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<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHAT IS MAN? AND OTHER STORIES ***</div>

<h1>WHAT IS MAN?<br/>
AND OTHER ESSAYS</h1>

<h2 class="no-break">By Mark Twain</h2>

<h3>(Samuel Langhorne Clemens, 1835-1910)</h3>

<hr />

<h2>CONTENTS</h2>

<table summary="" style="">

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap01">WHAT IS MAN?</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap02">THE DEATH OF JEAN</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap03">THE TURNING-POINT OF MY LIFE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap04">HOW TO MAKE HISTORY DATES STICK</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap05">THE MEMORABLE ASSASSINATION</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap06">A SCRAP OF CURIOUS HISTORY</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap07">SWITZERLAND, THE CRADLE OF LIBERTY</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap08">AT THE SHRINE OF ST. WAGNER</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap09">WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap10">ENGLISH AS SHE IS TAUGHT</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap11">A SIMPLIFIED ALPHABET</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap12">AS CONCERNS INTERPRETING THE DEITY</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap13">CONCERNING TOBACCO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap14">THE BEE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap15">TAMING THE BICYCLE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap16">IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?</a></td>
</tr>

</table>

<hr />

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap01"></a>

WHAT IS MAN?</h2>

<h3>I</h3>

<h4>a. Man the Machine. b. Personal Merit</h4>

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

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

<p>
Young Man. Iron, steel, brass, white-metal, and so on.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Where are these found?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. In the rocks.
</p>

<p>
O.M. In a pure state?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No&mdash;in ores.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Are the metals suddenly deposited in the ores?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No&mdash;it is the patient work of countless ages.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You could make the engine out of the rocks themselves?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes, a brittle one and not valuable.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. No&mdash;substantially nothing.
</p>

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

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

<p>
O.M. Then?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Out of the perfected result, build the fine engine.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You would require much of this one?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Oh, indeed yes.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. It could.
</p>

<p>
O.M. What could the stone engine do?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Drive a sewing-machine, possibly&mdash;nothing more, perhaps.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Men would admire the other engine and rapturously praise it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. But not the stone one?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Of course.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Personal merits?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. <i>Personal</i> merits? How do you mean?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. The engine? Certainly not.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Why not?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Because its performance is not personal. It is the result of the law of
construction. It is not a <i>merit</i> that it does the things which it is set
to do&mdash;it can&rsquo;t <i>help</i> doing them.
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
Y.M. Yes. I have written it down; &ldquo;Prejudices which nothing within the
rock itself had either power to remove or any desire to remove.&rdquo; Go on.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Prejudices must be removed by <i>outside influences</i> or not at all. Put
that down.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Very well; &ldquo;Must be removed by outside influences or not at
all.&rdquo; Go on.
</p>

<p>
O.M. The iron&rsquo;s prejudice against ridding itself of the cumbering rock.
To make it more exact, the iron&rsquo;s absolute <i>indifference</i> as to
whether the rock be removed or not. Then comes the <i>outside influence</i> and
grinds the rock to powder and sets the ore free. The <i>iron</i> in the ore is
still captive. An <i>outside influence</i> smelts it free of the clogging ore.
The iron is emancipated iron, now, but indifferent to further progress. An
<i>outside influence</i> beguiles it into the Bessemer furnace and refines it
into steel of the first quality. It is educated, now&mdash;its training is
complete. And it has reached its limit. By no possible process can it be
educated into <i>gold</i>. Will you set that down?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes. &ldquo;Everything has its limit&mdash;iron ore cannot be educated
into gold.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. You have arrived at man, now?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes. Man the machine&mdash;man the impersonal engine. Whatsoever a man is,
is due to his <i>make</i>, and to the <i>influences</i> brought to bear upon it
by his heredities, his habitat, his associations. He is moved, directed,
<i>commanded</i>, by <i>exterior</i> influences&mdash;<i>solely</i>. He
<i>originates</i> nothing, not even a thought.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. It is a quite natural opinion&mdash;indeed an inevitable opinion&mdash;but
<i>you </i>did not create the materials out of which it is formed. They are
odds and ends of thoughts, impressions, feelings, gathered unconsciously from a
thousand books, a thousand conversations, and from streams of thought and
feeling which have flowed down into your heart and brain out of the hearts and
brains of centuries of ancestors. <i>Personally</i> you did not create even the
smallest microscopic fragment of the materials out of which your opinion is
made; and personally you cannot claim even the slender merit of <i>putting the
borrowed materials together</i>. That was done <i>automatically</i>&mdash;by
your mental machinery, in strict accordance with the law of that
machinery&rsquo;s construction. And you not only did not make that machinery
yourself, but you have <i>not even any command over it</i>.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Spontaneously? No. And <i>you did not form that one</i>; your machinery
did it for you&mdash;automatically and instantly, without reflection or the
need of it.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Suppose I had reflected? How then?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Suppose you try?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. (<i>After a quarter of an hour</i>.) I have reflected.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You mean you have tried to change your opinion&mdash;as an experiment?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. With success?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No. It remains the same; it is impossible to change it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. I am sorry, but you see, yourself, that your mind is merely a machine,
nothing more. You have no command over it, it has no command over
itself&mdash;it is worked <i>solely from the outside</i>. That is the law of
its make; it is the law of all machines.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Can&rsquo;t I <i>ever</i> change one of these automatic opinions?
</p>

<p>
O.M. No. You can&rsquo;t yourself, but <i>exterior influences</i> can do it.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. And exterior ones <i>only</i>?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes&mdash;exterior ones only.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. That position is untenable&mdash;I may say ludicrously untenable.
</p>

<p>
O.M. What makes you think so?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Not a shred of it. <i>It grew out of this talk with me</i>. But for that
it would not have occurred to you. No man ever originates anything. All his
thoughts, all his impulses, come <i>from the outside</i>.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. It&rsquo;s an exasperating subject. The <i>first</i> man had original
thoughts, anyway; there was nobody to draw from.
</p>

<p>
O.M. It is a mistake. Adam&rsquo;s thoughts came to him from the outside.
<i>You</i> have a fear of death. You did not invent that&mdash;you got it from
outside, from talking and teaching. Adam had no fear of death&mdash;none in the
world.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes, he had.
</p>

<p>
O.M. When he was created?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No.
</p>

<p>
O.M. When, then?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. When he was threatened with it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then it came from <i>outside</i>. Adam is quite big enough; let us not try
to make a god of him. <i>None but gods have ever had a thought which did not
come from the outside</i>. Adam probably had a good head, but it was of no sort
of use to him until it was filled up <i>from the outside</i>. He was not able
to invent the triflingest little thing with it. He had not a shadow of a notion
of the difference between good and evil&mdash;he had to get the idea <i>from
the outside</i>. Neither he nor Eve was able to originate the idea that it was
immodest to go naked; the knowledge came in with the apple <i>from the
outside</i>. A man&rsquo;s brain is so constructed that <i>it can originate
nothing whatsoever</i>. It can only use material obtained <i>outside</i>. It is
merely a machine; and it works automatically, not by will-power. <i>It has no
command over itself, its owner has no command over it</i>.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well, never mind Adam: but certainly Shakespeare&rsquo;s creations&mdash;
</p>

<p>
O.M. No, you mean Shakespeare&rsquo;s <i>imitations</i>. Shakespeare created
nothing. He correctly observed, and he marvelously painted. He exactly
portrayed people whom <i>God</i> had created; but he created none himself. Let
us spare him the slander of charging him with trying. Shakespeare could not
create. <i>He was a machine, and machines do not create</i>.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Where <i>was</i> his excellence, then?
</p>

<p>
O.M. In this. He was not a sewing-machine, like you and me; he was a Gobelin
loom. The threads and the colors came into him <i>from the outside</i>; outside
influences, suggestions, <i>experiences</i> (reading, seeing plays, playing
plays, borrowing ideas, and so on), framed the patterns in his mind and started
up his complex and admirable machinery, and <i>it automatically</i> turned out
that pictured and gorgeous fabric which still compels the astonishment of the
world. If Shakespeare had been born and bred on a barren and unvisited rock in
the ocean his mighty intellect would have had no <i>outside material</i> to
work with, and could have invented none; and <i>no outside influences</i>,
teachings, moldings, persuasions, inspirations, of a valuable sort, and could
have invented none; and so Shakespeare would have produced nothing. In Turkey
he would have produced something&mdash;something up to the highest limit of
Turkish influences, associations, and training. In France he would have
produced something better&mdash;something up to the highest limit of the French
influences and training. In England he rose to the highest limit attainable
through the <i>outside helps afforded by that land&rsquo;s ideals, influences,
and training</i>. You and I are but sewing-machines. We must turn out what we
can; we must do our endeavor and care nothing at all when the unthinking
reproach us for not turning out Gobelins.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. It isn&rsquo;t a doctrine, it is merely a fact.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. <i>Personal</i> merit? No. A brave man does not <i>create</i> his bravery.
He is entitled to no personal credit for possessing it. It is born to him. A
baby born with a billion dollars&mdash;where is the personal merit in that? A
baby born with nothing&mdash;where is the personal demerit in that? The one is
fawned upon, admired, worshiped, by sycophants, the other is neglected and
despised&mdash;where is the sense in it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Sometimes a timid man sets himself the task of conquering his cowardice
and becoming brave&mdash;and succeeds. What do you say to that?
</p>

<p>
O.M. That it shows the value of <i>training in right directions over training
in wrong ones</i>. Inestimably valuable is training, influence, education, in
right directions&mdash;<i>training one&rsquo;s self-approbation to elevate its
ideals</i>.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. But as to merit&mdash;the personal merit of the victorious coward&rsquo;s
project and achievement?
</p>

<p>
O.M. There isn&rsquo;t any. In the world&rsquo;s view he is a worthier man than
he was before, but <i>he</i> didn&rsquo;t achieve the change&mdash;the merit of
it is not his.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Whose, then?
</p>

<p>
O.M. His <i>make</i>, and the influences which wrought upon it from the
outside.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. His make?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Well, anyway, the idea of <i>cultivating</i> it, the resolution to
cultivate it, was meritorious, and he originated that.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. But, anyway, he reared the plant after she watered the seed.
</p>

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

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

<p>
O.M. Your question will answer itself presently. It involves an important
detail of man&rsquo;s make which we have not yet touched upon.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. What detail is that?
</p>

<p>
O.M. The impulse which moves a person to do things&mdash;the only impulse that
ever moves a person to do a thing.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. The <i>only</i> one! Is there but one?
</p>

<p>
O.M. That is all. There is only one.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. The impulse to <i>content his own spirit</i>&mdash;the <i>necessity</i> of
contenting his own spirit and <i>winning its approval</i>.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Oh, come, that won&rsquo;t do!
</p>

<p>
O.M. Why won&rsquo;t it?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. It is a mistake. The act must do <i>him</i> good, <i>first</i>; otherwise
he will not do it. He may <i>think</i> he is doing it solely for the other
person&rsquo;s sake, but it is not so; he is contenting his own spirit
first&mdash;the other&rsquo;s person&rsquo;s benefit has to always take
<i>second</i> place.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. What a fantastic idea! What becomes of self&mdash;sacrifice? Please answer
me that.
</p>

<p>
O.M. What is self-sacrifice?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. The doing good to another person where no shadow nor suggestion of benefit
to one&rsquo;s self can result from it.
</p>

<h3>II</h3>

<h4>Man&rsquo;s Sole Impulse&mdash;the Securing of His Own Approval</h4>

<p>
Old Man. There have been instances of it&mdash;you think?
</p>

<p>
Young Man. <i>Instances</i>? Millions of them!
</p>

<p>
O.M. You have not jumped to conclusions? You have examined
them&mdash;critically?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. They don&rsquo;t need it: the acts themselves reveal the golden impulse
back of them.
</p>

<p>
O.M. For instance?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. What makes you think that?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Can you put yourself in the man&rsquo;s place and tell me what he felt and
what he thought?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. What was his state of mind on his way home?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. He felt well?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. One cannot doubt it.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. From a variety, of course&mdash;some high and fine and noble, others not.
What is your opinion?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then there is but <i>one</i> law, one source.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Will you put that law into words?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes. This is the law, keep it in your mind. <i>From his cradle to his
grave a man never does a single thing which has any</i> FIRST AND FOREMOST
<i>object</i> <i>but one</i>&mdash;<i>to secure peace of mind, spiritual
comfort</i>, <i>for</i> HIMSELF.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Come! He never does anything for any one else&rsquo;s comfort, spiritual
or physical?
</p>

<p>
O.M. No. <i>except on those distinct terms</i>&mdash;that it shall <i>first</i>
secure <i>his own</i> spiritual comfort. Otherwise he will not do it.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. It will be easy to expose the falsity of that proposition.
</p>

<p>
O.M. For instance?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. He loves peace and dreads pain?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then perhaps there is something that he loves <i>more</i> than he loves
peace&mdash;<i>the approval of his neighbors and the public</i>. And perhaps
there is something which he dreads more than he dreads pain&mdash;the
<i>disapproval</i> of his neighbors and the public. If he is sensitive to shame
he will go to the field&mdash;not because his spirit will be <i>entirely</i>
comfortable there, but because it will be more comfortable there than it would
be if he remained at home. He will always do the thing which will bring him the
<i>most</i> mental comfort&mdash;for that is <i>the sole law of his life</i>.
He leaves the weeping family behind; he is sorry to make them uncomfortable,
but not sorry enough to sacrifice his <i>own</i> comfort to secure theirs.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Do you really believe that mere public opinion could force a timid and
peaceful man to&mdash;
</p>

<p>
O.M. Go to war? Yes&mdash;public opinion can force some men to do
<i>anything</i>.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. <i>Anything</i>?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes&mdash;anything.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I don&rsquo;t believe that. Can it force a right-principled man to do a
wrong thing?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Can it force a kind man to do a cruel thing?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Give an instance.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. A minute ago you said Hamilton fought that duel to get <i>public</i>
approval.
</p>

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

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

<p>
O.M. They acted <i>according to their make</i>. They valued their principles
and the approval of their families <i>above</i> the public approval. They took
the thing they valued <i>most</i> and let the rest go. They took what would
give them the <i>largest</i> share of <i>personal contentment and
approval</i>&mdash;a man <i>always</i> does. Public opinion cannot force that
kind of men to go to the wars. When they go it is for other reasons. Other
spirit-contenting reasons.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Always spirit-contenting reasons?
</p>

<p>
O.M. There are no others.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. When he does it, it is the law of <i>his</i> make. <i>He</i> can&rsquo;t
bear to see the child in that peril (a man of a different make <i>could</i>),
and so he tries to save the child, and loses his life. But he has got what he
was after&mdash;<i>his own approval</i>.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Different results of the one Master Impulse: the necessity of securing
one&rsquo;s self approval. They wear diverse clothes and are subject to diverse
moods, but in whatsoever ways they masquerade they are the <i>same person</i>
all the time. To change the figure, the <i>compulsion</i> that moves a
man&mdash;and there is but the one&mdash;is the necessity of securing the
contentment of his own spirit. When it stops, the man is dead.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. That is foolishness. Love&mdash;
</p>

<p>
O.M. Why, love is that impulse, that law, in its most uncompromising form. It
will squander life and everything else on its object. Not <i>primarily</i> for
the object&rsquo;s sake, but for <i>its own</i>. When its object is happy
<i>it</i> is happy&mdash;and that is what it is unconsciously after.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. No, <i>it </i>is the absolute slave of that law. The mother will go naked
to clothe her child; she will starve that it may have food; suffer torture to
save it from pain; die that it may live. She takes a living <i>pleasure</i> in
making these sacrifices. <i>She does it for that reward</i>&mdash;that
self-approval, that contentment, that peace, that comfort. <i>She would do it
for your child</i> IF SHE COULD GET THE SAME PAY.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. This is an infernal philosophy of yours.
</p>

<p>
O.M. It isn&rsquo;t a philosophy, it is a fact.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Of course you must admit that there are some acts which&mdash;
</p>

<p>
O.M. No. There is <i>no</i> act, large or small, fine or mean, which springs
from any motive but the one&mdash;the necessity of appeasing and contenting
one&rsquo;s own spirit.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. The world&rsquo;s philanthropists&mdash;
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. What do you say of duty for duty&rsquo;s sake?
</p>

<p>
O.M. That <i>it does not exist</i>. Duties are not performed for duty&rsquo;s
<i>sake</i>, but because their <i>neglect</i> would make the man
<i>uncomfortable</i>. A man performs but <i>one</i> duty&mdash;the duty of
contenting his spirit, the duty of making himself agreeable to himself. If he
can most satisfyingly perform this sole and only duty by <i>helping</i> his
neighbor, he will do it; if he can most satisfyingly perform it by
<i>swindling</i> his neighbor, he will do it. But he always looks out for
Number One&mdash;<i>first</i>; the effects upon others are a <i>secondary</i>
matter. Men pretend to self-sacrifices, but this is a thing which, in the
ordinary value of the phrase, <i>does not exist and has not existed</i>. A man
often honestly <i>thinks</i> he is sacrificing himself merely and solely for
some one else, but he is deceived; his bottom impulse is to content a
requirement of his nature and training, and thus acquire peace for his soul.
</p>

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

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

<p>
Y.M. You spoke a moment ago of <i>trained</i> consciences. You mean that we are
not <i>born</i> with consciences competent to guide us aright?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. But consciences can be <i>trained</i>?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Of course by parents, teachers, the pulpit, and books.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes&mdash;they do their share; they do what they can.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. And the rest is done by&mdash;
</p>

<p>
O.M. Oh, a million unnoticed influences&mdash;for good or bad: influences which
work without rest during every waking moment of a man&rsquo;s life, from cradle
to grave.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. You have tabulated these?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Many of them&mdash;yes.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Will you read me the result?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Another time, yes. It would take an hour.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. A conscience can be trained to shun evil and prefer good?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. But will it for spirit-contenting reasons only?
</p>

<p>
O.M. It <i>can&rsquo;t</i> be trained to do a thing for any <i>other</i>
reason. The thing is impossible.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. There <i>must</i> be a genuinely and utterly self-sacrificing act recorded
in human history somewhere.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You are young. You have many years before you. Search one out.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Wait. Describe the <i>man</i>. Describe the <i>fellow-being</i>. State if
there is an <i>audience</i> present; or if they are <i>alone</i>.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. What have these things to do with the splendid act?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. If you choose.
</p>

<p>
O.M. And that the fellow-being is the man&rsquo;s daughter?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well, n-no&mdash;make it someone else.
</p>

<p>
O.M. A filthy, drunken ruffian, then?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I see. Circumstances alter cases. I suppose that if there was no audience
to observe the act, the man wouldn&rsquo;t perform it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. But there is here and there a man who <i>would</i>. People, for instance,
like the man who lost his life trying to save the child from the fire; and the
man who gave the needy old woman his twenty-five cents and walked home in the
storm&mdash;there are here and there men like that who would do it. And why?
Because they couldn&rsquo;t <i>bear</i> to see a fellow-being struggling in the
water and not jump in and help. It would give <i>them</i> pain. They would save
the fellow-being on that account. <i>They wouldn&rsquo;t do it otherwise</i>.
They strictly obey the law which I have been insisting upon. You must remember
and always distinguish the people who <i>can&rsquo;t bear</i> things from
people who <i>can</i>. It will throw light upon a number of apparently
&ldquo;self-sacrificing&rdquo; cases.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Oh, dear, it&rsquo;s all so disgusting.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes. And so true.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Come&mdash;take the good boy who does things he doesn&rsquo;t want to do,
in order to gratify his mother.
</p>

<p>
O.M. He does seven-tenths of the act because it gratifies <i>him</i> to gratify
his mother. Throw the bulk of advantage the other way and the good boy would
not do the act. He <i>must</i> obey the iron law. None can escape it.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well, take the case of a bad boy who&mdash;
</p>

<p>
O.M. You needn&rsquo;t mention it, it is a waste of time. It is no matter about
the bad boy&rsquo;s act. Whatever it was, he had a spirit-contenting reason for
it. Otherwise you have been misinformed, and he didn&rsquo;t do it.
</p>

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

<p>
<i>A Little Story</i>
</p>

<p>
O.M. I will tell you a little story:
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;<i>I believed, and was happy in it; you have taken my belief away, and
my comfort. Now I have nothing left, and I die miserable; for the things which
you have told me do not take the place of that which I have lost</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And the mother, also, reproached the Infidel, and said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>My child is forever lost, and my heart is broken. How could you do
this cruel thing? We have done you no harm, but only kindness; we made our
house your home, you were welcome to all we had, and this is our
reward.&rdquo;</i>
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;<i>It was wrong&mdash;I see it now; but I was only trying to do him
good. In my view he was in error; it seemed my duty to teach him the
truth</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then the mother said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>I had taught him, all his little life, what I believed to be the
truth, and in his believing faith both of us were happy. Now he is
dead,&mdash;and lost; and I am miserable. Our faith came down to us through
centuries of believing ancestors; what right had you, or any one, to disturb
it? Where was your honor, where was your shame</i>?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Y.M. He was a miscreant, and deserved death!
</p>

<p>
O.M. He thought so himself, and said so.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Ah&mdash;you see, <i>his conscience was awakened</i>!
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Call it what you please, it is to me a case of <i>awakened conscience</i>.
That awakened conscience could never get itself into that species of trouble
again. A cure like that is a <i>permanent</i> cure.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;<i>I believed, and was happy in it; you have taken my belief away, and
my comfort. Now I have nothing left, and I die miserable; for the things which
you have told me do not take the place of that which I have lost</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And the mother, also, reproached the missionary, and said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>My child is forever lost, and my heart is broken. How could you do
this cruel thing? We had done you no harm, but only kindness; we made our house
your home, you were welcome to all we had, and this is our reward</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;<i>It was wrong&mdash;I see it now; but I was only trying to do him
good. In my view he was in error; it seemed my duty to teach him the
truth</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then the mother said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>I had taught him, all his little life, what I believed to be the
truth, and in his believing faith both of us were happy. Now he is
dead&mdash;and lost; and I am miserable. Our faith came down to us through
centuries of believing ancestors; what right had you, or any one, to disturb
it? Where was your honor, where was your shame</i>?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The missionary&rsquo;s anguish of remorse and sense of treachery were as bitter
and persecuting and unappeasable, now, as they had been in the former case. The
story is finished. What is your comment?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. The man&rsquo;s conscience is a fool! It was morbid. It didn&rsquo;t know
right from wrong.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. What is that?
</p>

<p>
O.M. That in both cases the man&rsquo;s <i>act</i> gave him no spiritual
discomfort, and that he was quite satisfied with it and got pleasure out of it.
But afterward when it resulted in <i>pain</i> to <i>him</i>, he was sorry.
Sorry it had inflicted pain upon the others, <i>but for no reason under the sun
except that their pain gave him pain</i>. Our consciences take <i>no</i> notice
of pain inflicted upon others until it reaches a point where it gives pain to
<i>us</i>. In <i>all</i> cases without exception we are absolutely indifferent
to another person&rsquo;s pain until his sufferings make us uncomfortable. Many
an infidel would not have been troubled by that Christian mother&rsquo;s
distress. Don&rsquo;t you believe that?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes. You might almost say it of the <i>average</i> infidel, I think.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Well, let us adjourn. Where have we arrived?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. I am not convinced.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You will be when you think.
</p>

<h3>III</h3>

<h4>Instances in Point</h4>

<p>
Old Man. Have you given thought to the Gospel of Self&mdash;Approval since we
talked?
</p>

<p>
Young Man. I have.
</p>

<p>
O.M. It was I that moved you to it. That is to say an <i>outside influence</i>
moved you to it&mdash;not one that originated in your head. Will you try to
keep that in mind and not forget it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes. Why?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Because by and by in one of our talks, I wish to further impress upon you
that neither you, nor I, nor any man ever originates a thought in his own head.
<i>The utterer of a thought always utters a second-hand one</i>.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Oh, now&mdash;
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. I have not been very fortunate. I have examined many fine and apparently
self-sacrificing deeds in romances and biographies, but&mdash;
</p>

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

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

<p>
O.M. Is that as far as you have read?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Let us read further, presently. Meantime, in sacrificing
himself&mdash;<i>not</i> for the glory of God, <i>primarily</i>, as <i>he</i>
imagined, but <i>first</i> to content that exacting and inflexible master
within him&mdash;<i>did he sacrifice anybody else</i>?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. How do you mean?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Well&mdash;yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. In what way and to what extend did his self-sacrifice affect <i>them</i>?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. The old father&rsquo;s comforts were now curtailed?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Quite seriously. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. The sister&rsquo;s music-lessens had to stop?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. The young brother&rsquo;s education&mdash;well, an extinguishing blight
fell upon that happy dream, and he had to go to sawing wood to support the old
father, or something like that?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. It is about what happened. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. What a handsome job of self-sacrificing he did do! It seems to me that he
sacrificed everybody <i>except</i> himself. Haven&rsquo;t I told you that no
man <i>ever</i> sacrifices himself; that there is no instance of it upon record
anywhere; and that when a man&rsquo;s Interior Monarch requires a thing of its
slave for either its <i>momentary</i> or its <i>permanent</i> contentment, that
thing must and will be furnished and that command obeyed, no matter who may
stand in the way and suffer disaster by it? That man <i>ruined his family</i>
to please and content his Interior Monarch&mdash;
</p>

<p>
Y.M. And help Christ&rsquo;s cause.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes&mdash;<i>secondly</i>. Not firstly. <i>He</i> thought it was firstly.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Very well, have it so, if you will. But it could be that he argued that if
he saved a hundred souls in New York&mdash;
</p>

<p>
O.M. The sacrifice of the <i>family</i> would be justified by that great profit
upon the&mdash;the&mdash;what shall we call it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Investment?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Hardly. How would <i>speculation</i> do? How would <i>gamble</i> do? Not a
solitary soul-capture was sure. He played for a possible
thirty-three-hundred-per-cent profit. It was <i>gambling</i>&mdash;with his
family for &ldquo;chips.&rdquo; However let us see how the game came out. Maybe
we can get on the track of the secret original impulse, the <i>real</i>
impulse, that moved him to so nobly self&mdash;sacrifice his family in the
Savior&rsquo;s cause under the superstition that he was sacrificing himself. I
will read a chapter or so.... Here we have it! It was bound to expose itself
sooner or later. He preached to the East-Side rabble a season, then went back
to his old dull, obscure life in the lumber-camps &ldquo;<i>hurt to the heart,
his pride humbled</i>.&rdquo; Why? Were not his efforts acceptable to the
Savior, for Whom alone they were made? Dear me, that detail is <i>lost sight
of</i>, is not even referred to, the fact that it started out as a motive is
entirely forgotten! Then what is the trouble? The authoress quite innocently
and unconsciously gives the whole business away. The trouble was this: this man
merely <i>preached</i> to the poor; that is not the University
Settlement&rsquo;s way; it deals in larger and better things than that, and it
did not enthuse over that crude Salvation-Army eloquence. It was courteous to
Holme&mdash;but cool. It did not pet him, did not take him to its bosom.
&ldquo;<i>Perished were all his dreams of distinction, the praise and grateful
approval</i>&mdash;&rdquo; Of whom? The Savior? No; the Savior is not
mentioned. Of whom, then? Of &ldquo;his <i>fellow-workers</i>.&rdquo; Why did
he want that? Because the Master inside of him wanted it, and would not be
content without it. That emphasized sentence quoted above, reveals the secret
we have been seeking, the original impulse, the <i>real</i> impulse, which
moved the obscure and unappreciated Adirondack lumberman to sacrifice his
family and go on that crusade to the East Side&mdash;which said original
impulse was this, to wit: without knowing it <i>he went there to show a
neglected world the large talent that was in him, and rise to distinction</i>.
As I have warned you before, <i>no</i> act springs from any but the one law,
the one motive. But I pray you, do not accept this law upon my say-so; but
diligently examine for yourself. Whenever you read of a self-sacrificing act or
hear of one, or of a duty done for <i>duty&rsquo;s sake</i>, take it to pieces
and look for the <i>real</i> motive. It is always there.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Have you ever found one that defeated the rule?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No&mdash;at least, not yet. But take the case of servant&mdash;tipping in
Europe. You pay the <i>hotel</i> for service; you owe the servants
<i>nothing</i>, yet you pay them besides. Doesn&rsquo;t that defeat it?
</p>

<p>
O.M. In what way?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. You are not <i>obliged</i> to do it, therefore its source is compassion
for their ill-paid condition, and&mdash;
</p>

<p>
O.M. Has that custom ever vexed you, annoyed you, irritated you?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well, yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Still you succumbed to it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Of course.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Why of course?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well, custom is law, in a way, and laws must be submitted
to&mdash;everybody recognizes it as a <i>duty</i>.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then you pay for the irritating tax for <i>duty&rsquo;s</i> sake?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I suppose it amounts to that.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then the impulse which moves you to submit to the tax is not <i>all</i>
compassion, charity, benevolence?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well&mdash;perhaps not.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Is <i>any</i> of it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I&mdash;perhaps I was too hasty in locating its source.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Oh, hear yourself talk! Those European servants? Why, you wouldn&rsquo;t
get any at all, to speak of.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Couldn&rsquo;t <i>that</i> work as an impulse to move you to pay the tax?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I am not denying it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Apparently, then, it is a case of for-duty&rsquo;s-sake with a little
self-interest added?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. I wonder why you should think so. When you find service charged in the
<i>hotel</i> bill does it annoy you?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Do you ever complain of the amount of it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No, it would not occur to me.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Like it? I should rejoice!
</p>

<p>
O.M. Even if the fixed tax were a shade <i>more</i> than you had been in the
habit of paying in the form of tips?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Indeed, yes!
</p>

<p>
O.M. Very well, then. As I understand it, it isn&rsquo;t really compassion nor
yet duty that moves you to pay the tax, and it isn&rsquo;t the <i>amount</i> of
the tax that annoys you. Yet <i>something</i> annoys you. What is it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well, the trouble is, you never know <i>what</i> to pay, the tax varies
so, all over Europe.
</p>

<p>
O.M. So you have to guess?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. And all about a debt which you don&rsquo;t owe and don&rsquo;t have to pay
unless you want to! Strange. What is the purpose of the guessing?
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
O.M. How do you know when you have not paid a servant fairly?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. <i>Necessary</i>? Necessary for what?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. To content him.
</p>

<p>
O.M. How do you feel <i>then</i>?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Repentant.
</p>

<p>
O.M. It is my belief that you have <i>not</i> been concerning yourself in
guessing out his just dues, but only in ciphering out what would <i>content</i>
him. And I think you have a self-deluding reason for that.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. What was it?
</p>

<p>
O.M. If you fell short of what he was expecting and wanting, you would get a
look which would <i>shame you before folk</i>. That would give you <i>pain</i>.
<i>You</i>&mdash;for you are only working for yourself, not <i>him</i>. If you
gave him too much you would be <i>ashamed of yourself</i> for it, and that
would give <i>you</i> pain&mdash;another case of thinking of <i>yourself</i>,
protecting yourself, <i>saving yourself from discomfort</i>. You never think of
the servant once&mdash;except to guess out how to get <i>his approval</i>. If
you get that, you get your <i>own </i>approval, and that is the sole and only
thing you are after. The Master inside of you is then satisfied, contented,
comfortable; there was <i>no other</i> thing at stake, as a matter of
<i>first</i> interest, anywhere in the transaction.
</p>

<p>
<i>Further Instances</i>
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Are you accusing me of saying that?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Why, certainly.
</p>

<p>
O.M. I haven&rsquo;t said it.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. What did you say, then?
</p>

<p>
O.M. That no man has ever sacrificed himself in the common meaning of that
phrase&mdash;which is, self-sacrifice for another <i>alone</i>. Men make daily
sacrifices for others, but it is for their own sake <i>first</i>. The act must
content their own spirit <i>first</i>. The other beneficiaries come second.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. And the same with duty for duty&rsquo;s sake?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes. No man performs a duty for mere duty&rsquo;s sake; the act must
content his spirit <i>first</i>. He must feel better for <i>doing</i> the duty
than he would for shirking it. Otherwise he will not do it.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Take the case of the <i>Berkeley Castle</i>.
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
Y.M. Could I? No, I could not.
</p>

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

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

<p>
O.M. Why?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. There is no why about it: I know myself, and I know I couldn&rsquo;t
<i>do</i> it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. But it would be your <i>duty</i> to do it.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes, I know&mdash;but I couldn&rsquo;t.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Yes, I know that.
</p>

<p>
O.M. But you <i>train</i> them, and put them through a campaign or two; then
they would be soldiers; soldiers, with a soldier&rsquo;s pride, a
soldier&rsquo;s self-respect, a soldier&rsquo;s ideals. They would have to
content a <i>soldier&rsquo;s</i> spirit then, not a clerk&rsquo;s, not a
mechanic&rsquo;s. They could not content that spirit by shirking a
soldier&rsquo;s duty, could they?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I suppose not.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then they would do the duty not for the <i>duty&rsquo;s</i> sake, but for
their <i>own </i>sake&mdash;primarily. The <i>duty</i> was <i>just the
same</i>, and just as imperative, when they were clerks, mechanics, raw
recruits, but they wouldn&rsquo;t perform it for that. As clerks and mechanics
they had other ideals, another spirit to satisfy, and they satisfied it. They
<i>had</i> to; it is the law. <i>Training </i>is potent. Training toward higher
and higher, and ever higher ideals is worth any man&rsquo;s thought and labor
and diligence.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. It is his make and his training. He has to content the spirit that is in
him, though it cost him his life. Another man, just as sincerely religious, but
of different temperament, will fail of that duty, though recognizing it as a
duty, and grieving to be unequal to it: but he must content the spirit that is
in him&mdash;he cannot help it. He could not perform that duty for duty&rsquo;s
<i>sake</i>, for that would not content his spirit, and the contenting of his
spirit must be looked to <i>first</i>. It takes precedence of all other duties.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Take the case of a clergyman of stainless private morals who votes for a
thief for public office, on his own party&rsquo;s ticket, and against an honest
man on the other ticket.
</p>

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

<h3>IV</h3>

<h4>Training</h4>

<p>
Young Man. You keep using that word&mdash;training. By it do you particularly
mean&mdash;
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Many.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. You may answer your question yourself.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Then if he happen by the accidents of life to be evilly placed there is no
help for him, according to your notions&mdash;he must train downward.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Are you hinting at a scheme of procedure?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Not a new one&mdash;an old one. Old as mankind.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. What is it?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Merely the laying of traps for people. Traps baited with <i>initiatory
impulses toward high ideals. </i>It is what the tract-distributor does. It is
what the missionary does. It is what governments ought to do.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Don&rsquo;t they?
</p>

<p>
O.M. In one way they do, in another they don&rsquo;t. They separate the
smallpox patients from the healthy people, but in dealing with crime they put
the healthy into the pest-house along with the sick. That is to say, they put
the beginners in with the confirmed criminals. This would be well if man were
naturally inclined to good, but he isn&rsquo;t, and so <i>association </i>makes
the beginners worse than they were when they went into captivity. It is putting
a very severe punishment upon the comparatively innocent at times. They hang a
man&mdash;which is a trifling punishment; this breaks the hearts of his
family&mdash;which is a heavy one. They comfortably jail and feed a
wife-beater, and leave his innocent wife and family to starve.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Adam hadn&rsquo;t it.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. But has man acquired it since?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Where did you get your own aggravating notions?
</p>

<p>
O.M. From the <i>outside</i>. I did not invent them. They are gathered from a
thousand unknown sources. Mainly <i>unconsciously </i>gathered.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Don&rsquo;t you believe that God could make an inherently honest man?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes, I know He could. I also know that He never did make one.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. A wiser observer than you has recorded the fact that &ldquo;an honest
man&rsquo;s the noblest work of God.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
O.M. He didn&rsquo;t record a fact, he recorded a falsity. It is windy, and
sounds well, but it is not true. God makes a man with honest and dishonest
<i>possibilities </i>in him and stops there. The man&rsquo;s <i>associations
</i>develop the possibilities&mdash;the one set or the other. The result is
accordingly an honest man or a dishonest one.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. And the honest one is not entitled to&mdash;
</p>

<p>
O.M. Praise? No. How often must I tell you that? <i>He </i>is not the architect
of his honesty.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. The man himself gets large advantages out of it, and that is the main
thing&mdash;to <i>him</i>. He is not a peril to his neighbors, he is not a
damage to them&mdash;and so <i>they </i>get an advantage out of his virtues.
That is the main thing to <i>them</i>. It can make this life comparatively
comfortable to the parties concerned; the <i>neglect </i>of this training can
make this life a constant peril and distress to the parties concerned.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. You have said that training is everything; that training is the man
<i>himself</i>, for it makes him what he is.
</p>

<p>
O.M. I said training and <i>another </i>thing. Let that other thing pass, for
the moment. What were you going to say?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Unquestionably. There is no other source for any impulse. <i>Secondarily
</i>you made preparation to save the girl, but <i>primarily </i>its object was
to save yourself, by contenting the Master.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. How do you mean?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Yes. My mother.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You love her?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Oh, more than that!
</p>

<p>
O.M. You would always do anything in your power to please her?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. It is a delight to me to do anything to please her!
</p>

<p>
O.M. Why? <i>You would do it for pay, solely </i>&mdash;for <i>profit</i>. What
profit would you expect and certainly receive from the investment?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Personally? None. To please <i>her </i>is enough.
</p>

<p>
O.M. It appears, then, that your object, primarily, <i>wasn&rsquo;t </i>to save
the girl a humiliation, but to <i>please your mother. </i>It also appears that
to please your mother gives <i>you </i>a strong pleasure. Is not that the
profit which you get out of the investment? Isn&rsquo;t that the <i>real
</i>profits and <i>first </i>profit?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Oh, well? Go on.
</p>

<p>
O.M. In <i>all </i>transactions, the Interior Master looks to it that <i>you
get the first profit. </i>Otherwise there is no transaction.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. In order to get <i>another </i>profit which suddenly superseded it in
value.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Where was it?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Ambushed behind your born temperament, and waiting for a chance. Your
native warm temper suddenly jumped to the front, and <i>for the moment its
influence </i>was more powerful than your mother&rsquo;s, and abolished it. In
that instance you were eager to flash out a hot rebuke and enjoy it. You did
enjoy it, didn&rsquo;t you?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. For&mdash;for a quarter of a second. Yes&mdash;I did.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Very well, it is as I have said: the thing which will give you the <i>most
</i>pleasure, the most satisfaction, in any moment or <i>fraction </i>of a
moment, is the thing you will always do. You must content the Master&rsquo;s
<i>latest </i>whim, whatever it may be.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. But when the tears came into the old servant&rsquo;s eyes I could have cut
my hand off for what I had done.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Training! Oh, what&rsquo;s the use of it? Didn&rsquo;t I, and didn&rsquo;t
my mother try to train me up to where I would no longer fly out at that girl?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Have you never managed to keep back a scolding?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Oh, certainly&mdash;many times.
</p>

<p>
O.M. More times this year than last?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes, a good many more.
</p>

<p>
O.M. More times last year than the year before?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. There is a large improvement, then, in the two years?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes, undoubtedly.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then your question is answered. You see there <i>is </i>use in training.
Keep on. Keeping faithfully on. You are doing well.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Will my reform reach perfection?
</p>

<p>
O.M. It will. Up to <i>your </i>limit.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. My limit? What do you mean by that?
</p>

<p>
O.M. You remember that you said that I said training was <i>everything</i>. I
corrected you, and said &ldquo;training and <i>another </i>thing.&rdquo; That
other thing is <i>temperament </i>&mdash;that is, the disposition you were born
with. <i>You can&rsquo;t eradicate your disposition nor any rag of it
</i>&mdash;you can only put a pressure on it and keep it down and quiet. You
have a warm temper?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Explain.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Ah, dear! But I sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t ever reach the point where I will
spare the girl for <i>her </i>sake <i>primarily</i>, not mine?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Why&mdash;yes. In heaven.
</p>

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

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

<p>
Y.M. If you were going to condense into an admonition your plan for the general
betterment of the race&rsquo;s condition, how would you word it?
</p>

<p>
<i>Admonition</i>
</p>

<p>
O.M. Diligently train your ideals <i>upward </i>and <i>still upward </i>toward
a summit where you will find your chiefest pleasure in conduct which, while
contenting you, will be sure to confer benefits upon your neighbor and the
community.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Is that a new gospel?
</p>

<p>
O.M. No.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. It has been taught before?
</p>

<p>
O.M. For ten thousand years.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. By whom?
</p>

<p>
O.M. All the great religions&mdash;all the great gospels.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Then there is nothing new about it?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. How do you mean?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Haven&rsquo;t I put <i>you first, </i>and your neighbor and the community
afterward?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well, yes, that is a difference, it is true.
</p>

<p>
O.M. The difference between straight speaking and crooked; the difference
between frankness and shuffling.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Explain.
</p>

<p>
O.M. The others offer you a hundred bribes to be good, thus conceding that the
Master inside of you must be conciliated and contented first, and that you will
do nothing at <i>first hand </i>but for his sake; then they turn square around
and require you to do good for <i>other&rsquo;s </i>sake <i>chiefly</i>; and to
do your duty for duty&rsquo;s <i>sake</i>, chiefly; and to do acts of
<i>self</i>-<i>sacrifice</i>. Thus at the outset we all stand upon the same
ground&mdash;recognition of the supreme and absolute Monarch that resides in
man, and we all grovel before him and appeal to him; then those others dodge
and shuffle, and face around and unfrankly and inconsistently and illogically
change the form of their appeal and direct its persuasions to man&rsquo;s
<i>second-place </i>powers and to powers which have <i>no existence </i>in him,
thus advancing them to <i>first </i>place; whereas in my Admonition I stick
logically and consistently to the original position: I place the Interior
Master&rsquo;s requirements <i>first</i>, and keep them there.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. If we grant, for the sake of argument, that your scheme and the other
schemes aim at and produce the same result&mdash;<i>right living&mdash;</i>has
yours an advantage over the others?
</p>

<p>
O.M. One, yes&mdash;a large one. It has no concealments, no deceptions. When a
man leads a right and valuable life under it he is not deceived as to the
<i>real </i>chief motive which impels him to it&mdash;in those other cases he
is.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Is that an advantage? Is it an advantage to live a lofty life for a mean
reason? In the other cases he lives the lofty life under the <i>impression
</i>that he is living for a lofty reason. Is not that an advantage?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Perhaps so. The same advantage he might get out of thinking himself a
duke, and living a duke&rsquo;s life and parading in ducal fuss and feathers,
when he wasn&rsquo;t a duke at all, and could find it out if he would only
examine the herald&rsquo;s records.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. He could do that without being a duke.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. But would he?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Don&rsquo;t you see where you are arriving?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Where?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. But isn&rsquo;t it best to leave him in ignorance, as long as he <i>thinks
</i>he is doing good for others&rsquo; sake?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. It is my opinion that under your scheme of a man&rsquo;s doing a good deed
for his <i>own </i>sake first-off, instead of first for the <i>good
deed&rsquo;s </i>sake, no man would ever do one.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Have you committed a benevolence lately?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes. This morning.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Give the particulars.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. You furnished it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Certainly.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You were glad you had the money?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Money? I hadn&rsquo;t. I sold my horse.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You were glad you had the horse?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Of course I was; for if I hadn&rsquo;t had the horse I should have been
incapable, and my <i>mother </i>would have captured the chance to set old Sally
up.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You were cordially glad you were not caught out and incapable?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Oh, I just was!
</p>

