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136 soon as Betty appeared. "I couldn't be quite sure, in spite of the name and the coincidences, but now I know it. Do you think I look like them, Betty?"

"You look an awful lot like Miss Hope," said Betty. "You look like Miss Charity, too, but not nearly as much. Miss Hope has blue eyes, you see. You haven't seen Miss Charity yet, but her eyes are black. I'm sure they are your aunts, Bob."

"Well, if they ever needed a husky nephew they need him now," declared Bob whimsically. "I don't know how long they've been sick, but this place looks as though no one had cleaned it up in a year. The animals need currying, too."

"They haven't been able to hire any help, I suppose," said Betty. "And I don't believe you can get a hired man around here. The men are all working in the oil fields. Ki is mad at the oil investors, and that's the only reason Will Watterby can keep him."

"Are they both asleep?" asked Bob, whose mind skipped topics with amazing rapidity. "All right then, let's go out to the barn. Something tells me if you look around you'll get a basket of eggs."

They had great fun doing the work together, and both agreed that if they never thanked the Peabodys for another thing, they could say


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Rh that they were thankful for the knowledge of farm work learned on Bramble Farm. Bob knew what to feed the animals, how to take care of them, and even what to do for a severe nail cut one of the cows had suffered. Betty gathered a basket of eggs with little hunting and also found several rat holes which Bob promptly attended to by nailing tin over them.

"We can't start in and repair the whole place," he said cheerfully. "But we'll do little jobs as fast as we come to them."

Both sisters were soundly sleeping when, the chores finished, Betty and Bob came back to the house. They had their lunch, and then Bob brought the dilapidated old lawn mower around to the back porch to see if he could put it in running order. Betty sat down near him, with the doors open so that she could hear the slightest movement within the house, and worked fitfully at her tatting. She was learning to make a pretty edge, under Grandma Watterby's instruction, but it did not progress very quickly, mainly because Betty was always going off for long rides, or playing somewhere outdoors.

"Look at that cloud of dust!" said Bob suddenly, glancing up from his tinkering. "Some one is going somewhere in a hurry. He's stopping. Why, Betty, it's Ed Manners!"

Manners was a Flame City youth, a lad of


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138 about eighteen, and the son of the postmaster. Bob and Betty ran down to the road to see him as he stopped his motorcycle with skillful abruptness.

"Will Watterby told me you were out here," he called as soon as he saw Bob. "Say, two more wells caught last night, and they say it's absolutely the biggest fire we've ever had. The close drilling has made the trouble. Remember how Mr. Gordon used to rave over so many derricks on an acre? Don't you want to come with me, Bob? I'd take you, too, Betty, but it is no place for a girl."

Ed Manners waved an inviting hand towards the side-car. Bob was eager to go—what boy would not be?—and he knew that not to go would mean that he was missing something which in all probability he would never see again.

"Go ahead, Bob," urged Betty bravely. "I'll be all right. Honestly I will. If you don't get back to-night, why. Doctor Morrison will be out in the morning."

But Bob had made up his mind. He heard clearly again the final commands of Mr. Gordon, his Uncle Dick, for whom he would do far more than this.

"Can't go, Ed," he said briefly and finally. "Sorry, but it isn't to be thought of. Betty and I have a job cut out for us right here."


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Rh The lad on the motorcycle had no time to waste in arguing. He was eager to get to the scene of excitement, and if Bob chose to throw up a chance to see a spectacular fire, why, that was his business. With a loud snort and a series of back-fires, the machine shot up the road and in less than a minute was out of sight.

"I hope, oh, I hope that Uncle Dick is all right," worried Betty, walking back to the house. "You needn't have stayed with me, Bob. Still, of course, I'm glad you did. I might be a little nervous at night."

Bob thought it more than likely but all he said was that he wouldn't think of leaving her alone with two sick women and no telephone in the house.

"As soon as my aunts are well enough to hear the sad news that I'm their long-lost nephew," he said half in fun and half in earnest, "I intend to have a 'phone put in for them. It's outrageous to think of two women living isolated like this."

The afternoon passed rapidly, Bob getting his machine in running order and clipping a little square of lawn before supper time. Betty fed her patients again, and again they went to sleep. After an early supper Betty and Bob were glad to go to bed, too, and it seemed to the former that she had been asleep only a few moments


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 is not my intention to detain the reader by expatiating on the variety or the importance of the subject which I have undertaken to treat; since the merit of the choice would serve to render the weakness of the execution still more apparent, and still less excusable. But as I have presumed to lay before the public a first volume only of the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, it will perhaps be expected that I should explain, in a few words, the nature and limits of my general plan.

The memorable series of revolutions which, in the course of about thirteen centuries, gradually undermined, and at length destroyed, the solid fabric of Roman greatness, may, with some propriety, be divided into the three following periods.

I. The first of these periods may be traced from the age of Trajan and the Antonines, when the Roman monarchy, having attained its full strength and maturity, began to verge towards its decline; and will extend to the subversion of the western empire, by the barbarians of Germany and Scythia, the rude ancestors of the most polished nations of modern Europe. This extraordinary revolution, which subjected Rome to the power of a Gothic conqueror, was completed about the beginning of the sixth century.

II. The second period of the decline and fall of Rome, may be supposed to commence with the reign of Justinian, who by his laws, as well as by his victories, restored a transient splendour to the eastern empire. It will comprehend the invasion of Italy by the Lombards; the conquest of the Asiatic and African


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140 when something wakened her, and she sat up, startled.

The moonlight was streaming in at her windows, silvering the stiff, haircloth furniture and bathing the red and blue roses of the Brussels carpet in a radiance that softened the glaring colors and made them even beautiful. Betty was about to lie down and try to go to sleep again when a cry came from Miss Hope.

"Faith!" she moaned. "Faith, my dear little sister!"

Betty was out of bed in a second and pattering toward the sufferer's room. Bob, half-dressed, appeared at the door leading into the kitchen simultaneously.

"Don't let her see you," warned Betty. "I think that makes her worse. I wish I knew what to do when she gets these spells."

For some time Miss Hope rambled on about "Faith," and would not be persuaded to lie down. At last, after crying pitifully, she sank back on the pillow and the phantoms seemed to leave her poor brain. Like a child she dropped off into a deep sleep, and Bob and Betty were free to creep back to their rooms and try to compose their nerves. Miss Charity had slept peacefully through it all.

The doctor, told of Miss Hope's ravings, listened thoughtfully, but did not seem to attach


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Rh much importance to the recital. He had driven up early the following morning and brought the hopeful news that the fire was said to be under control.

"She's always had a tendency to be flighty in any illness," he said, speaking of Miss Hope's disorders. "Faith was a sister to whom she was greatly attached. A pretty girl who married and went away before I came here to practise. Miss Saunders told me once that from the time of her marriage to this, not a word of her ever reached them. She completely disappeared. Of course this has preyed on the minds of both sisters, and it's a wonder they haven't broken down before this."

Doctor Morrison stayed an hour or so, and praised Betty's nursing unstintedly. He said she seemed to know what to do instinctively and had that rare tact of the born nurse which teaches her how to avoid irritating her patients.

Both Betty and Bob felt that they had no right to explore the house, though they were interested to know what might be upstairs. Betty, especially, was anxious to see the attic. She pictured trunks filled with papers that might be of help and interest to Bob, and in her experience an attic never failed to reveal a history of the family.

She did find, in the parlor where she slept, an old album, and that afternoon brought it out


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142 on the porch to show it to Bob. She hoped he might be able to recognize his mother among the tintypes and photographs. But as soon as she stepped outdoors she saw something which made her almost drop the precious old album and clutch Bob's arm wildly.

"Look who's coming in here!" she cried excitedly.

"Well, what do you know about that!" ejaculated the astonished Bob.


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jauntily down the path which now, thanks to Bob, was neat and trim, came the two men who had aroused Bob's suspicions on the train, and whom he had followed into the smoking car. They were dressed as they had been then—gray suits, gray ties, socks and hats. The older man was mopping his face with a very white handkerchief, and his shorter companion was looking eagerly up at the house.

"I beg your pardon," said the one with gray hair—Bob remembered that he had been called Fluss—"is this the Saunders home—place, I believe the natives call it?"

He smiled at Betty, showing several gold teeth, and she shrank behind Bob and hid the album under her apron.

"Yes," answered Bob civilly. "This is the Saunders farm."

"We'd like to see," the younger man spoke crisply and consulted a small leather-bound note-book, "Miss Hope Saunders or her sister, Miss Charity. Please take her our cards." Rh


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144 He held out the two bits of pasteboard and Betty, looking over Bob's shoulder, was astonished to read, not "Cal Blosser" and "Jack Fluss," but "Irving Snead" and "George Elmer." Each card, in the lower left-hand corner, was lettered "The West Farm Agency."

Bob controlled whatever he was feeling, and handed back the cards very politely.

"My aunts are both very ill," he said courteously. "They are under the doctor's care, and it will be impossible for them to see any one for several weeks."

"But some one must be in charge," urged Blosser, or Irving Snead, as he seemed to prefer to be known. "Isn't there some older person about?"

"Miss Gordon and I"—Betty thought that had a very nice sound as Bob said it—"are taking care of them. It is hard to get help of any kind because of the demand for workers at the fields and in Flame City. If we can do anything for you—"

"You can't!" Fluss broke in sharply. "It's very annoying not to be able to see the Misses Saunders. We've come a good many miles, thinking this place might suit one of our customers. He has a delicate daughter, and he wants to get her out on a farm. This part of Oklahoma ought to be beneficial for lung trouble. I suppose the


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Rh old ladies would be willing to sell? The place is much run down and not worth much, but if our client should take a fancy to it, he would overlook the poor location and the condition of the buildings. Why not let us talk to your aunts just a few minutes? You may be the cause of their losing a sale."

