7 
water vole has taken his refuge, the Artist is equally observant of 
each change of tint in the shifting clouds, each shadow cast upon 
the waving corn. No Naturalist is worthy of the name who 
allows the most trifling detail to escape his notice, and he is but 
an imperfectly cultivated Artist who cannot see in the most 
commonplace landscape a hundred beauties which are hidden 
from the untrained eye. It is possible that this delicate power of 
perception is a natural gift, which is afterwards strengthened by 
continual exercise. It is one of those numerous instances in 
which cause and effect seem to be reciprocal, the natural quality 
disposing its possessor to certain pursuits which in their turn 
develop the quality itself. This power of perception is not the 
only gift which the Artist and the Naturalist possess in common. 
Both inherit and cultivate a delicacy of manipulation which is, in 
fact, essential to the successful pursuit of their respective studies. 
An awkward painter, or a clumsy microscopist, would seem 
almost a contradiction in terms. It may not be out of place to 
mention here that the late Mr. Thomas Davidson, who took a 
very active part in the formation of the Town Museum, was a 
very skilful artist, having in his early years been a student at the 
Academy of Painting at Rome, and the training which he there 
received subsequently proved of inestimable value to him. In 
showing me one of his important works on Geology, he drew my 
attention, with pardonable pride and pleasure, to the illustrations 
the book contained, and to the minute lines and markings on 
some geological specimens and shells,—most significant in their 
revelation,—and assured me that only the trained eye could truly 
see or estimate the value of such apparently trivial or accidental 
lines, and on that account every illustration had been reproduced 
from his own drawings. Also, in a biography of the late Sir 
Henry Holland, the eminent physician, it is stated that all the 
illustrations in the medical works he published were from his 
own hand, and that he had constantly impressed upon medical 
students the value and necessity of the use of the pencil in 
portraying the intricate subtleties connected with every form of 
disease affecting our human nature. 
But to revert to ‘The Relation of Art to Science,” may I 
not define Art as chiefly skill in doing something which will 
produce a particular result; and Science as chiefly concerned 
with the investigation and knowledge of principles, chiefly 
founded on a knowledge of facts. Art, in fact, teaches us how 
to do something ; and Science, if applied, explains why we must 
do it in that particular way. When the whole time and thoughts 
of men in early ages were occupied in supplying the necessaries 
of existence, there could be no Science; but when agriculture— 
itself for ages a mere art—afforded regular supplies, and more 
than enough to supply the immediate wants of hunger, then they 
