My wish to render our mental images complete, causes me to dwell briefly upon these known points, and the same wish will cause me to linger a little longer among others. But here I am disturbed by my reflections. When I consider the effect of dinner upon the nervous system, and the relation of that system to the intellectual powers I am now invoking; when I remember that the universal experience of mankind has fixed upon certain definite elements of perfection in an after-dinner speech, and when I think how conspicuous by their absence these elements are on the present occasion, the thought is not comforting to a man who wishes to stand well with his fellow-creatures in general, and with the members of the British Association in particular. My condition might well resemble that of the ether, which is scientifically defined as an assemblage of vibrations. And the worst of it is that, unless you reverse the general verdict regarding the effect of dinner, and prove in your own persons that a uniform experience need not continue uniform—which will be a great point gained for some people—these tremors of mine are likely to become more and more painful. But I call to mind the comforting words of an inspired, though uncanonical writer, who admonishes us in the Apocrypha that fear is a bad counsellor. Let me then cast him out, and let me trustfully assume that you will one and all postpone that balmy sleep, of which dinner might, under the circumstances, be regarded as the indissoluble antecedent, and that you will manfully and womanfully prolong your investigations of the ether and its waves into regions which have been hitherto crossed by the pioneers of science alone. Not only are the waves of ether reflected by clouds, by solids, and by liquids, but when they pass from light air to dense, or from dense air to light, a portion of the wave motion is always reflected. Now our atmosphere changes continually in density from top to bottom. It will help our conceptions if we regard it as made up of a series of thin concentric layers or shells of air, each shell being of the same density throughout, and a small and sudden change of density occurring in passing from shell to shell. Light would be reflected at the limiting surfaces of all these shells, and their action would be practically the same as that of the real atmosphere. And now I would ask your imagination to picture this act of reflection. What must become of the reflected light? The atmospheric layers turn their convex surfaces towards the sun; they are so many convex mirrors of feeble power, and you will immediately perceive that the light regularly reflected from these surfaces cannot reach the earth at all, but is dispersed in space.