WHAT IS MAN? AND OTHER ESSAYS By Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemens, 1835-1910) CONTENTS: What Is Man? The Death of Jean The Turning-Point of My Life How to Make History Dates Stick The Memorable Assassination A Scrap of Curious History Switzerland, the Cradle of Liberty At the Shrine of St. Wagner William Dean Howells English as She is Taught A Simplified Alphabet As Concerns Interpreting the Deity Concerning Tobacco Taming the Bicycle Is Shakespeare Dead? WHAT IS MAN? I a. Man the Machine. B. Personal Merit (The Old Man and the Young Man had been conversing. The Old Man hadasserted that the human being is merely a machine, and nothing more. TheYoung Man objected, and asked him to go into particulars and furnish hisreasons for his position. ) Old Man. What are the materials of which a steam-engine is made? Young Man. Iron, steel, brass, white-metal, and so on. O. M. Where are these found? Y. M. In the rocks. O. M. In a pure state? Y. M. No--in ores. O. M. Are the metals suddenly deposited in the ores? Y. M. No--it is the patient work of countless ages. O. M. You could make the engine out of the rocks themselves? Y. M. Yes, a brittle one and not valuable. O. M. You would not require much, of such an engine as that? Y. M. No--substantially nothing. O. M. To make a fine and capable engine, how would you proceed? Y. M. Drive tunnels and shafts into the hills; blast out the iron ore;crush it, smelt it, reduce it to pig-iron; put some of it throughthe Bessemer process and make steel of it. Mine and treat and combineseveral metals of which brass is made. O. M. Then? Y. M. Out of the perfected result, build the fine engine. O. M. You would require much of this one? Y. M. Oh, indeed yes. O. M. It could drive lathes, drills, planers, punches, polishers, in aword all the cunning machines of a great factory? Y. M. It could. O. M. What could the stone engine do? Y. M. Drive a sewing-machine, possibly--nothing more, perhaps. O. M. Men would admire the other engine and rapturously praise it? Y. M. Yes. O. M. But not the stone one? Y. M. No. O. M. The merits of the metal machine would be far above those of thestone one? Y. M. Of course. O. M. Personal merits? Y. M. PERSONAL merits? How do you mean? O. M. It would be personally entitled to the credit of its ownperformance? Y. M. The engine? Certainly not. O. M. Why not? Y. M. Because its performance is not personal. It is the result of thelaw of construction. It is not a MERIT that it does the things which itis set to do--it can't HELP doing them. O. M. And it is not a personal demerit in the stone machine that it doesso little? Y. M. Certainly not. It does no more and no less than the law of its makepermits and compels it to do. There is nothing PERSONAL about it; itcannot choose. In this process of "working up to the matter" is it youridea to work up to the proposition that man and a machine are about thesame thing, and that there is no personal merit in the performance ofeither? O. M. Yes--but do not be offended; I am meaning no offense. What makesthe grand difference between the stone engine and the steel one? Shallwe call it training, education? Shall we call the stone engine a savageand the steel one a civilized man? The original rock contained the stuffof which the steel one was built--but along with a lot of sulphur andstone and other obstructing inborn heredities, brought down from the oldgeologic ages--prejudices, let us call them. Prejudices which nothingwithin the rock itself had either POWER to remove or any DESIRE toremove. Will you take note of that phrase? Y. M. Yes. I have written it down; "Prejudices which nothing within therock itself had either power to remove or any desire to remove. " Go on. O. M. Prejudices must be removed by OUTSIDE INFLUENCES or not at all. Putthat down. Y. M. Very well; "Must be removed by outside influences or not at all. "Go on. O. M. The iron's prejudice against ridding itself of the cumbering rock. To make it more exact, the iron's absolute INDIFFERENCE as to whetherthe rock be removed or not. Then comes the OUTSIDE INFLUENCE and grindsthe rock to powder and sets the ore free. The IRON in the ore is stillcaptive. An OUTSIDE INFLUENCE smelts it free of the clogging ore. Theiron is emancipated iron, now, but indifferent to further progress. AnOUTSIDE INFLUENCE beguiles it into the Bessemer furnace and refines itinto steel of the first quality. It is educated, now--its training iscomplete. And it has reached its limit. By no possible process can it beeducated into GOLD. Will you set that down? Y. M. Yes. "Everything has its limit--iron ore cannot be educated intogold. " O. M. There are gold men, and tin men, and copper men, and leaden mean, and steel men, and so on--and each has the limitations of his nature, his heredities, his training, and his environment. You can build enginesout of each of these metals, and they will all perform, but you mustnot require the weak ones to do equal work with the strong ones. Ineach case, to get the best results, you must free the metal from itsobstructing prejudicial ones by education--smelting, refining, and soforth. Y. M. You have arrived at man, now? O. M. Yes. Man the machine--man the impersonal engine. Whatsoever a manis, is due to his MAKE, and to the INFLUENCES brought to bear upon itby his heredities, his habitat, his associations. He is moved, directed, COMMANDED, by EXTERIOR influences--SOLELY. He ORIGINATES nothing, noteven a thought. Y. M. Oh, come! Where did I get my opinion that this which you aretalking is all foolishness? O. M. It is a quite natural opinion--indeed an inevitable opinion--butYOU did not create the materials out of which it is formed. They areodds and ends of thoughts, impressions, feelings, gathered unconsciouslyfrom a thousand books, a thousand conversations, and from streams ofthought and feeling which have flowed down into your heart and brain outof the hearts and brains of centuries of ancestors. PERSONALLY you didnot create even the smallest microscopic fragment of the materials outof which your opinion is made; and personally you cannot claim even theslender merit of PUTTING THE BORROWED MATERIALS TOGETHER. That was doneAUTOMATICALLY--by your mental machinery, in strict accordance with thelaw of that machinery's construction. And you not only did not make thatmachinery yourself, but you have NOT EVEN ANY COMMAND OVER IT. Y. M. This is too much. You think I could have formed no opinion but thatone? O. M. Spontaneously? No. And YOU DID NOT FORM THAT ONE; your machinerydid it for you--automatically and instantly, without reflection or theneed of it. Y. M. Suppose I had reflected? How then? O. M. Suppose you try? Y. M. (AFTER A QUARTER OF AN HOUR. ) I have reflected. O. M. You mean you have tried to change your opinion--as an experiment? Y. M. Yes. O. M. With success? Y. M. No. It remains the same; it is impossible to change it. O. M. I am sorry, but you see, yourself, that your mind is merely amachine, nothing more. You have no command over it, it has no commandover itself--it is worked SOLELY FROM THE OUTSIDE. That is the law ofits make; it is the law of all machines. Y. M. Can't I EVER change one of these automatic opinions? O. M. No. You can't yourself, but EXTERIOR INFLUENCES can do it. Y. M. And exterior ones ONLY? O. M. Yes--exterior ones only. Y. M. That position is untenable--I may say ludicrously untenable. O. M. What makes you think so? Y. M. I don't merely think it, I know it. Suppose I resolve to enter upona course of thought, and study, and reading, with the deliberate purposeof changing that opinion; and suppose I succeed. THAT is not the workof an exterior impulse, the whole of it is mine and personal; for Ioriginated the project. O. M. Not a shred of it. IT GREW OUT OF THIS TALK WITH ME. But for thatit would not have occurred to you. No man ever originates anything. Allhis thoughts, all his impulses, come FROM THE OUTSIDE. Y. M. It's an exasperating subject. The FIRST man had original thoughts, anyway; there was nobody to draw from. O. M. It is a mistake. Adam's thoughts came to him from the outside. YOUhave a fear of death. You did not invent that--you got it from outside, from talking and teaching. Adam had no fear of death--none in the world. Y. M. Yes, he had. O. M. When he was created? Y. M. No. O. M. When, then? Y. M. When he was threatened with it. O. M. Then it came from OUTSIDE. Adam is quite big enough; let us not tryto make a god of him. NONE BUT GODS HAVE EVER HAD A THOUGHT WHICH DIDNOT COME FROM THE OUTSIDE. Adam probably had a good head, but it was ofno sort of use to him until it was filled up FROM THE OUTSIDE. He wasnot able to invent the triflingest little thing with it. He had not ashadow of a notion of the difference between good and evil--he had toget the idea FROM THE OUTSIDE. Neither he nor Eve was able to originatethe idea that it was immodest to go naked; the knowledge came in withthe apple FROM THE OUTSIDE. A man's brain is so constructed that IT CANORIGINATE NOTHING WHATSOEVER. It can only use material obtained OUTSIDE. It is merely a machine; and it works automatically, not by will-power. IT HAS NO COMMAND OVER ITSELF, ITS OWNER HAS NO COMMAND OVER IT. Y. M. Well, never mind Adam: but certainly Shakespeare's creations-- O. M. No, you mean Shakespeare's IMITATIONS. Shakespeare created nothing. He correctly observed, and he marvelously painted. He exactly portrayedpeople whom GOD had created; but he created none himself. Let us sparehim the slander of charging him with trying. Shakespeare could notcreate. HE WAS A MACHINE, AND MACHINES DO NOT CREATE. Y. M. Where WAS his excellence, then? O. M. In this. He was not a sewing-machine, like you and me; he was aGobelin loom. The threads and the colors came into him FROM THE OUTSIDE;outside influences, suggestions, EXPERIENCES (reading, seeing plays, playing plays, borrowing ideas, and so on), framed the patterns inhis mind and started up his complex and admirable machinery, and ITAUTOMATICALLY turned out that pictured and gorgeous fabric which stillcompels the astonishment of the world. If Shakespeare had been born andbred on a barren and unvisited rock in the ocean his mighty intellectwould have had no OUTSIDE MATERIAL to work with, and could have inventednone; and NO OUTSIDE INFLUENCES, teachings, moldings, persuasions, inspirations, of a valuable sort, and could have invented none; andso Shakespeare would have produced nothing. In Turkey he would haveproduced something--something up to the highest limit of Turkishinfluences, associations, and training. In France he would have producedsomething better--something up to the highest limit of the Frenchinfluences and training. In England he rose to the highest limitattainable through the OUTSIDE HELPS AFFORDED BY THAT LAND'S IDEALS, INFLUENCES, AND TRAINING. You and I are but sewing-machines. We mustturn out what we can; we must do our endeavor and care nothing at allwhen the unthinking reproach us for not turning out Gobelins. Y. M. And so we are mere machines! And machines may not boast, norfeel proud of their performance, nor claim personal merit for it, norapplause and praise. It is an infamous doctrine. O. M. It isn't a doctrine, it is merely a fact. Y. M. I suppose, then, there is no more merit in being brave than inbeing a coward? O. M. PERSONAL merit? No. A brave man does not CREATE his bravery. He isentitled to no personal credit for possessing it. It is born to him. Ababy born with a billion dollars--where is the personal merit in that?A baby born with nothing--where is the personal demerit in that? Theone is fawned upon, admired, worshiped, by sycophants, the other isneglected and despised--where is the sense in it? Y. M. Sometimes a timid man sets himself the task of conquering hiscowardice and becoming brave--and succeeds. What do you say to that? O. M. That it shows the value of TRAINING IN RIGHT DIRECTIONS OVERTRAINING IN WRONG ONES. Inestimably valuable is training, influence, education, in right directions--TRAINING ONE'S SELF-APPROBATION TOELEVATE ITS IDEALS. Y. M. But as to merit--the personal merit of the victorious coward'sproject and achievement? O. M. There isn't any. In the world's view he is a worthier man than hewas before, but HE didn't achieve the change--the merit of it is nothis. Y. M. Whose, then? O. M. His MAKE, and the influences which wrought upon it from theoutside. Y. M. His make? O. M. To start with, he was NOT utterly and completely a coward, or theinfluences would have had nothing to work upon. He was not afraid of acow, though perhaps of a bull: not afraid of a woman, but afraid of aman. There was something to build upon. There was a SEED. No seed, noplant. Did he make that seed himself, or was it born in him? It was nomerit of HIS that the seed was there. Y. M. Well, anyway, the idea of CULTIVATING it, the resolution tocultivate it, was meritorious, and he originated that. O. M. He did nothing of the kind. It came whence ALL impulses, good orbad, come--from OUTSIDE. If that timid man had lived all his life ina community of human rabbits, had never read of brave deeds, had neverheard speak of them, had never heard any one praise them nor expressenvy of the heroes that had done them, he would have had no more idea ofbravery than Adam had of modesty, and it could never by any possibilityhave occurred to him to RESOLVE to become brave. He COULD NOT ORIGINATETHE IDEA--it had to come to him from the OUTSIDE. And so, when he heardbravery extolled and cowardice derided, it woke him up. He was ashamed. Perhaps his sweetheart turned up her nose and said, "I am told that youare a coward!" It was not HE that turned over the new leaf--she did itfor him. HE must not strut around in the merit of it--it is not his. Y. M. But, anyway, he reared the plant after she watered the seed. O. M. No. OUTSIDE INFLUENCES reared it. At the command--and trembling--hemarched out into the field--with other soldiers and in the daytime, notalone and in the dark. He had the INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE, he drew couragefrom his comrades' courage; he was afraid, and wanted to run, but he didnot dare; he was AFRAID to run, with all those soldiers looking on. Hewas progressing, you see--the moral fear of shame had risen superior tothe physical fear of harm. By the end of the campaign experience willhave taught him that not ALL who go into battle get hurt--an outsideinfluence which will be helpful to him; and he will also have learnedhow sweet it is to be praised for courage and be huzza'd at withtear-choked voices as the war-worn regiment marches past the worshipingmultitude with flags flying and the drums beating. After that he willbe as securely brave as any veteran in the army--and there will not be ashade nor suggestion of PERSONAL MERIT in it anywhere; it will all havecome from the OUTSIDE. The Victoria Cross breeds more heroes than-- Y. M. Hang it, where is the sense in his becoming brave if he is to getno credit for it? O. M. Your question will answer itself presently. It involves animportant detail of man's make which we have not yet touched upon. Y. M. What detail is that? O. M. The impulse which moves a person to do things--the only impulsethat ever moves a person to do a thing. Y. M. The ONLY one! Is there but one? O. M. That is all. There is only one. Y. M. Well, certainly that is a strange enough doctrine. What is the soleimpulse that ever moves a person to do a thing? O. M. The impulse to CONTENT HIS OWN SPIRIT--the NECESSITY of contentinghis own spirit and WINNING ITS APPROVAL. Y. M. Oh, come, that won't do! O. M. Why won't it? Y. M. Because it puts him in the attitude of always looking out for hisown comfort and advantage; whereas an unselfish man often does a thingsolely for another person's good when it is a positive disadvantage tohimself. O. M. It is a mistake. The act must do HIM good, FIRST; otherwise he willnot do it. He may THINK he is doing it solely for the other person'ssake, but it is not so; he is contenting his own spirit first--theother's person's benefit has to always take SECOND place. Y. M. What a fantastic idea! What becomes of self-sacrifice? Pleaseanswer me that. O. M. What is self-sacrifice? Y. M. The doing good to another person where no shadow nor suggestion ofbenefit to one's self can result from it. II Man's Sole Impulse--the Securing of His Own Approval Old Man. There have been instances of it--you think? Young Man. INSTANCES? Millions of them! O. M. You have not jumped to conclusions? You have examinedthem--critically? Y. M. They don't need it: the acts themselves reveal the golden impulseback of them. O. M. For instance? Y. M. Well, then, for instance. Take the case in the book here. The manlives three miles up-town. It is bitter cold, snowing hard, midnight. He is about to enter the horse-car when a gray and ragged old woman, atouching picture of misery, puts out her lean hand and begs for rescuefrom hunger and death. The man finds that he has a quarter in hispocket, but he does not hesitate: he gives it her and trudges homethrough the storm. There--it is noble, it is beautiful; its grace ismarred by no fleck or blemish or suggestion of self-interest. O. M. What makes you think that? Y. M. Pray what else could I think? Do you imagine that there is someother way of looking at it? O. M. Can you put yourself in the man's place and tell me what he feltand what he thought? Y. M. Easily. The sight of that suffering old face pierced his generousheart with a sharp pain. He could not bear it. He could endure thethree-mile walk in the storm, but he could not endure the tortures hisconscience would suffer if he turned his back and left that poor oldcreature to perish. He would not have been able to sleep, for thinkingof it. O. M. What was his state of mind on his way home? Y. M. It was a state of joy which only the self-sacrificer knows. Hisheart sang, he was unconscious of the storm. O. M. He felt well? Y. M. One cannot doubt it. O. M. Very well. Now let us add up the details and see how much he gotfor his twenty-five cents. Let us try to find out the REAL why of hismaking the investment. In the first place HE couldn't bear the painwhich the old suffering face gave him. So he was thinking of HISpain--this good man. He must buy a salve for it. If he did not succorthe old woman HIS conscience would torture him all the way home. Thinking of HIS pain again. He must buy relief for that. If he didn'trelieve the old woman HE would not get any sleep. He must buy somesleep--still thinking of HIMSELF, you see. Thus, to sum up, he boughthimself free of a sharp pain in his heart, he bought himself free of thetortures of a waiting conscience, he bought a whole night's sleep--allfor twenty-five cents! It should make Wall Street ashamed of itself. Onhis way home his heart was joyful, and it sang--profit on top of profit!The impulse which moved the man to succor the old woman was--FIRST--toCONTENT HIS OWN SPIRIT; secondly to relieve HER sufferings. Is it youropinion that men's acts proceed from one central and unchanging andinalterable impulse, or from a variety of impulses? Y. M. From a variety, of course--some high and fine and noble, othersnot. What is your opinion? O. M. Then there is but ONE law, one source. Y. M. That both the noblest impulses and the basest proceed from that onesource? O. M. Yes. Y. M. Will you put that law into words? O. M. Yes. This is the law, keep it in your mind. FROM HIS CRADLE TO HISGRAVE A MAN NEVER DOES A SINGLE THING WHICH HAS ANY FIRST AND FOREMOSTOBJECT BUT ONE--TO SECURE PEACE OF MIND, SPIRITUAL COMFORT, FOR HIMSELF. Y. M. Come! He never does anything for any one else's comfort, spiritualor physical? O. M. No. EXCEPT ON THOSE DISTINCT TERMS--that it shall FIRST secure HISOWN spiritual comfort. Otherwise he will not do it. Y. M. It will be easy to expose the falsity of that proposition. O. M. For instance? Y. M. Take that noble passion, love of country, patriotism. A man wholoves peace and dreads pain, leaves his pleasant home and his weepingfamily and marches out to manfully expose himself to hunger, cold, wounds, and death. Is that seeking spiritual comfort? O. M. He loves peace and dreads pain? Y. M. Yes. O. M. Then perhaps there is something that he loves MORE than he lovespeace--THE APPROVAL OF HIS NEIGHBORS AND THE PUBLIC. And perhaps thereis something which he dreads more than he dreads pain--the DISAPPROVALof his neighbors and the public. If he is sensitive to shame he will goto the field--not because his spirit will be ENTIRELY comfortable there, but because it will be more comfortable there than it would be if heremained at home. He will always do the thing which will bring him theMOST mental comfort--for that is THE SOLE LAW OF HIS LIFE. He leaves theweeping family behind; he is sorry to make them uncomfortable, but notsorry enough to sacrifice his OWN comfort to secure theirs. Y. M. Do you really believe that mere public opinion could force a timidand peaceful man to-- O. M. Go to war? Yes--public opinion can force some men to do ANYTHING. Y. M. ANYTHING? O. M. Yes--anything. Y. M. I don't believe that. Can it force a right-principled man to do awrong thing? O. M. Yes. Y. M. Can it force a kind man to do a cruel thing? O. M. Yes. Y. M. Give an instance. O. M. Alexander Hamilton was a conspicuously high-principled man. He regarded dueling as wrong, and as opposed to the teachings ofreligion--but in deference to PUBLIC OPINION he fought a duel. He deeplyloved his family, but to buy public approval he treacherously desertedthem and threw his life away, ungenerously leaving them to lifelongsorrow in order that he might stand well with a foolish world. In thethen condition of the public standards of honor he could not have beencomfortable with the stigma upon him of having refused to fight. Theteachings of religion, his devotion to his family, his kindness ofheart, his high principles, all went for nothing when they stood in theway of his spiritual comfort. A man will do ANYTHING, no matter what itis, TO SECURE HIS SPIRITUAL COMFORT; and he can neither be forced norpersuaded to any act which has not that goal for its object. Hamilton'sact was compelled by the inborn necessity of contenting his own spirit;in this it was like all the other acts of his life, and like all theacts of all men's lives. Do you see where the kernel of the matter lies?A man cannot be comfortable without HIS OWN approval. He will secure thelargest share possible of that, at all costs, all sacrifices. Y. M. A minute ago you said Hamilton fought that duel to get PUBLICapproval. O. M. I did. By refusing to fight the duel he would have secured hisfamily's approval and a large share of his own; but the public approvalwas more valuable in his eyes than all other approvals put together--inthe earth or above it; to secure that would furnish him the MOST comfortof mind, the most SELF-approval; so he sacrificed all other values toget it. Y. M. Some noble souls have refused to fight duels, and have manfullybraved the public contempt. O. M. They acted ACCORDING TO THEIR MAKE. They valued their principlesand the approval of their families ABOVE the public approval. They tookthe thing they valued MOST and let the rest go. They took what wouldgive them the LARGEST share of PERSONAL CONTENTMENT AND APPROVAL--a manALWAYS does. Public opinion cannot force that kind of men to go to thewars. When they go it is for other reasons. Other spirit-contentingreasons. Y. M. Always spirit-contenting reasons? O. M. There are no others. Y. M. When a man sacrifices his life to save a little child from aburning building, what do you call that? O. M. When he does it, it is the law of HIS make. HE can't bear to seethe child in that peril (a man of a different make COULD), and so hetries to save the child, and loses his life. But he has got what he wasafter--HIS OWN APPROVAL. Y. M. What do you call Love, Hate, Charity, Revenge, Humanity, Magnanimity, Forgiveness? O. M. Different results of the one Master Impulse: the necessity ofsecuring one's self approval. They wear diverse clothes and are subjectto diverse moods, but in whatsoever ways they masquerade they are theSAME PERSON all the time. To change the figure, the COMPULSION thatmoves a man--and there is but the one--is the necessity of securing thecontentment of his own spirit. When it stops, the man is dead. Y. M. That is foolishness. Love-- O. M. Why, love is that impulse, that law, in its most uncompromisingform. It will squander life and everything else on its object. NotPRIMARILY for the object's sake, but for ITS OWN. When its object ishappy IT is happy--and that is what it is unconsciously after. Y. M. You do not even except the lofty and gracious passion ofmother-love? O. M. No, IT is the absolute slave of that law. The mother will go nakedto clothe her child; she will starve that it may have food; suffertorture to save it from pain; die that it may live. She takes a livingPLEASURE in making these sacrifices. SHE DOES IT FOR THAT REWARD--thatself-approval, that contentment, that peace, that comfort. SHE WOULD DOIT FOR YOUR CHILD IF SHE COULD GET THE SAME PAY. Y. M. This is an infernal philosophy of yours. O. M. It isn't a philosophy, it is a fact. Y. M. Of course you must admit that there are some acts which-- O. M. No. There is NO act, large or small, fine or mean, which springsfrom any motive but the one--the necessity of appeasing and contentingone's own spirit. Y. M. The world's philanthropists-- O. M. I honor them, I uncover my head to them--from habit and training;and THEY could not know comfort or happiness or self-approval if theydid not work and spend for the unfortunate. It makes THEM happy tosee others happy; and so with money and labor they buy what they areafter--HAPPINESS, SELF-APPROVAL. Why don't miners do the same thing?Because they can get a thousandfold more happiness by NOT doing it. There is no other reason. They follow the law of their make. Y. M. What do you say of duty for duty's sake? O. M. That IS DOES NOT EXIST. Duties are not performed for duty's SAKE, but because their NEGLECT would make the man UNCOMFORTABLE. A manperforms but ONE duty--the duty of contenting his spirit, the duty ofmaking himself agreeable to himself. If he can most satisfyingly performthis sole and only duty by HELPING his neighbor, he will do it; if hecan most satisfyingly perform it by SWINDLING his neighbor, he willdo it. But he always looks out for Number One--FIRST; the effects uponothers are a SECONDARY matter. Men pretend to self-sacrifices, but thisis a thing which, in the ordinary value of the phrase, DOES NOT EXISTAND HAS NOT EXISTED. A man often honestly THINKS he is sacrificinghimself merely and solely for some one else, but he is deceived; hisbottom impulse is to content a requirement of his nature and training, and thus acquire peace for his soul. Y. M. Apparently, then, all men, both good and bad ones, devote theirlives to contenting their consciences. O. M. Yes. That is a good enough name for it: Conscience--thatindependent Sovereign, that insolent absolute Monarch inside of a manwho is the man's Master. There are all kinds of consciences, becausethere are all kinds of men. You satisfy an assassin's conscience in oneway, a philanthropist's in another, a miser's in another, a burglar's instill another. As a GUIDE or INCENTIVE to any authoritatively prescribedline of morals or conduct (leaving TRAINING out of the account), a man'sconscience is totally valueless. I know a kind-hearted Kentuckian whoseself-approval was lacking--whose conscience was troubling him, to phraseit with exactness--BECAUSE HE HAD NEGLECTED TO KILL A CERTAIN MAN--a manwhom he had never seen. The stranger had killed this man's friend in afight, this man's Kentucky training made it a duty to kill the strangerfor it. He neglected his duty--kept dodging it, shirking it, puttingit off, and his unrelenting conscience kept persecuting him for thisconduct. At last, to get ease of mind, comfort, self-approval, hehunted up the stranger and took his life. It was an immense act ofSELF-SACRIFICE (as per the usual definition), for he did not want to doit, and he never would have done it if he could have bought a contentedspirit and an unworried mind at smaller cost. But we are so made that wewill pay ANYTHING for that contentment--even another man's life. Y. M. You spoke a moment ago of TRAINED consciences. You mean that we arenot BORN with consciences competent to guide us aright? O. M. If we were, children and savages would know right from wrong, andnot have to be taught it. Y. M. But consciences can be TRAINED? O. M. Yes. Y. M. Of course by parents, teachers, the pulpit, and books. O. M. Yes--they do their share; they do what they can. Y. M. And the rest is done by-- O. M. Oh, a million unnoticed influences--for good or bad: influenceswhich work without rest during every waking moment of a man's life, fromcradle to grave. Y. M. You have tabulated these? O. M. Many of them--yes. Y. M. Will you read me the result? O. M. Another time, yes. It would take an hour. Y. M. A conscience can be trained to shun evil and prefer good? O. M. Yes. Y. M. But will it for spirit-contenting reasons only? O. M. It CAN'T be trained to do a thing for any OTHER reason. The thingis impossible. Y. M. There MUST be a genuinely and utterly self-sacrificing act recordedin human history somewhere. O. M. You are young. You have many years before you. Search one out. Y. M. It does seem to me that when a man sees a fellow-being strugglingin the water and jumps in at the risk of his life to save him-- O. M. Wait. Describe the MAN. Describe the FELLOW-BEING. State if thereis an AUDIENCE present; or if they are ALONE. Y. M. What have these things to do with the splendid act? O. M. Very much. Shall we suppose, as a beginning, that the two arealone, in a solitary place, at midnight? Y. M. If you choose. O. M. And that the fellow-being is the man's daughter? Y. M. Well, n-no--make it someone else. O. M. A filthy, drunken ruffian, then? Y. M. I see. Circumstances alter cases. I suppose that if there was noaudience to observe the act, the man wouldn't perform it. O. M. But there is here and there a man who WOULD. People, for instance, like the man who lost his life trying to save the child from the fire;and the man who gave the needy old woman his twenty-five cents andwalked home in the storm--there are here and there men like that whowould do it. And why? Because they couldn't BEAR to see a fellow-beingstruggling in the water and not jump in and help. It would give THEMpain. They would save the fellow-being on that account. THEY WOULDN'TDO IT OTHERWISE. They strictly obey the law which I have been insistingupon. You must remember and always distinguish the people who CAN'TBEAR things from people who CAN. It will throw light upon a number ofapparently "self-sacrificing" cases. Y. M. Oh, dear, it's all so disgusting. O. M. Yes. And so true. Y. M. Come--take the good boy who does things he doesn't want to do, inorder to gratify his mother. O. M. He does seven-tenths of the act because it gratifies HIM to gratifyhis mother. Throw the bulk of advantage the other way and the good boywould not do the act. He MUST obey the iron law. None can escape it. Y. M. Well, take the case of a bad boy who-- O. M. You needn't mention it, it is a waste of time. It is no matterabout the bad boy's act. Whatever it was, he had a spirit-contentingreason for it. Otherwise you have been misinformed, and he didn't do it. Y. M. It is very exasperating. A while ago you said that man's conscienceis not a born judge of morals and conduct, but has to be taught andtrained. Now I think a conscience can get drowsy and lazy, but I don'tthink it can go wrong; if you wake it up-- A Little Story O. M. I will tell you a little story: Once upon a time an Infidel was guest in the house of a Christian widowwhose little boy was ill and near to death. The Infidel often watchedby the bedside and entertained the boy with talk, and he used theseopportunities to satisfy a strong longing in his nature--that desirewhich is in us all to better other people's condition by having themthink as we think. He was successful. But the dying boy, in his lastmoments, reproached him and said: "I BELIEVED, AND WAS HAPPY IN IT; YOU HAVE TAKEN MY BELIEF AWAY, AND MYCOMFORT. NOW I HAVE NOTHING LEFT, AND I DIE MISERABLE; FOR THE THINGSWHICH YOU HAVE TOLD ME DO NOT TAKE THE PLACE OF THAT WHICH I HAVE LOST. " And the mother, also, reproached the Infidel, and said: "MY CHILD IS FOREVER LOST, AND MY HEART IS BROKEN. HOW COULD YOU DO THISCRUEL THING? WE HAVE DONE YOU NO HARM, BUT ONLY KINDNESS; WE MADEOUR HOUSE YOUR HOME, YOU WERE WELCOME TO ALL WE HAD, AND THIS IS OURREWARD. " The heart of the Infidel was filled with remorse for what he had done, and he said: "IT WAS WRONG--I SEE IT NOW; BUT I WAS ONLY TRYING TO DO HIM GOOD. IN MYVIEW HE WAS IN ERROR; IT SEEMED MY DUTY TO TEACH HIM THE TRUTH. " Then the mother said: "I HAD TAUGHT HIM, ALL HIS LITTLE LIFE, WHAT I BELIEVED TO BE THE TRUTH, AND IN HIS BELIEVING FAITH BOTH OF US WERE HAPPY. NOW HE IS DEAD, --ANDLOST; AND I AM MISERABLE. OUR FAITH CAME DOWN TO US THROUGH CENTURIESOF BELIEVING ANCESTORS; WHAT RIGHT HAD YOU, OR ANY ONE, TO DISTURB IT?WHERE WAS YOUR HONOR, WHERE WAS YOUR SHAME?" Y. M. He was a miscreant, and deserved death! O. M. He thought so himself, and said so. Y. M. Ah--you see, HIS CONSCIENCE WAS AWAKENED! O. M. Yes, his Self-Disapproval was. It PAINED him to see the mothersuffer. He was sorry he had done a thing which brought HIM pain. It didnot occur to him to think of the mother when he was misteaching the boy, for he was absorbed in providing PLEASURE for himself, then. Providingit by satisfying what he believed to be a call of duty. Y. M. Call it what you please, it is to me a case of AWAKENED CONSCIENCE. That awakened conscience could never get itself into that species oftrouble again. A cure like that is a PERMANENT cure. O. M. Pardon--I had not finished the story. We are creatures of OUTSIDEINFLUENCES--we originate NOTHING within. Whenever we take a new line ofthought and drift into a new line of belief and action, the impulse isALWAYS suggested from the OUTSIDE. Remorse so preyed upon the Infidelthat it dissolved his harshness toward the boy's religion and made himcome to regard it with tolerance, next with kindness, for the boy'ssake and the mother's. Finally he found himself examining it. From thatmoment his progress in his new trend was steady and rapid. He became abelieving Christian. And now his remorse for having robbed the dying boyof his faith and his salvation was bitterer than ever. It gave him norest, no peace. He MUST have rest and peace--it is the law of nature. There seemed but one way to get it; he must devote himself to savingimperiled souls. He became a missionary. He landed in a pagan countryill and helpless. A native widow took him into her humble homeand nursed him back to convalescence. Then her young boy was takenhopelessly ill, and the grateful missionary helped her tend him. Herewas his first opportunity to repair a part of the wrong done to theother boy by doing a precious service for this one by undermining hisfoolish faith in his false gods. He was successful. But the dying boy inhis last moments reproached him and said: "I BELIEVED, AND WAS HAPPY IN IT; YOU HAVE TAKEN MY BELIEF AWAY, AND MYCOMFORT. NOW I HAVE NOTHING LEFT, AND I DIE MISERABLE; FOR THE THINGSWHICH YOU HAVE TOLD ME DO NOT TAKE THE PLACE OF THAT WHICH I HAVE LOST. " And the mother, also, reproached the missionary, and said: "MY CHILD IS FOREVER LOST, AND MY HEART IS BROKEN. HOW COULD YOU DO THISCRUEL THING? WE HAD DONE YOU NO HARM, BUT ONLY KINDNESS; WE MADEOUR HOUSE YOUR HOME, YOU WERE WELCOME TO ALL WE HAD, AND THIS IS OURREWARD. " The heart of the missionary was filled with remorse for what he haddone, and he said: "IT WAS WRONG--I SEE IT NOW; BUT I WAS ONLY TRYING TO DO HIM GOOD. IN MYVIEW HE WAS IN ERROR; IT SEEMED MY DUTY TO TEACH HIM THE TRUTH. " Then the mother said: "I HAD TAUGHT HIM, ALL HIS LITTLE LIFE, WHAT I BELIEVED TO BE THE TRUTH, AND IN HIS BELIEVING FAITH BOTH OF US WERE HAPPY. NOW HE IS DEAD--ANDLOST; AND I AM MISERABLE. OUR FAITH CAME DOWN TO US THROUGH CENTURIESOF BELIEVING ANCESTORS; WHAT RIGHT HAD YOU, OR ANY ONE, TO DISTURB IT?WHERE WAS YOUR HONOR, WHERE WAS YOUR SHAME?" The missionary's anguish of remorse and sense of treachery were asbitter and persecuting and unappeasable, now, as they had been in theformer case. The story is finished. What is your comment? Y. M. The man's conscience is a fool! It was morbid. It didn't know rightfrom wrong. O. M. I am not sorry to hear you say that. If you grant that ONE man'sconscience doesn't know right from wrong, it is an admission that thereare others like it. This single admission pulls down the whole doctrineof infallibility of judgment in consciences. Meantime there is one thingwhich I ask you to notice. Y. M. What is that? O. M. That in both cases the man's ACT gave him no spiritual discomfort, and that he was quite satisfied with it and got pleasure out of it. Butafterward when it resulted in PAIN to HIM, he was sorry. Sorry it hadinflicted pain upon the others, BUT FOR NO REASON UNDER THE SUN EXCEPTTHAT THEIR PAIN GAVE HIM PAIN. Our consciences take NO notice of paininflicted upon others until it reaches a point where it gives pain toUS. In ALL cases without exception we are absolutely indifferent toanother person's pain until his sufferings make us uncomfortable. Manyan infidel would not have been troubled by that Christian mother'sdistress. Don't you believe that? Y. M. Yes. You might almost say it of the AVERAGE infidel, I think. O. M. And many a missionary, sternly fortified by his sense of duty, would not have been troubled by the pagan mother's distress--Jesuitmissionaries in Canada in the early French times, for instance; seeepisodes quoted by Parkman. Y. M. Well, let us adjourn. Where have we arrived? O. M. At this. That we (mankind) have ticketed ourselves with a number ofqualities to which we have given misleading names. Love, Hate, Charity, Compassion, Avarice, Benevolence, and so on. I mean we attach misleadingMEANINGS to the names. They are all forms of self-contentment, self-gratification, but the names so disguise them that they distractour attention from the fact. Also we have smuggled a word into thedictionary which ought not to be there at all--Self-Sacrifice. Itdescribes a thing which does not exist. But worst of all, we ignore andnever mention the Sole Impulse which dictates and compels a man's everyact: the imperious necessity of securing his own approval, in everyemergency and at all costs. To it we owe all that we are. It is ourbreath, our heart, our blood. It is our only spur, our whip, our goad, our only impelling power; we have no other. Without it we should bemere inert images, corpses; no one would do anything, there would beno progress, the world would stand still. We ought to stand reverentlyuncovered when the name of that stupendous power is uttered. Y. M. I am not convinced. O. M. You will be when you think. III Instances in Point Old Man. Have you given thought to the Gospel of Self-Approval since wetalked? Young Man. I have. O. M. It was I that moved you to it. That is to say an OUTSIDE INFLUENCEmoved you to it--not one that originated in your head. Will you try tokeep that in mind and not forget it? Y. M. Yes. Why? O. M. Because by and by in one of our talks, I wish to further impressupon you that neither you, nor I, nor any man ever originates a thoughtin his own head. THE UTTERER OF A THOUGHT ALWAYS UTTERS A SECOND-HANDONE. Y. M. Oh, now-- O. M. Wait. Reserve your remark till we get to that part of ourdiscussion--tomorrow or next day, say. Now, then, have you beenconsidering the proposition that no act is ever born of any but aself-contenting impulse--(primarily). You have sought. What have youfound? Y. M. I have not been very fortunate. I have examined many fine andapparently self-sacrificing deeds in romances and biographies, but-- O. M. Under searching analysis the ostensible self-sacrifice disappeared?It naturally would. Y. M. But here in this novel is one which seems to promise. In theAdirondack woods is a wage-earner and lay preacher in the lumber-campswho is of noble character and deeply religious. An earnest and practicallaborer in the New York slums comes up there on vacation--he is leaderof a section of the University Settlement. Holme, the lumberman, isfired with a desire to throw away his excellent worldly prospects andgo down and save souls on the East Side. He counts it happiness to makethis sacrifice for the glory of God and for the cause of Christ. Heresigns his place, makes the sacrifice cheerfully, and goes to the EastSide and preaches Christ and Him crucified every day and every night tolittle groups of half-civilized foreign paupers who scoff at him. But herejoices in the scoffings, since he is suffering them in the greatcause of Christ. You have so filled my mind with suspicions that I wasconstantly expecting to find a hidden questionable impulse back of allthis, but I am thankful to say I have failed. This man saw his duty, andfor DUTY'S SAKE he sacrificed self and assumed the burden it imposed. O. M. Is that as far as you have read? Y. M. Yes. O. M. Let us read further, presently. Meantime, in sacrificinghimself--NOT for the glory of God, PRIMARILY, as HE imagined, butFIRST to content that exacting and inflexible master within him--DID HESACRIFICE ANYBODY ELSE? Y. M. How do you mean? O. M. He relinquished a lucrative post and got mere food and lodging inplace of it. Had he dependents? Y. M. Well--yes. O. M. In what way and to what extend did his self-sacrifice affect THEM? Y. M. He was the support of a superannuated father. He had a young sisterwith a remarkable voice--he was giving her a musical education, so thather longing to be self-supporting might be gratified. He was furnishingthe money to put a young brother through a polytechnic school andsatisfy his desire to become a civil engineer. O. M. The old father's comforts were now curtailed? Y. M. Quite seriously. Yes. O. M. The sister's music-lessens had to stop? Y. M. Yes. O. M. The young brother's education--well, an extinguishing blight fellupon that happy dream, and he had to go to sawing wood to support theold father, or something like that? Y. M. It is about what happened. Yes. O. M. What a handsome job of self-sacrificing he did do! It seems to methat he sacrificed everybody EXCEPT himself. Haven't I told you that noman EVER sacrifices himself; that there is no instance of it upon recordanywhere; and that when a man's Interior Monarch requires a thing of itsslave for either its MOMENTARY or its PERMANENT contentment, that thingmust and will be furnished and that command obeyed, no matter who maystand in the way and suffer disaster by it? That man RUINED HIS FAMILYto please and content his Interior Monarch-- Y. M. And help Christ's cause. O. M. Yes--SECONDLY. Not firstly. HE thought it was firstly. Y. M. Very well, have it so, if you will. But it could be that he arguedthat if he saved a hundred souls in New York-- O. M. The sacrifice of the FAMILY would be justified by that great profitupon the--the--what shall we call it? Y. M. Investment? O. M. Hardly. How would SPECULATION do? How would GAMBLE do? Nota solitary soul-capture was sure. He played for a possiblethirty-three-hundred-per-cent profit. It was GAMBLING--with his familyfor "chips. " However let us see how the game came out. Maybe we canget on the track of the secret original impulse, the REAL impulse, thatmoved him to so nobly self-sacrifice his family in the Savior's causeunder the superstition that he was sacrificing himself. I will read achapter or so.... Here we have it! It was bound to expose itself sooneror later. He preached to the East-Side rabble a season, then went backto his old dull, obscure life in the lumber-camps "HURT TO THE HEART, HIS PRIDE HUMBLED. " Why? Were not his efforts acceptable to the Savior, for Whom alone they were made? Dear me, that detail is LOST SIGHT OF, is not even referred to, the fact that it started out as a motiveis entirely forgotten! Then what is the trouble? The authoress quiteinnocently and unconsciously gives the whole business away. Thetrouble was this: this man merely PREACHED to the poor; that is not theUniversity Settlement's way; it deals in larger and better things thanthat, and it did not enthuse over that crude Salvation-Army eloquence. It was courteous to Holme--but cool. It did not pet him, did not takehim to its bosom. "PERISHED WERE ALL HIS DREAMS OF DISTINCTION, THEPRAISE AND GRATEFUL APPROVAL--" Of whom? The Savior? No; the Savior isnot mentioned. Of whom, then? Of "His FELLOW-WORKERS. " Why did he wantthat? Because the Master inside of him wanted it, and would not becontent without it. That emphasized sentence quoted above, reveals thesecret we have been seeking, the original impulse, the REAL impulse, which moved the obscure and unappreciated Adirondack lumberman tosacrifice his family and go on that crusade to the East Side--which saidoriginal impulse was this, to wit: without knowing it HE WENT THERE TOSHOW A NEGLECTED WORLD THE LARGE TALENT THAT WAS IN HIM, AND RISE TODISTINCTION. As I have warned you before, NO act springs from any butthe one law, the one motive. But I pray you, do not accept this law uponmy say-so; but diligently examine for yourself. Whenever you read of aself-sacrificing act or hear of one, or of a duty done for DUTY'S SAKE, take it to pieces and look for the REAL motive. It is always there. Y. M. I do it every day. I cannot help it, now that I have gottenstarted upon the degrading and exasperating quest. For it is hatefullyinteresting!--in fact, fascinating is the word. As soon as I come acrossa golden deed in a book I have to stop and take it apart and examine it, I cannot help myself. O. M. Have you ever found one that defeated the rule? Y. M. No--at least, not yet. But take the case of servant-tipping inEurope. You pay the HOTEL for service; you owe the servants NOTHING, yetyou pay them besides. Doesn't that defeat it? O. M. In what way? Y. M. You are not OBLIGED to do it, therefore its source is compassionfor their ill-paid condition, and-- O. M. Has that custom ever vexed you, annoyed you, irritated you? Y. M. Well, yes. O. M. Still you succumbed to it? Y. M. Of course. O. M. Why of course? Y. M. Well, custom is law, in a way, and laws must be submittedto--everybody recognizes it as a DUTY. O. M. Then you pay for the irritating tax for DUTY'S sake? Y. M. I suppose it amounts to that. O. M. Then the impulse which moves you to submit to the tax is not ALLcompassion, charity, benevolence? Y. M. Well--perhaps not. O. M. Is ANY of it? Y. M. I--perhaps I was too hasty in locating its source. O. M. Perhaps so. In case you ignored the custom would you get prompt andeffective service from the servants? Y. M. Oh, hear yourself talk! Those European servants? Why, you wouldn'tget any of all, to speak of. O. M. Couldn't THAT work as an impulse to move you to pay the tax? Y. M. I am not denying it. O. M. Apparently, then, it is a case of for-duty's-sake with a littleself-interest added? Y. M. Yes, it has the look of it. But here is a point: we pay that taxknowing it to be unjust and an extortion; yet we go away with a pain atthe heart if we think we have been stingy with the poor fellows; and weheartily wish we were back again, so that we could do the right thing, and MORE than the right thing, the GENEROUS thing. I think it will bedifficult for you to find any thought of self in that impulse. O. M. I wonder why you should think so. When you find service charged inthe HOTEL bill does it annoy you? Y. M. No. O. M. Do you ever complain of the amount of it? Y. M. No, it would not occur to me. O. M. The EXPENSE, then, is not the annoying detail. It is a fixedcharge, and you pay it cheerfully, you pay it without a murmur. When youcame to pay the servants, how would you like it if each of the men andmaids had a fixed charge? Y. M. Like it? I should rejoice! O. M. Even if the fixed tax were a shade MORE than you had been in thehabit of paying in the form of tips? Y. M. Indeed, yes! O. M. Very well, then. As I understand it, it isn't really compassion noryet duty that moves you to pay the tax, and it isn't the AMOUNT of thetax that annoys you. Yet SOMETHING annoys you. What is it? Y. M. Well, the trouble is, you never know WHAT to pay, the tax variesso, all over Europe. O. M. So you have to guess? Y. M. There is no other way. So you go on thinking and thinking, andcalculating and guessing, and consulting with other people and gettingtheir views; and it spoils your sleep nights, and makes you distraughtin the daytime, and while you are pretending to look at the sights youare only guessing and guessing and guessing all the time, and beingworried and miserable. O. M. And all about a debt which you don't owe and don't have to payunless you want to! Strange. What is the purpose of the guessing? Y. M. To guess out what is right to give them, and not be unfair to anyof them. O. M. It has quite a noble look--taking so much pains and using up somuch valuable time in order to be just and fair to a poor servant towhom you owe nothing, but who needs money and is ill paid. Y. M. I think, myself, that if there is any ungracious motive back of itit will be hard to find. O. M. How do you know when you have not paid a servant fairly? Y. M. Why, he is silent; does not thank you. Sometimes he gives you alook that makes you ashamed. You are too proud to rectify your mistakethere, with people looking, but afterward you keep on wishing andwishing you HAD done it. My, the shame and the pain of it! Sometimes yousee, by the signs, that you have it JUST RIGHT, and you go away mightilysatisfied. Sometimes the man is so effusively thankful that you know youhave given him a good deal MORE than was necessary. O. M. NECESSARY? Necessary for what? Y. M. To content him. O. M. How do you feel THEN? Y. M. Repentant. O. M. It is my belief that you have NOT been concerning yourself inguessing out his just dues, but only in ciphering out what would CONTENThim. And I think you have a self-deluding reason for that. Y. M. What was it? O. M. If you fell short of what he was expecting and wanting, you wouldget a look which would SHAME YOU BEFORE FOLK. That would give you PAIN. YOU--for you are only working for yourself, not HIM. If you gave him toomuch you would be ASHAMED OF YOURSELF for it, and that would give YOUpain--another case of thinking of YOURSELF, protecting yourself, SAVINGYOURSELF FROM DISCOMFORT. You never think of the servant once--exceptto guess out how to get HIS APPROVAL. If you get that, you get your OWNapproval, and that is the sole and only thing you are after. The Masterinside of you is then satisfied, contented, comfortable; there was NOOTHER thing at stake, as a matter of FIRST interest, anywhere in thetransaction. Further Instances Y. M. Well, to think of it; Self-Sacrifice for others, the grandest thingin man, ruled out! non-existent! O. M. Are you accusing me of saying that? Y. M. Why, certainly. O. M. I haven't said it. Y. M. What did you say, then? O. M. That no man has ever sacrificed himself in the common meaning ofthat phrase--which is, self-sacrifice for another ALONE. Men make dailysacrifices for others, but it is for their own sake FIRST. The act mustcontent their own spirit FIRST. The other beneficiaries come second. Y. M. And the same with duty for duty's sake? O. M. Yes. No man performs a duty for mere duty's sake; the act mustcontent his spirit FIRST. He must feel better for DOING the duty than hewould for shirking it. Otherwise he will not do it. Y. M. Take the case of the BERKELEY CASTLE. O. M. It was a noble duty, greatly performed. Take it to pieces andexamine it, if you like. Y. M. A British troop-ship crowded with soldiers and their wives andchildren. She struck a rock and began to sink. There was room in theboats for the women and children only. The colonel lined up his regimenton the deck and said "it is our duty to die, that they may be saved. "There was no murmur, no protest. The boats carried away the women andchildren. When the death-moment was come, the colonel and his officerstook their several posts, the men stood at shoulder-arms, and so, as ondress-parade, with their flag flying and the drums beating, they wentdown, a sacrifice to duty for duty's sake. Can you view it as other thanthat? O. M. It was something as fine as that, as exalted as that. Couldyou have remained in those ranks and gone down to your death in thatunflinching way? Y. M. Could I? No, I could not. O. M. Think. Imagine yourself there, with that watery doom creepinghigher and higher around you. Y. M. I can imagine it. I feel all the horror of it. I could not haveendured it, I could not have remained in my place. I know it. O. M. Why? Y. M. There is no why about it: I know myself, and I know I couldn't DOit. O. M. But it would be your DUTY to do it. Y. M. Yes, I know--but I couldn't. O. M. It was more than thousand men, yet not one of them flinched. Someof them must have been born with your temperament; if they could do thatgreat duty for duty's SAKE, why not you? Don't you know that you couldgo out and gather together a thousand clerks and mechanics and put themon that deck and ask them to die for duty's sake, and not two dozen ofthem would stay in the ranks to the end? Y. M. Yes, I know that. O. M. But you TRAIN them, and put them through a campaign or two; thenthey would be soldiers; soldiers, with a soldier's pride, a soldier'sself-respect, a soldier's ideals. They would have to content a SOLDIER'Sspirit then, not a clerk's, not a mechanic's. They could not contentthat spirit by shirking a soldier's duty, could they? Y. M. I suppose not. O. M. Then they would do the duty not for the DUTY'S sake, but for theirOWN sake--primarily. The DUTY was JUST THE SAME, and just as imperative, when they were clerks, mechanics, raw recruits, but they wouldn'tperform it for that. As clerks and mechanics they had other ideals, another spirit to satisfy, and they satisfied it. They HAD to; it isthe law. TRAINING is potent. Training toward higher and higher, and everhigher ideals is worth any man's thought and labor and diligence. Y. M. Consider the man who stands by his duty and goes to the stakerather than be recreant to it. O. M. It is his make and his training. He has to content the spirit thatis in him, though it cost him his life. Another man, just as sincerelyreligious, but of different temperament, will fail of that duty, thoughrecognizing it as a duty, and grieving to be unequal to it: but hemust content the spirit that is in him--he cannot help it. He couldnot perform that duty for duty's SAKE, for that would not content hisspirit, and the contenting of his spirit must be looked to FIRST. Ittakes precedence of all other duties. Y. M. Take the case of a clergyman of stainless private morals who votesfor a thief for public office, on his own party's ticket, and against anhonest man on the other ticket. O. M. He has to content his spirit. He has no public morals; he has noprivate ones, where his party's prosperity is at stake. He will alwaysbe true to his make and training. IV Training Young Man. You keep using that word--training. By it do you particularlymean-- Old Man. Study, instruction, lectures, sermons? That is a part ofit--but not a large part. I mean ALL the outside influences. There area million of them. From the cradle to the grave, during all his wakinghours, the human being is under training. In the very first rank ofhis trainers stands ASSOCIATION. It is his human environment whichinfluences his mind and his feelings, furnishes him his ideals, and setshim on his road and keeps him in it. If he leave that road he will findhimself shunned by the people whom he most loves and esteems, and whoseapproval he most values. He is a chameleon; by the law of his nature hetakes the color of his place of resort. The influences about him createhis preferences, his aversions, his politics, his tastes, his morals, his religion. He creates none of these things for himself. He THINKS hedoes, but that is because he has not examined into the matter. You haveseen Presbyterians? Y. M. Many. O. M. How did they happen to be Presbyterians and not Congregationalists?And why were the Congregationalists not Baptists, and the Baptists RomanCatholics, and the Roman Catholics Buddhists, and the Buddhists Quakers, and the Quakers Episcopalians, and the Episcopalians Millerites andthe Millerites Hindus, and the Hindus Atheists, and the AtheistsSpiritualists, and the Spiritualists Agnostics, and the AgnosticsMethodists, and the Methodists Confucians, and the ConfuciansUnitarians, and the Unitarians Mohammedans, and the MohammedansSalvation Warriors, and the Salvation Warriors Zoroastrians, andthe Zoroastrians Christian Scientists, and the Christian ScientistsMormons--and so on? Y. M. You may answer your question yourself. O. M. That list of sects is not a record of STUDIES, searchings, seekingsafter light; it mainly (and sarcastically) indicates what ASSOCIATIONcan do. If you know a man's nationality you can come within a splithair of guessing the complexion of his religion: English--Protestant;American--ditto; Spaniard, Frenchman, Irishman, Italian, SouthAmerican--Roman Catholic; Russian--Greek Catholic; Turk--Mohammedan; andso on. And when you know the man's religious complexion, you know whatsort of religious books he reads when he wants some more light, andwhat sort of books he avoids, lest by accident he get more light than hewants. In America if you know which party-collar a voter wears, you knowwhat his associations are, and how he came by his politics, and whichbreed of newspaper he reads to get light, and which breed he diligentlyavoids, and which breed of mass-meetings he attends in order to broadenhis political knowledge, and which breed of mass-meetings he doesn'tattend, except to refute its doctrines with brickbats. We are alwayshearing of people who are around SEEKING AFTER TRUTH. I have never seena (permanent) specimen. I think he had never lived. But I have seenseveral entirely sincere people who THOUGHT they were (permanent)Seekers after Truth. They sought diligently, persistently, carefully, cautiously, profoundly, with perfect honesty and nicely adjustedjudgment--until they believed that without doubt or question they hadfound the Truth. THAT WAS THE END OF THE SEARCH. The man spent the restof his life hunting up shingles wherewith to protect his Truth from theweather. If he was seeking after political Truth he found it in one oranother of the hundred political gospels which govern men in the earth;if he was seeking after the Only True Religion he found it in one oranother of the three thousand that are on the market. In any case, whenhe found the Truth HE SOUGHT NO FURTHER; but from that day forth, withhis soldering-iron in one hand and his bludgeon in the other he tinkeredits leaks and reasoned with objectors. There have been innumerableTemporary Seekers of Truth--have you ever heard of a permanent one? Inthe very nature of man such a person is impossible. However, to dropback to the text--training: all training is one from or another ofOUTSIDE INFLUENCE, and ASSOCIATION is the largest part of it. A man isnever anything but what his outside influences have made him. They trainhim downward or they train him upward--but they TRAIN him; they are atwork upon him all the time. Y. M. Then if he happen by the accidents of life to be evilly placedthere is no help for him, according to your notions--he must traindownward. O. M. No help for him? No help for this chameleon? It is a mistake. It isin his chameleonship that his greatest good fortune lies. He has only tochange his habitat--his ASSOCIATIONS. But the impulse to do it must comefrom the OUTSIDE--he cannot originate it himself, with that purpose inview. Sometimes a very small and accidental thing can furnish him theinitiatory impulse and start him on a new road, with a new idea. Thechance remark of a sweetheart, "I hear that you are a coward, " may watera seed that shall sprout and bloom and flourish, and ended in producinga surprising fruitage--in the fields of war. The history of man is fullof such accidents. The accident of a broken leg brought a profane andribald soldier under religious influences and furnished him a new ideal. From that accident sprang the Order of the Jesuits, and it has beenshaking thrones, changing policies, and doing other tremendous work fortwo hundred years--and will go on. The chance reading of a book or ofa paragraph in a newspaper can start a man on a new track and make himrenounce his old associations and seek new ones that are IN SYMPATHYWITH HIS NEW IDEAL: and the result, for that man, can be an entirechange of his way of life. Y. M. Are you hinting at a scheme of procedure? O. M. Not a new one--an old one. Old as mankind. Y. M. What is it? O. M. Merely the laying of traps for people. Traps baited with INITIATORYIMPULSES TOWARD HIGH IDEALS. It is what the tract-distributor does. Itis what the missionary does. It is what governments ought to do. Y. M. Don't they? O. M. In one way they do, in another they don't. They separate thesmallpox patients from the healthy people, but in dealing with crimethey put the healthy into the pest-house along with the sick. That is tosay, they put the beginners in with the confirmed criminals. This wouldbe well if man were naturally inclined to good, but he isn't, and soASSOCIATION makes the beginners worse than they were when they went intocaptivity. It is putting a very severe punishment upon the comparativelyinnocent at times. They hang a man--which is a trifling punishment; thisbreaks the hearts of his family--which is a heavy one. They comfortablyjail and feed a wife-beater, and leave his innocent wife and family tostarve. Y. M. Do you believe in the doctrine that man is equipped with anintuitive perception of good and evil? O. M. Adam hadn't it. Y. M. But has man acquired it since? O. M. No. I think he has no intuitions of any kind. He gets ALL hisideas, all his impressions, from the outside. I keep repeating this, inthe hope that I may impress it upon you that you will be interested toobserve and examine for yourself and see whether it is true or false. Y. M. Where did you get your own aggravating notions? O. M. From the OUTSIDE. I did not invent them. They are gathered from athousand unknown sources. Mainly UNCONSCIOUSLY gathered. Y. M. Don't you believe that God could make an inherently honest man? O. M. Yes, I know He could. I also know that He never did make one. Y. M. A wiser observer than you has recorded the fact that "an honestman's the noblest work of God. " O. M. He didn't record a fact, he recorded a falsity. It is windy, and sounds well, but it is not true. God makes a man with honest anddishonest POSSIBILITIES in him and stops there. The man's ASSOCIATIONSdevelop the possibilities--the one set or the other. The result isaccordingly an honest man or a dishonest one. Y. M. And the honest one is not entitled to-- O. M. Praise? No. How often must I tell you that? HE is not the architectof his honesty. Y. M. Now then, I will ask you where there is any sense in trainingpeople to lead virtuous lives. What is gained by it? O. M. The man himself gets large advantages out of it, and that is themain thing--to HIM. He is not a peril to his neighbors, he is not adamage to them--and so THEY get an advantage out of his virtues. That isthe main thing to THEM. It can make this life comparatively comfortableto the parties concerned; the NEGLECT of this training can make thislife a constant peril and distress to the parties concerned. Y. M. You have said that training is everything; that training is the manHIMSELF, for it makes him what he is. O. M. I said training and ANOTHER thing. Let that other thing pass, forthe moment. What were you going to say? Y. M. We have an old servant. She has been with us twenty-two years. Herservice used to be faultless, but now she has become very forgetful. Weare all fond of her; we all recognize that she cannot help the infirmitywhich age has brought her; the rest of the family do not scold her forher remissnesses, but at times I do--I can't seem to control myself. Don't I try? I do try. Now, then, when I was ready to dress, thismorning, no clean clothes had been put out. I lost my temper; I lose iteasiest and quickest in the early morning. I rang; and immediately beganto warn myself not to show temper, and to be careful and speak gently. I safe-guarded myself most carefully. I even chose the very word I woulduse: "You've forgotten the clean clothes, Jane. " When she appeared inthe door I opened my mouth to say that phrase--and out of it, moved byan instant surge of passion which I was not expecting and hadn't time toput under control, came the hot rebuke, "You've forgotten them again!"You say a man always does the thing which will best please his InteriorMaster. Whence came the impulse to make careful preparation to save thegirl the humiliation of a rebuke? Did that come from the Master, who isalways primarily concerned about HIMSELF? O. M. Unquestionably. There is no other source for any impulse. SECONDARILY you made preparation to save the girl, but PRIMARILY itsobject was to save yourself, by contenting the Master. Y. M. How do you mean? O. M. Has any member of the family ever implored you to watch your temperand not fly out at the girl? Y. M. Yes. My mother. O. M. You love her? Y. M. Oh, more than that! O. M. You would always do anything in your power to please her? Y. M. It is a delight to me to do anything to please her! O. M. Why? YOU WOULD DO IT FOR PAY, SOLELY--for PROFIT. What profit wouldyou expect and certainly receive from the investment? Y. M. Personally? None. To please HER is enough. O. M. It appears, then, that your object, primarily, WASN'T to save thegirl a humiliation, but to PLEASE YOUR MOTHER. It also appears that toplease your mother gives YOU a strong pleasure. Is not that the profitwhich you get out of the investment? Isn't that the REAL profits andFIRST profit? Y. M. Oh, well? Go on. O. M. In ALL transactions, the Interior Master looks to it that YOU GETTHE FIRST PROFIT. Otherwise there is no transaction. Y. M. Well, then, if I was so anxious to get that profit and so intentupon it, why did I threw it away by losing my temper? O. M. In order to get ANOTHER profit which suddenly superseded it invalue. Y. M. Where was it? O. M. Ambushed behind your born temperament, and waiting for a chance. Your native warm temper suddenly jumped to the front, and FOR THE MOMENTits influence was more powerful than your mother's, and abolished it. Inthat instance you were eager to flash out a hot rebuke and enjoy it. Youdid enjoy it, didn't you? Y. M. For--for a quarter of a second. Yes--I did. O. M. Very well, it is as I have said: the thing which will give you theMOST pleasure, the most satisfaction, in any moment or FRACTION of amoment, is the thing you will always do. You must content the Master'sLATEST whim, whatever it may be. Y. M. But when the tears came into the old servant's eyes I could havecut my hand off for what I had done. O. M. Right. You had humiliated YOURSELF, you see, you had given yourselfPAIN. Nothing is of FIRST importance to a man except results whichdamage HIM or profit him--all the rest is SECONDARY. Your Master wasdispleased with you, although you had obeyed him. He required a promptREPENTANCE; you obeyed again; you HAD to--there is never any escape fromhis commands. He is a hard master and fickle; he changes his mind in thefraction of a second, but you must be ready to obey, and you will obey, ALWAYS. If he requires repentance, you content him, you will alwaysfurnish it. He must be nursed, petted, coddled, and kept contented, letthe terms be what they may. Y. M. Training! Oh, what's the use of it? Didn't I, and didn't my mothertry to train me up to where I would no longer fly out at that girl? O. M. Have you never managed to keep back a scolding? Y. M. Oh, certainly--many times. O. M. More times this year than last? Y. M. Yes, a good many more. O. M. More times last year than the year before? Y. M. Yes. O. M. There is a large improvement, then, in the two years? Y. M. Yes, undoubtedly. O. M. Then your question is answered. You see there IS use in training. Keep on. Keeping faithfully on. You are doing well. Y. M. Will my reform reach perfection? O. M. It will. UP to YOUR limit. Y. M. My limit? What do you mean by that? O. M. You remember that you said that I said training was EVERYTHING. Icorrected you, and said "training and ANOTHER thing. " That other thingis TEMPERAMENT--that is, the disposition you were born with. YOUCAN'T ERADICATE YOUR DISPOSITION NOR ANY RAG OF IT--you can only put apressure on it and keep it down and quiet. You have a warm temper? Y. M. Yes. O. M. You will never get rid of it; but by watching it you can keep itdown nearly all the time. ITS PRESENCE IS YOUR LIMIT. Your reform willnever quite reach perfection, for your temper will beat you now andthen, but you come near enough. You have made valuable progress and canmake more. There IS use in training. Immense use. Presently you willreach a new stage of development, then your progress will be easier;will proceed on a simpler basis, anyway. Y. M. Explain. O. M. You keep back your scoldings now, to please YOURSELF by pleasingyour MOTHER; presently the mere triumphing over your temper will delightyour vanity and confer a more delicious pleasure and satisfaction uponyou than even the approbation of your MOTHER confers upon you now. Youwill then labor for yourself directly and at FIRST HAND, not by theroundabout way through your mother. It simplifies the matter, and italso strengthens the impulse. Y. M. Ah, dear! But I sha'n't ever reach the point where I will spare thegirl for HER sake PRIMARILY, not mine? O. M. Why--yes. In heaven. Y. M. (AFTER A REFLECTIVE PAUSE) Temperament. Well, I see one mustallow for temperament. It is a large factor, sure enough. My mother isthoughtful, and not hot-tempered. When I was dressed I went to her room;she was not there; I called, she answered from the bathroom. I heard thewater running. I inquired. She answered, without temper, that Jane hadforgotten her bath, and she was preparing it herself. I offered toring, but she said, "No, don't do that; it would only distress her tobe confronted with her lapse, and would be a rebuke; she doesn't deservethat--she is not to blame for the tricks her memory serves her. " Isay--has my mother an Interior Master?