time he was through with the last one. Three were exchanges, and one involved the delivery of a bound book. In those days magazines and scientific journals were expensive, so that people found it an economy to pay for their use by the week. It was like the lending-library custom of our own times.

There was a penetrating chill in the air and Michael, coat collar up and bundle close to his body, moved fast to keep warm. As he hurried along the dimly lighted London streets, his mind kept playing with the idea which the fatherly doctor had expressed earlier in the day. An apprenticeship! Why not ask Mr. Riebau?

It was something Michael had thought of many times during the last few months—and always dismissed as an impossibility. Why should Mr. Riebau take him? Many parents would be glad to pay generously for a son’s apprenticeship to a good bookbinder. And what could Michael’s people offer? Nothing— because they simply had nothing!

The boy’s mind went back to when he was nine. He remembered that terrible year, 1801, when the price of corn rose so high that his mother just couldn’t make ends meet. That was the year when the Faradays had to ask for public relief because his father's earnings couldn’t keep the family—four children and two grownups—alive. And Michael’s own portion of the public relief was a loaf of bread which had to last him a whole week!

By this time Michael had reached Mr. Riebau’s shop on Blandford Street. The bookbindery, occupying the lower floor of a two-story building, had a large display window on each side of the entrance. Small shelves built inside, to hold individual books, magazines, and color prints, served to divide the large display windows into dozens of squares.

On entering the shop Michael turned to the left where a narrow door led to the workroom. There, too, facing the street, was a wide window through which the precious sunlight poured on clear days. In the early part of the nineteenth century, when the only man-made sources of light were candles or oil lamps, workrooms were arranged so as to get as much natural light as possible.

He found the leather-aproned, stout little Frenchman busy gluing down tapes to hold the sewed sections of a book to its handsome handmade covers. The place smelled of glue, leather, and old printed pages. Michael had learned to love the odors of a bookbindery; to him they represented warmth, security, and endless books to read—each crammed with interesting information about the world.

Mr. Riebau looked up for a moment when Michael entered, and then went back to his gluing. The French craftsman loved his work and didn’t mind at all getting glue on his face or mustache. It used to fascinate Michael to see one end of the mustache dragged down by its weight of glue, while the other end remained fresh-looking and curled upward. Mr. Riebau was a man who, when he worked, thought of nothing but his work!

“All finished? No trouble today?” asked Mr. Riebau, becoming aware that Michael was watching with great interest the process of “casing-in” the book.

“Everyone was in today. No one away for the week end.” Michael set his bundle down on a nearby table and checked his daily record for the last time.

“Good! No unnecessary trips,” grunted the bookbinder.

“And they all seemed pleased, as usual,” added Michael. “A few were really thrilled at the bindings. They said you were an artist.”

“Bookbinding is more an art than a trade, Michael,” remarked the Frenchman, glowing with pride. “To do something and always want to do it better—that is art!”

Michael nodded understandingly as he watched Mr. Riebau's deft fingers make a beautiful book out of a pile of sewed-together printed pages.

“Here is the days account, with notes about each customer, Mr. Riebau,” the boy said finally. “May I go now?”

“Hungry?” asked the bookbinder with a paternal smile.

“Yes—a little. Very cold out today.”

“Fresh air and much walking improve the appetite, don’t they? But what am I saying? A boy of fourteen doesn’t have to worry about appetite. He is all appetite!” Mr. Riebau threw out his hands and chuckled at the thought.

Michael prepared to leave. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“Yes.” The Frenchman wiped his hands, keeping a thoughtful eye on the boy.

“Do you like books, Michael?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes, sir. More than when I was at school. Books seem different here, Mr. Riebau. In school they were—”

“You mean they seem more alive to you now?” suggested the bookbinder.

“That’s it, sir. Your books are interesting … they teach … they make one want to read,” explained the boy.

“Good … good!” Mr. Riebau appeared touched by Michael’s attitude. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he said suddenly, “How would you like to learn the trade, Michael?”

The boy was so startled that he flushed and couldn’t answer for a few seconds. Finally he blurted out, “You mean … as an apprentice?”

Mr. Riebau’s eyebrows moved closer together. “Naturally!

How else does one learn a trade? Of course I mean as an apprentice.

“But—but my father can’t pay the premium,” stuttered Michael. “He can’t afford it.”

The Frenchman pretended to be hurt. “Did I mention money, Michael?”

“No, sir. You did not. But I always thought—”

The proud bookbinder drew himself up to his full five-and-a-half feet. “You thought wrong, Michael. I am an artist … not a money-grubber! Some apprentices I would never take, no matter how much their parents offered as premium. And others I would accept without any premium. And you, Michael, are one I really want to teach the art of bookbinding!”

The boy could feel his heart pounding with excitement. He wanted to say something to show his gratitude, but couldn’t summon the proper words. “Thank you, thank you,” he kept repeating. “I'll do my best to learn … Ill try to please you, Mr. Riebau.”

The bookbinder waved his thanks aside. “Now go home, Michael, and discuss it with your parents. If all is agreeable, well draw up the papers tomorrow.” Mr. Riebau chuckled as he noticed the dazed look on the boys face. “You’d better go, Michael. Get some food into your hollow stomach. It will calm you down.”

“Good night, sir,” said Michael, jumping at the suggestion, “and thank you again.” As he backed out of the workroom, he almost banged his head against the half-open door leading to the main part of the shop. Mr. Riebau, watching from the window, burst into laughter when he saw the boy break into a run the moment he was out the door.

The Faradays, at that time, lived in Charles Street, Manchester Square, and occupied several large rooms over a coach house not far from the bookbindery. They had moved there when Michael was five, managing to hold on to their home despite the depression at the beginning of the century which for many years had made rent paying a terrifying problem.

The table was set for him and his mother was patiently waiting when Michael burst into the room.

“I have wonderful news, Mother,” he sputtered the moment he pushed the door open. “I’m going to be an apprentice! Mr. Riebau … he said so. And think of it, Mother—no premium at all! Isn’t that great news?”

The boy s eyes shone with excitement and happiness when he saw his mothers thin, tired face light up. She took her son into her arms, kissed him without a word, and then looked down for a few seconds as if offering a silent prayer of thanksgiving for her boys good fortune.

The slight little woman, whose mixed gray and black hair was drawn back tightly and rolled into a bun, radiated quiet joy. Michael couldn’t remember ever seeing his mother so happy before.

“Come sit down and eat, Michael,” she said. “You must be famished. Guess what I have, for you tonight?”

“Something special, I'm sure. This is my lucky day. What is it you have?”

“Mutton stew,” his mother announced proudly. “I got lots of scraps at the market this morning. They were real cheap today for some reason.”

“What a day!” exclaimed Michael gaily.

Mrs. Faraday served her son his meal, and there was silence in the room for several minutes as they sat side by side at the table in the flickering yellow light of a thick candle.

Suddenly they heard a cough from the adjoining room.

“How is Father today,” asked Michael, looking worried.

“Trying to rest. He isn’t well yet, but I do think that cough of his is loosening up. It was much worse.”

“Margaret all right?” He was referring to his sister, the baby of the family, who was three years old and Michael's pet.

“Yes. She was in all day and must have tired herself out playing. Fell asleep the moment I put her to bed.”

“Good!” Michael pushed his cup of tea closer. “What do you think of Mr. Riebau, Mother? You haven’t said… . Did you ever expect him to take me on as apprentice—without being paid?”

“He’s a wonderful man—so understanding, so generous. But you’re a good boy, Michael, and I’m sure he’s aware of it. It is a miracle for which I have long prayed. And behold! It really happened!”

“Just think, Mother,” continued Michael enthusiastically. “I’ll be fed and clothed and housed by the Riebau’s for seven years, with nothing to worry about … with books to read and pleasant work to do. What could be better?”

Mrs. Faraday looked troubled for a moment. “But when will we get to see you, Michael? Seven years is a long time.”

“Now don’t let that worry you, Mother,” her son reassured her. “You’ll see plenty of me. I’ll be down Sundays so we can all go to church together as usual. Mr. Riebau will want me to do that. And then I’ll always be dropping in here when some errand takes me by the house. It’ll be almost like living at home; you’ll see that it will.”

Mrs. Faraday looked relieved. Her children were her life, and tied to her by bonds of love, sacrifice, and understanding. Though troubled by the specter of poverty ever since her marriage, the frail woman had selflessly devoted every thought, every bit of strength, to the care of her family.

Suddenly her eyes filled with tears and she turned aside to avoid Michael’s inquiring glance. “So my son will have a good trade after all,” she murmured. “Thank God, Michael, that you won’t have to work in those vile factories which so quickly change good people into evil creatures. You’ll be independent, Michael—a journeyman, with a trade far less taxing than your father’s.

“And most important of all,” her son added eagerly, “it will ease things for you, Mother. The Riebaus will board me, and that will save you much expense. And with Robert soon to be a journeyman blacksmith, anyone can see that the Faraday fortunes are looking up—at last.”

“I hope so,” said his mother. “God has been good to us, Michael, and we must remember to be thankful to Him.”

The room was getting cold, so they pulled their chairs closer to the large coal range built into the rear wall and sat for some time without exchanging a word. Despite the chill in the air which the heap of glowing coals seemed helpless to overcome, they felt blessedly warm within—from the human warmth given off by the quiet love and understanding which mother and son had always felt for each other.

It was a long time before Michael Faraday fell asleep that night. Exciting pictures kept flashing through his mind … the cozy bookbindery … the fascinating stock of books … his bright future ... the happiness of his father and mother.

It wasn’t a dream! He, Michael Faraday, was going to become an apprentice—a bookbinder’s apprentice!

And someday he would be, like Mr. Riebau, a master bookbinder!

TWO

Four Tickets

Michael was almost twenty-one and nearing the end of his apprenticeship. Thanks to Mrs. Riebau's excellent cooking, he had grown stockier. His voice had deepened and he had become more self-assured, not only as a result of years of home reading and study but also from the knowledge that he had “good hands” —as his master would often say. When young Faraday got through with a bookbinding job, it was well done!

It was an icy-clear January afternoon in the year 1812. The bright winter sunlight streamed through the window of the workroom, and the dust particles danced in its beams as if rejoicing at the unexpected warmth. Michael Faraday was about to glue down the tapes of the large volume he was binding—the Encyclopaedia Britannica. All was ready: the board covers, the glue, the rags for wiping.

Michael loved the Britannica; in a shop full of books, it remained his favorite. Unable to resist the temptation, he opened one section at random just to see what he would find; it proved interesting, and soon the gluing job was forgotten while the absorbed bookbinder read on and on.

Suddenly he became aware of a voice from the doorway. “Whose side are you on—Galvani's or Volta's? And why did that frog's leg twitch, anyway?”

The startled Faraday relaxed. It was Monsieur Masquerier, the French refugee who boarded with the Riebaus. He was in charge of the shop for the afternoon, Mr. Riebau having gone off to purchase supplies.

“No one asks that question any longer,” laughed Michael. “The leg of the famous Galvani frog twitched because electricity passed into it from without. It wasn't electricity from the nerve, as Galvani suspected.”

Monsieur Masquerier’s eyes wrinkled up in amusement, and for a moment his face lost its characteristically sad expression.

“I'll have to experiment myself the next time I have frogs’ legs,” he declared. “But frogs are scarce in London—and, besides, I’d rather eat them than look at them.’’

“I’d like to try the Galvani experiment myself,” said Michael dreamily. “You get me a frog’s leg, Monsieur Masquerier, and I’ll hang it outside my window by a copper hook. Right behind it I’ll place a piece of iron.’’

“And what do you hope to show by all that?’’

“When the wind blows the frog’s leg against the iron, the leg should twitch or kick. Copper, leg, and iron make a simple voltaic cell. Electricity is produced.’’

“So poor Galvini lost the argument to Volta,” teased the Frenchman, pretending great sadness.

The world had followed the controversy between the two Italian scientists with great interest. It had started with an investigation as to why certain fish gave electric shocks when touched. It ended with Volta’s famous “crown of cups,” a series of small vessels each of which contained a zinc and copper strip in dilute acid. Thus was born the voltaic cell and current electricity! Galvani died in 1797; but Volta was still alive in 1812, when Faraday was a young man.

A tinkle from the doorbell of the shop put an abrupt end to the discussion of frogs’ legs. Monsieur Masquerier hurried back to take care of his customer. Michael stopped reading and returned to his gluing.

He had often wondered about Monsieur Masquerier, the gentle, melancholy artist who had taken refuge with the Riebaus about a year ago. It seemed that every Frenchman in trouble with Napoleon would rush to Riebau’s bookbindery upon arriving in London. Monsieur Masquerier had been an artist of note in France, and had even done Napoleon's portrait. But he was out of favor now, and reduced to waiting patiently for political conditions to change so that he could return to his beloved Paris.

In the bookshop, meanwhile, the Frenchman quickly recognized his customer. It was Mr. Dance, a member of the Royal Institution and one of Mr. Riebau's regular patrons.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Dance,” he called out.

Mr. Dance was already investigating the shelf of newly arrived books. “Good afternoon, sir. What a wonderfully clear January afternoon!”

“It certainly is,” agreed Monsieur Masquerier as he settled himself over an art book. He felt that booklovers had a right to be left alone—in his opinion, a sacred right.

After a few minutes of silent reading, Mr. Dance looked up. “How is our young friend today?” He always made it a point to ask about Michael, whom he regarded as an unusual young man.

Upon retiring from business activities, Mr. Dance had become interested in science; he now devoted much of his leisure to following its progress. For this reason he had taken a liking to the quiet, thoughtful young apprentice whose face became so alive when science was discussed. This was especially true when Mr. Dance would describe some demonstration he had recently witnessed at a Royal Institution lecture.

The French refugee looked at the ruddy-faced, gray-haired Englishman and smiled.

“Oh—Michael? He’s in the workroom, probably reading three books at once—as usual. Shall I call him? I'm sure he's anxious to tell you all about his new voltaic pile or about his friction machine, which now, I am happy to report, gives a nice fat spark.”

“No, don't let's interrupt his work or reading,” chuckled Mr. Dance. “Isn't it rather unusual for a bookbinder to be so interested in the insides of books?”

“That is so. But what is more unusual is for an apprentice to have a master like Mr. Riebau,” noted the Frenchman.

“Indeed, Michael is a fortunate young man,” agreed Mr. Dance.

“Hes an excellent worker and tries to help the Riebaus in a hundred different ways—without worrying about his rights as an apprentice. To the Riebaus, Michael is more like a son than an employee. They love him.”

“The young man should have continued his education,” said Mr. Dance. “He has a natural interest in science and might have amounted to something—if he had had the schooling. What a sad waste of human material!”

Monsieur Masquerier threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “What you say is true—unfortunately! Still, Michael possesses tremendous energy and persistence. Give him a book and he'll squeeze every bit of knowledge out of it. He's taught himself to write and think clearly. A perfect example of what will power can do!”

The Frenchman paused for a moment and then continued his eulogy of the young bookbinder. “One day I found him trying to learn to draw—with absolutely no knowledge of simple perspective. I lent him a book on drawing and gave him a few lessons. You should see the drawings of scientific apparatus in his notebooks—clean, neat, accurate!”

*What sort of notebooks?” asked Mr. Dance curiously.

“You haven’t seen them? They are about the science lectures he went to a year ago. You must ask Michael to show them to you. Come—let us see what our apprentice is doing now.”

The two men moved quietly to the partly open door of the workroom. This time Michael wasn't caught kneeling over an exciting article on electricity. He was working away diligently and cheerfully at his bookbinding.

Suddenly he got the feeling that he was being observed. He looked up, recognized Mr. Dance, and rushed out to greet him. Michael was fond of the portly, retired businessman, and respected him both as a man and as a member of the Royal Institution.

It was through Mr. Dance that young Faraday often managed to get an inkling of what life was like in the glittering, magical Royal Institution where the brilliant Sir Humphrey Davy held sway—the unsurpassed Davy to whose famous lectures all of the great of London flocked to be entertained, thrilled, and instructed.

“Did you find out about Davy's battery?” began Michael eagerly.

“I asked about it,” replied Mr. Dance, “and it was exactly as you suspected. There were ten double plates in each cell. That battery of two hundred porcelain cells really amounted to two thousand voltaic cells in series.”

Michael Faraday gasped in wonder. “I wish I could have seen it. And here I am trying to work with the current from a voltaic pile consisting of a dozen zinc and copper disks with a piece of acidulated flannel between each pair!” He grinned at the thought of his homemade miniature battery.

“I've been telling Mr. Dance about your notebooks,” broke in Monsieur Masquerier, “and how beautifully you wrote up and illustrated Mr. Tatum's lectures.”

“Who is Mr. Tatum?” asked Mr. Dance. He thought he knew most of the science lecturers in London.

“I saw a bill posted on a shop window one day,” explained Michael. “It said that a certain Mr. Tatum was planning to give a series of lectures on Natural Philosophy in his home on Dorset Street.”

“At one shilling per lecture,” interrupted the Frenchman with a laugh. “And that was the most difficult part of natural philosophy, wasn't it, Michael?”

The apprentice nodded. “My brother had just become a journeyman blacksmith and was very generous. He laid out the money for the lectures.”

“How many did you attend?” asked Mr. Dance, quite taken with the idea of a blacksmith brother helping a bookbinder's apprentice learn natural philosophy.

Young Faraday flushed with, excitement. “Twelve, sir. And they were grand! I saw the gases of the atmosphere prepared in pure state. I saw the Leyden jar demonstrated ... the electrophorus ... the decomposition of salts by electricity. Mr. Tatum even decomposed water into its elements by means of a strong electric current!”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Mr. Dance. “Another way of going to school. Only where you went, the learners were hungry instead of overfed. And to the hungry every bit of knowledge is sweet.”

“Would you like to see my notes of the Tatum lectures?” asked Michael somewhat shyly.

“I certainly would,” answered Mr. Dance.

The young man dashed into the workroom and was back in a minute with his precious notebook.

“I see you had it bound,” said Mr. Dance as he examined the flexible leather covers.

“I bound it myself,” explained Michael proudly.

“There are advantages in being both a lover of science and a bookbinder,” suggested Monsieur Masquerier with a smile.

Michael waited tensely as Mr. Dance proceeded to thumb through the notebook page by page. He watched the older man's face intently, as if anxious for a hint of what the reaction would be.

Finally Mr. Dance closed the notebook, flexed the leather covers thoughtfully, and remained silent for a few seconds. His manner became serious, earnest.

“Why, these dozen lectures, with complete notes, practically amount to a year's course in chemistry and physics! Remarkable! And you're able to grasp everything in this notebook, Michael?”

“I think I do—now. It was rather hard at first. But I've had excellent teachers, sir.”

“You mean this Mr. Tatum?”

Michael shook his head. “Mr. Tatum lectured and explained a bit as he went along. But it was too much for me—at first. However, I had many other teachers, sir.” He paused and pointed to the hundreds of books on the shelves of the bookshop. “Books helped clear things up for me—particularly the Britannica articles on science.”

“I see,” remarked Mr. Dance approvingly, “your college is right here. And you have the best, the most brilliant teachers in the world at your beck and call. Were there many other young people at Mr. Tatum's?”

”Yes, sir. Never less than twenty at each lecture. They came from all parts of London. Some were clerks—with considerable education. I made some good friends there.”

“Were there any other apprentices at the lectures?” asked Mr. Dance.

“No, I don't think so. I must have been the only one.”

“The more credit to you!” cried Mr. Dance. “I'm sure you could keep up with any of Mr. Tatum's listeners.”

“Thank you, sir.” Michael looked both pleased and embarrassed at the compliment.

“Keep it up,” said Mr. Dance as he handed the notebook back to Michael. “There's nothing like science to sharpen one's mind.” He eyed the young man with a half-smile for a moment. “Have you ever attended any lectures by Sir Humphry Davy at the Royal Institution, Michael?”

The bookbinder's apprentice was startled. Was he being teased? Why should Mr. Dance ask him that? It was like being asked whether he had ever dined with the Prime Minister of England? Michael shook his head and tried to look amused.

Mr. Dance guessed what was passing through the young man's mind. “I have four tickets,” he began slowly, “for the final Davy lectures.” He slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his coat and extracted his wallet, from which he removed four white tickets.

Michael, thoroughly dazed, watched every move as if hypnotized. Monsieur Masquerier, too, looked on with great interest.

“Let me see,” said Mr. Dance, examining the dates on the tickets. “February 29, March 14, April 8, and April 10 . . . at nine o'clock in the evening. We could meet outside the Royal Institution and sit together for the lectures, Michael.”

The apprentice's mouth remained half-open with surprise. He was too overcome to summon words. “I—I—” he sputtered.

“The tickets belong to a friend who expects to be away from London for the next few months,” explained Mr. Dance. “And I'm sure no one will appreciate Davy’s lectures as much as you, Michael.”

The young man managed to pull himself together—finally. “You mean that I will actually hear Davy?”

Mr. Dance nodded arid handed the tickets to young Faraday. “Thank you, sir, thank you,” cried Michael. He kept looking from Mr. Dance to Monsieur Masquerier as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming it all. “I never thought that I would ever get to hear Davy—the famous Sir Humphry Davy!”

Mr. Dance buttoned up his heavy black coat and moved toward the door. Michael followed him, still wide-eyed with excitement and still murmuring thanks.

“Stop thanking me,” said the older man, smiling. “But for you, those tickets might have gone to waste. Someday you’ll understand that it is a great pleasure for the old to be able to do things-for the young. Good day, Michael. Good day, Monsieur Masquerier.”

“Just think of my good fortune, Monsieur Masquerier!” cried Michael the moment they were alone. “I’ll see and hear Davy! People come to his lectures from all over the world. I’ll see the experiments I read about in the science journals. The apparatus Davy works with at the Royal Institution is the best in England!” Four tickets to a new, exciting world!

THREE

The Restless Apprentice

It was pure magic! With large, wondering eyes Michael Faraday sat in the lecture theater of the Royal Institution, up in the balcony right under the clock, drinking in the words of Sir Humphry Davy.

His whole being was taut, like a musical instrument whose tightly stretched strings were ready to vibrate to whatever sounds came from the man on the platform. As the eloquent, silver-tongued Davy performed, squeezing every bit of drama out of each demonstration, Michael's mind responded swiftly and surely.

That thousand-cell battery ... he had read about it! That carbon arc which emitted a dazzling white light ... he had discussed it with his friends many times before! The decomposition of sodium hydroxide by the current from the powerful voltaic battery, and the freeing of the precious sodium—one of Davy's great discoveries—brought the transfixed Michael to his feet.

One thrill after another. To a young man who had spent so many years fashioning scientific apparatus out of inexpensive odds and ends, the very sight of Davy's well-made equipment proved a revelation. Of course he had often read about the pumps and balances and retorts and burners used by professional experimenters—but this was different. Now he knew that such things actually existed outside of books and magazines!

Michael was unaware of the people around him. He wasn't the least hit interested in the elegantly attired ladies and gentlemen who filled every available seat in the lecture theater. Even Mr. Dance, in the seat at his left, ceased to exist for him—except during the intermission period when Michael poured interesting stories about the experiments into the ready ear of his elderly friend.

Mr. Dance was having the time of his life. During the lectures he spent almost as much time observing the tense young Faraday as he did Davy. The quivering interest of the book-binders apprentice fascinated—and frightened—him. Was he doing Michael a good turn by showing him the Promised Land for four evenings—and then letting him plunge back into the bookbindery, probably for the rest of his life?

“What a great scientist our Sir Humphry is!” exclaimed Michael at the end of one of the lectures. “I could sit and watch him forever without tiring.” He noticed that Davy’s assistant was beginning to clear the demonstration table of apparatus. “I think that man is lucky to have a job helping Davy.”

Mr. Dance smiled. “Sir Humphrey is a gifted man—part poet and part scientist. A wonderful combination. Still in his thirties and already a Fellow of the Royal Society! I hear that the Institute of France has just awarded him its gold medal. I imagine that Davy, right now, is the most famous scientist in Europe.”

Between lectures young Faraday put in hours of painstaking work on his new notebook. Remembering every detail, he proceeded to write out and illustrate each Davy demonstration. The notebook was a work of art and he wanted it to be just that. He realized that this precious record was all he would have left of this most thrilling experience of his life. Once the lectures were over, Michael planned to bind his notes in the most expensive leather.

At the last lecture Mr. Dance noticed a change in his young protégé. Though his interest was still at a high pitch, Michael seemed a little sad. Mr. Dance was troubled at his young friend’s subdued spirits.

As the two walked home that last evening, arm in arm, the older man felt impelled to speak of what was disturbing him.

“You'd like to work in the field of science, wouldn't you, Michael?”

“These lectures,” said Michael after a long pause, “have made me feel that my life is humdrum, unexciting. Strange how bookbinding doesn't seem attractive any longer.”

Mr. Dance became alarmed. Definitely a mistake, he said to himself. He hadn't helped Michael by being kind to him. In fact, he may have done the youth a serious disservice.

“It must be thrilling to spend one's life, like Sir Humphry, in a laboratory . . . with no thought of buying, selling, gaining wealth,” continued Michael, half to himself. “Davy is fortunate. His life is the good life . . . experimenting . . . pursuing facts . . . seeking truths.”

“But science isn't the only good life,” protested Mr. Dance. “One may get equal satisfaction from craftsmanship, whether it be in bookbinding, carpentry, printing, or any other trade.”

“What I want most to do is to serve science,” said Michael with a faraway look. “I'd give my whole life to it if I got the chance—with no thought of gain. Why, I'd feel in heaven if I could secure even the humblest position in the laboratory of the Royal Institution!”

Mr. Dance gripped Michael's arm as if to comfort him. “Who knows? A job may turn up for you in the laboratory. We'll keep our eyes open. In the meantime, Michael, you must stick to your trade. Soon you'll be a full-fledged journeyman, and able to earn your own way.”

Michael nodded, having no desire to argue with his kind friend. When they reached the point at which they customarily separated, he shook Mr. Dance's hand warmly and thanked him again for the four tickets.

It was still a good half-hour's walk to the Riebaus'. The young apprentice's heavy boots went clackety-clack on the cobblestones of the narrow London streets as he strode along, shoulders hunched, head down, wrestling with his problem.

Michael felt that he was being cornered by life, by circumstances beyond his control. Bookbinding as a lifelong trade had lost its appeal. It was different a few years ago, when he had looked forward eagerly to becoming a journeyman—and even a master bookbinder.

The past year, however, had been marked by a growing dissatisfaction with his trade. Binding books or selling books wasn't enough. Science was the thing! Science made everything else seem trivial!

Now that he had sat spellbound through four Davy lectures, his discontent reached a peak. Somehow he must find a way out of bookbinding and into science.

But how? He was fenced in by responsibilities. His sister, Margaret, was only ten years old. His father had died three years ago; and shortly afterward his family had moved to Weymouth Street, where his mother had found it necessary to supplement the family income by taking in lodgers. The uncomplaining Mrs. Faraday was resigned to working and struggling until her sons established themselves in their trades and could take care of her.

True, his brother Robert was now a journeyman blacksmith. But he wasn't settled yet. At the moment he was even thinking of switching to a full-time gas-fitting job. Gas lighting was on its way in, and the main streets of London were being dug up for gas mains.

What would his family think if he, Michael, at the age of twenty-one and within a few months of becoming a journeyman bookbinder, suddenly threw it all up for a menial job in science —a job that might carry little or no pay?

Michael's head was throbbing by the time he reached the Riebau shop. He unlocked the door and climbed quietly to his room. No writing up of that last lecture tonight. He wasn't in the mood . . . too confused in mind and spirit to concentrate. There would be time for the notebook during the week.

A few days later, when he visited his family, he spoke to Robert about his problem. The broad-shouldered blacksmith with the brooding dark eyes responded sympathetically.

“What happened to that other job—the one you applied for last week? Engineering, wasn't it?”

Michael looked grim. “It was an excellent position . . . right in London . . . five hundred pounds per year to start. But I couldn’t qualify. They wanted someone who knew mensuration, mechanics, and drafting.”

“Don’t take it to heart so, Michael,” said his brother. “Someday a job will turn up exactly suited to your talents. Just be patient.”

“How can I take any job in science—unless it pays well? Mother needs the wages I’ll soon be making as a journeyman. You’ve shouldered the house expenses long enough, Robert.”

Robert studied his brother’s face for a few seconds. There had always been a fine feeling between them; in their youth Robert had been the self-appointed protector of his brother.

“Let’s look at this clearly,” Robert began. “You won’t be happy, Michael, until you get into scientific work. Just find the right job and don’t worry about anything else. I’ll take care of Mother and Margaret.”

“You can’t do it,” answered Michael, turning away to hide his feelings. “It would be senseless. You have your own life to think of.”

Robert laughed heartily. “I’m strong and am beginning to earn good wages. Once you get your start, Michael, it won’t be long before you’ll be helping us. I’m sure of that.” He slapped his brother on the back and refused to discuss the matter any further.

As the weeks slipped by, Michael’s mind kept turning to that fateful day—October 12, 1812—when he would become a full-fledged journeyman bookbinder. He feared that day because it meant the end of his dream of someday being a scientist—a worker in the field of natural philosophy, as he loved to call it. Once a journeyman, he would be caught in the net of necessity; for the rest of his life, wages would be the important consideration.

His resourceful mind conjured up a hundred different ways of extricating himself from the trap. After rejecting each as impracticable, Michael finally conceived the idea of writing directly to Sir Joseph Banks, the President of the Royal Society.

Yes, he would communicate with the head of the most honored group of scientists in England!

Night after night he attacked the problem of what to say in his letter. He would explain that, though a bookbinder’s apprentice at the moment, he had a “distaste for trade” and was “eager to enter into the service of science” . .. and finally that he would be grateful for an opportunity to do “even the humblest work in a laboratory.”

Young Faraday copied and recopied until he got his all-important letter into satisfactory form. Remembering from his errand-boy days where Sir Joseph lived, he hurried to the latter’s impressive brownstone home and left the letter with the porter.

Then followed a week of dreams, of wild imaginings. The answer might change his life—it might! Michael was so nervous and restless that the Riebaus were convinced their beloved apprentice was ill. They knew nothing of the letter because Michael was saving his story until he was certain that the end would be a happy one.

After waiting a week Michael presented himself at Sir Joseph’s door for his answer. The porter disappeared into the house and soon returned with an envelope.

Michael looked at it. Why was he getting his own letter back? He looked again. Across the face of it was scribbled “No Answer”!

That dreaded day, October 12, finally came around. His last day as an apprentice! Tomorrow Michael would be a wage earner, a journeyman bookbinder.

The parting was a trial for all. The plump, motherly, grayhaired Mrs. Riebau was so overcome that she could barely trust herself to speak. She kept wiping her eyes with the twisted corner of her apron. Mr. Riebau tried hard to be matter-of-fact and cheerful, but his eyes looked suspiciously moist.

“You’ll like your new master, Michael,” Mr. Riebau kept repeating. “De la Roche is a good man. He may bark much, but he doesn’t bite. Plug up your ears and you’ll learn to like him.”

“Leaving here is like leaving home,” said Michael, trying hard to smile. “You have both been so good to me—almost like a second father and mother.”

“You'll come to see us?” asked Mrs. Riebau anxiously.

“Try and keep me away!” cried Michael. “The luckiest day of my life was when I began here as errand boy. I was only fourteen then—and now I am twenty-one. How quickly the happy years slipped by!”

A kiss on each cheek from Mrs. Riebau, and a kiss on each cheek from Mr. Riebau—and it was all over. Michael Faraday's life on Blandford Street was now part of the unreality of the past.

The next few weeks were difficult for Michael. He started out with the firm resolution to concentrate on his trade, to remember that his wages were needed by his family, and to push all unsettling thoughts from his mind. But gradually he weakened; he found himself thinking, more and more, of how different life must be in the most exciting of all places on earth—the laboratory of the Royal Institution.

His new master, Mr. De la Roche, was an emotional, unpredictable bookbinder with a peculiar talent for charging any atmosphere with passion, excitement, and much sound. What pleased him yesterday, enraged him today. An unusually volatile man, he would criticize his journeyman violently one moment and praise him to the skies the next—in each instance for an equally poor reason.

Accustomed to the quiet, serene days at the Riebau's, Michael found De la Roche's emotional outbursts extremely wearing. And, worst of all, his hours now were much longer than they had been as an apprentice. By the time he dragged himself home to Weymouth Street every night and had his supper, there was very little time left for reading or for working in his home laboratory.

Mrs. Faraday, though aware that her son wasn't happy in his new job, said nothing at first. She hoped he would adjust to his new master and become his cheerful self again. But that didn't happen. As the weeks went by, Michael became more depressed.

“If you don't like your trade, Michael,” she ventured one night after he had pushed his food aside half-untouched, “then why don't you try something else? Robert says that you'll never be happy until you get a job playing with acids and batteries.”

