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 notions entertained mentally would have no effect upon bodily actions. Thus, what happens would happen in complete indifference to the entertainment of such notions.

Scientific reasoning is completely dominated by the presupposition that mental functionings are not properly part of Nature. Accordingly it disregards all those mental antecedents which mankind habitually presuppose as effective in guiding cosmological functionings. As a method this procedure is entirely justifiable, provided that we recognize the limitations involved. These limitations are both obvious and undefined. The gradual eliciting of their definition is the hope of philosophy.

The points that I would emphasize are: First, that this sharp division between mentality and Nature has no ground in our fundamental observation. We find ourselves living within Nature. Second, I conclude that we should conceive mental

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 operations as among the factors which make up the constitution of Nature. Third, that we should reject the notion of idle wheels in the process of Nature. Every factor which emerges makes a difference, and that difference can only be expressed in terms of the individual character of that factor. Fourth, that we have now the task of defining natural facts, so as to understand how mental ocurrences are operative in conditioning the subsequent course of Nature.

A rough division can he made of six types of occurrences in Nature. The first type is human existence, body and mind. The second type includes ail sorts of animal life, insects, the vertebrates, and other genera. In fact all the various types of animal life other than human. The third type includes all vegetable life. The fourth type consists of the single living cells. The fifth type consists of all large-scale inorganic aggregates, on a scale comparable to the size of animal

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 bodies, or larger. The sixth type is composed of the happenings on an infinitesimal scale, disclosed by the minute analysis of modern physics.

Now all these fanctionings of Nature influence each other, require each other, and lead on to each other. The list has purposely been made soughly, without any scientific pretension. The sharp-cut scientific classifications are essential for scientife method, but they are dangerous for philosophy. Such classification hides the truth that the different modes of natural existence shade off into each other. Theres the animal life with its central direction of a society of celis, there is the vegetabie life with its organized republic of cells, there is the cell life with its organized republic of molecules, there is the large-scale inorganic society of molecules with its passive acceptance of necessities derived from spatial relations, there is the infra-molecular activity which has lost all

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 trace of the passivity of inorganic Nature on a larger scale.

In this survey some main conclusions stand out. One conclusion is the diverse modes of functioning which are produced by diverse modes of organization. The second conclusion is the aspect of continuity between these different modes. There are border-line cases, which bridge the gaps. Often the border-line cases are unstable, and pass quickly. But span of existence is merely relative to our habits of human life. For infra-molecular occurrences, a second is a vast period of time. A third conclusion is the difference in the aspects of Nature according as we change the scale of observation. Each scale of observation presents us with avetage effects proper to that scale.

Again, another consideration arises. How do we observe Nature? Also, what is the proper analysis of an observation? The conventional answer to this qrestion is that we

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 perceive Nature through our senses. Also, in the analysis of sense-perception we are apt to concentrate upon its most clear-cut instance, namely, sight. Now visual perception is the final product of evolution. It belongs to high-grade animals — to vertebrates and to the more advanced type of insects. There are numberless living things which afford no evidence of possessing sight. Yet they show every sign of taking account of their environment in the way proper to living things. Also, human beings shut off sight with peculiar case, by closing their eyes or by the calamity of blindness. The information provided by mere sight is peculiarly barren — namely, external regions disclosed as coloured. There is no necessary transition of colours, and no necessary selection of regions, and no necessary mutual adaptation of the display of colours. Sight at any instant merely provides the passive fact of regions variously coloured. If we

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 always shifting as it is passed into the future. The creative activity aims at preservation of the components and at preservation of intensity. The modifications of pattern, the dismissal into elimination, are in obedience to this aim.

In so far as conceptual mentality does not intervene, the grand patterns pervading the environment are passed on with the inherited modes of adjustment. Here we find the patterns of activity studied by the physicists and chemists. Mentality is merely latent in all these occasions as thus studied. In the case of inorganic Natute any sporadic flashes are inoperative so far as our powers of discernment are concerned. The lowest stages of effective mentality, controlled by the inheritance of physical pattern, involve the faint direction of emphasis by unconscious ideal aim. The various examples of the higher forms of life exhibit the variety of grades of effectiveness of mentality. In the social habits of animals there is evidence of

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text: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 15

title: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 15


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 have memories, we observe the transition of colours. But there is nothing intrinsic to the mere coloured regions which provides any hint of internal activity whereby change can be understood. It is from this experience that our conception of a spatial distribution of passive material substances arises. Nature is thus described as made up of vacuous bits of matter with no internal values, and merely hurrying through space.

But there are two accompaniments of this experience which should make us suspicious of accepting it at its face value as any direct disclosure of the metaphysical nature of things. In the first place, even in visual experience we are also aware of the intervention of the body. We know directly that we see with our eyes. That is a vague feeling, but extremely important. Second, every type of crucial experiment proves that what we see, and where we see it, depend entirely upon the physiological functioning of our

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 body. Any method of making out body function internally in a given way will provide us with an assigned visual sensation. The body is supremely indifferent to the happenings of Nature a short way off, where it places its visual sensa.

Now, the same is true of ail other modes of sensation, only to a greater extent. All sense-perception is merely one outcome of the dependence of our experience upon bodily functionings. Thus, if we wish to understand the relation of our personal experience to the activities of Nature, the proper procedure is to examine the dependence of our personal experiences upon our personal bodies.

Let us ask about out overwhelming persuasions as to our own personal body-mind relation. In the first place, there is the claim to unity. The human individual is one fact, body and mind. This claim to unity is the fundamental fact, always presupposed, rarely

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text: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 16

title: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 16


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might think that borrowing a match upon the street is a simple thing. But any man who has ever tried it will assure you that it is not, and will be prepared to swear to the truth of my experience of the other evening.

I was standing on the corner of the street with a cigar that I wanted to light. I had no match. I waited till a decent, ordinary-looking man came along. Then I said:

"Excuse me, sir, but could you oblige me with the loan of a match?"

"A match?" he said, "why certainly."

Then he unbuttoned his overcoat and put his hand in the pocket of his waistcoat. "I know I have one," he went on, "and I'd almost swear it's in the bottom pocket-or, hold on, though, I guess it may be in the top-just wait till I put these parcels down on the sidewalk."

"Oh, don't trouble," I said, "it's really of no consequence."

"Oh, it's no trouble, I'll have it in a minute; I know there must be one in here somewhere"


text: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 17

title: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 17


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 cules and gaining molecules. When we consider the question with microscopic accuracy, thete is no definite boundary to determine where the body begins and external Nature ends. Again, the body can lose whole limbs, and yet we claim identity with the same body. Also, the vital functions of the celis in the amputated limb ebb slowly. Indeed, the limb survives in separation from the body for an immense time compared to the internal vibratory periods of its molecules, Also, apart fromsuch catastrophes, the body requires the enviroament in otder to exist. Thus, there is a unity of the bedy with the environment, as well as a unity of body and soul into one person.

But in conceiving our personal identity we are apt to emphasize rather the soul than the body. The one individual is that co-ordinated stream or personal experiences which is my thread of life or your thread of life. It is that succession of self-realization,

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text: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 18

title: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 18


text: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 19

title: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 19


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 each occasion with its direct memory of its past and with its anticipation of the future. That claim to enduring self-identity is our self-assertion of personal identity.

Yet, when we examine this notion of the soul, it discloses itself as even vaguer than our definition of the body. First, the continuity of the soul — so far as concerns consciousness — has to leap gaps in time. We sleep or we are stunned. And yet it is the same petson who recovers consciousness. We trust to memory, and we ground our trust on the continuity of the functionings of Nature, more especially on the continuity of our body. Thus, Nature in general and the body in particular provide the stuff for the personal endurance of the soul. Again, there is a curious variation in the vividness of the successive occasions of the soul’s existence. We are living at fall stretch with a keen observation of external occurrence; then external attention dies away and we are

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  —he was digging his fingers into his pockets as he spoke—"but you see this isn't the waistcoat I generally

I saw that the man was getting excited about it. "Well, never mind," I protested; "if that isn't the waistcoat that you generally—why, it doesn't matter."

"Hold on, now, hold on!" the man said, "I've got one of the cursed things in here somewhere. I guess it must be in with my watch. No, it's not there either. Wait till I try my coat. If that confounded tailor only knew enough to make a pocket so that a man could get at it!"

He was getting pretty well worked up now. He had thrown down his walking-stick and was plunging at his pockets with his teeth set. "It's that cursed young boy of mine," he hissed; "this comes of his fooling in my pockets. By Gad! perhaps I won't warm him up when I get home. Say, I'll bet that it's in my hip-pocket. You just hold up the tail of my overcoat a second till I

"No, no," I protested again, "please don't take all this trouble, it really doesn't matter. I'm sure you needn't take off your overcoat, and oh, pray don't throw away your letters


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 lost in meditation; the meditation gradually weakens in vivid presentation — we doze; we dream; we sleep with a total lapse of the stream of consciousness. These functionings of the soul are diverse, variable, and discontinuous. The claim to the unity of the soul is analogous to the claim to the unity of the body, and is analogous to the claim to the unity of body and soul, and is analogous to the claim to the community of the body with an external Nature. It is the task of philosophic speculation to conceive the happenings of the universe so as to render understandable the outlook of physical science and to combine this outlook with these direct persuasions representing the basic facts upon which epistemology must build. The weakness of the epistemology of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was that it based itself purely upon a narrow formulation of sense-perception. Also, among the various modes of sensation, visual

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  and things in the snow like that, and tear out your pockets by the roots! Please, please don't trample over your overcoat and put your feet through the parcels. I do hate to hear you swearing at your little boy, with that peculiar whine in your voice. Don't—please don't tear your clothes so savagely."

