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not appear to be so much as latent, for not even dreams or delirium have turned back the closed page. We are, therefore, regarding ourselves as Mr. Butler's creative man, not quite "all here;" and that absence of mind betokens a spiritual or occult side to us, with a number of deductions therefrom.

Here is a picture of a being trembling on the verge of a new power: "Logic, notwithstanding the wish, did originate the power, and yet was originated by it, both coming up gradually out of something which was not recognisable as either power or wish, and advancing, through vain beating of the air, to a vague effort, and from this to definite effort with failure, and from this to definite effort with success, and from this to success with little consciousness of effort, and from this to success with such complete absence of effort that he now acts unconsciously and without power of introspection."

"No plant or animal, then, according to our view," says Mr. Butler, "would be able to conceive more than a very slight improvement on its organisation at a given time, so clearly as to make the efforts towards it that would result in growth of the required modification; nor would these efforts be made with any far-sighted perception of what next and next and after, but only of what next; while many of the happiest thoughts would come like all other happy thoughts-thoughtlessly."

Mr. Butler is here touching upon a very deep and suggestive subject, the origin of inspiration, which he would treat as arising from “a chain of reasoning too swift and subtle for conscious analysis by the individual." There seems but a step between a theory like this and a hypothesis of spiritual existence; and certainly the most sensible way, in presence of the unvarying

instinct of humanity, is to ascribe transcendant thought to a sphere beyond our own, and to regard the order we meet with and do not apparently originate as due to some power transcending continuous and creative man in immensity of purpose, which brings us back again to the not yet quite abandoned theory of a Divine Helper and Foreseer.

Rudimentary organs, that is to say, organs implying functions now disused, form an interesting subject. Mr. Butler says, "We can even show how, if it becomes worth the Ethiopian's while to try and change his skin, or the leopard's to change his spots, they can assuredly change them within a not unreasonable time, and adapt their covering to their own will and convenience.' It would be well, however, if evolutionists would state, within a thousand years or so, in how long a time such a change could reasonably be effected. The mammæ of male humanity are now rudimentary, except in very rare instances;

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have we any historical trace of their ever being otherwise? Evolutionists should tell us what excited their use when in action in the pre-historic period: what told the glands that their product must begin to be secreted, for it would shortly be required? What originates the message in a female body may be determined, but how without an invisible current of physical sympathy which science would scoff at as mystical, could the message be carried to the nerves of the man across the gulf that separates the individual? Perhaps the sight of, or acquaintance with, the state of his partner might bring on the required condition, in view of the fact that the male was aware that lacteal service was expected of him. But we have to realise an amount of

sympathy between the sexes that is now vanished; and a primeval monogamic system which gives more countenance to an originally

paradisiacal state of man, than do the strangely varied marriage customs on record. The rudimentary organ we continue to retain or repeat, Mr. Butler tells us, "from force of habit, indolence, and dislike of change."

We have spoken of limits fixed to the duration of life as implying an order over which man has no control. We find, however, that Mr. Butler considers this too to be under man's control. There is nothing," he says, to prevent man's becoming as long-lived as the oak

if he will persevere for many generations in the steps which can alone lead to this result." The sad thing about it, however, is that we shall not live to see the continuous man arrive at this result, unless indeed we have to make another attempt at physical creation under his orders, in a new body; and where, according to a theory which regards life as non-existent unless physical, shall we be in the interim? Is there such a thing as a latent individual? And if we have got rather tired of corporeal life, how will the continuous man tempt us out of our latency, and make us his individual representative once more?

THE BLACK DEATH.

Translated from the German of "Hermann Lingg" by Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker.

Tremble, oh world! the Plague am I,

Through all the lands I'm going,
Preparing me a banquet high,
Fever is lurking in mine eye,

And black my cloak is flowing.

I come from Egypt's sultry land,

In lurid mists red-veiling

From Milan's swamps, from murky strand,
From dragon's spawn in burning sand

Rank poisonous germs inhaling.

