of thought of mankind at the present day. Generally such impressions are disregarded, and in this sceptical and materialistic age are often relegated to the domain of superstition. When they are felt and acted upon, they are generally attributed to a supernatural source. The dæmon of Socrates is a strong case in point. He believed himself to have been constantly attended by a familiar spirit, whose voice he could hear, and whose admonitions were always wise. That he did hear voices there can, in the light of modern science, be little doubt. It is noteworthy, however, that the voice was generally one of warning, and that its strongest manifestations were made when his personal safety or his personal well-being was involved. The explanation, in pursuance of the hypothesis under discussion in this book, is not difficult. He was endowed with that rare faculty which, in one way or another, belongs to all men of true genius, and which enabled him to draw from the storehouse of subjective knowledge. In his case the threshold of consciousness was so easily displaced that his subjective mind was able at will to communicate with his objective mind in words audible to his senses. This phenomenon is known to spiritists as clairaudience. As before remarked, this voice was generally one of warning, and was the direct manifestation of that strongest instinct of the human soul,--the instinct of self-preservation. To this the classical student will doubtless interpose the objection that the dæmon failed to warn the philosopher in the hour of his direst need; it failed to admonish him against that course of conduct which led to inevitable death. Socrates was accustomed to construe the silence of the dæmon as an approval of his conduct; and when the decisive moment arrived when he could have saved himself had he chosen to do so, the divine voice was silent. Only once did it interpose its warning, and that was to prevent him from preparing a speech which might have saved him from the hemlock. The explanation of this failure may be found in the experience of all mankind. This instinctive clinging to life weakens with advancing years, and appears to cease altogether the moment a man's career of usefulness in life has ended. This is the experience of every-day life. Men grow rich, and in the full vigor of a green old age retire from business, hoping to enjoy many years of rest. The result is, generally, death in a very short time. An old man thrown out of employment, with nothing to hope for in the future, lies down and dies. Another, losing his aged companion, follows within a few days or weeks. Another lives only to see his children married and settled, and when that is accomplished, cheerfully lets go his hold on life. In fact, it seems to be as much an instinct to die, when one's usefulness is ended, as to cling to life as long as there is something to do to contribute to the general welfare.