--and where was he? O. M. He was there. There, and looking out for his own peace and pleasureand contentment. The girl's distress would have pained YOUR MOTHER. Otherwise the girl would have been rung up, distress and all. I knowwomen who would have gotten a No. 1 PLEASURE out of ringing Jane up--andso they would infallibly have pushed the button and obeyed the lawof their make and training, which are the servants of their InteriorMasters. It is quite likely that a part of your mother's forbearancecame from training. The GOOD kind of training--whose best and highestfunction is to see to it that every time it confers a satisfaction uponits pupil a benefit shall fall at second hand upon others. Y. M. If you were going to condense into an admonition your plan for thegeneral betterment of the race's condition, how would you word it? Admonition O. M. Diligently train your ideals UPWARD and STILL UPWARD toward asummit where you will find your chiefest pleasure in conduct which, while contenting you, will be sure to confer benefits upon your neighborand the community. Y. M. Is that a new gospel? O. M. No. Y. M. It has been taught before? O. M. For ten thousand years. Y. M. By whom? O. M. All the great religions--all the great gospels. Y. M. Then there is nothing new about it? O. M. Oh yes, there is. It is candidly stated, this time. That has notbeen done before. Y. M. How do you mean? O. M. Haven't I put YOU FIRST, and your neighbor and the communityAFTERWARD? Y. M. Well, yes, that is a difference, it is true. O. M. The difference between straight speaking and crooked; thedifference between frankness and shuffling. Y. M. Explain. O. M. The others offer your a hundred bribes to be good, thus concedingthat the Master inside of you must be conciliated and contented first, and that you will do nothing at FIRST HAND but for his sake; then theyturn square around and require you to do good for OTHER'S sake CHIEFLY;and to do your duty for duty's SAKE, chiefly; and to do acts ofSELF-SACRIFICE. Thus at the outset we all stand upon the sameground--recognition of the supreme and absolute Monarch that resides inman, and we all grovel before him and appeal to him; then those othersdodge and shuffle, and face around and unfrankly and inconsistently andillogically change the form of their appeal and direct its persuasionsto man's SECOND-PLACE powers and to powers which have NO EXISTENCE inhim, thus advancing them to FIRST place; whereas in my Admonition Istick logically and consistently to the original position: I place theInterior Master's requirements FIRST, and keep them there. Y. M. If we grant, for the sake of argument, that your scheme and theother schemes aim at and produce the same result--RIGHT LIVING--hasyours an advantage over the others? O. M. One, yes--a large one. It has no concealments, no deceptions. Whena man leads a right and valuable life under it he is not deceived as tothe REAL chief motive which impels him to it--in those other cases heis. Y. M. Is that an advantage? Is it an advantage to live a lofty life fora mean reason? In the other cases he lives the lofty life underthe IMPRESSION that he is living for a lofty reason. Is not that anadvantage? O. M. Perhaps so. The same advantage he might get out of thinkinghimself a duke, and living a duke's life and parading in ducal fussand feathers, when he wasn't a duke at all, and could find it out if hewould only examine the herald's records. Y. M. But anyway, he is obliged to do a duke's part; he puts his hand inhis pocket and does his benevolences on as big a scale as he can stand, and that benefits the community. O. M. He could do that without being a duke. Y. M. But would he? O. M. Don't you see where you are arriving? Y. M. Where? O. M. At the standpoint of the other schemes: That it is good moralsto let an ignorant duke do showy benevolences for his pride's sake, apretty low motive, and go on doing them unwarned, lest if he were madeacquainted with the actual motive which prompted them he might shut uphis purse and cease to be good? Y. M. But isn't it best to leave him in ignorance, as long as he THINKShe is doing good for others' sake? O. M. Perhaps so. It is the position of the other schemes. They thinkhumbug is good enough morals when the dividend on it is good deeds andhandsome conduct. Y. M. It is my opinion that under your scheme of a man's doing a gooddeed for his OWN sake first-off, instead of first for the GOOD DEED'Ssake, no man would ever do one. O. M. Have you committed a benevolence lately? Y. M. Yes. This morning. O. M. Give the particulars. Y. M. The cabin of the old negro woman who used to nurse me when I was achild and who saved my life once at the risk of her own, was burned lastnight, and she came mourning this morning, and pleading for money tobuild another one. O. M. You furnished it? Y. M. Certainly. O. M. You were glad you had the money? Y. M. Money? I hadn't. I sold my horse. O. M. You were glad you had the horse? Y. M. Of course I was; for if I hadn't had the horse I should have beenincapable, and my MOTHER would have captured the chance to set old Sallyup. O. M. You were cordially glad you were not caught out and incapable? Y. M. Oh, I just was! O. M. Now, then-- Y. M. Stop where you are! I know your whole catalog of questions, andI could answer every one of them without your wasting the time to askthem; but I will summarize the whole thing in a single remark: I didthe charity knowing it was because the act would give ME a splendidpleasure, and because old Sally's moving gratitude and delight wouldgive ME another one; and because the reflection that she would be happynow and out of her trouble would fill ME full of happiness. I did thewhole thing with my eyes open and recognizing and realizing that Iwas looking out for MY share of the profits FIRST. Now then, I haveconfessed. Go on. O. M. I haven't anything to offer; you have covered the whole ground. Can you have been any MORE strongly moved to help Sally out of hertrouble--could you have done the deed any more eagerly--if you had beenunder the delusion that you were doing it for HER sake and profit only? Y. M. No! Nothing in the world could have made the impulse which movedme more powerful, more masterful, more thoroughly irresistible. I playedthe limit! O. M. Very well. You begin to suspect--and I claim to KNOW--that whena man is a shade MORE STRONGLY MOVED to do ONE of two things or of twodozen things than he is to do any one of the OTHERS, he will infalliblydo that ONE thing, be it good or be it evil; and if it be good, not allthe beguilements of all the casuistries can increase the strength of theimpulse by a single shade or add a shade to the comfort and contentmenthe will get out of the act. Y. M. Then you believe that such tendency toward doing good as is inmen's hearts would not be diminished by the removal of the delusion thatgood deeds are done primarily for the sake of No. 2 instead of for thesake of No. 1? O. M. That is what I fully believe. Y. M. Doesn't it somehow seem to take from the dignity of the deed? O. M. If there is dignity in falsity, it does. It removes that. Y. M. What is left for the moralists to do? O. M. Teach unreservedly what he already teaches with one side of hismouth and takes back with the other: Do right FOR YOUR OWN SAKE, and behappy in knowing that your NEIGHBOR will certainly share in the benefitsresulting. Y. M. Repeat your Admonition. O. M. DILIGENTLY TRAIN YOUR IDEALS UPWARD AND STILL UPWARD TOWARD ASUMMIT WHERE YOU WILL FIND YOUR CHIEFEST PLEASURE IN CONDUCT WHICH, WHILE CONTENTING YOU, WILL BE SURE TO CONFER BENEFITS UPON YOUR NEIGHBORAND THE COMMUNITY. Y. M. One's EVERY act proceeds from EXTERIOR INFLUENCES, you think? O. M. Yes. Y. M. If I conclude to rob a person, I am not the ORIGINATOR of theidea, but it comes in from the OUTSIDE? I see him handling money--forinstance--and THAT moves me to the crime? O. M. That, by itself? Oh, certainly not. It is merely the LATEST outsideinfluence of a procession of preparatory influences stretching back overa period of years. No SINGLE outside influence can make a man do a thingwhich is at war with his training. The most it can do is to start hismind on a new tract and open it to the reception of NEW influences--asin the case of Ignatius Loyola. In time these influences can train himto a point where it will be consonant with his new character to yieldto the FINAL influence and do that thing. I will put the case in a formwhich will make my theory clear to you, I think. Here are two ingots ofvirgin gold. They shall represent a couple of characters which havebeen refined and perfected in the virtues by years of diligentright training. Suppose you wanted to break down these strong andwell-compacted characters--what influence would you bring to bear uponthe ingots? Y. M. Work it out yourself. Proceed. O. M. Suppose I turn upon one of them a steam-jet during a longsuccession of hours. Will there be a result? Y. M. None that I know of. O. M. Why? Y. M. A steam-jet cannot break down such a substance. O. M. Very well. The steam is an OUTSIDE INFLUENCE, but it is ineffectivebecause the gold TAKES NO INTEREST IN IT. The ingot remains as it was. Suppose we add to the steam some quicksilver in a vaporized condition, and turn the jet upon the ingot, will there be an instantaneous result? Y. M. No. O. M. The QUICKSILVER is an outside influence which gold (by its peculiarnature--say TEMPERAMENT, DISPOSITION) CANNOT BE INDIFFERENT TO. Itstirs up the interest of the gold, although we do not perceive it; but aSINGLE application of the influence works no damage. Let us continue theapplication in a steady stream, and call each minute a year. By theend of ten or twenty minutes--ten or twenty years--the little ingotis sodden with quicksilver, its virtues are gone, its character isdegraded. At last it is ready to yield to a temptation which it wouldhave taken no notice of, ten or twenty years ago. We will apply thattemptation in the form of a pressure of my finger. You note the result? Y. M. Yes; the ingot has crumbled to sand. I understand, now. It is notthe SINGLE outside influence that does the work, but only the LAST oneof a long and disintegrating accumulation of them. I see, now, how mySINGLE impulse to rob the man is not the one that makes me do it, butonly the LAST one of a preparatory series. You might illustrate with aparable. A Parable O. M. I will. There was once a pair of New England boys--twins. They werealike in good dispositions, feckless morals, and personal appearance. They were the models of the Sunday-school. At fifteen George had theopportunity to go as cabin-boy in a whale-ship, and sailed away for thePacific. Henry remained at home in the village. At eighteen George wasa sailor before the mast, and Henry was teacher of the advanced Bibleclass. At twenty-two George, through fighting-habits and drinking-habitsacquired at sea and in the sailor boarding-houses of the European andOriental ports, was a common rough in Hong-Kong, and out of a job; andHenry was superintendent of the Sunday-school. At twenty-six George wasa wanderer, a tramp, and Henry was pastor of the village church. ThenGeorge came home, and was Henry's guest. One evening a man passed by andturned down the lane, and Henry said, with a pathetic smile, "Withoutintending me a discomfort, that man is always keeping me reminded of mypinching poverty, for he carries heaps of money about him, and goesby here every evening of his life. " That OUTSIDE INFLUENCE--thatremark--was enough for George, but IT was not the one that made himambush the man and rob him, it merely represented the eleven years'accumulation of such influences, and gave birth to the act for whichtheir long gestation had made preparation. It had never entered the headof Henry to rob the man--his ingot had been subjected to clean steamonly; but George's had been subjected to vaporized quicksilver. V More About the Machine Note. --When Mrs. W. Asks how can a millionaire give a single dollar tocolleges and museums while one human being is destitute of bread, shehas answered her question herself. Her feeling for the poor showsthat she has a standard of benevolence; there she has conceded themillionaire's privilege of having a standard; since she evidentlyrequires him to adopt her standard, she is by that act requiring herselfto adopt his. The human being always looks down when he is examininganother person's standard; he never find one that he has to examine bylooking up. The Man-Machine Again Young Man. You really think man is a mere machine? Old Man. I do. Y. M. And that his mind works automatically and is independent of hiscontrol--carries on thought on its own hook? O. M. Yes. It is diligently at work, unceasingly at work, during everywaking moment. Have you never tossed about all night, imploring, beseeching, commanding your mind to stop work and let you go tosleep?--you who perhaps imagine that your mind is your servant and mustobey your orders, think what you tell it to think, and stop when youtell it to stop. When it chooses to work, there is no way to keep itstill for an instant. The brightest man would not be able to supply itwith subjects if he had to hunt them up. If it needed the man's help itwould wait for him to give it work when he wakes in the morning. Y. M. Maybe it does. O. M. No, it begins right away, before the man gets wide enough awake togive it a suggestion. He may go to sleep saying, "The moment I wake Iwill think upon such and such a subject, " but he will fail. His mindwill be too quick for him; by the time he has become nearly enoughawake to be half conscious, he will find that it is already at work uponanother subject. Make the experiment and see. Y. M. At any rate, he can make it stick to a subject if he wants to. O. M. Not if it find another that suits it better. As a rule it willlisten to neither a dull speaker nor a bright one. It refuses allpersuasion. The dull speaker wearies it and sends it far away in idledreams; the bright speaker throws out stimulating ideas which it goeschasing after and is at once unconscious of him and his talk. You cannotkeep your mind from wandering, if it wants to; it is master, not you. After an Interval of Days O. M. Now, dreams--but we will examine that later. Meantime, did youtry commanding your mind to wait for orders from you, and not do anythinking on its own hook? Y. M. Yes, I commanded it to stand ready to take orders when I shouldwake in the morning. O. M. Did it obey? Y. M. No. It went to thinking of something of its own initiation, withoutwaiting for me. Also--as you suggested--at night I appointed a theme forit to begin on in the morning, and commanded it to begin on that one andno other. O. M. Did it obey? Y. M. No. O. M. How many times did you try the experiment? Y. M. Ten. O. M. How many successes did you score? Y. M. Not one. O. M. It is as I have said: the mind is independent of the man. He hasno control over it; it does as it pleases. It will take up a subjectin spite of him; it will stick to it in spite of him; it will throw itaside in spite of him. It is entirely independent of him. Y. M. Go on. Illustrate. O. M. Do you know chess? Y. M. I learned it a week ago. O. M. Did your mind go on playing the game all night that first night? Y. M. Don't mention it! O. M. It was eagerly, unsatisfiably interested; it rioted in thecombinations; you implored it to drop the game and let you get somesleep? Y. M. Yes. It wouldn't listen; it played right along. It wore me out andI got up haggard and wretched in the morning. O. M. At some time or other you have been captivated by a ridiculousrhyme-jingle? Y. M. Indeed, yes! "I saw Esau kissing Kate, And she saw I saw Esau; I saw Esau, he sawKate, And she saw--" And so on. My mind went mad with joy over it. It repeated it all dayand all night for a week in spite of all I could do to stop it, and itseemed to me that I must surely go crazy. O. M. And the new popular song? Y. M. Oh yes! "In the Swee-eet By and By"; etc. Yes, the new popular songwith the taking melody sings through one's head day and night, asleepand awake, till one is a wreck. There is no getting the mind to let italone. O. M. Yes, asleep as well as awake. The mind is quite independent. It ismaster. You have nothing to do with it. It is so apart from you thatit can conduct its affairs, sing its songs, play its chess, weave itscomplex and ingeniously constructed dreams, while you sleep. It hasno use for your help, no use for your guidance, and never uses either, whether you be asleep or awake. You have imagined that you couldoriginate a thought in your mind, and you have sincerely believed youcould do it. Y. M. Yes, I have had that idea. O. M. Yet you can't originate a dream-thought for it to work out, and getit accepted? Y. M. No. O. M. And you can't dictate its procedure after it has originated adream-thought for itself? Y. M. No. No one can do it. Do you think the waking mind and the dreammind are the same machine? O. M. There is argument for it. We have wild and fantastic day-thoughts?Things that are dream-like? Y. M. Yes--like Mr. Wells's man who invented a drug that made himinvisible; and like the Arabian tales of the Thousand Nights. O. M. And there are dreams that are rational, simple, consistent, andunfantastic? Y. M. Yes. I have dreams that are like that. Dreams that are just likereal life; dreams in which there are several persons with distinctlydifferentiated characters--inventions of my mind and yet strangersto me: a vulgar person; a refined one; a wise person; a fool; acruel person; a kind and compassionate one; a quarrelsome person; apeacemaker; old persons and young; beautiful girls and homely ones. Theytalk in character, each preserves his own characteristics. There arevivid fights, vivid and biting insults, vivid love-passages; there aretragedies and comedies, there are griefs that go to one's heart, thereare sayings and doings that make you laugh: indeed, the whole thing isexactly like real life. O. M. Your dreaming mind originates the scheme, consistently andartistically develops it, and carries the little drama creditablythrough--all without help or suggestion from you? Y. M. Yes. O. M. It is argument that it could do the like awake without help orsuggestion from you--and I think it does. It is argument that it is thesame old mind in both cases, and never needs your help. I think themind is purely a machine, a thoroughly independent machine, an automaticmachine. Have you tried the other experiment which I suggested to you? Y. M. Which one? O. M. The one which was to determine how much influence you have overyour mind--if any. Y. M. Yes, and got more or less entertainment out of it. I did as youordered: I placed two texts before my eyes--one a dull one and barrenof interest, the other one full of interest, inflamed with it, white-hotwith it. I commanded my mind to busy itself solely with the dull one. O. M. Did it obey? Y. M. Well, no, it didn't. It busied itself with the other one. O. M. Did you try hard to make it obey? Y. M. Yes, I did my honest best. O. M. What was the text which it refused to be interested in or thinkabout? Y. M. It was this question: If A owes B a dollar and a half, and B owesC two and three-quarter, and C owes A thirty-five cents, and D and Atogether owe E and B three-sixteenths of--of--I don't remember the rest, now, but anyway it was wholly uninteresting, and I could not force mymind to stick to it even half a minute at a time; it kept flying off tothe other text. O. M. What was the other text? Y. M. It is no matter about that. O. M. But what was it? Y. M. A photograph. O. M. Your own? Y. M. No. It was hers. O. M. You really made an honest good test. Did you make a second trial? Y. M. Yes. I commanded my mind to interest itself in the morning paper'sreport of the pork-market, and at the same time I reminded it of anexperience of mine of sixteen years ago. It refused to consider the porkand gave its whole blazing interest to that ancient incident. O. M. What was the incident? Y. M. An armed desperado slapped my face in the presence of twentyspectators. It makes me wild and murderous every time I think of it. O. M. Good tests, both; very good tests. Did you try my other suggestion? Y. M. The one which was to prove to me that if I would leave my mind toits own devices it would find things to think about without any of myhelp, and thus convince me that it was a machine, an automatic machine, set in motion by exterior influences, and as independent of me as itcould be if it were in some one else's skull. Is that the one? O. M. Yes. Y. M. I tried it. I was shaving. I had slept well, and my mind was verylively, even gay and frisky. It was reveling in a fantastic and joyfulepisode of my remote boyhood which had suddenly flashed up in mymemory--moved to this by the spectacle of a yellow cat picking itsway carefully along the top of the garden wall. The color of thiscat brought the bygone cat before me, and I saw her walking along theside-step of the pulpit; saw her walk on to a large sheet of stickyfly-paper and get all her feet involved; saw her struggle and falldown, helpless and dissatisfied, more and more urgent, more and moreunreconciled, more and more mutely profane; saw the silent congregationquivering like jelly, and the tears running down their faces. I sawit all. The sight of the tears whisked my mind to a far distant and asadder scene--in Terra del Fuego--and with Darwin's eyes I saw a nakedgreat savage hurl his little boy against the rocks for a trifling fault;saw the poor mother gather up her dying child and hug it to her breastand weep, uttering no word. Did my mind stop to mourn with that nudeblack sister of mine? No--it was far away from that scene in an instant, and was busying itself with an ever-recurring and disagreeable dream ofmine. In this dream I always find myself, stripped to my shirt, cringingand dodging about in the midst of a great drawing-room throng of finelydressed ladies and gentlemen, and wondering how I got there. And so onand so on, picture after picture, incident after incident, a driftingpanorama of ever-changing, ever-dissolving views manufactured by my mindwithout any help from me--why, it would take me two hours to merely namethe multitude of things my mind tallied off and photographed in fifteenminutes, let alone describe them to you. O. M. A man's mind, left free, has no use for his help. But there is oneway whereby he can get its help when he desires it. Y. M. What is that way? O. M. When your mind is racing along from subject to subject andstrikes an inspiring one, open your mouth and begin talking upon thatmatter--or--take your pen and use that. It will interest your mind andconcentrate it, and it will pursue the subject with satisfaction. Itwill take full charge, and furnish the words itself. Y. M. But don't I tell it what to say? O. M. There are certainly occasions when you haven't time. The words leapout before you know what is coming. Y. M. For instance? O. M. Well, take a "flash of wit"--repartee. Flash is the right word. It is out instantly. There is no time to arrange the words. There is nothinking, no reflecting. Where there is a wit-mechanism it is automaticin its action and needs no help. Where the wit-mechanism is lacking, noamount of study and reflection can manufacture the product. Y. M. You really think a man originates nothing, creates nothing. The Thinking-Process O. M. I do. Men perceive, and their brain-machines automatically combinethe things perceived. That is all. Y. M. The steam-engine? O. M. It takes fifty men a hundred years to invent it. One meaning ofinvent is discover. I use the word in that sense. Little by little theydiscover and apply the multitude of details that go to make the perfectengine. Watt noticed that confined steam was strong enough to lift thelid of the teapot. He didn't create the idea, he merely discovered thefact; the cat had noticed it a hundred times. From the teapot he evolvedthe cylinder--from the displaced lid he evolved the piston-rod. Toattach something to the piston-rod to be moved by it, was a simplematter--crank and wheel. And so there was a working engine. (1) One by one, improvements were discovered by men who used their eyes, not their creating powers--for they hadn't any--and now, after a hundredyears the patient contributions of fifty or a hundred observers standcompacted in the wonderful machine which drives the ocean liner. Y. M. A Shakespearean play? O. M. The process is the same. The first actor was a savage. Hereproduced in his theatrical war-dances, scalp-dances, and so on, incidents which he had seen in real life. A more advanced civilizationproduced more incidents, more episodes; the actor and the story-tellerborrowed them. And so the drama grew, little by little, stage by stage. It is made up of the facts of life, not creations. It took centuries todevelop the Greek drama. It borrowed from preceding ages; it lent to theages that came after. Men observe and combine, that is all. So does arat. Y. M. How? O. M. He observes a smell, he infers a cheese, he seeks and finds. The astronomer observes this and that; adds his this and that to thethis-and-thats of a hundred predecessors, infers an invisible planet, seeks it and finds it. The rat gets into a trap; gets out with trouble;infers that cheese in traps lacks value, and meddles with that trap nomore. The astronomer is very proud of his achievement, the rat is proudof his. Yet both are machines; they have done machine work, they haveoriginated nothing, they have no right to be vain; the whole creditbelongs to their Maker. They are entitled to no honors, no praises, nomonuments when they die, no remembrance. One is a complex and elaboratemachine, the other a simple and limited machine, but they are alike inprinciple, function, and process, and neither of them works otherwisethan automatically, and neither of them may righteously claim a PERSONALsuperiority or a personal dignity above the other. Y. M. In earned personal dignity, then, and in personal merit for what hedoes, it follows of necessity that he is on the same level as a rat? O. M. His brother the rat; yes, that is how it seems to me. Neither ofthem being entitled to any personal merit for what he does, it followsof necessity that neither of them has a right to arrogate to himself(personally created) superiorities over his brother. Y. M. Are you determined to go on believing in these insanities? Wouldyou go on believing in them in the face of able arguments backed bycollated facts and instances? O. M. I have been a humble, earnest, and sincere Truth-Seeker. Y. M. Very well? O. M. The humble, earnest, and sincere Truth-Seeker is always convertibleby such means. Y. M. I am thankful to God to hear you say this, for now I know that yourconversion-- O. M. Wait. You misunderstand. I said I have BEEN a Truth-Seeker. Y. M. Well? O. M. I am not that now. Have your forgotten? I told you that thereare none but temporary Truth-Seekers; that a permanent one is a humanimpossibility; that as soon as the Seeker finds what he is thoroughlyconvinced is the Truth, he seeks no further, but gives the rest of hisdays to hunting junk to patch it and caulk it and prop it with, andmake it weather-proof and keep it from caving in on him. Hence thePresbyterian remains a Presbyterian, the Mohammedan a Mohammedan, theSpiritualist a Spiritualist, the Democrat a Democrat, the Republican aRepublican, the Monarchist a Monarchist; and if a humble, earnest, andsincere Seeker after Truth should find it in the proposition that themoon is made of green cheese nothing could ever budge him from thatposition; for he is nothing but an automatic machine, and must obey thelaws of his construction. Y. M. After so-- O. M. Having found the Truth; perceiving that beyond question man has butone moving impulse--the contenting of his own spirit--and is merely amachine and entitled to no personal merit for anything he does, it isnot humanly possible for me to seek further. The rest of my days willbe spent in patching and painting and puttying and caulking my pricelesspossession and in looking the other way when an imploring argument or adamaging fact approaches. 1. The Marquess of Worcester had done all of this more than acentury earlier. VI Instinct and Thought Young Man. It is odious. Those drunken theories of yours, advanced awhile ago--concerning the rat and all that--strip Man bare of all hisdignities, grandeurs, sublimities. Old Man. He hasn't any to strip--they are shams, stolen clothes. Heclaims credits which belong solely to his Maker. Y. M. But you have no right to put him on a level with a rat. O. M. I don't--morally. That would not be fair to the rat. The rat iswell above him, there. Y. M. Are you joking? O. M. No, I am not. Y. M. Then what do you mean? O. M. That comes under the head of the Moral Sense. It is a largequestion. Let us finish with what we are about now, before we take itup. Y. M. Very well. You have seemed to concede that you place Man and therat on A level. What is it? The intellectual? O. M. In form--not a degree. Y. M. Explain. O. M. I think that the rat's mind and the man's mind are the samemachine, but of unequal capacities--like yours and Edison's; like theAfrican pygmy's and Homer's; like the Bushman's and Bismarck's. Y. M. How are you going to make that out, when the lower animals have nomental quality but instinct, while man possesses reason? O. M. What is instinct? Y. M. It is merely unthinking and mechanical exercise of inherited habit. O. M. What originated the habit? Y. M. The first animal started it, its descendants have inherited it. O. M. How did the first one come to start it? Y. M. I don't know; but it didn't THINK it out. O. M. How do you know it didn't? Y. M. Well--I have a right to suppose it didn't, anyway. O. M. I don't believe you have. What is thought? Y. M. I know what you call it: the mechanical and automatic puttingtogether of impressions received from outside, and drawing an inferencefrom them. O. M. Very good. Now my idea of the meaningless term "instinct" is, thatit is merely PETRIFIED THOUGHT; solidified and made inanimate by habit;thought which was once alive and awake, but it become unconscious--walksin its sleep, so to speak. Y. M. Illustrate it. O. M. Take a herd of cows, feeding in a pasture. Their heads are allturned in one direction. They do that instinctively; they gain nothingby it, they have no reason for it, they don't know why they do it. Itis an inherited habit which was originally thought--that is to say, observation of an exterior fact, and a valuable inference drawn fromthat observation and confirmed by experience. The original wild oxnoticed that with the wind in his favor he could smell his enemy in timeto escape; then he inferred that it was worth while to keep his noseto the wind. That is the process which man calls reasoning. Man'sthought-machine works just like the other animals', but it is a betterone and more Edisonian. Man, in the ox's place, would go further, reasonwider: he would face part of the herd the other way and protect bothfront and rear. Y. M. Did you stay the term instinct is meaningless? O. M. I think it is a bastard word. I think it confuses us; for as a ruleit applies itself to habits and impulses which had a far-off origin inthought, and now and then breaks the rule and applies itself to habitswhich can hardly claim a thought-origin. Y. M. Give an instance. O. M. Well, in putting on trousers a man always inserts the same old legfirst--never the other one. There is no advantage in that, and no sensein it. All men do it, yet no man thought it out and adopted it of setpurpose, I imagine. But it is a habit which is transmitted, no doubt, and will continue to be transmitted. Y. M. Can you prove that the habit exists? O. M. You can prove it, if you doubt. If you will take a man to aclothing-store and watch him try on a dozen pairs of trousers, you willsee. Y. M. The cow illustration is not-- O. M. Sufficient to show that a dumb animal's mental machine is just thesame as a man's and its reasoning processes the same? I will illustratefurther. If you should hand Mr. Edison a box which you caused to flyopen by some concealed device he would infer a spring, and would huntfor it and find it. Now an uncle of mine had an old horse who used toget into the closed lot where the corn-crib was and dishonestly takethe corn. I got the punishment myself, as it was supposed that I hadheedlessly failed to insert the wooden pin which kept the gate closed. These persistent punishments fatigued me; they also caused me to inferthe existence of a culprit, somewhere; so I hid myself and watched thegate. Presently the horse came and pulled the pin out with his teeth andwent in. Nobody taught him that; he had observed--then thought it outfor himself. His process did not differ from Edison's; he put this andthat together and drew an inference--and the peg, too; but I made himsweat for it. Y. M. It has something of the seeming of thought about it. Still it isnot very elaborate. Enlarge. O. M. Suppose Mr. Edison has been enjoying some one's hospitalities. Hecomes again by and by, and the house is vacant. He infers that his hosthas moved. A while afterward, in another town, he sees the man entera house; he infers that that is the new home, and follows to inquire. Here, now, is the experience of a gull, as related by a naturalist. Thescene is a Scotch fishing village where the gulls were kindly treated. This particular gull visited a cottage; was fed; came next day and wasfed again; came into the house, next time, and ate with the family; kepton doing this almost daily, thereafter. But, once the gull was away ona journey for a few days, and when it returned the house was vacant. Its friends had removed to a village three miles distant. Several monthslater it saw the head of the family on the street there, followed himhome, entered the house without excuse or apology, and became a dailyguest again. Gulls do not rank high mentally, but this one had memoryand the reasoning faculty, you see, and applied them Edisonially. Y. M. Yet it was not an Edison and couldn't be developed into one. O. M. Perhaps not. Could you? Y. M. That is neither here nor there. Go on. O. M. If Edison were in trouble and a stranger helped him out of it andnext day he got into the same difficulty again, he would infer the wisething to do in case he knew the stranger's address. Here is a case of abird and a stranger as related by a naturalist. An Englishman saw a birdflying around about his dog's head, down in the grounds, and utteringcries of distress. He went there to see about it. The dog had a youngbird in his mouth--unhurt. The gentleman rescued it and put it on a bushand brought the dog away. Early the next morning the mother bird camefor the gentleman, who was sitting on his veranda, and by its maneuverspersuaded him to follow it to a distant part of the grounds--flying alittle way in front of him and waiting for him to catch up, and so on;and keeping to the winding path, too, instead of flying the near wayacross lots. The distance covered was four hundred yards. The same dogwas the culprit; he had the young bird again, and once more he hadto give it up. Now the mother bird had reasoned it all out: since thestranger had helped her once, she inferred that he would do itagain; she knew where to find him, and she went upon her errand withconfidence. Her mental processes were what Edison's would have been. Sheput this and that together--and that is all that thought IS--and out ofthem built her logical arrangement of inferences. Edison couldn't havedone it any better himself. Y. M. Do you believe that many of the dumb animals can think? O. M. Yes--the elephant, the monkey, the horse, the dog, the parrot, themacaw, the mocking-bird, and many others. The elephant whose mate fellinto a pit, and who dumped dirt and rubbish into the pit till bottom wasraised high enough to enable the captive to step out, was equipped withthe reasoning quality. I conceive that all animals that can learn thingsthrough teaching and drilling have to know how to observe, and put thisand that together and draw an inference--the process of thinking. Couldyou teach an idiot of manuals of arms, and to advance, retreat, and gothrough complex field maneuvers at the word of command? Y. M. Not if he were a thorough idiot. O. M. Well, canary-birds can learn all that; dogs and elephants learn allsorts of wonderful things. They must surely be able to notice, and toput things together, and say to themselves, "I get the idea, now: when Ido so and so, as per order, I am praised and fed; when I do differentlyI am punished. " Fleas can be taught nearly anything that a Congressmancan. Y. M. Granting, then, that dumb animals are able to think upon a lowplane, is there any that can think upon a high one? Is there one that iswell up toward man? O. M. Yes. As a thinker and planner the ant is the equal of any savagerace of men; as a self-educated specialist in several arts she isthe superior of any savage race of men; and in one or two high mentalqualities she is above the reach of any man, savage or civilized! Y. M. Oh, come! you are abolishing the intellectual frontier whichseparates man and beast. O. M. I beg your pardon. One cannot abolish what does not exist. Y. M. You are not in earnest, I hope. You cannot mean to seriously saythere is no such frontier. O. M. I do say it seriously. The instances of the horse, the gull, themother bird, and the elephant show that those creatures put their this'sand thats together just as Edison would have done it and drew the sameinferences that he would have drawn. Their mental machinery was justlike his, also its manner of working. Their equipment was as inferiorto the Strasburg clock, but that is the only difference--there is nofrontier. Y. M. It looks exasperatingly true; and is distinctly offensive. Itelevates the dumb beasts to--to-- O. M. Let us drop that lying phrase, and call them the UnrevealedCreatures; so far as we can know, there is no such thing as a dumbbeast. Y. M. On what grounds do you make that assertion? O. M. On quite simple ones. "Dumb" beast suggests an animal that has nothought-machinery, no understanding, no speech, no way of communicatingwhat is in its mind. We know that a hen HAS speech. We cannot understandeverything she says, but we easily learn two or three of her phrases. We know when she is saying, "I have laid an egg"; we know when she issaying to the chicks, "Run here, dears, I've found a worm"; we knowwhat she is saying when she voices a warning: "Quick! hurry! gatheryourselves under mamma, there's a hawk coming!" We understand the catwhen she stretches herself out, purring with affection and contentmentand lifts up a soft voice and says, "Come, kitties, supper's ready"; weunderstand her when she goes mourning about and says, "Where can theybe? They are lost. Won't you help me hunt for them?" and we understandthe disreputable Tom when he challenges at midnight from his shed, "Youcome over here, you product of immoral commerce, and I'll make your furfly!" We understand a few of a dog's phrases and we learn to understanda few of the remarks and gestures of any bird or other animal that wedomesticate and observe. The clearness and exactness of the few of thehen's speeches which we understand is argument that she can communicateto her kind a hundred things which we cannot comprehend--in a word, thatshe can converse. And this argument is also applicable in the case ofothers of the great army of the Unrevealed. It is just like man's vanityand impertinence to call an animal dumb because it is dumb to his dullperceptions. Now as to the ant-- Y. M. Yes, go back to the ant, the creature that--as you seem tothink--sweeps away the last vestige of an intellectual frontier betweenman and the Unrevealed. O. M. That is what she surely does. In all his history the aboriginalAustralian never thought out a house for himself and built it. The antis an amazing architect. She is a wee little creature, but she builds astrong and enduring house eight feet high--a house which is as largein proportion to her size as is the largest capitol or cathedral in theworld compared to man's size. No savage race has produced architectswho could approach the air in genius or culture. No civilized race hasproduced architects who could plan a house better for the uses proposedthan can hers. Her house contains a throne-room; nurseries for heryoung; granaries; apartments for her soldiers, her workers, etc. ; andthey and the multifarious halls and corridors which communicate withthem are arranged and distributed with an educated and experienced eyefor convenience and adaptability. Y. M. That could be mere instinct. O. M. It would elevate the savage if he had it. But let us look furtherbefore we decide. The ant has soldiers--battalions, regiments, armies;and they have their appointed captains and generals, who lead them tobattle. Y. M. That could be instinct, too. O. M. We will look still further. The ant has a system of government; itis well planned, elaborate, and is well carried on. Y. M. Instinct again. O. M. She has crowds of slaves, and is a hard and unjust employer offorced labor. Y. M. Instinct. O. M. She has cows, and milks them. Y. M. Instinct, of course. O. M. In Texas she lays out a farm twelve feet square, plants it, weedsit, cultivates it, gathers the crop and stores it away. Y. M. Instinct, all the same. O. M. The ant discriminates between friend and stranger. Sir John Lubbocktook ants from two different nests, made them drunk with whiskey andlaid them, unconscious, by one of the nests, near some water. Ants fromthe nest came and examined and discussed these disgraced creatures, thencarried their friends home and threw the strangers overboard. Sir Johnrepeated the experiment a number of times. For a time the sober antsdid as they had done at first--carried their friends home and threw thestrangers overboard. But finally they lost patience, seeing thattheir reformatory efforts went for nothing, and threw both friends andstrangers overboard. Come--is this instinct, or is it thoughtfuland intelligent discussion of a thing new--absolutely new--to theirexperience; with a verdict arrived at, sentence passed, and judgmentexecuted? Is it instinct?--thought petrified by ages of habit--orisn't it brand-new thought, inspired by the new occasion, the newcircumstances? Y. M. I have to concede it. It was not a result of habit; it has allthe look of reflection, thought, putting this and that together, as youphrase it. I believe it was thought. O. M. I will give you another instance of thought. Franklin had a cupof sugar on a table in his room. The ants got at it. He tried severalpreventives; and ants rose superior to them. Finally he contrived onewhich shut off access--probably set the table's legs in pans of water, or drew a circle of tar around the cup, I don't remember. At anyrate, he watched to see what they would do. They tried variousschemes--failures, every one. The ants were badly puzzled. Finally theyheld a consultation, discussed the problem, arrived at a decision--andthis time they beat that great philosopher. They formed in procession, cross the floor, climbed the wall, marched across the ceiling to a pointjust over the cup, then one by one they let go and fell down into it!Was that instinct--thought petrified by ages of inherited habit? Y. M. No, I don't believe it was. I believe it was a newly reasonedscheme to meet a new emergency. O. M. Very well. You have conceded the reasoning power in two instances. I come now to a mental detail wherein the ant is a long way the superiorof any human being. Sir John Lubbock proved by many experiments that anant knows a stranger ant of her own species in a moment, even when thestranger is disguised--with paint. Also he proved that an ant knowsevery individual in her hive of five hundred thousand souls. Also, aftera year's absence one of the five hundred thousand she will straightwayrecognize the returned absentee and grace the recognition with aaffectionate welcome. How are these recognitions made? Not by color, for painted ants were recognized. Not by smell, for ants that had beendipped in chloroform were recognized. Not by speech and not by antennaesigns nor contacts, for the drunken and motionless ants were recognizedand the friend discriminated from the stranger. The ants were all ofthe same species, therefore the friends had to be recognized by form andfeature--friends who formed part of a hive of five hundred thousand! Hasany man a memory for form and feature approaching that? Y. M. Certainly not. O. M. Franklin's ants and Lubbuck's ants show fine capacities of puttingthis and that together in new and untried emergencies and deductingsmart conclusions from the combinations--a man's mental process exactly. With memory to help, man preserves his observations and reasonings, reflects upon them, adds to them, recombines, and so proceeds, stageby stage, to far results--from the teakettle to the ocean greyhound'scomplex engine; from personal labor to slave labor; from wigwam topalace; from the capricious chase to agriculture and stored food; fromnomadic life to stable government and concentrated authority; fromincoherent hordes to massed armies. The ant has observation, thereasoning faculty, and the preserving adjunct of a prodigious memory;she has duplicated man's development and the essential features of hiscivilization, and you call it all instinct! Y. M. Perhaps I lacked the reasoning faculty myself. O. M. Well, don't tell anybody, and don't do it again. Y. M. We have come a good way. As a result--as I understand it--I amrequired to concede that there is absolutely no intellectual frontierseparating Man and the Unrevealed Creatures? O. M. That is what you are required to concede. There is no suchfrontier--there is no way to get around that. Man has a finer and morecapable machine in him than those others, but it is the same machine andworks in the same way. And neither he nor those others can command themachine--it is strictly automatic, independent of control, works when itpleases, and when it doesn't please, it can't be forced. Y. M. Then man and the other animals are all alike, as to mentalmachinery, and there isn't any difference of any stupendous magnitudebetween them, except in quality, not in kind. O. M. That is about the state of it--intellectuality. There arepronounced limitations on both sides. We can't learn to understand muchof their language, but the dog, the elephant, etc. , learn to understanda very great deal of ours. To that extent they are our superiors. On theother hand, they can't learn reading, writing, etc. , nor any of our fineand high things, and there we have a large advantage over them. Y. M. Very well, let them have what they've got, and welcome; there isstill a wall, and a lofty one. They haven't got the Moral Sense; we haveit, and it lifts us immeasurably above them. O. M. What makes you think that? Y. M. Now look here--let's call a halt. I have stood the other infamiesand insanities and that is enough; I am not going to have man and theother animals put on the same level morally. O. M. I wasn't going to hoist man up to that. Y. M. This is too much! I think it is not right to jest about suchthings. O. M. I am not jesting, I am merely reflecting a plain and simpletruth--and without uncharitableness. The fact that man knows right fromwrong proves his INTELLECTUAL superiority to the other creatures;but the fact that he can DO wrong proves his MORAL inferiority toany creature that CANNOT. It is my belief that this position is notassailable. Free Will Y. M. What is your opinion regarding Free Will? O. M. That there is no such thing. Did the man possess it who gave theold woman his last shilling and trudged home in the storm? Y. M. He had the choice between succoring the old woman and leaving herto suffer. Isn't it so? O. M. Yes, there was a choice to be made, between bodily comfort on theone hand and the comfort of the spirit on the other. The body made astrong appeal, of course--the body would be quite sure to do that; thespirit made a counter appeal. A choice had to be made between the twoappeals, and was made. Who or what determined that choice? Y. M. Any one but you would say that the man determined it, and that indoing it he exercised Free Will. O. M. We are constantly assured that every man is endowed with FreeWill, and that he can and must exercise it where he is offered a choicebetween good conduct and less-good conduct. Yet we clearly saw thatin that man's case he really had no Free Will: his temperament, histraining, and the daily influences which had molded him and madehim what he was, COMPELLED him to rescue the old woman and thussave HIMSELF--save himself from spiritual pain, from unendurablewretchedness. He did not make the choice, it was made FOR him by forceswhich he could not control. Free Will has always existed in WORDS, butit stops there, I think--stops short of FACT. I would not use thosewords--Free Will--but others. Y. M. What others? O. M. Free Choice. Y. M. What is the difference? O. M. The one implies untrammeled power to ACT as you please, the otherimplies nothing beyond a mere MENTAL PROCESS: the critical ability todetermine which of two things is nearest right and just. Y. M. Make the difference clear, please. O. M. The mind can freely SELECT, CHOOSE, POINT OUT the right and justone--its function stops there. It can go no further in the matter. Ithas no authority to say that the right one shall be acted upon and thewrong one discarded. That authority is in other hands. Y. M. The man's? O. M. In the machine which stands for him. In his born dispositionand the character which has been built around it by training andenvironment. Y. M. It will act upon the right one of the two? O. M. It will do as it pleases in the matter. George Washington's machinewould act upon the right one; Pizarro would act upon the wrong one. Y. M. Then as I understand it a bad man's mental machinery calmly andjudicially points out which of two things is right and just-- O. M. Yes, and his MORAL machinery will freely act upon the other or theother, according to its make, and be quite indifferent to the MIND'Sfeeling concerning the matter--that is, WOULD be, if the mind had anyfeelings; which it hasn't. It is merely a thermometer: it registers theheat and the cold, and cares not a farthing about either. Y. M. Then we must not claim that if a man KNOWS which of two things isright he is absolutely BOUND to do that thing? O. M. His temperament and training will decide what he shall do, and hewill do it; he cannot help himself, he has no authority over the mater. Wasn't it right for David to go out and slay Goliath? Y. M. Yes. O. M. Then it would have been equally RIGHT for any one else to do it? Y. M. Certainly. O. M. Then it would have been RIGHT for a born coward to attempt it? Y. M. It would--yes. O. M. You know that no born coward ever would have attempted it, don'tyou? Y. M. Yes. O. M. You know that a born coward's make and temperament would be anabsolute and insurmountable bar to his ever essaying such a thing, don'tyou? Y. M. Yes, I know it. O. M. He clearly perceives that it would be RIGHT to try it? Y. M. Yes. O. M. His mind has Free Choice in determining that it would be RIGHT totry it? Y. M. Yes. O. M. Then if by reason of his inborn cowardice he simply can NOT essayit, what becomes of his Free Will? Where is his Free Will? Why claimthat he has Free Will when the plain facts show that he hasn't? Whycontent that because he and David SEE the right alike, both must ACTalike? Why impose the same laws upon goat and lion? Y. M. There is really no such thing as Free Will? O. M. It is what I think. There is WILL. But it has nothing to do withINTELLECTUAL PERCEPTIONS OF RIGHT AND WRONG, and is not under theircommand. David's temperament and training had Will, and it was acompulsory force; David had to obey its decrees, he had no choice. Thecoward's temperament and training possess Will, and IT is compulsory;it commands him to avoid danger, and he obeys, he has no choice. Butneither the Davids nor the cowards possess Free Will--will that may dothe right or do the wrong, as their MENTAL verdict shall decide. Not Two Values, But Only One Y. M. There is one thing which bothers me: I can't tell where you drawthe line between MATERIAL covetousness and SPIRITUAL covetousness. O. M. I don't draw any. Y. M. How do you mean? O. M. There is no such thing as MATERIAL covetousness. All covetousnessis spiritual. Y. M. ALL longings, desires, ambitions SPIRITUAL, never material? O. M. Yes. The Master in you requires that in ALL cases you shall contenthis SPIRIT--that alone. He never requires anything else, he neverinterests himself in any other matter. Y. M. Ah, come! When he covets somebody's money--isn't that ratherdistinctly material and gross? O. M. No. The money is merely a symbol--it represents in visible andconcrete form a SPIRITUAL DESIRE. Any so-called material thing that youwant is merely a symbol: you want it not for ITSELF, but because it willcontent your spirit for the moment. Y. M. Please particularize. O. M. Very well. Maybe the thing longed for is a new hat. You get itand your vanity is pleased, your spirit contented. Suppose your friendsderide the hat, make fun of it: at once it loses its value; you areashamed of it, you put it out of your sight, you never want to see itagain. Y. M. I think I see. Go on. O. M. It is the same hat, isn't it? It is in no way altered. But itwasn't the HAT you wanted, but only what it stood for--a something toplease and content your SPIRIT. When it failed of that, the whole of itsvalue was gone. There are no MATERIAL values; there are only spiritualones. You will hunt in vain for a material value that is ACTUAL, REAL--there is no such thing. The only value it possesses, for even amoment, is the spiritual value back of it: remove that end and it is atonce worthless--like the hat. Y. M. Can you extend that to money? O. M. Yes. It is merely a symbol, it has no MATERIAL value; you thinkyou desire it for its own sake, but it is not so. You desire it for thespiritual content it will bring; if it fail of that, you discover thatits value is gone. There is that pathetic tale of the man who laboredlike a slave, unresting, unsatisfied, until he had accumulated afortune, and was happy over it, jubilant about it; then in a single weeka pestilence swept away all whom he held dear and left him desolate. Hismoney's value was gone. He realized that his joy in it came not fromthe money itself, but from the spiritual contentment he got out of hisfamily's enjoyment of the pleasures and delights it lavished upon them. Money has no MATERIAL value; if you remove its spiritual value nothingis left but dross. It is so with all things, little or big, majesticor trivial--there are no exceptions. Crowns, scepters, pennies, pastejewels, village notoriety, world-wide fame--they are all the same, theyhave no MATERIAL value: while they content the SPIRIT they are precious, when this fails they are worthless. A Difficult Question Y. M. You keep me confused and perplexed all the time by your elusiveterminology. Sometimes you divide a man up into two or threeseparate personalities, each with authorities, jurisdictions, andresponsibilities of its own, and when he is in that condition I can'tgrasp it. Now when _I_ speak of a man, he is THE WHOLE THING IN ONE, andeasy to hold and contemplate. O. M. That is pleasant and convenient, if true. When you speak of "mybody" who is the "my"? Y. M. It is the "me. " O. M. The body is a property then, and the Me owns it. Who is the Me? Y. M. The Me is THE WHOLE THING; it is a common property; an undividedownership, vested in the whole entity. O. M. If the Me admires a rainbow, is it the whole Me that admires it, including the hair, hands, heels, and all? Y. M. Certainly not. It is my MIND that admires it. O. M. So YOU divide the Me yourself. Everybody does; everybody must. What, then, definitely, is the Me? Y. M. I think it must consist of just those two parts--the body and themind. O. M. You think so? If you say "I believe the world is round, " who is the"I" that is speaking? Y. M. The mind. O. M. If you say "I grieve for the loss of my father, " who is the "I"? Y. M. The mind. O. M. Is the mind exercising an intellectual function when it examinesand accepts the evidence that the world is round? Y. M. Yes. O. M. Is it exercising an intellectual function when it grieves for theloss of your father? Y. M. That is not cerebration, brain-work, it is a matter of FEELING. O. M. Then its source is not in your mind, but in your MORAL territory? Y. M. I have to grant it. O. M. Is your mind a part of your PHYSICAL equipment? Y. M. No. It is independent of it; it is spiritual. O. M. Being spiritual, it cannot be affected by physical influences? Y. M. No. O. M. Does the mind remain sober with the body is drunk? Y. M. Well--no. O. M. There IS a physical effect present, then? Y. M. It looks like it. O. M. A cracked skull has resulted in a crazy mind. Why should it happenif the mind is spiritual, and INDEPENDENT of physical influences? Y. M. Well--I don't know. O. M. When you have a pain in your foot, how do you know it? Y. M. I feel it. O. M. But you do not feel it until a nerve reports the hurt to the brain. Yet the brain is the seat of the mind, is it not? Y. M. I think so. O. M. But isn't spiritual enough to learn what is happening in theoutskirts without the help of the PHYSICAL messenger? You perceive thatthe question of who or what the Me is, is not a simple one at all. Yousay "I admire the rainbow, " and "I believe the world is round, " and inthese cases we find that the Me is not speaking, but only the MENTALpart. You say, "I grieve, " and again the Me is not all speaking, butonly the MORAL part. You say the mind is wholly spiritual; then you say"I have a pain" and find that this time the Me is mental AND spiritualcombined. We all use the "I" in this indeterminate fashion, there is nohelp for it. We imagine a Master and King over what you call The WholeThing, and we speak of him as "I, " but when we try to define him wefind we cannot do it. The intellect and the feelings can act quiteINDEPENDENTLY of each other; we recognize that, and we look around fora Ruler who is master over both, and can serve as a DEFINITE ANDINDISPUTABLE "I, " and enable us to know what we mean and who or what weare talking about when we use that pronoun, but we have to give it upand confess that we cannot find him. To me, Man is a machine, made upof many mechanisms, the moral and mental ones acting automatically inaccordance with the impulses of an interior Master who is built out ofborn-temperament and an accumulation of multitudinous outside influencesand trainings; a machine whose ONE function is to secure the spiritualcontentment of the Master, be his desires good or be they evil; amachine whose Will is absolute and must be obeyed, and always IS obeyed. Y. M. Maybe the Me is the Soul? O. M. Maybe it is. What is the Soul? Y. M. I don't know. O. M. Neither does any one else. The Master Passion Y. M. What is the Master?