ch, and old oak, and old china, a "school" or "movement."
It was aesthetic, and an early purchaser of Mr. William Morris's wall
papers. It existed ten or twelve years before the public "caught on," as
they say, to these delights. But, except one or two of the masters, the
school were only playing at aesthetics, and laughing at their own
performances. There was more fun than fashion in the cult, which was
later revived, developed, and gossiped about more than enough.

To a writer now dead, and then first met, I am specially bound in
gratitude--the late Mr. J. F. M'Lennan. Mr. M'Lennan had the most acute
and ingenious of minds which I have encountered. His writings on early
marriage and early religion were revelations which led on to others. The
topic of folklore, and the development of custom and myths, is not
generally attractive, to be sure. Only a few people seem interested in
that spectacle, so full of surprises--the development of all human
institutions, from fairy tales to democracy. In beholding it we learn
how we owe all things, humanly speaking, to the people and to genius. The
natural people, the folk, has supplied us, in its unconscious way, with
the stuff of all our poetry, law, ritual: and genius has selected from
the mass, has turned customs into codes, nursery tales into romance, myth
into science, ballad into epic, magic mummery into gorgeous ritual. The
world has been educated, but not as man would have trained and taught it.
"He led us by a way we knew not," led, and is leading us, we know not
whither; we follow in fear.

The student of this lore can look back and see the long trodden way
behind him, the winding tracks through marsh and forest and over burning
sands. He sees the caves, the camps, the villages, the towns where the
race has tarried, for shorter times or longer, strange places many of
them, and strangely haunted, desolate dwellings and inhospitable. But
the scarce visible tracks converge at last on the beaten ways, the ways
to that city whither mankind is wandering, and which it may never win. We
have a foreboding of a purpose which we know not, a sense as of will,
working, as we would not have worked, to a hidden end.

This is the lesson, I think, of what we call folklore or anthropology,
which to many seems trivial, to many seems dull. It may become the most
attractive and serious of the sciences; certainly it is rich in strange
curiosities, like those mystic stones which