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 born! I have the welfare of Tamerlanistan at heart …”

“Aughrr!” grunted Ayesha Zemzem, after the manner of an indignant camel. “I know, O baseborn! At seventeen per cent compound interest a minute, and a mortgage on the cow and the unborn calf!”

“No—no—by the Holy Trimurti!” stammered Babu Chandra. “I am a friend of this land—a friend of the Gengizkhani!”

“Right!” came the cutting rejoinder, “and it has indeed been said that he who has a Babu for a friend needs no enemy. Leave this room. We like not thy fat and indecent face.”

“But—” said the Babu.

“But—what, fat toad?”

“I came here on business!”

“Business? Dost thou want to buy or to sell?”

“Neither the one nor the other. I want to—give!”

For the first time, the princess opened her mouth.

“Give?” she asked, with a flash of even white teeth and a glint of merriment in her black eyes. “Who ever heard of a Bengali giving aught except false measure?”

“Rightly spoken!” chimed in the nurse. “Can a Babu be generous? Can a frog catch cold?”

But, nowise daunted by the avalanche of contumacious metaphors, Chandra continued that he had friends, rich and generous sahebs, who were anxious to pour gold into the land as one pours melted butter on rice.

“Millions and millions of golden tomans will they give to thee, O Aziza Nurmahal. They will irrigate

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 the dry lands. They will bore for oil. They will develop coal and copper and ruby mines. They will cause the fruit orchards to yield ten times what they are yielding now. They will make all thy subjects rich and prosperous. All they want in return for such incredible generosity is”—he used the one English word known throughout Asia—“a concession!”

“Perhaps—” began the old nurse, an eager, greedy light in her eyes.

But the princess silenced her with a gesture and turned to Chandra.

“It is useless, O Babu-jee,” she said. “Often, during my father's life-time, didst thou approach him with the same words. I know. I was behind the zenana curtains, and listened. Thy countryman, the Babu Bansi, came to him with the same message …”

“Bansi is a liar! He is a …”

“Thou shouldst hear what he says about thee!” chuckled the nurse.

“Never mind,” the princess went on. “My father was always opposed to the sahebs and”—she, too, used the English word—“the concessions which they demand in payment of their shining generosity. He used to say that a concession means money—but that, never, never, does it mean happiness—to us, the people of Asia. For—and these, too, are my father's words—with every pound of gold do the sahebs bring three pounds of whiskey and strife and disease and unhappiness. I shall do as my father has done—until Hajji Akhbar Khan, Itizad el-Dowleh, returns from the far places. Then he, being wise and old and loyal, shall decide. The audience is ended, O Babu-jee!”

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

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24 behind the body. Three processes are attached to its posterior end. The coronoid process projects dorsally into the orbito-temporal fossa. Just behind this is the condyloid process, bearing an elongated rounded knob which articulates with the mandibular fossa of the squamosal bone. These articular surfaces in the rodent permit anteroposterior motion of the jaw. The angular process is directed posteriorly. The anterior mandibular incisure is a pronounced depression separating the coronoid from the condyloid process. The posterior mandibular incisure likewise separates the condyloid and angular processes. The mandibular foramen lies at the base of the condyloid process. The mental foramen lies ventroanteriorly to the molar teeth. Other foramina occur on the surface of the mandible. A ridge extends on the lateral surface of the mandible from the mental foramen backward to the border of the angular process. The medial surface of this process is concave. The incisor tooth of the lower jaw, like that of the upper, is sickle-shaped, and inserted in a large dental alveolus which extends caudally, ventral to the molar teeth, nearly to the base of the condyloid process. The mandible is largely a membrane bone.

The hyoid is a u-shaped bone at the base of the tongue composed of a slender transverse body and two pairs of horns (cornua), one pair extending anteriorly, the other pair posteriorly.

Exercise IV. Make a labeled sketch of each of the bones of the head.

The vertebral column, or backbone, is the second division of the axial skeleton. It is a linear series of numerous


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“If only the Hajji would return!” she said that night to her old nurse.

“If only he would return—soon, soon!” she sobbed, a week or two later, when news had come that the governor of the eastern marches had returned to his provincial capital and was suspected of intrigues with the Ameer of the Afghans, while his twin brother, the governor of the western marches, was said to be hand in glove with a band of Persian marauders who were plundering the caravans going to Tamerlanistan.

“If only he would return!”

The words choked in her throat, and Ayesha Zemzem folded her in her withered old arms.

“Do not give wings to grief, little piece of my soul,” she crooned. “It flies swiftly without them. Remember the words of the Koran that it is the dust and grime which purify the great soul. Remember, too, the ancient prophecy of thy clan!”

“Yes!” said the princess. “I remember.”

From a taboret, she took the straight, simple sword that had rested across the knees of the dead Ameer during the funeral procession. Her narrow, white hand gripped the hilt.

“The old prophecy!” she whispered. ''“Out of the West he will come to save Tamerlanistan! Twin brother to the Gengizkhani through the mating of blades!”''

She stepped to the window and looked out to where, above a sunset of somber, crushed pink, the gathering night was wrapping palace and town in her trailing cloak of black, shot with golden stars.

“Out of the West!”

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And it seemed as if the West had heard, was giving answer.

A whisper seemed to come from very far, from beyond the sunset, suffusing her soul with a great sorrow and, too, a great hope and promise.

And so she stood there for a long time, listening to the silent whisper, looking out into the West, until the sun died in a sickly haze of coppery brown—decayed, it seemed, like the sun on the Day of Judgment—and the moon came up, stabbed on the outer horns of the world, dispassionate, calm, indifferent to the heart of man.

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Rh vertebrae, each one fastened to its neighbor by connective tissue. The back-bone supports the neck, trunk, and tail, and to it are attached the ribs, pelvic girdle and numerous muscles. It comprises seven cervical, thirteen thoracic, six lumbar, four sacral, and about twenty-eight caudal vertebrae.

A typical vertebra possesses a solid, more or less cylindrical ventral portion, the centrum, or body. The vertebral, or neural, arch is attached to the upper side of the body, the two inclosing the vertebral foramen, through which the spinal cord passes. The roots of the vertebral arches (pedicles) are the two lateral vertical plates of the vertebral arch. The two horizontal plates forming the roof of the arch are the laminae. The neural spine, or spinous process, projects upward from the junction of the laminae. The vertebra bears on each side a transverse process. The spinous and transverse processes serve for the attachment of spinal muscles. Each vertebral arch bears two pairs of articular processes, or zygapophyses. Of these the anterior one, or prezygapophysis, articulates with the preceding vertebra ; the posterior surface, or post-zygapophysis, articulates with the succeeding vertebra.

The essential features of the vertebral column may be brought out best by describing vertebrae from each region of it. The seven cervical vertebrae are quite similar to one another, except the first two, the atlas and epistropheus (axis). The atlas is essentially a ring of bone. It lacks a centrum, this element having been separated from the atlas and attached to the epistropheus as the dens (odontoid process). This process rests in a semi-circular depression, the fovea dentis, on the ventral floor of the atlas. The dorsal surface of the atlas bears a tubercle comparable to the spinous process of an ordinary vertebra. The ventral surface bears a similar tubercle. The atlas articulates


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“, m'lud,” replied Tomps, the butler, with a certain quaking complacency.

“I know it's a bit rough,” continued the old Earl of Dealle out of the depths of his armchair whose upholstery had seen better days. He leaned forward a little and lowered his, voice. His keen, wrinkled, rather wicked old face was in strange contrast with his homespun Saxon name: the lips thin, the cheek bones high, the. nose hawkish, exaggerated, and with flaring, nervous nostrils, the eyes beady and black, and the complexion suffused with, a golden-brown tinge.

“Rather rougher on you than on me,” he went on. “For I have only to eat with the creature while you have to wait on him, what? But—well—the creature has money, frightful, vulgar heaps of money, and my agent writes me he's willing to plop down a stiffish lot of the ready for the proper sort o' country estate, with ancestral portraits and ancestral defective plumbing and ancestral family spook all complete.”

“I understand, m'lud.”

“You jolly well ought to, Tomps. For if the creature rents Dealle Castle, there's a corkin' chance that I'll pay you the two years' wages I owe you.”

“Thank you, m'lud.”

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“Therefore, treat him as if he were the Double Duchess—God bless her!—herself, even though his name is … I say, Tomps, what is the bounder's name?”

“Preserved Higgins, m'lud!”

The earl collapsed.

“Gracious me!” he exclaimed.

And from beneath his bushy white eyebrows he stole a glance at the possessor of the extraordinary name who was playing poker with two other men, the earl's sons by every last sign of physiognomy, in a corner of the vast, funereal, threadbare Tudor hall that gave on the sweet, yellow Sussex Downs, with a distant view of the sea that sparkled like a floor of emeralds. In back of the castle, toward Lewes and the Brighton & South Coast Railway, stretched thirty odd thousand acres of mixed farm and park land—mortgaged to the last brick, the last thatch, the last Tree of Heaven, the last, moss covered all-the-year-round—which, to quote the earl, had been in the possession of his family, the Wades of Dealle, “long before the Conqueror stuck his ugly Norman nose across the Channel.”

Last night Mr. Preserved Higgins had motored down from his palatial stucco monstrosity in London's Mayfair, with a letter from Redder, his lordship's agent, to “'ave a look at the plyce. That's my w'y o' doin' business. I looks, I tykes my choice, and I p'ys my tin, wot?”

Mr. Preserved Higgins was a remarkable man in more ways than one. Of course he was a self-made

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 man. Everybody is, these days. Of course He dropped his h’ches. Everybody does, these days.

