Returning home she began a search for the meaning of the new word. "You should study Euclid's Elements of Geometry," said a timely friend, "the foundation not only of perspective but of astronomy and all mechanical science." Here was the long sought steppingstone; but go to a bookseller and ask for Euclid? Impossible! She did secure the book, however, through the kindness of her brother's tutor. To him she demonstrated a few problems and then continued the study alone. At this time she rose early, practiced and painted through the leisure hours of the day, and sat up very late studying geometry. When, upon the servant's informing her mother of the way she spent a large part of her nights, and the latter, in consequence, withdrew her stock of candles, Mary, depending on her memory, demonstrated a certain number of problems each day, between night and morning, until she could readily master them all.

In this manner passed her childhood and youth. It was not until after the death of her first husband, Samuel Greig, that she found freedom to pursue her favorite studies.

It was during her widowhood, and when she was about thirty-two years of age, that she found herself for the first time the possessor of a small library of scientific works. "I could hardly believe," she says, "that I possessed such a treasure, when I looked back to the day on which I first saw that mysterious word 'algebra' and remembered the long course of years during which I had persevered almost without hope."

It was shortly after her marriage with Dr. Somerville that she made the acquaintance of that eminent orator, statesman, scientist and philosopher, Henry Brougham, who became England's Lord High Chancellor. She was now one

of a circle of devotees who dared to worship openly at the shrine before which she had so long bowed in secret. The joy which she had felt in work which brought its own reward was now reflected from other eyes. One of the supreme moments of her life must have been that which brought to her Lord Brougham's letter requesting her to translate and illustrate Laplace's celebrated work, Mécanique Céleste.

"It surprised me," she says, "beyond expression. I thought Lord Brougham

must have been mistaken with regard to my acquirements and naturally concluded that my self-acquired knowledge was so inferior to that of the men who had been educated in our universities that it would be the height of presumption for me to write on such a subject.'

No

"The kind of thing wanted," said Lord Brougham in his letter, "is such a description of that divine work as will both explain to the unlearned the sort of thing it is, the plan, the vast merit, the wonderful truths unfolded or methodized, and the calculus by which this is accomplished, and which will also give a somewhat deeper insight to the initiated. one without trying can conceive how far we may carry the ignorant reader into an understanding of the depths of science. In England there are not now twenty people who know this great work except by name; and not one hundred who know it even by name. My firm belief is that Mrs. Somerville could add two ciphers to each of those figures."

She accepted the task with the understanding that in case of failure the manuscript was to be put into the fire.

"Thus, suddenly and unexpectedly," she says, "the whole character and course of my future life was changed. I rose early and made such arrangements with regard to my children and family affairs that I had time to write afterward, not, however, without many interruptions. I was always supposed to be at home, and often, when in the midst of a difficult problem, someone would enter saying, I have come to spend a few hours with you.' Frequently I hid my papers as the bell announced visitor, lest anyone should discover my

a

From this point the stream of her life gathers breadth and depth, and sweeps on with the strong, calm current of recognized power. Her work was a great success and it is interesting to note her almost childlike surprise and pleasure when she learned that it was to be introduced as a text-book in Cambridge University. All reviews were favorable. She received congratulatory letters from many men of science. Among these were Sir John Herschel, Henry Hallam, Dr. Whewell, of Cambridge, and many others who afterward became her warm friends. Miss Joanna Baillie says, in a characteristic letter: "You have done

When some fair volume from a valued pen, Long looked for, came at last, that grateful men Hailed its forthcoming in complacent lays,

As if the muse would gladly haste to praise

That which her mother, memory, long should keep

Among her treasures. Shall such usage sleep With us, who feel too slight the common phrase

For our pleased thoughts of you, when thus we find

That dark, to you seems bright; perplexed, seems plain;

Seen in the depths of a pellucid mind
Full of clear thought, pure from the ill and vain

That cloud the inward light: an honored name
Be yours; and peace of heart grow with your
growing fame."

Her next published work, "On the Connection of the Physical Sciences,' appeared a few years later and thenceforward honors crowded thick upon her. Wherever she went wise men and intelligent women gathered to pay her homage.

