that has been accumulating is thrown off, or the organism succumbs to
it in actual material death, or in spiritual death. One of the most
important and, to the observer, most remarkable of these crises occurs
in the early thirties or forties, rarely before thirty; in fact, more
frequently not until thirty-five and later. It is the great trial balance
of life, which one would rather defer as long as is expedient than make
prematurely.

It was in such a crisis that Goethe went on his Italian journey, that
Luther nailed his ninety-five theses to the church door in Wittenberg,
that Ignatius Loyola hung his weapons in front of an image of the Virgin,
never to take them down again, and that Jesus was nailed to the cross. As
for the young physician, Frederick von Kammacher, he was neither a Goethe
nor a Luther nor a Loyola; but he was akin to them not only in culture,
but also in many a trait of genius.

It is impossible to express in words the extent in which his whole
previous existence passed in review before Frederick's mental vision as
the little tender sped beyond the harbour lights of Southampton, carrying
him away from Europe and his home. He seemed to be parting with a whole
continent in his soul, upon which he would never set foot again. It was a
farewell forever. No wonder if in that moment his whole being was shaken
and could not regain its balance.

Loyola had not been a good soldier. Else, how could he have discarded his
arms? Luther had not been a good Dominican. Else, how could he have
discarded his monk's robes? Goethe had not been a good barrister or
bureaucrat. A mighty, irresistible wave had swept over those three men
and also, for all the disparity between them, over Frederick von
Kammacher, washing the uniform away from their souls.