Her son suddenly got up from the table and began pacing the floor. “It’s too late. I'm past twenty-one now, and have already put in seven years as an apprentice. How can I think of starting over again?”

“But you're still young. You have your whole life before you,” protested Mrs. Faraday.

“They smile at the idea of a bookbinder wanting to become a scientist,” continued Michael, talking half to himself. “When I apply for a position, they never ask what I know or what I can do. It's always schools . . . colleges. Where was I educated? What degrees do I have?” His tone was so bitter that Mrs. Faraday winced.

“But you've taught yourself as much as any school could teach you!” she cried indignantly. “Think of the years you've spent reading science, experimenting, and going to lectures.”

“None of that seems to count,” answered her son, his lips tightening. “The odds are against a poor boy in the world of science—unless some generous soul puts out a helping hand. And there aren't many who will do that.”

Suddenly Michael caught himself. Why was he burdening his poor mother with his own disappointments? Hadn’t she enough to bear without adding his personal troubles?

He stopped in front of his mother and placed his hand on her frail shoulder. “I'm sorry to upset you so. It is only a matter of time before I get used to De la Roche—and then I'll stop thinking of how to escape from bookbinding, Mother.”

“But I want you to do the kind of work your heart desires,” insisted Mrs. Faraday. “It’s important for you and important for me. Michael, I hope you never stop trying to get into science!”

Her son laughed. “Do you know what that means—a position in a laboratory? Interesting work but hardly any wages. Do you think I want my mother to go on keeping lodgers while her strapping son gets started on a new career?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m not overworked,” said Mrs. Faraday gaily. “Margaret is growing up and—”

Michael stooped and kissed his mother. “Why are we discussing something that doesn’t exist? No one has offered Michael Faraday even the humblest position in science—and no one is likely to.”

“God will help you, Michael. He has always helped us in times when our family needed Him,” Mrs. Faraday said earnestly.

As the frail, tired little woman bowed her head in silent prayer, her son knelt beside her and added his prayer to hers.

Once or twice a week Michael would drop in at the Riebaus’, where he was always welcomed like a visiting son. The Frenchman had been troubled about him at first; but as the weeks rolled by, he noted with relief that the new journeyman was gradually getting accustomed to De la Roche and minding his violent temper less and less.

One evening, late in November, Michael walked into the bookshop and found the Riebaus and Mr. Dance in a huddle over one of the counters.

“I’m glad you’re here,” remarked Mr. Dance after exchanging warm greetings with his young friend. “I was about to leave a message for you, Michael. An idea struck me the other day while I was sitting in the reading room of the Institution.”

“An idea? About me?” Michael looked puzzled.

“Yes—and a good one!” cried Mrs. Riebau. “Tell it to him, Mr. Dance, tell it to him.”

“Have you ever considered writing to Sir Humphry Davy to ask for a position in his laboratory?” asked Mr. Dance.

“I don’t think it would do much good,” answered young Faraday quickly.

“But why not try?” the older man persisted. “A letter is as good a way as any. At least Sir Humphry will learn of your existence.”

Michael explained his lack of enthusiasm for Mr. Dance’s suggestion. He told about his letter to Sir Joseph Banks, and how he had gotten it back with the “No Answer” penciled across it.

“What a shame!” cried Mrs. Riebau. “What a cruel thing to do!”

“You mustn't let one rebuff discourage you,” advised Mr. Dance. “You must keep on trying and trying.”

For the next fifteen minutes his friends concentrated their fire on the young journeyman. He had to try Sir Humphry. ... It was his duty. . . . Who knew but that this time his letter might bear fruit?

Finally Michael retreated from his earlier stand and promised to write to Davy. There was little chance of success, but the cost to him was merely a letter. And this time he would be braced for the expected disappointment.

“One more thing,” added Mr. Dance. “Be sure to leave your notebook, along with the letter, at the Institution. I mean the one in which you wrote up the four Davy lectures.”

“Why should Davy care about my notebook?” asked Michael with a smile.

“It's your best card, and don't fail to play it. A beautiful piece of work! It tells more about you than a hundred letters.”

“And make it clear to Davy,” broke in Mr. Riebau, “that you are not in dire need. Explain that you are seeking a position in the laboratory because of personal inclinations—and not necessity.”

By the time Faraday got home that night he was enthusiastic over Mr. Dance's idea. Writing the letter was easy this time, since it was more or less the same as the one to Sir Joseph Banks.

The next night he hurried to Albemarle Street, where the Royal Institution was located, and left letter and notebook with the porter.

“Do you think a week would be sufficient time for an answer?” Michael asked.

“I expect so,” said the porter kindly.

“Don't let my notebook get lost,” warned Michael with a smile. “It is of great value to me!”

“I'll place letter and notebook on Sir Humphry's desk right now,” the man assured him. “He'll be sure to see both the first thing in the morning.”

Michael walked down the steps of the institution whistling a gay tune. It was done! He was prepared for the worst—which was “No Answer”!

“But there's a chance,” he said to himself, “there s a chance. Until I hear from Davy, I can dream!”

Four

The Answer

That week of waiting always stood out in Faraday's memory like raised letters on a faded page of print. His mind refused to stay earth-bound but kept dancing off into the world of dreams. His future . . . Davy's wonderful laboratory, . . working alongside of England's greatest scientist.

Michael decided, after much thought, not to rush back for an answer in exactly a week. Why hurry for a disappointment? Better to wait ten days—even two weeks. Actually Michael was fearful of having his dream shattered. The longer the answer was put off, the longer he could enjoy the thrill of imagining himself in the laboratory of the Royal Institution.

That night, when he got back to Weymouth Street, he proceeded as usual to wash the grime of the bookbindery from his hands. He could hear his mother talking to one of the lodgers somewhere down the long narrow hall from which rooms opened up on each side. While waiting for her to get back to the kitchen, Michael examined with great interest the pot of fish and potatoes being kept warm for him on the edge of the range.

“Did you have a good day, Michael?” asked his mother the moment she saw him.

Michael gave her his customary kiss on the forehead and assured her that all had gone well with him.

“Have you noticed that letter on the table?” she said as she turned to get his food. “It came this morning.”

A letter? Michael wondered who would be writing to him. Must be from Ben Abbott, a close friend whose acquaintance he had made at Tatum's lectures several years ago.

He brought the letter up close to the oil lamp on the table. No—it wasn't Abbott's usual stationery. And the handwriting wasn't his. It seemed bolder and more irregular.

Michael tore open the envelope with a puzzled expression. He read the first line, and then his eyes swooped down to the signature at the bottom . . . H. Davy!

His hands began to tremble. Up went his eyes again to the first line, the second line. Was it going to be a polite refusal? His heart was pounding. He read on tensely as his mother, pot of fish stew in hand, scanned his face anxiously.

'What is it, Michael? Has something unfortunate happened to a friend?”

Her son was too overcome to answer. He read the letter through for a second time.

“I've got an answer, Mother!” he finally cried. “What a wonderful man he is! He wrote to me! Think of it! He wrote to me!”

“Who, Michael? Who?”

“Davy . . . Sir Humphry Davy. He says he’ll see me!”

“Now sit down and eat your supper. It's getting cold.” Mrs. Faraday had only a vague idea of who Davy was.

“It's wonderful,” babbled Michael, “it's wonderful! And I was hesitating to call at the Institution for fear of what his answer might be! Here, Mother—sit down. I'll read it to you,” he said.

Mr. M. Faraday, 188, Weymouth Street, Portland Place.

December 24, 1812.

Sir,—I am far from displeased with the proof you have given me of your confidence, and which displays great zeal, power of memory, and attention. I am obliged to go out of town, and shall not be settled in town till the end of January; I will then see you any time you wish. It would gratify me to be of any service to you. I wish it may be in my power.

I am Sir

you obt. humble servt

H. Davy.

“Eat your supper, Michael,” said his mother.

Michael laughed and danced his mother around the room. “Don’t you see what this may mean to me? I’ve been dreaming of an answer like this but never thought it would come true.”

“Your food is getting cold, Michael.”

He sat down and began eating—just to please his mother. With all that internal excitement, there was simply no room for his supper.

As he forced his food down, Michael felt compelled to talk and talk. He spoke of his experience with Sir Joseph Banks.. . . of Mr. Dance’s suggestion ... of his own despair at ever getting an answer from a great man like Sir Humphry ... of how the course of his own life might now be changed.

Suddenly he stopped. He reread the letter. “Of course this doesn’t mean that I’m going to get a position at the Royal Institution, Mother.”

Mrs. Faraday looked perplexed. The ways of educated people, of renowned scientists, were a mystery to her. Why send a letter and arouse her son’s hopes—if there was nothing to offer him, she asked herself.

Michael read her mind and smiled. He cupped his hand lovingly under her chin and looked down into her tired gray eyes.

“That’s how things are done among learned gentlemen, Mother, if they are kind. And I am sure Sir Humphry is one of the kindest. He can’t offer me employment for the simple reason that he had never seen me and knows nothing about me.

This seemed to satisfy Mrs. Faraday. “He’ll like you when he meets you. I’m sure he will.”

“Very well,” said her son gaily. “I’ll tell Sir Humphry that my mother approves of me.”

The room was getting cold, so they pulled their chairs closer to the fire and sat and chatted for about an hour. Michael finally persuaded his mother to go to bed, since chores for the lodgers began early in the morning.

After his mother had retired, Michael fell into a reverie. The laboratory . . . magnets . . . batteries . . . retorts . . . chemicals . . . discussions with Sir Humphry . . . experiments.

He shook himself back to reality. What silly thoughts! If he did get a job at the Royal Institution, his first great research would probably consist in washing bottles—or getting apparatus ready for someone else.

But who cared? The important thing was to get out of trade and into the laboratory. However menial the beginning might be, young Faraday had a sturdy confidence in his own creativeness and resourcefulness.

The first weeks of the new year were crowded with excitement for the young journeyman. The Riebaus, when they saw the letter from Davy, rejoiced with Michael over his accomplishment; they were proud that the merits of their friend had been recognized by the great Davy.

The Riebaus told Mr. Dance, who was just as thrilled. Since the latter, as a member of the Royal Institution, visited the reading room there regularly, he was in a position to advise Michael as to the whereabouts of Davy. Mr. Dance said he would notify his young friend the moment Davy got back to London, and would also ascertain the best time for Michael to appear at the laboratory for that all-important first interview.

During this next tense waiting period Michael worked contentedly at his bookbinding. Nothing his excitable master could say, or do, disturbed him. His evenings were spent in the Riebau bookshop, where he read every scientific journal he could lay his hands on, particularly those reporting on Davy's recent researches. Michael was going to be prepared—just in case Davy questioned him.

One night toward the end of January he got a message from Mr. Dance by way of the Riebaus. Tomorrow was the day! Michael was to appear at the Royal Institution at eleven o’clock.

“Be natural with him,” advised Mr. Riebau. “Remember that the best bargain is between two people is one where both gain. That kind lasts the longest.”

“Yes—but I'm the one who stands to gain most,” said Michael nervously.

The old Frenchman laughed, grasped the young man by the shoulders, and shook him playfully. “That may be. But Davy has something to gain, too. An honest assistant with excellent hands and a good brain . . . and not lazy. Such qualities are hard to find—in one person.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” said Michael, “and good night, Mr. Riebau. I'll be back here tomorrow as soon as I can—with the news.”

“Good night and good luck! And don't worry about De la Roche. I'll see him and explain that you'll be away for the day on personal business.”

It took hours for Michael to fall asleep that night. He suddenly developed fears, doubts. What if Sir Humphry questioned him about his schooling? He would have to confess that his formal education had stopped at the age of twelve. It was all right for him to feel, that he had educated himself. But how could he convince an outsider of that—particularly a man of education?

The next morning Michael rose early: He polished his boots, put on his Sunday clothes, and brushed his hair carefully.

“Come back quickly, Michael, and tell all about it,” his mother said as he kissed her good-by. “And while you're gone I'll pray that you get what you're hoping for.”

He gave himself plenty of time for the long walk from his home to the Royal Institution. Very methodical by nature, young Faraday had a horror of arriving anywhere upset and out of breath from hurrying.

The Royal Institution, at that time, was located in two private houses on Albemarle Street—then considered the outskirts of London. Various alterations had been made in the buildings, and an entrance hall and staircase added.

The fact that Michael Faraday had been to the Institution several times before, with Mr. Dance, did little to lessen his excitement. It was different this time—more personal. And when the porter, on learning that Sir Humphry was expecting his visit, ushered Michael in, the tense job applicant had the strange feeling that he had never been in the building before.

For one thing, there was no crowd, no bustle, no general feeling of the theater. It seemed strange not to find the stairs and corridors full of people laughing and talking, with everyone at a high pitch of excitement at the prospect of being entertained and instructed by Sir Humphry.

The porter asked Michael to wait at the wooden bench by the window nearest the corridor, in the anteroom of the lecture theater. As he sat there, he became acutely conscious of the stillness of the room. It made him feel thousands of miles away from the noisy streets and shops and general clatter of London.

He became aware of the sound of his own breathing. Sitting here was like sitting in the comforting stillness of a beautiful cathedral. Time had a different meaning in the Institution. It passed through one effortlessly, without stopping. Like light passing through clear glass.

Suddenly he was roused from his dreamlike state. A man was approaching. Michael looked up and for a brief moment did not recognize Davy. He had seen him before, at the time of the lectures, but only from a distance. At that time he was a dignified figure on the lecture platform, dressed in a professor's black coat. Now he saw a slim, round-shouldered man of medium height, with brilliant dark eyes. The face was oval, and the determined chin seemed out of keeping with the soft mouth about which hovered a friendly, almost shy, smile.

”Mr. Faraday?” Davy put his hand out.

”Yes, Sir Humphry,” said Michael, jumping to his feet and taking the proffered hand nervously.

”Let’s sit down here and talk the matter over,” began Davy. ”I enjoyed your letter and your notebook. It was very flattering to find that at least one member of the audience came to learn—and did learn. Most people attend merely to be entertained or to meet friends.” Davy paused and eyed the young man reflectively for a moment. “You have a trade, at present, Mr. Faraday?”

“Yes, sir. I am a journeyman bookbinder.”

“And you desire to change?”

“Yes, sir. I am anxious to do so.”

“Why?”

“I feel I would be happier if I could devote myself to the service of science.”

Davy chuckled. “Very commendable, young man! But have you considered the fact that the material rewards science offers her devoted followers are pitifully small?”

“Yes, Sir Humphry, I’ve thought of that too. But there are other rewards, I think.”

“There are?” said Davy with a smile. “Please tell me about them.”

Michael Faraday was embarrassed. “What I mean is its effect on people ... it makes them nobler, more generous. It frees their minds from the mean qualities which trade often grinds into character. Individuals become superior beings when they serve science. I feel that is reward enough.”

Sir Humphry was taken aback by this unexpected outburst. He eyed the floor thoughtfully, trying hard to conceal a smile.

“I assure you,” he remarked, “that it is not so. However, you will not believe me because you’re young. A few years, in the field of science will, I am certain, cause you to change your opinion, Mr. Faraday.” Davy studied the young applicant for a few moments. “The science you’ve learned is more or less the result of self-teaching, isn’t it, Mr. Faraday?”

“Yes, Sir Humphry. I taught myself during my spare time. The simple apparatus I used for my home experiments was almost entirely homemade.” Michael tightened up. Was the next question to be on his formal education?

Davy nodded approvingly. “A very good way to learn, in my opinion. That’s how my own interest in science began. Lavoisier's Elements of Chemistry—in Kerr's translation—fell into my hands when I was about nineteen. This book changed the course of my life. Like a stone at the beginning of a stream.”

Faraday relaxed. So he wasn't going to be made to feel untutored, uneducated! He was glad Davy understood.

“The books which affected my life most,” declared Michael Faraday, his voice rising with excitement, “were Marcet’s Conversations in Chemistry and a book by Watts entitled On the Mind Plus, of course, the excellent articles on science in the Britannica.”

“Good, good! And you still don't see the advantages of working in a bookbindery, young man?” asked Davy. “There you have all of the world's treasures within arm’s reach. And with all this you are able to earn decent wages.”

“Nevertheless,” protested Michael, “I still prefer scientific work. I dislike the life of trade.”

Sir Humphry rubbed his chin and threw a searching glance at Faraday. He was impressed by the quiet confidence of the young man with the large head and magnificent brow. There was unusual fire, energy, and determination behind that unworldly front.

Something about the peace and quiet of the morning stirred Davy into reminiscing. Faraday’s problem reminded him of his own early struggles.

In an almost inaudible voice Sir Humphry Davy began to tell Michael about his personal history as a scientist. He was apprenticed to an apothecary at the age of fifteen. . . . Some friends helped him get a place in the Pneumatic Institute at Bristol. . . . Then the famous experiments with nitrous oxide, or laughing gas. He had to breathe the gas, himself, to prove it wasn't poisonous. More experiments with nitrogen compounds followed . . . then the publication of the famous book on these researches which called the attention of the public to his contributions. . . . Finally the meeting with Count Rumford, and his appointment as Director of the Chemical Laboratory of the newly organized Royal Institution.

“It was mainly chance or good fortune, young man,” Davy said modestly to the fascinated Faraday, “and may never happen again to another person in a thousand years!” He paused for a moment as he looked at the young bookbinder. “Stay in your trade, Mr. Faraday! I am sure you are a person of excellent abilities—but one must be practical in this world.”

Michael's face fell with disappointment and he remained silent. That last remark depressed him. It sounded as if he had failed.

Davy rose to his feet and placed his hand on Michael's shoulder. “You wonder why I asked you to call? Your letter showed sincerity, and your notebook unquestionable ability.”

He paused for a moment, sensing Faraday's unuttered question: “Then why not find a place for me in the laboratory?”

“A friend,” continued Davy, “to whom I showed your letter, suggested that I give you a bottle washer's job. I said, then, that you were too good for that. And now that I have had the pleasure of meeting you, Mr. Faraday, I am more certain than ever that you deserve a better position than that of cleaner of apparatus.”

Sir Humphry was now moving slowly toward the door, with Faraday following. He held out his hand to Michael, who pressed it warmly and expressed his thanks for having been granted an interview.

“Stay at your trade,” said Davy kindly. “I promise to send all of my own books as well as those of the Institution to your bookbindery. I'll even ask my friends to bring their business to you, Mr. Faraday.”

Sir Humphry opened the door and turned to Michael. “Don't give up hope, Mr. Faraday,” he concluded with a gentle smile. “The fact is that there is no opening for a laboratory assistant at the moment. But one can never tell. Something may turn up unexpectedly. And when it does, I'll certainly keep you in mind—that is, if you still refuse to listen to reason and insist on not remaining an honest bookbinder.”

Michael Faraday flashed a grateful smile. There was a chance! Davy had left the door open—just a crack! But the crack was wide enough to let a ray of hope through. And that was all Faraday asked for!

I'll never change,” were Michael's parting words. “I want to work in science above everything else, Sir Humphry.”

FIVE

From Davy to Faraday -Again

One result of the interview with Davy was that Michael became more unsettled in mind than ever. Would Davy find a position for him in the Royal Institution? Or did it all boil down to a polite “no,” said in many kind words?

There were days during this trying period when Michael would look up from his bookbinding, stare fixedly at the blank wall opposite, and feel absolutely confident that he was going to escape from the “life of trade” he detested. At other times he would be filled with hopelessness. Life had closed in on him. He was bound to bookbinding forever. There wasn't a chance in the world of his becoming a scientist!

“What do you think, Mr. Riebau? Is there a possibility, that Davy will write to me again?”

The old Frenchman furrowed his brow. He wanted so to strengthen Michael’s wild hopes, but was afraid of the consequences. Another blow might shake the young idealist's faith in himself.

“It's hard to say, Michael. I wasn't present at the interview. Sometimes one can tell from a man's face or eyes or way of speaking.”

“Davy was friendly,” Michael assured him, “extremely friendly. In fact, he acted as if I would regret it forever afterward if he did give me a position in the laboratory. He kept insisting that I was better off as a bookbinder.”

“I think that is a good sign,” said Mr. Riebau.

“Why?”

“Because people are seldom reluctant to give things of small value to strangers,” explained Mr. Riebau, flashing a wise smile. “Since Davy believes laboratory work is poorly paid and has no future, the chances are that he'll take you on at the first opportunity.”

The old bookbinder burst into laughter at the puzzled expression on Michael's face. “What Davy plans to do about you, nobody knows. We can only guess—and hope,” he added.

“Perhaps I should have emphasized that he call me for any position in the laboratory, no matter how menial,” said Michael reflectively.

Mr. Riebau gripped the young man's arm. “I hope you get your chance, Michael. You're going to surprise Davy if he takes you. And someday you're going to surprise the world!”

Michael left feeling less depressed. It was wonderful to have such good friends! Faraday was not aware that it was something in himself which all through his life called out the warm, friendly qualities of people. Perhaps it was his unworldliness that did it. Those who knew Faraday never hesitated to go out of their way to help this sincere, honest, selfless individual to whom the joy of working meant far more than fame and success.

Two days later Michael was back at the Riebaus' waving another letter from Davy. He was ablaze with excitement, and breathless from running.

“Davy wants me to work for him for three days!” cried Michael.

Mrs. Riebau hurried down from her upstairs kitchen. Her Michael had good news!

“He wants me to write out his notes for him,” explained Michael. “Davy had an accident in his laboratory and injured an eye. I'll be his amanuensis.” He handed the letter to Mr. Riebau.

“And Davy will get to know you better in the three days,” broke in Mrs. Riebau. “I think it's the beginning for you, Michael.”

“That's exactly what my mother said.” Michael was beaming.

The bookbinder handed the letter back to the young man.

”It sounds promising. Notice that Davy doesn't mention anything about a permanent position. I think he wants to find out more about you.”

The thrilled journeyman took a deep breath. ”Just think how quickly things are happening to me! Today I am a bookbinder. Tomorrow I'll be copying notes for the great Sir Humphry.” He stopped for a moment and then added, with a grin, “A few days later I'll be a journeyman bookbinder again.”

”Ah . . . ah . . . Michael. That may be—but not for long!” laughed Mrs. Riebau.

”Davy wants you at once?” asked Mr. Riebau.

”Yes. It sounds like an emergency. I must appear at the Institution early tomorrow morning. I suspect the explosion was caused by experiments with certain new compounds of nitrogen and chlorine. Last month's journals said he was investigating these explosive combinations.”

”You go there directly tomorrow morning,” said Mr. Riebau. ”I'll straighten matters out with De la Roche again. If his work has piled up, I'll offer to help him myself.”

Michael looked grateful. ”That would ease my mind. I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Riebau.”

Soon the kind Riebaus cheerfully hustled the starry-eyed young Faraday out of the shop so that he could get a good night's sleep.

”Be sure to wake me,” Michael warned his mother. ”Your son will be working alongside of England's greatest scientist. And you want him to be there on time, don't you?”

Mrs. Faraday smiled and assured her son that she would not forget. Life was so exciting for her Michael. His eyes sparkled and he seemed so gay, so alive. It made her own life less drab just to watch him. She reacted as if it were all happening to her.

”Do come home quickly tomorrow, Michael, and tell me everything,” she said, her face shining with expectancy.

The world looked good to Michael Faraday as he walked home from the Royal Institution at the end of the first day. The rains of the past two days were over, and a smoky bluish mist was being blown across the face of the moon. The heavens were alive with movement, and Faraday wondered, as he walked along with eyes constantly drifting upward, why the night had never looked so beautiful to him before.

He glanced down Weymouth Street when he reached the brick steps of his home. The dingy, run-down, narrow houses struck him as less hopeless than usual. He opened the door to the dimly lighted hallway and bounded up the stairs.

As he had expected, his mother and brother were waiting for him and jumped up when they heard his step. The moment they saw Michael's smile, they relaxed. All must have gone well with him.

“I'm so glad,” said Mrs. Faraday as she kissed him.

“Glad of what? What did you expect would happen to me today?”

Robert Faraday threw back his head and laughed heartily. “One moment she was certain that Davy was going to make you his partner in research,” he cried. “And the next moment she was afraid that Davy wanted you to help with some dangerous experiment—like the one which injured his eyes. What a worrier!”

“Yes, I did do dangerous work for ten hours,” grinned Michael, “sitting at a table and writing.”

“Come have your supper,” ordered his mother. “You must be famished.” She began to ladle out Michael's favorite dish—mutton stew.

“Then it wasn't too hard,” observed Mrs. Faraday as soon as her son's appetite showed signs of weakening.

“No, far from it. The day passed faster than any I can remember. All I did was to copy his rough notes. Davy thought my handwriting clear—very readable.”

“You always did have a fine handwriting,” remarked Robert proudly. “Better than mine all through our school years. Still, my own isn't bad—for a blacksmith!”

“I should say not! It's far clearer than Sir Humphry Davy's.

What a scrawl he has! Gave me a bit of trouble until I got used to it.”

“And he wants you to do the same tomorrow?” ashed his mother.

“Yes. He seemed pleased. Wants the copying finished as soon as possible so the paper may appear in the next issue of the Quarterly Journal. I'll get a thrill out of reading in print the very words I copied.”

“Was Davy with you all the time?” ashed Robert.

“No. He kept disappearing into his laboratory. One eye was bandaged and he seemed to be in pain. But that didn’t stop him from working on some new experiment.”

“So you didn’t get to see his private laboratory?”

“No, Robert. I would have given anything to have seen it, but I couldn’t very well ask. After all, he hired me to copy for him.”

“You didn’t ask for pay, did you, Michael?” His mother sounded shocked.

“No, I didn’t ask for pay, Mother. He himself brought up the subject the moment he saw me. I refused to discuss it, saying that I considered the honor of helping Sir Humphry sufficient payment. But he shook his head and said that, if I were going to refuse to be paid, he would have to send me home.”

“And what did you say then?” ashed Mrs. Faraday.

“I said that I didn’t want to be paid but, even more, I didn’t want to be sent home. He laughed and said I would be paid ten shillings per day—and did I think it was enough. I said ten shillings was too much, but he waved my objections aside.”

“I suppose it was worth that to him,” remarked Robert. “After all, he had to get the thing written. What was it about, anyway?”

“Davy has been trying to make new compounds of chlorine. The one with nitrogen didn’t last long. It exploded and injured his eye. At any rate, I took his notes and arranged them so that they read well. He seemed satisfied with the result.”

“I’m so happy that Davy liked you, Michael,” said Mrs. Faraday.

“Sir Humphry didn't look as neat and well dressed as at the lectures. Rather careless . . . shirt full of stains . . . hair uncombed . . . collar undone,” noted Michael.

“I suppose he has too many things on his mind to worry about his appearance,” remarked Mrs. Faraday.

“That is true,” agreed Michael. “He’s a very unusual man. His mind seems to throw out flashes. His brain doesn’t walk or run ... it leaps!”

After Michael had finished his supper, the three sat around the table and talked for a while.

“Davy is probably trying to make up his mind about you,” said Robert. “My guess is that you’ll get some offer from him soon.”

“I hope so,” said his mother fervently.

Suddenly Michael thought of his friends on Blandford Street. “I hate to leave—it's so cozy here. But the Riebaus must be waiting up for me. I’ll be back in an hour,” he said as he got up to get his coat.

“Not too late,” cautioned his mother.

When he got to the Riebaus', he proceeded to give them a complete account of his day—omitting few details. They loved his description of Davy's scrawling handwriting and the difficulties he had had deciphering it. The old bookbinder, like a teacher whose favorite student had scored a triumph, was proud of Michael for having done so well. Yes, well enough even for the great Sir Humphry.

And Mrs. Riebau—she just couldn't stop beaming. Her Michael had made good! Someday he would amount to something. She was certain of it!

The next two days at the Institution were similar to the first. Davy kept flitting back and forth between the laboratory and Michael's desk to make sure that his copyist had no questions.

Once or twice Sir Humphry wandered in holding a flask in which was a mysterious-looking solution. Each time Michael eyed it wonderingly for a moment and then turned his eyes back to his work. He was dying of curiosity and would have given almost anything to know what the flask contained, and what particular problem Davy was busy with at the moment. But he felt that it would be tactless to ask. After all, Davy had hired him to write.

At the end of three days Michael's work was finished; the articles were now ready for the printer. Sir Humphry thanked the young bookbinder for helping him out in the emergency, and complimented him on his skill as a secretary. Despite Faraday's objections, Davy insisted on paying him the thirty shillings. Then a warm handshake, a pleasant, smile, and Michael was on his way home.

Michael wondered whether he would ever see the inside of the Royal Institution again. Tomorrow he would be back at the bookbindery, working with the outsides of books. A painful thought passed through his mind. Would he ever get closer to a scientific career than a three-day job as a copyist of Davy's notes?

What profit this interesting experience—if nothing came of it? Now that he had tasted of the “better” life, how could he be content with the “atmosphere of trade”?

Two weeks passed with no word from Davy. Michael kept doggedly at his work with seldom a word to anyone around him. He felt too depressed to talk. The unexpected result was that his master, De la Roche, became extremely solicitous. He didn't want his new journeyman to leave, because good craftsmen like Faraday were hard to find. De la Roche began to talk of retiring someday and letting Michael take over the bookbindery. What a wonderful opportunity this would be for his journeyman!

Michael listened respectfully and thanked his master for the offer, or promise, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. A few years ago Faraday would have been thrilled at the possibility of becoming a master bookbinder. But now his sights were set on something much higher.

He got into the habit of going to bed early after his short-lived experience at the Royal Institution. He was too restless to read or busy himself with home electrical experiments. At least one couldn't think brood during the six or seven sleeping hours.

One night during this trying period he retired to his room earlier than usual. He wanted to get away from his mother's sorrowful eyes. She suffered acutely when her children were unhappy. And in Michael’s present mood her sympathy made him feel even worse. He was causing her pain because he was in pain.

Suddenly Michael heard loud knocking on the street door. He ran to the window. There was a grand coach outside his house. A liveried footman, letter in hand, was waiting impatiently for Mrs. Faraday to open the door.

“A letter for Mr. Michael Faraday from Sir Humphry Davy,” he heard the footman say.

Michael was dressed and downstairs in a few seconds. The elegant carriage had gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Mrs. Faraday handed her son the letter. Michael opened it nervously and read the brief note in the flickering light of the oil lamp in the hallway.

“What does it say?” His mother s tone was full of hope— and of apprehension.

Michael read it through twice. He looked dazed.

“It requests me to call at the Royal Institution tomorrow morning. Mother—Davy wants me to call tomorrow morning! He sent his carriage to my home. Mother, I think he has a place for me at the Royal Institution!”

SIX

Assistant m the Laboratory

Bright and early the next morning Michael Faraday presented himself at the Royal Institution, The porter answered his knock and led him to exactly the same waiting bench as on his first visit.

He didn't feel nervous this time. Davy wanted him in a hurry and therefore Davy must need him. The room, with its high ceiling and withdrawn-from-the-world stillness, seemed friendly to him now. As he sat waiting for Davy to arrive, he got the feeling that this place was going to he home for him for a long time. If anyone had told Faraday that he was going to spend almost fifty years under that very roof, he would have been delighted but not surprised.

Soon Sir Humphry bustled in, looking not quite so calm as before. There was a certain tension about his manner.

“Thank you for responding so promptly to my message,” he began. “The fact is, my laboratory assistant is leaving and I must get someone at once to replace him. I am in the midst of a number of important experiments, and there will be nothing but confusion unless—”

Davy paused and studied Faraday's face for a moment. The latter wondered at the hesitation. Here he was burning with anticipation and Davy was delaying . . . delaying.

“First I must ask, Mr. Faraday,” continued Davy with a quick smile, “whether you are still of the same mind as at our last meeting. Do you remain firm in your decision to exchange a secure, honest trade for an underpaid and insecure position in the field of science?”

”I am still of the same mind, Sir Humphry,” answered Faraday determinedly, “and will never change. There is nothing in the world I want more.”

”Then on your own head be it!” exclaimed Davy with a chuckle. ”You must always remember that I made an effort to alter your choice—and failed.”

Sir Humphry's manner now became businesslike. “Your salary will be twenty-five shillings a week, with two rooms at your disposal at the top of the house. The terms are exactly the same as those of Mr. Payne, whose place you will take. Are they satisfactory to you?”

”Yes, sir, very satisfactory indeed,” smiled Faraday.

”Your duties,” continued Davy, ”will be to assist lecturers and professors in preparing demonstrations ... to attend to the removal of apparatus from the model room and laboratory to the lecture room ... to clean and replace material after use ... to keep a diary of things needing repair ... to dust and clean all instruments in the glass cases at least once a month.

”You aren't frightened by this list of duties?” asked Davy with a twinkle.

”Not at all, Sir Humphry. On the contrary, I am thrilled at the prospect.”

”Good! But I haven't yet mentioned the part of your work that is of the greatest importance to me. You are to act as my laboratory assistant and secretary.”

