Thursday, February 22, 2018

Hippolytus' Subordinationist Trinity By Alvan Lamson 1865

Hippolytus' Subordinationist Trinity By Alvan Lamson 1865

Hippolytus, a Roman presbyter, and Bishop of Portus, the harbor of Rome, near Ostia...lived and wrote about the year 220. (Christian Charles Josias von) Bunsen makes him Origen's senior by twenty-five years, and pronounces him "one of the leading men of ancient Christianity," —"one of those Christian teachers, governors, and thinkers, who made Christianity what it became as a social system, and as one of thought and ethics." He places him "among the series of leading men of the first seven generations of Christians." The title of the work is, "A Refutation of all Heresies." The tenth book contains what Bunsen calls "the confession of faith of Hippolytus"; which he pronounces "the real gem of his writings," — "his sacred legacy to posterity."

The history of Hippolytus has been involved in great obscurity; and all is not yet perfectly clear. Photius makes him a scholar of Irenaeus. He wrote numerous works, the titles of which are preserved hy the old writers. He is styled bishop, and both Eusebius and Jerome more than once mention him; but neither of them knew where he had his abode or see. Some have assigned him a residence at Portus Romanus in Arabia, that is, Adan or Aden; others at the port of Rome, where Bunsen places him. It is not improbable that he might have resided at both places at different periods of his life. He wrote in Greek. His death by martyrdom is referred to the early part of the third century. In 1551, a statue in marble was dug up in the vicinity of Rome, representing a venerable man seated in a chair, and having the title of several of Hippolytus's works engraved upon it; and there can be little doubt that it is his. Few of his writings have been supposed to remain.

The fragments we before possessed, however, showed the opinions he entertained on the subject of the Trinity. He was no believer in a co-equal Three. His Trinity, says (August) Neander, was "strictly subordinational." He asserted that "God caused the Logos to proceed from him when he would and as he would." In regard to the words, "I and my Father are one," he observes, that Christ "used the same expression respecting his own relation to the disciples." [Hist. Christ. Dogm., p. 168]

But he comes to us now, since the discovery of this work, as a new witness against the antiquity of the modern doctrine of the Trinity. The confession just referred to, as given by Bunsen, clearly exhibits the superiority of the Father, and the dependent and derived nature of the Son. The Father, according to the confession, is "the one God, the first and the only One, the Maker and Lord of all," who "had nothing coeval with him, no infinite chaos, no measureless water or solid earth, no thick air or hot fire or subtile spirit; not the blue vault of the great heaven. But he was One, alone by himself; who, willing it, called into being what had no being before, except that when he willed to call it into being, he had full knowledge of what was to be." Here is the One Infinite Father, who is above all, without co-equal, the Originator of all things. But, like the other ante-Nicene Fathers, Hippolytus believed, that, in creating the world, God made use of a subordinate being, or instrument, which was the Logos, or Son. "This sole and universal God," Hippolytus says, "first by his cogitation begets the Word (Logos), . . . the indwelling Reason of the universe." "When he (the Logos) came forth from Him who begat him, being his first-begotten speech, he had in himself the ideas conceived by the Father. When, therefore, the Father commanded that the world should be, the Logos accomplished it in detail, pleasing God." Again: this or that effect took place, "so far as the commanding God willed that the Logos should accomplish it." Here is subordination as unequivocally expressed as language can declare it. God is the Original: he commands, and the Son, or Logos, performs. "These things he (God) made by the Logos," the "only-begotten child of the Father, the light-bringing voice, anterior to the morning star." In common with the other Fathers, Hippolytus applies to the Son the title "God," because begotten of the substance of God, and not created out of nothing, as other things were; but he clearly distinguishes him from the Supreme, Infinite One. We discover in the confession, as Bunsen gives it, no mention of the Spirit as a distinct manifestation. Bunsen quotes G. A. Meier as asserting "the fact, that Hippolytus decidedly ascribes no personality to the Holy Spirit." [See Meier's Lehre von der Trinitat, i. 88; Bunsen's Christianity and Mankind, i. 464. — Ed.]