--or, in common speech, the Conscience? Explainit. O. M. It is that mysterious autocrat, lodged in a man, which compels theman to content its desires. It may be called the Master Passion--thehunger for Self-Approval. Y. M. Where is its seat? O. M. In man's moral constitution. Y. M. Are its commands for the man's good? O. M. It is indifferent to the man's good; it never concerns itself aboutanything but the satisfying of its own desires. It can be TRAINED toprefer things which will be for the man's good, but it will prefer themonly because they will content IT better than other things would. Y. M. Then even when it is trained to high ideals it is still looking outfor its own contentment, and not for the man's good. O. M. True. Trained or untrained, it cares nothing for the man's good, and never concerns itself about it. Y. M. It seems to be an IMMORAL force seated in the man's moralconstitution. O. M. It is a COLORLESS force seated in the man's moral constitution. Letus call it an instinct--a blind, unreasoning instinct, which cannot anddoes not distinguish between good morals and bad ones, and cares nothingfor results to the man provided its own contentment be secured; and itwill ALWAYS secure that. Y. M. It seeks money, and it probably considers that that is an advantagefor the man? O. M. It is not always seeking money, it is not always seeking power, nor office, nor any other MATERIAL advantage. In ALL cases it seeks aSPIRITUAL contentment, let the MEANS be what they may. Its desiresare determined by the man's temperament--and it is lord over that. Temperament, Conscience, Susceptibility, Spiritual Appetite, are, infact, the same thing. Have you ever heard of a person who cared nothingfor money? Y. M. Yes. A scholar who would not leave his garret and his books to takea place in a business house at a large salary. O. M. He had to satisfy his master--that is to say, his temperament, hisSpiritual Appetite--and it preferred books to money. Are there othercases? Y. M. Yes, the hermit. O. M. It is a good instance. The hermit endures solitude, hunger, cold, and manifold perils, to content his autocrat, who prefers these things, and prayer and contemplation, to money or to any show or luxury thatmoney can buy. Are there others? Y. M. Yes. The artist, the poet, the scientist. O. M. Their autocrat prefers the deep pleasures of these occupations, either well paid or ill paid, to any others in the market, at anyprice. You REALIZE that the Master Passion--the contentment of thespirit--concerns itself with many things besides so-called materialadvantage, material prosperity, cash, and all that? Y. M. I think I must concede it. O. M. I believe you must. There are perhaps as many Temperaments thatwould refuse the burdens and vexations and distinctions of public officeas there are that hunger after them. The one set of Temperaments seekthe contentment of the spirit, and that alone; and this is exactly thecase with the other set. Neither set seeks anything BUT the contentmentof the spirit. If the one is sordid, both are sordid; and equally so, since the end in view is precisely the same in both cases. And in bothcases Temperament decides the preference--and Temperament is BORN, notmade. Conclusion O. M. You have been taking a holiday? Y. M. Yes; a mountain tramp covering a week. Are you ready to talk? O. M. Quite ready. What shall we begin with? Y. M. Well, lying abed resting up, two days and nights, I have thoughtover all these talks, and passed them carefully in review. With thisresult: that... That... Are you intending to publish your notions aboutMan some day? O. M. Now and then, in these past twenty years, the Master inside of mehas half-intended to order me to set them to paper and publish them. Do I have to tell you why the order has remained unissued, or can youexplain so simply a thing without my help? Y. M. By your doctrine, it is simplicity itself: outside influences movedyour interior Master to give the order; stronger outside influencesdeterred him. Without the outside influences, neither of these impulsescould ever have been born, since a person's brain is incapable ororiginating an idea within itself. O. M. Correct. Go on. Y. M. The matter of publishing or withholding is still in your Master'shands. If some day an outside influence shall determine him to publish, he will give the order, and it will be obeyed. O. M. That is correct. Well? Y. M. Upon reflection I have arrived at the conviction that thepublication of your doctrines would be harmful. Do you pardon me? O. M. Pardon YOU? You have done nothing. You are an instrument--aspeaking-trumpet. Speaking-trumpets are not responsible for what is saidthrough them. Outside influences--in the form of lifelong teachings, trainings, notions, prejudices, and other second-hand importations--havepersuaded the Master within you that the publication of these doctrineswould be harmful. Very well, this is quite natural, and was to beexpected; in fact, was inevitable. Go on; for the sake of ease andconvenience, stick to habit: speak in the first person, and tell me whatyour Master thinks about it. Y. M. Well, to begin: it is a desolating doctrine; it is not inspiring, enthusing, uplifting. It takes the glory out of man, it takes the prideout of him, it takes the heroism out of him, it denies him all personalcredit, all applause; it not only degrades him to a machine, but allowshim no control over the machine; makes a mere coffee-mill of him, andneither permits him to supply the coffee nor turn the crank, his soleand piteously humble function being to grind coarse or fine, accordingto his make, outside impulses doing the rest. O. M. It is correctly stated. Tell me--what do men admire most in eachother? Y. M. Intellect, courage, majesty of build, beauty of countenance, charity, benevolence, magnanimity, kindliness, heroism, and--and-- O. M. I would not go any further. These are ELEMENTALS. Virtue, fortitude, holiness, truthfulness, loyalty, high ideals--these, and allthe related qualities that are named in the dictionary, are MADE OF THEELEMENTALS, by blendings, combinations, and shadings of the elementals, just as one makes green by blending blue and yellow, and makes severalshades and tints of red by modifying the elemental red. There areseveral elemental colors; they are all in the rainbow; out of them wemanufacture and name fifty shades of them. You have named the elementalsof the human rainbow, and also one BLEND--heroism, which is made out ofcourage and magnanimity. Very well, then; which of these elements doesthe possessor of it manufacture for himself? Is it intellect? Y. M. No. O. M. Why? Y. M. He is born with it. O. M. Is it courage? Y. M. No. He is born with it. O. M. Is it majesty of build, beauty of countenance? Y. M. No. They are birthrights. O. M. Take those others--the elemental moral qualities--charity, benevolence, magnanimity, kindliness; fruitful seeds, out of whichspring, through cultivation by outside influences, all the manifoldblends and combinations of virtues named in the dictionaries: does manmanufacture any of those seeds, or are they all born in him? Y. M. Born in him. O. M. Who manufactures them, then? Y. M. God. O. M. Where does the credit of it belong? Y. M. To God. O. M. And the glory of which you spoke, and the applause? Y. M. To God. O. M. Then it is YOU who degrade man. You make him claim glory, praise, flattery, for every valuable thing he possesses--BORROWED finery, thewhole of it; no rag of it earned by himself, not a detail of it producedby his own labor. YOU make man a humbug; have I done worse by him? Y. M. You have made a machine of him. O. M. Who devised that cunning and beautiful mechanism, a man's hand? Y. M. God. O. M. Who devised the law by which it automatically hammers out of apiano an elaborate piece of music, without error, while the man isthinking about something else, or talking to a friend? Y. M. God. O. M. Who devised the blood? Who devised the wonderful machinery whichautomatically drives its renewing and refreshing streams through thebody, day and night, without assistance or advice from the man? Whodevised the man's mind, whose machinery works automatically, interestsitself in what it pleases, regardless of its will or desire, laborsall night when it likes, deaf to his appeals for mercy? God devised allthese things. _I_ have not made man a machine, God made him a machine. I am merely calling attention to the fact, nothing more. Is it wrong tocall attention to the fact? Is it a crime? Y. M. I think it is wrong to EXPOSE a fact when harm can come of it. O. M. Go on. Y. M. Look at the matter as it stands now. Man has been taught that he isthe supreme marvel of the Creation; he believes it; in all the ageshe has never doubted it, whether he was a naked savage, or clothed inpurple and fine linen, and civilized. This has made his heart buoyant, his life cheery. His pride in himself, his sincere admiration ofhimself, his joy in what he supposed were his own and unassistedachievements, and his exultation over the praise and applause which theyevoked--these have exalted him, enthused him, ambitioned him to higherand higher flights; in a word, made his life worth the living. But byyour scheme, all this is abolished; he is degraded to a machine, he isa nobody, his noble prides wither to mere vanities; let him strive ashe may, he can never be any better than his humblest and stupidestneighbor; he would never be cheerful again, his life would not be worththe living. O. M. You really think that? Y. M. I certainly do. O. M. Have you ever seen me uncheerful, unhappy. Y. M. No. O. M. Well, _I_ believe these things. Why have they not made me unhappy? Y. M. Oh, well--temperament, of course! You never let THAT escape fromyour scheme. O. M. That is correct. If a man is born with an unhappy temperament, nothing can make him happy; if he is born with a happy temperament, nothing can make him unhappy. Y. M. What--not even a degrading and heart-chilling system of beliefs? O. M. Beliefs? Mere beliefs? Mere convictions? They are powerless. Theystrive in vain against inborn temperament. Y. M. I can't believe that, and I don't. O. M. Now you are speaking hastily. It shows that you have not studiouslyexamined the facts. Of all your intimates, which one is the happiest?Isn't it Burgess? Y. M. Easily. O. M. And which one is the unhappiest? Henry Adams? Y. M. Without a question! O. M. I know them well. They are extremes, abnormals; their temperamentsare as opposite as the poles. Their life-histories are about alike--butlook at the results! Their ages are about the same--about around fifty. Burgess had always been buoyant, hopeful, happy; Adams has always beencheerless, hopeless, despondent. As young fellows both tried countryjournalism--and failed. Burgess didn't seem to mind it; Adams couldn'tsmile, he could only mourn and groan over what had happened and torturehimself with vain regrets for not having done so and so instead of soand so--THEN he would have succeeded. They tried the law--and failed. Burgess remained happy--because he couldn't help it. Adams waswretched--because he couldn't help it. From that day to this, those twomen have gone on trying things and failing: Burgess has come out happyand cheerful every time; Adams the reverse. And we do absolutely knowthat these men's inborn temperaments have remained unchanged through allthe vicissitudes of their material affairs. Let us see how it is withtheir immaterials. Both have been zealous Democrats; both have beenzealous Republicans; both have been zealous Mugwumps. Burgess has alwaysfound happiness and Adams unhappiness in these several politicalbeliefs and in their migrations out of them. Both of these men have beenPresbyterians, Universalists, Methodists, Catholics--then Presbyteriansagain, then Methodists again. Burgess has always found rest in theseexcursions, and Adams unrest. They are trying Christian Science, now, with the customary result, the inevitable result. No political orreligious belief can make Burgess unhappy or the other man happy. I assure you it is purely a matter of temperament. Beliefs areACQUIREMENTS, temperaments are BORN; beliefs are subject to change, nothing whatever can change temperament. Y. M. You have instanced extreme temperaments. O. M. Yes, the half-dozen others are modifications of the extremes. But the law is the same. Where the temperament is two-thirds happy, ortwo-thirds unhappy, no political or religious beliefs can change theproportions. The vast majority of temperaments are pretty equallybalanced; the intensities are absent, and this enables a nation to learnto accommodate itself to its political and religious circumstances andlike them, be satisfied with them, at last prefer them. Nations do notTHINK, they only FEEL. They get their feelings at second hand throughtheir temperaments, not their brains. A nation can be brought--by forceof circumstances, not argument--to reconcile itself to ANY KIND OFGOVERNMENT OR RELIGION THAT CAN BE DEVISED; in time it will fit itselfto the required conditions; later, it will prefer them and will fiercelyfight for them. As instances, you have all history: the Greeks, theRomans, the Persians, the Egyptians, the Russians, the Germans, theFrench, the English, the Spaniards, the Americans, the South Americans, the Japanese, the Chinese, the Hindus, the Turks--a thousand wild andtame religions, every kind of government that can be thought of, fromtiger to house-cat, each nation KNOWING it has the only true religionand the only sane system of government, each despising all the others, each an ass and not suspecting it, each proud of its fancied supremacy, each perfectly sure it is the pet of God, each without undoubtingconfidence summoning Him to take command in time of war, each surprisedwhen He goes over to the enemy, but by habit able to excuse it andresume compliments--in a word, the whole human race content, alwayscontent, persistently content, indestructibly content, happy, thankful, proud, NO MATTER WHAT ITS RELIGION IS, NOR WHETHER ITS MASTER BE TIGEROR HOUSE-CAT. Am I stating facts? You know I am. Is the human racecheerful? You know it is. Considering what it can stand, and be happy, you do me too much honor when you think that _I_ can place before ita system of plain cold facts that can take the cheerfulness out of it. Nothing can do that. Everything has been tried. Without success. I begyou not to be troubled. THE DEATH OF JEAN The death of Jean Clemens occurred early in the morning of December 24, 1909. Mr. Clemens was in great stress of mind when I first saw him, buta few hours later I found him writing steadily. "I am setting it down, " he said, "everything. It is a relief to me towrite it. It furnishes me an excuse for thinking. " At intervals duringthat day and the next I looked in, and usually found him writing. Thenon the evening of the 26th, when he knew that Jean had been laid to restin Elmira, he came to my room with the manuscript in his hand. "I have finished it, " he said; "read it. I can form no opinion of itmyself. If you think it worthy, some day--at the proper time--it can endmy autobiography. It is the final chapter. " Four months later--almost to the day--(April 21st) he was with Jean. Albert Bigelow Paine. Stormfield, Christmas Eve, 11 A. M. , 1909. JEAN IS DEAD! Has any one ever tried to put upon paper all the little happeningsconnected with a dear one--happenings of the twenty-four hours precedingthe sudden and unexpected death of that dear one? Would a book containthem? Would two books contain them? I think not. They pour into the mindin a flood. They are little things that have been always happening everyday, and were always so unimportant and easily forgettable before--butnow! Now, how different! how precious they are, now dear, howunforgettable, how pathetic, how sacred, how clothed with dignity! Last night Jean, all flushed with splendid health, and I the same, fromthe wholesome effects of my Bermuda holiday, strolled hand in hand fromthe dinner-table and sat down in the library and chatted, and planned, and discussed, cheerily and happily (and how unsuspectingly!)--untilnine--which is late for us--then went upstairs, Jean's friendly Germandog following. At my door Jean said, "I can't kiss you good night, father: I have a cold, and you could catch it. " I bent and kissed herhand. She was moved--I saw it in her eyes--and she impulsively kissed myhand in return. Then with the usual gay "Sleep well, dear!" from both, we parted. At half past seven this morning I woke, and heard voices outside mydoor. I said to myself, "Jean is starting on her usual horseback flightto the station for the mail. " Then Katy (1) entered, stood quaking andgasping at my bedside a moment, then found her tongue: "MISS JEAN IS DEAD!" Possibly I know now what the soldier feels when a bullet crashes throughhis heart. In her bathroom there she lay, the fair young creature, stretched uponthe floor and covered with a sheet. And looking so placid, so natural, and as if asleep. We knew what had happened. She was an epileptic: shehad been seized with a convulsion and heart failure in her bath. Thedoctor had to come several miles. His efforts, like our previous ones, failed to bring her back to life. It is noon, now. How lovable she looks, how sweet and how tranquil! Itis a noble face, and full of dignity; and that was a good heart thatlies there so still. In England, thirteen years ago, my wife and I were stabbed to the heartwith a cablegram which said, "Susy was mercifully released today. " Ihad to send a like shot to Clara, in Berlin, this morning. With theperemptory addition, "You must not come home. " Clara and her husbandsailed from here on the 11th of this month. How will Clara bear it?Jean, from her babyhood, was a worshiper of Clara. Four days ago I came back from a month's holiday in Bermuda in perfectedhealth; but by some accident the reporters failed to perceive this. Daybefore yesterday, letters and telegrams began to arrive from friendsand strangers which indicated that I was supposed to be dangerouslyill. Yesterday Jean begged me to explain my case through the AssociatedPress. I said it was not important enough; but she was distressed andsaid I must think of Clara. Clara would see the report in the Germanpapers, and as she had been nursing her husband day and night for fourmonths (2) and was worn out and feeble, the shock might be disastrous. There was reason in that; so I sent a humorous paragraph by telephone tothe Associated Press denying the "charge" that I was "dying, " and saying"I would not do such a thing at my time of life. " Jean was a little troubled, and did not like to see me treat the matterso lightly; but I said it was best to treat it so, for there was nothingserious about it. This morning I sent the sorrowful facts of this day'sirremediable disaster to the Associated Press. Will both appear in thisevening's papers?--the one so blithe, the other so tragic? I lost Susy thirteen years ago; I lost her mother--her incomparablemother!--five and a half years ago; Clara has gone away to live inEurope; and now I have lost Jean. How poor I am, who was once so rich!Seven months ago Mr. Roger died--one of the best friends I ever had, andthe nearest perfect, as man and gentleman, I have yet met among my race;within the last six weeks Gilder has passed away, and Laffan--old, oldfriends of mine. Jean lies yonder, I sit here; we are strangers underour own roof; we kissed hands good-by at this door last night--andit was forever, we never suspecting it. She lies there, and I sithere--writing, busying myself, to keep my heart from breaking. Howdazzlingly the sunshine is flooding the hills around! It is like amockery. Seventy-four years ago twenty-four days ago. Seventy-four years oldyesterday. Who can estimate my age today? I have looked upon her again. I wonder I can bear it. She looks justas her mother looked when she lay dead in that Florentine villa so longago. The sweet placidity of death! it is more beautiful than sleep. I saw her mother buried. I said I would never endure that horror again;that I would never again look into the grave of any one dear to me. Ihave kept to that. They will take Jean from this house tomorrow, andbear her to Elmira, New York, where lie those of us that have beenreleased, but I shall not follow. Jean was on the dock when the ship came in, only four days ago. Shewas at the door, beaming a welcome, when I reached this house the nextevening. We played cards, and she tried to teach me a new game called"Mark Twain. " We sat chatting cheerily in the library last night, andshe wouldn't let me look into the loggia, where she was making Christmaspreparations. She said she would finish them in the morning, and thenher little French friend would arrive from New York--the surprise wouldfollow; the surprise she had been working over for days. While she wasout for a moment I disloyally stole a look. The loggia floor was clothedwith rugs and furnished with chairs and sofas; and the uncompletedsurprise was there: in the form of a Christmas tree that was drenchedwith silver film in a most wonderful way; and on a table was prodigalprofusion of bright things which she was going to hang upon it today. What desecrating hand will ever banish that eloquent unfinished surprisefrom that place? Not mine, surely. All these little matters havehappened in the last four days. "Little. " Yes--THEN. But not now. Nothing she said or thought or did is little now. And all the lavishhumor!--what is become of it? It is pathos, now. Pathos, and the thoughtof it brings tears. All these little things happened such a few hours ago--and now shelies yonder. Lies yonder, and cares for nothing any more. Strange--marvelous--incredible! I have had this experience before; butit would still be incredible if I had had it a thousand times. "MISS JEAN IS DEAD!" That is what Katy said. When I heard the door open behind the bed's headwithout a preliminary knock, I supposed it was Jean coming to kiss megood morning, she being the only person who was used to entering withoutformalities. And so-- I have been to Jean's parlor. Such a turmoil of Christmas presents forservants and friends! They are everywhere; tables, chairs, sofas, thefloor--everything is occupied, and over-occupied. It is many and many ayear since I have seen the like. In that ancient day Mrs. Clemens andI used to slip softly into the nursery at midnight on Christmas Eve andlook the array of presents over. The children were little then. And nowhere is Jean's parlor looking just as that nursery used to look. Thepresents are not labeled--the hands are forever idle that would havelabeled them today. Jean's mother always worked herself down with herChristmas preparations. Jean did the same yesterday and the precedingdays, and the fatigue has cost her her life. The fatigue caused theconvulsion that attacked her this morning. She had had no attack formonths. Jean was so full of life and energy that she was constantly is dangerof overtaxing her strength. Every morning she was in the saddle byhalf past seven, and off to the station for her mail. She examined theletters and I distributed them: some to her, some to Mr. Paine, theothers to the stenographer and myself. She dispatched her share and thenmounted her horse again and went around superintending her farm andher poultry the rest of the day. Sometimes she played billiards with meafter dinner, but she was usually too tired to play, and went early tobed. Yesterday afternoon I told her about some plans I had been devisingwhile absent in Bermuda, to lighten her burdens. We would get ahousekeeper; also we would put her share of the secretary-work into Mr. Paine's hands. No--she wasn't willing. She had been making plans herself. The matterended in a compromise, I submitted. I always did. She wouldn't audit thebills and let Paine fill out the checks--she would continue to attend tothat herself. Also, she would continue to be housekeeper, and let Katyassist. Also, she would continue to answer the letters of personalfriends for me. Such was the compromise. Both of us called it by thatname, though I was not able to see where my formidable change had beenmade. However, Jean was pleased, and that was sufficient for me. She was proudof being my secretary, and I was never able to persuade her to give upany part of her share in that unlovely work. In the talk last night I said I found everything going so smoothlythat if she were willing I would go back to Bermuda in February and getblessedly out of the clash and turmoil again for another month. She wasurgent that I should do it, and said that if I would put off the tripuntil March she would take Katy and go with me. We struck hands uponthat, and said it was settled. I had a mind to write to Bermuda bytomorrow's ship and secure a furnished house and servants. I meant towrite the letter this morning. But it will never be written, now. For she lies yonder, and before her is another journey than that. Night is closing down; the rim of the sun barely shows above thesky-line of the hills. I have been looking at that face again that was growing dearer anddearer to me every day. I was getting acquainted with Jean in these lastnine months. She had been long an exile from home when she came to usthree-quarters of a year ago. She had been shut up in sanitariums, many miles from us. How eloquent glad and grateful she was to cross herfather's threshold again! Would I bring her back to life if I could do it? I would not. If a wordwould do it, I would beg for strength to withhold the word. And I wouldhave the strength; I am sure of it. In her loss I am almost bankrupt, and my life is a bitterness, but I am content: for she has been enrichedwith the most precious of all gifts--that gift which makes all othergifts mean and poor--death. I have never wanted any released friend ofmine restored to life since I reached manhood. I felt in this way whenSusy passed away; and later my wife, and later Mr. Rogers. When Claramet me at the station in New York and told me Mr. Rogers haddied suddenly that morning, my thought was, Oh, favorite offortune--fortunate all his long and lovely life--fortunate to hislatest moment! The reporters said there were tears of sorrow in my eyes. True--but they were for ME, not for him. He had suffered no loss. Allthe fortunes he had ever made before were poverty compared with thisone. Why did I build this house, two years ago? To shelter this vastemptiness? How foolish I was! But I shall stay in it. The spirits ofthe dead hallow a house, for me. It was not so with other members of thefamily. Susy died in the house we built in Hartford. Mrs. Clemens wouldnever enter it again. But it made the house dearer to me. I have enteredit once since, when it was tenantless and silent and forlorn, but to meit was a holy place and beautiful. It seemed to me that the spirits ofthe dead were all about me, and would speak to me and welcome me ifthey could: Livy, and Susy, and George, and Henry Robinson, and CharlesDudley Warner. How good and kind they were, and how lovable their lives!In fancy I could see them all again, I could call the children backand hear them romp again with George--that peerless black ex-slave andchildren's idol who came one day--a flitting stranger--to wash windows, and stayed eighteen years. Until he died. Clara and Jean would neverenter again the New York hotel which their mother had frequented inearlier days. They could not bear it. But I shall stay in this house. Itis dearer to me tonight than ever it was before. Jean's spirit will makeit beautiful for me always. Her lonely and tragic death--but I will notthink of that now. Jean's mother always devoted two or three weeks to Christmas shopping, and was always physically exhausted when Christmas Eve came. Jean washer very own child--she wore herself out present-hunting in New Yorkthese latter days. Paine has just found on her desk a long list ofnames--fifty, he thinks--people to whom she sent presents last night. Apparently she forgot no one. And Katy found there a roll of bank-notes, for the servants. Her dog has been wandering about the grounds today, comradeless andforlorn. I have seen him from the windows. She got him from Germany. Hehas tall ears and looks exactly like a wolf. He was educated in Germany, and knows no language but the German. Jean gave him no orders savein that tongue. And so when the burglar-alarm made a fierce clamor atmidnight a fortnight ago, the butler, who is French and knows no German, tried in vain to interest the dog in the supposed burglar. Jean wroteme, to Bermuda, about the incident. It was the last letter I was ever toreceive from her bright head and her competent hand. The dog will not beneglected. There was never a kinder heart than Jean's. From her childhood up shealways spent the most of her allowance on charities of one kind oranother. After she became secretary and had her income doubled she spenther money upon these things with a free hand. Mine too, I am glad andgrateful to say. She was a loyal friend to all animals, and she loved them all, birds, beasts, and everything--even snakes--an inheritance from me. She knewall the birds; she was high up in that lore. She became a member ofvarious humane societies when she was still a little girl--both here andabroad--and she remained an active member to the last. She founded twoor three societies for the protection of animals, here and in Europe. She was an embarrassing secretary, for she fished my correspondence outof the waste-basket and answered the letters. She thought all lettersdeserved the courtesy of an answer. Her mother brought her up in thatkindly error. She could write a good letter, and was swift with her pen. She had butan indifferent ear music, but her tongue took to languages with an easyfacility. She never allowed her Italian, French, and German to get rustythrough neglect. The telegrams of sympathy are flowing in, from far and wide, now, justas they did in Italy five years and a half ago, when this child's motherlaid down her blameless life. They cannot heal the hurt, but they takeaway some of the pain. When Jean and I kissed hands and parted atmy door last, how little did we imagine that in twenty-two hours thetelegraph would be bringing words like these: "From the bottom of our hearts we send out sympathy, dearest offriends. " For many and many a day to come, wherever I go in this house, remembrancers of Jean will mutely speak to me of her. Who can count thenumber of them? She was in exile two years with the hope of healing hermalady--epilepsy. There are no words to express how grateful I am thatshe did not meet her fate in the hands of strangers, but in the lovingshelter of her own home. "MISS JEAN IS DEAD!" It is true. Jean is dead. A month ago I was writing bubbling and hilarious articles for magazinesyet to appear, and now I am writing--this. CHRISTMAS DAY. NOON. --Last night I went to Jean's room at intervals, andturned back the sheet and looked at the peaceful face, and kissed thecold brow, and remembered that heartbreaking night in Florence so longago, in that cavernous and silent vast villa, when I crept downstairs somany times, and turned back a sheet and looked at a face just like thisone--Jean's mother's face--and kissed a brow that was just like thisone. And last night I saw again what I had seen then--that strange andlovely miracle--the sweet, soft contours of early maidenhood restoredby the gracious hand of death! When Jean's mother lay dead, all trace ofcare, and trouble, and suffering, and the corroding years had vanishedout of the face, and I was looking again upon it as I had known andworshipped it in its young bloom and beauty a whole generation before. About three in the morning, while wandering about the house in the deepsilences, as one does in times like these, when there is a dumb sensethat something has been lost that will never be found again, yet mustbe sought, if only for the employment the useless seeking gives, I cameupon Jean's dog in the hall downstairs, and noted that he did notspring to greet me, according to his hospitable habit, but came slow andsorrowfully; also I remembered that he had not visited Jean's apartmentsince the tragedy. Poor fellow, did he know? I think so. Always whenJean was abroad in the open he was with her; always when she was in thehouse he was with her, in the night as well as in the day. Her parlorwas his bedroom. Whenever I happened upon him on the ground floor healways followed me about, and when I went upstairs he went too--in atumultuous gallop. But now it was different: after patting him a littleI went to the library--he remained behind; when I went upstairs he didnot follow me, save with his wistful eyes. He has wonderful eyes--big, and kind, and eloquent. He can talk with them. He is a beautifulcreature, and is of the breed of the New York police-dogs. I do not likedogs, because they bark when there is no occasion for it; but I haveliked this one from the beginning, because he belonged to Jean, andbecause he never barks except when there is occasion--which is notoftener than twice a week. In my wanderings I visited Jean's parlor. On a shelf I found a pile ofmy books, and I knew what it meant. She was waiting for me to come homefrom Bermuda and autograph them, then she would send them away. If Ionly knew whom she intended them for! But I shall never know. I willkeep them. Her hand has touched them--it is an accolade--they are noble, now. And in a closet she had hidden a surprise for me--a thing I have oftenwished I owned: a noble big globe. I couldn't see it for the tears. She will never know the pride I take in it, and the pleasure. Today themails are full of loving remembrances for her: full of those old, oldkind words she loved so well, "Merry Christmas to Jean!" If she couldonly have lived one day longer! At last she ran out of money, and would not use mine. So she sent toone of those New York homes for poor girls all the clothes she couldspare--and more, most likely. CHRISTMAS NIGHT. --This afternoon they took her away from her room. Assoon as I might, I went down to the library, and there she lay, in hercoffin, dressed in exactly the same clothes she wore when she stood atthe other end of the same room on the 6th of October last, as Clara'schief bridesmaid. Her face was radiant with happy excitement then; itwas the same face now, with the dignity of death and the peace of Godupon it. They told me the first mourner to come was the dog. He came uninvited, and stood up on his hind legs and rested his fore paws upon the trestle, and took a last long look at the face that was so dear to him, then wenthis way as silently as he had come. HE KNOWS. At mid-afternoon it began to snow. The pity of it--that Jean could notsee it! She so loved the snow. The snow continued to fall. At six o'clock the hearse drew up to thedoor to bear away its pathetic burden. As they lifted the casket, Painebegan playing on the orchestrelle Schubert's "Impromptu, " which wasJean's favorite. Then he played the Intermezzo; that was for Susy;then he played the Largo; that was for their mother. He did this at myrequest. Elsewhere in my Autobiography I have told how the Intermezzoand the Largo came to be associated in my heart with Susy and Livy intheir last hours in this life. From my windows I saw the hearse and the carriages wind along the roadand gradually grow vague and spectral in the falling snow, and presentlydisappear. Jean was gone out of my life, and would not come back anymore. Jervis, the cousin she had played with when they were babiestogether--he and her beloved old Katy--were conducting her to herdistant childhood home, where she will lie by her mother's side oncemore, in the company of Susy and Langdon. DECEMBER 26TH. The dog came to see me at eight o'clock this morning. He was very affectionate, poor orphan! My room will be his quartershereafter. The storm raged all night. It has raged all the morning. The snow drivesacross the landscape in vast clouds, superb, sublime--and Jean not hereto see. 2:30 P. M. --It is the time appointed. The funeral has begun. Four hundredmiles away, but I can see it all, just as if I were there. The sceneis the library in the Langdon homestead. Jean's coffin stands where hermother and I stood, forty years ago, and were married; and where Susy'scoffin stood thirteen years ago; where her mother's stood five years anda half ago; and where mine will stand after a little time. FIVE O'CLOCK. --It is all over. When Clara went away two weeks ago to live in Europe, it was hard, but Icould bear it, for I had Jean left. I said WE would be a family. We saidwe would be close comrades and happy--just we two. That fair dream wasin my mind when Jean met me at the steamer last Monday; it was in mymind when she received me at the door last Tuesday evening. We weretogether; WE WERE A FAMILY! the dream had come true--oh, precisely true, contentedly, true, satisfyingly true! and remained true two whole days. And now? Now Jean is in her grave! In the grave--if I can believe it. God rest her sweet spirit! 1. Katy Leary, who had been in the service of the Clemens family for twenty-nine years. 2. Mr. Gabrilowitsch had been operated on for appendicitis. THE TURNING-POINT OF MY LIFE I If I understand the idea, the BAZAR invites several of us to write uponthe above text. It means the change in my life's course which introducedwhat must be regarded by me as the most IMPORTANT condition of mycareer. But it also implies--without intention, perhaps--that thatturning-point ITSELF was the creator of the new condition. This gives ittoo much distinction, too much prominence, too much credit. It is onlythe LAST link in a very long chain of turning-points commissioned toproduce the cardinal result; it is not any more important than thehumblest of its ten thousand predecessors. Each of the ten thousand didits appointed share, on its appointed date, in forwarding the scheme, and they were all necessary; to have left out any one of them would havedefeated the scheme and brought about SOME OTHER result. It know we havea fashion of saying "such and such an event was the turning-point in mylife, " but we shouldn't say it. We should merely grant that its placeas LAST link in the chain makes it the most CONSPICUOUS link; in realimportance it has no advantage over any one of its predecessors. Perhaps the most celebrated turning-point recorded in history was thecrossing of the Rubicon. Suetonius says: Coming up with his troops on the banks of the Rubicon, he halted for awhile, and, revolving in his mind the importance of the step he wason the point of taking, he turned to those about him and said, "We maystill retreat; but if we pass this little bridge, nothing is left for usbut to fight it out in arms. " This was a stupendously important moment. And all the incidents, big andlittle, of Caesar's previous life had been leading up to it, stage bystage, link by link. This was the LAST link--merely the last one, and nobigger than the others; but as we gaze back at it through the inflatingmists of our imagination, it looks as big as the orbit of Neptune. You, the reader, have a PERSONAL interest in that link, and so haveI; so has the rest of the human race. It was one of the links in yourlife-chain, and it was one of the links in mine. We may wait, now, withbated breath, while Caesar reflects. Your fate and mine are involved inhis decision. While he was thus hesitating, the following incident occurred. A personremarked for his noble mien and graceful aspect appeared close at hand, sitting and playing upon a pipe. When not only the shepherds, but anumber of soldiers also, flocked to listen to him, and some trumpetersamong them, he snatched a trumpet from one of them, ran to the riverwith it, and, sounding the advance with a piercing blast, crossed to theother side. Upon this, Caesar exclaimed: "Let us go whither the omens ofthe gods and the iniquity of our enemies call us. THE DIE IS CAST. " So he crossed--and changed the future of the whole human race, for alltime. But that stranger was a link in Caesar's life-chain, too; and anecessary one. We don't know his name, we never hear of him again; hewas very casual; he acts like an accident; but he was no accident, hewas there by compulsion of HIS life-chain, to blow the electrifyingblast that was to make up Caesar's mind for him, and thence go pipingdown the aisles of history forever. If the stranger hadn't been there! But he WAS. And Caesar crossed. With such results! Such vast events--each a link in the HUMAN RACE'Slife-chain; each event producing the next one, and that one the nextone, and so on: the destruction of the republic; the founding of theempire; the breaking up of the empire; the rise of Christianity uponits ruins; the spread of the religion to other lands--and so on; linkby link took its appointed place at its appointed time, the discovery ofAmerica being one of them; our Revolution another; the inflow of Englishand other immigrants another; their drift westward (my ancestors amongthem) another; the settlement of certain of them in Missouri, whichresulted in ME. For I was one of the unavoidable results of the crossingof the Rubicon. If the stranger, with his trumpet blast, had stayed away(which he COULDN'T, for he was the appointed link) Caesar would not havecrossed. What would have happened, in that case, we can never guess. Weonly know that the things that did happen would not have happened. Theymight have been replaced by equally prodigious things, of course, buttheir nature and results are beyond our guessing. But the matter thatinterests me personally is that I would not be HERE now, but somewhereelse; and probably black--there is no telling. Very well, I am glad hecrossed. And very really and thankfully glad, too, though I never caredanything about it before. II To me, the most important feature of my life is its literary feature. Ihave been professionally literary something more than forty years. Therehave been many turning-points in my life, but the one that was the linkin the chain appointed to conduct me to the literary guild is the mostCONSPICUOUS link in that chain. BECAUSE it was the last one. It was notany more important than its predecessors. All the other links have aninconspicuous look, except the crossing of the Rubicon; but as factorsin making me literary they are all of the one size, the crossing of theRubicon included. I know how I came to be literary, and I will tell the steps that lead upto it and brought it about. The crossing of the Rubicon was not the first one, it was hardly evena recent one; I should have to go back ages before Caesar's day to findthe first one. To save space I will go back only a couple of generationsand start with an incident of my boyhood. When I was twelve and a halfyears old, my father died. It was in the spring. The summer came, andbrought with it an epidemic of measles. For a time a child died almostevery day. The village was paralyzed with fright, distress, despair. Children that were not smitten with the disease were imprisoned intheir homes to save them from the infection. In the homes there were nocheerful faces, there was no music, there was no singing but of solemnhymns, no voice but of prayer, no romping was allowed, no noise, nolaughter, the family moved spectrally about on tiptoe, in aghostly hush. I was a prisoner. My soul was steeped in this awfuldreariness--and in fear. At some time or other every day and every nighta sudden shiver shook me to the marrow, and I said to myself, "There, I've got it! and I shall die. " Life on these miserable terms was notworth living, and at last I made up my mind to get the disease and haveit over, one way or the other. I escaped from the house and went tothe house of a neighbor where a playmate of mine was very ill with themalady. When the chance offered I crept into his room and got into bedwith him. I was discovered by his mother and sent back into captivity. But I had the disease; they could not take that from me. I came near todying. The whole village was interested, and anxious, and sent for newsof me every day; and not only once a day, but several times. Everybodybelieved I would die; but on the fourteenth day a change came for theworse and they were disappointed. This was a turning-point of my life. (Link number one. ) For when I gotwell my mother closed my school career and apprenticed me to a printer. She was tired of trying to keep me out of mischief, and the adventure ofthe measles decided her to put me into more masterful hands than hers. I became a printer, and began to add one link after another to the chainwhich was to lead me into the literary profession. A long road, but Icould not know that; and as I did not know what its goal was, or eventhat it had one, I was indifferent. Also contented. A young printer wanders around a good deal, seeking and finding work;and seeking again, when necessity commands. N. B. Necessity is aCIRCUMSTANCE; Circumstance is man's master--and when Circumstancecommands, he must obey; he may argue the matter--that is his privilege, just as it is the honorable privilege of a falling body to argue withthe attraction of gravitation--but it won't do any good, he must OBEY. I wandered for ten years, under the guidance and dictatorship ofCircumstance, and finally arrived in a city of Iowa, where I workedseveral months. Among the books that interested me in those days was oneabout the Amazon. The traveler told an alluring tale of his long voyageup the great river from Para to the sources of the Madeira, through theheart of an enchanted land, a land wastefully rich in tropical wonders, a romantic land where all the birds and flowers and animals were ofthe museum varieties, and where the alligator and the crocodile and themonkey seemed as much at home as if they were in the Zoo. Also, hetold an astonishing tale about COCA, a vegetable product of miraculouspowers, asserting that it was so nourishing and so strength-giving thatthe native of the mountains of the Madeira region would tramp up hilland down all day on a pinch of powdered coca and require no othersustenance. I was fired with a longing to ascend the Amazon. Also with a longing toopen up a trade in coca with all the world. During months I dreamedthat dream, and tried to contrive ways to get to Para and spring thatsplendid enterprise upon an unsuspecting planet. But all in vain. Aperson may PLAN as much as he wants to, but nothing of consequence islikely to come of it until the magician CIRCUMSTANCE steps in and takesthe matter off his hands. At last Circumstance came to my help. It wasin this way. Circumstance, to help or hurt another man, made him losea fifty-dollar bill in the street; and to help or hurt me, made me findit. I advertised the find, and left for the Amazon the same day. Thiswas another turning-point, another link. Could Circumstance have ordered another dweller in that town to go tothe Amazon and open up a world-trade in coca on a fifty-dollar basisand been obeyed? No, I was the only one. There were other foolsthere--shoals and shoals of them--but they were not of my kind. I wasthe only one of my kind. Circumstance is powerful, but it cannot work alone; it has to have apartner. Its partner is man's TEMPERAMENT--his natural disposition. His temperament is not his invention, it is BORN in him, and he has noauthority over it, neither is he responsible for its acts. He cannotchange it, nothing can change it, nothing can modify it--excepttemporarily. But it won't stay modified. It is permanent, like thecolor of the man's eyes and the shape of his ears. Blue eyes are grayin certain unusual lights; but they resume their natural color when thatstress is removed. A Circumstance that will coerce one man will have no effect upon a manof a different temperament. If Circumstance had thrown the bank-notein Caesar's way, his temperament would not have made him start for theAmazon. His temperament would have compelled him to do something withthe money, but not that. It might have made him advertise the note--andWAIT. We can't tell. Also, it might have made him go to New York andbuy into the Government, with results that would leave Tweed nothing tolearn when it came his turn. Very well, Circumstance furnished the capital, and my temperament toldme what to do with it. Sometimes a temperament is an ass. When that isthe case of the owner of it is an ass, too, and is going to remainone. Training, experience, association, can temporarily so polish him, improve him, exalt him that people will think he is a mule, but theywill be mistaken. Artificially he IS a mule, for the time being, but atbottom he is an ass yet, and will remain one. By temperament I was the kind of person that DOES things. Does them, andreflects afterward. So I started for the Amazon without reflecting andwithout asking any questions. That was more than fifty years ago. In allthat time my temperament has not changed, by even a shade. I havebeen punished many and many a time, and bitterly, for doing things andreflecting afterward, but these tortures have been of no value to me;I still do the thing commanded by Circumstance and Temperament, andreflect afterward. Always violently. When I am reflecting, on theseoccasions, even deaf persons can hear me think. I went by the way of Cincinnati, and down the Ohio and Mississippi. My idea was to take ship, at New Orleans, for Para. In New Orleans Iinquired, and found there was no ship leaving for Para. Also, that therenever had BEEN one leaving for Para. I reflected. A policeman came andasked me what I was doing, and I told him. He made me move on, and saidif he caught me reflecting in the public street again he would run mein. After a few days I was out of money. Then Circumstance arrived, withanother turning-point of my life--a new link. On my way down, I had madethe acquaintance of a pilot. I begged him to teach me the river, and heconsented. I became a pilot. By and by Circumstance came again--introducing the Civil War, thistime, in order to push me ahead another stage or two toward the literaryprofession. The boats stopped running, my livelihood was gone. Circumstance came to the rescue with a new turning-point and a freshlink. My brother was appointed secretary to the new Territory of Nevada, and he invited me to go with him and help him in his office. I accepted. In Nevada, Circumstance furnished me the silver fever and I went intothe mines to make a fortune, as I supposed; but that was not the idea. The idea was to advance me another step toward literature. For amusementI scribbled things for the Virginia City ENTERPRISE. One isn't a printerten years without setting up acres of good and bad literature, andlearning--unconsciously at first, consciously later--to discriminatebetween the two, within his mental limitations; and meantime he isunconsciously acquiring what is called a "style. " One of my effortsattracted attention, and the ENTERPRISE sent for me and put me on itsstaff. And so I became a journalist--another link. By and by Circumstance andthe Sacramento UNION sent me to the Sandwich Islands for five orsix months, to write up sugar. I did it; and threw in a good deal ofextraneous matter that hadn't anything to do with sugar. But it was thisextraneous matter that helped me to another link. It made me notorious, and San Francisco invited me to lecture. WhichI did. And profitably. I had long had a desire to travel and see theworld, and now Circumstance had most kindly and unexpectedly hurled meupon the platform and furnished me the means. So I joined the "QuakerCity Excursion. " When I returned to America, Circumstance was waiting on the pier--withthe LAST link--the conspicuous, the consummating, the victorious link:I was asked to WRITE A BOOK, and I did it, and called it THE INNOCENTSABROAD. Thus I became at last a member of the literary guild. That wasforty-two years ago, and I have been a member ever since. Leaving theRubicon incident away back where it belongs, I can say with truth thatthe reason I am in the literary profession is because I had the measleswhen I was twelve years old. III Now what interests me, as regards these details, is not the detailsthemselves, but the fact that none of them was foreseen by me, none ofthem was planned by me, I was the author of none of them. Circumstance, working in harness with my temperament, created them all and compelledthem all. I often offered help, and with the best intentions, but it wasrejected--as a rule, uncourteously. I could never plan a thing and getit to come out the way I planned it. It came out some other way--someway I had not counted upon. And so I do not admire the human being--as an intellectual marvel--asmuch as I did when I was young, and got him out of books, and did notknow him personally. When I used to read that such and such a generaldid a certain brilliant thing, I believed it. Whereas it was not so. Circumstance did it by help of his temperament. The circumstances wouldhave failed of effect with a general of another temperament: he mightsee the chance, but lose the advantage by being by nature too slow ortoo quick or too doubtful. Once General Grant was asked a question abouta matter which had been much debated by the public and the newspapers;he answered the question without any hesitancy. "General, who plannedthe the march through Georgia?" "The enemy!" He added that the enemyusually makes your plans for you. He meant that the enemy by neglect orthrough force of circumstances leaves an opening for you, and you seeyour chance and take advantage of it. Circumstances do the planning for us all, no doubt, by help of ourtemperaments. I see no great difference between a man and a watch, except that the man is conscious and the watch isn't, and the man TRIESto plan things and the watch doesn't. The watch doesn't wind itselfand doesn't regulate itself--these things are done exteriorly. Outsideinfluences, outside circumstances, wind the MAN and regulate him. Leftto himself, he wouldn't get regulated at all, and the sort of time hewould keep would not be valuable. Some rare men are wonderful watches, with gold case, compensation balance, and all those things, and somemen are only simple and sweet and humble Waterburys. I am a Waterbury. AWaterbury of that kind, some say. A nation is only an individual multiplied. It makes plans andCircumstances comes and upsets them--or enlarges them. Some patriotsthrow the tea overboard; some other patriots destroy a Bastille. ThePLANS stop there; then Circumstance comes in, quite unexpectedly, andturns these modest riots into a revolution. And there was poor Columbus. He elaborated a deep plan to find a newroute to an old country. Circumstance revised his plan for him, and hefound a new WORLD. And HE gets the credit of it to this day. He hadn'tanything to do with it. Necessarily the scene of the real turning-point of my life (and ofyours) was the Garden of Eden. It was there that the first link wasforged of the chain that was ultimately to lead to the emptying of meinto the literary guild. Adam's TEMPERAMENT was the first command theDeity ever issued to a human being on this planet. And it was the onlycommand Adam would NEVER be able to disobey. It said, "Be weak, bewater, be characterless, be cheaply persuadable. " The latter command, tolet the fruit alone, was certain to be disobeyed. Not by Adam himself, but by his TEMPERAMENT--which he did not create and had no authorityover. For the TEMPERAMENT is the man; the thing tricked out with clothesand named Man is merely its Shadow, nothing more. The law of the tiger'stemperament is, Thou shalt kill; the law of the sheep's temperament isThou shalt not kill. To issue later commands requiring the tiger to letthe fat stranger alone, and requiring the sheep to imbue its hands inthe blood of the lion is not worth while, for those commands CAN'T beobeyed. They would invite to violations of the law of TEMPERAMENT, whichis supreme, and take precedence of all other authorities. I cannot helpfeeling disappointed in Adam and Eve. That is, in their temperaments. Not in THEM, poor helpless young creatures--afflicted with temperamentsmade out of butter; which butter was commanded to get into contact withfire and BE MELTED. What I cannot help wishing is, that Adam had beenpostponed, and Martin Luther and Joan of Arc put in their place--thatsplendid pair equipped with temperaments not made of butter, but ofasbestos. By neither sugary persuasions nor by hell fire could Satanhave beguiled THEM to eat the apple. There would have been results!Indeed, yes. The apple would be intact today; there would be no humanrace; there would be no YOU; there would be no ME. And the old, oldcreation-dawn scheme of ultimately launching me into the literary guildwould have been defeated. HOW TO MAKE HISTORY DATES STICK These chapters are for children, and I shall try to make the words largeenough to command respect. In the hope that you are listening, and thatyou have confidence in me, I will proceed. Dates are difficult things toacquire; and after they are acquired it is difficult to keep them inthe head. But they are very valuable. They are like the cattle-pens of aranch--they shut in the several brands of historical cattle, each withinits own fence, and keep them from getting mixed together. Dates are hardto remember because they consist of figures; figures are monotonouslyunstriking in appearance, and they don't take hold, they form nopictures, and so they give the eye no chance to help. Pictures are thething. Pictures can make dates stick. They can make nearly anythingstick--particularly IF YOU MAKE THE PICTURES YOURSELF. Indeed, thatis the great point--make the pictures YOURSELF. I know about this fromexperience. Thirty years ago I was delivering a memorized lecture everynight, and every night I had to help myself with a page of notes tokeep from getting myself mixed. The notes consisted of beginnings ofsentences, and were eleven in number, and they ran something like this: "IN THAT REGION THE WEATHER--" "AT THAT TIME IT WAS A CUSTOM--" "BUT IN CALIFORNIA ONE NEVER HEARD--" Eleven of them. They initialed the brief divisions of the lecture andprotected me against skipping. But they all looked about alike on thepage; they formed no picture; I had them by heart, but I could neverwith certainty remember the order of their succession; therefore Ialways had to keep those notes by me and look at them every littlewhile. Once I mislaid them; you will not be able to imagine the terrorsof that evening. I now saw that I must invent some other protection. SoI got ten of the initial letters by heart in their proper order--I, A, B, and so on--and I went on the platform the next night with thesemarked in ink on my ten finger-nails. But it didn't answer. I kept trackof the figures for a while; then I lost it, and after that I was neverquite sure which finger I had used last. I couldn't lick off a letterafter using it, for while that would have made success certain it alsowould have provoked too much curiosity. There was curiosity enoughwithout that. To the audience I seemed more interested in my fingernailsthan I was in my subject; one or two persons asked me afterward what wasthe matter with my hands. It was now that the idea of pictures occurred to me; then my troublespassed away. In two minutes I made six pictures with a pen, and they didthe work of the eleven catch-sentences, and did it perfectly. I threwthe pictures away as soon as they were made, for I was sure I could shutmy eyes and see them any time. That was a quarter of a century ago; thelecture vanished out of my head more than twenty years ago, but I wouldrewrite it from the pictures--for they remain. Here are three of them:(Fig. 1). The first one is a haystack--below it a rattlesnake--and it told mewhere to begin to talk ranch-life in Carson Valley. The second one toldme where to begin the talk about a strange and violent wind that usedto burst upon Carson City from the Sierra Nevadas every afternoon at twoo'clock and try to blow the town away. The third picture, as you easilyperceive, is lightning; its duty was to remind me when it was timeto begin to talk about San Francisco weather, where there IS nolightning--nor thunder, either--and it never failed me. I will give you a valuable hint. When a man is making a speech and youare to follow him don't jot down notes to speak from, jot down PICTURES. It is awkward and embarrassing to have to keep referring to notes; andbesides it breaks up your speech and makes it ragged and non-coherent;but you can tear up your pictures as soon as you have made them--theywill stay fresh and strong in your memory in the order and sequence inwhich you scratched them down. And many will admire to see what a goodmemory you are furnished with, when perhaps your memory is not anybetter than mine. Sixteen years ago when my children were little creatures the governesswas trying to hammer some primer histories into their heads. Part ofthis fun--if you like to call it that--consisted in the memorizing ofthe accession dates of the thirty-seven personages who had ruled Englandfrom the Conqueror down. These little people found it a bitter, hardcontract. It was all dates, and all looked alike, and they wouldn'tstick. Day after day of the summer vacation dribbled by, and still thekings held the fort; the children couldn't conquer any six of them. With my lecture experience in mind I was aware that I could invent someway out of the trouble with pictures, but I hoped a way could be foundwhich would let them romp in the open air while they learned the kings. I found it, and they mastered all the monarchs in a day or two. The idea was to make them SEE the reigns with their eyes; that would bea large help. We were at the farm then. From the house-porch the groundssloped gradually down to the lower fence and rose on the right to thehigh ground where my small work-den stood. A carriage-road wound throughthe grounds and up the hill. I staked it out with the English monarchs, beginning with the Conqueror, and you could stand on the porch andclearly see every reign and its length, from the Conquest down toVictoria, then in the forty-sixth year of her reign--EIGHT HUNDRED ANDSEVENTEEN YEARS OF English history under your eye at once! English history was an unusually live topic in America just then. Theworld had suddenly realized that while it was not noticing the Queenhad passed Henry VIII. , passed Henry VI. And Elizabeth, and gainingin length every day. Her reign had entered the list of the long ones;everybody was interested now--it was watching a race. Would she passthe long Edward? There was a possibility of it. Would she pass thelong Henry? Doubtful, most people said. The long George? Impossible!Everybody said it. But we have lived to see her leave him two yearsbehind. I measured off 817 feet of the roadway, a foot representing a year, andat the beginning and end of each reign I drove a three-foot white-pinestake in the turf by the roadside and wrote the name and dates on it. Abreast the middle of the porch-front stood a great granite flower-vaseoverflowing with a cataract of bright-yellow flowers--I can't think oftheir name. The vase of William the Conqueror. We put his name on itand his accession date, 1066. We started from that and measured offtwenty-one feet of the road, and drove William Rufus's state; thenthirteen feet and drove the first Henry's stake; then thirty-five feetand drove Stephen's; then nineteen feet, which brought us just pastthe summer-house on the left; then we staked out thirty-five, ten, andseventeen for the second Henry and Richard and John; turned the curveand entered upon just what was needed for Henry III. --a level, straightstretch of fifty-six feet of road without a crinkle in it. And it layexactly in front of the house, in the middle of the grounds. Therecouldn't have been a better place for that long reign; you could standon the porch and see those two wide-apart stakes almost with your eyesshut. (Fig. 2. ) That isn't the shape of the road--I have bunched it up like that to saveroom. The road had some great curves in it, but their gradual sweep wassuch that they were no mar to history. No, in our road one could tellat a glance who was who by the size of the vacancy between stakes--withLOCALITY to help, of course. Although I am away off here in a Swedish village (1) and those stakesdid not stand till the snow came, I can see them today as plainly asever; and whenever I think of an English monarch his stakes rise beforeme of their own accord and I notice the large or small space which hetakes up on our road. Are your kings spaced off in your mind? When youthink of Richard III. And of James II. Do the durations of their reignsseem about alike to you? It isn't so to me; I always notice that there'sa foot's difference. When you think of Henry III. Do you see a greatlong stretch of straight road? I do; and just at the end where it joinson to Edward I. I always see a small pear-bush with its green fruithanging down. When I think of the Commonwealth I see a shady littlegroup of these small saplings which we called the oak parlor; whenI think of George III. I see him stretching up the hill, part of himoccupied by a flight of stone steps; and I can locate Stephen to an inchwhen he comes into my mind, for he just filled the stretch which wentby the summer-house. Victoria's reign reached almost to my study door onthe first little summit; there's sixteen feet to be added now; I believethat that would carry it to a big pine-tree that was shattered by somelightning one summer when it was trying to hit me. We got a good deal of fun out of the history road; and exercise, too. Wetrotted the course from the conqueror to the study, the children callingout the names, dates, and length of reigns as we passed the stakes, going a good gait along the long reigns, but slowing down when wecame upon people like Mary and Edward VI. , and the short Stuart andPlantagenet, to give time to get in the statistics. I offered prizes, too--apples. I threw one as far as I could send it, and the child thatfirst shouted the reign it fell in got the apple. The children were encouraged to stop locating things as being "over bythe arbor, " or "in the oak parlor, " or "up at the stone steps, " and sayinstead that the things were in Stephen, or in the Commonwealth, or inGeorge III. They got the habit without trouble. To have the long roadmapped out with such exactness was a great boon for me, for I had thehabit of leaving books and other articles lying around everywhere, andhad not previously been able to definitely name the place, and so hadoften been obliged to go to fetch them myself, to save time and failure;but now I could name the reign I left them in, and send the children. Next I thought I would measure off the French reigns, and peg themalongside the English ones, so that we could always have contemporaneousFrench history under our eyes as we went our English rounds. We peggedthem down to the Hundred Years' War, then threw the idea aside, I do notnow remember why. After that we made the English pegs fence in Europeanand American history as well as English, and that answered very well. English and alien poets, statesmen, artists, heroes, battles, plagues, cataclysms, revolutions--we shoveled them all into the English fencesaccording to their dates. Do you understand? We gave Washington's birthto George II. 