"It is impossible for you to see them," repeated Bob. "They're in bed and have fever and great difficulty in talking at all. I'm sorry, but you can not see them to-day."

Blosser took out his handkerchief again and mopped his streaming face. Betty, who would be kind to any one in distress, had gone in for a glass of water and brought it out to him.

"Thank you, my dear," he murmured gratefully, gulping it down in one long swallow while Fluss shook his head impatiently in answer to Betty's mute interrogation. "My, that tasted good," Blosser added, handing back the glass, "I don't suppose you know whether your aunts want to sell?" he shot at Bob. "Must be kind of hard for them to run the farm all alone."

"Well, it was," admitted Bob, with a misleading air of confidence. "Hereafter, of course, they'll have me to help."

He did not know whether it would be wise to say any more or not; but he could not resist one thrust.


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146 "I suppose in time they will sell," he observed carelessly. "The farm is sure to be bought up by some oil company."

Blosser and Fluss scowled darkly and looked at Bob with closer attention.

"I didn't know the old ladies had a nephew," said Fluss suspiciously. "Funny they didn't mention it when I was driving through here last spring, listing properties, eh?"

"I never knew my aunts to confide personal and private affairs to strangers," said Bob calmly.

Blosser turned on him angrily.

"You're fresh!" he snarled. "If you knew what was for your own good, you'd keep a civil tongue In your head. Come on—er—Elmer, we're wasting time with this kid. We'll come back and talk to the aunts."

Fluss still lingered. His gray eyes appraised Bob keenly and something in their steady, disconcerting stare made Betty uneasy.

"What's happened to the town?" demanded Fluss abruptly. "Couldn't find even the oldest Inhabitant hanging around the station. Everybody gone to a funeral?"

"There's a big oil fire," returned Bob. "Four or five wells have been burning a couple of days now, though they say they have it under control."

The word "oil" roused Blosser again.


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Rh "There ain't no oil on this place," he announced heavily. "I've seen a lot of money sunk in dry wells, and what I don't know about the oil country ain't worth mentioning. Isn't that so, George? Traveling round to list farms as I do, I just naturally make a study of the sections. If ever I saw a poor risk, it's this place; there ain't an inch of oil sand on it."

Betty's hand on his arm telegraphed Bob not to argue.

"You may be right," the boy replied indifferently. "We won't quarrel over that."

There was nothing more to be said, and the two men turned away, Blosser putting the cards down on the step with the curt wish that "You'd hand those to your aunts and tell 'em we'll drop in again in a couple of days."

"Oh, I'm so glad they've gone!" Betty watched the retreating backs till they disappeared around a bend in the road. "Did you see how the older man stared at you, Bob? Do you suppose he remembers seeing you on the train?"

"Certainly not!" Bob openly scoffed at the suggestion. "They were stumped because they couldn't see my aunts, that's all. I only hope they forget to come around here until I've had a chance to warn my relatives—get that, Betty? My relatives sounds pretty good, doesn't it?—against their crooked ways. If they don't


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148 there is oil on this farm, I'll eat my hat. No client with a delicate daughter could explain their eagerness. I'll bet they've thoroughly prospected the fields before they even approached the house."

Betty could not share Bob's light-heartedness. The look in the older man's eyes as he studied Bob would persist in sticking in her mind, and she was unable to rid herself of the feeling that he would do the boy actual harm if a chance presented. What he hoped to gain by injuring Bob, Betty could not thoroughly understand, but added to her anxiety for her uncle and the responsibility she felt for the sick women, was now added a fear for Bob's safety. She tried to tell him something of this, but he laughed at her.

"If you have a vision of me kidnapped by the cruel sharpers," he teased her, "forget it. What were my voice and my two trusty arms and legs given me for? I can take care of myself and you, too, Betsey."

Nevertheless, Betty's tranquillity was sorely shaken, and though she gradually became calmer as the day wore on, she insisted on going out with Bob to do the chores at the barn that night, and extracted a promise from him that he would call her when he got up in the morning so that she might make the morning rounds with him. Luckily Miss Hope passed a quiet night, for if


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Rh she had called for her lost sister again it is difficult to say what the effect might have been on Betty's already tried nerves.

One of her anxieties was removed to some extent the next morning when Doctor Morrison came out in his car and brought her word that her uncle had telephoned the Watterbys and sent Betty a message.

"The connection was very faulty," said the doctor, "and Will Watterby says he doesn't believe he made your uncle understand where you and Bob were. But he made out that Mr. Gordon was safe and the fire slackening up a bit. He doesn't expect to be able to get away under a week. Of course work is demoralized, and he'll have his hands full."

Both Betty and Bob were overjoyed to learn that Uncle Dick was all right, and when the doctor pronounced both patients on the road to certain recovery, they were additionally cheered. They said nothing to the physician of their visitors of the day before, because Bob was unwilling to announce that he was a nephew of the Saunders. He wished them to hear it first.

"I think Miss Hope might sit up for a few minutes this afternoon," counseled the doctor on leaving. "Miss Charity might try that to-morrow. Of course, I'll be out again in the morning. You two youngsters are in my mind continually."


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150 He drove away, and for the rest of the day Bob was left pretty much to his own devices, Betty, however, stipulating that he was to stay close to the house. She could not shake off her fear of the two men, and Bob was far too considerate to worry her deliberately when she had so much to attend to.

Miss Hope was delighted to sit up for half an hour, and now that her patients were stronger, Betty was put to it to keep them amused and contented in bed. The doctor's orders were strict that they were not to get up for at least two more days.

Betty read aloud to them, seated in the doorway between the two rooms so that both could hear; she gave them reports of the condition of things outside; and Miss Hope said primly that she would like to meet and thank the boy who had been so kind as soon as she could be "suitably attired." Betty was thankful that she did not ask his name, but the sisters were not at all curious. They had been so ill and were still weak, and the fact that their household and farm was apparently running smoothly was enough for them to grasp. The details did not claim their attention.

"Charity was sick first," said Miss Hope, over her beef tea and toast. "What delicious tea this is, my dear! Yes, she was down for two days,


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Rh and I took care of her and did the milking. Then I felt a cold coming on, but I crawled around for another day, doing the best I could. The night before the day you came I went out to milk and I must have fainted. When I came to I was within an inch of old Blossom's hoofs. That scared me, and I came right into the house without finishing a chore. I think I was delirious all night, and I remember thinking that if we were both going to die, at least I'd have things as orderly as possible. So I went around and pulled down all the first floor shades. Upstairs we always keep 'em drawn. And then I don't remember another thing till I came to and found you in the room."

"And she didn't come a minute too soon," croaked Miss Charity.


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declared that it was due to Betty's skill in nursing more than to his drugs, but it is certain that, once started, the aunts gained steadily. In two or three days from the time they first sat up he pronounced it safe for them to be dressed, and while they were still a bit shaky, they took great delight in walking about the house.

Bob was introduced to them off-handedly one morning by the doctor, and though both old ladies started at his name, they said nothing. After the physician's car had gone. Miss Hope came out on to the back porch where Betty was peeling potatoes and Bob mending a loose floor-board.

"My sister and I—" stammered Miss Hope, "we were wondering if you were a neighbor's boy. We've seen so little of our neighbors these last few years, that we haven't kept track of the new families who have moved into the neighborhood. I don't recollect any Hendersons about here, do you, Sister?" Rh


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Rh Miss Charity, who had followed her, shook her head.

Bob looked at Betty, and Betty looked helplessly at Bob. Now that the time had come they were afraid of the effect the news might have on the sisters. Bob, as he said afterward, "didn't know how to begin," and Betty wished fervently that her uncle could be there to help them out.

"A long time ago," said Miss Hope dreamily, "we knew a man named Henderson, David Henderson. He married our younger sister."

Caution deserted Bob, and, without intending to, he made his announcement.

"David Henderson was my father," he stated.

Miss Hope turned so white that Betty thought she would faint, and Miss Charity's mouth opened in speechless amazement.

"Then you are Faith's son," said Miss Hope slowly, clinging to the door for support. "Ever since Doctor Morrison introduced you, I wanted to stare at you, you looked so like the Saunders. Faith didn't—she was more like the Dixons, our mother's people. But you are Saunders through and through; isn't he. Charity?"

"He looks so much like you," quavered Miss Charity, "that I'd know in a minute he was related to us. But Faith—your mother—is she, did she—?"


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154 "She died the night I was born,"" said Bob simply. "Almost fifteen years ago."

The sisters must have expected this; indeed, hope that their sister lived had probably deserted them years ago; and yet the confirmation was naturally something of a shock. They clung to each other for a moment, and then Miss Hope, rather to Bob's embarrassment, walked over to him and solemnly kissed him.

"My dear, dear nephew!" she murmured.

Then Miss Charity, more timidly, kissed him too, and presently they were all sitting down quietly on the porch, checking up the long years.

When Bob's tin box was finally opened, and the marriage certificate of his parents, the picture of his mother in her wedding gown, and a yellowed letter or two examined and cried over softly by the aunts. Miss Hope began to piece together the story of their lives since Bob's mother had left them. Bob and Betty had found Faith's photograph in the famuly album, but Miss Hope brought out the old Bible and showed them where her mother had made the entry of the marriage of his mother and father.

"They went away for a week for their wedding trip, and then came back to get a few things for housekeeping," said the old lady, patting Betty's hand where it lay in her lap. Bob was still looking over the Bible. "Then they said


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Rh they were going to Chicago, and they drove away one bright morning, eighteen years ago. And not one word did we ever hear from Faith, or from David, not one word. It killed father and mother, the anxiety and the suspense. They died within a week of each other and less than a year after Faith went. Charity and I always wanted to go to Chicago and hunt for 'em, but there was the expense. We had only this farm, and the interest took every cent we could rake together. How on earth we'll pay it this year is more than I can see."

