Part 30 (1/2)

”Lightning is electricity,” said Silence Dogood. ”It can be drawn away from points of danger; no one need be struck by lightning if he will protect himself.”

”G.o.d himself,” once said a writer, ”could not strike one by lightning if one were insulated, without violating his own laws.”

And now came the consummation of one of the grandest experiments of time. He charged the Leyden jar from the clouds.

”Stand back!”

He touched his hand boldly to the magical bottle. A shock thrilled him.

His dreams had come true. He had conquered one of the most potent elements on earth.

The storm pa.s.sed, the clouds broke, the wind swept by, and the birds sang again over the bending clover. Night serene with stars came on.

That was probably the happiest day in all Franklin's eventful life. Like the patriarch of old, ”his children were about him.” He shared his triumph with the son whom he loved.

But--he sent a paper on the results of his observation in electricity to the Royal Society at London, in which he announced his discovery that lightning was electricity. The society did not deem it worth publis.h.i.+ng; it was a neglected ma.n.u.script, and as for his theory in regard to the electric fluid and universality, that, we are told by Franklin's biographers, ”was laughed at.”

But his views had set all Europe to experimenting. Scientists everywhere were proving that his theories were true. France had become very much excited over the discovery, and was already hailing the philosopher's name with shouts of admiration. Franklin's fame filled Europe, and the greatest of British societies began to honor him. It was Doctor Franklin now!--The honorary degree came to him from many inst.i.tutions.--Doctor from England, Doctor from France, Doctor from American colleges.

The boy who had shared his penny rolls with the poor woman and her child sat down to hear the world praising him.

The facts that lightning was electricity or electricity was lightning, that it was positive and negative, that it could be controlled, that life could be made safe in the thunder gust, were but the beginning of a series of triumphs that have come to make messengers of the lightning, and brought the nations of the world in daily communication with each other. But the wizardlike Edison has shown that the influences direct and indirect of that June day of 1752 may have yet only begun. What magnetism and its currents are to reveal in another century we can not tell; it fills us with silence and awe to read the prophecies of the scientists of to-day. The electrical mystery is not only moving us and all things; we are burning it, we are making it medicine, health, life.

What may it not some day reveal in regard to a spiritual body or the human soul?

The centuries to come can only reveal what will be the end of Franklin's discovery that lightning might be controlled to become the protector and the servant of man. Even his imagination could hardly have forecast the achievements which the imp of the magical bottle would one day accomplish in this blind world. It is not that lightning is electricity, but that electricity is subject to laws, that has made the fiery substance the wonder-worker of the age.

If Uncle Ben, the poet, could have seen this day, how would his heart have rejoiced!

Jane Mecom--Jenny--heard of the fame of her brother by every paper brought by the post. She delighted to tell her old mother the weekly news about Benjamin. One day, when he had received honors from one of the great scientific societies, Abiah said to her daughter:

”You helped Ben in his early days--I can see now that you did.”

”How, mother?”

”By believing in him when hardly any one else did. We build up people by believing in them. My dim eyes see it all now. I love to think of the past,” she continued, ”when you and Ben were so happy together--the days of Uncle Benjamin. I love to think of the old family Thanksgivings. What wonderful days were those when the old clock-cleaner came! How he took the dumb, dusty clock to pieces, and laid it out on the table! How Ben would say, 'you can never make that clock tick again!' and you, Jenny, whose faith never failed, would answer, 'Yes, Ben, he can!' How the old man would break open a walnut and extract the oil from the meat, and apply it with a feather to the little axles of the wheels, and then put the works together, and the clock would go better than before! Do you remember it, Jane? How, then, your wondering eyes would look upon the clock miracle and delight in your faith, and say, 'I told you so, Ben.'

How he would kiss you in your happiness that your prophecy had come true. He had said 'No' that you might say 'Yes.'”

”Do you think that his thoughts turn home, mother?”

There was a whir of wings in the chimney.

”More to a true nature than a noisy applause of the crowd is the simple faith of one honest heart,” said Abiah Folger in return. ”In the silence and desolation of life, which may come to all, such sympathy is the only fountain to which one can turn. Our best thoughts fly homeward like swallows to old chimneys, where they last year brooded over their young, and center in the true hearts left at the fireside. Every true heart is true to his home, and to the graves of those with whom it shared the years when life lay fair before it. Yes, Jane, he thinks of you.”

She was right. Jenny had helped her brother by believing in him when he most needed such faith.

There is some good angel, some Jenny, who comes into every one's life.

Happy is he who feels the heart touch of such an one, and yields to such unselfish spiritual visions. To do this is to be led by a gentle hand into the best that there is in life.

In sacred hours the voices of these home angels come back to the silent chambers of the heart. We then see that our best hopes were in them, and wish that we could retune the broken chords of the past. The home voice is always true, and we find it so at last.