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What Is Man? And Other Stories
By
Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)
CONTENTS:
HOW =
TO MAKE
HISTORY DATES STICK
SWIT=
ZERLAND,
THE CRADLE OF LIBERTY
BUT =
YOU
CAN'T CHANGE THE PHONOGRAPHIC SPELLING; THERE ISN'T ANY WAY. <=
!--[if supportFields]> =
AS C=
ONCERNS
INTERPRETING THE DEITY
VIII
Shakespeare as a Lawyer (1).
IX D=
id
Francis Bacon write Shakespeare's Works? Nobody knows.
a. Man the Machine. b. Personal Merit
(The Old Man and the Young Man had been conversing. The
Old Man had
asserted that the human being is merely a machine, and
nothing more. The
Young Man objected, and asked him to go into particula=
rs
and furnish his
reasons for his position.)
Old Man. What are the materials of which a steam-engin=
e 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?
crush it, smelt it, reduce it to pig-iron; put some of=
it
through
the
several metals of which brass is made.
O.M. Then?
Y.M. Out of the perfected result, build the fine engin=
e.
O.M. You would require much of this one?
Y.M. Oh, indeed yes.
O.M. It could drive lathes, drills, planers, punches,
polishers, in a
word all the cunning machines of a great factory?
Y.M. It could.
O.M. What could the stone engine do?
Y.M. Drive a sewing-machine, possibly--nothing more,
perhaps.
O.M. Men would admire the other engine and rapturously
praise it?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. But not the stone one?
Y.M. No.
O.M. The merits of the metal machine would be far above
those of the
stone one?
Y.M. Of course.
O.M. Personal merits?
Y.M. PERSONAL merits? How do you mean?
O.M. It would be personally entitled to the credit of =
its
own
performance?
Y.M. The engine? Certainly not.
O.M. Why not?
Y.M. Because its performance is not personal. It is the
result of the
law of construction. It is not a MERIT that it does the
things which it
is set to do--it can't HELP doing them.
O.M. And it is not a personal demerit in the stone mac=
hine
that it does
so little?
Y.M. Certainly not. It does no more and no less than t=
he
law of its make
permits and compels it to do. There is nothing PERSONAL
about it; it
cannot choose. In this process of "working up to =
the
matter" is it your
idea to work up to the proposition that man and a mach=
ine
are about the
same thing, and that there is no personal merit in the
performance of
either?
O.M. Yes--but do not be offended; I am meaning no offe=
nse.
What makes
the grand difference between the stone engine and the
steel one? Shall
we call it training, education? Shall we call the stone
engine a savage
and the steel one a civilized man? The original rock
contained the stuff
of which the steel one was built--but along with a lot=
of
sulphur and
stone and other obstructing inborn heredities, brought
down from the old
geologic ages--prejudices, let us call them. Prejudices
which nothing
within the rock itself had either POWER to remove or a=
ny
DESIRE to
remove. Will you take note of that phrase?
Y.M. Yes. I have written it down; "Prejudices whi=
ch
nothing within the
rock itself had either power to remove or any desire to
remove." Go on.
O.M. Prejudices must be removed by OUTSIDE INFLUENCES =
or
not at all. Put
that down.
Y.M. Very well; "Must be removed by outside
influences or not at all."
Go on.
O.M. The iron's prejudice against ridding itself of the
cumbering rock.
To make it more exact, the iron's absolute INDIFFERENC=
E as
to whether
the rock be removed or not. Then comes the OUTSIDE
INFLUENCE and grinds
the rock to powder and sets the ore free. The IRON in =
the
ore is still
captive. An OUTSIDE INFLUENCE smelts it free of the
clogging ore. The
iron is emancipated iron, now, but indifferent to furt=
her
progress. An
OUTSIDE INFLUENCE beguiles it into the
into steel of the first quality. It is educated, now--=
its
training is
complete. And it has reached its limit. By no possible
process can it be
educated into GOLD. Will you set that down?
Y.M. Yes. "Everything has its limit--iron ore can=
not
be educated into
gold."
O.M. There are gold men, and tin men, and copper men, =
and
leaden mean,
and steel men, and so on--and each has the limitations=
of
his nature,
his heredities, his training, and his environment. You=
can
build engines
out of each of these metals, and they will all perform,
but you must
not require the weak ones to do equal work with the st=
rong
ones. In
each case, to get the best results, you must free the
metal from its
obstructing prejudicial ones by education--smelting,
refining, and so
forth.
Y.M. You have arrived at man, now?
O.M. Yes. Man the machine--man the impersonal engine.
Whatsoever a man
is, is due to his MAKE, and to the INFLUENCES brought =
to
bear upon it
by his heredities, his habitat, his associations. He is
moved, directed,
COMMANDED, by EXTERIOR influences--SOLELY. He ORIGINAT=
ES
nothing, not even a thought.
Y.M. Oh, come! Where did I get my opinion that this wh=
ich
you are
talking is all foolishness?
O.M. It is a quite natural opinion--indeed an inevitab=
le
opinion--but
YOU did not create the materials out of which it is
formed. They are
odds and ends of thoughts, impressions, feelings, gath=
ered
unconsciously
from a thousand books, a thousand conversations, and f=
rom
streams of
thought and feeling which have flowed down into your h=
eart
and brain out
of the hearts and brains of centuries of ancestors.
PERSONALLY you did
not create even the smallest microscopic fragment of t=
he
materials out
of which your opinion is made; and personally you cann=
ot
claim even the
slender merit of PUTTING THE BORROWED MATERIALS TOGETH=
ER.
That was done AUTOMATICALLY--by your mental machinery, in strict accordance=
with
the law of that machinery's construction. And you not only did not make tha=
t machinery
yourself, but you have NOT EVEN ANY COMMAND OVER IT.
Y.M. This is too much. You think I could have formed no
opinion but that
one?
O.M. Spontaneously? No. And YOU DID NOT FORM THAT ONE;
your machinery did it for you--automatically and instantly, without reflect=
ion
or the need of it.
Y.M. Suppose I had reflected? How then?
O.M. Suppose you try?
Y.M. (AFTER A QUARTER OF AN HOUR.) I have reflected.
O.M. You mean you have tried to change your opinion--a=
s an
experiment?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. With success?
Y.M. No. It remains the same; it is impossible to chan=
ge
it.
O.M. I am sorry, but you see, yourself, that your mind=
is
merely a
machine, nothing more. You have no command over it, it=
has
no command
over itself--it is worked SOLELY FROM THE OUTSIDE. Tha=
t is
the law of
its make; it is the law of all machines.
Y.M. Can't I EVER change one of these automatic opinio=
ns?
O.M. No. You can't yourself, but EXTERIOR INFLUENCES c=
an 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 res=
olve
to enter upon
a course of thought, and study, and reading, with the
deliberate purpose
of changing that opinion; and suppose I succeed. THAT =
is
not the work
of an exterior impulse, the whole of it is mine and
personal; for I
originated the project.
O.M. Not a shred of it. IT GREW OUT OF THIS TALK WITH =
ME.
But for that
it would not have occurred to you. No man ever origina=
tes
anything. All
his thoughts, all his impulses, come FROM THE OUTSIDE.=
Y.M. It's an exasperating subject. The FIRST man had
original thoughts,
anyway; there was nobody to draw from.
O.M. It is a mistake. Adam's thoughts came to him from=
the
outside. YOU
have a fear of death. You did not invent that--you got=
it
from outside,
from talking and teaching. Adam had no fear of death--=
none
in the world.
Y.M. Yes, he had.
O.M. When he was created?
Y.M. No.
O.M. When, then?
Y.M. When he was threatened with it.
O.M. Then it came from OUTSIDE. Adam is quite big enou=
gh;
let us not try
to make a god of him. NONE BUT GODS HAVE EVER HAD A
THOUGHT WHICH DID NOT COME FROM THE OUTSIDE. Adam probably had a good head,=
but
it was of no sort of use to him until it was filled up FROM THE OUTSIDE. He=
was
not able to invent the triflingest little thing with it. He had not a shado=
w of
a notion of the difference between good and evil--he had to
get the idea FROM THE OUTSIDE. Neither he nor Eve was =
able
to originate
the idea that it was immodest to go naked; the knowled=
ge
came in with
the apple FROM THE OUTSIDE. A man's brain is so
constructed that IT CAN ORIGINATE NOTHING WHATSOEVER. It can only use mater=
ial
obtained OUTSIDE.
It is merely a machine; and it works automatically, no=
t by
will-power.
IT HAS NO COMMAND OVER ITSELF, ITS OWNER HAS NO COMMAND
OVER IT.
Y.M. Well, never mind Adam: but certainly Shakespeare's
creations--
O.M. No, you mean Shakespeare's IMITATIONS. Shakespeare
created nothing.
He correctly observed, and he marvelously painted. He
exactly portrayed
people whom GOD had created; but he created none himse=
lf.
Let us spare
him the slander of charging him with trying. Shakespea=
re
could not
create. HE WAS A MACHINE, AND MACHINES DO NOT CREATE.<= o:p>
Y.M. Where WAS his excellence, then?
O.M. In this. He was not a sewing-machine, like you and
me; he was a
Gobelin loom. The threads and the colors came into him
FROM THE OUTSIDE;
outside influences, suggestions, EXPERIENCES (reading,
seeing plays,
playing plays, borrowing ideas, and so on), framed the
patterns in
his mind and started up his complex and admirable
machinery, and IT
AUTOMATICALLY turned out that pictured and gorgeous fa=
bric
which still
compels the astonishment of the world. If Shakespeare =
had
been born and
bred on a barren and unvisited rock in the ocean his
mighty intellect
would have had no OUTSIDE MATERIAL to work with, and c=
ould
have invented none; and NO OUTSIDE INFLUENCES, teachings, moldings,
persuasions, inspirations, of a valuable sort, and could have invented none;
and so Shakespeare would have produced nothing. In Turkey he would have
produced something--something up to the highest limit =
of
Turkish
influences, associations, and training. In France he w=
ould
have produced
something better--something up to the highest limit of=
the
French
influences and training. In England he rose to the hig=
hest
limit
attainable through the OUTSIDE HELPS AFFORDED BY THAT
LAND'S IDEALS, INFLUENCES, AND TRAINING. You and I are but sewing-machines.=
We
must turn out what we can; we must do our endeavor and care nothing at all =
when
the unthinking reproach us for not turning out Gobelins.
Y.M. And so we are mere machines! And machines may not
boast, nor
feel proud of their performance, nor claim personal me=
rit
for it, nor
applause and praise. It is an infamous doctrine.
O.M. It isn't a doctrine, it is merely a fact.
Y.M. I suppose, then, there is no more merit in being
brave than in
being a coward?
O.M. PERSONAL merit? No. A brave man does not CREATE h=
is
bravery. He is entitled to no personal credit for possessing it. It is born=
to
him. A
baby born with a billion dollars--where is the personal
merit in that?
A baby born with nothing--where is the personal demeri=
t in
that? The
one is fawned upon, admired, worshiped, by sycophants,=
the
other is
neglected and despised--where is the sense in it?
Y.M. Sometimes a timid man sets himself the task of
conquering his
cowardice and becoming brave--and succeeds. What do you
say to that?
O.M. That it shows the value of TRAINING IN RIGHT
DIRECTIONS OVER
TRAINING IN WRONG ONES. Inestimably valuable is traini=
ng,
influence,
education, in right directions--TRAINING ONE'S
SELF-APPROBATION TO
ELEVATE ITS IDEALS.
Y.M. But as to merit--the personal merit of the victor=
ious
coward's
project and achievement?
O.M. There isn't any. In the world's view he is a wort=
hier
man than he
was before, but HE didn't achieve the change--the meri=
t of
it is not
his.
Y.M. Whose, then?
O.M. His MAKE, and the influences which wrought upon it
from the
outside.
Y.M. His make?
O.M. To start with, he was NOT utterly and completely a
coward, or the
influences would have had nothing to work upon. He was=
not
afraid of a
cow, though perhaps of a bull: not afraid of a woman, =
but
afraid of a
man. There was something to build upon. There was a SE=
ED.
No seed, no
plant. Did he make that seed himself, or was it born in
him? It was no
merit of HIS that the seed was there.
Y.M. Well, anyway, the idea of CULTIVATING it, the
resolution to
cultivate it, was meritorious, and he originated that.=
O.M. He did nothing of the kind. It came whence ALL
impulses, good or
bad, come--from OUTSIDE. If that timid man had lived a=
ll
his life in
a community of human rabbits, had never read of brave
deeds, had never
heard speak of them, had never heard any one praise th=
em
nor express
envy of the heroes that had done them, he would have h=
ad
no more idea of
bravery than Adam had of modesty, and it could never by
any possibility
have occurred to him to RESOLVE to become brave. He CO=
ULD
NOT ORIGINATE THE IDEA--it had to come to him from the OUTSIDE. And so, whe=
n he
heard bravery extolled and cowardice derided, it woke him up. He was ashame=
d.
Perhaps his sweetheart turned up her nose and said,
"I am told that you
are a coward!" It was not HE that turned over the=
new
leaf--she did it
for him. HE must not strut around in the merit of it--=
it
is not his.
Y.M. But, anyway, he reared the plant after she watered
the seed.
O.M. No. OUTSIDE INFLUENCES reared it. At the command-=
-and
trembling--he
marched out into the field--with other soldiers and in=
the
daytime, not
alone and in the dark. He had the INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE=
, he
drew courage from his comrades' courage; he was afraid, and wanted to run, =
but
he did not dare; he was AFRAID to run, with all those soldiers looking on. =
He was
progressing, you see--the moral fear of shame had risen superior to
the physical fear of harm. By the end of the campaign
experience will
have taught him that not ALL who go into battle get
hurt--an outside
influence which will be helpful to him; and he will al=
so
have learned
how sweet it is to be praised for courage and be huzza=
'd
at with
tear-choked voices as the war-worn regiment marches pa=
st
the worshiping
multitude with flags flying and the drums beating. Aft=
er
that he will
be as securely brave as any veteran in the army--and t=
here
will not be a
shade nor suggestion of PERSONAL MERIT in it anywhere;=
it
will all have
come from the OUTSIDE. The Victoria Cross breeds more
heroes than--
Y.M. Hang it, where is the sense in his becoming brave=
if
he is to get
no credit for it?
O.M. Your question will answer itself presently. It
involves an
important detail of man's make which we have not yet
touched upon.
Y.M. What detail is that?
O.M. The impulse which moves a person to do things--the
only impulse
that ever moves a person to do a thing.
Y.M. The ONLY one! Is there but one?
O.M. That is all. There is only one.
Y.M. Well, certainly that is a strange enough doctrine.
What is the sole
impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing?
O.M. The impulse to CONTENT HIS OWN SPIRIT--the NECESS=
ITY
of contenting
his own spirit and WINNING ITS APPROVAL.
Y.M. Oh, come, that won't do!
O.M. Why won't it?
Y.M. Because it puts him in the attitude of always loo=
king
out for his
own comfort and advantage; whereas an unselfish man of=
ten
does a thing
solely for another person's good when it is a positive
disadvantage to
himself.
O.M. It is a mistake. The act must do HIM good, FIRST;
otherwise he will
not do it. He may THINK he is doing it solely for the
other person's
sake, but it is not so; he is contenting his own spirit
first--the
other's person's benefit has to always take SECOND pla=
ce.
Y.M. What a fantastic idea! What becomes of
self-sacrifice? Please
answer me that.
O.M. What is self-sacrifice?
Y.M. The doing good to another person where no shadow =
nor
suggestion of
benefit to one's self can result from it.
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? Y=
ou
have examined
them--critically?
Y.M. They don't need it: the acts themselv=
es
reveal the golden impulse
back of them.
O.M. For instance?
Y.M. Well, then, for instance. Take the ca=
se
in the book here. The man
lives three miles up-town. It is bitter co=
ld,
snowing hard, midnight.
He is about to enter the horse-car when a =
gray
and ragged old woman, a
touching picture of misery, puts out her l=
ean
hand and begs for rescue
from hunger and death. The man finds that =
he
has a quarter in his
pocket, but he does not hesitate: he gives=
it
her and trudges home
through the storm. There--it is noble, it =
is
beautiful; its grace is
marred by no fleck or blemish or suggestio=
n of
self-interest.
O.M. What makes you think that?
Y.M. Pray what else could I think? Do you
imagine that there is some
other way of looking at it?
O.M. Can you put yourself in the man's pla=
ce
and tell me what he felt
and what he thought?
Y.M. Easily. The sight of that suffering o=
ld
face pierced his generous
heart with a sharp pain. He could not bear=
it.
He could endure the
three-mile walk in the storm, but he could=
not
endure the tortures his
conscience would suffer if he turned his b=
ack
and left that poor old
creature to perish. He would not have been
able to sleep, for thinking
of it.
O.M. What was his state of mind on his way
home?
Y.M. It was a state of joy which only the
self-sacrificer knows. His
heart sang, he was unconscious of the stor=
m.
O.M. He felt well?
Y.M. One cannot doubt it.
O.M. Very well. Now let us add up the deta=
ils
and see how much he got
for his twenty-five cents. Let us try to f=
ind
out the REAL why of his
making the investment. In the first place =
HE
couldn't bear the pain
which the old suffering face gave him. So =
he
was thinking of HIS
pain--this good man. He must buy a salve f=
or
it. If he did not succor
the old woman HIS conscience would torture=
him
all the way home.
Thinking of HIS pain again. He must buy re=
lief
for that. If he didn't
relieve the old woman HE would not get any
sleep. He must buy some
sleep--still thinking of HIMSELF, you see.
Thus, to sum up, he bought
himself free of a sharp pain in his heart,=
he
bought himself free of the
tortures of a waiting conscience, he bough=
t a
whole night's sleep--all
for twenty-five cents! It should make Wall
Street ashamed of itself. On
his way home his heart was joyful, and it
sang--profit on top of profit!
The impulse which moved the man to succor =
the
old woman was--FIRST--to
CONTENT HIS OWN SPIRIT; secondly to relieve
HER sufferings. Is it your
opinion that men's acts proceed from one
central and unchanging and
inalterable impulse, or from a variety of
impulses?
Y.M. From a variety, of course--some high =
and
fine and noble, others
not. What is your opinion?
O.M. Then there is but ONE law, one source=
.
Y.M. That both the noblest impulses and the
basest proceed from that one
source?
O.M. Yes.
Y.M. Will you put that law into words?
O.M. Yes. This is the law, keep it in your mind. FROM =
HIS
CRADLE TO HIS
GRAVE A MAN NEVER DOES A SINGLE THING WHICH HAS ANY FI=
RST
AND FOREMOST OBJECT BUT ONE--TO SECURE PEACE OF MIND, SPIRITUAL COMFORT, FOR
HIMSELF.
Y.M. Come! He never does anything for any one else's
comfort, spiritual
or physical?
O.M. No. EXCEPT ON THOSE DISTINCT TERMS--that it shall
FIRST secure HIS OWN spiritual comfort. Otherwise he will not do it.
Y.M. It will be easy to expose the falsity=
of
that proposition.
O.M. For instance?
Y.M. Take that noble passion, love of coun=
try,
patriotism. A man who
loves peace and dreads pain, leaves his
pleasant home and his weeping
family and marches out to manfully expose
himself to hunger, cold,
wounds, and death. Is that seeking spiritu=
al
comfort?
O.M. He loves peace and dreads pain?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. Then perhaps there is something that he loves MORE
than he loves
peace--THE APPROVAL OF HIS NEIGHBORS AND THE PUBLIC. A=
nd
perhaps there is something which he dreads more than he dreads pain--the
DISAPPROVAL of his neighbors and the public. If he is sensitive to shame he
will go to the field--not because his spirit will be ENTIRELY comfortable
there, but because it will be more comfortable there than it would be if he=
remained at home. He will always do the thing which wi=
ll
bring him the
MOST mental comfort--for that is THE SOLE LAW OF HIS L=
IFE.
He leaves the weeping family behind; he is sorry to make them uncomfortable,
but not
sorry enough to sacrifice his OWN comfort to secure
theirs.
Y.M. Do you really believe that mere public
opinion could force a timid
and peaceful man to--
O.M. Go to war? Yes--public opinion can fo=
rce
some men to do ANYTHING.
Y.M. ANYTHING?
O.M. Yes--anything.
Y.M. I don't believe that. Can it force a
right-principled man to do a
wrong thing?
O.M. Yes.
Y.M. Can it force a kind man to do a cruel
thing?
O.M. Yes.
Y.M. Give an instance.
O.M. Alexander Hamilton was a conspicuously
high-principled man.
He regarded dueling as wrong, and as oppos=
ed
to the teachings of
religion--but in deference to PUBLIC OPINI=
ON
he fought a duel. He deeply
loved his family, but to buy public approv=
al
he treacherously deserted
them and threw his life away, ungenerously
leaving them to lifelong
sorrow in order that he might stand well w=
ith
a foolish world. In the
then condition of the public standards of
honor he could not have been
comfortable with the stigma upon him of ha=
ving
refused to fight. The
teachings of religion, his devotion to his
family, his kindness of
heart, his high principles, all went for
nothing when they stood in the
way of his spiritual comfort. A man will do
ANYTHING, no matter what it
is, TO SECURE HIS SPIRITUAL COMFORT; and he
can neither be forced nor
persuaded to any act which has not that go=
al
for its object. Hamilton's
act was compelled by the inborn necessity =
of
contenting his own spirit;
in this it was like all the other acts of =
his
life, and like all the
acts of all men's lives. Do you see where =
the
kernel of the matter lies?
A man cannot be comfortable without HIS OWN
approval. He will secure the
largest share possible of that, at all cos=
ts,
all sacrifices.
Y.M. A minute ago you said Hamilton fought
that duel to get PUBLIC
approval.
O.M. I did. By refusing to fight the duel =
he
would have secured his
family's approval and a large share of his
own; but the public approval
was more valuable in his eyes than all oth=
er
approvals put together--in
the earth or above it; to secure that would
furnish him the MOST comfort
of mind, the most SELF-approval; so he
sacrificed all other values to
get it.
Y.M. Some noble souls have refused to fight
duels, and have manfully
braved the public contempt.
O.M. They acted ACCORDING TO THEIR MAKE. T=
hey
valued their principles
and the approval of their families ABOVE t=
he
public approval. They took
the thing they valued MOST and let the rest go. They t=
ook
what would
give them the LARGEST share of PERSONAL CONTENTMENT AND
APPROVAL--a man ALWAYS does. Public opinion cannot force that kind of men t=
o go
to the wars. When they go it is for other reasons. Other spirit-contenting =
reasons.
Y.M. Always spirit-contenting reasons?
O.M. There are no others.
Y.M. When a man sacrifices his life to sav=
e a
little child from a
burning building, what do you call that?
O.M. When he does it, it is the law of HIS
make. HE can't bear to see
the child in that peril (a man of a differ=
ent
make COULD), and so he
tries to save the child, and loses his lif=
e.
But he has got what he was
after--HIS OWN APPROVAL.
Y.M. What do you call Love, Hate, Charity,
Revenge, Humanity,
Magnanimity, Forgiveness?
O.M. Different results of the one Master
Impulse: the necessity of
securing one's self approval. They wear
diverse clothes and are subject
to diverse moods, but in whatsoever ways t=
hey
masquerade they are the
SAME PERSON all the time. To change the
figure, the COMPULSION that
moves a man--and there is but the one--is =
the
necessity of securing the
contentment of his own spirit. When it sto=
ps,
the man is dead.
Y.M. That is foolishness. Love--
O.M. Why, love is that impulse, that law, =
in
its most uncompromising
form. It will squander life and everything
else on its object. Not
PRIMARILY for the object's sake, but for I=
TS
OWN. When its object is
happy IT is happy--and that is what it is
unconsciously after.
Y.M. You do not even except the lofty and
gracious passion of
mother-love?
O.M. No, IT is the absolute slave of that =
law.
The mother will go naked
to clothe her child; she will starve that =
it
may have food; suffer
torture to save it from pain; die that it may live. She
takes a living
PLEASURE in making these sacrifices. SHE DOES IT FOR T=
HAT
REWARD—that self-approval, that contentment, that peace, that comfort.
SHE WOULD DO IT FOR YOUR CHILD IF SHE COULD GET THE SAME PAY.
Y.M. This is an infernal philosophy of you=
rs.
O.M. It isn't a philosophy, it is a fact.<= o:p>
Y.M. Of course you must admit that there a=
re
some acts which--
O.M. No. There is NO act, large or small, =
fine
or mean, which springs
from any motive but the one--the necessity=
of
appeasing and contenting
one's own spirit.
Y.M. The world's philanthropists--
O.M. I honor them, I uncover my head to
them--from habit and training;
and THEY could not know comfort or happine=
ss
or self-approval if they
did not work and spend for the unfortunate=
. It
makes THEM happy to
see others happy; and so with money and la=
bor
they buy what they are
after--HAPPINESS, SELF-APPROVAL. Why don't
miners do the same thing?
Because they can get a thousandfold more
happiness by NOT doing it.
There is no other reason. They follow the =
law
of their make.
Y.M. What do you say of duty for duty's sa=
ke?
O.M. That IS DOES NOT EXIST. Duties are not performed =
for
duty's SAKE,
but because their NEGLECT would make the man
UNCOMFORTABLE. A man performs but ONE duty--the duty of contenting his spir=
it,
the duty of
making himself agreeable to himself. If he can most
satisfyingly perform
this sole and only duty by HELPING his
neighbor, he will do it; if he
can most satisfyingly perform it by SWINDL=
ING
his neighbor, he will
do it. But he always looks out for Number
One--FIRST; the effects upon
others are a SECONDARY matter. Men pretend=
to
self-sacrifices, but this
is a thing which, in the ordinary value of=
the
phrase, DOES NOT EXIST
AND HAS NOT EXISTED. A man often honestly
THINKS he is sacrificing
himself merely and solely for some one els=
e,
but he is deceived; his
bottom impulse is to content a requirement=
of
his nature and training,
and thus acquire peace for his soul.
Y.M. Apparently, then, all men, both good =
and
bad ones, devote their
lives to contenting their consciences.
O.M. Yes. That is a good enough name for i=
t:
Conscience--that
independent Sovereign, that insolent absol=
ute
Monarch inside of a man
who is the man's Master. There are all kin=
ds
of consciences, because
there are all kinds of men. You satisfy an
assassin's conscience in one
way, a philanthropist's in another, a mise=
r's
in another, a burglar's in
still another. As a GUIDE or INCENTIVE to =
any
authoritatively prescribed
line of morals or conduct (leaving TRAINING
out of the account), a man's
conscience is totally valueless. I know a
kind-hearted Kentuckian whose
self-approval was lacking--whose conscience was troubl=
ing
him, to phrase
it with exactness--BECAUSE HE HAD NEGLECTED TO KILL A
CERTAIN MAN--a man whom he had never seen. The stranger had killed this man=
's
friend in a fight, this man's Kentucky training made it a duty to kill the
stranger for it. He neglected his duty--kept dodging it, shirking it, putti=
ng
it off, and his unrelenting conscience kept persecuting
him for this
conduct. At last, to get ease of mind,
comfort, self-approval, he
hunted up the stranger and took his life. =
It
was an immense act of
SELF-SACRIFICE (as per the usual definitio=
n),
for he did not want to do
it, and he never would have done it if he
could have bought a contented
spirit and an unworried mind at smaller co=
st.
But we are so made that we
will pay ANYTHING for that contentment--ev=
en
another man's life.
Y.M. You spoke a moment ago of TRAINED consciences. You
mean that we are not BORN with consciences competent to guide us aright?
O.M. If we were, children and savages would
know right from wrong, and
not have to be taught it.
Y.M. But consciences can be TRAINED?
O.M. Yes.
Y.M. Of course by parents, teachers, the
pulpit, and books.
O.M. Yes--they do their share; they do wha=
t they
can.
Y.M. And the rest is done by--
O.M. Oh, a million unnoticed influences--f=
or
good or bad: influences
which work without rest during every waking
moment of a man's life, from
cradle to grave.
Y.M. You have tabulated these?
O.M. Many of them--yes.
Y.M. Will you read me the result?
O.M. Another time, yes. It would take an h=
our.
Y.M. A conscience can be trained to shun e=
vil
and prefer good?
O.M. Yes.
Y.M. But will it for spirit-contenting rea=
sons
only?
O.M. It CAN'T be trained to do a thing for=
any
OTHER reason. The thing
is impossible.
Y.M. There MUST be a genuinely and utterly
self-sacrificing act recorded
in human history somewhere.
O.M. You are young. You have many years be=
fore
you. Search one out.
Y.M. It does seem to me that when a man se=
es a
fellow-being struggling
in the water and jumps in at the risk of h=
is
life to save him--
O.M. Wait. Describe the MAN. Describe the
FELLOW-BEING. State if there
is an AUDIENCE present; or if they are ALO=
NE.
Y.M. What have these things to do with the
splendid act?
O.M. Very much. Shall we suppose, as a
beginning, that the two are
alone, in a solitary place, at midnight?
Y.M. If you choose.
O.M. And that the fellow-being is the man's
daughter?
Y.M. Well, n-no--make it someone else.
O.M. A filthy, drunken ruffian, then?
Y.M. I see. Circumstances alter cases. I
suppose that if there was no
audience to observe the act, the man would=
n'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 s=
ave
the child from the fire;
and the man who gave the needy old woman h=
is
twenty-five cents and
walked home in the storm--there are here a=
nd
there men like that who
would do it. And why? Because they couldn't
BEAR to see a fellow-being
struggling in the water and not jump in and
help. It would give THEM
pain. They would save the fellow-being on =
that
account. THEY WOULDN'T
DO IT OTHERWISE. They strictly obey the law
which I have been insisting
upon. You must remember and always disting=
uish
the people who CAN'T
BEAR things from people who CAN. It will t=
hrow
light upon a number of
apparently "self-sacrificing" ca=
ses.
Y.M. Oh, dear, it's all so disgusting.
O.M. Yes. And so true.
Y.M. Come--take the good boy who does thin=
gs
he doesn't want to do, in
order to gratify his mother.
O.M. He does seven-tenths of the act becau=
se
it gratifies HIM to gratify
his mother. Throw the bulk of advantage the
other way and the good boy
would not do the act. He MUST obey the iron
law. None can escape it.
Y.M. Well, take the case of a bad boy who-=
-
O.M. You needn't mention it, it is a waste=
of
time. It is no matter
about the bad boy's act. Whatever it was, =
he
had a spirit-contenting
reason for it. Otherwise you have been
misinformed, and he didn't do it.
Y.M. It is very exasperating. A while ago =
you
said that man's conscience
is not a born judge of morals and conduct,=
but
has to be taught and
trained. Now I think a conscience can get
drowsy and lazy, but I don't
think it can go wrong; if you wake it up--=
A Little Story
O.M. I will tell you a little story:
Once upon a time an Infidel was guest in t=
he
house of a Christian widow
whose little boy was ill and near to death.
The Infidel often watched
by the bedside and entertained the boy with
talk, and he used these
opportunities to satisfy a strong longing =
in
his nature--that desire
which is in us all to better other people's
condition by having them
think as we think. He was successful. But =
the
dying boy, in his last
moments, reproached him and said:
"I BELIEVED, AND WAS HAPPY IN IT; YOU HAVE TAKEN =
MY
BELIEF AWAY, AND MY COMFORT. NOW I HAVE NOTHING LEFT, AND I DIE MISERABLE; =
FOR
THE THINGS WHICH YOU HAVE TOLD ME DO NOT TAKE THE PLACE OF THAT WHICH I HAVE
LOST."
And the mother, also, reproached the Infidel, and said=
:
"MY CHILD IS FOREVER LOST, AND MY HEART IS BROKEN.
HOW COULD YOU DO THIS CRUEL THING? WE HAVE DONE YOU NO HARM, BUT ONLY KINDN=
ESS;
WE MADE OUR HOUSE YOUR HOME, YOU WERE WELCOME TO ALL WE HAD, AND THIS IS OU=
R REWARD."
The heart of the Infidel was filled with
remorse for what he had done,
and he said:
"IT WAS WRONG--I SEE IT NOW; BUT I WAS ONLY TRYIN=
G TO
DO HIM GOOD. IN MY VIEW HE WAS IN ERROR; IT SEEMED MY DUTY TO TEACH HIM THE
TRUTH."
Then the mother said:
"I HAD TAUGHT HIM, ALL HIS LITTLE LIFE, WHAT I
BELIEVED TO BE THE TRUTH, AND IN HIS BELIEVING FAITH BOTH OF US WERE HAPPY.=
NOW
HE IS DEAD,--AND LOST; AND I AM MISERABLE. OUR FAITH CAME DOWN TO US THROUGH
CENTURIES OF BELIEVING ANCESTORS; WHAT RIGHT HAD YOU, OR ANY ONE, TO DISTURB
IT? WHERE WAS YOUR HONOR, WHERE WAS YOUR SHAME?"
Y.M. He was a miscreant, and deserved deat=
h!
O.M. He thought so himself, and said so.
Y.M. Ah--you see, HIS CONSCIENCE WAS AWAKE=
NED!
O.M. Yes, his Self-Disapproval was. It PAI=
NED
him to see the mother
suffer. He was sorry he had done a thing w=
hich
brought HIM pain. It did
not occur to him to think of the mother wh=
en
he was misteaching the boy,
for he was absorbed in providing PLEASURE =
for
himself, then. Providing
it by satisfying what he believed to be a =
call
of duty.
Y.M. Call it what you please, it is to me a case of
AWAKENED CONSCIENCE.
That awakened conscience could never get itself into t=
hat
species of
trouble again. A cure like that is a PERMANENT cure.
O.M. Pardon--I had not finished the story. We are
creatures of OUTSIDE
INFLUENCES--we originate NOTHING within. Whenever we t=
ake
a new line of thought and drift into a new line of belief and action, the
impulse is
ALWAYS suggested from the OUTSIDE. Remorse so preyed u=
pon
the Infidel
that it dissolved his harshness toward the boy's relig=
ion
and made him
come to regard it with tolerance, next with kindness, =
for
the boy's
sake and the mother's. Finally he found
himself examining it. From that
moment his progress in his new trend was
steady and rapid. He became a
believing Christian. And now his remorse f=
or
having robbed the dying boy
of his faith and his salvation was bitterer
than ever. It gave him no
rest, no peace. He MUST have rest and
peace--it is the law of nature.
There seemed but one way to get it; he must
devote himself to saving
imperiled souls. He became a missionary. He
landed in a pagan country
ill and helpless. A native widow took him =
into
her humble home
and nursed him back to convalescence. Then=
her
young boy was taken
hopelessly ill, and the grateful missionary
helped her tend him. Here
was his first opportunity to repair a part=
of
the wrong done to the
other boy by doing a precious service for =
this
one by undermining his
foolish faith in his false gods. He was
successful. But the dying boy in
his last moments reproached him and said:<= o:p>
"I BELIEVED, AND WAS HAPPY IN IT; YOU HAVE TAKEN =
MY
BELIEF AWAY, AND MY COMFORT. NOW I HAVE NOTHING LEFT, AND I DIE MISERABLE; =
FOR
THE THINGS WHICH YOU HAVE TOLD ME DO NOT TAKE THE PLACE OF THAT WHICH I HAVE
LOST."
And the mother, also, reproached the missionary, and s=
aid:
"MY CHILD IS FOREVER LOST, AND MY HEART IS BROKEN.
HOW COULD YOU DO THIS CRUEL THING? WE HAD DONE YOU NO HARM, BUT ONLY KINDNE=
SS;
WE MADE OUR HOUSE YOUR HOME, YOU WERE WELCOME TO ALL WE HAD, AND THIS IS OU=
R REWARD."
The heart of the missionary was filled with
remorse for what he had
done, and he said:
"IT WAS WRONG--I SEE IT NOW; BUT I WAS ONLY TRYIN=
G TO
DO HIM GOOD. IN MY VIEW HE WAS IN ERROR; IT SEEMED MY DUTY TO TEACH HIM THE
TRUTH."
Then the mother said:
"I HAD TAUGHT HIM, ALL HIS LITTLE LIFE, WHAT I
BELIEVED TO BE THE TRUTH, AND IN HIS BELIEVING FAITH BOTH OF US WERE HAPPY.=
NOW
HE IS DEAD—AND LOST; AND I AM MISERABLE. OUR FAITH CAME DOWN TO US
THROUGH CENTURIES OF BELIEVING ANCESTORS; WHAT RIGHT HAD YOU, OR ANY ONE, TO
DISTURB IT? WHERE WAS YOUR HONOR, WHERE WAS YOUR SHAME?"
The missionary's anguish of remorse and se=
nse
of treachery were as
bitter and persecuting and unappeasable, n=
ow,
as they had been in the
former case. The story is finished. What i=
s your
comment?
Y.M. The man's conscience is a fool! It was
morbid. It didn't know right
from wrong.
O.M. I am not sorry to hear you say that. =
If
you grant that ONE man's
conscience doesn't know right from wrong, =
it
is an admission that there
are others like it. This single admission
pulls down the whole doctrine
of infallibility of judgment in conscience=
s.
Meantime there is one thing
which I ask you to notice.
Y.M. What is that?
O.M. That in both cases the man's ACT gave=
him
no spiritual discomfort,
and that he was quite satisfied with it and got pleasu=
re
out of it. But
afterward when it resulted in PAIN to HIM, he was sorr=
y.
Sorry it had
inflicted pain upon the others, BUT FOR NO REASON UNDER
THE SUN EXCEPT THAT THEIR PAIN GAVE HIM PAIN. Our consciences take NO notic=
e of
pain inflicted upon others until it reaches a point where it gives pain to =
US.
In ALL cases without exception we are absolutely indifferent to
another person's pain until his sufferings make us
uncomfortable. Many
an infidel would not have been troubled by that Christ=
ian
mother's
distress. Don't you believe that?
Y.M. Yes. You might almost say it of the
AVERAGE infidel, I think.
O.M. And many a missionary, sternly fortif=
ied
by his sense of duty,
would not have been troubled by the pagan =
mother's
distress--Jesuit
missionaries in Canada in the early French
times, for instance; see
episodes quoted by Parkman.
Y.M. Well, let us adjourn. Where have we
arrived?
O.M. At this. That we (mankind) have ticke=
ted
ourselves with a number of
qualities to which we have given misleading
names. Love, Hate, Charity,
Compassion, Avarice, Benevolence, and so o=
n. I
mean we attach misleading
MEANINGS to the names. They are all forms =
of
self-contentment,
self-gratification, but the names so disgu=
ise
them that they distract
our attention from the fact. Also we have
smuggled a word into the
dictionary which ought not to be there at
all--Self-Sacrifice. It
describes a thing which does not exist. But
worst of all, we ignore and
never mention the Sole Impulse which dicta=
tes
and compels a man's every
act: the imperious necessity of securing h=
is
own approval, in every
emergency and at all costs. To it we owe a=
ll
that we are. It is our
breath, our heart, our blood. It is our on=
ly
spur, our whip, our goad,
our only impelling power; we have no other.
Without it we should be
mere inert images, corpses; no one would do
anything, there would be
no progress, the world would stand still. =
We
ought to stand reverently
uncovered when the name of that stupendous
power is uttered.
Y.M. I am not convinced.
O.M. You will be when you think.
Instances in Point
Old Man. Have you given thought to the Gos=
pel
of Self-Approval since we
talked?
Young
O.M. It was I that moved you to it. That i=
s to
say an OUTSIDE INFLUENCE
moved you to it--not one that originated in
your head. Will you try to
keep that in mind and not forget it?
Y.M. Yes. Why?
O.M. Because by and by in one of our talks=
, I
wish to further impress
upon you that neither you, nor I, nor any man ever ori=
ginates
a thought
in his own head. THE UTTERER OF A THOUGHT ALWAYS UTTER=
S A
SECOND-HAND ONE.
Y.M. Oh, now--
O.M. Wait. Reserve your remark till we get=
to
that part of our
discussion--tomorrow or next day, say. Now,
then, have you been
considering the proposition that no act is
ever born of any but a
self-contenting impulse--(primarily). You =
have
sought. What have you
found?
Y.M. I have not been very fortunate. I have
examined many fine and
apparently self-sacrificing deeds in roman=
ces
and biographies, but--
O.M. Under searching analysis the ostensib=
le
self-sacrifice disappeared?
It naturally would.
Y.M. But here in this novel is one which s=
eems
to promise. In the
who is of noble character and deeply
religious. An earnest and practical
laborer in the
of a section of the University Settlement.
Holme, the lumberman, is
fired with a desire to throw away his
excellent worldly prospects and
go down and save souls on the
this sacrifice for the glory of God and for
the cause of Christ. He
resigns his place, makes the sacrifice
cheerfully, and goes to the East
Side and preaches Christ and Him crucified
every day and every night to
little groups of half-civilized foreign
paupers who scoff at him. But he
rejoices in the scoffings, since he is
suffering them in the great
cause of Christ. You have so filled my mind
with suspicions that I was
constantly expecting to find a hidden
questionable impulse back of all
this, but I am thankful to say I have fail=
ed.
This man saw his duty, and
for DUTY'S SAKE he sacrificed self and ass=
umed
the burden it imposed.
O.M. Is that as far as you have read?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. Let us read further, presently. Meant=
ime,
in sacrificing
himself--NOT for the glory of God, PRIMARI=
LY,
as HE imagined, but
FIRST to content that exacting and inflexi=
ble
master within him--DID HE
SACRIFICE ANYBODY ELSE?
Y.M. How do you mean?
O.M. He relinquished a lucrative post and =
got
mere food and lodging in
place of it. Had he dependents?
Y.M. Well--yes.
O.M. In what way and to what extend did his
self-sacrifice affect THEM?
Y.M. He was the support of a superannuated
father. He had a young sister
with a remarkable voice--he was giving her=
a
musical education, so that
her longing to be self-supporting might be
gratified. He was furnishing
the money to put a young brother through a
polytechnic school and
satisfy his desire to become a civil engin=
eer.
O.M. The old father's comforts were now
curtailed?
Y.M. Quite seriously. Yes.
O.M. The sister's music-lessens had to sto=
p?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. The young brother's education--well, =
an
extinguishing blight fell
upon that happy dream, and he had to go to
sawing wood to support the
old father, or something like that?
Y.M. It is about what happened. Yes.
O.M. What a handsome job of self-sacrifici=
ng
he did do! It seems to me
that he sacrificed everybody EXCEPT himsel=
f.
Haven't I told you that no
man EVER sacrifices himself; that there is=
no
instance of it upon record
anywhere; and that when a man's Interior
Monarch requires a thing of its
slave for either its MOMENTARY or its
PERMANENT contentment, that thing
must and will be furnished and that command
obeyed, no matter who may
stand in the way and suffer disaster by it?
That man RUINED HIS FAMILY
to please and content his Interior Monarch=
--
Y.M. And help Christ's cause.
O.M. Yes--SECONDLY. Not firstly. HE though=
t it
was firstly.
Y.M. Very well, have it so, if you will. B=
ut
it could be that he argued
that if he saved a hundred souls in
O.M. The sacrifice of the FAMILY would be
justified by that great profit
upon the--the--what shall we call it?
Y.M. Investment?
O.M. Hardly. How would SPECULATION do? How
would GAMBLE do? Not
a solitary soul-capture was sure. He played
for a possible
thirty-three-hundred-per-cent profit. It w=
as
GAMBLING--with his family
for "chips." However let us see =
how
the game came out. Maybe we can
get on the track of the secret original
impulse, the REAL impulse, that
moved him to so nobly self-sacrifice his
family in the Savior's cause
under the superstition that he was sacrifi=
cing
himself. I will read a
chapter or so.... Here we have it! It was
bound to expose itself sooner
or later. He preached to the East-Side rab=
ble
a season, then went back
to his old dull, obscure life in the
lumber-camps "HURT TO THE HEART,
HIS PRIDE HUMBLED." Why? Were not his
efforts acceptable to the Savior,
for Whom alone they were made? Dear me, th=
at
detail is LOST SIGHT OF,
is not even referred to, the fact that it
started out as a motive
is entirely forgotten! Then what is the
trouble? The authoress quite
innocently and unconsciously gives the who=
le
business away. The
trouble was this: this man merely PREACHED=
to
the poor; that is not the
University Settlement's way; it deals in
larger and better things than
that, and it did not enthuse over that cru=
de
Salvation-Army eloquence.
It was courteous to Holme--but cool. It did
not pet him, did not take
him to its bosom. "PERISHED WERE ALL HIS DREAMS OF
DISTINCTION, THE PRAISE AND GRATEFUL APPROVAL--" Of whom? The Savior? =
No;
the Savior is not mentioned. Of whom, then? Of "His FELLOW-WORKERS.&qu=
ot;
Why did he want that? Because the Master inside of him wanted it, and would=
not
be content without it. That emphasized sentence quoted above, reveals the s=
ecret
we have been seeking, the original impulse, the REAL impulse,
which moved the obscure and unappreciated =
sacrifice his family and go on that crusad=
e to
the
original impulse was this, to wit: without knowing it =
HE
WENT THERE TO
SHOW A NEGLECTED WORLD THE LARGE TALENT THAT WAS IN HI=
M,
AND RISE TO DISTINCTION. As I have warned you before, NO act springs from a=
ny
but the one law, the one motive. But I pray you, do not accept this law upo=
n my
say-so; but diligently examine for yourself. Whenever you read of a self-sa=
crificing
act or hear of one, or of a duty done for DUTY'S SAKE,
take it to pieces and look for the REAL motive. It is
always there.
Y.M. I do it every day. I cannot help it, =
now
that I have gotten
started upon the degrading and exasperating
quest. For it is hatefully
interesting!--in fact, fascinating is the
word. As soon as I come across
a golden deed in a book I have to stop and
take it apart and examine it,
I cannot help myself.
O.M. Have you ever found one that defeated=
the
rule?
Y.M. No--at least, not yet. But take the c=
ase
of servant-tipping in
you pay them besides. Doesn't that defeat =
it?
O.M. In what way?
Y.M. You are not OBLIGED to do it, therefo=
re
its source is compassion
for their ill-paid condition, and--
O.M. Has that custom ever vexed you, annoy=
ed
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 la=
ws
must be submitted
to--everybody recognizes it as a DUTY.
O.M. Then you pay for the irritating tax f=
or
DUTY'S sake?
Y.M. I suppose it amounts to that.
O.M. Then the impulse which moves you to
submit to the tax is not ALL
compassion, charity, benevolence?
Y.M. Well--perhaps not.
O.M. Is ANY of it?
Y.M. I--perhaps I was too hasty in locating
its source.
O.M. Perhaps so. In case you ignored the
custom would you get prompt and
effective service from the servants?
Y.M. Oh, hear yourself talk! Those European
servants? Why, you wouldn't
get any of all, to speak of.
O.M. Couldn't THAT work as an impulse to m=
ove
you to pay the tax?
Y.M. I am not denying it.
O.M. Apparently, then, it is a case of
for-duty's-sake with a little
self-interest added?
Y.M. Yes, it has the look of it. But here =
is a
point: we pay that tax
knowing it to be unjust and an extortion; =
yet
we go away with a pain at
the heart if we think we have been stingy =
with
the poor fellows; and we
heartily wish we were back again, so that =
we
could do the right thing,
and MORE than the right thing, the GENEROUS
thing. I think it will be
difficult for you to find any thought of s=
elf
in that impulse.
O.M. I wonder why you should think so. When
you find service charged in
the HOTEL bill does it annoy you?
Y.M. No.
O.M. Do you ever complain of the amount of=
it?
Y.M. No, it would not occur to me.
O.M. The EXPENSE, then, is not the annoying
detail. It is a fixed
charge, and you pay it cheerfully, you pay=
it
without a murmur. When you
came to pay the servants, how would you li=
ke
it if each of the men and
maids had a fixed charge?
Y.M. Like it? I should rejoice!
O.M. Even if the fixed tax were a shade MO=
RE
than you had been in the
habit of paying in the form of tips?
Y.M. Indeed, yes!
O.M. Very well, then. As I understand it, =
it
isn't really compassion nor
yet duty that moves you to pay the tax, an=
d it
isn't the AMOUNT of the
tax that annoys you. Yet SOMETHING annoys =
you.
What is it?
Y.M. Well, the trouble is, you never know =
WHAT
to pay, the tax varies
so, all over
O.M. So you have to guess?
Y.M. There is no other way. So you go on
thinking and thinking, and
calculating and guessing, and consulting w=
ith
other people and getting
their views; and it spoils your sleep nigh=
ts,
and makes you distraught
in the daytime, and while you are pretendi=
ng
to look at the sights you
are only guessing and guessing and guessing
all the time, and being
worried and miserable.
O.M. And all about a debt which you don't =
owe
and don't have to pay
unless you want to! Strange. What is the
purpose of the guessing?
Y.M. To guess out what is right to give th=
em,
and not be unfair to any
of them.
O.M. It has quite a noble look--taking so =
much
pains and using up so
much valuable time in order to be just and
fair to a poor servant to
whom you owe nothing, but who needs money =
and
is ill paid.
Y.M. I think, myself, that if there is any
ungracious motive back of it
it will be hard to find.
O.M. How do you know when you have not pai=
d a
servant fairly?
Y.M. Why, he is silent; does not thank you.
Sometimes he gives you a
look that makes you ashamed. You are too p=
roud
to rectify your mistake
there, with people looking, but afterward =
you
keep on wishing and
wishing you HAD done it. My, the shame and=
the
pain of it! Sometimes you
see, by the signs, that you have it JUST
RIGHT, and you go away mightily
satisfied. Sometimes the man is so effusiv=
ely
thankful that you know you
have given him a good deal MORE than was
necessary.
O.M. NECESSARY? Necessary for what?
Y.M. To content him.
O.M. How do you feel THEN?
Y.M. Repentant.
O.M. It is my belief that you have NOT been
concerning yourself in
guessing out his just dues, but only in
ciphering out what would CONTENT
him. And I think you have a self-deluding
reason for that.
Y.M. What was it?
O.M. If you fell short of what he was
expecting and wanting, you would
get a look which would SHAME YOU BEFORE FOLK. That wou=
ld
give you PAIN.
YOU--for you are only working for yourself, not HIM. If
you gave him too
much you would be ASHAMED OF YOURSELF for it, and that
would give YOU
pain--another case of thinking of YOURSELF, protecting
yourself, SAVING
YOURSELF FROM DISCOMFORT. You never think of the serva=
nt
once—except to guess out how to get HIS APPROVAL. If you get that, you
get your OWN approval, and that is the sole and only thing you are after. T=
he
Master
inside of you is then satisfied, contented,
comfortable; there was NO
OTHER thing at stake, as a matter of FIRST
interest, anywhere in the
transaction.
Further Instances
Y.M. Well, to think of it; Self-Sacrifice =
for
others, the grandest thing
in man, ruled out! non-existent!
O.M. Are you accusing me of saying that?
Y.M. Why, certainly.
O.M. I haven't said it.
Y.M. What did you say, then?
O.M. That no man has ever sacrificed himse=
lf
in the common meaning of
that phrase--which is, self-sacrifice for
another ALONE. Men make daily
sacrifices for others, but it is for their=
own
sake FIRST. The act must
content their own spirit FIRST. The other
beneficiaries come second.
Y.M. And the same with duty for duty's sak=
e?
O.M. Yes. No man performs a duty for mere
duty's sake; the act must
content his spirit FIRST. He must feel bet=
ter
for DOING the duty than he
would for shirking it. Otherwise he will n=
ot
do it.
Y.M. Take the case of the
O.M. It was a noble duty, greatly performe=
d.
Take it to pieces and
examine it, if you like.
Y.M. A British troop-ship crowded with
soldiers and their wives and
children. She struck a rock and began to s=
ink.
There was room in the
boats for the women and children only. The
colonel lined up his regiment
on the deck and said "it is our duty =
to
die, that they may be saved."
There was no murmur, no protest. The boats
carried away the women and
children. When the death-moment was come, =
the
colonel and his officers
took their several posts, the men stood at
shoulder-arms, and so, as on
dress-parade, with their flag flying and t=
he drums
beating, they went
down, a sacrifice to duty for duty's sake.=
Can
you view it as other than
that?
O.M. It was something as fine as that, as
exalted as that. Could
you have remained in those ranks and gone =
down
to your death in that
unflinching way?
Y.M. Could I? No, I could not.
O.M. Think. Imagine yourself there, with t=
hat
watery doom creeping
higher and higher around you.
Y.M. I can imagine it. I feel all the horr=
or
of it. I could not have
endured it, I could not have remained in my
place. I know it.
O.M. Why?
Y.M. There is no why about it: I know myse=
lf,
and I know I couldn't DO
it.
O.M. But it would be your DUTY to do it.
Y.M. Yes, I know--but I couldn't.
O.M. It was more than thousand men, yet not
one of them flinched. Some
of them must have been born with your
temperament; if they could do that
great duty for duty's SAKE, why not you? D=
on't
you know that you could
go out and gather together a thousand cler=
ks
and mechanics and put them
on that deck and ask them to die for duty's
sake, and not two dozen of
them would stay in the ranks to the end?
Y.M. Yes, I know that.
O.M. But you TRAIN them, and put them thro=
ugh
a campaign or two; then
they would be soldiers; soldiers, with a
soldier's pride, a soldier's
self-respect, a soldier's ideals. They wou=
ld
have to content a SOLDIER'S
spirit then, not a clerk's, not a mechanic=
's.
They could not content
that spirit by shirking a soldier's duty,
could they?
Y.M. I suppose not.
O.M. Then they would do the duty not for the DUTY'S sa=
ke,
but for their
OWN sake--primarily. The DUTY was JUST THE SAME, and j=
ust
as imperative, when they were clerks, mechanics, raw recruits, but they
wouldn't perform it for that. As clerks and mechanics they had other ideals=
,
another spirit to satisfy, and they satisfied it. They=
HAD
to; it is
the law. TRAINING is potent. Training toward higher and
higher, and ever
higher ideals is worth any man's thought a=
nd
labor and diligence.
Y.M. Consider the man who stands by his du=
ty
and goes to the stake
rather than be recreant to it.
O.M. It is his make and his training. He h=
as
to content the spirit that
is in him, though it cost him his life.
Another man, just as sincerely
religious, but of different temperament, w=
ill
fail of that duty, though
recognizing it as a duty, and grieving to =
be
unequal to it: but he
must content the spirit that is in him--he
cannot help it. He could
not perform that duty for duty's SAKE, for
that would not content his
spirit, and the contenting of his spirit m=
ust
be looked to FIRST. It
takes precedence of all other duties.
Y.M. Take the case of a clergyman of stain=
less
private morals who votes
for a thief for public office, on his own
party's ticket, and against an
honest man on the other ticket.
O.M. He has to content his spirit. He has =
no
public morals; he has no
private ones, where his party's prosperity=
is
at stake. He will always
be true to his make and training.
Training
Young
mean--
Old Man. Study, instruction, lectures, ser=
mons?
That is a part of
it--but not a large part. I mean ALL the
outside influences. There are
a million of them. From the cradle to the
grave, during all his waking
hours, the human being is under training. =
In
the very first rank of
his trainers stands ASSOCIATION. It is his
human environment which
influences his mind and his feelings,
furnishes him his ideals, and sets
him on his road and keeps him in it. If he
leave that road he will find
himself shunned by the people whom he most
loves and esteems, and whose
approval he most values. He is a chameleon=
; by
the law of his nature he
takes the color of his place of resort. The
influences about him create
his preferences, his aversions, his politi=
cs,
his tastes, his morals,
his religion. He creates none of these thi=
ngs
for himself. He THINKS he
does, but that is because he has not exami=
ned
into the matter. You have
seen Presbyterians?
Y.M. Many.
O.M. How did they happen to be Presbyteria=
ns
and not Congregationalists?
And why were the Congregationalists not Ba=
ptists,
and the Baptists Roman
Catholics, and the Roman Catholics Buddhis=
ts,
and the Buddhists Quakers,
and the Quakers Episcopalians, and the
Episcopalians Millerites and
the Millerites Hindus, and the Hindus
Atheists, and the Atheists
Spiritualists, and the Spiritualists
Agnostics, and the Agnostics
Methodists, and the Methodists Confucians,=
and
the Confucians
Unitarians, and the Unitarians Mohammedans,
and the Mohammedans
Salvation Warriors, and the Salvation Warr=
iors
Zoroastrians, and
the Zoroastrians Christian Scientists, and=
the
Christian Scientists
Mormons--and so on?
Y.M. You may answer your question yourself=
.
