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publication of the Vestiges, a shrewd and sarcastic countryman of the author defined it as cauld kail made het again." A cynic might find amusement in the reflection that, at the present time, the principles and the methods of the much-vilified Vestigiarian are being made het again ;" and are not only "echoed by the dome of St. Paul's, but thundered from the castle of Inverary. But my turn of mind is not cynical, and I can but regret the waste of time and energy bestowed on the endeavor to deal with the most difficult problems of science, by those who have neither undergone the discipline, nor possess the information, which are indispensable to the successful issue of such an enterprise.

I have already had occasion to remark that the Duke of Argyll's views of the conduct of controversy are different from mine; and this much-to-belamented discrepancy becomes yet more accentuated when the Duke reaches biological topics. Anything that was good enough for Sir Charles Lyell, in his department of study, is certainly good enough for me in mine; and I by no means demur to being pedagogically instructed about a variety of matters with which it has been the business of my life to try to acquaint myself. But the Duke of Argyll is not content with favoring me with his opinions about my own business; he also answers for mine; and, at that point, really the worm must turn. I am told that

no

one knows better than Professor Huxley" a variety of things which I really do not know; and I am said to be a disciple of that "Positive Philosophy" which I have, over and over again, publicly repudiated in language which is certainly not lacking in intelligibility, whatever may be its other defects.

I am told that I have been amusing myself with a "metaphysical exercitation or logomachy" (may I remark incidentally that these are not quite convertible terms?), when, to the best of my belief, I have been trying to expose a process of mystification, based upon the use of scientific language by writers who exhibit no sign of scientific training, of accurate scientific knowledge, or of clear ideas respecting the philosophy of science, which is doing very serious

harm to the public. Naturally enough, they take the lion's skin of scientific phraseology for evidence that the voice which issues from beneath it is the voice of science, and I desire to relieve them from the consequences of their error.

The Duke of Argyll asks, apparently with sorrow that it should be his duty to subject me to reproof :

What shall we say of a philosophy which confounds the organic with the inorganic, and, refusing to take note of a difference so profound, assumes to explain under one common abstraction the movements due to gravitation and the movements due to the mind of man?

To which I may fitly reply by another question: What shall we say to a controversialist who attributes to the subject of his attack opinions which are notoriously not his; and expresses himself in such a manner that it is obvious he is unacquainted with even the rudiments of that knowledge which is necessary to the discussion into which he has rushed?

What line of my writing can the Duke of Argyll produce which confounds the organic with the inorganic ?

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As to the latter half of the paragraph, I have to confess a doubt whether it has any definite meaning. But I imagine that the Duke is alluding to my assertion that the law of gravitation is nowise "suspended" or defied" when a man lifts his arm; but that, under such circumstances, part of the store of energy in the universe operates on the arm at a mechanical advantage as against the operation of another part. I was simple enough to think that no one who had as much knowledge of physiology as is to be found in an elementary primer, or who had ever heard of the greatest physical generalization of modern times-the doctrine of the conservation of energy-would dream of doubting my statement; and I was further simple enough to think that no one who lacked these qualifications would feel tempted to charge ine with error. It appears that my simplicity is greater than my powers of imagination.

The Duke of Argyll may not be aware of the fact, but it is nevertheless true, that when a man's arm is raised, in sequence to that state of consciousness we call a volition, the volition is not the immediate cause of the elevation of the

arm.

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On the contrary, that operation is effected by a certain change of form, technically known as contraction' in sundry masses of flesh, technically known as muscles, which are fixed to the bones of the shoulder in such a manner that, if these muscles contract, they must raise the arm. Now each of these muscles is a machine, in a certain sense, comparable to one of the donkeyengines of a steamship, but more complete, inasmuch as the source of its ability to change its form, or contract, lies within itself. Every time that, by contracting, the muscle does work, such as that involved in raising the arm, more or less of the material which it contains is used up, just as more or less of the fuel of a steam-engine is used up, when it does work. And I do not think there is a doubt in the mind of any com. petent physicist or physiologist, that the work done in lifting the weight of the arm is the mechanical equivalent of a certain proportion of the energy set free by the molecular changes which take place in the muscle. It is further a tolerably well-based belief that this, and all other forms of energy, are mutually convertible, and therefore that they all come under that general law or statement of the order of facts, called the conservation of energy. And, as that certainly is an abstraction, so the view which the Duke of Argyll thinks so extremely absurd is really one of the commonplaces of physiology. But this Review is hardly an appropriate place for giving instruction in the elements of that science, and I content myself with recommending the Duke of Argyll to devote some study to Book II. chap. v. section 4 of my friend Dr. Foster's excellent text-book of Physiology (1st edition, 1877, p. 321), which begins thus:

