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arts. Thus does history become a common bond, linking the Past with the Present, and in the light of experience prophesying concerning the Future, and also combining and representing in itself those varied and changing elements which make up the peculiar character of separate epochs, or of particular nations. Leaving, now,

for the moment, those studies which the Ancients chiefly pursued, let us turn to the physical sciences, the most important of which may be considered as belonging properly, and almost exclusively, to modern times.

And, first, between modern science and invention there is an intimate relationship. That an accurate and thorough knowledge of scientific laws is conditional to the application of those laws in the highest forms of inventive skill, is obvious and undeniable. We may borrow here an illustration from the relation of pure to mixed mathematics. None will deny that a familiar acquaintance with abstract mathematical principles and axioms is absolutely essential in order to apply mathematics as an art to the solution of the various practical problems that arise in the course of investigations in other departments of science. In accordance with the general truth now insisted on, political economists assure us that the best method to excite invention is by popularizing scientific knowledge. To the wide diffusion, among all classes, of scientific information, is probably due, in great measure, the remarkably active inventive talent of the American people. What example can be adduced in the whole range of modern invention, of marked progress in the useful arts, unconnected, either directly or remotely, with a corresponding advance in purely abstract science? The immense superiority of the sailing vessel or steamship of the civilized man over the rude raft or canoe of the savage, results primarily from profound and continued study of philosophical laws. Invention, unaided by science, is helpless.

But, to pass beyond a narrow and wholly practical view of physical science, may we not affirm, that, in the wonderful scientific revelations of our own time, there can be discerned indications of a symmetrical unity, a sisterhood existing among the sciences ? Thus, for example, in geology, the central truth relates to the regular advancement of the earth from the condition of a molten, chaotic mass to its present finished state ; but the successive steps in this single process are not distinctly traceable by the light of geology alone. Our guide here is the science of zoology. If we reflect that the fossils, which require to be studied as affording the only satisfactory information concerning the earth's historic development, are often not complete but


fragmentary, that they are innumerable, and include every variety of organic remains, both vegetable and animal, from the lowest to the highest types, and that these remains must be most accurately classified in order to determine with any reliable exactness the comparative age of the different rock-strata in which they are found, we shall be able to conceive how exclusively, as it were, the successful prosecution of geologic investigation is made to depend on an exhaustive knowledge of another and a kindred science.

If, now, instead of regarding the earth as a gradually perfected unit, a "world-kingdom,” we proceed to inquire concerning the constituent elements of which its crust is composed, the laws for the destruction and formation of compounds, the theory of crystallization and the principle of organic growth and decay, we encounter a new relationship—that of geology to chemistry. And so, likewise, if we pass to the department of dynamical geology, or would comprehend the atmospheric and climatic changes to which the earth has been subject at different stages of its progress, the aid of yet another science, the science of natural philosophy, must be invoked for the perfect unfolding of geologic truth.

But that which most ennobles the science of geology is the relation it bears to man. In geologic history no event is insignificant ; the fall of a leaf, the crumbling of a minute shell, as well as the sinking of ocean beds, or the lifting up of lofty mountains, are important steps in preparing the earth to be the abode of man—the being to whom is given dominion over all inferior creatures. This teaching of geology accords perfectly with Bible history; and it is here that we find the union of science and revelation. “ There can be,” says Dana, “no conflict between the two Books of the Great Author. Both are revelations made by Him to man,—the earlier, telling of God-made harmonies coming up from the deep past, and rising to their height when man appeared,—the later, teaching man's relations to his Maker, and speaking of loftier harmonies in the eternal future.”

Thus far-reaching and suggestive are the teachings of geology, and yet the harmony, the varied unity of scientific knowledge, is perhaps most forcibly illustrated in the science of astronomy. This science, the oldest, and in its final development, the noblest of all, the simple star-craft or astrology of the Ancients, imperfect and erring in its earlier stages, has at length, in the fullness of time, afforded revelations at once startling and grand almost beyond conception. It has shown the true relation of the earth to the Universe. It has revealed, through the universality of the law of gravitation, and the unfailing

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analogy of form and motions among all the heavenly bodies, the existence of a single universal system, of which the earth forms but the minutest portion. But how much does astronomy owe to kindred sciences ! Her handmaids are philosophy, invention, mathematics, crystallography, meteorology, even geology itself.

Mathematics alone play so important a part in the perfecting of all the physical sciences, especially in astronomy, as to reach the dignity of a commune vinculum. Thus we read of Le Verrier, by the aid of the calculus alone, applying himself to the discovery of a hidden planet, and after the most arduous and ingenious calculations, predicting with astonishing accuracy what would be the position in longitude of the planet at a particular hour of a specified night, its apparent magnitude, and its diurnal motion. This is but one of numberless instances which might be cited of the inestimable value to astronomers of the science of abstract mathematics. It would seem as if the attempt —which Hamilton ridicules—of the early Pythagoreans "to explain the problem of the Universe by the properties of number," had been, in modern times, at least approximately successful.