<p>
O.M. Now, then&mdash;
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. I haven&rsquo;t anything to offer; you have covered the whole ground. Can
you have been any <i>more </i>strongly moved to help Sally out of her
trouble&mdash;could you have done the deed any more eagerly&mdash;if you had
been under the delusion that you were doing it for <i>her </i>sake and profit
only?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Very well. You begin to suspect&mdash;and I claim to <i>know
</i>&mdash;that when a man is a shade <i>more strongly moved </i>to do <i>one
</i>of two things or of two dozen things than he is to do any one of the
<i>others</i>, he will infallibly do that <i>one </i>thing, be it good or be it
evil; and if it be good, not all the beguilements of all the casuistries can
increase the strength of the impulse by a single shade or add a shade to the
comfort and contentment he will get out of the act.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. That is what I fully believe.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Doesn&rsquo;t it somehow seem to take from the dignity of the deed?
</p>

<p>
O.M. If there is dignity in falsity, it does. It removes that.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. What is left for the moralists to do?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Teach unreservedly what he already teaches with one side of his mouth and
takes back with the other: Do right <i>for your own sake, </i>and be happy in
knowing that your <i>neighbor </i>will certainly share in the benefits
resulting.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Repeat your Admonition.
</p>

<p>
O.M. <i>Diligently train your ideals upward and still upward toward a summit
where you will find your chiefest pleasure in conduct which, while contenting
you, will be sure to confer benefits upon your neighbor and the community.</i>
</p>

<p>
Y.M. One&rsquo;s <i>every </i>act proceeds from <i>exterior influences</i>, you
think?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. If I conclude to rob a person, I am not the <i>originator </i>of the idea,
but it comes in from the <i>outside</i>? I see him handling money&mdash;for
instance&mdash;and <i>that </i>moves me to the crime?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Work it out yourself. Proceed.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. None that I know of.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Why?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. A steam-jet cannot break down such a substance.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Very well. The steam is an <i>outside influence, </i>but it is ineffective
because the gold <i>takes no interest in it. </i>The ingot remains as it was.
Suppose we add to the steam some quicksilver in a vaporized condition, and turn
the jet upon the ingot, will there be an instantaneous result?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No.
</p>

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

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

<p>
<i>A Parable</i>
</p>

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

<h3>V</h3>

<p>
More About the Machine
</p>

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

<p>
<i>The Man-Machine Again</i>
</p>

<p>
Young Man. You really think man is a mere machine?
</p>

<p>
Old Man. I do.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. And that his mind works automatically and is independent of his
control&mdash;carries on thought on its own hook?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Maybe it does.
</p>

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

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

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

<h3><i>After an Interval of Days</i></h3>

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

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

<p>
O.M. Did it obey?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Did it obey?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No.
</p>

<p>
O.M. How many times did you try the experiment?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Ten.
</p>

<p>
O.M. How many successes did you score?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Not one.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Go on. Illustrate.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Do you know chess?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I learned it a week ago.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Don&rsquo;t mention it!
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Yes. It wouldn&rsquo;t listen; it played right along. It wore me out and I
got up haggard and wretched in the morning.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Indeed, yes!
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;I saw Esau kissing Kate,<br/>
    And she saw I saw Esau;<br/>
I saw Esau, he saw Kate,<br/>
    And she saw&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. And the new popular song?
</p>

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

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

<p>
Y.M. Yes, I have had that idea.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yet you can&rsquo;t originate a dream-thought for it to work out, and get
it accepted?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No.
</p>

<p>
O.M. And you can&rsquo;t dictate its procedure after it has originated a
dream-thought for itself?
</p>

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

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

<p>
Y.M. Yes&mdash;like Mr. Wells&rsquo;s man who invented a drug that made him
invisible; and like the Arabian tales of the Thousand Nights.
</p>

<p>
O.M. And there are dreams that are rational, simple, consistent, and
unfantastic?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Your dreaming mind originates the scheme, consistently and artistically
develops it, and carries the little drama creditably through&mdash;all without
help or suggestion from you?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Which one?
</p>

<p>
O.M. The one which was to determine how much influence you have over your
mind&mdash;if any.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Did it obey?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well, no, it didn&rsquo;t. It busied itself with the other one.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Did you try hard to make it obey?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes, I did my honest best.
</p>

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

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

<p>
O.M. What was the other text?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. It is no matter about that.
</p>

<p>
O.M. But what was it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. A photograph.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Your own?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No. It was hers.
</p>

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

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

<p>
O.M. What was the incident?
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
O.M. Yes.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. A man&rsquo;s mind, left free, has no use for his help. But there is one
way whereby he can get its help when he desires it.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. What is that way?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. But don&rsquo;t I tell it what to say?
</p>

<p>
O.M. There are certainly occasions when you haven&rsquo;t time. The words leap
out before you know what is coming.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. For instance?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. You really think a man originates nothing, creates nothing.
</p>

<p>
<i>The Thinking-Process</i>
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. The steam-engine?
</p>

<p>
O.M. It takes fifty men a hundred years to invent it. One meaning of invent is
discover. I use the word in that sense. Little by little they discover and
apply the multitude of details that go to make the perfect engine. Watt noticed
that confined steam was strong enough to lift the lid of the teapot. He
didn&rsquo;t create the idea, he merely discovered the fact; the cat had
noticed it a hundred times. From the teapot he evolved the cylinder&mdash;from
the displaced lid he evolved the piston-rod. To attach something to the
piston-rod to be moved by it, was a simple matter&mdash;crank and wheel. And so
there was a working engine.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. A Shakespearean play?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. How?
</p>

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

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

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

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

<p>
O.M. I have been a humble, earnest, and sincere Truth-Seeker.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Very well?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. I am thankful to God to hear you say this, for now I know that your
conversion&mdash;
</p>

<p>
O.M. Wait. You misunderstand. I said I have <i>been </i>a Truth-Seeker.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. And so&mdash;
</p>

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

<p>
1. The Marquess of Worcester had done all of this more than a century earlier.
</p>

<h3>VI</h3>

<h3>Instinct and Thought</h3>

<p>
Young Man. It is odious. Those drunken theories of yours, advanced a while
ago&mdash;concerning the rat and all that&mdash;strip Man bare of all his
dignities, grandeurs, sublimities.
</p>

<p>
Old Man. He hasn&rsquo;t any to strip&mdash;they are shams, stolen clothes. He
claims credits which belong solely to his Maker.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. I don&rsquo;t&mdash;morally. That would not be fair to the rat. The rat is
well above him, there.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Are you joking?
</p>

<p>
O.M. No, I am not.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Then what do you mean?
</p>

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

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

<p>
O.M. In form&mdash;not a degree.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Explain.
</p>

<p>
O.M. I think that the rat&rsquo;s mind and the man&rsquo;s mind are the same
machine, but of unequal capacities&mdash;like yours and Edison&rsquo;s; like
the African pygmy&rsquo;s and Homer&rsquo;s; like the Bushman&rsquo;s and
Bismarck&rsquo;s.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. What is instinct?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. It is merely unthinking and mechanical exercise of inherited habit.
</p>

<p>
O.M. What originated the habit?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. The first animal started it, its descendants have inherited it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. How did the first one come to start it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I don&rsquo;t know; but it didn&rsquo;t <i>think </i>it out.
</p>

<p>
O.M. How do you know it didn&rsquo;t?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well&mdash;I have a right to suppose it didn&rsquo;t, anyway.
</p>

<p>
O.M. I don&rsquo;t believe you have. What is thought?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Very good. Now my idea of the meaningless term &ldquo;instinct&rdquo; is,
that it is merely <i>petrified thought; </i>solidified and made inanimate by
habit; thought which was once alive and awake, but is become
unconscious&mdash;walks in its sleep, so to speak.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Illustrate it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Take a herd of cows, feeding in a pasture. Their heads are all turned in
one direction. They do that instinctively; they gain nothing by it, they have
no reason for it, they don&rsquo;t know why they do it. It is an inherited
habit which was originally thought&mdash;that is to say, observation of an
exterior fact, and a valuable inference drawn from that observation and
confirmed by experience. The original wild ox noticed that with the wind in his
favor he could smell his enemy in time to escape; then he inferred that it was
worth while to keep his nose to the wind. That is the process which man calls
reasoning. Man&rsquo;s thought-machine works just like the other
animals&rsquo;, but it is a better one and more Edisonian. Man, in the
ox&rsquo;s place, would go further, reason wider: he would face part of the
herd the other way and protect both front and rear.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Did you stay the term instinct is meaningless?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Give an instance.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Can you prove that the habit exists?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. The cow illustration is not&mdash;
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
Y.M. Yet it was not an Edison and couldn&rsquo;t be developed into one.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Perhaps not. Could you?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. That is neither here nor there. Go on.
</p>

<p>
O.M. If Edison were in trouble and a stranger helped him out of it and next day
he got into the same difficulty again, he would infer the wise thing to do in
case he knew the stranger&rsquo;s address. Here is a case of a bird and a
stranger as related by a naturalist. An Englishman saw a bird flying around
about his dog&rsquo;s head, down in the grounds, and uttering cries of
distress. He went there to see about it. The dog had a young bird in his
mouth&mdash;unhurt. The gentleman rescued it and put it on a bush and brought
the dog away. Early the next morning the mother bird came for the gentleman,
who was sitting on his veranda, and by its maneuvers persuaded him to follow it
to a distant part of the grounds&mdash;flying a little way in front of him and
waiting for him to catch up, and so on; and keeping to the winding path, too,
instead of flying the near way across lots. The distance covered was four
hundred yards. The same dog was the culprit; he had the young bird again, and
once more he had to give it up. Now the mother bird had reasoned it all out:
since the stranger had helped her once, she inferred that he would do it again;
she knew where to find him, and she went upon her errand with confidence. Her
mental processes were what Edison&rsquo;s would have been. She put this and
that together&mdash;and that is all that thought <i>is </i>&mdash;and out of
them built her logical arrangement of inferences. Edison couldn&rsquo;t have
done it any better himself.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Do you believe that many of the dumb animals can think?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Not if he were a thorough idiot.
</p>

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

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

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

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

<p>
O.M. I beg your pardon. One cannot abolish what does not exist.
</p>

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

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

<p>
Y.M. It looks exasperatingly true; and is distinctly offensive. It elevates the
dumb beasts to&mdash;to&mdash;
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. On what grounds do you make that assertion?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Yes, go back to the ant, the creature that&mdash;as you seem to
think&mdash;sweeps away the last vestige of an intellectual frontier between
man and the Unrevealed.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. That could be mere instinct.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. That could be instinct, too.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Instinct again.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Instinct.
</p>

<p>
O.M. She has cows, and milks them.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Instinct, of course.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Instinct, all the same.
</p>

<p>
O.M. The ant discriminates between friend and stranger. Sir John Lubbock took
ants from two different nests, made them drunk with whiskey and laid them,
unconscious, by one of the nests, near some water. Ants from the nest came and
examined and discussed these disgraced creatures, then carried their friends
home and threw the strangers overboard. Sir John repeated the experiment a
number of times. For a time the sober ants did as they had done at
first&mdash;carried their friends home and threw the strangers overboard. But
finally they lost patience, seeing that their reformatory efforts went for
nothing, and threw both friends and strangers overboard. Come&mdash;is this
instinct, or is it thoughtful and intelligent discussion of a thing
new&mdash;absolutely new&mdash;to their experience; with a verdict arrived at,
sentence passed, and judgment executed? Is it instinct?&mdash;thought petrified
by ages of habit&mdash;or isn&rsquo;t it brand-new thought, inspired by the new
occasion, the new circumstances?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. I will give you another instance of thought. Franklin had a cup of sugar
on a table in his room. The ants got at it. He tried several preventives; and
ants rose superior to them. Finally he contrived one which shut off
access&mdash;probably set the table&rsquo;s legs in pans of water, or drew a
circle of tar around the cup, I don&rsquo;t remember. At any rate, he watched
to see what they would do. They tried various schemes&mdash;failures, every
one. The ants were badly puzzled. Finally they held a consultation, discussed
the problem, arrived at a decision&mdash;and this time they beat that great
philosopher. They formed in procession, cross the floor, climbed the wall,
marched across the ceiling to a point just over the cup, then one by one they
let go and fell down into it! Was that instinct&mdash;thought petrified by ages
of inherited habit?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No, I don&rsquo;t believe it was. I believe it was a newly reasoned scheme
to meet a new emergency.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Certainly not.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Perhaps I lacked the reasoning faculty myself.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Well, don&rsquo;t tell anybody, and don&rsquo;t do it again.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. That is what you are required to concede. There is no such
frontier&mdash;there is no way to get around that. Man has a finer and more
capable machine in him than those others, but it is the same machine and works
in the same way. And neither he nor those others can command the
machine&mdash;it is strictly automatic, independent of control, works when it
pleases, and when it doesn&rsquo;t please, it can&rsquo;t be forced.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. That is about the state of it&mdash;intellectuality. There are pronounced
limitations on both sides. We can&rsquo;t learn to understand much of their
language, but the dog, the elephant, etc., learn to understand a very great
deal of ours. To that extent they are our superiors. On the other hand, they
can&rsquo;t learn reading, writing, etc., nor any of our fine and high things,
and there we have a large advantage over them.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Very well, let them have what they&rsquo;ve got, and welcome; there is
still a wall, and a lofty one. They haven&rsquo;t got the Moral Sense; we have
it, and it lifts us immeasurably above them.
</p>

<p>
O.M. What makes you think that?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Now look here&mdash;let&rsquo;s call a halt. I have stood the other
infamies and insanities and that is enough; I am not going to have man and the
other animals put on the same level morally.
</p>

<p>
O.M. I wasn&rsquo;t going to hoist man up to that.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. I am not jesting, I am merely reflecting a plain and simple
truth&mdash;and without uncharitableness. The fact that man knows right from
wrong proves his <i>intellectual </i>superiority to the other creatures; but
the fact that he can <i>do </i>wrong proves his <i>moral </i>inferiority to any
creature that <i>cannot</i>. It is my belief that this position is not
assailable.
</p>

<p>
<i>Free Will</i>
</p>

<p>
Y.M. What is your opinion regarding Free Will?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. He had the choice between succoring the old woman and leaving her to
suffer. Isn&rsquo;t it so?
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
Y.M. What others?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Free Choice.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. What is the difference?
</p>

<p>
O.M. The one implies untrammeled power to <i>act </i>as you please, the other
implies nothing beyond a mere <i>mental process: </i>the critical ability to
determine which of two things is nearest right and just.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Make the difference clear, please.
</p>

<p>
O.M. The mind can freely <i>select, choose, point out </i>the right and just
one&mdash;its function stops there. It can go no further in the matter. It has
no authority to say that the right one shall be acted upon and the wrong one
discarded. That authority is in other hands.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. The man&rsquo;s?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. It will act upon the right one of the two?
</p>

<p>
O.M. It will do as it pleases in the matter. George Washington&rsquo;s machine
would act upon the right one; Pizarro would act upon the wrong one.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Then as I understand it a bad man&rsquo;s mental machinery calmly and
judicially points out which of two things is right and just&mdash;
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes, and his <i>moral </i>machinery will freely act upon the one or the
other, according to its make, and be quite indifferent to the <i>mind&rsquo;s
</i>feeling concerning the matter&mdash;that is, <i>would </i>be, if the mind
had any feelings; which it hasn&rsquo;t. It is merely a thermometer: it
registers the heat and the cold, and cares not a farthing about either.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Then we must not claim that if a man <i>knows </i>which of two things is
right he is absolutely <i>bound </i>to do that thing?
</p>

<p>
O.M. His temperament and training will decide what he shall do, and he will do
it; he cannot help himself, he has no authority over the matter. Wasn&rsquo;t
it right for David to go out and slay Goliath?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then it would have been equally <i>right </i>for any one else to do it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Certainly.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then it would have been <i>right </i>for a born coward to attempt it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. It would&mdash;yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You know that no born coward ever would have attempted it, don&rsquo;t
you?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You know that a born coward&rsquo;s make and temperament would be an
absolute and insurmountable bar to his ever essaying such a thing, don&rsquo;t
you?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes, I know it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. He clearly perceives that it would be <i>right </i>to try it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. His mind has Free Choice in determining that it would be <i>right </i>to
try it?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then if by reason of his inborn cowardice he simply can <i>not </i>essay
it, what becomes of his Free Will? Where is his Free Will? Why claim that he
has Free Will when the plain facts show that he hasn&rsquo;t? Why contend that
because he and David <i>see </i>the right alike, both must <i>act </i>alike?
Why impose the same laws upon goat and lion?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. There is really no such thing as Free Will?
</p>

<p>
O.M. It is what I think. There is <i>will</i>. But it has nothing to do with
<i>intellectual perceptions of right and wrong, </i>and is not under their
command. David&rsquo;s temperament and training had Will, and it was a
compulsory force; David had to obey its decrees, he had no choice. The
coward&rsquo;s temperament and training possess Will, and <i>it </i>is
compulsory; it commands him to avoid danger, and he obeys, he has no choice.
But neither the Davids nor the cowards possess Free Will&mdash;will that may do
the right or do the wrong, as their <i>mental </i>verdict shall decide.
</p>

<p>
<i>Not Two Values, But Only One</i>
</p>

<p>
Y.M. There is one thing which bothers me: I can&rsquo;t tell where you draw the
line between <i>material </i>covetousness and <i>spiritual </i>covetousness.
</p>

<p>
O.M. I don&rsquo;t draw any.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. How do you mean?
</p>

<p>
O.M. There is no such thing as <i>material </i>covetousness. All covetousness
is spiritual.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. <i>All </i>longings, desires, ambitions <i>spiritual, </i>never material?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Yes. The Master in you requires that in <i>all </i>cases you shall content
his <i>spirit </i>&mdash;that alone. He never requires anything else, he never
interests himself in any other matter.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Ah, come! When he covets somebody&rsquo;s money&mdash;isn&rsquo;t that
rather distinctly material and gross?
</p>

<p>
O.M. No. The money is merely a symbol&mdash;it represents in visible and
concrete form a <i>spiritual desire. </i>Any so-called material thing that you
want is merely a symbol: you want it not for <i>itself</i>, but because it will
content your spirit for the moment.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Please particularize.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. I think I see. Go on.
</p>

<p>
O.M. It is the same hat, isn&rsquo;t it? It is in no way altered. But it
wasn&rsquo;t the <i>hat </i>you wanted, but only what it stood for&mdash;a
something to please and content your <i>spirit</i>. When it failed of that, the
whole of its value was gone. There are no <i>material </i>values; there are
only spiritual ones. You will hunt in vain for a material value that is
<i>actual, real&mdash;</i>there is no such thing. The only value it possesses,
for even a moment, is the spiritual value back of it: remove that end and it is
at once worthless&mdash;like the hat.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Can you extend that to money?
</p>

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

<p>
<i>A Difficult Question</i>
</p>

<p>
Y.M. You keep me confused and perplexed all the time by your elusive
terminology. Sometimes you divide a man up into two or three separate
personalities, each with authorities, jurisdictions, and responsibilities of
its own, and when he is in that condition I can&rsquo;t grasp it. Now when
<i>I</i> speak of a man, he is <i>the whole thing in one, </i>and easy to hold
and contemplate.
</p>

<p>
O.M. That is pleasant and convenient, if true. When you speak of &ldquo;my
body&rdquo; who is the &ldquo;my&rdquo;?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. It is the &ldquo;me.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. The Me is <i>the whole thing; </i>it is a common property; an undivided
ownership, vested in the whole entity.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Certainly not. It is my <i>mind </i>that admires it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. So <i>you </i>divide the Me yourself. Everybody does; everybody must.
What, then, definitely, is the Me?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I think it must consist of just those two parts&mdash;the body and the
mind.
</p>

<p>
O.M. You think so? If you say &ldquo;I believe the world is round,&rdquo; who
is the &ldquo;I&rdquo; that is speaking?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. The mind.
</p>

<p>
O.M. If you say &ldquo;I grieve for the loss of my father,&rdquo; who is the
&ldquo;I&rdquo;?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. The mind.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Yes.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. That is not cerebration, brain-work, it is a matter of <i>feeling</i>.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then its source is not in your mind, but in your <i>moral </i>territory?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I have to grant it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Is your mind a part of your <i>physical </i>equipment?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No. It is independent of it; it is spiritual.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Being spiritual, it cannot be affected by physical influences?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Does the mind remain sober with the body is drunk?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well&mdash;no.
</p>

<p>
O.M. There <i>is </i>a physical effect present, then?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. It looks like it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. A cracked skull has resulted in a crazy mind. Why should it happen if the
mind is spiritual, and <i>independent </i>of physical influences?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Well&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. I feel it.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. I think so.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Maybe the Me is the Soul?
</p>

<p>
O.M. Maybe it is. What is the Soul?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I don&rsquo;t know.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Neither does any one else.
</p>

<p>
<i>The Master Passion</i>
</p>

<p>
Y.M. What is the Master?&mdash;or, in common speech, the Conscience? Explain
it.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Where is its seat?
</p>

<p>
O.M. In man&rsquo;s moral constitution.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Are its commands for the man&rsquo;s good?
</p>

<p>
O.M. It is indifferent to the man&rsquo;s good; it never concerns itself about
anything but the satisfying of its own desires. It can be <i>trained </i>to
prefer things which will be for the man&rsquo;s good, but it will prefer them
only because they will content <i>it </i>better than other things would.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Then even when it is trained to high ideals it is still looking out for
its own contentment, and not for the man&rsquo;s good.
</p>

<p>
O.M. True. Trained or untrained, it cares nothing for the man&rsquo;s good, and
never concerns itself about it.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. It seems to be an <i>immoral </i>force seated in the man&rsquo;s moral
constitution.
</p>

<p>
O.M. It is a <i>colorless </i>force seated in the man&rsquo;s moral
constitution. Let us call it an instinct&mdash;a blind, unreasoning instinct,
which cannot and does not distinguish between good morals and bad ones, and
cares nothing for results to the man provided its own contentment be secured;
and it will <i>always </i>secure that.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. It is not always seeking money, it is not always seeking power, nor
office, nor any other <i>material </i>advantage. In <i>all </i>cases it seeks a
<i>spiritual </i>contentment, let the <i>means </i>be what they may. Its
desires are determined by the man&rsquo;s temperament&mdash;and it is lord over
that. Temperament, Conscience, Susceptibility, Spiritual Appetite, are, in
fact, the same thing. Have you ever heard of a person who cared nothing for
money?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. He had to satisfy his master&mdash;that is to say, his temperament, his
Spiritual Appetite&mdash;and it preferred books to money. Are there other
cases?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Yes, the hermit.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Yes. The artist, the poet, the scientist.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. I think I must concede it.
</p>

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

<p>
<i>Conclusion</i>
</p>

<p>
O.M. You have been taking a holiday?
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. Quite ready. What shall we begin with?
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
O.M. Correct. Go on.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. That is correct. Well?
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
O.M. It is correctly stated. Tell me&mdash;what do men admire most in each
other?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Intellect, courage, majesty of build, beauty of countenance, charity,
benevolence, magnanimity, kindliness, heroism, and&mdash;and&mdash;
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. No.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Why?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. He is born with it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Is it courage?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No. He is born with it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Is it majesty of build, beauty of countenance?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No. They are birthrights.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. Born in him.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Who manufactures them, then?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. God.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Where does the credit of it belong?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. To God.
</p>

<p>
O.M. And the glory of which you spoke, and the applause?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. To God.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Then it is <i>you </i>who degrade man. You make him claim glory, praise,
flattery, for every valuable thing he possesses&mdash;<i>borrowed </i>finery,
the whole of it; no rag of it earned by himself, not a detail of it produced by
his own labor. <i>You </i>make man a humbug; have I done worse by him?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. You have made a machine of him.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Who devised that cunning and beautiful mechanism, a man&rsquo;s hand?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. God.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. God.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. I think it is wrong to <i>expose </i>a fact when harm can come of it.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Go on.
</p>

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

<p>
O.M. You really think that?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. I certainly do.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Have you ever seen me uncheerful, unhappy.
</p>

<p>
Y.M. No.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Well, <i>I</i> believe these things. Why have they not made me unhappy?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Oh, well&mdash;temperament, of course! You never let <i>that </i>escape
from your scheme.
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. What&mdash;not even a degrading and heart-chilling system of beliefs?
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. I can&rsquo;t believe that, and I don&rsquo;t.
</p>

<p>
O.M. Now you are speaking hastily. It shows that you have not studiously
examined the facts. Of all your intimates, which one is the happiest?
Isn&rsquo;t it Burgess?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Easily.
</p>

<p>
O.M. And which one is the unhappiest? Henry Adams?
</p>

<p>
Y.M. Without a question!
</p>

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

<p>
Y.M. You have instanced extreme temperaments.
</p>

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

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap02"></a>

THE DEATH OF JEAN</h2>

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;I have finished it,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;read it. I can form no
opinion of it myself. If you think it worthy, some day&mdash;at the proper
time&mdash;it can end my autobiography. It is the final chapter.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Four months later&mdash;almost to the day&mdash;(April 21st) he was with Jean.
</p>

<p>
Albert Bigelow Paine.
</p>

<p>
Stormfield, Christmas Eve, 11 A.M., 1909.
</p>

<p>
JEAN IS DEAD!
</p>

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

<p>
Last night Jean, all flushed with splendid health, and I the same, from the
wholesome effects of my Bermuda holiday, strolled hand in hand from the
dinner-table and sat down in the library and chatted, and planned, and
discussed, cheerily and happily (and how unsuspectingly!)&mdash;until
nine&mdash;which is late for us&mdash;then went upstairs, Jean&rsquo;s friendly
German dog following. At my door Jean said, &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t kiss you good
night, father: I have a cold, and you could catch it.&rdquo; I bent and kissed
her hand. She was moved&mdash;I saw it in her eyes&mdash;and she impulsively
kissed my hand in return. Then with the usual gay &ldquo;Sleep well,
dear!&rdquo; from both, we parted.
</p>

<p>
At half past seven this morning I woke, and heard voices outside my door. I
said to myself, &ldquo;Jean is starting on her usual horseback flight to the
station for the mail.&rdquo; Then Katy<a href="#fn1"
name="fnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> entered, stood quaking and gasping at my
bedside a moment, then found her tongue:
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn1"></a> <a href="#fnref1">[1]</a>
Katy Leary, who had been in the service of the Clemens family for twenty-nine
years.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;MISS JEAN IS DEAD!&rdquo;
</p>

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

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

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

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

<p>
Four days ago I came back from a month&rsquo;s holiday in Bermuda in perfected
health; but by some accident the reporters failed to perceive this. Day before
yesterday, letters and telegrams began to arrive from friends and strangers
which indicated that I was supposed to be dangerously ill. Yesterday Jean
begged me to explain my case through the Associated Press. I said it was not
important enough; but she was distressed and said I must think of Clara. Clara
would see the report in the German papers, and as she had been nursing her
husband day and night for four months<a href="#fn2"
name="fnref2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> and was worn out and feeble, the shock might
be disastrous. There was reason in that; so I sent a humorous paragraph by
telephone to the Associated Press denying the &ldquo;charge&rdquo; that I was
&ldquo;dying,&rdquo; and saying &ldquo;I would not do such a thing at my time
of life.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn2"></a> <a href="#fnref2">[2]</a>
Mr. Gabrilowitsch had been operated on for appendicitis.
</p>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;MISS JEAN IS DEAD!&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
And so&mdash;
</p>

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

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

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

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

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

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

<p>
For she lies yonder, and before her is another journey than that.
</p>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;From the bottom of our hearts we send our sympathy, dearest of
friends.&rdquo;
</p>

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;MISS JEAN IS DEAD!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is true. Jean is dead.
</p>

<p>
A month ago I was writing bubbling and hilarious articles for magazines yet to
appear, and now I am writing&mdash;this.
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
And in a closet she had hidden a surprise for me&mdash;a thing I have often
wished I owned: a noble big globe. I couldn&rsquo;t see it for the tears. She
will never know the pride I take in it, and the pleasure. Today the mails are
full of loving remembrances for her: full of those old, old kind words she
loved so well, &ldquo;Merry Christmas to Jean!&rdquo; If she could only have
lived one day longer!
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
At mid-afternoon it began to snow. The pity of it&mdash;that Jean could not see
it! She so loved the snow.
</p>

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

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

<p>
DECEMBER 26TH. The dog came to see me at eight o&rsquo;clock this morning. He
was very affectionate, poor orphan! My room will be his quarters hereafter.
</p>

<p>
The storm raged all night. It has raged all the morning. The snow drives across
the landscape in vast clouds, superb, sublime&mdash;and Jean not here to see.
</p>

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

<p>
FIVE O&rsquo;CLOCK.&mdash;It is all over.
</p>

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

<p>
And now? Now Jean is in her grave!
</p>

<p>
In the grave&mdash;if I can believe it. God rest her sweet spirit!
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap03"></a>

THE TURNING-POINT OF MY LIFE</h2>

<h3>I</h3>

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

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

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

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

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

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

<p>
So he crossed&mdash;and changed the future of the whole human race, for all
time. But that stranger was a link in Caesar&rsquo;s life-chain, too; and a
necessary one. We don&rsquo;t know his name, we never hear of him again; he was
very casual; he acts like an accident; but he was no accident, he was there by
compulsion of HIS life-chain, to blow the electrifying blast that was to make
up Caesar&rsquo;s mind for him, and thence go piping down the aisles of history
forever.
</p>

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

<p>
II
</p>

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

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

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

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

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

<p>
A young printer wanders around a good deal, seeking and finding work; and
seeking again, when necessity commands. N. B. Necessity is a CIRCUMSTANCE;
Circumstance is man&rsquo;s master&mdash;and when Circumstance commands, he
must obey; he may argue the matter&mdash;that is his privilege, just as it is
the honorable privilege of a falling body to argue with the attraction of
gravitation&mdash;but it won&rsquo;t do any good, he must OBEY. I wandered for
ten years, under the guidance and dictatorship of Circumstance, and finally
arrived in a city of Iowa, where I worked several months. Among the books that
interested me in those days was one about the Amazon. The traveler told an
alluring tale of his long voyage up the great river from Para to the sources of
the Madeira, through the heart of an enchanted land, a land wastefully rich in
tropical wonders, a romantic land where all the birds and flowers and animals
were of the museum varieties, and where the alligator and the crocodile and the
monkey seemed as much at home as if they were in the Zoo. Also, he told an
astonishing tale about COCA, a vegetable product of miraculous powers,
asserting that it was so nourishing and so strength-giving that the native of
the mountains of the Madeira region would tramp up hill and down all day on a
pinch of powdered coca and require no other sustenance.
</p>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<p>
And so I became a journalist&mdash;another link. By and by Circumstance and the
Sacramento <i>union </i>sent me to the Sandwich Islands for five or six months,
to write up sugar. I did it; and threw in a good deal of extraneous matter that
hadn&rsquo;t anything to do with sugar. But it was this extraneous matter that
helped me to another link.
</p>

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

<p>
When I returned to America, Circumstance was waiting on the pier&mdash;with the
<i>last </i>link&mdash;the conspicuous, the consummating, the victorious link:
I was asked to <i>write a book</i>, and I did it, and called it <i>The
Innocents Abroad</i>. Thus I became at last a member of the literary guild.
That was forty-two years ago, and I have been a member ever since. Leaving the
Rubicon incident away back where it belongs, I can say with truth that the
reason I am in the literary profession is because I had the measles when I was
twelve years old.
</p>

<p>
III
</p>

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

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

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

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

<p>
And there was poor Columbus. He elaborated a deep plan to find a new route to
an old country. Circumstance revised his plan for him, and he found a new
<i>world</i>. And <i>he </i>gets the credit of it to this day. He hadn&rsquo;t
anything to do with it.
</p>

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

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap04"></a>

HOW TO MAKE HISTORY DATES STICK</h2>

<p>
These chapters are for children, and I shall try to make the words large enough
to command respect. In the hope that you are listening, and that you have
confidence in me, I will proceed. Dates are difficult things to acquire; and
after they are acquired it is difficult to keep them in the head. But they are
very valuable. They are like the cattle-pens of a ranch&mdash;they shut in the
several brands of historical cattle, each within its own fence, and keep them
from getting mixed together. Dates are hard to remember because they consist of
figures; figures are monotonously unstriking in appearance, and they
don&rsquo;t take hold, they form no pictures, and so they give the eye no
chance to help. Pictures are the thing. Pictures can make dates stick. They can
make nearly anything stick&mdash;particularly <i>if you make the pictures
yourself</i>. Indeed, that is the great point&mdash;make the pictures
<i>yourself</i>. I know about this from experience. Thirty years ago I was
delivering a memorized lecture every night, and every night I had to help
myself with a page of notes to keep from getting myself mixed. The notes
consisted of beginnings of sentences, and were eleven in number, and they ran
something like this:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>In that region the weather</i>&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>at that time it was a custom</i>&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>but in california one never heard</i>&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

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

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

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

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

<p>
Sixteen years ago when my children were little creatures the governess was
trying to hammer some primer histories into their heads. Part of this fun--if
you like to call it that--consisted in the memorizing of the accession dates of
the thirty-seven personages who had ruled over England from the Conqueror down.
These little people found it a bitter, hard contract. It was all dates, they
all looked alike, and they wouldn&rsquo;t stick. Day after day of the summer
vacation dribbled by, and still the kings held the fort; the children
couldn&rsquo;t conquer any six of them.
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
I measured off 817 feet of the roadway, a foot representing a year, and at the
beginning and end of each reign I drove a three-foot white-pine stake in the
turf by the roadside and wrote the name and dates on it. Abreast the middle of
the porch-front stood a great granite flower-vase overflowing with a cataract
of bright-yellow flowers&mdash;I can&rsquo;t think of their name. The vase was
William the Conqueror. We put his name on it and his accession date, 1066. We
started from that and measured off twenty-one feet of the road, and drove
William Rufus&rsquo;s stake; then thirteen feet and drove the first
Henry&rsquo;s stake; then thirty-five feet and drove Stephen&rsquo;s; then
nineteen feet, which brought us just past the summer-house on the left; then we
staked out thirty-five, ten, and seventeen for the second Henry and Richard and
John; turned the curve and entered upon just what was needed for Henry
III.&mdash;a level, straight stretch of fifty-six feet of road without a
crinkle in it. And it lay exactly in front of the house, in the middle of the
grounds. There couldn&rsquo;t have been a better place for that long reign; you
could stand on the porch and see those two wide-apart stakes almost with your
eyes shut. (Fig. 2.)
</p>

<p>
That isn&rsquo;t the shape of the road&mdash;I have bunched it up like that to
save room. The road had some great curves in it, but their gradual sweep was
such that they were no mar to history. No, in our road one could tell at a
glance who was who by the size of the vacancy between stakes&mdash;with
<i>locality </i>to help, of course.
</p>

<p>
Although I am away off here in a Swedish village<a href="#fn3"
name="fnref3"><sup>[3]</sup></a> and those stakes did not stand till the snow
came, I can see them today as plainly as ever; and whenever I think of an
English monarch his stakes rise before me of their own accord and I notice the
large or small space which he takes up on our road. Are your kings spaced off
in your mind? When you think of Richard III. and of James II. do the durations
of their reigns seem about alike to you? It isn&rsquo;t so to me; I always
notice that there&rsquo;s a foot&rsquo;s difference. When you think of Henry
III. do you see a great long stretch of straight road? I do; and just at the
end where it joins on to Edward I. I always see a small pear-bush with its
green fruit hanging down. When I think of the Commonwealth I see a shady little
group of these small saplings which we called the oak parlor; when I think of
George III. I see him stretching up the hill, part of him occupied by a flight
of stone steps; and I can locate Stephen to an inch when he comes into my mind,
for he just filled the stretch which went by the summer-house. Victoria&rsquo;s
reign reached almost to my study door on the first little summit; there&rsquo;s
sixteen feet to be added now; I believe that that would carry it to a big
pine-tree that was shattered by some lightning one summer when it was trying to
hit me.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn3"></a> <a href="#fnref3">[3]</a>
Summer of 1899.
</p>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<p>
Next do Henry I. on thirty-five squares of <i>red </i>paper. (Fig. 5.)
</p>

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

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

<p>
Stephen of Blois comes next. He requires nineteen two-inch squares of
<i>yellow</i> paper. (Fig. 8.)
</p>

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

<p>
Next comes Henry II. Give him thirty-five squares of <i>red </i>paper. These
hens must face west, like the former ones. (Fig. 9.)
</p>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<p>
Edward I. comes next; <i>light-brown</i> paper, thirty-five squares. (Fig. 13.)
</p>

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

<p>
Edward II. now; twenty <i>blue </i>squares. (Fig. 14.)
</p>

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

<p>
Edward III. next; fifty <i>red </i>squares. (Fig. 15.)
</p>

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

<p>
Richard II. next; twenty-two <i>white </i>squares. (Fig. 16.)
</p>

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

<p>
Now we turn the corner of the century with a new line of monarchs&mdash;the
Lancastrian kings.
</p>

<p>
Henry IV.; fourteen squares of <i>yellow </i>paper. (Fig. 17.)
</p>

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

<p>
Henry V.; nine <i>blue </i>squares. (Fig. 18)
</p>

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

<p>
Henry VI.; thirty-nine <i>red </i>squares. (Fig. 19)
</p>

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

<p>
Edward IV.; twenty-two <i>light-brown</i> squares. (Fig. 20.)
</p>

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

<p>
Edward V.; one-third of a <i>black </i>square. (Fig. 21.)
</p>

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

<p>
Richard III.; two <i>white </i>squares. (Fig. 22.)
</p>

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

<p>
Henry VII.; twenty-four <i>blue </i>squares. (Fig. 23.)
</p>

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

<p>
Henry VIII.; thirty-eight <i>red </i>squares. (Fig. 24.)
</p>

<p>
That is Henry VIII. suppressing a monastery in his arrogant fashion.
</p>

<p>
Edward VI.; six squares of <i>yellow </i>paper. (Fig. 25.)
</p>

<p>
He is the last Edward to date. It is indicated by that thing over his head,
which is a <i>last</i>&mdash;shoemaker&rsquo;s last.
</p>

<p>
Mary; five squares of <i>black </i>paper. (Fig. 26.)
</p>

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

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

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap05"></a>

THE MEMORABLE ASSASSINATION</h2>

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;Of course there is no talk but of this. The mourning is universal and
genuine, the consternation is stupefying. The Austrian Empire is being draped
with black. Vienna will be a spectacle to see by next Saturday, when the
funeral cortege marches.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
A. B. P.
</p>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<p>
THE COMMANDER: &ldquo;He was in my army.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
THE GENERAL: &ldquo;He was in my corps.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
THE COLONEL: &ldquo;He was in my regiment. A brute. I remember him well.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
THE CAPTAIN: &ldquo;He was in my company. A troublesome scoundrel. I remember
him well.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
THE SERGEANT: &ldquo;Did I know him? As well as I know you. Why, every morning
I used to&mdash;&rdquo; etc., etc.; a glad, long story, told to devouring ears.
</p>

<p>
THE LANDLADY: &ldquo;Many&rsquo;s the time he boarded with me. I can show you
his very room, and the very bed he slept in. And the charcoal mark there on the
wall&mdash;he made that. My little Johnny saw him do it with his own eyes.
Didn&rsquo;t you, Johnny?&rdquo;
</p>

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

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

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

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

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

<p>
The little church is packed in among great modern stores and houses, and the
windows of them were full of people. Behind the vast plate-glass windows of the
upper floors of a house on the corner one glimpsed terraced masses of
fine-clothed men and women, dim and shimmery, like people under water. Under us
the square was noiseless, but it was full of citizens; officials in fine
uniforms were flitting about on errands, and in a doorstep sat a figure in the
uttermost raggedness of poverty, the feet bare, the head bent humbly down; a
youth of eighteen or twenty, he was, and through the field-glass one could see
that he was tearing apart and munching riffraff that he had gathered somewhere.
Blazing uniforms flashed by him, making a sparkling contrast with his drooping
ruin of moldy rags, but he took no notice; he was not there to grieve for a
nation&rsquo;s disaster; he had his own cares, and deeper. From two directions
two long files of infantry came plowing through the pack and press in silence;
there was a low, crisp order and the crowd vanished, the square save the
sidewalks was empty, the private mourner was gone. Another order, the soldiers
fell apart and enclosed the square in a double-ranked human fence. It was all
so swift, noiseless, exact&mdash;like a beautifully ordered machine.
</p>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<p>
A character in Baron von Berger&rsquo;s recent fairy drama
&ldquo;Habsburg&rdquo; tells about that first coming of the girlish
Empress-Queen, and in his history draws a fine picture: I cannot make a close
translation of it, but will try to convey the spirit of the verses:
</p>

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

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap06"></a>

A SCRAP OF CURIOUS HISTORY</h2>

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

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

<p>
That is the very mistake which was at first made in the Missourian village half
a century ago. The mistake was repeated and repeated&mdash;just as France is
doing in these latter months.
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
Robert Hardy was our first <i>abolitionist</i>&mdash;awful name! He was a
journeyman cooper, and worked in the big cooper-shop belonging to the great
pork-packing establishment which was Marion City&rsquo;s chief pride and sole
source of prosperity. He was a New-Englander, a stranger. And, being a
stranger, he was of course regarded as an inferior person&mdash;for that has
been human nature from Adam down&mdash;and of course, also, he was made to feel
unwelcome, for this is the ancient law with man and the other animals. Hardy
was thirty years old, and a bachelor; pale, given to reverie and reading. He
was reserved, and seemed to prefer the isolation which had fallen to his lot.
He was treated to many side remarks by his fellows, but as he did not resent
them it was decided that he was a coward.
</p>

<p>
All of a sudden he proclaimed himself an abolitionist&mdash;straight out and
publicly! He said that negro slavery was a crime, an infamy. For a moment the
town was paralyzed with astonishment; then it broke into a fury of rage and
swarmed toward the cooper-shop to lynch Hardy. But the Methodist minister made
a powerful speech to them and stayed their hands. He proved to them that Hardy
was insane and not responsible for his words; that no man <i>could </i>be sane
and utter such words.
</p>

<p>
So Hardy was saved. Being insane, he was allowed to go on talking. He was found
to be good entertainment. Several nights running he made abolition speeches in
the open air, and all the town flocked to hear and laugh. He implored them to
believe him sane and sincere, and have pity on the poor slaves, and take
measures for the restoration of their stolen rights, or in no long time blood
would flow&mdash;blood, blood, rivers of blood!
</p>

<p>
It was great fun. But all of a sudden the aspect of things changed. A slave
came flying from Palmyra, the county-seat, a few miles back, and was about to
escape in a canoe to Illinois and freedom in the dull twilight of the
approaching dawn, when the town constable seized him. Hardy happened along and
tried to rescue the negro; there was a struggle, and the constable did not come
out of it alive. Hardy crossed the river with the negro, and then came back to
give himself up. All this took time, for the Mississippi is not a French brook,
like the Seine, the Loire, and those other rivulets, but is a real river nearly
a mile wide. The town was on hand in force by now, but the Methodist preacher
and the sheriff had already made arrangements in the interest of order; so
Hardy was surrounded by a strong guard and safely conveyed to the village
calaboose in spite of all the effort of the mob to get hold of him. The reader
will have begun to perceive that this Methodist minister was a prompt man; a
prompt man, with active hands and a good headpiece. Williams was his
name&mdash;Damon Williams; Damon Williams in public, Damnation Williams in
private, because he was so powerful on that theme and so frequent.
</p>

