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to "do" the room at seven A.M. That fair vestal found the gas burning, and the Doctor fast asleep in his armchair.

In alluding to the event afterwards, Dr. Gaster's friends always

called that vision and sleep the result of "over-study," but his enemies (and what great man is not troubled with such vermin ?) called it "too much of Mrs. Fitz-Jones's champagne."

NATURAL SCIENCE IN ITS HIGHER ASPECTS.

THE nineteenth century will be a memorable period in the world's history. The progress made during it in the knowledge of the material universe is simply marvellous. We have investigated our own peculiar bodily mechanism, peered into the most secret recesses of nature, and have grasped very many of those physical laws by which our world is regulated. Besides, we have turned aside from our own globe,-it was too small for the extent of increasing research, and we have solved the mysteries of the boundless heaven. These investigations of nature which we are bringing to such perfection, were so imperfect till within the last few centuries that they consisted of only a collection of facts, and were thought by the old philosophers unworthy of the name of science. Modern research has, however, accomplished so much that while one in ordinary life may remain ignorant of the vast and subtle machinery of mental science, he cannot remain unacquainted with the most important principles of the philosophy of nature. We have no longer a mere bundle of events and curious phenomena; we have deduced from a study of nature a beautiful system of knowledge, depending one part on another, and all illustrated with surprising ingenuity. It is interesting to note how the learned men of olden time pursued the investigation of nature.

Their

researches extended only to the most ordinary objects within reach. Pythagoras early gave it as his opinion that all nature consisted of earth, air, fire, and water, and that all of these were necessary although antagonistic to each other. All who followed him adopted his opinion, until the time of the middle ages, when the doctrine that all material substances are only modifications of an original element took root. From this arose the idea of the transmutation of metals and the elixir of life. It remained for the invention of many of our most necessary scientific instruments to dispel these illusions. The inability to comprehend causes of the most common events of nature, such as thunder and lightning, or to obtain an understanding of the stars, sun, and the moon, gave rise to many superstitions. Man suffered in many ways from such an absence of scientific knowledge, and it is only by a comparison of our times with those days that we can properly appreciate our advantages.

From an increase in our knowledge of the powers of nature, we derive many of the benefits enjoyed by us at the present day. Although man has not curbed his passions, yet he has come to respect human life and human interests from reasons based on natural science. War is decreasing in its horrors, pain is alleviated by the most appropriate remedies, and life is protected by the

most skilful inventions and carefully prepared medicines.

The world is encompassed by man's knowledge, and as he advances his mundane researches he seeks for exactness and certainty in every branch of his investigations. Measurements of meridians, observations of eclipses, and of transits of planets, for the knowledge of time, light, and the position of the earth in the universe, all occupy his attention. To make his knowledge of the globe greater, exploring expeditions have been sent into ice and snow to seek out the hitherto inaccessible North Pole, and across burning deserts to trace the line of the Equator.

What is the object of all this various and complex research amid the mysteries of nature? The readiest answer that can be given is that it advances the material convenience of man. But if it could do no more it would not deserve the name of science; it would stand no higher than does the capability of moneygetting. We know that we can span the earth as quick as the lightning flash, that distance is practically annihilated, and places are brought near, that familiar voices may be heard from afar, and that every comfort and luxury is furnished us by science. But this can avail us no more than our daily food if it bring us not into closer contemplation of the Creator of what has furnished us the material for our convenience. Science explains the plan of operation manifested in the whole universe, and although it has not reached that point at which it can explain every process of nature, throws a flood of light on the wonders of creation. It reveals the laws that govern the mighty globes revolving amid the immensity of space, and exhibits the reason of the various phenomena of inorganic and animate matter upon the earth, while it points with unerring finger at the solemn and inevitable fact that there is a God. It unveils his majesty in

the lightning and the tempest, it brings us face to face with his power in the earthquake and the flood, and shows his infinite wisdom in the manifold creation of animal and plant to suit the place for which they were designed. No man can be a true natural philosopher and fail to detect the hand of One that is mightier than he in all that goes on around him. The man who makes his researches culminate in the theory that nothing can produce something, is one who forgets the dignity of his manhood, and who imagines he is using his reason to the best advantage when he uses it to destroy his noblest aspirations, and to blot out the belief in a better element of his being.

