No. 27.

NOODLES.

NOTWITHSTANDING the march of intellect,' and the great exertions now made for the diffusion of useful knowledge, there are still to be found in every sphere of life not a few who may be denominated Noodles. We have met of late years with many worthy persons, who imagined that when once the 'schoolmaster' was fairly abroad, the noodles, like the rest of the community, would be benefited by his labours. They thought it impossible that these would remain stationary when every body else was going a-head.' The showers of knowledge which were descending in all directions from the press could not fail, they argued, to penetrate into the hardest and thickest heads among them. Nay, some of the more enthusiastic renovators of society hinted that they had no doubt but that their friend the 'schoolmaster' would put an effectual extinguisher on the whole class. The hopes of these worthy men have, however, been rather disappointed. They are still in a flourishing condition. To us this is no matter of marvel. They form, in truth, an element in the great social system. They are part of the material (and often a considerable part) of which the great web of society is composed; it is therefore idle to fancy we shall get entirely quit of them. Like the poor, they will never cease from the land. There were noodles at the beginning, and there will be noodles to the end.

Before we proceed to mention a few specimens of the class, it is needful that we should give a general geographical sketch of the Kingdom of Noodledom, in order that the uninitiated may have some distinct idea as to its locality and boundaries. Society may be said to be made up of two classes, the sane and the insane. Between these, however, there is a third class, dwelling in a sort of debatable land, bounded on one side by the territory of those who are sane and sensible, and on the other by that of those who are mad as March hares.' It is in this neutral ground, where the inhabitants are neither altogether sound in their intellects nor thoroughly crackbrained, that our heroes have their place of habitation. There are various degrees of noodleism. Some are immeasurably dull and stupid; others, again, are flighty and hair-brained. It is not at all necessary that a man should be to a certain extent crazed in order to constitute him a noodle. The truth is, it is perfectly possible for him to be in the full possession of all the faculties he was ever blessed with, and yet still be a noodle and nothing but a noodle. Indeed a man requires a certain portion of intellect to be a noodle. It may be very small, a mere glimmering, barely sufficient to create a sort of darkness in his mind, but he could not do without it. Un

PRICE 1d.

less he possessed a small modicum of intellect, he would be a simple fool; but having wherewithal to keep him somewhat on the sunny side of sanity, he takes rank as a noodle. He is therefore a superior person to a fool. He no doubt at times talks and acts somewhat like a fool, but there is always a spice of rationality about what he says and does, which clearly distinguishes him from one. He is frequently a harum scarum half-witted being, who, though by no means a Solon, has at least two ideas in his brain. They may not be very bright, but they bear each other company, and prevent the noodle's mind from being an absolute vacuum. It is this mingling of a small modicum of intellect with a pretty considerable amount of stupidity, absurdity, and silliness, which constitutes a genuine thorough-paced noodle.

We cannot undertake to describe every variety of the noodle species. Their name is legion. We may, however, notice some of the more prominent of the class. There is the silent noodle and the loquacious noodle. The former is in general lean, lank, and cadaverous; he is as lean in body as in mind. If he is young, he is pale and parched-looking, with sleek smooth hair, green spectacles, and oftentimes a drop at the tip of his nose. If he is getting up in years, or ears (for a noodle can scarcely be said to have arrived at the years of discretion), he is generally considerably bald, or sports a wig which can never under any circumstances be mistaken for natural hair. He has a very staid look, reminding one of an owl in an ivy bush, and he sits so motionless on his chair that one would almost take him for a man of straw, which to a certain extent he is. Those who belong to this class very seldom open their mouths. If they are not as wise as the Carthusian Monks, they are certainly as taciturn. As Miss Mitford would say, they have a 'remarkable gift of silence.' On some rare occasion they will perhaps utter half-a-dozen words, or perchance venture to hazard some profound observations respecting the weather, but the sound of their voice seems almost to terrify them, and they soon relapse into their wonted taciturnity. As to entering into conversation with a noodle, the thing is quite impossible. You may direct your discourse to him, but he will merely answer you with monosyllables and exclamations; or if he is far gone in noodleism, he will content himself with shrugging his shoulders, or waving his hand, or peradventure he will nod his head in such a solemn and mysterious manner as will impress you with an idea that he is a perfect Solon. It is only after he opens his mouth you discover he is merely a solan goose. Coleridge gives us a very amusing account of an adventure with one of these nooding noodles. He was dining at the table of a friend. The person who sat next him was a little, lean,

