various branches of science or art are discussed separately, and usually in alphabetical order. 7 Chemistry, that branch of science

which treats of the composition of substances, and of the changes which they undergo. precocious, having the faculties developed more than is natural or usual at a given age; very forward. vial,

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HAMPTON COURT.

a small glass bottle; a phial. 1o cylinder, a body of roller-like form. 11 laboratory, a place for operations and experiments in chemistry' etc. 12 amanuensis, a person whose employment it is to write what another dictates, or to copy what another has written. 13 investigation, research; study; inquiry. magnetism, the agent or force in nature which gives rise to the phenomenon of attraction exhibited by the loadstone and other magnetic bodies. 15 electricity, a subtle agent or power in nature caused by any disturbance of its elements, whether from a chemical, physical, or mechanical cause. 16 lights, produced by electricity, and used in lighthouses. The most powerful light is able to be produced. 'spiritualism, a belief in the communication of intelligence from the world of spirits, through a person called a medium. 18 phenomenon, plural phenomena, an appearance; sometimes a remarkable or unusual appearance. 19 mechanical, pertaining to mechanics or the laws of motion, hence done as if by a machine, or simply by physical force. 20 of wider insight, etc., of the discoveries they have made. 21 Well-spent Lives, by Herbert Edmonds. The above lesson is a portion of the life of Faraday, as given by this excellent writer, in "Well-spent Lives," a work of great merit, and one which will be thoroughly appreciated and enjoyed by educated people.

17

In the year 1638, two men met in the library of a little villa of Arcetin, one mile south of Florence.

The scene was a picture for a painter. One sat motionless in a tall 1Gothic chair. His commanding figure was bent, as if crushed with the weight of life. Age had turned his hair and beard white, and the dark, deep-set eyes were closed, but the face was luminous with thought.

Beside him stood a young man, whose beauty had been

the marvel and the jest of his associates. An erect and finely proportioned body, princely in its carriage; a face with finely chiselled features and delicate complexion; eyes a clear dark grey, and light brown waving hair, long and flowing, after the fashion of the times. The aged man was Galileo, philosopher and 2mathematician, now in his seventy-fourth year, after all his toils and triumphs and distinguished honours, prisoner of the Inquisition, confined in his own house, and blind! The other was a young stranger from England, John Milton, then in his twenty-ninth year.

Milton, seated beside Galileo, puts questions, and listens with eager and intense interest to the discourse of the brilliant philosopher. And then they go forth into the garden, the broken man leaning upon the strong young arm; and, as they walk along, Galileo talks of his vines which he used to prune, of the two pigeons in the dovecot, of the vases holding the orange-trees, which were shattered by a storm while he was in Rome, whither he had gone by the order of the Inquisition. And he points to the distant convent of St. Matthew, where but lately his beloved daughter, Celeste, had died. He calls her a person of "most exquisite mind," for whom he continually grieves. He speaks of her sweet homely attentions--the chocolate biscuit, the baked pear or quince, or cup of preserved citron, the persistent unforgetfulness. He misses her in every way-she had gone out of the world with his liberty and sight.

"The book of nature," says Galileo, "is written in the characters of geometry; when once their meaning is revealed, we may hope to penetrate nature's deepest mysteries." To young Milton the book of nature seems equally written in characters of poesy.

They continue their way to the tower, where reposes

the famous telescope, and the blind man says sadly, "We can ill afford to lose one of our senses. The principal doors into the garden of natural philosophy are observation and experiment, and these are opened with the keys of our senses. I am hopelessly blind, so that this heaven and this earth-which I, by my discoveries and demonstrations, had enlarged a hundred thousand times beyond the belief of the wise men of bygone ages— henceforth is shrunk from me into such small space as is filled by my own sensations. I must be content. Of all the sons of Adam, none yet have seen so much as I.” Then, as they return to the house, he remarks, "I have studied and wept too much! Sir, you cannot know the great difference between using one's own eyes and those of another."

It was a gentle pathway along which the young man had come. First, his peaceful London home in Bread Street, where he was born in the year 1608, at the sign of the "Spread Eagle," for in those days houses were known by signs instead of numbers. A lovely home, with its books, its music of his own father's composing-and the good cheer and lovingkindness of all. And then, did not the gentle poet, Shakspeare, pass the door now and then on his way to the " Mermaid," a house of entertainment near? Here dwelt the child Milton, the beloved centre of interest to the household and its circle of friends. can see him, clad in a black braided dress, and with a lace frill about the neck, watching the grand processions in the streets, and feeding the sparrows at the windows, and playing his games, or bending over his picture books, or sitting on the high stool before the old organ, picking out some melody to please his ear. He was a studious boy, with a "lovable seriousness," and displayed at a very early age a thoughtful mind. Later on we may see

We

him going daily to St. Paul's School, eager for learning, devoted to his masters, and striving to excel.

Afterwards he becomes an inmate of Christ's College, Cambridge, where he speeds like a young conqueror through the realms of philosophy, mathematics, and letters. But he finds within him thoughts that have never been told. Language is rich, and it is his. What he thinks

he turns into words full of power and music. He stands before the masters and fellows, and grand gay lords and ladies. They listen breathless to his eloquence, and when he ceases there is great applause, and they call him the orator and poet of Cambridge.

While at the university, his good and loving parents transferred their home from busy London to the charming village of Horton, with its green meadows, its skylarks,