scope or not." By an ingenious contrivance Micromégas extemporises a huge speaking trumpet, like an enormous tunnel, from the parings of one of his nails, so that, thanks to his patient ingenuity, the experimentalist was in a short time enabled to distinguish the humming of the microscopic animals. In a few hours he could distinguish words, and, in fine, make out the French language. The Saturnian did as much, though with more difficulty. Surprises crowd upon them they heard the atoms, speak apparently very good sense. But what was to be done to hold the conversation for which our philosophers were dying with impatience? Their tones of thunder must assuredly deafen the atoms without any result. On this new difficulty, it occurs to them to moderate the insufferable noise by putting small toothpicks into their mouths. The Sirian held the dwarf upon his knees, who, in his turn, held the ship with its freight upon his nail. Lowering his head, the Sirian began to whisper. As may be imagined, the first feeling of the atoms was one of utter surprise and terror. "The chaplain of the ship recited formulas of exorcism, the sailors set themselves swearing, and the philosophers invented a system." At length, the first alarms somewhat appeased, some of the atoms, bolder than the rest, ventured to converse; and, after certain geometrical observations, to the complete surprise of their captors, they are proceeding to give the exact measurement not only of the Saturnian dwarf, but also of Micromégas himself; and assert the existence of intelligent creatures smaller even than themselves, repeating "not what Virgil had had said about the bees, but what Swammerdam had discovered and what Réaumur had dissected." And when our human atom proceeds to describe animals which are for the bees what the bees are for men, what the Sirian himself was for the vast animals which he had seen in other globes, and what those great animals are for other substances before which they would appear as atoms, the astonishment of the strangers increases to the highest pitch. By degrees the conversation grows extremely interesting, and the Sirian gives utterance to his feeling of admiration at the happy condition of beings who, "having so little matter, and appearing all mind, must pass their lives in loving and thinking. It is the true spiritual life. I have nowhere else seen true happiness; but without doubt it is here." All the philosophic atoms, however, at once begin shaking their heads violently; and one, more frank than the others, avows that, in fact, "if one excepts a very small proportion of inhabitants, all the rest are an assemblage of fools, knaves, and unfortunates. We have more matter a great deal than we need for doing a great deal of evil, if the evil come from matter; and too much mind, if the evil come from mind." He proceeds to speak of some of the horrors of life created by the atoms amongst themselves; of the wars, e.g., then raging, and their trifling causes. The first impulse of the Sirian is, with three kicks of his foot, to overturn the whole ant-hill of such ridiculous assassins: but he refrains on being told he might spare himself the trouble, since they effectually enough worked their destruction. own The Sirian then delivered himself as follows: "Since you know so well what is external to you, without doubt you know much better what is within you. Tell me what is your soul, and how do you form your ideas.' The philosophic atoms all speak at once, as before; but now they were all of different opinions. The Aristotelian, the Cartesian, the followers of Malebranche, of Leibnitz, of Locke proceed each to instruct their questioner in turn. An old Aristotelian defines the soul in the words of his master as rxía εντελεχεία 'I don't understand Greek,' said the Sirian. 'Nor I either,' said the philosophic atom. Why, then,' replied the other, 'do you cite one Aristotle in Greek?' 'Because,' rejoined the savan, 'it is perfectly necessary to quote what one does not understand at all in the language which is least understood.'" A disciple of Locke, who speaks last, most engages the sympathy of the Sirian. But, unfortunately, at this moment a little animalcule, in a square hat,* interrupts the conversation by pronouncing with an air of authority that "he knew the whole secret: that it was found in the Summa of St. Thomas. He regarded the two strange and gigantic experimentalists from top to toe; he main tained that their persons, their worlds, their suns, their stars, everything was made wholly and solely for man's benefit." At this discourse, our two friends from beyond the moon fall one upon the other in attempting to choke that inextinguishable laughter which, according to Homer, is the proper heritage of the Gods. Their stomachs and chests heave convulsively; and, in the midst of these sudden convulsions, the vessel falls into one of the pockets of the Saturnian's breeches. After searching for it a long time, they find the equipage, and readjust it very considerately. Micromégas takes up the mites, speaks to them with much kindness, "although he was a little angry, in the bottom of his heart, at seeing the infinitely little possess a pride almost infinitely great," and promises a brief philosophical treatise for their use, in which they should see "the end of things." In fact, before his departure, he sent the book to the Academy of Sciences at Paris.† HOWARD WILLIAMS. The owner of the square hat, presumably, represents a member of the Society of Jesus. + See Romans de Voltaire (Didot, Paris). CONTEMPORARY PORTRAITS. NEW SERIES.-No. 7. E. J. POYNTER, R.A. MUCH good work in the world-indeed, some of the highest-is done by people by no means the most physically robust. Indifferent health, instead of proving a hindrance, is frequently found to constitute a positive spur to exertion. The energy of the character, debarred from some of the usual outlets, concentrates its force, asserts the dominion of mind over matter, and, supplying by repetition of nervous impulse the lack of muscular solidity, achieves its ends. This is true of the subject of the present memoir, one of the most indefatigable workers of the day. His life has been, in a certain sense, an uneventful one-a boyhood of delicate health and a manhood of intense application to his chosen work being the readily-formed summation of his career. Edward John Poynter was born on the 20th of March, 1836, in the Avenue Marbœuf, Paris. In consequence of the formation of a new street, the house has since disappeared in which our painter first saw light. He was only a few months old when his parents returned with their young family to their home in London, and he was brought up in England entirely. He was entered first at Westminster School, but his health being deemed too delicate for a London life, he was removed to the Elizabethan Grammar School at Ipswich, then under the direction of Mr. Rigaud, afterwards Bishop of Antigua. At the age of sixteen he was sent abroad, being still a delicate lad, to pass the winter in Madeira, where he spent much of his time in sketching from nature among the lovely scenery. He had before this been a student in Leigh's Gallery, Newman-street, during his vacations. The following winter he passed in Rome. By this time his early dispositions for art were unmistakably confirmed, and his strong bias led him into the society of other men who have since made their mark in the same walk of life. Mr. Leighton encouraged the young student in his work, allowing him to draw from his models, and arranging art draperies for him on the lay figure. The out-of-door sketching was still continued. On his return to England he worked at Leigh's again, and in the studio |