Hunter occupied a great deal of his time in collecting definite
facts respecting matters which, before his day, were regarded as
exceedingly trivial.  Thus it was supposed by many of his
contemporaries that he was only wasting his time and thought in
studying so carefully as he did the growth of a deer's horn.  But
Hunter was impressed with the conviction that no accurate knowledge
of scientific facts is without its value.  By the study referred
to, he learnt how arteries accommodate themselves to circumstances,
and enlarge as occasion requires; and the knowledge thus acquired
emboldened him, in a case of aneurism in a branch artery, to tie
the main trunk where no surgeon before him had dared to tie it, and
the life of his patient was saved.  Like many original men, he
worked for a long time as it were underground, digging and laying
foundations.  He was a solitary and self-reliant genius, holding on
his course without the solace of sympathy or approbation,--for but
few of his contemporaries perceived the ultimate object of his
pursuits.  But like all true workers, he did not fail in securing
his best reward--that which depends less upon others than upon
one's self--the approval of conscience, which in a right-minded man
invariably follows the honest and energetic performance of duty.

Ambrose Pare, the great French surgeon, was another illustrious
instance of close observation, patient application, and
indefatigable perseverance.  He was the son of a barber at Laval,
in Maine, where he was born in 1509.  His parents were too poor to
send him to school, but they placed him as foot-boy with the cure
of the village, hoping that under that learned man he might pick up
an education for himself.  But the cure kept him so busily employed
in grooming his mule and in other menial offices that the boy found
no time for learning.  While in his service, it happened that the
celebrated lithotomist, Cotot, came to Laval to operate on one of
the cure's ecclesiastical brethren.  Pare was present at the
operation, and was so much interested by it that he is said to have
from that time formed the determination of devoting himself to the
art of surgery.

Leaving the cure's household service, Pare apprenticed himself to a
barber-surgeon named Vialot, under whom he learnt to let blood,
draw teeth, and perform the minor operations.  After four years'
experience of this kind, he went to Paris to study at the school of
anatomy and surgery, meanwhile maintaining himself by his trade of
a barber.  He afterwards succeeded in obtaining an appointment as
assistant at the Hotel Dieu, where his conduct was so exemplary,
and his progress so marked, that the chief surgeon, Goupil,
entrusted him with the charge of the patients whom he could not
himself attend to.  After the usual course of instruction, Pare was
admitted a master barber-surgeon, and shortly after was appointed
to a charge with the French army under Montmorenci in Piedmont.
Pare was not a man to follow in the ordinary ruts of his
profession, but brought the resources of an ardent and original
mind to bear upon his daily work, diligently thinking out for
himself the rationale of diseases and their befitting remedies.
Before his time the wounded suffered much more at the hands of
their surgeons than they did at those of their enemies.  To stop
bleeding from gunshot wounds, the barbarous expedient was resorted
to of dressing them with boiling oil.  Haemorrhage was also stopped
by searing the wounds with a red-hot iron; and when amputation was
necessary, it was performed with a red-hot knife.  At first Pare
treated wounds according to the approved methods; but, fortunately,
on one occasion, running short of boiling oil, he substituted a
mild and emollient application.  He was in great fear all night
lest he should have done wrong in adopting this treatment; but was
greatly relieved next morning on finding his patients comparatively
comfortable, while those whose wounds had been treated in the usual
way were writhing in torment.  Such was the casual origin of one of
Pare's greatest improvements in the treatment of gun-shot wounds;
and he proceeded to adopt the emollient treatment in all future
cases.  Another still more important improvement was his employment
of the ligature in tying arteries to stop haemorrhage, instead of
the actual cautery.  Pare, however, met with the usual fate of
innovators and reformers.  His practice was denounced by his
surgical brethren as dangerous, unprofessional, and empirical; and
the older surgeons banded themselves together to resist its
adoption.  They reproached him for his want of education, more
especially for his ignorance of Latin and Greek; and they assailed
him with quotations from ancient writers, which he was unable
either to verify or refute.  But the best answer to his assailants
was the success of his practice.  The wounded soldiers called out
everywhere for Pare, and he was always at their service:  he tended
them carefully and affectionately; and he usually took leave of
them with the words, "I have dressed you; may God cure you."

After three years' active service as army-surgeon, Pare returned to
Paris with such a reputation that he was at once appointed surgeon
in ordinary to the King.  When Metz was besieged by the Spanish
army, under Charles V., the garrison suffered heavy loss, and the
number of wounded was very great.  The surgeons were few and
incompetent, and probably slew more by their bad treatment than the
Spaniards did by the sword.  The Duke of Guise, who commanded the
garrison, wrote to the King imploring him to send Pare to his help.
The courageous surgeon at once set out, and, after braving many
dangers (to use his own words, "d'estre pendu, estrangle ou mis en
pieces"), he succeeded in passing the enemy's lines, and entered
Metz in safety.  The Duke, the generals, and the captains gave him
an affectionate welcome; while the soldiers, when they heard of his
arrival, cried, "We no longer fear dying of our wounds; our friend
is among us."  In the following year Pare was in like manner with
the besieged in the town of Hesdin, which shortly fell before the
Duke of Savoy, and he was taken prisoner.  But having succeeded in
curing one of the enemy's chief officers of a serious wound, he was
discharged without ransom, and returned in safety to Paris.