“And that part, sir, will be of the greatest importance to me also,” said Faraday. ”I hope to learn a great deal as the laboratory assistant of Sir Humphry Davy.”

Davy was beginning to have a high opinion of his new assistant's tact and gift of expression. ”When can you start, Mr. Faraday?” he asked eagerly.

”Any time convenient for you, sir.”

”Very good! Let me see....This is the last week in February, and Mr. Payne is leaving in a few days. The managers of the Institution will hold their regular meeting on March first, and their approval of your appointment will be a mere formality. Can you start on Monday, March sixth?”

“Yes, sir, I'll be happy to start then,” said Faraday, trying hard to conceal his elation.

“Come with me and I'll show you the laboratories quickly today, since I must get back to my work. We'll take up more details about your duties on the day you start.”

After introducing Faraday to the caretaker of the building, Davy took him on a hasty tour of the library, reading room, and laboratories. The new assistant's mind was in a complete but pleasant daze by the time he was through. Endless shelves of glassware, chemicals, retorts, pumps, magnets, balances, voltaic cells, electrical instruments, Leyden jars . . .

Faraday felt that he was being shown a bit of heaven. And all this would soon be his, not only to look at but to work in! It had everything an aspiring scientist could ask for.

By the time Davy led him to the door, Faraday's head was swimming. With shining eyes and flushed face he thanked Sir Humphry for this wonderful opportunity, and declared earnestly that he would do his best to live up to his employer's faith in his ability.

Michael Faraday, on his way home, went over the events of this most important day in his life. Soon he would be living in the two attic rooms of the Royal Institution. Davy had forgotten to show him the rooms. Michael smiled. As if it mattered what the little apartment was like! The laboratory downstairs was where he was going to spend his life!

It was a damp, cold morning and the sky over London was dirty-gray with fog and smoke. Yet to Faraday the day was beautiful. He felt an inner warmth and kept smiling at passers-by as he walked along. What a pleasant scene! The women hanging up their wash on lines curving from assorted slanting poles . . . the black smoke flattening out from the tall factory chimneys ... the tired-looking horses pulling heavy carts. It was good to be alive!

He stopped at the Riebaus' with his good news. They were overjoyed. So their dear Michael had finally gotten his start! They knew all along it would turn out this way. Yes, they would tell Mr. Dance—and wouldn’t he be thrilled!

At home Michael chatted gaily while his mother served him his lunch. Of course he'd be down to see her a few times a week. Except for occasional evening lectures, his time was largely his own. Yes, he would have two fine rooms for himself—a bedroom and a living room. He hadn't seen the apartment, but he felt certain that it was neat and comfortable. After all, the rooms were part of the Royal Institution—and that fact was sufficient to transform any attic into a palace!

That afternoon he notified De la Roche of his intention to quit bookbinding for laboratory work. The emotional Frenchman, to Faraday's surprise, was thrown into a state of despondency and acted as if he were about to lose his dearest possession. He tried repeatedly to get his journeyman to change his mind, offering all sorts of. inducements.

Strangely enough, those last few days as a bookbinder had a tinge of sadness for Faraday. As he looked around the cluttered workroom, he felt a pang at the thought of cutting himself off from a trade which had nourished him physically and mentally for so many years. No other craft could have done as much for him, he said to himself. He felt grateful for the work it had given his hands, as well as for the thoughts it had stirred up in his brain.

He consoled himself with the thought that for the rest of his life he could, if necessary, fall back on his skill as a bookbinder and earn his living with his hands. Would he ever have to go back to his trade? Probably not—but one could never tell.

Meanwhile Davy had set the wheels moving for Faraday's appointment as laboratory assistant. The directors—or managers, as they called themselves—met on March 1, 1813, and quickly passed the following resolution:

Sir Humphry Davy has the honour to inform the managers that he has found a person who is desirous to occupy the situation in the Institution lately filled by William Payne. His name is Michael Faraday. He is a youth of twenty-two years of age. As far as Sir H. Davy has been able to observe or ascertain, he appears well fitted for the situation. His habits seem good, his disposition active and cheerful, and his manner intelligent. He is willing to engage himself on the same terms as those given to Mr. Payne at the time of quitting the Institution.

Resolved—That Michael Faraday be engaged to fill the situation lately occupied by Mr. Payne on the same terms.

During the next few days Faraday was busy packing his clothing, books, and favorite pieces of homemade apparatus. He and Robert were able to complete the moving job to the Institution in two trips, walking all the way with arms full of heavy packages.

“I guess I have everything I need now,” said Michael as they sat down to rest in his little attic living room. “Looks pretty comfortable here, doesn't it, Robert?”

“It's a good thing you're not six feet tall,” answered Robert with a grin as his eyes went up to the sloping ceiling. “But it is nice here . . . very quiet. . . doesn't seem like London at all.”

Michael nodded. “I like these rooms. The windows are small, but there is enough light for reading. As for the ceiling being low in spots, all I have to do is to keep one eye up as I pace the floor—or give up pacing.”

“And look at those bookshelves,” continued Michael enthusiastically.” A whole wall of shelves! There's room for ten times as many books as I brought from home. And I'll have the use of the library downstairs. Think of it, Robert—it's almost like being back at the Riebaus' but more exciting.”

They started for home again, arm in arm. Robert listened to his brother's gay chatter with a gentle smile. The door to a new world had been opened for Michael, and everything looked bright, fresh, hopeful. Michael Faraday had escaped from Weymouth Street, and his brother was proud of him. It was a long time since any Faraday had moved to a higher social level, Robert kept thinking.

“What are his rooms like, Robert?” asked Mrs. Faraday the moment they got home.

“Very nice,” he said. “A comfortable bed, a good wooden floor, two windows with curtains—white, I think—a table and several chairs, and a chest of drawers. Oh yes—one wall was all bookshelves.”

Mrs. Faraday shut her eyes and tried to picture the apartment.

“I'll take you to see it, Mother,” promised Michael, “as soon as I get settled. That is—if I feel you are strong enough to make the climb. The rooms are high up, at the very peak of the building.”

On that first Monday morning Faraday waited outside the door of the laboratory for Davy to arrive. He felt calm, serene. After the tempestuous De la Roche, no employer could upset him. Besides, Sir Humphry was a thoughtful, considerate gentleman from whom he expected no difficulties.

Soon Davy hurried in and, after greeting Faraday in a most friendly fashion, got right down to work. Before long, Faraday found himself fetching chemicals, adjusting gas burners, inserting stoppers in flasks, cutting and bending glass tubing, and jotting down directions in his notebook. By the end of the day he felt as if he had worked in a laboratory all his life.

Davy was surprised at Faraday's skill in the manipulation of chemical apparatus. Where had he learned it? It certainly wasn't part of bookbinding.

Faraday smiled and reminded Davy that for years he had been experimenting on his own with crude homemade equipment. “But it wasn't the same,” he added. “Your laboratory is magnificent. It has everything. I never dreamed that so many laboratory conveniences existed!”

Davy nodded understandingly. The new assistant, he said to himself, was taking hold with remarkable speed. Undoubtedly he had stumbled on an unusual young man in the person of this idealistic bookbinder. Good hands and intelligent. He watched his new assistant out of the corner of his eye. Faraday looked promising!

Up to now Faraday had never really known what it meant to be busy. Now he found out. Time used to be a regularly recurring series of compartments into which one stuffed activities to keep one's life from seeming too empty. As an assistant in the laboratory of the Royal Institution, however, he found that his time compartments filled up too quickly. They had suddenly become too small to hold what he tried to cram into them!

“What did you do today?” Robert asked his brother at the end of the first week.

“I don't know where the day went,” answered Michael. “Part of the day I spent in extracting sugar from beetroot. After that I tried to make a compound of carbon and sulphur such as was described in a journal I had read the night before. The afternoon was taken up with helping Mr. Powell prepare for tomorrow's lecture on rotary motion.”

“Sounds to me as if you were busier with your chemicals than I was with my gas fitting,” laughed Robert.

“You're not working too hard, Michael?” asked his mother anxiously.

“Working too hard?” Michael laughed uproariously. “Don't let that trouble you, Mother. I'm having the time of my life. Why anyone should be paid for enjoying himself in the laboratory is beyond me!”

“I guess he's well suited for his job,” commented Robert. “Now let's stop worrying about him, Mother.”

Faraday joined the City Philosophic Society, which had been organized by the thirty or forty young men who had attended Mr. Tatum's lectures several years before. The purpose of the Society was to further the education of its members, most of whom were in moderate circumstances. At each meeting a member would lecture on some subject of scientific interest, after which a discussion would take place in which the listeners criticized the lecturer's delivery, pronunciation, and general effectiveness.

Faraday and a few friends decided to establish a little self-improvement group of their own. They would meet Saturday evenings in his attic rooms. Among the members of this select group were Abbott, Nicol, Magrath, and Phillips—some of whom later became well-known scientists.

One evening, after Faraday had been at the Institution for about a month, Abbott called to discuss the next Saturday-night meeting. When he opened the door of the attic room, he was shocked to find his friend sitting on the bed with a bandage around his forehead. Looking again, he noticed that one hand was bandaged too.

Abbott was a sandy-haired, soft-spoken Quaker who worked as a clerk and pursued science as a hobby. He was horrified at the sight of his friend, and wondered if this meant the end of a career that had begun so promisingly.

“Have a chair, Ben,” Faraday laughed through his bandages. “I'm not dead yet—so don't look so mournful. Just a cut above the eyelid—today. The hand wound occurred yesterday.”

Abbott looked relieved. “I hope both will be healed before your family sees you. Don't you think bookbinding is safer? I can hear your mother saying that.”

“It's all due to not expecting the unexpected,” explained Faraday with a grin. “Now Davy and I know that, though nitrogen and chlorine can be made to combine, there is nothing permanent about the union. Those two elements simply dislike each other violently.”

“Did you take the proper precautions?”

“Yes. We wore glass masks—just to be safe. But the exploding slivers of glass ripped right through mine. I'm lucky it didn't get to my eye. Davy got it right above his left eye. Two years ago in France, Dulong lost an eye and three fingers performing the same experiment.”

Abbott shook his head dubiously. “But why work with such dangerous substances? What do you hope to find out about them?”

“I imagine that Davy will leave nitrogen trichloride alone for a while. At any rate, we proved that nitrogen and chlorine form a detonating compound. It takes very little to make it go off. All I did was to bring a piece of warm cement near the tube arid—bang!—it exploded, throwing glass in every direction with terrific force.”

After they had talked for a while on personal matters, Abbott brought the conversation around to Saturday nights meeting, at which Faraday had been scheduled to deliver a lecture.

“We’ll postpone it,” said Abbott,

“Why?” asked Faraday. “I can lecture just as well with one eye closed as with both eyes open. I’ve often thought that some individuals lecture with both eyes closed.” He smiled as he remembered some of the less successful platform performances he had witnessed.

“You mean you’ll go through with it, and on the assigned subject—Galvanism?” asked Abbott incredulously.

“No,” laughed Faraday. “I’ve changed my mind. It will be on 'How to Survive Explosions’!”

SEVEN

The Continental Tour

During his first few months at the Royal Institution, Michael Faraday's mind soaked up chemical knowledge like a thirsty sponge. And the hands which had once bound books so deftly and neatly proved equally skillful in the manipulation of chemical apparatus.

Davy had but to suggest a certain arrangement of flasks or connecting tubes, or a special method of heating or cooling, and Faraday would understand in a flash. His meticulous work and quick intelligence soon made him indispensable to Sir Humphry. Before long, Faraday was suggesting little improvements in experimental technique, new ways of doing things in the laboratory. Davy was quick to realize the value of Faraday s ideas, and equally quick in his praise of the new assistant.

Soon Davy started his aide off on simple chemical analyses. Faraday learned how to use the delicate balance accurately, and how to perform chemical calculations. Characteristically the self-taught Faraday insisted on acquainting himself with the background of whatever he was put to work on. This meant studying chemistry texts in his room almost every evening; his reading thus made alive what he had seen or done in the laboratory a few hours before. It proved an excellent method of learning.

It got so that Faraday's mind always had some problem tucked away in it to chew on during his leisure moments. And as ideas flitted through his brain, he hastened to jot them down in his little notebook, a habit which stayed with him for the rest of his life. Faraday’s mind was growing like a plant after a long drought.

Early in September of that first year with  Davy, Faraday dropped in at the Riebaus’ in a state of unusual mental agitation. Mr. Dance, who happened to be there at the time, wondered what could have upset the heretofore cheerful laboratory assistant.

“Sir Humphry plans to go on a tour,” announced Faraday. “He told me so today.”

“A tour of England? How nice!” exclaimed Mrs. Riebau. “And he plans to take you along?”

Faraday tried to smile—but failed. “No—not England. That wouldn’t be so bad. He spoke of Europe—France, Italy, Switzerland, Germany, and several other countries.”

“Has he asked you to accompany him?” inquired Mr. Dance.

“Yes—as his secretary and chemical assistant. I imagine Sir Humphry can’t get along for more than a few days without some chemical research to occupy him. Davy didn’t say that— but I know it to be a fact,”

“What does your mother think, Michael? Does she want you to leave England?” Mrs. Riebau sounded disturbed. To her a trip to the Continent meant danger. She herself was happy to be in England, safe from Napoleon’s power.

“I am sure that my mother doesn’t want me to go,” said the troubled Faraday, “but she won’t say a word to discourage me. She wants me to do whatever will help my career, even though it may mean loneliness for her.”

He turned to his friends. “I wish you would help me make up my mind. My head is in a whirl. I’ve been happy at the Royal Institution, and have been learning more and more each day. Now this Continental tour comes up! It means that I’ll have to mark time for a year—or even longer.”

“Will Davy return you to your present position at the Institution at the end of the tour?” asked Mr. Dance as he removed his coat and threw it over the book counter. It was getting warm in the shop. Or was it the excitement over his young friend’s problem?

“Yes, Mr. Dance. He promised me that definitely. I'll go back to my old position of chemical assistant when I get back,” “Good! You’ll get your old job again,” noted Mrs. Riebau approvingly.

“Yes,” nodded Michael, “more or less. Davy is planning to resign the professorship and become the Honorary Professor of Chemistry at the Institution. Brande will replace him as Professor. Sir Humphry expects to continue to use the Institution’s laboratories for his researches.”

“I see,” said Mr. Dance. “Now—let’s get back to your problem, Michael. You think your education will be interrupted? I don’t agree. Your education will really begin on this tour—an education of a different sort.”

“But the danger—broke in Mrs. Riebau nervously.

Mr. Dance smiled and held up his hand. “Let’s forget danger for a moment and stick to education. Davy is well known all over Europe and will undoubtedly be received with the greatest honor by the scientists and philosophers of the Continent. Michael, as Davy’s assistant, will therefore have the rare opportunity of meeting the best minds of our time. And all this in addition to the education which comes from seeing other countries and different peoples.”

“That is true,” said Mr. Riebau, who had been forced to flee from his beloved France. “One learns much from traveling.” “Yes,” broke in his wife, “one learns—provided one lives through it and manages to get home in one piece!” It was evident that her hasty escape from Napoleonic France had left her with a horror of traveling.

Mr. Riebau roared with laughter, caught his wife by the shoulders, and shook her playfully. “My dear, Sir Humphry Davy and his assistant are not planning to escape from each country they visit. They are being invited by Napoleon and other monarchs. They are not Riebaus!”

His wife remained unconvinced. “Dangerous,” she muttered, ”dangerous. I am against it. England is good. Stay here, Michael.”

Faraday's face was grim. “I want to stay in England, Mrs. Riebau; but I'm afraid it is because I am so attached to my mother, my friends, my work. However, if it is going to do me good, I shouldn't be so fearful. Ben Abbott thinks as Mr. Dance does—that I'll come back wiser and better educated.”

“You were born in London, weren't you?” asked Mr. Dance.

“Yes, sir, and I have never been more than a few miles from where I was born—Newington Butts. I don't feel that this fact is tragic—but that may be because I don't know any better.”

The elderly Mr. Dance eyed Faraday thoughtfully. “I think, Michael, that this is a grand opportunity. You may never get another like it. You won't simply be going abroad; you'll be traveling with Sir Humphry Davy. And that makes a world of difference, believe me!”

Mrs. Riebau wouldn't give up. “Europe is full of soldiers,” she cried, “full of bloodshed! These are not peaceful times.” Her tone was full of forebodings.

“Napoleon is not what he used to be,” said her husband. “His victory at Dresden last August was not too impressive. For once, the allied nations are really cooperating. It's the beginning of the end for him—and everyone knows it. France will never recover—nor will Napoleon—from the dreadful loss of the half million men in Russia.”

“They said that about Napoleon before . . . and I'll believe it when I see it,” persisted Mrs. Riebau. “As long as Napoleon is alive, there can be no peace in Europe!”

Faraday and Mr. Dance exchanged amused glances. It seemed that Michael's personal problem had been forgotten in the warm argument over Napoleon's future.

Mr. Riebau threw up his hands. “All I know is that the English and Russians and Austrians and Prussians will soon close in on Napoleon. He doesn't have a chance. The invasion of Russia was his big mistake.”

“Don't be so sure. Napoleon has snatched victory from defeat many times before. That's why I think Michael ought to remain in England.” Mrs. Riebau folded her arms to show that nothing could move her from the position she had taken.

To Michael Faraday all this talk of war . . . was just talk. The wars with France had been going on for practically all of his life. He had paid little attention to them. Politics didn't interest him, nor did war news. He had always lived in his own little world, completely insulated from what was going on outside. He had his interest in science and his deep faith in God. Faraday never worried about problems beyond these two interests at any time during his long life. Perhaps one indirect advantage of this confined outlook was that he could devote to his work the energy he might have spread over a larger intellectual area.

Mr. Dance picked up his coat, and Michael hurried to help him into it.

“I'm sorry we can't tell you what to do, Michael,” said the ruddy-faced Englishman. “It's something you'll have to decide for yourself. All I can say is that if it's education you want— then go.”

“I agree with Mr. Dance,” added the old bookbinder. “Your whole life may be changed by this tour. You will make important friends all over Europe, Michael, because people naturally trust you and like you. And friends are important in science —just as they are in trade and politics.”

The excitable Mrs. Riebau opened her mouth as if to offer violent objections—but suddenly changed her mind. “Perhaps they are right, Michael. But I will not advise you to go to Europe. How would I feel if something happened to you there?”

Faraday caught her hand and patted it affectionately. “Don't say that, Mrs. Riebau. The very thought of never seeing my friends again—the very possibility—gives me a turn. Do not worry about my safety. If I go, I'll surely come back.”

Faraday left the Riebaus a few minutes after Mr. Dance had departed. The discussion of his problem, and the advice he had received, did little to lessen Michael's confusion. If anything, the argument about Napoleon's power unsettled his mind still more.

As he walked back to the Institution through a light autumn fog, he kept turning the problem over in his mind. “Perhaps I am so used to being closed in by the fog of habit that I am afraid to venture out of my little world,” he said to himself. The rays of yellow light from the street lamps struggled to get through the mist. After penetrating a few feet of the fog, the rays seemed to give up in despair.

“It may be that light from outside is trying to get to my mind,” Faraday mused, “but can't because of the fog surrounding my small world.” Why, then, was he hesitating to join Davy on his tour? Was it fear?

Faraday tried to analyze himself honestly. Yes, it was fear— fear of breaking away from the security and warmth of old associations . . . his family, his friends, his church, Blandford Street, the Royal Institution.

But one should not be afraid, he said to himself. What seemed an ordeal, now, might appear vastly different in retrospect. How could he hold back merely on the basis of fear? It was cowardly, childish. How could he have a sincere faith in God if he had no faith in life?

By the time he reached the Institution, Faraday had made his decision. He would go on the Continental tour! Sir Humphry would be pleased, he was sure.

That night Faraday tried hard not to think about the matter any more. He didn't want his old doubts and fears to surge up once again. He had decided—and that was all.

Davy had set October 13, 1813, as their date of departure from London. A two-day trip by coach to Plymouth would bring them to the ship which was to take them across the Channel to France.

During the few weeks that remained before he would have to leave England, Faraday threw, himself into his work at the laboratory. He didn't want to think about the year ahead of him, nor did he have any desire to talk about it. Any further discussion of the pros and cons would only serve to increase his uneasiness.

In his diary, which he now called his foreign journal, Faraday expressed his fears on the very first page. “It is a strange venture,” he wrote, “at this time, to trust ourselves in a foreign and hostile country, where also so little regard is had of protestations and honor, that the slightest suspicion would be sufficient to separate us for ever from England, and perhaps from life.”

Apparently Mrs. Riebau's insistence that the whole idea of the tour was dangerous and foolhardy had made a deep impression on Faraday!

He spent his last day in London joyously packing his belongings into the large old trunk Davy had provided him. He was tired, almost exhausted emotionally, from the many parting scenes of the night before. The leave-taking from his family had proved particularly heart-rending and painful.

His mother had tried hard to be brave and treat it all as the will of Providence. “It is best for you, Michael,” she kept repeating as if to reassure herself. “The months will fly by and soon you will be back with us on Weymouth Street.”

But why did she keep looking at him as if it were the last time she would ever see him? And the tears she was so unsuccessfully trying to hold back ...

In the midst of these gloomy thoughts Faraday was called downstairs to see Sir Humphry.

“Packing all completed?” asked Davy cheerfully the moment Faraday appeared.

“Yes, sir. Practically all done.”

“Good! That old trunk used to be my favorite for traveling abroad. Capacious and sturdy. Much more sensible than the three suitcases you had planned to take—and easier to keep track of, too.”

Faraday nodded and waited. He sensed that Sir Humphry had something on his mind. There was a trace of embarrassment in Davy's manner, and Faraday wondered what new complication had arisen. Had the Davys changed their minds about taking him along? It might be a good thing if they had.

“You know Le Fontaine, the valet who has been with me for several years?” began Davy.

“I’ve met him once or twice, Sir Humphry.”

Davy clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing the aisle between the laboratory tables.

“It's his wife—poor distracted woman—who has kicked up a fuss about Le Fontaine’s leaving England. She doesn’t wish to remain in London alone. And at the same time she refuses to accompany her husband out of a deep-rooted fear of Napoleon. They come from Flanders, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” said Faraday politely, wondering why Davy’s domestic problems were being confided to him.

“This means,” cried Davy suddenly, as if in pain, “that I have no valet for the trip! I know I can get one in Paris. There will be no difficulty finding a servant in that city who can speak both English and French.”

“I’m sure you’ll find one there,” said Faraday comfortingly.

“And think of it—just when I need Le Fontaine most, he walks out on me. He would have been invaluable to me because he speaks English, French, and Italian.”

Suddenly Davy took a deep breath, as if getting himself set for an unpleasant task, and eyed Faraday reflectively. It was plain that he was about to get to the main point.

“Could you, my dear Faraday, put up with a few things on our tour—I mean in addition to your duties as secretary?”

“What do you have in mind, sir?” asked. Faraday, looking puzzled.

“I mean,” continued Davy eagerly, “for you to help me by taking care of matters I cannot very well entrust to strangers. It will only be for a short time. The moment I get to Paris your extra duties will be over. I’ll engage one—or perhaps two servants there.”

Michael Faraday remained silent for a few moments while Davy waited hopefully for his answer.

What could he say, Faraday asked himself. The Davys were ready to leave the next morning. He himself was packed, his farewells were made, and all was set for the tour. A combination of chemical assistant and valet! Faraday didn't like it at all. What annoyed him was the fact that he was being forced into a position where he couldn't say “no”!

“I don't know anything about the duties of a valet,” Faraday said quietly.

Davy jumped at this response. It was definitely favorable. “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Faraday,” he exclaimed. “I’ll help as much as possible. I’m sure you won't mind the few extra duties. It will only be for a short time.”

“You'll get someone else for this valet job in Paris?”

“I most certainly will. I realize that it is an imposition on you, Mr. Faraday, and I’ll be eternally grateful if you help me out of my predicament. Lady Davy simply won't budge from London until I have some sort of valet—even a part-time, temporary one.

Faraday tried to smile. “This is an emergency, Sir Humphry, and I have no desire to ruin your trip by refusing. I suppose I can bear with this extra and unexpected burden for a few days. It would be mere pride or vanity for me to quibble over the matter.”

Davy was all smiles. Evidently he had dreaded this interview with his laboratory assistant, and was pleased that the latter had proved so agreeable. Sir Humphry was aware that he was doing something definitely questionable in practically forcing valet duties on the unworldly Faraday.

Faraday returned to his rooms too low in spirit to brood over the latest turn of events. He wasn't—or shouldn't be—proud. A few days as valet-secretary was nothing to get upset about. He could stand anything for a short time. What did a valet do with himself all day, anyway? Faraday didn’t know, because his simple life up to now had run its quiet course far removed from the world of valets.

It was the mention of Lady Davy that disturbed him somewhat. All he knew about her was that she had been a Scottish widow and very wealthy. Davy had married her about a year ago. He remembered the date because Davy had been knighted the day before the marriage, as the newspapers had made sure to point out.

Suddenly he stopped packing and straightened up. A disturbing thought had popped into his mind. Would he have his meals with the Davys? Or would he dine with the servants?

It all depended on what sort of person Lady Davy turned out to be. She had it in her power to make the Continental tour a happy one for him—provided she was kind and gracious. Or she could ruin his trip—if she proved a disagreeable, unpleasant character.

Faraday decided to stop thinking about future problems. Time would tell. No use in foreseeing difficulties which might not even occur.

He let down the lid of his trunk with a bang. Enough for now!

EIGHT

Good-By, London!

Perched high above the double team of spirited horses, Michael Faraday felt like pinching himself to find out if it was really he who was sitting alongside the coachman. All day long he had had the feeling that he was looking at beautiful pictures in a book. The Devonshire countryside; the golden colors of autumn, the browns and reds and yellows. The soft haze, the sleepy villages, the gray-blue of the sky . . .

As he rolled with the swaying of the carriage, he felt he was sitting on top of the world. Below him was the luxurious little room on wheels which was Davy's sleek, black, gold-stenciled carriage.

Thomas, the coachman, kept throwing curious glances at his companion as they swept through the glorious countryside.

“Ever traveled through these parts before, Mr, Faraday?”

“No, never. I don’t remember ever, being more than a few miles outside of London.”

Thomas smiled. “Pretty out here. Not like the big city, is it?”

“It's grand. Never knew England was like this.”

His eyes watched the road. Every turn seemed to open new views, new backgrounds for churches and cottages. One moment he was gazing at a hill, almost a mountain; a few minutes later he would catch a glimpse of gray in the distance—a gray that stretched so far as to make it seem that the sky had been inverted. It was the sea!

”It’s wonderful to be able to travel and see all this,” gasped Faraday in wonder.

Thomas grunted his agreement. “I guess it is wonderful—at first. One gets used to it after a while though. They don't even see it down there.” He jerked his thumb significantly toward the Davys below.

“When do you think we'll reach Plymouth, Thomas?”

“Let me see now. We started on Wednesday. Today is Thursday. I'd say we ought to get to Plymouth by noon tomorrow.”

“The boat is scheduled to leave Plymouth on Friday night,” remarked Faraday. “That means several hours of waiting there. Sorry you're not coming along, Thomas?”

The coachman laughed. “No, sir! I'm staying right in England. That's what my wife wants and that's what I want.”

“Taking the coach back to London, aren't you?”

Thomas shook his head and smiled. “No, sir. This coach is going with you.”

Faraday looked incredulous. “This coach? On the boat?”

“That's it. They're going to take it apart and stow it on board. And when you get to France the coach is going to be put together again.” The coachman seemed amused at the thought.

Faraday eyed Thomas suspiciously. Was the man trying to take advantage of him—a greenhorn traveler?

“Lady Davy likes her comfort,” explained the coachman. “And Sir Humphry likes style, too. They're taking no chances with foreign coaches. The horses—and the coachman—stay behind. But yes, sir, this carriage goes where they go.”

It must be Lady Davy's idea, Faraday said to himself. Sir Humphry's small, dark-haired, imperious wife was accustomed to all the comforts and luxuries of civilization—and insisted on not doing without them regardless of where she might find herself.

Already, as a part-time valet, Faraday had been compelled to relay her numerous complaints to one innkeeper. The tea wasn't just right. . . the meat had been overcooked . . . her room was too small.

That was yesterday. Probably there would be more of the same today and tomorrow. Faraday would listen quietly to Lady Davy's long list of grievances and then try to get the innkeeper to do something about them. He was cheered by the thought that in a few days a full-time valet would be employed to take care of such details. He himself lacked experience with such trivialities—and, besides, he disliked being held responsible for the comfort of this determined little woman with the calculating dark eyes.

Yes, he could bear it for a little while. With the plunging horses below him, and with the glorious out-of-doors around him, he decided that the valet irritations were comparatively insignificant.

“So you're going to Europe with them,” continued the coachman.

Faraday nodded.

“Davy is all right,” confided Thomas, “but that little wife of his—she can be a devil when her temper is up.”

“I'm to act as secretary on the trip. Just helping out as Davy's valet for a few days until we get to Paris.”

“You'll be all right. Lady Davy isn't too bad—except when she's crossed. Mary has been with her for a long time. That's a good sign.”

The coachman was referring to Lady Davy's personal maid, a kind, motherly Scottish woman in her early fifties, who was down in the carriage with her mistress.

“Mary seems very nice,” said Faraday. “I'm glad of it because I'll have someone to talk to on the tour.”

Mary and Faraday had been taking their meals together. Davy and his wife dined at one table, while the maid and Faraday ate at another. No one had ordered it so; it just happened that way. Thus his worries about whom he would dine with were quickly solved. Faraday didn't mind at all. Sitting at the same table with Lady Davy would have meant having to listen to complaints about food and service. No, thank you. He certainly didn't want that.

They reached Plymouth, as the coachman had predicted, before lunch the next day. With the aid of their innkeeper, Faraday managed to find two workmen who agreed to take the Davy carriage apart and carry the tied-up and carefully marked pieces to the boat.

Having a few hours to spare, Faraday went down to the harbor to drink in the view of the ocean. As he looked out at the immense expanse of water, he began to feel that the picture he had previously had of the world was wrong . . . distorted. The sea was a giant and the land was there only on sufferance. That huge creature, the living, restless ocean, could easily lap over and drown out every bit of land in its way. The world was ocean, with a few scattered islands, called continents, peeking through the watery surface.

As soon as Faraday got back to the inn, he hastened to write down his reactions in his notebook. His impressionable mind responded to everything he saw, to everything he heard. The young man who had been brought up on the streets of London was learning fast.

There was a knock on his door. It was Mary, Lady Davy's maid. She seemed frightened.

“Lady Davy wants to see you at once, Mr. Faraday,” she said.

Mary was tall and thin, with a sharp chin that suggested an aggressiveness which simply wasn't there. She had been with Lady Davy for many years but could still be upset by her mistress' violent outbursts. At the moment her lips were trembling and her pale blue eyes teary.

“Is there something wrong?” asked Faraday, closing his notebook.

“Yes. Were not sailing until tomorrow night. They're hoping that the Channel will be calmer by then.”

“Is this what has upset Lady Davy?”

“Yes—in addition to other things. She doesn't like this inn. She hates her room. She wants her blankets changed because they are not fit to sleep under.”

Faraday smiled. The inn seemed quite nice to him—almost luxurious. No better place in Plymouth, he was told. It proved that there were some disadvantages in having been brought up in an atmosphere of wealth. How could the best in London compete with the best in Plymouth?

“And she sent you to me?” asked Faraday, smiling.

“She's really angry,” answered Mary with fear in her voice. “She wants to see you at once. She screamed at me and she screamed at Sir Humphry and she screamed at the inn people. Come quickly, please, Mr. Faraday.”

The valet-chemical assistant tried to conceal his amusement. A crisis so soon! If Plymouth brought complaints, then what would happen in Europe? He shook his head and followed Mary out the door.

Lady Davy, her neck arched and her foot tapping the floor impatiently, was waiting for him in her room. Her eyes were flaming with indignation and fury.

Faraday looked at her with an absent-minded sort of calmness. His own mind was still filled with the sea, the roar of waves rolling up the beach.

He could see immediately that Lady Davy was ready to explode. Strange, he mused, how little wealth, social position, and prestige do to alter one's disposition.

Lady Davy got started at once, and Faraday found it difficult to keep his mind on the long list of complaints pouring from her. “The stupid innkeeper ... our room is filthy ... the food was abominable ... the curtains are nothing but rags and not even fit for servants . . . staying another night is a horrible prospect.”

Suddenly she stopped short. Faraday was nodding politely as she ranted on, trying valiantly to manifest the proper interest in the problems confronting the wife of Sir Humphry.

Something about the young man's detachment enraged Lady Davy. Perhaps she sensed that he was being critical of her own behavior, although he had not uttered a word. This strange young Londoner who was a servant and yet refused to act like one!