Born not far from Oxford Street, in a particularly odorous alley, once known as Hog Lane, which had given the late Mr. Hogarth a great deal of material for his scathing drawings, his early recollections had something to do with a pimply-faced, immensely stout woman who had called him “yer bleedin' little darlin' hynger” in moments of alcoholic tenderness; to give him clouts on the side of the head when the barmaid over at the “Rose and Elephant” had put too much gin in her good-morning half pint of “swipes.” His reputed father had been a sardonic navvy who had given him his Christian name of Preserved in a riotous mood because every one of his many other children had died a week or two after they had opened their lungs to the greasy soot of Hog Lane. Fate, kindly or otherwise, had preserved him, and the name had turned out to be singularly appropriate.

For, running away from home and board school at the ripe age of twelve and sailing before the mast to the Azores, afterwards to South Africa, he had arrived at the latter place at the high tide of the De-Beers diamond boom. Promptly he had deserted, had joined the South African Argonauts who pushed north to the , and, to believe certain tales that were rampant in Lombard and Threadneedle and Bishops- gate Streets, had laid the foundations of his vast for tune by the nefarious process called I. D. B., “illicit diamond buying” from thieving Kaffirs and Cape boys who worked in the Kimberley fields.

Since then he had preserved and caused to grow and

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 multiply every farthing that had ever come his way. Everything he touched seemed to turn into gold. To-day he was a millionaire in pounds sterling, with a palace in the Mayfair, a steam yacht in the Solent, a game preserve in Scotland, a trout stream in Norway, a shiny, white, flower-bordered villa on the Riviera, a moor in Yorkshire, a flat in Paris, and with financial interests that reached from Chicago to Algiers, from Kamchatka to Timbuktu, from Spitzbergen to the Falklands. “Land Development” was the slogan on his letter head; and there was a chance that, at the next list of royal birthday honors, if the Conservatives to whose party fund he was a generous contributor continued in power, he would become Sir Preserved Higgins, Baronet.

Short he was, pudgy, bald-headed, with a full, curly, russet beard that was always spotted with crumbs, thick lips, steel-gray eyes, and a large-pored, Hebraic nose. He still dropped his h’ches; made rather a point of it—perhaps from a sense of inverted snobbery.

He was shuffling the cards with agile fingers, dealt, looked at his hand, and slapped the man at his left on the shoulder with crude familiarity.

“Come on in, cockie,” he said, “the water's fine. Ten—and ten—and a pony, wot?” registering his bet with chips and markers.

The one addressed as “cockie,” whose real name was The Honorable Hector Wade, second son of the Earl of Dealle, winked meaningly at the third man, his older brother. The Honorable Tollemache Wade who, like himself and like their father, was dark and

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 lean, with angular jowl, high cheekbones, thin lips that subtended a quixotic nose, and keen, black eyes: altogether un-English; un-English, too, as to sulky, brooding, saturnine temper and sudden fits of withering, black taciturnity—all mental and physical characteristics which tradition was pleased to blame on a Castilian admiral whose ship had been wrecked on the chalky coast of Sussex at the time when the proud Armada had tried issues with Good Queen Bess and her duffel-jerkined yoemenyeomen [sic].

Both brothers knew why Mr. Higgins was an honored guest at Dealle Castle and lent themselves to their share of the entertaining with good enough grace. They belonged to the same regiment, the Ninety-Second Dragoons, of which their father was the retired colonel and the history of which was intimately connected with that of Britain's Oriental dominions; and they thought that the verbal and social vagaries of the eccentric Cockney-South-African millionaire would make good telling at regimental mess, over the famous crusty port which had once reposed in the cellars of Napoleon the First.

Too, in the case of the older brother, there was a more strictly selfish reason.

For he was head over heels in debt. A three-cornered combination of race horses, cards and a chorus lady who called herself Gwendolyn de Vere, had eaten into his resources like acid, and Sam Lewis, the usurer of Lombard Street, had flatly refused to renew his last note for five thousand guineas. Bankruptcy, disgrace, cashiering from the army stared him in the face.

“Sorry, my boy,” his father had told him that very

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 morning. “I can't help you. Everything's mortgaged except the family ghost. Play up to our Cockney visitor. If he takes our place for a season or two, I'll help you out. Once more,” he had added, dropping his negligent manner as if it were a cloak, “once more—and for the very last time!”

“Come on in and myke your bets,” said Mr. Preserved Higgins. “Ain't you got no guts?”

“I tilt that bet a pony, Mr. Higgins,” said Tollemache.

“And a monkey!” countered the irrepressible millionaire, tossing a dozen chips into the pot.

“See you!” from Hector.

And the game continued while the earl sank back into his chair and picked up a certain scandalous sporting paper, black on pink, which is much more popular with the nobility and gentry—we shall not mention the upper clergy—of Merry England than Bishop Taylor's “Lives of the Saints.”

He had dozed off over “Old Etonian's” comment on the county cricket averages when a sudden exclamation from Mr. Preserved Higgins startled him wide awake:

“Go'blyme! No wonder I'm losin' my plurry pants! S'y—these 'ere cards …”

“What is the matter with them?” Hector cut in sternly, threateningly leaning across the table, his dark, hawkish features, as they came within the radius of the low-hanging lamp, suffused with a terrible, corroding rage—the sudden, killing rage of the Wades of Dealle.

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Wot's the matter with them?” sneered the millionaire. “I'll tell you wot's the bloomin' matter with them, cully! They're marked! Somebody's been cheatin'!”

“God!”

Hector was on his feet. He looked like a panther about to pounce and tear; and Higgins rose, upsetting his chair, stepped back from the table, frightened, white as a sheet, yet obstinate, resolute, repeating over and over again:

“They're marked, them cards! Blyme—they're marked!” and, just as the earl had reached the scene of the quarrel on his staggering old legs, Tollemache threw himself between his younger brother and the Londoner.

“Keep your shirts on, both of you,” he said. “You”—to Hector—“unclench that homicidal fist of yours, and you”—to the financier—“either take back what you said and see what sort of an apology you can make, or …”

“Or—prove it, that wot you mean? Well—you high-falutin', drawlin', blue-blooded jackanypes wot's got more cheek than 'orse sense, I will prove it. Bloody fine goin's-on in your 'ouse, yer lordship,” he turned to the earl; “'ere I accepts yer invitytion like one gent from another, to look at yer blarsted, ruddy, poverty-stricken estyte and tyke it off'n yer 'ands for a season-or two so's you can p'y back some o' yer debts—and—'ere—they asks me to pl'y—them precious sons o' yours—and the cards are …”

“Prove it! G d you—prove it!” Hector's face had turned a dull, coppery red. His black

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 eyes were contracted into slits. His nostrils quivered. He looked more un-English than ever.

“Right-oh, Dook!'" said the cockney. “I'll prove it!”

And he did.

On both the packs o£ cards they had been using the Kings, Queens, and Aces had been carefully marked on the reverse side with tiny needle pricks.

Silence dropped like a shutter.

Then the earl turned to the financier.

“Would you mind stepping out of the room for a few minutes?” he asked, bowing, and speaking in a very low voice. “I wish to speak to my sons. Presently I shall endeavor to make you a suitable apology.”

Then, as the door closed on Mr. Preserved Higgins:

“Hector, you are ruined!”

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, on the terrace, Mr. Preserved Higgins asked Tomps, the butler, the way to the nearest telegraph station; jumped into his roadster, hatless, coatless, and was off to the village where he flustered Miss Prudence Hutchison, the local post mistress, telegraph operator, and proprietress of a general merchandise store including everything needed from red flannels to sticky North country treacle, by sending a lengthy wire in a mad jumble of code words to an address in Upper Thames Street and, not content with having spent for it the exorbitant sum of seven and sixpence ha’penny, despatching a cablegram to a Mr. Ezra W. Warburton, 59b Pine Street, New York City, U. S. A., which read:

Inside, the Earl of Dealle faced his two sons. Gone was his slangy, nonchalant manner, his slangy, nonchalant diction.

“You are ruined, Hector,” he repeated, in a

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 strangely detached voice, neither criminatory nor damnatory nor even angry, but stating it as a fact—a regrettable fact, but a fact.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied Hector. “I rather fancy you are making a mistake.”

He half turned toward his brother, who seemed puzzled, nonplussed, ill at ease, looking down at his remarkably well-made shoes as if trying to figure out something which he did not understand.

“Tollemache!” Hector laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. There was entreaty in his accents; too, a terrible pity, a terrible contempt. “I say—Tollemache, old chap, won’t you …?”

The other did not reply. Slowly he looked up. Slowly he studied his brother’s face, still with that same expression of puzzled, nonplussed embarrassment, while the younger brother turned to his father with an impatient gesture.

“I don’t want to accuse”—he checked himself, and went on: “anybody. I am trying to play the game …”

“And you will play the game!” the earl cut in. “For you are my dear son, blood of my blood and bone of my bone. I am—oh—the word is so trite, so damnably inadequate—but I’m proud of you, my boy!”

"Proud—of me, sir? And a moment ago you said that I was ruined, didn’t you? What …”

Suddenly Tollemache burst into speech, hectic, slurred, rather bitter:

“I don’t understand. I don’t know what it is all about. They were my cards. I took them from my room.

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 A brand-new pack with the seal unbroken, and …”

“Silence!” thundered his father. “You bad son! You wicked brother! You—you …” his voice peaked to a high-pitched, senile screech—“to cheat! At cards! Like a low Piccadilly cad—like some swine of a racetrack tout! God! To bring shame and disgrace on an honorable English name, for the sake of some damned, trashy, pinchbeck jewel for some damned, painted London harlot …”

“But—father! Father! Listen! I give you my word of honor that I …”

“Your word of honor? You—you cheat—you swindler—you dare speak of honor?”