lanthern-jawed man. He listened with profound attention to every thing that Coleridge said. He of course never responded, but appeared such a profound listener, and withal nodded his head so appropriately and heartily, that the author of the Ancient Mariner' began to regard his companion as a sensible man. Had the noodle contented himself with merely nodding his head all would have been well with him, and Coleridge would have remained ignorant that he had been pouring forth the rich pearls of his intellect to one of the species. In an unlucky moment, however, the unfortunate noodle ventured upon a remark. Towards the end of the repast apple dumplings were placed upon the table. No sooner did the hitherto silent man behold the dumplings than his tongue became loosened, and he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with joy, Them's the jockeys for me!' This was quite enough. These few words revealed the true character of the man. In our speculations respecting noodles we have always been sorely puzzled to understand how any of the silent order ever get married. They no doubt often look, or rather stare, with lack lustre eyes at the fair daughters of Eve, but we never heard of one of them venturing to enter into conversation with any of them. How then can they, under this 'silent system,' carry on the pleasant preliminaries of marriage? How can they carry out the delectable details of sighing and whispering? How can they find out each other's tastes and distastes? How can they discover each other's mental and moral gifts? Above all, how can the noodle, unless his tongue, in some happy moment, becomes suddenly loosened, pop the question? Truly the way of a noodle in such matters baffles our comprehension. It is clear notwithstanding, whatever means they employ, that the noodles generally contrive, some way or other, to get married, and not unfrequently too to ladies remarkable both for beauty and accomplishments. There is a mystery in this matter which we cannot comprehend. Perhaps, after all, the ladies court the noodles. We don't see why they should not. This is a free country, and if the ladies choose to stoop to conquer' even a noodle, we do not see why they should be prevented. Many of the species are worth the conquering. Not a few of them are men well to do in the world-sleek well-conditioned men-who, though they have little in their heads, have plenty in their purses, and if they have the misfortune to have short tempers, have the luck to have long rent-rolls. No wonder that the fair sex should setman-traps' for such game. They are worth winning. If a noodle can give them a local habitation and a name,' they are quite right to take him. It is a good match,' and what more would they have. Besides, after all, the noodles make excellent husbands; quiet, good-natured, obedient creatures. A noodle, if he is in comfortable circumstances, is in more senses than one quite a treasure to a woman. He can either be frightened or flattered to do any thing. He is entirely under petticoat government, and of course never contradicts his wife, but allows her to lead him about by the nose whithersoever she

listeth.

The talking noodles are considerably more numerous than their silent brethren. The outer man' of these two orders of noodles is also in most cases very different. The talking noodle is a fat, fresh, rosy-faced biped, with curly hair and little restless eyes. He generally contrives to make a considerable noise in the world. He talks incessantly. Morning, noon, and night, in season and out of season, he is constantly talking. If he was to talk downright nonsense it would be bearable, it might sometimes be even amusing; but it is pure unadulterated drivel, regular twaddle. He will tell you interminable stories about people that you never saw or heard of, and he will bore you to death with endless arguments and facts about some threadbare question which he has taken into his head is of great importance. Rather than remain silent, he will rehearse in your ears all his private concerns; ay, he will declaim on some subject of which he knows nothing. Indeed the less a noodle knows about a subject the more eager he is to speak about it. In private circles,

he is sometimes a source of infinite amusement; but when he happens to have anything to do with the real business of life, he becomes a source of annoyance to every one who has to do with him. If, for instance, the noodle is a member of a town-council, or a commissioner of police, or a member of some committee, he is sure to keep the whole of his associates in a perpetual pucker and passion. He is continually making speeches, or entering protests, or making amendments, or moving resolutions. He cannot for the life of him remain silent. He is everlastingly on his legs, talking at the top of his voice about something or other. If he is not moving some resolution, or protesting against some measure, he is sure to be shouting hear, hear,' or expressing vehement marks of disapprobation. A noodle, when he is a member of a towncouncil, or a committee-man, &c., generally evinces no small importance in the discharge of his duties. His zeal knows no bounds. He is resolved to put every thing to rights, in which endeavour, however, he generally contrives to put every thing wrong. The civic noodle is generally a great hunter down of nuisances. Perhaps some waggish friend, who knows the noodle's weak side, suggests to him that one of the public wells ought to be removed, or perhaps he may have made this important discovery himself. Be that as it may, the public well is with him the all-absorbing topic. It becomes a sort of monomania. He writes paragraphs and letters in the newspapers, urging the necessity of the immediate removal of the public well. At private parties, it is the still beginning never ending theme of his discourse, and if he meets any acquaintance in the street, he incontinently seizes hold of him by the button and rehearses in his ear his project for removing the public well.

