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political theorists, but in the labora- The hope seems a modest one, but it is tories of scientific students whose not yet fulfilled; and therefore it is that names are but little in the mouths of we must qualify the satisfaction with men, who cannot themselves forecast which at the end of the century we the results of their own labors, and contemplate the unbroken course of its whose theories could scarce be under- industrial triumphs. We have, in stood by those whom they will chiefly truth, been little better than brilliant benefit.

spendthrifts. Every

invention I do not propose to attempt any seems to throw a new strain upon the sketch of our gains from this most vast but not illimitable, resources of fruitful union between science and in- nature. Lord Kelvin is disquieted vention. I may, however, permit my- about our supply of oxygen; Sir Wilself one parenthetic remark on an as- lam Crookes about our supply of nipect of it which is likely more and trates. The problem of our coal supmore to thrust itself unpleasantly upon ply is always with us. Sooner or later our attention. Marvellous as is the va- the stored-up resources of the world riety and ingenuity of modern indus- will be exhausted. Humanity, having trial methods, they almost all depend used or squandered its capital, will in the last resort upon our supply of thenceforward have to depend upon useful power; and our supply of useful such current income as can be derived power is principally provided for us by from that diurnal heat of the sun and methods which, so far as I can see, the rotation of the earth till, in the sehave altered not at all in principle, and quence of the ages, these also begin to strangely little in detail, since the days fail. With such remote speculations of Watt. Coal, as we all know, is the are not now

concerned. It is chief reservoir of energy from which enough for us to take note how rapidly the world at present draws, and from the prodigious progress of recent diswhich we in this country must always covery has increased the drain upon the draw; but our main contrivance for natural wealth of old manufacturing utilizing it is the steam engine, and, by countries, and especially of Great its essential nature, the steam engine is Britain, and, at the same time, frankly extravagantly wasteful. So that, when to recognize that it is only by new inwe are told, as if it was something to ventions that the collateral evils of old be proud of, that this is the age of inventions can be mitigated; that to go steam, we may admit the fact, but can back is impossible; that our only hope hardly share the satisfaction. Our coal- lies in a further advance. fields, as we know too well, are limited. After all, however, it is not necessaWe certainly cannot increase them. rily the material and obvious results of The boldest legislator would hesitate scientific discoveries which are of the to limit their employment for purposes deepest interest. They have effected of domestic industry. So the only pos- changes more subtle and perhaps less sible alternative is to economize our obvious which are at least as worthy method of consuming them. And for of our consideration and are at least as this there would, indeed, seem to be a unique in the history of the civilized sufficiency of

Let second

world. No century has seen so great a Watt arise. Let him bring into general change in our intellectual apprehension use some mode of extracting energy of the world in which we lire. Our from fuel which shall only waste 80 whole point of view has changed. The per cent. of it, and lo! your coalfields, as mental framework in which we arrange sources of power, are doubled at once. the separate facts in the world of men

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and things is quite a new framework. for the lecturer on the 19th. I, at least,
The spectacle of the universe presents cannot endeavor to grapple with it.
itself now in a wholly changed perspec- But, before concluding, I will ask one
tive. We not only see more, but we question about it, and hazard
see differently. The discoveries in phys- prophecy. My question relates to art.
ics and in chemistry, which have We may, I suppose, say that artistic
borne their share in thus re-creating for feeling constantly expresses itself in
us the evolution of the past, are in pro- the vivid presentation of sensuous fact
cess of giving us quite new ideas as to and its remote emotional suggestion.
the inner nature of that material Will it be dulled by a theory of the
whole of which the world's traversing world which carries with it no emo-
space is but an insignificant part. Dif- tional suggestion; which is perpetually
ferences of quality once thought ulti- merging the sensuous fact in its physi.
mate are constantly being resolved into cal explanation; whose main duty, in-
differences of motion or configuration. deed, it is to tear down the cosmic
What were once regarded as things scene-painting and expose the scaffold-
are now known to be movement. ing and wheelwork by which the world
Phenomena apparently so wide apart of sense-perception is produced? I do
as light, radiant heat, and electricity, not know, I do not hazard a conjecture;
are, as it is unnecessary to remind you, but the subject is worth consideration.
now recognized as substantially identi- So much for my question. My proph-
cal. From the arrangement of atoms ecy relates to religion. We have fre-
in the molecule, not less than their in- quently seen in the history of thought
trinsic nature, flow the characteristic that any development of the mechani-
attributes of the compound. The atom cal conception of the physical world
itself has been pulverized, and specula- gives an impulse to materialistic specu-
tion is forced to admit as a possibility lation. Now, if the goal to which, con-
that even the chemical elements them- sciously or unconsciously, the modern
selves may be no more than varieties of physicist is pressing be ever reached,
a single substance. Plausible attempts the mechanical view of things will re-
have been made to reduce the physical ceive an extension and a completeness
universe, with its infinite variety, its never before dreamed of. There would
glory of color and of form, its signifi- then, in strictness, be only one natural
cance and its sublimity, to one homo- science-namely, physics, and only one
geneous medium in which there are no kind of explanation-namely, the dy-
distinctions to be discovered but dis- namic. Would this conception in its
tinction of movement or of stress. And turn foster a new and refined material-
although such hypothesis can, I ism? For my own part I conjecture
suppose, be yet accepted, the gropings that it would not. I believe the very
of physicists after this, or some other completeness and internal consistency
not less audacious unification, must of such a view would establish its in-
finally, I think, be crowned with suc- adequacy. The very fact that within

