reason or necessity, whether we can safely | pends upon this belief, every practical plan or infer from it actuality. purpose that we form implies it, every provision that we make for the future, every safeguard and adjustment of means to ends, supposes this and caution we employ against it, all calculation belief; it is this principle alone which renders our experience of the slightest use to us, and without it there would be, so far as we are concerned, no order of nature and no laws of nature; and yet this belief has no more producible reason for it than a speculation of fancy. A natural fact has been repeated; it will be repeated: Have we, then, any ground in reason for this our faith? If we proceed on the premises of empiricism, it must be confessed we have not. Mr. Mozley has analyzed and exposed every apparent argument which would seem to give a rational ground for our faith in the uniformity of phenomenal succession. If a man is asked why he behieves the future will resemble the past, probably his first impulse would be to say, Why, it is self-evident.' But it is not. We mean by self-evident, that of which the opposite is self-contradictory: but though the fact that the sun rose to-day would be contradicted by the fact that it did not rise to-day, it is in no way contradicted by the fact that it will not rise to-morrow.' In like manner every other reason that we may be inclined to bring forward will be found, on examination, to be no reason at all, but simply a statement of the fact in other words. It may be said, for instance, that the repetition of a fact for a length of time shows that there is a permanent cause at work. the inductive principle is of the same charMr. Mozley next shows that what is called Here we should say to the empiricist, The idea of a permanent cause at all is subver-acter. It consists of two parts: first, the sive of your premises: it belongs to a dif- the inference which is exactly the same insearch for the antecedent; and, secondly, ferent kind of philosophy.' Hence Mr.Mozley stinct which converts ordinary and common is quite correct when he argues, The effects which have taken place show a cause at experience into law, viz. that habit by which work only to the extent of those effects, not fact of nature into the future.' we always extend any existing recurrent at all further. Why, then, do we expect with such certainty the future continuance of them? We can only say, because we believe the future will be like the past. We have professed, then, to give a reason why we believe this, and we have only at last stated the fact that we do.' I am conscious of utter darkness when I try to see why one of these follows from the other; not only see no reason, but I perceive that Í tion than I can stop the circulation of my blood. see none, though I can no more help the expectaThere is a premise, and there is a conclusion: but there is a total want of connection between the two. The inference, then, from the one of these to the other, rests upon no ground of the understanding; by no search or analysis, however suitable or minute, can we extract from any corner of the human mind and intelligence, however reinote, the very faintest reason for it.' In like manner, Mr. Mozley disposes of other apparent arguments which might be brought from the same point of view. The following summary is a fine specimen of the keen eloquence which so often breaks from his pen: What ground of reason, then, can we assign for our expectation that any part of the course of nature will the next moment be like what it has been up to this moment, i.e. for our belief in the uniformity of nature? None. No demonstrative reason can be given, for the contrary to the recurrence of a fact of nature is no contradiction. No probable reason can be given, for all probable reasoning respecting the course of nature is founded upon this presumption of likeness, and therefore cannot be the foundation of it. No reason can be given for this belief. It is without a reason. It rests upon no rational ground, and can be traced to no rational principle. Everything connected with human life de- | P. 39. expectation of likeness, Mr. Mozley does With regard to the exact nature of this not commit himself. It may be simply a of brutes; or it may arise in us from custom practical instinct, analogous to the instinct or association. It is enough, he thinks, if we understand that it is irrational, i.e. has no ground in reason. He quotes with approbation the famous view of Hume, and then applies the result to the question of mira cles: And now the belief in the order of nature being thus, however powerful and useful, an unintelligent impulse of which we can give no rational account, in what way does this discov ery affect the question of miracles? In this way, that this belief, not having itself its foundation in reason, the ground is gone upon which it could be maintained, that miracles, as opposed to the order of nature, were opposed to reason. There being no producible reason why a new event should be like the hitherto course of nature, no decision of reason is contradicted by its unlikeness. A miracle, in being opposed to our experience, is not only not opposed to necessary reasoning, but to any reasoning. Do I see, by a certain perception, the connexion between these two? It has happened so; it will hap pen so; then may I reject a new reported fact which has not happened so as an impossibility. But if I do not see the connection between these two by a certain perception, or by any perception, I cannot.'