of those in power, and when the Professorship of Technology was created in the University in 1855, Dr Wilson was appointed to occupy that chair, as to him had been intrusted the formation and the Directorship of the Industrial Museum, which it was resolved to collect for the purpose of promoting the culture of scientific industry in this country. Thus, without any of those advantages which wealth or patronage confer, by sheer dint of talents usefully directed, and labour perseveringly employed, he had gained for himself a place of honour and influence in that illustrious seat of learning which, two and twenty years before, he had entered as a humble student without any "extrinsic advantages."

To the duties of his new sphere, Dr Wilson devoted himself with an ardour and laboriousness which filled his friends with anxiety lest the toils to which he exposed himself should operate injuriously on his already fragile frame. The public have yet to learn how much they are indebted to him for the valuable collection of objects and implements of industry which has been brought together as the nucleus of the museum of which he had the care; but how much of his life was expended in accomplishing that end, none but those constantly with him can ever know.

In the Chair of Technology a new and congenial field was opened for him, in which, from the extensive range of his scientific attainments and sympathies, as well as his matured experience as a lecturer, the most auspicious expectations were entertained as to his success. These hopes were just beginning to be largely realised when they were destined to be smitten for ever. Dr Wilson had for many years laboured under a tendency to pulmonary complaint, and though it was marvellous how little his physical weakness was allowed by him to interfere with his mental activity or professional labours, the very efforts he put forth were only strengthening the hold upon him of that insidious disease. At the commencement of this sesion he appeared to be as he had been for years before, and he entered upon his duties with his usual vivacity and energy, and with the largest class he had as yet enrolled. But he had barely entered upon them when he was summoned from them, and all sublunary pursuits, by that dread call which none can resist. He continued lecturing up to Friday the 18th of November last, and en Tuesday the 22d he died.

The call was sudden, but it was one for which he was fully prepared. He had long contemplated death as a change which he might be called upon without much previous warning to undergo; and so little hold had mere life on his desires, that the expression he once used to a friend was, "I am quite resigned to live." To another friend he said six months ago, when there seemed no immediate prospect of death, "I am trying to live every day, so that I may be ready to go on an hour's notice." Nor was it merely by such expressions as these that he made it evident how much he was unconsciously realising his proximity to the eternal world; those who were around him in the domestic circle, and whose eyes affection had sharpened to note every varying phase of his inner life, were struck with the growing indications which daily met their notice of advancing ripeness and mellowness in his

spiritual development. Earth seemed to be loosen. ing its hold upon him, while heaven was drawing him by its fine and powerful attraction nearer to itself. It was as if a message had come to him from the world of spirits, which he alone had heard, announcing to him that the Lord had need of him in his heavenly temple, and was about ere long to call him up thither. Like the apostle, he had the sentence of death within himself; and baving long learned "to trust not in himself, but in God who raiseth up the dead," the bitterness of death was for him already past. No need on his part, therefore, for long and anxious preparation! It was not a distant and perilous journey he was about to make, far less a plunge into a dark and uncertain region; it was only to a higher and grander apartment of that house of the Father, in which he had long dwelt, that he was to be removed. When the summons came, therefore, he calmly and joyfully obeyed it. His last days were days of great bodily prostration, and the nature of his illness rendered it impossible for him to hold much intercourse by speech with those around him. He was able, however, to give constant indication of the entire serenity with which he awaited the will of his heavenly Father, and to express confidently and unhesitatingly the peace with which he rested "in the hands of a good and kind Redeemer." His endeared friend Dr Cairns had arrived just in time to see him ere death had overmastered his powers of utterance, and in answer to his question, “Is all peace?" he replied firmly, and with a sweet smile on his lips, "Yes." As the evening wore on a touching scene occurred. His venerable mother, whom he loved with all the tenderness of his affectionate heart, knowing that his end was drawing nigh, entered the room, and imposing upon herself a strong constraint, lest she should in any way agitate his departing spirit, took her farewell of him by simply kissing his hand. He recognised the loving touch-what true son does not recognise a mother's kiss?-and unable to speak so as to be heard by her, he raised his hand and pointed upwards, as if to say, "Farewell for the present; we meet again in yonder place, where there is no more death, and where parting is unknown." Having repeatedly expressed a wish, in the course of the evening, to have "the room darkened, and to get to rest," this was at length done, and he was left alone with a beloved sister, his constant and endeared companion for many years. To her, after some words of thanks for some kind office she had done, he said, "I've been an unworthy servant of a worthy and gracious Master." More he tried to say, but only one word could be distinguished—“sin.” Was this word part of a confession, or part of a thanksgiving? Perhaps it was both-the utterance of one who in humble penitence acknowledged his transgressions, but who at the same time could thank Him "who pardoneth iniquity" that his transgressions had been covered. As his end drew near, his friends again surrounded his couch. The last sounds that fell upon his ear were those of prayer offered up by Dr Cairns. And so he went away from the prayers of earth to the songs of heaven; and whilst they that had accompanied him to the river's brink knelt in solemn supplication beside his lifeless remains, his happy spirit had

passed over to the further side, and the clarion peal from the battlements of heaven had proclaimed that the crown was won, and that another of Adam's race had gotten the victory through the blood of the Lamb!

