On the following morning, I went up to his room and said on entering that I had come to him with some anxiety of mind. He demanded its cause, and I responded:--'Lest you should have decided against the wishes of the deputation that waited on you yesterday.' 'You would not urge me to undertake this responsibility,' he said. 'I not only urge you,' was my reply, 'but I consider it your bounden duty to accept it.' He spoke of the labour that it would involve; urged that it was not in his nature to take things easy; and that if he became president, he would surely have to stir many new questions, and agitate for some changes. I said that in such cases he would find himself supported by the youth and strength of the Royal Society.
This, however, did not seem to satisfy him. Mrs. Faraday came into the room, and he appealed to her. Her decision was adverse, and I deprecated her decision. 'Tyndall,' he said at length, 'I must remain plain Michael Faraday to the last; and let me now tell you, that if I accepted the honour which the Royal Society desires to confer upon me, I would not answer for the integrity of my intellect for a single year.' I urged him no more, and Lord Wrottesley had a most worthy successor in Sir Benjamin Brodie.
After the death of the Duke of Northumberland, our Board of Managers wished to see Mr. Faraday finish his career as President of the Institution, which he had entered on weekly wages more than half a century before. But he would have nothing to do with the presidency. He wished for rest, and the reverent affection of his friends was to him infinitely more precious than all the honours of official life.
The first requisite of the intellectual life of Faraday was the independence of his mind; and though prompt to urge obedience where obedience was due, with every right assertion of manhood he intensely sympathized. Even rashness on the side of honour found from him ready forgiveness, if not open applause. The wisdom of years, tempered by a character of this kind, rendered his counsel peculiarly precious to men sensitive like himself. I often sought that counsel, and, with your permission, will illustrate its character by one or two typical instances.
In 1855, I was appointed examiner under the Council for Military Education. At that time, as indeed now, I entertained strong convictions as to the enormous utility of physical science to officers of artillery and engineers, and whenever opportunity offered, I expressed this conviction without reserve. I did not think the recognition, though considerable, accorded to physical science in those examinations at all proportionate to its importance; and this probably rendered me more jealous than I otherwise should have been of its claims.
In Trinity College, Dublin, a school had been organized with reference to the Woolwich examinations, and a large number of exceedingly well-instructed young gentlemen were sent over from Dublin, to compete for appointments in the artillery and the engineers. The result of one examination was particularly satisfactory to me; indeed the marks obtained appeared so eloquent that I forbore saying a word about them. My colleagues, however, followed the usual custom of sending in brief reports with their returns of marks. After the results were published, a leading article appeared in 'The Times,' in which the reports were largely quoted, praise being bestowed on all the candidates, except the excellent young fellows who had passed through my hands.
A letter from Trinity College drew my attention to this article, bitterly complaining that whereas the marks proved them to be the best of all, the science candidates were wholly ignored. I tried to set matters right by publishing, on my own responsibility, a letter in 'The Times.' The act, I knew, could not bear justification from the War Office point of view; and I expected and risked the displeasure of my superiors. The merited reprimand promptly came.
'Highly as the Secretary of State for War might value the expression of Professor Tyndall's opinion, he begged to say that an examiner, appointed by His Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief, had no right to appear in the public papers as Professor Tyndall has done, without the sanction of the War Office.' Nothing could be more just than this reproof, but I did not like to rest under it. I wrote a reply, and previous to sending it took it up to Faraday. We sat together before his fire, and he looked very earnest as he rubbed his hands and pondered. The following conversation then passed between us:--F. You certainly have received a reprimand, Tyndall; but the matter is over, and if you wish to accept the reproof, you will hear no more about it.
T. But I do not wish to accept it.
F. Then you know what the consequence of sending that letter will be?
T. I do.
F. They will dismiss you.
T. I know it.
F. Then send the letter!
The letter was firm, but respectful; it acknowledged the justice of the censure, but expressed neither repentance nor regret. Faraday, in his gracious way, slightly altered a sentence or two to make it more respectful still. It was duly sent, and on the following day I entered the Institution with the conviction that my dismissal was there before me. Weeks, however, passed. At length the well-known envelope appeared, and I broke the seal, not doubting the contents.
They were very different from what I expected. 'The Secretary of State for War has received Professor Tyndall's letter, and deems the explanation therein given perfectly satisfactory.' I have often wished for an opportunity of publicly acknowledging this liberal treatment, proving, as it did, that Lord Panmure could discern and make allowance for a good intention, though it involved an offence against routine. For many years subsequently it was my privilege to act under that excellent body, the Council for Military Education.