"What do you think was the reason they didn't write?" urged Miss Charity, in her gentle old voice. "There were almost three years 'fore you came along. Why couldn't they write? I know David was good to Faith—he worshiped her. So that couldn't have been the reason. Bob, is your father dead, too?"

"I'll tell you, though perhaps I shouldn't," said Bob slowly. "If I give you pain, remember it is better to hear It from me than from a stranger, as you otherwise might. Aunt Hope—and Aunt Charity—I was born in the Gladden county poorhouse, in the East."

There was a gasp from Miss Hope, but Bob hurried on, pretending not to hear.

"My father, they think, was killed in a railroad wreck," he said. "At least there was a bad


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156 wreck several miles from where they found my mother nearly crazed and with no baggage beyond this little tin box and the clothes she wore. Grief and exposure had driven her almost out of her mind, and in her ravings, they tell me, she talked continuously about 'the brakes' and 'that glaring headlight.' And then, toward the end, she spoke of her husband and said she couldn't wake him up to speak to her. There is small doubt in my mind but that he died in the wreck. Mother died the night I was born, and until I was ten I lived in the poorhouse. Then I was hired out to a farmer, and the third year on his place I met Betty, who came to spend the summer there. An old bookman, investigating a pile of old books and records at the poorhouse, found that Saunders was my mother's maiden name and he traced my relatives for me."

Bob briefly sketched his trip to Washington and his experiences there, and during the recital the aunts learned a great deal about Betty, too. Their first shock at hearing that their sister had died in the poorhouse gradually lessened, but they were still puzzled to account for the three years' silence that had preceded his birth.

"I'll tell you how I think it was," said Bob. "This is only conjecture, mind. I think my father wasn't successful in a business way, and he must have wanted to give my mother


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Rh and luxuries and a pleasant home. He probably kept thinking that in a few weeks things would be better, and insensibly he persuaded her to put off writing till she could ask you to come to see her. If she had lived after I was born, I am sure she would have written, whether my father prospered or not. But I imagine they were both proud."

"Faith was," assented Miss Hope. "Though dear knows, she needn't have hesitated to have written home for a little help. Father would have been glad to send her money, for he admired David and liked him. He was a fine looking young man, Bob, tall and slender and with such magnificent dark eyes. And Faith was a beautiful girl."

All the rest of that day the aunts kept recalling stories of Bob's mother, and in the attic, just as Betty had known there would be, they opened a trunk that was full of little keepsakes she had treasured as a girl.

Bob handled the things in the little square trunk very tenderly and reverently and tried to picture the young girl who had packed them away so carefully the week before her wedding.

"They're yours. Bob," said Miss Hope. "Faith was going to send for that trunk as soon as she was settled. Of course she never did. The farm will be yours, too, some day; in fact,


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158 a third of it's yours now, or will be when you come of age. Father left it that way in his will—to us three daughters share and share alike, and you'll have Faith's share. Poor Father! He was sure that we'd hear from Faith, and he thought he'd left us all quite well off. But we had to put a mortgage on the farm about ten years ago, and every year it's harder and harder to get along. Charity and I are too old—that's the truth. And some stock Father left us we traded off for some paying eight per cent, and that company failed."

"You see," explained Miss Charity in her gentle way, "we don't know anything about business. That man wasn't honest who sold us the stock, but Hope and I thought he couldn't cheat us—he was a friend of Father's."

"Well, don't let any one swindle you again," said Bob, a trifle excitedly. "You don't have to worry about interest and taxes, any more, Aunts. You have a fortune right here in your own dooryard; or if not exactly out by the pump, then very near it!"

The sisters looked bewildered.

"Yes, yes," insisted Betty, as they gazed at her to see if Bob were in earnest. "The farm is worth thousands of dollars."

"Oil!" exploded Bob. "You can lease or sell outright, and there isn't the slightest doubt that


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Rh there's oil sand on the place. Betty's uncle will know. Uncle Dick is an expert oil man."

Miss Hope shook her head.

"My dear nephew," she urged protestingly, "surely you must be mistaken. Sister and I have seen no evidences of oil. No one has ever mentioned the subject or the possibilities to us. There are no oil wells very near here. Don't you speak unadvisedly?"

"I should say not!" Bob was positive if not as precise as his aunt. "There's oil here, or all the wells in the fields are dry. The farm is a gold mine."

Betty rose hurriedly and pointed toward the window in alarm. They had been sitting in the parlor, and she faced the bar of late afternoon sunlight that lay on the floor.

"I saw the shadow of some one," she whispered In alarm. "It crossed that patch of sunlight. Bob, I am afraid!"


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 177.] Lord, lengthen my time." "I will add to it the ass's eighteen years," said God. "That is not enough," replied the man. "Thou shalt also have the dog's twelve years." "Still too little!" "Well, then," said God, "I will give thee the monkey's ten years also, but more thou shalt not have." The man went away, but was not satisfied.

So man lives seventy years. The first thirty are his human years, which are soon gone; then is he healthy, merry, works with pleasure, and is glad of his life. Then follow the ass's eighteen years, when one burden after another is laid on him, he has to carry the corn which feeds others, and blows and kicks are the reward of his faithful services. Then come the dog's twelve years, when he lies in the corner, and growls and has no longer any teeth to bite with, and when this time is over the monkey's ten years form the end. Then man is weak-headed and foolish, does silly things, and becomes the jest of the children.

177.—DEATH'S MESSENGERS.

ancient times a giant was once travelling on a great highway, when suddenly an unknown man sprang up before him, and said, "Halt, not one step farther!" "What!" cried the giant, "a creature whom I can crush between my fingers, wants to block my way? Who art thou that thou darest to speak so boldly?" "I am Death," answered the other. "No one resists me, and thou also must obey my commands." But the giant refused, and began to struggle with Death. It was a long, violent battle, at last the giant got the upper hand, and struck Death down with his fist, so that he dropped by a stone. The giant went his way, and Death lay there conquered, and so weak that he could not get up again. "What will be done now," said he, "if I stay lying here in a corner? No one will die now in the world, and it will get so full of people that they won't have room to stand beside each other." In the meantime a young man came along the road, who was


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" maybe," said Bob carelessly. "Gee, Betty, you certainly are nervous! I'll run around the house and see if there's any one about."

He dashed out, and though he hunted thoroughly, reported that he could find no one.

"It wasn't the doctor, that's sure," he said. "And the grocer's boy would have gone to the back of the house. Are you sure you saw anything, Betty?"

"I saw a man's shadow," averred Betty positively. "I was sitting facing the window, you know, and watching the million little motes dancing in the shaft of light, when a shadow, full length, fell on the floor. It was for only a second, as though some one had stepped across the porch. Then I told you. Bob, I know I shan't sleep a wink to-night."

"Nonsense," said Bob stoutly. "Who could it have been? Goodness knows, there's nothing worth stealing in the house."

"Those sharpers," whispered Betty. "They Rh


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 strong and healthy, singing a song, and glancing around on every side. When he saw the half-fainting one, he went compassionately to him, raised him up, poured a strengthening draught out of his flask for him, and waited till he came round. "Dost thou know," said the stranger, whilst he was getting up, "who I am, and who it is whom thou hast helped on his legs again?" "No," answered the youth, "I do not know thee." "I am Death," said he. "I spare no one, and can make no exception with thee,—but that thou mayst see that I am grateful, I promise thee that I will not fall on thee unexpectedly, but will send my messengers to thee before I come and take thee away." "Well," said the youth, "it is something gained that I shall know when thou comest, and at any rate be safe from thee for so long." Then he went on his way, and was light-hearted, and enjoyed himself, and lived without thought. But youth and health did not last long, soon came sicknesses and sorrows, which tormented him by day, and took away his rest by night. "Die, I shall not," said he to himself, "for Death will send his messengers before that, but I do wish these wretched days of sickness were over." As soon as he felt himself well again he began once more to live merrily. Then one day some one tapped him on the shoulder. He looked round, and Death stood behind him, and said, "Follow me, the hour of thy departure from this world has come," "What," replied the man, "wilt thou break thy word? Didst thou not promise me that thou wouldst send thy messengers to me before coming thyself? I have seen none!" "Silence!" answered Death. "Have I not sent one messenger to thee after another? Did not fever come and smite thee, and shake thee, and cast thee down? Has dizziness not bewildered thy head? Has not gout twitched thee in all thy limbs? Did not thine ears sing? Did not tooth-ache bite into thy cheeks? Was it not dark before thine eyes? And besides all that, has not my own brother Sleep reminded thee every night of me? Didst thou not lie by night as if thou wert already dead?" The man could make no answer; he yielded to his fate, and went away with Death.


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Rh might have come back and be hanging around hoping they can make your aunts sell the farm to them."

"I'd like to see them try it," bristled Bob. "Isn't it funny, Betty, we can't make the aunts believe there is oil here? I think Aunt Charity might, but Aunt Hope is so positive she rides right over her. Well, I hope that Uncle Dick comes back from the fields mighty quick and persuades them that they have a fortune ready for the spending."

Despite Bob's assurances that he could find no one, Betty was uneasy, and she passed a restless night. The next day and the next passed without incident, save for a visit from Doctor Morrison in the late afternoon. He did not come every day now, and this call, he announced, was more in the nature of a social call. He had been told of Bob's relationship to the old ladies and was interested and pleased, for he had known them for as long as he had lived in that section. He carried the good news to Grandma Watterby, too, and that kind soul, as an expression of her pleasure, insisted on sending the aunts two of her best braided rugs.

