before Christmas I feel sure.

I remember how my long brooding perpetual motion scheme (which I had
made more than one attempt to realise, but failed owing to insufficient
mechanical dexterity) had been working upon me, depriving me of rest
even, and heating my brain with chateaux d'Espagne of endless variety. I
remember, too, it was Sunday morning when I determined to put the
questions, which neither my wits nor my hands would set at rest, into
some hands for decision, and I determined to go before some tribunal
from whence appeal should be absurd.

But to whom to go? I knew no one among the high priests of science, and
going about with a scheme for perpetual motion was, I knew, for most
people the same thing as courting ridicule among high and low. After all
I fixed upon Faraday, possibly perhaps because I knew where he was to be
found, but in part also because the cool logic of his works made me hope
that my poor scheme would be treated on some other principle than that
of mere previous opinion one way or other. Besides, the known courtesy
and affability of the man encouraged me. So I wrote a letter, drew a
plan, enclosed the two in an envelope, and tremblingly betook myself on
the following afternoon to the Royal Institution.

"Is Dr. Faraday here?" said I to the porter. "No, sir, he has just gone
out." I felt relieved. "Be good enough to give him this letter," and I
was hurrying out when a little man in a brown coat came in at the glass
door. "Here is Dr. Faraday," said the man, and gave him my letter. He
turned to me and courteously inquired what I wished. "To submit to you
that letter, sir, if you are not occupied." "My time is always occupied,
sir, but step this way," and he led me into the museum or library, for I
forget which it was, only I know there was a glass case against which we