The rest of his life was occupied in study, in self-improvement, in
piety, and in good deeds.  Urged by some of the most learned among
his contemporaries, he placed on record the results of his surgical
experience, in twenty-eight books, which were published by him at
different times.  His writings are valuable and remarkable chiefly
on account of the great number of facts and cases contained in
them, and the care with which he avoids giving any directions
resting merely upon theory unsupported by observation.  Pare
continued, though a Protestant, to hold the office of surgeon in
ordinary to the King; and during the Massacre of St. Bartholomew he
owed his life to the personal friendship of Charles IX., whom he
had on one occasion saved from the dangerous effects of a wound
inflicted by a clumsy surgeon in performing the operation of
venesection.  Brantome, in his 'Memoires,' thus speaks of the
King's rescue of Pare on the night of Saint Bartholomew--"He sent
to fetch him, and to remain during the night in his chamber and
wardrobe-room, commanding him not to stir, and saying that it was
not reasonable that a man who had preserved the lives of so many
people should himself be massacred."  Thus Pare escaped the horrors
of that fearful night, which he survived for many years, and was
permitted to die in peace, full of age and honours.

Harvey was as indefatigable a labourer as any we have named.  He
spent not less than eight long years of investigation and research
before he published his views of the circulation of the blood.  He
repeated and verified his experiments again and again, probably
anticipating the opposition he would have to encounter from the
profession on making known his discovery.  The tract in which he at
length announced his views, was a most modest one,--but simple,
perspicuous, and conclusive.  It was nevertheless received with
ridicule, as the utterance of a crack-brained impostor.  For some
time, he did not make a single convert, and gained nothing but
contumely and abuse.  He had called in question the revered
authority of the ancients; and it was even averred that his views
were calculated to subvert the authority of the Scriptures and
undermine the very foundations of morality and religion.  His
little practice fell away, and he was left almost without a friend.
This lasted for some years, until the great truth, held fast by
Harvey amidst all his adversity, and which had dropped into many
thoughtful minds, gradually ripened by further observation, and
after a period of about twenty-five years, it became generally
recognised as an established scientific truth.

The difficulties encountered by Dr. Jenner in promulgating and
establishing his discovery of vaccination as a preventive of small-
pox, were even greater than those of Harvey.  Many, before him, had
witnessed the cow-pox, and had heard of the report current among
the milkmaids in Gloucestershire, that whoever had taken that
disease was secure against small-pox.  It was a trifling, vulgar
rumour, supposed to have no significance whatever; and no one had
thought it worthy of investigation, until it was accidentally
brought under the notice of Jenner.  He was a youth, pursuing his
studies at Sodbury, when his attention was arrested by the casual
observation made by a country girl who came to his master's shop
for advice.  The small-pox was mentioned, when the girl said, "I
can't take that disease, for I have had cow-pox."  The observation
immediately riveted Jenner's attention, and he forthwith set about
inquiring and making observations on the subject.  His professional
friends, to whom he mentioned his views as to the prophylactic
virtues of cow-pox, laughed at him, and even threatened to expel
him from their society, if he persisted in harassing them with the
subject.  In London he was so fortunate as to study under John
Hunter, to whom he communicated his views.  The advice of the great
anatomist was thoroughly characteristic:  "Don't think, but TRY; be
patient, be accurate."  Jenner's courage was supported by the
advice, which conveyed to him the true art of philosophical
investigation.  He went back to the country to practise his
profession and make observations and experiments, which he
continued to pursue for a period of twenty years.  His faith in his
discovery was so implicit that he vaccinated his own son on three
several occasions.  At length he published his views in a quarto of
about seventy pages, in which he gave the details of twenty-three
cases of successful vaccination of individuals, to whom it was
found afterwards impossible to communicate the small-pox either by
contagion or inoculation.  It was in 1798 that this treatise was
published; though he had been working out his ideas since the year
1775, when they had begun to assume a definite form.

How was the discovery received?  First with indifference, then with
active hostility.  Jenner proceeded to London to exhibit to the
profession the process of vaccination and its results; but not a
single medical man could be induced to make trial of it, and after
fruitlessly waiting for nearly three months, he returned to his
native village.  He was even caricatured and abused for his attempt
to "bestialize" his species by the introduction into their systems
of diseased matter from the cow's udder.  Vaccination was denounced
from the pulpit as "diabolical."  It was averred that vaccinated
children became "ox-faced," that abscesses broke out to "indicate
sprouting horns," and that the countenance was gradually
"transmuted into the visage of a cow, the voice into the bellowing
of bulls."  Vaccination, however, was a truth, and notwithstanding
the violence of the opposition, belief in it spread slowly.  In one
village, where a gentleman tried to introduce the practice, the
first persons who permitted themselves to be vaccinated were
absolutely pelted and driven into their houses if they appeared out
of doors.  Two ladies of title--Lady Ducie and the Countess of
Berkeley--to their honour be it remembered--had the courage to
vaccinate their children; and the prejudices of the day were at
once broken through.  The medical profession gradually came round,
and there were several who even sought to rob Dr. Jenner of the
merit of the discovery, when its importance came to be recognised.
Jenner's cause at last triumphed, and he was publicly honoured and
rewarded.  In his prosperity he was as modest as he had been in his
obscurity.  He was invited to settle in London, and told that he
might command a practice of 10,000l. a year.  But his answer was,
"No!  In the morning of my days I have sought the sequestered and
lowly paths of life--the valley, and not the mountain,--and now, in
the evening of my days, it is not meet for me to hold myself up as
an object for fortune and for fame."  During Jenner's own life-time
the practice of vaccination became adopted all over the civilized
world; and when he died, his title as a Benefactor of his kind was
recognised far and wide.  Cuvier has said, "If vaccine were the
only discovery of the epoch, it would serve to render it
illustrious for ever; yet it knocked twenty times in vain at the
doors of the Academies."