The relatives who had so severely criticized her in earlier years were now loud in her praise.

In a letter from Maria Edgeworth we have a pleasant picture of her at this. time. "Mrs. Somerville," she writes, "is little, slightly made, with fairish hair, pink color, small, grey, intelligent eyes, very pleasing countenance, soft voice, strong, but well-bred Scotch accent." We are told that she was profoundly and sincerely religious, having a solemn and deep-rooted faith which influenced every thought and regulated every action of her life. "Nothing," Mrs. Somerville says, "has afforded me so convincing a proof of the unity of the Deity as have these purely mental conceptions of numerical and mathematical science which have by slow degrees been vouchsafed to man, and are still granted in these later times by the differential calculus, now superseded by the higher algebra, all of which must have existed in that sublimely omniscient mind from eternity. Many of our friends had very decided and various opinions; but my husband and I never entered into controversy; we had too high a regard for liberty of conscience to interfere with

anyone's opinion; so we lived on terms of sincere friendship and love with persons who differed essentially from us in religious views, and in all the books I have written I have confined myself strictly and entirely to scientific subjects, although my religious opinions are very decided."

The theories of modern science she welcomed as quite in accordance with her religious views, believing that the Creator has from the first, and invariably, acted according to a system of harmonious laws, some of which we are beginning faintly to recognize, others which will be discovered in time, while many must remain a mystery to man while he inhabits this planet.

When about to begin the work by which she is probably most widely known, her "Physical Geography," Dr. Somerville was ordered to a warmer climate for the benefit of his health. They went to Rome, where she could have the advantage of access to the large libraries and there she began her work. It was her habit to allow nothing to interfere with its prosecution during the morning hours; later she gave herself heartily to any plan for the day's enjoyment, and whether visiting antiquities, art galleries, making excursions about the neighborhood or going with some friend to paint on the Campagna, she was always thoroughly alive, thoroughly happy. Indeed, her sensitiveness to the grand and beautiful both in nature and in art was something more real and complete than is found in the ordinary mind. To such a soul

"Nothing is small, no lily-muffled
Hum of summer bee
But finds some coupling

With the spinning stars."

The letters which picture her life during its last half-century abound with expressions of her enjoyment of everything in which a human being can worthily find happiness. Of friends, there was the intellectual royalty of every land with whom she was in constant communion. She was interested in every department of science and in the development of any or every idea which had for its object the welfare of humanity.

During her residence in Italy she made some curious experiments testing the effect of the solar spectrum on juices of plants and other substances. She sent an account of them to her friend, Sir John

My Dear Mrs. Somerville:

I cannot express to you the pleasure I experienced from the receipt of your letter and the perusal of the elegant experiments it relates. These appear to me of the highest interest, and show what I always suspected, that there is a world of wonders awaiting disclosure in the solar spectrum. Pray go on with these delightful experiments. Now, I am going to take a liberty, and that is to communicate your results to the Royal Society. You may be very sure I would not do this if I thought they were not intrinsically worthy of such record, etc."

It was still later in her life that the use of the microscope opened to her a new field for research, a new world of thought. She was now eighty-two years of age, very deaf, she admits, and with shaking hands, still her eyesight was such that she could "thread the finest needle or read the finest print." And though she had but little hope of living until it should be finished, she began another great work which was published under the name of "Molecular and Microscopic Science."

There are few intellectual triumphs to compare with this. A triumph which surmounted the prejudices of her time against woman's education, the prejudices of all times-except our own against woman as a scientist, and, lastly, the physical and mental infirmities of age.

She records with childlike sincerity her pleasure, at the recognition and honors she received during her later years, in a letter to her son, written in her eightyfifth year. She says: "The Italian Society of Natural History have just held their meeting here- seventy members present, Italian, French and German. I was chosen an associate by acclamation. The president came for me and all rose as I entered, and every attention was shown me."

