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214 be, fussy, pompous, and openly influenced in his official dealings with his form by his own private likes and dislikes. To Mr. Downing, Mike was simply an unamiable loafer, who did nothing for the school and apparently had none of the instincts which should be implanted in the healthy boy. Mr. Downing was rather strong on the healthy boy.

The two lived in a state of simmering hostility, punctuated at intervals by crises, which usually resulted in Lower Borlock having to play some unskilled labourer in place of their star batsman, employed doing "overtime."

One of the most acute of these crises, and the most important, in that it was the direct cause of Mike's appearance in Sedleigh cricket, had to do with the third weekly meeting of the School Fire Brigade.

It may be remembered that this well-supported institution was under Mr. Downing's special care. It was, indeed, his pet hobby and the apple of his eye.

Just as you had to join the Archæological Society to secure the esteem of Mr. Outwood, so to become a member of the Fire Brigade was a safe passport to the regard of Mr. Downing. To show a keenness for cricket was good, but to join the Fire Brigade was best of all.

The Brigade was carefully organised. At its head was Mr. Downing, a sort of high priest; under him was a captain, and under the captain a vice-captain. The two officials were those sportive allies, Stone and Robinson, of Outwood's house, who, having perceived at very early date the gorgeous opportunities for ragging which the Brigade offered to its members, had joined young and worked their way up.

Under them were the rank and file, about thirty in all, of whom perhaps seven were earnest workers, who looked on the Brigade in the right, or Downing, spirit. The rest were entirely frivolous.

The weekly meetings were always full of life and excitement.

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Rh At this point it is as well to introduce Sammy to the reader.

Sammy, short for Sampson, was a young bull-terrier belonging to Mr. Downing. If it is possible for a man to have two apples of his eye, Sammy was the other. He was a large, light-hearted dog with a white coat, an engaging expression, the tongue of an ant-eater, and a manner which was a happy blend of hurricane and circular saw. He had long legs, a tenor voice, and was apparently made of india-rubber.

Sammy was a great favourite in the school, and a particular friend of Mike's, the Wrykynian being always a firm ally of every dog he met after two minutes' acquaintance.

In passing, Jellicoe owned a clock-work rat, much in request during French lessons.

We will now proceed to the painful details.

The meetings of the Fire Brigade were held after school in Mr. Downing's form-room. The proceedings always began in the same way, by the reading of the minutes of the last meeting. After that the entertainment varied according to whether the members happened to be fertile or not in ideas for the disturbing of the peace.

To-day they were in very fair form.

As soon as Mr. Downing had closed the minute-book, Wilson, of the School House, held up his hand.

"Well, Wilson?"

"Please, sir, couldn't we have a uniform for the Brigade?"

"A uniform?" Mr. Downing pondered.

"Red, with green stripes, sir."

Red, with a thin green stripe, was the Sedleigh colour.

"Shall I put it to the vote, sir?" asked Stone.

"One moment, Stone."

"Those in favour of the motion move to the left, those against it to the right."

A scuffling of feet, a slamming of desk-lids and an upset blackboard, and the meeting had divided.

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216 Mr. Downing rapped irritably on his desk.

"Sit down!" he said, "sit down! I won't have this noise and disturbance. Stone, sit down—Wilson, get back to your place."

"Please, sir, the motion is carried by twenty-five votes to six."

"Please, sir, may I go and get measured this evening?"

"Please, sir"

"Si-lence! The idea of a uniform is, of course, out of the question."

"Oo-oo-oo-oo, sir-r-r!"

"Be quiet! Entirely out of the question. We cannot plunge into needless expense. Stone, listen to me. I cannot have this noise and disturbance! Another time when a point arises it must be settled by a show of hands. Well, Wilson?"

"Please, sir, may we have helmets?"

"Very useful as a protection against falling timbers, sir," said Robinson.

"I don't think my people would be pleased, sir, if they knew I was going out to fires without a helmet," said Stone.

The whole strength of the company: "Please, sir, may we have helmets?"

"Those in favour" began Stone.

Mr. Downing banged on his desk. "Silence! Silence!! Silence!!! Helmets are, of course, perfectly preposterous."

"Oo-oo-oo-oo, sir-r-r!"

"But, sir, the danger!"

"Please, sir, the falling timbers!"

The Fire Brigade had been in action once and once only in the memory of man, and that time it was a haystack which had burnt itself out just as the rescuers had succeeded in fastening the hose to the hydrant.

"Silence!"

"Then, please, sir, couldn't we have an honour cap? It wouldn't be expensive, and it would be just as good as

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Rh a helmet for all the timbers that are likely to fall on our heads."

Mr. Downing smiled a wry smile.

"Our Wilson is facetious," he remarked frostily.

"Sir, no, sir! I wasn't facetious! Or couldn't we have footer-tops, like the first fifteen have? They"

"Wilson, leave the room!"

"Sir, please, sir!"

"This moment, Wilson. And," as he reached the door, "do me one hundred lines."

A pained "OO-oo-oo, sir-r-r," was cut off by the closing door.

Mr. Downing proceeded to improve the occasion. "I deplore this growing spirit of flippancy," he said. "I tell you I deplore it! It is not right! If this Fire Brigade is to be of solid use, there must be less of this flippancy. We must have keenness. I want you boys above all to be keen. I— What is that noise?"

From the other side of the door proceeded a sound like water gurgling from a bottle, mingled with cries half-suppressed, as if somebody were being prevented from uttering them by a hand laid over his mouth. The sufferer appeared to have a high voice.

There was a tap at the door and Mike walked in. He was not alone. Those near enough to see, saw that he was accompanied by Jellicoe's clock-work rat, which moved rapidly over the floor in the direction of the opposite wall.

"May I fetch a book from my desk, sir?" asked Mike.

"Very well—be quick, Jackson; we are busy."

Being interrupted in one of his addresses to the Brigade irritated Mr. Downing.

The muffled cries grew more distinct.

"What—is—that—noise?" shrilled Mr. Downing.

"Noise, sir?" asked Mike, puzzled.

"I think it's something outside the window, sir," said Stone helpfully.

"A bird, I think, sir," said Robinson.

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218 "Don't be absurd!" snapped Mr. Downing. "It's outside the door. Wilson!"

"Yes, sir?" said a voice "off."

"Are you making that whining noise?"

"Whining noise, sir? No, sir, I'm not making a whining noise."

"What sort of noise, sir?" inquired Mike, as many Wrykynians had asked before him. It was a question invented by Wrykyn for use in just such a case as this.

"I do not propose," said Mr. Downing acidly, "to imitate the noise; you can all hear it perfectly plainly. It is a curious whining noise."

"They are mowing the cricket field, sir," said the invisible Wilson. "Perhaps that's it."

"It may be one of the desks squeaking, sir," put in Stone. "They do sometimes."

"Or somebody's boots, sir," added Robinson.

"Silence! Wilson?"

"Yes, sir?" bellowed the unseen one.

"Don't shout at me from the corridor like that. Come in."

"Yes, sir!"

As he spoke the muffled whining changed suddenly to a series of tenor shrieks, and the india-rubber form of Sammy bounded into the room like an excited kangaroo.

Willing hands had by this time deflected the clockwork rat from the wall to which it had been steering, and pointed it up the alley-way between the two rows of desks. Mr. Downing, rising from his place, was just in time to see Sammy with a last leap spring on his prey and begin worrying it.

Chaos reigned.

"A rat!" shouted Robinson.

The twenty-three members of the Brigade who were not earnest instantly dealt with the situation, each in the manner that seemed proper to him. Some leaped on to forms, others flung books, all shouted. It was a stirring, bustling scene.

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 and feet of the dead man. When the first woman cut off the hair, she wept, and when she stopped cutting, she sung. Round the room there were many vases of porcelain, with embers in them, on which, from time to time, they threw myrrh, storax, and benzoin, which gave out a good and strong smell in the room. These ceremonies last for five or six days, during which the corpse is kept in the house, and I believe that they anoint it with oil of camphor to preserve it. They afterwards put it in a chest, closed with wooden bolts, and place it in an enclosed place covered with logs of wood. The islanders told us that every evening towards midnight, there used to come to the city, a black bird of the size of a crow, which perching on the houses whistled, and caused all the dogs to howl, and these double cries lasted four or five hours. They would never tell us the cause of that phenomenon, of which we also were witnesses.

Friday, the 26th of April, Zula, who was one of the principal men or chiefs of the island of Matan, sent to the captain a son of his with two goats to make a present of them, and to say that if he did not do all that he had promised, the cause of that was another chief named Silapulapu, who would not in any way obey the King of Spain, and had prevented him from doing so: but that if the captain would send him the following night one boat full of men to give him assistance, he would fight and subdue his rival. On the receipt of this message, the captain decided to go himself with three boats. We entreated him much not to go to this enterprise in person, but he as a good shepherd would not abandon his flock.

We set out from Zubu at midnight, we were sixty men armed with corslets and helmets; there were with us the Christian king, the prince, and some of the chief men, and many others divided among twenty or thirty balangai. We arrived at Matan three hours before daylight. The captain before attacking wished to attempt gentle means, and sent


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Rh Sammy had by this time disposed of the clock-work rat, and was now standing, like Marius, among the ruins barking triumphantly.

The banging on Mr. Downing's desk resembled thunder. It rose above all the other noises till in time they gave up the competition and died away.

Mr. Downing shot out orders, threats, and penalties with the rapidity of a Maxim gun.

