by such as are good chemists, or dexterous at
mechanical and mathematico-mechanical
contrivances, especially when these concur.

And, lastly, there are many much more
complicated combinations that may be effected
by those who are well acquainted with the
laws of nature, by introducing substances
apparently inert, and having nothing to do with
the operation required. The composition of
gunpowder, wherein the mutual action of
saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal, have to be brought
about, is mentioned as one example, and a
method of gilding iron by previously coating it
with copper in order to bring into use the
ordinary amalgam, is another.

Many more and some very apt illustrations are
given to prove that where so much has been done
and learnt, much more must remain still unlearnt
in economising the resources of nature.

And, certainly, this consideration of men's
ignorance in the uses of natural things is well
shown by reminding us how useful certain
natural things are, and yet how few natural or
possible combinations we do after all avail ourselves
of, compared with those altogether neglected.

It is an excellent lesson, to be reminded now
and then of what we owe to experimental
philosophy, to be told how much of the material
advance of society is really due to the man of science
who labours with the intellect and not with the
hand, how much the hands require the head, and
how mutually dependent are all parts and
members of society. We are thus taught that none
is in a position to despise any other who may be
working in his own sphere, whatever that sphere
may be. There is not only room for all, but all
are useful and all are wanted. There is already,
no doubt, a wide and increasing and an intelligent
use of natural things, and all of us profit by
that use, but there also still remains a great
ignorance concerning the infinite resources of
nature, and whoever he may be who endeavours
to clear up any of that ignorance and suggest a
new use for a known material, or a use for a
material hitherto unemployed, deserves well of
his country and of society. In this respect, we
trust our readers will agree, that a due
consideration of the desiderata of science, as
suggested by Robert Boyle, is a subject well worthy
of being followed up in our own times.

To come back to our original illustration, that
of a person regarding modern science from the
distance of two centuries, comparing the then
prospect with the actual realisation, it will
perhaps appear that we really have not in modern
times so very much to boast of. That we have
done much, and cleared away many doubts and
difficulties, is no doubt true, but mists still hang
over all, or nearly all, the subjects then obscure,
and though we see now many new promises of
important discovery, we are not perhaps clearing
the way as we advance quite so completely
as might be wished. The fact is, that the class
of human intellect required to bring into
distinct relation a multitude of observations and
determined facts is of the rarest kind, and has
not been vouchsafed in more than a few
instances since man first inhabited the earth.
Bacons and Newtons and Aristotles do not
arise every century, and the Newton of many
modern departments of knowledge has not yet
appeared. Such master-minds alone originate
new landmarks in science, and without them the
most we can expect is a clouded outline of
nature's meaning.

MEMOIRS OF AN ADOPTED SON.
                          I.
CIRCUMSTANCES WHICH PRECEDED HIS BIRTH.

TOWARDS the beginning of the eighteenth
century, there stood on a rock in the sea, near a
fishing village on the coast of Brittany, a ruined
Tower with a very bad reputation. No mortal
was known to have inhabited it within the
memory of living man. The one tenant whom
Tradition associated with the occupation of the
place, at a remote period, had moved into it
from the infernal regions, nobody knew why—
had lived in it, nobody knew how long—and had
quitted possession, nobody knew when. Under
such circumstances, nothing was more natural
than that this unearthly Individual should give
a name to his residence. For which reason, the
building was thereafter known to all the
neighbourhood round as Satanstower.

Early in the year seventeen hundred, the
inhabitants of the village were startled, one night,
by seeing the red gleam of a fire in the Tower,
and by smelling, in the same direction, a
preternaturally strong odour of fried fish. The
next morning, the fishermen who passed by the
building in their boats, were amazed to find that
a stranger had taken up his abode in it. Judging
of him at a distance, he seemed to be a fine
tall stout fellow: he was dressed in fisherman's
costume, and he had a new boat of his own,
moored comfortably in a cleft of the rock. If
he had inhabited a place of decent reputation,
his neighbours would have immediately made
his acquaintance—but, under existing
circumstances, all they could venture to do was to
watch him in silence.

The first day passed, and, though it was fine
weather, he made no use of his boat. The
second day followed, with a continuance of the
fine weather, and still he was as idle as before.
On the third day, a violent storm kept all the
boats of the village on the beach—and, in
the midst of the tempest, away went the man
of the Tower to make his first fishing experiment
in strange waters! He and his boat came
back safe and sound, in a lull of the storm; and
the villagers watching on the cliff above, saw
him carrying the fish up, by great basketfuls, to
his Tower. No such haul had ever fallen to the
lot of any one of them—and the stranger had
taken it in a whole gale of wind!

Upon this, the inhabitants of the village
called a council. The lead in the debate was
assumed by a smart, young fellow, a fisherman
named Poulailler, who declared that the stranger
at the Tower was of infernal origin, and boldly