“Father!”

“No, no, no! Do not deny! Do not even attempt to deny! I know. Your brother knows. That Higgins person knows. I daresay Tomps knows. But”—and frothing, corroding laughter bubbled to his lips—“don’t you be afraid. The world shall never know. For—God pity me!—you are my first-born son! You are the future Earl of Dealle!”

It had always been so with the earl, with all the Wades of Dealle: a drawling, slangy, ironic outer mask, the result of Eton and the army, beneath which slumbered a lawless, turbulent personality, an atavistic throwback to the mythical Castilian ancestor that would rise like a mighty wind in his brain, suddenly, dramatically, and scotch all sobering impulses. He did not give his son a chance to speak, to explain.

“No, no! Don’t say a word. And—don’t fear! The world will never know!”

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Then, after he had pushed the stammering, protesting, almost hysterical Tollemache across the threshold and bolted the door, he repeated his last words:

“The world must never know, Hector!”

“You don’t think Higgins can be persuaded to keep mum?”

“Not his sort of cad. He hates—us, our class, because he came up from some reeking gutter while we have the infernal impudence of knowing who our grandfathers were. I’ll try. I’ll talk to him. But—”

“You think it will be useless?”

“I know it will be, Hector! You must play the game. Tollemache is my first-born son. Some day he will be the Earl of Dealle. And it must never be said that an earl of Dealle cheated at cards!”

Hector stood quite still. He stared at his father out of his black, opaque eyes. Something naked reached out and touched his soul, leaving the chill of an indescribable uneasiness.

“You mean,” he asked slowly, haltingly, “that—because I am the younger son …”

“It is our tradition. Hector! The tradition of the Wades of Dealle! In a way, the tradition of England: service, courage, sacrifice!”

“Sacrifice!” Hector picked up the word like a battle gage. “I don’t fancy I’m worse than the average coward, sir. I s’pose I’ll stand the gaff when it comes to sacrificing my blood, my life. But—my pride? My honor?”

“Yes! Even that!”

Hector stared straight ahead of him. He was

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 young, just a little over twenty-five, with all the world’s hope and glory and golden promise opening before him like a flower. Never before had he known the crude definitiveness of personal sorrow, personal grief, despair. He realized fully what it would mean to him if he obeyed his father. He would be kicked out of his regiment, his club. Society, from Aspley House to Lambeth Palace, from the Horse Guards’ Tilt-Yard to Rotten Row, from the Oval to New market Heath, would turn its back on him. He would be a pariah.

All that he understood. But it was when he thought of his brother that the harrow drove most deeply over his soul. He had always been fond of him; had always admired him for his skill with cricket bat and polo mallet; had looked up to him with boyish hero worship.

And now …

“I’ll do it, father,” he said coldly; and left the room

Outside, he met his brother. The latter tried to stop him.

“Hector—listen …”

The younger man shook his head.

“I shall bear the blame because”—he said it half proudly, half sneeringly—“there is our old tradition. But—I do not want to see you again—ever, ever! Neither you, nor father—nor England!”

“But, Hector! You don’t for a moment believe that I would cheat at cards, do you?”

“If you didn’t, who did?” came the other’s terse counter question, and he rushed past his brother, down

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 the terrace, toward the thatched roofs of Dealle Village that dropped to the south in gold and mauve steps. He passed the Queen Anne garden, the coursing field, and the racing paddock, and stopped in front of a weather-beaten sixteenth century building that caught the slanting rays of the western sun with deep porch and oriel windows, and that dead generations of Wades had used for a banqueting hall.

To-day it did service for a lumber room.

Hector opened the door, bolted it behind him, lit a couple of great wrought-iron lanterns that swung from brackets, and walked straight to the farther wall.

It was covered with trophies from many lands: Zulu assegais; Metabele knobkerries, long gadyami swords from Arabia with tapering blades and clumsy, wooden handles; double-barreled guns from the Persian Gulf, the sort which the Gulf Arabs call bandukyiah bi rulayin, or “two-mouthed guns”; murderous Khyberee knives; cheray daggers from Afghanistan; crooked Turkoman yataghans; throwing-knives from Tripoli and Tunis; and many other weapons—all silent, steely witnesses to the warlike prowess of many generations of the Wades of Dealle.

In the center, sheathed in moth-eaten crimson velvet studded with uncut, semi-precious stones, there was a short, broad blade with a silver hilt.

He took it down and unsheathed it.

It was about a foot long, leaflike in shape, and nine inches across half way between hilt and tapering point. Hilt as well as blade were covered with a delicate, inlaid

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 gold pattern that the Hand of Time had wiped into an indistinct blur.

As his sensitive, groping fingers touched the naked steel, he had the sudden impression of if something in his brain was being wrenched violently loose from its fastenings. It was as if his entire soul life and soul understanding were shifting within him with utter completeness. At that moment, something quite lonely, quite ancient, and quite untamed seemed to be born within him, or, rather, reborn. A new perception of life came to him, certain new and massive sensations which he felt instinctively, without being able to classify or to describe them.

It has been so ever since he could remember, ever since, an Eton “oppidan” home on vacation, he had found the ancient blade in the lumber room.

Whenever he touched the blade. It—that was the name he had given the unknown sensation during his boyhood years—would suddenly flash down upon him with terrific force, with the strength of wind and sun and sea and the stars. He would feel himself caught in a huge, irresistible whirlpool that swept out of the womb of the past, and back into the present—the future!

Once he had spoken of it to his father—he had been about fifteen at the time—and his father had dismissed it with a hooting bellow of laughter and an unkind allusion to “growing pains—what you need, my boy, is more cricket and less thinking. It ain’t good form to think so jolly much, you know!”

But he had always felt, felt now, that the blade had a meaning in his life.

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It had a message to bring to him. A half-forgotten message—and—yes!—it came out of the East, with a great whirring of wings.

He shuddered. He sheathed the blade, was about to put it back amongst the trophies on the wall.

Then he reconsidered, and slipped it into the deep inside pocket of his coat, left the lumber room, and returned to the house.

He found it in a turmoil, with Mr. Preserved Higgins in the entrance hall, well within hearing of the servants’ quarters, laying down the law to the earl:

“Harsk me to keep mum, do you, because o’ the scandal, yer lordship, wot? Well—it ain’t a go, old ’un! I was cheated. Cheated at cards—so ’elp me! By that there lousy son o’ yours with ’is bleedin’ airs and you-be-damned gryces! Gawd stroike me pink— but London’s goin’ to ’ear about these ’ere goin’s-on!”

And London did.

That night, after his return to town, Mr. Preserved Higgins told the tale to his favorite barmaid at the downstairs Criterion. She repeated it to a junior captain in the Blues. He told his mother who told the old Duchess of Clonmonnell who told all the world.

Mayfair and Belgravia and Marlborough House and Hydepark Corner cackled and jeered.

“I say, Vic dear, have you heard about young Hector Wade?”

“Rather! Disgraceful, don’t you think, darling Millicent?”

“Rather rough on his nibs, the old earl.” This from a subaltern in the Buffs. “Stony down to his

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 last farthing, I gather. And Tollemache makin’ no end of a donkey of himself over that chorus girl with the unlikely hair—can’t think of her name—Gwen—something or other, you know. And now Hector gone to the jolly old bow-wows. Frightfully hard lines on the old Lord-bless-me, what?”

Thus the beginning; and, two days later. Hector Wade’s letter to the War Office asking permission to resign his commission crossed a letter from his colonel, Sir Samuel Greatorex, asking him to send in his resignation.

Late that afternoon he left the house of his ancestors and walked out on the Sussex Downs. Dealle Village lay before him, like a snug, gray nest in the yellow hollow, with the dying sun blazing orange high-lights and purple shadows on cottage face and limestone path and hatch. Then he turned east, to the little garden the other side of the dairy which had been his dead mother’s favorite place. It was a mass of roses, creepers as well as bushes scrambling and growing in their own strong-willed fashion, clothing stones with hearts of deep ruby, building arches of glowing pink and tea yellow against the dark blue sky, lifting shy, single, dewy heads in hushed corners.

Slightly self-conscious, slightly ashamed of the action he picked a gloire-de-Dijon bud and put it in his button hole.

Then he turned down the blue gravel path toward the railway station at Dealle-Plumpton Crossings, in his right hand a small kit bag that held the few belongings, just simple necessaries, he was taking with him.

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He had seen his father at tea earlier in the afternoon.

The old earl had offered him money, letters to friends in Canada or at the Cape.

But Hector had shaken his head, stubbornly, resolutely.

“I want nothing, father,” he had said. “I am through with”—making a sweeping gesture—“all this!”

“You are through with—me?”

The earl had stretched out a withered, appealing old hand. But Hector had disregarded it.

“Yes, father,” he had replied, simply, chillily.

And so he left the home of his ancestors, carrying with him nothing except the small kit bag, the ancient blade that pressed against his heart, and—memories.

He left no address behind; when Tollemache that morning had tried to speak to him, he had turned his back on him without a word; and nobody saw him go, except Tomps, the butler.

The latter was fingering a five-pound note which Mr. Preserved Higgins had given him with the promise that there was another five pounds waiting for him if he wired Mr. Higgins on what day and by what train Hector Wade was leaving Dealle. He saw no reason why he should not earn that five pounds. He followed Hector at a safe distance, saw that he was taking the five forty-five for Waterloo Station, and wired Mr. Higgins accordingly. It was delivered to the millionaire simultaneously with a cable from his confidential agent in New York telling him that the telegram he had sent to Mr. Ezra W. Warburton, 59b

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 Pine Street a few days earlier had been cabled back to London, as the addressee had sailed for the latter place six days earlier and was just about due at his favorite hotel there, the Savoy.