The creed of this old bishop, who, as we are told, "received the traditions and doctrine of the Apostolic age from an unsuspected source," is certainly not Athanasian. Well might Bunsen pronounce the "doctrinal system of the ante-Nicene Church," among the teachers of which he assigns to Hippolytus so elevated a place, "irreconcilable with the letter and authority of the formularies of the Constantinian, and, in general, of the Byzantine councils, and with the mediaeval systems built upon them." He subjoins, "I say that it is irreconcilable with that letter and that authority, as much as these are with the Bible and common sense; and I add, it would be fully as irreconcilable with the Byzantine and Roman churches if Arianism had prevailed."

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Alchemy & the Philosopher's Stone by Francis Lieber 1849

The History of Alchemy & the Philosopher's Stone by Francis Lieber 1849

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Alchemy: the art of changing, by means of a secret chemical process, base metals into precious. Probably the ancient nations, in their first attempts to melt metals, observing that the composition of different metals produced masses of a color unlike either,—for instance, that a mixture like gold resulted from the melting together of copper and zinc,—arrived at the conclusion, that one metal could be changed into another. At an early period, the desire of gold and silver grew strong, as luxury increased, and men indulged the hope of obtaining these rarer metals from the more common. At the same time, the love of life led to the idea of finding a remedy against all diseases, a means of lessening the infirmities of age, of renewing youth, and repelling death. The hope of realizing these ideas prompted the efforts of several men, who taught their doctrines through mystical images and symbols. To transmute metals, they thought it necessary to find a substance which, containing the original principle of all matter, should possess the power of dissolving all into its elements. This general solvent, or menstruum universale, which, at the same time, was to possess the power of removing all the seeds of disease out of the human body, and renewing life, was called the philosopher's stone, lapis philosophorum, and its pretended possessors adepts. The more obscure the ideas which the alchemists themselves had of the appearances occurring in their experiments, the more they endeavored to express themselves in symbolical language. Afterwards, they retained this phraseology, to conceal their secrets from the uninitiated. In Egypt, in the earliest times, Hermes, the son of Anubis, was ranked among the heroes, and many books of chemical, magical and alchemical learning are said to have been left by him. These, however, are of a later date. For this reason, chemistry and alchemy received the name of the Hermetic art. It is certain that the ancient Egyptians possessed particular chemical and metallurgical knowledge, although the origin of alchemy cannot, with certainty, be attributed to them. Several Grecians became acquainted with the writings of the Egyptians, and initiated in their chemical knowledge.

The fondness for magic, and for alchemy more particularly, spread afterwards among the Romans also. When true science was persecuted under the Roman tyrants, superstition and false philosophy flourished the more. The prodigality of the Romans excited the desire for gold, and led them to pursue the art which promised it instantaneously and abundantly. Caligula made experiments with a view of obtaining gold from orpiment. On the other hand, Diocletian ordered all books to be burned that taught to manufacture gold and silver by alchemy. At that time, many books on alchemy were written, and falsely inscribed with the names of renowned men of antiquity. Thus a number of writings were ascribed to Democritus, and more to Hermes, which were written by Egyptian monks and hermits, and which, as the Fabula Smaragdina, taught, in allegories, with mystical and symbolical figures, the way to discover the philosopher's stone. At a later period, chemistry and alchemy were cultivated among the Arabians. In the 8th century, the first chemist, commonly called Geber, flourished among them, in whose works rules are given for preparing quicksilver and other metals. In the middle ages, the monks devoted themselves to alchemy, although they were afterwards prohibited from studying it by the popes. But there was one, even among these, John XXII, who was fond of alchemy. Raymond Lully, or Lullius, was one of the most famous alchemists in the 13th and 14th centuries. A story is told of him, that, during his stay in London, he changed for king Edward I a mass of 50,000 pounds of quicksilver into gold, of which the first rose-nobles were coined. The study of alchemy was prohibited at Venice in 1488. Paracelsus, who was highly celebrated about 1525, belongs to the renowned alchemists, as do Roger Bacon, Basilius, Valentinus and many others. When, however, more rational principles of chemistry and philosophy began to be diffused, and to shed light on chemical phenomena, the rage for alchemy gradually decreased, though many persons, including some nobles, still remained devoted to it. Alchemy has, however, afforded some service to chemistry, and even medicine. Chemistry was first carefully studied by the alchemists, to whose labor and patience we are indebted for several useful discoveries; e. g. various preparations of quicksilver, mineral kermes, of porcelain, &c.—Nothing can be asserted with certainty about the transmutation of metals. Modern chemistry, indeed, places metals in the class of elements, and denies the possibility of changing an inferior metal into gold. Most of the accounts of such transmutation rest on fraud or delusion, although some of them are accompanied with circumstances and testimony which render them probable. By means of the galvanic battery, even the alkalies have been discovered to have a metallic base. The possibility of obtaining metal from other substances which contain the ingredients composing it, and of changing one metal into another, or rather of refining it, must, therefore, be left undecided. Nor are all alchemists to be considered impostors. Many have labored, under the conviction of the possibility of obtaining their object, with indefatigable patience and purity of heart (which is earnestly recommended by sound alchemists as the principal requisite for the success of their labors). Designing men have often used alchemy as a mask for their covetousness, and as a means of defrauding silly people of their money. Many persons, even in out days, destitute of sound chemical knowledge, have been led by old books on alchemy, which they did not understand, into long, expensive and fruitless labors. Hitherto chemistry has not succeeded in unfolding the principles by which metals are formed, the laws of their production, their growth and refinement, and in aiding or imitating this process of nature; consequently the labor of the alchemists, in search of the philosopher's stone, is but a groping in the dark.