There are perhaps fewer noodles amongst the lawyers than amongst the other two learned bodies. The law requires men of clear heads, with both talent and tact to guide them in their profession. These qualities of course a noodle does not possess. If a noodle succeeds in the law, it is by dint of pure interest and favour. In general he sinks, by the mere weight of his noodleism, to the under grades of his profession, gliding from one subordinate situation into another, and passing all the days of his mortal existence as a mere quill-driver at the desk's dry board.' It is different in the other two learned professions. In medicine and divinity there is ample scope and verge enough for the noodle to go on his way rejoicing. In the medical profession there are a vast number of silent noodles. These men live by saying nothing, and often by doing nothing. They go about in the dress of their order, look exceedingly grave, feel the pulse of their patients with chronometer in hand, shake their heads mysteriously when any question is asked them, write a prescription, and often walk out of the sick chamber without uttering half-a-dozen words during their visit. They leave behind them, however (and herein consists their craftiness), a profound impression of their superior professional skill. The patient and his relations have been struck with awe by the noodle's silence and solemnity. The oracular and mysterious way in which he shakes his head has convinced them that his knowledge is unbounded, and that their ailing friend is quite safe in the hands of such a gifted man. Amongst the members of the healing art there are an immense number of talking noodles. They have an endless store of small talk, and have a most plausible and insinuating way of nestling themselves into the good graces of the public. They can be all things to all men, and to all women too. These talking noodles are wise in their generation; by their much speaking they often succeed in feathering their nest pretty comfortably. They will talk with the patient about his disease, his feelings, and sensations, and enlighten (or rather darken) him with most erudite discussions about his lungs and liver, and stomach and bowels, while ever and anon they will pour forth such torrents of professional jargon, interlarded with mysterious scraps of Latin, that the sick man and his relations will regard the noodle as a perfect Hippocrates.

The clerical noodles belong of course all to the talking order. Talking is their vocation. Shallow streams make the greatest noise, and the fewer ideas a man has in his head he invariably makes the greater noise in giving them utterance. This holds especially with regard to clerical noodles, because they have all the talk to themselves. In the private circle, a noodle may remain concealed to a certain extent; his friends may keep him in check, and by their own tact may throw a veil over his twaddle. In a pulpit, however, noodleism will always come out. There the noodle reigns and revels in the full amplitude of his nature, floundering in the dark, ever talking, dragging in every thing that comes uppermost in his mind, and smothering his subject under a load of words which no human being can understand. There is a certain instinctive cunning which leads all clerical noodles to choose dark and abstruse topics for the subjects of their discourse. They know quite well that if they were to choose a subject level to ordinary capacities that the nakedness of their intellect would appear. Their hearers feel they have listened to an interminable discourse of an hour or two's length, and they are not a whit wiser of what they have heard. The noodle has done every thing in his power to enlighten them. The two or three ideas he has been blessed with he has almost wrought to death in endeavouring to bring the subject before his hearers. He has ransacked all the corners of his memory for facts bearing upon the subject; his descriptive powers have been taxed to the utmost; metaphors and illustrations he has poured forth without intermission; and he has argued till he is almost black in the face; but unfortunately the poor noodle has involved the subject in greater darkness than he found it. His hearers do not know what to think. They tried to follow the thread of his discourse, but soon found themselves in a labyrinth of confusion. Much did they ponder and cogitate, and sorely did they cudgel their brains, but all to no effect. They could not understand the subject of discourse. They therefore come to the conclusion that the fault lies all with themselves, that they have been listening to a deep divine, a man of profound genius, and that therefore it was no marvel that simple folks such as they could not comprehend him.

