I
The lecturer had vanished! A crowded gathering of distinguished
scientists had been listening, spellbound, to the masterly expositions
of Michael Faraday. For an hour he had held his brilliant audience
enthralled as he had demonstrated the nature and properties of the
magnet. And he had brought his lecture to a close with an experiment so
novel, so bewildering and so triumphant that, for some time after he
resumed his seat, the house rocked with enthusiastic applause. And then
the Prince of Wales--afterwards King Edward the Seventh--rose to propose
a motion of congratulation. The resolution, having been duly seconded,
was carried with renewed thunders of applause. But the uproar was
succeeded by a strange silence. The assembly waited for Faraday's reply;
but the lecturer had vanished! What had become of him? Only two or three
of his more intimate friends were in the secret. They knew that the
great chemist was something more than a great chemist; he was a great
Christian. He was an elder of a little Sandemanian Church--a church that
never boasted more than twenty members. The hour at which Faraday
concluded his lecture was the hour of the week-night prayer-meeting.
That meeting he never neglected. And, under cover of the cheering and
applause, the lecturer had slipped out of the crowded hall and hurried
off to the little meeting-house where two or three had met together to
renew their fellowship with God.
In that one incident the man stands revealed. All the sublimities and
all the simplicities of life met in his soul. The master of all the
sciences, he kept in his breast the heart of a little child. Mr. Cosmo
Monkhouse has well asked--
Was ever man so simple and so sage,
So crowned and yet so careless of a prize?
Great Faraday, who made the world so wise,
And loved the labor better than the wage!
And this, you say, is how he looked in age,
With that strong brow and these great humble eyes
That seem to look with reverent surprise
On all outside himself. Turn o'er the page,
Recording Angel, it is white as snow!
Ah, God, a fitting messenger was he
To show Thy mysteries to us below!
Child as he came has he returned to Thee!
Would he could come but once again to show
The wonder-deep of his simplicity!
In him the simplicities were always stronger than the sublimities; the
child outlived the sage. As he lay dying they tried to interview the
professor, but it was the little child in him that answered them.
'What are your speculations?' they inquired.
'Speculations?' he asked, in wondering surprise. 'Speculations! I have
none! I am resting on certainties. _I know whom I have believed and am
persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him
against that day!_' And, reveling like a little child in those cloudless
simplicities, his great soul passed away.