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The Ghostly Cough - A Consumptive Haunting by Elliot O'Donnell 1919

The Ghostly Cough - A Consumptive Haunting in Regency Square, Brighton by Elliot O'Donnell 1919

I know a man called Harrison. So, in all probability, do you; so, in all probability, do most people. But it is not everyone, I imagine, that knows a Harrison who delights in the Christian name of Pelamon, and it is not everyone that knows a Pelamon Harrison who indulges in psychical research. Now some people think that no one unless he be a member of the Psychical Research Society can know anything of ghosts. That is a fallacy. I have met many people who, although they have had considerable experience in haunted houses, have never set a foot in Hanover Square; and, vice versa, I have met many people who, although they have been members of the Psychical Research Society, have assured me they have never seen a ghost. Pelamon Harrison belongs to the former category. He is by vocation a gentleman undertaker, and he lives in Sussex. Some years ago, after the publication of my novel For Satan’s Sake, which was very severely criticised in certain of the religious denominational papers, Pelamon Harrison, championing my cause, wrote me rather an interesting letter. I went to see him, and ever since then he has not only supplied me with detailed information of all the hauntings he has come across, but he has at times sent me accounts of his own experiences. This is one of them.

Pelamon was seated in his office one day reading Poe, when the telephone at his elbow started ringing.

“Hullo!” said Pelamon. “Who’s there?”

“Only me—Phoebe Hunt,” was the reply. (Phoebe Hunt was Pelamon Harrison’s housekeeper.)

“Anything the matter?” Pelamon asked anxiously. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing,” Mrs. Hunt replied, “only a rather queer-looking gentleman has just called and seemed most anxious to see you. He says he has been told about you by Mr. Elliot O’Donnell, and he wants you to go at once to a house in Regency Square, Brighton, No. —. He says it is very badly haunted.”

“What’s his name?” Pelamon demanded.

“Nimkin,” Mrs. Hunt answered, and she very carefully spelt the name—“N I M K I N.”

“I’ll think it over,” Pelamon said, “and if I’m not home by seven o’clock, don’t expect me till the morning.” He then rang off, and thinking it was time he did some work, he took up his account book.

Try as he would, however, he could not keep his mind from wandering. Something kept whispering in his ear “Nimkin,” and something kept telling him that his presence was urgently needed in Regency Square.

At last, unable to stand it any longer, he threw down his pen and, picking up his hat and coat, hurried off to the railway station.

At seven o’clock that evening he stood on the pavement immediately in front of No. — Regency Square. All the blinds were down, and this circumstance, combined with an atmosphere of silence and desolation, told him that the house was no longer inhabited. Somewhat perplexed, he asked the servant next door if she could tell him where Mr. Nimkin lived.

“Not in Heaven,” the girl replied tartly. “He did live in No. — till his wife died, but after that he went to live on the other side of the town. He died himself a few days ago, and I believe his funeral took place this afternoon.”

“And No. — where his wife died is now empty,” Pelamon observed.

“Yes, it’s been empty ever since,” she replied, and, sinking her voice to a whisper, “folks say it’s haunted. I can’t altogether bring myself to believe in ghosts—but I’ve heard noises,” and she laughed uneasily.

“Had he any children?” Pelamon asked.

“No,” the girl answered, “and he has left the money he hoarded—he was the meanest of old sticks—to the hospital for consumptives.”