O.M. That list of sects is not a record of
STUDIES, searchings, seekings
after light; it mainly (and sarcastically)
indicates what ASSOCIATION
can do. If you know a man's nationality you
can come within a split
hair of guessing the complexion of his
religion: English--Protestant;
American--ditto; Spaniard, Frenchman,
Irishman, Italian, South
American--Roman Catholic; Russian--Greek Catholic; Tur=
k--Mohammedan;
and so on. And when you know the man's religious complexion, you know what =
sort
of religious books he reads when he wants some more light, and
what sort of books he avoids, lest by acci=
dent
he get more light than he
wants. In
what his associations are, and how he came=
by
his politics, and which
breed of newspaper he reads to get light, =
and
which breed he diligently
avoids, and which breed of mass-meetings he
attends in order to broaden
his political knowledge, and which breed of
mass-meetings he doesn't
attend, except to refute its doctrines with brickbats.=
We
are always
hearing of people who are around SEEKING AFTER TRUTH. I
have never seen a (permanent) specimen. I think he had never lived. But I h=
ave
seen
several entirely sincere people who THOUGHT they were
(permanent)
Seekers after Truth. They sought diligently, persisten=
tly,
carefully,
cautiously, profoundly, with perfect honesty and nicely
adjusted
judgment--until they believed that without doubt or
question they had
found the Truth. THAT WAS THE END OF THE SEARCH. The m=
an
spent the rest of his life hunting up shingles wherewith to protect his Tru=
th
from the
weather. If he was seeking after political
Truth he found it in one or
another of the hundred political gospels w=
hich
govern men in the earth;
if he was seeking after the Only True Reli=
gion
he found it in one or
another of the three thousand that are on the market. =
In
any case, when
he found the Truth HE SOUGHT NO FURTHER; but from that=
day
forth, with his soldering-iron in one hand and his bludgeon in the other he
tinkered its leaks and reasoned with objectors. There have been innumerable=
Temporary
Seekers of Truth--have you ever heard of a permanent one? In the very natur=
e of
man such a person is impossible. However, to drop back to the text--trainin=
g:
all training is one from or another of OUTSIDE INFLUENCE, and ASSOCIATION is
the largest part of it. A man is never anything but what his outside influe=
nces
have made him. They train him downward or they train him upward--but they T=
RAIN
him; they are at work upon him all the time.
Y.M. Then if he happen by the accidents of
life to be evilly placed
there is no help for him, according to your
notions--he must train
downward.
O.M. No help for him? No help for this
chameleon? It is a mistake. It is
in his chameleonship that his greatest good
fortune lies. He has only to
change his habitat--his ASSOCIATIONS. But =
the
impulse to do it must come
from the OUTSIDE--he cannot originate it
himself, with that purpose in
view. Sometimes a very small and accidental
thing can furnish him the
initiatory impulse and start him on a new
road, with a new idea. The
chance remark of a sweetheart, "I hear
that you are a coward," may water
a seed that shall sprout and bloom and
flourish, and ended in producing
a surprising fruitage--in the fields of wa=
r.
The history of man is full
of such accidents. The accident of a broken
leg brought a profane and
ribald soldier under religious influences =
and
furnished him a new ideal.
From that accident sprang the Order of the
Jesuits, and it has been
shaking thrones, changing policies, and do=
ing
other tremendous work for
two hundred years--and will go on. The cha=
nce
reading of a book or of
a paragraph in a newspaper can start a man=
on
a new track and make him
renounce his old associations and seek new
ones that are IN SYMPATHY
WITH HIS NEW IDEAL: and the result, for th=
at
man, can be an entire
change of his way of life.
Y.M. Are you hinting at a scheme of proced=
ure?
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 INITIATORY
IMPULSES TOWARD HIGH IDEALS. It is what the
tract-distributor does. It
is what the missionary does. It is what go=
vernments
ought to do.
Y.M. Don't they?
O.M. In one way they do, in another they
don't. They separate the
smallpox patients from the healthy people,=
but
in dealing with crime
they put the healthy into the pest-house a=
long
with the sick. That is to
say, they put the beginners in with the
confirmed criminals. This would
be well if man were naturally inclined to good, but he
isn't, and so
ASSOCIATION makes the beginners worse than they were w=
hen
they went into captivity. It is putting a very severe punishment upon the
comparatively
innocent at times. They hang a man--which is a trifling
punishment; this
breaks the hearts of his family--which is a heavy one.
They comfortably
jail and feed a wife-beater, and leave his
innocent wife and family to
starve.
Y.M. Do you believe in the doctrine that m=
an
is equipped with an
intuitive perception of good and evil?
O.M. Adam hadn't it.
Y.M. But has man acquired it since?
O.M. No. I think he has no intuitions of a=
ny
kind. He gets ALL his
ideas, all his impressions, from the outsi=
de.
I keep repeating this, in
the hope that I may impress it upon you th=
at
you will be interested to
observe and examine for yourself and see
whether it is true or false.
Y.M. Where did you get your own aggravating
notions?
O.M. From the OUTSIDE. I did not invent th=
em.
They are gathered from a
thousand unknown sources. Mainly UNCONSCIO=
USLY
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 tha=
t He
never did make one.
Y.M. A wiser observer than you has recorded
the fact that "an honest
man's the noblest work of God."
O.M. He didn't record a fact, he recorded a falsity. I=
t is
windy,
and sounds well, but it is not true. God makes a man w=
ith
honest and
dishonest POSSIBILITIES in him and stops there. The ma=
n's
ASSOCIATIONS develop the possibilities--the one set or the other. The resul=
t is
accordingly an honest man or a dishonest one.
Y.M. And the honest one is not entitled to=
--
O.M. Praise? No. How often must I tell you
that? HE is not the architect
of his honesty.
Y.M. Now then, I will ask you where there =
is
any sense in training
people to lead virtuous lives. What is gai=
ned
by it?
O.M. The man himself gets large advantages=
out
of it, and that is the
main thing--to HIM. He is not a peril to h=
is
neighbors, he is not a
damage to them--and so THEY get an advanta=
ge
out of his virtues. That is
the main thing to THEM. It can make this l=
ife
comparatively comfortable
to the parties concerned; the NEGLECT of t=
his
training can make this
life a constant peril and distress to the
parties concerned.
Y.M. You have said that training is
everything; that training is the man
HIMSELF, for it makes him what he is.
O.M. I said training and ANOTHER thing. Let
that other thing pass, for
the moment. What were you going to say?
Y.M. We have an old servant. She has been =
with
us twenty-two years. Her
service used to be faultless, but now she =
has
become very forgetful. We
are all fond of her; we all recognize that=
she
cannot help the infirmity
which age has brought her; the rest of the
family do not scold her for
her remissnesses, but at times I do--I can=
't
seem to control myself.
Don't I try? I do try. Now, then, when I w=
as
ready to dress, this
morning, no clean clothes had been put out=
. I
lost my temper; I lose it
easiest and quickest in the early morning.=
I
rang; and immediately began
to warn myself not to show temper, and to =
be
careful and speak gently.
I safe-guarded myself most carefully. I ev=
en
chose the very word I would
use: "You've forgotten the clean clot=
hes,
Jane." When she appeared in
the door I opened my mouth to say that
phrase--and out of it, moved by
an instant surge of passion which I was not
expecting and hadn't time to
put under control, came the hot rebuke,
"You've forgotten them again!"
You say a man always does the thing which =
will
best please his Interior
Master. Whence came the impulse to make
careful preparation to save the
girl the humiliation of a rebuke? Did that
come from the Master, who is
always primarily concerned about HIMSELF?<= o:p>
O.M. Unquestionably. There is no other sou=
rce
for any impulse.
SECONDARILY you made preparation to save t=
he
girl, but PRIMARILY its
object was to save yourself, by contenting=
the
Master.
Y.M. How do you mean?
O.M. Has any member of the family ever imp=
lored
you to watch your temper
and not fly out at the girl?
Y.M. Yes. My mother.
O.M. You love her?
Y.M. Oh, more than that!
O.M. You would always do anything in your
power to please her?
Y.M. It is a delight to me to do anything =
to
please her!
O.M. Why? YOU WOULD DO IT FOR PAY, SOLELY-=
-for
PROFIT. What profit would
you expect and certainly receive from the
investment?
Y.M. Personally? None. To please HER is
enough.
O.M. It appears, then, that your object,
primarily, WASN'T to save the
girl a humiliation, but to PLEASE YOUR MOT=
HER.
It also appears that to
please your mother gives YOU a strong
pleasure. Is not that the profit
which you get out of the investment? Isn't
that the REAL profits and
FIRST profit?
Y.M. Oh, well? Go on.
O.M. In ALL transactions, the Interior Mas=
ter
looks to it that YOU GET
THE FIRST PROFIT. Otherwise there is no
transaction.
Y.M. Well, then, if I was so anxious to get
that profit and so intent
upon it, why did I threw it away by losing=
my
temper?
O.M. In order to get ANOTHER profit which
suddenly superseded it in
value.
Y.M. Where was it?
O.M. Ambushed behind your born temperament, and waiting
for a chance.
Your native warm temper suddenly jumped to the front, =
and
FOR THE MOMENT its influence was more powerful than your mother's, and
abolished it. In that instance you were eager to flash out a hot rebuke and
enjoy it. You did enjoy it, didn't you?
Y.M. For--for a quarter of a second. Yes--I
did.
O.M. Very well, it is as I have said: the
thing which will give you the
MOST pleasure, the most satisfaction, in a=
ny
moment or FRACTION of a
moment, is the thing you will always do. Y=
ou
must content the Master's
LATEST whim, whatever it may be.
Y.M. But when the tears came into the old
servant's eyes I could have
cut my hand off for what I had done.
O.M. Right. You had humiliated YOURSELF, y=
ou
see, you had given yourself
PAIN. Nothing is of FIRST importance to a =
man
except results which
damage HIM or profit him--all the rest is
SECONDARY. Your Master was
displeased with you, although you had obey=
ed
him. He required a prompt
REPENTANCE; you obeyed again; you HAD to--there is nev=
er
any escape from his commands. He is a hard master and fickle; he changes his
mind in the fraction of a second, but you must be ready to obey, and you wi=
ll
obey,
ALWAYS. If he requires repentance, you content him, you
will always
furnish it. He must be nursed, petted,
coddled, and kept contented, let
the terms be what they may.
Y.M. Training! Oh, what's the use of it?
Didn't I, and didn't my mother
try to train me up to where I would no lon=
ger
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 s=
ee
there IS use in training.
Keep on. Keeping faithfully on. You are do=
ing
well.
Y.M. Will my reform reach perfection?
O.M. It will. UP to YOUR limit.
Y.M. My limit? What do you mean by that?
O.M. You remember that you said that I said
training was EVERYTHING. I
corrected you, and said "training and
ANOTHER thing." That other thing
is TEMPERAMENT--that is, the disposition you were born
with. YOU
CAN'T ERADICATE YOUR DISPOSITION NOR ANY RAG OF IT--you
can only put a pressure on it and keep it down and quiet. You have a warm
temper?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. You will never get rid of it; but by
watching it you can keep it
down nearly all the time. ITS PRESENCE IS =
YOUR
LIMIT. Your reform will
never quite reach perfection, for your tem=
per
will beat you now and
then, but you come near enough. You have m=
ade
valuable progress and can
make more. There IS use in training. Immen=
se
use. Presently you will
reach a new stage of development, then your
progress will be easier;
will proceed on a simpler basis, anyway.
Y.M. Explain.
O.M. You keep back your scoldings now, to
please YOURSELF by pleasing
your MOTHER; presently the mere triumphing
over your temper will delight
your vanity and confer a more delicious
pleasure and satisfaction upon
you than even the approbation of your MOTH=
ER
confers upon you now. You
will then labor for yourself directly and =
at
FIRST HAND, not by the
roundabout way through your mother. It
simplifies the matter, and it
also strengthens the impulse.
Y.M. Ah, dear! But I sha'n't ever reach the
point where I will spare the
girl for HER sake PRIMARILY, not mine?
O.M. Why--yes. In heaven.
Y.M. (AFTER A REFLECTIVE PAUSE) Temperamen=
t.
Well, I see one must
allow for temperament. It is a large facto=
r,
sure enough. My mother is
thoughtful, and not hot-tempered. When I w=
as
dressed I went to her room;
she was not there; I called, she answered =
from
the bathroom. I heard the
water running. I inquired. She answered,
without temper, that Jane had
forgotten her bath, and she was preparing =
it
herself. I offered to
ring, but she said, "No, don't do tha=
t;
it would only distress her to
be confronted with her lapse, and would be=
a
rebuke; she doesn't deserve
that--she is not to blame for the tricks h=
er
memory serves her." I
say--has my mother an Interior Master?--and
where was he?
O.M. He was there. There, and looking out =
for
his own peace and pleasure
and contentment. The girl's distress would
have pained YOUR MOTHER.
Otherwise the girl would have been rung up,
distress and all. I know
women who would have gotten a No. 1 PLEASU=
RE
out of ringing Jane up--and
so they would infallibly have pushed the
button and obeyed the law
of their make and training, which are the
servants of their Interior
Masters. It is quite likely that a part of
your mother's forbearance
came from training. The GOOD kind of
training--whose best and highest
function is to see to it that every time it
confers a satisfaction upon
its pupil a benefit shall fall at second h=
and
upon others.
Y.M. If you were going to condense into an
admonition your plan for the
general betterment of the race's condition,
how would you word it?
Admonition
O.M. Diligently train your ideals UPWARD a=
nd
STILL UPWARD toward a
summit where you will find your chiefest
pleasure in conduct which,
while contenting you, will be sure to conf=
er
benefits upon your neighbor
and the community.
Y.M. Is that a new gospel?
O.M. No.
Y.M. It has been taught before?
O.M. For ten thousand years.
Y.M. By whom?
O.M. All the great religions--all the great
gospels.
Y.M. Then there is nothing new about it?
O.M. Oh yes, there is. It is candidly stat=
ed,
this time. That has not
been done before.
Y.M. How do you mean?
O.M. Haven't I put YOU FIRST, and your
neighbor and the community
AFTERWARD?
Y.M. Well, yes, that is a difference, it is
true.
O.M. The difference between straight speak=
ing
and crooked; the
difference between frankness and shuffling=
.
Y.M. Explain.
O.M. The others offer your a hundred bribe=
s to
be good, thus conceding
that the Master inside of you must be
conciliated and contented first,
and that you will do nothing at FIRST HAND=
but
for his sake; then they
turn square around and require you to do g=
ood
for OTHER'S sake CHIEFLY;
and to do your duty for duty's SAKE, chief=
ly;
and to do acts of
SELF-SACRIFICE. Thus at the outset we all
stand upon the same
ground--recognition of the supreme and
absolute Monarch that resides in
man, and we all grovel before him and appe=
al
to him; then those others
dodge and shuffle, and face around and unfrankly and
inconsistently and
illogically change the form of their appeal and direct=
its
persuasions
to man's SECOND-PLACE powers and to powers which have =
NO EXISTENCE
in him, thus advancing them to FIRST place; whereas in my Admonition I stick
logically and consistently to the original position: I place the Interior
Master's requirements FIRST, and keep them there.
Y.M. If we grant, for the sake of argument=
, that
your scheme and the
other schemes aim at and produce the same
result--RIGHT LIVING--has
yours an advantage over the others?
O.M. One, yes--a large one. It has no
concealments, no deceptions. When
a man leads a right and valuable life unde=
r it
he is not deceived as to
the REAL chief motive which impels him to
it--in those other cases he
is.
Y.M. Is that an advantage? Is it an advant=
age
to live a lofty life for
a mean reason? In the other cases he lives=
the
lofty life under
the IMPRESSION that he is living for a lof=
ty
reason. Is not that an
advantage?
O.M. Perhaps so. The same advantage he mig=
ht
get out of thinking
himself a duke, and living a duke's life a=
nd
parading in ducal fuss
and feathers, when he wasn't a duke at all,
and could find it out if he
would only examine the herald's records.
Y.M. But anyway, he is obliged to do a duk=
e's
part; he puts his hand in
his pocket and does his benevolences on as=
big
a scale as he can stand,
and that benefits the community.
O.M. He could do that without being a duke=
.
Y.M. But would he?
O.M. Don't you see where you are arriving?=
Y.M. Where?
O.M. At the standpoint of the other scheme=
s:
That it is good morals
to let an ignorant duke do showy benevolen=
ces
for his pride's sake, a
pretty low motive, and go on doing them
unwarned, lest if he were made
acquainted with the actual motive which
prompted them he might shut up
his purse and cease to be good?
Y.M. But isn't it best to leave him in
ignorance, as long as he THINKS
he is doing good for others' sake?
O.M. Perhaps so. It is the position of the
other schemes. They think
humbug is good enough morals when the divi=
dend
on it is good deeds and
handsome conduct.
Y.M. It is my opinion that under your sche=
me
of a man's doing a good
deed for his OWN sake first-off, instead of
first for the GOOD DEED'S
sake, no man would ever do one.
O.M. Have you committed a benevolence late=
ly?
Y.M. Yes. This morning.
O.M. Give the particulars.
Y.M. The cabin of the old negro woman who =
used
to nurse me when I was a
child and who saved my life once at the ri=
sk
of her own, was burned last
night, and she came mourning this morning,=
and
pleading for money to
build another one.
O.M. You furnished it?
Y.M. Certainly.
O.M. You were glad you had the money?
Y.M. Money? I hadn't. I sold my horse.
O.M. You were glad you had the horse?
Y.M. Of course I was; for if I hadn't had =
the
horse I should have been
incapable, and my MOTHER would have captur=
ed
the chance to set old Sally
up.
O.M. You were cordially glad you were not
caught out and incapable?
Y.M. Oh, I just was!
O.M. Now, then--
Y.M. Stop where you are! I know your whole
catalog of questions, and
I could answer every one of them without y=
our
wasting the time to ask
them; but I will summarize the whole thing=
in
a single remark: I did
the charity knowing it was because the act
would give ME a splendid
pleasure, and because old Sally's moving
gratitude and delight would
give ME another one; and because the
reflection that she would be happy
now and out of her trouble would fill ME f=
ull
of happiness. I did the
whole thing with my eyes open and recogniz=
ing
and realizing that I
was looking out for MY share of the profits
FIRST. Now then, I have
confessed. Go on.
O.M. I haven't anything to offer; you have
covered the whole ground.
Can you have been any MORE strongly moved =
to
help Sally out of her
trouble--could you have done the deed any =
more
eagerly--if you had been
under the delusion that you were doing it =
for
HER sake and profit only?
Y.M. No! Nothing in the world could have m=
ade
the impulse which moved
me more powerful, more masterful, more
thoroughly irresistible. I played
the limit!
O.M. Very well. You begin to suspect--and I
claim to KNOW--that when
a man is a shade MORE STRONGLY MOVED to do=
ONE
of two things or of two
dozen things than he is to do any one of t=
he
OTHERS, he will infallibly
do that ONE thing, be it good or be it evi=
l;
and if it be good, not all
the beguilements of all the casuistries can
increase the strength of the
impulse by a single shade or add a shade to
the comfort and contentment
he will get out of the act.
Y.M. Then you believe that such tendency
toward doing good as is in
men's hearts would not be diminished by the
removal of the delusion that
good deeds are done primarily for the sake=
of
No. 2 instead of for the
sake of No. 1?
O.M. That is what I fully believe.
Y.M. Doesn't it somehow seem to take from =
the
dignity of the deed?
O.M. If there is dignity in falsity, it do=
es.
It removes that.
Y.M. What is left for the moralists to do?=
O.M. Teach unreservedly what he already
teaches with one side of his
mouth and takes back with the other: Do ri=
ght
FOR YOUR OWN SAKE, and be
happy in knowing that your NEIGHBOR will
certainly share in the benefits
resulting.
Y.M. Repeat your Admonition.
O.M. DILIGENTLY TRAIN YOUR IDEALS UPWARD AND STILL UPW=
ARD
TOWARD A SUMMIT WHERE YOU WILL FIND YOUR CHIEFEST PLEASURE IN CONDUCT WHICH=
, WHILE
CONTENTING YOU, WILL BE SURE TO CONFER BENEFITS UPON YOUR NEIGHBOR AND THE
COMMUNITY.
Y.M. One's EVERY act proceeds from EXTERIOR
INFLUENCES, you think?
O.M. Yes.
Y.M. If I conclude to rob a person, I am n=
ot
the ORIGINATOR of the
idea, but it comes in from the OUTSIDE? I =
see
him handling money--for
instance--and THAT moves me to the crime?<= o:p>
O.M. That, by itself? Oh, certainly not. I=
t is
merely the LATEST outside
influence of a procession of preparatory
influences stretching back over
a period of years. No SINGLE outside influ=
ence
can make a man do a thing
which is at war with his training. The mos=
t it
can do is to start his
mind on a new tract and open it to the
reception of NEW influences--as
in the case of Ignatius Loyola. In time th=
ese
influences can train him
to a point where it will be consonant with=
his
new character to yield
to the FINAL influence and do that thing. I
will put the case in a form
which will make my theory clear to you, I
think. Here are two ingots of
virgin gold. They shall represent a couple=
of
characters which have
been refined and perfected in the virtues =
by
years of diligent
right training. Suppose you wanted to break
down these strong and
well-compacted characters--what influence
would you bring to bear upon
the ingots?
Y.M. Work it out yourself. Proceed.
O.M. Suppose I turn upon one of them a
steam-jet during a long
succession of hours. Will there be a resul=
t?
Y.M. None that I know of.
O.M. Why?
Y.M. A steam-jet cannot break down such a
substance.
O.M. Very well. The steam is an OUTSIDE
INFLUENCE, but it is ineffective
because the gold TAKES NO INTEREST IN IT. =
The
ingot remains as it was.
Suppose we add to the steam some quicksilv=
er
in a vaporized condition,
and turn the jet upon the ingot, will ther=
e be
an instantaneous result?
Y.M. No.
O.M. The QUICKSILVER is an outside influence which gold
(by its peculiar
nature--say TEMPERAMENT, DISPOSITION) CANNOT BE
INDIFFERENT TO. It stirs up the interest of the gold, although we do not
perceive it; but a
SINGLE application of the influence works no damage. L=
et
us continue the
application in a steady stream, and call each minute a
year. By the
end of ten or twenty minutes--ten or twenty years--the
little ingot
is sodden with quicksilver, its virtues are
gone, its character is
degraded. At last it is ready to yield to a
temptation which it would
have taken no notice of, ten or twenty yea=
rs
ago. We will apply that
temptation in the form of a pressure of my
finger. You note the result?
Y.M. Yes; the ingot has crumbled to sand. I
understand, now. It is not
the SINGLE outside influence that does the
work, but only the LAST one
of a long and disintegrating accumulation =
of them.
I see, now, how my
SINGLE impulse to rob the man is not the o=
ne
that makes me do it, but
only the LAST one of a preparatory series.=
You
might illustrate with a
parable.
A Parable
O.M. I will. There was once a pair of
alike in good dispositions, feckless moral=
s,
and personal appearance.
They were the models of the Sunday-school.=
At
fifteen George had the
opportunity to go as cabin-boy in a
whale-ship, and sailed away for the
Pacific. Henry remained at home in the vil=
lage.
At eighteen George was
a sailor before the mast, and Henry was
teacher of the advanced Bible
class. At twenty-two George, through
fighting-habits and drinking-habits
acquired at sea and in the sailor
boarding-houses of the European and
Oriental ports, was a common rough in
Hong-Kong, and out of a job; and
Henry was superintendent of the Sunday-sch=
ool.
At twenty-six George was
a wanderer, a tramp, and Henry was pastor of the villa=
ge
church. Then
George came home, and was Henry's guest. One evening a=
man
passed by and turned down the lane, and Henry said, with a pathetic smile,
"Without
intending me a discomfort, that man is always keeping =
me
reminded of my
pinching poverty, for he carries heaps of
money about him, and goes
by here every evening of his life." T=
hat
OUTSIDE INFLUENCE--that
remark--was enough for George, but IT was =
not
the one that made him
ambush the man and rob him, it merely
represented the eleven years'
accumulation of such influences, and gave
birth to the act for which
their long gestation had made preparation.=
It
had never entered the head
of Henry to rob the man--his ingot had been
subjected to clean steam
only; but George's had been subjected to
vaporized quicksilver.
V
More About the Machine
Note.--When Mrs. W. asks how can a million=
aire
give a single dollar to
colleges and museums while one human being=
is
destitute of bread, she
has answered her question herself. Her fee=
ling
for the poor shows
that she has a standard of benevolence; th=
ere
she has conceded the
millionaire's privilege of having a standa=
rd;
since she evidently
requires him to adopt her standard, she is=
by
that act requiring herself
to adopt his. The human being always looks
down when he is examining
another person's standard; he never find o=
ne
that he has to examine by
looking up.
The Man-Machine Again
Young
Old Man. I do.
Y.M. And that his mind works automatically=
and
is independent of his
control--carries on thought on its own hoo=
k?
O.M. Yes. It is diligently at work,
unceasingly at work, during every
waking moment. Have you never tossed about=
all
night, imploring,
beseeching, commanding your mind to stop w=
ork
and let you go to
sleep?--you who perhaps imagine that your =
mind
is your servant and must
obey your orders, think what you tell it to
think, and stop when you
tell it to stop. When it chooses to work,
there is no way to keep it
still for an instant. The brightest man wo=
uld
not be able to supply it
with subjects if he had to hunt them up. I=
f it
needed the man's help it
would wait for him to give it work when he
wakes in the morning.
Y.M. Maybe it does.
O.M. No, it begins right away, before the =
man
gets wide enough awake to
give it a suggestion. He may go to sleep
saying, "The moment I wake I
will think upon such and such a subject,&q=
uot;
but he will fail. His mind
will be too quick for him; by the time he =
has
become nearly enough
awake to be half conscious, he will find t=
hat
it is already at work upon
another subject. Make the experiment and s=
ee.
Y.M. At any rate, he can make it stick to a
subject if he wants to.
O.M. Not if it find another that suits it
better. As a rule it will
listen to neither a dull speaker nor a bri=
ght
one. It refuses all
persuasion. The dull speaker wearies it and
sends it far away in idle
dreams; the bright speaker throws out
stimulating ideas which it goes
chasing after and is at once unconscious of
him and his talk. You cannot
keep your mind from wandering, if it wants=
to;
it is master, not you.
After an Interval of Days
O.M. Now, dreams--but we will examine that
later. Meantime, did you
try commanding your mind to wait for orders
from you, and not do any
thinking on its own hook?
Y.M. Yes, I commanded it to stand ready to
take orders when I should
wake in the morning.
O.M. Did it obey?
Y.M. No. It went to thinking of something =
of
its own initiation, without
waiting for me. Also--as you suggested--at
night I appointed a theme for
it to begin on in the morning, and command=
ed
it to begin on that one and
no other.
O.M. Did it obey?
Y.M. No.
O.M. How many times did you try the
experiment?
Y.M. Ten.
O.M. How many successes did you score?
Y.M. Not one.
O.M. It is as I have said: the mind is
independent of the man. He has
no control over it; it does as it pleases.=
It
will take up a subject
in spite of him; it will stick to it in sp=
ite
of him; it will throw it
aside in spite of him. It is entirely
independent of him.
Y.M. Go on. Illustrate.
O.M. Do you know chess?
Y.M. I learned it a week ago.
O.M. Did your mind go on playing the game =
all
night that first night?
Y.M. Don't mention it!
O.M. It was eagerly, unsatisfiably interes=
ted;
it rioted in the
combinations; you implored it to drop the =
game
and let you get some
sleep?
Y.M. Yes. It wouldn't listen; it played ri=
ght
along. It wore me out and
I got up haggard and wretched in the morni=
ng.
O.M. At some time or other you have been
captivated by a ridiculous
rhyme-jingle?
Y.M. Indeed, yes!
"I saw Esau kissing Kate, And she saw=
I
saw Esau; I saw Esau, he saw
Kate, And she saw--"
And so on. My mind went mad with joy over =
it.
It repeated it all day
and all night for a week in spite of all I
could do to stop it, and it
seemed to me that I must surely go crazy.<= o:p>
O.M. And the new popular song?
Y.M. Oh yes! "In the Swee-eet By and
By"; etc. Yes, the new popular song
with the taking melody sings through one's
head day and night, asleep
and awake, till one is a wreck. There is no
getting the mind to let it
alone.
O.M. Yes, asleep as well as awake. The min=
d is
quite independent. It is
master. You have nothing to do with it. It=
is
so apart from you that
it can conduct its affairs, sing its songs,
play its chess, weave its
complex and ingeniously constructed dreams,
while you sleep. It has
no use for your help, no use for your
guidance, and never uses either,
whether you be asleep or awake. You have
imagined that you could
originate a thought in your mind, and you =
have
sincerely believed you
could do it.
Y.M. Yes, I have had that idea.
O.M. Yet you can't originate a dream-thoug=
ht
for it to work out, and get
it accepted?
Y.M. No.
O.M. And you can't dictate its procedure a=
fter
it has originated a
dream-thought for itself?
Y.M. No. No one can do it. Do you think the
waking mind and the dream
mind are the same machine?
O.M. There is argument for it. We have wild
and fantastic day-thoughts?
Things that are dream-like?
Y.M. Yes--like Mr. Wells's man who invente=
d a
drug that made him
invisible; and like the Arabian tales of t=
he
Thousand Nights.
O.M. And there are dreams that are rationa=
l,
simple, consistent, and
unfantastic?
Y.M. Yes. I have dreams that are like that.
Dreams that are just like
real life; dreams in which there are sever=
al
persons with distinctly
differentiated characters--inventions of my
mind and yet strangers
to me: a vulgar person; a refined one; a w=
ise
person; a fool; a
cruel person; a kind and compassionate one=
; a
quarrelsome person; a
peacemaker; old persons and young; beautif=
ul
girls and homely ones. They
talk in character, each preserves his own
characteristics. There are
vivid fights, vivid and biting insults, vi=
vid
love-passages; there are
tragedies and comedies, there are griefs t=
hat
go to one's heart, there
are sayings and doings that make you laugh:
indeed, the whole thing is
exactly like real life.
O.M. Your dreaming mind originates the sch=
eme,
consistently and
artistically develops it, and carries the
little drama creditably
through--all without help or suggestion fr=
om
you?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. It is argument that it could do the l=
ike
awake without help or
suggestion from you--and I think it does. =
It
is argument that it is the
same old mind in both cases, and never nee=
ds
your help. I think the
mind is purely a machine, a thoroughly
independent machine, an automatic
machine. Have you tried the other experime=
nt
which I suggested to you?
Y.M. Which one?
O.M. The one which was to determine how mu=
ch
influence you have over
your mind--if any.
Y.M. Yes, and got more or less entertainme=
nt
out of it. I did as you
ordered: I placed two texts before my
eyes--one a dull one and barren
of interest, the other one full of interes=
t,
inflamed with it, white-hot
with it. I commanded my mind to busy itself
solely with the dull one.
O.M. Did it obey?
Y.M. Well, no, it didn't. It busied itself
with the other one.
O.M. Did you try hard to make it obey?
Y.M. Yes, I did my honest best.
O.M. What was the text which it refused to=
be
interested in or think
about?
Y.M. It was this question: If A owes B a
dollar and a half, and B owes
C two and three-quarter, and C owes A
thirty-five cents, and D and A
together owe E and B three-sixteenths
of--of--I don't remember the rest,
now, but anyway it was wholly uninterestin=
g,
and I could not force my
mind to stick to it even half a minute at a
time; it kept flying off to
the other text.
O.M. What was the other text?
Y.M. It is no matter about that.
O.M. But what was it?
Y.M. A photograph.
O.M. Your own?
Y.M. No. It was hers.
O.M. You really made an honest good test. =
Did
you make a second trial?
Y.M. Yes. I commanded my mind to interest
itself in the morning paper's
report of the pork-market, and at the same
time I reminded it of an
experience of mine of sixteen years ago. It
refused to consider the pork
and gave its whole blazing interest to that
ancient incident.
O.M. What was the incident?
Y.M. An armed desperado slapped my face in=
the
presence of twenty
spectators. It makes me wild and murderous
every time I think of it.
O.M. Good tests, both; very good tests. Did
you try my other suggestion?
Y.M. The one which was to prove to me that=
if
I would leave my mind to
its own devices it would find things to th=
ink
about without any of my
help, and thus convince me that it was a
machine, an automatic machine,
set in motion by exterior influences, and =
as
independent of me as it
could be if it were in some one else's sku=
ll.
Is that the one?
O.M. Yes.
Y.M. I tried it. I was shaving. I had slept
well, and my mind was very
lively, even gay and frisky. It was reveli=
ng
in a fantastic and joyful
episode of my remote boyhood which had
suddenly flashed up in my
memory--moved to this by the spectacle of a
yellow cat picking its
way carefully along the top of the garden
wall. The color of this
cat brought the bygone cat before me, and I
saw her walking along the
side-step of the pulpit; saw her walk on t=
o a
large sheet of sticky
fly-paper and get all her feet involved; s=
aw
her struggle and fall
down, helpless and dissatisfied, more and =
more
urgent, more and more
unreconciled, more and more mutely profane;
saw the silent congregation
quivering like jelly, and the tears running
down their faces. I saw
it all. The sight of the tears whisked my =
mind
to a far distant and a
sadder scene--in Terra del Fuego--and with=
great savage hurl his little boy against t=
he
rocks for a trifling fault;
saw the poor mother gather up her dying ch=
ild
and hug it to her breast
and weep, uttering no word. Did my mind st=
op
to mourn with that nude
black sister of mine? No--it was far away =
from
that scene in an instant,
and was busying itself with an ever-recurr=
ing and
disagreeable dream of
mine. In this dream I always find myself,
stripped to my shirt, cringing
and dodging about in the midst of a great
drawing-room throng of finely
dressed ladies and gentlemen, and wondering
how I got there. And so on
and so on, picture after picture, incident
after incident, a drifting
panorama of ever-changing, ever-dissolving
views manufactured by my mind
without any help from me--why, it would ta=
ke
me two hours to merely name
the multitude of things my mind tallied off
and photographed in fifteen
minutes, let alone describe them to you.
O.M. A man's mind, left free, has no use f=
or
his help. But there is one
way whereby he can get its help when he
desires it.
Y.M. What is that way?
O.M. When your mind is racing along from
subject to subject and
strikes an inspiring one, open your mouth =
and
begin talking upon that
matter--or--take your pen and use that. It
will interest your mind and
concentrate it, and it will pursue the sub=
ject
with satisfaction. It
will take full charge, and furnish the wor=
ds
itself.
Y.M. But don't I tell it what to say?
O.M. There are certainly occasions when you
haven't time. The words leap
out before you know what is coming.
Y.M. For instance?
O.M. Well, take a "flash of
wit"--repartee. Flash is the right word.
It is out instantly. There is no time to
arrange the words. There is no
thinking, no reflecting. Where there is a
wit-mechanism it is automatic
in its action and needs no help. Where the
wit-mechanism is lacking, no
amount of study and reflection can manufac=
ture
the product.
Y.M. You really think a man originates
nothing, creates nothing.
The Thinking-Process
O.M. I do. Men perceive, and their
brain-machines automatically combine
the things perceived. That is all.
Y.M. The steam-engine?
O.M. It takes fifty men a hundred years to
invent it. One meaning of
invent is discover. I use the word in that
sense. Little by little they
discover and apply the multitude of details
that go to make the perfect
engine. Watt noticed that confined steam w=
as
strong enough to lift the
lid of the teapot. He didn't create the id=
ea,
he merely discovered the
fact; the cat had noticed it a hundred tim=
es.
From the teapot he evolved
the cylinder--from the displaced lid he
evolved the piston-rod. To
attach something to the piston-rod to be m=
oved
by it, was a simple
matter--crank and wheel. And so there was a
working engine. (1)
One by one, improvements were discovered by
men who used their eyes,
not their creating powers--for they hadn't
any--and now, after a hundred
years the patient contributions of fifty o=
r a
hundred observers stand
compacted in the wonderful machine which
drives the ocean liner.
Y.M. A Shakespearean play?
O.M. The process is the same. The first ac=
tor
was a savage. He
reproduced in his theatrical war-dances,
scalp-dances, and so on,
incidents which he had seen in real life. A
more advanced civilization
produced more incidents, more episodes; the
actor and the story-teller
borrowed them. And so the drama grew, litt=
le
by little, stage by stage.
It is made up of the facts of life, not
creations. It took centuries to
develop the Greek drama. It borrowed from
preceding ages; it lent to the
ages that came after. Men observe and comb=
ine,
that is all. So does a
rat.
Y.M. How?
O.M. He observes a smell, he infers a chee=
se,
he seeks and finds.
The astronomer observes this and that; adds
his this and that to the
this-and-thats of a hundred predecessors,
infers an invisible planet,
seeks it and finds it. The rat gets into a
trap; gets out with trouble;
infers that cheese in traps lacks value, a=
nd
meddles with that trap no
more. The astronomer is very proud of his
achievement, the rat is proud
of his. Yet both are machines; they have d=
one
machine work, they have
originated nothing, they have no right to =
be
vain; the whole credit
belongs to their Maker. They are entitled to no honors=
, no
praises, no
monuments when they die, no remembrance. One is a comp=
lex
and elaborate machine, the other a simple and limited machine, but they are
alike in principle, function, and process, and neither of them works otherw=
ise than
automatically, and neither of them may righteously claim a PERSONAL superio=
rity
or a personal dignity above the other.
Y.M. In earned personal dignity, then, and=
in
personal merit for what he
does, it follows of necessity that he is on
the same level as a rat?
O.M. His brother the rat; yes, that is how=
it
seems to me. Neither of
them being entitled to any personal merit =
for
what he does, it follows
of necessity that neither of them has a ri=
ght
to arrogate to himself
(personally created) superiorities over his
brother.
Y.M. Are you determined to go on believing=
in
these insanities? Would
you go on believing in them in the face of
able arguments backed by
collated facts and instances?
O.M. I have been a humble, earnest, and
sincere Truth-Seeker.
Y.M. Very well?
O.M. The humble, earnest, and sincere
Truth-Seeker is always convertible
by such means.
Y.M. I am thankful to God to hear you say
this, for now I know that your
conversion--
O.M. Wait. You misunderstand. I said I have
BEEN a Truth-Seeker.
Y.M. Well?
O.M. I am not that now. Have your forgotte=
n? I
told you that there
are none but temporary Truth-Seekers; that=
a
permanent one is a human
impossibility; that as soon as the Seeker
finds what he is thoroughly
convinced is the Truth, he seeks no furthe=
r,
but gives the rest of his
days to hunting junk to patch it and caulk=
it
and prop it with, and
make it weather-proof and keep it from cav=
ing
in on him. Hence the
Presbyterian remains a Presbyterian, the Mohammedan a
Mohammedan, the Spiritualist a Spiritualist, the Democrat a Democrat, the
Republican a
Republican, the Monarchist a Monarchist; a=
nd
if a humble, earnest, and
sincere Seeker after Truth should find it =
in
the proposition that the
moon is made of green cheese nothing could
ever budge him from that
position; for he is nothing but an automat=
ic
machine, and must obey the
laws of his construction.
Y.M. After so--
O.M. Having found the Truth; perceiving th=
at
beyond question man has but
one moving impulse--the contenting of his =
own
spirit--and is merely a
machine and entitled to no personal merit =
for
anything he does, it is
not humanly possible for me to seek furthe=
r.
The rest of my days will
be spent in patching and painting and putt=
ying
and caulking my priceless
possession and in looking the other way wh=
en
an imploring argument or a
damaging fact approaches.
1. The Marquess of Worcester had done=
all
of this more than a
century earlier.
Instinct and Thought
Young
while ago--concerning the rat and all
that--strip Man bare of all his
dignities, grandeurs, sublimities.
Old Man. He hasn't any to strip--they are
shams, stolen clothes. He
claims credits which belong solely to his
Maker.
Y.M. But you have no right to put him on a
level with a rat.
O.M. I don't--morally. That would not be f=
air
to the rat. The rat is
well above him, there.
Y.M. Are you joking?
O.M. No, I am not.
Y.M. Then what do you mean?
O.M. That comes under the head of the Moral
Sense. It is a large
question. Let us finish with what we are a=
bout
now, before we take it
up.
Y.M. Very well. You have seemed to concede
that you place Man and the
rat on A level. What is it? The intellectu=
al?
O.M. In form--not a degree.
Y.M. Explain.
O.M. I think that the rat's mind and the m=
an's
mind are the same
machine, but of unequal capacities--like y=
ours
and Edison's; like the
African pygmy's and Homer's; like the
Bushman's and Bismarck's.
Y.M. How are you going to make that out, w=
hen
the lower animals have no
mental quality but instinct, while man
possesses reason?
O.M. What is instinct?
Y.M. It is merely unthinking and mechanical
exercise of inherited habit.
O.M. What originated the habit?
Y.M. The first animal started it, its
descendants have inherited it.
O.M. How did the first one come to start i=
t?
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 mechanic=
al
and automatic putting
together of impressions received from outs=
ide,
and drawing an inference
from them.
O.M. Very good. Now my idea of the meaning=
less
term "instinct" is, that
it is merely PETRIFIED THOUGHT; solidified=
and
made inanimate by habit;
thought which was once alive and awake, bu=
t it
become unconscious--walks
in its sleep, so to speak.
Y.M. Illustrate it.
O.M. Take a herd of cows, feeding in a
pasture. Their heads are all
turned in one direction. They do that
instinctively; they gain nothing
by it, they have no reason for it, they do=
n't
know why they do it. It
is an inherited habit which was originally
thought--that is to say,
observation of an exterior fact, and a
valuable inference drawn from
that observation and confirmed by experien=
ce.
The original wild ox
noticed that with the wind in his favor he
could smell his enemy in time
to escape; then he inferred that it was wo=
rth
while to keep his nose
to the wind. That is the process which man
calls reasoning. Man's
thought-machine works just like the other
animals', but it is a better
one and more Edisonian. Man, in the ox's
place, would go further, reason
wider: he would face part of the herd the
other way and protect both
front and rear.
Y.M. Did you stay the term instinct is
meaningless?
O.M. I think it is a bastard word. I think=
it
confuses us; for as a rule
it applies itself to habits and impulses w=
hich
had a far-off origin in
thought, and now and then breaks the rule =
and
applies itself to habits
which can hardly claim a thought-origin.
Y.M. Give an instance.
O.M. Well, in putting on trousers a man al=
ways
inserts the same old leg
first--never the other one. There is no
advantage in that, and no sense
in it. All men do it, yet no man thought it
out and adopted it of set
purpose, I imagine. But it is a habit whic=
h is
transmitted, no doubt,
and will continue to be transmitted.
Y.M. Can you prove that the habit exists?<= o:p>
O.M. You can prove it, if you doubt. If you
will take a man to a
clothing-store and watch him try on a dozen
pairs of trousers, you will
see.
Y.M. The cow illustration is not--
O.M. Sufficient to show that a dumb animal=
's
mental machine is just the
same as a man's and its reasoning processes
the same? I will illustrate
further. If you should hand Mr. Edison a b=
ox
which you caused to fly
open by some concealed device he would inf=
er a
spring, and would hunt
for it and find it. Now an uncle of mine h=
ad
an old horse who used to
get into the closed lot where the corn-crib
was and dishonestly take
the corn. I got the punishment myself, as =
it
was supposed that I had
heedlessly failed to insert the wooden pin
which kept the gate closed.
These persistent punishments fatigued me; =
they
also caused me to infer
the existence of a culprit, somewhere; so I
hid myself and watched the
gate. Presently the horse came and pulled =
the
pin out with his teeth and
went in. Nobody taught him that; he had
observed--then thought it out
for himself. His process did not differ fr=
om
that together and drew an inference--and t=
he
peg, too; but I made him
sweat for it.
Y.M. It has something of the seeming of
thought about it. Still it is
not very elaborate. Enlarge.
O.M. Suppose Mr. Edison has been enjoying =
some
one's hospitalities. He
comes again by and by, and the house is
vacant. He infers that his host
has moved. A while afterward, in another t=
own,
he sees the man enter
a house; he infers that that is the new ho=
me,
and follows to inquire.
Here, now, is the experience of a gull, as
related by a naturalist. The
scene is a Scotch fishing village where the
gulls were kindly treated.
This particular gull visited a cottage; was
fed; came next day and was
fed again; came into the house, next time,=
and
ate with the family; kept
on doing this almost daily, thereafter. Bu=
t,
once the gull was away on
a journey for a few days, and when it retu=
rned
the house was vacant.
Its friends had removed to a village three
miles distant. Several months
later it saw the head of the family on the
street there, followed him
home, entered the house without excuse or
apology, and became a daily
guest again. Gulls do not rank high mental=
ly,
but this one had memory
and the reasoning faculty, you see, and
applied them Edisonially.
Y.M. Yet it was not an
O.M. Perhaps not. Could you?
Y.M. That is neither here nor there. Go on=
.
O.M. If
next day he got into the same difficulty
again, he would infer the wise
thing to do in case he knew the stranger's
address. Here is a case of a
bird and a stranger as related by a
naturalist. An Englishman saw a bird
flying around about his dog's head, down in
the grounds, and uttering
cries of distress. He went there to see ab=
out
it. The dog had a young
bird in his mouth--unhurt. The gentleman
rescued it and put it on a bush
and brought the dog away. Early the next
morning the mother bird came
for the gentleman, who was sitting on his
veranda, and by its maneuvers
persuaded him to follow it to a distant pa=
rt
of the grounds--flying a
little way in front of him and waiting for=
him
to catch up, and so on;
and keeping to the winding path, too, inst=
ead
of flying the near way
across lots. The distance covered was four
hundred yards. The same dog
was the culprit; he had the young bird aga=
in,
and once more he had
to give it up. Now the mother bird had
reasoned it all out: since the
stranger had helped her once, she inferred
that he would do it
again; she knew where to find him, and she=
went
upon her errand with
confidence. Her mental processes were what=
put this and that together--and that is all
that thought IS--and out of
them built her logical arrangement of
inferences.
done it any better himself.
Y.M. Do you believe that many of the dumb
animals can think?
O.M. Yes--the elephant, the monkey, the ho=
rse,
the dog, the parrot, the
macaw, the mocking-bird, and many others. =
The
elephant whose mate fell
into a pit, and who dumped dirt and rubbish
into the pit till bottom was
raised high enough to enable the captive to
step out, was equipped with
the reasoning quality. I conceive that all
animals that can learn things
through teaching and drilling have to know=
how
to observe, and put this
and that together and draw an inference--t=
he
process of thinking. Could
you teach an idiot of manuals of arms, and=
to
advance, retreat, and go
through complex field maneuvers at the wor=
d of
command?
Y.M. Not if he were a thorough idiot.
O.M. Well, canary-birds can learn all that;
dogs and elephants learn all
sorts of wonderful things. They must surel=
y be
able to notice, and to
put things together, and say to themselves,
"I get the idea, now: when I
do so and so, as per order, I am praised a=
nd
fed; when I do differently
I am punished." Fleas can be taught
nearly anything that a Congressman
can.
Y.M. Granting, then, that dumb animals are
able to think upon a low
plane, is there any that can think upon a =
high
one? Is there one that is
well up toward man?
O.M. Yes. As a thinker and planner the ant=
is
the equal of any savage
race of men; as a self-educated specialist=
in
several arts she is
the superior of any savage race of men; an=
d in
one or two high mental
qualities she is above the reach of any ma=
n,
savage or civilized!
Y.M. Oh, come! you are abolishing the
intellectual frontier which
separates man and beast.
O.M. I beg your pardon. One cannot abolish
what does not exist.
Y.M. You are not in earnest, I hope. You
cannot mean to seriously say
there is no such frontier.
O.M. I do say it seriously. The instances =
of
the horse, the gull, the
mother bird, and the elephant show that th=
ose
creatures put their this's
and thats together just as
inferences that he would have drawn. Their
mental machinery was just
like his, also its manner of working. Their
equipment was as inferior
to the Strasburg clock, but that is the on=
ly
difference--there is no
frontier.
Y.M. It looks exasperatingly true; and is
distinctly offensive. It
elevates the dumb beasts to--to--
O.M. Let us drop that lying phrase, and ca=
ll
them the Unrevealed
Creatures; so far as we can know, there is=
no
such thing as a dumb
beast.
Y.M. On what grounds do you make that
assertion?
O.M. On quite simple ones. "Dumb"=
; beast
suggests an animal that has no
thought-machinery, no understanding, no
speech, no way of communicating
what is in its mind. We know that a hen HAS
speech. We cannot understand
everything she says, but we easily learn t=
wo
or three of her phrases.
We know when she is saying, "I have l=
aid
an egg"; we know when she is
saying to the chicks, "Run here, dear=
s,
I've found a worm"; we know
what she is saying when she voices a warni=
ng:
"Quick! hurry! gather
yourselves under mamma, there's a hawk
coming!" We understand the cat
when she stretches herself out, purring wi=
th
affection and contentment
and lifts up a soft voice and says,
"Come, kitties, supper's ready"; we
understand her when she goes mourning about
and says, "Where can they
be? They are lost. Won't you help me hunt =
for
them?" and we understand
the disreputable Tom when he challenges at
midnight from his shed, "You
come over here, you product of immoral
commerce, and I'll make your fur
fly!" We understand a few of a dog's
phrases and we learn to understand
a few of the remarks and gestures of any b=
ird
or other animal that we
domesticate and observe. The clearness and
exactness of the few of the
hen's speeches which we understand is argu=
ment
that she can communicate
to her kind a hundred things which we cann=
ot
comprehend--in a word, that
she can converse. And this argument is also
applicable in the case of
others of the great army of the Unrevealed=
. It
is just like man's vanity
and impertinence to call an animal dumb
because it is dumb to his dull
perceptions. Now as to the ant--
Y.M. Yes, go back to the ant, the creature
that--as you seem to
think--sweeps away the last vestige of an
intellectual frontier between
man and the Unrevealed.
O.M. That is what she surely does. In all =
his
history the aboriginal
Australian never thought out a house for
himself and built it. The ant
is an amazing architect. She is a wee litt=
le
creature, but she builds a
strong and enduring house eight feet high-=
-a
house which is as large
in proportion to her size as is the larges=
t capitol
or cathedral in the
world compared to man's size. No savage ra=
ce
has produced architects
who could approach the air in genius or
culture. No civilized race has
produced architects who could plan a house
better for the uses proposed
than can hers. Her house contains a
throne-room; nurseries for her
young; granaries; apartments for her soldi=
ers,
her workers, etc.; and
they and the multifarious halls and corrid=
ors
which communicate with
them are arranged and distributed with an
educated and experienced eye
for convenience and adaptability.
Y.M. That could be mere instinct.
O.M. It would elevate the savage if he had=
it.
But let us look further
before we decide. The ant has
soldiers--battalions, regiments, armies;
and they have their appointed captains and
generals, who lead them to
battle.
Y.M. That could be instinct, too.
O.M. We will look still further. The ant h=
as a
system of government; it
is well planned, elaborate, and is well
carried on.
Y.M. Instinct again.
O.M. She has crowds of slaves, and is a ha=
rd
and unjust employer of
forced labor.
Y.M. Instinct.
O.M. She has cows, and milks them.
Y.M. Instinct, of course.
O.M. In Texas she lays out a farm twelve f=
eet
square, plants it, weeds
it, cultivates it, gathers the crop and st=
ores
it away.
Y.M. Instinct, all the same.
O.M. The ant discriminates between friend =
and
stranger. Sir John Lubbock
took ants from two different nests, made t=
hem
drunk with whiskey and
laid them, unconscious, by one of the nest=
s,
near some water. Ants from
the nest came and examined and discussed t=
hese
disgraced creatures, then
carried their friends home and threw the
strangers overboard. Sir John
repeated the experiment a number of times.=
For
a time the sober ants
did as they had done at first--carried the=
ir
friends home and threw the
strangers overboard. But finally they lost
patience, seeing that
their reformatory efforts went for nothing,
and threw both friends and
strangers overboard. Come--is this instinc=
t,
or is it thoughtful
and intelligent discussion of a thing new-=
-absolutely
new--to their
experience; with a verdict arrived at,
sentence passed, and judgment
executed? Is it instinct?--thought petrifi=
ed
by ages of habit--or
isn't it brand-new thought, inspired by the
new occasion, the new
circumstances?
Y.M. I have to concede it. It was not a re=
sult
of habit; it has all
the look of reflection, thought, putting t=
his
and that together, as you
phrase it. I believe it was thought.
O.M. I will give you another instance of
thought.
of sugar on a table in his room. The ants =
got
at it. He tried several
preventives; and ants rose superior to the=
m.
Finally he contrived one
which shut off access--probably set the
table's legs in pans of water,
or drew a circle of tar around the cup, I
don't remember. At any
rate, he watched to see what they would do.
They tried various
schemes--failures, every one. The ants were
badly puzzled. Finally they
held a consultation, discussed the problem,
arrived at a decision--and
this time they beat that great philosopher.
They formed in procession,
cross the floor, climbed the wall, marched
across the ceiling to a point
just over the cup, then one by one they le=
t go
and fell down into it!
Was that instinct--thought petrified by ag=
es
of inherited habit?
Y.M. No, I don't believe it was. I believe=
it
was a newly reasoned
scheme to meet a new emergency.
O.M. Very well. You have conceded the
reasoning power in two instances.
I come now to a mental detail wherein the =
ant
is a long way the superior
of any human being. Sir John Lubbock prove=
d by
many experiments that an
ant knows a stranger ant of her own specie=
s in
a moment, even when the
stranger is disguised--with paint. Also he
proved that an ant knows
every individual in her hive of five hundr=
ed
thousand souls. Also, after
a year's absence one of the five hundred
thousand she will straightway
recognize the returned absentee and grace =
the
recognition with a
affectionate welcome. How are these
recognitions made? Not by color,
for painted ants were recognized. Not by
smell, for ants that had been
dipped in chloroform were recognized. Not =
by
speech and not by antennae
signs nor contacts, for the drunken and
motionless ants were recognized
and the friend discriminated from the
stranger. The ants were all of
the same species, therefore the friends ha=
d to
be recognized by form and
feature--friends who formed part of a hive=
of
five hundred thousand! Has
any man a memory for form and feature
approaching that?
Y.M. Certainly not.
O.M. Franklin's ants and Lubbuck's ants sh=
ow
fine capacities of putting
this and that together in new and untried
emergencies and deducting
smart conclusions from the combinations--a
man's mental process exactly.
With memory to help, man preserves his
observations and reasonings,
reflects upon them, adds to them, recombin=
es,
and so proceeds, stage
by stage, to far results--from the teakett=
le
to the ocean greyhound's
complex engine; from personal labor to sla=
ve
labor; from wigwam to
palace; from the capricious chase to
agriculture and stored food; from
nomadic life to stable government and
concentrated authority; from
incoherent hordes to massed armies. The ant
has observation, the
reasoning faculty, and the preserving adju=
nct
of a prodigious memory;
she has duplicated man's development and t=
he
essential features of his
civilization, and you call it all instinct=
!
Y.M. Perhaps I lacked the reasoning faculty
myself.
O.M. Well, don't tell anybody, and don't d=
o it
again.
Y.M. We have come a good way. As a result-=
-as
I understand it--I am
required to concede that there is absolute=
ly
no intellectual frontier
separating Man and the Unrevealed Creature=
s?
O.M. That is what you are required to conc=
ede.
There is no such
frontier--there is no way to get around th=
at.
Man has a finer and more
capable machine in him than those others, =
but
it is the same machine and
works in the same way. And neither he nor
those others can command the
machine--it is strictly automatic, indepen=
dent
of control, works when it
pleases, and when it doesn't please, it ca=
n't
be forced.
Y.M. Then man and the other animals are all
alike, as to mental
machinery, and there isn't any difference =
of
any stupendous magnitude
between them, except in quality, not in ki=
nd.
O.M. That is about the state of
it--intellectuality. There are
pronounced limitations on both sides. We c=
an't
learn to understand much
of their language, but the dog, the elepha=
nt,
etc., learn to understand
a very great deal of ours. To that extent =
they
are our superiors. On the
other hand, they can't learn reading, writ=
ing,
etc., nor any of our fine
and high things, and there we have a large
advantage over them.
Y.M. Very well, let them have what they've
got, and welcome; there is
still a wall, and a lofty one. They haven't
got the Moral Sense; we have
it, and it lifts us immeasurably above the=
m.
O.M. What makes you think that?
Y.M. Now look here--let's call a halt. I h=
ave
stood the other infamies
and insanities and that is enough; I am not
going to have man and the
other animals put on the same level morall=
y.
O.M. I wasn't going to hoist man up to tha=
t.
Y.M. This is too much! I think it is not r=
ight
to jest about such
things.
O.M. I am not jesting, I am merely reflect=
ing
a plain and simple
truth--and without uncharitableness. The f=
act
that man knows right from
wrong proves his INTELLECTUAL superiority =
to
the other creatures;
but the fact that he can DO wrong proves h=
is
MORAL inferiority to
any creature that CANNOT. It is my belief =
that
this position is not
assailable.
Free Will
Y.M. What is your opinion regarding Free W=
ill?
O.M. That there is no such thing. Did the =
man
possess it who gave the
old woman his last shilling and trudged ho=
me
in the storm?
Y.M. He had the choice between succoring t=
he
old woman and leaving her
to suffer. Isn't it so?
O.M. Yes, there was a choice to be made, b=
etween
bodily comfort on the
one hand and the comfort of the spirit on =
the
other. The body made a
strong appeal, of course--the body would be
quite sure to do that; the
spirit made a counter appeal. A choice had=
to
be made between the two
appeals, and was made. Who or what determi=
ned
that choice?
Y.M. Any one but you would say that the man
determined it, and that in
doing it he exercised Free Will.
O.M. We are constantly assured that every =
man
is endowed with Free
Will, and that he can and must exercise it=
where
he is offered a choice
between good conduct and less-good conduct.
