Fan. 6, 1870] 
259 
It is not our business to dwell on the prospects which our 
philosophy thus opens to our contemplation ; but we may 
allow ourselves, in this last stage of our pilgrimage among 
the foundations of the physical sciences, to be cheered and 
animated by the ray that thus beams upon us, however 
dimly, from a higher and brighter region.” 7 
Max MULLER 
THE UNIVERSE 
The Universe; or, the Infinitely Great and the Infinitely 
Little. By F. A. Pouchet, M.D., &c. Pp. 790, 343 
(London: Blackie 
engravings, 4 coloured plates, 
and Son.) 
ny WW BAL a charming title !” was the thought which first 
came to us when we saw the announcement of 
this splendid book, 
“What a terrible title!” was the 
Neptune's Cup (Raphidophora latera) 
thought which swiftly followed. Is it a message from 
some modern prophet to a people, who, having eyes, see 
not, and having ears, hear not ; imploring them to take 
heed to the tale written in every character in all space, 
and chanted in every note by every atom, so long and so 
often in vain? Will it tell us of the signs written in lines 
of light and lines of black, which have been travelling 
earthward from the outermost space since the oldest time, 
till now unnoticed and unread? Will it speak of the oozy 
mother of living things, which lies and creeps and grows 
ver the whole bottom of the ocean’s depths, and comes 
and goes in every little stagnant pool and slimy puddle? 
Will it teach us of the quivering flight of atoms in every 
fire that burns on earth, and in the flaming ministers 
which rush through illimitable space ; of the fairy chains 
which are welded when the chamber window is sculptured 
with the frost, and which hold in bonds the elements of 
the salt that is spilt ; and of the giant chains which curb 
the comets and bind the invisible stars to us? Will it 
make us to know the great pulsations which shake the 
earth, and the little throbs which stir the tiny cells of every 
thing which lives and dies ? 
All notions of this kind were scattered to the winds 
when the volume came into our hands, The prophets of 
ne 
Pircuer PLrant (Ne~enthes distillatoria, Linn.) 
old were clothed in sackcloth and ashes, and those of 
to-day go about in black, mourning for the sins of the 
people ; but this work is resplendent in purple and gold— 
a very Dives among books. And every anticipation of a 
prophetic wail died away when we found that the author 
was a Frenchman, 
It is just such a work as might be expected from a 
nimble-witted gyrating Gaul, a sort of petit maitre of 