“A worthy cause,” Pelamon commented.

The girl nodded. “His wife was a consumptive,” she went on. “I remember her well—a pretty, fair-haired creature with a lovely skin, and”—here she shuddered—“a shocking cough.” Then, thrusting her head close to Pelamon, and fixing him with a frightened glance, she whispered, “It was the cough that killed her!”

Pelamon stared at her in astonishment. “Why, of course,” he said. “It’s the cough that kills all consumptives. I’ve buried scores of them.”

The girl shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said, “but I daren’t tell you any more; and, after all, it’s only what we thought. Anyhow, he’s dead now, and a good job too. Did you want to see him?”

“Oh, it was nothing very particular,” Pelamon replied. “Who has the keys of the house?”

The girl’s jaws dropped and her eyes grew as big as turtle’s eggs.

“The keys!” she exclaimed. “Mercy on us, you don’t intend going there?”

“That’s my business,” Pelamon replied haughtily; and then, not wishing to offend her, he added: “I heard the place was to be let, and as I want a house in this particular locality, I thought I would call and look at it, that’s all! I am not a burglar!”

The girl giggled. “A burglar!” she said. “Oh no, you’re not sharp enough for that. Besides, the house is empty.”

“What!” Pelamon exclaimed. “Has all the furniture been taken away?”

“All but the blinds,” the girl nodded. “There was a sale here the day after Mrs. Nimkin was buried, and at it crowds of people; some of the furniture fetched an enormous price. I did hear that the house was sold too, but I’ll ask the missus to make sure.”

She ran upstairs, and returned in a few minutes.

“Yes,” she said, “the house is sold, and the new people are coming in soon.”

“Then that settles the matter,” Pelamon said, and, thanking her in his usual terse and precise way, he withdrew.

He took a brief turn on the sea front, thinking all the time of Regency Square and the mysterious individual who had interviewed Mrs. Hunt, and who must be, he thought, related to the Nimkin who had been buried that afternoon. At nine o’clock he was once again in the square. Entering the garden of No. —, he crept round to the back of the house and, finding the catch of one of the windows undone, he raised the sash and climbed in.

He had an electric torch with him, and consequently he was able to find his way about. Pelamon is very susceptible to the influence of the superphysical, and is probably far more of a psychic than the majority of those who earn their living as professional mediums. He told me afterwards that he knew No. — was haunted the moment he set his foot inside it. He could detect the presence of the superphysical both in the atmosphere and also in the shadows. Frequently in the death chambers which he had attended he had seen a certain type of shadow on the floor by the bed; and it was this same queer kind of shadow, he said, that now crept out from the wall to meet him. But it was not the only phenomenon. From just where the shadow lay, there came a cough, a nervous, worrying cough, a regular hack, hack, hack, and when Pelamon moved, the cough and the shadow moved too. He went all over the house, into every room; and the cough and the shadow followed him. Hack, hack, hack, he could not get rid of it. At first it merely irritated him; but after a while he grew angry, infuriated, maddened.

“Damn you!” he yelled. “Stop it! Stop that vile, infernal hacking. Damn you! Curse you! Stop it!”

But the coughing went on, and in a hideous fit of rage, Pelamon flew at the shadow, jumped on it, stamped on it, and drawing out his clasp knife, knelt down and deliberately stabbed it. Still it went on, untiringly, ceaselessly, significantly, hack, hack, hack. Pelamon was still on the floor cutting, stabbing, blaspheming, when a taxi suddenly drew up outside the house, and the next moment the front-door bell gave a loud birr. Pelamon waited till it had rung twice; then he answered it. A chauffeur stood on the doorstep.

“You’ve come to the wrong house,” Pelamon said to him. “No taxi is wanted here.”

“This is No. —, ain’t it?” the man ejaculated.

“Yes,” Pelamon replied. “It is No. —, but that doesn’t simplify matters. Who sent for you?”

“A gentleman as lives on t’other side of the town,” the chauffeur replied. “He called out to me as I was passing his house. ‘Do you want a job?’ he says. ‘Will you drive to No. — Regency Square and fetch a lady and gentleman? You’ll find them there waiting for you. The gent’s name is Harrison’ (Pellijohn Harrison, I think he said, but I couldn’t quite catch it). ‘Never mind the lady’s. Bring ’em both here.’”