's pegs and his death to George III. 's; George II. Gotthe Lisbon earthquake and George III. The Declaration of Independence. Goethe, Shakespeare, Napoleon, Savonarola, Joan of Arc, the FrenchRevolution, the Edict of Nantes, Clive, Wellington, Waterloo, Plassey, Patay, Cowpens, Saratoga, the Battle of the Boyne, the invention of thelogarithms, the microscope, the steam-engine, the telegraph--anythingand everything all over the world--we dumped it all in among the Englishpegs according to it date and regardless of its nationality. If the road-pegging scheme had not succeeded I should have lodged thekings in the children's heads by means of pictures--that is, I shouldhave tried. It might have failed, for the pictures could only beeffective WHEN MADE BY THE PUPIL; not the master, for it is the workput upon the drawing that makes the drawing stay in the memory, and mychildren were too little to make drawings at that time. And, besides, they had no talent for art, which is strange, for in other ways they arelike me. But I will develop the picture plan now, hoping that you will be ableto use it. It will come good for indoors when the weather is bad and onecannot go outside and peg a road. Let us imagine that the kings are aprocession, and that they have come out of the Ark and down Ararat forexercise and are now starting back again up the zigzag road. This willbring several of them into view at once, and each zigzag will representthe length of a king's reign. And so on. You will have plenty of space, for by my project you will usethe parlor wall. You do not mark on the wall; that would cause trouble. You only attach bits of paper to it with pins or thumb-tacks. These willleave no mark. Take your pen now, and twenty-one pieces of white paper, each two inchessquare, and we will do the twenty-one years of the Conqueror's reign. On each square draw a picture of a whale and write the dates and term ofservice. We choose the whale for several reasons: its name and William'sbegin with the same letter; it is the biggest fish that swims, andWilliam is the most conspicuous figure in English history in the way ofa landmark; finally, a whale is about the easiest thing to draw. Bythe time you have drawn twenty-one wales and written "WilliamI. --1066-1087--twenty-one years" twenty-one times, those details will beyour property; you cannot dislodge them from your memory with anythingbut dynamite. I will make a sample for you to copy: (Fig. 3). I have got his chin up too high, but that is no matter; he is lookingfor Harold. It may be that a whale hasn't that fin up there on his back, but I do not remember; and so, since there is a doubt, it is best to erron the safe side. He looks better, anyway, than he would without it. Be very careful and ATTENTIVE while you are drawing your first whalefrom my sample and writing the word and figures under it, so that youwill not need to copy the sample any more. Compare your copy with thesample; examine closely; if you find you have got everything right andcan shut your eyes and see the picture and call the words and figures, then turn the sample and copy upside down and make the next copy frommemory; and also the next and next, and so on, always drawing andwriting from memory until you have finished the whole twenty-one. Thiswill take you twenty minutes, or thirty, and by that time you will findthat you can make a whale in less time than an unpracticed person canmake a sardine; also, up to the time you die you will always be able tofurnish William's dates to any ignorant person that inquires after them. You will now take thirteen pieces of BLUE paper, each two inches square, and do William II. (Fig. 4. ) Make him spout his water forward instead of backward; also make himsmall, and stick a harpoon in him and give him that sick look in theeye. Otherwise you might seem to be continuing the other William, andthat would be confusing and a damage. It is quite right to make himsmall; he was only about a No. 11 whale, or along there somewhere;there wasn't room in him for his father's great spirit. The barb of thatharpoon ought not to show like that, because it is down inside the whaleand ought to be out of sight, but it cannot be helped; if the barb wereremoved people would think some one had stuck a whip-stock into thewhale. It is best to leave the barb the way it is, then every one willknow it is a harpoon and attending to business. Remember--draw from thecopy only once; make your other twelve and the inscription from memory. Now the truth is that whenever you have copied a picture and itsinscription once from my sample and two or three times from memory thedetails will stay with you and be hard to forget. After that, if youlike, you may make merely the whale's HEAD and WATER-SPOUT for theConqueror till you end his reign, each time SAYING the inscription inplace of writing it; and in the case of William II. Make the HARPOONalone, and say over the inscription each time you do it. You see, itwill take nearly twice as long to do the first set as it will to dothe second, and that will give you a marked sense of the difference inlength of the two reigns. Next do Henry I. On thirty-five squares of RED paper. (Fig. 5. ) That is a hen, and suggests Henry by furnishing the first syllable. Whenyou have repeated the hen and the inscription until you are perfectlysure of them, draw merely the hen's head the rest of the thirty-fivetimes, saying over the inscription each time. Thus: (Fig. 6). You begin to understand how how this procession is going to look whenit is on the wall. First there will be the Conqueror's twenty-one whalesand water-spouts, the twenty-one white squares joined to one another andmaking a white stripe three and one-half feet long; the thirteen bluesquares of William II. Will be joined to that--a blue stripe two feet, two inches long, followed by Henry's red stripe five feet, ten incheslong, and so on. The colored divisions will smartly show to the eye thedifference in the length of the reigns and impress the proportions onthe memory and the understanding. (Fig. 7. ) Stephen of Blois comes next. He requires nineteen two-inch squares ofYELLOW paper. (Fig. 8. ) That is a steer. The sound suggests the beginning of Stephen's name. Ichoose it for that reason. I can make a better steer than that when Iam not excited. But this one will do. It is a good-enough steer forhistory. The tail is defective, but it only wants straightening out. Next comes Henry II. Give him thirty-five squares of RED paper. Thesehens must face west, like the former ones. (Fig. 9. ) This hen differs from the other one. He is on his way to inquire whathas been happening in Canterbury. How we arrive at Richard I. , called Richard of the Lion-heart becausehe was a brave fighter and was never so contented as when he was leadingcrusades in Palestine and neglecting his affairs at home. Give him tensquares of WHITE paper. (Fig. 10). That is a lion. His office is to remind you of the lion-hearted Richard. There is something the matter with his legs, but I do not quite knowwhat it is, they do not seem right. I think the hind ones are the mostunsatisfactory; the front ones are well enough, though it would bebetter if they were rights and lefts. Next comes King John, and he was a poor circumstance. He was calledLackland. He gave his realm to the Pope. Let him have seventeen squaresof YELLOW paper. (Fig. 11. ) That creature is a jamboree. It looks like a trademark, but that is onlyan accident and not intentional. It is prehistoric and extinct. It usedto roam the earth in the Old Silurian times, and lay eggs and catch fishand climb trees and live on fossils; for it was of a mixed breed, whichwas the fashion then. It was very fierce, and the Old Silurianswere afraid of it, but this is a tame one. Physically it has norepresentative now, but its mind has been transmitted. First I drew itsitting down, but have turned it the other way now because I think itlooks more attractive and spirited when one end of it is galloping. Ilove to think that in this attitude it gives us a pleasant idea ofJohn coming all in a happy excitement to see what the barons have beenarranging for him at Runnymede, while the other one gives us an idea ofhim sitting down to wring his hands and grieve over it. We now come to Henry III. ; RED squares again, of course--fifty-six ofthem. We must make all the Henrys the same color; it will make theirlong reigns show up handsomely on the wall. Among all the eight Henrysthere were but two short ones. A lucky name, as far as longevity goes. The reigns of six of the Henrys cover 227 years. It might have been wellto name all the royal princes Henry, but this was overlooked until itwas too late. (Fig. 12. ) This is the best one yet. He is on his way (1265) to have a look at thefirst House of Commons in English history. It was a monumental event, the situation in the House, and was the second great liberty landmarkwhich the century had set up. I have made Henry looking glad, but thiswas not intentional. Edward I. Comes next; LIGHT-BROWN paper, thirty-five squares. (Fig. 13. ) That is an editor. He is trying to think of a word. He props his feet ona chair, which is the editor's way; then he can think better. I do notcare much for this one; his ears are not alike; still, editor suggeststhe sound of Edward, and he will do. I could make him better if I hada model, but I made this one from memory. But is no particular matter;they all look alike, anyway. They are conceited and troublesome, anddon't pay enough. Edward was the first really English king that had yetoccupied the throne. The editor in the picture probably looks just asEdward looked when it was first borne in upon him that this was so. Hiswhole attitude expressed gratification and pride mixed with stupefactionand astonishment. Edward II. Now; twenty BLUE squares. (Fig. 14. ) Another editor. That thing behind his ear is his pencil. Whenever hefinds a bright thing in your manuscript he strikes it out with that. That does him good, and makes him smile and show his teeth, the way heis doing in the picture. This one has just been striking out a smartthing, and now he is sitting there with his thumbs in his vest-holes, gloating. They are full of envy and malice, editors are. This picturewill serve to remind you that Edward II. Was the first English king whowas DEPOSED. Upon demand, he signed his deposition himself. He had foundkingship a most aggravating and disagreeable occupation, and you cansee by the look of him that he is glad he resigned. He has put his bluepencil up for good now. He had struck out many a good thing with it inhis time. Edward III. Next; fifty RED squares. (Fig. 15. ) This editor is a critic. He has pulled out his carving-knife and histomahawk and is starting after a book which he is going to have forbreakfast. This one's arms are put on wrong. I did not notice it atfirst, but I see it now. Somehow he has got his right arm on his leftshoulder, and his left arm on his right shoulder, and this shows usthe back of his hands in both instances. It makes him left-handed allaround, which is a thing which has never happened before, except perhapsin a museum. That is the way with art, when it is not acquired but bornto you: you start in to make some simple little thing, not suspectingthat your genius is beginning to work and swell and strain in secret, and all of a sudden there is a convulsion and you fetch out somethingastonishing. This is called inspiration. It is an accident; you neverknow when it is coming. I might have tried as much as a year to thinkof such a strange thing as an all-around left-handed man and I could nothave done it, for the more you try to think of an unthinkable thing themore it eludes you; but it can't elude inspiration; you have onlyto bait with inspiration and you will get it every time. Look atBotticelli's "Spring. " Those snaky women were unthinkable, butinspiration secured them for us, thanks to goodness. It is too late toreorganize this editor-critic now; we will leave him as he is. He willserve to remind us. Richard II. Next; twenty-two WHITE squares. (Fig. 16. ) We use the lion again because this is another Richard. Like Edward II. , he was DEPOSED. He is taking a last sad look at his crown before theytake it away. There was not room enough and I have made it too small;but it never fitted him, anyway. Now we turn the corner of the century with a new line of monarchs--theLancastrian kings. Henry IV. ; fourteen squares of YELLOW paper. (Fig. 17. ) This hen has laid the egg of a new dynasty and realizes the magnitudeof the event. She is giving notice in the usual way. You notice I amimproving in the construction of hens. At first I made them toomuch like other animals, but this one is orthodox. I mention thisto encourage you. You will find that the more you practice the moreaccurate you will become. I could always draw animals, but before I waseducated I could not tell what kind they were when I got them done, butnow I can. Keep up your courage; it will be the same with you, althoughyou may not think it. This Henry died the year after Joan of Arc wasborn. Henry V. ; nine BLUE squares. (Fig. 18) There you see him lost in meditation over the monument which records theamazing figures of the battle of Agincourt. French history says 20, 000Englishmen routed 80, 000 Frenchmen there; and English historians saythat the French loss, in killed and wounded, was 60, 000. Henry VI. ; thirty-nine RED squares. (Fig. 19) This is poor Henry VI. , who reigned long and scored many misfortunes andhumiliations. Also two great disasters: he lost France to Joan of Arcand he lost the throne and ended the dynasty which Henry IV. Had startedin business with such good prospects. In the picture we see him sad andweary and downcast, with the scepter falling from his nerveless grasp. It is a pathetic quenching of a sun which had risen in such splendor. Edward IV. ; twenty-two LIGHT-BROWN squares. (Fig. 20. ) That is a society editor, sitting there elegantly dressed, with his legscrossed in that indolent way, observing the clothes the ladies wear, so that he can describe them for his paper and make them out finer thanthey are and get bribes for it and become wealthy. That flower which heis wearing in his buttonhole is a rose--a white rose, a York rose--andwill serve to remind us of the War of the Roses, and that the white onewas the winning color when Edward got the throne and dispossessed theLancastrian dynasty. Edward V. ; one-third of a BLACK square. (Fig. 21. ) His uncle Richard had him murdered in the tower. When you get thereigns displayed upon the wall this one will be conspicuous and easilyremembered. It is the shortest one in English history except Lady JaneGrey's, which was only nine days. She is never officially recognizedas a monarch of England, but if you or I should ever occupy a throne weshould like to have proper notice taken of it; and it would be only fairand right, too, particularly if we gained nothing by it and lost ourlives besides. Richard III. ; two WHITE squares. (Fig. 22. ) That is not a very good lion, but Richard was not a very good king. Youwould think that this lion has two heads, but that is not so; one isonly a shadow. There would be shadows for the rest of him, but there wasnot light enough to go round, it being a dull day, with only fleetingsun-glimpses now and then. Richard had a humped back and a hard heart, and fell at the battle of Bosworth. I do not know the name of thatflower in the pot, but we will use it as Richard's trade-mark, for it issaid that it grows in only one place in the world--Bosworth Field--andtradition says it never grew there until Richard's royal blood warmedits hidden seed to life and made it grow. Henry VII. ; twenty-four BLUE squares. (Fig. 23. ) Henry VII. Had no liking for wars and turbulence; he preferred peace andquiet and the general prosperity which such conditions create. He likedto sit on that kind of eggs on his own private account as well as thenation's, and hatch them out and count up their result. When he died heleft his heir 2, 000, 000 pounds, which was a most unusual fortune for aking to possess in those days. Columbus's great achievement gave him thediscovery-fever, and he sent Sebastian Cabot to the New World to searchout some foreign territory for England. That is Cabot's ship up therein the corner. This was the first time that England went far abroad toenlarge her estate--but not the last. Henry VIII. ; thirty-eight RED squares. (Fig. 24. ) That is Henry VIII. Suppressing a monastery in his arrogant fashion. Edward VI. ; six squares of YELLOW paper. (Fig. 25. ) He is the last Edward to date. It is indicated by that thing over hishead, which is a LAST--shoemaker's last. Mary; five squares of BLACK paper. (Fig. 26. ) The picture represents a burning martyr. He is in back of the smoke. The first three letters of Mary's name and the first three of the wordmartyr are the same. Martyrdom was going out in her day and martyrs werebecoming scarcer, but she made several. For this reason she is sometimescalled Bloody Mary. This brings us to the reign of Elizabeth, after passing through a periodof nearly five hundred years of England's history--492 to be exact. Ithink you may now be trusted to go the rest of the way without furtherlessons in art or inspirations in the matter of ideas. You have thescheme now, and something in the ruler's name or career will suggest thepictorial symbol. The effort of inventing such things will not only helpyour memory, but will develop originality in art. See what it hasdone for me. If you do not find the parlor wall big enough for allof England's history, continue it into the dining-room and into otherrooms. This will make the walls interesting and instructive and reallyworth something instead of being just flat things to hold the housetogether. 1. Summer of 1899. THE MEMORABLE ASSASSINATION Note. --The assassination of the Empress of Austria at Geneva, September10, 1898, occurred during Mark Twain's Austrian residence. The news cameto him at Kaltenleutgeben, a summer resort a little way out of Vienna. To his friend, the Rev. Jos. H. Twichell, he wrote: "That good and unoffending lady, the Empress, is killed by a madman, and I am living in the midst of world-history again. The Queen's Jubileelast year, the invasion of the Reichsrath by the police, and now thismurder, which will still be talked of and described and painted athousand a thousand years from now. To have a personal friend of thewearer of two crowns burst in at the gate in the deep dusk of theevening and say, in a voice broken with tears, 'My God! the Empress ismurdered, ' and fly toward her home before we can utter a question--why, it brings the giant event home to you, makes you a part of it andpersonally interested; it is as if your neighbor, Antony, should comeflying and say, 'Caesar is butchered--the head of the world is fallen!' "Of course there is no talk but of this. The mourning is universal andgenuine, the consternation is stupefying. The Austrian Empire is beingdraped with black. Vienna will be a spectacle to see by next Saturday, when the funeral cortege marches. " He was strongly moved by the tragedy, impelled to write concerningit. He prepared the article which follows, but did not offer it forpublication, perhaps feeling that his own close association with thecourt circles at the moment prohibited this personal utterance. Thereappears no such reason for withholding its publication now. A. B. P. The more one thinks of the assassination, the more imposing andtremendous the event becomes. The destruction of a city is a largeevent, but it is one which repeats itself several times in a thousandyears; the destruction of a third part of a nation by plague and famineis a large event, but it has happened several times in history; themurder of a king is a large event, but it has been frequent. The murder of an empress is the largest of all events. One must go backabout two thousand years to find an instance to put with this one. Theoldest family of unchallenged descent in Christendom lives in Rome andtraces its line back seventeen hundred years, but no member of it hasbeen present in the earth when an empress was murdered, until now. Manya time during these seventeen centuries members of that family havebeen startled with the news of extraordinary events--the destructionof cities, the fall of thrones, the murder of kings, the wreck ofdynasties, the extinction of religions, the birth of new systems ofgovernment; and their descendants have been by to hear of it and talkabout it when all these things were repeated once, twice, or a dozentimes--but to even that family has come news at last which is not staledby use, has no duplicates in the long reach of its memory. It is an event which confers a curious distinction upon every individualnow living in the world: he has stood alive and breathing in thepresence of an event such as has not fallen within the experience of anytraceable or untraceable ancestor of his for twenty centuries, and itis not likely to fall within the experience of any descendant of his fortwenty more. Time has made some great changes since the Roman days. The murder ofan empress then--even the assassination of Caesar himself--could notelectrify the world as this murder has electrified it. For one reason, there was then not much of a world to electrify; it was a small world, as to known bulk, and it had rather a thin population, besides; and foranother reason, the news traveled so slowly that its tremendous initialthrill wasted away, week by week and month by month, on the journey, andby the time it reached the remoter regions there was but little of itleft. It was no longer a fresh event, it was a thing of the far past;it was not properly news, it was history. But the world is enormousnow, and prodigiously populated--that is one change; and another is thelightning swiftness of the flight of tidings, good and bad. "The Empressis murdered!" When those amazing words struck upon my ear in thisAustrian village last Saturday, three hours after the disaster, I knewthat it was already old news in London, Paris, Berlin, New York, SanFrancisco, Japan, China, Melbourne, Cape Town, Bombay, Madras, Calcutta, and that the entire globe with a single voice, was cursingthe perpetrator of it. Since the telegraph first began to stretch itselfwider and wider about the earth, larger and increasingly larger areas ofthe world have, as time went on, received simultaneously the shock ofa great calamity; but this is the first time in history that the entiresurface of the globe has been swept in a single instant with the thrillof so gigantic an event. And who is the miracle-worker who has furnished to the world thisspectacle? All the ironies are compacted in the answer. He is at thebottom of the human ladder, as the accepted estimates of degree andvalue go: a soiled and patched young loafer, without gifts, withouttalents, without education, without morals, without character, withoutany born charm or any acquired one that wins or beguiles or attracts;without a single grace of mind or heart or hand that any tramp orprostitute could envy him; an unfaithful private in the ranks, anincompetent stone-cutter, an inefficient lackey; in a word, a mangy, offensive, empty, unwashed, vulgar, gross, mephitic, timid, sneaking, human polecat. And it was within the privileges and powers of thissarcasm upon the human race to reach up--up--up--and strike from its farsummit in the social skies the world's accepted ideal of Glory and Mightand Splendor and Sacredness! It realizes to us what sorry shows andshadows we are. Without our clothes and our pedestals we are poor thingsand much of a size; our dignities are not real, our pomps are shams. Atour best and stateliest we are not suns, as we pretended, and teach, andbelieve, but only candles; and any bummer can blow us out. And now we get realized to us once more another thing which we oftenforget--or try to: that no man has a wholly undiseased mind; that inone way or another all men are mad. Many are mad for money. When thismadness is in a mild form it is harmless and the man passes for sane;but when it develops powerfully and takes possession of the man, it canmake him cheat, rob, and kill; and when he has got his fortune and lostit again it can land him in the asylum or the suicide's coffin. Loveis a madness; if thwarted it develops fast; it can grow to a frenzyof despair and make an otherwise sane and highly gifted prince, likeRudolph, throw away the crown of an empire and snuff out his own life. All the whole list of desires, predilections, aversions, ambitions, passions, cares, griefs, regrets, remorses, are incipient madness, andready to grow, spread, and consume, when the occasion comes. There areno healthy minds, and nothing saves any man but accident--the accidentof not having his malady put to the supreme test. One of the commonest forms of madness is the desire to be noticed, thepleasure derived from being noticed. Perhaps it is not merely common, but universal. In its mildest form it doubtless is universal. Everychild is pleased at being noticed; many intolerable children put intheir whole time in distressing and idiotic effort to attract theattention of visitors; boys are always "showing off"; apparently allmen and women are glad and grateful when they find that they have donea thing which has lifted them for a moment out of obscurity and causedwondering talk. This common madness can develop, by nurture, into ahunger for notoriety in one, for fame in another. It is this madnessfor being noticed and talked about which has invented kingship and thethousand other dignities, and tricked them out with pretty and showyfineries; it has made kings pick one another's pockets, scramble for oneanother's crowns and estates, slaughter one another's subjects; it hasraised up prize-fighters, and poets, and villages mayors, and littleand big politicians, and big and little charity-founders, and bicyclechampions, and banditti chiefs, and frontier desperadoes, and Napoleons. Anything to get notoriety; anything to set the village, or the township, or the city, or the State, or the nation, or the planet shouting, "Look--there he goes--that is the man!" And in five minutes' time, at nocost of brain, or labor, or genius this mangy Italian tramp has beatenthem all, transcended them all, outstripped them all, for in time theirnames will perish; but by the friendly help of the insane newspapers andcourts and kings and historians, his is safe and live and thunder in theworld all down the ages as long as human speech shall endure! Oh, if itwere not so tragic how ludicrous it would be! She was so blameless, the Empress; and so beautiful, in mind and heart, in person and spirit; and whether with a crown upon her head or withoutit and nameless, a grace to the human race, and almost a justificationof its creation; WOULD be, indeed, but that the animal that struck herdown re-establishes the doubt. In her character was every quality that in woman invites and engagesrespect, esteem, affection, and homage. Her tastes, her instincts, andher aspirations were all high and fine and all her life her heart andbrain were busy with activities of a noble sort. She had had bittergriefs, but they did not sour her spirit, and she had had the highesthonors in the world's gift, but she went her simple way unspoiled. Sheknew all ranks, and won them all, and made them her friends. An Englishfisherman's wife said, "When a body was in trouble she didn't sendher help, she brought it herself. " Crowns have adorned others, but sheadorned her crowns. It was a swift celebrity the assassin achieved. And it is marked by somecurious contrasts. At noon last, Saturday there was no one in theworld who would have considered acquaintanceship with him a thingworth claiming or mentioning; no one would have been vain of such anacquaintanceship; the humblest honest boot-black would not have valuedthe fact that he had met him or seen him at some time or other; he wassunk in abysmal obscurity, he was away beneath the notice of the bottomgrades of officialdom. Three hours later he was the one subjectof conversation in the world, the gilded generals and admirals andgovernors were discussing him, all the kings and queens and emperors hadput aside their other interests to talk about him. And wherever therewas a man, at the summit of the world or the bottom of it, who by chancehad at some time or other come across that creature, he remembered itwith a secret satisfaction, and MENTIONED it--for it was a distinction, now! It brings human dignity pretty low, and for a moment the thing isnot quite realizable--but it is perfectly true. If there is a king whocan remember, now, that he once saw that creature in a time past, he haslet that fact out, in a more or less studiedly casual and indifferentway, some dozens of times during the past week. For a king is merelyhuman; the inside of him is exactly like the inside of any other person;and it is human to find satisfaction in being in a kind of personalway connected with amazing events. We are all privately vain of such athing; we are all alike; a king is a king by accident; the reason therest of us are not kings is merely due to another accident; we are allmade out of the same clay, and it is a sufficient poor quality. Below the kings, these remarks are in the air these days; I know it wellas if I were hearing them: THE COMMANDER: "He was in my army. " THE GENERAL: "He was in my corps. " THE COLONEL: "He was in my regiment. A brute. I remember him well. " THE CAPTAIN: "He was in my company. A troublesome scoundrel. I rememberhim well. " THE SERGEANT: "Did I know him? As well as I know you. Why, every morningI used to--" etc. , etc. ; a glad, long story, told to devouring ears. THE LANDLADY: "Many's the time he boarded with me. I can show you hisvery room, and the very bed he slept in. And the charcoal mark thereon the wall--he made that. My little Johnny saw him do it with his owneyes. Didn't you, Johnny?" It is easy to see, by the papers, that the magistrate and the constablesand the jailer treasure up the assassin's daily remarks and doingsas precious things, and as wallowing this week in seas of blissfuldistinction. The interviewer, too; he tried to let on that he is notvain of his privilege of contact with this man whom few others areallowed to gaze upon, but he is human, like the rest, and can no morekeep his vanity corked in than could you or I. Some think that this murder is a frenzied revolt against the criminalmilitarism which is impoverishing Europe and driving the starving poormad. That has many crimes to answer for, but not this one, I think. Onemay not attribute to this man a generous indignation against the wrongsdone the poor; one may not dignify him with a generous impulse of anykind. When he saw his photograph and said, "I shall be celebrated, "he laid bare the impulse that prompted him. It was a mere hunger fornotoriety. There is another confessed case of the kind which is as oldas history--the burning of the temple of Ephesus. Among the inadequate attempts to account for the assassination we mustconcede high rank to the many which have described it as a "peculiarlybrutal crime" and then added that it was "ordained from above. " I thinkthis verdict will not be popular "above. " If the deed was ordained fromabove, there is no rational way of making this prisoner even partiallyresponsible for it, and the Genevan court cannot condemn him withoutmanifestly committing a crime. Logic is logic, and by disregardingits laws even the most pious and showy theologian may be beguiled intopreferring charges which should not be ventured upon except in theshelter of plenty of lightning-rods. I witnessed the funeral procession, in company with friends, from thewindows of the Krantz, Vienna's sumptuous new hotel. We came into townin the middle of the forenoon, and I went on foot from the station. Black flags hung down from all the houses; the aspects were Sunday-like;the crowds on the sidewalks were quiet and moved slowly; very few peoplewere smoking; many ladies wore deep mourning, gentlemen were in blackas a rule; carriages were speeding in all directions, with footmen andcoachmen in black clothes and wearing black cocked hats; the shops wereclosed; in many windows were pictures of the Empress: as a beautifulyoung bride of seventeen; as a serene and majestic lady with addedyears; and finally in deep black and without ornaments--the costume shealways wore after the tragic death of her son nine years ago, for herheart broke then, and life lost almost all its value for her. The peoplestood grouped before these pictures, and now and then one saw women andgirls turn away wiping the tears from their eyes. In front of the Krantz is an open square; over the way was the churchwhere the funeral services would be held. It is small and old andseverely plain, plastered outside and whitewashed or painted, and withno ornament but a statue of a monk in a niche over the door, and abovethat a small black flag. But in its crypt lie several of the great deadof the House of Habsburg, among them Maria Theresa and Napoleon's son, the Duke of Reichstadt. Hereabouts was a Roman camp, once, and in it theEmperor Marcus Aurelius died a thousand years before the first Habsburgruled in Vienna, which was six hundred years ago and more. The little church is packed in among great modern stores and houses, and the windows of them were full of people. Behind the vast plate-glasswindows of the upper floors of the house on the corner one glimpsedterraced masses of fine-clothed men and women, dim and shimmery, likepeople under water. Under us the square was noiseless, but it was fullof citizens; officials in fine uniforms were flitting about on errands, and in a doorstep sat a figure in the uttermost raggedness of poverty, the feet bare, the head bent humbly down; a youth of eighteen or twenty, he was, and through the field-glass one could see that he was tearingapart and munching riffraff that he had gathered somewhere. Blazinguniforms flashed by him, making a sparkling contrast with his droopingruin of moldy rags, but he took not notice; he was not there to grievefor a nation's disaster; he had his own cares, and deeper. From twodirections two long files of infantry came plowing through the pack andpress in silence; there was a low, crisp order and the crowd vanished, the square save the sidewalks was empty, the private mourner was gone. Another order, the soldiers fell apart and enclosed the square in adouble-ranked human fence. It was all so swift, noiseless, exact--like abeautifully ordered machine. It was noon, now. Two hours of stillness and waiting followed. Thencarriages began to flow past and deliver the two and three hundred courtpersonages and high nobilities privileged to enter the church. Then thesquare filled up; not with civilians, but with army and navy officers inshowy and beautiful uniforms. They filled it compactly, leaving only anarrow carriage path in front of the church, but there was no civilianamong them. And it was better so; dull clothes would have marred theradiant spectacle. In the jam in front of the church, on its steps, andon the sidewalk was a bunch of uniforms which made a blazing splotchof color--intense red, gold, and white--which dimmed the brillianciesaround them; and opposite them on the other side of the path was a bunchof cascaded bright-green plumes above pale-blue shoulders which madeanother splotch of splendor emphatic and conspicuous in its glowingsurroundings. It was a sea of flashing color all about, but these twogroups were the high notes. The green plumes were worn by forty or fiftyAustrian generals, the group opposite them were chiefly Knights of Maltaand knights of a German order. The mass of heads in the square werecovered by gilt helmets and by military caps roofed with a mirror-likegaze, and the movements of the wearers caused these things to catch thesun-rays, and the effect was fine to see--the square was like a gardenof richly colored flowers with a multitude of blinding and flashinglittle suns distributed over it. Think of it--it was by command of that Italian loafer yonder on hisimperial throne in the Geneva prison that this splendid multitude wasassembled there; and the kings and emperors that were entering thechurch from a side street were there by his will. It is so strange, sounrealizable. At three o'clock the carriages were still streaming by in singlefile. At three-five a cardinal arrives with his attendants; later somebishops; then a number of archdeacons--all in striking colors that addto the show. At three-ten a procession of priests passed along, withcrucifix. Another one, presently; after an interval, two more; atthree-fifty another one--very long, with many crosses, gold-embroideredrobes, and much white lace; also great pictured banners, at intervals, receding into the distance. A hum of tolling bells makes itself heard, but not sharply. Atthree-fifty-eight a waiting interval. Presently a long procession ofgentlemen in evening dress comes in sight and approaches until it isnear to the square, then falls back against the wall of soldiers at thesidewalk, and the white shirt-fronts show like snowflakes and are veryconspicuous where so much warm color is all about. A waiting pause. At four-twelve the head of the funeral procession comesinto view at last. First, a body of cavalry, four abreast, to widen thepath. Next, a great body of lancers, in blue, with gilt helmets. Next, three six-horse mourning-coaches; outriders and coachmen in black, withcocked hats and white wigs. Next, troops in splendid uniforms, red, gold, and white, exceedingly showy. Now the multitude uncover. The soldiers present arms; there is a lowrumble of drums; the sumptuous great hearse approaches, drawn at awalk by eight black horses plumed with black bunches of nodding ostrichfeathers; the coffin is borne into the church, the doors are closed. The multitude cover their heads, and the rest of the procession movesby; first the Hungarian Guard in their indescribably brilliant andpicturesque and beautiful uniform, inherited from the ages of barbaricsplendor, and after them other mounted forces, a long and showy array. Then the shining crown in the square crumbled apart, a wrecked rainbow, and melted away in radiant streams, and in the turn of a wrist the threedirtiest and raggedest and cheerfulest little slum-girls in Austria werecapering about in the spacious vacancy. It was a day of contrasts. Twice the Empress entered Vienna in state. The first time was in 1854, when she was a bride of seventeen, and then she rode in measurelesspomp and with blare of music through a fluttering world of gay flags anddecorations, down streets walled on both hands with a press of shoutingand welcoming subjects; and the second time was last Wednesday, when sheentered the city in her coffin and moved down the same streets in thedead of the night under swaying black flags, between packed human wallsagain; but everywhere was a deep stillness, now--a stillness emphasized, rather than broken, by the muffled hoofbeats of the long cavalcade overpavements cushioned with sand, and the low sobbing of gray-headed womenwho had witnessed the first entry forty-four years before, when she andthey were young--and unaware! A character in Baron von Berger's recent fairy drama "Habsburg" tellsabout the first coming of the girlish Empress-Queen, and in his historydraws a fine picture: I cannot make a close translation of it, but willtry to convey the spirit of the verses: I saw the stately pageant pass: In her high place I saw the Empress-Queen: I could not take my eyes away From that fair vision, spirit-like and pure, That rose serene, sublime, and figured to my sense A noble Alp far lighted in the blue, That in the flood of morning rends its veil of cloud And stands a dream of glory to the gaze Of them that in the Valley toil and plod. A SCRAP OF CURIOUS HISTORY Marion City, on the Mississippi River, in the State of Missouri--avillage; time, 1845. La Bourboule-les-Bains, France--a village; time, the end of June, 1894. I was in the one village in that early time; Iam in the other now. These times and places are sufficiently wideapart, yet today I have the strange sense of being thrust back into thatMissourian village and of reliving certain stirring days that I livedthere so long ago. Last Saturday night the life of the President of the French Republicwas taken by an Italian assassin. Last night a mob surrounded our hotel, shouting, howling, singing the "Marseillaise, " and pelting our windowswith sticks and stones; for we have Italian waiters, and the mobdemanded that they be turned out of the house instantly--to be drubbed, and then driven out of the village. Everybody in the hotel remained upuntil far into the night, and experienced the several kinds of terrorwhich one reads about in books which tell of nigh attacks by Italiansand by French mobs: the growing roar of the oncoming crowd; the arrival, with rain of stones and a crash of glass; the withdrawal to rearrangeplans--followed by a silence ominous, threatening, and harder to bearthan even the active siege and the noise. The landlord and the twovillage policemen stood their ground, and at last the mob waspersuaded to go away and leave our Italians in peace. Today four ofthe ringleaders have been sentenced to heavy punishment of a publicsort--and are become local heroes, by consequence. That is the very mistake which was at first made in the Missourianvillage half a century ago. The mistake was repeated and repeated--justas France is doing in these later months. In our village we had our Ravochals, our Henrys, our Vaillants; and ina humble way our Cesario--I hope I have spelled this name wrong. Fiftyyears ago we passed through, in all essentials, what France has beenpassing through during the past two or three years, in the matter ofperiodical frights, horrors, and shudderings. In several details the parallels are quaintly exact. In that day, for aman to speak out openly and proclaim himself an enemy of negro slaverywas simply to proclaim himself a madman. For he was blaspheming againstthe holiest thing known to a Missourian, and could NOT be in his rightmind. For a man to proclaim himself an anarchist in France, three yearsago, was to proclaim himself a madman--he could not be in his rightmind. Now the original first blasphemer against any institution profoundlyvenerated by a community is quite sure to be in earnest; his followersand imitators may be humbugs and self-seekers, but he himself issincere--his heart is in his protest. Robert Hardy was our first ABOLITIONIST--awful name! He was a journeymancooper, and worked in the big cooper-shop belonging to the greatpork-packing establishment which was Marion City's chief pride and solesource of prosperity. He was a New-Englander, a stranger. And, being astranger, he was of course regarded as an inferior person--for that hasbeen human nature from Adam down--and of course, also, he was madeto feel unwelcome, for this is the ancient law with man and the otheranimals. Hardy was thirty years old, and a bachelor; pale, given toreverie and reading. He was reserved, and seemed to prefer the isolationwhich had fallen to his lot. He was treated to many side remarks byhis fellows, but as he did not resent them it was decided that he was acoward. All of a sudden he proclaimed himself an abolitionist--straight outand publicly! He said that negro slavery was a crime, an infamy. For amoment the town was paralyzed with astonishment; then it broke into afury of rage and swarmed toward the cooper-shop to lynch Hardy. Butthe Methodist minister made a powerful speech to them and stayed theirhands. He proved to them that Hardy was insane and not responsible forhis words; that no man COULD be sane and utter such words. So Hardy was saved. Being insane, he was allowed to go on talking. He was found to be good entertainment. Several nights running he madeabolition speeches in the open air, and all the town flocked to hear andlaugh. He implored them to believe him sane and sincere, and have pityon the poor slaves, and take measurements for the restoration of theirstolen rights, or in no long time blood would flow--blood, blood, riversof blood! It was great fun. But all of a sudden the aspect of things changed. Aslave came flying from Palmyra, the county-seat, a few miles back, and was about to escape in a canoe to Illinois and freedom in the dulltwilight of the approaching dawn, when the town constable seizedhim. Hardy happened along and tried to rescue the negro; there was astruggle, and the constable did not come out of it alive. Hardly crossedthe river with the negro, and then came back to give himself up. Allthis took time, for the Mississippi is not a French brook, like theSeine, the Loire, and those other rivulets, but is a real river nearlya mile wide. The town was on hand in force by now, but the Methodistpreacher and the sheriff had already made arrangements in the interestof order; so Hardy was surrounded by a strong guard and safely conveyedto the village calaboose in spite of all the effort of the mob to gethold of him. The reader will have begun to perceive that this Methodistminister was a prompt man; a prompt man, with active hands and a goodheadpiece. Williams was his name--Damon Williams; Damon Williams inpublic, Damnation Williams in private, because he was so powerful onthat theme and so frequent. The excitement was prodigious. The constable was the first man whohad ever been killed in the town. The event was by long odds the mostimposing in the town's history. It lifted the humble village into suddenimportance; its name was in everybody's mouth for twenty miles around. And so was the name of Robert Hardy--Robert Hardy, the stranger, thedespised. In a day he was become the person of most consequence in theregion, the only person talked about. As to those other coopers, theyfound their position curiously changed--they were important people, orunimportant, now, in proportion as to how large or how small had beentheir intercourse with the new celebrity. The two or three who hadreally been on a sort of familiar footing with him found themselvesobjects of admiring interest with the public and of envy with theirshopmates. The village weekly journal had lately gone into new hands. The new manwas an enterprising fellow, and he made the most of the tragedy. Heissued an extra. Then he put up posters promising to devote his wholepaper to matters connected with the great event--there would be a fulland intensely interesting biography of the murderer, and even a portraitof him. He was as good as his word. He carved the portrait himself, onthe back of a wooden type--and a terror it was to look at. It made agreat commotion, for this was the first time the village paper had evercontained a picture. The village was very proud. The output of the paperwas ten times as great as it had ever been before, yet every copy wassold. When the trial came on, people came from all the farms around, and fromHannibal, and Quincy, and even from Keokuk; and the court-house couldhold only a fraction of the crowd that applied for admission. The trialwas published in the village paper, with fresh and still more tryingpictures of the accused. Hardy was convicted, and hanged--a mistake. People came from milesaround to see the hanging; they brought cakes and cider, also the womenand children, and made a picnic of the matter. It was the largest crowdthe village had ever seen. The rope that hanged Hardy was eagerly boughtup, in inch samples, for everybody wanted a memento of the memorableevent. Martyrdom gilded with notoriety has its fascinations. Within one weekafterward four young lightweights in the village proclaimed themselvesabolitionists! In life Hardy had not been able to make a convert;everybody laughed at him; but nobody could laugh at his legacy. The fourswaggered around with their slouch-hats pulled down over their faces, and hinted darkly at awful possibilities. The people were troubledand afraid, and showed it. And they were stunned, too; they couldnot understand it. "Abolitionist" had always been a term of shame andhorror; yet here were four young men who were not only not ashamed tobear that name, but were grimly proud of it. Respectable young men theywere, too--of good families, and brought up in the church. Ed Smith, theprinter's apprentice, nineteen, had been the head Sunday-school boy, and had once recited three thousand Bible verses without making a break. Dick Savage, twenty, the baker's apprentice; Will Joyce, twenty-two, journeyman blacksmith; and Henry Taylor, twenty-four, tobacco-stemmer--were the other three. They were all of a sentimentalcast; they were all romance-readers; they all wrote poetry, such asit was; they were all vain and foolish; but they had never before beensuspected of having anything bad in them. They withdrew from society, and grew more and more mysterious anddreadful. They presently achieved the distinction of being denounced bynames from the pulpit--which made an immense stir! This was grandeur, this was fame. They were envied by all the other young fellows now. Thiswas natural. Their company grew--grew alarmingly. They took a name. Itwas a secret name, and was divulged to no outsider; publicly they weresimply the abolitionists. They had pass-words, grips, and signs; theyhad secret meetings; their initiations were conducted with gloomy pompsand ceremonies, at midnight. They always spoke of Hardy as "the Martyr, " and every little whilethey moved through the principal street in procession--at midnight, black-robed, masked, to the measured tap of the solemn drum--onpilgrimage to the Martyr's grave, where they went through with somemajestic fooleries and swore vengeance upon his murderers. They gaveprevious notice of the pilgrimage by small posters, and warned everybodyto keep indoors and darken all houses along the route, and leave theroad empty. These warnings were obeyed, for there was a skull andcrossbones at the top of the poster. When this kind of thing had been going on about eight weeks, a quitenatural thing happened. A few men of character and grit woke up out ofthe nightmare of fear which had been stupefying their faculties, andbegan to discharge scorn and scoffings at themselves and the communityfor enduring this child's-play; and at the same time they proposed toend it straightway. Everybody felt an uplift; life was breathed intotheir dead spirits; their courage rose and they began to feel likemen again. This was on a Saturday. All day the new feeling grew andstrengthened; it grew with a rush; it brought inspiration and cheer withit. Midnight saw a united community, full of zeal and pluck, and witha clearly defined and welcome piece of work in front of it. The bestorganizer and strongest and bitterest talker on that great Saturday wasthe Presbyterian clergyman who had denounced the original four from hispulpit--Rev. Hiram Fletcher--and he promised to use his pulpit in thepublic interest again now. On the morrow he had revelations to make, hesaid--secrets of the dreadful society. But the revelations were never made. At half past two in the morning thedead silence of the village was broken by a crashing explosion, andthe town patrol saw the preacher's house spring in a wreck of whirlingfragments into the sky. The preacher was killed, together with a negrowoman, his only slave and servant. The town was paralyzed again, and with reason. To struggle against avisible enemy is a thing worth while, and there is a plenty of men whostand always ready to undertake it; but to struggle against an invisibleone--an invisible one who sneaks in and does his awful work in the darkand leaves no trace--that is another matter. That is a thing to make thebravest tremble and hold back. The cowed populace were afraid to go to the funeral. The man who wasto have had a packed church to hear him expose and denounce the commonenemy had but a handful to see him buried. The coroner's jury hadbrought in a verdict of "death by the visitation of God, " for no witnesscame forward; if any existed they prudently kept out of the way. Nobodyseemed sorry. Nobody wanted to see the terrible secret society provokedinto the commission of further outrages. Everybody wanted the tragedyhushed up, ignored, forgotten, if possible. And so there was a bitter surprise and an unwelcome one when WillJoyce, the blacksmith's journeyman, came out and proclaimed himself theassassin! Plainly he was not minded to be robbed of his glory. He madehis proclamation, and stuck to it. Stuck to it, and insisted upona trial. Here was an ominous thing; here was a new and peculiarlyformidable terror, for a motive was revealed here which society couldnot hope to deal with successfully--VANITY, thirst for notoriety. Ifmen were going to kill for notoriety's sake, and to win the glory ofnewspaper renown, a big trial, and a showy execution, what possibleinvention of man could discourage or deter them? The town was in a sortof panic; it did not know what to do. However, the grand jury had to take hold of the matter--it had nochoice. It brought in a true bill, and presently the case went to thecounty court. The trial was a fine sensation. The prisoner was theprincipal witness for the prosecution. He gave a full account of theassassination; he furnished even the minutest particulars: how hedeposited his keg of powder and laid his train--from the house tosuch-and-such a spot; how George Ronalds and Henry Hart came along justthen, smoking, and he borrowed Hart's cigar and fired the train with it, shouting, "Down with all slave-tyrants!" and how Hart and Ronalds madeno effort to capture him, but ran away, and had never come forward totestify yet. But they had to testify now, and they did--and pitiful it was to seehow reluctant they were, and how scared. The crowded house listened toJoyce's fearful tale with a profound and breathless interest, and in adeep hush which was not broken till he broke it himself, in concluding, with a roaring repetition of his "Death to all slave-tyrants!"--whichcame so unexpectedly and so startlingly that it made everyone presentcatch his breath and gasp. The trial was put in the paper, with biography and large portrait, with other slanderous and insane pictures, and the edition sold beyondimagination. The execution of Joyce was a fine and picturesque thing. It drew a vastcrowd. Good places in trees and seats on rail fences sold for half adollar apiece; lemonade and gingerbread-stands had great prosperity. Joyce recited a furious and fantastic and denunciatory speech on thescaffold which had imposing passages of school-boy eloquence in it, andgave him a reputation on the spot as an orator, and his name, later, in the society's records, of the "Martyr Orator. " He went to his deathbreathing slaughter and charging his society to "avenge his murder. " Ifhe knew anything of human nature he knew that to plenty of young fellowspresent in that great crowd he was a grand hero--and enviably situated. He was hanged. It was a mistake. Within a month from his death thesociety which he had honored had twenty new members, some of themearnest, determined men. They did not court distinction in the same way, but they celebrated his martyrdom. The crime which had been obscure anddespised had become lofty and glorified. Such things were happening all over the country. Wild-brained martyrdomwas succeeded by uprising and organization. Then, in natural order, followed riot, insurrection, and the wrack and restitutions of war. Itwas bound to come, and it would naturally come in that way. It has beenthe manner of reform since the beginning of the world. SWITZERLAND, THE CRADLE OF LIBERTY Interlaken, Switzerland, 1891. It is a good many years since I was in Switzerland last. In that remotetime there was only one ladder railway in the country. That state ofthings is all changed. There isn't a mountain in Switzerland now thathasn't a ladder railroad or two up its back like suspenders; indeed, some mountains are latticed with them, and two years hence all willbe. In that day the peasant of the high altitudes will have to carry alantern when he goes visiting in the night to keep from stumbling overrailroads that have been built since his last round. And also in thatday, if there shall remain a high-altitude peasant whose potato-patchhasn't a railroad through it, it would make him as conspicuous asWilliam Tell. However, there are only two best ways to travel through Switzerland. Thefirst best is afloat. The second best is by open two-horse carriage. Onecan come from Lucerne to Interlaken over the Brunig by ladder railroadin an hour or so now, but you can glide smoothly in a carriage in ten, and have two hours for luncheon at noon--for luncheon, not for rest. There is no fatigue connected with the trip. One arrives fresh in spiritand in person in the evening--no fret in his heart, no grime on hisface, no grit in his hair, not a cinder in his eye. This is the rightcondition of mind and body, the right and due preparation for the solemnevent which closed the day--stepping with metaphorically uncovered headinto the presence of the most impressive mountain mass that the globecan show--the Jungfrau. The stranger's first feeling, when suddenlyconfronted by that towering and awful apparition wrapped in its shroudof snow, is breath-taking astonishment. It is as if heaven's gates hadswung open and exposed the throne. It is peaceful here and pleasant at Interlaken. Nothing going on--atleast nothing but brilliant life-giving sunshine. There are floods andfloods of that. One may properly speak of it as "going on, " for it isfull of the suggestion of activity; the light pours down with energy, with visible enthusiasm. This is a good atmosphere to be in, morallyas well as physically. After trying the political atmosphere of theneighboring monarchies, it is healing and refreshing to breathe air thathas known no taint of slavery for six hundred years, and to come amonga people whose political history is great and fine, and worthy to betaught in all schools and studied by all races and peoples. For thestruggle here throughout the centuries has not been in the interest ofany private family, or any church, but in the interest of the whole bodyof the nation, and for shelter and protection of all forms of belief. This fact is colossal. If one would realize how colossal it is, andof what dignity and majesty, let him contrast it with the purposes andobjects of the Crusades, the siege of York, the War of the Roses, andother historic comedies of that sort and size. Last week I was beating around the Lake of Four Cantons, and I saw Rutliand Altorf. Rutli is a remote little patch of meadow, but I do not knowhow any piece of ground could be holier or better worth crossing oceansand continents to see, since it was there that the great trinity ofSwitzerland joined hands six centuries ago and swore the oath which settheir enslaved and insulted country forever free; and Altorf is alsohonorable ground and worshipful, since it was there that William, surnamed Tell (which interpreted means "The foolish talker"--that is tosay, the too-daring talker), refused to bow to Gessler's hat. Of lateyears the prying student of history has been delighting himself beyondmeasure over a wonderful find which he has made--to wit, that Tell didnot shoot the apple from his son's head. To hear the students jubilate, one would suppose that the question of whether Tell shot the apple ordidn't was an important matter; whereas it ranks in importance exactlywith the question of whether Washington chopped down the cherry-tree ordidn't. The deeds of Washington, the patriot, are the essential thing;the cherry-tree incident is of no consequence. To prove that Tell didshoot the apple from his son's head would merely prove that he hadbetter nerve than most men and was skillful with a bow as a millionothers who preceded and followed him, but not one whit more so. But Tellwas more and better than a mere marksman, more and better than a merecool head; he was a type; he stands for Swiss patriotism; in his personwas represented a whole people; his spirit was their spirit--the spiritwhich would bow to none but God, the spirit which said this in wordsand confirmed it with deeds. There have always been Tells inSwitzerland--people who would not bow. There was a sufficiency of themat Rutli; there were plenty of them at Murten; plenty at Grandson; thereare plenty today. And the first of them all--the very first, earliestbanner-bearer of human freedom in this world--was not a man, but awoman--Stauffacher's wife. There she looms dim and great, through thehaze of the centuries, delivering into her husband's ear that gospel ofrevolt which was to bear fruit in the conspiracy of Rutli and the birthof the first free government the world had ever seen. From this Victoria Hotel one looks straight across a flat of triflingwidth to a lofty mountain barrier, which has a gateway in it shaped likean inverted pyramid. Beyond this gateway arises the vast bulk of theJungfrau, a spotless mass of gleaming snow, into the sky. The gateway, in the dark-colored barrier, makes a strong frame for the great picture. The somber frame and the glowing snow-pile are startlingly contrasted. It is this frame which concentrates and emphasizes the glory of theJungfrau and makes it the most engaging and beguiling and fascinatingspectacle that exists on the earth. There are many mountains of snowthat are as lofty as the Jungfrau and as nobly proportioned, but theylack the fame. They stand at large; they are intruded upon and elbowedby neighboring domes and summits, and their grandeur is diminished andfails of effect. It is a good name, Jungfrau--Virgin. Nothing could be whiter; nothingcould be purer; nothing could be saintlier of aspect. At six yesterdayevening the great intervening barrier seen through a faint bluishhaze seemed made of air and substanceless, so soft and rich it was, soshimmering where the wandering lights touched it and so dim where theshadows lay. Apparently it was a dream stuff, a work of the imagination, nothing real about it. The tint was green, slightly varying shades ofit, but mainly very dark. The sun was down--as far as that barrier wasconcerned, but not for the Jungfrau, towering into the heavens beyondthe gateway. She was a roaring conflagration of blinding white. It is said the Fridolin (the old Fridolin), a new saint, but formerly amissionary, gave the mountain its gracious name. He was an Irishman, sonof an Irish king--there were thirty thousand kings reigning in CountyCork alone in his time, fifteen hundred years ago. It got so that theycould not make a living, there was so much competition and wages got cutso. Some of them were out of work months at a time, with wife and littlechildren to feed, and not a crust in the place. At last a particularlysevere winter fell upon the country, and hundreds of them were reducedto mendicancy and were to be seen day after day in the bitterestweather, standing barefoot in the snow, holding out their crowns foralms. Indeed, they would have been obliged to emigrate or starve but fora fortunate idea of Prince Fridolin's, who started a labor-union, thefirst one in history, and got the great bulk of them to join it. He thuswon the general gratitude, and they wanted to make him emperor--emperorover them all--emperor of County Cork, but he said, No, walking delegatewas good enough for him. For behold! he was modest beyond his years, and keen as a whip. To this day in Germany and Switzerland, whereSt. Fridolin is revered and honored, the peasantry speak of himaffectionately as the first walking delegate. The first walk he took was into France and Germany, missionarying--formissionarying was a better thing in those days than it is in ours. Allyou had to do was to cure the savage's sick daughter by a "miracle"--amiracle like the miracle of Lourdes in our day, for instance--andimmediately that head savage was your convert, and filled to the eyeswith a new convert's enthusiasm. You could sit down and make yourselfeasy, now. He would take an ax and convert the rest of the nationhimself. Charlemagne was that kind of a walking delegate. Yes, there were great missionaries in those days, for the methods weresure and the rewards great. We have no such missionaries now, and nosuch methods. But to continue the history of the first walking delegate, if you areinterested. I am interested myself because I have seen his relics inSackingen, and also the very spot where he worked his great miracle--theone which won him his sainthood in the papal court a few centurieslater. To have seen these things makes me feel very near to him, almost like a member of the family, in fact. While wandering about theContinent he arrived at the spot on the Rhine which is now occupied bySackingen, and proposed to settle there, but the people warned him off. He appealed to the king of the Franks, who made him a present of thewhole region, people and all. He built a great cloister there for womenand proceeded to teach in it and accumulate more land. There were twowealthy brothers in the neighborhood, Urso and Landulph. Urso died andFridolin claimed his estates. Landulph asked for documents and papers. Fridolin had none to show. He said the bequest had been made to him byword of mouth. Landulph suggested that he produce a witness and saidit in a way which he thought was very witty, very sarcastic. This showsthat he did not know the walking delegate. Fridolin was not disturbed. He said: "Appoint your court. I will bring a witness. " The court thus created consisted of fifteen counts and barons. A day wasappointed for the trial of the case. On that day the judges took theirseats in state, and proclamation was made that the court was ready forbusiness. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed, and yetno Fridolin appeared. Landulph rose, and was in the act of claimingjudgment by default when a strange clacking sound was heard coming upthe stairs. In another moment Fridolin entered at the door and camewalking in a deep hush down the middle aisle, with a tall skeletonstalking in his rear. Amazement and terror sat upon every countenance, for everybody suspectedthat the skeleton was Urso's. It stopped before the chief judge andraised its bony arm aloft and began to speak, while all the assembledshuddered, for they could see the words leak out between its ribs. Itsaid: "Brother, why dost thou disturb my blessed rest and withhold by robberythe gift which I gave thee for the honor of God?" It seems a strange thing and most irregular, but the verdict wasactually given against Landulph on the testimony of this wanderingrack-heap of unidentified bones. In our day a skeleton would not beallowed to testify at all, for a skeleton has no moral responsibility, and its word could not be believed on oath, and this was probably oneof them. However, the incident is valuable as preserving to us a curioussample of the quaint laws of evidence of that remote time--a time soremote, so far back toward the beginning of original idiocy, that thedifference between a bench of judges and a basket of vegetables was asyet so slight that we may say with all confidence that it didn't reallyexist. During several afternoons I have been engaged in an interesting, maybeuseful, piece of work--that is to say, I have been trying to make themighty Jungfrau earn her living--earn it in a most humble sphere, but ona prodigious scale, on a prodigious scale of necessity, for she couldn'tdo anything in a small way with her size and style. I have been tryingto make her do service on a stupendous dial and check off the hours asthey glide along her pallid face up there against the sky, and tell thetime of day to the populations lying within fifty miles of her and tothe people in the moon, if they have a good telescope there. Until late in the afternoon the Jungfrau's aspect is that of a spotlessdesert of snow set upon edge against the sky. But by mid-afternoon someelevations which rise out of the western border of the desert, whosepresence you perhaps had not detected or suspected up to that time, began to cast black shadows eastward across the gleaming surface. Atfirst there is only one shadow; later there are two. Toward 4 P. M. Theother day I was gazing and worshiping as usual when I chanced to noticethat shadow No. 1 was beginning to take itself something of the shape ofthe human profile. By four the back of the head was good, the militarycap was pretty good, the nose was bold and strong, the upper lipsharp, but not pretty, and there was a great goatee that shot straightaggressively forward from the chin. At four-thirty the nose had changed its shape considerably, and thealtered slant of the sun had revealed and made conspicuous a hugebuttress or barrier of naked rock which was so located as to answervery well for a shoulder or coat-collar to this swarthy and indiscreetsweetheart who had stolen out there right before everybody to pillow hishead on the Virgin's white breast and whisper soft sentimentalities toher in the sensuous music of the crashing ice-domes and the boom andthunder of the passing avalanche--music very familiar to his ear, forhe had heard it every afternoon at this hour since the day he first camecourting this child of the earth, who lives in the sky, and that dayis far, yes--for he was at this pleasant sport before the Middle Agesdrifted by him in the valley; before the Romans marched past, andbefore the antique and recordless barbarians fished and hunted here andwondered who he might be, and were probably afraid of him; and beforeprimeval man himself, just emerged from his four-footed estate, steppedout upon this plain, first sample of his race, a thousand centuries ago, and cast a glad eye up there, judging he had found a brother human beingand consequently something to kill; and before the big saurians wallowedhere, still some eons earlier. Oh yes, a day so far back that theeternal son was present to see that first visit; a day so far back thatneither tradition nor history was born yet and a whole weary eternitymust come and go before the restless little creature, of whose face thisstupendous Shadow Face was the prophecy, would arrive in the earth andbegin his shabby career and think of a big thing. Oh, indeed yes;when you talk about your poor Roman and Egyptian day-before-yesterdayantiquities, you should choose a time when the hoary Shadow Face of theJungfrau is not by. It antedates all antiquities known or imaginable;for it was here the world itself created the theater of futureantiquities. And it is the only witness with a human face that was thereto see the marvel, and remains to us a memorial of it. By 4:40 P. M. The nose of the shadow is perfect and is beautiful. It isblack and is powerfully marked against the upright canvas of glowingsnow, and covers hundreds of acres of that resplendent surface. Meantime shadow No. 2 has been creeping out well to the rear of the facewest of it--and at five o'clock has assumed a shape that has rather apoor and rude semblance of a shoe. Meantime, also, the great Shadow Face has been gradually changing fortwenty minutes, and now, 5 P. M. , it is becoming a quite fair portrait ofRoscoe Conkling. The likeness is there, and is unmistakable. The goateeis shortened, now, and has an end; formerly it hadn't any, but ran offeastward and arrived nowhere. By 6 P. M. The face has dissolved and gone, and the goatee has becomewhat looks like the shadow of a tower with a pointed roof, and the shoehad turned into what the printers call a "fist" with a finger pointing. If I were now imprisoned on a mountain summit a hundred miles northwardof this point, and was denied a timepiece, I could get along well enoughfrom four till six on clear days, for I could keep trace of the time bythe changing shapes of these mighty shadows of the Virgin's front, themost stupendous dial I am acquainted with, the oldest clock in the worldby a couple of million years. I suppose I should not have noticed the forms of the shadows if I hadn'tthe habit of hunting for faces in the clouds and in mountain crags--asort of amusement which is very entertaining even when you don't findany, and brilliantly satisfying when you do. I have searched throughseveral bushels of photographs of the Jungfrau here, but found only onewith the Face in it, and in this case it was not strictly recognizableas a face, which was evidence that the picture was taken before fouro'clock in the afternoon, and also evidence that all the photographershave persistently overlooked one of the most fascinating features ofthe Jungfrau show. I say fascinating, because if you once detect a humanface produced on a great plan by unconscious nature, you never get tiredof watching it. At first you can't make another person see it at all, but after he has made it out once he can't see anything else afterward. The King of Greece is a man who goes around quietly enough when offduty. One day this summer he was traveling in an ordinary first-classcompartment, just in his other suit, the one which he works the realmin when he is at home, and so he was not looking like anybody inparticular, but a good deal like everybody in general. By and by ahearty and healthy German-American got in and opened up a frank andinteresting and sympathetic conversation with him, and asked him acouple of thousand questions about himself, which the king answeredgood-naturedly, but in a more or less indefinite way as to privateparticulars. "Where do you live when you are at home?" "In Greece. " "Greece! Well, now, that is just astonishing! Born there?" "No. " "Do you speak Greek?" "Yes. " "Now, ain't that strange! I never expected to live to see that. Whatis your trade? I mean how do you get your living? What is your line ofbusiness?" "Well, I hardly know how to answer. I am only a kind of foreman, on asalary; and the business--well, is a very general kind of business. " "Yes, I understand--general jobbing--little of everything--anything thatthere's money in. " "That's about it, yes. " "Are you traveling for the house now?" "Well, partly; but not entirely. Of course I do a stroke of business ifit falls in the way--" "Good! I like that in you! That's me every time. Go on. " "I was only going to say I am off on my vacation now. " "Well that's all right. No harm in that. A man works all the betterfor a little let-up now and then. Not that I've been used to having itmyself; for I haven't. I reckon this is my first. I was born in Germany, and when I was a couple of weeks old shipped to America, and I've beenthere ever since, and that's sixty-four years by the watch. I'man American in principle and a German at heart, and it's the bosscombination. Well, how do you get along, as a rule--pretty fair?" "I've a rather large family--" "There, that's it--big family and trying to raise them on a salary. Now, what did you go to do that for?" "Well, I thought--" "Of course you did. You were young and confident and thought you couldbranch out and make things go with a whirl, and here you are, you see!But never mind about that. I'm not trying to discourage you. Dear me!I've been just where you are myself! You've got good grit; there's goodstuff in you, I can see that. You got a wrong start, that's the wholetrouble. But you hold your grip, and we'll see what can be done. Yourcase ain't half as bad as it might be. You are going to come out allright--I'm bail for that. Boys and girls?" "My family? Yes, some of them are boys--" "And the rest girls. It's just as I expected. But that's all right, andit's better so, anyway. What are the boys doing--learning a trade?" "Well, no--I thought--" "It's a big mistake. It's the biggest mistake you ever made. You seethat in your own case. A man ought always to have a trade to fall backon. Now, I was harness-maker at first. Did that prevent me from becomingone of the biggest brewers in America? Oh no. I always had the harnesstrick to fall back on in rough weather. Now, if you had learned how tomake harness--However, it's too late now; too late. But it's no goodplan to cry over spilt milk. But as to the boys, you see--what's tobecome of them if anything happens to you?" "It has been my idea to let the eldest one succeed me--" "Oh, come! Suppose the firm don't want him?" "I hadn't thought of that, but--" "Now, look here; you want to get right down to business and stopdreaming. You are capable of immense things--man. You can make a perfectsuccess in life. All you want is somebody to steady you and boost youalong on the right road. Do you own anything in the business?" "No--not exactly; but if I continue to give satisfaction, I suppose Ican keep my--" "Keep your place--yes. Well, don't you depend on anything of the kind. They'll bounce you the minute you get a little old and worked out;they'll do it sure. Can't you manage somehow to get into the firm?That's the great thing, you know. " "I think it is doubtful; very doubtful. " "Um--that's bad--yes, and unfair, too. Do you suppose that if I shouldgo there and have a talk with your people--Look here--do you think youcould run a brewery?" "I have never tried, but I think I could do it after a littlefamiliarity with the business. " The German was silent for some time. He did a good deal of thinking, and the king waited curiously to see what the result was going to be. Finally the German said: "My mind's made up. You leave that crowd--you'll never amount toanything there. In these old countries they never give a fellow a show. Yes, you come over to America--come to my place in Rochester; bring thefamily along. You shall have a show in the business and the foremanship, besides. George--you said your name was George?--I'll make a man of you. I give you my word. You've never had a chance here, but that's all goingto change. By gracious! I'll give you a lift that'll make your haircurl!" AT THE SHRINE OF ST. WAGNER Bayreuth, Aug. 2d, 1891 It was at Nuremberg that we struck the inundation of music-mad strangersthat was rolling down upon Bayreuth. It had been long since we hadseen such multitudes of excited and struggling people. It took a goodhalf-hour to pack them and pair them into the train--and it was thelongest train we have yet seen in Europe. Nuremberg had been witnessingthis sort of experience a couple of times a day for about two weeks. It gives one an impressive sense of the magnitude of this biennialpilgrimage. For a pilgrimage is what it is. The devotees come from thevery ends of the earth to worship their prophet in his own Kaaba in hisown Mecca. If you are living in New York or San Francisco or Chicago or anywhereelse in America, and you conclude, by the middle of May, that you wouldlike to attend the Bayreuth opera two months and a half later, you mustuse the cable and get about it immediately or you will get no seats, and you must cable for lodgings, too. Then if you are lucky you willget seats in the last row and lodgings in the fringe of the town. Ifyou stop to write you will get nothing. There were plenty of peoplein Nuremberg when we passed through who had come on pilgrimage withoutfirst securing seats and lodgings. They had found neither in Bayreuth;they had walked Bayreuth streets a while in sorrow, then had gone toNuremberg and found neither beds nor standing room, and had walked thosequaint streets all night, waiting for the hotels to open and empty theirguests into trains, and so make room for these, their defeated brethrenand sisters in the faith. They had endured from thirty to forty hours'railroading on the continent of Europe--with all which that implies ofworry, fatigue, and financial impoverishment--and all they had gotand all they were to get for it was handiness and accuracy in kickingthemselves, acquired by practice in the back streets of the twotowns when other people were in bed; for back they must go overthat unspeakable journey with their pious mission unfulfilled. Thesehumiliated outcasts had the frowsy and unbrushed and apologetic look ofwet cats, and their eyes were glazed with drowsiness, their bodies wereadroop from crown to sole, and all kind-hearted people refrained fromasking them if they had been to Bayreuth and failed to connect, asknowing they would lie. We reached here (Bayreuth) about mid-afternoon of a rainy Saturday. Wewere of the wise, and had secured lodgings and opera seats months inadvance. I am not a musical critic, and did not come here to write essays aboutthe operas and deliver judgment upon their merits. The littlechildren of Bayreuth could do that with a finer sympathy and a broaderintelligence than I. I only care to bring four or five pilgrims to theoperas, pilgrims able to appreciate them and enjoy them. What I writeabout the performance to put in my odd time would be offered to thepublic as merely a cat's view of a king, and not of didactic value. Next day, which was Sunday, we left for the opera-house--that is to say, the Wagner temple--a little after the middle of the afternoon. Thegreat building stands all by itself, grand and lonely, on a high groundoutside the town. We were warned that if we arrived after four o'clockwe should be obliged to pay two dollars and a half extra by way offine. We saved that; and it may be remarked here that this is the onlyopportunity that Europe offers of saving money. There was a big crowdin the grounds about the building, and the ladies' dresses took the sunwith fine effect. I do not mean to intimate that the ladies were in fulldress, for that was not so. The dresses were pretty, but neither sex wasin evening dress. The interior of the building is simple--severely so; but there is nooccasion for color and decoration, since the people sit in the dark. The auditorium has the shape of a keystone, with the stage at the narrowend. There is an aisle on each side, but no aisle in the body of thehouse. Each row of seats extends in an unbroken curve from one side ofthe house to the other. There are seven entrance doors on each side ofthe theater and four at the butt, eighteen doors to admit and emit 1, 650persons. The number of the particular door by which you are to enter thehouse or leave it is printed on your ticket, and you can use no door butthat one. Thus, crowding and confusion are impossible. Not so many asa hundred people use any one door. This is better than having the usual(and useless) elaborate fireproof arrangements. It is the model theaterof the world. It can be emptied while the second hand of a watch makesits circuit. It would be entirely safe, even if it were built of lucifermatches. If your seat is near the center of a row and you enter late you mustwork your way along a rank of about twenty-five ladies and gentlemen toget to it. Yet this causes no trouble, for everybody stands up untilall the seats are full, and the filling is accomplished in a very fewminutes. Then all sit down, and you have a solid mass of fifteen hundredheads, making a steep cellar-door slant from the rear of the house downto the stage. All the lights were turned low, so low that the congregation sat in adeep and solemn gloom. The funereal rustling of dresses and the low buzzof conversation began to die swiftly down, and presently not the ghostof a sound was left. This profound and increasingly impressive stillnessendured for some time--the best preparation for music, spectacle, orspeech conceivable. I should think our show people would have inventedor imported that simple and impressive device for securing andsolidifying the attention of an audience long ago; instead of whichthere continue to this day to open a performance against a deadlycompetition in the form of noise, confusion, and a scattered interest. Finally, out of darkness and distance and mystery soft rich notes roseupon the stillness, and from his grave the dead magician began toweave his spells about his disciples and steep their souls in hisenchantments. There was something strangely impressive in the fancywhich kept intruding itself that the composer was conscious in his graveof what was going on here, and that these divine souls were the clothingof thoughts which were at this moment passing through his brain, andnot recognized and familiar ones which had issued from it at some formertime. The entire overture, long as it was, was played to a dark house withthe curtain down. It was exquisite; it was delicious. But straightwaythereafter, or course, came the singing, and it does seem to me thatnothing can make a Wagner opera absolutely perfect and satisfactory tothe untutored but to leave out the vocal parts. I wish I could see aWagner opera done in pantomime once. Then one would have the lovelyorchestration unvexed to listen to and bathe his spirit in, and thebewildering beautiful scenery to intoxicate his eyes with, and the dumbacting couldn't mar these pleasures, because there isn't often anythingin the Wagner opera that one would call by such a violent name asacting; as a rule all you would see would be a couple of silent people, one of them standing still, the other catching flies. Of course I do notreally mean that he would be catching flies; I only mean that the usualoperatic gestures which consist in reaching first one hand out intothe air and then the other might suggest the sport I speak of if theoperator attended strictly to business and uttered no sound. This present opera was "Parsifal. " Madame Wagner does not permit itsrepresentation anywhere but in Bayreuth. The first act of the threeoccupied two hours, and I enjoyed that in spite of the singing. I trust that I know as well as anybody that singing is one of the mostentrancing and bewitching and moving and eloquent of all the vehiclesinvented by man for the conveying of feeling; but it seems to me thatthe chief virtue in song is melody, air, tune, rhythm, or what youplease to call it, and that when this feature is absent what remains isa picture with the color left out. I was not able to detect in the vocalparts of "Parsifal" anything that might with confidence be called rhythmor tune or melody; one person performed at a time--and a long time, too--often in a noble, and always in a high-toned, voice; but he onlypulled out long notes, then some short ones, then another long one, thena sharp, quick, peremptory bark or two--and so on and so on; and whenhe was done you saw that the information which he had conveyed had notcompensated for the disturbance. Not always, but pretty often. If two ofthem would but put in a duet occasionally and blend the voices; but no, they don't do that. The great master, who knew so well how to makea hundred instruments rejoice in unison and pour out their souls inmingled and melodious tides of delicious sound, deals only in barrensolos when he puts in the vocal parts. It may be that he was deep, andonly added the singing to his operas for the sake of the contrast itwould make with the music. Singing! It does seem the wrong name toapply to it. Strictly described, it is a practicing of difficult andunpleasant intervals, mainly. An ignorant person gets tired of listeningto gymnastic intervals in the long run, no matter how pleasant they maybe. In "Parsifal" there is a hermit named Gurnemanz who stands on thestage in one spot and practices by the hour, while first one and thenanother character of the cast endures what he can of it and then retiresto die. During the evening there was an intermission of three-quarters of anhour after the first act and one an hour long after the second. In bothinstances the theater was totally emptied. People who had previouslyengaged tables in the one sole eating-house were able to put in theirtime very satisfactorily; the other thousand went hungry. The opera wasconcluded at ten in the evening or a little later. When we reached homewe had been gone more than seven hours. Seven hours at five dollars aticket is almost too much for the money. While browsing about the front yard among the crowd between the acts Iencountered twelve or fifteen friends from different parts of America, and those of them who were most familiar with Wagner said that"Parsifal" seldom pleased at first, but that after one had heardit several times it was almost sure to become a favorite. It seemedimpossible, but it was true, for the statement came from people whoseword was not to be doubted. And I gathered some further information. On the ground I found part ofa German musical magazine, and in it a letter written by Uhlicthirty-three years ago, in which he defends the scorned and abusedWagner against people like me, who found fault with the comprehensiveabsence of what our kind regards as singing. Uhlic says Wagner despised"JENE PLAPPERUDE MUSIC, " and therefore "runs, trills, and SCHNORKEL arediscarded by him. " I don't know what a SCHNORKEL is, but now that I knowit has been left out of these operas I never have missed so much inmy life. And Uhlic further says that Wagner's song is true: that itis "simply emphasized intoned speech. " That certainly describes it--in"Parsifal" and some of the operas; and if I understand Uhlic's elaborateGerman he apologizes for the beautiful airs in "Tannhauser. " Very well;now that Wagner and I understand each other, perhaps we shall get alongbetter, and I shall stop calling Waggner, on the American plan, andthereafter call him Waggner as per German custom, for I feel entirelyfriendly now. The minute we get reconciled to a person, how willingwe are to throw aside little needless punctilios and pronounce his nameright! Of course I came home wondering why people should come from all cornersof America to hear these operas, when we have lately had a season or twoof them in New York with these same singers in the several parts, and possibly this same orchestra. I resolved to think that out at allhazards. TUESDAY. --Yesterday they played the only operatic favorite I have everhad--an opera which has always driven me mad with ignorant delightwhenever I have heard it--"Tannhauser. " I heard it first when I was ayouth; I heard it last in the last German season in New York. I wasbusy yesterday and I did not intend to go, knowing I should have another"Tannhauser" opportunity in a few days; but after five o'clock I foundmyself free and walked out to the opera-house and arrived about thebeginning of the second act. My opera ticket admitted me to the groundsin front, past the policeman and the chain, and I thought I would take arest on a bench for an hour and two and wait for the third act. In a moment or so the first bugles blew, and the multitude began tocrumble apart and melt into the theater. I will explain that thisbugle-call is one of the pretty features here. You see, the theateris empty, and hundreds of the audience are a good way off in thefeeding-house; the first bugle-call is blown about a quarter of anhour before time for the curtain to rise. This company of buglers, inuniform, march out with military step and send out over the landscapea few bars of the theme of the approaching act, piercing the distanceswith the gracious notes; then they march to the other entrance andrepeat. Presently they do this over again. Yesterday only about twohundred people were still left in front of the house when the secondcall was blown; in another half-minute they would have been in thehouse, but then a thing happened which delayed them--the only solitarything in this world which could be relied on with certainty toaccomplish it, I suppose--an imperial princess appeared in the balconyabove them. They stopped dead in their tracks and began to gaze in astupor of gratitude and satisfaction. The lady presently saw that shemust disappear or the doors would be closed upon these worshipers, soshe returned to her box. This daughter-in-law of an emperor was pretty;she had a kind face; she was without airs; she is known to be full ofcommon human sympathies. There are many kinds of princesses, but thiskind is the most harmful of all, for wherever they go they reconcilepeople to monarchy and set back the clock of progress. The valuableprinces, the desirable princes, are the czars and their sort. By theirmere dumb presence in the world they cover with derision every argumentthat can be invented in favor of royalty by the most ingenious casuist. In his time the husband of this princess was valuable. He led a degradedlife, he ended it with his own hand in circumstances and surroundings ofa hideous sort, and was buried like a god. In the opera-house there is a long loft back of the audience, a kind ofopen gallery, in which princes are displayed. It is sacred to them;it is the holy of holies. As soon as the filling of the house isabout complete the standing multitude turn and fix their eyes uponthe princely layout and gaze mutely and longingly and adoringlyand regretfully like sinners looking into heaven. They become rapt, unconscious, steeped in worship. There is no spectacle anywhere that ismore pathetic than this. It is worth crossing many oceans to see. Itis somehow not the same gaze that people rivet upon a Victor Hugo, or Niagara, or the bones of the mastodon, or the guillotine of theRevolution, or the great pyramid, or distant Vesuvius smoking in thesky, or any man long celebrated to you by his genius and achievements, or thing long celebrated to you by the praises of books andpictures--no, that gaze is only the gaze of intense curiosity, interest, wonder, engaged in drinking delicious deep draughts that taste good allthe way down and appease and satisfy the thirst of a lifetime. Satisfyit--that is the word. Hugo and the mastodon will still have a degreeof intense interest thereafter when encountered, but never anythingapproaching the ecstasy of that first view. The interest of a prince isdifferent. It may be envy, it may be worship, doubtless it is a mixtureof both--and it does not satisfy its thirst with one view, or evennoticeably diminish it. Perhaps the essence of the thing is the valuewhich men attach to a valuable something which has come by luck and notbeen earned. A dollar picked up in the road is more satisfaction to youthan the ninety-and-nine which you had to work for, and money won atfaro or in stocks snuggles into your heart in the same way. A princepicks up grandeur, power, and a permanent holiday and gratis support bya pure accident, the accident of birth, and he stands always beforethe grieved eye of poverty and obscurity a monumental representative ofluck. And then--supremest value of all-his is the only high fortuneon the earth which is secure. The commercial millionaire may becomea beggar; the illustrious statesman can make a vital mistake and bedropped and forgotten; the illustrious general can lose a decisivebattle and with it the consideration of men; but once a prince always aprince--that is to say, an imitation god, and neither hard fortune noran infamous character nor an addled brain nor the speech of an ass canundeify him. By common consent of all the nations and all the ages themost valuable thing in this world is the homage of men, whether deservedor undeserved. It follows without doubt or question, then, that the mostdesirable position possible is that of a prince. And I think it alsofollows that the so-called usurpations with which history is litteredare the most excusable misdemeanors which men have committed. To usurp ausurpation--that is all it amounts to, isn't it? A prince is not to us what he is to a European, of course. We havenot been taught to regard him as a god, and so one good look at him islikely to so nearly appease our curiosity as to make him an object ofno greater interest the next time. We want a fresh one. But it is not sowith the European. I am quite sure of it. The same old one will answer;he never stales. Eighteen years ago I was in London and I called at anEnglishman's house on a bleak and foggy and dismal December afternoonto visit his wife and married daughter by appointment. I waited half anhour and then they arrived, frozen. They explained that they hadbeen delayed by an unlooked-for circumstance: while passing in theneighborhood of Marlborough House they saw a crowd gathering and weretold that the Prince of Wales was about to drive out, so they stoppedto get a sight of him. They had waited half an hour on the sidewalk, freezing with the crowd, but were disappointed at last--the Prince hadchanged his mind. I said, with a good deal of surprise, "Is it possiblethat you two have lived in London all your lives and have never seen thePrince of Wales?" Apparently it was their turn to be surprised, for they exclaimed: "Whatan idea! Why, we have seen him hundreds of times. " They had seem him hundreds of times, yet they had waited half an hourin the gloom and the bitter cold, in the midst of a jam of patients fromthe same asylum, on the chance of seeing him again. It was a stupefyingstatement, but one is obliged to believe the English, even when they saya thing like that. I fumbled around for a remark, and got out this one: "I can't understand it at all. If I had never seen General Grant I doubtif I would do that even to get a sight of him. " With a slight emphasison the last word. Their blank faces showed that they wondered where the parallel came in. Then they said, blankly: "Of course not. He is only a President. " It is doubtless a fact that a prince is a permanent interest, aninterest not subject to deterioration. The general who was neverdefeated, the general who never held a council of war, the only generalwho ever commanded a connected battle-front twelve hundred miles long, the smith who welded together the broken parts of a great republic andre-established it where it is quite likely to outlast all the monarchiespresent and to come, was really a person of no serious consequence tothese people. To them, with their training, my General was only a man, after all, while their Prince was clearly much more than that--a beingof a wholly unsimilar construction and constitution, and being of nomore blood and kinship with men than are the serene eternal lights ofthe firmament with the poor dull tallow candles of commerce that sputterand die and leave nothing behind but a pinch of ashes and a stink. I saw the last act of "Tannhauser. " I sat in the gloom and the deepstillness, waiting--one minute, two minutes, I do not know exactly howlong--then the soft music of the hidden orchestra began to breathe itsrich, long sighs out from under the distant stage, and by and by thedrop-curtain parted in the middle and was drawn softly aside, disclosingthe twilighted wood and a wayside shrine, with a white-robed girlpraying and a man standing near. Presently that noble chorus of men'svoices was heard approaching, and from that moment until the closingof the curtain it was music, just music--music to make one drunk withpleasure, music to make one take scrip and staff and beg his way roundthe globe to hear it. To such as are intending to come here in the Wagner season next year Iwish to say, bring your dinner-pail with you. If you do, you will nevercease to be thankful. If you do not, you will find it a hard fight tosave yourself from famishing in Bayreuth. Bayreuth is merely a largevillage, and has no very large hotels or eating-houses. The principalinns are the Golden Anchor and the Sun. At either of these places youcan get an excellent meal--no, I mean you can go there and see otherpeople get it. There is no charge for this. The town is littered withrestaurants, but they are small and bad, and they are overdriven withcustom. You must secure a table hours beforehand, and often when youarrive you will find somebody occupying it. We have had this experience. We have had a daily scramble for life; and when I say we, I includeshoals of people. I have the impression that the only people who donot have to scramble are the veterans--the disciples who have been herebefore and know the ropes. I think they arrive about a week before thefirst opera, and engage all the tables for the season. My tribe hadtried all kinds of places--some outside of the town, a mile or two--andhave captured only nibblings and odds and ends, never in any instancea complete and satisfying meal. Digestible? No, the reverse. These oddsand ends are going to serve as souvenirs of Bayreuth, and in that regardtheir value is not to be overestimated. Photographs fade, bric-a-bracgets lost, busts of Wagner get broken, but once you absorb aBayreuth-restaurant meal it is your possession and your property untilthe time comes to embalm the rest of you. Some of these pilgrims herebecome, in effect, cabinets; cabinets of souvenirs of Bayreuth. It isbelieved among scientists that you could examine the crop of a deadBayreuth pilgrim anywhere in the earth and tell where he came from. But I like this ballast. I think a "Hermitage" scrap-up at eight in theevening, when all the famine-breeders have been there and laid in theirmementoes and gone, is the quietest thing you can lay on your keelsonexcept gravel. THURSDAY. --They keep two teams of singers in stock for the chief roles, and one of these is composed of the most renowned artists in theworld, with Materna and Alvary in the lead. I suppose a double team isnecessary; doubtless a single team would die of exhaustion in a week, for all the plays last from four in the afternoon till ten at night. Nearly all the labor falls upon the half-dozen head singers, andapparently they are required to furnish all the noise they can forthe money. If they feel a soft, whispery, mysterious feeling they arerequired to open out and let the public know it. Operas are given onlyon Sundays, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, with three days ofostensible rest per week, and two teams to do the four operas; but theostensible rest is devoted largely to rehearsing. It is said that theoff days are devoted to rehearsing from some time in the morning tillten at night. Are there two orchestras also? It is quite likely, sincethere are one hundred and ten names in the orchestra list. Yesterday the opera was "Tristan and Isolde. " I have seen all sortsof audiences--at theaters, operas, concerts, lectures, sermons, funerals--but none which was twin to the Wagner audience of Bayreuthfor fixed and reverential attention. Absolute attention and petrifiedretention to the end of an act of the attitude assumed at the beginningof it. You detect no movement in the solid mass of heads and shoulders. You seem to sit with the dead in the gloom of a tomb. You know that theyare being stirred to their profoundest depths; that there are times whenthey want to rise and wave handkerchiefs and shout their approbation, and times when tears are running down their faces, and it would be arelief to free their pent emotions in sobs or screams; yet you hear notone utterance till the curtain swings together and the closing strainshave slowly faded out and died; then the dead rise with one impulse andshake the building with their applause. Every seat is full in thefirst act; there is not a vacant one in the last. If a man would beconspicuous, let him come here and retire from the house in the midst ofan act. It would make him celebrated. This audience reminds me of nothing I have ever seen and of nothingI have read about except the city in the Arabian tale where all theinhabitants have been turned to brass and the traveler finds them aftercenturies mute, motionless, and still retaining the attitudes which theylast knew in life. Here the Wagner audience dress as they please, andsit in the dark and worship in silence. At the Metropolitan in New Yorkthey sit in a glare, and wear their showiest harness; they hum airs, they squeak fans, they titter, and they gabble all the time. In someof the boxes the conversation and laughter are so loud as to divide theattention of the house with the stage. In large measure the Metropolitanis a show-case for rich fashionables who are not trained in Wagnerianmusic and have no reverence for it, but who like to promote art and showtheir clothes. Can that be an agreeable atmosphere to persons in whom this musicproduces a sort of divine ecstasy and to whom its creator is a verydeity, his stage a temple, the works of his brain and hands consecratedthings, and the partaking of them with eye and ear a sacred solemnity?Manifestly, no. Then, perhaps the temporary expatriation, the tedioustraversing of seas and continents, the pilgrimage to Bayreuth standsexplained. These devotees would worship in an atmosphere of devotion. It is only here that they can find it without fleck or blemish or anyworldly pollution. In this remote village there are no sights to see, there is no newspaper to intrude the worries of the distant world, there is nothing going on, it is always Sunday. The pilgrim wends to histemple out of town, sits out his moving service, returns to his bed withhis heart and soul and his body exhausted by long hours of tremendousemotion, and he is in no fit condition to do anything but to lie torpidand slowly gather back life and strength for the next service. Thisopera of "Tristan and Isolde" last night broke the hearts of allwitnesses who were of the faith, and I know of some who have heard ofmany who could not sleep after it, but cried the night away. I feelstrongly out of place here. Sometimes I feel like the sane person in acommunity of the mad; sometimes I feel like the one blind man where allothers see; the one groping savage in the college of the learned, andalways, during service, I feel like a heretic in heaven. But by no means do I ever overlook or minify the fact that this is oneof the most extraordinary experiences of my life. I have never seenanything like this before. I have never seen anything so great and fineand real as this devotion. FRIDAY. --Yesterday's opera was "Parsifal" again. The others went andthey show marked advance in appreciation; but I went hunting for relicsand reminders of the Margravine Wilhelmina, she of the imperishable"Memoirs. " I am properly grateful to her for her (unconscious) satireupon monarchy and nobility, and therefore nothing which her hand touchedor her eye looked upon is indifferent to me. I am her pilgrim; the restof this multitude here are Wagner's. TUESDAY. --I have seen my last two operas; my season is ended, and wecross over into Bohemia this afternoon. I was supposing that my musicalregeneration was accomplished and perfected, because I enjoyed bothof these operas, singing and all, and, moreover, one of them was"Parsifal, " but the experts have disenchanted me. They say: "Singing! That wasn't singing; that was the wailing, screeching ofthird-rate obscurities, palmed off on us in the interest of economy. " Well, I ought to have recognized the sign--the old, sure sign that hasnever failed me in matters of art. Whenever I enjoy anything in art itmeans that it is mighty poor. The private knowledge of this fact hassaved me from going to pieces with enthusiasm in front of many and manya chromo. However, my base instinct does bring me profit sometimes; Iwas the only man out of thirty-two hundred who got his money back onthose two operas. WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS Is it true that the sun of a man's mentality touches noon at forty andthen begins to wane toward setting? Doctor Osler is charged with sayingso. Maybe he said it, maybe he didn't; I don't know which it is. But ifhe said it, I can point him to a case which proves his rule. Proves itby being an exception to it. To this place I nominate Mr. Howells. I read his VENETIAN DAYS about forty years ago. I compare it with hispaper on Machiavelli in a late number of HARPER, and I cannot find thathis English has suffered any impairment. For forty years his Englishhas been to me a continual delight and astonishment. In the sustainedexhibition of certain great qualities--clearness, compression, verbal exactness, and unforced and seemingly unconscious felicity ofphrasing--he is, in my belief, without his peer in the English-writingworld. SUSTAINED. I entrench myself behind that protecting word. Thereare others who exhibit those great qualities as greatly as he does, butonly by intervaled distributions of rich moonlight, with stretchesof veiled and dimmer landscape between; whereas Howells's moon sailscloudless skies all night and all the nights. In the matter of verbal exactness Mr. Howells has no superior, Isuppose. He seems to be almost always able to find that elusive andshifty grain of gold, the RIGHT WORD. Others have to put up withapproximations, more or less frequently; he has better luck. To me, theothers are miners working with the gold-pan--of necessity some of thegold washes over and escapes; whereas, in my fancy, he is quicksilverraiding down a riffle--no grain of the metal stands much chance ofeluding him. A powerful agent is the right word: it lights the reader'sway and makes it plain; a close approximation to it will answer, andmuch traveling is done in a well-enough fashion by its help, but we donot welcome it and applaud it and rejoice in it as we do when THE rightone blazes out on us. Whenever we come upon one of those intensely rightwords in a book or a newspaper the resulting effect is physical as wellas spiritual, and electrically prompt: it tingles exquisitely aroundthrough the walls of the mouth and tastes as tart and crisp and goodas the autumn-butter that creams the sumac-berry. One has no time toexamine the word and vote upon its rank and standing, the automaticrecognition of its supremacy is so immediate. There is a plenty ofacceptable literature which deals largely in approximations, but it maybe likened to a fine landscape seen through the rain; the right wordwould dismiss the rain, then you would see it better. It doesn't rainwhen Howells is at work. And where does he get the easy and effortless flow of his speech? andits cadenced and undulating rhythm? and its architectural felicitiesof construction, its graces of expression, its pemmican quality ofcompression, and all that? Born to him, no doubt. All in shining goodorder in the beginning, all extraordinary; and all just as shining, justas extraordinary today, after forty years of diligent wear and tearand use. He passed his fortieth year long and long ago; but I think hisEnglish of today--his perfect English, I wish to say--can throw down theglove before his English of that antique time and not be afraid. I will got back to the paper on Machiavelli now, and ask the reader toexamine this passage from it which I append. I do not mean examine itin a bird's-eye way; I mean search it, study it. And, of course, read italoud. I may be wrong, still it is my conviction that one cannot get outof finely wrought literature all that is in it by reading it mutely: Mr. Dyer is rather of the opinion, first luminously suggested byMacaulay, that Machiavelli was in earnest, but must not be judged as apolitical moralist of our time and race would be judged. He thinks thatMachiavelli was in earnest, as none but an idealist can be, and heis the first to imagine him an idealist immersed in realities, whoinvoluntarily transmutes the events under his eye into something likethe visionary issues of reverie. The Machiavelli whom he depicts doesnot cease to be politically a republican and socially a just man becausehe holds up an atrocious despot like Caesar Borgia as a mirror forrulers. What Machiavelli beheld round him in Italy was a civic disorderin which there was oppression without statecraft, and revolt withoutpatriotism. When a miscreant like Borgia appeared upon the scene andreduced both tyrants and rebels to an apparent quiescence, he might verywell seem to such a dreamer the savior of society whom a certain sort ofdreamers are always looking for. Machiavelli was no less honest when hehonored the diabolical force than Carlyle was when at different timeshe extolled the strong man who destroys liberty in creating order. ButCarlyle has only just ceased to be mistaken for a reformer, while it isstill Machiavelli's hard fate to be so trammeled in his material thathis name stands for whatever is most malevolent and perfidious in humannature. You see how easy and flowing it is; how unvexed by ruggednesses, clumsinesses, broken meters; how simple and--so far as you or I canmake out--unstudied; how clear, how limpid, how understandable, how unconfused by cross-currents, eddies, undertows; how seeminglyunadorned, yet is all adornment, like the lily-of-the-valley; and howcompressed, how compact, without a complacency-signal hung out anywhereto call attention to it. There are twenty-three lines in the quoted passage. After reading itseveral times aloud, one perceives that a good deal of matter is crowdedinto that small space. I think it is a model of compactness. When I takeits materials apart and work them over and put them together in my way, I find I cannot crowd the result back into the same hole, there notbeing room enough. I find it a case of a woman packing a man's trunk: hecan get the things out, but he can't ever get them back again. The proffered paragraph is a just and fair sample; the rest of thearticle is as compact as it is; there are no waste words. The sample isjust in other ways: limpid, fluent, graceful, and rhythmical as it is, it holds no superiority in these respects over the rest of the essay. Also, the choice phrasing noticeable in the sample is not lonely; thereis a plenty of its kin distributed through the other paragraphs. This isclaiming much when that kin must face the challenge of a phrase likethe one in the middle sentence: "an idealist immersed in realities whoinvoluntarily transmutes the events under his eye into something likethe visionary issues of reverie. " With a hundred words to do it with, the literary artisan could catch that airy thought and tie it down andreduce it to a concrete condition, visible, substantial, understandableand all right, like a cabbage; but the artist does it with twenty, andthe result is a flower. The quoted phrase, like a thousand others that have come from the samesource, has the quality of certain scraps of verse which take hold ofus and stay in our memories, we do not understand why, at first: all thewords being the right words, none of them is conspicuous, and so theyall seem inconspicuous, therefore we wonder what it is about them thatmakes their message take hold. The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. It is like a dreamy strain of moving music, with no sharp notes in it. The words are all "right" words, and all the same size. We do not noticeit at first. We get the effect, it goes straight home to us, but wedo not know why. It is when the right words are conspicuous that theythunder: The glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome! When I got back from Howells old to Howells young I find him arrangingand clustering English words well, but not any better than now. Heis not more felicitous in concreting abstractions now than he was intranslating, then, the visions of the eyes of flesh into words thatreproduced their forms and colors: In Venetian streets they give the fallen snow no rest. It is at onceshoveled into the canals by hundreds of half-naked FACCHINI; and now inSt. Mark's Place the music of innumerable shovels smote upon my ear; andI saw the shivering legion of poverty as it engaged the elements in astruggle for the possession of the Piazza. But the snow continued tofall, and through the twilight of the descending flakes all this toiland encountered looked like that weary kind of effort in dreams, whenthe most determined industry seems only to renew the task. The loftycrest of the bell-tower was hidden in the folds of falling snow, andI could no longer see the golden angel upon its summit. But lookedat across the Piazza, the beautiful outline of St. Mark's Church wasperfectly penciled in the air, and the shifting threads of the snowfallwere woven into a spell of novel enchantment around the structure thatalways seemed to me too exquisite in its fantastic loveliness to beanything but the creation of magic. The tender snow had compassionatedthe beautiful edifice for all the wrongs of time, and so hid the stainsand ugliness of decay that it looked as if just from the hand of thebuilder--or, better said, just from the brain of the architect. Therewas marvelous freshness in the colors of the mosaics in the great archesof the facade, and all that gracious harmony into which the templerises, or marble scrolls and leafy exuberance airily supporting thestatues of the saints, was a hundred times etherealized by the purityand whiteness of the drifting flakes. The snow lay lightly on the goldengloves that tremble like peacocks-crests above the vast domes, andplumed them with softest white; it robed the saints in ermine; and itdanced over all its works, as if exulting in its beauty--beautywhich filled me with subtle, selfish yearning to keep such evanescentloveliness for the little-while-longer of my whole life, and withdespair to think that even the poor lifeless shadow of it could never befairly reflected in picture or poem. Through the wavering snowfall, the Saint Theodore upon one of thegranite pillars of the Piazzetta did not show so grim as his wont is, and the winged lion on the other might have been a winged lamb, sogentle and mild he looked by the tender light of the storm. The towersof the island churches loomed faint and far away in the dimness; thesailors in the rigging of the ships that lay in the Basin wrought likephantoms among the shrouds; the gondolas stole in and out of the opaquedistance more noiselessly and dreamily than ever; and a silence, almostpalpable, lay upon the mutest city in the world. The spirit of Venice is there: of a city where Age and Decay, faggedwith distributing damage and repulsiveness among the other cities of theplanet in accordance with the policy and business of their profession, come for rest and play between seasons, and treat themselves to theluxury and relaxation of sinking the shop and inventing and squanderingcharms all about, instead of abolishing such as they find, as it theirhabit when not on vacation. In the working season they do business in Boston sometimes, and acharacter in THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY takes accurate note of patheticeffects wrought by them upon the aspects of a street of once dignifiedand elegant homes whose occupants have moved away and left them a preyto neglect and gradual ruin and progressive degradation; a descentwhich reaches bottom at last, when the street becomes a roost for humbleprofessionals of the faith-cure and fortune-telling sort. What a queer, melancholy house, what a queer, melancholy street! I don'tthink I was ever in a street before when quite so many professionalladies, with English surnames, preferred Madam to Mrs. On theirdoor-plates. And the poor old place has such a desperately consciousair of going to the deuce. Every house seems to wince as you go by, and button itself up to the chin for fear you should find out it hadno shirt on--so to speak. I don't know what's the reason, but thesematerial tokens of a social decay afflict me terribly; a tipsy womanisn't dreadfuler than a haggard old house, that's once been a home, in astreet like this. Mr. Howells's pictures are not mere stiff, hard, accurate photographs;they are photographs with feeling in them, and sentiment, photographstaken in a dream, one might say. As concerns his humor, I will not try to say anything, yet I would try, if I had the words that might approximately reach up to its high place. I do not think any one else can play with humorous fancies so gracefullyand delicately and deliciously as he does, nor has so many to play with, nor can come so near making them look as if they were doing the playingthemselves and he was not aware that they were at it. For they areunobtrusive, and quiet in their ways, and well conducted. His is a humorwhich flows softly all around about and over and through the mesh of thepage, pervasive, refreshing, health-giving, and makes no more show andno more noise than does the circulation of the blood. There is another thing which is contentingly noticeable in Mr. Howells'sbooks. That is his "stage directions"--those artifices which authorsemploy to throw a kind of human naturalness around a scene and aconversation, and help the reader to see the one and get at meanings inthe other which might not be perceived if entrusted unexplained to thebare words of the talk. Some authors overdo the stage directions, theyelaborate them quite beyond necessity; they spend so much time andtake up so much room in telling us how a person said a thing and how helooked and acted when he said it that we get tired and vexed and wish hehadn't said it all. Other authors' directions are brief enough, but itis seldom that the brevity contains either wit or information. Writersof this school go in rags, in the matter of state directions; themajority of them having nothing in stock but a cigar, a laugh, a blush, and a bursting into tears. In their poverty they work these sorry thingsto the bone. They say: "... Replied Alfred, flipping the ash from his cigar. " (This explainsnothing; it only wastes space. ) "... Responded Richard, with a laugh. " (There was nothing to laughabout; there never is. The writer puts it in from habit--automatically;he is paying no attention to his work; or he would see that there isnothing to laugh at; often, when a remark is unusually and poignantlyflat and silly, he tries to deceive the reader by enlarging the stagedirection and making Richard break into "frenzies of uncontrollablelaughter. " This makes the reader sad. ) "... Murmured Gladys, blushing. " (This poor old shop-worn blush is atiresome thing. We get so we would rather Gladys would fall out of thebook and break her neck than do it again. She is always doing it, andusually irrelevantly. Whenever it is her turn to murmur she hangs outher blush; it is the only thing she's got. In a little while we hateher, just as we do Richard. ) "... Repeated Evelyn, bursting into tears. " (This kind keep a book dampall the time. They can't say a thing without crying. They cry so muchabout nothing that by and by when they have something to cry ABOUT theyhave gone dry; they sob, and fetch nothing; we are not moved. We areonly glad. ) They gavel me, these stale and overworked stage directions, these carbonfilms that got burnt out long ago and cannot now carry any faintestthread of light. It would be well if they could be relieved from dutyand flung out in the literary back yard to rot and disappear alongwith the discarded and forgotten "steeds" and "halidomes" and similarstage-properties once so dear to our grandfathers. But I am friendly toMr. Howells's stage directions; more friendly to them than to any oneelse's, I think. They are done with a competent and discriminating art, and are faithful to the requirements of a state direction's proper andlawful office, which is to inform. Sometimes they convey a scene andits conditions so well that I believe I could see the scene and get thespirit and meaning of the accompanying dialogue if some one would readmerely the stage directions to me and leave out the talk. For instance, a scene like this, from THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY: "... And she laid her arms with a beseeching gesture on her father'sshoulder. " "... She answered, following his gesture with a glance. " "... She said, laughing nervously. " "... She asked, turning swiftly upon him that strange, searchingglance. " "... She answered, vaguely. " "... She reluctantly admitted. " "... But her voice died wearily away, and she stood looking into hisface with puzzled entreaty. " Mr. Howells does not repeat his forms, and does not need to; he caninvent fresh ones without limit. It is mainly the repetition over andover again, by the third-rates, of worn and commonplace and juicelessforms that makes their novels such a weariness and vexation to us, Ithink. We do not mind one or two deliveries of their wares, but as weturn the pages over and keep on meeting them we presently get tired ofthem and wish they would do other things for a change. "... Replied Alfred, flipping the ash from his cigar. " "... Responded Richard, with a laugh. " "... Murmured Gladys, blushing. " "... Repeated Evelyn, bursting into tears. " "... Replied the Earl, flipping the ash from his cigar. " "... Responded the undertaker, with a laugh. " "... Murmured the chambermaid, blushing. " "... Repeated the burglar, bursting into tears. " "... Replied the conductor, flipping the ash from his cigar. " "... Responded Arkwright, with a laugh. " "... Murmured the chief of police, blushing. " "... Repeated the house-cat, bursting into tears. " And so on and so on; till at last it ceases to excite. I always noticestage directions, because they fret me and keep me trying to get outof their way, just as the automobiles do. At first; then by and by theybecome monotonous and I get run over. Mr. Howells has done much work, and the spirit of it is as beautifulas the make of it. I have held him in admiration and affection so manyyears that I know by the number of those years that he is old now;but his heart isn't, nor his pen; and years do not count. Let him haveplenty of them; there is profit in them for us. ENGLISH AS SHE IS TAUGHT In the appendix to Croker's Boswell's Johnson one finds this anecdote: CATO'S SOLILOQUY. --One day Mrs. Gastrel set a little girl to repeat tohim (Dr. Samuel Johnson) Cato's Soliloquy, which she went through verycorrectly. The Doctor, after a pause, asked the child: "What was to bring Cato to an end?" She said it was a knife. "No, my dear, it was not so. " "My aunt Polly said it was a knife. " "Why, Aunt Polly's knife MAY DO, but it was a DAGGER, my dear. " He then asked her the meaning of "bane and antidote, " which she wasunable to give. Mrs. Gastrel said: "You cannot expect so young a child to know the meaning of such words. " He then said: "My dear, how many pence are there in SIXPENCE?" "I cannot tell, sir, " was the half-terrified reply. On this, addressing himself to Mrs. Gastrel, he said: "Now, my dear lady, can anything be more ridiculous than to teach achild Cato's Soliloquy, who does not know how many pence there are in asixpence?" In a lecture before the Royal Geographical Society Professor Ravensteinquoted the following list of frantic questions, and said that they hadbeen asked in an examination: Mention all names of places in the world derived from Julius Caesar orAugustus Caesar. Where are the following rivers: Pisuerga, Sakaria, Guadalete, Jalon, Mulde? All you know of the following: Machacha, Pilmo, Schebulos, Crivoscia, Basces, Mancikert, Taxhem, Citeaux, Meloria, Zutphen. The highest peaks of the Karakorum range. The number of universities in Prussia. Why are the tops of mountains continually covered with snow (sic)? Name the length and breadth of the streams of lava which issued from theSkaptar Jokul in the eruption of 1783. That list would oversize nearly anybody's geographical knowledge. Isn'tit reasonably possible that in our schools many of the questions in allstudies are several miles ahead of where the pupil is?