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diff --git a/old/52660-0.txt b/old/52660-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c796fc0..0000000 --- a/old/52660-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9574 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Seekers, by Jessie E. Sampter - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Seekers - -Author: Jessie E. Sampter - -Release Date: July 27, 2016 [EBook #52660] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEEKERS *** - - - - -Produced by David T. Jones, Mardi Desjardins & the online -Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at -http://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made -available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries -(https://archive.org) - - - - - - THE SEEKERS - - - by JESSIE E. SAMPTER - - - _With an introduction by_ - PROFESSOR JOSIAH ROYCE - - MITCHELL KENNERLEY - NEW YORK MCMX - - - - - _Copyright 1910 by_ - _Mitchell Kennerley_ - - - - - _A successful experiment in non-sectarian religion, in moral and - æsthetic enquiry, with young people in new ways, in search of - the Meaning of Things._ - - - - - THE SEEKERS Errata - -_Page 37, Line 2._ _“and he saw” should read “and we saw.”_ - -_ " 91, Last line._ _“I answered” should read “she answered.”_ - -_ " 93, Line 22._ _“but a word itself” should read “work itself.”_ - -_ " 104, Line 15._ _“a sense of duty” should read “a sense of unity.”_ - -_ " 236, Line 13._ _“different from each one” should read “different - for.”_ - -_ " 266, Line 3._ _“operator” should read “spectator.”_ - -Errata have also been incorporated into the Transcriber's Notes. - - - - - Table of Contents - - An Introductory Word - The Beginning - The Members - First Meeting - Second Meeting - Third Meeting - Fourth Meeting - Fifth Meeting - Sixth Meeting - Seventh Meeting - Eighth Meeting - Ninth Meeting - Tenth Meeting - Eleventh Meeting - Twelfth Meeting - Thirteenth Meeting - Fourteenth Meeting - Fifteenth Meeting - Sixteenth Meeting - Seventeenth Meeting - Appendix - -Table of Contents not in the original book and is added for reader - convenience. -Transcriber's Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - - - - THE SEEKERS - - - - - AN INTRODUCTORY WORD - - - BY - - PROFESSOR JOSIAH ROYCE, PH.D., LL.D. - -I have been asked by the author to say a word by way of introduction to -this very interesting record of conversations and inquiries. On the -whole, I feel my word to be superfluous; for the book speaks for itself, -and every reader will form his own opinion. But since the author has -asked for my co-operation, I gladly offer what little I can. - -I am a teacher of philosophy at a university. For the most part my own -courses are technical in character. Some of my work is with graduate -students. I am accustomed to discuss controverted opinions with people -who regard philosophy from a skeptical and more or less controversial, -and almost always highly critical, point of view. Hence, my own first -impression of the work of the “Seekers” and of the leader of their -always pleasing inquiries, was mingled with a certain wonder as to the -possibility of their accomplishing together, as well as they have done, -what they undertook. This wonder has changed, as I have become better -acquainted with them, into a delight that the tact, the caution, the -tolerance and the earnestness of the leader, and the skill and docility -of the pupils, could result in setting before us so fine a model of -teaching and of learning as here appears. The book is one to encourage -every lover of good things, and everyone who wants to see how the minds -of young people in this country, and living under good conditions, can -be turned toward great questions in such a way as to encourage -sincerity, thoughtfulness and the beginnings of true wisdom. - -In what little I have to say of this book I ought of course to abstract -altogether from such agreement as I indeed feel with the form of -Idealism which Miss Sampter represents. The question put to me is the -question whether the method of procedure here adopted is one that -promises to be genuinely useful as an initiation of young people into -the study of deeper questions. I answer that the author seems to have -made out her case, and to have proved her faith in her method by her -work. The age and the previous training of the “Seekers”—as they are -sketched in the author’s preliminary statement—once presupposed, this -mode of procedure could only prove a help to them. The methods used are -an important beginning. If any of the “Seekers” go on to a more advanced -study of philosophy, in college or elsewhere, they ought to prove apt -learners. If they simply turn to life as their further teacher, they -should be ready to profit by some of its deepest lessons better than -they could otherwise have done. If, upon further inquiry, they incline -to other opinions about the world and about life than the ones they have -emphasized, they will still always remain more tolerant of the varieties -of opinion, and more hopeful of the right and the power of the human -mind to grapple with grave issues, than they would otherwise have been. -These hours of “seeking” will have opened their eyes to values which are -indeed permanent, whatever will be the true solution of the problems of -philosophy; and the memory of these hours will prove henceforth a -safeguard against cynicism when they doubt, and against intolerance and -inhumanity when they believe. And, whatever the truth may be, about God, -or about the world, or about life, cynicism in doubt, and intolerance -and inhumanity in belief, are great evils, against which the young -people of our time need to be guarded quite as much as men needed to be -guarded against such evils in the days either of the Sophists or of the -Inquisitors. For, in one guise or another, speaking the language of old -or of new faith or unfaith, Sophists and Inquisitors we have always with -us, either corrupting or oppressing the youth. The methods of our -author, as set forth in this book, make for liberty together with -seriousness, for self-expression together with reverence, for -thoughtfulness together with a sense of deeper values. And in so far the -book is a success as a model of the way in which our new problems must -be met when we have to deal with the young. - -If one undertakes to consider such topics with a class as youthful and -at the same time as enlightened as the “Seekers,” the dilemma is -obvious. One must indeed be more or less dogmatic in tone about at least -some central interest; one must make use of the persuasive power of a -teacher’s personal influence; or else one will lead to no definite -results. On the other hand, if one propounds one’s dogmas merely as the -traditional teacher of religion has always done by saying: “This is our -faith. This is what you should believe,”—one is then in no case -teaching philosophy, and one is hardly helping the young people to -“seek.” Moreover, such mere dogmas, addressed to young people in whom -the period of “enlightenment” has already begun, will tend to awaken in -their minds new doubts and objections, rather than to convey to them the -positive truth, even if one’s own dogmas happen to be true. Hence arises -a problem of instruction which cannot be solved in the case of these -“Seekers” as we teachers of philosophy often try nowadays to solve our -analogous problems in dealing with older pupils in college. Some of us -meet our own problems with the older students by directly disclaiming -all authority to control their convictions, by asking them to become as -self-critical and independent as they can, and by stating our own -opinions with the intent _not_ to make disciples, but to enable our -students to form their own personal judgments through the very sympathy -with our efforts to be reflective, self-critical and constructive. Thus -we do not try to convey a faith so much as to help our students to their -own spiritual independence. - -In strong opposition to our mode of procedure, many popular teachers of -this or that form of “New Thought” have been trying of late to annul -modern doubts, and to lead men to a higher spiritual insight by means of -certain “intuitions,” for the sake of which skeptical inquiry, stern -criticism, elaborate reflection must be laid aside; so that the kindly -disposed learner, even if he indeed is not to be a believer in certain -old-fashioned creeds, still looks to his teacher for a means of quieting -his doubts, and so that what is supposed to be “philosophy” becomes a -sort of “anæsthetic revelation,” with the teacher as the assistant who -administers the anæsthetic whereby the pupil is prepared for the surgery -of life. - -Now, whatever may be the use of such “New Thought” for invalid wrecks, -or even for more or less world-weary lovers of the good, whom sad -experience has turned away from their earlier religious creeds, and who -need to be restored to their courage in facing reality;—still, these -anæsthetic methods of the lovers of the “silence” and of the vague -light, are _not_ suited to the best needs of the enlightened young -people, such as these “Seekers” who are about to begin life, who know -their little fragments of science, of socialism, and of modern problems, -and who want unity with clearness. Nor are such young people at just -this age yet ready for our more technical academic procedure. Shall they -be left then unguided, until their interest in unifying life has been -lost in the confusion and variety of their increasing knowledge, until -their youthful idealism has been saddened and perhaps soiled by the -world, and until their criticism of life has become at once tragic and -cynical? - -Miss Sampter has undertaken to answer these questions by dealing with -the need of just such people. She does so with a genuine clearness of -vision, with a careful touch that helps and with a spirit which prepares -them to meet their problems, and not to lose unity by reason of the -complexities of their situation. She dogmatizes a little, to be sure; -and in fact she repeats some of her dogmas not infrequently, without -giving any elaborate reasons for these dogmas. They are the dogmas of a -metaphysical idealism which I myself in the main accept, but which no -direct intuition can very adequately justify, while their technical -justification could not possibly be discussed at length in the meetings -of the “Seekers.” On the other hand, our author is no mere partisan of -intuition. Her dogmas are stated in forms that not only win her “plastic -youth” to agreement, but challenge them to a reflection which ere long, -in some of them, will lead to new interpretations, to doubts, and so, in -time, to a higher insight than they at first gain. She sets her pupils -to thinking as well as to receiving; they become inquirers rather than -passive recipients of an intuition. They are thus prepared for a variety -of future religious and philosophical experiences, and yet they are kept -in touch with that love and hope of unity which alone can justify the -existence of our very doubts, of our philosophical disputes, and of our -modern complications of life. - -As a means of avoiding both of the opposing extremes sketched in the -foregoing account of the ways of teaching philosophical opinions, as a -_via media_ in the work of beginning the philosophical instruction of -young people, as a preparation for more critical study, as a -conservation of some of the best in the spirit of faith without an undue -appeal to mere intuition, and as a model of what can be done to awaken a -very notable type of young inquirers such as our modern training tends -to produce in the homes of very many of us—this book is, in my opinion, -to be very heartily commended. - -The educational problem with which it deals concerns meanwhile a very -deep and intensely practical interest of our American civilization. We -cannot retain the unity of our national consciousness unless we can -keep, even in the midst of all the complications and doubts of the -modern world, our sense of the great common values of the spiritual -world. Without philosophy, our nation can therefore never come to its -own. Philosophy does not mean the acceptance of any mere authority. And -it will not lead us to universal agreement about any one form of creed. -But it will teach us to unite freedom, tolerance, insight, and -spirituality. Without these, of what worth would be mere bulk and mere -wealth to our nation? I welcome this book then because our author has -contributed to one of the most important of the tasks of our time—the -task of helping our nation to regain the now much confused and -endangered consciousness of its own unity. - - JOSIAH ROYCE - - Harvard University, August 3, 1910. - - - - - THE SEEKERS - - - - - THE BEGINNING - - -This is a live book. It was lived first, and written only afterwards. So -it can lay no claim to the title of art, which is experience remoulded -in the cast of individual genius; for this was not at all moulded, save -as the written word reshapes the spoken. It is a philosophic adventure, -an experiment, written down by one, but lived by seven. - -Why did I write it down? may be asked. Every new book needs an excuse -for being. I wrote it down because it seemed an answer, perhaps a -partial, but still a living answer, to two questions that cry aloud. - -As I look about me, and observe the doings and thoughts of men and women -in this active time, I notice two problems, related one to the other, -and wanting but one solution. - -First of these is a lack of common purpose in the works of life. Many -religions are there, many creeds and anti-creeds, many purposes, from -petty, selfish gain to reforms in government and social service. -Scientist, politician, artist, philanthropist and minister go each -toward a partial goal, in opposition to one another, with no one -purpose, no end beyond all lesser ends, no larger patriotism. Morals are -either very stiff or very lax, without any conscious reason for either -their stiffness or their laxity. The only reason for moral conviction, -the only purpose that could unite all purposes, the only patriotism to -hold all men together and give the union needful for great and strong -achievement, is a common faith in the goal and meaning of life. - -The second problem is a more conscious one, the problem of moral and -religious education for our children. For ourselves—so think many among -us—we do not need a philosophy or religion; we are good enough without -having any reason for being good. But we think our children need some -instruction and guidance, something to satisfy the blessed cravings and -doubts that we have long since killed within ourselves. For barely one -among us fails to remember his fifteen-year-old questionings and -strivings, and his defeat, when at last he decided to think no more, -because his problem was insoluble. But even these who are so well -contented with their own hard-won torpor want something better for their -children. The question is asked again and again: “Shall we teach our -children what we do not believe? And can we teach them what we do -believe?” - -In this book I attempt to solve both problems at once, and through the -children to speak to their parents. For many who will not admit the -least interest in the vital questions that have created every religion -and philosophy throughout time, still are interested and will listen -when the problem touches their own children. And only through the -creative, open and daring mind of youth, not yet either stiffened or -broken, can the spirit of a larger and a richer faith give new -inspiration. - -I am convinced that to-day all thoughtful men believe the same, where -vital questions arise, and that each man sees a different angle of the -same truth, which grows and grows in our vision, with the growing -knowledge of man. All our ministers with their different churches, and -our congregations with their sectarian prejudices, have at heart a -common goal, a faith that needs only to be spoken to be believed. Let -their children draw them together. Find a common religion to be taught -in the school—where this necessity is the present problem of all -educators, and where so far ethical courses and emasculated Christianity -have given no solution—and from that larger patriotism of a common -faith in childhood will spring the faith bigger than ethics and -philanthropics, big enough to include all churches and systems in an -unseen brotherhood. - -Were I able to carry out this idea in a school, I would have classes or -clubs, such as the Seekers, for all girls and boys of about the third or -fourth high-school year. Then, for the younger children as well as for -the older ones, I would have songs and readings at the assembly, which -would suggest or picture forth the inmost spirit of our modern faith. -These songs and readings I would let the older pupils choose and discuss -in their clubs; and I would leave in their hands, as much as possible, -the social and spiritual regulation of the school life. Faith and action -go together. Each without the other is barren. - -My purpose in this book is then twofold: to record how such clubs and -classes work in practice, and thereby suggest a method from experience; -also to give, in such large and perhaps superficial aspect as the means -necessitate, the main outline of my thought. Not mine alone, but yours -and every man’s. I bring no news; but only an old, forgotten story, new -and strange to our widened knowledge. Accept its large intent, if you -reject its lesser achievement; admit that this is the only possible -truth in the light of our present knowledge. Though you believe more -than this, accept at least the Seekers’ path as pointing toward the -goal. To these children it gave a way and a light; it satisfied a need -and answered a question, and brought new weapons for the battle of -thought wherein most of us fail from weariness. For them it has already -succeeded, whatever its coming fate. - -Unless one sees a glimpse of truth at fifteen, enough to recognize it, -one is not likely to discern it later, through the mist of unformed -knowledge. And at fifteen one craves this something that can relate and -shape all thought. So it happened that I organized the club of Seekers, -composed of very different girls and boys, because of this one common -need. - -The conditions necessary for membership were few. The first condition, -the one in its nature inevitable, was that each member should be -interested and enthusiastic in our quest, a seeker from need and desire. -Only such would have stayed with us. And this, perhaps, was a selective -process of extreme rigor. Otherwise the conditions of membership were -not of the sort to put a premium on extraordinary ability. They were -that the members should be over fourteen, and under seventeen, and -should have finished their elementary school course. I also limited the -membership in number. Among my acquaintances were many more girls who -would have wished to join us, but no more than the two boys. I explain -this not by the fact that boys are less interested in these questions, -but that their interest develops later. If I had sought boys of eighteen -or nineteen, I could have found them easily. At the time, however, I did -not realize this fact. - -I think that the children were average of their kind. The kind, -nevertheless, may have carried with it some intellectual superiority or -precocity, such as the effects of environment and urban life. For these -things, through the chance of acquaintanceship, they had in common: they -were all bred in New York City, in educated families of the upper middle -class (though not all of well-to-do parents), and all but one, Ruth, who -is a Christian Scientist, of homes unusually liberal in their religious -thought. Therefore these children were free from those clogging -superstitions and false perspectives which result from early training in -any symbolic and fixed creed. Take these influences for what they were -worth. Beyond them the children had no special advantage or -disadvantage. - -I say all this as a defence against a possible criticism: namely, that -the children seem, by their comprehension and original ideas, to be far -above the average boys and girls of the same age. This I deny, and for -good reasons. Naturally I have meant this experiment of a class in -religious philosophy for adolescent boys and girls to be general in its -application. And I believe it to be so. Most grown people have forgotten -how they felt and thought at fifteen, and are apt to underrate the -mental processes of boys and girls. I myself at that age felt so keenly -the lack of sympathy in older people that I made a point of remembering -and writing down certain experiences. I questioned several friends, and -at last got admissions from them that they, too, had thought in the same -way at fifteen. But no doubt they still look upon themselves as unique -in this respect, for at fifteen we all think ourselves exceptions, and -no matter how commonplace we may be now we are apt vaguely to keep that -memory. - -Then, too, one must not forget the effect of conscious and unconscious -suggestion. I had my plans carefully made, and knew exactly in what -direction I meant to lead our ideas, but the children knew very little -of this foreplanning, and went of themselves where I wished them to go. -No doubt suggestion blazed trails for them through this wilderness, if -it did not make a path, and, as my record will prove, my questions often -stimulated them to answers that would not otherwise have been possible. -But often their answers were wholly unexpected and surprising. As our -name tells, we are seekers, and I have found, at the very least, as much -as they. Above all, my boundless faith in the young was justified. And -my critics must admit that they have not this faith themselves, and so -could never have put it to the test of experience, as I have done. - -The children’s papers show better than written words of mine exactly -what the meetings meant to them, and will prove also, I think, their -average ability. They are printed exactly as written, save for -corrections in spelling and punctuation, which were by no means perfect. - -The conversations were recorded as precisely as possible from memory and -from notes taken immediately after the meetings. As any one with -experience will know, it is impossible to record the broken fragments of -actual speech without sometimes combining mere phrases into complete -sentences. The written is never like the spoken thought. It appears like -it, which it would not do if it were a precise phonographic -transcription. - -I have made the children speak “in character,” using always their own -words and their own ideas, whatever those might be; even being careful -to record characteristic phrases and expressions. And that I had -succeeded was proved by the children themselves, when they heard the -manuscript read and recognized themselves and each other, to their great -amusement. Not until all the meetings were over had they any idea that I -was keeping this record. - -We seven, then, have made this book; and one other one, who, though -never present at the meetings, had his large share of influence in them. -This was my friend and Florence’s big brother Arthur—so often quoted by -her—and quoted by me without acknowledgment, especially in the meetings -on the æsthetic ideal, which would have been impossible without his -help. - -For all lovers of youth and individual thought, for all lovers of the -quest, we have made this book, as a personal recognition of the bond of -kinship that binds all free seekers, and as an answer to those vital -questions which all of us must ask together, and answer, at least in -sympathy. - - - - - THE MEMBERS - - -ALFRED, my cousin, not quite fifteen years old when the club was begun. -In his first high school year. In appearance, a young Arab chieftain, -dark, athletic and dignified. His character fulfils the promise: he is -taciturn, slow to act, independent, serious for his age, and with a -great thirst for knowledge. A lover of nature and the country; a hater -of all things petty or mean. He entered the club with a good knowledge -of evolution, and no religious training of any sort. - -VIRGINIA, my cousin, almost sixteen years old. She had one year of high -school, but as she would not study, and drew pictures instead, she was -sent to art school a year and a half ago, where she has been working -hard. She has read and re-read many good books. Although she is of a -blonde, Saxon type, yet her hair and eyes are very dark. Light-hearted -and yet earnest, self-satisfied, always sweet and lovable. Bright, -interested, original, humorous. She has had no definite religious -training, but much sound religious philosophy at home. - -FLORENCE, a young friend, fifteen years old, but much older in -appearance. In her third high school year. Large and dark, with gray -eyes. She is vacillating, and may turn out to be a fine, independent, -intelligent and forceful woman, or a materialistic, flippant society -lady. It depends on the influences brought to bear, and on her own will. -Somewhat spoiled. A good student, a good thinker, but not impelled to -think by any great desire. She loves dancing more than anything else in -the world. She comes from a home of mixed and uncertain piety. - -HENRY, Florence’s cousin, not quite sixteen years old, unknown to me -before we formed the club. In his second high school year. A young -student, dark, slim, shy, with much to say, but not yet able to say it -well. He is rather dogmatic, but open to influence, a born seeker. Often -appearing at first to be slow, or commonplace, he suddenly reveals -unexpected understanding and originality. He comes from a conventional -home. - -MARIAN, Florence’s friend, also unknown to me before the club. Fifteen -and a half years old. In her fourth—last—high school year, preparing -for college. A light brunette of a languid and yet intellectual type. -Very intuitive, of quick insight, sympathetic, a lover of human nature, -shy and quiet. A dreamer and a hero-worshiper. She expresses herself -well, but often in broken sentences and with hesitation. Her parents -belong to the Ethical Culture Society, and have given her no religious -education. - -RUTH, Marian’s chum, sixteen years old, is also in her last high school -year, preparing to study kindergarten. A slight, blonde girl, tall, and -with her character written in her face: self-possessed, poise, idealism. -Her voice, enunciation and language are those of one trained to speak -well. Her thought is unusually developed, but along rather narrow lines. -She loves children, and has chosen her work with an idealistic devotion. -Her mother is Christian, her father Jewish, and their religion is -Christian Science. She is a convinced Christian Scientist. - - - - - FIRST MEETING - - -When we were all gathered about the table at three o’clock, I opened the -discussion thus: - -“Do you remember that I told you we were going to speak to-day of the -fact that there is almost no religion at present, and the cause for -this? Now, are we all agreed that there is very little religion—true -religious belief—at present?” - -All agreed to this except Henry. He said that he thought people were as -religious as ever. - -“I think,” said Florence to Henry, “that you are confusing religion and -creed. People belong to churches and temples, and think they are -religious, but they don’t know what they believe.” - -I saw Henry was not convinced, so I said to him: “I think perhaps we do -not mean the same thing by religion, therefore we might as well go on, -and speak of it later, when we do understand. - -“Now, I believe there is a definite historic reason for our religious -lack, and I will tell it to you.” - -Then I reviewed briefly the history of ancient religions, Brahmanism, -the Egyptian creed, the Greek and the early Catholic religions, to show -that all these for various reasons—but chiefly because of the ignorance -of the populace—had been, as it were, double religions. There was an -initiated religion of the priests, who did indeed see truth, who were -monotheists of the universal vision, and were filled with the sense of -unity in all things. Besides this was the religion of myths, the popular -religion. The people took literally the poetical tales told by the -prophets; and these prophets, or priests, even went so far as to deceive -the people purposely, for what they considered the people’s good. - -“I don’t see how the priests could have known the truth,” Ruth said, “if -they meant to deceive the populace. Those who knew the truth would not -wish to deceive.” - -“You are right,” I answered; “they had not the whole truth, but in so -far as they saw, they saw truly.” - -Ruth seemed to doubt this historic account. I quietly proved to her and -the others that it was true. I read them a passage from Plato’s -“Republic,” in which he recommends telling the people a myth because -belief in it would put them in the proper frame of mind. - -I went on to explain how the democratic spirit began to destroy the -religion of the initiated. The aristocracy of religion was as much -resented as the aristocracy of government. - -The result was that every one believed the popular, mythical religion; -and that is what most of our churches have lived upon since then. All -the superstitions of creeds, the absurd stories that are believed -literally by some people even to-day, are the poetic symbols of prophets -and teachers, accepted as narratives of fact. - -Next came the scientific spirit, and said: “The world is more than six -thousand years old; it was not created in a week; the whale could not -have swallowed Jonah, and given him up again.” Now people cried out: -“Religion is not true. We will believe nothing but science.” - -When I spoke of the difference between mythical and true religion, I -found the children already understood this, that they realized Moses’ -true meaning when he spoke of the burning bush; that they knew Jesus, -when he spoke of himself as the son of God, meant to express the -divinity of man. I said the true religion spoke in poetry, and the -popular made its figures of speech into gods. - -“For instance,” I said, “from where comes the line, ‘The rosy fingers of -the dawn’?” - -“From Homer,” answered Marian, “from the Odyssey.” - -“Well,” I went on, “a person reading that might say, ‘Just think, the -dawn has fingers; then it must have a hand.’” - -“Then,” said Virginia, “he would add, ‘So the dawn is a woman.’” - -I said one might worship an image of a god, but if he kept his mind upon -the vast divine unity he would not be an idol worshiper. - -“But,” objected Henry, “if he did it long enough, he would become an -idol worshiper.” - -“He might,” I said, “but he need not.” - -Now we came to the question of science. What has religion to do with -science? - -Alfred said science led in the same direction, was looking for the same -thing. - -Henry said science was supposed to be in opposition to religion, because -it destroyed her creeds. - -That, I answered him, seemed to me a good thing. - -Virginia said she thought religion and science were almost the same. She -meant that her scientific knowledge of the universe led her to her -religious convictions. - -Florence said she thought science and religion were altogether separate, -had nothing to do with each other. - -Marian said she did not see how science could help us to religious -knowledge. But it turns out that she has read no science at all, save -what she was taught in school. - -Ruth said that science was the enemy of religion, that two things -seeking in a different way could not possibly both reach the truth; that -science might tell us of material facts, but could not possibly give us -the divine truth. - -I asked: “Are you sure material truth is not divine truth?” - -Then I said that I myself thought science was the servant of religion, -that it was valuable only in so far as it helped us to a knowledge of -life—divine and whole—(I said aside to Ruth) and that I did think it -helped us so. It gave us a sense of unity, of our relation with the -whole world, because we knew that the same law moved us and the stars. - -“Now,” I went on, “Marian mentioned the other day that she had heard -people say they were too educated to need religion. They meant they knew -too much science. Can science replace religion?” - -They all said no. - -They saw at once that behind every science was the mystery, the -unexplained, and that every scientist must begin with a philosophy. - -I said: “I have heard people say that science disproves immortality.” - -Virginia answered: “It does not disprove immortality. It proves, indeed, -that nothing ever is destroyed.” - -“Do you think,” I asked, “that there is such a thing as absolute -religious knowledge?” - -“Yes,” they said. - -“Do you think we can get it? That it is a certain knowledge?” - -They answered “Yes.” - -“But,” said Ruth, “you would want it proved.” - -I used the word “faith,” and the children rightly objected, because, -they said, faith could be used to express the most superstitious of -mythical beliefs. One must _know_. - -“I mean self-evident knowledge,” I said. “If to-day the priests and the -myths are dead, if we are to have a democratic religion, then each one -of us must be a prophet. We here to-day, we seven, shall find the -unanswerable truth. Shall we?” - -“Yes, I believe so.” - -“How do we know that such truth is to be reached? We do know certain -things in ourselves? We know the mystery is there? We know that which we -call God?” - -“Yes,” they said. - -“Is there any other reason for believing that the truth can be known?” - -Marian said: “In past times some men have known it, we feel certain.” - -“That is just what I meant, Marian. Such men, you mean, as Moses and -Jesus?” - -“Yes.” - -“And we here shall get it. We shall know. - -“I believe,” I said, “that when we have talked everything over we shall -know the truth, and it shall be the same for each.” - -“In fundamentals, perhaps,” said Ruth, “but not in all things.” - -No religion could be the true religion, we said, if it fostered -antagonism or bitterness toward those of another persuasion. - -“One would wish to teach them,” said Marian. - -“Well, then, what is the truth? We spoke of the nature of ‘God.’ What is -God, the something we all know and cannot speak?” - -Henry said: “I could tell better what I mean by God by saying what is -not God.” We tried to make him explain. - -“Nothing is not God,” said Virginia, “everything is God, good and bad, -too; and the bad only seems bad to us, but really leads to good.” - -“Everything is not God,” said Ruth, “for God is perfect, and we are -imperfect, and are striving for his perfection. Imperfection and all bad -things are not of God.” - -“What are they, then?” I asked. “Surely you do not believe in two gods, -like the Zoroastrians, in a good and a bad? But the wisest of them saw -that the two were one.” - -Ruth answered: “I have it at home in a book, how evil came into God’s -world, although we are of him and he is perfect. I will bring it next -time. I don’t remember it.” - -“Yes, do bring it. But I believe that as long as we are not perfect, God -is not perfect.” - -“That seems,” answered Ruth, “as if we were God.” - -“So we are a part of God, who is the whole. Anything else is -unthinkable. And unless we are perfect, how can He be perfect?” - -The children corrected me, for I had used the wrong word. - -“God must be perfect,” they said, “if we long for that perfection.” - -Virginia said: “If the world is ever to be perfect, then it is perfect -now. Whatever shall be is here now, is here forever.” - -“You are right,” I answered, “I should not have used that word.” - -Henry said: “The apple-tree might be perfect, but the apples might still -be unripe.” - -“Yes,” I went on, “but the apple-tree would not be perfect unless the -apples ripened.” - -“The world is like a rose-bud,” said Alfred. “It is perfect as a bud, -and yet it must open and evolve in its perfection.” - -“Yes,” I said, “or like a sleeper who awakens. - -“Now, then,” I asked, “you do all believe in progress; that the world -changes and that it changes in a certain direction?” - -“I don’t know,” said Virginia. “I believe that the world, that God, must -always be the same, even though it change.” - -“That is true, and it is a strange paradoxical truth, which I hope to -make you understand later on, that all things change and progress, yet -are ever the same, even as the rose-bud that unfolds.” - -We had tacitly admitted that God and the aim of life stood for love and -unity. Once when Henry spoke of the “fear” of God, the others corrected -him. - -“Now,” I said, “if there is progress, what is it?” - -Ruth answered: “There is progress of individuals, not of the world. -Certain men saw the truth as clearly in old times as they could now.” - -“I do not believe so,” I answered her. “I think the whole must evolve -and bud forth, and that it does. Now you all admit that Moses was a -prophet who saw the truth?” - -They said “Yes.” - -“But he felt enmities. Jesus was a greater prophet than Moses. In what -was he greater?” - -“In his realization not only of the unity of God, but of the unity and -divinity and love of man.” - -“If Moses were here to-day,” I asked, “in what might he be greater than -he was in his own time?” - -Florence said: “He would have all the advantages of culture since then.” - -“That would not make him greater.” - -Marian answered: “You mean the democracy of to-day, the realization of -the brotherhood of all men.” - -“Yes,” I said, “that is just what I mean. When I look at history, I can -see no progress but this. Automobiles, electricity, scientific -knowledge, these are not progress except as they lead to that other -progress. We do understand our fellowmen better than we ever did. We -can—some of us—call every savage our brother. That is the clear -progress throughout history.” - -The children were impressed by this fact. - -“Then you mean,” said Ruth, “that universal love is the object of life?” - -“Yes,” I said, “but I am afraid to use the word ‘love,’ for it might -mean blind love, and I mean understanding love.” - -“Of course,” said the children. - -“You mean love of mankind?” asked Marian. - -“Yes,” I said, “but individual love, too; and perhaps more than both of -these.” - -“I still believe,” said Ruth, “that progress is only for the individual, -and that it doesn’t matter whether we progress here or hereafter. -Personal love is selfish. We want divine love.” - -I answered her: “I will not speak now of hereafter. But here and now, -to-day, do we not want at once the thing that we want?” - -“Yes,” they said. - -“Then, now and here we mean to go forward, as far as we can, and now and -here we will love men with our might, because that is the human way and -the human progress.” - -“It does seem to me, from books,” said Virginia, “that people are less -mean, selfish and jealous than they were a hundred years ago.” - -Marian smiled over to her. “You have been reading Thackeray,” she said. - -“But,” said Virginia, “all people are not progressing together, for -though we should find the truth now, many others will not find it for a -long time. The world is like a bunch of roses, in which some are -full-blown, and others are small buds.” - -“Yes,” I answered her; “and for the whole to evolve, each bud must be -unfolded in beauty.” - -Now we said many things beside these, but these were the chief trend and -conclusions of our thought. I also told them how every moment was a -promise and a fulfillment, a state of the endless whole. - -Next Sunday each is to tell me what he or she does mean by the word -“God.” - -The children were enthusiastic, uplifted, whole-hearted in their -interest. - -Virginia and Alfred, who stayed some time after the others, had a long -discussion on good and bad, in which I refused to join. - -Virginia said she thought all bad things had good results, and could be -used for good. - -Alfred answered he was not sure of that, but he believed bad to be a -necessary part of good. He said: “If I never felt ill, I could not know -I felt well.” - -Virginia said: “Reason made evil, for when creatures became reasonable -they knew that the things they had done before were wrong.” - - - - - SECOND MEETING - - -I spoke of the name of our club, the Seekers. I said that I thought it -expressed exactly what we meant to do. - -Ruth answered that to her it seemed the only possible, natural name. - -Then I read aloud Virginia’s account of the last meeting: - -“A great many people think themselves too educated to believe in any of -the established religions, and then don’t take the trouble to find out -what they really think and what their true religion is. People have a -wrong idea of the meaning of the word ‘religious.’ Consequently, as they -don’t know what it means, they cannot _be_ it. Many people who go to -church or temple every Sabbath, and sleep, or take note of the different -costumes of the congregation during the sermon, consider themselves -religious. - -“We decided that we all believed in the unity of God. The truth has -always been apparent to some, such as Moses and Jesus, and some of the -Oriental priests. The two former tried to give the true idea to the -people, but failed, as they were too poetical, and the people believed -too literally. The latter tried to keep the people in ignorance, as it -gave them power, and they therefore told the people what they themselves -knew to be untruths. - -“We differed somewhat in our idea of God. Some thought he was all good -and had no evil. I think he is all good, but I also think that all evil -is his, but that every evil has a good motive and a good end. - -“No idea, no matter how surprising and new it may seem, is new. It has -always been, although it has never been thought. The world is like a -great bunch of rosebuds, each perfect as a bud, but not developed. Every -beautiful idea, when it is thought, is a petal unfolding and revealing -_more_ perfect petals beneath. Thus one fine idea brings forth another. - -“I think a great many people do not know what they think. If you ask a -person belonging to one of the established religions what they believe, -I think their answer would be vague. Formerly, these religions were very -useful, as they made people love good. Now they prevent people from -thinking, and make them dependent. They depend on others to make their -beliefs and thoughts, when their brains should be, and probably are, -fertile enough to think for themselves.” - -I said that was just what I wanted, and I hoped to have one such paper -each week. - -I said I believed that after we had spoken of God, and decided what we -meant, and all agreed, we would not often use the word God, because it -was so nearly unspeakable, so vast and holy, that we would take it as a -natural background to our thought. - -“You know,” I said, “how in the old Jewish temples the name of God was -mentioned only once a year.” - -“And then only by the priest,” Henry added. - -“But if we want to talk of God we shall have to use his name,” said -Ruth. The others seemed to agree with her. - -“The personal significance always clings to the name of God,” Marian -said; “but what other word can one use?” - -“Perhaps it would be better,” suggested Henry, “to use some such other -word as All-powerful One.” - -Virginia said that to her the word God had no personal significance. - -Ruth thought we might use the impersonal word “Good.” I answered her -that every attribute, even good, was limiting, and God was limitless. - -I saw that they did not in the least understand what I meant, that they -could not until we went further. So I said: - -“I think that after we know what we mean by the word God, you will -understand why we shall not want, and not need, to use it.” - -Then I asked them what they meant by God. - -Virginia said: “God is the whole, good and bad, only what seems bad is -really good. Or God is, rather, every feeling, every emotion.” - -Henry said God was everything good, but that everything _was_ good, and -bad only seemed bad to us. - -Alfred said: “I don’t think bad is good, but I think that God must be -everything, anyway.” - -Marian tried to say that God is the vast unknown—something, which we -know because we feel it. - -Florence said: “I spoke to brother Arthur about it, and I now think that -God is sympathy; that is, sympathy and understanding of our fellow-men; -and as we reach that, we get to God.” - -The others were surprised and startled by this explanation. I said I -knew what Florence meant, but that she had not been able to express it -clearly. - -Then Ruth said that she agreed with Henry. She called God spirit. - -“Yes,” I answered, “if we take spirit to mean everything. For we know -nothing except through our senses, our consciousness, our understanding; -so that all we know is knowledge of spirit.” - -They all agreed to that. - -“Now,” I said, “I believe God to be in each of us, to be the self within -us, and within all others, and within the universe; to be the knowledge, -the light and the understanding. I can explain to you what I mean by -reading a passage from the Indian Vedas, which seems to me so true, and -so exactly what I want to say, that I could not explain it so well -myself.” Then I read the following: - -“In the beginning was Self alone. Atman is the Self in all our -selves—the Divine Self concealed by his own qualities. This Self they -sometimes call the Undeveloped. . . . The generation of Brahma was -before all ages, unfolding himself evermore in a beautiful glory; -everything which is highest and everything which is deepest belongs to -him. Being and not being are unveiled through Brahma. . . . How can any -one teach concerning Brahma? He is neither the known nor the unknown. -That which cannot be expressed by words, but through which all -expression comes, this I know to be Brahma. That which cannot be thought -by the mind, but by which all thinking comes, this I know is Brahma. -That which cannot be seen by the eye, but by which the eye sees, is -Brahma.” - -They liked this so well, and said it expressed their feelings so truly, -that I offered to copy it for each one of them. Marian said she did not -understand what was meant by “concealed by his own qualities.” - -I answered: “We know God only because of the universe which we see and -feel.” - -“Yes,” she said. - -“But just that the universe,” I went on, “conceals God, is a mystery as -well as a revelation.” - -“I don’t quite understand,” said Marian. - -“It is like a great light,” I said, “which is so bright that it dazzles -you, and you cannot look at it.” - -“Like the sun,” said Virginia. - -“I think I see what you mean,” Marian answered. - -I continued: “Moses spoke of God in that same way, as the vast Self: -‘And God said unto Moses, I Am That I Am; and he said, Thus shalt thou -say unto the children of Israel, I Am hath sent me unto you.’ - -“And so,” I went on, “myself and yourself, the self of every man and the -self of the universe, that is God.” - -With delightful frankness they said that they liked it better as it was -put in “that thing on Brahma.” - -“So do I,” I answered. “We know only self. Is it not so?” - -“I don’t like the word ‘self,’” said Ruth; “it is too limited. I think -only of my little self.” - -Marian agreed. Virginia said that to her it seemed the true word, that -she felt the whole as a vast self. “But isn’t it more?” she asked. “God -is feeling. When I ride in an open trolley, and the wind blows in my -face, and the trees blow, and the clouds move in the sky, then the -feeling that it gives me I call God.” - -“Isn’t it self, within yourself?” I asked. - -“Yes, it is,” she answered. - -“Now,” I said, “we are little, incomplete, limited creatures, but we -need the whole universe to be complete. The whole universe is the rest -of self, the rest of myself. That is what I mean by God, and in that -sense I am a part of God.” - -All the children agreed at once, as if this were the thing they had -wanted to hear said. This first definite statement that I made seemed to -us all unanswerably true. - -Immediately they went on to speak of good and bad; but I stopped them, -thus: - -“There is one other thing I would like to make clear first, a historic -question, but one that leads to the question of good and bad. What did -the most illumined and inspired polytheists mean by their many gods?” - -Marian answered: “They meant many aspects of the one God.” - -“Just so, Marian. But now do you know the inner meaning of Trinity?” - -None of them knew, and all seemed particularly interested and anxious to -understand. “I never understood,” said Marian, “what was meant by the -Holy Ghost.” - -I said to them: “I will tell you what it has always meant to me, and to -some others beside me, and you can see whether it seems true to you. To -me the three are as parts of one. They are the contrast, such as man and -God, good and bad, even night and day, and the understanding, the unity -that makes these two one.” - -This needed much explanation. It was all summed up thus: The three in -one—the triangle with three sides, which is still one—are: Myself, the -other self, which I love and need for my completion, and the love and -understanding which pass between us and make us one. Virginia said that -she never thought of herself and the other self, that to her they were -one. The idea was very new to them all, and did not at once convince -them. - -“Now,” I said, “we see, however, that opposites are really one; and so I -believe that good and bad are parts of the same thing. I believe that -everything called bad is the price of going forward, of progress, that -bad things are made by good things. Suppose that the world were in utter -darkness, that no light were anywhere, then there would be no darkness, -either. But the first flame of light would create the darkness.” - -As I developed this idea, the children said very little, only asking me -questions, until I had finished. This is how I explained it: We all -believe—we seven here—that the good is understanding, love, the -complete Divine Self, and everything which leads thereto is good. Then -everything bad is that which does not lead thereto; or, rather, that is -called bad which has not gone so far as the rest. So that the bad is not -an actual state—in this I agree with Ruth—but is a condition of good. -All pains are growing pains. Things are bad only because we already have -something better. The other day I heard Virginia saying that when reason -came into the world, creatures first knew the bad; because they saw that -the life they had lived was a bad life. So, you see, everything bad is -something which we feel to be behind us, not equal to our best -knowledge. Pain and badness are the price of progress, and we would -rather go forward and suffer than stand still and be comfortable. We -long to go forward to the good, to the vast self of complete -understanding. “A criminal,” I said, “may be a man who would have been -good if he had lived in savage times among savages, but at present he is -bad because we are ahead of him.” - -“Then a bad man,” said Henry, “is one who is behind his times, or else -ahead of them.” - -“Oh, no,” they protested, “not ahead of them!” - -“No,” I answered, “but the man ahead of his time, who is better than his -time, may appear to be a criminal. You must see that the man who -believes in the eternal good, who knows that he is going toward unity -and complete love, is in a sense above the human law, and must discover -his own laws. He may be a criminal in the eyes of others.” - -“Give us an example,” they said. - -“Jesus is one example. He was crucified as a criminal.” - -“Because,” said Henry, “he broke the Roman law. He refused to worship -their images, and he called himself King of the Jews.” - -“And they did not know,” I answered, “in what sense he called himself -King, so they had to crucify him as a traitor. Can’t you think of some -other example? Of course, there were all the heretics of old times.” - -Alfred and Henry said that Roosevelt was in a sense an example, because -he had been much blamed for exposing the truth and hurting business; but -that the hurt was an essential part of progress and good. - -Ruth said: “Surely it is better to expose the truth and suffer for it, -than to go on in falsehood.” - -I gave as another example the Russians, with whom, a short time ago, it -was a crime to educate the peasants; and I told how brave men and women -had been sent to Siberia for breaking the law in this respect. - -“But,” I said, “this is a dangerous subject, and truly, we ought not to -have mentioned it until we could probe it to the bottom. For surely in a -democratic state one of the essential inner laws is that we shall obey -the law which our fellows have made.” - -“If a law seems wrong to a man,” said Henry, “he can try to change it, -but meantime he must obey it. For instance, a man might believe in free -trade, but still he would have no right to smuggle in goods.” - -“One ought to obey school-laws, I suppose,” said Marian. - -“Surely,” I answered, “for the school is an institution you enter from -choice, and if you don’t like the laws you can protest by leaving. But -if there were a law unjust to your fellows, you would disobey it. Still, -even then, the best way to protest would be by a strike of the -students.” - -They had a long discussion on the great crime of whispering in school, -in which I scarcely joined, as I refuse to be a petty preacher to them. -But I tried to explain to them why it was so hard for them to obey these -little laws. - -“It is,” I said, “because you did not help to make the laws yourselves, -that you are tempted to break them out of mere mischief. Still, you -would not lie about it, but rather do it openly, because you feel that -truth between individuals is an inner law, the first step toward -understanding. You know I believe that, even unconsciously, we have all -always striven for this unity, this completeness that now we are going -to strive for with open eyes.” - -“And all bad leads in the same direction, and comes to good,” said -Virginia. - -“Now I want you to understand that clearly,” I said. “All bad things are -bad only because they do not reach up to our idea of the best. But that -bad things are turned to good, or used for good is because we use them -so; because the desire and the striving for good is so strong within us, -that we use them to fulfil that desire. It is not a necessity. It is a -matter of choice. If we wish, we can use everything for good. And we -often do so, even unconsciously. Everything strives toward that good, -which is life itself.” - -“Then you believe,” said Marian, “that even every criminal has some good -in him?” - -“Yes, surely,” I answered, “else he would not be here, alive, at all. -Every living being is good; and if he is not so far as we at present, he -may go farther than we some day. Surely, we will take him onward with -us, else we cannot be complete. You must see that any one who believes -the great good to be understanding love and unity, cannot be made whole -till every one is made whole with him. He needs all the world.” - -“Every one must feel that,” said Marian. - -“The other day, Marian,” I went on, “you said: ‘If we can never reach -the goal, what is the good of anything?’ Now, I, for one, believe in -infinite good; I believe that no matter how far we go, we shall long to -go farther, so that what now would seem unimaginably good to us might -one day seem bad. Can you imagine stagnant perfection?” - -“I think,” said Marian, “that a perfectly good world would be terribly -monotonous.” - -“That is what I think, too,” I answered. “What we love is the going -forward, the achieving, the striving.” - -Henry said: “It is like travelling toward the horizon, and we think that -is the end. But when we reach it, we see another horizon.” - -Ruth asked: “How can we strive for anything, if we don’t expect to reach -it? Is not God what we long to reach? Is not God the ideal?” - -“Is not God, the real, here, now?” I answered her. “I cannot understand -Infinity or Eternity, so I say Infinity is here and Eternity is now, -because I am always here and now. So I cannot understand infinite good -and unity, but I know that here and now I must strive for it, and that -the constant striving, and getting more and ever more, is my greatest -joy. Now, Ruth, do you admit that we cannot go forward alone, that all -must go together to be complete?” - -“Yes.” - -“Then the whole is one, and every man and creature is a part of me.” - -“If every one believed that,” said Marian, “how different, how much -better the world would be! People could not criticize each other.” - -“_I_ think it would,” I said, “and I am glad you think so, too; for if -every one believed that, no one could condemn another, any more than you -could condemn your own sore finger. You might say: ‘My finger is sore,’ -but you wouldn’t say: ‘My finger is very wicked, and I hate it.’” - -“I believe that,” said Marian. “I am convinced mentally, but I don’t -feel it. I don’t think that I could live it yet.” - -Virginia asked whether she might say for us “Abou ben Adhem,” which -expressed our idea of man and God. And she said it for us. We were all -silent for a few moments. Then I said: “And the love of even more than -man, of all creatures, of all the world.” - -Marian admitted that she did not love animals. Ruth said she did. Marian -seems distressed by the fact that she cannot be perfect at once. That is -what she means when she says she is mentally convinced, but doesn’t feel -it yet. Alfred feels the same lack. These ambitious children! - -“Now,” I said, “I want you to feel certain and convinced of each thing -as we go on. We all agree at present, don’t we?” - -“Yes,” they answered. - -“I feel as if something must be wrong, because we all agree,” I went on, -“and yet I know you are independent thinkers. Are you sure that all bad -is a condition of good, even all physical bad, such things as accidents -and loss? For instance, railroads are of value—why?” - -None knew the true reason but Ruth. She said they brought nations -together. - -“And the accidents on railroads,” I said, “are the price of that -progress, a price we have to pay for perfecting that system. It would be -better to avoid all accidents—as I hope we shall do one day—but, -meanwhile, we would rather take the risk than not have railroads. No one -can be convinced, however, that all bad is a condition of good, until -tried.” - -“I have been tried,” answered Virginia. - -They all thought themselves convinced, except Alfred. He said: “It might -be true nine times, but the tenth time it might not be true.” - -“Then,” said Henry, “you would believe it were true the tenth time, even -though you didn’t understand how.” - -“No,” I answered; “he would test it the tenth time. We will _know_ each -thing.” - -Now we re-examined our conviction on all these questions, and went over -each point again. We probed the possibilities of atheism, and saw that -no one who faced things could be an atheist, that atheism was the result -of laziness, fear or vanity. Either a man feared to face the truth, or -could not bear to admit how little he knew. And we saw that an atheist -might be a very good man, only he would build his morality on a -philosophy he did not understand or examine. We might be good without -any religious convictions, but this conviction, this belief, would give -us a reason for goodness, and make us strong in the face of uncertainty, -temptation and trial. Henry said things were worth while only when they -were hard to do. - -“There,” said I, “you have a proof of our instinctive feeling that pain -is a necessary part of progress.” - -Virginia said she wanted to believe what would make her happy; that she -would choose the optimistic faith. I answered her I wanted to believe -the truth, happy or unhappy, but I had come to the conclusion at last -that the truth was very good. I told them how at their age I had been in -great doubt, how I had thought the truth might be very bad. - -“Pain is real,” I said, “but we will not fear to face that, or anything -bitter, when we know it to be a condition of going onward.” - -Virginia said I was shaping her thought for her. I reminded her how she -used to be my “little disciple.” All the others, and especially Marian, -said that this meeting was far more satisfying than the last; that we -had reached something definite. Marian said: “I seem to see already what -we will have to say on every subject, but we shall have no end of things -to speak of.” - - - - - THIRD MEETING - - -Florence and Henry were delayed and did not arrive until after four. But -before that we had already gathered about the table, and found it hard -to restrain ourselves from beginning the discussion. I said to the -children that I thought we would not speak of immortality to-day, as -there was too much that came before. I asked them whether they were -anxious to get to it. They were very anxious. Florence said: “It is such -an important subject.” Ruth said: “I believe we will all agree on -immortality.” I answered her that just there I thought we might disagree -most. Marian said she had definite ideas on the subject. I can see that -Henry has indefinite and theological ideas. - -I then read aloud the little paper Marian had written on our talk of the -previous week: - -“On Sunday, October 18th, our club, the Seekers, held its second -meeting. We first discussed our ideas of God. We reached the conclusion -that God is our divine self, that through God we can perceive, but we -cannot perceive God. This seems to me a very beautiful idea. I think our -discussion on this subject was particularly nice, because we did not try -to limit God by any attributes, for he is infinite. We also discussed -progress. I understood it much better this week than last. The aim of -progress is to reach a clear understanding of our fellow-beings; we hope -that, sometime, there will be sympathy and understanding among all men, -for we each have a divine self, which will not reach perfection until it -is in perfect accord with all the other people’s. We discussed good and -evil, and decided that evil is that which we outgrow, and which might -once have seemed good, but which now seems bad because we have found -something better. Good is the progress that we are making toward our -goal of common understanding. Unhappiness and accidents, etc., are -incidental to progress, and will occur less and less frequently. I -enjoyed this meeting of the club very much.” - -We now reviewed all the conclusions we had reached. Then I was glad to -have them speak once more of good and bad, and ask many questions. Ruth -said she was not sure of being convinced. She said: “I talked it over -with mother. It seems to me I sometimes put my thought into your words, -and imagine you have said what I mean, when perhaps you haven’t. Please -repeat that again, about good and bad.” Ruth is always afraid she may be -weakening in her own ideas, and tries not to be convinced. I strove to -impress upon her that my idea might include hers. - -I said: “You see now that the thought I want to give you is an -unanswerable religion, which is not new, but larger than all the old -beliefs.” - -Marian asked: “Large enough to include them all?” - -“Yes, just that. Did you ever think of the old word, holiness, -h-o-l-i-n-e-s-s? I know another word that to us would mean holiness, a -different holiness.” - -“You mean w-h-o-l-e?” said Marian. - -“Yes, to be whole and complete.” - -Now as we spoke again of good and bad, we came upon the interesting -question of disease. - -“How can that be explained as a part of progress?” asked Marian. - -Virginia, with her usual misconception on this subject, said that -disease helped us forward because through it scientists came to know and -understand many things about life. Henry, still more off the track, said -that disease led to a knowledge of medicine. - -“Henry’s idea,” I answered, “we cannot consider, because, of course, the -only virtue of medical skill is that it cures disease, and if there were -not disease we would not need medical progress. But Virginia’s idea is -true in a certain sense. It is quite true that disease impelled people -to use the microscope, to discover themselves physically, to learn of -the infinitude of minute creatures in the universe; and so it led to a -larger knowledge of life, because the infinitely little makes our world -just as vast as the infinitely big. But this only shows that we made -progress out of disease, as we make progress out of all things, because -the will of life, the will to go forward, is within us. It does not show -how disease itself can be the result or price of progress. That is a -difficult question, but I seem to see it clearly, and I will try to -explain it to you. None of you, except perhaps Virginia and Alfred, have -a clear idea of evolution, and I would like to spend one meeting in -explaining it, because it is so essential. Don’t you think so?” - -“Yes,” they said. - -“But I can’t go into this question of disease without explaining -something of evolution to you now. I will try to make it clear: Each -individual is different. As animals progressed and went forward, those -parts which were newest were also more unstable, because they were ready -to change more. These parts were most apt to become diseased, or, -rather, weakened, because progress might be in any direction, and had to -feel its way.” It was difficult for me to explain this to the children, -who were so utterly unprepared, and I said much more. Even so, I don’t -think Marian and Ruth understood it thoroughly, and I shall have to -repeat it when we speak of evolution. I said I did not believe the germs -of disease ever entered any part unless that part were weakened or -imperfect. I said: “Take as an example the human brain. Suppose that two -children were born with brains slightly different from others. One might -turn out to be a genius, and the other to be eccentric and even insane, -because progress feels its way in all directions. So disease, coming to -the new unstable parts, would be the necessary cost of progress.” - -Virginia said: “Young and new things are always most delicate. I had a -palm with many leaves, and one was new. Now, the palm was left for a day -against the window pane, and the young leaf died from the pressure of -the glass, which did not at all hurt the old leaves.” This poetical and -delightful little figure of speech made me wonder whether Virginia -understood just what I meant. - -We went over the question of good and bad, to Ruth’s satisfaction. And -then I asked Henry, whose understanding of it I doubted, to tell me in -what three ways the bad was a part of good and progress. His answer was -clear and true: - -“There is the bad, which is only bad because we now possess or know -something better, the old good we have left behind us. Then there is the -bad which is the direct result of progress and growth, such as accidents -and disease. Then there is the use of bad which we make, to turn it into -good, such as the knowledge we get from it, and, as Virginia said -before, the sympathy and love which grow out of misfortune.” - -“Now,” I said, “I would like some of you to tell me what you mean by -those two words, matter and spirit.” - -Henry, Virginia and Ruth were the only ones ready to answer. - -Henry said that spirit is the soul. He quoted from a Sunday-school -formula: “The spirit of man is in the image of God, and immortal.” - -I said that those words did not mean anything definite to me. They might -be true, but I did not understand them. Ruth said she did, and it was -what she meant; that matter was, like the bad, something to be overcome -and left behind. - -“I think,” said Virginia, “that matter is the tool of spirit; the body -is the servant of the mind.” - -They began to argue, but I stopped them, saying: “I will first tell you -what I think. Is there any matter without form? Has not all matter form, -and is it not, therefore, as it were, something like an idea in the -mind?” - -Henry wanted to deny this, but thought a moment, and admitted that all -matter had some form. - -I went on: “I am a spirit, that is, a self; and I know things only in my -spirit, because I see, hear, touch them. So I don’t believe in matter, -so called, at all. I think that our forms, our bodies, and all forms in -the universe are an expression of spirit or self.” I said expression was -the means for reaching unity, that creatures could not come together -unless they expressed themselves to each other, and that I believed all -expression was for this purpose. I said, what is called matter, the -material conditions of life, are the result of the action of spirit; our -bodies, which seem so solid and material, are constantly changed, are -not at all the same as matter, but only in form; we are reborn each day -according to the spirit. I said that in this sense matter, so-called, -was indeed something we were constantly leaving behind us, that every -material condition was the result of a previous state of mind. This is -true of all human things, and we cannot help thinking it is true of -universal things. We know that fire burns, that planets whirl through -space, that water runs, and we cannot help feeling these expressions of -force to be the expression of something akin to will and spirit. - -Virginia said, then there must be something much more than human -sympathy and understanding, which we long to reach. I answered, I -believed so, but I had not wanted to suggest it to them. - -I said that all our present bodily conditions, the seemingly unalterable -conditions called material, were the expression of will and spirit in -the past, either of ours or others; that our very existence here, the -existence of everything, was the result of will and desire. - -Marian said: “I don’t think it is just that we should suffer and be, -because of another’s will and spirit.” - -Virginia answered: “It _is_ fair. We are part of the whole.” - -“That is so,” said Marian. “Of course.” It was a full and sufficient -answer. - -I said I believed that disease could be prevented, even if not cured, by -thought, because will and desire controlled the body. I said: “We have -our own destiny in our hands, we are free to do as we choose with the -future, because will shapes everything.” I was delighted to find that -the children had never heard the silly discussions about free will, and -did not have to have that bugbear driven out. I said: “We are a part of -the will of life.” - -As another illustration of idea coming before form, I spoke of plants -and seeds, how in the seed is the possibility, the idea of an infinity -of trees. - -Virginia said: “In them spirit seems to be asleep, for it must be -there.” She said all things slept sometimes, and while they slept the -spirit worked in them. - -Ruth was not in the least convinced. Indeed, the thing was not -overclear. She said: “I still think matter is something to be overcome, -something that binds us. Surely we will sometime be spirits without -matter, altogether spiritual.” - -I tried to show them that spirit without expression would be -unthinkable, that though expression might not be what we call matter, it -would still be some expression. I said: “Expression frees us.” - -That was puzzling, and needed more explanation. - -I asked Henry: “What is the object and aim of life?” - -He answered vaguely: “I suppose it is spirit.” - -“Now, what do you mean by that?” I asked. - -He answered: “I suppose we don’t know what it is until we reach the -truth.” Evidently he did not, but all the others did. They all spoke at -once to explain to him that the object of life was complete -understanding and love. - -I said: “That is what expression is to get for us, for we express -ourselves in form and thought, so that we may understand and be -understood. And that is what I meant by freedom. I meant understanding, -love and perfect adjustment. In one sense matter is binding, because we -want more freedom. Matter, so called, is the physical condition which -our will made in the past, and which we want already to surpass. Suppose -that a man wrote a book in which he put all his ideas, and that when he -finished the book he was forbidden to write or speak again; his ideas -would grow afterward, and as he could not express them, he would think -himself limited and bound by the book he had written. So material -conditions are binding only because we want still more freedom, though -they themselves were freedom at the time of their creation. In that -sense, Ruth, you might call the body something which the spirit -constantly wants to leave behind, because it is creating new forms for -itself.” - -Marian said: “It is as if there were a house with many rooms, and we -thought we wanted to go only into the first; but each door made us long -for the next room, and the next, so that we could never be satisfied.” - -“And if one door were locked,” I said, “we would consider ourselves -sadly bound, though we had thought we wished to go only so far. Suppose -a man made a statue, that statue would be an expression of his spirit. -But if the next instant he wanted to change it, to make, say, the lines -of the arm more perfect, he could not do so by willing. He would have to -make a new statue.” - -“But that is different,” said Ruth. “The stuff he works in is still -matter.” - -I tried to explain how all creation is an inter-change of form, a -flowing and influence. I tried to show them how all things whatsoever, -even thoughts, are forms, and all form an expression. - -Virginia said: “Those who write books, or do any great work, are -immortal in that, because of their influence.” I answered her that all -of us were immortal in this sense, that each thing had endless -influence. - -Marian asked the one unanswerable question, and I was delighted. She -said: “Why was the Divine Self ever divided? How did we ever happen to -need bodies and expression? Why did it not all grow together?” - -She saw that contrast was needed for recognition. But why, she wondered, -was anything at all? I answered her: “We said the other day that it did -not matter whether the search for good were infinite or not. Neither -does it concern us to know the unknowable, whether or how the awaking -world began. But we do know it is awakening, what is the direction, what -is the aim and desire of life. To me no more seems needed. We know how -to go forward.” - -“That is true,” she said. She spoke of old age and mental decay. She -said she did not see why people lost, for no reason, the progress they -seemed to have made. I answered her that I did not think they lost it, -unless they did not try to keep it; that it is a thing one must work for -at each moment. - -“But why do they stop trying?” she asked. - -“I don’t think they stop,” I said. “I think they never did try, but in -youth such people merely had more stimulation from without.” - -“Now, my grandfather,” she said, “was an intelligent man, and he is -losing his memory.” - -“Is he losing the valuable thing? Does he love you less, understand you -less? Are you sure the memory he is losing is the thing he still needs?” - -She saw what I meant. She was struck by it. - -I went on: “One might lose the ability to do mathematics, when one had -gained all there was to be got out of mathematics.” - -She said: “I think you are right. I understand that.” - -Now when Ruth insisted again that matter was something binding, -something to be left behind, Alfred said: - -“I don’t think it is binding.” - -“Neither do I,” said Virginia. - -“Neither do I,” said I, “for we can always express ourselves in a new -way. The man who has written a book is not dumb afterward.” - -The meeting was very short and unsatisfactory. I believe that the -children went home disappointed, for I could see that we had not got at -anything that the children had not understood. Since then Virginia’s -mother told me that Virginia did not enjoy it as much as the other -meetings; that it was too deep for her. Florence’s “big brother Arthur” -told me that she, too, did not enjoy it as much, and that when he -questioned her she seemed to understand clearly only the fact that there -was no sharp distinction between mind and matter. Otherwise, as he put -it, she “talked woolly.” During the meeting she yawned once. - -Well, then, this meeting was a failure. As such, I want to use it. What -was the cause? Of course, one of the chief causes was the difficulty of -the subject, and yet the unavoidability of it. How could I go on to -speak of immortality to children with such absurd notions? I don’t think -it could be “skipped.” Of course, I would at first suppose that my -method of tackling the subject was at fault. It may be so, but at -present I can think of no other method. I think that the real and -remediable cause of the difficulty was this: That the children did not -have a good enough conception of the philosophy of science, actual -knowledge of cosmic facts, to understand my point of view. I should have -had the talk on evolution first. To remedy this as much as possible, I -am going to have the talk on evolution next. To speak of immortality now -would cause still more confusion. I await next Sunday with some -uncertainty and doubt. For the next meeting must be good, or the club -will be a failure. We must learn by experience, they as well as I. I -will go forward with courage, if my little army does not fail me. - -If I were giving again the talk on matter and spirit, I would do it -differently. I would not say “matter is the expression of spirit,” but -“matter is the medium through which spirit expresses itself.” For matter -is something, though we know not what, and never know it except as form, -which seems to us always an expression of will. But we know that, -whatever it be, it passes from one controlling will to another. (Of -course, it is too difficult to be discussed in this fashion by boys and -girls.) - - - - - FOURTH MEETING - - -After all, the last meeting was not such a failure as I had supposed. I -asked Alfred to come earlier, and questioned him before the others -arrived. He answered me with precision and common sense. He said: “All -matter was once spirit, is the result of spirit.” When I said: “What we -call matter is the medium through which spirit expresses itself,” he -answered: “Yes, but spirit expresses itself in other ways, too.” “Think -a minute,” said I, “does it? Can the spirit express itself through any -other medium?” “No,” he said, after thinking a moment, “no, of course -not.” “Nor,” said I, “do we at all know matter except through the -intellect.” I told him that I wanted to speak to him alone because he -was so silent at the club. Then Henry arrived. He said he enjoyed the -last meeting very much, and thought he understood it all. The paper he -wrote proved that he understood far better than I had supposed: - -“To-day we first went over what we had said last week. The question -arose as to which class of evil disease belongs. We came to the -conclusion that it is the result or price of progress. We also spoke -about the idea of a trinity. We had said at the last meeting that God is -a divine self within us, and that when we know each other we will know -God. Connecting each one of us to the other, there is a feeling of -sympathy, a third element. That is to say, there is you, and myself, -and, making the third part, that sympathetic understanding which brings -us closer together. - -“The chief topic to-day was that of Matter and Spirit. At first there -was a little difference of opinion, but we finally agreed that in -reality everything is spirit, and that which we call matter is only the -expression of the spirit. As an example we took the sculptor, who, -getting an idea through the mind, expresses this spirit in a statue, -which we call matter. We speak of the body as matter, but it is spirit, -in as much as it is the medium through which the spirit manifests -itself.” - -When I told the children I had decided to take up evolution before -immortality, because evolution was the problem of creation, they were -all satisfied and interested. - -Then I read aloud Marian’s little paper: - -“On Sunday, October 25th, the Seekers held a regular meeting. We first -reviewed our discussion of the last week, and then took up the subject -of Matter and Spirit. Our discussion was long, and the conclusion we -reached was that matter is an expression of spirit. In the first place, -matter is that which has form or qualities. Every material thing is the -expression of a thought. If a man makes a table, he does so because he -wishes to, because it is his will to do so. If he writes a book, that -book is an expression of his thought, but it is what is commonly called -matter. Matter is, in short, a result of spirit, is an expression of -spirit. Our bodies are the expression of our minds, and the way in which -we express ourselves to each other. If our bodies are not perfect, if -they are diseased, it is merely that our minds have not advanced far -enough to express the perfect body. Our talk this week helped me a great -deal. Although we did not cover much ground, we reached a conclusion on -one of the most difficult subjects, and I think almost every one was -convinced.” - -Ruth said she had thought all the week of what I had told them, and that -she was sure she agreed with me now. The children’s thoughts seem to -develop during the week, as if they shaped afterward, and slowly, all -that had been said. - -Virginia disagreed with Marian, that the perfect mind would make the -perfect body. She said: “People with perfect bodies are often fools. And -sickly people are often the most intelligent and fine spirited.” - -Marian and Ruth both protested, but could not express themselves. So I -said: “That is true. But still I believe the perfect mind would have the -perfect body. Our bodies may be imperfect for several reasons: Perhaps -we are suffering for the wrong spirit of our ancestors, through -heredity. Or, again, the body which may be good enough, and quite -perfect, even, with the fool’s mind, might not be strong enough for the -active mind. That mind would have to create for itself a more perfect -body. So, you see, our bodily imperfections are the price of progress. -Our upright position, for instance, which is so great a help to the -mind, is a strain on the body, and the cause of many of our ills.” - -Ruth said: “I think our bodies will become so much better than they are -now, that the best we know now will seem very poor.” - -Virginia had written a little paper, which seemed to me at the first -reading so vague and uncomprehending, that I did not wish to read it -aloud. I was glad I did read it aloud, however, as her explanation and -interpretation of herself showed that she understood. This is the paper: - - MY IDEA OF MATTER - - “Matter is a part of mind. Without it there would be no - improvement of the mind. Mind, without matter, would be like a - stunted child. It would still exist, but it would not grow. It - seems as if matter were the medium between mind and progress.” - -Virginia said that was her own idea, whether we agreed or not. It means, -according to Virginia, that matter is the medium of expression of mind, -and that mind could not grow without this medium. Very good, it seems to -me; and we do agree. - -I said, and Ruth and Henry joined me, that one must make a distinction, -for convenience, at least, between the words “spirit” and “matter.” -Marian said they had been separated so long, so completely and so -foolishly, that she was glad to dwell upon their sameness. - -Now I went on to speak of evolution.[1] I showed them how the theory of -evolution, or descent from a common ancestor or ancestors, was a -creation theory, just as much as Genesis was a creation theory. - -I said: “There is no reason why you should believe this any more than -any other history, or story, unless the proofs convince you.” - -Alfred and Virginia said it was a reasonable, convincing theory. Marian -saw what I meant, and, not knowing so much as they, asked for the proof. - -I first gave them the proof of likeness of structure, and showed them -pictures of the resemblances of bone and organ structure in various -animals. Ruth said she was quite sure all little babies were like -monkeys. - -Then I gave the proof of the race-likeness of the young. (Examples and -illustrations.) - -Then that of rudimentary organs. (Examples and illustrations.) - -Virginia suggested the geological proof in the finding of fossils. I -enlarged on this, and spoke of series of living and extinct shells, etc. - -I traced the general progress of evolution, the division into groups and -branches. - -I told them—what some knew—that evolution was an ancient, -philosophical theory, and only the method of evolution Darwinian. Some -of them said Darwin’s name always made them think of monkeys. - -I now went on to explain Darwin’s theory of natural selection; spoke of -variation in all directions as the law of life; then explained the -struggle for food and place, and then protective colorings, and -consequent elimination. The children gave as many examples and instances -as myself. Then I went on to tell what artificial selection had been -able to do, and showed a group of pictures of the dog, domesticated from -a wolf-like animal. The pictures included prize bulldogs, St. Bernards, -French poodles, tiny Japanese dogs and great Danes. - -Now Florence, who has just had instruction in evolution by her helpful -big brother, said: - -“But a great many scientists no longer accept natural selection and the -survival of the fittest as an explanation of development. There is the -theory of isolation, too.” - -“Yes,” I said, “and I am one of those who believe in natural selection -only in part, but I wanted you to hear it all. Florence, explain the -effect of isolation to us.” - -She explained it, and gave a very good example, that of some birds in a -species having stronger wings than others, and so flying farther to -nest. - -When I asked what any theory of the process of evolution failed to -explain, Ruth answered “immortality.” I told her that evolutionary -theories did not attempt to explain that. - -I showed them how no theory explained change itself, explained the -initial variation. I showed them, too, the limits of natural selection. -When I took the eye as an example of a specialized organ too complex to -be easily accounted for by natural selection, I found them hard to -convince, because they did not realize the complexity of the eye. But -when I spoke of the life and death value of any organic change as -necessary for its selection, they saw how that limited selection in many -ways. - -We spoke of the relation of evolution to our idea of life. At once they -said it was a proof of progress. - -I insisted on its being a self-evolving, a will in life. They saw that. -Alfred said: “Could the one-celled creature will; did it know enough?” -Marian answered that it was a subconscious will. - -Henry said: “Within living things is the inner will. But how about the -earth? Isn’t there a will outside for other things?” - -I answered that even the earth seemed self-impelled; that within the -universe seemed to be an immense will, and we were a part of that will; -it was our will within us. - -I said that creatures could change only because they wanted to be -different, because something wanted to be different. I said to change, -and to change always in one direction, was progress; that what we wanted -to do, and thought we had done, was to find that direction. - -They saw at once how physical death was necessary to race progress, how -the old died to make room for the young, and how each newborn creature -had new possibilities of progress. - -But when I spoke of all the progress of evolution, of even struggle and -selection leading toward harmony, fitness and relationship, which is the -thing we want, Ruth said: - -“I don’t see how the lobster killing its fellows because it had a larger -claw could lead to harmony and better relationship.” - -That was a good point. But I scarcely had a chance to answer it, for -Marian said that creatures had to develop themselves first. - -Then I spoke again, in this relation, of changing standards of good and -bad, how what was right for an animal, for the lobster, for instance, -was wrong for us. I showed them how all animals were selfish, and had to -be selfish and self-evolving alone; how we had to be unselfish only -because we realized how vast we were. Marian spoke again of the -criminal. She said: “If he were behind us, he, from his own point of -view, would not be bad.” - -“But he would have to be punished,” said Ruth, “and made to be good.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “for he is human, and we expect human actions of him. -But we would not dare to blame him.” - -Henry said we would punish him not as a punishment to hurt him, but to -teach him. - -We spoke again of diversity as necessary to comprehension, to -understanding. I told them I had a whimsical fancy that the first -one-celled creature divided because it wanted company. If creatures -never divided, and became different, they certainly could never -understand each other. Marian said: - -“I see now. It is like a girl who had always lived in her own family and -developed pretty well there, but the more different people she met the -better she would develop.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “unlikeness gives us recognition.” - -Virginia said: “If we were all one self, life would be uninteresting.” - -“Yes,” said I, “but we might reach a self-conscious self which is -unthinkable to us now. There is one way, however, in which evolution -helps us, and that is such an obvious way that none of you has thought -of it.” - -For a moment they were puzzled. Then Alfred said: “It is that we are -really all one self.” - -“Oh, I see,” said Marian. - -“Yes,” I answered, “it is that we are all physically related with all -life.” - -Then I went on to say that no one knew how life began, that there were -theories, but they might be no better than fairy tales. They wanted to -hear some. I said: - -“One theory is that life is eternal in the shape of life-germs, or -organic matter, and that these pass from planet to planet throughout the -ether forever. But it is only a theory, and a doubtful one.” - -“I like that theory,” said Virginia. - -I said I thought beginnings concerned us no more than ends, that all -things, histories, science, knowledge, theories concerned us only in so -far as they helped us to understand, as they served the large aim of -life and showed us how to go. I made Henry repeat again that the aim of -life was complete understanding. I said: “To me it is like a measure by -which I measure and value all things.” We tried to measure various -things by it, such as the relative advancement of monkeys, birds and -ants, and the greatness of Napoleon and Shakespeare. We came to few -conclusions, except that the love of man made man lovable, and that -Shakespeare must have been a lover of men. - -Henry said: “I think he worked for his own sake, and not for others.” - -“Yes,” I answered; “but he loved and understood his fellows, so he could -not help serving them in serving himself. It was his joy.” - -I said if we had that standard of understanding love, we would need no -other morality. I quoted from St. Augustine’s Confessions: - -“Love God, and do as you please.” - -“But,” I said, “most of us do not love God, or the great good, enough to -be able to do as we please without thinking. We still have to stop to -measure.” - -As they were going home, I said: “Next week we will speak of -immortality.” - -“Really, this time?” asked Ruth. - -“Now, after this meeting,” said Marian, “I am afraid you may tell us, -what I have sometimes heard, that we are immortal in the race. Will -you?” - -“No,” I answered, “I will not.” - ------ - -[1] For examples and illustrations I used the first volume of Romanes’ -“Darwin and After Darwin” as more convenient and compact than Darwin -himself. - - - - - FIFTH MEETING - - -Henry said: “I told some one lately about our club and what we did, and -he thought we spoke of things that were too deep and philosophical.” - -“Do you think so?” I asked. - -“No,” he answered, “of course I don’t.” - -I said: “We are doing something unusual for boys and girls of your age. -Most people would think you not able to understand and enjoy it. But I -know you do, and you know it.” - -Marian said: “Why should we not be able to talk of these things in a -club, when we certainly do talk of them among ourselves?” - -I read Henry’s paper: - -“To-day we spoke on the theory of evolution. The theory tells us that we -are descended from a single, one-celled animal. This animal grew and was -divided into several cells, which in turn were divided. We find that -when a race of animals needs something with which to protect itself, or -with which to get food, that thing usually grows, as in the case of the -mother bird, whose feathers are usually the color of the place where she -has her nest. In this manner the one-celled animals may have developed, -as the increasing numbers made it harder to get food, and brought other -difficulties. Another way in which species may develop is that of -isolation. For example, while a flock of birds is flying south to escape -the cold, some of the weaker ones are left on the way. Here the cold may -cause many feathers to grow, and the other conditions may have such an -effect as to develop an entirely new kind of bird. We can also take as -an example the different colors of men, caused by the conditions in -which they live. - -“The disappearance of certain species while others survive is, according -to the idea of natural selection, only the survival of the fittest. We -find that long ago there were animals larger than any of to-day, but -they have completely died out, perhaps because they could not find food, -while the smaller, weaker animals have survived because they were better -fitted for the conditions. Looking back at history, we can see how at -different periods one nation would wipe out another which was weaker, or -how one people, more advanced than others, could better protect itself -from the elements, and, therefore, lived while others died. The -similarity of different animals gives a good foundation for this theory. -A baby will often take attitudes exactly like those of a monkey, and -while it is young crawl on all fours like animals. Different kinds of -animals have bones and all other parts of the body just alike, and also -like those of men. - -“This theory teaches progression and is therefore useful. It teaches -that we were once one, and we should therefore have sympathy with one -another.” - -I next read Florence’s paper: - -“In our last talk we spoke of evolution and its bearing on progress. I -shall simply try to give an idea of what we said about evolution itself. -By evolution we mean that we all sprang from a common ancestral source, -and have gradually developed into higher and different forms. In -general, this change has been from the greatest simplicity, which we -find in the one-celled animal, to the highest complexity. - -“Darwin, although not the first to advance the theory of evolution, was -the first to enlarge and further it. His deductions rest on three main -theories—heredity, variation and natural selection. He thought that the -offspring always inherited the parents’ qualities with something new in -its composition. By natural selection Darwin meant the survival of the -fittest, that is, that only the most fitted for life should live. In -this way the offspring receiving traits from its parents, if they be to -its advantage, will live and continue them, and those who have not got -them will be killed. In other words, Darwin believed that the terrible -struggle for existence, which usually destroys nine-tenths of each -generation, must favor those who possess the best variation for their -environment; and that these will in turn hand on to their successors -these favoring variations. In this next generation the same process will -be repeated, and in this way we get a steady though very gradual -advance. - -“To-day, however, looking at it broadly, we can see that all heredity -and variation need is some way of separating those individuals having -some peculiar variation from those who do not possess any. This we call -isolation, and it can easily be seen that natural selection is only a -subhead under this title. Another form of isolation beside natural -selection is geographical. - -“Our theories have advanced to this stage, and although it is quite a -large move from the original ideas of Darwin, there are many questions -still puzzling us, which have yet to be solved.” - -Then came Marian’s paper: - -“On Sunday, November 1st, the Seekers held a very interesting meeting. -The subject we discussed was Evolution. The very lowest form of life is -a one-celled animal. This divides into a two-celled one, which in turn -continues to divide and differentiate until it takes the form of a plant -or animal. All animals must have had some common ancestor. The proof of -this is the existence of rudimentary organs, such as the appendix in man -and the bones in the flipper of a whale where we should expect legs. -Another proof is to be found in the remains and knowledge we have of -prehistoric animals. Some of them were shaped like reptiles, and yet had -wings. In connection with evolution, there are the theories of _natural -selection_ and _isolation_. _Natural selection_ is the belief in the -survival of the fittest. For instance, if one lobster happened to grow a -large claw, which enabled it to fight better, its young were likely to -inherit this tendency, and their young also, etc., until the -larger-clawed lobsters, being better able to fight, would kill off most -of the others. This theory would not always hold good, however. The -theory of _isolation_ is very interesting. If, for instance, a bird of -one species was born with a longer bill than most of the others, and -this bird found a warmer climate was better for it, and, after mating, -flew farther south, its young would probably inherit this longer bill, -and would also fly farther south than most of the species. Soon they -would become entirely separated from the original species, and would -become a new class of birds. The connection that _Evolution_ has with -our work is that evolution is progress and that our aim is progress. -Evolution also helps us to understand animals and plants, and to come -into a better understanding with nature. Disease is the price of -progress. As we progress, one part goes ahead, often at the expense of -some other part. Thus disease may be called the price of progress.” - -Marian admitted that she was rather mixed up about the cells dividing -and the long-billed bird going south for his health. But this is doing -well for the unscientific Marian, who said a while ago that she did not -see how science could have any effect on our view of life. - -Then I read Virginia’s paper: - - THEORY OF EVOLUTION - - “The first life that appeared on the earth was a one-celled - animal or plant that appeared beneath the water. The germs of - life travel through the ether, and wherever there are conditions - in which living things can thrive, there they settle. So that - was the way in which life began on the earth. - - “This one-celled animal, after a while, divided into more cells, - and thus became more complicated. When land appeared, land - animals and plants came into existence. And these animals became - higher and higher. First the animals without a spine, then a - more complicated specimen, in the lower forms of vertebrates. - Then the reptiles, out of which came two branches, the birds and - the immense reptiles of which none have survived that I know of. - But out of them came the mammals. And after many thousands of - years, man appeared. - - “At first man was more like an animal, but after centuries he - became less savage. He made implements for himself, and lived in - tribes with his fellow men; and the more highly civilized man - becomes, the more will he sympathize with the rest of mankind, - so that when the highest civilization arrives, it will only mean - complete love of all living things.” - -I insisted that the theory of germ transmission was not a fact. I said -she seemed to have avoided natural selection, that I thought she did not -like it because it was too mathematical and too logical for her. Ruth -thought perhaps that was why she did not like it much, either, though it -interested her. I said: “It seems at first so ‘cruel’ a theory; it -repels us until we remember that what is cruel in a man is not so in a -beast.” Virginia answered that she did not think it cruel, because it -was not meant cruelly. “They had to kill each other,” she said. Henry -asked me whether I thought it cruel to eat animals. I answered it was -not cruel, unless they were cruelly killed. Ruth added that some time we -would get beyond the need of eating animals. “To hunt for fun is -wicked,” said Virginia. - -Marian said: “Perhaps we think natural selection not so cruel among -animals, because we did not do the suffering.” - -The children all said they did not remember just what relation evolution -had to our idea of life. I answered that the very fact that we could not -go on in our thought without it proved its relation, and that we would -constantly come back to it, that I did not need to explain it now. - -Then we spoke of prayer. I asked each one in turn what and how much they -had thought of it. - -Alfred said he had never thought of it, that he had prayed as a baby, -but had stopped early and never felt the need. Florence said the same. -Henry said he believed in prayer, especially in prayer for strength in -any undertaking. “Of course,” he went on, “I don’t expect to be helped -against the other fellow, but I get strength in praying for strength.” - -“I agree with you,” said Ruth, “only don’t you pray to know whether you -are right or not? For you might be wrong.” - -“If I thought I might be wrong,” he answered, “I wouldn’t be doing the -thing I was doing.” They argued it a bit. “But,” he went on, “I have no -set formula for prayer, nor a definite time.” - -Virginia said: “I have always prayed. When I was little I got in the -habit of saying a silly little German prayer, so that I could not go to -sleep without saying something. So when the little prayer seemed too -silly to me, I began saying each evening the stanza of a poem.” - -“What poem?” I asked. - -“The last stanza of the ‘Chambered Nautilus.’ I could not go to sleep -unless I said it.” - -She recited it for us. - -Marian said: “It depends on what you mean by prayer. I never learned to -say any, nor ever wanted to, but I do have a prayer-feeling.” - -We all agreed that the prayer which asked for something definite was -folly. I said prayer was getting into oneness with the vast Self around -and behind us, and drawing strength from that which was ours for the -asking, which _was_ ourself. - -Marian said it was getting into harmony with the world. - -We thought every one had that feeling of vastness, of oneness with God, -at times. Virginia said she got it especially when she was by the sea. - -“I feel it most,” said Marian, “when I am out of doors, and feel my -close relation with nature.” - -Henry said he felt it most in a big crowd of people. - -“Yes,” answered Ruth; “then you feel how little all this is, and the -vast, big life above it all.” - -“You don’t mean, Ruth,” I asked “that you feel the crowd to be a little -thing?” - -“Oh, no,” she answered. “I feel it in the crowd.” - -Henry said: “To be among people always arouses that feeling of -sympathy.” - -There are many ways of praying, I said; to speak certain words that -aroused in us the prayer-feeling was a good way; but that the words were -only to awaken the feeling in us, and were worth nothing by themselves. -If one could feel the prayer without any words whatever, it would be -just as well. Florence thought it very hard not to get to repeat words -by rote. Henry said he always made a particular effort to think of the -meaning of the words as he said them. - -“I don’t believe,” said Virginia, “that it is so much thought as -feeling. I don’t always think of the meaning of those words when I say -them, but I get from them the feeling that I must have, to go to sleep.” - -“And now,” I went on, “it seems especially important to get into this -frame of mind just before we go to sleep. For during sleep it seems as -if the bigger self were working for us. And as we go to sleep, so shall -we be next day. I think that if, as you fall asleep, you ask—your vast -self—for strength, for the power to do whatever you know you must do -next day, and to solve whatever problems you have to solve, and then get -the deep sense of prayer, you usually awaken with the strength you need, -and your problems solved. Is it not so?” - -Virginia said she always found that if she wanted to learn something, -she had only to read it over to herself at night, without learning it, -and in the morning, when she awoke, she knew it. Ruth said she found it -so; that she always felt next day according to the way she had fallen -asleep at night. They had various opinions. Marian said it did not -matter how she fell asleep at night; if things went well in the morning, -the whole day went well; if ill, then the day went ill. She loves the -power of each new day. Alfred said he thought that our brains worked for -us in sleep, because then the mind was free from all obstructing -thoughts. - -I repeated for them a little prayer I had written for a baby: - - “Great Lord of life, who lives in me, - And lives in all I know, - With happy thoughts I go to sleep; - And while I sleep I grow. - - “I hope to wake this coming morn - More strong, and brave and bright; - While you shall stay, both night and day, - With all I love to-night.” - -They said it did not seem babyish to them. Henry, especially, liked it, -and several of them wished to copy it. - -I said one might have the “prayer-feeling,” the sense of the whole, so -constantly that one would not need to pray, that one’s whole life might -be a prayer. - -The children objected to this, because they thought it would be -impossible now, in our imperfect condition. Virginia said: “A person who -lived that way would be a perfect saint.” Henry thought it would make -one cold and unsympathetic. - -“How is that possible,” I asked, “when it would be a state of constant -sympathy and understanding of life?” - -“No,” said Ruth; “such a person would be too much above us. I don’t -think one could live so, at present. It would imply a perfection -physical and mental that we have not yet reached.” - -Florence said she not only thought such a state possible, but she -believed there were people who lived in this way now, and that she knew -such people. - -Some one suggested that they must be unspeakably happy. - -“No,” answered Florence; “not necessarily happy, at all.” - -I said that I thought such a life would be a state of happiness. - -They all agreed; Florence, too, after a moment. - -Marian and Henry said they had never met people without limitations. -Florence insisted she had; whereupon Marian called her a hero-worshiper. -I said people’s limitations were where they failed to understand, and -that we none of us understood everything. The sense of oneness would not -imply, however, either perfection or apartness or superiority. One might -feel everything in this way, whenever one thought of it. - -Henry answered: “But how often is one not occupied? Little things -distract us constantly.” - -Marian said: “It means having always the sense of oneness, sympathy and -understanding, and always acting, thinking and judging according to -that.” - -“Yes,” said I, “and there is another thing that seems to me a prayer. -Every creative action; that is, everything we do which brings us into -relation with the world, is a prayer because it is an expression of -oneness.” - -Marian said: “It seems as if there were two kinds of prayer, one -strength-giving and one strength-getting.” - -I don’t know how we came upon the subject of circles. I said that the -smallest things, as well as the largest, were prone to express -themselves in a universal way, that every drop of water naturally formed -itself into a sphere. - -“Yes,” said Marian; “and the circle seems to stand for all life.” - -Now we spoke of immortality. I asked each to tell me what he or she -thought. - -Virginia did not want to express her opinion. Ruth and Henry vaguely -implied that they believed in immortality. Alfred said: - -“I think it is very good for people, if they can believe in it.” - -“That is not the question,” said I. “I believe nothing but the truth is -truly good for people. What do _you_ believe?” - -“I don’t believe I am immortal,” he answered, “because I see no reason -to believe it.” - -Florence said: “We must be immortal, because nothing dies, but is passed -on. And there is something in us—I mean that which loves and knows -sympathy—which we do not pass on. So I think it must be immortal.” - -Marian said: “I am, so I don’t see how I could not be.” - -I answered them: “Marian’s and Florence’s ideas seem to me very good. -One cannot prove immortality. I have good reasons to believe it. But my -best reason is not a reason at all; and if you don’t understand it, I -cannot explain it to you. If I am, I must be forever. ‘I am’ means -immortality. That is what Marian said, and what I believe. If I believe -in the whole Self of the universe, and that Self is in me, and I am in -it, then how can I die unless that Self dies? And if I believe in -progress, which is toward complete understanding and wholeness of the -Self, how can that progress be without me who am a part of it? Do you -know who Robert Ingersoll was? Well, he, who passed for such a -scoffer—though in reality he expressed only his own realization of his -ignorance and his contempt for dogmatic faiths—once said: ‘I am a part -of the world. Without me the world would be incomplete. In this there is -hope.’ Hope, he meant, of eternal life with the world.” - -The children were much impressed. - -Marian said: “How can one face the horrible thought of extinction? It is -unimaginable. What answer would you give,” she asked, “to those people -who claim that we are immortal only in our children, in the race? I -never know what to answer them, and yet I feel sure they are not right.” - -“I think there are two good answers,” I said. “First, it is extremely -unlikely that the race is immortal. Even if we thought our immortality -unlikely, it is far more likely, and much less of an act of faith, to -believe in it than to believe in race-immortality. We know that every -planet dies and parches. We know that every race, every physical -manifestation comes to an end, but we know that the spirit of life lives -forever, and forever grows. I have heard people say that when this -planet dries and freezes, men will have advanced so far in science that -they will find their way in airships to another planet. But to me it -seems far more unlikely than that the spirit of life, the self within -us, should go on forever. The second answer seems to me to be Florence’s -answer, that we are not immortal in the race, that although we give our -children much, we give to no one our power of love, of understanding, of -sympathy.” - -Henry asked: “Don’t we give it through example and teaching?” - -“We give much,” I said. “We can teach and train, but we give no one that -understanding self, the power for love and sympathy, which is in us, and -cannot be made.” - -Henry did not see how one could find satisfaction in living for the -race, since forever and ever each successive generation would be mortal -and would disappear. - -I said I did not believe that in a world which to us was all intellect, -the intellect could die. Then I read aloud the following passage from -“John Percyfield,” by C. Hanford Henderson: - -“It is an old mistake, that of calling desires beliefs. But I think I -have allowed for this. I have said, if death end all, if that be the -truth of it, then that is what I want to believe. For no man in his -right senses wishes to be either self-deceived, or other-deceived. I -have doubted immortality, even disbelieved it, but now I believe it on -as strong warrant as I have for any of my scientific beliefs. In one -sense, immortality cannot be experienced; it is not a fact of experience -in the same immediate way that certain minor scientific facts are. But -neither can the paleozoic age be experienced, nor space, nor time, nor -cause and effect. They are inductions from experience. And so to me is -immortality. It is an induction from experience. In a world where every -reality is essentially spiritual, or intellectual, whichever term you -prefer, where even the study of nature, as soon as it passes from mere -observation into orderly science, becomes a mental rather than a -physical fact, I can only imagine the disappearance of spirit by -picturing the annihilation of the universe itself. Without the mental -part that we give to all of our so-called facts, they would cease to -exist. It is possible that the universe does shrivel up in this way and -disappear, but it is less probable, I think, than any one of the great -possibilities which science rejects, and feels warranted in accepting -their opposite as fact.” - -I said that to me as to him it seemed as if, were there not immortality -for the self, the world itself might shrivel up and disappear. A world -without immortality would be a mad world, without reason; and, as -everything else seems reasonable to me, I believe the world to be -reasonable. I spoke, too, of the danger of believing things simply -because we liked them. I told them how I had disbelieved in immortality -at one time, because I suddenly found I had only believed what pleased -me. - -Virginia said: “I believe things because I like them. But may not that -liking, that feeling, in itself be a sign of truth?” - -“No,” I answered; “liking is no proof or sign.” - -Marian said: “But it is only because we care, because we wish to -believe, that we begin to think of these things.” - -“Yes,” I replied, “we must care. But then we must bravely face the -truth.” - -Marian told us she had never been taught anything on this subject, but -that gradually her belief had grown, and that her talks with Ruth had -helped her from her ideas. - -I said many people believed in “personal” immortality; that is, -immortality with memory, and the meeting of those we love. I do not -pretend to know, or to have a definite opinion. But I think the results -of life are eternal, even if not in precise memories. I asked the -children for opinions. None of them seemed to believe, or care to -believe, in distinct personal immortality. - -Ruth said: “We would surely meet those we had loved, in that complete -whole self, even though it were not as persons.” - -I was surprised and glad to hear her say it. I had said to the children -that they probably believed, and might easily believe, much beyond what -I told them, but this was all which I believed; I would tell them no -theories or surmises of mine, of which I could not feel certain. They -were urgent in asking me please to tell them some theories, but I -refused. - -Virginia said she believed in transmigration. I think it possible, as I -told her; it is in every way consistent with progress and all things in -life, but I have no reason for feeling sure of it. She said: “It must be -true, for if there is just so much spirit in the world, forever and -ever, and if it must express itself through matter, how can there be -anything but transmigration? Some time we may all live again on some -other planet, in some other shape.” I said it might be so. - -The children asked me whether I believed animals were immortal. I -answered that as much life and self as is in them must be immortal. I -observed that this idea of animal-immortality was consistent with -Virginia’s belief in transmigration, that so each least creature might -rise through successive stages toward its complete self. - -Then I said to the children that, of course, if we believed we had been -nothing before we were born, we could easily believe in extinction. But -I, for one, believed, yes, knew, that I had been forever, that I was not -“made” in these few years. - -“Yes,” said Marian, “I could not have grown to be what I am, just since -I was born.” - -Henry said: “We are not concerned with the past, but with the future.” - -Virginia, and the others, brought up instances of seeming to remember -things from a former life, of feeling as if they had done some -particular thing before, in the dim past. - -Alfred had not spoken at all during this time. He now said he very much -wished he could believe in immortality, but could not see any reason for -doing so. I said we should have to spend the next meeting in convincing -Alfred. I went on: “If we believe in the vast Self of life, and if we -are a part of that awakening Self, how can we die?” - -Then I read aloud Emily Brontë’s “Last Lines.” - -I was glad to leave the subject open in this fashion, to give them a -week for thought, and I said little more. - - - - - SIXTH MEETING - - -I began by reading the children’s papers. Virginia wrote the following: - -“Some people have the idea that to pray means to fall upon one’s knees, -fold one’s hands, lift one’s eyes to heaven, and mutter some words one -doesn’t understand, sometimes in a foreign tongue. I don’t agree with -them. Unconscious prayer is the only true prayer; at least, so I -believe. In a great crisis a man does not go on his knees, or, if he -does, he is not praying what he is saying, which is a mere parrot-cry. -His prayer is what he is thinking, and what is in his heart. - -“Many people say a prayer every night. In most cases this is not a true -prayer, but still it brings peace and calmness, and it is lovely to be -in a calm state before going to sleep. I think the reason for this is -that the person who prays before going to sleep thinks himself so -virtuous that he is at peace with the whole world. Then again, the -person who goes to church every time he commits a sin, and prays for -forgiveness, becomes careless of the wrong he does. For can he not pray -and be forgiven without the least trouble?” - -We had a good laugh over Virginia’s idea of prayer, which seemed to be -chiefly her idea of other people’s prayer. - -Then I read Henry’s paper: - -“Every man must decide for himself whether or not he shall pray, for no -one else can tell him, since it is a matter of feeling. If a man is -relieved by prayer, then let him pray; but if he only prays from habit, -he is doing wrong. - -“We must not expect that our prayers will be answered by that superior -power which we call God, for this will only happen when we make up our -minds to gain our end, and put our heart and spirit in the work. There -is a saying, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’ - -“Some people like to put their prayers in words, while others like to -think them and feel them. Still others like to put out of their minds -for a time all earthly troubles, and just think of and feel that -kindness and sympathy for their fellow man; and to think of the great -spiritual questions which should have such great influence on the lives -of everybody, and in this way let that spirit within them get complete -control of them, and that is their way of praying. - -“No one can say which way is the right way, but if you do it in that way -which does you the most good, for you it will be the right way.” - -Henry said he thought kneeling, and the attitude of prayer, were a -“pretty” custom. They were the attitude of supplication. I questioned -whether the best “prayer” was a supplication, said I did not like the -word “prayer” for that reason. Virginia said she thought we often “felt” -a supplication, even if we did not pray nor expect an answer. - -Marian had tried to get the “prayer-feeling” each night last week, but -had not succeeded. She could not get calm, but thought of everything -under the sun, and then fell asleep. - -Virginia said: “You can’t make your mind a blank.” - -I answered: “Making your mind a blank is not prayer.” - -Henry thought it good to consider our spiritual problems just before -going to sleep, and so get into the right state of mind. Ruth agreed. - -Now I read Marian’s paper: - -“At a meeting of the Seekers on November 8th, we discussed the subject -of Prayer. Prayer is really a feeling. When we feel truly in harmony -with our inner and our bigger self, the feeling we have is prayer. -Prayer can be made a source of strength. If we find some way to get into -the prayer-feeling every day or at night, it will be a great help to us. -As we reached a conclusion on this subject very soon, we began a -discussion on Immortality, which we expect to finish next week.” - -Now we spoke of immortality. Although the six of us believed in it, by -trying to convince Alfred we might gain much. - -I asked why, or whether, it was important to have an opinion concerning -immortality. - -Marian said it was important for us to know, because we were interested, -because we cared so much. I answered, that was one reason, and then -there was another. Ruth said the other reason was that we acted -according to our ideas of death, that it influenced our morality. - -“Yes,” I answered, “we live according to our expectations. Think of how -the false or true ideas of a future life influenced morality in ages -past, of the morals, good and bad, which sprang from the idea of heaven -and hell! Alfred, do you think it is important to know?” - -“Yes,” said he, “it is important; but I can’t come to any conclusion. I -am not convinced.” - -Some people feel sure one cannot know anything about immortality, and -that therefore it is not worth thinking of it at all. - -Henry said: “Because one does not know a thing now is no reason why one -should not try to find out. And I believe we shall know, some time. If -people had felt so about other equally difficult things, we would never -have got on.” - -I said: “What is knowledge? We cannot _know_ immortality as an -experience, through our senses; but I believe we can _know_ through our -reason, just as so much other scientific knowledge is a matter of -reason, of analogy, of deduction. It can’t be proved, as one might prove -that two and two are four. But then I once read in a book that nothing -could be proved, except the things not worth proving. - -“If we saw a red rose, and we all called it a red rose, there would be -no doubt of its redness. But if we differed, and some called it red, -some pink, some yellow, we should soon be in grave doubt. Our eyes might -be wrong. There have been so many opinions regarding immortality, -because people had different ‘eyes,’ that now we are full of doubts.” - -We spoke of the time when the earth was thought flat because it looked -flat. - -Alfred said: “Immortality of what, do you mean?” - -“Immortality of everything,” I answered. “We might, of course, believe -that the universe will die, will be extinct. But it is an unthinkable -thought. We all believe in something eternal. We know that force does -not die, but is changed and transmitted; we know that no substance is -destroyed; we know that every action, every circumstance has endless -consequences and endless antecedents. They—and I—are forever a part of -the universe. How could we be destroyed? Why should we think that -everything is immortal, excepting self, which seems the motive force?” - -Alfred said: “I don’t believe it is destroyed; but it goes out of me, -and that is the end of me.” - -The others asked how Alfred could have agreed with us all so far, and -not agree now, since it seemed to them that what we had said before, the -idea of progress, implied immortality. How could he believe in the Self -as God, the vast Self which comes to complete understanding, and yet -believe that he, who was a part of it, that in him, and he in that, -could be utterly destroyed? - -He said he believed new self was always coming into the universe, and -old self going out. - -“Where would it come from, where would it go?” asked Virginia. - -I said: “There is nothing but the universe. Everything is in it.” - -He answered that he believed in progress, progress toward unity and -understanding, but it passed from one person to another; it would not be -himself. - -“How could the whole of Self be complete unless you were there?” I -asked. - -“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I don’t see how it could be. It would -not be myself.” - -“No, not you, in any definite sense, but self, and yourself in that. But -it does not matter whether you disagree, if you can really go onward -with us, and believe with us, without believing you are immortal. For -all that matters is how we live now. It is not necessary to know the -future, unless you need it for the present. When I say ‘immortal’ I mean -we are immortal, now, because the universe is here.” - -Ruth thought that life would be meaningless if we were not immortal; -that all progress, all goodness would have no sense. She said: “One -might live to do good, just to be kind to others, who were also mortal. -But if that were the end, there would be no meaning in it.” - -Henry agreed with her, and most of the others expressed similar ideas. I -said this did not prove we were immortal. But I, too, felt a limited -life to be meaningless. Still, I wanted to know the truth. - -Alfred saw he could not consistently believe in race immortality, but he -wanted to. - -Virginia said: “You know the sun will burn down some time. Every fire -burns itself out. Then the world will get cold and dark. And then what -becomes of the human race?” - -“But,” I said, “the energy that was the sun will be in the universe, and -will light other suns.” - -“Energy never dies,” said Virginia. “If I put out my arm like this,” and -she stretched forth her hand, “the energy that goes out from me never -dies. It bounds and rebounds, and in some way goes on forever.” - -“As it has been forever until now,” I said. - -“No, I think it dies out,” said Alfred. “If you bounce a ball, it bounds -and rebounds and then stops.” - -I explained to him how energy is not destroyed, but transmitted; how -nothing is ever destroyed, but all things are changed. - -He believed the physical part changed and was not destroyed. Still, it -was not life any more. - -He said: “It is not the same thing. I am myself now, but I am not the -same person I was as a little child. I am all changed.” - -“Yes,” I answered him, “your body is different material, your brain and -your thoughts are not the same, your shape is changed, but you are still -self, and you were self then.” - -“But when I die, where will I be?” - -“I don’t know,” I said. “But I know that somehow you must be.” - -Virginia and Alfred—in fact, all the children—had a long discussion. -Alfred said, in speaking of a horse which had been buried in the woods, -and over which ferns had grown, “but the ferns were not the horse”—a -sensible remark. He said: “When you move your hand, the energy that goes -onward is not the hand. And so, when I die, the self that goes out of me -may be a force, but it will go out of me, it will not be I.” - -“But you yourself,” I said, “are the life, the force, the self, which -goes forth, which moves all things.” - -Here the children, being left to themselves, went up into thin air. They -argued the possibility of nothingness. Virginia told how when she was a -little child she used to imagine what would happen if there were no -earth. They each described how they couldn’t imagine nothing, and what -happened when they tried. Ruth told how one couldn’t imagine perfect -unity and understanding, either. I stopped them, and said it made not -the least difference in any fact whether they could or couldn’t imagine -it. Virginia, the little artist and mystic, said she thought in -childhood one touched the truth unconsciously. The others all denied -this. I said it was a pleasant and comfortable thought. - -Now I said there was one other interesting thing I wanted to speak of, -and that was memory. Most people believe we remember nothing from before -birth. This is not true. Our whole body, our very being, is a memory. -Florence said: “It is a race memory. Often we find it easy to do a thing -we never did before, because our ancestors did it.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “instinct is a memory. The fact that we are here at -all, our minds, our thinking, as well as our bodies, are a memory. We -ourselves, our present bodies, are a consequence of the lives before us, -a memory from the endless past.” - -“We are what they lived,” said Ruth, “as our bodies shall be what we -live, not what we think on the surface, but what we live.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “but after a while we do live our thoughts.” - -Henry said life was a repetition with progress. “But in the one-celled -animal,” he asked, “was life an expression of mind?” - -“I don’t know,” I said; “but it seems to me self or will must be at the -bottom of all motion. I read a theory lately, in an ‘evolution’ book, -that was very interesting. It is this: That consciousness or desire is -the source of all development, and that lower creatures are conscious of -acts which to us are automatic. The lowest creature, which is a mere bag -or stomach, would then be conscious of itself, whereas in us the -consciousness of primal organs is swamped and lost in our more intense -nervous consciousness. Thus, from the first, consciousness and will -might be the source of progress, as they are now.”[2] - -They all thought it a plausible and interesting theory. Marian said: - -“It seems likely. For do not babies have difficulty in walking, and are -conscious of every step, whereas we do it almost automatically?” - -“Yes,” I said; “it might be the same with the race.” - -I insisted that one could know the truth in certain directions, if one -were willing to admit absolute ignorance in others. I felt sure I was -immortal, but I had not the least idea how. I would not build up a -heaven, hell or universe of the dead, because all these conjectures were -likely to be false. I said one could know much and learn more only by -admitting one’s limitations. - -Of course one could not know, I said, but I myself did not believe in -personal immortality with definite memory. It might be so, or it might -not. - -“I think it is not so,” said Marian, “for we remember nothing definite -from before birth.” - -“But,” I said, “I feel sure that memory, the essence of memory, will go -on; just as our bodies and selves are a memory, so whatever we are in -this life will have its consequences, and we will be forever according -to what we are now. All progress is a memory—and a prophecy.” - -I spoke, too, of the endless stream of every least action, how the least -word, once spoken, is a spring of eternal consequence, how each moment -is tremendously important. I reminded Marian how she had once said -school was so short, it did not much matter what one did; and I had -answered her, all life was short. - -“Some people think actions under certain conditions—in foreign lands, -for instance—do not count.” - -Virginia said she lived to enjoy herself, no matter what death might be, -but her enjoyment included making others happy. I said, that was the -only good way to live, to enjoy oneself, and have a very big idea of -what enjoyment meant. - -In talking we stumbled across difficult, confusing words, “God,” -“truth,” “eternity.” Ruth said: “We ought to invent a new language, a -code of symbols, for everything in the old language has so many acquired -meanings, is so used up.” - -“We have made almost a code of our own,” said Marian. - -Alfred had said nothing to let me know whether or not he had been -convinced of immortality. It will be interesting to hear what he has -thought during the week. - -We had now finished the first and fundamental part of what we meant to -do; we would now test everything by that standard. - -“It is strange,” said Marian, “how everything we have said has sprung -from just one thing.” - -“What is that?” I asked. - -“Our idea of God,” she answered. - -I said that, according to my prediction, we scarcely found it necessary -to use the word God. - -Marian answered: “It is because the word has so many meanings, is so -easily misunderstood. But we know what we mean without saying it. My -Sunday-school teacher said God took a personal interest in each one. I -don’t believe that,” she went on, “except as we are in ourselves, and -take an interest in ourselves. That idea of hers puts God, as it were, -outside and apart.” - -I questioned Ruth concerning Christian Science. She said our idea -corresponded altogether with hers; it was the application which would -probably differ, and we had not yet spoken of that. “We will do so now,” -I answered. I asked the others if they would not like to have Ruth -speak, in a meeting later on, of Christian Science. They all said that -they would like it. - -Next we will consider art, creative genius, in relation to our idea. I -was glad the children agreed with me in preferring this to moral -disputations. I said I thought the longer we waited to speak of moral -questions, the larger view we would take of them. I wanted to avoid -pettiness. - -Our subject for next week grew naturally out of this week’s talk. I -said: “As a drop of water can be a sphere as perfect as the suns and -planets, so each smallest thing, if it be perfect in itself, typifies -the universe. You must realize that in an infinite universe there is -really no such thing as size.” - -“There is only comparative size,” said Virginia. - -“Yes,” I answered; “and it is with this idea in mind that I wish to -consider beauty, and the definite separate creation. I shall want to -know next week what each of you means by beauty, or thinks beautiful.” - -Marian—thinking of the personal side immediately—said: “I think it’s -because most people are homely, that we think some beautiful.” - -We were amused at that. I said I did not mean personal beauty in -particular. Then they asked, did I mean artistic beauty? I meant beauty -in anything. I would want to know what made certain things seem -beautiful to us. - -Virginia said: “I think there is nothing so beautiful as taking a deep, -deep breath. That brings beautiful thoughts into my head, and makes -everything right.” - -This remark did not seem pertinent to any of us. Virginia insisted, too, -that she thought a man was an artist, even if he could not express -himself; that to have artistic thoughts made one an artist. I answered, -it might be so; work itself was not good art unless it was a good -expression, no matter what the artist might be. Virginia explained: “I -mean an artist is more interesting than his work, sometimes.” - -Florence said: “A beautiful thing—in art—is a complete thing, complete -and perfect in itself.” - -“I don’t think so,” answered Virginia. “If you were to sketch a -tree—without finishing it at all—and that sketch were your whole idea -of the tree as you saw it, then it would be no sketch, but a finished -picture. A thing is a sketch until you have altogether expressed your -idea. But then, no matter how sketchy it may look, it is finished.” - -I had to interpret Florence to Virginia. I said: “Florence did not mean -completeness in the sense of exactness. She meant that the tree, no -matter how indicated, must seem to us so complete, in a world of its -own, as to leave nothing lacking or intruding; that everything in the -picture is there in relation to the tree, and the whole makes a perfect -little world. If there were suggestions of other things which had -nothing to do with the tree, such as there always are in life, it would -not be a perfect picture. You said it must be a complete expression of -the artist’s thought. That is just the completeness Florence means. It -must be a complete, self-sufficient harmonious vision of a tree. And -harmony means wholeness, doesn’t it?” - -“For instance,” said Florence, “even the smallest and most trivial poem -would be beautiful if it were perfect in itself—and complete. Take -Leigh Hunt’s ‘Jenny Kissed Me,’ such a little thing, and yet beautiful, -telling the delights of a kiss. And then take ‘Faust,’ which is much -larger and deeper; and yet each is perfect in its way, though ‘Faust’ -expresses so much more.” - -“Have you read ‘Faust’?” I answered her. - -“No,” she said, “but I know all about it.” _I_ knew that she had got her -ideas ready-made from “brother Arthur,” and I was amused. But I did not -wish to be hurried into the midst of my subject without beginning at the -beginning, so I cut the discussion as short as might be. - -Marian said: “I don’t understand what they mean.” - -I told her she would understand when we had talked it over, that I only -wanted her, before next week, to settle her own ideas as to what she -thought beautiful. - -Florence repeated: “Beauty is completeness.” - -“I think,” said Marian, “I begin to see what Florence means by that. -Like the drop of water.” - -I like to suggest the subject for the following week at the close of -each meeting, and, if possible, to speak enough of it to give them a -starting-place for their thoughts. - ------ - -[2] Cope’s theory, in “Darwinism To-day,” Kellog, p. 287. - - - - - SEVENTH MEETING - - -Ruth brought with her a “Christian Science” prayer. I said I would read -it aloud at the meeting on Christian Science. One line in the prayer -was, “purified from the flesh.” Ruth guessed, before I said anything, -that I objected to this line. She believes the body is “something to be -overcome.” All the others and myself disagreed with her. - -I said: “I, who believe in endless progress, believe the means -themselves to be good and wonderful. Unless this moment were good, -nothing it led to could be wholly good.” - -Ruth said: “The body is something unreal, unessential, which we do not -keep.” - -I answered: “We keep nothing but what we always possessed, the power of -growth.” Ruth says we get certain new truths, and then keep them. She -tries to think that my idea and Christian Science agree in every way, -except that we use different language. But she has doubts and qualms. -Then we spoke of “New Thought.” I said I thought most of what is called -so was unanswerably true, only there seemed to be an enmity between “New -Thought” and good English. Marian agreed with me. She said she could -have no respect for a man who used poor English. I would not say that, -for I had received too much information from men who did not know how to -give it. But, I said, I had often missed information rather than rewrite -a book for myself mentally, before I could read it. Marian’s father had -read aloud to her, from a “New Thought” book, this sentence: “The seen -is unreal, and the unseen is real.” - -“I don’t believe that,” she said. “Do you?” - -“No,” I answered; “I believe everything is real, the seen and the -unseen. There is nothing but reality.” - -I also said my chief objection to all these cults was that they insisted -too often on physical health as the aim of life. Virginia said: “But -just think, if we had not to be concerned about our bodies any more, if -we were perfectly well, how much we could do!” - -“Yes,” I answered, “that is true; but still it is not an end, but only a -means.” - -This was all before the meeting. Alfred had come very early, as usual, -and told me he “thought” he believed as I did concerning immortality. - -I opened the meeting by reading Marian’s paper: - -“On Sunday, November 15th, the Seekers held a regular meeting. Our -discussion was on Immortality. Most of us agreed that our self, our real -or inner self, is immortal. In the first place, if this self in us and -in every one should die there would be nothing left, because that is the -real, the life-giving power. Moreover, if we were not immortal, what -would be the use of life? Some people argue that we leave part of -ourselves and the impressions of our characters to other generations, -and so on. However, science has (almost) proved that the race is not -immortal, and at least, it is harder to believe that it is, than to -believe in the immortality of the real self. Personally, I feel that my -real self is immortal, and that I will go on being. We do not attempt to -picture any future state. This discussion is the only one in which we -did not all agree.” - -Next I read Henry’s paper: - -“To-day we continued our talk on Immortality. Immortality is entirely a -matter of faith, but the different ideas concerning it have influenced -the fates of nations. - -“The mind realizes so much that it does not accomplish, that it seems as -though there must be a continuance of spiritual action after what we -call death. If the spirit did not continue to exist, what would be the -purpose of our life? Some say our purpose is to pave the walk of life -for our descendants. Indeed, we do want those who come after us to find -life pleasant and worth while living, but that alone would not be a -sufficient purpose, for why need there be descendants? Why was there -anybody in the beginning? And besides this, we have more reason to -believe in the mortality of the race than for any of our beliefs in -regard to the soul. Science teaches us that certain of the planets, -which were once habitable, are now no longer so. This may some day -happen to our planet, and then the race for which we have worked will -cease to be. Although we do live for the race, we live more for the -spirit. We have already said that we are part of one great union. If -this is true there must be immortality, for when part of the spirit -ceased to be, there would no longer be a great, perfect union.” - -I said to Henry: “Your papers never begin as if they were going to be -right, but they end especially well. You always keep the best for the -last.” - -Now we went on to our subject of beauty. What, I asked, was the one -truly beautiful perfect thing, the thought of which gives us more -delight than any other? - -They said—bit by bit—that it was complete understanding, unity, -sympathy. - -I said I believed every beautiful thing was one which symbolized this -completeness, something that in itself seemed complete and perfect and -fulfilled. It took some time to explain this. Florence, of course, -already understood it. Virginia and Marian caught at it as a new and -elusive and valuable idea. All except Henry saw what I meant. Marian had -said, even before I expressed this idea, that beauty was symmetry. - -Henry said: “I don’t see what you mean, or why you need question it. A -beautiful thing is one that gives us a thrill of delight.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “certainly. That is like saying a thing is red -because it has a red color. What I want to know is why things delight us -with their beauty, so that we may make a standard from these, whereby to -judge all things.” - -I stopped them when they began to speak of special works of art, -because, I insisted, we would first speak of beauty in all things in the -world. - -Virginia said: “When I am in a field among animals, playing with them -all, that to me seems beautiful. I do feel sympathy with them, but it -isn’t completeness.” - -“No,” I answered, “and it isn’t beautiful, though it is delightful in -another way. Beauty is something apart from us, which we see and hear, -and which wakes in us a sense of completeness, of harmony within itself, -as if _there_ were the whole world, nothing lacking, nor yet too much. A -landscape, for instance.” - -“It is sometimes not beautiful at all,” said Henry. - -“No,” I answered, “surely not. A landscape, no matter how beautiful and -wonderful, would be spoiled by a big sign on the nearest tree, -advertising ‘Babbitt’s Soap.’” - -“Or a sign ‘To Let,’” said Henry. - -“Yes,” I answered, “though that might not be as bad, yet that, too, -would be inharmonious, and suggest all sorts of irrelevant things.” - -“But,” said Henry, “a burnt wood is harmonious, I suppose, and yet it -would be ugly.” - -“Not always,” said I, “not if it were blended into the landscape, and -mellowed.” - -“No,” Henry answered, “perhaps not, if the colors were beautiful.” - -“But if it were ugly,” I said, “it would be inharmonious. A newly burnt -forest suggests death and desolation in the midst of life and summer—an -incongruity. It suggests destruction where the thought is most unwelcome -and horrible.” - -“Then,” said Marian, “it is not the thing itself, but the feeling which -it gives us, that is beautiful.” - -“Yes,” I said, “it gives us the thrill of that complete joy. We seem to -see something which is what cannot be; complete harmony. The sight of -the sea makes Virginia feel so. And you, the out-of-doors.” - -Virginia said: “I have sometimes thought beauty is light, because the -sun is most beautiful—and, at night, the moon.” - -“But,” said I, “if there were no shadows and no darkness, sun and moon -would not be beautiful.” - -“Then contrast?” she asked. - -I said: “There must be contrast in all beautiful things, because without -contrast we could not have completeness.” - -“Yes,” she said, “in pictures it is so.” - -“A small thing,” I went on, “might symbolize completeness, as well as a -large one. A dog, in his way, a beautiful Scotch collie, for instance, -might be as beautiful as a man.” - -“Yes, indeed,” said Ruth. - -We criticized, and found lacking, according to our standard, the beauty -of prize bulldogs; the teeth were too suggestive of strife and biting, -the spots unsymmetrical, and so on. They spoke of many instances of -beauty in things, especially the beauty of little children, and fitted -them to this new standard. - -Marian said: “A drop of water is so symmetrical and harmonious, so -beautiful in the sunshine; and yet, on a dark day, on the sidewalk, it -is not beautiful.” - -I explained even that. I showed her how a drop on the sidewalk was not a -drop, but a daub, how it suggested all sorts of ugly and incongruous -things. “But,” I said, “if we take the trouble to look at a drop hanging -from anything, say from a leaf, we shall always find it beautiful.” - -She agreed to that. Then she said: “Don’t you think we sometimes do -think of our own life as a beautiful thing?” - -“Yes,” I answered. “There are moments when our own life suddenly seems -complete, when we feel an artist’s delight in it, and for a while we, -and the whole world with us, seem to have reached what we longed for.” - -Florence asked: “Don’t you think it is usually when we are having a very -good, jolly time?” - -Marian answered quickly: “No, not at all.” - -I understood what Marian meant, and did not attempt, naturally, to -explain it to the others. - -Now we all agreed, every one of us, that completeness and harmony were -beauty. But the children had started time and again to bring up -instances in art which to them seemed not to fit, and which they -thoroughly misunderstood. - -“You see,” I said, “that the beautiful thing is the same as that which -seems to us most true and good.” - -Marian said again that one idea seemed to cover everything, and that we -came to conclusions quickly. - -“Now I will tell you,” I said, “what I mean by art and the artist. In -speaking of art here to-day I mean not only painting—as one of you -thought—but everything which expresses beauty; poetry, the novel and -drama, sculpture, music, acting. You see the difference between science -and art?” - -“Science gives us knowledge,” said Marian. - -“Yes,” I answered, “or, rather, science gives us facts, truths, but -never at all the complete truth. It gives us parts as parts, never the -whole. Philosophy, on the other hand, does what we are doing here. It -reaches out for the complete whole, for understanding, for unity, but it -knows well that it can never attain the end. It reaches out for the -complete good, and is satisfied with nothing less than that unattainable -whole. But art does another thing; it tells us a lie—the most wonderful -lie in the world—truer than any truth. It says: Look, here is -completeness, harmony, wholeness, in this one small shape. And we know -it cannot be so, but still we feel it to be there. That lie gives us, as -no truth can, the thing we long for, and know to be most true. - -“Now, what do you mean by the word genius? What is genius?” I asked. - -“Usually,” said Virginia, “a genius is a crank. There is a girl in my -art class who is the frousiest, queerest crank in the world, and every -one calls her a genius.” - -“Geniuses are often queer,” said Henry. - -Ruth said, too, that many geniuses were anything but great and good in -their private lives. - -“Well,” I answered, “I am surprised by your definition of a genius. But -perhaps you will be more surprised, and sorry you said so much, when I -tell you that I consider every one of you a genius.” - -“Oh, my,” said Virginia, “how nice! I wish I were.” - -I said: “What we usually call genius is but a larger power of -understanding, a sense of unity, of the relations of things. And we all -have that, in some degree. So we all have genius. It is not a matter of -quality but of quantity. We are all the same stuff, only some more and -some less.” - -Henry said I might use the word in that sense, but he didn’t think it -was the true meaning. He said: “What definition is in the dictionary?” -We had no dictionary at hand, so I tried to prove my definition true -without a dictionary, and I succeeded. - -I said: “There is no gulf between the genius and the stupid looker-on. -Don’t you see why there could not be?” - -“I see,” said Marian; “it is because the looker-on would have to have -some genius, or else——” She could not finish. - -“Just so, Marian,” I went on; “or else he could not appreciate the -artist’s work. It is the genius in the onlooker that appreciates the -genius in the artist. And in so far as you can appreciate the genius of -Shakespeare, in so far you have the same sort of genius.” - -“Then,” said she, “art makes us recognize ourselves.