tried himself to minister to his two ladies, without much effect. Indeed, there was little to be done for them.

Marie raised her head, and listened. Then she whispered to the doctor

"The wind is rising-I feel it coming." The doctor shuddered. He could distinguish nothing beyond the dull roar of the waves and the struggling of the ship, for the wind had almost died away. But he listened intently. Presently it came-first a shrill whistle in the shrouds, and then a sort of heavy, dull blow to starboard; and the good ship staggered and reeled.

God help us!" said the doctor, softly. "We shall not get through this night." Marie and the girl clung to each other. "I shall go on deck," said the doctor. "Come below," said Marie, "if there is time."

He nodded, and went out into the black, howling night.

"Madame," said the girl. "Call me Marie, dear." "Marie-call me Lucy. If there were only a clergyman."

"Let me be your clergyman, dear Lucy. God hears us in the storm as much as in the calm. We want no clergyman.”

"But-but-oh! I loved him so muchmore than God! Do you think He will forgive me? Marie, do you think I can be forgiven?"

"God forgives us all," said Marie. "He has forgiven me. And God has taken my son, and is going to take me. He has forgiven us both-me and my boy, too. you not think he will forgive you?"

Do

"Pray for me again," sobbed the girl. Marie prayed. Two or three of the women--they were soldiers' wives, poor things, second-class passengers, who had crept aft for better shelter-seeing the girl on her knees, and Marie bending over her, slid and crawled over to her, and kneeled round her, while Marie prayed for all.

In the midst of her prayer there was a confused rush and gurgle of waters, and the ship seemed suddenly to stop. In the roar of the tempest, they hardly perceived that it was her engines which had stopped. And Marie, looking up, saw the doctor making. his way towards her. Catching one of the

little packet, which she handed him. He put it in his pocket; and then, with tears in his eyes, kissed her upturned face, and disappeared up the companion ladder. None of the women noticed it.

Ten minutes afterwards, he found himself clinging to a rope on the deck. Next to him was the chief officer.

"Where's the skipper ?" he shouted through the storm.

"Gone overboard. All the rest, too, I think, with the almighty wave that put out our engine fires. Doctor, don't be drowned like a heathen. Say you didn't mean what you said the other night."

"Not I," shouted the doctor. "If I've been wrong, and there is something to come, I won't go sneaking into it with a miserable apology."

The chief officer said no more; because at that moment another wave, striking the ship, washed them both off together into the black sea.

The doctor, recovering his senses, found himself clinging to himself clinging to some portion of the wreck. How he got hold of it, by what instinct, how in the crash and roar when his senses left him he still managed to hold to it, he never knew. It was a black night, and he was alone on the waves. He looked round, but could see nothing.

The morning found him still living. The storm had subsided, and the sun broke fair and warm.

Two days afterwards, a homeward-bound ship saw an object tossing on the sea, and made out that it was a man and a piece of wreck. They lowered a boat. The man was breathing, but that was all. They took him on board and gave him restoratives. He came to his senses presently, and told his story. And the doctor was the only survivor of the ship. The captain and the crew, Marie and little Lucy, and the passengers, had all gone down together. When they touched at Plymouth, the doctor landed and went straight to Venn with the packet that Marie had put into his hands. It contained nothing but a few memorials of Philip. Laura had lost her husband and her mother.

CHAPTER XLV.

whispered in her ear

"The ship will be down in ten minutes." She nodded, and drew from her breast a

new

made no new friends, and no change in her life. Hartley came to see her nearly every day, and the old daily visit was so

restored, with the difference that he was the scholar.

All her beauty had come back to her: roses to her cheeks, the life and lightness of youth, the sweetness and grace, doubled and trebled by the lessons of sorrow, with that additional charm for which we have no other word than ladyhood.

All were happy, except Sukey, who watched her brother day after day, with feelings growing more and more irritated. At last she spoke. He was in a particularly good temper that morning. Laura was in her own room, dressing to go out with him. "It's ridiculous, Hartley," cried Sukey, losing all control over herself.

"What is ridiculous, Sukey?"

"I say it is ridiculous, the way you are going on. How long is it to last? And people talking. Even Anne says it's too bad of you."

"My own Sukey, what is it?"

"It's Laura. Has the man got eyes in his head? Are you stupid? Are you blind?" Hartley turned red.

"Tell me, Sukey-speak plain. Tell me what it is you mean?"