--that he is setto struggle with things that are ludicrously beyond his present reach, hopelessly beyond his present strength? This remark in passing, and byway of text; now I come to what I was going to say. I have just now fallen upon a darling literary curiosity. It is a littlebook, a manuscript compilation, and the compiler sent it to me with therequest that I say whether I think it ought to be published or not. Isaid, Yes; but as I slowly grow wise I briskly grow cautious; and so, now that the publication is imminent, it has seemed to me that I shouldfeel more comfortable if I could divide up this responsibility with thepublic by adding them to the court. Therefore I will print some extractsfrom the book, in the hope that they may make converts to my judgmentthat the volume has merit which entitles it to publication. As to its character. Every one has sampled "English as She is Spoke"and "English as She is Wrote"; this little volume furnishes us aninstructive array of examples of "English as She is Taught"--in thepublic schools of--well, this country. The collection is made by ateacher in those schools, and all the examples in it are genuine; noneof them have been tampered with, or doctored in any way. From time totime, during several years, whenever a pupil has delivered himselfof anything peculiarly quaint or toothsome in the course of hisrecitations, this teacher and her associates have privately set thatthing down in a memorandum-book; strictly following the original, asto grammar, construction, spelling, and all; and the result is thisliterary curiosity. The contents of the book consist mainly of answers given by the boysand girls to questions, said answers being given sometimes verbally, sometimes in writing. The subjects touched upon are fifteen innumber: I. Etymology; II. Grammar; III. Mathematics; IV. Geography;V. "Original"; VI. Analysis; VII. History; VIII. "Intellectual"; IX. Philosophy; X. Physiology; XI. Astronomy; XII. Politics; XIII. Music;XIV. Oratory; XV. Metaphysics. You perceive that the poor little young idea has taken a shot at a goodmany kinds of game in the course of the book. Now as to results. Hereare some quaint definitions of words. It will be noticed that in all ofthese instances the sound of the word, or the look of it on paper, hasmisled the child: ABORIGINES, a system of mountains. ALIAS, a good man in the Bible. AMENABLE, anything that is mean. AMMONIA, the food of the gods. ASSIDUITY, state of being an acid. AURIFEROUS, pertaining to an orifice. CAPILLARY, a little caterpillar. CORNIFEROUS, rocks in which fossil corn is found. EMOLUMENT, a headstone to a grave. EQUESTRIAN, one who asks questions. EUCHARIST, one who plays euchre. FRANCHISE, anything belonging to the French. IDOLATER, a very idle person. IPECAC, a man who likes a good dinner. IRRIGATE, to make fun of. MENDACIOUS, what can be mended. MERCENARY, one who feels for another. PARASITE, a kind of umbrella. PARASITE, the murder of an infant. PUBLICAN, a man who does his prayers in public. TENACIOUS, ten acres of land. Here is one where the phrase "publicans and sinners" has got mixed upin the child's mind with politics, and the result is a definition whichtakes one in a sudden and unexpected way: REPUBLICAN, a sinner mentioned in the Bible. Also in Democratic newspapers now and then. Here are two where themistake has resulted from sound assisted by remote fact: PLAGIARIST, a writer of plays. DEMAGOGUE, a vessel containing beer and other liquids. I cannot quite make out what it was that misled the pupil in thefollowing instances; it would not seem to have been the sound of theword, nor the look of it in print: ASPHYXIA, a grumbling, fussy temper. QUARTERNIONS, a bird with a flat beak and no bill, living in NewZealand. QUARTERNIONS, the name given to a style of art practiced by thePhoenicians. QUARTERNIONS, a religious convention held every hundred years. SIBILANT, the state of being idiotic. CROSIER, a staff carried by the Deity. In the following sentences the pupil's ear has been deceiving him again: The marriage was illegible. He was totally dismasted with the whole performance. He enjoys riding on a philosopher. She was very quick at repertoire. He prayed for the waters to subsidize. The leopard is watching his sheep. They had a strawberry vestibule. Here is one which--well, now, how often we do slam right into the truthwithout ever suspecting it: The men employed by the Gas Company go around and speculate the meter. Indeed they do, dear; and when you grow up, many and many's the time youwill notice it in the gas bill. In the following sentences the littlepeople have some information to convey, every time; but in my case theyfail to connect: the light always went out on the keystone word: The coercion of some things is remarkable; as bread and molasses. Her hat is contiguous because she wears it on one side. He preached to an egregious congregation. The captain eliminated a bullet through the man's heart. You should take caution and be precarious. The supercilious girl acted with vicissitude when the perennial timecame. The last is a curiously plausible sentence; one seems to know what itmeans, and yet he knows all the time that he doesn't. Here is an odd(but entirely proper) use of a word, and a most sudden descent froma lofty philosophical altitude to a very practical and homelyillustration: We should endeavor to avoid extremes--like those of wasps and bees. And here--with "zoological" and "geological" in his mind, but not readyto his tongue--the small scholar has innocently gone and let outa couple of secrets which ought never to have been divulged in anycircumstances: There are a good many donkeys in theological gardens. Some of the best fossils are found in theological gardens. Under the head of "Grammar" the little scholars furnish the followinginformation: Gender is the distinguishing nouns without regard to sex. A verb is something to eat. Adverbs should always be used as adjectives and adjectives as adverbs. Every sentence and name of God must begin with a caterpillar. "Caterpillar" is well enough, but capital letter would have beenstricter. The following is a brave attempt at a solution, but it failedto liquify: When they are going to say some prose or poetry before they say thepoetry or prose they must put a semicolon just after the introduction ofthe prose or poetry. The chapter on "Mathematics" is full of fruit. From it I take a fewsamples--mainly in an unripe state: A straight line is any distance between two places. Parallel lines are lines that can never meet until they run together. A circle is a round straight line with a hole in the middle. Things which are equal to each other are equal to anything else. To find the number of square feet in a room you multiply the room by thenumber of the feet. The product is the result. Right you are. In the matter of geography this little book isunspeakably rich. The questions do not appear to have applied themicroscope to the subject, as did those quoted by Professor Ravenstein;still, they proved plenty difficult enough without that. These pupilsdid not hunt with a microscope, they hunted with a shot-gun; this isshown by the crippled condition of the game they brought in: America is divided into the Passiffic slope and the Mississippi valey. North America is separated by Spain. America consists from north to south about five hundred miles. The United States is quite a small country compared with some othercountrys, but it about as industrious. The capital of the United States is Long Island. The five seaports of the U. S. Are Newfunlan and Sanfrancisco. The principal products of the U. S. Is earthquakes and volcanoes. The Alaginnies are mountains in Philadelphia. The Rocky Mountains are on the western side of Philadelphia. Cape Hateras is a vast body of water surrounded by land and flowing intothe Gulf of Mexico. Mason and Dixon's line is the Equator. One of the leading industries of the United States is mollasses, book-covers, numbers, gas, teaching, lumber, manufacturers, paper-making, publishers, coal. In Austria the principal occupation is gathering Austrich feathers. Gibraltar is an island built on a rock. Russia is very cold and tyrannical. Sicily is one of the Sandwich Islands. Hindoostan flows through the Ganges and empties into the MediterraneanSea. Ireland is called the Emigrant Isle because it is so beautiful andgreen. The width of the different zones Europe lies in depend upon thesurrounding country. The imports of a country are the things that are paid for, the exportsare the things that are not. Climate lasts all the time and weather only a few days. The two most famous volcanoes of Europe are Sodom and Gomorrah. The chapter headed "Analysis" shows us that the pupils in our publicschools are not merely loaded up with those showy facts about geography, mathematics, and so on, and left in that incomplete state; no, there'smachinery for clarifying and expanding their minds. They are required totake poems and analyze them, dig out their common sense, reduce themto statistics, and reproduce them in a luminous prose translation whichshall tell you at a glance what the poet was trying to get at. Onesample will do. Here is a stanza from "The Lady of the Lake, " followedby the pupil's impressive explanation of it: Alone, but with unbated zeal, The horseman plied with scourge and steel;For jaded now and spent with toil, Embossed with foam and dark withsoil, While every gasp with sobs he drew, The laboring stag strainedfull in view. The man who rode on the horse performed the whip and an instrument madeof steel alone with strong ardor not diminishing, for, being tired fromthe time passed with hard labor overworked with anger and ignorantwith weariness, while every breath for labor he drew with cries full orsorrow, the young deer made imperfect who worked hard filtered in sight. I see, now, that I never understood that poem before. I have hadglimpses of its meaning, it moments when I was not as ignorant withweariness as usual, but this is the first time the whole spacious ideaof it ever filtered in sight. If I were a public-school pupil I wouldput those other studies aside and stick to analysis; for, after all, itis the thing to spread your mind. We come now to historical matters, historical remains, one might say. Asone turns the pages he is impressed with the depth to which one date hasbeen driven into the American child's head--1492. The date is there, andit is there to stay. And it is always at hand, always deliverable ata moment's notice. But the Fact that belongs with it? That is quiteanother matter. Only the date itself is familiar and sure: its vastFact has failed of lodgment. It would appear that whenever you ask apublic-school pupil when a thing--anything, no matter what--happened, and he is in doubt, he always rips out his 1492. He applies it toeverything, from the landing of the ark to the introduction of thehorse-car. Well, after all, it is our first date, and so it is rightenough to honor it, and pay the public schools to teach our children tohonor it: George Washington was born in 1492. Washington wrote the Declaration of Independence in 1492. St. Bartholemew was massacred in 1492. The Brittains were the Saxons who entered England in 1492 under JuliusCaesar. The earth is 1492 miles in circumference. To proceed with "History" Christopher Columbus was called the Father of his Country. Queen Isabella of Spain sold her watch and chain and other millinery sothat Columbus could discover America. The Indian wars were very desecrating to the country. The Indians pursued their warfare by hiding in the bushes and thenscalping them. Captain John Smith has been styled the father of his country. His lifewas saved by his daughter Pochahantas. The Puritans found an insane asylum in the wilds of America. The Stamp Act was to make everybody stamp all materials so they shouldbe null and void. Washington died in Spain almost broken-hearted. His remains were takento the cathedral in Havana. Gorilla warfare was where men rode on gorillas. John Brown was a very good insane man who tried to get fugitivesslaves into Virginia. He captured all the inhabitants, but was finallyconquered and condemned to his death. The confederasy was formed by thefugitive slaves. Alfred the Great reigned 872 years. He was distinguished for lettingsome buckwheat cakes burn, and the lady scolded him. Henry Eight was famous for being a great widower haveing lost severalwives. Lady Jane Grey studied Greek and Latin and was beheaded after a fewdays. John Bright is noted for an incurable disease. Lord James Gordon Bennet instigated the Gordon Riots. The Middle Ages come in between antiquity and posterity. Luther introduced Christianity into England a good many thousand yearsago. His birthday was November 1883. He was once a Pope. He lived at thetime of the Rebellion of Worms. Julius Caesar is noted for his famous telegram dispatch I came I saw Iconquered. Julius Caesar was really a very great man. He was a very great soldierand wrote a book for beginners in the Latin. Cleopatra was caused by the death of an asp which she dissolved in awine cup. The only form of government in Greece was a limited monkey. The Persian war lasted about 500 years. Greece had only 7 wise men. Socrates... Destroyed some statues and had to drink Shamrock. Here is a fact correctly stated; and yet it is phrased withsuch ingenious infelicity that it can be depended upon to conveymisinformation every time it is uncarefully unread: By the Salic law no woman or descendant of a woman could occupy thethrone. To show how far a child can travel in history with judicious anddiligent boosting in the public school, we select the following mosaic: Abraham Lincoln was born in Wales in 1599. In the chapter headed "Intellectual" I find a great number of mostinteresting statements. A sample or two may be found not amiss: Bracebridge Hall was written by Henry Irving. Show Bound was written by Peter Cooper. The House of the Seven Gables was written by Lord Bryant. Edgar A. Poe was a very curdling writer. Cotton Mather was a writer who invented the cotten gin and wrotehistories. Beowulf wrote the Scriptures. Ben Johnson survived Shakspeare in some respects. In the Canterbury Tale it gives account of King Alfred on his way to theshrine of Thomas Bucket. Chaucer was the father of English pottery. Chaucer was a bland verse writer of the third century. Chaucer was succeeded by H. Wads. Longfellow an American Writer. Hiswritings were chiefly prose and nearly one hundred years elapsed. Shakspere translated the Scriptures and it was called St. James becausehe did it. In the middle of the chapter I find many pages of information concerningShakespeare's plays, Milton's works, and those of Bacon, Addison, SamuelJohnson, Fielding, Richardson, Sterne, Smollett, De Foe, Locke, Pope, Swift, Goldsmith, Burns, Cowper, Wordsworth, Gibbon, Byron, Coleridge, Hood, Scott, Macaulay, George Eliot, Dickens, Bulwer, Thackeray, Browning, Mrs. Browning, Tennyson, and Disraeli--a fact which shows thatinto the restricted stomach of the public-school pupil is shoveled everyyear the blood, bone, and viscera of a gigantic literature, and thesame is there digested and disposed of in a most successful andcharacteristic and gratifying public-school way. I have space for but atrifling few of the results: Lord Byron was the son of an heiress and a drunken man. Wm. Wordsworth wrote the Barefoot Boy and Imitations on Immortality. Gibbon wrote a history of his travels in Italy. This was original. George Eliot left a wife and children who mourned greatly for hisgenius. George Eliot Miss Mary Evans Mrs. Cross Mrs. Lewis was the greatestfemale poet unless George Sands is made an exception of. Bulwell is considered a good writer. Sir Walter Scott Charles Bronte Alfred the Great and Johnson were thefirst great novelists. Thomas Babington Makorlay graduated at Harvard and then studied law, hewas raised to the peerage as baron in 1557 and died in 1776. Here are two or three miscellaneous facts that may be of value, if takenin moderation: Homer's writings are Homer's Essays Virgil the Aenid and Paradiselost some people say that these poems were not written by Homer but byanother man of the same name. A sort of sadness kind of shone in Bryant's poems. Holmes is a very profligate and amusing writer. When the public-school pupil wrestles with the political features of theGreat Republic, they throw him sometimes: A bill becomes a law when the President vetoes it. The three departments of the government is the President rules theworld, the governor rules the State, the mayor rules the city. The first conscientious Congress met in Philadelphia. The Constitution of the United States was established to ensure domestichostility. Truth crushed to earth will rise again. As follows: The Constitution of the United States is that part of the book at theend which nobody reads. And here she rises once more and untimely. There should be a limit topublic-school instruction; it cannot be wise or well to let the youngfind out everything: Congress is divided into civilized half civilized and savage. Here are some results of study in music and oratory: An interval in music is the distance on the keyboard from one piano tothe next. A rest means you are not to sing it. Emphasis is putting more distress on one word than another. The chapter on "Physiology" contains much that ought not to be lost toscience: Physillogigy is to study about your bones stummick and vertebry. Occupations which are injurious to health are cabolic acid gas which isimpure blood. We have an upper and lower skin. The lower skin moves all the time andthe upper skin moves when we do. The body is mostly composed of water and about one half is avaricioustissue. The stomach is a small pear-shaped bone situated in the body. The gastric juice keeps the bones from creaking. The Chyle flows up the middle of the backbone and reaches the heartwhere it meets the oxygen and is purified. The salivary glands are used to salivate the body. In the stomach starch is changed to cane sugar and cane sugar to sugarcane. The olfactory nerve enters the cavity of the orbit and is developed intothe special sense of hearing. The growth of a tooth begins in the back of the mouth and extends to thestomach. If we were on a railroad track and a train was coming the train woulddeafen our ears so that we couldn't see to get off the track. If, up to this point, none of my quotations have added flavor to theJohnsonian anecdote at the head of this article, let us make anotherattempt: The theory that intuitive truths are discovered by the light of natureoriginated from St. John's interpretation of a passage in the Gospel ofPlato. The weight of the earth is found by comparing a mass of known lead withthat of a mass of unknown lead. To find the weight of the earth take the length of a degree on ameridian and multiply by 6 1/2 pounds. The spheres are to each other as the squares of their homologous sides. A body will go just as far in the first second as the body will go plusthe force of gravity and that's equal to twice what the body will go. Specific gravity is the weight to be compared weight of an equal volumeof or that is the weight of a body compared with the weight of an equalvolume. The law of fluid pressure divide the different forms of organized bodiesby the form of attraction and the number increased will be the form. Inertia is that property of bodies by virtue of which it cannot changeits own condition of rest or motion. In other words it is the negativequality of passiveness either in recoverable latency or insipientlatescence. If a laugh is fair here, not the struggling child, nor the unintelligentteacher--or rather the unintelligent Boards, Committees, andTrustees--are the proper target for it. All through this little book onedetects the signs of a certain probable fact--that a large part of thepupil's "instruction" consists in cramming him with obscure and wordy"rules" which he does not understand and has no time to understand. Itwould be as useful to cram him with brickbats; they would at least stay. In a town in the interior of New York, a few years ago, a gentlemanset forth a mathematical problem and proposed to give a prize to everypublic-school pupil who should furnish the correct solution of it. Twenty-two of the brightest boys in the public schools entered thecontest. The problem was not a very difficult one for pupils of theirmathematical rank and standing, yet they all failed--by a hair--throughone trifling mistake or another. Some searching questions were asked, when it turned out that these lads were as glib as parrots with the"rules, " but could not reason out a single rule or explain theprinciple underlying it. Their memories had been stocked, but not theirunderstandings. It was a case of brickbat culture, pure and simple. There are several curious "compositions" in the little book, and wemust make room for one. It is full of naivete, brutal truth, andunembarrassed directness, and is the funniest (genuine) boy'scomposition I think I have ever seen: ON GIRLS Girls are very stuck up and dignefied in their maner and be have your. They think more of dress than anything and like to play with dowls andrags. They cry if they see a cow in a far distance and are afraid ofguns. They stay at home all the time and go to church on Sunday. Theyare al-ways sick. They are always funy and making fun of boy's handsand they say how dirty. They cant play marbels. I pity them poor things. They make fun of boys and then turn round and love them. I dont beleavethey ever kiled a cat or anything. They look out every nite and say ohant the moon lovely. Thir is one thing I have not told and that is theyal-ways now their lessons bettern boys. From Mr. Edward Channing's recent article in SCIENCE: The marked difference between the books now being produced by French, English, and American travelers, on the one hand, and German explorers, on the other, is too great to escape attention. That difference is dueentirely to the fact that in school and university the German is taught, in the first place to see, and in the second place to understand what hedoes see. A SIMPLIFIED ALPHABET (This article, written during the autumn of 1899, was about the lastwriting done by Mark Twain on any impersonal subject. ) I have had a kindly feeling, a friendly feeling, a cousinly feelingtoward Simplified Spelling, from the beginning of the movement threeyears ago, but nothing more inflamed than that. It seemed to me tomerely propose to substitute one inadequacy for another; a sort ofpatching and plugging poor old dental relics with cement and gold andporcelain paste; what was really needed was a new set of teeth. That isto say, a new ALPHABET. The heart of our trouble is with our foolish alphabet. It doesn'tknow how to spell, and can't be taught. In this it is like all otheralphabets except one--the phonographic. This is the only competentalphabet in the world. It can spell and correctly pronounce any word inour language. That admirable alphabet, that brilliant alphabet, that inspiredalphabet, can be learned in an hour or two. In a week the studentcan learn to write it with some little facility, and to read it withconsiderable ease. I know, for I saw it tried in a public school inNevada forty-five years ago, and was so impressed by the incident thatit has remained in my memory ever since. I wish we could adopt it in place of our present written (and printed)character. I mean SIMPLY the alphabet; simply the consonants and thevowels--I don't mean any REDUCTIONS or abbreviations of them, such asthe shorthand writer uses in order to get compression and speed. No, Iwould SPELL EVERY WORD OUT. I will insert the alphabet here as I find it in Burnz's PHONICSHORTHAND. (Figure 1) It is arranged on the basis of Isaac Pitman'sPHONOGRAPHY. Isaac Pitman was the originator and father of scientificphonography. It is used throughout the globe. It was a memorableinvention. He made it public seventy-three years ago. The firm of IsaacPitman & Sons, New York, still exists, and they continue the master'swork. What should we gain? First of all, we could spell DEFINITELY--and correctly--any word youplease, just by the SOUND of it. We can't do that with our presentalphabet. For instance, take a simple, every-day word PHTHISIS. If wetried to spell it by the sound of it, we should make it TYSIS, and belaughed at by every educated person. Secondly, we should gain in REDUCTION OF LABOR in writing. Simplified Spelling makes valuable reductions in the case of severalhundred words, but the new spelling must be LEARNED. You can't spellthem by the sound; you must get them out of the book. But even if we knew the simplified form for every word in the language, the phonographic alphabet would still beat the Simplified Speller "handsdown" in the important matter of economy of labor. I will illustrate: PRESENT FORM: through, laugh, highland. SIMPLIFIED FORM: thru, laff, hyland. PHONOGRAPHIC FORM: (Figure 2) To write the word "through, " the pen has to make twenty-one strokes. To write the word "thru, " then pen has to make twelve strokes--a goodsaving. To write that same word with the phonographic alphabet, the pen has tomake only THREE strokes. To write the word "laugh, " the pen has to make FOURTEEN strokes. To write "laff, " the pen has to make the SAME NUMBER of strokes--nolabor is saved to the penman. To write the same word with the phonographic alphabet, the pen has tomake only THREE strokes. To write the word "highland, " the pen has to make twenty-two strokes. To write "hyland, " the pen has to make eighteen strokes. To write that word with the phonographic alphabet, the pen has to makeonly FIVE strokes. (Figure 3) To write the words "phonographic alphabet, " the pen has to makefifty-three strokes. To write "fonografic alfabet, " the pen has to make fifty strokes. To thepenman, the saving in labor is insignificant. To write that word (with vowels) with the phonographic alphabet, the penhas to make only SEVENTEEN strokes. Without the vowels, only THIRTEEN strokes. (Figure 4) The vowels arehardly necessary, this time. We make five pen-strokes in writing an m. Thus: (Figure 5) a strokedown; a stroke up; a second stroke down; a second stroke up; a finalstroke down. Total, five. The phonographic alphabet accomplishes them with a single stroke--a curve, like a parenthesis that has come homedrunk and has fallen face down right at the front door where everybodythat goes along will see him and say, Alas! When our written m is not the end of a word, but is otherwise located, it has to be connected with the next letter, and that requires anotherpen-stroke, making six in all, before you get rid of that m. But nevermind about the connecting strokes--let them go. Without counting them, the twenty-six letters of our alphabet consumed about eighty pen-strokesfor their construction--about three pen-strokes per letter. It is THREE TIMES THE NUMBER required by the phonographic alphabet. Itrequires but ONE stroke for each letter. My writing-gait is--well, I don't know what it is, but I will timemyself and see. Result: it is twenty-four words per minute. I don't meancomposing; I mean COPYING. There isn't any definite composing-gait. Very well, my copying-gait is 1, 440 words per hour--say 1, 500. If Icould use the phonographic character with facility I could do the 1, 500in twenty minutes. I could do nine hours' copying in three hours; Icould do three years' copying in one year. Also, if I had a typewritingmachine with the phonographic alphabet on it--oh, the miracles I coulddo! I am not pretending to write that character well. I have never had alesson, and I am copying the letters from the book. But I can accomplishmy desire, at any rate, which is, to make the reader get a good andclear idea of the advantage it would be to us if we could discard ourpresent alphabet and put this better one in its place--using it inbooks, newspapers, with the typewriter, and with the pen. (Figure 6)--MAN DOG HORSE. I think it is graceful and would look comelyin print. And consider--once more, I beg--what a labor-saver it is! Tenpen-strokes with the one system to convey those three words above, andthirty-three by the other! (Figure 6) I mean, in SOME ways, not in all. I suppose I might go so far as to say in most ways, and be within thefacts, but never mind; let it go at SOME. One of the ways in whichit exercises this birthright is--as I think--continuing to use ourlaughable alphabet these seventy-three years while there was a rationalone at hand, to be had for the taking. It has taken five hundred years to simplify some of Chaucer's rottenspelling--if I may be allowed to use to frank a term as that--and itwill take five hundred years more to get our exasperating new SimplifiedCorruptions accepted and running smoothly. And we sha'n't be any betteroff then than we are now; for in that day we shall still have theprivilege the Simplifiers are exercising now: ANYBODY can change thespelling that wants to. BUT YOU CAN'T CHANGE THE PHONOGRAPHIC SPELLING; THERE ISN'T ANY WAY. Itwill always follow the SOUND. If you want to change the spelling, youhave to change the sound first. Mind, I myself am a Simplified Speller; I belong to that unhappyguild that is patiently and hopefully trying to reform our drunken oldalphabet by reducing his whiskey. Well, it will improve him. When theyget through and have reformed him all they can by their system he willbe only HALF drunk. Above that condition their system can never lifthim. There is no competent, and lasting, and real reform for him butto take away his whiskey entirely, and fill up his jug with Pitman'swholesome and undiseased alphabet. One great drawback to Simplified Spelling is, that in print a simplifiedword looks so like the very nation! and when you bunch a whole squadronof the Simplified together the spectacle is very nearly unendurable. The da ma ov koars kum when the publik ma be expektd to get rekonsyledto the bezair asspekt of the Simplified Kombynashuns, but--if I may beallowed the expression--is it worth the wasted time? (Figure 7) To see our letters put together in ways to which we are not accustomedoffends the eye, and also takes the EXPRESSION out of the words. La on, Makduf, and damd be he hoo furst krys hold, enuf! It doesn't thrill you as it used to do. The simplifications have suckedthe thrill all out of it. But a written character with which we are NOT ACQUAINTED does notoffend us--Greek, Hebrew, Russian, Arabic, and the others--they have aninteresting look, and we see beauty in them, too. And this is true ofhieroglyphics, as well. There is something pleasant and engaging aboutthe mathematical signs when we do not understand them. The mysteryhidden in these things has a fascination for us: we can't come across aprinted page of shorthand without being impressed by it and wishing wecould read it. Very well, what I am offering for acceptance and adopting is notshorthand, but longhand, written with the SHORTHAND ALPHABET UNREACHED. You can write three times as many words in a minute with it as you canwrite with our alphabet. And so, in a way, it IS properly a shorthand. It has a pleasant look, too; a beguiling look, an inviting look. I willwrite something in it, in my rude and untaught way: (Figure 8) Even when _I_ do it it comes out prettier than it does in SimplifiedSpelling. Yes, and in the Simplified it costs one hundred andtwenty-three pen-strokes to write it, whereas in the phonographic itcosts only twenty-nine. (Figure 9) is probably (Figure 10). Let us hope so, anyway. AS CONCERNS INTERPRETING THE DEITY I This line of hieroglyphics was for fourteen years the despair of all thescholars who labored over the mysteries of the Rosetta stone: (Figure 1) After five years of study Champollion translated it thus: Therefore let the worship of Epiphanes be maintained in all the temples, this upon pain of death. That was the twenty-forth translation that had been furnished byscholars. For a time it stood. But only for a time. Then doubts began toassail it and undermine it, and the scholars resumed their labors. Threeyears of patient work produced eleven new translations; among them, this, by Grunfeldt, was received with considerable favor: The horse of Epiphanes shall be maintained at the public expense; thisupon pain of death. But the following rendering, by Gospodin, was received by the learnedworld with yet greater favor: The priest shall explain the wisdom of Epiphanes to all these people, and these shall listen with reverence, upon pain of death. Seven years followed, in which twenty-one fresh and widely varyingrenderings were scored--none of them quite convincing. But now, at last, came Rawlinson, the youngest of all the scholars, with a translationwhich was immediately and universally recognized as being the correctversion, and his name became famous in a day. So famous, indeed, thateven the children were familiar with it; and such a noise did theachievement itself make that not even the noise of the monumentalpolitical event of that same year--the flight from Elba--was able tosmother it to silence. Rawlinson's version reads as follows: Therefore, walk not away from the wisdom of Epiphanes, but turn andfollow it; so shall it conduct thee to the temple's peace, and softenfor thee the sorrows of life and the pains of death. Here is another difficult text: (Figure 2) It is demotic--a style of Egyptian writing and a phase of the languagewhich has perished from the knowledge of all men twenty-five hundredyears before the Christian era. Our red Indians have left many records, in the form of pictures, uponour crags and boulders. It has taken our most gifted and painstakingstudents two centuries to get at the meanings hidden in these pictures;yet there are still two little lines of hieroglyphics among thefigures grouped upon the Dighton Rocks which they have not succeeds ininterpreting to their satisfaction. These: (Figure 3) The suggested solutions are practically innumerable; they would fill abook. Thus we have infinite trouble in solving man-made mysteries; it is onlywhen we set out to discover the secret of God that our difficultiesdisappear. It was always so. In antique Roman times it was the custom ofthe Deity to try to conceal His intentions in the entrails of birds, and this was patiently and hopefully continued century after century, although the attempted concealment never succeeded, in a single recordedinstance. The augurs could read entrails as easily as a modern childcan read coarse print. Roman history is full of the marvels ofinterpretation which these extraordinary men performed. These strangeand wonderful achievements move our awe and compel our admiration. Those men could pierce to the marrow of a mystery instantly. If theRosetta-stone idea had been introduced it would have defeated them, but entrails had no embarrassments for them. Entrails have gone out, now--entrails and dreams. It was at last found out that as hiding-placesfor the divine intentions they were inadequate. A part of the wall of Valletri in former times been struck with thunder, the response of the soothsayers was, that a native of that town wouldsome time or other arrive at supreme power. --BOHN'S SUETONIUS, p. 138. "Some time or other. " It looks indefinite, but no matter, it happened, all the same; one needed only to wait, and be patient, and keep watch, then he would find out that the thunder-stroke had Caesar Augustus inmind, and had come to give notice. There were other advance-advertisements. One of them appeared justbefore Caesar Augustus was born, and was most poetic and touching andromantic in its feelings and aspects. It was a dream. It was dreamed byCaesar Augustus's mother, and interpreted at the usual rates: Atia, before her delivery, dreamed that her bowels stretched tothe stars and expanded through the whole circuit of heaven andearth. --SUETONIUS, p. 139. That was in the augur's line, and furnished him no difficulties, but itwould have taken Rawlinson and Champollion fourteen years to make sureof what it meant, because they would have been surprised and dizzy. Itwould have been too late to be valuable, then, and the bill for servicewould have been barred by the statute of limitation. In those old Roman days a gentleman's education was not complete untilhe had taken a theological course at the seminary and learned how totranslate entrails. Caesar Augustus's education received this finalpolish. All through his life, whenever he had poultry on the menu hesaved the interiors and kept himself informed of the Deity's plans byexercising upon those interiors the arts of augury. In his first consulship, while he was observing the auguries, twelvevultures presented themselves, as they had done to Romulus. And when heoffered sacrifice, the livers of all the victims were folded inward inthe lower part; a circumstance which was regarded by those present whohad skill in things of that nature, as an indubitable prognostic ofgreat and wonderful fortune. --SUETONIUS, p. 141. "Indubitable" is a strong word, but no doubt it was justified, if thelivers were really turned that way. In those days chicken livers werestrangely and delicately sensitive to coming events, no matter how faroff they might be; and they could never keep still, but would curl andsquirm like that, particularly when vultures came and showed interest inthat approaching great event and in breakfast. II We may now skip eleven hundred and thirty or forty years, which bringsus down to enlightened Christian times and the troubled days of KingStephen of England. The augur has had his day and has been long agoforgotten; the priest had fallen heir to his trade. King Henry is dead; Stephen, that bold and outrageous person, comesflying over from Normandy to steal the throne from Henry's daughter. He accomplished his crime, and Henry of Huntington, a priest of highdegree, mourns over it in his Chronicle. The Archbishop of Canterburyconsecrated Stephen: "wherefore the Lord visited the Archbishop with thesame judgment which he had inflicted upon him who struck Jeremiah thegreat priest: he died with a year. " Stephen's was the greater offense, but Stephen could wait; not so theArchbishop, apparently. The kingdom was a prey to intestine wars; slaughter, fire, and rapinespread ruin throughout the land; cries of distress, horror, and woe rosein every quarter. That was the result of Stephen's crime. These unspeakable conditionscontinued during nineteen years. Then Stephen died as comfortably asany man ever did, and was honorably buried. It makes one pity the poorArchbishop, and with that he, too, could have been let off as leniently. How did Henry of Huntington know that the Archbishop was sent to hisgrave by judgment of God for consecrating Stephen? He does not explain. Neither does he explain why Stephen was awarded a pleasanter death thanhe was entitled to, while the aged King Henry, his predecessor, whohad ruled England thirty-five years to the people's strongly wordedsatisfaction, was condemned to close his life in circumstances mostdistinctly unpleasant, inconvenient, and disagreeable. His was probablythe most uninspiring funeral that is set down in history. There is nota detail about it that is attractive. It seems to have been just thefuneral for Stephen, and even at this far-distant day it is matter ofjust regret that by an indiscretion the wrong man got it. Whenever God punishes a man, Henry of Huntington knows why it was done, and tells us; and his pen is eloquent with admiration; but when a manhas earned punishment, and escapes, he does not explain. He is evidentlypuzzled, but he does not say anything. I think it is often apparent thathe is pained by these discrepancies, but loyally tries his best notto show it. When he cannot praise, he delivers himself of a silenceso marked that a suspicious person could mistake it for suppressedcriticism. However, he has plenty of opportunities to feel contentedwith the way things go--his book is full of them. King David of Scotland... Under color of religion caused his followersto deal most barbarously with the English. They ripped open women, tossed children on the points of spears, butchered priests at thealtars, and, cutting off the heads from the images on crucifixes, placedthem on the bodies of the slain, while in exchange they fixed on thecrucifixes the heads of their victims. Wherever the Scots came, therewas the same scene of horror and cruelty: women shrieking, old menlamenting, amid the groans of the dying and the despair of the living. But the English got the victory. Then the chief of the men of Lothian fell, pierced by an arrow, and allhis followers were put to flight. For the Almighty was offended at themand their strength was rent like a cobweb. Offended at them for what? For committing those fearful butcheries? No, for that was the common custom on both sides, and not open to criticism. Then was it for doing the butcheries "under cover of religion"? No, thatwas not it; religious feeling was often expressed in that fervent wayall through those old centuries. The truth is, He was not offended at"them" at all; He was only offended at their king, who had been false toan oath. Then why did not He put the punishment upon the king insteadof upon "them"? It is a difficult question. One can see by the Chroniclethat the "judgments" fell rather customarily upon the wrong person, butHenry of Huntington does not explain why. Here is one that went true;the chronicler's satisfaction in it is not hidden: In the month of August, Providence displayed its justice in a remarkablemanner; for two of the nobles who had converted monasteries intofortifications, expelling the monks, their sin being the same, met witha similar punishment. Robert Marmion was one, Godfrey de Mandeville theother. Robert Marmion, issuing forth against the enemy, was slain underthe walls of the monastery, being the only one who fell, though he wassurrounded by his troops. Dying excommunicated, he became subject todeath everlasting. In like manner Earl Godfrey was singled out amonghis followers, and shot with an arrow by a common foot-soldier. Hemade light of the wound, but he died of it in a few days, underexcommunication. See here the like judgment of God, memorable throughall ages! The exaltation jars upon me; not because of the death of the men, forthey deserved that, but because it is death eternal, in white-hot fireand flame. It makes my flesh crawl. I have not known more than threemen, or perhaps four, in my whole lifetime, whom I would rejoice to seewrithing in those fires for even a year, let alone forever. I believeI would relent before the year was up, and get them out if I could. I think that in the long run, if a man's wife and babies, who had notharmed me, should come crying and pleading, I couldn't stand it; Iknow I should forgive him and let him go, even if he had violated amonastery. Henry of Huntington has been watching Godfrey and Marmion fornearly seven hundred and fifty years, now, but I couldn't do it, Iknow I couldn't. I am soft and gentle in my nature, and I should haveforgiven them seventy-and-seven times, long ago. And I think God has;but this is only an opinion, and not authoritative, like Henry ofHuntington's interpretations. I could learn to interpret, but I havenever tried; I get so little time. All through his book Henry exhibits his familiarity with the intentionsof God, and with the reasons for his intentions. Sometimes--very often, in fact--the act follows the intention after such a wide interval oftime that one wonders how Henry could fit one act out of a hundred toone intention out of a hundred and get the thing right every time whenthere was such abundant choice among acts and intentions. Sometimes aman offends the Deity with a crime, and is punished for it thirty yearslater; meantime he was committed a million other crimes: no matter, Henry can pick out the one that brought the worms. Worms were generallyused in those days for the slaying of particularly wicked people. This has gone out, now, but in old times it was a favorite. It alwaysindicated a case of "wrath. " For instance: ... The just God avenging Robert Fitzhilderbrand's perfidy, a worm grewin his vitals, which gradually gnawing its way through his intestinesfattened on the abandoned man till, tortured with excruciatingsufferings and venting himself in bitter moans, he was by a fittingpunishment brought to his end. --(P. 400. ) It was probably an alligator, but we cannot tell; we only know it was aparticular breed, and only used to convey wrath. Some authorities thinkit was an ichthyosaurus, but there is much doubt. However, one thing we do know; and that is that that worm had beendue years and years. Robert F. Had violated a monastery once; he hadcommitted unprintable crimes since, and they had been permitted--underdisapproval--but the ravishment of the monastery had not been forgottennor forgiven, and the worm came at last. Why were these reforms put off in this strange way? What was to begained by it? Did Henry of Huntington really know his facts, or was heonly guessing? Sometimes I am half persuaded that he is only a guesser, and not a good one. The divine wisdom must surely be of the betterquality than he makes it out to be. Five hundred years before Henry's time some forecasts of the Lord'spurposes were furnished by a pope, who perceived, by certain perfectlytrustworthy signs furnished by the Deity for the information of Hisfamiliars, that the end of the world was ... About to come. But as this end of the world draws near many thingsare at hand which have not before happened, as changes in the air, terrible signs in the heavens, tempests out of the common order of theseasons, wars, famines, pestilences, earthquakes in various places; allwhich will not happen in our days, but after our days all will come topass. Still, the end was so near that these signs were "sent before that wemay be careful for our souls and be found prepared to meet the impendingjudgment. " That was thirteen hundred years ago. This is really no improvement onthe work of the Roman augurs. CONCERNING TOBACCO As concerns tobacco, there are many superstitions. And the chiefest isthis--that there is a STANDARD governing the matter, whereas there isnothing of the kind. Each man's own preference is the only standard forhim, the only one which he can accept, the only one which can commandhim. A congress of all the tobacco-lovers in the world could not electa standard which would be binding upon you or me, or would even muchinfluence us. The next superstition is that a man has a standard of his own. Hehasn't. He thinks he has, but he hasn't. He thinks he can tell what heregards as a good cigar from what he regards as a bad one--but he can't. He goes by the brand, yet imagines he goes by the flavor. One may palmoff the worst counterfeit upon him; if it bears his brand he will smokeit contentedly and never suspect. Children of twenty-five, who have seven years experience, try to tell mewhat is a good cigar and what isn't. Me, who never learned to smoke, butalways smoked; me, who came into the world asking for a light. No one can tell me what is a good cigar--for me. I am the only judge. People who claim to know say that I smoke the worst cigars in the world. They bring their own cigars when they come to my house. They betray anunmanly terror when I offer them a cigar; they tell lies and hurry awayto meet engagements which they have not made when they are threatenedwith the hospitalities of my box. Now then, observe what superstition, assisted by a man's reputation, can do. I was to have twelve personalfriends to supper one night. One of them was as notorious for costlyand elegant cigars as I was for cheap and devilish ones. I called at hishouse and when no one was looking borrowed a double handful of his verychoicest; cigars which cost him forty cents apiece and bore red-and-goldlabels in sign of their nobility. I removed the labels and put thecigars into a box with my favorite brand on it--a brand which thosepeople all knew, and which cowed them as men are cowed by an epidemic. They took these cigars when offered at the end of the supper, and litthem and sternly struggled with them--in dreary silence, for hilaritydied when the fell brand came into view and started around--but theirfortitude held for a short time only; then they made excuses and filedout, treading on one another's heels with indecent eagerness; and in themorning when I went out to observe results the cigars lay all betweenthe front door and the gate. All except one--that one lay in the plateof the man from whom I had cabbaged the lot. One or two whiffs was allhe could stand. He told me afterward that some day I would get shot forgiving people that kind of cigars to smoke. Am I certain of my own standard? Perfectly; yes, absolutely--unlesssomebody fools me by putting my brand on some other kind of cigar; forno doubt I am like the rest, and know my cigar by the brand instead ofby the flavor. However, my standard is a pretty wide one and covers agood deal of territory. To me, almost any cigar is good that nobodyelse will smoke, and to me almost all cigars are bad that other peopleconsider good. Nearly any cigar will do me, except a Havana. Peoplethink they hurt my feelings when then come to my house with their lifepreservers on--I mean, with their own cigars in their pockets. It isan error; I take care of myself in a similar way. When I go intodanger--that is, into rich people's houses, where, in the nature ofthings, they will have high-tariff cigars, red-and-gilt girded andnested in a rosewood box along with a damp sponge, cigars which developa dismal black ash and burn down the side and smell, and will grow hotto the fingers, and will go on growing hotter and hotter, and go onsmelling more and more infamously and unendurably the deeper the firetunnels down inside below the thimbleful of honest tobacco that is inthe front end, the furnisher of it praising it all the time and tellingyou how much the deadly thing cost--yes, when I go into that sort ofperil I carry my own defense along; I carry my own brand--twenty-sevencents a barrel--and I live to see my family again. I may seem to lighthis red-gartered cigar, but that is only for courtesy's sake; I smuggleit into my pocket for the poor, of whom I know many, and light one ofmy own; and while he praises it I join in, but when he says it costforty-five cents I say nothing, for I know better. However, to say true, my tastes are so catholic that I have never seenany cigars that I really could not smoke, except those that cost adollar apiece. I have examined those and know that they are made ofdog-hair, and not good dog-hair at that. I have a thoroughly satisfactory time in Europe, for all over theContinent one finds cigars which not even the most hardened newsboys inNew York would smoke. I brought cigars with me, the last time; I willnot do that any more. In Italy, as in France, the Government is the onlycigar-peddler. Italy has three or four domestic brands: the Minghetti, the Trabuco, the Virginia, and a very coarse one which is a modificationof the Virginia. The Minghettis are large and comely, and cost threedollars and sixty cents a hundred; I can smoke a hundred in seven daysand enjoy every one of them. The Trabucos suit me, too; I don't rememberthe price. But one has to learn to like the Virginia, nobody is bornfriendly to it. It looks like a rat-tail file, but smokes better, somethink. It has a straw through it; you pull this out, and it leaves aflue, otherwise there would be no draught, not even as much as there isto a nail. Some prefer a nail at first. However, I like all the French, Swiss, German, and Italian domestic cigars, and have never cared toinquire what they are made of; and nobody would know, anyhow, perhaps. There is even a brand of European smoking-tobacco that I like. It is abrand used by the Italian peasants. It is loose and dry and black, andlooks like tea-grounds. When the fire is applied it expands, and climbsup and towers above the pipe, and presently tumbles off inside of one'svest. The tobacco itself is cheap, but it raises the insurance. It isas I remarked in the beginning--the taste for tobacco is a matter ofsuperstition. There are no standards--no real standards. Each man'spreference is the only standard for him, the only one which he canaccept, the only one which can command him. THE BEE It was Maeterlinck who introduced me to the bee. I mean, in thepsychical and in the poetical way. I had had a business introductionearlier. It was when I was a boy. It is strange that I should remember aformality like that so long; it must be nearly sixty years. Bee scientists always speak of the bee as she. It is because all theimportant bees are of that sex. In the hive there is one married bee, called the queen; she has fifty thousand children; of these, about onehundred are sons; the rest are daughters. Some of the daughters areyoung maids, some are old maids, and all are virgins and remain so. Every spring the queen comes out of the hive and flies away with one ofher sons and marries him. The honeymoon lasts only an hour or two; thenthe queen divorces her husband and returns home competent to lay twomillion eggs. This will be enough to last the year, but not more thanenough, because hundreds of bees are drowned every day, and otherhundreds are eaten by birds, and it is the queen's business to keep thepopulation up to standard--say, fifty thousand. She must always havethat many children on hand and efficient during the busy season, whichis summer, or winter would catch the community short of food. She laysfrom two thousand to three thousand eggs a day, according to the demand;and she must exercise judgment, and not lay more than are needed in aslim flower-harvest, nor fewer than are required in a prodigal one, orthe board of directors will dethrone her and elect a queen that has moresense. There are always a few royal heirs in stock and ready to take herplace--ready and more than anxious to do it, although she is their ownmother. These girls are kept by themselves, and are regally fed andtended from birth. No other bees get such fine food as they get, orlive such a high and luxurious life. By consequence they are larger andlonger and sleeker than their working sisters. And they have a curvedsting, shaped like a scimitar, while the others have a straight one. A common bee will sting any one or anybody, but a royalty stingsroyalties only. A common bee will sting and kill another common bee, for cause, but when it is necessary to kill the queen other ways areemployed. When a queen has grown old and slack and does not lay eggsenough one of her royal daughters is allowed to come to attack her, therest of the bees looking on at the duel and seeing fair play. It is aduel with the curved stings. If one of the fighters gets hard pressedand gives it up and runs, she is brought back and must try again--once, maybe twice; then, if she runs yet once more for her life, judicialdeath is her portion; her children pack themselves into a ball aroundher person and hold her in that compact grip two or three days, untilshe starves to death or is suffocated. Meantime the victor bee isreceiving royal honors and performing the one royal function--layingeggs. As regards the ethics of the judicial assassination of the queen, thatis a matter of politics, and will be discussed later, in its properplace. During substantially the whole of her short life of five or six yearsthe queen lives in Egyptian darkness and stately seclusion of the royalapartments, with none about her but plebeian servants, who give herempty lip-affection in place of the love which her heart hungers for;who spy upon her in the interest of her waiting heirs, and report andexaggerate her defects and deficiencies to them; who fawn upon her andflatter her to her face and slander her behind her back; who grovelbefore her in the day of her power and forsake her in her age andweakness. There she sits, friendless, upon her throne through the longnight of her life, cut off from the consoling sympathies and sweetcompanionship and loving endearments which she craves, by the gildedbarriers of her awful rank; a forlorn exile in her own house and home, weary object of formal ceremonies and machine-made worship, winged childof the sun, native to the free air and the blue skies and the floweryfields, doomed by the splendid accident of her birth to trade thispriceless heritage for a black captivity, a tinsel grandeur, and aloveless life, with shame and insult at the end and a cruel death--andcondemned by the human instinct in her to hold the bargain valuable! Huber, Lubbock, Maeterlinck--in fact, all the great authorities--areagreed in denying that the bee is a member of the human family. I do notknow why they have done this, but I think it is from dishonest motives. Why, the innumerable facts brought to light by their own painstakingand exhaustive experiments prove that if there is a master fool in theworld, it is the bee. That seems to settle it. But that is the way of the scientist. He will spend thirty years inbuilding up a mountain range of facts with the intent to prove acertain theory; then he is so happy in his achievement that as a rulehe overlooks the main chief fact of all--that his accumulation proves anentirely different thing. When you point out this miscarriage to him hedoes not answer your letters; when you call to convince him, the servantprevaricates and you do not get in. Scientists have odious manners, except when you prop up their theory; then you can borrow money of them. To be strictly fair, I will concede that now and then one of them willanswer your letter, but when they do they avoid the issue--you cannotpin them down. When I discovered that the bee was human I wrote about itto all those scientists whom I have just mentioned. For evasions, I haveseen nothing to equal the answers I got. After the queen, the personage next in importance in the hive is thevirgin. The virgins are fifty thousand or one hundred thousand innumber, and they are the workers, the laborers. No work is done, in thehive or out of it, save by them. The males do not work, the queen doesno work, unless laying eggs is work, but it does not seem so to me. There are only two million of them, anyway, and all of five monthsto finish the contract in. The distribution of work in a hive isas cleverly and elaborately specialized as it is in a vast Americanmachine-shop or factory. A bee that has been trained to one of the manyand various industries of the concern doesn't know how to exercise anyother, and would be offended if asked to take a hand in anything outsideof her profession. She is as human as a cook; and if you should ask thecook to wait on the table, you know what will happen. Cooks will playthe piano if you like, but they draw the line there. In my time I haveasked a cook to chop wood, and I know about these things. Even the hiredgirl has her frontiers; true, they are vague, they are ill-defined, evenflexible, but they are there. This is not conjecture; it is founded onthe absolute. And then the butler. You ask the butler to wash the dog. It is just as I say; there is much to be learned in these ways, withoutgoing to books. Books are very well, but books do not cover the wholedomain of esthetic human culture. Pride of profession is one of theboniest bones in existence, if not the boniest. Without doubt it is soin the hive. TAMING THE BICYCLE In the early eighties Mark Twain learned to ride one of the oldhigh-wheel bicycles of that period. He wrote an account of hisexperience, but did not offer it for publication. The form of bicycle herode long ago became antiquated, but in the humor of his pleasantry is aquality which does not grow old. A. B. P. I I thought the matter over, and concluded I could do it. So I went downa bought a barrel of Pond's Extract and a bicycle. The Expert came homewith me to instruct me. We chose the back yard, for the sake of privacy, and went to work. Mine was not a full-grown bicycle, but only a colt--a fifty-inch, withthe pedals shortened up to forty-eight--and skittish, like any othercolt. The Expert explained the thing's points briefly, then he got onits back and rode around a little, to show me how easy it was to do. Hesaid that the dismounting was perhaps the hardest thing to learn, and sowe would leave that to the last. But he was in error there. He found, tohis surprise and joy, that all that he needed to do was to get me on tothe machine and stand out of the way; I could get off, myself. AlthoughI was wholly inexperienced, I dismounted in the best time on record. Hewas on that side, shoving up the machine; we all came down with a crash, he at the bottom, I next, and the machine on top. We examined the machine, but it was not in the least injured. This washardly believable. Yet the Expert assured me that it was true; in fact, the examination proved it. I was partly to realize, then, how admirablythese things are constructed. We applied some Pond's Extract, andresumed. The Expert got on the OTHER side to shove up this time, but Idismounted on that side; so the result was as before. The machine was not hurt. We oiled ourselves again, and resumed. Thistime the Expert took up a sheltered position behind, but somehow orother we landed on him again. He was full of admiration; said it was abnormal. She was all right, not a scratch on her, not a timber started anywhere. I said it waswonderful, while we were greasing up, but he said that when I came toknow these steel spider-webs I would realize that nothing but dynamitecould cripple them. Then he limped out to position, and we resumed oncemore. This time the Expert took up the position of short-stop, and gota man to shove up behind. We got up a handsome speed, and presentlytraversed a brick, and I went out over the top of the tiller and landed, head down, on the instructor's back, and saw the machine fluttering inthe air between me and the sun. It was well it came down on us, for thatbroke the fall, and it was not injured. Five days later I got out and was carried down to the hospital, andfound the Expert doing pretty fairly. In a few more days I was quitesound. I attribute this to my prudence in always dismounting onsomething soft. Some recommend a feather bed, but I think an Expert isbetter. The Expert got out at last, brought four assistants with him. It was agood idea. These four held the graceful cobweb upright while I climbedinto the saddle; then they formed in column and marched on eitherside of me while the Expert pushed behind; all hands assisted at thedismount. The bicycle had what is called the "wabbles, " and had them very badly. In order to keep my position, a good many things were required of me, and in every instance the thing required was against nature. That isto say, that whatever the needed thing might be, my nature, habit, andbreeding moved me to attempt it in one way, while some immutable andunsuspected law of physics required that it be done in just the otherway. I perceived by this how radically and grotesquely wrong had beenthe life-long education of my body and members. They were steeped inignorance; they knew nothing--nothing which it could profit them toknow. For instance, if I found myself falling to the right, I put thetiller hard down the other way, by a quite natural impulse, and soviolated a law, and kept on going down. The law required the oppositething--the big wheel must be turned in the direction in which you arefalling. It is hard to believe this, when you are told it. And notmerely hard to believe it, but impossible; it is opposed to all yournotions. And it is just as hard to do it, after you do come to believeit. Believing it, and knowing by the most convincing proof that it istrue, does not help it: you can't any more DO it than you could before;you can neither force nor persuade yourself to do it at first. Theintellect has to come to the front, now. It has to teach the limbs todiscard their old education and adopt the new. The steps of one's progress are distinctly marked. At the end of eachlesson he knows he has acquired something, and he also knows what thatsomething is, and likewise that it will stay with him. It is not likestudying German, where you mull along, in a groping, uncertain way, forthirty years; and at last, just as you think you've got it, they springthe subjunctive on you, and there you are. No--and I see now, plainlyenough, that the great pity about the German language is, that you can'tfall off it and hurt yourself. There is nothing like that feature tomake you attend strictly to business. But I also see, by what I havelearned of bicycling, that the right and only sure way to learn Germanis by the bicycling method. That is to say, take a grip on one villainyof it at a time, leaving that one half learned. When you have reached the point in bicycling where you can balance themachine tolerably fairly and propel it and steer it, then comes yournext task--how to mount it. You do it in this way: you hop along behindit on your right foot, resting the other on the mounting-peg, andgrasping the tiller with your hands. At the word, you rise on thepeg, stiffen your left leg, hang your other one around in the air ina general in indefinite way, lean your stomach against the rear of thesaddle, and then fall off, maybe on one side, maybe on the other;but you fall off. You get up and do it again; and once more; and thenseveral times. By this time you have learned to keep your balance; and also to steerwithout wrenching the tiller out by the roots (I say tiller because itIS a tiller; "handle-bar" is a lamely descriptive phrase). So you steeralong, straight ahead, a little while, then you rise forward, with asteady strain, bringing your right leg, and then your body, into thesaddle, catch your breath, fetch a violent hitch this way and then that, and down you go again. But you have ceased to mind the going down by this time; you are gettingto light on one foot or the other with considerable certainty. Six moreattempts and six more falls make you perfect. You land in the saddlecomfortably, next time, and stay there--that is, if you can be contentto let your legs dangle, and leave the pedals alone a while; but if yougrab at once for the pedals, you are gone again. You soon learn to waita little and perfect your balance before reaching for the pedals; thenthe mounting-art is acquired, is complete, and a little practice willmake it simple and easy to you, though spectators ought to keep offa rod or two to one side, along at first, if you have nothing againstthem. And now you come to the voluntary dismount; you learned the other kindfirst of all. It is quite easy to tell one how to do the voluntarydismount; the words are few, the requirement simple, and apparentlyundifficult; let your left pedal go down till your left leg is nearlystraight, turn your wheel to the left, and get off as you would from ahorse. It certainly does sound exceedingly easy; but it isn't. I don'tknow why it isn't but it isn't. Try as you may, you don't get down asyou would from a horse, you get down as you would from a house afire. You make a spectacle of yourself every time. II During the eight days I took a daily lesson an hour and a half. At theend of this twelve working-hours' apprenticeship I was graduated--inthe rough. I was pronounced competent to paddle my own bicycle withoutoutside help. It seems incredible, this celerity of acquirement. Ittakes considerably longer than that to learn horseback-riding in therough. Now it is true that I could have learned without a teacher, but itwould have been risky for me, because of my natural clumsiness. Theself-taught man seldom knows anything accurately, and he does not knowa tenth as much as he could have known if he had worked under teachers;and, besides, he brags, and is the means of fooling other thoughtlesspeople into going and doing as he himself has done. There are those whoimagine that the unlucky accidents of life--life's "experiences"--are insome way useful to us. I wish I could find out how. I never knew one ofthem to happen twice. They always change off and swap around and catchyou on your inexperienced side. If personal experience can be worthanything as an education, it wouldn't seem likely that you could tripMethuselah; and yet if that old person could come back here it is morethat likely that one of the first things he would do would be to takehold of one of these electric wires and tie himself all up in a knot. Now the surer thing and the wiser thing would be for him to ask somebodywhether it was a good thing to take hold of. But that would not suithim; he would be one of the self-taught kind that go by experience;he would want to examine for himself. And he would find, for hisinstruction, that the coiled patriarch shuns the electric wire; and itwould be useful to him, too, and would leave his education in quite acomplete and rounded-out condition, till he should come again, some day, and go to bouncing a dynamite-can around to find out what was in it. But we wander from the point. However, get a teacher; it saves much timeand Pond's Extract. Before taking final leave of me, my instructor inquired concerning myphysical strength, and I was able to inform him that I hadn't any. Hesaid that that was a defect which would make up-hill wheeling prettydifficult for me at first; but he also said the bicycle would soonremove it. The contrast between his muscles and mine was quite marked. He wanted to test mine, so I offered my biceps--which was my best. Italmost made him smile. He said, "It is pulpy, and soft, and yielding, and rounded; it evades pressure, and glides from under the fingers; inthe dark a body might think it was an oyster in a rag. " Perhaps thismade me look grieved, for he added, briskly: "Oh, that's all right, youneedn't worry about that; in a little while you can't tell it from apetrified kidney. Just go right along with your practice; you're allright. " Then he left me, and I started out alone to seek adventures. You don'treally have to seek them--that is nothing but a phrase--they come toyou. I chose a reposeful Sabbath-day sort of a back street which was aboutthirty yards wide between the curbstones. I knew it was not wide enough;still, I thought that by keeping strict watch and wasting no spaceunnecessarily I could crowd through. Of course I had trouble mounting the machine, entirely on my ownresponsibility, with no encouraging moral support from the outside, no sympathetic instructor to say, "Good! now you're doing well--goodagain--don't hurry--there, now, you're all right--brace up, go ahead. "In place of this I had some other support. This was a boy, who wasperched on a gate-post munching a hunk of maple sugar. He was full of interest and comment. The first time I failed and wentdown he said that if he was me he would dress up in pillows, that's whathe would do. The next time I went down he advised me to go and learnto ride a tricycle first. The third time I collapsed he said he didn'tbelieve I could stay on a horse-car. But the next time I succeeded, andgot clumsily under way in a weaving, tottering, uncertain fashion, andoccupying pretty much all of the street. My slow and lumbering gaitfilled the boy to the chin with scorn, and he sung out, "My, but don'the rip along!" Then he got down from his post and loafed along thesidewalk, still observing and occasionally commenting. Presently hedropped into my wake and followed along behind. A little girl passedby, balancing a wash-board on her head, and giggled, and seemed about tomake a remark, but the boy said, rebukingly, "Let him alone, he's goingto a funeral. " I have been familiar with that street for years, and had always supposedit was a dead level; but it was not, as the bicycle now informed me, to my surprise. The bicycle, in the hands of a novice, is as alert andacute as a spirit-level in the detecting the delicate and vanishingshades of difference in these matters. It notices a rise where youruntrained eye would not observe that one existed; it notices any declinewhich water will run down. I was toiling up a slight rise, but was notaware of it. It made me tug and pant and perspire; and still, labor asI might, the machine came almost to a standstill every little while. Atsuch times the boy would say: "That's it! take a rest--there ain't nohurry. They can't hold the funeral without YOU. " Stones were a bother to me. Even the smallest ones gave me a panic whenI went over them. I could hit any kind of a stone, no matter how small, if I tried to miss it; and of course at first I couldn't help trying todo that. It is but natural. It is part of the ass that is put in us all, for some inscrutable reason. It was at the end of my course, at last, and it was necessary for me toround to. This is not a pleasant thing, when you undertake it for thefirst time on your own responsibility, and neither is it likely tosucceed. Your confidence oozes away, you fill steadily up with namelessapprehensions, every fiber of you is tense with a watchful strain, youstart a cautious and gradual curve, but your squirmy nerves are all fullof electric anxieties, so the curve is quickly demoralized into a jerkyand perilous zigzag; then suddenly the nickel-clad horse takes the bitin its mouth and goes slanting for the curbstone, defying all prayersand all your powers to change its mind--your heart stands still, yourbreath hangs fire, your legs forget to work, straight on you go, andthere are but a couple of feet between you and the curb now. And now isthe desperate moment, the last chance to save yourself; of course allyour instructions fly out of your head, and you whirl your wheel AWAYfrom the curb instead of TOWARD it, and so you go sprawling on thatgranite-bound inhospitable shore. That was my luck; that was myexperience. I dragged myself out from under the indestructible bicycleand sat down on the curb to examine. I started on the return trip. It was now that I saw a farmer's wagonpoking along down toward me, loaded with cabbages. If I needed anythingto perfect the precariousness of my steering, it was just that. Thefarmer was occupying the middle of the road with his wagon, leavingbarely fourteen or fifteen yards of space on either side. I couldn'tshout at him--a beginner can't shout; if he opens his mouth he is gone;he must keep all his attention on his business. But in this grislyemergency, the boy came to the rescue, and for once I had to be gratefulto him. He kept a sharp lookout on the swiftly varying impulses andinspirations of my bicycle, and shouted to the man accordingly: "To the left! Turn to the left, or this jackass 'll run over you!" Theman started to do it. "No, to the right, to the right! Hold on!THAT won't do!