DR JAMES HUTTON, to whom the science of geology owes such weighty obligations, was born at Edinburgh on the 3d of June, 1726. His father, a merchant highly respected for his integrity, was for some time treasurer to the city. He died while James was very young, but Mrs Hutton bestowed on her son a liberal education, first in the High School and afterwards in the University, then distinguished by the teaching of the celebrated Maclaurin. Stevenson, professor of logic, had, however, more influence in directing his future studies, by a casual allusion to the solution of gold in aqua regia-the two acids which singly can dissolve the baser metals, requiring to be united before they can attack the most precious. This drew Hutton's attention to chemistry, a love for which decided the whole course and complexion of his future life.

His first destination was the law; and in 1743 he was bound apprentice to Mr Chalmers, a writer to the signet. But it was soon apparent that this was not the field in which he was to succeed, and his master kindly advised him to think of some more congenial employment. In the following year, therefore, he began the study of medicine in the University, and pursued it till 1747, when he repaired to Paris, where he continued his study of chemistry and anatomy with great ardour for two years. He returned home by the Netherlands, having taken his degree at Leyden, in September, 1749. His first intention seems to have been to enter on the practice of his profession; but having had some communication with Mr

Davie, a chemical friend, regarding a project for establishing a manufactory of sal ammonia from coal soot, he abandoned this design, and resolved to apply himself to agriculture. This science was then but imperfectly understood in Scotland, and he therefore, in 1752, went to reside for some time in Norfolk, whence he made excursions on foot into different parts of England. Though agriculture was his main object, yet he had become fond of studying the surface of the earth, and of looking into every pit, or ditch, or bed of a river that came in his way. Not contented with what was to be learned at home, he extended his researches in 1754 to Holland, Brabant, Flanders and Picardy, with the garden culture of which countries he was highly delighted. He now returned home and settled himself to improve a small property he had inherited from his father in Berwickshire. It is related that before leaving Norfolk he bought a plough, hired a ploughman, and brought both home with him on the post-chaise. The neighbours were diverted with this assortment of company and baggage, and no less with the attempt which followed, to plough with a pair of horses without a driver. This joke, however, has become serious; the practice is now general from one end of Scotland to the other; and Hutton has the merit of beginning that course of agricultural improvement for which this country is now so justly celebrated.

A geological journey to the north of Scotland, in 1764, was one of the few incidents that diversified fourteen years spent chiefly in rural retirement. Next year he entered into a regular co-partnership with Mr Davie in the manufactory already mentioned, which proved a source of considerable gain to him. In 1768 he let his Berwickshire farm, and afterwards resided chiefly in Edinburgh, employing his leisure time in scientific researches, especially chemical experiments. The structure of the earth was already occupying his thoughts; and in 1774 he made a tour through part of England and Wales, principally with a view to this study. He had now become a skilful mineralogist, and carefully perused books of travels in order to extract from them materials for a knowledge of the natural history of the globe. The great outlines of his theory had been formed for some time, but it had been communicated only to a few of his intimate friends, when the formation of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, in 1783, gave him an opportunity of making it more generally known. Unfortunately, the obscurity of the style, the conciseness of the statements, and the novelty of the doctrines, opposed its popularity, and it remained in a great measure unknown, till brought anew before the public in the illustrations of his eloquent disciple. Even yet the theory is little understood and frequently misrepresented, whilst the truths it maintains are introduced to the world as new discoveries.

But

Dr Hutton's object was, not to explain the first origin of things, which he considered as beyond the field of legitimate speculation, but only to trace the changes that terrestrial bodies have undergone since the establishment of the present order, so far as distinct marks of these remain. For this purpose he drew attention to certain general facts observable on the earth, and to the conclusions naturally deducible from them. The first fact is the existence of fragmentary rocks-rocks apparently composed of the wreck or ruins of an older world. He perceived that all true strata or beds were of this nature, and hence formed of rocks older than themselves. these strata must once have been composed of loose materials, deposited, as is shown by the form of the beds, at the bottom of the sea, whereas they are now hard and firmly consolidated. This second fact implies that they have been acted on by some general and very powerful agent, which, he believes, could be no other than subterranean heat. Any diversity in its effects from those produced by fire on bodies at the surface of the earth, are to be explained by the vast compression which must have prevailed in the region where it acted. Under the weight of a superincumbent ocean, even intense heat might fail to volatilize many substances, and by forcing them to re

