could call the sun and moon gods, cient kings. The extensive work of the Abbé Banier is entirely founded on this latter principle; and to the same school belongs Bochart, who recognizes under the names of the old Greek deities many of the personages of the Old Testament. Though, however, scholars perceived the inadequacy of those three explanations, they admitted that some parts of the Greek mythology might possess a moral, some a physical, seme an historical meaning; and it was not until the discovery of Sanserit that a new and truer light was thrown upon the question, the ascertained analogy existing between the vocabulary and grammar of the Indo-European group of languages having a reflective action on the ancient mythology impossible even to the ancients themselves. To understand the meaning of the names of the Greek gods it is necessary that the spirit of investà ation should not be limited to Greece, but embrace the languages of cognate origin. “No sound scholar, indeed," says Professor Muler, would ever think of deriving any Greek or Latin wid from Sanscrit. Sanscrit is not the mother of Greek and Latin, as Latin is of French and Itanan. Sansent, Greek, and Latin are sisters, varieties of one and the same type. They point to some earlier stage when they were less different from each other than they are now, but no more. One of the great obstacles which has existed in tracing mythologies to their source has arisen from our ignorance of the Vedic literature the Vedic, which stands in the same relation to the early Arian mythology, as Homer to that of Greece, remains as yet untranslated. An acquaintance, as we have said, with the original meaning of the names of the gods contained in this work would lead to the elucidation of the later theogines such names are used as proper appellatives, and ekewise as nouns. Thus Agui, one of the chief Ind'an deities, than fire, Vava, wad; In the ninth lecture, on the Myths Privhivi, earth; Sarenya, dawn, &e. of the Dawn—a subiect previou-ly In his previous lectures Professor-treated of by Professor Mul er in one Mulier showed that mythologies had of his essays, he exibits his usual their origin in an affection and dis- prot und lingura acquirements at I order of language, and in the present extensive reach of know e he enters largay upon thầs subject. A broad dist Letion must be dawn rel gon of the areents Before a face sewhere; but perhaps in a coup of instances - as, for example, when he attempts to reduce the mit .f Tey to the early. In van fan 3 of the siege of the East by the Solar Powers, he has been hurried too far by his philological enthusiasm. The conclusion of the volume is devoted to the examination of the influence of words on thoughts-a theme of many metaphysicians, and in indicating the manner in which he believes the science of language may be useful to philosophers. Much acumen is displayed in his inquiry into the meaning of knowing and believing. Knowledge is either the result of sensuous impression, as in the case of a dog knowing its master, or of general relational conceptions, as when we recognise the form of a triangle, or of faith, as when man says he knows God. The latter, though neither furnished by impressions of sense or the deductions of reason, possesses an inner ground of evidence superior to both. Terms like those of infinite and finite are essentially negative, though the true idea which is positive appreciable by faith merely. Atoms, imponderable bodies, or other words used in science, are similarly devoid of philosophical accuracy. Until a late period caloric was used to express real matter; but this idea is now exploded, heat being recognised as molecular and ethereal vibrations; in the same way ether is still spoken of as an elastic medium, though in reality an abstraction-a quality changed into a substance-a myth. While used in the latter sense for purposes of philosophic speculation, little harm can result, the error will begin when language mistakes a word for a thing, and as in the case of the heaven being called Zeus, God, the nomen for its numen. To Professor Müller belongs the high merit of having elevated philology into the region of science. A vast amount of materials indeed previously existed, constituting a subtratum for the structure, but lying about in an incohate and disorderly condition. To the investigations of the professor are due the discoveries on which this initiatory science now rests-namely, that the growth of language is of an organic nature, the result of physical laws, that its primitive elements are monosyllabic roots, of two orders-the one embodying general ideas, the other relative; that as such idea - representative roots multiply, new modifications and combinations are formed by laws special to each family of language, each group of which, however mixed in their vocabulary, are capable of being relegated on the unalterable basis of grammatical structure. To originate a system, distinguished by subtlety, comprehensiveness, truth, with respect to any of the leading subjects of human thought, requires the highest order of genius, and especially in the case of one of so complex a nature as language-a science, which, as it develops in the hands of its originator and his succeedents, seems calculated, while throwing a valuable illustrative light on several of the physical sciences, and that of history, to advance still more than several of the former, the progress of national intercommunication, and its results, civilization. As Professor Müller's late series of lectures is exclusively devoted to the Aryan, we may anticipate an equal interest attaching to those