“That’s very extraordinary,” Pelamon exclaimed, “for that’s my name, without a doubt. But I don’t know who the gentleman could have been, and there’s no lady here.”

“Maybe there ain’t no lady in the house now,” the chauffeur said dryly, “because she’s just got in the taxi. But she was there a second or two ago. You do like your bit of fun, don’t yer?”

Pelamon, in a great state of bewilderment, was about to say something, when from the direction of the taxi came the cough, hack, hack, hack. He knew it too well.

“There you are,” the chauffeur said, with a leer. “You must admit she’s in there right enough, and waiting till you’re ready to join her.”

Possessed with the feeling that he must see the thing through, Pelamon hesitated no longer. He got into the taxi. The coughing went on, but he could see no lady.

They drove right through the town, and at last stopped outside a small villa facing a church or chapel. Concluding this must be their destination, Pelamon got out and, bidding the chauffeur wait, rang the front-door bell. There was no response. He looked at the windows; there was not a vestige of light anywhere and the blinds were all tightly drawn. He rang again, and rapped as well, and was about to do so a third time, when a window in the next house was raised and a voice called out: “There’s no one there. There’s been a funeral to-day and the house is empty.”

“Whose funeral was it?” Pelamon asked eagerly.

“Mr. Nimkin’s,” was the reply; “he died last Tuesday.”

“Why, what are you a-talking about?” the chauffeur called out, descending from his perch and joining Pelamon on the doorstep. “Nimkin! Why, that was the name of the bloke as was here less than an hour ago and told me to fetch this gentleman. No one in the house indeed, why, he’s in it, and the lady that came along with this gentleman here, she’s in it too. Listen to her coughing,” and, as he spoke, from the other side of the closed door came the familiar sounds, hack, hack, hack.

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Real Detectives vs Fictional Detectives by Carolyn Wells 1913

The Real Detective vs the Fictional Detective by Carolyn Wells 1913

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The all-important character of the Detective Story is, of course, the Detective. He is not only the Star Performer, but the reason for the Detective Story itself. What Mr. Hawthorne calls the Transcendent Detective is the detective of fiction. Such a one is made, not born.

As Mr. Vance Thompson puts it:

"Readers who pant breathlessly after Sherlock Holmes and his like should give thanks to Edgar Allan Poe; when he invented Dupin in the 'Murders in the Rue Morgue,' he created once for all the type of the detective in fiction. In all the years it has not changed very much. Sherlock Holmes still sits in his dark, super-heated chamber; he is drugged with tobacco and opium; he maintains the 'profound silence' that distinguished Poe's cold analyst; indeed, one may be sure that the type will live for another eighty years."

But we have already agreed that this fiction detective has little or nothing to do with the real detective. When M. Goron, one of the greatest of French detectives, was asked concerning this, he replied:

"I dare say I have read nearly all the detective stories, those of Poe and Gaboriau, and 'Sir Doyle's' clever tales. Like every one else I love to follow the twists and turns that lead to the end of these apparently inexplicable problems. It is a good intellectual sport—like playing chess. But do not imagine for a moment," and M. Goron was emphatic, "that it has anything at all to do with practical police work. Nothing at all. It is not by such subtle, opium-bred guesswork and fine-drawn deduction that criminals are detected."

M. Goron's theory is that in thief-taking, as in everything else, system is of prime importance; and after that the most effective auxiliary of the detective is Chance. Almost always it is by a lucky hazard that the shrewd criminal is brought down. For instance, the taking of Magne; it was tragically absurd—for the farce ended in the basket of wet sawdust under the guillotine.

In fact, detectives of real life invariably scorn the transcendent detective of fiction, and, in his turn, the story-book detective scoffs at the methods of the Central Office men.

Mr. Arthur C. Train, in "Courts Criminal and The Camorra," thus mildly satirizes our detective of fiction and sets him quite apart from the genuine article:

"The sanctified tradition that a detective was an agile person with a variety of side whiskers no longer obtains even in light literature, and the most imaginative of us is frankly aware of the fact that a detective is just a common man earning (or pretending to earn) a common living by common and obvious means. Yet in spite of ourselves we are accustomed to attribute superhuman acuteness and a lightning-like rapidity of intellect to this vague and romantic class of fellow-citizens. The ordinary work of a detective, however, requires neither of these qualities. Honesty and obedience are his chief requirements, and if he have intelligence as well, so much the better, provided it be of the variety known as horse sense. A genuine candidate for the job of Sherlock Holmes would find little competition. In the first place, the usual work of a detective does not demand any extraordinary powers of deduction at all.

