which antedates everything and which seems to be the only kind of being that is its own raison d'être and exists in its own right? The more it is studied the more irrelevant physical death as its master appears. Of all the wonders in the universe, it is the most wonderful. It is conscious of successive experiences, is able to grasp them as an intelligible unity which yet it transcends. Nay, more, it grasps not only things that are, but also things that might be; distinguishes between the possible and the impossible, yet knows itself not identical with any of its states. It is by his power of thought that man wrestles with the complexity and subtility of natural phenomena, and wrings out of them order, beauty, a cosmos in which he is at home everywhere. The astronomer's physical frame is confined by the walls of his observatory, but his mind sweeps the orbit of the earth, tracks the solar system as it sounds its way through boundless space. Nor does the Milky Way, the confines of the stellar universe, avail to stay the flight of his speculative imagination; he can pierce through it, though his telescope may not, and wonder what lies beyond. And if space is powerless to limit intelligence, so also is time. Appearing for a brief and hurried moment, man is "a being of large discourse, looking before and after," able to reconstruct the vanished past and make men and empires live again, or press forward into the unknown and behold visions of worlds not yet realized. A creature, like the lowest organisms, of birth. growth, decay, and death; product of forces that are beyond his control, he yet feels himself independent of nature and all her laws with a reason that reflects as a mirror the infinite Thought that besets him on every side. We call man a creature of time, and in a sense so he is. But historic philosophy assures us that in another and

The

deeper sense he is its creator. consciousness of Time is not derived from something outside us and independent of us as uncritical reflection supposes; it is the product of our conscious souls, the principle by which the soul organizes its experiences into intelligible relations. And that means that man is not lost amid the endless experiences of sense; he is their master and lord, himself the citizen of an eternal world. But wonderful as is man's power of thought, his consciousness of subjection to a transcendental law of duty is still more wonderful. If conscience can make of him at times a coward, at other times it makes him a hero. Had it power as it has right, says Bishop Butler, it would govern the world. That the content of moral obligations has changed from age to age, and is the subject of evolutional development, we may not question; but every attempt to explain the principle of conscience by that which is nonmoral has broken down. Try as we may, we cannot but see in it a reflection of the objective moral order of life. As Huxley argued in his Romanes lecture, there is in man a principle which, so far from being explained by the evolutional process, stands in irreconcilable antagonism to it, and is a distinctively human quality. Now this inner voice assures us that in the sum of things, every man will receive according to his work. In so speaking, is it deluding us? If man with all his faculties is rooted in the All-Holy and the absolute Reality, can we suppose that the organ of Right within him mocks him? If, on the other hand, it is the voice of God, as reverence has always believed, then its premonitions of another and a more august Tribunal than any here, before which all men and causes must be tried, cannot be ignored as a superstltious survival. To suppose that death levels all men at last, the just and the

unjust, the tyrant and his victim, a Nero and a St. Paul, a Judas and a St. John, and mingles the dust of the noblest and the vilest of humanity in the same forgotten grave, is to suppose something that nauseates our moral sense and makes human history a riddle without a meaning. It is thoughts like these which, in our age, distinguished as it is for moral sensitiveness, give pause to many who on other grounds are inclined to let go the hope of a life beyond the grave. "Conscience appears," says Mr. Goldwin Smith, "in all in whom it has not been seared and silenced, to speak of a supreme justice, the awards of which are not limited to this world, and which is not to be baffled, as in numberless cases earthly justice is, by the power or arts of the evil doer. That this idea is not constantly and distinctly present to the minds of men is no conclusive proof of its falsehood. If it is not consciously and distinctly present as the expectation of another life, it is present as the voice of morality in conflict with temptation." "

But man's essence is not only thought and righteousness, it is also love. And this it is universally confessed, is divine, if there is anything

divine in the universe. There is an infinitude in love which demands infinite

scope for its exercise. We begin by loving parent and friend, we go on to love wife and home, but the more we love the more our capacity for love grows, and if it is not to die must reach out and embrace humanity and God. Can we believe that such an energy as this must at last lie beaten in The London Quarterly Review. 10 The Quest of Light," p. 171.

the dust? Can death conquer at last the power that more than once in history has trampled it underfoot? It is conceivable that love should accept annihilation for itself, if the order of the world so demands, accept it with firm submission, however hard such a fate might seem; but there is one thing it could not and would not tolerate, and that is the annihilation of the being loved. Who that has watched by the death-bed of one whom he has loved, and marked the fading away of all that made the loved one dear, has not felt a wrath against death as against а supreme injustice? And what is this feeling but the testimony of our nature to the indestructible worth of personality?

