b'\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nV ^\xe2\x99\xa6"^ -J \n\n\n\n\n\n\n.4.* .-\'J^* ^ >0* .\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x99\xa6 \xe2\x80\xa2*! -^ \n\n\n\n**^% \\ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n, V^^\\** "^^^\'^-\'^o\' V\'^^-V \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 "-.^\'5* \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 ** \xc2\xab0 \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSf*\' .o \n\n\n\n\n\n\n.-i* *:\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\nrO^ \n\n\n\n\'\'t-o^ \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\' o<-;a^\'X "./\'.c:;;,^/^^. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nV \'^^ "\xe2\x80\xa2\' .^ \n\n\n\n\xc2\xab\xe2\x80\xa2 < \n\n\n\nO o \n\n\n\n\n\n\nv^ \n\n\n\ni^ \n\n\n\n.^\' \n\n\n\n\nt \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n,*^.\xe2\x80\xa2^^ \n\n\n\n\nAT \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nr<^. \' \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n<^J \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2*> \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2^ \xc2\xb0-y|%^/ J\'\' \'\\ \'\'^^^.\' A^^^^^ \xc2\xb0-V^%T\xc2\xab* ,-?.* \n\n\n\n\'5 "^ \n\n\n\nTHE REFLECTIONS \nof a LONELY MAN \n\n\n\nTHE REFLECTIONS \n\n\n\nLONELY MAN \n\n\n\nBy A. C. M. \n\n\n\n\n^ A \n\ni \n\n\n\nCHICAGO \n\nA. C. McCLURG & CO. \n\n1903 \n\n\n\nCopyright \n\nBy a. C. McClurg & Co. \n\n1903 \n\n\n\n]->\'K\'- \n\n\n\nPublished April 18, 1903 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LiERARY OF \nCONGRESS, \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTwo Copies Received \n\n\n\n\n\n\nMAY 4 1903 \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCopyright Entry \n\n\n]B4)} \n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xc2\xab\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\ngi^s^ a^ xxc No. \n\n* COPY 8. \n\n\n^ * e * 6 * \' \n\n\n\n\nI ; \n\n\n\nUNIVERSITY PRESS \xe2\x80\xa2 JOHN WILSON \nAND SON \xe2\x80\xa2 CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS \n\nPage \n\nI. Preliminary Musings ..... 3 \n\nII. The Vantage Ground of Loneliness 18 \n\nIII. Books, Doctors, Idealism, Language, \n\nAND Government 55 \n\nIV. The Search for Satisfaction . . . 124 \nV. The Release from Pain 209 \n\n\n\nTHE REFLECTIONS of \n\nA LONELY MAN \n\n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nPRELIMINARY MUSINGS \n\n\n\nWHEN a man has just been well fed, \nand sits in the easy comfort of his \nsmoking-jacket and slippers, he likes to toy \na while with thought before he settles down \nto the serious business of thinking, as the \nwind of a late November afternoon eddies in \nthe fence-corners and amorously dallies with \nthe leaves, before it forms itself into a steady \ngale, which, let us hope, will not blow all the \nleaves away. So the Lonely Man sits gazing \ninto his gas fire, while his fancy playfully \neddies in the various nooks and fence-corners \nof creation ; and, from gazing into the fire, \nhe presently falls to musing about it. \n3 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nA wood fire might be more cheerful, but \ngas is certainly more convenient than wood, \nand this is an age 6f convenient things ; but \nthe Lonely Man reflects, as he gazes into the \nquivering redness of the burning gas, that \nthe increasing convenience of things has \nbeen attained at some sacrifice of cheerful- \nness and beauty. The very existence of a \nfireplace in the presence of the steam heat \nand the electric lights in this room is a tacit \nadmission of the loss, and a silent protest \nagainst it. The fireplace is a tribute to the \ncheerful picturesqueness of an earlier age \nand a cruder civilization. Then the fire- \nplace was cheerful only because it was neces- \nsary ; now it is necessary only because it is \ncheerful. \n\nOn the whole, the burning gas is not a \nbad substitute for the blazing logs of earlier \ntimes. There may be less poetry in turning \na thumbscrew than there is in poking a \nburning log, but there is also less danger of \nsoiling one\'s fingers and burning holes in \n4 \n\n\n\nPRELIMINARY MUSINGS \n\n\n\nthe carpet. It may be less interesting to \napply a match to the ragged surface of asbes- \ntos than it is to construct a stratified mass of \ncombustibles and then guess whether the tiny \nflame in the shavings at the bottom will ever \nreach the logs at the top, but it is certainly \nless frequently disappointing. \n\nThere is no noisy crackling in this fire- \nplace ; there are no showers of sparks ; there \nis no gradual dying out of the flame to re- \nmind one of the decay of one\'s own am- \nbitions ; and there are no ashes left to \nsmoulder and grow cold in the grate and \nremind one of the skeletons of one\'s dead \nhopes. This fire starts quickly and burns \nwith a constancy which surpasses that of \nhuman friendship, till, at the will of the \nLonely Man, it makes its sudden exit into \nnothingness. \n\nIt is no mean companion while it lasts. \n\nIt lights and warms and cheers the room \n\nwith its friendly radiance, while the sleet \n\nbeats an endless tattoo on the windows and \n\n5 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthe breath of winter whistles past the corners \nof the house. The gentle, fluttering noise \nof the fire seems like the audible blinking of \nits bright eyes, and blends harmoniously with \nthe moan and roar and rattle of the winter \nnight. \n\nThe mere thickness of a window-pane \nseparates the rudeness of the storm from the \ncozy comfort of the room, yet this only makes \nthe room seem brighter and the fire seem \nwarmer. The fluttering voice of the fire \nseems like a quiet assurance of the potency \nof gentleness over the noisy bluster in the \nouter cold and darkness, while the wailing of \nthe storm is a confession of its own impo- \ntence. \n\nSecure in his coziness, the Lonely Man \nlights his briar pipe and abandons himself to \nthe sensuous enjoyment of physical comfort \nand the keener delight of undisturbed medi- \ntation. The pipe is a gentle promoter of \nboth. The rich brown hue of its generous \nbowl and the deep indentations of its mouth- \n6 \n\n\n\nPRELIMINARY MUSINGS \n\n\n\npiece give evidence of the long and faithful \nservice which it has performed, and awaken \npleasing expectations of the ripe flavor which \nno new pipe possesses. A pipe, like wine \nand violins, must have age, and, within cer- \ntain limits, it improves with use. \n\nThe Lonely Man\'s teeth settle comfortably \ninto the familiar indentations ; his fingers \nstray in loving dalliance over the warming \nbowl ; his lips caress the smooth amber of \nthe stem ; and he finds no small degree of \nsatisfaction in these accessories of the act \nof smoking, which appeal only to the sight \nand touch. He likes best to smoke a pipe \nthat has a simple, pleasing appearance, in \nharmony with the quieting influence of the \ntobacco\'s fragrance. \n\nThe pleasure of smoking is largely a \nmatter of imagination. Of all the physical \npleasures, it seems to be the most delicate, \nrefined, and intellectual. It appeals to all \nthe senses. The eye is gratified by the \nwreaths and columns and spirals of smoke as \n7 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthey gracefully float in ever-changing forms \nupwards toward the ceiling, and trace their \ndelicate and evanescent frescoes on the walls. \nThis is a beauty of figure, color, and motion. \nIn the outlines there is nothing that could \noffend the most aesthetic taste, and there is \nan indefiniteness that allows the imagination \nfree play to see in the fleeting traceries what \nimages it will. There are no glaring colors \nhere to offend the artist\'s eye ; there are no \nclumsy movements to disturb the dreamer\'s \nsoul. It has all the charm of the impalpable, \nthe impermanent, and the indefinite. \n\nThe smooth feel of the hard round bowl \nand the polished stem gratifies the fingers and \nthe lips, where the sense of touch is most \nacute. There is an elusive element in this \nfeel, that cannot be defined. Such is the \npoverty of the vocabulary of touch that we \ncan only say, " The pipe feels good " ; but \nthere are many ways of pleasing the sense \nof touch, and this is one way that does not \nbring disquiet in its wake. \n8 \n\n\n\nPRELIMINARY MUSINGS \n\n\n\nTaste and smell find in the soothing fra- \ngrance of the smoke their most subtle delight \nand exquisite satisfaction. This is the rich \nreward to which the faithful eating of a din- \nner justly leads. It would be a dismal world \nif there were no cooks in it, for it has been \nsaid that civilized man cannot live without \ncooks ; but after the coarse, material busi- \nness of eating, the pleasure of smoking seems \nalmost refined enough to be called spiritual. \n\nHe who is addicted to the pleasures of the \ntable takes the solid food into his mouth, \nchews it, and swallows it ; the smoker merely \ndraws the imponderable spirit of the fragrant \nleaf into his mouth, where it implants its \nsubtle kiss and works its gentle sorcery, and \nis then exhaled in graceful clouds in whose \ninterweaving lines and curves he sees the \npeaceful rural scenes of earlier days \xe2\x80\x94 the \nwinding brook, the distant field of waving \ngrain, the glinting rays of the setting sun, \nthe faces of loved ones whose features he will \nnever see again except in some spirit world, \n9 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nbe it the world of these dissolving clouds \nor some other spirit world we know not of. \n\nSome unfriendly critic of the habit of smok- \ning has said that a pig is not so depraved as \na man who smokes, for a pig will not smoke. \nIt is true that pigs do not smoke ; at least, \nnot many of them do. Unfortunately there \nare some pigs that do smoke, but this is not \nthe cause of their swinishness ; it must be \nsomething else. The smoker\'s pleasure is \nprocured through the agency of fire, the type \nand emblem of all purity. The product of \nthe fire is smoke ; the residue is ashes. \nThese things and their enjoyment are as far \nremoved from thoughts of sv/ine as filth from \npurity. \n\nTo smoke, and see the children of one\'s \nfancy in the fleecy figures of the smoke, and \nlet one\'s weary mind feed on the past, from \nwhich the gentle offices of time have plucked \nthe stings, while memory paints the joys in \nbrighter colors than they ever had before, is \nman\'s high privilege. \n\nID \n\n\n\nPRELIMINARY MUSINGS \n\n\n\nSo thinks the Lonely Man, as the storm \nhowls on ; and if we do not think exactly as \nhe does, many of us act as if we did, and we \nought therefore to alter either our habits or \nour views. \n\nIt may be (reflects the Lonely Man) that \nsmoking has its penalties. So have all the \nother pleasures and enjoyments of this life. \nThe pleasures of this life are like some lus- \ncious fruit that hangs on thorny trees beside \nour pathway through the world. The thorns \ninflict the penalties we pay for pleasure. If \nwe pluck the fruit, the thorns will prick us \nnow and then ; but if, like cowards, we en- \ndeavor to avoid these thorns by shrinking to \nthe pathway\'s other side, we not only miss \nthe fruit, but fall into those spiky brambles \nwhose barren branches bear no fruit. \n\nThe thorns that guard the pleasures of this \n\nlife are not the only thorns along our path ; \n\nand if we must in any case be stung, let \n\nus rather risk the penalties of moderate en- \n\nII \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\njoyment than those pains whose sharpness \nis not mitigated by reward of any kind. \nThough virtue is its own reward, the avoid- \nance of a reasonable pleasure through fear \nof penalties is not a virtue. The fear of \npenalty is the skulking worm that creeps into \nthe apple\'s core, and spoils its flavor if we \npluck and eat it, or scares us into other thorns \nas sharp as those that guard the fruit if we do \nnot. If we choose wisely and then pluck \nwith care, we may avoid the points of many \nthorns that really exist; and if we banish \nfear, the dim and distant outlines of many \npenalties will prove to be illusions. \n\nThe only certain safety in this world is in \nthe grave. There we may be as safe as none \nbut dead men can be. No evil agency \ncan harm the dead ; the living are in con- \nstant danger. But it is a foolish soldier \nwho shoots himself to escape the dangers \nof the battlefield; and he has as dull a soul \nwho is too prudent to be happy now and \nthen. \n\n12 \n\n\n\nPRELIMINARY MUSINGS \n\n\n\nFor my part, I prefer to take a middle \ncourse, avoiding certain penalties that are the \nprice of pleasures not worth so sure a pain ; \nand when I cannot choose my course, but \nmust perforce be stung, I try to fix my \nthoughts upon the beauty of the thorn and \nlearn something from the sting. \n\nFor example, this present loneliness of \nmine has serious drawbacks, but I am not \ncertain that it is not a blessing in disguise. \nIf it is, the blessing is as well disguised as \nare the advantages of poverty ; but in any \ncase it is my present lot, and if it has advan- \ntages, I shall soon learn what they are. \n\nIt is no fault of mine that, during my long \nabsence, my old friends have been scattered \nto the four corners of the upper and the \nnether world. It is through no fault of mine \nthat these pleasant-looking strangers who \nnow surround me do not suspect that my \ncompanionship might be amusing. I cannot \ntell them ; and they may not be so pleasant \nas they look. The few of them that I do \n13 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nknow do not seem like the friends of former \ntimes. \n\nI wonder if these old friends themselves \nwould seem the same. May not old Father \nTime have played strange antics with their \nfaces and their natures ? When friends are \nparted by the accidents of life, and separation \nlasts till they become accustomed to it, it \nmay be better for the permanence of their \naffection that they never meet again. Their \nfriendship has become a finished product : it \ncrystallizes like the language of a dead race, \nand so becomes a stable, changeless entity. \nIf this gem of friendship be again dissolved, \nit may never crystallize again, and if it does, \nit certainly will take a different form. \n\nThe friend that lives among my dearest \nrecollections of the past is one that I shall \never love. He has the same share of affec- \ntion that he ever had. I count the fact that \nwe have known and loved each other one of \nthe imperishable rewards of life. \n14 \n\n\n\nPRELIMINARY MUSINGS \n\n\n\nThe friend I meet when ten long years have \nrolled away is not the friend I used to know \nand left. He tries to gather up the scattered \nfibres of the bond that once united us. I try \nto do the same. We try to guide the long \ndeflected currents of our lives back into the \nchannels in which they used to flow. \n\nThe effort is a futile one. New channels \nhave been worn, and worn so deep that we \nshall hardly make the currents leave them; \nand if we do, they find their old beds full of \nthe debris of crumbling banks and growing \nvegetation. The distinct path along which \nthey once took their easy course is filled with \nobstacles and in some places quite obliter- \nated ; and so the struggling current either \nhurries back between the banks that give it \neasy passage, or, in its effort to seek out the \nold obstructed path, it wears another and a \ndifferent channel in the face of Nature. A \nfriendship may be formed, but it will not be \nthe old one. \n\n\n\nIS \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nThe effort to restore an interrupted friend- \nship is like the effort that a writer makes to \nfind the happy thought he had a week ago. \nHe calls before his consciousness the gen- \neral import of the thought. Here is one of \nthe very words he used in giving utterance \nto it ; there is another one ; and, struggling \nthrough the general miscellany of more re- \ncent thoughts, a few more words come slowly \ncreeping to his mind. He takes his pen and \ntries to write the thing on paper, \xe2\x80\x94 which \nhas a better memory than brains, \xe2\x80\x94 but what \nhe writes is not the thought he had before. \nThe substance is recovered, but the snap and \nsparkle of the thing are gone, and he cannot, \nby any effort of his will, compel the nebulous \nsubstance of the thought, which still is his, \nto take the definite and perfect form it had \nbefore. \n\nThe past is past for ever, and therein lies \nthe safety of its treasures. If they are per- \nfect they ever shall remain so, and we may \nlove them as we will ; but when we try to \ni6 \n\n\n\nPRELIMINARY MUSINGS \n\n\n\nduplicate them from the materials of the \npresent, we shall be fortunate if we do not \nobtain results that are grotesque. \n\nTo feast upon the treasures of this past is \none of the rewards of loneliness. This is \na rare delight that flees from those who spend \ntheir lives in hurrying crowds. \n\n\n\n17 \n\n\n\n\nII \n\nTHE VANTAGE GROUND OF \nLONELINESS \n\nTHERE is another and a greater gain in \nloneliness, reflects the Lonely Man. It \nis the gain that comes from thinking one\'s \nown thoughts and knowing that they are \none\'s own and not the mere participation \nof an automatic mind in the unreasoned \nthinking of a mob. How many thoughts are \nuttered that are not the mere reverberations of \nthe general voice ? The thought-wave of the \ncrowd strikes on the puny little brain of one \nman in the crowd, and he crys out, " Aye, \naye ! \'t is so ! " and thinks the thought his \nown. He passes on the thought with neither \ni8 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nmore nor less of content in it than it had \nbefore, and thus the ever-widening circle of \nthis mental agitation extends till it embraces \nthe entire crowd and blends it into one un- \nreasoning whole. The individual minds are \nblotted out. They flow together like the \ndrops that go to form the ocean, and have no \nlonger power to do the bidding of their wills, \nbut yield to every undulation of the undiffer- \nentiated whole. \n\nUnlike a wave of water, sound, or light, \nwhich loses amplitude with every increase of \nthe distance from its starting point, the thought- \nwave in a crowd gathers in volume with its \nprogress, and each reflection of the mental \nundulation seems to strengthen it. A whisper \nsets a mob in motion ; the whispering quickly \ngrows to murmuring ; the murmuring grows \nto yells ; and when the yells come back to \nhim who uttered the first whisper, he yells \nhimself, not knowing that he has but hyp- \nnotized the mob, and that his own reflected \nhypnotism has hypnotized himself. \n19 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nThere is something of the mob in every \nassemblage : it has not many minds, but one \n\xe2\x80\x94 if we may call that mind whose thinking is \nas reasonless and reflex as the vagaries of a \ndream. \n\nWhat is the nature of a dream ? \n\nIf the sleeper\'s head is high, he thinks he \nis being hanged ; if it is low, he is falling \ndown a well. The heavy food he ate last \nnight makes an impression on the endings of \nhis pneumogastric nerve, which carries this \nimpression to the medulla oblongata^ \xe2\x80\x94 the little \npiece of marrow that is the seat of all the vital \ncentres of vegetative life. From here the \nspreading fibres of the crura cerebri conduct \nthe food\'s impression to those gray cells in \nthe brain where simple consciousness resides. \nIt goes no higher. The citadel of Reason, \nwherein the godlike mistress of all sane think- \ning sits, has closed its doors and drawn the \nbridges from across the moat. The veiled \nenchantress. Reason, is asleep; and while \nshe sleeps, the disconnected and ungoverned \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\npoints of consciousness within the brain, \nbeing roused to action by the food\'s impres- \nsion, respond by being conscious in the only \nway for which their structure fits them. \n\nTheir different structures fit them to be \nconscious in different ways. One group of \ncells can see, but cannot hear nor smell nor \nfeel ; and if the impulse started by a sound \nor smell or touch can reach this group, the \nconsciousness of sight \xe2\x80\x94 not touch nor smell \nnor sound \xe2\x80\x94 is the result. One group can \nhear, but cannot see nor feel ; another feels, \nand others taste or smell. \n\nIf the slumber is not deep, these different \ngroups may be united into a larger group, in \nwhich a little thinking, like the thinking of a \nprinting-press, is done. It simply utters to \nitself the thing to which the structure of \nits type compels it to give utterance. The \nmovements of a jumping-jack could not be \nmore automatic. Its structure makes it only \nfit to kick or turn a somersault, and when its \nstring is pulled, no matter how, the jumping- \n\n21 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\njack responds in the only way in which it \ncan respond \xe2\x80\x94 it kicks or turns a somersault. \nThus physical disturbances give rise to gro- \ntesque fancies, which the dreaming mind \nbelieves and the dreamer sometimes acts \nupon. \n\nIf the sleeping goddess, Reason, were \nawake, she would at once perceive the ground- \nlessness of all these various perceptions and \nconclusions. She would at once distinguish \nthat of which she simply recollects or re- \ncombines a past impression from that by \nwhich she is surrounded. Her sovereign \nsway would relegate these flimsy fragments \nof the shadow world back to their proper \nsphere. She alone would be the guide of \nchoice and action : her regal voice would fix \nthe limits and conditions of belief. No con- \nscious nor half-conscious act would be per- \nmitted whose motive did not first appeal to \nher and get her sanction. No credence \nwould be given to groundless fancies that \nhave no passport to the sacred chamber of \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nbelief, and the agitation of a group of partly- \ndisconnected brain cells would not be counted \nsuch a passport. \n\nBut now, while Reason sleeps, the most \nabsurd and idiotic fancies are believed. Both \njudgment and volition have become the sport \nand plaything of every chance impression : \nan elephant has feathers ; a crocodile has \nwings ; a man falls in a pit that is ten feet \ndeep, and never strikes the bottom. He \ndreams he slays his dearest child, and dreams \nthat he does right j or he is dead and knows \nhe is, and still attends to his affairs on earth. \nOr, if the field of action is invaded, the \ndreamer leaves his bed and does things that \nhe neither would nor could do if awake : he \nclimbs down fire escapes or lightning rods, \nand thinks he is dancing on a level floor. \n\nSuch is the nature of a dream. Such is \n\nthe nature of all thought and action when \n\nReason does not sit upon her throne and \n\nwield her royal sceptre, and seldom does she \n\n23 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nsit secure upon her throne in the environ- \nment of a crowd. The presence of the \ncrowd distracts and interrupts the inner cur- \nrents of the soul by which Queen Reason \nholds communication with the lower mind. \nThe currents seem to leave their protoplasmic \nwires within the brain, and, through the \nmedium of sympathy, to leap through space \nto other brains when other brains come near. \n\nThe all-pervading medium of the mental \nuniverse is sympathy ; and as the undula- \ntions of material ether transmit such forms \nof energy as heat and light and magnetism to \nevery particle and planet in the world of \nspace, so sympathy transmits these subtler \nforces of the soul from one soul to another, \nwith an increase of intensity as their prox- \nimity increases. So fear or anger, courage, \nmerriment, or hope, will leap through sym- \npathy across an intervening space and cause \na like emotion in another mind. \n\nIf this drawing off of currents makes a \nbreak in the connection between the higher \n24 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nand the lower elements of mind, Queen \nReason sleeps again, for she cannot keep \nawake without the stimulus of action ; and, \nwithout the personality which Reason gives, \nthe mental forces, melting into those of all \nthe other minds about them, may be moulded \nby suggestion as a potter moulds a mass of \nclay. He of the crowd asks not, " What \ndoes Reason say ? " but, " What says the \ncrowd ? " \n\nThere may be strong men in the crowd \nwho are not of it. There may be others not \nso strong, who, while they feel the substance \nof their minds and wills dissolving in the \nmental tides that ebb and flow about them, \nstill do a little thinking for themselves. The \nrest have undergone complete solution in the \nwaters of those tides, and have no more voli- \ntion of their own than a patent music-box \nthat plays whatever piece one puts between \nits rollers. They undulate to every wind of \ndoctrine that blows upon them and move in \n25 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ndull obedience before the one that blows upon \nthem hardest. What they believe is what \nthe crowd believes; what they approve is \nwhat the crowd approves. And if to-morrow \nthe general conscience and belief shall change, \ntheirs will change with them, and not because \na ground for change is found, but for the \nsole reason that one drop of water in the \nocean can hold no more nor less of salt than \nits next neighbors. \n\nThe crowd they follow may be either great \nor small ; its sway may reach back into the \nremotest past, or be a thing of yesterday ; \nit may be like a little lake whose slender \nstreams keep it but faintly in communica- \ntion with the sea, or like a mighty ocean, \nembodying in its substance the most of \nall the liquid minds that are or have been \nor shall be. \n\nIn any case such persons\' minds are liquid, \nand their bodies do the bidding of their form- \nless minds. They ever bend their suppliant \nknees before their shrine of fashion, be it the \n26 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nfashion of apparel or that of belief. They \nwear the clothes she dictates, without regard \nto comfort, beauty, health, or common sense. \nThey blindly follow where she leads in \npolitics and religion. They wear the face of \nEurope out in waging vain crusades against \nthe Turks, and blot the history of the world \nby burning heretics and witches. \n\nThey learn at school that three times one \nare three, and straightway go to church and \nlearn that three times one are one. They \nare as confident that they are right in one \nplace as in the other. In neither case do \nthey believe because they hear the voice of \nReason telling them that that which they be- \nlieve is true. In their minds Reason sleeps ; \nher sacred voice is dumb ; and what is left \nof mental life in them is no more worthy to \nbe called a mind than is the mechanism of \na phonograph, which speaks back anything \nthat one speaks into it, provided it is spoken \nloud enough. \n\n\n\n27 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nIf they are scientific, their science will \nmost certainly conform to the formulae pre- \nscribed by that particular scientific crowd to \nwhich they happen to belong. If some rash \nmember of the crowd brings forward some \nnew truth which contradicts some old ac- \ncepted theory, they ridicule his reasoning and \ntreat him with contempt and scorn, \xe2\x80\x94 unless \nhe is a leader of the crowd whom it is the \nfashion to believe. In that case, the very \nwalls are damaged by their tumultuous ap- \nplause. They wear out their eyes and mi- \ncroscopes in hunting further proof of what \nthe great man says ; and, no matter what \nthey find, not until the current of belief \nwithin their crowd begins to ebb will the \nfirmness of their own conviction weaken. \n\nIn the field of politics their side is always \nwholly right, and the other wholly wrong, \nwhether the issue be a tariff, stamp act, pro- \nhibition, or a war with Spain. No matter \nhow their leaders blunder, or the country \n28 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nflourishes or suffers, no matter how their \npromises are kept or broken, their side is \nalways right and the other side is wrong. \n\nIf some great or small upheaval in the \nswamp of politics should make them occupy \nthe ground their foes have lately held, and \nsend the other party to the ooze and slime \nwhich they themselves have just forsaken, the \ndoctrines which they fought before they now \ndefend, and they execrate their own aban- \ndoned policies. For this change of heart \ntheir ever-ready tongues will find pretexts, and \ntheir heads will think them reasons. That \nthe cause of their conversion is the presence in \nthis new part of the swamp of their own par- \nticular crowd or dominating leader, they never \nonce suspect. They may deny that they \nhave undergone a change, so easily do they \nassume new forms. The shimmering sur- \nface of their minds will now reflect as true \nan image of the cat-tails waving over them \nas were the images of those dragon-flies that \nwere embodied in their old belief. \n29 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nThe literature they read must bear the \nimpress of that literary fashion which has \ndominion in their crowd. The books and \nmagazines they read are praised and gloated \nover, not because their contents merit it, but \nbecause the author\'s or the publisher\'s name \nupon the title-page is a literary fetich in their \ncrowd and has the magic power of making \nwheat and chafF of equal worth. They \nblindly think their favorite authors cannot \nmake mistakes with reference to either liter- \nary art or facts, \xe2\x80\x94 oblivious of the axiom \nthat no living man is perfect, and that \nnothing ever was or can be proved by being \nprinted in a book. \n\nWhat fallacy that ever yet has been con- \nceived within the human mind and come to \nterm has not been born on paper ? If be- \ning printed could make an assertion true, I \nwould print the consummation of my dearest \nhopes and thus transmute the shadowy ma- \nterial of hope into the solid substance of \nreality. I would write the opposite of many \n30 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nthings which now are true, and make them \nuntrue; for the slavish ink would shape \nitself into a falsehood with no more trouble \nthan it takes to tell the truth. \n\nA truth must find its proof in reason or \nexperience and not in ink, which can do \nnothing but present it to these tests. If \nthese tests prove it true, it is true ; if they \ndo not, there is not ink enough in all \nthe sea of books which groaning printing- \npresses vomit forth to prove one word of \nany truth. \n\nThe slaves who follow crowds mistake the \nmedium of truth for truth itself. To them \nthe printed statement of a fact is the fact, \nespecially if they find it in some book which \nhas the approbation of their crowd. Then, \nnot only do they pin their faith and fix the \nseal of their approval to the book, but their \ninterpretation of its contents is the one that \nhas the sanction of the crowd. If in some \nlofty moral lesson wrought into the texture \nof a fable the crowd sees nothing but a \n31 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nliteral narrative of facts, they will see nothing \nin the story but authentic history, and the \nwinds of prejudice which they let loose lash \nup the watery substance of their minds into \nfurious waves whose thunders drown the \nvoice of him who sees the truth. If, on \nthe other hand, a love-song seething with the \npassions of hot-blooded youth is held to be \na prophecy, they see in each particular sen- \ntence a prophetic meaning which the author \nnever put there, and they completely miss \nthe beauty of the song. If in the crude \nattempts of primitive, half-savage man to find \nan explanation of the universe, the crowd \nfinds reason to believe that Nature\'s laws are \ntemporal and mutable, they blindly do the \nsame and strive to close not only their own \neyes, but those of all mankind. Thus, they \nmiss the lesson which the ancient writers \nteach, that man\'s solution of Nature\'s bound- \nless mystery must be gradual, and that every \nhonest effort in this line contains some grains \nof truth which may give it lasting fame. \n32 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nIf their crowd is one that makes a specialty \nof scoffing at the writings which some other \ncrowd holds dear, they will sneer and scoff be- \ncause their crowd does, and not because they \never had opinions of their own. An applauded \nshaft of sarcasm which they hear their leaders \nutter has the force of an obsession in their \nminds, \xe2\x80\x94 not because the situation warrants \nit (and sometimes it does), but because they \nknow it takes the fancy of their crowd. \n\nThe book that lives because its gleaming \nrays of truth send swift conviction into minds \nthat have not yet dissolved within the crowd \n(and, when Reason momentarily awakes, into \nthose minds that have), lives by the same \nconcurrence of opinion that gives unworthy \nfame to books that have but hypnotized the \ncrowd. Who knows, then, whether any \nbook that rides high on the wave of popu- \nlarity is held aloft by virtue of its own eter- \nnal worth or by the force of fashion ? One \nmay decide by reading it whether it deserves \nthe place it has ; but, even though the book \n3 33 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY Mx\\N \n\nbe worthy of its fame, can one know that it \nis this that keeps its name and its author\'s \nname alive ? How long must fame outlive \nits dead possessor to prove that it depends \nupon a true perception of the dead man\'s \nwork ? \n\nThose who compose the automatic and \ncomposite crowd-mind are as completely \nunder the dominion of suggestion in their \nacts and feelings as they are in their beliefs. \nTheir aims in life and their methods of \nachieving them are the aims and methods of \nthe crowd. In the shaping of these ends \nand means Reason has no voice. If their \ncrowd bows at the shrine of Mammon, so do \nthey ; if it worships Mars, they bend the \nknee to him ; and they know as little why \nthey worship one god as the other. \n\nThrift that impels men to provide for \nfuture needs is reasonable, and the just pro- \ntection of one\'s honor, liberty, or life may \nnecessitate recourse to arms ; but it is not \n34 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nthrift that gives to gold its devilish charm, \nnor justice that makes war the hellish game \nit is. It is the inertia of a somnambulistic \ncrowd. \n\nSwayed by the suggestion that the mere \npossession of unnecessary wealth confers \nmore honor than any virtue could confer, the \ndancing puppets of the crowd scramble after \nmoney which they do not need and never \ncan need, \xe2\x80\x94 often at the cost of all their \nhonor, all their virtues, all their finer feelings, \nand all their decent human traits, \xe2\x80\x94 just to \nget the plaudits and the envy of other dancing \npuppets like themselves. \n\nWhen the dreamer wakes, he cannot tell \nwhy he left his bed and found the most un- \nspeakably intense delight in heaping up a \npile of trash. Nor do the dreaming puppets \nof the crowd know that the keen delight \nthey find in amassing needless wealth is not \nbased on reason, but springs from the tyranny \nof a fierce suggestion dominating a somnam- \nbulistic crowd. \n\n35 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nThe joy they find in needless wealth would \nquickly