the rest of the company went home snugly
under cover in close carriages. I told Mr.
Candy that I was afraid he would get wet
through. He told me, in return, that he won-
dered I had arrived at my time of life, without
knowing that a doctor's skin was waterproof.
So he drove away in the rain, laughing over his
own little joke; and so we got rid of our dinner
company,

The next thing to tell is the story of the
night.

         A LONG LOOK-OUT.

An anxiously expected event is entered in
the books as coming off, not to-morrow, nor yet
the next day, nor even so soon as to-morrow
twelvemonth; but as surely as Time makes the
music of the spheres by turning the cranks of
their respective barrels—they do not want St.
Peter to wind them up, as Byron romanced in
some naughty verses—so surely will that
phenomenon occur when the spheres have
performed their due number of revolutions.

The interval will not be too long to employ
in completing a few preliminary arrangements,
in making a few preparatory studies, in
deciding on stations for a good look-out, in
regulating time-pieces, and polishing spy-
glasses. For although the sight to be beheld—
weather permitting—belongs to the class of
solar eclipses, it is not one of those in which
much can be done by bits of smoked glass and
blackened noses, or by mounting three-legged
stools to get a nearer view. It is the Transit
of Venus across the disk of the Sun—a would-
be eclipse of the Sun by Venus; an attempt,
in short, on the part of the Morning Star,
Lucifer, or l'Etoile du Berger, to deprive us of
the light of day.

The questions at issue to be decided by this
event are, Where we are? and, as a corollary
therefrom, How much we weigh?—"We"
being not merely you and I (although our
weight, of course, does count for something),
but We, the planet Earth and our satellite, the
Moon, travelling together in friendly company
round, and round, and round the Sun . " Where
we are," moreover, includes Where the Sun is—
a matter by no means so clear as the public fancy.

The school-books give his distance from us as
ninety-five millions of miles, to a furlong. But
people, who have got past their school-books,
dispute about several millions, more or less.
It is understood, however, that whether the
Sun be eventually brought forward or pushed
further back by future calculations, he is to
light and warm us all the same, pretty much
as heretofore. His exact distance is hoped to
be determined by the transits of Venus which
are to take place on the ninth of December,
1874, and on the sixth of December, 1882,
respectively. If we fail in satisfying our scruples
then, another chance will be offered to us on
the eighth of June, 2004, and on the filth of
June, 2012.

Moreover, the spectacle we are patiently
awaiting in 1874 has almost the charm of
novelty. True, it has been repeated, over and
over again, numbers of times incalculable.
Before there was human eye to witness it, it
occurred at its stated times and seasons. And
after there were human eyes, it re-occurred
without their being the wiser for it. The
shepherds who watched their flocks by night—
who noted the disappearance of old stars and
the sudden appearance of new ones—knew
nothing of our expected curious phenomenon;
not because it is a daylight spectacle (for, if
those Chaldean shepherds were so clearsighted
by night, we may be sure they were not blind
by day), but because their eyes, good as they
were, were not sharp enough to detect the
presence of that test-object. An eagle's vision
only had a chance of obtaining (unassisted)
cognizance of what was then occurring. Their
astronomical pursuits were checked by a diffi-
culty analogous to that set forth in " How
should he cut it without a knife?—How should
he marry without a wife?" For, respecting
those primeval observers, it may be asked,
"How should they know it without an almanack?
How should they see it without a telescope?"

Our interest in the coming phenomenon is
increased by the circumstance that the passages
of the planet Venus across the solar disk are
extremely rare. And what is still more curious,
they happen in couples. We have to wait for
a long, long interval—more than three genera-
tions at the least—before we have the chance
of seeing the first (in 1874); and then, if we
can contrive to live for eight years longer, the
celestial orrery presents us with another. After
which, more than a century has to elapse before
we are favoured with a third transit.

The first observed passage of Venus across
the sun's disk happened on the 4th of De-
cember, 1639. Delambre has calculated a list
of the transits of Venus from that one up to
the twenty-fourth century—to be continued by
future astronomers in future almanacks. As it
is not long, we give it here entire. The letters
N. and S. appended to each date denote
whether it is the northern or the southern
hemisphere of the sun which will be traversed by
the planet. What marvellous precision in the
celestial movements! What a prodigious feat
of science to be able to predict them!

4 December . . 1639 .   . S.
6 June .  .  .  .   1761 .   . S.
3 June .  .  .  .   1769 .   . N.
9 December . . 1874 .   . N.
6 December . . 1882 .   . S.
8 June .  .  .  .   2004 .   . S.
5 June .  .  .  .   2012 .   . N.
11 December . 2117 .   . N.
8 December . . 2125 .   . S.
11 June .  .  .  . 2247 .   . S.
9 June .  .  .  .   2255 .   . N.
12 December . 2360 .   . N.
10 December . 2368 .   . S.

We herein remark that the transits of Venus,
occurring in couples with an interval of eight