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 WHAT IS MAN?  AND OTHER ESSAYS OF MARK TWAIN

    (Samuel Langhorne Clemens, 1835-1910)



CONTENTS


What Is Man?

The Death of Jean

The Turning-Point of My Life

How to Make History Dates Stick

The Memorable Assassination

A Scrap of Curious History

Switzerland, the Cradle of Liberty

At the Shrine of St. Wagner

William Dean Howells

English as She is Taught

A Simplified Alphabet

As Concerns Interpreting the Deity

Concerning Tobacco

Taming the Bicycle

Is Shakespeare Dead?

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 WHAT IS MAN?


I

a. Man the Machine.  b.  Personal Merit


[The Old Man and the Young Man had been conversing.  The Old
Man had asserted that the human being is merely a machine, and
nothing more.  The Young Man objected, and asked him to go into
particulars and furnish his reasons for his position.]

Old Man.  What are the materials of which a steam-engine is made?

Young Man.  Iron, steel, brass, white-metal, and so on.

O.M.  Where are these found?

Y.M.  In the rocks.

O.M.  In a pure state?

Y.M.  No--in ores.

O.M.  Are the metals suddenly deposited in the ores?

Y.M.  No--it is the patient work of countless ages.

O.M.  You could make the engine out of the rocks themselves?

Y.M.  Yes, a brittle one and not valuable.

O.M.  You would not require much, of such an engine as that?

Y.M.  No--substantially nothing.

O.M.  To make a fine and capable engine, how would you
proceed?

Y.M.  Drive tunnels and shafts into the hills; blast out the
iron ore; crush it, smelt it, reduce it to pig-iron; put some of
it through the Bessemer process and make steel of it.  Mine and
treat and combine several metals of which brass is made.

O.M.  Then?

Y.M.  Out of the perfected result, build the fine engine.

O.M.  You would require much of this one?

Y.M.  Oh, indeed yes.

O.M.  It could drive lathes, drills, planers, punches,
polishers, in a word all the cunning machines of a great factory?

Y.M.  It could.

O.M.  What could the stone engine do?

Y.M.  Drive a sewing-machine, possibly--nothing more,
perhaps.

O.M.  Men would admire the other engine and rapturously
praise it?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  But not the stone one?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  The merits of the metal machine would be far above
those of the stone one?

Y.M.  Of course.

O.M.  Personal merits?

Y.M.  PERSONAL merits?  How do you mean?

O.M.  It would be personally entitled to the credit of its
own performance?

Y.M.  The engine?  Certainly not.

O.M.  Why not?

Y.M.  Because its performance is not personal.  It is the
result of the law of construction.  It is not a MERIT that it
does the things which it is set to do--it can't HELP doing them.

O.M.  And it is not a personal demerit in the stone machine
that it does so little?

Y.M.  Certainly not.  It does no more and no less than the
law of its make permits and compels it to do.  There is nothing
PERSONAL about it; it cannot choose.  In this process of "working
up to the matter" is it your idea to work up to the proposition
that man and a machine are about the same thing, and that there
is no personal merit in the performance of either?

O.M.  Yes--but do not be offended; I am meaning no offense.
What makes the grand difference between the stone engine and the
steel one?  Shall we call it training, education?  Shall we call
the stone engine a savage and the steel one a civilized man?  The
original rock contained the stuff of which the steel one was
built--but along with a lot of sulphur and stone and other
obstructing inborn heredities, brought down from the old geologic
ages--prejudices, let us call them.  Prejudices which nothing
within the rock itself had either POWER to remove or any DESIRE
to remove.  Will you take note of that phrase?

Y.M.  Yes.  I have written it down; "Prejudices which
nothing within the rock itself had either power to remove or any
desire to remove."  Go on.

O.M.  Prejudices must be removed by OUTSIDE INFLUENCES or
not at all.  Put that down.

Y.M.  Very well; "Must be removed by outside influences or
not at all."  Go on.

O.M.  The iron's prejudice against ridding itself of the
cumbering rock.  To make it more exact, the iron's absolute
INDIFFERENCE as to whether the rock be removed or not.  Then
comes the OUTSIDE INFLUENCE and grinds the rock to powder and
sets the ore free.  The IRON in the ore is still captive.  An
OUTSIDE INFLUENCE smelts it free of the clogging ore.  The iron
is emancipated iron, now, but indifferent to further progress.
An OUTSIDE INFLUENCE beguiles it into the Bessemer furnace and
refines it into steel of the first quality.  It is educated, now
--its training is complete.  And it has reached its limit.  By no
possible process can it be educated into GOLD.  Will you set that
down?

Y.M.  Yes.  "Everything has its limit--iron ore cannot be
educated into gold."

O.M.  There are gold men, and tin men, and copper men, and
leaden mean, and steel men, and so on--and each has the
limitations of his nature, his heredities, his training, and his
environment.  You can build engines out of each of these metals,
and they will all perform, but you must not require the weak ones
to do equal work with the strong ones.  In each case, to get the
best results, you must free the metal from its obstructing
prejudicial ones by education--smelting, refining, and so forth.

Y.M.  You have arrived at man, now?

O.M.  Yes.  Man the machine--man the impersonal engine.
Whatsoever a man is, is due to his MAKE, and to the INFLUENCES
brought to bear upon it by his heredities, his habitat, his
associations.  He is moved, directed, COMMANDED, by EXTERIOR
influences--SOLELY.  He ORIGINATES nothing, not even a thought.

Y.M.  Oh, come!  Where did I get my opinion that this which
you are talking is all foolishness?

O.M.  It is a quite natural opinion--indeed an inevitable
opinion--but YOU did not create the materials out of which it is
formed.  They are odds and ends of thoughts, impressions,
feelings, gathered unconsciously from a thousand books, a
thousand conversations, and from streams of thought and feeling
which have flowed down into your heart and brain out of the
hearts and brains of centuries of ancestors.  PERSONALLY you did
not create even the smallest microscopic fragment of the
materials out of which your opinion is made; and personally you
cannot claim even the slender merit of PUTTING THE BORROWED
MATERIALS TOGETHER.  That was done AUTOMATICALLY--by your mental
machinery, in strict accordance with the law of that machinery's
construction.  And you not only did not make that machinery
yourself, but you have NOT EVEN ANY COMMAND OVER IT.

Y.M.  This is too much.  You think I could have formed no
opinion but that one?

O.M.  Spontaneously?  No.  And YOU DID NOT FORM THAT ONE;
your machinery did it for you--automatically and instantly,
without reflection or the need of it.

Y.M.  Suppose I had reflected?  How then?

O.M.  Suppose you try?

Y.M.  (AFTER A QUARTER OF AN HOUR.)  I have reflected.

O.M.  You mean you have tried to change your opinion--as an
experiment?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  With success?

Y.M.  No.  It remains the same; it is impossible to change
it.

O.M.  I am sorry, but you see, yourself, that your mind is
merely a machine, nothing more.  You have no command over it, it
has no command over itself--it is worked SOLELY FROM THE OUTSIDE.
That is the law of its make; it is the law of all machines.

Y.M.  Can't I EVER change one of these automatic opinions?

O.M.  No.  You can't yourself, but EXTERIOR INFLUENCES can
do it.

Y.M.  And exterior ones ONLY?

O.M.  Yes--exterior ones only.

Y.M.  That position is untenable--I may say ludicrously
untenable.

O.M.  What makes you think so?

Y.M.  I don't merely think it, I know it.  Suppose I resolve
to enter upon a course of thought, and study, and reading, with
the deliberate purpose of changing that opinion; and suppose I
succeed.  THAT is not the work of an exterior impulse, the whole
of it is mine and personal; for I originated the project.

O.M.  Not a shred of it.  IT GREW OUT OF THIS TALK WITH ME.
But for that it would not have occurred to you.  No man ever
originates anything.  All his thoughts, all his impulses, come
FROM THE OUTSIDE.

Y.M.  It's an exasperating subject.  The FIRST man had
original thoughts, anyway; there was nobody to draw from.

O.M.  It is a mistake.  Adam's thoughts came to him from the
outside.  YOU have a fear of death.  You did not invent that--you
got it from outside, from talking and teaching.  Adam had no fear
of death--none in the world.

Y.M.  Yes, he had.

O.M.  When he was created?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  When, then?

Y.M.  When he was threatened with it.

O.M.  Then it came from OUTSIDE.  Adam is quite big enough;
let us not try to make a god of him.  NONE BUT GODS HAVE EVER HAD
A THOUGHT WHICH DID NOT COME FROM THE OUTSIDE.  Adam probably had
a good head, but it was of no sort of use to him until it was
filled up FROM THE OUTSIDE.  He was not able to invent the
triflingest little thing with it.  He had not a shadow of a
notion of the difference between good and evil--he had to get the
idea FROM THE OUTSIDE.  Neither he nor Eve was able to originate
the idea that it was immodest to go naked; the knowledge came in
with the apple FROM THE OUTSIDE.  A man's brain is so constructed
that IT CAN ORIGINATE NOTHING WHATSOEVER.  It can only use
material obtained OUTSIDE.  It is merely a machine; and it works
automatically, not by will-power.  IT HAS NO COMMAND OVER ITSELF,
ITS OWNER HAS NO COMMAND OVER IT.

Y.M.  Well, never mind Adam:  but certainly Shakespeare's
creations--

O.M.  No, you mean Shakespeare's IMITATIONS.  Shakespeare
created nothing.  He correctly observed, and he marvelously
painted.  He exactly portrayed people whom GOD had created; but
he created none himself.  Let us spare him the slander of
charging him with trying.  Shakespeare could not create.  HE WAS
A MACHINE, AND MACHINES DO NOT CREATE.

Y.M.  Where WAS his excellence, then?

O.M.  In this.  He was not a sewing-machine, like you and
me; he was a Gobelin loom.  The threads and the colors came into
him FROM THE OUTSIDE; outside influences, suggestions,
EXPERIENCES (reading, seeing plays, playing plays, borrowing
ideas, and so on), framed the patterns in his mind and started up
his complex and admirable machinery, and IT AUTOMATICALLY turned
out that pictured and gorgeous fabric which still compels the
astonishment of the world.  If Shakespeare had been born and bred
on a barren and unvisited rock in the ocean his mighty intellect
would have had no OUTSIDE MATERIAL to work with, and could have
invented none; and NO OUTSIDE INFLUENCES, teachings, moldings,
persuasions, inspirations, of a valuable sort, and could have
invented none; and so Shakespeare would have produced nothing.
In Turkey he would have produced something--something up to the
highest limit of Turkish influences, associations, and training.
In France he would have produced something better--something up
to the highest limit of the French influences and training.  In
England he rose to the highest limit attainable through the
OUTSIDE HELPS AFFORDED BY THAT LAND'S IDEALS, INFLUENCES, AND
TRAINING.  You and I are but sewing-machines.  We must turn out
what we can; we must do our endeavor and care nothing at all when
the unthinking reproach us for not turning out Gobelins.

Y.M.  And so we are mere machines!  And machines may not
boast, nor feel proud of their performance, nor claim personal
merit for it, nor applause and praise.  It is an infamous
doctrine.

O.M.  It isn't a doctrine, it is merely a fact.

Y.M.  I suppose, then, there is no more merit in being brave
than in being a coward?

O.M.  PERSONAL merit?  No.  A brave man does not CREATE his
bravery.  He is entitled to no personal credit for possessing it.
It is born to him.  A baby born with a billion dollars--where is
the personal merit in that?  A baby born with nothing--where is
the personal demerit in that?  The one is fawned upon, admired,
worshiped, by sycophants, the other is neglected and despised--
where is the sense in it?

Y.M.  Sometimes a timid man sets himself the task of
conquering his cowardice and becoming brave--and succeeds.  What
do you say to that?

O.M.  That it shows the value of TRAINING IN RIGHT
DIRECTIONS OVER TRAINING IN WRONG ONES.  Inestimably valuable is
training, influence, education, in right directions--TRAINING
ONE'S SELF-APPROBATION TO ELEVATE ITS IDEALS.

Y.M.  But as to merit--the personal merit of the victorious
coward's project and achievement?

O.M.  There isn't any.  In the world's view he is a worthier
man than he was before, but HE didn't achieve the change--the
merit of it is not his.

Y.M.  Whose, then?

O.M.  His MAKE, and the influences which wrought upon it
from the outside.

Y.M.  His make?

O.M.  To start with, he was NOT utterly and completely a
coward, or the influences would have had nothing to work upon.
He was not afraid of a cow, though perhaps of a bull:  not afraid
of a woman, but afraid of a man.  There was something to build
upon.  There was a SEED.  No seed, no plant.  Did he make that
seed himself, or was it born in him?  It was no merit of HIS that
the seed was there.

Y.M.  Well, anyway, the idea of CULTIVATING it, the
resolution to cultivate it, was meritorious, and he originated
that.

O.M.  He did nothing of the kind.  It came whence ALL
impulses, good or bad, come--from OUTSIDE.  If that timid man had
lived all his life in a community of human rabbits, had never
read of brave deeds, had never heard speak of them, had never
heard any one praise them nor express envy of the heroes that had
done them, he would have had no more idea of bravery than Adam
had of modesty, and it could never by any possibility have
occurred to him to RESOLVE to become brave.  He COULD NOT
ORIGINATE THE IDEA--it had to come to him from the OUTSIDE.  And
so, when he heard bravery extolled and cowardice derided, it woke
him up.  He was ashamed.  Perhaps his sweetheart turned up her
nose and said, "I am told that you are a coward!"  It was not HE
that turned over the new leaf--she did it for him.  HE must not
strut around in the merit of it--it is not his.

Y.M.  But, anyway, he reared the plant after she watered the
seed.

O.M.  No.  OUTSIDE INFLUENCES reared it.  At the command--
and trembling--he marched out into the field--with other soldiers
and in the daytime, not alone and in the dark.  He had the
INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE, he drew courage from his comrades' courage;
he was afraid, and wanted to run, but he did not dare; he was
AFRAID to run, with all those soldiers looking on.  He was
progressing, you see--the moral fear of shame had risen superior
to the physical fear of harm.  By the end of the campaign
experience will have taught him that not ALL who go into battle
get hurt--an outside influence which will be helpful to him; and
he will also have learned how sweet it is to be praised for
courage and be huzza'd at with tear-choked voices as the war-worn
regiment marches past the worshiping multitude with flags flying
and the drums beating.  After that he will be as securely brave
as any veteran in the army--and there will not be a shade nor
suggestion of PERSONAL MERIT in it anywhere; it will all have
come from the OUTSIDE.  The Victoria Cross breeds more heroes
than--

Y.M.  Hang it, where is the sense in his becoming brave if
he is to get no credit for it?

O.M.  Your question will answer itself presently.  It
involves an important detail of man's make which we have not yet
touched upon.

Y.M.  What detail is that?

O.M.  The impulse which moves a person to do things--the
only impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing.

Y.M.  The ONLY one!  Is there but one?

O.M.  That is all.  There is only one.

Y.M.  Well, certainly that is a strange enough doctrine.
What is the sole impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing?

O.M.  The impulse to CONTENT HIS OWN SPIRIT--the NECESSITY
of contenting his own spirit and WINNING ITS APPROVAL.

Y.M.  Oh, come, that won't do!

O.M.  Why won't it?

Y.M.  Because it puts him in the attitude of always looking
out for his own comfort and advantage; whereas an unselfish man
often does a thing solely for another person's good when it is a
positive disadvantage to himself.

O.M.  It is a mistake.  The act must do HIM good, FIRST;
otherwise he will not do it.  He may THINK he is doing it solely
for the other person's sake, but it is not so; he is contenting
his own spirit first--the other's person's benefit has to always
take SECOND place.

Y.M.  What a fantastic idea!  What becomes of self-
sacrifice?  Please answer me that.

O.M.  What is self-sacrifice?

Y.M.  The doing good to another person where no shadow nor
suggestion of benefit to one's self can result from it.



II

Man's Sole Impulse--the Securing of His Own Approval


Old Man.  There have been instances of it--you think?

Young Man.  INSTANCES?  Millions of them!

O.M.  You have not jumped to conclusions?  You have examined
them--critically?

Y.M.  They don't need it:  the acts themselves reveal the
golden impulse back of them.

O.M.  For instance?

Y.M.  Well, then, for instance.  Take the case in the book
here.  The man lives three miles up-town.  It is bitter cold,
snowing hard, midnight.  He is about to enter the horse-car when
a gray and ragged old woman, a touching picture of misery, puts
out her lean hand and begs for rescue from hunger and death.  The
man finds that he has a quarter in his pocket, but he does not
hesitate:  he gives it her and trudges home through the storm.
There--it is noble, it is beautiful; its grace is marred by no
fleck or blemish or suggestion of self-interest.

O.M.  What makes you think that?

Y.M.  Pray what else could I think?  Do you imagine that
there is some other way of looking at it?

O.M.  Can you put yourself in the man's place and tell me
what he felt and what he thought?

Y.M.  Easily.  The sight of that suffering old face pierced
his generous heart with a sharp pain.  He could not bear it.  He
could endure the three-mile walk in the storm, but he could not
endure the tortures his conscience would suffer if he turned his
back and left that poor old creature to perish.  He would not
have been able to sleep, for thinking of it.

O.M.  What was his state of mind on his way home?

Y.M.  It was a state of joy which only the self-sacrificer
knows.  His heart sang, he was unconscious of the storm.

O.M.  He felt well?

Y.M.  One cannot doubt it.

O.M.  Very well.  Now let us add up the details and see how
much he got for his twenty-five cents.  Let us try to find out
the REAL why of his making the investment.  In the first place HE
couldn't bear the pain which the old suffering face gave him.  So
he was thinking of HIS pain--this good man.  He must buy a salve
for it.  If he did not succor the old woman HIS conscience would
torture him all the way home.  Thinking of HIS pain again.  He
must buy relief for that.  If he didn't relieve the old woman HE
would not get any sleep.  He must buy some sleep--still thinking
of HIMSELF, you see.  Thus, to sum up, he bought himself free of
a sharp pain in his heart, he bought himself free of the tortures
of a waiting conscience, he bought a whole night's sleep--all for
twenty-five cents!  It should make Wall Street ashamed of itself.
On his way home his heart was joyful, and it sang--profit on top
of profit!  The impulse which moved the man to succor the old
woman was--FIRST--to CONTENT HIS OWN SPIRIT; secondly to relieve
HER sufferings.  Is it your opinion that men's acts proceed from
one central and unchanging and inalterable impulse, or from a
variety of impulses?

Y.M.  From a variety, of course--some high and fine and
noble, others not.  What is your opinion?

O.M.  Then there is but ONE law, one source.

Y.M.  That both the noblest impulses and the basest proceed
from that one source?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  Will you put that law into words?

O.M.  Yes.  This is the law, keep it in your mind.  FROM HIS
CRADLE TO HIS GRAVE A MAN NEVER DOES A SINGLE THING WHICH HAS ANY
FIRST AND FOREMOST OBJECT BUT ONE--TO SECURE PEACE OF MIND,
SPIRITUAL COMFORT, FOR HIMSELF.

Y.M.  Come!  He never does anything for any one else's
comfort, spiritual or physical?

O.M.  No.  EXCEPT ON THOSE DISTINCT TERMS--that it shall
FIRST secure HIS OWN spiritual comfort.  Otherwise he will not do
it.

Y.M.  It will be easy to expose the falsity of that
proposition.

O.M.  For instance?

Y.M.  Take that noble passion, love of country, patriotism.
A man who loves peace and dreads pain, leaves his pleasant home
and his weeping family and marches out to manfully expose himself
to hunger, cold, wounds, and death.  Is that seeking spiritual
comfort?

O.M.  He loves peace and dreads pain?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  Then perhaps there is something that he loves MORE
than he loves peace--THE APPROVAL OF HIS NEIGHBORS AND THE
PUBLIC.  And perhaps there is something which he dreads more than
he dreads pain--the DISAPPROVAL of his neighbors and the public.
If he is sensitive to shame he will go to the field--not because
his spirit will be ENTIRELY comfortable there, but because it
will be more comfortable there than it would be if he remained at
home.  He will always do the thing which will bring him the MOST
mental comfort--for that is THE SOLE LAW OF HIS LIFE.  He leaves
the weeping family behind; he is sorry to make them
uncomfortable, but not sorry enough to sacrifice his OWN comfort
to secure theirs.

Y.M.  Do you really believe that mere public opinion could
force a timid and peaceful man to--

O.M.  Go to war?  Yes--public opinion can force some men to
do ANYTHING.

Y.M.  ANYTHING?

O.M.  Yes--anything.

Y.M.  I don't believe that.  Can it force a right-principled
man to do a wrong thing?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  Can it force a kind man to do a cruel thing?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  Give an instance.

O.M.  Alexander Hamilton was a conspicuously high-principled
man.  He regarded dueling as wrong, and as opposed to the
teachings of religion--but in deference to PUBLIC OPINION he
fought a duel.  He deeply loved his family, but to buy public
approval he treacherously deserted them and threw his life away,
ungenerously leaving them to lifelong sorrow in order that he
might stand well with a foolish world.  In the then condition of
the public standards of honor he could not have been comfortable
with the stigma upon him of having refused to fight.  The
teachings of religion, his devotion to his family, his kindness
of heart, his high principles, all went for nothing when they
stood in the way of his spiritual comfort.  A man will do
ANYTHING, no matter what it is, TO SECURE HIS SPIRITUAL COMFORT;
and he can neither be forced nor persuaded to any act which has
not that goal for its object.  Hamilton's act was compelled by
the inborn necessity of contenting his own spirit; in this it was
like all the other acts of his life, and like all the acts of all
men's lives.  Do you see where the kernel of the matter lies?  A
man cannot be comfortable without HIS OWN approval.  He will
secure the largest share possible of that, at all costs, all
sacrifices.

Y.M.  A minute ago you said Hamilton fought that duel to get
PUBLIC approval.

O.M.  I did.  By refusing to fight the duel he would have
secured his family's approval and a large share of his own; but
the public approval was more valuable in his eyes than all other
approvals put together--in the earth or above it; to secure that
would furnish him the MOST comfort of mind, the most SELF-
approval; so he sacrificed all other values to get it.

Y.M.  Some noble souls have refused to fight duels, and have
manfully braved the public contempt.

O.M.  They acted ACCORDING TO THEIR MAKE.  They valued their
principles and the approval of their families ABOVE the public
approval.  They took the thing they valued MOST and let the rest
go.  They took what would give them the LARGEST share of PERSONAL
CONTENTMENT AND APPROVAL--a man ALWAYS does.  Public opinion
cannot force that kind of men to go to the wars.  When they go it
is for other reasons.  Other spirit-contenting reasons.

Y.M.  Always spirit-contenting reasons?

O.M.  There are no others.

Y.M.  When a man sacrifices his life to save a little child
from a burning building, what do you call that?

O.M.  When he does it, it is the law of HIS make.  HE can't
bear to see the child in that peril (a man of a different make
COULD), and so he tries to save the child, and loses his life.
But he has got what he was after--HIS OWN APPROVAL.

Y.M.  What do you call Love, Hate, Charity, Revenge,
Humanity, Magnanimity, Forgiveness?

O.M.  Different results of the one Master Impulse:  the
necessity of securing one's self approval.  They wear diverse
clothes and are subject to diverse moods, but in whatsoever ways
they masquerade they are the SAME PERSON all the time.  To change
the figure, the COMPULSION that moves a man--and there is but the
one--is the necessity of securing the contentment of his own
spirit.  When it stops, the man is dead.

Y.M.  That is foolishness.  Love--

O.M.  Why, love is that impulse, that law, in its most
uncompromising form.  It will squander life and everything else
on its object.  Not PRIMARILY for the object's sake, but for ITS
OWN.  When its object is happy IT is happy--and that is what it
is unconsciously after.

Y.M.  You do not even except the lofty and gracious passion
of mother-love?

O.M.  No, IT is the absolute slave of that law.  The mother
will go naked to clothe her child; she will starve that it may
have food; suffer torture to save it from pain; die that it may
live.  She takes a living PLEASURE in making these sacrifices.
SHE DOES IT FOR THAT REWARD--that self-approval, that
contentment, that peace, that comfort.  SHE WOULD DO IT FOR YOUR
CHILD IF SHE COULD GET THE SAME PAY.

Y.M.  This is an infernal philosophy of yours.

O.M.  It isn't a philosophy, it is a fact.

Y.M.  Of course you must admit that there are some acts which--

O.M.  No.  There is NO act, large or small, fine or mean,
which springs from any motive but the one--the necessity of
appeasing and contenting one's own spirit.

Y.M.  The world's philanthropists--

O.M.  I honor them, I uncover my head to them--from habit
and training; and THEY could not know comfort or happiness or
self-approval if they did not work and spend for the unfortunate.
It makes THEM happy to see others happy; and so with money and
labor they buy what they are after--HAPPINESS, SELF-APPROVAL.
Why don't miners do the same thing?  Because they can get a
thousandfold more happiness by NOT doing it.  There is no
other reason.  They follow the law of their make.

Y.M.  What do you say of duty for duty's sake?

O.M.  That IS DOES NOT EXIST.  Duties are not performed for
duty's SAKE, but because their NEGLECT would make the man
UNCOMFORTABLE.  A man performs but ONE duty--the duty of
contenting his spirit, the duty of making himself agreeable to
himself.  If he can most satisfyingly perform this sole and only
duty by HELPING his neighbor, he will do it; if he can most
satisfyingly perform it by SWINDLING his neighbor, he will do it.
But he always looks out for Number One--FIRST; the effects upon
others are a SECONDARY matter.  Men pretend to self-sacrifices,
but this is a thing which, in the ordinary value of the phrase,
DOES NOT EXIST AND HAS NOT EXISTED.  A man often honestly THINKS
he is sacrificing himself merely and solely for some one else,
but he is deceived; his bottom impulse is to content a
requirement of his nature and training, and thus acquire peace
for his soul.

Y.M.  Apparently, then, all men, both good and bad ones,
devote their lives to contenting their consciences.

O.M.  Yes.  That is a good enough name for it:  Conscience--
that independent Sovereign, that insolent absolute Monarch inside
of a man who is the man's Master.  There are all kinds of
consciences, because there are all kinds of men.  You satisfy an
assassin's conscience in one way, a philanthropist's in another,
a miser's in another, a burglar's in still another.  As a GUIDE
or INCENTIVE to any authoritatively prescribed line of morals or
conduct (leaving TRAINING out of the account), a man's conscience
is totally valueless.  I know a kind-hearted Kentuckian whose
self-approval was lacking--whose conscience was troubling him, to
phrase it with exactness--BECAUSE HE HAD NEGLECTED TO KILL A
CERTAIN MAN--a man whom he had never seen.  The stranger had
killed this man's friend in a fight, this man's Kentucky training
made it a duty to kill the stranger for it.  He neglected his
duty--kept dodging it, shirking it, putting it off, and his
unrelenting conscience kept persecuting him for this conduct.  At
last, to get ease of mind, comfort, self-approval, he hunted up
the stranger and took his life.  It was an immense act of SELF-
SACRIFICE (as per the usual definition), for he did not want to
do it, and he never would have done it if he could have bought a
contented spirit and an unworried mind at smaller cost.  But we
are so made that we will pay ANYTHING for that contentment--even
another man's life.

Y.M.  You spoke a moment ago of TRAINED consciences.  You mean
that we are not BORN with consciences competent to guide us aright?

O.M.  If we were, children and savages would know right from wrong,
and not have to be taught it.

Y.M.  But consciences can be TRAINED?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  Of course by parents, teachers, the pulpit, and books.

O.M.  Yes--they do their share; they do what they can.

Y.M.  And the rest is done by--

O.M.  Oh, a million unnoticed influences--for good or bad:
influences which work without rest during every waking moment of
a man's life, from cradle to grave.

Y.M.  You have tabulated these?

O.M.  Many of them--yes.

Y.M.  Will you read me the result?

O.M.  Another time, yes.  It would take an hour.

Y.M.  A conscience can be trained to shun evil and prefer good?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  But will it for spirit-contenting reasons only?

O.M.  It CAN'T be trained to do a thing for any OTHER reason.
The thing is impossible.

Y.M.  There MUST be a genuinely and utterly self-sacrificing
act recorded in human history somewhere.

O.M.  You are young.  You have many years before you.
Search one out.