lanthern-jawed man. He listened with profound attention to every thing that Coleridge said. He of course never responded, but appeared such a profound listener, and withal nodded his head so appropriately and heartily, that the author of the Ancient Mariner' began to regard his companion as a sensible man. Had the noodle contented himself with merely nodding his head all would have been well with him, and Coleridge would have remained ignorant that he had been pouring forth the rich pearls of his intellect to one of the species. In an unlucky moment, however, the unfortunate noodle ventured upon a remark. Towards the end of the repast apple dumplings were placed upon the table. No sooner did the hitherto silent man behold the dumplings than his tongue became loosened, and he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with joy, 'Them's the jockeys for me!' This was quite enough. These few words revealed the true character of the man. In our speculations respecting noodles we have always been sorely puzzled to understand how any of the silent order ever get married. They no doubt often look, or rather stare, with lack lustre eyes at the fair daughters of Eve, but we never heard of one of them venturing to enter into conversation with any of them. How then can they, under this silent system,' carry on the pleasant preliminaries of marriage? How can they carry out the delectable details of sighing and whispering? How can they find out each other's tastes and distastes? How can they discover each other's mental and moral gifts? Above all, how can the noodle, unless his tongue, in some happy moment, becomes suddenly loosened, pop the question? Truly the way of a noodle in such matters battles our comprehension. It is clear notwithstanding, whatever means they employ, that the noodles generally contrive, some way or other, to get married, and not unfrequently too to ladies remarkable both for beauty and accomplishments. There is a mystery in this matter which we cannot comprehend. Perhaps, after all, the ladies court the noodles. We don't see why they should not. This is a free country, and if the ladies choose to stoop to conquer' even a noodle, we do not see why they should be prevented. Many of the species are worth the conquering. Not a few of them are men well to do in the world--sleek well-conditioned men-who, though they have little in their heads, have plenty in their purses, and if they have the misfortune to have short tempers, have the luck to have long rent-rolls. No wonder that the fair sex should set 'man-traps' for such game. They are worth winning. If a noodle can give them a local habitation and a name,' they are quite right to take him. It is a 'good match,' and what more would they have. Besides, after all, the noodles make excellent husbands; quiet, good-natured, obedient creatures. A noodle, if he is in comfortable circumstances, is in more senses than one quite a treasure to a woman. He can either be frightened or flattered to do any thing. He is entirely under petticoat government, and of course never contradicts his wife, but allows her to lead him about by the nose whithersoever she listeth.

The talking noodles are considerably more numerous than their silent brethren. The outer man' of these two orders of noodles is also in most cases very different. The talking noodle is a fat, fresh, rosy-faced biped, with curly hair and little restless eyes. He generally contrives to make a considerable noise in the world. He talks incessantly. Morning, noon, and night, in season and out of season, he is constantly talking. If he was to talk downright nonsense it would be bearable, it might sometimes be even amusing; but it is pure unadulterated drivel, regular twaddle. He will tell you interminable stories about people that you never saw or heard of, and he will bore you to death with endless arguments and facts about some threadbare question which he has taken into his head is of great importance. Rather than remain silent, he will rehearse in your ears all his private concerns; ay, he will declaim on some subject of which he knows nothing. Indeed the less a noodle knows about a subject the more eager he is to speak about it. In private circles,

he is sometimes a source of infinite amusement; but when he happens to have anything to do with the real business of life, he becomes a source of annoyance to every one who has to do with him. If, for instance, the noodle is a member of a town-council, or a commissioner of police, or a member of some committee, he is sure to keep the whole of his associates in a perpetual pucker and passion. He is continually making speeches, or entering protests, or making amendments, or moving resolutions. He cannot for the life of him remain silent. He is everlastingly on his legs, talking at the top of his voice about something or other. If he is not moving some resolution, or protesting against some measure, he is sure to be shouting hear, hear,' or expressing vehement marks of disapprobation. A noodle, when he is a member of a towncouncil, or a committee-man, &c., generally evinces no small importance in the discharge of his duties. His zeal knows no bounds. He is resolved to put every thing to rights, in which endeavour, however, he generally contrives to put every thing wrong. The civic noodle is generally a great hunter down of nuisances. Perhaps some waggish friend, who knows the noodle's weak side, suggests to him that one of the public wells ought to be removed, or perhaps he may have made this important discovery himself. Be that as it may, the public well is with him the all-absorbing topic. It becomes a sort of monomania. He writes paragraphs and letters in the newspapers, urging the necessity of the immediate removal of the public well. At private parties, it is the still beginning never ending theme of his discourse, and if he meets any acquaintance in the street, he incontinently seizes hold of him by the button and rehearses in his ear his project for removing the public well.