Yet we clearly saw that
in that man's case he really had no Free W=
ill:
his temperament, his
training, and the daily influences which h=
ad
molded him and made
him what he was, COMPELLED him to rescue t=
he
old woman and thus
save HIMSELF--save himself from spiritual
pain, from unendurable
wretchedness. He did not make the choice, =
it
was made FOR him by forces
which he could not control. Free Will has
always existed in WORDS, but
it stops there, I think--stops short of FA=
CT.
I would not use those
words--Free Will--but others.
Y.M. What others?
O.M. Free Choice.
Y.M. What is the difference?
O.M. The one implies untrammeled power to =
ACT
as you please, the other
implies nothing beyond a mere MENTAL PROCE=
SS:
the critical ability to
determine which of two things is nearest r=
ight
and just.
Y.M. Make the difference clear, please.
O.M. The mind can freely SELECT, CHOOSE, P=
OINT
OUT the right and just
one--its function stops there. It can go no
further in the matter. It
has no authority to say that the right one
shall be acted upon and the
wrong one discarded. That authority is in
other hands.
Y.M. The man's?
O.M. In the machine which stands for him. =
In
his born disposition
and the character which has been built aro=
und
it by training and
environment.
Y.M. It will act upon the right one of the
two?
O.M. It will do as it pleases in the matte=
r.
George Washington's machine
would act upon the right one; Pizarro would
act upon the wrong one.
Y.M. Then as I understand it a bad man's
mental machinery calmly and
judicially points out which of two things =
is
right and just--
O.M. Yes, and his MORAL machinery will fre=
ely
act upon the other or the
other, according to its make, and be quite
indifferent to the MIND'S
feeling concerning the matter--that is, WO=
ULD
be, if the mind had any
feelings; which it hasn't. It is merely a
thermometer: it registers the
heat and the cold, and cares not a farthing
about either.
Y.M. Then we must not claim that if a man
KNOWS which of two things is
right he is absolutely BOUND to do that th=
ing?
O.M. His temperament and training will dec=
ide
what he shall do, and he
will do it; he cannot help himself, he has=
no
authority over the mater.
Wasn't it right for David to go out and sl=
ay
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 b=
orn
coward to attempt it?
Y.M. It would--yes.
O.M. You know that no born coward ever wou=
ld
have attempted it, don't
you?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. You know that a born coward's make and
temperament would be an
absolute and insurmountable bar to his ever
essaying such a thing, don't
you?
Y.M. Yes, I know it.
O.M. He clearly perceives that it would be
RIGHT to try it?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. His mind has Free Choice in determini=
ng
that it would be RIGHT to
try it?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. Then if by reason of his inborn cowar=
dice
he simply can NOT essay
it, what becomes of his Free Will? Where is
his Free Will? Why claim
that he has Free Will when the plain facts
show that he hasn't? Why
content that because he and David SEE the
right alike, both must ACT
alike? Why impose the same laws upon goat =
and
lion?
Y.M. There is really no such thing as Free
Will?
O.M. It is what I think. There is WILL. Bu=
t it
has nothing to do with
INTELLECTUAL PERCEPTIONS OF RIGHT AND WRON=
G,
and is not under their
command. David's temperament and training =
had
Will, and it was a
compulsory force; David had to obey its
decrees, he had no choice. The
coward's temperament and training possess
Will, and IT is compulsory;
it commands him to avoid danger, and he ob=
eys,
he has no choice. But
neither the Davids nor the cowards possess
Free Will--will that may do
the right or do the wrong, as their MENTAL
verdict shall decide.
Not Two Values, But Only One
Y.M. There is one thing which bothers me: I
can't tell where you draw
the line between MATERIAL covetousness and
SPIRITUAL covetousness.
O.M. I don't draw any.
Y.M. How do you mean?
O.M. There is no such thing as MATERIAL
covetousness. All covetousness
is spiritual.
Y.M. ALL longings, desires, ambitions
SPIRITUAL, never material?
O.M. Yes. The Master in you requires that =
in
ALL cases you shall content
his SPIRIT--that alone. He never requires
anything else, he never
interests himself in any other matter.
Y.M. Ah, come! When he covets somebody's
money--isn't that rather
distinctly material and gross?
O.M. No. The money is merely a symbol--it
represents in visible and
concrete form a SPIRITUAL DESIRE. Any so-c=
alled
material thing that you
want is merely a symbol: you want it not f=
or
ITSELF, but because it will
content your spirit for the moment.
Y.M. Please particularize.
O.M. Very well. Maybe the thing longed for=
is
a new hat. You get it
and your vanity is pleased, your spirit
contented. Suppose your friends
deride the hat, make fun of it: at once it
loses its value; you are
ashamed of it, you put it out of your sigh=
t,
you never want to see it
again.
Y.M. I think I see. Go on.
O.M. It is the same hat, isn't it? It is i=
n no
way altered. But it
wasn't the HAT you wanted, but only what it
stood for--a something to
please and content your SPIRIT. When it fa=
iled
of that, the whole of its
value was gone. There are no MATERIAL valu=
es;
there are only spiritual
ones. You will hunt in vain for a material
value that is ACTUAL,
REAL--there is no such thing. The only val=
ue
it possesses, for even a
moment, is the spiritual value back of it:
remove that end and it is at
once worthless--like the hat.
Y.M. Can you extend that to money?
O.M. Yes. It is merely a symbol, it has no
MATERIAL value; you think
you desire it for its own sake, but it is =
not
so. You desire it for the
spiritual content it will bring; if it fai=
l of
that, you discover that
its value is gone. There is that pathetic =
tale
of the man who labored
like a slave, unresting, unsatisfied, unti=
l he
had accumulated a
fortune, and was happy over it, jubilant a=
bout
it; then in a single week
a pestilence swept away all whom he held d=
ear
and left him desolate. His
money's value was gone. He realized that h=
is
joy in it came not from
the money itself, but from the spiritual
contentment he got out of his
family's enjoyment of the pleasures and
delights it lavished upon them.
Money has no MATERIAL value; if you remove=
its
spiritual value nothing
is left but dross. It is so with all thing=
s,
little or big, majestic
or trivial--there are no exceptions. Crown=
s,
scepters, pennies, paste
jewels, village notoriety, world-wide
fame--they are all the same, they
have no MATERIAL value: while they content=
the
SPIRIT they are precious,
when this fails they are worthless.
A Difficult Question
Y.M. You keep me confused and perplexed all
the time by your elusive
terminology. Sometimes you divide a man up
into two or three
separate personalities, each with authorit=
ies,
jurisdictions, and
responsibilities of its own, and when he i=
s in
that condition I can't
grasp it. Now when I speak of a man, he is=
THE
WHOLE THING IN ONE, and
easy to hold and contemplate.
O.M. That is pleasant and convenient, if t=
rue.
When you speak of "my
body" who is the "my"?
Y.M. It is the "me."
O.M. The body is a property then, and the =
Me
owns it. Who is the Me?
Y.M. The Me is THE WHOLE THING; it is a co=
mmon
property; an undivided
ownership, vested in the whole entity.
O.M. If the Me admires a rainbow, is it the
whole Me that admires it,
including the hair, hands, heels, and all?=
Y.M. Certainly not. It is my MIND that adm=
ires
it.
O.M. So YOU divide the Me yourself. Everyb=
ody
does; everybody must.
What, then, definitely, is the Me?
Y.M. I think it must consist of just those=
two
parts--the body and the
mind.
O.M. You think so? If you say "I beli=
eve
the world is round," who is the
"I" that is speaking?
Y.M. The mind.
O.M. If you say "I grieve for the los=
s of
my father," who is the "I"?
Y.M. The mind.
O.M. Is the mind exercising an intellectual
function when it examines
and accepts the evidence that the world is
round?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. Is it exercising an intellectual func=
tion
when it grieves for the
loss of your father?
Y.M. That is not cerebration, brain-work, =
it
is a matter of FEELING.
O.M. Then its source is not in your mind, =
but
in your MORAL territory?
Y.M. I have to grant it.
O.M. Is your mind a part of your PHYSICAL
equipment?
Y.M. No. It is independent of it; it is
spiritual.
O.M. Being spiritual, it cannot be affecte=
d by
physical influences?
Y.M. No.
O.M. Does the mind remain sober with the b=
ody
is drunk?
Y.M. Well--no.
O.M. There IS a physical effect present, t=
hen?
Y.M. It looks like it.
O.M. A cracked skull has resulted in a cra=
zy
mind. Why should it happen
if the mind is spiritual, and INDEPENDENT =
of
physical influences?
Y.M. Well--I don't know.
O.M. When you have a pain in your foot, ho=
w 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 w=
hat
is happening in the
outskirts without the help of the PHYSICAL
messenger? You perceive that
the question of who or what the Me is, is =
not
a simple one at all. You
say "I admire the rainbow," and
"I believe the world is round," and in
these cases we find that the Me is not
speaking, but only the MENTAL
part. You say, "I grieve," and a=
gain
the Me is not all speaking, but
only the MORAL part. You say the mind is
wholly spiritual; then you say
"I have a pain" and find that th=
is
time the Me is mental AND spiritual
combined. We all use the "I" in =
this
indeterminate fashion, there is no
help for it. We imagine a Master and King =
over
what you call The Whole
Thing, and we speak of him as "I,&quo=
t;
but when we try to define him we
find we cannot do it. The intellect and the
feelings can act quite
INDEPENDENTLY of each other; we recognize
that, and we look around for
a Ruler who is master over both, and can s=
erve
as a DEFINITE AND
INDISPUTABLE "I," and enable us =
to
know what we mean and who or what we
are talking about when we use that pronoun,
but we have to give it up
and confess that we cannot find him. To me,
Man is a machine, made up
of many mechanisms, the moral and mental o=
nes
acting automatically in
accordance with the impulses of an interior
Master who is built out of
born-temperament and an accumulation of
multitudinous outside influences
and trainings; a machine whose ONE functio=
n is
to secure the spiritual
contentment of the Master, be his desires =
good
or be they evil; a
machine whose Will is absolute and must be
obeyed, and always IS obeyed.
Y.M. Maybe the Me is the Soul?
O.M. Maybe it is. What is the Soul?
Y.M. I don't know.
O.M. Neither does any one else.
The Master Passion
Y.M. What is the Master?--or, in common
speech, the Conscience? Explain
it.
O.M. It is that mysterious autocrat, lodge=
d in
a man, which compels the
man to content its desires. It may be call=
ed
the Master Passion--the
hunger for Self-Approval.
Y.M. Where is its seat?
O.M. In man's moral constitution.
Y.M. Are its commands for the man's good?<= o:p>
O.M. It is indifferent to the man's good; =
it
never concerns itself about
anything but the satisfying of its own
desires. It can be TRAINED to
prefer things which will be for the man's
good, but it will prefer them
only because they will content IT better t=
han
other things would.
Y.M. Then even when it is trained to high
ideals it is still looking out
for its own contentment, and not for the m=
an'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 seate=
d in
the man's moral
constitution.
O.M. It is a COLORLESS force seated in the
man's moral constitution. Let
us call it an instinct--a blind, unreasoni=
ng
instinct, which cannot and
does not distinguish between good morals a=
nd
bad ones, and cares nothing
for results to the man provided its own
contentment be secured; and it
will ALWAYS secure that.
Y.M. It seeks money, and it probably consi=
ders
that that is an advantage
for the man?
O.M. It is not always seeking money, it is=
not
always seeking power,
nor office, nor any other MATERIAL advanta=
ge.
In ALL cases it seeks a
SPIRITUAL contentment, let the MEANS be wh=
at
they may. Its desires
are determined by the man's temperament--a=
nd
it is lord over that.
Temperament, Conscience, Susceptibility,
Spiritual Appetite, are, in
fact, the same thing. Have you ever heard =
of a
person who cared nothing
for money?
Y.M. Yes. A scholar who would not leave his
garret and his books to take
a place in a business house at a large sal=
ary.
O.M. He had to satisfy his master--that is=
to
say, his temperament, his
Spiritual Appetite--and it preferred books=
to
money. Are there other
cases?
Y.M. Yes, the hermit.
O.M. It is a good instance. The hermit end=
ures
solitude, hunger, cold,
and manifold perils, to content his autocr=
at,
who prefers these things,
and prayer and contemplation, to money or =
to
any show or luxury that
money can buy. Are there others?
Y.M. Yes. The artist, the poet, the scient=
ist.
O.M. Their autocrat prefers the deep pleas=
ures
of these occupations,
either well paid or ill paid, to any other=
s in
the market, at any
price. You REALIZE that the Master
Passion--the contentment of the
spirit--concerns itself with many things
besides so-called material
advantage, material prosperity, cash, and =
all
that?
Y.M. I think I must concede it.
O.M. I believe you must. There are perhaps=
as
many Temperaments that
would refuse the burdens and vexations and
distinctions of public office
as there are that hunger after them. The o=
ne
set of Temperaments seek
the contentment of the spirit, and that al=
one;
and this is exactly the
case with the other set. Neither set seeks
anything BUT the contentment
of the spirit. If the one is sordid, both =
are
sordid; and equally so,
since the end in view is precisely the sam=
e in
both cases. And in both
cases Temperament decides the preference--=
and
Temperament is BORN, not
made.
Conclusion
O.M. You have been taking a holiday?
Y.M. Yes; a mountain tramp covering a week.
Are you ready to talk?
O.M. Quite ready. What shall we begin with=
?
Y.M. Well, lying abed resting up, two days=
and
nights, I have thought
over all these talks, and passed them
carefully in review. With this
result: that... that... are you intending =
to
publish your notions about
Man some day?
O.M. Now and then, in these past twenty ye=
ars,
the Master inside of me
has half-intended to order me to set them =
to
paper and publish them.
Do I have to tell you why the order has
remained unissued, or can you
explain so simply a thing without my help?=
Y.M. By your doctrine, it is simplicity
itself: outside influences moved
your interior Master to give the order;
stronger outside influences
deterred him. Without the outside influenc=
es,
neither of these impulses
could ever have been born, since a person's
brain is incapable or
originating an idea within itself.
O.M. Correct. Go on.
Y.M. The matter of publishing or withholdi=
ng
is still in your Master's
hands. If some day an outside influence sh=
all
determine him to publish,
he will give the order, and it will be obe=
yed.
O.M. That is correct. Well?
Y.M. Upon reflection I have arrived at the
conviction that the
publication of your doctrines would be
harmful. Do you pardon me?
O.M. Pardon YOU? You have done nothing. You
are an instrument--a
speaking-trumpet. Speaking-trumpets are not
responsible for what is said
through them. Outside influences--in the f=
orm
of lifelong teachings,
trainings, notions, prejudices, and other
second-hand importations--have
persuaded the Master within you that the
publication of these doctrines
would be harmful. Very well, this is quite
natural, and was to be
expected; in fact, was inevitable. Go on; =
for
the sake of ease and
convenience, stick to habit: speak in the
first person, and tell me what
your Master thinks about it.
Y.M. Well, to begin: it is a desolating
doctrine; it is not inspiring,
enthusing, uplifting. It takes the glory o=
ut
of man, it takes the pride
out of him, it takes the heroism out of hi=
m,
it denies him all personal
credit, all applause; it not only degrades=
him
to a machine, but allows
him no control over the machine; makes a m=
ere coffee-mill
of him, and
neither permits him to supply the coffee n=
or
turn the crank, his sole
and piteously humble function being to gri=
nd
coarse or fine, according
to his make, outside impulses doing the re=
st.
O.M. It is correctly stated. Tell me--what=
do
men admire most in each
other?
Y.M. Intellect, courage, majesty of build,
beauty of countenance,
charity, benevolence, magnanimity, kindlin=
ess,
heroism, and--and--
O.M. I would not go any further. These are
ELEMENTALS. Virtue,
fortitude, holiness, truthfulness, loyalty,
high ideals--these, and all
the related qualities that are named in the
dictionary, are MADE OF THE
ELEMENTALS, by blendings, combinations, and
shadings of the elementals,
just as one makes green by blending blue a=
nd
yellow, and makes several
shades and tints of red by modifying the
elemental red. There are
several elemental colors; they are all in the rainbow;=
out
of them we
manufacture and name fifty shades of them. You have na=
med
the elementals of the human rainbow, and also one BLEND--heroism, which is =
made
out of courage and magnanimity. Very well, then; which of these elements do=
es the
possessor of it manufacture for himself? Is it intellect?
Y.M. No.
O.M. Why?
Y.M. He is born with it.
O.M. Is it courage?
Y.M. No. He is born with it.
O.M. Is it majesty of build, beauty of
countenance?
Y.M. No. They are birthrights.
O.M. Take those others--the elemental moral
qualities--charity,
benevolence, magnanimity, kindliness; frui=
tful
seeds, out of which
spring, through cultivation by outside
influences, all the manifold
blends and combinations of virtues named in
the dictionaries: does man
manufacture any of those seeds, or are they
all born in him?
Y.M. Born in him.
O.M. Who manufactures them, then?
Y.M. God.
O.M. Where does the credit of it belong?
Y.M. To God.
O.M. And the glory of which you spoke, and=
the
applause?
Y.M. To God.
O.M. Then it is YOU who degrade man. You m=
ake
him claim glory, praise,
flattery, for every valuable thing he
possesses--BORROWED finery, the
whole of it; no rag of it earned by himsel=
f,
not a detail of it produced
by his own labor. YOU make man a humbug; h=
ave
I done worse by him?
Y.M. You have made a machine of him.
O.M. Who devised that cunning and beautiful
mechanism, a man's hand?
Y.M. God.
O.M. Who devised the law by which it
automatically hammers out of a
piano an elaborate piece of music, without
error, while the man is
thinking about something else, or talking =
to a
friend?
Y.M. God.
O.M. Who devised the blood? Who devised the
wonderful machinery which
automatically drives its renewing and
refreshing streams through the
body, day and night, without assistance or
advice from the man? Who
devised the man's mind, whose machinery wo=
rks
automatically, interests
itself in what it pleases, regardless of i=
ts
will or desire, labors
all night when it likes, deaf to his appea=
ls
for mercy? God devised all
these things. I have not made man a machin=
e,
God made him a machine.
I am merely calling attention to the fact,
nothing more. Is it wrong to
call attention to the fact? Is it a crime?=
Y.M. I think it is wrong to EXPOSE a fact =
when
harm can come of it.
O.M. Go on.
Y.M. Look at the matter as it stands now. =
Man
has been taught that he is
the supreme marvel of the Creation; he
believes it; in all the ages
he has never doubted it, whether he was a
naked savage, or clothed in
purple and fine linen, and civilized. This=
has
made his heart buoyant,
his life cheery. His pride in himself, his
sincere admiration of
himself, his joy in what he supposed were =
his
own and unassisted
achievements, and his exultation over the
praise and applause which they
evoked--these have exalted him, enthused h=
im,
ambitioned him to higher
and higher flights; in a word, made his li=
fe
worth the living. But by
your scheme, all this is abolished; he is
degraded to a machine, he is
a nobody, his noble prides wither to mere
vanities; let him strive as
he may, he can never be any better than his
humblest and stupidest
neighbor; he would never be cheerful again,
his life would not be worth
the living.
O.M. You really think that?
Y.M. I certainly do.
O.M. Have you ever seen me uncheerful,
unhappy.
Y.M. No.
O.M. Well, I believe these things. Why have
they not made me unhappy?
Y.M. Oh, well--temperament, of course! You
never let THAT escape from
your scheme.
O.M. That is correct. If a man is born wit=
h 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 convictio=
ns?
They are powerless. They
strive in vain against inborn temperament.=
Y.M. I can't believe that, and I don't.
O.M. Now you are speaking hastily. It shows
that you have not studiously
examined the facts. Of all your intimates,
which one is the happiest?
Isn't it Burgess?
Y.M. Easily.
O.M. And which one is the unhappiest? Henry
Adams?
Y.M. Without a question!
O.M. I know them well. They are extremes,
abnormals; their temperaments
are as opposite as the poles. Their
life-histories are about alike--but
look at the results! Their ages are about =
the
same--about around fifty.
Burgess had always been buoyant, hopeful,
happy;
cheerless, hopeless, despondent. As young
fellows both tried country
journalism--and failed. Burgess didn't see=
m to
mind it;
smile, he could only mourn and groan over =
what
had happened and torture
himself with vain regrets for not having d=
one
so and so instead of so
and so--THEN he would have succeeded. They=
tried
the law--and failed.
Burgess remained happy--because he couldn't
help it.
wretched--because he couldn't help it. From
that day to this, those two
men have gone on trying things and failing:
Burgess has come out happy
and cheerful every time;
that these men's inborn temperaments have remained
unchanged through all the vicissitudes of their material affairs. Let us see
how it is with
their immaterials. Both have been zealous Democrats; b=
oth
have been
zealous Republicans; both have been zealous Mugwumps.
Burgess has always found happiness and
beliefs and in their migrations out of them. Both of t=
hese
men have been
Presbyterians, Universalists, Methodists, =
Catholics--then
Presbyterians
again, then Methodists again. Burgess has
always found rest in these
excursions, and
with the customary result, the inevitable
result. No political or
religious belief can make Burgess unhappy =
or
the other man happy.
I assure you it is purely a matter of
temperament. Beliefs are
ACQUIREMENTS, temperaments are BORN; belie=
fs
are subject to change,
nothing whatever can change temperament.
Y.M. You have instanced extreme temperamen=
ts.
O.M. Yes, the half-dozen others are
modifications of the extremes.
But the law is the same. Where the tempera=
ment
is two-thirds happy, or
two-thirds unhappy, no political or religi=
ous
beliefs can change the
proportions. The vast majority of temperam=
ents
are pretty equally
balanced; the intensities are absent, and =
this
enables a nation to learn
to accommodate itself to its political and
religious circumstances and
like them, be satisfied with them, at last
prefer them. Nations do not
THINK, they only FEEL. They get their feel=
ings
at second hand through
their temperaments, not their brains. A na=
tion
can be brought--by force
of circumstances, not argument--to reconci=
le
itself to ANY KIND OF
GOVERNMENT OR RELIGION THAT CAN BE DEVISED=
; in
time it will fit itself
to the required conditions; later, it will
prefer them and will fiercely
fight for them. As instances, you have all
history: the Greeks, the
Romans, the Persians, the Egyptians, the
Russians, the Germans, the
French, the English, the Spaniards, the Am=
ericans,
the South Americans,
the Japanese, the Chinese, the Hindus, the
Turks--a thousand wild and
tame religions, every kind of government t=
hat
can be thought of, from
tiger to house-cat, each nation KNOWING it=
has
the only true religion
and the only sane system of government, ea=
ch
despising all the others,
each an ass and not suspecting it, each pr=
oud
of its fancied supremacy,
each perfectly sure it is the pet of God, =
each
without undoubting
confidence summoning Him to take command in
time of war, each surprised
when He goes over to the enemy, but by hab=
it
able to excuse it and
resume compliments--in a word, the whole h=
uman
race content, always
content, persistently content, indestructibly content,
happy, thankful,
proud, NO MATTER WHAT ITS RELIGION IS, NOR WHETHER ITS
MASTER BE TIGER OR HOUSE-CAT. Am I stating facts? You know I am. Is the hum=
an
race cheerful? You know it is. Considering what it can stand, and be happy,=
you
do me too much honor when you think that I can place before it
a system of plain cold facts that can take the
cheerfulness out of it.
Nothing can do that. Everything has been
tried. Without success. I beg
you not to be troubled.
The death of Jean Clemens occurred early in
the morning of December 24,
1909. Mr. Clemens was in great stress of m=
ind
when I first saw him, but
a few hours later I found him writing
steadily.
"I am setting it down," he said,
"everything. It is a relief to me to
write it. It furnishes me an excuse for
thinking." At intervals during
that day and the next I looked in, and usu=
ally
found him writing. Then
on the evening of the 26th, when he knew t=
hat
Jean had been laid to rest
in
"I have finished it," he said;
"read it. I can form no opinion of it
myself. If you think it worthy, some day--=
at
the proper time--it can end
my autobiography. It is the final
chapter."
Four months later--almost to the day--(Apr=
il
21st) he was with Jean.
Albert Bigelow Paine.
Stormfield, Christmas Eve, 11 A.M., 1909.<= o:p>
JEAN IS DEAD!
Has any one ever tried to put upon paper a=
ll
the little happenings
connected with a dear one--happenings of t=
he
twenty-four hours preceding
the sudden and unexpected death of that de=
ar
one? Would a book contain
them? Would two books contain them? I think
not. They pour into the mind
in a flood. They are little things that ha=
ve
been always happening every
day, and were always so unimportant and ea=
sily
forgettable before--but
now! Now, how different! how precious they
are, now dear, how
unforgettable, how pathetic, how sacred, h=
ow
clothed with dignity!
Last night Jean, all flushed with splendid
health, and I the same, from
the wholesome effects of my
the dinner-table and sat down in the libra=
ry
and chatted, and planned,
and discussed, cheerily and happily (and h=
ow
unsuspectingly!)--until
nine--which is late for us--then went
upstairs, Jean's friendly German
dog 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 her
hand. She was moved--I saw it in her eyes-=
-and
she impulsively kissed my
hand 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 my
door. I said to myself, "Jean is star=
ting
on her usual horseback flight
to the station for the mail." Then Ka=
ty
(1) entered, stood quaking and
gasping 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 through
his heart.
In her bathroom there she lay, the fair yo=
ung
creature, stretched upon
the floor and covered with a sheet. And
looking so placid, so natural,
and as if asleep. We knew what had happene=
d.
She was an epileptic: she
had been seized with a convulsion and heart
failure in her bath. The
doctor had to come several miles. His effo=
rts,
like our previous ones,
failed to bring her back to life.
It is noon, now. How lovable she looks, how
sweet and how tranquil! It
is a noble face, and full of dignity; and =
that
was a good heart that
lies there so still.
In
with a cablegram which said, "Susy was
mercifully released today." I
had to send a like shot to Clara, in
peremptory addition, "You must not co=
me
home." Clara and her husband
sailed from here on the 11th of this month.
How will Clara bear it?
Jean, from her babyhood, was a worshiper of
Clara.
Four days ago I came back from a month's
holiday in
health; but by some accident the reporters
failed to perceive this. Day
before yesterday, letters and telegrams be=
gan
to arrive from friends
and strangers which indicated that I was s=
upposed
to be dangerously
ill. Yesterday Jean begged me to explain my
case through the Associated
Press. I said it was not important enough;=
but
she was distressed and
said I must think of Clara. Clara would see
the report in the German
papers, and as she had been nursing her
husband day and night for four
months (2) and was worn out and feeble, the
shock might be disastrous.
There was reason in that; so I sent a humo=
rous
paragraph by telephone to
the Associated Press denying the
"charge" that I was "dying," and saying
"I would not do such a thing at my ti=
me
of life."
Jean was a little troubled, and did not li=
ke
to see me treat the matter
so lightly; but I said it was best to trea=
t it
so, for there was nothing
serious about it. This morning I sent the
sorrowful facts of this day's
irremediable disaster to the Associated Pr=
ess.
Will both appear in this
evening's papers?--the one so blithe, the
other so tragic?
I lost Susy thirteen years ago; I lost her
mother--her incomparable
mother!--five and a half years ago; Clara =
has
gone away to live in
Seven months ago Mr. Roger died--one of the
best friends I ever had, and
the nearest perfect, as man and gentleman,=
I
have yet met among my race;
within the last six weeks Gilder has passed
away, and Laffan--old, old
friends of mine. Jean lies yonder, I sit h=
ere;
we are strangers under
our own roof; we kissed hands good-by at t=
his
door last night--and
it was forever, we never suspecting it. She
lies there, and I sit
here--writing, busying myself, to keep my
heart from breaking. How
dazzlingly the sunshine is flooding the hi=
lls
around! It is like a
mockery.
Seventy-four years ago twenty-four days ag=
o.
Seventy-four years old
yesterday. Who can estimate my age today?<= o:p>
I have looked upon her again. I wonder I c=
an
bear it. She looks just
as her mother looked when she lay dead in =
that
Florentine villa so long
ago. The sweet placidity of death! it is m=
ore
beautiful than sleep.
I saw her mother buried. I said I would ne=
ver
endure that horror again;
that I would never again look into the gra=
ve
of any one dear to me. I
have kept to that. They will take Jean from
this house tomorrow, and
bear her to
released, but I shall not follow.
Jean was on the dock when the ship came in,
only four days ago. She
was at the door, beaming a welcome, when I
reached this house the next
evening. We played cards, and she tried to
teach me a new game called
"Mark Twain." We sat chatting
cheerily in the library last night, and
she wouldn't let me look into the loggia,
where she was making Christmas
preparations. She said she would finish th=
em
in the morning, and then
her little French friend would arrive from=
follow; the surprise she had been working =
over
for days. While she was
out for a moment I disloyally stole a look.
The loggia floor was clothed
with rugs and furnished with chairs and so=
fas;
and the uncompleted
surprise was there: in the form of a Chris=
tmas
tree that was drenched
with silver film in a most wonderful way; =
and
on a table was prodigal
profusion of bright things which she was g=
oing
to hang upon it today.
What desecrating hand will ever banish that
eloquent unfinished surprise
from that place? Not mine, surely. All the=
se
little matters have
happened in the last four days.
"Little." Yes--THEN. But not now.
Nothing she said or thought or did is litt=
le
now. And all the lavish
humor!--what is become of it? It is pathos,
now. Pathos, and the thought
of it brings tears.
All these little things happened such a few
hours ago--and now she
lies yonder. Lies yonder, and cares for
nothing any more.
Strange--marvelous--incredible! I have had
this experience before; but
it 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 d=
oor
open behind the bed's head
without a preliminary knock, I supposed it=
was
Jean coming to kiss me
good morning, she being the only person who
was used to entering without
formalities.
And so--
I have been to Jean's parlor. Such a turmo=
il
of Christmas presents for
servants and friends! They are everywhere;
tables, chairs, sofas, the
floor--everything is occupied, and
over-occupied. It is many and many a
year since I have seen the like. In that
ancient day Mrs. Clemens and
I used to slip softly into the nursery at
midnight on Christmas Eve and
look the array of presents over. The child=
ren
were little then. And now
here is Jean's parlor looking just as that
nursery used to look. The
presents are not labeled--the hands are
forever idle that would have
labeled them today. Jean's mother always
worked herself down with her
Christmas preparations. Jean did the same
yesterday and the preceding
days, and the fatigue has cost her her lif=
e.
The fatigue caused the
convulsion that attacked her this morning.=
She
had had no attack for
months.
Jean was so full of life and energy that s=
he
was constantly is danger
of overtaxing her strength. Every morning =
she
was in the saddle by
half past seven, and off to the station for
her mail. She examined the
letters and I distributed them: some to he=
r,
some to Mr. Paine, the
others to the stenographer and myself. She
dispatched her share and then
mounted her horse again and went around su=
perintending
her farm and
her poultry the rest of the day. Sometimes=
she
played billiards with me
after dinner, but she was usually too tire=
d to
play, and went early to
bed.
Yesterday afternoon I told her about some
plans I had been devising
while absent in
housekeeper; 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 matter
ended in a compromise, I submitted. I alwa=
ys
did. She wouldn't audit the
bills and let Paine fill out the checks--s=
he
would continue to attend to
that herself. Also, she would continue to =
be
housekeeper, and let Katy
assist. Also, she would continue to answer=
the
letters of personal
friends for me. Such was the compromise. B=
oth
of us called it by that
name, though I was not able to see where my
formidable change had been
made.
However, Jean was pleased, and that was
sufficient for me. She was proud
of being my secretary, and I was never abl=
e to
persuade her to give up
any part of her share in that unlovely wor=
k.
In the talk last night I said I found
everything going so smoothly
that if she were willing I would go back t=
o
blessedly out of the clash and turmoil aga=
in
for another month. She was
urgent that I should do it, and said that =
if I
would put off the trip
until March she would take Katy and go with
me. We struck hands upon
that, and said it was settled. I had a min=
d to
write to
tomorrow's ship and secure a furnished hou=
se
and servants. I meant to
write the letter this morning. But it will
never be written, now.
For she lies yonder, and before her is ano=
ther
journey than that.
Night is closing down; the rim of the sun
barely shows above the
sky-line of the hills.
I have been looking at that face again that
was growing dearer and
dearer to me every day. I was getting
acquainted with Jean in these last
nine months. She had been long an exile fr=
om
home when she came to us
three-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 her
father's threshold again!
Would I bring her back to life if I could =
do
it? I would not. If a word
would do it, I would beg for strength to
withhold the word. And I would
have the strength; I am sure of it. In her
loss I am almost bankrupt,
and my life is a bitterness, but I am cont=
ent:
for she has been enriched
with the most precious of all gifts--that =
gift
which makes all other
gifts mean and poor--death. I have never
wanted any released friend of
mine restored to life since I reached manh=
ood.
I felt in this way when
Susy passed away; and later my wife, and l=
ater
Mr. Rogers. When Clara
met me at the station in New York and told=
me
Mr. Rogers had
died suddenly that morning, my thought was,
Oh, favorite of
fortune--fortunate all his long and lovely
life--fortunate to his
latest moment! The reporters said there we=
re
tears of sorrow in my eyes.
True--but they were for ME, not for him. He
had suffered no loss. All
the fortunes he had ever made before were
poverty compared with this
one.
Why did I build this house, two years ago?=
To
shelter this vast
emptiness? How foolish I was! But I shall =
stay
in it. The spirits of
the dead hallow a house, for me. It was no=
t so
with other members of the
family. Susy died in the house we built in=
never enter it again. But it made the house
dearer to me. I have entered
it once since, when it was tenantless and
silent and forlorn, but to me
it was a holy place and beautiful. It seem=
ed
to me that the spirits of
the dead were all about me, and would spea=
k to
me and welcome me if
they could: Livy, and Susy, and George, and
Henry Robinson, and Charles
Dudley Warner. How good and kind they were,
and how lovable their lives!
In fancy I could see them all again, I cou=
ld
call the children back
and hear them romp again with George--that
peerless black ex-slave and
children's idol who came one day--a flitti=
ng
stranger--to wash windows,
and stayed eighteen years. Until he died.
Clara and Jean would never
enter again the
earlier days. They could not bear it. But I
shall stay in this house. It
is dearer to me tonight than ever it was
before. Jean's spirit will make
it beautiful for me always. Her lonely and
tragic death--but I will not
think 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 was
her very own child--she wore herself out
present-hunting in
these latter days. Paine has just found on=
her
desk a long list of
names--fifty, he thinks--people to whom she
sent presents last night.
Apparently she forgot no one. And Katy fou=
nd
there a roll of bank-notes,
for the servants.
Her dog has been wandering about the groun=
ds
today, comradeless and
forlorn. I have seen him from the windows.=
She
got him from
has tall ears and looks exactly like a wol=
f.
He was educated in
and knows no language but the German. Jean
gave him no orders save
in that tongue. And so when the burglar-al=
arm
made a fierce clamor at
midnight a fortnight ago, the butler, who =
is
French and knows no German,
tried in vain to interest the dog in the
supposed burglar. Jean wrote
me, to
receive from her bright head and her compe=
tent
hand. The dog will not be
neglected.
There was never a kinder heart than Jean's.
From her childhood up she
always spent the most of her allowance on
charities of one kind or
another. After she became secretary and had
her income doubled she spent
her money upon these things with a free ha=
nd.
Mine too, I am glad and
grateful 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 knew
all the birds; she was high up in that lor=
e.
She became a member of
various humane societies when she was stil=
l a
little girl--both here and
abroad--and she remained an active member =
to
the last. She founded two
or three societies for the protection of
animals, here and in
She was an embarrassing secretary, for she
fished my correspondence out
of the waste-basket and answered the lette=
rs.
She thought all letters
deserved the courtesy of an answer. Her mo=
ther
brought her up in that
kindly error.
She could write a good letter, and was swi=
ft
with her pen. She had but
an indifferent ear music, but her tongue t=
ook
to languages with an easy
facility. She never allowed her Italian,
French, and German to get rusty
through neglect.
The telegrams of sympathy are flowing in, =
from
far and wide, now, just
as they did in
laid down her blameless life. They cannot =
heal
the hurt, but they take
away some of the pain. When Jean and I kis=
sed
hands and parted at
my door last, how little did we imagine th=
at
in twenty-two hours the
telegraph would be bringing words like the=
se:
"From the bottom of our hearts we send
out sympathy, dearest of
friends."
For many and many a day to come, wherever =
I go
in this house,
remembrancers of Jean will mutely speak to=
me
of her. Who can count the
number of them?
She was in exile two years with the hope of healing he=
r malady--epilepsy.
There are no words to express how grateful I am that she did not meet her f=
ate
in the hands of strangers, but in the loving shelter 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 magazines
yet to appear, and now I am writing--this.=
CHRISTMAS DAY. NOON.--Last night I went to
Jean's room at intervals, and
turned back the sheet and looked at the
peaceful face, and kissed the
cold brow, and remembered that heartbreaki=
ng
night in
ago, in that cavernous and silent vast vil=
la,
when I crept downstairs so
many times, and turned back a sheet and lo=
oked
at a face just like this
one--Jean's mother's face--and kissed a br=
ow
that was just like this
one. And last night I saw again what I had=
seen
then--that strange and
lovely miracle--the sweet, soft contours of
early maidenhood restored
by the gracious hand of death! When Jean's
mother lay dead, all trace of
care, and trouble, and suffering, and the
corroding years had vanished
out of the face, and I was looking again u=
pon
it as I had known and
worshipped it in its young bloom and beaut=
y a
whole generation before.
About three in the morning, while wandering
about the house in the deep
silences, as one does in times like these,
when there is a dumb sense
that something has been lost that will nev=
er
be found again, yet must
be sought, if only for the employment the
useless seeking gives, I came
upon Jean's dog in the hall downstairs, and
noted that he did not
spring to greet me, according to his
hospitable habit, but came slow and
sorrowfully; also I remembered that he had=
not
visited Jean's apartment
since the tragedy. Poor fellow, did he kno=
w? I
think so. Always when
Jean was abroad in the open he was with he=
r;
always when she was in the
house he was with her, in the night as wel=
l as
in the day. Her parlor
was his bedroom. Whenever I happened upon =
him
on the ground floor he
always followed me about, and when I went
upstairs he went too--in a
tumultuous gallop. But now it was differen=
t:
after patting him a little
I went to the library--he remained behind;
when I went upstairs he did
not follow me, save with his wistful eyes.=
He
has wonderful eyes--big,
and kind, and eloquent. He can talk with t=
hem.
He is a beautiful
creature, and is of the breed of the
dogs, because they bark when there is no
occasion for it; but I have
liked this one from the beginning, because=
he
belonged to Jean, and
because he never barks except when there is
occasion--which is not
oftener than twice a week.
In my wanderings I visited Jean's parlor. =
On a
shelf I found a pile of
my books, and I knew what it meant. She was
waiting for me to come home
from
only knew whom she intended them for! But I
shall never know. I will
keep them. Her hand has touched them--it i=
s an
accolade--they are noble,
now.
And in a closet she had hidden a surprise =
for
me--a thing I have often
wished I owned: a noble big globe. I could=
n't
see it for the tears.
She will never know the pride I take in it,
and the pleasure. Today the
mails are full of loving remembrances for =
her:
full of those old, old
kind words she loved so well, "Merry
Christmas to Jean!" If she could
only have lived one day longer!
At last she ran out of money, and would not
use mine. So she sent to
one of those
spare--and more, most likely.
CHRISTMAS NIGHT.--This afternoon they took=
her
away from her room. As
soon as I might, I went down to the librar=
y,
and there she lay, in her
coffin, dressed in exactly the same clothes
she wore when she stood at
the other end of the same room on the 6th =
of
October last, as Clara's
chief bridesmaid. Her face was radiant with
happy excitement then; it
was the same face now, with the dignity of
death and the peace of God
upon it.
They told me the first mourner to come was=
the
dog. He came uninvited,
and stood up on his hind legs and rested h=
is
fore paws upon the trestle,
and took a last long look at the face that=
was
so dear to him, then went
his way as silently as he had come. HE KNO=
WS.
At mid-afternoon it began to snow. The pit=
y of
it--that Jean could not
see it! She so loved the snow.
The snow continued to fall. At six o'clock=
the
hearse drew up to the
door to bear away its pathetic burden. As =
they
lifted the casket, Paine
began playing on the orchestrelle Schubert=
's
"Impromptu," which was
Jean's favorite. Then he played the
Intermezzo; that was for Susy;
then he played the Largo; that was for the=
ir
mother. He did this at my
request. Elsewhere in my Autobiography I h=
ave
told how the Intermezzo
and the Largo came to be associated in my
heart with Susy and Livy in
their last hours in this life.
From my windows I saw the hearse and the
carriages wind along the road
and gradually grow vague and spectral in t=
he
falling snow, and presently
disappear. Jean was gone out of my life, a=
nd
would not come back any
more. Jervis, the cousin she had played wi=
th
when they were babies
together--he and her beloved old Katy--were
conducting her to her
distant childhood home, where she will lie=
by
her mother's side once
more, in the company of Susy and Langdon.<= o:p>
DECEMBER 26TH. The dog came to see me at e=
ight
o'clock this morning.
He was very affectionate, poor orphan! My =
room
will be his quarters
hereafter.
The storm raged all night. It has raged all
the morning. The snow drives
across the landscape in vast clouds, super=
b,
sublime--and Jean not here
to see.
2:30 P.M.--It is the time appointed. The
funeral has begun. Four hundred
miles away, but I can see it all, just as =
if I
were there. The scene
is the library in the Langdon homestead.
Jean's coffin stands where her
mother and I stood, forty years ago, and w=
ere
married; and where Susy's
coffin stood thirteen years ago; where her
mother's stood five years and
a half ago; and where mine will stand afte=
r 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 I
could bear it, for I had Jean left. I said=
WE
would be a family. We said
we would be close comrades and happy--just=
we
two. That fair dream was
in my mind when Jean met me at the steamer
last Monday; it was in my
mind when she received me at the door last
Tuesday evening. We were
together; WE WERE A FAMILY! the dream had =
come
true--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 se=
rvice
of the Clemens
family for twent=
y-nine
years.
2. Mr. Gabrilowitsch had been operate=
d on
for appendicitis.
If I understand the idea, the BAZAR invites
several of us to write upon
the above text. It means the change in my
life's course which introduced
what must be regarded by me as the most
IMPORTANT condition of my
career. But it also implies--without
intention, perhaps--that that
turning-point ITSELF was the creator of the
new condition. This gives it
too much distinction, too much prominence,=
too
much credit. It is only
the LAST link in a very long chain of
turning-points commissioned to
produce the cardinal result; it is not any
more important than the
humblest of its ten thousand predecessors.=
Each
of the ten thousand did
its appointed share, on its appointed date=
, in
forwarding the scheme,
and they were all necessary; to have left =
out
any one of them would have
defeated the scheme and brought about SOME
OTHER result. It know we have
a fashion of saying "such and such an
event was the turning-point in my
life," but we shouldn't say it. We sh=
ould
merely grant that its place
as LAST link in the chain makes it the most
CONSPICUOUS link; in real
importance it has no advantage over any on=
e of
its predecessors.
Perhaps the most celebrated turning-point
recorded in history was the
crossing of the Rubicon. Suetonius says:
Coming up with his troops on the banks of =
the
Rubicon, he halted for a
while, and, revolving in his mind the
importance of the step he was
on the point of taking, he turned to those
about him and said, "We may
still retreat; but if we pass this little
bridge, nothing is left for us
but to fight it out in arms."
This was a stupendously important moment. =
And
all the incidents, big and
little, of Caesar's previous life had been
leading up to it, stage by
stage, link by link. This was the LAST
link--merely the last one, and no
bigger than the others; but as we gaze bac=
k at
it through the inflating
mists of our imagination, it looks as big =
as the
orbit of Neptune.
You, the reader, have a PERSONAL interest =
in
that link, and so have
I; so has the rest of the human race. It w=
as
one of the links in your
life-chain, and it was one of the links in
mine. We may wait, now, with
bated breath, while Caesar reflects. Your =
fate
and mine are involved in
his decision.
While he was thus hesitating, the following
incident occurred. A person
remarked for his noble mien and graceful
aspect appeared close at hand,
sitting and playing upon a pipe. When not =
only
the shepherds, but a
number of soldiers also, flocked to listen=
to
him, and some trumpeters
among them, he snatched a trumpet from one=
of
them, ran to the river
with it, and, sounding the advance with a
piercing blast, crossed to the
other side. Upon this, Caesar exclaimed:
"Let us go whither the omens of
the gods and the iniquity of our enemies c=
all
us. THE DIE IS CAST."
So he crossed--and changed the future of t=
he
whole human race, for all
time. But that stranger was a link in Caes=
ar's
life-chain, too; and a
necessary one. We don't know his name, we
never hear of him again; he
was very casual; he acts like an accident;=
but
he was no accident, he
was there by compulsion of HIS life-chain,=
to
blow the electrifying
blast that was to make up Caesar's mind fo=
r him,
and thence go piping
down 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'S
life-chain; each event producing the next =
one,
and that one the next
one, and so on: the destruction of the
republic; the founding of the
empire; the breaking up of the empire; the
rise of Christianity upon
its ruins; the spread of the religion to o=
ther
lands--and so on; link
by link took its appointed place at its
appointed time, the discovery of
America being one of them; our Revolution
another; the inflow of English
and other immigrants another; their drift
westward (my ancestors among
them) another; the settlement of certain of
them in Missouri, which
resulted in ME. For I was one of the
unavoidable results of the crossing
of the Rubicon. If the stranger, with his
trumpet blast, had stayed away
(which he COULDN'T, for he was the appoint=
ed
link) Caesar would not have
crossed. What would have happened, in that=
case,
we can never guess. We
only know that the things that did happen
would not have happened. They
might have been replaced by equally prodig=
ious
things, of course, but
their nature and results are beyond our
guessing. But the matter that
interests me personally is that I would no=
t be
HERE now, but somewhere
else; and probably black--there is no tell=
ing.
Very well, I am glad he
crossed. And very really and thankfully gl=
ad,
too, though I never cared
anything about it before.
To me, the most important feature of my li=
fe
is its literary feature. I
have been professionally literary something
more than forty years. There
have been many turning-points in my life, =
but
the one that was the link
in the chain appointed to conduct me to the
literary guild is the most
CONSPICUOUS link in that chain. BECAUSE it=
was
the last one. It was not
any more important than its predecessors. =
All
the other links have an
inconspicuous look, except the crossing of=
the
Rubicon; but as factors
in making me literary they are all of the =
one
size, the crossing of the
Rubicon included.
I know how I came to be literary, and I wi=
ll
tell the steps that lead up
to it and brought it about.
The crossing of the Rubicon was not the fi=
rst
one, it was hardly even
a recent one; I should have to go back ages
before Caesar's day to find
the first one. To save space I will go back
only a couple of generations
and start with an incident of my boyhood. =
When
I was twelve and a half
years old, my father died. It was in the
spring. The summer came, and
brought with it an epidemic of measles. Fo=
r a
time a child died almost
every day. The village was paralyzed with
fright, distress, despair.
Children that were not smitten with the
disease were imprisoned in
their homes to save them from the infectio=
n.
In the homes there were no
cheerful faces, there was no music, there =
was
no singing but of solemn
hymns, no voice but of prayer, no romping =
was
allowed, no noise, no
laughter, the family moved spectrally abou=
t on
tiptoe, in a
ghostly hush. I was a prisoner. My soul was
steeped in this awful
dreariness--and in fear. At some time or o=
ther
every day and every night
a sudden shiver shook me to the marrow, an=
d I
said to myself, "There,
I've got it! and I shall die." Life on
these miserable terms was not
worth living, and at last I made up my min=
d to
get the disease and have
it over, one way or the other. I escaped f=
rom
the house and went to
the house of a neighbor where a playmate of
mine was very ill with the
malady. When the chance offered I crept in=
to
his room and got into bed
with him. I was discovered by his mother a=
nd
sent back into captivity.
But I had the disease; they could not take
that from me. I came near to
dying. The whole village was interested, a=
nd
anxious, and sent for news
of me every day; and not only once a day, =
but
several times. Everybody
believed I would die; but on the fourteenth
day a change came for the
worse and they were disappointed.
This was a turning-point of my life. (Link
number one.) For when I got
well my mother closed my school career and
apprenticed me to a printer.
She was tired of trying to keep me out of
mischief, and the adventure of
the measles decided her to put me into more
masterful hands than hers.
I became a printer, and began to add one l=
ink
after another to the chain
which was to lead me into the literary
profession. A long road, but I
could not know that; and as I did not know
what its goal was, or even
that it had one, I was indifferent. Also
contented.
A young printer wanders around a good deal,
seeking and finding work;
and seeking again, when necessity commands=
. N.
B. Necessity is a
CIRCUMSTANCE; Circumstance is man's
master--and when Circumstance
commands, 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 with
the attraction of gravitation--but it won'=
t do
any good, he must OBEY.
I wandered for ten years, under the guidan=
ce
and dictatorship of
Circumstance, and finally arrived in a cit=
y of
Iowa, where I worked
several months. Among the books that
interested me in those days was one
about the Amazon. The traveler told an
alluring tale of his long voyage
up the great river from Para to the source=
s of
the Madeira, through the
heart of an enchanted land, a land wastefu=
lly
rich in tropical wonders,
a romantic land where all the birds and
flowers and animals were of
the museum varieties, and where the alliga=
tor
and the crocodile and the
monkey seemed as much at home as if they w=
ere
in the Zoo. Also, he
told an astonishing tale about COCA, a veg=
etable
product of miraculous
powers, asserting that it was so nourishing
and so strength-giving that
the native of the mountains of the Madeira
region would tramp up hill
and down all day on a pinch of powdered co=
ca
and require no other
sustenance.
I was fired with a longing to ascend the
Amazon. Also with a longing to
open up a trade in coca with all the world.
During months I dreamed
that dream, and tried to contrive ways to =
get
to Para and spring that
splendid enterprise upon an unsuspecting
planet. But all in vain. A
person may PLAN as much as he wants to, but
nothing of consequence is
likely to come of it until the magician
CIRCUMSTANCE steps in and takes
the matter off his hands. At last Circumst=
ance
came to my help. It was
in this way. Circumstance, to help or hurt
another man, made him lose
a fifty-dollar bill in the street; and to =
help
or hurt me, made me find
it. I advertised the find, and left for the
Amazon the same day. This
was another turning-point, another link.
Could Circumstance have ordered another
dweller in that town to go to
the Amazon and open up a world-trade in co=
ca
on a fifty-dollar basis
and been obeyed? No, I was the only one. T=
here
were other fools
there--shoals and shoals of them--but they
were not of my kind. I was
the only one of my kind.
Circumstance is powerful, but it cannot wo=
rk
alone; it has to have a
partner. Its partner is man's TEMPERAMENT-=
-his
natural disposition.
His temperament is not his invention, it is
BORN in him, and he has no
authority over it, neither is he responsib=
le
for its acts. He cannot
change it, nothing can change it, nothing =
can
modify it--except
temporarily. But it won't stay modified. I=
t is
permanent, like the
color of the man's eyes and the shape of h=
is
ears. Blue eyes are gray
in certain unusual lights; but they resume
their natural color when that
stress is removed.
A Circumstance that will coerce one man wi=
ll
have no effect upon a man
of a different temperament. If Circumstance
had thrown the bank-note
in Caesar's way, his temperament would not=
have
made him start for the
Amazon. His temperament would have compell=
ed
him to do something with
the money, but not that. It might have made
him advertise the note--and
WAIT. We can't tell. Also, it might have m=
ade
him go to New York and
buy into the Government, with results that
would leave Tweed nothing to
learn when it came his turn.
Very well, Circumstance furnished the capi=
tal,
and my temperament told
me what to do with it. Sometimes a tempera=
ment
is an ass. When that is
the case of the owner of it is an ass, too,
and is going to remain
one. Training, experience, association, can
temporarily so polish him,
improve him, exalt him that people will th=
ink
he is a mule, but they
will be mistaken. Artificially he IS a mul=
e,
for the time being, but at
bottom he is an ass yet, and will remain o=
ne.
By temperament I was the kind of person th=
at
DOES things. Does them, and
reflects afterward. So I started for the
Amazon without reflecting and
without asking any questions. That was more
than fifty years ago. In all
that time my temperament has not changed, =
by
even a shade. I have
been punished many and many a time, and
bitterly, for doing things and
reflecting afterward, but these tortures h=
ave
been of no value to me;
I still do the thing commanded by Circumst=
ance
and Temperament, and
reflect afterward. Always violently. When =
I am
reflecting, on these
occasions, 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 I
inquired, and found there was no ship leav=
ing
for Para. Also, that there
never had BEEN one leaving for Para. I
reflected. A policeman came and
asked me what I was doing, and I told him.=
He
made me move on, and said
if he caught me reflecting in the public
street again he would run me
in.
After a few days I was out of money. Then
Circumstance arrived, with
another turning-point of my life--a new li=
nk.
On my way down, I had made
the acquaintance of a pilot. I begged him =
to
teach me the river, and he
consented. I became a pilot.
By and by Circumstance came again--introdu=
cing
the Civil War, this
time, in order to push me ahead another st=
age
or two toward the literary
profession. The boats stopped running, my
livelihood was gone.
Circumstance came to the rescue with a new
turning-point and a fresh
link. My brother was appointed secretary to
the new Territory of Nevada,
and he invited me to go with him and help =
him
in his office. I accepted.
In Nevada, Circumstance furnished me the
silver fever and I went into
the mines to make a fortune, as I supposed;
but that was not the idea.
The idea was to advance me another step to=
ward
literature. For amusement
I scribbled things for the Virginia City
ENTERPRISE. One isn't a printer
ten years without setting up acres of good=
and
bad literature, and
learning--unconsciously at first, consciou=
sly
later--to discriminate
between the two, within his mental
limitations; and meantime he is
unconsciously acquiring what is called a
"style." One of my efforts
attracted attention, and the ENTERPRISE se=
nt
for me and put me on its
staff.
And so I became a journalist--another link=
. By
and by Circumstance and
the Sacramento UNION sent me to the Sandwi=
ch
Islands for five or
six months, to write up sugar. I did it; a=
nd
threw in a good deal of
extraneous matter that hadn't anything to =
do
with sugar. But it was this
extraneous matter that helped me to another
link.
It made me notorious, and San Francisco
invited me to lecture. Which
I did. And profitably. I had long had a de=
sire
to travel and see the
world, and now Circumstance had most kindly
and unexpectedly hurled me
upon the platform and furnished me the mea=
ns.
So I joined the "Quaker
City Excursion."
When I returned to America, Circumstance w=
as
waiting on the pier--with
the LAST link--the conspicuous, the
consummating, the victorious link:
I was asked to WRITE A BOOK, and I did it,=
and
called it THE INNOCENTS
ABROAD. Thus I became at last a member of =
the
literary guild. That was
forty-two years ago, and I have been a mem=
ber
ever since. Leaving the
Rubicon incident away back where it belong=
s, I
can say with truth that
the reason I am in the literary profession=
is
because I had the measles
when I was twelve years old.
Now what interests me, as regards these
details, is not the details
themselves, but the fact that none of them=
was
foreseen by me, none of
them was planned by me, I was the author of
none of them. Circumstance,
working in harness with my temperament,
created them all and compelled
them all. I often offered help, and with t=
he
best intentions, but it was
rejected--as a rule, uncourteously. I could
never plan a thing and get
it to come out the way I planned it. It ca=
me
out some other way--some
way I had not counted upon.
And so I do not admire the human being--as=
an
intellectual marvel--as
much as I did when I was young, and got him
out of books, and did not
know him personally. When I used to read t=
hat
such and such a general
did a certain brilliant thing, I believed =
it.
Whereas it was not so.
Circumstance did it by help of his
temperament. The circumstances would
have failed of effect with a general of
another temperament: he might
see the chance, but lose the advantage by
being by nature too slow or
too quick or too doubtful. Once General Gr=
ant
was asked a question about
a matter which had been much debated by the
public and the newspapers;
he answered the question without any
hesitancy. "General, who planned
the the march through Georgia?" "=
;The
enemy!" He added that the enemy
usually makes your plans for you. He meant
that the enemy by neglect or
through force of circumstances leaves an
opening for you, and you see
your chance and take advantage of it.
Circumstances do the planning for us all, =
no
doubt, by help of our
temperaments. I see no great difference
between a man and a watch,
except that the man is conscious and the w=
atch
isn't, and the man TRIES
to plan things and the watch doesn't. The
watch doesn't wind itself
and doesn't regulate itself--these things =
are
done exteriorly. Outside
influences, outside circumstances, wind the
MAN and regulate him. Left
to himself, he wouldn't get regulated at a=
ll,
and the sort of time he
would keep would not be valuable. Some rare
men are wonderful watches,
with gold case, compensation balance, and =
all
those things, and some
men are only simple and sweet and humble
Waterburys. I am a Waterbury. A
Waterbury of that kind, some say.
A nation is only an individual multiplied.=
It
makes plans and
Circumstances comes and upsets them--or
enlarges them. Some patriots
throw the tea overboard; some other patrio=
ts
destroy a Bastille. The
PLANS stop there; then Circumstance comes =
in,
quite unexpectedly, and
turns these modest riots into a revolution=
.