Y.M.  It does seem to me that when a man sees a fellow-being
struggling in the water and jumps in at the risk of his life to
save him--

O.M.  Wait.  Describe the MAN.  Describe the FELLOW-BEING.
State if there is an AUDIENCE present; or if they are ALONE.

Y.M.  What have these things to do with the splendid act?

O.M.  Very much.  Shall we suppose, as a beginning, that the
two are alone, in a solitary place, at midnight?

Y.M.  If you choose.

O.M.  And that the fellow-being is the man's daughter?

Y.M.  Well, n-no--make it someone else.

O.M.  A filthy, drunken ruffian, then?

Y.M.  I see.  Circumstances alter cases.  I suppose that if there
was no audience to observe the act, the man wouldn't perform it.

O.M.  But there is here and there a man who WOULD.  People,
for instance, like the man who lost his life trying to save the
child from the fire; and the man who gave the needy old woman his
twenty-five cents and walked home in the storm--there are here
and there men like that who would do it.  And why?  Because they
couldn't BEAR to see a fellow-being struggling in the water and
not jump in and help.  It would give THEM pain.  They would save
the fellow-being on that account.  THEY WOULDN'T DO IT OTHERWISE.
They strictly obey the law which I have been insisting upon.  You
must remember and always distinguish the people who CAN'T BEAR
things from people who CAN.  It will throw light upon a number of
apparently "self-sacrificing" cases.

Y.M.  Oh, dear, it's all so disgusting.

O.M.  Yes.  And so true.

Y.M.  Come--take the good boy who does things he doesn't
want to do, in order to gratify his mother.

O.M.  He does seven-tenths of the act because it gratifies
HIM to gratify his mother.  Throw the bulk of advantage the other
way and the good boy would not do the act.  He MUST obey the iron
law.  None can escape it.

Y.M.  Well, take the case of a bad boy who--

O.M.  You needn't mention it, it is a waste of time.  It is
no matter about the bad boy's act.  Whatever it was, he had a
spirit-contenting reason for it.  Otherwise you have been
misinformed, and he didn't do it.

Y.M.  It is very exasperating.  A while ago you said that man's
conscience is not a born judge of morals and conduct, but has to
be taught and trained.  Now I think a conscience can get drowsy
and lazy, but I don't think it can go wrong; if you wake it up--



A Little Story


O.M.  I will tell you a little story:

Once upon a time an Infidel was guest in the house of a
Christian widow whose little boy was ill and near to death.  The
Infidel often watched by the bedside and entertained the boy with
talk, and he used these opportunities to satisfy a strong longing
in his nature--that desire which is in us all to better other
people's condition by having them think as we think.  He was
successful.  But the dying boy, in his last moments, reproached
him and said:

"I BELIEVED, AND WAS HAPPY IN IT; YOU HAVE TAKEN MY BELIEF
AWAY, AND MY COMFORT.  NOW I HAVE NOTHING LEFT, AND I DIE
MISERABLE; FOR THE THINGS WHICH YOU HAVE TOLD ME DO NOT TAKE THE
PLACE OF THAT WHICH I HAVE LOST."

And the mother, also, reproached the Infidel, and said:

"MY CHILD IS FOREVER LOST, AND MY HEART IS BROKEN.  HOW
COULD YOU DO THIS CRUEL THING?  WE HAVE DONE YOU NO HARM, BUT
ONLY KINDNESS; WE MADE OUR HOUSE YOUR HOME, YOU WERE WELCOME TO
ALL WE HAD, AND THIS IS OUR REWARD."

The heart of the Infidel was filled with remorse for what he
had done, and he said:

"IT WAS WRONG--I SEE IT NOW; BUT I WAS ONLY TRYING TO DO HIM
GOOD.  IN MY VIEW HE WAS IN ERROR; IT SEEMED MY DUTY TO TEACH HIM
THE TRUTH."

Then the mother said:

"I HAD TAUGHT HIM, ALL HIS LITTLE LIFE, WHAT I BELIEVED TO
BE THE TRUTH, AND IN HIS BELIEVING FAITH BOTH OF US WERE HAPPY.
NOW HE IS DEAD,--AND LOST; AND I AM MISERABLE.  OUR FAITH CAME
DOWN TO US THROUGH CENTURIES OF BELIEVING ANCESTORS; WHAT RIGHT
HAD YOU, OR ANY ONE, TO DISTURB IT?  WHERE WAS YOUR HONOR, WHERE
WAS YOUR SHAME?"

Y.M.  He was a miscreant, and deserved death!

O.M.  He thought so himself, and said so.

Y.M.  Ah--you see, HIS CONSCIENCE WAS AWAKENED1!

O.M.  Yes, his Self-Disapproval was.  It PAINED him to see
the mother suffer.  He was sorry he had done a thing which
brought HIM pain.  It did not occur to him to think of the mother
when he was misteaching the boy, for he was absorbed in providing
PLEASURE for himself, then.  Providing it by satisfying what he
believed to be a call of duty.

Y.M.  Call it what you please, it is to me a case of
AWAKENED CONSCIENCE.  That awakened conscience could never get
itself into that species of trouble again.  A cure like that is a
PERMANENT cure.

O.M.  Pardon--I had not finished the story.  We are
creatures of OUTSIDE INFLUENCES--we originate NOTHING within.
Whenever we take a new line of thought and drift into a new line
of belief and action, the impulse is ALWAYS suggested from the
OUTSIDE.  Remorse so preyed upon the Infidel that it dissolved
his harshness toward the boy's religion and made him come to
regard it with tolerance, next with kindness, for the boy's sake
and the mother's.  Finally he found himself examining it.  From
that moment his progress in his new trend was steady and rapid.
He became a believing Christian.  And now his remorse for having
robbed the dying boy of his faith and his salvation was bitterer
than ever.  It gave him no rest, no peace.  He MUST have rest and
peace--it is the law of nature.  There seemed but one way to get
it; he must devote himself to saving imperiled souls.  He became
a missionary.  He landed in a pagan country ill and helpless.  A
native widow took him into her humble home and nursed him back to
convalescence.  Then her young boy was taken hopelessly ill, and
the grateful missionary helped her tend him.  Here was his first
opportunity to repair a part of the wrong done to the other boy
by doing a precious service for this one by undermining his
foolish faith in his false gods.  He was successful.  But the
dying boy in his last moments reproached him and said:

"I BELIEVED, AND WAS HAPPY IN IT; YOU HAVE TAKEN MY BELIEF
AWAY, AND MY COMFORT.  NOW I HAVE NOTHING LEFT, AND I DIE
MISERABLE; FOR THE THINGS WHICH YOU HAVE TOLD ME DO NOT TAKE THE
PLACE OF THAT WHICH I HAVE LOST."

And the mother, also, reproached the missionary, and said:

"MY CHILD IS FOREVER LOST, AND MY HEART IS BROKEN.  HOW
COULD YOU DO THIS CRUEL THING?  WE HAD DONE YOU NO HARM, BUT ONLY
KINDNESS; WE MADE OUR HOUSE YOUR HOME, YOU WERE WELCOME TO ALL WE
HAD, AND THIS IS OUR REWARD."

The heart of the missionary was filled with remorse for what
he had done, and he said:

"IT WAS WRONG--I SEE IT NOW; BUT I WAS ONLY TRYING TO DO HIM
GOOD.  IN MY VIEW HE WAS IN ERROR; IT SEEMED MY DUTY TO TEACH HIM
THE TRUTH."

Then the mother said:

"I HAD TAUGHT HIM, ALL HIS LITTLE LIFE, WHAT I BELIEVED TO
BE THE TRUTH, AND IN HIS BELIEVING FAITH BOTH OF US WERE HAPPY.
NOW HE IS DEAD--AND LOST; AND I AM MISERABLE.  OUR FAITH CAME
DOWN TO US THROUGH CENTURIES OF BELIEVING ANCESTORS; WHAT RIGHT
HAD YOU, OR ANY ONE, TO DISTURB IT?  WHERE WAS YOUR HONOR, WHERE
WAS YOUR SHAME?"

The missionary's anguish of remorse and sense of treachery
were as bitter and persecuting and unappeasable, now, as they had
been in the former case.  The story is finished.  What is your
comment?

Y.M.  The man's conscience is a fool!  It was morbid.  It
didn't know right from wrong.

O.M.  I am not sorry to hear you say that.  If you grant
that ONE man's conscience doesn't know right from wrong, it is an
admission that there are others like it.  This single admission
pulls down the whole doctrine of infallibility of judgment in
consciences.  Meantime there is one thing which I ask you to
notice.

Y.M.  What is that?

O.M.  That in both cases the man's ACT gave him no spiritual
discomfort, and that he was quite satisfied with it and got
pleasure out of it.  But afterward when it resulted in PAIN to
HIM, he was sorry.  Sorry it had inflicted pain upon the others,
BUT FOR NO REASON UNDER THE SUN EXCEPT THAT THEIR PAIN GAVE HIM
PAIN.  Our consciences take NO notice of pain inflicted upon
others until it reaches a point where it gives pain to US.  In
ALL cases without exception we are absolutely indifferent to
another person's pain until his sufferings make us uncomfortable.
Many an infidel would not have been troubled by that Christian
mother's distress.  Don't you believe that?

Y.M.  Yes.  You might almost say it of the AVERAGE infidel,
I think.

O.M.  And many a missionary,  sternly fortified by his sense
of duty, would not have been troubled by the pagan mother's
distress--Jesuit missionaries in Canada in the early French
times, for instance; see episodes quoted by Parkman.

Y.M.  Well, let us adjourn.  Where have we arrived?

O.M.  At this.  That we (mankind) have ticketed ourselves
with a number of qualities to which we have given misleading
names.  Love, Hate, Charity, Compassion, Avarice, Benevolence,
and so on.  I mean we attach misleading MEANINGS to the names.
They are all forms of self-contentment, self-gratification, but
the names so disguise them that they distract our attention from
the fact.  Also we have smuggled a word into the dictionary which
ought not to be there at all--Self-Sacrifice.  It describes a
thing which does not exist.  But worst of all, we ignore and
never mention the Sole Impulse which dictates and compels a man's
every act:  the imperious necessity of securing his own approval,
in every emergency and at all costs.  To it we owe all that we
are.  It is our breath, our heart, our blood.  It is our only
spur, our whip, our goad, our only impelling power; we have no
other.  Without it we should be mere inert images, corpses; no
one would do anything, there would be no progress, the world
would stand still.  We ought to stand reverently uncovered when
the name of that stupendous power is uttered.

Y.M.  I am not convinced.

O.M.  You will be when you think.



III

Instances in Point


Old Man.  Have you given thought to the Gospel of Self-
Approval since we talked?

Young Man.  I have.

O.M.  It was I that moved you to it.  That is to say an
OUTSIDE INFLUENCE moved you to it--not one that originated in
your head.  Will you try to keep that in mind and not forget it?

Y.M.  Yes.  Why?

O.M.  Because by and by in one of our talks, I wish to
further impress upon you that neither you, nor I, nor any man
ever originates a thought in his own head.  THE UTTERER OF A
THOUGHT ALWAYS UTTERS A SECOND-HAND ONE.

Y.M.  Oh, now--

O.M.  Wait.  Reserve your remark till we get to that part of
our discussion--tomorrow or next day, say.  Now, then, have you
been considering the proposition that no act is ever born of any
but a self-contenting impulse--(primarily).  You have sought.
What have you found?

Y.M.  I have not been very fortunate.  I have examined many
fine and apparently self-sacrificing deeds in romances and
biographies, but--

O.M.  Under searching analysis the ostensible self-sacrifice
disappeared?  It naturally would.

Y.M.  But here in this novel is one which seems to promise.
In the Adirondack woods is a wage-earner and lay preacher in the
lumber-camps who is of noble character and deeply religious.  An
earnest and practical laborer in the New York slums comes up
there on vacation--he is leader of a section of the University
Settlement.  Holme, the lumberman, is fired with a desire to
throw away his excellent worldly prospects and go down and save
souls on the East Side.  He counts it happiness to make this
sacrifice for the glory of God and for the cause of Christ.  He
resigns his place, makes the sacrifice cheerfully, and goes to
the East Side and preaches Christ and Him crucified every day and
every night to little groups of half-civilized foreign paupers
who scoff at him.  But he rejoices in the scoffings, since he is
suffering them in the great cause of Christ.  You have so filled
my mind with suspicions that I was constantly expecting to find a
hidden questionable impulse back of all this, but I am thankful
to say I have failed.  This man saw his duty, and for DUTY'S SAKE
he sacrificed self and assumed the burden it imposed.

O.M.  Is that as far as you have read?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  Let us read further, presently.  Meantime, in
sacrificing himself--NOT for the glory of God, PRIMARILY, as HE
imagined, but FIRST to content that exacting and inflexible
master within him--DID HE SACRIFICE ANYBODY ELSE?

Y.M.  How do you mean?

O.M.  He relinquished a lucrative post and got mere food and
lodging in place of it.  Had he dependents?

Y.M.  Well--yes.

O.M.  In what way and to what extend did his self-sacrifice
affect THEM?

Y.M.  He was the support of a superannuated father.  He had
a young sister with a remarkable voice--he was giving her a
musical education, so that her longing to be self-supporting
might be gratified.  He was furnishing the money to put a young
brother through a polytechnic school and satisfy his desire to
become a civil engineer.

O.M.  The old father's comforts were now curtailed?

Y.M.  Quite seriously.  Yes.

O.M.  The sister's music-lessens had to stop?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  The young brother's education--well, an extinguishing
blight fell upon that happy dream, and he had to go to sawing
wood to support the old father, or something like that?

Y.M.  It is about what happened.  Yes.

O.M.  What a handsome job of self-sacrificing he did do!  It
seems to me that he sacrificed everybody EXCEPT himself.  Haven't
I told you that no man EVER sacrifices himself; that there is no
instance of it upon record anywhere; and that when a man's
Interior Monarch requires a thing of its slave for either its
MOMENTARY or its PERMANENT contentment, that thing must and will
be furnished and that command obeyed, no matter who may stand in
the way and suffer disaster by it?  That man RUINED HIS FAMILY to
please and content his Interior Monarch--

Y.M.  And help Christ's cause.

O.M.  Yes--SECONDLY.  Not firstly.  HE thought it was firstly.

Y.M.  Very well, have it so, if you will.  But it could be
that he argued that if he saved a hundred souls in New York--

O.M.  The sacrifice of the FAMILY would be justified by that
great profit upon the--the--what shall we call it?

Y.M.  Investment?

O.M.  Hardly.  How would SPECULATION do?  How would GAMBLE
do?  Not a solitary soul-capture was sure.  He played for a
possible thirty-three-hundred-per-cent profit.  It was GAMBLING--
with his family for "chips."  However let us see how the game
came out.  Maybe we can get on the track of the secret original
impulse, the REAL impulse, that moved him to so nobly self-
sacrifice his family in the Savior's cause under the superstition
that he was sacrificing himself.  I will read a chapter or so. .
. .  Here we have it!  It was bound to expose itself sooner or
later.  He preached to the East-Side rabble a season, then went
back to his old dull, obscure life in the lumber-camps "HURT TO
THE HEART, HIS PRIDE HUMBLED."  Why?  Were not his efforts
acceptable to the Savior, for Whom alone they were made?  Dear
me, that detail is LOST SIGHT OF, is not even referred to, the
fact that it started out as a motive is entirely forgotten!  Then
what is the trouble?  The authoress quite innocently and
unconsciously gives the whole business away.  The trouble was
this:  this man merely PREACHED to the poor; that is not the
University Settlement's way; it deals in larger and better things
than that, and it did not enthuse over that crude Salvation-Army
eloquence.  It was courteous to Holme--but cool.  It did not pet
him, did not take him to its bosom.  "PERISHED WERE ALL HIS
DREAMS OF DISTINCTION, THE PRAISE AND GRATEFUL APPROVAL--"  Of
whom?  The Savior?  No; the Savior is not mentioned.  Of whom,
then?  Of "His FELLOW-WORKERS."  Why did he want that?  Because
the Master inside of him wanted it, and would not be content
without it.  That emphasized sentence quoted above, reveals the
secret we have been seeking, the original impulse, the REAL
impulse, which moved the obscure and unappreciated Adirondack
lumberman to sacrifice his family and go on that crusade to the
East Side--which said original impulse was this, to wit:  without
knowing it HE WENT THERE TO SHOW A NEGLECTED WORLD THE LARGE
TALENT THAT WAS IN HIM, AND RISE TO DISTINCTION.  As I have
warned you before, NO act springs from any but the one law, the
one motive.  But I pray you, do not accept this law upon my say-
so; but diligently examine for yourself.  Whenever you read of a
self-sacrificing act or hear of one, or of a duty done for DUTY'S
SAKE, take it to pieces and look for the REAL motive.  It is
always there.

Y.M.  I do it every day.  I cannot help it, now that I have
gotten started upon the degrading and exasperating quest.  For it
is hatefully interesting!--in fact, fascinating is the word.  As
soon as I come across a golden deed in a book I have to stop and
take it apart and examine it, I cannot help myself.

O.M.  Have you ever found one that defeated the rule?

Y.M.  No--at least, not yet.  But take the case of servant-
tipping in Europe.  You pay the HOTEL for service; you owe the
servants NOTHING, yet you pay them besides.  Doesn't that defeat it?

O.M.  In what way?

Y.M.  You are not OBLIGED to do it, therefore its source is
compassion for their ill-paid condition, and--

O.M.  Has that custom ever vexed you, annoyed you, irritated you?

Y.M.  Well, yes.

O.M.  Still you succumbed to it?

Y.M.  Of course.

O.M.  Why of course?

Y.M.  Well, custom is law, in a way, and laws must be
submitted to--everybody recognizes it as a DUTY.

O.M.  Then you pay for the irritating tax for DUTY'S sake?

Y.M.  I suppose it amounts to that.

O.M.  Then the impulse which moves you to submit to the tax
is not ALL compassion, charity, benevolence?

Y.M.  Well--perhaps not.

O.M.  Is ANY of it?

Y.M.  I--perhaps I was too hasty in locating its source.

O.M.  Perhaps so.  In case you ignored the custom would you
get prompt and effective service from the servants?

Y.M.  Oh, hear yourself talk!  Those European servants?
Why, you wouldn't get any of all, to speak of.

O.M.  Couldn't THAT work as an impulse to move you to pay
the tax?

Y.M.  I am not denying it.

O.M.  Apparently, then, it is a case of for-duty's-sake with
a little self-interest added?

Y.M.  Yes, it has the look of it.  But here is a point:
we pay that tax knowing it to be unjust and an extortion; yet we
go away with a pain at the heart if we think we have been stingy
with the poor fellows; and we heartily wish we were back again,
so that we could do the right thing, and MORE than the right
thing, the GENEROUS thing.  I think it will be difficult for you
to find any thought of self in that impulse.

O.M.  I wonder why you should think so.  When you find
service charged in the HOTEL bill does it annoy you?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  Do you ever complain of the amount of it?

Y.M.  No, it would not occur to me.

O.M.  The EXPENSE, then, is not the annoying detail.  It is
a fixed charge, and you pay it cheerfully, you pay it without a
murmur.  When you came to pay the servants, how would you like it
if each of the men and maids had a fixed charge?

Y.M.  Like it?  I should rejoice!

O.M.  Even if the fixed tax were a shade MORE than you had
been in the habit of paying in the form of tips?

Y.M.  Indeed, yes!

O.M.  Very well, then.  As I understand it, it isn't really
compassion nor yet duty that moves you to pay the tax, and it
isn't the AMOUNT of the tax that annoys you.  Yet SOMETHING
annoys you.  What is it?

Y.M.  Well, the trouble is, you never know WHAT to pay, the
tax varies so, all over Europe.

O.M.  So you have to guess?

Y.M.  There is no other way.  So you go on thinking and
thinking, and calculating and guessing, and consulting with other
people and getting their views; and it spoils your sleep nights,
and makes you distraught in the daytime, and while you are
pretending to look at the sights you are only guessing and
guessing and guessing all the time, and being worried and
miserable.

O.M.  And all about a debt which you don't owe and don't
have to pay unless you want to!  Strange.  What is the purpose of
the guessing?

Y.M.  To guess out what is right to give them, and not be
unfair to any of them.

O.M.  It has quite a noble look--taking so much pains and using up
so much valuable time in order to be just and fair to a poor servant
to whom you owe nothing, but who needs money and is ill paid.

Y.M.  I think, myself, that if there is any ungracious
motive back of it it will be hard to find.

O.M.  How do you know when you have not paid a servant fairly?

Y.M.  Why, he is silent; does not thank you.  Sometimes he
gives you a look that makes you ashamed.  You are too proud to
rectify your mistake there, with people looking, but afterward
you keep on wishing and wishing you HAD done it.  My, the shame
and the pain of it!  Sometimes you see, by the signs, that you
have it JUST RIGHT, and you go away mightily satisfied.
Sometimes the man is so effusively thankful that you know you
have given him a good deal MORE than was necessary.

O.M.  NECESSARY?  Necessary for what?

Y.M.  To content him.

O.M.  How do you feel THEN?

Y.M.  Repentant.

O.M.  It is my belief that you have NOT been concerning
yourself in guessing out his just dues, but only in ciphering out
what would CONTENT him.  And I think you have a self-deluding
reason for that.

Y.M.  What was it?

O.M.  If you fell short of what he was expecting and
wanting, you would get a look which would SHAME YOU BEFORE FOLK.
That would give you PAIN.  YOU--for you are only working for
yourself, not HIM.  If you gave him too much you would be ASHAMED
OF YOURSELF for it, and that would give YOU pain--another case of
thinking of YOURSELF, protecting yourself, SAVING YOURSELF FROM
DISCOMFORT.  You never think of the servant once--except to guess
out how to get HIS APPROVAL.  If you get that, you get your OWN
approval, and that is the sole and only thing you are after.  The
Master inside of you is then satisfied, contented, comfortable;
there was NO OTHER thing at stake, as a matter of FIRST interest,
anywhere in the transaction.



Further Instances

Y.M.  Well, to think of it; Self-Sacrifice for others, the
grandest thing in man, ruled out! non-existent!

O.M.  Are you accusing me of saying that?

Y.M.  Why, certainly.

O.M.  I haven't said it.

Y.M.  What did you say, then?

O.M.  That no man has ever sacrificed himself in the common
meaning of that phrase--which is, self-sacrifice for another
ALONE.  Men make daily sacrifices for others, but it is for their
own sake FIRST.  The act must content their own spirit FIRST.
The other beneficiaries come second.

Y.M.  And the same with duty for duty's sake?

O.M.  Yes.  No man performs a duty for mere duty's sake; the act
must content his spirit FIRST.  He must feel better for DOING the
duty than he would for shirking it.  Otherwise he will not do it.

Y.M.  Take the case of the BERKELEY CASTLE.

O.M.  It was a noble duty, greatly performed.  Take it to
pieces and examine it, if you like.

Y.M.  A British troop-ship crowded with soldiers and their
wives and children.  She struck a rock and began to sink.  There
was room in the boats for the women and children only.  The
colonel lined up his regiment on the deck and said "it is our
duty to die, that they may be saved."  There was no murmur, no
protest.  The boats carried away the women and children.  When
the death-moment was come, the colonel and his officers took
their several posts, the men stood at shoulder-arms, and so, as
on dress-parade, with their flag flying and the drums beating,
they went down, a sacrifice to duty for duty's sake.  Can you
view it as other than that?

O.M.  It was something as fine as that, as exalted as that.
Could you have remained in those ranks and gone down to your
death in that unflinching way?

Y.M.  Could I?  No, I could not.

O.M.  Think.  Imagine yourself there, with that watery doom
creeping higher and higher around you.

Y.M.  I can imagine it.  I feel all the horror of it.  I could
not have endured it, I could not have remained in my place.
I know it.

O.M.  Why?

Y.M.  There is no why about it:  I know myself, and I know I
couldn't DO it.

O.M.  But it would be your DUTY to do it.

Y.M.  Yes, I know--but I couldn't.

O.M.  It was more than thousand men, yet not one of them
flinched.  Some of them must have been born with your
temperament; if they could do that great duty for duty's SAKE,
why not you?  Don't you know that you could go out and gather
together a thousand clerks and mechanics and put them on that
deck and ask them to die for duty's sake, and not two dozen of
them would stay in the ranks to the end?

Y.M.  Yes, I know that.

O.M.  But your TRAIN them, and put them through a campaign
or two; then they would be soldiers; soldiers, with a soldier's
pride, a soldier's self-respect, a soldier's ideals.  They would
have to content a SOLDIER'S spirit then, not a clerk's, not a
mechanic's.  They could not content that spirit by shirking a
soldier's duty, could they?

Y.M.  I suppose not.

O.M.  Then they would do the duty not for the DUTY'S sake,
but for their OWN sake--primarily.  The DUTY was JUST THE SAME,
and just as imperative, when they were clerks, mechanics, raw
recruits, but they wouldn't perform it for that.  As clerks and
mechanics they had other ideals, another spirit to satisfy, and
they satisfied it.  They HAD to; it is the law.  TRAINING is
potent.  Training toward higher and higher, and ever higher
ideals is worth any man's thought and labor and diligence.

Y.M.  Consider the man who stands by his duty and goes to
the stake rather than be recreant to it.

O.M.  It is his make and his training.  He has to content
the spirit that is in him, though it cost him his life.  Another
man, just as sincerely religious, but of different temperament,
will fail of that duty, though recognizing it as a duty, and
grieving to be unequal to it:  but he must content the spirit
that is in him--he cannot help it.  He could not perform that
duty for duty's SAKE, for that would not content his spirit, and
the contenting of his spirit must be looked to FIRST.  It takes
precedence of all other duties.

Y.M.  Take the case of a clergyman of stainless private
morals who votes for a thief for public office, on his own
party's ticket, and against an honest man on the other ticket.

O.M.  He has to content his spirit.  He has no public
morals; he has no private ones, where his party's prosperity is
at stake.  He will always be true to his make and training.



IV

Training

Young Man.  You keep using that word--training.  By it do
you particularly mean--

Old Man.  Study, instruction, lectures, sermons?  That is a
part of it--but not a large part.  I mean ALL the outside
influences.  There are a million of them.  From the cradle to the
grave, during all his waking hours, the human being is under
training.  In the very first rank of his trainers stands
ASSOCIATION.  It is his human environment which influences his
mind and his feelings, furnishes him his ideals, and sets him on
his road and keeps him in it.  If he leave that road he will find
himself shunned by the people whom he most loves and esteems, and
whose approval he most values.  He is a chameleon; by the law of
his nature he takes the color of his place of resort.  The
influences about him create his preferences, his aversions, his
politics, his tastes, his morals, his religion.  He creates none
of these things for himself.  He THINKS he does, but that is
because he has not examined into the matter.  You have seen
Presbyterians?

Y.M.  Many.

O.M.  How did they happen to be Presbyterians and not
Congregationalists?  And why were the Congregationalists not
Baptists, and the Baptists Roman Catholics, and the Roman
Catholics Buddhists, and the Buddhists Quakers, and the Quakers
Episcopalians, and the Episcopalians Millerites and the
Millerites Hindus, and the Hindus Atheists, and the Atheists
Spiritualists, and the Spiritualists Agnostics, and the Agnostics
Methodists, and the Methodists Confucians, and the Confucians
Unitarians, and the Unitarians Mohammedans, and the Mohammedans
Salvation Warriors, and the Salvation Warriors Zoroastrians, and
the Zoroastrians Christian Scientists, and the Christian
Scientists Mormons--and so on?

Y.M.  You may answer your question yourself.