Suddenly the man gave a grunt of exultation, and drew his hand up from inside the lining of his coat.

"I've got it," he cried. "Here you are!"

Then he brought it out under the light.

It was a toothpick.

Yielding to the impulse of the moment I pushed him under the wheels of a trolley-car and ran.


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 experience was picked out as the typical example. The result was to exclude all the really fundamental factors constituting our experience.

In such an epistemology we are far from the complex data which philosophic speculation has to account for in a system rendering the whole understandable. Consider the types of community of body and soul, of body and Nature, of soul and Nature, or successive occasions of bodily existence, of the soul’s existence. These fundamental interconnections have one very remarkable characteristic. Let us ask what is the function of the external world for the stream of experience which constitutes the soul. This world, thus experienced, is the basic fact within those experiences. All the emotions, and purposes, and enjoyments, proper to the individual existence of the soul, are nothing other than the soul’s reactions to this experienced wotld which lies at the base of

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 terms of the general functionings of the world.

Thus, as disclosed in the fundamental essence of our experience, the togetherness of things involves some doctrine of mutual immanence. In some sense or other, this community of the actualities of the world means that each happening is a factor in the nature of every other happening. After all, this is the only way in which we can understand notions habitually employed in daily life. Consider our notion of “causation”. How can one event be the cause of another? In the first place, no event can be wholly and solely the cause of another event. The whole antecedent world conspires to produce a new occasion. But some one occasion in an important way conditions the formation of a successor. How can we understand this process of conditioning?

The mere notion of transferring a quality is entirely unintelligible. Suppose that two

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 My reception was precisely as I apprehended. There was no flaring, no flummery, nor bombastical pretensions, but a dignified return to my obeisance, and an immediate recurrence, in converse, to the important duties incumbent on us, in our stations, as reformers and purifiers of the Church.

"I have marked out a number of most dangerous characters in this city," said he, "all of whom must be cut off from cumbering the true vineyard before we leave this land. And if you bestir not yourself in the work to which you are called, I must raise up others who shall have the honour of it."

"I am, most illustrious prince, wholly at your service," said I. "Show but what ought to be done, and here is the heart to dare, and the hand to execute. You pointed out my relations, according to the flesh, as brands fitted to be thrown into the burning. I approve peremptorily of the award; nay, I thirst to accomplish it; for I myself have suffered severely from their diabolical arts. When once that trial of my devotion to the faith is accomplished, then be your future operations disclosed."

"You are free of your words and promises," said he.


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 occurrences may be in fact detached so that one of them is comprehensible without reference to the other. Then all notion of causation between them, or of conditioning, becomes unintelligible. There is — with this supposition — no reason why the possession of any quality by one of them should in any way influence the possession of that quality, or of any other quality, by the other. With such a doctrine the play and interplay of qualitative succession in the world becomes a blank fact from which no conclusions can be drawn as to past, present, or future, beyond the range of direct observation. Such a positivistic belief is quite self-consistent, provided that we do not include in it any hopes fot the future of regrets for the past. Science is then without any importance. Also effort is foolish, because it determines nothing. The only intelligible doctrine of causation is founded on the doctrine of immanence. Each occasion presupposes the

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 "So will I be of my deeds in the service of my master, and that shalt thou see," said I. "I lack not the spirit, nor the will, but I lack experience wofully; and because of that shortcoming, must bow to your suggestions."

"Meet me here to-morrow betimes," said he, "and perhaps you may hear of some opportunity of displaying your zeal in the cause of righteousness."

I met him as he desired me; and he addressed me with a hurried and joyful expression, telling me that my brother was astir, and that a few minutes ago he had seen him pass on his way to the mountain. "The hill is wrapped in a cloud," added he, "and never was there such an opportunity of executing divine justice on a guilty sinner. You may trace him in the dew, and shall infallibly find him on the top of some precipice; for it is only in secret that he dares show his debased head to the sun."

"I have no arms, else assuredly I would pursue him and discomfit him," said I.

"Here is a small dagger," said he; "I have nothing of weapon-kind about me save that, but it


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 is a potent one; and should you require it, there is nothing more ready or sure."

"Will not you accompany me?" said I: "Sure you will?"

"I will be with you, or near you," said he. "Go you on before."

I hurried away as he directed me, and imprudently asked some of Queensberry's guards if such and such a young man passed by them going out from the city. I was answered in the affirmative, and till then had doubted of my friend's intelligence, it was so inconsistent with a profligate's life to be so early astir. When I got the certain intelligence that my brother was before me, I fell a-running, scarcely knowing what I did; and looking several times behind me, I perceived nothing of my zealous and arbitrary friend. The consequence of this was, that by the time I reached St. Anthony's well, my resolution began to give way. It was not my courage, for now that I had once shed blood in the cause of the true faith, I was exceedingly bold and ardent; but whenever I was left to myself, I was subject to sinful doubtings. These always hankered on one point: I doubted


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 we are an activity within our body. This fact of observation, vague but imperative, is the foundation of the connexity of the world, and of the transmission of its types of order.

In this survey of the observational data in terms of which our philosophic cosmology must be founded, we have brought together the conclusions of physical science, and those habitual persuasions dominating the sociological functionings of mankind. These persuasions also guide the humanism of literature, of art, and of religion. Mere existence has never entered into the consciousness of man, except as the remote terminus of an abstraction in thought. Descartes’ “Cogito, ergo sum” is wrongly translated, “I think therefore I am”. It is never bare thought or bare existence that we are aware of. I find myself as essentially a unity of emotions, enjoyments, hopes, fears, regrets, valuations of alternatives, decisions — all of them subjective reactions to the environment as

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 active in my nature. My unity — which is Descartes’ “I am.” — is my process of shaping this welter of material into a consistent pattern of feelings. The individual enjoyment is what I am in my rôle of a natural activity, as I shape the activities of the environment into a new creation, which is myself at this moment; and yet, as being myself, it is a continuation of the antecedent world. If we stress the rôle of the environment, this process is causation. If we stress the rôle of my immediate pattern of active enjoyment, this process is self-creation. If we stress the rôle of the conceptual anticipation of future whose existence is a necessity in the Nature of the present, this process is the teleological aim at some ideal in the future. This aim, however, is not really beyond the present process. For the aim at the future is an enjoyment in the present. It thus effectively conditions the immediate self-creation of the new creature.

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text: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 20

title: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 20


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 antecedent world as active in its own nature. This is the reason why events have a determinate status relatively to each other. Also, it is the reason why the qualitative energies of the past are combined into a pattern of qualitative energies in each present occasion. This is the doctrine of causation. It is the reason why it belongs to the essence of each occasion that it is where it is. It is the reason for the transference of character from occasion to occasion. It is the reason for the relative stability of laws of Nature, some laws for a wider environment, some laws for a narrower environment. It is the reason why — as we have already noted — in our direct apprehension of the world around us we find that curious habit of claiming a twofold unity with the observed data. We are in the world and the world is in us. Our immediate occasion is in the society of occasions forming the soul, and our soul is in our present occasion. The body is ours, and

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text: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 21

title: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 21


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 the soul’s existence. Thus, in a sense, the experienced world is one complex factor in the composition of many factors constituting the essence of the soul. We can phrase this shortly by saying that in one sense the world is in the soul.

But there is an antithetical doctrine balancing this primary truth. Namely, our experience of the world involves the exhibition of the soul itself as one of the components within the worid. Thus, there is a dual aspect to the relationship of an occasion of experience as one relatum and the experienced wotid as another relatum. The world is included within the occasion in one sense, and the occasion is included in the world in another sense. For example, I am in the room, and the room is an item in my present experience. But my present experience is what I now am.

But this baffling antithetical relation extends to all the connections which we have

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text: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 22

title: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 22


text:
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 been discussing. For example, consider the enduring self-identity of the soul. The soul is nothing else than the succession of my occasions of experience, extending from birth to the present moment. Now, at this instant, I am the complete person embodying all these occasions. They are mine. On the other hand, it is equally true that my immediate occasion of experience, at the present moment, is only one among the stream of occasions which constitutes my soul. Again, the world for me is nothing else than how the functionings of my body present it for my experience. The world is thus wholly to be discerned within those functionings. Knowledge of the world is nothing else than an analysis of the functionings. And yet, on the other hand, the body is merely one society of functionings within the universal society of the world. We have to construe the world in terms of the bodily society, and the bodily society in

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text: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 23

title: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 23


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 We can now again ask the final question as put forward at the close of the former lecture. Physical science has reduced Nature to activity, and has discovered abstract mathematical formulae which are illustrated in these activities of Nature. But the fundamental question remains: How do we add content to the notion of bare activity? This question can only be answered by fusing life with Nature.