<p>
The excitement was prodigious. The constable was the first man who had ever
been killed in the town. The event was by long odds the most imposing in the
town&rsquo;s history. It lifted the humble village into sudden importance; its
name was in everybody&rsquo;s mouth for twenty miles around. And so was the
name of Robert Hardy&mdash;Robert Hardy, the stranger, the despised. In a day
he was become the person of most consequence in the region, the only person
talked about. As to those other coopers, they found their position curiously
changed&mdash;they were important people, or unimportant, now, in proportion as
to how large or how small had been their intercourse with the new celebrity.
The two or three who had really been on a sort of familiar footing with him
found themselves objects of admiring interest with the public and of envy with
their shopmates.
</p>

<p>
The village weekly journal had lately gone into new hands. The new man was an
enterprising fellow, and he made the most of the tragedy. He issued an extra.
Then he put up posters promising to devote his whole paper to matters connected
with the great event&mdash;there would be a full and intensely interesting
biography of the murderer, and even a portrait of him. He was as good as his
word. He carved the portrait himself, on the back of a wooden type&mdash;and a
terror it was to look at. It made a great commotion, for this was the first
time the village paper had ever contained a picture. The village was very
proud. The output of the paper was ten times as great as it had ever been
before, yet every copy was sold.
</p>

<p>
When the trial came on, people came from all the farms around, and from
Hannibal, and Quincy, and even from Keokuk; and the court-house could hold only
a fraction of the crowd that applied for admission. The trial was published in
the village paper, with fresh and still more trying pictures of the accused.
</p>

<p>
Hardy was convicted, and hanged&mdash;a mistake. People came from miles around
to see the hanging; they brought cakes and cider, also the women and children,
and made a picnic of the matter. It was the largest crowd the village had ever
seen. The rope that hanged Hardy was eagerly bought up, in inch samples, for
everybody wanted a memento of the memorable event.
</p>

<p>
Martyrdom gilded with notoriety has its fascinations. Within one week afterward
four young lightweights in the village proclaimed themselves abolitionists! In
life Hardy had not been able to make a convert; everybody laughed at him; but
nobody could laugh at his legacy. The four swaggered around with their
slouch-hats pulled down over their faces, and hinted darkly at awful
possibilities. The people were troubled and afraid, and showed it. And they
were stunned, too; they could not understand it. &ldquo;Abolitionist&rdquo; had
always been a term of shame and horror; yet here were four young men who were
not only not ashamed to bear that name, but were grimly proud of it.
Respectable young men they were, too&mdash;of good families, and brought up in
the church. Ed Smith, the printer&rsquo;s apprentice, nineteen, had been the
head Sunday-school boy, and had once recited three thousand Bible verses
without making a break. Dick Savage, twenty, the baker&rsquo;s apprentice; Will
Joyce, twenty-two, journeyman blacksmith; and Henry Taylor, twenty-four,
tobacco-stemmer&mdash;were the other three. They were all of a sentimental
cast; they were all romance-readers; they all wrote poetry, such as it was;
they were all vain and foolish; but they had never before been suspected of
having anything bad in them.
</p>

<p>
They withdrew from society, and grew more and more mysterious and dreadful.
They presently achieved the distinction of being denounced by names from the
pulpit&mdash;which made an immense stir! This was grandeur, this was fame. They
were envied by all the other young fellows now. This was natural. Their company
grew&mdash;grew alarmingly. They took a name. It was a secret name, and was
divulged to no outsider; publicly they were simply the abolitionists. They had
pass-words, grips, and signs; they had secret meetings; their initiations were
conducted with gloomy pomps and ceremonies, at midnight.
</p>

<p>
They always spoke of Hardy as &ldquo;the Martyr,&rdquo; and every little while
they moved through the principal street in procession&mdash;at midnight,
black-robed, masked, to the measured tap of the solemn drum&mdash;on pilgrimage
to the Martyr&rsquo;s grave, where they went through with some majestic
fooleries and swore vengeance upon his murderers. They gave previous notice of
the pilgrimage by small posters, and warned everybody to keep indoors and
darken all houses along the route, and leave the road empty. These warnings
were obeyed, for there was a skull and crossbones at the top of the poster.
</p>

<p>
When this kind of thing had been going on about eight weeks, a quite natural
thing happened. A few men of character and grit woke up out of the nightmare of
fear which had been stupefying their faculties, and began to discharge scorn
and scoffings at themselves and the community for enduring this
child&rsquo;s-play; and at the same time they proposed to end it straightway.
Everybody felt an uplift; life was breathed into their dead spirits; their
courage rose and they began to feel like men again. This was on a Saturday. All
day the new feeling grew and strengthened; it grew with a rush; it brought
inspiration and cheer with it. Midnight saw a united community, full of zeal
and pluck, and with a clearly defined and welcome piece of work in front of it.
The best organizer and strongest and bitterest talker on that great Saturday
was the Presbyterian clergyman who had denounced the original four from his
pulpit&mdash;Rev. Hiram Fletcher&mdash;and he promised to use his pulpit in the
public interest again now. On the morrow he had revelations to make, he
said&mdash;secrets of the dreadful society.
</p>

<p>
But the revelations were never made. At half past two in the morning the dead
silence of the village was broken by a crashing explosion, and the town patrol
saw the preacher&rsquo;s house spring in a wreck of whirling fragments into the
sky. The preacher was killed, together with a negro woman, his only slave and
servant.
</p>

<p>
The town was paralyzed again, and with reason. To struggle against a visible
enemy is a thing worth while, and there is a plenty of men who stand always
ready to undertake it; but to struggle against an invisible one&mdash;an
invisible one who sneaks in and does his awful work in the dark and leaves no
trace&mdash;that is another matter. That is a thing to make the bravest tremble
and hold back.
</p>

<p>
The cowed populace were afraid to go to the funeral. The man who was to have
had a packed church to hear him expose and denounce the common enemy had but a
handful to see him buried. The coroner&rsquo;s jury had brought in a verdict of
&ldquo;death by the visitation of God,&rdquo; for no witness came forward; if
any existed they prudently kept out of the way. Nobody seemed sorry. Nobody
wanted to see the terrible secret society provoked into the commission of
further outrages. Everybody wanted the tragedy hushed up, ignored, forgotten,
if possible.
</p>

<p>
And so there was a bitter surprise and an unwelcome one when Will Joyce, the
blacksmith&rsquo;s journeyman, came out and proclaimed himself the assassin!
Plainly he was not minded to be robbed of his glory. He made his proclamation,
and stuck to it. Stuck to it, and insisted upon a trial. Here was an ominous
thing; here was a new and peculiarly formidable terror, for a motive was
revealed here which society could not hope to deal with
successfully&mdash;<i>vanity</i>, thirst for notoriety. If men were going to
kill for notoriety&rsquo;s sake, and to win the glory of newspaper renown, a
big trial, and a showy execution, what possible invention of man could
discourage or deter them? The town was in a sort of panic; it did not know what
to do.
</p>

<p>
However, the grand jury had to take hold of the matter&mdash;it had no choice.
It brought in a true bill, and presently the case went to the county court. The
trial was a fine sensation. The prisoner was the principal witness for the
prosecution. He gave a full account of the assassination; he furnished even the
minutest particulars: how he deposited his keg of powder and laid his
train&mdash;from the house to such-and-such a spot; how George Ronalds and
Henry Hart came along just then, smoking, and he borrowed Hart&rsquo;s cigar
and fired the train with it, shouting, &ldquo;Down with all
slave-tyrants!&rdquo; and how Hart and Ronalds made no effort to capture him,
but ran away, and had never come forward to testify yet.
</p>

<p>
But they had to testify now, and they did&mdash;and pitiful it was to see how
reluctant they were, and how scared. The crowded house listened to
Joyce&rsquo;s fearful tale with a profound and breathless interest, and in a
deep hush which was not broken till he broke it himself, in concluding, with a
roaring repetition of his &ldquo;Death to all slave-tyrants!&rdquo;&mdash;which
came so unexpectedly and so startlingly that it made everyone present catch his
breath and gasp.
</p>

<p>
The trial was put in the paper, with biography and large portrait, with other
slanderous and insane pictures, and the edition sold beyond imagination.
</p>

<p>
The execution of Joyce was a fine and picturesque thing. It drew a vast crowd.
Good places in trees and seats on rail fences sold for half a dollar apiece;
lemonade and gingerbread-stands had great prosperity. Joyce recited a furious
and fantastic and denunciatory speech on the scaffold which had imposing
passages of school-boy eloquence in it, and gave him a reputation on the spot
as an orator, and his name, later, in the society&rsquo;s records, of the
&ldquo;Martyr Orator.&rdquo; He went to his death breathing slaughter and
charging his society to &ldquo;avenge his murder.&rdquo; If he knew anything of
human nature he knew that to plenty of young fellows present in that great
crowd he was a grand hero&mdash;and enviably situated.
</p>

<p>
He was hanged. It was a mistake. Within a month from his death the society
which he had honored had twenty new members, some of them earnest, determined
men. They did not court distinction in the same way, but they celebrated his
martyrdom. The crime which had been obscure and despised had become lofty and
glorified.
</p>

<p>
Such things were happening all over the country. Wild-brained martyrdom was
succeeded by uprising and organization. Then, in natural order, followed riot,
insurrection, and the wrack and restitutions of war. It was bound to come, and
it would naturally come in that way. It has been the manner of reform since the
beginning of the world.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap07"></a>

SWITZERLAND, THE CRADLE OF LIBERTY</h2>

<h3>Interlaken, Switzerland, 1891.</h3>

<p>
It is a good many years since I was in Switzerland last. In that remote time
there was only one ladder railway in the country. That state of things is all
changed. There isn&rsquo;t a mountain in Switzerland now that hasn&rsquo;t a
ladder railroad or two up its back like suspenders; indeed, some mountains are
latticed with them, and two years hence all will be. In that day the peasant of
the high altitudes will have to carry a lantern when he goes visiting in the
night to keep from stumbling over railroads that have been built since his last
round. And also in that day, if there shall remain a high-altitude peasant
whose potato-patch hasn&rsquo;t a railroad through it, it will make him as
conspicuous as William Tell.
</p>

<p>
However, there are only two best ways to travel through Switzerland. The first
best is afoot. The second best is by open two-horse carriage. One can come from
Lucerne to Interlaken over the Brunig by ladder railroad in an hour or so now,
but you can glide smoothly in a carriage in ten, and have two hours for
luncheon at noon&mdash;for luncheon, not for rest. There is no fatigue
connected with the trip. One arrives fresh in spirit and in person in the
evening&mdash;no fret in his heart, no grime on his face, no grit in his hair,
not a cinder in his eye. This is the right condition of mind and body, the
right and due preparation for the solemn event which closed the
day&mdash;stepping with metaphorically uncovered head into the presence of the
most impressive mountain mass that the globe can show&mdash;the Jungfrau. The
stranger&rsquo;s first feeling, when suddenly confronted by that towering and
awful apparition wrapped in its shroud of snow, is breath-taking astonishment.
It is as if heaven&rsquo;s gates had swung open and exposed the throne.
</p>

<p>
It is peaceful here and pleasant at Interlaken. Nothing going on&mdash;at least
nothing but brilliant life-giving sunshine. There are floods and floods of
that. One may properly speak of it as &ldquo;going on,&rdquo; for it is full of
the suggestion of activity; the light pours down with energy, with visible
enthusiasm. This is a good atmosphere to be in, morally as well as physically.
After trying the political atmosphere of the neighboring monarchies, it is
healing and refreshing to breathe in air that has known no taint of slavery for
six hundred years, and to come among a people whose political history is great
and fine, and worthy to be taught in all schools and studied by all races and
peoples. For the struggle here throughout the centuries has not been in the
interest of any private family, or any church, but in the interest of the whole
body of the nation, and for shelter and protection of all forms of belief. This
fact is colossal. If one would realize how colossal it is, and of what dignity
and majesty, let him contrast it with the purposes and objects of the Crusades,
the siege of York, the War of the Roses, and other historic comedies of that
sort and size.
</p>

<p>
Last week I was beating around the Lake of Four Cantons, and I saw Rutli and
Altorf. Rutli is a remote little patch of a meadow, but I do not know how any
piece of ground could be holier or better worth crossing oceans and continents
to see, since it was there that the great trinity of Switzerland joined hands
six centuries ago and swore the oath which set their enslaved and insulted
country forever free; and Altorf is also honorable ground and worshipful, since
it was there that William, surnamed Tell (which interpreted means &ldquo;The
foolish talker&rdquo;&mdash;that is to say, the too-daring talker), refused to
bow to Gessler&rsquo;s hat. Of late years the prying student of history has
been delighting himself beyond measure over a wonderful find which he has
made&mdash;to wit, that Tell did not shoot the apple from his son&rsquo;s head.
To hear the students jubilate, one would suppose that the question of whether
Tell shot the apple or didn&rsquo;t was an important matter; whereas it ranks
in importance exactly with the question of whether Washington chopped down the
cherry-tree or didn&rsquo;t. The deeds of Washington, the patriot, are the
essential thing; the cherry-tree incident is of no consequence. To prove that
Tell did shoot the apple from his son&rsquo;s head would merely prove that he
had better nerve than most men and was as skillful with a bow as a million
others who preceded and followed him, but not one whit more so. But Tell was
more and better than a mere marksman, more and better than a mere cool head; he
was a type; he stands for Swiss patriotism; in his person was represented a
whole people; his spirit was their spirit&mdash;the spirit which would bow to
none but God, the spirit which said this in words and confirmed it with deeds.
There have always been Tells in Switzerland&mdash;people who would not bow.
There was a sufficiency of them at Rutli; there were plenty of them at Murten;
plenty at Grandson; there are plenty today. And the first of them all&mdash;the
very first, earliest banner-bearer of human freedom in this world&mdash;was not
a man, but a woman&mdash;Stauffacher&rsquo;s wife. There she looms dim and
great, through the haze of the centuries, delivering into her husband&rsquo;s
ear that gospel of revolt which was to bear fruit in the conspiracy of Rutli
and the birth of the first free government the world had ever seen.
</p>

<p>
From this Victoria Hotel one looks straight across a flat of trifling width to
a lofty mountain barrier, which has a gateway in it shaped like an inverted
pyramid. Beyond this gateway arises the vast bulk of the Jungfrau, a spotless
mass of gleaming snow, into the sky. The gateway, in the dark-colored barrier,
makes a strong frame for the great picture. The somber frame and the glowing
snow-pile are startlingly contrasted. It is this frame which concentrates and
emphasizes the glory of the Jungfrau and makes it the most engaging and
beguiling and fascinating spectacle that exists on the earth. There are many
mountains of snow that are as lofty as the Jungfrau and as nobly proportioned,
but they lack the frame. They stand at large; they are intruded upon and
elbowed by neighboring domes and summits, and their grandeur is diminished and
fails of effect.
</p>

<p>
It is a good name, Jungfrau&mdash;Virgin. Nothing could be whiter; nothing
could be purer; nothing could be saintlier of aspect. At six yesterday evening
the great intervening barrier seen through a faint bluish haze seemed made of
air and substanceless, so soft and rich it was, so shimmering where the
wandering lights touched it and so dim where the shadows lay. Apparently it was
a dream stuff, a work of the imagination, nothing real about it. The tint was
green, slightly varying shades of it, but mainly very dark. The sun was
down&mdash;as far as that barrier was concerned, but not for the Jungfrau,
towering into the heavens beyond the gateway. She was a roaring conflagration
of blinding white.
</p>

<p>
It is said the Fridolin (the old Fridolin), a new saint, but formerly a
missionary, gave the mountain its gracious name. He was an Irishman, son of an
Irish king&mdash;there were thirty thousand kings reigning in County Cork alone
in his time, fifteen hundred years ago. It got so that they could not make a
living, there was so much competition and wages got cut so. Some of them were
out of work months at a time, with wife and little children to feed, and not a
crust in the place. At last a particularly severe winter fell upon the country,
and hundreds of them were reduced to mendicancy and were to be seen day after
day in the bitterest weather, standing barefoot in the snow, holding out their
crowns for alms. Indeed, they would have been obliged to emigrate or starve but
for a fortunate idea of Prince Fridolin&rsquo;s, who started a labor-union, the
first one in history, and got the great bulk of them to join it. He thus won
the general gratitude, and they wanted to make him emperor&mdash;emperor over
them all&mdash;emperor of County Cork, but he said, No, walking delegate was
good enough for him. For behold! he was modest beyond his years, and keen as a
whip. To this day in Germany and Switzerland, where St. Fridolin is revered and
honored, the peasantry speak of him affectionately as the first walking
delegate.
</p>

<p>
The first walk he took was into France and Germany, missionarying&mdash;for
missionarying was a better thing in those days than it is in ours. All you had
to do was to cure the head savage&rsquo;s sick daughter by a
&ldquo;miracle&rdquo;&mdash;a miracle like the miracle of Lourdes in our day,
for instance&mdash;and immediately that head savage was your convert, and
filled to the eyes with a new convert&rsquo;s enthusiasm. You could sit down
and make yourself easy, now. He would take an ax and convert the rest of the
nation himself. Charlemagne was that kind of a walking delegate.
</p>

<p>
Yes, there were great missionaries in those days, for the methods were sure and
the rewards great. We have no such missionaries now, and no such methods.
</p>

<p>
But to continue the history of the first walking delegate, if you are
interested. I am interested myself because I have seen his relics in Sackingen,
and also the very spot where he worked his great miracle&mdash;the one which
won him his sainthood in the papal court a few centuries later. To have seen
these things makes me feel very near to him, almost like a member of the
family, in fact. While wandering about the Continent he arrived at the spot on
the Rhine which is now occupied by Sackingen, and proposed to settle there, but
the people warned him off. He appealed to the king of the Franks, who made him
a present of the whole region, people and all. He built a great cloister there
for women and proceeded to teach in it and accumulate more land. There were two
wealthy brothers in the neighborhood, Urso and Landulph. Urso died and Fridolin
claimed his estates. Landulph asked for documents and papers. Fridolin had none
to show. He said the bequest had been made to him by word of mouth. Landulph
suggested that he produce a witness and said it in a way which he thought was
very witty, very sarcastic. This shows that he did not know the walking
delegate. Fridolin was not disturbed. He said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Appoint your court. I will bring a witness.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The court thus created consisted of fifteen counts and barons. A day was
appointed for the trial of the case. On that day the judges took their seats in
state, and proclamation was made that the court was ready for business. Five
minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed, and yet no Fridolin appeared.
Landulph rose, and was in the act of claiming judgment by default when a
strange clacking sound was heard coming up the stairs. In another moment
Fridolin entered at the door and came walking in a deep hush down the middle
aisle, with a tall skeleton stalking in his rear.
</p>

<p>
Amazement and terror sat upon every countenance, for everybody suspected that
the skeleton was Urso&rsquo;s. It stopped before the chief judge and raised its
bony arm aloft and began to speak, while all the assembly shuddered, for they
could see the words leak out between its ribs. It said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Brother, why dost thou disturb my blessed rest and withhold by robbery
the gift which I gave thee for the honor of God?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It seems a strange thing and most irregular, but the verdict was actually given
against Landulph on the testimony of this wandering rack-heap of unidentified
bones. In our day a skeleton would not be allowed to testify at all, for a
skeleton has no moral responsibility, and its word could not be believed on
oath, and this was probably one of them. Most skeletons are not to be believed
on oath, and this was probably one of them. However, the incident is valuable
as preserving to us a curious sample of the quaint laws of evidence of that
remote time--a time so remote, so far back toward the beginning of original
idiocy, that the difference between a bench of judges and a basket of
vegetables was as yet so slight that we may say with all confidence that it
didn&rsquo;t really exist.
</p>

<p>
During several afternoons I have been engaged in an interesting, maybe useful,
piece of work&mdash;that is to say, I have been trying to make the mighty
Jungfrau earn her living&mdash;earn it in a most humble sphere, but on a
prodigious scale, on a prodigious scale of necessity, for she couldn&rsquo;t do
anything in a small way with her size and style. I have been trying to make her
do service on a stupendous dial and check off the hours as they glide along her
pallid face up there against the sky, and tell the time of day to the
populations lying within fifty miles of her and to the people in the moon, if
they have a good telescope there.
</p>

<p>
Until late in the afternoon the Jungfrau&rsquo;s aspect is that of a spotless
desert of snow set upon edge against the sky. But by mid-afternoon some
elevations which rise out of the western border of the desert, whose presence
you perhaps had not detected or suspected up to that time, began to cast black
shadows eastward across the gleaming surface. At first there is only one
shadow; later there are two. Toward 4 P.M. the other day I was gazing and
worshiping as usual when I chanced to notice that shadow No. 1 was beginning to
take itself something of the shape of the human profile. By four the back of
the head was good, the military cap was pretty good, the nose was bold and
strong, the upper lip sharp, but not pretty, and there was a great goatee that
shot straight aggressively forward from the chin.
</p>

<p>
At four-thirty the nose had changed its shape considerably, and the altered
slant of the sun had revealed and made conspicuous a huge buttress or barrier
of naked rock which was so located as to answer very well for a shoulder or
coat-collar to this swarthy and indiscreet sweetheart who had stolen out there
right before everybody to pillow his head on the Virgin&rsquo;s white breast
and whisper soft sentimentalities to her in the sensuous music of the crashing
ice-domes and the boom and thunder of the passing avalanche&mdash;music very
familiar to his ear, for he has heard it every afternoon at this hour since the
day he first came courting this child of the earth, who lives in the sky, and
that day is far, yes&mdash;for he was at this pleasant sport before the Middle
Ages drifted by him in the valley; before the Romans marched past, and before
the antique and recordless barbarians fished and hunted here and wondered who
he might be, and were probably afraid of him; and before primeval man himself,
just emerged from his four-footed estate, stepped out upon this plain, first
sample of his race, a thousand centuries ago, and cast a glad eye up there,
judging he had found a brother human being and consequently something to kill;
and before the big saurians wallowed here, still some eons earlier. Oh yes, a
day so far back that the eternal son was present to see that first visit; a day
so far back that neither tradition nor history was born yet and a whole weary
eternity must come and go before the restless little creature, of whose face
this stupendous Shadow Face was the prophecy, would arrive in the earth and
begin his shabby career and think it a big thing. Oh, indeed yes; when you talk
about your poor Roman and Egyptian day-before-yesterday antiquities, you should
choose a time when the hoary Shadow Face of the Jungfrau is not by. It
antedates all antiquities known or imaginable; for it was here the world itself
created the theater of future antiquities. And it is the only witness with a
human face that was there to see the marvel, and remains to us a memorial of
it.
</p>

<p>
By 4:40 P.M. the nose of the shadow is perfect and is beautiful. It is black
and is powerfully marked against the upright canvas of glowing snow, and covers
hundreds of acres of that resplendent surface.
</p>

<p>
Meantime shadow No. 2 has been creeping out well to the rear of the face west
of it&mdash;and at five o&rsquo;clock has assumed a shape that has rather a
poor and rude semblance of a shoe.
</p>

<p>
Meantime, also, the great Shadow Face has been gradually changing for twenty
minutes, and now, 5 P.M., it is becoming a quite fair portrait of Roscoe
Conkling. The likeness is there, and is unmistakable. The goatee is shortened,
now, and has an end; formerly it hadn&rsquo;t any, but ran off eastward and
arrived nowhere.
</p>

<p>
By 6 P.M. the face has dissolved and gone, and the goatee has become what looks
like the shadow of a tower with a pointed roof, and the shoe had turned into
what the printers call a &ldquo;fist&rdquo; with a finger pointing.
</p>

<p>
If I were now imprisoned on a mountain summit a hundred miles northward of this
point, and was denied a timepiece, I could get along well enough from four till
six on clear days, for I could keep trace of the time by the changing shapes of
these mighty shadows on the Virgin&rsquo;s front, the most stupendous dial I am
acquainted with, the oldest clock in the world by a couple of million years.
</p>

<p>
I suppose I should not have noticed the forms of the shadows if I hadn&rsquo;t
the habit of hunting for faces in the clouds and in mountain crags&mdash;a sort
of amusement which is very entertaining even when you don&rsquo;t find any, and
brilliantly satisfying when you do. I have searched through several bushels of
photographs of the Jungfrau here, but found only one with the Face in it, and
in this case it was not strictly recognizable as a face, which was evidence
that the picture was taken before four o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon, and also
evidence that all the photographers have persistently overlooked one of the
most fascinating features of the Jungfrau show. I say fascinating, because if
you once detect a human face produced on a great plan by unconscious nature,
you never get tired of watching it. At first you can&rsquo;t make another
person see it at all, but after he has made it out once he can&rsquo;t see
anything else afterward.
</p>

<p>
The King of Greece is a man who goes around quietly enough when off duty. One
day this summer he was traveling in an ordinary first-class compartment, just
in his other suit, the one which he works the realm in when he is at home, and
so he was not looking like anybody in particular, but a good deal like
everybody in general. By and by a hearty and healthy German-American got in and
opened up a frank and interesting and sympathetic conversation with him, and
asked him a couple of thousand questions about himself, which the king answered
good-naturedly, but in a more or less indefinite way as to private particulars.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Where do you live when you are at home?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In Greece.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Greece! Well, now, that is just astonishing! Born there?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you speak Greek?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, ain&rsquo;t that strange! I never expected to live to see that.
What is your trade? I mean how do you get your living? What is your line of
business?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I hardly know how to answer. I am only a kind of foreman, on a
salary; and the business&mdash;well, is a very general kind of business.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I understand&mdash;general jobbing&mdash;little of
everything&mdash;anything that there&rsquo;s money in.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s about it, yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Are you traveling for the house now?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, partly; but not entirely. Of course I do a stroke of business if
it falls in the way&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Good! I like that in you! That&rsquo;s me every time. Go on.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I was only going to say I am off on my vacation now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well that&rsquo;s all right. No harm in that. A man works all the better
for a little let-up now and then. Not that I&rsquo;ve been used to having it
myself; for I haven&rsquo;t. I reckon this is my first. I was born in Germany,
and when I was a couple of weeks old shipped for America, and I&rsquo;ve been
there ever since, and that&rsquo;s sixty-four years by the watch. I&rsquo;m an
American in principle and a German at heart, and it&rsquo;s the boss
combination. Well, how do you get along, as a rule&mdash;pretty fair?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve a rather large family&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There, that&rsquo;s it&mdash;big family and trying to raise them on a
salary. Now, what did you go to do that for?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I thought&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of course you did. You were young and confident and thought you could
branch out and make things go with a whirl, and here you are, you see! But
never mind about that. I&rsquo;m not trying to discourage you. Dear me!
I&rsquo;ve been just where you are myself! You&rsquo;ve got good grit;
there&rsquo;s good stuff in you, I can see that. You got a wrong start,
that&rsquo;s the whole trouble. But you hold your grip, and we&rsquo;ll see
what can be done. Your case ain&rsquo;t half as bad as it might be. You are
going to come out all right&mdash;I&rsquo;m bail for that. Boys and
girls?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My family? Yes, some of them are boys&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And the rest girls. It&rsquo;s just as I expected. But that&rsquo;s all
right, and it&rsquo;s better so, anyway. What are the boys doing&mdash;learning
a trade?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, no&mdash;I thought&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a great mistake. It&rsquo;s the biggest mistake you ever
made. You see that in your own case. A man ought always to have a trade to fall
back on. Now, I was harness-maker at first. Did that prevent me from becoming
one of the biggest brewers in America? Oh no. I always had the harness trick to
fall back on in rough weather. Now, if you had learned how to make
harness&mdash;However, it&rsquo;s too late now; too late. But it&rsquo;s no
good plan to cry over spilt milk. But as to the boys, you
see&mdash;what&rsquo;s to become of them if anything happens to you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It has been my idea to let the eldest one succeed me&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, come! Suppose the firm don&rsquo;t want him?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hadn&rsquo;t thought of that, but&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, look here; you want to get right down to business and stop
dreaming. You are capable of immense things&mdash;man. You can make a perfect
success in life. All you want is somebody to steady you and boost you along on
the right road. Do you own anything in the business?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No&mdash;not exactly; but if I continue to give satisfaction, I suppose
I can keep my&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Keep your place&mdash;yes. Well, don&rsquo;t you depend on anything of
the kind. They&rsquo;ll bounce you the minute you get a little old and worked
out; they&rsquo;ll do it sure. Can&rsquo;t you manage somehow to get into the
firm? That&rsquo;s the great thing, you know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think it is doubtful; very doubtful.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Um&mdash;that&rsquo;s bad&mdash;yes, and unfair, too. Do you suppose
that if I should go there and have a talk with your people&mdash;Look
here&mdash;do you think you could run a brewery?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have never tried, but I think I could do it after I got a little
familiarity with the business.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The German was silent for some time. He did a good deal of thinking, and the
king waited with curiosity to see what the result was going to be. Finally the
German said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My mind&rsquo;s made up. You leave that crowd&mdash;you&rsquo;ll never
amount to anything there. In these old countries they never give a fellow a
show. Yes, you come over to America&mdash;come to my place in Rochester; bring
the family along. You shall have a show in the business and the foremanship,
besides. George&mdash;you said your name was George?&mdash;I&rsquo;ll make a
man of you. I give you my word. You&rsquo;ve never had a chance here, but
that&rsquo;s all going to change. By gracious! I&rsquo;ll give you a lift
that&rsquo;ll make your hair curl!&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap08"></a>

AT THE SHRINE OF ST. WAGNER</h2>

<h3>Bayreuth, Aug. 2d, 1891</h3>

<p>
It was at Nuremberg that we struck the inundation of music-mad strangers that
was rolling down upon Bayreuth. It had been long since we had seen such
multitudes of excited and struggling people. It took a good half-hour to pack
them and pair them into the train&mdash;and it was the longest train we have
yet seen in Europe. Nuremberg had been witnessing this sort of experience a
couple of times a day for about two weeks. It gives one an impressive sense of
the magnitude of this biennial pilgrimage. For a pilgrimage is what it is. The
devotees come from the very ends of the earth to worship their prophet in his
own Kaaba in his own Mecca.
</p>

<p>
If you are living in New York or San Francisco or Chicago or anywhere else in
America, and you conclude, by the middle of May, that you would like to attend
the Bayreuth opera two months and a half later, you must use the cable and get
about it immediately or you will get no seats, and you must cable for lodgings,
too. Then if you are lucky you will get seats in the last row and lodgings in
the fringe of the town. If you stop to write you will get nothing. There were
plenty of people in Nuremberg when we passed through who had come on pilgrimage
without first securing seats and lodgings. They had found neither in Bayreuth;
they had walked Bayreuth streets a while in sorrow, then had gone to Nuremberg
and found neither beds nor standing room, and had walked those quaint streets
all night, waiting for the hotels to open and empty their guests into the
trains, and so make room for these, their defeated brethren and sisters in the
faith. They had endured from thirty to forty hours&rsquo; railroading on the
continent of Europe&mdash;with all which that implies of worry, fatigue, and
financial impoverishment&mdash;and all they had got and all they were to get
for it was handiness and accuracy in kicking themselves, acquired by practice
in the back streets of the two towns when other people were in bed; for back
they must go over that unspeakable journey with their pious mission
unfulfilled. These humiliated outcasts had the frowsy and unbrushed and
apologetic look of wet cats, and their eyes were glazed with drowsiness, their
bodies were adroop from crown to sole, and all kind-hearted people refrained
from asking them if they had been to Bayreuth and failed to connect, as knowing
they would lie.
</p>

<p>
We reached here (Bayreuth) about mid-afternoon of a rainy Saturday. We were of
the wise, and had secured lodgings and opera seats months in advance.
</p>

<p>
I am not a musical critic, and did not come here to write essays about the
operas and deliver judgment upon their merits. The little children of Bayreuth
could do that with a finer sympathy and a broader intelligence than I. I only
care to bring four or five pilgrims to the operas, pilgrims able to appreciate
them and enjoy them. What I write about the performance to put in my odd time
would be offered to the public as merely a cat&rsquo;s view of a king, and not
of didactic value.
</p>

<p>
Next day, which was Sunday, we left for the opera-house&mdash;that is to say,
the Wagner temple&mdash;a little after the middle of the afternoon. The great
building stands all by itself, grand and lonely, on a high ground outside the
town. We were warned that if we arrived after four o&rsquo;clock we should be
obliged to pay two dollars and a half apiece extra by way of fine. We saved
that; and it may be remarked here that this is the only opportunity that Europe
offers of saving money. There was a big crowd in the grounds about the
building, and the ladies&rsquo; dresses took the sun with fine effect. I do not
mean to intimate that the ladies were in full dress, for that was not so. The
dresses were pretty, but neither sex was in evening dress.
</p>

<p>
The interior of the building is simple&mdash;severely so; but there is no
occasion for color and decoration, since the people sit in the dark. The
auditorium has the shape of a keystone, with the stage at the narrow end. There
is an aisle on each side, but no aisle in the body of the house. Each row of
seats extends in an unbroken curve from one side of the house to the other.
There are seven entrance doors on each side of the theater and four at the
butt, eighteen doors to admit and emit 1,650 persons. The number of the
particular door by which you are to enter the house or leave it is printed on
your ticket, and you can use no door but that one. Thus, crowding and confusion
are impossible. Not so many as a hundred people use any one door. This is
better than having the usual (and useless) elaborate fireproof arrangements. It
is the model theater of the world. It can be emptied while the second hand of a
watch makes its circuit. It would be entirely safe, even if it were built of
lucifer matches.
</p>

<p>
If your seat is near the center of a row and you enter late you must work your
way along a rank of about twenty-five ladies and gentlemen to get to it. Yet
this causes no trouble, for everybody stands up until all the seats are full,
and the filling is accomplished in a very few minutes. Then all sit down, and
you have a solid mass of fifteen hundred heads, making a steep cellar-door
slant from the rear of the house down to the stage.
</p>

<p>
All the lights were turned low, so low that the congregation sat in a deep and
solemn gloom. The funereal rustling of dresses and the low buzz of conversation
began to die swiftly down, and presently not the ghost of a sound was left.
This profound and increasingly impressive stillness endured for some
time&mdash;the best preparation for music, spectacle, or speech conceivable. I
should think our show people would have invented or imported that simple and
impressive device for securing and solidifying the attention of an audience
long ago; instead of which they continue to this day to open a performance
against a deadly competition in the form of noise, confusion, and a scattered
interest.
</p>

<p>
Finally, out of darkness and distance and mystery soft rich notes rose upon the
stillness, and from his grave the dead magician began to weave his spells about
his disciples and steep their souls in his enchantments. There was something
strangely impressive in the fancy which kept intruding itself that the composer
was conscious in his grave of what was going on here, and that these divine
sounds were the clothing of thoughts which were at this moment passing through
his brain, and not recognized and familiar ones which had issued from it at
some former time.
</p>

<p>
The entire overture, long as it was, was played to a dark house with the
curtain down. It was exquisite; it was delicious. But straightway thereafter,
of course, came the singing, and it does seem to me that nothing can make a
Wagner opera absolutely perfect and satisfactory to the untutored but to leave
out the vocal parts. I wish I could see a Wagner opera done in pantomime once.
Then one would have the lovely orchestration unvexed to listen to and bathe his
spirit in, and the bewildering beautiful scenery to intoxicate his eyes with,
and the dumb acting couldn&rsquo;t mar these pleasures, because there
isn&rsquo;t often anything in the Wagner opera that one would call by such a
violent name as acting; as a rule all you would see would be a couple of silent
people, one of them standing still, the other catching flies. Of course I do
not really mean that he would be catching flies; I only mean that the usual
operatic gestures which consist in reaching first one hand out into the air and
then the other might suggest the sport I speak of if the operator attended
strictly to business and uttered no sound.
</p>

<p>
This present opera was &ldquo;Parsifal.&rdquo; Madame Wagner does not permit
its representation anywhere but in Bayreuth. The first act of the three
occupied two hours, and I enjoyed that in spite of the singing.
</p>

<p>
I trust that I know as well as anybody that singing is one of the most
entrancing and bewitching and moving and eloquent of all the vehicles invented
by man for the conveying of feeling; but it seems to me that the chief virtue
in song is melody, air, tune, rhythm, or what you please to call it, and that
when this feature is absent what remains is a picture with the color left out.
I was not able to detect in the vocal parts of &ldquo;Parsifal&rdquo; anything
that might with confidence be called rhythm or tune or melody; one person
performed at a time&mdash;and a long time, too&mdash;often in a noble, and
always in a high-toned, voice; but he only pulled out long notes, then some
short ones, then another long one, then a sharp, quick, peremptory bark or
two&mdash;and so on and so on; and when he was done you saw that the
information which he had conveyed had not compensated for the disturbance. Not
always, but pretty often. If two of them would but put in a duet occasionally
and blend the voices; but no, they don&rsquo;t do that. The great master, who
knew so well how to make a hundred instruments rejoice in unison and pour out
their souls in mingled and melodious tides of delicious sound, deals only in
barren solos when he puts in the vocal parts. It may be that he was deep, and
only added the singing to his operas for the sake of the contrast it would make
with the music. Singing! It does seem the wrong name to apply to it. Strictly
described, it is a practicing of difficult and unpleasant intervals, mainly. An
ignorant person gets tired of listening to gymnastic intervals in the long run,
no matter how pleasant they may be. In &ldquo;Parsifal&rdquo; there is a hermit
named Gurnemanz who stands on the stage in one spot and practices by the hour,
while first one and then another character of the cast endures what he can of
it and then retires to die.
</p>

<p>
During the evening there was an intermission of three-quarters of an hour after
the first act and one an hour long after the second. In both instances the
theater was totally emptied. People who had previously engaged tables in the
one sole eating-house were able to put in their time very satisfactorily; the
other thousand went hungry. The opera was concluded at ten in the evening or a
little later. When we reached home we had been gone more than seven hours.
Seven hours at five dollars a ticket is almost too much for the money.
</p>

<p>
While browsing about the front yard among the crowd between the acts I
encountered twelve or fifteen friends from different parts of America, and
those of them who were most familiar with Wagner said that
&ldquo;Parsifal&rdquo; seldom pleased at first, but that after one had heard it
several times it was almost sure to become a favorite. It seemed impossible,
but it was true, for the statement came from people whose word was not to be
doubted.
</p>

<p>
And I gathered some further information. On the ground I found part of a German
musical magazine, and in it a letter written by Uhlic thirty-three years ago,
in which he defends the scorned and abused Wagner against people like me, who
found fault with the comprehensive absence of what our kind regards as singing.
Uhlic says Wagner despised &ldquo;<i>jene plapperude music</i>,&rdquo; and
therefore &ldquo;runs, trills, and <i>Schnorkel </i>are discarded by
him.&rdquo; I don&rsquo;t know what a <i>Schnorkel </i>is, but now that I know
it has been left out of these operas I never have missed so much in my life.
And Uhlic further says that Wagner&rsquo;s song is true: that it is
&ldquo;simply emphasized intoned speech.&rdquo; That certainly describes
it&mdash;in &ldquo;Parsifal&rdquo; and some of the other operas; and if I
understand Uhlic&rsquo;s elaborate German he apologizes for the beautiful airs
in &ldquo;Tannhauser.&rdquo; Very well; now that Wagner and I understand each
other, perhaps we shall get along better, and I shall stop calling Waggner, on
the American plan, and thereafter call him Waggner as per German custom, for I
feel entirely friendly now. The minute we get reconciled to a person, how
willing we are to throw aside little needless punctilios and pronounce his name
right!
</p>

<p>
Of course I came home wondering why people should come from all corners of
America to hear these operas, when we have lately had a season or two of them
in New York with these same singers in the several parts, and possibly this
same orchestra. I resolved to think that out at all hazards.
</p>

<p>
TUESDAY.&mdash;Yesterday they played the only operatic favorite I have ever
had&mdash;an opera which has always driven me mad with ignorant delight
whenever I have heard it&mdash;&ldquo;Tannhauser.&rdquo; I heard it first when
I was a youth; I heard it last in the last German season in New York. I was
busy yesterday and I did not intend to go, knowing I should have another
&ldquo;Tannhauser&rdquo; opportunity in a few days; but after five
o&rsquo;clock I found myself free and walked out to the opera-house and arrived
about the beginning of the second act. My opera ticket admitted me to the
grounds in front, past the policeman and the chain, and I thought I would take
a rest on a bench for an hour and two and wait for the third act.
</p>

<p>
In a moment or so the first bugles blew, and the multitude began to crumble
apart and melt into the theater. I will explain that this bugle-call is one of
the pretty features here. You see, the theater is empty, and hundreds of the
audience are a good way off in the feeding-house; the first bugle-call is blown
about a quarter of an hour before time for the curtain to rise. This company of
buglers, in uniform, march out with military step and send out over the
landscape a few bars of the theme of the approaching act, piercing the
distances with the gracious notes; then they march to the other entrance and
repeat. Presently they do this over again. Yesterday only about two hundred
people were still left in front of the house when the second call was blown; in
another half-minute they would have been in the house, but then a thing
happened which delayed them&mdash;the only solitary thing in this world which
could be relied on with certainty to accomplish this, I suppose&mdash;an
imperial princess appeared in the balcony above them. They stopped dead in
their tracks and began to gaze in a stupor of gratitude and satisfaction. The
lady presently saw that she must disappear or the doors would be closed upon
these worshipers, so she returned to her box. This daughter-in-law of an
emperor was pretty; she had a kind face; she was without airs; she is known to
be full of common human sympathies. There are many kinds of princesses, but
this kind is the most harmful of all, for wherever they go they reconcile
people to monarchy and set back the clock of progress. The valuable princes,
the desirable princes, are the czars and their sort. By their mere dumb
presence in the world they cover with derision every argument that can be
invented in favor of royalty by the most ingenious casuist. In his time the
husband of this princess was valuable. He led a degraded life, he ended it with
his own hand in circumstances and surroundings of a hideous sort, and was
buried like a god.
</p>

<p>
In the opera-house there is a long loft back of the audience, a kind of open
gallery, in which princes are displayed. It is sacred to them; it is the holy
of holies. As soon as the filling of the house is about complete the standing
multitude turn and fix their eyes upon the princely layout and gaze mutely and
longingly and adoringly and regretfully like sinners looking into heaven. They
become rapt, unconscious, steeped in worship. There is no spectacle anywhere
that is more pathetic than this. It is worth crossing many oceans to see. It is
somehow not the same gaze that people rivet upon a Victor Hugo, or Niagara, or
the bones of the mastodon, or the guillotine of the Revolution, or the great
pyramid, or distant Vesuvius smoking in the sky, or any man long celebrated to
you by his genius and achievements, or thing long celebrated to you by the
praises of books and pictures&mdash;no, that gaze is only the gaze of intense
curiosity, interest, wonder, engaged in drinking delicious deep draughts that
taste good all the way down and appease and satisfy the thirst of a lifetime.
Satisfy it&mdash;that is the word. Hugo and the mastodon will still have a
degree of intense interest thereafter when encountered, but never anything
approaching the ecstasy of that first view. The interest of a prince is
different. It may be envy, it may be worship, doubtless it is a mixture of
both&mdash;and it does not satisfy its thirst with one view, or even noticeably
diminish it. Perhaps the essence of the thing is the value which men attach to
a valuable something which has come by luck and not been earned. A dollar
picked up in the road is more satisfaction to you than the ninety-and-nine
which you had to work for, and money won at faro or in stocks snuggles into
your heart in the same way. A prince picks up grandeur, power, and a permanent
holiday and gratis support by a pure accident, the accident of birth, and he
stands always before the grieved eye of poverty and obscurity a monumental
representative of luck. And then&mdash;supremest value of all-his is the only
high fortune on the earth which is secure. The commercial millionaire may
become a beggar; the illustrious statesman can make a vital mistake and be
dropped and forgotten; the illustrious general can lose a decisive battle and
with it the consideration of men; but once a prince always a prince&mdash;that
is to say, an imitation god, and neither hard fortune nor an infamous character
nor an addled brain nor the speech of an ass can undeify him. By common consent
of all the nations and all the ages the most valuable thing in this world is
the homage of men, whether deserved or undeserved. It follows without doubt or
question, then, that the most desirable position possible is that of a prince.
And I think it also follows that the so-called usurpations with which history
is littered are the most excusable misdemeanors which men have committed. To
usurp a usurpation&mdash;that is all it amounts to, isn&rsquo;t it?
</p>