vanish if their crowd should disinte- \ngrate and its individual members so awake. \nWhat pleasure would their vast possessions \ngive them if they should be banished from \ntheir crowd, and their liquid minds should \nmelt in the waters of some other crowd in \nwhich no drop of mental liquid but their own \nwould find pleasure in unnecessary wealth ? \n\nBut now, while the teeming millions of \ntheir fellow drops find their most ecstatic \njoy in the ownership of wealth, so do they. \nThough their fellows have no gold and curse \nthe man who has, yet they feel the deadly \ncharm of its baleful glitter, and \xe2\x80\x94 although they \ndo not know it \xe2\x80\x94 what they feel is instantly \nimparted to the waters of the crowd about \nthem, and helps to swell the heaving billows \nof its greed. One liquid mind thus acts and \nreacts on the liquid minds about it in awak- \nening and maintaining greed for gold, as it \ndoes in transmitting and reflecting waves of \nmurderous fury in a mob. \n\n36 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nIt cannot be denied that it requires ability \nto create a princely fortune, and there is \nsome reason in the admiration of ability of \nany kind ; but it does not follow that it is \nas reasonable to admire that which ability \nachieves. It requires some skill and courage \nto cut a good man\'s throat ; and a successful \ncounterfeiter can lay claim to some ability. \nBut the crowd that follows Mammon pays \nhomage not so much to skill and courage as \nto gold. If a man has that in plenty, no one \ncares in Mammon\'s crowd how much or \nlittle sense he has. \n\nReally great men in that crowd are seldom \ngreat enough to feel that there is no special \nhonor in a rich man\'s smile. Men of smaller \ncalibre, who still have sense, count it gain to \nviolate what sense they have to get the rich \nman\'s notice. The rest are so completely \nhypnotized by wealth that they see no other \ngood or great thing in this world or any future \nworld. Even though they hate the owner, \nthey betray by their very hatred how they \n37 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nenvy him and would like to own his wealth. \nIf they can, they imitate him, and if they \ncan\'t, they often try to do so. If he has \nsome crazy fad, they endeavor to affect it \nalso. If he is illiterate, they do not care for \nlearning. If he is immoral, their own morals \nmay be lax. Doing what he does, they feel \nin some small measure the honor and the \ngreatness which they think belong to wealth. \nThey read in glaring headlines all the petty \ndetails of the rich man\'s daily life, and thus \nfurnish all the reason editors have for print- \ning such unprofitable trash. They join the \nrich man\'s club, and they attend the church \nof which he is a member. They build their \nhouses on the rich man\'s street and as near \nhis house as they can. \n\nRich men are not all fools, nor are all poor \nmen slaves to Mammon ; but those who are, \nand whose prayers to Mammon have not yet \nbeen answered, would give ten years of life \nto have any fool who is rich thrust his feet \nbeneath their tables and eat their food. \n\n38 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nTheir doors will quickly swing upon their \nhinges to the magic touch of gold, and no \nquestions will be asked as to how the gold \nwas won. Their daughters\' hearts, though \ncold as marble to the pleading voice of love, \nwill melt like snow in summer in a crucible \nof gold. \n\nThus, however much they hate the man, \nby every word and action they glorify his \nwealth. By their envy and their fawning \nand their aping of rich men, and their base \nidolatry of wealth, the puppets of the crowd \nwho have no wealth exhibit as complete a \nsubjugation to automatic greed as that which \ndominates the greediest millionaire. Their \nfluid minds impart emotions as readily as they \nabsorb them, and thus intensify the force of \nthat false suggestion which gives to needless \nwealth the only charm it has. So the insane \ngreed for gold dissolves and grows within the \ngeneral crowd, while the gold itself collects \nwithin the coffers of a few. \n\n\n\n39 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nIf the crowd is one of fighters, those who \ncompose it are dominated by the love of \nwar. They see no glory and no honor save \nthat achieved in battle, and they see this just \nbecause it is suggested to them. Nature may \nhave given them human hearts, but the plau- \ndits of their crowd will make them glad to \nwelter in a human shambles. Their greatest \nheroes are the men whose hands have shed \nthe greatest quantity of human blood. Their \ninterests are the interests of war. The cause \nfor which they fight may be either just or \nunjust, but the delight they find in slaughter \nis not the pleasure that arises from satisfying \njustice; it rests upon the lust for carnage \nawakened by some breath of hell blowing on \nan automatic crowd. \n\nThe walking dreamer cannot tell, when he \nawakes, why it gave him pleasure when \nasleep to cut his brother\'s throat ; nor does \nthe war crowd know that the hideous joy it \nfinds in wholesale murder is the suggested \npleasure of a crowd that has been hypno- \n40 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\ntized. Poor human nature, however bad it \nis, would never do the ghastly things that \nhave been done on myriad battlefields, if \ntheir doing were dependent on the approval \nof Reason. \n\nBut there is no other form of hypnotism \nthat sweeps so surely and so swiftly through \nthe most enormous crowds as that which is \ninduced by the bugle blast of war. There is \nno other crowd that is so completely auto- \nmatic as the crowd whose serried ranks com- \nprise the means and food of war. The \ncommands of officers are unconsciously \nobeyed. The men and the very horses of \nthe crowd are mere levers and escapements, \nwheels and springs of some machine. In the \ntumult of the fight, the movements of the \nvast machine may seem less regular and uni- \nform, but they are no less automatic than the \nmovements of a marching army. And, as \nsome monster engine whose wheels have left \nthe tracks will plunge in mindless madness \nto its own complete destruction, crushing into \n41 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nflying splinters every obstacle in its way, so \nwhen some accident of war starts a panic in \nthe war machine, there is no means of stay- \ning it till its fury has been spent. \n\nHope and fear and hate and thirst for hu- \nman blood are as dependent on suggestion in \nthis huge machine as are the movements of a \nmarching or a fighting army or the pandemo- \nnium of a disorderly retreat. \n\nBut the actual war machine is not the \nwhole war crowd, and all the fluid minds \nwithin the crowd are dominated by the same \nsuggestion that controls the soldier in the \nfield. Ranting politicians who start the first \nwar cry, demagogues whose duties to their \nfamilies keep them at their own firesides, \nsilly girls whose heads are turned by the \nsplendor of their lovers\' uniforms, kings and \nprinces whose dominions are not wide enough, \nand all the hosts of others who see glory in \nthe murder of a fellow-man for murder\'s \nsake, are members of the dreaming crowd, \nwhose fluid minds have melted in its waves. \n42 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nThey get their feelings from the fluid minds \nabout them and impart their dreaming frenzy \nto their neighbors. Thus the whole crowd \nis a huge automaton, with no will or reason \nof its own. \n\nIn their amusements, the followers of \ncrowds get their inspiration not from Reason, \nbut from the crowd. If the latter finds its \nchief delight in straddling a two-wheeled \nmachine, and riding like the wind to no \nplace, for no reason, \xe2\x80\x94 so do they. The \nusefulness of the machine and the pleasure \nwhich its reasonable use affords are not the \nreasons for their riding it. They do it \xe2\x80\x94 \nthough they do not know it \xe2\x80\x94 because it is \nthe fashion of the crowd. Their minds, at \nthis particular point, have melted in the \nwaters of the crowd, which diffuse some \nspecially soluble ingredients with greater \nswiftness than some others. The frenzy \nquickly spreads, like an epidemic of la grippe^ \ntill the very roads and sidewalks are ob- \n43 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nstructed with flying wheels. Little boys and \ngirls, young men and women, aged men with \nflying beards and spindling shanks, ponderous \ndames with quivering outlines, blushing spin- \nsters and other females grown too bold to \nblush, \xe2\x80\x94 crouch like monkeys in the saddle, \nwhile their reeking bodies pump and pedal, \njolt and jostle, over stony roads to proclaim \ntheir own subjection to the craze. \n\nIf the crowd is one that travels, your \ncrowd-man travels with the best of them, \nnot for the benefit that sane minds get from \ntravel, but because of his subjection to the \nfashion of the crowd. He strokes his pointed \nbeard in Paris and ogles shop-girls in Berlin, \nand swells with silly pride to think how like \nhe is to the travelled members of his crowd \nwhose ape and mirror he aspires to be. He \ntravels endless weary miles in wretched rail- \nroad coaches to see some landscape that may \nnot equal those he never saw at home. He \ngrows eloquent over any pond in Europe, as \n44 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nif there were no lakes at home. He lets a \nred-nosed guide fill his memory with fables \nabout any crumbling pile of stones and mortar \nthat some other fool has paid to see. He \ndoes it all because it is the fashion of his \ncrowd, and does not stop to notice that he \nhas been hypnotized. If Reason were awake, \nhe certainly would not do all the things he \ndoes, or, at least, would do them differently. \n\nIf his crowd is superstitious, so is he. He \nwill lie awake at night and tremble while he \nlistens for the footsteps of a ghost that some \nother members of his crowd have heard. If \nhe hears them, or thinks he does (which is \nthe same), he will pay a priest to exorcise the \nhouse. He will let the broken fragments of \na mirror outweigh the reassuring voice of \nscience, and make up his mind to die; some- \ntimes he will succeed, for a false conviction \nmay be as depressing to the vital forces as a \nfear which Reason warrants. \n\n\n\n45 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nIf some crazy agitation is going forward \nin the neighborhood, and some new prophet \nor Messiah is being proclaimed, the crowd- \nman is the one who is most apt to go to \nscofF and then remain to pray. His fluid \nmind is so devoid of personaHty that it in- \nstantly assumes the form and nature of the \nminds within the crowd it happens to be in \nat a particular time. \n\nThus do all weak minds \xe2\x80\x94 and in a less \ndegree all stronger ones \xe2\x80\x94 reveal their solu- \nbility in all the oceans, lakes, and pools in \nwhich the minds of men collect. \n\nTo think one\'s own thoughts and to know \nthey are one\'s own, and not the thoughts \nwhich melted minds absorb in mobs ; to feel \nthe sane emotions of the human heart, and \nknow they are the feelings normal to one\'s \nself; to let Reason guide one\'s thoughts and \nfeelings and desires, as far as Reason can \nguide human minds \xe2\x80\x94 these are the gains of \nloneliness. Strong minds within the crowd \n46 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nmay do all this, but such strong minds will \nnot be of the crowd, and will be as lonely \nas the mind of him whose sole companion \nis his pipe. \n\nBut is there any mortal mind whose lone- \nliness is complete ? No ; and it is well that \nthis is true \xe2\x80\x94 well for the crowd and for the \nlonely mind. The world owes much to the \nautomatic crowd-mind, for though it seems \nto work as blindly as some huge machine, its \nproducts, like the products of machines, are \noften either beautiful or useful. It does not \nact within the realm or under the control of \nanything like ordinary human Reason. It \nacts only in obedience to suggestion, but \nonly when its working is opposed to Reason \ndoes it become a thing of terror or of \nridicule. \n\nThere is a boundless field of thought and \naction in which the crowd-mind is our only \nguide. In this field Reason tells us only \nwhat is possible and what impossible ; she \ncannot tell us what is real or what is best ; \n47 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nand here, if Reason does not tell us that the \nproduct of the crowd-mind is absurd, we may- \naccept it. So marvellous an instrument as \nlanguage is a thing which the automatic \ncrowd-mind has produced without the aid of \nReason; and yet this instrument is one which \nReason uses and must use. Each word in \nany language is a product of suggestion act- \ning on the automatic crowd-mind. The \nmembers of the crowd yield to the current \ncustom of giving utterance to thought as they \naccept the current feelings and beliefs and \nfalse ideals of the crowd. In originating and \nperpetuating language Reason has no voice, \nand can have none. There is no reason \nthat we can see why any language that ex- \nists is better than a thousand other possible \nlanguages would have been if they had been \nadopted soon enough; and yet, these other \nlanguages do not, and never will, exist. If \nwe utter thoughts or even think them, we \nmust use the instrument which the crowd- \nmind has given us. \n\n48 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nNot only in its great utility is language \nwonderful, but in its revelation of the very \nlaws of knowledge. In the structure of a \nsentence in any language the same eternal \nlaws of logic or of knowledge stand revealed. \nHowever much the words of one crowd differ \nfrom those of other crowds, in their outer \nforms and their arrangement in the sentence, \nthey group themselves into the self-same parts \nof speech, which represent, in all the differ- \nent languages, the self-same elements of \nthought and knowledge. To the analytic \nmind a sentence is not merely the expression \nof a truth : it is that which shows the ele- \nments of which the truth consists. Although \ntruth is eternal while fashions change, here \nis a field of truth which has been opened up \nto Reason by the caprice of Fashion. The \nunreasoned freaks and whims of Fashion, in \nthe form of signs and words, have caught \nupon the unseen fabric of eternal truth, and \nnow the Fashion\'s form reveals the outlines \nof what could not be seen before. \n4 49 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nSo in the realm of beauty must we be \nguided by the minds of crowds. Who \nknows what true beauty is ? In different \ncrowds ideals of beauty are incredibly diverse. \nThe Zulu chieftain can see beauty where no \nEuropean could, and the European\'s ideal \nwould not appeal to him. Reason cannot \ntell us what is beautiful, and therefore if we \nsatisfy that love of beauty which is in every \nsoul, we must accept the products of the \nautomatic minds of crowds or set up an arbi- \ntrary standard of our own without the aid of \nReason. Who knows but that the fleeting \nstandards of the beautiful which Fashion \nchanges ere she gives them definite form \nmay all contain within their false proportions \nsome slight elusive element of beauty which \nis absolute ? Who knows but in some dis- \ntant century the blindly groping, automatic \ngeneral mind of man may seize upon the \nuniversal form of beauty, and fix its feet on \nan eternal pedestal of truth ? \n\nThough Reason guides the lonely mind, \n50 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nhow limited is her sway ! She guides it \nsafely while it keeps within the field of knowl- \nedge ; but how narrow is that field ! How \nlittle do we absolutely know ! We must be- \nlieve, and act upon beliefs the truth of which \nwe cannot absolutely prove. Even here Rea- \nson is our safest guide and helps us, if we \nfollow her, to find that which most probably \nis true ; but stretching out beyond the field \nof certain knowledge and reasonable belief, \nis the boundless field of hope and possibiHty. \nAside from pointing out the line that separates \nthe possible from the absurd, Reason gives \nno guidance here. \n\nCan human hearts ignore this field and \ntake no step beyond the point at which they \nmust abandon Reason\'s guidance ? If they \ngo at all into this chartless infinite, - \xe2\x80\x94 since \nReason has no power to give us further \nguidance here than to show what may be \npossible and what absurd, \xe2\x80\x94 may not the \nguidance of the automatic common mind of \nman be better than no guide at all ? \n51 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nMan\'s heart rebels at the proffered leader- \nship of a blind guide \xe2\x80\x94 a guide which some- \ntimes makes of him a thing of ridicule and \nsometimes a hideous monster. Why should \nhe have, within the field of mathematics, the \nblazing light of Reason, and in the realm of \nhope toward which the agonizing yearning \nof his heart directs him the uncertain leader- \nship of a blind automaton ? He would for- \nget the theorems of algebra, and see as clearly \nas he now sees their truth the truth of all \nhis dearest hopes. \n\nHow can he know that the hope of crowds \nis not a mere alluring mockery ? The forms \nwhich hope takes in the different crowds on \nearth are as diverse as are the various com- \nplexions of the crowds. The form of hope \nis a fashion of the crowd, and many fashions \nbased on falsehood have reared their haughty \nheads for weary centuries above the prostrate \nform of truth. \n\nAnd yet within the realm of hope the \nautomatic crowd-mind is man\'s only guide ; \n52 \n\n\n\nVANTAGE GROUND OF LONELINESS \n\nand though he kneel before what he conceives \nto be the throne of God and pour out im- \npassioned prayers for some assurance that his \nheart\'s desire is not a tantalizing mockery, the \necho of the empty air will be his only answer. \n\nThe crowd-mind is man\'s only guide \nbeyond the pale of Reason, but though we \nmust admit the blindness of the guide, it may \nbe that it is not wholly blind. It may be \nthat the fashions which endure the longest \nwithin the greatest and most widely separated \ncrowds contain some fragment of a truth \nentangled in the meshes of their errors to \ngive them permanence. It may be that the \ngreat Eternal \xe2\x80\x94 whom some call God, and \nsome call Allah, some Brahma, others Nature, \nand still others the Unknowable \xe2\x80\x94 is making \nin the various forms which Fashion gives to \nhope in various crowds the only revelation \nof his being which present man could even \npartly understand. \n\nThe automaton that guides us gropes as \nblindly in the field of hope as in any other \n53 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nfield ; but if this formless mind of crowds \nhas given birth to that which has so true a \nform as language, who knows but that the same \nblind mind, within the realm of hope, may \nguide us to as true a goal ? And as beneath \nthe accidental forms of the most different \nlanguages of different crowds the same eter- \nnal laws of truth can be discerned, who knows \nbut that the widely different forms which \nFashion gives to hope in various crowds con- \nceal some common and eternal verity ? Who \nknows ? \n\n\n\n54 \n\n\n\n\nIll \n\nBOOKS, DOCTORS, IDEALISM, LAN- \nGUAGE, AND GOVERNMENT \n\nTHE Lonely Man\'s pipe had gone out. \nHe knocked out the ashes, refilled \nand relighted his pipe, and again settled him- \nself comfortably in his chair. \n\nAs he smoked, his eyes were for some \nreason arrested by some books on the mantel, \nand his thoughts taking the direction of his \neyes, \xe2\x80\x94 which is somewhat unusual among \nlonely men, \xe2\x80\x94 he fell into a bibliological \nreverie which lasted till his pipe had been \ntwice refilled and had grown cold after the \nlast filling. \n\n55 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nThere were not many books on the man- \ntel; for although the Lonely Man was a lover \nof books, he was not a very heavy owner of \nthem, chiefly because he was more willing to \nlend a book than he was to ask for its return. \nBooks that would certainly have been on the \nshelves of less critical readers were not in his \ncollection, for he was not willing to interrupt \nhis reflections to read a book from which he \ncould not hope to get something commen- \nsurate with the trouble of reading it. He \nhad observed that books which really contain \nfacts worth knowing are, in these days of \nmuch printing, extremely likely to be mere \ncompilations of better books, and that books \nwhich are not compilations are apt to achieve \noriginality at the cost of veracity and exact- \nness. He did not like to be led astray by \nthe latter ; and, as to the former, he found it \nmore interesting to reflect on what his own \nexperience had taught him than to read some- \nthing in which one man tries to tell what \nanother man knows. \n\n56 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nIf It is as true that a fool learns in the \nschool of experience as it is that he can learn \nin no other, the Lonely Man must have pos- \nsessed much knowledge, for, whether he was \na fool or not, he had had experience of nearly \neverything that a man can read about in \nbooks, and of some things that a man can- \nnot read about \xe2\x80\x94 at least in the books that \nare commonly read in good society. \n\nIn fact, as he himself put it, he was a \nfiddle every one of whose strings had been \nplayed from the key to the end of the finger \nboard. He had had nearly every experience \nexcept that of being put into jail, and he had \nescaped that only through the agility with \nwhich he once got across a certain frontier. \nFrom this it is not to be hastily inferred that \nhe was in any way deficient on the moral \nside. Even in the case of a man who is in \njail, innocence is to be presumed till guilt \nis proved ; and from a priori reasoning, it \nseems still more incumbent upon us to pre- \nsume innocence in the case of a man who \n57 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nhas never been in jail. Especially is this true \nin a community in which a man can be im- \nprisoned for using profane language to a hotel \nporter \xe2\x80\x94 which was the head and front of the \nLonely Man\'s offending. \n\nThe Lonely Man\'s gaze flitted from a vol- \nume of Shakespeare\'s plays to a small Bible, \nfrom this to a text-book of civil government, \nand finally rested on a small medical com- \npend. Of course, all medical compends are \nsmall. They are mere abbreviated compila- \ntions of other medical books, but some of \nthem are, nevertheless, very useful in the \nhasty reviewing of previously studied subjects. \nThey are not so useful in the study of sub- \njects that have not been previously studied, \nfor, while brevity may be the soul of wit, ex- \ntent is a more desirable quality in knowledge. \n\nThis particular compend (mused the Lonely \nMan) is a fine exemplification in medical liter- \nature of much in little. That is to say, it \nrepresents, from the author\'s standpoint, much \n\n58 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nadvertising of himself by means of a little \nbook, and from the reader\'s standpoint, much \ndisappointment in an effort to get a little \ninformation. \n\nIt was written by a hospital Interne or a \nphysician in the first year of his practice, for \nthe purpose of gaining sufficient prestige to \nenable him to procure a place on the teaching \ncorps of a medical college. This fact is not \nmentioned in the preface, but the omission \nof a fact from the preface of a medical com- \npend in no way impairs the validity of the \nfact. \n\nThe immature author seems to have said : \n" Behold, I also have written a Httle book, in \nwhich you can find the same facts that you \ncould have found in a dozen other books. I \nmyself have neither originated nor discovered \na single one of these facts, or, if I have, it is \none of no possible consequence, and its dis- \ncovery was the result of an earnest endeavor \non my part to do something that might attract \nattention to myself. \n\n59 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\n" I have no experimental knowledge of the \ntruth of any assertion in the book, which I \nhasten to write before the subduing influence \nof practical experience has caused any abate- \nment of the enthusiasm with which I accept \nthe assertions of my masters. The book is \nsmall, but if I had waited for experience be- \nfore writing it, it might have been still smaller \nthan it is, and, in the omitted matter, the facts \nof my own discovery would have been most \nlikely to be included. \n\n" The publication of the book was urgent, \nfor there are already several medical com- \npends where one is needed. If I had waited \nlonger, the disproportion between the de- \nmand and the supply might have been still \ngreater. \n\n"Some discrepancies between my book \nand a dozen other equally good books may \nbe found, but they could not easily be avoided. \nIt must be remembered that it is difficult for \na dozen different people to tell the same \ntruth in a dozen different ways, each of which \n60 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nshall be difFerent enough from the other eleven \nways to bear the stamp of the author\'s in- \ndividuality, and yet be perfectly true. This \nhas been tried on numerous w^itness stands to \nthe discomfiture of the v^^itnesses. I trust, \nhowever, that the deviation of this book from \nothers of its kind will appear to be an ad- \nvantage to the reader, and not a mere ful- \ncrum on which to rest the lever of an excuse \nfor having written it." \n\nIf any one who has ever written a medi- \ncal compend should happen to overhear my \nthoughts (continued the Lonely Man), I \nshould hasten to assure him that I trust his \ncompend is one of the few that are really \nneeded ; that if it is, its merits and its date \nwill speak for themselves; and that I have \nreally not been thinking of him or his book, \nbut of the book whose author has just spoken \nfor himself. \n\nOf course this author has not actually said \nthese things, and I should not like to assert, \nwhere any one could hear me, that it would \n6i \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nbe appropriate for him to say them ; but, \nhowever inconvenient it may be to be honest \nwith one\'s fellows, there is no risk in being \nhonest with one\'s self. This is a distinction \nwhich is often overlooked by persons who have \nlearned the inexpediency of candor; and con- \nsequently, from practising diplomacy with \ntheir fellows, they unconsciously fall into the \nhabit of practising duplicity with themselves. \nThis is both unnecessary and unfortunate, for \nhabits of intellectual honesty are not only \nperfectly safe, but highly profitable. \n\nIt is possible that it would be unwise to \nrecommend such habits to all persons and \nunder all circumstances ; for if one is always \nhonest with one\'s self, one may inadvertently \nbe too honest with one\'s fellows, and it must \nbe admitted that absolute honesty, however \nsound it may be at the core, is apt to be a \nlittle rough and jagged around the edges. \nPoliteness and honesty are not always per- \nfectly compatible, and it cannot be suc- \ncessfully denied that politeness is the least \n62 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nobjectionable form of insincerity. If my \nfriend makes an assertion which I know to \nbe false it would seem monstrous to tell him \nthat he is either a fool or a liar, though that \nis exactly what honesty would require me to \ndo. It would even seem unnecessarily rude \nnot to accept the absurd assertion and believe \nit pro tempore myself. \n\nNow, while these observations do not \nexplain any considerable amount of the \nslovenly thinking that is done in the world, \nthey explain the necessity of occasional lone- \nliness in the case of those persons who aim \nto be both honest and polite. There is no \nneed or possibility of being polite when one \nis absolutely alone. Politeness is a relation, \nand therefore cannot exist where only one \nof the related entities is present, and no vio- \nlence can be done to its principles in an envi- \nronment of loneliness, by the most rigorous \nhonesty of which the human mind is capable. \n\nFor these reasons I find my chief delight \nwhen, in the evening, I can smoke my faith- \n\n63 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nful pipe and think my honest thoughts about \nanything in heaven above, or the earth be- \nneath, or the water under the earth. \n\nThe Lonely Man\'s eyes still rested on the \nlittle book at the medical end of the mantel, \nand his thoughts coming back from their \napologetic excursion along the line of polite- \nness versus honesty, he resumed his medita- \ntion concerning medical literature. \n\nA person who writes an unnecessary medi- \ncal compend (he reflected) is not the only \nwriter who is amenable to the charge of \nexpanding the volume of medical literature \nwithout increasing its mass or enhancing its \nvalue. He really does on a small scale what \nsome of his elders and exemplars in the medi- \ncal profession do on a larger scale. \n\nHere the Lonely Man paused in his re- \nflections and almost blushed, for he had \nwritten some things himself, which, if they \n64 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nwere not medical, were, at least probably, \nuseless. \n\nPerhaps complete originality does not \nexist, he reflected. Perhaps we are all, in \nsome measure, imitators ; but even if we are, \nand if the products of my poor brain were \nsuperfluous, the reading of them did not fall \nto the lot of overworked doctors. In any \ncase if it is a misdemeanor for an ambitious \nimitator to try to get the undeserved reputa- \ntion of an author, his guilt should be esti- \nmated by the size of his offence. My books \nwere very small. \n\nI am even willing to concede this extenu- \nating circumstance to the writer of an un- \nnecessary medical compend. His book is \nalso small, and in it the theme changes so \nrapidly that the reader is not unduly wearied \nby any protracted effort of attention. It is, \nin fact, almost as restful as a dictionary. \n\nThe chief offenders are the writers of some \nof those ponderous tomes which make the \n5 65 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ninterior of a medical library look almost as \ndiscouraging as the interior of a law library, \nand which contain thousands of facts that are \ncozily nestling in the luxuriant verbiage of a \ndozen other books of the same size in the \nsame library. \n\nNow, the world will never be able to repay \nthe real discoverers of these facts, nor the \narmy of faithful physicians who make use of \nthem in their practice. These honest fellows \nevidently believe that the faithful performance \nof duty is its own reward. If it is, they are \nreaping a large harvest of reward ; but if it is \nnot, I fear they must collect the bulk of their \nwages in heaven. \n\nSince these overworked and underpaid \nphysicians are the persons who must read \nthese enormous medical books, it is hard to \nforgive the writing of a superfluous medical \ntreatise ; and my own researches, so far as I \nhave had the courage to prosecute them, war- \nrant the conviction that some of these books \n\xe2\x80\x94 say about three-fourths of them \xe2\x80\x94 are abso- \n66 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nlutely superfluous, always were superfluous, \nand contain nothing of any value whatever \nthat could not be found in the other fourth. \n\nThe only excuse for this \xe2\x80\x94 but there can \nbe none. The only reason for this need- \nless multiplication of medical books is to be \nsought in the fact that medical ethics very \nproperly makes it disreputable for a physician \nto seek to attract notice through open adver- \ntising or any other means than that of hon- \nestly trying to help humanity or to advance \nscience. Since medical science has been ad- \nvanced by some large books, as well as by \nsome small ones, the medical profession is \ngenerous enough to assume that any medical \nbook written in reasonably scientific language \nis the product of another effort in the same \ndirection. Thus, the copyist attracts the \ndesired notice, and still remains respectable. \nHe may even attain a position of eminence \nin the profession, and thus acquire the privi- \nlege of enjoining modesty and unselfishness \nupon the very physicians who must read his \n\n67 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nown colossal superfluities and actually pay for \nthem. \n\nWhatever apparent cynicism there was in \nthe Lonely Man\'s thoughts had not been in- \ntentional, but had simply resulted from the \nnature of his subject. He was entirely alone, \nand therefore there was no occasion to think \nanything but what seemed to him to be the \ntruth. \n\nNow he seemed to forget the little book \nwhich had started his thoughts in this direc- \ntion, while he slowly puffed at his pipe and \nwatched the blue clouds float silently to the \nceiling. \n\nWe have not studied doctors as much as \nthey deserve to be studied, his thoughts con- \ntinued. When our perceptive faculties are \npricked or jolted into something like activity \nby the pains of disease or the fear of death, \nwe become aware of the doctor\'s skill, knowl- \nedge, and unselfishness ; but after we have \nbeen restored to a state of bodily comfort and \n68 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nmental tranquillity, we do not pay much \nattention to him. \n\nIf we had paid more attention to him when \nwe were well and in the full possession of our \nfaculties, we might have noticed in him some \ninteresting traits besides his willingness to \nget out of bed at two o\'clock a.m. \n\nIt sometimes seems that the doctor be- \ncomes as different from other men in one \ngeneration as the Jew has become from the \nIrishman since Noah began to bring up a \nfamily. It is hard to tell how long ago that \nwas, for Noah was a considerable sailor, and \ntales about sailors are likely to be tinctured \nwith a flavor of romance ; but at all events, \nit was a good while ago, and all the racial \ndifferences that have grown up among men \nsince then are seemingly overshadowed by \nthe specific traits which most doctors possess \nin common and have acquired in one gen- \neration. \n\nThis may be a mere unfounded fancy of \nmine, but I like to beheve it, and I know \n\n69 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthat the doctor is an interesting animal and \nthat one of his most interesting specific \npeculiarities is the quality of his idealism. \n\nIdealism in philosophy is one thing, in lit- \nerature and art it is another thing, and in \ndaily Hfe it is the apex of an ascending series \nthe base of which is agnosticism. An agnos- \ntic is a man who believes nothing that he can- \nnot absolutely prove; a practical man is one \nwho believes anything that he can prove be- \nyond a reasonable doubt ; a hopeful man is \none who believes anything that he cannot \ndisprove ; and an idealist is one who believes \nwhat he knows is not true. \n\nThe doctor, in the philosophic sense, is \napt to be an agnostic, but in daily life he is, \nand must be, an idealist ; and his success is \nlikely to keep pace with the degree of his \nidealism. This is not strange, for the naked \nfacts of disease and death, with which a doc- \ntor