-P. 48. And again: but if the miracle is only gained at the price of adopting these, of what use is it to us? S mply none at all. If we dissever the connection between cause and effect, we denude the miracle of all meaning. A miracle has only meaning on the supposition of noumenal agency or real causation. It is on this supposition alone that we can draw the 'When, then, there is nothing on the side of inference of a supernatural cause. If there reason opposed to the expectation of likeness, is no real causation if the events of the as is the case commonly, we follow it absolutely world succeed each other disconnectedly, But supposing there should arise a call of rea- like the images of a kaleidoscope, what does son to us to believe what is opposite to it; supposing there is the evidence of testimony, which it matter whether they are similar or dissimiis an appeal to our proper reason, that an event lar, miraculous or ordinary? We can in has taken place which is opposed to this impression - it is evident then that our reason must prevail in the encounter, i.e. that if there is on one side positive evidence, the antecedent counter-expectation must give way.'-P. 57. neither case advance a single step beyond the fact that they are. In fact, Mr. Mozley has only developed in one direction the inherent scepticism of the empirical philosophy. Hume developed it in other directions, to the utter subversion of human knowledge. ́Such is Mr. Mozley's famous argument; * And this illustrates the truth of a remark aud, as an argumentum ad hominem, we be- which we made before, that the real point at lieve it to be unanswerable. He has shat-issue in the present controversy is not scientitered for ever the pretentious reasoning fic but philosophical. Our faith in the from the constancy of natural causes.' supernatural is dependent on the view Those who indulge in this argumentation which we take of the world as a whole are the very persons who have loosened the As Mr. Mozley has remarked (p.o 50), the connection between cause and effect. The order of nature in their hands has become, in Mr. Mozley's expressive phrase, but a rope of sand, consisting of antecedents and consequents, but without a rational link or trace of necessary connection between them.' Under this point of view, then, what reason can be assigned against the miracle? There is none. The resurrection of Christ is as credible as is His death. But if we examine Mr. Mozley's argument in the light of its positive value, as tending to further our belief in the supernatural, our estimate of it alters. The argument is only valid on empirical principles: It is to be observed that this argument only meets Positivism, or the English sense-philosophy, It does not meet the objection to miracles grounded on Pantheistic systeme. idea of real causation in nature is not opposed to the supernatural: but (and it is our own remark) the idea of antecedents and. consequents is. It is not indeed opposed, as Mr. Mozley has shown, to the unlike fact; but it is opposed to the miracle as the work of God. But if it is opposed to the agency of God, it is equally opposed to the agency of man: its logical result being, as develop ed by Mr. Mill the reduction of the human personality to a series of feelings.' Here then is a ready method for solving any doubts a man may have in regard to miracles. If he can see his way to the belief that he is something more than a series of feelings; if he can convince himself that he is a living person the cause of his own actions, he has no longer any reason to doubt the miraculous scheme of Christianity. MR. JOHN STUART MILL is now engaged, at Avignon, in editing the collected works of the late Mr. Buckle, the author of the " History of Civilization." A POSTHUMOUS work of Edgar Allan Poe has recently been discovered, and will soon be published in New York. PART V. CHAPTER X. SOME days passed on after the visit to the jeweller's shop, perhaps ten or twelve,before Nina heard from or saw her lover again; and during that time she had no tidings from her relatives in the Windeberggasse. Life went on very quietly in the old house, and not the less quietly because the proceeds of the necklace saved Nina from any further immediate necessity of searching for money. The cold weather had come, or rather weather that was cold in the morning and cold in the evening, and old Balatka kept his bed altogether. His state was such that no one could say why he should not get up and dress himself, and he himself continued to speak of some future time when he would do so; but there he was, lying in his bed, and Nina told herself that in all probability she would never see him about the house again. For herself, she was becoming painfully anxious that some day should be fixed for her marriage. She knew that she was, herself, ignorant in such matters; and she knew also that there was no woman near her from whom she could seek counsel. Were she to go to some matron of the neighbourhood, her neighbour would only rebuke her, because she loved a Jew. She had boldly told her relatives of her love, and by doing so had shut herself out from all assistance from them. From even her father she could get no sympathy; though with him her engagement had become so far a thing sanctioned, that he had ceased to speak of it in words of reproach. But when was it to be? She had more than once made up her mind that she would ask her lover, but her courage had never as yet mounted high enough in his presence to allow her to do so. When he was with her, their conversation always took such a turn that before she left him she was happy enough if she could only draw from him an asurance that he was not forgetting to love her. Of any final time for her marriage he never said a word. In the meantime she and her father might starve! They could not live on the price of a necklace for ever. She had not made up her mind-she never could make up her mind as to, what might be best for her father when she should