"Dear Mrs. Faraday,--Although I have not the pleasure of knowing you, I cannot resist sending you a few lines to tell you how deeply grieved and distressed I am to hear of the death of your husband, Professor Faraday. Having had the great pleasure of knowing him for some years, and having heard his interesting lectures when quite a boy, I can fully appreciate how great the loss must be, not only to you, but to the whole country at large, where his name was deeply venerated by all classes. His name will not only be remembered as a great and distinguished scientific man, but also as a good man, whose excellent and amiable qualities were so universally known. Pardon my trespassing so soon on your great grief, and believe me, dear Mrs. Faraday, yours very sincerely, "ALBERT EDWARD." A very interesting yet pathetic letter was read from Dr. Tyndall, which, coming as it did from a man who had so well known and so thoroughly appreciated Faraday, is of great interest to us. "As Faraday recedes from me in time," wrote Tyndall, "he becomes to me more and more beautiful. Anything, therefore, calculated to do honour to his memory must command my entire sympathy. But the utmost liberty I can now allow myself is to be shifted from my bed to a couch, and wheeled to a position near the window, from which I can see the bloom of the gorse and the brown of the heather. Thus, considerations affecting the body only present an insuperable barrier to my going to London on Wednesday."