When he was attending a meeting of the Royal Society, in June 1682, the conversation fell upon the subject of the measurement of a degree of the meridian, executed by M. Picard, a French Astronomer, in 1679. Newton took a memorandum of the result; and afterward, at the earliest opportunity, computed from it the diameter of the earth: furnished with these new data, he resumed his calculation of 1666. As he proceeded therein, he saw that his early expectations were now likely to be realized; the thick rushing, stupendous results overpowered him; he became unable to carry on the process of calculation, and intrusted its completion to one of his friends. The discoverer had, indeed, grasped the master-fact. The law of falling bodies at the earth's surface was at length identified with that which guided the moon in her orbit. And so his GREAT THOUGHT, that had for sixteen years loomed up in dim, gigantic outline, amid the first dawn of a plausible hypothesis, now stood forth, radiant and not less grand, in the mid-day light of demonstrated truth. It were difficult, nay impossible to imagine, even, the influence of a result like this upon a mind like Newton's. It was as if the keystone had been fitted to the glorious arch by which his spirit should ascend to the outskirts of infinite space—spanning the immeasurable—weighing the imponderable—computing the incalculable—mapping out the marchings of the planets, and the far-wanderings of the comets, and catching, bring back to earth some clearer notes of that higher melody which, as a sounding voice, bears perpetual witness to the design and omnipotence of a creating Deity.