natural things to the young, untaught, and inquiring mind.

'You may imagine my delight when I came to know Mrs. Marcet
personally; how often I cast my thoughts backward, delighting to
connect the past and the present; how often, when sending a paper
to her as a thank-offering, I thought of my first instructress,
and such like thoughts will remain with me.

'I have some such thoughts even as regards your own father; who was,
I may say, the first who personally at Geneva, and afterwards by
correspondence, encouraged, and by that sustained me.'

Twelve or thirteen years ago Mr. Faraday and myself quitted the
Institution one evening together, to pay a visit to our friend Grove
in Baker Street. He took my arm at the door, and, pressing it to
his side in his warm genial way, said, 'Come, Tyndall, I will now
show you something that will interest you.' We walked northwards,
passed the house of Mr. Babbage, which drew forth a reference to the
famous evening parties once assembled there. We reached Blandford
Street, and after a little looking about he paused before a
stationer's shop, and then went in. On entering the shop, his usual
animation seemed doubled; he looked rapidly at everything it
contained. To the left on entering was a door, through which he
looked down into a little room, with a window in front facing
Blandford Street. Drawing me towards him, he said eagerly,
'Look there, Tyndall, that was my working-place. I bound books in
that little nook.' A respectable-looking woman stood behind the
counter: his conversation with me was too low to be heard by her,
and he now turned to the counter to buy some cards as an excuse for
our being there. He asked the woman her name--her predecessor's