the man who wins it; the moral and spiritual impress which it leaves on his character. As a rule, success ought to be evidenced by positive achievement; but where all must fail of positive achievement save one or two, the laurels belong to those who do not touch the goal as well as to those who lay their hands upon it. Whoever runs with the utmost energy, determination, and strength succeeds, even though his competitors are ahead of him at the end of the race; for the race does not lie simply in touching the goal first; it lies in overcoming the natural inertia of the runners; in developing fiber, muscle, and staying power; in the exacting and searching training through which they must pass before they are ready for the contest. The thoroughly trained racer succeeds before he sets his foot in the ring; whether he touch his goal or not, he is himself also a conqueror. It is impossible in this world to separate, with any certainty, the successful from the unsuccessful; so many are the things for which men contend, so various are the rewards, so confused are the issues. Hosts of men have been and are masquer ading as successes who will one day, in the light of a more searching judgment of success, be revealed to themselves and to others as failures; and there have been and are hosts of men regarded by themselves and others as failures, who will one day be revealed as conquerors. This fact must bring modesty to those who make visible achievement, and consolation and hope to those who do not, for the ultimate race is not to the swift; it is to those who put forth the utmost that is in them. The final victories are not to the strong; they are to those who express in their effort all the force of their souls. Some men in failure put forth higher and greater power than others in success; as some men put forth more moral energy in unsuccessfully resisting temptation than others who resist successfully, but to whom the temptation comes with much less attractiveness and power. In the ultimate judgment there must be an adjustment between the obstacles overcome and the strength put forth; and when that judgment is made, it will be found in all departments of life that those who have failed bravely have not really failed, but are themselves also conquerors.

Individual Immortality

In some form of immortality substantially all thinkers agree; some anticipate only an immortality of influence, continuing after the individual has ceased to exist; others an immortality of the race, as the river continues although the drops which composed it last year have mingled with the sea; others an immortality in some future type, believing that in the long process of evolution man has prepared for some future unknown creation, as previous forms of life prepared for him. In "The Individual " Professor Shaler gives reasons for belief in an individual immortality. We acknowledge here an indebtedness to the author. His book appears to us to be a valuable contribution to both scientific and ethical thought, but we by no means undertake to interpret his volume in a column or two; nor must our readers hold him responsible for the thoughts here expressed, although they are in large measure borrowed from him. His volume is a much larger contribution to the study of the individual than this article, which deals with only one aspect of the book, would indicate, for the book treats the subject from many points of view.

The culmination of evolution as thus far conducted is the individual man. The higher his development, the more marked is his individuality. "In the lowlier plane of thought and action, in all that relates to man as a mere intelligent animal, and in most that is evident in the mere savage, the likeness (of men to each other) is evidently near enough for all the uses of society, which is founded on these simpler features of man's nature. But as we rise to higher levels of intelligence, the effort to win sympathetic contact becomes more and more difficult, until the detachment becomes so complete that each being has perforce to dwell apart from its kind." The higher the civilization, the more marked is the individuality of its members; the greater the man, the more does he of necessity live apart. The great philosopher was to his contemporaries "the vain and chattering Aristotle;" and "the Greatest that has dwelt in this world was, to the understanding of educated

The Individual: A Study of Life and Death. By Nathaniel Southgate Shaler. D. Appleton & Co., New York. $1.50.

Romans, but a fanatical peasant who disturbed the peace of Jerusalem."

There is no reason why we should think that this individuality comes to an abrupt end, except that death seems like a catastrophe which destroys, and we are wont to think of life as moving on serenely to its issues without catastrophes. But the reverse is the case. So far as we are able to comprehend the effect of catastrophes, they are movements toward a larger life. Familiar illustrations are afforded of this truth by sleep, which to the first observer might well have seemed an end of life, not its sweet and blessed restorer; by the entombment of the caterpillar in the cocoon, which to a rationalizing caterpillar might well appear to be the end of his existence; by the emergence of the water-grub as a dragon-fly, a proceeding quite incomprehensible to the grub not yet ready for his emergence. Professor Shaler's scientific knowledge furnishes him with illustrations which are more apt than these familiar ones, because they are more closely related to the life of man. From the postulate that life is a series of antecedents and consequents, and that the sum total of energy in the universe is neither increased nor diminished, we are apt to jump to the conclusion that all the operations of Nature keep from step to step the same quality" a proposition that has but to be examined in the light of the simplest facts to be disproved." If, for example, we lower the temperature of oxygen and hydrogen to a certain point, and add certain conditions, such as the action of an electric spark, the two gases combining produce a substance unlike either of its parents; and in this substance, water, there is created a new set of qualities. "It is not too much to say that in passing the critical point of temperature these two gases in an instant originated all the possibilities of what we know as life, from its beginnings to the action of the mind and hand which shapes this very phrase." Thus not only does new life emerge from sudden catastrophes, but the secret of all life is born in one. An illustration coming still nearer to man is furnished by what we know of human birth:

