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 the vainglory of Alexander, when he aspired to the honours of divinity, by pointing to his wounded finger, saying, “See the blood of a mortal, not of a god.” The story that at Bactra in 327  in a public speech he advised all to worship Alexander as a god even during his lifetime, is with greater probability attributed to the Sicilian Cleon. It is said that Nicocreon, tyrant of Cyprus, commanded him to be pounded to death in a mortar, and that he endured this torture with fortitude; but the story is doubtful, having no earlier authority than Cicero. His philosophical doctrines are not known, though some have inferred from the epithet  (“fortunate”), usually applied to him, that he held the end of life to be . ANAXILAUS, of Larissa, a physician and Pythagorean philosopher, who was banished from Rome by Augustus, 28, on the charge of practising the magic art. This accusation appears to have originated in his superior skill in natural philosophy, by which he produced effects that the ignorant attributed to magic.

ANAXIMANDER, the second of the physical philosophers of Ionia, was a citizen of Miletus and a companion or pupil of Thales. Little is known of his life. Aelian makes him the leader of the Milesian colony to Amphipolis, and hence some have inferred that he was a prominent citizen. The computations of Apollodorus have fixed his birth in 611, and his death shortly after 547 Tradition, probably correct in its general estimate, represents him as a successful student of astronomy and geography, and as one of the pioneers of exact science among the Greeks. He taught, if he did not discover, the obliquity of the ecliptic, is said to have introduced into Greece the gnomon (for determining the solstices) and the sundial, and to have invented some kind of geographical map. But his reputation is due mainly to his work on nature, few words of which remain. From these fragments we learn that the beginning or first principle (, a word which, it is said, he was the first to use) was an endless, unlimited mass , subject to neither old age nor decay, and perpetually yielding fresh materials for the series of beings which issued from it. He never defined this principle precisely, and it has generally (e.g. by Aristotle and Augustine) been understood as a sort of primal chaos. It embraced everything, and directed the movement of things, by which there grew up a host of shapes and differences. Out of the vague and limitless body there sprung a central mass,—this earth of ours, cylindrical in shape, poised equidistant from surrounding orbs of fire, which had originally clung to it like the bark round a tree, until their continuity was severed, and they parted into several wheel-shaped and fire-filled bubbles of air. Man himself and the animals had come into being by like transmutations. Mankind was supposed by Anaximander to have sprung from some other species of animals, probably aquatic. But as the measureless and endless had been the prime cause of the motion into separate existences and individual forms, so also, according to the just award of destiny, these forms would at an appointed season suffer the vengeance due to their earlier act of separation, and return into the vague immensity whence they had issued. Thus the world, and all definite existences contained in it, would lose their independence and disappear in the “indeterminate.” The blazing orbs, which have drawn off from the cold earth and water, are the temporary gods of the world, clustering round the earth, which, to the ancient thinker, is the central figure.

ANAXIMENES, of Lampsacus (fl. 380–320 ), Greek rhetorician and historian, was a favourite of Alexander the Great, whom he accompanied in his Persian campaigns. He wrote histories of Greece and of Philip, and an epic on Alexander (fragments in Müller, Scriptores Rerum Alexandri Magni). As a rhetorician, he was a determined opponent of Isocrates and his school. The Rhetorica ad Alexandrum, usually included among the works of Aristotle, is now generally admitted to be by Anaximenes, although some consider it a much later production (edition by Spengel, 1847).

ANAXIMENES, of Miletus, Greek philosopher in the latter half of the 6th century, was probably a younger contemporary of Anaximander, whose pupil or friend he is said to have been. He held that the air, with its variety of contents, its universal presence, its vague associations in popular fancy with the phenomena of life and growth, is the source of all that exists. Everything is air at different degrees of density, and under the influence of heat, which expands, and of cold, which contracts its volume, it gives rise to the several phases of existence. The process is gradual, and takes place in two directions, as heat or cold predominates. In this way was formed a broad disk of earth, floating on the circumambient air. Similar condensations produced the sun and stars; and the flaming state of these bodies is due to the velocity of their motions.

ANAZARBUS (med. Ain Zarba; mod. Navarza), an ancient Cilician city, situated in the Aleian plain about 10 m. W. of the main stream of the Pyramus (Jihun) and near its tributary the Sempas Su. A lofty isolated ridge formed its acropolis. Though some of the masonry in the ruins is certainly pre-Roman, Suidas’s identification of it with Cyinda, famous as a treasure city in the wars of Eumenes of Cardia, cannot be accepted in the face of Strabo’s express location of Cyinda in western Cilicia. Under the early Roman empire the place was known as Caesarea, and was the metropolis of Cilicia Secunda. Rebuilt by the emperor Justin after an earthquake, it became Justinopolis ( 525); but the old native name persisted, and when Thoros I., king of Lesser Armenia, made it his capital early in the 12th century, it was known as Anazarva. Its great natural strength and situation, not far from the mouth of the Sis pass, and near the great road which debouched from the Cilician gates, made Anazarbus play a considerable part in the struggles between the Byzantine empire and the early Moslem invaders. It had been rebuilt by Harun al-Rashid in 796, refortified at great expense by Saif addaula, the Hamdanid (10th century) and Saiked, and ruined by the crusaders.

The present wall of the lower city is of late construction, probably Armenian. It encloses a mass of ruins conspicuous in which are a fine triumphal arch, the colonnades of two streets, a gymnasium, &c. A stadium and a theatre lie outside on the south. The remains of the acropolis fortifications are very interesting, including roads and ditches hewn in the rock; but beyond ruins of two churches and a fine tower built by Thoros I. there are no notable structures in the upper town. For picturesqueness the site is not equalled in Cilicia, and it is worth while to trace the three fine aqueducts to their sources.

ANBAR, originally called, or , a town founded about 350 by Shapur (Sapor) II. Sassanid, king of Persia, on the east bank of the Euphrates, just south of the Nahr Isa, or Sakhlawieh canal, the northernmost of the canals connecting that river with the Tigris, in lat. 33° 22′ N., long. 43° 49′ E. It was captured and destroyed by the emperor Julian in 363, but speedily rebuilt. It became a refuge for the Christian and Jewish colonies of that region, and there are said to have been 90,000 Jews in the place at the time of its capture by Ali in 657. The Arabs changed the name of the town to Anbar (“granaries”). Abū ʽl-ʽAbbās as-Saffāḥ, the founder of the Abbasid caliphate, made it his capital, and such it remained until the founding of Bagdad in 762. It continued to be a place of much importance throughout the Abbasid period. It is now entirely deserted. The site is occupied only by ruin mounds, as yet unexplored. Their great extent indicates the former importance of the city.

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 ANCACHS, a coast province of central Peru, lying between the departments of Lima and Libertad, and W. of the Marañon river. Area, 16,562 sq. m.; pop. (1896) 428,703. The department was created in 1835, and received its present name in 1839, and its last accession of territory in 1861. Lying partly on the arid coast, partly in the high Cordilleras and partly in the valley of the Marañon, it has every variety of climate and productions. Rice, cotton, sugar-cane, yucas (Manihot aipi) and tropical fruits are produced in the irrigated valleys of the coast, and wheat, Indian corn, barley, potatoes, coffee, coca, &c., in the upland regions. Cattle and sheep are also raised for the coast markets. Mining is likewise an important industry. The capital, Huaráz (est. pop. 8000 in 1896), on the Rio Santa or Huaráz, is a large mining centre in the sierras, 9931 ft. above sea-level, from which a railway runs to the small seaports of Santa and Chimbote, 172 m. distant. Other noteworthy towns are Caraz (6000) and Carhuaz (5000) in the sierra region, and Huarmey (1500) on the coast. ANCAEUS, in Greek legend, son of Zeus or Poseidon, king of the Leleges of Samos. In the Argonautic expedition, after the death of Tiphys, helmsman of the “Argo,” he took his place. It is said that, while planting a vineyard, he was told by a soothsayer that he would never drink of its wine. As soon as the grapes were ripe, he squeezed the juice into a cup, and, raising it to his lips, mocked the seer, who retorted with the words,  (“there is many a slip between the cup and the lip”). At that moment it was announced that a wild boar was ravaging the land. Ancaeus set down the cup, leaving the wine untasted, hurried out, and was killed by the boar.