has to deal, are not pleasant food for \nthought, and, like other naked things, they \nhardly seem respectable. The patient natu- \n70 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEA LISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nrally wants a physician who can clothe these \nfacts with some semblance of cheerfulness \nand respectability ; and in order to do this \nthe doctor must fashion the garments out of \nthe idealism of his own mind. He thus be- \ncomes on one side of his mind an idealist, \nwhile he is of all men most apt to be an ag- \nnostic on the other side. \n\nI should not even think about the illus- \ntrations of this general truth if I were not \nalone, but loneliness carries with it the sacred \nprivilege of thinking about the most horrible \nthings in the world without fear of giving \noffence to any one or awakening any unpleas- \nant thoughts in another mind. \n\nFor example, a man who has cancer of the \nliver and of several other internal organs con- \nsults the doctor because he would naturally \nlike to get well. Any one with such a disease \nwould like to get rid of it. The disease is \nlikely to have progressed so far that its com- \nplete removal would require the dissection of \nthe patient, and the careful scraping of several \n71 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthousand organs that enter into his structure, \nto get rid of stray cancer cells. Even then, \nimmersion for a few days in absolute alcohol \nwould be necessary to destroy the vitality of \nany remaining cells. \n\nOf course it is disagreeable to think about \nsuch things; but I am entirely alone, and \nthese are facts, and the doctor knows, on the \nscientific side of his mind, that they are facts; \nbut the patient does not want to know it. \nThe doctor knows that the patient wants to \nbelieve that he either does not have a cancer \nat all, or that it has not yet progressed be- \nyond the stage at which it is curable \xe2\x80\x94 if \nthere is any stage at which a real cancer is \ncurable. \n\nThe doctor consequently holds out a \ngreater or less degree of hope according to \nthe extent of his idealism, and he actually \nbelieves, on the idealistic side of his mind, \nwhat he tells the patient. Of course the \npatient dies, but during his illness he has de- \nrived more comfort from the doctor\'s ideal- \n72 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nism than from any other source ; and thus \nthe doctor comes to carry his idealism into \nthe treatment of all incurable as well as all \ncurable disorders, to the mutual benefit of \nhimself and his clientele. \n\nThe therapeutic value of idealism long ago \nbecame so apparent that, in the early part of \nthe last century, there sprang up in Germany a \nschool of doctors whose only resources in the \ntreatment of disease were an infinite amount \nof idealism and an infinitesimal amount of \nmedicine. They are called homoeopaths. \n\nThe success of homoeopathy encouraged a \nstill further reduction in the amount of medi- \ncine and a still further increase of idealism, \nand the result was Chilstian Science with its \nvarious subdivisions. It exploits a theory \nwhereby not only medicine, but all other \nmaterial things \xe2\x80\x94 except money \xe2\x80\x94 are en- \ntirely eliminated from the treatment of \ndisease. \n\nThe Christian Scientists are clever as well \nas cheerful people (mused the Lonely Man), \n73 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nand they have entertained some incurables \nand cured some people who were not sick, \nquite as well as any one else could have done \nit. But when they imagine that they are the \nreal discoverers of idealism, or that there is \nanything really original in their philosophy \nor religion or whatever it is, they delude \nthemselves. \n\nBishop Berkeley, who lived in the seven- \nteenth and eighteenth centuries, was some- \nthing of an idealist himself. He constructed \na system of philosophy in which he proved \nthat there is nothing in the universe but mind \nthat can perceive anything, and that there is \nnothing for mind to perceive but ideas and \nillusions. \n\nAccording to his philosophy, that which \nwe childishly believe to be a world of matter \nis a mere complicated but orderly system of \nillusions. When we think we see a tree, we \nmerely have an optical illusion, which is no \nmore real than a reflection in a mirror. If \nwe touch the tree, we have a tactual illusion, \n74 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nlike that of a man who thinks he feels some- \nthing between his toes after his leg has been \namputated. There is really nothing there at \nall, and when we go away or close our eyes \nthe illusion itself vanishes. If any other \nmind incorporated in an illusory body comes \nalong to where we thought we saw the tree, \nit will have the same illusion and think it \nsees a tree. The illusion thus keeps pop- \nping into being whenever any wandering mind \ngets within eyeshot of it, and popping out \nwhenever the illusory eye goes away or its \nmendacious vision is shut ofF by getting be- \nhind some other illusion. Thus, so far as \nappearances are concerned, everything goes \non in this illusory world quite as if every- \nthing were real and permanent. \n\nThe good Bishop meant well enough ; he \nmerely wanted to prove the existence of a \nGod, and he thought this was the only way \nof doing it. It must be admitted that if he \nhad succeeded in proving his premises he \nwould have rendered his conclusions ex- \n75 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ntremely probable, for nothing short of omnip- \notence could attend to so much slide shifting \nwithout ever showing his magic lantern or \ngetting caught with his illusions off the \ncanvas when they should have been on. It \nwould have been several times easier to \ncreate a world that would take care of itself, \nand have done with the job. \n\nBut the Bishop proved too much. Or \nrather, he did not prove enough, and David \nHume came along and proved the rest. He \ntook up the argument where Berkeley left it, \ncarried it to its logical conclusion, and proved \nthat there is no mind in the universe, and no \nuniverse for a mind to be in, \xe2\x80\x94 that there \nis nothing, in fact, but a string of illusory \nideas which persistently flaunt themselves \nin the face of a consciousness that does not \nexist. \n\nNow we are beginning to see what ideal- \nism really is ; but only beginning. If we go \nback \xe2\x80\x94 ideally \xe2\x80\x94 to ancient Greece, we shall \nmake the acquaintance of a gentleman named \n76 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nPythagoras, who proved without any difficulty \nat all that the universe made itself out of \nnumbers. Now, that looks reasonable enough, \nfor any schoolboy knows that numbers can \nmake a world of trouble, which is exactly \nwhat this world is. But Pythagoras did not \nhave his own way any more than the school- \nboy does, for some of his compatriots proved \nthat we do not know anything about numbers \nor anything else \xe2\x80\x94 that we absolutely do not \nknow anything at all except that we do not \nknow anything. Then some other Greek \nfinished the whole melancholy business by \nproving that we do not even know that. \n\nNow, in view of this nihilistic tendency \nof idealism, it seems unreasonable to scold \nagnosticism, as some good people have done, \nfor having punctured a few idealistic soap- \nbubbles and cleared the atmosphere. Since \nthe agnostic believes nothing that he cannot \nabsolutely prove, he would decline to believe \nthat a man who does not exist can prove \nthat he does not exist, but he would readily \n77 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nadmit that a man who does not know any- \nthing can easily prove that. \n\nWe owe a good deal of this wholesome \nagnosticism to doctors, and it is this which \nrenders their idealism peculiar, and makes it \na comparatively safe aid to more material \nagents in the treatment of anything from \nsmallpox to malingering. \n\nHere the Lonely Man paused in his reflec- \ntions, and his attention concentrated itself \nupon a point in the atmosphere just beyond \nthe end of his pipe, where he seemed to see \nthe last word that had assed through his \nmind. \n\nMalinger (he reflected) is a beautiful illus- \ntration of the expediency of studying one \nlanguage for the purpose of learning another. \nIt is derived from the French word maltngre^ \nwhich means in French to be sicky and \nin English not to be sick^ while pretending \nto be. \n\n78 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nOne\'s knowledge of French in this in- \nstance does not seem to help one very much \nin understanding English ; yet there is a \npretty general impression abroad that one can \nlearn what English words mean in English \nonly by studying the languages from which \nthey were derived. This is why youths of \nboth sexes, who are desirous of learning \nEnglish, are encouraged to spend several of \nthe most promising years of their lives in \nstudying Latin. \n\nThe Latin language was good enough for \nthe ancient Romans, but it, like the Roman \nEmpire itself, became too old to keep up with \nthe march of events. Consequently, after \nhaving left several hybrid descendants in vari- \nous European states, being old and full of \nyears, it died, and should have been allowed \nto rest in peace. Its corpse was a beautiful \none, and, without having lost any of its \nbeauty, it has become fossilized, and some \npeople study it simply on account of its \nbeauty. \n\n79 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nAfter Latin had died, some priests seemed \nto get a monopoly of all the learning in the \nworld, and, as there was very little of it in \nrespect to its value, they did not want any of \nit to get away. To preserve it, they kept it \nconcealed within the beautiful corpse of the \ndead language. This plan was successful; \nin fact, it was too successful, for it almost \nkilled the learning, and did actually cause it \nto remain for several centuries in a state of \nsuspended animation. Naturally, any one \nwho wanted to get at the learning had to \nbecome acquainted with the beautiful corpse. \nConsequently, a custom grew up among \npeople who wished to be \xe2\x80\x94 or be considered \n\xe2\x80\x94 learned, of studying Latin; and this cus- \ntom has been continued on one pretext or \nanother ever since, although now everything \nworth knowing \xe2\x80\x94 not to mention a good \nmany things not worth knowing \xe2\x80\x94 is printed \nin every respectable language in the world \nexcept Latin. \n\nLearning gradually recovered from its cat- \n80 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\naleptic condition and became embodied in \nEnglish and the other hybrid descendants of \nLatin which were not Latin, and which were \nno more like it than an octoroon is like a \nnegro. However, the college professor, who \nis a good, honest fellow, and can do several \nthings besides teaching Latin, had become so \naccustomed to teaching Latin and its dead \nfriend Greek that he feared he could not \nearn his salary \xe2\x80\x94 which is small enough, in \nall conscience \xe2\x80\x94 without spending three or \nfour years almost exclusively in training each \nstudent to travel via the cemetery to a knowl- \nedge of things which have mostly been con- \ntroverted or outgrown. \n\nNotwithstanding the professor\'s earnest \nefforts to infuse new life into the fossil re- \nmains of Latin, it gradually became apparent \nthat it was so dead that it would have to be \nput in a museum to preserve it, unless some \nother reason than the old one could be found \nfor teaching it. The reason was found. In \nfact, several reasons were found. The chief \n6 8i \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\none was that, as the professor had had more \npractice in teaching Latin than in teaching \nanything else, he could best give the student \nthe mental gymnastics which is the main \npart of an education by teaching him Latin, \n\xe2\x80\x94 which he really does not need to know, \xe2\x80\x94 \nand thus give him that degree of mental \nacumen that would enable him, after leaving \ncollege, to find out for himself the things \nwhich he does need to know. \n\nAnother reason was that, since English is \nlargely derived from Latin, we must study \nthe latter in order to understand our mother \ntongue, although we study it by means of \nour mother tongue and neglect the latter \nwhile doing it. \n\nIt is as if the good professor had said to \nthe student : " My dear young man, since \nEnglish is your mother tongue, it is essential \nthat you should understand it. Therefore \nyou should not study it. You should study \nLatin \xe2\x80\x94 a language which died several cen- \nturies before English was born. You must \n82 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nhave observed that when one wishes to \nlearn one thing, it is always best to study \nsome other thing only remotely related to it. \nWhen one wishes to do one thing, one \nnaturally does an entirely different thing. \n\n" It is true that many of our present Eng- \nhsh words have descended from Latin words, \nbut they are, in orthography, pronunciation, \ninflection, and meaning, so entirely different \nfrom their Latin ancestors that, after you \nhave learned the slight resemblances that do \nexist, they will only confuse you and cause \nyou to use the English derivatives in their \nLatin sense, and thus obscure your meaning. \nTherefore, you cannot understand English \ntill you have mastered Latin. \n\n" You will receive instruction in Latin \nthrough the medium of English, and, as \nyou do not understand the medium, you will \nnaturally understand the instruction. One \nalways understands best what is explained \nto one in a language which one does not \nunderstand. \n\n83 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\n" Latin Is thus a ladder by means of which \none first climbs to a knowledge of English. \nIt is true that English is the ladder by means \nof which one first climbs to a knowledge of \nLatin, but, after one climbs from the Latin \nladder to the English ladder, one easily per- \nceives that one was really never on the \nEnglish ladder, and therefore never did any \nclimbing, till one had climbed ofF it to \nanother ladder and from the latter to the one \nfrom which one started. \n\n" As I have already observed, many Eng- \nlish words have descended from Latin words, \nand in their descent to us have become en- \ntirely different from the original Latin words. \nOthers have changed very little. Now, since \nwe must use the descendants and not the \nancestors, it might seem most profitable to \nstudy the present meaning, inflection, pro- \nnunciation, and orthography of these words, \nwhether they have changed or not. \n\n" Nothing could better show your inex- \nperience and unwisdom. The main fact to \n84 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nkeep in mind is that these words have de- \nscended, \xe2\x80\x94 de^ down ; scandere^ to climb, \xe2\x80\x94 \nthese words have climbed down from Latin \nancestors, \xe2\x80\x94 ante^ before, cedere^ to go. They \nhave climbed down from Latin that goes before. \nNow, that is perfectly plain. They have \ndescended from Latin words just as an ele- \nphant has descended from a fish, and it is \nobvious that the only way to understand an \nelephant is to study a fish. When you per- \nceive that the fish has a tail, whether you \nhave ever seen an elephant or not you will \nat once know that it has a tail, and what it \nlooks like. The scales of the fish will teach \nyou that the elephant does not have scales \nbut hair, and very little of that. From the \nbony framework of the fish you will learn \nthe exact number, appearance, and uses of the \nbones in the elephant\'s skeleton. From the \ngills of the fish you will see at once that \nthe elephant is an air-breathing quadruped \nand could not live under water. The total \nabsence of a nose from the fish\'s counte- \n8s \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nnance would lead you to expect the ele- \nphant\'s proboscis. \n\n"Of course, it might seem to you best to \nlearn the main thing first, and then, if any \ntime remains, to study the history and evo- \nlution of the thing afterwards. That, how- \never, is pure boyishness. You must know \nthat, since our precious school days are ex- \ntremely few and brief, we must spend them \nall in learning the non-essentials or we shall \nnever have time to learn these non-essentials \nat all. You will unconsciously pick up what \nEnglish you need on the football grounds, at \nthe races, and from the newspapers ; and you \nwill do it the more readily if you are not \nhampered with any preconceived ideas of \nEnglish grammar. I especially admonish \nyou against frittering away your time on so \ntrivial a subject as English grammar. If you \nshould ever become so unfortunate as to \npossess a knowledge of English grammar, or \nof the exact present meanings of English \nwords, you will often hesitate in your speech, \n86 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nthrough fear of speaking ungrammatically on \nthe one hand, or seeming odd on the other. \nIt is important that your speech should be \nfluent whether it is grammatical and precise \nor not. \n\n"Latin orthography is so much like our \nown that, with the unimportant addition of \nw;, we use precisely the same alphabet. It \nis true that we use it very differently ; \nhowever, while you will not learn to spell \nEnglish words by studying Latin orthog- \nraphy, you can easily conceal your ignorance \nwhen you go into business after gradua- \ntion by employing a typewriter who never \nwent to college, and who will probably \nknow how to spell. As to your grammar, \nmany of your correspondents will not know \nwhether your letters are grammatical or not, \nand if they are ungrammatical, many of \nyour other correspondents could not tell \nwhy. \n\n" Not only is language an instrument of \nthought, but the study of its structure reveals \n\n87 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthe structure and composition of thought and \neven of truth. Of course you could learn ail \nthis from the study of English, for a thought \nhas the same composition in all languages ; \nbut if you learn thought-analysis from the \nstudy of Latin, you will probably think that \nyou could not have learned it in any other \nvi^ay, and thus you will experience a pleasing \nsense of superiority. \n\n" Remember that language is an Instrument \nfor expressing thought, and it is always well \nto have numerous instruments for exactly the \nsame purpose, \xe2\x80\x94 one of them might get \nbroken. Then, while you are getting a col- \nlection of instruments for the expression of \nthought, you will not be so increasing the \nquantity of your thought as to put a danger- \nous strain on any of the instruments. For \nthis reason you should study several modern \nlanguages after learning Latin, for nowa- \ndays nobody uses Latin for any other pur- \npose than that of developing ladder-climbing \ndexterity on the road to English or some \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nother modern language. Nobody pretends to \nspeak it. \n\n"You should study German, French, Ital- \nian, Spanish, and a few other languages; for \nyou may some day go to one of the countries \nin which these languages are spoken, and want \nto order a meal and hear the waiter laugh \nat your French or German or whatever it \nhappens to be. You will never learn to \nspeak a foreign language like a native, and as \nwell as you should be able to speak your \nown, unless you go to the country of that \nlanguage and stay there for life, \xe2\x80\x94 and not \neven then unless you are the one example in \na thousand exceptions. But you may learn \nenough of the foreign language to betray your \nnationality by speaking it, and you will also \npick up a few phrases which you can con- \nveniently throw into anything you happen to \nwrite when you do not know exactly what \nyou want to say. These phrases will look \nwell and will have all the charm of the un- \nknown to the majority of your readers." \n\n89 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nThe Lonely Man suddenly paused in his \nreflections and looked round in a startled way, \nfor he had begun to think so hard that he \nfeared some one might hear him. He knew \nthat the knife whose cut is sharpest is the one \nthat has the truest edge, and he was too tender- \nhearted to wish to inflict pain on a mosquito. \nHe would have been particularly unwilling to \nwound the professor, for he had known a \ngood many of him, and had usually found \nhim to be a pleasant, polished, well-informed \nman, who, somehow or other, managed to do \nconsiderable good in the world. He had also \nknown several college graduates who had \nplenty of thoughts, and could both speak and \nwrite them in good English without the aid \nof a typewriter \xe2\x80\x94 in spite of having gone to \ncollege. \n\nWhy should we fear so precious a thing \n\nas the truth ? he reflected. Philosophers \n\nhave spun out their brains into cobwebs for \n\nthe purpose of finding it. Explorers and in- \n\n90 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nvestigators have sacrificed their lives for it. \nIf we should suddenly become convinced that \nwe could never possess it or know it in any \ndegree, all hope and possibility of happiness, \nsatisfaction, or contentment would instantly \nvanish. Who would want to live or to have \nlived if all thought, all belief, all feeling, all \nexistence, is a lie ? Truth is not wholly un- \nattainable. We have actually attained some \nsmall fragments of it. We pretend to be \nsincere in our search for more. Then why \ndo we surround ourselves with bent and \nstrangely twisted mirrors which reflect dis- \ntorted images of those realities that lie nearest \nto us ? Why do we stand aghast when some \nunbidden hand holds up a glass that simply \ntells the truth ? Would it not be better to \nchange the facts that do not suit us than to \nkeep the mirrors twisted ? \n\nSobered and subdued by these reflections, \nthe Lonely Man fell into a dreamy haziness \nof thought, which some people call medita- \n91 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ntion, but which is really nothing but mental \nvacancy of a greater or less degree. At least, \nthat is what it is to all appearance. Some- \nthing may be stewing in the impenetrable \ndepths of the brain, trying, like the hot water \nat the bottom of a geyser, to get itself together \nand rise to the surface. The Lonely Man \nsmoked on with half-closed eyes and let it \nstew. It was no concern of his whether \nit ever reached the surface or not. His \nthoughts were his own if they should ever \nbe born ; no one would lose anything if they \nwere not. In lonely hours, when one takes \nthe hoodwink from one\'s eyes and Ufts the \nveil from things one hides from others\' eyes, \nthe thoughts one has belong to him alone if \nthere is anything that does. \n\nHis eyes wandered back to the mantel, \nand as he gradually became conscious of \nthe treatise on civil government leaning over \naffectionately against the medical compend, \nwhatever it was that had been working in his \nmind came through. \n\n92 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nI have never read that book, he mentally- \nobserved. In fact, I own it only because an \naggressive book-agent once imprisoned me in \nmy own house, in the cheerful way that \nbook-agents have, and the price of the book \nwas the amount of my ransom. There was, \napparently, not government enough in the \nbook to prevent this high-handed robbery in \nbroad daylight. I have learned from other \nsources, however, that government is that \nwhich directs and controls. \n\nNow, everything must be well directed and \ncontrolled or it will sooner or later come to \ngrief. A billiard ball must be well directed \nand controlled, or the game will be lost, and \nthe things that direct and control it are its \nown composition, the end of the cue, the sur- \nface and edges of the table, the balls it strikes, \nand a few other simple little things of that \nsort. \n\nThe living organism known as a human \nbeing is a trifle more complicated than a \nbilliard ball, yet it is directed and controlled \n93 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nwith wonderful precision by a government \nwhich is only more complicated than that \nwhich governs the billiard ball. \n\nThere are a few billions of cells in the \nbody, grouped into various classes, each of \nwhich devotes itself to an occupation different \nfrom that of the other classes. Some of these \ncells operate a saliva factory. Of course, no \none likes to mention the product in polite \nsociety, but it is, nevertheless, very useful \nand convenient, particularly when one wishes \nto swallow anything. Another group of cells \noperates a pepsin factory. The largest man- \nufacturing plant in the body produces animal \nstarch and bitters. It is called a liver. \n\nThe organism is supplied with air by a \ngroup of cells which operate a ventilating \nplant. Cells of another group carry the air \nfrom this plant to the employees in the vari- \nous factories. \n\nArteries do the work of railroads ; nerves \nperform the functions of telegraph and mail \nsystems. Nerve ganglia are the sub-stations; \n94 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nand the main postal and telegraph office is, of \ncourse, the brain. \n\nEverything is admirably governed in this \norganism. Every cell knows its own busi- \nness and attends to it. Each is kept in- \nformed of what is going on in the rest of \nthe organism, and governs itself accordingly. \nIt may receive its information from the \nmain office or from a sub-station, but it acts \naccording to its information, and does not \nrequire a policeman to compel it to do its \nduty. If the cells in one kidney become \ndisabled, word is sent up to the nearest sub- \nstation in the spinal cord, and from there \nit is telegraphed down to the other kidney, \nwhich magnanimously does the work of \nits unfortunate fellow in addition to its \nown. \n\nIf an army of hostile microbes invade the \norganism, the invaders are attacked by the \nfirst cells that happen to meet them, and held \nat bay till the regular army arrives. The \nprofessional soldiers are the leucocytes ; they \n95 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nnever desert, and require no officers to direct \ntheir movements. \n\nEvery citizen is kept in constant com- \nmunication with its fellow-citizens by means \nof the admirable telegraph system, and, being \nactuated by a high sense of duty, renders its \nservices whenever they are needed, and re- \nceives its reward without a lawsuit. There \nare plenty of telegraph operators and mail \nclerks, but there are no officers. There are \nno kings or legislatures or courts here, yet \nthe government is perfect. Of course there \nis a ruler called mind, but it merely directs \nthe whole organism in its relations to the \nouter world, and has very little to do with \nthe government of the individual cells ; it \ncould not, to any great extent, direct them \nin their relations to each other even if it \nwished to do so. Furthermore, this mind \nitself is nothing but the combined mentality \nof all the individual cells in the body. The \ncells are directed and controlled by their own \nnature and composition on the one hand, and \n96 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nby the conditions which confront them on \nthe other. They will rest or work accord- \ning to existing conditions, and the character \nof their work will depend upon their nature \nand the environment in which they happen \nto find themselves. These are the exact \nfactors which govern a billiard ball. \n\nNow, society is simply a larger organism \nthan a man. A social cell is an entire \nhuman being, and human beings are grouped \ninto various classes following different pur- \nsuits for the good of the whole organism, \njust as groups of cells perform various ser- \nvices for the good of the individual. \n\nThe social organism, being a more recent \nproduct of evolution than the individual, is \nfar less nearly perfect ; but many people \xe2\x80\x94 \nmost of them, in fact \xe2\x80\x94 are in the habit of \nthinking that it is not an organism at all ; \nthat it is a mere artificial aggregation of indi- \nviduals held together like the parts of a clock \nand controlled by a social pendulum in the \nform of an artificial political government. \n7 97 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nNow, it is a spring and not a pendulum \nthat operates a clock. The pendulum fur- \nnishes no part of the energy that moves the \nwheels. In fact, it consumes a part of the \nenergy supplied by the spring ; and in some \ngovernments, as well as in some clocks, it \nconsumes it all. \n\nThe fact that government, as we ordinarily \nsee it, is not a motive power must have been \nappreciated by the gentleman who invented \nthe contrivance for regulating the supply of \nsteam in an engine. He called it a governor, \nalthough it supplies no heat or steam or \nenergy, and moves no machinery. It is \nsimply a dead weight which consumes energy, \nand which is necessary only because the \nsteam is too stupid to regulate itself. \n\nThe social organism must have a governor \nor pendulum for the same reason. The \nstupidity which makes political government \nnecessary to the social organism is the stu- \npidity which causes individuals to ignore their \nobligations to each other, and this is the \n\n98 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\n\n\nsame stupidity that makes governments bad. \nIf we ever become intelligent enough to see \nthat it pays to do right simply because it is \nright, and that it does not pay to do wrong \neven though a wrong-doer may escape punish- \nment, we shall not need much political gov- \nernment. Until we shall have acquired that \ndegree of intelligence, we shall not be able to \nget really good government, and afterwards \nwe shall scarcely need it. \n\nHere the Lonely Man looked cautiously \nround to be quite certain that he was entirely \nalone and that his thoughts were not being \noverheard ; for he was aware that there are \nsome honest people who are so intensely \npatriotic that they would regard it treasonable \nto teach men to be decent simply for the love \nof decency, if such a doctrine could possibly \nhave the effect of rendering government less \nnecessary than it is. He was also aware \nthat there is, here and there, a man who \nthinks he has already advanced so far toward \n\n99 \n\nLcfO. \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthat ideal morality which requires no govern- \nment for its enforcement that he ofttimes \nfeels constrained to go out and blow a few \nthousand fellow-beings into the Styx, just to \nshow the tenderness of his regard for the \nrights of others and the excessive superfluity \nof all government for such gentle natures as \nhis own. \n\nPersons of both these classes are highly \nexcitable, and about equally dangerous when \nexcited. It is always wise \xe2\x80\x94 and generally \nimpossible \xe2\x80\x94 to get them to wait till the end \nof an argument before unsheathing their cut- \nlasses. For this reason, the Lonely Man \nalways avoided political discussions, and did \nhis thinking where he could think to the end \nof the subject without disturbing his own \ntranquillity or that of any one else. \n\nNo one, he mentally observed, who per- \nceives that society has not yet become quite \nso perfectly organized as the individual, and \n\nlOO \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nwho is willing to allow that political govern- \nment may, for a time, be at least as useful \nas a clock-pendulum, should be considered \na dangerous citizen. But if any one should \nhear me think that the steam which runs the \nsocial engine, or the spring which runs the \nsocial clock, may in the course of a few \nthousand years, or less time, acquire sufficient \nintelligence to regulate itself, I might be sus- \npected of holding incendiary views which I \nreally do not hold at all. \n\nIf we are really afraid of disclosing the fact \nthat the pendulum is not running the social \nclock, and is, in fact, only a more or less \nornamental appendage which does not even \nwholly control the clock, we should take \nmore pains to conceal that fact. The clock \nwill surely find out sooner or later that, how- \never automatic it may be, it is a living organ- \nism, and not a dead clock, and that its activity \nnot only does not arise from the pendulum, \nbut is even now chiefly controlled by condi- \ntions which the pendulum cannot alter, \n\nlOl \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nWe go up and down in the land and see \nfarms producing all kinds of crops, and fac- \ntories turning out all kinds of commodities, \nand railroads carrying all kinds of freight, and \nuniversities teaching all kinds of supposed \nknowledge, and newspapers printing all kinds \nof supposed information, and money buying \nall kinds of supposably valuable things, and \nwe are deeply impressed and think the pendu- \nlum swinging back and forth in the clock \ncase is doing it all; and the pendulum evi- \ndently thinks so itself. \n\nThe poor deluded pendulum is not even \ndoing a part of it, and it is not, to any very \ngreat extent, even directing it. The individ- \nual man, like the individual cell or billiard ball, \nis directed and controlled by his physical, \nmental, and moral composition on the one \nhand, and by the conditions which confront \nhim on the other. Political government has \nsome influence in shaping these conditions, \nbut far less than it imagines. Since a man \nhas more life than a billiard ball, and a httle \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nmore intelligence and conscience than an \nordinary cell, he is naturally influenced by \nconditions which do not exist for the billiard \nball or the cell. The most potent of these \nconditions are self-interest, custom, and pub- \nlic opinion J and while the governmental \npendulum is using its friends and conciliating \nits enemies with a view to being perpetuated \nor re-elected \xe2\x80\x94 and incidentally drawing its \nsalary, \xe2\x80\x94 the social organism is being really \ndirected and controlled chiefly by these abstract \nbut extremely powerful factors \xe2\x80\x94 self-interest, \ncustom, and public opinion. The govern- \nmental pendulum is powerless to control any \nof these influences, but it nevertheless amuses \nitself and the rest of the clock by enacting \nlaws which, if they are good, would have \nbeen obeyed by all decent citizens anyhow, \nand if they are bad, will be uniformly evaded \nby citizens who are, at least, fairly respectable. \nIn the meantime the criminal classes continue \nto disregard any law that does not interfere \nwith them, and violate any law that does. \n103 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nPolitical government may promote orderly- \nactivity, but does not cause it, as a little re- \nflection shows. \n\nOwing to his nature, a man must eat ; and \nif he is too poor to buy food and too honest \nto steal it, self-interest will induce him to \ngrow it if he happens to be where the con- \nditions are suitable. Consequently, crops \nhave been planted, harvested, and eaten, \nunder all kinds of government, and beyond \nthe jurisdiction of any. The results of sun- \nshine, fertilizing, and