In the first place, we must distinguish life from mentality. Mentality involves conceptual experience, and is only one variable ingredient in life. The sort of functioning here termed “conceptual experience” is the entertainment of possibilities fot ideal realization in abstraction from any sheer physical realization. The most obvious example of conceptual experience is the entertainment of alternatives. Life lies below this grade of mentality. Life is the enjoyment of emotion, derived from the past and aimed at the future. It is the enjoyment of emotion

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text: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 24

title: The Mysterious Warning/Chapter 24


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 which was then, which is now, and which will be then. This vector character is of the essence of such entertainment. The emotion transcends the present in two ways. It issues from, and it issues toward. It is received, it is enjoyed, and it is passed along, from moment to moment. Each occasion is an activity of concern, in the Quaker sense of that term. It is the conjunction of transcendence and immanence. The occasion is concerned, in the way of feeling and aim, with things that in theiz own essence lie beyond it; although these things in their present functions are factors in the concern of that occasion. Thus, each occasion, although engaged in its own immediate self-realization, is concerned with the whiverse.

The process is always a process of modification by ceason of thenumberless avenues of supply, and by reason of the numberless modes of qualitative textate. The unity of emotion, which is the unity of the present occasion, is a patterned texture of qualities,

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 versity forms the contrast which that item yields for the religious experience. So far as the conformity is incomplete, there is evil in the world.

The evidence for the assertion of general, though not universal, concurrence in the doctrine of no direct vision of a personal God, can only be found by a consideration of the religious thought in the civilized world. Here the sources of the evidence can only be indicated.

Throughout India and China religious thought, so far as it has been interpreted in precise form, disclaims the intuition of any ultimate personality substantial to the universe. This is true for Confucian philosophy, Buddhist philosophy, and Hindoo philosophy. There may be personal embodiments, but the substratum is impersonal.

Christian theology has also, in the main, adopted the position that there is no direct intuition of such an ultimate personal substratum for the world. It maintains the

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 doctrine of the existence of a personal God as a truth, but holds that our belief in it is based upon inference. Most theologians hold that this inference is sufficiently obvious to be made by all men upon the basis of their individual personal experience. But, be this as it may, it is an inference and not a direct intuition. This is the general doctrine of those traditionalist churches which more especially claim the title of Catholic; and contrary doctrines have, I believe, been offcially condemned by the Roman Catholic Church: for example, the religious philosophy of Rosmini.

Greek thought, when it began to scrutinize the traditional cults, took the same line. In some form or other all attempts to formulate the doctrines of a rational religion in ancient Greece took their stand upon the Pythagorean notion of a direct intuition of a righteousness in the nature of things, functioning as a condition, a critic, and an ideal. Divine personality was in the nature of an inference

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 from the directly apprehended law of nature, so far as it was inferred. Of course, there were many cults of divine persons within the nature of things. The question in discussion concerns a divine person, substrate to the nature of things.

This question of the ultimate nature of direct religious experience is very fundamental to the religious situation of the modern world. In the first place, if you make religious experience to be the direct intuition of a personal being substrate to the universe, there is no widespread basis of agreement to appeal to. The main streams of religious thought start with direct contradictions to each other. For those who proceed in this way, and it is a usual form of modern appeal, there is only one hope — to supersede reason by emotion. Then you can prove anything, except to reasonable people. But reason is the safeguard of the objectivity of religion: it secures for it the general coherence denied to hysteria.

Another objection against this appeal to

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 such an intuition, merely experienced in exceptional moments, is that the intuition is thereby a function of these moments. Anything which explains the origin of such moments, in respect to their emotional accompaniments, can then fairly be taken to be an explanation of the intuition. Thus the intuition becomes a private psychological habit, and is without general evidential force. This is the psychological interpretation which is fatal to evidence unable to maintain itself at all emotional temperatures amid great variety of environment.

Here a distinction must be drawn. Intuitions may first emerge as distinguished in consciousness under exceptional circumstances. But when some distinct idea has been once experienced, or suggested, it should then have its own independence of irrelevancies. Thus we may not know some arithmetical truth, and require some exceptional help to detect it. But when known, arithmetic is a permanent possession. The psychological interpretation, assigning a merely

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 people to my house. You will gratify me very much by coming. You will see how wonderfully well Tyrrannio has arranged my books, the remains of which are much better than I had thought. And I should be very glad if you could send me a couple of your library clerks whom Tyrrannio could make use of as binders, and to help him in other ways; and tell them to bring some parchment to make indices—syllabuses, I believe you Greeks call them. But this only if quite convenient to you. But, at any rate, be sure you come yourself, if you can make any stay in our parts, and bring Pilia with you, for that is but fair, and Tullia wishes it much. Upon my word you have bought a very fine place. I hear that your gladiators fight capitally. If you had cared to hire them out, you might have cleared your expenses at these two last public shows. But we can talk about this hereafter. Be sure to come; and do your best about the clerks, if you love me."

The Roman gentleman of elegant and accomplished tastes, keeping a troop of private gladiators, and thinking of hiring them out, to our notions, is a curious combination of character; but the taste was not essentially more brutal than the prize-ring and the cockfights of the last century.

Another of Cicero's favourite correspondents was Papirius Pætus, who seems to have lived at home at ease, and taken little part in the political tumults of

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 his day. Like Atticus, he was an Epicurean, and thought more of the pleasures of life than of its cares and duties. Yet Cicero evidently took great pleasure in his society, and his letters to him are written in the same familiar and genial tone as those to his old schoolfellow. Some of them throw a pleasant light upon the social habits of the day. Cicero had had some friends staying with him at his country-seat at Tusculum, to whom, he says, he had been giving lessons in oratory. Dolabella, his son-in-law, and Hirtius, the future consul, were among them. "They are my scholars in declamation, and I am theirs in dinner-eating; for I conclude you have heard (you seem to hear everything) that they come to me to declaim, and I go to them for dinners. 'Tis all very well for you to swear that you cannot entertain me in such grand fashion as I am used to, but it is of use Better be victimised by your friend than by your debtors, as you have been. After all, I don't require such a banquet as leaves a great waste behind it; a little will do, only handsomely served and well cooked. I remember your telling me about a dinner of Phamea's—well, it need not be such a late affair as that, nor so grand in other respects; nay, if you persist in giving me one of your mother's old family dinners, I can stand even that. My new reputation for good living has reached you, I find, before my arrival, and you are alarmed at it; but, pray, put no trust in your ante-courses—I have given up that altogether. I used to spoil my appetite, I remember, upon your oil and sliced sausages One expense I really shall put you to; I must

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. I have dined well, Isabel; I have dined extremely well.

. It is a great pleasure to me.

. Who is playing now? That cannot be Luisita.

. No, it is the groom. He plays excellently, with rare feeling.

. Is that how you knew that it was not Luisita?

. I marvel at that young man. His wife ought to be very happy.

. Well, she does not look happy to me.

. Why? Ridiculous!

. Isabel, I am a blunt man. I have been able to swallow everything at this dinner except that couple. They stick in my throat.

. Perfectly disgusting! I hope you don't mind what he says.

. Antipathies, like sympathies, are instinctive.

. It seems incredible that that boy should be Barona's son—Barona, a man of affairs, a forceful, energetic character! To be sure he always complained of his wife, because she brought up his children badly. What sort of woman has this fellow married? Isabel, I am a blunt man

. Ramón! Be careful! 255


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 laughed. Caroline animated him with half concealed and half visible caresses, and the warmth of friendship soon blazed perceptibly up in the flame of love. Every member of our happy society was charmed with the dear object of our love, and applauded his enchanting ideas; I alone sat mute, and, at the sight of his happiness, felt myself consumed by a secret fire, for which I neither could nor would account.

Here begins a period of my life, on which I cannot reflect without despising myself; in which I was misled by a glowing passion to forget every thing that was dear to me, and that I ever should have held sacred. And, gracious Heaven! what a passion? Not that of a first love, in which the heated blood urges us to sacrifice all prejudices, and every idea that opposes our desires; it was not that love which boldly breaks all the fetters of human nature, and even tears all other softer ties; no, it was a passion kindled by jealousy after the first bloom of life was past,

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 and numberless painful experiences ought to have put me on my guard, after love even had lavished all her blessings on me; a hopeless, unhappy passion, inflamed by impossibility, and combating the most sacred duties. What a misfortune is it to have been for some time the favourite of fortune! Nothing had been able to resist me as yet, but here was the boundary of my power; and while I attempted to overleap it, I was in danger to lose a friend, a real treasure, in the pursuit of an imaginary one.

I was the only person in our cheerful circle that did not sincerely share the general flow of pleasure which pervaded the heart of every one present. The smile of cheerfulness sat on my lips, but baneful poison rankled in my heart. My eyes, which scarcely were able to retain the tear of painful disappointment, were overclouded with a mist. Every innocent glance of Caroline's looks, meeting those of the enraptured Count, stung me to the

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. Of what? We are as much at home as if this were our own family. Isabel is—what shall I say?—she is like a sister to me; I have sisters and brothers of whom I am not nearly so fond. And I am fond of Gonzalo, too. We have been in business together since we were boys; he has always been good to me. No doubt he has his faults, but what of it? Who has not? They do not interfere with me, so why should I complain? I must say, though, Isabel, that when Gonzalo knows what he does know about this young woman who has married herself to our correspondent's son, yes, to the son of our friend—and I know it, too—well, he has no right to introduce her into your house.