If Death were seen

At first as Death, Love had not been, Or been in narrowest working shut,— Mere fellowship of sluggish moods."

There is only one assumption that can annul the force of these arguments, and that is, that the universe at heart is neither rational nor ethical. or in other words, that there is no eternal and universal Mind and Heart capable of sustaining relations with other hearts and minds, and of acknowledging responsibilities towards them. A denial of immortality can be logically based only on a non-theistic conception of the world. But if God is real and rational and man is real and rational, the way is open to vindicate for man in union with God the life that alone befits and is worthy of his nature.

Queen's University,

Samuel M'Comb.

Kingston, Canada.

11 "In Memoriam," stanza xxxv,

Cingleton, the same Cingleton who piloted the train of gun-smugglers through the forests of the Congo-but that has been told before-looked at Isabella de Cordeza. Finding himself well repaid for the glance, he continued his observation, and smiled in a satisfied manner.

Isabella de Cordeza returned the first glance, also the second, and smiled too for the same reason. Then she spoke. "It will kill papa," she said. "Hardly," returned Cingleton. "What's a defeat more or less in South America? They happen every day."

rifle-firing

across the

The young girl leaned forward in an attitude that showed every line of her well-developed figure ravishingly. From where they stood, the sharp crackle of intermittent could be plainly heard waters of the sleeping bay. An occasional yell, muffled by the intense heat and the distance, rose to a shrieking crescendo, then fell to an ominous silence. Once a deep, resonant note of volley-firing boomed through the air.

"That's the end of poor Cortega," said Cingleton. He had grown to like the smart young aide-de-camp of the President, but, being human, recognized that his removal had its advantages. However, if he had arrived earlier he would not have hesitated to attempt a rescue.

"Oh, you don't know papa," retorted the girl, replying to his first observation. "We Latins haven't got the easy-going temperament of you English, Mr. Cingleton. I have had a chance of observing the difference during my schooldays, Papa has worked himself to a skeleton for the sake of

these people here; he has given of his best, and they were happy under his government until that beast-that ladrone-Fuegos came on the scene. How would you like to see the work of your life dashed to pieces just because an impudent murderer got drunk and talked to the people about their wrongs? How would you like to have the men you had trained yourself ransacking the palace to find the man who had given them every good thing they possess, intending to put him up against a wall and shoot him? Wouldn't it break your heart?"

"Come to think of it, it might. But your father made the great mistake of trying to rule by love, whereas fear is the only god these blighters will bow down to. I know them. I've had dealings with them before, worse luck! Hit the beggars first, and then tell them you'll hit them again if they try to do things; that's the proper way to handle the brutes. Never mind whether they've done anything wrong or not; you can't go far wrong. They're probably thinking out some mischief."

Señorita de Cordeza gave an impatient sigh.

"Stones for bread!" she said bitterly. "I looked to you for a means to remedy the evil, and you talk trite platitudes. Heavens! if I were only a man I'd never rest until I'd made some attempt to turn them away from their plans."

"Look here,” replied Cingleton humbly, "I'm jolly sorry; but what can I do? I'm one man by myself. I landed from the steamer out at the Point because they wouldn't let us come into harbor; I hadn't the faintest idea that

anything was wrong until I spotted your carriage and you spoke to me. Hang it all! give a man a chance, Miss Isabella."

"I'm sorry. But, oh! you can't imagine what this means to us. It spells death for papa and desolation for me. Not that that matters much, though. I was too hasty, Mr. Cingleton; butisn't there a way out?"

It was rather a difficult problem to set a man-even a man like Cingleton -that of finding a remedy for a South American revolution. The Republic of Wisteria-one moderate-sized city and a few hundred square miles of sunbaked plains-had caught the infection from a neighboring state, and, incited thereto by the tempestuous arguments of a drunken ne'er-do-weel, had risen in might the preceding night, stormed the palace, shot down the few guards who had remained loyal, and had only just escaped murdering the late President and his charming daughter. But for the presence of mind and loyalty of an old servant, who had lured them away under pretence of visiting a case of distress, they would have fallen with the guards. It was now late afternoon, and still the sounds of tumult were coming to the listeners' ears.

"Let's talk it over with your father," said Cingleton, striding away towards the entrance of a deep cave in the sunbaked rock. He tapped his high boot impatiently as he walked, using a silver-headed cane for the purpose. Isabella de Cordeza smiled again as she watched his broad shoulders and the determined throw-back of his head.