A jumble of news, which caused Mr. Preserved Higgins to do a great deal of rapid figuring and dovetailing.

When Hector Wade left the train at Waterloo and had himself driven to a small, cheap hotel in Moor Street, in the reeking heart of Soho, he was not aware that a short, stocky, sandy-haired man who worked in Upper Thames Street for a mythical party whose cable address was “Gloops,” was shadowing him in another taxicab.

Nor was he aware that, shortly afterwards, a lengthy code cablegram was sent to Babu Bansi, at Teheran, giving the latter several intricate instructions with regard to a certain Princess Aziza Nurmahal who seemed to rule a country called Tamerlanistan.

Even had he known, it would have made little difference to him. In fact, he would not have been quite sure if Tamerlanistan was the name of a rug or of the latest American cocktail.

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many others of Britain's leading families, the Wades of Dealle, though of “county” stock, were more intimately connected with the Orient than with the yellow Sussex wold where they had settled in the days of Hengist and Horsa.

Generation after generation, they had assisted at the clouting of England's imperial fortunes in India. They had fought—and bravely fought—in the early wars of the Honorable John Company, against Moghuls, Sikhs, Burmans, Mahrattas, Persians, Afghans, Rohilkands, and innumerable border tribes. Hector's great-grandfather had saved General Napier's life in the battle of Moodkee by interposing his arm, and losing it at the wrist, when a warrior was about to bring down the togha, the brutal, crooked, short sword of the Sikh, on the general's head; his grandfather had been one of the immortal band of heroes who blew up the Delhi powder magazine, and incidentally themselves, when the 38th and 54th Sepoy regiments massacred their white officers and carried the flame of the mutiny into the heart of Delhi; his father had earned the V. C. as he marched with Lord Roberts columns from Kabul to Kandahar.

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Too, generation after generation, they had been born in India. Both Hector and his brother had first seen the light of day in some stinking, Central Indian cantonment, and they had never forgotten a word of the native dialect which their brown Behari nurse had taught them before they had learned a word of English. Not only that. There was, furthermore, an old tradition, its original cause lost in the mists of the past, by which every Wade of Dealle was given a thorough grounding in Persian, the language which is to the polite Moslem elements of India and Central Asia what French was to the European society of a generation earlier.

Thus India had always been home to them. Perhaps more than home. It seemed axiomatic that the land which they had mulched with their blood, the land where they had fought and suffered and conquered and achieved and died, should mean more to them than the soft, rational commonplaces of that Sussex which to-day was nothing to them but a sentimental memory—mortgaged to the hilt.

And it was of India that Hector thought, almost instinctively, as he left Waterloo Station, with the sandy-haired gentleman's of Upper Thames Street taxicab rolling along in his wake.

India! Rather, all the glittering, resplendent, improbable East!

He had not been there since he was a child, and his five years in the Dragoons had all been spent in English and Irish barracks and cantonments.

But, as his machine whirred away, clear through

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 the jarring clonk of the County Council's surface lines, the yelping whistle of penny steamers, the sardonic hooting of lumbering, topheavy motorbuses, the strident tinkling of costermongers' bells—clear through the thousand motley cries of gutter and pavement, through the maze and reek and riot of the sordid London streets, he heard the call of Asia.

Asia—which had always given honor and preferment and a square chance to the Wades of Dealle!

Asia—the Mother—to which he turned now, in his hour of disgrace and despair!

Not that these were the exact thoughts in his brain. For he was a rational enough young Englishman for all his high cheekbones and black, opaque eyes; and if his own, inner, secret consciousness had whispered to him just then that a mysterious, invisible force was tugging at his heart-strings and that the silent soul of all the East was whirring about his own soul, trying to edge into it, to merge with it—if his inner, secret consciousness had whispered to him any of these things, he would have entered the nearest chemist's shop and bought himself a round six-penny box filled with Mr. Beecham's renowned pills.

But the fact remained that, an hour after he had registered at the Shaftesbury Hotel in Moor Street, with the sandy-haired gentleman in close attendance, he turned toward the Docks, East of the Tower, where the steamship offices are open until late at night, to book a passage on the first P. & O. steamer for Calcutta.

Every penny he possessed in the world, about fifty

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 pounds all told but for a few odd shillings and pence in his trousers, was in his inside coat pocket in incongruous proximity to the strange old Asian blade which he had taken from the lumber room, and he smiled grimly at the thought that a pickpocket would have a surprise in store for him if his nimble fingers went groping where they were not wanted. For that morning, obeying a rather boyish impulse, he had sharpened the point of the dagger with his razor strop, and the red velvet sheath was worn thin and threadbare.

Rapidly he walked down Ratcliffe Highway, past “model tenements” that hide their feculent, maggoty souls behind white stucco fronts, past Jamrach's world-famed “Wild Beast Shop” where the spectacled proprietor boasts that, on a day's notice, he can sell you any animal from a white Siamese elephant to a blue Tibetan bear, past Donald M'Eachran's “Murray Arms” saloon bar where a nostalgic Highlander sells the London equivalent for Athol Brose, and turned into Shadwell's smelly, greasy, gin-soaked purlieus.

Here, Wapping and the East India and Commercial and Victoria Docks spilled over with taverns and sailors' boarding-houses and ship-chandlers' and second hand stores where every last mildewy curio a sailor, for reasons only known to himself, packs in his dunnage, from Korean brass to broken bits of Yunan jade, from white Gulf corals to bundles of yellow Latakia tobacco leaves, can be bought. Too, men from all the corners of the globe; men who go down to the sea in ships and come up from the sea, as often as not, in hansom cabs to spend the bitter wages of six weeks' battling with storm and rotten timbers in one night's

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 scarlet spree amongst the pubs and the girls of sneering Limehouse.

Silence folded about him like a cloak as he passed into deserted St. Katherine's; the stark, humming silence of a great city asleep. The black London evening dawn huddled the houses together in gray, shapeless groups. Lights flickered up, were quickly shuttered.

Then the houses whispered secrets to each other—secrets into the trooping shadows. …

The squeaking, grating tread of some night wanderer shuffling along on patched shoes vanished into the memory of sound, while the east wind came booming up the Thames, trailing a mantle of diaphanous, ochreous fog and dimming the houses with a veil almost of romance.

Romance of the Docks, where brown Laskar and sooty Seedee-boy and yellow Chinaman finds that his money gives him the rollicking, ribald waterfront equality which the forecastle denies him!

Romance that starts with a double drink of gin and perhaps a chandoo pipe in the back room of a Wapping tavern and winds up, quite possibly, in a perambulator with a half-breed child peeping out, wonderingly, protestingly!

Brutal, sordid romance—romance of knife and pistol and thudding blackjack!

Blood-stained romance. …

“Help!”

The cry stabbed through the air; shivered; choked;

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 was echoed by another, a woman's “Oh—oh—pl—” broken off in midair, and followed by a gurgle, the sound of blows, a quick, acrid whisper in twangy Cockney:

“Aw! you will, will you? Tyke that!”

“Gawd, Bill! The gell's bit my bleedin' 'and. … 'Ere—stop it, or—go'blyme …”

“Cough up, old cock!”

With the first cry for help. Hector had wheeled in the direction whence it had come—an alley, to the left and slightly in back of him that opened between the squatting, leering houses like a sinister, black maw. A moment later he had rushed into the alley. A dozen yards up, he saw half-a-dozen rough men, typical as to peaked caps and flopping corduroys, holding a well-dressed, elderly man and a young girl, while another rough was relieving them of their valuables. All that he saw in the fraction of a second quite clearly, for a double gas jet was hanging from some mysterious recess over a stable postern, lending to the scene an unearthly light—a sheen of bluish green—like the blue on the green of young cabbages, the ludicrous thought came to him—

A second later he had reached the group, his fists going like flails … “Regular bloomin' young Berserker, he was,” the sandy-haired gentleman, who was still shadowing him and who watched it all from the corner, reported shortly afterwards to Mr. Preserved Higgins, “and, I say, for a moment he had them bluffed.”

But not for long.

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The one who was going through his victims' pockets straightened up, caught Hector's fist with his open left palm, and called to two of the others:

“'Ere, Bill—'Enery! Lend us a 'and!”

And the three went for Hector, employing tactics quite unknown to the late lamented Marquis of Queensberry, and it looked desperate for Hector Wade.

He dodged and danced and grappled. His breath came in short, staccato bursts. At one and the same time he was trying to land blow, to parry blow, to sidestep kicking feet and crashing elbows, and to gain the side of the man and the girl, and the odds were against him; a rough knuckle caught him on the left temple, an open palm hit the point of his chin, the man called 'Enery dodged within the very crook of Hector's powerful right arm, and grappled, the others closing in the next moment like hounds pulling down a stag. Hector felt himself seized about the chest under the armpits by a bearlike grasp. For a second he felt as if his ribs were crushing in his lungs. A sickening smell of gin and sweat and rank tobacco rose to his nostrils. His temples throbbed. The roof of his mouth felt parched.

Grappling, straining, cursing, he fell to the ground, 'Enery on top of him. Bill booting him in the ribs, the third man dancing about, watching his chance for a knockout blow. He shot his fist to Hector's jaw, bending down; but the latter jerked his head back in the nick of time; and, the next second, with a sudden, hard bunching of muscles, he pinioned 'Enery's arms to his sides, spread his strong legs, and tried desperately

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 to pull himself on top. He was succeeding in this when 'Enery, with a wolfish snarl, sank his teeth in his ears.