Not less patient, resolute, and persevering was Sir Charles Bell in
the prosecution of his discoveries relating to the nervous system.
Previous to his time, the most confused notions prevailed as to the
functions of the nerves, and this branch of study was little more
advanced than it had been in the times of Democritus and Anaxagoras
three thousand years before.  Sir Charles Bell, in the valuable
series of papers the publication of which was commenced in 1821,
took an entirely original view of the subject, based upon a long
series of careful, accurate, and oft-repeated experiments.
Elaborately tracing the development of the nervous system up from
the lowest order of animated being, to man--the lord of the animal
kingdom,--he displayed it, to use his own words, "as plainly as if
it were written in our mother-tongue."  His discovery consisted in
the fact, that the spinal nerves are double in their function, and
arise by double roots from the spinal marrow,--volition being
conveyed by that part of the nerves springing from the one root,
and sensation by the other.  The subject occupied the mind of Sir
Charles Bell for a period of forty years, when, in 1840, he laid
his last paper before the Royal Society.  As in the cases of Harvey
and Jenner, when he had lived down the ridicule and opposition with
which his views were first received, and their truth came to be
recognised, numerous claims for priority in making the discovery
were set up at home and abroad.  Like them, too, he lost practice
by the publication of his papers; and he left it on record that,
after every step in his discovery, he was obliged to work harder
than ever to preserve his reputation as a practitioner.  The great
merits of Sir Charles Bell were, however, at length fully
recognised; and Cuvier himself, when on his death-bed, finding his
face distorted and drawn to one side, pointed out the symptom to
his attendants as a proof of the correctness of Sir Charles Bell's
theory.

An equally devoted pursuer of the same branch of science was the
late Dr. Marshall Hall, whose name posterity will rank with those
of Harvey, Hunter, Jenner, and Bell.  During the whole course of
his long and useful life he was a most careful and minute observer;
and no fact, however apparently insignificant, escaped his
attention.  His important discovery of the diastaltic nervous
system, by which his name will long be known amongst scientific
men, originated in an exceedingly simple circumstance.  When
investigating the pneumonic circulation in the Triton, the
decapitated object lay upon the table; and on separating the tail
and accidentally pricking the external integument, he observed that
it moved with energy, and became contorted into various forms.  He
had not touched a muscle or a muscular nerve; what then was the
nature of these movements?  The same phenomena had probably been
often observed before, but Dr. Hall was the first to apply himself
perseveringly to the investigation of their causes; and he
exclaimed on the occasion, "I will never rest satisfied until I
have found all this out, and made it clear."  His attention to the
subject was almost incessant; and it is estimated that in the
course of his life he devoted not less than 25,000 hours to its
experimental and chemical investigation.  He was at the same time
carrying on an extensive private practice, and officiating as
lecturer at St. Thomas's Hospital and other Medical Schools.  It
will scarcely be credited that the paper in which he embodied his
discovery was rejected by the Royal Society, and was only accepted
after the lapse of seventeen years, when the truth of his views had
become acknowledged by scientific men both at home and abroad.

The life of Sir William Herschel affords another remarkable
illustration of the force of perseverance in another branch of
science.  His father was a poor German musician, who brought up his
four sons to the same calling.  William came over to England to
seek his fortune, and he joined the band of the Durham Militia, in
which he played the oboe.  The regiment was lying at Doncaster,
where Dr. Miller first became acquainted with Herschel, having
heard him perform a solo on the violin in a surprising manner.  The
Doctor entered into conversation with the youth, and was so pleased
with him, that he urged him to leave the militia and take up his
residence at his house for a time.  Herschel did so, and while at
Doncaster was principally occupied in violin-playing at concerts,
availing himself of the advantages of Dr. Miller's library to study
at his leisure hours.  A new organ having been built for the parish
church of Halifax, an organist was advertised for, on which
Herschel applied for the office, and was selected.  Leading the
wandering life of an artist, he was next attracted to Bath, where
he played in the Pump-room band, and also officiated as organist in
the Octagon chapel.  Some recent discoveries in astronomy having
arrested his mind, and awakened in him a powerful spirit of
curiosity, he sought and obtained from a friend the loan of a two-
foot Gregorian telescope.  So fascinated was the poor musician by
the science, that he even thought of purchasing a telescope, but
the price asked by the London optician was so alarming, that he
determined to make one.  Those who know what a reflecting telescope
is, and the skill which is required to prepare the concave metallic
speculum which forms the most important part of the apparatus, will
be able to form some idea of the difficulty of this undertaking.
Nevertheless, Herschel succeeded, after long and painful labour, in
completing a five-foot reflector, with which he had the
gratification of observing the ring and satellites of Saturn.  Not
satisfied with his triumph, he proceeded to make other instruments
in succession, of seven, ten, and even twenty feet.  In
constructing the seven-foot reflector, he finished no fewer than
two hundred specula before he produced one that would bear any
power that was applied to it,--a striking instance of the
persevering laboriousness of the man.  While gauging the heavens
with his instruments, he continued patiently to earn his bread by
piping to the fashionable frequenters of the Pump-room.  So eager
was he in his astronomical observations, that he would steal away
from the room during an interval of the performance, give a little
turn at his telescope, and contentedly return to his oboe.  Thus
working away, Herschel discovered the Georgium Sidus, the orbit and
rate of motion of which he carefully calculated, and sent the
result to the Royal Society; when the humble oboe player found
himself at once elevated from obscurity to fame.  He was shortly
after appointed Astronomer Royal, and by the kindness of George
III. was placed in a position of honourable competency for life.
He bore his honours with the same meekness and humility which had
distinguished him in the days of his obscurity.  So gentle and
patient, and withal so distinguished and successful a follower of
science under difficulties, perhaps cannot be found in the entire
history of biography.