If the discreet naturalist were asked how he could conceive the survival of inteiligence to be affected after the machinery by which

it had apparently been engendered had disappeared, his answer might be somewhat as follows: He would first call attention to the fact that in the process of reproduction all the experience of the antecedent life is passed on from generation to generation, over what we may term a molecular bridge. Thus, in the case of man, a tiny mass of protoplasm, imponderably small, carries on from parents to child the body, the mind, all, indeed, that the predecessors in tens of thousands of specific forms and unimaginable millions of individuals have won of enduring profit from their experience. Therefore, even within the narrow limits of the known, there is evidence that the seed from which an individual intelligence may be evolved can be effectively guarded and nurtured in the keeping of an exceedingly small body of matter. În a word, the facts of generation show us that, under certain conditions, life as complicated potentially as that which passes away from the body at death may reside and be cradled in states of matter which are, as compared with the mature body, very simple. . . . Be it understood that this is not an argument to show that the spirit of man goes forth in some part of the dust of his of matter are so complex, and our ignorance body. The point is that the known properties as to the range of these properties so great, that the facts of death cannot be made a safe basis for a conclusion as to the survival of the intelligence.

Natural science cannot prove immortality. The seen can never, in the nature of the case, demonstrate the unseen; it can at best only strengthen or weaken the hypothesis otherwise formed as to the unseen. The poets and prophets, the men of spiritual vision, studying the individual from their point of view, have, with scarcely an exception, affirmed their belief that in the spirit there is a life which transcends the material organs and will survive their dissolution. Is this their judgment, which is derived from a spiritual study of the man within, approved or disapproved by the scientific students of life as seen from without? The answer which the scientist gives to this question may be epitomized thus: The end of evolution, so far as science can perceive its end, is the individual man; the higher the man is developed the more marked is his individuality; the only reason for thinking that this individuality comes to an end is the catastrophe which we call death; but the study of phenomena justifies the conclusion that such apparent catastrophes are oftenest, if not always, the precursors of and preparation for a higher life; and the catastrophe at the other end of the individual's terrestrial existence demon

strates that what we call life, including mental and moral qualities, is so far independent of bodily organs that it passes over from precedent individuals to the new individual in a "tiny mass of protoplasm imponderably small." Death, thus interpreted by its scientific analogues, points rather to a new and larger life of the individual than to either his destruction or his absorption into the Infinite. The naturalist confirms the poet in giving an affirmative answer to the question, " If a man die, shall he live again?"

The Spectator

"Yes, sir!" The Spectator was startled; the assurance was emphatically repeated, as though the speaker had been contradicted and felt in honor bound to sustain his position. He was a conductor on a trolley-car, and was standing on the step of the car at the Spectator's elbow. "Yes, sir. It's the finest company in the country, and the squarest." It simply staggered the Spectator. Here he was in a city rent asunder by an impending strike. Bitter feeling, only thinly veiled, was evident whether one was conversing with Capital or Labor. The daily papers had columns of news one day, which they contradicted the next, as to the position of the two giants who were about to measure their strength. The impending strike threatened stagnation to business through out the country. But the Spectator was listening to Labor defending CapitalCapital that had been characterized as an octopus-a street railway. "Yes, sir," accompanied by an emphatic nod," there ain't any better men in the country than the two men who own this line. Yes, sir, that's the company, two brothers. Square, sir, square, and don't you forget it." Here he passed rapidly along the step, and the Spectator was left to grasp, if he could, the thought of a surface road in a city so managed as to call out the enthusiasm of its employees. The car ran smoothly over the rails, no jarring or jolting. It was approaching a new, commodious brick building, two stories high and rather impressive in its simple lines, when a voice said eagerly at the Spectator's elbow, "Just take a look at the stable when we stop. Finest stables in the country. We have a reading-room,