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “our bigger selves.” - -“So one might speak,” she said, “of a person developing his genius for -music, or his genius for painting, and so on?” - -“Yes,” I answered; “and you see how easily and well one can use the word -in that sense.” - -Ruth asked: “If the great genius is really one who understands better -than the rest of us, and has a more harmonious vision, how is it that so -many geniuses are incomplete and very imperfect in their personal -lives?” - -“I think it is,” I said, “for the same reason that I gave you for -disease in highly developed beings.” - -“I see,” said Marian; “it is one part developed at the expense of -another.” - -They wanted to know why so many artists were peculiar, erratic, -“Bohemian”—Marian used that word. Virginia spoke again of the -happy-go-lucky people down at the art league. - -I said I thought one reason for this manner among artists was that, as -they were always looking for the new, the beautiful—which is ever -new—they had no patience with so-called respectable people, who clung -to old things because they were old, and so these artists often -purposely went to the other extreme. - -I said: “You must see that there is the tendency in all of us to make of -life a work of art, to live a complete, beautiful life.” - -“I know some people,” said Virginia, “whose lives do not seem to me in -the least artistic.” - -“That may be,” I answered, “but the tendency is there to make of life a -complete expression.” - -“That isn’t all I mean,” said Marian. “I want to know what is meant by -the artistic temperament.” - -“It is in great part,” I said, “a fiction and a false generalization. -Many experts have not the artistic temperament, and many not-artists -have it. As for artists going astray more often than others, if that be -true—which I doubt—there’s a good reason for it. Artists are always -very sensitive—naturally—and so, unless they are very strong-willed, -too, they will be more easily swayed by outside events and their -impressions.” - -“I don’t believe every one has genius,” Virginia said. “I know some -people who are perfectly stupid, and don’t understand anything.” - -“That is scarcely possible,” I answered, “if they are human beings.” - -“Do you mean to say,” asked Henry, “that you know any utterly selfish -person?” - -“Yes,” she answered; “or, at least, people who are not interested in -anything worth while outside themselves; people who can walk through an -art gallery and not look at the pictures; who love nothing beautiful.” - -“I may be one of those,” said Ruth, “for I do not care for pictures.” - -“One’s genius might not be developed in that particular direction,” I -said; “none of us are developed in all directions. But grant, at least, -Virginia, that your most stupid people have undeveloped genius which -might be awakened.” - -“All right,” she said. - -“Because if you don’t,” I answered, “I shall think your understanding of -those people is very limited. Genius does not necessarily show itself in -relation to art, to the sense of beauty. Genius is in the understanding -a man must have to be a man. How could he have any relations with his -fellows, any intercourse without some understanding? - -“But there is one essential difference between the genius of the -looker-on and the genius of the artist; it is that the artist creates, -that he must have talent. No matter how much genius a man may have, if -he does not or cannot express his genius, he is not an artist.” - -“Do you think,” asked Marian, “that an artist knows himself to be a -great genius?” - -“I think,” I answered her, “that no man ever does a great thing unless -he first believes he can do it. - -“You remember, I once said that to understand life well one must be -creative, one must do things, because life is forever creating. And so -the genius who is an artist, who has talent, who creates, by that very -creation understands better than other men. He who can draw a thing sees -it better than he who cannot.” - -“Yes,” said Virginia, “the fact that he can draw it proves that he sees -it better.” - -“And in learning to draw it,” I went on, “he came to see it better.” - -“The great artist,” said Henry, “is one who expresses his idea -perfectly.” - -“Then,” Virginia said, “I wonder if I will ever get to be a great -artist. For the thing I draw is never the thing that was in my mind.” - -“Now,” said I, “you see the distinction between genius and talent. -Genius is the power of understanding. Talent is the power of expression. -A man may have very little to say, and yet say it wonderfully well. And -another man may have much to say, and marvellous understanding of life, -but not nearly so great power of expression. That is what Florence meant -the other day, when she spoke of ‘Jenny Kissed Me,’ and of ‘Faust.’ But -the man who expresses even the smallest thing well understands, at -least, that thing. The power of expression itself implies understanding -and a sense of unity and harmony. For no matter how well a man may be -able to draw lines and objects, unless he understands composition—which -is the knowledge of harmony and completeness—he cannot paint a good -picture. And no matter how well a man may write English, however perfect -his style may be, unless he understands something of life, of symmetry -and structure, he cannot write a good book.” - -Henry said: “Poe expressed himself very well. Was he a genius?” - -“Now, stop,” I answered. “Don’t ask, ‘Was he a genius?’ Of course, he -was that. We all have genius. The question is, how much?” - -“It seems to me,” said Henry, “that in some way Poe was as great as -Shakespeare.” - -“Yes,” I said, “in some ways; and that is a very good example. Poe’s -power of expression may have been as great in some ways as -Shakespeare’s. But just think how immeasurably greater was Shakespeare’s -genius, his understanding, and grasp of life!” - -“Poe, for instance,” said Henry, “was a great mathematician, and used -his deductions in his stories.” - -The others told Henry this had nothing to do with his genius. They had a -long talk on the relative genius—that is, understanding of life—of Poe -and Hawthorne, and brought up many instances. - -Marian said: “Was Milton a great genius?” - -“What do you think?” I asked. - -“I suppose he was,” she said, “but I don’t think he had a great -understanding of human life.” - -“Have you read ‘Paradise Lost’?” I asked her. - -“Yes,” she answered. - -“Then you must have noticed his wonderful sympathy with, and -understanding of, the devil himself. He saw the tremendous contrasts of -life, and understood them.” - -“I must read that,” said Virginia, “if he wrote with understanding -sympathy of the devil. Don’t you think,” she asked, “that those who -write books for children generally understand life very well, and have -true genius?” - -“Perhaps,” I said. “What do you think? How about those artists who write -for children in the Sunday comic papers?” - -Now I spoke of the artist in us all, who sees things ever as distinct -wholes, who picks out, as he goes through life, complete visions of -beauty to reproduce in his mind. These visions have to be distant, -separate from himself. For life is so distracting and full of -contradictory passions, so vast, and, as we know it in our limited -lives, so incomplete, that we must get rid of it, we must separate -ourselves, with our universal and unfinished relations, from the perfect -and whole beauty which we wish to see in the artistic vision. - -“You must have noticed,” I said, “and you have often heard, that far-off -things are most beautiful. It is because our life, interwoven with -endless distracting circumstances, does not seem to touch those far-off -things.” - -“Autumn leaves,” said Marian, “far off look so beautiful, and near by -are full of imperfections.” - -Virginia said: “And perfection of detail in a picture, as if the things -were very near and real, does not make it better. It does not seem good. -You know Millet’s ‘Sower,’ at the Metropolitan Museum: when you go -close, it is all streaks.” - -“This dimness of detail is for two reasons, in most great pictures,” I -said. “First, the artist often paints a picture with the intention of -having it looked upon from a distance. Second, in the perfect whole, -detail is merged. All must blend and harmonize.” - -“I never thought of that,” said Virginia. “The too precise details in a -picture attract a person’s attention, and want to be looked at for their -own sake, and so break in on the harmony and wholeness of the picture.” - -“Yes, just so,” I answered. I spoke again of the sublime lie of art—the -untruth which is most true. I said: “I once had an English teacher who -used to tell us that in art one was not to give the truth, but the -impression of truth. Truths often break in and destroy the impression of -that whole truth. - -“Now,” I asked, “what is the one, the only object, of art in the world?” - -We decided, all of us, that it was complete understanding and sympathy. -Art is a symbol of that completeness for which our whole life longs. One -of them—I think it was Henry—said its aim was progress. I said it was -rather the picturing and prophecy of the end and aim of progress itself. - -They had probably heard, I said, of “art for art’s sake,” the cant of -those who believed mere form and expression to be the whole of art, and -left out of account the thing expressed. Virginia misunderstood me to -say: “Art for its own sake,” quite a different thing. So, thinking I -would agree with her, she quoted, with disapproval, an article by Kenyon -Cox, saying: “He who worked for gold sold himself, and he who worked for -fame was utterly lost.” I said I quite agreed with him; that unless one -worked first of all for the sake of expression, and the joy of it, he -was no artist. - -“And, meanwhile, his wife and children might be starving,” she answered. - -“It is praiseworthy,” I said, “to support one’s wife and children, but -it has nothing to do with art.” - -I said a man might well use his expression to earn himself bread; that -it was necessary and natural, and had often even spurred a man on to -work, but that it could not be his first aim if he were an artist. We -spoke of Shakespeare, and of Goldsmith, and of their writing under the -stress of poverty. I pointed out how, nevertheless, these men wrote of -the things they loved and understood, and how the joy of work must have -been their first aim. - -I spoke of play, and of art being like play; of the old saying: “Work -first, then play.” - -Henry said that was meant for little children. - -I told them how scientists tried to explain play by calling it a -preparation for work. Virginia liked that idea. I said that I thought -work a preparation for play, that play, interplay, the joy of creation, -was life itself. The children easily understood play in this sense of -the beloved work. Virginia said her work was all play. I reminded her -that she might have to work hard, but she would do it gladly for the -sake of that play. Marian said her school-work was almost always play. -Ruth said: “I think play and work are the same thing, and that we human -beings have made the distinction of words.” - -Art cannot rightly have any object but whole representation, but -expression of the understanding of life. I said that whenever art tried -to be moral—which was rather the business of philosophy—it lost -thereby; that whenever one took sides for a thing, one took sides -against something else, and had lost the completeness and symmetry of -art. - -Henry said he thought art ought to teach a lesson. - -I answered: “Art ought to show us the whole of life, which is -beautiful.” - -Virginia spoke of Dickens’ novels, and said she thought those were best -in which he wrote with an object, and against an abuse. - -I answered her that they were best and also worst. They were best -because he described in them the life which he knew and loved. But the -parts of these very good novels which were directed against any people -or institutions were always bad, inartistic, incongruous. As an example -I quoted the dreary dissertations on Chancery in “Bleak House,” and -those who had read it immediately agreed with me. - -Henry and Virginia questioned me several times concerning ugly pictures -which were considered “good art.” I told them that a subject not usually -thought beautiful, an old, old woman, for instance, might be made -beautiful by the artist’s insight. I did not go into details, however, -to-day. A great many ugly pictures, such as the work of Teniers, Steen, -and others, seem to me very bad art. But now I spoke to them of Wiertz, -the Belgian, who seems to me no artist at all, and concerning whom they -had both questioned me. I took as an example of bad partisan art his -picture of Napoleon in hell, with crowds of poor people making faces at -him, and pelting him with brimstone. Such a subject in itself is -impossible to art. What could be more unintelligent, petty, scattered -and ugly! - -Ruth said she did not see why an artist need understand human nature -especially well unless he was one who treated of human nature; that a -musician, for instance, need not do so. I began my answer, but gave way -to a burst of enthusiasm from Henry. - -How, said he, could a musician not understand human nature, he who knew -how to rouse us to the depths with his notes, who could move us to -tears? Surely he knew what he was doing, and the heart which he stirred. - -Ruth said she did not see why Shakespeare showed greater understanding -or completeness in his work than Emerson, for instance. Henry thought -the same. I tried to show them that Emerson in his essays was not an -artist—or, at least, not nearly so much of an artist as a -philosopher—that he strove to reach the good, the complete harmony of -the universe, but that he did not give us the vision of a present, -finished, concrete beauty. They both maintained that he did. Henry spoke -of the essays on “Friendship” and “Manners.” - -“Have you read the essay on ‘Manners’?” he asked. - -“Yes, several times,” I said. - -“And doesn’t it give you a picture?” he asked. Ruth added: “And the one -on friendship. I seem to see that friend.” - -I owned I did not feel so. I said it gave me an inspiration, an ideal of -conduct, not a picture. “Mind you,” I said, “when I call Emerson more -philosopher than artist, I am not saying philosophy is less than art.” - -“No, I understand that,” said Ruth, “but I, for one, when I read -Shakespeare, get not any especial feeling of the completeness or whole -understanding of what I read. Emerson uplifts me much more, and gives me -power to do things.” - -“That may be,” I said. “You may rate either as high or as low as you -please, but their genius is different.” - -I pointed out, too, how in Emerson’s poetry, with its rare, beautiful -couplets, and its many lapses, the genius and philosopher far outshone -the man of artistic talent. We had not time to go into detail, or to -quote largely, and I did not wish to speak much of literary criticism -and methods at this meeting, for I had planned to do so at the next, so -I think Henry and Ruth went home unconvinced of the artistic superiority -of Shakespeare over Emerson. One might almost as profitably argue who -was a greater man, Beethoven or Napoleon! - -Marian asked me whether George Eliot was an artist or a philosopher. I -told her I thought she was both, but that I believed she would have been -more of an artist had she been less a philosopher. - -I asked Alfred why he had kept so silent. Did he agree with us? - -“Yes,” he said, “I do. It is very interesting. But I don’t talk unless I -disagree.” - - - - - EIGHTH MEETING - - -Henry came several days ago to tell me he would be unable to attend this -meeting, as he was going to Washington. “I will think of the subject we -were going to discuss,” he said. - -I opened the meeting with Marian’s paper: - -“At a meeting of the Seekers, held on November 22d, we discussed the -relation which our previous discussions had to Art. We set up a standard -for judging Art, and agreed that a good piece of Art is one that makes -us feel that unity and completeness for which we are striving. Two -things are necessary, a good thought and good workmanship. We also said -that details in Art, particularly in painting, are bad because they -distract us, and we don’t see the picture as a whole. I was very glad to -have a standard by which to judge Art.” - -I said to her that I hardly thought she could already have that -standard. - -“No,” she said, “but I am going to get it.” - -Then I read Virginia’s paper: - -“Art as it is connected with our previous discussions: - -“When an artist dies he leaves behind him all the beautiful ideas he has -put on his canvas, or in his books. To be a true artist one must possess -an idea of the beautiful, and also be sympathetic with all his fellow -beings. Not only humans, but flowers and beasts also. A person who -possesses these qualities is a genius. But to be an artist one must also -have talent. Either he must have a talent for writing, music or -painting, or he cannot express the genius within himself. - -“This sympathy, this love, is something we cannot explain. And so we -call it the soul, because it is a puzzle, and we do not know what it is. -Everybody possesses some of it, even the most heartless. It may be the -love of a plant or dumb animal, but still it is love for a fellow -creature. So all of us possess genius, though few of us are artists.” - -Next I read Alfred’s paper: - -“On Sunday, the 22d, we discussed the subject of art. We said that for a -thing to be high art it must be pleasing to the eye or ear, and complete -in itself; that is, the artist or composer must so construct his work -that it will fully express some idea. In painting a picture an artist -may choose to convey some gruesome idea, and do so perfectly, but that -will not be high art, because it will be displeasing to the eye. - -“It may also be applied to books; if the author tells something so well -that it gives the reader a perfect picture of the thought, the writing -may be considered a good one.” - -I said I could tell by Alfred’s paper that he had not grasped just what -was the object of art. The children repeated that it symbolized the -unity for which we longed. I asked, did they see why we took up this -subject of art at all, what it had to do with religion? Marian had said, -before the others came, that it was the expression of our religion. -Virginia now used almost the same words, and Alfred, speaking after her, -said it in such a way as to make me believe he understood. - -I replied, this was true; art was the service of religion, the -expression of that sense of oneness with the world which can speak only -in creations, because life is an endless creation. Beauty, I said, -seemed to me the perfect symbol of truth, of completeness and symmetry. -I quoted the lines from Keats: - - “Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all - Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” - -“The subject of beauty always puzzles me,” said Ruth, “because beautiful -things so often are not good. Take the ocean, for instance. It is so -beautiful; it gives us above all things the sense of immensity and -harmony. And yet, think how cruel it is! Think of the shipwrecks and the -suffering!” - -“It is not the ocean’s fault,” said Virginia. “That is because we are -adventurous and go out in ships.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “and we are willing to take the chance and pay the -price. But surely you do not think of the ocean as cruel, as either good -or bad. Beauty is not in anything, but is in the vision of him who -beholds it. It is a momentary vision of the completeness of life.” - -“Beauty is always a thing of moments. Don’t you think so?” asked Marian. -“It depends upon you. At one time you may see a thing as beautiful, and -at another time not.” - -“Surely,” I said. - -“Why is it,” she asked, “that some people cannot appreciate beauty in -one special form, either in music, or painting, or poetry?” - -I said: “Our senses are channels through which we get the feeling of -beauty. But no matter whence the feeling comes, it is that same joy. One -man finds it in a picture, and another in a symphony, and another in the -woods. Do you know those two lines by William Blake: - - ‘Who knows but every bird that cleaves the air - Is an immense world of delight closed by our senses five.’ - -“There may be other senses than ours which bring the same message. Helen -Keller hears and sees it with her fingers in her world of darkness. - -“Throughout the centuries,” I went on, “in all beginnings and primitive -times, art was the expression of religion. The first rude drawings were -religious symbols; drama and the dance and music were religious; and all -the oldest literature in the world, the Vedas, the Bible, and the old -Scandinavian myths were religious books: the Greek drama, and—can you -think of others?” - -They brought forth many instances; Marian mentioned the English miracle -plays, and Virginia spoke of American Indian drawings, saying, however, -that they were more often used for communication. I showed her how the -first rude figures of animals, the totems, for instance, were also used -as religious symbols. - -I spoke, too, of the way in which art related us with great minds in -ages past. “Ruskin mentions that,” said Ruth and Marian. - -“But it is a one-sided relation,” I said, “for we cannot speak to them.” - -“I wish we could,” answered Marian. “I so often wish I could ask them -questions.” - -We said again how hard it was, when asked, to explain to outsiders the -purpose of our club. Ruth said: “When I try to tell people, they answer: -‘Oh, yes, I suppose you just talk nonsense, and have a good time.’” - -Marian said people wondered that she was willing to stay in-doors on -Sunday afternoons. - -Virginia said: “I don’t tell any one of it.” - -I suggested to them that if one got a perfect standard of beauty in art, -it might be all one would need as a moral standard to make one’s life -beautiful in the same way. - -Now we spoke of the novel. I said I had noticed that last week when I -told them of completeness in novels and plays, they seemed not to know -just what I meant. Florence said she knew. “It means,” she said, “that -every word and every person and every incident must count. It must not -be like life, where distracting and unimportant things are always -happening.” - -“Just so,” I answered. She had learned all that from brother Arthur. - -I went over it more explicitly, citing instances, and then told them -that we were all of us story-tellers, in the sense that we tried to make -every story complete. - -“In telling anything that has happened,” I said, “we naturally leave out -anything that has no effect on the story.” - -“And,” added Florence, “we unconsciously make up little details that -help to fill out the story.” - -“Now,” said Marian, “I think I must forgive some one I know, who is -always exaggerating.” - -“I know some one who does it all the time,” said Florence. - -“I don’t think that makes it right, though,” Ruth protested. - -“No,” I answered, “not right, but not wrong, either. When we realize the -artist’s tendency in us all to turn everything into a story, first, we -will not judge people harshly for doing it, and, second, we will be -careful when we are trying to tell the truth, not to allow ourselves to -be cheated by the artist in us.” - -“I think,” said Virginia, “people often miss-tell an event, and get it -all twisted, because they really forget what was said.” - -“Of course,” answered Ruth, “one is not to blame for forgetting.” - -I said: “I think that most of us, unconsciously, are story-tellers in -both senses. Many of us are constantly telling ourselves stories about -ourselves.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Ruth, Marian and Florence. They gave me a hint of those -wonderful romancings. Marian is always beautiful in her stories, “as in -a real novel,” she said. Florence said she was always as homely “as a -mud fence,” but I could see by her expression that none the less she was -always triumphant. Virginia in her stories was accomplished and a great -artist. - -I forgot to be one of them for a moment. I said: “Until very lately I, -too, used to tell myself stories about myself.” - -“I still do it,” said Ruth. - -On the subject of unimportant details and characters, we had a long -talk. We spoke of Dickens’ many characters and interwoven stories, and -Virginia maintained that many had nothing to do with the plot, that they -were soon forgotten, and there seemed to be no special reason for them. -Marian saw, however, that at times six or seven plots might be woven -into a single story. Instead of fitting the standard to Dickens, they -fitted Dickens to the standard, and found, indeed, that “The Tale of Two -Cities,” which had least characters and distracting stories, was most -interesting, and well constructed. Virginia spoke of “Lorna Doone,” and -we all agreed with her that the long descriptions of how things were -done—fishing, for instance—which the author gave because he was -interested in the country, and which had nothing whatever to do with -characters and story, made it monotonous and almost spoiled an otherwise -delightful book. - -Virginia said: “He even tells what pattern of suit he wore when he went -fishing.” - -They found the same fault with Scott. Indeed, none of them likes Scott. -The criticisms were amusing. His blonde heroines were always weak, his -dark ones strong, but none of them interesting. Ivanhoe was a flabby -nobody. - -We spoke of Shakespeare, of the part his clowns played in the story. - -Marian said: “I see in what sense his plays are complete, and I feel in -him wonderful understanding of men and great sympathy. But he doesn’t -uplift me.” - -“Do you want to be uplifted into the lofty nothing?” I asked. “Is not -humanity good enough for you?” - -We spoke, too, of “Little Women,” a much beloved book. We noticed how -Louisa Alcott had changed the story to make it a story. - -I pointed out to them what it was that made melodrama; namely, the -intrusion of events coming from without, not springing from the reaction -of characters upon one another, or the intrinsic situation—such as -robbers, marvellous rescues, or fortunes left by distant relatives. We -had a long talk on this subject, and the children told many stories. But -I doubt whether all finally quite understood the distinction, which is -often hard to make. Is the coming and going of the ships in “The -Merchant of Venice” melodramatic? I told them I should not call it so, -since it was bound up with the whole story, almost like the persons. I -said that the melodramatic was more like life than the purely dramatic, -because in life, with its thousand relations, outside events made -changes constantly. But the story was more true if it contained within -itself its own complete world, like a miniature universe. Each work of -art must represent the whole. “And this is why,” I said, “in a really -well-built play or novel, a trained person usually can foretell the -outcome. Suppose that we knew everything in the universe, and all the -relations of all things to each other, we should be able to foretell -every event.” - -“Perhaps that is why novels grow tiresome,” said Ruth, “for we get to -know just how they will end.” - -I spoke of the author leaving out his one-sided moral verdict of his own -story. After representing life, the artist should not judge; first, -because his judgment is usually partial and incomplete, and breaks the -unity; second, because he thereby shows lack of understanding and -respect for his reader, who might be trusted to draw his own -conclusions. Hawthorne’s stories are often spoiled by his moral comment -at the end. At this point I spoke of missing Henry. I am certain he -would not have agreed as readily as the others. - -I said moral discussions were in place in books on moral subjects, not -in artistic works. I mentioned especially the worth, ability and good -influence of the writers of so-called “muckraking” articles in the -magazines. Virginia waxed enthusiastic. She asked why should Dickens not -write of abuses in his novels, when by so doing he actually brought -about social reforms? I said that for the social reformer they were -right, but not for the artist. I warned her not to confuse the two. - -Here Marian spoke of Milton, and of his giving up his artistic work for -years to serve his country in politics. - -One could not wish he had done otherwise. A man’s life comes before art, -before any other expression. I said many of the “muckrakers” were men -who might have been artists, but who felt called to work in this more -direct way for the beauty of life, because they could not tolerate its -ugliness. But they were not artists; they were something different. - -“That may be so,” answered Virginia, “but just the same I admire those -brave, muckraking men more than artists.” - -“They are often more admirable,” I said, “but that does not make them -artists. If you admire a soldier more than a poet, that does not make -him a poet.” - -They spoke of the reformers working for the present, the artist for all -time. - -“But,” said Virginia, “the result of the reformer’s work will last for -all time, too.” - -I spoke again of “for” and “against” in books, of how we felt that -writer to be the greatest who understood and loved the villains as well -as the heroes, and saw the strength and weakness of both alike. They all -agreed to this, and quoted plenteous incidents; among others, the -outcast in “Bob, Son of Battle,” which they had all read and loved. “How -I cried over him!” said Marian; and Ruth and Virginia had cried, too. -Here Alfred came in with his enthusiasm. - -“Didn’t you cry over it?” asked Marian. - -“No,” he answered, “but I almost did.” - -“Oh, of course not,” she said. “I forgot you are a boy.” - -“He wouldn’t dare admit it, even if he did,” I said. - -Virginia said she usually loved the bad characters more than the good -ones. - -We saw how the false simplicity of villains and heroes—as represented -in the poor novel—of all good and all bad, and their appropriate -punishment and reward, was untrue to life and human nature. Surely, they -said, all men had in them both good and bad. Scott, they insisted, made -this mistake. - -I spoke of the psychological and the dramatic methods in novels. I said -to Marian: - -“George Eliot, of whom you spoke the other day, is an example of the -psychological method.” I explained the two methods to them, the one -going into minute details of motive and thought, the other suggesting to -us the motive and thought through the action itself. - -Marian does not like George Eliot. She greatly prefers Dickens and -Thackeray. - -I said I liked George Eliot, but still I preferred the dramatic method -for several reasons. I thought that the passions, moods and changes of -the soul were too complicated ever to be put down by any author so as to -give the impression of truth. - -Ruth agreed with me, and said: “Perhaps that is why I like plays -better.” - -To put down how a man would act under any particular circumstances is -much more convincing than to tell how he would feel; for life always -expresses itself in creative action. I said: “A reader likes to be -trusted and understood by the author. He would rather imagine the minute -details of feeling as part of the whole swing of action, to fill out the -picture for himself, to be recognized by the author as a fellow genius.” - -Ruth said novels tired her, because most novelists had only three or -four characters which they used over and over again. I answered her that -this was because they wrote out of their own lives, and their characters -were usually but different sides of themselves. I said many great -painters used only few models. Virginia said she had remarked that many -painters always painted faces that resembled themselves. - -At this point, just as I was beginning to speak of wit and humor, -Virginia’s brother came into the room—in this case, for many reasons, -an unavoidable interruption. I had so far always kept these two hours -closed against all visitors. Although he sat down in the adjoining room, -and was warned to listen and not to talk, his presence made them at once -self-conscious and superficial. I asked them whether they knew any -distinction between wit and humor. - -Virginia answered: “I always think of a witty person as one who has good -thoughts and expresses them cleverly, and of a humorous person as a boor -and booby, like that one in the next room.” - -After the laugh had passed, I said: “Virginia, I can think of only one -expression that will fit you just now, and that is slang. I think you -are talking——” - -“Through my hat?” - -“Yes, exactly. This to me seems the difference between wit and humor: -The witty man is he who says or writes clever, funny things, just to -show how clever and keen he is. Conceits are witty, because wit is -essentially conceited. It may be very interesting and entertaining, but -it always makes you think of the author rather than of his characters. -It is always superficial, the trick of words, and it doesn’t keep well -through the ages. A pun, for instance, is always witty.” - -“Ough!” said Virginia, “not always!” - -“Bernard Shaw,” I said, “is a good example of wit. Humor is the -understanding of the petty foibles, humors and lovable weaknesses of -men. Remember that the word humor really means mood or state of the -blood, that it is a word very like the word ‘human.’ Humor is always -human. It is the large, genial way of looking at life of him who sees -how little men are, and how great they are at the same time. It is a -sense of absurd contradictions, of the unity of utterly unlike things, -almost a parody of completeness. All humor, all wit, everything funny is -an incongruous bringing together of things that do not seem to belong -together.” - -“I suppose,” Marian said, “that is why we laugh when we see some one -fall in the street?” - -“Yes,” said Virginia, “for their heads and the sidewalk don’t belong -together.” - -“Now, seriously,” asked Marian, “what makes me want to laugh when I see -any one fall, especially a grown person? And I must laugh, especially if -it is a fat person, no matter how hard I may try to be polite.” - -“That’s because you expect a grown person and a fat person to be -dignified, and to fall is very undignified. Imagine his high hat flying -one way, his gold-headed cane another, and his heels in the air. But if -a little boy falls you don’t laugh, because little boys are meant to -fall.” - -“When my mother falls,” Ruth said, “I can’t keep from laughing, though I -hate to see her fall.” - -“But everything funny grows stale very soon,” said Marian. - -“That is,” I answered, “because when we get used to a combination it no -longer seems incongruous.” - -“Well,” asked Marian, “when you laugh at people because they are boors -and funny, why is that?” - -“That is,” I said, “because you feel yourself to be so vastly superior.” - -“Is it?” she asked. “I suppose so.” - -“And next time you want to laugh at any one,” I said mock-seriously, -“just think of it first, that you are considering how superior you are.” - -She seemed greatly impressed and quite cast down by this remark. - -I said: “Perhaps a good distinction to make between wit and humor is -that wit laughs at people and humor laughs with them.” - -“Isn’t satire wit?” asked Marian. - -I thought a moment. “Yes, surely,” I answered. - -As I spoke again of the relation of beauty to our subject, Ruth said: - -“What has all this about wit and humor to do with our subject?” - -“Not much,” I said, “except that it shows how the spirit of fun has a -part in harmony; and that it shows humor to be understanding and a human -thing. But it is interesting for itself, isn’t it?” - -“Yes,” she answered, “it is very interesting.” - - - - - NINTH MEETING - - -Ruth was unable to come. - -Not a single paper this week! When all but Florence and Marian had -arrived without papers, I began to be disappointed; but when they came -in, I said: - -“I am going to give up the club.” - -You should have seen Marian’s serious face. “Why?” she exclaimed. - -“Because you haven’t brought me any paper.” - -They all were too busy. But Florence had given Henry a good little talk -on the meeting he had missed. - -I asked them whether they had enjoyed these meetings on art as much as -the first meetings. They all said yes, quite as much. I spoke again of -the relation of our idea to art. It seemed to them all that art was the -expression of the religious ideal. Virginia said: “It relates us with -others and gives us sympathy.” Henry said it was the action of religious -feeling. - -“Just as,” he added, “it is said one knows a man by his actions.” - -“You know what I mean,” said I; “it might be well expressed in a single -phrase that would stay in your minds. Art is the symbol of completeness. -It must be in itself a tiny world, a miniature universe. Do you remember -the delight you used to get when you were little, from a tiny doll’s -house, from a little thing that seemed real, that seemed a small, -perfect world in itself? This joy you get from every work of art, the -joy of a complete world.” - -“As in the novel,” said Marian, “which is not like real life, with its -incompleteness and distraction, but has within itself all the people and -all the things necessary to itself.” - -I spoke again of the way in which I meant to discuss questions of -conduct according to the rules of art. I said: “Life can be made -beautiful and complete in the same way, and by learning these large laws -we may avoid the pettiness of moral discussion. You, being a self, are -the symbol of the whole Self. - -“Now,” I continued, “we will speak of poetry, of painting, of all the -arts, and you will see that the laws of all are the same laws. What is -the difference between prose and poetry?” - -They mentioned various differences, such as subject-matter, form, manner -of treatment. - -“The chief difference between prose and poetry,” I said, “is that poetry -is written in poetry.” - -That seemed an evident difference. - -“Metre, rhyme, musical measure of the words are qualities of poetry -alone.” - -“But all poetry doesn’t rhyme,” said Virginia. - -“No,” I answered, “but all poetry has metre. Tell me another difference. -In what way does poetry affect you differently from prose?” - -“I know what you mean,” said Florence. “You mean because it has metaphor -and simile.” - -“That, too, but something else.” - -Marian answered, with some hesitation: “Poetry is emotional. It stirs -your feelings more than prose.” - -“That is what I meant,” I said; “it resembles music because it stirs you -as much by the sound as by the sense. And just because it is more unreal -and distant, it seems more real and close and complete in its grip. A -thing must be far off to give us the sense of completeness and beauty. -Music is to me the art of arts, because it expresses everything and -defines nothing; because it is like life itself, rather than a -description of life.” Henry assented enthusiastically. I went on: “You -spoke of metaphor and simile. We find it not only in all poetry, but in -all prose. And what is it but the relationing of things to one another, -the likeness and the bond between things unlike? And so keen is it, so -natural, so close to us, that we use it every day, we are poets every -moment in this respect, for we hardly ever speak without using metaphor. -We say a sharp look, a piercing look, and so use metaphor. Do you see?” - -Marian said: “When we say in school, for instance, that our teacher -looked daggers, we are using metaphor.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “and even slang is often good metaphor.” - -Alfred asked: “If you call a person a lemon, is that metaphorical?” - -“Surely,” I said; “but I think it would hardly do in poetry, because it -is too unsympathetic.” - -“How about 23 skidoo?” asked Virginia. “Is that simile or metaphor?” - -“That,” said I, “is less metaphor than nonsense.” - -I said that in the modern play, which could not use the figurative -language of poetry, the metaphor and simile were replaced by the symbol. -I could not go into this, however, as none of them, except Florence, had -read any modern plays. So I spoke of the fairy story, and how it often -stood for something which was not itself. “Yes, like Brandt,” said -Florence. I did not dwell on this point, but went on to the subject of -taking sides in poetry. I said that good poetry could not possibly take -sides; that all didactic and party poetry was poor. - -“I don’t see that,” answered Henry. - -“No,” said Florence, “he wouldn’t let me convince him of it the other -day.” - -Henry went on: “Take Whittier’s war-time poems; they were written with a -purpose and taking sides.” - -I said: “I don’t consider Whittier a great poet. But that’s not the -point. His war-time poems are some of them good, perhaps, but the best -are not partisan. A man may sing of freedom, and still not be partisan, -as a man may sing of his native land, and need not therefore say mean -things of his neighbor.” - -“It seems to me,” said Henry, “that every work of art should have a -purpose.” - -“Surely,” I answered. “I never said it should not have a purpose. I said -it should not take sides. Every work of art has the purpose of being -beautiful, complete and true. So I suppose you might say that art is -against ugliness. But ugliness is only a discord, a false vision which -art overcomes with its beauty.” - -“I understand,” said Henry. “You mean one might be for something without -being against anything.” - -“Yes,” I said, “one can be for completeness, for unity, for beauty, -which includes all things. An artist pictures life; in telling a story -he may see that some things lead to ruin and some to happiness, but he -will not say he is for some and against others. He will stand far above -them and see them all as they are, he will love them all, he will create -a complete and individual world.” - -Virginia said: “I suppose you don’t consider Burns a great poet.” - -“Yes, I do,” I answered, “except in his didactic poems.” - -“Well,” she said, “‘Scots wha’ ha’ wi’ Wallace bled’ is partisan.” - -“No,” I answered, “it is martial, but it gives the foe his due. ‘Break -proud Edward’s power.’ That, it seems to me, is a tribute to Edward.” - -At first they dissented, but finally agreed with me that most martial -poems—all great ones—give the enemy his due. Marian spoke, in this -relation, of Homer. - -We considered high-falutin style and books that are all climax, without -rhythm and reservations of strength, unlike life, which is all -heartbeats and pulsations. Florence told of a book which had “six -climaxes on every page.” I spoke of the conventional phrases which mar -style, because we feel them to be imitated. - -“They are not original,” said Henry. - -“No,” I answered; “and originality simply means truth in the writer.” - -“We feel,” said Virginia, “that he didn’t take the trouble to think for -himself.” Then she spoke of having been made, in school, to compare the -like thoughts of different authors, and asked whether their being alike -made them less original. - -“No,” I answered, “for two might see life in the same way, each for -himself.” - -I went on to speak of music. “To me,” I said, “it seems the most perfect -of arts, because it is in itself harmony, the very word we associate -with this idea of completeness. I don’t know much of the laws of musical -composition, but I know they are the laws of rhythm and harmony, the -laws of all motion. Of course, it is figurative to speak of the music of -the stars, and yet in a sense their motion is music, because it follows -the laws of music. Music is the least definite of all arts, yet the most -real and near. It arouses our emotions as nothing else can do.” - -Most of them felt as I, that music was most gripping in its effects. -Marian, however, did not, since she is not at all musical. I spoke of -words and intellectual ideas in relation to music. Virginia said it made -her feel glad to hear music, that she had to beat time. The others all -enjoy music most when it has a literary annotation, either in opera, or -in concerts with verbal explanations. At least they want to know the -name of every melody. In this I said I agreed with them, because knowing -the name immediately put me into the mood the composer wished, and saved -me those first five minutes of uncertainty which every strange music -awakens. - -Henry said: “When I learn a new piece on the piano my teacher and I -always talk it over. I have a piece called ‘Spring in the Wood.’ We say, -‘Now we are in the border of the wood, now we hear the water rippling -far off, now there are the ferns at the edge.’” - -We spoke of painting. - -I explained to them the point of interest, the point around which all -other lines, colors and interests must centre, to which all are made -subordinate. Virginia said: “But it need not be in the centre of the -picture.” - -“No,” I answered, “it had better not, since that would be monotonous and -stiff. But wherever it is, it makes itself a centre, and makes the -picture a complete whole.” - -Virginia told of the plan of completing the central figure in a sketch, -and leaving the rest unfinished—as a substitute, as I showed her, for -the effectiveness of color. All eyes should be directed to the central -figure. - -I went into technical details of lines, angles and motion, with help -from Virginia, to show how color might express mood and action, as well -as did the figures, and so would make the whole harmonious. Virginia -spoke of “curly clouds” in a picture of a burial, made at the art -school, where the lines of the clouds were too gay, and spoiled the -solemn effect of vertical lines. - -From balance of line we went on to balance of light and shade and color. -First I explained to them—what most of them knew—the complementary -colors, and the cycle of color; that a picture containing blue and -orange, or green and red, has within itself all the color there is. -Think of the hideousness of a blue and yellow or red and blue picture! -“It would have to be toned down with the third color,” said Virginia. - -I spoke of the literary intrusion into painting, of the necessity of a -complete idea in the picture itself; the difference between illustration -and art. A picture may have an illustrative name, but if it be complete, -beautiful and satisfying without any name, it is not illustration. - -What is excellent craftsmanship might be bad art. - -Virginia and Marian spoke of some pictures in the Metropolitan Museum, -which they had been told to admire, and could not; some of them pictures -by Meissonnier, in which satins, silks and velvets were done to -perfection. Henry spoke, too, of certain pictures of German monasteries -which were painted for the purpose of picturing the life, with precise -detail, and were not beautiful. I told them of the difference between -art and craft. Art is a complete expression of life by one man. Craft is -part of a big completeness, the work of one man which has a purpose in -relation to the work of others; as a craftsman may make the cornice in a -palace which an artist designed. The craftsman does a part, the artist -plans the whole. - -Marian said: “Sometimes some one says to me, ‘that picture is perfectly -beautiful,’ and I can’t see it so. Then again I may think a picture -beautiful, and another person will not. Why is that?” - -“Because,” I said, “your taste, your standard, is different.” - -“Is it just taste?” she asked. - -“Taste with a reason,” I said, “even if you don’t know the reason.” - -“I think,” said Virginia, “that when an artist expresses himself well, -every one must realize it.” - -“Not at all,” I said. “One has to be trained to understand pictures, as -one has to be trained to see.” I told them of Turner, whose pictures -look beautiful to some, and to others are mere blotches of color. - -“A picture is not what it represents,” I said. “One must learn to see -it. A proof of this is that babies, quite able to recognize objects, do -not recognize pictures. And so some people are babies all their lives in -relation to art. - -“Now,” I asked, “do any of you think photographs artistic?” - -I believe Henry was going to say he did, but was overwhelmed by the -others. Alfred said: “In a photograph all the unimportant things are -there with the important.” - -Marian said that there, as in life, there was intrusion of inharmonious -details. - -The out-of-focus and blurred photograph sometimes is artistic, because -of the lost details and the effect of distance; but, just therefore, it -is untrue to fact. - -Virginia said photographic art was bad art. She said: “My teacher gave a -good example. If a fire-engine were tearing along the street, you would -be so interested in that you would see nothing else. There might be -crowds of people, but you would not notice them. But if a camera were to -be snapped, they would all be in it and obscure the engine. You see only -what is important, but the camera sees everything.” - -“That is a good illustration,” I said. “And so you see we are -story-tellers in vision as well as in narrative. We see things complete -and dramatic, whether they are so or not, just as we must tell a -complete story. Do you realize how all the arts are related, how they -all have the same laws? And these, I believe, are the laws of life. - -“Did you ever think of it, that the artist sees only with his eyes, -whereas you see with your eyes, fingers, ears, with all your senses? You -see a table square, high, hard, smooth, but an artist sees it only in -perspective, from a certain point of view. To get completeness you must -limit yourself, because you cannot see the universe. The drop of water -is most complete and perfect when it is a limited, spherical drop, not -when it is scattered abroad in mist. - -“The artist,” I said, “is one who sees things beautiful, even when to -others they do not seem so; and to see things beautiful is to see -truth.” - -None of the children disputed this much-disputed fact—for to youth it -is obvious—so I myself had to answer the objections. I said: “One might -say that in life many things are ugly, and these things are true, -therefore to see these things as beautiful is not to see them truly. But -we believe that the whole universe, altogether, could we know it, would -be harmonious and beautiful; therefore to see things as beautiful is to -see them in relation to that truth, and as symbols of that truth.” - -Marian said: “We must believe that the whole universe is harmonious; -anything else is unthinkable. We feel it in ourselves.” - -“You mean, because we have the laws of harmony in our own nature?” - -“Yes. The whole must be harmonious.” - -We spoke of instances in which ugly things could be seen as beautiful. -The empty lot across the street, with its boards, rubbish and shanties, -is ugly; but at times, under certain conditions, and by shutting out a -part with my hand, I see it as a beautiful wild landscape. - -Marian said: “Near us are some poor, ugly houses, that I hate to see; -but sometimes I see little children at the windows, who are so sweet and -graceful they make the houses look beautiful.” - -“There are a great many pictures,” said Virginia, “but I think there is -not much art. Do you?” - -“No,” I said. “To be a painter does not make one an artist. Do you -remember hearing people make the criticism that a picture was pretty, -but not beautiful? Prettiness in art is a sad fault, one that perhaps -you, too, have found. But do you know just what it is?” - -Virginia said she had often seen pictures that were just pretty, without -character. - -I said: “When a painter makes pictures to please the taste of people -whose taste he does not respect, when a would-be artist works to catch -applause or money from the crowd by satisfying their bad taste, and does -not even believe in the love of truth and beauty which sleeps in them -all, then the thing he paints is usually pretty. He will paint a little -child with a kitten in her lap, because that is a pretty subject, but it -will be the most affected child and the posiest kitten!” - -“It is superficial,” they said. - -“Yes, for he does not know the true character of those for whom he -works, nor care to know his subject. The smirking advertisements one -sees are a good example of prettiness. But many artists, working for -money alone, fall into this cheap, easy habit of pleasing the worst -taste.” - -“Wouldn’t you call ‘The Vicar of Wakefield’ a pretty book?” asked Henry. - -“No, indeed,” I answered; “it is far too genuine and lifelike to be -merely pretty.” - -Henry insisted it was written for money, and was merely sweet and -pleasing. The others disagreed with him so strenuously, I had hardly a -chance to say, as before, that one might write for money the thing -needful to be said. Virginia asked whether I did not think Jessie Wilcox -Smith’s drawings merely pretty? I said I thought them so now and then, -but that sometimes her deep love and understanding of childhood made -them shine with loveliness. - -Marian said: “Some people are merely pretty and uninteresting.” - -“Often,” I answered, “they want just that. They look for superficial -admiration, and show only their superficial prettiness.” - -“But, of course, that isn’t art,” said Marian. - -“Sometimes it is,” answered Florence. - -I spoke of sculpture as the Greek drama of visual art, a metaphor that -appealed to those of them—Florence, Marian, Henry—who knew enough of -Greek drama, with its masks and buskins, and its far-offness, to -understand. The distance, the unlifelikeness of the material, is its -charm. The colored German marbles lose artistic beauty in gaining -lifelike color. - -“In that case,” said Alfred, “I should think the process of coloring and -the newness of the material would interest one so much as to draw one’s -attention away from the statue.” - -“I don’t think it is only that,” I answered; “for surely wax works, -which are quite common, with all their lifelike color and softness, do -not give us the thrill of reality and beauty that we get from a marble -statue.” - -“I think,” said Henry, “it is just the coldness and hardness of marble, -changed by the artist into shapes of life and warmth, that make it -beautiful.” - -“Yes,” I said, “exactly. The sculptor expresses his idea in every curve -of the human form, and makes human shapes say universal things. They -express by attitude and line power, beauty, tenderness. In the -‘Mercury,’ the lines of that headlong figure, to half-shut eyes, -represent the curve and angle of flight itself.” - -Virginia now spoke of Michael Angelo, and his misdrawing of figures, -which are none the less beautiful and powerful. I said he was so great a -genius that his genius, as often happens, overshadowed his shortcomings -as a craftsman. - -Here we came, I know not how, on the subject of drama. I said that to me -it could never seem a perfect form of art—that is, the acted -drama—because the actors usually obtruded their personality, and so -broke in on the unity of expression—the creation of one mind—necessary -to art. But the children, better at the art of looking on than I, and -not so quick to note the significance of personality, said they forgot -entirely the actors themselves, and felt as though the thing were a -piece of life. Virginia and Florence said they felt as if they were -the author, as if by being spectators they took part, and Virginia said -she always did hate the villains! - -Of architecture we observed that it appealed directly to the emotions, -like music; that it made us feel, we knew not why, glad or sad, or calm -or overawed. Virginia spoke of the Palais de Justice in Brussels, which -made her feel very tiny; and this naturally brought us to speak of the -feeling of reverence and awe. - -“Whenever we feel small,” I said, “and see another thing as vast, that -vastness is in our minds, it is our own immense other self which -overawes us.” - -They said they did not know what the feeling was. Virginia said: “When I -have it, if I try to think of what it is, it is already gone. But the -next time I see the same thing, perhaps some beautiful picture, that -feeling is there again.” - -Virginia and Florence said they never had any reverence for particular -people, because they were older, for instance. But, I said, at least -they must have reverence for people, as such, for the self in all -people. They granted that. - -We spoke of the completeness of that architecture which showed outwardly -its inner use, and the spirit of its land and people; of distinctly -American problems, the skyscraper, the selfishness of New York builders, -who did not consider the beauty of the whole city, and so wrought -ugliness. The children gave examples, and did not agree with me -altogether, Henry saying that a railroad station built like a Roman -temple made you feel like travelling more than did the gloomy Grand -Central. When he asked me how about the banks built like Greek temples, -I said that might be more appropriate, since some of us did worship -money! - -He spoke of the library at Washington as fitting exactly to its use; its -big, comfortable rooms made one feel like studying and reading all the -day. - -“I wonder if anything could make me feel like that!” said Virginia. - -When the others had left, I took a walk with Alfred. He said: “I didn’t -exactly understand what you meant by my being big when I feel little.” - -“I meant,” I said, “that when you feel awe before the immensity of the -universe, under the stars, or by the sea, the thought of immensity is in -yourself, and it is really yourself who become immense. You realize your -whole self. And before that realization your daily life and thoughts and -your own small self seem very tiny. It is one part of yourself, the -small part, standing in awe and wonder before that other immense self.” - -He understood that. - -I went on: “I only mentioned it to-day, and did not expect you to -understand. I often do this, either to give a suggestion for the next -week, or else to see what really interests you.” - -“I think it is a good idea,” he said. - - - - - TENTH MEETING - - -Virginia could not come. We did have six present, however, as we had a -visitor, Leo, a boy of sixteen. - -Ruth brought with her a box of candy, given her by a sympathetic aunt, -who has an opinion, I surmise, of our club. They all assured me that -candy would not disturb their thoughts. Marian said: “There’s nothing I -can’t do, and eat candy at the same time.” I do, myself, think it was an -improvement. We had a lively and interesting meeting, and much -sweetness. - -Marian wrote a paper on our meeting of two weeks past, following the -notes I had made for Florence to use in her talk with Henry. It lacked -Marian’s usual originality, as it was built directly on my thought. She -even used one phrase of mine, word for word, namely: “Life proves all -things by creative action.” - -“Why did you use it?” I asked. - -“Because,” she said, “I didn’t understand what it meant, and I wanted to -ask you.” - -“I am glad,” I said, “for it is a thing of which I meant to speak -to-day. All action is creation and self-expression; everything is -changing and in action all the time, because it is striving to come into -better relation with all other things. All art and all life is -self-expression and action at every moment. We must create if we would -be complete. That is why I love the active and creative life.” - -“Yes,” said Marian, “I understand. You had told us so before. But I -didn’t know it was what you meant by that sentence.” - -Now I read Marian’s paper for this week: - -“On December 6th the Seekers held a meeting, in which we continued our -discussion on Art. We first considered the subject of Art in Poetry. -Poetry differs from prose in two essential respects, namely, it is -farther off, and it expresses the emotions, and does so in a musical -form. Our standard for Art applies in poetry, as well as in other -things. In connection with poetry we took up the subject of controversy -in art, and especially in poetry. We decided that a controversial poem, -or novel, is not good art because it is one-sided and incomplete. If a -man writes on one side of a question he cannot be really in that -sympathetic frame of mind that is necessary for the production of a good -piece of art. We next took up art in music, and decided that music is -the most complete or artistic of all arts, because it is farthest off, -and expresses most completely our ideal. We also considered sculpture, -and noted the fact that the sculpture is the expression in human form of -the sculptor’s ideas. We also considered painting, and after we had -again applied our standard, Miss Sampter told us that every picture has -a central object or figure, the figure of most importance; that all the -lines of the picture are direct toward it; and that in every good -painting there must be contrast, and all the primary colors must be in -it. It is complete in every way. All the colors, light and shade, and -the idea of the painter well worked out, complete it. We considered, -besides, the subject of architecture, and said that a building should in -some measure express the purpose for which it was to be used.” - -Ruth said she understood all this, and could gather something of our -last meeting. She did not quite see what was meant by a thing in art -being “far off.” Henry told her it meant that though removed from -reason, and not clearly defined or lifelike, it appealed to our -sympathies and emotions, and we understood it all the better. Then I -read Henry’s paper: - -“In poetry and music, as in all the other arts, it is completeness, -complete harmony, which makes a thing beautiful. Of all the arts the -most beautiful is music. Harmony is everything in music, and is the -principal in musical composition. A piece of music always closes with -the first note of the scale, thus completing the chord. If it were -otherwise we would say there was something lacking. The phrase itself -shows us that what we want is completeness, though few people stop to -think of its full meaning when they use it. - -“We have said that the farther away we are from something, the more -beautiful it seems. This is true of music, which, besides being the most -beautiful of arts, is the farthest away, for we cannot say anything -definite with it, but must leave so much to the sympathy of the -listeners. I like to think of this as a symbol of the beautiful -completeness we hope to realize some far-distant day, and that then -there will be something still more beautiful, that we shall know in -times still farther off.” - -I thought this an excellent paper, and I told Henry so. I said I was -glad he had written more of musical composition than I had been able to -tell him. - -We spoke of some of our past meetings. Florence said: “I couldn’t make -Henry see the difference between wit and humor.” - -“I see it now,” he answered. “We discussed it in school.” - -“So did we,” said Marian. “Isn’t it queer?” - -They had been taking up drama, too, and so their club and school work -harmonized. - -I said: “You have heard people speak of the art of life. To me it seems -that to make an art of life, to live it as if it were our creation, our -work of art, is the best way, the most complete and beautiful way. You -remember, I spoke to you of the three ways of looking at life, of -writing books, for instance: The scientific way, the philosophic way, -the artistic way. One can live life in these three ways, too; but to me -the artistic way seems best.” - -“Don’t you think,” asked Marian, “that if we lived as an art, we should -be too apt to excuse ourselves?” - -“How do you mean, Marian?” - -“Because,” she went on, “we should admit the shadows in life as well as -the light.” - -“The shadows,” I answered, “are not the wrong, the bad. How can you -think so? Are shadows in a picture the mistakes in it? Shadows make the -rhythm and the contrast; and in life would be repose and sleep. That -necessary pulsation of activity and rest alone can make life whole and -perfect.” - -“I see,” said Marian, “that is true.” - -“As for blaming ourselves for things past, I think it is silly to do -so.” - -“What,” they asked, “is the scientific way of life?” - -“It is,” I answered, “living according to small definite truths, knowing -certain separate things to be good or bad for us, and living according -to that knowledge, without any general aim of life. It is to bathe -regularly, to tell the truth carefully, to be honest, to look out for -your neighbor, always because each one of these things is expedient in -itself. The philosophic way is to see the final, complete good, and to -want that once, to lose yourself and the beauty of your own life in the -desperate effort to make the whole world perfect now. Suppose, for -instance, that on Christmas a starving family came to the door of a -middle-class man for food. If he were a scientist in his life he would -send the poor family at once to the public food kitchen, with a ticket -of recommendation, because he did not believe in indiscriminate charity -and pauperism. If he were a philosopher he would be horrified at the -idea of any man lacking a dinner, and without further thought would give -his whole dinner to the poor, and go without, and let his children go -without. That is just what Bronson Alcott did—the typical philosopher -in life—who neglected his own family for the good of the universe.” - -“I have often known of people,” said Henry, “who went out to do charity -and neglected their families.” - -“Yes,” I said, “but that is sometimes for still worse reasons. Now what -would the artist in life do? He would be full of the delight of -Christmas feeling; and he would either share his dinner with the other -man—according to circumstances—or ask him in to his table, if the poor -children were not too dirty. He would look out for himself and for the -other man, and do it gracefully, beautifully. He knows that first of all -he must make his own life sane and beautiful, but he wants to include as -many other lives as he can in that life of his, and to make all his -relations with men beautiful.” - -“What you call the philosophic way,” said Ruth, “is what I had always -called the artistic way.” - -“That is,” I said, “because you have all of you had a ridiculous, false -idea of what the artist is. The scientific life is the life according to -particular truths, without an aim. The philosophic life is the life -dreaming of supreme good, and neglecting the particular, individual -beauty of life.” - -“But doesn’t the philosophic way help toward that good?” asked Henry. - -“Yes,” I said, “though often it tries only impracticable schemes. The -artistic way combines and transcends the two. For the artist must have -knowledge of facts, must know science, and must love supreme good, as -well. Facts according to the supreme good, life made beautiful to be -like completeness, that is the artistic life. It includes both the -scientific and the philosophic.” - -“It is as it were the middle way?” asked Ruth. - -“Yes,” I said, “because beauty includes all extremes.” - -Henry remarked: “It may be the best way, but I wouldn’t guarantee to -live according to it.” - -I smiled. “You mean,” I said, “that you didn’t like the idea of asking -the poor man in to dinner?” He assented. “But you misunderstood me. That -was only a picture, a story, not a law. If we make large laws for -life—such laws as those of art—we shall avoid petty moralizing, which -I, for one, detest. We shall see that every circumstance alters the -case. - -“It’s just this petty moralizing that is unnecessary, when one has big -laws and standards which he can use in life, each for himself.” - -We did come very near having a discussion on truth-telling, but I -stopped it at once. I was glad to discover, however, that Ruth is not a -stickler for literal truth under all circumstances. - -“I don’t like little laws laid down,” I said, “because they are never -true and necessary in all cases. They make me feel rebellious.” - -“Yes,” said Marian, “they make one feel contrary, and want to do just -the opposite.” - -I spoke of the undeniable fact that all great action, all history sprang -from imaginative thought, that a deed had to be imagined before it could -be done, that all history was inspired by the bards and prophets. I -spoke of even such scientific theories as evolution springing from -imaginative thought. They all seemed to have realized this before, and -none dissented. I read to them O’Shawnessy’s Ode, “We are the -Music-makers.” - -Florence said: “We spoke of the thinker’s influence lately, at home. But -I always thought of those great men, not as poets, but as philosophers.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “they often were. But they were poets, too. The -greatest artist—as I showed you—is a scientist and philosopher as -well. Goethe to me seems the best example of such a complete man. His -life was so many-sided, and yet so artistic, so definite in its aim; it -might stand as an example of the artistic life.” - -Now, what the children seemed to know of Goethe was that he had a great -many love affairs, and did not behave well in any of them. Marian and -Henry had a clearer idea, and knew this was not the whole or the chief -part of his life, nor quite so faulty as represented. Henry said: “He -could appreciate the good points in a woman without always falling in -love with her.” - -When Ruth said she didn’t know anything of Goethe but his lover’s -weakness, Marian turned on her with: “Now, isn’t it a shame to know that -of him, and nothing else!” - -I told them again that as every work of art was a symbol of -completeness, so every self, being a self, symbolized the complete self -of understanding and unity; every man was a symbol of completeness, of -the Divine Self. - -Before we went on to enumerate for ourselves the laws of art, now that -we all agreed they would be one with the laws of life, I wished to read -aloud some slips from a Ruskin calendar, which Ruth had brought me two -weeks before. The most fruitful of conversation were the following: - -“All are to be men of genius in their degree—rivulets or rivers, it -does not matter, so that the souls be clear and pure.” - -This, they said, was exactly our idea of genius in all. - -“Good work is never done for hatred, any more than for hire—but for -love only.” - -Surely, then, not for controversy, we said. - -“Neither a great fact, nor a great man, nor a great poem, nor a great -picture, nor any other great thing, can be fathomed to the bottom in a -moment of time.” - -“Every great man is always being helped by everybody, for his gift is to -get good out of all things and all persons.” - -This, I reminded them, was what we had said when we spoke of the good -and bad, that we must use all things for good. - -“The ennobling difference between one man and another—between one -animal and another—is precisely in this, that one feels more than -another.” - -“Doesn’t it seem,” said Florence, “as if Ruskin had written those papers -especially for us?” - -“That last one,” I said, “expresses exactly our idea; here ‘feeling’ -means the same as ‘sympathy,’ or ‘feeling with.’ So you find, all -through the old books, the striving for this same truth, always vaguely -expressed, never fully understood, as an ideal, as a religion of life.” - -Ruth asked: “Don’t you think all great religions have always believed in -that final unity?” - -“Not quite in this way,” I answered. “They have vaguely striven for it -and implied it, but never realized it as the one meaning in life, the -moving force of the universe.” - -I gave each of them a pencil and a piece of paper, and said we would -find out and write down what were the chief laws of all arts, and then -follow that written paper throughout our meetings. I said: “It looks -like a party, with the candy and the paper and pencils.” - -“Yes,” said Florence; “and now we are going to play a guessing game!” - -The first law upon which we decided, after some conversation, was: - -1. Art is the symbol of completeness, in a definite shape. - -On this last part, “in a definite shape,” I especially insisted, showing -them how the definite, the particular, the finite—the drop as opposed -to the mist—symbolized completeness. I said for them Goethe’s poem, -“Ueber allen Gipfeln,” to show them how so short, clearcut and simple a -thing gave us the sense of immensity. - -Henry said he had thought at one time that if one only knew the truth, -it was not necessary to be a good orator; one had simply to state the -truth. But now he believed the form an essential part of the thought. - -Marian said something of the artistic life as meaning one must have a -single aim. I answered her it might be so, but the single aim would be -immense and inclusive. Now we went on to the second law, which we -formulated thus: - -2. Art is self-expression and self-fulfilment. - -Self-expression means action, creation. “Thinking, writing, the work of -the artist is action,” I said. They understood. I quoted: “There is only -one gift worth giving, and that is one’s self.” “To give one’s self,” I -said, “that is action, that is life, creation and fulfilment.” - -“How so fulfilment?” asked Marian. - -“Because it is always fulfilment to do the thing we love to do. Now what -comes next?” - -Henry said: “To leave out the distracting; to leave out detail.” - -“Not necessarily detail,” I answered; “certain definite details are -essential.” - -They said to leave out the irrelevant, the inharmonious, the -unnecessary. I said: - -3. To leave out the unimportant. - -“Can you see,” I asked, “how that will apply to life?” - -4. Must have variety and many-sidedness. - -That is, contrast, rhythm, the all-roundness which makes the whole. - -We had just begun to speak of the next law when I was called from the -room. - -As I returned, Henry said to me: “Well, then, let us write down: ‘must -not be for or against.’” - -So they had formulated it while I was away. I answered: “Rather let us -use the word ‘partisan,’ which means part, not whole.” - -5. Must not be partisan, and must be sympathetic. - -Now, I said, art, - -6. Must give the impression of truth. - -I did not linger on this point, and was glad the children accepted it -without question, for I wanted more time to explain it. - -I went on to the last law, which was the only one I had some trouble in -making clear. I asked why was the photograph inartistic? They said -because of inharmonious details. I asked, why is the statue more -beautiful than wax works? Henry spoke again of the “distance” of -material, which just thereby appealed to the sympathies. I wanted to -speak of the artist’s aloofness, how he was creator of his work, within -it, and yet around it and above it. They did not understand. They said, -if he were above it, he would be unsympathetic. They did not understand -the creator’s attitude toward himself, the created; the dramatic -attitude in life, in which we are both actor and spectator. Marian said -she thought she understood it. “Haven’t you ever laughed at yourself?” -she asked the others. - -“I have sworn at myself,” said Leo. - -I meant to pass by the subject, and leave out the last law, rather than -arouse a self-consciousness, which was the opposite of what I hoped to -awaken. But unintentionally the conversation led to a better -understanding. - -I spoke again of reverence, as I had done to Alfred, of the small self -awed in supreme moments, before the immensity of its whole self. - -“Do you mean,” asked Leo, “that it makes us feel how small we are?” - -I tried to make it clear. I spoke of the feeling of nothingness that -overcomes us, when we stand under the stars at night, and realize them -as worlds and suns, and our planet as a dot of light in immensity. - -They had all felt so, except Henry. - -He said: “It does not make me feel small. I feel that I am a part of it -all, and one with the universe.” - -“Yours is the true feeling,” I answered, “for you are, indeed, a part of -it, and the realization of it is within yourself. A kitten in your place -would not feel it.” - -“I know,” said Marian, “that many people do not feel it. For I have -sometimes walked with some one out in the night, or by the sea, and -could not speak. And suddenly they said some trivial thing, which showed -they did not feel as I did.” - -Alfred said he felt overawed by the sea, because it was so strong and -big. - -“You mean,” I asked, “that it makes you feel helpless before its might?” - -“Yes.” - -“It has been said,” Henry went on, “that one cannot be an astronomer and -not worship, I believe it is true.” - -“And now,” I said, “we are coming to the seventh law after all. For by -aloofness I mean that the artist, during his act of creation, feels his -own immense self, feels the whole universe, and sees himself and all -other things as a part in relation to it.” - -“I have felt that way sometimes,” said Florence, “just for a moment.” - -“It is a momentary realization,” I answered. - -“Don’t you think,” asked Ruth, “that it is a superior feeling, though; a -cold, perfect feeling?” - -“No,” I answered; “though it lifts us above petty concern for ourselves, -it does not lift us out of sympathy and action.” - -Henry said: “When I go to Riverside and see all the lights, and think of -the millions of people, I feel them all.” - -It reminded me of the day Marian had said she felt so when she thought -of all the windows and rooms in all the apartment houses. - -“Suppose,” I asked, “that you had failed in a very important -examination, Henry, would you feel bad?” - -“Yes,” he said, “if it were a very, _very_ important one.” - -“Then, if you went to Riverside Drive and forgot yourself in that -immense feeling, when you returned home you would not only be over your -sore, bitter disappointment, but you would be full of energy to begin -work again.” - -“Yes,” he answered, “I would.” - -“So, you see, it is a creative, sympathetic, living aloofness, not cold -and far off.” - -We put down for the seventh law: - -7. Aloofness. - -Knowing what we meant thereby. - -Ruth said she had noticed that the artistic life was a selfish ideal. - -“Yes,” I said, “selfish in the best sense.” - -“It is self-development, you mean,” said Alfred. - -“Yes,” I answered, “and that selfishness includes the whole world.” - -“Why use the word ‘selfishness,’ then,” asked Marian, “that has been -used in another sense?” - -We spent the rest of the time telling Leo our idea of God and progress. -Henry, Ruth, Florence and Marian did it; Florence told him of complete -human sympathy, Marian of progress toward it as the good, Henry -explained the poem, “Abou ben Adhem,” and Ruth—when Leo objected that -knowing men was not knowing God—quoted a passage from the Bible to show -it was. - -“I always think of God as a supreme power,” said Leo. - -I told him something of our idea. What I cared for was to hear the -others talk. All, except Henry, seemed satisfied with a merely human -conception of self—that is, Florence set the key, and all but Henry -kept the tune. He spoke of the “something outside.” - -I remarked that, as I had foreseen, we no longer used the word God. - -“I use it to myself,” said Ruth. - -Henry said: “I use it when I speak to other people; but not here, -because we know what we mean, without saying it.” - -Marian said: “We have made a vocabulary of our own. Ought we to?” - -“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps we can impose it on others?” - -“I don’t think that would be fair or right,” she answered. - -“Why not? That is just what every great thinker has done. He has imposed -a new vocabulary upon the world. Unless our words are good and great and -true, they will not last.” - - - - - ELEVENTH MEETING - - -I read Virginia’s paper of two weeks ago: - - DISCUSSION ON ART - - “Anything to be really beautiful must be complete. The reason - for this is that it gives us that idea of completeness which the - universe possesses. A picture in which every detail is painted - may be pretty, but it is not beautiful. When you look at a - person you look at his face and the expression of it. In - anything on which you set your eyes, you see only the part that - interests you. Therefore a good picture or a book should only - have that part brought forth, and the rest and unimportant parts - should be kept in the background. In fact, they should only be - there to make the important thing more interesting; to make it - stand out.” - -Then I read Henry’s paper: - -“At our last meeting we reviewed all that we had said about art. We -spoke of the three kinds of life, the artistic, philosophic and -scientific, and agreed that the artistic life is the one we care for. We -made a list of those things which are necessary in art, so that we can -refer to them, and apply them in judging life. - -“Good art - -1. is a symbol of completeness in a definite form. - -2. is self-expression and self-fulfilment. - -3. must leave out unimportant detail. - -4. must have variety and many-sidedness. - -5. must not be partisan, and must be sympathetic. - -6. gives the impression of truth. - -7. ——” - -The last law, the idea of aloofness, of being above as well as within -life, of being actor and spectator at once, they do not understand, and -I made no further effort to explain. Henry said he left it out—for that -reason—when writing his paper. - -I said Henry had mentioned we did prefer and choose the artistic life. -But why? I suspected, from something they said, that they did not grasp -the reasons. - -Virginia said she didn’t care what the reasons were, she knew she liked -it best. The reasons, at any rate, had not impressed them. So I repeated -what I had said, of the artistic life including the other two, of how -the artist must know science and love goodness before he can create -beauty. - -“Then,” said Florence, “the great artists were philosophers?” - -“Always,” I answered. “Take the ancient religious writings, such as the -Vedas and the Bible. They were always poems, the work of artists who -were also philosophers and scientists.” - -“Scientists?” asked Marian incredulously. - -“Surely,” I answered, “men such as Moses, who gave laws on sanitation -and daily life, were the scientists of their time.” - -“An artist must understand science,” said Virginia, “natural science, if -he wants to paint. And he must know physiology, too. I am beginning to -realize that at school.” - -Some one mentioned Franklin. “Was he more scientist, or philosopher, or -artist in his life?” - -“I think he was a philosopher,” said Virginia. - -“No,” Marian answered, “he just gathered a lot of bromidic proverbs, -that were as old as the world, and said them over in an impressive way.” - -“But they were philosophical,” Virginia protested. - -“No,” said Marian, “I don’t think so. They were scientific, for they -dealt with little disjointed parts of life.” - -I told them I wanted to paraphrase a certain verse in the Bible, the -verse: - -“Faith, Hope and Charity, but the greatest of these is Charity.” - -“How?” asked Ruth, much interested. - -“I would say,” I went on, “‘Truth, Goodness and Beauty, but the greatest -of these is Beauty’—because it includes the other two.” - -Now I changed the first law into terms of life: - -“Life is a symbol of the complete Self, in a definite shape.” - -Life must express that Self in definite and individual lines, that is, -in beauty. - -I spoke again of small and great genius, of art expressing a lesser or a -greater completeness, of “Jenny Kissed Me” and “Faust,” Florence’s -examples. “With people you must have noticed the same thing. Some people -whose lives seem very limited, who understand and know little, still -have such harmonious natures that in their spheres they seem complete. -But with still other people you feel that their lives are much larger, -that they grasp more of life and possess more, because they understand -more. The more we understand, sympathize and love, the larger is our -life.” - -Marian looked puzzled. - -“What is it, Marian?” I asked. - -“Why,” she said, “should some people be larger and more complete than -others?” - -“How do you mean, Marian?” - -“Why is it so? Why aren’t we all alike?” - -“If we were,” said Henry, “it would be very monotonous.” - -“Oh, I know that,” said Marian. “But why is it so, anyway?” - -“Marian always asks the unanswerable,” I said. “And still—if we believe -in progress, in the evolution of self, don’t you see?—some selves are -more developed than others.” - -“If we believed in transmigration,” said Marian, “it would be easy to -understand.” - -“You know,” I answered, “what I think of transmigration. But whether -there be transmigration in the usual sense, or not, I think we all -believe that in some way we have lived until now, that we are not -created in one moment, that we evolve throughout all time.” - -And now I made a mistake, tried an experiment that was not successful. I -have had misgivings, now and then—unfounded ones, I believe to-day—as -to the value, to young people, of a philosophy of life which does not at -once directly and concretely affect their manner of living, but does so -indirectly and slowly through affecting their tastes, opinions and -desires. - -One of the girls happened to speak of the relation of parents and -children. I had realized for a long time that this was among the -pressing problems of youth—especially of some of these particular young -people—and instead of keeping to my prepared work, I took advantage of -the remark, and launched off into that bottomless subject—without a -pilot. - -I said: “I think it is one of the gravest—perhaps the only grave -problem—of your lives, and we might as well try to solve it now, if we -can. What shall we do with our parents?” - -There came a flood of ideas and confessions. I made so personal a call -upon each one, and intimated that I already knew so much of their lives, -that they were frank and open with me, and said to me, without thinking, -much more, I am sure, than they would willingly and deliberately have -said to each other. They spoke as if to me alone, even mentioned -personal circumstances of which I alone had knowledge. Naturally, I will -not write down that conversation. - -I told them the difficulty arose from a change for the better in the -relation between children and parents, and that neither one nor the -other had fully realized the change. The old relation of fearing -reverence had been changed to that of love and companionship. I said, -mock-seriously: - -“Of course, we do know more than our parents can possibly know, and we -are quite able to judge everything for ourselves, and so we resent being -told to do things——” - -Marian interrupted me with a solemn: “Oh, no!” and it was a moment -before they all realized that I was joking. - -“But, truly,” I went on, “we are so used to having, and fond of having, -our own way, that we do chafe and even feel contradictory the moment we -are ordered to do anything. Don’t you, Alfred?” - -“No,” said Alfred; “only I don’t like to stop if I have anything else to -do.” - -“I hate,” Marian said, “to be told to do anything which I don’t want to -do, and for which I see no reason: going to see people whom I dislike, -and who bore me, for instance.” - -“There,” I answered, “the reason is clear. I remember feeling so myself, -and I am not glad that I was given my own way. Young people must know -and see and tolerate all sorts of folks, even pokey old relations, so -that they may learn to know people and be able to choose for themselves -as they grow older. To know many is to find some.” - -With that they agreed. - -“But,” I went on, “the trouble is not so much with what you want or -don’t want to do, as with irritability and impudence.” - -“You mean ‘sassing’ your parents?” asked Virginia. - -“Yes.” - -“I ‘sass’ mine,” she said, “when I think they will like it. I wheedle my -parents, and so I get what I want without being disagreeable.” - -“Oh, _you_ don’t count, Virginia,” I went on, “but what I mean is -answering back, being unkind and contradictory when we would rather not, -doing all sorts of regrettable things because we are in a temper, and -then afterward feeling mean, sore and despicable, and knowing that we -were wrong. That sort of ugliness and irritation, if it’s not stopped, -makes mean, ugly, irritable characters.” - -“I know just what you mean,” said Marian, “and I know exactly what I -think of other people who are like that.” - -“It is ugly,” I said. “I dislike it, because it is not beautiful. How -can any one live a beautiful, harmonious life who begins by being out of -harmony in his relation with the person whom he loves? For that is the -truth. Children often love dearly the parent with whom they are always -disagreeing. How shall we get understanding and unity and sympathy in -life if we cannot get it with those nearest us, those we love?” - -“Of course,” said Henry, “our idea of life, of complete sympathy, is -against all that kind of thing.” - -“It is much easier,” said Marian, “to know what is right than to do it.” - -We all agreed. - -“But why,” I said, “should we suffer regrets, and do ugly things, when -there must be some way to stop it?” - -“What way?” asked Marian. - -“Well, first, what is our feeling toward older people?” - -“Pity,” said Virginia. - -“How?” we all asked rather indignantly. - -“Well,” she went on, “you get up for an old woman in the car, because -you are sorry for her, so that she shouldn’t flop all over your shins.” - -“Pity for the other people!” said Florence. - -(We are always undecided in the club whether to put Virginia out of the -room or whether to hug her. So, in our indecision, we leave her alone.) - -I said: “We used to be told to reverence the old. I say to you, -reverence every one. If you think of self as a symbol of the complete -Self, as the holy thing, then you will reverence the self in every human -being, in every creature.” - -“I don’t think,” said Virginia, “that we have much sympathy with the -self in animals we kill to eat.” - -“That,” I answered, “is another question. It has nothing to do with what -we are saying now.” - -“I think it has,” she protested. - -“Then,” I said, “if you reverence self, and understand and respect the -self in every person, how could you quarrel with any one?” - -“You expect us to know an awful lot,” said Virginia, “to know every -one.” - -“Certainly,” I answered. “Is not that our idea, to reach what we desire -through understanding and sympathy with every one?” - -They said they couldn’t respect every one. Some people they couldn’t -help, as Henry said, pitying. - -I objected strenuously to that word. All but Henry agreed with me. It is -always a word of scorn. - -They spoke of “feeling sorry for” people who had suffered some loss, -feeling sorry, but not pitying. - -“Then,” said Marian, “one ought not to say ‘sorry for’ but ‘sorry -with.’” - -Virginia said if a girl’s mother had died, and one had not known the -mother, one might be sorry for her, but not sorry with her. They had a -little argument, and to stop it I said one might be both sorry for and -sorry with, but certainly one would have the “with” feeling. - -Ruth objected that when there was an argument I always made both sides -right. - -“Why not?” I asked. “By the light of complete vision we do see most -things as true which first seemed contradictory. Our idea of -completeness is to include many truths, and show them to be the same -truth.” - -She admitted that. - -Marian spoke of people she liked, but could not respect. - -“If you knew them from the inside,” I said, “as they know themselves, -you might feel otherwise.” - -“Yes,” said Virginia, “I have always thought that if anybody knew all -about me, knew me just as I know myself, they could not help liking me.” - -I said: “It seems not much to expect of us, to understand our parents, -who are so anxious for an understanding, and whom we love. After all, we -do owe them something—when you consider that but for them we would not -be here; and we are most of us rather glad that we are here.” - -“Yes,” said Marian, “I would like to stay a while longer.” - -Now we spoke of many things, many personal things, of quarrels and how -to avoid them. Virginia amused us by saying people often quarreled with -her, but she never quarreled with them. - -Marian said: “If there’s one thing which makes people feel mean, angry, -self-reproachful and small, it is to try to quarrel with some one who -won’t be made angry.” - -“Naturally,” I said, “they can’t help comparing themselves with the -other person.” - -“Yes,” said Florence, “I am always sorry and angry at myself when the -other person keeps cool or is hurt. But when the other person gets -angry, too, I feel as if I were right.” - -“It’s an ugly thing to be angry,” I said; “it makes us so small, shuts -us in.” - -“How do you mean?” asked Marian. - -“It cuts us off from that other person, makes it impossible to -understand at least him, and so keeps us from completeness and harmony, -actually robs us of part of ourself.” - -Was it all the children’s fault, they asked, when children and parents -failed to understand each other? - -“As it takes two to make a quarrel,” I answered, “so it takes two to -make a misunderstanding. But _one_ can stop it. Remember that older -people have often gone through trials in life that have shaken their -nerves and made them sensitive and irritable to little annoyances.” - -Marian asked: “Do you mean fussy?” - -“Yes,” I said, “and it is easy to understand. But the fact that in many -families some of the children get along well with the parents, and -others do not, proves that at least some of the responsibility rests -with the children.” - -We spoke of self-control, of standing, as it were, outside and above -ourselves—the idea of aloofness—and not working like a machine for the -impulse of the moment. I said I had known people who had this trouble in -youth, and stopped it with a strong resolution, because they saw it was -a bad, an ugly and a controllable thing. Henry spoke of the old plan of -counting a hundred before saying anything. We none of us liked the idea, -possibly because we were tired of it; I said, for one, that I did not -see how counting a hundred could make me change my mind, whereas -thinking might. I said the best plan was to put one’s self at once, as -it were, inside the other person, and then one could not possibly say -the disagreeable thing. Henry, it seems, has only one difficulty, that -of wanting to express or keep his own opinion at the expense of -contradicting his elders. I said one had always the right to express -one’s opinion, but one might also do it as an opinion, say “I think,” or -“I believe”; that one might always consider how the thing said would -impress the person listening. Marian spoke of people who irritate you by -their presence, whom you dislike and who grate on you, no matter what -they may do or say. Then I told them of the saving sense of humor; how, -if we resolve to be amused by people in a pleasant, genial way, to see -the humor in human life, we may avoid being hurt by them or hurting them -in return. - -Virginia especially agreed with me, cited incidents of being amused by -the disagreeable, and spoke of Dickens as one who could be amused by all -sorts of people, even the most “bromidic” or disagreeable. Marian said -Dickens was amused by every one but his heroes and heroines. They almost -always seemed a hardship to him and to others. - -I said we must use every one for our good. That word to “use people” had -been employed in a bad sense, but I meant it in a good sense. - -“Whenever you are with any one you don’t like, think at once what you -can get out of that meeting. Every human being has something for you, -and you for him. Self always wants to find self.” - -Marian and Ruth immediately thought of people from whom they could get -nothing. Virginia, who does get something from everything, remarked that -some people seemed to have very little self. - -“To be a human being at all,” I answered, “how much of self one must -have, compared with the animals!” - -“I suppose,” said she; “that is why some people, who have not much, -remind me of animals.” - -I said I was sorry we had digressed so far, and feared we had not -arrived anywhere, after all. Florence said she liked to confess her -sins. And Marian answered her that it was a bad habit. - -“It is all,” said Marian, “what I have heard before, and know to be -true, and don’t do, anyway.” - -“Nothing new?” I asked. “Not even the plan of trying to feel at once -just what the other person is feeling?” - -“Oh, yes, that, perhaps,” she said. - -Marian seemed to think I had given her a great many dreadful “slams”; -but I could not see it so. “I am sure I did not,” I said. “Oh, no,” she -answered quite sarcastically, “not at all.” But she seemed to bear me no -ill-will. Virginia said I wanted them to be good and virtuous. No, I -said, I had not thought of that. - -“Perhaps,” she suggested, “good but not virtuous, or virtuous but not -good?” - -I answered: “All I want you to do is to satisfy yourselves.” - -“Is that all!” exclaimed Marian. “After you told us how we could never -be wholly satisfied, how we should always want something more!” - -“The beautiful life must be harmonious,” I said. “Disjointed beauty is -not beautiful. You remember, we spoke of the city, how a beautiful house -might be made to look not at all beautiful by being placed next to a -high wall, or in any position where it did not fit; how the city could -not be beautiful until all the people combined to build a harmonious -city.” - -“By itself the house would be beautiful, anyway,” they said. - -“Yes,” I answered, “but in ugly surroundings its beauty would be half -lost.” - -Virginia said: “If I saw a very beautiful little girl between two ugly -monkeys, I think the little girl would look all the more beautiful.” - -Marian answered: “I would immediately imagine her petting or fondling -the two monkeys, and then it would look beautiful.” - -It turned out, however, that Virginia’s monkeys were figurative, and -that she meant ugly children. This was disconcerting to Ruth, Marian and -Florence, and caused prolonged giggles. - -I said that would simply be contrast, not discord, that contrast might -please and make even the ugly look beautiful, but discord, two beautiful -houses so placed together that neither looked well, two colors that -“killed” each other, these were ugly. Beauty had to find for itself or -make for itself the right surroundings, in order to be truly beautiful. - -Florence said: “I think it is a shame people should be liked just for -their looks. I know girls who are liked just because they are pretty, -when there’s nothing to them, and others who are homely, but much nicer, -who are liked less. I try never to let it influence me.” - -Henry said he never did let it; that he always liked people for what -they really were, and not for looks. - -“I can’t help it,” said Virginia. “I know a girl who is horrid in every -way, and when she is away I can’t bear her; but the minute I see her I -forgive her, because she is so beautiful.” - -“Perhaps,” I