bution to the material comfort of the old pensioners was the master's personal influence among them and his success in bringing up the morale of the institution. Before his coming they were considered a gloomy company, but with his visits and personal interest new life and cheer en

Oxford to write a special prayer to be used at the service, which took place each morning at ten o'clock. This prayer, which is now said daily, voices the almsmen's thankfulness for benefits enjoyed, as well as gratitude toward the founder, Duchess Alice. It is an interesting fact

tered into the place, and since 1905 the atmosphere of the cloister has undergone a most surprising change. Sir William found that the men had become lax in their attendance at daily prayers in the chapel built for that purpose, and so he summoned them into his presence, presiding over them in solemn dignity arrayed in his university cap and gown. He then proceeded to administer good advice, suggesting that they were not sufficiently grateful for their blessings or they would be glad to give daily thanks for them; and in this connection he asked the bishop of

that since this custom has been revived the spirit of the place has been transformed from one of general dissatisfaction to one of grateful appreciation.

The beauty of the old church with its notable monuments, and royal associations, and the quaint old almshouse with its thirteen pensioners, must remain a joy to all appreciative visitors; and as they study the ancient buildings and peruse the precious documents they may at the same time learn more of the thirty-second master of the almshouse, whose mastership will ever be gratefully remembered.

Sir William Osler's benefactions apart from his contributions to science and medicine were manifold. He had lived in three countries, benefiting all, and was honored and beloved by all; he was sought from far and wide not only because of his wisdom and great knowledge of medicine but because of his generosity, sympathy, and personal charm. Born in the Province of Ontario, Canada, in 1849, he was graduated from Trinity College, Toronto, in 1868, and took his medical degree four years later at McGill University, where, after two years' study abroad, he was appointed professor of medicine; then followed ten years of active scientific work, at the end of which period he was called to the University of Pennsylvania. Five years later the newly established Johns Hopkins School of Medicine offered him the chair which he retained for fifteen years; and it was during this period that by his writing and teaching he came to be recognized as the most

eminent and widely influential physician of his time.

After refusing many other calls he finally accepted that much-coveted post, the Regius Professorship of Medicine at Oxford. He was at this time fifty-six years of age, and the next fifteen years represented even greater activity and more far-reaching influence than that attained at Baltimore.

He and Lady Osler made their beautiful home at Oxford a centre of unbounded hospitality, which was of inestimable value both to undergraduates and to medical men from all parts of the world. Such generous hospitality caused the playful term, "The Open Arms," to be given to this home, the portals of which were during the war even more widely thrown open, hospitality of the table being extended to some fifteen hundred persons in the course of one year.

Sir William rejoiced in the atmosphere of the ancient seat of learning, and became absorbed in many activities there outside of the duties of his regius professorship. He took an important part in the administrative work of the university and of the Bodleian Library, where as curator he wrought many extensive changes; he was associated with the Clarendon Press, and became president of the Classical Association, an honor aspired to by all great scholars. Apart from his profession and literary labors, his hobby was "books," and he accumulated a great library, covering the whole history and field of medicine, from early parchments to the latest scientific works. He also collected every known edition of his lifelong favorite, the "Religio Medici," of Sir Thomas Browne, whose masterpiece he kept always by his bedside. In the indexing and classification of this library on a novel and original plan, Sir William had made considerable progress before his death, and he delighted to show his trea

sures to the appreciative. His incomparable medical library, with its elaborate catalogue, is destined for McGill University, where it will be sent as soon as the catalogue is completed by Doctor Francis, Sir William's nephew, who is now busily engaged upon this work.

The church at Ewelme.

After the death of his son Revere, who had already acquired a valuable collection of imprints of the Tudor and Stuart periods, Sir William and Lady Osler presented to Johns Hopkins this collection, greatly enlarged by Sir William's treasured books and manuscripts, to stand as a memorial of the great-grandson of Paul Revere, who sleeps under a wooden cross in Flanders.

Sir William's charm as a writer had much to do with his success as a teacher, and his bibliography covering a period of forty-nine years presents some seven hundred and thirty titles, including his collected essays and addresses.

He was a delightful speaker who could grace any occasion, but his lighter sayings were sometimes misunderstood, or misinterpreted, as was the case in one instance, when, in delivering his farewell address to his devoted colleagues in Baltimore, he let fall a quotation from one of Trollope's little-known works, "The Fixed Period." The remark about "chloroform" for those of advanced age, in reality Trollope's, was seized upon by the press, and emphasized in a manner utterly unfair to Sir William, who would not have dreamed of offending his colleagues, most of whom were over sixty, an age that he himself was then approaching.