And there was poor Columbus. He elaborated=
a
deep plan to find a new
route to an old country. Circumstance revi=
sed
his plan for him, and he
found a new WORLD. And HE gets the credit =
of
it to this day. He hadn't
anything to do with it.
Necessarily the scene of the real
turning-point of my life (and of
yours) was the Garden of Eden. It was there
that the first link was
forged of the chain that was ultimately to
lead to the emptying of me
into the literary guild. Adam's TEMPERAMENT
was the first command the
Deity ever issued to a human being on this
planet. And it was the only
command Adam would NEVER be able to disobe=
y.
It said, "Be weak, be
water, be characterless, be cheaply
persuadable." The latter command, to
let the fruit alone, was certain to be
disobeyed. Not by Adam himself,
but by his TEMPERAMENT--which he did not
create and had no authority
over. For the TEMPERAMENT is the man; the
thing tricked out with clothes
and named Man is merely its Shadow, nothing
more. The law of the tiger's
temperament is, Thou shalt kill; the law of
the sheep's temperament is
Thou shalt not kill. To issue later comman=
ds
requiring the tiger to let
the fat stranger alone, and requiring the
sheep to imbue its hands in
the blood of the lion is not worth while, =
for
those commands CAN'T be
obeyed. They would invite to violations of=
the
law of TEMPERAMENT, which
is supreme, and take precedence of all oth=
er
authorities. I cannot help
feeling disappointed in Adam and Eve. That=
is,
in their temperaments.
Not in THEM, poor helpless young
creatures--afflicted with temperaments
made out of butter; which butter was comma=
nded
to get into contact with
fire and BE MELTED. What I cannot help wis=
hing
is, that Adam had been
postponed, and Martin Luther and Joan of A=
rc
put in their place--that
splendid pair equipped with temperaments n=
ot
made of butter, but of
asbestos. By neither sugary persuasions no=
r by
hell fire could Satan
have beguiled THEM to eat the apple. There
would have been results!
Indeed, yes. The apple would be intact tod=
ay;
there would be no human
race; there would be no YOU; there would b=
e no
ME. And the old, old
creation-dawn scheme of ultimately launchi=
ng
me into the literary guild
would have been defeated.
These chapters are for children, and I sha=
ll
try to make the words large
enough to command respect. In the hope tha=
t you
are listening, and that
you have confidence in me, I will proceed.
Dates are difficult things to
acquire; and after they are acquired it is
difficult to keep them in
the head. But they are very valuable. They=
are
like the cattle-pens of a
ranch--they shut in the several brands of
historical cattle, each within
its own fence, and keep them from getting
mixed together. Dates are hard
to remember because they consist of figure=
s;
figures are monotonously
unstriking in appearance, and they don't t=
ake
hold, they form no
pictures, and so they give the eye no chan=
ce
to help. Pictures are the
thing. Pictures can make dates stick. They=
can
make nearly anything
stick--particularly IF YOU MAKE THE PICTUR=
ES
YOURSELF. Indeed, that
is the great point--make the pictures YOUR=
SELF.
I know about this from
experience. Thirty years ago I was deliver=
ing
a memorized lecture every
night, and every night I had to help myself
with a page of notes to
keep from getting myself mixed. The notes
consisted of beginnings of
sentences, and were eleven in number, and =
they
ran something like this:
"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 and
protected me against skipping. But they all
looked about alike on the
page; they formed no picture; I had them by
heart, but I could never
with certainty remember the order of their
succession; therefore I
always had to keep those notes by me and l=
ook
at them every little
while. Once I mislaid them; you will not be
able to imagine the terrors
of that evening. I now saw that I must inv=
ent
some other protection. So
I 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 these
marked in ink on my ten finger-nails. But =
it
didn't answer. I kept track
of the figures for a while; then I lost it,
and after that I was never
quite sure which finger I had used last. I
couldn't lick off a letter
after using it, for while that would have =
made
success certain it also
would have provoked too much curiosity. Th=
ere
was curiosity enough
without that. To the audience I seemed more
interested in my fingernails
than I was in my subject; one or two perso=
ns
asked me afterward what was
the matter with my hands.
It was now that the idea of pictures occur=
red
to me; then my troubles
passed away. In two minutes I made six
pictures with a pen, and they did
the work of the eleven catch-sentences, and
did it perfectly. I threw
the pictures away as soon as they were mad=
e,
for I was sure I could shut
my eyes and see them any time. That was a
quarter of a century ago; the
lecture vanished out of my head more than
twenty years ago, but I would
rewrite it from the pictures--for they rem=
ain.
Here are three of them:
(Fig. 1).
The first one is a haystack--below it a
rattlesnake--and it told me
where to begin to talk ranch-life in Carson
Valley. The second one told
me where to begin the talk about a strange=
and
violent wind that used
to burst upon Carson City from the Sierra
Nevadas every afternoon at two
o'clock and try to blow the town away. The
third picture, as you easily
perceive, is lightning; its duty was to re=
mind
me when it was time
to begin to talk about San Francisco weath=
er,
where there IS no
lightning--nor thunder, either--and it nev=
er
failed me.
I will give you a valuable hint. When a ma=
n is
making a speech and you
are 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; and
besides it breaks up your speech and makes=
it
ragged and non-coherent;
but you can tear up your pictures as soon =
as
you have made them--they
will stay fresh and strong in your memory =
in
the order and sequence in
which you scratched them down. And many wi=
ll
admire to see what a good
memory you are furnished with, when perhaps
your memory is not any
better than mine.
Sixteen years ago when my children were li=
ttle
creatures the governess
was trying to hammer some primer histories
into their heads. Part of
this fun--if you like to call it
that--consisted in the memorizing of
the accession dates of the thirty-seven
personages who had ruled England
from the Conqueror down. These little peop=
le
found it a bitter, hard
contract. It was all dates, and all looked
alike, and they wouldn't
stick. Day after day of the summer vacation
dribbled by, and still the
kings held the fort; the children couldn't
conquer any six of them.
With my lecture experience in mind I was a=
ware
that I could invent some
way out of the trouble with pictures, but I
hoped a way could be found
which would let them romp in the open air
while they learned the kings.
I found it, and they mastered all the mona=
rchs
in a day or two.
The idea was to make them SEE the reigns w=
ith
their eyes; that would be
a large help. We were at the farm then. Fr=
om
the house-porch the grounds
sloped gradually down to the lower fence a=
nd
rose on the right to the
high ground where my small work-den stood.=
A
carriage-road wound through
the grounds and up the hill. I staked it o=
ut
with the English monarchs,
beginning with the Conqueror, and you could
stand on the porch and
clearly see every reign and its length, fr=
om
the Conquest down to
Victoria, then in the forty-sixth year of =
her
reign--EIGHT HUNDRED AND
SEVENTEEN YEARS OF English history under y=
our
eye at once!
English history was an unusually live topi=
c in
America just then. The
world had suddenly realized that while it =
was
not noticing the Queen
had passed Henry VIII., passed Henry VI. a=
nd
Elizabeth, and gaining
in length every day. Her reign had entered=
the
list of the long ones;
everybody was interested now--it was watch=
ing
a race. Would she pass
the long Edward? There was a possibility of
it. Would she pass the
long Henry? Doubtful, most people said. The
long George? Impossible!
Everybody said it. But we have lived to see
her leave him two years
behind.
I measured off 817 feet of the roadway, a =
foot
representing a year, and
at the beginning and end of each reign I d=
rove
a three-foot white-pine
stake in the turf by the roadside and wrote
the name and dates on it.
Abreast the middle of the porch-front stoo=
d a
great granite flower-vase
overflowing with a cataract of bright-yell=
ow
flowers--I can't think of
their name. The vase of William the Conque=
ror.
We put his name on it
and his accession date, 1066. We started f=
rom
that and measured off
twenty-one feet of the road, and drove Wil=
liam
Rufus's state; then
thirteen feet and drove the first Henry's
stake; then thirty-five feet
and drove Stephen's; then nineteen feet, w=
hich
brought us just past
the summer-house on the left; then we stak=
ed
out thirty-five, ten, and
seventeen for the second Henry and Richard=
and
John; turned the curve
and entered upon just what was needed for
Henry III.--a level, straight
stretch of fifty-six feet of road without a
crinkle in it. And it lay
exactly in front of the house, in the midd=
le
of the grounds. There
couldn't have been a better place for that
long reign; you could stand
on the porch and see those two wide-apart
stakes almost with your eyes
shut. (Fig. 2.)
That isn't the shape of the road--I have
bunched it up like that to save
room. The road had some great curves in it,
but their gradual sweep was
such that they were no mar to history. No,=
in
our road one could tell
at a glance who was who by the size of the
vacancy between stakes--with
LOCALITY to help, of course.
Although I am away off here in a Swedish
village (1) and those stakes
did not stand till the snow came, I can see
them today as plainly as
ever; and whenever I think of an English
monarch his stakes rise before
me of their own accord and I notice the la=
rge
or small space which he
takes up on our road. Are your kings spaced
off in your mind? When you
think of Richard III. and of James II. do =
the
durations of their reigns
seem about alike to you? It isn't so to me=
; I
always notice that there's
a foot's difference. When you think of Hen=
ry
III. do you see a great
long stretch of straight road? I do; and j=
ust
at the end where it joins
on to Edward I. I always see a small pear-=
bush
with its green fruit
hanging down. When I think of the Commonwe=
alth
I see a shady little
group of these small saplings which we cal=
led
the oak parlor; when
I think of George III. I see him stretchin=
g up
the hill, part of him
occupied by a flight of stone steps; and I=
can
locate Stephen to an inch
when he comes into my mind, for he just fi=
lled
the stretch which went
by the summer-house. Victoria's reign reac=
hed
almost to my study door on
the first little summit; there's sixteen f=
eet
to be added now; I believe
that that would carry it to a big pine-tree
that was shattered by some
lightning one summer when it was trying to=
hit
me.
We got a good deal of fun out of the histo=
ry
road; and exercise, too. We
trotted the course from the conqueror to t=
he
study, the children calling
out the names, dates, and length of reigns=
as
we passed the stakes,
going a good gait along the long reigns, b=
ut
slowing down when we
came upon people like Mary and Edward VI.,=
and
the short Stuart and
Plantagenet, to give time to get in the
statistics. I offered prizes,
too--apples. I threw one as far as I could
send it, and the child that
first shouted the reign it fell in got the
apple.
The children were encouraged to stop locat=
ing
things as being "over by
the arbor," or "in the oak
parlor," or "up at the stone steps," and say
instead that the things were in Stephen, o=
r in
the Commonwealth, or in
George III. They got the habit without
trouble. To have the long road
mapped out with such exactness was a great
boon for me, for I had the
habit of leaving books and other articles
lying around everywhere, and
had not previously been able to definitely
name the place, and so had
often been obliged to go to fetch them mys=
elf,
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 Fre=
nch
reigns, and peg them
alongside the English ones, so that we cou=
ld
always have contemporaneous
French history under our eyes as we went o=
ur
English rounds. We pegged
them down to the Hundred Years' War, then
threw the idea aside, I do not
now remember why. After that we made the
English pegs fence in European
and American history as well as English, a=
nd
that answered very well.
English and alien poets, statesmen, artist=
s,
heroes, battles, plagues,
cataclysms, revolutions--we shoveled them =
all
into the English fences
according to their dates. Do you understan=
d?
We gave Washington's birth
to George II.'s pegs and his death to Geor=
ge
III.'s; George II. got
the Lisbon earthquake and George III. the
Declaration of Independence.
Goethe, Shakespeare, Napoleon, Savonarola,
Joan of Arc, the French
Revolution, the Edict of Nantes, Clive,
Wellington, Waterloo, Plassey,
Patay, Cowpens, Saratoga, the Battle of the
Boyne, the invention of the
logarithms, the microscope, the steam-engi=
ne,
the telegraph--anything
and everything all over the world--we dump=
ed
it all in among the English
pegs according to it date and regardless of
its nationality.
If the road-pegging scheme had not succeed=
ed I
should have lodged the
kings in the children's heads by means of
pictures--that is, I should
have tried. It might have failed, for the
pictures could only be
effective WHEN MADE BY THE PUPIL; not the
master, for it is the work
put upon the drawing that makes the drawing
stay in the memory, and my
children were too little to make drawings =
at
that time. And, besides,
they had no talent for art, which is stran=
ge,
for in other ways they are
like me.
But I will develop the picture plan now,
hoping that you will be able
to use it. It will come good for indoors w=
hen
the weather is bad and one
cannot go outside and peg a road. Let us
imagine that the kings are a
procession, and that they have come out of=
the
Ark and down Ararat for
exercise and are now starting back again up
the zigzag road. This will
bring several of them into view at once, a=
nd
each zigzag will represent
the length of a king's reign.
And so on. You will have plenty of space, =
for
by my project you will use
the parlor wall. You do not mark on the wa=
ll;
that would cause trouble.
You only attach bits of paper to it with p=
ins
or thumb-tacks. These will
leave no mark.
Take your pen now, and twenty-one pieces of
white paper, each two inches
square, and we will do the twenty-one year=
s of
the Conqueror's reign.
On each square draw a picture of a whale a=
nd
write the dates and term of
service. We choose the whale for several
reasons: its name and William's
begin with the same letter; it is the bigg=
est
fish that swims, and
William is the most conspicuous figure in
English history in the way of
a landmark; finally, a whale is about the
easiest thing to draw. By
the time you have drawn twenty-one wales a=
nd
written "William
I.--1066-1087--twenty-one years"
twenty-one times, those details will be
your property; you cannot dislodge them fr=
om
your memory with anything
but 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 looking
for 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 err
on the safe side. He looks better, anyway,
than he would without it.
Be very careful and ATTENTIVE while you are
drawing your first whale
from my sample and writing the word and
figures under it, so that you
will not need to copy the sample any more.
Compare your copy with the
sample; examine closely; if you find you h=
ave
got everything right and
can shut your eyes and see the picture and
call the words and figures,
then turn the sample and copy upside down =
and
make the next copy from
memory; and also the next and next, and so=
on,
always drawing and
writing from memory until you have finished
the whole twenty-one. This
will take you twenty minutes, or thirty, a=
nd
by that time you will find
that you can make a whale in less time tha=
n an
unpracticed person can
make a sardine; also, up to the time you d=
ie
you will always be able to
furnish William's dates to any ignorant pe=
rson
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 him
small, and stick a harpoon in him and give=
him
that sick look in the
eye. Otherwise you might seem to be contin=
uing
the other William, and
that would be confusing and a damage. It is
quite right to make him
small; he was only about a No. 11 whale, or
along there somewhere;
there wasn't room in him for his father's
great spirit. The barb of that
harpoon ought not to show like that, becau=
se
it is down inside the whale
and ought to be out of sight, but it canno=
t be
helped; if the barb were
removed people would think some one had st=
uck
a whip-stock into the
whale. It is best to leave the barb the wa=
y it
is, then every one will
know it is a harpoon and attending to
business. Remember--draw from the
copy only once; make your other twelve and=
the
inscription from memory.
Now the truth is that whenever you have co=
pied
a picture and its
inscription once from my sample and two or
three times from memory the
details will stay with you and be hard to
forget. After that, if you
like, you may make merely the whale's HEAD=
and
WATER-SPOUT for the
Conqueror till you end his reign, each time
SAYING the inscription in
place of writing it; and in the case of
William II. make the HARPOON
alone, and say over the inscription each t=
ime
you do it. You see, it
will take nearly twice as long to do the f=
irst
set as it will to do
the second, and that will give you a marked
sense of the difference in
length of the two reigns.
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. When
you have repeated the hen and the inscript=
ion
until you are perfectly
sure of them, draw merely the hen's head t=
he
rest of the thirty-five
times, saying over the inscription each ti=
me.
Thus: (Fig. 6).
You begin to understand how how this
procession is going to look when
it is on the wall. First there will be the
Conqueror's twenty-one whales
and water-spouts, the twenty-one white squ=
ares
joined to one another and
making a white stripe three and one-half f=
eet
long; the thirteen blue
squares of William II. will be joined to
that--a blue stripe two feet,
two inches long, followed by Henry's red s=
tripe
five feet, ten inches
long, and so on. The colored divisions will
smartly show to the eye the
difference in the length of the reigns and
impress the proportions on
the memory and the understanding. (Fig. 7.=
)
Stephen of Blois comes next. He requires n=
ineteen
two-inch squares of
YELLOW paper. (Fig. 8.)
That is a steer. The sound suggests the
beginning of Stephen's name. I
choose it for that reason. I can make a be=
tter
steer than that when I
am not excited. But this one will do. It i=
s a
good-enough steer for
history. The tail is defective, but it only
wants straightening out.
Next comes Henry II. Give him thirty-five
squares of RED paper. These
hens must face west, like the former ones.
(Fig. 9.)
This hen differs from the other one. He is=
on
his way to inquire what
has been happening in Canterbury.
How we arrive at Richard I., called Richar=
d of
the Lion-heart because
he was a brave fighter and was never so
contented as when he was leading
crusades in Palestine and neglecting his
affairs at home. Give him ten
squares of WHITE paper. (Fig. 10).
That is a lion. His office is to remind yo=
u of
the lion-hearted Richard.
There is something the matter with his leg=
s,
but I do not quite know
what it is, they do not seem right. I think
the hind ones are the most
unsatisfactory; the front ones are well
enough, though it would be
better if they were rights and lefts.
Next comes King John, and he was a poor
circumstance. He was called
Lackland. He gave his realm to the Pope. L=
et
him have seventeen squares
of YELLOW paper. (Fig. 11.)
That creature is a jamboree. It looks like=
a
trademark, but that is only
an accident and not intentional. It is
prehistoric and extinct. It used
to roam the earth in the Old Silurian time=
s,
and lay eggs and catch fish
and climb trees and live on fossils; for it
was of a mixed breed, which
was the fashion then. It was very fierce, =
and
the Old Silurians
were afraid of it, but this is a tame one.
Physically it has no
representative now, but its mind has been
transmitted. First I drew it
sitting down, but have turned it the other=
way
now because I think it
looks more attractive and spirited when one
end of it is galloping. I
love to think that in this attitude it giv=
es
us a pleasant idea of
John coming all in a happy excitement to s=
ee
what the barons have been
arranging for him at Runnymede, while the
other one gives us an idea of
him sitting down to wring his hands and gr=
ieve
over it.
We now come to Henry III.; RED squares aga=
in,
of course--fifty-six of
them. We must make all the Henrys the same
color; it will make their
long reigns show up handsomely on the wall.
Among all the eight Henrys
there were but two short ones. A lucky nam=
e,
as far as longevity goes.
The reigns of six of the Henrys cover 227
years. It might have been well
to name all the royal princes Henry, but t=
his
was overlooked until it
was too late. (Fig. 12.)
This is the best one yet. He is on his way
(1265) to have a look at the
first House of Commons in English history.=
It
was a monumental event,
the situation in the House, and was the se=
cond
great liberty landmark
which the century had set up. I have made
Henry looking glad, but this
was not intentional.
Edward I. comes next; LIGHT-BROWN paper,
thirty-five squares. (Fig. 13.)
That is an editor. He is trying to think o=
f a
word. He props his feet on
a chair, which is the editor's way; then he
can think better. I do not
care much for this one; his ears are not
alike; still, editor suggests
the sound of Edward, and he will do. I cou=
ld
make him better if I had
a model, but I made this one from memory. =
But
is no particular matter;
they all look alike, anyway. They are
conceited and troublesome, and
don't pay enough. Edward was the first rea=
lly
English king that had yet
occupied the throne. The editor in the pic=
ture
probably looks just as
Edward looked when it was first borne in u=
pon
him that this was so. His
whole attitude expressed gratification and
pride mixed with stupefaction
and astonishment.
Edward II. now; twenty BLUE squares. (Fig.
14.)
Another editor. That thing behind his ear =
is
his pencil. Whenever he
finds a bright thing in your manuscript he
strikes it out with that.
That does him good, and makes him smile and
show his teeth, the way he
is doing in the picture. This one has just
been striking out a smart
thing, and now he is sitting there with his
thumbs in his vest-holes,
gloating. They are full of envy and malice,
editors are. This picture
will serve to remind you that Edward II. w=
as
the first English king who
was DEPOSED. Upon demand, he signed his
deposition himself. He had found
kingship a most aggravating and disagreeab=
le
occupation, and you can
see by the look of him that he is glad he
resigned. He has put his blue
pencil up for good now. He had struck out =
many
a good thing with it in
his time.
Edward III. next; fifty RED squares. (Fig.
15.)
This editor is a critic. He has pulled out=
his
carving-knife and his
tomahawk and is starting after a book whic=
h he
is going to have for
breakfast. This one's arms are put on wron=
g. I
did not notice it at
first, but I see it now. Somehow he has got
his right arm on his left
shoulder, and his left arm on his right
shoulder, and this shows us
the back of his hands in both instances. It
makes him left-handed all
around, which is a thing which has never
happened before, except perhaps
in a museum. That is the way with art, whe=
n it
is not acquired but born
to you: you start in to make some simple
little thing, not suspecting
that your genius is beginning to work and
swell and strain in secret,
and all of a sudden there is a convulsion =
and
you fetch out something
astonishing. This is called inspiration. I=
t is
an accident; you never
know when it is coming. I might have tried=
as
much as a year to think
of such a strange thing as an all-around
left-handed man and I could not
have done it, for the more you try to thin=
k of
an unthinkable thing the
more it eludes you; but it can't elude
inspiration; you have only
to bait with inspiration and you will get =
it
every time. Look at
Botticelli's "Spring." Those sna=
ky
women were unthinkable, but
inspiration secured them for us, thanks to
goodness. It is too late to
reorganize this editor-critic now; we will
leave him as he is. He will
serve to remind us.
Richard II. next; twenty-two WHITE squares.
(Fig. 16.)
We use the lion again because this is anot=
her
Richard. Like Edward II.,
he was DEPOSED. He is taking a last sad lo=
ok
at his crown before they
take it away. There was not room enough an=
d 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--the
Lancastrian kings.
Henry IV.; fourteen squares of YELLOW pape=
r.
(Fig. 17.)
This hen has laid the egg of a new dynasty=
and
realizes the magnitude
of the event. She is giving notice in the
usual way. You notice I am
improving in the construction of hens. At
first I made them too
much like other animals, but this one is
orthodox. I mention this
to encourage you. You will find that the m=
ore
you practice the more
accurate you will become. I could always d=
raw
animals, but before I was
educated I could not tell what kind they w=
ere
when I got them done, but
now I can. Keep up your courage; it will be
the same with you, although
you may not think it. This Henry died the =
year
after Joan of Arc was
born.
Henry V.; nine BLUE squares. (Fig. 18)
There you see him lost in meditation over =
the
monument which records the
amazing figures of the battle of Agincourt.
French history says 20,000
Englishmen routed 80,000 Frenchmen there; =
and
English historians say
that the French loss, in killed and wounde=
d,
was 60,000.
Henry VI.; thirty-nine RED squares. (Fig. =
19)
This is poor Henry VI., who reigned long a=
nd
scored many misfortunes and
humiliations. Also two great disasters: he
lost France to Joan of Arc
and he lost the throne and ended the dynas=
ty
which Henry IV. had started
in business with such good prospects. In t=
he
picture we see him sad and
weary and downcast, with the scepter falli=
ng
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 legs
crossed in that indolent way, observing the
clothes the ladies wear,
so that he can describe them for his paper=
and
make them out finer than
they are and get bribes for it and become
wealthy. That flower which he
is wearing in his buttonhole is a rose--a
white rose, a York rose--and
will serve to remind us of the War of the
Roses, and that the white one
was the winning color when Edward got the
throne and dispossessed the
Lancastrian dynasty.
Edward V.; one-third of a BLACK square. (F=
ig.
21.)
His uncle Richard had him murdered in the
tower. When you get the
reigns displayed upon the wall this one wi=
ll
be conspicuous and easily
remembered. It is the shortest one in Engl=
ish
history except Lady Jane
Grey's, which was only nine days. She is n=
ever
officially recognized
as a monarch of England, but if you or I
should ever occupy a throne we
should like to have proper notice taken of=
it;
and it would be only fair
and right, too, particularly if we gained
nothing by it and lost our
lives besides.
Richard III.; two WHITE squares. (Fig. 22.=
)
That is not a very good lion, but Richard =
was
not a very good king. You
would think that this lion has two heads, =
but
that is not so; one is
only a shadow. There would be shadows for =
the
rest of him, but there was
not light enough to go round, it being a d=
ull
day, with only fleeting
sun-glimpses now and then. Richard had a
humped back and a hard heart,
and fell at the battle of Bosworth. I do n=
ot
know the name of that
flower in the pot, but we will use it as
Richard's trade-mark, for it is
said that it grows in only one place in the
world--Bosworth Field--and
tradition says it never grew there until
Richard's royal blood warmed
its hidden seed to life and made it grow.<= o:p>
Henry VII.; twenty-four BLUE squares. (Fig.
23.)
Henry VII. had no liking for wars and
turbulence; he preferred peace and
quiet and the general prosperity which such
conditions create. He liked
to sit on that kind of eggs on his own pri=
vate
account as well as the
nation's, and hatch them out and count up
their result. When he died he
left his heir 2,000,000 pounds, which was a
most unusual fortune for a
king to possess in those days. Columbus's
great achievement gave him the
discovery-fever, and he sent Sebastian Cab=
ot
to the New World to search
out some foreign territory for England. Th=
at
is Cabot's ship up there
in the corner. This was the first time that
England went far abroad to
enlarge her estate--but not the last.
Henry VIII.; thirty-eight RED squares. (Fi=
g.
24.)
That is Henry VIII. suppressing a monaster=
y in
his arrogant fashion.
Edward VI.; six squares of YELLOW paper. (=
Fig.
25.)
He is the last Edward to date. It is indic=
ated
by that thing over his
head, which is a LAST--shoemaker's last.
Mary; five squares of BLACK paper. (Fig. 2=
6.)
The picture represents a burning martyr. H=
e is
in back of the smoke.
The first three letters of Mary's name and=
the
first three of the word
martyr are the same. Martyrdom was going o=
ut
in her day and martyrs were
becoming scarcer, but she made several. For
this reason she is sometimes
called Bloody Mary.
This brings us to the reign of Elizabeth,
after passing through a period
of nearly five hundred years of England's =
history--492
to be exact. I
think you may now be trusted to go the res=
t of
the way without further
lessons in art or inspirations in the matt=
er
of ideas. You have the
scheme now, and something in the ruler's n=
ame
or career will suggest the
pictorial symbol. The effort of inventing =
such
things will not only help
your memory, but will develop originality =
in
art. See what it has
done for me. If you do not find the parlor
wall big enough for all
of England's history, continue it into the
dining-room and into other
rooms. This will make the walls interesting
and instructive and really
worth something instead of being just flat
things to hold the house
together.
1. Summer of 1899.
Note.--The assassination of the Empress of
Austria at Geneva, September
10, 1898, occurred during Mark Twain's
Austrian residence. The news came
to him at Kaltenleutgeben, a summer resort=
a
little way out of Vienna.
To his friend, the Rev. Jos. H. Twichell, =
he
wrote:
"That good and unoffending lady, the
Empress, is killed by a madman,
and I am living in the midst of world-hist=
ory
again. The Queen's Jubilee
last year, the invasion of the Reichsrath =
by
the police, and now this
murder, which will still be talked of and
described and painted a
thousand a thousand years from now. To hav=
e a
personal friend of the
wearer of two crowns burst in at the gate =
in
the deep dusk of the
evening and say, in a voice broken with te=
ars,
'My God! the Empress is
murdered,' and fly toward her home before =
we
can utter a question--why,
it brings the giant event home to you, mak=
es
you a part of it and
personally interested; it is as if your
neighbor, Antony, should come
flying and say, 'Caesar is butchered--the =
head
of the world is fallen!'
"Of course there is no talk but of th=
is.
The mourning is universal and
genuine, the consternation is stupefying. =
The
Austrian Empire is being
draped with black. Vienna will be a specta=
cle
to see by next Saturday,
when the funeral cortege marches."
He was strongly moved by the tragedy, impe=
lled
to write concerning
it. He prepared the article which follows,=
but
did not offer it for
publication, perhaps feeling that his own
close association with the
court circles at the moment prohibited this
personal utterance. There
appears no such reason for withholding its
publication now.
A. B. P.
The more one thinks of the assassination, =
the
more imposing and
tremendous the event becomes. The destruct=
ion
of a city is a large
event, but it is one which repeats itself
several times in a thousand
years; the destruction of a third part of a
nation by plague and famine
is a large event, but it has happened seve=
ral
times in history; the
murder 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 back
about two thousand years to find an instan=
ce
to put with this one. The
oldest family of unchallenged descent in
Christendom lives in Rome and
traces its line back seventeen hundred yea=
rs,
but no member of it has
been present in the earth when an empress =
was
murdered, until now. Many
a time during these seventeen centuries
members of that family have
been startled with the news of extraordina=
ry
events--the destruction
of cities, the fall of thrones, the murder=
of
kings, the wreck of
dynasties, the extinction of religions, the
birth of new systems of
government; and their descendants have bee=
n by
to hear of it and talk
about it when all these things were repeat=
ed
once, twice, or a dozen
times--but to even that family has come ne=
ws
at last which is not staled
by use, has no duplicates in the long reac=
h of
its memory.
It is an event which confers a curious
distinction upon every individual
now living in the world: he has stood alive
and breathing in the
presence of an event such as has not fallen
within the experience of any
traceable or untraceable ancestor of his f=
or
twenty centuries, and it
is not likely to fall within the experienc=
e of
any descendant of his for
twenty more.
Time has made some great changes since the
Roman days. The murder of
an empress then--even the assassination of
Caesar himself--could not
electrify the world as this murder has
electrified it. For one reason,
there was then not much of a world to
electrify; it was a small world,
as to known bulk, and it had rather a thin
population, besides; and for
another reason, the news traveled so slowly
that its tremendous initial
thrill wasted away, week by week and month=
by
month, on the journey, and
by the time it reached the remoter regions
there was but little of it
left. It was no longer a fresh event, it w=
as a
thing of the far past;
it was not properly news, it was history. =
But
the world is enormous
now, and prodigiously populated--that is o=
ne
change; and another is the
lightning swiftness of the flight of tidin=
gs,
good and bad. "The Empress
is murdered!" When those amazing words
struck upon my ear in this
Austrian village last Saturday, three hours
after the disaster, I knew
that it was already old news in London, Pa=
ris,
Berlin, New York, San
Francisco, Japan, China, Melbourne, Cape T=
own,
Bombay, Madras,
Calcutta, and that the entire globe with a
single voice, was cursing
the perpetrator of it. Since the telegraph
first began to stretch itself
wider and wider about the earth, larger and
increasingly larger areas of
the world have, as time went on, received
simultaneously the shock of
a great calamity; but this is the first ti=
me
in history that the entire
surface of the globe has been swept in a
single instant with the thrill
of so gigantic an event.
And who is the miracle-worker who has furn=
ished
to the world this
spectacle? All the ironies are compacted in
the answer. He is at the
bottom of the human ladder, as the accepted
estimates of degree and
value go: a soiled and patched young loafe=
r,
without gifts, without
talents, without education, without morals,
without character, without
any born charm or any acquired one that wi=
ns
or beguiles or attracts;
without a single grace of mind or heart or
hand that any tramp or
prostitute could envy him; an unfaithful
private in the ranks, an
incompetent stone-cutter, an inefficient
lackey; in a word, a mangy,
offensive, empty, unwashed, vulgar, gross,
mephitic, timid, sneaking,
human polecat. And it was within the
privileges and powers of this
sarcasm upon the human race to reach
up--up--up--and strike from its far
summit in the social skies the world's
accepted ideal of Glory and Might
and Splendor and Sacredness! It realizes t=
o us
what sorry shows and
shadows we are. Without our clothes and our
pedestals we are poor things
and much of a size; our dignities are not
real, our pomps are shams. At
our best and stateliest we are not suns, a=
s we
pretended, and teach, and
believe, but only candles; and any bummer =
can
blow us out.
And now we get realized to us once more
another thing which we often
forget--or try to: that no man has a wholly
undiseased mind; that in
one way or another all men are mad. Many a=
re
mad for money. When this
madness is in a mild form it is harmless a=
nd
the man passes for sane;
but when it develops powerfully and takes
possession of the man, it can
make him cheat, rob, and kill; and when he=
has
got his fortune and lost
it again it can land him in the asylum or =
the
suicide's coffin. Love
is a madness; if thwarted it develops fast=
; it
can grow to a frenzy
of despair and make an otherwise sane and
highly gifted prince, like
Rudolph, throw away the crown of an empire=
and
snuff out his own life.
All the whole list of desires, predilectio=
ns,
aversions, ambitions,
passions, cares, griefs, regrets, remorses,
are incipient madness, and
ready to grow, spread, and consume, when t=
he
occasion comes. There are
no healthy minds, and nothing saves any man
but accident--the accident
of not having his malady put to the supreme
test.
One of the commonest forms of madness is t=
he
desire to be noticed, the
pleasure derived from being noticed. Perha=
ps
it is not merely common,
but universal. In its mildest form it
doubtless is universal. Every
child is pleased at being noticed; many
intolerable children put in
their whole time in distressing and idiotic
effort to attract the
attention of visitors; boys are always
"showing off"; apparently all
men and women are glad and grateful when t=
hey
find that they have done
a thing which has lifted them for a moment=
out
of obscurity and caused
wondering talk. This common madness can
develop, by nurture, into a
hunger for notoriety in one, for fame in
another. It is this madness
for being noticed and talked about which h=
as
invented kingship and the
thousand other dignities, and tricked them=
out
with pretty and showy
fineries; it has made kings pick one anoth=
er's
pockets, scramble for one
another's crowns and estates, slaughter one
another's subjects; it has
raised up prize-fighters, and poets, and
villages mayors, and little
and big politicians, and big and little
charity-founders, and bicycle
champions, and banditti chiefs, and fronti=
er
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 no
cost of brain, or labor, or genius this ma=
ngy
Italian tramp has beaten
them all, transcended them all, outstripped
them all, for in time their
names will perish; but by the friendly hel=
p of
the insane newspapers and
courts and kings and historians, his is sa=
fe
and live and thunder in the
world all down the ages as long as human
speech shall endure! Oh, if it
were not so tragic how ludicrous it would =
be!
She was so blameless, the Empress; and so
beautiful, in mind and heart,
in person and spirit; and whether with a c=
rown
upon her head or without
it and nameless, a grace to the human race,
and almost a justification
of its creation; WOULD be, indeed, but that
the animal that struck her
down re-establishes the doubt.
In her character was every quality that in
woman invites and engages
respect, esteem, affection, and homage. Her
tastes, her instincts, and
her aspirations were all high and fine and=
all
her life her heart and
brain were busy with activities of a noble
sort. She had had bitter
griefs, but they did not sour her spirit, =
and
she had had the highest
honors in the world's gift, but she went h=
er
simple way unspoiled. She
knew all ranks, and won them all, and made
them her friends. An English
fisherman's wife said, "When a body w=
as
in trouble she didn't send
her help, she brought it herself." Cr=
owns
have adorned others, but she
adorned her crowns.
It was a swift celebrity the assassin
achieved. And it is marked by some
curious contrasts. At noon last, Saturday
there was no one in the
world who would have considered
acquaintanceship with him a thing
worth claiming or mentioning; no one would
have been vain of such an
acquaintanceship; the humblest honest
boot-black would not have valued
the fact that he had met him or seen him at
some time or other; he was
sunk in abysmal obscurity, he was away ben=
eath
the notice of the bottom
grades of officialdom. Three hours later he
was the one subject
of conversation in the world, the gilded
generals and admirals and
governors were discussing him, all the kin=
gs
and queens and emperors had
put aside their other interests to talk ab=
out
him. And wherever there
was a man, at the summit of the world or t=
he
bottom of it, who by chance
had at some time or other come across that=
creature,
he remembered it
with a secret satisfaction, and MENTIONED
it--for it was a distinction,
now! It brings human dignity pretty low, a=
nd
for a moment the thing is
not quite realizable--but it is perfectly
true. If there is a king who
can remember, now, that he once saw that
creature in a time past, he has
let that fact out, in a more or less studi=
edly
casual and indifferent
way, some dozens of times during the past
week. For a king is merely
human; the inside of him is exactly like t=
he
inside of any other person;
and it is human to find satisfaction in be=
ing
in a kind of personal
way connected with amazing events. We are =
all
privately vain of such a
thing; we are all alike; a king is a king =
by
accident; the reason the
rest of us are not kings is merely due to
another accident; we are all
made out of the same clay, and it is a
sufficient poor quality.
Below the kings, these remarks are in the =
air
these days; I know it well
as if I were hearing them:
THE COMMANDER: "He was in my army.&qu=
ot;
THE GENERAL: "He was in my corps.&quo=
t;
THE COLONEL: "He was in my regiment. A brute. I
remember him well."
THE CAPTAIN: "He was in my company. A troublesome
scoundrel. I remember him well."
THE SERGEANT: "Did I know him? As well as I know =
you.
Why, every morning I 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 his
very room, and the very bed he slept in. And the charc=
oal
mark there
on the wall--he made that. My little Johnny
saw him do it with his own
eyes. Didn't you, Johnny?"
It is easy to see, by the papers, that the
magistrate and the constables
and the jailer treasure up the assassin's
daily remarks and doings
as precious things, and as wallowing this =
week
in seas of blissful
distinction. The interviewer, too; he trie=
d to
let on that he is not
vain of his privilege of contact with this=
man
whom few others are
allowed to gaze upon, but he is human, like
the rest, and can no more
keep his vanity corked in than could you o=
r I.
Some think that this murder is a frenzied
revolt against the criminal
militarism which is impoverishing Europe a=
nd
driving the starving poor
mad. That has many crimes to answer for, b=
ut
not this one, I think. One
may not attribute to this man a generous
indignation against the wrongs
done the poor; one may not dignify him wit=
h a
generous impulse of any
kind. When he saw his photograph and said,
"I shall be celebrated,"
he laid bare the impulse that prompted him=
. It
was a mere hunger for
notoriety. There is another confessed case=
of
the kind which is as old
as history--the burning of the temple of
Ephesus.
Among the inadequate attempts to account f=
or
the assassination we must
concede high rank to the many which have
described it as a "peculiarly
brutal crime" and then added that it =
was
"ordained from above." I think
this verdict will not be popular
"above." If the deed was ordained from
above, there is no rational way of making =
this
prisoner even partially
responsible for it, and the Genevan court
cannot condemn him without
manifestly committing a crime. Logic is lo=
gic,
and by disregarding
its laws even the most pious and showy
theologian may be beguiled into
preferring charges which should not be
ventured upon except in the
shelter of plenty of lightning-rods.
I witnessed the funeral procession, in com=
pany
with friends, from the
windows of the Krantz, Vienna's sumptuous =
new
hotel. We came into town
in the middle of the forenoon, and I went =
on
foot from the station.
Black flags hung down from all the houses;=
the
aspects were Sunday-like;
the crowds on the sidewalks were quiet and
moved slowly; very few people
were smoking; many ladies wore deep mourni=
ng,
gentlemen were in black
as a rule; carriages were speeding in all
directions, with footmen and
coachmen in black clothes and wearing black
cocked hats; the shops were
closed; in many windows were pictures of t=
he
Empress: as a beautiful
young bride of seventeen; as a serene and
majestic lady with added
years; and finally in deep black and witho=
ut
ornaments--the costume she
always wore after the tragic death of her =
son
nine years ago, for her
heart broke then, and life lost almost all=
its
value for her. The people
stood grouped before these pictures, and n=
ow
and then one saw women and
girls turn away wiping the tears from their
eyes.
In front of the Krantz is an open square; =
over
the way was the church
where the funeral services would be held. =
It
is small and old and
severely plain, plastered outside and
whitewashed or painted, and with
no ornament but a statue of a monk in a ni=
che
over the door, and above
that a small black flag. But in its crypt =
lie
several of the great dead
of the House of Habsburg, among them Maria
Theresa and Napoleon's son,
the Duke of Reichstadt. Hereabouts was a R=
oman
camp, once, and in it the
Emperor Marcus Aurelius died a thousand ye=
ars
before the first Habsburg
ruled in Vienna, which was six hundred yea=
rs
ago and more.
The little church is packed in among great
modern stores and houses,
and the windows of them were full of peopl=
e.
Behind the vast plate-glass
windows of the upper floors of the house on
the corner one glimpsed
terraced masses of fine-clothed men and wo=
men,
dim and shimmery, like
people under water. Under us the square was
noiseless, but it was full
of citizens; officials in fine uniforms we=
re
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 co=
uld
see that he was tearing
apart and munching riffraff that he had
gathered somewhere. Blazing
uniforms flashed by him, making a sparkling
contrast with his drooping
ruin of moldy rags, but he took not notice=
; he
was not there to grieve
for a nation's disaster; he had his own ca=
res,
and deeper. From two
directions two long files of infantry came
plowing through the pack and
press in silence; there was a low, crisp o=
rder
and the crowd vanished,
the square save the sidewalks was empty, t=
he
private mourner was gone.
Another order, the soldiers fell apart and
enclosed the square in a
double-ranked human fence. It was all so
swift, noiseless, exact--like a
beautifully ordered machine.
It was noon, now. Two hours of stillness a=
nd
waiting followed. Then
carriages began to flow past and deliver t=
he
two and three hundred court
personages and high nobilities privileged =
to
enter the church. Then the
square filled up; not with civilians, but =
with
army and navy officers in
showy and beautiful uniforms. They filled =
it
compactly, leaving only a
narrow carriage path in front of the churc=
h,
but there was no civilian
among them. And it was better so; dull clo=
thes
would have marred the
radiant spectacle. In the jam in front of =
the
church, on its steps, and
on the sidewalk was a bunch of uniforms wh=
ich
made a blazing splotch
of color--intense red, gold, and white--wh=
ich
dimmed the brilliancies
around them; and opposite them on the other
side of the path was a bunch
of cascaded bright-green plumes above
pale-blue shoulders which made
another splotch of splendor emphatic and
conspicuous in its glowing
surroundings. It was a sea of flashing col=
or
all about, but these two
groups were the high notes. The green plum=
es
were worn by forty or fifty
Austrian generals, the group opposite them
were chiefly Knights of Malta
and knights of a German order. The mass of
heads in the square were
covered by gilt helmets and by military ca=
ps
roofed with a mirror-like
gaze, and the movements of the wearers cau=
sed
these things to catch the
sun-rays, and the effect was fine to see--=
the
square was like a garden
of richly colored flowers with a multitude=
of
blinding and flashing
little suns distributed over it.
Think of it--it was by command of that Ita=
lian
loafer yonder on his
imperial throne in the Geneva prison that =
this
splendid multitude was
assembled there; and the kings and emperors
that were entering the
church from a side street were there by his
will. It is so strange, so
unrealizable.
At three o'clock the carriages were still
streaming by in single
file. At three-five a cardinal arrives with
his attendants; later some
bishops; then a number of archdeacons--all=
in
striking colors that add
to the show. At three-ten a procession of
priests passed along, with
crucifix. Another one, presently; after an
interval, two more; at
three-fifty another one--very long, with m=
any
crosses, gold-embroidered
robes, 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. At
three-fifty-eight a waiting interval.
Presently a long procession of
gentlemen in evening dress comes in sight =
and
approaches until it is
near to the square, then falls back against
the wall of soldiers at the
sidewalk, and the white shirt-fronts show =
like
snowflakes and are very
conspicuous where so much warm color is all
about.
A waiting pause. At four-twelve the head of
the funeral procession comes
into view at last. First, a body of cavalr=
y,
four abreast, to widen the
path. Next, a great body of lancers, in bl=
ue,
with gilt helmets. Next,
three six-horse mourning-coaches; outriders
and coachmen in black, with
cocked hats and white wigs. Next, troops in
splendid uniforms, red,
gold, and white, exceedingly showy.
Now the multitude uncover. The soldiers
present arms; there is a low
rumble of drums; the sumptuous great hearse
approaches, drawn at a
walk by eight black horses plumed with bla=
ck
bunches of nodding ostrich
feathers; the coffin is borne into the chu=
rch,
the doors are closed.
The multitude cover their heads, and the r=
est
of the procession moves
by; first the Hungarian Guard in their
indescribably brilliant and
picturesque and beautiful uniform, inherit=
ed
from the ages of barbaric
splendor, and after them other mounted for=
ces,
a long and showy array.
Then the shining crown in the square crumb=
led
apart, a wrecked rainbow,
and melted away in radiant streams, and in=
the
turn of a wrist the three
dirtiest and raggedest and cheerfulest lit=
tle
slum-girls in Austria were
capering 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 measureless
pomp and with blare of music through a
fluttering world of gay flags and
decorations, down streets walled on both h=
ands
with a press of shouting
and welcoming subjects; and the second time
was last Wednesday, when she
entered the city in her coffin and moved d=
own
the same streets in the
dead of the night under swaying black flag=
s,
between packed human walls
again; but everywhere was a deep stillness,
now--a stillness emphasized,
rather than broken, by the muffled hoofbea=
ts
of the long cavalcade over
pavements cushioned with sand, and the low
sobbing of gray-headed women
who had witnessed the first entry forty-fo=
ur years
before, when she and
they were young--and unaware!
A character in Baron von Berger's recent f=
airy
drama "Habsburg" tells
about the first coming of the girlish
Empress-Queen, and in his history
draws a fine picture: I cannot make a close
translation of it, but will
try to convey the spirit of the verses:
I saw the stately
pageant pass:
In her high plac=
e I
saw the Empress-Queen:
I could not take=
my
eyes away
From that fair v=
ision,
spirit-like and pure,
That rose serene,
sublime, and figured to my sense
A noble Alp far
lighted in the blue,
That in the floo=
d of
morning rends its veil of cloud
And stands a dre=
am of
glory to the gaze
Of them that in =
the
Valley toil and plod.
Marion City, on the Mississippi River, in =
the
State of Missouri--a
village; time, 1845. La Bourboule-les-Bain=
s,
France--a village; time,
the end of June, 1894. I was in the one
village in that early time; I
am in the other now. These times and places
are sufficiently wide
apart, yet today I have the strange sense =
of
being thrust back into that
Missourian village and of reliving certain
stirring days that I lived
there so long ago.
Last Saturday night the life of the Presid=
ent
of the French Republic
was taken by an Italian assassin. Last nig=
ht a
mob surrounded our hotel,
shouting, howling, singing the
"Marseillaise," and pelting our windows
with sticks and stones; for we have Italian
waiters, and the mob
demanded that they be turned out of the ho=
use
instantly--to be drubbed,
and then driven out of the village. Everyb=
ody
in the hotel remained up
until far into the night, and experienced =
the
several kinds of terror
which one reads about in books which tell =
of
nigh attacks by Italians
and by French mobs: the growing roar of the
oncoming crowd; the arrival,
with rain of stones and a crash of glass; =
the
withdrawal to rearrange
plans--followed by a silence ominous,
threatening, and harder to bear
than even the active siege and the noise. =
The
landlord and the two
village policemen stood their ground, and =
at
last the mob was
persuaded to go away and leave our Italian=
s in
peace. Today four of
the ringleaders have been sentenced to hea=
vy
punishment of a public
sort--and are become local heroes, by
consequence.
That is the very mistake which was at first
made in the Missourian
village half a century ago. The mistake was
repeated and repeated--just
as France is doing in these later months.<= o:p>
In our village we had our Ravochals, our
Henrys, our Vaillants; and in
a humble way our Cesario--I hope I have
spelled this name wrong. Fifty
years ago we passed through, in all
essentials, what France has been
passing through during the past two or thr=
ee
years, in the matter of
periodical frights, horrors, and shudderin=
gs.
In several details the parallels are quain=
tly
exact. In that day, for a
man to speak out openly and proclaim himse=
lf
an enemy of negro slavery
was simply to proclaim himself a madman. F=
or
he was blaspheming against
the holiest thing known to a Missourian, a=
nd
could NOT be in his right
mind. For a man to proclaim himself an
anarchist in France, three years
ago, was to proclaim himself a madman--he
could not be in his right
mind.
Now the original first blasphemer against =
any
institution profoundly
venerated by a community is quite sure to =
be
in earnest; his followers
and imitators may be humbugs and self-seek=
ers,
but he himself is
sincere--his heart is in his protest.
Robert Hardy was our first ABOLITIONIST--awful name! He
was a journeyman cooper, and worked in the big cooper-shop belonging to the
great pork-packing establishment which was Marion City's chief pride and so=
le source
of prosperity. He was a New-Englander, a stranger. And, being a
stranger, he was of course regarded as an inferior
person--for that has
been human nature from Adam down--and of
course, also, he was made
to feel unwelcome, for this is the ancient=
law
with man and the other
animals. Hardy was thirty years old, and a
bachelor; pale, given to
reverie and reading. He was reserved, and
seemed to prefer the isolation
which had fallen to his lot. He was treate=
d to
many side remarks by
his fellows, but as he did not resent them=
it
was decided that he was a
coward.
All of a sudden he proclaimed himself an
abolitionist--straight out
and publicly! He said that negro slavery w=
as a
crime, an infamy. For a
moment the town was paralyzed with
astonishment; then it broke into a
fury of rage and swarmed toward the
cooper-shop to lynch Hardy. But
the Methodist minister made a powerful spe=
ech
to them and stayed their
hands. He proved to them that Hardy was in=
sane
and not responsible for
his words; that no man COULD be sane and u=
tter
such words.
So Hardy was saved. Being insane, he was
allowed to go on talking.
He was found to be good entertainment. Sev=
eral
nights running he made
abolition speeches in the open air, and all
the town flocked to hear and
laugh. He implored them to believe him sane
and sincere, and have pity
on the poor slaves, and take measurements =
for
the restoration of their
stolen rights, or in no long time blood wo=
uld
flow--blood, blood, rivers
of blood!
It was great fun. But all of a sudden the
aspect of things changed. A
slave came flying from Palmyra, the
county-seat, a few miles back,
and was about to escape in a canoe to Illi=
nois
and freedom in the dull
twilight of the approaching dawn, when the
town constable seized
him. Hardy happened along and tried to res=
cue
the negro; there was a
struggle, and the constable did not come o=
ut
of it alive. Hardly crossed
the river with the negro, and then came ba=
ck to
give himself up. All
this took time, for the Mississippi is not=
a
French brook, like the
Seine, the Loire, and those other rivulets,
but is a real river nearly
a mile wide. The town was on hand in force=
by
now, but the Methodist
preacher and the sheriff had already made
arrangements in the interest
of order; so Hardy was surrounded by a str=
ong
guard and safely conveyed
to the village calaboose in spite of all t=
he
effort of the mob to get
hold of him. The reader will have begun to
perceive that this Methodist
minister was a prompt man; a prompt man, w=
ith
active hands and a good
headpiece. Williams was his name--Damon
Williams; Damon Williams in
public, Damnation Williams in private, bec=
ause
he was so powerful on
that theme and so frequent.
The excitement was prodigious. The constab=
le
was the first man who
had ever been killed in the town. The event
was by long odds the most
imposing in the town's history. It lifted =
the
humble village into sudden
importance; its name was in everybody's mo=
uth
for twenty miles around.
And so was the name of Robert Hardy--Robert
Hardy, the stranger, the
despised. In a day he was become the perso=
n of
most consequence in the
region, the only person talked about. As to
those other coopers, they
found their position curiously changed--th=
ey
were important people, or
unimportant, now, in proportion as to how
large or how small had been
their intercourse with the new celebrity. =
The
two or three who had
really been on a sort of familiar footing =
with
him found themselves
objects of admiring interest with the publ=
ic
and of envy with their
shopmates.
The village weekly journal had lately gone
into new hands. The new man
was an enterprising fellow, and he made the
most of the tragedy. He
issued an extra. Then he put up posters
promising to devote his whole
paper to matters connected with the great
event--there would be a full
and intensely interesting biography of the
murderer, and even a portrait
of him. He was as good as his word. He car=
ved
the portrait himself, on
the back of a wooden type--and a terror it=
was
to look at. It made a
great commotion, for this was the first ti=
me
the village paper had ever
contained a picture. The village was very
proud. The output of the paper
was ten times as great as it had ever been
before, yet every copy was
sold.
When the trial came on, people came from a=
ll
the farms around, and from
Hannibal, and Quincy, and even from Keokuk;
and the court-house could
hold only a fraction of the crowd that app=
lied
for admission. The trial
was published in the village paper, with f=
resh
and still more trying
pictures of the accused.
Hardy was convicted, and hanged--a mistake.
People came from miles
around to see the hanging; they brought ca=
kes
and cider, also the women
and children, and made a picnic of the mat=
ter.
It was the largest crowd
the village had ever seen. The rope that
hanged Hardy was eagerly bought
up, in inch samples, for everybody wanted a
memento of the memorable
event.
Martyrdom gilded with notoriety has its
fascinations. Within one week
afterward four young lightweights in the
village proclaimed themselves
abolitionists! In life Hardy had not been =
able
to make a convert;
everybody laughed at him; but nobody could
laugh at his legacy. The four
swaggered around with their slouch-hats pu=
lled
down over their faces,
and hinted darkly at awful possibilities. =
The
people were troubled
and afraid, and showed it. And they were
stunned, too; they could
not understand it. "Abolitionist"
had always been a term of shame and
horror; yet here were four young men who w=
ere not
only not ashamed to
bear that name, but were grimly proud of i=
t.
Respectable young men they
were, too--of good families, and brought u=
p in
the church. Ed Smith, the
printer's apprentice, nineteen, had been t=
he
head Sunday-school boy,
and had once recited three thousand Bible
verses without making a break.
Dick Savage, twenty, the baker's apprentic=
e;
Will Joyce,
twenty-two, journeyman blacksmith; and Hen=
ry
Taylor, twenty-four,
tobacco-stemmer--were the other three. They
were all of a sentimental
cast; they were all romance-readers; they =
all
wrote poetry, such as
it was; they were all vain and foolish; but
they had never before been
suspected of having anything bad in them.<= o:p>
They withdrew from society, and grew more =
and
more mysterious and
dreadful. They presently achieved the
distinction of being denounced by
names from the pulpit--which made an immen=
se
stir! This was grandeur,
this was fame. They were envied by all the
other young fellows now. This
was natural. Their company grew--grew
alarmingly. They took a name. It
was a secret name, and was divulged to no
outsider; publicly they were
simply the abolitionists. They had pass-wo=
rds,
grips, and signs; they
had secret meetings; their initiations were
conducted with gloomy pomps
and ceremonies, at midnight.
They always spoke of Hardy as "the
Martyr," and every little while
they moved through the principal street in
procession--at midnight,
black-robed, masked, to the measured tap of
the solemn drum--on
pilgrimage to the Martyr's grave, where th=
ey
went through with some
majestic fooleries and swore vengeance upon
his murderers. They gave
previous notice of the pilgrimage by small
posters, and warned everybody
to keep indoors and darken all houses along
the route, and leave the
road empty. These warnings were obeyed, for
there was a skull and
crossbones at the top of the poster.
When this kind of thing had been going on
about eight weeks, a quite
natural thing happened. A few men of chara=
cter
and grit woke up out of
the nightmare of fear which had been stupe=
fying
their faculties, and
began to discharge scorn and scoffings at
themselves and the community
for enduring this child's-play; and at the
same time they proposed to
end it straightway. Everybody felt an upli=
ft;
life was breathed into
their dead spirits; their courage rose and
they began to feel like
men again. This was on a Saturday. All day=
the
new feeling grew and
strengthened; it grew with a rush; it brou=
ght
inspiration and cheer with
it. Midnight saw a united community, full =
of
zeal and pluck, and with
a clearly defined and welcome piece of wor=
k in
front of it. The best
organizer and strongest and bitterest talk=
er
on that great Saturday was
the Presbyterian clergyman who had denounc=
ed
the original four from his
pulpit--Rev. Hiram Fletcher--and he promis=
ed
to use his pulpit in the
public interest again now. On the morrow he
had revelations to make, he
said--secrets of the dreadful society.
But the revelations were never made. At ha=
lf
past two in the morning the
dead silence of the village was broken by =
a crashing
explosion, and
the town patrol saw the preacher's house
spring in a wreck of whirling
fragments into the sky. The preacher was
killed, together with a negro
woman, his only slave and servant.
The town was paralyzed again, and with rea=
son.
To struggle against a
visible enemy is a thing worth while, and
there is a plenty of men who
stand always ready to undertake it; but to
struggle against an invisible
one--an invisible one who sneaks in and do=
es
his awful work in the dark
and leaves no trace--that is another matte=
r.
That is a thing to make the
bravest tremble and hold back.
The cowed populace were afraid to go to the
funeral. The man who was
to have had a packed church to hear him ex=
pose
and denounce the common
enemy had but a handful to see him buried.=
The
coroner's jury had
brought in a verdict of "death by the
visitation of God," for no witness
came forward; if any existed they prudently
kept out of the way. Nobody
seemed sorry. Nobody wanted to see the
terrible secret society provoked
into the commission of further outrages.