<p>
A prince is not to us what he is to a European, of course. We have not been
taught to regard him as a god, and so one good look at him is likely to so
nearly appease our curiosity as to make him an object of no greater interest
the next time. We want a fresh one. But it is not so with the European. I am
quite sure of it. The same old one will answer; he never stales. Eighteen years
ago I was in London and I called at an Englishman&rsquo;s house on a bleak and
foggy and dismal December afternoon to visit his wife and married daughter by
appointment. I waited half an hour and then they arrived, frozen. They
explained that they had been delayed by an unlooked-for circumstance: while
passing in the neighborhood of Marlborough House they saw a crowd gathering and
were told that the Prince of Wales was about to drive out, so they stopped to
get a sight of him. They had waited half an hour on the sidewalk, freezing with
the crowd, but were disappointed at last&mdash;the Prince had changed his mind.
I said, with a good deal of surprise, &ldquo;Is it possible that you two have
lived in London all your lives and have never seen the Prince of Wales?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Apparently it was their turn to be surprised, for they exclaimed: &ldquo;What
an idea! Why, we have seen him hundreds of times.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They had seen him hundreds of times, yet they had waited half an hour in the
gloom and the bitter cold, in the midst of a jam of patients from the same
asylum, on the chance of seeing him again. It was a stupefying statement, but
one is obliged to believe the English, even when they say a thing like that. I
fumbled around for a remark, and got out this one:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t understand it at all. If I had never seen General Grant I
doubt if I would do that even to get a sight of him.&rdquo; With a slight
emphasis on the last word.
</p>

<p>
Their blank faces showed that they wondered where the parallel came in. Then
they said, blankly: &ldquo;Of course not. He is only a President.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is doubtless a fact that a prince is a permanent interest, an interest not
subject to deterioration. The general who was never defeated, the general who
never held a council of war, the only general who ever commanded a connected
battle-front twelve hundred miles long, the smith who welded together the
broken parts of a great republic and re-established it where it is quite likely
to outlast all the monarchies present and to come, was really a person of no
serious consequence to these people. To them, with their training, my General
was only a man, after all, while their Prince was clearly much more than
that&mdash;a being of a wholly unsimilar construction and constitution, and
being of no more blood and kinship with men than are the serene eternal lights
of the firmament with the poor dull tallow candles of commerce that sputter and
die and leave nothing behind but a pinch of ashes and a stink.
</p>

<p>
I saw the last act of &ldquo;Tannhauser.&rdquo; I sat in the gloom and the deep
stillness, waiting&mdash;one minute, two minutes, I do not know exactly how
long&mdash;then the soft music of the hidden orchestra began to breathe its
rich, long sighs out from under the distant stage, and by and by the
drop-curtain parted in the middle and was drawn softly aside, disclosing the
twilighted wood and a wayside shrine, with a white-robed girl praying and a man
standing near. Presently that noble chorus of men&rsquo;s voices was heard
approaching, and from that moment until the closing of the curtain it was
music, just music&mdash;music to make one drunk with pleasure, music to make
one take scrip and staff and beg his way round the globe to hear it.
</p>

<p>
To such as are intending to come here in the Wagner season next year I wish to
say, bring your dinner-pail with you. If you do, you will never cease to be
thankful. If you do not, you will find it a hard fight to save yourself from
famishing in Bayreuth. Bayreuth is merely a large village, and has no very
large hotels or eating-houses. The principal inns are the Golden Anchor and the
Sun. At either of these places you can get an excellent meal&mdash;no, I mean
you can go there and see other people get it. There is no charge for this. The
town is littered with restaurants, but they are small and bad, and they are
overdriven with custom. You must secure a table hours beforehand, and often
when you arrive you will find somebody occupying it. We have had this
experience. We have had a daily scramble for life; and when I say we, I include
shoals of people. I have the impression that the only people who do not have to
scramble are the veterans&mdash;the disciples who have been here before and
know the ropes. I think they arrive about a week before the first opera, and
engage all the tables for the season. My tribe had tried all kinds of
places&mdash;some outside of the town, a mile or two&mdash;and have captured
only nibblings and odds and ends, never in any instance a complete and
satisfying meal. Digestible? No, the reverse. These odds and ends are going to
serve as souvenirs of Bayreuth, and in that regard their value is not to be
overestimated. Photographs fade, bric-a-brac gets lost, busts of Wagner get
broken, but once you absorb a Bayreuth-restaurant meal it is your possession
and your property until the time comes to embalm the rest of you. Some of these
pilgrims here become, in effect, cabinets; cabinets of souvenirs of Bayreuth.
It is believed among scientists that you could examine the crop of a dead
Bayreuth pilgrim anywhere in the earth and tell where he came from. But I like
this ballast. I think a &ldquo;Hermitage&rdquo; scrap-up at eight in the
evening, when all the famine-breeders have been there and laid in their
mementoes and gone, is the quietest thing you can lay on your keelson except
gravel.
</p>

<p>
THURSDAY.&mdash;They keep two teams of singers in stock for the chief roles,
and one of these is composed of the most renowned artists in the world, with
Materna and Alvary in the lead. I suppose a double team is necessary; doubtless
a single team would die of exhaustion in a week, for all the plays last from
four in the afternoon till ten at night. Nearly all the labor falls upon the
half-dozen head singers, and apparently they are required to furnish all the
noise they can for the money. If they feel a soft, whispery, mysterious feeling
they are required to open out and let the public know it. Operas are given only
on Sundays, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, with three days of ostensible
rest per week, and two teams to do the four operas; but the ostensible rest is
devoted largely to rehearsing. It is said that the off days are devoted to
rehearsing from some time in the morning till ten at night. Are there two
orchestras also? It is quite likely, since there are one hundred and ten names
in the orchestra list.
</p>

<p>
Yesterday the opera was &ldquo;Tristan and Isolde.&rdquo; I have seen all sorts
of audiences&mdash;at theaters, operas, concerts, lectures, sermons,
funerals&mdash;but none which was twin to the Wagner audience of Bayreuth for
fixed and reverential attention. Absolute attention and petrified retention to
the end of an act of the attitude assumed at the beginning of it. You detect no
movement in the solid mass of heads and shoulders. You seem to sit with the
dead in the gloom of a tomb. You know that they are being stirred to their
profoundest depths; that there are times when they want to rise and wave
handkerchiefs and shout their approbation, and times when tears are running
down their faces, and it would be a relief to free their pent emotions in sobs
or screams; yet you hear not one utterance till the curtain swings together and
the closing strains have slowly faded out and died; then the dead rise with one
impulse and shake the building with their applause. Every seat is full in the
first act; there is not a vacant one in the last. If a man would be
conspicuous, let him come here and retire from the house in the midst of an
act. It would make him celebrated.
</p>

<p>
This audience reminds me of nothing I have ever seen and of nothing I have read
about except the city in the Arabian tale where all the inhabitants have been
turned to brass and the traveler finds them after centuries mute, motionless,
and still retaining the attitudes which they last knew in life. Here the Wagner
audience dress as they please, and sit in the dark and worship in silence. At
the Metropolitan in New York they sit in a glare, and wear their showiest
harness; they hum airs, they squeak fans, they titter, and they gabble all the
time. In some of the boxes the conversation and laughter are so loud as to
divide the attention of the house with the stage. In large measure the
Metropolitan is a show-case for rich fashionables who are not trained in
Wagnerian music and have no reverence for it, but who like to promote art and
show their clothes.
</p>

<p>
Can that be an agreeable atmosphere to persons in whom this music produces a
sort of divine ecstasy and to whom its creator is a very deity, his stage a
temple, the works of his brain and hands consecrated things, and the partaking
of them with eye and ear a sacred solemnity? Manifestly, no. Then, perhaps the
temporary expatriation, the tedious traversing of seas and continents, the
pilgrimage to Bayreuth stands explained. These devotees would worship in an
atmosphere of devotion. It is only here that they can find it without fleck or
blemish or any worldly pollution. In this remote village there are no sights to
see, there is no newspaper to intrude the worries of the distant world, there
is nothing going on, it is always Sunday. The pilgrim wends to his temple out
of town, sits out his moving service, returns to his bed with his heart and
soul and his body exhausted by long hours of tremendous emotion, and he is in
no fit condition to do anything but to lie torpid and slowly gather back life
and strength for the next service. This opera of &ldquo;Tristan and
Isolde&rdquo; last night broke the hearts of all witnesses who were of the
faith, and I know of some who have heard of many who could not sleep after it,
but cried the night away. I feel strongly out of place here. Sometimes I feel
like the sane person in a community of the mad; sometimes I feel like the one
blind man where all others see; the one groping savage in the college of the
learned, and always, during service, I feel like a heretic in heaven.
</p>

<p>
But by no means do I ever overlook or minify the fact that this is one of the
most extraordinary experiences of my life. I have never seen anything like this
before. I have never seen anything so great and fine and real as this devotion.
</p>

<p>
FRIDAY.&mdash;Yesterday&rsquo;s opera was &ldquo;Parsifal&rdquo; again. The
others went and they show marked advance in appreciation; but I went hunting
for relics and reminders of the Margravine Wilhelmina, she of the imperishable
&ldquo;Memoirs.&rdquo; I am properly grateful to her for her (unconscious)
satire upon monarchy and nobility, and therefore nothing which her hand touched
or her eye looked upon is indifferent to me. I am her pilgrim; the rest of this
multitude here are Wagner&rsquo;s.
</p>

<p>
TUESDAY.&mdash;I have seen my last two operas; my season is ended, and we cross
over into Bohemia this afternoon. I was supposing that my musical regeneration
was accomplished and perfected, because I enjoyed both of these operas, singing
and all, and, moreover, one of them was &ldquo;Parsifal,&rdquo; but the experts
have disenchanted me. They say:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Singing! That wasn&rsquo;t singing; that was the wailing, screeching of
third-rate obscurities, palmed off on us in the interest of economy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Well, I ought to have recognized the sign&mdash;the old, sure sign that has
never failed me in matters of art. Whenever I enjoy anything in art it means
that it is mighty poor. The private knowledge of this fact has saved me from
going to pieces with enthusiasm in front of many and many a chromo. However, my
base instinct does bring me profit sometimes; I was the only man out of
thirty-two hundred who got his money back on those two operas.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap09"></a>

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS</h2>

<p>
Is it true that the sun of a man&rsquo;s mentality touches noon at forty and
then begins to wane toward setting? Doctor Osler is charged with saying so.
Maybe he said it, maybe he didn&rsquo;t; I don&rsquo;t know which it is. But if
he said it, I can point him to a case which proves his rule. Proves it by being
an exception to it. To this place I nominate Mr. Howells.
</p>

<p>
I read his <i>Venetian Days</i> about forty years ago. I compare it with his
paper on Machiavelli in a late number of <i>Harper</i>, and I cannot find that
his English has suffered any impairment. For forty years his English has been
to me a continual delight and astonishment. In the sustained exhibition of
certain great qualities&mdash;clearness, compression, verbal exactness, and
unforced and seemingly unconscious felicity of phrasing&mdash;he is, in my
belief, without his peer in the English-writing world. <i>sustained</i>. I
entrench myself behind that protecting word. There are others who exhibit those
great qualities as greatly as he does, but only by intervaled distributions of
rich moonlight, with stretches of veiled and dimmer landscape between; whereas
Howells&rsquo;s moon sails cloudless skies all night and all the nights.
</p>

<p>
In the matter of verbal exactness Mr. Howells has no superior, I suppose. He
seems to be almost always able to find that elusive and shifty grain of gold,
the <i>right word.</i> Others have to put up with approximations, more or less
frequently; he has better luck. To me, the others are miners working with the
gold-pan&mdash;of necessity some of the gold washes over and escapes; whereas,
in my fancy, he is quicksilver raiding down a riffle&mdash;no grain of the
metal stands much chance of eluding him. A powerful agent is the right word: it
lights the reader&rsquo;s way and makes it plain; a close approximation to it
will answer, and much traveling is done in a well-enough fashion by its help,
but we do not welcome it and applaud it and rejoice in it as we do when <i>the
</i>right one blazes out on us. Whenever we come upon one of those intensely
right words in a book or a newspaper the resulting effect is physical as well
as spiritual, and electrically prompt: it tingles exquisitely around through
the walls of the mouth and tastes as tart and crisp and good as the
autumn-butter that creams the sumac-berry. One has no time to examine the word
and vote upon its rank and standing, the automatic recognition of its supremacy
is so immediate. There is a plenty of acceptable literature which deals largely
in approximations, but it may be likened to a fine landscape seen through the
rain; the right word would dismiss the rain, then you would see it better. It
doesn&rsquo;t rain when Howells is at work.
</p>

<p>
And where does he get the easy and effortless flow of his speech? and its
cadenced and undulating rhythm? and its architectural felicities of
construction, its graces of expression, its pemmican quality of compression,
and all that? Born to him, no doubt. All in shining good order in the
beginning, all extraordinary; and all just as shining, just as extraordinary
today, after forty years of diligent wear and tear and use. He passed his
fortieth year long and long ago; but I think his English of today&mdash;his
perfect English, I wish to say&mdash;can throw down the glove before his
English of that antique time and not be afraid.
</p>

<p>
I will go back to the paper on Machiavelli now, and ask the reader to examine
this passage from it which I append. I do not mean examine it in a
bird&rsquo;s-eye way; I mean search it, study it. And, of course, read it
aloud. I may be wrong, still it is my conviction that one cannot get out of
finely wrought literature all that is in it by reading it mutely:
</p>

<p>
<i>Mr. Dyer is rather of the opinion, first luminously suggested by Macaulay,
that Machiavelli was in earnest, but must not be judged as a political moralist
of our time and race would be judged. He thinks that Machiavelli was in
earnest, as none but an idealist can be, and he is the first to imagine him an
idealist immersed in realities, who involuntarily transmutes the events under
his eye into something like the visionary issues of reverie. The Machiavelli
whom he depicts does not cease to be politically a republican and socially a
just man because he holds up an atrocious despot like Caesar Borgia as a mirror
for rulers. What Machiavelli beheld round him in Italy was a civic disorder in
which there was oppression without statecraft, and revolt without patriotism.
When a miscreant like Borgia appeared upon the scene and reduced both tyrants
and rebels to an apparent quiescence, he might very well seem to such a dreamer
the savior of society whom a certain sort of dreamers are always looking for.
Machiavelli was no less honest when he honored the diabolical force of Caesar
Borgia than Carlyle was when at different times he extolled the strong man who
destroys liberty in creating order. But Carlyle has only just ceased to be
mistaken for a reformer, while it is still Machiavelli&rsquo;s hard fate to be
so trammeled in his material that his name stands for whatever is most
malevolent and perfidious in human nature.</i>
</p>

<p>
You see how easy and flowing it is; how unvexed by ruggednesses, clumsinesses,
broken meters; how simple and&mdash;so far as you or I can make
out&mdash;unstudied; how clear, how limpid, how understandable, how unconfused
by cross-currents, eddies, undertows; how seemingly unadorned, yet is all
adornment, like the lily-of-the-valley; and how compressed, how compact,
without a complacency-signal hung out anywhere to call attention to it.
</p>

<p>
There are twenty-three lines in the quoted passage. After reading it several
times aloud, one perceives that a good deal of matter is crowded into that
small space. I think it is a model of compactness. When I take its materials
apart and work them over and put them together in my way, I find I cannot crowd
the result back into the same hole, there not being room enough. I find it a
case of a woman packing a man&rsquo;s trunk: he can get the things out, but he
can&rsquo;t ever get them back again.
</p>

<p>
The proffered paragraph is a just and fair sample; the rest of the article is
as compact as it is; there are no waste words. The sample is just in other
ways: limpid, fluent, graceful, and rhythmical as it is, it holds no
superiority in these respects over the rest of the essay. Also, the choice
phrasing noticeable in the sample is not lonely; there is a plenty of its kin
distributed through the other paragraphs. This is claiming much when that kin
must face the challenge of a phrase like the one in the middle sentence:
&ldquo;an idealist immersed in realities who involuntarily transmutes the
events under his eye into something like the visionary issues of
reverie.&rdquo; With a hundred words to do it with, the literary artisan could
catch that airy thought and tie it down and reduce it to a concrete condition,
visible, substantial, understandable and all right, like a cabbage; but the
artist does it with twenty, and the result is a flower.
</p>

<p>
The quoted phrase, like a thousand others that have come from the same source,
has the quality of certain scraps of verse which take hold of us and stay in
our memories, we do not understand why, at first: all the words being the right
words, none of them is conspicuous, and so they all seem inconspicuous,
therefore we wonder what it is about them that makes their message take hold.
</p>

<p class="poem">
The mossy marbles rest<br/>
On the lips that he has prest<br/>
          In their bloom,<br/>
And the names he loved to hear<br/>
Have been carved for many a year<br/>
          On the tomb.
</p>

<p>
It is like a dreamy strain of moving music, with no sharp notes in it. The
words are all &ldquo;right&rdquo; words, and all the same size. We do not
notice it at first. We get the effect, it goes straight home to us, but we do
not know why. It is when the right words are conspicuous that they thunder:
</p>

<p>
The glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome!
</p>

<p>
When I go back from Howells old to Howells young I find him arranging and
clustering English words well, but not any better than now. He is not more
felicitous in concreting abstractions now than he was in translating, then, the
visions of the eyes of flesh into words that reproduced their forms and colors:
</p>

<p>
<i>In Venetian streets they give the fallen snow no rest. It is at once
shoveled into the canals by hundreds of half-naked FACCHINI; and now in St.
Mark&rsquo;s Place the music of innumerable shovels smote upon my ear; and I
saw the shivering legion of poverty as it engaged the elements in a struggle
for the possession of the Piazza. But the snow continued to fall, and through
the twilight of the descending flakes all this toil and encounter looked like
that weary kind of effort in dreams, when the most determined industry seems
only to renew the task. The lofty crest of the bell-tower was hidden in the
folds of falling snow, and I could no longer see the golden angel upon its
summit. But looked at across the Piazza, the beautiful outline of St.
Mark&rsquo;s Church was perfectly penciled in the air, and the shifting threads
of the snowfall were woven into a spell of novel enchantment around the
structure that always seemed to me too exquisite in its fantastic loveliness to
be anything but the creation of magic. The tender snow had compassionated the
beautiful edifice for all the wrongs of time, and so hid the stains and
ugliness of decay that it looked as if just from the hand of the
builder&mdash;or, better said, just from the brain of the architect. There was
marvelous freshness in the colors of the mosaics in the great arches of the
facade, and all that gracious harmony into which the temple rises, of marble
scrolls and leafy exuberance airily supporting the statues of the saints, was a
hundred times etherealized by the purity and whiteness of the drifting flakes.
The snow lay lightly on the golden globes that tremble like peacocks-crests
above the vast domes, and plumed them with softest white; it robed the saints
in ermine; and it danced over all its works, as if exulting in its
beauty&mdash;beauty which filled me with subtle, selfish yearning to keep such
evanescent loveliness for the little-while-longer of my whole life, and with
despair to think that even the poor lifeless shadow of it could never be fairly
reflected in picture or poem.</i>
</p>

<p>
Through the wavering snowfall, the Saint Theodore upon one of the granite
pillars of the Piazzetta did not show so grim as his wont is, and the winged
lion on the other might have been a winged lamb, so gentle and mild he looked
by the tender light of the storm. The towers of the island churches loomed
faint and far away in the dimness; the sailors in the rigging of the ships that
lay in the Basin wrought like phantoms among the shrouds; the gondolas stole in
and out of the opaque distance more noiselessly and dreamily than ever; and a
silence, almost palpable, lay upon the mutest city in the world.
</p>

<p>
The spirit of Venice is there: of a city where Age and Decay, fagged with
distributing damage and repulsiveness among the other cities of the planet in
accordance with the policy and business of their profession, come for rest and
play between seasons, and treat themselves to the luxury and relaxation of
sinking the shop and inventing and squandering charms all about, instead of
abolishing such as they find, as is their habit when not on vacation.
</p>

<p>
In the working season they do business in Boston sometimes, and a character in
<i>the undiscovered country</i> takes accurate note of pathetic effects wrought
by them upon the aspects of a street of once dignified and elegant homes whose
occupants have moved away and left them a prey to neglect and gradual ruin and
progressive degradation; a descent which reaches bottom at last, when the
street becomes a roost for humble professionals of the faith-cure and
fortune-telling sort.
</p>

<p>
What a queer, melancholy house, what a queer, melancholy street! I don&rsquo;t
think I was ever in a street before where quite so many professional ladies,
with English surnames, preferred Madam to Mrs. on their door-plates. And the
poor old place has such a desperately conscious air of going to the deuce.
Every house seems to wince as you go by, and button itself up to the chin for
fear you should find out it had no shirt on&mdash;so to speak. I don&rsquo;t
know what&rsquo;s the reason, but these material tokens of a social decay
afflict me terribly; a tipsy woman isn&rsquo;t dreadfuler than a haggard old
house, that&rsquo;s once been a home, in a street like this.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Howells&rsquo;s pictures are not mere stiff, hard, accurate photographs;
they are photographs with feeling in them, and sentiment, photographs taken in
a dream, one might say.
</p>

<p>
As concerns his humor, I will not try to say anything, yet I would try, if I
had the words that might approximately reach up to its high place. I do not
think any one else can play with humorous fancies so gracefully and delicately
and deliciously as he does, nor has so many to play with, nor can come so near
making them look as if they were doing the playing themselves and he was not
aware that they were at it. For they are unobtrusive, and quiet in their ways,
and well conducted. His is a humor which flows softly all around about and over
and through the mesh of the page, pervasive, refreshing, health-giving, and
makes no more show and no more noise than does the circulation of the blood.
</p>

<p>
There is another thing which is contentingly noticeable in Mr. Howells&rsquo;s
books. That is his &ldquo;stage directions&rdquo;&mdash;those artifices which
authors employ to throw a kind of human naturalness around a scene and a
conversation, and help the reader to see the one and get at meanings in the
other which might not be perceived if entrusted unexplained to the bare words
of the talk. Some authors overdo the stage directions, they elaborate them
quite beyond necessity; they spend so much time and take up so much room in
telling us how a person said a thing and how he looked and acted when he said
it that we get tired and vexed and wish he hadn&rsquo;t said it at all. Other
authors&rsquo; directions are brief enough, but it is seldom that the brevity
contains either wit or information. Writers of this school go in rags, in the
matter of stage directions; the majority of them having nothing in stock but a
cigar, a laugh, a blush, and a bursting into tears. In their poverty they work
these sorry things to the bone. They say:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... replied Alfred, flipping the ash from his cigar.&rdquo; (This
explains nothing; it only wastes space.)
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... responded Richard, with a laugh.&rdquo; (There was nothing to laugh
about; there never is. The writer puts it in from habit&mdash;automatically; he
is paying no attention to his work; or he would see that there is nothing to
laugh at; often, when a remark is unusually and poignantly flat and silly, he
tries to deceive the reader by enlarging the stage direction and making Richard
break into &ldquo;frenzies of uncontrollable laughter.&rdquo; This makes the
reader sad.)
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... murmured Gladys, blushing.&rdquo; (This poor old shop-worn blush is
a tiresome thing. We get so we would rather Gladys would fall out of the book
and break her neck than do it again. She is always doing it, and usually
irrelevantly. Whenever it is her turn to murmur she hangs out her blush; it is
the only thing she&rsquo;s got. In a little while we hate her, just as we do
Richard.)
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... repeated Evelyn, bursting into tears.&rdquo; (This kind keep a book
damp all the time. They can&rsquo;t say a thing without crying. They cry so
much about nothing that by and by when they have something to cry ABOUT they
have gone dry; they sob, and fetch nothing; we are not moved. We are only
glad.)
</p>

<p>
They gravel me, these stale and overworked stage directions, these carbon films
that got burnt out long ago and cannot now carry any faintest thread of light.
It would be well if they could be relieved from duty and flung out in the
literary back yard to rot and disappear along with the discarded and forgotten
&ldquo;steeds&rdquo; and &ldquo;halidomes&rdquo; and similar stage-properties
once so dear to our grandfathers. But I am friendly to Mr. Howells&rsquo;s
stage directions; more friendly to them than to any one else&rsquo;s, I think.
They are done with a competent and discriminating art, and are faithful to the
requirements of a stage direction&rsquo;s proper and lawful office, which is to
inform. Sometimes they convey a scene and its conditions so well that I believe
I could see the scene and get the spirit and meaning of the accompanying
dialogue if some one would read merely the stage directions to me and leave out
the talk. For instance, a scene like this, from <i>The Undiscovered
Country</i>:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... and she laid her arms with a beseeching gesture on her
father&rsquo;s shoulder.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... she answered, following his gesture with a glance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... she said, laughing nervously.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... she asked, turning swiftly upon him that strange, searching
glance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... she answered, vaguely.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... she reluctantly admitted.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... but her voice died wearily away, and she stood looking into his face
with puzzled entreaty.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Howells does not repeat his forms, and does not need to; he can invent
fresh ones without limit. It is mainly the repetition over and over again, by
the third-rates, of worn and commonplace and juiceless forms that makes their
novels such a weariness and vexation to us, I think. We do not mind one or two
deliveries of their wares, but as we turn the pages over and keep on meeting
them we presently get tired of them and wish they would do other things for a
change.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... replied Alfred, flipping the ash from his cigar.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... responded Richard, with a laugh.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... murmured Gladys, blushing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... repeated Evelyn, bursting into tears.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... replied the Earl, flipping the ash from his cigar.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... responded the undertaker, with a laugh.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... murmured the chambermaid, blushing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... repeated the burglar, bursting into tears.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... replied the conductor, flipping the ash from his cigar.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... responded Arkwright, with a laugh.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... murmured the chief of police, blushing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;... repeated the house-cat, bursting into tears.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And so on and so on; till at last it ceases to excite. I always notice stage
directions, because they fret me and keep me trying to get out of their way,
just as the automobiles do. At first; then by and by they become monotonous and
I get run over.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Howells has done much work, and the spirit of it is as beautiful as the
make of it. I have held him in admiration and affection so many years that I
know by the number of those years that he is old now; but his heart
isn&rsquo;t, nor his pen; and years do not count. Let him have plenty of them;
there is profit in them for us.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap10"></a>

ENGLISH AS SHE IS TAUGHT</h2>

<h3>In the appendix to Croker&rsquo;s Boswell&rsquo;s Johnson one finds this
anecdote:</h3>

<p>
<i>Cato&rsquo;s Soliloquy</i>.&mdash;One day Mrs. Gastrel set a little girl to
repeat to him (Dr. Samuel Johnson) Cato&rsquo;s Soliloquy, which she went
through very correctly. The Doctor, after a pause, asked the child:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What was to bring Cato to an end?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She said it was a knife.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, my dear, it was not so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My aunt Polly said it was a knife.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, Aunt Polly&rsquo;s knife <i>may do</i>, but it was a <i>dagger</i>,
my dear.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He then asked her the meaning of &ldquo;bane and antidote,&rdquo; which she was
unable to give. Mrs. Gastrel said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You cannot expect so young a child to know the meaning of such
words.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He then said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear, how many pence are there in <i>sixpence</i>?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I cannot tell, sir,&rdquo; was the half-terrified reply.
</p>

<p>
On this, addressing himself to Mrs. Gastrel, he said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, my dear lady, can anything be more ridiculous than to teach a child
Cato&rsquo;s Soliloquy, who does not know how many pence there are in
sixpence?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In a lecture before the Royal Geographical Society Professor Ravenstein quoted
the following list of frantic questions, and said that they had been asked in
an examination:
</p>

<p>
Mention all the names of places in the world derived from Julius Caesar or
Augustus Caesar.
</p>

<p>
Where are the following rivers: Pisuerga, Sakaria, Guadalete, Jalon, Mulde?
</p>

<p>
All you know of the following: Machacha, Pilmo, Schebulos, Crivoscia, Basecs,
Mancikert, Taxhem, Citeaux, Meloria, Zutphen.
</p>

<p>
The highest peaks of the Karakorum range.
</p>

<p>
The number of universities in Prussia.
</p>

<p>
Why are the tops of mountains continually covered with snow (sic)?
</p>

<p>
Name the length and breadth of the streams of lava which issued from the
Skaptar Jokul in the eruption of 1783.
</p>

<p>
That list would oversize nearly anybody&rsquo;s geographical knowledge.
Isn&rsquo;t it reasonably possible that in our schools many of the questions in
all studies are several miles ahead of where the pupil is?&mdash;that he is set
to struggle with things that are ludicrously beyond his present reach,
hopelessly beyond his present strength? This remark in passing, and by way of
text; now I come to what I was going to say.
</p>

<p>
I have just now fallen upon a darling literary curiosity. It is a little book,
a manuscript compilation, and the compiler sent it to me with the request that
I say whether I think it ought to be published or not. I said, Yes; but as I
slowly grow wise I briskly grow cautious; and so, now that the publication is
imminent, it has seemed to me that I should feel more comfortable if I could
divide up this responsibility with the public by adding them to the court.
Therefore I will print some extracts from the book, in the hope that they may
make converts to my judgment that the volume has merit which entitles it to
publication.
</p>

<p>
As to its character. Every one has sampled &ldquo;English as She is
Spoke&rdquo; and &ldquo;English as She is Wrote&rdquo;; this little volume
furnishes us an instructive array of examples of &ldquo;English as She is
Taught&rdquo;&mdash;in the public schools of&mdash;well, this country. The
collection is made by a teacher in those schools, and all the examples in it
are genuine; none of them have been tampered with, or doctored in any way. From
time to time, during several years, whenever a pupil has delivered himself of
anything peculiarly quaint or toothsome in the course of his recitations, this
teacher and her associates have privately set that thing down in a
memorandum-book; strictly following the original, as to grammar, construction,
spelling, and all; and the result is this literary curiosity.
</p>

<p>
The contents of the book consist mainly of answers given by the boys and girls
to questions, said answers being given sometimes verbally, sometimes in
writing. The subjects touched upon are fifteen in number: I. Etymology; II.
Grammar; III. Mathematics; IV. Geography; V. &ldquo;Original&rdquo;; VI.
Analysis; VII. History; VIII. &ldquo;Intellectual&rdquo;; IX. Philosophy; X.
Physiology; XI. Astronomy; XII. Politics; XIII. Music; XIV. Oratory; XV.
Metaphysics.
</p>

<p>
You perceive that the poor little young idea has taken a shot at a good many
kinds of game in the course of the book. Now as to results. Here are some
quaint definitions of words. It will be noticed that in all of these instances
the sound of the word, or the look of it on paper, has misled the child:
</p>

<p>
ABORIGINES, a system of mountains.
</p>

<p>
ALIAS, a good man in the Bible.
</p>

<p>
AMENABLE, anything that is mean.
</p>

<p>
AMMONIA, the food of the gods.
</p>

<p>
ASSIDUITY, state of being an acid.
</p>

<p>
AURIFEROUS, pertaining to an orifice.
</p>

<p>
CAPILLARY, a little caterpillar.
</p>

<p>
CORNIFEROUS, rocks in which fossil corn is found.
</p>

<p>
EMOLUMENT, a headstone to a grave.
</p>

<p>
EQUESTRIAN, one who asks questions.
</p>

<p>
EUCHARIST, one who plays euchre.
</p>

<p>
FRANCHISE, anything belonging to the French.
</p>

<p>
IDOLATER, a very idle person.
</p>

<p>
IPECAC, a man who likes a good dinner.
</p>

<p>
IRRIGATE, to make fun of.
</p>

<p>
MENDACIOUS, what can be mended.
</p>

<p>
MERCENARY, one who feels for another.
</p>

<p>
PARASITE, a kind of umbrella.
</p>

<p>
PARASITE, the murder of an infant.
</p>

<p>
PUBLICAN, a man who does his prayers in public.
</p>

<p>
TENACIOUS, ten acres of land.
</p>

<p>
Here is one where the phrase &ldquo;publicans and sinners&rdquo; has got mixed
up in the child&rsquo;s mind with politics, and the result is a definition
which takes one in a sudden and unexpected way:
</p>

<p>
REPUBLICAN, a sinner mentioned in the Bible.
</p>

<p>
Also in Democratic newspapers now and then. Here are two where the mistake has
resulted from sound assisted by remote fact:
</p>

<p>
PLAGIARIST, a writer of plays.
</p>

<p>
DEMAGOGUE, a vessel containing beer and other liquids.
</p>

<p>
I cannot quite make out what it was that misled the pupil in the following
instances; it would not seem to have been the sound of the word, nor the look
of it in print:
</p>

<p>
ASPHYXIA, a grumbling, fussy temper.
</p>

<p>
QUARTERNIONS, a bird with a flat beak and no bill, living in New Zealand.
</p>

<p>
QUARTERNIONS, the name given to a style of art practiced by the Phoenicians.
</p>

<p>
QUARTERNIONS, a religious convention held every hundred years.
</p>

<p>
SIBILANT, the state of being idiotic.
</p>

<p>
CROSIER, a staff carried by the Deity.
</p>

<p>
In the following sentences the pupil&rsquo;s ear has been deceiving him again:
</p>

<p>
The marriage was illegible.
</p>

<p>
He was totally dismasted with the whole performance.
</p>

<p>
He enjoys riding on a philosopher.
</p>

<p>
She was very quick at repertoire.
</p>

<p>
He prayed for the waters to subsidize.
</p>

<p>
The leopard is watching his sheep.
</p>

<p>
They had a strawberry vestibule.
</p>

<p>
Here is one which&mdash;well, now, how often we do slam right into the truth
without ever suspecting it:
</p>

<p>
The men employed by the Gas Company go around and speculate the meter.
</p>

<p>
Indeed they do, dear; and when you grow up, many and many&rsquo;s the time you
will notice it in the gas bill. In the following sentences the little people
have some information to convey, every time; but in my case they fail to
connect: the light always went out on the keystone word:
</p>

<p>
The coercion of some things is remarkable; as bread and molasses.
</p>

<p>
Her hat is contiguous because she wears it on one side.
</p>

<p>
He preached to an egregious congregation.
</p>

<p>
The captain eliminated a bullet through the man&rsquo;s heart.
</p>

<p>
You should take caution and be precarious.
</p>

<p>
The supercilious girl acted with vicissitude when the perennial time came.
</p>

<p>
The last is a curiously plausible sentence; one seems to know what it means,
and yet he knows all the time that he doesn&rsquo;t. Here is an odd (but
entirely proper) use of a word, and a most sudden descent from a lofty
philosophical altitude to a very practical and homely illustration:
</p>

<p>
We should endeavor to avoid extremes&mdash;like those of wasps and bees.
</p>

<p>
And here&mdash;with &ldquo;zoological&rdquo; and &ldquo;geological&rdquo; in
his mind, but not ready to his tongue&mdash;the small scholar has innocently
gone and let out a couple of secrets which ought never to have been divulged in
any circumstances:
</p>

<p class="poem">
There are a good many donkeys in theological gardens.<br/>
Some of the best fossils are found in theological cabinets.
</p>

<p>
Under the head of &ldquo;Grammar&rdquo; the little scholars furnish the
following information:
</p>

<p class="poem">
Gender is the distinguishing nouns without regard to sex.<br/>
A verb is something to eat.<br/>
Adverbs should always be used as adjectives and adjectives as adverbs.<br/>
Every sentence and name of God must begin with a caterpillar.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Caterpillar&rdquo; is well enough, but capital letter would have been
stricter. The following is a brave attempt at a solution, but it failed to
liquify:
</p>

<p>
When they are going to say some prose or poetry before they say the poetry or
prose they must put a semicolon just after the introduction of the prose or
poetry.
</p>

<p>
The chapter on &ldquo;Mathematics&rdquo; is full of fruit. From it I take a few
samples&mdash;mainly in an unripe state:
</p>

<p class="poem">
A straight line is any distance between two places.<br/>
Parallel lines are lines that can never meet until they run together.<br/>
A circle is a round straight line with a hole in the middle.<br/>
Things which are equal to each other are equal to anything else.<br/>
To find the number of square feet in a room you multiply the room by the<br/>
number of the feet. The product is the result.
</p>

<p>
Right you are. In the matter of geography this little book is unspeakably rich.
The questions do not appear to have applied the microscope to the subject, as
did those quoted by Professor Ravenstein; still, they proved plenty difficult
enough without that. These pupils did not hunt with a microscope, they hunted
with a shot-gun; this is shown by the crippled condition of the game they
brought in:
</p>

<p>
America is divided into the Passiffic slope and the Mississippi valey.
</p>

<p>
North America is separated by Spain.
</p>

<p>
America consists from north to south about five hundred miles.
</p>

<p>
The United States is quite a small country compared with some other countrys,
but is about as industrious.
</p>

<p>
The capital of the United States is Long Island.
</p>

<p>
The five seaports of the U.S. are Newfunlan and Sanfrancisco.
</p>

<p>
The principal products of the U.S. is earthquakes and volcanoes.
</p>

<p>
The Alaginnies are mountains in Philadelphia.
</p>

<p>
The Rocky Mountains are on the western side of Philadelphia.
</p>

<p>
Cape Hateras is a vast body of water surrounded by land and flowing into the
Gulf of Mexico.
</p>

<p>
Mason and Dixon&rsquo;s line is the Equator.
</p>

<p>
One of the leading industries of the United States is mollasses, book-covers,
numbers, gas, teaching, lumber, manufacturers, paper-making, publishers, coal.
</p>

<p>
In Austria the principal occupation is gathering Austrich feathers.
</p>

<p>
Gibraltar is an island built on a rock.
</p>

<p>
Russia is very cold and tyrannical.
</p>

<p>
Sicily is one of the Sandwich Islands.
</p>

<p>
Hindoostan flows through the Ganges and empties into the Mediterranean Sea.
</p>

<p>
Ireland is called the Emigrant Isle because it is so beautiful and green.
</p>

<p>
The width of the different zones Europe lies in depend upon the surrounding
country.
</p>

<p>
The imports of a country are the things that are paid for, the exports are the
things that are not.
</p>

<p>
Climate lasts all the time and weather only a few days.
</p>

<p>
The two most famous volcanoes of Europe are Sodom and Gomorrah.
</p>

<p>
The chapter headed &ldquo;Analysis&rdquo; shows us that the pupils in our
public schools are not merely loaded up with those showy facts about geography,
mathematics, and so on, and left in that incomplete state; no, there&rsquo;s
machinery for clarifying and expanding their minds. They are required to take
poems and analyze them, dig out their common sense, reduce them to statistics,
and reproduce them in a luminous prose translation which shall tell you at a
glance what the poet was trying to get at. One sample will do. Here is a stanza
from &ldquo;The Lady of the Lake,&rdquo; followed by the pupil&rsquo;s
impressive explanation of it:
</p>

<p>
Alone, but with unbated zeal, The horseman plied with scourge and steel; For
jaded now and spent with toil, Embossed with foam and dark with soil, While
every gasp with sobs he drew, The laboring stag strained full in view.
</p>

<p>
The man who rode on the horse performed the whip and an instrument made of
steel alone with strong ardor not diminishing, for, being tired from the time
passed with hard labor overworked with anger and ignorant with weariness, while
every breath for labor he drew with cries full of sorrow, the young deer made
imperfect who worked hard filtered in sight.
</p>

<p>
I see, now, that I never understood that poem before. I have had glimpses of
its meaning, in moments when I was not as ignorant with weariness as usual, but
this is the first time the whole spacious idea of it ever filtered in sight. If
I were a public-school pupil I would put those other studies aside and stick to
analysis; for, after all, it is the thing to spread your mind.
</p>

<p>
We come now to historical matters, historical remains, one might say. As one
turns the pages he is impressed with the depth to which one date has been
driven into the American child&rsquo;s head&mdash;1492. The date is there, and
it is there to stay. And it is always at hand, always deliverable at a
moment&rsquo;s notice. But the Fact that belongs with it? That is quite another
matter. Only the date itself is familiar and sure: its vast Fact has failed of
lodgment. It would appear that whenever you ask a public-school pupil when a
thing&mdash;anything, no matter what&mdash;happened, and he is in doubt, he
always rips out his 1492. He applies it to everything, from the landing of the
ark to the introduction of the horse-car. Well, after all, it is our first
date, and so it is right enough to honor it, and pay the public schools to
teach our children to honor it:
</p>

<p>
George Washington was born in 1492.
</p>

<p>
Washington wrote the Declaration of Independence in 1492.
</p>

<p>
St. Bartholemew was massacred in 1492.
</p>

<p>
The Brittains were the Saxons who entered England in 1492 under Julius Caesar.
</p>

<p>
The earth is 1492 miles in circumference.
</p>

<p>
To proceed with &ldquo;History&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Christopher Columbus was called the Father of his Country.
</p>

<p>
Queen Isabella of Spain sold her watch and chain and other millinery so that
Columbus could discover America.
</p>

<p>
The Indian wars were very desecrating to the country.
</p>

<p>
The Indians pursued their warfare by hiding in the bushes and then scalping
them.
</p>

<p>
Captain John Smith has been styled the father of his country. His life was
saved by his daughter Pochahantas.
</p>

<p>
The Puritans found an insane asylum in the wilds of America.
</p>

<p>
The Stamp Act was to make everybody stamp all materials so they should be null
and void.
</p>

<p>
Washington died in Spain almost broken-hearted. His remains were taken to the
cathedral in Havana.
</p>

<p>
Gorilla warfare was where men rode on gorillas.
</p>

<p>
John Brown was a very good insane man who tried to get fugitives slaves into
Virginia. He captured all the inhabitants, but was finally conquered and
condemned to his death. The confederasy was formed by the fugitive slaves.
</p>

<p>
Alfred the Great reigned 872 years. He was distinguished for letting some
buckwheat cakes burn, and the lady scolded him.
</p>

<p>
Henry Eight was famous for being a great widower haveing lost several wives.
</p>

<p>
Lady Jane Grey studied Greek and Latin and was beheaded after a few days.
</p>

<p>
John Bright is noted for an incurable disease.
</p>

<p>
Lord James Gordon Bennet instigated the Gordon Riots.
</p>

<p>
The Middle Ages come in between antiquity and posterity.
</p>

<p>
Luther introduced Christianity into England a good many thousand years ago. His
birthday was November 1883. He was once a Pope. He lived at the time of the
Rebellion of Worms.
</p>

<p>
Julius Caesar is noted for his famous telegram dispatch I came I saw I
conquered.
</p>

<p>
Julius Caesar was really a very great man. He was a very great soldier and
wrote a book for beginners in the Latin.
</p>

<p>
Cleopatra was caused by the death of an asp which she dissolved in a wine cup.
</p>

<p>
The only form of government in Greece was a limited monkey.
</p>

<p>
The Persian war lasted about 500 years.
</p>

<p>
Greece had only 7 wise men.
</p>

<p>
Socrates... destroyed some statues and had to drink Shamrock.
</p>

<p>
Here is a fact correctly stated; and yet it is phrased with such ingenious
infelicity that it can be depended upon to convey misinformation every time it
is uncarefully read:
</p>

<p>
By the Salic law no woman or descendant of a woman could occupy the throne.
</p>