O.M.  That list of sects is not a record of STUDIES,
searchings, seekings after light; it mainly (and sarcastically)
indicates what ASSOCIATION can do.  If you know a man's
nationality you can come within a split hair of guessing the
complexion of his religion:  English--Protestant; American--
ditto; Spaniard, Frenchman, Irishman, Italian, South American--
Roman Catholic; Russian--Greek Catholic; Turk--Mohammedan; and so
on.  And when you know the man's religious complexion, you know
what sort of religious books he reads when he wants some more
light, and what sort of books he avoids, lest by accident he get
more light than he wants.  In America if you know which party-
collar a voter wears, you know what his associations are, and how
he came by his politics, and which breed of newspaper he reads to
get light, and which breed he diligently avoids, and which breed
of mass-meetings he attends in order to broaden his political
knowledge, and which breed of mass-meetings he doesn't attend,
except to refute its doctrines with brickbats.  We are always
hearing of people who are around SEEKING AFTER TRUTH.  I have
never seen a (permanent) specimen.  I think he had never lived.
But I have seen several entirely sincere people who THOUGHT they
were (permanent) Seekers after Truth.  They sought diligently,
persistently, carefully, cautiously, profoundly, with perfect
honesty and nicely adjusted judgment--until they believed that
without doubt or question they had found the Truth.  THAT WAS THE
END OF THE SEARCH.  The man spent the rest of his life hunting up
shingles wherewith to protect his Truth from the weather.  If he
was seeking after political Truth he found it in one or another
of the hundred political gospels which govern men in the earth;
if he was seeking after the Only True Religion he found it in one
or another of the three thousand that are on the market.  In any
case, when he found the Truth HE SOUGHT NO FURTHER; but from that
day forth, with his soldering-iron in one hand and his bludgeon
in the other he tinkered its leaks and reasoned with objectors.
There have been innumerable Temporary Seekers of Truth--have you
ever heard of a permanent one?  In the very nature of man such a
person is impossible.  However, to drop back to the text--
training:  all training is one from or another of OUTSIDE
INFLUENCE, and ASSOCIATION is the largest part of it.  A man is
never anything but what his outside influences have made him.
They train him downward or they train him upward--but they TRAIN
him; they are at work upon him all the time.

Y.M.  Then if he happen by the accidents of life to be
evilly placed there is no help for him, according to your
notions--he must train downward.

O.M.  No help for him?  No help for this chameleon?  It is a
mistake.  It is in his chameleonship that his greatest good
fortune lies.  He has only to change his habitat--his
ASSOCIATIONS.  But the impulse to do it must come from the
OUTSIDE--he cannot originate it himself, with that purpose in
view.  Sometimes a very small and accidental thing can furnish
him the initiatory impulse and start him on a new road, with a
new idea.  The chance remark of a sweetheart, "I hear that you
are a coward," may water a seed that shall sprout and bloom and
flourish, and ended in producing a surprising fruitage--in the
fields of war.  The history of man is full of such accidents.
The accident of a broken leg brought a profane and ribald soldier
under religious influences and furnished him a new ideal.  From
that accident sprang the Order of the Jesuits, and it has been
shaking thrones, changing policies, and doing other tremendous
work for two hundred years--and will go on.  The chance reading
of a book or of a paragraph in a newspaper can start a man on a
new track and make him renounce his old associations and seek new
ones that are IN SYMPATHY WITH HIS NEW IDEAL:  and the result,
for that man, can be an entire change of his way of life.

Y.M.  Are you hinting at a scheme of procedure?

O.M.  Not a new one--an old one.  One as mankind.

Y.M.  What is it?

O.M.  Merely the laying of traps for people.  Traps baited
with INITIATORY IMPULSES TOWARD HIGH IDEALS.  It is what the
tract-distributor does.  It is what the missionary does.  It is
what governments ought to do.

Y.M.  Don't they?

O.M.  In one way they do, in another they don't.  They
separate the smallpox patients from the healthy people, but in
dealing with crime they put the healthy into the pest-house along
with the sick.  That is to say, they put the beginners in with
the confirmed criminals.  This would be well if man were
naturally inclined to good, but he isn't, and so ASSOCIATION
makes the beginners worse than they were when they went into
captivity.  It is putting a very severe punishment upon the
comparatively innocent at times.  They hang a man--which is a
trifling punishment; this breaks the hearts of his family--which
is a heavy one.  They comfortably jail and feed a wife-beater,
and leave his innocent wife and family to starve.

Y.M.  Do you believe in the doctrine that man is equipped
with an intuitive perception of good and evil?

O.M.  Adam hadn't it.

Y.M.  But has man acquired it since?

O.M.  No.  I think he has no intuitions of any kind.  He
gets ALL his ideas, all his impressions, from the outside.  I
keep repeating this, in the hope that I may impress it upon you
that you will be interested to observe and examine for yourself
and see whether it is true or false.

Y.M.  Where did you get your own aggravating notions?

O.M.  From the OUTSIDE.  I did not invent them.  They are
gathered from a thousand unknown sources.  Mainly UNCONSCIOUSLY
gathered.

Y.M.  Don't you believe that God could make an inherently
honest man?

O.M.  Yes, I know He could.  I also know that He never did
make one.

Y.M.  A wiser observer than you has recorded the fact that
"an honest man's the noblest work of God."

O.M.  He didn't record a fact, he recorded a falsity.  It is windy,
and sounds well, but it is not true.  God makes a man with honest
and dishonest POSSIBILITIES in him and stops there.  The man's
ASSOCIATIONS develop the possibilities--the one set or the other.
The result is accordingly an honest man or a dishonest one.

Y.M.  And the honest one is not entitled to--

O.M.  Praise?  No.  How often must I tell you that?  HE is
not the architect of his honesty.

Y.M.  Now then, I will ask you where there is any sense in
training people to lead virtuous lives.  What is gained by it?

O.M.  The man himself gets large advantages out of it, and
that is the main thing--to HIM.  He is not a peril to his
neighbors, he is not a damage to them--and so THEY get an
advantage out of his virtues.  That is the main thing to THEM.
It can make this life comparatively comfortable to the parties
concerned; the NEGLECT of this training can make this life a
constant peril and distress to the parties concerned.

Y.M.  You have said that training is everything; that
training is the man HIMSELF, for it makes him what he is.

O.M.  I said training and ANOTHER thing.  Let that other
thing pass, for the moment.  What were you going to say?

Y.M.  We have an old servant.  She has been with us twenty-
two years.  Her service used to be faultless, but now she has
become very forgetful.  We are all fond of her; we all recognize
that she cannot help the infirmity which age has brought her; the
rest of the family do not scold her for her remissnesses, but at
times I do--I can't seem to control myself.  Don't I try?  I do
try.  Now, then, when I was ready to dress, this morning, no
clean clothes had been put out.  I lost my temper; I lose it
easiest and quickest in the early morning.  I rang; and
immediately began to warn myself not to show temper, and to be
careful and speak gently.  I safe-guarded myself most carefully.
I even chose the very word I would use:  "You've forgotten the
clean clothes, Jane."  When she appeared in the door I opened my
mouth to say that phrase--and out of it, moved by an instant
surge of passion which I was not expecting and hadn't time to put
under control, came the hot rebuke, "You've forgotten them
again!"  You say a man always does the thing which will best
please his Interior Master.  Whence came the impulse to make
careful preparation to save the girl the humiliation of a rebuke?
Did that come from the Master, who is always primarily concerned
about HIMSELF?

O.M.  Unquestionably.  There is no other source for any
impulse.  SECONDARILY you made preparation to save the girl, but
PRIMARILY its object was to save yourself, by contenting the
Master.

Y.M.  How do you mean?

O.M.  Has any member of the family ever implored you to
watch your temper and not fly out at the girl?

Y.M.  Yes.  My mother.

O.M.  You love her?

Y.M.  Oh, more than that!

O.M.  You would always do anything in your power to please her?

Y.M.  It is a delight to me to do anything to please her!

O.M.  Why?  YOU WOULD DO IT FOR PAY, SOLELY--for PROFIT.
What profit would you expect and certainly receive from
the investment?

Y.M.  Personally?  None.  To please HER is enough.

O.M.  It appears, then, that your object, primarily, WASN'T
to save the girl a humiliation, but to PLEASE YOUR MOTHER.  It
also appears that to please your mother gives YOU a strong
pleasure.  Is not that the profit which you get out of the
investment?  Isn't that the REAL profits and FIRST profit?

Y.M.  Oh, well?  Go on.

O.M.  In ALL transactions, the Interior Master looks to it
that YOU GET THE FIRST PROFIT.  Otherwise there is no
transaction.

Y.M.  Well, then, if I was so anxious to get that profit and
so intent upon it, why did I threw it away by losing my temper?

O.M.  In order to get ANOTHER profit which suddenly
superseded it in value.

Y.M.  Where was it?

O.M.  Ambushed behind your born temperament, and waiting for
a chance.  Your native warm temper suddenly jumped to the front,
and FOR THE MOMENT its influence was more powerful than your
mother's, and abolished it.  In that instance you were eager to
flash out a hot rebuke and enjoy it.  You did enjoy it, didn't you?

Y.M.  For--for a quarter of a second.  Yes--I did.

O.M.  Very well, it is as I have said:  the thing which will
give you the MOST pleasure, the most satisfaction, in any moment
or FRACTION of a moment, is the thing you will always do.  You
must content the Master's LATEST whim, whatever it may be.

Y.M.  But when the tears came into the old servant's eyes I
could have cut my hand off for what I had done.

O.M.  Right.  You had humiliated YOURSELF, you see, you had
given yourself PAIN.  Nothing is of FIRST importance to a man
except results which damage HIM or profit him--all the rest is
SECONDARY.  Your Master was displeased with you, although you had
obeyed him.  He required a prompt REPENTANCE; you obeyed again;
you HAD to--there is never any escape from his commands.  He is a
hard master and fickle; he changes his mind in the fraction of a
second, but you must be ready to obey, and you will obey, ALWAYS.
If he requires repentance, you content him, you will always
furnish it.  He must be nursed, petted, coddled, and kept
contented, let the terms be what they may.

Y.M.  Training!  Oh, what's the use of it?  Didn't I, and
didn't my mother try to train me up to where I would no longer
fly out at that girl?

O.M.  Have you never managed to keep back a scolding?

Y.M.  Oh, certainly--many times.

O.M.  More times this year than last?

Y.M.  Yes, a good many more.

O.M.  More times last year than the year before?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  There is a large improvement, then, in the two years?

Y.M.  Yes, undoubtedly.

O.M.  Then your question is answered.  You see there IS use in
training.  Keep on.  Keeping faithfully on.  You are doing well.

Y.M.  Will my reform reach perfection?

O.M.  It will.  UP to YOUR limit.

Y.M.  My limit?  What do you mean by that?

O.M.  You remember that you said that I said training was
EVERYTHING.  I corrected you, and said "training and ANOTHER
thing."  That other thing is TEMPERAMENT--that is, the
disposition you were born with.  YOU CAN'T ERADICATE YOUR
DISPOSITION NOR ANY RAG OF IT--you can only put a pressure on it
and keep it down and quiet.  You have a warm temper?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  You will never get rid of it; but by watching it you
can keep it down nearly all the time.  ITS PRESENCE IS YOUR
LIMIT.  Your reform will never quite reach perfection, for your
temper will beat you now and then, but you come near enough.  You
have made valuable progress and can make more.  There IS use in
training.  Immense use.  Presently you will reach a new stage of
development, then your progress will be easier; will proceed on a
simpler basis, anyway.

Y.M.  Explain.

O.M.  You keep back your scoldings now, to please YOURSELF
by pleasing your MOTHER; presently the mere triumphing over your
temper will delight your vanity and confer a more delicious
pleasure and satisfaction upon you than even the approbation of
your MOTHER confers upon you now.  You will then labor for
yourself directly and at FIRST HAND, not by the roundabout way
through your mother.  It simplifies the matter, and it also
strengthens the impulse.

Y.M.  Ah, dear!  But I sha'n't ever reach the point where I
will spare the girl for HER sake PRIMARILY, not mine?

O.M.  Why--yes.  In heaven.

Y.M.  (AFTER A REFLECTIVE PAUSE)  Temperament.  Well, I see
one must allow for temperament.  It is a large factor, sure
enough.  My mother is thoughtful, and not hot-tempered.  When I
was dressed I went to her room; she was not there; I called, she
answered from the bathroom.  I heard the water running.  I
inquired.  She answered, without temper, that Jane had forgotten
her bath, and she was preparing it herself.  I offered to ring,
but she said, "No, don't do that; it would only distress her to
be confronted with her lapse, and would be a rebuke; she doesn't
deserve that--she is not to blame for the tricks her memory
serves her."  I say--has my mother an Interior Master?--and where
was he?

O.M.  He was there.  There, and looking out for his own
peace and pleasure and contentment.  The girl's distress would
have pained YOUR MOTHER.  Otherwise the girl would have been rung
up, distress and all.  I know women who would have gotten a No. 1
PLEASURE out of ringing Jane up--and so they would infallibly
have pushed the button and obeyed the law of their make and
training, which are the servants of their Interior Masters.  It
is quite likely that a part of your mother's forbearance came
from training.  The GOOD kind of training--whose best and highest
function is to see to it that every time it confers a
satisfaction upon its pupil a benefit shall fall at second hand
upon others.

Y.M.  If you were going to condense into an admonition your
plan for the general betterment of the race's condition, how
would you word it?



Admonition

O.M.  Diligently train your ideals UPWARD and STILL UPWARD
toward a summit where you will find your chiefest pleasure in
conduct which, while contenting you, will be sure to confer
benefits upon your neighbor and the community.

Y.M.  Is that a new gospel?

O.M.  No.

Y.M.  It has been taught before?

O.M.  For ten thousand years.

Y.M.  By whom?

O.M.  All the great religions--all the great gospels.

Y.M.  Then there is nothing new about it?

O.M.  Oh yes, there is.  It is candidly stated, this time.
That has not been done before.

Y.M.  How do you mean?

O.M.  Haven't I put YOU FIRST, and your neighbor and the
community AFTERWARD?

Y.M.  Well, yes, that is a difference, it is true.

O.M.  The difference between straight speaking and crooked;
the difference between frankness and shuffling.

Y.M.  Explain.

O.M.  The others offer your a hundred bribes to be good,
thus conceding that the Master inside of you must be conciliated
and contented first, and that you will do nothing at FIRST HAND
but for his sake; then they turn square around and require you to
do good for OTHER'S sake CHIEFLY; and to do your duty for duty's
SAKE, chiefly; and to do acts of SELF-SACRIFICE.  Thus at the
outset we all stand upon the same ground--recognition of the
supreme and absolute Monarch that resides in man, and we all
grovel before him and appeal to him; then those others dodge and
shuffle, and face around and unfrankly and inconsistently and
illogically change the form of their appeal and direct its
persuasions to man's SECOND-PLACE powers and to powers which have
NO EXISTENCE in him, thus advancing them to FIRST place; whereas
in my Admonition I stick logically and consistently to the
original position:  I place the Interior Master's requirements
FIRST, and keep them there.

Y.M.  If we grant, for the sake of argument, that your
scheme and the other schemes aim at and produce the same result--
RIGHT LIVING--has yours an advantage over the others?

O.M.  One, yes--a large one.  It has no concealments, no
deceptions.  When a man leads a right and valuable life under it
he is not deceived as to the REAL chief motive which impels him
to it--in those other cases he is.

Y.M.  Is that an advantage?  Is it an advantage to live a
lofty life for a mean reason?  In the other cases he lives the
lofty life under the IMPRESSION that he is living for a lofty
reason.  Is not that an advantage?

O.M.  Perhaps so.  The same advantage he might get out of
thinking himself a duke, and living a duke's life and parading in
ducal fuss and feathers, when he wasn't a duke at all, and could
find it out if he would only examine the herald's records.

Y.M.  But anyway, he is obliged to do a duke's part; he puts
his hand in his pocket and does his benevolences on as big a
scale as he can stand, and that benefits the community.

O.M.  He could do that without being a duke.

Y.M.  But would he?

O.M.  Don't you see where you are arriving?

Y.M.  Where?

O.M.  At the standpoint of the other schemes:  That it is
good morals to let an ignorant duke do showy benevolences for his
pride's sake, a pretty low motive, and go on doing them unwarned,
lest if he were made acquainted with the actual motive which
prompted them he might shut up his purse and cease to be good?

Y.M.  But isn't it best to leave him in ignorance, as long
as he THINKS he is doing good for others' sake?

O.M.  Perhaps so.  It is the position of the other schemes.
They think humbug is good enough morals when the dividend on it
is good deeds and handsome conduct.

Y.M.  It is my opinion that under your scheme of a man's
doing a good deed for his OWN sake first-off, instead of first
for the GOOD DEED'S sake, no man would ever do one.

O.M.  Have you committed a benevolence lately?

Y.M.  Yes.  This morning.

O.M.  Give the particulars.

Y.M.  The cabin of the old negro woman who used to nurse me
when I was a child and who saved my life once at the risk of her
own, was burned last night, and she came mourning this morning,
and pleading for money to build another one.

O.M.  You furnished it?

Y.M.  Certainly.

O.M.  You were glad you had the money?

Y.M.  Money?  I hadn't.  I sold my horse.

O.M.  You were glad you had the horse?

Y.M.  Of course I was; for if I hadn't had the horse I
should have been incapable, and my MOTHER would have captured the
chance to set old Sally up.

O.M.  You were cordially glad you were not caught out and
incapable?

Y.M.  Oh, I just was!

O.M.  Now, then--

Y.M.  Stop where you are!  I know your whole catalog of
questions, and I could answer every one of them without your
wasting the time to ask them; but I will summarize the whole
thing in a single remark:  I did the charity knowing it was
because the act would give ME a splendid pleasure, and because
old Sally's moving gratitude and delight would give ME another
one; and because the reflection that she would be happy now and
out of her trouble would fill ME full of happiness.  I did the
whole thing with my eyes open and recognizing and realizing that
I was looking out for MY share of the profits FIRST.  Now then, I
have confessed.  Go on.

O.M.  I haven't anything to offer; you have covered the
whole ground.  Can you have been any MORE strongly moved to help
Sally out of her trouble--could you have done the deed any more
eagerly--if you had been under the delusion that you were doing
it for HER sake and profit only?

Y.M.  No!  Nothing in the world could have made the impulse
which moved me more powerful, more masterful, more thoroughly
irresistible.  I played the limit!

O.M.  Very well.  You begin to suspect--and I claim to KNOW
--that when a man is a shade MORE STRONGLY MOVED to do ONE of two
things or of two dozen things than he is to do any one of the
OTHERS, he will infallibly do that ONE thing, be it good or be it
evil; and if it be good, not all the beguilements of all the
casuistries can increase the strength of the impulse by a single
shade or add a shade to the comfort and contentment he will get
out of the act.

Y.M.  Then you believe that such tendency toward doing good
as is in men's hearts would not be diminished by the removal of
the delusion that good deeds are done primarily for the sake of
No. 2 instead of for the sake of No. 1?

O.M.  That is what I fully believe.

Y.M.  Doesn't it somehow seem to take from the dignity of the deed?

O.M.  If there is dignity in falsity, it does.  It removes that.

Y.M.  What is left for the moralists to do?

O.M.  Teach unreservedly what he already teaches with one
side of his mouth and takes back with the other:  Do right FOR
YOUR OWN SAKE, and be happy in knowing that your NEIGHBOR will
certainly share in the benefits resulting.

Y.M.  Repeat your Admonition.

O.M.  DILIGENTLY TRAIN YOUR IDEALS UPWARD AND STILL UPWARD
TOWARD A SUMMIT WHERE YOU WILL FIND YOUR CHIEFEST PLEASURE IN
CONDUCT WHICH, WHILE CONTENTING YOU, WILL BE SURE TO CONFER
BENEFITS UPON YOUR NEIGHBOR AND THE COMMUNITY.

Y.M.  One's EVERY act proceeds from EXTERIOR INFLUENCES, you think?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  If I conclude to rob a person, I am not the ORIGINATOR
of the idea, but it comes in from the OUTSIDE?  I see him
handling money--for instance--and THAT moves me to the crime?

O.M.  That, by itself?  Oh, certainly not.  It is merely the
LATEST outside influence of a procession of preparatory
influences stretching back over a period of years.  No SINGLE
outside influence can make a man do a thing which is at war with
his training.  The most it can do is to start his mind on a new
tract and open it to the reception of NEW influences--as in the
case of Ignatius Loyola.  In time these influences can train him
to a point where it will be consonant with his new character to
yield to the FINAL influence and do that thing.  I will put the
case in a form which will make my theory clear to you, I think.
Here are two ingots of virgin gold.  They shall represent a
couple of characters which have been refined and perfected in the
virtues by years of diligent right training.  Suppose you wanted
to break down these strong and well-compacted characters--what
influence would you bring to bear upon the ingots?

Y.M.  Work it out yourself.  Proceed.

O.M.  Suppose I turn upon one of them a steam-jet during a
long succession of hours.  Will there be a result?

Y.M.  None that I know of.

O.M.  Why?

Y.M.  A steam-jet cannot break down such a substance.

O.M.  Very well.  The steam is an OUTSIDE INFLUENCE, but it
is ineffective because the gold TAKES NO INTEREST IN IT.  The
ingot remains as it was.  Suppose we add to the steam some
quicksilver in a vaporized condition, and turn the jet upon the
ingot, will there be an instantaneous result?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  The QUICKSILVER is an outside influence which gold (by
its peculiar nature--say TEMPERAMENT, DISPOSITION) CANNOT BE
INDIFFERENT TO.  It stirs up the interest of the gold, although
we do not perceive it; but a SINGLE application of the influence
works no damage.  Let us continue the application in a steady
stream, and call each minute a year.  By the end of ten or twenty
minutes--ten or twenty years--the little ingot is sodden with
quicksilver, its virtues are gone, its character is degraded.  At
last it is ready to yield to a temptation which it would have
taken no notice of, ten or twenty years ago.  We will apply that
temptation in the form of a pressure of my finger.  You note the
result?

Y.M.  Yes; the ingot has crumbled to sand.  I understand,
now.  It is not the SINGLE outside influence that does the work,
but only the LAST one of a long and disintegrating accumulation
of them.  I see, now, how my SINGLE impulse to rob the man is not
the one that makes me do it, but only the LAST one of a
preparatory series.  You might illustrate with a parable.



A Parable

O.M.  I will.  There was once a pair of New England boys--
twins.  They were alike in good dispositions, feckless morals,
and personal appearance.  They were the models of the Sunday-
school.  At fifteen George had the opportunity to go as cabin-boy
in a whale-ship, and sailed away for the Pacific.  Henry remained
at home in the village.  At eighteen George was a sailor before
the mast, and Henry was teacher of the advanced Bible class.  At
twenty-two George, through fighting-habits and drinking-habits
acquired at sea and in the sailor boarding-houses of the European
and Oriental ports, was a common rough in Hong-Kong, and out of a
job; and Henry was superintendent of the Sunday-school.  At
twenty-six George was a wanderer, a tramp, and Henry was pastor
of the village church.  Then George came home, and was Henry's
guest.  One evening a man passed by and turned down the lane, and
Henry said, with a pathetic smile, "Without intending me a
discomfort, that man is always keeping me reminded of my pinching
poverty, for he carries heaps of money about him, and goes by
here every evening of his life."  That OUTSIDE INFLUENCE--that
remark--was enough for George, but IT was not the one that made
him ambush the man and rob him, it merely represented the eleven
years' accumulation of such influences, and gave birth to the act
for which their long gestation had made preparation.  It had
never entered the head of Henry to rob the man--his ingot had
been subjected to clean steam only; but George's had been
subjected to vaporized quicksilver.



V

More About the Machine

Note.--When Mrs. W. asks how can a millionaire give a single
dollar to colleges and museums while one human being is destitute
of bread, she has answered her question herself.  Her feeling for
the poor shows that she has a standard of benevolence; there she
has conceded the millionaire's privilege of having a standard;
since she evidently requires him to adopt her standard, she is by
that act requiring herself to adopt his.  The human being always
looks down when he is examining another person's standard; he
never find one that he has to examine by looking up.




The Man-Machine Again


Young Man.  You really think man is a mere machine?

Old Man.  I do.

Y.M.  And that his mind works automatically and is
independent of his control--carries on thought on its own hook?

O.M.  Yes.  It is diligently at work, unceasingly at work,
during every waking moment.  Have you never tossed about all
night, imploring, beseeching, commanding your mind to stop work
and let you go to sleep?--you who perhaps imagine that your mind
is your servant and must obey your orders, think what you tell it
to think, and stop when you tell it to stop.  When it chooses to
work, there is no way to keep it still for an instant.  The
brightest man would not be able to supply it with subjects if he
had to hunt them up.  If it needed the man's help it would wait
for him to give it work when he wakes in the morning.

Y.M.  Maybe it does.

O.M.  No, it begins right away, before the man gets wide
enough awake to give it a suggestion.  He may go to sleep saying,
"The moment I wake I will think upon such and such a subject,"
but he will fail.  His mind will be too quick for him; by the
time he has become nearly enough awake to be half conscious, he
will find that it is already at work upon another subject.  Make
the experiment and see.

Y.M.  At any rate, he can make it stick to a subject if he
wants to.

O.M.  Not if it find another that suits it better.  As a
rule it will listen to neither a dull speaker nor a bright one.
It refuses all persuasion.  The dull speaker wearies it and sends
it far away in idle dreams; the bright speaker throws out
stimulating ideas which it goes chasing after and is at once
unconscious of him and his talk.  You cannot keep your mind from
wandering, if it wants to; it is master, not you.



After an Interval of Days


O.M.  Now, dreams--but we will examine that later.
Meantime, did you try commanding your mind to wait for orders
from you, and not do any thinking on its own hook?

Y.M.  Yes, I commanded it to stand ready to take orders when
I should wake in the morning.

O.M.  Did it obey?

Y.M.  No.  It went to thinking of something of its own
initiation, without waiting for me.  Also--as you suggested--at
night I appointed a theme for it to begin on in the morning, and
commanded it to begin on that one and no other.

O.M.  Did it obey?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  How many times did you try the experiment?

Y.M.  Ten.

O.M.  How many successes did you score?

Y.M.  Not one.

O.M.  It is as I have said:  the mind is independent of the
man.  He has no control over it; it does as it pleases.  It will
take up a subject in spite of him; it will stick to it in spite
of him; it will throw it aside in spite of him.  It is entirely
independent of him.

Y.M.  Go on.  Illustrate.

O.M.  Do you know chess?

Y.M.  I learned it a week ago.

O.M.  Did your mind go on playing the game all night that
first night?

Y.M.  Don't mention it!

O.M.  It was eagerly, unsatisfiably interested; it rioted in
the combinations; you implored it to drop the game and let you
get some sleep?

Y.M.  Yes.  It wouldn't listen; it played right along.  It
wore me out and I got up haggard and wretched in the morning.

O.M.  At some time or other you have been captivated by a
ridiculous rhyme-jingle?

Y.M.  Indeed, yes!

"I saw Esau kissing Kate,
And she saw I saw Esau;
I saw Esau, he saw Kate,
And she saw--"

And so on.  My mind went mad with joy over it.  It repeated it
all day and all night for a week in spite of all I could do to
stop it, and it seemed to me that I must surely go crazy.

O.M.  And the new popular song?

Y.M.  Oh yes!  "In the Swee-eet By and By"; etc.  Yes, the
new popular song with the taking melody sings through one's head
day and night, asleep and awake, till one is a wreck.  There is
no getting the mind to let it alone.

O.M.  Yes, asleep as well as awake.  The mind is quite
independent.  It is master.  You have nothing to do with it.  It
is so apart from you that it can conduct its affairs, sing its
songs, play its chess, weave its complex and ingeniously
constructed dreams, while you sleep.  It has no use for your
help, no use for your guidance, and never uses either, whether
you be asleep or awake.  You have imagined that you could
originate a thought in your mind, and you have sincerely believed
you could do it.

Y.M.  Yes, I have had that idea.

O.M.  Yet you can't originate a dream-thought for it to work
out, and get it accepted?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  And you can't dictate its procedure after it has
originated a dream-thought for itself?

Y.M.  No.  No one can do it.  Do you think the waking mind
and the dream mind are the same machine?

O.M.  There is argument for it.  We have wild and fantastic
day-thoughts?  Things that are dream-like?

Y.M.  Yes--like Mr. Wells's man who invented a drug that made
him invisible; and like the Arabian tales of the Thousand Nights.

O.M.  And there are dreams that are rational, simple,
consistent, and unfantastic?

Y.M.  Yes.  I have dreams that are like that.  Dreams that
are just like real life; dreams in which there are several
persons with distinctly differentiated characters--inventions of
my mind and yet strangers to me:  a vulgar person; a refined one;
a wise person; a fool; a cruel person; a kind and compassionate
one; a quarrelsome person; a peacemaker; old persons and young;
beautiful girls and homely ones.  They talk in character, each
preserves his own characteristics.  There are vivid fights, vivid
and biting insults, vivid love-passages; there are tragedies and
comedies, there are griefs that go to one's heart, there are
sayings and doings that make you laugh:  indeed, the whole thing
is exactly like real life.