"Stone, sit down! Donovan, if you do not sit down, you will be severely punished. Henderson, one hundred lines for gross disorder! Windham, the same! Go to your seat, Vincent. What are you doing, Broughton-Knight? I will not have this disgraceful noise and disorder! The meeting is at an end; go quietly from the room, all of you. Jackson and Wilson, remain. Quietly, I said, Durand! Don't shuffle your feet in that abominable way."

Crash!

"Wolferstan, I distinctly saw you upset that blackboard with a movement of your hand—one hundred lines. Go quietly from the room, everybody."

The meeting dispersed.

"Jackson and Wilson, come here. What's the meaning of this disgraceful conduct? Put that dog out of the room, Jackson."

Mike removed the yelling Sammy and shut the door on him.

"Well, Wilson?"

"Please, sir, I was playing with a clock-work rat"

"What business have you to be playing with clockwork rats?"

"Then I remembered," said Mike, "that I had left my Horace in my desk, so I came in"

"And by a fluke, sir," said Wilson, as one who tells of strange things, "the rat happened to be pointing in the same direction, so he came in, too."

"I met Sammy on the gravel outside and he followed me."

"I tried to collar him, but when you told me to come

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220 in, sir, I had to let him go, and he came in after the rat."

It was plain to Mr. Downing that the burden of sin was shared equally by both culprits. Wilson had supplied the rat, Mike the dog; but Mr. Downing liked Wilson and disliked Mike. Wilson was in the Fire Brigade, frivolous at times, it was true, but nevertheless a member. Also he kept wicket for the school. Mike was a member of the Archæological Society, and had refused to play cricket.

Mr. Downing allowed these facts to influence him in passing sentence.

"One hundred lines, Wilson," he said. "You may go."

Wilson departed with the air of a man who has had a great deal of fun, and paid very little for it.

Mr. Downing turned to Mike. "You will stay in on Saturday afternoon, Jackson; it will interfere with your Archæological studies, I fear, but it may teach you that we have no room at Sedleigh for boys who spend their time loafing about and making themselves a nuisance. We are a keen school; this is no place for boys who do nothing but waste their time. That will do, Jackson."

And Mr. Downing walked out of the room. In affairs of this kind a master has a habit of getting the last word.

say misfortunes never come singly. As Mike sat brooding over his wrongs in his study, after the Sammy incident, Jellicoe came into the room, and, without preamble, asked for the loan of a sovereign.

When one has been in the habit of confining one's lendings and borrowings to sixpences and shillings, a request for a sovereign comes as something of a blow.

"What on earth for?" asked Mike.

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Rh "I say, do you mind if I don't tell you? I don't want to tell anybody. The fact is, I'm in a beastly hole."

"Oh, sorry," said Mike. "As a matter of fact, I do happen to have a quid. You can freeze on to it, if you like. But it's about all I have got, so don't be shy about paying it back."

Jellicoe was profuse in his thanks, and disappeared in a cloud of gratitude.

Mike felt that Fate was treating him badly. Being kept in on Saturday meant that he would.be unable to turn out for Little Borlock against Claythorpe, the return match. In the previous game he had scored ninety-eight, and there was a lob bowler in the Claythorpe ranks whom he was particularly anxious to meet again. Having to yield a sovereign to Jellicoe—why on earth did the man want all that?—meant that, unless a carefully worded letter to his brother Bob at Oxford had the desired effect, he would be practically penniless for weeks.

In a gloomy frame of mind he sat down to write to Bob, who was playing regularly for the 'Varsity this season, and only the previous week had made a century against Sussex, so might be expected to be in a sufficiently softened mood to advance the needful. (Which, it may be stated at once, he did, by return of post.)

Mike was struggling with the opening sentences of this letter—he was never a very ready writer—when Stone and Robinson burst into the room.

Mike put down his pen, and got up. He was in warlike mood, and welcomed the intrusion. If Stone and Robinson wanted battle, they should have it.

But the motives of the expedition were obviously friendly. Stone beamed. Robinson was laughing.

"You're a sportsman," said Robinson.

"What did he give you?" asked Stone.

They sat down, Robinson on the table, Stone in Psmith's deck-chair. Mike's heart warmed to them. The little I disturbance in the dormitory was a thing of the past, done with, forgotten, contemporary with Julius Cæsar.

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222 He felt that he, Stone and Robinson must learn to know and appreciate one another.

There was, as a matter of fact, nothing much wrong with Stone and Robinson. They were just ordinary raggers of the type found at every public school, small and large. They were absolutely free from brain. They had a certain amount of muscle, and a vast store of animal spirits. They looked on school life purely as a vehicle for ragging. The Stones and Robinsons are the swashbucklers of the school world. They go about, loud and boisterous, with a whole-hearted and cheerful indifference to other people's feelings, treading on the toes of their neighbour and shoving him off the pavement, and always with an eye wide open for any adventure. As to the kind of adventure, they are not particular so long as it promises excitement. Sometimes they go through their whole school career without accident. More often they run up against a snag in the shape of some serious-minded and muscular person who objects to having his toes trodden on and being shoved off the pavement, and then they usually sober down, to the mutual advantage of themselves and the rest of the community.

One's opinion of this type of youth varies according to one's point of view. Small boys whom they had occasion to kick, either from pure high spirits or as a punishment for some slip from the narrow path which the ideal small boy should tread, regarded Stone and Robinson as bullies of the genuine "Eric" and "St. Winifred's" brand. Masters were rather afraid of them. Adair had a smouldering dislike for them. They were useful at cricket, but apt not to take Sedleigh as seriously as he could have wished.

As for Mike, he now found them pleasant company, and began to get out the tea-things.

"Those Fire Brigade meetings," said Stone, "are a rag. You can do what you like, and you never get more than a hundred lines."

"Don't you!" said Mike. "I got Saturday afternoon."

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Rh "What!"

"Is Wilson in too?"

"No. He got a hundred lines."

Stone and Robinson were quite concerned.

"What a beastly swindle!"

"That's because you don't play cricket. Old Downing lets you do what you like if you join the Fire Brigade and play cricket."

"'We are, above all, a keen school,'" quoted Stone. "Don't you ever play?"

"I have played a bit," said Mike.

"Well, why don't you have a shot? We aren't such flyers here. If you know one end of a bat from the other, you could get into some sort of a team. Were you at school anywhere before you came here?"

"I was at Wrykyn."

"Why on earth did you leave?" asked Stone. "Were you sacked?"

"No. My pater took me away."

"Wrykyn?" said Robinson. "Are you any relation of the Jacksons there—J. W. and the others?"

"Brother."

"What!"

"Well, didn't you play at all there?"

"Yes," said Mike, "I did. I was in the team three years, and I should have been captain this year, if I'd stopped on."

There was a profound and gratifying sensation. Stone gaped, and Robinson nearly dropped his tea-cup.

Stone broke the silence.

"But I mean to say—look here! What I mean is, why aren't you playing? Why don't you play now?"

"I do. I play for a village near here. Place called Little Borlock. A man who played against Wrykyn for the Free Foresters captains them. He asked me if I'd like some games for them."

"But why not for the school?"

"Why should I? It's much better fun for the

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224 village. You don't get ordered about by Adair, for a start."

"Adair sticks on side," said Stone.

"Enough for six," agreed Robinson.

"By Jove," said Stone, "I've got an idea. My word, what a rag!"

"What's wrong now? " inquired Mike politely.

"Why, look here. To-morrow's Mid-term Service day. It's nowhere near the middle of the term, but they always have it in the fourth week. There's chapel at half-past nine till half-past ten. Then the rest of the day's a whole holiday. There are always house matches. We're playing Downing's. Why don't you play and let's smash them?"

"By Jove, yes," said Robinson. "Why don't you? They're always sticking on side because they've won the house cup three years running. I say, do you bat or bowl?"

"Bat. Why?"

Robinson rocked on the table.

"Why, old Downing fancies himself as a bowler. You must play, and knock the cover off him."

"Masters don't play in house matches, surely?"

"This isn't a real house match. Only a friendly. Downing always turns out on Mid-term Service day. I say, do play."

"Think of the rag."

"But the team's full," said Mike.

"The list isn't up yet. We'll nip across to Barnes' study, and make him alter it."

They dashed out of the room. From down the passage Mike heard yells of "Barnes!" the closing of a door, and a murmur of excited conversation. Then footsteps returning down the passage.

Barnes appeared, on his face the look of one who has seen visions.

"I say," he said, "is it true? Or is Stone rotting? About Wrykyn, I mean."

"Yes, I was in the team."

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Rh Barnes was an enthusiastic cricketer. He studied his Wisden, and he had an immense respect for Wrykyn cricket.

"Are you the M. Jackson, then, who had an average of fifty-one point nought three last year?"

"Yes."

Barnes's manner became like that of a curate talking to a bishop.

"I say," he said, "then—er—will you play against Downing's to-morrow?"

"Rather," said Mike. "Thanks awfully. Have some tea?"

is the curious instinct which prompts most people to rub a thing in that makes the lot of the average convert an unhappy one. Only the very self-controlled can refrain from improving the occasion and scoring off the convert. Most leap at the opportunity.

It was so in Mike's case. Mike was not a genuine convert, but to Mr. Downing he had the outward aspect of one. When you have been impressing upon a non-cricketing boy for nearly a month that (a) the school is above all a keen school, (b) that all members of it should play cricket, and (c) that by not playing cricket he is ruining his chances in this world and imperilling them in the next; and when, quite unexpectedly, you come upon this boy dressed in cricket flannels, wearing cricket boots and carrying a cricket bag, it seems only natural to assume that you have converted him, that the seeds of your eloquence have fallen on fruitful soil and sprouted.