The change of view which I it there seemed no room for spirit
have endeavored to indieate is purely would convince mankind that spirit
scientific, but its consequences cannot must be invoked to explain it. I know
be confined to science. How will they not how the theoretic reconciliation
manifest themselves in other regions of will be effected, for I mistrust the cur-
human activity, in literature, in art, in rent philosophical theories upon the
religion? The subject is one rather for subject. But that, in some way
the lecturer on the 20th century than other, future generations will, each in

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its own way, find a practical modus tury, it may be that he will note the vivendi between the natural and the fact that, unlike their forefathers, men spiritual 1 do not doubt at all, and if of his generation were no longer disa hundred years hence some lecturer quieted by the controversies once sugwhose parents are not yet born shall gested by the well-known phrase "condiscourse in this place on the 20th cen- flict between science and religion."

The London Times.

AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN.

A lovely place in the evening light

Wherein to rest and be idle,
Its borders so shadowy yet so bright,
Where old-fashioned roses dwell by right,
And queenly lilies are clad in white

Like flowers adorned for a bridal.

Here gillyflowers spread, till their branches seem

A brood of chicks round their mother,
There tender-eyed pansies muse and dream,
And jessamine stars through the twilight gleam,
And sunflowers and hollyhocks grown supreme

Pay stately court to each other.
Here wallflowers open with rich perfume,

There velvety brown and yellow
And taking more than their share of room
In far-spread patches sweet-williams bloom,
And regal dahlias their crowns assume

When the year grows ruddy and mellow.
Dear haunted garden, at dusk we stand,

And your din memories ponder;
of children who played here-a household band,
Of lovers that haply a lifetime planned,
Of aged ones resting here hand in hand

Now at rest on the hillside yonder.
They have passed away but their work survives

Its fragrance to strangers granted;
And as their garden still blooms and thrives,
Even so the grace of their homely lives
Beyond the winter of death revives;

They are not dead, but transplanted.

Ah, sweet the flowers that our love await,

Where the springtime is fresh and vernal,
Where never the summer-tide comes too late,
And never a blossom is out-of-date;
Thank God in the peace of that heavenly state
The old-fashioned joys are eternal.

Mary Rowles Jarvis.
The Leisure Hour.

PROFESSOR HERON'S MISTAKE.

1.

In ap

It was a still, summer night. Two men sat by the open window of a booklittered room overlooking a small, treeshaded courtyard, smoking and chatting. The elder-David Heron, tall, spare and erect, with a keen, dark, clean-shaven face-suggested in his appearance at once something of the soldier and the student. In reality, he was a briefless Scotch advocate, with a turn for historical research; a man of good family and small estate. pearance, his companion was scarcely less noteworthy than himself. Tall, also, but broadly built, fair-skinned and gray-eyed, Goeffrey Thorne was an ideal young Englishman; mild, but not too mild; sturdy and graceful withal. He stood in the relation of ward to the elder man, or rather, had done so in the past, for now he was twentyfive, and newly capped M.D., while his quondam guardian was as yet barely forty-two.

Friendly while bound to each other in terms of law, the two men were no less friendly now that their brief term of formal relationship was at an end, and from holding somewhat the relative status of father and son, they had come to be very like brothers. In truth, the extent of David Heron's guardianship of Geoffrey Thorne had been to see that young man, whom he had known from his childhood, through the troubles and temptations of University life at Edinburgh. To-night, they were smoking a farewell pipe in David Heron's chambers in Thistle Court, Edinburgh; for now, as mostly happens to intimacies between men, their old closeness of comradeship was to be broken, probably never to be re

LIVING AGE. VOL. VIII. 437

newed. After a short holiday Thorne was to take up a country practice in the west of England, and Herou had but lately been appointed to a professorship in a northern university. Thus, of many tobacco-parliaments in Thistle Court this was to be the last. Presently, from lazy chat, the two men dropped into silence, smoking and staring into the Court. The foliage of the few trees was projected in faint mass and tracery against the soft gloom of the summer sky; not a leaf stirred; there was absolute silence.