“Damn you!” Hector shrieked with rage and pain. “You'll pay for this!”

And, with a great jerk and heave, he freed himself, sending 'Enery crashing into Bill, Bill into the third man, jumped back, and reached in his inside pocket for the ancient blade.

He did it instinctively, unthinkingly. Hitherto, by the token of his English blood and training, by the token of an English gentleman's strange, wonderful, foolish prejudices, he had still been fighting according to the unwritten Anglo-Saxon rules, had still been playing the game, had refused to use fist or elbow or hit below the belt.

Now, suddenly, inside of his brain, something like a colored glass ball burst into a thousand iridescent splinters. His careful English training, his English restraint, his English prejudices, danced away in a mad whirligig of passion, and the blade leaped to his hand like a sentient being, flashed free of the velvet scabbard, caught the haggard rays of the gas jets so that the point of it glittered like a cresset of evil passions.

He used it like a rapier, with carte and tierce, with lunge and thrust and counterthrust and quick, staccato riposte, pinking here a leg, there a grimy hand, and ripping through tough corduroy-as with the edge of a razor.

In and at them, with a stamping of feet, a harsh, guttural cry!

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On guard! Again carte and tierce and lightning-like feint!

And, clear through, he had the strange impression that it was not his hand which was the blade's master, but that the blade was directing his hand, was stiffening or crooking his arm as he lunged to the attack, or estrapaded sideways, or feinted to parry clumsy, ineffectual blows and kicks. The hilt throbbed and quivered in his hand, while the point of the dagger danced a mad, swishing, triumphant saraband, there, in the reeking, sordid London night, with the gas jets hiccoughing sardonically, as if the weapon's ancient, turbulent, wicked soul had awakened from the clogging sleep of centuries.

“Gawd A'mighty!” yelled 'Enery. “The blighter's gone clean off 'is noodle!”

And he was the first to seek safety in flight, while the others followed as fast as they could, and disappeared, shouting and crying and cursing, in the direction of the East India Docks.

Hector was about to rush after them, the bloodstained dagger still flickering in front of him, when a golden ripple of laughter caused him to stop short and turn.

It was the girl. She was clutching her companion's arm in a paroxysm of merriment.

“I—oh—I am so sorry," she stammered as Hector, naked dagger in his right hand, reached her side. “I—I guess I am frightfully rude. I should thank you instead of laughing at you …”

“Jane!” said the man with her.

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“I know, dad. It's wretchedly rude of me. But”—again she laughed—“you were such a funny, incongruous figure—running down the alley! In your proper English clothes—with your proper bowler hat—and that murderous knife in your hand! It's Oriental, isn't it?”

“Jane!” her father admonished again. “Where are your manners?”

The girl, who was small, but strong and full-bosomed, with a silken mesh of reddish gold hair tumbling over her forehead from beneath her tight-fitting toque, a large, generous mouth, an impertinent, retroussé nose, and deep-set, hazel brown eyes, winked the tiniest little wink at Hector as if to say: “We understand, you and I! We are both young! And it was funny! Come on! Own up to it!” while her father thanked Hector in dignified terms.

“I don't know what would have happened to us if it had not been for your timely succor,” he wound up, in an exact, slightly monotonous voice and carefully chosen phraseology which stamped him as a transatlantic visitor as surely as his sober worsted suit, the meticulous crease in his trousers, and his shoes.

Hector Wade did what any other young Englishman of his class, self-conscious, shy, proud, would have done. That is, he muttered some perfectly inane words about it not mattering—honestly!—it isn't worth fussin' about, you know!—and tried to make a graceful exit. Which was rather difficult considering that, in the embarrassment of the moment, he had forgotten all about the blade which was still in his

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 right hand, and so he nearly cut his face when he lifted his hat.

The result was to be expected. Once more the girl burst into laughter. But, at once, seeing that Hector was blushing and decidedly unhappy, she checked her mirth and held out an impulsive hand—to withdraw it immediately with the exclamation:

“Do put that knife away!”

Hector obeyed.

“Now then!” said the girl, and their hands met and clasped.

“It was bully of you,” she went on. “Perfectly, thrillingly bully. And the next time I persuade dad to roam with me at night through this part of London—I made him, you see. We only got here from home—which is New York—a day ago. Yes—the next time I take him for a night stroll I shall insist on having you as a bodyguard—you and that weapon of yours.”

“There won't be any next time,” said her father, unsmiling; and—by this time they had reached the corner of St. Katherine where, in the shadow of a doorway, the sandy-haired gentleman was hiding and listening—he introduced himself: Mr. Ezra W. Warburton.

“Not to forget Mr. Ezra W. Warburton's only child and daughter Jane!” chimed in the girl.

Hector fumbled for a card, found none, and was grateful for it a moment later. For, almost at once, he decided that he would not tell these people his right name—the name which carried shame and disgrace and social ostracism.

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He chose the first name he could think of. It was Smith. Of course. Charles Smith.

Somehow, it seemed very natural that Hector should forget the errand which had brought him to the Docks; natural, too, that he should accompany his new friends to their hotel, the Savoy; natural, finally, that he should accept Mr. Ezra Warburton's invitation to come upstairs to their suite, seconded by his daughter's “Do come, Mr. Smith. I know you need a brushing down, and I have an idea you need a drink.”

“I accept both with pleasure,” smiled Hector.

There was a glow in his heart. The world did not seem so black after all; and it was all because of a girl's hazel-brown eyes, because there was a sweet curve to her upper lip and a quick, whimsical lift at the corners.

Had anybody told him just then that he had fallen head-over-heels in love with her, at first sight, Hector would have dismissed the implication as “bally, asinine drivel.” For typically English was he in this, that he treated the softer emotions with a scornful disregard, as if they were a rather vulgar convention submitted to by the masses of irresponsible mankind, which included, at least in this application, all the Continental Europeans and most of the Irish; also some of the Welsh. He did not know that this viewpoint was a pose in self-defense of his shyness and that emotional cold-bloodedness is as a rule an affectation which deceives nobody. Nor did he know that the terrible, corroding Puritanism into which he had dieted himself had not altogether scotched his inmost, smoldering, natural passions.

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But he did know, as he followed the Warburtons upstairs, that in all the world there was nothing quite as becoming to a creamy complexion and reddish gold hair than a snug toque, made of the breast plumage of a pheasant, and a severely tailored suit of peacock blue serge.

Downstairs, in the meantime, the sandy-haired gentleman was frantically ringing up a number in the Mayfair.

“Are you there—are you there? Mr. Higgins!” He talked furiously across the wires for several seconds. “Right-oh, guv'nor. He's with the Warburtons at this very moment. Yes. Of course. It was an accident. Old Warburton didn't stage that holdup so's to meet young Hickamadoodle—he ain't that sort—I know. But remember—the female of the species! What do I mean? I mean that the old codger has a daughter—and, my word, ain't she the peaches and cream, though! And that Babu blighter who works for the Anglo-Indian Cable Company at Tamerlanistan is Warburton's agent, and he may find out that. … You'll be right down? You'd better. For if that Babu finds out, and if that Yankee gets on young Wade's buttered and marmaladed side, your name is … MUD!” he shouted into Central's indignant ear, for Mr. Preserved Higgins had already slammed down the receiver, and was running through his genuine Spanish Renaissance drawing-room, past his simon-pure Louis Seize bed-room, into his guaranteed Neo-Gothic reception hall where he yelled at the Italian

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 footman to tell the Swiss gate porter to instruct the French chauffeur to come with the Rolls-Royce.

“Step on your gas, Gastong! The Savoy! 'Urry up, sonny!”

And shortly afterwards, the big car was purring to ward the Embankment and to the strident London caravanserai where to-day the Peerage and the Beerage, Montana Copper Kings and South African Diamond Magnates, Clyde Ship Builders and Omaha Pork Specialists rub elbows and swap drinks and lies—and where once the Black Prince competed in chivalry with the captive King John of France, and where Chaucer was married to the Lady Philippa de Ruet, with John o' Gaunt playing best man.

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1858.] The Grindwell Governing Machine (though a patent has been taken out for it in Europe, and it is thought everything of by royal heads and the gilded flies that buzz about them) is really an old machine, nearly worn out, and every now and then patched up and painted and varnished anew. If a committee of our knowing Yankees were sent over to gain information with regard to its actual condition, I am inclined to think they would bring back a curious and not very favorable report. It wouldn't astonish me, if they should pronounce the whole apparatus of the State rotten from top to bottom, and only kept from falling to pieces by all sorts of ingenious contrivances of an external and temporary nature,—here a wheel, or pivot, or spring to be replaced,—there a prop or buttress to be set up,—here a pipe choked up,—there a boiler burst,—and so on, from one end of the works to the other. However, the machine keeps a-going, and many persons think it works beautifully.

Everything is reduced to such perfect system in its operations, that the necessity for individual opinion is almost superseded, and even private consciences are laid upon the shelf,—just as people lay by an antiquated timepiece that no winding-up or shaking can persuade into marking the hours,—for have they not the clock on the Government railroad station opposite, which they can at any time consult by stepping to the window? For instance, individual honesty is set aside and replaced by a system of rewards and punishments. Honesty is an old-fashioned coat. The police, like a great sponge, absorbs the private virtue. It says to conscience, "Stay there,—don't trouble yourself,—I will act for you."