The career of William Smith, the father of English geology, though
perhaps less known, is not less interesting and instructive as an
example of patient and laborious effort, and the diligent
cultivation of opportunities.  He was born in 1769, the son of a
yeoman farmer at Churchill, in Oxfordshire.  His father dying when
he was but a child, he received a very sparing education at the
village school, and even that was to a considerable extent
interfered with by his wandering and somewhat idle habits as a boy.
His mother having married a second time, he was taken in charge by
an uncle, also a farmer, by whom he was brought up.  Though the
uncle was by no means pleased with the boy's love of wandering
about, collecting "poundstones," "pundips," and other stony
curiosities which lay scattered about the adjoining land, he yet
enabled him to purchase a few of the necessary books wherewith to
instruct himself in the rudiments of geometry and surveying; for
the boy was already destined for the business of a land-surveyor.
One of his marked characteristics, even as a youth, was the
accuracy and keenness of his observation; and what he once clearly
saw he never forgot.  He began to draw, attempted to colour, and
practised the arts of mensuration and surveying, all without
regular instruction; and by his efforts in self-culture, he shortly
became so proficient, that he was taken on as assistant to a local
surveyor of ability in the neighbourhood.  In carrying on his
business he was constantly under the necessity of traversing
Oxfordshire and the adjoining counties.  One of the first things he
seriously pondered over, was the position of the various soils and
strata that came under his notice on the lands which he surveyed or
travelled over; more especially the position of the red earth in
regard to the lias and superincumbent rocks.  The surveys of
numerous collieries which he was called upon to make, gave him
further experience; and already, when only twenty-three years of
age, he contemplated making a model of the strata of the earth.

While engaged in levelling for a proposed canal in Gloucestershire,
the idea of a general law occurred to him relating to the strata of
that district.  He conceived that the strata lying above the coal
were not laid horizontally, but inclined, and in one direction,
towards the east; resembling, on a large scale, "the ordinary
appearance of superposed slices of bread and butter."  The
correctness of this theory he shortly after confirmed by
observations of the strata in two parallel valleys, the "red
ground," "lias," and "freestone" or "oolite," being found to come
down in an eastern direction, and to sink below the level, yielding
place to the next in succession.  He was shortly enabled to verify
the truth of his views on a larger scale, having been appointed to
examine personally into the management of canals in England and
Wales.  During his journeys, which extended from Bath to Newcastle-
on-Tyne, returning by Shropshire and Wales, his keen eyes were
never idle for a moment.  He rapidly noted the aspect and structure
of the country through which he passed with his companions,
treasuring up his observations for future use.  His geologic vision
was so acute, that though the road along which he passed from York
to Newcastle in the post chaise was from five to fifteen miles
distant from the hills of chalk and oolite on the east, he was
satisfied as to their nature, by their contours and relative
position, and their ranges on the surface in relation to the lias
and "red ground" occasionally seen on the road.

The general results of his observation seem to have been these.  He
noted that the rocky masses of country in the western parts of
England generally inclined to the east and south-east; that the red
sandstones and marls above the coal measures passed beneath the
lias, clay, and limestone, that these again passed beneath the
sands, yellow limestones and clays, forming the table-land of the
Cotswold Hills, while these in turn passed beneath the great chalk
deposits occupying the eastern parts of England.  He further
observed, that each layer of clay, sand, and limestone held its own
peculiar classes of fossils; and pondering much on these things, he
at length came to the then unheard-of conclusion, that each
distinct deposit of marine animals, in these several strata,
indicated a distinct sea-bottom, and that each layer of clay, sand,
chalk, and stone, marked a distinct epoch of time in the history of
the earth.

This idea took firm possession of his mind, and he could talk and
think of nothing else.  At canal boards, at sheep-shearings, at
county meetings, and at agricultural associations, 'Strata Smith,'
as he came to be called, was always running over with the subject
that possessed him.  He had indeed made a great discovery, though
he was as yet a man utterly unknown in the scientific world.  He
proceeded to project a map of the stratification of England; but
was for some time deterred from proceeding with it, being fully
occupied in carrying out the works of the Somersetshire coal canal,
which engaged him for a period of about six years.  He continued,
nevertheless, to be unremitting in his observation of facts; and he
became so expert in apprehending the internal structure of a
district and detecting the lie of the strata from its external
configuration, that he was often consulted respecting the drainage
of extensive tracts of land, in which, guided by his geological
knowledge, he proved remarkably successful, and acquired an
extensive reputation.