and a dining-room where we can take our lunches or warm our dinners if we bring them in on the run. There are dishes and hot water, and a chance to heat coffee, and a good woman, good as gold, like a mother to some of us, to keep the things clean and the room looking right. Yes, sir, the company is strict about that. You never know when one of them will walk in. They attends to business and expects every one else to attend to business. Then we have thirty-two showerbaths, and we're expected to use them. The reading-room has all the daily papers-New York and Chicago papers and one Boston paper, the best weeklies and all the magazines, and about four hundred books. Then there is a room with good couches and pillows. You can rest when your runs keep you late. There ain't no standing round at our stable doors in the rain, or the cold, or when it's hot. Do you see there ain't a liquor-store nearer than two blocks? The company bought the house on the corner when one started there, and turned the whole place into flats. You wait till you see the stable of the road I'm going to transfer you to. It's a bum place now, I tell you. A lot of men wandering round most of the time wiping their mouths with the back of their hands; no chairs, no newspapers, nothing. Oh, yes, we have a smoking-room with papers down at the back there. Bells ring that call the men who are to go out, so you just sit and read or smoke, or eat your lunch, knowing the signal will warn you in time.

"Oh, certainly, we're organized," he continued. "That bum road I told you about, they won't have a union man on the road. Yes, we've been organized three years on this road. Never had any trouble, sir, and don't believe we ever will, if both sides stays square. When we want a change made, a committee goes to the company and states just what we want. Neither side gets mad, but we talk it out squarely. Sometimes we're wrong, and they shows us we're wrong. Sometimes the company shows us we must wait for what we want. The road is new. Yes, we're organized, and we got the company on our side. They knew all about it, and gave us some mighty sound

ideas-mighty sound. Now, we don't have drinking men in our organization. If a man comes on and gets drunk or boozy on the road, we tells him that it's got to stop. Then the second time it happens we ask the company to discharge him. We kicked, some of us, against that; it was the company's idea, but it's the best we've got. We got the cream of the railroad men on this road. Why, a man can get a job anywhere who has worked on this road. Then we don't have any men on the road who do not use their wives well. The company suggested that, and that was another kick, but they knew. It's the bum fellows who don't be good to their wives. When it leaks out about a new man, we goes, the committee, after we know it's true, and we tells the company. The man is laid off, and he knows why, and he knows it ain't no use to come to the union, 'cause we're at the bottom of it, and he joined knowing what would happen. Then we got a benefit association, and the treasurer of the company is our treasurer. Just as good as Government bonds, them little fifteen cents a week, and they come in well when you're sick.

"No, sir, you can't have such an organization as ours without the company's back of you. They have settled trouble often between the men, and when we get all in a muddle over things we talk it out with the president, and he gives us points. But he won't decide; he won't say which side is right; he only makes each side see where it is weak or strong. The company like married men, and they like the men to own their houses. I got a little house back here-paid for it before I was married. There ain't much in it. I just got the house. I've been married five months, and I'm the happiest man in

"The car had entered the suburbs of the city, and the conductor was devoted to business. He forgot the Spectator. Women and children were helped off and on. A basket was placed on the sidewalk for an old man. The fares were collected with a nod and smile, and the bell rang pleasantly as the fares were registered. The car ran merrily, and stopped and started without a jolt. The motorman looked over his shoulder when passengers

got on or off. At least in this one instance the pleasant relations between the lion and the lamb-and the Spectator would feel it hazardous to characterize the giants more definitely-added to the gayety of the traveling public, and the Spectator was a grateful and liberal patron of the road for several days.