said, “if you knew her from the inside, as she knows -herself, you might think that no one could help liking her.” - -“No,” said Virginia; “she’s one of the people who, I feel sure, cannot -think that of herself.” - -Marian agreed with Virginia. She said when she met people she was -interested in the good-looking ones, and always judged them by their -faces. - -“That is different,” I said, “to judge people by the character written -in their faces, as we judge them by all things. But though all beauty is -good, the beauty of the personality, of life itself, is surely best.” - - - - - TWELFTH MEETING - - -Through inevitable circumstances the club had been discontinued for six -weeks. But I was in personal touch with all the members during this -interval. - -“We have not met for so long,” I said, “I wonder whether you have -forgotten anything of what we had done?” - -They all assured me that it was clear in their minds. Henry said: “It -has had time to sink in.” - -“I am glad,” I went on, “that we happened to stop at the end of a part; -that now we begin anew at a new thing. But I am a little afraid to go -on. For now we are going to speak of morals, of goodness.” - -“Why are you afraid?” asked Marian. - -“Because I am so afraid we are going to moralize, to become petty.” - -“Don’t be afraid of that,” said Marian; “I have had too much experience -to be likely to do it.” - -“Well, then,” I said, “first of all we must find out what we consider -good, what we mean by the good—that misused word—and to distinguish -between the true and the artificial good. Have you any ideas about it?” - -None of them had any definite idea of what they meant by the good, or of -the distinction between the goody-goodiness which repelled them, and the -goodness which they loved. They thought immediately of “good” people who -are unlovable or stupid. Virginia and Marian exchanged remarks about a -girl they had met that morning at Sunday-school; and all through the -meeting, until I found effective means to stop them, they referred to -her as an example. - -“Now,” I said, “I will tell you of the true good, and by the light of it -you will clearly distinguish the artificial. You remember the first law -of art.” - -Henry had the paper with him. It was: “Art is a symbol of completeness -in a definite shape.” - -“So the good, too, is a symbol of completeness in a definite shape,” I -said. “Goodness is always of relation. It means the right relation, -sympathy and unity of those who know each other. And the good man is the -man who makes a complete world, a symbol of the perfect awakened -universe, out of those few people whom he knows—that is, of whose -existence he is aware—and of all that he knows in the universe, which -is a small part of the whole. He makes it complete and perfect, by -making all his relations with life complete, and understanding and -beautiful. You realize that a Robinson Crusoe, alone on his desert -island, if he never expected to see human beings again, could not be -either good or bad.” - -“Yes, he could,” said Virginia, “in the way he treated the animals.” - -“That is right,” I answered. “If you include the animals as selves, he -could still be good or bad in his relation with them. But you see that -goodness is of relation. It is having our relations right, good and -sympathetic, as far as they reach. - -“That, then, is the law, the only law. All moralities and systems were -made to uphold and fulfil that law, and they all change with the needs -of man and his circumstances, but that one law is always the same, is -always true, is the spirit which makes all actions either good or bad. -For I believe there is no action in itself either good or bad, but all -must be tested by this law. ‘Is it good?’ means: Does it make for true -and understanding relations between men? Do you agree with me?” - -“Yes,” they said. - -“Take the laws of Moses, or any system of laws,” I went on, “and you -will see that they were made by men, who realized in themselves the one -supreme law, the law of progress toward the human whole. These systems -of laws, if followed by people incapable of seeing the broad way for -themselves, would lead toward that end. But the lesser laws change with -circumstance, as a path changes with the landscape. Take the Mosaic -laws. The first laws, ‘Thou shalt have no other God,’ ‘Thou shalt not -take his name in vain,’ and ‘Thou shalt keep the Sabbath,’ seem to us -now much less important than some later laws, such as ‘Thou shalt not -steal,’ ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ and so on. But if you stop to think, you -will see that these first were most necessary; for the people’s idea of -God, so much more limited than ours, was still, like ours, the reason -for their morality, the law of laws, the ‘I Am’ that gave meaning to -goodness. In their condition, if they had not reverenced and feared God, -they would not have kept the laws of Moses. The actions or ways of life -we often hear called good, but which arouse in us a feeling of contempt, -as if it were goody-goodiness, or self-righteousness, are actions -according to petty laws of goodness, by people who do not know the -spirit, the great law above all laws. Sometimes they are actions no -longer good at all, acted according to petty laws that we have passed. -Do you see what I mean?” - -“Give me an example of what you mean,” Marian said. - -“Many conventions are an example,” said Henry. - -“Yes, they may be,” I answered. - -“Conventions,” said Virginia, “are neither right nor wrong.” - -“No,” I answered, “they are usually a matter of convenience. But some -people do make the mistake of calling them right or wrong. Then again -you will hear people argue whether or not it is right to tell the truth, -under all circumstances.” - -“You mean,” Henry said, “that they argue whether or not it is good to -tell the truth as truth, not whether the truth will help us toward -better relation.” - -“Exactly.” - -“I think,” said Virginia, “to tell the truth to hurt people’s feelings -is wicked.” - -Now they were just going to have an argument as to truth-telling, when I -reminded them that this was what we did not want to do. - -Marian spoke of school laws, and said that these were often without -force or reason, and that she saw no great harm in breaking them. When I -remembered the folly of laws in many schools, I could not disagree with -her. “Of course,” she said, “one gets out of sympathy with that class of -mortals called teachers.” - -“Hardly,” said I, “if one is honest at all times. And perhaps the -meanest, most cowardly lie is the lie of evasion and shirking of -punishment in such a case.” - -Henry said: “Teachers ought not to ask boys and girls, ‘did you do this -or that?’” - -“You are right,” I answered; “but, again, no boy or girl of spirit, -courage and character would hesitate to answer truthfully. - -“Self-sacrifice,” I said, “is a good example of the sort of action that -is called good in itself, when it is not at all so, but has only a -definite and limited purpose in the scheme. I wish to explain it to you. -But first I want to be sure that you understand this idea of good. Is it -new to you?” - -“Yes,” said Marian, “I never thought of it in that way before.” - -“You all have said so little,” I went on, “I am afraid you may not fully -understand.” - -“There is nothing to say,” answered Marian, “for it grows so naturally -out of everything we have done.” - -“Our whole thought is like a chain,” said Virginia, “link within link.” - -“Alfred,” I said, “you are so silent, you don’t give us a chance to see -how bright you are. Now, tell me, what is the good? What do I mean? I -want to be sure you understand.” - -He hesitated. “The good is completeness, harmony.” - -“Yes,” I said, “but I want it more definitely. The good is a sign of -that completeness. To the truly good man, as much as he knows of the -world, or dreams of it, is his whole self. And he wants that whole self -to be right. The good man cannot be wholly good until every one else is -so. The world must be perfect to satisfy his desire for good.” - -Ruth said: “It is what you told us before, that we cannot be perfect -unless the universe is perfect. But it seems to me that a man may be -just as good, though others are bad.” - -“Yes,” I said, “he can do his best to fill out the gaps and make his -relations right, but his goodness will not wholly satisfy him. On the -other hand, the self-righteous man, who lives according to precepts and -rules, is easily satisfied with himself. Goodness is beauty. The good is -always the beautiful action. But goodness, according to laws and -precepts which are outworn, which we have left behind us, is no longer -beautiful for us.” - -Virginia pointed out that in this, then, goodness differed from art, for -the objects of art remained beautiful through hundreds of years. - -“Six hundred years ago,” she said, “men painted pictures which probably -cannot be equalled to-day.” - -“But,” I answered, “a man trying to paint like Raphael now, would not -paint beautifully.” - -“No,” said she; “but if he tried to paint like Franz Hals or Rembrandt -he might.” - -“Not at all,” I answered. - -“Of course,” she admitted, “he would have to paint like himself, to be -himself.” - -“Surely,” said I, “and so with goodness. Each man has his own particular -goodness, according to his circumstances and nature. But, just as a -beautiful picture is eternally beautiful, so goodness in the past, -though it no longer seems good to us for practice, is always delightful -to think of, though it would be horrible to imitate. For instance, the -self-imposed poverty of St. Francis of Assisi.” - -We spoke of asceticism and the ideals of self-sacrifice, and then of -self-sacrifice itself, as preached in our own lives. - -“In the first place,” I said, “we must get clear in our minds the -meaning of happiness. People will say to you again and again that the -aim of life is happiness. But if each one of us were to speak of -happiness, and use the same word, we would each mean something -different. Now, what is happiness?” - -“It is having fun,” said Virginia. - -“Yes,” I said, “that is all right. But that’s only repeating the same -thing. What is it that makes us happy?” - -Florence answered: “Having what you like.” - -“Yes,” I said, “but more than that. It is having what you want most. If -you liked pie, but you liked ice cream better, then pie wouldn’t satisfy -you, would it?” - -“No.” - -“What would?” - -“Ice cream and pie both,” said Florence. - -We decided, however, after some thought, that we would give up pie for -ice cream. “And this,” I said, “is the meaning of self-sacrifice. It is -giving up what we want for something we want still more. And as the -thing we want most of all, and for which we would give up everything -else, is complete harmony, sympathy and understanding, you see that in -all our self-sacrifices we are giving up what we want for what we want -still more. We are giving up our smaller for our larger self.” - -“That is just what Booker T. Washington said at the lecture this -morning,” Virginia went on. “He said he had never made a single -sacrifice, but he had always done the thing he loved to do most. It is -fun to do good. It makes us feel so virtuous. And we do it because we -like most to see other people happy.” - -“That is what I mean, Virginia.” - -“I don’t think it is so, always,” said Ruth. “I think often people are -just forced to give up things and sacrifice themselves, when they don’t -like it at all.” - -“That’s different,” I said, “if it is enforced. I meant voluntary -self-sacrifice.” - -“Even so,” she went on, “suppose you are going out somewhere, and you -have to stay at home with some person who is ill, just because you are -asked to do it. You don’t like it, but you do it, anyway.” - -“Probably,” I answered, “you love that person and that person’s pleasure -far more than you do, say, the theatre.” - -“No,” said Ruth, “perhaps you don’t love the person at all.” - -“But you love to feel virtuous,” Virginia said, “and all the time you -stay at home you are saying bad things, mentally, about that person.” - -“But you stay from choice, you please your bigger self and its demands -for beauty,” I went on; “you give up what you want for what you want -more.” - -“Yes,” Virginia said, “for you would be uncomfortable and unhappy if you -went.” - -“You see how silly and childish it is,” I continued, “to give up -anything for nothing, to deny yourself pleasures, to make sacrifices for -their own sake. That is one of the false virtues which make people -self-righteous, ‘goody-goody’ and ridiculous. I know a girl who gave up -eating butter during Lent because she liked butter, and she thought it -noble to deny herself.” - -“Yes,” said Virginia, “and I know girls who won’t take sundaes during -Lent, but drink sodas instead, because they like sundaes better.” - -I read aloud to them a Ruskin quotation that Ruth had brought some time -ago: - -“Recollect that ‘mors’ means death, and delaying; and ‘vita’ means life, -and growing; and try always, not to mortify yourself, but to vivify -yourself.” - -“You see,” I said, “I believe in being selfish, in the very largest -sense. I believe the whole world, all that I know and love, to be my -whole self, and I want to make that as good, as true, as harmonious as I -can. What people usually call selfishness is only self-limitation, -cutting yourself off.” - -“Yes; it is making yourself little.” - -“Exactly. Take selfish people, and you will find that they are not only -making others unhappy, but making their own lives very small and -narrow.” - -“They are unhappy themselves,” said Florence. - -I told them a story of three apple seedlings. The first said: “I will -not grow; there is so little room; I will not help crowd out the -others.” He died, a weakling. The second said: “I will not bear apples, -because the effort might spoil the glossy appearance and fulness of my -foliage.” He was good to look at, but—useless. The third one said: -“Apple-trees were made to bear apples. I like to do it, I want to do it, -and I will.” And he did, and so served himself and many beside. - -“I never could understand the morality,” I said, “that tells us to live -only for others.” - -“It would be impossible,” said Henry; “one has to live first for one’s -self.” - -“And last for one’s self,” I went on, “for that biggest self which is -our own life in relation with all that we know. If we lived only for -others, others would still live for others, and so on, with no end and -no sense. It is like that idea of living for future generations.” - -“What of it?” asked Marian. “I am particularly interested.” - -“That we shall live for future generations, and the future generations -shall live also for future generations, and so on forever and ever!” - -“Unless it were all for the last generation,” said Henry. - -“But that will never come,” I answered, “or, if it does, it will surely -not be worth while. I believe that whoever lives the best life for -himself, and does the thing he is most impelled to do, for his whole big -self, is also best for all others. He must be, since they are a part of -him.” - -“It seems to me,” said Marian, who had been dreaming, “that there is no -absolute truth. When people claim that they have found the whole truth, -and try to explain it to me, I never feel convinced.” - -“Does our idea strike you so, Marian?” I asked. - -“Oh, no,” she said, “not at all. You never make positive statements.” - -“No,” I answered, “I am willing to grant that what seems true to me now -may one day be included in a larger truth.” - -We spoke a few words, here, of envy. They agreed at once that artistic -envy, the envying of capabilities and talents, was impossible to one who -felt that others were doing things for him, that what he lacked in -himself he would find in others, for his satisfaction. - -“But,” said Florence, “there are so many other kinds of envy, where -other people having the thing does you no good.” - -“That’s true,” I said; “a beggar, for instance, envying the rich people -in a restaurant for their food, will not lose his hunger through seeing -them eat.” - -I told them of the danger and difficulty of our philosophy of right and -wrong, how I hesitated to tell it to them for fear they might misuse it, -and how much harder it was to guide one’s self by so big a standard than -by an unbeautiful, ready-made morality of little laws and precepts. He -must take the straight and narrow path, who cannot guide himself across -the prairies by the path of stars and planets. - -Virginia insisted on my repeating some facts I had told her lately. A -young French girl of good education, made desperate by poverty and lack -of work, slashed a picture in the Louvre, in order to be arrested, get -shelter and food, and attract attention to the injustice of her lot. We -discussed such cases, and decided that where society did so great a -wrong, the lesser wrong might be part of the cure. - -“I cannot judge people,” I said, “when circumstances drive them to do -wrong in self-defence.” - -We came near forgiving every one, when I reminded them of the sternness -of our standard. It made us lenient with others, who did not—and -perhaps could not—know that they might master circumstance, and that -the whole world was their whole self. But with ourselves it made us -terribly exacting. - -“Some people are like animals,” said Virginia. “I can’t understand them, -and cannot sympathize with them.” - -“That,” I said, “is your loss, you superior animal. Ruskin says -somewhere, and quite truly, that who cannot sympathize with the lower -cannot sympathize with the higher.” - -Now Virginia plunged off into a stream of delightful nonsense, told us -how she sometimes loved and sometimes hated herself, how, if she was -very happy, she had to pay the penalty of reaction, and how interesting -she was, altogether. As a punishment we made her keep still for five -minutes by the watch. I hoped Alfred would talk instead. Suppose we -punished him by making him talk for five minutes! - -Florence said: “What I like most of all is to be liked. I often envy -people their lovableness.” - -“Naturally,” said I, “that is what we all like most, isn’t it? - -“And the truly good person, in our sense of good, is also the lovable, -beloved person.” - -Marian and Virginia exchanged glances. They were thinking again of that -girl in Sunday-school, who, they said, was thoroughly good, but not at -all lovable. - -“The good person,” I said, “is also the intelligent, sympathetic person. -Sympathy, understanding love, is the great virtue. I have made a list of -seven virtues. Would you like to hear them? First, Love.” - -That, they said, included all the others. - -Yes, I answered, it was the chief. Second, Courage. Courage, they said, -to do as we believed. Third, Trustworthiness. They all agreed. Fourth, -love of knowledge. Fifth, love of beauty. Sixth, insight. Seventh, a -sense of humor! - -During this time Virginia and Marian were fitting each virtue to that -girl, and found her lacking only in the latter ones, but no more lovable -or interesting than before. - -“Ruth,” I said. - -“Yes.” - -“Are you sure they are not speaking of you or me?” - -“I don’t know,” she answered; “perhaps.” - -They protested. - -“Do you know the girl, Ruth?” I asked. - -“Yes, I do.” - -“Well,” I said, “please bring her to the next meeting. She interests -me.” - -Ruth promised, despite the protestations and explanations of Marian and -Virginia. “You would know, then, of whom we had been talking,” they -said. - -“Very well,” I answered, “she shall stay away on one condition.” - -“What is that?” - -“That you don’t mention her again. I always feel,” I went on, “that when -any one is badly spoken of, I am being criticized behind my back. Just -as when a race, such as the negroes, for instance, is unjustly spoken -of, I feel like fighting for my rights; for I take it as a mere matter -of chance that I didn’t happen to be one of them. - -“Florence,” I continued, “is quite right in wanting to be loved. It is -the best thing in the world.” - -“Except loving,” said Virginia. - -“Of course,” I answered; “but to want to be loved by those we love for -what we really are, and truly to wish to be what they can truly love, -that is the whole of goodness, I believe. The only difference between -vanity and true worth is that the vain person wishes to appear to be -what is lovable—which is very unsafe—and the truly good person wishes -to be it.” - -“You mean,” said Henry, “that vanity is company manners?” - -“Yes.” - -“I don’t know,” Florence said. “I have liked people who used ‘company -manners’ for some company, and not for others.” - -“I have known people,” said Marian, “who were always agreeable and -sweet, and appeared to want every one to like them, and yet were not a -bit lovable.” - -“Naturally,” I said, “the person who wishes to be loved for what he is, -is also willing to be hated for it, if he must, by those who think -otherwise.” I said there was a man of whom we had heard much during the -last days (because of his centenary) who seemed to be exactly what we -meant by good. This was Abraham Lincoln. We spent some time speaking of -him, the man who, it seems to me, might have inspired a new American -religion. - -“We always sympathize most with those,” said Henry, “who sympathize with -us.” - -“We love them most,” I said, “but the man of large heart will often -sympathize with people who understand him no better than they understand -the sunshine: with the bad man, for instance.” - -“That is true.” - -“In the drama of life,” I said, “he who loves beauty and his whole self -will live so as to make that whole beautiful, and for this joy and -beauty will gladly give up his petty satisfactions. For remember that -the good life is the beautiful life, and the influential life. Indeed, -every life in this drama has immense influence.” - -“For good or bad,” said Henry. - -“Yes, surely.” - -“I thought not,” answered Florence; “each one has a very, very small -influence.” - -“In the universe, perhaps, but we know nothing, and can know nothing, of -that. We cannot make comparisons with infinity. But with those we love, -who know us, in our own family, our own circle of friends, the influence -of each one is immense. Think of any family you know, of your own -family, and see how much difference each one makes in the whole, how -each one changes the whole. Each one influences all the others, and -makes the tone and color of life, whether he will or not.” - -“I suppose,” said Henry, “that even those who have no influence, who do -nothing, could have an influence.” - -“They can’t help having it, for good or bad. And people can know they -have this influence, and use it consciously, to make life about them as -they wish it to be. As a woman who comes into a house, if she loves -beauty and order, will set it in order at once and make it beautiful, so -that it will be all changed because of her, and for her pleasure, so in -life we can set all things in order and change them to our wish, by our -presence and character.” - -“I don’t think,” Ruth said, “that the good is always beautiful. Often -the thing we have to do is disagreeable.” - -“For instance, what?” I asked. - -“In school work, for example. We have to study subjects that are hard -and disagreeable, simply to pass.” - -“You mean that you have to do disagreeable things to get what you want. -Naturally. That is self-sacrifice. And you cannot always do things as -you would like to do them. The woman in the house might find ugly -wallpaper, and not be able to change that. But she would find other -means of making things look better. People can have conscious influence; -and the difference between those who make life good and beautiful, and -those who attract attention to themselves, is the difference between the -play in which all the actors are good, and combine to make a beautiful -play, and the one where there is a star who wants a poor cast to set off -her charms, and produces an inartistic and uneven play.” - -“I don’t see how one could have conscious influence,” said Marian; “it -seems to me one lives unconsciously all the time. I like to dream. I am -not fond of acting. I don’t believe I would ever have any conscious -influence.” - -“To dream and dream and keep on dreaming, and not act, is impossible,” I -said. - -“But,” asked Florence, “isn’t it just the dreamers who do all the great -things?” - -“Surely,” I answered, “one cannot help influencing people, even by one’s -dreams. But you, Florence, you must realize how much difference each -member of a family makes.” - -“Yes, I do.” - -“And Virginia, I believe, has often made conscious effort toward -cheerful influence, and knows what I mean. You, too, Ruth; I am certain -you know exactly what I mean, and I hope you and Marian will talk it -over; for it is an interesting subject.” - -“Yes, I know well what you mean.” - -As we left I asked Alfred to write a paper for me. “For,” I said, “they -will begin to think you stupid if you show no sign of intelligence. And -even I would like a tangible proof of what I really know, that you do -grasp exactly the spirit of what we say.” - - - - - THIRTEENTH MEETING - - -Marian was absent. I read aloud Henry’s paper: - -“Last Sunday we met for the first time in almost two months. We had -finished talking about art, and we started on a new course in which we -shall apply our standard of beauty. - -“Our topic last Sunday was Goodness. Good is a much-abused word. We -often speak disdainfully of a person, as being a goody-goody, but -usually this person, though not necessarily bad, is not good according -to the standard of to-day. In the last generation, and even in some -places to-day, the good child is the one which does its work -conscientiously, and spends all its spare time at sewing or doing odd -jobs around the house. The ‘good man’ does his work faithfully, never -swears or lies under any circumstances, and follows his religion, as it -is set down for him by others, absolutely to the letter. - -“In speaking of bad, one kind we mentioned was that which was once good, -but which we have left behind us in our progress. This is true of that -old standard. We have said that what we want is complete sympathy. That -which is beautiful is the symbol of completeness, and the good is -beautiful; and therefore the man with a warm, sympathetic heart is the -good man. A splendid type of this sort of man is Abraham Lincoln, a man -who suffered with the sufferer, and rejoiced with the happy; a man with -charity for all and enmity toward none. - -“We condemn the selfish man, but the man who does so much for others -that he does nothing for himself, is to be criticized just as much. -Hillel says: ‘If I am not for myself, who will be for me?’ - -“There is really no such thing as self-sacrifice, for if you voluntarily -give up one thing for another, it is because you like it better.” - -I said that this paper proved to me, what I had already suspected, that -in the last meeting I had dwelt too much on one side of our subject, and -not enough on the other. - -“Perhaps,” said Henry, “I spent too much time describing the man who -isn’t truly good?” - -“No,” I answered, “I don’t mind that. But you say ‘the man with a warm -and sympathetic heart is the good man.’ To be the truly good and great -man, one must have more than a warm and sympathetic heart, more, even, -than a feeling of kindliness and sympathy for one’s fellows. - -“You speak of Lincoln as a man ‘with charity for all and enmity toward -none.’ But Lincoln was much more than that. This alone would not have -made him great and splendid. What did?” - -Henry said: “He was a man of determination,” and, before I could answer, -Alfred went on: “He was a man of large sympathies.” - -“Yes,” I said, “it is the combination of the two; it is more than both. -I mean that the great and good man is the man whose final far-off aim is -the unity and completeness of man, who shapes his life and his work -toward that aim, who works for it, lives for it, sacrifices himself and -all things to it; and such a man was Lincoln. He made mistakes—he used -them for his cause. His morality, his law, was the union—that symbol of -the larger union—and for this immense self-fulfilment he worked with -his might, and died for it.” - -“Yes,” said Henry, “and the great man must make mistakes, and go beyond -them. Roosevelt, for instance, is always making mistakes, and then -acknowledging them, and going forward once more.” - -“Surely. And so Lincoln worked for the union, in sympathy with all men.” - -“In one speech,” said Henry, “he asked Davis, his opponent in the House, -to ‘help him save the union.’” - -“Now, Henry,” I said, “there is another thing in your paper—if you -don’t mind my saying it?” - -“Not at all.” - -“I mean that when you quoted Hillel you should have finished the -quotation: ‘If I am not for myself, who will be for me?’ and ‘but if I -am for myself alone, what am I then?’ You did not bring out the idea of -the large and small self, of sacrificing the small self to the large, -because you love the large self above all else, not because you like it -better. This morning I heard a lecture by Professor Royce, of Harvard, -and it is curious that he used exactly the same words we used in -speaking of self-sacrifice. He said we sacrifice the small to the large -self.” - -At this point Ruth came in, and brought Marian’s paper. I read it at -once: - -“Our meeting of the Seekers of February 14th was very interesting. We -talked about goodness. First we tried to define _good_, and finally -reached the conclusion that _goodness_ means being in a harmonious -relation with all our fellow-beings. We should try to make our life like -some beautiful picture or other work of art, making it a complete and -harmonious whole. All our friends and acquaintances, everything we see, -hear, do or know, help to make this picture; and if we try, we can -consciously make it what we want. We are masters of our lives, and if we -remember this, it will influence all our thoughts and deeds. We also -spoke of happiness, and decided that each one has a different kind of -happiness, depending on what he wants most. We also spoke of -self-sacrifice. There is really no such thing as self-sacrifice, because -when we give up one thing it is always because we think another finer, -and because we want the other more. We cannot have every detail in our -picture as clear as the main idea, and we must give up something to -bring out this idea.” - -We all thought this paper excellent. I told Ruth briefly what we had -said before she came; and then we spoke at length of the importance of -living our belief, of working for the cause, of giving ourselves to the -large self. - -I said: “Every great man has always done just that, whether he was -writer, philosopher, artist, statesman or scientist; he has always -devoted himself to a work which aimed toward the great union.” - -Florence said: “You mean not like the philosophers, simply to dream of -the good, but like the artist, to work it out? Didn’t you say that, when -we spoke of choosing the artistic life?” - -“No,” I answered, “not quite. The philosopher and dreamer also work for -the supreme good, by showing what it is like, and pointing the way which -men afterward go.” - -“That is what I always thought,” said Florence. - -“Yes,” I answered, “the philosopher is the teacher of teachers. But I -chose the artistic way of viewing life, because it combines the -philosophic and the scientific way, the vision and the work.” - -Virginia now said: “But sometimes men who work for completeness, and -whose motives are all good, do harm, anyway.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“Jesus, for instance,” she said. “He has done so much harm throughout -the ages, which he never meant to do.” - -“It was not he who did the harm,” I answered; “it was the people who -misunderstood him and misused his words. No great man ever does all that -he sets out to do. He cannot, since his aim is no less than perfection.” - -“I hate perfect people,” said Virginia, “or to think of any great man as -perfect, because it is so inhuman. I read a book for children, lately, -about Jesus, which made him out a perfect child. It was full of -contradictions, for it said first that he was a wonder, who walked, -talked and thought earlier than other children, and then it said that he -was human, and understood all human weaknesses. I think that to know men -a man must have human weaknesses and imperfections.” - -“Yes,” I said; “and I never thought of Jesus as unhumanly perfect. He, -too, had his temptation and weakness to fight and overcome. Indeed, only -the petty man could be perfect.” - -“But he would not be perfect,” said Henry. - -“No,” I answered; “but according to his standard, he might think himself -so. The great man, the Jesus, the Lincoln, could never be perfect, for -his perfection could only come with the completeness and beauty and -goodness of the whole world. You said of Jesus that he did harm, because -the doctrine made from his words did harm. But you must see that until -all men are great men, every man must suffer so. Take Lincoln, for -instance. If he had lived, and kept control of the Government, surely -the evils of the reconstruction period would have been avoided. You -might say, then, that Lincoln did harm, because his work led to all that -wrong and unhappiness.” - -“But it has all come right now,” said Henry. - -“Hardly,” I answered; “it is not nearly right, even to-day.” - -“And I suppose,” Virginia said, “that finally the work of Jesus and of -every great man will come right.” - -“And Lincoln’s work,” said Florence, “will come right sooner, because it -is not so large as the work of Jesus.” - -Now I said I wanted to go on to a subject which seemed to me especially -interesting, the question of the making of laws and regulations. Was it -not a curious thing that men’s minds, outrunning their other powers, -should see clearly the great good for which they strove, and should make -regulations for themselves, which they were even unable to keep? - -Henry and Ruth did not think it at all curious that people should make -regulations for themselves, but it did seem strange that they were -unable to keep them. - -“To me,” I said, “it seems a wonderful thing that the sense of beauty -and fitness should be so strong in the mind of man, should so far outrun -his impulses and his body, that he creates for himself laws and -regulations which he then tries to follow, as one sets up a ladder which -he afterward tries to climb. Of course, we no longer believe in -revelation, in the old Biblical sense, but to us it means revelation -from within. We do not believe that God dictated his laws to Moses, but -that Moses created his laws from his own sense of love and beauty. Man -made his own laws. And his laws outrun him.” - -“Some people,” said Ruth, “make laws for the other people, who are not -up to them.” - -“No,” Henry said; “isn’t it really all the people making laws for -themselves?” - -“Yes,” I answered, “for finally it is the few making laws for all, for -themselves, too. It is humanity making laws for humanity. Every time a -man does wrong and knows he is doing wrong, he is breaking one of his -self-made or self-chosen laws. His mind outruns his powers. When -Coleridge wanted to break himself of the opium-eating habit, he used to -hire men to stand in front of the drug-stores and prevent his going in. -He tried to overcome himself with himself.” - -“I like Coleridge,” said Virginia. “I like people with weaknesses, who -try to overcome them.” - -I said I liked them, too, that there was no sight so stimulating as that -of fights and conquests, as seeing the very thing we longed for, the -opposition beaten, the difficulties overcome. - -“But even the weak people who fail to win,” said Virginia; “I like them, -too.” - -“So do I,” I answered; “the fight itself, even the failure, the human -longing, is worth while. - -“But I want you to see clearly one thing about all laws and regulations, -and that is that they are substitutes. They are substitutes for -understanding love, or, rather, they are the forerunners of -understanding love, the path of beauty and fitness which the mind makes -for itself before all our desires are strong and harmonious enough to -fulfil the supreme desire. Laws are the framework on which the house of -love shall be built. But when the house is finished, the framework shall -no more be seen; nor is it of value in itself, but only as that which -upholds the house. I would like to talk with you of certain special laws -of this kind. And the first is justice.” - -“I was just going to say that,” said Ruth; “it was on my lips.” - -“I was thinking of it, too,” said Henry. - -“I am sorry,” I answered, “that I did not give you the chance.” - -We talked of this subject, and agreed that although justice, the sense -of equity, was a great and necessary virtue and a serviceable tool, it -was but the tool of love, and less than love, and that if our -understanding, our sympathy and possession of life were complete, we -would no longer think of justice, nor praise it; that the rigid laws of -justice, which must oftentimes change, were forever at the service of -love, which made changes and overcame laws. - -“Some people are not so far advanced as others,” said Virginia, “and the -others lift them up with laws. Some people are undeveloped, like -animals.” - -We could not help laughing at Virginia, with her eternal animals. - -“You remember,” I said, “I spoke to you of past virtues that were good -in their time, because the time was ripe only for them, and that in -their own setting interest and delight us, and remain forever beautiful, -like old pictures, but which would now be ugly, bad and out-of-place. -Revenge is an example. How the old stories of revenge stir and even -uplift us, and yet how hateful is the idea of revenge in modern life! -You remember being thrilled and stirred by the heroism of some old duel, -whereas you could find no beauty or heroism in any duel at the present -time.” - -“I think,” said Ruth, “it is often the language in which the thing is -put that stirs us.” - -“It is the spirit of the time and place,” I said. “No language could -make a duel in New York, among educated people, inspiring or heroic. -With war it is the same. Old wars and wars among savages may inspire us, -because of the heroism and comradeship of the fighters. But among modern -nations even the justified war must be somewhat disgusting, because now -far more heroism is required in other works, and comradeship can mean no -less than all mankind. - -“Now,” said I, “can any of you think of another virtue, like justice, -which is a substitute for understanding love?” - -“Yes,” said Florence; “I think that pity is.” - -“Pity?” I said. “Yes—perhaps. Still, that is somewhat different. Pity -was good once, because it was feeling, and feeling is the root of all -understanding and sympathy. But self-torturing pity seems to me a -weakness. Sympathy is quite a different, a stronger, a braver thing. Who -agrees with me?” - -First, they said, would I explain exactly what I meant? - -“Sympathy seems to me understanding and love, such as you have for -yourself. You are willing to suffer, since it is a part of life and a -part of the way. You want to suffer for the cause, if necessary; not -otherwise. But you don’t pity yourself. You would be ashamed to make so -much of your pain. So you do not pity others. You love them, you feel -with them, you help them bravely. You can bear their pain without making -a fuss over them, as you would bear your own. You consider them as -strong and brave as yourself.” - -They all agreed with me, save Virginia. She said: “If I step by accident -on the foot of a little dog, and he cries out, then that hurts me. And I -think it is good, because then I know how I would feel if I were a -little dog, and I try not to do it again. Isn’t that pity?” - -“Perhaps,” I said; “we are apt to pity lower creatures. But there is no -good in the mere feeling of physical pain that goes with such things, of -the pain and thrill up and down your spine when you hurt any creature -accidentally, and hear it cry out.” - -“Don’t you think,” asked Alfred, “it is only because they cry out that -we feel it?” - -“Maybe,” I said, “for the cry makes us know of the pain. At one time, -however, a virtue was made of the mere suffering _with_ others; and I -suppose in its good time this was necessary, because it developed the -feeling which makes sympathy possible.” - -“I think it is good,” said Virginia, “for when my sister was ill, I did -not know how she felt, or understood her, and so I couldn’t sympathize -with her; but later I understood, and then I wished I had felt with her -as she did. It would have been better.” - -“Perhaps,” I said, “for it would have taught you to feel. To know how -others feel is the best thing in the world. But to let that feeling -overcome and crush you, to pity them, is weakness. I think it is a -weakness we have all felt, and longed to overcome, when we suffered so -much with others that we were unable to act.” - -“Yes, indeed,” said Ruth. - -“To be strong to help and strong to do, not overcome with world-sorrow,” -I said, “to face suffering in ourselves and others as something to be -overcome and used!” - -Virginia spoke of a curious calmness in herself that made her not act -excitedly when anything happened, but always wait first to see the -outcome. “If a child falls in the street,” she said, “I don’t go rushing -toward it as some people do, but wait to see if it will pick itself up.” - -“But if it fell out of a window,” said Ruth, “I suppose you would rush -forward.” - -“No,” she answered, “not unless it were necessary. I would wait to see -what happened. When my hat blows off, I never go rushing after it till I -see where it is going to stop.” - -The juxtaposition of a falling child and a falling hat was -disconcerting. - -“I know how Virginia feels,” I said; “it is the artist in her always -looking on at all that happens. It is a good way, too. Now what other -virtues are there, like justice, that are really substitutes for right -feeling?” - -They could not think of the others. So I mentioned honesty, which is -much like justice—even a form of it; steered clear of a reef of -arguments on truth-telling, showed them how honesty would not even be -mentioned where there was perfect love, and went on to the next and most -important, namely, duty. They had not thought of it in this way before. -They all disliked the word duty. - -I spoke again of the girl who stays home from the theatre with some one -she does not love, because she feels it to be her duty. Why does she do -it? - -“Because she chooses,” said Alfred; “she wants to do it most.” - -“But why?” I asked. - -“She may think,” said Ruth, “that the other person would do the same for -her.” - -“But she may not think so,” I said, “and still she would stay.” - -“Because,” said Virginia, “she would feel good afterward.” - -“Yes,” I said, “in a sense it is that. It would give her satisfaction.” - -“I would do it,” said Ruth, “but I don’t think I would feel any -particular satisfaction afterward.” - -“But,” I said, “if you didn’t do it, you would feel dissatisfied with -yourself. And therein lies the explanation of duty. Duty is a substitute -for love. It is the substitute the mind imposes on us when our feelings -will not fulfil the scheme of beauty and order which is our strongest -desire. To do your duty is to fulfil your strongest desire—lacking the -great love. Love shall overcome duty. Duty means only debt. It is -limited, small. It is the ugly framework that love must make before it -can build its beautiful dwelling-place. The strong man always does his -duty, because he flinches at nothing that is on the path, but more and -more he loses duty in love.” - -Virginia said: “I think it is fun sometimes to hate things, such as -hating to go to school.” - -“Why?” - -“Because to do a thing you hate to do makes you feel good sometimes. I -like it.” - -“We have come to love the hard thing,” I said, “because it is the -growing thing. We get to fancy that when we do something hard we must be -getting ahead, because generally it is true.” - -Virginia said: “I like the poem by Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm: - - ‘When joy and duty clash, - Let duty go to smash.’” - -“I wish joy and duty were the same,” I said, “and that is just what they -are when love conquers. You have to do your duty when love fails, and so -it often seems an unpleasant job.” - -I spoke now of promises, and of how unnecessary they would be were it -not for our failures in love. Then we went on to speak of obedience. We -said that where love was perfect one would not think of obedience or -disobedience. Obedience is a substitute for understanding. He who -understands does not obey. He acts. We spoke of necessary obedience, the -substitute, and then of the family where parents and children were so -much at one that obedience was never mentioned. - -“A person out of such a home,” said Virginia, “would not have enough to -struggle against. I don’t like people who are just perfect, and have -nothing to overcome.” - -“We will never reach perfection,” they said; and they all, save Henry, -agreed with me that the greatest joy in life was working for, rather -than achieving our desires. - -“But when we reach perfection,” he said, “we won’t wish for it any -more.” - -I refused to argue that problematic point. - -I said: “Be sure the strong and good man will always find something -still to fight and overcome.” - -We spoke now of how disobedience might be a virtue, of the rebels in -wars for freedom, and the child who would refuse to obey his parents, if -they ordered him to do what he thought bad; the thief’s child, for -example. - -I said: “The framework is for the house—not for itself—and if it -doesn’t suit the house, it must be pulled down.” - -Now we had an amusing talk on conventions, in which Henry objected to -full-dress suits, bouillon cups and polite lies. But I showed them how -good and necessary were conventions properly used, since they saved us -weighty discussions on trivial matters. I said it was a good thing we -didn’t have to waste time and energy deciding what we would eat for -breakfast each day. - -“But,” said Henry, “if some day I don’t care to eat oatmeal for -breakfast, I don’t want to feel obliged.” - -“No,” I said; “don’t be a slave to convention.” - -I went on: “If all things were right, then conformity would be -good—though uninteresting—but in this growing world we need reformers -who smash and reform things, whenever conformity becomes deformity.” - -You notice that Alfred spoke more at this meeting. I had told him that -if he did not help us along, and show what he meant and thought, he was -not living up to our idea of completeness and work in unison. - - - - - FOURTEENTH MEETING - - -I read Henry’s paper: - -“A good man will bring those with whom he comes in contact into -harmonious relations with himself. It is not enough to have a good -heart. Many people are always meaning to do good, but never do it. It is -the actions that count; for we said: ‘Art (good) is self-expression and -self-fulfilment.’ - -“Many things which we call virtues are only substitutes for love and -sympathy, which we are outgrowing. The principal ones are justice, -honesty, conformity, obedience and pity. - -“Men have not perfect sympathy, but often do things at the expense of -others. Therefore man, realizing his weakness, has made for himself a -set of laws.” - -I objected to his use of the word “pity” along with the other -substitutes. We had another short talk on the subject. - -Virginia said: “I would rather commit suicide than be pitied.” - -“Then,” I answered, “since we do not wish to be pitied, we could not, -with perfect sympathy, do so unto others.” - -Virginia went on: “When a person who has some trouble or loss makes a -great fuss over it, I must say I don’t think very well of him.” - -“We expect people to bear life bravely,” I said, “and to help them do -it, to do it altogether. A man who is prevented from helping by his own -pity is like a man who, when he saw another blind, put out his own eyes -in sorrow, instead of leading the blind.” - -I said I wanted to speak of a subject that seemed especially to interest -Virginia. I meant patriotism, but patriotism in a large and unusual -sense. What were their ideas on this subject? Virginia implied that -patriotism was not good, “because whenever you are patriotic for your -own country, you have to be patriotic against other countries. You seem -to be praising and helping your own at the expense of others.” - -“That,” I said, “is just the trouble with the false view of patriotism, -and that view has grown out of wars and conquests. For, naturally, -whenever people fought for their country, they had to fight against -another. But I see patriotism—and any loyalty or faithfulness—in a -larger relation. Think for a moment what the word patriotism really -means, in its verbal root, and you will see how it grows, how it begins -at home, and ends by including the world. What does it mean?” - -Henry remembered that it came from a word meaning “Father.” - -“Yes,” I said, “it meant, originally, loyalty to our fathers, to our -family; and so you must see what it would finally mean.” - -“Because,” asked Ruth, “we are related to the whole world?” - -“Yes,” I answered, “we are related to the whole world, we are children -of all the nations; but most of all, of course, children of our fathers; -so that, beginning at the centre, we shall spread to all sides, yet not -lose the centre. The definite thing, the love for this land, this home, -will come first, and include all the others. We will be patriotic for -our Father, the world.” - -“Do you suppose,” asked Marian, “that an Englishman could be patriotic -for the United States?” - -“Yes,” I said, “and I am glad you asked that, for it gives me a chance -to tell you what forms patriotism is beginning to take. An Englishman, -or American, may be patriotic for Anglo-Saxonism all the world over; for -the English language and literature everywhere; he may dream of it as -the world-language; and then, surely, he is patriotic for these States, -as well as for England. I am not going to preach patriotism to you. I -know you are all patriotic for this country, for Americanism, for the -idea of democracy which America upholds. Surely the schools, from first -to last, dwell so much upon it that an American child can hardly help -being patriotic.” - -I was surprised at the burst of answers. - -Marian said, on the contrary, the school with its continual, boring -insistence on patriotism, almost made one hate it; that no children -liked to sing the patriotic songs. Ruth objected that singing patriotic -songs was not patriotism. Alfred, Marian and Ruth spoke of the boredom -of patriotic holiday celebrations in school, how the well-known men got -up and, as Alfred put it, “said the same thing each time.” Marian said -they had patriotism “thrown at them in chunks.” Florence added, she -thought we felt unpatriotic, because we didn’t want to be like those who -expressed that kind of patriotism. - -We concluded, however, that after all we were patriotic in spite of the -schools, and that America stood for something big, definite, wonderful. -I told them that if only they had been away from it more, they would -understand it better. And they all admitted that America, insulted with -false criticism, would arouse them like a personal insult. - -The picture, with its central, definite object, still suggests universal -things. So one must begin with loyalty to first things, to family and -State, before one can be loyal to the universe. I spoke of those French -Socialists whose patriotism for the whole world had carried them to the -point of unpatriotism to France, so that in a war they would wish to see -their own country destroyed. Their loyalty to working-men the world over -made them careless of the state at home. - -“Only to working-men!” cried Virginia. “But I think one need be just as -loyal to the rich, and that they are quite as much in need of reform and -help.” - -“I agree with you,” I answered. - -Ruth said she could understand those French Socialists very well, and to -her it seemed that from their own point of view they might be right. - -I answered: “From their own point of view, of course. And they do want -final, universal good; but they don’t see that to gain the large one -must preserve the small, that the universal must begin with the -particular.” - -“Like some philosophers,” said Henry. - -We discussed the subject of war—all disbelieving in it—without coming -to any definite conclusion as to what we would do under any particular -circumstance. - -Virginia asked whether it would be wrong of a man, if his country went -to war, to refuse to fight because he disbelieved in war. Henry said he -thought it would be better to do as the fighting Quakers did, to fight, -so that the war might soon be ended. - -Ruth said if all people refused to fight, war would end. I agreed with -her, but said also: “If a man disbelieves in fighting, still, when he is -struck, he defends himself—that is, if he has any spirit. So I would -expect a man, no matter what his convictions, to defend his country when -it is threatened and attacked.” - -“Do you think,” they asked, “that Russians can be patriotic for Russia?” - -“Yes,” I said, “and that is a patriotism of which we have not yet -spoken, or perhaps thought. It is the patriotism that seems unpatriotic. -The Russian revolutionists are patriotic, not for the Russia of to-day, -but for the Russia that will be, for the Russia they are going to build, -for the nation in their hearts. Often the most patriotic man is he who -criticizes his country, who fights against the present state of things, -who appears disloyal because his loyalty is large. Such were the -colonists, loyal to the union and independence.” - -I quoted that slogan at the time of the Spanish-American war: “My -country, right or wrong, my country still.” They were indignant at such -an appeal, and agreed with me that blind loyalty was slavishness. I told -a story to illustrate what I meant. - -Suppose a family to be in grave debt, but careless about paying, and -unwilling to make sacrifices. One member, with the family honor at -heart, insists on these sacrifices and hardships for all, until the -debts are paid. His brothers and sisters may accuse him of unkindness -and disloyalty, but he will be the truly loyal one. - -Now, I asked, what was the next law in art? - -Henry brought out his paper and read: “Must leave out the unimportant.” - -“Yes,” I said, “and the next one reads: Must have variety and -many-sidedness. Do you understand at all how these apply to life?” - -“You don’t mean,” asked Marian, “that we are never to do anything -unimportant, that we are always to be thinking about it?” - -“No,” I answered, “certainly not. But I mean that we are to have a -definite aim in life, that we are to know what we want most of all. Then -we can avoid everything which interferes with this aim. We are to choose -the sort of life that will help us to be what we wish to be, that will -make us whole and harmonious.” - -“I don’t know what I want to be,” said Marian. “I don’t think one need -have a definite conscious aim.” - -“You do not quite understand me, Marian,” I answered. “You need not -choose now what your profession will be, or what definite thing you want -most. Very few people as young as you have done that.” - -Marian said: “Florence has.” - -“Florence?” I asked. “She said she loved most to be loved.” - -“We all do,” said Henry; “to be loved, and to love others.” - -“I would like,” said Florence, “to dance as well as my dancing teacher.” - -I expressed grave doubts as to the permanence of this ambition. - -“But,” I said, “what I mean, Marian, is that you want to be a certain -kind of person, that you must have an idea of yourself which, even -unconsciously, you try to attain; and it is this ideal, this vision of -the self you wish to be, and mean to be, that should color and shape -your life, as an artist’s idea of his central figure and meaning -controls his whole execution.” - -“I’m sure I don’t think of it all the time,” she said; “I like just to -live along, and dream, and be what I happen to be.” - -“Now, Marian,” I answered, “you are saying what you think is true. But I -will show you that it is not. You live for your desired self, even -unconsciously. Do you not remember doing or leaving undone certain -little things which your ideal of yourself wanted otherwise, and then -reproaching yourself for days for this small lapse into selfishness or -unkindness?” - -They had all had this annoying experience, as well as I myself. Marian -told how, when she was quite a small girl, something had happened that -she had never forgotten. A little beggar-girl, with only rubbers over -her stockings, came to the door and asked Marian for old clothes. Marian -had been reading stories, and was longing to act them. But her mother -was out, and she had not the courage to do anything; so she turned the -child away with a mumbled excuse about her mother’s not being at home. -And she had never forgiven herself. - -Marian saw that what I meant by a definite aim in life was, after all, -indefinite enough to suit her. - -Virginia said: “When I want to do some kind or good thing which it is -hard to do, because I lack courage, I make up my mind that I will do it -anyway, without thinking; I walk right in, and then the rest is always -easy and pleasant.” - -“In other words,” I answered, “you manage yourself. I do believe it is -good to know what you want to be, and how you want to be it, and then to -avoid strenuously everything that interferes.” - -We spoke of wasted and worthless conversation with “outsiders,” and I -warned them all against boring people, or allowing themselves to be -bored. It is better not to talk at all. Virginia said she always made -people amuse her, which seemed to us a good way. I suggested getting -people to tell of themselves, since all human nature is interesting. But -Ruth objected that people who did it were the worst bores, and only -conceited people _would_ do it. - -“At any rate,” I said, “please don’t get into the habit of making flat -conversation, for then you yourselves will degenerate into bores.” And -we decided that merriment would cover many ills. - -We spoke of the worth of knowledge. The boys and girls have to study -subjects unprofitable to them, for the sake of passing certain -examinations. This, of course, is a definite sacrifice for a definite -reason. But it is necessary, in all studying, to choose some subjects -and to sacrifice others. I said I would very much like to know -everything. - -“Yes,” Henry answered, “I always wish I might know everything there is -to know.” - -“But, of course, we can’t,” I said, “and so we have to choose first that -knowledge which we need, which will make our life as we wish it to be.” - -Alfred told us how he had chosen to study French and German instead of -Latin, because they seemed more necessary to him, though he would like -to know them all. - -“And,” I said, “the thing you love you shall seek with your might. You -must definitely want to be a certain sort of a person in life, else you -may be no sort of person. Have you noticed how some people, who were -quite charming in youth, ‘peter out’ when they grow older, how they lose -all interest in things, and become dull? To me that seems unnecessary. -Age may be just as full, interesting and active as youth, to those whose -life has a definite aim and meaning.” - -Henry said: “Yes, I wish to live long. I have heard people say they -would not like to be old, and to be a burden to others.” - -“But you,” I answered, “mean to live long and not be a burden to -others.” - -“Yes,” he said. - -“You must concentrate,” I went on; “you must get out of life only what -you need and want.” - -Florence said she couldn’t concentrate in her studies, except when she -loved them. Naturally, I answered, it was strong love that made us -concentrate. - -Virginia said: “I used to study, only instead of studying I looked out -of the window.” - -“But now, at your art,” I answered, “you work with concentration, -because you love it.” - -Henry remarked that perhaps, when she was looking out of the window, she -studied the landscapes. - -At this point Marian, hearing voices in the next room, whispered to Ruth -whether she knew who was there. - -“Strange,” I said. “Until you spoke of it, I did not notice any voices. -Do you love this club? Well, I do, too; and when I am here, no matter -what happened before, or will happen afterward, or may be happening now, -I think of nothing but what we are doing, I forget everything else. Do -you remember the difference between the painting and the photograph? The -photographic plate takes every detail, unimportant and meaningless; the -picture contains only that which makes it complete and beautiful. Let -your life be a picture, not a photograph. Do not let your life be a -sensitive plate that cannot defend itself against any impression. Let it -be an artist’s work, chosen, complete, beautiful. Leave out what does -not concern you. - -“Now, what is it,” I asked, “which all of us do love best, and which -includes all our lesser loves?” - -Henry answered: “You mean complete sympathy and understanding.” - -“Yes,” I went on, “and all our lives are different, definite expressions -of that desire.” - -We spoke a few words of those people who mistake the means for the end, -who make an end of business, athletics, or even study, so that they -forget these are only a means to the end, and destroy or waste their own -powers in some pettiness. - -“Each life,” I said, “must be a different, definite expression of the -longing for unity.” - -“Definite?” asked Marian again. “If I were always to be thinking what -sort of person I meant to be, I would be dreadfully self-conscious.” - -“No,” I said, “you would not think it, you would live it. Desire is a -habit. Self-consciousness of the stilted sort attempts to realize what -sort of person you appear or are, and then to act your part. Then you -usually fail, and you are usually wrong in your estimate. But know what -you long to be; and then be it, because of your strong desire. It is not -necessary to have chosen your life-work now, but you will choose it some -day, and meanwhile you want to be ready and open for it. You and Alfred -have not yet chosen, nor need choose. But the others believe they have -chosen. And there is no reason why each one should not do just what he -sets out to do. Each life and each moment of each life is tremendously -important. Each man is as great as he loves to be. The difference -between the great genius and the common, scattered man, is the -difference in desire. Great desire makes great deeds. It is not so much -capacity, so called, as the desire, the concentration and the belief -that you can.” - -“Self-confidence,” they said. - -“Yes, surely. When a man has his call, when he feels that he must do a -thing, then he can. Did you ever think of the word ‘calling,’ what a -tremendous thing it means?” - -“Vocation,” said Ruth. - -“Yes,” I said, “your vocation. Some of us have our call early, and some -late, but we can always follow it to the end with love and courage. I -believe that each one of you is going to do great things. I want you to -believe that you are going to be great, for then you will.” - -Henry said: “I mean to be a great man. I know I can, if I work for it. -When some one found fault with me for criticizing Lincoln, because I was -nobody, I answered that I meant to be greater than Lincoln. And I do.” - -“And you shall. And I believe that Virginia will be as great an artist -as she means to be. And I believe that if Florence persists, she shall -dance better than Isadora Duncan, and make of dancing a great and noble -art.” - -“It _is_ so,” said Marian and Ruth. “It is an expression of the highest -art.” - -“Surely it is,” I said. “And I believe that Ruth will reform the whole -kindergarten system, and give us new and finer ideas on education.” - -“I will,” said Ruth. - -“I believe it and know it, too,” said Marian; “she had her call early. -She has always been teaching little children.” - -“Ambition is good,” I said; “it is best. He who desires great things -will do greatly. Genius is desire. And great genius is most desire. - -“Each one,” I said, “will then be a person with a meaning, but for all -that a large, many-sided person. Do you understand, Marian? In a picture -there is light and shade, and contrast makes completeness. So in life, -rest and work and play, merriment and seriousness, study and exercise, -and all the many different things that make up life are needed to make -it whole. I believe in concentration, in variety.” - -“What do you mean,” asked Florence, “by concentration in variety?” - -“I mean,” I said, “that we will make every activity in life the sort we -need, that our pleasures will suit our studies. Our taste and liking in -every kind of thing will harmonize. We will like only good nonsense. -Even our recreation must have a certain character, and satisfy our -taste. Each person stands for a definite vision of life.” - -Virginia said: “At the academy show last year, you remember that picture -by Pischoto of an Italian garden, with a fountain? It was calm, the -water poured down softly, all was still. At the Spanish exhibition, I -saw a picture by Sorolla of the same spot; but it was jubilant, the -water leaped, the sun sparkled, everything was gay. It was the -difference in temperament that made the same spot unlike.” - -“Yes,” I said; “I am glad you told us that. For I believe each person -must be a rhythm in life, must stand for himself, and be a force and a -measure of life to those about him.” - -We spoke a few words more, to make this clear; and then I read to them -two slips from the Ruskin calendar, which Ruth had brought: - -“All that is highest in Art, all that is creative and imaginative is -formed and created by every artist for himself, and cannot be repeated -or imitated by others.” - -“Remember that it is of the very highest importance that you should know -what you are, and determine to be the best that you may be.” - -Next meeting will be Ruth’s meeting on Christian Science. - - - - - FIFTEENTH MEETING - - -We had our meeting on Christian Science. - -I wish to record it in so far only as it related to our planned work, as -I think neither Ruth’s exposition nor our answers were original or -enlightening. - -I had given her a list of topics. The first was the idea of God. In this -we found we agreed, and it gave occasion for much reviewing. Ruth had -translated all her ideas from the vocabulary of Christian Science to -that of our club, and this helped her to shape her thoughts. We spoke at -some length of the personal and universal self. They called it “two -selves,” and I answered them that it was only one, the one including the -other. - -With the subject and matter and spirit we had some trouble. They all -understood what I said, but failed—I, too—to understand Ruth; and we -are not sure now whether she and I agree. - -Marian said: “Scientists speak of ‘dead matter,’ of all matter as dead. -Is that so?” - -I repeated my ideas on spirit and matter—all form is an expression of -spirit—and also insisted on the limitations of our knowledge. I said: -“Matter seems never to be dead, because when one force takes leave of -it, another comes into possession, and decay is always the beginning of -new life.” - -Marian answered: “You mean the particles in this table are held together -by a force?” - -“Surely.” - -“What is it? Does it feel?” - -Again I pleaded ignorance. - -We spoke of form as the eternal changing expression of spirit, of time -as merely the measure and rhythm of progress or change. So Ruth found me -willing to grant that all bad was a condition, not an unalterable thing, -and that time was only a convention. - -Concerning immortality Ruth believed all I do, and more besides. Alfred -now agrees with me. He, too, feels that in some way he must continue to -be. - -Of the individual—or soul—Ruth thought as I. We also agreed on moral -good and bad, and on the use and manner of prayer. - -Marian asked me: “Why, if mind force forms body, can we not make our -bodies perfect at once?” - -I answered her that mind force had formed our bodies in the past, as -they were now, and that our present, mental force was making future -physical conditions; that all things went slowly, and the results of the -past were inevitable. I spoke of the influence mind and action had on -the body, on circulation, for instance. I said again that physical -perfection could not be the aim, but only one of the conditions of -progress. - -On the subject of disease and cure Ruth and I disagreed entirely. But -this we both held to be not tremendously important. I do not care here -to record the arguments—not in the least bitter or heated—which we -gladly left in air. None of us was in the least convinced by Ruth, and -we were frank—she, as well as we—in our expressions of opinion. - -So we found Ruth was with us in all that mattered, and had been candidly -with us all the while. The children said the club had not changed their -views, but enlarged and ordered them. - -I read aloud the Christian Science prayer Ruth had brought some weeks -ago: - - MY PRAYER - - “To be ever conscious of my unity with God, to listen for his - voice, and hear no other call. To separate all error from my - thought of man, and see him only as my father’s image, to show - him reverence and share with him my holiest treasures. - - “To keep my mental home a sacred place, golden with gratitude, - redolent with love, white with purity, cleansed from the flesh. - - “To send no thought into the world that will not bless, or - cheer, or purify, or heal. - - “To have no aim but to make earth a fairer, holier place, and to - rise each day into a higher sense of Life and Love.” - -We liked all of it, save the words “cleansed from the flesh.” Ruth -explained that this meant cleansed from the idea of evil in the flesh. - -“Then,” I answered, “the author should have said, though it is less -poetical, ‘cleansed from the prejudice against the flesh.’ I would agree -with that.” - -Virginia again suggested the subject of animal consciousness, by telling -Mark Twain’s story of the cat and the Christian Scientist. Ruth said -that just now she was studying this subject. - -Florence asked: “Do you believe jelly-fish are conscious?” - -I reminded them of Cope’s theory of consciousness and desire as the -cause of life, and of the higher consciousness swamping the lower. They -remembered it, and were interested. Virginia said: “It is like the -stars, which are always there, but cannot be seen when the sun shines.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “the light of our larger consciousness hides those -lesser feelings.” - -We spoke of other religions and creeds, and Henry used the -term—referring to Unitarianism—“a mild form of Christianity.” - -Marian asked me whether mine was an absolute belief in an absolute -truth. - -“Because,” she said, “I don’t believe any one can find the absolute -truth.” - -“You must see,” I answered, “that I believe in a growing truth. Why else -had we called ourselves Seekers? And I believe we will be seekers all -our lives. All I have given you is a direction.” - -“I am not sure,” answered she, “that I want just one direction.” - -“He who would go in all directions at once, must stand still,” I -replied. - -“Perhaps I must,” she said. “I believe only one thing absolutely, and -that is that I am immortal. And I don’t think I believe that just -because I like to.” Still, when I questioned her on the whole self, and -progress toward sympathy as the good, she fully agreed. She is afraid of -accepting too much. This is a large truth, different for each one, able -to include all, growing, forever changing, and forever the same, like -life itself. I said: “We will always be Seekers together.” - -I now read Henry’s paper: - -“We spent a few minutes in speaking of Patriotism. Patriotism is loyalty -to our fathers, and from this it comes to be loyalty toward our country, -and then to the whole world. No one should be patriotic to the extent of -‘My country right or wrong,’ nor should any one be so patriotic in the -cause of humanity as a whole as to forget his duty to his country and -his home. The patriotic man is not always the right man, but the man -with ‘Firmness in the right as God gives him to see right.’ - -“Many people spoil their lives, and even those of others, by putting -unimportant things on a level, or perhaps higher than the really -important questions of their life. There are women who try to teach or -do settlement work because they think it a duty, even though they have -no taste or ability in those lines, and their right place is in their -own homes. The farmer who comes to the city and tries to be a business -man, will not, as a rule, succeed. Every man has some work at which he -is best, and he should find out what his calling is, and then give his -best efforts to that. - -“To represent light in a picture, we must have shadows, and without -variation life would be dull. Hobbies are very good; and if a business -man delights in visiting picture galleries, or baseball games, he will -be better off if he gratifies these hobbies.” - -Henry’s paper aroused some comment. They criticized Henry for saying one -should not be “so patriotic in the cause of humanity as a whole as to -forget his duty to his country.” They said patriotism for humanity must -be patriotism for one’s own land. We agreed that his error was one of -words rather than of meaning. - -The girls teased him about his opinion on woman’s whole duty, and -accused him, truly, it seems, of being opposed to woman’s suffrage. I -said I wished it were not out of our present plan to argue all those -questions, but we would not discuss definite social or political -problems at all, since the girls and boys had neither the experience nor -the judgment to profit by them now. - -“Do you mean,” asked Marian, “whether the very rich man ought to keep -his money, or throw it out on the street to everybody?” - -“Yes—if you wish to put it that way.” - -“I am certain,” said Florence, “no one could change my views on social -questions.” - -“No,” I answered, “probably not. But no doubt you will often change them -for yourself.” - -“Very likely,” she said. - -I now read Marian’s paper: - -“Our discussion last week at the club was on various subjects. The first -was patriotism. We should be patriotic for our own country and the whole -world. If we are rightly patriotic for our own country, we will be so -for the whole world. It is not patriotism to say I am for the whole -world, but not for my own country. This would be very inconsistent. -Patriotism does not consist of saying your own country is always right, -and that another is wrong because it is not your own. We also discussed -the question of choosing professions, and agreed that we should always -choose what we like, whether it is conventional or not. It is better to -be a good dancer than a poor teacher. In doing work for others, we ought -not to choose settlement work because our friends are doing it, or -because we or some one else thinks we ought to. If it is work that -appeals to us, we should do it; but, if not, we might go among the young -people of our own circle, and help them. Another thing we spoke of was -_boring_ and _being bored_. Never bore any one or allow them to bore -you. If you don’t know anything to say worth while saying, keep still. -If some one else bores you, look at them from some standpoint such that, -if they don’t interest you, at least they make you laugh at them. If -possible, don’t frequent the society of people that bore you.” - -They asked, had I not said it was wrong to laugh “at” people. Yes, I -answered, malicious laughter was bad, as malicious criticism was bad, -but there was a kindly laughter, that laughed with people, and smiled at -their superficial weaknesses in a loving way openly, as we smile at our -own. In this way we often laughed at, and with, the people we loved -most. But, I said, let us never forget or disrespect the self, the -growing, wonderful self in every creature, especially in every human -being. - -Now Virginia and Marian have their troubles. They do dislike certain -people, and they like talking about them. Virginia said a fool was a -fool, and continued to be a fool, even if you thought of him as a -developing self. Marian objected that though she agreed with me, she -couldn’t live up to it. - -I said: “I am not going to tell you what to do, or preach you a sermon. -Only I want you to see the thing in a true light. I find it impossible -to sympathize with some people, and I cannot help disliking those who -have done harm to any one I love. But I look upon it as a weakness and -limitation of myself, which I mean to overcome. Remember that every self -you fail to understand is a limitation of yourself. Every judgment you -make of another is a judgment of yourself. I wish one could say, not: ‘I -hate that person,’ but ‘I am _one who hates_ that person’; the hate -being a quality of your own, and reflecting only upon yourself.” - -“I have said of people,” said Virginia, “that I did not see how they -could have any friends.” - -“But they did have friends,” I answered, “and the limitation was in your -power of seeing. When you speak ill of a person, you are defining -yourself.” - -“It would be much pleasanter,” said Virginia, “to think it was a -definition of the other person.” - -“No doubt,” I answered; “do as you please, but remember what you are -doing. Realize your limitation as such, at least.” - -Marian said: “I would like to be able to think of myself as perfect.” - -“At once, Marian, dear? Then make a little set of rules for yourself, -and follow them, like the petty moralists, and be perfect. But we, of -the growing truth, cannot reach perfection. At least, we want to know -what is good, and strive for it. I can tell you more than I can do, -because I see ahead. Let us remember that with our judgments and -sympathies we are measuring ourselves.” - - - - - SIXTEENTH MEETING - - -I read Henry’s paper, which expressed his point of view: - -“This meeting was spent in talking of Christian Science. We agree that -we are seekers for a great truth and complete harmony, which we call -God. We also agree in believing in immortality, though we do not know -what our existence will be like after that of our present state. - -“The difference seemed to lie in our idea of matter, and, as the belief -in this is closely connected with the idea of cure, we did not agree on -the latter subject. - -“I believe that matter is the creation of spirit; and science tells us -that no matter ever ceases to exist, though it may change its form. As I -understand it, the Christian Scientist says that what we call matter is -not permanent, and therefore does not exist at all. But when he says it -is not permanent, I think he only considers it as a definite shape, such -as a house or a table, and he overlooks its different forms. - -“If the Christian Scientist’s idea of matter were correct, his idea of -cure would also be correct. I think he says: ‘There is no matter, and -therefore, there can be no material suffering. Consequently, all pain -and sickness are spiritual conditions.’ To all those who believe in -matter as a real and permanent thing, this idea is impossible.” - -I said: “I must insist on my ignorance on this subject. Matter to me -seems permanent, a something that constantly changes form, unknowable -except in form; thus form always seems to me the expression of an idea, -that is, of the spirit. I know matter only through spirit or -consciousness.” They all agreed. - -Now, I said, we would go on to the next law in art, and see what its -application might be. Did they like, I asked, to take up each law of art -in turn, and see what was its relation to life? - -“Yes,” Henry said, “and doing so makes the laws in art much clearer to -me. When you tell me their application to life, it helps me to -understand their meaning in pictures.” - -“That,” said I, “depends upon your temperament. Another might find just -the opposite to be true, that knowledge of the laws of art made them -clearer in life.” - -“Yes,” said Virginia, “I do.” - -“The next law,” I said, “is: ‘Art must not be partisan.’” - -“It seems to me,” said Marian, “the application of that to life is quite -clear already.” - -“Why, how would you explain it?” - -Evidently one must take sides in life. How, then, not be partisan? -Virginia said: “Everything has two sides.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “and the question is how to use them both, how to be -for, and yet not against. Every work of art is for something; it stands -for beauty, order, completeness. But it is against nothing. The moment -it stands against something, it is not art. Lincoln’s life shows so well -what I mean. I wonder whether you will understand how?” - -But they did not. Henry said it was because he stood for the Union, but -not against slavery, and looked upon emancipation as only a side issue, -to be used for the sake of the Union. The others said still more -uncomprehending things, and so forced me to tell them what I meant. I -said Lincoln stood for a cause, for an idea, and not against any man. He -wanted to win all to his side, to make his side the whole, the Union. Be -for a cause, for a purpose, mean something, and strive for its -fulfilment; but do not be against persons, against parties. After all, -men can be won only if you are also for them, as Lincoln was also for -the Southerners. He was willing to work with his political enemies for -the Union, since he felt no enmity to men. - -“No,” said Henry, “for his Secretary of State, Stanley, was his -political enemy.” - -The Red Cross nurses are not less at one with the purpose of their -country, though they nurse and tend with equal kindness the wounded foe. - -“Then,” Virginia went on, “Dickens is not a great artist in those parts -of his books where he becomes bitter, and hates the characters of whom -he writes?” - -“No,” I answered, “surely not.” - -“One feels that writer to be much greater,” she said, “who sympathizes -with and understands and loves even his worst characters. And I think -Dickens has not a good influence in those books where he arouses hatred -of people, and does not help the feeling of sympathy.” - -We spoke of political reforms—they are quite unformed and uninstructed -in social thought—and then went on to school factions. Was it not true -that they admired most the boy or girl who worked for a cause, without -bitterness against any person? They spoke of class presidents and school -parties, and discussed the thing among themselves. Ruth said that the -best class president was always the one who had most enemies, for some -girls liking her so much, many others were sure to dislike her. - -I answered: “The person who stands for a purpose will have many against -him, and he will not care. But he will not be against them. And in the -end he will win, as Lincoln has won the Southerners. They may still be -bitter against the North, but they join the Northerners in honoring -Lincoln, the man, for they know he worked for them. - -“You may have noticed that so far we have spoken of self-development and -personal growth; and to you, at present, that is the most important -thing. But I want to speak a few words of sympathy with those we do not -know, of our relations with the world of all men.” I said they had too -little experience to form definite ideas on that tremendous, complicated -thing called society. I wanted to give them only a few of my ideas that -might come back to them later, when they understood more. - -I said: “I want you to think of society as a big self, as the rest of -yourself, as one vast whole, in which each man in so many mysterious -ways affects each other man, that none can be right until all are right. -Have you ever thought of the relations of people with other people whom -they never know, of all the things that are done for us by strangers?” - -“Yes,” said Florence, “I have thought of it, for we once spoke of it in -another class.” - -“Consider it,” I went on, “this table at which we sit, the clothes we -wear, the food we eat, everything, everything that we use, is made for -us by so many hands, all related to us and all affected by our need and -use of them. Have you ever thought what the word Democracy means?” - -Yes, they answered, they knew. Henry said it meant all people should -have their rights. I said it meant even more. Did they remember the -three old catchwords of Democracy: Equality, Fraternity—— - -“And Liberty,” said Ruth. - -“Yes, and Liberty. But I do not believe that all people are equal.” - -“No,” said Virginia, “I am quite sure they are not.” - -I went on: “Democracy stands for this, that they all have the right to -be equal. We must grant this, not for any altruistic reason, but because -we need and want them all, because we want to miss nothing. We want each -one to have the right and the chance to develop to be the best he may -be, because that, too, will be best for us. And we feel that every -living being is capable of immense development. For there is one thing -in us all that is equal; whether it be big or little, it is the same in -us all, and that is self. I feel reverence and wonder for self. Every -baby seems marvellous to me for this reason; he is a new self. And -whenever I stop to think, when I am with strangers, and with people, no -matter how uninteresting, I have the strong feeling of kinship and -mystery. Do you ever feel so?” - -“Sometimes,” said Virginia. “I feel that way in snatches.” - -“I never think about it,” said Marian, “but sometimes the feeling -comes.” - -Florence said: “I feel that way with things more than with people.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“I mean, for instance, with the ocean or mountains.” - -“But,” I said, “there you cannot _know_. With people it is so real and -close.” - -The trouble is, they cannot feel so with those they dislike or wish to -criticize; and this subject comes up again and again, with amusing -variations. - -Virginia takes dislikes to faces; Florence cannot “stand” some people -whom she greatly admires; Marian will not be deprived of the pleasure of -“knocking” one particular girl. From what I gather, their gossip is not -of the malicious sort, and this over-criticism and sensitiveness is, as -I told them, a weakness and limitation of youth. They have not yet -learned to use the good of people for their own good. For people in the -street, however, they often have intense sympathy; and kindness for the -stranger. Marian spoke again of the apartment houses behind her school, -with their hundreds of windows. - -“You would like to tear their walls away, wouldn’t you,” asked Ruth, “to -see what is going on?” - -“I don’t know,” said Marian, “but I can’t help thinking of all those -different lives in there.” - -Virginia said whenever her mother saw strangers who looked as if they -liked her, she spoke to them. - -“That,” I answered, “can seldom be done, except with children; because, -you see, the world is not as we wish it, though it might be better were -it so; and since the other person may not understand, we dare not try to -understand him. Often on a sunny, happy morning, when I get into a car, -I feel like greeting the motorman, and every person I meet. But how can -I? They would misunderstand.” - -“Perhaps,” said Virginia, “that is the motive of the fresh young men who -sometimes try to speak to you on the street.” - -“There’s just the trouble,” I answered, “that it isn’t their motive, and -so it cannot be ours.” - -Ruth told us how at the Christian Science church that morning she had -left something undone which she regretted. She said: “There was a young -man who did not seem to know any one, and he looked lonesome and -uncomfortable. I felt as if I ought to go up to him and make him -welcome, but I had not the courage.” - -“And I think you were right,” I answered her, “for he might not have -understood your motive. And yet again he might. It is hard to tell. I am -sorry to say we have often to wrong people in this matter.” - -I spoke of the sufferings and the wrongs of society, and of how we must -realize that these are our sufferings and our wrongs. - -“Yes,” said Marian, “but what can we do? We can’t do anything.” - -“There is very little we can do, except to be on the right side, and -therefore ready to do. I want to have you see the thing as it is, to be -conscious of the whole, as your whole self, so that you will act -according to that knowledge.” - -“Don’t you think,” asked Marian, “that a great many people act the same -way, without knowing why they do it?” - -“Yes,” I answered, “or else they are only half conscious, or think they -have some other motive. But I believe in being fully conscious, and -doing things with freedom and from conviction.” - -“I don’t believe,” said Marian, “that while I act I think of why I am -acting.” - -“No,” I answered, “I am quite certain that you do not, and that you -never will. No man thinks while he acts. The thinking is done long -before. And then the action comes of itself. If you always think and -feel a certain way, the good, true way, you need not trouble over your -actions. They will be right. Do you suppose the man who gives up his -life to save another thinks of what he is doing, and why? He is doing -what he must. But all his life long he has been thinking in such a way, -and living in such a way, that no other action would be possible.” - -I said again the quotation from St. Augustine: “‘Love God, and do as you -please,’ for if you love the good, wholly, you can do only the good. - -“Remember,” I said, “that if the contagiously sick are not cared for, we -shall all be ill; and, just so, starvation, poverty, sin, hurt each one -of us, wherever they be, and must be cured for our own sake. Let us get -over the self-righteous, sentimentally virtuous feeling which I fear -charity has given many people. For that reason I have always disliked -the word ‘charity.’” - -“Yes,” said Ruth, “so have I.” - -“But the virtuous feeling is very pleasant,” Virginia said. - -“Hardly,” I answered, “so sane and sound as the pleasant feeling of -helping ourselves, all together.” - -“The word ‘charity,’” said Marian, “comes from a Greek word meaning -gratitude, the word ‘charis.’” - -“I had always thought of it,” I said, “as coming from the Latin ‘carus,’ -meaning love. But that is interesting. For gratitude is always a debt -paid. And so, I fear, all our charity is a debt partly and never wholly -paid. The most that a man can give, being able to give, still leaves him -more than his share. And that is why I seldom have the joy untainted, of -which Virginia speaks.” - -Virginia said it made her glad to see people happy because of her. She -said: “Once three of us gave a little boy a ten-cent plaything, and it -made him so happy we felt as though we had done something fine.” - -Ruth agreed with me that it was impossible to overcome a feeling of -personal guilt at the sight of misery. - -“You see,” I went on, “that for the rich poverty is as bad as for the -poor. Drunkenness and misery ask their price of the rich man.” - -“Yes,” said Virginia, “for to see poor and drunken people bothers the -rich man.” - -“She is quite right,” I said; “poverty does and must bother the rich -man, and that is just why he must get rid of it. Wells, the socialist, -once said he dared not let any man be sick or poor or miserable, and -bring up sick, poor, miserable children, for he could not tell what -man’s grandchild would one day marry his grandchild.” - -“That is an interesting way of looking at it,” said Marian. “I never -thought of that.” - -“So you see,” I went on, “we can no more praise ourselves for helping to -better the world than we can praise people—except for their good sense -and wisdom—when they put up hospitals for contagious diseases, and -separate those who suffer from them. Did you ever think of it, that to -take care of the weak strengthens the strong? The man who cares for two -gets the strength of two.” - -Florence asked: “What if there were no weak?” A good question, but an -unanswerable one, from lack of experience. - -“It is good,” I went on, “to use our powers, to strengthen them; and we -can use them only through others. I have heard people say it is foolish -for the strong to spend themselves on the weak. To me that seems -untrue.” - -“Yes,” said Virginia, “what is their strength for, if not to use it!” - -“Sparta,” I said, “has left no trace but her history, because she cared -only for physical strength, and wasted the strength and power that are -in weakness.” - -“I wish she had not left her history,” they said, thinking of the hard -names. - -“Everything leaves history,” sighed Marian. - -“We can use all men,” I went on, “and every man does something for us -that we cannot do for ourselves. The world is like a vast body, in which -hand and head do each its part; and the head shall not despise the -hand.” - -“I don’t like to think of it in that way,” said Ruth, “to think of -different people as different parts of the body, for some would have to -be way down at the foot.” - -“Oh, Ruth,” I answered, “I believe you are despising the foot! That is -because you don’t think well enough of the body. But Florence knows -better. She probably thinks her feet the most important part of all. -When I spoke of the body, I meant that each part was equally necessary -to all the others. But I suppose each one of us here would like to think -of himself as a brain-cell.” - -“We like to flatter ourselves,” said Henry. - -I spoke to them of the modern trend in judging crime and meting -punishment. Henry already understood this. We spoke of “homes” instead -of prisons, of treating the bad as abortive and undeveloped, as moral -idiots and invalids, and of using for our good and their happiness all -the powers they possessed. We would hate badness, but not the bad man. -How could we? Each one acts according to his desires, and in that sense -selfishly; and our character depends on how large we are, how much we -desire. The man who wants to be richer than his neighbor will act -otherwise than the man who wants to share and enjoy the riches and -happiness of all his neighbors, and make the whole world his home. Our -desires are the measure of our growth. And some are more developed than -others. - -“Some are so undeveloped,” said Virginia, “that they seem almost like -animals.” - -“I wondered why Virginia hadn’t mentioned that sooner,” said Marian. - -We went on to the next law, that art must give the impression of truth. -How does it apply? I said they must see that the telling of truth was -not the whole of true relation. - -“And there may be even a kind of truth-telling which is essentially -untrue; I mean truth told maliciously, truth told for the purpose of -hurting. That makes an untrue relation between people, even though it be -true in fact; just as the ugly picture, truly representing an ugly thing -in an ugly way, does not seem true.” - -Virginia said: “As if one woman said to another woman: ‘I saw your -husband drunk last night,’ and the other woman knew it already. It would -be quite true, but unnecessary.” - -“Exactly.” - -I spoke of the importance of praise and encouragement to others, and of -kind, true criticism. At first they all protested that they did not like -over-much praise. No, I said, not over-much, nor praise alone; I hated -to be “damned with faint praise,” but I loved praise and blame combined -in such measure, that I felt the thing done was worth doing, and yet saw -where it was wrong, and how it might be righted. I said all teachers -ought to praise and blame in this fashion—never forgetting the praise. - -“They don’t have time for it in school,” said Ruth. - -“Ruth,” I answered her, “just for a teacher of small children, such -encouraging critical power is most necessary.” - -“Yes,” she said, “I know. I mean to have it.” - -I went on: “When I criticize a child’s drawing, for instance, and find -six wrong lines in it, and one right line, I will insist on the worth of -that right line, and show how the other six can and ought to be made -equally good. One can always point to the wrong, without hurting, when -one insists on the right.” - -And now we passed to a difficult and engrossing subject: what things are -worth while in personal social life. At this period of life it concerns -the girls chiefly; but it could not be skipped for that reason. And the -boys were interested listeners. - -I spoke again of “prettiness” in art. Did they remember? Virginia said, -those painted merely prettily who tried to please the crowd for the sake -of money or applause. Yes, I answered, they tried to please those who -could not understand them or truly judge them. And so there is a -prettiness of manner and life which appeals to the stranger and -acquaintance, but does not win the friend; the merely social prettiness, -that has no true worth. - -What did I mean? asked Florence. - -“I mean,” I said, “a mixing of values—giving up what is worth more, for -what is worth less, and, usually, because we don’t realize what we are -doing. For instance, ever so many will go to much greater trouble to -please acquaintances than friends, and even ask their friends to ‘let -them off’ for the sake of their acquaintances.” - -“That is,” said Florence, “because we know our friends will forgive us.