be married; but she had made up her mind that when that happy time should come, she would simply obey her husband. He would tell her what would be best for her father. But in the mean time there was no word of her marriage; and now she had been ten days in the Kleinseite without once having had so much as a message from her lover. How was it possible that she should continue to live in such a condition as this? She was sitting one morning very forlorn in the big parlour, looking out upon the birds who were pecking among the dust in the courtyard below, when her eye just caught the drapery of the dress of some woman who had entered the arched gateway. Nina, from her place by the window, could see out through the arch, and no one therefore could come through their gate while she was at her seat without passing under her eye; but on this occasion the birds had distracted her attention, and she had not caught a sight of the woman's face or figure. Could it be her aunt come to torture her again her and her father? She knew that Souchey was down stairs, hanging somewhere in idleness about the door, and therefore she did not leave her place. If it were indeed her aunt, her aunt might come up there to seek her. Or it might possibly be Lotta Luxa, who, next to her aunt, was of all women the most disagreeable to Nina. Lotta, indeed, was not so hard to bear as aunt Sophie, because Lotta could be answered sharply, and could be told to go, if matters proceeded to extremities. In such a case Lotta no doubt would not go; but still the power of desiring her to do so was much. Then Nina remembered that Lotta never wore her peticoats so full as was the morsel of drapery which she had seen. And as she thought of this there came a low knock at the door. Nina, without rising, desired the stranger to come in. Then the door was gently opened, and Rebecca Loth the Jewess stood before her. Nina had seen Rebecca, but had never spoken to her. Each girl had heard much of the other from their younger friend Ruth Jacobi. Ruth was very intimate with them both, and Nina had been willing enough to be told of Rebecca, as had Rebecca also to be told of Nina." Grandfather wants Anton to marry Rebecca," Ruth had said more than once; and thus Nina knew well that Rebecca was her rival. "I think he loves her better than his own eyes," Ruth had said to Rebecca, speaking of her uncle and Nina. But Rebecca had heard from a thousand sources of information that he who was to have been her lover had forgotten his own people and his own religion, and had given himself to a Christian girl. Each, therefore, now knew that she looked upon an enemy and a rival; but each was anxious to be very courteous to her enemy. Nina rose from her chair directly she saw her visitor, and came forward to meet her. I suppose you hardly know who I am, Fräulein," said Rebecca. "Oh, yes," said Nina, with her pleasantest smile; "you are Rebecca Loth." "Yes, I am Rebecca Loth, the Jewess." "I like the Jews," said Nina. Rebecca was not dressed now as she had been dressed on that gala occasion when we saw her in the Jews' quarter. Then she had been as smart as white muslin and bright ribbons and velvet could make her. Now she was clad almost entirely in black, and over her shoulders she wore a dark shawl, drawn closely round her neck. But she had on her head, now as then, that peculiar Hungarian hat which looks almost like a coronet in front, and gives an aspect to the girl who wears it half defiant and `half attractive; and there were there of coarse the long, glossy, black curls, and the dark blue eyes, and the turn of the face, which was so completely Jewish in its hard, bold, almost repellant beauty. Nina had said that she liked the Jews, but when the words were spoken she remembered that they might be open to misconstruction, and she blushed. The same idea occurred to Rebecca, but she scorned to take advantage of even a successful rival on such a point as that. She would not twit Nina by any hint that this assumed liking for the Jews was simply a special predilection for one Jew in particular. "We are not ungrateful to you for coming among us and knowing us," said Rebecca. Then there was a slight pause, for Nina hardly knew what to say to her visitor. But Rebecca continued to speak. "We hear that in other countries the prejudice against us is dying away, and that Christians stay with Jews in their houses, and Jews with Christians, eating with them and drinking with them. I fear it will never be so in Prague." "And why not in Prague? I hope it may. Why should we not do in Prague as they do elsewhere?" Ah, the feeling is too firmly settled here. We have our own quarter, and live altogether apart. A Christian here will hardly walk with a Jew, unless it be from counter to counter, or from bank to bank. As for their living together - or even eating in the same room do you ever see it?" Nina of course understood the meaning of this. That which the girl said to her was intended to prove to her how impossible it was that she should marry a Jew, and live in Prague with a Jew as his wife; but she, who had stood her ground before aunt Sophie, who had never flinched for a moment before all the threats which could be show ered upon her from the Christian side, was not going to quail before the opposition of a Jewess, and that Jewess a rival! "I do not know why we should not live to see it," said Nina. "It must take long first- very long," said Rebecca. "Even now, Fräulein, I fear you will think that I am very intrusive in coming to you. I know that a Jewess has no right to push her acquaintance upon a Christian girl." The Jewess spoke very humbly of herself and of her people; but in every word she uttered there was a slight touch of irony which was not lost upon Nina. Nina