“There is no such thing as chance,” cries the would-be philosopher. How, then, should there be such a word representing, as it surely does, a distinct idea? Our confident friend will hardly deny that equivalent to chance there is in every language not merely one but many words, each conveying the same definite thought from one mind to another, from boy to boy, from girl to girl, from woman to woman, from man to man. Does Tom speak unintelligibly to his fellows when, seeing Jack throw a stone and hit a bird, he shouts out, “Ah! by chance. Jack is no marksman”? When Jane threads her needle more cleverly than her more expert sister Mary, is she reproved for obscurity if she confesses to her superior readiness that time having been by chance? When Miss Emma writes to her dearest friend how she begins to suspect it can hardly be by chance that Mr. Edward meets her so very often in her walks, does her dearest friend fail perfectly to understand her meaning? When B. says that C. and his partner were winners at whist last night by the mere chance of good cards, is there any one so dull as to misapprehend the observation? When the traveller views Stonehenge, he pronounces it at once a work of design. When he gazes on Staffa or on the Giant's Causeway, in spite of the perpetual intrusion of the idea of these being works of art, he satisfies himself at every moment, by a slight reflection, of their being the effects of chance; and so, likewise, of the Grotto of Pausilippo, and many other natural appearances over the world.