"Oh, Hartley! You are the most foolish creature that ever was, my dear brother." She laughed hysterically. "The child loves the very ground you walk upon. She dreams - she is never happy except with

of you

you."

"Don't, Sukey, don't-" He began walking about the room. "If you should be wrong. Am I to lose the happiness I have every day?"

"Lose it! And a second time, this nonsense! I haven't patience with the man. While the prettiest and best girl in the world is dying of love for him, he talks about losing happiness!"

"Go send her here, Sukey, dear. It's true our grandfather was a bishop, and hers was a Gray's Inn laundress-no, that was her grandmother."

He looked at her with a smile playing about his lips.

"It may be remarkable, Hartley," said Sukey, "to quote yourself, but it is true, that in our family there are two grandfathers, one of whom was not unconnected with the wholesale"-here she made a wry face"the wholesale glue trade."

"Go away, Sukey," he laughed, giving her that very unusual thing from him, a kiss. He had never, by the way, been very frugal

over his kisses for little Lollie, in the old time. "Go away, and send me my little girl."

She came, dancing down the stairs and singing, ready for her walk, in a dainty little costume, all her own invention, and bringing the sunshine into the room with her.

"Here I am, Mr. Venn. Are you impatient? I have only been ten minutes. Where shall we go?"

"I am always impatient, Lollie." He took her hand, and held it for a moment in his. "Child, I am more than impatient. I am discontented. You give me all the joy I have in life. But you withhold some-the greatest."

She began to tremble, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Give me the the greatest, my darling. Never to be separated from you-to have you always with me. Give me the right to

take you in my arms, as I used to do when you were a little child. Be my wife, Lollie." She looked in his face. The eyes were smiling-the face was grave. No wild tempestuous passion such as she might have remembered, only that memory seemed all dead. No fierce light of a burning fire in those eyes-only the light of a full, deep love which nothing could destroy.

She threw her arms round his neck, and laid her cheek to his.

"Mr. Venn-Mr. Venn, I have never loved anybody but you."

What could he say? There was nothing to say. Five minutes afterwards, Sukey, hearing no voice, opened the door. They were still standing in that same posture, kissing each other, as Sukey afterwards told Anne, "like a pair of babies."

"My dearest," said Sukey, "I have always prayed for this from the very beginning. Hartley, you must tell Anne. Ring the bell. Anne, you will be glad to hear that Mr. Hartley is going to marry Mrs. Durnford."

Anne sat down, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.

"Now, I'm content to go," she said. "Oh, Mr. Hartley, Mr. Hartley-and she never tired of hearing how I dandled you on my knees when you were a little baby a month old. God bless and keep you both, my dears."

That evening the Chorus assembled. Lynn and Jones arrived nearly at the same

moment. Both seemed strangly preoccupied and nervous. Jones could not sit down. He walked about, upset glasses, and comported himself as one under the influence of strong emotion. Venn only seemed perfectly tranquil.

"What is it, Jones?" he asked at last. "My play came out last night at the Lyceum."

"Oh," said Lynn; "and failed, of course." "Never mind," said Venn, "you can easily write another. After all, what matters little disappointments? Mere incidents in our life, giving flavour to what else would be monotonous."

"Yes," said Jones, "if one may quote Byron on such an occasion as the present'Oh! weep not for me, though the Bride of Abydos Wildly calls upon Lara to slumber no more; Though from Delos to Crete, from Olynthus to Cnidos,

The canoe of the Corsair is hugging the shore. Oh! weep not for me, though on Marathon's mountain,

The chiefs are at thimblerig, as is their wont; Though beneath the broad plane tree, by Helicon's fountain,

The languishing Dudu is murmuring Don't.'" "We will not weep, Jones. Sit down and be cheerful."

"I am a humbug," cried Jones. "Oh! why were you not there? It was a great success. The house screamed. I have succeeded at last at last." He sat down, and his voice broke almost into a sob as he added, "I have written to Mary."

"This will not do," said Venn. "He violates every rule of this Chorus. He brings his private joys into what is sacred to private sorrows. Lynn, he must be expelled." "Stay a moment," said Lynn. "I, too, have something to communicate."

"What? You, too? Have you, then-"

diately, and go to Italy, till we are tired of it; then we shall come back again. There will be no wedding fuss, or breakfast, or other annoyances-unless Sukey likes to come here for a final kidney." "And the Opuscula?"

Venn winced.