"There are a very large number of persons who go into the detective business for the same reason that others enter the ministry—they can't make a living at anything else. Provided he has squint eyes and a dark complexion, almost anybody feels that he is qualified to unravel the tangled threads of crime.

"The real detective is the one who, taking up the solution of a crime or other mystery, brings to bear upon it unusual powers of observation and deduction and an exceptional resourcefulness in acting upon his conclusions. Frankly, I have known very few such, although for some ten years I have made use of a large number of so-called detectives in both public and private matters. As I recall the long line of cases where these men have rendered service of great value, almost every one resolves itself into a successful piece of mere spying or trailing. Little ingenuity or powers of reason were required. Of course, there are a thousand tricks that an experienced man acquires as a matter of course, but which at first sight seem almost like inspiration.

"There is no more reason to look for superiority of intelligence or mental alertness among detectives of the ordinary class than there is to expect it from clerks, stationary engineers, plumbers, or firemen. While comparisons are invidious, I should be inclined to say that the ordinary chauffeur was probably a brighter man than the average detective.

This is not to be taken in derogation of the latter, but as a compliment to the former. There is more reason why he should be.

"The telephone is the modern detective's chief ally, and he relies upon rapidity more than upon deduction. Under present conditions it is easier to overtake a crook than to reason out what he will probably do. In fact, the old-fashioned 'deductive detective' is largely a man of the past. The most useless operator in the world is the one who is 'wedded to his own theory' of the case—the man who asks no questions and relies only on himself. Interject a new element into a case and such a man is all at sea. In the meantime the criminal has made his 'get away.'

"In the story-books your detective scans with eagle eye the surface of the floor for microscopic evidences of crime. His mind leaps from a cigar ash to a piece of banana peel and thence to what the family had for dinner. His brain is working all the time. His gray matter dwarfs almost to insignificance that of Daniel Webster or the Hon. Benjamin F. Butler. It is, of course, all quite wonderful and most excellent reading, and the old-style sleuth really thought he could do it! Nowadays, while the fake detective is snooping around the back piazza with a telescope, the real one is getting the 'dope' from the village blacksmith or barber (if there is any except on Saturday nights) or the girl that slings the pie at the station. These folk have something to go on. They may not be highly intelligent, but they know the country, and, what is more important, they know the people. All the brains in the world cannot make up for the lack of an elementary knowledge of the place and the characters themselves. It stands to reason that no strange detective could form as good an opinion as to which of the members of your household would be most likely to steal a piece of jewelry as you could yourself. Yet the old-fashioned Sherlock knew and knows it all.

"There is no mystery about such work, except what the detective himself sees fit to enshroud it with. Most of us do detective work all the time without being conscious of it. Simply because the matter concerns the theft of a pearl, or the betraying of a business or professional secret, or the disappearance of a friend, the opinion of a stranger becomes no more valuable. And the chances are equal that the stranger will make a bungle of it.

"The national detective agency with its thousands of employees who have, most of them, grown up and received their training in its service, is a powerful organization, highly centralized, and having an immense sinking fund of special knowledge and past experience.

"This is the product of decades of patient labor and minute record. The agency which offers you the services of a Sherlock Holmes is a fraud, but you can accept as genuine a proposition to run down any man whose picture you may be able to identify in the gallery. The day of the impersonator is over. The detective of this generation is a hard-headed business man with a stout pair of legs."

Thus, the reader will observe that there are just a few more real detectives still left in the business—if you can find them. Incidentally, they one and all take off their hats to Scotland Yard. They will tell you that the Englishman may be slow (fancy an American Inspector of Police wearing gray suede gloves and brewing himself a dish of tea in his office at four o'clock!), but that once he goes after a crook he is bound to get him—it is merely a question of time. I may add that in the opinion of the heads of the big agencies the percentage of ability in the New York Detective Bureau is high—one of them going so far as to claim that fifty percent of the men have real detective ability—that is to say "brains." That is rather a higher average than one finds among clergymen and lawyers, yet it may be so.

