pursuits. And, next to the babe in the cradle,
no object seemed to her so important as that of
guarding the sheep from the scab and the
dingoes. I was amazed to see how quietly a
man whose mind was so stored by life and by
books as that of Julius Faber—a man who had
loved the clash of conflicting intellects, and
acquired the rewards of fame—could accommodate
himself to the cabined range of his kinsfolks'
half-civilised existence, take interest in their
trivial talk, find varying excitement in the
monotonous household of a peasant-like farmer. I
could not help saying as much to him once.
"My friend," replied the old man, " believe me,
that the happiest art of intellect, however lofty,
is that which enables it to be cheerfully at home
with the Real!"

The only one of the family in which Faber
was domesticated in whom I found an interest,
to whose talk I could listen without fatigue, was
the child Amy. Simple though she was in language,
patient of labour as the most laborious,
I recognised in her a quiet nobleness of sentiment,
which exalted above the common-place the
acts of her common-place life. She had no
precocious intellect, no enthusiastic fancies, but
she had an exquisite activity of heart. It was
her heart that animated her sense of duty, and
made duty a sweetness and a joy. She felt to
the core the kindness of those around her;
exaggerated, with the warmth of her gratitude, the
claims which that kindness imposed. Even for
the blessing of life, which she shared with all
creation, she felt as if singled out by the
undeserved favour of the Creator, and thus was
filled with religion because she was filled with
love.

My interest in this child was increased and
deepened by my saddened and not wholly
unremorseful remembrance of the night on which
her sobs had pierced my ear—the night from
which I secretly dated the mysterious agencies
that had wrenched from their proper field and
career both my mind and my life. But a gentler
interest endeared her to my thoughts in the
pleasure that Lilian felt in her visits, in the
atfectionate intercourse that sprang up between
the afflicted sufferer and the harmless infant.
Often when we failed to comprehend some
meaning which Lilian evidently wished to
convey to us—we, her mother and her husband,
—she was understood with as much ease by
Amy, the unlettered child, as by Faber the
grey-haired thinker.

"How is it—how is it?" I asked, impatiently
and jealously, of Faber. "Love is said to
interpret where wisdom fails, and you yourself
talk of the marvels which sympathy may effect
between lover and beloved, yet when, for days
together, I cannot succeed in unravelling Lilian's
wish or her thought—and her own mother is
equally in fault—you or Amy, closeted alone
with her for five minutes, comprehend and are
comprehended."

"Allen," answered Faber, "Amy and I
believe in spirit, and she, in whom mind is dormant
but spirit awake, feels in that belief a sympathy
which she has not, in that respect, with yourself
nor even with her mother. You seek only
through your mind to conjecture hers. Her
mother has sense clear enough where habitual
experience can guide it, but that sense is
confused, and forsakes her, when forced from the
regular pathway in which it has been accustomed
to tread. Amy and I, through soul guess
at soul, and though mostly contented with earth,
we can both rise at times into heaven. We pray."

"Alas!" said I, half mournfully, half angrily;
"when you thus speak of Mind as distinct
from Soul, it was only in that Vision which
you bid me regard as the illusion of a fancy
stimulated by chemical vapours, producing on
the brain an effect similar to that of opium, or
the inhalation of the oxide gas, that I have
ever seen the silver spark of the Soul
distinct from the light of the Mind. And holding,
as I do, that all intellectual ideas are derived
from the experiences of the body, whether
I accept the theory of Locke, or that of
Condillac, or that into which their propositions
reach their final development in the
wonderful subtlety of Hume, I cannot detect the
immaterial spirit in the material substance;
much less follow its escape from the organic
matter in which the principle of thought ceases
with the principle of life. When the
metaphysician, contending for the immortality of the
thinking faculty, analyses Mind, his analysis
comprehends the mind of the brute, nay, of
the insect, as well as that of man. Take Reid's
definition of Mind, as the most comprehensive
which I can at the moment remember. ' By
the mind of a man we understand that in him
which thinks, remembers, reasons, and wills.'
But this definition only distinguishes the Mind
of man from that of the brute by superiority in
the same attributes, and not by attributes
denied to the brute. An animal, even an
insect, thinks, remembers, reasons, and wills.*
Few naturalists will now support the doctrine
that all the mental operations of brute or insect
are to be exclusively referred to instincts; and

* "Are intelligence and instinct, thus differing in
their relative proportion in man as compared with
all other animals, yet the same in kind and manner
of operation in both? To this question we must give
at once an affirmative answer. The expression of
Cuvier, regarding the faculty of reasoning in lower
animals, ' Leur intelligence exécute des operations
du même genre,' is true in its full sense. We can
in no manner define reason so as to exclude acts
which are at every moment present to our observation,
and which we find in many instances to
contravene the natural instincts of the species. The
demeanour and acts of the dog in reference to his
master, or the various uses to which he is put by
man, are as strictly logical as those we witness in
the ordinary transactions of life."—(Sir Henry
Holland, Chapters on Mental Physiology, p. 220.)
The whole of the chapter on instincts and habits in
this work should be read in connexion with the passage
just quoted. The work itself, at once cautious and
suggestive, is not one of the least obligations which
philosophy and religion alike owe to the lucubrations
of English medical men.