O.M.  Your dreaming mind originates the scheme, consistently
and artistically develops it, and carries the little drama
creditably through--all without help or suggestion from you?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  It is argument that it could do the like awake without help
or suggestion from you--and I think it does.  It is argument that
it is the same old mind in both cases, and never needs your help.
I think the mind is purely a machine, a thoroughly independent
machine, an automatic machine.  Have you tried the other
experiment which I suggested to you?

Y.M.  Which one?

O.M.  The one which was to determine how much influence you
have over your mind--if any.

Y.M.  Yes, and got more or less entertainment out of it.  I
did as you ordered:  I placed two texts before my eyes--one a
dull one and barren of interest, the other one full of interest,
inflamed with it, white-hot with it.  I commanded my mind to busy
itself solely with the dull one.

O.M.  Did it obey?

Y.M.  Well, no, it didn't.  It busied itself with the other one.

O.M.  Did you try hard to make it obey?

Y.M.  Yes, I did my honest best.

O.M.  What was the text which it refused to be interested in
or think about?

Y.M.  It was this question:  If A owes B a dollar and a
half, and B owes C two and three-quarter, and C owes A thirty-
five cents, and D and A together owe E and B three-sixteenths of
--of--I don't remember the rest, now, but anyway it was wholly
uninteresting, and I could not force my mind to stick to it even
half a minute at a time; it kept flying off to the other text.

O.M.  What was the other text?

Y.M.  It is no matter about that.

O.M.  But what was it?

Y.M.  A photograph.

O.M.  Your own?

Y.M.  No.  It was hers.

O.M.  You really made an honest good test.  Did you make a
second trial?

Y.M.  Yes.  I commanded my mind to interest itself in the
morning paper's report of the pork-market, and at the same time I
reminded it of an experience of mine of sixteen years ago.  It
refused to consider the pork and gave its whole blazing interest
to that ancient incident.

O.M.  What was the incident?

Y.M.  An armed desperado slapped my face in the presence of
twenty spectators.  It makes me wild and murderous every time I
think of it.

O.M.  Good tests, both; very good tests.  Did you try my
other suggestion?

Y.M.  The one which was to prove to me that if I would leave
my mind to its own devices it would find things to think about
without any of my help, and thus convince me that it was a
machine, an automatic machine, set in motion by exterior
influences, and as independent of me as it could be if it were in
some one else's skull.  Is that the one?

O.M.  Yes.

Y.M.  I tried it.  I was shaving.  I had slept well, and my
mind was very lively, even gay and frisky.  It was reveling in a
fantastic and joyful episode of my remote boyhood which had
suddenly flashed up in my memory--moved to this by the spectacle
of a yellow cat picking its way carefully along the top of the
garden wall.  The color of this cat brought the bygone cat before
me, and I saw her walking along the side-step of the pulpit; saw
her walk on to a large sheet of sticky fly-paper and get all her
feet involved; saw her struggle and fall down, helpless and
dissatisfied, more and more urgent, more and more unreconciled,
more and more mutely profane; saw the silent congregation
quivering like jelly, and the tears running down their faces.  I
saw it all.  The sight of the tears whisked my mind to a far
distant and a sadder scene--in Terra del Fuego--and with Darwin's
eyes I saw a naked great savage hurl his little boy against the
rocks for a trifling fault; saw the poor mother gather up her
dying child and hug it to her breast and weep, uttering no word.
Did my mind stop to mourn with that nude black sister of mine?
No--it was far away from that scene in an instant, and was
busying itself with an ever-recurring and disagreeable dream of
mine.  In this dream I always find myself, stripped to my shirt,
cringing and dodging about in the midst of a great drawing-room
throng of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen, and wondering how
I got there.  And so on and so on, picture after picture,
incident after incident, a drifting panorama of ever-changing,
ever-dissolving views manufactured by my mind without any help
from me--why, it would take me two hours to merely name the
multitude of things my mind tallied off and photographed in
fifteen minutes, let alone describe them to you.

O.M.  A man's mind, left free, has no use for his help.  But
there is one way whereby he can get its help when he desires it.

Y.M.  What is that way?

O.M.  When your mind is racing along from subject to subject
and strikes an inspiring one, open your mouth and begin talking
upon that matter--or--take your pen and use that.  It will
interest your mind and concentrate it, and it will pursue the
subject with satisfaction.  It will take full charge, and furnish
the words itself.

Y.M.  But don't I tell it what to say?

O.M.  There are certainly occasions when you haven't time.
The words leap out before you know what is coming.

Y.M.  For instance?

O.M.  Well, take a "flash of wit"--repartee.  Flash is the
right word.  It is out instantly.  There is no time to arrange
the words.  There is no thinking, no reflecting.  Where there is
a wit-mechanism it is automatic in its action and needs no help.
Where the whit-mechanism is lacking, no amount of study and
reflection can manufacture the product.

Y.M.  You really think a man originates nothing, creates nothing.



The Thinking-Process

O.M.  I do.  Men perceive, and their brain-machines
automatically combine the things perceived.  That is all.

Y.M.  The steam-engine?

O.M.  It takes fifty men a hundred years to invent it.  One
meaning of invent is discover.  I use the word in that sense.
Little by little they discover and apply the multitude of details
that go to make the perfect engine.  Watt noticed that confined
steam was strong enough to lift the lid of the teapot.  He didn't
create the idea, he merely discovered the fact; the cat had
noticed it a hundred times.  From the teapot he evolved the
cylinder--from the displaced lid he evolved the piston-rod.  To
attach something to the piston-rod to be moved by it, was a
simple matter--crank and wheel.  And so there was a working
engine. [1]

One by one, improvements were discovered by men who used
their eyes, not their creating powers--for they hadn't any--and
now, after a hundred years the patient contributions of fifty or
a hundred observers stand compacted in the wonderful machine
which drives the ocean liner.

Y.M.  A Shakespearean play?

O.M.  The process is the same.  The first actor was a
savage.  He reproduced in his theatrical war-dances, scalp-
dances, and so on, incidents which he had seen in real life.  A
more advanced civilization produced more incidents, more
episodes; the actor and the story-teller borrowed them.  And so
the drama grew, little by little, stage by stage.  It is made up
of the facts of life, not creations.  It took centuries to
develop the Greek drama.  It borrowed from preceding ages; it
lent to the ages that came after.  Men observe and combine, that
is all.  So does a rat.

Y.M.  How?

O.M.  He observes a smell, he infers a cheese, he seeks and
finds.  The astronomer observes this and that; adds his this and
that to the this-and-thats of a hundred predecessors, infers an
invisible planet, seeks it and finds it.  The rat gets into a
trap; gets out with trouble; infers that cheese in traps lacks
value, and meddles with that trap no more.  The astronomer is
very proud of his achievement, the rat is proud of his.  Yet both
are machines; they have done machine work, they have originated
nothing, they have no right to be vain; the whole credit belongs
to their Maker.  They are entitled to no honors, no praises, no
monuments when they die, no remembrance.  One is a complex and
elaborate machine, the other a simple and limited machine, but
they are alike in principle, function, and process, and neither
of them works otherwise than automatically, and neither of them
may righteously claim a PERSONAL superiority or a personal
dignity above the other.

Y.M.  In earned personal dignity, then, and in personal merit
for what he does, it follows of necessity that he is on the
same level as a rat?

O.M.  His brother the rat; yes, that is how it seems to me.
Neither of them being entitled to any personal merit for what he
does, it follows of necessity that neither of them has a right to
arrogate to himself (personally created) superiorities over his
brother.

Y.M.  Are you determined to go on believing in these
insanities?  Would you go on believing in them in the face of
able arguments backed by collated facts and instances?

O.M.  I have been a humble, earnest, and sincere Truth-Seeker.

Y.M.  Very well?

O.M.  The humble, earnest, and sincere Truth-Seeker is
always convertible by such means.

Y.M.  I am thankful to God to hear you say this, for now I
know that your conversion--

O.M.  Wait.  You misunderstand.  I said I have BEEN a Truth-Seeker.

Y.M.  Well?

O.M.  I am not that now.  Have your forgotten?  I told you
that there are none but temporary Truth-Seekers; that a permanent
one is a human impossibility; that as soon as the Seeker finds
what he is thoroughly convinced is the Truth, he seeks no
further, but gives the rest of his days to hunting junk to patch
it and caulk it and prop it with, and make it weather-proof and
keep it from caving in on him.  Hence the Presbyterian remains a
Presbyterian, the Mohammedan a Mohammedan, the Spiritualist a
Spiritualist, the Democrat a Democrat, the Republican a
Republican, the Monarchist a Monarchist; and if a humble,
earnest, and sincere Seeker after Truth should find it in the
proposition that the moon is made of green cheese nothing could
ever budge him from that position; for he is nothing but an
automatic machine, and must obey the laws of his construction.

Y.M.  After so--

O.M.  Having found the Truth; perceiving that beyond question
man has but one moving impulse--the contenting of his own spirit--
and is merely a machine and entitled to no personal merit for
anything he does, it is not humanly possible for me to seek further.
The rest of my days will be spent in patching and painting and
puttying and caulking my priceless possession and in looking the
other way when an imploring argument or a damaging fact approaches.

-----
1.  The Marquess of Worcester had done all of this more than a
century earlier.



VI


Instinct and Thought

Young Man.  It is odious.  Those drunken theories of yours,
advanced a while ago--concerning the rat and all that--strip Man
bare of all his dignities, grandeurs, sublimities.

Old Man.  He hasn't any to strip--they are shams, stolen
clothes.  He claims credits which belong solely to his Maker.

Y.M.  But you have no right to put him on a level with a rat.

O.M.  I don't--morally.  That would not be fair to the rat.
The rat is well above him, there.

Y.M.  Are you joking?

O.M.  No, I am not.

Y.M.  Then what do you mean?

O.M.  That comes under the head of the Moral Sense.  It is a
large question.  Let us finish with what we are about now, before
we take it up.

Y.M.  Very well.  You have seemed to concede that you place
Man and the rat on A level.  What is it?  The intellectual?

O.M.  In form--not a degree.

Y.M.  Explain.

O.M.  I think that the rat's mind and the man's mind are the
same machine, but of unequal capacities--like yours and Edison's;
like the African pygmy's and Homer's; like the Bushman's and Bismarck's.

Y.M.  How are you going to make that out, when the lower animals
have no mental quality but instinct, while man possesses reason?

O.M.  What is instinct?

Y.M.  It is merely unthinking and mechanical exercise of
inherited habit.

O.M.  What originated the habit?

Y.M.  The first animal started it, its descendants have
inherited it.

O.M.  How did the first one come to start it?

Y.M.  I don't know; but it didn't THINK it out.

O.M.  How do you know it didn't?

Y.M.  Well--I have a right to suppose it didn't, anyway.

O.M.  I don't believe you have.  What is thought?

Y.M.  I know what you call it:  the mechanical and automatic
putting together of impressions received from outside, and
drawing an inference from them.

O.M.  Very good.  Now my idea of the meaningless term "instinct" is,
that it is merely PETRIFIED THOUGHT; solidified and made inanimate
by habit; thought which was once alive and awake, but it become
unconscious--walks in its sleep, so to speak.

Y.M.  Illustrate it.

O.M.  Take a herd of cows, feeding in a pasture.  Their
heads are all turned in one direction.  They do that
instinctively; they gain nothing by it, they have no reason for
it, they don't know why they do it.  It is an inherited habit
which was originally thought--that is to say, observation of an
exterior fact, and a valuable inference drawn from that
observation and confirmed by experience.  The original wild ox
noticed that with the wind in his favor he could smell his enemy
in time to escape; then he inferred that it was worth while to
keep his nose to the wind.  That is the process which man calls
reasoning.  Man's thought-machine works just like the other
animals', but it is a better one and more Edisonian.  Man, in the
ox's place, would go further, reason wider:  he would face part
of the herd the other way and protect both front and rear.

Y.M.  Did you stay the term instinct is meaningless?

O.M.  I think it is a bastard word.  I think it confuses us;
for as a rule it applies itself to habits and impulses which had
a far-off origin in thought, and now and then breaks the rule and
applies itself to habits which can hardly claim a thought-origin.

Y.M.  Give an instance.

O.M.  Well, in putting on trousers a man always inserts the same old
leg first--never the other one.  There is no advantage in that,
and no sense in it.  All men do it, yet no man thought it out
and adopted it of set purpose, I imagine.  But it is a habit which
is transmitted, no doubt, and will continue to be transmitted.

Y.M.  Can you prove that the habit exists?

O.M.  You can prove it, if you doubt.  If you will take a
man to a clothing-store and watch him try on a dozen pairs of
trousers, you will see.

Y.M.  The cow illustration is not--

O.M.  Sufficient to show that a dumb animal's mental machine
is just the same as a man's and its reasoning processes the same?
I will illustrate further.  If you should hand Mr. Edison a box
which you caused to fly open by some concealed device he would
infer a spring, and would hunt for it and find it.  Now an uncle
of mine had an old horse who used to get into the closed lot
where the corn-crib was and dishonestly take the corn.  I got the
punishment myself, as it was supposed that I had heedlessly
failed to insert the wooden pin which kept the gate closed.
These persistent punishments fatigued me; they also caused me to
infer the existence of a culprit, somewhere; so I hid myself and
watched the gate.  Presently the horse came and pulled the pin
out with his teeth and went in.  Nobody taught him that; he had
observed--then thought it out for himself.  His process did not
differ from Edison's; he put this and that together and drew an
inference--and the peg, too; but I made him sweat for it.

Y.M.  It has something of the seeming of thought about it.
Still it is not very elaborate.  Enlarge.

O.M.  Suppose Mr. Edison has been enjoying some one's
hospitalities.  He comes again by and by, and the house is
vacant.  He infers that his host has moved.  A while afterward,
in another town, he sees the man enter a house; he infers that
that is the new home, and follows to inquire.  Here, now, is the
experience of a gull, as related by a naturalist.  The scene is a
Scotch fishing village where the gulls were kindly treated.  This
particular gull visited a cottage; was fed; came next day and was
fed again; came into the house, next time, and ate with the
family; kept on doing this almost daily, thereafter.  But, once
the gull was away on a journey for a few days, and when it
returned the house was vacant.  Its friends had removed to a
village three miles distant.  Several months later it saw the
head of the family on the street there, followed him home,
entered the house without excuse or apology, and became a daily
guest again.  Gulls do not rank high mentally, but this one had
memory and the reasoning faculty, you see, and applied them
Edisonially.

Y.M.  Yet it was not an Edison and couldn't be developed into one.

O.M.  Perhaps not.  Could you?

Y.M.  That is neither here nor there.  Go on.

O.M.  If Edison were in trouble and a stranger helped him
out of it and next day he got into the same difficulty again, he
would infer the wise thing to do in case he knew the stranger's
address.  Here is a case of a bird and a stranger as related by a
naturalist.  An Englishman saw a bird flying around about his
dog's head, down in the grounds, and uttering cries of distress.
He went there to see about it.  The dog had a young bird in his
mouth--unhurt.  The gentleman rescued it and put it on a bush and
brought the dog away.  Early the next morning the mother bird
came for the gentleman, who was sitting on his veranda, and by
its maneuvers persuaded him to follow it to a distant part of the
grounds--flying a little way in front of him and waiting for him
to catch up, and so on; and keeping to the winding path, too,
instead of flying the near way across lots.  The distance covered
was four hundred yards.  The same dog was the culprit; he had the
young bird again, and once more he had to give it up.  Now the
mother bird had reasoned it all out:  since the stranger had
helped her once, she inferred that he would do it again; she knew
where to find him, and she went upon her errand with confidence.
Her mental processes were what Edison's would have been.  She put
this and that together--and that is all that thought IS--and out
of them built her logical arrangement of inferences.  Edison
couldn't have done it any better himself.

Y.M.  Do you believe that many of the dumb animals can think?

O.M.  Yes--the elephant, the monkey, the horse, the dog, the
parrot, the macaw, the mocking-bird, and many others.  The
elephant whose mate fell into a pit, and who dumped dirt and
rubbish into the pit till bottom was raised high enough to enable
the captive to step out, was equipped with the reasoning quality.
I conceive that all animals that can learn things through
teaching and drilling have to know how to observe, and put this
and that together and draw an inference--the process of thinking.
Could you teach an idiot of manuals of arms, and to advance,
retreat, and go through complex field maneuvers at the word of
command?

Y.M.  Not if he were a thorough idiot.

O.M.  Well, canary-birds can learn all that; dogs and elephants
learn all sorts of wonderful things.  They must surely be able
to notice, and to put things together, and say to themselves,
"I get the idea, now:  when I do so and so, as per order,
I am praised and fed; when I do differently I am punished."
Fleas can be taught nearly anything that a Congressman can.

Y.M.  Granting, then, that dumb animals are able to think
upon a low plane, is there any that can think upon a high one?
Is there one that is well up toward man?

O.M.  Yes.  As a thinker and planner the ant is the equal of
any savage race of men; as a self-educated specialist in several
arts she is the superior of any savage race of men; and in one or
two high mental qualities she is above the reach of any man,
savage or civilized!

Y.M.  Oh, come! you are abolishing the intellectual frontier
which separates man and beast.

O.M.  I beg your pardon.  One cannot abolish what does not exist.

Y.M.  You are not in earnest, I hope.  You cannot mean to
seriously say there is no such frontier.

O.M.  I do say it seriously. The instances of the horse, the
gull, the mother bird, and the elephant show that those creatures
put their this's and thats together just as Edison would have
done it and drew the same inferences that he would have drawn.
Their mental machinery was just like his, also its manner of
working.  Their equipment was as inferior to the Strasburg clock,
but that is the only difference--there is no frontier.

Y.M.  It looks exasperatingly true; and is distinctly
offensive.  It elevates the dumb beasts to--to--

O.M.  Let us drop that lying phrase, and call them the
Unrevealed Creatures; so far as we can know, there is no such
thing as a dumb beast.

Y.M.  On what grounds do you make that assertion?

O.M.  On quite simple ones.  "Dumb" beast suggests an animal
that has no thought-machinery, no understanding, no speech, no
way of communicating what is in its mind.  We know that a hen HAS
speech.  We cannot understand everything she says, but we easily
learn two or three of her phrases.  We know when she is saying,
"I have laid an egg"; we know when she is saying to the chicks,
"Run here, dears, I've found a worm"; we know what she is saying
when she voices a warning:  "Quick! hurry! gather yourselves
under mamma, there's a hawk coming!"  We understand the cat when
she stretches herself out, purring with affection and contentment
and lifts up a soft voice and says, "Come, kitties, supper's
ready"; we understand her when she goes mourning about and says,
"Where can they be?  They are lost.  Won't you help me hunt for
them?" and we understand the disreputable Tom when he challenges
at midnight from his shed, "You come over here, you product of
immoral commerce, and I'll make your fur fly!"  We understand a
few of a dog's phrases and we learn to understand a few of the
remarks and gestures of any bird or other animal that we
domesticate and observe.  The clearness and exactness of the few
of the hen's speeches which we understand is argument that she
can communicate to her kind a hundred things which we cannot
comprehend--in a word, that she can converse.  And this argument
is also applicable in the case of others of the great army of the
Unrevealed.  It is just like man's vanity and impertinence to
call an animal dumb because it is dumb to his dull perceptions.
Now as to the ant--

Y.M.  Yes, go back to the ant, the creature that--as you
seem to think--sweeps away the last vestige of an intellectual
frontier between man and the Unrevealed.

O.M.  That is what she surely does.  In all his history the
aboriginal Australian never thought out a house for himself and
built it.  The ant is an amazing architect.  She is a wee little
creature, but she builds a strong and enduring house eight feet
high--a house which is as large in proportion to her size as is
the largest capitol or cathedral in the world compared to man's
size.  No savage race has produced architects who could approach
the air in genius or culture.  No civilized race has produced
architects who could plan a house better for the uses proposed
than can hers.  Her house contains a throne-room; nurseries for
her young; granaries; apartments for her soldiers, her workers,
etc.; and they and the multifarious halls and corridors which
communicate with them are arranged and distributed with an
educated and experienced eye for convenience and adaptability.

Y.M.  That could be mere instinct.

O.M.  It would elevate the savage if he had it.  But let us
look further before we decide.  The ant has soldiers--battalions,
regiments, armies; and they have their appointed captains and
generals, who lead them to battle.

Y.M.  That could be instinct, too.

O.M.  We will look still further.  The ant has a system of
government; it is well planned, elaborate, and is well carried on.

Y.M.  Instinct again.

O.M.  She has crowds of slaves, and is a hard and unjust
employer of forced labor.

Y.M.  Instinct.

O.M.  She has cows, and milks them.

Y.M.  Instinct, of course.

O.M.  In Texas she lays out a farm twelve feet square, plants it,
weeds it, cultivates it, gathers the crop and stores it away.

Y.M.  Instinct, all the same.

O.M.  The ant discriminates between friend and stranger.
Sir John Lubbock took ants from two different nests, made them
drunk with whiskey and laid them, unconscious, by one of the
nests, near some water.  Ants from the nest came and examined and
discussed these disgraced creatures, then carried their friends
home and threw the strangers overboard.  Sir John repeated the
experiment a number of times.  For a time the sober ants did as
they had done at first--carried their friends home and threw the
strangers overboard.  But finally they lost patience, seeing that
their reformatory efforts went for nothing, and threw both
friends and strangers overboard.  Come--is this instinct, or is
it thoughtful and intelligent discussion of a thing new--
absolutely new--to their experience; with a verdict arrived at,
sentence passed, and judgment executed?  Is it instinct?--thought
petrified by ages of habit--or isn't it brand-new thought,
inspired by the new occasion, the new circumstances?

Y.M.  I have to concede it.  It was not a result of habit;
it has all the look of reflection, thought, putting this and that
together, as you phrase it.  I believe it was thought.

O.M.  I will give you another instance of thought.  Franklin
had a cup of sugar on a table in his room.  The ants got at it.
He tried several preventives; and ants rose superior to them.
Finally he contrived one which shut off access--probably set the
table's legs in pans of water, or drew a circle of tar around the
cup, I don't remember.  At any rate, he watched to see what they
would do.  They tried various schemes--failures, every one.  The
ants were badly puzzled.  Finally they held a consultation,
discussed the problem, arrived at a decision--and this time they
beat that great philosopher.  They formed in procession, cross
the floor, climbed the wall, marched across the ceiling to a
point just over the cup, then one by one they let go and fell
down into it!  Was that instinct--thought petrified by ages of
inherited habit?

Y.M.  No, I don't believe it was.  I believe it was a newly
reasoned scheme to meet a new emergency.

O.M.  Very well.  You have conceded the reasoning power in
two instances.  I come now to a mental detail wherein the ant is
a long way the superior of any human being.  Sir John Lubbock
proved by many experiments that an ant knows a stranger ant of
her own species in a moment, even when the stranger is disguised
--with paint.  Also he proved that an ant knows every individual
in her hive of five hundred thousand souls.  Also, after a year's
absence one of the five hundred thousand she will straightway
recognize the returned absentee and grace the recognition with a
affectionate welcome.  How are these recognitions made?  Not by
color, for painted ants were recognized.  Not by smell, for ants
that had been dipped in chloroform were recognized.  Not by
speech and not by antennae signs nor contacts, for the drunken
and motionless ants were recognized and the friend discriminated
from the stranger.  The ants were all of the same species,
therefore the friends had to be recognized by form and feature--
friends who formed part of a hive of five hundred thousand!  Has
any man a memory for form and feature approaching that?

Y.M.  Certainly not.

O.M.  Franklin's ants and Lubbuck's ants show fine
capacities of putting this and that together in new and untried
emergencies and deducting smart conclusions from the
combinations--a man's mental process exactly.  With memory to
help, man preserves his observations and reasonings, reflects
upon them, adds to them, recombines, and so proceeds, stage by
stage, to far results--from the teakettle to the ocean
greyhound's complex engine; from personal labor to slave labor;
from wigwam to palace; from the capricious chase to agriculture
and stored food; from nomadic life to stable government and
concentrated authority; from incoherent hordes to massed armies.
The ant has observation, the reasoning faculty, and the
preserving adjunct of a prodigious memory; she has duplicated
man's development and the essential features of his civilization,
and you call it all instinct!

Y.M.  Perhaps I lacked the reasoning faculty myself.

O.M.  Well, don't tell anybody, and don't do it again.

Y.M.  We have come a good way.  As a result--as I understand it--
I am required to concede that there is absolutely no intellectual
frontier separating Man and the Unrevealed Creatures?

O.M.  That is what you are required to concede.  There is no
such frontier--there is no way to get around that.  Man has a
finer and more capable machine in him than those others, but it
is the same machine and works in the same way.  And neither he
nor those others can command the machine--it is strictly
automatic, independent of control, works when it pleases, and
when it doesn't please, it can't be forced.

Y.M.  Then man and the other animals are all alike, as to mental
machinery, and there isn't any difference of any stupendous
magnitude between them, except in quality, not in kind.

O.M.  That is about the state of it--intellectuality.  There
are pronounced limitations on both sides.  We can't learn to
understand much of their language, but the dog, the elephant,
etc., learn to understand a very great deal of ours.  To that
extent they are our superiors.  On the other hand, they can't
learn reading, writing, etc., nor any of our fine and high
things, and there we have a large advantage over them.

Y.M.  Very well, let them have what they've got, and welcome;
there is still a wall, and a lofty one.  They haven't got the
Moral Sense; we have it, and it lifts us immeasurably above them.

O.M.  What makes you think that?

Y.M.  Now look here--let's call a halt.  I have stood the
other infamies and insanities and that is enough; I am not going
to have man and the other animals put on the same level morally.

O.M.  I wasn't going to hoist man up to that.

Y.M.  This is too much!  I think it is not right to jest
about such things.

O.M.  I am not jesting, I am merely reflecting a plain and
simple truth--and without uncharitableness.  The fact that man
knows right from wrong proves his INTELLECTUAL superiority to the
other creatures; but the fact that he can DO wrong proves his
MORAL inferiority to any creature that CANNOT.  It is my belief
that this position is not assailable.



Free Will

Y.M.  What is your opinion regarding Free Will?

O.M.  That there is no such thing.  Did the man possess it
who gave the old woman his last shilling and trudged home in the
storm?

Y.M.  He had the choice between succoring the old woman and
leaving her to suffer.  Isn't it so?

O.M.  Yes, there was a choice to be made, between bodily
comfort on the one hand and the comfort of the spirit on the
other.  The body made a strong appeal, of course--the body would
be quite sure to do that; the spirit made a counter appeal.  A
choice had to be made between the two appeals, and was made.  Who
or what determined that choice?

Y.M.  Any one but you would say that the man determined it,
and that in doing it he exercised Free Will.

O.M.  We are constantly assured that every man is endowed
with Free Will, and that he can and must exercise it where he is
offered a choice between good conduct and less-good conduct.  Yet
we clearly saw that in that man's case he really had no Free
Will:  his temperament, his training, and the daily influences
which had molded him and made him what he was, COMPELLED him to
rescue the old woman and thus save HIMSELF--save himself from
spiritual pain, from unendurable wretchedness.  He did not make
the choice, it was made FOR him by forces which he could not
control.  Free Will has always existed in WORDS, but it stops
there, I think--stops short of FACT.  I would not use those
words--Free Will--but others.

Y.M.  What others?

O.M.  Free Choice.

Y.M.  What is the difference?

O.M.  The one implies untrammeled power to ACT as you please,
the other implies nothing beyond a mere MENTAL PROCESS:
the critical ability to determine which of two things
is nearest right and just.

Y.M.  Make the difference clear, please.

O.M.  The mind can freely SELECT, CHOOSE, POINT OUT the
right and just one--its function stops there.  It can go no
further in the matter.  It has no authority to say that the right
one shall be acted upon and the wrong one discarded.
That authority is in other hands.

Y.M.  The man's?

O.M.  In the machine which stands for him.  In his born
disposition and the character which has been built around it by
training and environment.

Y.M.  It will act upon the right one of the two?

O.M.  It will do as it pleases in the matter.  George Washington's
machine would act upon the right one; Pizarro would act upon the wrong one.

Y.M.  Then as I understand it a bad man's mental machinery calmly
and judicially points out which of two things is right and just--

O.M.  Yes, and his MORAL machinery will freely act upon
the other or the other, according to its make, and be quite
indifferent to the MIND'S feeling concerning the matter--that is,
WOULD be, if the mind had any feelings; which it hasn't.
It is merely a thermometer:  it registers the heat and the cold,
and cares not a farthing about either.