An anonymous friend who visited her in 1870, remarks: "It was her ninetieth birthday when I first saw her; she put aside the English newspaper as I approached, and, after a kind greeting, settled down for a gossip. Her ninety years seemed to have withered her frame; but it was wiry and firm still. Her eyes were keen, her voice clear, only her

possible to talk with her and it was easy to make her talk more than listen. The words and thoughts were as fresh and current as those of the clever young wife of a clever young member of Parliament of to-day. Of course she was most interesting when she came to talk of herself. 'I do not apologize for talking of myself,' she said, ing of myself,' she said, for it is always good for the young to hear that old age is not so terrible as they fear.

"My life is a very placid one. I have my coffee early: from eight to twelve. I read or write in bed; then I rise and paint in my studio for an hour—that is all I can manage now! The afternoon is my time for rest; then comes dinner time, and after that I sit here and am glad to see any kind friends who may like to visit me.' Then she would explain what was the reading and writing she was engaged upon. gaged upon. She was correcting and adding to the first edition of 'Molecular and Microscopic Science:' 'Only putting it in order for my daughters to publish when a second edition is called for after my death. O, they are quite competent to do it,' she would say, with a smile; 'I took care they should be much better educated than I was. And I am reading a good deal now-reading Herodotus. I took him down from my shelves the other day-it was the first time I had tried Greek for fifty years had forgotten the character. light, I found I could read understand him quite easily. charming writer Herodotus is.'

to see if I To my dehim and What a

The impression which Mrs. Somerville left upon one from this evening and several like it spent in her company, was that of a thoroughly harmonious character, widely sympathetic and intensely individual.' She had developed those two sides of her nature in the most com

plete way and the result was a perfectly tranquil old age.'

In the closing pages of her "Personal Recollections," she says: "I regret that I shall not live to know the result of the expedient to determine the currents of the ocean, the distance of the Earth from the Sun as determined by the transits of Venus, and the source of the most renowned of rivers, the discovery of which will immortalize the name of Dr. Livingstone.

"I am now in my ninety-second year,

still able to drive out for several hours. I read books on the higher Algebra four or five hours daily and solve the problems. Sometimes I find them difficult, but my old obstinacy remains, and if I do not succeed to-day, I attack them again tomorrow. I also enjoy the reading of new discoveries and theories in the scientific world.

"The blue-peter," she continues, "has been long flying at my foremast, and I must soon expect the signal for sailing. It is a solemn voyage but does not disturb my tranquillity. We are told of the infinite glories of a future state and I believe them, though incomprehensible to us; but as I do comprehend, in some degree at least, the exquisite loveliness of this visible world, I confess I shall be sorry to leave it. I shall regret the sky and the sea, with all their beautiful coloring, and the earth with its verdure and flowers."

To the last her fine intellect remained unclouded. She retained her habit of study to the latest day of her life, and the pursuit in which she had attained such eminence, mathematics, continued to disclose new beauties to her unfolding mind, even to the day of her death.

She fell asleep on the morning of November 29, 1872, and her mortal re

ON READING

R

EADING is not exclusively a modern accomplishment; yet reading was never so universal as it is to-day. Some,

who are now living, remember the time when but few people could read and write, and in those days illiteracy was no disgrace. But there has been a great change, and, we think, for the better. Educational advantages have increased, books have multiplied, and the facilities for self-improvement are far more general. Illiteracy is still with us, but it is no longer the rule. Nor is it regarded in the same light that it once was. The illiterate man to-day is not only at a great disadvantage, but is actually looked down upon. Yet all who can read are not necessarily much in advance of those who cannot. The accomplishment is no advantage to a man unless he puts it to the best use. To learn to read and to form the habit of reading are not synon

mains rest in the English Campo-Santo at Naples.

The keynote to this remarkable life was not ambition, nor was it the feverish search for something that might declare its possessor to be "cultured." Still less was it the more pathetic quest of the heart-hungry woman. Serenely happy in her father's home, she was deeply, devotedly so in the later relations of wifehood and motherhood. It was the simple, honest desire to live in obedience to creative law. The infant plant unfolds its two, tiny leaves in a mute request for light. She did no less; she could do no more. Study, with her, was simply a means to an end. When an unknown tongue lay between her and some coveted information, she quietly sat down and mastered it. A language was a door beyond which lay the hidden treasure. must be opened. To have considered herself learned because she had incidentally become acquainted with several tongues, would have been, to her, as absurd as fumbling aimlessly with the door knob instead of passing through. She had that large sympathy with nature which characterizes the growing mind, and hungered for the revelation which is ever seeking to disclose itself.