Everybody wanted the tragedy
hushed up, ignored, forgotten, if possible=
.
And so there was a bitter surprise and an
unwelcome one when Will
Joyce, the blacksmith's journeyman, came o=
ut
and proclaimed himself the
assassin! Plainly he was not minded to be
robbed of his glory. He made
his proclamation, and stuck to it. Stuck to
it, and insisted upon
a trial. Here was an ominous thing; here w=
as a
new and peculiarly
formidable terror, for a motive was reveal=
ed
here which society could
not hope to deal with successfully--VANITY,
thirst for notoriety. If
men were going to kill for notoriety's sak=
e,
and to win the glory of
newspaper renown, a big trial, and a showy
execution, what possible
invention of man could discourage or deter=
them?
The town was in a sort
of panic; it did not know what to do.
However, the grand jury had to take hold of
the matter--it had no
choice. It brought in a true bill, and
presently the case went to the
county court. The trial was a fine sensati=
on.
The prisoner was the
principal witness for the prosecution. He =
gave
a full account of the
assassination; he furnished even the minut=
est
particulars: how he
deposited his keg of powder and laid his
train--from the house to
such-and-such a spot; how George Ronalds a=
nd
Henry Hart came along just
then, smoking, and he borrowed Hart's cigar
and fired the train with it,
shouting, "Down with all
slave-tyrants!" and how Hart and Ronalds made
no effort to capture him, but ran away, and
had never come forward to
testify yet.
But they had to testify now, and they did-=
-and
pitiful it was to see
how reluctant they were, and how scared. T=
he
crowded house listened to
Joyce's fearful tale with a profound and
breathless interest, and in a
deep hush which was not broken till he bro=
ke
it himself, in concluding,
with a roaring repetition of his "Dea=
th
to all slave-tyrants!"--which
came so unexpectedly and so startlingly th=
at
it made everyone present
catch his breath and gasp.
The trial was put in the paper, with biogr=
aphy
and large portrait,
with other slanderous and insane pictures,=
and
the edition sold beyond
imagination.
The execution of Joyce was a fine and
picturesque thing. It drew a vast
crowd. Good places in trees and seats on r=
ail
fences sold for half a
dollar apiece; lemonade and gingerbread-st=
ands
had great prosperity.
Joyce recited a furious and fantastic and
denunciatory speech on the
scaffold which had imposing passages of
school-boy eloquence in it, and
gave him a reputation on the spot as an
orator, and his name, later,
in the society's records, of the "Mar=
tyr
Orator." He went to his death
breathing slaughter and charging his socie=
ty
to "avenge his murder." If
he knew anything of human nature he knew t=
hat
to plenty of young fellows
present 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 the
society which he had honored had twenty new
members, some of them
earnest, determined men. They did not court
distinction in the same way,
but they celebrated his martyrdom. The cri=
me
which had been obscure and
despised had become lofty and glorified.
Such things were happening all over the
country. Wild-brained martyrdom
was succeeded by uprising and organization.
Then, in natural order,
followed riot, insurrection, and the wrack=
and
restitutions of war. It
was bound to come, and it would naturally =
come
in that way. It has been
the manner of reform since the beginning of
the world.
Interlaken, Switzerland, 1891.
It is a good many years since I was in
Switzerland last. In that remote
time there was only one ladder railway in =
the
country. That state of
things is all changed. There isn't a mount=
ain
in Switzerland now that
hasn't a ladder railroad or two up its back
like suspenders; indeed,
some mountains are latticed with them, and=
two
years hence all will
be. In that day the peasant of the high
altitudes will have to carry a
lantern when he goes visiting in the night=
to
keep from stumbling over
railroads that have been built since his l=
ast
round. And also in that
day, if there shall remain a high-altitude
peasant whose potato-patch
hasn't a railroad through it, it would make
him as conspicuous as
William Tell.
However, there are only two best ways to
travel through Switzerland. The
first best is afloat. The second best is by
open two-horse carriage. One
can come from Lucerne to Interlaken over t=
he
Brunig by ladder railroad
in an hour or so now, but you can glide
smoothly in a carriage in ten,
and have two hours for luncheon at noon--f=
or
luncheon, not for rest.
There is no fatigue connected with the tri=
p.
One arrives fresh in spirit
and in person in the evening--no fret in h=
is
heart, no grime on his
face, no grit in his hair, not a cinder in=
his
eye. This is the right
condition of mind and body, the right and =
due
preparation for the solemn
event which closed the day--stepping with
metaphorically uncovered head
into the presence of the most impressive
mountain mass that the globe
can show--the Jungfrau. The stranger's fir=
st
feeling, when suddenly
confronted by that towering and awful
apparition wrapped in its shroud
of snow, is breath-taking astonishment. It=
is
as if heaven's gates had
swung open and exposed the throne.
It is peaceful here and pleasant at
Interlaken. Nothing going on--at
least nothing but brilliant life-giving
sunshine. There are floods and
floods of that. One may properly speak of =
it
as "going on," for it is
full of the suggestion of activity; the li=
ght
pours down with energy,
with visible enthusiasm. This is a good
atmosphere to be in, morally
as well as physically. After trying the
political atmosphere of the
neighboring monarchies, it is healing and
refreshing to breathe air that
has known no taint of slavery for six hund=
red
years, and to come among
a people whose political history is great =
and
fine, and worthy to be
taught in all schools and studied by all r=
aces
and peoples. For the
struggle here throughout the centuries has=
not
been in the interest of
any private family, or any church, but in =
the
interest of the whole body
of the nation, and for shelter and protect=
ion
of all forms of belief.
This fact is colossal. If one would realize
how colossal it is, and
of what dignity and majesty, let him contr=
ast
it with the purposes and
objects of the Crusades, the siege of York,
the War of the Roses, and
other historic comedies of that sort and s=
ize.
Last week I was beating around the Lake of
Four Cantons, and I saw Rutli
and Altorf. Rutli is a remote little patch=
of
meadow, but I do not know
how any piece of ground could be holier or
better worth crossing oceans
and continents to see, since it was there =
that
the great trinity of
Switzerland joined hands six centuries ago=
and
swore the oath which set
their enslaved and insulted country forever
free; and Altorf is also
honorable ground and worshipful, since it =
was
there that William,
surnamed Tell (which interpreted means
"The foolish talker"--that is to
say, the too-daring talker), refused to bo=
w to
Gessler's hat. Of late
years the prying student of history has be=
en
delighting himself beyond
measure over a wonderful find which he has
made--to wit, that Tell did
not shoot the apple from his son's head. To
hear the students jubilate,
one would suppose that the question of whe=
ther
Tell shot the apple or
didn't was an important matter; whereas it
ranks in importance exactly
with the question of whether Washington
chopped down the cherry-tree or
didn't. The deeds of Washington, the patri=
ot,
are the essential thing;
the cherry-tree incident is of no conseque=
nce.
To prove that Tell did
shoot the apple from his son's head would
merely prove that he had
better nerve than most men and was skillful
with a bow as a million
others who preceded and followed him, but =
not
one whit more so. But Tell
was more and better than a mere marksman, =
more
and better than a mere
cool head; he was a type; he stands for Sw=
iss
patriotism; in his person
was represented a whole people; his spirit=
was
their spirit--the spirit
which would bow to none but God, the spirit
which said this in words
and confirmed it with deeds. There have al=
ways
been Tells in
Switzerland--people who would not bow. The=
re
was a sufficiency of them
at Rutli; there were plenty of them at Mur=
ten;
plenty at Grandson; there
are plenty today. And the first of them
all--the very first, earliest
banner-bearer of human freedom in this
world--was not a man, but a
woman--Stauffacher's wife. There she looms=
dim
and great, through the
haze of the centuries, delivering into her
husband's ear that gospel of
revolt which was to bear fruit in the
conspiracy of Rutli and the birth
of the first free government the world had
ever seen.
From this Victoria Hotel one looks straight
across a flat of trifling
width to a lofty mountain barrier, which h=
as a
gateway in it shaped like
an inverted pyramid. Beyond this gateway
arises the vast bulk of the
Jungfrau, a spotless mass of gleaming snow,
into the sky. The gateway,
in the dark-colored barrier, makes a strong
frame for the great picture.
The somber frame and the glowing snow-pile=
are
startlingly contrasted.
It is this frame which concentrates and
emphasizes the glory of the
Jungfrau and makes it the most engaging and
beguiling and fascinating
spectacle that exists on the earth. There =
are
many mountains of snow
that are as lofty as the Jungfrau and as n=
obly
proportioned, but they
lack the fame. They stand at large; they a=
re
intruded upon and elbowed
by neighboring domes and summits, and their
grandeur is diminished and
fails of effect.
It is a good name, Jungfrau--Virgin. Nothi=
ng
could be whiter; nothing
could be purer; nothing could be saintlier=
of
aspect. At six yesterday
evening the great intervening barrier seen
through a faint bluish
haze seemed made of air and substanceless,=
so
soft and rich it was, so
shimmering where the wandering lights touc=
hed
it and so dim where the
shadows lay. Apparently it was a dream stu=
ff,
a work of the imagination,
nothing real about it. The tint was green,
slightly varying shades of
it, but mainly very dark. The sun was down=
--as
far as that barrier was
concerned, but not for the Jungfrau, tower=
ing
into the heavens beyond
the gateway. She was a roaring conflagrati=
on
of blinding white.
It is said the Fridolin (the old Fridolin)=
, a
new saint, but formerly a
missionary, gave the mountain its gracious
name. He was an Irishman, son
of an Irish king--there were thirty thousa=
nd
kings reigning in County
Cork alone in his time, fifteen hundred ye=
ars
ago. It got so that they
could not make a living, there was so much
competition and wages got cut
so. Some of them were out of work months a=
t a
time, with wife and little
children to feed, and not a crust in the
place. At last a particularly
severe winter fell upon the country, and
hundreds of them were reduced
to mendicancy and were to be seen day after
day in the bitterest
weather, standing barefoot in the snow,
holding out their crowns for
alms. Indeed, they would have been obliged=
to
emigrate or starve but for
a fortunate idea of Prince Fridolin's, who
started a labor-union, the
first one in history, and got the great bu=
lk
of them to join it. He thus
won the general gratitude, and they wanted=
to
make him emperor--emperor
over them all--emperor of County Cork, but=
he
said, No, walking delegate
was good enough for him. For behold! he was
modest beyond his years,
and keen as a whip. To this day in Germany=
and
Switzerland, where
St. Fridolin is revered and honored, the
peasantry speak of him
affectionately as the first walking delega=
te.
The first walk he took was into France and
Germany, missionarying--for
missionarying was a better thing in those =
days
than it is in ours. All
you had to do was to cure the savage's sick
daughter by a "miracle"--a
miracle like the miracle of Lourdes in our
day, for instance--and
immediately that head savage was your conv=
ert,
and filled to the eyes
with a new convert's enthusiasm. You could=
sit
down and make yourself
easy, now. He would take an ax and convert=
the
rest of the nation
himself. Charlemagne was that kind of a
walking delegate.
Yes, there were great missionaries in those
days, for the methods were
sure and the rewards great. We have no such
missionaries now, and no
such methods.
But to continue the history of the first
walking delegate, if you are
interested. I am interested myself because=
I
have seen his relics in
Sackingen, and also the very spot where he
worked his great miracle--the
one which won him his sainthood in the pap=
al
court a few centuries
later. To have seen these things makes me =
feel
very near to him,
almost like a member of the family, in fac=
t.
While wandering about the
Continent he arrived at the spot on the Rh=
ine
which is now occupied by
Sackingen, and proposed to settle there, b=
ut
the people warned him off.
He appealed to the king of the Franks, who
made him a present of the
whole region, people and all. He built a g=
reat
cloister there for women
and proceeded to teach in it and accumulate
more land. There were two
wealthy brothers in the neighborhood, Urso=
and
Landulph. Urso died and
Fridolin claimed his estates. Landulph ask=
ed
for documents and papers.
Fridolin had none to show. He said the beq=
uest
had been made to him by
word of mouth. Landulph suggested that he
produce a witness and said
it in a way which he thought was very witt=
y,
very sarcastic. This shows
that 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 was
appointed for the trial of the case. On th=
at
day the judges took their
seats in state, and proclamation was made =
that
the court was ready for
business. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifte=
en
minutes passed, and yet
no Fridolin appeared. Landulph rose, and w=
as
in the act of claiming
judgment by default when a strange clacking
sound was heard coming up
the stairs. In another moment Fridolin ent=
ered
at the door and came
walking in a deep hush down the middle ais=
le,
with a tall skeleton
stalking in his rear.
Amazement and terror sat upon every
countenance, for everybody suspected
that the skeleton was Urso's. It stopped
before the chief judge and
raised its bony arm aloft and began to spe=
ak,
while all the assembled
shuddered, for they could see the words le=
ak
out between its ribs. It
said:
"Brother, why dost thou disturb my
blessed rest and withhold by robbery
the gift which I gave thee for the honor of
God?"
It seems a strange thing and most irregula=
r,
but the verdict was
actually given against Landulph on the
testimony of this wandering
rack-heap of unidentified bones. In our da=
y a
skeleton would not be
allowed to testify at all, for a skeleton =
has
no moral responsibility,
and its word could not be believed on oath,
and this was probably one
of them. However, the incident is valuable=
as
preserving to us a curious
sample of the quaint laws of evidence of t=
hat
remote time--a time so
remote, so far back toward the beginning of
original idiocy, that the
difference between a bench of judges and a
basket of vegetables was as
yet so slight that we may say with all
confidence that it didn't really
exist.
During several afternoons I have been enga=
ged
in an interesting, maybe
useful, piece of work--that is to say, I h=
ave
been trying to make the
mighty Jungfrau earn her living--earn it i=
n a
most humble sphere, but on
a prodigious scale, on a prodigious scale =
of
necessity, for she couldn't
do anything in a small way with her size a=
nd
style. I have been trying
to make her do service on a stupendous dial
and check off the hours as
they glide along her pallid face up there
against the sky, and tell the
time of day to the populations lying within
fifty miles of her and to
the people in the moon, if they have a good
telescope there.
Until late in the afternoon the Jungfrau's
aspect is that of a spotless
desert of snow set upon edge against the s=
ky.
But by mid-afternoon some
elevations which rise out of the western
border of the desert, whose
presence you perhaps had not detected or
suspected up to that time,
began to cast black shadows eastward across
the gleaming surface. At
first there is only one shadow; later there
are two. Toward 4 P.M. the
other day I was gazing and worshiping as u=
sual
when I chanced to notice
that shadow No. 1 was beginning to take it=
self
something of the shape of
the human profile. By four the back of the
head was good, the military
cap was pretty good, the nose was bold and
strong, the upper lip
sharp, but not pretty, and there was a gre=
at
goatee that shot straight
aggressively forward from the chin.
At four-thirty the nose had changed its sh=
ape
considerably, and the
altered slant of the sun had revealed and =
made
conspicuous a huge
buttress or barrier of naked rock which wa=
s so
located as to answer
very well for a shoulder or coat-collar to
this swarthy and indiscreet
sweetheart who had stolen out there right
before everybody to pillow his
head on the Virgin's white breast and whis=
per
soft sentimentalities to
her in the sensuous music of the crashing
ice-domes and the boom and
thunder of the passing avalanche--music ve=
ry
familiar to his ear, for
he had heard it every afternoon at this ho=
ur
since the day he first came
courting this child of the earth, who live=
s in
the sky, and that day
is far, yes--for he was at this pleasant s=
port
before the Middle Ages
drifted by him in the valley; before the
Romans marched past, and
before the antique and recordless barbaria=
ns
fished and hunted here and
wondered who he might be, and were probably
afraid of him; and before
primeval man himself, just emerged from his
four-footed estate, stepped
out upon this plain, first sample of his r=
ace,
a thousand centuries ago,
and cast a glad eye up there, judging he h=
ad
found a brother human being
and consequently something to kill; and be=
fore
the big saurians wallowed
here, still some eons earlier. Oh yes, a d=
ay
so far back that the
eternal son was present to see that first
visit; a day so far back that
neither tradition nor history was born yet=
and
a whole weary eternity
must come and go before the restless little
creature, of whose face this
stupendous Shadow Face was the prophecy, w=
ould
arrive in the earth and
begin his shabby career and think of a big
thing. Oh, indeed yes;
when you talk about your poor Roman and
Egyptian day-before-yesterday
antiquities, you should choose a time when=
the
hoary Shadow Face of the
Jungfrau is not by. It antedates all
antiquities known or imaginable;
for it was here the world itself created t=
he
theater of future
antiquities. And it is the only witness wi=
th a
human face that was there
to see the marvel, and remains to us a
memorial of it.
By 4:40 P.M. the nose of the shadow is per=
fect
and is beautiful. It is
black and is powerfully marked against the
upright canvas of glowing
snow, and covers hundreds of acres of that
resplendent surface.
Meantime shadow No. 2 has been creeping out
well to the rear of the face
west of it--and at five o'clock has assume=
d a
shape that has rather a
poor and rude semblance of a shoe.
Meantime, also, the great Shadow Face has =
been
gradually changing for
twenty minutes, and now, 5 P.M., it is
becoming a quite fair portrait of
Roscoe Conkling. The likeness is there, an=
d is
unmistakable. The goatee
is shortened, now, and has an end; formerl=
y it
hadn't any, but ran off
eastward and arrived nowhere.
By 6 P.M. the face has dissolved and gone,=
and
the goatee has become
what looks like the shadow of a tower with=
a
pointed roof, and the shoe
had turned into what the printers call a
"fist" with a finger pointing.
If I were now imprisoned on a mountain sum=
mit
a hundred miles northward
of this point, and was denied a timepiece,=
I
could get along well enough
from four till six on clear days, for I co=
uld
keep trace of the time by
the changing shapes of these mighty shadow=
s of
the Virgin's front, the
most stupendous dial I am acquainted with,=
the
oldest clock in the world
by a couple of million years.
I suppose I should not have noticed the fo=
rms
of the shadows if I hadn't
the habit of hunting for faces in the clou=
ds
and in mountain crags--a
sort of amusement which is very entertaini=
ng
even when you don't find
any, and brilliantly satisfying when you d=
o. I
have searched through
several bushels of photographs of the Jung=
frau
here, but found only one
with the Face in it, and in this case it w=
as
not strictly recognizable
as a face, which was evidence that the pic=
ture
was taken before four
o'clock in the afternoon, and also evidence
that all the photographers
have persistently overlooked one of the mo=
st
fascinating features of
the Jungfrau show. I say fascinating, beca=
use
if you once detect a human
face produced on a great plan by unconscio=
us
nature, you never get tired
of 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 off
duty. One day this summer he was traveling=
in
an ordinary first-class
compartment, just in his other suit, the o=
ne
which he works the realm
in when he is at home, and so he was not
looking like anybody in
particular, but a good deal like everybody=
in
general. By and by a
hearty and healthy German-American got in =
and
opened up a frank and
interesting and sympathetic conversation w=
ith
him, and asked him a
couple of thousand questions about himself,
which the king answered
good-naturedly, but in a more or less
indefinite way as to private
particulars.
"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. What
is your trade? I mean how do you get your
living? What is your line of
business?"
"Well, I hardly know how to answer. I=
am
only a kind of foreman, on a
salary; and the business--well, is a very
general kind of business."
"Yes, I understand--general
jobbing--little of everything--anything that
there'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 if
it 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 th=
at.
A man works all the better
for a little let-up now and then. Not that
I've been used to having it
myself; for I haven't. I reckon this is my
first. I was born in Germany,
and when I was a couple of weeks old shipp=
ed
to America, and I've been
there ever since, and that's sixty-four ye=
ars
by the watch. I'm
an American in principle and a German at
heart, and it's the boss
combination. Well, how do you get along, a=
s a
rule--pretty fair?"
"I've a rather large family--"
"There, that's it--big family and try=
ing
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 could
branch 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 good
stuff in you, I can see that. You got a wr=
ong
start, that's the whole
trouble. But you hold your grip, and we'll=
see
what can be done. Your
case ain't half as bad as it might be. You=
are
going to come out all
right--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, and
it'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 see
that in your own case. A man ought always =
to
have a trade to fall back
on. Now, I was harness-maker at first. Did
that prevent me from becoming
one of the biggest brewers in America? Oh =
no.
I always had the harness
trick to fall back on in rough weather. No=
w,
if you had learned how to
make harness--However, it's too late now; =
too
late. But it's no good
plan to cry over spilt milk. But as to the
boys, you see--what's to
become 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 stop
dreaming. You are capable of immense
things--man. You can make a perfect
success in life. All you want is somebody =
to
steady you and boost you
along on the right road. Do you own anythi=
ng in
the business?"
"No--not exactly; but if I continue to
give satisfaction, I suppose I
can 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 li=
ttle
old and worked out;
they'll do it sure. Can't you manage someh=
ow
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 should
go there and have a talk with your
people--Look here--do you think you
could run a brewery?"
"I have never tried, but I think I co=
uld
do it after a little
familiarity with the business."
The German was silent for some time. He di=
d 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 to
anything 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 the
family 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 cha=
nce
here, but that's all going
to change. By gracious! I'll give you a li=
ft
that'll make your hair
curl!"
Bayreuth, Aug. 2d, 1891
It was at Nuremberg that we struck the
inundation of music-mad strangers
that was rolling down upon Bayreuth. It had
been long since we had
seen such multitudes of excited and strugg=
ling
people. It took a good
half-hour to pack them and pair them into =
the
train--and it was the
longest train we have yet seen in Europe.
Nuremberg had been witnessing
this sort of experience a couple of times a
day for about two weeks.
It gives one an impressive sense of the
magnitude of this biennial
pilgrimage. For a pilgrimage is what it is.
The devotees come from the
very ends of the earth to worship their
prophet in his own Kaaba in his
own Mecca.
If you are living in New York or San Franc=
isco
or Chicago or anywhere
else in America, and you conclude, by the
middle of May, that you would
like to attend the Bayreuth opera two mont=
hs
and a half later, you must
use the cable and get about it immediately=
or
you will get no seats,
and you must cable for lodgings, too. Then=
if
you are lucky you will
get seats in the last row and lodgings in =
the
fringe of the town. If
you stop to write you will get nothing. Th=
ere
were plenty of people
in Nuremberg when we passed through who had
come on pilgrimage without
first securing seats and lodgings. They had
found neither in Bayreuth;
they had walked Bayreuth streets a while in
sorrow, then had gone to
Nuremberg and found neither beds nor stand=
ing
room, and had walked those
quaint streets all night, waiting for the
hotels to open and empty their
guests into trains, and so make room for
these, their defeated brethren
and sisters in the faith. They had endured
from thirty to forty hours'
railroading on the continent of Europe--wi=
th
all which that implies of
worry, fatigue, and financial
impoverishment--and all they had got
and all they were to get for it was handin=
ess
and accuracy in kicking
themselves, acquired by practice in the ba=
ck
streets of the two
towns when other people were in bed; for b=
ack
they must go over
that unspeakable journey with their pious
mission unfulfilled. These
humiliated outcasts had the frowsy and
unbrushed and apologetic look of
wet cats, and their eyes were glazed with
drowsiness, their bodies were
adroop from crown to sole, and all
kind-hearted people refrained from
asking them if they had been to Bayreuth a=
nd
failed to connect, as
knowing they would lie.
We reached here (Bayreuth) about mid-after=
noon
of a rainy Saturday. We
were of the wise, and had secured lodgings=
and
opera seats months in
advance.
I am not a musical critic, and did not come
here to write essays about
the operas and deliver judgment upon their
merits. The little
children of Bayreuth could do that with a
finer sympathy and a broader
intelligence than I. I only care to bring =
four
or five pilgrims to the
operas, pilgrims able to appreciate them a=
nd
enjoy them. What I write
about the performance to put in my odd time
would be offered to the
public as merely a cat's view of a king, a=
nd
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 midd=
le
of the afternoon. The
great building stands all by itself, grand=
and
lonely, on a high ground
outside the town. We were warned that if we
arrived after four o'clock
we should be obliged to pay two dollars an=
d a
half extra by way of
fine. We saved that; and it may be remarked
here that this is the only
opportunity that Europe offers of saving
money. There was a big crowd
in the grounds about the building, and the
ladies' dresses took the sun
with fine effect. I do not mean to intimate
that the ladies were in full
dress, for that was not so. The dresses we=
re
pretty, but neither sex was
in evening dress.
The interior of the building is simple--se=
verely
so; but there is no
occasion for color and decoration, since t=
he
people sit in the dark.
The auditorium has the shape of a keystone,
with the stage at the narrow
end. There is an aisle on each side, but no
aisle in the body of the
house. Each row of seats extends in an
unbroken curve from one side of
the house to the other. There are seven
entrance doors on each side of
the theater and four at the butt, eighteen
doors to admit and emit 1,650
persons. The number of the particular door=
by
which you are to enter the
house or leave it is printed on your ticke=
t,
and you can use no door but
that one. Thus, crowding and confusion are
impossible. Not so many as
a hundred people use any one door. This is
better than having the usual
(and useless) elaborate fireproof
arrangements. It is the model theater
of the world. It can be emptied while the
second hand of a watch makes
its circuit. It would be entirely safe, ev=
en
if it were built of lucifer
matches.
If your seat is near the center of a row a=
nd
you enter late you must
work your way along a rank of about
twenty-five ladies and gentlemen to
get to it. Yet this causes no trouble, for
everybody stands up until
all the seats are full, and the filling is
accomplished in a very few
minutes. Then all sit down, and you have a
solid mass of fifteen hundred
heads, making a steep cellar-door slant fr=
om
the rear of the house down
to the stage.
All the lights were turned low, so low that
the congregation sat in a
deep and solemn gloom. The funereal rustli=
ng
of dresses and the low buzz
of conversation began to die swiftly down,=
and
presently not the ghost
of a sound was left. This profound and
increasingly impressive stillness
endured for some time--the best preparation
for music, spectacle, or
speech conceivable. I should think our show
people would have invented
or imported that simple and impressive dev=
ice
for securing and
solidifying the attention of an audience l=
ong
ago; instead of which
there continue to this day to open a
performance against a deadly
competition in the form of noise, confusio=
n,
and a scattered interest.
Finally, out of darkness and distance and
mystery soft rich notes rose
upon the stillness, and from his grave the
dead magician began to
weave his spells about his disciples and s=
teep
their souls in his
enchantments. There was something strangely
impressive in the fancy
which kept intruding itself that the compo=
ser
was conscious in his grave
of what was going on here, and that these
divine souls were the clothing
of thoughts which were at this moment pass=
ing
through his brain, and
not recognized and familiar ones which had
issued from it at some former
time.
The entire overture, long as it was, was
played to a dark house with
the curtain down. It was exquisite; it was
delicious. But straightway
thereafter, or course, came the singing, a=
nd
it does seem to me that
nothing can make a Wagner opera absolutely
perfect and satisfactory to
the untutored but to leave out the vocal
parts. I wish I could see a
Wagner opera done in pantomime once. Then =
one
would have the lovely
orchestration unvexed to listen to and bat=
he
his spirit in, and the
bewildering beautiful scenery to intoxicate
his eyes with, and the dumb
acting couldn't mar these pleasures, becau=
se
there isn't often anything
in the Wagner opera that one would call by
such a violent name as
acting; as a rule all you would see would =
be a
couple of silent people,
one of them standing still, the other catc=
hing
flies. Of course I do not
really mean that he would be catching flie=
s; I
only mean that the usual
operatic gestures which consist in reaching
first one hand out into
the air and then the other might suggest t=
he
sport I speak of if the
operator attended strictly to business and
uttered no sound.
This present opera was "Parsifal.&quo=
t;
Madame Wagner does not permit its
representation anywhere but in Bayreuth. T=
he
first act of the three
occupied 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 most
entrancing and bewitching and moving and e=
loquent
of all the vehicles
invented by man for the conveying of feeli=
ng;
but it seems to me that
the chief virtue in song is melody, air, t=
une,
rhythm, or what you
please to call it, and that when this feat=
ure
is absent what remains is
a picture with the color left out. I was n=
ot
able to detect in the vocal
parts of "Parsifal" anything that
might with confidence be called rhythm
or 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 only
pulled out long notes, then some short one=
s,
then another long one, then
a sharp, quick, peremptory bark or two--an=
d so
on and so on; and when
he was done you saw that the information w=
hich
he had conveyed had not
compensated for the disturbance. Not alway=
s,
but pretty often. If two of
them 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 make
a hundred instruments rejoice in unison and
pour out their souls in
mingled and melodious tides of delicious
sound, deals only in barren
solos when he puts in the vocal parts. It =
may
be that he was deep, and
only added the singing to his operas for t=
he
sake of the contrast it
would make with the music. Singing! It does
seem the wrong name to
apply to it. Strictly described, it is a
practicing of difficult and
unpleasant intervals, mainly. An ignorant
person gets tired of listening
to gymnastic intervals in the long run, no
matter how pleasant they may
be. In "Parsifal" there is a her=
mit
named Gurnemanz who stands on the
stage in one spot and practices by the hou=
r,
while first one and then
another character of the cast endures what=
he
can of it and then retires
to die.
During the evening there was an intermissi=
on
of three-quarters of an
hour after the first act and one an hour l=
ong
after the second. In both
instances the theater was totally emptied.
People who had previously
engaged tables in the one sole eating-house
were able to put in their
time very satisfactorily; the other thousa=
nd went
hungry. The opera was
concluded at ten in the evening or a little
later. When we reached home
we had been gone more than seven hours. Se=
ven
hours at five dollars a
ticket is almost too much for the money.
While browsing about the front yard among =
the
crowd between the acts I
encountered twelve or fifteen friends from
different parts of America,
and those of them who were most familiar w=
ith
Wagner said that
"Parsifal" seldom pleased at fir=
st,
but that after one had heard
it several times it was almost sure to bec=
ome
a favorite. It seemed
impossible, but it was true, for the state=
ment
came from people whose
word was not to be doubted.
And I gathered some further information. On
the ground I found part of
a German musical magazine, and in it a let=
ter
written by Uhlic
thirty-three years ago, in which he defends
the scorned and abused
Wagner against people like me, who found f=
ault
with the comprehensive
absence of what our kind regards as singin=
g.
Uhlic says Wagner despised
"JENE PLAPPERUDE MUSIC," and the=
refore
"runs, trills, and SCHNORKEL are
discarded by him." I don't know what a
SCHNORKEL is, but now that I know
it has been left out of these operas I nev=
er
have missed so much in
my life. And Uhlic further says that Wagne=
r's
song is true: that it
is "simply emphasized intoned
speech." That certainly describes it--in
"Parsifal" and some of the opera=
s;
and if I understand Uhlic's elaborate
German he apologizes for the beautiful air=
s in
"Tannhauser." Very well;
now that Wagner and I understand each othe=
r,
perhaps we shall get along
better, and I shall stop calling Waggner, =
on
the American plan, and
thereafter call him Waggner as per German
custom, for I feel entirely
friendly now. The minute we get reconciled=
to
a person, how willing
we are to throw aside little needless
punctilios and pronounce his name
right!
Of course I came home wondering why people
should come from all corners
of America to hear these operas, when we h=
ave
lately had a season or two
of them in New York with these same singer=
s in
the several parts,
and possibly this same orchestra. I resolv=
ed
to think that out at all
hazards.
TUESDAY.--Yesterday they played the only
operatic favorite I have ever
had--an opera which has always driven me m=
ad
with ignorant delight
whenever I have heard it--"Tannhauser=
."
I heard it first when I was a
youth; I heard it last in the last German
season in New York. I was
busy yesterday and I did not intend to go,
knowing I should have another
"Tannhauser" opportunity in a few
days; but after five o'clock I found
myself free and walked out to the opera-ho=
use
and arrived about the
beginning of the second act. My opera tick=
et
admitted me to the grounds
in front, past the policeman and the chain,
and I thought I would take a
rest on a bench for an hour and two and wa=
it for
the third act.
In a moment or so the first bugles blew, a=
nd
the multitude began to
crumble apart and melt into the theater. I
will explain that this
bugle-call is one of the pretty features h=
ere.
You see, the theater
is empty, and hundreds of the audience are=
a
good way off in the
feeding-house; the first bugle-call is blo=
wn
about a quarter of an
hour before time for the curtain to rise. =
This
company of buglers, in
uniform, march out with military step and =
send
out over the landscape
a few bars of the theme of the approaching
act, piercing the distances
with the gracious notes; then they march to
the other entrance and
repeat. Presently they do this over again.
Yesterday only about two
hundred people were still left in front of=
the
house when the second
call was blown; in another half-minute they
would have been in the
house, but then a thing happened which del=
ayed
them--the only solitary
thing in this world which could be relied =
on
with certainty to
accomplish it, I suppose--an imperial prin=
cess
appeared in the balcony
above them. They stopped dead in their tra=
cks
and began to gaze in a
stupor of gratitude and satisfaction. The =
lady
presently saw that she
must disappear or the doors would be closed
upon these worshipers, so
she returned to her box. This daughter-in-=
law
of an emperor was pretty;
she had a kind face; she was without airs;=
she
is known to be full of
common human sympathies. There are many ki=
nds
of princesses, but this
kind is the most harmful of all, for where=
ver
they go they reconcile
people to monarchy and set back the clock =
of
progress. The valuable
princes, the desirable princes, are the cz=
ars
and their sort. By their
mere dumb presence in the world they cover
with derision every argument
that can be invented in favor of royalty by
the most ingenious casuist.
In his time the husband of this princess w=
as
valuable. He led a degraded
life, he ended it with his own hand in
circumstances and surroundings of
a hideous sort, and was buried like a god.=
In the opera-house there is a long loft ba=
ck of
the audience, a kind of
open gallery, in which princes are display=
ed.
It is sacred to them;
it is the holy of holies. As soon as the
filling of the house is
about complete the standing multitude turn=
and
fix their eyes upon
the princely layout and gaze mutely and
longingly and adoringly
and regretfully like sinners looking into
heaven. They become rapt,
unconscious, steeped in worship. There is =
no
spectacle anywhere that is
more pathetic than this. It is worth cross=
ing
many oceans to see. It
is somehow not the same gaze that people r=
ivet
upon a Victor Hugo,
or Niagara, or the bones of the mastodon, =
or
the guillotine of the
Revolution, or the great pyramid, or dista=
nt
Vesuvius smoking in the
sky, or any man long celebrated to you by =
his
genius and achievements,
or thing long celebrated to you by the pra=
ises
of books and
pictures--no, that gaze is only the gaze of
intense curiosity, interest,
wonder, engaged in drinking delicious deep
draughts that taste good all
the way down and appease and satisfy the t=
hirst
of a lifetime. Satisfy
it--that is the word. Hugo and the mastodon
will still have a degree
of intense interest thereafter when
encountered, but never anything
approaching the ecstasy of that first view.
The interest of a prince is
different. It may be envy, it may be worsh=
ip,
doubtless it is a mixture
of both--and it does not satisfy its thirst
with one view, or even
noticeably diminish it. Perhaps the essenc=
e of
the thing is the value
which men attach to a valuable something w=
hich
has come by luck and not
been earned. A dollar picked up in the roa=
d is
more satisfaction to you
than the ninety-and-nine which you had to =
work
for, and money won at
faro or in stocks snuggles into your heart=
in
the same way. A prince
picks up grandeur, power, and a permanent =
holiday
and gratis support by
a pure accident, the accident of birth, an=
d he
stands always before
the grieved eye of poverty and obscurity a
monumental representative of
luck. And then--supremest value of all-his=
is
the only high fortune
on the earth which is secure. The commerci=
al
millionaire may become
a beggar; the illustrious statesman can ma=
ke a
vital mistake and be
dropped and forgotten; the illustrious gen=
eral
can lose a decisive
battle and with it the consideration of me=
n;
but once a prince always a
prince--that is to say, an imitation god, =
and
neither hard fortune nor
an infamous character nor an addled brain =
nor
the speech of an ass can
undeify him. By common consent of all the
nations and all the ages the
most valuable thing in this world is the h=
omage
of men, whether deserved
or undeserved. It follows without doubt or
question, then, that the most
desirable position possible is that of a
prince. And I think it also
follows that the so-called usurpations with
which history is littered
are the most excusable misdemeanors which men have
committed. To usurp a usurpation--that is all it amounts to, isn't it?
A prince is not to us what he is to a
European, of course. We have
not been taught to regard him as a god, an=
d so
one good look at him is
likely to so nearly appease our curiosity =
as
to make him an object of
no greater interest the next time. We want=
a
fresh one. But it is not so
with the European. I am quite sure of it. =
The
same old one will answer;
he never stales. Eighteen years ago I was =
in
London and I called at an
Englishman's house on a bleak and foggy and
dismal December afternoon
to visit his wife and married daughter by
appointment. I waited half an
hour and then they arrived, frozen. They
explained that they had
been delayed by an unlooked-for circumstan=
ce:
while passing in the
neighborhood of Marlborough House they saw=
a
crowd gathering and were
told that the Prince of Wales was about to
drive out, so they stopped
to get a sight of him. They had waited hal=
f an
hour on the sidewalk,
freezing with the crowd, but were disappoi=
nted
at last--the Prince had
changed his mind. I said, with a good deal=
of
surprise, "Is it possible
that you two have lived in London all your
lives and have never seen the
Prince of Wales?"
Apparently it was their turn to be surpris=
ed,
for they exclaimed: "What
an idea! Why, we have seen him hundreds of
times."
They had seem him hundreds of times, yet t=
hey
had waited half an hour
in the gloom and the bitter cold, in the m=
idst
of a jam of patients from
the same asylum, on the chance of seeing h=
im
again. It was a stupefying
statement, but one is obliged to believe t=
he
English, even when they say
a thing like that. I fumbled around for a
remark, and got out this one:
"I can't understand it at all. If I h=
ad
never seen General Grant I doubt
if I would do that even to get a sight of
him." With a slight emphasis
on the last word.
Their blank faces showed that they wondered
where the parallel came in.
Then they said, blankly: "Of course n=
ot.
He is only a President."
It is doubtless a fact that a prince is a
permanent interest, an
interest not subject to deterioration. The
general who was never
defeated, the general who never held a cou=
ncil
of war, the only general
who ever commanded a connected battle-front
twelve hundred miles long,
the smith who welded together the broken p=
arts
of a great republic and
re-established it where it is quite likely=
to
outlast all the monarchies
present and to come, was really a person o=
f no
serious consequence to
these people. To them, with their training=
, my
General was only a man,
after all, while their Prince was clearly =
much
more than that--a being
of a wholly unsimilar construction and
constitution, and being of no
more blood and kinship with men than are t=
he
serene eternal lights of
the firmament with the poor dull tallow
candles of commerce that sputter
and die and leave nothing behind but a pin=
ch
of ashes and a stink.
I saw the last act of "Tannhauser.&qu=
ot;
I sat in the gloom and the deep
stillness, waiting--one minute, two minute=
s, I
do not know exactly how
long--then the soft music of the hidden
orchestra began to breathe its
rich, long sighs out from under the distant
stage, and by and by the
drop-curtain parted in the middle and was
drawn softly aside, disclosing
the twilighted wood and a wayside shrine, =
with
a white-robed girl
praying and a man standing near. Presently
that noble chorus of men's
voices was heard approaching, and from that
moment until the closing
of the curtain it was music, just music--m=
usic
to make one drunk with
pleasure, music to make one take scrip and
staff and beg his way round
the globe to hear it.
To such as are intending to come here in t=
he
Wagner season next year I
wish to say, bring your dinner-pail with y=
ou.
If you do, you will never
cease to be thankful. If you do not, you w=
ill
find it a hard fight to
save yourself from famishing in Bayreuth.
Bayreuth is merely a large
village, and has no very large hotels or
eating-houses. The principal
inns are the Golden Anchor and the Sun. At
either of these places you
can get an excellent meal--no, I mean you =
can
go there and see other
people get it. There is no charge for this.
The town is littered with
restaurants, but they are small and bad, a=
nd
they are overdriven with
custom. You must secure a table hours
beforehand, and often when you
arrive you will find somebody occupying it=
. We
have had this experience.
We have had a daily scramble for life; and
when I say we, I include
shoals of people. I have the impression th=
at
the only people who do
not have to scramble are the veterans--the
disciples who have been here
before and know the ropes. I think they ar=
rive
about a week before the
first opera, and engage all the tables for=
the
season. My tribe had
tried all kinds of places--some outside of=
the
town, a mile or two--and
have captured only nibblings and odds and
ends, never in any instance
a complete and satisfying meal. Digestible?
No, the reverse. These odds
and ends are going to serve as souvenirs of
Bayreuth, and in that regard
their value is not to be overestimated. Ph=
otographs
fade, bric-a-brac
gets lost, busts of Wagner get broken, but
once you absorb a
Bayreuth-restaurant meal it is your posses=
sion
and your property until
the time comes to embalm the rest of you. =
Some
of these pilgrims here
become, in effect, cabinets; cabinets of
souvenirs of Bayreuth. It is
believed among scientists that you could
examine the crop of a dead
Bayreuth pilgrim anywhere in the earth and
tell where he came from.
But I like this ballast. I think a
"Hermitage" scrap-up at eight in the
evening, when all the famine-breeders have
been there and laid in their
mementoes and gone, is the quietest thing =
you
can lay on your keelson
except gravel.
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 the
world, with Materna and Alvary in the lead=
. I
suppose a double team is
necessary; doubtless a single team would d=
ie
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-d=
ozen
head singers, and
apparently they are required to furnish all
the noise they can for
the money. If they feel a soft, whispery,
mysterious feeling they are
required to open out and let the public kn=
ow
it. Operas are given only
on Sundays, Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Thursdays, with three days of
ostensible rest per week, and two teams to=
do
the four operas; but the
ostensible rest is devoted largely to
rehearsing. It is said that the
off days are devoted to rehearsing from so=
me
time in the morning till
ten at night. Are there two orchestras als=
o?
It is quite likely, since
there are one hundred and ten names in the
orchestra list.
Yesterday the opera was "Tristan and
Isolde." I have seen all sorts
of audiences--at theaters, operas, concert=
s,
lectures, sermons,
funerals--but none which was twin to the
Wagner audience of Bayreuth
for fixed and reverential attention. Absol=
ute
attention and petrified
retention to the end of an act of the atti=
tude
assumed at the beginning
of it. You detect no movement in the solid
mass of heads and shoulders.
You seem to sit with the dead in the gloom=
of
a tomb. You know that they
are being stirred to their profoundest dep=
ths;
that there are times when
they want to rise and wave handkerchiefs a=
nd
shout their approbation,
and times when tears are running down their
faces, and it would be a
relief to free their pent emotions in sobs=
or
screams; yet you hear not
one utterance till the curtain swings toge=
ther
and the closing strains
have slowly faded out and died; then the d=
ead
rise with one impulse and
shake the building with their applause. Ev=
ery
seat is full in the
first act; there is not a vacant one in the
last. If a man would be
conspicuous, let him come here and retire =
from
the house in the midst of
an act. It would make him celebrated.
This audience reminds me of nothing I have
ever seen and of nothing
I have read about except the city in the
Arabian tale where all the
inhabitants have been turned to brass and =
the
traveler finds them after
centuries mute, motionless, and still
retaining the attitudes which they
last knew in life. Here the Wagner audience
dress as they please, and
sit in the dark and worship in silence. At=
the
Metropolitan in New York
they sit in a glare, and wear their showie=
st
harness; they hum airs,
they squeak fans, they titter, and they ga=
bble
all the time. In some
of the boxes the conversation and laughter=
are
so loud as to divide the
attention of the house with the stage. In
large measure the Metropolitan
is a show-case for rich fashionables who a=
re
not trained in Wagnerian
music and have no reverence for it, but who
like to promote art and show
their clothes.
Can that be an agreeable atmosphere to per=
sons
in whom this music
produces a sort of divine ecstasy and to w=
hom
its creator is a very
deity, his stage a temple, the works of his
brain and hands consecrated
things, and the partaking of them with eye=
and
ear a sacred solemnity?
Manifestly, no. Then, perhaps the temporary
expatriation, the tedious
traversing of seas and continents, the
pilgrimage to Bayreuth stands
explained. These devotees would worship in=
an
atmosphere of devotion.
It is only here that they can find it with=
out
fleck or blemish or any
worldly pollution. In this remote village
there are no sights to see,
there is no newspaper to intrude the worri=
es
of the distant world,
there is nothing going on, it is always
Sunday. The pilgrim wends to his
temple out of town, sits out his moving
service, returns to his bed with
his heart and soul and his body exhausted =
by
long hours of tremendous
emotion, and he is in no fit condition to =
do
anything but to lie torpid
and slowly gather back life and strength f=
or
the next service. This
opera of "Tristan and Isolde" la=
st
night broke the hearts of all
witnesses who were of the faith, and I kno=
w of
some who have heard of
many who could not sleep after it, but cri=
ed
the night away. I feel
strongly out of place here. Sometimes I fe=
el
like the sane person in a
community of the mad; sometimes I feel like
the one blind man where all
others see; the one groping savage in the
college of the learned, and
always, during service, I feel like a here=
tic
in heaven.
But by no means do I ever overlook or mini=
fy
the fact that this is one
of the most extraordinary experiences of my
life. I have never seen
anything like this before. I have never se=
en
anything so great and fine
and real as this devotion.
FRIDAY.--Yesterday's opera was
"Parsifal" again. The others went and
they show marked advance in appreciation; =
but
I went hunting for relics
and reminders of the Margravine Wilhelmina,
she of the imperishable
"Memoirs." I am properly gratefu=
l to
her for her (unconscious) satire
upon monarchy and nobility, and therefore
nothing which her hand touched
or her eye looked upon is indifferent to m=
e. I
am her pilgrim; the rest
of this multitude here are Wagner's.
TUESDAY.--I have seen my last two operas; =
my
season is ended, and we
cross over into Bohemia this afternoon. I =
was
supposing that my musical
regeneration was accomplished and perfecte=
d,
because I enjoyed both
of 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 w=
as
the wailing, screeching of
third-rate obscurities, palmed off on us in
the interest of economy."
Well, I ought to have recognized the sign-=
-the
old, sure sign that has
never failed me in matters of art. Wheneve=
r I
enjoy anything in art it
means that it is mighty poor. The private
knowledge of this fact has
saved me from going to pieces with enthusi=
asm
in front of many and many
a chromo. However, my base instinct does b=
ring
me profit sometimes; I
was the only man out of thirty-two hundred=
who
got his money back on
those two operas.
Is it true that the sun of a man's mentali=
ty
touches noon at forty and
then begins to wane toward setting? Doctor
Osler is charged with saying
so. Maybe he said it, maybe he didn't; I d=
on't
know which it is. But if
he said it, I can point him to a case which
proves his rule. Proves it
by being an exception to it. To this place=
I
nominate Mr. Howells.
I read his VENETIAN DAYS about forty years
ago. I compare it with his
paper on Machiavelli in a late number of
HARPER, and I cannot find that
his English has suffered any impairment. F=
or
forty years his English
has been to me a continual delight and
astonishment. In the sustained
exhibition of certain great
qualities--clearness, compression,
verbal exactness, and unforced and seeming=
ly
unconscious felicity of
phrasing--he is, in my belief, without his
peer in the English-writing
world. SUSTAINED. I entrench myself behind
that protecting word. There
are others who exhibit those great qualiti=
es
as greatly as he does, but
only by intervaled distributions of rich
moonlight, with stretches
of veiled and dimmer landscape between;
whereas Howells's moon sails
cloudless skies all night and all the nigh=
ts.
In the matter of verbal exactness Mr. Howe=
lls
has no superior, I
suppose. He seems to be almost always able=
to
find that elusive and
shifty grain of gold, the RIGHT WORD. Othe=
rs
have to put up with
approximations, more or less frequently; he
has better luck. To me, the
others are miners working with the
gold-pan--of necessity some of the
gold washes over and escapes; whereas, in =
my
fancy, he is quicksilver
raiding down a riffle--no grain of the met=
al
stands much chance of
eluding him. A powerful agent is the right
word: it lights the reader's
way and makes it plain; a close approximat=
ion
to it will answer, and
much traveling is done in a well-enough
fashion by its help, but we do
not welcome it and applaud it and rejoice =
in
it as we do when THE right
one blazes out on us. Whenever we come upon
one of those intensely right
words in a book or a newspaper the resulti=
ng
effect is physical as well
as spiritual, and electrically prompt: it
tingles exquisitely around
through the walls of the mouth and tastes =
as
tart and crisp and good
as the autumn-butter that creams the
sumac-berry. One has no time to
examine the word and vote upon its rank and
standing, the automatic
recognition of its supremacy is so immedia=
te.
There is a plenty of
acceptable literature which deals largely =
in
approximations, but it may
be likened to a fine landscape seen through
the rain; the right word
would dismiss the rain, then you would see=
it
better. It doesn't rain
when Howells is at work.
And where does he get the easy and effortl=
ess
flow of his speech? and
its cadenced and undulating rhythm? and its
architectural felicities
of construction, its graces of expression,=
its
pemmican quality of
compression, and all that? Born to him, no
doubt. All in shining good
order in the beginning, all extraordinary;=
and
all just as shining, just
as extraordinary today, after forty years =
of
diligent wear and tear
and use. He passed his fortieth year long =
and
long ago; but I think his
English of today--his perfect English, I w=
ish
to say--can throw down the
glove before his English of that antique t=
ime
and not be afraid.
I will got back to the paper on Machiavelli
now, and ask the reader to
examine this passage from it which I appen=
d. I
do not mean examine it
in a bird's-eye way; I mean search it, stu=
dy
it. And, of course, read it
aloud. I may be wrong, still it is my
conviction that one cannot get out
of finely wrought literature all that is i=
n it
by reading it mutely:
Mr. Dyer is rather of the opinion, first
luminously suggested by
Macaulay, that Machiavelli was in earnest,=
but
must not be judged as a
political moralist of our time and race wo=
uld
be judged. He thinks that
Machiavelli was in earnest, as none but an
idealist can be, and he
is the first to imagine him an idealist
immersed in realities, who
involuntarily transmutes the events under =
his
eye into something like
the visionary issues of reverie. The
Machiavelli whom he depicts does
not cease to be politically a republican a=
nd
socially a just man because
he holds up an atrocious despot like Caesar
Borgia as a mirror for
rulers. What Machiavelli beheld round him =
in
Italy was a civic disorder
in which there was oppression without
statecraft, and revolt without
patriotism. When a miscreant like Borgia
appeared upon the scene and
reduced both tyrants and rebels to an appa=
rent
quiescence, he might very
well seem to such a dreamer the savior of
society whom a certain sort of
dreamers are always looking for. Machiavel=
li
was no less honest when he
honored the diabolical force than Carlyle =
was
when at different times
he extolled the strong man who destroys
liberty in creating order. But
Carlyle has only just ceased to be mistaken
for a reformer, while it is
still Machiavelli's hard fate to be so
trammeled in his material that
his name stands for whatever is most
malevolent and perfidious in human
nature.
You see how easy and flowing it is; how
unvexed by ruggednesses,
clumsinesses, broken meters; how simple
and--so far as you or I can
make out--unstudied; how clear, how limpid,
how understandable,
how unconfused by cross-currents, eddies,
undertows; how seemingly
unadorned, yet is all adornment, like the
lily-of-the-valley; and how
compressed, how compact, without a
complacency-signal hung out anywhere
to call attention to it.
There are twenty-three lines in the quoted
passage. After reading it
several times aloud, one perceives that a =
good
deal of matter is crowded
into that small space. I think it is a mod=
el
of compactness. When I take
its materials apart and work them over and=
put
them together in my way,
I find I cannot crowd the result back into=
the
same hole, there not
being room enough. I find it a case of a w=
oman
packing a man's trunk: he
can 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 the
article is as compact as it is; there are =
no
waste words. The sample is
just in other ways: limpid, fluent, gracef=
ul,
and rhythmical as it is,
it holds no superiority in these respects =
over
the rest of the essay.
Also, the choice phrasing noticeable in the
sample is not lonely; there
is a plenty of its kin distributed through=
the
other paragraphs. This is
claiming much when that kin must face the
challenge of a phrase like
the one in the middle sentence: "an
idealist immersed in realities who
involuntarily transmutes the events under =
his
eye into something like
the visionary issues of reverie." Wit=
h a
hundred words to do it with,
the literary artisan could catch that airy
thought and tie it down and
reduce it to a concrete condition, visible,
substantial, understandable
and all right, like a cabbage; but the art=
ist
does it with twenty, and
the result is a flower.
The quoted phrase, like a thousand others =
that
have come from the same
source, has the quality of certain scraps =
of
verse which take hold of
us and stay in our memories, we do not
understand why, at first: all the
words being the right words, none of them =
is
conspicuous, and so they
all seem inconspicuous, therefore we wonder
what it is about them that
makes their message take hold.
The mossy marble=
s rest
On the lips that=
he
has prest
In their bloom,<= o:p>
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 notice
it at first. We get the effect, it goes
straight home to us, but we
do not know why. It is when the right words
are conspicuous that they
thunder:
The glory that was Greece and the grandeur
that was Rome!
When I got back from Howells old to Howells
young I find him arranging
and clustering English words well, but not=
any
better than now. He
is not more felicitous in concreting
abstractions now than he was in
translating, then, the visions of the eyes=
of
flesh into words that
reproduced their forms and colors:
In Venetian streets they give the fallen s=
now
no rest. It is at once
shoveled into the canals by hundreds of
half-naked FACCHINI; and now in
St. Mark's Place the music of innumerable
shovels smote upon my ear; and
I saw the shivering legion of poverty as it
engaged the elements in a
struggle for the possession of the Piazza.=
But
the snow continued to
fall, and through the twilight of the
descending flakes all this toil
and encountered looked like that weary kin=
d of
effort in dreams, when
the most determined industry seems only to
renew the task. The lofty
crest of the bell-tower was hidden in the
folds of falling snow, and
I could no longer see the golden angel upon
its summit. But looked
at across the Piazza, the beautiful outlin=
e of
St. Mark's Church was
perfectly penciled in the air, and the
shifting threads of the snowfall
were woven into a spell of novel enchantme=
nt
around the structure that
always seemed to me too exquisite in its
fantastic loveliness to be
anything but the creation of magic. The te=
nder
snow had compassionated
the beautiful edifice for all the wrongs of
time, and so hid the stains
and ugliness of decay that it looked as if
just from the hand of the
builder--or, better said, just from the br=
ain
of the architect. There
was marvelous freshness in the colors of t=
he
mosaics in the great arches
of the facade, and all that gracious harmo=
ny
into which the temple
rises, or marble scrolls and leafy exubera=
nce
airily supporting the
statues of the saints, was a hundred times
etherealized by the purity
and whiteness of the drifting flakes. The =
snow
lay lightly on the golden
gloves that tremble like peacocks-crests a=
bove
the vast domes, and
plumed them with softest white; it robed t=
he
saints in ermine; and it
danced over all its works, as if exulting =
in
its beauty--beauty
which filled me with subtle, selfish yearn=
ing
to keep such evanescent
loveliness for the little-while-longer of =
my
whole life, and with
despair to think that even the poor lifele=
ss
shadow of it could never be
fairly reflected in picture or poem.
Through the wavering snowfall, the Saint
Theodore upon one of the
granite pillars of the Piazzetta did not s=
how
so grim as his wont is,
and the winged lion on the other might have
been a winged lamb, so
gentle and mild he looked by the tender li=
ght
of the storm. The towers
of the island churches loomed faint and far
away in the dimness; the
sailors in the rigging of the ships that l=
ay
in the Basin wrought like
phantoms among the shrouds; the gondolas s=
tole
in and out of the opaque
distance more noiselessly and dreamily than
ever; and a silence, almost
palpable, lay upon the mutest city in the
world.
The spirit of Venice is there: of a city w=
here
Age and Decay, fagged
with distributing damage and repulsiveness
among the other cities of the
planet in accordance with the policy and
business of their profession,
come for rest and play between seasons, and
treat themselves to the
luxury and relaxation of sinking the shop =
and
inventing and squandering
charms all about, instead of abolishing su=
ch
as they find, as it their
habit when not on vacation.
In the working season they do business in
Boston sometimes, and a
character in THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY takes accurate n=
ote
of pathetic effects wrought by them upon the aspects of a street of once
dignified and elegant homes whose occupants have moved away and left them a
prey to neglect and gradual ruin and progressive degradation; a descent whi=
ch
reaches bottom at last, when the street becomes a roost for humble professi=
onals
of the faith-cure and fortune-telling sort.
What a queer, melancholy house, what a que=
er,
melancholy street! I don't
think I was ever in a street before when q=
uite
so many professional
ladies, with English surnames, preferred M=
adam
to Mrs. on their
door-plates. And the poor old place has su=
ch a
desperately conscious
air of going to the deuce. Every house see=
ms to
wince as you go by,
and button itself up to the chin for fear =
you
should find out it had
no shirt on--so to speak. I don't know wha=
t's
the reason, but these
material tokens of a social decay afflict =
me
terribly; a tipsy woman
isn't dreadfuler than a haggard old house,
that's once been a home, in a
street like this.
Mr. Howells's pictures are not mere stiff,
hard, accurate photographs;
they are photographs with feeling in them,=
and
sentiment, photographs
taken in a dream, one might say.