Mr. John Wilson Murray, one of the noted detectives, says simply in his "Memoirs of a Great Detective":

"There is no magic about the detective business. A detective walking along the street does not suddenly hear a mysterious voice whisper 'Banker John Jones has just been robbed of $1,000,000.' He does not turn the corner and come upon a perfect stranger, and then, because the stranger has a twisted cigar in his mouth, suddenly pounce upon him and exclaim: 'Aha, villain that you are! give back to Banker Jones the $1,000,000 you stole ten minutes ago!' The detective business is of no such foolish and impossible character. Detectives are not clairvoyants, or infallible prophets, or supernatural seers. They possess no uncanny powers and no mantle of mysterious wonder-working. I remember a few years ago I was subpoenaed before a grand jury in the City of New York to testify on a matter pertaining to a prisoner, whose record I knew here in Canada. The foreman of that jury was a man prominent in New York's business life. When I was called he looked at me and suddenly said:

"'Inspector Murray, what crimes have been committed within the past hour in New York, and who committed them?' "'I have not the slightest idea,' I replied.

"'Oh, ho! So you cannot go out and put your hands on every man who has committed a crime? You are a detective, yet cannot do that?' he said.

"'I am not that kind of detective,' I replied. 'When I get a guilty man it usually is by hard work or good luck, and often by both.'

"'Thank the Lord we've found a detective who is not greater than God,' he said.

"As a matter of fact the detective business is a plain ordinary business, just like a lawyer's business, a doctor's business, a railway manager's business. It has its own peculiarities because it deals with crime, with the distorted, imperfect, diseased members of the social body, just as a surgeon's business deals with the distorted, imperfect, diseased members of the physical body. But it is not an abnormal or phenomenal or incomprehensible business. There is nothing done in it, nothing accomplished by any detective, that is not the result of conscientious work, the exercise of human intelligence, an efficient system of organization and intercommunication, and good luck. A good detective must be quick to think, keen to analyse, persistent, resourceful, courageous. But the best detective in the world is a human being, neither half-devil nor half-god, but just a man with the attributes or associates that make him successful in his occupation.

"The best detective, therefore, is a man who instinctively detects the truth, lost though it may be in a maze of lies. By instinct he is a detective. He is born to it; his business is his natural bent. It would be a platitude to say the best detectives are born, not made. They are both born and made for the business. The man who, by temperament and make-up, is an ideal detective, must go through the hard years of steady work, must apply himself, and study and toil in making himself what he is born to be. Sandow was born to be a strong man, but, if he had not developed himself by hard work, he would not have become the strongest man of his time. As a detective advances in his business he will find that the more he studies and works, the stronger his powers of intuition, of divination, of analysis become. A very simple broad illustration will prove this. If a detective is chasing a criminal from country to country, and has learned, by study of the extradition treaties, that a certain country offers a better haven than another, he may save himself many a weary mile by going to the country where his common sense tells him his man is more likely to be. A mechanical knowledge of the use of tools, a knowledge of the effects of poisons, a knowledge of the ways of banking, of the habits of life of the various classes, in various callings, a knowledge of crooks, and, above all, a knowledge of human nature, in whatsoever way manifest, are invaluable elements of the equipment of a good detective."

Johannes Greber, Hitler, John 1:1 & Other Books You Won't Believe are Online for FREE (Feb 21 2018)

Books you won't believe are online for free...but you may have to hurry before they are taken down. I did not post any of these books, these are simply books I found in my online travels.

For a list of all of my digital books and books on disk click here

See also God, Disinformation & Other Books You Won't Believe are Online for FREE and The Paranormal & Other Books You Won't Believe Are Online for FREE and Catholicism, Objectivism & Other Books you Won't Believe are Online for FREE and Bibles, Comic Magazines & Other Books You Won't Believe Are Online For FREE and Philosophy, Rand, Illuminati & other Books you won't believe are online for FREE and Philosophy, Religion, History & Mystery Books you won't believe are online for free and Books and Magazines you won't believe are online for free

The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by Thomas Kuhn

The Closing of the American Mind by Allan Bloom

Small Is Beautiful: Economics as if People Mattered by E. F. Schumacher

Philosophical Investigations by Ludwig Wittgenstein

The Constitution of Liberty by Friedrich A. Hayek

Modern Times by Paul Johnson

The Origins of Totalitarianism by Hannah Arendt

Words by Jean Paul Sartre

A Study of History by Arnold J. Toynbee

Collected Essays of George Orwell

The Conservative Mind by Russell Kirk

The Bible For Dummies

Future Shock: The Third Wave by Alvin Toffler

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Atomic Theory and the Description of Nature by Niels Bohr