Broadly speaking, the animal body is a machine for converting potential into actual energy. The potential energy is supplied by the food; this the metabolism of the body converts into the actual energy of heat and mechanical labor.

There is no more difficult problem in the world than that of the relation of the state of consciousness, termed volition, to the mechanical work which frequently follows upon it. But no one can even comprehend the nature of the

problem who has not carefully studied the long series of modes of motion which, without a break, connect the energy which does that work with the general store of energy. The ultimate form of the problem is this: Have we any reason to believe that a feeling, or state of consciousness, is capable of directly affecting the motion of even the smallest conceivable molecule of matter? Is such a thing even conceivable ? If we answer these questions in the negative, it follows that volition may be a sign, but cannot be a cause, of bodily motion. If we answer them in the affirmative, then states of consciousness become undistinguishable from material things; for it is the essential nature of matter to be the vehicle or substratum of mechanical energy.

There is nothing new in all this. I have merely put into modern language the issue raised by Descartes more than two centuries ago. The philosophies of the Occasionalists, of Spinoza, of Malebranche, of modern idealism and modern materialism, have all grown out of the controversies which Cartesianism evoked. Of all this the pseudo-science of the present time appears to be unconscious; otherwise it would hardly content itself with making het again" the pseudo-science of the past.

In the course of these observations I have already had occasion to express my appreciation of the copious and perfervid eloquence which enriches the Duke of Argyll's pages. I am almost ashamed that a constitutional insensibility to the Sirenian charms of rhetoric has permitted me, in wandering through these flowery meads, to be attracted almost exclusively to the bare places of fallacy and the stony grounds of deficient information which are disguised, though not concealed, by these floral decorations. But, in his concluding sentences, the Duke soars into a Tyrtæan strain which roused even my dull soul.

It was high time, indeed, that some revolt should be raised against that Reign of Terror which had come to be established in the scientific world under the abuse of a great name. Professor Huxley has not joined this revolt openly, for as yet, indeed, it is only beginning to raise its head. But more than once-and very lately-he has uttered a warning voice against the shallow dogmatism that has pro

tations will be established.

Unless I am much

voked it. The time is coming when that revolt will be carried further. Higher interpremistaken, they are already coming in sight (p. 339).

I have been living very much out of the world for the last two or three years, and when I read this denunciatory outburst, as of one filled with the spirit of prophecy, I said to myself, Mercy upon us, what has happened? Can it be that X. and Y. (it would be wrong to mention the names of the vigorous young friends which occurred to me) are playing Danton and Robespierre; and that a guillotine is erected in the courtyard of Burlington House for the benefit of all anti-Darwinian Fellows of the Royal Society? Where are the secret conspirators against this tyranny, whom I am supposed to favor, and yet not have the courage to join openly? And to think of my poor oppressed friend, Mr. Herbert Spencer, compelled to speak with bated breath (p. 338) certainly for the first time in my thirty-odd years' acquaintance with him!" My alarm and horror at the supposition that, while I had been fiddling (or at any rate physicking), my beloved Rome had been burning, in this fashion, may be imagined.

I am sure the Duke of Argyll will be glad to hear that the anxiety he created was of extremely short duration. It is my privilege to have access to the best sources of information, and nobody in the scientific world can tell me anything about either the Reign of Terror or the Revolt. In fact, the scientific world laughs most indecorously at the notion of the existence of either; and some are so lost to the sense of the scientific dignity, that they descend to the use of transatlantic slang, and call it a "bogus scare.' As to my friend Mr. Herbert Spencer, I have every reason to know that, in the Factors of Organic Evolution, he has said exactly what was in his mind, without any particular deference to the opinions of the person whom he is pleased to regard as his most dangerous critic and Devil's Advocate-General, and still less of any one else.