One day, when looking over the cabinet collection of fossils
belonging to the Rev. Samuel Richardson, at Bath, Smith astonished
his friend by suddenly disarranging his classification, and re-
arranging the fossils in their stratigraphical order, saying--
"These came from the blue lias, these from the over-lying sand and
freestone, these from the fuller's earth, and these from the Bath
building stone."  A new light flashed upon Mr. Richardson's mind,
and he shortly became a convert to and believer in William Smith's
doctrine.  The geologists of the day were not, however, so easily
convinced; and it was scarcely to be tolerated that an unknown
land-surveyor should pretend to teach them the science of geology.
But William Smith had an eye and mind to penetrate deep beneath the
skin of the earth; he saw its very fibre and skeleton, and, as it
were, divined its organization.  His knowledge of the strata in the
neighbourhood of Bath was so accurate, that one evening, when
dining at the house of the Rev. Joseph Townsend, he dictated to Mr.
Richardson the different strata according to their order of
succession in descending order, twenty-three in number, commencing
with the chalk and descending in continuous series down to the
coal, below which the strata were not then sufficiently determined.
To this was added a list of the more remarkable fossils which had
been gathered in the several layers of rock.  This was printed and
extensively circulated in 1801.

He next determined to trace out the strata through districts as
remote from Bath as his means would enable him to reach.  For years
he journeyed to and fro, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback,
riding on the tops of stage coaches, often making up by night-
travelling the time he had lost by day, so as not to fail in his
ordinary business engagements.  When he was professionally called
away to any distance from home--as, for instance, when travelling
from Bath to Holkham, in Norfolk, to direct the irrigation and
drainage of Mr. Coke's land in that county--he rode on horseback,
making frequent detours from the road to note the geological
features of the country which he traversed.

For several years he was thus engaged in his journeys to distant
quarters in England and Ireland, to the extent of upwards of ten
thousand miles yearly; and it was amidst this incessant and
laborious travelling, that he contrived to commit to paper his
fast-growing generalizations on what he rightly regarded as a new
science.  No observation, howsoever trivial it might appear, was
neglected, and no opportunity of collecting fresh facts was
overlooked.  Whenever he could, he possessed himself of records of
borings, natural and artificial sections, drew them to a constant
scale of eight yards to the inch, and coloured them up.  Of his
keenness of observation take the following illustration.  When
making one of his geological excursions about the country near
Woburn, as he was drawing near to the foot of the Dunstable chalk
hills, he observed to his companion, "If there be any broken ground
about the foot of these hills, we may find SHARK'S TEETH;" and they
had not proceeded far, before they picked up six from the white
bank of a new fence-ditch.  As he afterwards said of himself, "The
habit of observation crept on me, gained a settlement in my mind,
became a constant associate of my life, and started up in activity
at the first thought of a journey; so that I generally went off
well prepared with maps, and sometimes with contemplations on its
objects, or on those on the road, reduced to writing before it
commenced.  My mind was, therefore, like the canvas of a painter,
well prepared for the first and best impressions."

Notwithstanding his courageous and indefatigable industry, many
circumstances contributed to prevent the promised publication of
William Smith's 'Map of the Strata of England and Wales,' and it
was not until 1814 that he was enabled, by the assistance of some
friends, to give to the world the fruits of his twenty years'
incessant labour.  To prosecute his inquiries, and collect the
extensive series of facts and observations requisite for his
purpose, he had to expend the whole of the profits of his
professional labours during that period; and he even sold off his
small property to provide the means of visiting remoter parts of
the island.  Meanwhile he had entered on a quarrying speculation
near Bath, which proved unsuccessful, and he was under the
necessity of selling his geological collection (which was purchased
by the British Museum), his furniture and library, reserving only
his papers, maps, and sections, which were useless save to himself.
He bore his losses and misfortunes with exemplary fortitude; and
amidst all, he went on working with cheerful courage and untiring
patience.  He died at Northampton, in August, 1839, while on his
way to attend the meeting of the British Association at Birmingham.

It is difficult to speak in terms of too high praise of the first
geological map of England, which we owe to the industry of this
courageous man of science.  An accomplished writer says of it, "It
was a work so masterly in conception and so correct in general
outline, that in principle it served as a basis not only for the
production of later maps of the British Islands, but for geological
maps of all other parts of the world, wherever they have been
undertaken.  In the apartments of the Geological Society Smith's
map may yet be seen--a great historical document, old and worn,
calling for renewal of its faded tints.  Let any one conversant
with the subject compare it with later works on a similar scale,
and he will find that in all essential features it will not suffer
by the comparison--the intricate anatomy of the Silurian rocks of
Wales and the north of England by Murchison and Sedgwick being the
chief additions made to his great generalizations." {20}  The
genius of the Oxfordshire surveyor did not fail to be duly
recognised and honoured by men of science during his lifetime.  In
1831 the Geological Society of London awarded to him the Wollaston
medal, "in consideration of his being a great original discoverer
in English geology, and especially for his being the first in this
country to discover and to teach the identification of strata, and
to determine their succession by means of their imbedded fossils."
William Smith, in his simple, earnest way, gained for himself a
name as lasting as the science he loved so well.  To use the words
of the writer above quoted, "Till the manner as well as the fact of
the first appearance of successive forms of life shall be solved,
it is not easy to surmise how any discovery can be made in geology
equal in value to that which we owe to the genius of William
Smith."