which may follow, treating of the Semitic and Turanian languages, as his investigations will thus reach up to the more primitive condition of man-the earlier forms of human speech. GUY DEVERELI. CHAPTER I. SIR JEKYL MARLOWE AT THE PLOUGH INN, THE pretty little posting station, known as the Plough Inn, on the Old London-road, where the Sterndaie-road crosses it, was in a state of fuss and awe, at about five o'clock on a fine sharp October evening, for Sir Jekyl Marlowe, a man of many thousand acres, and M.P. for the County, was standing with his back to the fire, in the parlour, whose bowwindow looks out on the ancient thoroughfare I have mentioned, over the row of scarlet geraniumns which beautify the window stone. "Holio!" cried the baronet, as the bell-rope came down in answer to an energetic but not angry pull, and he received Mrs. Jones, his hostess, who entered at the moment, with the dismantled bell handle still in his hand. “At my old tricks, you see, Ive been dòng you a mischief, hey! but we il set it right in the bill, you know, How devilish weil you look! wonderful girl, by Jove! Come in, my dear, and shut the door. Not afraid of me, I want to talk of ducks and mutton chops. I've had no luncheon, and I'm awfully hungry,' said the comely baronet in a continued chuckie. The baronet was, by that awful red bound volume of dates, which is one of the melancholy drawbacks of aristocracy, set down just then, and by all whom it might concern, ascertainable to be precisely forty-nine years and three months old; but so well had he worn, and so cleverly was he got up, that he might have passa d for little more than forty. He was smiling, with very white teeth, and a gay leer on pretty Mrs. Jones, an old friend, with black eyes and tresses, and pik cheeks, who bore her five and thirty years as weil altiost as he did his own burtten. The slanting autumnal sun became her, and she impered and ecurtesied and blushed the best she could. “Well, y a pretty little devil, what can you do for me hey! You know were old fuel, is hey What have t for a buty fellow ! and don't stand at the door there, hang it come in, can't you and let me hear what you say." So Mrs. Jones, with a simpering bashfulness, delivered her bill of fare off book. The baronet was a gallant English gentleman, and came of a healthy race, though there were a "bau' and an archbishop in the family: he could rough it good humored¦y on beefsteak and port, and had an accommodating appetite as to hours. "That will do very mecly, my dear, thank you You're just the same dear hospitable little rogue I remember you how long is it, by Jove, since I stopped here that day, and the awful thunderstorm at night, don't you recollect and the whole house in such a devil of a row, egad " And the baronet chuckled and icered, with his hands in his pockets, "Three years, by Jove, I think eh!" "Four years in August last, Sir Jekyl," she answered, with a little toss of her head and a courtesy. "Four years, my dear four devils' Is it possible; why upon my hte it has positively improved you." And he tapped her cheek, playfully, with his finger. “And what o'clock is it (" he continued, looking at his watch, "just five. Well, I suppose you d be ready in half an hour eh, my dear (" ** Sooner, if you wish, Sir Jekyl." "No, thank you, dear, that will do very nicely; and stay,” he added, with a pluck at her pink ribbon, as she retreated, “you've s me devil sh good port here, unless it's al outold Lord Hogwood's stock ch "More than two dozen itt.Sir Jekyl Would you pieve some f "You've at it, you wicked little conurer-a bottle; and you must give me a few minutes after dinner, and a cup of ective, and ten me ail the news ch4' The baronet, stand to gon, the boat hars hearth rug lecked wi, Zint, y " it were through the panels of the shut door, after the fluttering cap of his pretty landlady. Then he turned about and reviewed himself in the seagreen mirror over the chimney-piece, adjusted his curls and whiskers with a touch or two of his fingers' ends, and plucked a little at his ample silk necktie, and shook out his tresses, with his chin a little up, and a saucy simper. But a man tires even of that prospect; and he turned on his heel, and whistled at the smoky mezzotint of George III. on the opposite wall. Then he turned his head, and looked out through the bow-window, and his whistling, stopped in the middle of a bar, at sight of a young man whom he espied, only a yard or two before the covered porch of the little inn. This young gentleman was, it seemed, giving a parting direction to some one in the door-way. He was tall, slender, rather dark, and decidedly handsome. There were, indeed, in his air, face, and costume, that indescribable elegance and superiority which constitute a man "distinguished looking." When Sir Jekyl beheld this particularly handsome young man, it was with a disagreeable shock, like the tap on a big drum, upon his diaphragm. If any one had been there he would have witnessed an odd and grizzly change in the pleasant baronet's countenance. For a few seconds he did not move. Then he drew back a pace or two, and stood at the further side of the fire, with the mantel-piece partially between him and the young gentleman who spoke his parting directions, all unconscious of the haggard stare which made Sir Jekyl look a great deal less young and goodnatured than was his wont. This handsome young stranger, smiling, signalled with his cane, as it seemed, to a companion, who had preceded him, and ran in pursuit. For a time Sir Jekyl did not move a muscle, and then, with a sudden pound on the chimney-piece, and a great oath, he