of composers.  Perhaps great discoveries, like the works of men of original genius, are certain to be received at first with incredulity and mockery.  We will not, therefore, take up a dogmatic position, either about the painting or the preserved meats of the future; but will hope for the best.  The ideally best, of course, is that the tale from Australia may prove true.  In that case the poorest will be able to earn “three square meals a day,” like the Australians themselves; and while English butchers suffer (for some one must suffer in all great revolutions), smiling Plenty will walk through our land studying a cookery-book.  There are optimistic thinkers, who gravely argue that the serious desires of humanity are the pledges of their own future fulfilment.  If that be correct, the Australian myth may be founded on fact.  There is no desire more deep-rooted in our perishable nature than that which asks for plenty of beef and mutton at low prices.  Again, humanity has so often turned over the idea of conveniently suspended animation before, that there must be something in that conception.  If we examine the history of ideas we shall find that they at first exist “in the air.”  They float about, beautiful alluring visions, ready to be caught and made to serve mortal needs by the right man at the right moment.  Thus Empedocles, Lucretius, and the author of “Vestiges of Creation,” all found out Darwinism before Mr. Darwin.  They spied the idea, but they left it floating; they did not trap it, and break it into scientific harness.  Solomon De Caus, as all the world has heard, was put into a lunatic asylum for inventing the steam-engine, though no one would have doubted his sanity if he had offered to raise the devil, or to produce the philosopher’s stone, or the elixir vitae.  Now, these precious possessions have not been more in men’s minds than a system of conveniently suspended animation.  There is scarcely a peasantry in Europe that does not sing the ballad of the dead bride.  This lady, in the legends, always loves the cavalier not selected by her parents, the detrimental cavalier.  To avoid the wedding which is thrust on her, she gets an old witch to do what the Australian romancer professes to do—­to suspend her animation, and so she is carried on an open bier to a chapel on the border of her lover’s lands.  There he rides, the right lover, with his men-at-arms, the bride revives just in time, is lifted on to his saddle-bow, and “they need swift steeds that follow” the fugitive pair.  The sleeping beauty, who is thrown into so long a swoon by the prick of the fairy thorn, is another very old example, while “Snow-white,” in her glass coffin, in the German nursery tale, is a third instance.