ence with the laws of Nature had taken place. Yet the generally obstinate refusal of men of science to receive any verbal witness of such facts is a proof that they believe them contrary to a code of law which is more or less complete in their experience, and altogether complete in their conception; and I think it is therefore the province of some one of our scientific members to lay down for us the true principle by which we may distinguish the miraculous violation of a known law from the natural discovery of an unknown one. . . . However," he proceeded, "the two main facts we have to deal with are that the historical record of miracle is always of inconstant power, and that our own actual energies are inconstant almost in exact proportion to their worthiness. First, I say the history of miracle is of inconstant power. St. Paul raises Eutychus from death, and his garments effect miraculous cure, yet he leaves Trophimus sick at Miletus, recognizes only the mercy of God in the recovery of Epaphroditus, and, like any uninspired physician, recommends Timothy wine for his infirmities. And in the second place, our own energies are inconstant almost in proportion to their nobleness. We breathe with regularity, and can count upon the strength necessary for common tasks, but the record of our best work and our happiest moments is always one of success which we did not expect, and of enthusiasm which we could not prolong."
As Mr. Ruskin ceased, Walter Bagehot, the then editor of the "Economist," and a favorite among us for his literary brilliance, opened his wide black eyes, and, gulping down what seemed to be an inclination to laugh at some recollection of his own, said: Mr. Ruskin's remark that he had always been expecting the sun to stand still was to me peculiarly interesting, because, as I have formerly told the society, whatever may be the grounds for assuming the uniformity of Nature, I hold that there is nothing which the natural mind of man, unless subjected to a very serious discipline for the express purpose of producing that belief, is less likely to assume. A year or two ago I ventured to express in this room the opinion that credulity is the natural condition of almost every man. "Every child," I said, "believes what the footman tells it, what the nurse tells it, and what its mother tells it, and probably every one's memory will carry him back to the horrid mass of miscellaneous confusion which he acquired by believing all he heard." I hold that children believe in the suggestions of their imaginations quite as confidently as they believe in the asseverations of their memories; and if grown-up men do not, it is only that their credulity has been battered out of them by the hard discipline of constant disappointment. What can be better evidence that there is at least no a priori belief in the uniformity of Nature than the delight in fairy tales, which, certainly in childhood, are accepted with quite as much private belief that some great enchanter's wand will be triumphantly found at last, as are the dullest and most matter-of-fact of histories? Indeed, you will find in almost every young person of any