“Why are you standing there like that?” she screamed at Faraday. “Do something! Don’t keep staring at me as if I were mad! Act alive and get rid of that stupid calmness! Why do you think we took you with us?”

Faraday tried to control himself. Ordinarily he was hard to rouse, but this was too much!

“I am being taken on this trip, Lady Davy,” he said in a quiet but decisive tone, “to act as secretary and chemical assistant to Sir Humphry.” His eyes narrowed, his jaw set squarely, and he stared hard at her.

“Pooh—pooh!” she cried. “You are our valet, and don’t try to put on airs. It’s your job to take care of whatever has to do with my comfort.”

Faraday shook his head in vigorous negation. “I agreed to help Sir Humphry by serving as a part-time valet until we got to Paris. I am willing to do this for a few days out of consideration for Sir Humphry. I never promised to be a servant to you or to him.”

“Oh, you didn’t!” sneered Lady Davy.

“I did not!” cried Faraday, raising his voice and sounding infuriated. He had very wisely decided, right then and there, that the only way to handle Lady Davy was not to give way an inch, but to outfury and outshout her.

Lady Davy was taken aback by the anger in Faraday’s tone. “We’ll see about that . . . we’ll see!” she said. She couldn’t understand this studious-looking young laboratory assistant. A poor youth who was nothing and had nothing—and who carried himself as if he were anyone’s equal! Why on earth didn’t her husband get her a real servant and then tell this strange creature who didn’t know his place ... to go!

At this point Sir Humphry came in from the adjoining room. He had been trying to nap but had been wakened by the sound and fury of his wife’s voice. Davy, not yet fully awake, stood in the middle of the room, shirt unbuttoned and hair in disorder, trying to figure out what the commotion was about.

“He refuses to be a servant,” shouted Lady Davy, pointing angrily at Faraday. “He thinks he’s too good for that! When I tell him what I want done, he just stands and listens calmly— as if it were no concern of his.”

“I am not a servant,” maintained Faraday stoutly, “and I don’t intend to be one on this trip. True, I promised to be of help in many ways until you get a valet in Paris, Sir Humphry. But I will not be treated like a servant.”

“Is he or isn’t he a servant?” persisted Lady Davy, glaring at poor Sir Humphry.

Davy found himself in an embarrassing situation—particularly since he had been a poor boy himself and knew exactly what Faraday was thinking. Personally he could get along very well without the valet service which his wife insisted every man of importance should have. Seldom on his trip through Europe did Davy find occasion to ask Faraday to serve as his valet.

Sir Humphry looked from one antagonist to the other as he tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes. They waited tensely for his decision.

“This whole argument is unnecessary,” Davy said judiciously. “We expect to leave Plymouth tomorrow night. Why all this fuss? Mr. Faraday is willing to help as much as he can. Aren’t you, Mr. Faraday?”

Faraday tried to hide a smile of triumph. “I’ll not quibble, Sir Humphry, since these extra duties are only for a short period. However, I would like Lady Davy to understand that what I do for her comfort is out of a desire to be agreeable and helpful.” He paused for a moment and then added firmly, “I do not like to be ordered to do things as if I were a servant, for the simple reason that I am secretary to Sir Humphry—and not a servant.”

Faraday looked squarely at Davy and waited for his last statement to be contradicted. If it was, then back to bookbinding he would go—and at once!

Sir Humphry rubbed his chin nervously for a few seconds. “You are right, Mr. Faraday, you are right,” he finally said. “We have no intention of making a servant of you. That was not part of our agreement. ”

Faraday looked toward Lady Davy with a faint smile. So he had won the first battle! Perhaps it would now put an end to an attitude toward him which might have grown unbearable if he hadn’t forced matters to a head.

Lady Davy turned pale and stalked out of the room.

Sir Humphry put his hand on Faraday's shoulder. “Be patient, Mr. Faraday. Women have a knack of becoming upset over small things. Will you try and help as much as possible?”

Faraday nodded. “I'm going to see the innkeeper, Sir Humphry, and ask him to take care of the matters Lady Davy complained of. It's different when one is asked instead of ordered, sir.”

Davy yawned. “I’m going back to sleep,” he said. “That long coach ride affected my back a bit. I’m glad you understand, Mr. Faraday. Women are often unreasonable and we men must humor them.”

Faraday smiled and walked out of the room much relieved. He had gambled and won! So he wasn’t going back to bookbinding, after all!

Late the next night the Davy party was safely installed on the small sailing vessel which was to carry them across the Channel. The sailors were obviously nervous. It was one thing to outwit Napoleon and carry on forbidden trade with the Continent. But it was something else again, and much more dangerous, to sail openly into a French port!

They knew that Sir Humphry had a safe-conduct from Napoleon, as well as passports from the English government. But what if the French decided to seize the ship?

The sea was still fairly rough when they slipped out of Plymouth. Faraday stood at the prow watching the endless succession of waves, and wondered at the energy that kept them moving. He was unprepared, from his reading, for the feeling that a ship at sea could be so corklike, so fragile, so insecure.

One moment a giant wave would lift the little vessel as if it were made of cardboard, and up it would go to the very crest. The next moment, down they went—right into the trough, the valley between two great waves. Again and again, towering mountains of angry water would confront the brave little vessel. Again the miracle!

Faraday was fascinated by the luminescence of the mysterious tiny bodies which the prow of the ship kept churning up.. This was something he would have to look into when he got back to the laboratory. Was light given off because of some compound of phosphorus present in the pea-sized bodies? He must remember to make a note of the phenomenon in his foreign journal.

Faraday was too excited to sleep that night; the restless sea fascinated him. Now he could understand the Biblical proverb about things beyond understanding . . . “the way of a ship in the midst of the sea.”

At dawn he heard a cry from one of the sailors. Land had been sighted! That uneven line over the left was France. As the sun rose higher and dispelled the gray mist, Faraday could see the harbor of Morlaix in the distance.

They dropped anchor. The captain was taking no chances, since England was at war with France at the time. The vessel would wait outside the harbor until the French officials came out to it and gave orders to proceed.

NINE

The Violet Vapor

It was no easy task to convince the French customs officials to allow the distinguished visitors from England ashore. At that time Faraday thought it strange for grown men to act so childishly, so according-to-rule. However, before he had been in Europe for very long, he had reason to change his mind. Those customs people at Morlaix were unusually efficient and self-reliant compared with the bureaucrats he encountered later.

The papers carried by Davy were minutely inspected before the French would even consider allowing them to disembark. Who was this Monsieur Faraday? The safe-conduct from Napoleon said nothing about him. And l'Anglaise—meaning Mary, Lady Davy’s maid—who was she? Also why must the coach be brought into France? Did the English think that only they knew about the joy of traveling on wheels?

Davy knew some French, but it was a struggle for him to speak it. Faraday's knowledge of the language was limited to what he had managed to pick up during the past few weeks from his little English-French dictionary. However, Lady Davy saved the day. She let loose a torrent of violent French at the sad-eyed official with the luxuriant whiskers who, she felt intuitively, was the man to convince.

Did these petty officials not realize, asked Lady Davy in shocked tones, that France was being honored by a visit from the greatest scientist in England? Yes, war or no war, Sir Humphry was planning to travel through Europe—by invitation. Kings, princes, philosophers were impatiently waiting for him to arrive. The famous Sir Humphry was no ordinary traveler; any courtesy shown him by customs officials would certainly be to the interest of France, of science, of learning. And, similarly, any discourtesy—which was impossible to even contemplate!—would be a breach of international etiquette and might lead to unpleasant consequences. ....

Later Faraday understood why the Frenchmen seemed so on edge that morning. Even while they were talking on board the boat in the fresh October breeze, Napoleon was fighting at Leipzig—and being defeated—in the Battle of Nations! This fresh military disaster, only a short time after his retreat from Moscow, meant the end of Napoleon s power outside of France. It meant the collapse of the empire he had established by brilliant military exploits.

The Frenchmen at Morlaix, that morning, were unaware of the results of the fighting at Leipzig. But perhaps they had forebodings. . . .

After examining and checking passports for a third time, the customs officials went into a huddle in the corner of the English vessel for still another conference. It was evident that each feared to take the responsibility either of sending the Davy party back to England or of allowing it into France. Unfortunately there was no time, no quick way of getting in touch with higher officials. .

Finally the man with the whiskers threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation and nodded. Soon the baggage of the visitors, including the dismantled coach, was eased into the small customs boat, and shortly afterward the four unexpected visitors from England were taken ashore.

The English vessel was ordered out of the harbor immediately, to go back to where it had come from—a command which its captain and crew were only too glad to obey. So while the Davy group was being borne to France, the ship which had brought them was already moving out to sea.

When they got ashore, another ordeal was awaiting the foreigners—baggage inspection. Faraday wondered what the inspectors expected to find as he watched them empty the contents of the trunks on the floor, and inspect each personal item—with accompanying loud comments.

They had to spend two nights at Morlaix waiting for the Davy coach to be put together again. Faraday found that it took four times as long for the workmen to put the vehicle together as to take it apart. English carriages were different, one man explained.

At last they were ready to move on to Paris. Faraday, as he took his place alongside of Pierre, the new coachman, wondered how soon it would be before Davy got himself an experienced, full-time valet. There surely must be plenty of suitable candidates for that job in Paris, he kept assuring himself.

Another tempestuous outburst by Lady Davy had been touched off by the discomforts of the little inn in Morlaix. She couldn't stand this little fishing village for another day! Again she had stormed at Faraday for neglecting to think of a dozen domestic details involving her comfort And again he answered her calmly and firmly. Faraday was beginning to fear that the valet part of his job, which had been thrust upon him, was going to spoil his pleasure in the tour.

Soon the rocky coastline of Brittany, with its numerous fishing villages, disappeared. They were in rolling country now. They passed through quaint towns where Bretons, wearing their traditional wooden sabots, were gathered in the market places to sell their wares.

Pierre tried to talk to l'Anglais. He took pains to point out the abbeys, chateaux, monuments. Faraday would nod wisely and try to guess what his companion was saying. Once or twice he forgot himself and asked Pierre a question in English. After a while both gave up conversation and merely smiled understandingly at each other.

The scenery was becoming charmingly rural. Cows grazing in rich meadows, meandering streams at almost every turn in the road, slender poplars outlined against a peaceful sky. Faraday liked the pink walls of the houses, and the blue or gray roofs.

Normandy was an aristocratic region and beautiful ducal houses were everywhere. Compared to the massive rock formations near Morlaix, this part of northern France seemed friendly, gentle, civilized.

In Paris friends of Davy had managed to find a comfortable house for their distinguished visitor. Before long Lady Davy, who knew many important people in Paris, was drawn into the social merry-go-round which she loved. The “week or two” in the French capital turned out to be a two-month stay!

Soon after they were settled, Faraday had the misfortune to lose his passport. This involved him in frequent visits to the police offices, where he had to answer endless questions and engage in polite fencing with oversuspicious bureaucrats.

One afternoon, on arriving home tired from a particularly painful morning with the police, he learned from Mary that Davy had been closeted for a few hours with some distinguished French visitors.

When Davy heard Faraday's steps on the landing, he opened the door of his study and asked his assistant to come in and be introduced. The callers were the French scientists Ampere, Clement, and Desormes. There was much bowing as Davy presented Faraday to these gentlemen. Little did Faraday realize then that Andre Marie Ampere, the delicate-looking man with the withdrawn expression, was to announce, seven years later, important discoveries on the properties of electric currents—and that he, Faraday, would someday build magnificently on the foundation of Ampere’s researches!

“These gentlemen,” said Davy with suppressed excitement, “have brought us a most interesting and mysterious substance, Mr. Faraday. I am sure you will welcome an opportunity to get back to scientific work as much as I will.”

Faraday smiled. “Yes, Sir Humphry. A little research will prove a wonderful change from my daily debates with the Parisian police.”

Monsieur Clement looked shocked. “Perhaps we can help you. I am sorry that our regulations have taken so much of your time, Mr. Faraday.”

“Thank you. I think—I hope—today’s visit will be the last. The police seem satisfied, finally, that I do not intend to blow up the beautiful libraries and museums of Paris. Should there be any further trouble, I would be grateful if you testified for me.

“We’ll be happy to be of service to you,” Monsieur Desormes assured him.

The visitors had been on the point of leaving when Faraday arrived. Davy saw them to the door, and kept repeating his promise to keep them informed on developments as he worked on the “curious” substance they had brought him.

The moment the Frenchmen had left, Davy hurried to his desk and picked up a small flask. His manner had suddenly become serious, alert, keen. The boredom that had accumulated from long days of coach riding, as well as from long hours at select social gatherings in Paris, vanished! His mind had scented something—something big.

He handed the flask to Faraday. “Look at it. Ever see any other substance like it?”

The flask contained a handful of dark brown, almost black, flakes. There was an almost metallic luster about them.

“A strange solid,” said Faraday after examining the contents of the flask. “Where did they get it?”

“A saltpeter manufacturer named Courtois discovered it about two years ago. They tell me it can be obtained very easily and in considerable quantities.”

“And why did our distinguished visitors bring it to you?” asked Faraday curiously.

Davy smiled. “That’s what I can’t understand—and am not really interested in. The point is I’ve got it now. Ampere is a well-known mathematician who is also well versed in chemistry. The other two are chemists and friends of Courtois. It seems that the saltpeter manufacturer asked them to investigate this strange chemical thoroughly because he himself didn’t have the time or the laboratory facilities.”

“What do you think it is, Sir Humphry?”

“Courtois is sure he has discovered a new element,” answered

Davy with a smile.'“His friends, however, aren't so certain. They lean to the view that it is an unknown compound.”

“But the French chemists have had two years to work on it!” exclaimed Faraday. “One would think they'd know quite a bit about these brown crystals by this time.”

Davy threw up his hands. “That’s exactly it! The French chemists have neglected this substance for some reason or other. Now Courtois and his friends are hoping that I'll do something to bring it to the attention of the world.”

Sir Humphry rubbed his hands together gleefully. He was going to have lots of fun with this supposed “element”!

At that time scientists all over Europe were vying with one another in finding new elements. Soon after the introduction of the voltaic cell, Davy had succeeded in isolating sodium, potassium, barium, strontium, and calcium. In 1807 he had managed to separate the boron from boric acid, a feat which Gay-Lussac and Thenard duplicated in France at about the same time.

“Nice to have such a prize thrown into one’s lap,” he remarked to Faraday with a pleased, boyish smile. “Who knows but what we're on the trail of another element?”

Sir Humphry held the small flask up to the light. “Let's put a little of this substance in a retort,” he said.

Faraday went to the trunk in the corner of the room. It was their traveling laboratory: glassware, burners, tubing, a small balance, dozens of bottles of reagents.

Davy took the long-necked retort which his assistant handed him. Into it he dropped several of the lustrous, dark brown crystals. He then spread his hands around the glass vessel as if to warm its contents. In a few minutes the retort was filled with a beautiful violet vapor!

Faraday gasped with wonder. Davy then set the retort down near the open window for a little while. The violet vapor appeared to subside gradually. Soon the insides of the glass container were covered with fine crystals—the same lustrous, dark brown crystals with which they had started!

“I'd like to prepare some of those crystals,” exclaimed Faraday. “What did they begin with, anyway?”

“They won’t tell me that,” said Davy with a wise smile. “But I understand that Desormes is due to read a paper on these crystals before the Institute of France in a few days. That should give us the necessary information.”

Davy placed a few crystals in a tube and added a small quantity of alcohol. The crystals dissolved quickly, giving a dark brown solution. “Exactly as Clement said,” remarked Davy.

Faraday got a bottle containing silver nitrate in water. Davy added a few drops of it to the rich brown solution he had just prepared. A yellow precipitate! Why, it behaved almost as if it were a chlorine compound!

Sir Humphry looked baffled. “I may be wrong,” he murmured to Faraday. “This substance may not be an element after all. Could it be a compound of chlorine and some unknown element?”

During the next few weeks Davy occupied himself with his new project—when he wasn’t being dragged to social functions by his wife. Faraday, whose interest in the crystals had been aroused, regretted keenly his ignorance of the French language; he would have loved to read the original papers on the discovery of this fascinating substance which could be changed to a violet vapor by body heat.

While in Paris he accompanied Davy to L’Ecole Polytechnique, the French national school of chemistry, where he heard Gay-Lussac lecture to a class of two hundred. The subjects were vapors, compressibility, and electricity. Faraday understood the demonstrations but, because of the language difficulty, remained completely in the dark about what the eminent French scientist was saying.

Paris, at the time, was famous throughout the world for its great chemists. And Davy regarded Gay-Lussac as the outstanding chemist of France. Internationally acclaimed as a most meticulous investigator, this versatile French scientist had discovered the law of the combining volumes of gases as well as the law of the expansion of gases by heat. Gay-Lussac was a man who was interested in everything and anything.

One afternoon Davy hurried to his home all excited. At last Desormes had read his paper about the source of the mysterious crystals. Now Davy knew how to obtain the precious substance by himself!

“Try and guess where Courtois got it,” he said to Faraday.

Faraday shook his head. He had no idea.

“From the ashes of a certain kind of seaweed found in northern France. First they extract the ashes with water, and then concentrate the resulting solution.”

“And these brown crystals came from that liquid?” Faraday sounded unbelieving.

Davy chuckled. “Sounds strange, doesn’t it? During the process of extracting the various chemicals from the mother liquor, Courtois must have accidentally added an excess of sulphuric acid. And we have that accident to thank for the dark brown crystals!”

“Courtois was keen enough to realize that he had something unusual,” remarked Faraday.

“He couldn’t help himself,” laughed Davy. “Clouds of violet vapor rose from the tank. And when this vapor settled on cold objects, it condensed into those strange crystals which were brought to us;”

Davy thought hard for a few moments. “What we need is a good voltaic battery. I should be able to decompose this substance—if it is really a compound.”

“Can we borrow one somewhere?”

“I’ve spoken to Chevreul. He’s the expert on the chemistry of indigo dyes and soaps—and a very kind gentleman. He has offered me the use of whatever I need in the way of apparatus.”

Davy gave his assistant the directions for getting to Chevreul’s laboratory. In about an hour Faraday was back with a powerful voltaic battery.

Davy quickly got to work and tried to decompose the crystals by means of a filament heated red-hot by the electric current. Nothing happened. The substance refused to split up into its parts—if there were any.

“I am beginning to feel more and more certain,” announced Davy, “that we have a simple substance, an element, in the form of a violet vapor. However, a conclusive proof will take considerable work and time. I wish I were back at the Institution for a few weeks.”

“I wish I were back there, too,” said Faraday with a smile. Davy glanced at his assistant questioningly. “You are sorry you came with us, Mr. Faraday?”

“No, not exactly,” replied Faraday after a little pause. “I am learning a good deal, and keep finding out how great my ignorance was—and is. I am grateful for the opportunity, but—” “But what?”

“It's the valet problem,” explained Faraday earnestly, “and the constant domestic duties I am involved in.” He drew a deep breath and got down to the main point. “You promised to find a valet when we got to Paris, sir.”

Davy ran his fingers over his chin nervously. “Oh yes ... oh yes. I did promise to do that. But it is almost impossible to find one who can speak both French and English. However, we plan to take on a couple of servants while we are here. That should make it easier for you, don’t you think?”

Faraday nodded, but with little enthusiasm, as he watched Davy turn again to his violet vapor. Sir Humphry was too thrilled by the scientific chase after a new element to be anything but absent-minded when it came to valets.

For the rest of his stay in Paris, Davy kept hard on the trail of his new element. He talked about it to everyone. It must be a new element; he was almost convinced that it was.

The French chemists would listen politely, smile, and refused to argue against the English scientist’s wild notion. It was easy to say something was an element. But proving it was another matter.

Before long they became less certain and began to regard Sir Humphry suspiciously. Possibly this Englishman with the mobile face and quick-moving eyes was planning to snatch a prize from right under the noses of the French chemists! A number of well-known French scientists now began to investigate Courtois’ strange crystals. Very discreetly it was made clear to Davy that the great Gay-Lussac himself was about to undertake important experiments on the violet vapor.

But Davy would not be deterred. He remembered that Gay-Lussac and his collaborator Thenard had taken up the study of the alkali metals soon after the publication of his own findings in that field. No fenced-off areas in science, he said to himself. The prize went to the one who got there first with the most convincing experiments!

The upshot of the whole matter was that, in 1814, Davy published his paper proving that Courtois' mysterious substance was an element for which the English scientist suggested the name iodine. Gay-Lussac's report on the same subject appeared shortly afterward. The French chemists gave the new element the name iodine from the violet color of its vapor.

All in all, the French chemists were annoyed at what they considered an intrusion by Davy in a field which they regarded as their own. Faraday was always of the opinion that the glory belonged to Davy; the French felt that it was rightfully Gay-Lussacs.

Perhaps a fair view would be that each man deserved an equal share of the credit for discovering iodine, since they had carried on their investigations more or less simultaneously.

TEN

The Shooting Party

The Davys left Paris on December 29, 1813, and Faraday wasn’t sorry to get moving again. He had enjoyed the libraries, the laboratories, and the art museums—but staying too long in one place only increased his homesickness. Even his pleasure in the Galerie Napoleon was spoiled by the thought that so many of its great paintings were “gifts” from Napoleon. To Faraday’s direct mind this meant that they were part of the loot from war-ravaged countries. He was shocked by the French glorification of the theft.

While in Paris, Faraday had once caught a glimpse of the great Napoleon himself, sitting in his carriage enveloped in a magnificent ermine robe, his face hidden from view by a tremendous plume of feathers arching from a velvet hat. Faraday remained characteristically unmoved by the sight of the great man, and he noted with satisfaction that there was no acclamation from the crowd of watchers nearby. This was the Conqueror of Europe, the wearer of the ermine, who three months later was to be sent to the island of Elba, after having been forced to abdicate the throne!

Davy’s Continental tour took them to Lyons, then to Montpellier, and finally to Nice. While in southern France, Davy and Faraday spent considerable time testing the sea plants of the Mediterranean for iodine. When they got to the point where they had to cross the snowy Alps into Italy, at an elevation of six thousand feet, a new problem presented itself. How were they to get the Davy carriage over the steep mountain passages?

They solved it by hiring a small army of men to do the job. The carriage had to be dismantled; some of the parts were tied to the backs of mules, while others were fastened to sleds which were drawn up the rocky trails by hardy mountaineers.

Turin, Florence, Rome, Naples. . . . Everywhere Italian scientists greeted with enthusiasm the arrival of Sir Humphry Davy, the brilliant English experimenter. The most important people in Italy vied with one another in extending warm hospitality and countless kindnesses to Davy and his wife.

But somehow things never did run smoothly. Davy, for reasons hard to understand, decided to play the part of a haughty, superior being—and invariably succeeded in rubbing people the wrong way. For example, if some proud Italian showed Davy a famous piece of sculpture which people would come to see from all over the world, Davy made certain to confine his comments to the chemical nature of the stone of which the work of art was made. This boorish attitude annoyed his kind, generous hosts; they could not understand how so famous a man could act so childishly. In short, though they admired Davy as a scientist, they were critical of him as a person.

In a way, the unfavorable reaction to Davy helped Faraday form valuable friendships abroad, many of which lasted to the end of his life. People found it easy to talk to the pleasant, stable, intelligent laboratory assistant. Faraday would answer their numerous questions as best he could—and modestly. He gave the eager questioners the details about Davy's potassium and sodium experiments—the details they were so anxious to learn. Faraday had managed to pick up a good deal of information from his reading and his brief experience at the Royal Institution.

While in Florence, Davy performed the famous experiment where he burned a diamond before a large audience of notables. The giant burning glass of the Duke of Tuscany was used as the source of heat. After a diamond was mounted on a rod of platinum in the center of a large globe, the air in it was drawn out and replaced with pure oxygen. The suns rays were made to focus on the enclosed diamond by means of two lenses: one, the three-and-a-half foot burning glass mentioned above; the other, a three-inch convex lens.

Davy's audience waited expectantly while the sun's rays heated the diamond for about three-quarters of an hour, after which the globe was moved out of the path of the converging rays. The people were astounded to see the diamond glowing, looking almost alive, and giving off a weird purplish light!

The onlookers were so thrilled at the success of the experiment that they rose to their feet and applauded Davy wildly. After testing the gas formed in the globe, Sir Humphry announced that it was pure carbon dioxide and, therefore, drew the conclusion that diamonds are pure carbon.

In Milan, Faraday had the interesting experience of being introduced to Volta—the real, in-the-flesh Volta, whose discovery of voltaic electricity had opened new fields in chemistry and physics. The famous Italian scientist, then sixty-five years of age, came to pay his respects to Davy. Faraday described him as a “hale and elderly man, bearing the red ribbon, and very free in conversation.”

From Italy they went to Switzerland, arriving in Geneva in the middle of June, 1814, and staying for three months. Davy's friend De la Rive, a professor of chemistry, insisted that the visitors from England be his guests until comfortable living quarters could be found for them in Geneva. The Davys consented and De la Rive proved the perfect host—even going to the trouble of arranging hunting trips for Sir Humphry.

Faraday would accompany Davy on these sporting expeditions in the capacity of gunloader, a duty he performed so seriously that Davy felt his assistant was inwardly amused at the great sport of bird killing.

One day, during the hunt, De la Rive and Faraday got to talking. The professor was a fatherly man, keenly interested in young people and generous and kindly by nature. A chance remark made by Davy's gunloader excited his curiosity, whereupon he decided to draw the young man out.

“How do you happen to know this scientific detail?” asked De la Rive, referring to some point Faraday had just made.

“I was—and still am, I hope—a chemical assistant at the Royal Institution,” answered the gunloader simply.

De la Rive was so surprised that he almost dropped his gun. “I'm so sorry!” he exclaimed. “A thousand apologies! What I have done is absolutely unforgivable!”

“But you haven't done anything unforgivable, Professor,” said Faraday, looking somewhat bewildered.

De la Rive grasped the young man's arm excitedly. “I thought you were a servant of Sir Humphry's. That is why we had you live in the servant quarters and dine with the servants. Why didn't anyone tell me that you are an assistant at the Royal Institution!”

Faraday looked across the field to where Davy was still waiting to get his shot at a pheasant.

“I promised Sir Humphry when we left England,” he said, turning aside so that the older man would not be able to read his face, “that I would do such things as were necessary until we got to Paris, where, he assured me, he would employ a valet.”

“And why didn't he get one there?” De la Rive's heart went out to the troubled young man. He felt instinctively that, though the valet matter might appear trifling to outsiders, it was a painful subject to Faraday.

“Why? In Paris he could not get one. No Englishman was there, and no Frenchman could be found with a knowledge of English. In Lyons he could not get one. In Montpellier he could not get one . . . nor in Florence . . . nor in Rome . . . nor in all Italy!” Faraday's lips tightened.

De la Rive threw up his hands. “I can't understand. I can't understand. What a cruel position to put you in, Mr. Faraday! I know exactly how you feel.”

“I don't wish to exaggerate, Professor De la Rive. The valet duties are minor. Perhaps it is the name servant that hurts. Sir Humphry does for himself in most things and hesitates to call upon me. But—”

“But what?” asked the older man as he studied Faraday’s face.

“I’d rather not say any more,” said Faraday with a smile.

De la Rive chuckled. “You need not explain. It must be Lady Davy.”

That same evening, just before dinner, De la Rive decided to take the bull by the horns. He was determined that the chemical assistant of the Royal Institution would not eat with the servants—not while he, De la Rive, was the host!

The kindly professor first approached the subject tactfully, treating it as an incidental matter during a predinner conversation with Davy.

“I was surprised to learn,” he began, “that Mr. Faraday is a preparateur de laboratoire at the Royal Institution. He seems to be a very intelligent and capable young man.”

Davy eyed his friend warily. “Oh yes, a fine young man. Self-taught but very keen. Unusual for a laboratory assistant.” “Imagine my embarrassment! And here I had him eating with the servants! You should have informed me of his position, Sir Humphry.” De la Rive sounded upset.

Davy waved his hand as if to dismiss the incident. “He doesn’t mind, I am sure. It’s been that way ever since we began our tour. Very difficult to get a valet—a suitable valet.”

De la Rive smiled disarmingly. “I am planning to make up for having treated this charming young man as a servant by asking him to eat at the family table from now on. You won’t mind, will you, Sir Humphry?”

Now it was Davy’s turn to be embarrassed. “Ah ... ah ... I wish you wouldn’t do that at present, Professor. What I mean is that it is too late to start that sort of thing, now. I don’t think he’d like it, anyway. Might make Mr. Faraday uncomfortable.” “But I must insist on it,” protested De la Rive, “for my own self-respect. What will the world think when it finds out that De la Rive made a fellow scientist eat with servants? Think of my good name! All scientists are brothers!”

Davy flushed. That last remark had struck home.

“As far as I am personally concerned,” Sir Humphry began, “it doesn’t matter with whom Mr. Faraday dines. However, the situation is complicated by the fact that he does, to some extent, act in the capacity of a servant. I don’t think it would be wise for him to eat with us.”

De la Rive, shocked at the definiteness of Davy’s refusal, remained silent for a few seconds. He was a sensitive man and was honestly disturbed by the unusual situation.

“Please understand my position,” said Davy, sensing the disapproval of his host. “A man who is married must consider someone besides himself in such matters. Lady Davy would not like it—of that I am certain. To avoid a scene, perhaps it would be best to let things remain as they are. Do you understand, Professor?” His tone had become almost apologetic.

Poor De la Rive! The Davys were his guests, after all, and it was his duty to accede to their wishes. still he was determined not to give up in regard to the “mistreated” laboratory assistant. Let Davy behave as wretchedly as he pleased toward Faraday, he said to himself. But did he, De la Rive, have to do likewise? No! Never!

That evening the De la Rives and the Davys dined at the main table as usual. No more discussion of the social prerogatives of the laboratory assistant of the Royal Institution. It was a closed incident, apparently.

However, for the rest of the stay at his home, De la Rive saw to it that Faraday was served his meals in a separate room!

Even after the Davys had moved into their own rented house, De la Rive made it a point to see Faraday frequently. Soon the two men became fast friends. The genial professor loved young people and could see from Faraday’s troubled state of mind that the young man needed him. De la Rive, very wisely and skillfully, would draw Faraday out by making him talk about his trip through Europe and his scientific ambitions.

“You’ve been homesick most of the time, haven’t you, Michael?” he remarked one day while Faraday was visiting him at the university.

A cloud seemed to pass over Faraday’s face. He was thinking of London, his family, his little church, the Riebaus, the cozy bookbindery.

“Yes. I suppose I have been homesick.”

“And you've been writing home often?”

Faraday grinned. “It seems that letter writing has been my chief occupation since I left England. Is that why people go abroad?”

De la Rive chuckled. “Perhaps. Do you know what your chief trouble has been on this trip?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

The chemistry professor eyed his friend closely. “You have been alone too much, Michael. No one to talk to. If there had been another young person along, things would have been different. Being part of the Davy household didn’t help. You’ve been alone in Europe for too long!”

“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression, Professor,” murmured Faraday. “The trip has been interesting. It has opened my eyes to so many things in the world about which I was unaware.”

“Undoubtedly, undoubtedly,” said De la Rive. “By the way, did you happen to meet any young people; I mean nice . . . fascinating . . . attractive?” He gave Faraday a roguish wink.

“Did I meet any nice young people?” repeated Faraday, not understanding. “Yes, quite a few in Italy.”

“No, no, no!” cried De la Rive. “I said interesting . . . nice. And to whom can I be referring but a member of the opposite sex?”

“I see, I see,” laughed Faraday, and he proceeded to tell about a masked ball in Rome for which all the English turned out. He wore a nightgown and sleeping cap and was accompanied by a young lady in a clown’s costume. He never did find out who she was . . . very puzzling. The charming English girl seemed to know all about him and his friends in London. It was an evening of fun he would always remember.

“Good for you!” exclaimed De la Rive approvingly. “Such memories are what count. After you get back to London, you'll probably decide you had a grand time on your tour—and will want to do it over again.”

Faraday's expression suddenly became sober. “I don't think so, sir. I’m afraid that once I set my foot in England I shall never take it out again.”

De la Rive peered at Faraday over his thick lenses, trying not to show his concern over that last remark. So this young man had been hurt on tour of Europe—hurt badly? Something had to be done about it, he said to himself, and quickly!

“The young forget that pain is hard to remember and pleasure hard to forget,” De la Rive noted wisely. “You must be anxious to get back to work at the Royal Institution, Michael. Do you have the feeling that you have idled away too much time?”

Faraday nodded. “I have often wished I were back in the laboratory—yes, often, during this tour. Even my old trade of bookbinding is beginning to seem attractive to me again, for I love books.”