There are perhaps fewer noodles amongst the lawyers than amongst the other two learned bodies. The law requires men of clear heads, with both talent and tact to guide them in their profession. These qualities of course a noodle does not possess. If a noodle succeeds in the law, it is by dint of pure interest and favour. In general he sinks, by the mere weight of his noodleism, to the under grades of his profession, gliding from one subordinate situation into another, and passing all the days of his mortal existence as a mere quill-driver at the desk's dry board.' It is different in the other two learned professions. In medicine and divinity there is ample scope and verge enough for the noodle to go on his way rejoicing. In the medical profession there are a vast number of silent noodles. These men live by saying nothing, and often by doing nothing. They go about in the dress of their order, look exceedingly grave, feel the pulse of their patients with chronometer in hand, shake their heads mysteriously when any question is asked them, write a prescription, and often walk out of the sick chamber without uttering half-a-dozen words during their visit. They leave behind them, however (and herein consists their craftiness), a profound impression of their superior professional skill. The patient and his relations have been struck with awe by the noodle's silence and solemnity. The oracular and mysterious way in which he shakes his head has convinced them that his knowledge is unbounded, and that their ailing friend is quite safe in the hands of such a gifted man. Amongst the members of the healing art there are an immense number of talking noodles. They have an endless store of small talk, and have a most plausible and insinuating way of nestling themselves into the good graces of the public. They can be all things to all men, and to all women too. These talking noodles are wise in their generation; by their much speaking they often succeed in feathering their nest pretty comfortably. They will talk with the patient about his disease, his feelings, and sensations, and enlighten (or rather darken) him with most erudite discussions about his lungs and liver, and stomach and bowels, while ever and anon they will pour forth such torrents of professional jargon, interlarded with mysterious scraps of Latin, that the sick man and his relations will regard the noodle as a perfect Hippocrates.

The clerical noodles belong of course all to the talking order. Talking is their vocation. Shallow streams make the greatest noise, and the fewer ideas a man has in his head he invariably makes the greater noise in giving them utterance. This holds especially with regard to clerical noodles, because they have all the talk to themselves. In the private circle, a noodle may remain concealed to a certain extent; his friends may keep him in check, and by their own tact may throw a veil over his twaddle. In a pulpit, however, noodleism will always come out. There the noodle reigns and revels in the full amplitude of his nature, floundering in the dark, ever talking, dragging in every thing that comes uppermost in his mind, and smothering his subject under a load of words which no human being can understand. There is a certain instinctive cunning which leads all clerical noodles to choose dark and abstruse topics for the subjects of their discourse. They know quite well that if they were to choose a subject level to ordinary capacities that the nakedness of their intellect would appear. Their hearers feel they have listened to an interminable discourse of an hour or two's length, and they are not a whit wiser of what they have heard. The noodle has done every thing in his power to enlighten them. The two or three ideas he has been blessed with he has almost wrought to death in endeavouring to bring the subject before his hearers. He has ransacked all the corners of his memory for facts bearing upon the subject; his descriptive powers have been taxed to the utmost; metaphors and illustrations he has poured forth without intermission; and he has argued till he is almost black in the face; but unfortunately the poor noodle has involved the subject in greater darkness than he found it. His hearers do not know what to think. They tried to follow the thread of his discourse, but soon found themselves in a labyrinth of confusion. Much did they ponder and cogitate, and sorely did they cudgel their brains, but all to no effect. They could not understand the subject of discourse. They therefore come to the conclusion that the fault lies all with themselves, that they have been listening to a deep divine, a man of profound genius, and that therefore it was no marvel that simple folks such as they could not comprehend him.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.

JAMES HUTTON.