"I have a note for you from your uncle, Betty," said the doctor, after he had delivered the rugs.

People often intrusted him with messages and


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162 letters and packages, for his work took him everywhere. He had been to the oil fields and seen Mr. Gordon and had been able to give him a full account of Betty's and Bob's activities. In a postscript Mr. Gordon had added his congratulations and good wishes for "my nephew Bob." The body of the letter, addressed to Betty, praised her for her service to the aunts and said that the writer hoped to get back to the Watterbys within three or four days.

"I'll need a little rest by then," he went on to say, "for I've been in the machine night and day for longer than I care to think about. We're clearing away the debris of the fire, and drilling two new wells."

The doctor was persuaded to stay to supper, which was a meal to be remembered, for Miss Hope was a famous cook and she spared neither eggs nor butter, a liberality which the close-fisted Joseph Peabody would have blamed for her poverty.

There was no mistaking the strained financial circumstances of the two old women. Every day that Bob spent with them disclosed some new makeshift to avoid the expenditure of money, and both house and barns were sadly in need of repairs. Bob himself was able to do many little


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Rh odd jobs, a nail driven here, a bit of plastering there, that tended to make the premises more habitable, and he worked incessantly and gladly, determined that his aunts should never do another stroke of work outside the house.

They were normal in health again and Betty had suggested that she go back to the Watterbys. But they looked so stricken at the mention of such a plan, and seemed so genuinely anxious to have her stay, that she promised not to leave till her uncle came for her. Bob, too, was relieved by her decision, for his promise to Mr. Gordon still held good, and yet he felt that his place was with his aunts.

The shades all over the house were up now, and the four bedrooms on the second floor in use once more. They were sparsely furnished, like those downstairs, but everything was neat and clean. Miss Charity confided to Betty that she and her sister had been forced to sell their best furniture, some old-fashioned mahogany pieces included, to meet a note they had given to a neighbor. The two poor sisters seemed to have been the prey of unscrupulous sharpers since the death of their parents, and Betty fervently hoped that Bob would be able to stave off the pseudo real-estate men till her uncle could advise them.

A few days after the doctor's call Betty decided that what she needed was a good gallop


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164 on Clover. She had had little time for riding since she had been nurse and housekeeper, and the little horse was becoming restive from too much confinement.

"A ride will do you good," declared Miss Hope, in her eager, positive fashion. "I suppose you'll stop in at Grandma Watterby's? Tell her Charity and I thank her very much for the rugs and for the beef-tea she sent us."

The road from the Saunders farm was the main highway to Flame City, and Bob, who in his capacity of guardian felt his responsibility keenly, saw no harm in Betty's riding it alone. It was morning, and she would have lunch with the Watterbys and come back in the early afternoon. Everything looked all right, and he bade her a cheerful good-bye.

"Isn't it great, Clover, to be out for fun?" Betty asked, as the horse snuffed the fresh air in great delight. "I guess you thought you were going to have to stay in the stable, or be turned out to grass like an old lady, for the rest of your life, didn't you?"

Clover snorted, and settled down into her favorite canter. Betty enjoyed the sense of motion and the rush of the wind, and horse and girl had a glorious hour before they drew rein at the Watterby gate.

"Well, bless her heart, did she come to see us


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Grimm's Household Tales, Volume 2/Death's Messengers

Die Boten des Todes (1857) Elektitaj fabeloj de la Fratoj Grimm/La senditoj de la morto Contos de Grimm/Os mensageiros da morte Предвестники Смерти (Гримм/Полевой)


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Rh at last!" cried Grandma Watterby, hurrying down to greet her. "Emma!" she called. "Emma! Just see who's come to stay with us."

The old woman was greatly disappointed when Betty explained that she must go back after lunch, dinner, as the noon meal was made at the Watterby table, but the girl was not to be persuaded to stay over night. She had promised Bob.

Every one, from Grandma Watterby to the Prices, had an innocent curiosity, wholly friendly, to hear about Bob and his aunts, and Betty was glad to gratify it. She told the whole story, only omitting the portion that dealt with the death of Bob's mother in the poorhouse, rightly reasoning that the Misses Saunders would want to keep this fact from old neighbors and friends. The household rejoiced with Bob that he had found his kindred, and Grandma Watterby expressed the sentiments of all when she said that "Bob will take care of them two old women and be a prop to 'em for their remaining years."

Ki, the Indian, had the fox skin cured, and proudly showed It to Betty. She was delighted with the silky pelt and ran upstairs to put it in her trunk while Ki saddled Clover for the return trip. She knew that a good furrier would make her a stunning neck-piece for the winter from the fur.

It was slightly after half past one when Betty


text:
Death's Messengers

 * "Death's Messengers" in Grimm's Household Tales 2.

title: Death's Messengers


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166 started for the Saunders farm, and as the day was warm and the patches of shade few and far between, she let Clover take her own time. In a lonely stretch of road, out of sight of any house or building, two men stepped quietly from some bushes at the side of the road, and laid hands on Clover's bridle. Betty recognized them as the two men dressed in gray whom Bob had followed on the train, and who had interviewed him while the aunts were ill.

"Don't scream!" warned the man called Blosser. "We don't go to hurt you, and you'll be all right if you don't make trouble. All we want you to do is to answer a few questions."

Betty was trembling, more through nervousness than fright, though she w^as afraid, too. But she managed to stammer that if she could answer their questions, she would.

"That fresh kid we saw with you the other day, back at the Saunders farm," said Blosser, jerking his thumb in the general direction of the three hills. "Is he going to be there long?"

Betty did not know whether anything she might say would injure Bob or not, and she wisely concluded that the best plan would be to answer as truthfully as possible.

"I suppose he will live there," she said quietly. "He is their nephew, you know."

Fluss looked disgustedly at his companion.


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Rh "Can you beat that?" he demanded in an undertone. "The kid has to turn up just when he isn't wanted. The old ladles never had a nephew to my knowledge, and now they allow themselves to be imposed on by—"

A look from Blosser restrained him.

"Well," Fluss addressed himself to Betty, "do you know anything about how the farm was left? Where's the kid's mother? Disinherited? Was the place left to these old maids? It was, wasn't it?"

"What he means," interrupted Blosser, "is, do you know whether this boy would come in for any of the money if some one bought the farm? We've a client who would like to buy and farm it, as I was saying the other day."

"Bob is entitled to one-third," said Betty coolly, having in a measure recovered her composure.

"Oh, he is, is he?" snarled the older man. "I thought he had a good deal to say about the place. Did the old maids get well? Are they up and about?"

"Miss Hope and Miss Charity are much better," answered Betty, flushing indignantly. "And now will you let me go?"

"Not yet," grinned Fluss. "We haven't got this relation business all straightened out. What I want you to tell me—"

But Betty had seen the opportunity for which


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168 she had been waiting. Fluss had removed his hand from the bridle for an instant, and Betty pulled back on the reins. Ki had taught Clover to rear at this signal and strike out with her forefeet. She obeyed beautifully, and involuntarily the two men fell back. Betty urged Clover ahead and they dashed down the road.

Betty forced her mount to gallop all the way home and startled Bob by dashing into the yard like a whirlwind. The horse was flecked with foam and Betty was white-faced and wild-eyed.

"Oh, Bob!" she gasped hysterically, tumbling from the saddle, "those sharpers are still here! They stopped me down the road!"


text: Betty Gordon in the Land of Oil/Chapter 20


text: The Folk-Lore Journal/Volume 7/Death's Messengers


text:
Author:Richard Morris

Works

 * The Etymology of Local Names (1857)
 * Specimens of Early English (1867)
 * Historical Outlines of English Accidence (1872)
 * Elementary Lessons in Historical English Grammar (1874)
 * English Grammar (1874)
 * The Blickling Homilies of the Tenth Century (1880)

title: Author:Richard Morris


text:
Author:Walther Nernst

Works

 * Theoretische Chemie

title: Author:Walther Nernst


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Page:Folk-lore - A Quarterly Review. Volume 29, 1918.djvu/25

 PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS.

.

chair that I am about to vacate has been occupied by me for a round five years; and, though Roman precedent would justify the omission of the lustral ceremony at the end of such a period did the circumstances seem untoward, there is happily no reason as things are why a purificatory sacrifice should not now be accomplished in my person. My successor. Dr. Haddon, with his catholic experience of anthropological work in the field, the study, and the lecture-room—not to speak of his long connexion with this Society—may be trusted to reinvigorate our fellowship of keen workers as "iron sharpeneth iron." It is my privilege to be the first to congratulate the Society on having acquired a President so full of mana.

During the greater part of the time covered by my term of office a world-war has raged; nor is the end yet in sight. If, however, much else remain obscure, this at least grows plainer every day, that the war is a war of ideals—that no mere redistribution of territory and of political influence is involved in its issue, but a reconstruction of civilized society, according to one or another of certain conflicting doctrines of human nature and destiny.

Now as students of folklore we are not concerned with problems of social reconstruction. Our business is to cultivate a particular corner of the field of science, and raise a goodly crop of truths; whereas it is for the


text: Author:William Roy Smith

title: Author:William Roy Smith


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16 practical man—the food-controller, as it were—to see to it that our produce is not wasted. Nevertheless, how can we afford to shut our eyes to the meaning of this phase of downright revolution through which the world is passing? Suppose it possible for us to make clean abstraction of what such a crisis portends for us as citizens, even so as pure observers and theorists we can surely find here matter for thought in plenty. For in what way chiefly does the revolutionary tendency of the times make itself felt? Are we not conscious, before all else, of a wholesale shifting of values—an utter derangement of the hierarchy of established interests and activities constituting that "old order" which we were brought up to accept? In a word, then, the "transvaluation" of culture provides us with a theme at once topical and, as I hope to show, of fundamental significance for our science. Such transvaluation, I would even contend, yields the ultimate conception of a dynamic type whereby the scope and method of folklore studies ought to be determined.