tillage are not materi- \nally affected by political government or the \nabsence of it ; consequently, agriculture and \nstock-raising have existed where the tick-tack \nof the governmental pendulum could not \neven be heard. Of course, in such commu- \nnities it is extremely imprudent needlessly to \nviolate the rights of one\'s neighbors. Where \nno governmental devices exist for postpon- \ning or defeating justice, justice is likely to be \nmeted out with astonishing swiftness. The \nneighbors of the horse thief or the cattle \n104 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\n" rustler " probably think, after he has been \nhanged, that if his conscience unassisted by \nlaw was unable to restrain him from stealing, \nit would not have restrained him from worse \ncrimes if there had been any occasion for \ntheir commission ; and that it is more eco- \nnomical to prevent crime by the removal of \nits cause than to maintain a government for \nthe punishment of criminals only after their \ncrimes have been committed. \n\nTheir reasoning is probably fallacious, but \nthat is doubtless the manner of it ; and it \ndoes seem difficult to see how a man who is \nrestrained from crime only by his fear of the \nlaw can be converted into a really good citi- \nzen in any other way than by hanging him. \nIt seems scarcely worth while, at all events, \nto maintain a very heavy or expensive govern- \nmental pendulum for his benefit, and he is \nthe only person who requires any govern- \nment at all. \n\nManufacture is as nearly independent of \npolitical government as is agriculture, for en- \n105 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nglnes will run sawmills wherever men want \nboards and can get engines, whether there is \nany political government there or not. \n\nThe supply of man\'s mental wants is not \nmore dependent upon political government \nthan is the supply of his physical wants, for \nsciences and languages have been taught in \nArabian deserts without government, and in \nsome European countries in spite of it. \n\nWe are in the habit of thinking that money, \nat least, owes all its efficiency to govern- \nment ; but that its value rests on a foundation \nwhich political government cannot influence \nis apparent from the fact that money has the \nsame potency under the black flag of piracy, \nwhere all governments are defied, that it has \nin legislative halls, where all governments are \nmade. It has, unfortunately, about equal \npotency in both places, and it is difficult to \nsee how the government which money can \ncontrol, can control money. \n\nIt does really seem as if self-interest, cus- \ntom, and public opinion were the chief fac- \nio6 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\ntors that govern society. Self-interest will \ninduce men to try, in the most convenient \nway, to supply their wants, either under or \nbeyond governments. Custom will make \nthem quite as careful in the use of table \nutensils and in the cut of their clothes \xe2\x80\x94 \nwhich governments seldom try to regulate \n\xe2\x80\x94 as in their observance of the Golden \nRule \xe2\x80\x94 which governments pretend to try to \nenforce. The public opinion of a few hun- \ndred thousand years will take root in a man \nin the form of a conscience, and make a \ngood citizen of a person who is capable of \nbeing a good citizen, whether he knows what \na policeman or a jail looks like or not ; and \nno governmental clock-pendulum can create \na conscience where it is naturally absent. \n\nI can imagine what my friend, the politi- \ncian, would say to these views. " My dear \nsir," I hear him say, " such opinions are sub- \nversive of all law and order. We must have \nsuch government as we have, for it is such \ngovernment that prevents the individuals of \n107 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nsociety from burning each other\'s houses and \ncutting each other\'s throats. In a republic, \nwhether the government is good or bad de- \npends upon the character of the individuals \nthemselves. They must be good citizens \nthemselves, for they elect the governmental \npendulum which tells them how to be good \ncitizens, and compels them to obey their \nown instructions. Thus, it is plain that the \ngovernment which we politicians constitute \nis the only thing that keeps people decent. \n\n" We preserve order and control society \nby enacting laws which you can see for \nyourself, in characteristic law English, in the \nstatute books. Every one is supposed to know \nthese laws, and no one does ; not even the \nlawyers. We who make them do not know \nwhat they mean, and therefore we have a \nsupreme court to tell us. Lest the court \nitself should not know, we have taken the \nprecaution to make the number of its mem- \nbers an odd number, so that a majority would \nnecessarily have to vote one way or the other. \nio8 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nThe vote of the majority establishes the \nmeaning of the law, and, as there is always a \nmajority, the court always ascertains what \nthe law means. We have thus reduced the \nquality of justice to a mathematical necessity. \n" In this wilderness of laws, which no \nhuman being could possibly remember, you \nwill find laws against murder, arson, theft, \nadultery, perjury, and other crimes, which, \nalthough no layman could be expected to find \nthem, much less to know what they mean, \nkeep you from putting a knife into your \nbrother\'s heart just from pure love of deviltry, \nas you certainly would do if the laws were \nnot there. Of course, the criminal will do it \nanyhow, just as he would if there were no \ngovernment; but, if public opinion is strong \nenough, he will sometimes be caught \xe2\x80\x94 just \nas he would be without the aid of govern- \nment. Instead of spending a few minutes, \nas a conscientious vigilance committee would, \nin trying \xe2\x80\x94 honestly trying \xe2\x80\x94 to find out \nwhether he is guilty or not, we will take him \n109 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ninto court and appoint one lawyer to prove \nthat he is guilty, whether he is or not ; and \nanother to prove that he is not guilty, \nwhether he is or not. If the prosecuting \nattorney knows facts which would render \nguilt questionable, or if the defendant\'s attor- \nney knows facts that would prove guilt with \nabsolute certainty, each will be expected care- \nfully to conceal such facts in order that jus- \ntice may be properly administered. In order \nstill further to insure justice, we select a jury \nof twelve men who must be so intelligent \nthat they do not read or form opinions ; and \nafter this jury has* been properly enlightened \nby the efforts of two opposing lawyers to \nconceal the two respective halves of the \ntruth, it will be instructed by the judge in \neverything except what it needs to know ; \nnamely, what the verdict should be. The \nconsequence is that the verdict is sure to be \njust. \n\n" We have taken still further precautions \nto conserve the interests of society, by mak- \niio \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISxM, GOVERNMENT \n\ning it possible for certain high officials to \npardon the criminal if he should happen to \nbe convicted. \n\n"Now, since all statutory law is intended \nto be a mere amplification of the Golden \nRule, \xe2\x80\x94 a mere detailed explanation of the \nmoral obligations of the several members of \nsociety to each other, \xe2\x80\x94 it is plain that the \nmaking, interpretation, and execution of the \nlaws should be in the hands of the most intel- \nligent and moral men in the community. \nYou must have observed that such is the \ncase. A glance at any legislature, city coun- \ncil, or police force will at once convince you \nthat the affairs of the government are in the \nhands of the most enlightened, moral, and re- \nfined gentlemen in the whole social organism. \nIndeed, it could not be otherwise. The \nhabits which politicians must practice to ex- \ntend their acquaintance and increase their \npopularity, and the associations which they \nmust keep up to retain their influence, natu- \nrally have an elevating and refining influence \nm \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nupon them and would tend to exalt them \nmorally even if they were naturally less \nscrupulously moral than they are. \n\n" Since the government is in the hands of \nsuch gentlemen, it cannot fail to represent a \nhigher standard of morals than that which is \nrepresented by the general conscience of the \nwhole community ; in fact, by the universal \nconscience of man, which you call public \nopinion. Of course, if the general con- \nscience can give expression to itself in the \nstatute books, it becomes the proper standard, \nnot because it is the general conscience, but \nbecause it is law. You have noticed how \neasily the voice of the general conscience \nbecomes embodied in the law. \n\n" Of course, in monarchies, it is difficult \nfor the social organism to give complete ex- \npression to its will in the government, but \nthere is no difficulty of that kind in a re- \npublic. Three or four cliques of politicians, \neach consisting of a dozen or more men, will \nattend to the matter for you, since you can- \n\n112 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nnot possibly attend to it for yourself unless \nyou devote your whole life to it. Each \nclique will give you an opportunity to vote \nfor one man for each office. If one man \ndoes not happen to suit you, you can vote for \nany one of the two or three others. \n\n" You tell me that you approve of a gov- \nernment which represents the greater part, or \neven the greatest one of several parts, of the \nsum of all the individual wills in the com- \nmunity, but that you would like to be assured \nof being able to contribute the expression of \nyour own will to the formation of that sum. \nWhile you do not want the community to \nsubmit to your will, you want the assurance \nthat your will shall be heard and added to the \nrest before majorities or pluralities are esti- \nmated. \n\n" This assurance you have. For example, \nif you live in a community of a hundred mil- \nlions of souls and want to vote for your \nneighbor Jones for governor, each one of the \nthree or four cliques will nominate a man, \n8 113 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nand thus your worthy neighbor will have \nthree or four chances in a hundred millions \nof being nominated ; and in most communities \nyou cannot vote for him unless he is nomi- \nnated. You will thus have three or four \nchances in a hundred millions of having a \nchance to give expression to your poor little \ninsignificant will. \n\n" If you would give as much attention to \npolitics as we professional politicians who \nattend to nothing else, \xe2\x80\x94 thus furnishing a \nbeautiful example of good citizenship, \xe2\x80\x94 you \nwould have a still greater chance of having a \nchance to give expression to your will ; but \nit would be unreasonable to expect a greater \nlatitude of choice than we give you. As it \nis, a few dozen men decide for a few mil- \nlions which ones of these millions shall con- \nstitute the three or four to be selected from. \nThis allows you even greater latitude of \nchoice than can be enjoyed in an absolute \nmonarchy, where one clique has got complete \ncontrol of the government. \n114 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\n"The difference between the republican \nand the monarchical cliques is that the mo- \nnarchical are born of distinguished families, \nwhile the republican are bred of political \nbosses." \n\nHere the Lonely Man paused and listened, \nfor it almost seemed to him that the stillness \nhad been broken by a harsh, rasping sound. \nIt was, however, only the impression pro- \nduced by the last word, and he did not see \nhow he could have selected a different word. \nIn fact, he did not see how he could at any \npoint have altered the speech which he had \nput into the politician\'s mouth, for he had \nfrequently heard him make what would have \nbeen this speech if it had been rendered into \nexact English. \n\nI must admit (he reflected) that in this \n\nform the speech sounds somewhat satirical, \n\nbut the satirical effect does not proceed from \n\nme. It merely arises from reducing the \n\n115 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nspeech to language which shows precisely \nwhat it means, and then comparing it with \nthe truth. \n\nIf I were not alone I should not consider \nthe speech in its relation to the truth. It \nwould not be polite ; but in solitude the \nlaws of politeness cannot be transgressed \neven by allowing one\'s thoughts to drift \ntoward the truth. \n\nI should be unwilling to cause the poli- \ntician the slightest annoyance, for he is a \nproverbially " good fellow," and as he is no \nworse than we make him, I really think he \nis entitled to courteous treatment \xe2\x80\x94 treat- \nment more courteous, in fact, than that \nwhich he himself habitually administers, dur- \ning the heat of a political campaign, to his \nbrother politician of any opposing political \nparty. If instead of thinking what he has \ntold me about himself, I had thought what \nhis brother politician has told me about him, \nI should have spoiled my mind for all re- \nspectable thinking in the future. \nii6 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nBut I do not believe the politician and his \nbrother are as bad as they accuse each other \nof being. They are still in some measure \nuseful, but the measure of their usefulness is \nless than they pretend to believe it is. The \ngovernment which they give us is still, and \nmay always be, in some respects necessary. \nA small community may be able to dispense \nwith political government altogether, but a \nlarge one cannot till self-interest becomes \nsomething more than ordinary selfishness, \nand public opinion comes more nearly into \nharmony with truth, and custom accords \nbetter with conscience and justice. Already \nthese three factors shape the course of events \nin any civilized community to a far greater \nextent than does any political government; \nand their influence is constantly increasing. \nIt will continue to increase till political gov- \nernment becomes more nearly nominal than \nit now is, and then we may begin to wonder \nwhether the influence of self-interest, public \nopinion, and custom will ever become so \n117 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\npowerful that it will absolutely control the \ncourse of human events, and leave nothing \nfor political government to do. \n\nIt will not, till self-interest becomes some- \nthing which will impel the individual to seek \nprimarily the advancement of the race, and \nto seek his own advancement only so far as \nsuch advancement may proceed without in- \njury to any other human being. It will not, \ntill public opinion becomes so true and so \nstrong that the individual will fear it more \nthan he now fears the punishments of the \nlaw. It will not, till custom becomes more \nnearly uniform and comes so far into har- \nmony with conscience that private practice \nand public profession will agree. Then \nthe current of human events will be so far \nremoved from the control of political gov- \nernment that the governmental pendulum \nwill undergo spontaneous atrophy from lack \nof exercise, and either entirely disappear or \nbecome so rudimentary that no good citizen \nwill be annoyed or alarmed by its ticking, as \nii8 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nhe now most assuredly is by every political \ncampaign and every session of a parliament \nor a legislature. \n\nIn the meantime, it is possible that good \ncitizens might spend their time just as profit- \nably in trying to educate public opinion so \nthat it will always be a safe and compelling \nguide as they could in tinkering with the \npendulum. The pendulum likes to receive \nattentions; it thrives on them. If the atten- \ntions are somewhat violent, it thrives all the \nbetter; for naturally, the more violently a pen- \ndulum is pushed, the more violently it swings \nback. If the pendulum is in some meas- \nure an organ of a living organism, as any \ngovernmental pendulum is, the exercise has \nthe same effect on the pendulum that it would \nhave on a muscle. It promotes its growth \nand increases its strength. Any malcontent \nwho thinks he can destroy a governmen- \ntal pendulum by attacking its representatives \nwith physical violence should remember that \nno dumb sheep ever stopped a swing by \n119 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nbutting it, and that so long as there are mur- \nderers like himself to be hanged, there will \nbe at least one valid reason for the existence \nof the government which he would like to \ndestroy. An educated conscience would re- \nstrain one from committing murder, but it \nwould not confer upon one a relish for \nhanging murderers. One would still prefer, \nwhen there is any hanging to be done, that \nthe sheriff should do it. \n\nHowever, even if the pendulum does like \nattention, we cannot afford to devote all our \ntime to teaching the politicians how to teach \nus to be good; we must spend some time \nin learning how to be good without being \ntaught by a politician, and how to feel \nashamed when we are bad, without the aid \nof a policeman. \n\nWhen we offer to the politician this ex- \nplanation of our indifference to politics, he \nsoftly smiles in a sweetly supercilious way, \nand mildly expresses his contempt of a kind \nof social order that depends upon an educated \n1 20 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nmoral sense instead of statutory law. It is a \npleasant little way of his, but in his gentle \nderision of the force of public opinion he \nforgets that the only potency of statutory law \nis that which public opinion and custom give \nit. If he doubts it, let him enact a law that \nwill be universally condemned by public \nopinion ; and if he thinks his laws are \nstronger than custom, let him try, by statu- \ntory enactments, to alter the style in ball \ndresses or street costumes. \n\nIf, instead of enacting any more laws \nagainst obtaining money under false pre- \ntences, we should try to create a public \nopinion that would condemn such practices, \nit might presently become as reprehensible to \ncheat in a horse trade as it now is to eat pie \nwith a knife. Law makes the one wrong : \ncustom, the other ; yet many a man who \nwould consider himself disgraced for life if \nhe should be caught in the violation of the \ncustom does not scruple to violate the law \nand boast of it afterwards. \n\n121 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nThere are honest fellows who, in the \nmanipulation of their table utensils, do not \nalways comply with the requirements of \npolite usage, and who still refrain from cheat- \ning in their dealings ; but that it is not stat- \nutory law which restrains these persons is \nevidenced by the fact that they are precisely \nthe men who know least about the law and \ncare least about its intricacies. They are \nhonest simply because they think it is right \nto be honest. \n\nIf, instead of enacting any more laws for \nthe purpose of making ourselves pay our debts, \nwe should get into the habit of simply paying \nthem, and considering it immoral not to pay \nthem, the practice of promptly paying just \nclaims might presently become as nearly uni- \nversal as is the practice of "tipping" negro \nwaiters and sleeping car porters. Neither \nstatutory law nor conscience compels us to \ngive " tips," but custom does \xe2\x80\x94 and we do it. \n\nIn our idolatry of statutory law, it may \nbe well to bear in mind that a statute is \n\n122 \n\n\n\nBOOKS, IDEALISM, GOVERNMENT \n\nnothing but a politician\'s words preserved in \nink ; its potency is what the public conscience \ngives it, and no more. We have made vio- \nlations of the moral law illegal by statutory \nenactments ; it might now be well to make \nthem disgraceful, also, by stimulating the \npublic conscience. And if, while we are \nteaching ourselves to be honest for the love \nof honesty, we should have any time to de- \nvote to politicians and their laws, we might \nspend it in weeping at the spectacle of a \nlegislature trying, by laws of its own enact- \nment, to prevent itself from accepting bribes. \n\n\n\n123 \n\n\n\n\nIV \n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nWHEN the Lonely Man resumed his \nthinking, he fell to wondering whether \nsuch purely physical comforts as food, warmth, \nand a good smoke, and such purely mental \npleasures as reading and reflection, can really \nsatisfy a man. \n\nHe quickly decided that however much \nbetter than non-existence they may make \nexistence, they still leave something to be \ndesired. \n\n\n\nCan a human being really be satisfied by \nany means ? he mused. I have never known \none who was. At least, I have never known \n124 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\none who would admit it. I have noticed, \nhowever, that he who most loudly proclaims \nthe vanity of life clings most tenaciously to \nlife and to its vanities \xe2\x80\x94 especially to its \nvanities. \n\nIt may be (he reflected) that cursing the \nmiseries that one does not have enhances \nthe joys that one does have. Thus, a little \ndog barks most savagely at a big one when \nhe is on the safe side of the fence. He seems \nto intensify his realization of his own safety \nby snarling at a danger which cannot reach \nhim. The pessimist may do the same thing \nfor the same reason; for, when there is no \nprotecting fence, there is likely to be more \nrunning than barking, among men as well as \namong dogs. \n\nAt all events, the comfort of the body and \nthe entertainment of the mind can satisfy \nonly two of the persons in the human trinity, \nand man has a threefold being. Of course, \nanatomically, he does not have. Anatom- \nically he is only a body ; but, if it can be \n\nI2S \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\navoided, one does not consider one\'s self \nanatomically in good society, which my \nsociety is. \n\nMan has a body, a mind, and a heart. \nThis is not anatomical, but it is true; and it \nwill not do to say that the heart is a mere \npart of the body, and that the mind is a mere \nmolecular motion of another part. Anatom- \nically this may be true. In the dissecting \nroom and the laboratory it certainly appears \nto be true, but one misses some things in the \ndissecting room and the laboratory which one \nnotices in daily life ; the mind and the heart, \nfor example. And since one must have \nnames for things even to think about them, \nit is best to employ the names in common \nuse, even if the same names are also employed \nto denote objects which, in the dissecting \nroom and the laboratory, turn out to be mere \norgans and functions of the body. \n\nMental phenomena are doubtless dependent \nupon molecular changes in the brain, but they \nthemselves are not molecular changes, how- \n126 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\never inseparable from such changes they may \nbe. These phenomena are the subjective \nside of mind, which is just as real as the \nobjective side. Without the aid of his own \nsubjectivity, the new psychologist could never \ninterpret his objective findings in the labora- \ntory. The old psychology had its uses ; it \ngave man a mind and a heart, which he still \nhas \xe2\x80\x94 sometimes. \n\nAnd now, the question before me is, Can \nman employ his body and his mind so ac- \ntively and so agreeably that he can be satis- \nfied without employing his heart at all ? \n\nIt is impossible to study satisfaction objec- \ntively. We may take the other fellow\'s \nword and assume that he is satisfied when he \nsays he is, or looks as we think we should \nlook if we were satisfied ; but this is pure \nsubjectivity \xe2\x80\x94 sometimes ours, and sometimes \nthe other fellow\'s. \n\nHaving arrived at this conclusion, and con- \nsidering his own subjectivity as good as any, \n127 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthe Lonely Man allowed his thoughts to drift \nback through the past in search of a time \nwhen his physical and mental delights were \nsufficient to make him happy without any \napparent aid from his heart. He seemed to \nbe finding it, but in order to make a better \nroadway for his mind he lighted his pipe, and \nin the clouds of smoke he followed back the \npast till it quite eluded him. \n\nAt this point he saw himself, a little wide- \neyed interrogation point \xe2\x80\x94 if an interrogation \npoint may be supposed to have eyes \xe2\x80\x94 emerg- \ning from a deeper past into whose darkness \nhe could not penetrate. \n\n" Ah, I missed it," he said. " I must think \nin the other direction." \n\nSo he let the indistinct and fleeting visions \nin the smoke sweep up to the less distant \npast, and then he found the time of which \nhe was in search. It was a winter of his \nearly childhood. \n\nHow snow and cold and winter storms \nhad come to have the fascination for him \n\n128 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nwhich they had he did not know, but these \nthings seemed to have given this winter all \nthe special charm it had ; and it had always \nseemed to him that the witchery of winter \ngets more quickly into any healthy human \nblood than does the charm of any other sea- \nson in the year. \n\nThis winter had been an ideal one. Its \ndays had been so cold that each one was a \nwinter in itself. The sun had ceased to be \nof any use except to light the world by day \nand mark the advent of the night by setting. \nWhen it had disappeared behind the snow- \ndrifts in the west, and its icy light had quite \ndied out, the wind commenced its revels, like \nsome mighty giant, tossing all this arctic \nworld of snowdrifts in the air, and heaping \nup the snow in other drifts that seemed to \nplease its fancy better. He almost seemed \nto sit again beside the roaring evening fire \nand listen to the storm\'s hoarse voice as it \nbellowed round the house and went shrieking \nthrough the tree-tops. He saw the red glow \n9 129 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ncreeping up the panting stove, as it bade de- \nfiance to the storm. More wood was piled \nupon the flames, and when the iron door was \nopened to admit the wood, a flood of light \nlit up the room and painted weirdly dancing \nshadows on the wall. He heard the sweep \nand swish of drifting snow, and felt the \nquaking of the house as it received the heavy \nbroadsides of the storm. He heard the low- \ning of the cattle muflied by the rush and \nroar of the wind. A frightened crow cawed \noverhead, as it was tumbled through the \nupper air. Then an impish little tongue of \nsnow came darting through the keyhole, and \nhe heard the door resist the onslaught of a \nheavy blast of wind. This was a carnival \nof Nature for the entertainment of a boy \nwho was not old enough to fear. \n\nThen while every night was cold, not all \nwere stormy. Sometimes the moon shone \ndown upon a world as silent as a tomb and \nwhiter than its marble walls. A creaking \nfootstep could be heard a mile away. The \n130 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nhooting of an owl would lend its weirdness to \nthe silence and make the snow-clad trees seem \nmore like spectres than they seemed before. \n\nBut the halo of glory which gentle time \nweaves about the past does not obliterate or \neven obscure the prosaic fact that the joys of \nchildhood are, to a great extent, those which \none shares with animals and cannibals. They \nare the joys of eating and drinking. Con- \nsequently, mingled with the Lonely Man\'s \nvisions of the outer world\'s picturesqueness, \nthere were memories of those pleasures which \nappeal less to the imagination than to the \nappetite. There were visions of a table \nladen with smoking dishes, whose teasing \nfragrance crept under doors and into one\'s \nnostrils a half-hour before supper was ready, \nand made one think that half-hour a quarter \nof a century. There were memories of \nthings so good to eat that their taste lingered \nin the^ mouth after one was through, and \nmade one sorrowful that one could eat no \nmore. It got into one\'s memory and, \n131 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nin after years, sometimes made one wonder \nwhether the world had forgotten how to \ncook, or one had merely lost the keenness \nof one\'s appetite. There were memories of \nturkeys in every stage of evolution from eggs \nto drumsticks. There were recollections of \nirresistibly sweet things that came out of \nglass jars from obscure shelves in the cellar, \nand of bags of nuts half hidden in the mys- \nterious dimness of the same cellar, and of \nbounteous apple-bins and the insidious fra- \ngrance of their striped contents ; and running \nthrough it all was the poetry of winter and \nthe unspoiled appetite of a boy. \n\nHe had found the time of which he had \nbeen in search, but this vision of the past \nwas marred by the conspicuousness of the \ngastronomic part of it. It was disquieting to \nregard his happiness the result of cannibalism, \nyet how could he help it? His dream of this \nideal winter of his childhood had been, aside \nfrom the weather, a dream of cooked animals \nand raw fruit. His chief pleasure seemed, at \nthe present moment, to have been derived \n132 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nfrom eating these things. He could see no \ncomplete break in his relationship to all the \nthings that live and grow in the world ; and, \nby all authorities, a man \xe2\x80\x94 or a boy \xe2\x80\x94 who \neats his relatives is a cannibal. \n\nWe must eat these things, he mused, in \norder to live, for one cannot live on air and \nwater; and even if one could, could one be \nabsolutely certain that inorganic things are as \ndead as they seem, and that the boundary be- \ntween them and organic things is any more \ndistinct than that between the vegetable and \nthe animal world ? \n\nAs his thoughts dwelt on a universe teem- \ning with living beings that find their most \nsubstantial pleasure in devouring their brothers \nand cousins, he was oppressed by a momen- \ntary suspicion that this world is not a felicific \ninstitution. \n\nPerhaps (he reflected) hunger is merely an \nunrecognized form of fraternal love, which \n^33 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nimpels us to elevate the creatures which we \neat to our own exalted plane of life, \xe2\x80\x94 which \nwe do when we convert their substance into \nour own. These creatures would undoubt- \nedly enjoy being eaten if they could under- \nstand the purpose of the act, and realize what \nthey gain by playing the passive role in the \nprocess of digestion. \n\nThis was certainly a new interpretation of \nbrotherly love, but the Lonely Man could \nreally see no other interpretation of it that \nwould enable him under all circumstances to \npractise such love. When he attempted, \nhowever, to realize in thought the bliss of \nhaving that done to him which he was doing \nthree times a day to " others," he was grate- \nful that there is no higher animal than man \nto favor him by doing it. \n\nThen it suddenly occurred to him that \n\nman is not so fortunate \xe2\x80\x94 or unfortunate \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nas he appears to be. He is finally digested \n\nhimself, by Nature. She gives up her sim- \n\n134 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nplest substance to plants, which give up theirs \nto animals, which give up theirs to man, who \ngives his back to Nature, which (or who) is \ndoubtless edified by the whole process. \n\n" Ha," he exclaimed aloud, " I have nar- \nrowly escaped conclusions that would shortly \nhave become dismal. How comforting it is \nto perceive that this whole process of eating \nand being eaten, and dying and being born \nagain at numerous different places at the same \ntime \xe2\x80\x94 this process of integration and dis- \nintegration \xe2\x80\x94 is a mere process whereby the \nsoul of Nature (or \xe2\x80\x94 to speak philosophically \n\xe2\x80\x94 the thing-in-itself ) comes to itself ! " \n\nThen supposing that he knew what he \nmeant by the " soul of Nature,\'* and " the \nthing-in-itself," and "comes to itself," he \nfell into a complacent frame of mind which \npermitted his thoughts to slip back to where \nhe had left himself destroying potential \ntrees by eating hickory nuts, and destroying \nactual poultry by eating fried chicken in \na little old farmhouse half buried in snow, \n135 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nsome \xe2\x80\x94 ah, never mind how many \xe2\x80\x94 years \nago. \n\nAs when one turns to look a second time \nat a painting in which the first look revealed \nnothing but the manual skill of the artist, \nso now the Lonely Man turned his mental \nvision once more upon the scenes he had just \nreviewed. He was not exactly certain that \nhis heart had had no part in the satisfaction \nwhich his memory had brought to light. \nThere began to steal upon him a conviction \nthat he would not have had this satisfaction \nif he had not found it in an atmosphere of \nlove ; and the longer he mused, the more \ndistinct the conviction became. If one looks \nlong enough at a great painting, one presently \nsees past the colored figures in it, and into \nthe artist\'s soul that seeks expression in the \npainting and gives the beauty and the mean- \ning to it. So now the Lonely Man saw past \nthe forms of such things as snowdrifts and \nfood, and saw the source and meaning of \ntheir charm. \n\n136 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nFrom the dim chaos of his recollections \nthere presently emerged a woman with a \nface of singular sweetness, from which the \nravages of time had not removed the beauty \neven when old age had crowned her head \nwith white, and traced the record of her \nweeping at the corners of her eyes, and \ndropped a blood clot in her brain to make \nher blind, and then another clot to dim her \nmental vision, and then in mercy quickly \ndropped another one to make her sleep the \ndreamless sleep. It was his mother\'s face. \n\nWhat memories of loving deeds and of \na mother\'s loving tenderness flit through his \nmind as his fancy plays about the fireside \nof his boyhood home the present writer can- \nnot tell. He cannot see so deep into an- \nother\'s soul that he can follow fancy far \nwhen it begins to play upon the heart-strings; \nand if he could, he has not the skill to make \nanother feel what he would see there, for his \npen is not the rod of Moses, which was said \nto have the power to melt a rock in Horeb \n137 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nand make it weep, and no less a power could \ndo justice to such a theme ; and if he had \nthe skill he would not use it to lay bare a \nhuman heart before a world that is not \nalways tender in its treatment of such things \nas hearts. \n\nBut shall we say the Lonely Man has no \nheart because we do not see one ? Does \nthe swordsman have no soft left hand because \nhis sword hand is the one we make him use \nmost, while he keeps his other hand behind \nhis back ? Have we not been taught by \nboth precept and example that hearts should \nbe concealed as if it were a crime to have \none? Have not learned books been written \nto show that a man is ten different kinds of \ndegenerate if he has a heart at all ? And \nhave we not so far profited by our teaching \nthat we hide away our hearts in these things \nwe call ourselves and show the