Young Scientists: Michael Faraday, a Shocking Sort of Fellow

The nineteenth century is filled with people who started out in one direction and took another turn to fame.  Michael Faraday is just such a person.  A largely self-taught lad and the son of a blacksmith, he was apprenticed to a bookbinder in London when he was 14.  Reading the books he was binding gave him a great appreciation of science.  A customer of his master provided him with tickets to lectures by famed chemist Humphry Davy at the Royal Institution, England’s premiere laboratory.  Faraday was so fascinated by the demonstration that he took copious notes (some say up to 300 pages!), sending them to the scientist himself.  Davy was sufficiently impressed that he hired Faraday as his assistant.

Some, including Davy’s wife, refused to see Faraday as a gentleman.  He was even asked to step in as Davy’s valet when the previous valet quit.  However, valeting had its privileges.  Faraday traveled with Davy on a Grand Tour through France, Italy, and Switzerland, meeting the elite scientists of the day.  On Davy’s recommendation, he was made Chemical Assistant to the Royal Institution.  Following in Davy’s footsteps, he explored the properties of chlorine and other gasses. 

But what really fascinated him was electricity, which at that time was little more than a game to shock people at parties.  He squeezed in his own experiments while helping other scientists, using what materials were available.  For example, he constructed a voltaic pile using half pennies, sheet zinc, and paper wet with saltwater.  He discovered the principles behind the electric transformer and generator and made many other foundational discoveries, earning him credit for inventing the electric motor. He also took over the limelight at the Royal Institution, becoming an even more popular lecturer than Humphry Davy.

 

And people began to take notice.  Oxford University made him an honorary Ph.D. in Civil Law. He was offered a knighthood and refused.  He was twice suggested for president of the Royal Society, England’s professional scientific organization, and refused.  Supposedly he was asked to advise on the production of chemical weapons, and he refused.  He was, however, elected as a foreign member of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences and the French Academy of Sciences.

One of his last areas of research was ways to improve lighthouses to help keep ships from floundering.  His recommendations were so well received that Prince Albert arranged for him to be given a house at Hampton Court, quite an elevation for a boy born to a blacksmith.

Some might even call it shocking.

Scientists of Sundry Varieties

Not too far from where I live is a major national laboratory where amazing things are discovered on a regular basis, and I count myself fortunate to have worked with some of the fine scientists and engineers over the years. In fact, some families are on the second and third generation of scientists working there. But if you were a young gentleman of a scientific bent in the nineteenth century, your journey to greatness might have taken an entirely different path.

To begin with, the very term scientist was relatively new. Those interested in observing natural phenomenon and developing and testing theories about it were more likely called natural philosophers in the early part of the century. That’s why the journal of the Royal Society, Britain’s oldest chartered scientific association, is called Philosophical Transactions. Then too, you didn’t need an advanced degree or any degree at all to call yourself a natural philosopher. William Herschel, who is credited with the discovery of the planet Uranus, began life as a talented musician and composer. Humphry Davy, who discovered the properties of laughing gas and the elements calcium, magnesium, boron, and barium, had a grammar school education and once hoped to be a poet.

There was one requirement of a natural philosopher, though. You had to have someone willing to foot the bill for your efforts. Sometimes that might be your family. Sir Joseph Banks, president of the Royal Society for many years, came from wealth and was able to pay someone to tutor him in his chosen field of study, botany. Other times, you apprenticed to someone already working in your field of interest. Michael Faraday, the noted chemist and physicist, worked as secretary and valet for Humphry Davy for a time. And if you were wealthy enough, you could pay all the costs yourself and putter away to your heart’s content. The term used for this last category of natural philosopher is Grand Amateur, and Phileas Fogg of Jules Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days is a memorable example.

If you wanted to make a living at science, however, you had two choices. One was to lecture or run a laboratory at an established institution. The premier of these was the Royal Institution in London. It had been founded near the turn of the century to bring attention to advances in science and technology among the public. Your other choice was to discover something noteworthy like a new element or unknown planet or build up such a body of knowledge that the Royal Society would take note and elect you as a Fellow. The Royal Society was nearly 200 years old by the mid-nineteenth century. At the beginning of the century, it comprised both scientists and wealthy peers those scientists hoped would pay to sponsor their work. By 1847, however, Fellows were elected based on their scientific prowess alone.

And if someone in power, like one of those Grand Amateurs who happened to be a baron or duke, took note of your work, you might be referred to the ruler for a knighthood and even offered an annual salary. Often the salary came with appointment as an officer of the Sovereign, such as in the case of the Astronomer Royal. Even if you weren’t officially appointed to a position, there was the expectation that you would use that salary to allow you to continue working for the betterment of the nation.

Much like the scientists I know today.