Mr. Downing assumed it.

He was walking to the field with Adair and another member of his team when he came upon Mike.

"What!" he cried. "Our Jackson clad in suit of mail and armèd for the fray!"

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226 This was Mr. Downing's No. 2 manner—the playful.

"This is indeed Saul among the prophets. Why this sudden enthusiasm for a game which I understood that you despised? Are our opponents so reduced?"

Psmith, who was with Mike, took charge of the affair with a languid grace which had maddened hundreds in its time, and which never failed to ruffle Mr. Downing.

"We are, above all, sir," he said, "a keen house. Drones are not welcomed by us. We are essentially versatile. Jackson, the archæologist of yesterday becomes the cricketer of to-day. It is the right spirit, sir," said Psmith earnestly. "I like to see it."

"Indeed, Smith? You are not playing yourself, I notice. Your enthusiasm has bounds."

"In our house, sir, competition is fierce, and the Selection Committee unfortunately passed me over."

There were a number of pitches dotted about the field, for there was always a touch of the London Park about it on Mid-term Service day. Adair, as captain of cricket, had naturally selected the best for his own match. It was a good wicket, Mike saw. As matter of fact the wickets at Sedleigh were nearly always good. Adair had infected the ground-man with some of his own keenness, with the result that that once leisurely official now found himself sometimes, with a kind of mild surprise, working really hard. At the beginning of the previous season Sedleigh had played a scratch team from a neighbouring town on a wicket which, except for the creases, was absolutely undistinguishable from the surrounding turf, and behind the pavilion after the match Adair had spoken certain home truths to the ground-man. The latter's reformation had dated from that moment.

Barnes, timidly jubilant, came up to Mike with the news that he had won the toss, and the request that Mike would go in first with him.

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Rh the nervous new boy, who has been found crying in the boot-room over the photograph of his sister, contrives to get an innings in a game, nobody suspects that he is really a prodigy till he hits the Bully's first ball out of the ground for six.

With Mike it was different. There was no pitying smile on Adair's face as he started his run preparatory to sending down the first ball. Mike, on the cricket field, could not have looked anything but a cricketer if he had turned out in a tweed suit and hobnail boots. Cricketer was written all over him—in his walk, in the way he took guard, in his stand at the wickets. Adair started to bowl with the feeling that this was somebody who had more than a little knowledge of how to deal with good bowling and punish bad.

Mike started cautiously. He was more than usually anxious to make runs to-day, and he meant to take no risks till he could afford to do so. He had seen Adair bowl at the nets, and he knew that he was good.

The first over was a maiden, six dangerous balls beautifully played. The fieldsmen changed over.

The general interest had now settled on the match between Outwood's and Downing's. The fact in Mike's case had gone round the field, and, as several of the other games had not yet begun, quite a large crowd had collected near the pavilion to watch. Mike's masterly treatment of the opening over had impressed the spectators, and there was a popular desire to see how he would deal with Mr. Downing's slows. It was generally anticipated that he would do something special with them.

Off the first ball of the master's over a leg-bye was run.

Mike took guard.

Mr. Downing was a bowler with a style of his own. He took two short steps, two long steps, gave a jump, took three more short steps, and ended with a combination of step and jump, during which the ball emerged from behind his back and started on its slow career to the

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228 wicket. The whole business had some of the dignity of the old-fashioned minuet, subtly blended with the careless vigour of a cake-walk. The ball, when delivered, was billed to break from leg, but the programme was subject to alterations.

If the spectators had expected Mike to begin any firework effects with the first ball, they were disappointed. He played the over through with a grace worthy of his brother Joe. The last ball he turned to leg for a single.

His treatment of Adair's next over was freer. He had got a sight of the ball now. Half-way through the over a beautiful square cut forced a passage through the crowd by the pavilion, and dashed up against the rails. He drove the sixth ball past cover for three.

The crowd was now reluctantly dispersing to its own games, but it stopped as Mr. Downing started his minuet-cake-walk, in the hope that it might see something more sensational.

This time the hope was fulfilled.

The ball was well up, slow, and off the wicket on the on-side. Perhaps if it had been allowed to pitch, it might have broken in and become quite dangerous. Mike went out at it, and hit it a couple of feet from the ground. The ball dropped with a thud and a spurting of dust in the road that ran along one side of the cricket field.

It was returned on the instalment system by helpers from other games, and the bowler began his manœuvres again. A half-volley this time. Mike slammed it back, and mid-on, whose heart was obviously not in the thing, failed to stop it.

"Get to them, Jenkins," said Mr. Downing irritably, as the ball came back from the boundary. "Get to them."

"Sir, please, sir—"

"Don't talk in the field, Jenkins."

Having had a full-pitch hit for six and a half-volley for four, there was a strong probability that Mr. Downing would pitch his next ball short.

The expected happened. The third ball was a slow

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Rh long-hop, and hit the road at about the same spot where the first had landed. A howl of untuneful applause rose from the watchers in the pavilion, and Mike, with the feeling that this sort of bowling was too good to be true, waited in position for number four.

There are moments when a sort of panic seizes a bowler. This happened now with Mr. Downing. He suddenly abandoned science and ran amok. His run lost its stateliness and increased its vigour. He charged up to the wicket as a wounded buffalo sometimes charges a gun. His whole idea now was to bowl fast.

When a slow bowler starts to bowl fast, it is usually as well to be batting, if you can manage it.

By the time the over was finished, Mike's score had been increased by sixteen, and the total of his side, in addition, by three wides.

And a shrill small voice, from the neighbourhood of the pavilion, uttered with painful distinctness the words, "Take him off!"

That was how the most sensational day's cricket began that Sedleigh had known.

A description of the details of the morning's play would be monotonous. It is enough to say that they ran on much the same lines as the third and fourth overs of the match. Mr. Downing bowled one more over, off which Mike helped himself to sixteen runs, and then retired moodily to cover-point, where, in Adair's fifth over, he missed Barnes—the first occasion since the game began on which that mild batsman had attempted to score more than a single. Scared by this escape, Outwood's captain shrank back into his shell, sat on the splice like a limpet, and, offering no more chances, was not out at lunch time with a score of eleven.

Mike had then made a hundred and three.

As Mike was taking off his pads in the pavilion, Adair came up.

"Why did you say you didn't play cricket?" he asked abruptly.

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230 When one has been bowling the whole morning, and bowling well, without the slightest success, one is inclined to be abrupt.

Mike finished unfastening an obstinate strap. Then he looked up.

"I didn't say anything of the kind. I said I wasn't going to play here. There's a difference. As a matter of fact, I was in the Wrykyn team before I came here. Three years."

Adair was silent for a moment.

"Will you play for us against the Old Sedleighans to-morrow?" he said at length.

Mike tossed his pads into his bag and got up.

"No, thanks."

There was a silence.

"Above it, I suppose?"

"Not a bit. Not up to it. I shall want a lot of coaching at that end net of yours before I'm fit to play for Sedleigh."

There was another pause.

"Then you won't play?" asked Adair.

"I'm not keeping you, am I?" said Mike, politely.

It was remarkable what a number of members of Outwood's house appeared to cherish a personal grudge against Mr. Downing. It had been that master's somewhat injudicious practice for many years to treat his own house as a sort of Chosen People. Of all masters, the most unpopular is he who by the silent tribunal of a school is convicted of favouritism. And the dislike deepens if it is a house which he favours and not merely individuals. On occasions when boys in his own house and boys from other houses were accomplices and partners in wrong-doing, Mr. Downing distributed his thunderbolts unequally, and the school noticed it. The result was that not only he himself, but also—which was rather unfair—his house, too, had acquired a good deal of unpopularity.

The general consensus of opinion in Outwood's during the luncheon interval was that having got Downing's up

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Rh a tree, they would be fools not to make the most of the situation.

Barnes's remark that he supposed, unless anything happened and wickets began to fall a bit faster, they had better think of declaring somewhere about half-past three or four, was met with a storm of opposition.

"Declare!" said Robinson. "Great Scott, what on earth are you talking about?"

"Declare!" Stone's voice was almost a wail of indignation. "I never saw such a chump."

"They'll be rather sick if we don't, won't they?" suggested Barnes.

"Sick! I should think they would," said Stone. "That's just the gay idea. Can't you see that by a miracle we've got a chance of getting a jolly good bit of our own back against those Downing's ticks? What we've got to do is to jolly well keep them in the field all day if we can, and be jolly glad it's so beastly hot. If they lose about a dozen pounds each through sweating about in the sun after Jackson's drives, perhaps they'll stick on less side about things in general in future. Besides, I want an innings against that bilge of old Downing's, if I can get it."

"So do I," said Robinson.

"If you declare, I swear I won't field. Nor will Robinson."

"Rather not."

"Well, I won't then," said Barnes unhappily. "Only you know they're rather sick already."

"Don't you worry about that," said Stone with a wide grin. "They'll be a lot sicker before we've finished."

And so it came about that that particular Mid-term Service-day match made history. Big scores had often been put up on Mid-term Service day. Games had frequently been one-sided. But it had never happened before in the annals of the school that one-side, going in first early in the morning, had neither completed its innings nor declared it closed when stumps were drawn at 6.30. In no previous Sedleigh match, after a full

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232 day's play, had the pathetic words "Did not bat" been written against the whole of one of the contending teams.

These are the things which mark epochs.