world, while \nwe try to satisfy our hearts with the vicarious \nemotions provided by the novelist and the \nplay-writer ? \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nBut it does not satisfy them : it is like \ntrying to satisfy a healthy appetite with a \nbonbon. Did you never go supperless to one \nof those receptions where every one is well \ndressed and a man stands holding three sep- \narate dishes in his hands and drinks an ounce \nof tea and eats a biscuit as large as a postage \nstamp and feebly smiles and tries to look \nhappy while doing it ? Does it satisfy ? \nNo; you hunt up the hostess before all the \nrestaurants close for the night and tell her \nwith a winning little smile that you have \nhad a delightful evening, and then you go \nto one of those places where men sit with \ntheir hats on at tables without covers, where \nthere is no carpet on the floor and the \nwaiter calls out " Brau one ! " and brings you \nbeef and potatoes, and you eat, and eat, and \neat till you have had enough. \n\nHas your heart never rebelled in the same \nway after you have tried to feed it with eso- \nteric philosophy at the shrine of an intellect \ndressed in a woman\'s gown ? And have you \nT^Z9 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nnot in starved desperation sought the whole- \nsome presence of the landlady\'s daughter, \nwho has real round arms and a pretty face \nand lips that like to be kissed and an actual \nheart, even if her hair is not always tidy, \nnor her shoes always laced, nor her apron \nalways straight, and though she is innocent \nof Brownino; and never heard of Emerson ? \n\nWere you altogether a criminal if your \nfeelings went a little further than you in- \ntended, and you fell in love with her and had \nto tell her a few lies to prevent her from \nfalling in love with you and letting you marry \nher and make her miserable for life ? \n\nOh, yes, we all have hearts whether it is \nproper and desirable to have them or not, and \nthey play grotesque pranks on us, now and \nthen, to punish us for our stupid treatment of \nthem. The Lonely Man has a heart ; and \nas he sees his mother\'s pretty face bending \nover him \xe2\x80\x94 a boy of six once more \xe2\x80\x94 and \nfeels her tears fall on his tender foot to ease \nthe pain she caused by pulling out a thorn, \n140 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nand hears her frightened voice at night inquir- \ning why he groans when he thinks his head \nwill split, and thinks of all the thousand other \nways in which his mother\'s hand and heart \nhave given their only charm to all the other \ncharms his boyhood home has ever had, his \neyes grow dim and he sighs and says aloud, \n" No satisfaction is complete unless it satisfies \nthe heart. However we may placate our- \nselves with makeshift substitutes, there is no \nsubstitute for this." \n\nHe leaned farther back in his chair and \nstared through the clouds of smoke at the \nceiling, to compose his mind for the business \nof deciding how this satisfaction may be \nfound. \n\nPresently he took up the theme again and \nreflected that it would be unreasonable to \nexpect a mother\'s love throughout life. \n\nIn the natural course of events (he mused) \nmothers must generally die before their off- \nspring. Even if they did not, and if we \n141 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ncould have their love throughout life, it would \nnot always satisfy the heart. With the ad- \nvent of manhood the heart longs for more \nthan childhood gave it. So, let me suppose \nI am standing upon the threshold of manhood \nand am casting about for something that will \nsatisfy the heart as fully as it was satisfied in \nchildhood. \n\nMy heart is no longer that of a child ; its \nsatisfaction will no longer be a simple matter. \nPerhaps it is unreasonable to expect to satisfy \nit at all ; but why should it be ? Childhood \nwas a period of credulity and was oppressed \nby a thousand groundless fears which the \nknowledge of later years has dispelled. The \npretty soap-bubbles of childhood were most \ndisappointingly fragile. The wisdom of \nmanhood should enable me to fix my affec- \ntions upon durable things, and the enlarged \ncapacity of manhood should enable me to \nenjoy these things better. \n\nSo I decide that, the satisfaction of the \nheart being possible and being the most im- \n142 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nportant thing in life, \xe2\x80\x94 the only thing, in fact, \nwhich makes life worth living, \xe2\x80\x94 the finding \nof such satisfaction may reasonably be con- \nsidered the serious business of life. I look \naround to see how the world goes about it, \nand I find that, in the present organization \nof society, the most serious business of life \nconsists chiefly in trying to get the biggest \npiece of pie for one\'s self. This, then, must \nbe the means of satisfying the heart ; and I \nuntie myself from my mother\'s apron strings \nat twenty-five, \xe2\x80\x94 at twenty, nay, at sixteen, \n\xe2\x80\x94 and get into the line at the pie counter \nas quickly as possible. Never mind how I \nget in. If I am strong enough, I elbow \nsome other man out and take his place. My \nobject is a worthy one. It is the satisfac- \ntion of the heart. Therefore I elbow my \nfellow-man out of his place, as I could not \npossibly do if I had a heart worth satisfy- \ning, and endeavor to get my hands on as \nmuch pie as possible without any needless \ndelay. \n\n143 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nThe other man may be the better man, \nbut the crowd at the pie counter will not \nthink so if I get ahead of him in the scramble \nfor pie. It is their approbation which will \nmake me as happy as I was on those winter \nevenings at the fireside of my boyhood home. \n\nThe more pie I get, the happier I shall be, \nso I shall grab in a way that will teach men \nhow to grab as they never grabbed before; \nand I shall look pretty while doing it. I \nshall take a whole pie \xe2\x80\x94 nay, as many of \nthem as I can drag off the counter. Of \ncourse I cannot eat them, but I can keep \nthem and turn them over and count them. \nHa, the joy of it! hoarding pies which are \nspoiling for the want of eating ! \n\nOf course, if I should meet my fellow- \ncreatures in what I am pleased to call society, \nI should not think of trying to get all the pie \non the table. I should be courteous and \nconsiderate there, and should feel extremely \nuncomfortable if I should even seem to try \nto get more than my share of pie or any \n144 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nother good thing ; but such social amenities \nare mere relaxations from the serious business \nof life. They could not satisfy the heart as \nthe pretty scramble at the pie counter does. \n\nIf I can find no other use for my pies, I \nshall bribe men with some of them to help \nme to get more. Then my pile of pies will \nincrease the faster, and the pies down at \nthe lower end of the counter will begin \nto become scarce, and hungry fellows will \nscramble for them In a way that will stimu- \nlate me by the force of example and keep \nme from forgetting, as I might otherwise \ndo, that a pie is, after all, a very good \nthing. For if I eat pie, and handle pie, and \nsmell pie, and see nothing but pie, and dream \nof nothing but pie, and read of nothing at a \nbreakfast of pie except pie, I shall need the \nstimulus of other men\'s example to keep my \ngorge from rising at the thought of pie. \n\nIf it rise in spite of me and I throw away \nin disgust all the pie I do not really need, \nwhat then ? Ah, what then, indeed ! \n^\xc2\xb0 145 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nThe other heavy pie-owners will not be \nlikely to follow my example, and therefore \nthe strenuousness of the struggle at the lower \nend of the counter will not relax, and the \nsight of this struggle among men who are \nreally hungry for pie will keep the heavy \nowners constantly reminded of the value of \npie ; and thus, the grabbing will go merrily \non. All of my discarded pies will be quickly \nappropriated by men who will not need them, \nand when I become normally hungry myself, \nas I presently shall, I shall be unable to find \neither my pies or my place at the counter. \nTherefore, I shall not be so foolish as to give \nup my place at the pie counter. If I must \nchoose between starvation and surfeit, I shall \nchoose the latter. I am not responsible for \nthe present competitive system at the world\'s \npie counter, and though I may perceive the \nmockery of it all and the terribleness of it all, \nI do not wish to starve. \n\nWhen my pile of pies grows so appallingly \nlarge as to shut out all hope of any of the \n146 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nreally precious things of life, I shall take a \nfew pies ofF the top of the pile and build a \nuniversity with them in which men shall be \ntaught the language of Atlantis and how to \nget pies. \n\nIf, in spite of this, I notice between my \ngrabs for more pies a slight hiatus in my \nsatisfaction and happiness which might, be \nfilled by something not to be found in a pie \nshop, \xe2\x80\x94 something which the present pie- \ngrabbing system does not encourage, some- \nthing which always did and always will satisfy \nthe heart, \xe2\x80\x94 I shall grab the harder. When \nmy heart calls for love, I shall give it pie. \nThat will be both logical and effective. Who \nhas not noticed how effective it is? \n\nIf I do not make mere money-making my \nprofession, \xe2\x80\x94 if I choose a trade, or agricul- \nture, or one of the liberal arts or learned \nprofessions, \xe2\x80\x94 I must still do the most stren- \nuous work of my life at the pie counter. \nWhether I choose carpentering or preaching, \nthe skill and energy which I shall employ in \n147 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthe practice of my calling will be as nothing \nto that which I shall be compelled to employ \nin order to get some other man\'s opportunity \nto practise it at all, and to get pies by so do- \ning. Whatever my vocation may be, I must \nfollow it, not for the love of humanity, but \nas a means of enabling me to get the biggest \npossible piece of pie; and my success in that \nvocation will be measured, not by the good I \nshall do, but by the number of pies I shall \nbe able to get. \n\nBut suppose this should not satisfy my \nheart, \xe2\x80\x94 and I begin to suspect that it would \nnot, \xe2\x80\x94 where shall I look for that satisfaction \nwhich is the source and foundation of all \nother satisfaction ? If I cannot stifle the \nlonging to love and be loved, how shall I \nsatisfy that longing ? \n\nI might love my fellow-men. Ah, but that \nwould be perilous to my success at the pie \ncounter. How could I trample on my fellow- \nbeings there if I loved them ? And if I did \nnot trample on them and get the best of \n148 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\n\n\nthem, what pleasure would the struggle for \npies afford me ? \n\nImagine people at the pie counter of the \nworld loving one another as the members of \nan ideal family love one another ! Imagine \nthem waiting politely for their turns to be \nserved ! Imagine them regarding it a pleas- \nure to assist their fellows to get pies 1 Im- \nagine them leaving the table when they have \nhad enough ! Imagine them not being so \nabnormal as to stuff their pockets with pies \nwhich they cannot possibly eat or put to \nany other sane use ! That would not be \n"business." \n\nThen, shall I be able to love those who \nwill show by their fierce struggle against me \nthat they do not love me \xe2\x80\x94 whose hands will \nbe raised against me even as my hand will be \nraised against them ? \n\nUp at the prosperous end of the counter I \n\nmay find that my competitors will carry \n\nabout with them what a certain distinguished \n\nProfessor at a certain famous Breakfast Table \n\n149 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ncalls an atmosphere of grace, mercy, and \npeace, at least six feet in radius. While I \nam within the narrow limits of that atmos- \nphere, I may feel that I am the object of my \nfellow-creature\'s good-will. For this brief \nmoment the weapons of warfare will be \nsheathed, and we shall feel something of the \nfraternal love which we might, under other \nconditions, feel and practise at all times. \nWhen we meet at the well-ordered table, \nand hear the ready footfall of trim servants, \nand fall under the spell of luxurious sur- \nroundings, I shall, for some two hours, for- \nget that we have spent our lives in trying to \nsnatch from one another that pie which we \nnow so gladly share. I shall, for these two \nhours, forget that on the morrow these hands, \nwhich give the hearty welcome and the part- \ning clasp, will be engaged in snatching pie \nfrom mine. For these two hours I may love \nmy fellow-man. \n\nBut if I go down to the lower end of the \ncounter where the brutality of the struggle \n150 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nis not softened by a halo of good feeling \neven six feet in radius, shall I be able to \nlove the fellow-men whom I shall find \nthere ? \n\nI shall find many men there whose hearts \nare as large and as warm and as true as any that \nI shall find anywhere in this world, but I shall \nfind others who are there only because they \nare less cunning than I, and not at all be- \ncause they are less selfish. When I read the \ncoarseness of their natures in the coarseness \nof their lives, and the hardness of their hearts \nin the harsh lines of their faces, and their \nhatred of me in the cold gleam in their eyes, \nshall I love them ? When I hear some of \nthe noisiest of them curse me to my face as \nthe author of a system which they as well as \nI practise ; when I hear them preach a doc- \ntrine of fire and blood and hate and murder, \nunsoftened by any trace or semblance of love \nfor any living creature, shall I fall upon their \nnecks and love them ? No ! I shall slink \nshudderingly back to the suffocating atmos- \n151 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nphere of my pile of pies where men at least \nknow how to mask their warfare with a show \nof breeding ; but I shall not satisfy my heart \nthere, nor anywhere else at the pie counter \nof the world. There can no longer be any \ndoubt about that. \n\nWhere, then, shall I seek this satisfaction ? \nSome say they find it in religion. \n\nHere the Lonely Man paused and smiled \nwearily. While he had been musing on the \nmelancholy struggle for existence, he had \nbeen vaguely aware of a large subject that \nloomed indistinctly out beyond the horizon \nof clear consciousness, In the direction in \nwhich his thoughts had seemed to be drift- \ning. He had hoped that this subject would \nbe cheerful. It had turned out to be re- \nligion ; and, as he recalled his childhood \nstruggle with the Shorter Catechism, The \nPilgrim\'s Progress, Fox\'s Book of Martyrs, \nand the Book of Judges, he could not con- \nscientiously say that it always is cheerful. \n152 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nThen, It generally has a most inconvenient \nway of requiring a person to carry about with \nhim two minds, \xe2\x80\x94 one for religious thinking \nand the other for the practical affairs of life ; \nand since both minds are housed in the same \nskull, when religion slips into the house with- \nout knocking it is as likely to stumble against \none tenant as the other. If the worldly host \nshould happen to be the one to greet the re- \nligious guest, some startling things are likely \nto happen. \n\nThe Lonely Man was, in his own way, \nreligious, and he had the greatest liking for \nmany people who were religious in their way, \nalthough their way was generally not his. \nHe had an abiding faith in the ultimate real- \nization of universal love, and this had always \nseemed to him to be the essence of any re- \nligion worth considering j and it had seemed, \nin a more or less indefinite way, to imply an \neternal continuity of human existence, and \nsomething like a divine intelligence behind \nthe phenomena of the universe. . \n153 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nBut he had often wondered if he was not \ncongenitally deficient in that duality of mind \nwhich enables a person to get along smoothly \nwith the mysticism and supernaturalism of \nany orthodox religion, in this world of most \nintense naturalism. \n\nHe indistinctly recollected that in his most \ndistant childhood he had, like a little atheist, \ntaken the eternity of the universe for granted, \ntill some one had told him that it could not \npossibly have been here if a Creator had not \nmade it out of nothing and put it here, and \nthat it would be extremely imprudent to enter- \ntain the slightest doubt on that point. Then \nhe had immediately begun to wonder how \nthe Creator could be here without having \nbeen made out of nothing and put here, and \nhow he could make a universe out of noth- \ning anyhow; and he had wondered more or \nless about it ever since, and had sometimes \nbeen impious enough to wonder if the mys- \ntery could not really be simplified \xe2\x80\x94 for little \nboys at least \xe2\x80\x94 by assuming that the divinity \n154 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nand the manifestation of the material uni- \nverse are co-eternal and have some common \nsubstance. He had never gone so far as to \nsay that he really believed this to be true, but \nhe was convinced that if such a theory would \nsatisfy the requirements of a religion, it would \nbe the safest possible theory to carry around \nin this matter-of-fact world, for it would \nneed no protection from those obstinate things \ncalled facts, and might be kicked about all \nday with almost as little danger of being \ninjured as if it were a fact itself. \n\nHowever impossible of demonstration the \ntruths of religion may be (he reflected), they \nappear to be equally impossible of refutation. \nMan, therefore, continues to be a religious \nanimal, and since he must receive religion \nitself by faith, he opens the doors of faith so \nwide that many other things than the essen- \ntials of religion slip through the doorway and \nare as tenaciously held as the essence of re- \nligion itself. \n\n155 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nSome indefinite but momentous truth sug- \ngested by hope, and more or less securely \nsupported by observation and experience, \nslips into the mind, accompanied by a large \nassortment of more definite but less probable \nsuppositions. The mind immediately clothes \nthe truth with the materials of the less prob- \nable suppositions, and binds the clothes on so \nsecurely that the poor little truth can never \nget out to show its face without assistance, \nand would probably frighten its host if it did. \n\nNow, if some bold iconoclast comes along \nand begins to take ofF these dead habiliments \nto see if perchance they may not conceal \nsome living truth which would be the better \nfor a breath or two of air, the possessor of \nthe truth holds up his hands in horror, applies \nopprobrious epithets to the iconoclast, and \nwill never be satisfied till he has coaxed his \ntruth back into its winding-sheet and made a \nmummy of it again. \n\nThe early astronomers took off a part of \nthe graveclothes of religion, and thereby got \n156 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nthemselves into their own, more \'s the pity ; \nbut the sextons who had charge of religion\'s \nbody had no difficulty in finding enough \nother shrouds to wrap up their truth again \nto the point of suffocation, and they wrapped \nit up and put it back into its vault. Some of \nthese shrouds were torn off from time to time, \nbut they were easily replaced with others, till \nDarwin came along and unwound the grave- \nclothes almost to the body of the truth itself \nand frightened some of the sextons clean out of \nthe cemetery. Some of those who remained, \nhowever, after trying in vain to put back the \nclothes which Darwin had taken off, gave up \nthe attempt and busied themselves with the \nwrappings which he had left. They presently \nsucceeded in making a very respectable \nmummy of their truth again. \n\nDarwin really left only one shroud on \nreligion, and that is the miraculous origin of \nlife. Now, some clever fellow will sooner \nor later come along and take off this shroud \nby proving that living organisms have origi- \nns? \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nnated from the operation of purely natural \nforces on what we are accustomed to regard \ndead matter, and then, at last, the body of \nreligious truth will stalk forth with more \nvigor than it ever showed in the past, and \nwe shall wonder why we ever feared to let \nit show itself before. \n\nIn my poor opinion it would be just as \nwell to become accustomed to this shock \nbefore it comes. If we do not, a great many \nvery good and very pious people, finding the \nlast rag of superstition torn from religion, will \nfoolishly decide that the truths of religion \nthemselves have been destroyed, and will \nturn into the hopeless byways of atheism, \nwithout taking the trouble to observe that a \nnatural divinity may be just as infinite, just \nas eternal, just as divine, and just as satis- \nfactory in every way, as a supernatural divin- \nity J that a natural immortality would be just \nas welcome as a miraculous immortality ; and \nthat a natural love (the essence of religion) \nis really a more reasonable thing than a su- \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\npernatural love, which is apt to float so far \nbeyond the clouds as to be rather chilly when \nit comes back to earth again. \n\nNow, if some of those amiable gentlemen \nwho compose the theological profession could \nknow what I am thinking to-night, some of \nthem might be inclined to ignore my fancies \nas the improbable dreams of a mildly delirious \nlunatic. Others might take a more serious \nview of them, and advise a restriction of my \nliberty ; and the rest would probably be frank \nenough to admit that their own faith had been \nlooking over the hedge of orthodoxy into the \nheretical field in which my own imagination \nhas been stumbling around. For ministers \nare really not bad fellows. They have done \na vast amount of good in the world, much of \nwhich has been overlooked on account of \nsome of their blunders, \xe2\x80\x94 blunders which \nwere the result of the universal ignorance of \nmankind, for which no one in particular ap- \npears to have been responsible. If Cotton \nMather delivered a few witches over to the \n159 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nDevil, it was, after all. Justice Sewall who \nhanged them. It is therefore unreasonable \nto saddle the whole blame upon the clergy- \nmen, \xe2\x80\x94 although candor compels the admis- \nsion that Sewall had studied theology before \nhe studied law, \xe2\x80\x94 and it is not fair to forget \nthat clergymen have smoothed the pathway \nof many a poor wretch to the limitless un- \nknown and kept the prop of faith under an \nimportant body of possible truths that could \nin the nature of things have no better support, \nsome of which may, in some future age, have \na foundation of scientific proof built under \nthem. \n\nWhile they have been doing this, they have \nbeen the victims of a vast amount of exasper- \nating prodding by irreverent laymen, which \nprodding they have generally borne remark- \nably well. \n\nNow, if one of these long-sufFering clergy- \nmen should happen in to-night and say, \n" My dear sir, if you take away supernatural- \nism you will destroy religion," I should reply, \ni6o \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\n" I have not had the honor of taking away \nany of it, but it is nevertheless disappearing \nlike frost in a July sun, and religion is not \nbeing destroyed. \n\n" Supernaturalism is nothing but the gar- \nments in which the essential truths of religion \nhave been clothed \xe2\x80\x94 and disguised. When \nthese garments become too old-fashioned to \nbe longer tolerated, some one will take \nthem off, one by one, and you must not ask \nwhat they will be replaced with. It may \nnot be necessary to replace them at all. \nTruth has a robust constitution, and can go \nabout naked without any danger of catching \ncold. \n\n\'\' A good many of these garments have \nalready been stripped off, and it would be \nwearisome to repeat the names of all those \nintrepid fellows who have done the stripping ; \nbut you will admit that the essentials of relig- \nion have not suffered by the process. Noth- \ning has suffered, in fact, except the geology, \nastronomy, and biology of the Old Testa- \n" . i6i \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nmerit, and the pathology and therapeutics of \nthe New. \n\n" These things are not religion, but by \nclinging as you do to the only rag of super- \nnaturalism that is left, you make it appear \nthat these things are religion, and thus pave \nan easy road to atheism for those who see \nthese things disappearing. \n\n" Whether we are supernaturalists or not, \nto any one who will open his eyes it looks \nreasonable to believe that there is a divinity \nin the universe, for the meanest man that was \never hanged had something good, something \ndivine, about him ; and the existence of this \ndivinity is rendered no more real by attributing \nit to a supernatural source. \n\n"That intelligence or something superior \nto intelligence rules the universe seems prob- \nable, for the intelligence of man would not \nenable him to construct a world or a solar \nsystem or a Milky Way, even if he had the \nmaterials. It would not enable him to con- \nstruct out of the materials at hand a human \n162 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nintelligence, and it does not, even after cen- \nturies of discipline by the divinity of Nature, \nenable him to form any conception of a form \nof activity that may be as much higher than \nman\'s intelligence as his own intelligence is \nhigher than the mechanical movements of a \nwatch. He must, forsooth, attribute a mag- \nnified form of his own intelligence to his \nDeity, as if there could be no form of activity \nso high that mere intelligence, however mag- \nnified, may constitute the merest fragment \nof it. \n\n" Here is the suggestion of divinity enough \nfor any reasonable man, and do you really \npay a very great compliment to this divinity \nwhen you assume that the existence of any \ndivinity is so incredible that we must turn \nour minds topsy-turvy and inside out in \norder to be in a position to believe in it ? \nThis you certainly do when you insist that \nthe existence of a divinity necessarily implies \nthe conversion of nothing into something, a \nlong string of miracles, and the reversal of \n163 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthe laws of Nature \xe2\x80\x94 which are an expres- \nsion of the divine will \xe2\x80\x94 in each and every \none of the instances of divine inspiration that \nhave appeared in the world from the time of \nGautama Buddha down to Shakespeare. \n\n" Perhaps you think that I, being a lay- \nman, have no right to have any views on the \nsubject of theology ; but as a genial New \nEngland doctor, named Holmes, once said, I \nhave been taking fifty-two lectures a year \nduring the greater part of my life, from \northodox teachers of theology, and unless my \ninstructors have been utterly incompetent, I \nshould now be familiar enough with the sub- \nject to be entitled to an opinion on it. If, \nin view of this long course of instruction, \nyou attach enough importance to my opinion \nto ask me how I can prove the existence of \na natural divinity, I shall admit that I can- \nnot do it as I can prove one of Euclid\'s \npropositions, \xe2\x80\x94 if I have not forgotten my \ngeometry, \xe2\x80\x94 for I have not been instructed \nto look for a natural divinity. But I insist \n164 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nthat in the present state of knowledge, the \nexistence of such a divinity cannot be dis- \nproved, and that every advance of knowledge \nhas rendered it more probable. \n\n" I ask you if you can say as much for \nyour non-natural divinity, the proof of whose \nexistence consists, by your own frequent and \nemphatic admissions, in the denial of the per- \nmanence of the universe and the uniformity \nof Nature, \xe2\x80\x94 both of which are being ren- \ndered more and more undeniable by science \nand philosophy, and really constitute the only \nsatisfactory evidence of divinity that we \nhave. \n\n" Can you explain why a derangement of \nNature in the form of an incredible miracle \nis evidence of a better kind of omnipotence \nthan that to the existence of which the ob- \nvious orderliness of Nature testifies ? \n\n" Do you ask how life got into the world ? \nI do not know. Does supernaturalism ex- \nplain how life got into the world ? It only \ntells us it did get into the world, which is \n\'6s \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nmore than it can prove ; for we only know \nthat life is here, and do not know at all that \nit was not always here. \n\n" Are we at all certain that the line which \nwe have drawn between living things and \ndead things is a valid boundary, and that it \nreally separates these two classes of things \nany more than our arbitrary classification of \nvegetables and animals separates them ? \n\n" Does man really possess any property or \nattribute that is not vaguely shadowed forth \nin those forms of matter which we call dead ? \n\n" Does man have a definite, complex fig- \nure ? So does a piece of lime, but its figure \nis less definite and less complex than that of \nman. \n\n" Does man\'s body execute definite and \ncomplex movements ? So does a piece of \nlime, but the movements which it executes \nare less definite and less complex than those \nof a man. \n\n" Does the substance of a man\'s body \nundergo changes which are definite and com- \ni66 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nplex ? So does the substance of a piece of \nlime, but the changes which its substance \nundergoes are less definite and less complex. \n\n" Man has no physical or chemical prop- \nerty that does not exist in some simple and \nindefinite form in the inorganic world. Of \ncourse, physical and chemical properties are \nnot vital, but when we follow them from \nman down through simpler and simpler forms \nof living beings and on into the inorganic \nworld, and when we see how those properties \nwhich are vital lose in definiteness and com- \nplexity in the same gradual way as we de- \nscend from man to the lowest living beings, \n. \xe2\x80\x94 are we certain that these vital properties \nreally cease to exist where they seem to \nvanish ? \n\n" Sensibility, motility, assimilation, and re- \nproduction are the four chief vital properties. \nWhen we examine them we shall find that \nthe definiteness and the complexity of their \nmanifestation gradually fade away as we \ndescend to lower and lower orders of living \n167 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nbeings ; and when we reach the amoeba, \nwhose whole body is a single cell, and is all \nbrain, all stomach, all legs, and all a repro- \nductive apparatus, we shall hardly be able to \nrealize that the life which this cell has is a \nsimple, indefinite manifestation of exactly the \nsame kind of life as that which man has ; yet \nthere is no difference between the life of a \nman and that of the amoeba, except a differ- \nence of degree. The assimilation, mentality \n(or sensibility), motility, and reproduction of \nthe amoeba are the same vital characteristics \nas those of man. \n\n" Now, is there a less gap between the \nbirth of a child and that of a single cell than \nthere is between the birth of the latter and \nthat of a crystal of snow ? \n\n" Is it further from the motility of a single \ncell to the movement of a magnetic needle \nthan it is from the violin playing of a Bee- \nthoven to the movement of the cell ? \n\n" If the turning of a leaf toward the light \nreveals in the leaf a mentality which is merely \n168 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\na vastly remote analogue of the mentality of \nman, do not the chemical affinities of car- \nbon, phosphorus, and oxygen reveal in them \nsomething that is merely a vastly remote \nanalogue of the mentality of the leaf? \n\n" If the vast difference between man and \nthe single cell is a mere difference of degree, \nhow do we know that the difference between \nthe living cell and a grain of gunpowder is \none of kind ? \n\n" And now, if the most daring effort of \nmy imagination cannot awaken in your mind \nthe faintest suspicion of life in inorganic \nmatter, please do not regard your unbelief \nan offence to me, for you will notice that I \nhave not said that I myself believe the thing \nto which my questions point." \n\nHere the Lonely Man smoked thoughtfully \nfor a few moments as if he were pondering \nwhether to follow out his present train of \nthoughts to their logical conclusion. He \nquickly decided that he had already gone too \n169 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nfar to retreat, and that it would be more \ninteresting to go on. \n\nIf I should ask a scientific materialist, who \nbelieves in nothing but matter and motion, \nwhether there is the slightest reason to be- \nlieve that there is anything akin to life in \ninorganic matter, he would doubtless say, \nwithout the least hesitation, that there is not. \nIf I should ask him whether there is life in \nthe substance of an amoeba, he would say \nthat there is, although the substance of the \namceba\'s body consists of exactly the same \nelements as those which abound in the in- \norganic world. If I should ask him why \nthe matter in the amoeba\'s body is alive, \nwhile the same matter in the inorganic world \nis dead, he would say that in the former case \nthe matter is organized, while in the latter \ncase it is not. \n\nThus the only thing that distinguishes \nliving matter from dead matter is organiza- \ntion ; yet the organization of the amoeba is \n170 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nnot the " state of being furnished with or- \ngans," for the amoeba, being a single cell, has \nno organs. Its organization is nothing but \ndefiniteness and complexity of structure. \n\nThe more definite and complex the struc- \nture of any organism is, the higher is the \ntype of that organism\'s life. Thus, the life \nof a fish is vastly higher than that of an \namceba, for the fish consists of billions of \ncells, each one of which is as complex as the \namoeba\'s whole body ; and in the fish these \ncells are differentiated into hundreds of definite \norgans and structures. The life of man is \nthe highest type of life that we know, for \nman\'s organization is more definite and com- \nplex than that of any other known creature. \nHis mentality is, therefore, higher than that \nof any other known creature, for mentality \nis one of the vital phenomena, and obeys the \nsame law that fixes the plane of the other \nvital phenomena. They are all highest in \nthe most highly organized creatures, and \nlowest in the simplest creatures. \n171 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nNow (mused the Lonely Man) a biologist \nwould not deny any of these propositions. \nHe might wish to word them differently. \nInstead of "definiteness and complexity of \nstructure," he might wish to say " definite, \ncoherent heterogeneity," but these words \nmean practically