Y.M.  Then we must not claim that if a man KNOWS which of
two things is right he is absolutely BOUND to do that thing?

O.M.  His temperament and training will decide what he shall
do, and he will do it; he cannot help himself, he has no
authority over the mater.  Wasn't it right for David to go out
and slay Goliath?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  Then it would have been equally RIGHT for any one else to do it?

Y.M.  Certainly.

O.M.  Then it would have been RIGHT for a born coward to attempt it?

Y.M.  It would--yes.

O.M.  You know that no born coward ever would have attempted it, don't you?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  You know that a born coward's make and temperament
would be an absolute and insurmountable bar to his ever essaying
such a thing, don't you?

Y.M.  Yes, I know it.

O.M.  He clearly perceives that it would be RIGHT to try it?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  His mind has Free Choice in determining that it would
be RIGHT to try it?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  Then if by reason of his inborn cowardice he simply
can NOT essay it, what becomes of his Free Will?  Where is his
Free Will?  Why claim that he has Free Will when the plain facts
show that he hasn't?  Why content that because he and David SEE
the right alike, both must ACT alike?  Why impose the same laws
upon goat and lion?

Y.M.  There is really no such thing as Free Will?

O.M.  It is what I think.  There is WILL.  But it has
nothing to do with INTELLECTUAL PERCEPTIONS OF RIGHT AND WRONG,
and is not under their command.  David's temperament and training
had Will, and it was a compulsory force; David had to obey its
decrees, he had no choice.  The coward's temperament and training
possess Will, and IT is compulsory; it commands him to avoid
danger, and he obeys, he has no choice.  But neither the Davids
nor the cowards possess Free Will--will that may do the right or
do the wrong, as their MENTAL verdict shall decide.



Not Two Values, But Only One

Y.M.  There is one thing which bothers me:  I can't tell
where you draw the line between MATERIAL covetousness and
SPIRITUAL covetousness.

O.M.  I don't draw any.

Y.M.  How do you mean?

O.M.  There is no such thing as MATERIAL covetousness.
All covetousness is spiritual

Y.M.  ALL longings, desires, ambitions SPIRITUAL, never material?

O.M.  Yes.  The Master in you requires that in ALL cases you
shall content his SPIRIT--that alone.  He never requires anything
else, he never interests himself in any other matter.

Y.M.  Ah, come!  When he covets somebody's money--isn't that
rather distinctly material and gross?

O.M.  No.  The money is merely a symbol--it represents in
visible and concrete form a SPIRITUAL DESIRE.  Any so-called
material thing that you want is merely a symbol:  you want it not
for ITSELF, but because it will content your spirit for the moment.

Y.M.  Please particularize.

O.M.  Very well.  Maybe the thing longed for is a new hat.
You get it and your vanity is pleased, your spirit contented.
Suppose your friends deride the hat, make fun of it:  at once it
loses its value; you are ashamed of it, you put it out of your
sight, you never want to see it again.

Y.M.  I think I see.  Go on.

O.M.  It is the same hat, isn't it?  It is in no way
altered.  But it wasn't the HAT you wanted, but only what it
stood for--a something to please and content your SPIRIT.  When
it failed of that, the whole of its value was gone.  There are no
MATERIAL values; there are only spiritual ones.  You will hunt in
vain for a material value that is ACTUAL, REAL--there is no such
thing.  The only value it possesses, for even a moment, is the
spiritual value back of it:  remove that end and it is at once
worthless--like the hat.

Y.M.  Can you extend that to money?

O.M.  Yes.  It is merely a symbol, it has no MATERIAL value;
you think you desire it for its own sake, but it is not so.  You
desire it for the spiritual content it will bring; if it fail of
that, you discover that its value is gone.  There is that
pathetic tale of the man who labored like a slave, unresting,
unsatisfied, until he had accumulated a fortune, and was happy
over it, jubilant about it; then in a single week a pestilence
swept away all whom he held dear and left him desolate.  His
money's value was gone.  He realized that his joy in it came not
from the money itself, but from the spiritual contentment he got
out of his family's enjoyment of the pleasures and delights it
lavished upon them.  Money has no MATERIAL value; if you remove
its spiritual value nothing is left but dross.  It is so with all
things, little or big, majestic or trivial--there are no
exceptions.  Crowns, scepters, pennies, paste jewels, village
notoriety, world-wide fame--they are all the same, they have no
MATERIAL value:  while they content the SPIRIT they are precious,
when this fails they are worthless.



A Difficult Question

Y.M.  You keep me confused and perplexed all the time by
your elusive terminology.  Sometimes you divide a man up into two
or three separate personalities, each with authorities,
jurisdictions, and responsibilities of its own, and when he is in
that condition I can't grasp it.  Now when _I_ speak of a man, he
is THE WHOLE THING IN ONE, and easy to hold and contemplate.

O.M.  That is pleasant and convenient, if true.  When you
speak of "my body" who is the "my"?

Y.M.  It is the "me."

O.M.  The body is a property then, and the Me owns it.
Who is the Me?

Y.M.  The Me is THE WHOLE THING; it is a common property; an
undivided ownership, vested in the whole entity.

O.M.  If the Me admires a rainbow, is it the whole Me that
admires it, including the hair, hands, heels, and all?

Y.M.  Certainly not.  It is my MIND that admires it.

O.M.  So YOU divide the Me yourself.  Everybody does;
everybody must.  What, then, definitely, is the Me?

Y.M.  I think it must consist of just those two parts--
the body and the mind.

O.M.  You think so?  If you say "I believe the world is round,"
who is the "I" that is speaking?

Y.M.  The mind.

O.M.  If you say "I grieve for the loss of my father,"
who is the "I"?

Y.M.  The mind.

O.M.  Is the mind exercising an intellectual function when
it examines and accepts the evidence that the world is round?

Y.M.  Yes.

O.M.  Is it exercising an intellectual function when it
grieves for the loss of your father?

Y.M.  That is not cerebration, brain-work, it is a matter of FEELING.

O.M.  Then its source is not in your mind, but in your MORAL territory?

Y.M.  I have to grant it.

O.M.  Is your mind a part of your PHYSICAL equipment?

Y.M.  No.  It is independent of it; it is spiritual.

O.M.  Being spiritual, it cannot be affected by physical influences?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  Does the mind remain sober with the body is drunk?

Y.M.  Well--no.

O.M.  There IS a physical effect present, then?

Y.M.  It looks like it.

O.M.  A cracked skull has resulted in a crazy mind.  Why
should it happen if the mind is spiritual, and INDEPENDENT of
physical influences?

Y.M.  Well--I don't know.

O.M.  When you have a pain in your foot, how do you know it?

Y.M.  I feel it.

O.M.  But you do not feel it until a nerve reports the hurt
to the brain.  Yet the brain is the seat of the mind, is it not?

Y.M.  I think so.

O.M.  But isn't spiritual enough to learn what is happening
in the outskirts without the help of the PHYSICAL messenger?  You
perceive that the question of who or what the Me is, is not a
simple one at all.  You say "I admire the rainbow," and "I
believe the world is round," and in these cases we find that the
Me is not speaking, but only the MENTAL part.  You say, "I
grieve," and again the Me is not all speaking, but only the MORAL
part.  You say the mind is wholly spiritual; then you say "I have
a pain" and find that this time the Me is mental AND spiritual
combined.  We all use the "I" in this indeterminate fashion,
there is no help for it.  We imagine a Master and King over what
you call The Whole Thing, and we speak of him as "I," but when we
try to define him we find we cannot do it.  The intellect and the
feelings can act quite INDEPENDENTLY of each other; we recognize
that, and we look around for a Ruler who is master over both, and
can serve as a DEFINITE AND INDISPUTABLE "I," and enable us to
know what we mean and who or what we are talking about when we
use that pronoun, but we have to give it up and confess that we
cannot find him.  To me, Man is a machine, made up of many
mechanisms, the moral and mental ones acting automatically in
accordance with the impulses of an interior Master who is built
out of born-temperament and an accumulation of multitudinous
outside influences and trainings; a machine whose ONE function is
to secure the spiritual contentment of the Master, be his desires
good or be they evil; a machine whose Will is absolute and must
be obeyed, and always IS obeyed.

Y.M.  Maybe the Me is the Soul?

O.M.  Maybe it is.  What is the Soul?

Y.M.  I don't know.

O.M.  Neither does any one else.



The Master Passion


Y.M.  What is the Master?--or, in common speech, the
Conscience?  Explain it.

O.M.  It is that mysterious autocrat, lodged in a man, which
compels the man to content its desires.  It may be called the
Master Passion--the hunger for Self-Approval.

Y.M.  Where is its seat?

O.M.  In man's moral constitution.

Y.M.  Are its commands for the man's good?

O.M.  It is indifferent to the man's good; it never concerns
itself about anything but the satisfying of its own desires.  It
can be TRAINED to prefer things which will be for the man's good,
but it will prefer them only because they will content IT better
than other things would.

Y.M.  Then even when it is trained to high ideals it is still
looking out for its own contentment, and not for the man's good.

O.M.  True.  Trained or untrained, it cares nothing for the man's good,
and never concerns itself about it.

Y.M.  It seems to be an IMMORAL force seated in the man's
moral constitution.

O.M.  It is a COLORLESS force seated in the man's moral constitution.
Let us call it an instinct--a blind, unreasoning instinct, which cannot
and does not distinguish between good morals and bad ones, and cares
nothing for results to the man provided its own contentment be secured;
and it will ALWAYS secure that.

Y.M.  It seeks money, and it probably considers that that is
an advantage for the man?

O.M.  It is not always seeking money, it is not always
seeking power, nor office, nor any other MATERIAL advantage.  In
ALL cases it seeks a SPIRITUAL contentment, let the MEANS be what
they may.  Its desires are determined by the man's temperament--
and it is lord over that.  Temperament, Conscience,
Susceptibility, Spiritual Appetite, are, in fact, the same thing.
Have you ever heard of a person who cared nothing for money?

Y.M.  Yes.  A scholar who would not leave his garret and his
books to take a place in a business house at a large salary.

O.M.  He had to satisfy his master--that is to say, his temperament,
his Spiritual Appetite--and it preferred books to money.  Are there
other cases?

Y.M.  Yes, the hermit.

O.M.  It is a good instance.  The hermit endures solitude,
hunger, cold, and manifold perils, to content his autocrat, who
prefers these things, and prayer and contemplation, to money or
to any show or luxury that money can buy.  Are there others?

Y.M.  Yes.  The artist, the poet, the scientist.

O.M.  Their autocrat prefers the deep pleasures of these
occupations, either well paid or ill paid, to any others in the
market, at any price.  You REALIZE that the Master Passion--the
contentment of the spirit--concerns itself with many things
besides so-called material advantage, material prosperity, cash,
and all that?

Y.M.  I think I must concede it.

O.M.  I believe you must.  There are perhaps as many
Temperaments that would refuse the burdens and vexations and
distinctions of public office as there are that hunger after
them.  The one set of Temperaments seek the contentment of the
spirit, and that alone; and this is exactly the case with the
other set.  Neither set seeks anything BUT the contentment of the
spirit.  If the one is sordid, both are sordid; and equally so,
since the end in view is precisely the same in both cases.  And
in both cases Temperament decides the preference--and Temperament
is BORN, not made.



Conclusion

O.M.  You have been taking a holiday?

Y.M.  Yes; a mountain tramp covering a week.  Are you ready to talk?

O.M.  Quite ready.  What shall we begin with?

Y.M.  Well, lying abed resting up, two days and nights, I
have thought over all these talks, and passed them carefully in
review.  With this result:  that . . . that . . . are you
intending to publish your notions about Man some day?

O.M.  Now and then, in these past twenty years, the Master
inside of me has half-intended to order me to set them to paper
and publish them.  Do I have to tell you why the order has
remained unissued, or can you explain so simply a thing without
my help?

Y.M.  By your doctrine, it is simplicity itself:  outside
influences moved your interior Master to give the order; stronger
outside influences deterred him.  Without the outside influences,
neither of these impulses could ever have been born, since a
person's brain is incapable or originating an idea within itself.

O.M.  Correct.  Go on.

Y.M.  The matter of publishing or withholding is still in your
Master's hands.  If some day an outside influence shall determine
him to publish, he will give the order, and it will be obeyed.

O.M.  That is correct.  Well?

Y.M.  Upon reflection I have arrived at the conviction
that the publication of your doctrines would be harmful.
Do you pardon me?

O.M.  Pardon YOU?  You have done nothing.  You are an
instrument--a speaking-trumpet.  Speaking-trumpets are not
responsible for what is said through them.  Outside influences--
in the form of lifelong teachings, trainings, notions,
prejudices, and other second-hand importations--have persuaded
the Master within you that the publication of these doctrines
would be harmful.  Very well, this is quite natural, and was to
be expected; in fact, was inevitable.  Go on; for the sake of
ease and convenience, stick to habit:  speak in the first person,
and tell me what your Master thinks about it.

Y.M.  Well, to begin:  it is a desolating doctrine; it is
not inspiring, enthusing, uplifting.  It takes the glory out of
man, it takes the pride out of him, it takes the heroism out of
him, it denies him all personal credit, all applause; it not only
degrades him to a machine, but allows him no control over the
machine; makes a mere coffee-mill of him, and neither permits him
to supply the coffee nor turn the crank, his sole and piteously
humble function being to grind coarse or fine, according to his
make, outside impulses doing the rest.

O.M.  It is correctly stated.  Tell me--what do men admire
most in each other?

Y.M.  Intellect, courage, majesty of build, beauty of
countenance, charity, benevolence, magnanimity, kindliness,
heroism, and--and--

O.M.  I would not go any further.  These are ELEMENTALS.
Virtue, fortitude, holiness, truthfulness, loyalty, high ideals--
these, and all the related qualities that are named in the
dictionary, are MADE OF THE ELEMENTALS, by blendings,
combinations, and shadings of the elementals, just as one makes
green by blending blue and yellow, and makes several shades and
tints of red by modifying the elemental red.  There are several
elemental colors; they are all in the rainbow; out of them we
manufacture and name fifty shades of them.  You have named the
elementals of the human rainbow, and also one BLEND--heroism,
which is made out of courage and magnanimity.  Very well, then;
which of these elements does the possessor of it manufacture for
himself?  Is it intellect?

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  Why?

Y.M.  He is born with it.

O.M.  Is it courage?

Y.M.  No.  He is born with it.

O.M.  Is it majesty of build, beauty of countenance?

Y.M.  No.  They are birthrights.

O.M.  Take those others--the elemental moral qualities--
charity, benevolence, magnanimity, kindliness; fruitful seeds,
out of which spring, through cultivation by outside influences,
all the manifold blends and combinations of virtues named in the
dictionaries:  does man manufacture any of those seeds, or are
they all born in him?

Y.M.  Born in him.

O.M.  Who manufactures them, then?

Y.M.  God.

O.M.  Where does the credit of it belong?

Y.M.  To God.

O.M.  And the glory of which you spoke, and the applause?

Y.M.  To God.

O.M.  Then it is YOU who degrade man.  You make him claim
glory, praise, flattery, for every valuable thing he possesses--
BORROWED finery, the whole of it; no rag of it earned by himself,
not a detail of it produced by his own labor.  YOU make man a
humbug; have I done worse by him?

Y.M.  You have made a machine of him.

O.M.  Who devised that cunning and beautiful mechanism, a
man's hand?

Y.M.  God.

O.M.  Who devised the law by which it automatically hammers
out of a piano an elaborate piece of music, without error, while
the man is thinking about something else, or talking to a friend?

Y.M.  God.

O.M.  Who devised the blood?  Who devised the wonderful
machinery which automatically drives its renewing and refreshing
streams through the body, day and night, without assistance or
advice from the man?  Who devised the man's mind, whose machinery
works automatically, interests itself in what it pleases,
regardless of its will or desire, labors all night when it likes,
deaf to his appeals for mercy?  God devised all these things.
_I_ have not made man a machine, God made him a machine.  I am
merely calling attention to the fact, nothing more.  Is it wrong
to call attention to the fact?  Is it a crime?

Y.M.  I think it is wrong to EXPOSE a fact when harm can
come of it.

O.M.  Go on.

Y.M.  Look at the matter as it stands now.  Man has been
taught that he is the supreme marvel of the Creation; he believes
it; in all the ages he has never doubted it, whether he was a
naked savage, or clothed in purple and fine linen, and civilized.
This has made his heart buoyant, his life cheery.  His pride in
himself, his sincere admiration of himself, his joy in what he
supposed were his own and unassisted achievements, and his
exultation over the praise and applause which they evoked--these
have exalted him, enthused him, ambitioned him to higher and
higher flights; in a word, made his life worth the living.  But
by your scheme, all this is abolished; he is degraded to a
machine, he is a nobody, his noble prides wither to mere
vanities; let him strive as he may, he can never be any better
than his humblest and stupidest neighbor; he would never be
cheerful again, his life would not be worth the living.

O.M.  You really think that?

Y.M.  I certainly do.

O.M.  Have you ever seen me uncheerful, unhappy.

Y.M.  No.

O.M.  Well, _I_ believe these things.  Why have they not
made me unhappy?

Y.M.  Oh, well--temperament, of course!  You never let THAT
escape from your scheme.

O.M.  That is correct.  If a man is born with an unhappy
temperament, nothing can make him happy; if he is born with a
happy temperament, nothing can make him unhappy.

Y.M.  What--not even a degrading and heart-chilling system
of beliefs?

O.M.  Beliefs?  Mere beliefs?  Mere convictions?  They are
powerless.  They strive in vain against inborn temperament.

Y.M.  I can't believe that, and I don't.

O.M.  Now you are speaking hastily.  It shows that you have
not studiously examined the facts.  Of all your intimates, which
one is the happiest?  Isn't it Burgess?

Y.M.  Easily.

O.M.  And which one is the unhappiest?  Henry Adams?

Y.M.  Without a question!

O.M.  I know them well.  They are extremes, abnormals; their
temperaments are as opposite as the poles.  Their life-histories
are about alike--but look at the results!  Their ages are about
the same--about around fifty.  Burgess had always been buoyant,
hopeful, happy; Adams has always been cheerless, hopeless,
despondent.  As young fellows both tried country journalism--and
failed.  Burgess didn't seem to mind it; Adams couldn't smile, he
could only mourn and groan over what had happened and torture
himself with vain regrets for not having done so and so instead
of so and so--THEN he would have succeeded.  They tried the law--
and failed.  Burgess remained happy--because he couldn't help it.
Adams was wretched--because he couldn't help it.  From that day
to this, those two men have gone on trying things and failing:
Burgess has come out happy and cheerful every time; Adams the
reverse.  And we do absolutely know that these men's inborn
temperaments have remained unchanged through all the vicissitudes
of their material affairs.  Let us see how it is with their
immaterials.  Both have been zealous Democrats; both have been
zealous Republicans; both have been zealous Mugwumps.  Burgess
has always found happiness and Adams unhappiness in these several
political beliefs and in their migrations out of them.  Both of
these men have been Presbyterians, Universalists, Methodists,
Catholics--then Presbyterians again, then Methodists again.
Burgess has always found rest in these excursions, and Adams
unrest.  They are trying Christian Science, now, with the
customary result, the inevitable result.  No political or
religious belief can make Burgess unhappy or the other man happy.
I assure you it is purely a matter of temperament.  Beliefs are
ACQUIREMENTS, temperaments are BORN; beliefs are subject to
change, nothing whatever can change temperament.

Y.M.  You have instanced extreme temperaments.

O.M.  Yes, the half-dozen others are modifications of the
extremes.  But the law is the same.  Where the temperament is
two-thirds happy, or two-thirds unhappy, no political or
religious beliefs can change the proportions.  The vast majority
of temperaments are pretty equally balanced; the intensities are
absent, and this enables a nation to learn to accommodate itself
to its political and religious circumstances and like them, be
satisfied with them, at last prefer them.  Nations do not THINK,
they only FEEL. They get their feelings at second hand through
their temperaments, not their brains.  A nation can be brought--
by force of circumstances, not argument--to reconcile itself to
ANY KIND OF GOVERNMENT OR RELIGION THAT CAN BE DEVISED; in time
it will fit itself to the required conditions; later, it will
prefer them and will fiercely fight for them.  As instances, you
have all history:  the Greeks, the Romans, the Persians, the
Egyptians, the Russians, the Germans, the French, the English,
the Spaniards, the Americans, the South Americans, the Japanese,
the Chinese, the Hindus, the Turks--a thousand wild and tame
religions, every kind of government that can be thought of, from
tiger to house-cat, each nation KNOWING it has the only true
religion and the only sane system of government, each despising
all the others, each an ass and not suspecting it, each proud of
its fancied supremacy, each perfectly sure it is the pet of God,
each without undoubting confidence summoning Him to take command
in time of war, each surprised when He goes over to the enemy,
but by habit able to excuse it and resume compliments--in a word,
the whole human race content, always content, persistently
content, indestructibly content, happy, thankful, proud, NO
MATTER WHAT ITS RELIGION IS, NOR WHETHER ITS MASTER BE TIGER OR
HOUSE-CAT.  Am I stating facts?  You know I am.  Is the human
race cheerful?  You know it is.  Considering what it can stand,
and be happy, you do me too much honor when you think that _I_
can place before it a system of plain cold facts that can take
the cheerfulness out of it.  Nothing can do that.  Everything has
been tried.  Without success.  I beg you not to be troubled.

-----------------------------------------------------------------



    THE DEATH OF JEAN



The death of Jean Clemens occurred early in the morning of
December 24, 1909.  Mr. Clemens was in great stress of mind when
I first saw him, but a few hours later I found him writing
steadily.

"I am setting it down," he said, "everything.  It is a
relief to me to write it.  It furnishes me an excuse for
thinking."  At intervals during that day and the next I looked
in, and usually found him writing.  Then on the evening of the
26th, when he knew that Jean had been laid to rest in Elmira, he
came to my room with the manuscript in his hand.

"I have finished it," he said; "read it.  I can form no
opinion of it myself.  If you think it worthy, some day--at the
proper time--it can end my autobiography.  It is the final
chapter."

Four months later--almost to the day--(April 21st) he was
with Jean.


Albert Bigelow Paine.



Stormfield, Christmas Eve, 11 A.M., 1909.


JEAN IS DEAD!

Has any one ever tried to put upon paper all the little
happenings connected with a dear one--happenings of the twenty-
four hours preceding the sudden and unexpected death of that dear
one?  Would a book contain them?  Would two books contain them?
I think not.  They pour into the mind in a flood.  They are
little things that have been always happening every day, and were
always so unimportant and easily forgettable before--but now!
Now, how different! how precious they are, now dear, how
unforgettable, how pathetic, how sacred, how clothed with dignity!

Last night Jean, all flushed with splendid health, and I the
same, from the wholesome effects of my Bermuda holiday, strolled
hand in hand from the dinner-table and sat down in the library
and chatted, and planned, and discussed, cheerily and happily
(and how unsuspectingly!)--until nine--which is late for us--then
went upstairs, Jean's friendly German dog following.  At my door
Jean said, "I can't kiss you good night, father:  I have a cold,
and you could catch it."  I bent and kissed her hand.  She was
moved--I saw it in her eyes--and she impulsively kissed my hand
in return.  Then with the usual gay "Sleep well, dear!" from
both, we parted.

At half past seven this morning I woke, and heard voices
outside my door.  I said to myself, "Jean is starting on her
usual horseback flight to the station for the mail."  Then Katy
[1] entered, stood quaking and gasping at my bedside a moment,
then found her tongue:

"MISS JEAN IS DEAD!"

Possibly I know now what the soldier feels when a bullet
crashes through his heart.

In her bathroom there she lay, the fair young creature,
stretched upon the floor and covered with a sheet.  And looking
so placid, so natural, and as if asleep.  We knew what had
happened.  She was an epileptic:  she had been seized with a
convulsion and heart failure in her bath.  The doctor had to come
several miles.  His efforts, like our previous ones, failed to
bring her back to life.

It is noon, now.  How lovable she looks, how sweet and how
tranquil!  It is a noble face, and full of dignity; and that was
a good heart that lies there so still.

In England, thirteen years ago, my wife and I were stabbed
to the heart with a cablegram which said, "Susy was mercifully
released today."  I had to send a like shot to Clara, in Berlin,
this morning.  With the peremptory addition, "You must not come
home."  Clara and her husband sailed from here on the 11th of
this month.  How will Clara bear it?  Jean, from her babyhood,
was a worshiper of Clara.

Four days ago I came back from a month's holiday in Bermuda
in perfected health; but by some accident the reporters failed to
perceive this.  Day before yesterday, letters and telegrams began
to arrive from friends and strangers which indicated that I was
supposed to be dangerously ill.  Yesterday Jean begged me to
explain my case through the Associated Press.  I said it was not
important enough; but she was distressed and said I must think of
Clara.  Clara would see the report in the German papers, and as
she had been nursing her husband day and night for four months
[2] and was worn out and feeble, the shock might be disastrous.
There was reason in that; so I sent a humorous paragraph by
telephone to the Associated Press denying the "charge" that I was
"dying," and saying "I would not do such a thing at my time of
life."

Jean was a little troubled, and did not like to see me treat
the matter so lightly; but I said it was best to treat it so, for
there was nothing serious about it.  This morning I sent the
sorrowful facts of this day's irremediable disaster to the
Associated Press.  Will both appear in this evening's papers?--
the one so blithe, the other so tragic?


I lost Susy thirteen years ago; I lost her mother--her
incomparable mother!--five and a half years ago; Clara has gone
away to live in Europe; and now I have lost Jean.  How poor I am,
who was once so rich!  Seven months ago Mr. Roger died--one of
the best friends I ever had, and the nearest perfect, as man and
gentleman, I have yet met among my race; within the last six
weeks Gilder has passed away, and Laffan--old, old friends of
mine.  Jean lies yonder, I sit here; we are strangers under our
own roof; we kissed hands good-by at this door last night--and it
was forever, we never suspecting it.  She lies there, and I sit
here--writing, busying myself, to keep my heart from breaking.
How dazzlingly the sunshine is flooding the hills around!  It is
like a mockery.

Seventy-four years ago twenty-four days ago.  Seventy-four
years old yesterday.  Who can estimate my age today?

I have looked upon her again.  I wonder I can bear it.  She
looks just as her mother looked when she lay dead in that
Florentine villa so long ago.  The sweet placidity of death! it
is more beautiful than sleep.

I saw her mother buried.  I said I would never endure that
horror again; that I would never again look into the grave of any
one dear to me.  I have kept to that.  They will take Jean from
this house tomorrow, and bear her to Elmira, New York, where lie
those of us that have been released, but I shall not follow.

Jean was on the dock when the ship came in, only four days
ago.  She was at the door, beaming a welcome, when I reached this
house the next evening.  We played cards, and she tried to teach
me a new game called "Mark Twain."  We sat chatting cheerily in
the library last night, and she wouldn't let me look into the
loggia, where she was making Christmas preparations.  She said
she would finish them in the morning, and then her little French
friend would arrive from New York--the surprise would follow; the
surprise she had been working over for days.  While she was out
for a moment I disloyally stole a look.  The loggia floor was
clothed with rugs and furnished with chairs and sofas; and the
uncompleted surprise was there:  in the form of a Christmas tree
that was drenched with silver film in a most wonderful way; and
on a table was prodigal profusion of bright things which she was
going to hang upon it today.  What desecrating hand will ever
banish that eloquent unfinished surprise from that place?  Not
mine, surely.  All these little matters have happened in the last
four days.  "Little."  Yes--THEN.  But not now.  Nothing she said
or thought or did is little now.  And all the lavish humor!--what
is become of it?  It is pathos, now.  Pathos, and the thought of
it brings tears.

All these little things happened such a few hours ago--and
now she lies yonder.  Lies yonder, and cares for nothing any
more.  Strange--marvelous--incredible!  I have had this
experience before; but it would still be incredible if I had had
it a thousand times.


"MISS JEAN IS DEAD!"

That is what Katy said.  When I heard the door open behind
the bed's head without a preliminary knock, I supposed it was
Jean coming to kiss me good morning, she being the only person
who was used to entering without formalities.