Play was resumed at 2.15. For a quarter of an hour Mike was comparatively quiet. Adair, fortified by food and rest, was bowling really well, and his first half-dozen overs had to be watched carefully. But the wicket was too good to give him a chance, and Mike, playing himself in again, proceeded to get to business once more. Bowlers came and went. Adair pounded away at one end with brief intervals between the attacks. Mr. Downing took a couple more overs, in one of which a horse, passing in the road, nearly had its useful life cut suddenly short. Change-bowlers of various actions and paces, each weirder and more futile than the last, tried their luck. But still the first-wicket stand continued.

The bowling of a house team is all head and no body. The first pair probably have some idea of length and break. The first-change pair are poor. And the rest, the small change, are simply the sort of things one sees in dreams after a heavy supper, or when one is out without one's gun.

Time, mercifully, generally breaks up a big stand at cricket before the field has suffered too much, and that is what happened now. At four o'clock, when the score stood at two hundred and twenty for no wicket, Barnes, greatly daring, smote lustily at a rather wide half-volley and was caught at short-slip for thirty-three. He retired blushfully to the pavilion, amidst applause, and Stone came out.

As Mike had then made a hundred and eighty-seven, it was assumed by the field, that directly he had topped his second century, the closure would be applied and their ordeal finished. There was almost a sigh of relief when frantic cheering from the crowd told that the feat had been accomplished. The fieldsmen clapped in quite an indulgent sort of way, as who should say, "Capital, capital. And now let's start our innings." Some even began to edge towards the pavilion.

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Rh But the next ball was bowled, and the next over, and the next after that, and still Barnes made no sign. (The conscience-stricken captain of Outwood's was, as a matter of fact, being practically held down by Robinson and other ruffians by force.)

A grey dismay settled on the field.

The bowling had now become almost unbelievably bad. Lobs were being tried, and Stone, nearly weeping with pure joy, was playing an innings of the How-to-brighten-cricket type. He had an unorthodox style, but an excellent eye, and the road at this period of the game became absolutely unsafe for pedestrians and traffic.

Mike's pace had become slower, as was only natural, but his score, too, was mounting steadily.

"This is foolery," snapped Mr. Downing, as the three hundred and fifty went up on the board. "Barnes!" he called.

There was no reply. A committee of three was at that moment engaged in sitting on Barnes's head in the first eleven changing-room, in order to correct a more than usually feverish attack of conscience.

"Barnes!"

"Please, sir," said Stone, some species of telepathy telling him what was detaining his captain. "I think Barnes must have left the field. He has probably gone over to the house to fetch something."

"This is absurd. You must declare your innings closed. The game has become a farce."

"Declare! Sir, we can't unless Barnes does. He might be awfully annoyed if we did anything like that without consulting him."

"Absurd."

"He's very touchy, sir."

"It is perfect foolery."

"I think Jenkins is just going to bowl, sir."

Mr. Downing walked moodily to his place.

In a neat wooden frame in the senior day-room at

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234 Outwood's, just above the mantelpiece, there was on view, a week later, a slip of paper.

The writing on it was as follows:

rollicked considerably that night. Mike, if he had cared to take the part, could have been the Petted Hero. But a cordial invitation from the senior day-room to be the guest of the evening at about the biggest rag of the century had been refused on the plea of fatigue. One does not make two hundred and seventy-seven runs on a hot day without feeling the effects, even if one has scored mainly by the medium of boundaries; and Mike, as he lay back in Psmith's deckchair, felt that all he wanted was to go to bed and stay there for a week. His hands and arms burned as if they were red-hot, and his eyes were so tired that he could not keep them open.

Psmith, leaning against the mantelpiece, discoursed in a desultory way on the day's happenings the score off Mr. Downing, the undeniable annoyance of that battered bowler, and the probability of his venting his annoyance on Mike next day.

"In theory," said he, "the manly what-d'you-call-it of cricket and all that sort of thing ought to make him fall on your neck to-morrow and weep over you as a foeman worthy of his steel. But I am prepared to bet a reasonable sum that he will give no Jiu-jitsu exhibition

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User talk:Otdom

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User talk:Nathanielfirst

JeepdaySock (talk) 10:34, 26 October 2012 (UTC)

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text:
Nature (journal)/Volume 24/Number 610/The Comet

have received the following communications:—

about 11h. om. G.M.T. on June 29 a transit of the "following" nuclear jet of the great comet over a star of 8m. was observed by Mr. N. E. Green, of 39, Circus Road, St. John's Wood, and by me, with a 12½-inch reflector belonging to Mr. Green. Definition was very good and tranquil. As the star became involved in the jet it gradually increased in size, and when seen through the brightest part of the jet traversed resembled an ill-defined planetary disk about 3″ in diameter. At this moment the comet seemed to have two nuclei similar in aspect and brightness.

The effect of the cometary matter on the star's image resembled that of ground glass, not that of fog; the image of the star, being dilated into a patch of nearly uniform brightness, instead of presenting a sharp central point with a surrounding halo. Cirro-stratus, passing into raincloud, produces on the appearance of the sun an effect the counterpart of that produced by the cometary emitted matter on the star. There was not sufficient light for the use of the spectroscope, the star, afterwards identified as B.D. + 65°, 519, being fainter than 8m.

The transit of the jet occupied about 3m., and the star slowly resumed its ordinary appearance and dimensions, the image contracting as the centre of the jet left the star behind. A transit of this kind has not frequently been observed, at least under such favourable conditions as to brightness and definition of the objects, and it is to be hoped that others may have been as fortunate as Mr. Green and the undersigned.

If the point which obeys the Newtonian law be a solid body, the observation just recorded seems to show that its true outline would probably be rendered unrecognisable, and its aspect totally altered by the (refractive?) power of the coma and jets.

38, Barclay Road, S.W., July 1

following is an extended list of places obtained with the transit-circle when the comet passed sub Polo:—

Remarks.—(a) The nucleus distinct but nebulous. Tail bright, and estimated 15° in length. Observation good.

(b) Observation difficult, owing to cloud.

(c) Nucleus better defined than on June 23, but not so bright. Length of tail estimated at 15°. Observation good.

(d) Observation fair, very cloudy. Tail 12°-15° long.

(e) Observed through short break in clouds. Tail 10° in length.

(f) Observation very good. Tail 10°.

(g) Observation very good. Nucleus smaller and fainter than on preceding nights. Tail 10°.

(h) Observation very good. Tail 9°.

(i) Very faint, observed through haze. Tail 8°.

Radcliffe Observatory, Oxford

chief object in writing to-day is to explain a word in my letter of June 28 (p. 200) that is quite open to misinterpretation. In examining the head of Comet b 1881 with a small direct-vision spectroscope and a narrow slit, I saw, on June 27, three bright lines or bands on a faint continuous spectrum. Two of the lines were strong and near together, and of a bluish-green; the third was much fainter and with very little apparent colour, but easily seen as a bright line. I called these "three green lines," as that was the general appearance in the field of view, and I had no intention of fixing the positions of the lines. The words however require explanation, as they would naturally be understood as restricting the bands to a definite part of the spectrum. On July 1, shortly before midnight, I examined the position of these lines more carefully, keeping the slit sufficiently open to secure a fairly strong continuous spectrum from the nucleus in the centre of the field, whilst the bright lines extended along the whole length of the slit. I could then see clearly that the two strong bands were in the green and blue, and that the fainter line was almost at the extremity of the more refrangible end of the spectrum visible in the small spectroscope used, and would therefore be situated in the violet or purple.

The comet on the night of July 1 was very much diminished in brilliancy, but at midnight it could still be traced by aid of a binocular through at least 7°. The nucleus shone as a 2·3 magnitude star, and under a considerable magnifying power it was found to have lost most of the interesting features of June 27. The double envelope, so well defined in outline a few days previous, had disappeared, and there now remained only the bright nucleus bounded towards the tail by two arcs, one on either side of the centre, from which those rays seemed to spring which moved slightly in the direction of the sun, and then bent round to help in forming the tail. A mass of light surrounded the head, but this faded away gradually into a nebulous outline. The light from the tail diminished very rapidly as the distance from the head increased. A sub Polo transit of the centre of the nucleus gave, for July 1, 11h. 50m. 7s. G.M.T., the following position uncorrected for parallax and aberration:—

Stonyhurst Observatory, Whalley, July 4

three drawings of the comet made on

the 27th, 29th, and 30th ult. On the 27th the bright jet extending from the nucleus was very plain, and gave the hydrocarbon spectrum very distinctly. No bands were seen in the tail, but only in the immediate proximity of the nucleus. On the 29th the comet was much fainter;

the bright jet had disappeared, giving place to a fan, of which the left-hand side was the brighter. A small star was seen through the coma, a, which the comet rapidly passed.

Last night (30th) the fan-shaped projection had narrowed coasiderably and apparently extended farther from the nucleus.

Temple Observatory, Rugby, July 1

made some sketches of this comet, and have taken some photographs with the 3-foot reflector. Particulars of the latter may be useful.

On the night of June 24 the comet, which was very brilliant, presented the appearance of Fig, 1; the nucleus very bright and some 6″ in diameter, and not in the centre of head. Photographs with two minutes' exposure gave a decided impression on the gelatine dry-plate; with twenty-one minutes' exposure the image was very dense

and the small bright tail that proceeded from the nucleus comes out well, but owing to the rapid motion in declination the image of the nucleus appears as a trail some quarter of an inch long.

On June 25 the appearance of the comet was altered, the club-footed mass of light had disappeared, and the nucleus presented a rayed appearance.