Hugh Miller was a man of like observant faculties, who studied
literature as well as science with zeal and success.  The book in
which he has told the story of his life, ('My Schools and
Schoolmasters'), is extremely interesting, and calculated to be
eminently useful.  It is the history of the formation of a truly
noble character in the humblest condition of life; and inculcates
most powerfully the lessons of self-help, self-respect, and self-
dependence.  While Hugh was but a child, his father, who was a
sailor, was drowned at sea, and he was brought up by his widowed
mother.  He had a school training after a sort, but his best
teachers were the boys with whom he played, the men amongst whom he
worked, the friends and relatives with whom he lived.  He read much
and miscellaneously, and picked up odd sorts of knowledge from many
quarters,--from workmen, carpenters, fishermen and sailors, and
above all, from the old boulders strewed along the shores of the
Cromarty Frith.  With a big hammer which had belonged to his great-
grandfather, an old buccaneer, the boy went about chipping the
stones, and accumulating specimens of mica, porphyry, garnet, and
such like.  Sometimes he had a day in the woods, and there, too,
the boy's attention was excited by the peculiar geological
curiosities which came in his way.  While searching among the rocks
on the beach, he was sometimes asked, in irony, by the farm
servants who came to load their carts with sea-weed, whether he
"was gettin' siller in the stanes," but was so unlucky as never to
be able to answer in the affirmative.  When of a suitable age he
was apprenticed to the trade of his choice--that of a working
stonemason; and he began his labouring career in a quarry looking
out upon the Cromarty Frith.  This quarry proved one of his best
schools.  The remarkable geological formations which it displayed
awakened his curiosity.  The bar of deep-red stone beneath, and the
bar of pale-red clay above, were noted by the young quarryman, who
even in such unpromising subjects found matter for observation and
reflection.  Where other men saw nothing, he detected analogies,
differences, and peculiarities, which set him a-thinking.  He
simply kept his eyes and his mind open; was sober, diligent, and
persevering; and this was the secret of his intellectual growth.

His curiosity was excited and kept alive by the curious organic
remains, principally of old and extinct species of fishes, ferns,
and ammonites, which were revealed along the coast by the washings
of the waves, or were exposed by the stroke of his mason's hammer.
He never lost sight of the subject; but went on accumulating
observations and comparing formations, until at length, many years
afterwards, when no longer a working mason, he gave to the world
his highly interesting work on the Old Red Sandstone, which at once
established his reputation as a scientific geologist.  But this
work was the fruit of long years of patient observation and
research.  As he modestly states in his autobiography, "the only
merit to which I lay claim in the case is that of patient research-
-a merit in which whoever wills may rival or surpass me; and this
humble faculty of patience, when rightly developed, may lead to
more extraordinary developments of idea than even genius itself."

The late John Brown, the eminent English geologist, was, like
Miller, a stonemason in his early life, serving an apprenticeship
to the trade at Colchester, and afterwards working as a journeyman
mason at Norwich.  He began business as a builder on his own
account at Colchester, where by frugality and industry he secured a
competency.  It was while working at his trade that his attention
was first drawn to the study of fossils and shells; and he
proceeded to make a collection of them, which afterwards grew into
one of the finest in England.  His researches along the coasts of
Essex, Kent, and Sussex brought to light some magnificent remains
of the elephant and rhinoceros, the most valuable of which were
presented by him to the British Museum.  During the last few years
of his life he devoted considerable attention to the study of the
Foraminifera in chalk, respecting which he made several interesting
discoveries.  His life was useful, happy, and honoured; and he died
at Stanway, in Essex, in November 1859, at the ripe age of eighty
years.

Not long ago, Sir Roderick Murchison discovered at Thurso, in the
far north of Scotland, a profound geologist, in the person of a
baker there, named Robert Dick.  When Sir Roderick called upon him
at the bakehouse in which he baked and earned his bread, Robert
Dick delineated to him, by means of flour upon the board, the
geographical features and geological phenomena of his native
county, pointing out the imperfections in the existing maps, which
he had ascertained by travelling over the country in his leisure
hours.  On further inquiry, Sir Roderick ascertained that the
humble individual before him was not only a capital baker and
geologist, but a first-rate botanist.  "I found," said the
President of the Geographical Society, "to my great humiliation
that the baker knew infinitely more of botanical science, ay, ten
times more, than I did; and that there were only some twenty or
thirty specimens of flowers which he had not collected.  Some he
had obtained as presents, some he had purchased, but the greater
portion had been accumulated by his industry, in his native county
of Caithness; and the specimens were all arranged in the most
beautiful order, with their scientific names affixed."

