More than once did Galileo, by looking about and keenly observing all he saw, plan such contrivances as that of the pendulum; and he soon began to find out that these discoveries interested him far more than the study of medicine. About this time he saw a great deal of one of his father's friends, named Ottilio Riccio, who was a professor of mathematics.

"I entreat of you to teach me something of mathematics," said the young Galileo to him.

Riccio granted his prayer; and such was his new pupil's delight in this great study that the heart of Galileo's father was touched. How could he drag him away from what caused the youth a satisfaction such as he had never before experienced? He could not refuse when his son begged of him to allow him to give up the study of medicine and to follow out what was more in accordance with his taste. So Riccio's pupil was free to work at mathematics as much as he liked.

Galileo, with his new knowledge of mathematics, was now able to make discoveries, the fame of which reached the palace of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, who had always been inclined to seek the society of the learned. Through the duke's influence Galileo was now appointed professor of mathematics at Pisa University; this was in 1589, the new professor being only twenty-five when he gave his first lecture.

Galileo naturally discoursed to his pupils at Pisa concerning his discoveries and inventions: his pupils were charmed; for he spoke well, and he told them much that was interesting and astonishing; the new theories he brought forward were listened to with breathless attention inside the class-room, and eagerly repeated. Those he taught, felt a considerable affection and admiration for one who was destined, before long, to make a great stir in the world; but outsiders and the elders among the people of Pisa were wroth against the young professor who had dared to utter scientific truths of a new and startling nature.

Copernicus had long delayed publishing his new system because he had foreseen the quarrels that would arise. Galileo was of an entirely different disposition: he feared nothing, and by his bold words, he made so many enemies, that in time he found it advisable to give up his professorship at Pisa, and to remove to Padua University, where he was invited to lecture for six years. His lectures, full of the inspiration of genius, so astonished and charmed the people of Padua,

that they could not part with him at the end of the six years, but persuaded him to stay on and on for another twelve years.

During the eighteen years at Padua, crowds of students flocked from all parts of Italy to hear this remarkable professor, the lecture-room being often so crowded that he was forced, finally, to lecture in the open air.

In 1609, Galileo offered to the Doge of Venice his first complete telescope he had been long working at this instrument, having heard of the wonders made possible by what had been imperfectly tried in Holland.

The Doge had the mysterious tube carried to the summit of the tower of S. Mark; from that height its power was to be tried. The Doge was beyond himself with delight and surprise at what he saw, while Galileo was filled with deep reverence as he gazed upon the secrets revealed by the telescope he had made.

Meantime the great astronomer worked on. The first telescope he had made, magnified four times; the second, seven times; and the third, fifty times!

And now Galileo achieved many astronomical discoveries.

All this time the enemies of Galileo were at work also, and in a most malicious manner, for they were jealous and slow to believe. "Let us set the Pope against him," said his enemies.

Meantime, Galileo, who saw the truth of what Copernicus had taught, wrote and published an imaginary dialogue between one who accepted the Copernican system and two who disputed its truth. This dialogue was written in such a way that all who read it must surely side with the Copernican advocate by the time they arrived at the end. One of the speakers in the imaginary dialogue was called "Simplicio," and was represented as most ignorant and obstinate in his resistance to the Copernican doctrines. Galileo's enemies arranged that they would endeavour to influence the Pope to regard "Simplicio” as intended to represent himself; and in this stratagem they fully succeeded, insomuch that the Pope henceforward disliked and distrusted Galileo, whom he had hitherto much admired and favoured. There was no hope for the astronomer, as his enemies thought, now the Pope was against him, and they no longer scrupled to speak out all their hatred boldly, and to laugh to scorn the novelties he was teaching.

Galileo concerned himself with other subjects besides astronomy; he is, indeed, praised more for his researches respecting the laws of

motion, and other branches of mechanical philosophy, than for his telescopic discoveries, though the latter are more generally known and appreciated, because easier to talk of and to understand.

The enemies of Galileo knew that he believed many things that were contrary to the teaching of the Pope and of his ecclesiastics; and they, taking advantage of Galileo's open-speaking, were at great pains to catch him in his talk: this they finally resolved to do by means of the dark and terrible Inquisition; for it seems that the Pope was not inclined to be very severe with the great astronomer; moreover, Galileo had many friends and sincere admirers among the dignitaries of the Romish Church, some of whom, at the risk of being marked out for vengeance, by the secret authorities of the Inquisition, seeing danger ahead for Galileo, ventured in a friendly way to warn the rash man of genius, imploring him to be more prudent.

Galileo did not heed their warning; he refused to keep from the world the vast discoveries he had made, though quite aware that many were on the watch to crush him, if possible.