I do not know whether the Duke of Argyll pictures himself as the Tallien of this imaginary revolt against a no less imaginary Reign of Terror. But if so, But if so,

I most respectfully but firmly decline to join his forces. It is only a few weeks since I happened to read over again the first article which I ever wrote (now twenty-seven years ago) on the Origin of Species, and I found nothing that I wished to modify in the opinions that are there expressed, though the subsequent vast accumulation of evidence in favor of Mr. Darwin's views would give me much to add. As is the case with all new doctrines, so with that of Evolution, the enthusiasm of advocates has sometimes tended to degenerate into fanaticism, and mere speculation has, at times, threatened to shoot beyond its legitimate bounds. I have occasionally thought it wise to warn the more adventurous spirits among us against these dangers, in sufficiently plain language; and I have sometimes jestingly said that I expected, if I lived long enough, to be looked on as a reactionary by some of my more ardent friends. But nothing short of midsummer madness can account for the fiction that I am waiting till it is safe to join openly a revolt, hatched by some person or persons unknown, against an intellectual movement with which I am in the most entire and hearty sympathy. It is a great many years since, at the outset of my career, I had to think seriously what life had to offer that was worth having. I came to the conclusion that the chief good, for me, was freedom to learn, think, and say what I pleased, when I pleased. I have acted on that conviction and have availed myself of the "rara temporum felicitas ubi sentire quæ velis, et quæ sentias dicere licet," which is now enjoyable, to the best of my ability; and though strongly, and perhaps wisely, warned that I should probably come to grief, I am entirely satisfied with the results of the line of action I have adopted.

My career is at an end

I have warmed both hands at the fire of life; and nothing is left me, before I depart, but to help, or at any rate to abstain from hindering, the younger generation of men of science in doing better service to the cause we have at heart, than I have been able to render.

And yet, forsooth, I am supposed to be waiting for the signal of "revolt,'

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which some fiery spirits among these young men are to raise before I dare express my real opinions concerning questions about which we older men had to fight, in the teeth of fierce public opposition and obloquy-of something which might almost justify even the grandiloquent epithet of a Reign of

Terror-before our excellent successors had left school.

It would appear that the spirit of pseudo-science has impregnated even the imagination of the Duke of Argyll. The scientific imagination always restrains itself within the limits of probability.-Nineteenth Century.

THE ROMANCE OF A FRENCH PARSONAGE.

I.

BY M. B. E.

No sleepier little town than St. Anatole lies nestled amid the vine-clad hills of eastern France, none of more smiling, gracious aspect. There is picturesqueness too about its quiet streets, the low arcades with round arches recalling the Spanish occupation of Franche Comté, part of the rich dower of Mary of Burgundy, and bits of Spanish domestic architecture remain here and there. Round about rise the pleasant hills, mere gentle declivities, although designated by the name of mountains in these parts; a little river runs by the town, hiding itself in a green valley; beyond, tower the dark pine-forests of the Jura; while far away stretches the Alpine fairyland, Mont Blanc and its sister peaks, flakes of violet and amber in the far distance. So dead-alive this townling of two or three thousand souls, so unfrequented by tourists, and remote from the highways of the world, that not a carriage awaits the chance traveller who makes a halt here. Only a tumble-down omnibus, for the convenience of business men, plies between the railway station and the one inn of the place. Into this cumbersome vehicle, on a bright September day, stepped a lady whose appearance was little in keeping with such shabby surroundings. Her dress was simple enough certainly, a nun's were hardly plainer, yet the black gown of light gauze, the long veil that seemed a part of it, and the small bonnet, a mere coronet of jet on the golden hair, but served to heighten the wearer's beauty. Hers was loveliness of the most dignified kind, features, figure, carriage, indicated the nobility

imparted by high rank and elegant bringing-up, as well as a certain state natural to some women; and, in spite of the studied sobriety of dress, evidences were there of ancestral wealth and splendor. From her small ears hung rare enamels in the quaint setting of the Renaissance. The brooch that fastened her dress was a fleur-de-lis fashioned of pearls, evidently an heirloom; and as she gathered up her skirts to step into the omnibus, a flounce of rich lace fell over the slender foot. There were no other passengers, and the blue-bloused conductor, hat in hand, stood by the door awaiting instructions. structions. So self-absorbed, however, was the lady, that she did not notice his presence, and he was obliged at last to ask her destination.