Sir Roderick Murchison himself is an illustrious follower of these
and kindred branches of science.  A writer in the 'Quarterly
Review' cites him as a "singular instance of a man who, having
passed the early part of his life as a soldier, never having had
the advantage, or disadvantage as the case might have been, of a
scientific training, instead of remaining a fox-hunting country
gentleman, has succeeded by his own native vigour and sagacity,
untiring industry and zeal, in making for himself a scientific
reputation that is as wide as it is likely to be lasting.  He took
first of all an unexplored and difficult district at home, and, by
the labour of many years, examined its rock-formations, classed
them in natural groups, assigned to each its characteristic
assemblage of fossils, and was the first to decipher two great
chapters in the world's geological history, which must always
henceforth carry his name on their title-page.  Not only so, but he
applied the knowledge thus acquired to the dissection of large
districts, both at home and abroad, so as to become the geological
discoverer of great countries which had formerly been 'terrae
incognitae.'"  But Sir Roderick Murchison is not merely a
geologist.  His indefatigable labours in many branches of knowledge
have contributed to render him among the most accomplished and
complete of scientific men.



CHAPTER VI--WORKERS IN ART



"If what shone afar so grand,
Turn to nothing in thy hand,
On again; the virtue lies
In struggle, not the prize."--R. M. Milnes.

"Excelle, et tu vivras."--Joubert.


Excellence in art, as in everything else, can only be achieved by
dint of painstaking labour.

There is nothing less accidental than the painting of a fine
picture or the chiselling of a noble statue.  Every skilled touch
of the artist's brush or chisel, though guided by genius, is the
product of unremitting study.

Sir Joshua Reynolds was such a believer in the force of industry,
that he held that artistic excellence, "however expressed by
genius, taste, or the gift of heaven, may be acquired."  Writing to
Barry he said, "Whoever is resolved to excel in painting, or indeed
any other art, must bring all his mind to bear upon that one object
from the moment that he rises till he goes to bed."  And on another
occasion he said, "Those who are resolved to excel must go to their
work, willing or unwilling, morning, noon, and night:  they will
find it no play, but very hard labour."  But although diligent
application is no doubt absolutely necessary for the achievement of
the highest distinction in art, it is equally true that without the
inborn genius, no amount of mere industry, however well applied,
will make an artist.  The gift comes by nature, but is perfected by
self-culture, which is of more avail than all the imparted
education of the schools.

Some of the greatest artists have had to force their way upward in
the face of poverty and manifold obstructions.  Illustrious
instances will at once flash upon the reader's mind.  Claude
Lorraine, the pastrycook; Tintoretto, the dyer; the two
Caravaggios, the one a colour-grinder, the other a mortar-carrier
at the Vatican; Salvator Rosa, the associate of bandits; Giotto,
the peasant boy; Zingaro, the gipsy; Cavedone, turned out of doors
to beg by his father; Canova, the stone-cutter; these, and many
other well-known artists, succeeded in achieving distinction by
severe study and labour, under circumstances the most adverse.

Nor have the most distinguished artists of our own country been
born in a position of life more than ordinarily favourable to the
culture of artistic genius.  Gainsborough and Bacon were the sons
of cloth-workers; Barry was an Irish sailor boy, and Maclise a
banker's apprentice at Cork; Opie and Romney, like Inigo Jones,
were carpenters; West was the son of a small Quaker farmer in
Pennsylvania; Northcote was a watchmaker, Jackson a tailor, and
Etty a printer; Reynolds, Wilson, and Wilkie, were the sons of
clergymen; Lawrence was the son of a publican, and Turner of a
barber.  Several of our painters, it is true, originally had some
connection with art, though in a very humble way,--such as Flaxman,
whose father sold plaster casts; Bird, who ornamented tea-trays;
Martin, who was a coach-painter; Wright and Gilpin, who were ship-
painters; Chantrey, who was a carver and gilder; and David Cox,
Stanfield, and Roberts, who were scene-painters.

It was not by luck or accident that these men achieved distinction,
but by sheer industry and hard work.  Though some achieved wealth,
yet this was rarely, if ever, the ruling motive.  Indeed, no mere
love of money could sustain the efforts of the artist in his early
career of self-denial and application.  The pleasure of the pursuit
has always been its best reward; the wealth which followed but an
accident.  Many noble-minded artists have preferred following the
bent of their genius, to chaffering with the public for terms.
Spagnoletto verified in his life the beautiful fiction of Xenophon,
and after he had acquired the means of luxury, preferred
withdrawing himself from their influence, and voluntarily returned
to poverty and labour.  When Michael Angelo was asked his opinion
respecting a work which a painter had taken great pains to exhibit
for profit, he said, "I think that he will be a poor fellow so long
as he shows such an extreme eagerness to become rich."

Like Sir Joshua Reynolds, Michael Angelo was a great believer in
the force of labour; and he held that there was nothing which the
imagination conceived, that could not be embodied in marble, if the
hand were made vigorously to obey the mind.  He was himself one of
the most indefatigable of workers; and he attributed his power of
studying for a greater number of hours than most of his
contemporaries, to his spare habits of living.  A little bread and
wine was all he required for the chief part of the day when
employed at his work; and very frequently he rose in the middle of
the night to resume his labours.  On these occasions, it was his
practice to fix the candle, by the light of which he chiselled, on
the summit of a paste-board cap which he wore.  Sometimes he was
too wearied to undress, and he slept in his clothes, ready to
spring to his work so soon as refreshed by sleep.  He had a
favourite device of an old man in a go-cart, with an hour-glass
upon it bearing the inscription, Ancora imparo!  Still I am
learning.