In the first place, then, we shall all doubtless be agreed that we cannot for methodological purposes dispense with a dynamic conception of some sort; in other words, that folklore research must be regulated by reference to an object which is defined generally as a kind of movement or process. For to describe our science as the study of survivals is apt to prove misleading, at any rate for the outsider. The latter is ready on the strength of the phrase to set us down as mere curiosity-hunters—amiable triflers who collect fossils for fun. Now it might seem enough to reply to such an imputation on our scientific character that we do indeed collect fossils, but in the spirit of the palaeontologist, for whom the inanimate relics bear witness to a life that is gone. But I believe that we should do better to reject the fossil metaphor altogether. As I have argued before this Society on a former occasion, it


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 Rh would appear, inasmuch as survivals survive, that they are not quite dead after all—that in some humble and surreptitious way of their own they help to constitute and condition the living present, whether it be for worse or for better. From such a point of view, then, it seems of chief importance to enquire what survival is as a process; and, further, how this particular process is related to the other processes that go with it to make up the general movement of history. In short, a dynamic study of the facts relating to survival keeps in touch with reality as manifested in the life-force. A static treatment, on the contrary, can but result in a bloodless typology; while, if it be likewise pseudo-dynamic, and array its arbitrary seriation of types in the guise of a time-order, so much the worse.

Let us, in this connexion, note how the study of savage culture has of late correspondingly felt the need for a more positively dynamic method. That branch of the science of man has, indeed, always sought to proceed upon genetic lines, having from the first been associated with the Darwinian theory of the development of life. But the very comprehensiveness of outlook thus acquired—the age-long and world-wide extent of the interpretation of human history thereby demanded—for a long time caused a somewhat sweeping style of explanation to be attempted. Yet it is easy to exaggerate the evils due to such premature generalization. I do not hold with the current depreciation of the work of the great pioneers of anthropology, to the tacit glorification of their smug successors. One is reminded of the absurd wren in the fable who mounted sky-high on the eagle's back. To ignore what we owe to our spiritual ancestry amounts to a denial of the doctrine of development, and hence is disloyal in two ways at once. The whole history of science proves that it is legitimate to leap from a narrow groundwork of facts to the widest generalizations, so long as the complementary task of verification is thereafter duly


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 18 performed. Our business, then, is to complete what our predecessors began. We must sift and test their provisional findings: partly by the discovery of fresh evidence, together with a more accurate presentation of what is already to hand; and partly by a search for middle principles, such as are not to be obtained without intensive study of the details taken group by group instead of in the lump. Now the only natural groups are afforded by the various culture-areas of the world wherein specific developments have occurred in relative isolation. Hence the prime concern of students of savage culture at the present day is to determine how, within such natural provinces, cultural change has in each case proceeded under the joint stress of internal and external influences. But this plainly implies a closer correspondence with the actual ebb and flow of human development—in a word, a more dynamic treatment. As a sheer effect of intellectual perspective, the history of man takes on life and movement by being focussed in the history of a given people.

For the rest, it is plain that, as regards method, no essential difference exists between this branch of the science of culture and our own. Folklore is but social anthropology as applied within the home-circle. Thus there is no reason why some of those who to-day count as savages should not in course of time become well enough educated to study their own institutions in a scientific spirit. Were this to happen, the outcome would be folklore. Moreover, the chances presumably are that the native would carry out the enquiry with more sympathy and insight than the most intelligent of strangers. Meanwhile, whether future folklorists are likely to arise out of present "primitives" or not, the bare notion of such a possibility will serve to illustrate our own position in regard to folklore research. We are ex-savages with customs bearing visible traces of our ancient condition; and, further, being indigenous to the culture-area that we study, we are sympathetically


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 Rh aware how the drift on the surface answers to deep-moving currents in the social life. Here, then, if anywhere, namely, at home, in the midst of the historical movement in which we ourselves actively participate, we can hope to put anthropological principles to the proof in an intensive and crucial way. Studied thus from within, that apparent medley of functions in which the cultural life of a people consists will gradually reveal itself as a concrete expression of the universal laws of human nature.

So much, then, concerning the dynamic reference—the suggestion of a movement to be studied—which folklore needs to embody in the definition of its end. It remains, in the second place, to ask whether this requirement is not already satisfied by that patient maid-of-all-work, the concept of evolution. Now I have no quarrel with this historic notion. May it long hold its own, if only to prove what a wealth of inspiration may be vested in a single word—or, rather, a single regulative idea. Spencer established it, Darwin accepted it; and, whatever may be thought of its applicability to the cosmic process in general, it is at any rate well fitted to characterize biological process in respect of its prevailing tendency. Let us, then, be resolved to rate anthropology among the evolutionary sciences; ignoring recent attempts to identify evolution with such social development as is independent of intercourse with others—a barren abstraction to which its perpetrators are welcome.

Yet, although the ultimate suzerainty of the evolutionary principle be admitted, does not folklore also have occasion for a departmental formula of its own? After all, evolution stands for vital process only by a euphemism. Development has also its seamy side. There is degeneration to be reckoned with as well. Is the latter, then, the limitative conception that we are seeking? Is folklore to be merely the study of cultural decadence? Speaking for myself, I must own that such a prospect leaves me joyless. Years


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 20 ago there was a discussion—initiated, I think, by Mr. Stead—on the question, What are the best hundred books? If I rightly remember, Mr. Ruskin was for excluding Gibbon from the list; and the reason he gave was that he did not care to let his mind dwell on the "decline and fall" of anything. Just so my mind would draw cold comfort, I am afraid, from a pure pathology of institutions; and the thought that these were primarily the institutions of my own country could but serve to make me the more depressed. Even if survival be taken—wrongly, as I believe—to imply as such a moribund condition, revival, clearly, does nothing of the kind; nor can this cognate topic be neglected by us without being false to the facts as we find them.

It is true that this important subject of revival tends, perhaps, to be a little unpopular in folklore circles. Some prefer antiquities such as are only fit for a glass case. The genuine article for them is broken beyond the hope, or rather danger, of repair. They can appreciate a ruin, but hardly the standing edifice, however ancient and however tenderly restored. So it comes about that they construe the notion of degeneration in an inverted sense—topsy-turvywise. This may even, perhaps, be called the folklorist's fallacy. It is, however, by no means confined to our branch of anthropology. Thus I have heard an alltoo-enthusiastic totemist define a god as a degraded totem. Renovation, on this view, spells destruction. The rule that ghosts must not walk is applied to survivals. Let a stake be driven through them at the cross-roads rather than that they should thus unconscionably resurrect. More especially is it resented if revival lift the obsolescent custom to a higher plane of culture. Not only is it unseemly on the part of the unquiet spirit; it is snobbish into the bargain. But it will be urged that I misrepresent the attitude of the folklorist by ignoring his scientific motive. Since his one aim is to reconstruct the original


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 Rh institution out of its remaining fragments, these are really spoilt for his purpose if they turn out to have been readapted. I hope that it will not sound a paradox if I reply to this argument that the original institution in question never existed. Origins are relative, and the regress of conditions is endless. The supposed prototype is but an effect of historical mirage. However far we pursue it, the steadfast illusion keeps its distance, while shifting sands are about our feet as before. There never was a time, in short, when the interplay of old and new did not go on, exactly as it does now—when survival and revival, degeneration and regeneration, were not pulsating together in the rhythm of the social life. It is at least as necessary to read the present into the past as the past into the present. Let it, then, be an article of our creed to recognize the immanence of folklore. Old-fashioned stuff though it be, it belongs to the here and now; and so may at any moment renew its youth in the way that old fashions have. The motto of folklore as of fashion in dress is, Never say die!

Does the transvaluation of culture, then, supply the formula we want? I suggest that it will be found adequate. For it certainly conforms to the two criteria already laid down. Firstly, it is dynamic, connoting a process to be examined. Secondly, it has not the unilinear sense of such a term as degeneration, or even, if taken strictly, the "blessed word" evolution, but indicates process without limiting it to a single direction. It remains to show that it has a further merit, namely, that of signifying cultural process as studied from within. Thus for many purposes it might seem enough to speak of transformation. But change of form is as an object relative to a purely external view of things. It cannot, therefore, stand for the last word in anthropology, unless we are prepared to renounce our birthright of self-knowledge. Even when treated as facts—as they must be in the historical


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 22 retain their inwardness as expressions of the human will. Transvaluation then, not transformation, calls attention to the living soul of cultural process. It reminds us that our task is to study not merely its "how," but its "why."

It may be thought that function, by an enlargement of its biological meaning, can be made to cover the implications here claimed for value. But function, in common with form, had far better, I think, be confined to its proper sphere, namely, that of an exterior history. Besides, where function is at its vanishing-point, value of a sort may still be predicated. Take the case of a custom that to all appearance is utterly effete—the so-called fossil, in fact. It might fairly be judged functionless. Why, then, when so obviously we ought to be done with it, is it allowed to linger on? Because it has what may be termed prescriptive value. After all, the functional view of life is apt to be rather hard and narrow. Your conservative is the born liberal. The squirarchy is long-suffering with the gipsy; whereas bureaucratic efficiency would altogether deny him his idle place in the sun. Sheer customariness, in short, amounts to a kind of value—one that for the most part is apprehended subconsciously, yet is none the less inwardly satisfying. The appeal of the familiar counts among the great equilibrating forces of the moral world. It helps us to maintain a comfortable automatism; and, so long as we do this solely in regard to such things as matter little, we are the better enabled, through economy of effort, to concentrate on the things that matter much. Thus the antiquated custom, though it seem functionless on a sociological or external view, is perceived on a psychological estimate to have value, if only because it is restful—because it passively ministers to the easy-going, effort-saving side of our life.