Photographs were taken with similar results to those obtained on the 24th, but a dense image of the nucleus

was got with one minute's exposure. The intensity of light must quite equal that of a seventh magnitude star. The small bright tail was still very apparent, but between it and the edge of the large tail proper there was a decided dark space on the p side. At 13h. 35m. the f side was noted to be much the brightest; this change must have taken place very suddenly, as it had been specially noted just before as being the faintest side of the tail. Fig. 2 was taken before this was noticed. Cloudy nights intervened till the 29th. I had in the meantime fitted a fine screw to the plate-holder, and found that by giving this screw a certain calculated part of a turn every half minute for twenty minutes, I got a fair negative (I beg to forward this for your inspection) without any of the distortion caused by the motion in declination.

The comet was observed to have changed to a much more symmetrical form (see Fig. 3). The conditions under which the photographs were taken were not very favourable: the mirror and flat were not at the best as regards polish, and the plates were about two years old.

comet engaged the attention of the Paris Academy of Sciences at their sitting last Monday week, and we give the following extracts from the papers communicated.

Admiral Mouchez writes as follows:—"This comet, which was observed for the first time seventy-four years ago by an Italian monk on September 9, 1807, was observed by Pons eleven days afterwards at Marseilles on the 20th, and remained visible till March 27, 1808; during this long period it was possible to make a large number of observations, so that Bessel could for the first time calculate its elements; and he found that the period of its revolution must be comprised between 1404 and 2157 years, and was probably 1714 years. The calculations being revised and account taken of new perturbations, a period of 174 years was arrived at. The observations made during its second appearance will doubtless render it possible to determine the causes of perturbations or the errors of calculation and observation which have rendered its present return so unexpected.

"M. Tisserand has called my attention to a comet, not catalogued, but cited in Struyck's work, 'Vervolg van de Beschryving der Staatsterren' (Amsterdam, 1753), which appears to have been seen at the Cape of Good Hope in 1733, just seventy-four years previous to 1807; the want of precise observations, doubtless, did not allow of calculating the elements; but the identity of the period and the comet's appearance in the southern hemisphere lead us to suppose that it is the same comet as we observe now, and which, from some cause difficult to conceive, seems not to have been observed in Europe after its passage through perihelion. Perhaps the Dutch, to whom the Cape of Good Hope then belonged, will find in their archives some documents which will enable us to utilise this old observation, to which I have invited the attention of M. Oudemans, the learned and able astronomer of Utrecht."

M. Bigourdan says he first perceived the comet on June 22 at 13h. 30m. The following elements are deduced from the observation at Kiel (where the comet was seen two hours earlier than at Paris) on June 22, and the two following at Paris:—

The last elements obtained by Bessel for the great comet of 1807 are as follows:—

With regard to the physical constitution of the comet, M. Wolf points out that while Coggia's comet (1874)—the only large comet visible on the horizon of Paris since spectrum analysis came into use—was at first telescopic, developed rapidly, and disappeared at the most interesting stage, the present comet comes to us already very much developed after its passage through perihelion. The transformations of the nucleus and its envelopes are extremely rapid (as the drawings show). In the large telescope the segmentation of the head, which Bond found in Donati's comet, was distinctly visible on June 24; the smallest instruments did not show it.

"The new comet represents, then, the second period of development of one of these curious stars, of which we have the first only in Coggia's comet. Its study enables us to follow the transformations of the envelopes, and to complete what information the comet of 1874 supplied.

"From the standpoint of spectrum analysis we may now correct a premature conclusion which might be deduced from our observations of Coggia's comet in 1874. That comet, from May 19, presented the continuous and nearly linear spectrum of the nucleus, traversed by the three bright bands characteristic of the light of comets (which I have found in more than a dozen of these stars). But on July 13, the evening of the last observation possible, the three bands had nearly disappeared, while the spectrum of the nucleus was become much brighter.

"Must we therefore conclude that the incandescent gas, carburetted hydrogen or other, to which these bands are due, disappear as the comet is developed, giving place to the light, proper or borrowed, of the nucleus? The observation of the new comet elucidates this. It rises rapidly from the horizon, in the same region of the sky where Coggia's comet descended to disappear, too quickly, below the horizon. Now on June 24 its spectrum, observed with the same instrument as was used in 1874, was reduced nearly to a continuous ribbon given by the nucleus; the nebulosity only gave a broad and very pale band, well terminated on the more refrangible side, diffuse on the other; the other bands of comets did not exist, or at least one could only suspect their existence in the neighbourhood of the nucleus. But yesterday (June 26) the comet was already far from the horizon, and when the sky was pure the three bright bands appeared with great distinctness. The green band especially was bright, longer than the two others, and distinctly limited on the less refrangible side (wave-length 516). On this side it seeemed bordered by a dark space, as in the spectrum of Coggia's camet. As in the latter the red is the only colour pretty visible in the spectrum of the nucleus, and it is slightly dilated. The ulterior observations will show whether these bands will continue to develop. We are put on our guard, in any case, against the effect resulting from difference of altitude of the comet.

"The total quantity of light given by the head of the comet is considerable, and many persons have tried to compare it to a star of the first magnitude. In reality its intrinsic brightness is very slight. I had occasion last night, by slightly displacing the telescope, to look at the spectrum of a star of fifth or sixth magnitude; the line of light produced was at least as bright as the spectrum of the nucleus."

Admiral Mouchez having put at M. Thollon's disposal the 14-in. equatorial of the Observatory, the latter made some spectroscopic observations of the comet on the nights of June 24, 25, and 26, with the following results:—

"The nucleus of the comet gives a pretty bright continuous spectrum, on which one can distinguish neither bands nor lines. The nebulosity surrounding the nucleus gives three bands which are detached on a continuous spectrum. One of them is very visible; the others are faint. Their position has been measured with great care. The measurements, repeated a large number of times, are more concordant than I could have hoped.

"The spectrum of bands furnished by the comet so resembles that given by the blue spirit flame that I consider them identical. This identity does not result merely from the aspect of the bands and their ratios of intensity, but also from their absolute position. The spectrum of the comet is, then, the spectrum of carbon or of one of its compounds. The sole difference I have met with is that the violet band given by alcohol is not seen in the spectrum of the comet; the absorption of the atmosphere suffices to account for this difference." M. Thollon is making further observations.


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Category:Council for Democratic Reform

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title: Category:Council for Democratic Reform


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28 stone;" and when they had taken away the stone where the dead was laid, and uncovered the body of Lazarus, then it was that "Jesus lifted up his eyes and said, Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me," &c. "And when he had thus spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth." Yes, some may be ready to say of the colored race, how can they ever be raised politically and intellectually, they have been dead four hundred years? But we have nothing to do with how this is to be done; our business is to take away the stone which has covered up the dead body of our brother, to expose the putrid carcass, to show how that body has been bound with the grave-clothes of heathen ignorance, and his face with the napkin of prejudice, and having done all it was our duty to do, to stand by the negro's grave, in humble faith and holy hope, waiting to hear the life-giving command of "Lazarus, come forth." This is just what Anti-Slavery Societies are doing; they are taking away the stone from the mouth of the tomb of slavery, where lies the putrid carcass of our brother. They want the pure light of heaven to shine into that dark and gloomy cave; they want all men to see how that dead body has been bound, how that face has been wrapped in the napkin of prejudice; and shall they wait beside that grave in vain? Is not Jesus still the resurrection and the life? Did He come to proclaim liberty to the captive, and the opening of prison doors to them that are bound, in vain? Did He promise to give beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness unto them that mourn in Zion, and will He refuse to beautify the mind, anoint the head, and throw around the captive negro the mantle of praise for that spirit of heaviness which has so long bound him down to the ground? Or shall we not rather say with the prophet, "the zeal of the Lord of Hosts will perform this?" Yes, his promises are sure, and amen in Christ Jesus, that he will assemble her that halteth, and gather her that is driven out, and her that is afflicted.

But I will now say a few words on the subject of Abolitionism. Doubtless you have all heard Anti-Slavery Societies denounced as insurrectionary and mischievous, fanatical and dangerous. It has been said they publish the most abominable untruths, and that they are endeavoring to excite rebellions at the South. Have you believed these reports, my friends? have you also been deceived by these false assertions? Listen to me, then, whilst I endeavor to wipe from the fair character of Abolitionism such unfounded accusations. You know that I am a Southerner; you know that my dearest relatives are now in a slave State. Can you for a moment believe I would prove so recreant to the feelings of a daughter and a sister, as to join a society which was seeking to overthrow slavery by falsehood, bloodshed, and murder? I appeal to you who have known and loved me in days that are passed, can you believe it? No! my friends. As a Carolinian, I was peculiarly jealous of any movements on this subject; and before I would join an Anti-Slavery Society, I took the precaution of becoming acquainted with some of the leading Abolitionists,


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72, so marvelous for invention, eloquence, and perpetual charm of style, which is seldom thought to be more than an intricate and lovely legend of the imagination. The critic is not blind to the great defects of the work,—and no poem of equal rank has more,—nor does he neglect the excellences that are obvious to the least thoughtful reader; but he succeeds in placing before us its intellectual and moral substance.