As concerns his humor, I will not try to s=
ay
anything, yet I would try,
if I had the words that might approximately
reach up to its high place.
I do not think any one else can play with
humorous fancies so gracefully
and delicately and deliciously as he does,=
nor
has so many to play with,
nor can come so near making them look as if
they were doing the playing
themselves and he was not aware that they =
were
at it. For they are
unobtrusive, and quiet in their ways, and =
well
conducted. His is a humor
which flows softly all around about and ov=
er
and through the mesh of the
page, pervasive, refreshing, health-giving,
and makes no more show and
no more noise than does the circulation of=
the
blood.
There is another thing which is contenting=
ly
noticeable in Mr. Howells's
books. That is his "stage
directions"--those artifices which authors
employ to throw a kind of human naturalness
around a scene and a
conversation, and help the reader to see t=
he
one and get at meanings in
the other which might not be perceived if
entrusted unexplained to the
bare words of the talk. Some authors overdo
the stage directions, they
elaborate them quite beyond necessity; they
spend so much time and
take up so much room in telling us how a
person said a thing and how he
looked and acted when he said it that we g=
et
tired and vexed and wish he
hadn't said it all. Other authors' directi=
ons
are brief enough, but it
is seldom that the brevity contains either=
wit
or information. Writers
of this school go in rags, in the matter of
state directions; the
majority of them having nothing in stock b=
ut a
cigar, a laugh, a blush,
and a bursting into tears. In their poverty
they work these sorry things
to the bone. They say:
"... replied Alfred, flipping the ash
from his cigar." (This explains
nothing; it only wastes space.)
"... responded Richard, with a
laugh." (There was nothing to laugh
about; 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 is
nothing to laugh at; often, when a remark =
is
unusually and poignantly
flat and silly, he tries to deceive the re=
ader
by enlarging the stage
direction and making Richard break into
"frenzies of uncontrollable
laughter." This makes the reader sad.=
)
"... murmured Gladys, blushing."
(This poor old shop-worn blush is a
tiresome thing. We get so we would rather
Gladys would fall out of the
book and break her neck than do it again. =
She
is always doing it, and
usually irrelevantly. Whenever it is her t=
urn
to murmur she hangs out
her blush; it is the only thing she's got.=
In
a little while we hate
her, just as we do Richard.)
"... repeated Evelyn, bursting into
tears." (This kind keep a book damp
all the time. They can't say a thing witho=
ut
crying. They cry so much
about nothing that by and by when they have
something to cry ABOUT they
have gone dry; they sob, and fetch nothing=
; we
are not moved. We are
only glad.)
They gavel me, these stale and overworked
stage directions, these carbon
films that got burnt out long ago and cann=
ot
now carry any faintest
thread of light. It would be well if they
could be relieved from duty
and flung out in the literary back yard to=
rot
and disappear along
with the discarded and forgotten
"steeds" and "halidomes" and similar
stage-properties once so dear to our
grandfathers. But I am friendly to
Mr. Howells's stage directions; more frien=
dly
to them than to any one
else's, I think. They are done with a
competent and discriminating art,
and are faithful to the requirements of a
state direction's proper and
lawful office, which is to inform. Sometim=
es
they convey a scene and
its conditions so well that I believe I co=
uld
see the scene and get the
spirit and meaning of the accompanying
dialogue if some one would read
merely the stage directions to me and leave
out the talk. For instance,
a scene like this, from THE UNDISCOVERED
COUNTRY:
"... and she laid her arms with a
beseeching gesture on her father's
shoulder."
"... she answered, following his gest=
ure
with a glance."
"... she said, laughing nervously.&qu=
ot;
"... she asked, turning swiftly upon =
him
that strange, searching
glance."
"... she answered, vaguely."
"... she reluctantly admitted."<= o:p>
"... but her voice died wearily away,=
and
she stood looking into his
face with puzzled entreaty."
Mr. Howells does not repeat his forms, and=
does
not need to; he can
invent fresh ones without limit. It is mai=
nly
the repetition over and
over again, by the third-rates, of worn and
commonplace and juiceless
forms that makes their novels such a weari=
ness
and vexation to us, I
think. We do not mind one or two deliverie=
s of
their wares, but as we
turn the pages over and keep on meeting th=
em
we presently get tired of
them and wish they would do other things f=
or 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 a=
sh
from his cigar."
"... responded the undertaker, with a
laugh."
"... murmured the chambermaid,
blushing."
"... repeated the burglar, bursting i=
nto
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 cease=
s to
excite. I always notice
stage directions, because they fret me and
keep me trying to get out
of their way, just as the automobiles do. =
At
first; then by and by they
become monotonous and I get run over.
Mr. Howells has done much work, and the sp=
irit
of it is as beautiful
as the make of it. I have held him in
admiration and affection so many
years that I know by the number of those y=
ears
that he is old now;
but his heart isn't, nor his pen; and year=
s do
not count. Let him have
plenty of them; there is profit in them for
us.
In the appendix to Croker's Boswell's John=
son
one finds this anecdote:
CATO'S SOLILOQUY.--One day Mrs. Gastrel se=
t a
little girl to repeat to
him (Dr. Samuel Johnson) Cato's Soliloquy,
which she went through very
correctly. The Doctor, after a pause, asked
the child:
"What was to bring Cato to an end?&qu=
ot;
She said it was a knife.
"No, my dear, it was not so."
"My aunt Polly said it was a knife.&q=
uot;
"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 was
unable 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. Gastre=
l,
he said:
"Now, my dear lady, can anything be m=
ore
ridiculous than to teach a
child Cato's Soliloquy, who does not know =
how
many pence there are in a
sixpence?"
In a lecture before the Royal Geographical
Society Professor Ravenstein
quoted the following list of frantic
questions, and said that they had
been asked in an examination:
Mention all names of places in the world
derived from Julius Caesar or
Augustus 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, Melori=
a,
Zutphen.
The highest peaks of the Karakorum range.<= o:p>
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 the
Skaptar Jokul in the eruption of 1783.
That list would oversize nearly anybody's
geographical knowledge. Isn't
it reasonably possible that in our schools
many of the questions in all
studies are several miles ahead of where t=
he
pupil is?--that he is set
to struggle with things that are ludicrous=
ly
beyond his present reach,
hopelessly beyond his present strength? Th=
is
remark in passing, and by
way of text; now I come to what I was goin=
g to
say.
I have just now fallen upon a darling lite=
rary
curiosity. It is a little
book, a manuscript compilation, and the co=
mpiler
sent it to me with the
request that I say whether I think it ough=
t to
be published or not. I
said, Yes; but as I slowly grow wise I bri=
skly
grow cautious; and so,
now that the publication is imminent, it h=
as
seemed to me that I should
feel more comfortable if I could divide up
this responsibility with the
public by adding them to the court. Theref=
ore
I will print some extracts
from the book, in the hope that they may m=
ake
converts to my judgment
that the volume has merit which entitles i=
t to
publication.
As to its character. Every one has sampled
"English as She is Spoke"
and "English as She is Wrote"; t=
his
little volume furnishes us an
instructive array of examples of "Eng=
lish
as She is Taught"--in the
public schools of--well, this country. The
collection is made by a
teacher in those schools, and all the exam=
ples
in it are genuine; none
of them have been tampered with, or doctor=
ed
in any way. From time to
time, during several years, whenever a pup=
il
has delivered himself
of anything peculiarly quaint or toothsome=
in
the course of his
recitations, this teacher and her associat=
es
have privately set that
thing down in a memorandum-book; strictly
following the original, as
to grammar, construction, spelling, and al=
l;
and the result is this
literary curiosity.
The contents of the book consist mainly of
answers given by the boys
and girls to questions, said answers being
given sometimes verbally,
sometimes in writing. The subjects touched
upon are fifteen in
number: I. Etymology; II. Grammar; III.
Mathematics; IV. Geography;
V. "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 id=
ea
has taken a shot at a good
many kinds of game in the course of the bo=
ok.
Now as to results. Here
are some quaint definitions of words. It w=
ill
be noticed that in all of
these instances the sound of the word, or =
the
look of it on paper, has
misled 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 Frenc=
h.
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 "publica=
ns
and sinners" has got mixed up
in the child's mind with politics, and the
result is a definition which
takes one in a sudden and unexpected way:<= o:p>
REPUBLICAN, a sinner mentioned in the Bibl=
e.
Also in Democratic newspapers now and then=
. Here
are two where the
mistake has resulted from sound assisted by
remote fact:
PLAGIARIST, a writer of plays.
DEMAGOGUE, a vessel containing beer and ot=
her
liquids.
I cannot quite make out what it was that
misled the pupil in the
following instances; it would not seem to =
have
been the sound of the
word, nor the look of it in print:
ASPHYXIA, a grumbling, fussy temper.
QUARTERNIONS, a bird with a flat beak and =
no
bill, living in New
Zealand.
QUARTERNIONS, the name given to a style of=
art
practiced by the
Phoenicians.
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 truth
without ever suspecting it:
The men employed by the Gas Company go aro=
und
and speculate the meter.
Indeed they do, dear; and when you grow up,
many and many's the time you
will notice it in the gas bill. In the
following sentences the little
people have some information to convey, ev=
ery
time; but in my case they
fail 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.<= o:p>
The captain eliminated a bullet through the
man's heart.
You should take caution and be precarious.=
The supercilious girl acted with vicissitu=
de
when the perennial time
came.
The last is a curiously plausible sentence;
one seems to know what it
means, 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 from
a lofty philosophical altitude to a very
practical and homely
illustration:
We should endeavor to avoid extremes--like
those of wasps and bees.
And here--with "zoological" and
"geological" in his mind, but not ready
to his tongue--the small scholar has
innocently gone and let out
a couple of secrets which ought never to h=
ave
been divulged in any
circumstances:
There are a good many donkeys in theologic=
al
gardens.
Some of the best fossils are found in
theological gardens.
Under the head of "Grammar" the
little scholars furnish the following
information:
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 been
stricter. The following is a brave attempt=
at
a solution, but it failed
to liquify:
When they are going to say some prose or
poetry before they say the
poetry or prose they must put a semicolon =
just
after the introduction of
the prose or poetry.
The chapter on "Mathematics" is =
full
of fruit. From it I take a few
samples--mainly in an unripe state:
A straight line is any distance between two
places.
Parallel lines are lines that can never me=
et
until they run together.
A circle is a round straight line with a h=
ole
in the middle.
Things which are equal to each other are e=
qual
to anything else.
To find the number of square feet in a room
you multiply the room by the
number of the feet. The product is the res=
ult.
Right you are. In the matter of geography =
this
little book is
unspeakably rich. The questions do not app=
ear
to have applied the
microscope to the subject, as did those qu=
oted
by Professor Ravenstein;
still, they proved plenty difficult enough=
without
that. These pupils
did not hunt with a microscope, they hunted
with a shot-gun; this is
shown by the crippled condition of the game
they brought in:
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 other
countrys, 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 Philadelph=
ia.
The Rocky Mountains are on the western sid=
e of
Philadelphia.
Cape Hateras is a vast body of water surro=
unded
by land and flowing into
the 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, lumbe=
r,
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 Mediterranean
Sea.
Ireland is called the Emigrant Isle becaus=
e it
is so beautiful and
green.
The width of the different zones Europe li=
es
in depend upon the
surrounding country.
The imports of a country are the things th=
at
are paid for, the exports
are the things that are not.
Climate lasts all the time and weather onl=
y a
few days.
The two most famous volcanoes of Europe are
Sodom and Gomorrah.
The chapter headed "Analysis" sh=
ows
us that the pupils in our public
schools are not merely loaded up with those
showy facts about geography,
mathematics, and so on, and left in that
incomplete state; no, there's
machinery for clarifying and expanding the=
ir
minds. They are required to
take poems and analyze them, dig out their
common sense, reduce them
to statistics, and reproduce them in a
luminous prose translation which
shall tell you at a glance what the poet w=
as
trying to get at. One
sample will do. Here is a stanza from
"The Lady of the Lake," followed
by the pupil's impressive explanation of i=
t:
Alone, but with unbated zeal, The horseman
plied with scourge and steel;
For jaded now and spent with toil, Embossed
with foam and dark with
soil, While every gasp with sobs he drew, =
The
laboring stag strained
full in view.
The man who rode on the horse performed the
whip and an instrument made
of steel alone with strong ardor not
diminishing, for, being tired from
the time passed with hard labor overworked
with anger and ignorant
with weariness, while every breath for lab=
or
he drew with cries full or
sorrow, the young deer made imperfect who
worked hard filtered in sight.
I see, now, that I never understood that p=
oem
before. I have had
glimpses of its meaning, it moments when I=
was
not as ignorant with
weariness as usual, but this is the first =
time
the whole spacious idea
of it ever filtered in sight. If I were a
public-school pupil I would
put those other studies aside and stick to
analysis; for, after all, it
is the thing to spread your mind.
We come now to historical matters, histori=
cal
remains, one might say. As
one turns the pages he is impressed with t=
he
depth to which one date has
been driven into the American child's
head--1492. The date is there, and
it is there to stay. And it is always at h=
and,
always deliverable at
a moment's notice. But the Fact that belon=
gs
with it? That is quite
another matter. Only the date itself is
familiar and sure: its vast
Fact has failed of lodgment. It would appe=
ar
that whenever you ask a
public-school pupil when a thing--anything=
, no
matter what--happened,
and he is in doubt, he always rips out his
1492. He applies it to
everything, from the landing of the ark to=
the
introduction of the
horse-car. Well, after all, it is our first
date, and so it is right
enough to honor it, and pay the public sch=
ools
to teach our children to
honor 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 Julius
Caesar.
The earth is 1492 miles in circumference.<= o:p>
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 so
that Columbus could discover America.
The Indian wars were very desecrating to t=
he
country.
The Indians pursued their warfare by hidin=
g in
the bushes and then
scalping them.
Captain John Smith has been styled the fat=
her
of his country. His life
was 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 should
be null and void.
Washington died in Spain almost
broken-hearted. His remains were taken
to the cathedral in Havana.
Gorilla warfare was where men rode on
gorillas.
John Brown was a very good insane man who
tried to get fugitives
slaves into Virginia. He captured all the
inhabitants, but was finally
conquered and condemned to his death. The
confederasy was formed by the
fugitive slaves.
Alfred the Great reigned 872 years. He was
distinguished for letting
some buckwheat cakes burn, and the lady
scolded him.
Henry Eight was famous for being a great
widower haveing lost several
wives.
Lady Jane Grey studied Greek and Latin and=
was
beheaded after a few
days.
John Bright is noted for an incurable dise=
ase.
Lord James Gordon Bennet instigated the Go=
rdon
Riots.
The Middle Ages come in between antiquity =
and
posterity.
Luther introduced Christianity into Englan=
d a
good many thousand years
ago. His birthday was November 1883. He was
once a Pope. He lived at the
time of the Rebellion of Worms.
Julius Caesar is noted for his famous tele=
gram
dispatch I came I saw I
conquered.
Julius Caesar was really a very great man.=
He
was a very great soldier
and wrote a book for beginners in the Lati=
n.
Cleopatra was caused by the death of an asp
which she dissolved in a
wine 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 i=
t is
phrased with
such ingenious infelicity that it can be
depended upon to convey
misinformation every time it is uncarefully
unread:
By the Salic law no woman or descendant of=
a
woman could occupy the
throne.
To show how far a child can travel in hist=
ory
with judicious and
diligent boosting in the public school, we
select the following mosaic:
Abraham Lincoln was born in Wales in 1599.=
In the chapter headed "Intellectual&q=
uot;
I find a great number of most
interesting statements. A sample or two ma=
y be
found not amiss:
Bracebridge Hall was written by Henry Irvi=
ng.
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 wrote
histories.
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 the
shrine of Thomas Bucket.
Chaucer was the father of English pottery.=
Chaucer was a bland verse writer of the th=
ird
century.
Chaucer was succeeded by H. Wads. Longfell=
ow
an American Writer. His
writings were chiefly prose and nearly one
hundred years elapsed.
Shakspere translated the Scriptures and it=
was
called St. James because
he did it.
In the middle of the chapter I find many p=
ages
of information concerning
Shakespeare's plays, Milton's works, and t=
hose
of Bacon, Addison, Samuel
Johnson, Fielding, Richardson, Sterne, Smo=
llett,
De Foe, Locke, Pope,
Swift, Goldsmith, Burns, Cowper, Wordswort=
h,
Gibbon, Byron, Coleridge,
Hood, Scott, Macaulay, George Eliot, Dicke=
ns,
Bulwer, Thackeray,
Browning, Mrs. Browning, Tennyson, and
Disraeli--a fact which shows that
into the restricted stomach of the
public-school pupil is shoveled every
year the blood, bone, and viscera of a
gigantic literature, and the
same is there digested and disposed of in a
most successful and
characteristic and gratifying public-school
way. I have space for but a
trifling few of the results:
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 his
genius.
George Eliot Miss Mary Evans Mrs. Cross Mr=
s.
Lewis was the greatest
female 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 the
first great novelists.
Thomas Babington Makorlay graduated at Har=
vard
and then studied law, he
was 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 taken
in moderation:
Homer's writings are Homer's Essays Virgil=
the
Aenid and Paradise
lost some people say that these poems were=
not
written by Homer but by
another man of the same name.
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 the
Great Republic, they throw him sometimes:<= o:p>
A bill becomes a law when the President ve=
toes
it.
The three departments of the government is=
the
President rules the
world, the governor rules the State, the m=
ayor
rules the city.
The first conscientious Congress met in
Philadelphia.
The Constitution of the United States was
established to ensure domestic
hostility.
Truth crushed to earth will rise again. As=
follows:
The Constitution of the United States is t=
hat
part of the book at the
end which nobody reads.
And here she rises once more and untimely.
There should be a limit to
public-school instruction; it cannot be wi=
se
or well to let the young
find 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 to
the next.
A rest means you are not to sing it.
Emphasis is putting more distress on one w=
ord
than another.
The chapter on "Physiology" cont=
ains
much that ought not to be lost to
science:
Physillogigy is to study about your bones
stummick and vertebry.
Occupations which are injurious to health =
are
cabolic acid gas which is
impure blood.
We have an upper and lower skin. The lower
skin moves all the time and
the upper skin moves when we do.
The body is mostly composed of water and a=
bout
one half is avaricious
tissue.
The stomach is a small pear-shaped bone si=
tuated
in the body.
The gastric juice keeps the bones from
creaking.
The Chyle flows up the middle of the backb=
one
and reaches the heart
where it meets the oxygen and is purified.=
The salivary glands are used to salivate t=
he
body.
In the stomach starch is changed to cane s=
ugar
and cane sugar to sugar
cane.
The olfactory nerve enters the cavity of t=
he
orbit and is developed into
the special sense of hearing.
The growth of a tooth begins in the back of
the mouth and extends to the
stomach.
If we were on a railroad track and a train=
was
coming the train would
deafen 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 the
Johnsonian anecdote at the head of this
article, let us make another
attempt:
The theory that intuitive truths are
discovered by the light of nature
originated from St. John's interpretation =
of a
passage in the Gospel of
Plato.
The weight of the earth is found by compar=
ing
a mass of known lead with
that of a mass of unknown lead.
To find the weight of the earth take the
length of a degree on a
meridian and multiply by 6 1/2 pounds.
The spheres are to each other as the squar=
es
of their homologous sides.
A body will go just as far in the first se=
cond
as the body will go plus
the force of gravity and that's equal to t=
wice
what the body will go.
Specific gravity is the weight to be compa=
red
weight of an equal volume
of or that is the weight of a body compared
with the weight of an equal
volume.
The law of fluid pressure divide the diffe=
rent
forms of organized bodies
by the form of attraction and the number
increased will be the form.
Inertia is that property of bodies by virt=
ue
of which it cannot change
its own condition of rest or motion. In ot=
her
words it is the negative
quality of passiveness either in recoverab=
le
latency or insipient
latescence.
If a laugh is fair here, not the struggling
child, nor the unintelligent
teacher--or rather the unintelligent Board=
s,
Committees, and
Trustees--are the proper target for it. All
through this little book one
detects the signs of a certain probable
fact--that a large part of the
pupil's "instruction" consists in
cramming him with obscure and wordy
"rules" which he does not unders=
tand
and has no time to understand. It
would be as useful to cram him with brickb=
ats;
they would at least stay.
In a town in the interior of New York, a f=
ew
years ago, a gentleman
set forth a mathematical problem and propo=
sed
to give a prize to every
public-school pupil who should furnish the
correct solution of it.
Twenty-two of the brightest boys in the pu=
blic
schools entered the
contest. The problem was not a very diffic=
ult
one for pupils of their
mathematical rank and standing, yet they a=
ll
failed--by a hair--through
one trifling mistake or another. Some
searching questions were asked,
when it turned out that these lads were as
glib as parrots with the
"rules," but could not reason ou=
t a
single rule or explain the
principle underlying it. Their memories had
been stocked, but not their
understandings. It was a case of brickbat
culture, pure and simple.
There are several curious
"compositions" in the little book, and we
must make room for one. It is full of naiv=
ete,
brutal truth, and
unembarrassed directness, and is the funni=
est
(genuine) boy's
composition I think I have ever seen:
Girls are very stuck up and dignefied in t=
heir
maner and be have your.
They think more of dress than anything and
like to play with dowls and
rags. They cry if they see a cow in a far
distance and are afraid of
guns. They stay at home all the time and g=
o to
church on Sunday. They
are al-ways sick. They are always funy and
making fun of boy's hands
and they say how dirty. They cant play
marbels. I pity them poor things.
They make fun of boys and then turn round =
and
love them. I dont beleave
they ever kiled a cat or anything. They lo=
ok
out every nite and say oh
ant the moon lovely. Thir is one thing I h=
ave
not told and that is they
al-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 due
entirely to the fact that in school and
university the German is taught,
in the first place to see, and in the seco=
nd
place to understand what he
does see.
A SIMPLIFIED ALPHABET
(This article, written during the autumn of
1899, was about the last
writing done by Mark Twain on any imperson=
al
subject.)
I have had a kindly feeling, a friendly
feeling, a cousinly feeling
toward Simplified Spelling, from the begin=
ning
of the movement three
years ago, but nothing more inflamed than
that. It seemed to me to
merely propose to substitute one inadequacy
for another; a sort of
patching and plugging poor old dental reli=
cs
with cement and gold and
porcelain paste; what was really needed wa=
s a
new set of teeth. That is
to say, a new ALPHABET.
The heart of our trouble is with our fooli=
sh
alphabet. It doesn't
know how to spell, and can't be taught. In
this it is like all other
alphabets except one--the phonographic. Th=
is
is the only competent
alphabet in the world. It can spell and
correctly pronounce any word in
our language.
That admirable alphabet, that brilliant
alphabet, that inspired
alphabet, can be learned in an hour or two=
. In
a week the student
can learn to write it with some little
facility, and to read it with
considerable ease. I know, for I saw it tr=
ied
in a public school in
Nevada forty-five years ago, and was so
impressed by the incident that
it has remained in my memory ever since.
I wish we could adopt it in place of our
present written (and printed)
character. I mean SIMPLY the alphabet; sim=
ply
the consonants and the
vowels--I don't mean any REDUCTIONS or
abbreviations of them, such as
the shorthand writer uses in order to get
compression and speed. No, I
would SPELL EVERY WORD OUT.
I will insert the alphabet here as I find =
it
in Burnz's PHONIC
SHORTHAND. (Figure 1) It is arranged on the
basis of Isaac Pitman's
PHONOGRAPHY. Isaac Pitman was the originat=
or
and father of scientific
phonography. It is used throughout the glo=
be.
It was a memorable
invention. He made it public seventy-three
years ago. The firm of Isaac
Pitman & Sons, New York, still exists,=
and
they continue the master's
work.
What should we gain?
First of all, we could spell DEFINITELY--a=
nd
correctly--any word you
please, just by the SOUND of it. We can't =
do
that with our present
alphabet. For instance, take a simple, eve=
ry-day
word PHTHISIS. If we
tried to spell it by the sound of it, we
should make it TYSIS, and be
laughed at by every educated person.
Secondly, we should gain in REDUCTION OF L=
ABOR
in writing.
Simplified Spelling makes valuable reducti=
ons
in the case of several
hundred words, but the new spelling must be
LEARNED. You can't spell
them 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 "hands
down" in the important matter of econ=
omy
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 p=
en
has to make twelve strokes--a good
saving.
To write that same word with the phonograp=
hic
alphabet, the pen has to
make only THREE strokes.
To write the word "laugh," the p=
en
has to make FOURTEEN strokes.
To write "laff," the pen has to =
make
the SAME NUMBER of strokes--no
labor is saved to the penman.
To write the same word with the phonograph=
ic
alphabet, the pen has to
make 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 make
only FIVE strokes. (Figure 3)
To write the words "phonographic
alphabet," the pen has to make
fifty-three strokes.
To write "fonografic alfabet," t=
he
pen has to make fifty strokes. To the
penman, the saving in labor is insignifica=
nt.
To write that word (with vowels) with the
phonographic alphabet, the pen
has to make only SEVENTEEN strokes.
Without the vowels, only THIRTEEN strokes.
(Figure 4) The vowels are
hardly necessary, this time.
We make five pen-strokes in writing an m.
Thus: (Figure 5) a stroke
down; a stroke up; a second stroke down; a
second stroke up; a final
stroke down. Total, five. The phonographic
alphabet accomplishes the
m with a single stroke--a curve, like a
parenthesis that has come home
drunk and has fallen face down right at the
front door where everybody
that goes along will see him and say, Alas=
!
When our written m is not the end of a wor=
d,
but is otherwise located,
it has to be connected with the next lette=
r,
and that requires another
pen-stroke, making six in all, before you =
get
rid of that m. But never
mind about the connecting strokes--let them
go. Without counting them,
the twenty-six letters of our alphabet
consumed about eighty pen-strokes
for their construction--about three
pen-strokes per letter.
It is THREE TIMES THE NUMBER required by t=
he
phonographic alphabet. It
requires but ONE stroke for each letter.
My writing-gait is--well, I don't know wha=
t it
is, but I will time
myself and see. Result: it is twenty-four
words per minute. I don't mean
composing; 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 I
could use the phonographic character with
facility I could do the 1,500
in twenty minutes. I could do nine hours'
copying in three hours; I
could do three years' copying in one year.
Also, if I had a typewriting
machine with the phonographic alphabet on =
it--oh,
the miracles I could
do!
I am not pretending to write that character
well. I have never had a
lesson, and I am copying the letters from =
the
book. But I can accomplish
my desire, at any rate, which is, to make =
the
reader get a good and
clear idea of the advantage it would be to=
us
if we could discard our
present alphabet and put this better one in
its place--using it in
books, newspapers, with the typewriter, and
with the pen.
(Figure 6)--MAN DOG HORSE. I think it is
graceful and would look comely
in print. And consider--once more, I beg--=
what
a labor-saver it is! Ten
pen-strokes with the one system to convey
those three words above, and
thirty-three by the other! (Figure 6) I me=
an,
in SOME ways, not in all.
I suppose I might go so far as to say in m=
ost
ways, and be within the
facts, but never mind; let it go at SOME. =
One
of the ways in which
it exercises this birthright is--as I
think--continuing to use our
laughable alphabet these seventy-three yea=
rs
while there was a rational
one at hand, to be had for the taking.
It has taken five hundred years to simplify
some of Chaucer's rotten
spelling--if I may be allowed to use to fr=
ank
a term as that--and it
will take five hundred years more to get o=
ur
exasperating new Simplified
Corruptions accepted and running smoothly.=
And
we sha'n't be any better
off then than we are now; for in that day =
we
shall still have the
privilege the Simplifiers are exercising n=
ow:
ANYBODY can change the
spelling that wants to.
It will always follow the SOUND. If you wa=
nt
to change the spelling, you
have to change the sound first.
Mind, I myself am a Simplified Speller; I
belong to that unhappy
guild that is patiently and hopefully tryi=
ng
to reform our drunken old
alphabet by reducing his whiskey. Well, it
will improve him. When they
get through and have reformed him all they=
can
by their system he will
be only HALF drunk. Above that condition t=
heir
system can never lift
him. There is no competent, and lasting, a=
nd
real reform for him but
to take away his whiskey entirely, and fil=
l up
his jug with Pitman's
wholesome and undiseased alphabet.
One great drawback to Simplified Spelling =
is,
that in print a simplified
word looks so like the very nation! and wh=
en
you bunch a whole squadron
of the Simplified together the spectacle is
very nearly unendurable.
The da ma ov koars kum when the publik ma =
be
expektd to get rekonsyled
to the bezair asspekt of the Simplified
Kombynashuns, but--if I may be
allowed the expression--is it worth the wa=
sted
time? (Figure 7)
To see our letters put together in ways to
which we are not accustomed
offends the eye, and also takes the EXPRES=
SION
out of the words.
La on, Makduf, and damd be he hoo furst kr=
ys
hold, enuf!
It doesn't thrill you as it used to do. The
simplifications have sucked
the thrill all out of it.
But a written character with which we are =
NOT
ACQUAINTED does not
offend us--Greek, Hebrew, Russian, Arabic,=
and
the others--they have an
interesting look, and we see beauty in the=
m,
too. And this is true of
hieroglyphics, as well. There is something
pleasant and engaging about
the mathematical signs when we do not
understand them. The mystery
hidden in these things has a fascination f=
or
us: we can't come across a
printed page of shorthand without being
impressed by it and wishing we
could read it.
Very well, what I am offering for acceptan=
ce
and adopting is not
shorthand, but longhand, written with the
SHORTHAND ALPHABET UNREACHED.
You can write three times as many words in=
a minute
with it as you can
write with our alphabet. And so, in a way,=
it
IS properly a shorthand.
It has a pleasant look, too; a beguiling l=
ook,
an inviting look. I will
write something in it, in my rude and unta=
ught
way: (Figure 8)
Even when I do it it comes out prettier th=
an
it does in Simplified
Spelling. Yes, and in the Simplified it co=
sts
one hundred and
twenty-three pen-strokes to write it, wher=
eas
in the phonographic it
costs only twenty-nine.
(Figure 9) is probably (Figure 10).
Let us hope so, anyway.
This line of hieroglyphics was for fourteen
years the despair of all the
scholars 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 by
scholars. For a time it stood. But only fo=
r a
time. Then doubts began to
assail it and undermine it, and the schola=
rs
resumed their labors. Three
years 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; this
upon pain of death.
But the following rendering, by Gospodin, =
was
received by the learned
world 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 varying
renderings were scored--none of them quite
convincing. But now, at last,
came Rawlinson, the youngest of all the
scholars, with a translation
which was immediately and universally
recognized as being the correct
version, and his name became famous in a d=
ay.
So famous, indeed, that
even the children were familiar with it; a=
nd
such a noise did the
achievement itself make that not even the
noise of the monumental
political event of that same year--the fli=
ght
from Elba--was able to
smother it to silence. Rawlinson's version
reads as follows:
Therefore, walk not away from the wisdom of
Epiphanes, but turn and
follow it; so shall it conduct thee to the
temple's peace, and soften
for 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 language
which has perished from the knowledge of a=
ll
men twenty-five hundred
years before the Christian era.
Our red Indians have left many records, in=
the
form of pictures, upon
our crags and boulders. It has taken our m=
ost
gifted and painstaking
students two centuries to get at the meani=
ngs
hidden in these pictures;
yet there are still two little lines of
hieroglyphics among the
figures grouped upon the Dighton Rocks whi=
ch
they have not succeeds in
interpreting to their satisfaction. These:
(Figure 3)
The suggested solutions are practically
innumerable; they would fill a
book.
Thus we have infinite trouble in solving
man-made mysteries; it is only
when we set out to discover the secret of =
God
that our difficulties
disappear. It was always so. In antique Ro=
man
times it was the custom of
the Deity to try to conceal His intentions=
in
the entrails of birds,
and this was patiently and hopefully conti=
nued
century after century,
although the attempted concealment never
succeeded, in a single recorded
instance. The augurs could read entrails as
easily as a modern child
can read coarse print. Roman history is fu=
ll
of the marvels of
interpretation which these extraordinary m=
en
performed. These strange
and wonderful achievements move our awe and
compel our admiration.
Those men could pierce to the marrow of a
mystery instantly. If the
Rosetta-stone idea had been introduced it
would have defeated them,
but entrails had no embarrassments for the=
m.
Entrails have gone out,
now--entrails and dreams. It was at last f=
ound
out that as hiding-places
for the divine intentions they were
inadequate.
A part of the wall of Valletri in former t=
imes
been struck with thunder,
the response of the soothsayers was, that a
native of that town would
some time or other arrive at supreme power.
--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-st=
roke
had Caesar Augustus in
mind, and had come to give notice.
There were other advance-advertisements. O=
ne
of them appeared just
before Caesar Augustus was born, and was m=
ost
poetic and touching and
romantic in its feelings and aspects. It w=
as a
dream. It was dreamed by
Caesar Augustus's mother, and interpreted =
at
the usual rates:
Atia, before her delivery, dreamed that her
bowels stretched to
the stars and expanded through the whole
circuit of heaven and
earth.--SUETONIUS, p. 139.
That was in the augur's line, and furnished
him no difficulties, but it
would have taken Rawlinson and Champollion
fourteen years to make sure
of what it meant, because they would have =
been
surprised and dizzy. It
would have been too late to be valuable, t=
hen,
and the bill for service
would have been barred by the statute of
limitation.
In those old Roman days a gentleman's
education was not complete until
he had taken a theological course at the
seminary and learned how to
translate entrails. Caesar Augustus's
education received this final
polish. All through his life, whenever he =
had
poultry on the menu he
saved the interiors and kept himself infor=
med
of the Deity's plans by
exercising upon those interiors the arts of
augury.
In his first consulship, while he was
observing the auguries, twelve
vultures presented themselves, as they had
done to Romulus. And when he
offered sacrifice, the livers of all the
victims were folded inward in
the lower part; a circumstance which was
regarded by those present who
had skill in things of that nature, as an
indubitable prognostic of
great and wonderful fortune.--SUETONIUS, p.
141.
"Indubitable" is a strong word, =
but
no doubt it was justified, if the
livers were really turned that way. In tho=
se
days chicken livers were
strangely and delicately sensitive to comi=
ng
events, no matter how far
off they might be; and they could never ke=
ep
still, but would curl and
squirm like that, particularly when vultur=
es
came and showed interest in
that approaching great event and in breakf=
ast.
We may now skip eleven hundred and thirty =
or
forty years, which brings
us down to enlightened Christian times and=
the
troubled days of King
Stephen of England. The augur has had his =
day
and has been long ago
forgotten; the priest had fallen heir to h=
is
trade.
King Henry is dead; Stephen, that bold and
outrageous person, comes
flying over from Normandy to steal the thr=
one
from Henry's daughter.
He accomplished his crime, and Henry of
Huntington, a priest of high
degree, mourns over it in his Chronicle. T=
he
Archbishop of Canterbury
consecrated Stephen: "wherefore the L=
ord
visited the Archbishop with the
same judgment which he had inflicted upon =
him
who struck Jeremiah the
great priest: he died with a year."
Stephen's was the greater offense, but Ste=
phen
could wait; not so the
Archbishop, apparently.
The kingdom was a prey to intestine wars;
slaughter, fire, and rapine
spread ruin throughout the land; cries of
distress, horror, and woe rose
in every quarter.
That was the result of Stephen's crime. Th=
ese
unspeakable conditions
continued during nineteen years. Then Step=
hen
died as comfortably as
any man ever did, and was honorably buried=
. It
makes one pity the poor
Archbishop, and with that he, too, could h=
ave
been let off as leniently.
How did Henry of Huntington know that the
Archbishop was sent to his
grave by judgment of God for consecrating
Stephen? He does not explain.
Neither does he explain why Stephen was
awarded a pleasanter death than
he was entitled to, while the aged King He=
nry,
his predecessor, who
had ruled England thirty-five years to the
people's strongly worded
satisfaction, was condemned to close his l=
ife
in circumstances most
distinctly unpleasant, inconvenient, and
disagreeable. His was probably
the most uninspiring funeral that is set d=
own
in history. There is not
a detail about it that is attractive. It s=
eems
to have been just the
funeral for Stephen, and even at this
far-distant day it is matter of
just regret that by an indiscretion the wr=
ong
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 whe=
n a
man
has earned punishment, and escapes, he does not explai=
n.
He is evidently
puzzled, but he does not say anything. I think it is o=
ften
apparent that
he is pained by these discrepancies, but
loyally tries his best not
to show it. When he cannot praise, he deli=
vers
himself of a silence
so marked that a suspicious person could
mistake it for suppressed
criticism. However, he has plenty of
opportunities to feel contented
with the way things go--his book is full of
them.
King David of Scotland... under color of
religion caused his followers
to deal most barbarously with the English.
They ripped open women,
tossed children on the points of spears,
butchered priests at the
altars, and, cutting off the heads from the
images on crucifixes, placed
them on the bodies of the slain, while in
exchange they fixed on the
crucifixes the heads of their victims.
Wherever the Scots came, there
was the same scene of horror and cruelty:
women shrieking, old men
lamenting, amid the groans of the dying and
the despair of the living.
But the English got the victory.
Then the chief of the men of Lothian fell,
pierced by an arrow, and all
his followers were put to flight. For the
Almighty was offended at them
and their strength was rent like a cobweb.=
Offended at them for what? For committing
those fearful butcheries? No,
for that was the common custom on both sid=
es,
and not open to criticism.
Then was it for doing the butcheries
"under cover of religion"? No, that
was not it; religious feeling was often
expressed in that fervent way
all through those old centuries. The truth=
is,
He was not offended at
"them" at all; He was only offen=
ded
at their king, who had been false to
an oath. Then why did not He put the
punishment upon the king instead
of upon "them"? It is a difficult
question. One can see by the Chronicle
that the "judgments" fell rather=
customarily
upon the wrong person, but
Henry 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 display=
ed
its justice in a remarkable
manner; for two of the nobles who had
converted monasteries into
fortifications, expelling the monks, their=
sin
being the same, met with
a similar punishment. Robert Marmion was o=
ne,
Godfrey de Mandeville the
other. Robert Marmion, issuing forth again=
st
the enemy, was slain under
the walls of the monastery, being the only=
one
who fell, though he was
surrounded by his troops. Dying
excommunicated, he became subject to
death everlasting. In like manner Earl God=
frey
was singled out among
his followers, and shot with an arrow by a=
common
foot-soldier. He
made light of the wound, but he died of it=
in
a few days, under
excommunication. See here the like judgmen=
t of
God, memorable through
all ages!
The exaltation jars upon me; not because of
the death of the men, for
they deserved that, but because it is death
eternal, in white-hot fire
and flame. It makes my flesh crawl. I have=
not
known more than three
men, or perhaps four, in my whole lifetime,
whom I would rejoice to see
writhing in those fires for even a year, l=
et
alone forever. I believe
I would relent before the year was up, and=
get
them out if I could.
I think that in the long run, if a man's w=
ife
and babies, who had not
harmed me, should come crying and pleading=
, I
couldn't stand it; I
know I should forgive him and let him go, =
even
if he had violated a
monastery. Henry of Huntington has been
watching Godfrey and Marmion for
nearly seven hundred and fifty years, now,=
but
I couldn't do it, I
know I couldn't. I am soft and gentle in my
nature, and I should have
forgiven them seventy-and-seven times, long
ago. And I think God has;
but this is only an opinion, and not
authoritative, like Henry of
Huntington's interpretations. I could lear=
n to
interpret, but I have
never tried; I get so little time.
All through his book Henry exhibits his
familiarity with the intentions
of God, and with the reasons for his
intentions. Sometimes--very often,
in fact--the act follows the intention aft=
er
such a wide interval of
time that one wonders how Henry could fit =
one
act out of a hundred to
one intention out of a hundred and get the
thing right every time when
there was such abundant choice among acts =
and
intentions. Sometimes a
man offends the Deity with a crime, and is
punished for it thirty years
later; meantime he was committed a million
other crimes: no matter,
Henry can pick out the one that brought the
worms. Worms were generally
used in those days for the slaying of
particularly wicked people.
This has gone out, now, but in old times it
was a favorite. It always
indicated a case of "wrath." For=
instance:
... the just God avenging Robert
Fitzhilderbrand's perfidy, a worm grew
in his vitals, which gradually gnawing its=
way
through his intestines
fattened on the abandoned man till, tortur=
ed
with excruciating
sufferings and venting himself in bitter m=
oans,
he was by a fitting
punishment brought to his end.--(P. 400.)<= o:p>
It was probably an alligator, but we cannot
tell; we only know it was a
particular breed, and only used to convey
wrath. Some authorities think
it was an ichthyosaurus, but there is much
doubt.
However, one thing we do know; and that is
that that worm had been
due years and years. Robert F. had violate=
d a
monastery once; he had
committed unprintable crimes since, and th=
ey
had been permitted--under
disapproval--but the ravishment of the mon=
astery
had not been forgotten
nor forgiven, and the worm came at last.
Why were these reforms put off in this str=
ange
way? What was to be
gained by it? Did Henry of Huntington real=
ly
know his facts, or was he
only guessing? Sometimes I am half persuad=
ed
that he is only a guesser,
and not a good one. The divine wisdom must
surely be of the better
quality than he makes it out to be.
Five hundred years before Henry's time some
forecasts of the Lord's
purposes were furnished by a pope, who
perceived, by certain perfectly
trustworthy signs furnished by the Deity f=
or
the information of His
familiars, that the end of the world was
... about to come. But as this end of the
world draws near many things
are at hand which have not before happened=
, as
changes in the air,
terrible signs in the heavens, tempests ou=
t of
the common order of the
seasons, wars, famines, pestilences,
earthquakes in various places; all
which will not happen in our days, but aft=
er
our days all will come to
pass.
Still, the end was so near that these signs
were "sent before that we
may be careful for our souls and be found
prepared to meet the impending
judgment."
That was thirteen hundred years ago. This =
is
really no improvement on
the work of the Roman augurs.
As concerns tobacco, there are many
superstitions. And the chiefest is
this--that there is a STANDARD governing t=
he
matter, whereas there is
nothing of the kind. Each man's own prefer=
ence
is the only standard for
him, the only one which he can accept, the=
only
one which can command
him. A congress of all the tobacco-lovers =
in
the world could not elect
a standard which would be binding upon you=
or
me, or would even much
influence us.
The next superstition is that a man has a
standard of his own. He
hasn't. He thinks he has, but he hasn't. He
thinks he can tell what he
regards as a good cigar from what he regar=
ds
as a bad one--but he can't.
He goes by the brand, yet imagines he goes=
by
the flavor. One may palm
off the worst counterfeit upon him; if it
bears his brand he will smoke
it contentedly and never suspect.
Children of twenty-five, who have seven ye=
ars
experience, try to tell me
what is a good cigar and what isn't. Me, w=
ho
never learned to smoke, but
always smoked; me, who came into the world
asking for a light.
No one can tell me what is a good cigar--f=
or
me. I am the only judge.
People who claim to know say that I smoke =
the
worst cigars in the world.
They bring their own cigars when they come=
to
my house. They betray an
unmanly terror when I offer them a cigar; =
they
tell lies and hurry away
to meet engagements which they have not ma=
de
when they are threatened
with the hospitalities of my box. Now then,
observe what superstition,
assisted by a man's reputation, can do. I =
was
to have twelve personal
friends to supper one night. One of them w=
as
as notorious for costly
and elegant cigars as I was for cheap and
devilish ones. I called at his
house and when no one was looking borrowed=
a
double handful of his very
choicest; cigars which cost him forty cents
apiece and bore red-and-gold
labels in sign of their nobility. I removed
the labels and put the
cigars into a box with my favorite brand on
it--a brand which those
people all knew, and which cowed them as m=
en
are cowed by an epidemic.
They took these cigars when offered at the=
end
of the supper, and lit
them and sternly struggled with them--in
dreary silence, for hilarity
died when the fell brand came into view and
started around--but their
fortitude held for a short time only; then
they made excuses and filed
out, treading on one another's heels with
indecent eagerness; and in the
morning when I went out to observe results=
the
cigars lay all between
the front door and the gate. All except
one--that one lay in the plate
of the man from whom I had cabbaged the lo=
t.
One or two whiffs was all
he could stand. He told me afterward that =
some
day I would get shot for
giving people that kind of cigars to smoke=
.
Am I certain of my own standard? Perfectly;
yes, absolutely--unless
somebody fools me by putting my brand on s=
ome
other kind of cigar; for
no doubt I am like the rest, and know my c=
igar
by the brand instead of
by the flavor. However, my standard is a
pretty wide one and covers a
good deal of territory. To me, almost any
cigar is good that nobody
else will smoke, and to me almost all ciga=
rs
are bad that other people
consider good. Nearly any cigar will do me,
except a Havana. People
think they hurt my feelings when then come=
to
my house with their life
preservers on--I mean, with their own ciga=
rs
in their pockets. It is
an error; I take care of myself in a simil=
ar
way. When I go into
danger--that is, into rich people's houses,
where, in the nature of
things, they will have high-tariff cigars,
red-and-gilt girded and
nested in a rosewood box along with a damp
sponge, cigars which develop
a dismal black ash and burn down the side =
and
smell, and will grow hot
to the fingers, and will go on growing hot=
ter
and hotter, and go on
smelling more and more infamously and
unendurably the deeper the fire
tunnels down inside below the thimbleful of
honest tobacco that is in
the front end, the furnisher of it praisin=
g it
all the time and telling
you how much the deadly thing cost--yes, w=
hen
I go into that sort of
peril I carry my own defense along; I carr=
y my
own brand--twenty-seven
cents a barrel--and I live to see my family
again. I may seem to light
his red-gartered cigar, but that is only f=
or
courtesy's sake; I smuggle
it into my pocket for the poor, of whom I =
know
many, and light one of
my own; and while he praises it I join in,=
but
when he says it cost
forty-five cents I say nothing, for I know
better.
However, to say true, my tastes are so
catholic that I have never seen
any cigars that I really could not smoke,
except those that cost a
dollar apiece. I have examined those and k=
now
that they are made of
dog-hair, and not good dog-hair at that.
I have a thoroughly satisfactory time in
Europe, for all over the
Continent one finds cigars which not even =
the
most hardened newsboys in
New York would smoke. I brought cigars with
me, the last time; I will
not do that any more. In Italy, as in Fran=
ce,
the Government is the only
cigar-peddler. Italy has three or four
domestic brands: the Minghetti,
the Trabuco, the Virginia, and a very coar=
se
one which is a modification
of the Virginia. The Minghettis are large =
and
comely, and cost three
dollars and sixty cents a hundred; I can s=
moke
a hundred in seven days
and enjoy every one of them. The Trabucos =
suit
me, too; I don't remember
the price. But one has to learn to like the
Virginia, nobody is born
friendly to it. It looks like a rat-tail f=
ile,
but smokes better, some
think. It has a straw through it; you pull
this out, and it leaves a
flue, otherwise there would be no draught,=
not
even as much as there is
to a nail. Some prefer a nail at first.
However, I like all the French,
Swiss, German, and Italian domestic cigars,
and have never cared to
inquire what they are made of; and nobody
would know, anyhow, perhaps.
There is even a brand of European
smoking-tobacco that I like. It is a
brand used by the Italian peasants. It is
loose and dry and black, and
looks like tea-grounds. When the fire is
applied it expands, and climbs
up and towers above the pipe, and presently
tumbles off inside of one's
vest. The tobacco itself is cheap, but it
raises the insurance. It is
as I remarked in the beginning--the taste =
for
tobacco is a matter of
superstition. There are no standards--no r=
eal
standards. Each man's
preference is the only standard for him, t=
he
only one which he can
accept, the only one which can command him=
.
It was Maeterlinck who introduced me to the
bee. I mean, in the
psychical and in the poetical way. I had h=
ad a
business introduction
earlier. It was when I was a boy. It is
strange that I should remember a
formality like that so long; it must be ne=
arly
sixty years.
Bee scientists always speak of the bee as =
she.
It is because all the
important bees are of that sex. In the hive
there is one married bee,
called the queen; she has fifty thousand
children; of these, about one
hundred are sons; the rest are daughters. =
Some
of the daughters are
young maids, some are old maids, and all a=
re
virgins and remain so.
Every spring the queen comes out of the hi=
ve
and flies away with one of
her sons and marries him. The honeymoon la=
sts
only an hour or two; then
the queen divorces her husband and returns
home competent to lay two
million eggs. This will be enough to last =
the
year, but not more than
enough, because hundreds of bees are drown=
ed
every day, and other
hundreds are eaten by birds, and it is the
queen's business to keep the
population up to standard--say, fifty
thousand. She must always have
that many children on hand and efficient
during the busy season, which
is summer, or winter would catch the commu=
nity
short of food. She lays
from two thousand to three thousand eggs a
day, according to the demand;
and she must exercise judgment, and not lay
more than are needed in a
slim flower-harvest, nor fewer than are
required in a prodigal one, or
the board of directors will dethrone her a=
nd
elect a queen that has more
sense.
There are always a few royal heirs in stock
and ready to take her
place--ready and more than anxious to do i=
t,
although she is their own
mother. These girls are kept by themselves,
and are regally fed and
tended from birth. No other bees get such =
fine
food as they get, or
live such a high and luxurious life. By
consequence they are larger and
longer and sleeker than their working sist=
ers.
And they have a curved
sting, shaped like a scimitar, while the
others have a straight one.
A common bee will sting any one or anybody,
but a royalty stings
royalties only. A common bee will sting and
kill another common bee,
for cause, but when it is necessary to kill
the queen other ways are
employed. When a queen has grown old and s=
lack
and does not lay eggs
enough one of her royal daughters is allow=
ed
to come to attack her, the
rest of the bees looking on at the duel and
seeing fair play. It is a
duel with the curved stings. If one of the
fighters gets hard pressed
and gives it up and runs, she is brought b=
ack
and must try again--once,
maybe twice; then, if she runs yet once mo=
re
for her life, judicial
death is her portion; her children pack
themselves into a ball around
her person and hold her in that compact gr=
ip
two or three days, until
she starves to death or is suffocated.
Meantime the victor bee is
receiving royal honors and performing the =
one
royal function--laying
eggs.
As regards the ethics of the judicial
assassination of the queen, that
is a matter of politics, and will be discu=
ssed
later, in its proper
place.
During substantially the whole of her short
life of five or six years
the queen lives in Egyptian darkness and
stately seclusion of the royal
apartments, with none about her but plebei=
an
servants, who give her
empty lip-affection in place of the love w=
hich
her heart hungers for;
who spy upon her in the interest of her
waiting heirs, and report and
exaggerate her defects and deficiencies to
them; who fawn upon her and
flatter her to her face and slander her be=
hind
her back; who grovel
before her in the day of her power and for=
sake
her in her age and
weakness. There she sits, friendless, upon=
her
throne through the long
night of her life, cut off from the consol=
ing
sympathies and sweet
companionship and loving endearments which=
she
craves, by the gilded
barriers of her awful rank; a forlorn exil=
e in
her own house and home,
weary object of formal ceremonies and
machine-made worship, winged child
of the sun, native to the free air and the
blue skies and the flowery
fields, doomed by the splendid accident of=
her
birth to trade this
priceless heritage for a black captivity, a
tinsel grandeur, and a
loveless life, with shame and insult at the
end and a cruel death--and
condemned by the human instinct in her to =
hold
the bargain valuable!
Huber, Lubbock, Maeterlinck--in fact, all =
the
great authorities--are
agreed in denying that the bee is a member=
of
the human family. I do not
know why they have done this, but I think =
it
is from dishonest motives.
Why, the innumerable facts brought to ligh=
t by
their own painstaking
and exhaustive experiments prove that if t=
here
is a master fool in the
world, it is the bee. That seems to settle=
it.
But that is the way of the scientist. He w=
ill
spend thirty years in
building up a mountain range of facts with=
the
intent to prove a
certain theory; then he is so happy in his
achievement that as a rule
he overlooks the main chief fact of all--t=
hat
his accumulation proves an
entirely different thing. When you point o=
ut
this miscarriage to him he
does not answer your letters; when you cal=
l to
convince him, the servant
prevaricates and you do not get in. Scient=
ists
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 n=
ow
and then one of them will
answer your letter, but when they do they
avoid the issue--you cannot
pin them down. When I discovered that the =
bee
was human I wrote about it
to all those scientists whom I have just
mentioned. For evasions, I have
seen nothing to equal the answers I got.
After the queen, the personage next in
importance in the hive is the
virgin. The virgins are fifty thousand or =
one
hundred thousand in
number, and they are the workers, the
laborers. No work is done, in the
hive or out of it, save by them. The males=
do
not work, the queen does
no work, unless laying eggs is work, but it
does not seem so to me.
There are only two million of them, anyway,
and all of five months
to finish the contract in. The distributio=
n of
work in a hive is
as cleverly and elaborately specialized as=
it
is in a vast American
machine-shop or factory. A bee that has be=
en
trained to one of the many
and various industries of the concern does=
n't
know how to exercise any
other, and would be offended if asked to t=
ake
a hand in anything outside
of her profession. She is as human as a co=
ok;
and if you should ask the
cook to wait on the table, you know what w=
ill
happen. Cooks will play
the piano if you like, but they draw the l=
ine
there. In my time I have
asked a cook to chop wood, and I know about
these things. Even the hired
girl has her frontiers; true, they are vag=
ue,
they are ill-defined, even
flexible, but they are there. This is not
conjecture; it is founded on
the absolute. And then the butler. You ask=
the
butler to wash the dog.
It is just as I say; there is much to be
learned in these ways, without
going to books. Books are very well, but b=
ooks
do not cover the whole
domain of esthetic human culture. Pride of
profession is one of the
boniest bones in existence, if not the bon=
iest.
Without doubt it is so
in the hive.
In the early eighties Mark Twain learned to
ride one of the old
high-wheel bicycles of that period. He wro=
te
an account of his
experience, but did not offer it for
publication. The form of bicycle he
rode long ago became antiquated, but in the
humor of his pleasantry is a
quality which does not grow old.
A. B. P.
I thought the matter over, and concluded I
could do it. So I went down
a bought a barrel of Pond's Extract and a
bicycle. The Expert came home
with me to instruct me. We chose the back
yard, for the sake of privacy,
and went to work.
Mine was not a full-grown bicycle, but onl=
y a
colt--a fifty-inch, with
the pedals shortened up to forty-eight--and
skittish, like any other
colt. The Expert explained the thing's poi=
nts
briefly, then he got on
its back and rode around a little, to show=
me
how easy it was to do. He
said that the dismounting was perhaps the
hardest thing to learn, and so
we would leave that to the last. But he wa=
s in
error there. He found, to
his surprise and joy, that all that he nee=
ded
to do was to get me on to
the machine and stand out of the way; I co=
uld
get off, myself. Although
I was wholly inexperienced, I dismounted in
the best time on record. He
was on that side, shoving up the machine; =
we
all came down with a crash,
he at the bottom, I next, and the machine =
on
top.
We examined the machine, but it was not in=
the
least injured. This was
hardly believable. Yet the Expert assured =
me
that it was true; in fact,
the examination proved it. I was partly to
realize, then, how admirably
these things are constructed. We applied s=
ome
Pond's Extract, and
resumed. The Expert got on the OTHER side =
to
shove up this time, but I
dismounted on that side; so the result was=
as
before.
The machine was not hurt. We oiled ourselv=
es
again, and resumed. This
time the Expert took up a sheltered positi=
on
behind, but somehow or
other 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 was
wonderful, while we were greasing up, but =
he
said that when I came to
know these steel spider-webs I would reali=
ze
that nothing but dynamite
could cripple them. Then he limped out to
position, and we resumed once
more. This time the Expert took up the
position of short-stop, and got
a man to shove up behind. We got up a hand=
some
speed, and presently
traversed a brick, and I went out over the=
top
of the tiller and landed,
head down, on the instructor's back, and s=
aw
the machine fluttering in
the air between me and the sun. It was wel=
l it
came down on us, for that
broke the fall, and it was not injured.
Five days later I got out and was carried =
down
to the hospital, and
found the Expert doing pretty fairly. In a=
few
more days I was quite
sound. I attribute this to my prudence in
always dismounting on
something soft. Some recommend a feather b=
ed,
but I think an Expert is
better.
The Expert got out at last, brought four
assistants with him. It was a
good idea. These four held the graceful co=
bweb
upright while I climbed
into the saddle; then they formed in column
and marched on either
side of me while the Expert pushed behind;=
all
hands assisted at the
dismount.
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 w=
as
against nature. That is
to say, that whatever the needed thing mig=
ht
be, my nature, habit, and
breeding moved me to attempt it in one way,
while some immutable and
unsuspected law of physics required that i=
t be
done in just the other
way. I perceived by this how radically and
grotesquely wrong had been
the life-long education of my body and
members. They were steeped in
ignorance; they knew nothing--nothing whic=
h it
could profit them to
know. For instance, if I found myself fall=
ing
to the right, I put the
tiller hard down the other way, by a quite
natural impulse, and so
violated a law, and kept on going down. The
law required the opposite
thing--the big wheel must be turned in the
direction in which you are
falling. It is hard to believe this, when =
you
are told it. And not
merely hard to believe it, but impossible;=
it
is opposed to all your
notions. And it is just as hard to do it,
after you do come to believe
it. Believing it, and knowing by the most
convincing proof that it is
true, does not help it: you can't any more=
DO
it than you could before;
you can neither force nor persuade yoursel=
f to
do it at first. The
intellect has to come to the front, now. It
has to teach the limbs to
discard their old education and adopt the =
new.