<p>
To show how far a child can travel in history with judicious and diligent
boosting in the public school, we select the following mosaic:
</p>

<p>
Abraham Lincoln was born in Wales in 1599.
</p>

<p>
In the chapter headed &ldquo;Intellectual&rdquo; I find a great number of most
interesting statements. A sample or two may be found not amiss:
</p>

<p>
Bracebridge Hall was written by Henry Irving.
</p>

<p>
Snow Bound was written by Peter Cooper.
</p>

<p>
The House of the Seven Gables was written by Lord Bryant.
</p>

<p>
Edgar A. Poe was a very curdling writer.
</p>

<p>
Cotton Mather was a writer who invented the cotten gin and wrote histories.
</p>

<p>
Beowulf wrote the Scriptures.
</p>

<p>
Ben Johnson survived Shakspeare in some respects.
</p>

<p>
In the Canterbury Tale it gives account of King Alfred on his way to the shrine
of Thomas Bucket.
</p>

<p>
Chaucer was the father of English pottery.
</p>

<p>
Chaucer was a bland verse writer of the third century.
</p>

<p>
Chaucer was succeeded by H. Wads. Longfellow an American Writer. His writings
were chiefly prose and nearly one hundred years elapsed.
</p>

<p>
Shakspere translated the Scriptures and it was called St. James because he did
it.
</p>

<p>
In the middle of the chapter I find many pages of information concerning
Shakespeare&rsquo;s plays, Milton&rsquo;s works, and those of Bacon, Addison,
Samuel Johnson, Fielding, Richardson, Sterne, Smollett, De Foe, Locke, Pope,
Swift, Goldsmith, Burns, Cowper, Wordsworth, Gibbon, Byron, Coleridge, Hood,
Scott, Macaulay, George Eliot, Dickens, Bulwer, Thackeray, Browning, Mrs.
Browning, Tennyson, and Disraeli&mdash;a fact which shows that into the
restricted stomach of the public-school pupil is shoveled every year the blood,
bone, and viscera of a gigantic literature, and the same is there digested and
disposed of in a most successful and characteristic and gratifying
public-school way. I have space for but a trifling few of the results:
</p>

<p>
Lord Byron was the son of an heiress and a drunken man.
</p>

<p>
Wm. Wordsworth wrote the Barefoot Boy and Imitations on Immortality.
</p>

<p>
Gibbon wrote a history of his travels in Italy. This was original.
</p>

<p>
George Eliot left a wife and children who mourned greatly for his genius.
</p>

<p>
George Eliot Miss Mary Evans Mrs. Cross Mrs. Lewis was the greatest female poet
unless George Sands is made an exception of.
</p>

<p>
Bulwell is considered a good writer.
</p>

<p>
Sir Walter Scott Charles Bronte Alfred the Great and Johnson were the first
great novelists.
</p>

<p>
Thomas Babington Makorlay graduated at Harvard and then studied law, he was
raised to the peerage as baron in 1557 and died in 1776.
</p>

<p>
Here are two or three miscellaneous facts that may be of value, if taken in
moderation:
</p>

<p>
Homer&rsquo;s writings are Homer&rsquo;s Essays Virgil the Aenid and Paradise
lost some people say that these poems were not written by Homer but by another
man of the same name.
</p>

<p>
A sort of sadness kind of shone in Bryant&rsquo;s poems.
</p>

<p>
Holmes is a very profligate and amusing writer.
</p>

<p>
When the public-school pupil wrestles with the political features of the Great
Republic, they throw him sometimes:
</p>

<p>
A bill becomes a law when the President vetoes it.
</p>

<p>
The three departments of the government is the President rules the world, the
governor rules the State, the mayor rules the city.
</p>

<p>
The first conscientious Congress met in Philadelphia.
</p>

<p>
The Constitution of the United States was established to ensure domestic
hostility.
</p>

<p>
Truth crushed to earth will rise again. As follows:
</p>

<p>
The Constitution of the United States is that part of the book at the end which
nobody reads.
</p>

<p>
And here she rises once more and untimely. There should be a limit to
public-school instruction; it cannot be wise or well to let the young find out
everything:
</p>

<p>
Congress is divided into civilized half civilized and savage.
</p>

<p>
Here are some results of study in music and oratory:
</p>

<p>
An interval in music is the distance on the keyboard from one piano to the
next.
</p>

<p>
A rest means you are not to sing it.
</p>

<p>
Emphasis is putting more distress on one word than another.
</p>

<p>
The chapter on &ldquo;Physiology&rdquo; contains much that ought not to be lost
to science:
</p>

<p>
Physillogigy is to study about your bones stummick and vertebry.
</p>

<p>
Occupations which are injurious to health are cabolic acid gas which is impure
blood.
</p>

<p>
We have an upper and lower skin. The lower skin moves all the time and the
upper skin moves when we do.
</p>

<p>
The body is mostly composed of water and about one half is avaricious tissue.
</p>

<p>
The stomach is a small pear-shaped bone situated in the body.
</p>

<p>
The gastric juice keeps the bones from creaking.
</p>

<p>
The Chyle flows up the middle of the backbone and reaches the heart where it
meets the oxygen and is purified.
</p>

<p>
The salivary glands are used to salivate the body.
</p>

<p>
In the stomach starch is changed to cane sugar and cane sugar to sugar cane.
</p>

<p>
The olfactory nerve enters the cavity of the orbit and is developed into the
special sense of hearing.
</p>

<p>
The growth of a tooth begins in the back of the mouth and extends to the
stomach.
</p>

<p>
If we were on a railroad track and a train was coming the train would deafen
our ears so that we couldn&rsquo;t see to get off the track.
</p>

<p>
If, up to this point, none of my quotations have added flavor to the Johnsonian
anecdote at the head of this article, let us make another attempt:
</p>

<p>
The theory that intuitive truths are discovered by the light of nature
originated from St. John&rsquo;s interpretation of a passage in the Gospel of
Plato.
</p>

<p>
The weight of the earth is found by comparing a mass of known lead with that of
a mass of unknown lead.
</p>

<p>
To find the weight of the earth take the length of a degree on a meridian and
multiply by 62 1/2 pounds.
</p>

<p>
The spheres are to each other as the squares of their homologous sides.
</p>

<p>
A body will go just as far in the first second as the body will go plus the
force of gravity and that&rsquo;s equal to twice what the body will go.
</p>

<p>
Specific gravity is the weight to be compared weight of an equal volume of or
that is the weight of a body compared with the weight of an equal volume.
</p>

<p>
The law of fluid pressure divide the different forms of organized bodies by the
form of attraction and the number increased will be the form.
</p>

<p>
Inertia is that property of bodies by virtue of which it cannot change its own
condition of rest or motion. In other words it is the negative quality of
passiveness either in recoverable latency or insipient latescence.
</p>

<p>
If a laugh is fair here, not the struggling child, nor the unintelligent
teacher&mdash;or rather the unintelligent Boards, Committees, and
Trustees&mdash;are the proper target for it. All through this little book one
detects the signs of a certain probable fact&mdash;that a large part of the
pupil&rsquo;s &ldquo;instruction&rdquo; consists in cramming him with obscure
and wordy &ldquo;rules&rdquo; which he does not understand and has no time to
understand. It would be as useful to cram him with brickbats; they would at
least stay. In a town in the interior of New York, a few years ago, a gentleman
set forth a mathematical problem and proposed to give a prize to every
public-school pupil who should furnish the correct solution of it. Twenty-two
of the brightest boys in the public schools entered the contest. The problem
was not a very difficult one for pupils of their mathematical rank and
standing, yet they all failed&mdash;by a hair&mdash;through one trifling
mistake or another. Some searching questions were asked, when it turned out
that these lads were as glib as parrots with the &ldquo;rules,&rdquo; but could
not reason out a single rule or explain the principle underlying it. Their
memories had been stocked, but not their understandings. It was a case of
brickbat culture, pure and simple.
</p>

<p>
There are several curious &ldquo;compositions&rdquo; in the little book, and we
must make room for one. It is full of naïveté, brutal truth, and unembarrassed
directness, and is the funniest (genuine) boy&rsquo;s composition I think I
have ever seen:
</p>

<p class="center">
ON GIRLS
</p>

<p>
Girls are very stuck up and dignefied in their maner and be have your. They
think more of dress than anything and like to play with dowls and rags. They
cry if they see a cow in a far distance and are afraid of guns. They stay at
home all the time and go to church on Sunday. They are al-ways sick. They are
always funy and making fun of boy&rsquo;s hands and they say how dirty. They
cant play marbels. I pity them poor things. They make fun of boys and then turn
round and love them. I dont beleave they ever kiled a cat or anything. They
look out every nite and say oh ant the moon lovely. Thir is one thing I have
not told and that is they al-ways now their lessons bettern boys.
</p>

<p>
From Mr. Edward Channing&rsquo;s recent article in <i>Science</i>:
</p>

<p>
The marked difference between the books now being produced by French, English,
and American travelers, on the one hand, and German explorers, on the other, is
too great to escape attention. That difference is due entirely to the fact that
in school and university the German is taught, in the first place to see, and
in the second place to understand what he does see.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap11"></a>

A SIMPLIFIED ALPHABET</h2>

<p>
(This article, written during the autumn of 1899, was about the last writing
done by Mark Twain on any impersonal subject.)
</p>

<p>
I have had a kindly feeling, a friendly feeling, a cousinly feeling toward
Simplified Spelling, from the beginning of the movement three years ago, but
nothing more inflamed than that. It seemed to me to merely propose to
substitute one inadequacy for another; a sort of patching and plugging poor old
dental relics with cement and gold and porcelain paste; what was really wanted
was a new set of teeth. That is to say, a new <i>alphabet</i>.
</p>

<p>
The heart of our trouble is with our foolish alphabet. It doesn&rsquo;t know
how to spell, and can&rsquo;t be taught. In this it is like all other alphabets
except one&mdash;the phonographic. That is the only competent alphabet in the
world. It can spell and correctly pronounce any word in our language.
</p>

<p>
That admirable alphabet, that brilliant alphabet, that inspired alphabet, can
be learned in an hour or two. In a week the student can learn to write it with
some little facility, and to read it with considerable ease. I know, for I saw
it tried in a public school in Nevada forty-five years ago, and was so
impressed by the incident that it has remained in my memory ever since.
</p>

<p>
I wish we could adopt it in place of our present written (and printed)
character. I mean <i>simply </i>the alphabet; simply the consonants and the
vowels&mdash;I don&rsquo;t mean any <i>reductions </i>or abbreviations of them,
such as the shorthand writer uses in order to get compression and speed. No, I
would <i>spell every word out.</i>
</p>

<p>
I will insert the alphabet here as I find it in Burnz&rsquo;s <small>Phonic
Shorthand</small>. (Figure 1) It is arranged on the basis of Isaac
Pitman&rsquo;s <i>Phonography</i>. Isaac Pitman was the originator and father
of scientific phonography. It is used throughout the globe. It was a memorable
invention. He made it public seventy-three years ago. The firm of Isaac Pitman
&amp; Sons, New York, still exists, and they continue the master&rsquo;s work.
</p>

<p>
What should we gain?
</p>

<p>
First of all, we could spell <i>definitely</i>&mdash;and correctly&mdash;any
word you please, just by the <i>sound </i>of it. We can&rsquo;t do that with
our present alphabet. For instance, take a simple, every-day word
<i>phthisis</i>. If we tried to spell it by the sound of it, we should make it
TYSIS, and be laughed at by every educated person.
</p>

<p>
Secondly, we should gain in <i>reduction of labor</i> in writing.
</p>

<p>
Simplified Spelling makes valuable reductions in the case of several hundred
words, but the new spelling must be <i>learned</i>. You can&rsquo;t spell them
by the sound; you must get them out of the book.
</p>

<p>
But even if we knew the simplified form for every word in the language, the
phonographic alphabet would still beat the Simplified Speller &ldquo;hands
down&rdquo; in the important matter of economy of labor. I will illustrate:
</p>

<p>
PRESENT FORM: through, laugh, highland.
</p>

<p>
SIMPLIFIED FORM: thru, laff, hyland.
</p>

<p>
PHONOGRAPHIC FORM: (Figure 2)
</p>

<p>
To write the word &ldquo;through,&rdquo; the pen has to make twenty-one
strokes.
</p>

<p>
To write the word &ldquo;thru,&rdquo; the pen has to make twelve
strokes&mdash;a good saving.
</p>

<p>
To write that same word with the phonographic alphabet, the pen has to make
only <i>three </i>strokes.
</p>

<p>
To write the word &ldquo;laugh,&rdquo; the pen has to make <i>fourteen
</i>strokes.
</p>

<p>
To write &ldquo;laff,&rdquo; the pen has to make the <i>same number</i> of
strokes&mdash;no labor is saved to the penman.
</p>

<p>
To write the same word with the phonographic alphabet, the pen has to make only
<i>three </i>strokes.
</p>

<p>
To write the word &ldquo;highland,&rdquo; the pen has to make twenty-two
strokes.
</p>

<p>
To write &ldquo;hyland,&rdquo; the pen has to make eighteen strokes.
</p>

<p>
To write that word with the phonographic alphabet, the pen has to make only
FIVE strokes. (Figure 3)
</p>

<p>
To write the words &ldquo;phonographic alphabet,&rdquo; the pen has to make
fifty-three strokes.
</p>

<p>
To write &ldquo;fonografic alfabet,&rdquo; the pen has to make fifty strokes.
To the penman, the saving in labor is insignificant.
</p>

<p>
To write that word (with vowels) with the phonographic alphabet, the pen has to
make only <i>seventeen </i>strokes.
</p>

<p>
Without the vowels, only <i>thirteen </i>strokes. (Figure 4) The vowels are
hardly necessary, this time.
</p>

<p>
We make five pen-strokes in writing an m. Thus: (Figure 5) a stroke down; a
stroke up; a second stroke down; a second stroke up; a final stroke down.
Total, five. The phonographic alphabet accomplishes the m with a single
stroke&mdash;a curve, like a parenthesis that has come home drunk and has
fallen face down right at the front door where everybody that goes along will
see him and say, Alas!
</p>

<p>
When our written m is not the end of a word, but is otherwise located, it has
to be connected with the next letter, and that requires another pen-stroke,
making six in all, before you get rid of that m. But never mind about the
connecting strokes&mdash;let them go. Without counting them, the twenty-six
letters of our alphabet consumed about eighty pen-strokes for their
construction&mdash;about three pen-strokes per letter.
</p>

<p>
It is <i>three times the number</i> required by the phonographic alphabet. It
requires but <i>one </i>stroke for each letter.
</p>

<p>
My writing-gait is&mdash;well, I don&rsquo;t know what it is, but I will time
myself and see. Result: it is twenty-four words per minute. I don&rsquo;t mean
composing; I mean <i>copying</i>. There isn&rsquo;t any definite
composing-gait.
</p>

<p>
Very well, my copying-gait is 1,440 words per hour&mdash;say 1,500. If I could
use the phonographic character with facility I could do the 1,500 in twenty
minutes. I could do nine hours&rsquo; copying in three hours; I could do three
years&rsquo; copying in one year. Also, if I had a typewriting machine with the
phonographic alphabet on it&mdash;oh, the miracles I could do!
</p>

<p>
I am not pretending to write that character well. I have never had a lesson,
and I am copying the letters from the book. But I can accomplish my desire, at
any rate, which is, to make the reader get a good and clear idea of the
advantage it would be to us if we could discard our present alphabet and put
this better one in its place&mdash;using it in books, newspapers, with the
typewriter, and with the pen.
</p>

<p>
(Figure 6)&mdash;<i>Man Dog Horse</i>. I think it is graceful and would look
comely in print. And consider&mdash;once more, I beg&mdash;what a labor-saver
it is! Ten pen-strokes with the one system to convey those three words above,
and thirty-three by the other! (Figure 7) I mean, in SOME ways, not in all. I
suppose I might go so far as to say in most ways, and be within the facts, but
never mind; let it go at <i>some</i>. One of the ways in which it exercises
this birthright is&mdash;as I think&mdash;continuing to use our laughable
alphabet these seventy-three years while there was a rational one at hand, to
be had for the taking.
</p>

<p>
It has taken five hundred years to simplify some of Chaucer&rsquo;s rotten
spelling&mdash;if I may be allowed to use so frank a term as that&mdash;and it
will take five hundred more to get our exasperating new Simplified Corruptions
accepted and running smoothly. And we sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t be any better off
then than we are now; for in that day we shall still have the privilege the
Simplifiers are exercising now: <i>anybody </i>can change the spelling that
wants to.
</p>

<p>
<i>But you can&rsquo;t change the phonographic spelling; there isn&rsquo;t any
way.</i> It will always follow the SOUND. If you want to change the spelling,
you have to change the sound first.
</p>

<p>
Mind, I myself am a Simplified Speller; I belong to that unhappy guild that is
patiently and hopefully trying to reform our drunken old alphabet by reducing
his whiskey. Well, it will improve him. When they get through and have reformed
him all they can by their system he will be only HALF drunk. Above that
condition their system can never lift him. There is no competent, and lasting,
and real reform for him but to take away his whiskey entirely, and fill up his
jug with Pitman&rsquo;s wholesome and undiseased alphabet.
</p>

<p>
One great drawback to Simplified Spelling is, that in print a simplified word
looks so like the very nation! and when you bunch a whole squadron of the
Simplified together the spectacle is very nearly unendurable.
</p>

<p>
The da ma ov koars kum when the publik ma be expektd to get rekonsyled to the
bezair asspekt of the Simplified Kombynashuns, but&mdash;if I may be allowed
the expression&mdash;is it worth the wasted time? (Figure 8)
</p>

<p>
To see our letters put together in ways to which we are not accustomed offends
the eye, and also takes the <i>expression </i>out of the words.
</p>

<p>
La on, Makduf, and damd be he hoo furst krys hold, enuf!
</p>

<p>
It doesn&rsquo;t thrill you as it used to do. The simplifications have sucked
the thrill all out of it.
</p>

<p>
But a written character with which we are <i>not acquainted</i> does not offend
us&mdash;Greek, Hebrew, Russian, Arabic, and the others&mdash;they have an
interesting look, and we see beauty in them, too. And this is true of
hieroglyphics, as well. There is something pleasant and engaging about the
mathematical signs when we do not understand them. The mystery hidden in these
things has a fascination for us: we can&rsquo;t come across a printed page of
shorthand without being impressed by it and wishing we could read it.
</p>

<p>
Very well, what I am offering for acceptance and adoption is not shorthand, but
longhand, written with the <i>Shorthand Alphabet Unreduced</i>. You can write
three times as many words in a minute with it as you can write with our
alphabet. And so, in a way, it <i>is </i>properly a shorthand. It has a
pleasant look, too; a beguiling look, an inviting look. I will write something
in it, in my rude and untaught way: (Figure 9)
</p>

<p>
Even when <i>I</i> do it it comes out prettier than it does in Simplified
Spelling. Yes, and in the Simplified it costs one hundred and twenty-three
pen-strokes to write it, whereas in the phonographic it costs only twenty-nine.
</p>

<p>
(Figure 9) is probably (Figure 10).
</p>

<p>
Let us hope so, anyway.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap12"></a>

AS CONCERNS INTERPRETING THE DEITY</h2>

<h3>I</h3>

<p>
This line of hieroglyphs was for fourteen years the despair of all the scholars
who labored over the mysteries of the Rosetta stone: (Figure 1)
</p>

<p>
After five years of study Champollion translated it thus:
</p>

<p>
Therefore let the worship of Epiphanes be maintained in all the temples, this
upon pain of death.
</p>

<p>
That was the twenty-fourth translation that had been furnished by scholars. For
a time it stood. But only for a time. Then doubts began to assail it and
undermine it, and the scholars resumed their labors. Three years of patient
work produced eleven new translations; among them, this, by Grunfeldt, was
received with considerable favor:
</p>

<p>
The horse of Epiphanes shall be maintained at the public expense; this upon
pain of death.
</p>

<p>
But the following rendering, by Gospodin, was received by the learned world
with yet greater favor:
</p>

<p>
The priest shall explain the wisdom of Epiphanes to all these people, and these
shall listen with reverence, upon pain of death.
</p>

<p>
Seven years followed, in which twenty-one fresh and widely varying renderings
were scored&mdash;none of them quite convincing. But now, at last, came
Rawlinson, the youngest of all the scholars, with a translation which was
immediately and universally recognized as being the correct version, and his
name became famous in a day. So famous, indeed, that even the children were
familiar with it; and such a noise did the achievement itself make that not
even the noise of the monumental political event of that same year&mdash;the
flight from Elba&mdash;was able to smother it to silence. Rawlinson&rsquo;s
version reads as follows:
</p>

<p>
Therefore, walk not away from the wisdom of Epiphanes, but turn and follow it;
so shall it conduct thee to the temple&rsquo;s peace, and soften for thee the
sorrows of life and the pains of death.
</p>

<p>
Here is another difficult text: (Figure 2)
</p>

<p>
It is demotic&mdash;a style of Egyptian writing and a phase of the language
which had perished from the knowledge of all men twenty-five hundred years
before the Christian era.
</p>

<p>
Our red Indians have left many records, in the form of pictures, upon our crags
and boulders. It has taken our most gifted and painstaking students two
centuries to get at the meanings hidden in these pictures; yet there are still
two little lines of hieroglyphics among the figures grouped upon the Dighton
Rocks which they have not succeeded in interpreting to their satisfaction.
These: (Figure 3)
</p>

<p>
The suggested solutions of this riddle are practically innumerable; they would
fill a book.
</p>

<p>
Thus we have infinite trouble in solving man-made mysteries; it is only when we
set out to discover the secret of God that our difficulties disappear. It was
always so. In antique Roman times it was the custom of the Deity to try to
conceal His intentions in the entrails of birds, and this was patiently and
hopefully continued century after century, although the attempted concealment
never succeeded, in a single recorded instance. The augurs could read entrails
as easily as a modern child can read coarse print. Roman history is full of the
marvels of interpretation which these extraordinary men performed. These
strange and wonderful achievements move our awe and compel our admiration.
Those men could pierce to the marrow of a mystery instantly. If the
Rosetta-stone idea had been introduced it would have defeated them, but
entrails had no embarrassments for them. Entrails have gone out,
now&mdash;entrails and dreams. It was at last found out that as hiding-places
for the divine intentions they were inadequate.
</p>

<p>
A part of the wall of Valletri having in former times been struck with thunder,
the response of the soothsayers was, that a native of that town would some time
or other arrive at supreme power. &mdash;<i>Bohn&rsquo;s Suetonius</i>, p. 138.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Some time or other.&rdquo; It looks indefinite, but no matter, it
happened, all the same; one needed only to wait, and be patient, and keep
watch, then he would find out that the thunder-stroke had Caesar Augustus in
mind, and had come to give notice.
</p>

<p>
There were other advance-advertisements. One of them appeared just before
Caesar Augustus was born, and was most poetic and touching and romantic in its
feelings and aspects. It was a dream. It was dreamed by Caesar Augustus&rsquo;s
mother, and interpreted at the usual rates:
</p>

<p>
Atia, before her delivery, dreamed that her bowels stretched to the stars and
expanded through the whole circuit of heaven and earth.&mdash;<i>Suetonius</i>,
p. 139.
</p>

<p>
That was in the augur&rsquo;s line, and furnished him no difficulties, but it
would have taken Rawlinson and Champollion fourteen years to make sure of what
it meant, because they would have been surprised and dizzy. It would have been
too late to be valuable, then, and the bill for service would have been barred
by the statute of limitation.
</p>

<p>
In those old Roman days a gentleman&rsquo;s education was not complete until he
had taken a theological course at the seminary and learned how to translate
entrails. Caesar Augustus&rsquo;s education received this final polish. All
through his life, whenever he had poultry on the menu he saved the interiors
and kept himself informed of the Deity&rsquo;s plans by exercising upon those
interiors the arts of augury.
</p>

<p>
In his first consulship, while he was observing the auguries, twelve vultures
presented themselves, as they had done to Romulus. And when he offered
sacrifice, the livers of all the victims were folded inward in the lower part;
a circumstance which was regarded by those present who had skill in things of
that nature, as an indubitable prognostic of great and wonderful
fortune.&mdash;<i>Suetonius</i>, p. 141.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indubitable&rdquo; is a strong word, but no doubt it was justified, if
the livers were really turned that way. In those days chicken livers were
strangely and delicately sensitive to coming events, no matter how far off they
might be; and they could never keep still, but would curl and squirm like that,
particularly when vultures came and showed interest in that approaching great
event and in breakfast.
</p>

<p>
II
</p>

<p>
We may now skip eleven hundred and thirty or forty years, which brings us down
to enlightened Christian times and the troubled days of King Stephen of
England. The augur has had his day and has been long ago forgotten; the priest
had fallen heir to his trade.
</p>

<p>
King Henry is dead; Stephen, that bold and outrageous person, comes flying over
from Normandy to steal the throne from Henry&rsquo;s daughter. He accomplished
his crime, and Henry of Huntington, a priest of high degree, mourns over it in
his Chronicle. The Archbishop of Canterbury consecrated Stephen:
&ldquo;wherefore the Lord visited the Archbishop with the same judgment which
he had inflicted upon him who struck Jeremiah the great priest: he died within
a year.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Stephen&rsquo;s was the greater offense, but Stephen could wait; not so the
Archbishop, apparently.
</p>

<p>
The kingdom was a prey to intestine wars; slaughter, fire, and rapine spread
ruin throughout the land; cries of distress, horror, and woe rose in every
quarter.
</p>

<p>
That was the result of Stephen&rsquo;s crime. These unspeakable conditions
continued during nineteen years. Then Stephen died as comfortably as any man
ever did, and was honorably buried. It makes one pity the poor Archbishop, and
wish that he, too, could have been let off as leniently. How did Henry of
Huntington know that the Archbishop was sent to his grave by judgment of God
for consecrating Stephen? He does not explain. Neither does he explain why
Stephen was awarded a pleasanter death than he was entitled to, while the aged
King Henry, his predecessor, who had ruled England thirty-five years to the
people&rsquo;s strongly worded satisfaction, was condemned to close his life in
circumstances most distinctly unpleasant, inconvenient, and disagreeable. His
was probably the most uninspiring funeral that is set down in history. There is
not a detail about it that is attractive. It seems to have been just the
funeral for Stephen, and even at this far-distant day it is matter of just
regret that by an indiscretion the wrong man got it.
</p>

<p>
Whenever God punishes a man, Henry of Huntington knows why it was done, and
tells us; and his pen is eloquent with admiration; but when a man has earned
punishment, and escapes, he does not explain. He is evidently puzzled, but he
does not say anything. I think it is often apparent that he is pained by these
discrepancies, but loyally tries his best not to show it. When he cannot
praise, he delivers himself of a silence so marked that a suspicious person
could mistake it for suppressed criticism. However, he has plenty of
opportunities to feel contented with the way things go&mdash;his book is full
of them.
</p>

<p class="letter">
King David of Scotland... under color of religion caused his followers to deal
most barbarously with the English. They ripped open women, tossed children on
the points of spears, butchered priests at the altars, and, cutting off the
heads from the images on crucifixes, placed them on the bodies of the slain,
while in exchange they fixed on the crucifixes the heads of their victims.
Wherever the Scots came, there was the same scene of horror and cruelty: women
shrieking, old men lamenting, amid the groans of the dying and the despair of
the living.
</p>

<p>
But the English got the victory.
</p>

<p class="letter">
Then the chief of the men of Lothian fell, pierced by an arrow, and all his
followers were put to flight. For the Almighty was offended at them and their
strength was rent like a cobweb.
</p>

<p>
Offended at them for what? For committing those fearful butcheries? No, for
that was the common custom on both sides, and not open to criticism. Then was
it for doing the butcheries &ldquo;under cover of religion&rdquo;? No, that was
not it; religious feeling was often expressed in that fervent way all through
those old centuries. The truth is, He was not offended at &ldquo;them&rdquo; at
all; He was only offended at their king, who had been false to an oath. Then
why did not He put the punishment upon the king instead of upon
&ldquo;them&rdquo;? It is a difficult question. One can see by the Chronicle
that the &ldquo;judgments&rdquo; fell rather customarily upon the wrong person,
but Henry of Huntington does not explain why. Here is one that went true; the
chronicler&rsquo;s satisfaction in it is not hidden:
</p>

<p class="letter">
In the month of August, Providence displayed its justice in a remarkable
manner; for two of the nobles who had converted monasteries into
fortifications, expelling the monks, their sin being the same, met with a
similar punishment. Robert Marmion was one, Godfrey de Mandeville the other.
Robert Marmion, issuing forth against the enemy, was slain under the walls of
the monastery, being the only one who fell, though he was surrounded by his
troops. Dying excommunicated, he became subject to death everlasting. In like
manner Earl Godfrey was singled out among his followers, and shot with an arrow
by a common foot-soldier. He made light of the wound, but he died of it in a
few days, under excommunication. See here the like judgment of God, memorable
through all ages!
</p>

<p>
This exaltation jars upon me; not because of the death of the men, for they
deserved that, but because it is death eternal, in white-hot fire and flame. It
makes my flesh crawl. I have not known more than three men, or perhaps four, in
my whole lifetime, whom I would rejoice to see writhing in those fires for even
a year, let alone forever. I believe I would relent before the year was up, and
get them out if I could. I think that in the long run, if a man&rsquo;s wife
and babies, who had not harmed me, should come crying and pleading, I
couldn&rsquo;t stand it; I know I should forgive him and let him go, even if he
had violated a monastery. Henry of Huntington has been watching Godfrey and
Marmion for nearly seven hundred and fifty years, now, but I couldn&rsquo;t do
it, I know I couldn&rsquo;t. I am soft and gentle in my nature, and I should
have forgiven them seventy-and-seven times, long ago. And I think God has; but
this is only an opinion, and not authoritative, like Henry of
Huntington&rsquo;s interpretations. I could learn to interpret, but I have
never tried; I get so little time.
</p>

<p>
All through his book Henry exhibits his familiarity with the intentions of God,
and with the reasons for his intentions. Sometimes&mdash;very often, in
fact&mdash;the act follows the intention after such a wide interval of time
that one wonders how Henry could fit one act out of a hundred to one intention
out of a hundred and get the thing right every time when there was such
abundant choice among acts and intentions. Sometimes a man offends the Deity
with a crime, and is punished for it thirty years later; meantime he has
committed a million other crimes: no matter, Henry can pick out the one that
brought the worms. Worms were generally used in those days for the slaying of
particularly wicked people. This has gone out, now, but in old times it was a
favorite. It always indicated a case of &ldquo;wrath.&rdquo; For instance:
</p>

<p>
... the just God avenging Robert Fitzhilderbrand&rsquo;s perfidy, a worm grew
in his vitals, which gradually gnawing its way through his intestines fattened
on the abandoned man till, tortured with excruciating sufferings and venting
himself in bitter moans, he was by a fitting punishment brought to his
end.&mdash;(P. 400.)
</p>

<p>
It was probably an alligator, but we cannot tell; we only know it was a
particular breed, and only used to convey wrath. Some authorities think it was
an ichthyosaurus, but there is much doubt.
</p>

<p>
However, one thing we do know; and that is that that worm had been due years
and years. Robert F. had violated a monastery once; he had committed
unprintable crimes since, and they had been permitted&mdash;under
disapproval&mdash;but the ravishment of the monastery had not been forgotten
nor forgiven, and the worm came at last.
</p>

<p>
Why were these reforms put off in this strange way? What was to be gained by
it? Did Henry of Huntington really know his facts, or was he only guessing?
Sometimes I am half persuaded that he is only a guesser, and not a good one.
The divine wisdom must surely be of the better quality than he makes it out to
be.
</p>

<p>
Five hundred years before Henry&rsquo;s time some forecasts of the Lord&rsquo;s
purposes were furnished by a pope, who perceived, by certain perfectly
trustworthy signs furnished by the Deity for the information of His familiars,
that the end of the world was
</p>

<p>
... about to come. But as this end of the world draws near many things are at
hand which have not before happened, as changes in the air, terrible signs in
the heavens, tempests out of the common order of the seasons, wars, famines,
pestilences, earthquakes in various places; all which will not happen in our
days, but after our days all will come to pass.
</p>

<p>
Still, the end was so near that these signs were &ldquo;sent before that we may
be careful for our souls and be found prepared to meet the impending
judgment.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
That was thirteen hundred years ago. This is really no improvement on the work
of the Roman augurs.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap13"></a>

CONCERNING TOBACCO</h2>

<p>
(Written about 1893; not before published)
</p>

<p>
As concerns tobacco, there are many superstitions. And the chiefest is
this&mdash;that there is a <i>standard </i>governing the matter, whereas there
is nothing of the kind. Each man&rsquo;s own preference is the only standard
for him, the only one which he can accept, the only one which can command him.
A congress of all the tobacco-lovers in the world could not elect a standard
which would be binding upon you or me, or would even much influence us.
</p>

<p>
The next superstition is that a man has a standard of his own. He hasn&rsquo;t.
He thinks he has, but he hasn&rsquo;t. He thinks he can tell what he regards as
a good cigar from what he regards as a bad one&mdash;but he can&rsquo;t. He
goes by the brand, yet imagines he goes by the flavor. One may palm off the
worst counterfeit upon him; if it bears his brand he will smoke it contentedly
and never suspect.
</p>

<p>
Children of twenty-five, who have seven years of experience, try to tell me
what is a good cigar and what isn&rsquo;t. Me, who never learned to smoke, but
always smoked; me, who came into the world asking for a light.
</p>

<p>
No one can tell me what is a good cigar&mdash;for me. I am the only judge.
People who claim to know say that I smoke the worst cigars in the world. They
bring their own cigars when they come to my house. They betray an unmanly
terror when I offer them a cigar; they tell lies and hurry away to meet
engagements which they have not made when they are threatened with the
hospitalities of my box. Now then, observe what superstition, assisted by a
man&rsquo;s reputation, can do. I was to have twelve personal friends to supper
one night. One of them was as notorious for costly and elegant cigars as I was
for cheap and devilish ones. I called at his house and when no one was looking
borrowed a double handful of his very choicest; cigars which cost him forty
cents apiece and bore red-and-gold labels in sign of their nobility. I removed
the labels and put the cigars into a box with my favorite brand on it&mdash;a
brand which those people all knew, and which cowed them as men are cowed by an
epidemic. They took these cigars when offered at the end of the supper, and lit
them and sternly struggled with them&mdash;in dreary silence, for hilarity died
when the fell brand came into view and started around&mdash;but their fortitude
held for a short time only; then they made excuses and filed out, treading on
one another&rsquo;s heels with indecent eagerness; and in the morning when I
went out to observe results the cigars lay all between the front door and the
gate. All except one&mdash;that one lay in the plate of the man from whom I had
cabbaged the lot. One or two whiffs was all he could stand. He told me
afterward that some day I would get shot for giving people that kind of cigars
to smoke.
</p>

<p>
Am I certain of my own standard? Perfectly; yes, absolutely&mdash;unless
somebody fools me by putting my brand on some other kind of cigar; for no doubt
I am like the rest, and know my cigar by the brand instead of by the flavor.
However, my standard is a pretty wide one and covers a good deal of territory.
To me, almost any cigar is good that nobody else will smoke, and to me almost
all cigars are bad that other people consider good. Nearly any cigar will do
me, except a Havana. People think they hurt my feelings when they come to my
house with their life preservers on&mdash;I mean, with their own cigars in
their pockets. It is an error; I take care of myself in a similar way. When I
go into danger&mdash;that is, into rich people&rsquo;s houses, where, in the
nature of things, they will have high-tariff cigars, red-and-gilt girded and
nested in a rosewood box along with a damp sponge, cigars which develop a
dismal black ash and burn down the side and smell, and will grow hot to the
fingers, and will go on growing hotter and hotter, and go on smelling more and
more infamously and unendurably the deeper the fire tunnels down inside below
the thimbleful of honest tobacco that is in the front end, the furnisher of it
praising it all the time and telling you how much the deadly thing
cost&mdash;yes, when I go into that sort of peril I carry my own defense along;
I carry my own brand&mdash;twenty-seven cents a barrel&mdash;and I live to see
my family again. I may seem to light his red-gartered cigar, but that is only
for courtesy&rsquo;s sake; I smuggle it into my pocket for the poor, of whom I
know many, and light one of my own; and while he praises it I join in, but when
he says it cost forty-five cents I say nothing, for I know better.
</p>

<p>
However, to say true, my tastes are so catholic that I have never seen any
cigars that I really could not smoke, except those that cost a dollar apiece. I
have examined those and know that they are made of dog-hair, and not good
dog-hair at that.
</p>

<p>
I have a thoroughly satisfactory time in Europe, for all over the Continent one
finds cigars which not even the most hardened newsboys in New York would smoke.
I brought cigars with me, the last time; I will not do that any more. In Italy,
as in France, the Government is the only cigar-peddler. Italy has three or four
domestic brands: the Minghetti, the Trabuco, the Virginia, and a very coarse
one which is a modification of the Virginia. The Minghettis are large and
comely, and cost three dollars and sixty cents a hundred; I can smoke a hundred
in seven days and enjoy every one of them. The Trabucos suit me, too; I
don&rsquo;t remember the price. But one has to learn to like the Virginia,
nobody is born friendly to it. It looks like a rat-tail file, but smokes
better, some think. It has a straw through it; you pull this out, and it leaves
a flue, otherwise there would be no draught, not even as much as there is to a
nail. Some prefer a nail at first. However, I like all the French, Swiss,
German, and Italian domestic cigars, and have never cared to inquire what they
are made of; and nobody would know, anyhow, perhaps. There is even a brand of
European smoking-tobacco that I like. It is a brand used by the Italian
peasants. It is loose and dry and black, and looks like tea-grounds. When the
fire is applied it expands, and climbs up and towers above the pipe, and
presently tumbles off inside of one&rsquo;s vest. The tobacco itself is cheap,
but it raises the insurance. It is as I remarked in the beginning&mdash;the
taste for tobacco is a matter of superstition. There are no standards&mdash;no
real standards. Each man&rsquo;s preference is the only standard for him, the
only one which he can accept, the only one which can command him.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap14"></a>

THE BEE</h2>

<p>
It was Maeterlinck who introduced me to the bee. I mean, in the psychical and
in the poetical way. I had had a business introduction earlier. It was when I
was a boy. It is strange that I should remember a formality like that so long;
it must be nearly sixty years.
</p>

<p>
Bee scientists always speak of the bee as she. It is because all the important
bees are of that sex. In the hive there is one married bee, called the queen;
she has fifty thousand children; of these, about one hundred are sons; the rest
are daughters. Some of the daughters are young maids, some are old maids, and
all are virgins and remain so.
</p>

<p>
Every spring the queen comes out of the hive and flies away with one of her
sons and marries him. The honeymoon lasts only an hour or two; then the queen
divorces her husband and returns home competent to lay two million eggs. This
will be enough to last the year, but not more than enough, because hundreds of
bees get drowned every day, and other hundreds are eaten by birds, and it is
the queen&rsquo;s business to keep the population up to standard&mdash;say,
fifty thousand. She must always have that many children on hand and efficient
during the busy season, which is summer, or winter would catch the community
short of food. She lays from two thousand to three thousand eggs a day,
according to the demand; and she must exercise judgment, and not lay more than
are needed in a slim flower-harvest, nor fewer than are required in a prodigal
one, or the board of directors will dethrone her and elect a queen that has
more sense.
</p>

<p>
There are always a few royal heirs in stock and ready to take her
place&mdash;ready and more than anxious to do it, although she is their own
mother. These girls are kept by themselves, and are regally fed and tended from
birth. No other bees get such fine food as they get, or live such a high and
luxurious life. By consequence they are larger and longer and sleeker than
their working sisters. And they have a curved sting, shaped like a scimitar,
while the others have a straight one.
</p>

<p>
A common bee will sting any one or anybody, but a royalty stings royalties
only. A common bee will sting and kill another common bee, for cause, but when
it is necessary to kill the queen other ways are employed. When a queen has
grown old and slack and does not lay eggs enough one of her royal daughters is
allowed to come to attack her, the rest of the bees looking on at the duel and
seeing fair play. It is a duel with the curved stings. If one of the fighters
gets hard pressed and gives it up and runs, she is brought back and must try
again&mdash;once, maybe twice; then, if she runs yet once more for her life,
judicial death is her portion; her children pack themselves into a ball around
her person and hold her in that compact grip two or three days, until she
starves to death or is suffocated. Meantime the victor bee is receiving royal
honors and performing the one royal function&mdash;laying eggs.
</p>

<p>
As regards the ethics of the judicial assassination of the queen, that is a
matter of politics, and will be discussed later, in its proper place.
</p>

<p>
During substantially the whole of her short life of five or six years the queen
lives in the Egyptian darkness and stately seclusion of the royal apartments,
with none about her but plebeian servants, who give her empty lip-affection in
place of the love which her heart hungers for; who spy upon her in the interest
of her waiting heirs, and report and exaggerate her defects and deficiencies to
them; who fawn upon her and flatter her to her face and slander her behind her
back; who grovel before her in the day of her power and forsake her in her age
and weakness. There she sits, friendless, upon her throne through the long
night of her life, cut off from the consoling sympathies and sweet
companionship and loving endearments which she craves, by the gilded barriers
of her awful rank; a forlorn exile in her own house and home, weary object of
formal ceremonies and machine-made worship, winged child of the sun, native to
the free air and the blue skies and the flowery fields, doomed by the splendid
accident of her birth to trade this priceless heritage for a black captivity, a
tinsel grandeur, and a loveless life, with shame and insult at the end and a
cruel death&mdash;and condemned by the human instinct in her to hold the
bargain valuable!
</p>

<p>
Huber, Lubbock, Maeterlinck&mdash;in fact, all the great authorities&mdash;are
agreed in denying that the bee is a member of the human family. I do not know
why they have done this, but I think it is from dishonest motives. Why, the
innumerable facts brought to light by their own painstaking and exhaustive
experiments prove that if there is a master fool in the world, it is the bee.
That seems to settle it.
</p>

<p>
But that is the way of the scientist. He will spend thirty years in building up
a mountain range of facts with the intent to prove a certain theory; then he is
so happy in his achievement that as a rule he overlooks the main chief fact of
all&mdash;that his accumulation proves an entirely different thing. When you
point out this miscarriage to him he does not answer your letters; when you
call to convince him, the servant prevaricates and you do not get in.
Scientists have odious manners, except when you prop up their theory; then you
can borrow money of them.
</p>

<p>
To be strictly fair, I will concede that now and then one of them will answer
your letter, but when they do they avoid the issue&mdash;you cannot pin them
down. When I discovered that the bee was human I wrote about it to all those
scientists whom I have just mentioned. For evasions, I have seen nothing to
equal the answers I got.
</p>

<p>
After the queen, the personage next in importance in the hive is the virgin.
The virgins are fifty thousand or one hundred thousand in number, and they are
the workers, the laborers. No work is done, in the hive or out of it, save by
them. The males do not work, the queen does no work, unless laying eggs is
work, but it does not seem so to me. There are only two million of them,
anyway, and all of five months to finish the contract in. The distribution of
work in a hive is as cleverly and elaborately specialized as it is in a vast
American machine-shop or factory. A bee that has been trained to one of the
many and various industries of the concern doesn&rsquo;t know how to exercise
any other, and would be offended if asked to take a hand in anything outside of
her profession. She is as human as a cook; and if you should ask the cook to
wait on the table, you know what would happen. Cooks will play the piano if you
like, but they draw the line there. In my time I have asked a cook to chop
wood, and I know about these things. Even the hired girl has her frontiers;
true, they are vague, they are ill-defined, even flexible, but they are there.
This is not conjecture; it is founded on the absolute. And then the butler. You
ask the butler to wash the dog. It is just as I say; there is much to be
learned in these ways, without going to books. Books are very well, but books
do not cover the whole domain of esthetic human culture. Pride of profession is
one of the boniest bones in existence, if not the boniest. Without doubt it is
so in the hive.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap15"></a>