could not but bethink herself that she was poor-so poor that everything around her, on her, and about her, told of poverty; while Rebecca was very rich, and showed her wealth even in the sombre garments which she had chosen for her morning visit. No idea of Nina's poverty had crossed Rebecca's mind, but Nina herself could not but remember it when she felt the sarcasm implied in her visitor's self-humiliation. "I am glad that you have come to me, - very glad indeed, if you have come in friendship." Then she blushed as she continued; "to me, situated as I am, the friendship of a Jewish maiden would be a treasure indeed." "You intend to speak of" "I speak of my engagement with Anton Trendellsohn. I do so with you because I know that you have heard of it. You tell me that Jews and Christians cannot come together in Prague, but I mean to marry a Jew. A Jew is my lover. If you will say that you will be my friend, I will love you indeed. Ruth Jacobi is my friend; but then Ruth is so young." Yes, Ruth is very young. She is a child. She knows nothing. "A child's friendship it better than none." "Ruth is very young. She cannot understand. I too love Ruth Jacobi. I have known her since she was born. I knew and loved her mother. You do not remember Ruth Trendellsohn. No; your acquaintance with them is only of the other day." "Ruth's mother has been dead seven years," said Nina. "And what are seven years? I have known them for four-and-twenty." Nay; that cannot be." 66 "But I have. That is my age, and I was born, so to-say, in their arms. Ruth Trendellsohn was ten years older than I- only ten.” "And Anton?" "Anton was a year older than his sister; but you know Anton's age. Has he never told you his age?" "I never asked him; but I know it. There are things one knows as a matter of course. I remember his birthday always." "It has been a short always." "No, not so short. Two years is not a short time to know a friend." "But he has not been betrothed to you for two years?" No; not betrothed to me." "Nor has he loved you so long; nor you him?" "For him, I can only speak of the time when he first told me so." "And that was but the other day- but the other day as I count the time." To this Nina made no answer. She could not claim to have known her lover from so early a date as Rebecca Loth had done, who had been, as she said, born in the arms of his family. But what of that? Men do not always love best those woman whom they have known the longest. Anton Trendellsohn had known her long enough to find that he loved her best. Why then should this Jewish girl come to her and throw in her teeth the shortness of her intimacy with the man who was to be her husband? If she, Nina, had also been a Jewess, Rebecca Loth would not then have spoken in such a way. As she thought of this she turned her face away from the stranger, and looked out among the sparrows who were still pecking among the dust in the court. She had told Rebecca at the beginning of their interview that she would be delighted to find a friend in a Jewess, but now she felt sorry that the girl had come to her. For Anton's sake she would bear with much from one whom he had known so long. But for that thought she would have answered her visitor with short courtesy. As it was, she sat silent and looked out upon the birds. "I have come to you now," said Rebecca Loth, to say a few words to you about Anton Trendellsohn. I hope you will not refuse to listen." "That will depend on what you say.' "Do you think it will be for his good marry a Christian ?” "I shall leave him to judge of that," plied Nina, sharply. to re "It cannot be that you do not think of it. I am sure you would not willingly do an injury to the man you love." 66 I would die for him if that would serve him." "You can serve him without dying. If he takes you for his wife, all his people will turn against him. His own father will become his enemy." "How can that be? His father knows of it, and yet he is not my enemy." "It is as I tell you. His father will disinherit him. Every Jew in Prague will turn his back upon him. He knows it now. Anton knows it himself, but he cannot be the first to say the word that shall put an end to your engagement." "Jews have married Christians in Prague before now," said Nina, pleading her own cause with all the strength she had. "But not such a one as Anton Trendellsohn. An unconsidered man may do that which is not permitted to those who are more in note." "For myself I care nothing," said Nina. "They may say, if they like, that I am no Christian." But how will it be with him? Can you ever be happy if you have been the cause of ruin to your husband?" Nina was again silent for a while, sitting with her face turned altogether away from the Jewess. Then she rose suddenly from her chair, and, facing round almost fiercely upon the other girl, asked a question, which came from the fulness of her heart, "And you you yourself, what is it that you intend to do? Do you wish to marry him ?” "I do," said Rebecca, bearing Nina's gaze without dropping her own eyes for a moment. "I do. I do wish to be the wife of Anton Trendellshon." "Then you shall never have your wishnever. He loves me, and me only. Ask him, and he will tell you so." "I have asked him, and he has told me so." There was something so serious, so sad, and so determined in the manner of the young Jewess, that it almost cowed Nina→ almost drove her to yield before her visitor. "If he has told you so," she said —; then she stopped, not wishing to triumph over her rival. "He has told me so; but I knew it without his telling. We all know it. I have not come here to deceive you, or to create false suspicions. He does love you. He cares nothing for me, and he does love you. But is he therefore to be ruined? Which had |