The steps of one's progress are distinctly
marked. At the end of each
lesson he knows he has acquired something,=
and
he also knows what that
something is, and likewise that it will st=
ay
with him. It is not like
studying German, where you mull along, in a
groping, uncertain way, for
thirty years; and at last, just as you thi=
nk
you've got it, they spring
the subjunctive on you, and there you are.
No--and I see now, plainly
enough, that the great pity about the Germ=
an
language is, that you can't
fall off it and hurt yourself. There is
nothing like that feature to
make you attend strictly to business. But I
also see, by what I have
learned of bicycling, that the right and o=
nly
sure way to learn German
is by the bicycling method. That is to say,
take a grip on one villainy
of it at a time, leaving that one half
learned.
When you have reached the point in bicycli=
ng
where you can balance the
machine tolerably fairly and propel it and
steer it, then comes your
next task--how to mount it. You do it in t=
his
way: you hop along behind
it on your right foot, resting the other on
the mounting-peg, and
grasping the tiller with your hands. At the
word, you rise on the
peg, stiffen your left leg, hang your other
one around in the air in
a general in indefinite way, lean your sto=
mach
against the rear of the
saddle, and then fall off, maybe on one si=
de,
maybe on the other;
but you fall off. You get up and do it aga=
in;
and once more; and then
several times.
By this time you have learned to keep your
balance; and also to steer
without wrenching the tiller out by the ro=
ots
(I say tiller because it
IS a tiller; "handle-bar" is a
lamely descriptive phrase). So you steer
along, straight ahead, a little while, then
you rise forward, with a
steady strain, bringing your right leg, and
then your body, into the
saddle, catch your breath, fetch a violent
hitch this way and then that,
and down you go again.
But you have ceased to mind the going down=
by
this time; you are getting
to light on one foot or the other with
considerable certainty. Six more
attempts and six more falls make you perfe=
ct.
You land in the saddle
comfortably, next time, and stay there--th=
at
is, if you can be content
to let your legs dangle, and leave the ped=
als
alone a while; but if you
grab at once for the pedals, you are gone
again. You soon learn to wait
a little and perfect your balance before
reaching for the pedals; then
the mounting-art is acquired, is complete,=
and
a little practice will
make it simple and easy to you, though
spectators ought to keep off
a rod or two to one side, along at first, =
if
you have nothing against
them.
And now you come to the voluntary dismount;
you learned the other kind
first of all. It is quite easy to tell one=
how
to do the voluntary
dismount; the words are few, the requireme=
nt
simple, and apparently
undifficult; let your left pedal go down t=
ill
your left leg is nearly
straight, turn your wheel to the left, and=
get
off as you would from a
horse. It certainly does sound exceedingly
easy; but it isn't. I don't
know why it isn't but it isn't. Try as you
may, you don't get down as
you would from a horse, you get down as you
would from a house afire.
You make a spectacle of yourself every tim=
e.
During the eight days I took a daily lesso=
n an
hour and a half. At the
end of this twelve working-hours'
apprenticeship I was graduated--in
the rough. I was pronounced competent to
paddle my own bicycle without
outside help. It seems incredible, this
celerity of acquirement. It
takes considerably longer than that to lea=
rn
horseback-riding in the
rough.
Now it is true that I could have learned
without a teacher, but it
would have been risky for me, because of my
natural clumsiness. The
self-taught man seldom knows anything
accurately, and he does not know
a tenth as much as he could have known if =
he
had worked under teachers;
and, besides, he brags, and is the means of
fooling other thoughtless
people into going and doing as he himself =
has
done. There are those who
imagine that the unlucky accidents of
life--life's "experiences"--are in
some way useful to us. I wish I could find=
out
how. I never knew one of
them to happen twice. They always change o=
ff
and swap around and catch
you on your inexperienced side. If personal
experience can be worth
anything as an education, it wouldn't seem
likely that you could trip
Methuselah; and yet if that old person cou=
ld
come back here it is more
that likely that one of the first things he
would do would be to take
hold of one of these electric wires and tie
himself all up in a knot.
Now the surer thing and the wiser thing wo=
uld
be for him to ask somebody
whether it was a good thing to take hold o=
f.
But that would not suit
him; he would be one of the self-taught ki=
nd
that go by experience;
he would want to examine for himself. And =
he
would find, for his
instruction, that the coiled patriarch shu=
ns
the electric wire; and it
would be useful to him, too, and would lea=
ve
his education in quite a
complete and rounded-out condition, till he
should come again, some day,
and go to bouncing a dynamite-can around to
find out what was in it.
But we wander from the point. However, get=
a
teacher; it saves much time
and Pond's Extract.
Before taking final leave of me, my instru=
ctor
inquired concerning my
physical strength, and I was able to inform
him that I hadn't any. He
said that that was a defect which would ma=
ke
up-hill wheeling pretty
difficult for me at first; but he also said
the bicycle would soon
remove it. The contrast between his muscles
and mine was quite marked.
He wanted to test mine, so I offered my
biceps--which was my best. It
almost made him smile. He said, "It is
pulpy, and soft, and yielding,
and rounded; it evades pressure, and glides
from under the fingers; in
the dark a body might think it was an oyst=
er
in a rag." Perhaps this
made me look grieved, for he added, briskl=
y:
"Oh, that's all right, you
needn't worry about that; in a little while
you can't tell it from a
petrified kidney. Just go right along with
your practice; you're all
right."
Then he left me, and I started out alone to
seek adventures. You don't
really have to seek them--that is nothing =
but
a phrase--they come to
you.
I chose a reposeful Sabbath-day sort of a =
back
street which was about
thirty yards wide between the curbstones. I
knew it was not wide enough;
still, I thought that by keeping strict wa=
tch
and wasting no space
unnecessarily I could crowd through.
Of course I had trouble mounting the machi=
ne,
entirely on my own
responsibility, with no encouraging moral
support from the outside,
no sympathetic instructor to say, "Go=
od!
now you're doing well--good
again--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 was
perched on a gate-post munching a hunk of
maple sugar.
He was full of interest and comment. The f=
irst
time I failed and went
down he said that if he was me he would dr=
ess
up in pillows, that's what
he would do. The next time I went down he
advised me to go and learn
to ride a tricycle first. The third time I
collapsed he said he didn't
believe I could stay on a horse-car. But t=
he
next time I succeeded, and
got clumsily under way in a weaving,
tottering, uncertain fashion, and
occupying pretty much all of the street. My
slow and lumbering gait
filled the boy to the chin with scorn, and=
he
sung out, "My, but don't
he rip along!" Then he got down from =
his
post and loafed along the
sidewalk, still observing and occasionally
commenting. Presently he
dropped into my wake and followed along
behind. A little girl passed
by, balancing a wash-board on her head, and
giggled, and seemed about to
make a remark, but the boy said, rebukingl=
y,
"Let him alone, he's going
to a funeral."
I have been familiar with that street for
years, and had always supposed
it was a dead level; but it was not, as the
bicycle now informed me,
to my surprise. The bicycle, in the hands =
of a
novice, is as alert and
acute as a spirit-level in the detecting t=
he
delicate and vanishing
shades of difference in these matters. It
notices a rise where your
untrained eye would not observe that one
existed; it notices any decline
which water will run down. I was toiling u=
p a
slight rise, but was not
aware of it. It made me tug and pant and
perspire; and still, labor as
I might, the machine came almost to a
standstill every little while. At
such times the boy would say: "That's=
it!
take a rest--there ain't no
hurry. They can't hold the funeral without
YOU."
Stones were a bother to me. Even the small=
est
ones gave me a panic when
I went over them. I could hit any kind of a
stone, no matter how small,
if I tried to miss it; and of course at fi=
rst
I couldn't help trying to
do that. It is but natural. It is part of =
the
ass that is put in us all,
for some inscrutable reason.
It was at the end of my course, at last, a=
nd
it was necessary for me to
round to. This is not a pleasant thing, wh=
en
you undertake it for the
first time on your own responsibility, and
neither is it likely to
succeed. Your confidence oozes away, you f=
ill
steadily up with nameless
apprehensions, every fiber of you is tense
with a watchful strain, you
start a cautious and gradual curve, but yo=
ur
squirmy nerves are all full
of electric anxieties, so the curve is qui=
ckly
demoralized into a jerky
and perilous zigzag; then suddenly the
nickel-clad horse takes the bit
in its mouth and goes slanting for the
curbstone, defying all prayers
and all your powers to change its mind--yo=
ur
heart stands still, your
breath hangs fire, your legs forget to wor=
k,
straight on you go, and
there are but a couple of feet between you=
and
the curb now. And now is
the desperate moment, the last chance to s=
ave
yourself; of course all
your instructions fly out of your head, and
you whirl your wheel AWAY
from the curb instead of TOWARD it, and so=
you
go sprawling on that
granite-bound inhospitable shore. That was=
my
luck; that was my
experience. I dragged myself out from under
the indestructible bicycle
and sat down on the curb to examine.
I started on the return trip. It was now t=
hat
I saw a farmer's wagon
poking along down toward me, loaded with
cabbages. If I needed anything
to perfect the precariousness of my steeri=
ng,
it was just that. The
farmer was occupying the middle of the road
with his wagon, leaving
barely fourteen or fifteen yards of space =
on
either side. I couldn't
shout 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 grisly
emergency, the boy came to the rescue, and=
for
once I had to be grateful
to him. He kept a sharp lookout on the swi=
ftly
varying impulses and
inspirations of my bicycle, and shouted to=
the
man accordingly:
"To the left! Turn to the left, or th=
is
jackass 'll run over you!" The
man started to do it. "No, to the rig=
ht,
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 a
pile. 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 was
coming. Nobody could--now, COULD they? You
couldn't yourself--now, COULD
you? So what could I do?"
There was something in that, and so I had =
the
magnanimity to say so. I
said I was no doubt as much to blame as he
was.
Within the next five days I achieved so mu=
ch
progress that the boy
couldn't keep up with me. He had to go bac=
k to
his gate-post, and
content himself with watching me fall at l=
ong
range.
There was a row of low stepping-stones acr=
oss
one end of the street, a
measured yard apart. Even after I got so I
could steer pretty fairly I
was so afraid of those stones that I always
hit them. They gave me the
worst falls I ever got in that street, exc=
ept
those which I got from
dogs. I have seen it stated that no expert=
is
quick enough to run over a
dog; that a dog is always able to skip out=
of
his way. I think that that
may be true: but I think that the reason he
couldn't run over the dog
was because he was trying to. I did not tr=
y to
run over any dog. But
I ran over every dog that came along. I th=
ink
it makes a great deal of
difference. If you try to run over the dog=
he
knows how to calculate,
but if you are trying to miss him he does =
not
know how to calculate,
and is liable to jump the wrong way every
time. It was always so in my
experience. Even when I could not hit a wa=
gon
I could hit a dog that
came to see me practice. They all liked to=
see
me practice, and they
all came, for there was very little going =
on
in our neighborhood to
entertain a dog. It took time to learn to =
miss
a dog, but I achieved
even that.
I can steer as well as I want to, now, and=
I
will catch that boy one of
these days and run over HIM if he doesn't
reform.
Get a bicycle. You will not regret it, if =
you
live.
(from My Autobiography)
Scattered here and there through the stack=
s of
unpublished manuscript
which constitute this formidable Autobiogr=
aphy
and Diary of mine,
certain chapters will in some distant futu=
re
be found which deal with
"Claimants"--claimants historica=
lly
notorious: Satan, Claimant; the
Golden Calf, Claimant; the Veiled Prophet =
of
Khorassan, Claimant; Louis
XVII., Claimant; William Shakespeare,
Claimant; Arthur Orton, Claimant;
Mary Baker G. Eddy, Claimant--and the rest=
of
them. Eminent Claimants,
successful Claimants, defeated Claimants,
royal Claimants, pleb
Claimants, showy Claimants, shabby Claiman=
ts,
revered Claimants,
despised Claimants, twinkle star-like here=
and
there and yonder through
the mists of history and legend and
tradition--and, oh, all the darling
tribe are clothed in mystery and romance, =
and
we read about them with
deep interest and discuss them with loving
sympathy or with rancorous
resentment, according to which side we hit=
ch
ourselves to. It has always
been so with the human race. There was nev=
er a
Claimant that couldn't
get 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 life
again was as flimsy as Mrs. Eddy's that she
wrote SCIENCE AND HEALTH
from the direct dictation of the Deity; ye=
t in
England nearly forty
years ago Orton had a huge army of devotees
and incorrigible adherents,
many of whom remained stubbornly unconvinc=
ed
after their fat god had
been proven an impostor and jailed as a
perjurer, and today Mrs. Eddy's
following is not only immense, but is daily
augmenting in numbers and
enthusiasm. Orton had many fine and educat=
ed
minds among his adherents,
Mrs. Eddy has had the like among hers from=
the
beginning. Her Church is
as well equipped in those particulars as is
any other Church. Claimants
can always count upon a following, it does=
n't
matter who they are, nor
what they claim, nor whether they come with
documents or without. It was
always so. Down out of the long-vanished p=
ast,
across the abyss of
the ages, if you listen, you can still hear
the believing multitudes
shouting for Perkin Warbeck and Lambert
Simnel.
A friend has sent me a new book, from
England--THE SHAKESPEARE PROBLEM
RESTATED--well restated and closely reason=
ed;
and my fifty years'
interest in that matter--asleep for the la=
st
three years--is excited
once more. It is an interest which was bor=
n of
Delia Bacon's book--away
back in the ancient day--1857, or maybe 18=
56.
About a year later my
pilot-master, Bixby, transferred me from h=
is
own steamboat to the
PENNSYLVANIA, and placed me under the orde=
rs
and instructions of George
Ealer--dead now, these many, many years. I=
steered
for him a good many
months--as was the humble duty of the
pilot-apprentice: stood a daylight
watch and spun the wheel under the severe
superintendence and
correction of the master. He was a prime
chess-player and an idolater of
Shakespeare. He would play chess with anyb=
ody;
even with me, and it cost
his official dignity something to do that.
Also--quite uninvited--he
would read Shakespeare to me; not just
casually, but by the hour, when
it was his watch and I was steering. He re=
ad
well, but not profitably
for me, because he constantly injected
commands into the text. That
broke it all up, mixed it all up, tangled =
it
all up--to that degree,
in fact, that if we were in a risky and
difficult piece of river an
ignorant person couldn't have told, someti=
mes,
which observations were
Shakespeare's and which were Ealer's. For
instance:
What man dare, I dare!
Approach thou WHAT are you laying in the l=
eads
for? what a hell of
an idea! like the rugged ease her off a
little, ease her off! rugged
Russian bear, the armed rhinoceros or the
THERE she goes! meet her, meet
her! 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 the
WOODS the first you know! stop he starboar=
d!
come ahead strong on the
larboard! back the starboard!... NOW then,
you're all right; come ahead
on the starboard; straighten up and go 'lo=
ng,
never tremble: or be alive
again, and dare me to the desert DAMNATION
can't you keep away from that
greasy water? pull her down! snatch her!
snatch her baldheaded! with thy
sword; if trembling I inhabit then, lay in=
the
leads!--no, only with
the starboard one, leave the other alone,
protest me the baby of a girl.
Hence horrible shadow! eight bells--that
watchman's asleep again, I
reckon, go down and call Brown yourself,
unreal mockery, hence!
He certainly was a good reader, and splend=
idly
thrilling and stormy and
tragic, but it was a damage to me, because=
I
have never since been
able to read Shakespeare in a calm and sane
way. I cannot rid it of his
explosive interlardings, they break in
everywhere with their irrelevant,
"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 were
always leaping from his mouth. When I read
Shakespeare now I can hear
them as plainly as I did in that long-depa=
rted
time--fifty-one years
ago. I never regarded Ealer's readings as
educational. Indeed, they were
a detriment to me.
His contributions to the text seldom impro=
ved
it, but barring that
detail he was a good reader; I can say that
much for him. He did not use
the book, and did not need to; he knew his
Shakespeare as well as Euclid
ever knew his multiplication table.
Did he have something to say--this
Shakespeare-adoring Mississippi
pilot--anent Delia Bacon's book?
Yes. And he said it; said it all the time,=
for
months--in the morning
watch, the middle watch, and dog watch; and
probably kept it going
in his sleep. He bought the literature of =
the
dispute as fast as it
appeared, and we discussed it all through
thirteen hundred miles of
river four times traversed in every
thirty-five days--the time required
by that swift boat to achieve two round tr=
ips.
We discussed, and
discussed, and discussed, and disputed and
disputed and disputed; at any
rate, HE did, and I got in a word now and =
then
when he slipped a cog
and there was a vacancy. He did his arguing
with heat, with energy,
with violence; and I did mine with the rev=
erse
and moderation of a
subordinate who does not like to be flung =
out
of a pilot-house and is
perched forty feet above the water. He was
fiercely loyal to Shakespeare
and cordially scornful of Bacon and of all=
the
pretensions of the
Baconians. So was I--at first. And at firs=
t he
was glad that that was
my attitude. There were even indications t=
hat
he admired it; indications
dimmed, it is true, by the distance that l=
ay
between the lofty
boss-pilotical altitude and my lowly one, =
yet
perceptible to me;
perceptible, and translatable into a
compliment--compliment coming down
from about the snow-line and not well thaw=
ed
in the transit, and not
likely to set anything afire, not even a
cub-pilot's self-conceit; still
a detectable complement, and precious.
Naturally it flattered me into being more
loyal to Shakespeare--if
possible--than I was before, and more
prejudiced against Bacon--if
possible--that I was before. And so we
discussed and discussed, both on
the same side, and were happy. For a while.
Only for a while. Only for a
very little while, a very, very, very litt=
le
while. Then the atmosphere
began to change; began to cool off.
A brighter person would have seen what the
trouble was, earlier than I
did, perhaps, but I saw it early enough for
all practical purposes. You
see, he was of an argumentative dispositio=
n.
Therefore it took him but
a little time to get tired of arguing with=
a
person who agreed with
everything he said and consequently never
furnished him a provocative
to flare up and show what he could do when=
it
came to clear, cold, hard,
rose-cut, hundred-faceted, diamond-flashing
REASONING. That was his name
for it. It has been applied since, with
complacency, as many as several
times, in the Bacon-Shakespeare scuffle. On
the Shakespeare side.
Then the thing happened which has happened=
to
more persons than to me
when principle and personal interest found
themselves in opposition to
each other and a choice had to be made: I =
let
principle go, and went
over to the other side. Not the entire way,
but far enough to answer the
requirements of the case. That is to say, I
took this attitude--to wit,
I only BELIEVED Bacon wrote Shakespeare,
whereas I KNEW Shakespeare
didn't. Ealer was satisfied with that, and=
the
war broke loose. Study,
practice, experience in handling my end of=
the
matter presently enabled
me to take my new position almost seriousl=
y; a
little bit later, utterly
seriously; a little later still, lovingly,
gratefully, devotedly;
finally: fiercely, rabidly, uncompromising=
ly.
After that I was welded
to my faith, I was theoretically ready to =
die
for it, and I looked down
with compassion not unmixed with scorn upon
everybody else's faith that
didn't tally with mine. That faith, imposed
upon me by self-interest
in that ancient day, remains my faith toda=
y,
and in it I find comfort,
solace, peace, and never-failing joy. You =
see
how curiously theological
it is. The "rice Christian" of t=
he
Orient goes through the very same
steps, when he is after rice and the
missionary is after HIM; he goes
for 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 by
any name at all. They show for themselves =
what
they are, and we can with
tranquil confidence leave the world to enn=
oble
them with a title of its
own choosing.
Now and then when Ealer had to stop to cou=
gh,
I pulled my
induction-talents together and hove the
controversial lead myself:
always getting eight feet, eight and a hal=
f,
often nine, sometimes even
quarter-less-twain--as I believed; but alw=
ays
"no bottom," as HE said.
I got the best of him only once. I prepared
myself. I wrote out a
passage from Shakespeare--it may have been=
the
very one I quoted
awhile ago, I don't remember--and riddled =
it
with his wild steamboatful
interlardings. When an unrisky opportunity
offered, one lovely summer
day, when we had sounded and buoyed a tang=
led
patch of crossings known
as Hell's Half Acre, and were aboard again=
and
he had sneaked the
PENNSYLVANIA triumphantly through it witho=
ut
once scraping sand, and the
A. T. LACEY had followed in our wake and g=
ot
stuck, and he was feeling
good, I showed it to him. It amused him. I
asked him to fire it
off--READ it; read it, I diplomatically ad=
ded,
as only HE could read
dramatic poetry. The compliment touched him
where he lived. He did read
it; read it with surpassing fire and spiri=
t;
read it as it will never be
read again; for HE know how to put the rig=
ht
music into those thunderous
interlardings and make them seem a part of=
the
text, make them sound as
if they were bursting from Shakespeare's o=
wn
soul, each one of them a
golden inspiration and not to be left out
without damage to the massed
and magnificent whole.
I waited a week, to let the incident fade;=
waited
longer; waited until
he brought up for reasonings and vituperat=
ion
my pet position, my pet
argument, the one which I was fondest of, =
the
one which I prized far
above all others in my ammunition-wagon--to
wit, that Shakespeare
couldn't have written Shakespeare's words,=
for
the reason that the
man who wrote them was limitlessly familiar
with the laws, and the
law-courts, and law-proceedings, and
lawyer-talk, and lawyer-ways--and
if Shakespeare was possessed of the infini=
tely
divided star-dust that
constituted this vast wealth, HOW did he g=
et
it, and WHERE and WHEN?
"From books."
From books! That was always the idea. I
answered as my readings of the
champions of my side of the great controve=
rsy
had taught me to
answer: that a man can't handle glibly and
easily and comfortably and
successfully the argot of a trade at which=
he
has not personally served.
He will make mistakes; he will not, and
cannot, get the trade-phrasings
precisely and exactly right; and the momen=
t he
departs, by even a shade,
from a common trade-form, the reader who h=
as
served that trade will know
the writer HASN'T. Ealer would not be
convinced; he said a man
could learn how to correctly handle the
subtleties and mysteries and
free-masonries of ANY trade by careful rea=
ding
and studying. But when
I got him to read again the passage from
Shakespeare with the
interlardings, he perceived, himself, that
books couldn't teach a
student a bewildering multitude of
pilot-phrases so thoroughly and
perfectly that he could talk them off in b=
ook
and play or conversation
and make no mistake that a pilot would not
immediately discover. It
was a triumph for me. He was silent awhile,
and I knew what was
happening--he was losing his temper. And I
knew he would presently close
the session with the same old argument that
was always his stay and
his support in time of need; the same old
argument, the one I couldn't
answer, because I dasn't--the argument tha=
t I
was an ass, and better
shut up. He delivered it, and I obeyed.
O dear, how long ago it was--how pathetica=
lly
long ago! And here am I,
old, forsaken, forlorn, and alone, arrangi=
ng
to get that argument out of
somebody again.
When a man has a passion for Shakespeare, =
it
goes without saying that
he keeps company with other standard autho=
rs.
Ealer always had several
high-class books in the pilot-house, and he
read the same ones over and
over again, and did not care to change to
newer and fresher ones. He
played well on the flute, and greatly enjo=
yed
hearing himself play. So
did I. He had a notion that a flute would =
keep
its health better if you
took it apart when it was not standing a
watch; and so, when it was not
on duty it took its rest, disjointed, on t=
he
compass-shelf under
the breastboard. When the PENNSYLVANIA ble=
w up
and became a drifting
rack-heap freighted with wounded and dying
poor souls (my young brother
Henry among them), pilot Brown had the wat=
ch
below, and was probably
asleep and never knew what killed him; but
Ealer escaped unhurt. He and
his pilot-house were shot up into the air;
then they fell, and Ealer
sank through the ragged cavern where the
hurricane-deck and the
boiler-deck had been, and landed in a nest=
of
ruins on the main deck,
on top of one of the unexploded boilers, w=
here
he lay prone in a fog of
scald and deadly steam. But not for long. =
He
did not lose his head--long
familiarity with danger had taught him to =
keep
it, in any and all
emergencies. He held his coat-lapels to his
nose with one hand, to keep
out the steam, and scrabbled around with t=
he
other till he found the
joints of his flute, then he took measures=
to
save himself alive, and
was successful. I was not on board. I had =
been
put ashore in New Orleans
by Captain Klinenfelter. The reason--howev=
er,
I have told all about it
in the book called OLD TIMES ON THE
MISSISSIPPI, and it isn't important,
anyway, it is so long ago.
When I was a Sunday-school scholar, someth=
ing
more than sixty years ago,
I became interested in Satan, and wanted to
find out all I could about
him. I began to ask questions, but my
class-teacher, Mr. Barclay, the
stone-mason, was reluctant about answering
them, it seemed to me. I was
anxious to be praised for turning my thoug=
hts
to serious subjects when
there wasn't another boy in the village who
could be hired to do such a
thing. I was greatly interested in the
incident of Eve and the serpent,
and thought Eve's calmness was perfectly
noble. I asked Mr. Barclay if
he had ever heard of another woman who, be=
ing
approached by a serpent,
would not excuse herself and break for the
nearest timber. He did not
answer my question, but rebuked me for
inquiring into matters above my
age and comprehension. I will say for Mr.
Barclay that he was willing to
tell me the facts of Satan's history, but =
he
stopped there: he wouldn't
allow any discussion of them.
In the course of time we exhausted the fac=
ts.
There were only five
or six of them; you could set them all dow=
n on
a visiting-card. I was
disappointed. I had been meditating a
biography, and was grieved to find
that there were no materials. I said as mu=
ch,
with the tears running
down. Mr. Barclay's sympathy and compassion
were aroused, for he was
a most kind and gentle-spirited man, and he
patted me on the head and
cheered me up by saying there was a whole =
vast
ocean of materials! I can
still feel the happy thrill which these
blessed words shot through me.
Then he began to bail out that ocean's ric=
hes
for my encouragement and
joy. Like this: it was
"conjectured"--though not established--that Satan
was originally an angel in Heaven; that he
fell; that he rebelled, and
brought on a war; that he was defeated, and
banished to perdition. Also,
"we have reason to believe" that
later he did so and so; that "we
are warranted in supposing" that at a
subsequent time he traveled
extensively, seeking whom he might devour;
that a couple of centuries
afterward, "as tradition instructs
us," he took up the cruel trade of
tempting people to their ruin, with vast a=
nd
fearful results; that
by and by, "as the probabilities seem=
to
indicate," he may have done
certain things, he might have done certain
other things, he must have
done still other things.
And so on and so on. We set down the five
known facts by themselves on a
piece of paper, and numbered it "page
1"; then on fifteen hundred other
pieces 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
permitted
to thinks," and "we are warrante=
d in
believings," and "might
have beens," and "could have
beens," and "must have beens," and
"unquestionablys," and "wit=
hout
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 n=
ot
let me write the history of
Satan. Why? Because, as he said, he had
suspicions--suspicions that
my attitude in the matter was not reverent,
and that a person must be
reverent when writing about the sacred
characters. He said any one who
spoke flippantly of Satan would be frowned
upon by the religious world
and also be brought to account.
I assured him, in earnest and sincere word=
s,
that he had wholly
misconceived my attitude; that I had the
highest respect for Satan, and
that my reverence for him equaled, and
possibly even exceeded, that of
any member of the church. I said it wounde=
d me
deeply to perceive by his
words that he thought I would make fun of
Satan, and deride him, laugh
at him, scoff at him; whereas in truth I h=
ad
never thought of such a
thing, but had only a warm desire to make =
fun
of those others and
laugh at THEM. "What others?"
"Why, the Supposers, the Perhapsers, the
Might-Have-Beeners, the Could-Have-Beeners,
the Must-Have-Beeners, the
Without-a-Shadow-of-Doubters, the
We-Are-Warranted-in-Believingers, and
all that funny crop of solemn architects w=
ho
have taken a good solid
foundation of five indisputable and
unimportant facts and built upon it
a Conjectural Satan thirty miles high.&quo=
t;
What did Mr. Barclay do then? Was he disar=
med?
Was he silenced? No. He
was shocked. He was so shocked that he vis=
ibly
shuddered. He said the
Satanic Traditioners and Perhapsers and
Conjecturers were THEMSELVES
sacred! As sacred as their work. So sacred
that whoso ventured to
mock them or make fun of their work, could=
not
afterward enter any
respectable house, even by the back door.<= o:p>
How true were his words, and how wise! How
fortunate it would have been
for me if I had heeded them. But I was you=
ng,
I was but seven years of
age, and vain, foolish, and anxious to att=
ract
attention. I wrote the
biography, and have never been in a
respectable house since.
How curious and interesting is the
parallel--as far as poverty of
biographical details is concerned--between
Satan and Shakespeare. It
is wonderful, it is unique, it stands quite
alone, there is nothing
resembling it in history, nothing resembli=
ng
it in romance, nothing
approaching it even in tradition. How subl=
ime
is their position, and how
over-topping, how sky-reaching, how
supreme--the two Great Unknowns,
the two Illustrious Conjecturabilities! Th=
ey
are the best-known unknown
persons that have ever drawn breath upon t=
he
planet.
For the instruction of the ignorant I will
make a list, now, of those
details 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, could
not sign their names.
At Stratford, a small back settlement whic=
h in
that day was shabby and
unclean, and densely illiterate. Of the
nineteen important men charged
with the government of the town, thirteen =
had
to "make their mark" in
attesting important documents, because they
could not write their names.
Of the first eighteen years of his life
NOTHING is known. They are a
blank.
On the 27th of November (1582) William
Shakespeare took out a license to
marry 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 a
reluctantly granted dispensation there was=
but
one publication of the
banns.
Within six months the first child was born=
.
About two (blank) years followed, during w=
hich
period NOTHING AT ALL
HAPPENED 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 family
behind.
Five blank years follow. During this period
NOTHING HAPPENED TO HIM, as
far 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 quee=
n. A
detail of no consequence:
other obscurities did it every year of the
forty-five of her reign. And
remained obscure.
Three pretty full years follow. Full of
play-acting. Then
In 1597 he bought New Place, Stratford.
Thirteen or fourteen busy years follow; ye=
ars
in which he accumulated
money, and also reputation as actor and
manager.
Meantime his name, liberally and variously
spelt, had become associated
with a number of great plays and poems, as
(ostensibly) author of the
same.
Some of these, in these years and later, w=
ere
pirated, but he made no
protest.
Then--1610-11--he returned to Stratford and
settled down for good and
all, and busied himself in lending money,
trading in tithes, trading in
land and houses; shirking a debt of forty-=
one
shillings, borrowed by
his wife during his long desertion of his
family; suing debtors for
shillings and coppers; being sued himself =
for
shillings and coppers;
and acting as confederate to a neighbor who
tried to rob the town of its
rights in a certain common, and did not
succeed.
He lived five or six years--till 1616--in =
the
joy of these elevated
pursuits. Then he made a will, and signed =
each
of its three pages with
his name.
A thoroughgoing business man's will. It na=
med
in minute detail
every item of property he owned in the
world--houses, lands, sword,
silver-gilt bowl, and so on--all the way d=
own
to his "second-best bed"
and its furniture.
It carefully and calculatingly distributed=
his
riches among the members
of his family, overlooking no individual of
it. Not even his wife:
the wife he had been enabled to marry in a
hurry by urgent grace of a
special dispensation before he was ninetee=
n;
the wife whom he had left
husbandless so many years; the wife who had
had to borrow forty-one
shillings in her need, and which the lender
was never able to collect of
the prosperous husband, but died at last w=
ith
the money still lacking.
No, even this wife was remembered in
Shakespeare's will.
He left her that "second-best bed.&qu=
ot;
And NOT ANOTHER THING; not even a penny to
bless her lucky widowhood
with.
It was eminently and conspicuously a busin=
ess
man's will, not a poet's.
It mentioned NOT A SINGLE BOOK.
Books were much more precious than swords =
and
silver-gilt bowls and
second-best beds in those days, and when a
departing person owned one he
gave it a high place in his will.
The will mentioned NOT A PLAY, NOT A POEM,=
NOT
AN UNFINISHED LITERARY
WORK, NOT A SCRAP OF MANUSCRIPT OF ANY KIN=
D.
Many poets have died poor, but this is the
only one in history that
has died THIS poor; the others all left
literary remains behind. Also a
book. Maybe two.
If Shakespeare had owned a dog--but we not=
go
into that: we know he
would have mentioned it in his will. If a =
good
dog, Susanna would have
got it; if an inferior one his wife would =
have
got a downer interest in
it. I wish he had had a dog, just so we co=
uld
see how painstakingly he
would have divided that dog among the fami=
ly,
in his careful business
way.
He signed the will in three places.
In earlier years he signed two other offic=
ial
documents.
These five signatures still exist.
There are NO OTHER SPECIMENS OF HIS PENMAN=
SHIP
IN EXISTENCE. Not a line.
Was he prejudiced against the art? His
granddaughter, whom he loved, was
eight years old when he died, yet she had =
had
no teaching, he left no
provision for her education, although he w=
as
rich, and in her mature
womanhood she couldn't write and couldn't =
tell
her husband's manuscript
from anybody else's--she thought it was
Shakespeare's.
When Shakespeare died in Stratford, IT WAS=
NOT
AN EVENT. It made no
more stir in England than the death of any
other forgotten theater-actor
would have made. Nobody came down from Lon=
don;
there were no lamenting
poems, no eulogies, no national tears--the=
re
was merely silence, and
nothing more. A striking contrast with what
happened when Ben Jonson,
and Francis Bacon, and Spenser, and Raleig=
h,
and the other distinguished
literary folk of Shakespeare's time passed
from life! No praiseful voice
was lifted for the lost Bard of Avon; even=
Ben
Jonson waited seven years
before he lifted his.
SO FAR AS ANYBODY ACTUALLY KNOWS AND CAN
PROVE, Shakespeare of
Stratford-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 wrote
only one poem during his life. This one is
authentic. He did write that
one--a fact which stands undisputed; he wr=
ote
the whole of it; he wrote
the whole of it out of his own head. He
commanded that this work of art
be engraved upon his tomb, and he was obey=
ed.
There it abides to this
day. This is it:
Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To dig=
g 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 fact
of Shakespeare's life, lean and meager as =
the
invoice is. Beyond these
details 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 Tower
of artificialities rising sky-high from a =
very
flat and very thin
foundation of inconsequential facts.
The historians "suppose" that
Shakespeare attended the Free School in
Stratford 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 g=
ot
his Latin in that school--the school
which they "suppose" he attended=
.
They "suppose" his father's
declining fortunes made it necessary for him
to leave the school they supposed he atten=
ded,
and get to work and help
support his parents and their ten children.
But there is no evidence
that he ever entered or returned from the
school they suppose he
attended.
They "suppose" he assisted his
father in the butchering business; and
that, being only a boy, he didn't have to =
do
full-grown butchering, but
only slaughtering calves. Also, that whene=
ver
he killed a calf he made a
high-flown speech over it. This supposition
rests upon the testimony
of a man who wasn't there at the time; a m=
an
who got it from a man
who could have been there, but did not say
whether he was nor not; and
neither of them thought to mention it for
decades, and decades, and
decades, and two more decades after
Shakespeare's death (until old age
and mental decay had refreshed and vivified
their memories). They hadn't
two facts in stock about the long-dead
distinguished citizen, but only
just the one: he slaughtered calves and br=
oke
into oratory while he was
at it. Curious. They had only one fact, yet
the distinguished citizen
had spent twenty-six years in that little
town--just half his lifetime.
However, rightly viewed, it was the most
important fact, indeed almost
the only important fact, of Shakespeare's =
life
in Stratford. Rightly
viewed. For experience is an author's most
valuable asset; experience
is the thing that puts the muscle and the
breath and the warm blood into
the book he writes. Rightly viewed,
calf-butchering accounts for "Titus
Andronicus," the only play--ain't
it?--that the Stratford Shakespeare
ever wrote; and yet it is the only one eve=
rybody
tried to chouse him out
of, the Baconians included.
The historians find themselves "justi=
fied
in believing" that the young
Shakespeare poached upon Sir Thomas Lucy's
deer preserves and got haled
before that magistrate for it. But there i=
s no
shred of respectworthy
evidence that anything of the kind happene=
d.
The historians, having argued the thing th=
at
MIGHT have happened into
the thing that DID happen, found no troubl=
e in
turning Sir Thomas Lucy
into Mr. Justice Shallow. They have long a=
go
convinced the world--on
surmise and without trustworthy evidence--=
that
Shallow IS Sir Thomas.
The next addition to the young Shakespeare=
's
Stratford history comes
easy. The historian builds it out of the
surmised deer-steeling, and
the surmised trial before the magistrate, =
and
the surmised
vengeance-prompted satire upon the magistr=
ate
in the play: result, the
young Shakespeare was a wild, wild, wild, =
oh,
SUCH a wild young scamp,
and that gratuitous slander is established=
for
all time! It is the very
way Professor Osborn and I built the colos=
sal
skeleton brontosaur
that stands fifty-seven feet long and sixt=
een
feet high in the Natural
History Museum, the awe and admiration of =
all
the world, the stateliest
skeleton that exists on the planet. We had
nine bones, and we built the
rest of him out of plaster of Paris. We ran
short of plaster of Paris,
or we'd have built a brontosaur that could=
sit
down beside the Stratford
Shakespeare and none but an expert could t=
ell
which was biggest or
contained the most plaster.
Shakespeare pronounced "Venus and
Adonis" "the first heir of his
invention," apparently implying that =
it
was his first effort at literary
composition. He should not have said it. It
has been an embarrassment to
his historians these many, many years. They
have to make him write that
graceful and polished and flawless and
beautiful poem before he escaped
from Stratford and his family--1586 or
'87--age, twenty-two, or along
there; because within the next five years =
he
wrote five great plays, and
could not have found time to write another
line.
It is sorely embarrassing. If he began to
slaughter calves, and poach
deer, and rollick around, and learn Englis=
h,
at the earliest likely
moment--say at thirteen, when he was
supposably wretched from that
school where he was supposably storing up
Latin for future literary
use--he had his youthful hands full, and m=
uch
more than full. He must
have had to put aside his Warwickshire
dialect, which wouldn't be
understood in London, and study English ve=
ry
hard. Very hard indeed;
incredibly hard, almost, if the result of =
that
labor was to be the
smooth and rounded and flexible and
letter-perfect English of the "Venus
and Adonis" in the space of ten years;
and at the same time learn great
and fine and unsurpassable literary FORM.<= o:p>
However, it is "conjectured" tha=
t he
accomplished all this and more,
much more: learned law and its intricacies;
and the complex procedure of
the law-courts; and all about soldiering, =
and
sailoring, and the manners
and customs and ways of royal courts and
aristocratic society; and
likewise accumulated in his one head every
kind of knowledge the learned
then possessed, and every kind of humble
knowledge possessed by the
lowly and the ignorant; and added thereto a
wider and more intimate
knowledge of the world's great literatures,
ancient and modern, than
was possessed by any other man of his
time--for he was going to make
brilliant and easy and admiration-compelli=
ng
use of these splendid
treasures the moment he got to London. And
according to the surmisers,
that is what he did. Yes, although there w=
as
no one in Stratford able to
teach him these things, and no library in =
the
little village to dig them
out of. His father could not read, and even
the surmisers surmise that
he did not keep a library.
It is surmised by the biographers that the
young Shakespeare got his
vast knowledge of the law and his familiar=
and
accurate acquaintance
with the manners and customs and shop-talk=
of
lawyers through being for
a time the CLERK OF A STRATFORD COURT; jus=
t as
a bright lad like me,
reared in a village on the banks of the
Mississippi, might become
perfect in knowledge of the Bering Strait
whale-fishery and the
shop-talk of the veteran exercises of that
adventure-bristling trade
through catching catfish with a
"trot-line" Sundays. But the surmise
is damaged by the fact that there is no
evidence--and not even
tradition--that the young Shakespeare was =
ever
clerk of a law-court.
It is further surmised that the young
Shakespeare accumulated his
law-treasures in the first years of his so=
journ
in London, through
"amusing himself" by learning
book-law in his garret and by picking up
lawyer-talk and the rest of it through
loitering about the law-courts
and listening. But it is only surmise; the=
re
is no EVIDENCE that he
ever did either of those things. They are
merely a couple of chunks of
plaster of Paris.
There is a legend that he got his bread and
butter by holding horses in
front of the London theaters, mornings and
afternoons. Maybe he did.
If he did, it seriously shortened his law-=
study
hours and his
recreation-time in the courts. In those ve=
ry
days he was writing great
plays, and needed all the time he could ge=
t.
The horse-holding legend
ought to be strangled; it too formidably
increases the historian's
difficulty in accounting for the young Shakespeare's
erudition--an
erudition which he was acquiring, hunk by hunk and chu=
nk
by chunk, every day in those strenuous times, and emptying each day's catch
into next
day's imperishable drama.
He had to acquire a knowledge of war at the
same time; and a knowledge
of soldier-people and sailor-people and th=
eir
ways and talk; also a
knowledge of some foreign lands and their
languages: for he was daily
emptying fluent streams of these various
knowledges, too, into his
dramas. How did he acquire these rich asse=
ts?
In the usual way: by surmise. It is SURMIS=
ED
that he traveled in Italy
and Germany and around, and qualified hims=
elf
to put their scenic and
social aspects upon paper; that he perfect=
ed
himself in French, Italian,
and Spanish on the road; that he went in
Leicester's expedition to the
Low Countries, as soldier or sutler or
something, for several months or
years--or whatever length of time a surmis=
er
needs in his business--and
thus became familiar with soldiership and
soldier-ways and soldier-talk
and generalship and general-ways and
general-talk, and seamanship and
sailor-ways and sailor-talk.
Maybe he did all these things, but I would
like to know who held the
horses in the mean time; and who studied t=
he
books in the garret;
and who frolicked in the law-courts for
recreation. Also, who did the
call-boying and the play-acting.
For he became a call-boy; and as early as =
'93
he became a
"vagabond"--the law's ungentle t=
erm
for an unlisted actor; and in '94
a "regular" and properly and
officially listed member of that (in those
days) lightly valued and not much respected
profession.
Right soon thereafter he became a stockhol=
der
in two theaters, and
manager of them. Thenceforward he was a bu=
sy
and flourishing business
man, and was raking in money with both han=
ds
for twenty years. Then in a
noble 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. Sti=
ll,
this is only conjecture.
We have only circumstantial evidence. Inte=
rnal
evidence.
Shall I set down the rest of the Conjectur=
es
which constitute the
giant Biography of William Shakespeare? It
would strain the Unabridged
Dictionary to hold them. He is a brontosau=
r:
nine bones and six hundred
barrels of plaster of Paris.
In the Assuming trade three separate and
independent cults are ransacting business. Two of these cults are known as =
the
Shakespearites
and the Baconians, and I am the other one-=
-the
Brontosaurian.
The Shakespearite knows that Shakespeare w=
rote
Shakespeare's Works; the
Baconian knows that Francis Bacon wrote th=
em;
the Brontosaurian
doesn't really know which of them did it, =
but
is quite composedly and
contentedly sure that Shakespeare DIDN'T, =
and
strongly suspects that
Bacon DID. We all have to do a good deal of
assuming, but I am fairly
certain that in every case I can call to m=
ind
the Baconian assumers
have come out ahead of the Shakespearites.
Both parties handle the same
materials, but the Baconians seem to me to=
get
much more reasonable and
rational and persuasive results out of them
than is the case with the
Shakespearites. The Shakespearite conducts=
his
assuming upon a definite
principle, an unchanging and immutable law:
which is: 2 and 8 and 7 and
14, added together, make 165. I believe th=
is
to be an error. No matter,
you cannot get a habit-sodden Shakespearit=
e to
cipher-up his materials
upon any other basis. With the Baconian it=
is
different. If you place
before him the above figures and set him to
adding them up, he will
never in any case get more than 45 out of
them, and in nine cases out of
ten he will get just the proper 31.
Let me try to illustrate the two systems i=
n a
simple and homely way
calculated to bring the idea within the gr=
asp
of the ignorant and
unintelligent. We will suppose a case: tak=
e a
lap-bred, house-fed,
uneducated, inexperienced kitten; take a
rugged old Tom that's scarred
from stem to rudder-post with the memorial=
s of
strenuous experience, and
is so cultured, so educated, so limitlessly
erudite that one may say of
him "all cat-knowledge is his
province"; also, take a mouse. Lock the
three up in a holeless, crackless, exitless
prison-cell. Wait half an
hour, then open the cell, introduce a
Shakespearite and a Baconian, and
let them cipher and assume. The mouse is
missing: the question to be
decided is, where is it? You can guess both
verdicts beforehand. One
verdict will say the kitten contains the
mouse; the other will as
certainly say the mouse is in the tom-cat.=
The Shakespearite will Reason like this--(=
that
is not my word, it is
his). He will say the kitten MAY HAVE BEEN
attending school when nobody
was noticing; therefore WE ARE WARRANTED IN
ASSUMING that it did so;
also, it COULD HAVE BEEN training in a
court-clerk's office when no
one was noticing; since that could have
happened, WE ARE JUSTIFIED IN
ASSUMING that it did happen; it COULD HAVE
STUDIED CATOLOGY IN A GARRET
when no one was noticing--therefore it DID=
; it
COULD HAVE attended
cat-assizes on the shed-roof nights, for
recreation, when no one was
noticing, and have harvested a knowledge of
cat court-forms and cat
lawyer-talk in that way: it COULD have done
it, therefore without a
doubt it DID; it COULD HAVE gone soldiering
with a war-tribe when no one
was noticing, and learned soldier-wiles and
soldier-ways, and what to do
with a mouse when opportunity offers; the
plain inference, therefore,
is that that is what it DID. Since all the=
se
manifold things COULD have
occurred, we have EVERY RIGHT TO BELIEVE t=
hey
did occur. These patiently
and painstakingly accumulated vast
acquirements and competences needed
but one thing more--opportunity--to convert
themselves into triumphal
action. The opportunity came, we have the
result; BEYOND SHADOW OF
QUESTION the mouse is in the kitten.
It is proper to remark that when we of the
three cults plant a "WE THINK
WE MAY ASSUME," we expect it, under
careful watering and fertilizing and
tending, to grow up into a strong and hardy
and weather-defying "THERE
ISN'T A SHADOW OF A DOUBT" at last--a=
nd
it usually happens.
We know what the Baconian's verdict would be: "TH=
ERE
IS NOT A RAG
OF EVIDENCE THAT THE KITTEN HAS HAD ANY TRAINING, ANY
EDUCATION, ANY EXPERIENCE QUALIFYING IT FOR THE PRESENT OCCASION, OR IS IND=
EED
EQUIPPED FOR ANY ACHIEVEMENT ABOVE LIFTING SUCH UNCLAIMED MILK AS COMES ITS
WAY;
BUT THERE IS ABUNDANT EVIDENCE--UNASSAILABLE PROOF, IN
FACT--THAT THE OTHER ANIMAL IS EQUIPPED, TO THE LAST DETAIL, WITH EVERY
QUALIFICATION NECESSARY FOR THE EVENT. WITHOUT SHADOW OF DOUBT THE TOM-CAT
CONTAINS THE MOUSE."
When Shakespeare died, in 1616, great lite=
rary
productions attributed
to him as author had been before the London
world and in high favor for
twenty-four years. Yet his death was not an
event. It made no stir, it
attracted no attention. Apparently his emi=
nent
literary contemporaries
did not realize that a celebrated poet had
passed from their midst.
Perhaps they knew a play-actor of minor ra=
nk
had disappeared, but
did not regard him as the author of his Wo=
rks.
"We are justified in
assuming" this.
His death was not even an event in the lit=
tle
town of Stratford. Does
this mean that in Stratford he was not reg=
arded
as a celebrity of ANY
kind?
"We are privileged to assume"--n=
o,
we are indeed OBLIGED to assume--that
such was the case. He had spent the first
twenty-two or twenty-three
years of his life there, and of course knew
everybody and was known by
everybody of that day in the town, includi=
ng
the dogs and the cats and
the horses. He had spent the last five or =
six
years of his life there,
diligently trading in every big and little
thing that had money in it;
so we are compelled to assume that many of=
the
folk there in those said
latter days knew him personally, and the r=
est
by sight and hearsay.
But not as a CELEBRITY? Apparently not. For
everybody soon forgot to
remember any contact with him or any incid=
ent
connected with him. The
dozens of townspeople, still alive, who had
known of him or known
about him in the first twenty-three years =
of
his life were in the same
unremembering condition: if they knew of a=
ny
incident connected with
that period of his life they didn't tell a=
bout
it. Would the if they had
been asked? It is most likely. Were they
asked? It is pretty apparent
that they were not. Why weren't they? It i=
s a
very plausible guess that
nobody there or elsewhere was interested to
know.
For seven years after Shakespeare's death
nobody seems to have been
interested in him. Then the quarto was
published, and Ben Jonson awoke
out of his long indifference and sang a so=
ng
of praise and put it in the
front of the book. Then silence fell AGAIN=
.
For sixty years. Then inquiries into
Shakespeare's Stratford life began
to be made, of Stratfordians. Of Stratford=
ians
who had known Shakespeare
or had seen him? No. Then of Stratfordians=
who
had seen people who
had known or seen people who had seen
Shakespeare? No. Apparently the
inquires were only made of Stratfordians w=
ho
were not Stratfordians of
Shakespeare's day, but later comers; and w=
hat
they had learned had come
to them from persons who had not seen
Shakespeare; and what they had
learned was not claimed as FACT, but only =
as
legend--dim and fading and
indefinite legend; legend of the
calf-slaughtering rank, and not worth
remembering either as history or fiction.<= o:p>
Has it ever happened before--or since--tha=
t a
celebrated person who had
spent exactly half of a fairly long life in
the village where he was
born and reared, was able to slip out of t=
his
world and leave that
village voiceless and gossipless behind
him--utterly voiceless., utterly
gossipless? And permanently so? I don't
believe it has happened in any
case except Shakespeare's. And couldn't and
wouldn't have happened
in his case if he had been regarded as a
celebrity at the time of his
death.
When I examine my own case--but let us do
that, and see if it will not
be recognizable as exhibiting a condition =
of
things quite likely to
result, most likely to result, indeed
substantially SURE to result in
the case of a celebrated person, a benefac=
tor
of the human race. Like
me.
My parents brought me to the village of
Hannibal, Missouri, on the
banks of the Mississippi, when I was two a=
nd a
half years old. I entered
school at five years of age, and drifted f=
rom
one school to another in
the village during nine and a half years. =
Then
my father died, leaving
his family in exceedingly straitened
circumstances; wherefore my
book-education came to a standstill foreve=
r,
and I became a printer's
apprentice, on board and clothes, and when=
the
clothes failed I got a
hymn-book in place of them. This for summer
wear, probably. I lived in
Hannibal fifteen and a half years, altoget=
her,
then ran away, according
to the custom of persons who are intending=
to
become celebrated. I
never lived there afterward. Four years la=
ter
I became a "cub" on a
Mississippi steamboat in the St. Louis and=
New
Orleans trade, and
after a year and a half of hard study and =
hard
work the U.S. inspectors
rigorously examined me through a couple of
long sittings and decided
that I knew every inch of the
Mississippi--thirteen hundred miles--in
the dark and in the day--as well as a baby
knows the way to its mother's
paps day or night. So they licensed me as a
pilot--knighted me, so to
speak--and I rose up clothed with authorit=
y, a
responsible servant of
the United States Government.
Now then. Shakespeare died young--he was o=
nly
fifty-two. He had lived in
his native village twenty-six years, or ab=
out
that. He died celebrated
(if you believe everything you read in the
books). Yet when he died
nobody there or elsewhere took any notice =
of
it; and for sixty years
afterward no townsman remembered to say
anything about him or about
his life in Stratford. When the inquirer c=
ame
at last he got but one
fact--no, LEGEND--and got that one at seco=
nd
hand, from a person who
had only heard it as a rumor and didn't cl=
aim
copyright in it as a
production of his own. He couldn't, very w=
ell,
for its date antedated
his own birth-date. But necessarily a numb=
er
of persons were still
alive in Stratford who, in the days of the=
ir
youth, had seen Shakespeare
nearly every day in the last five years of=
his
life, and they would have
been able to tell that inquirer some
first-hand things about him if
he had in those last days been a celebrity=
and
therefore a person of
interest to the villagers. Why did not the
inquirer hunt them up and
interview them? Wasn't it worth while? Was=
n't
the matter of sufficient
consequence? Had the inquirer an engagemen=
t to
see a dog-fight and
couldn't spare the time?
It all seems to mean that he never had any
literary celebrity, there or
elsewhere, and no considerable repute as a=
ctor
and manager.
Now then, I am away along in life--my
seventy-third year being already
well behind me--yet SIXTEEN of my Hannibal
schoolmates are still
alive today, and can tell--and do
tell--inquirers dozens and dozens of
incidents of their young lives and mine
together; things that happened
to us in the morning of life, in the bloss=
om
of our youth, in the good
days, the dear days, "the days when we
went gipsying, a long time ago."
Most of them creditable to me, too. One ch=
ild
to whom I paid court when
she was five years old and I eight still l=
ives
in Hannibal, and she
visited me last summer, traversing the
necessary ten or twelve hundred
miles of railroad without damage to her
patience or to her old-young
vigor. Another little lassie to whom I paid
attention in Hannibal when
she was nine years old and I the same, is
still alive--in
London--and hale and hearty, just as I am.=
And
on the few surviving
steamboats--those lingering ghosts and
remembrancers of great fleets
that plied the big river in the beginning =
of
my water-career--which
is exactly as long ago as the whole invoic=
e of
the life-years of
Shakespeare numbers--there are still finda=
ble
two or three river-pilots
who saw me do creditable things in those
ancient days; and several
white-headed engineers; and several
roustabouts and mates; and several
deck-hands who used to heave the lead for =
me and
send up on the
still night the "Six--feet--SCANT!&qu=
ot;
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 lif=
ted
me to heaven for joy. (1) They know
about me, and can tell. And so do printers,
from St. Louis to New York;
and so do newspaper reporters, from Nevada=
to
San Francisco. And so
do the police. If Shakespeare had really b=
een
celebrated, like me,
Stratford could have told things about him;
and if my experience goes
for anything, they'd have done it.
1. Four fathoms--twenty-four feet.
If I had under my superintendence a
controversy appointed to decide
whether Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare or n=
ot,
I believe I would place
before the debaters only the one question,=
WAS
SHAKESPEARE EVER A
PRACTICING LAWYER? and leave everything el=
se
out.
It is maintained that the man who wrote the
plays was not merely
myriad-minded, but also myriad-accomplishe=
d:
that he not only knew some
thousands of things about human life in all
its shades and grades, and
about the hundred arts and trades and craf=
ts
and professions which
men busy themselves in, but that he could =
TALK
about the men and their
grades and trades accurately, making no
mistakes. Maybe it is so, but
have the experts spoken, or is it only Tom,
Dick, and Harry? Does the
exhibit stand upon wide, and loose, and
eloquent generalizing--which is
not evidence, and not proof--or upon detai=
ls,
particulars, statistics,
illustrations, demonstrations?
Experts of unchallengeable authority have
testified definitely as to
only one of Shakespeare's multifarious
craft-equipments, so far as
my recollections of Shakespeare-Bacon talk
abide with me--his
law-equipment. I do not remember that
Wellington or Napoleon ever
examined Shakespeare's battles and sieges =
and
strategies, and then
decided and established for good and all t=
hat
they were militarily
flawless; I do not remember that any Nelso=
n,
or Drake, or Cook ever
examined his seamanship and said it showed
profound and accurate
familiarity with that art; I don't remember
that any king or prince
or duke has ever testified that Shakespeare
was letter-perfect in
his handling of royal court-manners and the
talk and manners of
aristocracies; I don't remember that any
illustrious Latinist or Grecian
or Frenchman or Spaniard or Italian has
proclaimed him a past-master in
those languages; I don't remember--well, I
don't remember that there
is TESTIMONY--great testimony--imposing
testimony--unanswerable and
unattackable testimony as to any of Shakes=
peare's
hundred specialties,
except one--the law.
Other things change, with time, and the
student cannot trace back
with certainty the changes that various tr=
ades
and their processes and
technicalities have undergone in the long
stretch of a century or two
and find out what their processes and
technicalities were in those early
days, but with the law it is different: it=
is
mile-stoned and documented
all the way back, and the master of that
wonderful trade, that complex
and intricate trade, that awe-compelling
trade, has competent ways of
knowing whether Shakespeare-law is good la=
w or
not; and whether his
law-court procedure is correct or not, and
whether his legal shop-talk
is the shop-talk of a veteran practitioner=
or
only a machine-made
counterfeit of it gathered from books and =
from
occasional loiterings in
Westminster.
Richard H. Dana served two years before the
mast, and had every
experience that falls to the lot of the sa=
ilor
before the mast of our
day. His sailor-talk flows from his pen wi=
th
the sure touch and the ease
and confidence of a person who has LIVED w=
hat
he is talking about, not
gathered it from books and random listenin=
gs.