Possibly, at this point, sufficient has been said, though in this cursory manner, to show that many of the physical sciences are related by a “certain common bond.” I have now only to refer to the possible relationship of physical and psychological science. And here the first thought that naturally suggests itself is, that if there be any junction between mental and material laws, it must be at best mysterious and undefinable. But is this mystery any more inexplicable than that which shrouds the union of the mind with the body? Nature, in her myriad forms, furnishes to the mind treasures for thought. Art, the product of mind, is but the imitation of nature. And not only art but mental philosophy cannot, if it would, be wholly independent of the physical world. The faculty of cognition, imagination, or perception, in short, even consciousness itself, is conversant with natural as well as intellectual phenomena.

But perhaps only a word on this head is needed, for in addition to and beyond all other considerations, however slight may be the connection of the various sciences with each other from their own nature, it cannot be doubted that there still remains in language a bond of union for every form of knowledge whether pertaining to literature, science, or the arts. Language reflects human life, the mind, the world. It is the voice alike of genius, of the moral reason, of natural law and of revelation. The records of history, the discoveries and changes of each passing hour, the thoughts and impulses of individuals or of nations, language alone can embody and preserve. And to be truly valuable, language must needs be thus all-embracing. For suppose every science had a language of its own in wbich its truths were contained, and through which they must be known, if known at all; how slow and painful must then be the progress of the human mind! Differences in studies or pursuits, as completely as present differences in nationality, would then separate men and render them strangers to each other. By so simple a supposition we may see how precious are the offices of language, and how happily it illustrates our theme.

And now, finally, as a set-off to all that has been advanced, it may properly be urged that the “common bond” of knowledge, if any there be, is at the best transitory and imperfect. To this the reply may be given, that knowledge itself is imperfect. We now “see as through a glass darkly;" beyond the partial, the half-revealed, we may not hope to penetrate. All have read the story of the Eastern Magician whose life was spent in seeking not for knowledge, but for the source of knowledge. He held communion with the Demon who personifies the principle of life, in order to learn the germ,

the essence of all things by which he was surrounded. That which he sought was given him. He saw the mystery of life, but the sight was fearful and overpowering. There was no longer in the wide earth such a thing as Beauty; trees, mountains, verdure, waters, all were but so many forms of festering corruption. The very sunlight was an unnatural glare, reflected from the decaying earth : all things evinced the reign of Death in the midst of Life. So terrible was the penalty of striving to know what is unknowable.

And so, in a similar manner, might we, with our present feeble faculties, be overpowered by the full conception of the perfect. unity of all events and forces in the Universe. We should then see, as it were, “ face to face ;” but such sight is not finite; it partakes of the Infinite. We have then only to believe in a partially-apprehended unity which shall become more and more apparent as our vision becomes clearer and stronger—a unity which corresponds to oneness of design on the part of the Creator.

E. B. B.

The Genius and Poetry of Thomas Hood.

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Thomas Hood was one of the world's prodigies. Like many men. he at first mistook his strength. He essayed things good enough in themselves but unfit for him. From these early and misdirected efforts sprang · The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies,' Lycus the Centaur,' • Hero and Leander,' and others which his later poems far surpassed. Moir, in his admirable critique, says, and truly, that he was like the intinerant musician who, supposing himself fit only for his ordinary work, suddenly found himself no mean adornment in a concert among

the very best. His literary life was a strange one. Passing from the classical and imaginative he tried his hand at description, at wit, at pathos, and in each he added fresh laurels to his crown. Metre, rhythm, rhyme, owned him as master. He commanded at will the genial smile and the sympathetic tear. He was sui generis; like to older poets in part, but in the grand whole he was Hood alone. He had Wordsworth's love of nature, Keats' power in words, Coleridge's imagination, Richard Harris Barham's skill in rhyming, Tennyson's music, Herrick's quaintness, Motherwell's pathos and Burns' tenderness. In short, he was and is the epitome of the British poets ;

"We ne'er shall look upon his like again.'

Most who read this poor attempt to set forth his genius, have been in his train of admirers since they could first appreciate him. They know him and love him, and to them I commend him as one worthy of all regard.

Hood was perhaps led to his almost constant use of wit by the fact that in this he soon found himself above the crowd. Literary fame was to him not merely an object of desire but one of real need, and if he could get it thus better than in any other way, it was natural that he should act as he did. The life within him was always beating, full and strong, through the pulses of a merry heart. Sickness, care, the drudgery of literary labor, could not crush it out, and in his latest letters the same old spirit still appears. Who but Hood would ever have written so cheerfully of that wasting of nerve and strength and life itself, which was soon to take him to another home than that of

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