You drop your purse in the street. A rogue picks it up. In his private conscience he says, "Honesty is a very good thing, perhaps, but it is by no means the best policy,—it is simply no policy at all,it is sheer stupidity. What can be more politic than for me to pocket this windfall and turn the corner quick?"—So preacheth his crooked fag-end of a conscience, that very, very small still voice, in very husky tones; but he knows that a policeman, walking behind him, saw him pick up the purse, which alters the case,—which, in fact, completely sets aside his fag-end of a husky-voiced conscience, and makes virtue his necessity, and necessity his virtue. External morality is hastily drawn on as a decent overcoat to hide the tag-rags of his roguishness, while he magnanimously restores the purse to the owner.

Jones left his umbrella in a cab one night. Discovering that he hadn't it under his arm, he rushed after the cabman; but he was gone. Jones had his number, however, and with it proceeded the next day to the police-office, feeling sure that he would find his umbrella there. And there, in a closet appropriated to articles left in hackney-coaches,—a perfect limbo of canes, parasols, shawls, pocket-books, and whatnot,—he found it, ticketed and awaiting its lawful owner. The explanation of which mystery is, that the cabmen in Grindwell are strictly amenable to the police for any departure from the system which provides for the security of private property, and a yearly reward is given to those of the coach-driving fraternity who prove to be the most faithful restorers of articles left in their carriages. Surely, the result of system can no farther go than this,—that Monsieur Vaurien's moral sense, like his opinions, should be absorbed and over-ruled by the governing powers.

What a capital thing it is to have the great governmental head and heart thinking and feeling for us! Why, even the little boys, on winter afternoons, are restricted by the policemen from sliding on the ice in the streets, for fear the impetuous little fellows should break or dislocate some of their bones, and the hospital might have the expense of setting them; so patriarchal a regard has the machine for its young friends!

I might allude here to a special department of the machine, which once had great power in overruling the thoughts


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Prague to the East. In the near future, satellite communications will play an increasingly important role.

Their integration within the Czechoslovak communications network will probably occur in the next Five Year Plan, initially in relaying international television broadcasts and later in telephone communications. A Telecom Center currently under construction in Prague will serve as headquarters for the intercity and interstate dial telephone systems, for the telegraph service, and the telex system. It will rank Czechoslovakia's communications system as the best in Europe and will integrate the country into the main European trunk line network.

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 nation of the Son of God, the Father and the Holy Ghost also took part in this great work.” (p. 19.)

Proofs from Holy Scripture.

127. The motive for the work of redemption, and the purpose of the descent upon earth of the Son of God. “I. Why did it please the tri-hypostatic God to redeem us? There is one cause for it: his infinite love for us sinners. II. As to the purpose of the embassy and of the descent into the world of the Son of God, that is clearly indicated by the holy church when it teaches us to profess: ‘Who has descended from heaven for the sake of us men, and for the sake of our salvation.’” Proved by Holy Scripture.

128. The eternal predetermination of the redemption, and why the Redeemer did not come earlier upon earth.

The redemption had been predetermined from eternity. God, in spite of his goodness, foresaw the fall of man and all his sufferings. God did not redeem us at once, (1) in order that men might feel their fall and desire their redemption; “(2) it was necessary that the infection of the sin, which had deeply penetrated the nature of man, should slowly come to the surface.” (p. 28.)

For this purpose it was necessary for billions of people to fall into sin and misfortune.

“(3) It was necessary to prepare people for the arrival upon earth of such an extraordinary Messenger of God as was the Redeemer.” (p. 28.)

It was necessary for a period of 5,500 years to prepare humanity for it by signs.

(4) It was necessary that humanity should pass a long series of purifications and sanctifications in the host of the holy men of the Old Testament. (p. 29.)

129. The preparation by God of the human race for the reception of the Redeemer, and the faith in him at all times. The preparations of the human race were: (1) the


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Rh Collateral science is further aiding us to perceive that there is a different molecular arrangement in diaphanous or isolating bodies, as compared with opaque or conducting bodies, such as metals, etc. How far the new discoveries of Graham, which have demonstrated the presence of gases in metals and other substances held there by what he terms "occlusion," may throw light on this interesting and intricate subject, is as yet problematical; but I must add that the power, by means of heat, of making metals give up large volumes of these occluded gases, proves the existence of spaces between the molecules capable of


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 being occupied by gases in a state of extraordinary condensation.

Even if we look on this merely as a matter of speculation not completely demonstrated, it is a new and intensely suggestive subject, though one on which I cannot enter more at large, having time neither to trace the progress of investigation, nor to review more minutely the results arrived at. I can only affirm that every year we seem more and more capable of entering into these subtle speculations; and though, as it is beautifully expressed by M. Saveney, these new views may be only in penumbrâ, yet we must rejoice that they have reached the half-light of demonstration, emerging from the darker shade of eclipse in which they have been hitherto obscured.

Glancing at the practical aspect of all these inquiries, we may say that meteorology, the full comprehension of which will obviously result from a complete understanding of the nature of light and electricity, is that science to which we are now looking for the law which regulates the transmission of disease.


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 Statistics, which furnish a method of inquiry wholly unknown in Harvey's time, supply us with evidence of the course of epidemics, of their successive appearance in each locality, and of the gradual increase and decline of the several visitations. These facts reveal an unerring course of geographical direction which is taken by disease; and it is already clear that the explanation of this observed course, and of the mode of propagation, is to be looked for in the diffusion and interchange of gases during the existence of epidemics. From whatever cause arising, we can at least speak of an unbalanced state of atmospheric electricity; whilst we must refer the effect to a combination of forces not as yet clearly made out. Our two great philosophers, Grove and Tyndall, are continually contributing fresh discoveries on this important topic, which promises such fertile results to aid in the pursuit of medical philosophy. We also owe a great deal to the labours of Graham; and it is not possible to glance even casually at this subject without acknowledging the debt which meteorological science


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 prophecies, such as that the woman would bruise the serpent’s head, and so forth.

“From the time of this protoevangely about the Messiah, which was announced even in Paradise, and of the establishment of sacrifices, which pointed to his sufferings and death, the saving faith in the Lord Jesus has existed uninterruptedly with the human race. In accordance with this faith Adam called his wife ‘life’ (Gen. iii. 20), although he had heard the judgment of the Judge: Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return (Gen. iii. 19); according to this faith Eve called her first-born Cain: I have gotten a man from the Lord (Gen. iv. 1). Unquestionably in this faith the hypostatic all-wisdom of God, as the All-wise witnesses and the church professes, guarded the first formed father of the world, that was created alone, and delivered him out of his transgression (Wis. of Sol. x. 1), for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved (Acts. iv. 12), except the name of Jesus Christ.” (pp. 30 and 31.)

Besides the prophecies, there were also signs, such as: the sacrifice of Isaac, Jonas in the belly of the whale, the paschal lamb, the brazen serpent, the whole ritual of Moses, and finally the moral and civil laws.

130. The moral application of the dogma is this, that (1) we ought to learn humility, (2) ought to love God and one another, and (3) ought to stand in awe before the wisdom of God.

The dogma of the redemption will be expounded further on in detail, and in that place will be analyzed those proofs on which the church bases it; now I will speak only of the significance which the dogma may have to thinking people. It is useless to refute this dogma. The dogma negates itself, for it does not affirm anything about what is mysterious and incomprehensible for us, as was affirmed in the case of the attributes and persons of


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 now disturb the minds of many as to the accuracy of the principles on which those admirable improvements are at present based.

It harmonises with the subject now before us, that I should congratulate our profession and the public on a new feature in the duties which we accept as belonging to our calling. Physicians have never been so impressed as of later years that the noblest of their avocations is to prevent or avert disease. They now perceive that this is at least as much their duty as to subdue or relieve the sufferings which attend it. It might, perhaps, be thought a humiliation, that our efforts seem to be less directed to curative measures, as compared with the energetic struggle to withstand the approaches of fatal epidemics; but we shall none of us disdain to acknowledge that the predominance of scientific aim does and ought to tend in this direction, though at the same time we strenuously deny that the therapeutic portion of our work is in abeyance. Whatever may carry to the great mass of our fellow-creatures the largest amount of comfort and relief must be our proper work;


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Three years ago, on the 7th of November (25th October), 1917, the workers and Soldiers of Petrograd, guided by the party of the Bolsheviki, overthrew the bourgeois government of Kerensky, and proclaimed the government of the Soviets. At Petrograd the victory of the proletariat was gained easily, almost without any bloodshed. Detachments of revolutionary soldiers, of the Red Labour Guard, and of the Red sailors of the Baltic Fleet, occupied the most important points of Petrograd, besieged the Winter Palace, where the Provisional Government was in hiding, and with the support of the revolutionary cruiser, "Aurora," took the palace. The ministers were arrested and sent to the fortress of Peter and Paul. The second All Russian Congress of Soviets, which took place in Petrograd, the majority of which were Bolsheviki, proclaimed itself the government in place of the arrested government of Kerensky.


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4 Kerensky himself escaped from Petrograd to the front, and with the assistance of Cossacks attempted to regain his power and reconquer Petrograd. Cossack divisions under the command of the well known Tzarist, General Krassnov, approached Petrograd, attacking Gatshino. However, the armed workers of Petrograd, notwithstanding their lack of military training and bad organisation, defeated Krassnov's Cossacks and took the general himself prisoner. Victory was on the side of the Petrograd proletariat, and Kerensky had again to flee in disgrace.

At Moscow the triumph of the workers and soldiers was not so easy as in Petrograd. Here the forces of the bourgeoisie officers and of the followers of the old government were larger. Nevertheless, even here, the bourgeoisie defenders of the deposed government were finally besieged in the Kremlin and compelled to surrender. Thus in our second capital, too, the authority of the Soviets was established.