"A man!" she whispered to herself.

"He's a man!"

ton," he remarked, "there will be no need for me to go to La Castries. It will come to me-angrily."

"Yes, after it has got drunk. But how long do you reckon it will take La Castries to get comfortably intoxicated on that stuff you call wine here?"

"The Pacific steamer landed two thousand cases of brandy last week." murmured the President, "and it had not been taken out of the CustomHouse yesterday. But it is out now."

“Oh, brandy!" said Cingleton. "That's a different matter. They'll have to sleep that off. I know the kind of brandy that's imported hererot-gut stuff. How long do you reckon it will take them to find you?"

"Tili to-morrow perhaps," said the President. "To-morrow at, say, ten o'clock."

"And then?"

De Cordeza made an eloquent gesture, embracing both himself and his daughter. Cingleton seemed to see the pair propped up against one of those dazzling white walls that seemed designed by their constructors for summary executions. He almost heard the word of the officer who commanded the firing-party: "Make ready! Present!" No, it must not be!

"What resources have we?" asked Cingleton.

The President threw out his hands. "None," he said.

Isabella broke in with gleaming eyes, and the Englishman fancied he saw a little elusive flicker deep down in their pupils a flicker that made him catch his breath sharply. "That was something worth trying for," he said under his breath.

"I thought you and your countrymen made resources, Mr. Cingleton," she said with the childish confidence of a young girl. "History tells of a hundred instances where you have overcome superhuman obstacles through your own pluck. Think!"

"Pedro the Scoundrel has a small steam-launch hidden away on the Point," said Juan Gomez, he who had driven the President away from death. "He-it is nothing now, Excellency he smuggles a little."

Cingleton's eyes sparkled merrily. "Then the dilemma solves itself," he murmured. "We will all embark on the smuggler's launch, and vanish from Wisteria for ever."

He looked to see a smile of relief overspread two faces, but he was disappointed. Blank contradiction was all he met.

"To fly from my country!" said the President. "That is undeserved, señor."

"Blest if I can see the difference of flying from the palace and flying from the country," said Cingleton vexedly. "Isn't it a bit like hair-splitting? You'd come back after the fireworks, and tame 'em down all right. Rest assured, the bally place won't fly away from you."

"Now, at present it seems disposed to fly towards me, as I have before said," rejoined the President. "Jest

ing apart, Señor Cingleton, I cannot leave Wisteria. All I have is here. The few dollars that I have savednot many-are hidden in the city. My work is here. Ah, little do you young men know what an old man's work is to him when it is done, and there is no more doing for him! No, señor, I cannot leave."

Cingleton meditated. A plan was forming itself in his resourceful mind -a bold, daring plan, that might set the greatest nations of the world at loggerheads. It was risky-too risky to be done without hope of some reward. He was not a mercenary man, either; in fact, on a cool dozen occasions he had thrown down a gauntlet to great Powers for the sheer love and lust of the thing. But now he wanted a reward. It was no question of

money; no mining concessions would suit him; and yet he had come to Wisteria solely for the purpose of opening up silver-mining there. What he wanted-he had found it out a year before was that piece of ardent, palpitating flesh and blood that stood regarding him with a pensive smile. She had great faith in the workings of the English mind; she had been brought up in England, and even that had not disillusioned her. And now, seeing that Cingleton's head was bent in earnest thought, she awaited his decision with breathless interest.

He looked up and caught her intent glance. Some sort of a blush crept up under the tropical tan of his good-looking face; and he turned away, halfashamed of his thoughts. But if

She too colored bewitchingly, and averted her face. He turned again in time to see the crimson tide climb slowly up from the loose neck of her evening-gown-she was still in eveningdress, as she had been when she left the palace so hurriedly; he watched it reach her cheek; then her low forehead took on the glow; and a little vein in the man's temple throbbed madly. Impulsively he started forward, then recollected himself in time. The President leaned back with resignation.

Isabella leaned forward a little, until her breath stirred the thinning hair about Cingleton's brow. Her lips were so red that they seemed to owe their color to art, but he knew better; the gleam of pearly white that was revealed between the crimson wonders intoxicated him. He clenched his hands, and the throbbing vein stood out like a piece of whipcord.

"I would give anything," she murmured, "to give my father back his own."

Then Cingleton realized that he was a very cad. Like the coarsest bargainer, he was trying to sell his assistance; and the price he asked was