Sir William Osler's name should stand upon the honor-roll of those who gave their lives in the World War, for had he saved himself in any small degree during those strenuous days, he might have carried on his ministrations for humanity many years longer. He was pre-eminently a man of peace. All his life he had hated strife, and striven to avert it in all directions, and for this reason he suffered more acutely, though from the outbreak of hostilities he threw himself into the heat of war activities. He served untiringly at the War Office, upon committees, and as senior consultant to the forces. Long railway journeys and the inspection of hospitals taxed his strength severely, but he carried on with unabated enthusiasm.

He received a colonel's commission, and it was due to his influence that the United States, in 1915, sent volunteer units abroad to serve with the French and British units. And when, in 1917, his only son was killed while fighting with the artillery in Flanders, he but increased his labors, although it was a blow from which he never recovered. Early in October, 1919, he was taken ill after a long, cold motordrive from the north, where he was held up by the railway strike, and from this illness he never rallied, passing away the following December.

A year before his death he received an offer from the two leading English political parties to stand as fusion candidate from Oxford for the seat in Parliament, but he refused on the ground that the seat should, in justice, be offered to Asquith.

As president of the Classical Association, a body of the most eminent British scholars, he made his last and perhaps most notable address in May, 1919, on "The Old Humanities and the New Science," in which he made a brilliant plea for "no human letters without natural science, and no science without letters."

He was a great doctor, a great scientist, and a great benefactor, but, above all, he was a great personality, with the power of giving something precious to every one with whom he came in contact. They had life more abundantly for knowing him.

ALWAYS I am mourning
The far-off, unseen places,
I, who gather beauty
As April gathers rains;
Always I am thinking

Of colored, wind-swept spaces,
And the radiant silence
Of unpeopled plains.

I grieve for beauty wasted-
Is there no way to keep it?
God, hold it for a lover
Of sky and wind and flower,
And then some autumn twilight
God-let him come and reap it-
A million years of splendor
In one breathless hour.

NE of my friends is an eminent psychologist. He has published any number of articles, several books, and is a professor in one of our leading American universities. He is interested in the study of human conduct. So am I. We are both fond of argument and discussion, not only for "the fun of the thing," but also as one of many means of getting at the truth. What we argue about is, however, not problems of international politics, nor the merits and demerits of socialism, but questions in the field of science, philosophy, and, especially, psychology.

On many questions our arguments and discussions disclose the fact that we agree; on some questions we find that we do not as yet agree, though in time we may; but on one question our disagreement is persistent. That question interests each of us extremely; indeed, the answer to it is fundamental to each of our philosophical and psychological points of view.

The question on which we do not agree, and perhaps never shall, concerns the problem as to what is involved in the very process of argument itself. As regards this my friend and I start with different points of view, different convictions, different conclusions that we have reached as a result of training, study, and investigation. My friend tries by his argument, which he assumes to be, as an argument, logical, to convert me to his position, and accordingly to compel me logically to give up my own position. I likewise endeavor to turn him from what I regard as the error of his way, and to make him see things as I see them.

The interesting problem in the situation is this: My friend as a psychologist maintains that psychology is a science, and accordingly he accepts that which is regarded by many as the fundamental

principle or highest common factor of all science, namely, determinism. That is, he accepts the current and dominant scientific point of view, that in nature there is no such thing as chance, but that whatever occurs must occur, just exactly as it does occur, because of preceding causes; that wherever and whenever the same cause operates under the same conditions, the same effect not only does, but must occur; that if precisely the same causes and conditions never recur, but only similar and at least slightly different and new congeries of causes and conditions, then there is a cause for these differences. This view was first intuited by the Greeks, then lost sight of during the Middle Ages, only to be revived, however, with the new birth of science in the work of such pioneers as Leonardo, Copernicus, Galileo, and Newton.

My friend carries out this view, or endeavors consistently to carry it out in his psychology. For him man is part of nature-in fact, there is nothing that is not part of nature. Therefore, man is no exception to the principle of scientific determinism. Each individual is what he now is because of the multiplicity of lines of causes and effects that recede indefinitely far into the past, but that also, as they come forward, converge in and upon the individual as upon a point. Those lines can perhaps, for convenience' sake at least, be grouped as two, namely, those of heredity and those of environment, including under this last term physical, organic, and social conditions, facts, and causes. My friend, as a psychologist, is, of course, interested primarily in a very special set of lines. As he argues with me he calls them, for brevity's sake, ideas. Thinking-and he certainly would have me think when he tries to convince me-is for him wholly a matter of the association of ideas. When I think, he maintains, one idea follows another because the two ideas have been contiguous