In regard to self-culture, it is clear that for any steady progress one must keep before his mind an abstract idea of what he wishes to do. This enables him to rise above impulse, passion, instinct, habit, circumstance. By the steady contemplation of the proposed aim, one can arrange circumstances, restrain impulse, direct one's activity, and become really free.

In like manner races become developed in civilisation by the impact of abstract ideas. Sometimes it is by coming in contact with other civilised nations, which gives them an ideal superior to anything before known. Sometimes the motive power of their progress is the reception of truths of science, art, literature, or religion.

It is not necessary to show that without abstract, universal, and necessary ideas no religion is possible; for religion being the worship of unseen powers, conceived as existing, as active, as spiritual, necessarily implies these ideas in the mind of the worshipper.

We find, then, in the soul of animals all active, affectionate, and intelligent capacities, as in that of man. The only difference is that man is capable of abstract ideas, which give him a larger liberty of action, which enable him to adopt an aim and pursue it, and which change his affections from an instinctive attachment into a principle of generous love. Add, then, to the animal soul the capacity for abstract ideas, and it would rise at once to the level of man. Meantime, in a large part of their nature, they have the same faculties with ourselves. They share our emotions, and we theirs. They are made "a little lower" than man, and if we are souls so surely are they.

Are they immortal? To discuss this question would require more space than we can here give to it. For our own part, we fully believe in the continued existence of all souls, at the same time

assuming their continued advance. The law of life is progress; and one of the best features in the somewhat unspiritual theory of Darwin is its profound faith in perpetual improvement. This theory is the most startling optimism that has ever been taught, for it makes the law of the whole universe to be perpetual progress.

Many of the arguments for the immortality of man cannot indeed be used for our dumb relations, the animals. We cannot argue from their universal faith in a future life; nor contend that they need an immortality on moral grounds, to recompense their good conduct and punish their wickedness. We might indeed adduce a reason implied in our Saviour's parable, and believe that the poor creatures who have received their evil things in this life will be comforted in another. Moreover, we might find in many animals qualities fitting them for a higher state. There are animals, as we have seen, who show a fidelity, courage, generosity, often superior to what we see in man. The dogs who have loved their master more than food, and starved to death on his grave, are surely well fitted for a higher existence. Jesse tells a story of a cat which was being stoned by cruel boys. Men went by, and did not interfere; but a dog that saw it did. He drove away the boys, and then took the cat to his kennel, licked her all over with his tongue, and his

conduct interested people, who brought her milk. The canine nurse took care of her till she was well, and the cat and dog remained fast friends ever after. Such an action in a man would have been called heroic; and we think such a dog would not be out of place in heaven.

Yet it is not so much on particular cases of animal superiority that we rely, but on the difficulty of conceiving, in any sense, of the destruction of life. The principle of life, whether we call it soul or body, matter or spirit, escapes all observation of the senses. All that we know of it by observation is, that beside the particles of matter which compose an organised body, there is something else not cognisable by the senses, which attracts and dismisses them, modifies and co-ordinates them. The unity of the body is not to be found in its sensible phenomena, but in something which escapes the senses. Into the vortex of that life material molecules are being continually absorbed, and from it they are perpetually discharged. If death means the dissolution of the body, we die many times in the course of our earthly career, for every body is said by human anatomists to be changed in all its particles once in seven years. What then remains, if all the particles go? The principle of organisation remains, and this invisible, persistent principle_constitutes the identity of every organised body. If I say that I have the same body when I am fifty which I had at twenty, it is because I mean by "body" that which continues unaltered amid the fast-flying particles of matter. This life-principle makes and remakes the material frame; that body does not make it. When what we call death intervenes, all that we can assert is that the life-principle has done, wholly and at once, what it has always been doing gradually and in part. What happens to the material particles, we see they become detached from the organising principle, and relapse into simply mechanical and chemical conditions. What has happened to that organising principle we neither see nor know; and we have absolutely no reason at all for saying that it has ceased to exist.

This is as true of plants and of animals as of men; and there is no reason for supposing that when these die, their principle of life is ended. It probably has reached a crisis which consists in the putting on of new forms and ascending into a higher order of organised existence. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE

THROUGH NIGHT TO LIGHT.

A SCHOOL BOARD STORY.

BY MARIANNE FARNINGHAM.

Book the Second.

CHAPTER XVI.-IN THE BOX.

LIONEL WINTERSET was half mad with joy.

It will be remembered that he repeated the old folly of searching for treasure in the spot whence his steps had often before been

directed, and that there, as it seemed, by accident he stumbled upon a box.

He tested its weight, and, finding it heavy, decided at once that his dreams were at last realised, and he had now become a most wealthy man. For one moment he looked wildly about him to see that no one watched, and then, scarcely feeling the burden which at another time he would have been scarcely able to lift, he hurried home. He did not now care for the moonlight, and in fact he wished, and almost prayed, that a cloud might come across the moon, and make the street dark. As if in answer to his hope, he was able for the greater part of the distance to walk in shadow, holding his treasure close to his heart.

At his own door he was glad to put it down for a moment, for only then he realised that his arms were aching and he was panting for breath. He wiped the perspiration from his face, and crossed the hall.

"I must put it in a secret place, where no one will discover it. I must tell no person, not even Bertha, of my treasure." Such was the unspoken thought in his heart as he entered his house.

Papa, papa, what have you got in your arms? Is it a little coffin ?"

Whatever it was, the man held it firmly in his grasp, and hurried away with it to his own room. But he was annoyed that the child should have seen him, and he glared upon her in a most unfatherly

manner.