TAMING THE BICYCLE</h2>

<p>
(Written about 1893; not before published)
</p>

<p>
In the early eighties Mark Twain learned to ride one of the old high-wheel
bicycles of that period. He wrote an account of his experience, but did not
offer it for publication. The form of bicycle he rode long ago became
antiquated, but in the humor of his pleasantry is a quality which does not grow
old.
</p>

<p>
A. B. P. I
</p>

<p>
I thought the matter over, and concluded I could do it. So I went down and
bought a barrel of Pond&rsquo;s Extract and a bicycle. The Expert came home
with me to instruct me. We chose the back yard, for the sake of privacy, and
went to work.
</p>

<p>
Mine was not a full-grown bicycle, but only a colt&mdash;a fifty-inch, with the
pedals shortened up to forty-eight&mdash;and skittish, like any other colt. The
Expert explained the thing&rsquo;s points briefly, then he got on its back and
rode around a little, to show me how easy it was to do. He said that the
dismounting was perhaps the hardest thing to learn, and so we would leave that
to the last. But he was in error there. He found, to his surprise and joy, that
all that he needed to do was to get me on to the machine and stand out of the
way; I could get off, myself. Although I was wholly inexperienced, I dismounted
in the best time on record. He was on that side, shoving up the machine; we all
came down with a crash, he at the bottom, I next, and the machine on top.
</p>

<p>
We examined the machine, but it was not in the least injured. This was hardly
believable. Yet the Expert assured me that it was true; in fact, the
examination proved it. I was partly to realize, then, how admirably these
things are constructed. We applied some Pond&rsquo;s Extract, and resumed. The
Expert got on the <i>other </i>side to shove up this time, but I dismounted on
that side; so the result was as before.
</p>

<p>
The machine was not hurt. We oiled ourselves up again, and resumed. This time
the Expert took up a sheltered position behind, but somehow or other we landed
on him again.
</p>

<p>
He was full of surprised admiration; said it was abnormal. She was all right,
not a scratch on her, not a timber started anywhere. I said it was wonderful,
while we were greasing up, but he said that when I came to know these steel
spider-webs I would realize that nothing but dynamite could cripple them. Then
he limped out to position, and we resumed once more. This time the Expert took
up the position of short-stop, and got a man to shove up behind. We got up a
handsome speed, and presently traversed a brick, and I went out over the top of
the tiller and landed, head down, on the instructor&rsquo;s back, and saw the
machine fluttering in the air between me and the sun. It was well it came down
on us, for that broke the fall, and it was not injured.
</p>

<p>
Five days later I got out and was carried down to the hospital, and found the
Expert doing pretty fairly. In a few more days I was quite sound. I attribute
this to my prudence in always dismounting on something soft. Some recommend a
feather bed, but I think an Expert is better.
</p>

<p>
The Expert got out at last, brought four assistants with him. It was a good
idea. These four held the graceful cobweb upright while I climbed into the
saddle; then they formed in column and marched on either side of me while the
Expert pushed behind; all hands assisted at the dismount.
</p>

<p>
The bicycle had what is called the &ldquo;wabbles,&rdquo; and had them very
badly. In order to keep my position, a good many things were required of me,
and in every instance the thing required was against nature. Against nature,
but not against the laws of nature. That is to say, that whatever the needed
thing might be, my nature, habit, and breeding moved me to attempt it in one
way, while some immutable and unsuspected law of physics required that it be
done in just the other way. I perceived by this how radically and grotesquely
wrong had been the life-long education of my body and members. They were
steeped in ignorance; they knew nothing&mdash;nothing which it could profit
them to know. For instance, if I found myself falling to the right, I put the
tiller hard down the other way, by a quite natural impulse, and so violated a
law, and kept on going down. The law required the opposite thing&mdash;the big
wheel must be turned in the direction in which you are falling. It is hard to
believe this, when you are told it. And not merely hard to believe it, but
impossible; it is opposed to all your notions. And it is just as hard to do it,
after you do come to believe it. Believing it, and knowing by the most
convincing proof that it is true, does not help it: you can&rsquo;t any more DO
it than you could before; you can neither force nor persuade yourself to do it
at first. The intellect has to come to the front, now. It has to teach the
limbs to discard their old education and adopt the new.
</p>

<p>
The steps of one&rsquo;s progress are distinctly marked. At the end of each
lesson he knows he has acquired something, and he also knows what that
something is, and likewise that it will stay with him. It is not like studying
German, where you mull along, in a groping, uncertain way, for thirty years;
and at last, just as you think you&rsquo;ve got it, they spring the subjunctive
on you, and there you are. No&mdash;and I see now, plainly enough, that the
great pity about the German language is, that you can&rsquo;t fall off it and
hurt yourself. There is nothing like that feature to make you attend strictly
to business. But I also see, by what I have learned of bicycling, that the
right and only sure way to learn German is by the bicycling method. That is to
say, take a grip on one villainy of it at a time, and learn it&mdash;not ease
up and shirk to the next, leaving that one half learned.
</p>

<p>
When you have reached the point in bicycling where you can balance the machine
tolerably fairly and propel it and steer it, then comes your next
task&mdash;how to mount it. You do it in this way: you hop along behind it on
your right foot, resting the other on the mounting-peg, and grasping the tiller
with your hands. At the word, you rise on the peg, stiffen your left leg, hang
your other one around in the air in a general in indefinite way, lean your
stomach against the rear of the saddle, and then fall off, maybe on one side,
maybe on the other; but you fall off. You get up and do it again; and once
more; and then several times.
</p>

<p>
By this time you have learned to keep your balance; and also to steer without
wrenching the tiller out by the roots (I say tiller because it IS a tiller;
&ldquo;handle-bar&rdquo; is a lamely descriptive phrase). So you steer along,
straight ahead, a little while, then you rise forward, with a steady strain,
bringing your right leg, and then your body, into the saddle, catch your
breath, fetch a violent hitch this way and then that, and down you go again.
</p>

<p>
But you have ceased to mind the going down by this time; you are getting to
light on one foot or the other with considerable certainty. Six more attempts
and six more falls make you perfect. You land in the saddle comfortably, next
time, and stay there&mdash;that is, if you can be content to let your legs
dangle, and leave the pedals alone a while; but if you grab at once for the
pedals, you are gone again. You soon learn to wait a little and perfect your
balance before reaching for the pedals; then the mounting-art is acquired, is
complete, and a little practice will make it simple and easy to you, though
spectators ought to keep off a rod or two to one side, along at first, if you
have nothing against them.
</p>

<p>
And now you come to the voluntary dismount; you learned the other kind first of
all. It is quite easy to tell one how to do the voluntary dismount; the words
are few, the requirement simple, and apparently undifficult; let your left
pedal go down till your left leg is nearly straight, turn your wheel to the
left, and get off as you would from a horse. It certainly does sound
exceedingly easy; but it isn&rsquo;t. I don&rsquo;t know why it isn&rsquo;t but
it isn&rsquo;t. Try as you may, you don&rsquo;t get down as you would from a
horse, you get down as you would from a house afire. You make a spectacle of
yourself every time.
</p>

<p>
II
</p>

<p>
During the eight days I took a daily lesson of an hour and a half. At the end
of this twelve working-hours&rsquo; apprenticeship I was graduated&mdash;in the
rough. I was pronounced competent to paddle my own bicycle without outside
help. It seems incredible, this celerity of acquirement. It takes considerably
longer than that to learn horseback-riding in the rough.
</p>

<p>
Now it is true that I could have learned without a teacher, but it would have
been risky for me, because of my natural clumsiness. The self-taught man seldom
knows anything accurately, and he does not know a tenth as much as he could
have known if he had worked under teachers; and, besides, he brags, and is the
means of fooling other thoughtless people into going and doing as he himself
has done. There are those who imagine that the unlucky accidents of
life&mdash;life&rsquo;s &ldquo;experiences&rdquo;&mdash;are in some way useful
to us. I wish I could find out how. I never knew one of them to happen twice.
They always change off and swap around and catch you on your inexperienced
side. If personal experience can be worth anything as an education, it
wouldn&rsquo;t seem likely that you could trip Methuselah; and yet if that old
person could come back here it is more than likely that one of the first things
he would do would be to take hold of one of these electric wires and tie
himself all up in a knot. Now the surer thing and the wiser thing would be for
him to ask somebody whether it was a good thing to take hold of. But that would
not suit him; he would be one of the self-taught kind that go by experience; he
would want to examine for himself. And he would find, for his instruction, that
the coiled patriarch shuns the electric wire; and it would be useful to him,
too, and would leave his education in quite a complete and rounded-out
condition, till he should come again, some day, and go to bouncing a
dynamite-can around to find out what was in it.
</p>

<p>
But we wander from the point. However, get a teacher; it saves much time and
Pond&rsquo;s Extract.
</p>

<p>
Before taking final leave of me, my instructor inquired concerning my physical
strength, and I was able to inform him that I hadn&rsquo;t any. He said that
that was a defect which would make up-hill wheeling pretty difficult for me at
first; but he also said the bicycle would soon remove it. The contrast between
his muscles and mine was quite marked. He wanted to test mine, so I offered my
biceps&mdash;which was my best. It almost made him smile. He said, &ldquo;It is
pulpy, and soft, and yielding, and rounded; it evades pressure, and glides from
under the fingers; in the dark a body might think it was an oyster in a
rag.&rdquo; Perhaps this made me look grieved, for he added, briskly:
&ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s all right, you needn&rsquo;t worry about that; in a
little while you can&rsquo;t tell it from a petrified kidney. Just go right
along with your practice; you&rsquo;re all right.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then he left me, and I started out alone to seek adventures. You don&rsquo;t
really have to seek them&mdash;that is nothing but a phrase&mdash;they come to
you.
</p>

<p>
I chose a reposeful Sabbath-day sort of a back street which was about thirty
yards wide between the curbstones. I knew it was not wide enough; still, I
thought that by keeping strict watch and wasting no space unnecessarily I could
crowd through.
</p>

<p>
Of course I had trouble mounting the machine, entirely on my own
responsibility, with no encouraging moral support from the outside, no
sympathetic instructor to say, &ldquo;Good! now you&rsquo;re doing
well&mdash;good again&mdash;don&rsquo;t hurry&mdash;there, now, you&rsquo;re
all right&mdash;brace up, go ahead.&rdquo; In place of this I had some other
support. This was a boy, who was perched on a gate-post munching a hunk of
maple sugar.
</p>

<p>
He was full of interest and comment. The first time I failed and went down he
said that if he was me he would dress up in pillows, that&rsquo;s what he would
do. The next time I went down he advised me to go and learn to ride a tricycle
first. The third time I collapsed he said he didn&rsquo;t believe I could stay
on a horse-car. But the next time I succeeded, and got clumsily under way in a
weaving, tottering, uncertain fashion, and occupying pretty much all of the
street. My slow and lumbering gait filled the boy to the chin with scorn, and
he sung out, &ldquo;My, but don&rsquo;t he rip along!&rdquo; Then he got down
from his post and loafed along the sidewalk, still observing and occasionally
commenting. Presently he dropped into my wake and followed along behind. A
little girl passed by, balancing a wash-board on her head, and giggled, and
seemed about to make a remark, but the boy said, rebukingly, &ldquo;Let him
alone, he&rsquo;s going to a funeral.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
I have been familiar with that street for years, and had always supposed it was
a dead level; but it was not, as the bicycle now informed me, to my surprise.
The bicycle, in the hands of a novice, is as alert and acute as a spirit-level
in the detecting of delicate and vanishing shades of difference in these
matters. It notices a rise where your untrained eye would not observe that one
existed; it notices any decline which water will run down. I was toiling up a
slight rise, but was not aware of it. It made me tug and pant and perspire; and
still, labor as I might, the machine came almost to a standstill every little
while. At such times the boy would say: &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it! take a
rest&mdash;there ain&rsquo;t no hurry. They can&rsquo;t hold the funeral
without YOU.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Stones were a bother to me. Even the smallest ones gave me a panic when I went
over them. I could hit any kind of a stone, no matter how small, if I tried to
miss it; and of course at first I couldn&rsquo;t help trying to do that. It is
but natural. It is part of the ass that is put in us all, for some inscrutable
reason.
</p>

<p>
I was at the end of my course, at last, and it was necessary for me to round
to. This is not a pleasant thing, when you undertake it for the first time on
your own responsibility, and neither is it likely to succeed. Your confidence
oozes away, you fill steadily up with nameless apprehensions, every fiber of
you is tense with a watchful strain, you start a cautious and gradual curve,
but your squirmy nerves are all full of electric anxieties, so the curve is
quickly demoralized into a jerky and perilous zigzag; then suddenly the
nickel-clad horse takes the bit in its mouth and goes slanting for the
curbstone, defying all prayers and all your powers to change its
mind&mdash;your heart stands still, your breath hangs fire, your legs forget to
work, straight on you go, and there are but a couple of feet between you and
the curb now. And now is the desperate moment, the last chance to save
yourself; of course all your instructions fly out of your head, and you whirl
your wheel AWAY from the curb instead of TOWARD it, and so you go sprawling on
that granite-bound inhospitable shore. That was my luck; that was my
experience. I dragged myself out from under the indestructible bicycle and sat
down on the curb to examine.
</p>

<p>
I started on the return trip. It was now that I saw a farmer&rsquo;s wagon
poking along down toward me, loaded with cabbages. If I needed anything to
perfect the precariousness of my steering, it was just that. The farmer was
occupying the middle of the road with his wagon, leaving barely fourteen or
fifteen yards of space on either side. I couldn&rsquo;t shout at him&mdash;a
beginner can&rsquo;t shout; if he opens his mouth he is gone; he must keep all
his attention on his business. But in this grisly emergency, the boy came to
the rescue, and for once I had to be grateful to him. He kept a sharp lookout
on the swiftly varying impulses and inspirations of my bicycle, and shouted to
the man accordingly:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To the left! Turn to the left, or this jackass &rsquo;ll run over
you!&rdquo; The man started to do it. &ldquo;No, to the right, to the right!
Hold on! THAT won&rsquo;t do!&mdash;to the left!&mdash;to the right!&mdash;to
the LEFT&mdash;right! left&mdash;ri&mdash;Stay where you ARE, or you&rsquo;re a
goner!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And just then I caught the off horse in the starboard and went down in a pile.
I said, &ldquo;Hang it! Couldn&rsquo;t you SEE I was coming?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I see you was coming, but I couldn&rsquo;t tell which WAY you was
coming. Nobody could&mdash;now, <i>could </i>they? You couldn&rsquo;t
yourself&mdash;now, <i>could</i> you? So what could <i>I</i> do?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There was something in that, and so I had the magnanimity to say so. I said I
was no doubt as much to blame as he was.
</p>

<p>
Within the next five days I achieved so much progress that the boy
couldn&rsquo;t keep up with me. He had to go back to his gate-post, and content
himself with watching me fall at long range.
</p>

<p>
There was a row of low stepping-stones across one end of the street, a measured
yard apart. Even after I got so I could steer pretty fairly I was so afraid of
those stones that I always hit them. They gave me the worst falls I ever got in
that street, except those which I got from dogs. I have seen it stated that no
expert is quick enough to run over a dog; that a dog is always able to skip out
of his way. I think that that may be true: but I think that the reason he
couldn&rsquo;t run over the dog was because he was trying to. I did not try to
run over any dog. But I ran over every dog that came along. I think it makes a
great deal of difference. If you try to run over the dog he knows how to
calculate, but if you are trying to miss him he does not know how to calculate,
and is liable to jump the wrong way every time. It was always so in my
experience. Even when I could not hit a wagon I could hit a dog that came to
see me practice. They all liked to see me practice, and they all came, for
there was very little going on in our neighborhood to entertain a dog. It took
time to learn to miss a dog, but I achieved even that.
</p>

<p>
I can steer as well as I want to, now, and I will catch that boy out one of
these days and run over HIM if he doesn&rsquo;t reform.
</p>

<p>
Get a bicycle. You will not regret it, if you live.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap16"></a>

IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?</h2>

<h3>(from <i>My Autobiography</i>)</h3>

<h3>I</h3>

<p>
Scattered here and there through the stacks of unpublished manuscript which
constitute this formidable Autobiography and Diary of mine, certain chapters
will in some distant future be found which deal with
&ldquo;Claimants&rdquo;&mdash;claimants historically notorious: Satan,
Claimant; the Golden Calf, Claimant; the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, Claimant;
Louis XVII., Claimant; William Shakespeare, Claimant; Arthur Orton, Claimant;
Mary Baker G. Eddy, Claimant&mdash;and the rest of them. Eminent Claimants,
successful Claimants, defeated Claimants, royal Claimants, pleb Claimants,
showy Claimants, shabby Claimants, revered Claimants, despised Claimants,
twinkle star-like here and there and yonder through the mists of history and
legend and tradition&mdash;and, oh, all the darling tribe are clothed in
mystery and romance, and we read about them with deep interest and discuss them
with loving sympathy or with rancorous resentment, according to which side we
hitch ourselves to. It has always been so with the human race. There was never
a Claimant that couldn&rsquo;t get a hearing, nor one that couldn&rsquo;t
accumulate a rapturous following, no matter how flimsy and apparently
unauthentic his claim might be. Arthur Orton&rsquo;s claim that he was the lost
Tichborne baronet come to life again was as flimsy as Mrs. Eddy&rsquo;s that
she wrote <i>Science And Health</i> from the direct dictation of the Deity; yet
in England nearly forty years ago Orton had a huge army of devotees and
incorrigible adherents, many of whom remained stubbornly unconvinced after
their fat god had been proven an impostor and jailed as a perjurer, and today
Mrs. Eddy&rsquo;s following is not only immense, but is daily augmenting in
numbers and enthusiasm. Orton had many fine and educated minds among his
adherents, Mrs. Eddy has had the like among hers from the beginning. Her Church
is as well equipped in those particulars as is any other Church. Claimants can
always count upon a following, it doesn&rsquo;t matter who they are, nor what
they claim, nor whether they come with documents or without. It was always so.
Down out of the long-vanished past, across the abyss of the ages, if you
listen, you can still hear the believing multitudes shouting for Perkin Warbeck
and Lambert Simnel.
</p>

<p>
A friend has sent me a new book, from England&mdash;<i>The Shakespeare Problem
Restated</i>&mdash;well restated and closely reasoned; and my fifty
years&rsquo; interest in that matter&mdash;asleep for the last three
years&mdash;is excited once more. It is an interest which was born of Delia
Bacon&rsquo;s book&mdash;away back in that ancient day&mdash;1857, or maybe
1856. About a year later my pilot-master, Bixby, transferred me from his own
steamboat to the <i>Pennsylvania</i>, and placed me under the orders and
instructions of George Ealer&mdash;dead now, these many, many years. I steered
for him a good many months&mdash;as was the humble duty of the
pilot-apprentice: stood a daylight watch and spun the wheel under the severe
superintendence and correction of the master. He was a prime chess-player and
an idolater of Shakespeare. He would play chess with anybody; even with me, and
it cost his official dignity something to do that. Also&mdash;quite
uninvited&mdash;he would read Shakespeare to me; not just casually, but by the
hour, when it was his watch and I was steering. He read well, but not
profitably for me, because he constantly injected commands into the text. That
broke it all up, mixed it all up, tangled it all up&mdash;to that degree, in
fact, that if we were in a risky and difficult piece of river an ignorant
person couldn&rsquo;t have told, sometimes, which observations were
Shakespeare&rsquo;s and which were Ealer&rsquo;s. For instance:
</p>

<p class="letter">
What man dare, <i>I</i> dare!<br/>
    Approach thou <i>what</i> are you laying in the leads for? what a hell of
an idea! like the rugged ease her off a little, ease her off! rugged Russian
bear, the armed rhinoceros or the <i>there</i> she goes! meet her, meet her!
didn&rsquo;t you <i>know</i> she&rsquo;d smell the reef if you crowded it like
that? Hyrcan tiger; take any shape but that and my firm nerves she&rsquo;ll be
in the <i>woods</i> the first you know! stop the starboard! come ahead strong
on the larboard! back the starboard!... <i>now</i> then, you&rsquo;re all
right; come ahead on the starboard; straighten up and go &rsquo;long, never
tremble: or be alive again, and dare me to the desert <i>damnation</i>
can&rsquo;t you keep away from that greasy water? pull her down! snatch her!
snatch her baldheaded! with thy sword; if trembling I inhabit then, lay in the
leads!&mdash;no, only with the starboard one, leave the other alone, protest me
the baby of a girl. Hence horrible shadow! eight bells&mdash;that
watchman&rsquo;s asleep again, I reckon, go down and call Brown yourself,
unreal mockery, hence!
</p>

<p>
He certainly was a good reader, and splendidly thrilling and stormy and tragic,
but it was a damage to me, because I have never since been able to read
Shakespeare in a calm and sane way. I cannot rid it of his explosive
interlardings, they break in everywhere with their irrelevant, &ldquo;What in
hell are you up to <i>now</i>! pull her down! more! <i>More!</i>&mdash;there
now, steady as you go,&rdquo; and the other disorganizing interruptions that
were always leaping from his mouth. When I read Shakespeare now I can hear them
as plainly as I did in that long-departed time&mdash;fifty-one years ago. I
never regarded Ealer&rsquo;s readings as educational. Indeed, they were a
detriment to me.
</p>

<p>
His contributions to the text seldom improved it, but barring that detail he
was a good reader; I can say that much for him. He did not use the book, and
did not need to; he knew his Shakespeare as well as Euclid ever knew his
multiplication table.
</p>

<p>
Did he have something to say&mdash;this Shakespeare-adoring Mississippi
pilot&mdash;anent Delia Bacon&rsquo;s book?
</p>

<p>
Yes. And he said it; said it all the time, for months&mdash;in the morning
watch, the middle watch, and dog watch; and probably kept it going in his
sleep. He bought the literature of the dispute as fast as it appeared, and we
discussed it all through thirteen hundred miles of river four times traversed
in every thirty-five days&mdash;the time required by that swift boat to achieve
two round trips. We discussed, and discussed, and discussed, and disputed and
disputed and disputed; at any rate, <i>he</i> did, and I got in a word now and
then when he slipped a cog and there was a vacancy. He did his arguing with
heat, with energy, with violence; and I did mine with the reserve and
moderation of a subordinate who does not like to be flung out of a pilot-house
that is perched forty feet above the water. He was fiercely loyal to
Shakespeare and cordially scornful of Bacon and of all the pretensions of the
Baconians. So was I&mdash;at first. And at first he was glad that that was my
attitude. There were even indications that he admired it; indications dimmed,
it is true, by the distance that lay between the lofty boss-pilotical altitude
and my lowly one, yet perceptible to me; perceptible, and translatable into a
compliment&mdash;compliment coming down from above the snow-line and not well
thawed in the transit, and not likely to set anything afire, not even a
cub-pilot&rsquo;s self-conceit; still a detectable complement, and precious.
</p>

<p>
Naturally it flattered me into being more loyal to Shakespeare&mdash;if
possible&mdash;than I was before, and more prejudiced against Bacon&mdash;if
possible&mdash;than I was before. And so we discussed and discussed, both on
the same side, and were happy. For a while. Only for a while. Only for a very
little while, a very, very, very little while. Then the atmosphere began to
change; began to cool off.
</p>

<p>
A brighter person would have seen what the trouble was, earlier than I did,
perhaps, but I saw it early enough for all practical purposes. You see, he was
of an argumentative disposition. Therefore it took him but a little time to get
tired of arguing with a person who agreed with everything he said and
consequently never furnished him a provocative to flare up and show what he
could do when it came to clear, cold, hard, rose-cut, hundred-faceted,
diamond-flashing <i>reasoning</i>. That was his name for it. It has been
applied since, with complacency, as many as several times, in the
Bacon-Shakespeare scuffle. On the Shakespeare side.
</p>

<p>
Then the thing happened which has happened to more persons than to me when
principle and personal interest found themselves in opposition to each other
and a choice had to be made: I let principle go, and went over to the other
side. Not the entire way, but far enough to answer the requirements of the
case. That is to say, I took this attitude&mdash;to wit, I only <i>believed</i>
Bacon wrote Shakespeare, whereas I <i>knew</i> Shakespeare didn&rsquo;t. Ealer
was satisfied with that, and the war broke loose. Study, practice, experience
in handling my end of the matter presently enabled me to take my new position
almost seriously; a little bit later, utterly seriously; a little later still,
lovingly, gratefully, devotedly; finally: fiercely, rabidly, uncompromisingly.
After that I was welded to my faith, I was theoretically ready to die for it,
and I looked down with compassion not unmixed with scorn upon everybody
else&rsquo;s faith that didn&rsquo;t tally with mine. That faith, imposed upon
me by self-interest in that ancient day, remains my faith today, and in it I
find comfort, solace, peace, and never-failing joy. You see how curiously
theological it is. The &ldquo;rice Christian&rdquo; of the Orient goes through
the very same steps, when he is after rice and the missionary is after
<i>him</i>; he goes for rice, and remains to worship.
</p>

<p>
Ealer did a lot of our &ldquo;reasoning&rdquo;&mdash;not to say substantially
all of it. The slaves of his cult have a passion for calling it by that large
name. We others do not call our inductions and deductions and reductions by any
name at all. They show for themselves what they are, and we can with tranquil
confidence leave the world to ennoble them with a title of its own choosing.
</p>

<p>
Now and then when Ealer had to stop to cough, I pulled my induction-talents
together and hove the controversial lead myself: always getting eight feet,
eight and a half, often nine, sometimes even quarter-less-twain&mdash;as
<i>I</i> believed; but always &ldquo;no bottom,&rdquo; as <i>he</i> said.
</p>

<p>
I got the best of him only once. I prepared myself. I wrote out a passage from
Shakespeare&mdash;it may have been the very one I quoted awhile ago, I
don&rsquo;t remember&mdash;and riddled it with his wild steamboatful
interlardings. When an unrisky opportunity offered, one lovely summer day, when
we had sounded and buoyed a tangled patch of crossings known as Hell&rsquo;s
Half Acre, and were aboard again and he had sneaked the <i>Pennsylvania</i>
triumphantly through it without once scraping sand, and the <i>A. T. Lacey</i>
had followed in our wake and got stuck, and he was feeling good, I showed it to
him. It amused him. I asked him to fire it off&mdash;<i>read</i> it; read it, I
diplomatically added, as only <i>he</i> could read dramatic poetry. The
compliment touched him where he lived. He did read it; read it with surpassing
fire and spirit; read it as it will never be read again; for <i>he</i> knew how
to put the right music into those thunderous interlardings and make them seem a
part of the text, make them sound as if they were bursting from
Shakespeare&rsquo;s own soul, each one of them a golden inspiration and not to
be left out without damage to the massed and magnificent whole.
</p>

<p>
I waited a week, to let the incident fade; waited longer; waited until he
brought up for reasonings and vituperation my pet position, my pet argument,
the one which I was fondest of, the one which I prized far above all others in
my ammunition-wagon&mdash;to wit, that Shakespeare couldn&rsquo;t have written
Shakespeare&rsquo;s works, for the reason that the man who wrote them was
limitlessly familiar with the laws, and the law-courts, and law-proceedings,
and lawyer-talk, and lawyer-ways&mdash;and if Shakespeare was possessed of the
infinitely divided star-dust that constituted this vast wealth, <i>how</i> did
he get it, and <i>where</i> and <i>when</i>?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;From books.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
From books! That was always the idea. I answered as my readings of the
champions of my side of the great controversy had taught me to answer: that a
man can&rsquo;t handle glibly and easily and comfortably and successfully the
argot of a trade at which he has not personally served. He will make mistakes;
he will not, and cannot, get the trade-phrasings precisely and exactly right;
and the moment he departs, by even a shade, from a common trade-form, the
reader who has served that trade will know the writer <i>hasn&rsquo;t</i>.
Ealer would not be convinced; he said a man could learn how to correctly handle
the subtleties and mysteries and free-masonries of <i>any</i> trade by careful
reading and studying. But when I got him to read again the passage from
Shakespeare with the interlardings, he perceived, himself, that books
couldn&rsquo;t teach a student a bewildering multitude of pilot-phrases so
thoroughly and perfectly that he could talk them off in book and play or
conversation and make no mistake that a pilot would not immediately discover.
It was a triumph for me. He was silent awhile, and I knew what was
happening&mdash;he was losing his temper. And I knew he would presently close
the session with the same old argument that was always his stay and his support
in time of need; the same old argument, the one I couldn&rsquo;t answer,
because I dasn&rsquo;t&mdash;the argument that I was an ass, and better shut
up. He delivered it, and I obeyed.
</p>

<p>
O dear, how long ago it was&mdash;how pathetically long ago! And here am I,
old, forsaken, forlorn, and alone, arranging to get that argument out of
somebody again.
</p>

<p>
When a man has a passion for Shakespeare, it goes without saying that he keeps
company with other standard authors. Ealer always had several high-class books
in the pilot-house, and he read the same ones over and over again, and did not
care to change to newer and fresher ones. He played well on the flute, and
greatly enjoyed hearing himself play. So did I. He had a notion that a flute
would keep its health better if you took it apart when it was not standing a
watch; and so, when it was not on duty it took its rest, disjointed, on the
compass-shelf under the breastboard. When the <i>Pennsylvania</i> blew up and
became a drifting rack-heap freighted with wounded and dying poor souls (my
young brother Henry among them), pilot Brown had the watch below, and was
probably asleep and never knew what killed him; but Ealer escaped unhurt. He
and his pilot-house were shot up into the air; then they fell, and Ealer sank
through the ragged cavern where the hurricane-deck and the boiler-deck had
been, and landed in a nest of ruins on the main deck, on top of one of the
unexploded boilers, where he lay prone in a fog of scald and deadly steam. But
not for long. He did not lose his head&mdash;long familiarity with danger had
taught him to keep it, in any and all emergencies. He held his coat-lapels to
his nose with one hand, to keep out the steam, and scrabbled around with the
other till he found the joints of his flute, then he took measures to save
himself alive, and was successful. I was not on board. I had been put ashore in
New Orleans by Captain Klinefelter. The reason&mdash;however, I have told all
about it in the book called <i>Old Times On The Mississippi</i>, and it
isn&rsquo;t important, anyway, it is so long ago.
</p>

<h3>II</h3>

<p>
When I was a Sunday-school scholar, something more than sixty years ago, I
became interested in Satan, and wanted to find out all I could about him. I
began to ask questions, but my class-teacher, Mr. Barclay, the stone-mason, was
reluctant about answering them, it seemed to me. I was anxious to be praised
for turning my thoughts to serious subjects when there wasn&rsquo;t another boy
in the village who could be hired to do such a thing. I was greatly interested
in the incident of Eve and the serpent, and thought Eve&rsquo;s calmness was
perfectly noble. I asked Mr. Barclay if he had ever heard of another woman who,
being approached by a serpent, would not excuse herself and break for the
nearest timber. He did not answer my question, but rebuked me for inquiring
into matters above my age and comprehension. I will say for Mr. Barclay that he
was willing to tell me the facts of Satan&rsquo;s history, but he stopped
there: he wouldn&rsquo;t allow any discussion of them.
</p>

<p>
In the course of time we exhausted the facts. There were only five or six of
them; you could set them all down on a visiting-card. I was disappointed. I had
been meditating a biography, and was grieved to find that there were no
materials. I said as much, with the tears running down. Mr. Barclay&rsquo;s
sympathy and compassion were aroused, for he was a most kind and
gentle-spirited man, and he patted me on the head and cheered me up by saying
there was a whole vast ocean of materials! I can still feel the happy thrill
which these blessed words shot through me.
</p>

<p>
Then he began to bail out that ocean&rsquo;s riches for my encouragement and
joy. Like this: it was &ldquo;conjectured&rdquo;&mdash;though not
established&mdash;that Satan was originally an angel in Heaven; that he fell;
that he rebelled, and brought on a war; that he was defeated, and banished to
perdition. Also, &ldquo;we have reason to believe&rdquo; that later he did so
and so; that &ldquo;we are warranted in supposing&rdquo; that at a subsequent
time he traveled extensively, seeking whom he might devour; that a couple of
centuries afterward, &ldquo;as tradition instructs us,&rdquo; he took up the
cruel trade of tempting people to their ruin, with vast and fearful results;
that by and by, &ldquo;as the probabilities seem to indicate,&rdquo; he may
have done certain things, he might have done certain other things, he must have
done still other things.
</p>

<p>
And so on and so on. We set down the five known facts by themselves on a piece
of paper, and numbered it &ldquo;page 1&rdquo;; then on fifteen hundred other
pieces of paper we set down the &ldquo;conjectures,&rdquo; and
&ldquo;suppositions,&rdquo; and &ldquo;maybes,&rdquo; and
&ldquo;perhapses,&rdquo; and &ldquo;doubtlesses,&rdquo; and
&ldquo;rumors,&rdquo; and &ldquo;guesses,&rdquo; and
&ldquo;probabilities,&rdquo; and &ldquo;likelihoods,&rdquo; and &ldquo;we are
permitted to thinks,&rdquo; and &ldquo;we are warranted in believings,&rdquo;
and &ldquo;might have beens,&rdquo; and &ldquo;could have beens,&rdquo; and
&ldquo;must have beens,&rdquo; and &ldquo;unquestionablys,&rdquo; and
&ldquo;without a shadow of doubts&rdquo;&mdash;and behold!
</p>

<p>
<i>Materials?</i> Why, we had enough to build a biography of Shakespeare!
</p>

<p>
Yet he made me put away my pen; he would not let me write the history of Satan.
Why? Because, as he said, he had suspicions&mdash;suspicions that my attitude
in that matter was not reverent, and that a person must be reverent when
writing about the sacred characters. He said any one who spoke flippantly of
Satan would be frowned upon by the religious world and also be brought to
account.
</p>

<p>
I assured him, in earnest and sincere words, that he had wholly misconceived my
attitude; that I had the highest respect for Satan, and that my reverence for
him equaled, and possibly even exceeded, that of any member of any church. I
said it wounded me deeply to perceive by his words that he thought I would make
fun of Satan, and deride him, laugh at him, scoff at him; whereas in truth I
had never thought of such a thing, but had only a warm desire to make fun of
those others and laugh at <i>them</i>. &ldquo;What others?&rdquo; &ldquo;Why,
the Supposers, the Perhapsers, the Might-Have-Beeners, the Could-Have-Beeners,
the Must-Have-Beeners, the Without-a-Shadow-of-Doubters, the
We-Are-Warranted-in-Believingers, and all that funny crop of solemn architects
who have taken a good solid foundation of five indisputable and unimportant
facts and built upon it a Conjectural Satan thirty miles high.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
What did Mr. Barclay do then? Was he disarmed? Was he silenced? No. He was
shocked. He was so shocked that he visibly shuddered. He said the Satanic
Traditioners and Perhapsers and Conjecturers were <i>themselves</i> sacred! As
sacred as their work. So sacred that whoso ventured to mock them or make fun of
their work, could not afterward enter any respectable house, even by the back
door.
</p>

<p>
How true were his words, and how wise! How fortunate it would have been for me
if I had heeded them. But I was young, I was but seven years of age, and vain,
foolish, and anxious to attract attention. I wrote the biography, and have
never been in a respectable house since.
</p>

<h3>III</h3>

<p>
How curious and interesting is the parallel&mdash;as far as poverty of
biographical details is concerned&mdash;between Satan and Shakespeare. It is
wonderful, it is unique, it stands quite alone, there is nothing resembling it
in history, nothing resembling it in romance, nothing approaching it even in
tradition. How sublime is their position, and how over-topping, how
sky-reaching, how supreme&mdash;the two Great Unknowns, the two Illustrious
Conjecturabilities! They are the best-known unknown persons that have ever
drawn breath upon the planet.
</p>

<p>
For the instruction of the ignorant I will make a list, now, of those details
of Shakespeare&rsquo;s history which are <i>facts</i>&mdash;verified facts,
established facts, undisputed facts.
</p>

<h3>FACTS</h3>

<p>
He was born on the 23d of April, 1564.
</p>

<p>
Of good farmer-class parents who could not read, could not write, could not
sign their names.
</p>

<p>
At Stratford, a small back settlement which in that day was shabby and unclean,
and densely illiterate. Of the nineteen important men charged with the
government of the town, thirteen had to &ldquo;make their mark&rdquo; in
attesting important documents, because they could not write their names.
</p>

<p>
Of the first eighteen years of his life <i>nothing</i> is known. They are a
blank.
</p>

<p>
On the 27th of November (1582) William Shakespeare took out a license to marry
Anne Whateley.
</p>

<p>
Next day William Shakespeare took out a license to marry Anne Hathaway. She was
eight years his senior.
</p>

<p>
William Shakespeare married Anne Hathaway. In a hurry. By grace of a
reluctantly granted dispensation there was but one publication of the banns.
</p>

<p>
Within six months the first child was born.
</p>

<p>
About two (blank) years followed, during which period <i>nothing at all
happened to Shakespeare</i>, so far as anybody knows.
</p>

<p>
Then came twins&mdash;1585. February.
</p>

<p>
Two blank years follow.
</p>

<p>
Then&mdash;1587&mdash;he makes a ten-year visit to London, leaving the family
behind.
</p>

<p>
Five blank years follow. During this period <i>nothing happened to him</i>, as
far as anybody actually knows.
</p>

<p>
Then&mdash;1592&mdash;there is mention of him as an actor.
</p>

<p>
Next year&mdash;1593&mdash;his name appears in the official list of players.
</p>

<p>
Next year&mdash;1594&mdash;he played before the queen. A detail of no
consequence: other obscurities did it every year of the forty-five of her
reign. And remained obscure.
</p>

<p>
Three pretty full years follow. Full of play-acting. Then
</p>

<p>
In 1597 he bought New Place, Stratford.
</p>

<p>
Thirteen or fourteen busy years follow; years in which he accumulated money,
and also reputation as actor and manager.
</p>

<p>
Meantime his name, liberally and variously spelt, had become associated with a
number of great plays and poems, as (ostensibly) author of the same.
</p>

<p>
Some of these, in these years and later, were pirated, but he made no protest.
</p>

<p>
Then&mdash;1610-11&mdash;he returned to Stratford and settled down for good and
all, and busied himself in lending money, trading in tithes, trading in land
and houses; shirking a debt of forty-one shillings, borrowed by his wife during
his long desertion of his family; suing debtors for shillings and coppers;
being sued himself for shillings and coppers; and acting as confederate to a
neighbor who tried to rob the town of its rights in a certain common, and did
not succeed.
</p>

<p>
He lived five or six years&mdash;till 1616&mdash;in the joy of these elevated
pursuits. Then he made a will, and signed each of its three pages with his
name.
</p>

<p>
A thoroughgoing business man&rsquo;s will. It named in minute detail every item
of property he owned in the world&mdash;houses, lands, sword, silver-gilt bowl,
and so on&mdash;all the way down to his &ldquo;second-best bed&rdquo; and its
furniture.
</p>

<p>
It carefully and calculatingly distributed his riches among the members of his
family, overlooking no individual of it. Not even his wife: the wife he had
been enabled to marry in a hurry by urgent grace of a special dispensation
before he was nineteen; the wife whom he had left husbandless so many years;
the wife who had had to borrow forty-one shillings in her need, and which the
lender was never able to collect of the prosperous husband, but died at last
with the money still lacking. No, even this wife was remembered in
Shakespeare&rsquo;s will.
</p>

<p>
He left her that &ldquo;second-best bed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And <i>not another thing</i>; not even a penny to bless her lucky widowhood
with.
</p>

<p>
It was eminently and conspicuously a business man&rsquo;s will, not a
poet&rsquo;s.
</p>

<p>
It mentioned <i>not a single book</i>.
</p>

<p>
Books were much more precious than swords and silver-gilt bowls and second-best
beds in those days, and when a departing person owned one he gave it a high
place in his will.
</p>

<p>
The will mentioned <i>not a play, not a poem, not an unfinished literary work,
not a scrap of manuscript of any kind</i>.
</p>

<p>
Many poets have died poor, but this is the only one in history that has died
<i>this</i> poor; the others all left literary remains behind. Also a book.
Maybe two.
</p>

<p>
If Shakespeare had owned a dog&mdash;but we need not go into that: we know he
would have mentioned it in his will. If a good dog, Susanna would have got it;
if an inferior one his wife would have got a dower interest in it. I wish he
had had a dog, just so we could see how painstakingly he would have divided
that dog among the family, in his careful business way.
</p>

<p>
He signed the will in three places.
</p>

<p>
In earlier years he signed two other official documents.
</p>

<p>
These five signatures still exist.
</p>

<p>
There are <i>no other specimens of his penmanship in existence</i>. Not a line.
</p>

<p>
Was he prejudiced against the art? His granddaughter, whom he loved, was eight
years old when he died, yet she had had no teaching, he left no provision for
her education, although he was rich, and in her mature womanhood she
couldn&rsquo;t write and couldn&rsquo;t tell her husband&rsquo;s manuscript
from anybody else&rsquo;s&mdash;she thought it was Shakespeare&rsquo;s.
</p>

<p>
When Shakespeare died in Stratford, <i>it was not an event</i>. It made no more
stir in England than the death of any other forgotten theater-actor would have
made. Nobody came down from London; there were no lamenting poems, no eulogies,
no national tears&mdash;there was merely silence, and nothing more. A striking
contrast with what happened when Ben Jonson, and Francis Bacon, and Spenser,
and Raleigh, and the other distinguished literary folk of Shakespeare&rsquo;s
time passed from life! No praiseful voice was lifted for the lost Bard of Avon;
even Ben Jonson waited seven years before he lifted his.
</p>

<p>
<i>So far as anybody actually knows and can prove</i>, Shakespeare of
Stratford-on-Avon never wrote a play in his life.
</p>

<p>
<i>So far as anybody knows and can prove</i>, he never wrote a letter to
anybody in his life.
</p>

<p>
<i>So far as any one knows, he received only one letter during his life</i>.
</p>

<p>
So far as any one <i>knows and can prove</i>, Shakespeare of Stratford wrote
only one poem during his life. This one is authentic. He did write that
one&mdash;a fact which stands undisputed; he wrote the whole of it; he wrote
the whole of it out of his own head. He commanded that this work of art be
engraved upon his tomb, and he was obeyed. There it abides to this day. This is
it:
</p>

<p class="poem">
Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare<br/>
To digg the dust encloased heare:<br/>
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones<br/>
And curst be he yt moves my bones.
</p>

<p>
In the list as above set down will be found <i>every positively known</i> fact
of Shakespeare&rsquo;s life, lean and meager as the invoice is. Beyond these
details we know <i>not a thing</i> about him. All the rest of his vast history,
as furnished by the biographers, is built up, course upon course, of guesses,
inferences, theories, conjectures&mdash;an Eiffel Tower of artificialities
rising sky-high from a very flat and very thin foundation of inconsequential
facts.
</p>

<h3>IV</h3>

<h3>CONJECTURES</h3>

<p>
The historians &ldquo;suppose&rdquo; that Shakespeare attended the Free School
in Stratford from the time he was seven years old till he was thirteen. There
is no <i>evidence</i> in existence that he ever went to school at all.
</p>

<p>
The historians &ldquo;infer&rdquo; that he got his Latin in that
school&mdash;the school which they &ldquo;suppose&rdquo; he attended.
</p>