the same thing and they \nhurt one\'s brain. The words which I have \nchosen are bad enough. \n\nNow, since the plane of an organism\'s \nmentality is fixed by the definiteness and \ncomplexity of that organism\'s structure, we \nshould expect beings more highly organized \nthan man to have mentality of a higher type \nthan man\'s mentality. If these beings were \nas much more highly organized than man as \nman is more highly organized than an amoeba, \nwe should expect their mentality to be as \nmuch higher than man\'s as his is higher than \nthe faint mentality of a single cell. Again, \nas the appearance of man is wholly different \nfrom that of an amoeba or a tubercle bacillus, \nwe should expect beings vastly superior to \n172 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nman to be vastly different from him in \nappearance. \n\nNow I begin to see whither my thoughts \nare leading me. The thinking has been \nrather hard, but the result of it will be \ninteresting. \n\nThus far we have kept to known facts. \nNow I must create in my imagination some \nbeings that are as much more highly organ- \nized than man as man is more highly organ- \nized than a mushroom. Necessarily, their \nmentality will be as much higher than man\'s \nas his is higher than the mentality of the \nmushroom. Since I must put these remark- \nable beings somewhere, I will suppose them \nto be in Mars. My scientific materialist \nmight decline to make such a supposition, \nfor science has, apparently, never been able \nto colonize Mars. This can be done only \nby imagination \xe2\x80\x94 which has done it with an \nincredible variety of colonists. Therefore, \nI may put a few colonists there on my own \naccount. \n\n173 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nNow, if these denizens of Mars were as \nmuch superior to man as I have supposed \nthem to be, they would, of course, be as differ- \nent from man as he is different from a mush- \nroom. But they are not there, or if they are, \nwe do not know it and cannot find it out ; so \nwhat is the use of making the supposition ? \n\nThere is this use : the momentary pres- \nence in Mars of these strange creatures of \nmy imagination has enabled me to make a \ncomparison that would have been impossible \nwithout their help; and they cannot vanish \nfrom their Martial abode without, at least, \nleaving the planet behind. They cannot \ntake it away with them ; and what shall be \nsaid of a being so colossal in its proportions \nand so vast in its complexity that the whole \nplanet of Mars is a single atom in its body; \nand Jupiter and the Earth and the other \nplanets, other atoms ; and the whole solar \nsystem, a single molecule; and our whole \nsidereal system with its countless constella- \ntions, a single cell ; and the other stellar \n174 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nsystems that can be reached by the telescope, \nother cells ; not to mention the systems and \nsystems of systems that the most powerful \ntelescope never has reached and never will \nreach, the existence of which the boldest \nastronomer would hesitate to deny ? \n\nThis looks no more like a man than a \nman looks like a mushroom, but who can \ndeny that it \xe2\x80\x94 the whole universe \xe2\x80\x94 is an \norganism ? Who can deny that it is a living \norganism ? Do we know of any other organ- \nism in which the signs of life are more ap- \nparent ? In what other organism are the \nfunctions performed with such mathematical \nprecision, with such incredible swiftness, and \non so sublime a scale ? Is it not so much \nmore perfectly and highly organized than \nman, and so staggeringly vast in its propor- \ntions and infinite in its complexity, that, on \nour own premises, we must admit that its \nmentality is so much higher than man\'s that \nthe difference between a man and an amoeba \nfades, by contrast, into equality ? \n175 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nIf we will not admit it, how shall we \nextricate ourselves from the logical tangle \ninto which we have fallen ? And if we can- \nnot extricate ourselves, how can we show \nthat the part of a living whole is dead ? How \ncan the matter of a living universe be dead \nmatter ? \n\nDo I myself believe the conclusion at \nwhich I have apparently arrived ? (mused the \nLonely Man). Belief is a large word, and I \nwould certainly have no one put to torture \nfor not believing this theory, \xe2\x80\x94 or fancy, if \nthat is a better word, \xe2\x80\x94 but it seems more \nplausible each time my thoughts recur to it, \nand it seems, on the one hand, to be invul- \nnerable to the assaults of the materialist, and \non the other hand, it does not seem to be \nirreverent. How can the materiahst deny \nthat mentality, or something analogous to it, \nis a universal attribute of organisms, and how \ncan it be more irreverent to assume that the \ninfinite material universe is, in a real and \nlogical sense, the material aspect of an infinite \n176 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\ndivinity than it is to make the same assump- \ntion in the mystical phraseology of theology \nas we now do ? \n\nIf the philosopher insists that that through \nwhich all things exist is unknowable, he \nmight do so even with this fancy as a work- \ning hypothesis ; for who knows, or can know, \nthe universe ? But those philosophers who \nhave most nearly exhausted the subtleties of \nlanguage to prove that the Absolute is abso- \nlutely unknowable have invariably ended with \neither a tacit or an open admission that we \ndo actually know something about it. There- \nfore, it is not absolutely unknowable, and it \ndoes not seem presumptuous to say that the \nUnknowable suggested by my fancy is a more \nnatural, tangible, familiar sort of Unknowable \nthan the one that lurks behind the fine-spun \nweb of Mr. Mansel\'s philosophy. \n\nBut the important question is : Could I \nsatisfy my heart by loving such a divinity ? \n\nI could, at least, satisfy my reason, and the \nsatisfaction of reason is an important step \n12 177 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ntoward satisfying the heart. It would, at all \nevents, be more satisfactory to love a divinity \nthat has some natural, credible relationship \nto man than one that is wholly beyond and \noutside the infinite natural universe to which \nman belongs. If the love of a natural divin- \nity would not satisfy the human heart, the \ndescent of our affection from such a being to \nmankind would seem more rational and less \nviolent than the descent from an impossible \nDeity that has no natural or logical point of \ncontact with anything so mundane as man- \nkind ; but I begin to perceive that neither \nthe love of the mystical Deity which theology \noffers us nor the love of the Absolute which \nis offered by philosophy can satisfy the heart \nof man. \n\nMan must love something on his own \nplane of being \xe2\x80\x94 something of which he can \nform some conception and with which he \ncan feel some sympathy. If my fancy points \nin the direction of the truth, the love of man \nwould be, in a real sense, the love of a frag- \n\n178 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nment of the universal divinity \xe2\x80\x94 as great a \nfragment as the infinitesimal capacity of man \nwould enable him to bring within the radius \nof his most expanded love, and several million \ntimes greater than that which he actually \ndoes love in any true sense. For how can \nwe delude ourselves into believing that that \nis love for which a brother or a sister, a \nhusband or a wife, would not care a rap ? \nAnd what brother or sister or husband or \nwife would care a rap for a love whose chief \nexpression is hostile competition ? The ques- \ntion is not whether hostile competition is \nright or necessary, but whether it reveals and \nbegets love; and I submit that it does not. \n\nDo we say that man as he is, is so unlovely \nthat we cannot love him, and that we must, \ntherefore, idealize and magnify his best traits, \nand then love the resulting magnified ideali- \nzation as a god ? That is, perhaps, what the \nbest of us unconsciously do in the name of \nreligion ; but it is, on the one hand, irrever- \nent, for this idealization is not God, and it \n179 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nis, on the other hand, irrational, and leads \nswiftly to a mysticism that leaves us nothing \nto love but a bundle of verbal subtleties and \ncontradictions, out of which the most astute \nphilosopher can hberate no meaning, and the \nmost earnest theologian no warmth. This \ncan never satisfy the human heart, and this, \nI fear, is the bulk of what religion gives us \non this side of the grave. \n\nDoes it offer more ? Aye ; but has it \ngiven more ? If it has taught man really to \nlove his fellow-man, how has he so thoroughly \nunlearned the lesson that he now regards his \nfellow-man his legitimate prey, and fears him \nas his worst enemy, except in the presence \nof a police force or in the shadow of an army ? \nAnd why is it that those armies which are \nmost efficient in butchery are those which \nhave originated where the noblest existing \nreligion has been longest taught ? \n\nReligion cannot be destroyed till the uni- \nverse has been destroyed and the divinity of \nthe universe has ceased to reveal itself through \ni8o \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nthe genius of man, whether it be the genius \nof a Hebrew prophet or of an English poet ; \nbut it cannot satisfy human hearts till its \ntruths have been in some measure stripped \nof their gauzy mysticism and brought to \nearth. So concrete a thing as a human heart \nmust love a thing of flesh and blood, and if \nwe cannot love man as he is, and must per- \nforce idealize, why may we not idealize the \nimperfections out of the humanity that is, and \nthen love that, rather than idealize perfec- \ntions into a humanity that is not, and then \ntry to love that ? The real side of human- \nity might be improved by the process, and \nthe ideal side would not have the monopoly \nof our affection which it now appears to \nhave. \n\nThis seems to be the goal toward which \nreligion, science, philosophy, and politics are \nslowly groping, and in some thousands of \nyears the goal may be reached, but it is con- \nceivable that with our voluntary aid it might \nbe reached some thousands of years sooner. \ni8i \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nWhen it shall have been reached, the heart \nof man may be satisfied. \n\nIf we passively wait for the realization of \nthis dream we shall wait long, and neither the \nstruggle for bread nor the scramble for gold \nnor the murmuring of prayers will greatly \nalleviate the dreariness of waiting. But let \nus not be disheartened : let us not too hastily \ndecide that there is nothing that can in any \ndegree satisfy the heart while we wait. There \nare more things than banks and churches in \nthe world : there is the justice of the peace, \nforsooth, and he can marry us. \n\nHere is the promise of a joy so sweet that \none\'s whole being thrills with pleasure at the \nthought of it. This promise comes when \nfortune favors us, and gives a rich intensity \nto all our other joys. It comes in times \nof gloom and sadness and gently mitigates \nour sorrow. It hovers on the outskirts of our \nconsciousness in loneliness and redeems our \nmoods from utter dulness. It bids us per- \nsevere when constant disappointment attends \n182 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nour efforts to win wealth or fame. It cheers \nus when the bubble bursts within our hands \nafter we have won it, and makes us try again. \nIt comes when grim despair has bidden us to \ncurse the world and die, and stays our hand \nand lures us on to meet defeat again. \n\nI know not what joy the hope of being \nloved by one man brings to a woman\'s heart, \nfor my ignorance of her heart is boundless ; \nbut the hope of being loved, or the belief \nthat one is loved, by some fair woman, is the \nthing that gives the gladness to all the men \nthat have glad hearts. This sweet, seductive \nhope is that which lies beneath the tragedy \xe2\x80\x94 \nor comedy \xe2\x80\x94 of life, and gives a man the \ncourage to play his part in it. It is this that \nsends him out to war against his fellows and \nbeguiles him into church to pray ; it is this \nthat makes the world seem, in spite of all the \nsavage cruelty there is within it, a delightful \nplace J it is this that makes life seem, in \nspite of all its vapid emptiness, a glorious \nthing. A man may scoff bravely at the love \n\n183 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nof woman, but in his secret soul he knows \nthis is the main thing in his life. \n\nSo, then, let us not become despondent. \nWe have the promise of this love. Our \ninstinct plants the promise in our hearts and \nwill never let it die. We feel it tingling in \nour veins in early youth ; we feel it straining \nat our wills in later years to swerve us from \nthe course of life we have mapped out j we \nfeel it leaping in our hearts when our super- \nhuman efforts to achieve a dear success have \nbrought the prize within our reach ; we see it \nin the amorous glance of half-veiled eyes and \nin the modest blushes of coy cheeks; it \nwhispers to us in the rustle of a silken skirt ; \nit is this that murmurs softly to us in the \ndreamy measures of a waltz, \xe2\x80\x94 this promise \nof a woman\'s love. \n\nSo let us scoff at the universal love of \nhuman beings for all their fellow-beings. \nLet us call it a sweet, Utopian dream that \nwill never be fulfilled, and let us do nothing \nto hasten its advent. Let us love, of course, \n184 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nbut let us fix our hot affection on one fellow- \nbeing of the other sex and put our knife to \nthe throats of other fellow-beings to make \nthat one happy. Though we may not make \na flower garden of the world, we may have \na little garden of our own with one sweet \nrose in it \xe2\x80\x94 and a barbed-wire fence around \nit. And if we fear the thorns that often lurk \nbeneath the petals of the rose, and therefore \nnever have a garden of our own, we may lean \nupon our neighbor\'s barbed-wire fence and \ninhale the fragrance of his rose. The roses \nseem to like it ; but let us not forget that \nbarbs are often quite as sharp as thorns. \n\nSo do not worry about the love of humanity \nin general. Claim the sweet fulfilment of \nthe promise which instinct gives you, and \nlove a woman. Do not think the promise is \na mere enticing mockery. What does it \nmatter that the pretty schoolmate who, in \nthe distant past, blushingly confessed her love \nto you behind the lilac bush, and passed the \ntouching little messages of love to you be- \n\n185 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ntween the pages of her spelling book, and \nsobbed out her assurances of eternal constancy \nto you when at last you went out into the \nworld to seek your fortune, \xe2\x80\x94 was married \nto another wretch within a year ? She was \na girl. Love a woman. \n\nYou saw, yourself, that it really did not \nmatter, after you had met the sister of your \nfriend\'s wife. When you fell under the spell \nof her brown eyes and black hair and slender \nfigure, you perceived that you had never \nreally loved before. Her silvery voice gave \nutterance to the first real melody in a woman\'s \nsoul that you had ever heard. Were you \nnot thankful then that you had escaped the \nsimple little schoolmate ? This was no sen- \ntimental little rustic ; this was a splendid \nwoman who had had the constant, watchful \ncare of fond parents, the accomplishments \nwhich wealth alone can give one, and was \nworthy of a prince\'s love. She heard love\'s \nmessage for the first time when she heard it \nfrom your lips. Her glad surprise showed \ni86 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nyou how new the message was and how \nsweet. There was no feigning here. The \njoy that glistened in her averted eyes was \nthe real joy that cannot be counterfeited. It \nwas the kind of joy that tingles through a \nwoman\'s nerves, and quivers in her breath, \nand sets its blushing stamp upon her face and \nneck before the quickest tongue can frame \na sentence. It was the kind of joy that has \nNature\'s guarantee of genuineness, and makes \na sudden paradise of the world and a poem \nof two lives. Even after all these years you \nwill admit that this woman loved you \xe2\x80\x94 then, \nand for one blissful month thereafter. \n\nAt first, when things began to change, the \nexplanations of her absence when she ex- \npected you seemed plausible. There was \nthe sudden call to a sick grandmother, \xe2\x80\x94 she \nwas her grandmother\'s favorite. There was \nher unexpected delay with her sister at the \nmissionary society, \xe2\x80\x94 her sister really was \naway that evening. There was another un- \nexpected delay with her sister\'s husband, \n187 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 and then unlucky chance disclosed the \nfact that her sister\'s husband had spent that \nevening at his office, while your sweetheart \nspent the evening In the park with some one \nelse; and then your fond heart grew suspi- \ncious. A rival whom you did not know had \ncome along and reaped the harvest you had \nsown. The lips that you had taught to kiss \nkissed his. The soul In which you wakened \ninto life the symphony of love now played \nthis symphony in his. The breast that you \nhad taught to throb with love now throbbed \nwith love on his. \n\nBut do not, I pray you, grow despondent. \nThis woman had been too long shielded from \ntemptation, and when temptation came she \nyielded. Who was it that said, " The vir- \ntue that requires a constant guard is hardly \nworth the sentinel " ? He told the truth. \nGo, seek out a woman who has been thrown, \nwithout a chaperon, into the fiery furnace of \ntemptation which we call the world, and yet \nhas stood the test. You will think you find \ni88 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nher, and whether her eyes are of one color or \nanother, whether the fair possessor is plump \nand jolly or slender and grave, whether she \nstill has the beauty of ripe maturity to win or \nis already regretting the loss of her ancient \nprettiness, \xe2\x80\x94 the symphony which she will \nplay in your soul and the poetry which she \nwill write in your life will be the same, if the \nfair creature can awaken them at all ; and in \nsome cases she will play the same symphony \nwith only a faint discord here and there, and \ninject the same poetry into the world all \nthrough one\'s life, till the gray hairs come \nand the eyes grow dim and one totters into \none\'s grave with the pleasing conviction that \nit has been a good thing to live. \n\nIf she can do this for you, what matters \nIt that she may have done it for a dozen \nothers ? Sly dogs who think they know the \nworld will tell you that she has, and that you \nare a fool to love her; but, mark you, you \nare no greater fool than they will be if they \never fall in love. He who has never known \n189 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthe bliss of being a fool has never been in \nlove. I have been, but though I am not \nso great a fool as he who seeks to regulate \nthe conduct of other fools in love, I may- \nadvise you to let sleeping dogs lie. Where \nyou have no suspicions let no other man \nawaken them. Remember that if it is ever \ntrue that " nothing is but thinking makes \nit so," it is true in love ; and remember that \nthough a woman were as chaste as Diana she \ncould not prove her virtue. \n\nThere are some cynics who tell us that the \nlove between a man and a woman never \nlasts, but this is false. Sometimes the pretty \ndream is dreamed out to the end without a \nnightmare : the poetry runs smoothly on \nthrough an enchanted world; the symphony \nplays sweetly on in an enchanted heart till \nthe end of life is reached. I know, for I \nhave seen ; but, alas, I have not seen this \nvery often. Oftener have I had reason to \nsuspect that the symphony had died out, and \nthe heart-strings had become covered with \n190 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\ndust or were being clandestinely played by an \nunseen and forbidden hand. \n\nSo, when one feels that one is coming \nunder the influence that has power to awaken \nthis music in the soul and write this poetry \nin the world, how shall one know that this is \nthe kind of music that will last ? How shall \none know that the player will not lose her \ncunning or the instrument its tone ? The \nfirst strains are indistinguishable from the \nkind that does last \xe2\x80\x94 and from the kind that \ndoes not. Shall we say that the love that \ndies was never love ? Ah, we do not say it \ntill it dies. We thought it was love, till its \ndecay convinced us that it was not. It is a \ntimid diagnostician who never makes a diag- \nnosis except at an autopsy. Then, some- \ntimes, when a surfeited heart has had a long \nrest or a change of surroundings, the old love \ncomes to life again and we change our minds \nagain and say it was love after all. Here is \na mystery ; a mystery which, it is true, may \noften be solved by showing that the decay of \n191 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nlove was due to some one\'s stupid selfishness, \nbut often it cannot be solved at all. We \nmust put it back upon the mental shelf on \nwhich we keep the other mysteries that have \nto do with woman. \n\nThere are many of these mysteries. Her \nintellect is one of them. That she has an \nintellect there is no longer any doubt, but \nthere is still some difference of opinion as to \nthe relative capability of her intellect and \nthat of her brother. Whatever the solution \nof this question may be, woman\'s intellect is \ndifferent from man\'s. At least, it has seemed \nso to me. When I have told her that I have \nhad four great-grandfathers, she has almost \nalways asked me if my mother married twice. \nWhen I have assured her that there have \nbeen no second marriages among my ances- \ntors so far as history records their misdeeds, \nshe has looked upon me with suspicion as an \neccentric person who has chosen a needlessly \ncomplicated method of getting into the world \nand may cause trouble before getting out of \n192 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nit. When I have told her at noon on Mon- \nday that in ten days I should leave town, she \nhas invariably counted the days on her fingers \nand decided that I should go at noon on \nWednesday of the next week. When I \nhave, in the deep humiliation resulting from \nher apparently needless haste to get rid of \nme, assured her that I had not intended to \ngo till Thursday, she has counted her pretty \nfingers again, saying, " To-day is one day," \nand found again that she had exactly fingers \n(and thumbs) enough to reach to noon on \nthe second following Wednesday. In these \nintellectual encounters I have invariably been \ncompelled to retire with a badly damaged \nreputation for arithmetical acumen. \n\nThen when I have asked her how old I \nwas when I was half as old as my brother, \nif, ten years later, my age was two-thirds of \nhis, she has innocently asked me how old my \nbrother was at that time. When I have \ntold her that boys and girls in short nether \ngarments are solving such problems as that \n13 193 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nin the schools without knowing how old the \nbrother was, she has faintly remembered \nsomething of the sort in her own school ex- \nperience, but has said that she never did like \npuzzles and does not consider them practical. \nShe may even have intimated that age is \nrather too delicate a subject to discuss with \na lady, anyhow. \n\nNow, in the mind of a fairly intelligent \nman the statement of the problem immedi- \nately resolves itself into \n\nX + 10 = J (2X + lO), \n\nwhence, by the swift compulsion of inexora- \nble logic, without any aid from teachers or \nany guidance from books, the male mind is \nforced to the conclusion that this important \nperiod in my life was a good while ago ; \nnamely, when I was exactly ten years old. \n\nThe educated male mind can work with \nswift precision in a groove of logic which \nleads by only one possible route to only one \npossible conclusion. It may ascend into \npreviously unexplored regions, but it must be \n194 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\npushed by logic up the syllogistic stairway \nfrom one premise to the next. Where a \nstep is out or where there is a parting of the \nways, it is more likely to go wrong than not. \nIt must have the compulsion of necessity or \nthe guidance of extreme probability or it will \ngo wrong. \n\nNow, compulsion is exactly what my \nsister\'s intellect does not like. Give her a \nproblem to the solution of which there is no \nclearly defined road \xe2\x80\x94 a problem to which \nthere are seven thousand possible answers \nonly one of which can be correct, and her \nagile mind will balance itself for its flight \ninto the unknown, as a meadow lark on the \nfence that separates the beaten road from the \ntrackless meadow balances itself first on one \nfoot and then on the other, and sings out to \nyou, " My nest is in the meadow. You can- \nnot see it, but do you think I cannot find it ? \nThe grass is tall, and there are no pathways \nthrough the air, but am I not a meadow \nlark ? " Then, after performing a few gyra- \n195 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ntions before your bewildered eyes and turning \nback to laugh at your dulness, it sweeps \nwith unerring precision to its nest. \n\nWhile woman\'s intellect does not abso- \nlutely refuse to work in the logical groove, it \nhas seemed to me that it dislikes to do so, pre- \nferring to solve those problems which must \nbe solved as the meadow lark finds its nest ; \nand with her newly liberated intellect she has \nsolved full many a problem in the unmapped \nrealms of thought while the clumsy intellect \nof man has been looking around for a path. \n\nSome of the sweetest and truest poetry that \nhas ever been written has, according to my dull \njudgment, been written by a woman whose \nname I will not even think, lest I suspect \nmyself of indulging in fulsome flattery, which \nI never do. When we see these truths in \ntheir beautiful habiliments of words we can \nsee that they are true, but we could never \nhave found them ourselves. \n\nBut are we always certain when this in- \ntellect of our fair sister swoops from the \n196 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\ndizzy heights which we cannot attain, into a \nbewildering maze of thought whither we \ncannot follow, that it always really goes any- \nwhere or finds anything when it gets there ? \nI have read books (the names of which it is \nneedless to think) which, to me, were as \nhopelessly incoherent and senseless as the \njabbering of a man who is recovering from \nthe effects of ether ; while to many a woman \nwhom I have known there was in each mys- \ntical sentence in these books a perfectly lucid \nmeaning. It is comforting to know that to \nsome of my sisters the apostles of mysticism \nare as incomprehensible as they are to me; \nbut it is discouraging to know that to some \nof my brothers \xe2\x80\x94 actual men with whiskers \n\xe2\x80\x94 such writers are as intelligible as they are \nto my specially initiated sisters. \n\nI have sought out my sister \xe2\x80\x94 the one \nwho understands occult things \xe2\x80\x94 and humbly \ncraved her assistance in my effort to under- \nstand them. She has tried to reduce the \nsubtle meanings of her favorite authors to \n197 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nlanguage of a simplicity commensurate with \nthat of the coarse machinery of my dull brain, \nbut she has failed. I have at times been in- \nspired with the hope that I should presently \nunderstand, but just as my exhausted intellect \nhas trembled on the threshold of the occult \nworld to which she would fain have intro- \nduced me, I have suddenly become conscious \nof \xe2\x80\x94 nothing but the figures on the carpet \nand the pictures on the wall and the other \nfamiliar things in the prosaic world in which \nI Hve. \n\nDid I say prosaic world ? It will never \nbe a prosaic world to me, my dear sister, so \nlong as you are in it. It may be that mys- \ntery is an intellectual necessity to man, but \nshall I despair of finding this mystery because \nthe occultism of the Orient is a closed book \nto me, because I cannot read Hegel after he \ntells me that being and not being are the \nsame, because absent treatment has no effect \non me, and because the rites of my secret so- \nciety are cheap humbugs which any school- \n198 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nboy could see through ? Shall I despair of \nfinding mystery because all through the allur- \ning realm of modern geometry \xe2\x80\x94 in which \nparallel lines meet at infinity or anywhere \nelse one chooses to make them meet, in \nwhich the three angles of a triangle may be \neither greater or less than two right angles, \nin which space may be round or oval or of \nthe shape of a saddle and have as many di- \nmensions as one pleases to give it \xe2\x80\x94 my im- \nagination, as it struggles to follow Riemann \nand Helmholtz, is pursued by the dull con- \nviction that an axiom does not require a \nproof and that Euclid\'s twelfth axiom is cor- \nrect whether it can be proved or not ? \n\nNo, I shall not despair, for so long as \nwoman is in the world there will be a mys- \ntery great enough for me, a real mystery \nwhich lures my baffled understanding to re- \nnewed attempts at its solution after each \ndefeat. I have studied this mystery in the \ndull routine of daily life ; I have studied it \nin the gayety of the ballroom ; I have studied \n199 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nit in the sacred presence of the other mystery \nof birth; I have studied it in the solemn \npresence of the final mystery of death. It \nhas mocked me from the depths of laugh- \ning eyes ; it has frowned at me from eyes \nthat never laugh ; it has leered at me from \npainted faces in the street at night when \nno policeman was in sight; and once in \nsuch a face I thought it had almost revealed \nitself. \n\nSomething in that face seem.ed to say, \n" The honored wife upon the boulevard and \nI are sisters. We wear man\'s yoke \xe2\x80\x94 I for \nan hour, she for life ; and neither of us \nloves him. Our vanity must first be grati- \nfied, and then we must be fed. My sister \nin the office and the marts of trade has cast \naside man\'s yoke and donned his armor, and \nnow she hates him while she fights him. \nWhat would you have, fool ? Do you ex- \npect to find love in the brothel or the home, \nwhen there is none in the world ? The \nworld is made of homes and brothels. How \n200 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\ncan there be more in the parts than in the \nwhole ? We must he fed, Ha^ ha I We \nmust be fed .