And so--

I have been to Jean's parlor.  Such a turmoil of Christmas
presents for servants and friends!  They are everywhere; tables,
chairs, sofas, the floor--everything is occupied, and over-
occupied.  It is many and many a year since I have seen the like.
In that ancient day Mrs. Clemens and I used to slip softly into
the nursery at midnight on Christmas Eve and look the array of
presents over.  The children were little then.  And now here is
Jean's parlor looking just as that nursery used to look.  The
presents are not labeled--the hands are forever idle that would
have labeled them today.  Jean's mother always worked herself
down with her Christmas preparations.  Jean did the same
yesterday and the preceding days, and the fatigue has cost her
her life.  The fatigue caused the convulsion that attacked her
this morning.  She had had no attack for months.


Jean was so full of life and energy that she was constantly
is danger of overtaxing her strength.  Every morning she was in
the saddle by half past seven, and off to the station for her
mail.  She examined the letters and I distributed them:  some to
her, some to Mr. Paine, the others to the stenographer and
myself.  She dispatched her share and then mounted her horse
again and went around superintending her farm and her poultry the
rest of the day.  Sometimes she played billiards with me after
dinner, but she was usually too tired to play, and went early to
bed.

Yesterday afternoon I told her about some plans I had been
devising while absent in Bermuda, to lighten her burdens.  We
would get a housekeeper; also we would put her share of the
secretary-work into Mr. Paine's hands.

No--she wasn't willing.  She had been making plans herself.
The matter ended in a compromise, I submitted.  I always did.
She wouldn't audit the bills and let Paine fill out the checks--
she would continue to attend to that herself.  Also, she would
continue to be housekeeper, and let Katy assist.  Also, she would
continue to answer the letters of personal friends for me.  Such
was the compromise.  Both of us called it by that name, though I
was not able to see where my formidable change had been made.

However, Jean was pleased, and that was sufficient for me.
She was proud of being my secretary, and I was never able to persuade
her to give up any part of her share in that unlovely work.

In the talk last night I said I found everything going so
smoothly that if she were willing I would go back to Bermuda in
February and get blessedly out of the clash and turmoil again for
another month.  She was urgent that I should do it, and said that
if I would put off the trip until March she would take Katy and
go with me.  We struck hands upon that, and said it was settled.
I had a mind to write to Bermuda by tomorrow's ship and secure a
furnished house and servants.  I meant to write the letter this
morning.  But it will never be written, now.

For she lies yonder, and before her is another journey than that.

Night is closing down; the rim of the sun barely shows above the
sky-line of the hills.

I have been looking at that face again that was growing dearer
and dearer to me every day.  I was getting acquainted with
Jean in these last nine months.  She had been long an exile from
home when she came to us three-quarters of a year ago.  She had
been shut up in sanitariums, many miles from us.  How eloquent
glad and grateful she was to cross her father's threshold again!

Would I bring her back to life if I could do it?  I would not.
If a word would do it, I would beg for strength to withhold
the word.  And I would have the strength; I am sure of it.  In
her loss I am almost bankrupt, and my life is a bitterness, but I
am content:  for she has been enriched with the most precious of
all gifts--that gift which makes all other gifts mean and poor--
death.  I have never wanted any released friend of mine restored
to life since I reached manhood.  I felt in this way when Susy
passed away; and later my wife, and later Mr. Rogers.  When Clara
met me at the station in New York and told me Mr. Rogers had died
suddenly that morning, my thought was, Oh, favorite of fortune--
fortunate all his long and lovely life--fortunate to his latest
moment!  The reporters said there were tears of sorrow in my
eyes.  True--but they were for ME, not for him.  He had suffered
no loss.  All the fortunes he had ever made before were poverty
compared with this one.


Why did I build this house, two years ago?  To shelter this
vast emptiness?  How foolish I was!  But I shall stay in it.  The
spirits of the dead hallow a house, for me.  It was not so with
other members of the family.  Susy died in the house we built in
Hartford.  Mrs. Clemens would never enter it again.  But it made
the house dearer to me.  I have entered it once since, when it
was tenantless and silent and forlorn, but to me it was a holy
place and beautiful.  It seemed to me that the spirits of the
dead were all about me, and would speak to me and welcome me if
they could:  Livy, and Susy, and George, and Henry Robinson, and
Charles Dudley Warner.  How good and kind they were, and how
lovable their lives!  In fancy I could see them all again, I
could call the children back and hear them romp again with
George--that peerless black ex-slave and children's idol who came
one day--a flitting stranger--to wash windows, and stayed
eighteen years.  Until he died.  Clara and Jean would never enter
again the New York hotel which their mother had frequented in
earlier days.  They could not bear it.  But I shall stay in this
house.  It is dearer to me tonight than ever it was before.
Jean's spirit will make it beautiful for me always.  Her lonely
and tragic death--but I will not think of that now.


Jean's mother always devoted two or three weeks to Christmas
shopping, and was always physically exhausted when Christmas Eve
came.  Jean was her very own child--she wore herself out present-
hunting in New York these latter days.  Paine has just found on
her desk a long list of names--fifty, he thinks--people to whom
she sent presents last night.  Apparently she forgot no one.  And
Katy found there a roll of bank-notes, for the servants.

Her dog has been wandering about the grounds today,
comradeless and forlorn.  I have seen him from the windows.  She
got him from Germany.  He has tall ears and looks exactly like a
wolf.  He was educated in Germany, and knows no language but the
German.  Jean gave him no orders save in that tongue.  And so
when the burglar-alarm made a fierce clamor at midnight a
fortnight ago, the butler, who is French and knows no German,
tried in vain to interest the dog in the supposed burglar.  Jean
wrote me, to Bermuda, about the incident.  It was the last letter
I was ever to receive from her bright head and her competent hand.
The dog will not be neglected.


There was never a kinder heart than Jean's.  From her
childhood up she always spent the most of her allowance on
charities of one kind or another.  After she became secretary and
had her income doubled she spent her money upon these things with
a free hand.  Mine too, I am glad and grateful to say.

She was a loyal friend to all animals, and she loved them
all, birds, beasts, and everything--even snakes--an inheritance
from me.  She knew all the birds; she was high up in that lore.
She became a member of various humane societies when she was
still a little girl--both here and abroad--and she remained an
active member to the last.  She founded two or three societies
for the protection of animals, here and in Europe.

She was an embarrassing secretary, for she fished my
correspondence out of the waste-basket and answered the letters.
She thought all letters deserved the courtesy of an answer.
Her mother brought her up in that kindly error.

She could write a good letter, and was swift with her pen.
She had but an indifferent ear music, but her tongue took to
languages with an easy facility.  She never allowed her Italian,
French, and German to get rusty through neglect.

The telegrams of sympathy are flowing in, from far and wide,
now, just as they did in Italy five years and a half ago, when
this child's mother laid down her blameless life.  They cannot
heal the hurt, but they take away some of the pain.  When Jean
and I kissed hands and parted at my door last, how little did we
imagine that in twenty-two hours the telegraph would be bringing
words like these:

"From the bottom of our hearts we send out sympathy,
dearest of friends."


For many and many a day to come, wherever I go in this house,
remembrancers of Jean will mutely speak to me of her.  Who can
count the number of them?

She was in exile two years with the hope of healing her
malady--epilepsy.  There are no words to express how grateful I
am that she did not meet her fate in the hands of strangers, but
in the loving shelter of her own home.


"MISS JEAN IS DEAD!"

It is true.  Jean is dead.

A month ago I was writing bubbling and hilarious articles
for magazines yet to appear, and now I am writing--this.


CHRISTMAS DAY.  NOON.--Last night I went to Jean's room at
intervals, and turned back the sheet and looked at the peaceful
face, and kissed the cold brow, and remembered that heartbreaking
night in Florence so long ago, in that cavernous and silent vast
villa, when I crept downstairs so many times, and turned back a
sheet and looked at a face just like this one--Jean's mother's
face--and kissed a brow that was just like this one.  And last
night I saw again what I had seen then--that strange and lovely
miracle--the sweet, soft contours of early maidenhood restored by
the gracious hand of death!  When Jean's mother lay dead, all
trace of care, and trouble, and suffering, and the corroding
years had vanished out of the face, and I was looking again upon
it as I had known and worshipped it in its young bloom and beauty
a whole generation before.

About three in the morning, while wandering about the house
in the deep silences, as one dies in times like these, when there
is a dumb sense that something has been lost that will never be
found again, yet must be sought, if only for the employment the
useless seeking gives, I came upon Jean's dog in the hall
downstairs, and noted that he did not spring to greet me,
according to his hospitable habit, but came slow and sorrowfully;
also I remembered that he had not visited Jean's apartment since
the tragedy.  Poor fellow, did he know?  I think so.  Always when
Jean was abroad in the open he was with her; always when she was
in the house he was with her, in the night as well as in the day.
Her parlor was his bedroom.  Whenever I happened upon him on the
ground floor he always followed me about, and when I went
upstairs he went too--in a tumultuous gallop.  But now it was
different:  after patting him a little I went to the library--he
remained behind; when I went upstairs he did not follow me, save
with his wistful eyes.  He has wonderful eyes--big, and kind, and
eloquent.  He can talk with them.  He is a beautiful creature,
and is of the breed of the New York police-dogs.  I do not like
dogs, because they bark when there is no occasion for it; but I
have liked this one from the beginning, because he belonged to
Jean, and because he never barks except when there is occasion--
which is not oftener than twice a week.

In my wanderings I visited Jean's parlor.  On a shelf I
found a pile of my books, and I knew what it meant.  She was
waiting for me to come home from Bermuda and autograph them, then
she would send them away.  If I only knew whom she intended them
for!  But I shall never know.  I will keep them.  Her hand has
touched them--it is an accolade--they are noble, now.

And in a closet she had hidden a surprise for me--a thing I
have often wished I owned:  a noble big globe.  I couldn't see it
for the tears.  She will never know the pride I take in it, and
the pleasure.  Today the mails are full of loving remembrances
for her:  full of those old, old kind words she loved so well,
"Merry Christmas to Jean!"  If she could only have lived one day
longer!

At last she ran out of money, and would not use mine.  So
she sent to one of those New York homes for poor girls all the
clothes she could spare--and more, most likely.


CHRISTMAS NIGHT.--This afternoon they took her away from her
room.  As soon as I might, I went down to the library, and there
she lay, in her coffin, dressed in exactly the same clothes she
wore when she stood at the other end of the same room on the 6th
of October last, as Clara's chief bridesmaid.  Her face was
radiant with happy excitement then; it was the same face now,
with the dignity of death and the peace of God upon it.

They told me the first mourner to come was the dog.  He came
uninvited, and stood up on his hind legs and rested his fore paws
upon the trestle, and took a last long look at the face that was
so dear to him, then went his way as silently as he had come.
HE KNOWS.

At mid-afternoon it began to snow.  The pity of it--that
Jean could not see it!  She so loved the snow.

The snow continued to fall.  At six o'clock the hearse drew
up to the door to bear away its pathetic burden.  As they lifted
the casket, Paine began playing on the orchestrelle Schubert's
"Impromptu," which was Jean's favorite.  Then he played the
Intermezzo; that was for Susy; then he played the Largo; that was
for their mother.  He did this at my request.  Elsewhere in my
Autobiography I have told how the Intermezzo and the Largo came
to be associated in my heart with Susy and Livy in their last
hours in this life.

From my windows I saw the hearse and the carriages wind
along the road and gradually grow vague and spectral in the
falling snow, and presently disappear.  Jean was gone out of my
life, and would not come back any more.  Jervis, the cousin she
had played with when they were babies together--he and her
beloved old Katy--were conducting her to her distant childhood
home, where she will lie by her mother's side once more, in the
company of Susy and Langdon.


DECEMBER 26TH.  The dog came to see me at eight o'clock this
morning.  He was very affectionate, poor orphan!  My room will be
his quarters hereafter.

The storm raged all night.  It has raged all the morning.
The snow drives across the landscape in vast clouds, superb,
sublime--and Jean not here to see.


2:30 P.M.--It is the time appointed.  The funeral has begun.
Four hundred miles away, but I can see it all, just as if I were
there.  The scene is the library in the Langdon homestead.
Jean's coffin stands where her mother and I stood, forty years
ago, and were married; and where Susy's coffin stood thirteen
years ago; where her mother's stood five years and a half ago;
and where mine will stand after a little time.


FIVE O'CLOCK.--It is all over.


When Clara went away two weeks ago to live in Europe, it was
hard, but I could bear it, for I had Jean left.  I said WE would
be a family.  We said we would be close comrades and happy--just
we two.  That fair dream was in my mind when Jean met me at the
steamer last Monday; it was in my mind when she received me at
the door last Tuesday evening.  We were together; WE WERE A
FAMILY! the dream had come true--oh, precisely true, contentedly,
true, satisfyingly true! and remained true two whole days.

And now?  Now Jean is in her grave!

In the grave--if I can believe it.  God rest her sweet
spirit!

-----

1.  Katy Leary, who had been in the service of the Clemens family
for twenty-nine years.

2.  Mr. Gabrilowitsch had been operated on for appendicitis.

-----------------------------------------------------------------




THE TURNING-POINT OF MY LIFE


I

If I understand the idea, the BAZAR invites several of us to
write upon the above text.  It means the change in my life's
course which introduced what must be regarded by me as the most
IMPORTANT condition of my career.  But it also implies--without
intention, perhaps--that that turning-point ITSELF was the
creator of the new condition.  This gives it too much
distinction, too much prominence, too much credit.  It is only
the LAST link in a very long chain of turning-points commissioned
to produce the cardinal result; it is not any more important than
the humblest of its ten thousand predecessors.  Each of the ten
thousand did its appointed share, on its appointed date, in
forwarding the scheme, and they were all necessary; to have left
out any one of them would have defeated the scheme and brought
about SOME OTHER result.  It know we have a fashion of saying
"such and such an event was the turning-point in my life," but we
shouldn't say it.  We should merely grant that its place as LAST
link in the chain makes it the most CONSPICUOUS link; in real
importance it has no advantage over any one of its predecessors.

Perhaps the most celebrated turning-point recorded in
history was the crossing of the Rubicon.  Suetonius says:


Coming up with his troops on the banks of the Rubicon, he
halted for a while, and, revolving in his mind the importance of
the step he was on the point of taking, he turned to those about
him and said, "We may still retreat; but if we pass this little
bridge, nothing is left for us but to fight it out in arms."


This was a stupendously important moment.  And all the
incidents, big and little, of Caesar's previous life had been
leading up to it, stage by stage, link by link.  This was the
LAST link--merely the last one, and no bigger than the others;
but as we gaze back at it through the inflating mists of our
imagination, it looks as big as the orbit of Neptune.

You, the reader, have a PERSONAL interest in that link, and
so have I; so has the rest of the human race.  It was one of the
links in your life-chain, and it was one of the links in mine.
We may wait, now, with baited breath, while Caesar reflects.
Your fate and mine are involved in his decision.

While he was thus hesitating, the following incident
occurred.  A person remarked for his noble mien and graceful
aspect appeared close at hand, sitting and playing upon a pipe.
When not only the shepherds, but a number of soldiers also,
flocked to listen to him, and some trumpeters among them, he
snatched a trumpet from one of them, ran to the river with it,
and, sounding the advance with a piercing blast, crossed to the
other side.  Upon this, Caesar exclaimed:  "Let us go whither the
omens of the gods and the iniquity of our enemies call up.
THE DIE IS CAST."

So he crossed--and changed the future of the whole human
race, for all time.  But that stranger was a link in Caesar's
life-chain, too; and a necessary one.  We don't know his name, we
never hear of him again; he was very casual; he acts like an
accident; but he was no accident, he was there by compulsion of
HIS life-chain, to blow the electrifying blast that was to make
up Caesar's mind for him, and thence go piping down the aisles of
history forever.

If the stranger hadn't been there!  But he WAS.  And Caesar
crossed.  With such results!  Such vast events--each a link in
the HUMAN RACE'S life-chain; each event producing the next one,
and that one the next one, and so on:  the destruction of the
republic; the founding of the empire; the breaking up of the
empire; the rise of Christianity upon its ruins; the spread of
the religion to other lands--and so on; link by link took its
appointed place at its appointed time, the discovery of America
being one of them; our Revolution another; the inflow of English
and other immigrants another; their drift westward (my ancestors
among them) another; the settlement of certain of them in
Missouri, which resulted in ME.  For I was one of the unavoidable
results of the crossing of the Rubicon.  If the stranger, with
his trumpet blast, had stayed away (which he COULDN'T, for he was
the appointed link) Caesar would not have crossed.  What would
have happened, in that case, we can never guess.  We only know
that the things that did happen would not have happened.  They
might have been replaced by equally prodigious things, of course,
but their nature and results are beyond our guessing.  But the
matter that interests me personally is that I would not be HERE
now, but somewhere else; and probably black--there is no telling.
Very well, I am glad he crossed.  And very really and thankfully
glad, too, though I never cared anything about it before.



II

To me, the most important feature of my life is its literary
feature.  I have been professionally literary something more than
forty years.  There have been many turning-points in my life, but
the one that was the link in the chain appointed to conduct me to
the literary guild is the most CONSPICUOUS link in that chain.
BECAUSE it was the last one.  It was not any more important than
its predecessors.  All the other links have an inconspicuous
look, except the crossing of the Rubicon; but as factors in
making me literary they are all of the one size, the crossing of
the Rubicon included.

I know how I came to be literary, and I will tell the steps
that lead up to it and brought it about.

The crossing of the Rubicon was not the first one, it was
hardly even a recent one; I should have to go back ages before
Caesar's day to find the first one.  To save space I will go back
only a couple of generations and start with an incident of my
boyhood.  When I was twelve and a half years old, my father died.
It was in the spring.  The summer came, and brought with it an
epidemic of measles.  For a time a child died almost every day.
The village was paralyzed with fright, distress, despair.
Children that were not smitten with the disease were imprisoned
in their homes to save them from the infection.  In the homes
there were no cheerful faces, there was no music, there was no
singing but of solemn hymns, no voice but of prayer, no romping
was allowed, no noise, no laughter, the family moved spectrally
about on tiptoe, in a ghostly hush.  I was a prisoner.  My soul
was steeped in this awful dreariness--and in fear.  At some time
or other every day and every night a sudden shiver shook me to
the marrow, and I said to myself, "There, I've got it! and I
shall die."  Life on these miserable terms was not worth living,
and at last I made up my mind to get the disease and have it
over, one way or the other.  I escaped from the house and went to
the house of a neighbor where a playmate of mine was very ill
with the malady.  When the chance offered I crept into his room
and got into bed with him.  I was discovered by his mother and
sent back into captivity.  But I had the disease; they could not
take that from me.  I came near to dying.  The whole village was
interested, and anxious, and sent for news of me every day; and
not only once a day, but several times.  Everybody believed I
would die; but on the fourteenth day a change came for the worse
and they were disappointed.

This was a turning-point of my life.  (Link number one.)
For when I got well my mother closed my school career and
apprenticed me to a printer.  She was tired of trying to keep me
out of mischief, and the adventure of the measles decided her to
put me into more masterful hands than hers.

I became a printer, and began to add one link after another
to the chain which was to lead me into the literary profession.
A long road, but I could not know that; and as I did not know
what its goal was, or even that it had one, I was indifferent.
Also contented.

A young printer wanders around a good deal, seeking and
finding work; and seeking again, when necessity commands.  N. B.
Necessity is a CIRCUMSTANCE; Circumstance is man's master--and
when Circumstance commands, he must obey; he may argue the
matter--that is his privilege, just as it is the honorable
privilege of a falling body to argue with the attraction of
gravitation--but it won't do any good, he must OBEY.  I wandered
for ten years, under the guidance and dictatorship of
Circumstance, and finally arrived in a city of Iowa, where I
worked several months.  Among the books that interested me in
those days was one about the Amazon.  The traveler told an
alluring tale of his long voyage up the great river from Para to
the sources of the Madeira, through the heart of an enchanted
land, a land wastefully rich in tropical wonders, a romantic land
where all the birds and flowers and animals were of the museum
varieties, and where the alligator and the crocodile and the
monkey seemed as much at home as if they were in the Zoo.  Also,
he told an astonishing tale about COCA, a vegetable product of
miraculous powers, asserting that it was so nourishing and so
strength-giving that the native of the mountains of the Madeira
region would tramp up hill and down all day on a pinch of
powdered coca and require no other sustenance.

I was fired with a longing to ascend the Amazon.  Also with
a longing to open up a trade in coca with all the world.  During
months I dreamed that dream, and tried to contrive ways to get to
Para and spring that splendid enterprise upon an unsuspecting
planet.  But all in vain.  A person may PLAN as much as he wants
to, but nothing of consequence is likely to come of it until the
magician CIRCUMSTANCE steps in and takes the matter off his
hands.  At last Circumstance came to my help.  It was in this
way.  Circumstance, to help or hurt another man, made him lose a
fifty-dollar bill in the street; and to help or hurt me, made me
find it.  I advertised the find, and left for the Amazon the same
day.  This was another turning-point, another link.

Could Circumstance have ordered another dweller in that town
to go to the Amazon and open up a world-trade in coca on a fifty-
dollar basis and been obeyed?  No, I was the only one.  There
were other fools there--shoals and shoals of them--but they were
not of my kind.  I was the only one of my kind.

Circumstance is powerful, but it cannot work alone; it has
to have a partner.  Its partner is man's TEMPERAMENT--his natural
disposition.  His temperament is not his invention, it is BORN in
him, and he has no authority over it, neither is he responsible
for its acts.  He cannot change it, nothing can change it,
nothing can modify it--except temporarily.  But it won't stay
modified.  It is permanent, like the color of the man's eyes and
the shape of his ears.  Blue eyes are gray in certain unusual lights;
but they resume their natural color when that stress is removed.

A Circumstance that will coerce one man will have no effect
upon a man of a different temperament.  If Circumstance had
thrown the bank-note in Caesar's way, his temperament would not
have made him start for the Amazon.  His temperament would have
compelled him to do something with the money, but not that.  It
might have made him advertise the note--and WAIT.  We can't tell.
Also, it might have made him go to New York and buy into the
Government, with results that would leave Tweed nothing to learn
when it came his turn.

Very well, Circumstance furnished the capital, and my
temperament told me what to do with it.  Sometimes a temperament
is an ass.  When that is the case of the owner of it is an ass,
too, and is going to remain one.  Training, experience,
association, can temporarily so polish him, improve him, exalt
him that people will think he is a mule, but they will be
mistaken.  Artificially he IS a mule, for the time being, but at
bottom he is an ass yet, and will remain one.

By temperament I was the kind of person that DOES things.
Does them, and reflects afterward.  So I started for the Amazon
without reflecting and without asking any questions.  That was
more than fifty years ago.  In all that time my temperament has
not changed, by even a shade.  I have been punished many and many
a time, and bitterly, for doing things and reflecting afterward,
but these tortures have been of no value to me; I still do the
thing commanded by Circumstance and Temperament, and reflect
afterward.  Always violently.  When I am reflecting, on these
occasions, even deaf persons can hear me think.

I went by the way of Cincinnati, and down the Ohio and
Mississippi.  My idea was to take ship, at New Orleans, for Para.
In New Orleans I inquired, and found there was no ship leaving
for Para.  Also, that there never had BEEN one leaving for Para.
I reflected.  A policeman came and asked me what I was doing, and
I told him.  He made me move on, and said if he caught me
reflecting in the public street again he would run me in.

After a few days I was out of money.  Then Circumstance
arrived, with another turning-point of my life--a new link.  On
my way down, I had made the acquaintance of a pilot.  I begged
him to teach me the river, and he consented.  I became a pilot.

By and by Circumstance came again--introducing the Civil
War, this time, in order to push me ahead another stage or two
toward the literary profession.  The boats stopped running, my
livelihood was gone.

Circumstance came to the rescue with a new turning-point and
a fresh link.  My brother was appointed secretary to the new
Territory of Nevada, and he invited me to go with him and help
him in his office.  I accepted.

In Nevada, Circumstance furnished me the silver fever and I
went into the mines to make a fortune, as I supposed; but that
was not the idea.  The idea was to advance me another step toward
literature.  For amusement I scribbled things for the Virginia
City ENTERPRISE.  One isn't a printer ten years without setting
up acres of good and bad literature, and learning--unconsciously
at first, consciously later--to discriminate between the two,
within his mental limitations; and meantime he is unconsciously
acquiring what is called a "style."  One of my efforts attracted
attention, and the ENTERPRISE sent for me and put me on its staff.

And so I became a journalist--another link.  By and by Circumstance
and the Sacramento UNION sent me to the Sandwich Islands for five
or six months, to write up sugar.  I did it; and threw in a good
deal of extraneous matter that hadn't anything to do with sugar.
But it was this extraneous matter that helped me to another link.

It made me notorious, and San Francisco invited me to lecture.
Which I did.  And profitably.  I had long had a desire to travel
and see the world, and now Circumstance had most kindly and
unexpectedly hurled me upon the platform and furnished me the means.
So I joined the "Quaker City Excursion."

When I returned to America, Circumstance was waiting on the pier--
with the LAST link--the conspicuous, the consummating, the
victorious link:  I was asked to WRITE A BOOK, and I did it, and
called it THE INNOCENTS ABROAD.  Thus I became at last a member
of the literary guild.  That was forty-two years ago, and I have
been a member ever since.  Leaving the Rubicon incident away back
where it belongs, I can say with truth that the reason I am in
the literary profession is because I had the measles when I was
twelve years old.


III

Now what interests me, as regards these details, is not the
details themselves, but the fact that none of them was foreseen
by me, none of them was planned by me, I was the author of none
of them.  Circumstance, working in harness with my temperament,
created them all and compelled them all.  I often offered help,
and with the best intentions, but it was rejected--as a rule,
uncourteously.  I could never plan a thing and get it to come out
the way I planned it.  It came out some other way--some way I had
not counted upon.

And so I do not admire the human being--as an intellectual
marvel--as much as I did when I was young, and got him out of
books, and did not know him personally.  When I used to read that
such and such a general did a certain brilliant thing, I believed
it.  Whereas it was not so.  Circumstance did it by help of his
temperament.  The circumstances would have failed of effect with
a general of another temperament:  he might see the chance, but
lose the advantage by being by nature too slow or too quick or
too doubtful.  Once General Grant was asked a question about a
matter which had been much debated by the public and the
newspapers; he answered the question without any hesitancy.
"General, who planned the the march through Georgia?"  "The
enemy!"  He added that the enemy usually makes your plans for
you.  He meant that the enemy by neglect or through force of
circumstances leaves an opening for you, and you see your chance
and take advantage of it.

Circumstances do the planning for us all, no doubt, by help
of our temperaments.  I see no great difference between a man and
a watch, except that the man is conscious and the watch isn't,
and the man TRIES to plan things and the watch doesn't.  The
watch doesn't wind itself and doesn't regulate itself--these
things are done exteriorly.  Outside influences, outside
circumstances, wind the MAN and regulate him.  Left to himself,
he wouldn't get regulated at all, and the sort of time he would
keep would not be valuable.  Some rare men are wonderful watches,
with gold case, compensation balance, and all those things, and
some men are only simple and sweet and humble Waterburys.  I am a
Waterbury.  A Waterbury of that kind, some say.

A nation is only an individual multiplied.  It makes plans
and Circumstances comes and upsets them--or enlarges them.  Some
patriots throw the tea overboard; some other patriots destroy a
Bastille.  The PLANS stop there; then Circumstance comes in,
quite unexpectedly, and turns these modest riots into a revolution.

And there was poor Columbus.  He elaborated a deep plan to
find a new route to an old country.  Circumstance revised his
plan for him, and he found a new WORLD.  And HE gets the credit
of it to this day.  He hadn't anything to do with it.

Necessarily the scene of the real turning-point of my life
(and of yours) was the Garden of Eden.  It was there that the
first link was forged of the chain that was ultimately to lead to
the emptying of me into the literary guild.  Adam's TEMPERAMENT
was the first command the Deity ever issued to a human being on
this planet.  And it was the only command Adam would NEVER be
able to disobey.  It said, "Be weak, be water, be characterless,
be cheaply persuadable."  The latter command, to let the fruit
alone, was certain to be disobeyed.  Not by Adam himself, but by
his TEMPERAMENT--which he did not create and had no authority
over.  For the TEMPERAMENT is the man; the thing tricked out with
clothes and named Man is merely its Shadow, nothing more.  The
law of the tiger's temperament is, Thou shalt kill; the law of
the sheep's temperament is Thou shalt not kill.  To issue later
commands requiring the tiger to let the fat stranger alone, and
requiring the sheep to imbue its hands in the blood of the lion
is not worth while, for those commands CAN'T be obeyed.  They
would invite to violations of the law of TEMPERAMENT, which is
supreme, and take precedence of all other authorities.  I cannot
help feeling disappointed in Adam and Eve.  That is, in their
temperaments.  Not in THEM, poor helpless young creatures--
afflicted with temperaments made out of butter; which butter was
commanded to get into contact with fire and BE MELTED.  What I
cannot help wishing is, that Adam had been postponed, and Martin
Luther and Joan of Arc put in their place--that splendid pair
equipped with temperaments not made of butter, but of asbestos.
By neither sugary persuasions nor by hell fire could Satan have
beguiled THEM to eat the apple.    There would have been results!
Indeed, yes.  The apple would be intact today; there would be no
human race; there would be no YOU; there would be no ME.  And the
old, old creation-dawn scheme of ultimately launching me into the
literary guild would have been defeated.