Science is not the dull spiritless vocation of one wearily plodding on with the vain hope of grasping the unattainable, of acquiring the knowledge and power of the Deity, but it has usefulness, and possesses a living force more fascinating, perhaps, for its student than music is for the musician, painting for the artist, or the muse for the poet. It has, indeed, true poetry: for what is poetry? It is the language of the beautiful. Coleridge says it is "the blossom and fragrance of all human emotions, passions, human thoughts, and knowledge." Truly a poetic definition, and one that expresses the poetry of natural science; for this is a branch of human knowledge which possesses blossom and fragrance in plenty. Poets derive much of their poetry from the contemplation of external nature, and if the external give such a vibration to the more delicate chords of the human soul, why may not a more intimate view of nature cause the same feelings? It seems to be so, for it was said of Sir Humphry Davy that if he had not been the best chemist of his age, he would have been its best poet. Many noted scientific men in their few leisure hours have turned poets for recreation, while others, such as Tyndall

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and Huxley, possess a poetic charm of thought and expression which they seem to use as velvet sheath for the steel of their cunningly devised theories. Dr. Dalton, the eminent physiologist, also manifests the poetic instinct in his admirable descriptions of the senses and powers of the human body, and sometimes invests his subject with as true a poetic halo as the poet does his hero. In fact man cannot approach nature in a kindly manner, even under the guidance of science, without feeling a sense of the beautiful within him, which can only be called the "poetry of the soul," although it does not break forth in words.

Besides, it behooves us to study science as a shield for our most cherished principles of religion. Unfortunately the science of the present day seems directed toward the annihilation of the belief in a personal God, and the worship of him. Misdirected science would have us believe that there is a universal all-pervading force, without any attribute of omniscience or omnipotence, from which all things have been evolved, a belief which we must combat by being able to resist its advocates upon their own ground. The mistake has been made by over

stepping the boundaries of natural science; for it, although apparently so extensive, has its limits. When an astronomer tells us that such a star is so and so we may implicitly trust him, but when he tells us that he finds no God at the end of his telescope, we must consider that he is beyond the bounds of his science. Because a man is a good physicist, it does not follow that he is a good theologian or linguist. Therefore his judgments must be taken for what they are worth; and if he sets himself up in theology or languages, they are probably worth nothing. So must we deal with the theorists of the present day. In their scientific domain we will consider their demonstrations of the greatest value, but any attempt outside of that may be worth nothing, or be positively reprehensible.

In conclusion, then, to quote the sentiments of the Vatican Council, "Let science increase and advance, but always in its own domain, and guided by Revelation: for the same God who revealed the truths of religion is also the God of science, and always the God of truth, and truth can never be in contradiction with truth."

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WHAT an immense difference there is between hearing of an extraordinary fact, between even believing it; that is, simply saying to yourself, "Yes, I suppose it must be true, because everybody seems to take it for granted," and witnessing the same fact in proper person! Reading about the sea, for instance, and making your first sea-voyage; rapidly perusing a book of travels, and beholding for yourself a tropical country; glancing at the report of an execution or a battle, and being actually present at the horrid scene, are, respectively, two quite different affairs. We read Captain Cook's adventures amongst various savage islanders, and even his death by their hands, without any very startling or exceptional impression. It is an amusing romance, a terrible tragedy, no more. We figure to ourselves savages in general as enemies merely as holding with civilized man relations similar to those of the French and English of oldas antagonistic powers, that is all. But an acute observer, who went round the world with his eyes wide open, says that what impressed him

most during the whole of that vast tour was the sight, face to face, of a real savage man. Some years ago a similar surprise was experienced by myself, though not from any fierce untamed fellow-creature, but, on the contrary, from a remarkably inoffensive and well-trained person. I had heard of George Bidder, in his time, that is, when his powers were publicly exhibited. Afterwards, the fame of the mathematical shepherd, Henry Mondeux, had reached my ears. I had regarded the reputation of those celebrities, as mental arithmeticians, with the same nonchalance with which people always regard things of which they are ignorant. But on the occasion in question I was present by invitation, at a private assembly, held to witness the exploits of a young man who was said to solve wonderful problems in his head, and I was also requested to prepare an arithmetical question or two. I did so, chuckling all the while to myself, "If you get through that, my good sir, without help of pen or paper, you are a cleverer fellow than I expect.' The meeting was numerous, the majority (though

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