\'^ \n\nHow much of truth there was in what \nthat painted face revealed I do not know. \nI cannot think it was the whole truth. I \nhave seen homes in which the love was real \nand undisguised, and sometimes my fancy- \npaints a world in which it might be so in \nevery case, but it is not the world I find \nabout me j and so, to-night, I do not know \nhow much of satisfaction the heart of man \nmay find in woman\'s love. \n\nAnd the heart of woman ? How shall it \nbe satisfied ? Ah, her heart is the most in- \nscrutable part of the whole enigma. I am \nnot certain that, in this present world, it can \nbe satisfied at all. \n\nOf late years she has got into the habit \nof thinking, or appearing to think, that the \nscramble at the pie counter is the most satis- \nfying thing in life, and you will find her \nthere in numbers that are continually increas- \n\n20I \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ning. You will find her competing as merrily \nwith her brothers as they compete with each \nother. You will find the struggle none the \nless fierce because of her presence. You will \nfind her paying the same price in work for a \nsmaller piece of pie than her brother is will- \ning to take. You will find her clamoring \nfor more places at the world\'s pie counter, \nand you will find her getting them. You \nwill find barriers going down, under protest \nat first and without protest at last, for the \nstruggle for pie presently leaves no breath for \nprotest. \n\nEverywhere gentle woman, who was once \nthe subject of painters, the theme of poets, \nthe mother of children, the inspiration of \nmen, \xe2\x80\x94 who was once the one lovely feature \nof a world otherwise brutalized by the strug- \ngle of man against man, \xe2\x80\x94 is elbowing her \nway into the struggling crowd, still further to \nintensify and embitter the strife and make \nthis loveless world less lovely than it was \nbefore. \n\n202 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nIt may be that this is the final act in a \ntragedy of the race. God forbid that the \ncurtain should ever go up on anything worse. \nIt may be that this is the means whereby \nNature will finally jolt the dull faculties of \nman into some realization of the essential \nbrutality of the whole ghastly system of hos- \ntile competition. For if we shall know the \nmillennium by the token of love, by that \ntoken we know that it does not lie in the \ndirection of such competition. \n\nHas such competition been the means by \nwhich organic life has reached its present \nhigh plane in man ? Has this murderous \nstruggle for existence brought about that nat- \nural selection whereby man has been evolved \nfrom the lowest living organisms ? \n\nI grant that it has, but when I look back \nover the devastated pathway by which man \nhas reached his present high plane of being, \nI stand aghast at the spilled blood and broken \nskulls that strew the way. I am appalled at \nthe countless billions that have gone down in \n203 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthat struggle, and I am inclined to think \nthat the bloody price of progress has now \nbeen fully paid. \n\nMust the fittest to survive be for ever the \none that has the sharpest tooth and strongest \njaw ? Shall fitness to survive be for ever \nmeasured by the yardstick of selfishness ? \n\nIt may be true among brutes that selfish- \nness is the chief condition that determines \nprogress ; but man has emerged from the \nstate of the beast, and has a lofty intellect \nby means of which he measures worlds and \ncompares infinities. This intellect, being a \nproduct of Nature, is a part of Nature, and \nshall it not enter into the conditions of nat- \nural selection and so modify that process that \nfitness to survive may hereafter be measured \nin units of usefulness instead of units of self- \nishness ? \n\nI think it may, for it is unbelievable that \nsuperiority of skill in the practice of selfish- \nness is the only kind of superiority that will \never insure survival ; and yet I know that, in \n204 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR SATISFACTION \n\nthe past, the loftiest superiority of other kinds \nhas paid the price of death for the privilege \nof advancing the race. \n\nBut selfishness, as a factor in evolution, is \nprogressing sv^aftly to its limit, if, indeed, it \nhas not already begun its own destruction. \nWhen selfishness raises the hand of savage \nagainst savage and the fang of beast against \nbeast, it may cause the crudest hand and the \nmost venomous tooth to survive and propa- \ngate its kind; but w^hen selfishness squats \nlike an imp on the throne on vi^hich Cupid \nonce reigned, the end is in sight. The self- \nishness which embitters woman against man, \nand man against woman, cannot propagate \nits kind save by example. It cannot beget \nits kind in flesh and blood. \n\nThe competitive warfare that has raised \nman to his present high plane has grown so \nfamiliar that he thinks it is needful and \nalways will be. It has sharpened men\'s wits \nand brought forth great inventions ; it has \nbuilt up great fortunes and cities ; it has \n205 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ncircled the globe with copper and steel ; it \nhas heated and lighted our houses with steam \nand electricity; it has brought to our break- \nfast tables the news of what has been done \nin the world overnight. \n\nWill it enable us to amass still greater \nfortunes, and build still greater (and dirtier) \ncities, and talk still further over a wire or \nacross oceans without any wire, and travel in \nstill greater luxury to Hongkong or Peking ? \nWill it make our newspapers still greater \nand more widely read, and our books better \nbound, and our bread better baked, and our \nbeer better brewed ? \n\nAye, it will ; and so would a kind of com- \npetition that would impel us primarily to seek \nthe advancement of the race, and seek our \nown advancement only so far as we can \nadvance without injury to our fellows. But \nif we continue to advance by the hostile \nmethod, what shall we presently be able to \nbuy with our fortunes that we shall care to \nhave ? What shall we be able to say over a \n206 \n\n\n\nTHE SEARCH FOR Sx\\TISFACTION \n\ntelephone wire that will make us or any one \nelse any better or happier ? What shall we \ndo in Hongkong or Peking when we get \nthere that would not better be left undone ? \nWho will care to season his breakfast with the \nnews of the night when he must tremblingly \nread the whole paper to see if his own name \nhas been blasted at last, or worse blasted than \nit was before ? Who will care to read edi- \ntorials, however learned, when one knows that \nthe writer would have written the opposite \nfor one cent more a yard, and would to- \nmorrow for one cent less if he should lose \nhis present job ? Who will care for better \nbound books, when the world grows so selfish \nthat a book with a truth in it could not be \nsold ? Who will care for better baked bread \nor better brewed beer, when one knows the \nwhole world could see one choke on one\'s \nbread or one\'s beer and not care a rap ? \n\nInventions may facilitate useful endeavor, \nbut they do not compel it ; and the only \nthing that can compel it is something in the \n207 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nheart which hostile competition will never \nput there, though it build railroads from Cape \nTown to New Zealand, or air ships that will \ntravel from New York to Mars. \n\nThen, when woman puts on her armor to \ntake part in the strife that builds fortunes and \nemploys all sorts of inventions, is she sure she \nis helping the race toward its goal ? Is she \nsure that the masculine methods which she \nseems proud to practise have not ceased to \nbe fit to be practised, even by men ? \n\nAnd yet I would not chide her. At least, \nI would not chide her sex alone for the co- \nlossal selfishness that holds both sexes in its \ngrasp. It forces her into her present life. \nIt rules the world ; the world whose gold \ndoes not enrich it, whose prayers do not \nsanctify it ; the world in which the justice \nof the peace too often fails to make us happy \nwhen he marries us ; for truly, there are \nmore things than banks and churches in this \nworld : there is also the divorce court. \n\n\n\n208 \n\n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\n\n\nAS the Lonely Man still sits musing be- \nfore his fire, he cannot repress a smile \nat what appears to be the capriciousness and \nobstinacy of his thoughts. They select their \nown subject, apparently in the most hap- \nhazard fashion, without obtaining his consent, \nand dwell upon that subject as long as they \nHke. When they wander off toward any \nsubject, whether it is an old language or a \nnew woman, they become so engrossed in it \nthat they do not pay as much attention as \none might think they should pay to the other \nwell-dressed and good-looking thoughts which \n14 209 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthey find walking around the subject and \nbowing to each other. \n\nSometimes they jostle these other thoughts \nand tread on their toes. They do not mean \nto be rude. They merely want to view the \nsubject, and, as they seem to have no fear of \nbeing trodden upon themselves, they do not \ntry to keep off the toes of other thoughts. \n\nThe Lonely Man has tried to dress his \nthoughts in clothes of the most fashionable \ncut, and part their hair in the middle, and \notherwise make them look like nice, conven- \ntional thoughts. Then, when they have \nbeen properly groomed and correctly dressed, \nhe has sent them forth to any subject you \nplease to mention, looking just like any other \nrespectable, well-bred thoughts ; and they \nhave come back without a rag on their per- \nsons, revealing their paternity in every limb \nand gesture. \n\nThis seems all wrong. It would save so \nmuch trouble if one\'s thoughts would observe \nthe conventionalities and make themselves \n\n210 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nlook exactly like the thoughts of every one \nelse in the crowd, and never disarrange their \ntoilets by tussHng with anything like a truth. \nOne would get the reputation of being a very \nnice man indeed if one\'s thoughts would only \ndo that. \n\nOne has but to train one\'s thoughts prop- \nerly, dress them properly, and tell them to be \ngood thoughts and take off their hats to all \nother thoughts, and close their eyes when \nthey are in danger of seeing anything that \nmight alter their appearance. Then they \nwill come home looking just as they looked \nwhen they sallied forth. Only they will not \nif one does any thinking ; and all those who \nhave tried the experiment know it. \n\nThe only way to make people think alike \nis to make them think the truth. When we \nsend our thoughts ofF to the multiplication \ntable and things of that class, they have no \ndifficulty in maintaining their resemblance to \nthe thoughts of other people j but, as few of \nthe subjects which engage our attention belong \n\n211 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nto this class, our thoughts will certainly have \ntheir toilets disarranged if they stray very far. \nTheir straying, hovi^ever, may enlarge the \nboundaries of knowledge and of unanimous \nthinking. \n\nThe Lonely Man\'s thoughts were now \nstraying in the direction of the pain and \nother forms of evil in the world. Of course, \nhe was not certain that he knew how evil \ngot into the world, but he was pretty cer- \ntain that it would be a good thing to aban- \ndon some of the current theories on that \nsubject. \n\nThe theories of which he was thinking \nstart out with foundations of cobwebs, which \nsupport formidable-looking castles of air crys- \ntallized into words, and they reach the con- \nclusion that " the principle of the universe is \nradically perverse and cannot be amended." \nThe architects of these gloomy castles inva- \nriably keep on living, which is the strongest \nargument they employ, but it spoils their \ncastles. \n\n212 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nIt is possible to build anything of air \n(thought the Lonely Man) if one use enough \nof it and expend industry enough in convert- \ning it into words ; and it is a singular fact \nthat the most terrifying and depressing things \nin the world are constructed of air and cob- \nwebs, or still more highly rarefied substances. \n\nEven the old-fashioned Devil \xe2\x80\x94 the one \non whom Luther wasted his ink \xe2\x80\x94 was so \nairy that the ink bottle went clear through \nhim and broke on the wall and left a spot \nwhich the credulous tourist may see yet. \n\nA personal Devil was a sufficient explana- \ntion of evil only for simple minds. It would \nnot do for the philosophers of the early part \nof the last century ; so they built pretty little \ncastles of gloom of their own in Germany, \nItaly, and other places. \n\nThe explanations of science were equally \ninadequate for these philosophers ; so they \ntried to construct their castles of something \nmore real than the realities of science \xe2\x80\x94 and \nbuilt them of air and cobwebs. \n213 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nThere was Schopenhauer, who built a \nwonderful castle of gloom at Dresden and \ncalled it Pessimism. It is built very largely \nof air, but it deserves to endure on account of \nits bold workmanship and some of the beau- \ntiful truths that are imbedded in its walls. \nThey are more substantial than air, and must \nhave been dragged in unwittingly, for they \nhave not the color of pessimism. Some of \nthe frowning parapets might have been made \nequally gloomy if they had been constructed \nof the realities of science, but the dismal \nblack of the main walls is seen to be a mere \npigment of words, which can be scraped off. \nWe are the less inclined to forgive the use of \nso black a paint when we find that the archi- \ntect himself, after advocating utter poverty \nas a means of alleviating the miseries of life, \nand death as a means of ending them, angrily \naccuses his innocent sister when he loses a \npart of his own fortune (which he afterwards \nrecovers to the last pfennig.^ with interest), \nand flees to Frankfort to escape the cholera. \n214 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nThen, there was poor LeopardI in Italy \xe2\x80\x94 \ndeformed, half blind, wholly deaf, sleepless, \nracked with pain, with no companions, little \nmoney, and a bright mind. How he loved his \ncastles of gloom, and how he loved to build \nthem ! Every insubstantial brick in their \nwalls seems to have been laid with a caress. \nThey are built with the skill of a consummate \nliterary artist, but they are built wholly of \ncrystallized air. The architect thought he was \nportraying the miseries of the world, when he \nwas but craving a little sympathy for his own. \nWe find him luxuriating in the abysmal mel- \nancholy of his awful castles, holding out to \nus pessimism in all its naked terrors, " dally- \ning lovingly with the idea of death" \xe2\x80\x94 and \ndreading the cholera. The quick death of \ncholera seems to have been too easy for \nany of the thorough-going pessimists. They \nwere too eager to enjoy the miseries of life \nto die of cholera. \n\nThen, there was my Russian friend who \nlived in a German pension. He spoke five \n215 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nlanguages (I never knew a Russian who spoke \nfewer than five languages), and he spoke \npessimism in them all. When he spoke, the \nother guests of the pension were silent. The \nother guests were usually silent. \n\nNo Fruhstiick could he eat without scold- \ning the Stubenmadchen about his Stiefel or \nsomething else. No Abendbrod could he eat \nwithout depicting \xe2\x80\x94 in five languages \xe2\x80\x94 the \nvanities and miseries of Hfe. These were \nthe only two meals he ever ate, for he never \ngot up till noon. \n\nHe was thoroughly convinced that alles \nLeben ist Leiden. But did he drink carbolic \nacid and die ? Ah, noj not he. He had no \nfear, as Hamlet had, of that "something after \ndeath " which \n\n** Puzzles the will \nAnd makes us rather bear those ills we have \nThan fly to others that we know not of." \n\nFor him, there was no possibility of pain \n\nbeyond the grave ; but when one lives in a \n\n216 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\ncastle of pessimism, one does not die. One \nhas an artistic temperament, \xe2\x80\x94 whatever that \nmay be, \xe2\x80\x94 and one lives to enjoy the archi- \ntectural beauty of one\'s imponderable castle. \nOne has a nice little income, and nothing to \ndo \xe2\x80\x94 and one does it. One feeds one\'s self \nwell. There is such keen delight in the \nmisery of eating ! When one is full of food \nand beer, and the smile of contented misery \nbreaks over one\'s plump countenance, one \nretires a short distance from the table and \nsnuggles into the dismal coziness of the sofa. \nThen one smokes a cigarette while one dis- \ncourses on the sweet bitterness of existence, \nand shows that life is a burden of pain, and \nthe world a vale of tears. Then one goes to \nthe opera, and pays the equivalent of two \ndollars for the privilege of weeping at the \nimaginary death of an unreal hero. The real \nworld is so cruel that it will not even give \none all the misery one requires ; so one weeps \nat a tragedy on a stage, and reads Byron and \nVon Hartmann and the rest. \n217 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nAway back in the winding labyrinths of \none\'s soul one cherishes Something for which \none lives. It is so defined that it shall escape \nthe definition of happiness. It is not happi- \nness ; it is something better than happiness. \nOne never reveals this Something, but one \nkeeps it and hugs it in one\'s soul, while one \npoints out to others the wretchedness of life \nand the futility of all endeavor. Why may \none not destroy all the pleasure and happiness \nin the world ? One still has the Something. \nOne does not destroy that; and one lives to \nenjoy it. No one else knows one has it; \ntherein consists its principal charm. So one \npaints one\'s castle of gloom as black as one \nlikes, and makes its corridors as dark, and its \nchimneys as cavernous, and its cellars as nearly \nbottomless, as it is possible to make them. It \nfrightens the beholders deliciously, and air is \ncheap ; but one hugs the Something all the \nwhile, and is hap \xe2\x80\x94 - no, not happy, for there is \nno adjective in any language corresponding to \nthis Something. If one has comfort, one is \n218 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\ncomfortable; if one has happiness, one is \nhappy. But if one has Something, what \nis one ? There is no adjective in any lan- \nguage to tell what one is ; and thus the secret \nis the more easily kept. \n\nWe all have this Something, some of us \nwithout knowing it. It is more precious to \nus than happiness, and there is apparently \nnothing that can destroy it. In its inde- \nstructibility one seems to acquire a sort of \nperpetuity one\'s self; and thus, in an incom- \nprehensible sense, it seems that one will live \nto possess this Something after one has, in \nevery comprehensible sense, ceased to exist at \nall. It sometimes makes one willing to live \na life of actual pain, and work without any \nhope of reward in this world or any other, \nand then undergo what one believes to be \nannihilation. It is this that impels an un- \nbeliever in immortality to die in what he \nbelieves to be a worthy cause. In doing this \none does not get happiness ; one gets Some- \nthing, and seems to acquire an eternal claim \n219 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nupon it. It is this that one gets in the \nrecollection of past pains and dangers ; it is \nthis that one gets in all the griefs and miseries \nwith which one delights one\'s self. \n\nWhen one tries to bring forth to the light \nof day this Something it eludes one. One \ncannot grasp it firmly, just as one cannot \nfirmly grasp the ultimate parts into which a \nquantity of matter or a portion of space is \ndivisible. If there are ultimate atoms which \ncannot be physically divided, they can, at \nleast, be ideally bisected by an imaginary \nplane, and each half may be bisected, and \nthe process may be indefinitely continued. \nThe ultimate division is either absolutely \nnothing, or it is of infinitesimal volume. If \nit is absolutely nothing, an aggregation of ab- \nsolute nothings constitutes something; which \nis absurd and logically impossible. If it is, on \nthe other hand, of infinitesimal volume or of \nany volume whatever, and cannot be even \nideally divided, it does not consist of two halves \nor four quarters -, for to say that it does consist \n\n220 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nof two halves or four quarters is ideally to di- \nvide it; and, however small it may be, if it \ndoes not consist of two halves or four quarters, \nit is utterly incomprehensible. To escape a \nlogical absurdity, we are obliged to accept an \nactual incomprehensibility. It is so with \nthis Something in one\'s mind. It is incom- \nprehensible, but it is there. \n\nThis Something is entirely satisfactory in \nits own realm, but it does not fill one\'s soul. \nIt leaves some room for happiness. Some \npeople would rather have happiness than \nSomething, anyhow. One must be a philos- \nopher to prefer Something to happiness, and \nwe are not all philosophers. Therefore we \nlook around in the world for a comprehen- \nsible kind of happiness, and we find that pain \nis, apparently, considerably in excess of that \nkind of happiness which we can clearly de- \nfine and bring squarely before the mind. It \nseems wholly unnecessary to build gloomy \ncastles of air, or to waste our tears on the \ngriefs of imaginary heroes. We can find \n\n221 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nplenty of good substantial pain in the world \nwithout looking for artificial grief in the \nproduct of any one\'s imagination. \n\nThen optimism comes with its bright hues \nand its cheerful voice, and gives us a simple \nrecipe for either annihilating pain or embel- \nlishing it into a thing of beauty. Pain is to \nbe annihilated by denying its existence; \nwhen its existence cannot be denied, it is to \nbe beautified by the exercise of hope. \n\nThe recipe is so simple that the simplest \nsoul can use it. One divides one\'s pains \ninto two classes \xe2\x80\x94 the less obvious and the \nmore obvious. One denies the existence of \nthe former, and, presto ! they are gone. One \nlooks at the others through the medium of \nhope and sees the bright colors of the rain- \nbow playing about them. Pain, clothed with \nthe iridescence of optimism, becomes a thing \nof usefulness in this world and the paltry \nprice of endless joy in the next. \n\nNow, such is the nature of pain that to \nignore it is to dull its edge; to forget it is \n\n222 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nto destroy it. It exists only in conscious- \nness, and when there is no consciousness of \nit, there can be no pain. In addition to this, \npain is the most instructive thing in the \nworld. So far optimism is right. \n\nBut one cannot destroy a doorpost by \ndenying its existence, nor can one make \nscarlet fever less contagious by denying that \nit is contagious at all. The existence of \nthese things is not confined to consciousness, \nand they cannot be destroyed by being for- \ngotten. If a person ignores these things, he \ndoes so at his peril, for the doorpost still ex- \nists and is still hard, and scarlet fever is still \ncontagious and still dangerous. \n\nIf there were no grounds for hoping that \npain may ultimately be exterminated, a doc- \ntrine which teaches us to ignore and forget \nit would be invaluable, for such a doctrine \nwould make an otherwise intolerable exist- \nence tolerable ; but where there is reason to \nbelieve that most of the pain in the world \ncould be avoided and might be relieved, \n223 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nsuch a doctrine is more depressing than \npessimism. \n\n1 see in my fancy an optimist. Though I \nsee her only in fancy, I have often seen her \nin the flesh, and once I knew her welL \nWhat matters it if, as I see her now, she \nmay be the composite product of my recol- \nlections of several different persons ? I do \nnot say that she is, but what matters it ? To \nme she is one, and her personality is always \nthe same. I see her now as I have seen her \na thousand times before. She is a fair young \ngirl who has just crossed the threshold of \nwomanhood, and is beautiful with the deli- \ncate beauty of a half-blown rose \xe2\x80\x94 the beauty \nthat is untainted with knowledge and untar- \nnished by contact with the world. \n\nIn the innocence of her sixteen years she \nbelieves that this is the best of possible \nworlds; that men and women are generally \nunselfish and just ; that ability always suc- \nceeds, and merit is always recognized and \nrewarded ; that what little pain there is in \n224 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nthe world is wisely ordained by a beneficent \nProvidence, and that it will be amply recom- \npensed in a future life. Poor girl, as to the \nlast clause of her belief, I trust she is right. \nAs to the others, her faith is the pathetic faith \nof those in whom there is no guile. \n\nTo her the only real pain in the world is \nthe pain which others suffer ; and no hand is \nmore willing to relieve such pain than is her \nown; and no one\'s cheerful courage does \nmore to make such pain a pleasure to its \nvictim. \n\nShe lives on a farm, where there are time \nand quiet for thinking, and large subjects for \nthought ; but to her gentle soul there is \nsomething irreverent in thought, and some- \nthing impious in inquiry. So she does not \nthink of the meaning of the life which she \nsees all about her ; nor of the lore of the \nrocks, which reaches back into the remotest \npast J nor of the vastness of infinity, in \nwhose depths the stars twinkle at night ; but \nof the Father who is among and above the \n15 225 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nstars, and on earth and everywhere; who \nmight have made it all otherwise, but who \nmade it all as it is for the love he bore \nmankind. \n\nShe sees the beauty of beneficent caprice ; \nnot the beauty of universal order, nor the \ngrimness of an eternal necessity, running \nthrough the universe, \xe2\x80\x94 a necessity to which \nwe may \xe2\x80\x94 nay, must \xe2\x80\x94 learn to adjust our- \nselves if we would be truly happy. \n\nTo her the Father decrees the sprouting \nof every little blade of grass, the coming of \nevery storm, and the course of every planet \nand star. He does it all for the good of man. \nHe can alter it all, and will, at the entreaty \nof one fair girl who kneels in her nightdress at \nher window and pleads in her gentle voice for \nsomething to satisfy the yearning in her heart, \nwhich she, in her innocence, thinks is a yearn- \ning for the Father himself. Perhaps it is. \n\nOld Mother Nature hears the prayer, and \nchuckles. She has made the prayer herself. \nShe has put the same prayer \xe2\x80\x94 less eloquent, \n226 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nperhaps, but the same prayer \xe2\x80\x94 in the heart \nof every bird that mates in the Spring, and \nin the heart of every butterfly whose gaudy \nwings reveal its presence and its eagerness \nto find a mate. \n\nThere are waste places in the world, un- \npeopled by sentient beings. There is room \nin the water, in the air, and on the land for \nmore living beings and for higher ones. \nThen, men and women die in the course of \ntime, and their places must be filled, for the \ngame which Nature is playing with the race \nis not yet played out. \n\nSo she puts a yearning in the fair optimist\'s \nheart, and the yearning finds expression in \nthe prayer, and presently is satisfied ; for \na man comes into the optimist\'s life, a man \nwho is to her a paragon of all the masculine \nperfections. And now, when the optimist \nprays, it is to thank the Father for his infinite \ngoodness to her. \n\nThere is reason for her gratitude: her \noptimism has been justified. The man who \n227 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nhas come into her life is entirely human, \nbut he is not of the common herd of men. \nHis life has been as spotless as her own \n(incredible but true), and he loves his pretty \nlittle optimist with the singleness of heart \nand the constancy which such a girl de- \nserves. Such deep sincerity as theirs, such \nlofty courage, and such intense happiness \nwould take the edge from any testy hermit\'s \ncynicism. \n\nSo the years pass swiftly, and when the \nlittle optimist has been married for two years \nand is living in a city home, she is still \nhappy, still trustful, still deeply in love with \nher husband and with life, and she is more \noptimistic than ever. If she could hear the \nsacrilegious questions of the unsanctified, she \nwould shudder and close her ears to them. \nShe would not be able to see how any good \nman could question the justice and benefi- \ncence of the existing order of things. It is \nall so simple to her : God is the author of \nall ; therefore, whatever is, is right, and what \n228 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\ndoes not seem to be right is a divine mystery \nwhich it were presumptuous to investigate. \n\nAnd pray, why should she disturb her \npeace with vain questionings ? Her husband \nloves her as he loves his life. He is a keen \nman of affairs, whom the world respects and \nadmires ; his coffers are filled with gold ; \nthe pride of success is written large on his \nhandsome face; and his love for her is \nevidenced by all his acts. She is beautiful \nand rich; her friends are legion and her \ninfluence is wide; and her heart is so full \nof happiness that she kneels every night at \nher bedside to thank the Father up among \nthe stars for his goodness to her and for the \nbeautiful world; and she asks him to give \nto others the same unquestioning faith that \nhas brought so much joy to her. \n\nThen one day her husband comes home \nin the middle of the afternoon. He is not \nquite well; he thinks he has caught cold. \n\nPoor maligned cold ! Is there any ill that \naffects humanity for which you have not been \n229 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nblamed ? Did any dirty cut ever inflame \nand destroy a limb or a life but you were \nconvicted and the guilty microbes acquitted ? \n\nHer husband has a strong will and thinks \nhe does not need a doctor, and she, in her \noptimism, believes him ; but an expression \nof startled incredulity blends with her re- \nassuring smile as her husband\'s pain grows \nworse and his groans more pitiful. \n\nShe smiles still, but there is a big tear on \neach cheek as she asks the doctor when he \ndoes come if her husband will be sick all \nnight, and the brave little smile goes out in \na pathetic little sob. She has no doubt or \nfear, but it grieves her to see her husband \nsuffer so. She hardly knows what the doctor \nis saying when he explains that the illness \nis dangerous ; but he knows, and he knows \nthat if he had been called a day sooner \nthere would have been a slight possibility of \nsaving the patient by an operation, and that \nthere is no such possibility now. \n\nSo she prays to the good Father up among \n230 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nthe stars to give back the dear life and the \nstrong arm and the loving heart that He gave \nher before ; implores Him vi^ith piteous sobs \nto remember that her life is intertwined with \nher husband\'s by a thousand tender ties ; be- \nseeches Him to take all else from her if He \nwill only leave her husband \xe2\x80\x94 just as thou- \nsands of others have prayed who have prayed \nin vain. She is sleepless in her eagerness to \nhelp in the relief of the terrible pain, and she \nthinks her heart will surely break as she sees \nthe deathly pallor deepen and feels the dying \nlimbs grow more like ice, and knows at last \nthat there is no hope. \n\nThough the malady runs its fatal course \nin three or four days, these three or four days \nare to the optimist as three or four years, \nand no man knows how long they are to the \ndying patient, for his mind remains clear till \nthe shuddering body lies at last at the very \npoint of death. \n\nWhen he dies, there is for a time an end \nof optimism. All that made the world a \n231 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\npleasant place is gone out of it. It is now \nimpossible to see the beauty of life or the \ngoodness of God. There is nothing left in \nthe world but a hopeless loneliness, which \nseems to weigh like a millstone on one\'s \nheart and to grow heavier hour by hour, and \nmore unutterably sad as every familiar object \nin the house recalls with silent pathos the \nhappy incidents of the past. There is now \nno apparent irreverence in asking, Why ? \nWhy has so good a man and so loving a \nhusband been cut down in the full vigor of \nyouth ? Why has he been killed by slow \ntorture that would have been worse than that \ninflicted by the cruelest savages if it had not \nbeen in some measure relieved by the doctor\'s \nefforts ? Why has her heart been broken \nand every tender, clinging fibre of her being \ntrodden upon as with a heel of iron .? \n\nShe will not ask, but in the endless night, \nas she paces the floor alone with her grief, \nthe elfish questions hover about in the dark- \nness, like messengers from Hell, and try to \n232 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\ncreep deep into her soul. When her gray- \nface looks out at the dawn, the questions are \nstill there, and a wicked voice which she \nknows is not her own seems to say in almost \naudible tones, " There is no God ! There is \nno God ! " \n\nAgain she prays, and now she prays with \nthe trembling desperation of one who would \nescape complete despair. It is not for hap- \npiness that she prays, nor for life, nor death, \nbut for one little fragment of the crumbling \nraft of faith that will keep her from sinking \nin the black flood of despair that is rising \nabout her. So she struggles against despair \ntill exhaustion overcomes her ; and the strug- \ngle is many times repeated. \n\nBut at last merciful time dulls the sharp \nedge of her grief. She does not despair, and \nher faith and her optimism return. She does \nnot understand it, but she knows it was for \nthe best, and the Father is still a loving \nFather who does all things for our good. \nSo she takes up her broken life again, and \n233 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nfills it with a factitious happiness, and spends \nmuch time in prayer. \n\nA few years flit by, and as she realizes that \nshe is still young, still beautiful, and still rich, \nher optimism begins again to paint the dull old \nworld in something like its former cheerful \nhues. \n\nThen one morning a letter arrives from \nher agent, informing her that her fortune \nhas been lost. It has, in fact, been stolen \xe2\x80\x94 \nthough not in violation of the law. A skilful \nthief does not violate the law. Those bur- \nglars who crack safes and forge names are \ndull souls who cannot appreciate the refine- \nments of modern robbery. \n\nThe optimist does not believe there has \nbeen any dishonesty, or that it would be \npossible for a thief to be accounted a respec- \ntable citizen ; but she realizes that in her \nhusband\'s death she has lost not only the \nlove of his loyal heart, but the protection of \nhis master mind ; and grief amid the lux- \nurious surroundings of wealth is one thing, \n234 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nwhile grief with the lean wolf of poverty \nsniffing at the door is quite another. \n\nBut to her optimistic mind this seems a \ntrifling loss. It was only when her heart \nwas broken that her optimism failed her. \nAlready she sees the goodness of God in \ntaking away her fortune. It was to stimu- \nlate her to do something good and great in \nhis service. She will become a nurse, and \nby her faithfulness and devotion to her work \nshe will rise to the highest fame, and the \nworld will speak her name with reverence, as \nit speaks the name of Florence Nightingale. \n\nShe obtains the necessary credentials and \nenters a training school. She is sure that in \nthis unselfish work she will have the help of \nGod and the high appreciation of mankind, \nand her optimism paints a roseate picture of \nthe future. \n\nBut it is all different from what she thought \n\nit would be. No one seems to appreciate \n\nher loftiness of purpose in coming here, and \n\nthere is less opportunity of doing good than \n\n235 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nshe thought there would be. For three \nmonths she does nothing but make beds and \ndo other work which an ordinarily intelligent \nservant should be able to do ; and she pres- \nently learns that this is to be done, not to \nplease God nor to pave her way to fame, \nbut to escape the censure of the head nurse. \n\nHer head nurse is a blond girl whose eyes \nslant downwards from the top of her nose. \nShe is not popular with the probationers nor \nwith the nurses in general, but she does not \nseem to care. She is in high favor with the \nsuperintendent of the training school. \n\nSo the optimist works like a galley slave \nin wards redolent of iodoform, and will earn \nthe right to be a head nurse, by and by, her- \nself. She has a pleasant smile for every one ; \nand the months go by, and she does not \nbecome a head nurse. \n\nThe blond girl is already an assistant super- \nintendent \xe2\x80\x94 but she is not an optimist. It \nmight not be just to say that the blond girl \nhas obtained her promotion through anything \n236 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nlike toadyism or flattery, for she is fully com- \npetent to fill her new position. But there \nare other equally competent nurses who have \nnot been promoted. And the blond girl \ndoes understand the use of that seductive \nflattery which does its work and leaves no \ntrace ; and she never wastes it on her subor- \ndinates. It is almost noticeable that she re- \nserves it for members of the directory or of \nthe hospital staff, or for the superintendent. \n\nThe optimist sees no connection between \nall this and the blond girl\'s promotion. Merit \nis the only ground of promotion here, as else- \nwhere. So she works harder than ever and \nis startled when she looks in her mirror and \nsees that her beautiful complexion is gone \nand that she is becoming bent and haggard. \n\nIt does not matter, for fame is just beyond. \nShe will deserve promotion, and then it will \ncome ; and she already sees her portrait among \nthose of others of the world\'s benefactors. \n\nOne morning she is transferred to the \noperating room. She has never witnessed an \n237 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\noperation before, and to her there is a grue- \nsome novelty about the steam from the ster- \nih\'zer, the fumes of ether and carbolic acid, \nthe ghastly face of the unconscious patient, \nthe grotesque white costumes of the surgeon \nand his assistants, and the glass cases full \nof glittering and cruel-looking instruments. \nHer pulse quickens, and her heart beats with \naudible violence within her emaciated breast. \n\nShe has nothing to do but to hold a basin \nof sponges where the second assistant can \nreach them with his blood-stained left hand. \n\nBut the optimist cannot help looking at \nthe face and listening to the spluttering \nbreathing, although it is not necessary for \nher to do this. Of course she knows the \noperation will save the patient\'s life, and the \npatient does not feel it, and it is a noble \nwork; and she has nothing to do but to \nhold the basin for the blood-stained hand \xe2\x80\x94 \nnothing to do but that. \n\nThe surgeon is looking at her with a cyni- \ncal smile. He says nothing, and presently \n238 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nproceeds