litics. Passing through the City Hall
Park, he had noticed a group of men, in the centre of which were half a
dozen, with flushed faces and raised voices, earnestly carrying on a
discussion. He joined the listeners, and heard a new, alien tongue in
the mouths of the philosophers of the people. One was a tramp, another
was a labor agitator, a third was a law-school student, and the remainder
was composed of wordy workingmen. For the first time he heard of
socialism, anarchism, and single tax, and learned that there were warring
social philosophies. He heard hundreds of technical words that were new
to him, belonging to fields of thought that his meagre reading had never
touched upon. Because of this he could not follow the arguments closely,
and he could only guess at and surmise the ideas wrapped up in such
strange expressions. Then there was a black-eyed restaurant waiter who
was a theosophist, a union baker who was an agnostic, an old man who
baffled all of them with the strange philosophy that _what is is right_,
and another old man who discoursed interminably about the cosmos and the
father-atom and the mother-atom.

Martin Eden's head was in a state of addlement when he went away after
several hours, and he hurried to the library to look up the definitions
of a dozen unusual words. And when he left the library, he carried under
his arm four volumes: Madam Blavatsky's "Secret Doctrine," "Progress and
Poverty," "The Quintessence of Socialism," and, "Warfare of Religion and
Science." Unfortunately, he began on the "Secret Doctrine." Every line
bristled with many-syllabled words he did not understand. He sat up in
bed, and the dictionary was in front of him more often than the book. He
looked up so many new words that when they recurred, he had forgotten
their meaning and had to look them up again. He devised the plan of
writing the definitions in a note-book, and filled page after page with
them. And still he could not understand. He read until three in the
morning, and his brain was in a turmoil, but not one essential thought in
the text had he grasped. He looked up, and it seemed that the room was
lifting, heeling, and plunging like a ship upon the sea. Then he hurled
the "Secret Doctrine" and many curses across the room, turned off the
gas, and composed himself to sleep. Nor did he have much better luck
with the other three books. It was not that his brain was weak or
incapable; it could think the