Rain was falling, and the darkness was intense. In
the sky beyond the crest of a hill toward which I
groped my way along precarious plank sidewalks
and across miry, unpaved streets I could see the
faint glow of the city's lights, but behind me nothing
was visible but a single window of Moxon's house.
It glowed with what seemed to me a mysterious and
fateful meaning. I knew it was an uncurtained aper-
ture in my friend's 'machine-shop,' and I had little
doubt that he had resumed the studies interrupted
by his duties as my instructor in mechanical con-
sciousness and the fatherhood of Rhythm. Odd, and
in some degree humorous, as his convictions seemed
to me at that time, I could not wholly divest myself
of the feeling that they had some tragic relation to
his life and character--perhaps to his destiny--al-
though I no longer entertained the notion that they
were the vagaries of a disordered mind. Whatever
might be thought of his views, his exposition of them
was too logical for that. Over and over, his last words
came back to me: 'Consciousness is the creature of
Rhythm.' Bald and terse as the statement was, I now
found it infinitely alluring. At each recurrence it
broadened in meaning and deepened in suggestion.
Why, here (I thought) is something upon which to
found a philosophy. If Consciousness is the product
of Rhythm all things are conscious, for all have mo-
tion, and all motion is rhythmic.
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