Boom! The deep pulsating note of St. Andrew's church clock, giving the first stroke of midnight, spread itself on the warm air. The two men stirred in their seats; other clocks in the town could be heard completing the hour, the sharper chime of a clock somewhere in the house took up the tale, and Heron and Thorne almost involuntarily rose from their chairs.

"Well, Goeffy, my boy, we have seen our last night here, I suppose,” said Heron, with a yawn. "Tomorrow, possibly, I will finish my own share of the packing; John, downstairs, does the rest, and then everything goes away north, to St. Rule's, hah!" He sighed as he tapped his pipe on the windowledge. “Curious," he continued absently. “how loth we old fellows are to get out of the accustomed ruts, to assume new responsibilities, to form new ties—"

"Ties, Heron?” interjected Thorne. “What do you mean by ties?” Thorne had seated himself on the corner of Heron's writing-table. “What do you mean by ties?" he repeated. Heron smiled, rather doubtfully, as he placed his pipe in his pocket. “Suppose-suppose I were to get married; that would

same

be at once a tie and a responsibility, would it not?"

"Yes, of course; but I never associated you with the idea of matrimony. Who is she?"

Heron smiled again, but with a certain wistfulness. "I can't very well tell you just yet," he said quietly.

“Ah!” said the other man, sympathetically, “I mean to get married myself, as soon as I have got things into shape a bit; at least, that is, if I can induce someone else to consider the idea favorably;" and Thorne laughed happily.

"H'm, yes, I suppose so," said Heron, with an indulgent smile. "Some one or other of your numerous Edinburgh girlfriends, eh? Gad! what a lucky young chap you are!"

“Oh, no!" said the young man, very decidedly. "No," he repeated, “it's to be Elizabeth Forster, if it is to be any. one."

Heron made no answer, and there was silence, until silence became strain. Thorne looked up at his friend, surprised. Heron was staring dully into space; he seemed to breathe with difficulty; seemingly unconscious of what he was doing, he had taken a letter from his pocket, and was twisting it about in his fingers. For about a minute Thorne sat watching his friend. "Well?” he said at last, breaking the silence. Heron started, and appeared to wake out of a trance. He walked over to the fireplace, and stood for a moment, looking down at the empty grate; then he turned to Thorne, keen and alert again, as ever.

"And so," he said briskly, "you have fixed your affections on Miss Elizabeth Forster-Bess Forster, whom I remember as a baby when I was a lad new come from school. Ah!"

Thorne still sat looking musingly at his friend.

"Well," he said slowly, “it's only an idea, so far, but not a new one. Still,

I have spoken neither to Miss Forster, nor to her father, on the subject as yet. I wish I had not spoken of it to you. In any case, what is Miss Forster to you?” His mind had gone back to the strange manner in which Heron had received his first mention of the young lady, and he spoke more rapidly.

“What is Miss Forster to me,” echoed Heron. “Everything,” he answered quietly. ,

Thorne look at him for a moment, seemingly uncomprehending. Then he said dully, and almost to himself. "You! You !-Oh, my God, you!" Then, after a pause, “Have we two fools been thinking of the

woman," he laughed savagely. “Tell me," he went on, “how long has this been going on: I mean, how long have you been looking forward to this-this-" he broke off.

Do you remember,” said Heron, "the winter she spent in Edinburgh, four years ago?”

"I do; it was then that I got to know her. I remember meeting her—"

“Possibly," interrupted Heron, curtly. "And since then I have been working to obtain a position such as I might ask her to share. You never thought to ask me why I, a solitary bachelor, with nobody to care for, should all at once change from a bookish idler to a man anxious only to undertake every scrap of work he could get. You saw nearly every day, and yet I suppose you never noticed any change in my life?" he said, scornfully. “And now!" He walked restlessly about the room.

Thorne picked up his hat, stick and gloves, from a chair. He had said nothing, but his face was hard.

“Well,” he said, deliberately, “we may each have had his dream, but it remains to be seen whose dream comes true-and I fancy it won't be yours. You are her father's friend, as you were my father's; you have known her since she was a child, and you have now a better position to offer her than

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