clever, but vague, feeble in outline, but full of the man. We have had a melancholy pleasure in giving ourselves up to this book; and thinking how much the world has gained in him and lost.

The differences between natural history and analytical science are sufficiently distinct where they are farthest from each other; but as is the case in all partitions of knowledge, they get less marked where they approach at the 'marches.' Therefore it is hardly fair to say that Edward Forbes was merely a master in natural history, not also in science proper, the truth rather being that he was more of the first than of the second. The difference of the two knowledges is very much the difference between listening to what nature spontaneously says to you,-that philosophy, which, as Bacon has it, 'repeats the words of the universe itself with the utmost fidelity, and is written as it were by dictation of the universe,' and between putting questions to her, often very crossquestions; putting her, in fact, to the torture, and getting at her hidden things. The one is more of the nature of experience, of that which is a methodized record of appearances; the other more of experiment of that which you, upon some hypothesis, expect to find, and has more to do with intimate composition and action. Still this parallelism must not be run out of breath; both of them have chiefly to do with the truth of fact, more than with the

truth of thought about fact, or about itself, which is philosophy, or with the truth of imagination, which is ideal art, fabricated by the shaping spirit from fact, and serving for delectation. The world is doing such a large business in the first two of these departments, -natural history and pure science, that we are somewhat in danger of forgetting altogether the third, which is of them all the greatest, and of misplacing and misinterpreting the fourth.

Science is ultimately most useful when it goes down into practice-becomes technical, and is utilized; or blossoms into beauty, or ascends into philosophy and religion, and rests in that which is in the highest sense good, spiritual, and divine, leaving the world wiser and happier, as well as more powerful and knowing, than it found it.

We end by quoting from this memoir the following noble passage, by that master of science and of style, our own Playfair, in his account of Dr. Hutton. It is singularly appropriate.

The loss sustained by the death of this great naturalist was aggravated to those who knew him by the consideration of how much of his knowledge had perished with himself, and notwithstanding all that he had written, how much of the light collected by a life of experience and observation was now completely extinguished. It is indeed melancholy to reflect, that with all who make proficiency in the sciences, founded

on nice and delicate observations, something of this sort must invariably happen. The experienced eye, the power of perceiving the minute differences and fine analogies which discriminate or unite the objects of science, and the readiness of comparing new phenomena with others already treasured up in the mind, these are accomplishments which no rules can teach, and no precepts can put us in possession of. This is a portion of knowledge which every man must acquire for himself; nobody can leave as an inheritance to his successor. It seems, indeed, as if nature had in this instance admitted an exception, to the will by which she has ordained the perpetual accumulation of knowledge among civilized men, and had destined a considerable portion of science continually to grow up, and perish with individuals.'

DR. ADAMS OF BANCHORY.

SCENE.-A hut in the wilds of Braemar; a big gamekeeper fast sinking from a gunshot wound in the lower part of the thigh.

Dr. Adams, loquitur.—' Get a handkerchief, and the spurtle' (the porridge-stick), and now for a pad for our tourniquet. This will do,' putting his little Elzevir Horace down upon the femoral. Gamekeeper's life saved, and by good guidance, the leg

too.