I reap, I mow, I stretch my stave
O'er mountain range and billow,
I'm laying waste this world so brave,
Before each house I plant a grave,
And eke a weeping willow.

I am mankind's destroyer dread,
I'm Death, the grim, the awful;
Drought stalks before me, gaunt of tread,
At famine price I sell the bread,
To War I'm heir right lawful.

It matters not how far you live,
I stride with steps yet wider,
Swift footed, the black plague am I,
The swiftest vessel I o'erfly,
Outride the swiftest rider.

The merchant in his merchandise
Home bears me to his dwelling,
He gives a feast with sparkling eyes,
Forth from his wealth I ghastly rise,
And on the bier I fell him.

No castled crag so steeply hung,

To me but must surrender;

No pulse doth beat for me too strong,
No body is for me too young,

No heart for me too tender.

Whose eyes my withering eyes infest,

He cares for day no longer;

Whose board, or meat or wine, I've blessed,
He thirsts alone for rest, for rest-
For dust alone doth hunger.

In Asia died the mighty Chan;
Where Cinnamon isles are shining
Died negro prince and Mussulman—
Nightly you hear at Ispahan

The dogs round carrion whining.

Byzantium was a blooming town,
And Venice smiled in beauty;

Now, like dead leaf, their hosts sink down,
Whoso collects that foliage brown

Will soon be quit his duty.

Where Norway's farthest cliffs gleam white, Into some port forsaken,

I flung a vessel, lifeless quite,

And all on whom I breathed my blight
Must slumber ne'er to waken.

They're strewn and scattered everywhere,
Though days and months be flying-
No soul to count the hours hath care;
Years hence, you'll silent find and bare,
Death's city, lonely lying.

SPIRIT OF THE UNIVERSITIES.

TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN.

July 25, 1879.

I was absent from Dublin last month, and consequently was unable to send you my usual chronicle. Term ended meantime, and ended, on the whole, uneventfully. The only event of any importance was something of a disappointment. Dr. Maguire did not get the Fellowship. The successful candidate was Mr. Purser, who, as you know, was excluded previous to the Fawcett Act by his refusing the test. Mr. Purser's present success is really a vindication of the non-sectarian principle, just as much as Dr. Maguire's would be. But then Mr. Purser is not a Roman Catholic; and Dr. Maguire's election to Fellowship would be an open and visible refutation of the Protestant-Atmosphere cry. This, however, is not the only reason for regretting Dr. Maguire's temporary failure. There is another and a stronger one. We want more classical scholars. Since Mr. Tyrrell's election in 1868 we have had none but mathematicians as Fellows. Mr. Purser's election is simply carrying coals to Newcastle. Dr. Maguire, on the other hand, would add vastly to the weight and reputation of our classical school; so that it is no disparagement to Mr. Purser to feel that his success is a disappointing event. Dr. Maguire, however, means to go in again next year; and, as he secured the Madden Prize this year, his election is fairly certain. You know of course that "the Madden" is a sort of consolation prize (and a pretty valuable one, being considerably over 3001.) given to the best of the unsuccessful Fellowship candidates. I ought, perhaps, to apologise for volunteering this information; but I sometimes observe marvellous ignorance about college affairs, and that in what ought to be wellinformed quarters. The Saturday Review of the 5th July actually commits itself to the statement that at Dublin University residence is compulsory. The reviewer might with very little trouble have found out that it is nothing of the sort. Many a man has taken his degree at Dublin without ever being inside the walls, except when he was in the hall under examination. Even when terms are kept by attending lectures, actual collegiate residence is not compulsory. It is an advantage to any man to reside, and an especial advantage to those who compete for honours. But it is doubly absurd of the Saturday, first to invent the compulsory residence, and then to assign this imaginary grievance as one of the injustices to be righted by Earl Cairns's Bill for creating a fancy University. Of course nobody here, and I may say nobody anywhere else, for a moment supposes that the Conservative Government has suddenly become converted and conscience-stricken in the matter of "the facilities for obtaining University degrees in Ireland." The Cairns Bill is an

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