ADELE M. GARRIGUES.

It

ymous terms. Reading becomes a habit only when it is as necessary to our existence as eating and drinking. I always feel sorry for the young man or young woman who speaks slightingly of books, or who prefers loafing or gossiping to reading. The habitual reader always has an advantage over the casual reader. He is never at a loss for something to occupy his thoughts. His preference is expressed by the old English song, which everyone knows:

"Oh for a book and a shady nook,
Either indoor or out."

To become absorbed in a good book or periodical is to become oblivious to one's surroundings and unconscious of the passing hours. Reading is a sort of magician, transporting you to a paradise in the midst of a desert or a noisy city, or to a palace in the haunts of poverty. The lover of good books can well-nigh annihilate space and defy public prejudices.

He is always in the best of company. He numbers among his friends the great of all ages, and they all talk to him without reserve. They are accessible to him day and night, and he can dismiss them when he wills without a word of apology. If he abuses them, they do not fly into a passion; if he plies them with hard questions they do not dismiss him with vague answers; and if he displays much ignorance, they do not laugh at him. He finds them always on their best behavior, and ever ready to conduct him to the treasure house of ideas.

If a reader chooses, however, he can surround himself with low and disagreeable people in books as well as in actual life. The habit of reading, while it implies a taste for books and periodicals, does not determine the nature of the taste. Some people congratulate themselves when their children take to reading. But they sometimes forget that a boy is not necessarily out of mischief when he is absorbed in a book. Much depends upon the character of the books and papers he reads. If he revels in such papers as "The Police News," "Detective on the Wing," and "The New York Family Story Paper;' or in such books as Peck's Bad Boy,' "New York Ned in California, "" "Deadwood Dick in Dead City," and "The Wild Man of the Mountain, far worse business than if he slammed the doors, disarranged the rugs and mats, slid down the stair-rail, or went tearing over the carpet with his rough shoes. Indian hunters, desperadoes, highway robbers, pirates, runaway boys, snake charmers, gamblers, and tramps are no better company in papers and books than in everyday life. If reading serves only to introduce one into disreputable society, or to familiarize one with slang, cheating, and fighting, or inculcate wrong views of life, it were better that one remain forever an ignoramus. We should avoid the bad book or bad paper as we would a bad man or woman.

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lished annually. Every town of any size boasts of one or more newspapers. Magazines are almost numberless. evident, therefore, that no one can read everything. We must follow the wise dictum: "Read everything of something and something of everything," within the limitations of reason.

Reading should never be an end in itself. self. It should never be aimless, or superficial, but always with some good purpose in view. Much of a professional man's reading is, of necessity, along the lines prescribed by his profession; but even he, to be eminently successful in life, must give some time to desultory reading. He must even read much along lines for which he naturally has no taste. Sometimes he should read with no other purpose in view than to amuse himself. The mind can not be "keyed up" to the highest pitch all the time. It needs rest and relaxation. An amusing anecdote or story is as necessary as sleep, and may be far more salutary than a dose of medicine. Still the chief motive in reading should not be amusement or recreation. Nor should it, indeed, be merely the acquirement of knowledge. It is very desirable that a man should be well-informed and be able to give an intelligent opinion on matters of vital importance to himself and others. Yet he should be something more than a walking encyclopædia.

The chief purpose of reading should be the development of a pure and noble character. It should touch all the springs of life and take hold of every fibre of our being. Character is the greatest thing in the world, and good reading is as essential to its growth as sunlight is to the development of plants. Culture is not to be despised, and refinement of taste is not to be depreciated, but both must be attended by the awakening of man's noblest aspirations and broadest sympathies, in order to justify the time given to reading. Our reading should make us dissatisfied with our present knowledge and attainments, and beget within us a worthy ambition to be and do our very best. With this end in view, every one must make his own selection from the almost endless list of books and periodicals at his command. It does not follow that because a book is good it is suitable to all. While one should devote some time to desultory reading, the bulk