<p>
They &ldquo;suppose&rdquo; his father&rsquo;s declining fortunes made it
necessary for him to leave the school they supposed he attended, and get to
work and help support his parents and their ten children. But there is no
evidence that he ever entered or returned from the school they suppose he
attended.
</p>

<p>
They &ldquo;suppose&rdquo; he assisted his father in the butchering business;
and that, being only a boy, he didn&rsquo;t have to do full-grown butchering,
but only slaughtered calves. Also, that whenever he killed a calf he made a
high-flown speech over it. This supposition rests upon the testimony of a man
who wasn&rsquo;t there at the time; a man who got it from a man who could have
been there, but did not say whether he was nor not; and neither of them thought
to mention it for decades, and decades, and decades, and two more decades after
Shakespeare&rsquo;s death (until old age and mental decay had refreshed and
vivified their memories). They hadn&rsquo;t two facts in stock about the
long-dead distinguished citizen, but only just the one: he slaughtered calves
and broke into oratory while he was at it. Curious. They had only one fact, yet
the distinguished citizen had spent twenty-six years in that little
town&mdash;just half his lifetime. However, rightly viewed, it was the most
important fact, indeed almost the only important fact, of Shakespeare&rsquo;s
life in Stratford. Rightly viewed. For experience is an author&rsquo;s most
valuable asset; experience is the thing that puts the muscle and the breath and
the warm blood into the book he writes. Rightly viewed, calf-butchering
accounts for &ldquo;Titus Andronicus,&rdquo; the only play&mdash;ain&rsquo;t
it?&mdash;that the Stratford Shakespeare ever wrote; and yet it is the only one
everybody tried to chouse him out of, the Baconians included.
</p>

<p>
The historians find themselves &ldquo;justified in believing&rdquo; that the
young Shakespeare poached upon Sir Thomas Lucy&rsquo;s deer preserves and got
haled before that magistrate for it. But there is no shred of respectworthy
evidence that anything of the kind happened.
</p>

<p>
The historians, having argued the thing that <i>might</i> have happened into
the thing that <i>did</i> happen, found no trouble in turning Sir Thomas Lucy
into Mr. Justice Shallow. They have long ago convinced the world&mdash;on
surmise and without trustworthy evidence&mdash;that Shallow <i>is</i> Sir
Thomas.
</p>

<p>
The next addition to the young Shakespeare&rsquo;s Stratford history comes
easy. The historian builds it out of the surmised deer-steeling, and the
surmised trial before the magistrate, and the surmised vengeance-prompted
satire upon the magistrate in the play: result, the young Shakespeare was a
wild, wild, wild, oh, <i>such</i> a wild young scamp, and that gratuitous
slander is established for all time! It is the very way Professor Osborn and I
built the colossal skeleton brontosaur that stands fifty-seven feet long and
sixteen feet high in the Natural History Museum, the awe and admiration of all
the world, the stateliest skeleton that exists on the planet. We had nine
bones, and we built the rest of him out of plaster of Paris. We ran short of
plaster of Paris, or we&rsquo;d have built a brontosaur that could sit down
beside the Stratford Shakespeare and none but an expert could tell which was
biggest or contained the most plaster.
</p>

<p>
Shakespeare pronounced &ldquo;Venus and Adonis&rdquo; &ldquo;the first heir of
his invention,&rdquo; apparently implying that it was his first effort at
literary composition. He should not have said it. It has been an embarrassment
to his historians these many, many years. They have to make him write that
graceful and polished and flawless and beautiful poem before he escaped from
Stratford and his family&mdash;1586 or &rsquo;87&mdash;age, twenty-two, or
along there; because within the next five years he wrote five great plays, and
could not have found time to write another line.
</p>

<p>
It is sorely embarrassing. If he began to slaughter calves, and poach deer, and
rollick around, and learn English, at the earliest likely moment&mdash;say at
thirteen, when he was supposably wrenched from that school where he was
supposably storing up Latin for future literary use&mdash;he had his youthful
hands full, and much more than full. He must have had to put aside his
Warwickshire dialect, which wouldn&rsquo;t be understood in London, and study
English very hard. Very hard indeed; incredibly hard, almost, if the result of
that labor was to be the smooth and rounded and flexible and letter-perfect
English of the &ldquo;Venus and Adonis&rdquo; in the space of ten years; and at
the same time learn great and fine and unsurpassable literary <i>form</i>.
</p>

<p>
However, it is &ldquo;conjectured&rdquo; that he accomplished all this and
more, much more: learned law and its intricacies; and the complex procedure of
the law-courts; and all about soldiering, and sailoring, and the manners and
customs and ways of royal courts and aristocratic society; and likewise
accumulated in his one head every kind of knowledge the learned then possessed,
and every kind of humble knowledge possessed by the lowly and the ignorant; and
added thereto a wider and more intimate knowledge of the world&rsquo;s great
literatures, ancient and modern, than was possessed by any other man of his
time&mdash;for he was going to make brilliant and easy and
admiration-compelling use of these splendid treasures the moment he got to
London. And according to the surmisers, that is what he did. Yes, although
there was no one in Stratford able to teach him these things, and no library in
the little village to dig them out of. His father could not read, and even the
surmisers surmise that he did not keep a library.
</p>

<p>
It is surmised by the biographers that the young Shakespeare got his vast
knowledge of the law and his familiar and accurate acquaintance with the
manners and customs and shop-talk of lawyers through being for a time the
<i>clerk of a Stratford court</i>; just as a bright lad like me, reared in a
village on the banks of the Mississippi, might become perfect in knowledge of
the Bering Strait whale-fishery and the shop-talk of the veteran exercises of
that adventure-bristling trade through catching catfish with a
&ldquo;trot-line&rdquo; Sundays. But the surmise is damaged by the fact that
there is no evidence&mdash;and not even tradition&mdash;that the young
Shakespeare was ever clerk of a law-court.
</p>

<p>
It is further surmised that the young Shakespeare accumulated his law-treasures
in the first years of his sojourn in London, through &ldquo;amusing
himself&rdquo; by learning book-law in his garret and by picking up lawyer-talk
and the rest of it through loitering about the law-courts and listening. But it
is only surmise; there is no <i>evidence</i> that he ever did either of those
things. They are merely a couple of chunks of plaster of Paris.
</p>

<p>
There is a legend that he got his bread and butter by holding horses in front
of the London theaters, mornings and afternoons. Maybe he did. If he did, it
seriously shortened his law-study hours and his recreation-time in the courts.
In those very days he was writing great plays, and needed all the time he could
get. The horse-holding legend ought to be strangled; it too formidably
increases the historian&rsquo;s difficulty in accounting for the young
Shakespeare&rsquo;s erudition&mdash;an erudition which he was acquiring, hunk
by hunk and chunk by chunk, every day in those strenuous times, and emptying
each day&rsquo;s catch into next day&rsquo;s imperishable drama.
</p>

<p>
He had to acquire a knowledge of war at the same time; and a knowledge of
soldier-people and sailor-people and their ways and talk; also a knowledge of
some foreign lands and their languages: for he was daily emptying fluent
streams of these various knowledges, too, into his dramas. How did he acquire
these rich assets?
</p>

<p>
In the usual way: by surmise. It is <i>surmised</i> that he traveled in Italy
and Germany and around, and qualified himself to put their scenic and social
aspects upon paper; that he perfected himself in French, Italian, and Spanish
on the road; that he went in Leicester&rsquo;s expedition to the Low Countries,
as soldier or sutler or something, for several months or years&mdash;or
whatever length of time a surmiser needs in his business&mdash;and thus became
familiar with soldiership and soldier-ways and soldier-talk and generalship and
general-ways and general-talk, and seamanship and sailor-ways and sailor-talk.
</p>

<p>
Maybe he did all these things, but I would like to know who held the horses in
the mean time; and who studied the books in the garret; and who frolicked in
the law-courts for recreation. Also, who did the call-boying and the
play-acting.
</p>

<p>
For he became a call-boy; and as early as &rsquo;93 he became a
&ldquo;vagabond&rdquo;&mdash;the law&rsquo;s ungentle term for an unlisted
actor; and in &rsquo;94 a &ldquo;regular&rdquo; and properly and officially
listed member of that (in those days) lightly valued and not much respected
profession.
</p>

<p>
Right soon thereafter he became a stockholder in two theaters, and manager of
them. Thenceforward he was a busy and flourishing business man, and was raking
in money with both hands for twenty years. Then in a noble frenzy of poetic
inspiration he wrote his one poem&mdash;his only poem, his darling&mdash;and
laid him down and died:
</p>

<p class="poem">
Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare<br/>
To digg the dust encloased heare:<br/>
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones<br/>
And curst be he yt moves my bones.
</p>

<p>
He was probably dead when he wrote it. Still, this is only conjecture. We have
only circumstantial evidence. Internal evidence.
</p>

<p>
Shall I set down the rest of the Conjectures which constitute the giant
Biography of William Shakespeare? It would strain the Unabridged Dictionary to
hold them. He is a brontosaur: nine bones and six hundred barrels of plaster of
Paris.
</p>

<h3>V</h3>

<p>
&ldquo;WE MAY ASSUME&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In the Assuming trade three separate and independent cults are transacting
business. Two of these cults are known as the Shakespearites and the Baconians,
and I am the other one&mdash;the Brontosaurian.
</p>

<p>
The Shakespearite knows that Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare&rsquo;s Works; the
Baconian knows that Francis Bacon wrote them; the Brontosaurian doesn&rsquo;t
really know which of them did it, but is quite composedly and contentedly sure
that Shakespeare <i>didn&rsquo;t</i>, and strongly suspects that Bacon
<i>did</i>. We all have to do a good deal of assuming, but I am fairly certain
that in every case I can call to mind the Baconian assumers have come out ahead
of the Shakespearites. Both parties handle the same materials, but the
Baconians seem to me to get much more reasonable and rational and persuasive
results out of them than is the case with the Shakespearites. The Shakespearite
conducts his assuming upon a definite principle, an unchanging and immutable
law: which is: 2 and 8 and 7 and 14, added together, make 165. I believe this
to be an error. No matter, you cannot get a habit-sodden Shakespearite to
cipher-up his materials upon any other basis. With the Baconian it is
different. If you place before him the above figures and set him to adding them
up, he will never in any case get more than 45 out of them, and in nine cases
out of ten he will get just the proper 31.
</p>

<p>
Let me try to illustrate the two systems in a simple and homely way calculated
to bring the idea within the grasp of the ignorant and unintelligent. We will
suppose a case: take a lap-bred, house-fed, uneducated, inexperienced kitten;
take a rugged old Tom that&rsquo;s scarred from stem to rudder-post with the
memorials of strenuous experience, and is so cultured, so educated, so
limitlessly erudite that one may say of him &ldquo;all cat-knowledge is his
province&rdquo;; also, take a mouse. Lock the three up in a holeless,
crackless, exitless prison-cell. Wait half an hour, then open the cell,
introduce a Shakespearite and a Baconian, and let them cipher and assume. The
mouse is missing: the question to be decided is, where is it? You can guess
both verdicts beforehand. One verdict will say the kitten contains the mouse;
the other will as certainly say the mouse is in the tom-cat.
</p>

<p>
The Shakespearite will Reason like this&mdash;(that is not my word, it is his).
He will say the kitten <i>may have been</i> attending school when nobody was
noticing; therefore <i>we are warranted in assuming</i> that it did so; also,
it <i>could have been</i> training in a court-clerk&rsquo;s office when no one
was noticing; since that could have happened, <i>we are justified in
assuming</i> that it did happen; it <i>could have studied catology in a
garret</i> when no one was noticing&mdash;therefore it <i>did</i>; it <i>could
have</i> attended cat-assizes on the shed-roof nights, for recreation, when no
one was noticing, and have harvested a knowledge of cat court-forms and cat
lawyer-talk in that way: it <i>could</i> have done it, therefore without a
doubt it <i>did</i>; it <i>could have</i> gone soldiering with a war-tribe when
no one was noticing, and learned soldier-wiles and soldier-ways, and what to do
with a mouse when opportunity offers; the plain inference, therefore, is that
that is what it <i>did</i>. Since all these manifold things <i>could</i> have
occurred, we have <i>every right to believe</i> they did occur. These patiently
and painstakingly accumulated vast acquirements and competences needed but one
thing more&mdash;opportunity&mdash;to convert themselves into triumphant
action. The opportunity came, we have the result; <i>beyond shadow of
question</i> the mouse is in the kitten.
</p>

<p>
It is proper to remark that when we of the three cults plant a &ldquo;<i>we
think we may assume</i>,&rdquo; we expect it, under careful watering and
fertilizing and tending, to grow up into a strong and hardy and weather-defying
&ldquo;<i>there isn&rsquo;t a shadow of a doubt</i>&rdquo; at last&mdash;and it
usually happens.
</p>

<p>
We know what the Baconian&rsquo;s verdict would be: &ldquo;<i>There is not a
rag of evidence that the kitten has had any training, any education, any
experience qualifying it for the present occasion, or is indeed equipped for
any achievement above lifting such unclaimed milk as comes its way; but there
is abundant evidence&mdash;unassailable proof, in fact&mdash;that the other
animal is equipped, to the last detail, with every qualification necessary for
the event. without shadow of doubt the tom-cat contains the mouse</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<h3>VI</h3>

<p>
When Shakespeare died, in 1616, great literary productions attributed to him as
author had been before the London world and in high favor for twenty-four
years. Yet his death was not an event. It made no stir, it attracted no
attention. Apparently his eminent literary contemporaries did not realize that
a celebrated poet had passed from their midst. Perhaps they knew a play-actor
of minor rank had disappeared, but did not regard him as the author of his
Works. &ldquo;We are justified in assuming&rdquo; this.
</p>

<p>
His death was not even an event in the little town of Stratford. Does this mean
that in Stratford he was not regarded as a celebrity of <i>any</i> kind?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We are privileged to assume&rdquo;&mdash;no, we are indeed
<i>obliged</i> to assume&mdash;that such was the case. He had spent the first
twenty-two or twenty-three years of his life there, and of course knew
everybody and was known by everybody of that day in the town, including the
dogs and the cats and the horses. He had spent the last five or six years of
his life there, diligently trading in every big and little thing that had money
in it; so we are compelled to assume that many of the folk there in those said
latter days knew him personally, and the rest by sight and hearsay. But not as
a <i>celebrity?</i> Apparently not. For everybody soon forgot to remember any
contact with him or any incident connected with him. The dozens of townspeople,
still alive, who had known of him or known about him in the first twenty-three
years of his life were in the same unremembering condition: if they knew of any
incident connected with that period of his life they didn&rsquo;t tell about
it. Would they if they had been asked? It is most likely. Were they asked? It
is pretty apparent that they were not. Why weren&rsquo;t they? It is a very
plausible guess that nobody there or elsewhere was interested to know.
</p>

<p>
For seven years after Shakespeare&rsquo;s death nobody seems to have been
interested in him. Then the quarto was published, and Ben Jonson awoke out of
his long indifference and sang a song of praise and put it in the front of the
book. Then silence fell <i>again</i>.
</p>

<p>
For sixty years. Then inquiries into Shakespeare&rsquo;s Stratford life began
to be made, of Stratfordians. Of Stratfordians who had known Shakespeare or had
seen him? No. Then of Stratfordians who had seen people who had known or seen
people who had seen Shakespeare? No. Apparently the inquires were only made of
Stratfordians who were not Stratfordians of Shakespeare&rsquo;s day, but later
comers; and what they had learned had come to them from persons who had not
seen Shakespeare; and what they had learned was not claimed as <i>fact</i>, but
only as legend&mdash;dim and fading and indefinite legend; legend of the
calf-slaughtering rank, and not worth remembering either as history or fiction.
</p>

<p>
Has it ever happened before&mdash;or since&mdash;that a celebrated person who
had spent exactly half of a fairly long life in the village where he was born
and reared, was able to slip out of this world and leave that village voiceless
and gossipless behind him&mdash;utterly voiceless., utterly gossipless? And
permanently so? I don&rsquo;t believe it has happened in any case except
Shakespeare&rsquo;s. And couldn&rsquo;t and wouldn&rsquo;t have happened in his
case if he had been regarded as a celebrity at the time of his death.
</p>

<p>
When I examine my own case&mdash;but let us do that, and see if it will not be
recognizable as exhibiting a condition of things quite likely to result, most
likely to result, indeed substantially <i>sure</i> to result in the case of a
celebrated person, a benefactor of the human race. Like me.
</p>

<p>
My parents brought me to the village of Hannibal, Missouri, on the banks of the
Mississippi, when I was two and a half years old. I entered school at five
years of age, and drifted from one school to another in the village during nine
and a half years. Then my father died, leaving his family in exceedingly
straitened circumstances; wherefore my book-education came to a standstill
forever, and I became a printer&rsquo;s apprentice, on board and clothes, and
when the clothes failed I got a hymn-book in place of them. This for summer
wear, probably. I lived in Hannibal fifteen and a half years, altogether, then
ran away, according to the custom of persons who are intending to become
celebrated. I never lived there afterward. Four years later I became a
&ldquo;cub&rdquo; on a Mississippi steamboat in the St. Louis and New Orleans
trade, and after a year and a half of hard study and hard work the U.S.
inspectors rigorously examined me through a couple of long sittings and decided
that I knew every inch of the Mississippi&mdash;thirteen hundred miles&mdash;in
the dark and in the day&mdash;as well as a baby knows the way to its
mother&rsquo;s paps day or night. So they licensed me as a pilot&mdash;knighted
me, so to speak&mdash;and I rose up clothed with authority, a responsible
servant of the United States Government.
</p>

<p>
Now then. Shakespeare died young&mdash;he was only fifty-two. He had lived in
his native village twenty-six years, or about that. He died celebrated (if you
believe everything you read in the books). Yet when he died nobody there or
elsewhere took any notice of it; and for sixty years afterward no townsman
remembered to say anything about him or about his life in Stratford. When the
inquirer came at last he got but one fact&mdash;no, <i>legend</i>&mdash;and got
that one at second hand, from a person who had only heard it as a rumor and
didn&rsquo;t claim copyright in it as a production of his own. He
couldn&rsquo;t, very well, for its date antedated his own birth-date. But
necessarily a number of persons were still alive in Stratford who, in the days
of their youth, had seen Shakespeare nearly every day in the last five years of
his life, and they would have been able to tell that inquirer some first-hand
things about him if he had in those last days been a celebrity and therefore a
person of interest to the villagers. Why did not the inquirer hunt them up and
interview them? Wasn&rsquo;t it worth while? Wasn&rsquo;t the matter of
sufficient consequence? Had the inquirer an engagement to see a dog-fight and
couldn&rsquo;t spare the time?
</p>

<p>
It all seems to mean that he never had any literary celebrity, there or
elsewhere, and no considerable repute as actor and manager.
</p>

<p>
Now then, I am away along in life&mdash;my seventy-third year being already
well behind me&mdash;yet <i>sixteen</i> of my Hannibal schoolmates are still
alive today, and can tell&mdash;and do tell&mdash;inquirers dozens and dozens
of incidents of their young lives and mine together; things that happened to us
in the morning of life, in the blossom of our youth, in the good days, the dear
days, &ldquo;the days when we went gipsying, a long time ago.&rdquo; Most of
them creditable to me, too. One child to whom I paid court when she was five
years old and I eight still lives in Hannibal, and she visited me last summer,
traversing the necessary ten or twelve hundred miles of railroad without damage
to her patience or to her old-young vigor. Another little lassie to whom I paid
attention in Hannibal when she was nine years old and I the same, is still
alive&mdash;in London&mdash;and hale and hearty, just as I am. And on the few
surviving steamboats&mdash;those lingering ghosts and remembrancers of great
fleets that plied the big river in the beginning of my water-career&mdash;which
is exactly as long ago as the whole invoice of the life-years of Shakespeare
numbers&mdash;there are still findable two or three river-pilots who saw me do
creditable things in those ancient days; and several white-headed engineers;
and several roustabouts and mates; and several deck-hands who used to heave the
lead for me and send up on the still night the
&ldquo;Six&mdash;feet&mdash;<i>scant!</i>&rdquo; that made me shudder, and the
&ldquo;M-a-r-k&mdash;<i>twain!</i>&rdquo; that took the shudder away, and
presently the darling &ldquo;By the d-e-e-p&mdash;<i>four!</i>&rdquo; that
lifted me to heaven for joy.<a href="#fn4" name="fnref4"><sup>[4]</sup></a>
They know about me, and can tell. And so do printers, from St. Louis to New
York; and so do newspaper reporters, from Nevada to San Francisco. And so do
the police. If Shakespeare had really been celebrated, like me, Stratford could
have told things about him; and if my experience goes for anything,
they&rsquo;d have done it.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn4"></a> <a href="#fnref4">[4]</a>
Four fathoms&mdash;twenty-four feet.
</p>

<h3>VII</h3>

<p>
If I had under my superintendence a controversy appointed to decide whether
Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare or not, I believe I would place before the
debaters only the one question, <i>was shakespeare ever a practicing
lawyer</i>? and leave everything else out.
</p>

<p>
It is maintained that the man who wrote the plays was not merely myriad-minded,
but also myriad-accomplished: that he not only knew some thousands of things
about human life in all its shades and grades, and about the hundred arts and
trades and crafts and professions which men busy themselves in, but that he
could <i>talk</i> about the men and their grades and trades accurately, making
no mistakes. Maybe it is so, but have the experts spoken, or is it only Tom,
Dick, and Harry? Does the exhibit stand upon wide, and loose, and eloquent
generalizing&mdash;which is not evidence, and not proof&mdash;or upon details,
particulars, statistics, illustrations, demonstrations?
</p>

<p>
Experts of unchallengeable authority have testified definitely as to only one
of Shakespeare&rsquo;s multifarious craft-equipments, so far as my
recollections of Shakespeare-Bacon talk abide with me&mdash;his law-equipment.
I do not remember that Wellington or Napoleon ever examined Shakespeare&rsquo;s
battles and sieges and strategies, and then decided and established for good
and all that they were militarily flawless; I do not remember that any Nelson,
or Drake, or Cook ever examined his seamanship and said it showed profound and
accurate familiarity with that art; I don&rsquo;t remember that any king or
prince or duke has ever testified that Shakespeare was letter-perfect in his
handling of royal court-manners and the talk and manners of aristocracies; I
don&rsquo;t remember that any illustrious Latinist or Grecian or Frenchman or
Spaniard or Italian has proclaimed him a past-master in those languages; I
don&rsquo;t remember&mdash;well, I don&rsquo;t remember that there is
<i>testimony</i>&mdash;great testimony&mdash;imposing
testimony&mdash;unanswerable and unattackable testimony as to any of
Shakespeare&rsquo;s hundred specialties, except one&mdash;the law.
</p>

<p>
Other things change, with time, and the student cannot trace back with
certainty the changes that various trades and their processes and
technicalities have undergone in the long stretch of a century or two and find
out what their processes and technicalities were in those early days, but with
the law it is different: it is mile-stoned and documented all the way back, and
the master of that wonderful trade, that complex and intricate trade, that
awe-compelling trade, has competent ways of knowing whether Shakespeare-law is
good law or not; and whether his law-court procedure is correct or not, and
whether his legal shop-talk is the shop-talk of a veteran practitioner or only
a machine-made counterfeit of it gathered from books and from occasional
loiterings in Westminster.
</p>

<p>
Richard H. Dana served two years before the mast, and had every experience that
falls to the lot of the sailor before the mast of our day. His sailor-talk
flows from his pen with the sure touch and the ease and confidence of a person
who has <i>lived</i> what he is talking about, not gathered it from books and
random listenings. Hear him:
</p>

<p class="letter">
Having hove short, cast off the gaskets, and made the bunt of each sail fast by
the jigger, with a man on each yard, at the word the whole canvas of the ship
was loosed, and with the greatest rapidity possible everything was sheeted home
and hoisted up, the anchor tripped and cat-headed, and the ship under headway.
</p>

<p>
Again:
</p>

<p class="letter">
The royal yards were all crossed at once, and royals and sky-sails set, and, as
we had the wind free, the booms were run out, and all were aloft, active as
cats, laying out on the yards and booms, reeving the studding-sail gear; and
sail after sail the captain piled upon her, until she was covered with canvas,
her sails looking like a great white cloud resting upon a black speck.
</p>

<p>
Once more. A race in the Pacific:
</p>

<p class="letter">
Our antagonist was in her best trim. Being clear of the point, the breeze
became stiff, and the royal-masts bent under our sails, but we would not take
them in until we saw three boys spring into the rigging of the
<i>California</i>; then they were all furled at once, but with orders to our
boys to stay aloft at the top-gallant mast-heads and loose them again at the
word. It was my duty to furl the fore-royal; and while standing by to loose it
again, I had a fine view of the scene. From where I stood, the two vessels
seemed nothing but spars and sails, while their narrow decks, far below,
slanting over by the force of the wind aloft, appeared hardly capable of
supporting the great fabrics raised upon them. The <i>California</i> was to
windward of us, and had every advantage; yet, while the breeze was stiff we
held our own. As soon as it began to slacken she ranged a little ahead, and the
order was given to loose the royals. In an instant the gaskets were off and the
bunt dropped. &ldquo;Sheet home the fore-royal!&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Weather
sheet&rsquo;s home!&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Lee sheet&rsquo;s
home!&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Hoist away, sir!&rdquo; is bawled from aloft.
&ldquo;Overhaul your clew-lines!&rdquo; shouts the mate. &ldquo;Aye-aye, sir,
all clear!&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Taut leech! belay! Well the lee brace; haul taut
to windward!&rdquo; and the royals are set.
</p>

<p>
What would the captain of any sailing-vessel of our time say to that? He would
say, &ldquo;The man that wrote that didn&rsquo;t learn his trade out of a book,
he has <i>been</i> there!&rdquo; But would this same captain be competent to
sit in judgment upon Shakespeare&rsquo;s seamanship&mdash;considering the
changes in ships and ship-talk that have necessarily taken place, unrecorded,
unremembered, and lost to history in the last three hundred years? It is my
conviction that Shakespeare&rsquo;s sailor-talk would be Choctaw to him. For
instance&mdash;from &ldquo;<i>The Tempest</i>&rdquo;:
</p>

<p class="letter">
    <i>Master</i>. Boatswain!<br/>
    <i>Boatswain</i>. Here, master; what cheer?<br/>
    <i>Master</i>. Good, speak to the mariners: fall to &rsquo;t, yarely, or we
run ourselves to ground; bestir, bestir! (<i>Enter Mariners</i>.)<br/>
    <i>Boatswain</i>. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare,
yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master&rsquo;s whistle.... Down with the
topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try wi&rsquo; the main course.... Lay
her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses. Off to sea again; lay her off.
</p>

<p>
That will do, for the present; let us yare a little, now, for a change.
</p>

<p>
If a man should write a book and in it make one of his characters say,
&ldquo;Here, devil, empty the quoins into the standing galley and the
imposing-stone into the hell-box; assemble the comps around the frisket and let
them jeff for takes and be quick about it,&rdquo; I should recognize a mistake
or two in the phrasing, and would know that the writer was only a printer
theoretically, not practically.
</p>

<p>
I have been a quartz miner in the silver regions&mdash;a pretty hard life; I
know all the palaver of that business: I know all about discovery claims and
the subordinate claims; I know all about lodes, ledges, outcroppings, dips,
spurs, angles, shafts, drifts, inclines, levels, tunnels, air-shafts,
&ldquo;horses,&rdquo; clay casings, granite casings; quartz mills and their
batteries; arastras, and how to charge them with quicksilver and sulphate of
copper; and how to clean them up, and how to reduce the resulting amalgam in
the retorts, and how to cast the bullion into pigs; and finally I know how to
screen tailings, and also how to hunt for something less robust to do, and find
it. I know the argot of the quartz-mining and milling industry familiarly; and
so whenever Bret Harte introduces that industry into a story, the first time
one of his miners opens his mouth I recognize from his phrasing that Harte got
the phrasing by listening&mdash;like Shakespeare&mdash;I mean the Stratford
one&mdash;not by experience. No one can talk the quartz dialect correctly
without learning it with pick and shovel and drill and fuse.
</p>

<p>
I have been a surface miner&mdash;gold&mdash;and I know all its mysteries, and
the dialect that belongs with them; and whenever Harte introduces that industry
into a story I know by the phrasing of his characters that neither he nor they
have ever served that trade.
</p>

<p>
I have been a &ldquo;pocket&rdquo; miner&mdash;a sort of gold mining not
findable in any but one little spot in the world, so far as I know. I know how,
with horn and water, to find the trail of a pocket and trace it step by step
and stage by stage up the mountain to its source, and find the compact little
nest of yellow metal reposing in its secret home under the ground. I know the
language of that trade, that capricious trade, that fascinating buried-treasure
trade, and can catch any writer who tries to use it without having learned it
by the sweat of his brow and the labor of his hands.
</p>

<p>
I know several other trades and the argot that goes with them; and whenever a
person tries to talk the talk peculiar to any of them without having learned it
at its source I can trap him always before he gets far on his road.
</p>

<p>
And so, as I have already remarked, if I were required to superintend a
Bacon-Shakespeare controversy, I would narrow the matter down to a single
question&mdash;the only one, so far as the previous controversies have informed
me, concerning which illustrious experts of unimpeachable competency have
testified: <i>Was The Author Of Shakespeare&rsquo;s Works A Lawyer?</i>&mdash;a
lawyer deeply read and of limitless experience? I would put aside the guesses
and surmises, and perhapses, and might-have-beens, and could-have-beens, and
must-have-beens, and, we-are-justified-in-presumings,and the rest of those
vague specters and shadows and indefinitenesses, and stand or fall, win or
lose, by the verdict rendered by the jury upon that single question. If the
verdict was Yes, I should feel quite convinced that the Stratford Shakespeare,
the actor, manager, and trader who died so obscure, so forgotten, so destitute
of even village consequence, that sixty years afterward no fellow-citizen and
friend of his later days remembered to tell anything about him, did not write
the Works.
</p>

<p>
Chapter XIII of <i>The Shakespeare Problem Restated</i> bears the heading
&ldquo;Shakespeare as a Lawyer,&rdquo; and comprises some fifty pages of expert
testimony, with comments thereon, and I will copy the first nine, as being
sufficient all by themselves, as it seems to me, to settle the question which I
have conceived to be the master-key to the Shakespeare-Bacon puzzle.
</p>

<h3>VIII</h3>

<h3>SHAKESPEARE AS A LAWYER<a href="#fn5" name="fnref5"><sup>[5]</sup></a></h3>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn5"></a> <a href="#fnref5">[5]</a>
From Chapter XIII of <i>The Shakespeare Problem Restated</i>. By George G.
Greenwood, M.P. John Lane Company, publishers.
</p>

<p>
The Plays and Poems of Shakespeare supply ample evidence that their author not
only had a very extensive and accurate knowledge of law, but that he was well
acquainted with the manners and customs of members of the Inns of Court and
with legal life generally.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;While novelists and dramatists are constantly making mistakes as to the
laws of marriage, of wills, and inheritance, to Shakespeare&rsquo;s law,
lavishly as he expounds it, there can neither be demurrer, nor bill of
exceptions, nor writ of error.&rdquo; Such was the testimony borne by one of
the most distinguished lawyers of the nineteenth century who was raised to the
high office of Lord Chief Justice in 1850, and subsequently became Lord
Chancellor. Its weight will, doubtless, be more appreciated by lawyers than by
laymen, for only lawyers know how impossible it is for those who have not
served an apprenticeship to the law to avoid displaying their ignorance if they
venture to employ legal terms and to discuss legal doctrines. &ldquo;There is
nothing so dangerous,&rdquo; wrote Lord Campbell, &ldquo;as for one not of the
craft to tamper with our freemasonry.&rdquo; A layman is certain to betray
himself by using some expression which a lawyer would never employ. Mr. Sidney
Lee himself supplies us with an example of this. He writes (p. 164): &ldquo;On
February 15, 1609, Shakespeare... obtained judgment from a jury against
Addenbroke for the payment of No. 6, and No. 1, 5s. 0d. costs.&rdquo; Now a
lawyer would never have spoken of obtaining &ldquo;judgment from a jury,&rdquo;
for it is the function of a jury not to deliver judgment (which is the
prerogative of the court), but to find a verdict on the facts. The error is,
indeed, a venial one, but it is just one of those little things which at once
enable a lawyer to know if the writer is a layman or &ldquo;one of the
craft.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But when a layman ventures to plunge deeply into legal subjects, he is
naturally apt to make an exhibition of his incompetence. &ldquo;Let a
non-professional man, however acute,&rdquo; writes Lord Campbell again,
&ldquo;presume to talk law, or to draw illustrations from legal science in
discussing other subjects, and he will speedily fall into laughable
absurdity.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And what does the same high authority say about Shakespeare? He had &ldquo;a
deep technical knowledge of the law,&rdquo; and an easy familiarity with
&ldquo;some of the most abstruse proceedings in English jurisprudence.&rdquo;
And again: &ldquo;Whenever he indulges this propensity he uniformly lays down
good law.&rdquo; Of &ldquo;Henry IV.,&rdquo; Part 2, he says: &ldquo;If Lord
Eldon could be supposed to have written the play, I do not see how he could be
chargeable with having forgotten any of his law while writing it.&rdquo;
Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke speak of &ldquo;the marvelous intimacy which he
displays with legal terms, his frequent adoption of them in illustration, and
his curiously technical knowledge of their form and force.&rdquo; Malone,
himself a lawyer, wrote: &ldquo;His knowledge of legal terms is not merely such
as might be acquired by the casual observation of even his all-comprehending
mind; it has the appearance of technical skill.&rdquo; Another lawyer and well-
known Shakespearean, Richard Grant White, says: &ldquo;No dramatist of the
time, not even Beaumont, who was the younger son of a judge of the Common
Pleas, and who after studying in the Inns of Court abandoned law for the drama,
used legal phrases with Shakespeare&rsquo;s readiness and exactness. And the
significance of this fact is heightened by another, that it is only to the
language of the law that he exhibits this inclination. The phrases peculiar to
other occupations serve him on rare occasions by way of description,
comparison, or illustration, generally when something in the scene suggests
them, but legal phrases flow from his pen as part of his vocabulary and parcel
of his thought. Take the word &lsquo;purchase&rsquo; for instance, which, in
ordinary use, means to acquire by giving value, but applies in law to all legal
modes of obtaining property except by inheritance or descent, and in this
peculiar sense the word occurs five times in Shakespeare&rsquo;s thirty-four
plays, and only in one single instance in the fifty-four plays of Beaumont and
Fletcher. It has been suggested that it was in attendance upon the courts in
London that he picked up his legal vocabulary. But this supposition not only
fails to account for Shakespeare&rsquo;s peculiar freedom and exactness in the
use of that phraseology, it does not even place him in the way of learning
those terms his use of which is most remarkable, which are not such as he would
have heard at ordinary proceedings at <i>Nisi Prius</i>, but such as refer to
the tenure or transfer of real property, &lsquo;fine and recovery,&rsquo;
&lsquo;statutes merchant,&rsquo; &lsquo;purchase,&rsquo;
&lsquo;indenture,&rsquo; &lsquo;tenure,&rsquo; &lsquo;double voucher,&rsquo;
&lsquo;fee simple,&rsquo; &lsquo;fee farm,&rsquo; &lsquo;remainder,&rsquo;
&lsquo;reversion,&rsquo; &lsquo;forfeiture,&rsquo; etc. This
conveyancer&rsquo;s jargon could not have been picked up by hanging round the
courts of law in London two hundred and fifty years ago, when suits as to the
title of real property were comparatively rare. And besides, Shakespeare uses
his law just as freely in his first plays, written in his first London years,
as in those produced at a later period. Just as exactly, too; for the
correctness and propriety with which these terms are introduced have compelled
the admiration of a Chief Justice and a Lord Chancellor.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Senator Davis wrote: &ldquo;We seem to have something more than a
sciolist&rsquo;s temerity of indulgence in the terms of an unfamiliar art. No
legal solecisms will be found. The abstrusest elements of the common law are
impressed into a disciplined service. Over and over again, where such knowledge
is unexampled in writers unlearned in the law, Shakespeare appears in perfect
possession of it. In the law of real property, its rules of tenure and
descents, its entails, its fines and recoveries, their vouchers and double
vouchers, in the procedure of the Courts, the method of bringing writs and
arrests, the nature of actions, the rules of pleading, the law of escapes and
of contempt of court, in the principles of evidence, both technical and
philosophical, in the distinction between the temporal and spiritual tribunals,
in the law of attainder and forfeiture, in the requisites of a valid marriage,
in the presumption of legitimacy, in the learning of the law of prerogative, in
the inalienable character of the Crown, this mastership appears with surprising
authority.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
To all this testimony (and there is much more which I have not cited) may now
be added that of a great lawyer of our own times, <i>viz</i>.: Sir James
Plaisted Wilde, Q.C. 1855, created a Baron of the Exchequer in 1860, promoted
to the post of Judge-Ordinary and Judge of the Courts of Probate and Divorce in
1863, and better known to the world as Lord Penzance, to which dignity he was
raised in 1869. Lord Penzance, as all lawyers know, and as the late Mr.
Inderwick, K.C., has testified, was one of the first legal authorities of his
day, famous for his &ldquo;remarkable grasp of legal principles,&rdquo; and
&ldquo;endowed by nature with a remarkable facility for marshaling facts, and
for a clear expression of his views.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lord Penzance speaks of Shakespeare&rsquo;s &ldquo;perfect familiarity with not
only the principles, axioms, and maxims, but the technicalities of English law,
a knowledge so perfect and intimate that he was never incorrect and never at
fault.... The mode in which this knowledge was pressed into service on all
occasions to express his meaning and illustrate his thoughts was quite
unexampled. He seems to have had a special pleasure in his complete and ready
mastership of it in all its branches. As manifested in the plays, this legal
knowledge and learning had therefore a special character which places it on a
wholly different footing from the rest of the multifarious knowledge which is
exhibited in page after page of the plays. At every turn and point at which the
author required a metaphor, simile, or illustration, his mind ever turned
<i>first</i> to the law. He seems almost to have <i>thought</i> in legal
phrases, the commonest of legal expressions were ever at the end of his pen in
description or illustration. That he should have descanted in lawyer language
when he had a forensic subject in hand, such as Shylock&rsquo;s bond, was to be
expected, but the knowledge of law in &lsquo;Shakespeare&rsquo; was exhibited
in a far different manner: it protruded itself on all occasions, appropriate or
inappropriate, and mingled itself with strains of thought widely divergent from
forensic subjects.&rdquo; Again: &ldquo;To acquire a perfect familiarity with
legal principles, and an accurate and ready use of the technical terms and
phrases not only of the conveyancer&rsquo;s office, but of the pleader&rsquo;s
chambers and the Courts at Westminster, nothing short of employment in some
career involving constant contact with legal questions and general legal work
would be requisite. But a continuous employment involves the element of time,
and time was just what the manager of two theaters had not at his disposal. In
what portion of Shakespeare&rsquo;s (i.e., Shakspere&rsquo;s) career would it
be possible to point out that time could be found for the interposition of a
legal employment in the chambers or offices of practicing lawyers?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Stratfordians, as is well known, casting about for some possible explanation of
Shakespeare&rsquo;s extraordinary knowledge of law, have made the suggestion
that Shakespeare might, conceivably, have been a clerk in an attorney&rsquo;s
office before he came to London. Mr. Collier wrote to Lord Campbell to ask his
opinion as to the probability of this being true. His answer was as follows:
&ldquo;You require us to believe implicitly a fact, of which, if true, positive
and irrefragable evidence in his own handwriting might have been forthcoming to
establish it. Not having been actually enrolled as an attorney, neither the
records of the local court at Stratford nor of the superior Courts at
Westminster would present his name as being concerned in any suit as an
attorney, but it might reasonably have been expected that there would be deeds
or wills witnessed by him still extant, and after a very diligent search none
such can be discovered.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Upon this Lord Penzance comments: &ldquo;It cannot be doubted that Lord
Campbell was right in this. No young man could have been at work in an
attorney&rsquo;s office without being called upon continually to act as a
witness, and in many other ways leaving traces of his work and name.&rdquo;
There is not a single fact or incident in all that is known of Shakespeare,
even by rumor or tradition, which supports this notion of a clerkship. And
after much argument and surmise which has been indulged in on this subject, we
may, I think, safely put the notion on one side, for no less an authority than
Mr. Grant White says finally that the idea of his having been clerk to an
attorney has been &ldquo;blown to pieces.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is altogether characteristic of Mr. Churton Collins that he, nevertheless,
adopts this exploded myth. &ldquo;That Shakespeare was in early life employed
as a clerk in an attorney&rsquo;s office may be correct. At Stratford there was
by royal charter a Court of Record sitting every fortnight, with six attorneys,
besides the town clerk, belonging to it, and it is certainly not straining
probability to suppose that the young Shakespeare may have had employment in
one of them. There is, it is true, no tradition to this effect, but such
traditions as we have about Shakespeare&rsquo;s occupation between the time of
leaving school and going to London are so loose and baseless that no confidence
can be placed in them. It is, to say the least, more probable that he was in an
attorney&rsquo;s office than that he was a butcher killing calves &lsquo;in a
high style,&rsquo; and making speeches over them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This is a charming specimen of Stratfordian argument. There is, as we have
seen, a very old tradition that Shakespeare was a butcher&rsquo;s apprentice.
John Dowdall, who made a tour in Warwickshire in 1693, testifies to it as
coming from the old clerk who showed him over the church, and it is
unhesitatingly accepted as true by Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps. (Vol. I, p. 11, and
Vol. II, pp. 71, 72.) Mr. Sidney Lee sees nothing improbable in it, and it is
supported by Aubrey, who must have written his account some time before 1680,
when his manuscript was completed. Of the attorney&rsquo;s clerk hypothesis, on
the other hand, there is not the faintest vestige of a tradition. It has been
evolved out of the fertile imaginations of embarrassed Stratfordians, seeking
for some explanation of the Stratford rustic&rsquo;s marvelous acquaintance
with law and legal terms and legal life. But Mr. Churton Collins has not the
least hesitation in throwing over the tradition which has the warrant of
antiquity and setting up in its stead this ridiculous invention, for which not
only is there no shred of positive evidence, but which, as Lord Campbell and
Lord Penzance point out, is really put out of court by the negative evidence,
since &ldquo;no young man could have been at work in an attorney&rsquo;s office
without being called upon continually to act as a witness, and in many other
ways leaving traces of his work and name.&rdquo; And as Mr. Edwards further
points out, since the day when Lord Campbell&rsquo;s book was published
(between forty and fifty years ago), &ldquo;every old deed or will, to say
nothing of other legal papers, dated during the period of William
Shakespeare&rsquo;s youth, has been scrutinized over half a dozen shires, and
not one signature of the young man has been found.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Moreover, if Shakespeare had served as clerk in an attorney&rsquo;s office it
is clear that he must have so served for a considerable period in order to have
gained (if, indeed, it is credible that he could have so gained) his remarkable
knowledge of the law. Can we then for a moment believe that, if this had been
so, tradition would have been absolutely silent on the matter? That
Dowdall&rsquo;s old clerk, over eighty years of age, should have never heard of
it (though he was sure enough about the butcher&rsquo;s apprentice) and that
all the other ancient witnesses should be in similar ignorance!
</p>