The tidings of his death caused a profound and wide-spread sensation throughout the city, which found its expression in the extraordinary demonstration that accompanied his funeral. In all the circumstances of it, we may safely say that never before was such a tribute of respect and love offered at the grave of any of our citizens. In the procession which conveyed his remains to the tomb were men of all classes and parties; the magistrates in their robes of office, the professors of the university in their gowns, students of the university, members of the literary and scientific societies of the city, clergymen of different denominations, the members of this congregation, and a large body of citizens representing every class and interest in the community: all met under the shadow of one common grief, and united to pay the last marks of respect to him whose remains were about to be committed to the narrow house. The shops were closed along the line of the procession, and business suspended for a time in other parts of the city; multitudes of both sexes crowded the streets by which the cortége was to pass; and as the hearse moved slowly along, many tears were shed, and the crowd looked on with bated breath, and even the rude and thoughtless uncovered their heads, and offered their silent tribute of homage. It was a scene never to be forgotten by those who witnessed it; and it carried in it a deep moral significancy, and uttered a lesson which it behoves us not to overlook. To what was such a demonstration due? What was there in this man, who was not venerable from age nor illustrious by rank; who was the founder of no school, the leader of no party, the representative of no public interest; who had not distinguished himself by any unparalleled discovery in science, or done anything to put men in possession of new rights, new resources, new enjoyments: what was there in him, and what had he done during his comparatively short life, to evoke so universal and spontaneous an expression of regard and homage from his fellow-citizens? The question is an important one, and I shall endeavour briefly to answer it.

It was not due merely to Professor Wilson's genius and talents. These, indeed, were of a high order, and could not but command respect. In him, great intellectual powers were combined with a rich, poetic imagination, a fine aesthetic sensibility, and a fertility of quaint and quiet humour, which not only widened the range of his mental sympathies greatly beyond the sphere of science, but enabled him to lend to scientific discussion a freshness and grace which made scientific discussion in his hand something altogether peculiar. A combination so rare in itself, and the separate elements of which were so powerfully developed as they were in him, could not but give him a high place in the respect of a community like this, which has always shewn a readiness to appreciate and honour mental superiority. But there must have been something more than this to call forth such a demonstration as that which accompanied his funeral. |

Nor will Professor Wilson's reputation as an author suffice to account for this. Something, it must be allowed, is due to this cause; for his writings possess a singular charm, and he cultivated so many different kinds of writing with success, that he found admiring readers among persons of very widely different tastes; but it would be absurd to suppose that mere admiration of writings, many of which were anonymous, would have kindled such feelings towards the author as were so plentifully manifested on the occasion referred to.

Something more must be ascribed to Professor Wilson's popularity as a lecturer. He had so frequently appeared before the public in this capacity, he had addressed himself to so many different classes in the community, and he had invariably so gratified, instructed, and captivated his audience, that there was a very large number of persons who felt themselves lying, as it were, under personal obligations to him, and whose feelings towards him were consequently greatly beyond those which mere admiration of talents or of authorship could inspire. Added to this was the affection which his unfailing gentleness, his brave resolution to work, notwithstanding manifest bodily infirmity and fluctuating health, and his promptitude to meet the wishes of the public, at whatever sacrifice of time, energy, and personal convenience, could not fail to excite. As in private so in public life, there was some. thing about him which inspired love. People came to feel as if they would like to do something kind to him, even when they were not personally acquainted with him. No wonder, then, that a feeling of this sort, which had been gradually accumulating for years in the heart of the community, should have burst forth in such a demonstration as that of which our city was the scene when an opportunity of shewing respect to him, which was felt to be the last, was presented.

But I believe that which chiefly moved the multitude to do homage, was the sense which all had of how true and good a man he was. It was his religion-so simple, so sincere, so unobtrusive, and yet so constantly operative, that stamped upon his character its highest worth; and it was this, I believe, which drew to him the confidence, the respect, and the love of the community, more than anything else. Men felt that in him there stood before them one of the finest combinations of genuine science and genuine Christianity that had ever been presented to their view. For with him religion and science were not two things-they were one; so interwoven with each other, that every contribution which he made to science was also laid as an offering on the altar of religion. did not, as is too common with men of science, content himself with merely making his obeisance to religion, and then passing by on the other side to prosecute an independent course. Religion went with him all along his path, and it was on her head he sought to place the crown that science had enabled him to win. It was his daily endeavour to make all his work bear on the glory of his God and Saviour-to turn all into a solemn liturgy that should rise up as incense before God. And in this he so succeeded, that his whole soul came to be pervaded with Christian influences; and religious thoughts and feelings flowed unbidden, and with

He

pounded the idea of the spots on the moon being diversities of surface, consisting of mountains and valleys, seas and rivers. The Orphic Hymns went further, by giving to the moon cities teeming with population. It required, however, the power of the telescope to bring out into relief, on the surface of the moon, the diversities of surface which make it the counterpart of our own globe.