In doing this he reveals his own theory of poetry, and it is one that derives its philosophy from the great historic works of our literature, and is grounded on the practice of the English masters whose fame is secure. Its cardinal principle is that man is the only object of interest to man, all else being subordinate, and valuable only for its relations to this main theme; and more particularly this subject is the spiritual life, not the material manifestations of his energies in deeds apart from their meaning. The Italian masters of Spenser too often lost themselves in incident, in romance, in story for its own sake; they were destitute of that ethical spirit which insists on planting in the deeds their significance, and regarding this as an integral, and indeed the only immortal, part


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Rh of the action. The laws of life, not the chances of individuals, were Spenser's subject, and in this he differs from Ariosto, and leaves his company. Spenser's genius was thus abstract and contemplative, and Platonic in the sense that he used images always with some reference to the general truths that transcend imagination, and are directly apprehended only intellectually. Allegory was therefore his necessary method. Spenser never succeeded in harmonizing the disparate elements of the material to which he fell heir by literary tradition; and besides the inconsistencies and incoherencies of the Renaissance culture, which never reached any unity in its own time, there were also special disturbances in his intellectual life because of the political and religious conflicts in England itself, from entanglement with which he was not free; and, moreover, he does not seem to have subdued the philosophical and poetic impulses of his own nature to any true accord. His poem, therefore, did not take on that perfection, that identity of purpose and execution, which would have placed it in the first rank, and he remains below the supreme poets of the world. The study of his work, as an


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74 of the conditions and art of poetry, is most instructive. Its defects teach more than its excellence, but they do not disturb the theory which Aubrey de Vere sets forth; and he would be but a blind critic who should easily argue that Spenser succeeded when he obeyed the pure artistic impulse, and failed because of the interference of his graver genius with the poetical mind, his thought with his sensibility.

Aubrey de Vere's contemplative mind, his strong hold on the abstract rather than on the concrete, help him over the poetically dry places in Spenser, and serve him even better in the case of Wordsworth. This is choosing the better of two alternatives; for, if the landscape of Arcady is incomplete for him unless there is some "swan-flight of Platonic ideas" over it, such as he says is always in Spenser's sky, he has an appreciation for beauty as steadfastly as for the higher truths of life, and it is better to suffer with deficiencies in poetic art for the sake of the matter than to be content with art alone.

The great difference between Wordsworth and Spenser is, that Spenser was concerned with the moral virtues and man's acquirement of them, while Wordsworth was more


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Rh narrowly limited to the influence of nature in forming the soul. Both looked to the same end, spiritual life; but Wordsworth had a different starting-point. His mind was more individual, and he assumed that his own history was typical; he was less rich in the stores of antiquity, and he had less sensibility to beauty in its ideal forms; but he knew the place that nature held in his own development, and he became specifically the poet of nature, not only as beauty visible to the eye, but also, and mainly, as an invisible influence in the lives of men. Much of his verse was a pastoral form of philosophy; meditation counted for more than beauty in it; but the scene was the English country, and the characters were rustics. There was, too, something of imaginative untruth in it, no doubt, similar to that inherent in all pastoral poetry. These common men, however, were not individuals, but stood for man, and Wordsworth, in delineating their histories, was writing a parable as well as a story. In other portions of his verse he used a more abstract method. As a moralist he was much given to maxims; and in all that concerns the social and political life of man, as well as his personal relations to


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76 virtue, Wordsworth was, as the critic affirms with much emphasis, filled with a certain ardor, which may be called passion if one likes. The lack of passion in the ordinary sense—and it cannot be made out that Wordsworth possessed this quality—only renders more plain the moral endowment of the poet, his absorbing interest in the manly virtues, and the supreme value which he placed on the spiritual life and its ideal relations. He considered these relations most directly as existing toward nature, and having their operation in the emotion which nature excites. He did not altogether escape from the pantheism incident to such a constant preoccupation of the mind with the works and course of nature, and consequently he is less distinctively Christian than Spenser; but Aubrey de Vere easily makes it out that Wordsworth's philosophy, much as it differed from Spenser's, is concerned with the same topics of moral and spiritual life, and is the substance of his poetry.

It is not surprising that a writer of Aubrey de Vere's temperament is annoyed by the charge that Wordsworth is destitute of "passion." He has much to say on this point. Wordsworth himself gave as the


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Rh why he did not write love-poems the fear that they would be too passionate. Aubrey de Vere makes what defense he can by pointing out the half-dozen idealizations of woman in the shorter lyrics; but his real apology consists in the counter-assertion that Wordsworth is especially distinguished for "passion." He uses the word, however, with a difference, and means by it the poetic glow, the exaltation of feeling, the lyrical possession, which attends the moment of creation and passes into the verse. Of this sort of passion every form of poetry is as capable as is the amorous: the sæva indignatio of satire would come under this head as properly as the moral enthusiasm or the patriotic fervor shown in the Ode to Duty or the Sonnets. Wordsworth truly possessed this capability, and it gives to his poems their masculine strength. Whether equal success is to be credited to the critic's glosses upon the more commonplace subjects of Wordsworth's muse, is doubtful; it seems rather that he makes the mistake which Coleridge attributed to Wordsworth himself, of giving a value to the idea which it has in his own mind, but which it does not have in the bare words addressed to the reader. When


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Author:Alwin Berger

Works

 * Florula Mortolensis. An enumeration of the plants growing wild at La Mortola. Ventimiglia: Billi, 1905 archive.org = Biodiversity Heritage Library

 * Hortus Mortolensis. Enumeratio plantarum in Horto Mortolensi cultarum. Alphabetical catalogue of plants growing in the garden of the late Sir Thomas Hanbury at La Mortola, Ventimiglia, Italy. London: West, Newman & Co., 1912 archive.org = Biodiversity Heritage Library

Works about Berger

 * N. L. Britton: The Alwin Berger Succulent Herbarium. In: Journal of the New York Botanical Garden. Vol. 33, No. 393, September 1932, p. 196 Missouri Botanical Garden Library

 * John Hendley Barnhart: Alwin Berger. In: Journal of the New York Botanical Garden. Vol. 33, No. 393, September 1932, p. 197 Missouri Botanical Garden Library

title: Author:Alwin Berger


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78 the idea and the expression are not identical, every poet suffers from this cause; in his mind the idea, coming first, dignifies the words, but to the reader the words coming first, too often mutilate the idea. It is a good result of Aubrey de Vere's Wordsworthianism that it gives him courage to force into the front of his essay the Orphic Odes, which are among the least known of the poet's work, and contain some of the noblest of his lines.

To Milton he seems somewhat unjust. The earlier poems receive his warm appreciation, but of the later ones he is hardly so tolerant, and nowhere does he give him his due. This is the passage:—

"It is not, however, its deficient popularity so much as its subject and its form which proves that Milton's great work is not a national poem, high as it ranks among our national triumphs. Some will affirm that he illustrated in that work his age if not his country. His age, however, gave him an impulse rather than materials. Puritanism became transmuted, as it passed through his capacious and ardent mind, into a faith Hebraic in its austere spirit—a faith that sympathized indeed with the Iconoclastic zeal


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Rh which distinguished the anti-Catholic and anti-patristic theology of the age, but held little consort with any of the complex definitions at that time insisted on as the symbols of Protestant orthodoxy. Had the Puritan spirit been as genuine a thing as the spirit of liberty which accompanied it; had it been such as their reverence for Milton makes many suppose it to have been, the mood would not so soon have yielded to the licentiousness that followed the Restoration.... To him the classic model supplied, not the adornment of his poem, but its structure and form. The soul that wielded that mould was, if not exactly the spirit of Christianity, at least a religious spirit—profound, zealous, and self-reverent—as analogous, perhaps, in its temper to the warlike religion of the Eastern Prophet as to the traditional faith of the Second Dispensation. Such was the mighty fabric which, aloof and in his native land an exile, Milton raised; not perfect, not homogeneous, not in any sense a national work, but the greatest of all those works which prove that a noble poem may be produced with little aid from local sympathies, and none from national traditions."

Some expressions in this passage, and


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80 many others scattered through these volumes, indicate where the current of sympathy was broken by default of which the critic understands Milton imperfectly. Ideal he was, but there is no poet who is more bone and flesh of the English nation in the substance of his genius, or in whom it developed a spirituality more noble; nor are his defects, in his conception of womanhood for example, such as cannot be easily paralleled from the other poets of highest genius in the line from Spenser. But, on the other hand, the critic is more than just to Keats, and towards Shelley he exhibits a respect, a penetration of the elements of his thoughtful temperament, and a comprehension of the remarkable and intimate changes of his incessant growth, that are almost unexampled in authors writing from Aubrey de Vere's standpoint. In writing of the others he has opportunity for still further illustration of the theory of poetry he holds, and he shows that these later poets have their best success the closer they keep to the subject of man, and the more they treat it with a pure, spiritual method; while on the other hand, they are defective in proportion as they fail in this.

It would be impossible for a critic with


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2 the Infidel should cease as soon as they recollect not only by whom, but likewise to whom, the Divine Revelation was given. The theologian may indulge the pleasing task of describing religion as she descended from Heaven, arrayed in her native purity. A more melancholy duty is imposed on the historian. He must discover the inevitable mixture of error and corruption which she contracted in a long residence upon earth, among a weak and degenerate race of beings.

Our curiosity is naturally prompted to inquire by what means the Christian faith obtained so remarkable a victory over the established religions of the earth. To the inquiry, an obvious but satisfactory answer may be returned; that it was owing to the convincing evidence of the doctrine itself, and to the ruling providence of its great Author. But, as truth and reason seldom find so favourable a reception in the world, and as the wisdom of Providence frequently condescends to use the passions of the human heart and the general circumstances of mankind, as instruments to execute its purpose; we may still be permitted, though with becoming submission to ask not indeed what were the first, but what were the secondary causes of the rapid growth of the Christian church. It will perhaps appear that it was most effectually favoured and assisted by the five following causes: I. The inflexible, and if we may use the expression, the intolerant zeal of the Christians, derived, it is true, from the Jewish religion, but purified from the narrow and unsocial spirit which instead of inviting, had deterred the Gentiles from embracing the law of Moses. II. The doctrine of a future life, improved by every additional circumstance which could give weight and efficacy to that important truth. III. The miraculous powers ascribed to the primitive church. IV. The pure and austere morals of the Christians. V. The union and discipline of the Christian republic, which gradually formed an independent and increasing state in the heart of the Roman empire.

