gical interpretation had kept fear from her mind, and made her
take the shaking calmly. For "science," when the tensions in the
earth's crust reach the breaking-point, and strata fall into an altered
equilibrium, earthquake is simply the collective _name_ of all the
cracks and shakings and disturbances that happen. They _are_ the
earthquake. But for me _the_ earthquake was the _cause_ of the
disturbances, and the perception of it as a living agent was
irresistible. It had an overpowering dramatic convincingness.

I realize now better than ever how inevitable were men's earlier
mythologic versions of such catastrophes, and how artificial and
against the grain of our spontaneous perceiving are the later habits
into which science educates us. It was simply impossible for untutored
men to take earthquakes into their minds as anything but supernatural
warnings or retributions.

A good instance of the way in which the tremendousness of a catastrophe
may banish fear was given me by a Stanford student. He was in the
fourth story of Encina Hall, an immense stone dormitory building.
Awakened from sleep, he recognized what the disturbance was, and sprang
from the bed, but was thrown off his feet in a moment, while his books
and furniture fell round him. Then with an awful, sinister, grinding
roar, everything gave way, and with chimneys, floor-beams, walls and
all, he descended through the three lower stories of the building into
the basement. "This is my end, this is my death," he felt; but all the
while no trace of fear. The experience was too overwhelming for
anything but passive surrender to it. (Certain heavy chimneys had
fallen in, carrying the whole centre of the building with them.)

Arrived at the bottom, he found himself with rafters and _debris_ round
him, but not pinned in or crushed. He saw daylight, and crept toward
it through the obstacles. Then, realizing that he was in his
nightgown, and feeling no pain anywhere, his first thought was to get
back to his room and find some more presentable clothing. The
stairways at Encina Hall are at the ends of the building. He made his
way to one of them, and went up the four flights, only to find his room
no longer extant. Then he noticed pain in his feet, which had been
injured, and came down the stairs with difficulty. When he talked with
me ten days later he had been in hospital a week, was very thin and
pale, and went on crutches, and was dressed in borrowe