ANCASTER AND KESTEVEN,, an English title borne by the well-known Lincolnshire family of Bertie from 1715 to 1809. (1660–1723), son and heir of Robert, third earl of Lindsey (d. 1701), who succeeded his father as lord great chamberlain of England, was created marquess of Lindsey in 1706, being made duke of Ancaster and Kesteven in July 1715. His eldest surviving son, (1686–1742), who had been a member of parliament for Lincolnshire from 1708 to 1714, succeeded to the dukedom and also to the lord-lieutenancy of Lincolnshire, which had been held by his father. His son and successor, (1714–1778), who was also lord great chamberlain and lord-lieutenancy of Lincolnshire, attained the rank of general in the British army. The fourth duke was (1756–1779), son of the third duke, who died in July 1779, when his barony of Willoughby de Eresby and the hereditary office of lord great chamberlain fell into abeyance until 1780. The dukedom, however, and other honours came to his uncle (1729–1809), on whose death in February 1809 the dukedom of Ancaster and Kesteven became extinct; but the earldom of Lindsey descended to a distant kinsman, Albemarle Bertie (1744–1818). After a second period of abeyance the barony of Willoughby de Eresby was revived in 1871 in favour of Clementina Elizabeth (d. 1888), a descendant of the Berties, who was the widow of Gilbert John Heathcote, 1st Baron Aveland (d. 1867). Her son and successor, (b. 1830), 23rd Baron Willoughby de Eresby, and joint hereditary lord great chamberlain, was created earl of Ancaster in 1898. ANCELOT, JACQUES ARSÈNE FRANÇOIS POLYCARPE (1794–1854), French dramatist and littérateur, was born at Havre, on the 9th of February 1794. He became a clerk in the admiralty, and retained his position until the revolution of 1830. In 1816 his play Warwick was accepted by the Théâtre Français, but never produced, and three years later a five-act tragedy, Louis IX., was staged. Three editions of the play were speedily exhausted; it had a run of fifty representations, and brought him a pension of 2000 francs from Louis XVIII. His next work, Le Maire du palais, was played in 1825 with less success; but for it he received the cross of the legion of honour. In 1824 he produced Fiesque, a clever adaptation of Schiller’s Fiesco. In 1828 appeared Olga, ou l’orpheline russe, the plot of which had been inspired by a voyage he made to Russia in 1826. About the same period he produced in succession Marie de Brabant (1825), a poem in six cantos; L’Homme du monde (1827), a novel in four volumes, afterwards dramatized with success; and in 1829 a play, Elisabeth d’Angleterre. By the revolution of July 1830 he lost at once his royal pension and his office as librarian at Meudon; and he was chiefly employed during the next ten years in writing vaudevilles and light dramas and comedies. A tragedy, Maria Padilla (1838), gained him admission to the French Academy in 1841. Ancelot was sent by the French government in 1849 to Turin, Florence, Brussels and other capitals, to negotiate on the subject of international copyright; and the treaties which were concluded soon after were the result, in a great measure, of his tact and intelligence. ANCESTOR-WORSHIP, a general name for the cult of deceased parents and forefathers. Aristotle in his Ethics stigmatizes as “extremely unloving” ( ) the denial that ancestors are interested in or affected by the fortunes of their descendants; and in effect ancestor-worship is the staple of most religions, ancient or modern, civilized or savage. The ancient Jews were a striking exception; for though the frequent mention of ancestral graves on hilltops or in caves, and in connexion with sacred trees and pillars, and the resemblance of the “elohim” in Exod. xxi. 4-6 to household gods, may suggest that cults of the dead preceded that of Yahweh, nevertheless in the classical age of their religion (see ) as reflected in the Old Testament, ancestor-worship has already vanished. “The Semitic nomads,” remarks Renan in his History of Israel (tome 1, p. 50), “were the religious race par excellence, because in fact they were the least superstitious of the families of mankind, the least duped by the dream of a beyond, by the phantasmagory of a double or a shadow surviving in the nether regions They suppressed the chimeras which went with belief in a complete survival after death, chimeras which were homicidal at the time, in so far as they robbed man of the true notion of death and led him to multiply murders.”

Renan here refers to the burial rite of an ancient Scythian king (as described by Herodotus, iv. 71), at whose tomb were strangled his concubine, cup-bearer, cook, groom, lackey, envoy, and several of his horses. Such cruel customs were, of course, and still are associated in many lands with the cult of the dead; but, on the other hand, there are gentler and more beneficial aspects observable to-day in China and Japan. There the mighty dead are present with the living, protect them and their houses and crops, are their strength in battle, and teach their hands to war and their fingers to fight. In the Russo-Japanese War in 1904–5 the greatest incentive to deeds of patriotic valour was for Japanese soldiers the belief that the spirits of their ancestors were watching them; and in China it is not the man himself that is ennobled for his philanthropic virtues or learning, but his ancestor. No more solemn duty weighs upon the Chinaman than that of tending the spirits of his dead forefathers. Confucius, it is recorded, sacrificed to the dead, as if they were present, and to the spirits, as if they were there. In view of such Chinese sacrifices the names of the dead are inscribed on wooden plaques called spirit-tablets, into which the spirits are during the ceremony supposed to enter, having quitted the very heaven and presence of God in order to commune with posterity. Twice a year, in spring and autumn, a Chinese ruler goes in state to the imperial college in Pekin, and presents the appointed offerings before the spirit-tablets of Confucius and of the worthies who have been associated with him in his temples. He greets the sage’s spirit with this prayer:—“This year, in this month, on this day, I, the emperor, offer sacrifice to the philosopher K’ung, the ancient teacher, the perfect sage, and say, O teacher, in virtue equal to heaven and earth Now in this second month of spring, in reverent observance of the old statutes, with victims, silks, spirits, and fruits, I offer sacrifice to thee.”

In ancient Rome painted wax images of ancestors who had

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 EDINBURGH HOUSE ESTABLISHED 1852. J. P. BROWN (LATE ESPIE), Tailor, Outfitter,* Shirtmaker, HATTER, HOSIER, & GLOVER, & 43 Bourke Street East, Melbourne. OVERCOATINGS, NEW GOODS, COATINGS, STYLISH CUT, VESTINGS, GOOD FIT, TROUSERINGS. MODERATE CHARGES. TWEED SUITS TO MEASURE, FROM FOUR POUiNDS. Patterns and Self-measurement Cards post free on application. J. P. BROWN'S "IMPROVED SHIRT." A PERFECT FIT. Made in all Sizes and Various Qualities. SHIRTS MADE TO ORDER. Having secured the serrices of a REALLY PRACTICAL SHIRTCUTTER, employ- ing only EXPERIENCED ASSISTANTS, and using THE BEST MATERIALS, he can guarantee SHIRTS NOT TO BE SURPASSED AS REGARDS Fit, ^Laterial, Workmanship, and IPrice.

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 ADVERTISEMENTS. MIQHE»T PfllZC AWANOCO, SUCCESS THE I1TDEZ 0? MERIT. I'AI.MAM QUI MERUIT KKRAT. PREMIER BOOTMAKER, BY SPECIAL APPOINTMENT TO HIS EXCELLENCY SIR G. F. BOWEN, G.C.M.G., Swanston .street, Melbourne. Same side as, and short distance from. Town Hall. ?« tl AER WA ™?r, c ^ [Telegram.] Sydney, 2nd May, 187S. To Mr. JOHN ROSIER, Bootmaker, 46 Swanston-street, Melbourne. Judges award Medal to you, saying " Highly Artistic and Beautifully made ; equal i" anything of the kind from the West Kml of London." J. G. KNIGHT. Exhibition Buildings. „** s ? m ** ^ ROSLER'8 MANUFACTURES are now so permanently appreciated for their combination of ELEGANCE, EXCEL- LENCE, and ECONOMY, throughout Australasia, China, and the Indies, as to r.-<iiiire no detailed enumeration of their respective merits. A speciality.— ROSTER'S PRIZE SHOOTING BOOTS, having been tho- roughly tested during the past shooting season, are now pronounced to be unsur- passed in any quarter of the Globe. Lasts modelled to suit the anatomical requirements of each foot, under the immediate supervision of the proprietor. Observe : 46 Swanston Street, between Carton's and Rainbow Hotels, near Town Hall, same side. (Copyright restrvtd.)

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 ADVERTISEMENTS. UNDEK ROYAL Jy%Sli?Blv PATRONAGE. MAYALL & SONS' NEW EA8TEEN ARCADE, Where they have entirely RE MO FED from their late establishment in Collins Street East. Messrs. MAYALL beg leave to announce the Opening of their New Establishment at the Eastern Arcade, built expressly, from their designs, by H. A. Crawford, Esq., and, beyond doubt, the finest in the Southern Hemisphere. The magnificent Studio is unusually lofty and spacious, being 44 feet in length ; facing nearly south, the sun's rays are excluded, which keeps the place cool — a great desideratum in these warm latitudes, and one that has been to a great extent lost sight of. The Reception Room, or Picture Gallery, is lighted exclusively from a skylight, admitted to be best for showing pictures. Mr. Crawford, with great liberality, having adopted Messrs. Mayall's plans in their entirety, the result is one of the finest and most efficient Studios ever built. The Public are respectfully invited to inspect their large collection of specimens at this Establishment. MAYA.LL dfc SONS, PHOTOGRAPHERS, and 226 Regent Street, London ; 90 and 91 King's Road, Brighton. All communications in fature to be addressed to EASTERN ARCADE, MELBOURNE.

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The moon had risen over the distant mountains of Gippsland, and was shedding her glorious light on hill and valley, river and pool, city and suburb—mellowing into beauty the harsher features of the landscape, casting over all that wonderful glamour which has enthralled every race of man, from the grand Chaldeans, who worshipped her as Astarté, to our British forefathers, who held mystic rites in her honor in the deep oak forests that then covered what is now smoke-begrimed, railway-ridden England. Gliding over the sky like a spirit of light, and peace, and beauty, it seemed as if she heeded not the weary turmoil that went on beneath—the great city with its sin and shame, the country with its toil and wretchedness, the sea with its numberless little floating worlds, having so much in common with the greater;—no, the Queen of Heaven moved on majestically across the cold blue skies, emblem of peace and Eternity. She had looked upon scene after scene like this for thousands of years—she had met the gaze of millions and millions yearning to know what she was, worshipping her as a deity, drawing strength and poetry from her beauty. The scenes had changed, the earnest eyes were dust and ashes long ago, and still she pursued her midnight path, sweet and gentle as of yore, when she blessed the gaze of weary Sappho on the Lesbian isle.

Little Billy Dawson might have had some thoughts like the above floating through his dwarfed mind—dwarfed through no fault of his own—but certainly he could not have put them on paper. He knew the moon was beautiful—he knew, when he looked up into the sky and saw her he felt better, his soul seemed to rise out of its narrow prison-house, but he could give no explanation of this to the philosopher. Keenly as he felt the glorious influence, it is very probable he would make a reply to an enquiry more emphatic than poetical. But Billy, poor fellow! was only the roughest of the genus "larrikin." His apology for clothes, his shrunken form, attenuated face, and sharp eyes, told easily that he lived upon his wits, and a scanty living they had afforded; still, notwithstanding all this, there was a merry twinkle in his eyes, which hinted of a fund of joviality. But poor, crushed-down, policeman-fearing fellow, he had few opportunities to be merry. And on this occasion, as be was wandering amongst the wattles by the banks of the Yarra, where the moon created fantastic lights and shadows, fun was far from him; for he was "in trouble," to use his own expression, and did not exactly know what to do. Still Billy, like all colonial youths, took matters coolly, and debated with himself as to the best manner of getting over his little embarrassment, a visit to the country appearing the most natural, being preferable to a visit to the lock-up.

The boy had advanced into a thick part of the scrub when he suddenly became transfixed, and stood in the shadow of a large wattle, still as a statue, his eyes and mouth opening wide as with terror, his whole aspect one of horror and apprehension. The perspiration burst from every pore. Standing there in the shadow, he was a perfect personification of surprise and fear. Gradually these feelings wore away; he recovered the use of his limbs, and took a few uneasy steps, appearing indecisive as to what he should do. Curiosity was very powerful in Billy's organization, and what he had witnessed was so strange, so terrible, that he could not resist the impulse which drew him, as by some invisible agency, towards the spot. He stopped several times and listened, then, hearing nothing, went on until he reached the place where the tragedy had been consummated. Clinging to a wattle, he gazed with starting eyes on the scene.

In a spot on which the moonlight shone in patches, the shadows of the wattles moving to and fro as the wind stirred the trees, lay the dead body of a woman. Evidences there

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4 were of a desperate struggle: the ground was disturbed in all directions; the limbs of the poor creature were distorted, her dress disordered. But Billy never forgot the expression upon that pale, upturned face, from which the eyes were starting with the terror of the last agony. The moonlight shone upon it, and revealed to him every feature. It was pitiful, pitiful. Thin and faded was the face, once beautiful; thin and faded the dress, once costly. Thin and faded, gone, dead;—gone to meet the dread Judge, and to cry for vengeance upon the one who had sent her into Eternity, with all her sins upon her head.

That face! Its lineaments seemed to remind him of some dream, some shadow haunting the storehouses of memory!

How the boy shook! That night added whole years to his experience.

Closer still he drew to the dreadful thing, noting everything with the keenness of an observation sharpened by mystery. Suddenly he started. In one of the worn hands was a lock of hair, which in the last struggle she had torn from her destroyer. Billy looked at it closely; it was of a beautiful brown, slightly curling. He jotted that down in his memory.

Standing there, alone with the dead in the moonlight, this poor, untutored outcast, clenched his hands and sot his teeth, as he thought of the cowardly murderer who had in his sight done this deed.

"I'll know him again," said he; "I'm sure I will. I saw his face just as ha turned to go away; it was a face I won't forget. And I'll mark him; that I will! Poor, poor girl!"

And his tears dropped silently over the still, dead form, far beyond human joy or sorrow.

Suddenly steps were heard. The boy turned round with terror on his face, and, knowing it would be fatal to him, in his present predicament, to be found near the body, he sprang away with a bound.

And the body was left alone in the moonlight, guarded by the spectral wattle shadows, that moved hither and thither.

The sunshine was streaming on the busy streets of Melbourne, and men were hurrying hither and thither, intent on the mighty business of money-getting. The week had been one of dull, damp weather; fogs had hovered over the city; and the channels had overflowed and filled the shops of too patient ratepayers, so that it was no wonder people took advantage of this sudden peep of fine weather to saunter out and get through their city affairs. And coming, as it did, after such an inclement interval, the day had the same effect as one of those smiling oases that light up the barrenness of the desert. A clear blue sky vaulted the scene and a fresh, though keen air ruddied the cheeks of all who chose to sally forth. It would have required more than this, however, to have brightened the face of a young man who was walking, or rather slinking, up Collins-street feeling himself out of place amongst the corpulent capitalists and the plethoric matrons in black silk or velvet, full of flesh and finery, who did the block with their daughters under the eyes of the beaux. And yet this young man had moved amongst the Collins-street crowd but very recently, and had been held in as much honor as any of these handsome youths who now turned up their nose at his exceedingly shabby garb.

He was a man of about twenty-five years of age. Life, however, is not counted by years; the body ages otherwise than by the slow process of days and months. Dressed in other clothes, he would have appeared very handsome, but the stamp of the mint of vice would not have been effaced. His face was of that sickly white which tells of dissipation; its once rounded outlines had become pinched, and around his eyes, wild and dark, lines appeared that should not mar the beauty of youth. But it was not these that told of the evil life he had led; it was that indescribable expression of a fallen nature which stamps every vicious face, added to by a vivid despair that marked each feature, and a wild, impatient light in his unfathomable eyes, which told he felt hate not only for all human kind but for himself.

Hugh Hanlon knew too well that he had no one to blame for the shame and ignominy of his position but himself; that, but for his own actions, those who now passed him by as if he were a leper, would have pressed his hand and smiled upon him with every demonstration of friendship. It has been written that on the Last Great Day the Eye of the Judge will convey to each mind in a second the deeds it has done: there are times in this life when the soul is deeply touched—when, with lightning rapidity, there flashes upon the memory every wrong step that we have taken, every opportunity we have neglected; and, if there can be a foretaste of Heaven, surely such moments are a foreshadowing

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came home early that afternoon, bringing Mr. Larabee, his brother-in-law, with him. Dick was anxiously awaiting their arrival.

"Is that fierce beast in the house?" demanded the boy's uncle, as he stood on the front steps. "If he is I'll not come in."

"I've sent him to the stable, uncle," replied the young millionaire.

"That's the proper place for him. Dogs are no good. They eat as much as a man, and what you spend on keeping them would provide for a heathen child in Africa."

Dick wondered if Uncle Ezra provided for any heathen children, from his wealth, but did not think it wise to ask.

"Well, Dick," said Mr. Hamilton, when they were all three in the library, "your uncle thinks it would be a good plan for me to leave you with him, while I'm away."

"Yes?" remarked Dick, his heart beating faster than usual.

"It's the only sensible plan," said Uncle Ezra

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36 with a snort. "Your idea of a military academy, where he'll learn to shoot and stab his fellow citizens, is a foolish one, Mortimer."

"It is not altogether my plan," said Mr. Hamilton softly as he thought of his dead wife. "Dick's mother provided for his future in her will, and I must see that her wishes are carried out. Besides, I think a military training is good for a young man."

"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Uncle Ezra. "Neither you nor I had it, Mortimer, and we got along. We're both well off."

"Money isn't everything," said Mr. Hamilton. "No, Ezra, I'm much obliged for your offer, but I think Dick will go to Kentfield. He is to start in the morning."

"Hum! It's a foolish idea," again snorted Uncle Ezra. "You'll live to see the day you'll both be sorry for it."

"I hope not, Ezra."

"Well, you will."

"We'll not discuss that now. Will you have a cigar before dinner?"

"I never smoke. It's a dangerous and expensive habit."

"Slightly dangerous, perhaps, but I smoke very little. As for the expense, I think I can afford it. This has been quite a prosperous year for me—and Dick."

"What you spend for cigars would pay the interest on a large loan," went on Mr. Larabee.

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Rh "Yes, but I don't need the loan," declared Mr. Hamilton with a smile, "and I do feel that I need a cigar to rest me after my day's work. However, I don't advocate tobacco for young men, and Dick has promised not to smoke until he is of age, and that will not be for a few years yet."

"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Uncle Ezra, as he could thing of nothing else to say.

"Perhaps you'd like a glass of lemonade before dinner," suggested Dick.

"No," replied the austere man. "I don't think I'll stop for dinner. My visit here has resulted in no good, and the sooner I get back home the better. Besides I've got a new hired man, and I'm almost certain he'll set the barn afire; he's so careless."

"Oh, I hope not, Ezra," said Mr. Hamilton.

"So do I, but I'd be nervous all night and I wouldn't sleep. Then I might get sick, and have to pay out money for a doctor, or some medicine. No; I'll take the late train home."

"But that won't get you there until after midnight."

"That's all right. It'll be cooler then, and there won't be so much danger of overheating the horse. When you overheat a horse you sometimes have to buy medicine for him, and horse medicine is expensive."

Seeing that his brother-in-law could not be prevailed upon to remain, Mr. Hamilton bade him good-bye, and Dick offered to take his uncle to

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text:
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38 the depot in the auto, but Mr. Larabee would not hear of it. He would walk, he said, and save the car fare.

"He's a queer man—your uncle," said Mr. Hamilton that night. "I guess you wouldn't fancy staying with him; eh Dick?"

"No, indeed, dad. A military academy for mine, as Bricktop would say."

Dick was up early the next morning, when both he and his father were to go away from home, each for a considerable time. The servants had been provided for, and the handsome Hamilton mansion would be closed for several months. Dick accompanied his father to the bank after breakfast, and planned to go to the depot from there, some of his chums having arranged to meet him at the station.

"Ah, good morning, gentlemen!" exclaimed a pompous voice, as Dick and his father entered the institution, and the young millionaire saw "Hank" Darby, ready to greet them. "I understand you are about to become a soldier," he went on to Dick.

"Well, a sort of one," replied our hero.

"Ah, that's a grand and noble calling. I once thought I would be one of the defenders of my country, but I was called into other lines of activity," said the father of the young proprietor of the scrap iron business. He did not specify what the other lines were. "It is indeed noble to fight for one's flag," went on the shiftless man, "but it

title: Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/50


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Conder, Josiah


text:
Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/51

Rh is also noble to accumulate wealth with which to fit out armies. That is what I am doing. I am accumulating wealth."

"How is it going?" asked Mr. Hamilton, who, as well as did Dick, knew that Henry, the son, made all the money, which "Hank" spent as fast as he could get any of it.

"Well, it might be better," said the shiftless one. "But I have a scheme on hand."

"Another scheme, eh?"

"Yes, this is a very good one. There are enormous possibilities in it, sir, enormous!" and "Hank" fairly stood on his tiptoes to get this last word out with much emphasis.

"Well, I hope you succeed," said Mr. Hamilton, as he and his son went to the millionaire's private office.

The final details for the trips of father and son were arranged. Dick had his own bank account, and would not want for money. His father gave him some advice, and then the two said good-bye to each other, Dick having to leave before his father did, as the latter was to take an express to New York, where he would get a steamer for Europe. Grit, the dog, was to be left in charge of Henry Darby.

"Well, my boy," said Mr. Hamiilton, as he shook hands with Dick, "remember what you are going for. You're under a big handicap, but I guess you will win. You did the other time, though it was a close shave."

title: Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/51


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Condlaed


text:
Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/52

40 "Good-bye," said Dick, unable to keep back the suspicion of a tear.

"Good-bye," replied Mr. Hamilton, turning hastily to his desk, and fumbling among some papers, which seemed to rattle unnecessarily loud.

On the way to the depot Dick met Captain Handlee. The veteran greeted the lad cordially.

"So you're off to learn to be a soldier?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know that the military part of it amounts to much," admitted Dick, who had no false ideas about where he was going, "but dad thinks the discipline will be good for me, I guess."

"That's right. Nothing like discipline of the right sort for lads. We didn't have to learn to be soldiers in my time."

"No, I s'pose you just went right in and fought," said Dick.

"Indeed we did. That's what my boy did. Poor Bill! I wish I could see him, or even hear of him again. You'll not forget your promise; will you?"

"No, Captain Handlee."

"Remember he was the best shot in his company. He could drive a tack in a board at a hundred yards. You make some inquiries, and I think you'll get on the track of him."

"I will," promised Dick, but he had no idea in what a strange way fate was to bring about the old captain's desires through him.

title: Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/52


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Conduitt, John


text:
Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/55

Rh Dick found a crowd of his chums awaiting for him at the railroad station.

"Here he comes!" cried Frank Bender, as he caught sight of Dick.

"Aren't you going to take your rifle with you?" asked Fred Murdock.

"I guess they'll provide me with a gun at Kentfield," answered Dick.

"But they won't give you such grub as we had at camp," remarked Bricktop.

"Oh, I guess they will, but maybe it won't taste so good," replied the young millionaire. "Well, boys, I guess this is my train."

All his chums tried to shake hands with Dick at once as the locomotive pulled into the station.

"Don't forget to send me a souvenier postal," called Bill Johnson.

"Tell us how you like it," chimed in Walter.

"Maybe my dad will send me," added Bricktop.

"Tell us if you meet any girls as pretty as those here," was Fred's contribution.

"Get on the football team," advised Frank.

"And the baseball nine," chimed in Bricktop.

By this time a number of passengers had their heads out of the windows, to see who was getting such a send-off. Dick's chums shook him by the hand, clapped him on the back, and fairly carried him up the steps of the coach.

Then, amid a chorus of good-byes, the train pulled out, and Dick was started on his way to become a cadet.

title: Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/55


text: Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days/Chapter 4

title: Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days/Chapter 4


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Coney, John


text:
Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/56

was evening when Dick arrived at Kentfield, which, from the scenes about the station, he judged to be quite a town of little importance. There were few signs of life, scarcely anyone being at the depot, and only a few passengers alighting.

"I wonder if I can get a carriage to take me out to the academy?" mused Dick, as he looked about. "This doesn't strike me as being much of a place, but the catalogue dad got showed quite an academy. I wonder where it is?"

He saw a rather dilapidated hack standing near the platform, and, walking up to it, addressed the driver.

"Can you take me out to the military academy?" he asked.

"Sure," replied the man, "but there's nothing to see. It isn't open yet. Term doesn't begin until next week."

"I know," replied Dick. "But I'm going to attend there."

"You?"

title: Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/56


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Congallus I


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Congallus II


text:
Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/57

Rh The man seemed much surprised, but there was a noticeable change in his manner.

"Going to be a student there?" he asked respectfully.

"Yes. I had to come on ahead of time."

"All right. Take you out there in a jiffy," went on the hack driver briskly. "Got any baggage?"

Dick handed over his checks, and the man soon returned with his trunk and suitcase.

"This doesn't appear to be a very lively place; not as much so as I expected," remarked the young millionaire as he got into the vehicle.

"Oh, bless your heart, sir, you just wait until next week," said the man. "Then this town will sit up and take notice. This is our off season, when the military school is closed. But when the boys arrive—wow! Say, then's when you got to look out. My! Oh my! But it's fierce!"

"Do they—do they cut up much?" asked Dick, secretly glad that he was to have a hand in it if the students did.

"Do they? Say, young man, when I start to drive a party of them cadets anywhere I don't never know if we're going to arrive. Never can tell when a wheel is coming off, or when my horses will start up, and leave the coach behind. That's why I always use quiet animals. Them cadets has life enough and to spare. Cut up? Say, jest you wait!"

"Well, maybe it won't be so bad after I get

title: Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/57


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Congallus III


text:
Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/58

44 started, and make the acquaintance of some of the boys," thought Dick.

But he little knew what was ahead of him.

"Is the academy far out?" asked Dick, for, as the hack was an open one, he could converse with the driver.

"About a mile. We'll be there in a jiffy."

A "jiffy" must be quite a period of time, or else the driver's estimate of a mile was different from the accepted five thousand two hundred and eighty feet, for dusk changed to darkness before the hackman turned in between two big, stone pillars, and the man announced:

"Here we are."

"I don't see anything," objected Dick.

"It's too dark. But the buildings are right ahead of you."

Then the lad was able to make out the dim forms of a number of structures located in a sort of park.

"Where's the lake?" asked Dick. "I thought the academy was on a lake."

"So it is. That's on the other side. We're sort of coming in from the back, but that's the shortest road from the depot. I'll take you right to Colonel Masterly's quarters. He's the one you want to see, I guess, being as you're a new cadet, and he's the superintendent."

"I suppose so," answered Dick.

A little later he alighted in front of a large

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text:
Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/59

 brick structure, and the hackman lifted down his trunk and suitcase.

"Do they expect you?" asked the driver.

"I think so," replied our hero, hoping that some arrangements had been made for him.

A moment later a door opened, and a flood of light streamed out from a broad hall. A man in semi-military uniform appeared.

"Who's there?" he asked, and, having spoken he began to whistle a few bars from "Marching Through Georgia," ending up with a bugle call.

"Got a cadet for you, Toots," replied the hackman.

"A cadet?" and once more the man in the hall whistled a martial air.

"That's what I said, Toots. Give me a hand with this trunk, will you, and tell Colonel Masterly that he's going to have company."

"My name's Hamilton," began Dick. "I believe my father arranged"

"Oh yes, the colonel told me to look out for you," said the man who looked like a soldier. "Come right in. The colonel will be here directly. I'll take your baggage."

"Thank you—er Mr." and Dick hesitated, for he did not just know how to address the person in the hall, and wanted to make no mistake in bestowing a military title.

"Me? Oh I'm Sam Sander," said the man in the blue suit, apparently surprised that his identity was not known.

title: Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/59


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Congreve, William (1670-1729)


text:
Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/60

 "Yes, that's Sam," went on the hack driver, with easy familiarity, "but nobody calls him that; do they, Toots?"

The other, who was helping to carry in Dick's trunk did not answer. Instead he whistled the bugle call for "Taps," or lights out.

"Do they, Toots?" repeated the hack driver.

"Do they what?" inquired the soldier, who seemed to be rather absent minded.

"Do they call you anything but Toots?"

"Nope. That's what they call me. I don't mind. I've almost forgotten what my real name is. Toots is good enough I expect."

"He's a queer chap," whispered the hackman to Dick, as our hero paid him. "Queer, but all right. He's a sort of general helper around the grounds. Well, good night. I'll see you again maybe, when some of the other lads begin to arrive. And then won't there be lively times! Wow! My! Oh my! But them students certainly know how to have fun!"

The hackman appeared to relish the prospect, and Dick could hear him chuckling to himself as he drove off in the darkness.

"Right this way, Mr. Hamilton," said Toots, which name we shall adopt for him. "I will find the colonel for you"

He stopped suddenly, straightened up, in spite of the suitcase which he was carrying, and gave a stiff military salute.

"Mr. Hamilton has arrived, sir," he said, and

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text:
Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/61

Rh at that Dick caught sight of a tall thin man, with an iron gray moustache and imperial, coming down the broad, well-lighted hall.

"Ah, Hamilton, glad to see you," said the soldierly-looking gentleman, extending his hand. "I'm Colonel Masterly. You are a little early, but I understand the case. Have you had dinner?"

Dick had not, and said so.

"Then you can dine with me," went on Colonel Masterly. "Sam, take Mr. Hamilton's baggage to the room I told you to get ready for him. I'll quarter you here for the present," he added, "until the boys arrive, and then you will have a roommate. How is your father?"

"Quite well," replied Dick, and then he followed the superintendent into a reception room. There two other military-looking men sat reading books. They looked up at the entrance of Dick and the colonel, who introduced them to the new student as Major Henry Rockford, commandant of the academy, and Major Franklin Webster, U. S. A., retired, who was in charge of military tactics at the school.

"That's the man of whom I must inquire about Captain Handlee's missing son," thought Dick, as the two instructors shook hands with him. "But I guess I'll wait a few days."

Dinner was rather a formal affair, and our hero did not in the least enjoy it. The three men talked of matters connected with the prospective

title: Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/61


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Coningsburgh, Edmund


text:
Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/62

48 opening of the school, occasionally addressing a question to Dick, or making some general remark.

The academy more than came up to Dick's expectations when he saw it the next morning. The school was made up of several buildings, consisting of a main barracks, which was where he had spent the night, and which contained the executive offices and class rooms, two other barracks, a gymnasium, a large mess hall, a riding hall, a small hospital and other structures.

They were grouped on a large plain, that lay at the foot of quite a mountain range, but, what pleased Dick more than anything else, was a large lake that came right to the edge of the academy grounds. It was a beautiful sheet of water, and, from the appearance of a large boathouse near at hand, Dick guessed rightly that the cadet-students spent considerable time rowing and sailing.

After breakfast, under the guidance of Toots, who was detailed by Colonel Masterly for that purpose, Dick was taken on a tour of the grounds. He was particularly pleased with the big stable, which contained a fine lot of horses.

"Are those for the cadets to use?" he asked Toots.

"Of course. Do you know how to ride?"

"A little," replied Dick, who did not believe in boasting, though, in reality, he was a fine horseman.

"I'll certainly have a swell time here," he thought, as he strolled about. He obtained

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text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Coningsby, Harry


text:
Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/63

Rh to row out on the lake, and then was left to his own resources.

After the first novelty of seeing the buildings had worn off, Dick began to feel a little lonesome, and he wished that the week was up, and that the other students would begin to arrive. But he found much to interest him, and made friends with Toots, who told him many and various stories of student life.

"Why do they call you Toots?" asked Dick one day.

"Well, I s'pose it's because I've got in the habit of tooting my whistle all the while. I'm always whistling war tunes or bugle calls, the boys say."

"That's so. What makes you?"

"I don't know, except that I'm fond of a military life. Some day I'm going to war."

"Well, I hope you don't get shot," said Dick, as Toots left him, still whistling.

It was a few days after this that Dick saw a new student arrive. The lad, for reasons similar to those affecting our hero, had been sent to the academy in advance of the opening of the term. Dick soon made his acquaintance, and he found the newcomer rather an odd character. His name was William Schoop, but he was called "William the Silent" by the other cadets, so Major Webster said, from the fact that he did not talk much. He used only single words where others would take a sentence, and he often made gestures answer for words.

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text:
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50 Dick and Will soon became friends, and the latter, who had spent a previous term at the school, showed the young millionaire about the buildings and grounds.

title: Page:Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days.djvu/64


text: Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days/Chapter 5

title: Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days/Chapter 5


text: Page:A book of the Pyrenees.djvu/368

title: Page:A book of the Pyrenees.djvu/368


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Coningsby, William


text:
Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/29

Rh very far beyond the Greeks. It has not, however, altogether improved upon their spirit, although in practice it has brought the habit of careful and toilsome verification which was not theirs. Yet the methods of modern medicine have ever and anon been fain to hark back to the broad wisdom of Hippocrates; and as for the genius and accomplishment of Aristotle in biology, why, he will reappear as Harvey's god and Darwin's admiration.2

After Anaximander, other natural philosophers thought much upon the origin of plants and animals. Biological considerations and medical doctrines appear in the fragments of the early philosophers and fill out the traditions of their lives, — with Anaxagoras, in his recognition of the differences between living organisms and inanimate objects, with Empedocles, presumably an important figure in the history of medicine, with Democritus, a dissector and penetrating investigator, of whom Aristotle said that no one had so profoundly considered growth and change.

Can we discover a general purpose in their investigations and reflections? Possibly, — by a moderate use of constructive interpretation. They were searching for the source and cause

title: Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/29


text:
Page:Great Expectations.djvu/354

340 they were always at hand when not wanted, indeed that was their only reliable quality besides larceny. Not to get up a mystery with these people, I resolved to announce in the morning that my uncle had unexpectedly come from the country.

This course I decided on while I was yet groping about in the darkness for the means of getting a light. Not stumbling on the means after all, I was fain to go out to the adjacent Lodge and get the watchman there to come with his lantern. Now, in groping my way down the black staircase I fell over something, and that something was a man crouching in a corner.

As the man made no answer when I asked him what he did there, but eluded my touch in silence, I ran to the Lodge and urged the watchman to come quickly: telling him of the incident on the way back. The wind being as fierce as ever, we did not care to endanger the light in the lantern by rekindling the extinguished lamps on the staircase, but we examined the staircase from the bottom to the top and found no one there. It then occurred to me as possible that the man might have slipped into my rooms; so, lighting my candle at the wachman's, and leaving him standing at the door, I examined them carefully, including the room in which my dreaded guest lay asleep. All was quiet, and assuredly no other man was in those chambers.

It troubled me that there should have been a lurker on the stairs, on that night of all nights in the year, and I asked the watchman, on the chance of eliciting some hopeful explanation as I handed him a dram at the door, whether he had admitted at his gate any gentleman who had perceptibly been dining out? Yes, he said; at different times of the night, three. One lived in Fountain Court, and the other two lived in the Lane, and he had seen them all go home. Again, the only other man who dwelt in the house of which my chambers formed a part, had been in the country for some weeks; and he certainly had not returned in the night, because we had seen his door with his seal on it as we came upstairs.

"The night being so bad, sir," said the watchman, as

title: Page:Great Expectations.djvu/354


text:
Page:Great Expectations.djvu/355

Rh he gave me back my glass, "uncommon few have come in at my gate. Besides them three gentlemen that I have named, I don't call to mind another since about eleven o'clock, when a stranger asked for you."

"My uncle," I muttered. "Yes."

"You saw him, sir?"

"Yes. Oh yes."

"Likewise the person with him?"

"Person with him?" I repeated.

"I judged the person to be with him," returned the watchman. "The person stopped, when he stopped to make inquiry of me, and the person took this way when he took this way."

"What sort of person?"

The watchman had not particularly noticed; he should say a working person; to the best of his belief, he had a dust-coloured kind of clothes on, under a dark coat. The watchman made more light of the matter than I did, and naturally; not having my reason for attaching weight to it.

When I had got rid of him, which I thought it well to do without prolonging explanations, my mind was much troubled by these two circumstances taken together. Whereas they were easy of innocent solution apart—as, for instance, some diner-out or diner-at-home, who had not gone near this watchman's gate, might have strayed to my staircase and dropped asleep there—and my nameless visitor might have brought some one with him to show him the way—still, joined, they had an ugly look to one as prone to distrust and fear as the changes of a few hours had made me.

I lighted my fire, which burnt with a raw pale flare at that time of the morning, and fell into a doze before it. I seemed to have been dozing a whole night when the clock struck six. As there was full an hour and a half between me and daylight, I dozed again; now, waking up uneasily, with prolix conversations about nothing, in my ears; now, making thunder of the wind in the chimney; at length, falling off into a profound sleep from which the daylight woke me with a start.

title: Page:Great Expectations.djvu/355


text:
Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/30

Rh of living things: pondering upon the first inchoate material of them, and the moving influences of warmth and moisture; then considering the reasons and manner of their growth and sustenance, noting the features of their structure. In the Homeric Epics, the fortunes and fatalities of men and beasts were frequently determined by the arbitrary will and action of the gods. Such a pantheon could have no place in the minds of men searching for a plastic source and for operative causes which should be constant and regular, dependable and even predictable, in their action. With these men "the conception of Nature replaced that of the gods as a basis of explanation, was conceived as the source of the manifold activities of the world."3

These early philosophers, Pre-Socratics, as they are called, had not analyzed causation or distinguished one manner of cause from another. That was left for Aristotle. They had no distinct conception of final causes or the purposeful adaptation of means to ends. "Lucky for them!" many of us moderns might remark. Nevertheless, to them. Nature, the source of things if one will, seemed to contain the moving principles which issued in the

title: Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/30


text:
Page:Great Expectations.djvu/356

342 All this time I had never been able to consider my own situation, nor could I do so yet. I had not the power to attend to it. I was greatly dejected and distressed, but in an incoherent wholesale sort of way. As to forming any plan for the future, I could as soon have formed an elephant. When I opened the shutters and looked out at the wet wild morning, all of a leaden hue; when I walked from room to room; when I sat down again shivering, before the fire, waiting for my laundress to appear; I thought how miserable I was, but hardly knew why, or how long I had been so, or on what day of the week I made the reflection, or even who I was that made it.

At last the old woman and the niece came in—the latter with a head not easily distinguishable from her dusty broom—and testified surprise at sight of me and the fire. To whom I imparted how my uncle had come in the night and was then asleep, and how the breakfast preparations were to be modified accordingly. Then, I washed and dressed while they knocked the furniture about and made a dust; and so, in a sort of dream or sleep-waking, I found myself sitting by the fire again, waiting for—Him—to come to breakfast.

By-and-bye, his door opened and he came out. I could not bring myself to bear the sight of him, and I thought he had a worse look by daylight.

"I do not even know," said I, speaking low as he took his seat at the table, "by what name to call you. I have given out that you are my uncle."

"That's it, dear boy! Call me uncle."

"You assumed some name, I suppose, on board ship?"

"Yes, dear boy. I took the name of Provis."

"Do you mean to keep that name?"

"Why, yes, dear boy, it's as good as another—unless you'd like another."

"What is your real name?" I asked him in a whisper.

"Magwitch," he answered, in the same tone; "chrisen'd Abel."

"What were you brought up to be?"

"A warmint, dear boy."

title: Page:Great Expectations.djvu/356


text:
Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/31

Rh world of plants and animals, and ruled within or over them. These initial and controlling forces might be conceived as utterly mechanical, as in the later Atomic theory of Democritus. Yet some of the early Greeks, observing the obvious conformity of means to ends, at least in animals, could not rest in the thought of Nature as merely mechanical and without purpose in its operation. Besides, plants and animals were alive, and life could not really be explained in terms of weight and impetus. Since Nature was the source and fashioner of living beings, Nature itself, or herself, might in the end be thought of as alive. The concrete, vital, form-and-life-giving character of Greek thinking could hardly keep from vitalizing its concept of the great source and mother of living things. Heraclitus had already said that "Nature loves to hide," or "play at hide-and-seek." When has she not been found the cleverest of players at this game?

So the early and the later Greeks touched delicately on the living vitality and possibly vague personality of Nature. If divine, Nature was pantheistically so, and never to be moulded to the sharp personality of an Homeric Zeus or Apollo or Athena.

title: Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/31


text:
Page:Great Expectations.djvu/357

Rh He answered quite seriously, and used the word as if it denoted some profession.

"When you came into the Temple last night—" said I, pausing to wonder whether that could really have been last night, which seemed so long ago.

"Yes, dear boy?"

"When you came in at the gate and asked the watchman the way here, had you any one with you?"

"With me? No, dear boy."

"But there was some one there?"

"I didn't take particular notice," he said, dubiously, "not knowing the ways of the place. But I think there was a person, too, come in alonger me."

"Are you known in London?"

"I hope not!" said he, giving his neck a jerk with his forefinger that made me turn hot and sick.

"Were you known in London, once?"

"Not over and above, dear boy. I was in the provinces mostly."

"Were you—tried—in London?"

"Which time?" said he, with a sharp look.

"The last time."

He nodded. "First knowed Mr. Jaggers that way. Jaggers was for me."

It was on my lips to ask him what he was tried for, but he took up a knife, gave it a flourish, and with the words, "And what I done is worked out and paid for!" fell to at his breakfast.

He ate in a ravenous way that was very disagreeable, and all his actions were uncouth, noisy, and greedy. Some of his teeth had failed him since I saw him eat on the marshes, and as he turned his food in his mouth, and turned his head sideways to bring his strongest fangs to bear upon it, he looked terribly like a hungry old dog.

If I had begun with any appetite, he would have taken it away, and I should have sat much as I did—repelled from him by an insurmountable aversion, and gloomily looking at the cloth.

"I'm a heavy grubber, dear boy," he said, as a polite

title: Page:Great Expectations.djvu/357


text:
Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/32

Rh There exist but fragments of the Pre-Socrat- ics, and Xenophon's Memoirs of Socrates contain scant notice of biology or physics. Recently it has been recognized that a mine of suggestion, if not information, as to the early Greek thoughts upon the working of Nature in living organisms is to be found in that large and most significant body of medical and even biological literature which trails the authorship of Hippocrates. He was Socrates' contemporary; and although it is difficult to prove his authorship of any one of these treatises, a goodly part are from the fifth century, when he lived, and are convincingly associated with the great physician to whom they are ascribed. Other portions of the Hippocratic corpus are affected by the theories of the natural philosophers, and reflect contemporary conceptions of Nature.

For example: "Hippocrates speaks of Nature as arranging the vitals in the inner parts; says of the auricles of the heart that they are instruments by which she takes in the air, adding that they seem to be the handiwork of a good craftsman; refers to the vis medicatrix naturae, Nature having discovered the methods without understanding and untaught;

title: Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/32


text:
Page:Great Expectations.djvu/358

344 kind of apology when he had made an end of his meal, "but I always was. If it had been in my constitution to be a lighter grubber I might ha' got into lighter trouble. Similarly I must have my smoke. When I was first hired out as a shepherd t'other side the world, it's my belief I should ha' turned into a molloncolly-mad sheep myself, if I hadn't a had my smoke."

As he said so he got up from table, and putting his hand into the breast of the pea-coat he wore, brought out a short black pipe, and a handful of loose tobacco of the kind that is called negro-head. Having filled his pipe, he put the surplus tobacco back again, as if his pocket were a drawer. Then, he took a live coal from the fire with the tongs, and lighted his pipe at it, and then turned round on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, and went through his favourite action of holding out both his hands for mine.

"And this," said he, dandling my hands up and down in his, as he puffed at his pipe; "and this is the gentleman what I made! The real genuine One! It does me good fur to look at you, Pip. All I stip'late, is, to stand by and look at you, dear boy!"

I released my hands as soon as I could, and found that I was beginning slowly to settle down to the contemplation of my condition. What I was chained to, and how heavily, became intelligible to me, as I heard his hoarse voice, and sat looking up at his furrowed bald head with its iron grey hair at the sides.

"I mustn't see my gentleman a footing it in the mire of the streets; there mustn't be no mud on his boots. My gentleman must have horses, Pip! Horses to ride, and horses to drive, and horses for his servant to ride and drive as well. Shall colonists have their horses (and blood-'uns, if you please, good Lord!) and not my London gentleman? No, no. We'll show 'em another pair of shoes than that, Pip; won't us?"

He took out of his pocket a great thick pocket-book, bursting with papers, and tossed it on the table.

"There's something worth spending in that there book, dear boy. It's yourn. All I've got ain't mine; it's yourn.

title: Page:Great Expectations.djvu/358


text:
The Inner Life, v. II/Second Section/I

INVISIBLE HELPERS PEOPLE often write to us, applying to be admitted to the band of invisible helpers, and asking what preparation is necessary. Those who desire to take up this work should familiarise themselves thoroughly with the book written under that title, and should especially take care to develope within themselves the qualifications which are there described. I have little to add to what I have there written, except that I should advise every one who wishes to take up work on the astral plane to learn as much as he can beforehand of the conditions of life on that plane. In the astral life we are absolutely the same persons as we are down here, but with certain limitations removed. Our interests and activities on that plane resemble those on the physical; a student is still studious; an idle person is still idle; an active helper on the physical plane is still a helper there. Some people still gossip there just as venomously as ever, and are still continuing to make just the same bad karma by doing so. Most dead people haunt for a long time the places to which they have been accustomed in life. Many a man hovers round his ancestral home, and continues daily to visit the astral counterpart of the temple which he used to support. Others drift round and make pilgrimages, without trouble or expense, to all the great shrines which during life they have in vain wished to visit. There is perfect continuity in the astral life. That life is in many ways much more real than this, or at least much nearer to reality, and this physical existence is only a series of breaks in it during which our activity is greatly limited and our consciousness but partially operative. To most of us in this lower life the night seems a blank, and in the morning we remember nothing of what we have done; but we must not therefore suppose that we are equally dense on the astral plane. That wider consciousness fully includes this, and every night we remember vividly not only what we did on all previous nights, but also all that we have done on the intermediate days. It is the physical brain which is dull and clogged, and it is upon return to it that we lose our memory of all except that with which it has been directly concerned. The astral life is much more vivid and its emotions are far stronger than any that we know down here. What we ordinarily call an emotion is only the comparatively small fragment of one which remains after the greater part of it has been exhausted in setting in motion the clumsy physical particles, so it is not difficult to see how far more intense and real that other life must be. And yet, although this is quite true and true of everybody, ordinary people usually do very little in the way of real work on the astral plane. They do not know, in fact, that they can work, and even if they did know they would probably see no particular reason why they should. A man may spend a very enjoyable time in the astral world, just drifting about and experiencing various pleasurable emotions. That seems to most people the only thing to do, and it needs a powerful motive to rouse them out of that, and make them take the trouble of devoting their time to the helping of others. We must admit that for the ordinary man this motive does not exist; but when we have begun to study Theosophy, and in that way learn the course of evolution and the purpose of things, there arises within us an earnest desire to help forward that evolution, to accomplish that purpose, and to put our fellow-men in the way of understanding it also, in order that thereby their troubles may be lightened and the path of their progress made easier. Now, when a man thus awakens to his duty, how is he to set about it? We are all of us capable of such work, to a greater or less extent, though probably not in the habit of doing it. All people of ordinary culture and development have their astral bodies in working order, just as all reasonably healthy people possess the necessary muscles and the necessary strength in them to enable them to swim; but if they have not learnt how to use them they will need a certain amount of instruction before they can usefully or even safely take to the water. The difficulty with the ordinary person is not that the astral body cannot act, but that for thousands of years that body has been accustomed to being set in motion only by impressions received from below through the physical vehicle, so that men do not realise that the astral body can work on its own plane and on its own account, and that the will can act upon it directly. People remain `unawake' astrally because they get into the habit of waiting for the familiar physical vibrations to call out their astral activity. There are several ways in which a man may begin to help. Suppose, for example, that a relation or friend dies. In order to reach and to help him during sleep all that is necessary is to think of him before retiring to rest, with the resolve to give him whatever assistance he most needs. We do not need any help in order to find him, or to communicate with him. We must try to understand that as soon as we leave the physical body at night we stand side by side with a departed friend, exactly as we did when he was with us on the physical plane. One great thing to remember is the necessity of curbing all sorrow for the so-called dead, because it cannot but react upon him. If a man allows himself to despair about the dead, the feeling of despair will affect them very strongly, for emotions play through the astral body, and consequently those who are living in their astral vehicles are much more readily and deeply influenced by them than people who have a physical body to deaden their perceptions. The dead can see us, but it is our astral body that they see; consequently they are at once aware of our emotions, but not necessarily of the details of our physical condition. They know whether we are happy or miserable, but not what book we are reading, for example. The emotion is obvious to them, but not necessarily the thought which causes it. The dead man carries on with him his affections and hatreds; he knows his old friends when he meets them, and he also often forms new friendships among new companions whom he meets for the first time on the astral plane. Not only must we avoid sorrow, but also excitement of any kind. The invisible helper must above all things keep perfectly calm. I have known a worthy lady who was full of the most earnest desire to help, and in her eagerness to do so keyed herself up into a tremendous state of excitement. Now, excitement shows itself in the astral body in great increased of size, violent vibration and the flashing forth of fiery colours. So the newly-dead person, who was quite unused to astral surroundings, and consequently in a state of timidity and nervousness, was horrified to see a huge flaming, flashing sphere come rushing at him with evident intention. Naturally he took this for the theological devil in propria persona, and fled shrieking before it to the ends of the earth, though for a long time it increases his terror by persistently following him. One case in which it is often possible for even a beginner to make himself useful is that of some friend of neighbour who is known to be about to die. If one has access to him physically, and if his illness is of a nature which makes it possible to discuss with him the conditions of death and of its after-states, a little rational explanation of these will often very greatly relieve his mind and lighten his burdens. Indeed, the mere meeting with a person who speaks confidently and cheerfully about the life beyond the grave is frequently the greatest consolation to one who finds himself approaching it. If, however, for any reason, this physical communication is impossible, much may be done during sleep by acting upon the dying man from the astral plane. An untrained person seeking to give such help should follow the rules laid down in our books; he should fix the intention of aiding that particular person in his mind before going to sleep, and he should even decide as far as possible upon the arguments which should be presented and even the very words which should be used, for the more precise and definite the resolution is made while awake, the more certain it is to be faithfully and accurately carried out in the astral body during sleep. The explanation to be given to the sick man is necessarily the same in both cases. The main object of the helper is to calm and encourage the sufferer, to induce him to realise that death is a perfectly natural and usually an easy process, and in no case a formidable or terrible leap into an unknown abyss. The natural of the astral world, the way in which a man ought to order his life in it if he wishes to make the best of it, and the preparation necessary for progress toward the heaven-world which lies beyond; all these should be gradually explained by the helper to the dying man. The helper should always remember that his own attitude and state of mind produces even more effect than his argument or his advice, and consequently he must be exceedingly careful to approach his task with the greatest calmness and confidence. If the helper himself is in a condition of nervous excitement he is quite likely to do more harm than good, as did the poor lady whom I have just mentioned. The assistance offered should be continued after death. There will be a certain period of unconsciousness then, but it may last only for a moment, though often the moment expands into a few minutes, or several hours, and sometimes even into many days or weeks. A trained pupil naturally observes for himself the condition of the `dead' man's consciousness and regulates his assistance accordingly; the untrained man will do well to offer such assistance immediately after death, and also to hold himself in readiness to give it for several succeeding nights, in order that he may not fail to be at hand when his services are needed. So many diverse circumstances affect the duration of this period of unconsciousness that it is scarcely possible to lay down any general rule in the matter. We should at least determine each night to comfort someone who is in trouble, and if we know the exact nature of the trouble we must do our best to adapt our measures to the needs of the case. If the sufferer be weak and exhausted, the helper should use his will to pour into him physical strength. If, on the other hand, he is excited or hysterical, the helper should endeavour to enfold him in a special aura of calm and gentleness — wrap him up, as it were in a strong thought-form of peace and harmony, just as one would wrap up a person in a blanket. It is often difficult for one who tries to help to believe that he can have been successful, when he wakes in the morning and remembers nothing whatever of what has taken place. As a matter of fact some measure of success is absolutely certain, and as the helper goes on with his work he will often receive cheering little indications that he is producing definite results in spite of his lack of memory. Many a member has set himself to try this, and for a long time has known nothing as to results, until one day it has happened to him to meet physically the person whom he has been trying to assist, and to be much comforted to see the improvement in him. Sometimes it happens that the friend dates the commencement of his recovery from a particular night on which he had a pleasant or a remarkable dream; and the helper is startled when he remembers that it was on that very night that he made a specially determined effort to help that man. The first time that this happens, the helper probably persuades himself that it is a mere accident; but when a sufficient number of coincidences have accumulated he begins to see that there is something more in it than that. The beginner therefore should do his best, and be content to wait as far as result are concerned. There is another simple experiment which has greatly helped some beginners in gaining confidence. Let a man resolve to visit astrally some room which is well known to him — one, let us say, in a friend's house; and let him note carefully the arrangement of the furniture and books. Or if, without previously intending it, the experimenter finds himself during sleep in a spot which he recognises (that is, in ordinary parlance, if he dreams of a certain place) he should set himself to observe it with great care. If when he remembers this