Slightly coloring, and with the air of one aroused from deep reverie, she made reply:

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Drive me, if you please, to the Protestant parsonage.

Then the door was slammed to, and the noisy, stuffy old vehicle, with its dainty fare, rattled off in the direction of the town.

A bridge was first crossed, then followed a bit of brand-new boulevard, finally the one long street with its Spanish arcades traversed from end to end. All this while for the drive occupied at least ten minutes-the lady sat motionless as a statue, lost in thought. Once or twice, when the horses slackened speed, and she thought it was time to alight, her color went and came, she trembled violently and drew a deep breath; but when indeed the wheels stood still, by a tremendous effort she recovered self-possession. Erect and

proud, not without a certain natural hauteur, she now scanned the parsonage before ringing the bell.

The humble aspect of the place showed that the reformed faith was not in the ascendant hereabouts. The pastor's house was a neat, whitewashed, twostoried structure, standing sideways by the road; abutting on it was a small building of almost similar pattern, which did duty as church and school in one; shut off from the street by a high iron railing and gate was a long, narrow strip of flower, fruit and vegetable garden. Nothing could be plainer, homelier, more primitive, yet no signs of abject poverty met the eye.

The garden was in good order. The bricked court in front of the church was cleanly swept; the house from top to bottom had a cared-for look. It was evident that the occupant had been accustomed to rigid economy, at the same time to decency and order.

The latch of the garden gate yielded to her hand, and the intruder now found herself at the house door, opened-as is the fashion in these parts-from above. No sooner, therefore, had she touched the bell than the door flew back, and she saw that she was expected to ascend the staircase. On the groundfloor were only store-rooms and washhouses; kitchen, parlor and bed-chambers evidently occupied the second story. And having mounted, hearing, seeing no one, a second time she was compelled to announce her coming. The landing-place was dark; she tapped gently at the nearest door.

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Is the pastor Anville within?'' she asked-without looking up. Her voice did not tremble, but it was in a strained key. She had turned very pale, and was evidently asking herself whether indeed she had courage to fulfil her errand. "The pastor Anville?-I am he,' was the reply, spoken briefly and absently.

The minister had evidently been disturbed in the midst of serious occupation, and had not so much as given himself time to identify his intruder. Thus much was clear, a lady waited on his threshold, he felt bound to invite her within.

He was a striking-looking man, in middle life, that is to say, in his prime.

But for the habiliments of a Protestant pastor, he must have been at once taken for a Catholic priest. The priestly stamp was undoubtedly there-the fine features closely shaven, the penetrating look, the general aspect, recalled rather the disciple of Loyola than of Calvin ; and, could it be? the crown of the head showed unmistakable signs of the tonsure!

He was no meanly-endowed son of Adam, quite the reverse; but for all that, an observer would single him out of a crowd by reason of intellectual rather than physical superiority. The noble brow, the commanding look marked him from others. He ought to have occupied one of the metropolitan pulpits of the world. Such a man could but be a force, moral as well as spiritual, a mighty lever of human wills and passions, a powerful agent in the strife of good with evil.

Bright sunshine filled the little study in which the pair now stood face to face. The lady had raised her veil, her fair, gold-brown hair caught the sunlight. The place seemed irradiated by her pensive yet sunny beauty.

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For a brief moment he had seemed to stagger, shrinking from that exquisite presence; but, just as she had done a moment before, by a violent effort he now regained his self-composure. Offering her a seat, the pastor placed a chair for himself opposite her own, then closed the door, evidently prepared for a confidence.

'You have come to me in some trouble or perplexity-that I see," he began, smiling faintly. "And you are aware of my altered circumstances. As a friend, as a minister of the Gospel, I am ready to advise, perhaps able to comfort; the priest, the confessor, the absolver, you know well, have ceased to exist.'

"I know it," was the timid, girlishly hesitating reply.

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