To those who have not had the opportunity of examining the moon through a telescope, the stereoscopic pictures of Mr Warren de la Rue form an admirable substitute. Indeed, to the unpractised eye, the stereoscopic picture gives a much truer idea of the configuration of the body. The reason is simple. We have not, in looking through the telescope, the aids of perfection which we possess when looking at any terrestrial object; and, consequently, there is difficulty in bringing out in relief the mountain ranges, peaks, and rims of craters. Sometimes the moon, to the uninitiated eye, appears a uniform level; at others, the relief is reversed, the mountain sinks into a cavity, and the sharp peak into a perforation. The stereoscopic views of the moon, however, remedy all this; the moon is seen with all its natural roundness, and every mountain projects as in a model placed only | a few inches from the eye. But how is it that a stereoscopic picture of the moon can be obtained? This, at first sight, appears impossible, as the moon always turns the same side to us. When a stereoscopic portrait is taken, two views of the party must be obtained, and this may be done in two ways. When one picture is taken, the camera is moved a little to one side and a second taken, the party sitting immovable all the time; or the camera may be fixed, and the party may turn his body a little round for the second picture. It is in this latter way a stereoscopic picture of the moon is obtained. The camera, of course, cannot be moved sufficiently aside to take a picture from a different point of view, and it is therefore stationary. The moon, however, effects the object required by turning her face a very little round, so that a somewhat different perspective is obtained. This small movement is called her librature, and, though small, is quite sufficient to give the required stereoscopic effect. The moon always presents the same aspect to us, as she rotates on her axis in the same time that she revolves round the earth; but these two periods are not perfectly coincident, and we are therefore permitted to see round the moon a small way. It is from the circumstance of our being permitted to do so that the stereoscope gives us so perfect a representation of the moon. If the student's first acquaintance with the moon be made in this way, he will be able to understand much more readily the revelations of the telescope.

As soon as we get a glimpse of the mountain ranges, volcanic craters, and vast plains, the natural inquiry is Is it inhabited? There is a sufficient general resemblance at the first glance to prompt the inquiry; but does minuter inspection countenance the hypothesis? We do not have the more obvious proofs of habitableness. We do not find cities with ramifying streets, or such diversities of colour as would indicate the cultivation of parts of the country; though we have telescopic power to discover such traces if they existed If peopled with

beings like ourselves, we might naturally expect single buildings which would be quite discernible by the telescope; for in the moon blocks of stone could be raised by one man, that would require, in this globe, the united energies of five men. Here fabrics are limited by the crushing weight sustained by stone, but there the range would be much wider from the lightness of the materials. No such buildings, however, no traces of cities, no proof that the soil has been disturbed by the plough, or that yellow harvests alternate with green fields, has been discovered.

There is no necessity, however, that the inhabitants should be after the type of man's bodily constitution; we can conceive intellect united to a very different corporeal organisation; and we know that there is a very wide range, even in this globe, in the conditions necessary to sustain life. Still, we must start from some essential conditions of life in this globe, if we are to make our argument one of analogy. No doubt, it may be said that God could, in the case of the planetary bodies, make life dependent on totally different conditions. This is true, but it is a totally different question from that of analogy. The question is one, not of possi bility, but of probability, and the probability is to be derived from the existence of conditions in the moon similar to those in the earth.

Let us take one of the most essential conditions of life on our globe, viz., the existence of air; air is less essential to some creatures than to others, but we have no reason to believe that any creature can exist in our globe under a total deprivation of it. It may be argued that God could create beings capable of existing without air, and that, even though no air should be discerned in the moon, it is still possible that living creatures may exist there. The question is, however, not, What is within the compass of God's power? but, What has likely been the exercise of His power in the moon, from our knowledge of His power in our globe? and, to have any ground of probability to stand upon, the astrono mical argument must prove that the conditions essential to life here are also found in the moon; or, at least, that the existence of such conditions is probable.

Every possible test has been applied, but no trace whatever of air has been found in the moon. Eclipses and occultations have been watched with the utmost care, but all in vain; some of the tests are so delicate, that if there was an atmosphere capable of raising the mercury one-sixteenth of an inch in the barometer, it would have been detected. If there is an atmosphere after all, how evanescent it must be compared with ours, which raises the mercury to about thirty inches. Could we conceive life to exist in the moon without air, how strange must the condition of life be there! Let us only conceive that in the moon life moves on very much as it does here, with the only difference, that there is no air; we have only to conceive such a state of things to see how wondrously our nature is accommodated to the physical condition in which we are placed. Most people probably think little of the functions of the atmosphere, except when it is pressed on their attention by the danger of suffocation, or by witnessing the terrible mechanical effects of the storm. But think how strange life