of Edinburgh, Session 1877 - 78 . 501 
the portal of the palace wherein Le Verrier resided, only this one 
word — £i Observatoire.” 
Second, within that respected building, in its private dwelling 
portion, there reigned the gentle radiance, and mild dignity of 
Madame Le Yerrier. 
In those early days of the now passed away French Emperor, 
when lie made no mistakes, and had to pay his visit of state to 
London during the Crimean war, he not only took the Empress 
Eug&nie with him ; but, while M. Le Yerrier was one of his suite, 
Madame Le Yerrier was one of the ladies of honour in waiting on 
the Empress. One of the most mentally distinguished of them too ; 
for, after the grandest West-end reception on that occasion, this 
saying worthily ran through the £lite of London society, “ Other 
ladies present were expensively dressed, but Madame Le Yerrier 
was well dressed.” And if there is any grim philosopher who 
doubts whether there is much in that, let him refer to the printed 
discussions on this very matter which took place at the Social Science 
Association’s brilliant meeting at Aberdeen only two months ago. 
But M. Le Yerrier himself, amid all his wielding the forces of 
science, could appreciate the beautiful in art, and even assist at the 
development of some of its forms ; for he fed his soul on music. 
But it was with a change, as his career progressed. When he visited 
England first, in 1847, and was asked to write something 
in a lady’s album at Oxford, and not only composed a chanson then 
and there, but set it to original music, took a ruler, ruled the ortho- 
dox number of lines, and then wrote therein the musical notes with 
the precision of a copper-plate engraving, — the whole thing had 
the pleasant aspect of spring flowers ; primroses and cowslips, 
daisies and buttercups in the opening months of the year. But. 
when, as he felt impelled occasionally to do, in the long after 
years of 1875 or 1876, he armed himself with his violin and pro- 
ceeded to draw therefrom, as it seemed almost in spite of itself, the 
most agonizingly beautiful strains, thrilling tones of dying grace, — 
tones which a Paganini might have envied, and ordinary men almost 
have wept that they could do nothing of the kind, — it reminded 
one more of the dark autumn’s one, last, grand, garden flower, the 
Tiger-lily, bowing over its prospective grave in the earth beneath. 
Lastly, in still further mitigation of much of Le Yerrier’s manner 