Titian, also, was an indefatigable worker.  His celebrated "Pietro
Martire" was eight years in hand, and his "Last Supper" seven.  In
his letter to Charles V. he said, "I send your Majesty the 'Last
Supper' after working at it almost daily for seven years--dopo
sette anni lavorandovi quasi continuamente."  Few think of the
patient labour and long training involved in the greatest works of
the artist.  They seem easy and quickly accomplished, yet with how
great difficulty has this ease been acquired.  "You charge me fifty
sequins," said the Venetian nobleman to the sculptor, "for a bust
that cost you only ten days' labour."  "You forget," said the
artist, "that I have been thirty years learning to make that bust
in ten days."  Once when Domenichino was blamed for his slowness in
finishing a picture which was bespoken, he made answer, "I am
continually painting it within myself."  It was eminently
characteristic of the industry of the late Sir Augustus Callcott,
that he made not fewer than forty separate sketches in the
composition of his famous picture of "Rochester."  This constant
repetition is one of the main conditions of success in art, as in
life itself.

No matter how generous nature has been in bestowing the gift of
genius, the pursuit of art is nevertheless a long and continuous
labour.  Many artists have been precocious, but without diligence
their precocity would have come to nothing.  The anecdote related
of West is well known.  When only seven years old, struck with the
beauty of the sleeping infant of his eldest sister whilst watching
by its cradle, he ran to seek some paper and forthwith drew its
portrait in red and black ink.  The little incident revealed the
artist in him, and it was found impossible to draw him from his
bent.  West might have been a greater painter, had he not been
injured by too early success:  his fame, though great, was not
purchased by study, trials, and difficulties, and it has not been
enduring.

Richard Wilson, when a mere child, indulged himself with tracing
figures of men and animals on the walls of his father's house, with
a burnt stick.  He first directed his attention to portrait
painting; but when in Italy, calling one day at the house of
Zucarelli, and growing weary with waiting, he began painting the
scene on which his friend's chamber window looked.  When Zucarelli
arrived, he was so charmed with the picture, that he asked if
Wilson had not studied landscape, to which he replied that he had
not.  "Then, I advise you," said the other, "to try; for you are
sure of great success."  Wilson adopted the advice, studied and
worked hard, and became our first great English landscape painter.

Sir Joshua Reynolds, when a boy, forgot his lessons, and took
pleasure only in drawing, for which his father was accustomed to
rebuke him.  The boy was destined for the profession of physic, but
his strong instinct for art could not be repressed, and he became a
painter.  Gainsborough went sketching, when a schoolboy, in the
woods of Sudbury; and at twelve he was a confirmed artist:  he was
a keen observer and a hard worker,--no picturesque feature of any
scene he had once looked upon, escaping his diligent pencil.
William Blake, a hosier's son, employed himself in drawing designs
on the backs of his father's shop-bills, and making sketches on the
counter.  Edward Bird, when a child only three or four years old,
would mount a chair and draw figures on the walls, which he called
French and English soldiers.  A box of colours was purchased for
him, and his father, desirous of turning his love of art to
account, put him apprentice to a maker of tea-trays!  Out of this
trade he gradually raised himself, by study and labour, to the rank
of a Royal Academician.

Hogarth, though a very dull boy at his lessons, took pleasure in
making drawings of the letters of the alphabet, and his school
exercises were more remarkable for the ornaments with which he
embellished them, than for the matter of the exercises themselves.
In the latter respect he was beaten by all the blockheads of the
school, but in his adornments he stood alone.  His father put him
apprentice to a silversmith, where he learnt to draw, and also to
engrave spoons and forks with crests and ciphers.  From silver-
chasing, he went on to teach himself engraving on copper,
principally griffins and monsters of heraldry, in the course of
which practice he became ambitious to delineate the varieties of
human character.  The singular excellence which he reached in this
art, was mainly the result of careful observation and study.  He
had the gift, which he sedulously cultivated, of committing to
memory the precise features of any remarkable face, and afterwards
reproducing them on paper; but if any singularly fantastic form or
outre face came in his way, he would make a sketch of it on the
spot, upon his thumb-nail, and carry it home to expand at his
leisure.  Everything fantastical and original had a powerful
attraction for him, and he wandered into many out-of-the-way places
for the purpose of meeting with character.  By this careful storing
of his mind, he was afterwards enabled to crowd an immense amount
of thought and treasured observation into his works.  Hence it is
that Hogarth's pictures are so truthful a memorial of the
character, the manners, and even the very thoughts of the times in
which he lived.  True painting, he himself observed, can only be
learnt in one school, and that is kept by Nature.  But he was not a
highly cultivated man, except in his own walk.  His school
education had been of the slenderest kind, scarcely even perfecting
him in the art of spelling; his self-culture did the rest.  For a
long time he was in very straitened circumstances, but nevertheless
worked on with a cheerful heart.  Poor though he was, he contrived
to live within his small means, and he boasted, with becoming
pride, that he was "a punctual paymaster."  When he had conquered
all his difficulties and become a famous and thriving man, he loved
to dwell upon his early labours and privations, and to fight over
again the battle which ended so honourably to him as a man and so
gloriously as an artist.  "I remember the time," said he on one
occasion, "when I have gone moping into the city with scarce a
shilling, but as soon as I have received ten guineas there for a
plate, I have returned home, put on my sword, and sallied out with
all the confidence of a man who had thousands in his pockets."