It is not in value, however, so much as in change of value, that we are now immediately interested. One has


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 Rh to think of every morsel of folklore as subject to continual process. Such process is ultimately intelligible only in the light of the cultural life as a whole. On the other hand, the student of folklore has a special standpoint of his own that constrains him to regard the general culture-movement from one side—the under-side, as it were. His business is to observe the pivoting that takes place at his end of the shifting scale of values. He watches custom, belief, and story as they fluctuate in importance within this lower hemisphere; whereas what happens to them when they have passed beyond his horizon is the concern of another enquirer, namely, the historian of civilization in its more restricted sense. In a civilized country folklore begins where "clerk-lore" ends. As soon as the art of writing is well-established, the lettered and the relatively or wholly unlettered classes tend to follow different traditions in regard to all matters of culture. Even if we extend the notion of folklore so far as to attribute it likewise to peoples that are without a literature, the same criterion holds. For here a like distinction may be drawn between the traditions that severally depend on organized and on unorganized folk-memory; such organization being seen in the schooling of the novices at the initiation, the mnemonic exercises of bards and other official remembrancers, the insistence on verbal exactness in religious and legal formularies, and so on.

This view of folklore as belonging to an underworld suggests one of the two main heads under which the modes of cultural transvaluation may conveniently be classed. This first type of movement may be called change of standing, or, if a technical term be required, metataxis. It is, so to speak, a vertical process. The unfashionable bit of furniture is cast out of the parlour and goes downstairs to fill a corner of the kitchen or of the children's play-room. Or, conversely, there is remigration upstairs The Chippendale masterpiece emerges from the depths to oust in turn some Victorian eyesore. Now it must be


text:
The Existence of God

RELIGION has two principle enemies, Fanatism and Infidelity, or that which is called Atheism. The first requires to be combatted by reason and morality, the other by natural philosophy.

The existence of a God is the first dogma of the Theophilanthropists. It is upon this subject that I solicit your attention; for though it has been often treated of, and that most sublimely, the subject is inexhaustible; and there will always remain something to be said that has not been before advanced. I go therefore to open the subject, and to crave your attention to the end.

The Universe is the bible of a true Theophilanthropist. It is there that he reads of God. It is there that the proofs of his existence are to be sought and to be found. As to written or printed books, by whatever name they are called, they are the works of man's hands, and carry no evidence in themselves that God is the author of any of them. It must be in something that man could not make that we must seek evidence for our belief, and that something is the universe, the true Bible, the inimitable word of GOD.

Contemplating the universe, the whole system of creation, in this point of light, we shall discover, that all that which is called natural philosophy is properly a divine study. It is the study of God through his works; — it is the best study, bywhich we can arrive at a knowledge of his existence, and the only one by which we can gain a glimpse of his perfection.

Do we want to contemplate his power? We see it in the immensity of the Creation. Do we want to contemplate his wisdom? We see it in the unchangeable order by which the incomprehensible WHOLE is governed. Do we want to contemplate his munificence? We see it in the abundance with which he fills the earth? Do we want to contemplate his mercy? We see it in his not withholding that abundance even from the unthankful. In fine, do we want to know what GOD is? Search not written nor printed books, but the Scripture called the Creation.

It has been the error of the schools to teach astronomy, and all the other sciences, and subjects of natural philosophy, as accomplishments only; whereas they should be taught theologically, or with reference to the Being who is the author of them: for all the principles of science are of divine origin. Man cannot make, or invent, or contrive principles: he can only discover them; and he ought to look through the discovery to the author.

When we examine an extraordinary piece of machinery, an astonishing pile of architecture, a well executed statue, or an highly finished painting, where life and action are imitated, and habit only prevents our mistaking a surface of light and shade for cubical solidity; our ideas are naturally led to think of the extensive genius and talents of the artist. When we study the elements of geometry, we think of Euclid. When we speak of gravitation, we think of Newton. How then is it, that when we study the works of GOD in the creation, we stop short and do not think of GOD? It is from the error of the schools in having taught those subjects as accomplishments only, and thereby separated the study of them from the Being who is the author of them.

The schools have made the study of theology to consist in the study of opinions in written or printed books; whereas theology should be studied in the works or books of the creation. The study of theology in the books of opinions has often produced fanatism, rancour, and cruelty of temper; and from hence have proceeded the numerous persecutions, the fanatical quarrels, the religious burnings and massacres, that have desolated Europe. But the study of theology in the works of creation produces a direct contrary effect. The mind becomes at once enlightened and serene, a copy of the scene it beholds: information and adoration go hand in hand; and all the social faculties become enlarged.

The evil that has resulted from the error of the schools, in teaching natural philosophy as an accomplishment only has been that of generating the pupils a species of Atheism. Instead of looking through the works of creation to the Creator himself, the stop shor, and employ the knowledge they acquire to create doubts of his existence. They labour with studied ingenuity to ascribe every thing they behold to innate properties of matter, and jump over all the rest by saying, that matter is eternal.

Let us examine the subject; it is worth examining; for if we examine it through all its cases, the result will be, that the existence of a SUPERIOR CAUSE, or that which man calls GOD, will be discoverable by philosophical principles.

In the first place, admitting matter to have properties, as we see it has, the question still remains, how came matter by those properties? To this they will answer, that matter possessed those properties eternally. This is not solution, but assertion; and to deny it is equally as impossible of proof as to assert it. It is then necessary to go further; and therefore I say, — if there exist a circumstance that is not a property of matter, and without which the universe, or to speak in a limited degree, the solar system composed of planets and a sun, could not exist a moment; all the arguments of Atheism, drawn from properties of matter, and applied to account for the universe, will be overthrown, and the existence of a superior cause, or that which man calls God, becomes discoverable, as is before said, by natural philosophy.

I go now to shew that such a circumstance exists, and what it is.

The universe is composed of matter, and, as a system, is sustained by motion. Motion is not a property of matter, and without this motion, the solar system could not exist. Were motion a property of matter, that undiscovered and undiscoverable thing called perpetual motion would establish itself. It is because motion is not a property of matter, that perpetual motion is an impossibility in the hand of every being but that of the Creator of motion. When the pretenders to Atheism can produce perpetual motion, and not until then, they may expect to be credited.

The natural state of matter, as to place, is a state of rest. Motion or change of place, is the effect of an external cause acting upon matter. As to that faculty of matter that is called gravitation, it is the influence which two or more bodies have reciprocally on each other to unite and be at rest. Every thing which has hitherto been discovered, with respect to the motion of the planets in the system, relates only to the laws by which motion acts, and not to the cause of motion. Gravitation, so far from being the cause of motion to the planets that compose the solar system, would be the destruction of the solar system, were revolutionary motion to cease; for as the action of spinning upholds a top, the revolutionary motion upholds the planets in their orbits, and prevents them from gravitating and forming one mass with the sun. In one sense of the word, philosophy knows, and atheism says, that matter is in perpetual motion. But the motion here meant refers to the state of matter, and that only on the surface of the earth. It is either decomposition, which is continually destroying the form of bodies of matter, or recomposition, which renews that matter in the same or another form, as the decomposition of animal or vegetable substances enter into the composition of other bodies. But the motion that upholds the solar system is of an entire different kind, and is not a property of matter. It operates also to an entire different effect. It operates to perpetual preservation, and to prevent any change in the state of the system.

Giving then to matter all the properties which philosophy knows it has, or all that atheism ascribes to it, and can prove, and even supposing matter to be eternal, it will not account for the system of the universe, or of the solar system, because it will not account for motion, and it is motion that preserves it. When, therefore, we discover a circumstance of such immense importance, that without it the universe could not exist, and for which neither matter, nor any, nor all, the properties can account, we are by necessity forced into the rational comfortable belief of the existence of a cause superior to matter, and that cause man calls GOD.

As to that which is called nature, it is no other than the laws by which motion and action of every kind, with respect to unintelligible matter, is regulated. And when we speak of looking through nature up to nature's God, we speak philosophically the same rational language, as when we speak of looking through human laws up to the power that ordained them.

God is the power of first cause, nature is the law, and matter is the subject acted upon.

But infidelity by ascribing every phænomenon to properties of matter, conceives a system for which it cannot account, and yet it pretends to demonstration. It reasons from what it sees on the surface of the earth, but it does not carry itself on the solar system existing by motion. It sees upon the surface of the earth, but it does not carry itself on the solar system existing by motion. It sees upon the surface a perpetual decomposition and recomposition of matter. It sees that an oak produces an acorn, an acorn an oak, a bird an egg, an egg a bird, and so on. In things of this kind it sees something which it calls a natural cause, but none of the causes it sees is the cause of that motion which preserves the solar system.

Let us contemplate this wonderful and stupendous system consisting of matter, and existing by motion. It is not matter in a state of rest, nor in a state of decomposition or recomposition. It is matter systematized in perpetual orbicular or circular motion. As a system that motion is the life of it; as animation is life to an animal body, deprive the system of motion, and, as a system, it must expire. Who then breathed into the system the life of motion? What power impelled the planets to move since motion is not a property of the matter of which they are composed? If we contemplate the immense velocity of this motion, our wonder becomes increased, and our adoration enlarges itself in the same proportion. To instance only one of the planets, that of the earth we inhabit, its distance from the sun, the centre of the orbits of all the planets, is, according to observations of the transit of the planet Venus, about one hundred million miles; consequently, the diameter of the orbit, or circle in which the earth moves round the sun, is double that distance; and the measure of the circumference of the orbit, taken as three times its diameter, is six hundred million miles. The earth performs this voyage in three hundred and sixty-five days and some hours, and consequently moves at a rate of more than one million six hundred thousand miles every twenty-four hours.