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “and it is a poor reason, for finally we will not -have any to forgive us.” - -“I know a girl,” said Marian, “who has ever so many acquaintances, and -no friends.” - -“When I think of society,” Virginia said, “in the large sense of all -people, the only class I don’t think of as belonging to society, are -just the society girls.” - -“That,” I answered, “is foolish; for they do belong to it, and can be a -very important part of it, if they wish.” - -Marian looked puzzled. “It is all right,” she asked, “isn’t it, for -girls to go into society?” - -“Surely,” I answered; “not only all right, but very good, if they do it -in the best way. But I think it a terrible waste for girls to do nothing -but go into society, to live only for that, and rest only for that, and -care only for the superficial show of it, for luxury and -money-spending.” - -We spoke of luncheons and parties, and all sorts of festivities where -decoration and show count, and tried to put decoration in its -subordinate place. “People are apt,” I said, “to lose the real thing in -the glamor, to care to outdo each other only in expensiveness and show, -instead of remembering that pleasant surroundings are merely -surroundings. Like the woman who would spend all her time on her -household, and waste herself to make it beautiful, instead of -remembering that its beauty could count only as a setting for herself -and her greater work. It’s a pity to waste good art on poor subjects.” - -“One must be all-sided,” said Marian, “you told us so. I know a girl who -did college and society and housekeeping all at once.” - -“And all well?” I asked. - -“I think so,” she answered, “though I’m not so sure about the college -part.” - -“That is just the danger,” I said, “and a danger I wish you all to -avoid. I don’t want one of you, when you leave school, to degenerate -into a frivolous, silly society girl. You won’t, will you?” - -They all said they wouldn’t. Virginia and Ruth were positive they -couldn’t. - -“Because,” I went on, “many girls do it who seemed serious and -intelligent while at school. I will tell you why they do. They are apt -to think school in itself so intellectual, that they particularly avoid, -at other times, thinking seriously or reading good books or having -sensible conversations. And, indeed, school does keep them thinking, but -not of their own accord. So, when they are graduated, they stop all -thinking, go into society, and wait to get married.” - -“And some women,” said Marian, “get so uninteresting after they marry!” - -“Yes,” I answered, “it is true, and it is a pity. Naturally, every girl -expects to marry, and has the right to expect it. But if she folds her -hands and waits for it, or goes out and dances and waits for it, she -will hardly be fit when the time comes.” - -“I think it is disgusting,” said Marian, “for a girl to be ‘on the -market.’” - -“So do I,” I answered. “And no wonder that those girls, when they marry, -become dull and ‘settled,’ and do not grow with their children. For, you -see, they were ‘finished’ when they left school. I believe that when a -girl leaves school she should go on working and growing and learning all -her life long, whether she marry or not.” - -Virginia said: “I have learnt so many, many things since I left school -last year.” - -“Of course,” they answered, “at art school.” - -“No,” she said, “I don’t mean that. I learn more out of school than in -it.” - -“The independent woman,” I said, “who has some work and aim, who can -support herself if need be, and who does some definite work in life, -whether or not she supports herself, will not stagnate when she marries, -because she has been growing all the time. When her children grow up, -she will grow with them, and learn and change and think all her life.” - -“Must she do some definite thing?” asked Henry skeptically. - -Florence said: “I know you think, Henry, that she should be good and -help around the house.” - -“I think,” I said, “that she must have a definite thing to do in life, -though not necessarily to support herself by money-making. She may -study, if she should wish to prepare for more difficult work, or she may -have a household of people to care for, and even other people’s children -to bring up, just as a married woman might.” - -Good manners and politeness next engaged our attention. - -Ruth is a great stickler for manners, especially in boys, and not a very -good judge of character, so she has to make much of evident, superficial -characteristics. Marian, on the other hand, is an excellent judge of -character. Marian asked me whether I thought manners important, and what -I thought politeness meant. I said good manners were the natural -expression of kindness, but that one often met good people who were -bores, nevertheless, simply out of awkwardness; that many young boys -were so, and Ruth ought to teach them better. We quoted some examples of -false good manners, good simply for effect, which usually were -self-exposed at last. I said: “That people with kind manners are thought -the best-bred and finest, is but another sign that the world of men goes -in ‘our’ direction.” - -“Yes,” said Marian, “I see how you mean.” - -Ruth granted she cared too much for good manners, since they did not -always mean what they professed to mean. To Florence they seemed -unimportant, in others, as an index of character. - -Florence said: “I act differently with each person, because I believe a -different way will please each person.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “we all do it unconsciously; and that is why we _are_ -as many people as we _know_.” - -She went on: “When I am with people who like to be serious, I talk -seriously; and when I am with people who like to fool, why, then I am -jolly and silly.” - -“But how about your own taste and personality?” I asked. “Does that -count?” - -“When I am with some very proper people,” said Florence, “I love to -shock them.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “it is a temptation. But, please, Florence, make the -people do what you choose sometimes. You remember that you want to be -like a picture, and not only like a looking-glass.” - -“I like to be the controlling person,” said Virginia, “and make people -do what I choose.” - -Ruth said: “I don’t believe people are ever their real self with me, and -it is very annoying. They always try to seem better.” - -“That is,” said Marian, “because they know you have such high ideals.” - -“Yes,” Ruth went on, “I suppose _you_ tell them. And then they show me -only their good side.” - -“Ruth,” I answered, “if that be true, it need not trouble you. If you -can really make people always show you their good side, you should be -glad to have the power. For people’s good side is a pleasanter side to -see; and it is excellent practice for them to show it. I want you each -to be a power and a purpose in life.” - -Afterward I had a little talk with Florence. I said: “I am afraid I was -speaking for your benefit. Do you mind?” - -“No,” she answered, “but I am not going to be that sort of society -girl.” - -I walked homeward with Virginia and Henry. Virginia told me that the -club made her think, that things we said came back to her weeks and -weeks afterward, and gave new meanings to life. - -Next week we are going to have the last meeting. Henry asked me whether -we were going to speak of “Aloofness.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “and it will include all we have said until now.” - - - - - SEVENTEENTH MEETING - - -I read Henry’s paper: - -“We should not be partisan. Do not fight against any one as an enemy, -but as a friend who tries to help another, by thwarting his wrong -purpose. - -“Again we can go to Lincoln for an example. When he was president, -Lincoln sent to his great political enemy, Douglas, and asked for his -aid in the approaching struggle. Again, when the war was almost over, -and those about him said that the Southern leaders would have to be -severely dealt with, he told them that though he could not avoid the -hated war, now that their end had been gained, he wanted peace, and bore -no malice toward his Southern countrymen, whom he would deal with as -leniently as possible.” - -Then I read Marian’s paper: - -“At our last meeting of the Seekers we took up the application of the -two next-to-the-last principles of Art to life. The first, ‘do not be -partisan,’ we understood easily. But how to stand for a cause without -being partisan, is more difficult to understand. By this we mean being -for a cause but not against another, and being broad-minded enough to -understand the other side. In doing this all personal attacks are, of -course, eliminated. The next principle, that art gives the impression of -truth, when applied to life means being, first, truth-telling. However, -if by telling the truth we unnecessarily wound a person, we had better -say nothing. To tell the truth for the purpose of hurting some one is -almost as bad as telling a lie.” - -I said I thought it was almost worse. I asked why had Henry and Marian -both left out an important part of our last meeting, the part on our -larger social relations? Had we not made it impressive enough? For a -moment they all were puzzled. Was it at the last meeting we had spoken -of that? When I reminded them of what had been said, they remembered. -But Henry added: “I did not think we said it at the last meeting. It -seemed longer ago. Perhaps because that is something we have spoken of -at all the meetings, right along.” - -I said I thought all but Alfred and Ruth were not greatly interested in -larger social questions. Their family and school life were more -absorbing. I said: “I know Alfred is interested in social and political -problems, because he has told me so. You see, even though he won’t talk -to you, he does sometimes talk to me.” - -Alfred blushed. He answered: “I care more about those outside relations -than anything else.” - -Marian said: “I am interested, too. But last time, just in the midst, we -got off to the subject of ‘knocking’ people. And so I don’t think we -quite finished.” - -“Perhaps,” I asked, “we had better go over it again to-day? And yet I -think not. You do seem to understand. I don’t think you can form your -social and political opinions now, and I don’t care to talk much of -these things. You see, the boys still have five years before they need -to vote. And for the girls, I imagine it may be even longer.” - -“I don’t know,” said Ruth, “I don’t think it will be much longer.” - -“But,” I went on, “we spoke of other things, too. Didn’t we speak a -great deal of woman’s life?” - -“You mean choosing professions, and society, and so on?” asked Marian. - -“Yes.” - -“It is strange, too,” said she, “that I forgot to write about it. For it -impressed me very much, and I was talking of it only the other day, when -some girls were at the house.” - -“Now,” I said, “we will speak of that strange thing, aloofness, the -spectator’s point of view, that a while ago you could not understand. -And I think to-day you will understand at once, for it is the sum and -completeness of all we have said. Do you think you know now what I mean -by aloofness? What do you think, Henry?” - -“I think it means,” he said, “understanding with sympathy all the people -about you, and the outsiders.” - -“Yes,” I said; “but it means more than that.” - -Alfred looked as if he knew. - -“Well, Alfred?” - -“Doesn’t it mean,” he asked, “being able to criticize and judge -yourself?” - -“Yes,” I said. “That is nearer; it means both, and more than both. It -means being not only in yourself, but above and around, judging all -things as if you were all the people, from the point of view of the -whole world. You know what we mean when we say God. We mean that whole, -the whole Self. It means seeing life from God’s point of view. It is as -if we were spectator and also actor; doing our own little part in our -own little lives, and yet seeing the whole, and caring most for that -whole, and acting our part in relation to it, to please the vast -spectator. Have you not yourselves had that experience? Have you not, -even in exciting moments, suddenly felt as if you were outside yourself, -looking on at yourself, and judging?” - -“Yes,” said Marian, “I often do. Sometimes I laugh at myself. I see how -foolish I am, but I go right on. For the actor and the spectator do not -always agree.” - -I said: “All goodness and power in life spring from making the actor and -spectator agree, making the larger self include and manage the smaller -self, and move it as a player moves a pawn. For, remember, it is not two -separate selves, but one self, a vast sense of all life, inclusive of -this smaller self which we control. Do you not realize that all heroism, -all great and noble action is done so, in the spirit of the whole, for -the vast spectator within us? When a man dies for a cause, he is that -cause, he is far more than his own small self, and he gladly dies for -that which includes and fulfils him. When a man gives up his life to -save another man, he sees the whole thing as from above. He and the -other man are one, are part of the same life, and he spends himself for -himself. - -“Fear,” I said, “cowardice, loss of self-control in crises, always comes -when the actor forgets the spectator, when the spectator loses control. - -“If ever you have been in any exciting crisis, and kept cool and above -fear, then you will know what I mean; how you think of the whole, of all -the people, and seem to be and control the whole.” - -Ruth said she knew one never thought especially of one’s self at such a -time. Experiences, however, were scarce. Virginia spoke of the time she -was with me in a burning trolley car, and how she had been interested -rather than excited. But then she was a very, very little girl. Ruth -said she didn’t remember how she felt when she was almost run down by an -automobile. - -Marian asked: “One is not always conscious of the spectator?” - -“No,” I answered, “one is conscious of him only at rare moments. For it -is the actor who acts and lives, and the spectator controls him. The -spectator is oftenest silent. He watches. And he must choose.” - -“But is the spectator always sure?” asked Marian. “Sometimes you cannot -tell what seems to you best, until you talk it over with others.” - -“The spectator,” I said, “judges and chooses according to all he can -know. Surely, he chooses in relation with others. He can use all -experience; he goes even beyond his sorrow and pain. Do you understand? -He goes beyond sorrow and pain, and uses them. Do you remember I spoke -to you once of all things being a memory, of the body itself being a -memory? The basis of all sympathy is experience and memory. So the -spectator grows and uses everything. He is, as it were, in partnership -with the whole, with God. And he rises on his own knowledge. The higher -he goes, the farther can he see. Do you understand that aloofness, the -judging from the standpoint of the whole, of the whole self, is the -basis of morality? It is the part judging and living for the whole. -Those who know this make the laws for all, according to their knowledge; -and the others, who are only actors, whose spectator is not wide awake, -have to obey.” - -At first they protested. Was this true? They did not understand. Henry -asked did I mean making laws to control anarchists? I explained how some -had to be forced to conform, even for their own good, and how the others -were free, because the law that was good for all, they knew to be best -for themselves. - -I said: “My own limited personal life is my weapon and means, the only -weapon and means I have to come to completeness. I will always remember -that it is a means, something to use; but it is my only means, and for -that reason it is important and precious to me above all else.” - -“You mean,” said Virginia, “that you don’t want to dream away your life, -like the ascetics of the middle ages, who dreamed of the whole, but -didn’t do their part?” - -“Yes,” I said, “exactly. It is as if we were all watching a vast -chessboard, all together interested in the game, but each able to -control only one pawn, and yet anxious to play in such a way as to win -the game along with the others, each for the sake of the whole. And that -pawn is our own life; the only power we have.” - -“Aren’t we ourselves the pawns?” asked Marian. - -“No,” said Henry; “then we couldn’t manage them.” - -“We are both pawn and player,” I said; “for if we were only the pawn, in -the crowd of little players, we could not see ahead, and would go -blindly forward without aim. One must be above the board to see it.” - -And now I asked: “Shall we look once more over all we have said in these -few months?” - -They answered that it seemed to them this last meeting had been a -review. - -“Yes,” I answered, “aloofness, which a while ago you could not -understand, is now wholly clear to you; and more than that, it includes -all we have said.” - -“It doesn’t include it all,” said Henry, “but it finishes and rounds it -out.” - -“And our little club is finished,” I asked, “artistically finished?” - -“Yes,” they said. - -“I have noticed that sometimes some of you call it ‘class.’ Is it a -class? Is it not rather a club; have we not all gone forward together?” - -Ruth answered: “It is each or both. Sometimes we speak of it as class, -or club, or lesson.” - -“Surely it is a lesson,” said Henry, “because we have learned something -from it. Whatever you learn from is a lesson.” - -Well, after all, I suppose I have given them my thought; and that is -what I must have meant to do. - -I asked them what practical result the ideas had had upon their lives. - -“Do you mean in action?” asked Marian. “I never stop to think of it when -I act, but I find that I refer my thoughts again and again to this -standard, when I don’t mean to, or expect to.” - -“It is a habit of thought,” I answered, “and our habits of thought -unconsciously make our actions.” - -“Yes,” said Virginia, “things that happen are always bringing to mind -the things we speak of here.” - -“But we have not yet reached an absolute, stiff conclusion, have we?” -insisted Marian. - -“No,” I answered; “we are going to be seekers all our lives—are we -not?—comrades in the search for light?” - -“Surely,” they said. - -“And,” I went on, “I want something more of you. I have noticed that you -all are very shy about talking of the club to outsiders. But it seems to -me that it is worth while telling your thought and your truth, that you -must not only seek, but share what you find.” - -“You mean,” said Virginia, “that we should try to get converts, like the -Catholics?” - -“Yes,” I answered, “converts to seeking.” - -“It is very hard,” Ruth said, “to talk to outsiders of these things. I -can tell my mother. She understands. But we have made a language of our -own at the club, and other people don’t understand it. When I begin to -tell them, they ask: ‘What sort of language are you using?’” - -“That is a pity,” I answered, “and yet we could hardly help it. Perhaps -we should have tried to use other words.” - -“No,” said Ruth, “I think it is a very beautiful language, and we must -use it. But it makes it hard to tell others.” - -“People don’t want to understand,” said Henry. “When you begin to tell -them what it is about, they make up their minds they won’t understand -such things. They set out with that idea.” - -Marian said: “I often speak of certain things we discussed, just as the -other day I was speaking of women’s professions and social life. But it -is impossible to tell the whole idea. One would have to begin at the -beginning.” - -“Yes,” I answered, “it would be a whole course. So you have to content -yourself with telling the unessential parts. But I hope that you will -absorb this idea into your life and your actions, and then find new -words in which to tell the same truth almost unconsciously, words that -will be made clear to all through your own experience. - -“We see clearly how each one of us will draw strength and judgment from -his limitless whole self. And the knowledge of our greatest desire will -make us teach our lesser desires to follow it, will make us shape and -use the whole of our life for the thing we want and love. - -“And now I wish to ask you each a question. What particular thing or -power seems most dear and necessary to you in your own life, in order to -fulfil your aim. Alfred, tell me. Do you know? Or do you want time to -think of it?” - -“What I want most,” said Alfred, “is the power to calculate and judge -how things are going to turn out. To plan well.” - -“What I want most,” said Marian, “is to be the sort of girl I wish to -be. To be like my idea of myself.” - -“What I want most,” said Virginia, “is to have fun, to be happy.” - -“What does that mean?” asked Henry. “Happiness, for each one of us, is -having what we want most.” - -“Well,” said Virginia, “I like life to be pleasant for me and for all -the people about me.” - -“What I want most,” said Florence, “is to be loved.” - -“Only to be loved, or to love, too?” - -“To be loved and to love.” - -Ruth said: “That is what I want most, too.” - -Henry said: “I agree with them.” - -They all seemed to wish they had said it. Virginia added: “If you are -happy, you are loved.” - -“Lately,” said I, “this last week, a leader of clubs told me he had -asked this same question of a club of boys. I wanted to see what you -would answer.” - -“What did they answer?” - -“They, all but one, answered ‘Money.’ The one said he wished to make -beautiful things.” - -“That is a fine answer,” Virginia said. “I’m sure I would like him.” - -“I know,” said Henry, “a great many boys feel that way. I happen to know -of that club. One of those boys said to me lately, what he wanted most -was to have lots of money, so he could enjoy himself. But I think after -he had the money, he would not find the enjoyment satisfying.” - -“Of course,” I answered, “money is necessary to life; that is, the means -of life are necessary to life.” - -“But one can earn those,” said they. - -Marian said: “If I were as strong, capable and good as I would like, and -just the sort of person I mean to be, it would be easy to earn money.” - -Ruth said: “If one is loved and loves many people, one is sure to find -some way of getting enough money to live. I don’t mean that people will -thrust it on you, but you are sure to find the way to get whatever you -need.” - -I said: “Money is only, as it were, a certificate of power; for so much -work, you are given the means to go on working and living. But the great -problem is to make the work itself worth more to us than the payment. -And I am afraid with most people it is not so. Money is a means for -work, for life, for fulfilment. If things were properly adjusted, and -society perfect, each man would work for his livelihood at the work -which he loved most to do.” - -Virginia said: “I would rather be a pauper than not be an artist.” - -I answered: “I hope each one of you will find the means to do the work -you love, and make it your livelihood. For that is the only way to -justify both work and wage.” - -Then I said: “Before we part and plan to meet again, I am going to tell -you something very exciting. I am almost afraid to say it.” - -“What is it? Tell us, quick.” - -“Do you remember, I told you I was keeping minutes of the club?” - -“Yes, that is why you wanted our papers.” - -“Well, they are not ordinary minutes. They are an exact account of all -we have done and said.” And then I told them of this book. - -They were delighted. “We are all going to be put into a book,” they -said. - -“Yes,” I answered, “it will be a book, and you are all to be in it. But -who knows whether any one else will care? Perhaps it will never be -published.” - -“Even if it isn’t published,” said Henry, “it will be a book.” - -“What will it be called?” they asked. - -“‘The Seekers,’ of course.” - -“You ought to call it ‘The Pathfinder,’” said Henry. “That would sound -more romantic and interesting, and attract people.” - -Would I dedicate it to them? they asked. - -“No, certainly not,” I said; “you are all helping me write it. We will -dedicate it to all Seekers.” - -What names would I use? they asked. - -I would use their right first names, I said. Weren’t they willing? - -Yes, yes, they were willing. - -“For,” I said, “one could scarcely make up prettier names: I like them -all, Marian, Ruth, Florence, Virginia, Henry and Alfred.” - -“Yes,” answered Marian, “we like our own names.” - -“And you have really helped me to write it,” I said, “for I have all -your papers. That’s why I wanted them, to prove that I was not inventing -the whole thing.” - -“Are you putting them in just as we wrote them?” asked Marian. - -“Yes, exactly.” - -“Oh, please,” she begged, “correct my spelling and my bad construction.” - -“I will correct your spelling and your punctuation, but nothing else.” - -“Oh, please,” she said, “change the places where I repeated myself. I -wrote them so hastily.” - -“I suppose,” I said, “that what was good enough for me will be good -enough for any one. Don’t you think so? I always wanted to write a book -like this, and as I didn’t have brains enough to invent it alone, I made -you help me. It is a real live book. We have lived it together.” - -Now they asked me crowds of questions. Had I put in all the nonsense? -Yes, every bit. “Then we will laugh at ourselves,” said Marian. Had I -put in every time Virginia mentioned animals? Yes, almost every time. It -must be very interesting, they said. “Did you write down every time we -laughed?” No, I took that for granted. And did I write down when -Florence said brother Arthur told her things? Yes. And would I leave -that in? Certainly. And would I let them see it? Yes, as soon as -possible. - - - - - APPENDIX - - -The notes used by the leader at each meeting, and slightly remodeled -afterward, as experience showed them to be faulty, are here presented, -in the hope that they may be of use in some other club. Certain clubs -have been formed by some of the original Seekers, in which the text of -the book itself is being read aloud and discussed. But were an older -person leading the club—and that is always to be desired—he might find -it far more stimulating and fruitful to conduct the meetings by -directing the conversation along the line of these notes. No doubt if he -made this use of my experience, he would, by adding his own, give new -value to the outcome. - - - _NOTES_ - - FIRST MEETING - - _Why Are Our Religions Unsatisfying, and What Shall We Do?_ - -I. CONDITIONS TO-DAY: - - _a._ Religions destroy religion. If you are wrong, I might be - wrong. - - _b._ Men cling to traditional, half-conscious belief, or build - up an ethic or agnostic faith, because man must live by faith. - -II. HISTORIC REASONS FOR PRESENT CONDITIONS: - - _a._ Initiated and popular religion in history: - - 1. India; castes and the Brahmans. - - 2. Egypt; secret priesthood, annexed beliefs, and - interpretations of myths. - - 3. Greece; Rome; early Catholicism; the priests. - - _b._ Analysis of initiated and popular belief: - - 1. Myths of Orpheus; of Moses and the Burning Bush; of - the divine parentage of Jesus. - - 2. The initiated is the religion of poetry and prophecy, - of symbols. These, taken literally by the people, become - a religion of idols and prose. One is a moving spirit, - the other a graven image. Words can be idols. - - _c._ The modern trend: - - 1. Democratic spirit (since Reformation) destroys - initiated religion, keeps popular religion. - - 2. Science destroys popular myths. - -III. WHAT MUST WE DO TO-DAY? - - _a._ Scientific knowledge destroys popular myths, but does not - replace religion: - - 1. Every scientist has a philosophy or faith. - - 2. Science fosters new popular delusions, built on its - literal facts, such as atheism and scientific - superstitions of half-knowledge. - - _b._ There is absolute religious knowledge: - - 1. Its record in history: Moses, Jesus, etc. - - 2. Its testimony in our own selves: - - (What do we _know_?) - - _c._ In a democracy every one must attain this knowledge; each - must be initiated; every man shall be a prophet. - -IV. WHAT DOES EACH ONE BELIEVE CONCERNING GOD? - - (Question for next week.) - - SECOND MEETING - - _God, and the Meaning of Progress_ - -I. THE IDEA OF GOD A PERSONAL CONVICTION: - - _a._ A realization to be achieved, but, after that, silence on - the subject. Sacredness of the word. - - _b._ Members’ individual ideas of God. - - _c._ My idea stated: - - 1. God as Self (read from Vedas), as the completion of - myself. “I am that I am.” - - 2. The aspiration toward complete sympathy, - consciousness (selfhood) as the aspiration of God, and - the aim of progress. - - 3. The idea of “holiness” meaning “wholeness.” - -II. HISTORIC IDEAS OF GOD: - - _a._ The inner meaning of polytheism: many aspects of one God. - - _b._ The inner meaning of trinity: the three as one, as the - contrast of life, and its unity. A true paradox. Myself, the - other Self, and love, the holy spirit. - - _c._ The inner meaning of dualism: the two are two sides of one - thing, the negative and the positive. Light makes darkness. - - _d._ Personal, parental, and all other ideas of God are included - in our larger view. The unity embraces all ideas and - diversities. - -III. PROGRESS AS THE TREND TOWARD COMPLETE SELF: - - _a._ Throughout history the only progress has been toward - greater understanding and brotherhood: - - 1. The value of railroads, telephones, etc. - - _b._ The good is whatever leads toward understanding, sympathy, - wholeness. - - _c._ The bad is whatever does not lead thither: - - 1. The bad is what was once good, and has been passed. - - 2. Or sometimes it is the necessary result of an - experimental progress. - - 3. Things are not “good” and “bad,” but better and - worse. Therefore evil itself is proof of progress. - - _d._ The will toward good is in the world and ourselves. - - 1. Dissatisfaction is the will toward progress. - - 2. We use all bad things for the great good that we - love. - - (This meeting might be divided into two, one on GOD, and one on - PROGRESS.) - - THIRD MEETING - - _Matter and Spirit_ - -I. SHORT REVIEW: - - _a._ What is the aim of life? - - _b._ How do you explain good and bad? - -II. ARE MATTER AND SPIRIT ANTAGONISTIC, OR LIKE GOOD AND BAD, TO BE -EXPLAINED THROUGH EACH OTHER? - - _a._ All matter has shape or idea: - - 1. Matter takes the shape of spirit. - - 2. We know only the spirit, or idea, because all things - come to us through our senses. - - 3. Pure matter, if it exist, is a thing we cannot - experience. - -III. MATTER IS THE MEDIUM THROUGH WHICH SPIRIT EXPRESSES ITSELF: - - _a._ Expression is the means for reaching understanding. - - _b._ All expression, at present, is through so-called material - means. - -IV. SPIRIT CAN DO ALL THINGS IN THE FUTURE: - - _a._ “Immovable” physical conditions are the result of will or - spirit in the past. - - 1. Our ancestors. - - 2. The mental beginnings of all physical ills. - - _b._ Spirit force is the only shaping force in a universe of - spirit or will. - - 1. One can, therefore, control the physical. - - 2. One can shape one’s destiny. - - FOURTH MEETING - - _Evolution_ - -I. THE PLACE OF EVOLUTION IN A RELIGIOUS ENQUIRY: - - _a._ We must believe in that, or in special creation. - - 1. Every religion has a theory of creation. - - 2. Evolution is a theory of creation. - - _b._ It may throw light on the means of progress. - -II. EVOLUTION MEANS DESCENT OF ALL CREATURES FROM A COMMON ONE-CELLED -ANCESTRAL FORM: - - _a._ Physical proof of the theory: - - 1. In likeness of structure. - - 2. In rudimentary organs. - - 3. In geological records. - - 4. In the Law of Recapitulation. - -III. THEORIES OF THE PROCESS OF EVOLUTION: - - _a._ Natural Selection: - - 1. Variations in all directions, and adaptation. - - 2. Adaptation a struggle for life. - - α. For place. - - β. For food. - - γ. For protection, through imitative color or - form. - - 3. The value of artificial selection as partly showing - us the processes of natural selection. - - 4. What natural selection fails to explain. - - _b._ The theory of Sexual Selection, and its shortcomings. - - _c._ The auxiliary theory of Isolation. - -IV. THE PHILOSOPHICAL SIGNIFICANCE OF EVOLUTION: - - _a._ Evolution a self-evolving of uncreated life. - - 1. Wish, desire, love cause all change and creation. - - 2. Progress is from within, of our own will. - - 3. Change or re-birth necessitates death. - - α. Death makes room for young. - - β. We die for the sake of life. - - _b._ Evolution and the aim of life: - - 1. Fitness and harmony the test of life. - - 2. It goes from likeness to unlikeness and recognition. - - 3. Pain, disease, death and changing standards of good - and bad are the path of progress toward wholeness and - understanding. - - _c._ Evolution the simplest, clearest proof of relationship. - - [Note.—For reference and illustrations, the first volume of - Romanes’ “Darwin and After Darwin” is more convenient to use and - show than Darwin’s own works.] - - FIFTH MEETING - - _Prayer_ - -I. A COMMUNION, NOT A BEGGING: - - _a._ In a world that goes toward its own desire—which is also - ours—it is folly to ask one’s vast Self for anything. - - _b._ Prayer is a momentary consciousness of the vast Self which - is God. - -II. THE VALUE OF PRAYER: - - _a._ To be conscious, by an effort, of the vast oneness, gives - us renewed calmness and strength. - - _b._ To pray for what we can be is to call forth the power to - _be_ it. - - _c._ Prayer puts us in a state of mind in which we draw upon the - endless source of power and possibility: - - 1. The value, therefore, of prayer before sleep. - -III. THE MANNER OF PRAYER: - - _a._ By conscious words that give the communion. - - _b._ By an occasional state of mind. - - _c._ By every creative action. - - _d._ By the whole attitude of our life. - - SIXTH MEETING - - _Immortality_ - -I. IMPORTANCE TO US OF AN OPINION CONCERNING DEATH AND IMMORTALITY: - - _a._ We know we must die soon: - - 1. Speak of the numberless generations of life. - - _b._ We live according to our expectations: - - 1. Relation throughout history of beliefs concerning - immortality and of the morality of peoples. - - 2. Good and bad effects of belief in heaven and hell. - -II. KNOWLEDGE CONCERNING IMMORTALITY: - - _a._ What is Knowledge? - - 1. The relativity of all knowledge. - - 2. Knowledge through conviction loses force when there - is disagreement. - - 3. Knowledge through analogy is like circumstantial - evidence. - - _b._ We know: - - 1. That matter and force do not die. - - α. We know of nothing that is positively mortal. - - 2. That life works in a certain direction. - - 3. That death and re-birth are the means of moving in - that direction, _i.e._, of progress. - - 4. That this progress is of the spirit or self. - - 5. That we are forever a part of the world, related to - the whole. - - 6. As we know nothing but consciousness or self, we - believe it must be immortal, though we have no proof. - -III. THE THEORY OF RACE-IMMORTALITY AS AN IDEAL: - - _a._ It is more improbable than self-immortality. - - 1. All planets die. - - 2. The last generation, dies, too. - - _b._ It is not true immortality: - - 1. The thing we cannot transmit is the Self which loves - and seeks. - -IV. MEMORY AND PERSONALITY: - - _a._ Admission of ignorance and indifference. Why? - - 1. Everything is a memory and a prophecy, since - everything exists forever, and advances. - - 2. The body is a memory. - - 3. Memory must continue at least in its results on the - self, if not more definitely. - - _b._ Love and Meeting: - - 1. Love may have other satisfactions than we dream of. - - 2. We are all one, and cannot be separated. - -V. “I AM” EXPRESSES IMMORTALITY: - - _a._ Each least thing is eternal and universal. - - SEVENTH MEETING - - _The Meaning of Beauty_ - -I. BEAUTY IS THE SYMBOL OF COMPLETENESS AND HARMONY: - - _a._ This is the reason beauty delights us: - - 1. It pictures the aim and desire of our whole life. - - _b._ The smallest thing can be as a universe in itself, if it be - complete and harmonious, _i.e._, perfect: - - 1. A drop as well as a planet; a dog, in his way, as - well as a man; a day as well as a century. - -II. THE GOOD, THE TRUE AND THE BEAUTIFUL HAVE THE SAME END, AND ARE -SOUGHT, RESPECTIVELY, BY PHILOSOPHY, SCIENCE AND ART: - - _a._ Philosophy seeks the whole at once, therefore can never - reach that completeness. - - _b._ Science seeks individual truths, not the moral truth, or - aim: - - 1. Darwin, the philosophical scientist. - - _c._ Art gives us that completeness, our aim, symbolized in a - small and definite shape. - -III. GENIUS IS THE COMMON HUMAN QUALITY, DISTINCT FROM TALENT: - - _a._ The Genius differs not in _kind_, but in _degree_, from his - fellows. - - _b._ The desire for understanding and completeness, present in - some measure in all, is genius. - - _c._ The understanding in the spectator is akin to the genius in - the artist. - -IV. TALENT IS THE POWER OF EXPRESSION: - - _a._ To see all things as distinct wholes, impersonally. - - _b._ The skill to portray, and to handle material. - - _c._ Genius and talent vary in degrees of relation in different - artists’ work: - - 1. The great idea, imperfectly executed. - - 2. The small idea in perfect form. - -V. ART AS THE SYMBOL OF COMPLETENESS AND CREATIVE EXPRESSION: - - _a._ The sublime lie of the Symbol, truer than fact: - - 1. The effect of removal from life, of unreality, in - relation to beauty. It seems more self-sufficient. - - _b._ A complete vision must not take sides: - - 1. When art is partisan, _for_ something, it is also - _against_ something. Complete representation. - - _c._ Creative art gives us the joy of play, of creation: - - 1. Play—interplay—is the progress and will of life, - and work but a name for the disagreeable but necessary - part of the game. - - EIGHTH MEETING - - _Art_ - -I. REASON FOR ÆSTHETIC ENQUIRY: - - _a._ Art (creation) is the service of religion. - - _b._ Laws of beauty (completeness) may give us laws for life. - - _c._ Will prepare us to deal more sanely and surely with the - involved problems of conduct. - -II. ART IN THE NOVEL: - - _a._ Completeness in the story: - - 1. Exclusion of unimportant and irrelevant matter. - - α. The “story-teller” in us all. - - β. The distractions of real life, with its - far-relatedness. - - γ. The “outside” event in melodrama too like - life. - - 2. Exclusion of author’s one-sided moral verdict. - - 3. Must not be “_for_” some characters, and “_against_” - others. - - _b._ Understanding of Life in novel: - - 1. False simplicity of poetic justice, of all good, and - all bad. - - 2. Cant phrases offend because they appear imitative, - not sincere. - - 3. Psychological and dramatic treatment: - - α. Dramatic writer trusts reader’s insight. - - β. Action is more convincing than description of - motive. - - 4. Humor and wit: - - α. Humor is knowledge of human nature, its - contrasted greatness and littleness. - - β. Wit is a juggling of words into contrasted or - incongruous effects. - - γ. Both are a bringing together of the - incongruous, in a paradox of unity. - - NINTH MEETING - - _Art_ (Continued) - -I. ART IN POETRY: - - _a._ Difference between Poetry and Prose: - - 1. Poetry is “set to music,” and the rhythm carries part - of the message. - - 2. This unreality or distance from life makes it more - complete and beautiful in itself. - - 3. The emotions and imagination picture completeness - more easily than the intellect: - - α. Because the desire for completeness is a - feeling. - - _b._ Completeness and understanding in Poetry: - - 1. Metaphor and simile a relationing of far-off things. - - 2. Symbol in Play replaces them: - - α. The Fairy-story. - - 3. Taking sides destroys poetry. - - 4. Exaggerated and conventional phrases are weak because - they are insincere. - -II. ART IN MUSIC: - - _a._ Music is itself harmony and completeness: - - 1. The most intangible and removed, it is yet the most - satisfying symbol of completeness and harmony. - -III. THE OPERA: - - _a._ Its attempt to combine all the Arts in one harmonious - expression. - -IV. ART IN PAINTING: - - _a._ Unity or completeness in painting: - - 1. Point of interest; with radiating lines, balance, and - other means of making it prominent. - - 2. The cycle of colors, complete color, and the contrast - of light and darkness. - - 3. A story, not embodied in the picture itself, but - needing words of explanation, spoils unity. - - 4. Unnecessary detail, detracting from central interest - and motive, also spoils unity. - - _b._ Truth in painting: - - 1. Falseness of photographic truth, because of its lack - of unity and purpose. - - α. The “out-of-focus” and imaginatively planned - photograph sometimes artistic. - - 2. Perspective, the painter’s vision of the single - complete experience. - - 3. To see beauty in things is to see the truth. - - 4. “Prettiness,” the result of catering to the - shortcomings of the spectator’s taste, is a violation of - the artist’s taste or sense of completeness and truth. - - 5. Knowledge of life (anatomy) is necessary: - - α. One must understand life to portray it. - -V. SCULPTURE: - - _a._ The Greek Drama of the visual Arts: - - 1. The unlifelikeness of the material, the removal from - life, makes it more beautiful, and a truer symbol. - - _b._ Expresses idea through attitude of the human form. - -VI. ARCHITECTURE: - - _a._ Like music’s, its appeal is to the emotions, without - definite sense or lifelikeness; but speaks as life itself. - - _b._ To be complete, it must express outwardly its inner use and - meaning. - - _c._ To be sincere, or true, it must express the spirit of land - and people. - - [Note.—This ninth meeting might profitably be divided into - two.] - - TENTH MEETING - - _Shall We Make an Art of Life?_ - -I. TRUTH, GOODNESS AND BEAUTY, BUT THE GREATEST OF THESE IS BEAUTY, -WHICH COMBINES THE OTHER TWO: - - _a._ Science is knowledge of facts. - - _b._ Philosophy is vision of truth or aim. - - _c._ Art is using our knowledge to create what we seek. Action - and purpose. - -II. ART IS SELF-EXPRESSION, CREATION, ACTION, RELATIONING: - - _a._ All life, all being, is action, or self-expression. - - _b._ All power in the world is imaginative, creative - thought-power: - - 1. All things must be imagined before they can be known - or done. - -III. ALL GREAT ACTION, ALL GOODNESS, ALL POWER IN LIFE FOLLOWS THE SAME -LAWS AS ART: - - _a._ Therefore let us discover the laws of all arts, and see - whether they can be applied to life. - -IV. THE MESSAGE OF ALL THE ARTS: - - _a._ All have the same laws: - - 1. Art is the symbol of completeness in a definite - shape. - - 2. Is self-expression and self-fulfilment. - - 3. Must leave out the unimportant. - - 4. Must have variety and many-sidedness. - - 5. Must not be partisan, and must be sympathetic. - - 6. Must give the impression of truth. - - 7. Must be aloof, that is, separate from life, and see - things, as it were, from a distance, in their wholeness. - -V. REVIEW AND CONCLUSION: - - _a._ Each smallest thing can symbolize the whole: - - 1. Each human life is a symbol of the complete Self, in - a definite shape. - - 2. Each is deserving of reverence: - - α. Reverence is the small self awed before its - own vastness. - - [Note.—As the eleventh meeting was somewhat of a digression, - and as the notes taken were covered in later meetings, it is - here omitted.] - - TWELFTH MEETING - - _What is Goodness?_ - -I. EACH LIFE, TO BE GOOD OR BEAUTIFUL, MUST BE A SYMBOL OF THAT PERFECT -OR COMPLETE LIFE FOR WHICH WE LONG: - - _a._ Life—the symbol of complete Self in a definite shape. - - _b._ The good man makes all he knows and touches a complete, - harmonious whole: - - 1. Goodness is always of relation. - - 2. One cannot be perfect till all are so: - - α. Therefore goodness implies modesty. - -II. FALSE AND TRUE GOOD: - - _a._ The one law of Love, and its petty, changing codes: - - 1. True good of changing harmonious relation. - - 2. False good of outworn custom and rule. - -III. THE MEANING OF SELF-EXPRESSION: - - _a._ The small and large Self: - - 1. The whole world is the whole of me. - - 2. Serve, not others only, but others as part of - yourself. - - _b._ Self-sacrifice: - - 1. Giving up one thing for a greater thing. - - 2. Happiness is whatever we want most. - - 3. If completeness is the aim of life, then all lesser - happiness is sacrificed to it. - - 4. If life is a drama, a whole, we give up our selfish - satisfaction to see that whole self satisfied. - - _c._ Creation is Self-expression, is endless, higher rebirth: - - 1. All action reveals the actor. - - 2. Life is a drama, in which we feel ourselves to have - equal prominence with others, and conscious power of - control: - - α. We cannot help having influence. - - β. Let us shape our influence for the whole. - - THIRTEENTH MEETING - - _Self-fulfilment Through Overcoming Limitations_ - -I. ENVY, ITS NARROWNESS AND BLINDNESS: - - _a._ Every man serves me who does for me what I cannot do for - myself: - - 1. Each one fills out my shortcomings. - - _b._ Use, instead of coveting. - -II. SELF-REGULATION IN DESPITE OF SELF: - - _a._ The moral sense of beauty, an intellectual sense of - completeness, makes us regulate and suppress our desires: - - 1. Hence we make laws which are substitutes for - understanding love. - - _b._ The substitutes necessary until love conquers, are: - - 1. Justice. - - 2. Honesty. - - 3. Duty. - - 4. Binding by promise. - - 5. Obedience. - - _c._ Conventions, their changes and their convenience. - -III. SOME VIRTUES CHANGED BY LOVE’S DEMANDS: - - _a._ Revenge, the first expression of Loyalty: - - 1. Our admiration for such expression in its own early - time. - - _b._ Pity, the developer of Feeling: - - 1. Degenerates into Weakness and Impotence. - - 2. Is an Insult: - - α. A strong man does not pity himself. Should - not pity other strong selves. - - 3. Strong Sympathy, and our common Working for the great - Happiness, should replace pity. - - _c._ Reverence for special people, with Fear: - - 1. Self-reverence means reverence for all selves. - - 2. Reverence the old—and the young, too. - - 3. The reverence with love replaces the reverence with - fear. - - FOURTEENTH MEETING - - _Loyalty, and Conscious Allegiance to our Individual Aspiration_ - -I. PATRIOTISM; ITS MEANING: - - _a._ We are children of all we can love and serve: - - 1. The growth of loyalty, from the family to the world: - - α. War as a fighting for peace. - - _b._ Patriotism in its growth, like all progress, must include - the small in the large, though in seeming disloyalty: - - 1. Disloyalty to one’s country cannot be loyalty to the - world. - - 2. But wholesome criticism often seems disloyal: - - α. The loyalty of revolutionists. - -II. CONSCIOUS CHOICE IN SELF-DEVELOPMENT: - - _a._ Know what you want most to be. - - _b._ Eliminate whatever interferes with your choice; make life a - work of art, not a haphazard photograph. - - 1. Concentration. - - 2. Choose and subordinate your studies for their worth - to you. - - 3. Prefer friends to acquaintances. - - 4. Do the work at hand (charity at home), and be sure - your service harmonizes with your knowledge and your - whole life. - - 5. Never degrade the end by making an _end_ out of the - _means_. (Business, athletics, study, must always be - means.) - - _c._ Dare to desire the utmost, unflinchingly: - - 1. Greatness comes from persistent desire rather than - from inborn skill. - - _d._ Youth and old age: - - 1. Desire and service can continue throughout life. - -III. VARIETY AND RHYTHM: - - _a._ Varied life with single Aim: - - 1. Concentrate on one thing at a time, but not on one - thing all the time. - - 2. The meaning and worth of Knowledge. - - 3. Never be bored, or bore: - - α. Sense of humor; and use of silence. - - 4. Work and play, exertion and rest, must harmonize: - - α. Even your pleasures will reflect your - character, or taste. - - _b._ Be a rhythm, a measure, a force like music in the life all - about you. - - [Note.—The fifteenth meeting was spent on Christian Science, - and is therefore omitted from the notes.] - - SIXTEENTH MEETING - - _Social Relations_ - -I. THE AVOIDANCE OF BITTER PARTISANSHIP: - - _a._ Take sides, not with persons, but with causes. - - _b._ Use all. Be for all, and against none. - -II. SOCIAL SYMPATHY: - - _a._ Humanity as a vast Self: - - 1. Democracy means we have all the right to be equal: - - α. Faith and reverence for self in all. - - β. Service is larger self-service. - - γ. Each does his part; hand and head. - - 2. To keep well, to be satisfied, we must care for the - sick and miserable: - - α. Starvation. - - β. Old age. - - γ. Contagion. - - _b._ To care for the weak strengthens the strong: - - 1. To destroy the weak is dangerous loss. (Rome and - Sparta.) - - _c._ In passing judgment on crimes, hate not persons but their - acts: - - 1. Each acts according to his desire or needs. - - 2. Punishment as preventive and cure. - -III. TRUTH IN PERSONAL RELATIONS: - - _a._ Truth-telling not the whole of Truth: - - 1. Malicious truth-telling is not truth. - - 2. Worth of kind, true criticism and praise. - - _b._ Our judgments of people judge us: - - 1. Our limited understanding. - - 2. Say: “I am one who hates, or loves,” etc. - - _c._ Whom shall we please, and how? - - 1. The morality of good manners. - - 2. Vanity, the pretended worth; and true worth or - loveableness. - - 3. “Prettiness” in manner, pleasing those who cannot - understand us. - - 4. Social frivolity, overdress and luxury, and its - result of friendship. - - α. Show is for those we do not love. (Resembles - “costly material” in art.) - -[IV. WOMEN AND WORK: - - _a._ The true preparation for marriage. - - _b._ Social life and service. - - _c._ Knowledge as mere show; or as power.] - - SEVENTEENTH MEETING - - _Aloofness and Creation_ - -I. SEEING LIFE AS A SPECTATOR, FROM GOD’S POINT OF VIEW: - - _a._ The collective personality: - - 1. Psychological fact: We are often outside ourselves in - tense moments. - - 2. Getting far away from oneself in self-criticism and - judgment. - - 3. Our reasonableness in crises. - - 4. All heroism is self-forgetfulness for the sake of the - whole. - -II. RESULT IN ACTION AND CREATIVE LIVING: - - _a._ Partnership with whole, or God: - - 1. We can see and use our personal life as part of - whole. - - 2. We can get above our own sorrow and pain, and use - them. - - _b._ This aloofness from self, or being the _One_, is the root - of all morals: - - 1. Some know this, and make laws; the others are forced - to obey. - - _c._ Aloofness is collective experience, or memory, whence we - grow toward the good. We live in all time and space. - -III. PERSONAL RESULT OF OUR CLUB’S WORK: - - _a._ Drawing judgment from the whole. - - _b._ Drawing strength from the whole. - - _c._ Training our lesser desires to serve the whole aim and - desire of our life. - - _d._ How shall we attain to fulfilment in our personal life? - - 1. Money, health, power, etc., as certificates of - creative value, to be used for new creation. - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Hyphenation and archaic spellings have been retained as in the original. -Punctuation and type-setting errors have been corrected without note. -Other corrections are as noted below. - -Page 37, and he saw that an ==> and we saw that an -Page 91, God,” I answered ==> God,” she answered -page 93, so; but a word itself ==> so; work itself -Page 104, a sense of duty ==> a sense of unity -Page 236, different from each one ==> different for each one -Page 266, if the operator always ==> is the spectator always - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Seekers, by Jessie E. Sampter - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEEKERS *** - -***** This file should be named 52660-0.txt or 52660-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/6/6/52660/ - -Produced by David T. 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