exclaimed "I could not have believed it! What the devil can it mean?" Then the baronet bethought him-"What confounded stuff one does talk and think, sometimes! Half the matter dropt out of my mind. Twenty years ago, by Jove, too. How could I be such an ass?" And he counter-marched, and twirled on his heel into his old place, with his back to the fire, and chuckled and asked again How the plague could I be such a fool ?" And after some more of this sort of catechism be began to ruminate oddly once more, and said he "It's plaguy odd, for all that." And he walked to the window, and, with his face close to the glass, tried in vain to see the gay stranger again. The bow-window did not command the road far enough to enable him to see any distance; and he stuck his hat on his head, and marched by the bar, through the porch, and, standing upon the road itself, looked shrewdly in the same direction. But the road makes a bend about there, and between the hedge-rows of that wooded country the vista was not far. With a cheerful air of carelessness Sir Jekyl returned and tapped on the bar window. "I say, Mrs. Jones, who's that good-looking young fellow that went out just now?" "The gentleman in the low-crowned hat, sir, with the gold-headed cane, please?" "Yes, a tall young fellow, with large dark eyes, and brown hair.” That will be Mr. Strangers, Sir Jekyl." 66 Does he sleep here to-night?" "Yes, sir, please." And what's his business ?" "Oh, dear! No business, Sir Jekyl, please. He's a real gentleman, and no end of money." "I mean, how does he amuse himself?" "A looking after prospects, and old places, and such like, Sir Jekyl. Sometimes riding and sometimes a fly. Every day some place or other." "Oh! pencils and paint-boxeseh?" "I aven't seen none, sir. I can't say how that will be." "Well, and what is he about; where is he gone; where is he now?" demanded the baronet. "What way did Mr. Strangers go, Bill, just now?" the lady demanded of boots, who appeared at the moment. The Abbey, ma'am." 66 "The Abbey, please, Sir Jekyl." "The Abbey-that's Wail Abbey -eh How far is it?" "How far will it be, Bill?" ""Taint a mile all out, ma'am." "Not quite a mile, Sir Jekyl.” “A good ruin--isn't it ?' asked the baronet. "Well, they do say it's very much out of repair; but I never saw it myself, Sir Jekyl.” Neither did I," said Sir Jekyl. "I say, my good fellow, you can point it out, I dare say, from the steps here!' wooded hollow by the river, where the ruin stands. Two old white stone, fluted piers, once a doorway, now tufted with grass, and stained and worn by time, and the style built up between. "I know, of course, there's nothing in it; but it's so odd-- it is so deritish odd. I'd like to know all about it," said the baronet, picking the dust from the fluteing with the point of his walking cane. "Where has he got, I wonder, by this time?" So he mounted the style, and paused near the summit to obtain a commanding view. "Well, I suppose he's got among the old walls and rubbish by this time. I'll make him out; he'll break cover." And he skipped down the style on the other side, and whistled a little, cutting gaily in the air with his cane as he went. Ay, please, Sir Jekyl." "You li have dinner put back, Sirplease, Sir Jekylf' asked Mrs. Jones. “Back or forward, any way, my dear child. Only I'll have my walk first." And kissing and waving the tips of his fingers, with a smile to Mrs. Jones, who courtesied and simpered, though her heart was perplexed with culinary solicitudes "how to But for all he could do the same keep the water from getting into the intensely uncomfortable curiosity trout, and prevent the ducks of over-pressed upon him as he advanced. roasting," the worthy baronet, fol- The sun sank behind the distant hills lowed by Bill, stept through the leaving the heavens flooded with a porch, and on the ridge of the old discoloured crimson, and the faint highroad, his own heart being oddly silver of the moon in the eastern sky disturbed with certain cares which glimmered coldly over the fading had given him a long respite; there landscape, as he suddenly emerged he received Bull's directions as to the from the hedged pathway on the rich route to the Abbey. meadow level by the slow river's brink, on which, surrounded by lotty timber, the ruined Abbey stands. It was a clear frosty evening. The red round sun by this time, near the horizon, looked as if a tal man on the summit of the western hill might have touched it's edge with his fingers. The baronet looked on the declining luminary as he buttoned his loose eat across his threat, till his eyes were almost dazzled, thinking all the time of nothing but that handsome yourg man; and as he walked on briskly toward the Abbey, he saw httle pale given suns dan ing along the road and wherever else his eyes were turned. The birds had come home. Their vesper song had sunk with the setting sun, and in the sad solitude of twilight the gray ruins rose dimly before him. "A devilish good spot for a pic-nie" said he, making an effort to recover his usual agrecable vein of thought and spirits. So he looked up and about him. and jauntily marched over the sward, and walked along the line of the gray walls until he found a doorway, and began his explorations. Through dark passages, up broken stairs, over grass-grown piles of rub bish, he peeped into all sorts of roofless chambers. Everything was silent and setting down into night. At last, by that narrow doorway which in such buildings so oddly gives en trance here and there into vast apartments, he turned into that grand chamber, whose stone floor rests on the vault.neath; and ti cre the hareret |