with the operation, while the smile \nhovers around the corners of his mouth. It \nis so very funny that the new nurse should \nlook so ghastly pale. \n\nThe optimist bites her under lip to keep \nfrom fainting, but her hand trembles so vio- \nlently that the edge of the basin strikes the \nsecond assistant\'s hand when it comes out for \nanother sponge, and he turns his head slightly \nto look at her, and then he smiles. It Is very \nfunny indeed. \n\nIf she could only keep the room from \nswaying, she could stand firmly, but it rocks \nso violently, and the steam is so suffocating, \nand the blood on the hand Is so red \xe2\x80\x94 so red \n\xe2\x80\x94 so very red \xe2\x80\x94 that she faints, and the \nsecond assistant catches her just In time to \nprevent her from knocking her head against \nthe tiled floor. Then she is carried out ; the \nsecond assistant disinfects his hands, and the \noperation goes silently on. \n\nWhen she revives, the superintendent is \nsitting beside her with the look of ineffable \n239 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nsuperiority which only this superintendent \nknows how to wear. One of the superin- \ntendent\'s eyebrows is, by nature, a little \nhigher than the other. When she wishes to \nfeel and seem especially superior, it goes a \nlittle higher still. Just now it is at its highest \npoint. \n\nThe superintendent was born with a heart, \nbut finding a heart both useless and dangerous \nin the struggle for advancement, she has \nallowed it to atrophy, and now, instead of a \nheart, she has a pair of all-seeing eyes, with \na perennially elevated brow over the left one. \nThe superintendent has noticed of late that \nthe optimist is hardly fitted for her work. \nThe superintendent has had unfavorable re- \nports from the optimist through the blond \ngirl with the slanting eyes. The superin- \ntendent thinks, in short, that it will be best \nfor the institution, as well as for the optimist \n\xe2\x80\x94 especially for the optimist \xe2\x80\x94 to cancel the \ncontract, release the optimist from any further \nobligations, and permit her to return to her \n240 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nhome, although she knows the girl no longer \nhas a home. \n\nThe superintendent is not an optimist her- \nself. She knows that envious eyes are looking \nin vain for some flaw in her work, and that if \nshe would hold her own position, she must be \neternally vigilant and absolutely inexorable. \n\nSo, no more of fame for the present. The \nonly heart that ever loved the little optimist \nas every woman wishes to be loved, has long \nsince ceased to beat; her fortune is gone, \nand her health is ruined, but her optimism \nstill weaves a halo of paling iridescence about \nher future. If she were a little stronger she \nwould try again and succeed. She will stay \nin the city and support herself till she is able \nto give nursing another trial. She is not \nendowed with those attributes which seem to \nbe necessary in a nurse, but she has other \nattributes which make it possible for her to \nbe useful. Those persons who are most \nhighly endowed must stand higher than \nothers ; it is just that they should. But all \ni6 241 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nare endowed in some degree, and, in justice, \nshould have some place in the social organism. \nAll cannot be great painters, nor great in- \nventors, nor great nurses. All cannot help \nthe race in an equal degree, and therefore \ncannot enjoy an equal measure of gratitude \nand fame ; but all may help the race in some \ndegree, and may have, in some measure, the \nrewards of usefulness. If all cannot find the \nsame level, surely each may find his own \nlevel without pushing his fellows down. \n\nShe is not seeking fame now. She only \nwants a living and the comforting assurance \nthat she is earning it. There can be no \ndifficulty in finding useful employment of \nsome kind. The times are prosperous. The \ngreat city is full of activity. Surely she can \ntake some part in it. Furthermore, she is \nliving in the most highly civilized country in \nthe world, among beings who have been \ntaught for nineteen centuries to love their \nneighbors as themselves. If each one loves \nher as he loves himself, she can find a thou- \n242 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nsand openings in an hour. So she breathes \nout a tremulous little prayer to the Father, \nand in the morning she takes a cheap lodg- \ning and begins to look for employment. \n\nShe learns from a daily paper that fifty \nsaleswomen are wanted in a large department \nstore. She immediately applies for a position, \nbut she finds many ahead of her. She must \nstand in a line and wait for her turn. As \nshe moves slowly along with the line, she has \ntime to notice that many of the applicants \nare extremely pretty, and suddenly she re- \nmembers that she has seldom seen a plain- \nlooking saleswoman in this store. With a \npang she realizes that her own beauty is gone, \nbut that can surely not impair her chances \nof being employed. Her mind is alert, her \ncharacter is unimpeachable, and she could do \nher work as well as any of those girls who \nare confidently smiling as they sign their \napplications at the manager\'s desk. She will \nnot be rejected on account of her looks. \nThat brusque man at the desk cannot be so \n243 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nsentimental as to prefer saleswomen simply \nbecause they are pretty. \n\nNo, my dear optimist, he is not sentimen- \ntal, but he knows that personal attractions \nin a saleswoman have a distinct commercial \nvalue. He takes advantage of existing con- \nditions. In days agone, the prettiness of \nthese girls would have been hidden under \nthe bushel of domesticity. It would have \nbeen wasted in attracting a husband and \nbrightening a home and assisting its posses- \nsor to find her way to hearts that would have \ncontinued to love her after the decay of her \nprettiness. Since then the world has pro- \ngressed. The world is emancipated. The \nprettiness of these girls will help their em- \nployer to put dollars in his tills. Customers \nwill buy more goods from a pretty girl than \nthey would from a plain girl who might be \nan equally competent saleswoman. \n\nOf course, the pretty girl does not get the \nmoney. Her employer gets that. But is it \nnot just that he should ? He has hired that \n244 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\ngirl\'s prettiness and put it on exhibition be- \nhind his counter for commercial purposes, \njust as he exposes his wares. Prettiness in \nthe old days could help a girl to get a living \nonly by exposing her to the inconvenience of \nbeing loved and more or less monopolized by \none man. Now she can sell her prettiness \non the market to a corporation that does not \nwant her heart, and will have no further use \nfor her prettiness after all the money has been \nsqueezed out of it. \n\nYou will find some plain girls in the em- \nploy of this house, but they either have spe- \ncially valuable endowments of some other \nkind, or were employed when the supply of \nprettiness was not equal to the demand. \n\nThe optimist now stands before the man- \nager, whose look of bored indifference grad- \nually breaks into a cynical smile, the same \nsmile that she saw on the faces of the sur- \ngeon and his second assistant, the smile of a \nman who is reminded by the desperate dis- \ntress of another that he himself is still glad \n245 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nto be alive. He shoves an application form \ntoward her, although he has, in his own \nmind, already rejected her, and he seems to \nenjoy the pitiful eagerness with which she \nsigns her name. \n\nThen she goes home to her lodging to \nwait and rest and nurse her hope. She hears \nnothing of her application on the next day, \nand on the second day she returns to the \nstore to learn her fate. \n\nAfter much trouble she gains an audience \nwith the manager, who now tells her, with- \nout any further formality, that she will not \ndo; and she staggers into the street without \nknowing how, and wanders endlessly without \nknowing where. \n\nWhat would you have ? The manager \ndoes not own the store. He himself is \nworking for a salary, and if he does not use \nhis utmost endeavor to procure saleswomen \nwho will be most profitable to his employer, \na manager with less heart and more acumen \nwill be employed in his stead. Twenty en- \n246 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nvious subordinates are already scheming to \nget his place. \n\nDays go by, \xe2\x80\x94 days of dreary disappoint- \nment and cruel rebuffs, \xe2\x80\x94 and Christmas is \ncoming on apace. Shop windows are taking \non a gay appearance; streets in the shopping \ndistrict are crowded with pedestrians and car- \nriages ; a happy expectancy is in the air \xe2\x80\x94 a \nsort of anticipatory glow of gladness which \nwill break into its full radiance only at Christ- \nmas. Surely in this time of universal glad- \nness and good will, the little optimist will not \nbe overlooked. \n\nShe is not disappointed. In the middle of \nDecember she is employed in a big store that \nneeds more saleswomen to meet the demands \nof the holiday trade. In the general thawing \nout of hearts which this season promotes, \ndoes not a manager\'s heart thaw out so that \nhe becomes willing to employ a little optimist \nin spite of her inexperience and the loss of \nher good looks ? She thinks it does, and \ngoes gladly to work. \n\n247 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nThere are great crowds in the store, and \nthere is much selecting of presents by per- \nsons who have much to say about the silly \ncustom of giving presents at Christmas. \nThe givers are generally burdened by the \ngiving, and the recipients are seldom pleased \nwith the gifts ; but when one knows one \nwill receive something which one does not \nwant, one must also give something which \nwill not be wanted. \n\nThe little optimist shudders. Is this what \nChristmas means to these people ? It is not \nwhat it has meant to her. \n\nThe conversation among the customers goes \non. One makes a shabby joke about letting \nthe laundress wait till Christmas presents have \nbeen paid for. Another makes the same joke \nabout the landlady. \n\nThen this season of intensified Christian- \nity is the season of neglected obligations ! It is \nthe season when the butcher, the baker,and the \ncandlestick-maker may snap their fingers for \ntheir money till we get ready to pay them ! \n248 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nWell, yes ; but at this season of joy and \ngladness, when one loves one\'s fellow-man, \nif ever, must not one buy presents to show \nit, and to show that one Is not a mere selfish \nheathen ? Are not dead walls and magazine \ncovers illuminated with advertisements gayly \nsuggestive of the coming cheer, and sweetly \nreminiscent of Him who preached peace on \nearth and good will to men ? Are not the \nshop windows decorated, and the streets and \nsidewalks crowded, and the clerks busy, and \nthe sleigh-bells jingHng, because some nine- \nteen centuries ago Christ was born ? \n\nMy dear optimist, there may be some (I \nam sure there are) to whom this season \nmeans a warming of the heart toward one\'s \nfellow-beings ; to whom it brings a thousand \ntender memories sweeter than those awakened \nby any other season of the year \xe2\x80\x94 persons \nwho find a joy In giving and a pleasure in \nreceiving not to be measured In money. But \nthe bustling activity in which you are now \ntaking part is not the result of a doctrine of \n249 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\npeace on earth and good will toward men ; it \nis not a joyful celebration of the birth of \nHim who preached that doctrine; it is the \nresult of the skilful execution of an elaborate \ntrick of commerce, whereby utterly useless \ngoods can be sold at enormous profits and \nold goods brought forth from their hiding \nplaces and sold at advanced prices. You \ncannot see this ? No optimist can. But it \nis true. \n\nThe little optimist is very tired in the \nevening, but she is happy. She is at last \ntaking part in the world\'s activity. She has \nat last found her level, and can, in her \nhumble way, be useful in the world. She \nis even growing stronger in spite of her hard \nwork. At her counter she has made some \nfriends who have been acute enough to see \nin her face the beauty which mere emaciation \ndoes not destroy, acute enough to read in \nthat pale face a history of pathetic suffering \nmade more pathetic still by the uncomplain- \ning resignation with which it has been borne. \n250 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nThere has been little time for confidences at \nher counter, but one lady has learned enough \nto become Interested and to want to help the \noptimist in the execution of her plans. The \nlady is connected with the management of a \ntraining school and has asked the little opti- \nmist to call on her. \n\nSo the world grows suddenly bright again, \nand she becomes exceedingly happy. You \nsee, all things come to him who knows how \nto wait. Is it not a dear old world after all ? \nThere are kind hearts in it, and (there is no \ndoubt about it) her prettiness is returning. \nThere is an encouraging little suggestion of \npink in her cheeks, especially in the after- \nnoon. There is a brightness in the eyes that \nis really striking. It is true there is a cough, \nbut it is growing better. Such coughs are \nalways growing better. \n\nShe stands before her mirror and arranges \nher hair in the prettiest manner she can in- \nvent. Yes, her prettiness is really returning, \nand the knowledge gives her pleasure so \n\n2^1 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nintense that she fears it springs from sinful \nvanity; but it is really due to an instinct that \nteaches any woman that her strongest weapon \nin the encounter with the world is an attrac- \ntive exterior. She can do something with \nbrains if she has them, but if she has pretti- \nness, she can often get credit for brains that \nshe does not have; and in any case, whether \nshe is " emancipated " or not, so long as there \nare men in the world, she can never accom- \nplish as much with brains as she can with a \npretty face or a handsome figure. \n\nOn Christmas Eve five hundred girls are \ndischarged \xe2\x80\x94 the optimist among them. The \nholiday trade is over. The old goods have \neither been disposed of or will have to wait \ntill the next anniversary of the Master\'s \nbirthday improves the market. She is not \nyet strong enough to enter the new training \nschool, and she goes trembling to her knees \nagain. \n\nBut why should I follow her sad history \nfurther? Why should I recall the pathetic \n252 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\ndetails to the end ? Is it not the old story \nof the weak, whom the world loves to kick \nout of the way to make room for the strong ? \nWho cares for the weak and their infirmities ? \nTo the wall with them, and then to the poor- \nhouse or the hospital. We will care for \nthem there till they die, for we are Christians, \nbut who wants them to live among men and \nperpetuate their weaknesses ? Let us have a \nstrong race, a race of noble creatures who are \nable to withstand a hostile world or kick a \ncringing dog ! Let us, by all means, guard \nthe race against corruption with those qualities \nthat are of no present commercial value ! \n\nAnd yet, when I look back to my little \noptimist\'s palmy days, I cannot think the \nrace would suffer if there were more like her \nin the world. I cannot think the battle goes \nagainst her because of her unfitness. When \nI see how hope revives within that broken \nheart and glows with undimmed lustre to the \nend (which is not long delayed) ; when I see \nthe patient soul go out without a murmur at \n253 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nthe treatment which it had received ; when I \nsee on her dead face the stamp of something \nhigher than what is called success could put \nthere ; when I see the bitter grief of those \nwhose love she never knew she had, I pay \nthe silent tribute of a tear to her sublime \nphilosophy of hope, and hope myself that in \nsome way which labored logic cannot bring \nto light, that gentle soul will be rewarded. \n\nBut when I see the cruel ignorance which \noptimism fosters in those who harbor it, and \nthe brutal selfishness it hides in others, I am \nimpelled to rend the pretty mask into a thou- \nsand fragments, and show beneath its rain- \nbow colors this pair of vampires that suck \nthe blood of victims while they sleep. \n\nIf instead of increasing the total amount \nof pain in the world by adding an unreal kind \nto the real kind, as the pessimists do ; and \ninstead of concealing from our timid eyes \nthe existence of real pain and injustice, as \nthe optimists do, we should cast about for \n254 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\n\n\nmethods of reducing the amount of pain that \nactually exists, we might find the work \nequally interesting and profitable. \n\nHere one is led to wonder whether it is \npossible to abolish pain ; and this leads one \nto inquire why pain is in the world at all. \n\nThose who believe that the world is con- \ntrolled by a supernatural divinity that is not \nsubject to the same natural and logical \nnecessities that govern other beings, must \nbelieve that pain was deliberately and arbi- \ntrarily introduced into the world by that \ndivinity ; or that the divinity deliberately and \narbitrarily permitted a malevolent spirit to \nintroduce pain into the world ; or that the \nmalevolent spirit was so powerful that it \nintroduced pain into the world in spite of the \ndivinity. There is no other possible suppo- \nsition. Either of the first two supposi- \ntions would imply that the divinity is cruel ; \nthe last, that it is not omnipotent. Any of \nthe suppositions would be discreditable to the \ndivinity, and a reverent man who thinks \n255 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nabout the matter is led to believe that any- \npossible conception of a supernatural divinity \nis wrong ; while an irreverent man who \nthinks about the matter is led to believe that \nthere is no divinity at all. \n\nThose who do not think about the matter, \nbut accept the dictum established by the \nautomatic thinking of crowds, will, if they \nare reverent, believe that pain exists by the \nwill or permission of the divinity, and that \nit will continue till it has been exterminated \nthrough some miraculous alteration of ex- \nternal Nature or through some equally mirac- \nulous alteration of the heart of man. The \nless reverent will continue to believe that \nman is the sport of a pitiless Nature that \nis so constituted that the race must suffer till \nit perishes. \n\nI perceive that I am thinking again, the \nLonely Man mused. It is fortunate that no \none is obliged to follow me, for people will \nforgive almost anything except compelling \nthem to think. It would be laborious to my- \n256 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nself if it lasted long, but I perceive whither \nmy thinking is leading me, and I also begin \nto perceive something like method in the \ncapriciousness of my thoughts. \n\nLet us suppose that the divinity, of which \nwe seem to catch fleeting glimpses in Nature, \nis inherent in Nature. Such a divinity could \nnot make the sum of two and two anything \nbut four. It could not make two hills with- \nout an intervening valley. It could not \nmake a fire cold simply because some one \nhappened to thrust his fingers into it. It \ncould not suspend the operation of gravity \nbecause some one happened to fall over the \nbalusters. It would be subject to the same \neternal immutability of law, and to the same \ninexorable necessities of logic that govern \neverything else in Nature. We could, on \nthe one hand, have no grounds for accusing \nsuch a divinity of cruelty because pain exists, \nand we should, on the other hand, have no \nexcuse for passively awaiting an equitable \nadjustment of things in some future world. \n17 257 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nWe should get into the habit of believing that \nif our existence is to be continued at all, it \nwill be continued in some natural way, which \nwill still leave us at the mercy of unfriendly \nconditions till we learn to adjust ourselves \nto them. We should, therefore, endeavor \nto cure what it is sometimes so difficult to \nendure. \n\nWhen we look about further to ascertain \nthe cause of pain, we find that all the pain \nwe suffer is the result either of our own igno- \nrance and selfishness or of the ignorance and \nselfishness of other people. One puts one\'s \nhand into a fire because one is ignorant of \nthe unpleasant effect of fire on a hand. One \nlearns what the effect is, and adjusts one\'s \nself to fire afterwards so as to avoid its unpleas- \nant effects. One treads on a banana peel and \nfalls to the sidewalk, cither because one does \nnot know the banana peel is there, or because \none is ignorant of a banana peel\'s peculiar \nproperty of reducing friction. One learns, \nand adjusts one\'s self to banana peels accord- \n\n258 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\n\n\ningly. One steps into a trap, whether it con- \nsists of iron or an insidious habit, because \none is ignorant either of its presence or of its \ndeadly power. \n\nOne commits a crime because one does \nnot know that there is no escape from the \njust penalties of actual wrong-doing. Intel- \nligence may permit one to believe that it is \npossible to escape the vengeance of man in \nthis world and of God in the next, but it is \nthe densest ignorance which leads one to \nbelieve that there is any escape from the \ntorment of remorse and the loathing self- \ncontempt that will without ceasing torture \nits victim as long as memory lives. It is \nthe densest ignorance which leads one to \nbelieve that any vicarious sacrifice can pur- \nchase salvation from the penalties imposed \nby the only judge who is always just and \nnever merciful \xe2\x80\x94 one\'s own self. And the \nman who is so impassive that he cannot feel \nthese pains (if there really is such a man) is \nso dead already that an executioner could \n259 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ntake nothing from him. Thus his punish- \nment began before his crime in his inability \nto experience happiness as well as pain ; and \nthis inability is the result of ignorance. \n\nIf, after one has learned these things, one \ndeliberately puts one\'s hand into a fire or \ntreads on a banana peel, it is because one\'s \nown ignorance or selfishness, or the igno- \nrance or selfishness of other persons, has put \na fire or a banana peel where it should not \nbe, or has created conditions which make it \nnecessary to ignore its presence. \n\nThus, all causes of pain can be reduced \nto ignorance or selfishness ; and when we \ncome to examine the latter we shall find \nthat there is a kind of beneficent selfishness \nwhich is not a cause of pain, and that the \nselfishness which is a cause of pain, is itself \nthe result of ignorance. \n\nBefore a child learns that through its own \nselfishness it deprives itself of all the pleas- \nures arising from the exercise of the altruistic \ninstincts, it wants everything, and wants it \n260 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nwholly for itself. When it learns that there \nis a higher pleasure in the exercise of sym- \npathy and generosity than there is in monop- \noly, it becomes less selfish. It would no \nlonger kill its baby sister to get the sister\'s \nrattle. When it grows into a youth and has \nlearned still more of the pains of selfishness, \nand of the pleasures of generosity, the youth \nwould not even kill his playfellows to gratify \nhis selfishness. When he grows into a man, \nhe may forget what he has already learned; \nbut if he learns more of the penalties of \nselfishness, he will avoid, as far as existing \nconditions permit him to avoid, injuring any \nmember of his family or of his circle of in- \ntimate friends. The diminution of his harm- \nful selfishness is thus brought about solely by \nan increase of knowledge. Selfishness itself \nis thus brought under the causality of igno- \nrance, which therefore appears to be the \nprimary and natural cause of all pain. \n\nIf ignorance is the natural cause of pain, \nas heat is the cause of evaporation, we cannot \n261 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nexpect a natural divinity to remove the pain \ntill the cause has been removed; and the \nonly natural method of curing ignorance is \nthrough the acquisition of knowledge. \n\nBut can one pretend to believe that there \nhas not been a prodigious acquisition of \nknowledge by man ? It is true that there is \nmuch learning in the world, and there appears \nto be plenty of intelligence. People can \nsolve the most intricate problems of mathe- \nmatics, learn any number of languages, un- \nravel the most complicated questions of logic, \ncreate the most wonderful inventions, and \nsettle the most recondite questions of science \nand philosophy. Can these wonderful beings \njustly be said to be ignorant ? \n\nNo, they are not ignorant of these things; \nbut a banker who knows the current value \nof ten thousand different kinds of securities, \nmay still not know that a burglar is drilling a \nhole in his safe. So far he is ignorant, and \nit would not offend him to tell him so if he \nis a truly wise and learned man. In the \n262 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nacquisition of all this learning, we may have \noverlooked some facts that might have en- \nabled us to make a happier use of it. \n\nBut is it not a fact that the advance of the \nhuman race in knowledge and intelligence \nhas been accompanied by an actual increase \nof pain ? \n\nPerhaps it has been. Some people say it \nhas been; and yet, childhood is, in many \ncases, the most unhappy period of life, solely \non account of its terrifying ignorance. But \neven if the popular belief is admitted to be \ntrue, this by no means implies that advance \nin intelligence has always been accompanied \nby increase of pain, nor that man\'s advance \nin knowledge has caused the increase of his \npain, nor that a further advance in knowledge \nwould not reveal the source of his pain and \nthe means of relieving it. \n\nAmong the inferior creatures advance in \nintelligence does not seem to have been ac- \ncompanied by increase of pain. On the \ncontrary, progress seems to have been ac- \n263 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\ncompanied by a relative increase of happiness, \nfor a monkey certainly looks happier than an \noyster ; and as we cannot communicate with \neither animal, we must be guided by appear- \nances In both cases. Among such creatures \nan almost wholly selfish struggle is one of the \nchief means of advancement ; but while these \ncreatures are not sufficiently intelligent to in- \nvent any other means of advancement, they \nare not sufficiently enlightened to appreciate \nor suffer those pains which hostile competition \ncauses among civilized beings. Their igno- \nrance is so profound that these pains do not \nin any great measure exist for them. Being \nignorant of the pains of selfishness, they re- \nmain ignorant of the means of avoiding them ; \nbut such pains as they are capable of appreci- \nating they either learn to avoid or quickly \nsuccumb to without much suffering. \n\nThus intelligence continued to advance, \n\napparently without any relative increase of \n\npain, till man was evolved ; and he has now \n\nadvanced so far that he has become capable \n\n264 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nof acutely appreciating the pains of selfish- \nness, without having advanced far enough \nto fully recognize the cause of his pain, and \ncertainly v^^ithout having advanced far enough \nto perceive clearly that the cause is removable. \nStill less clearly does he understand how to \nremove it. \n\nMan has learned to recognize selfishness \nas a means of progress, and he has become so \naccustomed to the kind of selfishness by \nmeans of which he has progressed that he \nbelieves progress would be impossible with- \nout it. He knows that the increase of in- \ntelligence wrought by selfish competition \nenables him to escape all the pains that \nhe now knows how to escape, but he does \nnot yet realize that the selfishness of his \ncompetition is the chief proximate cause of \nall the pain that remains. His intelligence \nis not the cause, but the condition of his \npain. \n\nNow, the question arises : Will man ever \nacquire that intelligence which will enable \n265 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nhim to escape from his selfishness and thus \nescape from pain ? \n\nHe has already acquired it, but it is still in \na nebulous form. He has the knowledge, as \na slumberer who is not fully enough awake to \ncover himself has the knowledge, that the bed- \nclothes have slipped ofF. Man hopes, in an \nindistinct way, that the race will in some \nfuture age be released from its pain, but he \ndoes not know how the release will be accom- \nplished, nor why he hopes. He hopes, as a \ndreamer hopes, that he will grow warm, with- \nout realizing that he must awake and relieve \nhis own discomfort if it is ever to be relieved \nat all. He has dreamed his dream of pain so \nlong that he thinks he must always dream ; \nand when his slumber is so far disturbed that \nhe partially wakes, and, through the phan- \ntasms of his dream, faintly sees the fleeting \nvision of the truth that would release him, he \nmutters uneasily in his slumber and grumbles \nthat his painful sleep has been disturbed. \nThe vision fades away, or, if it stays, its out- \n266 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nline quickly blends with the distorted prod- \nucts of his dreaming fancy, and so, while \nthe dream is altered, it still goes on. \n\nWe all comprise this slumbering intelli- \ngence. Each one of us carries about with \nhim a little fragment of undissolved mind \nwith which he does such thinking as he does \nat all. The rest of our mentality is merged \nin the common mind that dreams, and when \nwe lose our grip on the piece of mind that we \ntry to keep, our mentality is wholly merged \nin the common mind, and we become auto- \nmatons. No one can boast that his thinking \nis in any great degree his own, that it is not \nlargely the suggested thinking of a dreaming \nrace. But one may, for a brief moment, so \nfar awake as to see that in this dreaming mind \nthere is a vast ocean of intelligence that might \ndream a more reasonable dream if its individ- \nual drops could occasionally segregate them- \nselves and think their own unbiased thoughts. \n\nThey cannot do this now, but they would \nlearn to do it if every man would take an \n267 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nhour now and then to try to think the jagged \ntruth about anything his piece of mind can \nthink about at all ; and if destiny may be sup- \nposed to concern itself with so small a matter \nas a lonely man\'s reflections, this is the goal \nto which destiny has guided these reflections. \nOur thinking might at first be mostly \nwrong, as mine has doubtless been, but that \nthis method would at last lead to true think- \ning, there is no doubt. Thus we might learn \nthe meaning of the Golden Rule, which we \nshall hardly learn in any other way ; and till \nwe learn to think so clearly about all things \nthat we can see the word Confucius and the \nGalilean have spelled in their two versions \nof the Golden Rule, and strip that word of \nall the grotesque meanings that the dreaming \nfancy of a slumbering race has woven into \nit, we shall not escape from pain, and the \nheart of man will not be satisfied. It is not a \nheart man needs ; he has that now. He needs \na wakened mind to teach him how to use it. \n\n\n\n268 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nThe rushing wind drives the sleet against \nthe window and reminds the Lonely Man of \nhis surroundings. The hour is late, his pipe \nhas long since grown cold, and the fire, blink- \ning its bright eyes in the asbestos grate, seems \nto whisper in its saucy voice, " Who cares \nfor you or your reflections ? Is iiot a pound \nof matter worth a ton of thought ? Give the \nworld something which it can ride in, or talk \nthrough, or laugh at, and you will be ac- \ncounted great. Material things are the things \nthat endure. I am still here. You can see \nme and feel me ; but where are all your fine- \nspun thoughts now ? Can any man see \nthem with his eyes or feel them with his \nhands ? The city is sleeping in happy ob- \nlivion of you and your thoughts. It will \nsleep so to-morrow night and the night after. \nAye, it and the world will lull themselves to \nsleep every night for many centuries with the \nsweet conviction that things are as they should \nbe and that wise men will leave them so. \n"What matters it that individual thinking \n269 \n\n\n\nREFLECTIONS OF A LONELY MAN \n\nmight bring the millennium a few centuries \nsooner than it will otherwise come ? Has \nnot your friend Confucius said, \'Thought \nwithout learning is perilous \' ? The Millen- \nnium will come of itself \xe2\x80\x94 if it come at all. \nWhat matters it, then, that Confucius also \nsaid, \' Learning undigested by thought is labor \nlost \' ? " \n\nBut the Lonely Man perceives that the \nvoice of the fire is the voice of a false wit- \nness and an unwise counsellor, and that the \nblinking eyes of the fire are the eyes of a \nvain coquette who would entice him into for- \ngetfulness of serious matters for the gratifi- \ncation of her own vanity. For he knows \nthat others besides himself are thinking to- \nnight \xe2\x80\x94 many others \xe2\x80\x94 hundreds of thou- \nsands of them. Perhaps they are not thinking \nas he has thought. Perhaps they are think- \ning more wisely and perhaps less wisely. \nBut they are thinking their own thoughts, at \nleast, and no man or number of men can \nstop their thinking. It will go on till the \n270 \n\n\n\nTHE RELEASE FROM PAIN \n\nthousands become millions, and the thoughts \nbecome more and more nearly true ; and \nthen things will become more nearly as they \nshould be. \n\nAs for him, he has had his reflections. \nFor once he has been as wide awake as it is \npossible for him to be ; and now, when his \nbrief season of exile is over, he will return \nto his little crowd and melt lovingly into it, \nand then, perhaps, he will think as it thinks. \nIt is so easy to persuade ourselves that in \nthinking, as in dressing, he was right who said, \n\n"Though wrong the mode, comply j more sense is \nshown \nIn wearing others\' follies than our own." \n\nAnd yet, if he should ever again so far awake \nas to think at all, he will still believe that it \nis well to think one\'s own thoughts occasion- \nally even though they be wrong. \n\nTHE END \n\n\n\n//i \n\n\n\n4 \n\n\n\n89 \n\n\n\n\nI* \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2^^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\\\' j-\xc2\xb0-nf.. \n\n\n\nii\xc2\xb0^ \n\n\n\n/.c^^% \n\n\n\n\n\n\nV ** % \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n%K -:l \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2\\*^..-._%\'-\'>\'--\'-^<* \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nijo^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n'