Where will infidelity, where will atheism, find cause for this astonishing velocity of motion, never ceasing, never varying, and which is the preservation of the earth in its orbit? It is not by reasoning from an acorn to an oak, from and egg to a bird, or from any change in the state of matter on the surface of the earth, that this can be accounted for. Its cause is not to be found in matter, nor in any thing we call nature. The atheist who affects to reason, and the fanatic who rejects reason, plunge themselves alike into inextricable difficulties. The one perverts the sublime and enlightening study of natural philosophy into a deformity of absurdities by not reasoning to the end. The other loses himself in the obscurity of metaphysical theories, and dishonours the Creator, by treating the study of his works with contempt. The one is a half-rational of whom there is some hope, the other a visionary to whom we must be charitable.

When at first thought we think of a Creator, our ideas appear to us undefined and confused; but it we reason philosophically, those ideas can be easily arranged and simplified. It is a Being whose power is equal to his will. Observe the nature of the will of man. It is of an infinite quality. We cannot conceive the possibility of limits to the will. Observe, on the other hand, how exceedingly limited is his power of acting compared with the nature of his will. Suppose the power equal to the will and man would be a God. He would will himself eternal, and be so. He could will a creation and that could make it. In this progressive reasoning, we see in the nature of the will of man, half of that which we conceive in thinking of God, add the other half, and we have the whole idea of a being who could make the universe, and sustain it by perpetual motion; because he could create that motion.

We know nothing of the capacity of the will of animals; but we know a great deal of the difference of their powers. For example, how numerous are the degrees, and how immense is the difference of power, from a mite to a man. Since then every thing we see below us shews a progression of power, where is the difficulty in supposing that there is, at the summit of all things, a Being in whom an infinity of power unites with the infinity of the will. When this simple idea presents itself to our mind, we have the idea of a perfect Being, that man calls God.

It is comfortable to live under the belief of the existence of an infinite protecting power; and it is an addition to that comfort to know that such a belief is not a mere conceit of the imagination, as many of the theories that is called religious are; nor a belief founded only on tradition or received opinion, but is a belief deducible by the action of reason upon the things that compose the system of the universe; a belief arising out of visible facts, and so demonstrable is the truth of this belief, that if no such belief had existed, the persons who now controvert it would have been the persons who would have produced and propagated it; because, by beginning to reason they would have been led to reason progressively to the end, and thereby have discovered that matter and the properties it has will not account for the system of the universe, and that there must necessarily be a superior cause.

It was the excess to which imaginary systems of religion had been carried, and the intolerance, persecutions, burnings, and massacres they occasioned, that first induced certain persons to propagate infidelity; thinking, that upon the whole, it was better not to believe at all, than to believe a multitude of things and complicated creeds that occasioned so much mischief in the world. But those days are past, persecution hath ceased, and the antidote then set up against it has no longer even the shadow of apology. We profess, and we proclaim in peace, the pure, unmixed, comfortable and rational belief of a God, as manifested to us in the universe. We do this without any apprehension of that belief being made a cause of persecution as other beliefs have been, or of suffering persecution ourselves. To God, and not to men, are all men to account for their belief.

It has been well observed, at the first institution of this society, that the dogmas it professes to believe, are from the commencement of the world; that they are not novelties, but are confessedly the basis of all systems of religion, however numerous and contradictory they may be. All men in the outset of the religion they profess are Theophlanthropists. It is impossible to form any system of religion without building upon those principles, and therefore they are not sectarian principles, unless we suppose a sect composed of all the world.

I have said in the course of this discourse, that the study of natural philosophy is a divine study, because it is the study of the works of God in the creation. If we consider theology upon this ground, what an extensive field of improvement in things both divine and human opens itself before us. All the principles of science are of divine origin. It was not man that invented the principles on which astronomy, and every branch of mathematics, are founded and studied. It was not man that gave properties to the circle and the triangle. — Those principles are eternal and immutable. We see in them the unchangeable nature of the Divinity. We see in them immortality, and immortality existing after the material figures that express those properties are dissolved in dust.

The society is at present in its infancy, and its means are small; but I wish to hold in view the subject I allude to, and instead of teaching the philosophical branches of learning as ornamental accomplishments only, as they have hitherto been taught to teach them in a manner that shall combine theological knowledge with scientific instruction; to do this to the best advantage, some instruments will be necessary for the purpose of explanation, of which the Society is not yet possessed. But as the views of this society extend to public good as well as to that of the individual, and as its principles can have no enemies, means may devised to procure them.

If we unite to the present instruction a series of lectures on the ground I have mentioned, we shall, in the first place, render theology the most delightful and entertaining of all studies. In the next place, we shall give scientific instruction to those who could not otherwise obtain it. The mechanic of every profession will there be taught the mathematical principles necessary to render him a proficient in his art. The cultivator will there see developed the principles of vegetation; while, at the same time, they will be led to see the hand of God in all things.

title: The Existence of God


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Hall though after his death, on 22 Jan. 1713, he was buried in the cloisters, near his father.

 HALL, JACOB (fl. 1668), rope-dancer, distinguished himself as a performer on the tight-rope. In 1668 he attained his greatest popularity. The court encouraged him, and he described himself as 'sworn servant to his Majestie.' Lady Castlemain, afterwards Duchess of Cleveland, to avenge herself on Charles for neglecting her, fell, according to Pepys and Grammont, 'mightily in love' with him. In April 1668 he was a regular visitor at her house, and received a salary from her. He appears to have given his earliest entertainment in a booth at Smithfield, in connection with Bartholomew Fair. Pepys witnessed his performance there on 28 Aug. 1668, and described his 'dancing of the ropes' as 'a thing worth seeing, and mightily followed.' On 21 Sept. 1668 Pepys attended again, and afterwards met Hall at a tavern. Hall told Pepys that he had often fallen, but had never broken a limb. 'He seems,' Pepys adds, 'a mighty strong man.' A placard was issued describing the performances of 'himself and those of Mr. Richard Lancashire, with several others of their companies.' Hall and his friends promised' excellent dancing and vaulting on the ropes, with variety of rare feats of activity and agility of body upon the stage, as doing of somersets and flipflaps, flying over thirty rapiers, and over several men's heads, and also flying through several hoops.' Hall finally challenged 'all others whatsoever, whether Englishmen or strangers, to do the like with them for twenty pounds, or what more they please' (Notes and Queries, 2nd ser. vii. 62). Subsequently Hall began to build a booth in Charing Cross, and was committed to prison for continuing its erection after the local authorities had ordered its demolition. But his influence with the king's mistress enabled him to complete the booth. He also erected a stage in Lincoln's Inn Fields, but the inhabitants intervened again, with the result that his performances there were inhibited. On 4 Sept. 1679 William Blaythwaite, in a letter to Sir Robert Southwell, mentioned that he had just witnessed Hall's exhibitions of agility. Robert Wild, in his 'Rome Rhymed to Death,' 1683; Dryden, in his epilogue to Nat. Lee's 'Mithridates;' Dr. John King, in his 'Collection of Riddles,' refer to his skill, and in the second edition of the collection entitled 'Wit and Drollery' (1682) he is described as still delighting London with his jumping.

A picture of Hall, heavily dressed on a tight-rope, with a balancing rod in his hands, forms the frontispiece to 'News from Bartholomew Fair, or the World's Mad.' A fine portrait by Van Oost of a man richly dressed was adopted, without much authority, as a representation of Hall in early editions of Hamilton's 'Memoirs of Grammont.'

 HALL, JAMES (d. 1612), navigator, a native of Hull, made four voyages to Greenland, and wrote an account of the first two. He made his first voyage in 1605, when he was chief pilot on an expedition sent by Christian IV of Denmark to discover the lost colony of Greenland. They landed on the western coast near the modern Holsteinborg, and Hall describes the Eskimos as 'a kind of Samoydes worshipping the sun,' and gives their mode of deceiving the seals by wearing sealskin garments. He went again on the same quest in 1606 as pilot under Admiral Lindenov, when he saw the natives' winter houses, made of whalebones and covered with earth. After joining a third Danish expedition to Greenland in 1607, he returned to England with a Scarborough youth, William Huntriss, who had accompanied him on all his voyages, and had a special allowance for his seamanship from Christian IV. Hall persuaded four rich merchants to join him in fitting out an English expedition for mineral ores, and sailed for Greenland on his fourth and last voyage, in command of two ships, the Patience and Heartsease, in 1612. The famous William Baffin [q. v.] was pilot of the Patience, and wrote an account (published by Purchas) of this, Hall's last voyage. The party reached Cockin Sound on 8 July, and on the 21st Hall was mortally wounded by an Eskimo, in revenge probably for having carried off or slain some natives on a previous voyage. Hall died 22 July 1612, his last wishes being that Barker, master of the Heartsease, should succeed him as commander, and Huntriss take Barker's post. By his own desire he was buried on an island, not at sea. Purchas gives accounts of Hall's first two voyages, somewhat abbreviated, and says he also possessed an account of the third voyage, illustrated by Josiah Hubert, but since the ship was forced to turn back he does not print it. Baffin's journal is also in Purchas.


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  [q. v.] and other covenanting ministers. Conventicles, or field meetings, were held on his estate. Its seclusion and proximity to the border hills, where refuge could easily be found in case of surprise by the dragoons, admirably adapted it for this purpose. There [q. v.] was licensed to preach the gospel.