------------------------------------------------------------------


HOW TO MAKE HISTORY DATES STICK

These chapters are for children, and I shall try to make the
words large enough to command respect.  In the hope that you are
listening, and that you have confidence in me, I will proceed.
Dates are difficult things to acquire; and after they are
acquired it is difficult to keep them in the head.  But they are
very valuable.  They are like the cattle-pens of a ranch--they
shut in the several brands of historical cattle, each within its
own fence, and keep them from getting mixed together.  Dates are
hard to remember because they consist of figures; figures are
monotonously unstriking in appearance, and they don't take hold,
they form no pictures, and so they give the eye no chance to
help.  Pictures are the thing.  Pictures can make dates stick.
They can make nearly anything stick--particularly IF YOU MAKE THE
PICTURES YOURSELF.  Indeed, that is the great point--make the
pictures YOURSELF.  I know about this from experience.  Thirty
years ago I was delivering a memorized lecture every night, and
every night I had to help myself with a page of notes to keep
from getting myself mixed.  The notes consisted of beginnings of
sentences, and were eleven in number, and they ran something like
this:

"IN THAT REGION THE WEATHER--"

"AT THAT TIME IT WAS A CUSTOM--"

"BUT IN CALIFORNIA ONE NEVER HEARD--"

Eleven of them.  They initialed the brief divisions of the
lecture and protected me against skipping.  But they all looked
about alike on the page; they formed no picture; I had them by
heart, but I could never with certainty remember the order of
their succession; therefore I always had to keep those notes by
me and look at them every little while.  Once I mislaid them; you
will not be able to imagine the terrors of that evening.  I now
saw that I must invent some other protection.  So I got ten of
the initial letters by heart in their proper order--I, A, B, and
so on--and I went on the platform the next night with these
marked in ink on my ten finger-nails.  But it didn't answer.  I
kept track of the figures for a while; then I lost it, and after
that I was never quite sure which finger I had used last.  I
couldn't lick off a letter after using it, for while that would
have made success certain it also would have provoked too much
curiosity.  There was curiosity enough without that.  To the
audience I seemed more interested in my fingernails than I was in
my subject; one or two persons asked me afterward what was the
matter with my hands.

It was now that the idea of pictures occurred to me; then my
troubles passed away.  In two minutes I made six pictures with a
pen, and they did the work of the eleven catch-sentences, and did
it perfectly.  I threw the pictures away as soon as they were
made, for I was sure I could shut my eyes and see them any time.
That was a quarter of a century ago; the lecture vanished out of
my head more than twenty years ago, but I would rewrite it from
the pictures--for they remain.  Here are three of them: (Fig. 1).

The first one is a haystack--below it a rattlesnake--and it
told me where to begin to talk ranch-life in Carson Valley.  The
second one told me where to begin the talk about a strange and
violent wind that used to burst upon Carson City from the Sierra
Nevadas every afternoon at two o'clock and try to blow the town
away.  The third picture, as you easily perceive, is lightning;
its duty was to remind me when it was time to begin to talk about
San Francisco weather, where there IS no lightning--nor thunder,
either--and it never failed me.

I will give you a valuable hint.  When a man is making a
speech and you are to follow him don't jot down notes to speak
from, jot down PICTURES.  It is awkward and embarrassing to have
to keep referring to notes; and besides it breaks up your speech
and makes it ragged and non-coherent; but you can tear up your
pictures as soon as you have made them--they will stay fresh and
strong in your memory in the order and sequence in which you
scratched them down.  And many will admire to see what a good
memory you are furnished with, when perhaps your memory is not
any better than mine.

Sixteen years ago when my children were little creatures the
governess was trying to hammer some primer histories into their
heads.  Part of this fun--if you like to call it that--consisted
in the memorizing of the accession dates of the thirty-seven
personages who had ruled England from the Conqueror down.  These
little people found it a bitter, hard contract.  It was all
dates, and all looked alike, and they wouldn't stick.  Day after
day of the summer vacation dribbled by, and still the kings held
the fort; the children couldn't conquer any six of them.

With my lecture experience in mind I was aware that I could
invent some way out of the trouble with pictures, but I hoped a
way could be found which would let them romp in the open air
while they learned the kings.  I found it, and they mastered
all the monarchs in a day or two.

The idea was to make them SEE the reigns with their eyes;
that would be a large help.  We were at the farm then.  From the
house-porch the grounds sloped gradually down to the lower fence
and rose on the right to the high ground where my small work-den
stood.  A carriage-road wound through the grounds and up the
hill.  I staked it out with the English monarchs, beginning with
the Conqueror, and you could stand on the porch and clearly see
every reign and its length, from the Conquest down to Victoria,
then in the forty-sixth year of her reign--EIGHT HUNDRED AND
SEVENTEEN YEARS OF English history under your eye at once!

English history was an unusually live topic in America just
then.  The world had suddenly realized that while it was not
noticing the Queen had passed Henry VIII., passed Henry VI. and
Elizabeth, and gaining in length every day.  Her reign had
entered the list of the long ones; everybody was interested now--
it was watching a race.  Would she pass the long Edward?  There
was a possibility of it.  Would she pass the long Henry?
Doubtful, most people said.  The long George?  Impossible!
Everybody said it.  But we have lived to see her leave him two
years behind.

I measured off 817 feet of the roadway, a foot representing
a year, and at the beginning and end of each reign I drove a
three-foot white-pine stake in the turf by the roadside and wrote
the name and dates on it.  Abreast the middle of the porch-front
stood a great granite flower-vase overflowing with a cataract of
bright-yellow flowers--I can't think of their name.  The vase of
William the Conqueror.  We put his name on it and his accession
date, 1066.  We started from that and measured off twenty-one
feet of the road, and drove William Rufus's state; then thirteen
feet and drove the first Henry's stake; then thirty-five feet and
drove Stephen's; then nineteen feet, which brought us just past
the summer-house on the left; then we staked out thirty-five,
ten, and seventeen for the second Henry and Richard and John;
turned the curve and entered upon just what was needed for Henry
III.--a level, straight stretch of fifty-six feet of road without
a crinkle in it.  And it lay exactly in front of the house, in
the middle of the grounds.  There couldn't have been a better
place for that long reign; you could stand on the porch and see
those two wide-apart stakes almost with your eyes shut. (Fig. 2.)

That isn't the shape of the road--I have bunched it up like
that to save room.  The road had some great curves in it, but
their gradual sweep was such that they were no mar to history.
No, in our road one could tell at a glance who was who by the size
of the vacancy between stakes--with LOCALITY to help, of course.

Although I am away off here in a Swedish village [1] and
those stakes did not stand till the snow came, I can see them
today as plainly as ever; and whenever I think of an English
monarch his stakes rise before me of their own accord and I
notice the large or small space which he takes up on our road.
Are your kings spaced off in your mind?  When you think of
Richard III. and of James II. do the durations of their reigns
seem about alike to you?  It isn't so to me; I always notice that
there's a foot's difference.  When you think of Henry III. do you
see a great long stretch of straight road?  I do; and just at the
end where it joins on to Edward I. I always see a small pear-bush
with its green fruit hanging down.  When I think of the
Commonwealth I see a shady little group of these small saplings
which we called the oak parlor; when I think of George III. I see
him stretching up the hill, part of him occupied by a flight of
stone steps; and I can locate Stephen to an inch when he comes
into my mind, for he just filled the stretch which went by the
summer-house.  Victoria's reign reached almost to my study door
on the first little summit; there's sixteen feet to be added now;
I believe that that would carry it to a big pine-tree that was
shattered by some lightning one summer when it was trying to hit me.

We got a good deal of fun out of the history road; and
exercise, too.  We trotted the course from the conqueror to the
study, the children calling out the names, dates, and length of
reigns as we passed the stakes, going a good gait along the long
reigns, but slowing down when we came upon people like Mary and
Edward VI., and the short Stuart and Plantagenet, to give time to
get in the statistics.  I offered prizes, too--apples.  I threw
one as far as I could send it, and the child that first shouted
the reign it fell in got the apple.

The children were encouraged to stop locating things as
being "over by the arbor," or "in the oak parlor," or "up at the
stone steps," and say instead that the things were in Stephen, or
in the Commonwealth, or in George III.  They got the habit
without trouble.  To have the long road mapped out with such
exactness was a great boon for me, for I had the habit of leaving
books and other articles lying around everywhere, and had not
previously been able to definitely name the place, and so had
often been obliged to go to fetch them myself, to save time and
failure; but now I could name the reign I left them in, and send
the children.

Next I thought I would measure off the French reigns, and
peg them alongside the English ones, so that we could always have
contemporaneous French history under our eyes as we went our
English rounds.  We pegged them down to the Hundred Years' War,
then threw the idea aside, I do not now remember why.  After that
we made the English pegs fence in European and American history
as well as English, and that answered very well.  English and
alien poets, statesmen, artists, heroes, battles, plagues,
cataclysms, revolutions--we shoveled them all into the English
fences according to their dates.  Do you understand?  We gave
Washington's birth to George II.'s pegs and his death to George
III.'s; George II. got the Lisbon earthquake and George III. the
Declaration of Independence.  Goethe, Shakespeare, Napoleon,
Savonarola, Joan of Arc, the French Revolution, the Edict of
Nantes, Clive, Wellington, Waterloo, Plassey, Patay, Cowpens,
Saratoga, the Battle of the Boyne, the invention of the
logarithms, the microscope, the steam-engine, the telegraph--
anything and everything all over the world--we dumped it all
in among the English pegs according to it date and regardless
of its nationality.

If the road-pegging scheme had not succeeded I should have
lodged the kings in the children's heads by means of pictures--
that is, I should have tried.  It might have failed, for the
pictures could only be effective WHEN MADE BY THE PUPIL; not the
master, for it is the work put upon the drawing that makes the
drawing stay in the memory, and my children were too little to make
drawings at that time.  And, besides, they had no talent for art,
which is strange, for in other ways they are like me.

But I will develop the picture plan now, hoping that you will
be able to use it.  It will come good for indoors when the
weather is bad and one cannot go outside and peg a road.  Let us
imagine that the kings are a procession, and that they have come
out of the Ark and down Ararat for exercise and are now starting
back again up the zigzag road.  This will bring several of them
into view at once, and each zigzag will represent the length of
a king's reign.

And so on.  You will have plenty of space, for by my project
you will use the parlor wall.  You do not mark on the wall; that
would cause trouble.  You only attach bits of paper to it with
pins or thumb-tacks.  These will leave no mark.

Take your pen now, and twenty-one pieces of white paper,
each two inches square, and we will do the twenty-one years of
the Conqueror's reign.  On each square draw a picture of a whale
and write the dates and term of service.  We choose the whale for
several reasons:  its name and William's begin with the same
letter; it is the biggest fish that swims, and William is the
most conspicuous figure in English history in the way of a
landmark; finally, a whale is about the easiest thing to draw.
By the time you have drawn twenty-one wales and written "William
I.--1066-1087--twenty-one years" twenty-one times, those details
will be your property; you cannot dislodge them from your memory
with anything but dynamite.  I will make a sample for you to copy:
(Fig. 3).

I have got his chin up too high, but that is no matter; he
is looking for Harold.  It may be that a whale hasn't that fin up
there on his back, but I do not remember; and so, since there is
a doubt, it is best to err on the safe side.  He looks better,
anyway, than he would without it.

Be very careful and ATTENTIVE while you are drawing your
first whale from my sample and writing the word and figures under
it, so that you will not need to copy the sample any more.
Compare your copy with the sample; examine closely; if you find
you have got everything right and can shut your eyes and see the
picture and call the words and figures, then turn the sample and
copy upside down and make the next copy from memory; and also the
next and next, and so on, always drawing and writing from memory
until you have finished the whole twenty-one.  This will take you
twenty minutes, or thirty, and by that time you will find that
you can make a whale in less time than an unpracticed person can
make a sardine; also, up to the time you die you will always be
able to furnish William's dates to any ignorant person that
inquires after them.

You will now take thirteen pieces of BLUE paper, each two
inches square, and do William II. (Fig. 4.)

Make him spout his water forward instead of backward; also
make him small, and stick a harpoon in him and give him that sick
look in the eye.  Otherwise you might seem to be continuing the
other William, and that would be confusing and a damage.  It is
quite right to make him small; he was only about a No. 11 whale,
or along there somewhere; there wasn't room in him for his
father's great spirit.  The barb of that harpoon ought not to
show like that, because it is down inside the whale and ought to
be out of sight, but it cannot be helped; if the barb were
removed people would think some one had stuck a whip-stock into
the whale.  It is best to leave the barb the way it is, then
every one will know it is a harpoon and attending to business.
Remember--draw from the copy only once; make your other twelve
and the inscription from memory.

Now the truth is that whenever you have copied a picture and
its inscription once from my sample and two or three times from
memory the details will stay with you and be hard to forget.
After that, if you like, you may make merely the whale's HEAD and
WATER-SPOUT for the Conqueror till you end his reign, each time
SAYING the inscription in place of writing it; and in the case of
William II. make the HARPOON alone, and say over the inscription
each time you do it.  You see, it will take nearly twice as long
to do the first set as it will to do the second, and that will
give you a marked sense of the difference in length of the two reigns.

Next do Henry I. on thirty-five squares of RED paper.
(Fig. 5.)

That is a hen, and suggests Henry by furnishing the first syllable.
When you have repeated the hen and the inscription until you are
perfectly sure of them, draw merely the hen's head the rest of the
thirty-five times, saying over the inscription each time.  Thus:
(Fig. 6).

You begin to understand how how this procession is going to
look when it is on the wall.  First there will be the Conqueror's
twenty-one whales and water-spouts, the twenty-one white squares
joined to one another and making a white stripe three and one-
half feet long; the thirteen blue squares of William II. will be
joined to that--a blue stripe two feet, two inches long, followed
by Henry's red stripe five feet, ten inches long, and so on.  The
colored divisions will smartly show to the eye the difference in
the length of the reigns and impress the proportions on the
memory and the understanding. (Fig. 7.)

Stephen of Blois comes next.  He requires nineteen two-inch
squares of YELLOW paper. (Fig. 8.)

That is a steer.  The sound suggests the beginning of
Stephen's name.  I choose it for that reason.  I can make a
better steer than that when I am not excited.  But this one will
do.  It is a good-enough steer for history.  The tail is
defective, but it only wants straightening out.

Next comes Henry II.  Give him thirty-five squares of RED paper.
These hens must face west, like the former ones. (Fig. 9.)

This hen differs from the other one.  He is on his way to
inquire what has been happening in Canterbury.

How we arrive at Richard I., called Richard of the Lion-
heart because he was a brave fighter and was never so contented
as when he was leading crusades in Palestine and neglecting his
affairs at home.  Give him ten squares of WHITE paper. (Fig. 10).

That is a lion.  His office is to remind you of the lion-
hearted Richard.  There is something the matter with his legs,
but I do not quite know what it is, they do not seem right.
I think the hind ones are the most unsatisfactory; the front
ones are well enough, though it would be better if they were
rights and lefts.

Next comes King John, and he was a poor circumstance.
He was called Lackland.  He gave his realm to the Pope.
Let him have seventeen squares of YELLOW paper. (Fig. 11.)

That creature is a jamboree.  It looks like a trademark, but
that is only an accident and not intentional.  It is prehistoric
and extinct.  It used to roam the earth in the Old Silurian
times, and lay eggs and catch fish and climb trees and live on
fossils; for it was of a mixed breed, which was the fashion then.
It was very fierce, and the Old Silurians were afraid of it, but
this is a tame one.  Physically it has no representative now, but
its mind has been transmitted.  First I drew it sitting down, but
have turned it the other way now because I think it looks more
attractive and spirited when one end of it is galloping.  I love
to think that in this attitude it gives us a pleasant idea of
John coming all in a happy excitement to see what the barons have
been arranging for him at Runnymede, while the other one gives us
an idea of him sitting down to wring his hands and grieve over it.

We now come to Henry III.; RED squares again, of course--
fifty-six of them.  We must make all the Henrys the same color;
it will make their long reigns show up handsomely on the wall.
Among all the eight Henrys there were but two short ones.  A
lucky name, as far as longevity goes.  The reigns of six of the
Henrys cover 227 years.  It might have been well to name all the
royal princes Henry, but this was overlooked until it was too late.
(Fig. 12.)

This is the best one yet.  He is on his way (1265) to have a
look at the first House of Commons in English history.  It was a
monumental event, the situation in the House, and was the second
great liberty landmark which the century had set up.  I have made
Henry looking glad, but this was not intentional.

Edward I. comes next; LIGHT-BROWN paper, thirty-five squares.
(Fig. 13.)

That is an editor.  He is trying to think of a word.  He
props his feet on a chair, which is the editor's way; then he can
think better.  I do not care much for this one; his ears are not
alike; still, editor suggests the sound of Edward, and he will
do.  I could make him better if I had a model, but I made this
one from memory.  But is no particular matter; they all look
alike, anyway.  They are conceited and troublesome, and don't pay
enough.  Edward was the first really English king that had yet
occupied the throne.  The editor in the picture probably looks
just as Edward looked when it was first borne in upon him that
this was so.  His whole attitude expressed gratification and
pride mixed with stupefaction and astonishment.

Edward II. now; twenty BLUE squares. (Fig. 14.)

Another editor. That thing behind his ear is his pencil.
Whenever he finds a bright thing in your manuscript he strikes it
out with that.  That does him good, and makes him smile and show
his teeth, the way he is doing in the picture.  This one has just
been striking out a smart thing, and now he is sitting there with
his thumbs in his vest-holes, gloating.  They are full of envy
and malice, editors are.  This picture will serve to remind you
that Edward II. was the first English king who was DEPOSED.  Upon
demand, he signed his deposition himself.  He had found kingship
a most aggravating and disagreeable occupation, and you can see
by the look of him that he is glad he resigned.  He has put his
blue pencil up for good now.  He had struck out many a good thing
with it in his time.

Edward III. next; fifty RED squares. (Fig. 15.)

This editor is a critic.  He has pulled out his carving-
knife and his tomahawk and is starting after a book which he is
going to have for breakfast.  This one's arms are put on wrong.
I did not notice it at first, but I see it now.  Somehow he has
got his right arm on his left shoulder, and his left arm on his
right shoulder, and this shows us the back of his hands in both
instances.  It makes him left-handed all around, which is a thing
which has never happened before, except perhaps in a museum.
That is the way with art, when it is not acquired but born to
you:  you start in to make some simple little thing, not
suspecting that your genius is beginning to work and swell and
strain in secret, and all of a sudden there is a convulsion and
you fetch out something astonishing.  This is called inspiration.
It is an accident; you never know when it is coming.  I might
have tried as much as a year to think of such a strange thing as
an all-around left-handed man and I could not have done it, for
the more you try to think of an unthinkable thing the more it
eludes you; but it can't elude inspiration; you have only to bait
with inspiration and you will get it every time.  Look at
Botticelli's "Spring."  Those snaky women were unthinkable, but
inspiration secured them for us, thanks to goodness.  It is too
late to reorganize this editor-critic now; we will leave him as
he is.  He will serve to remind us.

Richard II. next; twenty-two WHITE squares.  (Fig. 16.)

We use the lion again because this is another Richard.  Like
Edward II., he was DEPOSED.  He is taking a last sad look at his
crown before they take it away.  There was not room enough and I
have made it too small; but it never fitted him, anyway.

Now we turn the corner of the century with a new line of
monarchs--the Lancastrian kings.

Henry IV.; fourteen squares of YELLOW paper. (Fig. 17.)

This hen has laid the egg of a new dynasty and realizes the
magnitude of the event.  She is giving notice in the usual way.
You notice I am improving in the construction of hens.  At first
I made them too much like other animals, but this one is
orthodox.  I mention this to encourage you.  You will find that
the more you practice the more accurate you will become.  I could
always draw animals, but before I was educated I could not tell
what kind they were when I got them done, but now I can.  Keep up
your courage; it will be the same with you, although you may not
think it.  This Henry died the year after Joan of Arc was born.

Henry V.; nine BLUE squares. (Fig. 18)

There you see him lost in meditation over the monument which
records the amazing figures of the battle of Agincourt.  French
history says 20,000 Englishmen routed 80,000 Frenchmen there; and
English historians say that the French loss, in killed and
wounded, was 60,000.

Henry VI.; thirty-nine RED squares. (Fig. 19)

This is poor Henry VI., who reigned long and scored many
misfortunes and humiliations.  Also two great disasters:  he lost
France to Joan of Arc and he lost the throne and ended the
dynasty which Henry IV. had started in business with such good
prospects.  In the picture we see him sad and weary and downcast,
with the scepter falling from his nerveless grasp.  It is a
pathetic quenching of a sun which had risen in such splendor.

Edward IV.; twenty-two LIGHT-BROWN squares. (Fig. 20.)

That is a society editor, sitting there elegantly dressed,
with his legs crossed in that indolent way, observing the clothes
the ladies wear, so that he can describe them for his paper and
make them out finer than they are and get bribes for it and
become wealthy.  That flower which he is wearing in his
buttonhole is a rose--a white rose, a York rose--and will serve
to remind us of the War of the Roses, and that the white one was
the winning color when Edward got the throne and dispossessed the
Lancastrian dynasty.

Edward V.; one-third of a BLACK square. (Fig. 21.)

His uncle Richard had him murdered in the tower.  When you
get the reigns displayed upon the wall this one will be
conspicuous and easily remembered.  It is the shortest one in
English history except Lady Jane Grey's, which was only nine
days.  She is never officially recognized as a monarch of
England, but if you or I should ever occupy a throne we should
like to have proper notice taken of it; and it would be only fair
and right, too, particularly if we gained nothing by it and lost
our lives besides.

Richard III.; two WHITE squares. (Fig. 22.)

That is not a very good lion, but Richard was not a very
good king.  You would think that this lion has two heads, but
that is not so; one is only a shadow.  There would be shadows for
the rest of him, but there was not light enough to go round, it
being a dull day, with only fleeting sun-glimpses now and then.
Richard had a humped back and a hard heart, and fell at the
battle of Bosworth.  I do not know the name of that flower in the
pot, but we will use it as Richard's trade-mark, for it is said
that it grows in only one place in the world--Bosworth Field--and
tradition says it never grew there until Richard's royal blood
warmed its hidden seed to life and made it grow.

Henry VII.; twenty-four BLUE squares. (Fig. 23.)

Henry VII. had no liking for wars and turbulence; he
preferred peace and quiet and the general prosperity which such
conditions create.  He liked to sit on that kind of eggs on his
own private account as well as the nation's, and hatch them out
and count up their result.  When he died he left his heir
2,000,000 pounds, which was a most unusual fortune for a king to
possess in those days.  Columbus's great achievement gave him the
discovery-fever, and he sent Sebastian Cabot to the New World to
search out some foreign territory for England.  That is Cabot's
ship up there in the corner.  This was the first time that
England went far abroad to enlarge her estate--but not the last.

Henry VIII.; thirty-eight RED squares. (Fig. 24.)

That is Henry VIII. suppressing a monastery in his arrogant fashion.

Edward VI.; six squares of YELLOW paper. (Fig. 25.)

He is the last Edward to date.  It is indicated by that
thing over his head, which is a LAST--shoemaker's last.

Mary; five squares of BLACK paper. (Fig. 26.)

The picture represents a burning martyr.  He is in back of
the smoke.  The first three letters of Mary's name and the first
three of the word martyr are the same.  Martyrdom was going out
in her day and martyrs were becoming scarcer, but she made
several.  For this reason she is sometimes called Bloody Mary.

This brings us to the reign of Elizabeth, after passing
through a period of nearly five hundred years of England's
history--492 to be exact.  I think you may now be trusted to go
the rest of the way without further lessons in art or
inspirations in the matter of ideas.  You have the scheme now,
and something in the ruler's name or career will suggest the
pictorial symbol.  The effort of inventing such things will not
only help your memory, but will develop originality in art.  See
what it has done for me.  If you do not find the parlor wall big
enough for all of England's history, continue it into the dining-
room and into other rooms.  This will make the walls interesting
and instructive and really worth something instead of being just
flat things to hold the house together.

-----
1.  Summer of 1899.

-----------------------------------------------------------------


THE MEMORABLE ASSASSINATION

Note.--The assassination of the Empress of Austria at
Geneva, September 10, 1898, occurred during Mark Twain's Austrian
residence.  The news came to him at Kaltenleutgeben, a summer
resort a little way out of Vienna.  To his friend, the Rev. Jos.
H. Twichell, he wrote:

"That good and unoffending lady, the Empress, is killed by a
madman, and I am living in the midst of world-history again.  The
Queen's Jubilee last year, the invasion of the Reichsrath by the
police, and now this murder, which will still be talked of and
described and painted a thousand a thousand years from now.  To
have a personal friend of the wearer of two crowns burst in at
the gate in the deep dusk of the evening and say, in a voice
broken with tears, 'My God! the Empress is murdered,' and fly
toward her home before we can utter a question--why, it brings
the giant event home to you, makes you a part of it and
personally interested; it is as if your neighbor, Antony, should
come flying and say, 'Caesar is butchered--the head of the world
is fallen!'

"Of course there is no talk but of this.  The mourning is
universal and genuine, the consternation is stupefying.  The
Austrian Empire is being draped with black.  Vienna will be a
spectacle to see by next Saturday, when the funeral cort`ege
marches."

He was strongly moved by the tragedy, impelled to write
concerning it.  He prepared the article which follows, but did
not offer it for publication, perhaps feeling that his own close
association with the court circles at the moment prohibited this
personal utterance.  There appears no such reason for withholding
its publication now.

A. B. P.


The more one thinks of the assassination, the more imposing
and tremendous the event becomes.  The destruction of a city is a
large event, but it is one which repeats itself several times in
a thousand years; the destruction of a third part of a nation by
plague and famine is a large event, but it has happened several
times in history; the murder of a king is a large event, but it
has been frequent.

The murder of an empress is the largest of all events.  One
must go back about two thousand years to find an instance to put
with this one.  The oldest family of unchallenged descent in
Christendom lives in Rome and traces its line back seventeen
hundred years, but no member of it has been present in the earth
when an empress was murdered, until now.  Many a time during
these seventeen centuries members of that family have been
startled with the news of extraordinary events--the destruction
of cities, the fall of thrones, the murder of kings, the wreck of
dynasties, the extinction of religions, the birth of new systems
of government; and their descendants have been by to hear of it
and talk about it when all these things were repeated once,
twice, or a dozen times--but to even that family has come news at
last which is not staled by use, has no duplicates in the long
reach of its memory.

It is an event which confers a curious distinction upon
every individual now living in the world:  he has stood alive and
breathing in the presence of an event such as has not fallen
within the experience of any traceable or untraceable ancestor of
his for twenty centuries, and it is not likely to fall within the
experience of any descendant of his for twenty more.

Time has made some great changes since the Roman days.  The
murder of an empress then--even the assassination of Caesar
himself--could not electrify the world as this murder has
electrified it.  For one reason, there was then not much of a
world to electrify; it was a small world, as to known bulk, and
it had rather a thin population, besides; and for another reason,
the news traveled so slowly that its tremendous initial thrill
wasted away, week by week and month by month, on the journey, and
by the time it reached the remoter regions there was but little
of it left.  It was no longer a fresh event, it was a thing of
the far past; it was not properly news, it was history.  But the
world is enormous now, and prodigiously populated--that is one
change; and another is the lightning swiftness of the flight of
tidings, good and bad.  "The Empress is murdered!"  When those
amazing words struck upon my ear in this Austrian village last
Saturday, three hours after the disaster, I knew that it was
already old news in London, Paris, Berlin, New York, San
Francisco, Japan, China, Melbourne, Cape Town, Bombay, Madras,
Calcutta, and that the entire globe with a single voice, was
cursing the perpetrator of it.  Since the telegraph first began
to stretch itself wider and wider about the earth, larger and
increasingly larger areas of the world have, as time went on,
received simultaneously the shock of a great calamity; but this
is the first time in history that the entire surface of the globe
has been swept in a single instant with the thrill of so gigantic
an event.