. Ramón! Ramón!

. I know what I am talking about.

. Do you suppose Gonzalo knows?

. Of course he does. This girl's mother is an impudent hussy, a Spaniard who ran off to Paris with a commercial traveller. The daughter went on the stage there—the stage, did I say? It was in a café concert. You can guess what she was. Then the mother and daughter set their caps for this fool. Here they are now posing as ladies under your protection and sitting beside our daughters; you ought not to consent to it—it is a thing Gonzalo has no right to do. That boy will never have that position if my vote counts for anything. I am very fond of you, Isabel, I do not need to tell you that; and I shall always take your part, whatever happens—always.

. Thank you, Ramón, thank you very much…

. I hope she has not forgotten that this is just after dinner. Otherwise, what will she think? Why do you bother poor Isabel?


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Rh apply the name Pattoniana to the bluish form, as it is the earliest name of the wild plant, and to consider the green-foliaged plant to be a variety of it, which may be called var. Jeffreyi.

The two forms are distinguished as follows:—

1. Var. typica. The form distinguished in cultivation by its bluish foliage. Introduced in 1854 by William Murray, who found the tree on Scots Mountain, in California.

Leaves, though radially arranged, tending on the lower side of the shoot to be in the plane of the branch and not spreading; those on the upper side of the shoot curved and directed outwards and forwards. They are long and narrow, $1/2$ to $7/8$ inch long, and $1/20$ inch wide, entire in margin, convex on both surfaces, the groove in the median line above being very short or absent and never continued to the apex of the leaf, which is rounded or acute; both surfaces marked with conspicuous lines of stomata extending from the base to the apex of the leaf.

2. Var. Jeffreyi. Only known in cultivation, distinguished by its greenish foliage.

Leaves spreading radially and directed outwards (never forwards) on all sides of the shoot; straight, short, and broad, less than $1/2$ inch long and about $1/16$ inch in width, serrulate in margin; upper surface flattened and distinctly grooved, the groove continued to the rounded apex; lower surface convex, with lines of stomata the whole length of the leaf. On the upper surface the stomata only occur in four to six broken lines towards the apex.

This form agrees with the typical form in the character of the buds and pubescence of the branchlets; the shoots, however, are not so slender.

Mr. Gorman gives the following account of the supposed Alpine form, alluded to above:—"Among the hardy alpine trees Hooker's hemlock stands pre-eminent, having a northern range far beyond that of even the white-barked pine. It is a small, dwarfed and stunted tree compared with the type, and seldom exceeds 12 inches diameter or 30 feet in height. It usually ranges in altitude from 5500 to 6400 feet, but is occasionally found up to and beyond 7000 feet where it can find sufficient moisture. Though generally favouring the heads of moist valleys it is sometimes to be found on the leeward side of peaks and slopes, where snowbanks of sufficient size have formed in winter to maintain an adequate supply of moisture during the rest of the year. It is in the latter situations where the tree reaches its highest altitude. In addition to its smaller size and more alpine habit it further differs from its nearest congener in having thinner bark and small erect cones, all the other hemlocks having pendent cones. The tree is too small and inaccessible to have any economic value."

This seems to be distinguished principally by its erect cones. Sargent, who alludes to Gorman's account, does not consider this variation to be worthy of distinc-


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 heart; every tender gesture of hers threatened to choke me. I laughed immoderately, to conceal the real cause of the big tears that started from my heavy eyes, and to disguise the visible agitation of my bosom.

Yet my strange alteration did not escape the Count's keen sightedness. He now took a too small share in the general flow of pleasure as not to be a good observer, and repeatedly extended his hand to me over the table to reconcile me to him. I accepted, but could not have squeezed it for the world. My cheerfulness was so unnatural, so extravagant, that I am astonished it did not strike the whole company.

"Dear Marquis," said he, as soon as we were left to ourselves, "dear Marquis, what ails you?"

I had squeezed myself into a corner of the sofa, absorpt in a profound reverie, averting my weeping eyes from the Count, and turning them towards the window, through which the pale light of the moon

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Rh sources of the Stehekin, where it attains a very fair size for this region, ranging from 50 to 90 feet in height and from 12 to 27 inches in diameter. The altitudinal range is greater than was expected, from 3100 feet to 5800 feet, and a tree supposed to be of this species was found as low as 2100 feet in the Stehekin Valley.

"The tree is sometimes taken for the western hemlock, but may be distinguished by the erect top of the sapling, the cones long, purple, and more or less massed about the top of the tree; and the mature tree has an unusually thick, roughly corrugated bark: while in the western hemlock the top is generally drooping, the cones small, oval, and brown, and well distributed over the branches, and the mature tree has a comparatively thin bark. The wood is close grained and of fine texture, and is quite suitable for lumber or fuel, but is not much used on account of its growing usually in inaccessible situations."

Near Crater Lake in Southern Oregon, Mr. Leiberg (Cascade Forest Reserve Report, pp. 245, 259), says:—"A few scattered groves of Patton hemlock occur in the southern tracts, some of which are of large size, occasional individuals reaching six to seven feet in diameter. Occasional stands of Patton hemlock 200 to 300 years old exhibit fine proportions at this elevation, 6000 feet; the species usually grows in close groups, composed of ten or twenty individuals, collected together on what appears to be a common root; such close growth develops clear trunks, though not commonly of large diameter. Stands of this character sometimes run as high as 25,000 feet per acre."

Though now introduced for about fifty-five years this tree has made but little show in our gardens, as the climate of most parts of England is probably too warm for it. I have seen flourishing specimens of no great size in several places, the best, perhaps, being one at Tyberton Court, Herefordshire, the seat of Chandos Lee Warner, Esq., where there is a tree of the typical form 43 feet high by about 3½ feet in girth, said to be fifty years old, and perhaps one of those introduced by William Murray, and sent out by Lawson.

In Scotland it seems to thrive even better, especially at Murthly Castle, where there is a fine group of trees on a lawn (Plate 67). When measured for the Conifer Conference in 1892 the best of these was 35 feet by 3 feet 10 inches, another 30 feet by 4 feet. When I last saw them in September 1906 the tallest tree on the left of the row was 47 feet by 3 feet 8 inches, the tree in the middle with weeping branches 43 feet by 4 feet 2 inches, and the thickest between these two was 6 feet 7 inches in girth. The difference in the habit'of these three is well shown in the plate. They produced seed in 1887, from which a number were raised and planted at Murthly. These have grown slowly, and the tallest in 1906 were six or seven feet high, though quite healthy; and the growth of seedlings which I raised from seed gathered on Mount Rainier is extremely slow.

At Keillour, Henry measured, in 1904, a specimen which was 4o feet by 3 feet 9 inches; and at the Cairnies, near Perth, the seat of Major R.M. Patton, there were in 1892 two specimens little inferior to those at Murthly. Rh


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Rh

On the west coast of North America it extends southwards from south-eastern Alaska, where it forms the greater part of the great coast forest, which reaches from sea-level up to about 2000 feet, and is associated with Menzies's spruce.

In British Columbia it is very abundant on the coast, and extends as far inland as the heavy rainfall reaches up the valley of the Frazer, on the Gold and Selkirk ranges, and east of the Columbia valley nearly up to the continental divide. In Vancouver's Island it forms with the Douglas fir and red cedar a large though not economically important part of the forest. In Washington and Oregon it is also one of the principal elements of the forest, of which, in the Cascade Forest Reserve, it forms about nine per cent of the timber, and extends up to 5000 feet, crossing the watershed of the coast range in lat. 45°.

In the drier parts of southern Oregon it becomes rare, and though it occurs in the redwood forests of northern California as far south as Cape Mendocino, I did not see it on the Siskyou mountains or on Mount Shasta. In the interior it is found in the wetter parts of northern Montana, Idaho, and in southern British Columbia, where, in company with Douglas spruce, Picea Engelmanni, Abies grandis, and Larix occidentalis, it sometimes forms a considerable part of the forest, and reaches up to 6000 feet in the Coeur d'Alène mountains, though I did not see it in the valley of the Blackfoot river, near Missoula, where the climate is drier.

It attains its finest development on the coasts of Washington and Oregon, where Sargent says that it attains 200 feet in height, with a stem 20 to 30 feet in girth. Plummer, in his Report on the Mount Rainier Forest Reserve, says (p. 101) that it attains an extreme diameter of 6 feet, with a height of 250 feet, of which half to two-thirds is crown. The largest that I actually measured, however, on my visit to Mount Rainier in August 1904, were under 200 feet, with a girth of 12 to 14 feet, and these were growing mixed with Tsuga Pattoniana at an elevation of 4000 to 5000 feet.

In the Cascade Reserve Forest of northern Oregon, near Bridal Veil, at about 3500 feet elevation, I measured and Mr. Kiser photographed a tree 175 feet high and 16 feet 6 inches in girth, with a clean bole of about 60 feet, but I am unable to reproduce this, as the negative has not arrived.

