the Philosophical Institution, and discoursed on the
polarization of light . . . But I like work: it is a family
weakness."

Then followed chronic _malaise_--sleepless nights, days of pain, and
more spitting of blood. "My only painless moments." he says, "were
when lecturing." In this state of prostration and disease, the
indefatigable man undertook to write the "Life of Edward Forbes;" and
he did it, like every thing he undertook, with admirable ability. He
proceeded with his lectures as usual. To an association of teachers
he delivered a discourse on the educational value of industrial
science. After he had spoken to his audience for an hour, he left
them to say whether he should go on or not, and they cheered him on
to another half-hour's address. "It is curious," he wrote, "the
feeling of having an audience, like clay in your hands, to mould for
a season as you please. It is a terribly responsible power . . . I do
not mean for a moment to imply that I am indifferent to the good
opinion of others--far otherwise; but to gain this is much less a
concern with me than to deserve it. It was not so once. I had no wish
for unmerited praise, but I was too ready to settle that I did merit
it. Now, the word DUTY seems to me the biggest word in the world, and
is uppermost in all my serious doings."

That was written only about four months before his death. A little
later he wrote: "I spin my thread of life from week to week, rather
than from year to year." Constant attacks of bleeding from the lungs
sapped his little remaining strength, but did not altogether disable
him from lecturing. He was amused by one of his friends proposing to
put him under trustees for the purpose of looking after his health.
But he would not be restrained from working so long as a vestige of
strength remained.

One day, in the autumn of 1859, he returned from his customary
lecture in the University of Edinburgh with a severe pain in his
side. He was scarcely able to crawl up stairs. Medical aid was sent
for, and he was pronounced to be suffering from pleurisy and
inflammation of the lungs. His enfeebled frame was ill able to resist
so severe a disease, and he sank peacefully to the rest he so longed
for, after a few days' illness.

The life of George Wilson--so admirably and affectionately related by
his sister--is probably one of the most marvelous records of pain and
long-suffering, and yet of persistent, noble and useful work, that is
to be f