De la Rive struck the laboratory table hard with his fist. “Nonsense! There are enough bookbinders and booksellers in the world! What sort of talk is this? You shall continue in science, Michael Faraday, and someday we’ll all be proud of you!

The shrewd professor of chemistry got busy. He introduced his Englishman to a small circle of young Geneva scientists; soon Faraday found himself drawn into discussions and arguments concerning recent researches. The result was that his ambitions were quickly revived and he became more anxious than ever to get back to London—and to work.

Faraday made many friends in Geneva, and one in particular became dear to him. He was J. B. A. Dumas, who was then only fifteen years old. Born in Alais, and apprenticed to an apothecary, Dumas made up his mind to study at the University of Geneva. There he quickly attracted the attention of his chemistry professor, De la Rive, who befriended and encouraged the brilliant youth.

Faraday and Dumas took long walks in the country and talked of home and friends and personal histories, as well as about scientific matters. Faraday told about Davy’s iodine experiments . . . about the burning of the diamond . . . about Davy's experience with the torpedo fish in Genoa—the fish which emitted weak electric shocks when touched. He went on to describe his climb with Davy to within two hundred feet of a large orifice on Mount Vesuvius from which flames were belching.

Dumas was most fascinated by the iodine story and asked question after question about the new element, concerning which both Davy and Gay-Lussac had already published their preliminary findings. Dumas' mind was preoccupied with iodine for other reasons. Three years after his conversations with Faraday, in 1818, Dumas and Coindet introduced the use of iodine compounds as a remedy for goiter. Thus Faraday’s friend made his first important contribution to science at the age of eighteen!

The three-month stay at Geneva did wonders for Faraday, largely because of the kindness and interest of De la Rive. Michael turned philosophical about his little troubles with the Davys, and compared his difficulties to “roads . . . stony, uneven, uncomfortable . . . but only roads to a good beyond.”

For almost fifty years Faraday kept up a correspondence with the De la Rives, as well as with the other friends he had made at Geneva.

How the young laboratory assistant was regarded by those who knew him is beautifully expressed by Dumas in his Eloge Historique:

“His [Davy's] laboratory assistant, long before he had won his great celebrity by his works, had by his modesty, amiability, and intelligence, gained most devoted friends at Paris, Geneva, and Montpellier. . . . Faraday left memories charged with an undying sympathy which his master could never inspire. We admired Davy; we loved Faraday.”

ELEVEN

Back at the Royal Institution

About the middle of September, Davy decided that three months in Geneva were enough. The tour was resumed and soon their carriage was rolling through Germany, where they stopped at the important universities to visit prominent scientists. They then crossed over into Italy again and, after spending a little time in Padua and Venice, found themselves back in Rome in November of 1814.

While in Rome, Faraday received a disturbing letter from home. It seemed that, due to financial difficulties, there was some doubt as to whether the Royal Institution could survive much longer. As an honorary professor, Davy was through with lecturing; he was determined to devote his full time to research. And, without a Sir Humphry to add glamour to the Institution, would the public at large—meaning the more prosperous citizens—be willing to contribute to its support?

This news depressed Faraday and made him more anxious than ever to get back to England. He no longer played with the idea of returning to his old trade. Contact with some of the best minds in Europe had matured him, and now nothing seemed more desirable in his eyes than his old job as chemical assistant. Time was passing and he had so much to learn before he could undertake original research, which fascinated him more and more.

When Davy spoke of continuing the tour through parts of the Turkish Empire, Faraday didn’t like the idea at all. He decided that, if Davy did so, it would be without his secretary-valet. Faraday was actually considering the possibilities of getting back to London on his own, when the news reached Rome that Napoleon had escaped from Elba. Marshal Ney had deserted to his adored leader with six thousand picked men. The allies were rushing troops to France. Russia and Germany were again alive with marching columns.

Davy's plans changed immediately; they would head for England at once. Europe would soon be in a real turmoil. They hurried from Rome, recrossed the Tyrol, moved quickly through Germany, and reached Brussels on April 16. Embarking at Ostend, they landed at Dover and arrived in London on April 23, 1815, The Continental tour was over!

“It’s good to be back! It's good to be back!” Faraday kept repeating as he embraced his mother. It seemed to him she had aged perceptibly in the eighteen months he had been away. The skin was stretched taut over those sharp cheekbones; and her body seemed so slight, so frail. His brother, Robert, was doing well at gas fitting. And Margaret, his baby sister, had sprouted into a gangly, laughing girl of thirteen!

For three days Faraday did nothing but talk and visit, while his mother beamed and looked proud. He regaled his family with the story of his trip. He found it heart-warming to have people around him, at last, whom he loved; they saw the sad and funny side of things as he did. Except for those three months at Geneva, Faraday had been starved for friendly companionship. Was it any wonder that he couldn't seem to get enough of his family and friends during those first few days back in London?

The Riebaus overwhelmed him with questions about European politics, the notables he had met, and Lady Davy. Faraday went to see Mr. Dance. He even dropped in at the bookshop of De la Roche. Faraday talked and talked as if driven; he wanted to dispel the chill of loneliness which had penetrated his spirit during the year and a half abroad.

The Royal Institution was still in existence, Faraday was happy to learn. On May 7, about two weeks after his return to England, he was reinstated as assistant in. the laboratory at a salary of thirty shillings per week—five shillings more than he had received before. Evidently the managers had decided that his tour of Europe had made him that much more valuable as a scientist!

With the energy that came from the conviction that he had little time to waste, Faraday applied himself to the job of learning more chemistry. He was troubled by the thought that, at twenty-four, he was only getting started. Dumas and other friends at Geneva were much younger—and already way ahead of him. Faraday was determined to catch up to them!

He rejoined the City Philosophic Society, before which he gave his first lecture in 1816. In the same year he published his first paper in the Quarterly Journal of Science, on the subject of An Analysis of Native Caustic Lime.

“Don’t congratulate me on my paper,” he said to his friend Abbott. “It represents my first little effort, and my fear is greater than my confidence. And my ignorance is greater than both.”

Several years passed. Faraday was still serving his apprenticeship in science. He studied; he repeated experiments on his own; he jotted down ideas in his notebooks. Soon he would be ready to do his own investigating....

He lectured before his friends; he gave private lessons in mineralogy and chemistry to gentlemen recommended by Davy; he kept abreast of the advances described in current scientific journals. Faraday was like a student of music who spends long hours playing pieces composed by others. Before long he hoped to stop practicing and do his own composing.

The first opportunity to apply his intelligence and skill to original research came in 1821, six years after his return from Europe.

In April of that year his friend Richard Phillips dropped in at the laboratory to see Faraday and found him all excited about something that had happened during the day.

“Wollaston was here this morning to see Davy,” said Faraday. “He thinks he can prove the converse of Oerstad's experiment.

When Davy expressed doubt, Wollaston offered to wager a nice sum that he could do it.”

“Has Wollaston been working on the problem?”

“Yes, for a short time—but he hasn't succeeded so far. I happened to pass by and couldn't help hearing him discuss it with Davy.”

Phillips looked at his friend wonderingly. “And how does all this affect you—as a chemist?”

“I wish I knew more about the subject,” said Faraday wistfully. “It's so new, so fresh. It has immense possibilities.”

Oerstad, the Danish scientist, had startled the academic world in 1819 with his great discovery. During one of his experiments he had placed a wire carrying an electric current over a compass needle parallel to the wire. The needle, instead of remaining in a north-south position, immediately set itself almost at right angles to its original direction. Oerstad had thus discovered a hitherto unsuspected relationship between magnetism and electricity!

Oerstads experiment excited a profound interest all over the world. At last someone had proved that electricity and magnetism were related. As soon as details of this famous experiment reached France, Ampere quickly realized the significance of Oerstad's finding. He repeated the experiment, varied it, and soon announced a rule—Ampere's Rule—for predicting how a magnetic needle would be deflected under all conditions.

Faraday had. studied closely the published accounts of the electrical researches which followed in the wake of Oerstad's discovery. He was well aware of the attractive field that had been opened to researchers, and regretted his own inadequate preparation in electrical science.

That afternoon in the laboratory of the Royal Institution, Phillips sensed what was passing through his friend's mind. He had the highest regard for Faraday's energy, resourcefulness, and fierce persistence. The intense creative forces were there, and Phillips decided it was time they were put to work.

“Why don't you try your hand at it, Michael?” he said quietly.

“What? The proof of the converse of Oerstad's experiment?

I'd like nothing better than to tackle that problem. But I’m only a chemist—-and a beginner at that.”

Phillips met this argument with a shrug. ”There’s no harm in one’s trying. And don’t underestimate yourself, Michael. The other researchers are only human. Their brains are no different from yours.”

”Who am I to take on a problem that is baffling a man of Wollaston’s ability?” skid Faraday modestly. ”And I am certain that Arago, Ampere, and a dozen other top men on the Continent are at this very moment trying to prove the same thing—the converse of Oerstad’s discovery.”

”Tell me more about it,” said Phillips cunningly. ”I don’t quite understand what Wollaston is aiming at.”

Faraday’s face became alive. ”It’s simple. Oerstad showed that a magnetic needle will move when an electric current flows through a wire parallel to it. According to the law of action and reaction, the wire should have an equal tendency to move around the magnetic needle. The thing to do is to make the wire movable and the magnet immovable—if such an experiment can be devised.”

”It would be quite a feat to figure out how to make a wire rotate around a magnet without interrupting the current through the wire,” agreed Phillips. ”I still maintain you’d have lots of fun attempting it, Michael. Even if it should prove an impossible arrangement, you would certainly learn a lot from tackling the experiment.”

”I’m so busy with my chemistry,” explained Faraday, ”that I just can’t see myself branching off into electricity—about which I know even less.”

During the next few months Faraday applied himself to chemical researches and forgot all about the Wollaston project. By this time the young laboratory assistant had contributed almost forty notices and papers to the Quarterly Journal of Science, and was gaining a reputation as a capable chemist.

But his friend Richard Phillips refused to be discouraged. Near the end of June he turned up at the Royal Institution with another idea—or, more exactly, the old idea carefully disguised.

“How about writing a series of articles for the Annals of Philosophy on the subject of Electromagnetism?” he said innocently to Faraday.

“Who? I?” asked the young chemist in surprise.

“Exactly.”

“But why come to me for this?”

“Because I, as editor, make it my business to know where to go for material,” answered Phillips with a straight face.

“But—but—I am no expert on electromagnetism,” protested Faraday.

“Fine! That makes it so much the better. Our readers will be more apt to understand a writer who isn’t an expert.”

Faraday was taken aback by this reasoning. “You mean that I’m to study the subject and then write the article?”

“So you’ll do it!” cried Phillips, beaming.

“I didn’t say that,” smiled Faraday.

“All we’re after is a historical sketch of electromagnetism. Treat it from the point of view of what was known up to the time of Oerstad . . . then the effect of his discovery on our old ideas . . . and, finally, describe the continuing researches of Arago, Ampere, and others.”

Phillips paused for a moment. “I’d like you to do it, Michael,” he said earnestly. “It would help me—and help you. I know you’ll turn out a workmanlike series of articles if you put your mind to it.”

The result was that Faraday agreed to write a brief history of electromagnetism for his friend. During July and August of 1821 he devoted every moment he could spare from his already full schedule to the mastering of what was for him a new field of science. He found the subject fascinating, and before long it was exerting a compelling, attractive force on his interest.

Faraday was a thorough student. Not content with understanding theory, he proceeded to perform every experiment described in books on electromagnetism. He was having a thrilling and busy time of it. Night was no different from day; there were experiments to prepare for lecturers, researches in chemistry to complete, tutoring to do, and electromagnetic experiments to enjoy!

Faraday was now beginning to get the “feel” of original research. He was no longer an apprentice in science; he was conscious of his own strength, his own power, developing and maturing. Phillips had inveigled him into the electromagnetism project almost against his will—and now he was glad of it.

Finally, with his newly acquired background in electromagnetism, Faraday reached the problem of how to make a wire carrying an electric current rotate around a magnet. Everything stopped for him and he could think of nothing else. Working, walking, eating, sleeping—the same experiment which had stopped Wollaston now kept worrying Faraday.

Every now and then a possible way of showing the rotation of the wire would flit through his mind. Down to the laboratory he would rush to try it. One attempt after another failed. Undaunted, Faraday would switch to a different arrangement of his materials—to a new approach. He was convinced that he could achieve his experimental proof if he persisted, and he had no intention of giving up the pursuit.

One day in September, a few months after he had thrown himself into the problem of proving the converse of Oerstad's discovery, Faraday hit on an ingenious variation of what he had tried once before.

He fixed a long cylindrical magnet in the center of a small cup of mercury, the bottom of which was in contact with a wire leading to a battery of voltaic cells. The mercury was a good conductor of electricity. The magnet extended a few inches above the level of the mercury in the cup.

Another wire, dipping into the mercury from above and leading to the other terminal of his battery, was necessary for a complete path or circuit. But how could this upper wire be expected to circle the long magnet in the center of the mercury cup—without interrupting the flow of electricity in the entire circuit?

It was this experimental difficulty that Faraday succeeded in overcoming by a master stroke! He cut off a few inches of the upper wire and immediately reattached it at the same point by means of a homemade hinge or loop. He then allowed the free end of the hinged piece of wire to rest lightly and slantingly on the surface of the mercury in the cup.

This should do it, if anything can, Faraday said to himself. He now had a conducting wire that was movable; it could rotate around the center magnet and still remain in contact with the main wire to which it was hinged. At last he had a wire capable of rotation while carrying an electric current.

Everything was ready. Faraday connected the cup of mercury to one battery terminal, and the hinged wire to the other battery terminal. He threw the switch. The pivoted, or hinged, wire, whose end rested lightly on the mercury, began to skim round and round the long magnet fixed in the center of the cup of mercury!

Faraday was overjoyed and danced around his apparatus like an excited boy. “There it goes! There it goes!” he cried.

Why not hinge the magnet and see if it will rotate around a wire fixed in the middle of the mercury? He tried it. The pivoted magnet began moving around his conducting wire— and in the opposite direction!

“Come, I have something interesting to show you,” he said to Phillips when the latter called on him the next morning.

Faraday repeated his experiment, making the hinged wire rotate smoothly around the magnet. Phillips stood by, open-mouthed with admiration.

“You’ve done it! You've done it!” he shouted, pounding Faraday on the shoulder. “I knew you would! The most important accomplishment of your career—so far. I'm proud of you, Michael!”

“What’ll I do—publish an account of my experiment?” asked Faraday, looking troubled,

Phillips stared at him. “You’re certainly not going to hide it from the world—if I have anything to say about it!”

“How about Wollaston?” said Faraday anxiously. “I really should acquaint him with my results, and ask his permission to publish them.”

“Yes, do so,” agreed Phillips, “just as a matter of professional courtesy. I'm sure there will be no difficulties. He's probably forgotten all about his wager with Davy by this time.”

“But suppose he's still working on this problem? He might want more time—and expect me to wait with my results.” “Wollaston can't do that!” cried Phillips heatedly. “Your discovery follows logically from that of Oerstad. He can't expect you to sit and wait for his proof—when there are dozens of scientists, all over the world, feverishly at work trying to prove what you have already proved! You must see Wollaston at once!” As luck would have it, Faraday, when he hurried to Wollaston's home that same evening, found that he was out of town!

“What do we do now? Shall I wait for him to return to London?” asked Faraday.

“Nonsense! Go ahead and publish!” said Phillips firmly. “If you wait, someone may get there ahead of you. Why risk it? You did a magnificent job and deserve the credit. English science wants the glory of your proof that a conductor carrying an electric current will rotate around a magnetic pole.”

Faraday hesitated for a few days and then decided to follow Phillips' advice. He still wondered what Wollaston's reaction would be.

Wollaston was one of the most respected scientists in England. Not only had he made important contributions in the fields of optics, mineralogy, and physiology, but he had also been the first in 1802, to observe the dark lines in the solar spectrum. In addition Wollaston had to his credit the discovery of two elements—palladium and rhodium.

When Faraday published the detailed account of his experiment, his accomplishment was acclaimed by all the physicists of Europe. Here, at last, was the proof for which the science of electricity had been waiting. Actually Faraday had discovered, or made, the first electric motor! He had changed electricity into motion, electrical energy into mechanical energy.

Thus in one stroke the humble chemical assistant at the Royal Institution raised himself to a plane where his honored colleagues were Oerstad, Ampere, Arago, and other leading physicists of his day!

In October he finally got to see Wollaston, to whom he explained the circumstances leading to the publication of what was now a world-famous experiment.

Dr. Wollaston, an austere man of about fifty, listened coldly to Faraday s explanation and apology. Why was Mr. Faraday going to all this trouble? As far as he, Wollaston, was concerned, the matter was closed and no apology was necessary. Had anyone accused Faraday of unprofessional conduct. He hadn’t, at any rate.

Although Wollaston's attitude was definitely icy, Faraday felt better now that he had gotten the apology off his chest. Everything seemed in order now. There had been no expressed resentment on the part of the older man.

But the chemical assistant neglected to consider the friends of Wollaston. He was unaware of the rumors—which were to be revived a few years later, at a time when Faraday was about to move up another rung on the scientific ladder.

TWELVE

Sarah Barnard, A Discovery

The Sandemanian meetinghouse which Michael Faraday attended every Sunday morning, from his earliest days, was situated in Paul's Alley, Red Cross Street. Here at the end of a dirty, narrow court, and surrounded by squalid, rundown, crowded tenements, was the church to which his mind had so often turned during the loneliness of his year and a half abroad.

The fact that their beloved place of worship was in the midst of one of London's worst slums mattered little to the faithful. Inside, everything was spotless—floors, walls, pews, dining room, and kitchen. The devout worshipers, most of whom were extremely poor, did not spare themselves in making their meetinghouse a fit place in which to pray to God.

Originally members of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland, the Sandemanians had separated from the parent church under the leadership of John Glas in 1730. The London branch of this sect was organized in 1760. Faraday's father and grandfather had both been members of the Sandemanian Church in London.

In a most fundamental sense the Sandemanians believed that the Bible—and the Bible alone, with nothing added and nothing taken away—was the sole and sufficient guide for the soul. John Glas had held that religion was a matter which concerned only the individual, and that Christianity was perverted the moment it became the“established” religion of any nation. To his mind, the legal attachment of the pomp and glory of states and political figures to religion, in any manner whatsoever, was wrong because it constituted interference in the sacred relationship between the individual and God.

The Sandemanians rejected all priests and paid ministers, and insisted that such duties be performed by the Elders of the Church. Services on Sunday began at eleven o'clock and ended about one. In many ways their manner of worship resembled that of the Congregationalists: there was extemporaneous prayer, the reading of the Scriptures, and a sermon—usually by the presiding elder.

Following the morning services, the “brothers and sisters,” as the Sandemanians called themselves, had their midday meal in common in the room attached to the chapel. At the conclusion of the afternoon service, usually at five o'clock, a collection was made for charity and church expenses, after which the entire congregation filed into the dining room to partake of the Lord's Supper. It was a poor man's church, and consciously so, for the Sandemanians regarded the saving of money as sinful.

One Sunday morning in the spring of 1820 Michael Faraday and his sister, Margaret, were walking briskly through the deserted London streets to their little meetinghouse. Margaret, eighteen by this time, had grown tall and slim, and was possessed of a natural gaiety that was her brother's joy.

As they threaded their way through narrow, dirty alleys, Margaret Faraday kept up a laughing stream of conversation. She adored her gifted brother who worked at the Royal Institution, and of whom people were beginning to speak with the greatest respect as one who would be “at the top of the heap” in a few years.

“Why don't you get married, Michael?” she said suddenly, with a swift glance at her sober-faced brother.

“Because nobody will have me,” he answered promptly.

“Nobody will have you? That's silly! I know plenty of girls who would be thrilled even to have you look at them.”

Faraday chuckled. “That may be. But marriage is a serious business—at least it is for me. Much more than the romantic matter it probably is to you.”

“So you think I'm too romantic!” cried Margaret, pretending to be hurt.

Faraday smiled and clutched her arm tightly. “Not at all! You re just right—just what a young lady should be. I wouldn't have you otherwise for the world!” He looked at his sister affectionately and added, “You're the light and joy of the Faraday family, Margaret; so stay the way you are.”

“Mother thinks you ought to be thinking seriously of marriage,” Margaret announced.

“I think I ought to be thinking of marriage, myself,” confessed her brother. “I'm nearing twenty-nine and things look different to me now. A few years ago I felt that matrimony was a snare and a delusion. However, my ideas have changed.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” said Margaret approvingly. “Then I'll tell Mother that you're going to be married.”

Faraday stopped dead in his tracks. “Now what in the world made you draw that conclusion?” he asked.

“You just admitted that you had no intention of remaining a bachelor. Therefore you are planning to get married. And that's exactly what I expect to tell Mother.” Margaret laughed delightedly at her brother's startled expression.

“You're not going to tell her anything of the kind,” said Michael firmly.

After a few seconds of silent walking, Margaret threw a searching glance at her brother and took a deep breath.

“You think a lot of Sarah Barnard, don't you?”

Her brother almost jumped at the last remark. “What makes you say that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing—except the way your eyes keep stealing to the Barnard pew during the services. I don't know—maybe you're interested in something else that happens to lie in that same direction.” Margaret's eyes were dancing with mischief as she studied her brother's reaction.

Michael thought hard for a while. “I may as well admit it. I do like Sarah. I think she’s a lovely person. But, unfortunately, I don’t think she cares for me.”

Margaret shook her head with a knowing smile. “I don’t agree, Michael. I don’t agree with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think Sarah likes you.”

“What makes you say that? How do you know?”

Margaret pretended to look wise. “There are certain things a woman senses,” she remarked, “and don’t ask me to explain how. I can tell from the way Sarah talks to you—and looks at you.”

“I wish I could be as certain as you,” said her brother. “Somehow, when I am near her I feel she is on her guard. It is as if she doesn’t want to let herself like me.”

“That’s a good sign,” observed Margaret.

They were at the door of the church now. “Don’t say anything at home about Sarah,” cautioned her brother. “You’ve raised my hopes—probably uselessly—and I don’t want you to raise Mother’s.”

Margaret nodded understandingly as they filed in behind other worshipers and made their way to the family pew on the main floor. The extemporaneous prayer period was about to begin.

There was a time when every one of the old-fashioned high pews, of both main floor and gallery, was filled to capacity each Sunday. But gradually the membership had declined, through death or removal from London, so that now the gallery was empty and the lower floor only half filled. Since the Sandemanians made no effort to recruit new members, the only possibility for growth was in the immigration of the faithful from Scotland.

As Michael Faraday sat beside his sister, head bowed, listening to the prayer of a fellow worshiper, his eyes stole in the direction of the Barnard pew up front.

There they all were: Sarah and her younger sister, Jane . . . Edward Barnard, Faraday’s close friend . . . George Barnard, the artist of the family . . . and, at the extreme right, the dignified, kindly, gray-haired Mr. Barnard.

What a happy family! thought Faraday. Three daughters— all pretty—and two sons. The oldest girl had married sometime ago. Mr. Barnard, one of the few well-to-do members of the congregation, was a manufacturing silversmith whose place of business was in Paternoster Row.

Why had he been so blind to Sarah’s worth all these years, Michael wondered. For a long time he had regarded her only as a little girl—as one of the sisters of his friend Edward Barnard. Suddenly Sarah grew up and he found it hard to believe that the charming, brown-haired young lady he so admired was the skinny girl in pigtails of a few years ago!

Faraday had never thought seriously of marriage before Sarah Barnard's quiet charm conquered him. He had even scoffed at matrimony in his diary, and had once, very imprudently, permitted Edward Barnard to read a page of cynical remarks on that subject. Edward had thought it all very amusing. Probably by this time, thought Faraday grimly, the entire Barnard family knew about, and had laughed at, those smart-alecky comments in his diary. A foolish mistake! But that was several years ago. And who could have guessed then that Sarah Barnard would someday be so important to him? . . .

One o’clock . . . and the morning service was almost over. . . . The presiding elder closed his Bible—the signal for the congregation to rise and make its way to the large dining room.

It was the custom for members to mix with one another at this time. Families would split up during the eating period so that each person should get to know as many as possible of his brothers and sisters of the congregation. Faraday had looked forward to sitting next to Sarah, but was disappointed to find that, on this particular Sunday, it was her duty to wait on the table.

“Hello, Michael!” someone whispered in his ear. It was Edward Barnard.

Faraday looked up and smiled. “Hello, Edward! You didn’t happen to see Margaret, did you? She was alongside of me a few minutes ago—but now she’s disappeared.”

“She’s in the kitchen helping Sarah,”

“Good.”

“How about dropping in at our house tonight, Michael? We haven’t seen much of you lately. Guess you’ve been too busy.”

“I have been busy—and I’ve missed my visits to your cheerful home. Thank you. I’ll be over tonight.”

With that, the two friends separated. Faraday found himself seated at the long wooden table between two middle-aged women. After all heads had been bowed for the saying of grace, the congregation began eating the simple food which had been prepared the night before. Soon the large room was filled with the murmur of quiet table talk.

Sarah and Margaret bustled about close to where Faraday was sitting, but neither spoke to him as they served the food or collected empty platters. The breaking of bread with one’s brothers and sisters was regarded as a serious matter; hence frivolous conversation was frowned upon. Faraday listened sympathetically to the two ladies on either side of him, made a few sincere comments, and learned much about their problems before he had finished eating.

The meal was followed by a half-hour rest period, during which a group of sisters proceeded to clean up. Meanwhile friends gathered in different parts of the room and engaged in quiet conversation.

Faraday spied Sarah Barnard standing alone, for a moment, in the far comer of the dining room.

“How are you, Michael?” she said as he hurried toward her. “Nice to see you. You’ve become a stranger to our house lately.”

“It’s good to hear that someone has noticed my absence. I hope you’ll be home tonight, Sarah. Edward invited me over.” A wistful, tender note had crept into his voice.

Sarah nodded. “I’ll be home, Michael.”

Just then the bell, marking the beginning of the afternoon service, sounded and the worshipers slowly filed back to the chapel.

During the hymn period Faraday managed to keep his mind on the singing, which he loved. But his thoughts, during the sermon which followed, kept drifting to the girl with the calm, wide-set brown eyes and smooth broad forehead. How serene, how kind, how beautiful was Sarah!

His mind went back to the Continental tour, from which he had acquired a real fear of marriage. From what he had observed abroad, matrimony meant that a man had to give up all that interested him in order to devote himself to gathering money and prestige merely to satisfy the vanity of a wife. He thought of the fencing and gossiping, among the friends of Lady Davy, concerning the relative social importance of various husbands. Faraday, deeply affected by what he had seen, made up his mind to be wary of matrimony.

Actually he was afraid of being swallowed up by an over-ambitious wife. Faraday had dedicated himself to a life in the laboratory, fully realizing that the rewards would be meager. Should he marry the wrong woman, he could only expect a lifetime of unhappiness!

But Sarah was different. She was one of his own kind. She, too, thought it wrong for one to devote his whole life to the collection of property. True to the religious beliefs which both had in common, Sarah could never be a demanding wife. To give to the needy was more blessed than to accumulate for one’s self or family. A kindred soul in every way! A beautiful girl with a beautiful spirit!

A sudden fear struck him. What if Sarah wouldn’t have him? What would he do then? Would he ever find another Sarah?

About five o’clock, after the congregation had partaken of the Lord’s Supper, the Sunday services were over. Since the use of any vehicle on the Sabbath was forbidden to the Sandemanians, the groups of worshipers started for home on foot, moving slowly as if not to disturb the inward calm which the day at church had given them. After a week in the harsh, workaday world the brothers and sisters would get together again—a prospect to which many were already looking forward.

Michael Faraday and his sister hastened to join the Barnard family gathered on the street outside the chapel. As Margaret began talking with Jane Barnard, he slipped alongside of Sarah. This short walk with her meant a great deal to him; he had looked forward to it all week. He took Sarah's arm and held on to it firmly.

“You've been working very hard lately,” said Sarah as she scanned his face.

“Yes—and wasting my time, I sometimes think.”

“I thought you loved laboratory work!” exclaimed Sarah in surprise.

“Yes, I do,” murmured Faraday with a wry smile. “But this industrial research is different. The work I agreed to do on steel alloys seems to be tying up my mind. It keeps me from following ideas as they come to me.”

“I see. You find it too confining,” she said understandingly.

“Exactly! But most of all, Sarah,” he added with a shy glance at his companion, “I'd rather be with you.”

Sarah Barnard flashed a pleased smile at him. “Thank you. You mean that I'm one of those ideas that come to you? What a pity!” Her manner was light, gay.

Michael misinterpreted her remark. “You don't really mean that I'm wasting my time—and yours?” he said in a voice full of deep concern.

“Oh no, Michael,” she protested. “Don't be putting words into my mouth. What I meant was that you mustn't let thinking about me interfere with your work.”

“How can I help it? I wait all week for the few minutes we spend together on Sunday. You mean so much to me, Sarah— more than my simple words can express.” He paused and looked at her earnestly, hoping she would understand.

Sarah flushed and quickly turned the conversation into different—and safer—channels. She asked about Mrs. Faraday, and about Margaret's plans after she was through school.

They stopped in front of the Barnard house and waited for Margaret to come up and join her brother.

“Don't forget, Michael,” Sarah whispered mischievously.

“Forget what?”

“You promised to show me those rhymes against love which you once wrote in your diary.”

Faraday laughed and shook his head ruefully. ”That was the worst mistake of my life—or next to the worst. The other was showing the diary to your brother. The rhymes are unbelievably childish. I was young and foolish then, Sarah.”

Sarah twinkled and waved good-by to the Faradays as she ran up the steps of her house.

“Bring Margaret with you tonight, Michael,” called Edward Barnard. ”We'd love to have her.”

“Thank you. Ill ask her.”

“I'm not coming,” said Margaret the moment they turned the corner.

“Why not?”

“Mother's been alone all day. Besides, it's more important for you to visit the Barnards alone.”

“Why?”

“Because Sarah wants to know you better.”

“How do you know?” He turned to her in amazement.

“I just know,” insisted Margaret.” “And she likes you better than you think.”

Her brother looked unconvinced. “But she doesn't show it.”

Margaret let out a peal of laughter. “Just don’t give up, Michael, and she will!”

THIRTEEN

Flight to Ramsgate

The summer of 1820 was a difficult one for Michael Faraday. It had its periods of depressions and fears, of exultation and happiness. Where heretofore he had been able to concentrate on his work at the Institution without ever thinking of his personal life, now things were changed; thoughts of his own future were making him restless, uneasy. He had the feeling that the seemingly sound foundation upon which he had rested his scientific life was in danger of crumbling!

There was a part of the external world he had failed to consider in his early planning—Sarah Barnard, to be exact. He was in love with her, but she seemed hesitant to return his love. Why? Was it because of something lacking in his character? Why was she afraid to declare herself as he had done?

All week long, as he worked in the laboratory, he would look forward impatiently to the week end, when they would be together. On those precious days he and Sarah would walk through the parks of London hand in hand, speaking little but feeling a strange happiness at being near each other. And at the concerts to which he often took her they would experience the delightful feeling that the music was expressing what each felt but could not put into words.

There were times when Michael Faraday would suddenly turn melancholy even while in Sarah's company. Struck numb by the sudden fear that Sarah Barnard might refuse to marry him, Faraday's tongue and spirit instantly became leaden. Sarah would look at him curiously during these quick changes from gaiety to depression, and wonder at the cause. Although he knew what she was thinking, and realized how seriously he was injuring himself in her eyes, Faraday was unable to pull himself out of his despondency.

“You’re a strange man, Michael,” she once said, “and sometimes I find it hard to understand you.” This was the week after he had acted particularly downhearted.

“Oh, don’t mind me when I’m like that,” said Faraday cheerfully. “I always spring back to my good-humored self. Just be patient with me, Sarah.” He felt so good at the moment that he wondered how he could ever have been otherwise—while with Sarah!

“But other men aren’t like you—or are they?” she asked, thinking of her brother George, the artist. Yes, George did have moods too. Perhaps all artists—and scientists—were moody by nature.

They sat down on a bench in the park and looked with fresh eyes at the great oak in the middle of the green. Its tremendous trunk seemed to throw out powerful branches with a courage and a naturalness that were beautiful against the background of blue sky. The fine old tree looked brave, defiant, and obstinately assertive of a will to grow outward as it pleased and where it pleased.

“Why are we so fearful?” murmured Faraday. “Why can’t we live and grow like that oak—without worrying about what may or may not happen?”

Sarah threw him a searching glance. “You think we are afraid?”

“I think you are afraid of the future, Sarah,” he answered after a few moments of silence. “Perhaps I should say—of my future,” he added.

“That’s not true, Michael,” she replied warmly. “I’m not afraid of your future at all. I know that it will be honest, worthwhile. You are kind and generous, and as far from self-seeking as any man could be.”