Neither was the change sudden in the rest of Russia where the ground was sufficiently prepared by the past struggles. At some places the power was actually in the hands of the workers even before the October Revolution, and the Commissaries of the Provisional Government exercised no authority there. Immediately the news of the revolution in Petrograd reached the provinces, the local Soviets of the workers and soldiers' delegates almost everywhere removed the commissaries of Kerensky's government, establishing in their stead the authority of the Soviets. The Provisional Government was so impotent and so despised by the toiling masses that their followers, practically speaking, offered no resistance.


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Rh The second All Russian Congress of Soviets proclaimed Russia a Soviet Republic, and adopted three most important decrees, viz., on peace, on the land, and on labour control of industry.

The soldiers, weary from three years of war in the interests of capitalism, greeted with enthusiasm the decree on peace and offer of an armistice on the German front. The resistance of the officers and generals was rapidly overcome, and the chief command of the army passed from the hands of the assassinated General Doukhonin to comrade Krilenko, who was appointed by the Soviet Government. The attempts on the part of the counter-revolutionists to set the uneducated part of the soldiers against the proletarian Revolution miscarried. The toiling masses at the front took their stand on the side of the Revolution.

By the decree on the land all the land belonging to the landlords was transferred to the peasants on the basis of equal rights in the use of the land. The thought cherished by the peasantry for decades, the thought on which the Social-Revolutionists, who betrayed the Revolution, only wasted so much breath, was put into effect by the party of the Bolsheviki in a single day. The land passed into the hands of the toiling peasantry.

Finally all the factories and works were placed under the control of the workers, so that the latter, after becoming familiar with them, might manage the industries themselves in the place of their old masters.


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 6 This in brief the story of how the workers, peasants, and soldiers defeated the bourgeoisie and the landlords at the end of 1917. The fight, however, was not finished then. Those were only the first important victories, and there remained still the work of strengthening the government of the workers and peasants, and of crushing all its enemies, who were gathering their forces in the outlying provinces of the country.

The first onslaught of the workers, soldiers, and peasants upon the bourgeoisie and the landlords, and upon their government, brought victory to the toiling masses of the people. The workers came out determined to seize the power of the State and get hold of the works and factories. The soldiers, weary of three years of fight, strove for peace, whilst the bourgeoisie and the Mensheviki, together with the Social-Revolutionaries, who betrayed the cause of Socialism, were forcing them to continue the war. The peasants wanted to seize the land of the nobility, but the bourgeoisie, the:landlords and their lackeys, the Mensheviki and the Social-Revolutionaries, neither could nor wished to give them this land. Thus a mighty union was formed between the workers and the peasantry that delivered a crushing blow to the wealthy classes of Russia. The landlords fled from their estates. The bourgeoisie lost its head, and at first could not even think of resistance. After the first fright had passed, however, the counter-revolutiondry elements gradually gathered strength, organised


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 Rh themselves, and commenced their struggle for the overthrow of the Soviet Government. They found it most convenient to commence their work in our outlying provinces, particularly in the Cossack territories where the spirit of the old regime was strong. Thus by the end of 1917 the outlines of a counter-revolutionary centre could be distinguished in the territories of the Don, Orenbourg, and Ural Cossacks; apart from this strong resistance to the establishment of Soviet authority was offered at Irkutsk by the officers and Cadets. In the Ukraine the bourgeois forces were organising themselves already under the regime of Kerensky. They demanded an independent Ukraine. After the seizure of power by the workers in Russia, the bourgeoisie and the intelligenzia of the workers and peasants, raising the cry of independence from Moscow and from the Muscovites. Independence, which they subsequently sold to German imperialism, was certainly not the underlying motive; their aim was to break thémselves loose from the Revolution in Russia, to save their power, their capital, their land, and to prevent the workers and poor peasants of the Ukraine from uniting with the victorious workers and peasants of the rest of Russia. A new centre of the counter-revolution was thus formed at Kiev with which the Soviet Government had to fight.

At first the Soviet Government was successful on all the fronts. General Alexeyev, formerly in the command of the Tzarist army on the German front, gathered round himself on the Don a good many of the old guard officers, who were largely either land-


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 8 lords themselves, or in close touch with the bourgeois landlord class. And whilst the bourgeoisie and the landlords, having lost their heads, went into hiding after the Revolution, the officers, on the contrary, came out in the open, being well organised by the machinery of the Tzarist army. Apart from Alexeyev, the rising was led by General Kornilov, the same who, under Kerensky, moved his Savage Division on Petrograd to suppress the Petrograd Soviet. Against Alexeyev's army, composed of officers, came out the workers' Red Guard of Petrograd, Moscow, and the Donetz Basin, led by Comrade Antonoy-Ovseienko. Although these workers had no military training, and were opposed by the cream of the Tzarist army, the officers of the line, they nevertheless defeated the Tzarist generals, and took Rostov on the Don, carried by desperate dash and daring. The same Petrograd and Moscow workers defeated the troops of the Ukrainian Rada; that is, the Ukrainian bourgeois government, and took Kiev by storm. The workers from the Urals and the Volga defeated Doutov. The workers and soldiers from Krasnoyarsk and Irkutsk defeated the counter-revolutionary Cadets at Irkutsk.

Thus the first attempt of our counter-revolution to come out against the government of the workers and peasants was crushed. So long as foreign capital could not come to the assistance of our bourgeoisie and landlords, it was easy for the workers and peasants of Soviet Russia to defeat them.

All this, however, was only the beginning of a capitalist campaign against the conquests of the October Revolution. After the failure of the first campaign a


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 Rh number of others were started. Only for a brief space of time did the Soviet Government hold sway over the whole of Russia, from Petrograd to Vladivostock, and from Archangel to the Crimea and Baku.

The new campaign against the Soviet Government commenced in the spring of 1918. German imperialism, satisfied with the Brest Treaty, which was incredibly ruinous for us, left Great Russia in peace. It was too much occupied with the war in France against English, French, and American capital to think of taking Petrograd and Moscow from the Russian workers. It was, however, strong enough to send German divisions to the Ukraine for the purposes of loot. The weak detachments of our workers and partisans were soon compelled to leave the Ukraine, and the latter was handed over to the large landlords, and to Hetman Skoropadsky, the Tzarist general, supported by the Prussian junkers. In the East the bandits of British and French imperialism raised against us the Czecho-Slovaks. In the North the British landed troops at Archangel, and with the assistance of the White Guards opened a new front against us, menacing Vologda and Moscow from the North. On the Don, in place of Alexeyev, who died, and of Kornilov, who was killed, General Krasnov became head of the Cossack counter-revolution. This is the same general whom the Petrograd workers released on parole in November, 1917. He occupied the Don territory and was menacing Voronezh and Tzaritzin. Doutov raised again the standard of revolt at the head of the Orenbourg Cossacks. The Czecho-Slovaks and the Siberian White Guards cap-


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 10 tured Omsk, Cheliabinsk, and took Ekaterinburg, the capital of the Urals. The rebel Czecho-Slovaks in the Volga. provinces captured Samara, Simbirsk, and then Kazan, and were approaching Nijni.

The summer of 1918 was the most difficult period in the life of the young and rather weak Soviet Government. Of the huge territory of Soviet Russia there remained not more than 25 provinces of famished central Russia, shorn of its corn granaries, of the Donetz coal, of the Baku oil, of the Ural and South Russian iron, and of the Turkestan cotton. And the country itself was torn by White Guard risings and risings of the rich peasantry. At one time the White Guard officers took Yaroslav, intending to join the English, who were operating from the North, their object being to capture Moscow. It was the only time when the Soviet Government might have fallen under the blows of its numerous enemies. Fate, however, decided otherwise. The deadly danger forced the workers to take up arms with renewed energy.

Until the summer of 1918 the Soviet Government had carried out no compulsory mobilisation. The masses of the people were sick and tired of the war with Germany and needed peace and rest. The Soviet Government carried on its struggle against the counter-revolution almost exclusively with the help of volunteers draw from the ranks of labour. The first regiments of the Red. Army were largely composed of volunteers, previously organised hastily in Red Guard detachments. But the number of volun-


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 Rh teers was not enough to meet the needs of the fight on all the fronts. The workers themselves demanded that the proletariat should be mobilised and called up in classes. The first tentative mobilisations in Moscow and Petrograd were successful, and they were followed by the mobilisation of the proletariat in the other parts of Soviet Russia. The Red Army was a child of the Red Guard; the first mobilisations supplied mainly workers to the Red regiments. Officers of the old army who voluntarily offered their services were mobilised. Thus Soviet Russia augmented its military forces. Apart from this the Communist Party mobilised thousands of its members. "Communists to the Fronts!" was the cry raised after the fall of Kazan, and the best forces of our Party went to the Volga, to the Urals, to the South, to take their place in the first ranks of the young Red Army; the results were not long in coming. The workers held up the offensive of the Czecho-Slovaks and the White Guards in the Urals, and for the space of six months kept them in check, half way between Ekaterinburg and Perm. In the North the Red sailors from the Baltic Fleet and the Red Army divisions beat off the offensive of the British and the Northern White Guards aiming at Vologda. Finally fresh forces concentrated at Kazan, and, led by Comrade Trotsky, took the offensive and captured Kazan. This was the first large victory won by the heroic efforts of the Petrograd and Moscow workers, and proved to be the first of a number of further successes. After the capture of Kazan, the victorious Red Army took Simbirsk and then Samara, where the counter-revolutionary


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 12 Social-Revolutionists had made their capital, and where they had convened the Constituent Assembly, dissolved by the Bolsheviki in January, 1919.