DR JAMES HUTTON, to whom the science of geology owes such weighty obligations, was born at Edinburgh on the 3d of June, 1726. His father, a merchant highly respected for his integrity, was for some time treasurer to the city. He died while James was very young, but Mrs Hutton bestowed on her son a liberal education, first in the High School and afterwards in the University, then distinguished by the teaching of the celebrated Maclaurin. Stevenson, professor of logic, had, however, more influence in directing his future studies, by a casual allusion to the solution of gold in aqua regia-the two acids which singly can dissolve the baser metals, requiring to be united before they can attack the most precious. This drew Hutton's attention to chemistry, a love for which decided the whole course and complexion of his future life.

His first destination was the law; and in 1743 he was bound apprentice to Mr Chalmers, a writer to the signet. But it was soon apparent that this was not the field in which he was to succeed, and his master kindly advised him to think of some more congenial employment. In the following year, therefore, he began the study of medicine in the University, and pursued it till 1747, when be repaired to Paris, where he continued his study of chemistry and anatomy with great ardour for two years. He returned home by the Netherlands, having taken his degree at Leyden, in September, 1749. His first intention seems to have been to enter on the practice of his profession; but having had some communication with Mr

Davie, a chemical friend, regarding a project for establishing a manufactory of sal ammonia from coal soot, he abandoned this design, and resolved to apply himself to agriculture. This science was then but imperfectly understood in Scotland, and he therefore, in 1752, went to reside for some time in Norfolk, whence he made excursions on foot into different parts of England. Though agriculture was his main object, yet he had become fond of studying the surface of the earth, and of looking into every pit, or ditch, or bed of a river that came in his way. Not contented with what was to be learned at home, he extended his researches in 1754 to Holland, Brabant, Flanders and Picardy, with the garden culture of which countries he was highly delighted. He now returned home and settled himself to improve a small property he had inherited from his father in Berwickshire. It is related that before leaving Norfolk he bought a plough, hired a ploughman, and brought both home with him on the post-chaise. The neighbours were diverted with this assortment of company and baggage, and no less with the attempt which followed, to plough with a pair of horses without a driver. This joke, however, has become serious; the practice is now general from one end of Scotland to the other; and Hutton has the merit of beginning that course of agricultural improvement for which this country is now so justly celebrated.

A geological journey to the north of Scotland, in 1764, was one of the few incidents that diversified fourteen years spent chiefly in rural retirement. Next year he entered into a regular co-partnership with Mr Davie in the manufactory already mentioned, which proved a source of considerable gain to him. In 1768 he let his Berwickshire farm, and afterwards resided chiefly in Edinburgh, employing his leisure time in scientific researches, especially chemical experiments. The structure of the earth was already occupying his thoughts; and in 1774 he made a tour through part of England and Wales, principally with a view to this study. He had now become a skilful mineralogist, and carefully perused books of travels in order to extract from them materials for a knowledge of the natural history of the globe. The great outlines of his theory had been formed for some time, but it had been communicated only to a few of his intimate friends, when the formation of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, in 1783, gave him an opportunity of making it more generally known. Unfortunately, the obscurity of the style, the conciseness of the statements, and the novelty of the doctrines, opposed its popularity, and it remained in a great measure unknown, till brought anew before the public in the illustrations of his eloquent disciple. Even yet the theory is little understood and frequently misrepresented, whilst the truths it maintains are introduced to the world as new discoveries.

But

Dr Hutton's object was, not to explain the first origin of things, which he considered as beyond the field of legitimate speculation, but only to trace the changes that terrestrial bodies have undergone since the establishment of the present order, so far as distinct marks of these remain. For this purpose he drew attention to certain general facts observable on the earth, and to the conclusions naturally deducible from them. The first fact is the existence of fragmentary rocks-rocks apparently composed of the wreck or ruins of an older world. He perceived that all true strata or beds were of this nature, and hence formed of rocks older than themselves. these strata must once have been composed of loose materials, deposited, as is shown by the form of the beds, at the bottom of the sea, whereas they are now hard and firmly consolidated. This second fact implies that they have been acted on by some general and very powerful agent, which, he believes, could be no other than subterranean heat. Any diversity in its effects from these produced by fire on bodies at the surface of the earth, are to be explained by the vast compression which must have prevailed in the region where it acted. Under the weight of a superincumbent ocean, even intense heat might fail to volatilize many substances, and by forcing them to re