"Grand weather for farmers," I cried. "Grand it is, sir," he answered, "and let us be thankful for it." "Yes," I said; "it has been long enough in coming, and is all the more welcome now it has come." I felt that the words struck the wrong note; or rather they struck none at all, where a note of music was needed. But I knew not what else to say. Jeremy with all his reserve was less timid and more affluent than I. "Have you never thought, sir," he said, drawing near to me, "what brought the fine weather?" I hesitated and was silent. "Then I'll tell you," said he. "_The power o' prayer._" That very day I had been reading a book on Primitive Religion; and as I parted from Jeremy a question flashed through my mind. "May it not be," I asked myself, "that Primitive Religion is the only religion that has ever existed, or will exist, in the world?" WHITE ROSES Of all the conversations of the learned, those in which History and Philosophy maintain the dialogue are probably the most instructive. Such a conversation I was fortunate enough to hear not long ago at the dinner-table of a friend; and the occasion was the more interesting inasmuch as the Philosopher of the party was led by a turn of the argument to lay aside his mantle and assume the rôle of the story-teller; thereby providing us with a valuable comment on the very philosophy with which his own illustrious name has been long associated. We had been talking during dinner about a certain Expedition to the South Seas undertaken by the British Government in the eighteenth century; and the Historian had just finished a most surprising narration of the facts, based on his recent investigation of unpublished documents, when our Hostess glanced at the clock, and rising from her chair gave the signal to the ladies to depart. When we had resumed our places the Professor of Philosophy said to the Historian: "I wish you would tell us what in your opinion it was that caused the Expedition to turn out such an utter failure." "The Expedition failed," said the Historian, "because the commander was not allowed to select his own crews. The Government of the day was corrupt, and insisted on manning the ships with men of its own choosing. Some were diseased; others were criminals; many had never handled a rope in their lives. Before the fleet had doubled Cape Horn one-third of the crews had perished, and the rest were mutinous. The enterprise was doomed to failure from the start." "The whole planet is manned in the same manner," said the Pessimist, as he helped himself to one of our Host's superlative cigars. "I'm sorry for the Commander, whoever he is." "What precisely do you mean?" said the Professor of Philosophy, holding a lighted match to the end of the Pessimist's cigar.