brethren; and to found this sane method, Zeuss, by the example he sets in his own department of philology, has mainly contributed. Science’s reconciling power, too, on which I have already touched, philology, in her Celtic researches, again and again illustrates. Races and languages have been absurdly joined, and unity has been often rashly assumed at stages where one was far, very far, from having yet really reached unity. Science has and will long have to be a divider and a separatist, breaking arbitrary and fanciful connections, and dissipating dreams of a premature and impossible unity. Still, science,—true science,—recognises in the bottom of her soul a law of ultimate fusion, of conciliation. To reach this, but to reach it legitimately, she tends. She draws, for instance, towards the same idea which fills her elder and diviner sister, poetry,—the idea of the substantial unity of man; though she draws towards it by roads of her own. But continually she is showing us affinity where we imagined there was isolation. What school-boy of us has not rummaged his Greek dictionary in vain for a satisfactory account of that old name for the Peloponnese, the _Apian Land_? and within the limits of Greek itself there is none. But the Scythian name for earth ‘apia,’ _watery_, _water-issued_, meaning first _isle_ and then _land_—this name, which we find in ‘avia,’ Scandin_avia_, and in ‘ey’ for Aldern_ey_, not only explains the _Apian Land_ of Sophocles for us, but points the way to a whole world of relationships of which we knew nothing. The Scythians themselves again,—obscure, far-separated Mongolian people as they used to appear to us,—when we find that they are essentially Teutonic and Indo-European, their very name the same word as the common Latin word ‘scutum,’ the _shielded_ people, what a surprise they give us! And then, before we have recovered from this surprise we learn that the name of their father and god, Targitavus, carries us I know not how much further into familiar company. This divinity, _Shining with the targe_, the Greek Hercules, the Sun, contains in the second half of his name, _tavus_, ‘shining,’ a wonderful cement to hold times and nations together. _Tavus_, ‘shining,’ from ‘tava’—in Sanscrit, as well as Scythian, ‘to burn’ or ‘shine,’—is _Divus_, _dies_, _Zeus_, _Θεός_, _Dêva_, and I know not how much more; and _Taviti_, the bright and burnt, fire, the place of fire, the hearth, the centre of the family, becomes the family itself, just as our word family, the Latin _familia_, is from _thymelé_, the sacred centre of fire. The hearth comes to mean home. Then from home it comes to mean the group of homes, the tribe; from the tribe the entire nation; and in this sense of nation or people, the word appears in Gothic, Norse, Celtic, and Persian, as well as in Scythian; the _Theuthisks_, Deutschen, Tudesques, are the men of one _theuth_, nation, or people; and of this our name _Germans_ itself is, perhaps,