--to the left!--to the right!--to the LEFT--right!left--ri--Stay where you ARE, or you're a goner!" And just then I caught the off horse in the starboard and went down in apile. I said, "Hang it! Couldn't you SEE I was coming?" "Yes, I see you was coming, but I couldn't tell which WAY you wascoming. Nobody could--now, COULD they? You couldn't yourself--now, COULDyou? So what could _I_ do?" There was something in that, and so I had the magnanimity to say so. Isaid I was no doubt as much to blame as he was. Within the next five days I achieved so much progress that the boycouldn't keep up with me. He had to go back to his gate-post, andcontent himself with watching me fall at long range. There was a row of low stepping-stones across one end of the street, ameasured yard apart. Even after I got so I could steer pretty fairly Iwas so afraid of those stones that I always hit them. They gave me theworst falls I ever got in that street, except those which I got fromdogs. I have seen it stated that no expert is quick enough to run over adog; that a dog is always able to skip out of his way. I think that thatmay be true: but I think that the reason he couldn't run over the dogwas because he was trying to. I did not try to run over any dog. ButI ran over every dog that came along. I think it makes a great deal ofdifference. If you try to run over the dog he knows how to calculate, but if you are trying to miss him he does not know how to calculate, and is liable to jump the wrong way every time. It was always so in myexperience. Even when I could not hit a wagon I could hit a dog thatcame to see me practice. They all liked to see me practice, and theyall came, for there was very little going on in our neighborhood toentertain a dog. It took time to learn to miss a dog, but I achievedeven that. I can steer as well as I want to, now, and I will catch that boy one ofthese days and run over HIM if he doesn't reform. Get a bicycle. You will not regret it, if you live. IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD? (from My Autobiography) Scattered here and there through the stacks of unpublished manuscriptwhich constitute this formidable Autobiography and Diary of mine, certain chapters will in some distant future be found which deal with"Claimants"--claimants historically notorious: Satan, Claimant; theGolden Calf, Claimant; the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, Claimant; LouisXVII. , Claimant; William Shakespeare, Claimant; Arthur Orton, Claimant;Mary Baker G. Eddy, Claimant--and the rest of them. Eminent Claimants, successful Claimants, defeated Claimants, royal Claimants, plebClaimants, showy Claimants, shabby Claimants, revered Claimants, despised Claimants, twinkle star-like here and there and yonder throughthe mists of history and legend and tradition--and, oh, all the darlingtribe are clothed in mystery and romance, and we read about them withdeep interest and discuss them with loving sympathy or with rancorousresentment, according to which side we hitch ourselves to. It has alwaysbeen so with the human race. There was never a Claimant that couldn'tget a hearing, nor one that couldn't accumulate a rapturous following, no matter how flimsy and apparently unauthentic his claim might be. Arthur Orton's claim that he was the lost Tichborne baronet come to lifeagain was as flimsy as Mrs. Eddy's that she wrote SCIENCE AND HEALTHfrom the direct dictation of the Deity; yet in England nearly fortyyears ago Orton had a huge army of devotees and incorrigible adherents, many of whom remained stubbornly unconvinced after their fat god hadbeen proven an impostor and jailed as a perjurer, and today Mrs. Eddy'sfollowing is not only immense, but is daily augmenting in numbers andenthusiasm. Orton had many fine and educated minds among his adherents, Mrs. Eddy has had the like among hers from the beginning. Her Church isas well equipped in those particulars as is any other Church. Claimantscan always count upon a following, it doesn't matter who they are, norwhat they claim, nor whether they come with documents or without. It wasalways so. Down out of the long-vanished past, across the abyss ofthe ages, if you listen, you can still hear the believing multitudesshouting for Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel. A friend has sent me a new book, from England--THE SHAKESPEARE PROBLEMRESTATED--well restated and closely reasoned; and my fifty years'interest in that matter--asleep for the last three years--is excitedonce more. It is an interest which was born of Delia Bacon's book--awayback in the ancient day--1857, or maybe 1856. About a year later mypilot-master, Bixby, transferred me from his own steamboat to thePENNSYLVANIA, and placed me under the orders and instructions of GeorgeEaler--dead now, these many, many years. I steered for him a good manymonths--as was the humble duty of the pilot-apprentice: stood a daylightwatch and spun the wheel under the severe superintendence andcorrection of the master. He was a prime chess-player and an idolater ofShakespeare. He would play chess with anybody; even with me, and it costhis official dignity something to do that. Also--quite uninvited--hewould read Shakespeare to me; not just casually, but by the hour, whenit was his watch and I was steering. He read well, but not profitablyfor me, because he constantly injected commands into the text. Thatbroke it all up, mixed it all up, tangled it all up--to that degree, in fact, that if we were in a risky and difficult piece of river anignorant person couldn't have told, sometimes, which observations wereShakespeare's and which were Ealer's. For instance: What man dare, _I_ dare! Approach thou WHAT are you laying in the leads for? what a hell ofan idea! like the rugged ease her off a little, ease her off! ruggedRussian bear, the armed rhinoceros or the THERE she goes! meet her, meether! didn't you KNOW she'd smell the reef if you crowded in like that?Hyrcan tiger; take any ship but that and my firm nerves she'll be in theWOODS the first you know! stop he starboard! come ahead strong on thelarboard! back the starboard!... NOW then, you're all right; come aheadon the starboard; straighten up and go 'long, never tremble: or be aliveagain, and dare me to the desert DAMNATION can't you keep away from thatgreasy water? pull her down! snatch her! snatch her baldheaded! with thysword; if trembling I inhabit then, lay in the leads!--no, only withthe starboard one, leave the other alone, protest me the baby of a girl. Hence horrible shadow! eight bells--that watchman's asleep again, Ireckon, go down and call Brown yourself, unreal mockery, hence! He certainly was a good reader, and splendidly thrilling and stormy andtragic, but it was a damage to me, because I have never since beenable to read Shakespeare in a calm and sane way. I cannot rid it of hisexplosive interlardings, they break in everywhere with their irrelevant, "What in hell are you up to NOW! pull her down! more! MORE!--there now, steady as you go, " and the other disorganizing interruptions that werealways leaping from his mouth. When I read Shakespeare now I can hearthem as plainly as I did in that long-departed time--fifty-one yearsago. I never regarded Ealer's readings as educational. Indeed, they werea detriment to me. His contributions to the text seldom improved it, but barring thatdetail he was a good reader; I can say that much for him. He did not usethe book, and did not need to; he knew his Shakespeare as well as Euclidever knew his multiplication table. Did he have something to say--this Shakespeare-adoring Mississippipilot--anent Delia Bacon's book? Yes. And he said it; said it all the time, for months--in the morningwatch, the middle watch, and dog watch; and probably kept it goingin his sleep. He bought the literature of the dispute as fast as itappeared, and we discussed it all through thirteen hundred miles ofriver four times traversed in every thirty-five days--the time requiredby that swift boat to achieve two round trips. We discussed, anddiscussed, and discussed, and disputed and disputed and disputed; at anyrate, HE did, and I got in a word now and then when he slipped a cogand there was a vacancy. He did his arguing with heat, with energy, with violence; and I did mine with the reverse and moderation of asubordinate who does not like to be flung out of a pilot-house and isperched forty feet above the water. He was fiercely loyal to Shakespeareand cordially scornful of Bacon and of all the pretensions of theBaconians. So was I--at first. And at first he was glad that that wasmy attitude. There were even indications that he admired it; indicationsdimmed, it is true, by the distance that lay between the loftyboss-pilotical altitude and my lowly one, yet perceptible to me;perceptible, and translatable into a compliment--compliment coming downfrom about the snow-line and not well thawed in the transit, and notlikely to set anything afire, not even a cub-pilot's self-conceit; stilla detectable complement, and precious. Naturally it flattered me into being more loyal to Shakespeare--ifpossible--than I was before, and more prejudiced against Bacon--ifpossible--that I was before. And so we discussed and discussed, both onthe same side, and were happy. For a while. Only for a while. Only for avery little while, a very, very, very little while. Then the atmospherebegan to change; began to cool off. A brighter person would have seen what the trouble was, earlier than Idid, perhaps, but I saw it early enough for all practical purposes. Yousee, he was of an argumentative disposition. Therefore it took him buta little time to get tired of arguing with a person who agreed witheverything he said and consequently never furnished him a provocativeto flare up and show what he could do when it came to clear, cold, hard, rose-cut, hundred-faceted, diamond-flashing REASONING. That was his namefor it. It has been applied since, with complacency, as many as severaltimes, in the Bacon-Shakespeare scuffle. On the Shakespeare side. Then the thing happened which has happened to more persons than to mewhen principle and personal interest found themselves in opposition toeach other and a choice had to be made: I let principle go, and wentover to the other side. Not the entire way, but far enough to answer therequirements of the case. That is to say, I took this attitude--to wit, I only BELIEVED Bacon wrote Shakespeare, whereas I KNEW Shakespearedidn't. Ealer was satisfied with that, and the war broke loose. Study, practice, experience in handling my end of the matter presently enabledme to take my new position almost seriously; a little bit later, utterlyseriously; a little later still, lovingly, gratefully, devotedly;finally: fiercely, rabidly, uncompromisingly. After that I was weldedto my faith, I was theoretically ready to die for it, and I looked downwith compassion not unmixed with scorn upon everybody else's faith thatdidn't tally with mine. That faith, imposed upon me by self-interestin that ancient day, remains my faith today, and in it I find comfort, solace, peace, and never-failing joy. You see how curiously theologicalit is. The "rice Christian" of the Orient goes through the very samesteps, when he is after rice and the missionary is after HIM; he goesfor rice, and remains to worship. Ealer did a lot of our "reasoning"--not to say substantially all of it. The slaves of his cult have a passion for calling it by that large name. We others do not call our inductions and deductions and reductions byany name at all. They show for themselves what they are, and we can withtranquil confidence leave the world to ennoble them with a title of itsown choosing. Now and then when Ealer had to stop to cough, I pulled myinduction-talents together and hove the controversial lead myself:always getting eight feet, eight and a half, often nine, sometimes evenquarter-less-twain--as _I_ believed; but always "no bottom, " as HE said. I got the best of him only once. I prepared myself. I wrote out apassage from Shakespeare--it may have been the very one I quotedawhile ago, I don't remember--and riddled it with his wild steamboatfulinterlardings. When an unrisky opportunity offered, one lovely summerday, when we had sounded and buoyed a tangled patch of crossings knownas Hell's Half Acre, and were aboard again and he had sneaked thePENNSYLVANIA triumphantly through it without once scraping sand, and theA. T. LACEY had followed in our wake and got stuck, and he was feelinggood, I showed it to him. It amused him. I asked him to fire itoff--READ it; read it, I diplomatically added, as only HE could readdramatic poetry. The compliment touched him where he lived. He did readit; read it with surpassing fire and spirit; read it as it will never beread again; for HE know how to put the right music into those thunderousinterlardings and make them seem a part of the text, make them sound asif they were bursting from Shakespeare's own soul, each one of them agolden inspiration and not to be left out without damage to the massedand magnificent whole. I waited a week, to let the incident fade; waited longer; waited untilhe brought up for reasonings and vituperation my pet position, my petargument, the one which I was fondest of, the one which I prized farabove all others in my ammunition-wagon--to wit, that Shakespearecouldn't have written Shakespeare's words, for the reason that theman who wrote them was limitlessly familiar with the laws, and thelaw-courts, and law-proceedings, and lawyer-talk, and lawyer-ways--andif Shakespeare was possessed of the infinitely divided star-dust thatconstituted this vast wealth, HOW did he get it, and WHERE and WHEN? "From books. " From books! That was always the idea. I answered as my readings of thechampions of my side of the great controversy had taught me toanswer: that a man can't handle glibly and easily and comfortably andsuccessfully the argot of a trade at which he has not personally served. He will make mistakes; he will not, and cannot, get the trade-phrasingsprecisely and exactly right; and the moment he departs, by even a shade, from a common trade-form, the reader who has served that trade will knowthe writer HASN'T. Ealer would not be convinced; he said a mancould learn how to correctly handle the subtleties and mysteries andfree-masonries of ANY trade by careful reading and studying. But whenI got him to read again the passage from Shakespeare with theinterlardings, he perceived, himself, that books couldn't teach astudent a bewildering multitude of pilot-phrases so thoroughly andperfectly that he could talk them off in book and play or conversationand make no mistake that a pilot would not immediately discover. Itwas a triumph for me. He was silent awhile, and I knew what washappening--he was losing his temper. And I knew he would presently closethe session with the same old argument that was always his stay andhis support in time of need; the same old argument, the one I couldn'tanswer, because I dasn't--the argument that I was an ass, and bettershut up. He delivered it, and I obeyed. O dear, how long ago it was--how pathetically long ago! And here am I, old, forsaken, forlorn, and alone, arranging to get that argument out ofsomebody again. When a man has a passion for Shakespeare, it goes without saying thathe keeps company with other standard authors. Ealer always had severalhigh-class books in the pilot-house, and he read the same ones over andover again, and did not care to change to newer and fresher ones. Heplayed well on the flute, and greatly enjoyed hearing himself play. Sodid I. He had a notion that a flute would keep its health better if youtook it apart when it was not standing a watch; and so, when it was noton duty it took its rest, disjointed, on the compass-shelf underthe breastboard. When the PENNSYLVANIA blew up and became a driftingrack-heap freighted with wounded and dying poor souls (my young brotherHenry among them), pilot Brown had the watch below, and was probablyasleep and never knew what killed him; but Ealer escaped unhurt. He andhis pilot-house were shot up into the air; then they fell, and Ealersank through the ragged cavern where the hurricane-deck and theboiler-deck had been, and landed in a nest of ruins on the main deck, on top of one of the unexploded boilers, where he lay prone in a fog ofscald and deadly steam. But not for long. He did not lose his head--longfamiliarity with danger had taught him to keep it, in any and allemergencies. He held his coat-lapels to his nose with one hand, to keepout the steam, and scrabbled around with the other till he found thejoints of his flute, then he took measures to save himself alive, andwas successful. I was not on board. I had been put ashore in New Orleansby Captain Klinenfelter. The reason--however, I have told all about itin the book called OLD TIMES ON THE MISSISSIPPI, and it isn't important, anyway, it is so long ago. II When I was a Sunday-school scholar, something more than sixty years ago, I became interested in Satan, and wanted to find out all I could abouthim. I began to ask questions, but my class-teacher, Mr. Barclay, thestone-mason, was reluctant about answering them, it seemed to me. I wasanxious to be praised for turning my thoughts to serious subjects whenthere wasn't another boy in the village who could be hired to do such athing. I was greatly interested in the incident of Eve and the serpent, and thought Eve's calmness was perfectly noble. I asked Mr. Barclay ifhe had ever heard of another woman who, being approached by a serpent, would not excuse herself and break for the nearest timber. He did notanswer my question, but rebuked me for inquiring into matters above myage and comprehension. I will say for Mr. Barclay that he was willing totell me the facts of Satan's history, but he stopped there: he wouldn'tallow any discussion of them. In the course of time we exhausted the facts. There were only fiveor six of them; you could set them all down on a visiting-card. I wasdisappointed. I had been meditating a biography, and was grieved to findthat there were no materials. I said as much, with the tears runningdown. Mr. Barclay's sympathy and compassion were aroused, for he wasa most kind and gentle-spirited man, and he patted me on the head andcheered me up by saying there was a whole vast ocean of materials! I canstill feel the happy thrill which these blessed words shot through me. Then he began to bail out that ocean's riches for my encouragement andjoy. Like this: it was "conjectured"--though not established--that Satanwas originally an angel in Heaven; that he fell; that he rebelled, andbrought on a war; that he was defeated, and banished to perdition. Also, "we have reason to believe" that later he did so and so; that "weare warranted in supposing" that at a subsequent time he traveledextensively, seeking whom he might devour; that a couple of centuriesafterward, "as tradition instructs us, " he took up the cruel trade oftempting people to their ruin, with vast and fearful results; thatby and by, "as the probabilities seem to indicate, " he may have donecertain things, he might have done certain other things, he must havedone still other things. And so on and so on. We set down the five known facts by themselves on apiece of paper, and numbered it "page 1"; then on fifteen hundred otherpieces of paper we set down the "conjectures, " and "suppositions, "and "maybes, " and "perhapses, " and "doubtlesses, " and "rumors, " and"guesses, " and "probabilities, " and "likelihoods, " and "we are permittedto thinks, " and "we are warranted in believings, " and "mighthave beens, " and "could have beens, " and "must have beens, " and"unquestionablys, " and "without a shadow of doubt"--and behold! MATERIALS? Why, we had enough to build a biography of Shakespeare! Yet he made me put away my pen; he would not let me write the history ofSatan. Why? Because, as he said, he had suspicions--suspicions thatmy attitude in the matter was not reverent, and that a person must bereverent when writing about the sacred characters. He said any one whospoke flippantly of Satan would be frowned upon by the religious worldand also be brought to account. I assured him, in earnest and sincere words, that he had whollymisconceived my attitude; that I had the highest respect for Satan, andthat my reverence for him equaled, and possibly even exceeded, that ofany member of the church. I said it wounded me deeply to perceive by hiswords that he thought I would make fun of Satan, and deride him, laughat him, scoff at him; whereas in truth I had never thought of such athing, but had only a warm desire to make fun of those others andlaugh at THEM. "What others?" "Why, the Supposers, the Perhapsers, theMight-Have-Beeners, the Could-Have-Beeners, the Must-Have-Beeners, theWithout-a-Shadow-of-Doubters, the We-Are-Warranted-in-Believingers, andall that funny crop of solemn architects who have taken a good solidfoundation of five indisputable and unimportant facts and built upon ita Conjectural Satan thirty miles high. " What did Mr. Barclay do then? Was he disarmed? Was he silenced? No. Hewas shocked. He was so shocked that he visibly shuddered. He said theSatanic Traditioners and Perhapsers and Conjecturers were THEMSELVESsacred! As sacred as their work. So sacred that whoso ventured tomock them or make fun of their work, could not afterward enter anyrespectable house, even by the back door. How true were his words, and how wise! How fortunate it would have beenfor me if I had heeded them. But I was young, I was but seven years ofage, and vain, foolish, and anxious to attract attention. I wrote thebiography, and have never been in a respectable house since. III How curious and interesting is the parallel--as far as poverty ofbiographical details is concerned--between Satan and Shakespeare. Itis wonderful, it is unique, it stands quite alone, there is nothingresembling it in history, nothing resembling it in romance, nothingapproaching it even in tradition. How sublime is their position, and howover-topping, how sky-reaching, how supreme--the two Great Unknowns, the two Illustrious Conjecturabilities! They are the best-known unknownpersons that have ever drawn breath upon the planet. For the instruction of the ignorant I will make a list, now, of thosedetails of Shakespeare's history which are FACTS--verified facts, established facts, undisputed facts. Facts He was born on the 23d of April, 1564. Of good farmer-class parents who could not read, could not write, couldnot sign their names. At Stratford, a small back settlement which in that day was shabby andunclean, and densely illiterate. Of the nineteen important men chargedwith the government of the town, thirteen had to "make their mark" inattesting important documents, because they could not write their names. Of the first eighteen years of his life NOTHING is known. They are ablank. On the 27th of November (1582) William Shakespeare took out a license tomarry Anne Whateley. Next day William Shakespeare took out a license to marry Anne Hathaway. She was eight years his senior. William Shakespeare married Anne Hathaway. In a hurry. By grace of areluctantly granted dispensation there was but one publication of thebanns. Within six months the first child was born. About two (blank) years followed, during which period NOTHING AT ALLHAPPENED TO SHAKESPEARE, so far as anybody knows. Then came twins--1585. February. Two blank years follow. Then--1587--he makes a ten-year visit to London, leaving the familybehind. Five blank years follow. During this period NOTHING HAPPENED TO HIM, asfar as anybody actually knows. Then--1592--there is mention of him as an actor. Next year--1593--his name appears in the official list of players. Next year--1594--he played before the queen. A detail of no consequence:other obscurities did it every year of the forty-five of her reign. Andremained obscure. Three pretty full years follow. Full of play-acting. Then In 1597 he bought New Place, Stratford. Thirteen or fourteen busy years follow; years in which he accumulatedmoney, and also reputation as actor and manager. Meantime his name, liberally and variously spelt, had become associatedwith a number of great plays and poems, as (ostensibly) author of thesame. Some of these, in these years and later, were pirated, but he made noprotest. Then--1610-11--he returned to Stratford and settled down for good andall, and busied himself in lending money, trading in tithes, trading inland and houses; shirking a debt of forty-one shillings, borrowed byhis wife during his long desertion of his family; suing debtors forshillings and coppers; being sued himself for shillings and coppers;and acting as confederate to a neighbor who tried to rob the town of itsrights in a certain common, and did not succeed. He lived five or six years--till 1616--in the joy of these elevatedpursuits. Then he made a will, and signed each of its three pages withhis name. A thoroughgoing business man's will. It named in minute detailevery item of property he owned in the world--houses, lands, sword, silver-gilt bowl, and so on--all the way down to his "second-best bed"and its furniture. It carefully and calculatingly distributed his riches among the membersof his family, overlooking no individual of it. Not even his wife:the wife he had been enabled to marry in a hurry by urgent grace of aspecial dispensation before he was nineteen; the wife whom he had lefthusbandless so many years; the wife who had had to borrow forty-oneshillings in her need, and which the lender was never able to collect ofthe prosperous husband, but died at last with the money still lacking. No, even this wife was remembered in Shakespeare's will. He left her that "second-best bed. " And NOT ANOTHER THING; not even a penny to bless her lucky widowhoodwith. It was eminently and conspicuously a business man's will, not a poet's. It mentioned NOT A SINGLE BOOK. Books were much more precious than swords and silver-gilt bowls andsecond-best beds in those days, and when a departing person owned one hegave it a high place in his will. The will mentioned NOT A PLAY, NOT A POEM, NOT AN UNFINISHED LITERARYWORK, NOT A SCRAP OF MANUSCRIPT OF ANY KIND. Many poets have died poor, but this is the only one in history thathas died THIS poor; the others all left literary remains behind. Also abook. Maybe two. If Shakespeare had owned a dog--but we not go into that: we know hewould have mentioned it in his will. If a good dog, Susanna would havegot it; if an inferior one his wife would have got a downer interest init. I wish he had had a dog, just so we could see how painstakingly hewould have divided that dog among the family, in his careful businessway. He signed the will in three places. In earlier years he signed two other official documents. These five signatures still exist. There are NO OTHER SPECIMENS OF HIS PENMANSHIP IN EXISTENCE. Not a line. Was he prejudiced against the art? His granddaughter, whom he loved, waseight years old when he died, yet she had had no teaching, he left noprovision for her education, although he was rich, and in her maturewomanhood she couldn't write and couldn't tell her husband's manuscriptfrom anybody else's--she thought it was Shakespeare's. When Shakespeare died in Stratford, IT WAS NOT AN EVENT. It made nomore stir in England than the death of any other forgotten theater-actorwould have made. Nobody came down from London; there were no lamentingpoems, no eulogies, no national tears--there was merely silence, andnothing more. A striking contrast with what happened when Ben Jonson, and Francis Bacon, and Spenser, and Raleigh, and the other distinguishedliterary folk of Shakespeare's time passed from life! No praiseful voicewas lifted for the lost Bard of Avon; even Ben Jonson waited seven yearsbefore he lifted his. SO FAR AS ANYBODY ACTUALLY KNOWS AND CAN PROVE, Shakespeare ofStratford-on-Avon never wrote a play in his life. SO FAR AS ANY ONE KNOWS, HE RECEIVED ONLY ONE LETTER DURING HIS LIFE. So far as any one KNOWS AND CAN PROVE, Shakespeare of Stratford wroteonly one poem during his life. This one is authentic. He did write thatone--a fact which stands undisputed; he wrote the whole of it; he wrotethe whole of it out of his own head. He commanded that this work of artbe engraved upon his tomb, and he was obeyed. There it abides to thisday. This is it: Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare:Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones And curst be he yt moves my bones. In the list as above set down will be found EVERY POSITIVELY KNOWN factof Shakespeare's life, lean and meager as the invoice is. Beyond thesedetails we know NOT A THING about him. All the rest of his vast history, as furnished by the biographers, is built up, course upon course, of guesses, inferences, theories, conjectures--an Eiffel Towerof artificialities rising sky-high from a very flat and very thinfoundation of inconsequential facts. IV Conjectures The historians "suppose" that Shakespeare attended the Free School inStratford from the time he was seven years old till he was thirteen. There is no EVIDENCE in existence that he ever went to school at all. The historians "infer" that he got his Latin in that school--the schoolwhich they "suppose" he attended. They "suppose" his father's declining fortunes made it necessary for himto leave the school they supposed he attended, and get to work and helpsupport his parents and their ten children. But there is no evidencethat he ever entered or returned from the school they suppose heattended. They "suppose" he assisted his father in the butchering business; andthat, being only a boy, he didn't have to do full-grown butchering, butonly slaughtering calves. Also, that whenever he killed a calf he made ahigh-flown speech over it. This supposition rests upon the testimonyof a man who wasn't there at the time; a man who got it from a manwho could have been there, but did not say whether he was nor not; andneither of them thought to mention it for decades, and decades, anddecades, and two more decades after Shakespeare's death (until old ageand mental decay had refreshed and vivified their memories). They hadn'ttwo facts in stock about the long-dead distinguished citizen, but onlyjust the one: he slaughtered calves and broke into oratory while he wasat it. Curious. They had only one fact, yet the distinguished citizenhad spent twenty-six years in that little town--just half his lifetime. However, rightly viewed, it was the most important fact, indeed almostthe only important fact, of Shakespeare's life in Stratford. Rightlyviewed. For experience is an author's most valuable asset; experienceis the thing that puts the muscle and the breath and the warm blood intothe book he writes. Rightly viewed, calf-butchering accounts for "TitusAndronicus, " the only play--ain't it?--that the Stratford Shakespeareever wrote; and yet it is the only one everybody tried to chouse him outof, the Baconians included. The historians find themselves "justified in believing" that the youngShakespeare poached upon Sir Thomas Lucy's deer preserves and got haledbefore that magistrate for it. But there is no shred of respectworthyevidence that anything of the kind happened. The historians, having argued the thing that MIGHT have happened intothe thing that DID happen, found no trouble in turning Sir Thomas Lucyinto Mr. Justice Shallow. They have long ago convinced the world--onsurmise and without trustworthy evidence--that Shallow IS Sir Thomas. The next addition to the young Shakespeare's Stratford history comeseasy. The historian builds it out of the surmised deer-steeling, andthe surmised trial before the magistrate, and the surmisedvengeance-prompted satire upon the magistrate in the play: result, theyoung Shakespeare was a wild, wild, wild, oh, SUCH a wild young scamp, and that gratuitous slander is established for all time! It is the veryway Professor Osborn and I built the colossal skeleton brontosaurthat stands fifty-seven feet long and sixteen feet high in the NaturalHistory Museum, the awe and admiration of all the world, the stateliestskeleton that exists on the planet. We had nine bones, and we built therest of him out of plaster of Paris. We ran short of plaster of Paris, or we'd have built a brontosaur that could sit down beside the StratfordShakespeare and none but an expert could tell which was biggest orcontained the most plaster. Shakespeare pronounced "Venus and Adonis" "the first heir of hisinvention, " apparently implying that it was his first effort at literarycomposition. He should not have said it. It has been an embarrassment tohis historians these many, many years. They have to make him write thatgraceful and polished and flawless and beautiful poem before he escapedfrom Stratford and his family--1586 or '87--age, twenty-two, or alongthere; because within the next five years he wrote five great plays, andcould not have found time to write another line. It is sorely embarrassing. If he began to slaughter calves, and poachdeer, and rollick around, and learn English, at the earliest likelymoment--say at thirteen, when he was supposably wretched from thatschool where he was supposably storing up Latin for future literaryuse--he had his youthful hands full, and much more than full. He musthave had to put aside his Warwickshire dialect, which wouldn't beunderstood in London, and study English very hard. Very hard indeed;incredibly hard, almost, if the result of that labor was to be thesmooth and rounded and flexible and letter-perfect English of the "Venusand Adonis" in the space of ten years; and at the same time learn greatand fine and unsurpassable literary FORM. However, it is "conjectured" that he accomplished all this and more, much more: learned law and its intricacies; and the complex procedure ofthe law-courts; and all about soldiering, and sailoring, and the mannersand customs and ways of royal courts and aristocratic society; andlikewise accumulated in his one head every kind of knowledge the learnedthen possessed, and every kind of humble knowledge possessed by thelowly and the ignorant; and added thereto a wider and more intimateknowledge of the world's great literatures, ancient and modern, thanwas possessed by any other man of his time--for he was going to makebrilliant and easy and admiration-compelling use of these splendidtreasures the moment he got to London. And according to the surmisers, that is what he did. Yes, although there was no one in Stratford able toteach him these things, and no library in the little village to dig themout of. His father could not read, and even the surmisers surmise thathe did not keep a library. It is surmised by the biographers that the young Shakespeare got hisvast knowledge of the law and his familiar and accurate acquaintancewith the manners and customs and shop-talk of lawyers through being fora time the CLERK OF A STRATFORD COURT; just as a bright lad like me, reared in a village on the banks of the Mississippi, might becomeperfect in knowledge of the Bering Strait whale-fishery and theshop-talk of the veteran exercises of that adventure-bristling tradethrough catching catfish with a "trot-line" Sundays. But the surmiseis damaged by the fact that there is no evidence--and not eventradition--that the young Shakespeare was ever clerk of a law-court. It is further surmised that the young Shakespeare accumulated hislaw-treasures in the first years of his sojourn in London, through"amusing himself" by learning book-law in his garret and by picking uplawyer-talk and the rest of it through loitering about the law-courtsand listening. But it is only surmise; there is no EVIDENCE that heever did either of those things. They are merely a couple of chunks ofplaster of Paris. There is a legend that he got his bread and butter by holding horses infront of the London theaters, mornings and afternoons. Maybe he did. If he did, it seriously shortened his law-study hours and hisrecreation-time in the courts. In those very days he was writing greatplays, and needed all the time he could get. The horse-holding legendought to be strangled; it too formidably increases the historian'sdifficulty in accounting for the young Shakespeare's erudition--anerudition which he was acquiring, hunk by hunk and chunk by chunk, everyday in those strenuous times, and emptying each day's catch into nextday's imperishable drama. He had to acquire a knowledge of war at the same time; and a knowledgeof soldier-people and sailor-people and their ways and talk; also aknowledge of some foreign lands and their languages: for he was dailyemptying fluent streams of these various knowledges, too, into hisdramas. How did he acquire these rich assets? In the usual way: by surmise. It is SURMISED that he traveled in Italyand Germany and around, and qualified himself to put their scenic andsocial aspects upon paper; that he perfected himself in French, Italian, and Spanish on the road; that he went in Leicester's expedition to theLow Countries, as soldier or sutler or something, for several months oryears--or whatever length of time a surmiser needs in his business--andthus became familiar with soldiership and soldier-ways and soldier-talkand generalship and general-ways and general-talk, and seamanship andsailor-ways and sailor-talk. Maybe he did all these things, but I would like to know who held thehorses in the mean time; and who studied the books in the garret;and who frolicked in the law-courts for recreation. Also, who did thecall-boying and the play-acting. For he became a call-boy; and as early as '93 he became a"vagabond"--the law's ungentle term for an unlisted actor; and in '94a "regular" and properly and officially listed member of that (in thosedays) lightly valued and not much respected profession. Right soon thereafter he became a stockholder in two theaters, andmanager of them. Thenceforward he was a busy and flourishing businessman, and was raking in money with both hands for twenty years. Then in anoble frenzy of poetic inspiration he wrote his one poem--his only poem, his darling--and laid him down and died: Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare:Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones And curst be he yt moves my bones. He was probably dead when he wrote it. Still, this is only conjecture. We have only circumstantial evidence. Internal evidence. Shall I set down the rest of the Conjectures which constitute thegiant Biography of William Shakespeare? It would strain the UnabridgedDictionary to hold them. He is a brontosaur: nine bones and six hundredbarrels of plaster of Paris. V "We May Assume" In the Assuming trade three separate and independent cults aretransacting business. Two of these cults are known as the Shakespearitesand the Baconians, and I am the other one--the Brontosaurian. The Shakespearite knows that Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare's Works; theBaconian knows that Francis Bacon wrote them; the Brontosauriandoesn't really know which of them did it, but is quite composedly andcontentedly sure that Shakespeare DIDN'T, and strongly suspects thatBacon DID. We all have to do a good deal of assuming, but I am fairlycertain that in every case I can call to mind the Baconian assumershave come out ahead of the Shakespearites. Both parties handle the samematerials, but the Baconians seem to me to get much more reasonable andrational and persuasive results out of them than is the case with theShakespearites. The Shakespearite conducts his assuming upon a definiteprinciple, an unchanging and immutable law: which is: 2 and 8 and 7 and14, added together, make 165. I believe this to be an error. No matter, you cannot get a habit-sodden Shakespearite to cipher-up his materialsupon any other basis. With the Baconian it is different. If you placebefore him the above figures and set him to adding them up, he willnever in any case get more than 45 out of them, and in nine cases out often he will get just the proper 31. Let me try to illustrate the two systems in a simple and homely waycalculated to bring the idea within the grasp of the ignorant andunintelligent. We will suppose a case: take a lap-bred, house-fed, uneducated, inexperienced kitten; take a rugged old Tom that's scarredfrom stem to rudder-post with the memorials of strenuous experience, andis so cultured, so educated, so limitlessly erudite that one may say ofhim "all cat-knowledge is his province"; also, take a mouse. Lock thethree up in a holeless, crackless, exitless prison-cell. Wait half anhour, then open the cell, introduce a Shakespearite and a Baconian, andlet them cipher and assume. The mouse is missing: the question to bedecided is, where is it? You can guess both verdicts beforehand. Oneverdict will say the kitten contains the mouse; the other will ascertainly say the mouse is in the tom-cat. The Shakespearite will Reason like this--(that is not my word, it ishis). He will say the kitten MAY HAVE BEEN attending school when nobodywas noticing; therefore WE ARE WARRANTED IN ASSUMING that it did so;also, it COULD HAVE BEEN training in a court-clerk's office when noone was noticing; since that could have happened, WE ARE JUSTIFIED INASSUMING that it did happen; it COULD HAVE STUDIED CATOLOGY IN A GARRETwhen no one was noticing--therefore it DID; it COULD HAVE attendedcat-assizes on the shed-roof nights, for recreation, when no one wasnoticing, and have harvested a knowledge of cat court-forms and catlawyer-talk in that way: it COULD have done it, therefore without adoubt it DID; it COULD HAVE gone soldiering with a war-tribe when no onewas noticing, and learned soldier-wiles and soldier-ways, and what to dowith a mouse when opportunity offers; the plain inference, therefore, is that that is what it DID. Since all these manifold things COULD haveoccurred, we have EVERY RIGHT TO BELIEVE they did occur. These patientlyand painstakingly accumulated vast acquirements and competences neededbut one thing more--opportunity--to convert themselves into triumphalaction. The opportunity came, we have the result; BEYOND SHADOW OFQUESTION the mouse is in the kitten. It is proper to remark that when we of the three cults plant a "WE THINKWE MAY ASSUME, " we expect it, under careful watering and fertilizing andtending, to grow up into a strong and hardy and weather-defying "THEREISN'T A SHADOW OF A DOUBT" at last--and it usually happens. We know what the Baconian's verdict would be: "THERE IS NOT A RAGOF EVIDENCE THAT THE KITTEN HAS HAD ANY TRAINING, ANY EDUCATION, ANYEXPERIENCE QUALIFYING IT FOR THE PRESENT OCCASION, OR IS INDEED EQUIPPEDFOR ANY ACHIEVEMENT ABOVE LIFTING SUCH UNCLAIMED MILK AS COMES ITS WAY;BUT THERE IS ABUNDANT EVIDENCE--UNASSAILABLE PROOF, IN FACT--THAT THEOTHER ANIMAL IS EQUIPPED, TO THE LAST DETAIL, WITH EVERY QUALIFICATIONNECESSARY FOR THE EVENT. WITHOUT SHADOW OF DOUBT THE TOM-CAT CONTAINSTHE MOUSE. " VI When Shakespeare died, in 1616, great literary productions attributedto him as author had been before the London world and in high favor fortwenty-four years. Yet his death was not an event. It made no stir, itattracted no attention. Apparently his eminent literary contemporariesdid not realize that a celebrated poet had passed from their midst. Perhaps they knew a play-actor of minor rank had disappeared, butdid not regard him as the author of his Works. "We are justified inassuming" this. His death was not even an event in the little town of Stratford. Doesthis mean that in Stratford he was not regarded as a celebrity of ANYkind? "We are privileged to assume"--no, we are indeed OBLIGED to assume--thatsuch was the case. He had spent the first twenty-two or twenty-threeyears of his life there, and of course knew everybody and was known byeverybody of that day in the town, including the dogs and the cats andthe horses. He had spent the last five or six years of his life there, diligently trading in every big and little thing that had money in it;so we are compelled to assume that many of the folk there in those saidlatter days knew him personally, and the rest by sight and hearsay. But not as a CELEBRITY? Apparently not. For everybody soon forgot toremember any contact with him or any incident connected with him. Thedozens of townspeople, still alive, who had known of him or knownabout him in the first twenty-three years of his life were in the sameunremembering condition: if they knew of any incident connected withthat period of his life they didn't tell about it. Would the if they hadbeen asked? It is most likely. Were they asked? It is pretty apparentthat they were not. Why weren't they? It is a very plausible guess thatnobody there or elsewhere was interested to know. For seven years after Shakespeare's death nobody seems to have beeninterested in him. Then the quarto was published, and Ben Jonson awokeout of his long indifference and sang a song of praise and put it in thefront of the book. Then silence fell AGAIN. For sixty years. Then inquiries into Shakespeare's Stratford life beganto be made, of Stratfordians. Of Stratfordians who had known Shakespeareor had seen him? No. Then of Stratfordians who had seen people whohad known or seen people who had seen Shakespeare? No. Apparently theinquires were only made of Stratfordians who were not Stratfordians ofShakespeare's day, but later comers; and what they had learned had cometo them from persons who had not seen Shakespeare; and what they hadlearned was not claimed as FACT, but only as legend--dim and fading andindefinite legend; legend of the calf-slaughtering rank, and not worthremembering either as history or fiction. Has it ever happened before--or since--that a celebrated person who hadspent exactly half of a fairly long life in the village where he wasborn and reared, was able to slip out of this world and leave thatvillage voiceless and gossipless behind him--utterly voiceless. , utterlygossipless? And permanently so? I don't believe it has happened in anycase except Shakespeare's. And couldn't and wouldn't have happenedin his case if he had been regarded as a celebrity at the time of hisdeath. When I examine my own case--but let us do that, and see if it will notbe recognizable as exhibiting a condition of things quite likely toresult, most likely to result, indeed substantially SURE to result inthe case of a celebrated person, a benefactor of the human race. Likeme. My parents brought me to the village of Hannibal, Missouri, on thebanks of the Mississippi, when I was two and a half years old. I enteredschool at five years of age, and drifted from one school to another inthe village during nine and a half years. Then my father died, leavinghis family in exceedingly straitened circumstances; wherefore mybook-education came to a standstill forever, and I became a printer'sapprentice, on board and clothes, and when the clothes failed I got ahymn-book in place of them. This for summer wear, probably. I lived inHannibal fifteen and a half years, altogether, then ran away, accordingto the custom of persons who are intending to become celebrated. Inever lived there afterward. Four years later I became a "cub" on aMississippi steamboat in the St. Louis and New Orleans trade, andafter a year and a half of hard study and hard work the U. S. Inspectorsrigorously examined me through a couple of long sittings and decidedthat I knew every inch of the Mississippi--thirteen hundred miles--inthe dark and in the day--as well as a baby knows the way to its mother'spaps day or night. So they licensed me as a pilot--knighted me, so tospeak--and I rose up clothed with authority, a responsible servant ofthe United States Government. Now then. Shakespeare died young--he was only fifty-two. He had lived inhis native village twenty-six years, or about that. He died celebrated(if you believe everything you read in the books). Yet when he diednobody there or elsewhere took any notice of it; and for sixty yearsafterward no townsman remembered to say anything about him or abouthis life in Stratford. When the inquirer came at last he got but onefact--no, LEGEND--and got that one at second hand, from a person whohad only heard it as a rumor and didn't claim copyright in it as aproduction of his own. He couldn't, very well, for its date antedatedhis own birth-date. But necessarily a number of persons were stillalive in Stratford who, in the days of their youth, had seen Shakespearenearly every day in the last five years of his life, and they would havebeen able to tell that inquirer some first-hand things about him ifhe had in those last days been a celebrity and therefore a person ofinterest to the villagers. Why did not the inquirer hunt them up andinterview them? Wasn't it worth while? Wasn't the matter of sufficientconsequence? Had the inquirer an engagement to see a dog-fight andcouldn't spare the time? It all seems to mean that he never had any literary celebrity, there orelsewhere, and no considerable repute as actor and manager. Now then, I am away along in life--my seventy-third year being alreadywell behind me--yet SIXTEEN of my Hannibal schoolmates are stillalive today, and can tell--and do tell--inquirers dozens and dozens ofincidents of their young lives and mine together; things that happenedto us in the morning of life, in the blossom of our youth, in the gooddays, the dear days, "the days when we went gipsying, a long time ago. "Most of them creditable to me, too. One child to whom I paid court whenshe was five years old and I eight still lives in Hannibal, and shevisited me last summer, traversing the necessary ten or twelve hundredmiles of railroad without damage to her patience or to her old-youngvigor. Another little lassie to whom I paid attention in Hannibal whenshe was nine years old and I the same, is still alive--inLondon--and hale and hearty, just as I am. And on the few survivingsteamboats--those lingering ghosts and remembrancers of great fleetsthat plied the big river in the beginning of my water-career--whichis exactly as long ago as the whole invoice of the life-years ofShakespeare numbers--there are still findable two or three river-pilotswho saw me do creditable things in those ancient days; and severalwhite-headed engineers; and several roustabouts and mates; and severaldeck-hands who used to heave the lead for me and send up on thestill night the "Six--feet--SCANT!" that made me shudder, and the"M-a-r-k--TWAIN!" that took the shudder away, and presently the darling"By the d-e-e-p--FOUR!" that lifted me to heaven for joy. (1) They knowabout me, and can tell. And so do printers, from St. Louis to New York;and so do newspaper reporters, from Nevada to San Francisco. And sodo the police. If Shakespeare had really been celebrated, like me, Stratford could have told things about him; and if my experience goesfor anything, they'd have done it. 1. Four fathoms--twenty-four feet. VII If I had under my superintendence a controversy appointed to decidewhether Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare or not, I believe I would placebefore the debaters only the one question, WAS SHAKESPEARE EVER APRACTICING LAWYER? and leave everything else out. It is maintained that the man who wrote the plays was not merelymyriad-minded, but also myriad-accomplished: that he not only knew somethousands of things about human life in all its shades and grades, andabout the hundred arts and trades and crafts and professions whichmen busy themselves in, but that he could TALK about the men and theirgrades and trades accurately, making no mistakes. Maybe it is so, buthave the experts spoken, or is it only Tom, Dick, and Harry? Does theexhibit stand upon wide, and loose, and eloquent generalizing--which isnot evidence, and not proof--or upon details, particulars, statistics, illustrations, demonstrations? Experts of unchallengeable authority have testified definitely as toonly one of Shakespeare's multifarious craft-equipments, so far asmy recollections of Shakespeare-Bacon talk abide with me--hislaw-equipment. I do not remember that Wellington or Napoleon everexamined Shakespeare's battles and sieges and strategies, and thendecided and established for good and all that they were militarilyflawless; I do not remember that any Nelson, or Drake, or Cook everexamined his seamanship and said it showed profound and accuratefamiliarity with that art; I don't remember that any king or princeor duke has ever testified that Shakespeare was letter-perfect inhis handling of royal court-manners and the talk and manners ofaristocracies; I don't remember that any illustrious Latinist or Grecianor Frenchman or Spaniard or Italian has proclaimed him a past-master inthose languages; I don't remember--well, I don't remember that thereis TESTIMONY--great testimony--imposing testimony--unanswerable andunattackable testimony as to any of Shakespeare's hundred specialties, except one--the law. Other things change, with time, and the student cannot trace backwith certainty the changes that various trades and their processes andtechnicalities have undergone in the long stretch of a century or twoand find out what their processes and technicalities were in those earlydays, but with the law it is different: it is mile-stoned and documentedall the way back, and the master of that wonderful trade, that complexand intricate trade, that awe-compelling trade, has competent ways ofknowing whether Shakespeare-law is good law or not; and whether hislaw-court procedure is correct or not, and whether his legal shop-talkis the shop-talk of a veteran practitioner or only a machine-madecounterfeit of it gathered from books and from occasional loiterings inWestminster. Richard H. Dana served two years before the mast, and had everyexperience that falls to the lot of the sailor before the mast of ourday. His sailor-talk flows from his pen with the sure touch and the easeand confidence of a person who has LIVED what he is talking about, notgathered it from books and random listenings. Hear him: Having hove short, cast off the gaskets, and made the bunt of eachsail fast by the jigger, with a man on each yard, at the word the wholecanvas of the ship was loosed, and with the greatest rapidity possibleeverything was sheeted home and hoisted up, the anchor tripped andcat-headed, and the ship under headway. Again: The royal yards were all crossed at once, and royals and sky-sailsset, and, as we had the wind free, the booms were run out, and all werealoft, active as cats, laying out on the yards and booms, reeving thestudding-sail gear; and sail after sail the captain piled upon her, until she was covered with canvas, her sails looking like a great whitecloud resting upon a black speck. Once more. A race in the Pacific: Our antagonist was in her best trim. Being clear of the point, thebreeze became stiff, and the royal-masts bent under our sails, but wewould not take them in until we saw three boys spring into the riggingof the CALIFORNIA; then they were all furled at once, but with ordersto our boys to stay aloft at the top-gallant mast-heads and loose themagain at the word. It was my duty to furl the fore-royal; and whilestanding by to loose it again, I had a fine view of the scene. Fromwhere I stood, the two vessels seemed nothing but spars and sails, whiletheir narrow decks, far below, slanting over by the force of the windaloft, appeared hardly capable of supporting the great fabricsraised upon them. The CALIFORNIA was to windward of us, and had everyadvantage; yet, while the breeze was stiff we held our own. As soon asit began to slacken she ranged a little ahead, and the order was givento loose the royals. In an instant the gaskets were off and the buntdropped. "Sheet home the fore-royal!"--"Weather sheet's home!"--"Leesheet's home!"--"Hoist away, sir!" is bawled from aloft. "Overhaul yourclew-lines!" shouts the mate. "Aye-aye, sir, all clear!"--"Taut leech!belay! Well the lee brace; haul taut to windward!" and the royals areset. What would the captain of any sailing-vessel of our time say to that?He would say, "The man that wrote that didn't learn his trade out of abook, he has BEEN there!" But would this same captain be competent tosit in judgment upon Shakespeare's seamanship--considering the changesin ships and ship-talk that have necessarily taken place, unrecorded, unremembered, and lost to history in the last three hundred years? Itis my conviction that Shakespeare's sailor-talk would be Choctaw to him. For instance--from "The Tempest": MASTER. Boatswain! BOATSWAIN. Here, master; what cheer? MASTER. Good, speak to the mariners: fall to 't, yarely, or we runourselves to ground; bestir, bestir! (ENTER MARINERS. ) BOATSWAIN. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare!Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's whistle.... Down with thetopmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try wi' the main course.... Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses. Off to sea again; lay heroff. That will do, for the present; let us yare a little, now, for a change. If a man should write a book and in it make one of his characterssay, "Here, devil, empty the quoins into the standing galley and theimposing-stone into the hell-box; assemble the comps around the frisketand let them jeff for takes and be quick about it, " I should recognize amistake or two in the phrasing, and would know that the writer was onlya printer theoretically, not practically. I have been a quartz miner in the silver regions--a pretty hard life; Iknow all the palaver of that business: I know all about discoveryclaims and the subordinate claims; I know all about lodes, ledges, outcroppings, dips, spurs, angles, shafts, drifts, inclines, levels, tunnels, air-shafts, "horses, " clay casings, granite casings; quartzmills and their batteries; arastras, and how to charge them withquicksilver and sulphate of copper; and how to clean them up, and how toreduce the resulting amalgam in the retorts, and how to cast the bullioninto pigs; and finally I know how to screen tailings, and also how tohunt for something less robust to do, and find it. I know the argot andthe quartz-mining and milling industry familiarly; and so whenever BretHarte introduces that industry into a story, the first time one of hisminers opens his mouth I recognize from his phrasing that Harte got thephrasing by listening--like Shakespeare--I mean the Stratford one--notby experience. No one can talk the quartz dialect correctly withoutlearning it with pick and shovel and drill and fuse. I have been a surface miner--gold--and I know all its mysteries, andthe dialects that belongs with them; and whenever Harte introduces thatindustry into a story I know by the phrasing of his characters thatneither he nor they have ever served that trade. I have been a "pocket" miner--a sort of gold mining not findable in anybut one little spot in the world, so far as I know. I know how, withhorn and water, to find the trail of a pocket and trace it step by stepand stage by stage up the mountain to its source, and find the compactlittle nest of yellow metal reposing in its secret home under theground. I know the language of that trade, that capricious trade, thatfascinating buried-treasure trade, and can catch any writer who tries touse it without having learned it by the sweat of his brow and the laborof his hands. I know several other trades and the argot that goes with them; andwhenever a person tries to talk the talk peculiar to any of them withouthaving learned it at its source I can trap him always before he gets faron his road. And so, as I have already remarked, if I were required to superintenda Bacon-Shakespeare controversy, I would narrow the matter down to asingle question--the only one, so far as the previous controversieshave informed me, concerning which illustrious experts of unimpeachablecompetency have testified: WAS THE AUTHOR OF SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS ALAWYER?--a lawyer deeply read and of limitless experience? I would putaside the guesses and surmises, and perhapses, and might-have-beens, and could-have-beens, and must-have-beens, and, we-are-justified-in-presumings, and the rest of those vague spectersand shadows and indefintenesses, and stand or fall, win or lose, by theverdict rendered by the jury upon that single question. If the verdictwas Yes, I should feel quite convinced that the Stratford Shakespeare, the actor, manager, and trader who died so obscure, so forgotten, sodestitute of even village consequence, that sixty years afterward nofellow-citizen and friend of his later days remembered to tell anythingabout him, did not write the Works. Chapter XIII of THE SHAKESPEARE PROBLEM RESTATED bears the heading"Shakespeare as a Lawyer, " and comprises some fifty pages of experttestimony, with comments thereon, and I will copy the first nine, asbeing sufficient all by themselves, as it seems to me, to settlethe question which I have conceived to be the master-key to theShakespeare-Bacon puzzle. VIII Shakespeare as a Lawyer (1) The Plays and Poems of Shakespeare supply ample evidence that theirauthor not only had a very extensive and accurate knowledge of law, butthat he was well acquainted with the manners and customs of members ofthe Inns of Court and with legal life generally. "While novelists and dramatists are constantly making mistakes as tothe laws of marriage, of wills, of inheritance, to Shakespeare's law, lavishly as he expounds it, there can neither be demurrer, nor bill ofexceptions, nor writ of error. " Such was the testimony borne by one ofthe most distinguished lawyers of the nineteenth century who was raisedto the high office of Lord Chief Justice in 1850, and subsequentlybecame Lord Chancellor. Its weight will, doubtless, be more appreciatedby lawyers than by laymen, for only lawyers know how impossible it isfor those who have not served an apprenticeship to the law to avoiddisplaying their ignorance if they venture to employ legal terms andto discuss legal doctrines. "There is nothing so dangerous, " wrote LordCampbell, "as for one not of the craft to tamper with our freemasonry. "A layman is certain to betray himself by using some expression which alawyer would never employ. Mr. Sidney Lee himself supplies us with anexample of this. He writes (p. 164): "On February 15, 1609, Shakespeare... Obtained judgment from a jury against Addenbroke for the payment ofNo. 6, and No. 1, 5s. 0d. Costs. " Now a lawyer would never have spokenof obtaining "judgment from a jury, " for it is the function of a jurynot to deliver judgment (which is the prerogative of the court), but tofind a verdict on the facts. The error is, indeed, a venial one, but itis just one of those little things which at once enable a lawyer to knowif the writer is a layman or "one of the craft. " But when a layman ventures to plunge deeply into legal subjects, heis naturally apt to make an exhibition of his incompetence. "Let anon-professional man, however acute, " writes Lord Campbell again, "presume to talk law, or to draw illustrations from legal science indiscussing other subjects, and he will speedily fall into laughableabsurdity. " And what does the same high authority say about Shakespeare? He had "adeep technical knowledge of the law, " and an easy familiarity with "someof the most abstruse proceedings in English jurisprudence. " And again:"Whenever he indulges this propensity he uniformly lays down good law. "Of "Henry IV. , " Part 2, he says: "If Lord Eldon could be supposed tohave written the play, I do not see how he could be chargeable withhaving forgotten any of his law while writing it. " Charles and MaryCowden Clarke speak of "the marvelous intimacy which he displays withlegal terms, his frequent adoption of them in illustration, and hiscuriously technical knowledge of their form and force. " Malone, himselfa lawyer, wrote: "His knowledge of legal terms is not merely suchas might be acquired by the casual observation of even hisall-comprehending mind; it has the appearance of technical skill. "Another lawyer and well-known Shakespearean, Richard Grant White, says:"No dramatist of the time, not even Beaumont, who was the younger son ofa judge of the Common Pleas, and who after studying in the Inns ofCourt abandoned law for the drama, used legal phrases with Shakespeare'sreadiness and exactness. And the significance of this fact is heightenedby another, that is only to the language of the law that he exhibitsthis inclination. The phrases peculiar to other occupations serve himon rare occasions by way of description, comparison, or illustration, generally when something in the scene suggests them, but legal phrasesflow from his pen as part of his vocabulary and parcel of his thought. Take the word 'purchase' for instance, which, in ordinary use, meansto acquire by giving value, but applies in law to all legal modesof obtaining property except by inheritance or descent, and in thispeculiar sense the word occurs five times in Shakespeare's thirty-fourplays, and only in one single instance in the fifty-four plays ofBeaumont and Fletcher. It has been suggested that it was in attendanceupon the courts in London that he picked up his legal vocabulary. Butthis supposition not only fails to account for Shakespeare's peculiarfreedom and exactness in the use of that phraseology, it does not evenplace him in the way of learning those terms his use of which is mostremarkable, which are not such as he would have heard at ordinaryproceedings at NISI PRIUS, but such as refer to the tenure or transferof real property, 'fine and recovery, ' 'statutes merchant, ' 'purchase, ''indenture, ' 'tenure, ' 'double voucher, ' 'fee simple, ' 'fee farm, ''remainder, ' 'reversion, ' 'forfeiture, ' etc. This conveyancer's jargoncould not have been picked up by hanging round the courts of law inLondon two hundred and fifty years ago, when suits as to the title ofreal property were comparatively rare. And besides, Shakespeare useshis law just as freely in his first plays, written in his first Londonyears, as in those produced at a later period. Just as exactly, too; forthe correctness and propriety with which these terms are introduced havecompelled the admiration of a Chief Justice and a Lord Chancellor. " Senator Davis wrote: "We seem to have something more than a sciolist'stemerity of indulgence in the terms of an unfamiliar art. No legalsolecisms will be found. The abstrusest elements of the common law areimpressed into a disciplined service. Over and over again, where suchknowledge is unexampled in writers unlearned in the law, Shakespeareappears in perfect possession of it. In the law of real property, itsrules of tenure and descents, its entails, its fines and recoveries, their vouchers and double vouchers, in the procedure of the Courts, themethod of bringing writs and arrests, the nature of actions, therules of pleading, the law of escapes and of contempt of court, inthe principles of evidence, both technical and philosophical, in thedistinction between the temporal and spiritual tribunals, in the law ofattainder and forfeiture, in the requisites of a valid marriage, in thepresumption of legitimacy, in the learning of the law of prerogative, in the inalienable character of the Crown, this mastership appears withsurprising authority. " To all this testimony (and there is much more which I have not cited)may now be added that of a great lawyer of our own times, VIZ. : SirJames Plaisted Wilde, Q. C. 1855, created a Baron of the Exchequer in1860, promoted to the post of Judge-Ordinary and Judge of the Courtsof Probate and Divorce in 1863, and better known to the world as LordPenzance, to which dignity he was raised in 1869. Lord Penzance, as alllawyers know, and as the late Mr. Inderwick, K. C. , has testified, was one of the first legal authorities of his day, famous for his"remarkable grasp of legal principles, " and "endowed by nature with aremarkable facility for marshaling facts, and for a clear expression ofhis views. " Lord Penzance speaks of Shakespeare's "perfect familiarity with not onlythe principles, axioms, and maxims, but the technicalities of Englishlaw, a knowledge so perfect and intimate that he was never incorrectand never at fault.... The mode in which this knowledge was pressedinto service on all occasions to express his meaning and illustrate histhoughts was quite unexampled. He seems to have had a special pleasurein his complete and ready mastership of it in all its branches. Asmanifested in the plays, this legal knowledge and learning had thereforea special character which places it on a wholly different footing fromthe rest of the multifarious knowledge which is exhibited in page afterpage of the plays. At every turn and point at which the author requireda metaphor, simile, or illustration, his mind ever turned FIRST to thelaw. He seems almost to have THOUGHT in legal phrases, the commonestof legal expressions were ever at the end of his pen in description orillustration. That he should have descanted in lawyer language whenhe had a forensic subject in hand, such as Shylock's bond, was to beexpected, but the knowledge of law in 'Shakespeare' was exhibited in afar different manner: it protruded itself on all occasions, appropriateor inappropriate, and mingled itself with strains of thought widelydivergent from forensic subjects. " Again: "To acquire a perfectfamiliarity with legal principles, and an accurate and ready use of thetechnical terms and phrases not only of the conveyancer's office, but ofthe pleader's chambers and the Courts at Westminster, nothing shortof employment in some career involving constant contact with legalquestions and general legal work would be requisite. But a continuousemployment involves the element of time, and time was just what themanager of two theaters had not at his disposal. In what portion ofShakespeare's (i. E. , Shakspere's) career would it be possible to pointout that time could be found for the interposition of a legal employmentin the chambers or offices of practicing lawyers?" Stratfordians, as is well known, casting about for some possibleexplanation of Shakespeare's extraordinary knowledge of law, have madethe suggestion that Shakespeare might, conceivably, have been a clerk inan attorney's office before he came to London. Mr. Collier wrote to LordCampbell to ask his opinion as to the probability of this being true. His answer was as follows: "You require us to believe implicitly afact, of which, if true, positive and irrefragable evidence in his ownhandwriting might have been forthcoming to establish it. Not having beenactually enrolled as an attorney, neither the records of the local courtat Stratford nor of the superior Court at Westminster would presenthis name as being concerned in any suit as an attorney, but it mightreasonably have been expected that there would be deeds or willswitnessed by him still extant, and after a very diligent search nonesuch can be discovered. " Upon this Lord Penzance commends: "It cannot be doubted that LordCampbell was right in this. No young man could have been at work inan attorney's office without being called upon continually to act as awitness, and in many other ways leaving traces of his work andname. " There is not a single fact or incident in all that is known ofShakespeare, even by rumor or tradition, which supports this notion ofa clerkship. And after much argument and surmise which has been indulgedin on this subject, we may, I think, safely put the notion on one side, for no less an authority than Mr. Grant White says finally that the ideaof his having been clerk to an attorney has been "blown to pieces. " It is altogether characteristic of Mr. Churton Collins that he, nevertheless, adopts this exploded myth. "That Shakespeare was in earlylife employed as a clerk in an attorney's office may be correct. AtStratford there was by royal charter a Court of Record sitting everyfortnight, with six attorneys, besides the town clerk, belonging to it, and it is certainly not straining probability to suppose that the youngShakespeare may have had employment in one of them. There is, it istrue, no tradition to this effect, but such traditions as we have aboutShakespeare's occupation between the time of leaving school and goingto London are so loose and baseless that no confidence can be placedin them. It is, to say the least, more probable that he was in anattorney's office than that he was a butcher killing calves 'in a highstyle, ' and making speeches over them. " This is a charming specimen of Stratfordian argument. There is, aswe have seen, a very old tradition that Shakespeare was a butcher'sapprentice. John Dowdall, who made a tour of Warwickshire in 1693, testifies to it as coming from the old clerk who showed him overthe church, and it is unhesitatingly accepted as true by Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps. (Vol. I, p. 11, and Vol. II, pp. 71, 72. ) Mr. Sidney Lee sees nothing improbable in it, and it is supported by Aubrey, who must have written his account some time before 1680, when hismanuscript was completed. Of the attorney's clerk hypothesis, on theother hand, there is not the faintest vestige of a tradition. Ithas been evolved out of the fertile imaginations of embarrassedStratfordians, seeking for some explanation of the Stratford rustic'smarvelous acquaintance with law and legal terms and legal life. ButMr. Churton Collins has not the least hesitation in throwing over thetradition which has the warrant of antiquity and setting up in itsstead this ridiculous invention, for which not only is there no shred ofpositive evidence, but which, as Lord Campbell and Lord Penzance pointedout, is really put out of court by the negative evidence, since "noyoung man could have been at work in an attorney's office without beingcalled upon continually to act as a witness, and in many other waysleaving traces of his work and name. " And as Mr. Edwards further pointsout, since the day when Lord Campbell's book was published (betweenforty and fifty years ago), "every old deed or will, to say nothing ofother legal papers, dated during the period of William Shakespeare'syouth, has been scrutinized over half a dozen shires, and not onesignature of the young man has been found. " Moreover, if Shakespeare had served as clerk in an attorney's office itis clear that he must have served for a considerable period in order tohave gained (if, indeed, it is credible that he could have so gained)his remarkable knowledge of the law. Can we then for a moment believethat, if this had been so, tradition would have been absolutely silenton the matter? That Dowdall's old clerk, over eighty years of age, should have never heard of it (though he was sure enough about thebutcher's apprentice) and that all the other ancient witnesses should bein similar ignorance! But such are the methods of Stratfordian controversy. Tradition is to bescouted when it is found inconvenient, but cited as irrefragable truthwhen it suits the case. Shakespeare of Stratford was the author of thePlays and Poems, but the author of the Plays and Poems could not havebeen a butcher's apprentice. Anyway, therefore, with tradition. Butthe author of the Plays and Poems MUST have had a very large and a veryaccurate knowledge of the law. Therefore, Shakespeare of Stratfordmust have been an attorney's clerk! The method is simplicity itself. Bysimilar reasoning Shakespeare has been made a country schoolmaster, asoldier, a physician, a printer, and a good many other things besides, according to the inclination and the exigencies of the commentator. Itwould not be in the least surprising to find that he was studying Latinas a schoolmaster and law in an attorney's office at the same time. However, we must do Mr. Collins the justice of saying that he has fullyrecognized, what is indeed tolerable obvious, that Shakespeare must havehad a sound legal training. "It may, of course, be urged, " he writes, "that Shakespeare's knowledge of medicine, and particularly that branchof it which related to morbid psychology, is equally remarkable, andthat no one has ever contended that he was a physician. (Here Mr. Collins is wrong; that contention also has been put forward. ) It may beurged that his acquaintance with the technicalities of other craftsand callings, notably of marine and military affairs, was alsoextraordinary, and yet no one has suspected him of being a sailor ora soldier. (Wrong again. Why, even Messrs. Garnett and Gosse "suspect"that he was a soldier!) This may be conceded, but the concessionhardly furnishes an analogy. To these and all other subjects he recursoccasionally, and in season, but with reminiscences of the law hismemory, as is abundantly clear, was simply saturated. In season and outof season now in manifest, now in recondite application, he presses itinto the service of expression and illustration. At least a third of hismyriad metaphors are derived from it. It would indeed be difficult tofind a single act in any of his dramas, nay, in some of them, a singlescene, the diction and imagery of which are not colored by it. Much ofhis law may have been acquired from three books easily accessible tohim--namely, Tottell's PRECEDENTS (1572), Pulton's STATUTES (1578), andFraunce's LAWIER'S LOGIKE (1588), works with which he certainly seems tohave been familiar; but much of it could only have come from one who hadan intimate acquaintance with legal proceedings. We quite agree with Mr. Castle that Shakespeare's legal knowledge is not what could have beenpicked up in an attorney's office, but could only have been learnedby an actual attendance at the Courts, at a Pleader's Chambers, andon circuit, or by associating intimately with members of the Bench andBar. " This is excellent. But what is Mr. Collins's explanation? "Perhaps thesimplest solution of the problem is to accept the hypothesis that inearly life he was in an attorney's office (!), that he there contracteda love for the law which never left him, that as a young man in Londonhe continued to study or dabble in it for his amusement, to stroll inleisure hours into the Courts, and to frequent the society of lawyers. On no other supposition is it possible to explain the attraction whichthe law evidently had for him, and his minute and undeviating accuracyin a subject where no layman who has indulged in such copious andostentatious display of legal technicalities has ever yet succeeded inkeeping himself from tripping. " A lame conclusion. "No other supposition" indeed! Yes, there is another, and a very obvious supposition--namely, that Shakespeare was himself alawyer, well versed in his trade, versed in all the ways of the courts, and living in close intimacy with judges and members of the Inns ofCourt. One is, of course, thankful that Mr. Collins has appreciated the factthat Shakespeare must have had a sound legal training, but I maybe forgiven if I do not attach quite so much importance to hispronouncements on this branch of the subject as to those of Malone, Lord Campbell, Judge Holmes, Mr. Castle, K. C. , Lord Penzance, Mr. GrantWhite, and other lawyers, who have expressed their opinion on the matterof Shakespeare's legal acquirements.... Here it may, perhaps, be worth while to quote again from Lord Penzance'sbook as to the suggestion that Shakespeare had somehow or other managed"to acquire a perfect familiarity with legal principles, and an accurateand ready use of the technical terms and phrases, not only of theconveyancer's office, but of the pleader's chambers and the Courts atWestminster. " This, as Lord Penzance points out, "would require nothingshort of employment in some career involving CONSTANT CONTACT with legalquestions and general legal work. " But "in what portion of Shakespeare'scareer would it be possible to point out that time could be found forthe interposition of a legal employment in the chambers or offices ofpracticing lawyers?... It is beyond doubt that at an early period he wascalled upon to abandon his attendance at school and assist his father, and was soon after, at the age of sixteen, bound apprentice to a trade. While under the obligation of this bond he could not have pursued anyother employment. Then he leaves Stratford and comes to London. He hasto provide himself with the means of a livelihood, and this he did insome capacity at the theater. No one doubts that. The holding of horsesis scouted by many, and perhaps with justice, as being unlikely andcertainly unproved; but whatever the nature of his employment was atthe theater, there is hardly room for the belief that it could have beenother than continuous, for his progress there was so rapid. Ere long hehad been taken into the company as an actor, and was soon spoken of as a'Johannes Factotum. ' His rapid accumulation of wealth speaks volumes forthe constancy and activity of his services. One fails to see when therecould be a break in the current of his life at this period of it, givingroom or opportunity for legal or indeed any other employment. 'In 1589, 'says Knight, 'we have undeniable evidence that he had not only a casualengagement, was not only a salaried servant, as may players were, butwas a shareholder in the company of the Queen's players with othershareholders below him on the list. ' This (1589) would be withintwo years after his arrival in London, which is placed by White andHalliwell-Phillipps about the year 1587. The difficulty in supposingthat, starting with a state of ignorance in 1587, when he is supposedto have come to London, he was induced to enter upon a course of mostextended study and mental culture, is almost insuperable. Still it wasphysically possible, provided always that he could have had access tothe needful books. But this legal training seems to me to stand on adifferent footing. It is not only unaccountable and incredible, but itis actually negatived by the known facts of his career. " Lord Penzancethen refers to the fact that "by 1592 (according to the best authority, Mr. Grant White) several of the plays had been written. 'The Comedyof Errors' in 1589, 'Love's Labour's Lost' in 1589, 'Two Gentlemenof Verona' in 1589 or 1590, " and so forth, and then asks, "with thiscatalogue of dramatic work on hand... Was it possible that he could havetaken a leading part in the management and conduct of two theaters, and if Mr. Phillipps is to be relied upon, taken his share in theperformances of the provincial tours of his company--and at the sametime devoted himself to the study of the law in all its branches soefficiently as to make himself complete master of its principles andpractice, and saturate his mind with all its most technical terms?" I have cited this passage from Lord Penzance's book, because itlay before me, and I had already quoted from it on the matter ofShakespeare's legal knowledge; but other writers have still better setforth the insuperable difficulties, as they seem to me, which beset theidea that Shakespeare might have found them in some unknown periodof early life, amid multifarious other occupations, for the study ofclassics, literature, and law, to say nothing of languages and a fewother matters. Lord Penzance further asks his readers: "Did you evermeet with or hear of an instance in which a young man in this countrygave himself up to legal studies and engaged in legal employments, which is the only way of becoming familiar with the technicalities ofpractice, unless with the view of practicing in that profession? I donot believe that it would be easy, or indeed possible, to producean instance in which the law has been seriously studied in allits branches, except as a qualification for practice in the legalprofession. " This testimony is so strong, so direct, so authoritative; and souncheapened, unwatered by guesses, and surmises, and maybe-so's, andmight-have-beens, and could-have-beens, and must-have-beens, and therest of that ton of plaster of Paris out of which the biographers havebuilt the colossal brontosaur which goes by the Stratford actor's name, that it quite convinces me that the man who wrote Shakespeare's Worksknew all about law and lawyers. Also, that that man could not have beenthe Stratford Shakespeare--and WASN'T. Who did write these Works, then? I wish I knew. 1. From Chapter XIII of THE SHAKESPEARE PROBLEM RESTATED. ByGeorge G. Greenwood, M. P. John Lane Company, publishers. IX Did Francis Bacon write Shakespeare's Works? Nobody knows. We cannot say we KNOW a thing when that thing has not been proved. KNOW is too strong a word to use when the evidence is not finaland absolutely conclusive. We can infer, if we want to, like thoseslaves.... No, I will not write that word, it is not kind, it is notcourteous. The upholders of the Stratford-Shakespeare superstition callUS the hardest names they can think of, and they keep doing it all thetime; very well, if they like to descend to that level, let them do it, but I will not so undignify myself as to follow them. I cannot call themharsh names; the most I can do is to indicate them by terms reflectingmy disapproval; and this without malice, without venom. To resume. What I was about to say was, those thugs have built theirentire superstition upon INFERENCES, not upon known and establishedfacts. It is a weak method, and poor, and I am glad to be able to sayour side never resorts to it while there is anything else to resort to. But when we must, we must; and we have now arrived at a place of thatsort.... Since the Stratford Shakespeare couldn't have written theWorks, we infer that somebody did. Who was it, then? This requires somemore inferring. Ordinarily when an unsigned poem sweeps across the continent like atidal wave whose roar and boom and thunder are made up of admiration, delight, and applause, a dozen obscure people rise up and claim theauthorship. Why a dozen, instead of only one or two? One reason is, because there are a dozen that are recognizably competent to do thatpoem. Do you remember "Beautiful Snow"? Do you remember "Rock Me toSleep, Mother, Rock Me to Sleep"? Do you remember "Backward, turn, backward, O Time, in thy flight! Make me a child again just fortonight"? I remember them very well. Their authorship was claimedby most of the grown-up people who were alive at the time, and everyclaimant had one plausible argument in his favor, at least--to wit, hecould have done the authoring; he was competent. Have the Works been claimed by a dozen? They haven't. There was goodreason. The world knows there was but one man on the planet at thetime who was competent--not a dozen, and not two. A long time ago thedwellers in a far country used now and then to find a procession ofprodigious footprints stretching across the plain--footprints that werethree miles apart, each footprint a third of a mile long and a furlongdeep, and with forests and villages mashed to mush in it. Was there anydoubt as to who made that mighty trail? Were there a dozen claimants?Where there two? No--the people knew who it was that had been alongthere: there was only one Hercules. There has been only one Shakespeare. There couldn't be two; certainlythere couldn't be two at the same time. It takes ages to bring forth aShakespeare, and some more ages to match him. This one was not matchedbefore his time; nor during his time; and hasn't been matched since. Theprospect of matching him in our time is not bright. The Baconians claim that the Stratford Shakespeare was not qualifiedto write the Works, and that Francis Bacon was. They claim that Baconpossessed the stupendous equipment--both natural and acquired--for themiracle; and that no other Englishman of his day possessed the like; or, indeed, anything closely approaching it. Macaulay, in his Essay, has much to say about the splendor andhorizonless magnitude of that equipment. Also, he has synopsized Bacon'shistory--a thing which cannot be done for the Stratford Shakespeare, for he hasn't any history to synopsize. Bacon's history is open to theworld, from his boyhood to his death in old age--a history consistingof known facts, displayed in minute and multitudinous detail; FACTS, notguesses and conjectures and might-have-beens. Whereby it appears that he was born of a race of statesmen, and had aLord Chancellor for his father, and a mother who was "distinguished bothas a linguist and a theologian: she corresponded in Greek with BishopJewell, and translated his APOLOGIA from the Latin so correctly thatneither he nor Archbishop Parker could suggest a single alteration. " Itis the atmosphere we are reared in that determines how our inclinationsand aspirations shall tend. The atmosphere furnished by the parents tothe son in this present case was an atmosphere saturated with learning;with thinkings and ponderings upon deep subjects; and with politeculture. It had its natural effect. Shakespeare of Stratford was rearedin a house which had no use for books, since its owners, his parents, were without education. This may have had an effect upon the son, butwe do not know, because we have no history of him of an informing sort. There were but few books anywhere, in that day, and only the well-to-doand highly educated possessed them, they being almost confined tothe dead languages. "All the valuable books then extant in all thevernacular dialects of Europe would hardly have filled a singleshelf"--imagine it! The few existing books were in the Latin tonguemainly. "A person who was ignorant of it was shut out from allacquaintance--not merely with Cicero and Virgil, but with the mostinteresting memoirs, state papers, and pamphlets of his own time"--aliterature necessary to the Stratford lad, for his fictitiousreputation's sake, since the writer of his Works would begin to use itwholesale and in a most masterly way before the lad was hardly more thanout of his teens and into his twenties. At fifteen Bacon was sent to the university, and he spent three yearsthere. Thence he went to Paris in the train of the English Ambassador, and there he mingled daily with the wise, the cultured, the great, andthe aristocracy of fashion, during another three years. A total of sixyears spent at the sources of knowledge; knowledge both of books and ofmen. The three spent at the university were coeval with the secondand last three spent by the little Stratford lad at Stratford schoolsupposedly, and perhapsedly, and maybe, and by inference--with nothingto infer from. The second three of the Baconian six were "presumably"spent by the Stratford lad as apprentice to a butcher. That is, thethugs presume it--on no evidence of any kind. Which is their way, whenthey want a historical fact. Fact and presumption are, for businesspurposes, all the same to them. They know the difference, but they alsoknow how to blink it. They know, too, that while in history-building afact is better than a presumption, it doesn't take a presumption longto bloom into a fact when THEY have the handling of it. They know by oldexperience that when they get hold of a presumption-tadpole he isnot going to STAY tadpole in their history-tank; no, they know how todevelop him into the giant four-legged bullfrog of FACT, and makehim sit up on his hams, and puff out his chin, and look importantand insolent and come-to-stay; and assert his genuine simon-pureauthenticity with a thundering bellow that will convince everybodybecause it is so loud. The thug is aware that loudness convinces sixtypersons where reasoning convinces but one. I wouldn't be a thug, noteven if--but never mind about that, it has nothing to do with theargument, and it is not noble in spirit besides. If I am better than athug, is the merit mine? No, it is His. Then to Him be the praise. Thatis the right spirit. They "presume" the lad severed his "presumed" connection with theStratford school to become apprentice to a butcher. They also "presume"that the butcher was his father. They don't know. There is no writtenrecord of it, nor any other actual evidence. If it would have helpedtheir case any, they would have apprenticed him to thirty butchers, to fifty butchers, to a wilderness of butchers--all by their patentedmethod "presumption. " If it will help their case they will do it yet;and if it will further help it, they will "presume" that all thosebutchers were his father. And the week after, they will SAY it. Why, itis just like being the past tense of the compound reflexive adverbialincandescent hypodermic irregular accusative Noun of Multitude; which isfather to the expression which the grammarians call Verb. It is like awhole ancestry, with only one posterity. To resume. Next, the young Bacon took up the study of law, and masteredthat abstruse science. From that day to the end of his life he was dailyin close contact with lawyers and judges; not as a casual onlookerin intervals between holding horses in front of a theater, but asa practicing lawyer--a great and successful one, a renowned one, aLauncelot of the bar, the most formidable lance in the high brotherhoodof the legal Table Round; he lived in the law's atmosphere thenceforth, all his years, and by sheer ability forced his way up its difficultsteeps to its supremest summit, the Lord-Chancellorship, leaving behindhim no fellow-craftsman qualified to challenge his divine right to thatmajestic place. When we read the praises bestowed by Lord Penzance and the otherillustrious experts upon the legal condition and legal aptnesses, brilliances, profundities, and felicities so prodigally displayed in thePlays, and try to fit them to the historyless Stratford stage-manager, they sound wild, strange, incredible, ludicrous; but when we put them inthe mouth of Bacon they do not sound strange, they seem in their naturaland rightful place, they seem at home there. Please turn back and readthem again. Attributed to Shakespeare of Stratford they are meaningless, they are inebriate extravagancies--intemperate admirations of the darkside of the moon, so to speak; attributed to Bacon, they are admirationsof the golden glories of the moon's front side, the moon at thefull--and not intemperate, not overwrought, but sane and right, andjustified. "At ever turn and point at which the author required ametaphor, simile, or illustration, his mind ever turned FIRST to thelaw; he seems almost to have THOUGHT in legal phrases; the commonestlegal phrases, the commonest of legal expressions, were ever at the endof his pen. " That could happen to no one but a person whose TRADE wasthe law; it could not happen to a dabbler in it. Veteran mariners filltheir conversation with sailor-phrases and draw all their similes fromthe ship and the sea and the storm, but no mere PASSENGER ever does it, be he of Stratford or elsewhere; or could do it with anything resemblingaccuracy, if he were hardy enough to try. Please read again what LordCampbell and the other great authorities have said about Bacon when theythought they were saying it about Shakespeare of Stratford. X The Rest of the Equipment The author of the Plays was equipped, beyond every other man of histime, with wisdom, erudition, imagination, capaciousness of mind, grace, and majesty of expression. Everyone one had said it, no one doubts it. Also, he had humor, humor in rich abundance, and always wanting tobreak out. We have no evidence of any kind that Shakespeare of Stratfordpossessed any of these gifts or any of these acquirements. The onlylines he ever wrote, so far as we know, are substantially barren ofthem--barren of all of them. Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare:Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones And curst be he yt moves my bones. Ben Jonson says of Bacon, as orator: His language, WHERE HE COULD SPARE AND PASS BY A JEST, was noblycensorious. No man ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered. No memberof his speech but consisted of his (its) own graces.... The fear ofevery man that heard him was lest he should make an end. From Macaulay: He continued to distinguish himself in Parliament, particularly by hisexertions in favor of one excellent measure on which the King's heartwas set--the union of England and Scotland. It was not difficult forsuch an intellect to discover many irresistible arguments in favorof such a scheme. He conducted the great case of the POST NATI inthe Exchequer Chamber; and the decision of the judges--a decision thelegality of which may be questioned, but the beneficial effect of whichmust be acknowledged--was in a great measure attributed to his dexterousmanagement. Again: While actively engaged in the House of Commons and in the courts of law, he still found leisure for letters and philosophy. The noble treatise onthe ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING, which at a later period was expanded intothe DE AUGMENTIS, appeared in 1605. The WISDOM OF THE ANCIENTS, a work which, if it had proceeded from anyother writer, would have been considered as a masterpiece of wit andlearning, was printed in 1609. In the mean time the NOVUM ORGANUM was slowly proceeding. Severaldistinguished men of learning had been permitted to see portions of thatextraordinary book, and they spoke with the greatest admiration of hisgenius. Even Sir Thomas Bodley, after perusing the COGITATA ET VISA, one of themost precious of those scattered leaves out of which the great oracularvolume was afterward made up, acknowledged that "in all proposals andplots in that book, Bacon showed himself a master workman"; and that "itcould not be gainsaid but all the treatise over did abound withchoice conceits of the present state of learning, and with worthycontemplations of the means to procure it. " In 1612 a new edition of the ESSAYS appeared, with additions surpassingthe original collection both in bulk and quality. Nor did these pursuits distract Bacon's attention from a work the mostarduous, the most glorious, and the most useful that even his mightypowers could have achieved, "the reducing and recompiling, " to use hisown phrase, "of the laws of England. " To serve the exacting and laborious offices of Attorney-General andSolicitor-General would have satisfied the appetite of any other manfor hard work, but Bacon had to add the vast literary industries justdescribed, to satisfy his. He was a born worker. The service which he rendered to letters during the last five years ofhis life, amid ten thousand distractions and vexations, increase theregret with which we think on the many years which he had wasted, to usethe words of Sir Thomas Bodley, "on such study as was not worthy such astudent. " He commenced a digest of the laws of England, a History of Englandunder the Princes of the House of Tudor, a body of National History, aPhilosophical Romance. He made extensive and valuable additions to hisEssays. He published the inestimable TREATISE DE AUGMENTIS SCIENTIARUM. Did these labors of Hercules fill up his time to his contentment, andquiet his appetite for work? Not entirely: The trifles with which he amused himself in hours of pain and languorbore the mark of his mind. THE BEST JEST-BOOK IN THE WORLD is that whichhe dictated from memory, without referring to any book, on a day onwhich illness had rendered him incapable of serious study. Here are some scattered remarks (from Macaulay) which throw lightupon Bacon, and seem to indicate--and maybe demonstrate--that he wascompetent to write the Plays and Poems: With great minuteness of observation he had an amplitude ofcomprehension such as has never yet been vouchsafed to any other humanbeing. The ESSAYS contain abundant proofs that no nice feature of character, no peculiarity in the ordering of a house, a garden, or a court-masque, could escape the notice of one whose mind was capable of taking in thewhole world of knowledge. His understanding resembled the tent which the fairy Paribanou gaveto Prince Ahmed: fold it, and it seemed a toy for the hand of a lady;spread it, and the armies of the powerful Sultans might repose beneathits shade. The knowledge in which Bacon excelled all men was a knowledge of themutual relations of all departments of knowledge. In a letter written when he was only thirty-one, to his uncle, LordBurleigh, he said, "I have taken all knowledge to be my province. " Though Bacon did not arm his philosophy with the weapons of logic, headorned her profusely with all the richest decorations of rhetoric. The practical faculty was powerful in Bacon; but not, like his wit, so powerful as occasionally to usurp the place of his reason and totyrannize over the whole man. There are too many places in the Plays where this happens. Poor olddying John of Gaunt volleying second-rate puns at his own name, is apathetic instance of it. "We may assume" that it is Bacon's fault, butthe Stratford Shakespeare has to bear the blame. No imagination was ever at once so strong and so thoroughly subjugated. It stopped at the first check from good sense. In truth, much of Bacon's life was passed in a visionary world--amidthings as strange as any that are described in the ARABIAN TALES... Amid buildings more sumptuous than the palace of Aladdin, fountains morewonderful than the golden water of Parizade, conveyances more rapidthan the hippogryph of Ruggiero, arms more formidable than the lance ofAstolfo, remedies more efficacious than the balsam of Fierabras. Yetin his magnificent day-dreams there was nothing wild--nothing but whatsober reason sanctioned. Bacon's greatest performance is the first book of the NOVUM ORGANUM... . Every part of it blazes with wit, but with wit which is employed only toillustrate and decorate truth. No book ever made so great a revolutionin the mode of thinking, overthrew so may prejudices, introduced so manynew opinions. But what we most admire is the vast capacity of that intellect which, without effort, takes in at once all the domains of science--all thepast, the present and the future, all the errors of two thousand years, all the encouraging signs of the passing times, all the bright hopes ofthe coming age. He had a wonderful talent for packing thought close and rendering itportable. His eloquence would alone have entitled him to a high rank inliterature. It is evident that he had each and every one of the mental gifts andeach and every one of the acquirements that are so prodigally displayedin the Plays and Poems, and in much higher and richer degree than anyother man of his time or of any previous time. He was a genius without amate, a prodigy not matable. There was only one of him; the planetcould not produce two of him at one birth, nor in one age. He could havewritten anything that is in the Plays and Poems. He could have writtenthis: The cloud-cap'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like an insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Also, he could have written this, but he refrained: Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare: Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones And curst be he yt moves my bones. When a person reads the noble verses about the cloud-cap'd towers, he ought not to follow it immediately with Good friend for Iesus sakeforbeare, because he will find the transition from great poetry topoor prose too violent for comfort. It will give him a shock. You nevernotice how commonplace and unpoetic gravel is until you bite into alayer of it in a pie. XI Am I trying to convince anybody that Shakespeare did not writeShakespeare's Works? Ah, now, what do you take me for? Would I be sosoft as that, after having known the human race familiarly for nearlyseventy-four years? It would grieve me to know that any one could thinkso injuriously of me, so uncomplimentarily, so unadmiringly of me. No, no, I am aware that when even the brightest mind in our world has beentrained up from childhood in a superstition of any kind, it will neverbe possible for that mind, in its maturity, to examine sincerely, dispassionately, and conscientiously any evidence or any circumstancewhich shall seem to cast a doubt upon the validity of that superstition. I doubt if I could do it myself. We always get at second hand ournotions about systems of government; and high tariff and low tariff;and prohibition and anti-prohibition; and the holiness of peace and theglories of war; and codes of honor and codes of morals; and approval ofthe duel and disapproval of it; and our beliefs concerning the nature ofcats; and our ideas as to whether the murder of helpless wild animalsis base or is heroic; and our preferences in the matter of religious andpolitical parties; and our acceptance or rejection of the Shakespearesand the Author Ortons and the Mrs. Eddys. We get them all at secondhand, we reason none of them out for ourselves. It is the way we aremade. It is the way we are all made, and we can't help it, we can'tchange it. And whenever we have been furnished a fetish, and have beentaught to believe in it, and love it and worship it, and refrain fromexamining it, there is no evidence, howsoever clear and strong, that canpersuade us to withdraw from it our loyalty and our devotion. Inmorals, conduct, and beliefs we take the color of our environment andassociations, and it is a color that can safely be warranted to wash. Whenever we have been furnished with a tar baby ostensibly stuffedwith jewels, and warned that it will be dishonorable and irreverent todisembowel it and test the jewels, we keep our sacrilegious hands offit. We submit, not reluctantly, but rather gladly, for we are privatelyafraid we should find, upon examination that the jewels are of the sortthat are manufactured at North Adams, Mass. I haven't any idea that Shakespeare will have to vacate his pedestalthis side of the year 2209. Disbelief in him cannot come swiftly, disbelief in a healthy and deeply-loved tar baby has never been knownto disintegrate swiftly; it is a very slow process. It took severalthousand years to convince our fine race--including every splendidintellect in it--that there is no such thing as a witch; it has takenseveral thousand years to convince the same fine race--including everysplendid intellect in it--that there is no such person as Satan; it hastaken several centuries to remove perdition from the Protestant Church'sprogram of post-mortem entertainments; it has taken a weary long time topersuade American Presbyterians to give up infant damnation and try tobear it the best they can; and it looks as if their Scotch brethren willstill be burning babies in the everlasting fires when Shakespeare comesdown from his perch. We are The Reasoning Race. We can't prove it by the above examples, and we can't prove it by the miraculous "histories" built by thoseStratfordolaters out of a hatful of rags and a barrel of sawdust, butthere is a plenty of other things we can prove it by, if I could thinkof them. We are The Reasoning Race, and when we find a vague file ofchipmunk-tracks stringing through the dust of Stratford village, we knowby our reasoning bowers that Hercules has been along there. I feel thatour fetish is safe for three centuries yet. The bust, too--there in theStratford Church. The precious bust, the priceless bust, the calm bust, the serene bust, the emotionless bust, with the dandy mustache, and theputty face, unseamed of care--that face which has looked passionlesslydown upon the awed pilgrim for a hundred and fifty years and will stilllook down upon the awed pilgrim three hundred more, with the deep, deep, deep, subtle, subtle, subtle expression of a bladder. XII Irreverence One of the most trying defects which I find in these--these--what shallI call them? for I will not apply injurious epithets to them, the waythey do to us, such violations of courtesy being repugnant to my natureand my dignity. The farthest I can go in that direction is to call themby names of limited reverence--names merely descriptive, never unkind, never offensive, never tainted by harsh feeling. If THEY would dolike this, they would feel better in their hearts. Very well, then--to proceed. One of the most trying defects which I find in theseStratfordolaters, these Shakesperiods, these thugs, these bangalores, these troglodytes, these herumfrodites, these blatherskites, thesebuccaneers, these bandoleers, is their spirit of irreverence. It isdetectable in every utterance of theirs when they are talking about us. I am thankful that in me there is nothing of that spirit. When a thingis sacred to me it is impossible for me to be irreverent toward it. Icannot call to mind a single instance where I have ever been irreverent, except towards the things which were sacred to other people. Am I inthe right? I think so. But I ask no one to take my unsupported word;no, look at the dictionary; let the dictionary decide. Here is thedefinition: IRREVERENCE. The quality or condition of irreverence toward God andsacred things. What does the Hindu say? He says it is correct. He says irreverenceis lack of respect for Vishnu, and Brahma, and Chrishna, and his othergods, and for his sacred cattle, and for his temples and the thingswithin them. He endorses the definition, you see; and there are300, 000, 000 Hindus or their equivalents back of him. The dictionary had the acute idea that by using the capital G it couldrestrict irreverence to lack of reverence for OUR Deity and our sacredthings, but that ingenious and rather sly idea miscarried: for bythe simple process of spelling HIS deities with capitals the Hinduconfiscates the definition and restricts it to his own sects, thusmaking it clearly compulsory upon us to revere HIS gods and HIS sacredthings, and nobody's else. We can't say a word, for he had our owndictionary at his back, and its decision is final. This law, reduced to its simplest terms, is this: 1. Whatever issacred to the Christian must be held in reverence by everybody else; 2. Whatever is sacred to the Hindu must be held in reverence by everybodyelse; 3. Therefore, by consequence, logically, and indisputably, whatever is sacred to ME must be held in reverence by everybody else. Now then, what aggravates me is that these troglodytes and muscovitesand bandoleers and buccaneers are ALSO trying to crowd in and share thebenefit of the law, and compel everybody to revere their Shakespeare andhold him sacred. We can't have that: there's enough of us already. Ifyou go on widening and spreading and inflating the privilege, it willpresently come to be conceded that each man's sacred things are the ONLYones, and the rest of the human race will have to be humbly reverenttoward them or suffer for it. That can surely happen, and when ithappens, the word Irreverence will be regarded as the most meaningless, and foolish, and self-conceited, and insolent, and impudent, anddictatorial word in the language. And people will say, "Whose businessis it what gods I worship and what things hold sacred? Who has the rightto dictate to my conscience, and where did he get that right?" We cannot afford to let that calamity come upon us. We must save theword from this destruction. There is but one way to do it, and thatis to stop the spread of the privilege and strictly confine it to itspresent limits--that is, to all the Christian sects, to all the Hindusects, and me. We do not need any more, the stock is watered enough, just as it is. It would be better if the privilege were limited to me alone. I think sobecause I am the only sect that knows how to employ it gently, kindly, charitably, dispassionately. The other sects lack the quality ofself-restraint. The Catholic Church says the most irreverent thingsabout matters which are sacred to the Protestants, and the ProtestantChurch retorts in kind about the confessional and other matters whichCatholics hold sacred; then both of these irreverencers turn upon ThomasPaine and charge HIM with irreverence. This is all unfortunate, becauseit makes it difficult for students equipped with only a low grade ofmentality to find out what Irreverence really IS. It will surely be much better all around if the privilege of regulatingthe irreverent and keeping them in order shall eventually be withdrawnfrom all the sects but me. Then there will be no more quarreling, nomore bandying of disrespectful epithets, no more heartburnings. There will then be nothing sacred involved in this Bacon-Shakespearecontroversy except what is sacred to me. That will simplify the wholematter, and trouble will cease. There will be irreverence no longer, because I will not allow it. The first time those criminals chargeme with irreverence for calling their Stratford myth anArthur-Orton-Mary-Baker-Thompson-Eddy-Louis-the-Seventeenth-Veiled-Prophet-of-Khorassan will be the last. Taught by the methods found effective inextinguishing earlier offenders by the Inquisition, of holy memory, Ishall know how to quiet them. XIII Isn't it odd, when you think of it, that you may list all the celebratedEnglishmen, Irishmen, and Scotchmen of modern times, clear back to thefirst Tudors--a list containing five hundred names, shall we say?--andyou can go to the histories, biographies, and cyclopedias and learn theparticulars of the lives of every one of them. Every one of them exceptone--the most famous, the most renowned--by far the most illustrious ofthem all--Shakespeare! You can get the details of the lives of all thecelebrated ecclesiastics in the list; all the celebrated tragedians, comedians, singers, dancers, orators, judges, lawyers, poets, dramatists, historians, biographers, editors, inventors, reformers, statesmen, generals, admirals, discoverers, prize-fighters, murderers, pirates, conspirators, horse-jockeys, bunco-steerers, misers, swindlers, explorers, adventurers by land and sea, bankers, financiers, astronomers, naturalists, claimants, impostors, chemists, biologists, geologists, philologists, college presidents and professors, architects, engineers, painters, sculptors, politicians, agitators, rebels, revolutionists, patriots, demagogues, clowns, cooks, freaks, philosophers, burglars, highwaymen, journalists, physicians, surgeons--you can get the life-histories of all of them but ONE. Just ONE--the most extraordinary and the most celebrated of themall--Shakespeare! You may add to the list the thousand celebrated persons furnished by therest of Christendom in the past four centuries, and you can find outthe life-histories of all those people, too. You will then havelisted fifteen hundred celebrities, and you can trace the authenticlife-histories of the whole of them. Save one--far and away the mostcolossal prodigy of the entire accumulation--Shakespeare! About him youcan find out NOTHING. Nothing of even the slightest importance. Nothingworth the trouble of stowing away in your memory. Nothing that evenremotely indicates that he was ever anything more than a distinctlycommonplace person--a manager, an actor of inferior grade, a smalltrader in a small village that did not regard him as a person of anyconsequence, and had forgotten all about him before he was fairly coldin his grave. We can go to the records and find out the life-history ofevery renowned RACE-HORSE of modern times--but not Shakespeare's! Thereare many reasons why, and they have been furnished in cart-loads (ofguess and conjecture) by those troglodytes; but there is one thatis worth all the rest of the reasons put together, and is abundantlysufficient all by itself--HE HADN'T ANY HISTORY TO RECORD. There is noway of getting around that deadly fact. And no sane way has yet beendiscovered of getting around its formidable significance. Its quite plain significance--to any but those thugs (I do not use theterm unkindly) is, that Shakespeare had no prominence while he lived, and none until he had been dead two or three generations. The Playsenjoyed high fame from the beginning; and if he wrote them it seems apity the world did not find it out. He ought to have explained that hewas the author, and not merely a NOM DE PLUME for another man to hidebehind. If he had been less intemperately solicitous about his bones, and more solicitous about his Works, it would have been better for hisgood name, and a kindness to us. The bones were not important. They willmoulder away, they will turn to dust, but the Works will endure untilthe last sun goes down. Mark Twain. P. S. MARCH 25. About two months ago I was illuminating thisAutobiography with some notions of mine concerning the Bacon-Shakespearecontroversy, and I then took occasion to air the opinion that theStratford Shakespeare was a person of no public consequence or celebrityduring his lifetime, but was utterly obscure and unimportant. And notonly in great London, but also in the little village where he was born, where he lived a quarter of a century, and where he died and was buried. I argued that if he had been a person of any note at all, aged villagerswould have had much to tell about him many and many a year after hisdeath, instead of being unable to furnish inquirers a single factconnected with him. I believed, and I still believe, that if he had beenfamous, his notoriety would have lasted as long as mine has lasted inmy native village out in Missouri. It is a good argument, a prodigiouslystrong one, and most formidable one for even the most gifted andingenious and plausible Stratfordolator to get around or explain away. Today a Hannibal COURIER-POST of recent date has reached me, with anarticle in it which reinforces my contention that a really celebratedperson cannot be forgotten in his village in the short space of sixtyyears. I will make an extract from it: Hannibal, as a city, may have many sins to answer for, but ingratitudeis not one of them, or reverence for the great men she has produced, andas the years go by her greatest son, Mark Twain, or S. L. Clemens as afew of the unlettered call him, grows in the estimation and regard ofthe residents of the town he made famous and the town that made himfamous. His name is associated with every old building that is torndown to make way for the modern structures demanded by a rapidly growingcity, and with every hill or cave over or through which he might by anypossibility have roamed, while the many points of interest which he woveinto his stories, such as Holiday Hill, Jackson's Island, or MarkTwain Cave, are now monuments to his genius. Hannibal is glad of anyopportunity to do him honor as he had honored her. So it has happened that the "old timers" who went to school with Markor were with him on some of his usual escapades have been honoredwith large audiences whenever they were in a reminiscent mood andcondescended to tell of their intimacy with the ordinary boy who came tobe a very extraordinary humorist and whose every boyish act is now seento have been indicative of what was to come. Like Aunt Becky and Mrs. Clemens, they can now see that Mark was hardly appreciated when he livedhere and that the things he did as a boy and was whipped for doing werenot all bad, after all. So they have been in no hesitancy about drawingout the bad things he did as well as the good in their efforts to geta "Mark Twain" story, all incidents being viewed in the light of hispresent fame, until the volume of "Twainiana" is already considerableand growing in proportion as the "old timers" drop away and the storiesare retold second and third hand by their descendants. With someseventy-three years and living in a villa instead of a house, he is afair target, and let him incorporate, copyright, or patent himself ashe will, there are some of his "works" that will go swooping up Hannibalchimneys as long as graybeards gather about the fires and begin with, "I've heard father tell, " or possibly, "Once when I. " The Mrs. Clemensreferred to is my mother--WAS my mother. And here is another extract from a Hannibal paper, of date twenty daysago: Miss Becca Blankenship died at the home of William Dickason, 408 RockStreet, at 2. 30 o'clock yesterday afternoon, aged 72 years. The deceasedwas a sister of "Huckleberry Finn, " one of the famous characters in MarkTwain's TOM SAWYER. She had been a member of the Dickason family--thehousekeeper--for nearly forty-five years, and was a highly respectedlady. For the past eight years she had been an invalid, but was aswell cared for by Mr. Dickason and his family as if she had been a nearrelative. She was a member of the Park Methodist Church and a Christianwoman. I remember her well. I have a picture of her in my mind which was graventhere, clear and sharp and vivid, sixty-three years ago. She was at thattime nine years old, and I was about eleven. I remember where she stood, and how she looked; and I can still see her bare feet, her bare head, her brown face, and her short tow-linen frock. She was crying. What itwas about I have long ago forgotten. But it was the tears that preservedthe picture for me, no doubt. She was a good child, I can say that forher. She knew me nearly seventy years ago. Did she forget me, inthe course of time? I think not. If she had lived in Stratford inShakespeare's time, would she have forgotten him? Yes. For he was neverfamous during his lifetime, he was utterly obscure in Stratford, andthere wouldn't be any occasion to remember him after he had been dead aweek. "Injun Joe, " "Jimmy Finn, " and "General Gaines" were prominent and veryintemperate ne'er-do-weels in Hannibal two generations ago. Plenty ofgrayheads there remember them to this day, and can tell you about them. Isn't it curious that two "town drunkards" and one half-breed loafershould leave behind them, in a remote Missourian village, a fame ahundred times greater and several hundred times more particularized inthe matter of definite facts than Shakespeare left behind him in thevillage where he had lived the half of his lifetime?