Essays in Sociology by Max Weber

The Word of God and the Word of Man by Karl Barth

Leo Strauss "Thoughts On Machiavelli"

Religion and the Rise of Western Culture by Christopher Dawson

After Virtue by Alasdair MacIntyre

Sociobiology by Edward O. Wilson

The Tao of Physics by Fritjof Capra

The Lives of a Cell by Lewis Thomas

Marx And Satan by Richard Wurmbrand

Strong's Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible


New American Standard Bible

The Neglected Sun by Fritz Vahrenholt

Hillbilly Elegy Audiobook

Imperium And The Enemy Of Europe by Francis Parker Yockey

The Big Lie of War "Prosperity" by Bernard Burton

Skeptic by Harold Weisberg (Who Killed JFK)

Bart Ehrman - Truth and Fiction in The Da Vinci Code

Carr William Guy - The Conspiracy to destroy all Governments and Religions

Freemasonry by Lucian Johnston

What Is Freemasonry - An Ebook on the Ancient and Honorable Fraternity by Greg Stewart

The New Testament in Modern English by JB Phillips

The Holy Bible New Living Translation NLT

Conspiracy Theories - Everything You Know is Wrong

Nazi Conspiracy and Aggression

The Federal Reserve Conspiracy

Communication With the Spirit World of God by Johannes Greber - Personal Experiences of a Catholic Priest

The New Testament  - A New Translation Based on the Oldest Manuscripts by Johannes Greber 1937
Johannes Greber's German New Testament

The Word: Who Is He According To John

Hitler's Monsters: A Supernatural History of the Third Reich by Eric Kurlander (audio)

KGB - The Sword and the Shield by Christopher Andrew

Inside the Third Reich by Albert Speer

Masters of Death by Richard Rhodes

Hitlers Furies: German Women in the Nazi Killing Fields by Wendy Lower

The Amplified Bible

The Holy Bible, New King James Version Reference Edition

Qualitative Anarthrous Predicate Nouns by Philip B. Harner

The Significance of the Anarthrous Predicate Nominate in John by Paul Stephen Dixon

New World Translation Reference Edition

Trinity Doctrine Error: A Jewish Analysis By Gerald Sigal is now completely up on google books at - you can't download it but you can read the entire book there.

Jesus: Apocalyptic Prophet of the New Millennium by Bart D. Ehrman

Trinity Doctrine Error: A Jewish Analysis By Gerald Sigal

Anthony Tony Robbins -  Awaken The Giant Within

The Eleventh Commandment - Jeffrey Archer

The Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

Five Little Pigs by Agatha Christie

Grant Jeffrey The Signature Of God

To Kill a Mockingbird Audiobook Part 1 of 2 by Harper Lee

To Kill a Mockingbird Audiobook Part 2 of 2 by Harper Lee

FaceOff by David Baldacci AudioBook

Tell Me Your Dreams, Audiobook by Sidney Sheldon

Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less by Jeffrey Archer, Audiobook

Voltaire on the Vampire (Vroucolacas) Superstition 1764

The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul Audiobook by Douglas Adams

Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency Audiobook by Douglas Adams

Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality Without Religion by Sam Harris

An Appetite for Wonder by Richard Dawkins

The Ancestors Tale by Richard Dawkins

The Magic of Reality by Richard Dawkins

The Art Of Being by Erich Fromm

The Economist Magazine

The Road to Serfdom

Flowers in the Attic

Manly P. Hall - Secret Powers and Why We Should Not Use Them

Neuropsychology of Self Discipline

Philosophy The Analysis of Mind, the Dynamics between Psychology and Physics by Bertrand Russell

"The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson

Adios America by Ann Coulter

The Alchemy of Finance by George Soros

Wizard: Life & Times of Nikola Tesla

My Inventions by Nikola Tesla - Autobiography (Audio Book)

Galaxy Science Fiction Magazine v30n01 1970

Vortex Science Fiction Magazine

Horror Monsters Magazine

The Horror Collection Magazine (Jason Voorhees)

The Horror Collection Magazine (Leatherface)

The Horror Collection Magazine (Freddy Krueger)

World Of Horror (1972)

Hammer Horror Magazine

Defending Jehovah's Witnesses