I. We have already described the religious harmony of the ancient world and the facility with which the most different and even hostile nations embraced, or at least respected, each others superstitions. A single people refused to join in the common intercourse of mankind. The Jews, who under the Assyrian and Persian monarchies, had languished for many ages the most despised portion of their slaves, emerged from


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Rh such standards as these to pass in review the work of the moderns, and not to notice the general decline in the moral weight and the spirituality of late poetic literature. Materialism, both as respects the objects of man's pursuit and the character of his speculation in philosophy, has been so important and growing a factor of the times, that, if there is any validity in this theory of poetry, it must follow that our poetic work has lost elevation, meaning, and utility. Religion itself, so far as the general thought of nineteenth-century civilization is concerned, has suffered a diminution of its authority, and consequently the spiritual life of man has filled a less prominent part in the eyes of these generations.

In connection with this, room should be made for some original remarks of the writer upon the Pagan element in our modern poetry. He is very well affected towards Platonism, and recognizes it historically as "the chief secondary cause of the diffusion of Christianity, doing for it more than the favor of Constantine could ever have done." He thus affirms for Greek religion and Greek philosophy "an element of greatness and truth." Our poets, in returning to its


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82 life and thought, seem to him to be making a return to the spiritual element which in the revolutionary ages has been obscured and too often lost. He speaks in this as a Catholic, but he is more Christian than Catholic, if it may be permitted to say so; and all religious writers admit and lament the inroad of skepticism and consequent materialism. The turn he gives to these facts is a striking one:—

"The arts of the Middle Ages soared above Paganism: the imaginative mind of modern times stands for the most part aloof from it; but it often stands aloof from Christianity also. Secularity is its prevailing character, while even in Paganism there is a spiritual element. We may not, without a risk of insincerity and presumption, indulge in either an exultation or a regret higher than corresponds with our low position. Can we with truth say that the portion of our modern literature which reverts to ancient mythology is less religious than the rest? Is it not, in the case of some authors, the only portion which has any relations, even through type or symbol, with religious ideas? Would Dante, would even Milton, have found more to sympathize with


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Page:The Irish in Australia.djvu/327

 and had done them the still deadlier wrong of familiarising them with the worst vices of civilisation. They were indiscriminately shot down on the slightest provocation, and often without any provocation at all. The loss of a white man's sheep or bullock was deemed sufficient justification for murdering in cold blood every black that could be found for miles around. Mr. Plunkett resolved on exercising his authority to check this wholesale destruction of human life, and, by a salutary lesson, to teach all inhuman white scoundrels that the blacks, equally with themselves, were under the protection of the law. An outrage of more than ordinary atrocity soon gave him the opportunity of enforcing this much-needed lesson. A party of ten Europeans, hearing that a number of aborigines were encamped in their neighbourhood, sallied forth with loaded guns to have what they called a "little sport." Stealing on the unsuspecting savages, they opened fire and shot down thirty of the hapless creatures, men, women, and children being included in this frightful and unprovoked massacre. The "sportsmen" returned to their homes well pleased with the success that had attended their shooting excursion. So blunted was their moral sense, that the thought that they had committed a great crime would probably be the last to enter their minds. Hundreds of blacks had been murdered in a similar manner, and the law had called no white man to account. So what reason had they to fear punishment for what they had done? But in this anticipation they were wofully [sic] mistaken. The ugly facts somehow leaked out and reached the ears of Mr. Plunkett, whose indignation was fired by the recital. He there and then determined that these horrible offenders should not go unpunished. Setting to work immediately, in spite of the formidable obstacles that were thrown in his

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 way, he succeeded in collecting sufficient evidence to place the whole party on their trial. At every stage he was obstructed by influential friends of the prisoners and numerous sympathisers, who refused to believe that killing the blacks was really murder. Every effort was made to suppress the evidence, but without avail. With invincible courage and determination, Mr. Plunkett prosecuted his self-imposed mission of mercy to a dying race, elicited link by link the whole dreadful story, and awakened the slumbering conscience of the nation to the iniquity that was working in their midst. Truth and justice finally prevailed; seven of the murderers expiated their crime on the scaffold, and the poor blacks were in the future treated more like human beings and less like legitimate game for every white scoundrel in possession of a gun.

When parliamentary government came into operation in New South Wales, Mr. Plunkett sat for some years in the Legislative Assembly, and at a later period he became a member, and was for a time president, of the Legislative Council. Throughout his political career he was distinguished for the same sterling honesty of purpose, strict impartiality, and generous consideration for all classes of citizens, that signalised his official actions as permanent Attorney-General of the colony. "I confess," said Sir Gavan Duffy, in speaking of Mr. Plunkett at a public gathering, "I am proud to see a man of my own creed and nation, who for five-and-twenty years had a power almost uncontrolled over the course of legislation, secure for himself the adherence of the most adverse classes by his systematic liberality and justice. Every clergyman of the Church of England voted for this Irish Catholic; the Wesleyans supported him; the Jews supported him. And why? Because when power was

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 the magnetic-screen of the ether-vision panel.

Definitely the Mass had lost some of its energy. Its white-yellow radiance was turning to a cherry red. Hope surged in the heart of the young scientist. He switched on the current to the electro-carbonide rods. The interior of the annihilator housing crackled with violet flames as the heavy neutrons were shot outward in sky space. He was almost certain now that the Mass was undergoing a process of disintegration.

He examined the thermometer. One hundred and thirty degrees. Was the Mass actually turning red, or were his eyes failing him? He looked sharply at different points within the metal structure. No tinge of red obscured his vision.

Logic came tardily to his rescue. Though the Mass was definitely cooler than on the first day, its heat was still great for it had approached hundreds of thousands of miles closer to the earth.

At noon, when it was directly above the Annihilator, Carruthers switched on the maximum power which he had hesitated on using before. The increased humming of the tortured rods was more than his eardrums could stand. He packed his ears with small pieces of linen torn from his handkerchief.

Continued tension forced him to get up and move around. He went outside and bathed his face with warm water. Afterwards he went back to the ether-vision machine to see what was now happening in the world around him. Since he hadn't changed the directional beam, the first thing to appear on the magnetic screen was the image of the thing which menaced the earth.

As Carruthers stared at it he became aware of something that had lately happened. Running from the north to its southern axis across the face of the Mass was a blackish line. It had the appearance of a split in the Mass surface structure. As he tried to bring out details in sharper relief he heard the door open and close behind him. Vignot had returned.

"Ha!" chuckled the bearded chemist. "Thought I wasn't coming back, didn't you? Well, I thought the same thing several times. I've had to walk most of the time. Every vehicle that could be charted has been pressed into service by other people."

He mopped his forehead. "The situation is unchanged as far as my mission is concerned. I couldn't discover a thing. I've gone to three different seismograpic locations where the science of earthquake phenomena is studied and traced, and found instruments and laboratories deserted and desolate with emptiness. You've no conception how panicky this world has become. Then my practical nature asserted itself and I managed to purchase some food capsules."

He extended a handful of the capsules to the young scientist. "I've been living on them since this morning. Until something happens either for good or evil, this is all we're going to eat. The base of this mountain is flooded with a thick, tenacious substance known as pitch. The road is blocked with it. I had to scramble over a great many boulders to get across the barrier. And that's all the bad news I can think of."

"It's quite enough," shrugged Carruthers, "and it's not important. Take a look at the magnetic screen." Then, as if aware for the first time of the food capsules Vignot had given him, he began to eat them slowly and thankfully. Almost at once new strength began to tingle throughout his tired body.

George Vignot studied the reflected image of the Mass for a considerable period before speaking. "Definitely," he stated, "the Mass has undergone some violent changes since I saw it last. It's actually


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Rh in the average of modern literature than in Homer or in Sophocles, in Wordsworth's Laodamia or Keats's Hymn to Pan? What proportion of our late poetry is Christian either in spirit or in subject—nay, in traditions and associations? Admirable as much of it is, it is not for its spiritual tendencies that it can be commended. Commonly it shares the material character of our age, and smells of the earth; at other times, recoiling from the sordid, it flies into the fantastic.... It is our life which is to be blamed; our poetry has been but the reflection of that life."

This is valuable, not only for its suggestion, but because it sums up and speaks out plainly the protest which is implicit in all this criticism. The æsthetic lover of beauty, the artist who is satisfied with feats of poetic craft, will not find anything to his liking in Aubrey de Vere's essays. They are presided over by a severe Platonism intellectually, by an exacting and all-including Christianity when the subject touches upon man's life, and they will prove somewhat difficult reading, perhaps, because the thought continually reverts to great ideas, to that doctrine of life which the author seeks for in the poets,


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84 and prizes as the substance of their works. But it is well, in poetic days like these, to be brought back to the more serious muses which inspired the great ideal works of our literature, and to converse with them under the guidance of such a spirit as fills these essays with a sense of the continual presence in great literature of the higher interests of man, his life on earth, and his spiritual relation to the universe. These essays contain the fruits of habitual familiarity with poetry, the convictions of a lifetime with regard to those things which are still important subjects of thought to thoughtful men; and there is, mingled with the style, the sweet persuasiveness of a refined and liberal nature, which is only too well aware that it must plead its cause, and pleads with strength and charm.


text: Studies in letters and life/Aubrey de Vere on Poetry


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 cooling off. That much is apparent from the change in color. And judging from the dark line running from top to bottom, I'd say that it has already begun to crack up from the bombardment."