<p>
But such are the methods of Stratfordian controversy. Tradition is to be
scouted when it is found inconvenient, but cited as irrefragable truth when it
suits the case. Shakespeare of Stratford was the author of the Plays and Poems,
but the author of the Plays and Poems could not have been a butcher&rsquo;s
apprentice. Away, therefore, with tradition. But the author of the Plays and
Poems <i>must</i> have had a very large and a very accurate knowledge of the
law. Therefore, Shakespeare of Stratford must have been an attorney&rsquo;s
clerk! The method is simplicity itself. By similar reasoning Shakespeare has
been made a country schoolmaster, a soldier, a physician, a printer, and a good
many other things besides, according to the inclination and the exigencies of
the commentator. It would not be in the least surprising to find that he was
studying Latin as a schoolmaster and law in an attorney&rsquo;s office at the
same time.
</p>

<p>
However, we must do Mr. Collins the justice of saying that he has fully
recognized, what is indeed tolerably obvious, that Shakespeare must have had a
sound legal training. &ldquo;It may, of course, be urged,&rdquo; he writes,
&ldquo;that Shakespeare&rsquo;s knowledge of medicine, and particularly that
branch of it which related to morbid psychology, is equally remarkable, and
that no one has ever contended that he was a physician. (Here Mr. Collins is
wrong; that contention also has been put forward.) It may be urged that his
acquaintance with the technicalities of other crafts and callings, notably of
marine and military affairs, was also extraordinary, and yet no one has
suspected him of being a sailor or a soldier. (Wrong again. Why, even Messrs.
Garnett and Gosse &ldquo;suspect&rdquo; that he was a soldier!) This may be
conceded, but the concession hardly furnishes an analogy. To these and all
other subjects he recurs occasionally, and in season, but with reminiscences of
the law his memory, as is abundantly clear, was simply saturated. In season and
out of season now in manifest, now in recondite application, he presses it into
the service of expression and illustration. At least a third of his myriad
metaphors are derived from it. It would indeed be difficult to find a single
act in any of his dramas, nay, in some of them, a single scene, the diction and
imagery of which are not colored by it. Much of his law may have been acquired
from three books easily accessible to him&mdash;namely, Tottell&rsquo;s
<i>Precedents</i> (1572), Pulton&rsquo;s <i>Statutes</i> (1578), and
Fraunce&rsquo;s <i>Lawier&rsquo;s Logike</i> (1588), works with which he
certainly seems to have been familiar; but much of it could only have come from
one who had an intimate acquaintance with legal proceedings. We quite agree
with Mr. Castle that Shakespeare&rsquo;s legal knowledge is not what could have
been picked up in an attorney&rsquo;s office, but could only have been learned
by an actual attendance at the Courts, at a Pleader&rsquo;s Chambers, and on
circuit, or by associating intimately with members of the Bench and Bar.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This is excellent. But what is Mr. Collins&rsquo;s explanation? &ldquo;Perhaps
the simplest solution of the problem is to accept the hypothesis that in early
life he was in an attorney&rsquo;s office (!), that he there contracted a love
for the law which never left him, that as a young man in London he continued to
study or dabble in it for his amusement, to stroll in leisure hours into the
Courts, and to frequent the society of lawyers. On no other supposition is it
possible to explain the attraction which the law evidently had for him, and his
minute and undeviating accuracy in a subject where no layman who has indulged
in such copious and ostentatious display of legal technicalities has ever yet
succeeded in keeping himself from tripping.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A lame conclusion. &ldquo;No other supposition&rdquo; indeed! Yes, there is
another, and a very obvious supposition&mdash;namely, that Shakespeare was
himself a lawyer, well versed in his trade, versed in all the ways of the
courts, and living in close intimacy with judges and members of the Inns of
Court.
</p>

<p>
One is, of course, thankful that Mr. Collins has appreciated the fact that
Shakespeare must have had a sound legal training, but I may be forgiven if I do
not attach quite so much importance to his pronouncements on this branch of the
subject as to those of Malone, Lord Campbell, Judge Holmes, Mr. Castle, K.C.,
Lord Penzance, Mr. Grant White, and other lawyers, who have expressed their
opinion on the matter of Shakespeare&rsquo;s legal acquirements....
</p>

<p>
Here it may, perhaps, be worth while to quote again from Lord Penzance&rsquo;s
book as to the suggestion that Shakespeare had somehow or other managed
&ldquo;to acquire a perfect familiarity with legal principles, and an accurate
and ready use of the technical terms and phrases, not only of the
conveyancer&rsquo;s office, but of the pleader&rsquo;s chambers and the Courts
at Westminster.&rdquo; This, as Lord Penzance points out, &ldquo;would require
nothing short of employment in some career involving <i>constant contact</i>
with legal questions and general legal work.&rdquo; But &ldquo;in what portion
of Shakespeare&rsquo;s career would it be possible to point out that time could
be found for the interposition of a legal employment in the chambers or offices
of practicing lawyers?... It is beyond doubt that at an early period he was
called upon to abandon his attendance at school and assist his father, and was
soon after, at the age of sixteen, bound apprentice to a trade. While under the
obligation of this bond he could not have pursued any other employment. Then he
leaves Stratford and comes to London. He has to provide himself with the means
of a livelihood, and this he did in some capacity at the theater. No one doubts
that. The holding of horses is scouted by many, and perhaps with justice, as
being unlikely and certainly unproved; but whatever the nature of his
employment was at the theater, there is hardly room for the belief that it
could have been other than continuous, for his progress there was so rapid. Ere
long he had been taken into the company as an actor, and was soon spoken of as
a &lsquo;Johannes Factotum.&rsquo; His rapid accumulation of wealth speaks
volumes for the constancy and activity of his services. One fails to see when
there could be a break in the current of his life at this period of it, giving
room or opportunity for legal or indeed any other employment. &lsquo;In
1589,&rsquo; says Knight, &lsquo;we have undeniable evidence that he had not
only a casual engagement, was not only a salaried servant, as many players
were, but was a shareholder in the company of the Queen&rsquo;s players with
other shareholders below him on the list.&rsquo; This (1589) would be within
two years after his arrival in London, which is placed by White and Halliwell-
Phillipps about the year 1587. The difficulty in supposing that, starting with
a state of ignorance in 1587, when he is supposed to have come to London, he
was induced to enter upon a course of most extended study and mental culture,
is almost insuperable. Still it was physically possible, provided always that
he could have had access to the needful books. But this legal training seems to
me to stand on a different footing. It is not only unaccountable and
incredible, but it is actually negatived by the known facts of his
career.&rdquo; Lord Penzance then refers to the fact that &ldquo;by 1592
(according to the best authority, Mr. Grant White) several of the plays had
been written. &lsquo;The Comedy of Errors&rsquo; in 1589, &lsquo;Love&rsquo;s
Labour&rsquo;s Lost&rsquo; in 1589, &lsquo;Two Gentlemen of Verona&rsquo; in
1589 or 1590,&rdquo; and so forth, and then asks, &ldquo;with this catalogue of
dramatic work on hand... was it possible that he could have taken a leading
part in the management and conduct of two theaters, and if Mr. Phillipps is to
be relied upon, taken his share in the performances of the provincial tours of
his company&mdash;and at the same time devoted himself to the study of the law
in all its branches so efficiently as to make himself complete master of its
principles and practice, and saturate his mind with all its most technical
terms?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
I have cited this passage from Lord Penzance&rsquo;s book, because it lay
before me, and I had already quoted from it on the matter of
Shakespeare&rsquo;s legal knowledge; but other writers have still better set
forth the insuperable difficulties, as they seem to me, which beset the idea
that Shakespeare might have found time in some unknown period of early life,
amid multifarious other occupations, for the study of classics, literature, and
law, to say nothing of languages and a few other matters. Lord Penzance further
asks his readers: &ldquo;Did you ever meet with or hear of an instance in which
a young man in this country gave himself up to legal studies and engaged in
legal employments, which is the only way of becoming familiar with the
technicalities of practice, unless with the view of practicing in that
profession? I do not believe that it would be easy, or indeed possible, to
produce an instance in which the law has been seriously studied in all its
branches, except as a qualification for practice in the legal
profession.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
This testimony is so strong, so direct, so authoritative; and so uncheapened,
unwatered by guesses, and surmises, and maybe-so&rsquo;s, and might-have-beens,
and could-have-beens, and must-have-beens, and the rest of that ton of plaster
of Paris out of which the biographers have built the colossal brontosaur which
goes by the Stratford actor&rsquo;s name, that it quite convinces me that the
man who wrote Shakespeare&rsquo;s Works knew all about law and lawyers. Also,
that that man could not have been the Stratford Shakespeare&mdash;and
<i>wasn&rsquo;t</i>.
</p>

<p>
Who did write these Works, then?
</p>

<p>
I wish I knew.
</p>

<h3>IX</h3>

<p>
Did Francis Bacon write Shakespeare&rsquo;s Works? Nobody knows.
</p>

<p>
We cannot say we <i>know</i> a thing when that thing has not been proved.
<i>Know</i> is too strong a word to use when the evidence is not final and
absolutely conclusive. We can infer, if we want to, like those slaves.... No, I
will not write that word, it is not kind, it is not courteous. The upholders of
the Stratford-Shakespeare superstition call <i>us</i> the hardest names they
can think of, and they keep doing it all the time; very well, if they like to
descend to that level, let them do it, but I will not so undignify myself as to
follow them. I cannot call them harsh names; the most I can do is to indicate
them by terms reflecting my disapproval; and this without malice, without
venom.
</p>

<p>
To resume. What I was about to say was, those thugs have built their entire
superstition upon <i>inferences</i>, not upon known and established facts. It
is a weak method, and poor, and I am glad to be able to say our side never
resorts to it while there is anything else to resort to.
</p>

<p>
But when we must, we must; and we have now arrived at a place of that sort....
Since the Stratford Shakespeare couldn&rsquo;t have written the Works, we infer
that somebody did. Who was it, then? This requires some more inferring.
</p>

<p>
Ordinarily when an unsigned poem sweeps across the continent like a tidal wave
whose roar and boom and thunder are made up of admiration, delight, and
applause, a dozen obscure people rise up and claim the authorship. Why a dozen,
instead of only one or two? One reason is, because there are a dozen that are
recognizably competent to do that poem. Do you remember &ldquo;Beautiful
Snow&rdquo;? Do you remember &ldquo;Rock Me to Sleep, Mother, Rock Me to
Sleep&rdquo;? Do you remember &ldquo;Backward, turn, backward, O Time, in thy
flight! Make me a child again just for tonight&rdquo;? I remember them very
well. Their authorship was claimed by most of the grown-up people who were
alive at the time, and every claimant had one plausible argument in his favor,
at least&mdash;to wit, he could have done the authoring; he was competent.
</p>

<p>
Have the Works been claimed by a dozen? They haven&rsquo;t. There was good
reason. The world knows there was but one man on the planet at the time who was
competent&mdash;not a dozen, and not two. A long time ago the dwellers in a far
country used now and then to find a procession of prodigious footprints
stretching across the plain&mdash;footprints that were three miles apart, each
footprint a third of a mile long and a furlong deep, and with forests and
villages mashed to mush in it. Was there any doubt as to who made that mighty
trail? Were there a dozen claimants? Where there two? No&mdash;the people knew
who it was that had been along there: there was only one Hercules.
</p>

<p>
There has been only one Shakespeare. There couldn&rsquo;t be two; certainly
there couldn&rsquo;t be two at the same time. It takes ages to bring forth a
Shakespeare, and some more ages to match him. This one was not matched before
his time; nor during his time; and hasn&rsquo;t been matched since. The
prospect of matching him in our time is not bright.
</p>

<p>
The Baconians claim that the Stratford Shakespeare was not qualified to write
the Works, and that Francis Bacon was. They claim that Bacon possessed the
stupendous equipment&mdash;both natural and acquired&mdash;for the miracle; and
that no other Englishman of his day possessed the like; or, indeed, anything
closely approaching it.
</p>

<p>
Macaulay, in his Essay, has much to say about the splendor and horizonless
magnitude of that equipment. Also, he has synopsized Bacon&rsquo;s
history&mdash;a thing which cannot be done for the Stratford Shakespeare, for
he hasn&rsquo;t any history to synopsize. Bacon&rsquo;s history is open to the
world, from his boyhood to his death in old age&mdash;a history consisting of
known facts, displayed in minute and multitudinous detail; <i>facts</i>, not
guesses and conjectures and might-have-beens.
</p>

<p>
Whereby it appears that he was born of a race of statesmen, and had a Lord
Chancellor for his father, and a mother who was &ldquo;distinguished both as a
linguist and a theologian: she corresponded in Greek with Bishop Jewell, and
translated his <i>Apologia</i> from the Latin so correctly that neither he nor
Archbishop Parker could suggest a single alteration.&rdquo; It is the
atmosphere we are reared in that determines how our inclinations and
aspirations shall tend. The atmosphere furnished by the parents to the son in
this present case was an atmosphere saturated with learning; with thinkings and
ponderings upon deep subjects; and with polite culture. It had its natural
effect. Shakespeare of Stratford was reared in a house which had no use for
books, since its owners, his parents, were without education. This may have had
an effect upon the son, but we do not know, because we have no history of him
of an informing sort. There were but few books anywhere, in that day, and only
the well-to-do and highly educated possessed them, they being almost confined
to the dead languages. &ldquo;All the valuable books then extant in all the
vernacular dialects of Europe would hardly have filled a single
shelf&rdquo;&mdash;imagine it! The few existing books were in the Latin tongue
mainly. &ldquo;A person who was ignorant of it was shut out from all
acquaintance&mdash;not merely with Cicero and Virgil, but with the most
interesting memoirs, state papers, and pamphlets of his own time&rdquo;&mdash;a
literature necessary to the Stratford lad, for his fictitious
reputation&rsquo;s sake, since the writer of his Works would begin to use it
wholesale and in a most masterly way before the lad was hardly more than out of
his teens and into his twenties.
</p>

<p>
At fifteen Bacon was sent to the university, and he spent three years there.
Thence he went to Paris in the train of the English Ambassador, and there he
mingled daily with the wise, the cultured, the great, and the aristocracy of
fashion, during another three years. A total of six years spent at the sources
of knowledge; knowledge both of books and of men. The three spent at the
university were coeval with the second and last three spent by the little
Stratford lad at Stratford school supposedly, and perhapsedly, and maybe, and
by inference&mdash;with nothing to infer from. The second three of the Baconian
six were &ldquo;presumably&rdquo; spent by the Stratford lad as apprentice to a
butcher. That is, the thugs presume it&mdash;on no evidence of any kind. Which
is their way, when they want a historical fact. Fact and presumption are, for
business purposes, all the same to them. They know the difference, but they
also know how to blink it. They know, too, that while in history-building a
fact is better than a presumption, it doesn&rsquo;t take a presumption long to
bloom into a fact when <i>they</i> have the handling of it. They know by old
experience that when they get hold of a presumption-tadpole he is not going to
<i>stay</i> tadpole in their history-tank; no, they know how to develop him
into the giant four-legged bullfrog of <i>fact</i>, and make him sit up on his
hams, and puff out his chin, and look important and insolent and come-to-stay;
and assert his genuine simon-pure authenticity with a thundering bellow that
will convince everybody because it is so loud. The thug is aware that loudness
convinces sixty persons where reasoning convinces but one. I wouldn&rsquo;t be
a thug, not even if&mdash;but never mind about that, it has nothing to do with
the argument, and it is not noble in spirit besides. If I am better than a
thug, is the merit mine? No, it is His. Then to Him be the praise. That is the
right spirit.
</p>

<p>
They &ldquo;presume&rdquo; the lad severed his &ldquo;presumed&rdquo;
connection with the Stratford school to become apprentice to a butcher. They
also &ldquo;presume&rdquo; that the butcher was his father. They don&rsquo;t
know. There is no written record of it, nor any other actual evidence. If it
would have helped their case any, they would have apprenticed him to thirty
butchers, to fifty butchers, to a wilderness of butchers&mdash;all by their
patented method &ldquo;presumption.&rdquo; If it will help their case they will
do it yet; and if it will further help it, they will &ldquo;presume&rdquo; that
all those butchers were his father. And the week after, they will <i>say</i>
it. Why, it is just like being the past tense of the compound reflexive
adverbial incandescent hypodermic irregular accusative Noun of Multitude; which
is father to the expression which the grammarians call Verb. It is like a whole
ancestry, with only one posterity.
</p>

<p>
To resume. Next, the young Bacon took up the study of law, and mastered that
abstruse science. From that day to the end of his life he was daily in close
contact with lawyers and judges; not as a casual onlooker in intervals between
holding horses in front of a theater, but as a practicing lawyer&mdash;a great
and successful one, a renowned one, a Launcelot of the bar, the most formidable
lance in the high brotherhood of the legal Table Round; he lived in the
law&rsquo;s atmosphere thenceforth, all his years, and by sheer ability forced
his way up its difficult steeps to its supremest summit, the
Lord-Chancellorship, leaving behind him no fellow-craftsman qualified to
challenge his divine right to that majestic place.
</p>

<p>
When we read the praises bestowed by Lord Penzance and the other illustrious
experts upon the legal condition and legal aptnesses, brilliances,
profundities, and felicities so prodigally displayed in the Plays, and try to
fit them to the historyless Stratford stage-manager, they sound wild, strange,
incredible, ludicrous; but when we put them in the mouth of Bacon they do not
sound strange, they seem in their natural and rightful place, they seem at home
there. Please turn back and read them again. Attributed to Shakespeare of
Stratford they are meaningless, they are inebriate
extravagancies&mdash;intemperate admirations of the dark side of the moon, so
to speak; attributed to Bacon, they are admirations of the golden glories of
the moon&rsquo;s front side, the moon at the full&mdash;and not intemperate,
not overwrought, but sane and right, and justified. &ldquo;At every turn and
point at which the author required a metaphor, simile, or illustration, his
mind ever turned <i>first</i> to the law; he seems almost to have
<i>thought</i> in legal phrases; the commonest legal phrases, the commonest of
legal expressions, were ever at the end of his pen.&rdquo; That could happen to
no one but a person whose <i>trade</i> was the law; it could not happen to a
dabbler in it. Veteran mariners fill their conversation with sailor-phrases and
draw all their similes from the ship and the sea and the storm, but no mere
<i>passenger</i> ever does it, be he of Stratford or elsewhere; or could do it
with anything resembling accuracy, if he were hardy enough to try. Please read
again what Lord Campbell and the other great authorities have said about Bacon
when they thought they were saying it about Shakespeare of Stratford.
</p>

<h3>X</h3>

<h3>THE REST OF THE EQUIPMENT</h3>

<p>
The author of the Plays was equipped, beyond every other man of his time, with
wisdom, erudition, imagination, capaciousness of mind, grace, and majesty of
expression. Every one has said it, no one doubts it. Also, he had humor, humor
in rich abundance, and always wanting to break out. We have no evidence of any
kind that Shakespeare of Stratford possessed any of these gifts or any of these
acquirements. The only lines he ever wrote, so far as we know, are
substantially barren of them&mdash;barren of all of them.
</p>

<p class="poem">
Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare<br/>
To digg the dust encloased heare:<br/>
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones<br/>
And curst be he yt moves my bones.
</p>

<p>
Ben Jonson says of Bacon, as orator:
</p>

<p class="letter">
His language, <i>where he could spare and pass by a jest</i>, was nobly
censorious. No man ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or
suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered. No member of his
speech but consisted of his (its) own graces.... The fear of every man that
heard him was lest he should make an end.
</p>

<p>
From Macaulay:
</p>

<p class="letter">
He continued to distinguish himself in Parliament, particularly by his
exertions in favor of one excellent measure on which the King&rsquo;s heart was
set&mdash;the union of England and Scotland. It was not difficult for such an
intellect to discover many irresistible arguments in favor of such a scheme. He
conducted the great case of the <i>Post Nati</i> in the Exchequer Chamber; and
the decision of the judges&mdash;a decision the legality of which may be
questioned, but the beneficial effect of which must be acknowledged&mdash;was
in a great measure attributed to his dexterous management.
</p>

<p>
Again:
</p>

<div class="letter">
<p>
While actively engaged in the House of Commons and in the courts of law, he
still found leisure for letters and philosophy. The noble treatise on the
<i>Advancement Of Learning</i>, which at a later period was expanded into the
<i>De Augmentis</i>, appeared in 1605.
</p>

<p>
The <i>Wisdom Of The Ancients</i>, a work which, if it had proceeded from any
other writer, would have been considered as a masterpiece of wit and learning,
was printed in 1609.
</p>

<p>
In the mean time the <i>Novum Organum</i> was slowly proceeding. Several
distinguished men of learning had been permitted to see portions of that
extraordinary book, and they spoke with the greatest admiration of his genius.
</p>

<p>
Even Sir Thomas Bodley, after perusing the <i>Cogitata Et Visa</i>, one of the
most precious of those scattered leaves out of which the great oracular volume
was afterward made up, acknowledged that &ldquo;in all proposals and plots in
that book, Bacon showed himself a master workman&rdquo;; and that &ldquo;it
could not be gainsaid but all the treatise over did abound with choice conceits
of the present state of learning, and with worthy contemplations of the means
to procure it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In 1612 a new edition of the <i>Essays</i> appeared, with additions surpassing
the original collection both in bulk and quality.
</p>

<p>
Nor did these pursuits distract Bacon&rsquo;s attention from a work the most
arduous, the most glorious, and the most useful that even his mighty powers
could have achieved, &ldquo;the reducing and recompiling,&rdquo; to use his own
phrase, &ldquo;of the laws of England.&rdquo;
</p>
</div>

<p>
To serve the exacting and laborious offices of Attorney-General and
Solicitor-General would have satisfied the appetite of any other man for hard
work, but Bacon had to add the vast literary industries just described, to
satisfy his. He was a born worker.
</p>

<div class="letter">
<p>
The service which he rendered to letters during the last five years of his
life, amid ten thousand distractions and vexations, increase the regret with
which we think on the many years which he had wasted, to use the words of Sir
Thomas Bodley, &ldquo;on such study as was not worthy such a student.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He commenced a digest of the laws of England, a History of England under the
Princes of the House of Tudor, a body of National History, a Philosophical
Romance. He made extensive and valuable additions to his Essays. He published
the inestimable <i>Treatise De Augmentis Scientiarum</i>.
</p>
</div>

<p>
Did these labors of Hercules fill up his time to his contentment, and quiet his
appetite for work? Not entirely:
</p>

<p class="letter">
The trifles with which he amused himself in hours of pain and languor bore the
mark of his mind. <i>The Best Jest-Book In The World</i> is that which he
dictated from memory, without referring to any book, on a day on which illness
had rendered him incapable of serious study.
</p>

<p>
Here are some scattered remarks (from Macaulay) which throw light upon Bacon,
and seem to indicate&mdash;and maybe demonstrate&mdash;that he was competent to
write the Plays and Poems:
</p>

<div class="letter">
<p>
With great minuteness of observation he had an amplitude of comprehension such
as has never yet been vouchsafed to any other human being.
</p>

<p>
The <i>Essays</i> contain abundant proofs that no nice feature of character, no
peculiarity in the ordering of a house, a garden, or a court-masque, could
escape the notice of one whose mind was capable of taking in the whole world of
knowledge.
</p>

<p>
His understanding resembled the tent which the fairy Paribanou gave to Prince
Ahmed: fold it, and it seemed a toy for the hand of a lady; spread it, and the
armies of the powerful Sultans might repose beneath its shade.
</p>

<p>
The knowledge in which Bacon excelled all men was a knowledge of the mutual
relations of all departments of knowledge.
</p>

<p>
In a letter written when he was only thirty-one, to his uncle, Lord Burleigh,
he said, &ldquo;I have taken all knowledge to be my province.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Though Bacon did not arm his philosophy with the weapons of logic, he adorned
her profusely with all the richest decorations of rhetoric.
</p>

<p>
The practical faculty was powerful in Bacon; but not, like his wit, so powerful
as occasionally to usurp the place of his reason and to tyrannize over the
whole man.
</p>
</div>

<p>
There are too many places in the Plays where this happens. Poor old dying John
of Gaunt volleying second-rate puns at his own name, is a pathetic instance of
it. &ldquo;We may assume&rdquo; that it is Bacon&rsquo;s fault, but the
Stratford Shakespeare has to bear the blame.
</p>

<div class="letter">
<p>
No imagination was ever at once so strong and so thoroughly subjugated. It
stopped at the first check from good sense.
</p>

<p>
In truth, much of Bacon&rsquo;s life was passed in a visionary world&mdash;amid
things as strange as any that are described in the <i>Arabian Tales</i>... amid
buildings more sumptuous than the palace of Aladdin, fountains more wonderful
than the golden water of Parizade, conveyances more rapid than the hippogryph
of Ruggiero, arms more formidable than the lance of Astolfo, remedies more
efficacious than the balsam of Fierabras. Yet in his magnificent day-dreams
there was nothing wild&mdash;nothing but what sober reason sanctioned.
</p>

<p>
Bacon&rsquo;s greatest performance is the first book of the <i>Novum
Organum</i>.... Every part of it blazes with wit, but with wit which is
employed only to illustrate and decorate truth. No book ever made so great a
revolution in the mode of thinking, overthrew so may prejudices, introduced so
many new opinions.
</p>

<p>
But what we most admire is the vast capacity of that intellect which, without
effort, takes in at once all the domains of science&mdash;all the past, the
present and the future, all the errors of two thousand years, all the
encouraging signs of the passing times, all the bright hopes of the coming age.
</p>

<p>
He had a wonderful talent for packing thought close and rendering it portable.
</p>

<p>
His eloquence would alone have entitled him to a high rank in literature.
</p>
</div>

<p>
It is evident that he had each and every one of the mental gifts and each and
every one of the acquirements that are so prodigally displayed in the Plays and
Poems, and in much higher and richer degree than any other man of his time or
of any previous time. He was a genius without a mate, a prodigy not matable.
There was only one of him; the planet could not produce two of him at one
birth, nor in one age. He could have written anything that is in the Plays and
Poems. He could have written this:
</p>

<p class="poem">
The cloud-cap&rsquo;d towers, the gorgeous palaces,<br/>
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,<br/>
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,<br/>
And, like an insubstantial pageant faded,<br/>
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff<br/>
As dreams are made on, and our little life<br/>
Is rounded with a sleep.
</p>

<p>
Also, he could have written this, but he refrained:
</p>

<p class="poem">
Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare<br/>
To digg the dust encloased heare:<br/>
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones<br/>
And curst be he yt moves my bones.
</p>

<p>
When a person reads the noble verses about the cloud-cap&rsquo;d towers, he
ought not to follow it immediately with Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare,
because he will find the transition from great poetry to poor prose too violent
for comfort. It will give him a shock. You never notice how commonplace and
unpoetic gravel is until you bite into a layer of it in a pie.
</p>

<h3>XI</h3>

<p>
Am I trying to convince anybody that Shakespeare did not write
Shakespeare&rsquo;s Works? Ah, now, what do you take me for? Would I be so soft
as that, after having known the human race familiarly for nearly seventy-four
years? It would grieve me to know that any one could think so injuriously of
me, so uncomplimentarily, so unadmiringly of me. No, no, I am aware that when
even the brightest mind in our world has been trained up from childhood in a
superstition of any kind, it will never be possible for that mind, in its
maturity, to examine sincerely, dispassionately, and conscientiously any
evidence or any circumstance which shall seem to cast a doubt upon the validity
of that superstition. I doubt if I could do it myself. We always get at second
hand our notions about systems of government; and high tariff and low tariff;
and prohibition and anti-prohibition; and the holiness of peace and the glories
of war; and codes of honor and codes of morals; and approval of the duel and
disapproval of it; and our beliefs concerning the nature of cats; and our ideas
as to whether the murder of helpless wild animals is base or is heroic; and our
preferences in the matter of religious and political parties; and our
acceptance or rejection of the Shakespeares and the Author Ortons and the Mrs.
Eddys. We get them all at second hand, we reason none of them out for
ourselves. It is the way we are made. It is the way we are all made, and we
can&rsquo;t help it, we can&rsquo;t change it. And whenever we have been
furnished a fetish, and have been taught to believe in it, and love it and
worship it, and refrain from examining it, there is no evidence, howsoever
clear and strong, that can persuade us to withdraw from it our loyalty and our
devotion. In morals, conduct, and beliefs we take the color of our environment
and associations, and it is a color that can safely be warranted to wash.
Whenever we have been furnished with a tar baby ostensibly stuffed with jewels,
and warned that it will be dishonorable and irreverent to disembowel it and
test the jewels, we keep our sacrilegious hands off it. We submit, not
reluctantly, but rather gladly, for we are privately afraid we should find,
upon examination that the jewels are of the sort that are manufactured at North
Adams, Mass.
</p>

<p>
I haven&rsquo;t any idea that Shakespeare will have to vacate his pedestal this
side of the year 2209. Disbelief in him cannot come swiftly, disbelief in a
healthy and deeply-loved tar baby has never been known to disintegrate swiftly;
it is a very slow process. It took several thousand years to convince our fine
race&mdash;including every splendid intellect in it&mdash;that there is no such
thing as a witch; it has taken several thousand years to convince the same fine
race&mdash;including every splendid intellect in it&mdash;that there is no such
person as Satan; it has taken several centuries to remove perdition from the
Protestant Church&rsquo;s program of post-mortem entertainments; it has taken a
weary long time to persuade American Presbyterians to give up infant damnation
and try to bear it the best they can; and it looks as if their Scotch brethren
will still be burning babies in the everlasting fires when Shakespeare comes
down from his perch.
</p>

<p>
We are The Reasoning Race. We can&rsquo;t prove it by the above examples, and
we can&rsquo;t prove it by the miraculous &ldquo;histories&rdquo; built by
those Stratfordolaters out of a hatful of rags and a barrel of sawdust, but
there is a plenty of other things we can prove it by, if I could think of them.
We are The Reasoning Race, and when we find a vague file of chipmunk-tracks
stringing through the dust of Stratford village, we know by our reasoning
bowers that Hercules has been along there. I feel that our fetish is safe for
three centuries yet. The bust, too&mdash;there in the Stratford Church. The
precious bust, the priceless bust, the calm bust, the serene bust, the
emotionless bust, with the dandy mustache, and the putty face, unseamed of
care&mdash;that face which has looked passionlessly down upon the awed pilgrim
for a hundred and fifty years and will still look down upon the awed pilgrim
three hundred more, with the deep, deep, deep, subtle, subtle, subtle
expression of a bladder.
</p>

<h3>XII</h3>

<h3>IRREVERENCE</h3>

<p>
One of the most trying defects which I find in these&mdash;these&mdash;what
shall I call them? for I will not apply injurious epithets to them, the way
they do to us, such violations of courtesy being repugnant to my nature and my
dignity. The farthest I can go in that direction is to call them by names of
limited reverence&mdash;names merely descriptive, never unkind, never
offensive, never tainted by harsh feeling. If <i>they</i> would do like this,
they would feel better in their hearts. Very well, then&mdash;to proceed. One
of the most trying defects which I find in these Stratfordolaters, these
Shakesperiods, these thugs, these bangalores, these troglodytes, these
herumfrodites, these blatherskites, these buccaneers, these bandoleers, is
their spirit of irreverence. It is detectable in every utterance of theirs when
they are talking about us. I am thankful that in me there is nothing of that
spirit. When a thing is sacred to me it is impossible for me to be irreverent
toward it. I cannot call to mind a single instance where I have ever been
irreverent, except towards the things which were sacred to other people. Am I
in the right? I think so. But I ask no one to take my unsupported word; no,
look at the dictionary; let the dictionary decide. Here is the definition:
</p>

<p class="letter">
<i>Irreverence</i>. The quality or condition of irreverence toward God and
sacred things.
</p>

<p>
What does the Hindu say? He says it is correct. He says irreverence is lack of
respect for Vishnu, and Brahma, and Chrishna, and his other gods, and for his
sacred cattle, and for his temples and the things within them. He endorses the
definition, you see; and there are 300,000,000 Hindus or their equivalents back
of him.
</p>

<p>
The dictionary had the acute idea that by using the capital G it could restrict
irreverence to lack of reverence for <i>our</i> Deity and our sacred things,
but that ingenious and rather sly idea miscarried: for by the simple process of
spelling <i>his</i> deities with capitals the Hindu confiscates the definition
and restricts it to his own sects, thus making it clearly compulsory upon us to
revere <i>his</i> gods and <i>his</i> sacred things, and nobody&rsquo;s else.
We can&rsquo;t say a word, for he has our own dictionary at his back, and its
decision is final.
</p>

<p>
This law, reduced to its simplest terms, is this: 1. Whatever is sacred to the
Christian must be held in reverence by everybody else; 2. whatever is sacred to
the Hindu must be held in reverence by everybody else; 3. therefore, by
consequence, logically, and indisputably, whatever is sacred to <i>me</i> must
be held in reverence by everybody else.
</p>

<p>
Now then, what aggravates me is that these troglodytes and muscovites and
bandoleers and buccaneers are <i>also</i> trying to crowd in and share the
benefit of the law, and compel everybody to revere their Shakespeare and hold
him sacred. We can&rsquo;t have that: there&rsquo;s enough of us already. If
you go on widening and spreading and inflating the privilege, it will presently
come to be conceded that each man&rsquo;s sacred things are the <i>only</i>
ones, and the rest of the human race will have to be humbly reverent toward
them or suffer for it. That can surely happen, and when it happens, the word
Irreverence will be regarded as the most meaningless, and foolish, and
self-conceited, and insolent, and impudent, and dictatorial word in the
language. And people will say, &ldquo;Whose business is it what gods I worship
and what things hold sacred? Who has the right to dictate to my conscience, and
where did he get that right?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
We cannot afford to let that calamity come upon us. We must save the word from
this destruction. There is but one way to do it, and that is to stop the spread
of the privilege and strictly confine it to its present limits&mdash;that is,
to all the Christian sects, to all the Hindu sects, and me. We do not need any
more, the stock is watered enough, just as it is.
</p>

<p>
It would be better if the privilege were limited to me alone. I think so
because I am the only sect that knows how to employ it gently, kindly,
charitably, dispassionately. The other sects lack the quality of
self-restraint. The Catholic Church says the most irreverent things about
matters which are sacred to the Protestants, and the Protestant Church retorts
in kind about the confessional and other matters which Catholics hold sacred;
then both of these irreverencers turn upon Thomas Paine and charge <i>him</i>
with irreverence. This is all unfortunate, because it makes it difficult for
students equipped with only a low grade of mentality to find out what
Irreverence really <i>is</i>.
</p>

<p>
It will surely be much better all around if the privilege of regulating the
irreverent and keeping them in order shall eventually be withdrawn from all the
sects but me. Then there will be no more quarreling, no more bandying of
disrespectful epithets, no more heartburnings.
</p>

<p>
There will then be nothing sacred involved in this Bacon-Shakespeare
controversy except what is sacred to me. That will simplify the whole matter,
and trouble will cease. There will be irreverence no longer, because I will not
allow it. The first time those criminals charge me with irreverence for calling
their Stratford myth an
Arthur-Orton-Mary-Baker-Thompson-Eddy-Louis-the-Seventeenth-Veiled-Prophet
-of-Khorassan will be the last. Taught by the methods found effective in
extinguishing earlier offenders by the Inquisition, of holy memory, I shall
know how to quiet them.
</p>

<h3>XIII</h3>

<p>
Isn&rsquo;t it odd, when you think of it, that you may list all the celebrated
Englishmen, Irishmen, and Scotchmen of modern times, clear back to the first
Tudors&mdash;a list containing five hundred names, shall we say?&mdash;and you
can go to the histories, biographies, and cyclopedias and learn the particulars
of the lives of every one of them. Every one of them except one&mdash;the most
famous, the most renowned&mdash;by far the most illustrious of them
all&mdash;Shakespeare! You can get the details of the lives of all the
celebrated ecclesiastics in the list; all the celebrated tragedians, comedians,
singers, dancers, orators, judges, lawyers, poets, dramatists, historians,
biographers, editors, inventors, reformers, statesmen, generals, admirals,
discoverers, prize-fighters, murderers, pirates, conspirators, horse-jockeys,
bunco-steerers, misers, swindlers, explorers, adventurers by land and sea,
bankers, financiers, astronomers, naturalists, claimants, impostors, chemists,
biologists, geologists, philologists, college presidents and professors,
architects, engineers, painters, sculptors, politicians, agitators, rebels,
revolutionists, patriots, demagogues, clowns, cooks, freaks, philosophers,
burglars, highwaymen, journalists, physicians, surgeons&mdash;you can get the
life-histories of all of them but <i>one</i>. Just <i>one</i>&mdash;the most
extraordinary and the most celebrated of them all&mdash;Shakespeare!
</p>

<p>
You may add to the list the thousand celebrated persons furnished by the rest
of Christendom in the past four centuries, and you can find out the
life-histories of all those people, too. You will then have listed fifteen
hundred celebrities, and you can trace the authentic life-histories of the
whole of them. Save one&mdash;far and away the most colossal prodigy of the
entire accumulation&mdash;Shakespeare! About him you can find out
<i>nothing</i>. Nothing of even the slightest importance. Nothing worth the
trouble of stowing away in your memory. Nothing that even remotely indicates
that he was ever anything more than a distinctly commonplace person&mdash;a
manager, an actor of inferior grade, a small trader in a small village that did
not regard him as a person of any consequence, and had forgotten all about him
before he was fairly cold in his grave. We can go to the records and find out
the life-history of every renowned <i>race-horse</i> of modern times&mdash;but
not Shakespeare&rsquo;s! There are many reasons why, and they have been
furnished in cart-loads (of guess and conjecture) by those troglodytes; but
there is one that is worth all the rest of the reasons put together, and is
abundantly sufficient all by itself&mdash;<i>he hadn&rsquo;t any history to
record</i>. There is no way of getting around that deadly fact. And no sane way
has yet been discovered of getting around its formidable significance.
</p>

<p>
Its quite plain significance&mdash;to any but those thugs (I do not use the
term unkindly) is, that Shakespeare had no prominence while he lived, and none
until he had been dead two or three generations. The Plays enjoyed high fame
from the beginning; and if he wrote them it seems a pity the world did not find
it out. He ought to have explained that he was the author, and not merely a
<i>nom de plume</i> for another man to hide behind. If he had been less
intemperately solicitous about his bones, and more solicitous about his Works,
it would have been better for his good name, and a kindness to us. The bones
were not important. They will moulder away, they will turn to dust, but the
Works will endure until the last sun goes down.
</p>

<p class="right">
M<small>ARK</small> T<small>WAIN</small>.
</p>

<p>
<i>P.S. March 25</i>. About two months ago I was illuminating this
Autobiography with some notions of mine concerning the Bacon-Shakespeare
controversy, and I then took occasion to air the opinion that the Stratford
Shakespeare was a person of no public consequence or celebrity during his
lifetime, but was utterly obscure and unimportant. And not only in great
London, but also in the little village where he was born, where he lived a
quarter of a century, and where he died and was buried. I argued that if he had
been a person of any note at all, aged villagers would have had much to tell
about him many and many a year after his death, instead of being unable to
furnish inquirers a single fact connected with him. I believed, and I still
believe, that if he had been famous, his notoriety would have lasted as long as
mine has lasted in my native village out in Missouri. It is a good argument, a
prodigiously strong one, and most formidable one for even the most gifted and
ingenious and plausible Stratfordolator to get around or explain away. Today a
Hannibal <i>Courier-Post</i> of recent date has reached me, with an article in
it which reinforces my contention that a really celebrated person cannot be
forgotten in his village in the short space of sixty years. I will make an
extract from it:
</p>

<div class="letter">
<p>
Hannibal, as a city, may have many sins to answer for, but ingratitude is not
one of them, or reverence for the great men she has produced, and as the years
go by her greatest son, Mark Twain, or S. L. Clemens as a few of the unlettered
call him, grows in the estimation and regard of the residents of the town he
made famous and the town that made him famous. His name is associated with
every old building that is torn down to make way for the modern structures
demanded by a rapidly growing city, and with every hill or cave over or through
which he might by any possibility have roamed, while the many points of
interest which he wove into his stories, such as Holiday Hill, Jackson&rsquo;s
Island, or Mark Twain Cave, are now monuments to his genius. Hannibal is glad
of any opportunity to do him honor as he had honored her.
</p>

<p>
So it has happened that the &ldquo;old timers&rdquo; who went to school with
Mark or were with him on some of his usual escapades have been honored with
large audiences whenever they were in a reminiscent mood and condescended to
tell of their intimacy with the ordinary boy who came to be a very
extraordinary humorist and whose every boyish act is now seen to have been
indicative of what was to come. Like Aunt Becky and Mrs. Clemens, they can now
see that Mark was hardly appreciated when he lived here and that the things he
did as a boy and was whipped for doing were not all bad, after all. So they
have been in no hesitancy about drawing out the bad things he did as well as
the good in their efforts to get a &ldquo;Mark Twain&rdquo; story, all
incidents being viewed in the light of his present fame, until the volume of
&ldquo;Twainiana&rdquo; is already considerable and growing in proportion as
the &ldquo;old timers&rdquo; drop away and the stories are retold second and
third hand by their descendants. With some seventy-three years young and living
in a villa instead of a house, he is a fair target, and let him incorporate,
copyright, or patent himself as he will, there are some of his
&ldquo;works&rdquo; that will go swooping up Hannibal chimneys as long as
graybeards gather about the fires and begin with, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard
father tell,&rdquo; or possibly, &ldquo;Once when I.&rdquo; The Mrs. Clemens
referred to is my mother&mdash;<i>was</i> my mother.
</p>
</div>

<p>
And here is another extract from a Hannibal paper, of date twenty days ago:
</p>

<p class="letter">
Miss Becca Blankenship died at the home of William Dickason, 408 Rock Street,
at 2.30 o&rsquo;clock yesterday afternoon, aged 72 years. The deceased was a
sister of &ldquo;Huckleberry Finn,&rdquo; one of the famous characters in Mark
Twain&rsquo;s <i>Tom Sawyer</i>. She had been a member of the Dickason
family&mdash;the housekeeper&mdash; for nearly forty-five years, and was a
highly respected lady. For the past eight years she had been an invalid, but
was as well cared for by Mr. Dickason and his family as if she had been a near
relative. She was a member of the Park Methodist Church and a Christian woman.
</p>

<p>
I remember her well. I have a picture of her in my mind which was graven there,
clear and sharp and vivid, sixty-three years ago. She was at that time nine
years old, and I was about eleven. I remember where she stood, and how she
looked; and I can still see her bare feet, her bare head, her brown face, and
her short tow-linen frock. She was crying. What it was about I have long ago
forgotten. But it was the tears that preserved the picture for me, no doubt.
She was a good child, I can say that for her. She knew me nearly seventy years
ago. Did she forget me, in the course of time? I think not. If she had lived in
Stratford in Shakespeare&rsquo;s time, would she have forgotten him? Yes. For
he was never famous during his lifetime, he was utterly obscure in Stratford,
and there wouldn&rsquo;t be any occasion to remember him after he had been dead
a week.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Injun Joe,&rdquo; &ldquo;Jimmy Finn,&rdquo; and &ldquo;General
Gaines&rdquo; were prominent and very intemperate ne&rsquo;er-do-weels in
Hannibal two generations ago. Plenty of grayheads there remember them to this
day, and can tell you about them. Isn&rsquo;t it curious that two &ldquo;town
drunkards&rdquo; and one half-breed loafer should leave behind them, in a
remote Missourian village, a fame a hundred times greater and several hundred
times more particularized in the matter of definite facts than Shakespeare left
behind him in the village where he had lived the half of his lifetime?
</p>

<p class="right">
M<small>ARK</small> T<small>WAIN</small>.
</p>

<h3>THE END</h3>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHAT IS MAN? AND OTHER STORIES ***</div>

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