The growth of seedlings in all the forests that I saw was exceptionally good. Mr. H.D. Langille says, p. 36:—

"Certain cone-bearers are better adapted for restocking than others, though the reasons are not apparent. For example, young lovely firs (A. amabilis) are abundant everywhere within the zone of that species, whilst noble fir (A. nobilis), having a cone and seed of very similar size and nature, seldom germinates, and a seedling of that species is rarely seen.


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. I suppose I said what I did because I have had too much champagne?

. No, of course not. But I am sorry for poor Isabel.

. So am I. I am out of patience with Gonzalo; that is why I cannot hold my tongue. Nobody expects a married man to be as ideally faithful as his wife, but he ought to stray only occasionally, when it is of no importance. This notion of never being without a love-affair on his hands when he has a wife like Isabel… How have you the effrontery to complain of me? Compare us, now compare us…

. I? Complain of you? Never!

. Yes, you do. Women's imaginations are too active; you are too much given to romance. Did you notice Isabel's martyred air? Well, she enjoys it; she likes to feel her husband is that way. All this talk about love-affairs, about women who have lost their heads over him, this never being certain whether he is hers or whether he is not, makes him important in her eyes and surrounds him with a poetic halo. Isabel is more in love with her husband every day, you can take it from me, which she would never be after having been married all these years if Gonzalo were a husband like I am—without accidents, or anything that is romantic. Come, now, be honest: have you ever appreciated my incredible fidelity in the least? You think it is not virtue, but lack of ability to make myself attractive. Yes, you do. You do not love me as Isabel loves Gonzalo. I am a simple bourgeois, all prose, who is good enough to work and to strike balances, and provide for the future of my children. Why, if some day some hussy should come along and turn my head—which God forbid—yes, if it were for no more than half an hour—I should feel all the while that I


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 was robbing you and the children, and I could never forgive myself, even though you might forgive me.

. Yes, there are things which we can never forgive ourselves. But don't hurt Isabel. Surely she must have noticed that woman coquetting with her husband, when everybody else has noticed it.

. Coquetting? Coquetting? Well, I call it cocotting, and precious little pretense about it either. That is the only term that describes it.

. Isabel again!… Change the subject.

. [To ] I must say that you are unobservant. I have been pulling at your sleeve for the past half-hour, as a signal for you to follow me; but you were oblivious. I wish to speak with you.

. Didn't you see María Antonia pulling me by the other sleeve as a signal for me not to follow? She also wishes to speak with me.

. When it is a question between mother and daughter, although the heart may incline to youth, courtesy must sacrifice itself to age.

. In this case, courtesy and the heart were of one accord, but María Antonia has a grip which is terrific. However, I remain in my part.

. In your part? What is your part?

. Don't you know, my friend? That of universal confidant, of everybody's friend, or rather the friend of everybody's friend. I am like a telephone central; people call me up in order to establish a connection. It is not a glorious rôle, as you must confess.

. But how necessary!


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 thoughtles, giddy Youth, with little Sobriety in his Manners, and les in his Countenance; and would often very impudently and indecently laugh at his Companion for his erious Behaviour.

Mr. Square had the ame Reaon for his Preference of the former Lad; for Tom Jones hewed no more Regard to the learned Dicoures which this Gentleman would ometimes throw away upon him, than to thoe of Thwackum. He once ventured to make a Jet of the Rule of Right; and at another Time aid, He believed there was no Rule in the World capable of making uch a Man as his Father, (for o Mr. Allworthy uffered himelf to be called).

Mater Blifil, on the contrary, had Addres enough at ixteen to recommend himelf at one and the ame Time to both thee Oppoites. With one he was all Religion, with the other he was all Virtue. And when both were preent, he was profoundly ilent, which both interpreted in his Favour and their own.

Nor was Blifil contented with flattering both thee Gentlemen to their Faces; he took frequent Occaions of praiing them


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 behind their Backs to Allworthy; before whom, when they were alone together, and when his Uncle commended any religious or virtuous Sentiment (for many uch came contantly from him) he eldom fail’d to acribe it to the good Intructions he had received from either Thwackum or Square: For he knew his Uncle repeated all uch Compliments to the Perons for whoe Ue they were mean; and he found by Experience the great Impreions which they made on the Philoopher, as well as on the Divine: For, to ay the Truth, there is no kind of Flattery o irreitible as this, at econd Hand.

The young Gentleman, moreover, oon perceived how extremely grateful all thoe Panegyricks on his Intructors were to Mr. Allworthy himelf, as they o loudly reounded the Praie of that ingular Plan of Education which he had laid down: For this worthy Man having obverved the imperfect Intitution of our public Schools, and the many Vices which Boys were there liable to learn, had reolved to educate his Nephew, as well as the other Lad, whom he had in a Manner adopted, in his own Houe; where he thought their Morals would ecape all that Danger of being cor-


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. Cervantes said something of the sort concerning an occupation very similar to mine; he said that it was necessary in any well-ordered republic.

. I am not asking now for a connection; on the contrary, I wish to discontinue service.

. What did I tell you? In any event, mine is an intermediary rôle.

. Is Federico Reinosa, the author, one of your friends?

. Do you mean the dreamer?

. Infinitely more dangerous! Authors who write their dreams exhaust themselves in the process, but dreamers who never write but attempt to live out their dreams, neither rest nor give others any rest. Life to them is a blank page which they are at liberty to dash off at their pleasure.

. Apparently you know Federico

. Yes, he is madly in love with María Antonia. I am told that you enjoy his confidence

. I merely offer him advice.

. Good advice?

. Naturally, as I am fond of María Antonia. I know the value of example and bringing-up, and María Antonia has never had anything but bringing-up, and examples of virtue in her mother and in you.

. When virtue has always been touched with sadness in a girl's experience, is it likely that at twenty she will resign herself to a life of suffering, unless her love is so impassioned, so blind, that it is able to transform even sorrow into something more precious than joy?

. True, María Antonia was not violently in love when she married. But Pepe is a nice boy. He may make a slip now and then

. Slip? María Antonia is wearing her heart out


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 rupted, to which they would be unavoidably expoed in any public School or Univerity.

Having therefore determined to commit thee Boys to the Tuition of a private Tutor, Mr. Thwackum was recommended to him for that Office, by a very particular Friend, of whoe Undertanding Mr. Allworthy had a great Opinion, and in whoe Integrity he placed much Confidence. This Thwackum was a Fellow of a College, where he almot entirely reided; and had a great Reputation for Learning, Religion and Sobriety of Manners. And thee were doubtles the Qualifications by which Mr. Allworthy’s Friend had been induced to recommend him; tho’ indeed this Friend had ome Obligations to Thwackum’s Family, who were the mot coniderable Perons in a Borough which that Gentleman repreented in Parliament.

Thwackum, at his firt Arrival, was extremely agreeable to Allworthy; and indeed he perfectly anwered the Character which had been given of him. Upon longer Acquaintance, however, and more intimate Converation, this worthy Man aw Infirmities in the Tutor, which he could have


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 because of his slips. I live in terror of slips, so I wish to prevent María Antonia from making any. She has the greatest confidence in you; besides, you are Federico's friend. Tell me honestly what you know. Does he speak much of María Antonia?

. Incessantly; yes, indeed! He is in love with her madly.

. But does he…

. What are you asking me? I merely offer him good advice, which I do very easily by repeating for his benefit the precepts which I have urged so frequently upon myself.

. I remember—in that great passion of your life, to which you remain faithful even yet. Then by your love for María Antonia's mother, which was all admiration and all respect, help me to protect her daughter, the daughter of the woman you so dearly loved!

. And always did respect.

. So the memory of her love has become the religion of your life. Would you have had it otherwise? I trust you entirely. I fear for María Antonia, it is useless to conceal it; there is something in her attitude which makes me apprehensive of the worst. Be fair with me, and warn me when there is danger. I love María Antonia as if she were my own child.

. I am sure of it, but why worry? Federico has no reason to suspect my interest in this affair. He trusts me implicitly.

. Thanks, my friend, my good and loyal friend.

. The friend of everybody—always the friend. The world lives around me; men love, quarrel, suffer—and then they tell me about it. And so I live.

. In the memory of a great love, which at least is something.


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 wihed him to have been without; tho’ as thoe eemed greatly over-ballanced by his good Qualities, they did not incline Mr. Allworthy to part with him; nor would they indeed have jutified uch a Proceeding: For the Reader is greatly mitaken, if he conceives that Thwackum appeared to Mr. Allworthy in the ame Light as he doth to him in this Hitory; and he is as much deceived, if he imagines, that the mot intimate Acquaintance which he himelf could have had with that Divine, would have informed him of thoe Things which we, from our Inpiration, are enabled to open and dicover. Of Readers who from uch Conceits as thee, condemn the Widom or Penetration of Mr. Allworthy, I hall not cruple to ay, that they make a very bad and ungrateful Ue of that Knowledge which we have communicated to them.

