I have left an important subject for the close. It belongs entirely to the older astronomy, and it is one with which I am glad to say this observatory is expected to especially concern itself. I refer to the question of the variation of latitudes, that singular phenomenon scarcely suspected ten years ago, but brought out by observations in Germany during the past eight years, and reduced to law with such brilliant success by our own Chandler. The north pole is not a fixed point on the earth's surface, but moves around in rather an irregular way. True, the motion is small; a circle of sixty feet in diameter will include the pole in its widest range. This is a very small matter so far as the interests of daily life are concerned; but it is very important to the astronomer. It is not simply a motion of the pole of the earth, but a wobbling of the solid earth itself. No one knows what conclusions of importance to our race may yet follow from a study of the stupendous forces necessary to produce even this slight motion. The director of this new observatory has already distinguished himself in the delicate and difficult work of investigating this motion, and I am glad to know that he is continuing the work here with one of the finest instruments ever used for the purpose, a splendid product of American mechanical genius. I can assure you that astronomers the world over will look with the greatest interest for Professor Doolittle's success in the arduous task he has undertaken. There is one question connected with these studies of the universe on which I have not touched, and which is, nevertheless, of transcendent interest. What sort of life, spiritual and intellectual, exists in distant worlds? We cannot for a moment suppose that our little planet is the only one throughout the whole universe on which may be found the fruits of civilization, family affection, friendship, the desire to penetrate the mysteries of creation. And yet this question is not to-day a problem of astronomy, nor can we see any prospect that it ever will be, for the simple reason that science affords us no hope of an answer to any question that we may send through the fathomless abyss. When the spectroscope was in its infancy it was suggested that possibly some difference might be found in the rays reflected from living matter, especially from vegetation, that might enable us to distinguish them from rays reflected by matter not endowed with life. But this hope has not been realized, nor does it seem possible to realize it. The astronomer cannot afford to waste his energies on hopeless speculation about matters of which he cannot learn anything, and he therefore leaves this question of the plurality of worlds to others who are as competent to discuss it as he is. All he can tell the world is: