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 unknown, as no remains of it exist, but an inscription relating to it is given in Notizie d. Scavi (1887), p. 182. (8, 9) The and  were two aqueducts begun by Caligula in  38 and completed by Claudius in  52. The springs of the former belonged to the same group as those of the Marcia, and were situated near the 38th milestone of the Via Sublacensis, not far from its divergence from the Via Valeria, while the original intake of the latter from the river Anio was 4 m. farther along the same road. As the water was thick it was collected in a purifying tank, and 4 m. below, a branch stream, the Rivus Herculaneus, was added to it. According to Frontinus, over 10 m. of the course of the Claudia and nearly 9 of that of the Anio Novus were above ground. Seven miles out of Rome they united and ran from that point into Rome, following a natural isthmus formed by a lava stream from the Alban volcano, upon a line of arches, which still forms one of the most conspicuous features of the Campagna. The original inscription of Claudius ( 52) on the Porta Maggiore, by which the Aqua Claudia and Anio Novus crossed the Via Praenestina and the Via Labicana, gives the length of the Aqua Claudia as 45 m., and that of the Anio Novus as 62 m. Frontinus, on the other hand, gives 46.406 m. (i.e. about 43 English miles) and 58.700 m. (i.e. about 54 English miles). Albertini (Mélanges de l’École Française, 1906, 305) explains the difference as due to the fact that Frontinus was calculating the length of the Claudia from the farthest spring, the Fons Albudinus, and that of the Anio Novus from the new intake constructed by Trajan in one of the three lakes constructed by Nero for the adornment of his villa above Subiaco. Two other inscriptions on the Porta Maggiore record restorations by Vespasian in 70, and by Titus in  80. That the aqueducts should be spoken of as vetustate dilapsi so soon after their construction is not a little surprising, and may be attributed either to hasty construction in order to complete them by a fixed date, or to jobbery by the imperial freedmen who under Claudius were especially powerful, or to the fact that a line of arches intended originally in all probability for the Aqua Claudia alone was made to carry the Anio Novus as well.

The size of the channels (specus) of the principal aqueducts varies considerably at different points of their course. The Anio Novus has the largest of them all, measuring 3 to 4 ft. wide and 9 ft. high to the top of the roof, which is pointed. They are lined with hard cement (opus signinum) containing fragments of broken brick. Those aqueducts of which the most conspicuous remains exist in the neighbourhood of Rome are the four from the upper valley of the Anio, the two which took their supply and their name from the river itself, and the Marcia and the Claudia, which originated from the same group of springs, in the floor of the Anio valley 6 m. below Subiaco. Those of the Anio Vetus, which travelled at a considerably lower level than the other three, are the least conspicuous, while the Claudia and Anio Novus as a rule kept close together, the latter at the highest level of all. The ruins of bridges and substructions in the Anio valley down to Tivoli, though comparatively little known, are of great importance. In all the aqueducts the original construction of the bridges was in opus quadratum (masonry), while the substructions are in brick-faced concrete; but the bridges are as a rule strengthened (and often several times) with reinforcing walls of concrete faced with opus reticulatum or brickwork. Below Tivoli, where the Anio leaves its narrow valley, the aqueducts sweep round towards the Alban hills, and pass through some very difficult country between Tivoli and Gallicano, alternately crossing ravines, some of which are as much as 300 ft. deep, and tunnelling through hills.

The engineering skill displayed is remarkable, and one wonders what instruments were employed—probably the so-called chorobates, an improvement upon the ordinary water-level (Vitruvius viii. 6), though this would be slow and complicated. The optical properties of glass lenses were, however, unknown to the ancients, and the dioptra, or angle measure, was considered by Vitruvius less trustworthy than the chorobates for the planning of aqueducts (cf. E. Hultsch, s.v. in Pauly-Wissowa, Realencyclopädie). The aqueducts as a rule were carried on separate bridges, though all four united at the Ponte Lupo, a huge structure, which after the addition of all the four, and with the inclusion of all the later strengthening walls that were found necessary in course of time, measures 105 ft. in height, 508 in length, and 46 in thickness at the bottom, without including the buttresses. From Gallicano onwards the course of these four aqueducts follows the lower slopes of the Alban Hills. Previous writers on the subject have been unable to determine their course, which is largely subterranean; but it can be followed step by step with the indications given by the presence of the calcareous deposit which was thrown out at the putei or shafts (which were, as a rule, placed at intervals of 240 ft., as were the cippi) when the specus was cleaned; and remains of bridges, though less important, owing to the less difficult character of the country, are not entirely absent (cf. the works by T. Ashby cited in bibliography). Near the 7th milestone of the Via Latina at Le Capanelle, the Aqua Claudia and Anio Novus emerge from their underground course, and run into Rome upon the long series of arches already mentioned, passing over the Porta Maggiore. The Claudia sent off an important branch from the Porta Maggiore over the Caelian to the Palatine, but the main aqueduct soon reached its termination. A mile farther on the Aqua Marcia also, owing to the gradual slope of the ground towards Rome, begins to be supported on arches, which were also used to carry the Aqua Tepula and the Aqua Julia (of the two latter, before their junction with the Marcia, no remains exist above ground, but inscribed cippi of the last named and its underground channel have been found at Le Capanelle, and cippi also close to its springs, which are a little way above Grottaferrata at Gli Squarciarelli). The Anio Vetus followed the same line, but kept underground (as was natural at the early period at which it was constructed) until the immediate neighbourhood of Rome, near the locality known as “ad Spem veterem” (from a temple of Spes, of which no remains are known) close to the Porta Maggiore. At this point, besides the aqueducts named, the Aqua Appia, as we are told by Frontinus, entered the city, and received an important branch, the Appia Augusta. No remains of either have been discovered outside the city.

The Aqua Alexandrina must also have entered the city here, though its channel, which lay at some depth below ground, has not been discovered. Considerable remains of its brick aqueducts exist in the district between the Via Praenestina and the Via Labicana.

Of the two aqueducts on the right bank of the Tiber, the Alsietina, as we have said, has no remains at all, while those of the Traiana are not of great importance. The line of the aqueducts was marked by cippi, inscribed (in the case of the Anio Vetus, Marcia, Tepula, Julia and Virgo—those of the Claudia and Anio Novus are uninscribed, and those of the Traiana are differently worded) with the name of the aqueduct, the distance from the next cippus (generally 240 ft.) and the number, counting from Rome (not from the springs). These boundary stones were erected in pairs, to mark off the strip of land 30 ft. in width reserved for the aqueduct, and for the road or path which generally followed it. The shafts (putei) often stood, but not necessarily, at the same points as the cippi.

To these nine must be added the two following, constructed after Frontinus’s time: (10), from springs to the north-west of the Lacus Sabatinus (Lago di Bracciano), constructed by Trajan in 109, about 36 English miles in length. It was restored by Paul V. in 1611, who made use of and largely transformed the remains of the ancient aqueduct; he allowed some of the inferior water of the lake to flow into the channel, and it is thus no longer used for drinking. (11), rising about 14 English miles from Rome, between the Via Praenestina and the Via Labicana, the work of Alexander Severus ( 226). The springs now supply the modern Acqua Felice, constructed by Sixtus V. in 1585, but the course of the latter is mainly subterranean and not identical with that of the former.

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 spirators were hanged at Tyburn on 27 May, and the Countess of Salisbury was on the same day beheaded within the Tower. Sir John Nevill was sent down to York to suffer there.

Partly with a view to allaying sedition by his presence and partly in the hope of meeting James V of Scotland, whom he had invited to an interview at York, Henry now arranged a progress into the north. But before he set out the Tower was cleared of its prisoners, and a number of further executions took place, among the victims being Lord Leonard Grey [q. v.] and Thomas Fiennes, ninth lord Dacre of the South [q. v.] Another prisoner, Arthur Plantagenet, viscount Lisle [q. v.], late deputy of Calais, was pardoned. The French ambassador, writing of this time of tyranny, says that men knew not of what they might be accused; they were condemned unheard; parliament had virtually made over all its functions to the king, and the leaders of parties plotted against each other.

Henry set out on his progress on 30 June. It was delayed by floods in Lincolnshire, and he only reached York in September. The different towns on his way vied with each other in offering him gifts and declaring their loyalty. But the Scottish king very prudently declined to meet him. On his return to Hampton Court in November he was shocked to learn that the queen had not been chaste before she married him, and that she had since been untrue to him even during the progress. Her accomplices were tried and executed before her in December, and she herself was brought to the block on 13 Feb. following (1542).

Parliament meanwhile had assembled, and among other things enacted that Ireland should be henceforth a kingdom. Henry was accordingly proclaimed king of Ireland as well as of England on 23 Jan. The island had by this time been brought into fairly complete subjection, almost all the Irish chieftains having made formal submission to the king, some of them in England in the king's own presence. With all this success, however, Henry continued to demand excessive subsidies or extortionate loans. He had also been nursing a quarrel with Scotland since the refusal of James to meet him at York, and things were tending to war both with that country and with France. Disturbances on the Scottish borders brought matters to a point; and Henry, issuing a long manifesto, in which he revived the claim of feudal superiority over the northern kingdom, sent Norfolk to invade it. Norfolk crossed the Tweed, 21 Oct., and laid waste the country till he was compelled for want of provisions to return to Berwick. Next month the Scots were routed at the Solway Moss, and James V died broken-hearted in December, leaving his infant daughter Mary heiress of the kingdom.

The prisoners taken at the Solway Moss, several of them noblemen of high standing, were sent up to London and paraded through the streets from Bishopsgate to the Tower. But on the news of King James's death Henry determined to make use of them to further a new policy in Scotland. He proposed to unite that country to the English crown by marrying his son Edward to the infant Mary as soon as the parties should be of sufficient age. The prisoners were accordingly treated with kindness, and allowed to return to their country on a solemn engagement to favour the treaty and to procure the delivery of Mary into Henry's hands to be brought up in England, or, if the Scottish parliament refused this, to assist Henry in subjugating their own country, or else to return to captivity. At the same time the Earl of Angus and Sir George Douglas, who had been many years resident in England, having been banished from Scotland as rebels, returned thither pledged to promote the same object. But the Scottish parliament, while agreeing to the marriage, refused to allow their queen to be brought up in England. By the skill of Sir George Douglas a compromise was effected, and treaties were actually drawn up on 1 July 1543 for the peace and marriage on terms ostensibly much more favourable to the Scots. But Scotland was unhappily rent by faction, and by the influence of Cardinal Beaton and the French party the treaties were soon set aside.

Meanwhile Henry had on 11 Feb. 1543 concluded an alliance with the emperor against France. Heretic as he was, and excommunicated by the pope, both Charles and Francis had, ever since Cromwell's fall, desired his friendship, each against the other; and though it had been apparent for years that he was inclining to the emperor rather than to France, yet until the emperor was willing to make a satisfactory alliance with him he had studiously affected friendship with the French, and pretended to be ready to marry the Princess Mary to the Duke of Orleans. Henry, however, now withdrew his ambassadors from France, and later in the year sent a detachment under Sir John Wallop in aid of the emperor, so that in the latter part of 1543 he found himself once more at war both with Scotland and France; and at war with both of them he remained till within a few months of his death.

In a brief interval of peace, however, he married, 12 July 1543, his last wife, Catherine

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 Parr [q. v.] On 7 July 1544 he made her regent in his absence, when on the point of crossing the Channel to conduct the war in person. His brief campaign was signalised by the capture of Boulogne (14 Sept.); immediately after which he was deserted by his perfidious ally the emperor, who made a separate peace with France on the 19th. Henry suspended operations for the winter, and recrossed the Channel on the 30th. England was now placed at a disadvantage in maintaining the war single-handed against France; but the national spirit rose with the danger, and though Henry's subjects were called upon for loans, subsidies, and benevolences with a frequency heretofore unknown, they contributed for the most part with little grudging. The king, moreover, adopted one of the worst means of lightening his financial burdens—debasement of the currency, an evil which was not remedied till the days of Queen Elizabeth, and only partially then. But he also coined his plate and mortgaged his estates to meet the exigencies of a war which in two years cost him 1,300,000l. England, however, was unable to strike an effective blow at her enemy; and one of her finest vessels, the Mary Rose, sank by accident (20 July 1545) off Portsmouth under the king's own eyes, while the French, almost that very day, made good a temporary landing in the Isle of Wight. But, on the whole, nothing was gained by either side, and on 7 June 1546 France agreed to make peace with England, leaving her in possession of Boulogne for eight years longer, and agreeing to pay a large sum for arrears of past pensions and war expenses.

As for Scotland, the one constant enemy of Henry's policy in that country was Cardinal Beaton, and Henry favoured the plot which resulted in his assassination. In May 1544 an English force under the Earl of Hertford, supported by a fleet in the Firth of Forth, burned Leith and Edinburgh, and laid waste the neighbouring country. But this did not tend to make the Scots more tractable, and in the early part of 1545 a raid by Lord Evers on the Scottish border, in which he desecrated the tombs of the Douglases at Melrose, was revenged by the signal defeat of the invaders at Ancrum Muir (27 Feb.) In April Henry, through the Earl of Cassilis, again attempted to dictate a peace to the Scottish lords, but his terms were rejected, and in September Hertford laid waste the borders about Dryburgh and Melrose. At last, on 30 May 1546, Cardinal Beaton was murdered, and the castle of St. Andrews seized by conspirators in league with England; and as this gave Henry's party the command of a seaport and a strong castle, he had now a footing in Scotland from which he could not easily be driven.

The chief domestic matters of interest during those last years of his reign were matters of religion. Numerous colleges, chantries, and hospitals found it prudent to surrender, and in the session of November 1545 parliament placed the endowments of all such foundations at the king's disposal as an additional aid to meet his war expenses. A power of unlimited confiscation was thus placed in the king's hands; which, however, it seems he was expected to exercise with some regard for the interests of religion and learning. So Henry himself understood the matter, as he told parliament himself in a speech with which he closed the session on 24 Dec. 1545, and he thanked them for such a marked expression of their confidence. He then added that he could not but grieve that his subjects, who showed so much kindness towards himself, were not in charity with one another, but the names heretic, anabaptist, papist, hypocrite, and Pharisee were freely banded about, and he gave them a sort of sermon on the thirteenth chapter of the first epistle to the Corinthians, urging them to amendment. Above all they must not judge their own causes, or rail at bishops, but if they knew that a bishop or preacher taught corrupt doctrine, ‘come,’ he said, ‘and declare it to some of our council, or to us to whom is committed by God the high authority to reform and order such causes.’

Some doubt seems to be thrown on the authenticity of this speech by the fact that it is not recorded in the ‘Journals of the House of Lords;’ but it comes from Hall's ‘Chronicle,’ a source which can generally be relied on. It was Henry's last speech in parliament, where he never again appeared in person, and it seems too striking and characteristic to be an invention; but in any case it affords singular evidence of the utter inefficiency of the severe act of the Six Articles to effect its avowed purpose of ‘abolishing diversities of opinion.’ Persecutions and burnings for heresy were frequent during the next year, the last of Henry's reign [cf. ].

Henry's infirmities were now increasing. Heavy and unwieldy, he could no longer walk or stand, and the fistula in his leg had become more serious. All who stood near the throne foresaw his speedy death and the horrors of a minority, and were naturally anxious about their own position in the coming reign. Suddenly, on 12 Dec. 1546, the Duke of Norfolk and his son Henry Howard, earl of Surrey, the poet, were made prisoners. Evidence had been collected against them


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 beforehand that they were speculating upon a regency, and gentlemen were despatched into Norfolk before his apprehension got wind to take possession of the duke's house at Kenninghall, and to examine his friends there. The duke confessed that he was guilty at least of technical treason, especially in not having revealed the conduct of his son, who had altered the quarterings of his shield in a manner suitable only to an heir-apparent of the crown. But a far more hideous charge was brought against Surrey himself—that he had recommended his own sister, the Duchess of Richmond, the widow of the king's son, to become the king's mistress, by which she might obtain an influence in political matters similar to that of Madame d'Étampes in the court of Francis I. This charge seems to have been confirmed by the duchess herself, and is by no means the only evidence of the deep depravity of the court of Henry VIII. Parliament was summoned to meet in January 1547 for the purpose, among other things, of passing an act of attainder against Norfolk. On the 13th, the day before it met, Surrey was tried by a special commission at the Guildhall, and, being found guilty, was beheaded two days later on Tower Hill. Against Norfolk the bill of attainder passed both houses on the 27th, and was awaiting the royal assent when the king died at Westminster at midnight on 28 Jan. Henry, Foxe tells us, had been ‘loth to hear any mention of death.’ At the last Sir Anthony Denny obtained permission to send for Cranmer, but when the archbishop arrived the king was speechless. Cranmer asked him to give some token of his trust in Christ, and the dying man pressed his hand. Henry was buried at Windsor.

Henry's unique position among English kings is owing to the extraordinary degree of personal weight that he was able to throw into the government of the realm. Strictly speaking he was not an unconstitutional sovereign; all his doings were clothed with the form of legality. But the whole machinery of state, both legislative and executive, moved simply in accordance with his pleasure, and, however unpopular might be his government at home or his policy abroad, no one could venture to impugn his acts or could doubt his consummate statesmanship. The sentiment of loyalty, moreover, which was held to be superior to all ties of natural affection, was much stronger in those days than it has been in later times.

Besides the two leading acts of the Reformation, the establishment of the royal supremacy and the suppression of the monasteries, Henry was responsible for some smaller changes whose results were permanent. On Wolsey's fall he seized into his own hands the endowments of the cardinal's projected colleges at Ipswich and Oxford, completed the latter on a less munificent scale than was designed for it, and then assumed the honours of a founder, calling it Henry VIII's College instead of Cardinal's College. It is now known as Christ Church. Between 1540 and 1542 he erected six new bishoprics (Westminster, Oxford, Peterborough, Bristol, Gloucester, and Chester) out of some of the endowments of the suppressed monasteries. The first of these bishoprics continued only for ten years, and was dissolved by Edward VI. He also drew up a scheme, the draft of which remains in his own handwriting (MS. Cotton. Cleopatra, E. iv.), for a still further increase of the episcopate, and he obtained an act of parliament in 1536 for establishing a number of suffragans. In 1531 he began, for the gratification of Anne Boleyn, to lay out St. James's Park, which was approached by a long gallery across the street from Whitehall. This appears to have been done mainly by an exchange of lands with the abbey of Westminster and Eton College; but numbers of houses were demolished for the purpose without adequate compensation to the owners.

As an author Henry was by no means contemptible. His book against Luther (‘Assertio Septem Sacramentorum,’ published in 1521) was a scholastic performance of a rather conventional type; but it was the coinage of his own brain, and he had discussed its arguments, in the progress of the work, both with Wolsey and with More. It seemed, moreover, to Luther himself of sufficient weight to draw from him a somewhat angry though contemptuous rejoinder. Of course, in the composition of such a treatise Henry could easily command the aid of the best scholarship of the day, at all events to improve the style. To what extent he was thus aided we cannot tell. But we have the testimony of Erasmus to his own facility in Latin composition; and it is quite certain that in the numerous letters, manifestos, and treatises, both Latin and English, put forth in his name during his reign, his own hand is very often traceable. His skill in theological subtleties, no less than in threading the mazes of diplomacy, enabled him to take up a position that could not be successfully challenged, and secure himself alike against popes, emperors, and kings in the midst of a dangerous revolution stirred mainly by himself. The first articles of religion were printed in 1536 as ‘Articles devised by the King's Majesty.’ Next year appeared a more elaborate treatise entitled ‘The Institution of a Christian Man,’


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 good God look after those who have not—they are even now secure in the safety of their respective homes. Let me discover but one demented idiot peeking from behind his shutter and I promise you he shall have cause to remember his disobedience!"

IERRE nodded without speaking, knowing he was being instructed to punish a possible, but improbable, offender.

"Now, we are four intelligent men, I trust," said Monsieur Delacroix, pretending not to notice the glow of pleasure which suffused Jacques' features at being included in their number. "We are the Delacroix's, which is sufficient. And as leaders we must, from time to time, grant certain concessions to the inferior mentalities of the unfortunate who dwell in ignorance; so I have this day promised the good foremen, who petitioned me regarding the activities of this wolf, to perform certain things. They firmly believe the gray wolf is a demon, an inhuman atrocity visited upon us by the Evil One. And also, according to their ancient but childish witch-lore, that it may only be destroyed by a silver weapon."

Monsieur Delacroix reached beneath his chair and drew forth a small, but apparently heavy, sack. Upending it on the surface of the desk, he scattered in every direction a double dozen glittering cylindrical objects.

"Bullets!" exclaimed Jacques.

"Silver bullets!" amended Pierre.

"Yes, my son. Bullets of silver which I molded myself in the cellars, and which I have shown to the men, with the promise that they will be put to use."

"Expensive weapons," commented the thrifty François.

"It is the poor peasant's belief. If we slew tills wolf with mere lead or iron they would still be frightened of their own shadows and consequently worthless at their work, as they have been for the past month. Here are the guns. Tonight you will go forth, my sons, and slay this fabulous werewolf, and cast its carcass upon the cart-load of dry wood I have had piled by the vineyard road, and burn it until there is nothing left but the ash, for all to see and know."

"Yes, papa," Assented Pierre and François as one, but the boy Jacques cried: "What? So fine a skin? I would like it for the wall of my room! These who have seen the wolf say its pelt is like silver shaded into gray"

"Jacques!" Etienne Delacroix's anger flooded his face with a great surge of red and bulging veins, and Pierre and François were stricken with awe at the sight of their father's wrath.

"If you do not burn this beast as I say, immediately after slaying it, I will forget you are my son, and almost a man! I will"

His own temper choked him into incoherency.

"I crave your pardon, father," begged Jacques, humbled and alarmed. "I forgot myself."

"We will obey, papa, as always," said François, quickly, and Pierre gravely nodded.

"The moon will soon be up," said Monsieur Delacroix, after a short silence. The room had grown dark while they talked; receiving a wordless signal from his father, Pierre struck a match and lit the blackened lamp on the desk. With the startling transition, as light leaped forth to dispel the murky shadows of the room, Pierre came near to exclaiming aloud at sight of the haggard lines in his father's face. For the first time in his life he realized that what his parent had said earlier in the evening about aging was not spoken jocularly, not the repeated jest Monsieur Delacroix had always allowed himself, but the truth. His father was old.

"You had better go," said Etienne


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, as his keen eyes caught the fleeting expression on his son's face. His fingers drummed a muffled tattoo upon the fine edge of his desk, the only sign of his nervous condition that he could not entirely control. "Monsieur the Mayor's opinion is that the wolf is stronger when the moon is full. But it is mine that tonight it will be easier to discover."

HE three turned to the door, but as they reached the threshold Monsieur Delacroix beckoned to the eldest. "An instant, Pierre. I speak to you alone."

The young man closed the door on his brothers' backs and returned to the desk, his steady eyes directed at his father.

Monsieur Delacroix, for the moment, seemed to have forgotten what he intended to say. His head was bowed on his chest and the long locks of his ashen hair had fallen forward over his brow. Suddenly he sat erect, as if it took an immense effort of his will to perform the simple action, and again Pierre was startled to perceive the emotions which twisted his father's features.

It was the first time he had ever seen tenderness there, or beheld love in the eyes he had sometimes, in secret, thought a little cruel.

"Have you a pocket crucifix, my son?"

"In my room."

"Take it with you tonight. And—you will stay close to Jacques, will you not?" His voice was hoarse with unaccustomed anxiety. "He is young, confident, and—careless. I would not wish to endanger your good mother's last child."

Pierre was amazed. It had been fifteen years since he had last heard his father mention his mother.

"You have been a good son, Pierre. Obey me now. Do not let the three of you separate, for I hear this beast is a savage one and unafraid even of armed men. Take care of yourself, and see to your brothers."

"Will you remain in the château for safety, papa? You are not armed."

"I am armed by my faith in the good God and the walls of Château Doré. When you have lit the fire under the wolf's body—I will be there."

He lowered the leonine head once more, and Pierre, not without another curious look, departed.

For a long while Monsieur Delacroix sat immobile, his elbows resting on the padded arras of the chair, the palms of his hands pressing into his cheeks. Then he abruptly arose and, approaching the open casement, drew the curtains wide. Outside, the long, rolling slopes fell away toward a dim horizon already blanketed by the dragons of night, whose tiny, flickering eyes were winking into view one by one in the dark void above. Hurrying cloudlets scurried in little groups across the sky.

Lamps were being lit in the jumble of cottages that were the abodes of Monsieur Delacroix's workmen, but at the moment the sky was illuminated better than the earth; for the gathering darkness seemed to ding like an animate thing to the fields and meadows, and stretch ebony claws across the ribbon of the roadway.

It was time for the moon to rise.

Monsieur Delacroix turned away from the casement and with swift, certain steps went to the door, opening it. The hall was still, but from the direction of the dining room there came a clatter of dishes as the servants cleared the table. Quickly, with an unusual alacrity for a man of his years, he silently traversed the floor of the huge hall and passed through its outer portals. A narrow gravel lane led him along the side of the château until he reached the building's extreme corner, where he abandoned it to strike off across the closely clipped sward in the direction of a small clump of beech trees.

The night was warm and peaceful, with no threat of rain. A teasing zephyr tugged


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 uperstitions

The Superstition attached to lighting three cigarettes with one match is supposed to date from the time of the Crimean War.. In olden days, all Russians recognized the strict rule that during the services in the Russian churches, only the high priest was allowed to light the three candles at the alter with one taper! The influence of the priests penetrated to all classes, and people were taught to look upon anything connected with the priesthood as forbidden fruit or forbidden ground to them. During the war, Russians prisoners passed on this belief to their English captors!


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 AND TABOOS by Weill

When a ladder leans against the wall, it forms a triangle and is thus symbolical of the Trinity! The ordinary layman of olden days would therefore consider himself debarred from passing through this sacred arch. Should one be compelled to pass under a ladder, all will be well if the fingers are crossed.

Natives of Dutch New Guinea place a spade upon the grave of a departed friend or relative, so that if the corpse regains it soul and comes to life again, it can dig itself out...


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 at the thick locks on his uncovered head; from somewhere near his feet came the chirp of a cricket.

In the grove it was darker until he came to its center, wending through and past the entangled thickets like one who had traveled the same path many times, and found the small glade that opened beneath the stars. Here there was more light again but no breeze at all. In the center of the glade was an oblong, grassy mound, and at one end of it a white stone, and on the stone the name of his wife.

ONSIEUR DELACROIX stood for an instant beside the grave with lowered head, and then he sank to his knees and began to pray.

In the east the sky began to brighten as though some torch-bearing giant drew near, walking with great strides beyond the edge of the earth. The stars struggled feebly against the superior illumination, but their strength diminished as a narrow band of encroaching yellow fire appeared on the rim of the world.

With its arrival the low monotone of prayer was checked, to continue afterward with what seemed to be some difficulty. Monsieur Delacroix's throat was choked, either with grief for the unchangeable past or an indefinable apprehension for the inevitable future. His breath came in struggling gasps and tiny beads of perspiration formed on his face and hands. His prayers became mumbled, jerky utterances, holding no recognizable phrases of speech. Whispers, and they ceased altogether.

A small dark cloud danced across a far-off mountain-top, slid furtively over the border of the land, and for a minute erased the yellow gleam from the horizon. Then, as if in terror, shaken by its own temerity, it fled frantically into oblivion, and the great golden platter of the full moon issued from behind the darkness it had left to deluge the landscape with a ceaseless shower of illusive atoms; tiny motes that danced the pathways of space.

Monsieur Delacroix gave a low cry like a child in pain. His agonized eyes were fixed on the backs of his two hands as he held them pressed against the dew-dampened sward. His fingers had begun to stiffen and curl at their tips; he could see the long, coarse hairs sprouting from the pores of his flesh — as he had many times within the past month since the night he had fallen asleep by the grave of his wife and slept throughout the night under the baleful beams of the moon.

He flung back his head, whimpering because of the terrible pressure he could feel upon his skull, and its shape appeared to alter so that it seemed curiously elongated. His eyes were bloodshot, and as they sank into their sockets his lips began to twitch over the fangs in his mouth.

The three brothers, crouching nervously in the shadows of the vineyards, started violently.

Jacques, the younger, almost lost his grasp on the gun with the silver bullets which his father had given him.

From somewhere nearby there had arisen a great volume of sound, swirling and twisting and climbing to shatter itself into a hundred echoes against the vault of the heavens, rushing and dipping and sinking into the cores of all living hearts and the very souls of men—the hunting-cry of the werewolf.


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Rh Homer the principal bond which united the Grecian states. Such an opinion may be deemed somewhat extravagant. It cannot be doubted, however, that a poem like that of the "Cid," which appeared as early as the twelfth century, The oldest manuscript extant of this poem, (still preserved at Bivar, the hero's birth-place,) bears the date of 1207, or at latest 1307, for there is some obscurity in the writing. Its learned editor, Sanchez, has been led by the peculiarities of its orthography, metre, and idiom, to refer its composition to as early a date as 1153. (Coleccion de Poesías Castellanas anteriores al Siglo XV. (Madrid, 1779–90,) tom. i. p. 223.)

Some of the late Spanish antiquaries have manifested a skepticism in relation to the "Cid," truly alarming. A volume was published at Madrid, in 1792, by Risco, under the title of "Castilla, o Historia de Rodrigo Diaz," &c., which hethe [sic] worthy father ushered into the world with much solemnity, as a transcript of an original manuscript coeval with the time of the "Cid," and fortunately discovered by him in an obscure corner of some Leonese monastery. (Prologo.) Masdeu, in an analysis of this precious document, has been led to scrutinize the grounds, on which the reputed achievements of the "Cid" have rested from time immemorial, and concludes with the startling assertion, that "of Rodrigo Diaz, el Campeador, we absolutely know nothing, with any degree of probability, not even his existence!" (Hist. Crítica, tom. xx. p. 370.) There are probably few of his countrymen, that will thus coolly acquiesce in the annihilation of their favorite hero, whose exploits have been the burden of chronicle, as well as romance, from the twelfth century down to the present day.

They may find a warrant for their fond credulity, in the dispassionate judgment of one of the greatest of modern historians, John Muller, who, so far from doubting the existence of the Campeador, has succeeded, in his own opinion at least, in clearing from his history the "mists of fable and extravagance," in which it has been shrouded. See his Life of the Cid, appended to Escobar's "Romancero," edited by the learned and estimable Dr. Julius, of Berlin. Frankfort, 1828. by calling up the most inspiring national recollections in connexion with their favorite hero, must have operated powerfully on the moral sensibilities of the people.

It is pleasing to observe, in the cordial spirit of these early effusions, little of the ferocious bigotry which sullied the character of the nation, in after ages. The Mahometans of this period far


text: Weird Tales/Volume 36/Issue 2/The Werewolf Howls


text: Author:Clifford Ball

title: Author:Clifford Ball


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xlii their enemies in general refinement, and had carried some branches of intellectual culture to a height scarcely surpassed by Europeans in later times. The Christians, therefore, notwithstanding their political aversion to the Saracens, conceded to them a degree of respect, which subsided into feelings of a very different complexion, as they themselves rose in the scale of civilization. This sentiment of respect tempered the ferocity of a warfare, which, although sufficiently disastrous in its details, affords examples of a generous courtesy, that would do honor to the politest ages of Europe. The Spanish Arabs were accomplished in all knightly exercises, and their natural fondness for magnificence, which shed a lustre over the rugged features


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Rh outlines of the most remarkable objects; for that would be much better for the absent than all descriptions.

, Nov. 9, 1779.

Before we set out, I can just bid you good morning. The count is going with me to the mountains on the left, toward Leukerbad. Our friend will, in the meantime, stay here with the horses, and join us to-morrow at Leuk.

, Nov. 9, 1779.

At the foot of Mount Gemmi.

In a little wooden house, where we have been most kindly received by some very worthy people, we are sitting in a small, low room, and trying how much of to-day's highly interesting tour can be communicated in words. Starting from Seyters very early, we proceeded for three leagues up the mountains, after having passed large districts laid waste by the mountain torrents. One of these streams will suddenly rise, and desolate an extent of many miles, covering with fragments of rock and gravel the fields, meadows, and gardens, which (at least wherever possible) the people laboriously set to work to clear, in order, within two generations, perhaps, to be again laid waste. We have had a gray day, with every now and then a glimpse of sunshine. It is impossible to describe how infinitely variegated the Valais here again becomes: the landscape bends and changes every moment. Looking around you, all the objects seem to lie close together; and yet they are separated by great ravines and hills. Generally we had had the open part of the valley below us, on the right, when suddenly we came upon a spot which commanded a most beautiful view over the mountains.

In order to render more clear what it is I am attempting to describe, I must say a few words on the


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52 geographical position of the district in which we are at present. We had now, for three hours, been ascending the mountainous region which separates Valais from Berne. This is, in fact, the great track of mountains which runs in one continuous chain from the Lake of Geneva to Mount St. Gothard, and on which, as it passes through Berne, rest the great masses of ice and snow. Here "above" and "below" are but the relative terms of the moment. I say, for instance, beneath me lies a village; and, in all probability, the level on which it is built is on a precipitous summit, which is far higher above the valley below than I am above it.

As we turned an angle of the road, and rested a while at a hermitage, we saw beneath us, at the end of a lovely green meadow-land which stretched along the brink of an enormous chasm, the village of Inden, with its white church exactly in the middle of the landscape, and built altogether on the slope of the hillside. Beyond the chasm another line of meadow-lands and pine forests went upwards, while right behind the village a vast cleft in the rocks ran up the summit. On the left hand the mountains came right down to us, while those on our right stretched far away into the distance; so that the little hamlet, with its white church, formed, as it were, the focus toward which the many rocks, ravines, and mountains all converged. The road to Inden is cut out of the precipitous side of the rock, which, on your left going to the village, lines the amphitheatre. It is not dangerous, although it looks frightful enough. It goes down on the slope of a rugged mass of rocks, separated from the yawning abyss on the right by nothing but a few poor planks. A peasant with a mule, who was descending at the same time as ourselves, whenever he came to any dangerous points, caught his beast by the tail, lest the steep descent should cause him to slip, and roll into


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Rh the rocks below. At last we reached Inden. As our guide was well known there, he easily managed to obtain for us, from a good-natured dame, some bread and a glass of red wine; for in these parts there are no regular inns.

We now ascended the high ravine behind Inden, where we soon saw before us the Gemmiberg (of which we had heard such frightful descriptions), with Leukerbad at its foot, lying between two lofty, inaccessible, snow-covered mountains, as if it were in the hollow of a hand. It was three o'clock, nearly, when we arrived there; and our guide soon procured us lodgings. There is properly no inn, even here; but in consequence of the many visitors to the baths at this place, all people have good accommodations. Our hostess had been put to bed the day before; but her husband, with an old mother and a servant girl, did very creditably the honours of the house. We ordered something to eat, and went to see the warm springs, which in several places burst out of the earth with great force, and are received in very clean reservoirs. Out of the village, and more toward the mountains, there are said to be still stronger ones. The water has not the slightest smell of sulphur; and neither at its source, nor in its channel, does it make the least deposit of ochre, or of any other earth or mineral, but, like any other clear spring-water, it leaves not the slightest trace behind it. As it comes out of the earth, it is extremely hot, and is famous for its good qualities. We had still time for a walk to the foot of the Gemmi, which appeared to us to be at no great distance. I must here repeat a remark that has been made so often already,—that, when one is surrounded with mountain scenery, all objects appear to be extremely near. We had a good league to go,—across fragments of rocks which had fallen from the heights, and over gravel brought down by the torrents,—before


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54 we reached the foot of the Gemmi, where the road ascends along the precipitous crags. This is the only pass into the canton of Berne, and the sick have to be transported along it in sedan-chairs.

If the season did not bid us hasten onward, we should probably to-morrow make an attempt to ascend this remarkable mountain: as it is, however, we must content ourselves with the simple view of it. On our return we saw the clouds brewing, which in these parts is a highly interesting sight. The fine weather we have hitherto enjoyed has made us almost entirely forget that we are in November: moreover, as they foretold us in Berne, the autumn here is very delightful. The short days, however, and the clouds, which threaten snow, warn us how late it is in the year. The strange drift which has been agitating them this evening was singularly beautiful. As we came back from the foot of the Gemmi, we saw light mists come up the ravine from Inden, and move with great rapidity. They continually changed their direction, going, now forward, now backward; and at last, as they ascended, they came so near to Leukerbad, that we saw clearly that we must double our steps, if we would not, before nightfall, be enveloped in the clouds. However, we reached our quarters without accident; and, whilst I write this, it is snowing in earnest. This is the first fall of snow that we have yet had; and when we call to mind our warm ride yesterday, from Martinac to Sion, beneath the vine-arbours, which were still pretty thick with leaves, the change does appear sudden indeed. I have been standing some time at the door, observing the character and look of the clouds, which are beautiful beyond description. It is not yet night; but at intervals the clouds veil the whole sky, and make it quite dark. They rise out of the deep ravines until they reach the highest summits of the mountains: attracted by these, they appear to thicken; and, being


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Rh condensed by the cold, they fall down in the shape of snow. It gives you an inexpressible feeling of loneliness to find yourself here at this height, as it were, in a sort of well, from which you scarcely can suppose that there is even a foot-path to get out by, except down the precipice before you. The clouds which gather here in this valley, at one time completely hiding the immense rocks, and absorbing them in a waste, impenetrable gloom, or at another letting a part of them be seen, like huge spectres, give to the people a cast of melancholy. In the midst of such natural phenomena, the people are full of presentiments and forebodings. Clouds, a phenomenon remarkable to every man from his youth up, are in the flat countries generally looked upon at most as something foreign, something super-terrestrial. People regard them as strangers, as birds of passage, which, hatched under a different climate, visit this or that country for a moment or two in passing; as splendid pieces of tapestry, wherewith the gods part off their pomp and splendour from human eyes. But here, where they are hatched, one is enveloped in them from the very first, and the eternal and intrinsic energy of his nature feels moved at every nerve to forebode, and to indulge in presentiments.

To the clouds, which with us even produce these effects, we pay little attention: moreover, as they are not pushed so thickly and directly before our eyes, their economy is the more difficult to observe. With regard to all such phenomena, one's only wish is to dwell on them for awhile, and to be able to tarry several days in the spots where they are observable. If one is fond of such observations, the desire becomes the more vivid, the more one reflects that every season of the year, every hour of the day, and every change of weather, produces new phenomena which we little looked for. And as no man, not even the most


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1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/International Labour Organization

INTERNATIONAL LABOUR ORGANIZATION.—An important part of the scheme for a League of Nations embodied in the Peace Treaty of Versailles in 1919 involved the creation of a new International Labour Organization. The Labour part of the Treaty (Part XIII.) rested on the principle laid down in its preamble that there can be no social peace which is not based on social justice. It represented the aspiration which moved all classes to carry over into peace the community of sentiment and of action which had held them together during the dark hours of the World War.

Aiming therefore at the promotion of social peace, the International Labour Organization was founded on two main beliefs—the belief that there must be international coöperation in the industrial sphere, if suicidal competition, leading to much human misery, and perhaps to fresh wars, was to be avoided, and the belief that such coöperation must be based on the collaboration between the State, Capital and Labour. The organization was therefore to consist of all the states forming the League of Nations, who were to meet annually in conference and draw up international agreements for regulating and improving industrial conditions. By raising the standard of living and the lot of the

worker everywhere, the worst evils of commercial rivalry, and the penalty which it had hitherto imposed on progressive social legislation, could be gradually removed. This could only be done by international agreements having the force of treaties. Under the provisions of Article 405 of the Treaty these agreements are cast in the form of “draft conventions” and “recommendations,” which each State is bound to lay before its legislative or other authorities within a maximum period of eighteen months. Special provision is made to meet the case of federal constitutions, such as those of Canada, Australia and the United States, where labour legislation is not within the competence of the federal authority, but is a matter for the individual states or provinces. There were some who took part in the Paris negotiations and who wished to go further. They advocated that the Conference should be vested with the powers of a super-parliament, whose decisions should be immediately binding; but finally the more modest proposal of the British delegation, who put forward the scheme, was adopted, and it was left to the sovereign power in each state to accept or reject the proposals adopted by the conference. The constitution as defined by the Treaty provides therefore that the final decision rests with the government or parliament of each country. Once its approval is given to a draft convention, the formal ratification is conveyed to the secretary-general of the League, and the enforcement of its provisions becomes a treaty obligation.

This procedure is, apart from the imposition of a time-limit, not essentially different from the usual procedure followed by diplomatic conferences before the war, but when the composition of the International Labour Conference is considered, several marked departures from precedent will be observed. In the past governments alone took part in international discussions which were to result in creating international obligations. This meant that the delegates were tied down to carrying out their official instructions, and that mutual concession must be carried to the point where virtual unanimity was reached, if any practical consequences were to follow. The constitution of the International Labour Conference broke away from the diplomatic tradition. It provided for four delegates from each country, two only representing the government, the other two being chosen in agreement with the most representative organizations of employers and of workers in each country. The reason for this innovation is not far to seek. In discussing labour problems it is impossible to ignore the great employers' associations and trade unions, which are primarily interested and which are the controlling factors in modern industry. Once unofficial delegates were admitted, it followed as a necessary corollary that each national delegation could not be expected to act as a whole, but that its members must be free to speak and vote as they pleased. Hence it was no longer possible to look for unanimity, and it was accordingly provided that a draft convention or recommendation must be carried by a two-thirds majority, but that once so carried, its consideration (though not its adoption) became obligatory on the governments, whether their representatives had voted for it or not. By this means international public opinion could exert its influence even in countries which might be unwilling to accept the standards of the majority.

One further point requires brief notice. During the original discussions in Paris there was considerable division of opinion on the question whether the governments should have one vote or two. It was argued from the Labour point of view that the double vote would place the workers in a hopeless minority, and reduce them to impotence against the three votes exercised by the governments and the employers. On the other side, it was pointed out that not only was it probable that the official delegates would be as often on the side of the workers as on that of the employers, but that on the equal voting system the latter would with the assistance of a single government be able to block any proposal. Moreover, unless the majority of the governments accepted a draft convention, there was small likelihood of its being ratified, and this in itself justified their larger voting power. The subsequent experience of the Washington and Genoa conferences may be held to have justified these contentions.

Supposing then that a convention has been duly ratified by a number of states, what guarantee is there that it will be enforced? Clearly unequal enforcement would largely destroy its value, and would penalise the countries which had acted up to their obligations. To meet this contingency the Treaty provided that where a state failed to carry out its obligations after having its attention drawn to the matter, the governing body of the International Labour Office might, if it saw fit, appoint a commission of inquiry. If the commission's report was unfavourable and the state in question still refused to remove the cause of complaint, the matter could be referred to the Permanent Court of International Justice, who would issue a final judgment and might suggest the adoption of the appropriate economic penalties against the defaulting country. In practice it may be held highly improbable that it would ever be necessary to go to such lengths, but this attempt to provide an effective sanction for international engagements is not without interest.

International Labour Office.—As regards the development of the International Labour Office itself, its early months were largely occupied in recruiting and training the staff necessary to carry out its numerous duties. They were gradually drawn together from different countries, and in spite of the variety of language and tradition had at the end of six months attained a degree of unity and cohesion, which enabled the work of the office to reach a very reasonable standard of efficiency and its publication to commence. To the diplomatic and scientific divisions a number of small technical sections were attached, manned by specialists in the problems they were appointed to handle. These sections dealt with unemployment and emigration, agricultural questions, seamen's questions, industrial health, social insurance, including the rehabilitation of men disabled in industry or in war, and coöperation. A further special section was formed to study the social aspects of the Russian revolution in consequence of a decision of the governing body to send a mixed commission of inquiry to ascertain the industrial conditions under the Soviet régime. Owing to the refusal of the Bolshevik Government to admit them, the commission never carried out their mission, but the Russian section which had been formed to prepare the way for their inquiry succeeded in collecting a great deal of first-hand evidence, which had not been previously got together. The section made a scientific analysis of the data thus obtained, and produced the first attempt to give an objective account of the Bolshevik industrial system under the title of “Labour Conditions in Soviet Russia.”

Finally a small section was formed to carry out the inquiry into production, which was decided upon by the governing body on the motion of the employers' representatives. The object of this inquiry was to ascertain, if possible, how far the diminution of production was due to the shortening of hours of work, the physical and moral exhaustion produced by the war, or to other causes affecting the output of the individual worker, or how far it was due to deeper economic causes produced by the generally chaotic conditions in which the war had left the machinery for the production and exchange of goods all over the world. To attempt to obtain a clear view of a subject of such complexity was in itself a vast undertaking, but in response to the questionnaire which was sent out in twelve languages to the governments, employers' organizations and the trade unions, a great deal of valuable information about the conditions affecting production in all countries had already been obtained in 1921.

After six months' work in London, the Office was transferred to Switzerland. The Treaty required it to be established at the seat of the League of Nations, and though the secretariat of the League was still in London, the governing body decided for reasons of convenience to transfer the office somewhat earlier to Geneva,

which was designated as the future home of the League. Consequently in July 1920, immediately after the close of the Genoa conference, the International Labour Office settled down in its new quarters. After three months' breathing space, it was called upon to take its part in the work of the first assembly of the League. The constitutional relationship between the Labour Organization and the League was generally defined in the Treaty, though some points were not free from ambiguity. The International Labour Office is “part of the organization of the League” and is “entitled to the assistance of the secretary-general in any matter in which it can be given”; but it is not subject to the control of the council of the League, nor is the Labour Organization as a whole in any way dependent upon or subordinated to the assembly, except in the important matter of finance. Unlike the other technical organizations of the League, such as the health or transit organizations, the Labour Organization does not submit its decisions to the council for approval and its agenda are settled not by the council but by its own governing body. Save in the matter of finance, it is an autonomous body attached to the League by ties of common interest rather than by constitutional bonds; in fact, it is a sort of self-governing dominion. The financial link is, however, naturally one of great importance, since money questions are not less vital in international than in national affairs. Hence when the budget of the League was considered by the assembly, the finances of the Labour Organization, which form part of it, also came under review.

Internationalism.—There is one other task which lies upon the International Labour Organization and which goes to the rooi of its existence—the creation of an international spirit. Unless that spirit can be born and fostered, neither the League of Nations nor any institution connected with it can hope to survive. It is not a question of paying lip-service to catch-words, of realizing “the brotherhood of man,” of reviving in the 20th century the picturesque but shadowy idealism of Rousseau. To create a true international spirit it is necessary to begin practically and prosaically at the bottom instead of presumptuously and poetically at the top. The first and most elementary lesson consists of the inculcation of the fact that there are more links, economic, social and human, which bind nations together than there are divergent interests and antagonistic aims which pull them asunder. It is not an easy lesson to learn. The nationalistic impulse in a people is almost as deep-rooted and instinctive as the egoistic impulse in the individual. But just as men cannot live without working with and for their fellow-men in society, so nations cannot exist without coöperating with other nations. Because, however, the nation, being the larger unit, is more nearly self-sufficient than the individual, national public opinion is slow to realize its dependence on others and is apt to believe its national self-sufficiency far more complete than in the modern world it can possibly be. Internationalism is not the antithesis of nationalism, but its complement. Properly understood, it does not mean the emasculation of the national spirit, which represents the embodiment of the ideals, the traditions and the virtues built up during many generations of common national effort. On the contrary, it means the pooling of the spiritual resources of all nations in order to make their intercourse more fruitful and to bring the society of which they are all members to a higher level of prosperity and civilization. To achieve such a result public opinion needs to possess an international as well as a national consciousness. It must acquire a world point-of-view, a Weltanschauung, as a corrective and an enlargement of its national standpoint. Instead of regarding the foreigner with instinctive mistrust, if not with sub-conscious aversion, it will then realize that in most respects he is remarkably similar, that he is grappling with similar problems, faced by similar needs, the victim of similar economic disabilities, which everyone can meet more successfully by working together to find the right solution than by working alone without each other's experience.

(H. B. B.)


text: Author:Harold Beresford Butler

title: Author:Harold Beresford Butler


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xliv of romance, wandering over his own land, and even into the remotest climes, in quest of adventures; and, as late as the fifteenth century, we find him in the courts of England and Burgundy, doing battle in honor of his mistress, and challenging general admiration by his uncommon personal intrepidity. This romantic spirit lingered in Castile, long after the age of chivalry had become extinct in other parts of Europe, continuing to nourish itself on those illusions of fancy, which were at length dispelled by the caustic satire of Cervantes.

Thus patriotism, religious loyalty, and a proud sense of independence, founded on the consciousness of owing their possessions to their personal valor, became characteristic traits of the Castilians previously to the sixteenth century, when the oppressive policy and fanaticism of the Austrian dynasty contrived to throw into the shade these generous


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56 character, was ever a witness, even for once, of great and unusual events, without their leaving behind in his soul some traces or other, and making him feel himself also to be greater for this one little shred of grandeur, so that he is never weary of telling the whole tale of it over again, and has gained, at any rate, a little treasure for his whole life, just so is it with the man who has seen and become familiar with the grand phenomena of nature. He who manages to preserve these impressions, and to combine them with other thoughts and emotions, has, assuredly, a stock of spice wherewith to season the most tasteless parts of life, and to give a pervading relish to the whole of existence.

I observe that in my notes I make very little mention of human beings. Amid these grand objects of nature, they are but little worthy of notice, especially where they do but come and go. I doubt not but that, on a longer stay, we should meet with many worthy and interesting people. One thing I think I have observed everywhere,—the farther one moves from the highroad and the busy marts of men, the more people are shut in by the mountains, isolated and confined to the simplest wants of life, the more they draw their maintenance from simple, humble, and unchangeable pursuits, the better, the more obliging, the more friendly, unselfish, and hospitable they are.

, Nov. 10, 1779.

We are getting ready by candle-light, in order to descend the mountain again as soon as day breaks I have passed a rather restless night. I had not been long in bed before I felt as if I were attacked all over with the nettle-rash. I soon found, however, that it was a swarm of jumping insects, who, ravenous for blood, had fallen upon the newcomer. These insects breed in great numbers in these wooden houses. The


text: On the Conception of ΕΝΕΡΓΕΙΑ ΑΚΙΝΗΣΙΑΣ

title: On the Conception of ΕΝΕΡΓΕΙΑ ΑΚΙΝΗΣΙΑΣ


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Rh night appeared to me extremely long; and I was heartily glad, when, in the morning, a light was brought in.

About ten o'clock.

We have not much time to spare: however, before we set out, I will give you an account of the remarkable breaking up of our company, which has here taken place, and also of the cause of it. We set out from Leukerbad with daybreak this morning, and had to make our way over the meadows through the fresh and slippery snow. We soon came to Inden, where, leaving above us on our right the precipitous road which we came down yesterday, we descended to the meadow-lands along the ravine, which now lay on our left. It is extremely wild, and overgrown with trees; but a very tolerable road runs down into it. Through the clefts in the rock, the water which comes down from Leukerbad has its outlets into the Valais. High up on the side of the hill which yesterday we descended, we saw an aqueduct skilfully cut out of rock, by which a little stream is conducted from the mountain, then through a hollow into a neighbouring village.

Next we had to ascend a steep height, from which we soon saw the open country of Valais, with the dirty town of Valais lying beneath us. These little towns are mostly stuck on the hillsides, the roofs inelegantly covered with coarsely split planks, which within a year become black, and overgrown with moss; and when you enter them you are at once disgusted, for everything is dirty. Want and hardship are everywhere apparent among these highly privileged and free burghers.

We found here our friend, who brought the uufavourable report, that it was beginning to be injudicious to proceed farther with the horses. The stables were everywhere small and narrow, being built only


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 II.— ON THE CONCEPTION OF  ἘΝΕ’ΡΓΕΙΑ  ἈΚΙΝΗΣΙ’ΑΣ. By F. C. S. Schiller.

aim of this article is to rescue from an unmerited obscurity the Aristotelian ideal of Being, to expound its nature, to remove the paradoxes which it seems, superficially, to involve, and, finally, to show that it alone is competent to satisfy the intellectual and emotional demands we must make upon our conception of Being, and so far to redeem philosophy from the opprobrium of terminating in inconceivable mysteries.

In pursuit of this aim I shall trace (1) the historical antecedents of the doctrine, (2) its statement in Aristotle, (3) its consequences, (4) the objections to it, (5) the replies to them, (6) its advantages over the alternative views; and in so doing I shall, I trust, contribute to the removal of several misconceptions which have long been a source of trouble both in science and in philosophy.

I.

The history of thought, like that of politics, has largely been the history of great antitheses which have kept up their secular conflict from age to age. In the course of that history it may often have seemed that the one side of such an antithesis had finally triumphed over the other, but in the next generation it has often appeared that its rival had rallied its forces and restated its position to such effect that the preponderance of opinion has once more swung back to its side. Perhaps the most important metaphysically of these antitheses is that which has at different times been formulated as that between and Οὐσία, Ἐνέργεια and Ἕξις, Becoming and Being, Change and Immutability, Process and Permanence, and it will be necessary to cast a rapid retrospect over its varying fortunes in order to appreciate the full significance of Aristotle’s doctrine.

It will suffice for this purpose to start with the metaphysic of the Eleatics, taking it as the extremest, crudest, most


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Rh of chivalry, easily communicated itself to the Christian cavaliers. In the intervals of peace, these latter frequented the courts of the Moorish princes, and mingled with their adversaries in the comparatively peaceful pleasures of the tourney, as in war they vied with them in feats of Quixotic gallantry.

The nature of this warfare between two nations, inhabitants of the same country, yet so dissimilar in their religious and social institutions, as to be almost the natural enemies of each other, was extremely favorable to the exhibition of the characteristic virtues of chivalry. The contiguity of the hostile parties afforded abundant opportunities for personal rencounter and bold romantic enterprise. Each nation had its regular military associations, who swore to devote their lives to the service of God and their country, in perpetual war against the infidel. The Spanish knight became the true hero


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58 for mules or sumpter-horses; oats, too, were rarely to be procured: indeed, he was told, that, higher up among the mountains, there were none to be had. Accordingly a council was held. Our friend, with the horses, was to descend the Valais, and go by Bec, Vevay, Lausanne, Freiburg, and Berne, to Lucerne; while the count and I pursued our course up the Valais, and endeavoured to penetrate to Mount Gothard, and then through the canton of Uri, and by the lake of the Forest Towns, likewise make for Lucerne. In these parts you may anywhere procure mules, which are better suited to these roads than horses; and to go on foot is, after all, the most agreeable mode of travel. Our friend is gone, and our portmanteaus packed on the back of a mule, and so we are now ready to set off, and make our way on foot to Brieg. The sky has a motley appearance: still I hope that the good luck which has hitherto attended us, and attracted us to this distant spot, will not abandon us at the very point where we have the most need of it.

, Nov. 10, 1779.

Evening.

Of to-day's expedition I have little to tell you, unless you would like to be entertained with a long circumstantial account of the weather. About eleven o'clock we set off from Leuk, in company with a Suabian butcher's boy,—who had run away hither, and had found a place, where he served somewhat in the capacity of Hanswurst (Jack-pudding),—and with our luggage packed on the back of a mule, which its master was driving before him. Behind us, as far as the eye could reach, thick snow-clouds, which came driving up the lowlands, covered everything. It was really a dull aspect. Without expressing my fears, I felt anxious, lest—even though right before us it looked as clear as it could do in the land of Goshen—


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 abstract, and therefore most impressive, representative of what I may call, for purposes of reference, the permanence-view of the ultimate nature of existence. In the Eleatics the affirmation of Being took the form of a rigid immutable, whose uncompromising unity reduced all motion, change and plurality to an inexplicable illusion, and remorselessly crushed out the whole significance of human life. This uncanny Monism was defended with a dialectical ability which has never since been equalled, and Zeno’s proofs of the impossibility of motion are still full of instruction for philosophers of all schools.

But in the philosophy of Heraclitus Nemesis overtakes the Eleatics. Heraclitus affirms against them the ultimate reality of Becoming, the unlimited all-pervading Process, which unremittingly traverses the wherein. In spite of the somewhat sinister denial of permanence implied in this addition, Heracliteanism may well have seemed to restore to the universe the life which Eleaticism had made impossible.

But in Plato the pendulum swings back again to the side of. Rightly or wrongly, he detected in Heracliteanism consequences which seemed to him fatal to the possibility of knowledge, and instead of seeking to determine the actual limits of the Flux and the scientific methods by which to know it, he preferred to reject Heracliteanism and to propound a revised, and greatly improved, Eleaticism. He points out our need of a, which is not swept away in the Flux, of a fixed standard whereby to measure and render knowable the flow of Becoming, and in his theory of Ideas he conceived himself to have supplied this demand. In it plurality is recognised in the plurality of the Ideas, united though they are in the Idea of the Good, while the phenomenal world is admitted not to be wholly illusory, being, intermediate between the Ideas and the principle of impermanence, the mystery of which Plato seems to have thought he could resolve by calling it the ‘Non-Existent’.

In the end, however, the Idea remains the only true reality, and the Idea as such is unchanging Being, out of Space and Time. Hence to call anything, e.g., Pleasure, a is ipso facto to cast a slur upon its reality and to disqualify it for the position of the Chief Good which must be, he thinks, an abiding.

In Aristotle the tables are once more turned. To Aristotle the real world, i.e., the world whereof we desire an explanation, is after all the world of change in which we move and


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 live, rather than the system of immutable and timeless ‘laws’ which we devise for its explanation. Hence Plato’s changeless seem to him too distant and divorced to explain the world. An which is not immanent and does not assert itself in the world of phenomena, but remains an inert and secluded, is lifeless and worthless. Hence the must be in the world and pervade it; or, in his technical phrase, must display itself in actuality. Not that Aristotle denies the validity of the considerations which led Plato to frame his conception of ; he denies only its adequacy. The highest conception must be and not, the actual functioning of a substance whose real nature is only so revealed.

This is the ultimate reason why Aristotle denies that is the Good, and contends that  must be. A merely statical treatment of the truly valuable will not suffice: the Good is not merely, it is in exercise, and a  is only valuable as the basis and potentiality of an.

II.

It follows from this rehabilitation of the Process-view of the world that Aristotle has (a) to establish the superiority of his conception of over the Platonic conception of, (b) that he has to distinguish it from the conception of  or , which had succumbed to the Platonic criticism.

The first point is of course easy enough to establish. It suffices to point out that a substance apart from its activity is an abstraction (= ‘without causality no substantiality’); or, in Aristotle’s words, that the actuality is naturally prior to the potentiality, that to be is to be active.

The second point is more difficult, and Aristotle’s proof thereof is apt to appear paradoxical to us because of our inveterate habit of regarding a ‘function’ as a sort of ‘process’, or even—when we try to be particularly ‘scientific’—as ultimately reducible to a sort of ‘motion’. In other words, we ordinarily subsume Aristotle’s under the conception of what he would have called. But this is the precise opposite of the device whereby Aristotle turned the flank of the Platonic criticism and established his own conception of. Instead of classifying under, he simply makes


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 the wider conception, and includes under it as a peculiar species, viz., an imperfect.

, that is, arises from the longing of the imperfect for the perfect, of the for the, and is simply the process whereby it reaches whatever degree of perfection the inherent limitations of its nature concede to it.

, on the other hand, does not essentially or necessarily imply motion or change. In fact in the typical case, the perfect exercise of function by the senses, there is neither nor  nor ; the appropriate stimulus rouses the organ to activity and the organ functions naturally in grasping it ; when this process is free from friction (‘impediment’) perception is perfect and accompanied by.

In man unfortunately, this happy state of things is only temporary: activity cannot be sustained because, owing to the defectiveness ( or ) of a composite nature adulterated with, we grow weary and allow our attention to wander and cannot be continuously active.

But God’s case is different; his is a pure and perfect nature; he is pure Form, unimpeded by Matter, and always completely and actually all that he can be. Hence the divine is kept up inexhaustibly, and ever generates the supreme pleasure, simple and incorruptible, of self-contemplation, which constitutes the divine happiness. It follows, as a matter of course, that this is above and beyond ; it is   or. Hence in a famous passage we are told that “if the nature of anything were simple, the same action would ever be sweetest to it. And this is the reason why God always enjoys a single and simple pleasure; for there is not only an activity of motion, but also one void of motion, and pleasure is rather in constancy than in motion. And


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 change of all things is sweet, as the poet has it, because of a certain defect.”

The significance of this passage has been generally ignored, and the commentators say as little about it as they conveniently can. Thus, of the two latest editors of the Ethics, Prof. Stewart accuses Aristotle of waxing poetical, while Prof. Burnet finds nothing to say about it at all; and as this has occurred after I had done my utmost to call attention to it, I think I may assume that still further comment is needed to help modern minds to grasp the beauty and importance of Aristotle’s thought.

III.

It follows from the above that the perfect or divine life is one of unceasing and unchanging activity, which is eternal consciousness of supreme happiness. And yet nothing happens in it. It is eternal, not in the illusory sense in which geometrical triangles and epistemological monstrosities (like e.g., Green’s Eternal Self-Consciousness) are put out of Time by a trick of abstraction, but because it can be shown to have a positive nature, which precludes the conditions out of which time-consciousness arises. For, as Aristotle was well aware, Time is a creature of Motion, it depends on the motions whereby alone it can be measured; it is. If then arises out of the imperfection of an, the perfecting of an  will necessarily involve the disappearance of Time, together with that of motion. Or, as I have elsewhere expressed it, Time is the measure of the impermanence of the imperfect, and the perfecting of the time-consciousness would carry us out of Time into Eternity. In other words, the conception of  is a scientific formulation of the popular theological conceptions of Heaven and Eternity.

IV.

Of course all this sounds unfamiliar and fantastical and is not quite easy to grasp—if it had been the notions of Heaven and Eternity would hardly have become targets for


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 so much cheap scorn. And it is needless also to deny that there seems to be a paradox here which demands a defence.

The paradox is that there can be activity, life and consciousness without change, imperfection or decay. This seems an utter paradox because in our actual experience consciousness is a succession of mental states or processes, life is sustained by a continual metabolism, and activities are recognised only by the changes which they exhibit. We do not therefore hesitate to regard a changeless activity as equivalent to rest, i.e., as cessation of activity, as death.

About these facts, of course, there is no dispute. All motions are measured by the unequal rates of change, and when two bodies maintain the same position relatively to each other, they are taken to be at rest. Similarly it is not denied that vital function consumes living tissue, nor that consciousness is a continuous flow of experiences.

The only question is as to what inferences we are entitled to draw from these facts, and by what conceptions we are to interpret a transcending of change such as is conceivable, though not imaginable.

Accordingly I propose to show: (1) That we are not entitled to infer from the facts the impossibility of an ; (2) that it is by this conception rather than by that of ‘rest’ that the ultimate ideal of existence should be interpreted. I shall show this of the conceptions of Motion, Life and Consciousness in turn.

V.

(a) It has long been admitted that Motion tends to equilibrium, and that in a perfect equilibrium there would be no (perceptible) motion and no available energy.

Under the name of the dissipation of energy this fact of its equilibration has become the great bugbear of physics and has given rise to the gloomiest concerning the inevitable decadence and ultimate doom of the universe.

This whole difficulty arises out of our habit of contemplating equilibration as cessation of Motion or ‘Rest’. An


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 equilibrated universe cannot change and its latent energy cannot be used to change it. Ergo such a universe is ‘played out’.

But why should we not regard it as a case of, as a perfecting of Motion until it has everywhere become perfectly regular, steady, smooth and frictionless? Logically, in fact, this seems a far preferable alternative. Suppose, e.g., an equilibrium of temperature. If two bodies are at equal temperatures, does that mean that they have ceased to have temperature? Have they ceased to radiate out heat, or (to put it in terms of the current theory about heat) to exhibit the molecular vibrations which appear to our temperature-sense as heat? Surely not: it means that each body receives as much ‘heat’ as it radiates, that the ‘molecular motions’ proceed with entire regularity and constant velocities. But if so, is it not a condition of Activity, not of Rest?

(b) In the case of Life it is somewhat easier to conceive perfection as a changeless activity, because we are more inclined to regard life as depending on a harmony of changes rather than on the mere instability of organic processes. Thus if with Spencer we conceive life as an adjustment of internal to external relations (‘mutual adjustment’ would be better!), it is evident that the success of life will depend on the degree of correspondence, however attained, between the organism and its environment. Perfect correspondence therefore would be perfect life, and might be conceived as arising by a gradual perfecting of the correspondence until the organism either adapted itself completely to an unchanging environment or instantaneously and pari passu to a changing one, in such wise that the moment of non-adaptation (if any) was too brief to come into consciousness. In both these cases the relation of the organism to its environment would be unchangingly the same. It would persist therefore in being what it was, in expressing its nature in its activities, without alteration or decay, gaining nothing and losing nothing, because of the perfect equipoise of waste and repair.

That such an equilibrium is not unthinkable we may gather from the conceptions of a balance of income and expenditure, of the ‘stationary state’ of economics and of perfect justice as a social harmony in which each maintains his own position in society without aggression on others. Surely in none of these cases could it be asserted that there was a cessation of social or industrial relations. Once more the apparent paradox arises merely out of the habit of interpreting  as a cessation of activity.


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 But it is this latter view which is really unthinkable, as may be illustrated by taking a hypothetical case of a growing adaptation or harmony on the way to the perfection, the interpretation of which is disputed.

It will be admitted that in the stage immediately preceding perfect adaptation the organism is very much alive, and moreover carries on its life with a minimum of friction and a maximum of success. In such a life difficulties would exist only to be overcome, and any process of adapting would be only momentary. Now suppose it to become instantaneous. We are required to believe that in the very moment when the last trace of maladaptation is eliminated, life suddenly and inexplicably ceases, and the organism, which but the moment before had been rejoicing in its might, is with scarce a noticeable change suddenly smitten with metaphysical annihilation! A catastrophe like this could be paralleled by nothing in nature or literature except the tragic fate which overwhelmed Lewis Carroll’s Baker “in the midst of his laughter and glee,” when the Snark he had so successfully chased turned out to be a Boojum, and he “softly and silently vanished away”!

And so the principle of continuity compels us to think the of perfect adaptation, to which all  point, as, as Aristotle contended.

(c) In the case of Consciousness the same interpretation certainly seems at first sight to involve greater difficulties. For what most impresses us about consciousness is the flux of Becoming, which is the world’s aspiration to Being. Consciousness flows with a fluidity which is quite incapable of precise, and almost of intelligible, statement. It is a perpetual transition from object to object, not one of which it can retain for a fraction of a second, and in which nothing ever occurs twice. To suggest, then, that it may persist, in what would amount to a timeless contemplation of unchanging objects, would seem to be madly flying in the face of all the facts.

Nevertheless, the Aristotelian theory has no need to fly in any one’s face or ever to leave the solid ground of legitimate inference. It has no quarrel with the facts: it only disputes about their interpretation. To infer from the facts the ‘relativity’ of all consciousness and Hobbes’ dictum sentire semper idem et nil sentire ad idem recidunt appears to it either a truism or an error, and in no wise decisive. It is a truism, if it asserts that sensation in time involves change, and that


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 all our experience is in time. It is an error, if it is taken as the starting-point of an argument which either proposes to conduct us out of consciousness and to represent it as an unmeaning accident in a scheme of things which when perfectly equilibrated would transcend it, or even to bind us Ixion-like on an unresting wheel of change.

For the facts are susceptible of a better interpretation. May not the flow of appearances be due to a defect of consciousness engendered as an adaptive response to the impermanence of a defective world? Is it not a of a  impotent ?

At all events it seems to be the case that (1) we strive to prolong and retain pleasant states and objects of consciousness; (2) the fluttering of attention is protective, and necessary to survival under conditions which render it unsafe to become too much absorbed by the object of our attention (or attentions), lest something to which we have failed to attend should absorb us in a too literal sense; (3) even where practical exigencies do not compel us, we have to shift the objects of our attention because we never find them wholly satisfying. The unsatisfactoriness in this case would be the cause of the impermanence, and not vice versa. But could we once attain an object of contemplation which was wholly satisfying, should we not seek to retain it in consciousness for ever? If we had achieved, should we wish to change it, for the worse? if we had once reached heaven, should we lust again for the vicissitudes of earth?

Surely it follows from the very conception of the Good that it should be a permanent possession; and if it is attainable at all, it can only be as an. I suspect, therefore, that the objection to  is at bottom one to the whole notion of an attainable. But whether the advocates of this objection are naively optimistic enough to imagine that an unattainable ideal, recognised as such, continues to be an ideal a rational being can aim at, or whether they are pessimistic enough to renounce all ideals altogether, it is their notion and not that of which is fundamentally paradoxical.

As before, we may illustrate this more concretely by examining the moment immediately preceding the hypothetical fixation of consciousness. It must be reached, of course, by a progressive development of consciousness in fulness and intensity and power of attention and the gradual suppression of all interruptions and discords. There can be no doubt, therefore, that it is consciousness in a very high sense, i.e., a contemplation, most pleasant and


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, of that which most delights the soul. If now we eliminated the last faint source of trouble and unrest and disturbance, which prevented us from concentrating our attention wholly upon what it most loves to dwell on, why should consciousness go out rather than go on? Will it not become rather absolutely constant and continuous, and remain conscious sensu eminentiori?

VI.

The  then is conceivable, if we choose to understand it. Indeed one might proceed to maintain that ultimately it alone is conceivable as the ideal of Being.

Of its rivals, the conception of Becoming, as philosophers have had to recognise from Parmenides to Hegel, is infected with insoluble contradictions, which disappear only if we follow Aristotle in conceiving it as. For in this event all the processes we actually observe may be regarded as pointing forward to an ideal of a perfectly and equably self-sustaining activity, to attain which would relieve them of their contradictions.

The ideal of Rest, on the other hand, is wholly illusory: there is no rest anywhere attainable for the wicked or the virtuous. It is non-existent as a fact, and it is non-existence as a conception. For if anything could really cease to be active, it would cease to be. We cannot, therefore, interpret existence by the conception of Rest, unless, indeed, it pleases us (with Mainländer) to regard the history of the world as the protracted agony of the Absolute’s suicide.

Compared with these, the advantages of the conception of  are manifest.

It enables us to give a scientific interpretation of the religious conception of Heaven and to differentiate it from that of Nirvâna ( = ‘bliss conceived as rest’). It involves a positive conception of Eternity and explains the transition from ‘Time’ to Eternity.

We avoid, moreover, sundry difficulties. We may dismiss the apprehension of an equilibration of cosmic energy to be regarded as the final destruction of cosmic activity. We may thus avoid henceforth Spencer’s inconsistency in regarding equilibration now as universal death, now as perfect life, according as physical or biological analogies come uppermost in his mind. As the chapter on the subject in First Principles affords an admirable example of the confusion engendered by a lack of the conception of, it may be useful to trace Mr. Spencer’s utterances in detail. It will be seen that he keeps on contradicting himself as to the character of equilibration on alternate pages, and speaks with a double voice throughout.

(a) By the first voice it is conceived as death or cessation of activity. Thus § 173: “there finally results that complete equilibration we call death”. § 176: “the final question of Evolution is. . . incidental to the universal process of equilibration; and if equilibration must end in complete rest. . . if the solar system is slowly dissipating its forces. . . are we not manifestly progressing towards omnipresent death?” He answers that even though the “proximate end of all the transformations we have traced is a state of quiescence,” an “ulterior process may reverse these changes and initiate a new life”. (Hence, too, the see-saw of Evolution and Dissolution is deduced in ch. 23.) Again in § 182 he asks “Does Evolution as a whole, like Evolution in detail, advance towards complete quiescence? Is that motionless state called death, which ends Evolution in organic bodies, typical of the universal death in which Evolution at large must end?”. . . “If, pushing to its extreme the argument that Evolution must come to a close in complete equilibration or rest, the reader suggests that, for aught which appears to the contrary, the Universal Death thus implied will continue indefinitely, it is legitimate to point out” that we may “infer a subsequent Universal Life” if we suppose equilibration to be again upset, or (more properly) unattainable. In short, equilibration = ‘death’.

(b) The above seems unequivocal enough until we listen to the second voice, which exactly inverts the valuation of equilibration and non-equilibration, and implies the equation, ‘equilibration = life’. E.g. § 173 (init.), death is explained as due to a failure of equilibration, § 173 (s.f.), the life of a species depends on an equilibration between the forces that tend to increase and to destroy it. § 174, an equilibration or correspondence between idea and fact is the end of mental evolution, and “equilibration can end only when each relation of things has generated in us a relation of thought”. . . and then “experience will cease to produce any further mental evolution—there will have been reached a perfect correspondence between ideas and facts; and the intellectual adaptation of man to his circumstances will be complete”. So, of moral and emotional adaptation—“the limit towards which emotional adaptation perpetually tends. . . is a combination of desires that corresponds to all the different orders of activity which the circumstances of life call for”. . . and this “progressive adaptation ceases only with the establishment of a complete equilibration between constitution and conditions”. Again, § 174 (s.f.), “Thus the ultimate state. . . is one in which the kinds and quantities of mental energy generated. . . are equivalent to, or in equilibrium with, the various orders ... of surrounding forces which antagonise such motions”, § 175, Equilibrium is held up as the economic ideal from which the fluctuations of over- and under-production depart. It is the all-inclusive ne plus ultra of the adaptation of “man’s nature and the conditions of his existence”. It is also the social ideal, and limits the process towards heterogeneity—“the ultimate abolition of all limits to the freedom of each, save those imposed by the like freedom of all, must result from the complete equilibration between man’s desires and the conduct necessitated by surrounding conditions”. And cf. lastly the sublime conclusion of the chapter (§ 176), in which equilibrium, guaranteed by the Persistence of Force, secures to us the prospect of perfect happiness by affording “a basis for the inference that there is a gradual advance towards harmony between man’s mental nature and the conditions of his existence,” and “we are finally bidden to believe that Evolution can end only in the establishment of the greatest perfection and most complete happiness”!

The italics, of course, are mine throughout. As for the contradiction, it is striking, but easily explicable. The suppressed middle term, which connects the two conflicting views of the value of perfect equilibration, is the absence of motion or change. This being a characteristic both of ‘death’ and complete adaptation, the interpretation wavers in the most tantalising way.