Thee apparent Errors in the Doctrine of Thwackum, erved greatly to palliate the contrary Errors in that of Square, which our good Man no les aw and condemned. He thought indeed that the different Exuberancies of thee Gentlemen, would correct their different Imperfections; and that from both, epecially with his Aitance, the two Lads would derive ufficient Precepts of true Re-


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. Only it was not love. It was merely a great friendship.

. Are you whispering secrets?

. Why are you running away? What are they doing in the other room?

. Who cares? It does not interest me. Manuel, you forgot to finish that story; I found it extremely amusing.

. What story?

. Oh, an account of some pranks of Federico Reinosa's—eccentricities of an artist.

. Does he still visit your house frequently?

. No, he and Pepe had a falling out—some difference about art. They both became excited, and, needless to say, when Pepe becomes excited, he forgets himself completely.

. Was Pepe the only one who forgot himself?

. Federico is a perfect gentleman, who would be incapable of acting discourteously, as Manuel knows. [To ] Naturally, you have seen very little of him.

. Although I have heard him talked about a great deal.

. Is that so? By whom?

. By you. I have hinted it several times, but it has escaped your attention. It may not have escaped everybody's.

. It certainly has Pepe's. Pepe is an Othello when it is a question of one of his stage princesses, but when his wife is concerned, he is no better than any other husband. In his eyes I am so insignificant that he never bothers his head about me. If anybody were to tell him that


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On the Mammalia of North Greenland, and Grinnell Land

On the Mammalia of North Greenland, and Grinnell Land by Henry Wemyss Feilden was published in 1877 in The Zoologist, 3rd series, vol 1 in two parts:
 * Part I, in: issue 8 (August, 1877), p. 313–321
 * Part II, in: issue 9 (September, 1877), p. 353–361


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52

Beside the crystal fount he lay,

Gazing enrapt, the live-long day,

Enamoured of the shadow he

Saw in the fount so perfectly,

Until he sighed away his breath;

And lastly found thereby sweet death.

Now hearken while the tale I tell.

How on his heart Love’s vengeance fell.

When plain it was that he nowise

Could gain that thing which in his eyes

Alone seemed good, and when he knew

How hopeless all his longing grew

Of sweet fulfilment, and that ne’er

Could he in that he longed for share

And have his joyance, then he lost

In wrath his reason, and the frost

Of death came o’er him. Thus was heard

The prayer of that sweet nymph whose word

Of love he rudely scorned. O fair

And gentle ladies, be ye ware

By this example that your ears

Ye shut not hardily, nor tears

Despise of those who seek your love,

Lest ye with vain remorse should prove,

How God doth punish those who leave

Kind swains to die, or vainly grieve.

Assured the fair inscription writ

Above the fountain pointed it

Most plainly for the self-same one

Whereby Narcisse had been foredone,

My impulse was towards speedy flight,

Without one glance within the bright


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Rh

But treacherous wave; the very thought

Of sad Narcissus’ dooming brought

Fear to my heart. But soon I said:

“Whereof, O man, art thou afraid?

’Twere madness didst thou not essay

This fount wherein sweet sunbeams play.”

Forthwith then on my knees I sank,

Pressing the verdant mossy bank

With wish more closely to behold

The flood, and pebbles note (than gold

More bright), that freely paved the floor

Of that fair fount.

Without the door

Of paradise the blest, I ween

No sight more beauteous may be seen

Than this bright well. The gushing source

Springs ever fresh and sweet. Its course

It takes through runnels twain, full deep,

And broadly trenched; it knows no sleep

By day or night, for ne’er ’tis dried

By wasting drought of summer tide,

Nor hath stern winter’s iron hand

The power to make its waters stand

Immovable, but out the ground

Its babble calls, the whole year round,

Close, tender herbage, which doth push

Unceasingly, strong, thick and lush.

Fast in the fountain’s pavement shone

Two sparkling spheres of crystal stone,

Whereon my gaze with wonder fell:

And, when the tale thereof I tell,

Your ears will tingle as I trow,

And pleasure unto marvel grow.


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 pummelling her in the Rue Gay-Lussac. He hastened to remonstrate; and the husband went off, hiccoughing of his outraged rights, and calling the universe to witness that he would have the law of the meddling stranger. Pair picked the girl up (she was scarcely eighteen then, and had only been married a sixmonth), he picked her up from where she had fallen, half fainting, on the pavement, carried her to his lodgings, which were at hand, and sent for a doctor. In his manuscript-littered study for rather more than nine weeks she lay on a bed of fever, the consequence of blows, exhaustion, and exposure. When she got well there was no talk of her leaving. Pair couldn't let her go back to her tailor; he couldn't turn her into the streets. Besides, during the months that he had nursed her, he had somehow conceived a great tenderness for her; it made his heart burn with grief and anger to think of what she had suffered in the past, and he yearned to sustain and protect and comfort her for the future. This perhaps was no more than natural; but, what rather upset the calculations of his friends, she, towards whom he had established himself in the relation of a benefactor, bore him, instead of a grudge therefor, a passionate gratitude and affection. So, Pair said, they were only waiting till her tailor should drink himself to death, to get married; and meanwhile, he exacted for her all the respect that would have been due to his wife; and everybody called her by his name. She was a pretty little thing, very daintily formed, with tiny hands and feet, and big gipsyish brown eyes; and very delicate, very fragile—she looked as if anything might carry her off. Her name, Godeleine, seeming much too grand and mediæval for so small and actual a person, Pair had turned it into Godelinette.

We all said, "He is splendidly gifted; he will do great things." He had studied at Cambridge and at Leipsic before coming to Paris. He was learned, enlightened, and extremely modern; he

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 was a hard worker. We said he would do great things; but I thought in those days, and indeed I still think—and, what is more to the purpose, men who were themselves musicians and composers, men whose names are known, were before me in thinking—that he had already done great things, that the songs he had already published were achievements. They seemed to us original in conception, accomplished and felicitous in treatment; they were full of melody and movement, full of harmonic surprises; they had style and they had "go." One would have imagined they must please at once the cultivated and the general public. I could never understand why they weren't popular. They would be printed; they would be praised at length, and under distinguished signatures, in the reviews; they would enjoy an unusual success of approbation; but—they wouldn't sell, and they wouldn't get themselves sung at concerts. If they had been too good, if they had been over the heads of people—but they weren't. Plenty of work quite as good, quite as modern, yet no whit more tuneful or interesting, was making its authors rich. We couldn't understand it, we had to conclude it was a fluke, a question of chance, of accident. Pair was still a very young man; he must go on knocking, and some day—to-morrow, next week, next year, but some day certainly—the door of public favour would be opened to him. Meanwhile his position was by no means an unenviable one, goodness knows. To have your orbit in the art world of Paris, and to be recognised there as a star; to be written about in the Revue des Deux-Mondes; to possess the friendship of the masters, to know that they believe in you, to hear them prophesy, "He will do great things"—all that is something, even if your wares don't "take on" in the market-place.

"It's a good job, though, that I haven't got to live by them," Pair said; and there indeed he touched a salient point. His

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54

When that the sun, which searcheth all

the things that live on earth, lets fall

His rays within this fount we see

An hundred colours gorgeously

Shine forth within the water bright,

Vermilion, azure, silvery white,

And richest gold. Such virtuous power

These crystals have that every flower

And tree within this pleasaunce seen,

Reflection finds in their sweet sheen;

How this doth hap most clearly I

Will by example testify.

E’en as a mirror casteth back

Each thing that fronts it, nor doth lack

In working thus to give amain

The form and colour once again,

So every crystal facet here

Reflects each detail sharp and clear

Of all that in this garden lies:

For whosoever casts his eyes

Thereon, one-half the garden sees,

And if to turn, his fancy please,

The other half is then revealed.

Nor are the smallest objects sealed

Or darkly hid, but all appear

within those crystals clear.

Mirrored within this perilous place,

Narcissus loved too well his face

And lustrous eyes, with foolish pride,

Thence came his fall, and thence he died.

Alas! for him who doth admire

Himself herein—for love’s desire


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 and fathers' activities is often quite impossible to recognise. Their participation in adults' activities is either in terms of toys, tea-sets and dolls and toy automobiles, or else a meaningless and harmful tampering with the electric light system. (It must be understood that here, as always, when I say American, I do not mean those Americans recently arrived from Europe, who still present a different tradition of education. Such a group would be the Southern Italians, who still expect productive work from their children.)

So our children make a false set of categories, work, play, and school; work for adults, play for children's pleasure, and schools as an inexplicable nuisance with some compensations. These false distinctions are likely to produce all sorts of strange attitudes, an apathetic treatment of a school which bears no known relation to life, a false dichotomy between work and play, which may result either in a dread of work as implying irksome responsibility or in a later contempt for play as childish.