But suddenly he was seized by the mysterious powers of the Inquisition and cast into prison. He was now seventy years of age, and very ill; yet he was harshly called upon to explain his opinions before the assembly of the Inquisitorial Court, after he had been imprisoned so long and had been so sorrowful and worried that he was almost transformed into a different person. Galileo was commanded never again to speak of his discoveries, and to take an oath that they were all a mistake; he was threatened by the dark tribunal with dire punishment if he dared to disobey this command. He, sensitive, aged and terrified, promised to obey; but soon found it impossible not to speak of what he knew to be true; therefore, after having enjoyed partial forgiveness for a time, he was again seized, and this time was sentenced to an imprisonment so long that his judges refused to say how long it would be. The Pope, at the request of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, the successor to Galileo's old patron, ordered him to be freed from prison, and allowed him to dwell in peaceful retirement for the rest of his days. It has generally been believed that after Galileo, on bended knee, had taken the oath extorted from him by terror, and had declared the earth to be immovable, he whispered to a friend by his side

"But it does move nevertheless," (eppur' si muove.)

This whisper of his is now denied, or rather, pronounced to be without proof.

Galileo died at the village of Arcetri, in 1624, at the age of seventyeight, having worked on to the end, even though his hearing began to fail, and the far-searching light of his eyes was at last entirely extinguished.

The story of Galileo's sufferings is cause for endless regret; it is, however, only just to remember that the "Congregation" of the terrible Inquisition is not believed by the members of the Romish Communion, to speak with the full authority of the Romish Church, nor are its decisions regarded by them as infallible.

IN that most delightful and clever sketch, entitled the "Battle of Life," the author makes one of the leading characters utter the following remarkable sentence.

"I don't know anything," said Britain, with a leaden eye and an unmoveable visage; "I don't care for anything, I don't make out any thing, I don't believe anything, and I don't want anything." Truly a strange, a peculiar confession to make, and yet, after all, beyond its being put after a somewhat plain and direct manner, the leading idea which permeates this utterance of Britain, is one which, although perhaps not openly avowed, is at least silently endorsed by the life and actions of very many of our fellow-creatures. For the drift of the remark I have quoted is simply this—an utter impassiveness, and immoveability to the ordinary events of life, and the every-day affairs of mankind, a vague idea that it is childish and foolish, to give way to the emotions, and that it is a distinguishing mark of a brave and noble mind to hide all feeling, either of sorrow or of joy, from the sight and sympathy of our fellow-men. Now the notion is not a new one, for it has been held by civilised and uncivilised human beings for generations. We who consider ourselves members of the most intelligent and civilised community

on the face of the earth are, in this respect at least, in perfect and complete agreement with some of the most ignorant and neglected of the heathen races. We have all read of those Indian tribes, whose boast it is that they can never be made to exhibit a sign of joy, or to shed a tear of sorrow, but have so educated or, rather, so subdued their feelings as to be able to preserve, even amid the most trying scenes, and at most awful periods, a stolid and unmoved demeanour, befitting rather the characteristics of a senseless statue than the proper attributes of human beings. It is unworthy, so they consider it, to give way in the slightest degree to happiness or grief, pleasure or pain, hope or despair, and therefore you cannot please them better, or force a higher compliment upon them, than by declaring them to be after the manner of that ancient people of old, of whom it is recorded in Sacred Writ, that they were "past feeling." But those savage tribes do not stand alone in the strange opinion which they hold and practise. For WE are as unwilling as ever Indian brave, or Hindoo Fakir, to exhibit any signs of emotion with our outward man, though within, our heart may be torn with anguish and sorrow, and our spirit overwhelmed with care. We endeavour to comfort ourselves with the thought, that though we are carrying a burden, which perhaps no other creature could bearthough a fearful pressure of anxiety and grief weighs upon our mindyet we are still able to preserve outwardly the same demeanour, and present to the world as unbaffled and unchanged a front, as in the days when distress and sadness knew us not, and so it is only in our secret chamber, with no earthly eye beholding us, that we dare to cast away all pretence and show, and to resign ourselves there, to the joy or grief that must have way. It is strange that we should have this feeling so engrafted on our nature. It is strange that so many of us give in to the unfortunate-to call it by no stronger term-infatuation, and should so firmly believe that disappointment, anxiety, and care are borne the better from their being concealed from the observation and the sympathy of others; but so it is, and, doubtless, to all time, this opinion will hold good with many, that it is a mark of a brave and courageous mind to exhibit a calm and stolid reserve, and a characteristic of an entirely opposite tendency to display any sign of passing emotion.

Now, perhaps, hope is one emotion, which very many of us have a morbid dislike to indulge in openly, because we fancy it to be opposed to the attributes of common-sense and matter-of-fact feeling that mark