“Then why won’t you agree to marry me? Why won’t you let me ask for your father’s consent?”

Sarah thought for a while. “Why not wait until our minds are clearer?” she said gently. “We mustn't rush into things, Michael.”

A somber look flashed across Faraday's face. “It's hard for me to understand why you keep putting me off. We two are meant for each other, Sarah, and you know it. No man and woman could be more so. The very thought that you might refuse throws me into a most miserable state of mind.”

“Miserable?” Sarah's calm eyes looked troubled.

“Yes, I'm made miserable not by my doubts—which don't exist—but by yours.”

Sarah's eyes filled with tears. “Perhaps you're right, Michael. I am cruel to have to treat you like this. But. . . it's because I'm so fond of you that I hesitate. Don't think that it isn't painful to me too.”

Faraday slumped down on the bench and stared ahead gloomily. He began to talk as if in a wild effort to escape the despondency which was closing in on him. He told her how he kept thinking of her at almost every moment of his busy days. He was lonely—for the first time in his life. The old self-sufficiency he had prided himself on was gone completely. With her as a companion, they could both go through life protected against loneliness, fear, pain. Without her, there was little to look forward to. . . .

“You're so intense!” Sarah exclaimed. “It sometimes frightens me, Michael.”

“Perhaps I am intense,” Faraday agreed. “But I am sure that this fault in my character will become less serious as soon as my fears have passed—especially the fear that you may refuse to become my wife.”

Sarah got up from the park bench. “Shall we go? It's getting late.”

As he walked her home that evening, Faraday was too overwrought for small talk. Why did she keep putting him off? It couldn't be for material reasons. True, his annual salary of one hundred pounds was only about twice what a laborer received, and almost equal to the wages of a coal miner. But Sarah wasn't that sort at all. It would be insulting to her to bring up the question of his present or future financial position.

Then what was it that was holding her back from accepting him? It must be personal—something about him she distrusted. Today she had said he was too intense. What did she mean by that? He must analyze himself and get rid of that trait—as soon as he found out what she meant. . . .

When they reached the Barnard house, Faraday noted with alarm that Sarah looked unusually tired. It must be his fault. That intensity again! Now he knew what she meant. It was his persistence!

Tm not going in,” said Faraday. “I hope you won't mind. You've had enough of me today and need a rest, Sarah. I'm sorry I was so—intense.”

Sarah Barnard smiled gently. “Don't say that, Michael. I enjoyed the day and certainly haven't had enough of you. I am a little tired, though. And don't apologize for being intense, Michael. I—I rather like it.”

“You are kind to me,” said Faraday, looking relieved, “much kinder than I deserve. It's too bad that our Sundays always seem to end with that same unanswered question.”

“Good night, Michael,” smiled Sarah.

He took her hands and looked at her searchingly. “I'm a problem to you, Sarah, am I not?”

Sarah turned aside so that he could not see her tears well up.

“You're a nice problem, Michael,” she said, “a very nice problem. But let's not talk about it now. I have a headache and everything seems so confused, dear.”

“I'm sorry.” He waited for a few moments, as if reluctant to leave. Next Sunday seemed ever so far away.

“Good night, Sarah,” he said finally.

Faraday walked for hours through the deserted London streets that summer evening. He was disturbed by the thought that the day had been a failure. Something he had said, or his state of depression, must have frightened Sarah. He proceeded to review the day . . . moment by moment, and remark by remark.

By the time he got back to his attic rooms, Faraday decided that he simply had to write to Sarah at once—if for no other reason than to ease his own mind. Otherwise he could see nothing but a week of misery ahead for him.

He sat down and put on paper what was in his mind and heart:

You know me as well or better than I do myself. You know my former prejudices, and my present thoughts—you know my weaknesses, my vanity, my whole mind. ...

Again and again I attempt to say what I feel, but I cannot. Let me, however, claim not to be the selfish being that wishes to bend his affections for his own sake only. In whatever way I may best minister to your happiness either by assiduity or by absence, it shall be done. Do not injure me by withdrawing your friendship, or punish me for aiming to be more than a friend by making me less; and if you cannot grant me more, leave me what I possess but hear me.

When Sarah Barnard read this letter, she turned pale and began to tremble. The strength of Faraday’s feelings only served to make her more unsure of her own. How could she honestly accept his love when she felt herself incapable of returning it with an equal intensity? It wouldn’t be fair to Michael.

Faraday’s fierce affirmation of his feelings disorganized her completely, and she hurried to her father for counsel.

Mr. Barnard read the letter with a quizzical smile.

“What do you think of it, Father?” Sarah asked.

“All I can say is that love makes philosophers say foolish things,” he answered, wondering why the young have such poor perspective.

“But, Father—what you say doesn’t help me! What shall I do? What’ll I say to him?” Sarah’s voice was tremulous and her eyes were full of tears.

Mr. Barnard felt sorry for his daughter. “Michael is a fine young man,” he observed, “and I don’t think you’ll find one with as excellent a character in all London.”

I'm not sure . . . not sure. I like Michael and admire him, but—”

“Why don't you take a little vacation, Sarah?” suggested her father. “It would help if you went off to some quiet place where you could think things over. Might settle your mind.”

Sarah thought for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. But where shall I go? Alone?”

“How about Ramsgate? It isn’t too far and the seashore is an excellent place to clear one’s mind. It will give you an opportunity to analyze your feelings.”

The next day Sarah Barnard and her married sister, Mrs. Reid, boarded the coach for Ramsgate, a seaside resort in the Chalk country, about fifty miles from London.

Faraday learned of Sarah’s departure from London a few days later when her brother Edward dropped in at the laboratory. Sarah’s suitor was startled at this development and wondered what it signified.

The more he thought about it, the more upset Michael became. Finally, acting on an impulse, he packed his bag and decided to follow her to the seaside resort—to which Sarah had escaped in order to be alone!

Though he realized that it was a risky step, Faraday had made up his mind to take his chances on receiving a cool reception. How could he sit idly by, fifty miles from Sarah, while his fate was being decided by her? He wanted Sarah Barnard as his wife and none other!

When Faraday reached Ramsgate that evening, he quickly found himself a room in one of its many bustling inns. The place was full of pleasure seekers from London to whom the shores of Kent offered sandy beaches, plenty of sunshine, and an abundance of delicious sea food.

It was the last week in July and Ramsgate was crowded. As Faraday scoured the town, looking for Sarah and her sister, his spirits began to droop. The tumult of vacationers cheerfully and loudly determined to have a gay time only served to depress him still more. He had too serious a problem on his mind to fall in with the carefree mood of the summer throngs. If anything, Faraday felt more alone here than in his laboratory.

At last he caught sight of Sarah sitting alone on the porch of one of the smaller inns. His heart almost stopped heating. What would he say to her? She was certain to ask what had brought him to Ramsgate. . . .

Sarah saw him approaching, understood quickly what he was going through, and mercifully decided to spare him any questions.

“Good evening, Sarah,” Faraday began as he studied her face for a clue to what his reception was going to be.

“Im glad you re here, Michael. Come, pull up a chair and enjoy the evening breezes with me.”

“It was unbearably hot in London and I decided that a few days at Ramsgate would do me good,” he volunteered as he sat down beside her.

“A very good idea! It's beautiful here. The nights are wonderfully cool—perfect for sleeping.”

They were silent for a few minutes. A group of merrymakers went by, singing loudly.

“A nice quiet place!” exclaimed Faraday. He was in a perverse mood. The joyous vacation spirit around him only underlined his own lack of it.

“Everyone seems anxious to escape from the noise of London to the noise of Ramsgate,” Faraday continued testily. “The innkeepers don't think of the people here as individuals, but rather as bipeds with pockets full of coins.”

“Oh, they're only trying to have a good time. It's perfectly natural,” said Sarah, throwing him a puzzled glance.

Faraday caught himself in time. He was certainly going to get nowhere with bitter comments, he said to himself. Off on the wrong foot again!

Very quickly he turned the conversation to her brother George and his paintings. How marvelously the latter's skill had developed! People at last were beginning to appreciate George Barnard's water colors. . . . Faraday then spoke of his own brother and the scientific problems relating to gas fitting which he had helped Robert solve.

Things were going more smoothly now. Faraday relaxed and thanked his stars for having the good sense to stop his critical streak in time. When he suggested that they explore the neighboring countryside together the next day, Sarah smiled and readily agreed.

The next afternoon they roamed for hours through the fiat farm country of Kent. Each avoided mention of the special problem which was weighing so heavily on their minds.

Faraday again felt himself sinking into a despondent mood. The conscious avoidance of the prime question seemed to foreshadow the failure of his mission. And when he got back to his room he was completely disspirited—and annoyed at himself for being so. What a fool he was ever to have come to Ramsgate!

“Let’s go to Dover,” he suggested that evening. “You must see Dover, Sarah, before returning to London.”

“Why Dover?” asked Sarah. “Is it any different from Ramsgate?”

“Dover is different! It's not like Ramsgate at all. Why, one can see the white cliffs of the French coast from Dover!” Faraday’s face was all eagerness.

Sarah smiled at his enthusiasm and quickly consented. Dover was only an hour's run from Ramsgate.

It was an important outing for Faraday. He had a feeling that if this day proved a failure . . . then it was all over for him. Instinctively he knew that one entirely happy day with Sarah would change everything. It would show that he wasn’t a naturally perverse, moody person, and that only the difficult situation in which he found himself could be blamed for his melancholy.

“I do hope that you’ll have a wonderful day together,” remarked Mrs. Reid, Sarah’s sister. “The poor man is under such strain—fearing that you disapprove of him.”

Sarah laughed. “He doesn’t realize it—but his moods don’t frighten me any more. After they're gone, it's like the sun breaking through the clouds.”

“Then you don't mind them at all?”

“Not a bit,” answered Sarah cheerfully. “He's that way because he has been alone too long. I think he's wonderful!”

“You mean you've decided? I'm so glad,” said her sister approvingly.

Just then Faraday appeared and Sarah hurried to join him. They enjoyed the leisurely trip in the half-filled coach, and chatted gaily all the way. A vacationer's life wasn't so bad, Faraday decided as he felt his tension disappear.

They ascended the shaft at Dover and got a breath-taking view of the ocean, whose sparkling blue was being ruffled by a fresh, playful breeze. The water seemed alive, restless, almost joyful as the wind swept over it, making peeks and hollows in its tight surface.

Faraday loved the ocean and responded to it as did Sarah. Soon they found themselves smiling at the wind and sun which were making their faces tingle. The cliffs around them rose to immense heights, with sides broken up into an endless variety of interesting forms.

There was the arch cliff where Shakespeare was said to have once contemplated the grandeur of nature. And directly opposite they could make out the tall cliffs of the French coast.

It was a perfect day for Faraday . . . turning out far better than he had dared hope the night before. They had lunch in the dazzling sunshine, with the ocean at their feet. They talked and talked. Faraday opened his heart and revealed to Sarah how much of it she occupied. He declared his love again and asked her to marry him.

They saw each other against a background of sky and sun and water. The magnificence of the scenery seemed to penetrate their consciousness as they sat side by side, making their spirits as windswept and as bright as the ocean.

The day cast a spell over them. Faraday always looked back to those hours at Dover as the happiest of his life. Once or twice he had to pull himself up short when he became pensive at the thought that he would probably never experience another day like this one.

By the time the sun went down, Sarah had consented to marry him. Faraday had gambled and won!

A few days later he hurried back to London to see Mr. Barnard. There were no complications, since the silversmith thought highly of Faraday and felt that his daughter had chosen wisely.

The next few months were filled, for Faraday, with many small problems—the wedding, living quarters for the newlyweds, finances, and what not. He spoke to Sir Humphry. Could he and his wife live in the attic apartment he now occupied at the Royal Institution?

Davy asked Faraday to be patient, and promised to take the matter up with the board of managers. In May, Sir Humphry succeeded in obtaining official permission for Faraday and his wife to live in the Royal Institution. At the same time Faraday was promoted to the position of superintendent of the house and laboratory. But his salary remained the same—one hundred pounds per year!

Thus the last obstacle was removed and the wedding took place on June 12, in a simple ceremony.

Many years later there was found in a box full of Faraday's diplomas and awards the following note: “Amongst the records and events, I here insert the date of one which, as a source of happiness, far exceeds the rest. We were married on June 12, 1821. M. Faraday.”

FOURTEEN

The Oily Liquid

After his marriage Michael Faraday threw himself into chemical research with a zeal greater than ever. Having acquired the ideal partner, he asked nothing more of life than the opportunity to work with mind and hands in the laboratory of the Royal Institution.

He had chosen his wife wisely. She was the perfect helpmate, and his devotion to her became a byword among those who knew the happy couple. Mrs. Faraday proved the most undemanding of women, and her one thought always was the welfare of her husband. She changed the two little attic rooms into a real home which radiated love, peace, and friendliness.

In 1823 Faraday got his first taste of scientific recognition. He was elected a corresponding member of the Academie des Sciences of Paris, as well as an honorary member of the Cambridge Philosophical Society. Mrs. Faraday glowed with pleasure at the news. At last her husband's scientific abilities were beginning to be appreciated!

“There's something Im working on now that may turn out important,” Faraday remarked after dismissing the honors as not too significant.

“What is it?”

“Compounds of chlorine and carbon. I’ve succeeded in making several new ones. The field has hardly been touched.”

“But you once said that chlorine is Davy's pet element, Michael. I thought he had found out all there is to know about chlorine.”

“No,” laughed Faraday, “not quite everything. I, too, find that greenish-yellow gas fascinating. There’s more than enough work relating to chlorine to keep both Davy and me busy for a long time.”

A few days later—it was early in March, 1823—Davy dropped in at the laboratory and asked Faraday what he had been engaged in during the past few weeks.

I've been working on the compound you investigated in 1810—the one you proved was not solid chlorine, Sir Humphry.”

Davy thought back for a moment. ”You mean that hydrate of chlorine?”

Faraday nodded. Davy had done a good job on it. The white substance had for a long time been regarded as a solid form of the element chlorine. Sir Humphry had shown conclusively that it was a compound of chlorine and water—a hydrate of chlorine.

”You say you’ve completed your study of this hydrate?” asked Davy.

”Yes, sir. And I’ve written up my results in a paper which I plan to submit to the Quarterly Journal of Science.

Davy looked somewhat puzzled. ”Why are you working with this hydrate, may I ask?”

Faraday smiled. ”Because I don’t believe that anyone has ever taken the trouble to analyze it. Chemists sort of lost interest in the hydrate after you proved that it wasn’t solid chlorine. I wanted to find out exactly how much chlorine and how much water it contains. Also I’m going to try to decompose it.”

”Been at it for a long time, Mr. Faraday?”

”I’ve been turning to it in my spare time—as a sort of treat after my other duties are over. Would you like to see the paper, Sir Humphry?”

”I certainly would,” said Davy. ”Anything on chlorine always interests me.”

”I know that,” remarked Faraday eagerly. ”Without your work, Sir Humphry, our knowledge of chlorine would be very vague. I still thrill to your beautiful proof that chlorine is an element and not a loose compound of hydrochloric acid and oxygen.”

Davy looked pleased. His assistant was offering him sincere admiration, and Sir Humphry was warmed by it. In a second the haughtiness, petulance, jealousy—traits which so often cast a shadow over Davy's relations with people—disappeared. Now he was his true self again: generous, kindly, helpful.

He read Faraday's manuscript with keen interest. After changing a few words, as was his custom, for the sake of clarity or grammar, he handed the sheets back to the young chemist.

“A thorough job! There should be more interest in this hydrate. What do you plan to do next?” Davy was all enthusiasm.

“I’m not sure,” said Faraday. “Since cold weather is still with us, I thought I'd find out how the compound behaves at low temperatures.”

Davy got up to go. “An excellent idea. Why not also try heating the hydrate under pressure in a sealed tube? Might prove interesting to see what happens. Nothing lost by trying.”

Faraday thought for a moment. “Perhaps I’ll try that too— while I'm at it.” It was evident that he thought Davy's suggestion a good one.

“I'd be interested in your results,” remarked Sir Humphry on his way out. “We're leaving town for a few weeks, but I'll stop by as soon as I get back.”

Davy always got a lift at being reminded of his triumph with chlorine and hydrochloric acid. Among students of chemistry these researches were regarded as perhaps the most brilliant of Davy's accomplishments.

It had all started back in 1774 when Scheele, a Swedish chemist who had begun his scientific life as an apprentice to an apothecary, first obtained this greenish gas with the suffocating odor. On adding a little manganese dioxide to a flask containing salt and sulphuric acid, and heating the mixture, a peculiar green-yellow gas was given off.

Exactly what this gas was remained a question which for a long time baffled chemists. Since it could also be obtained from muriatic or marine acid, it was given the name marine acid gas. Soon Berthollet, a French chemist, investigated this gas and concluded that it was a loose compound of muriatic acid and oxygen. For hadn't Lavoisier established the basic principle that all acids contained oxygen? So for many years Scheele’s gas with the suffocating odor went by the name oxymuriatic acid gas.

However, despite all theory, no one was able to detect any oxygen in this gas; the thorough investigation by Gay-Lussac and Thenard, 1809 to 1811, also failed to find it. Could this oxymuriatic acid gas therefore be an element? No, the eminent French chemists were still unconvinced because many facts about the gas could be better explained if it were regarded as a compound.

At this point Davy plunged into the problem and by means of a series of brilliant experiments succeeded in proving that Scheele's suffocating gas contained no oxygen whatsoever—despite the insistence of the French chemists. He showed that muriatic acid—now called hydrochloric acid—consisted of hydrogen in combination with a gas which, because of its greenish color, he decided to call chlorine. In other words, the mysterious oxymuriatic acid gas was actually the element chlorine!

For a while there was some opposition to Davy’s views. The French school of chemists, founded by Lavoisier, was reluctant to admit that there could be an acid without oxygen. Eventually Davy’s results and reasoning were accepted, and chlorine was added to the growing list of elements.

Back in the laboratory Faraday’s mind was already nibbling away on his new project. He would start by heating the hydrate of chlorine, and check its melting and freezing points. The cold air out of doors would provide an easy method of cooling.

Faraday prepared a few glass tubes, drawing out the open ends in a flame so that they could be sealed quickly. He added a little of the white hydrate to one tube, sealed it in the flame, and then applied heat. Now nothing could escape—that is, if it should decompose into gases while being heated.

Although Faraday tried this experiment with straight tubes several times, he could detect no visible change in the white solid. It melted quickly, almost at blood heat, and solidified hack to its original form the moment it cooled.

He kept on trying variations of the experiment for a few days—with no results. Then he hit on the idea of bending the tube at a sharp angle. Now if a gas were given off by the hydrate, it would fill the bulb at the other end and stay there—he hoped. Again he placed some solid hydrate in his tube, sealed it carefully, and heated the contents.

On that particular day Dr. Paris, the friend and biographer of Davy, happened to visit the laboratory.

“What are you doing with all those tubes?” Dr. Paris asked, pointing to the large heap of used and unused glassware on the table.

Faraday, at the moment, was engaged in heating still another sample in a bent tube. Again a greenish-yellow vapor had appeared in it. As he kept heating, he noticed that an oily liquid was forming at the bottom of the bent tube—on the cool side.

He removed the tube from the flame and studied it for a few seconds before setting it down to cool.

“What am I doing?” Faraday repeated absently. “Just heating the hydrate of chlorine under pressure—just heating it.”

“What for?” Dr. Paris insisted.

Faraday smiled as he reached for another tube with which to repeat the experiment.

“I don't know what for—yet. This is something I’ve never done before. That’s why I’m doing it.”

Dr. Paris drew a deep breath and shook his head disapprovingly. This new crop of scientists! Careless, untidy—and didn’t even know what they were about! In his day ambitious young men started out by being neat, careful, wide-awake. . . .

“You should work with clean apparatus,” he said reproachfully, pointing at the soiled-looking tubes. “Look at them! Is there one that isn’t dirty or greasy inside? I’m surprised at you, Mr. Faraday.”

The young chemist looked up from his work and smiled. This reproof from a lifelong admirer of Davy was really funny. Was there ever a more careless, more untidy experimenter than Davy? Dr. Paris must be joking.

“You're perfectly right, Dr. Paris,” grinned Faraday. “Those tubes are dirty—hut it isn't my fault. When I started, they were perfectly clean.”

“Pooh!” laughed his critic. “If you didn't dirty them, then who did?”

“Nature!” exclaimed Faraday without bothering to explain that he was happy over the oily appearance of the tubes. At least it showed that something new had emerged from the hydrate.

Dr. Paris threw up his hands in good-natured resignation and walked out of the laboratory.

Faraday finished heating his last tube, noting with intense interest the separation of two liquids in it: one he suspected to be water; the other puzzled him by its strange, oily appearance.

He examined one of the tubes which had been cooling next to the window for an hour or so. still the same two different liquids in it. He applied a file to the sharp point left where he had sealed the tube, and give it a couple of strokes. It exploded!

Faraday was startled. He looked down at the part of the tube still in his hand. Its oily contents had disappeared! He felt a tingle run down his spine. He must have liquefied chlorine! What else could that oily liquid have been but liquid chlorine!

The explanation rushed to his mind at once. As long as the chlorine was under pressure—its own pressure, in the sealed tube—it remained a liquid. The moment it was exposed to the air, the chlorine reexpanded with violence and turned into a gas again!

Faraday tried filing off the points of several other tubes and got exactly the same explosive result. He thought of Dr. Paris and his remarks about working with greasy glassware. He must write to him immediately.

The next day Davy's biographer received the following note from the “careless” chemist:

Dear Sir,—

The oil you noticed yesterday turned out to be liquid chlorine.

Yours faithfully,

M. Faraday.

When Davy got back to London a few weeks later, he hurried to the laboratory. Friends had informed him that Faraday had succeeded in liquefying chlorine—a feat which the scientists in London were applauding.

He listened in stony silence as Faraday gave him the details of the experiment. Why had he been so foolish, Davy asked himself, as to let such a plum fall to an assistant? Davy felt that the credit for the liquefaction was rightfully his own because of his suggestion to Faraday on how to proceed. At the same time he was bitterly aware that, in the controversy which was sure to ensue, most scientists would be on the side of Faraday. People were always eager to tear down great reputations.

“Have you begun writing your paper?” he asked.

“I have it all done, Sir Humphry,” said Faraday, handing him the manuscript. “I hope you will be kind enough to go over it.

It was Faraday’s custom, then and for some years afterward, to submit to Davy all papers intended for publication in the Philosophical Transactions.

I'll go over it in a few days,” said Davy coldly. He stared at Faraday for a moment. “How do you know the liquid in the tube was pure chlorine—and not a mixture of chlorine and water under pressure? Can dry chlorine be changed into a liquid?”

His assistant thought quickly. He knew what was going on in Davy's mind, and he tried to answer without giving offense.

“That possibility occurred to me, Sir Humphry, so I proceeded to liquefy the same gas in another way. I dried some chlorine gas and passed it into a long tube. On cooling the tube, I again obtained liquid chlorine. Fm beginning to think that all gases are the vapors of some liquid.”

There was a gleam in Davy's eyes. He had just gotten the research scent again; for the moment all personal matters were blotted out.

”It's an idea, Mr. Faraday, it's an idea! M be down first thing tomorrow, and well get busy applying the same method to other gases. Well try liquefying them by their own pressure.”

”Yes, sir,” exclaimed Faraday enthusiastically. ”I’m sure well get some interesting results.” He was pleased that Davy was himself again, and over the first shock of hearing of his assistants success.

The next few weeks were full of feverish work on the liquefaction of gases. Davy applied the sealed-tube method and succeeded in producing liquid hydrogen chloride. Faraday went on to tackle several other gases in the same way. He was able to liquefy carbon dioxide, sulphur dioxide, and a number of other gases not previously known to exist in the liquid state.

Faraday soon found that some of the gases he experimented with required much more internal pressure than had chlorine. The result was that the sealed tubes sometimes burst as the gas pressure inside them built up during the heating. In the course of these experiments he suffered two injuries to his eyes when the tubes exploded, spattering glass and hot liquid. Fortunately there were no serious after effects.

Turning to the so-called permanent gases like hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, he made repeated attempts to change them to the liquid state—and failed. There was something about these gases that was different. Faraday couldn’t understand why the permanent gases stubbornly refused to liquefy. Forty-five years later Thomas Andrews, a professor of chemistry in Belfast, explained why: Every gas has a certain critical temperature above which it can never be made to liquefy, no matter how great the pressure applied to it! Faraday hadn’t cooled his gases sufficiently.

One day, during the period of these researches, Richard Phillips burst into Faraday’s laboratory excitedly waving the latest issue of the Philosophical Transactions.

”Have you seen this, Michael? Have you read your paper on chlorine in this issue?”

”No. I haven’t seen it since I gave it to Davy to correct.”

Phillips handed him the magazine. “Here, look at it and prepare yourself for a shock.”

Undisturbed, Faraday kept right on working. “What does it say,” he asked quietly, “that might shock me?”

“Listen!” cried Phillips. “Davy inserted this note in your paper: In desiring Mr. Faraday to expose the hydrate of chlorine in a closed glass tube, it occurred to me that one of these three things might happen. . .”

“Does it actually say that in my paper?” asked Faraday.

“Here—look at it yourself. What right had Davy to impose his opinions in an account of your researches? That's what makes me so furious!”

Faraday quickly read the marked passages and then returned the magazine to his friend.

“What are you going to do about it?” demanded Phillips. “I think this is an outrage!”

“I'm not going to do a thing,” said Faraday. “It is true that Davy suggested heating the hydrate in a closed tube. There's no question about that. As for the expectations he may have had at the time—that's something else again. He did not mention them to me and I had no way of ascertaining what was in his mind.”

“Then you plan to offer no protest?” asked Phillips.

“There is nothing to protest about,” said Faraday with a smile. “Davy gets these whims or moods at times, and to work with Davy one must take the good with the bad. I have the greatest respect and admiration for Davy. For that reason I'd just as soon forget about the whole matter. Life's too short, and science too long, to waste time worrying about how much credit goes to Davy and how much to me.”

Phillips opened his mouth to say something bitter—but changed his mind. “You may be right, Michael,” he said with a shrug, “but in the eyes of your friends you have been done an injustice. What hurts most is the sight of a man with Davy's tremendous reputation acting so childishly, so jealously, when his assistant does a capital piece of work!”

During the weeks which followed, the pros and cons of the matter were argued in London scientific circles. Davy's admirers were convinced that Faraday had tried to claim as his own an idea suggested by his superior at the Institution. Faraday's friends, on the other hand, felt that Davy had used his position to deprive Faraday of credit for an important discovery.

In the midst of the controversy someone thumbing through Nicholson's Journal found that a chemist named Northmore had succeeded in liquefying chlorine in 1805—eighteen years before the Davy-Faraday experiment!

That ended the argument over chlorine for a while.

In 1824 Faraday published in the Quarterly Journal of Science a historical account of the liquefaction of gases in which he took pains to give Northmore full credit for having been the first to liquefy chlorine.

FIFTEEN

Fellow of the Royal Society

One evening, soon after the chlorine episode, Richard Phillips dropped in at the Faradays' for a chat. Sarah served tea and soon the cozy little attic apartment was full of laughter and talk.

“I'm planning to propose your name for election to the Royal Society, Michael,” announced Phillips, apropos of nothing.

Faraday almost dropped his teacup in surprise. Sarah gasped, and Phillips rubbed his hands together gleefully.

“How does it sound?” he continued. “Michael Faraday, Fellow of the Royal Society. Perfect! The F.R.S. fits your name like a glove. What do you think, Michael?”

Faraday chuckled. “What a question! Any man would he pleased with an F.R.S. next his name.”

Inwardly the Royal Institution's chemist and laboratory superintendent was thrilled. From bookbinder's apprentice to F.R.S.! Those three magic letters established one's membership in the most distinguished group of scientists in England. The roster of the Royal Society contained the most famous names in English science. Even Isaac Newton had felt honored when in 1671 the Society elected him a Fellow for his work on the reflecting telescope!

“Do I become a Mrs. F.R.S. if Michael is elected?” laughed Sarah.

“No,” replied Phillips. “There's enough honor in one F.R.S. for both husband and wife.”

Faraday turned serious. “You might put my name up, Richard, but I may fail of election. Remember that Davy is President of the Royal Society and is therefore in a position to exercise considerable influence—if he so wishes.”

The chlorine incident was still fresh and, though it seemed to have been smoothed over, Faraday was aware that Davy's attitude toward him had definitely changed. Sir-Humphry had become suspicious of his assistant, and only outwardly friendly.

That s true,” admitted Phillips. “There may be some opposition, as there often is to a man who has come up by virtue of his own brain, his own talents, his own energy.”

He paused for a moment as he studied Faraday's face.

“Before I start the ball rolling, Michael,” Phillips continued, “I want you to promise me that you won't back out. You must make up your mind to fight to the finish—no matter what little unpleasantness may develop.”

“You mean I'll have, to beg people to vote for me?” cried Faraday. “No—I can't do that. It's degrading. Why should I have to beg for this honor? I want it only if it is offered wholeheartedly. Otherwise, what is it worth? After all, I still have my research; and Nature will answer the questions I put to her regardless of whether or not I have the F.R.S. next my name.”

“There it is!” exclaimed Phillips, banging his fist on the little table. “I could have predicted your reaction, Michael. As always, you remain true to your unworldly character.” He turned to Sarah Faraday in desperation. “You must help me. Your talented husband knows his way around a laboratory better than any other man in England. But when it comes to the world of men, he's only a child!”

“I can manipulate apparatus,” protested Faraday, “but I cannot manipulate people. I'd hate to have to do it.”

“But it may not be necessary, Michael,” said his wife soothingly. “You're imagining unpleasantness and foreseeing obstacles which may never appear.”

“Exactly,” said Phillips, “but one must be prepared for all eventualities. Your name may go through without the slightest objection from any Fellow. But if it doesn’t, you must promise me that you’ll see it through to the very end.”

“Promise what he asks,” urged Mrs. Faraday. “At worst, it may involve a few days of unpleasantness. The F.R.S., however, will last a lifetime.”

“Of course you can get along without the F.R.S., Michael,” argued Phillips, “but your scientific career will run infinitely smoother if you do have it. Those three letters will open doors for you ... will give a certain invaluable prestige to your name.” He paused for a moment and then added significantly, “And, most important of all, it will free you from dependence on anyone for favors. The F.R.S. will mark you, in the public eye, as a master in the world of science instead of a perpetual assistant.”

Faraday paced the small room as he struggled with his instinctive desire to say “no.” What Phillips said was true—and how true! Without that F.R.S. he would forever be regarded as an apprentice in science by the outside world! He was self-educated. . . . No university had ever put the stamp of approval on his training or ability. . . . He was one who had pulled himself up by his own bootstraps.

What Phillips was too polite to say was that he, Faraday, simply had to have that F.R.S.! Since that was true, said Faraday to himself, then why was he hesitating to promise to fight for the prize? It must be pride! But pride or vanity was sinful. And would it not do his soul good for him to humble himself? “Blessed are the meek ...”

He stopped in front of Phillips, smiled, and pressed the latter's hand warmly. “I’m sorry I’m being so difficult, Richard. I promise what you ask, and am grateful to you.”

Phillips let out a sigh of relief. The task had proved easier than, he had expected. He and Faraday had been fast friends since the days of Mr. Tatums lectures, many years back. Phillips himself had moved ahead rapidly as a chemist and editor, and was already a Fellow of the Royal Society.

Knowing his friend’s character, Phillips realized that, left to himself, Faraday would never lift a finger to get this all-essential honor. He simply had to be pushed into it, and Phillips was determined to do the pushing. No one ever had the honor of pushing a better man, he said to himself.

That night when he got home Richard Phillips sat down to draw up the proposal paper, or certificate—as it was called. He kept smiling as he wrote it out. A most pleasant task, he said to himself. When he was finished, he held up the long sheet of parchment and read it aloud:

Mr. Michael Faraday, a gentleman eminently conversant in chemical science, and author of several papers, which have been published in the “Transactions” of the Royal Society, being desirous of becoming a Fellow thereof, we, whose names are undersigned, do of our own personal knowledge recommend him as highly deserving that honour, and likely to become a useful and valuable member.

“That does it!” he murmured. The next step was to circulate the certificate among the Fellows of the Royal Society and ask them to sign it.

Dropping his own work, Phillips spent the next few days scurrying through London to round up signatures. The rule was that the certificate of a candidate must be signed by a number of influential members in order to be considered as “presented.” After that the certificate had to be read at ten successive meetings of the Royal Society before the candidate could be voted on.

By the end of the week Phillips notified Faraday, with great joy, that the first four signatures obtained were those of William H. Wollaston, G. Children, W. Babbington, and Sir John Herschel!