The Samoan child's dichotomy is different. Work consists of those necessary tasks which keep the social life going: planting and harvesting and preparation of food, fishing, house-building, mat-making, care of children, collecting of property to validate marriages and births and succession to titles and to entertain strangers, these are the necessary activities of life, activities in which every member of the community, down to the smallest child, has a part. Work is not a way of ac-


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 quiring leisure; where every household produces its own food and clothes and furniture, where there is no large amount of fixed capital and households of high rank are simply characterised by greater industry in the discharge of greater obligations, our whole picture of saving, of investment, of deferred enjoyment, is completely absent. (There is even a lack of clearly defined seasons of harvest, which would result in special abundance of food and consequent feasting. Food is always abundant, except in some particular village where a few weeks of scarcity may follow a period of lavish entertaining.) Rather, work is something which goes on all the time for every one; no one is exempt; few are overworked. There is social reward for the industrious, social toleration for the man who does barely enough. And there is always leisure—leisure, be it noted, which is not the result of hard work or accumulated capital at all, but is merely the result of a kindly climate, a small population, a well-integrated social system, and no social demands for spectacular expenditure. And play is what one does with the time left over from working, a way of filling in the wide spaces in a structure of unirksome work.

Play includes dancing, singing, games, weaving necklaces of flowers, flirting, repartee, all forms of sex activity. And there are social institutions like the ceremonial inter-village visit which partake of both work and play. But the distinctions between work as something one has to do but dislikes, and play as something


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 one wants to do; of work as the main business of adults, play as the main concern of children, are conspicuously absent. Children's play is like adults' play in kind, interest, and in its proportion to work. And the Samoan child has no desire to turn adult activities into play, to translate one sphere into the other. I had a box of white clay pipes for blowing soap bubbles sent me. The children were familiar with soap bubbles, but their native method of blowing them was very inferior to the use of clay pipes. But after a few minutes' delight in the unusual size and beauty of the soap bubbles, one little girl after another asked me if she might please take her pipe home to her mother, for pipes were meant to smoke, not to play with. Foreign dolls did not interest them, and they have no dolls of their own, although children of other islands weave dolls from the palm leaves from which Samoan children weave balls. They never make toy houses, nor play house, nor sail toy boats. Little boys would climb into a real outrigger canoe and practise paddling it within the safety of the lagoon. This whole attitude gave a greater coherence to the children's lives than we often afford our children.

The intelligibility of a child's life among us is measured only in terms of the behaviour of other children. If all the other children go to school the child who does not feels incongruous in their midst. If the little girl next door is taking music lessons, why can't Mary; or why must Mary take music lessons, if the other lit-


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Rh

Will seize his heart and nought can heal

His hopeless woe, nor aught anneal.

This mirror valiant men hath cost

Dear life; though fairly might they boast

Themselves for prudent, wise, and great,

They here alas! have found their fate.

Hence passion springs in man anew

And to his life gives fresh purview,

No measure, sense, or mode knows he,

Love, love, alone, hath mastery

Good counsel to the winds is cast,

For Cupid, Venus’ son, hath passed

Around the fount to sow the grain

Whereof all men are madly fain,

The seed of Love to wit, and set

His springes there, and many a net

For damsels fair, and gallants eke:—

Such birds alone doth Cupid seek.

By reason of the seed there sown.

This Fountain is to all men known

As that of Love: thereof is told

The tale full oft in many an old

Romance and song, but ne’er before

Hath any man so fully or

So truly set all forth as now

’Tis writ within this book I trow.

Beside the fount awhile I stayed,

Admiring how the crystals made

Mirrors for all the lovesome things

That filled the garden. Memory brings


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 tle girl doesn't take them. But so sharp is our sense of difference between the concerns of children and of adults that the child does not learn to judge its own behaviour in relationship to adult life. So children often learn to regard play as something inherently undignified, and as adults mangle pitifully their few moments of leisure. But the Samoan child measures her every act of work or play in terms of her whole community; each item of conduct is dignified in terms of its realised relationship to the only standard she knows, the life of a Samoan village. So complex and stratified a society as ours cannot hope to develop spontaneously any such simple scheme of education. Again we will be hard put to it to devise ways of participation for children, and means of articulating their school life with the rest of life which will give them the same dignity which Samoa affords her children.

Last among the cultural differences which may influence the emotional stability of the child is the lack of pressure to make important choices. Children are urged to learn, urged to behave, urged to work, but they are not urged to hasten in the choices which they make themselves. The first point at which this attitude makes itself felt is in the matter of the brother and sister taboo, a cardinal point of modesty and decency. Yet the exact stage at which the taboo should be observed is always left to the younger child. When it reaches a point of discretion, of understanding, it will of itself feel "ashamed" and establish the formal


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On reaching the main arcade, I found ample occupation for eye and mind in noting the person and costume. of the handsome race whose representatives, of both sexes, were passing along with an elastic step that gave token rather of repressed energy than of feverish haste.

The feminine costume, the most simple as well as graceful that had ever met my eye, appeared to me, unversed in such matters, to consist, as regards the upper portion, of a loose tunic of some white or grayish material. This was confined round the waist by a silken sash or girdle, and, when thus girded up, reached to about. midway between knee and ankle. The tunic was, however, of such a length as to reach the instep when not sustained by the girdle. Such was, indeed, the usual way of wearing this garment indoors; it being then allowed to flow to the feet, unless the wearer was engaged in some active occupation. The lower part of the costume consisted of a sort of Turkish trousers confined round the ankles.

The feet were not imprisoned in the uncomfortable and unsightly coverings of the present, which seem designed 8


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 hand to leave them much time for casual amorous adventures. Every one in the community agrees about the matter, the only dissenters are the missionaries who dissent so vainly that their protests are unimportant. But as soon as a sufficient sentiment gathers about the missionary attitude with its European standard of sex behaviour, the need for choice, the forerunner of conflict, will enter into Samoan society.

Our young people are faced by a series of different groups which believe different things and advocate different practices, and to each of which some trusted friend or relative may belong. So a girl's father may be a Presbyterian, an imperialist, a vegetarian, a teetotaler, with a strong literary preference for Edmund Burke, a believer in the open shop and a high tariff, who believes that woman's place is in the home, that young girls should wear corsets, not roll their stockings, not smoke, nor go riding with young men in the evening. But her mother's father may be a Low Episcopalian, a believer in high living, a strong advocate of States' Rights and the Monroe Doctrine, who reads Rabelais, likes to go to musical shows and horse races. Her aunt is an agnostic, an ardent advocate of woman's rights, an internationalist who rests all her hopes on Esperanto, is devoted to Bernard Shaw, and spends her spare time in campaigns of anti-vivisection. Her elder brother, whom she admires exceedingly, has just spent two years at Oxford. He is an Anglo-Catholic, an enthusiast concerning all things medieval, writes mystical poetry,


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 reads Chesterton, and means to devote his life to seeking for the lost secret of medieval stained glass. Her mother's younger brother is an engineer, a strict materialist, who never recovered from reading Haeckel in his youth; he scorns art, believes that science will save the world, scoffs at everything that was said and thought before the nineteenth century, and ruins his health by experiments in the scientific elimination of sleep. Her mother is of a quietistic frame of mind, very much interested in Indian philosophy, a pacifist, a strict non-participator in life, who in spite of her daughter's devotion to her will not make any move to enlist her enthusiasms. And this may be within the girl's own household. Add to it the groups represented, defended, advocated by her friends, her teachers, and the books which she reads by accident, and the list of possible enthusiasms, of suggested allegiances, incompatible with one another, becomes appalling.

The Samoan girl's choices are far otherwise. Her father is a member of the Church and so is her uncle. Her father lives in a village where there is good fishing, her uncle in a village where there are plenty of cocoanut crabs. Her father is a good fisherman and in his house there is plenty to eat; her uncle is a talking chief and his frequent presents of bark cloth provide excellent dance dresses. Her paternal grandmother, who lives with her uncle, can teach her many secrets of healing; her maternal grandmother, who lives with her mother, is an expert weaver of fans. The boys in her uncle's


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56

Before me that too long I let

engross my mind. Ah! yet

I feel these mirrors ’twas deceived

My soul, and could I have believed

What sorrow to their sight was wed,

Then had I turned my steps and fled,

As flees a man the plague. Ah me!

I fell—like others—woefully.

O’er all things mirrored there I chose

A rose bush, charged with many a rose,

Encinctured by a thick grown hedge,

And doubt ye not that though in pledge

Paris and Pavia held I both,

Mine heart in no degree were loth

To render up the twain so I

Might gaze thereon unceasingly.

Soon as I felt this passion seize

My heart, which oft hath caused misease

To wisest men, my longing drew

Me towards the rose-bush and then flew

Through all ray soul its savour sweet,

Which set my heart and pulse abeat

Like fire. And were it not for fear

That I the scot might pay too dear,

I surely should have dared to seize

A rosebud, seen nought else could please

My senses equally, but dread

Restrained ray hand lest, angerèd

Thereat, the guardian of the spot

Might thrust me thence straightway, God wot!

Aheap were roses! none I ween

Elsewhere ’neath Heaven’s blue dome hath seen


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 people were dead; his father had been a younger son; he had no money of his own. But his father's elder brother, a squire in Hampshire, made him rather a liberal allowance, something like six hundred a year, I believe, which was opulence in the Latin Quarter. Now, the squire had been aware of Pair's relation with Godelinette from its inception, and had not disapproved. On his visits to Paris he had dined with them, given them dinners, and treated her with the utmost complaisance. But when, one fine morning, her tailor died, and my quixotic friend announced his intention of marrying her, dans les délais légaux, the squire protested. I think I read the whole correspondence, and I remember that in the beginning the elder man took the tone of paradox and banter." Behave dishonourably, my dear fellow. I have winked at your mistress heretofore, because boys will be boys; but it is the man who marries. And, anyhow, a woman is so much more interesting in a false position." But he soon became serious, presently furious, and, when the marriage was an accomplished fact, cut off the funds.