The Spectator stepped on a trolley, and ran along the step to take his favorite place behind the motorman, only to discover, comfortably seated in his special. corner, a woman. She was so deeply interested in what the motorman was saying that she was not conscious of the new passenger; neither was he. "Yes'm," continued the motorman, "I runs the car careful, 'count of my mother." Why, the man was fifty, if a day! "She rides with me considerable, and she do hate jolting, so that I just fairly trembles when she is on. Sometimes when I comes round a corner, and the car swings and makes her go sideways, she looks so unhappy that I just feel miserable. Yes'm, when I come on the road first I did not think about anything but gettin' in me run, and not having accidents. Mother went with me that first week on my regular car. She got on at the stables. I saw her look at the car floor and up at the signs, and at me and at the conductor. I put her just where you are. Gee whiz! how that car went when we got out a bit! I was just showing off. I didn't know it, but "an expression of self-disdain spread over his big face-"I was. I looked around at mother, and she was sitting holding on with both hands, and her eyes round and big. Law! how I slowed down! Mother never liked a fuss, so I said nothin', but watched her out of the corner of my eye. There wasn't any more showing off that trip. When I got home that night, I said, Now, mother, yer might just as well go with me every day while these fine days last.' She didn't say anything, so I knowed she had somethin' on her mind. She went about getting supper. After a time she said, How often do yer scrub the floors of the cars?' They're swept, mother.'Well, it must be a man.'" Here the motorman chuckled, choked, and looked around with the pride of a father repeating the precocious remark of

his firstborn. "The next day I asked her to go on my last afternoon trip, but she wouldn't go. It took me four weeks to find out, when she said: 'Jakie, yer runs that car so careless that I'm afraid as death. Not for me, Jakie, but fer yourself. I didn't say nothin', but I was bruised and sore for days, and I'm worried all the time.' My land! but that opened my eyes. That afternoon I began. I ran that car as if kittens were crossing the track. She didn't bump once. I bet yer yer could have carried a glass of milk and not spilled a drop. I kept it up. Every little while I looked over my shoulder; everybody looked comfortable and happy. Then I insisted on mother's takin' a ride. You should have seen her when I helped her off. Her cheeks were pink as a girl's and her eyes shinier. 'Jakie, I wouldn't have believed I could have such a good time.' No more coaxing; she's ready to go any time ❞—here a shade passed over the red, round face as, with a complete change of voice, he added, "when she's well enough."

The Spectator was stepping through the door of a trolley-car a few months before, when he was thrown violently against the door-frame. He sank into a corner seat in a state of mind that did not make for peace. The conductor, a small man, stepped in to take the fare, when the car gave a lurch that caused him to put his foot down on the Spectator's newly polished boot. "Why do you have such a man as that to run a car!" demanded the Spectator as though the little man were the president of the road. 'I wouldn't, sir, I wouldn't. He ain't fit. He ain't a man at all, sir. Why, there ain't one of us but feel the Evil One has us in his grip when we're put on with that fellow. What do you think I have to do, sir, after a day's run with him? I buy a bottle of arnica and has to rub myself from head to foot. I'm black and blue. The passengers gets off, sir, but we have to stay on all day. It's hard on them, but think of us. No, sir! he ain't fit to run a goat-cart; but he never damages anything but the passengers, and they only kicks the conductors." The man went out of the door. A few moments afterwards he put his head in and said

politely: "It would do more good if they would kick the president."

The car had started from the terminus with about half a dozen passengers, one a man of peculiar dignity of bearing, who put a box, somewhat larger than a shoebox, down on the seat beside him, evidently hampered by the necessity of caring for it. Three or four blocks further on a man got into the car, seating himself directly behind the man with the box. The last passenger the Spectator read at once. He was the type of man who is always in a rush, always just on the verge of a great success, imbuing his family with such faith in his powers that every failure is to them, as to him, but the forerunner of success. Presently he leaned forward, touched the owner of the box on the shoulder, saying, "Will you let me have the stamps on that box? They're just what I want. I wouldn't be able to get them in the ordinary run of my business, and I do want them," he added, as wistfully as a small boy. The owner of the box took out his knife and cut the stamps and postmark out of the paper, handing them to the man behind him. The joy of the receiver infected the giver, and the two men beamed in each other's faces. The man who received the stamps took a card from his pocket and handed it to the man before him, saying, "That's my card. If ever I can do anything for you, call on me. I might be able to, and it would be a pleasure." The card was received, put in a beautiful leather wallet, and the man of the box tipped his hat as he returned to his newspaper. Behind, with radiant face, sat the man with the stamps, examining them with the intensest enjoyment. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, exclaiming, "I've gone a mile out of my way !” and rushed from the car. On the floor lay the stamps, to be discovered when the car had gone several blocks. Attainment had again slipped through this passenger's fingers. The man with the box saw the stamps. An expression of dismay passed over his face, followed by relief as he picked up the stamps, opened his wallet and carefully placed them beside the man's card. The Spectator felt as though a disaster had been averted.