“No trouble at all,” wrote Phillips to his friend. “We've got twenty-nine names on your certificate—and that’s ample. No one quibbled. Each seemed happy to add his signature to your proposal paper. Smooth sailing where we expected storms.”

On May 1, 1823, when Faraday’s certificate was read before the Royal Society for the first time, Phillips saw Davy stiffen in his chair and turn pale. As President of the Society, Sir Humphry, by long-standing custom, was not expected to sign the certificates of any but foreign members. For this reason he was totally unprepared for the reading of Faraday's proposal paper.

Davy seethed over the fancied insult. He had been by passed by Faraday! So he, Davy, was evidently distrusted by Faraday and his friends!

A few days later Sir Humphry appeared at the Royal Institution laboratory in a frenzied state—clothing disordered, eyes red, and hands trembling with anger. He rushed to the corner of the room where Faraday was working, glared at him, and in a voice filled with fury cried, “You must take down that certificate, Faraday, you must take down that certificate!”

The younger man studied Davy's distorted face for a few seconds. He felt sorry for him. Here was Davy at his worst—in one of his wild, uncontrollable, self-absorbed moods.

“I can't very well take it down, Sir Humphry,” he said quietly, “because I have not put it up. Please remember that it was put up by my proposers.”

“That's quibbling!” cried Davy angrily. “You know that your proposers would have to take it down if you asked them to!”

“I don't think they would take it down even if I requested it, because they've gone to a great deal of trouble collecting signatures,” answered Faraday. “I doubt if they'll listen to me. The thing has gone too far. Besides, I don't see any reason for taking it down.” He looked at Davy calmly.

By this time Davy was almost wild with rage. “Oh, you don't!” he screamed. “Well, I do see reasons for taking down your certificate—quite a few reasons!”

Faraday decided not to answer. Whatever Davy's reasons were, this was certainly no time to discuss them. Was this his old master, the brilliant, generous, kindly Davy? No! Why make matters worse by trying to argue with a sick, emotionally disturbed man bent on making himself ridiculous?

“Then you refuse to take it down?” continued Davy threateningly.

“I'm afraid that I'll have to refuse what you ask, Sir Humphry,” answered Faraday.

“Then I, as President of the Royal Society, will take it down, Faraday,” announced Davy as he turned on his heels and walked off.

“I am sure,” said Faraday politely, just before Davy disappeared through the door, “Sir Humphry will do what he thinks is good for the Royal Society.”

The fight was on, said Faraday bitterly to himself. He had been afraid that just this would happen. The manipulation of human minds was about to enter into his F.R.S. candidacy. Davy was so furious that he would stop at nothing. As President of the Royal Society he had no authority to take down a certificate. But he could buttonhole members and pour wild suspicions into ears only too ready to hear anything unfavorable about a self-educated bookbinder turned scientist!

Now he understood why Phillips had extracted that promise to keep fighting to the bitter end and not to back out!

When Richard Phillips heard the story of Davy s visit to the laboratory, he shrugged it off. “Davy can’t, do a thing—except talk against you, Michael. Fortunately he has only one vote, even though he is the President of the Royal Society.”

“But what can he say against me?” asked Faraday, looking mystified.

“Who knows? Anything that comes to his tongue, I presume. It must be the chlorine affair that afflicts him. He’s never really gotten over it.”

“But what can he hold against me for that?” asked Faraday. “After I liquefied chlorine, he went over my paper and saw to it that he, Davy, got credit for suggesting the idea. What has he to complain of?”

“His conscience—perhaps,” replied Phillips. “Or the comments of people concerning a master who stoops to robbing an assistant of credit due him.”

“The Davy I knew years ago would never have put up this fuss about my certificate,” said Faraday, shaking his head sadly.

“Well—let's forget about Davy for the moment, Michael. Another problem has just come up.” Phillips eyed his friend hesitantly, as if wondering how to soften the next blow.

“Tell me. I might as well know the worst.” Faraday sounded depressed.

“Mr. Warburton is planning to call on you within a few days.”

“He is? What for?”

Phillips smiled. “Rumors are immortal; they die and are soon reborn. Warburton is an influential member of the Royal Society and in a position to swing several votes.”

“I still don’t understand why he wants to see me. Am I to beg him for his vote?” asked Faraday bitterly.

“Now don’t take it like that, Michael. It’s all part of the game. Other people have had to go through the same ordeal. You’ll forget it quickly—once it’s over.”

“I’ve given you my promise. I’ll go through with whatever is required,” said Faraday. “But I won’t forget this ordeal, as you call it.”

“That’s the spirit, Michael! Now here’s the story; it’s that old Wollaston business—”

“But that was two years ago. Don’t tell me someone is bringing that up again!”

“Yes. Warburton is a close friend of Wollaston. He’s a straightforward man and I’m sure you’ll have no trouble convincing him that you had no intention of detracting from the glory of Wollaston when you made that wire rotate around the magnet.”

Faraday drew a deep breath, “I’ll see Warburton and explain for the teenth time that I had no idea that Wollaston was still interested in the experiment, that I called at his home to ask for permission to publish but did not find him in, and so forth.”

Phillips was all smiles now. “That will be the end of the unpleasant part of being a candidate for the Royal Society, Michael. It will be easy going after we bury the Wollaston rumors for the second time.”

“I hope so. But how about Davy? I can't remember ever seeing him so angry before.”

His friend waved the question aside. “Don’t worry about Davy. His very violence repels people. They will suspect the motives of a master so vehement in his opposition to the promotion of his own assistant.”

Warburton called on Faraday on June 5 and they talked for an hour. Faraday stated his side of the Wollaston incident and then insisted that Warburton question him as he saw fit. After a brief interrogation Wollaston’s friend seemed completely satisfied. The only indiscretion on Faraday’s part was haste in publication. Since Wollaston was out of town at the time, and since a young researcher was likely to be carried away by an unexpectedly successful experiment, Faraday’s actions were understandable.

“However,” Warburton remarked as he was leaving, “I suggest that you see Dr. Wollaston as soon as possible. Go over the entire matter with him as you did with me. I’m sure he’ll be pleased by your visit.”

During the following week Faraday had to call twice before he found Dr. Wollaston at home.

The aging, austere Wollaston listened silently to his caller’s explanation of why he had come. He could not understand why Mr. Warburton had suggested it. Faraday proceeded, again, to apologize for his haste in publishing the results of the rotating-wire experiment. It was all due to inexperience and overenthusiasm. . . .

As Wollaston sat back in his chair, Faraday noticed for the first time how tired he looked. He had aged considerably in the two years since Faraday had last seen him.

“I signed your certificate without question when it was presented to me, Mr. Faraday,” began the older man. “I may have once had some feeling on the subject you have mentioned—but I certainly have none now. These rumors are silly. Life is too short to be spent scratching old sores. I am sure you will be a credit to the Royal Society when elected, Mr. Faraday—as I know you will be. You have the youth and energy and resourcefulness. And that's what counts, sir.”

Faraday thanked him and left in a much happier frame of mind than when he had entered.

Shortly afterward he received a letter from Warburton saying that he, Warburton, was completely satisfied with Faraday's explanation and that “I wish now to forward your election”!

Phillips grinned when he heard how well things were going. “Your election to the Royal Society is assured now, Michael. Nothing to worry about!” he exclaimed happily.

Faraday chuckled. “All we need now is a letter from Davy saying that he, too, wishes to forward my election.”

“That would be a grand gesture, wouldn't it? And Davy is the one man in England who could make a turnabout like that!”

Faraday smiled and handed Phillips a letter he had just received from Davy. “Read the ending, Richard.”

Phillips read it aloud: “. . . I am, dear Faraday, very sincerely your well-wisher and friend .. . H. Davy.”

“How's that from a man who, I am told, walked around the courtyard of Somerset House, at the last meeting of the Royal Society, arguing with members against my election!” Faraday laughed. “I tell you he's a great man, Davy is, no matter how illogically he may act at any one moment!”

On January 8, 1824, Faraday's certificate having been read at ten previous meetings, the ballot was finally taken.

Practically unanimous! Only one black ball—Davy's!

Phillips rushed to the Institution with the good news. Faraday looked pleased, while Sarah flushed with emotion over her husband's victory.

“I owe it all to you, Richard!” exclaimed Faraday as he pumped his friend's hand. “I owe it all to you!”

“Nonsense!” beamed Phillips. “Someday the Royal Society will realize what an honor it bestowed upon itself today. . . . So, from now on, it will be Michael Faraday, F.R.S.”

“It's wonderful to have it,” said Faraday thoughtfully, “and I realize what a tremendous help it will prove to me. But I don’t think I’ll ever again seek an honor. This one cost me too much!” Phillips threw back his head and laughed. “From now on, you’ll never have to ask for honors, Michael! Mark my words— they’ll be brought to your door!”

SIXTEEN

The Year 1831

About a year after his election to the Royal Society, an excited colleague stopped at the laboratory to see Faraday. Professor Brande, the caller, was a chubby, bald old gentleman with clear blue eyes which seemed to see nothing but the expected as they looked out at the world. Faraday, at the time, was hot on the trail of new and fascinating compounds which kept turning up in a sample of condensed oil gas supplied him by a London gas company.

“I have news for you, Mr. Faraday,” the professor announced.

“You have? I hope it's good.”

“You are now the Director of the Laboratory of the Royal Institution. Davy recommended the promotion and the managers put it through at once.” Brande looked very happy at his young friend's good fortune.

Faraday was stunned by the news—the Davy part particularly.

“There's Davy for you!” he cried. “Only a year ago he was actively opposing my election to the Royal Society. He's a great man, Davy is—no matter what he does or says at certain times!”

Brande nodded. “True, absolutely true!”

Faraday eyed his colleague inquiringly. “I hope they did something for you too.”

“They did,” laughed Brande. “I continue on as Professor of Chemistry.”

“Good!” said Faraday. “We need you here. With Davy more or less detached from the Institution because of poor health, you have become our mainstay,”

Brande raised his forefinger like a true professor. “Oh yes— there's something I forgot to tell you. Your salary—”

“Will it be reduced because of my promotion to the directorship?” grinned Faraday.

“Not exactly,” said Brande soberly, “but the managers have kindly permitted it to remain the same as before—one hundred pounds per year plus rooms, coal, and candles.”

Faraday dismissed the salary matter with a shrug. “We can get along on what I earn,” he said, “but what worries me is the financial state of the Royal Institution. Not too healthy, is it?”

“The Institution has been on the verge of collapse for a long time,” observed Brande, “and I hope it can hold out.” Just then he noticed a small coil of copper wire and a three-inch iron rod on the laboratory table. “What's that, Mr. Faraday? I thought you were a chemist!” He  pretended to be horrified at the sight.

Faraday looked somewhat embarrassed. “I always carry this coil and iron rod with me. A habit of mine—for many years.”

“You mean that you are able to think of electrical problems in the midst of your chemical research?” asked Brande in amazement.

Faraday nodded. “I keep going back to my favorite puzzle— how to convert magnetism into electricity. I can't seem to get away from it.”

“I don't see how you do it,” remarked Brande as he walked away.

Ever since 1819, when Oerstad had shown that a magnetic needle was deflected by an electric current in a wire held over or under it, the best minds in Europe and America had been grappling with the problem Faraday had now set for himself. In 1823 the latter had gone one step further than Oerstad by making a wire carrying a current rotate around a magnet. And Sturgeon, in the same year, had succeeded in producing the first electromagnet by passing an electric current through a coil of wire wrapped around a piece of soft iron.

After that no one seemed able to move ahead. Electricity could be changed into magnetism. But could magnetism be converted into electricity? No answer to that question—yet!

Fresnal and Ampere both thought they had the answer back in 1820. Each imagined he had detected an electric current in a coil of wire within which a magnet lay motionless. But no! It was a mistake! Their claims were withdrawn shortly after being made.

Faraday's mind kept turning to the problem. “If it is possible to convert electricity into magnetism, then why not the converse?” he wrote in his notebook. And then he added “But how?”—a question which was to intrigue him for years.

However interesting, electricity was still a side line for Faraday at this time. He concentrated on his chemical researches and in 1825, as the result of his labors on the condensed oil gas, announced the discovery of a new organic compound—benzene. The importance of this chemical was not realized until many years later. A great chemist, Kekule, not yet born at the time of Faraday's discovery, was destined forty years later to visualize the structural formula of benzene—and thus make possible the triumphs of modern organic chemistry!

Benzene was a feather in Faraday’s cap. But could magnetism be converted to electricity?

Faradays experience as a lecturer had begun in 1823 when he was called upon unexpectedly to substitute for Brande. Two years later, immediately after his appointment as Director of the Laboratory, Faraday organized a series of Friday-evening lectures for Institution members. Shortly after that, afternoon lectures were added to his program.

In 1826 he gave the first of his famous Christmas lectures for children. Its success was immediate. For the next nineteen years he continued these juvenile lectures, with one—on the Chemistry of the Candle—occasionally repeated during the year.

Characteristically Faraday set out to become as perfect a lecturer as planning and practice could make him. His friend Magrath, during the early years, would call the morning after each lecture to criticize, make suggestions, and discuss the weak and strong points of the preceding day's performance. Was it beyond the grasp of his audience? Were the pauses just right? Was Faraday s delivery too rapid?

Faraday was soon to become the foremost expounder of science in England. He never spoke down to his audience; he always preferred to demonstrate rather than to describe. His clarity of mind, his passionate sincerity, and his perfectly arranged demonstrations never failed to have a profound effect on his listeners. It was an experience few in his audience ever forgot.

Always during these busy years his mind would keep turning over the same old question: how to make electricity from magnetism?

Once he arranged two coils of wire alongside of each other. An electric current sent through one coil should induce an effect in the other, the ends of which he connected to a sensitive detecting instrument called a galvanometer.

His notebook entry was “no result”! A few months later he tried it again. No result!

During the few years preceding 1831 Faraday discovered butylene, and new sulphonic acids of naphthalene. He investigated the diffusion of gases, and the fluidity of sulphur and phosphorus. Faraday's papers were appearing more and more often in the Philosophical Transactions and the Quarterly Journal of Science.

In 1827 he declined an appointment as Professor of Chemistry in the University of London. Faraday gave as his reason the fact “that the Royal Institution has been a source of knowledge and pleasure to me. ... I remember the privileges and protection it has afforded me during the past years of my scientific life.” To him it was a matter of loyalty to the Institution that had raised him to scientific manhood!

In 1829 he was asked to become a lecturer in chemistry at the Royal Academy at Woolwich. The arrangement called for only twenty lectures a year, and the salary was fixed at two hundred pounds per annum.

“Are you going to accept?” demanded Phillips when he learned of this attractive offer.

‘I'm giving it serious thought,” answered Faraday. “If the position merely requires routine attendance, I don't want it. However, if it involves useful work—such as consultations on the course of study and methods of teaching—I'll accept, provided the duties will not interfere with my present engagements.”

“They won't!” exclaimed his friend. “And don't forget that extra two hundred pounds a year. It will get rid of the necessity for constant penny-pinching.”

Faraday eyed Phillips thoughtfully for a moment. Yes, that extra money would make it easier for Sarah—and his mother, whom he had been supporting for a number of years. . . . The upshot was that Faraday accepted the lecturing assignment at Woolwich and held it for twenty years.

In the midst of research and lecturing which was keeping him busy from early morning to midnight, day after day, he suddenly got a fresh idea about his perennial electrical problem. Why not insert an electromagnet in a coil of copper wire whose ends were connected to a detecting instrument? Perhaps the electromagnet would do what the bar magnets had failed to do; that is, induce an electric current in the surrounding coil of wire.

He hurried to try the experiment. It proved a dismal failure!

But Faraday would not admit defeat. His mind was obsessed with the principle of action and reaction. If electricity could create magnetism, he argued, then magnetism should create electricity. Faraday felt intuitively that it simply had to be so!

A few months later he dropped everything, and tried again —his fourth attempt. He prepared a number of coils of copper wire, some with many turns and some with few. Faraday carefully placed permanent magnets of great strength inside each of the coils, after connecting the ends of the latter to a detecting instrument. Surely, this time, those elusive induced currents of electricity would show themselves!

The results were disappointing. This fourth experimental attack on the problem was a failure, too!

The summer of 1831 rolled around bringing in its wake a series of hot sticky days. Everyone who could manage it left London for the seashore, where life was more bearable.

“How about a vacation?” asked Phillips as he watched Faraday hard at work in his laboratory. “You can't go on like this all summer. Think of your health . . . think of Sarah.”

Faraday was too absorbed to look up. “What's wrong with the atmosphere of this laboratory? We re pretty well insulated from the heat here. Is there a cooler, pleasanter place in all London?”

“There are cooler places in England than this steamy room— if you really want to know,” declared Phillips. “Why not put everything aside for a few weeks and go away for a rest. London is impossible now.”

“I can't,” said Faraday, shaking his head. “Not just now.”

“Why not, may I ask?”

“Because I'm planning to rest by applying myself to an old problem for two or three weeks,” answered Faraday with a smile.

Phillips furrowed his brow. “You mean that conversion of magnetism into electricity? Don't tell me that’s still on your mind!”

“It’s never been off—not for nine years,” chuckled Faraday. “I plan to concentrate on it for a while—and off to Brighton well go for a breather. I promised it to Sarah.”

Phillips eyed his friend in wonder. “Never give up, do you? I hope you get it, Michael. I hope you do! What a prize it would be!”

Having cleaned up his other work by the end of August, Faraday rolled up his sleeves and got busy with a new series of carefully planned experiments on the conversion of magnetism into electricity.

He had made a soft-iron ring about six inches in diameter and almost an inch thick. Around one side of it he wound many turns of insulated copper wire, the ends of which were connected—when ready—to a good-sized voltaic battery. Around the other side of the iron ring he wound another coil of insulated copper wire—this time joining the ends in a loop, several feet from the ring. Inside this loop he placed a compass needle to act as a current-detecting instrument.

Faraday studied his setup for a few minutes. Two coils of wire on the same iron ring, but otherwise isolated from each other. An electric current sent through one coil would definitely make an electromagnet out of the iron ring. But would it do anything to the isolated coil which led to the outside loop?

Faraday bent down to make his connection to the voltaic cell—and happened to raise his head just in time to see the compass needle move slightly from its original position and quickly return to it!

That was all. Except for that slight, momentary shifting of the needle, the experiment was just another failure. Perhaps he had merely imagined that the needle moved? He broke the connection to the battery, keeping his eyes fixed on the compass needle as he did so. “Again a disturbance of the needle,” he wrote in his laboratory notebook.

After Faraday had repeated the same experiment several times with exactly the same results, he stopped to write a letter to his friend Phillips, who was away from London at the time.

“I am busy now with Electromagnetism,” he wrote, “and think I have got hold of a good thing, but can't say: it may be a weed instead of a fish that, after all my labour, I may at last pull it up.”

“Weed or fish?” . . . Faraday sought the answer by plunging into a series of new experiments. He set a helix, or coil, of wire close to another coil connected to a galvanometer. No results! He decided to try bar magnets again. Would the bar magnet do what the electromagnet did on the first day?

He placed two bar magnets flush against each other so that the opposite poles were in contact. Leaving one end of the pair touching, he pried the other end apart and inserted a short iron rod between the poles. Around this little rod of iron he wound some insulated copper wire, joining the ends of the wire several feet away in a loop within which he placed his detecting, or compass needle.

The bar magnets weren't doing a thing: the compass needle was absolutely quiet. Faraday grasped the north pole of the magnet and pulled it away from the iron rod. The compass needle, several feet away, moved—and then returned to position! He let the north pole of the bar magnet snap back to the iron rod. The needle moved, and returned to opposition again! He tried it with the south pole of the magnet. Each time, when the contact was made or broken, the compass needle was deflected!

At last! This was what he had been looking for! In his notes describing the experiment, Faraday wrote: “. . . a distinct conversion of magnetism to electricity.”

That tiny movement of the needle provided Faraday with the evidence he had long been seeking. And, now that he had his proof that electricity could be created by magnetism, the rest was smooth sailing for his expert hands and brain. He found that he could stir up a secondary current in an isolated coil merely by bringing another coil—this one carrying a voltaic current—up close to the former coil. But, strangely enough, the induced current only lasted for a fraction of a second. It existed only at the instant the primary current started or stopped! A phenomenon no one had expected!

Faraday found that a common core of soft iron, slipped through a pair of wire coils, served to increase the effect on his compass needle. And finally, on October 17, 1831, he performed the experiment which every science student has done, or seen demonstrated, ever since that time.

He took a long coil of copper wire, containing many turns, and connected its ends to a detecting instrument, or galvanometer. Faraday then thrust a bar magnet into the middle of this coil. The galvanometer needle moved, and quickly returned to its zero position. He pulled the magnet out of the coil. The galvanometer needle moved again—this time in the opposite direction—and quickly returned to its zero position.

Faraday was jubilant that day. He rushed up to his attic apartment to bring the good news to his wife. Taking her hands, he danced around the little room like an excited child.

“It's a fish, Sarah—a real, live, tremendous fish I pulled up— and not a weed at all!” he cried. “The biggest I've caught so far,” he added.

Mrs. Faraday smiled at his boyish antics. “What fish? Are you well, Michael? I think you've been working too hard.”

But her husband didn’t hear her at all. His mind was still in the laboratory.

“Just think how it eluded me all these years!” continued Faraday. “One could leave a magnet in a coil of wire forever— and never stir up a bit of electricity. Why hadn’t I noticed that momentary deflection before? Do you suppose I always looked up too late—or too early? That tiny quiver of the needle—who would have expected that?”

Sarah Faraday nodded wisely. So that little coil of wire and small iron rod her husband had carried in his pocket for years ... had proved fruitful!

“The secret is motion—relative motion,” said Faraday half to himself. “To produce electricity one has to move either the coil or the magnet. No motion means no induced current. It sounds simple—now!”

“Does this mean that we can take our vacation now?” asked Mrs. Faraday hopefully.

“Soon—soon. Give me a week or so to write my paper—and off we’ll go. You’ve been very patient with me, Sarah.” He patted her hands gratefully.

Thus Faraday emerged the winner in the race to prove that magnetism could be converted into electricity! In the United States, Joseph Henry, simultaneously at work on the same problem, forfeited the prize by neglecting to publish his results in time.

Faraday’s discovery of electromagnetic induction was one of the gems in his golden chain of achievements. From it came the dynamo, the electric motor, electric lighting, the transformer, and a host of modern inventions.

“How about a vacation, Sarah?” chuckled Faraday at the end of November. “I think I can stand a rest—for a few days!”

SEVENTEEN

Pension Trouble

After a few days at Brighton, Mrs. Faraday noticed that her husband was becoming restless. In spite of the fact that he had just completed a long stretch of hard work, Faraday found it difficult to relax because of the ideas that kept crowding his mind. Every now and then, and at the oddest times, out would come the little notebook for the jotting down of passing thoughts about future experiments. Always there was the fear that he might forget. ...

“Perhaps we had better go back,” Sarah suggested gently at the end of a week.

“You won’t really mind, Sarah?” said her husband quickly.

Mrs. Faraday looked at him indulgently. “Whatever will make you happy, Michael, is what I want to do. I think you are really anxious to get back to the laboratory.”

Faraday looked a little abashed—but grateful. “It's true,” he admitted. “My mind is bubbling with ideas. There are so many new experiments I want to try. The electromagnetic-induction discovery seems to have opened a door which had been locked since the beginning of time. So much to do ... so much to do. And only one lifetime to do it in!”

The year 1831 marked the beginning of the period of Faraday's greatest productivity as an experimenter. For the next eight years the scientific world marveled as one capital discovery after another emerged from the one-man laboratory of England’s experimental genius. His world-famous Experimental Researches in Electricity gradually expanded from one to three volumes!

The moment he got back from the seashore, Faraday plunged once more into electromagnetic induction. There were new paths beckoning everywhere he turned. He set a copper disk spinning between the poles of a large magnet and produced a current of electricity in the wires leading from the disk. A magneto-electric machine! A primitive dynamo!

He rigged up a simple loop of wire so that it could be rotated by a handle. When the rotating loop cut the lines of force of the earth, he got his electric current again! Here was an electric generator which made use of the earth itself as a magnet! He proceeded to invent a commutator which changed the alternating current produced by this simple generator to direct current. “Why not patent the generator?” a friend asked. “Someday it will prove a valuable source of electricity.”

But Faraday refused to listen to any talk of patents. In fact, he would lose interest as soon as he had developed a discovery to a point at which its commercial possibilities became apparent.

“Others can go on from where I stopped,” he would say, “if they are interested commercially.”

Sir Humphry Davy had died in 1829, after a long illness. Faraday always revered him for his lifelong dedication to science, and for his refusal to regard any reward as important as that of serving humanity. In this respect, at least, Faraday was determined to follow in the footsteps of his teacher.

Soon Faraday's researches reached a stage where it became essential to prove that the electricity produced by a magnet and coil was exactly the same as that produced by a voltaic cell or frictional machine. He was thus led to investigate the decomposition of chemical compounds by electricity—the very field in which Davy had scored his greatest triumphs. Faraday threw himself into this work and, after a series of brilliant experiments, announced his famous Laws of Electrolysis.

Today these laws are an important part of every textbook in chemistry and physics. They represented a tremendous advance in Faraday's time; and may fittingly be regarded as the second gem in the golden chain of his discoveries.

In 1830 Faraday's outside work brought him one thousand pounds, in addition to his regular income of one hundred pounds per year; the following year his extra earnings were even greater. His friends agreed that Faraday, if he had shown any interest in money-making, could easily have raised his professional income to five thousand pounds a year—and maintained it at this figure for the last thirty years of his life.

But Faraday found this outside work irksome. ‘I'll have to cut down,” he said to Phillips in 1832. “These commercial investigations interfere with my thinking, with my own research.”

“Why can’t you do both?” asked Phillips, who had himself recommended a number of clients to Faraday.

“It won’t do,” said Faraday firmly. “I’m not my own master when I’m paid to do a specific task: I’ve got to stick to it and can’t turn to a new idea when one occurs to me. I’ll simply have to cut down. Life is too short to be spent in directed research.”

Acting in accordance with his convictions, Faraday began to refuse new outside commitments. His extra earnings fell to one hundred fifty-five pounds in 1832, and continued to decrease until 1838—when they reached zero!

Thus the son of a blacksmith, the onetime journeyman bookbinder, made his choice between science on one side and a tremendous fortune on the other. He chose science and was content to remain a poor man to the end of his life!

His father-in-law, Mr. Barnard, aware of Faraday’s attitude toward the amassing of money, very wisely said nothing for or against it. As a manufacturing silversmith acquainted with the harsh realities of the business world, he felt Faraday was being more philosophical than practical. At the same time, as a fellow member of the Sandemanian Church, he respected his son-in-law for adhering to an important principle of their faith—a complete trust in God’s Providence.

So in April, 1835, when Faraday, during a visit, let fall a remark about having received a curious letter from Sir James South about a pension, Mr. Barnard pricked up his ears.

“From whom?”

”From Sir James South, a friend and Fellow of the Royal Society,” explained Faraday. “Seems that my friends are worried about my small income from the Institution,” he added with a smile. “They think I'm poverty-stricken. Perhaps I am—without being aware of it. The only financial worry I have is that of the laboratory, where we've been managing on the parings of our own skin.”

“What did South say, exactly?” pursued Mr. Barnard.

“He said that had Peel remained in office a pension would have been granted me. It seems that Peel was much in favor of it.”

“Too bad Peel didn't remain Prime Minister longer,” murmured Mr. Barnard. “Melbourne is back in power now. I suspect that a confirmed Whig like Melbourne will prove difficult to convince.”

“At any rate,” continued his son-in-law, “I wrote to Sir James to thank him for his kindness, and explained that I could not accept a pension while able to live by my own labors.”

Mr. Barnard jumped. “You sent that refusal, Michael? You sent it off?”

“Yes,” answered Faraday, looking puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

Mr. Barnard tried hard to remain calm. “I think you're being too idealistic, Michael. If the government finds it proper to give pensions to less important men in art, literature, and science—then it should offer a pension to you.”

“But I'm not incapacitated, Mr. Barnard,” protested Faraday. “I don't see the need for it. If I wanted more money, I could easily earn it by outside work.”

“That's not the question at issue,” persisted the silversmith. “The pension is a small honor which the government should confer upon a man like you, Michael. Your labors have added immeasurably to the wealth and prestige of England. Your compensation is, and has been, only one hundred pounds a year. If you are offered a small pension, I think it your duty to accept. The amount is a mere trifle in the government budget, but to you it means security for the rest of your life.”

Having the highest regard for his father-in-law’s judgment, Faraday was impressed by the intensity of Mr. Barnard’s feelings in the matter.

Mr. Barnard looked straight into the distance, and spoke slowly and wisely. “No man can be sure of the morrow. Today you are in good health. A little change, an accident, a sickness—and all is altered. It's good to have the safeguard of even a small pension. Everyone in England will agree that you deserve many times more than the few hundred pounds a year they may confer on you, Michael.”

This was Faraday’s turn to jump. He wondered if Mr. Barnard had noticed. Faraday’s memory was becoming progressively worse. He seemed to be losing the power to recall things at will. He was always jotting down things to remember . . . continually fearful of forgetting important details.

And then there were those strange giddy spells. He hadn’t mentioned them to Sarah for fear of worrying her. What if he lost his memory, and his giddiness should occur more often? Could he go on? Faraday thought of his wife, of his complete lack of savings. . . . Mr. Barnard was right!

“I see your point, Mr. Barnard. I hadn’t looked at the matter from a practical angle. Perhaps I acted too impulsively in writing to Sir James as I did. My refusal was too blunt. I think I’ll write him again.”

Mr. Barnard looked pleased. “I'm glad to hear you say that, Michael. It’s only common sense and self-preservation. A pension would be merely an expression of national gratitude for the lifetime of service you are devoting to mankind’s welfare.”

When he got home that night, Faraday wrote another letter to Sir James South in which he still expressed a reluctance to accept a pension at present—but left the door open in regard to the future. At the same time he expressed a warm appreciation of Sir James’ efforts in his behalf.

Once the letter was off, Faraday quickly forgot about the matter. He spent some time in 1835 investigating fluorine. In July, frightened by a sudden series of giddy spells, he dropped his work and hurried to Switzerland for a rest cure, in the company of his wife and her brother George Barnard.

After a few weeks abroad Faraday came back refreshed and began his investigation of the force of attraction or repulsion between electric charges. The question was this: Did the medium separating two charged bodies have any influence on the force between the charges? The prevailing idea, then, was that this attractive force, like gravity, was unaffected by the intervening medium—which might be air, paper, sulphur, glass, etc. Faraday suspected that this idea was incorrect, and that, on the contrary, the insulating material did play an important role in the transmission of the force. He had an intuition that his favorite concept, lines of force, was somehow involved.

While Faraday was busy with electrostatic induction, as this phenomenon was called, his friends were busy, too—with his pension problem. Sir James South was determined that England's foremost scientist should get that pension! He was aware of Faraday s meager income, and was firmly convinced that the nation owed something to the man whose wholehearted devotion to research was giving world leadership to English science and industry.

In October of that same year, 1835, Faraday was startled by a letter from Lord Viscount Melbourne, Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury, asking him to call on the twenty-sixth of the month to discuss an application for a pension which had been made in his behalf.

“I thought the pension business had been forgotten, Sarah,” Faraday remarked as he placed Melbourne's letter in her hands.

“Apparently some people are still pushing it. I imagine that Sir James South and his friends are behind all this. He's a very kind man to worry about us so.”

Faraday seemed disturbed. “Do I have to go? The word discuss implies the need to convince. It sort of puts me in the position of having to beg for a pension.”

“It may not be as unpleasant as you expect, Michael,” comforted Sarah. “If you refuse to appear, your friends will feel you let them down. They must have gone to a good deal of trouble to get Melbourne to write to you.”

“I suppose that’s true,” said Faraday, “but I am not looking forward to the meeting, anyway.” He patted her hand affectionately. “I'll go, Sarah. I know you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to do anything you object to,” protested his wife. “If it’s going to upset you, I’d rather you wrote at once and made your excuses.”

Her husband laughed. “It isn’t as bad as that. After all, he’s only the Prime Minister of England. Doesn’t frighten me at all. In some ways we’re quite alike. He’s spent his life with political machines, while I’ve spent mine with electrical machines!”

On the appointed day Faraday called at the Treasury building to see Lord Melbourne. The latter’s secretary, the well-mannered and impeccably dressed Mr. Young, asked Faraday to sit down while he proceeded to search through the papers on his desk for the folder pertaining to his illustrious visitor.

“I understand,” began Mr. Young, after finding what he had been looking for, “that you objected to the idea of a pension, Mr. Faraday, when the subject was first broached to you.” “That is true, sir,” said Faraday.