"Never mind, my dear," said Pair. "We will go to London and seek our fortune. We will write the songs of the people, and let who will make the laws. We will grow rich and famous, and

So they went to London to seek their fortune, and—that was the last I ever saw of them, nearly the last I heard. I had two letters from Pair, written within a month of their hegira—gossipy, light-hearted letters, describing the people they were meeting, reporting Godelinette's quaint observations upon England and English things, explaining his hopes, his intentions, all very

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 village are admitted younger into the Aumaga and are not much fun when they come to call; but there are three boys in her own village whom she likes very much. And her great dilemma is whether to live with her father or her uncle, a frank, straightforward problem which introduces no ethical perplexities, no question of impersonal logic. Nor will her choice be taken as a personal matter, as the American girl's allegiance to the views of one rclative might be interpreted by her other relatives. The Samoans will be sure she chose one residence rather than the other for perfectly good. reasons, the food was better, she had a lover in one village, or she had quarrelled with a lover in the other village. In each case she was making concrete choices within one recognised pattern of behaviour. She was never called upon to make choices involving an actual rejection of the standards of her social group, such as the daughter of Puritan parents, who permits indiscriminate caresses, must make in our society.

And not only are our developing children faced by a series of groups advocating different and mutually exclusive standards, but a more perplexing problem presents itself to them. Because our civilisation is woven of so many diverse strands, the ideas which any one group accepts will be found to contain numerous contradictions. So if the girl has given her allegiance whole-heartedly to some one group and has accepted in good faith their asseverations that they alone are right and all other philosophies of life are Antichrist and


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 anathema, her troubles are still not over. While the less thoughtful receives her worst blows in the discovery that what father thinks is good, grandfather thinks is bad, and that things which are permitted at home are banned at school, the more thoughtful child has subtler difficulties in store for her. If she has philosophically accepted the fact that there are several standards among which she must choose, she may still preserve a child-like faith in the coherence of her chosen philosophy. Beyond the immediate choice which was so puzzling and hard to make, which perhaps involved hurting her parents or alienating her friends, she expects peace. But she has not reckoned with the fact that each of the philosophies with which she is confronted is itself but the half-ripened fruit of compromise. If she accept Christianity, she is immediately confused between the Gospel teachings concerning peace and the value of human life and the Church's whole-hearted acceptance of war. The compromise made seventeen centuries ago between the Roman philosophy of war and domination, and the early Church doctrine of peace and humility, is still present to confuse the modern child. If she accepts the philosophic premises upon which the Declaration of Independence of the United States was founded, she finds herself faced with the necessity of reconciling the belief in the equality of man and our institutional pledges of equality of opportunity with our treatment of the Negro and the Oriental. The diversity of standards in present-day society is so strik-


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 confidently—and then I had no more. I wrote again, and still again, till, getting no answer, of course I ceased to write. I was hurt and puzzled; but in the spring we should meet in London, and could have it out. When the spring came, however, my plans were altered: I had to go to America. I went by way of Havre, expecting to stay six weeks, and was gone six years.

On my return to England I said to people, "You have a brilliant young composer named Pair. Can you put me in the way of procuring his address?" The fortune he had come to seek he would surely have found; he would be a known man. But people looked blank, and declared they had never heard of him. I applied to music-publishers—with the same result. I wrote to his uncle in Hampshire; the squire did not reply. When I reached Paris I inquired of our friends there; they were as ignorant as I. "He must be dead," I concluded. "If he had lived, it is impossible we should not have heard of him." And I wondered what had become of Godelinette.

Then another eight or ten years passed, and now, in a waterside public at Bordeaux, an obscure old pianist was playing Pair's setting of "Lavender's blue," and stirring a hundred bitter-sweet far-away memories of my friend. It was as if fifteen years were erased from my life. The face of Godelinette was palpable before me—pale, with its sad little smile, its bright appealing eyes. Edmund might have been smoking across the table—I could hear his voice, I could have put out my hand and touched him. And all round me were the streets, the lights, the smells, the busy youthful va-et-vient of the Latin Quarter; and in my heart the yearning, half joy and all despair and anguish, with which we think of the old days when we were young, of how real and dear they were, of how irrecoverable they are.

And then the music stopped, the Brasserie des Quatre Vents

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 became a glaring reality, and the painted female sipping eau-de-vie at my elbow remarked plaintively, "Tu n'es pas rigolo, toi. Vieux-tu faire une valse?"

"I must speak to your musician," I said. "Excuse me."

He had played a bit of Pair's music. It was one chance in a thousand, but I wanted to ask him whether he could tell me anything about the composer. So I penetrated to the bottom of the shop, and approached his platform. He was bending over some sheets of music—making his next selection, doubtless.

"I beg your pardon" I began.

He turned towards me. You will not be surprised—I was looking into Pair's own face.

You will not be surprised, but you will imagine what it was for me. Oh, yes, I recognised him instantly; there could be no mistake. And he recognised me, for he flushed, and winced, and started back.

I suppose for a little while we were both of us speechless, speechless and motionless, while our hearts stopped beating. By-and-by I think I said—something had to be said to break the situation—I think I said, "It's you, Edmund?" I remember he fumbled with a sheet of music, and kept his eyes bent on it, and muttered something inarticulate. Then there was another speechless, helpless suspension. He continued to fumble his music, without looking up. At last I remember saying, through a sort of sickness and giddiness, "Let us get out of here—where we can talk."

"I can't leave yet. I've got another dance," he answered.

"Well, I'll wait," said I.

I sat down near him and waited, trying to create some kind of

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Rh

Such rich profusion; some as yet

Mere buds, which therefore ne’er had met

Rude Boreas’ kiss, while others were

Half opened, and such beauty rare

Displayed as no man would despise

Who once thereon had cast his eyes,

For roses which are broadly blown

Ere long begin to cast adown

Their petals, while the tender new

Fresh buds, as yet untouched by dew,

Will keep their beauty while the sun

His race through three full days doth run.

What ardent longing in my breast

These buds inspired! Whoso possessed

The power to pluck but one, right fain

Must be such glorious prize to gain,

And might I but secure a crown

Thereof, I would forego renown

And fortune fair. Amongst them all,

My rapturous eyes on one did fall,

Whose perfect loveliness outvied

All those beside it. I espied

With joy its lovely petals, which

Kind Nature’s hand had dyed with rich

Deep crimson hue. Its perfect leaves

Were formed of two quadruple sheaves,

Which side by side stood firm and fair,

W^ith stalk strong grown enough to bear

The full-grown bloom which did not bend

Or languish, but most sweetly spend

Its fragrance on the air around

And wrapt my senses in profound


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58

Yet soft delight. Whene’er I smelt

Its odour, strong desire I felt

Possess me wholly that I might

Snatch for mine own that dear delight.

But thorns and thistles grew so thick

Around the rose-bush, prone to prick

And wound the profanous hand that dared

Approach and grasp it, that I spared

To risk the rash attempt, afraid

My love might be with wounds apaid.

HE God of Love, whose bow was bent

With purpose fell, where’er I went

Pursued my steps, and took his stand

Beneath a fig-tree, close at hand

To where, with arm upraised, I sought

To pluck the Rose whose beauty brought

Me thither; then he took a shaft

And nocking it, with bowman’s craft,

Drew the string taut against his ear

With mighty arm, for well that gear


text: Romance of the Rose (Ellis)/Chapter 12

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 order out of the chaos in my mind, and half automatically watching and considering him as he played his dance—Edmund Pair playing a dance for prostitutes and drunken sailors. He was not greatly changed. There were the same grey eyes, deep-set and wide apart, under the same broad forehead; the same fine nose and chin, the same sensitive mouth. The whole face was pretty much the same, only thinner perhaps, and with a look of apathy, of inanimation, that was foreign to my recollection of it. His hair had turned quite white, but otherwise he appeared no older than his years. His figure, tall, slender, well-knit, retained its vigour and its distinction. Though he wore a shabby brown Norfolk jacket, and his beard was two days old, you could in no circumstances have taken him for anything but a gentleman. I waited anxiously for the time when we should be alone—anxiously, yet with a sort of terror. I was burning to understand, and yet I shrunk from doing so. If to conjecture even vaguely what experiences could have brought him to this, what dark things suffered or done, had been melancholy when he was a nameless old musician, now it was appalling, and I dreaded the explanation that I longed to hear.

At last he struck his final chord, and rose from the piano. Then he turned to me and said, composedly enough, "Well, I'm ready." He, apparently, had in some measure pulled himself together. In the street he took my arm. "Let's walk in this direction," he said, leading off, "towards the Christian quarter of the town." And in a moment he went on: "This has been an odd meeting. What brings you to Bordeaux?"

I explained that I was on my way to Biarritz, stopping for the night between two trains.

"Then it's all the more surprising that you should have stumbled into the Brasserie des Quatre Vents. You've altered

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