He shut and locked the door, and endeavoured to open the box. It was fastened so securely that he found he could not do it without the aid of tools. He was going down to search for them when he heard the gentle voice of his wife calling him. With an imprecation which was almost an oath, he put the box out of sight, and opened the door.

"May I come in, Lion ?'

"No, you may not," he growled.

eyes.

Bertha looked at him steadily, through beseeching, searching What was the matter with her husband, she did not know; but in reality the evil spirit of selfishness and greed, which she had thought was exorcised, had returned again in greater force than before.

"I beg your pardon, dear. I am sorry to have disturbed you, if you are busy."

Mrs. Winterset knew better than to reproach her husband. It was by the force of gentleness and love that she always tried to conquer, and when they failed she had no other weapon with which to fight.

"What is it that you want, Bertha ?"

"I want my husband."

"What for?"

"Only to spend a pleasant hour or two with me. I have a new book which I am sure you will like; and the room looks quite cosy, with the flowers and the new curtains."

"I will come as soon as I can. I am very busy now. Do you not see that you are interrupting me at a very inconvenient time?"

"Yes, I do, dear.

Excuse me; I will go down at once. I know you will come to me as soon as you can."

But he did not seek the society of his wife during the whole of the evening.

It took some time to open the box; but when at last the lid was fairly raised, Lionel Winterset nearly fainted. He took some brandy to revive him, and then, with trembling hands and white face, he examined the contents of the box.

Certainly, they were enough to turn the head of a less covetous man than he. The first thing he saw, after some sacking had been removed, was a layer of Bank of England notes. He looked at them, and held them up to the light, scrutinising them as one who well knew how to test them; but after a long and close investigation, he had no doubt whatever that they were genuine. They were not of recent date, but some of them were entirely new, although others looked well worn, and as if they had been in circulation for some time. He did not at first count them, but when he had removed them he gloated over that which he saw, for the remaining space in the box was filled with gold and jewellery. When at last he knew its contents, he had to steady himself, and exercise great control lest his reason should desert him. He could not understand why such good fortune should have overtaken him, although he felt to the full the rapture of it. He tried to persuade himself that he must have been a much better man than he had supposed, and that Providence had in this way rewarded him for his unparalleled goodness. He was thankful in a vain, conceited way; but he felt that it was really only a fair payment for his perseverance. He tried to thank God for the gift; but when he was on his knees he found that he could neither pray nor praise, for the riches scattered about him drew him to them, and stole away his thoughts from God. This, however, did not greatly distress him, He was conscious but of an overwhelming sense of joy which shut out all other feelings.

It was very late when at last he tore himself from the pleasant occupation of counting and admiring the treasures that were before him. He addressed a few words of rebuke to his wife for having waited for him, and then he went to bed. But he was far too excited to sleep. He lay tossing about, chuckling over his riches, and recounting them in imagination until the dawn. Then, he fell into a short feverish sleep. In his dreams he was continually digging in gold mines, and finding nuggets, discovering diamonds of immense value, or making money in all possible and impossible ways. And when presently he awoke it was with a start of joy that he again looked upon the treasure which had in such a singular manner come into his hands.

During that day, and for that day only, the money gave him unshadowed delight. He spent every hour of it handling, counting, and caressing it. But with the evening came first a subtle fear, and afterwards a very clearly defined one.

How came the money in his field, and who placed it there?

He tried to shake off the feeling produced by these questions; and put on his hat with an air of great resolution.

"I will take the money at once to my banker's; and then it will be safe."

But, as if answering that determination, came a doubt.

"Supposing the money has been stolen, and supposing that it should be discovered in my possession, might not I be tried as a thief?" The thought caused him to turn hot and cold. He looked again at the notes.

"No doubt the numbers are all known; and if I attempted to pass them I might be arrested."

But he drew himself up in indignation at that thought.

"Lionel Winterset, Esquire, is too well known, and too highly esteemed to suffer in that way. Supposing the worst came to the worst, and the notes were denounced as stolen ones, I have merely to say that I received them in the usual way of business, and all would be well. Any way I can at once make use of the gold. There is nothing like our good old English sovereigns, they are the best and prettiest things that ever were made; and I will take this splendid collection of them to the bank at once."

But though he thus resolved, he allowed not only hours, but days, weeks, and months to pass without doing so. Once he took some of them to the office, intending with them to pay some of his workmen. But, from some cause which he could not explain to himself, his heart misgave him, and he brought them back again, and put them with the others.

But it will be readily believed that the presence of so much money in his own house was a source of great anxiety and care to the miserly man, Before he had it in his possession for a fortnight it became to him almost as dear as wife or child. But he felt that he would not under any circumstances betray his secret. He had a great dread of the discovery of it being made by Mrs. Winterset. She had an inconvenient plan of having all cupboards, closets, and corners turned out, lest dust should accumulate in them. And he tried many plans, such as endeavouring to carry it about on his person, and hiding it in various places, before at last it occurred to him to remove one of the boards in his room, deposit the box under the floor and nail up the aperture, so that no one could have suspected that it had ever existed.

And then he looked for peace; but he was still disappointed. The thought of his treasure superseded all else. It made him almost incapable of transacting his business. It had a wonderful effect upon his nerves, and a most deteriorating influence upon his character. He became most irritable and unreasonable, and he seldom had leisure now to think of any one but himself and his money. Besides this, he had a great fear that his treasure would at some time be stolen from him; and altogether, although he could not foresee the future, the possession of the box was anything but a blessing to him.

CHAPTER XVII.-NOTHING LIKE WORK.

Arthur Dalebury went to London and called upon Miss Heshbon. He did not go on the Saturday following the day on which his resolution was made: but he went eventually.