“May I ask why? I’m not being inquisitive, Mr. Faraday, but am merely asking for the information as a matter of record.” The genius of the laboratory took a deep breath and began patiently to explain his attitude. The fact that he, Faraday, could still earn his living by his own hands and brain . . . Also his religious convictions . . . the laying-up of wealth in any form implied a distrust of Providence.

“Then you object to savings banks too?” remarked Mr. Young, trying hard to conceal an incredulous smile.

“I do,” answered Faraday, “and for that reason have no savings to speak of. Whatever is left over, beyond our immediate needs, we devote to charity.”

As he spoke, he had a feeling of annoyance. Why was he being questioned about his religious beliefs? Why all this fuss over a small pension? . . . Then he remembered Mr. Barnard and his Sarah—and his unexpressed fears about those attacks of giddiness. Very wisely Faraday decided to keep a tight grip on his temper.

Mr. Young, becoming conscious of Faraday's growing impatience, quickly steered the conversation to the latter's work at the Royal Institution. They talked for a while about gas lamps, steel alloys, and other “safe” subjects.

Finally a messenger entered with a note. “Lord Melbourne will see you now, Mr. Faraday,” announced the secretary.

Before Faraday was aware of what was happening, he found himself in the office of the Prime Minister, The stocky, ruddyfaced man rising to greet him from behind a huge mahogany desk . . . was Lord Melbourne himself!

The Prime Minister was extremely cordial and greeted his visitor like an old friend. After asking the distinguished scientist to sit down, Melbourne took pains to comment on how much he had enjoyed Faraday's lectures at the Institution through the years.

The Prime Minister then slumped down in his chair, picked up the folder on Faraday, and proceeded to read it with a somewhat cautious smile.

“Of course,” the First Lord of the Treasury began, “nobody will deny that you are doing a magnificent job in your field, Mr. Faraday. Your scientific researches have undoubtedly contributed a great deal to our country's well-being. still . . He paused and smiled knowingly at the applicant.

Faraday felt himself tighten inside. He had a premonition that the pause and the smile meant trouble ahead!

“What I mean,” continued Melbourne smoothly, “is that the practice of giving pensions to literary and scientific persons has been subject to much abuse. Everybody wants a pension. No one asks whether or not the nation can afford it. Paint a picture and ask for a pension. Write a book and ask for a pension. Sometimes I feel that the whole system of bestowing pensions upon artists and scientists is just a piece of humbug!”

Melbourne dropped the paper he had been reading, and eyed the scientist calculatingly as he got ready to bargain with Faraday over the amount of the pension. The Prime Minister had two hundred pounds per year in mind, but Faraday's friends were insisting on three hundred pounds as a minimum. Faraday himself was completely unaware of the negotiations which had been going on.

At the moment, however, all Michael Faraday could think of was that Melbourne had used the word “humbug” in connection with his pension! That was enough for him! He felt his body stiffen, and his temper rising. Faraday's one desire was to get out of the room—and quickly!

Faraday rose to his feet and bowed. “Good day, sir,” he said as he turned on his heels and walked out.

“But, Mr. Faraday . . . but, Mr. Faraday!” protested Lord Melbourne, taken aback by his distinguished visitor's violent reaction.

Faraday didn't listen. He had only one objective at the moment: to get away from politicians and to return to the clean, peaceful atmosphere of his laboratory. But his mind kept brooding over the incident; he found it difficult to concentrate on his research for the rest of that day. He regretted that his friends had pushed the pension matter, and thus put him in a position where he could be insulted by Melbourne. The word “humbug” kept rankling. . . .

His wife tried to soothe him. “Melbourne didn't insult you, Michael. I'm sure he never expected you to regard that remark as personal.” She felt partly responsible for her husband's painful experience at the Treasury. “Why don't you write Melbourne,” she suggested, “and definitely turn down the pension? That should put an end to the matter and make you feel better, Michael.”

Sarah's words had a calming effect on Faraday.

“It's true that Melbourne's manner toward me was cordial and courteous. I probably reacted too violently to preliminary remarks he saw fit to throw out. still—I'd prefer to wash my hands of the whole business. I'll write him immediately, and leave the letter at the Treasury this very evening,”

Faraday sat down, put his thoughts on paper, and felt much better at once.

To the Right Hon. Lord Viscount Melbourne

First Lord of the Treasury.

October 26, 1835.

My Lord,—The conversation with which your Lordship honoured me this afternoon, including as it did your Lordship's opinion of the general character of the pensions given of late to scientific persons, induces me respectfully to decline the favour which I believe your Lordship intends for me; for I feel I could not with satisfaction to myself, accept at your Lordship's hands that which, though it has the form of approbation, is of the character which your Lordship so pithily applied to it.

M. Faraday.

Sarah studied the note carefully and agreed that it expressed her husband's feelings without in any way reflecting on Melbourne's motives or integrity. “I think it is an honest explanation of your position, Michael,” she remarked.

But this letter did not mark the end of the pension affair. Faraday's friends were shocked and indignant when they learned of what had happened. Even King William IV, a great admirer of Faraday, was disturbed by the incident and kept insisting that his Prime Minister patch matters up with England's leading scientist.

Melbourne, on the other hand, maintained that his remarks had been misconstrued, and that he hadn't any intention of insulting Faraday during that fateful interview.

Faraday's friends kept urging him to write again to Melbourne and state that he would accept the pension, if offered. This the proud scientist stubbornly refused to do. He had had enough of pension seeking! Faraday thanked his friends for their efforts and begged them to drop the whole matter.

“What would you require Melbourne to say or do,” cried Sir James South finally, in desperation, “which will cause you to change your mind about the pension?”

“I should require of his Lordship,” Faraday answered after a little thought, “what I have no reason to expect he would grant —a written apology for the word he permitted himself to use to me.”

A few days later Michael Faraday received a letter of apology from the Prime Minister, who was only too happy to extricate himself from a highly unpleasant situation.

“I hope this ends the turmoil over my pension, Sarah,” remarked Faraday as he proceeded to write Melbourne a gracious note of acceptance. “I want to stop thinking about money and insults and apologies. My experiments on electrostatics are what I want to think about—and nothing else!”

The pension—three hundred pounds per year—was officially granted on December 24, 1835. This put an end to the public indignation stirred up by newspaper accounts of the slight suffered by England's most beloved scientist at the hands of “Whig politicians”!

Michael Faraday, for the first time in his life, now possessed a small measure of financial security—thanks to the efforts of his good friends!

Faraday kept right on with his investigations of electrostatic induction. In 1837—after a series of classical experiments with concentric spheres between which he had placed air, paper, sulphur, glass, and other insulating materials—he announced his results. The brilliant experimenter had arrived at the concept and measurement of the dielectric constants which are explained in every book on electricity. Faraday's work increased our understanding of the capacitors, or condensers, which today play so vital a role in electrical circuits. Years later the unit of electrical capacity was named the farad in his honor.

A third gem in Faraday's golden chain of discoveries!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Last Period

Faraday’s fears about his health proved only too well founded. Less than two years after his pension had been granted, lapses of memory set in to such an extent that he felt compelled to reduce the time spent on research. After a few months of restricted activity he decided that he was well enough to resume his full program. All went well for a while, but in 1840 Faraday again suffered giddy spells. Once more he cut his working hours, hoping that the condition would cure itself and disappear.

But it didn’t cure itself, nor did it disappear. A year later the giddiness and weakness of memory returned—with more force than ever. This time all work stopped for him, and he was alarmed enough to allow himself to be confined to bed.

It was shortly after this last attack that two of Faraday’s friends met one evening in the deserted laboratory of the Royal Institution. Their manner was extremely grave, and they found themselves speaking in hushed tones—even though the subject of their conversation couldn’t possibly hear them from the upstairs room where he was resting.

“Did he speak to you?” demanded Brande of Phillips, who had just come down from the Faraday apartment.

“No. He is in a terribly depressed state, and Sarah felt that conversation would only make him feel worse.”

Brande nodded. “That’s exactly what happened when I tried to see him yesterday.” The aging professor of chemistry shook his head unhappily. “Almost two years ago Dr. Latham predicted that Michael would have a complete breakdown unless

164

he dropped everything. He was told not to lecture or do any research for a long time. But, as usual, Michael paid no attention to sensible advice,”

“But he did cut down, didn't he, at the time?”

“Yes—between breakdowns! But that wasn't enough—according to the doctor. Michael still insisted on going on with his Friday-night lectures. And every now and then I'd find him stealing down here to work on some experiment.” Brande threw up his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “It was a foolish thing to do, I tell you!”

“I think it will be different now,” said Phillips earnestly. “He's worried about Sarah. That's what depresses him so much. He's fearful that Sarah will be left alone with no one to take care of her—if anything happens to him.” He paused for a moment. “And then there's that other factor—”

“What's that?” asked Brande curiously.

“The ideas for experiments which his mind keeps nourishing. Some are five years old, some ten—but they are always with him. He's afraid he'll never again have the clarity of mind to follow them up. That's what makes Michael so morose, so miserable, these days.”

“I can't understand it,” exclaimed Brande. “Here he is the top scientist of England—perhaps of the world. He s already accomplished enough for a half-dozen good investigators—but he can’t rest. He drives himself too hard. No body and brain can stand such a pace!”

Phillips smiled. “Michael is past the stage where he has to drive his mind. His ideas drive him now. At any rate, the one good result of this last attack will be, I hope, the complete abandonment of work for a few years. Nothing but rest can save him—and I think he realizes it.”

“I hope so!” said Brande fervently.

Frightened and depressed by his illness, Faraday offered no resistance when his wife announced that she and her brother George Barnard were going to take him to Switzerland for a long stay. Following the advice of his doctor, the ailing scientist spent nine restful months in the peace and quiet of the Swiss countryside.

During this period Faraday was not permitted to read any scientific journals, and there were long days when he found even small talk too great a burden. As the months went by, the care and devotion lavished upon him by his wife began to bring results. Slowly, very slowly, his mental vigor returned along with a little of the old sparkle which was so characteristic a part of his personality.

The next few years in England were completely free from pressure and full of long hours of doing nothing. Michael Faraday was wonderfully patient and cooperative for one reason: his dream of someday getting back to the adventure and excitement of the laboratory. Those unfinished experiments—he must return to them! For Faraday the desire to live was closely tied to the hope of continuing his research. There were so many things to do, so many questions to settle. There was work, work. . . .

During these years of his idleness it was whispered about in scientific London that the great Faraday would never be the same again. He had driven himself too hard, with the result that body and mind had rebelled. Probably never again would he score successes equal to those of his earlier years. Such was the prediction of many who knew him.

After about four years of retirement, Michael Faraday began slowly to get back to work. A few lectures ... a little research on lighthouses for the government... a trip to the scene-of the terrible disaster at the Haswell Colliery—this last at the request of Lord Peel.

Toward the middle of 1845 his health miraculously improved. His mind cleared and he felt his creative powers returning. Soon he was bubbling with excitement at the prospect of renewing his researches.

“Be careful, Michael,” cautioned his wife. “I know you feel ever so much better. But please—don't overdo it. Let us be grateful that God has seen fit to make you well again.”

“It's wonderful, Sarah!” exclaimed Faraday joyfully. “It’s as if the light has been turned on again in my brain,” He paused for a moment as he eyed her mischievously. “Those four inactive years weren’t entirely inactive, you know.”

Sarah looked at him questioningly. “You mean, you worked during the time you were supposed to be resting, Michael?” Faraday laughed like a little boy. “I didn’t work, but my mind did. Those endless hours of sitting, with nothing to read and nothing to talk about, weren’t absolutely vacant, Sarah. On good days—and I had one every now and then—my mind would turn over old ideas. Some had been with me for years and were like old friends. In thinking about them I got glimpses of new ways of attacking old problems.”

Faraday chuckled at the amazed expression on his wife’s face. “Oh, it’s so good to feel my strength again, dear!”

Sarah looked at her husband and her eyes filled with tears. She was so happy at the miracle of his recovery! There was the old Michael with his boyish grin and eager, restless mind. Only the laboratory could bring him fulfillment. It was life itself for Michael. Neither she nor the doctor should stand in his way, she said to herself. Dangerous? Perhaps! But it was a chance they would have to take.

“Do it gradually . . . not more than an hour or so in the laboratory each day. Work mornings and rest afternoons. If you stick to a light schedule, Michael, the danger will be at a minimum.”

“Of course, of course,” her husband assured her. “You don’t think I want to risk a relapse, Sarah? And whenever I don’t feel quite up to working, I’ll stay in bed and just do nothing.” It was no small problem that Faraday turned to at the end of August, 1845—his first since his recovery. He wanted to see if he could get a magnet to attract or repel a light ray! He had an inner conviction that these two forms of energy—light and magnetism—were related in some way. Such a concept in Faraday’s time was regarded as audacious, almost mystical.

Michael Faraday’s bold and vivid imagination was never content unless it could simplify and unify. Light and magnetism must have something in common, he said to himself. If his efforts here were successful, it would be a step of immense theoretical significance.

He had done a beautiful job years ago when he showed that magnetism could be converted into electricity. Now he wanted above all to prove that this mysterious and apparently weightless thing called light could be affected by a magnet. In Faraday’s time it seemed an extraordinary undertaking for a scientist.

“Why do you take on a problem like this?” demanded the shocked Phillips after Faraday had explained what the first research problem was going to be.

“What’s wrong with this problem?” asked Faraday, somewhat amused at the worried expression on his friend’s face.

“It's too big—too massive. Also it may involve you in more trouble than you expect. Why not pick on something small, simple—at first?”

Phillips was about to voice his real criticism of the project, but wisely decided to hold back. Suppose Michael failed, he said to himself. Might it not result in a setback to his confidence— and health? Faraday was playing with fire.

He eyed the determined researcher thoughtfully for a few seconds, and decided to drop his objections. It was apparent that nothing would satisfy Faraday except an opportunity to grapple with a tremendous problem. Perhaps Michael has an inner compulsion to prove that disease had not impaired his creative powers, Phillips said to himself.

“How do you plan to proceed, Michael?” he asked.

Faraday began to glow. “I'm going to take a ray of light and pass it through a bar of heavy glass. The glass will act as a rail, as you know, and stop all vibrations except those parallel to the rail. No other rays will get through the glass.”

“Then you’ll have a ray of polarized light,” remarked Phillips politely. What was there new about that, he wondered.

“Exactly,” said Faraday, picking up a Nicol prism, or piece of calcite, from his desk. “I’m going to place this prism in the path of the polarized ray which emerges from the heavy glass.

It will act as a second rail. At a certain angle the Nicol prism will stop all light from getting through.”

Phillips looked puzzled. “Yes, I know that. Turning the Nicol prism will either stop the ray of polarized light or let it through. Where does the magnetism come in?”

Faraday chuckled gleefully. “I'm going to set it all up and then bring a powerful magnet on the scene to see if it makes any difference. What I want to know is whether the magnetic field will affect the polarized ray. I'll be able to tell by how much I have to turn the Nichol prism to get light through—while the magnet is there!”

Phillips laughed. “What an idea! You're assuming that light has something to do with magnetism—something no one has ever suggested, as far as I know.”

“At any rate, I'm going to try,” said Faraday.

“Michael,” cried Phillips, suddenly regaining his old confidence in his friend's powers, “if you succeed in this, it’ll top anything you’ve ever done! Whew! No one has ever dreamed of a light-magnetism relationship. I hope you get it, Michael, I hope you get it!”

Faraday worked slowly and painstakingly at his project. He tried to spare himself, remembering his promise to Sarah. Instead of spending all day and a good part of the night on his research, as had been his custom before the breakdown, he would now work several hours and then stop.

All he was seeking was evidence of an effect of magnetism on light—even the slightest evidence would be a victory. When one arrangement of his apparatus failed to show an effect, he would patiently try another. After many trials he decided to shift the position of his magnetic poles so that both would be on the same side of the path in which the polarized ray was traveling.

He adjusted the prism and tried again. All was ready. With the magnet in its new position, the ray of light no longer passed through the prism. He carefully removed, the magnet. Now the light burst through the prism again!

Faraday had succeeded! He tried the same experiment over and over again. No doubt about it: magnetism and light were related! It was a masterly experiment by a veteran researcher whose scientific vision extended far beyond that of his contemporaries. And among his many great discoveries it is generally regarded as the chief jewel—the gem among gems.

“Why not stop for a while and rest—now that your first effort was so wonderfully successful?” suggested Sarah eagerly.

“I will—after the next one,” promised Faraday.

Instinctively he felt that he had to go on, now that his whole being seemed to be functioning again. He wasn't sure but that this present period might only be the Indian summer of his creativeness. Inwardly there was a fear that winter might set in suddenly—with the result that many almost ripe ideas would be frost-killed on the vine.

Faraday didn't stop. The light-magnetism investigation had taken him less than two months. He immediately turned to a second problem—one which he had also mulled over many times during the four years of his enforced idleness.

He was curious about the standard classification of all substances into magnetic and nonmagnetic. Why were iron and nickel the only ones in the magnetic class? He tried other metals, and soon added cobalt to the iron and the nickel.

Faraday then turned to the nonmagnetic substances which were apparently unaffected by magnets; for example, glass, sulphur, asbestos, human tissue, etc. If, as he suspected, all matter was fundamentally electrical in nature, then all matter should react to magnetism. A substance like glass, reasoned Faraday, must respond to magnetism—if not as iron, then in some other way.

He suspended various nonmagnetic substances, such as glass and sulphur, between the poles, of a powerful horseshoe magnet that had just arrived at the laboratory. After a few weeks of intense experimenting, Faraday finally succeeded in getting a bar of heavy glass, suspended from a silk thread, to set itself at right angles to the lines of force of his magnet! In other words, it moved as the result of magnetic repulsion instead of magnetic attraction!

Faraday was thrilled. Here, at last, was conclusive evidence that a nonmagnetic substance responded to magnetism! Iron was attracted and therefore set itself in line with, or parallel to, the lines of force of a magnet. Glass was repelled and therefore set itself at right angles, or across, these same lines of force. All substances, noted Faraday, were either paramagnetic, like iron, or diamagnetic, like glass. There was no such thing as neutrality to magnetic forces!

All this was the work of only three months! The scientific world was astounded by two such great contributions from an experimental genius whose productive life was supposed to be over. Faraday was awarded both the Royal and the Rumford medals for these two accomplishments. Not that he had lacked recognition before. For a number of years now, learned societies and universities all over the world, as well as foreign monarchs, had been showering Faraday with honorary memberships, degrees, citations, “blue ribands,” and medals. Few scientists during their lifetimes ever received as much acclaim, decoration, and appreciation as did Faraday.

Unfortunately his pleasure in his latest successes was marred by the loss of his brother, Robert. The latter suffered a fatal injury while driving and died in August, 1846. It was a serious blow to Michael. The two brothers had been very close; Robert had always been extremely proud of his brother's accomplishments, and Michael had often dropped all work to turn to research problems on gas burners—a matter of practical interest to Robert.

In all probability the shock of his loss was largely responsible for the relapse which Faraday suffered the following summer. Again he began to complain of loss of memory, of confusion of ideas, of giddiness. Upon the advice of his physician he gave up all work once again and rested for several months;

“Im almost fifty-eight years old, Sarah,” he said one day at the end of a long week of depression, “and I'm beginning to wonder if all my good work is behind me.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed his wife, putting her hand on his shoulder comfortingly. “You'll get well again; I know you will. Remember how you felt several years ago—absolutely hopeless? You got over that, didn't you? We must have faith, Michael. God will take care of those who trust in Him. I'm certain you'll be back at work before long. You're still young, dear.”

“I don't know, I don't know,” repeated Faraday hopelessly. “So much to do—and I can't even draw my ideas together any more. Memory is so important, so important.”

“Rest, Michael, rest,” said Sarah soothingly. “You've lived a rich, useful life. Let us be grateful for what has been given us.” Sure enough, it wasn't long before he was back at his lecturing again! His hair had grown long and white, and his face seemed stronger and more lined. But the old intellectual force and sincerity were still there—even though his earlier agility of movement was gone. People came from far and wide to hear the Grand Old Man of English science; it was an experience to be treasured, as every member of his audience realized.

Prince Albert, long an admirer of Faraday, asked the scientist to Windsor for a visit, during which they discussed the magnetic properties of oxygen—a subject in which both were keenly interested. And a few years later, in 1858, Queen Victoria, learning from friends that Faraday and his wife were having difficulty climbing the steep stairs leading to the attic apartment they had occupied for thirty-seven years, reacted with characteristic graciousness. The Queen offered the Faradays the lifetime use of one of Her Majesty's spacious houses on Hampton Court Green, near London.

“What shall we say to the Queen?” asked Faraday on receiving the offer of the house. “It is a beautiful place;—but very large, and I don’t think we can afford the upkeep. The painting and repair of it may prove too expensive for us.”

When the Queen learned of Faraday's fears, she hastened to send the royal decorators to prepare the house for the elderly couple. She saw to it that all the living rooms were arranged on one floor so that there would be no need for the Faradays to climb any stairs at all. And, as a final aid, a friend of the aging scientist designed a special wheel chair for him so that he could get about the house with a minimum of exertion.

Faraday's last Friday-night lecture at the Royal Institution, in 1862, was a sad occasion. Fie had prepared a discourse on Siemens' gas furnace, but had had the misfortune to burn his carefully arranged notes. The tired scientist, for the first time in his lecture life, became confused as he faced his audience.

The stooped, white-haired Faraday, pale and shaken, stared dazedly at the familiar faces in the silent, stunned audience. Suddenly he had turned into a very tired old man.

“I'm afraid,” he began haltingly, “that I have been with you, my friends, too long ... too long. This is my last appearance on this platform. With advancing years my—my memory has begun to fail me. I must retire, I must retire—out of justice to others.”

As Faraday, overcome with emotion, stumbled to his chair, the assemblage rose to its feet and gave him a long and heartwarming ovation. Few were without tears as they applauded and cheered their beloved Michael Faraday.

He cared little for honors. Twice he was offered the Presidency of the Royal Society, and twice he declined. Earlier in his career he had refused an opportunity to become Sir Michael. He could not even be induced to accept the Presidency of the Royal Institution, which he had served for fifty years!

“I must remain plain Michael Faraday to the very last,” he remarked to Tyndall, his friend and successor at the Royal Institution.

Faraday was a weary man in 1862 at Hampton Court, and he did very little moving about or reading. It was the year of his last experiment! He was looking for still another magnetic effect on a ray of polarized light, but failed to find it. “Not the slightest effect . . . was observed,” was his notebook entry. Thirty-five years later, Zeeman found what Faraday had been seeking! As usual the latter was again far ahead of his time, thanks to his extraordinary mental vision and imagination.

What depressed Faraday most during his last years was the thought of his wife's being left alone in the world with no one to care for her. His eyes would grow moist when he looked at Sarah, who had become somewhat lame. “The dearest comfort of my old age,” he would murmur to friends, “as she was the bright dream of my youth.” Then his faith would reassert itself. “I know you will be cared for, Sarah. I know you will!” He would look grateful and relieved when his friends assured him that Sarah would lack for nothing as long as she lived.

Toward the end of 1865 Faraday suffered an attack of illness from which he never really recovered. In Tyndall's words, “slowly and peacefully, he sank towards his final rest, and when it came, his death was a falling asleep.”

Michael Faraday died on August 25,1867, at Hampton Court Green, at the age of seventy-six, and was buried in a simple ceremony at Highgate Cemetery. His body was committed to the earth in silence, in accordance with the Sandemanian custom.

The life of the onetime bookbinder—the youth who had desired nothing more of the world than an opportunity to serve science—was over. But his memory lives on. It lives in textbooks and schools, in laboratories and industry. It lives wherever there are inquiring minds and skillful hands. It lives at the frontier between the known and the unknown.

The spirit of Michael Faraday is the spirit of modem science.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Life and Letters of Faraday, Bence Jones, 2 vols., Longmans, Green and Co., London, 1870.

Faraday’s Diary, edited by Thomas Martin, G. Bell and Sons, Ltd., London, 1936.

Experimental Researches in Electricity, Michael Faraday, R. and J. E. Taylor, London, 1844.

Chemical History of a Candle, Michael Faraday, edited by W. R. Fielding, Dutton and Co., London, 1920.

Michael Faraday, John H. Gladstone, Harper and Bros., New York,, 1873.

Michael Faraday, Walter Jerrold, F. H. Revell Co., New York, 1891. Michael Faraday, Wilfred Randall, L. Parsons, London, 1924.

Michael Faraday, Sylvanus Thompson, The Macmillan Co., London, 1898.

Faraday as a Discoverer, John Tyndall, Longmans, Green and Co., London, 1894.

Dictionary of National Biography, vol. 9, pp. 1054-1066, Oxford University Press, London, 1921-1922.

Essays in Historical Chemistry, T. E. Thorpe, pp. 185-205, The Macmillan Co., London, 1923.

Makers of Science, Ivor B. Hart, pp. 248-273, Oxford University Press, London, 1924.

Masterworks of Science, edited by J. W. Knedler Jr., pp. 447-451, Doubleday and Co., New York, 1947.

Men of Science, J. G. Crowther, Norton and Co., New York, 1936.

Index

This index contains all the original headings and subheadings from the print version of this book. Page numbers have been removed since they are no longer relevant.

Abbott, Ben

Academie des Sciences, Faraday honored by

Albemarle Street, Royal Institution on

Albert, Prince

Amanuensis, temporary job as

Ampere

Andrews, Thomas

Annals of Philosophy

Arago

Banks, Sir Joseph

Barium

Barnard, Edward

Barnard, George

Barnard, Mr.

Barnard, Sarah, see Faraday, Sarah

Benzene

Berthollet

Blandford Street, bookbindery on

Bookbinding

Boron

Brande

Brighton, vacation at

Britannica

Burning glass, experiment with

Butylene

Calcite

Calcium

Cambridge Philosophical Society

Capacitators

Carbon dioxide, liquefaction of

Certificate, Royal Society

reading of

Davy's reaction to

Chemistry of a Candle, juvenile lecture on

Chevreul

Chlorine

compounds with nitrogen of

hydrate of

history of

liquefaction of

controversy over

Christmas lectures, Faraday's

City Philosophic Society

Clement

Coindet

Commutator

Condensed oil gas

Conductor, rotation of

Conversations in Chemistry, Marcet's

Courtois

Critical temperature

‘Crown of cups,’ Volta's

Dance, Mr.,

Davy, Sir Humphry,

background

as famous lecturer receives Faraday's letter and notebook

answers letter

employs Faraday as copyist

gives Faraday job as laboratory ’ assistant at Royal Institution

injured by explosions

makes Faraday a part-time valet during tour

investigates iodine

burns diamond in pure oxygen

conflict with De la Rive over Faraday

conflict with Faraday over chlorine liquefaction

opposes Faraday’s election to the Royal Society

recommends Faraday for Director of Laboratory

death

Davy, Lady

De la Rive

De la Roche

Desormes

Diamagnetism,

Diamond, burning of

Dielectric constants

Director of Laboratory, Faraday’s appointment as

Dumas, J. B. A.

Earnings, Faraday’s

Education, extent of Faraday’s

Elba, Napoleon’s escape from,

Electric currents, the earth’s magnetism made to induce

Electrolysis, Laws of

Electromagnetism

Electrostatic forces, experiments with

Elements, Davy credited with isolation of,  discovered by Wollaston

Elloge Historique, tribute to Faraday in

Experimental Researches in Electricity, Faraday’s

Farad

Faraday, James, Michael’s father

Faraday, Margaret, Michael’s mother

Faraday, Margaret, Michael’s sister

Faraday, Michael

birthplace

childhood

family background

schooling

first job

apprenticed to bookbinder

journeyman bookbinder

hears Davy lecture

applies for a position at Royal Institution

interview with Davy

laboratory assistant at Royal Institution

agrees to accompany Davy on tour

his first paper

makes a conductor move around a magnet

courts and marries Sarah Barnard

liquefies chlorine

elected Fellow of the Royal Society

becomes Director of Laboratory

discovers electromagnetic induction

discovers Laws of Electrolysis

gives up commercial research

begins to suffer from giddy spells

dispute with Lord Melbourne

accepts pension from government

suffers nervous breakdown

proves light and magnetism are related

experiment with diamagnetic and paramagnetic substances

receives many honors

last lecture

last experiment

death

influence

Faraday, Robert, Michael’s brother

Florence, experiment performed in

Fluorine

Fresnal

Galerie, Napoleon

Galvani

Gas lighting

Gases

‘permanent’

attempt to liquefy

combining volumes of

Gay-Lussac

Generator, electric

Geneva, stay at

Goiter

Hampton Court Green

Henry, Joseph

Herschel, Sir John

Honors

Hydrochloric acid

Illness, Faraday’s

Induction, electromagnetic

Inns, complaints by Lady Davy concerning

Iodine

Kekul

Knighthood, refusal of

Laboratory assistant, Faraday as

Lavoisier

Lectures, Davy’s

Faraday’s juvenile

Faraday’s Friday-evening

Faraday's last

Leipzig, Battle at

Letter, from Davy to Faraday

Light

polarized

effect of magnetism on

other magnetic effects on

Luminescence

Magnetism, conversion of electricity to

Magrath

Marine acid

Marriage, Faraday’s record of his

Masquerier

Medals, Royal, Rumford

Mediterranean, testing sea plants of

Meetinghouse, Sandemanian, services at

Melbourne, Lord

Morlaix, difficulties at

Motor, electric

Mount Vesuvius

Napoleon

Newington Butts

Newton, Sir Isaac

Ney, Marshall

Nicol prism

Nitrogen chloride, explosion of

Nitrous oxide

Northmore

Notebooks, Faraday’s

Oerstad

Oxymuriatic acid gas

Paramagnetism, Paris, Dr.

Paris, stay at

Peel, Lord

Pension, discussion of, difficulties over granted to Faraday

Phillips, Richard

Philosophical Transactions

Plymouth, embarkation from

Pneumatic Institute

Politics, Faraday’s lack of interest in

Poly technique, L’Ecole

Potassium

Quarterly Journal of Science

Ramsgate, vacation resort at

Reid, Mrs.

Riebau, Mr.

Riebau, Mrs.

Rome, masked ball in

Royal Academy at Woolwich

Royal Institution

Royal Society

Faraday’s proposal paper for

Davy’s reaction to Faraday’s candidacy for Faraday’s election as Fellow of

refusal of Presidency of

Rumford, Count

St. Paul’s Alley

Sandemanian Church, origin and tenets of services at

Scheele

Seaweed, extraction of ashes of

Sodium

Sodium hydroxide, Davy’s decomposition of

Somerset House

South, Sir James

Strontium

Study, Faraday’s method of

Sulphonic acids

Sulphur dioxide, liquefaction of

Switzerland, recuperation period in

Tatum, Mr. Thenard

Torpedo fish

Transformer

Tubes, sealed, liquefying gases by

Tyndall

University of London

Valets, Davy’s concern with

Victoria, Queen

Volta

Voltaic battery

Warburton

Weymouth Street

Wollaston

Zeeman

About the Author

(This short bio below is obviously out of date. It was written in 1954. It is included because the teaching strategies the writer, Harry Sootin,  suggests are timeless.)

Harry Sootin

Harry Sootin, a native New Yorker, received his B.S. from the College of the City of New York, where he majored in chemistry. His first job as an industrial chemist for a large factory in Maryland lasted only a year, then an appointment to teach in a New York City high school materialized, and he has been teaching for over twenty-five years. Among the subjects Mr. Sootin covers are general science, chemistry, physics, applied electricity. Lately he has been experimenting with practical science courses for students who do not intend to go to college, and these include simple wiring, elementary radio, electric motors, gasoline engines, etc.

What made him write a biography of Michael Faraday? Mr. Sootin says he found that the human stories behind scientific discoveries always worked wonders in the classroom: abstract principles became interesting: background material apparently enriched scientific subject matter. Every time he used this approach in teaching, the response: from, the students was most amazing. Since so many of the projects involved discoveries and principles laid down by Faraday, he seemed a natural for a full-length biography. In writing about this outstanding man of science, Mr. Sootin personalized the story so that it would interest readers in general, and not only those who are science-minded. The result is a deeply moving story that captures the emotional nuances of a man of high principle who put his love of God and work above monetary success.

Mr. Sootin has done some writing for magazines and for the Britannica Junior and a very successful book about magnets called THE MARVELOUS MAGNET, for readers of 8 to 12. He is married, has two grown daughters, loves to play golf when he isn't involved in house repairing, and hopes for the day when he will be able to devote more time to writing.

Experiments

As Harry Sootin recommended during his teaching career, combining biography, science, and experiments may help engage students. The sites below have ideas about experiments that may engage students:

https://www.livescience.com/53509-faradays-law-induction.html

https://www.famousscientists.org/michael-faraday/

https://www.sciencebuddies.org/science-fair-projects/electricity-magnetism-electromagnetism-tutorial#electromagnetism