h a few ideas of his own added. For be
it known, taking notes at a lecture is a bad habit--good reporters carry
no notebooks.

After a year Faraday sent a bundle of his impressions and criticisms to
Sir Humphry Davy anonymously. Great men seldom read manuscript that is
sent to them unless it refers to themselves. At the next lecture, Sir
Humphry began by reading from Faraday's notes, and begged that if the
writer were present, he would make himself known at the close of the
address.

From this was to ripen a love like that of father and son. Every man who
builds up such a work as did Sir Humphry Davy is appalled, when he finds
Time furrowing his face and whitening his hair, to think how few indeed
there are who can step in and carry his work on after he is gone.

The love of Davy for the young bookbinder was almost feverish: he
clutched at this bright, impressionable and intent young man who entered
so into the heart and soul of science; nothing would do but he must
become his assistant. "Give up all and follow me!" And Faraday did.

Something of the same feeling must have swept over Faraday after his
work of twenty-five years as director of the British Institution, when
John Tyndall appeared, tall, thin, bronzed, animated, quoting Bunsen
and Humboldt with an Irish accent.

And so in time Tyndall became assistant to Faraday, then lecturer in
natural history; and when Faraday died, Tyndall, by popular acclaim, was
made Fullerian Lecturer and took Faraday's place. This was to be his
life-work, and it so placed him before the world that all he said or did
had a wide significance and an extended influence.

* * * * *

Tyndall was always a most intrepid mountain-climber. The Alps lured him
like the song of the Lorelei, and the wonder was that his body was not
left in some mountain crevasse, "the most beautiful and poetic of all
burials," he once said.

But for him this was not to be, for Fate is fond of irony. The only man
who ever braved the full dangers of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado was
killed by a suburban train in Chicago while on his wedding-tour. Most
bad men die in bed, tenderly cared for by trained nurses in white caps
and big aprons.

Tyndall climbed to the summit of the Matterhorn, ascended the so-called
inaccessible peak of the Weisshorn, scaled Mont Blanc three times, and
once was caught in an avalanche, riding toward death at the rate of a
mile a minute. Yet he pas