And who is the miracle-worker who has furnished to the world
this spectacle?  All the ironies are compacted in the answer.  He
is at the bottom of the human ladder, as the accepted estimates
of degree and value go:  a soiled and patched young loafer,
without gifts, without talents, without education, without
morals, without character, without any born charm or any acquired
one that wins or beguiles or attracts; without a single grace of
mind or heart or hand that any tramp or prostitute could envy
him; an unfaithful private in the ranks, an incompetent stone-
cutter, an inefficient lackey; in a word, a mangy, offensive,
empty, unwashed, vulgar, gross, mephitic, timid, sneaking, human
polecat.  And it was within the privileges and powers of this
sarcasm upon the human race to reach up--up--up--and strike from
its far summit in the social skies the world's accepted ideal of
Glory and Might and Splendor and Sacredness!  It realizes to us
what sorry shows and shadows we are.  Without our clothes and our
pedestals we are poor things and much of a size; our dignities
are not real, our pomps are shams.  At our best and stateliest we
are not suns, as we pretended, and teach, and believe, but only
candles; and any bummer can blow us out.

And now we get realized to us once more another thing which
we often forget--or try to:  that no man has a wholly undiseased
mind; that in one way or another all men are mad.  Many are mad
for money.  When this madness is in a mild form it is harmless
and the man passes for sane; but when it develops powerfully and
takes possession of the man, it can make him cheat, rob, and
kill; and when he has got his fortune and lost it again it can
land him in the asylum or the suicide's coffin.  Love is a
madness; if thwarted it develops fast; it can grow to a frenzy of
despair and make an otherwise sane and highly gifted prince, like
Rudolph, throw away the crown of an empire and snuff out his own
life.  All the whole list of desires, predilections, aversions,
ambitions, passions, cares, griefs, regrets, remorses, are
incipient madness, and ready to grow, spread, and consume, when
the occasion comes.  There are no healthy minds, and nothing
saves any man but accident--the accident of not having his malady
put to the supreme test.

One of the commonest forms of madness is the desire to be
noticed, the pleasure derived from being noticed.  Perhaps it is
not merely common, but universal.  In its mildest form it
doubtless is universal.  Every child is pleased at being noticed;
many intolerable children put in their whole time in distressing
and idiotic effort to attract the attention of visitors; boys are
always "showing off"; apparently all men and women are glad and
grateful when they find that they have done a thing which has
lifted them for a moment out of obscurity and caused wondering
talk.  This common madness can develop, by nurture, into a hunger
for notoriety in one, for fame in another.  It is this madness
for being noticed and talked about which has invented kingship
and the thousand other dignities, and tricked them out with
pretty and showy fineries; it has made kings pick one another's
pockets, scramble for one another's crowns and estates, slaughter
one another's subjects; it has raised up prize-fighters, and
poets, and villages mayors, and little and big politicians, and
big and little charity-founders, and bicycle champions, and
banditti chiefs, and frontier desperadoes, and Napoleons.
Anything to get notoriety; anything to set the village, or the
township, or the city, or the State, or the nation, or the planet
shouting, "Look--there he goes--that is the man!"  And in five
minutes' time, at no cost of brain, or labor, or genius this
mangy Italian tramp has beaten them all, transcended them all,
outstripped them all, for in time their names will perish; but by
the friendly help of the insane newspapers and courts and kings
and historians, his is safe and live and thunder in the world all
down the ages as long as human speech shall endure!  Oh, if it
were not so tragic how ludicrous it would be!

She was so blameless, the Empress; and so beautiful, in mind
and heart, in person and spirit; and whether with a crown upon
her head or without it and nameless, a grace to the human race,
and almost a justification of its creation; WOULD be, indeed, but
that the animal that struck her down re-establishes the doubt.

In her character was every quality that in woman invites and
engages respect, esteem, affection, and homage.  Her tastes, her
instincts, and her aspirations were all high and fine and all her
life her heart and brain were busy with activities of a noble
sort.  She had had bitter griefs, but they did not sour her
spirit, and she had had the highest honors in the world's gift,
but she went her simple way unspoiled.  She knew all ranks, and
won them all, and made them her friends.  An English fisherman's
wife said, "When a body was in trouble she didn't send her help,
she brought it herself."  Crowns have adorned others, but she
adorned her crowns.

It was a swift celebrity the assassin achieved.  And it is
marked by some curious contrasts.  At noon last, Saturday there
was no one in the world who would have considered
acquaintanceship with him a thing worth claiming or mentioning;
no one would have been vain of such an acquaintanceship; the
humblest honest boot-black would not have valued the fact that he
had met him or seen him at some time or other; he was sunk in
abysmal obscurity, he was away beneath the notice of the bottom
grades of officialdom.  Three hours later he was the one subject
of conversation in the world, the gilded generals and admirals
and governors were discussing him, all the kings and queens and
emperors had put aside their other interests to talk about him.
And wherever there was a man, at the summit of the world or the
bottom of it, who by chance had at some time or other come across
that creature, he remembered it with a secret satisfaction, and
MENTIONED it--for it was a distinction, now!  It brings human
dignity pretty low, and for a moment the thing is not quite
realizable--but it is perfectly true.  If there is a king who can
remember, now, that he once saw that creature in a time past, he
has let that fact out, in a more or less studiedly casual and
indifferent way, some dozens of times during the past week.  For
a king is merely human; the inside of him is exactly like the
inside of any other person; and it is human to find satisfaction
in being in a kind of personal way connected with amazing events.
We are all privately vain of such a thing; we are all alike; a
king is a king by accident; the reason the rest of us are not
kings is merely due to another accident; we are all made out of
the same clay, and it is a sufficient poor quality.

Below the kings, these remarks are in the air these days; I
know it well as if I were hearing them:

THE COMMANDER:  "He was in my army."

THE GENERAL:  "He was in my corps."

THE COLONEL:  "He was in my regiment.  A brute.  I remember
him well."

THE CAPTAIN:  "He was in my company.  A troublesome
scoundrel.  I remember him well."

THE SERGEANT:  "Did I know him?  As well as I know you.
Why, every morning I used to--" etc., etc.; a glad, long story,
told to devouring ears.

THE LANDLADY:  "Many's the time he boarded with me.  I can
show you his very room, and the very bed he slept in.  And the
charcoal mark there on the wall--he made that.  My little Johnny
saw him do it with his own eyes.  Didn't you, Johnny?"

It is easy to see, by the papers, that the magistrate and
the constables and the jailer treasure up the assassin's daily
remarks and doings as precious things, and as wallowing this week
in seas of blissful distinction.  The interviewer, too; he tried
to let on that he is not vain of his privilege of contact with
this man whom few others are allowed to gaze upon, but he is
human, like the rest, and can no more keep his vanity corked in
than could you or I.

Some think that this murder is a frenzied revolt against the
criminal militarism which is impoverishing Europe and driving the
starving poor mad.  That has many crimes to answer for, but not
this one, I think.  One may not attribute to this man a generous
indignation against the wrongs done the poor; one may not dignify
him with a generous impulse of any kind.  When he saw his
photograph and said, "I shall be celebrated," he laid bare the
impulse that prompted him.  It was a mere hunger for notoriety.
There is another confessed case of the kind which is as old as
history--the burning of the temple of Ephesus.

Among the inadequate attempts to account for the
assassination we must concede high rank to the many which have
described it as a "peculiarly brutal crime" and then added that
it was "ordained from above."  I think this verdict will not be
popular "above."  If the deed was ordained from above, there is
no rational way of making this prisoner even partially
responsible for it, and the Genevan court cannot condemn him
without manifestly committing a crime.  Logic is logic, and by
disregarding its laws even the most pious and showy theologian
may be beguiled into preferring charges which should not be
ventured upon except in the shelter of plenty of lightning-rods.

I witnessed the funeral procession, in company with friends,
from the windows of the Krantz, Vienna's sumptuous new hotel.  We
came into town in the middle of the forenoon, and I went on foot
from the station.  Black flags hung down from all the houses; the
aspects were Sunday-like; the crowds on the sidewalks were quiet
and moved slowly; very few people were smoking; many ladies wore
deep mourning, gentlemen were in black as a rule; carriages were
speeding in all directions, with footmen and coachmen in black
clothes and wearing black cocked hats; the shops were closed; in
many windows were pictures of the Empress:  as a beautiful young
bride of seventeen; as a serene and majestic lady with added
years; and finally in deep black and without ornaments--the
costume she always wore after the tragic death of her son nine
years ago, for her heart broke then, and life lost almost all its
value for her.  The people stood grouped before these pictures,
and now and then one saw women and girls turn away wiping the
tears from their eyes.

In front of the Krantz is an open square; over the way was
the church where the funeral services would be held.  It is small
and old and severely plain, plastered outside and whitewashed or
painted, and with no ornament but a statue of a monk in a niche
over the door, and above that a small black flag.  But in its
crypt lie several of the great dead of the House of Habsburg,
among them Maria Theresa and Napoleon's son, the Duke of Reichstadt.
Hereabouts was a Roman camp, once, and in it the Emperor Marcus
Aurelius died a thousand years before the first Habsburg ruled
in Vienna, which was six hundred years ago and more.

The little church is packed in among great modern stores and
houses, and the windows of them were full of people.  Behind the
vast plate-glass windows of the upper floors of the house on the
corner one glimpsed terraced masses of fine-clothed men and
women, dim and shimmery, like people under water.  Under us the
square was noiseless, but it was full of citizens; officials in
fine uniforms were flitting about on errands, and in a doorstep
sat a figure in the uttermost raggedness of poverty, the feet
bare, the head bent humbly down; a youth of eighteen or twenty,
he was, and through the field-glass one could see that he was
tearing apart and munching riffraff that he had gathered
somewhere.  Blazing uniforms flashed by him, making a sparkling
contrast with his drooping ruin of moldy rags, but he took not
notice; he was not there to grieve for a nation's disaster; he
had his own cares, and deeper.  From two directions two long
files of infantry came plowing through the pack and press in
silence; there was a low, crisp order and the crowd vanished, the
square save the sidewalks was empty, the private mourner was
gone.  Another order, the soldiers fell apart and enclosed the
square in a double-ranked human fence.  It was all so swift,
noiseless, exact--like a beautifully ordered machine.

It was noon, now.  Two hours of stillness and waiting
followed.  Then carriages began to flow past and deliver the two
and three hundred court personages and high nobilities privileged
to enter the church.  Then the square filled up; not with
civilians, but with army and navy officers in showy and beautiful
uniforms.  They filled it compactly, leaving only a narrow
carriage path in front of the church, but there was no civilian
among them.  And it was better so; dull clothes would have marred
the radiant spectacle.  In the jam in front of the church, on its
steps, and on the sidewalk was a bunch of uniforms which made a
blazing splotch of color--intense red, gold, and white--which
dimmed the brilliancies around them; and opposite them on the
other side of the path was a bunch of cascaded bright-green
plumes above pale-blue shoulders which made another splotch of
splendor emphatic and conspicuous in its glowing surroundings.
It was a sea of flashing color all about, but these two groups
were the high notes.  The green plumes were worn by forty or
fifty Austrian generals, the group opposite them were chiefly
Knights of Malta and knights of a German order.  The mass of
heads in the square were covered by gilt helmets and by military
caps roofed with a mirror-like gaze, and the movements of the
wearers caused these things to catch the sun-rays, and the effect
was fine to see--the square was like a garden of richly colored
flowers with a multitude of blinding and flashing little suns
distributed over it.

Think of it--it was by command of that Italian loafer yonder
on his imperial throne in the Geneva prison that this splendid
multitude was assembled there; and the kings and emperors that
were entering the church from a side street were there by his will.
It is so strange, so unrealizable.

At three o'clock the carriages were still streaming by in
single file.  At three-five a cardinal arrives with his
attendants; later some bishops; then a number of archdeacons--all
in striking colors that add to the show.  At three-ten a
procession of priests passed along, with crucifix.  Another one,
presently; after an interval, two more; at three-fifty another
one--very long, with many crosses, gold-embroidered robes, and
much white lace; also great pictured banners, at intervals,
receding into the distance.

A hum of tolling bells makes itself heard, but not sharply.
At three-fifty-eight a waiting interval.  Presently a long
procession of gentlemen in evening dress comes in sight and
approaches until it is near to the square, then falls back
against the wall of soldiers at the sidewalk, and the white
shirt-fronts show like snowflakes and are very conspicuous where
so much warm color is all about.

A waiting pause.  At four-twelve the head of the funeral
procession comes into view at last.  First, a body of cavalry,
four abreast, to widen the path.  Next, a great body of lancers,
in blue, with gilt helmets.  Next, three six-horse mourning-
coaches; outriders and coachmen in black, with cocked hats and
white wigs.  Next, troops in splendid uniforms, red, gold, and
white, exceedingly showy.

Now the multitude uncover.  The soldiers present arms; there
is a low rumble of drums; the sumptuous great hearse approaches,
drawn at a walk by eight black horses plumed with black bunches
of nodding ostrich feathers; the coffin is borne into the church,
the doors are closed.

The multitude cover their heads, and the rest of the
procession moves by; first the Hungarian Guard in their
indescribably brilliant and picturesque and beautiful uniform,
inherited from the ages of barbaric splendor, and after them
other mounted forces, a long and showy array.

Then the shining crown in the square crumbled apart, a
wrecked rainbow, and melted away in radiant streams, and in the
turn of a wrist the three dirtiest and raggedest and cheerfulest
little slum-girls in Austria were capering about in the spacious
vacancy.  It was a day of contrasts.

Twice the Empress entered Vienna in state.  The first time
was in 1854, when she was a bride of seventeen, and then she rode
in measureless pomp and with blare of music through a fluttering
world of gay flags and decorations, down streets walled on both
hands with a press of shouting and welcoming subjects; and the
second time was last Wednesday, when she entered the city in her
coffin and moved down the same streets in the dead of the night
under swaying black flags, between packed human walls again; but
everywhere was a deep stillness, now--a stillness emphasized,
rather than broken, by the muffled hoofbeats of the long
cavalcade over pavements cushioned with sand, and the low sobbing
of gray-headed women who had witnessed the first entry forty-four
years before, when she and they were young--and unaware!

A character in Baron von Berger's recent fairy drama
"Habsburg" tells about the first coming of the girlish Empress-
Queen, and in his history draws a fine picture:  I cannot make a
close translation of it, but will try to convey the spirit of the
verses:


I saw the stately pageant pass:
In her high place I saw the Empress-Queen:
I could not take my eyes away
From that fair vision, spirit-like and pure,
That rose serene, sublime, and figured to my sense
A noble Alp far lighted in the blue,
That in the flood of morning rends its veil of cloud
And stands a dream of glory to the gaze
Of them that in the Valley toil and plod.
------------------------------------------------------------------




A SCRAP OF CURIOUS HISTORY

Marion City, on the Mississippi River, in the State of
Missouri--a village; time, 1845.  La Bourboule-les-Bains, France
--a village; time, the end of June, 1894.  I was in the one
village in that early time; I am in the other now.  These times
and places are sufficiently wide apart, yet today I have the
strange sense of being thrust back into that Missourian village
and of reliving certain stirring days that I lived there so long
ago.

Last Saturday night the life of the President of the French
Republic was taken by an Italian assassin.  Last night a mob
surrounded our hotel, shouting, howling, singing the
"Marseillaise," and pelting our windows with sticks and stones;
for we have Italian waiters, and the mob demanded that they be
turned out of the house instantly--to be drubbed, and then driven
out of the village.  Everybody in the hotel remained up until far
into the night, and experienced the several kinds of terror which
one reads about in books which tell of nigh attacks by Italians
and by French mobs:  the growing roar of the oncoming crowd; the
arrival, with rain of stones and a crash of glass; the withdrawal
to rearrange plans--followed by a silence ominous, threatening,
and harder to bear than even the active siege and the noise.  The
landlord and the two village policemen stood their ground, and at
last the mob was persuaded to go away and leave our Italians in
peace.  Today four of the ringleaders have been sentenced to
heavy punishment of a public sort--and are become local heroes,
by consequence.

That is the very mistake which was at first made in the
Missourian village half a century ago.  The mistake was repeated
and repeated--just as France is doing in these later months.

In our village we had our Ravochals, our Henrys, our
Vaillants; and in a humble way our Cesario--I hope I have spelled
this name wrong.  Fifty years ago we passed through, in all
essentials, what France has been passing through during the past
two or three years, in the matter of periodical frights, horrors,
and shudderings.

In several details the parallels are quaintly exact.  In
that day, for a man to speak out openly and proclaim himself an
enemy of negro slavery was simply to proclaim himself a madman.
For he was blaspheming against the holiest thing known to a
Missourian, and could NOT be in his right mind.  For a man to
proclaim himself an anarchist in France, three years ago, was to
proclaim himself a madman--he could not be in his right mind.

Now the original first blasphemer against any institution
profoundly venerated by a community is quite sure to be in
earnest; his followers and imitators may be humbugs and self-
seekers, but he himself is sincere--his heart is in his protest.

Robert Hardy was our first ABOLITIONIST--awful name!  He was
a journeyman cooper, and worked in the big cooper-shop belonging
to the great pork-packing establishment which was Marion City's
chief pride and sole source of prosperity.  He was a New-
Englander, a stranger.  And, being a stranger, he was of course
regarded as an inferior person--for that has been human nature
from Adam down--and of course, also, he was made to feel
unwelcome, for this is the ancient law with man and the other
animals.  Hardy was thirty years old, and a bachelor; pale, given
to reverie and reading.  He was reserved, and seemed to prefer
the isolation which had fallen to his lot.  He was treated to
many side remarks by his fellows, but as he did not resent them
it was decided that he was a coward.

All of a sudden he proclaimed himself an abolitionist--
straight out and publicly!  He said that negro slavery was a
crime, an infamy.  For a moment the town was paralyzed with
astonishment; then it broke into a fury of rage and swarmed
toward the cooper-shop to lynch Hardy.  But the Methodist
minister made a powerful speech to them and stayed their hands.
He proved to them that Hardy was insane and not responsible for
his words; that no man COULD be sane and utter such words.

So Hardy was saved.  Being insane, he was allowed to go on
talking.  He was found to be good entertainment.  Several nights
running he made abolition speeches in the open air, and all the
town flocked to hear and laugh.  He implored them to believe him
sane and sincere, and have pity on the poor slaves, and take
measurements for the restoration of their stolen rights, or in no
long time blood would flow--blood, blood, rivers of blood!

It was great fun.  But all of a sudden the aspect of things
changed.  A slave came flying from Palmyra, the county-seat, a
few miles back, and was about to escape in a canoe to Illinois
and freedom in the dull twilight of the approaching dawn, when
the town constable seized him.  Hardy happened along and tried to
rescue the negro; there was a struggle, and the constable did not
come out of it alive.  Hardly crossed the river with the negro,
and then came back to give himself up.  All this took time, for
the Mississippi is not a French brook, like the Seine, the Loire,
and those other rivulets, but is a real river nearly a mile wide.
The town was on hand in force by now, but the Methodist preacher
and the sheriff had already made arrangements in the interest of
order; so Hardy was surrounded by a strong guard and safely
conveyed to the village calaboose in spite of all the effort of
the mob to get hold of him.  The reader will have begun to
perceive that this Methodist minister was a prompt man; a prompt
man, with active hands and a good headpiece.  Williams was his
name--Damon Williams; Damon Williams in public, Damnation Williams
in private, because he was so powerful on that theme and so frequent.

The excitement was prodigious.  The constable was the first
man who had ever been killed in the town.  The event was by long
odds the most imposing in the town's history.  It lifted the
humble village into sudden importance; its name was in
everybody's mouth for twenty miles around.  And so was the name
of Robert Hardy--Robert Hardy, the stranger, the despised.  In a
day he was become the person of most consequence in the region,
the only person talked about.  As to those other coopers, they
found their position curiously changed--they were important
people, or unimportant, now, in proportion as to how large or how
small had been their intercourse with the new celebrity.  The two
or three who had really been on a sort of familiar footing with
him found themselves objects of admiring interest with the public
and of envy with their shopmates.

The village weekly journal had lately gone into new hands.
The new man was an enterprising fellow, and he made the most of
the tragedy.  He issued an extra.  Then he put up posters
promising to devote his whole paper to matters connected with the
great event--there would be a full and intensely interesting
biography of the murderer, and even a portrait of him.  He was as
good as his word.  He carved the portrait himself, on the back of
a wooden type--and a terror it was to look at.  It made a great
commotion, for this was the first time the village paper had ever
contained a picture.  The village was very proud.  The output of
the paper was ten times as great as it had ever been before, yet
every copy was sold.

When the trial came on, people came from all the farms
around, and from Hannibal, and Quincy, and even from Keokuk; and
the court-house could hold only a fraction of the crowd that
applied for admission.  The trial was published in the village
paper, with fresh and still more trying pictures of the accused.

Hardy was convicted, and hanged--a mistake.  People came
from miles around to see the hanging; they brought cakes and
cider, also the women and children, and made a picnic of the
matter.  It was the largest crowd the village had ever seen.  The
rope that hanged Hardy was eagerly bought up, in inch samples,
for everybody wanted a memento of the memorable event.


Martyrdom gilded with notoriety has its fascinations.
Within one week afterward four young lightweights in the village
proclaimed themselves abolitionists!  In life Hardy had not been
able to make a convert; everybody laughed at him; but nobody
could laugh at his legacy.  The four swaggered around with their
slouch-hats pulled down over their faces, and hinted darkly at
awful possibilities.  The people were troubled and afraid, and
showed it.  And they were stunned, too; they could not understand
it.  "Abolitionist" had always been a term of shame and horror;
yet here were four young men who were not only not ashamed to
bear that name, but were grimly proud of it.  Respectable young
men they were, too--of good families, and brought up in the
church.  Ed Smith, the printer's apprentice, nineteen, had been
the head Sunday-school boy, and had once recited three thousand
Bible verses without making a break.  Dick Savage, twenty, the
baker's apprentice; Will Joyce, twenty-two, journeyman
blacksmith; and Henry Taylor, twenty-four, tobacco-stemmer--were
the other three.  They were all of a sentimental cast; they were
all romance-readers; they all wrote poetry, such as it was; they
were all vain and foolish; but they had never before been
suspected of having anything bad in them.

They withdrew from society, and grew more and more
mysterious and dreadful.  They presently achieved the distinction
of being denounced by names from the pulpit--which made an
immense stir!  This was grandeur, this was fame.  They were
envied by all the other young fellows now.  This was natural.
Their company grew--grew alarmingly.  They took a name.  It was a
secret name, and was divulged to no outsider; publicly they were
simply the abolitionists.  They had pass-words, grips, and signs;
they had secret meetings; their initiations were conducted with
gloomy pomps and ceremonies, at midnight.

They always spoke of Hardy as "the Martyr," and every little
while they moved through the principal street in procession--at
midnight, black-robed, masked, to the measured tap of the solemn
drum--on pilgrimage to the Martyr's grave, where they went
through with some majestic fooleries and swore vengeance upon his
murderers.  They gave previous notice of the pilgrimage by small
posters, and warned everybody to keep indoors and darken all
houses along the route, and leave the road empty.  These warnings
were obeyed, for there was a skull and crossbones at the top of
the poster.

When this kind of thing had been going on about eight weeks,
a quite natural thing happened.  A few men of character and grit
woke up out of the nightmare of fear which had been stupefying
their faculties, and began to discharge scorn and scoffings at
themselves and the community for enduring this child's-play; and
at the same time they proposed to end it straightway.  Everybody
felt an uplift; life was breathed into their dead spirits; their
courage rose and they began to feel like men again.  This was on
a Saturday.  All day the new feeling grew and strengthened; it
grew with a rush; it brought inspiration and cheer with it.
Midnight saw a united community, full of zeal and pluck, and with
a clearly defined and welcome piece of work in front of it.  The
best organizer and strongest and bitterest talker on that great
Saturday was the Presbyterian clergyman who had denounced the
original four from his pulpit--Rev. Hiram Fletcher--and he
promised to use his pulpit in the public interest again now.  On
the morrow he had revelations to make, he said--secrets of the
dreadful society.

But the revelations were never made.  At half past two in
the morning the dead silence of the village was broken by a
crashing explosion, and the town patrol saw the preacher's house
spring in a wreck of whirling fragments into the sky.  The
preacher was killed, together with a negro woman, his only slave
and servant.

The town was paralyzed again, and with reason.  To struggle
against a visible enemy is a thing worth while, and there is a
plenty of men who stand always ready to undertake it; but to
struggle against an invisible one--an invisible one who sneaks in
and does his awful work in the dark and leaves no trace--that is
another matter.  That is a thing to make the bravest tremble and
hold back.

The cowed populace were afraid to go to the funeral.  The
man who was to have had a packed church to hear him expose and
denounce the common enemy had but a handful to see him buried.
The coroner's jury had brought in a verdict of "death by the
visitation of God," for no witness came forward; if any existed
they prudently kept out of the way.  Nobody seemed sorry.  Nobody
wanted to see the terrible secret society provoked into the
commission of further outrages.  Everybody wanted the tragedy
hushed up, ignored, forgotten, if possible.

And so there was a bitter surprise and an unwelcome one when
Will Joyce, the blacksmith's journeyman, came out and proclaimed
himself the assassin!  Plainly he was not minded to be robbed of
his glory.  He made his proclamation, and stuck to it.  Stuck to
it, and insisted upon a trial.  Here was an ominous thing; here
was a new and peculiarly formidable terror, for a motive was
revealed here which society could not hope to deal with
successfully--VANITY, thirst for notoriety.  If men were going to
kill for notoriety's sake, and to win the glory of newspaper
renown, a big trial, and a showy execution, what possible
invention of man could discourage or deter them?  The town was in
a sort of panic; it did not know what to do.

However, the grand jury had to take hold of the matter--it
had no choice.  It brought in a true bill, and presently the case
went to the county court.  The trial was a fine sensation.  The
prisoner was the principal witness for the prosecution.  He gave
a full account of the assassination; he furnished even the
minutest particulars:  how he deposited his keg of powder and
laid his train--from the house to such-and-such a spot; how
George Ronalds and Henry Hart came along just then, smoking, and
he borrowed Hart's cigar and fired the train with it, shouting,
"Down with all slave-tyrants!" and how Hart and Ronalds made no
effort to capture him, but ran away, and had never come forward
to testify yet.

But they had to testify now, and they did--and pitiful it
was to see how reluctant they were, and how scared.  The crowded
house listened to Joyce's fearful tale with a profound and
breathless interest, and in a deep hush which was not broken till
he broke it himself, in concluding, with a roaring repetition of his
"Death to all slave-tyrants!"--which came so unexpectedly and so
startlingly that it made everyone present catch his breath and gasp.

The trial was put in the paper, with biography and large portrait,
with other slanderous and insane pictures, and the edition sold
beyond imagination.

The execution of Joyce was a fine and picturesque thing.  It
drew a vast crowd.  Good places in trees and seats on rail fences
sold for half a dollar apiece; lemonade and gingerbread-stands
had great prosperity.  Joyce recited a furious and fantastic and
denunciatory speech on the scaffold which had imposing passages
of school-boy eloquence in it, and gave him a reputation on the
spot as an orator, and his name, later, in the society's records,
of the "Martyr Orator."  He went to his death breathing slaughter and
charging his society to "avenge his murder."  If he knew anything of
human nature he knew that to plenty of young fellows present in that
great crowd he was a grand hero--and enviably situated.

He was hanged.  It was a mistake.  Within a month from his
death the society which he had honored had twenty new members,
some of them earnest, determined men.  They did not court
distinction in the same way, but they celebrated his martyrdom.
The crime which had been obscure and despised had become lofty
and glorified.

Such things were happening all over the country.  Wild-
brained martyrdom was succeeded by uprising and organization.
Then, in natural order, followed riot, insurrection, and the
wrack and restitutions of war.  It was bound to come, and it
would naturally come in that way.  It has been the manner of
reform since the beginning of the world.

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