"The line is widening fast," said Carruthers. "We should know definitely what is happening in a short time."

As both men watched speechlessly, the black line began to widen. The Mass lost its roundness. Its sides began to expand until it assumed the form of a rubber ball that was being pressed from the top downward.

ARRUTHERS leaned forward, concentrated the directional beam on the dark path and stepped up the power so that he could see better what that darkness signified.

As the expanding dark line flowed into the screen, the outer edges of the Mass became invisible, for the screen wasn't large enough to produce the full image.

For a few minutes there was nothing visible. Then, as the powerful beam of the ether-vision machine penetrated the shadows, they saw a pin-point of light in the very center of the blackness. And suddenly the darkness rolled back. Through it shot a ball of what looked like cloudy vapor.

The heat of the Mass dissipated it slightly, but not altogether. It kept rolling outward with gathering momentum until it was no longer a part of the Mass. but separate from it and moving through space at a tremendous speed. So swiftly did it come forward that its size filled the magnetic screen with what seemed like glittering moisture.

Carruthers adjusted the beam at a different angle. When the cloud of vapor was visible again, it was far from the parent Mass.

"Look, Vignot!" he gasped. "The Mass has opened up and disgorged something, and it's breaking into two indefinite sections which are fading into dust. The Mass is disintegrating!"

"But the vapor cloud," breathed Vignot, also leaning forward. "Keep it in sight every minute. Better shut off the flow of neutrons. They won't be needed any longer."

Carruthers pulled the switch. The electro-carbonide rods cooled and turned black. When he reached the control panel of the ether-vision machine again, the vapor cloud had vanished.

He angled the directional beam for a long time before picking it up again. When he did finally overtake it, the cloud was really getting close to the earth. As they watched it, they saw a number of tiny bright specks slanting out of the vapor which by now was almost dissipated.

Light from the sun struck against them. They glittered like molten fire as they fell toward the earth.

"God!" breathed Vignot. "What are they?"

"Metal or glass cylinders at first glance," guessed Carruthers. "Too far away yet to know definitely. But they'll never reach the earth. They'll be burned up when they pass into the air barrier above our globe. I've counted them. There must be twenty in all." He cringed as a bright burst of flame enveloped the lowest of the cylinders.

"There goes the first one. Burned to nothing in the friction..."

"Wait a second, Aaron. You knew about the new additional magnetic attraction that's affecting compasses all over the world. Well, I think I've solved the mystery. Its this machine of yours. The magnetic field forms when the neutrons start shooting into space. Turn on your electro-carbonide rods again. But shoot the neutrons off to the east so they won't destroy those shining things falling to earth. And if they're made of metal as


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 they seem to be, the magnetic attraction may pull them toward this mountain.

"A good point." Carruthers nodded approval, lowered the intensity of the current flowing through the rods and switched on the Annihilator. Carefully he changed the angle so that the discharge was activated to the east. Almost at once the shining things responded to the pull. Instead of falling vertically downward, they twisted slightly so that the points of their metal bodies were aimed toward the magnetic field set up by the annihilator beam.

Those that were slow in responding were destroyed by friction within the earth's air barrier. Three of them, however, got through the barrier. An hour before sunset these three shining things moved down upon the earth. No longer was it necessary to follow their course with the ether-vision machine. Both men moved out into the open and stared into the sky at the shining things that had come out of the sky's vast immensity.

"They may be rocket cylinders," said Carruthers, shading his eyes against the setting sun, "except for the fact that they're pointed on both ends. Certainly, they're man-made."

"They certainly are," agreed Vignot. "But made by what race of men? Aaron, this is the most astounding and fabulous..."

"They're falling this way," Carruthers broke in. "The magnetic attraction is... Oh! They're out of it. And now they're falling vertically."

They waited and watched with fear-expanded eyes. One of the shining things disappeared into the lake behind the power-station dam. A second nosed hissingly into the still smoldering crevasse down the mountainside.

A miracle preserved the third and last from destruction. It struck the tops of a dense growth of pine trees glancingly. Their great, arching trunks bent but did not break. Small branches snapped. Needles showered to the ground. But the force of the metal object's speed had been slowed to such an extent that it remained intact and scarcely dented when it finally slithered through the branches to the ground less than a hundred feet from where the two men stood watching it.

They raced toward it. The shining thing, a metallic cylinder at least eight feet in length, gleamed and sparkled in the fading sunlight. But before they reached it something happened that checked their impetuousness. Carruthers felt his breath snag deep down into his throat.

A section of the cylinder was opening slowly as if on hinges. The last, lingering rays of the setting sun revealed what at first seemed a dazzling apparition—an angel without wings, crowned with a golden aura of flame. And then the goddess from another world stepped from the cylinder.

Out of the dim recesses of his mind, from some memory cells that seemed to have been dormant for a thousand years, arose a cloudy picture that Carruthers knew had always been there. This girl was no stranger. He had seen her before. She was a part of some past experience as elusive as dancing shadows. Within his heart stirred a lively breeze. It was as though the creator had returned to him something he had loved and lost in the mouldy centuries of another existence.

HE stood for a time on the daintiest slippered feet, clothed in soft, transparent clinging garments that followed every curve of her splendid, unashamed body. Her golden hair was gathered into a knot at the nape of her bare neck. Her eyes, indefinite as to color, were startled as a fawn's. She seemed poised for instant flight as she stood just outside the door to the cylinder.

Neither man made any motion to come


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have now given a descriptive account of the facts constituting our subject, and with this preliminary task ended, may turn to a few more serious problems. We have succeeded in classifying the minor social units, according to culture data, language, and somatic characters. Also, it has been possible to group geographically the known archæological artifacts resulting in a distinct culture classification. The general impression prevails that all of these classifications are independent of each other. The facts in the case are that each system developed in its own way and largely at the hands of specialists. The result has, on the whole, been detrimental to anthropology, because the tendency has been to diverge into uncoördinated sciences, as linguistics, archæology, ethnology, and physical anthropology. Such differentiation developed partisans for each classification, whose controversies have obscured the problem rather than otherwise. Thus, the linguist asserts that no one can do anything until he learns native languages, because they are the keys to the whole subject; the archæologist insists that his is the main road to travel; the ethnologist belittles the claims of both; while the physical anthropologist looks down upon all. Fortunately, this condition is passing and the coming generation of anthropologists is facing the synthetic problems upon which the future of our science depends.

Such broader synthetic work must, in the nature of the case, begin with the correlation of the four great groups of data we have so far discussed independently. Each has developed a classification based upon geographical distribution and in this direction lies our first task. As may be anticipated, any such attempt to correlate these four great systems of classification will meet with opposition, for there is a deep-rooted belief that there are no such correlations. But let us ignore this proposition for the present, and examine the case on its merits.

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 closer to her for they did not want to frighten her. Never had Aaron Carruthers been so stirred emotionally by any earth being as he was by this exquisite creature from outer space. His eyes were grave as he searched her face for some sign that she was the one he had known in the dim, ageless past. He smiled reassuringly, but he could not recall when and where he had known her.

Fear had vanished from her eyes. She had glanced only casually at the bearded chemist. Her attention was centered wholly on the other earth being. Long and searchingly she watched him. noting his shoulders, his chin, his deep-set eyes, and the high, intelligent forehead.

Suddenly her chin quivered. She raised both hands to her mouth. For a moment she seemed undecided as to what to do. Some poignant memory was shining in her eyes. She took a slow, uncertain step forward, then broke into a run, both arms outstretched.

Carruthers was conscious of but one thing as her arms encircled him and he felt the warmth of her body pressed close to his own. This girl was no figment of his imagination. He had known and loved her in the post. She was his—she would always be his. She was real. She was as real as the sun's afterglow glinting on her hair, and the quickening beat of his heart that matched the beat of her own.

She raised her face to his and he kissed her tenderly. But her face was troubled. She pointed upward and spoke in a tongue that was strange to his ears.

He ahook his head. He didn't know how to explain to her what had happened to the rest of the cylinders that had been ejected from the Mass. He pointed toward the spot where the sun had vanished. "Sun," he explained. He indicated the wide sweep of heavens. "Sky." Downward he pointed. "Earth." Then, pointing at himself: "Aaron."

"Ar—ron," she repeated. Her eyes brightened responsively. "Ishtar," she added in a musical voice.

His eyes were bewildered.

She pointed at herself as she had seen him do and seemed afraid that he would not understand. But his smile reassured her. She backed from his arms, her eyes once more straying aloft into the sky as if searching for something in the red sunset. After a moment they clouded with disappointment and tears.

Carruthers again held out his arms. She came into them sobbing and trembling in her grief. And he held her tightly, possessively.

"Bah!" rumbled the bearded chemist.

And the sound seemed to set the mountain tumbling and crashing about the young scientist's ears in a splitting orgy of sound and confusions. Violet lightnings stabbed his brain, numbing it with soothing anaesthesia.

He could feel himself falling—falling—falling!

HE white walls of the laboratory reappeared before his eyes. Against this background he could see the Time Projector whose potent power had carried him ten years into the future. He removed the metal helmet from his head. Vignot and Danzig had likewise recovered and were following his example.

Carruthers, himself, broke the first silence. "Do either of you remember all that happened?"

"Only the last three days," said Danzig. "I was working alone in a strange power-station which had been abandoned. That's all I seem to remember."

"And you, Vignot?"

"My memory is cloudy. I recall seeing a calendar dated 2017. Also I had an interest in seismographic disturbances. I also recall that I was hungry, that I could obtain only food capsules, and that I was