"I shall begin their careful revision with a view to publication-at my own expense. Lollie is rich, you know," he added, simply. "Besides, it will be good to have something to do. In the morning, we shall roam about and enjoy the sunshine. In the evening, I shall correct the manuscripts while Lollie plays to me. You see, I am not in any hurry about publishing. Perhaps in ten years' time you may see an announcement of their appearance.

on.

"The last night of the Chorus," he went

"My friends, there stands before us the venerable bottle of champagne which was brought in the very first night of the newly-established Chorus, now twelve years ago. This night must witness the drinking of that wine. Aged and mellowed, it is doubtless by this time in splendid condition. I would Arthur were here to join us. Jones, get the champagne glasses from the cupboard. Lynn, my boy, help me to remove the wire. Are we ready? Now, in the sparkle of the generous wine behold the brightness of the future. Our youth will be renewed. We shall live again in the sunshine of success and happiness. Behold!" He removed his hand from the cork. did not immediately fly out, and he had recourse to the vulgar expedient of pulling it out with a corkscrew. After great exercise of strength, it came out with a dull thud.

It

Not a

He said nothing; but while all three crowded round the table, he poured out the wine. It was flat, dead, and sour. single sparkle in the glass. They looked at each other. Lynn laughed bitterly.

"No

"It is an emblem of life," he said. thing compensates. We have wasted our youth."

Venn stared vacantly at the unhappy wine, which seemed an omen of bad luck.

"I believe it was bad at the beginning," he murmured. "It came from the publichouse."

Jones, however, brought his clenched fist upon the table.

"Emblem of life? Compensation? Rubbish!" he cried. "We have waited, we

have suffered. What of it? The suffering is gone, the waiting is over. It is no more than the earache I had when I was a boy. Even the memory of it is almost faded. Venn, Lynn, this infernal bottle is the emblem of our hopes and disappointed ambitions. Go, cursed symbol of defeat."

He hurled the bottle into the fireplace, and threw the glasses after it.

"And now, Venn, if you like, I will get you some new champagne, and drink to your happiness, and to yours, Lynn, and to my own. In the words of the poet

'Look not for comfort in the champagne glasses,
They foam, and fizz, and die;
Only remember that all sorrow passes,
As childhood's earaches fly.

At the great Banquet where the Host dispenses,
Ask not, but silent wait;

And when at last your helping turn commences, Complain not 'tis too late.

And see, O Chorus of the disappointed,

Ourselves not quite forgot;

And after aimless play and times disjointed,
Sunshine and love our lot.""

THE END.

POLYGENISM.

ENGLAND lately sent out Sir Bartle Frere

to plead before a semi-civilized ruler the cause of the oppressed negro. It is not the first time that she has interfered on his behalf. Many years ago she temporarily ruined her West Indian dependencies to do him what she believed to be justice. She has long employed her navy in checking the slave trade; and if she were inclined to sympathize with the Southern States in the War of Secession, yet she felt a thrill of delight in hearing that the North had freed the negro. Nor is her kindliness of feeling confined to this race alone. Everywhere in her mighty empire she wishes it to be thought that she rules without distinction of persons, meting out even-handed justice to all, whether the colour of their skin be white, black, red, yellow, or tawny. And this on the ground that all men are brethren -children of one and the same family.

Side by side with this belief in the unity of the human race-a belief thus embodied in practice-is a scientific opinion of some philosophers that mankind comprises a plurality of species. "Nihil humani a me alienum puto," said the Roman dramatist; but a particular school of anthropologists

tell us that he was probably or even certainly mistaken; that the difference between man and man is the same in kind, if not in degree, as that between the lion and the tiger, or the wolf and the fox. If philanthropy is a good thing, it is so only on some principle like that of the "Ancient Mariner,” that

"He prayeth best who loveth best

All things, both great and small."

If the abolition of slavery was right, after all it only belonged to the same class of legislation as the motion lately brought forward by Mr. Auberon Herbert in favour of house sparrows and hedge sparrows. Willia Wilberforce, John Howard, and Mrs. Fry did a good work; but their work did not differ essentially from that of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

Many people who are startled by such statements will at once take refuge in the assertions of a certain old-fashioned Hebrew book on the Origin of Man. Not for worlds would I object to their resting content with its teaching. But it is possible that some of them may be rendered uncomfortable by having various difficulties thrown in their way. The old story of Galileo and the Inquisition will be once more dragged up. Our ancestors misunderstood, perhaps, the Bible theory of astronomy. Our fathers were similarly misled in geology. Why may it not be that we are alike deceived in the matter of anthropology? Ought we not to have learnt by this time that it is quite a mistake to appeal to religion in matters of science? Such language we have all heard and read.

it.

