WHAT IS MAN? (Mark Twain)



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.