Mr. MacBorrowdale. That does not appear.
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. These flints, and no other traces of men, among the bones of mammoths?
Mr. MacBorrowdale. None whatever.
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. What do the Artium Societatis Syndicus Et Socii suppose to have become of the men who produced these demonstrations of high aboriginal art?
Mr. MacBorrowdale. They think these finished specimens of skill in the art of chipping prove that the human race is of greater antiquity than has been previously supposed; and the fact that there is no other relic to prove the position they consider of no moment whatever.
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Ha! ha! ha! This beats the Elephant in the Moon,{1} which turned out to be a mouse in a telescope. But I can help them to an explanation of what became of these primaeval men-of-arms. They were an ethereal race, and evaporated.
1 See Butler's poem, with that title, in his Miscellaneous
Works.