I have my own very strong opinion about But this is hardly the place to state it; and I am not going to appeal to religion now. Whether we are all one species or not; whether English and Malays differ as the lion does from the tiger, or as the tortoiseshell cat does from the tabby, surely this question has some interest for us. The view we take of it cannot but influence us in some points of practical importance. It ought to be specially interesting to a people whose colonial empire embraces so many and various nations. It is possible, and I think worth while, to rest the question on a purely scientific basis; and this is what I propose now to do, at the same time avoiding, as far as may be, all hard, technical language.

Polygenism is a name which originated

in America, and signifies the doctrine of those who hold that the different races of men, or some of them, are of different origin. In other words, that there never was a time when mankind consisted of a single pair, or a single family, or even resembled one another as much as one Englishman resembles another. Its supporters have mixed up the question with two others-first, the Darwinian theory that man is directly descended from the monkey; secondly, that primeval man was essentially a savage as distinguished from a civilized being. We do not feel called on to express here a decided opinion about either of these questions. If our great-grandfathers ever so many times removed were hirsute, arborescent animals, it may still be asked whether or not the Peruvian and his Spanish invader were descended from the same species of monkey. If their earliest human ancestors were savages, it is left uncertain whether they differed more than the two portions of one tribe of Indians will when they have separated for a few years and settled apart. On the other hand, suppose the Darwinian theory of the descent of man erroneous-and few even of its most ardent votaries but admit that it requires further proof-we are not one step advanced towards a solution of the question at issue. It would still remain scientifically doubtful whether men first appeared in one part of the world or in many contemporaneously; whether the first human inhabitants of the earth were constructed after one type or after many. And again, it is evident that the first men may be conceived of as having been savages, or as holding a middle position between savagery and civilization; or, lastly, as approximating as closely to the civilized state as their numbers and other circumstances permitted. And on each of these three suppositions there may have been, or may not have been, more than one type.

Still, there is an evident reason why Polygenists prefer to believe that man is descended from other animals, and that he appeared first as a savage. If man does not differ more from the brute than one species of brute does from another, then there is some ground for judging of him as of the brutes. They differ so greatly in different parts of the world that we recognize them as very distinct species. Thus, in the New World, the puma replaces the lion, the jaguar the tiger, &c. We should find it hard

to believe that some lions, like what we see in a menagerie, having by some means crossed over from Africa to South America, they or their descendants lost their manes, and, in short, were metamorphosed into pumas. If man is only an improved brute, it is certainly less probable that the men of the New World are descended from those of the Old. And in this case it is pretty clear that the first human condition would be that of utter savagery. Yet, after all, I will make bold to say that the burden of proof rests with those who hold that man is not an exceptional being. Let them make the most they can out of instinct, let them pile up story on story of the sagacity of the dog or the elephant, or the cunning of the monkey, it remains, and has to be accounted for, that man and man alone is everywhere— or with the rarest and somewhat doubtful exceptions-a fire-using animal, a weaponmaking animal, and an animal who tames other animals. The Australian savage probably cares less for fire than my dog; yet he can make it at will, while poor Fido would be only too happy if he could. It is thought a wonderful piece of instinct in apes to throw sticks or cocoa-nuts at a traveller; but the distinction between a natural stick or stone and one artificially shaped for a purpose is almost infinite. Where is the brute which has attempted to take in hand its fellow brute, to change its nature, to make it subservient to its master's will so as to do his work for him? Yet even such deplorable specimens of humanity as the Fuegians have their tame dogs.

These three characteristics of man's universal nature would in themselves go far to show that he forms but one species. On the other hand, Polygenists rely on a number of arguments to prove that the different races cannot have sprung from a common origin. Let us look at them as stated by M. Pouchet. He lays stress on the difference of colour. Some writers have divided men into races by this distinction alone. To take the two extreme cases, it does seem very difficult to conceive that the pale-faced European and the jetty negro should come originally of the same stock. But cross the Atlantic, and we shall find, without going beyond the inhabitants of a single street in New York, or the waiters at a single hotel, every variety of shade between white and black. So I have seen a Moghrebbin skeikh with his two wives, the children by the Arab wife no darker