Hall was one of four covenanting elders who, at a council of war at Shawhead Muir, on 18 June 1679, were appointed, with Cargill, Douglas, King, and Barclay, to draw up a statement of 'Causes of the Lord's wrath against the Land.' He was also one of the commanding officers of the covenanters' army from the skirmish at Drumclog till their defeat at Bothwell Bridge (June 1679). The blue silk banner carried before him in battle is still in possession of a family in Moffat, Dumfriesshire, On 25 June 1679 the Scottish privy council ordered a search for Hall. But he escaped to Holland. Returning after three months, he was surprised by Middleton, governor of Blackness Castle, while entering a house in Queensferry in company with Cargill (3 June 1680). Hall, being 'a bold and brisk man,' struggled with the governor, and Cargill escaped. A blow on the head disabled Hall, but with friendly assistance he managed to get away towards Edinburgh. Fainting on the road, he was carried into a house near Echlin, where he was captured by General or Dalzell [q. v.] of Binns and a company of the king's guards. He died while being conveyed to Edinburgh by the soldiers. His body was carried to the Canongate Tolbooth, and lay there three days, when it was interred at night by his friends. On his person was found a rough draft of a document, afterwards published under the name of 'The Queensferry Paper,' in which the subscribers renounced allegiance to the existing king and government, and engaged to defend their rights and privileges, natural, civil, and divine. (1763-1824) [q. v.] was a great-grandson.

 HALL, HENRY, the elder (1655?–1707), organist and composer, was born about 1655. His father, Captain Henry Hall, was connected with Windsor between 1657 and 1675 ( and, Annals of Windsor, ii. 281 et seq.) Hall was a chorister of the Chapel Royal, and, as it appears from his lines printed in Purcell's 'Orpheus Britannicus,' a fellow-student with Purcell, under Blow. In 1674 Hall was admitted lay vicar and succeeded Coleby as organist of Exeter Cathedral; in 1679 he was elected vicar choral, and in 1688 organist, of Hereford Cathedral. He died there on 30 March 1707, and was buried in the cloisters of the vicars choral. Tudway has preserved music by Hall in vols. iv. and vi. of his collection: this includes 'Morning and Evening Services in E flat' (of which the Te Deum has been printed), and anthems, 'Let God arise,' clap your hands,' 'By the waters of Babylon,' 'Comfort ye,' and 'The Souls of the Righteous.' An anthem, 'Blessed be the Lord my strength,' is in the British Museum (Addit. MS. 17840, p. 273). Hall was referred to by contemporary writers not only as an excellent organist and a sound musician, but also as a staunch upholder of the dignity of art. The duets, 'As Phœbus' and 'Beauty the painful mother's prayer' (Deliciœ Musicœ, 1695); the song, 'In vain I strive,' and others; an opera on the subject of the marriage of the Doge of Venice and the Adriatic (mentioned by Duncombe as an example of Hall's humour), may possibly have proceeded from the lighter and more ingenious talent of his son the younger [q. v.]

Another son, (d. 1700), was a violinist, and in 1692 and until 1700 one of the musicians in ordinary to the king. He died in 1700, and was buried at Richmond, Surrey. An inscription on his gravestone proclaims him 'a superior violin.' His compositions are few and unimportant.

 HALL, HENRY, the younger (d. 1713), organist, son of the elder [q. v.], succeeded his father in 1707 as organist of Hereford Cathedral. He is said to have composed little or no music, applying himself to verse-making. Such trifles as 'To Mr. R. C., a dun;' 'All in the Land of Cider;' 'Catch on the Vigo Expedition,' in 'The Grove,' 1721; and 'A Ballad on the Jubilee,' in 'Pope's Miscellany' (Lintot, 5th edit., 1727, vol. ii.) were admired for their ease and brilliancy in an age that was not repelled by their coarseness. Hall's commendatory poem prefixed to Blow's 'Amphion' is a pleasing example of his writing. There is no mention in the 'Fasti Herefordenses' of the election of the younger Hall to the office of vicar choral,


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 24 admitted that on the whole a great deal more sinks, than is ever destined to rise, in status-value. The downward way threatens utter extinction; and the history of culture bears witness to an unremitting bustle of spring-cleaning, such as leads not only to the abandonment of worn-out devices, but also, as Dr. Rivers has shown, to the untimely loss of useful arts. Indeed, it may be roundly assumed that every denizen of the poorhouse of folklore has seen better days. This is true even when—as, perhaps, is not so often as we are ready to suppose—a custom of the folk can be proved to be a genuine survival of savage times. In that case it certainly had a lesser distance to fall; but, inasmuch as it once formed part of a dominant culture, it has at least to this extent lost caste. Meanwhile, it is by attending carefully to the facts of transvaluation that we are likely to overcome the sluggard tendency to refer folklore in the mass either to a pre-existent savage condition, or, worse still, to the abiding savage instinct of the crowd. As is well known to the medievalist, a great many of the tales and fables, the proverbs, the prognostics, the leechcraft prescriptions, and so forth, in vogue to-day among the folk are but the debased product of yesterday’s official wisdom.

The opposite process which Dieterich has termed “revolution from below,” though not so general and consequently not so obvious, must none the less be given its due. It is especially apt to occur in conjunction with what the same writer calls “revolution from without.” An invading people, let us suppose, which possesses a higher culture, or a culture that is at any rate secure in its predominancy, engages more or less consciously in a policy of race-amalgamation. Being in a position to pick and choose, it can dignify certain elements of the local


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 Rh custom at the expense of others; and it may well be that such patronage is lent rather to the institutions of the lower orders, who have to be conciliated as future subjects, than to those of the former aristocracy which is once for all dethroned. In such a case there occurs a process which may be named devulgarization. An illustration is to be found in the absorption of primitive cult-elements by Hinduism; accompanied as it was by the expurgation of grosser details, the invention of justificatory myths, and similar applications of patrician varnish. Apart, too, from conditions of culture-contact—in itself a vast subject, since it may take many other forms than the one just considered—the history of religion is full of revivals that force their way up from below: the reason being that religious experience is by no means a monopoly of the ruling classes, though these are usually not slow to exploit, if they dare not suppress, such popular transports. Or, again, good examples of this kind of transvaluation are to be obtained from the study of folktales; which constantly work their way up to the level of polite society, though not without submitting to an obsequious change of garb. Finally, be it remembered that there is an underworld in which all have been reared, namely, the nursery. It may, thanks to a nurse of the old-fashioned type, have direct relations with the other underworld of peasant folklore; but in any case it has an analogous tradition of its own, and one as conservative as any known to man. Here old-time values retain their spell. We shudder at ogres, and wish to dance with the fairies. These values, moreover, grow up with us, and in variously transmuted forms enrich adult life; quickening the sense of wonder, the spirit of adventure, the love of simple and vital things. The function of folklore in education is a subject from which a genius might strike fire.

The second main type of cultural transvaluation is change of meaning, or, as it may be phrased, metalepsis.


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 26 This is, as it were, a horizontal process. If the main interests of life be conceived to stretch longitudinally from pole to pole of the sphere of culture, movement across these lines can, for analytic purposes, be distinguished from movement up or down. A familiar illustration of this kind of change is afforded by the transference of a theme from religion to art. A discarded rite colours an incident in a folk-story; a mask, once of sacred import, decorates the actor in a secular play; a charm against the evil eye becomes an ornament; and so on. What happens in such a case? Regarding it from the psychological standpoint appropriate to the study of value, we may say that a new interest, or fresh system of meanings, has assimilated—or, as a psychologist might put it technically, has apperceived—the theme in question. Now, whereas it was easy to apply the notion of value to the other type of process termed change of standing, since standing and social repute almost come to the same thing, it is not so obvious how change of meaning—that is, assimilation by a new interest—is to be translated offhand into terms of better and worse. Does it necessarily imply decadence, for example, if a custom be dropped by religion and taken up by art? Surely a wise man will say that it depends on the kind of religion and the kind of art involved. Thus it is, to say the least, a moot point whether an amulet is degraded or advanced by being reinterpreted as a trinket. There is, however, one way in which the scientific historian can roughly estimate the comparative value of the interests that are constitutive of a given state of culture. He can class them as life-preserving or merely life-adorning, in so far as they do or do not appear to have a practical and utilitarian bearing on the struggle for existence. On the one hand, government and law, cult and morals, war and commerce, the useful arts and sciences are, plainly, so many nerve-centres of the social organization. On the other hand, what of the speculative sciences


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 Rh and fine arts, the so-called humaner letters, together with the other recreations and amenities of the social life? Are they not to be reckoned among the luxuries of the leisured class? The folk must be content to live; they cannot, in the Aristotelian sense, live well. Is it not, then, a sign of loss of value past cure if, at their level of penurious existence, a once helpful observance be relegated to the charge of an unpractical interest—if, in short, they merely sing about what they used to do?

Now it has already been admitted that in the underworld of folklore the prevailing movement is downhill. It may well be, then, that the process just described—it might perhaps be termed depragmatization—is on the whole suggestive of decline. That the institution should first of all disappear; that the associated belief should thereupon persist for a while as a floating superstition; and that, finally, all that remains of either institution or belief should be some memory of it preserved in story: all this represents a familiar mode of cultural degeneration. But it is only fair to remember that, whereas institutions are easily upset, beliefs die hard; and are perhaps secretly biding their time in order that later they may reclothe themselves in an institutional form. For example, we have forcibly put down thuggism and suttee in India, as also twin-murder, the poison-ordeal, and the smelling-out of witches in Africa; but who knows whether, if European control were removed, such barbarities would be found to have lost their appeal? Once more, oral tradition, even when it has come to treat former institutions and beliefs mainly as material for wonder-tales, is capable of keeping alive for ages those germinal ideas and sentiments out of which a whole culture may be reproduced. More especially is this so if the inheritors of the lore differ in language and race from the governing stock; and, in any case, whereas the dominant peoples usually make good learners—the