in the morning it seems to him that everything in that room was exactly as when he last saw it physically, there is nothing to prove that it was not really a mere dream or memory; but if he recollects some decided change in the arrangements, or if there is something new and unexpected, it is distinctly worth his while to go physically in the morning to visit that room, in order to test whether his nocturnal vision has been correct. All those of us who are definitely engaged in astral work have necessarily at one time or another taken in hand a number of cases which needed help. Such help may occasionally be of the nature of a surgical operation — something which can be done once for all, and then put aside; but far more often what is needed is comfort, reassurance and strengthening which must be repeated day after day in order that it may gradually sink into the texture of some wounded nature and transmute it into something braver and nobler. Or sometimes it is knowledge which must be given little by little as the mind opens to it and is able to bear it. Thus it comes that each worker has a number of chronic cases, clients, patients — call them what you will — whom he visits every night, just as a doctor upon earth makes a regular round among his patients. It often happens also that those who have been thus helped are filled with gratitude towards the worker, and attach themselves to him in order to second his efforts, and to pass on to others the benefits which they have thus received. So it comes that each worker is usually the centre of a small group, the leader of a little band of helpers for whom he is always able to find constant employment. For example, a large number of people who die are much in the position of children afraid of the dark. One may reason with them, and argue patiently and convincingly that there is nothing whatever to fear; but a hand that the child can hold is of more practical use to him than a whole chapter of arguments. The astral worker, with a score of other cases needing immediate attention, cannot possibly spend the whole night in standing by and comforting one nervous or doubting patient; but he can detach for that purpose one of his earnest followers who is not so busily occupied, and is therefore able to devote himself to that charitable work. For to comfort the child in the dark no brilliant scientific knowledge is needed; what he wants is a kindly hand and the sense of companionship. So that work can be found in the astral world for any number of workers, and everyone who wishes, man, woman or child, may be one of them. For the larger and more comprehensive varieties of work, and for the direction of the work, much knowledge is of course required; but a heart full of love and the earnest desire to help is equipment enough to enable any one to become one of the minor comforters, and even that humble effort brings in its train a blessing beyond all calculation. When the astral worker finally lays aside the physical body for this incarnation, he finds himself among an army of grateful friends who rejoice unreservedly that he is now able to spend the whole of his life with them instead of only a third of it. For such a worker there will be no sense of strangeness or newness in the condition of the life after death. The change for him means only that he will then be able to devote the whole of his time to what is even now by far the happiest and most effective part of his work — a part which he takes up every night with joy and lays aside every morning with regret — the real life, in which our days of physical existence are but dull and featureless interludes. There are one or two other points with regard to the astral life which it is desirable for the worker to try to understand. One of these is the method of what I suppose we must call speech — the communication of ideas on the astral plane. It is not always easy to understand down here the substitute for language which is used in the astral world. Sound in the ordinary sense of the word is not possible there — indeed it is not possible even in the higher part of the purely physical plane. As soon as one rises above the air into the etheric regions, there is no more possibility of sound as we understand the word. Yet the symbol of sound is used very much higher, for we constantly find references to the spoken word of the LOGOS, which calls the worlds into manifestation. If in the morning we remember an experience of the previous night, such as the meeting with a friend or the attendance at a lecture, it will always seem to us that we heard a voice in the usual terrestrial way, and that we ourselves replied to it, also audibly. In reality this is not so; it is merely that when we bring through a recollection to the physical brain we instinctively express it in terms of the ordinary senses. Yet it would not be correct to say that the language of the astral world is thought-transference; the most that could be said is that it is the transference of a thought formulated in a particular way. In the mental world one formulates a thought and it is instantly transmitted to the mind of another without any expression in the form of words. Therefore on that plane language does not matter in the least; but helpers working in the astral world, who have not yet the power to use the mental vehicle, must depend on the facilities offered by the astral plane itself. These lie as it were half way between the thought-transference of the mental world and the concrete speech of the physical, but it is still necessary to formulate the thought in words. It is as though one showed such formulation to the other party in the dialogue, and he replied (almost simultaneously, but not quite) by showing in the same way his formulated reply. For this exchange it is necessary that the two parties should have a language in common; therefore the more languages an astral-plane helper knows, the more useful he is. The pupils of the Masters, however, have been taught to form a special kind of temporary vehicle, in order to meet these difficulties. They habitually leave their astral bodies with the physical; they travel about in their mental bodies, and they materialise a temporary astral body from surrounding matter when they need it for astral work. All who have been taught to do this have the advantage of the mental-plane method of thought-transference so far as understanding another man is concerned, though their power to convey a thought in that way is limited by the degree of development of that other man's astral body. Apart from definitely trained pupils, there are very few people who consciously work in the mental body — for to do so means years of practice in meditation and special effort. We know that a man in the heaven-world shuts himself up within a shell of his own thoughts, and that these thoughts then act as channels through which the life of the mental world can affect him. But we cannot call this functioning on the mental plane, for that involves the free moving about on that plane, and the observation of what exists there. Fortunately, the mental elemental does not rearrange the mental body after death, so that we have not the same kind of trouble with it as with the desire-elemental on the astral plane. Indeed, the elemental essence of the mental plane differs greatly from that of the astral. It is a whole chain behind the other, and therefore it has not the same force. It is trying to deal with, for it is largely responsible for our wandering thoughts, as it darts constantly from one thing to another; but at least it does not make a shell of any sort, although certain portions of the mental body may become hardened, as I have explained when dealing with that subject. When a man function in the mental vehicle he leaves the astral body behind him in a condition of suspended animation, along with the physical. If he finds it necessary he can easily surround that torpid astral body with a shell, or he can set up in it vibrations which render it impervious to all evil influences. It is unquestionably possible for any man in process of time, by meditation upon the LOGOS or the Master, to raise himself first to the astral and then to the mental levels; but none can say how long it will take, as that depends entirely upon the past of the student. It is quite possible for any person when upon the astral plane after death to set himself to study, and to acquire entirely new ideas. I have known people who learnt Theosophy for the first time in the astral world. I have even heard of a case in which a lady learnt music there, but that is unusual. Probably some dead person gave her lessons, or it may be that the teacher was a living musician who was on the astral plane at the same time as the lady. In astral life people often think that they are playing on astral instruments, but in reality they are only making vibrations by their thought, which produce the effect of sound. There is a special class of devas who respond to music and express themselves through it, and sometimes they are willing to teach people to whom music is the first and only thing in life. Most dead people shut themselves out from many of the possibilities of the plane, by accepting the rearrangement of the body at death, which prevents them from seeing anything belonging to the higher levels. The Theosophist will not allow this rearrangement, because he intends to work, and therefore he must be free to move through all the sub-planes. We cannot get rid of elemental essence, but we can subdue the desire-elemental, draw in the finer types of matter, and make the ego strong to keep the upper hand. The essence wants violent emotion, so as to evolve downwards — which, it must be remembered, is its proper and legitimate course of evolution. If it knew of our existence, we should appear to it to be evil beings and tempters, trying to prevent the evolution which it knows to be right for it. If we steadfastly refuse to allow our astral body to vibrate at the rate peculiar to the coarser matter, that coarser matter will gradually be discharged from the body, which will become finer in texture, and the desire-elemental will be of a less active kind. The rearrangement which the desire-elemental produces after death is over the surface of the counterpart of the physical body, not over the surface of the egg which surrounds it. The elemental tries to inspire a feeling of terror in the man who is jolting him out of this arrangement, in order to deter him from doing so. This is one reason why it is so useful to have knowledge of these matters before death. There is no such thing as sleep in the astral world. The need of sleep on the physical plane is that it calms the physical centres and allows them time to rebuild themselves chemically, so that the astral body can work more freely, through a better vehicle; but on the astral plane there is no fatigue, unless we may call by that name the gradual slackening down of all the energies when the end of the astral life is approaching. It is possible to forget upon the astral plane, just as it is upon the physical. I mean in this case not the loss of memory between two planes, which is so common, but the actually being unable to remember on the astral plane to-night some of the details of what one did last night or last year. Indeed, perhaps it is even easier to forget on the astral plane than on the physical, because that world is so busy and so populous. Knowledge of a person in the astral world does not necessarily mean knowledge of the physical life of that person. For example, many of us know Madame Blavatsky in her new body exceedingly well on the astral plane, yet none of us have yet seen that body physically. She often uses her old form, though generally the new astral body now.

title: The Inner Life, v. II/Second Section/I


text:
Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/33

Rh she makes glands and hair; she (as the student's natural aptitude or inaptitude) can prepare the way for and offer resistance to instruction; she is all-sufficient; she produces natural species and legislates language; in disease she may withhold signs, but may be constrained by art to yield them; the means employed by her are likened to the means in use in the arts." 4

One of the Hippocratic treatises, probably dating from the close of the fifth century, gives much zoölogical information, and even suggests something like a classification of animals and plants. Another, somewhat later in date, discusses with great intelligence the generation of animals and plants. It is a worthy predecessor of Aristotle's works upon these matters. 5

title: Page:Greek Biology and Medicine.djvu/33