The Volga was cleared of the Whites, and our Red troops marched upon Ufa and Orenburg. Our success was favoured by the quarrel which at that time had sprung up between the Siberian White Guards and the Social-Revolutionaries, who had hitherto been firmly established on the Volga. The former offered no assistance to the latter, and the White Guards stuck in the Ural mountains, where the workers were stubbornly defending every- inch of ground. The heroic resistance of the Ural workers kept at one time in check all the forces of Kolchak.

However, by the end of autumn, towards the beginning of the winter, the Soviet Government had to succeeded in organising a strong Cossack army, and turn its attention to the South. General Krasnov had moved in two directions—to the North and to the Volga. For a time we were obliged to leave Kolchak and concentrate our main forces on the Southern front.

By that time the Soviet Government had passed from the mobilisation of the workers to the mobilisation of the peasants, which proved quite successful. Although the peasantry had not sufficiently rested after the war with Germany, it nevertheless answered the call, being afraid that the generals and landlords would take back from them the land of the nobility, given to them by the Soviet Government. The first regiments, composed largely of mobilised peasants and commanded by officers of the old army, were not


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 Rh stable, gave way easily, and fled in time of danger. The officers were treacherous, frequently going over to the enemy. Only conscious and revolutionary workers could strengthen and cement the peasant regiments and lead them to victory. Again, the Communist Party raised the cry, "To the Southern Front!" and again thousands of Communists took their stand in the first ranks and filled the posts of command in the army. Communist workers fresh from the factory or works were appointed commissars of regiments and divisions, got a grip over the machinery of supply, carried on political work, and_also took up the rifle in the lines of the Red Army. This new Communist infusion on the Southern front soon yielded its results. Krasnov was smashed, his Cossack divisions demoralised, whole regiments of them surrendering to the Red Army.

At the same time came the re-establishment of Soviet Government in the Ukraine. A wave of risings spread all over the country. Volunteers formed into Red regiments took one town after another. The demoralised parts of the Austrian and German armies were either neutral or helped to fight Skoropadsky. Petlura took the place of Skoropadsky, but close on the heels of the latter came the Red regiments, inflicting upon him defeat after defeat.

Equally successful was the fight for the re-establishment of the Soviet Government in Esthonia and Latvia. By the beginning of 1919 the territory of the Soviet Government had increased considerably in all directions. Meanwhile Kolchak, taking advantage of our difficulties on the Krasnov front, where we had


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 14 to concentrate our chief forces, commenced in the spring of 1919 his new offensive on the Volga. In March we had to meet a new White Guard wave. We lost Ufa, retreated to half way between Viatka and Perm, retreating very close to Kazan, and Samara was again in danger.

At the same time Petrograd was menaced by the White Esthonians, the bands of Balakhovitch, and the operations of the Finnish White Guards in the North. Our main forces had to be thrown again on the East. All the available reserves were moved against Kolchak, and the Communist Party made a fresh mobilisation to beat off the enemies.

This time Kolchak was dealt a smashing blow. His army, largely recruited from the Siberian peasants, was continually surrendering, and behind his lines there broke out a number of peasant revolts.

In the South the position by that time had again become menacing for the Soviet Government. We had beaten Krasnov, but had not crushed him to the ground. Our armies were already within 40 versts of Novo-Tcherkask, but here a new enemy with fresh forces awaited us. Krasnov's place was taken by Denikin, who succeeded in recruiting and organising thoroughly his volunteer officer army. Having defeated in Northern Caucasus our North Caucasian army, he moved to the Don, rapidly developing his successes in the Don territory and in the Ukraine. Again the Cossacks rose against the Soviet Government. The Ukrainian profiteering peasant rubbed his hands at the defeat of the Bolsheviki and lent assistance to Denikin. During the summer and autumn


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 Rh months Denikin captured almost the whole of the Ukraine, Tzaritzin, and, taking Orel, in October marched upon Tula and Moscow. Simultaneously Yudenitech was approaching the outskirts of Petrograd, and Kolchak showed signs of life, taking the offensive upon Kurgan. The danger was as great as in the summer of 1918, with this difference however, that we had now a strong Red Army, and the chief enemy in the East, in spite of a temporary respite, had received a mortal blow.

A new mobilisation on an enormous scale was decreed by the Communist Party; deadly danger again closed the ranks of the workers and peasants, and new forces gathered from all the ends of Russia were thrown against the arrogant Tzarist generals. Already in the summer, when General Mamontov's cavalry had broken through in our rear, capturing Koslov and Tambov, hoping to cause a peasant rising, it became evident that the peasantry would remain true to the government that had given them the land of the nobility. Denikin had entered upon territory where the peasants remembered still the yoke of the nobility, and this proved Denikin's undoing. The Red Army, taking the offensive along the whole front, dealt a number of crushing blows to Denikin. This time the Red banner pursued him right to the Caucasus, and to the harbour where this luckless candidate for the throne of the Tzar embarked on a foreign vessel, proceeding to London to be pensioned off by British capitalism. The remains of Denikin's army gathered in the Crimea, and Wrangel took over the command. The army of Yudenitch was defeated and


text: Trade Unions in America

title: Trade Unions in America


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Rh


text: Trade Unions in America/The American Trade Unions


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20 SCIENCE AND MODERN CIVILISATION varied and most precious outcome of the human mind which may be grouped under the categories of the fine arts and literature. There is a history of improve- ment and growth up to a certain culmination, or phase of maturity. Beyond that point no further growth seems possible-but rather, instead, a tendency to decline and decadence.¹

The evolution of science differs fundamentally from that of literature and the fine arts. Science advances by a succession of discoveries. Each discovery constitutes a permanent addition to natural knowledge-and furnishes a post of vantage for, and a suggestion to, further discoveries. This mode of advance has no assignable limits; for the phenomena of nature-the material upon which science works-are practically infinite in extent and complexity. Moreover, science creates while it investigates; it creates new chemical compounds, new combinations of forces, new conditions of substances, and strange new environments-such as do not exist at all on the earth's surface in primitive nature. These 'new natures,' as Bacon would have called them, open out endless vistas of lines of future research. The prospects of the scientific inquirer are therefore bounded by no horizon-and no man can tell, nor even in the least conjecture, what ultimate issues. he may reach.

The difference here indicated between the growth of art and literature and the growth of science is, of course, inherent in the subjects; and is not difficult to explain.

If we take a wider view of the constituent elements of organised society and embrace in our consideration the religious systems, the political and civil institutions, the military organisations, the commerce and the miscellaneous disconnected mass of natural knowledge existing in the older civilisations-we look in vain for any constituent which had more than a limited scope of expansion, and was not subject to decay.


text: Trade Unions in America/Origin and Structure of the T. U. E. L.


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 and we delight to recognise in the labours of the physician a moral and æsthetic element improving the condition of the lower classes, as well as the general happiness of society. Knowing that in this branch, at least, there can be no disappointment and no deception, we hail with joy the wisdom and benevolence evinced, both by administrative power and by private charity, in cooperating with us.

I proceed now to inquire how far the present state of science affords us promise of success in our endeavours to elucidate those laws which govern the functions of the human frame in health, and cause the deterioration of those functions in disease.

Several new methods of investigation have been started in the last quarter of the century. Perhaps we may reckon as the most surprising and important those phenomena which have resulted from spectrum analysis. The application of this wholly new mode of inquiry to physiological topics has been forwarded by Professor Stokes, and by our energetic senior censor, Dr. Bence Jones.

There is another speculation still in pro-


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Rh gress, through which much new light may be hoped to be arrived at. Numerous lately ascertained facts point to the probability that a force is set up in the union or proximity of different membranes and fluids, resembling that which is admitted to take place in different metals under varying temperatures; and that this force may be the means of inducing what we call absorption and secretion. The very absorption of particular gases by metals and other substances, in the way of “occlusion” (to which I just now referred), seems to point to the existence of a certain elective power independent of a living principle. We may be asked, What is this but a further exemplification of chemical action? And as yet we are not in a position to give a definitive answer. But it is at least a field of inquiry which we welcome as new and very hopeful.

When we see a bit of leaf broken off, as we may in the plant Vallisneria spiralis, and are able to witness the movements of fluids within the minute cells following a precise and continuous course for hours after separation from the parent stem, all going on with-


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 out the assistance of any muscular heart to propel the fluid, we are led to believe that there must be some chemical (or perhaps, more properly speaking, electrical) power which guides the movement.

Leaving this, which is still a matter of speculation, I must, however, state that we are in possession of sufficient evidence in regard to what is called osmosic action to enable us to reason upon that remarkable property of membranes, and apply it both to physiology and pathology. Of all subjects, the law of transmission of liquids and gases through membranes (known to be, in the case of fluids at least, in some inverse ratio of their densities) is that which seems to promise the most immediate application to the actual nature of the forces in the living body.

As I have just hinted, the point at which our inquiries seem to halt in the vegetable circulation relates to the movement within the cell. It seems that the interchange of gases may be the result of a similar or identical force to that of osmosic action; and thus we have a glimpse at an universal oneness of


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 force, extending from that which influences the great atmospheric ocean to that which regulates the movements to be seen within the microscopic cell of organized life. This idea is partly analogous to a noble suggestion lately thrown out by a distinguished Fellow of this College. Dr. Odling, whilst demonstrating Mr. Graham's discovery of the existence of hydrogen in what some suppose to be sidereal or meteoric iron, compared that gas with other gases found in telluric iron; he then adverted to discoveries made through the new science of spectrum analysis, and showed by those discoveries the identity of the gases in the group of stars of which α Lyræ is the type with the hydrogen in meteoric iron; and he then claimed from this identity an evidence of "one universal chemistry."

I trust that those of my audience who may be least familiar with the language of science will not fail to have perceived the intensity of the light which now dawns upon us, applicable as it is not only to a further discovery of the general laws of nature, but especially to those