conveyed to his friend and
fellow-student, Professor Tait--the one at Cambridge, the other at
Edinburgh--were it not for the existence of some wave, which, like that
of electricity, wings its rapid flight unobserved by human eyes? Are all
the records of the Psychical Society only myths and legends bred of
superstitious fancy? It were hard to suppose so.

But if, gentlemen, and ladies especially, you wish to keep your secret
discoveries to yourselves, watch over your thoughts as well as your
words; for my researches prove, and the universal experience of mankind
corroborates the fact, that some portion of your inmost thoughts and
secret desires are understood by your neighbours (especially when
[lambda] is small!); that they travel along the waves which I have
attempted to indicate; and if you would desire to extend your influence
in the world, probe the secret instincts of mankind, and prevent
yourself from being deceived and wronged--study the art and science of
Brain Waves.

* * * * *

The following verses of rather doubtful merit were found in connection
with the previous MS. They were evidently written by a different hand;
but inasmuch as they were deemed worthy of preservation by the learned
owner of the sealed desk, we venture to publish them. They are closely
connected with the previous lecture, and were evidently composed by an
admirer of the fair lecturer who did not share her love for scientific
research.

Wavelet,[1] wing thy airy flight;
Let thine amplitude be great;
Tell her all my thoughts to-night,
How I long to know my fate.

All the fields of Mathematics
I have roamed at her decree;
From Binomial and Quadratics,
To the strange hyperbole.[2]

I have soared through Differential,
Deeply drunk of Finite Boole;[3]
Though its breath is pestilential,
Reeking of the hateful School.

I have tried to shape a Conic,
Vainly read the Calculus;
But my feebleness is chronic,
_Morbus Mathematicus_.

All my curves are cardioidal;
I confuse my _x_ and _y_s,
Which they say is suicidal;
And my tutor vainly sighs.

Wavelet, tell her how I love her,
As she mounts her learned throne;
And that love I hope may cover
All the failings which I own.

Wavelet, cry to her for pity;
Bid her end this bitter woe;
I might do something 'in the city,'