Hear him:
Having hove short, cast off the gaskets, a=
nd
made the bunt of each
sail fast by the jigger, with a man on each
yard, at the word the whole
canvas of the ship was loosed, and with the
greatest rapidity possible
everything was sheeted home and hoisted up,
the anchor tripped and
cat-headed, and the ship under headway.
Again:
The royal yards were all crossed at once, =
and
royals and sky-sails
set, and, as we had the wind free, the boo=
ms
were run out, and all were
aloft, active as cats, laying out on the y=
ards
and booms, reeving the
studding-sail gear; and sail after sail the
captain piled upon her,
until she was covered with canvas, her sai=
ls
looking like a great white
cloud resting upon a black speck.
Once more. A race in the Pacific:
Our antagonist was in her best trim. Being
clear of the point, the
breeze became stiff, and the royal-masts b=
ent
under our sails, but we
would not take them in until we saw three =
boys
spring into the rigging
of the CALIFORNIA; then they were all furl=
ed
at once, but with orders
to our boys to stay aloft at the top-galla=
nt
mast-heads and loose them
again at the word. It was my duty to furl =
the
fore-royal; and while
standing by to loose it again, I had a fine
view of the scene. From
where I stood, the two vessels seemed noth=
ing
but spars and sails, while
their narrow decks, far below, slanting ov=
er
by the force of the wind
aloft, appeared hardly capable of supporti=
ng
the great fabrics
raised upon them. The CALIFORNIA was to
windward of us, and had every
advantage; yet, while the breeze was stiff=
we
held our own. As soon as
it began to slacken she ranged a little ah=
ead,
and the order was given
to loose the royals. In an instant the gas=
kets
were off and the bunt
dropped. "Sheet home the
fore-royal!"--"Weather sheet's home!"--"Lee
sheet's home!"--"Hoist away,
sir!" is bawled from aloft. "Overhaul your
clew-lines!" shouts the mate.
"Aye-aye, sir, all clear!"--"Taut leech!
belay! Well the lee brace; haul taut to
windward!" and the royals are
set.
What would the captain of any sailing-vess=
el
of our time say to that?
He would say, "The man that wrote that
didn't learn his trade out of a
book, he has BEEN there!" But would t=
his
same captain be competent to
sit in judgment upon Shakespeare's
seamanship--considering the changes
in ships and ship-talk that have necessari=
ly
taken place, unrecorded,
unremembered, and lost to history in the l=
ast
three hundred years? It
is 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 run
ourselves to ground; bestir, bestir! (ENTER
MARINERS.)
BOATSWAIN. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, chee=
rly,
my hearts! yare, yare!
Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's
whistle.... Down with the
topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to =
try
wi' the main course....
Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two course=
s.
Off to sea again; lay her
off.
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 characters
say, "Here, devil, empty the quoins i=
nto
the standing galley and the
imposing-stone into the hell-box; assemble=
the
comps around the frisket
and let them jeff for takes and be quick a=
bout
it," I should recognize a
mistake or two in the phrasing, and would =
know
that the writer was only
a printer theoretically, not practically.<= o:p>
I have been a quartz miner in the silver
regions--a pretty hard life; I
know all the palaver of that business: I k=
now
all about discovery
claims and the subordinate claims; I know =
all
about lodes, ledges,
outcroppings, dips, spurs, angles, shafts,
drifts, inclines, levels,
tunnels, air-shafts, "horses," c=
lay
casings, granite casings; quartz
mills and their batteries; arastras, and h=
ow
to charge them with
quicksilver and sulphate of copper; and ho=
w to
clean them up, and how to
reduce the resulting amalgam in the retort=
s,
and how to cast the bullion
into pigs; and finally I know how to screen
tailings, and also how to
hunt for something less robust to do, and =
find
it. I know the argot and
the quartz-mining and milling industry fam=
iliarly;
and so whenever Bret
Harte introduces that industry into a stor=
y,
the first time one of his
miners opens his mouth I recognize from his
phrasing that Harte got the
phrasing by listening--like Shakespeare--I
mean the Stratford one--not
by experience. No one can talk the quartz
dialect correctly without
learning it with pick and shovel and drill=
and
fuse.
I have been a surface miner--gold--and I k=
now
all its mysteries, and
the dialects that belongs with them; and
whenever Harte introduces that
industry into a story I know by the phrasi=
ng
of his characters that
neither he nor they have ever served that
trade.
I have been a "pocket" miner--a =
sort
of gold mining not findable in any
but one little spot in the world, so far a=
s I
know. I know how, with
horn and water, to find the trail of a poc=
ket
and trace it step by step
and stage by stage up the mountain to its
source, and find the compact
little nest of yellow metal reposing in its
secret home under the
ground. I know the language of that trade,=
that
capricious trade, that
fascinating buried-treasure trade, and can
catch any writer who tries to
use it without having learned it by the sw=
eat
of his brow and the labor
of his hands.
I know several other trades and the argot =
that
goes with them; and
whenever a person tries to talk the talk
peculiar to any of them without
having learned it at its source I can trap=
him
always before he gets far
on his road.
And so, as I have already remarked, if I w=
ere
required to superintend
a Bacon-Shakespeare controversy, I would
narrow the matter down to a
single question--the only one, so far as t=
he
previous controversies
have informed me, concerning which illustr=
ious
experts of unimpeachable
competency have testified: WAS THE AUTHOR =
OF
SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS A
LAWYER?--a lawyer deeply read and of limit=
less
experience? I would put
aside the guesses and surmises, and perhap=
ses,
and might-have-beens,
and could-have-beens, and must-have-beens,
and,
we-are-justified-in-presumings,and the res=
t of
those vague specters
and shadows and indefintenesses, and stand=
or
fall, win or lose, by the
verdict rendered by the jury upon that sin=
gle
question. If the verdict
was Yes, I should feel quite convinced that
the Stratford Shakespeare,
the actor, manager, and trader who died so
obscure, so forgotten, so
destitute of even village consequence, that
sixty years afterward no
fellow-citizen and friend of his later days
remembered to tell anything
about him, did not write the Works.
Chapter XIII of THE SHAKESPEARE PROBLEM RESTATED bears=
the
heading "Shakespeare as a Lawyer," and comprises some fifty pages=
of
expert testimony, with comments thereon, and I will copy the first nine, as=
being sufficient all by themselves, as it
seems to me, to settle
the question which I have conceived to be =
the
master-key to the
Shakespeare-Bacon puzzle.
The Plays and Poems of Shakespeare supply
ample evidence that their
author not only had a very extensive and
accurate knowledge of law, but
that he was well acquainted with the manne=
rs
and customs of members of
the Inns of Court and with legal life
generally.
"While novelists and dramatists are
constantly making mistakes as to
the laws of marriage, of wills, of
inheritance, to Shakespeare's law,
lavishly as he expounds it, there can neit=
her
be demurrer, nor bill of
exceptions, nor writ of error." Such =
was
the testimony borne by one of
the most distinguished lawyers of the
nineteenth century who was raised
to the high office of Lord Chief Justice in
1850, and subsequently
became Lord Chancellor. Its weight will,
doubtless, be more appreciated
by lawyers than by laymen, for only lawyers
know how impossible it is
for those who have not served an
apprenticeship to the law to avoid
displaying their ignorance if they venture=
to
employ legal terms and
to discuss legal doctrines. "There is
nothing so dangerous," wrote Lord
Campbell, "as for one not of the craf=
t to
tamper with our freemasonry."
A layman is certain to betray himself by u=
sing
some expression which a
lawyer would never employ. Mr. Sidney Lee
himself supplies us with an
example of this. He writes (p. 164): "=
;On
February 15, 1609, Shakespeare
... obtained judgment from a jury against
Addenbroke for the payment of
No. 6, and No. 1, 5s. 0d. costs." Now=
a
lawyer would never have spoken
of obtaining "judgment from a jury,&q=
uot;
for it is the function of a jury
not to deliver judgment (which is the
prerogative of the court), but to
find a verdict on the facts. The error is,
indeed, a venial one, but it
is just one of those little things which at
once enable a lawyer to know
if the writer is a layman or "one of =
the
craft."
But when a layman ventures to plunge deeply
into legal subjects, he
is naturally apt to make an exhibition of =
his
incompetence. "Let a
non-professional man, however acute,"
writes Lord Campbell again,
"presume to talk law, or to draw
illustrations from legal science in
discussing other subjects, and he will
speedily fall into laughable
absurdity."
And what does the same high authority say
about Shakespeare? He had "a
deep technical knowledge of the law,"=
and
an easy familiarity with "some
of 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 to
have written the play, I do not see how he
could be chargeable with
having forgotten any of his law while writ=
ing
it." Charles and Mary
Cowden Clarke speak of "the marvelous
intimacy which he displays with
legal terms, his frequent adoption of them=
in
illustration, and his
curiously technical knowledge of their form
and force." Malone, himself
a lawyer, wrote: "His knowledge of le=
gal
terms is not merely such
as might be acquired by the casual observa=
tion
of even his
all-comprehending mind; it has the appeara=
nce
of technical skill."
Another lawyer and well-known Shakespearea=
n,
Richard Grant White, says:
"No dramatist of the time, not even
Beaumont, who was the younger son of
a judge of the Common Pleas, and who after
studying in the Inns of
Court abandoned law for the drama, used le=
gal
phrases with Shakespeare's
readiness and exactness. And the significa=
nce
of this fact is heightened
by another, that is only to the language of
the law that he exhibits
this inclination. The phrases peculiar to
other occupations serve him
on rare occasions by way of description,
comparison, or illustration,
generally when something in the scene sugg=
ests
them, but legal phrases
flow from his pen as part of his vocabulary
and parcel of his thought.
Take the word 'purchase' for instance, whi=
ch,
in ordinary use, means
to acquire by giving value, but applies in=
law
to all legal modes
of obtaining property except by inheritanc=
e or
descent, and in this
peculiar sense the word occurs five times =
in
Shakespeare's thirty-four
plays, and only in one single instance in =
the
fifty-four plays of
Beaumont and Fletcher. It has been suggest=
ed
that it was in attendance
upon the courts in London that he picked up
his legal vocabulary. But
this supposition not only fails to account=
for
Shakespeare's peculiar
freedom and exactness in the use of that
phraseology, it does not even
place him in the way of learning those ter=
ms
his use of which is most
remarkable, which are not such as he would
have heard at ordinary
proceedings at NISI PRIUS, but such as ref=
er
to the tenure or transfer
of real property, 'fine and recovery,'
'statutes merchant,' 'purchase,'
'indenture,' 'tenure,' 'double voucher,' '=
fee
simple,' 'fee farm,'
'remainder,' 'reversion,' 'forfeiture,' et=
c.
This conveyancer's jargon
could not have been picked up by hanging r=
ound
the courts of law in
London two hundred and fifty years ago, wh=
en
suits as to the title of
real property were comparatively rare. And
besides, Shakespeare uses
his law just as freely in his first plays,
written in his first London
years, as in those produced at a later per=
iod.
Just as exactly, too; for
the correctness and propriety with which t=
hese
terms are introduced have
compelled the admiration of a Chief Justice
and a Lord Chancellor."
Senator Davis wrote: "We seem to have
something more than a sciolist's
temerity of indulgence in the terms of an
unfamiliar art. No legal
solecisms will be found. The abstrusest
elements of the common law are
impressed into a disciplined service. Over=
and
over again, where such
knowledge is unexampled in writers unlearn=
ed
in the law, Shakespeare
appears in perfect possession of it. In the
law of real property, its
rules of tenure and descents, its entails,=
its
fines and recoveries,
their vouchers and double vouchers, in the
procedure of the Courts, the
method of bringing writs and arrests, the
nature of actions, the
rules of pleading, the law of escapes and =
of
contempt of court, in
the principles of evidence, both technical=
and
philosophical, in the
distinction between the temporal and spiri=
tual
tribunals, in the law of
attainder and forfeiture, in the requisite=
s of
a valid marriage, in the
presumption of legitimacy, in the learning=
of
the law of prerogative,
in the inalienable character of the Crown,
this mastership appears with
surprising authority."
To all this testimony (and there is much m=
ore
which I have not cited)
may now be added that of a great lawyer of=
our
own times, VIZ.: Sir
James Plaisted Wilde, Q.C. 1855, created a
Baron of the Exchequer in
1860, promoted to the post of Judge-Ordina=
ry
and Judge of the Courts
of Probate and Divorce in 1863, and better
known to the world as Lord
Penzance, to which dignity he was raised in
1869. Lord Penzance, as all
lawyers know, and as the late Mr. Inderwic=
k,
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 a
remarkable facility for marshaling facts, =
and
for a clear expression of
his views."
Lord Penzance speaks of Shakespeare's
"perfect familiarity with not only
the principles, axioms, and maxims, but the
technicalities of English
law, a knowledge so perfect and intimate t=
hat
he was never incorrect
and never at fault.... The mode in which t=
his
knowledge was pressed
into service on all occasions to express h=
is
meaning and illustrate his
thoughts was quite unexampled. He seems to
have had a special pleasure
in his complete and ready mastership of it=
in
all its branches. As
manifested in the plays, this legal knowle=
dge
and learning had therefore
a special character which places it on a
wholly different footing from
the rest of the multifarious knowledge whi=
ch
is exhibited in page after
page of the plays. At every turn and point=
at
which the author required
a metaphor, simile, or illustration, his m=
ind
ever turned FIRST to the
law. He seems almost to have THOUGHT in le=
gal
phrases, the commonest
of legal expressions were ever at the end =
of
his pen in description or
illustration. That he should have descante=
d in
lawyer language when
he had a forensic subject in hand, such as
Shylock's bond, was to be
expected, but the knowledge of law in
'Shakespeare' was exhibited in a
far different manner: it protruded itself =
on
all occasions, appropriate
or inappropriate, and mingled itself with
strains of thought widely
divergent from forensic subjects." Ag=
ain:
"To acquire a perfect
familiarity with legal principles, and an
accurate and ready use of the
technical terms and phrases not only of the
conveyancer's office, but of
the pleader's chambers and the Courts at
Westminster, nothing short
of employment in some career involving
constant contact with legal
questions and general legal work would be
requisite. But a continuous
employment involves the element of time, a=
nd
time was just what the
manager of two theaters had not at his
disposal. In what portion of
Shakespeare's (i.e., Shakspere's) career w=
ould
it be possible to point
out that time could be found for the
interposition of a legal employment
in the chambers or offices of practicing l=
awyers?"
Stratfordians, as is well known, casting a=
bout
for some possible
explanation of Shakespeare's extraordinary
knowledge of law, have made
the suggestion that Shakespeare might,
conceivably, have been a clerk in
an attorney's office before he came to Lon=
don.
Mr. Collier wrote to Lord
Campbell to ask his opinion as to the
probability of this being true.
His answer was as follows: "You requi=
re
us to believe implicitly a
fact, of which, if true, positive and
irrefragable evidence in his own
handwriting might have been forthcoming to
establish it. Not having been
actually enrolled as an attorney, neither =
the
records of the local court
at Stratford nor of the superior Court at
Westminster would present
his name as being concerned in any suit as=
an
attorney, but it might
reasonably have been expected that there w=
ould
be deeds or wills
witnessed by him still extant, and after a
very diligent search none
such can be discovered."
Upon this Lord Penzance commends: "It
cannot be doubted that Lord
Campbell was right in this. No young man c=
ould
have been at work in
an attorney's office without being called =
upon
continually to act as a
witness, and in many other ways leaving tr=
aces
of his work and
name." There is not a single fact or
incident in all that is known of
Shakespeare, even by rumor or tradition, w=
hich
supports this notion of
a clerkship. And after much argument and
surmise which has been indulged
in on this subject, we may, I think, safely
put the notion on one side,
for no less an authority than Mr. Grant Wh=
ite
says finally that the idea
of his having been clerk to an attorney has
been "blown to pieces."
It is altogether characteristic of Mr. Chu=
rton
Collins that he,
nevertheless, adopts this exploded myth.
"That Shakespeare was in early
life employed as a clerk in an attorney's
office may be correct. At
Stratford there was by royal charter a Cou=
rt
of Record sitting every
fortnight, with six attorneys, besides the
town clerk, belonging to it,
and it is certainly not straining probabil=
ity
to suppose that the young
Shakespeare may have had employment in one=
of
them. There is, it is
true, no tradition to this effect, but such
traditions as we have about
Shakespeare's occupation between the time =
of
leaving school and going
to London are so loose and baseless that no
confidence can be placed
in them. It is, to say the least, more
probable that he was in an
attorney's office than that he was a butch=
er
killing calves 'in a high
style,' and making speeches over them.&quo=
t;
This is a charming specimen of Stratfordian
argument. There is, as
we have seen, a very old tradition that
Shakespeare was a butcher's
apprentice. John Dowdall, who made a tour =
of
Warwickshire in 1693,
testifies to it as coming from the old cle=
rk
who showed him over
the church, and it is unhesitatingly accep=
ted
as true by Mr.
Halliwell-Phillipps. (Vol. I, p. 11, and V=
ol.
II, pp. 71, 72.) Mr.
Sidney Lee sees nothing improbable in it, =
and
it is supported by Aubrey,
who must have written his account some time
before 1680, when his
manuscript was completed. Of the attorney's
clerk hypothesis, on the
other hand, there is not the faintest vest=
ige
of a tradition. It
has been evolved out of the fertile
imaginations of embarrassed
Stratfordians, seeking for some explanatio=
n of
the Stratford rustic's
marvelous acquaintance with law and legal
terms and legal life. But
Mr. Churton Collins has not the least
hesitation in throwing over the
tradition which has the warrant of antiqui=
ty
and setting up in its
stead this ridiculous invention, for which=
not
only is there no shred of
positive evidence, but which, as Lord Camp=
bell
and Lord Penzance pointed
out, is really put out of court by the
negative evidence, since "no
young man could have been at work in an
attorney's office without being
called upon continually to act as a witnes=
s,
and in many other ways
leaving traces of his work and name."=
And
as Mr. Edwards further points
out, since the day when Lord Campbell's bo=
ok
was published (between
forty and fifty years ago), "every old
deed or will, to say nothing of
other legal papers, dated during the perio=
d of
William Shakespeare's
youth, has been scrutinized over half a do=
zen
shires, and not one
signature of the young man has been
found."
Moreover, if Shakespeare had served as cle=
rk
in an attorney's office it
is clear that he must have served for a
considerable period in order to
have gained (if, indeed, it is credible th=
at
he could have so gained)
his remarkable knowledge of the law. Can we
then for a moment believe
that, if this had been so, tradition would
have been absolutely silent
on the matter? That Dowdall's old clerk, o=
ver
eighty years of age,
should have never heard of it (though he w=
as
sure enough about the
butcher's apprentice) and that all the oth=
er
ancient witnesses should be
in similar ignorance!
But such are the methods of Stratfordian
controversy. Tradition is to be
scouted when it is found inconvenient, but
cited as irrefragable truth
when it suits the case. Shakespeare of
Stratford was the author of the
Plays and Poems, but the author of the Pla=
ys
and Poems could not have
been a butcher's apprentice. Anyway,
therefore, with tradition. But
the author of the Plays and Poems MUST have
had a very large and a very
accurate knowledge of the law. Therefore,
Shakespeare of Stratford
must have been an attorney's clerk! The me=
thod
is simplicity itself. By
similar reasoning Shakespeare has been mad=
e a
country schoolmaster, a
soldier, a physician, a printer, and a good
many other things besides,
according to the inclination and the
exigencies of the commentator. It
would not be in the least surprising to fi=
nd
that he was studying Latin
as a schoolmaster and law in an attorney's
office at the same time.
However, we must do Mr. Collins the justic=
e of
saying that he has fully
recognized, what is indeed tolerable obvio=
us,
that Shakespeare must have
had a sound legal training. "It may, =
of
course, be urged," he writes,
"that Shakespeare's knowledge of
medicine, and particularly that branch
of it which related to morbid psychology, =
is
equally remarkable, and
that no one has ever contended that he was=
a
physician. (Here Mr.
Collins is wrong; that contention also has
been put forward.) It may be
urged that his acquaintance with the
technicalities of other crafts
and callings, notably of marine and milita=
ry
affairs, was also
extraordinary, and yet no one has suspected
him of being a sailor or
a soldier. (Wrong again. Why, even Messrs.
Garnett and Gosse "suspect"
that he was a soldier!) This may be conced=
ed,
but the concession
hardly furnishes an analogy. To these and =
all
other subjects he recurs
occasionally, and in season, but with
reminiscences of the law his
memory, as is abundantly clear, was simply
saturated. In season and out
of season now in manifest, now in recondite
application, he presses it
into the service of expression and illustr=
ation.
At least a third of his
myriad metaphors are derived from it. It w=
ould
indeed be difficult to
find a single act in any of his dramas, na=
y,
in some of them, a single
scene, the diction and imagery of which are
not colored by it. Much of
his law may have been acquired from three
books easily accessible to
him--namely, Tottell's PRECEDENTS (1572), Pulton's
STATUTES (1578), and Fraunce's LAWIER'S LOGIKE (1588), works with which he
certainly seems to have been familiar; but much of it could only have come =
from
one who had an intimate acquaintance with legal proceedings. We quite agree
with Mr. Castle that Shakespeare's legal knowledge is not what could have b=
een picked
up in an attorney's office, but could only have been learned
by an actual attendance at the Courts, at a Pleader's
Chambers, and
on circuit, or by associating intimately with members =
of
the Bench and
Bar."
This is excellent. But what is Mr. Collins=
's
explanation? "Perhaps the
simplest solution of the problem is to acc=
ept
the hypothesis that in
early life he was in an attorney's office =
(!),
that he there contracted
a love for the law which never left him, t=
hat
as a young man in London
he continued to study or dabble in it for =
his
amusement, to stroll in
leisure hours into the Courts, and to freq=
uent
the society of lawyers.
On no other supposition is it possible to
explain the attraction which
the law evidently had for him, and his min=
ute
and undeviating accuracy
in a subject where no layman who has indul=
ged
in such copious and
ostentatious display of legal technicaliti=
es
has ever yet succeeded in
keeping himself from tripping."
A lame conclusion. "No other
supposition" indeed! Yes, there is another,
and a very obvious supposition--namely, th=
at
Shakespeare was himself a
lawyer, well versed in his trade, versed in
all the ways of the courts,
and living in close intimacy with judges a=
nd
members of the Inns of
Court.
One is, of course, thankful that Mr. Colli=
ns
has appreciated the fact
that Shakespeare must have had a sound leg=
al
training, but I may
be forgiven if I do not attach quite so mu=
ch
importance to his
pronouncements on this branch of the subje=
ct
as to those of Malone,
Lord Campbell, Judge Holmes, Mr. Castle, K=
.C.,
Lord Penzance, Mr. Grant
White, and other lawyers, who have express=
ed
their opinion on the matter
of Shakespeare's legal acquirements....
Here it may, perhaps, be worth while to qu=
ote
again from Lord Penzance's
book as to the suggestion that Shakespeare=
had
somehow or other managed
"to acquire a perfect familiarity with
legal principles, and an accurate
and ready use of the technical terms and
phrases, not only of the
conveyancer's office, but of the pleader's
chambers and the Courts at
Westminster." This, as Lord Penzance
points out, "would require nothing
short of employment in some career involvi=
ng
CONSTANT CONTACT with legal
questions and general legal work." But
"in what portion of Shakespeare's
career would it be possible to point out t=
hat
time could be found for
the interposition of a legal employment in=
the
chambers or offices of
practicing lawyers?... It is beyond doubt =
that
at an early period he was
called upon to abandon his attendance at
school and assist his father,
and was soon after, at the age of sixteen,
bound apprentice to a trade.
While under the obligation of this bond he
could not have pursued any
other employment. Then he leaves Stratford=
and
comes to London. He has
to provide himself with the means of a
livelihood, and this he did in
some capacity at the theater. No one doubts
that. The holding of horses
is scouted by many, and perhaps with justi=
ce,
as being unlikely and
certainly unproved; but whatever the natur=
e of
his employment was at
the theater, there is hardly room for the
belief that it could have been
other than continuous, for his progress th=
ere
was so rapid. Ere long he
had been taken into the company as an acto=
r,
and was soon spoken of as a
'Johannes Factotum.' His rapid accumulatio=
n of
wealth speaks volumes for
the constancy and activity of his services.
One fails to see when there
could be a break in the current of his lif=
e at
this period of it, giving
room or opportunity for legal or indeed any
other employment. 'In 1589,'
says Knight, 'we have undeniable evidence =
that
he had not only a casual
engagement, was not only a salaried servan=
t,
as may players were, but
was a shareholder in the company of the
Queen's players with other
shareholders below him on the list.' This
(1589) would be within
two years after his arrival in London, whi=
ch
is placed by White and
Halliwell-Phillipps about the year 1587. T=
he
difficulty in supposing
that, starting with a state of ignorance in
1587, when he is supposed
to have come to London, he was induced to
enter upon a course of most
extended study and mental culture, is almo=
st
insuperable. Still it was
physically possible, provided always that =
he
could have had access to
the needful books. But this legal training
seems to me to stand on a
different footing. It is not only
unaccountable and incredible, but it
is actually negatived by the known facts of
his career." Lord Penzance
then refers to the fact that "by 1592
(according to the best authority,
Mr. Grant White) several of the plays had =
been
written. 'The Comedy
of Errors' in 1589, 'Love's Labour's Lost'=
in
1589, 'Two Gentlemen
of Verona' in 1589 or 1590," and so f=
orth,
and then asks, "with this
catalogue of dramatic work on hand... was =
it
possible that he could have
taken a leading part in the management and
conduct of two theaters,
and if Mr. Phillipps is to be relied upon,
taken his share in the
performances of the provincial tours of his
company--and at the same
time devoted himself to the study of the l=
aw
in all its branches so
efficiently as to make himself complete ma=
ster
of its principles and
practice, and saturate his mind with all i=
ts
most technical terms?"
I have cited this passage from Lord Penzan=
ce's
book, because it
lay before me, and I had already quoted fr=
om
it on the matter of
Shakespeare's legal knowledge; but other
writers have still better set
forth the insuperable difficulties, as they
seem to me, which beset the
idea that Shakespeare might have found the=
m in
some unknown period
of early life, amid multifarious other
occupations, for the study of
classics, literature, and law, to say noth=
ing
of languages and a few
other matters. Lord Penzance further asks =
his
readers: "Did you ever
meet with or hear of an instance in which a
young man in this country
gave himself up to legal studies and engag=
ed
in legal employments,
which is the only way of becoming familiar
with the technicalities of
practice, unless with the view of practici=
ng
in that profession? I do
not believe that it would be easy, or inde=
ed
possible, to produce
an instance in which the law has been
seriously studied in all
its branches, except as a qualification for
practice in the legal
profession."
This testimony is so strong, so direct, so
authoritative; and so
uncheapened, unwatered by guesses, and
surmises, and maybe-so's, and
might-have-beens, and could-have-beens, and
must-have-beens, and the
rest of that ton of plaster of Paris out o=
f which
the biographers have
built the colossal brontosaur which goes by
the Stratford actor's name,
that it quite convinces me that the man who
wrote Shakespeare's Works
knew all about law and lawyers. Also, that
that man could not have been
the Stratford Shakespeare--and WASN'T.
Who did write these Works, then?
I wish I knew.
1. From Chapter XIII of THE SHAKESPEA=
RE
PROBLEM RESTATED. By
George G. Greenwood, M.P. John Lane Compan=
y,
publishers.
We cannot say we KNOW a thing when that th=
ing
has not been proved.
KNOW is too strong a word to use when the
evidence is not final
and absolutely conclusive. We can infer, i=
f we
want to, like those
slaves.... No, I will not write that word,=
it
is not kind, it is not
courteous. The upholders of the
Stratford-Shakespeare superstition call
US the hardest names they can think of, and
they keep doing it all the
time; very well, if they like to descend to
that level, let them do it,
but I will not so undignify myself as to
follow them. I cannot call them
harsh names; the most I can do is to indic=
ate
them by terms reflecting
my disapproval; and this without malice,
without venom.
To resume. What I was about to say was, th=
ose
thugs have built their
entire superstition upon INFERENCES, not u=
pon
known and established
facts. It is a weak method, and poor, and =
I am
glad to be able to say
our side never resorts to it while there is
anything else to resort to.
But when we must, we must; and we have now
arrived at a place of that
sort.... Since the Stratford Shakespeare
couldn't have written the
Works, we infer that somebody did. Who was=
it,
then? This requires some
more inferring.
Ordinarily when an unsigned poem sweeps ac=
ross
the continent like a
tidal wave whose roar and boom and thunder=
are
made up of admiration,
delight, and applause, a dozen obscure peo=
ple
rise up and claim the
authorship. Why a dozen, instead of only o=
ne
or two? One reason is,
because there are a dozen that are
recognizably competent to do that
poem. Do you remember "Beautiful
Snow"? Do you remember "Rock Me to
Sleep, Mother, Rock Me to Sleep"? Do =
you
remember "Backward, turn,
backward, O Time, in thy flight! Make me a
child again just for
tonight"? I remember them very well.
Their authorship was claimed
by most of the grown-up people who were al=
ive
at the time, and every
claimant had one plausible argument in his
favor, at least--to wit, he
could have done the authoring; he was
competent.
Have the Works been claimed by a dozen? Th=
ey
haven't. There was good
reason. The world knows there was but one =
man
on the planet at the
time who was competent--not a dozen, and n=
ot
two. A long time ago the
dwellers in a far country used now and the=
n to
find a procession of
prodigious footprints stretching across the
plain--footprints that were
three miles apart, each footprint a third =
of a
mile long and a furlong
deep, and with forests and villages mashed=
to
mush in it. Was there any
doubt as to who made that mighty trail? We=
re
there a dozen claimants?
Where there two? No--the people knew who it
was that had been along
there: there was only one Hercules.
There has been only one Shakespeare. There
couldn't be two; certainly
there couldn't be two at the same time. It
takes ages to bring forth a
Shakespeare, and some more ages to match h=
im.
This one was not matched
before his time; nor during his time; and
hasn't been matched since. The
prospect of matching him in our time is not
bright.
The Baconians claim that the Stratford
Shakespeare was not qualified
to write the Works, and that Francis Bacon
was. They claim that Bacon
possessed the stupendous equipment--both
natural and acquired--for the
miracle; and that no other Englishman of h=
is
day possessed the like; or,
indeed, anything closely approaching it.
Macaulay, in his Essay, has much to say ab=
out
the splendor and
horizonless magnitude of that equipment. A=
lso,
he has synopsized Bacon's
history--a thing which cannot be done for =
the
Stratford Shakespeare,
for he hasn't any history to synopsize.
Bacon's history is open to the
world, from his boyhood to his death in old
age--a history consisting
of known facts, displayed in minute and
multitudinous detail; FACTS, not
guesses and conjectures and might-have-bee=
ns.
Whereby it appears that he was born of a r=
ace
of statesmen, and had a
Lord Chancellor for his father, and a moth=
er
who was "distinguished both
as a linguist and a theologian: she
corresponded in Greek with Bishop
Jewell, and translated his APOLOGIA from t=
he
Latin so correctly that
neither he nor Archbishop Parker could sug=
gest
a single alteration." It
is the atmosphere we are reared in that
determines how our inclinations
and aspirations shall tend. The atmosphere
furnished by the parents to
the son in this present case was an atmosp=
here
saturated with learning;
with thinkings and ponderings upon deep
subjects; and with polite
culture. It had its natural effect.
Shakespeare of Stratford was reared
in a house which had no use for books, sin=
ce
its owners, his parents,
were without education. This may have had =
an
effect upon the son, but
we do not know, because we have no history=
of
him of an informing sort.
There were but few books anywhere, in that
day, and only the well-to-do
and highly educated possessed them, they b=
eing
almost confined to
the dead languages. "All the valuable
books then extant in all the
vernacular dialects of Europe would hardly
have filled a single
shelf"--imagine it! The few existing
books were in the Latin tongue
mainly. "A person who was ignorant of=
it
was shut out from all
acquaintance--not merely with Cicero and
Virgil, but with the most
interesting memoirs, state papers, and
pamphlets of his own time"--a
literature necessary to the Stratford lad,=
for
his fictitious
reputation's sake, since the writer of his
Works would begin to use it
wholesale and in a most masterly way before
the lad was hardly more than
out of his teens and into his twenties.
At fifteen Bacon was sent to the universit=
y,
and he spent three years
there. Thence he went to Paris in the trai=
n of
the English Ambassador,
and there he mingled daily with the wise, =
the
cultured, the great, and
the aristocracy of fashion, during another
three years. A total of six
years spent at the sources of knowledge;
knowledge both of books and of
men. The three spent at the university were
coeval with the second
and last three spent by the little Stratfo=
rd
lad at Stratford school
supposedly, and perhapsedly, and maybe, an=
d by
inference--with nothing
to infer from. The second three of the
Baconian six were "presumably"
spent by the Stratford lad as apprentice t=
o a
butcher. That is, the
thugs presume it--on no evidence of any ki=
nd.
Which is their way, when
they want a historical fact. Fact and
presumption are, for business
purposes, all the same to them. They know =
the
difference, but they also
know how to blink it. They know, too, that
while in history-building a
fact is better than a presumption, it does=
n't
take a presumption long
to bloom into a fact when THEY have the
handling of it. They know by old
experience that when they get hold of a
presumption-tadpole he is
not going to STAY tadpole in their
history-tank; no, they know how to
develop him into the giant four-legged
bullfrog of FACT, and make
him sit up on his hams, and puff out his c=
hin,
and look important
and insolent and come-to-stay; and assert =
his
genuine simon-pure
authenticity with a thundering bellow that
will convince everybody
because it is so loud. The thug is aware t=
hat
loudness convinces sixty
persons where reasoning convinces but one.=
I
wouldn't be a thug, not
even if--but never mind about that, it has
nothing to do with the
argument, and it is not noble in spirit
besides. If I am better than a
thug, is the merit mine? No, it is His. Th=
en
to Him be the praise. That
is the right spirit.
They "presume" the lad severed h=
is
"presumed" connection with the
Stratford school to become apprentice to a
butcher. They also "presume"
that the butcher was his father. They don't
know. There is no written
record of it, nor any other actual evidenc=
e.
If it would have helped
their case any, they would have apprenticed
him to thirty butchers,
to fifty butchers, to a wilderness of
butchers--all by their patented
method "presumption." If it will
help their case they will do it yet;
and if it will further help it, they will
"presume" that all those
butchers were his father. And the week aft=
er,
they will SAY it. Why, it
is just like being the past tense of the
compound reflexive adverbial
incandescent hypodermic irregular accusati=
ve
Noun of Multitude; which is
father to the expression which the grammar=
ians
call Verb. It is like a
whole ancestry, with only one posterity.
To resume. Next, the young Bacon took up t=
he
study of law, and mastered
that abstruse science. From that day to the
end of his life he was daily
in close contact with lawyers and judges; =
not
as a casual onlooker
in intervals between holding horses in fro=
nt
of a theater, but as
a practicing lawyer--a great and successful
one, a renowned one, a
Launcelot of the bar, the most formidable
lance in the high brotherhood
of the legal Table Round; he lived in the
law's atmosphere thenceforth,
all his years, and by sheer ability forced=
his
way up its difficult
steeps to its supremest summit, the
Lord-Chancellorship, leaving behind
him no fellow-craftsman qualified to chall=
enge
his divine right to that
majestic place.
When we read the praises bestowed by Lord
Penzance and the other
illustrious experts upon the legal conditi=
on
and legal aptnesses,
brilliances, profundities, and felicities =
so
prodigally displayed in the
Plays, and try to fit them to the historyl=
ess
Stratford stage-manager,
they sound wild, strange, incredible,
ludicrous; but when we put them in
the mouth of Bacon they do not sound stran=
ge,
they seem in their natural
and rightful place, they seem at home ther=
e.
Please turn back and read
them again. Attributed to Shakespeare of
Stratford they are meaningless,
they are inebriate extravagancies--intempe=
rate
admirations of the dark
side of the moon, so to speak; attributed =
to
Bacon, they are admirations
of the golden glories of the moon's front
side, the moon at the
full--and not intemperate, not overwrought,
but sane and right, and
justified. "At ever turn and point at
which the author required a
metaphor, simile, or illustration, his mind
ever turned FIRST to the
law; he seems almost to have THOUGHT in le=
gal
phrases; the commonest
legal phrases, the commonest of legal
expressions, were ever at the end
of his pen." That could happen to no =
one
but a person whose TRADE was
the law; it could not happen to a dabbler =
in
it. Veteran mariners fill
their conversation with sailor-phrases and
draw all their similes from
the ship and the sea and the storm, but no
mere PASSENGER ever does it,
be he of Stratford or elsewhere; or could =
do
it with anything resembling
accuracy, if he were hardy enough to try.
Please read again what Lord
Campbell and the other great authorities h=
ave
said about Bacon when they
thought they were saying it about Shakespe=
are
of Stratford.
The author of the Plays was equipped, beyo=
nd
every other man of his
time, 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 abundanc=
e,
and always wanting to
break out. We have no evidence of any kind
that Shakespeare of Stratford
possessed any of these gifts or any of the=
se
acquirements. The only
lines he ever wrote, so far as we know, are
substantially barren of
them--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 PAS=
S BY
A JEST, was nobly
censorious. No man ever spoke more neatly,
more pressly, more weightily,
or suffered less emptiness, less idleness,=
in
what he uttered. No member
of his speech but consisted of his (its) o=
wn
graces.... The fear of
every man that heard him was lest he should
make an end.
From Macaulay:
He continued to distinguish himself in
Parliament, particularly by his
exertions in favor of one excellent measur=
e on
which the King's heart
was set--the union of England and Scotland=
. It
was not difficult for
such an intellect to discover many
irresistible arguments in favor
of such a scheme. He conducted the great c=
ase
of the POST NATI in
the Exchequer Chamber; and the decision of=
the
judges--a decision the
legality of which may be questioned, but t=
he
beneficial effect of which
must be acknowledged--was in a great measu=
re
attributed to his dexterous
management.
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 on
the ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING, which at a later period w=
as
expanded into the DE AUGMENTIS, appeared in 1605.
The WISDOM OF THE ANCIENTS, a work which, if it had
proceeded from any other writer, would have been considered as a masterpiec=
e of
wit and
learning, was printed in 1609.
In the mean time the NOVUM ORGANUM was slowly proceedi=
ng.
Several
distinguished men of learning had been permitted to see
portions of that
extraordinary book, and they spoke with the greatest
admiration of his
genius.
Even Sir Thomas Bodley, after perusing the
COGITATA ET VISA, one of the
most precious of those scattered leaves ou=
t of
which the great oracular
volume was afterward made up, acknowledged
that "in all proposals and
plots in that book, Bacon showed himself a
master workman"; and that "it
could not be gainsaid but all the treatise
over did abound with
choice conceits of the present state of
learning, and with worthy
contemplations of the means to procure
it."
In 1612 a new edition of the ESSAYS appear=
ed,
with additions surpassing
the original collection both in bulk and
quality.
Nor did these pursuits distract Bacon's
attention from a work the most
arduous, the most glorious, and the most
useful that even his mighty
powers could have achieved, "the redu=
cing
and recompiling," to use his
own phrase, "of the laws of
England."
To serve the exacting and laborious office=
s of
Attorney-General and
Solicitor-General would have satisfied the
appetite of any other man
for hard work, but Bacon had to add the va=
st
literary industries just
described, to satisfy his. He was a born
worker.
The service which he rendered to letters
during the last five years of
his life, amid ten thousand distractions a=
nd
vexations, increase the
regret with which we think on the many yea=
rs
which he had wasted, to use
the words of Sir Thomas Bodley, "on s=
uch
study as was not worthy such a
student."
He commenced a digest of the laws of Engla=
nd,
a History of England
under the Princes of the House of Tudor, a
body of National History, a
Philosophical Romance. He made extensive and valuable
additions to his
Essays. He published the inestimable TREATISE DE AUGME=
NTIS
SCIENTIARUM.
Did these labors of Hercules fill up his t=
ime
to his contentment, and
quiet his appetite for work? Not entirely:=
The trifles with which he amused himself in hours of p=
ain
and languor
bore the mark of his mind. THE BEST JEST-BOOK IN THE W=
ORLD
is that which he dictated from memory, without referring to any book, on a =
day
on
which illness had rendered him incapable of serious st=
udy.
Here are some scattered remarks (from
Macaulay) which throw light
upon Bacon, and seem to indicate--and maybe
demonstrate--that he was
competent to write the Plays and Poems:
With great minuteness of observation he ha=
d an
amplitude of
comprehension such as has never yet been
vouchsafed to any other human
being.
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 the
whole world of knowledge.
His understanding resembled the tent which=
the
fairy Paribanou gave
to Prince Ahmed: fold it, and it seemed a =
toy
for the hand of a lady;
spread it, and the armies of the powerful
Sultans might repose beneath
its shade.
The knowledge in which Bacon excelled all =
men
was a knowledge of the
mutual relations of all departments of
knowledge.
In a letter written when he was only
thirty-one, to his uncle, Lord
Burleigh, he said, "I have taken all
knowledge to be my province."
Though Bacon did not arm his philosophy wi=
th
the weapons of logic, he
adorned her profusely with all the richest
decorations of rhetoric.
The practical faculty was powerful in Baco=
n;
but not, like his wit,
so powerful as occasionally to usurp the p=
lace
of his reason and to
tyrannize over the whole man.
There are too many places in the Plays whe=
re
this happens. Poor old
dying John of Gaunt volleying second-rate =
puns
at his own name, is a
pathetic instance of it. "We may
assume" that it is Bacon's fault, but
the 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 se=
nse.
In truth, much of Bacon's life was passed =
in a
visionary world--amid
things as strange as any that are describe=
d in
the ARABIAN TALES...
amid buildings more sumptuous than the pal=
ace
of Aladdin, fountains more
wonderful than the golden water of Parizad=
e,
conveyances more rapid
than the hippogryph of Ruggiero, arms more
formidable than the lance of
Astolfo, remedies more efficacious than the
balsam of Fierabras. Yet
in his magnificent day-dreams there was
nothing wild--nothing but what
sober 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 to
illustrate and decorate truth. No book ever
made so great a revolution
in the mode of thinking, overthrew so may
prejudices, introduced so many
new opinions.
But what we most admire is the vast capaci=
ty
of that intellect which,
without effort, takes in at once all the
domains of science--all the
past, the present and the future, all the
errors of two thousand years,
all the encouraging signs of the passing
times, all the bright hopes of
the coming age.
He had a wonderful talent for packing thou=
ght
close and rendering it
portable.
His eloquence would alone have entitled hi=
m to
a high rank in
literature.
It is evident that he had each and every o=
ne
of the mental gifts and
each and every one of the acquirements that
are so prodigally displayed
in the Plays and Poems, and in much higher=
and
richer degree than any
other man of his time or of any previous t=
ime.
He was a genius without a
mate, a prodigy not matable. There was only
one of him; the planet
could not produce two of him at one birth,=
nor
in one age. He could have
written anything that is in the Plays and
Poems. He could have written
this:
The cloud-cap'd
towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn templ=
es,
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 ma=
de 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
&nb=
sp;
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 sake
forbeare, because he will find the transit=
ion
from great poetry to
poor prose too violent for comfort. It will
give him a shock. You never
notice how commonplace and unpoetic gravel=
is
until you bite into a
layer of it in a pie.
Am I trying to convince anybody that
Shakespeare did not write
Shakespeare's Works? Ah, now, what do you =
take
me for? Would I be so
soft as that, after having known the human
race familiarly for nearly
seventy-four years? It would grieve me to =
know
that any one could think
so injuriously of me, so uncomplimentarily=
, so
unadmiringly of me. No,
no, I am aware that when even the brightest
mind in our world has been
trained up from childhood in a superstitio=
n of
any kind, it will never
be possible for that mind, in its maturity=
, to
examine sincerely,
dispassionately, and conscientiously any
evidence or any circumstance
which shall seem to cast a doubt upon the
validity of that superstition.
I doubt if I could do it myself. We always=
get
at second hand our
notions about systems of government; and h=
igh
tariff and low tariff;
and prohibition and anti-prohibition; and =
the
holiness of peace and the
glories of war; and codes of honor and cod=
es
of morals; and approval of
the duel and disapproval of it; and our
beliefs concerning the nature of
cats; and our ideas as to whether the murd=
er
of helpless wild animals
is base or is heroic; and our preferences =
in
the matter of religious and
political parties; and our acceptance or
rejection of the Shakespeares
and the Author Ortons and the Mrs. Eddys. =
We
get them all at second
hand, we reason none of them out for
ourselves. It is the way we are
made. It is the way we are all made, and we
can't help it, we can't
change it. And whenever we have been furni=
shed
a fetish, and have been
taught to believe in it, and love it and
worship it, and refrain from
examining it, there is no evidence, howsoe=
ver
clear and strong, that can
persuade us to withdraw from it our loyalty
and our devotion. In
morals, conduct, and beliefs we take the c=
olor
of our environment and
associations, and it is a color that can
safely be warranted to wash.
Whenever we have been furnished with a tar
baby ostensibly stuffed
with jewels, and warned that it will be
dishonorable and irreverent to
disembowel it and test the jewels, we keep=
our
sacrilegious hands off
it. We submit, not reluctantly, but rather
gladly, for we are privately
afraid we should find, upon examination th=
at
the jewels are of the sort
that are manufactured at North Adams, Mass=
.
I haven't any idea that Shakespeare will h=
ave
to vacate his pedestal
this side of the year 2209. Disbelief in h=
im
cannot come swiftly,
disbelief in a healthy and deeply-loved tar
baby has never been known
to disintegrate swiftly; it is a very slow
process. It took several
thousand years to convince our fine
race--including every splendid
intellect in it--that there is no such thi=
ng
as a witch; it has taken
several thousand years to convince the same
fine race--including every
splendid intellect in it--that there is no
such person as Satan; it has
taken several centuries to remove perdition
from the Protestant Church's
program of post-mortem entertainments; it =
has
taken a weary long time to
persuade American Presbyterians to give up
infant damnation and try to
bear it the best they can; and it looks as=
if
their Scotch brethren will
still be burning babies in the everlasting
fires when Shakespeare comes
down from his perch.
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 those
Stratfordolaters out of a hatful of rags a=
nd a
barrel of sawdust, but
there is a plenty of other things we can p=
rove
it by, if I could think
of them. We are The Reasoning Race, and wh=
en
we find a vague file of
chipmunk-tracks stringing through the dust=
of
Stratford village, we know
by our reasoning bowers that Hercules has =
been
along there. I feel that
our fetish is safe for three centuries yet.
The bust, too--there in the
Stratford Church. The precious bust, the
priceless bust, the calm bust,
the serene bust, the emotionless bust, with
the dandy mustache, and the
putty face, unseamed of care--that face wh=
ich
has looked passionlessly
down upon the awed pilgrim for a hundred a=
nd
fifty years and will still
look down upon the awed pilgrim three hund=
red
more, with the deep, deep,
deep, subtle, subtle, subtle expression of=
a
bladder.
One of the most trying defects which I fin=
d in
these--these--what shall
I call them? for I will not apply injurious
epithets to them, the way
they do to us, such violations of courtesy
being repugnant to my nature
and my dignity. The farthest I can go in t=
hat
direction is to call them
by names of limited reverence--names merely
descriptive, never unkind,
never offensive, never tainted by harsh
feeling. If THEY would do
like this, they would feel better in their
hearts. Very well,
then--to proceed. One of the most trying
defects which I find in these
Stratfordolaters, these Shakesperiods, the=
se
thugs, these bangalores,
these troglodytes, these herumfrodites, th=
ese
blatherskites, these
buccaneers, these bandoleers, is their spi=
rit
of irreverence. It is
detectable in every utterance of theirs wh=
en
they are talking about us.
I am thankful that in me there is nothing =
of
that spirit. When a thing
is sacred to me it is impossible for me to=
be
irreverent toward it. I
cannot call to mind a single instance wher=
e I
have ever been irreverent,
except towards the things which were sacre=
d to
other people. Am I in
the right? I think so. But I ask no one to
take my unsupported word;
no, look at the dictionary; let the dictio=
nary
decide. Here is the
definition:
IRREVERENCE. The quality or condition of
irreverence toward God and
sacred things.
What does the Hindu say? He says it is
correct. He says irreverence
is lack of respect for Vishnu, and Brahma,=
and
Chrishna, and his other
gods, and for his sacred cattle, and for h=
is
temples and the things
within them. He endorses the definition, y=
ou
see; and there are
300,000,000 Hindus or their equivalents ba=
ck
of him.
The dictionary had the acute idea that by
using the capital G it could
restrict irreverence to lack of reverence =
for
OUR Deity and our sacred
things, but that ingenious and rather sly =
idea
miscarried: for by
the simple process of spelling HIS deities
with capitals the Hindu
confiscates the definition and restricts i=
t to
his own sects, thus
making it clearly compulsory upon us to re=
vere
HIS gods and HIS sacred
things, and nobody's else. We can't say a
word, for he had our own
dictionary at his back, and its decision is
final.
This law, reduced to its simplest terms, is
this: 1. Whatever is
sacred to the Christian must be held in
reverence by everybody else; 2.
whatever is sacred to the Hindu must be he=
ld
in reverence by everybody
else; 3. therefore, by consequence, logica=
lly,
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 muscovites
and bandoleers and buccaneers are ALSO try=
ing
to crowd in and share the
benefit of the law, and compel everybody to
revere their Shakespeare and
hold him sacred. We can't have that: there=
's
enough of us already. If
you go on widening and spreading and infla=
ting
the privilege, it will
presently come to be conceded that each ma=
n's
sacred things are the ONLY
ones, and the rest of the human race will =
have
to be humbly reverent
toward them or suffer for it. That can sur=
ely
happen, and when it
happens, the word Irreverence will be rega=
rded
as the most meaningless,
and foolish, and self-conceited, and insol=
ent,
and impudent, and
dictatorial word in the language. And peop=
le
will say, "Whose business
is it what gods I worship and what things =
hold
sacred? Who has the right
to dictate to my conscience, and where did=
he
get that right?"
We cannot afford to let that calamity come
upon us. We must save the
word from this destruction. There is but o=
ne
way to do it, and that
is to stop the spread of the privilege and
strictly confine it to its
present limits--that is, to all the Christ=
ian
sects, to all the Hindu
sects, 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 so
because I am the only sect that knows how =
to
employ it gently, kindly,
charitably, dispassionately. The other sec=
ts
lack the quality of
self-restraint. The Catholic Church says t=
he
most irreverent things
about matters which are sacred to the
Protestants, and the Protestant
Church retorts in kind about the confessio=
nal
and other matters which
Catholics hold sacred; then both of these
irreverencers turn upon Thomas
Paine and charge HIM with irreverence. Thi=
s is
all unfortunate, because
it makes it difficult for students equipped
with only a low grade of
mentality to find out what Irreverence rea=
lly
IS.
It will surely be much better all around if
the privilege of regulating
the irreverent and keeping them in order s=
hall
eventually be withdrawn
from all the sects but me. Then there will=
be
no more quarreling, no
more bandying of disrespectful epithets, no
more heartburnings.
There will then be nothing sacred involved=
in
this Bacon-Shakespeare
controversy except what is sacred to me. T=
hat
will simplify the whole
matter, and trouble will cease. There will=
be
irreverence no longer,
because I will not allow it. The first time
those criminals charge
me with irreverence for calling their
Stratford myth an
Arthur-Orton-Mary-Baker-Thompson-Eddy-Loui=
s-the-Seventeenth-Veiled-Prophet
-of-Khorassan will be the last. Taught by =
the
methods found effective in
extinguishing earlier offenders by the
Inquisition, of holy memory, I
shall know how to quiet them.
Isn't it odd, when you think of it, that y=
ou
may list all the celebrated
Englishmen, Irishmen, and Scotchmen of mod=
ern
times, clear back to the
first Tudors--a list containing five hundr=
ed
names, shall we say?--and
you can go to the histories, biographies, =
and
cyclopedias and learn the
particulars of the lives of every one of t=
hem.
Every one of them except
one--the most famous, the most renowned--by
far the most illustrious of
them all--Shakespeare! You can get the det=
ails
of the lives of all the
celebrated ecclesiastics in the list; all =
the
celebrated tragedians,
comedians, singers, dancers, orators, judg=
es,
lawyers, poets,
dramatists, historians, biographers, edito=
rs,
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 presiden=
ts
and professors, architects,
engineers, painters, sculptors, politician=
s,
agitators, rebels,
revolutionists, patriots, demagogues, clow=
ns,
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 m=
ost
celebrated of them
all--Shakespeare!
You may add to the list the thousand
celebrated persons furnished by the
rest of Christendom in the past four
centuries, and you can find out
the life-histories of all those people, to=
o.
You will then have
listed fifteen hundred celebrities, and you
can trace the authentic
life-histories of the whole of them. Save
one--far and away the most
colossal prodigy of the entire
accumulation--Shakespeare! About him you
can find out NOTHING. Nothing of even the
slightest importance. Nothing
worth the trouble of stowing away in your
memory. Nothing that even
remotely indicates that he was ever anythi=
ng
more than a distinctly
commonplace person--a manager, an actor of
inferior grade, a small
trader in a small village that did not reg=
ard
him as a person of any
consequence, and had forgotten all about h=
im
before he was fairly cold
in his grave. We can go to the records and
find out the life-history of
every renowned RACE-HORSE of modern times-=
-but
not Shakespeare's! There
are many reasons why, and they have been
furnished in cart-loads (of
guess and conjecture) by those troglodytes;
but there is one that
is worth all the rest of the reasons put
together, and is abundantly
sufficient all by itself--HE HADN'T ANY
HISTORY TO RECORD. There is no
way of getting around that deadly fact. An=
d no
sane way has yet been
discovered of getting around its formidable
significance.
Its quite plain significance--to any but t=
hose
thugs (I do not use the
term unkindly) is, that Shakespeare had no
prominence while he lived,
and none until he had been dead two or thr=
ee
generations. The Plays
enjoyed high fame from the beginning; and =
if
he wrote them it seems a
pity the world did not find it out. He oug=
ht
to have explained that he
was the author, and not merely a NOM DE PL=
UME
for another man to hide
behind. If he had been less intemperately
solicitous about his bones,
and more solicitous about his Works, it wo=
uld
have been better for his
good name, and a kindness to us. The bones
were not important. They will
moulder away, they will turn to dust, but =
the
Works will endure until
the last sun goes down.
Mark Twain.
P.S. MARCH 25. About two months ago I was
illuminating this
Autobiography with some notions of mine
concerning the Bacon-Shakespeare
controversy, and I then took occasion to a=
ir
the opinion that the
Stratford Shakespeare was a person of no p=
ublic
consequence or celebrity
during his lifetime, but was utterly obscu=
re
and unimportant. And not
only in great London, but also in the litt=
le
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 a=
ny
note at all, aged villagers
would have had much to tell about him many=
and
many a year after his
death, instead of being unable to furnish
inquirers a single fact
connected with him. I believed, and I still
believe, that if he had been
famous, his notoriety would have lasted as
long as mine has lasted in
my native village out in Missouri. It is a
good argument, a prodigiously
strong one, and most formidable one for ev=
en
the most gifted and
ingenious and plausible Stratfordolator to=
get
around or explain away.
Today a Hannibal COURIER-POST of recent da=
te
has reached me, with an
article in it which reinforces my contenti=
on
that a really celebrated
person cannot be forgotten in his village =
in
the short space of sixty
years. I will make an extract from it:
Hannibal, as a city, may have many sins to
answer for, but ingratitude
is not one of them, or reverence for the g=
reat
men she has produced, and
as the years go by her greatest son, Mark
Twain, or S. L. Clemens as a
few of the unlettered call him, grows in t=
he
estimation and regard of
the residents of the town he made famous a=
nd
the town that made him
famous. His name is associated with every =
old
building that is torn
down to make way for the modern structures
demanded by a rapidly growing
city, and with every hill or cave over or
through which he might by any
possibility have roamed, while the many po=
ints
of interest which he wove
into his stories, such as Holiday Hill,
Jackson's Island, or Mark
Twain Cave, are now monuments to his geniu=
s.
Hannibal is glad of any
opportunity to do him honor as he had hono=
red
her.
So it has happened that the "old
timers" who went to school with Mark
or were with him on some of his usual
escapades have been honored
with large audiences whenever they were in=
a
reminiscent mood and
condescended to tell of their intimacy with
the ordinary boy who came to
be a very extraordinary humorist and whose
every boyish act is now seen
to have been indicative of what was to com=
e.
Like Aunt Becky and Mrs.
Clemens, they can now see that Mark was ha=
rdly
appreciated when he lived
here and that the things he did as a boy a=
nd
was whipped for doing were
not all bad, after all. So they have been =
in
no hesitancy about drawing
out the bad things he did as well as the g=
ood
in their efforts to get
a "Mark Twain" story, all incide=
nts
being viewed in the light of his
present fame, until the volume of
"Twainiana" is already considerable
and growing in proportion as the "old
timers" drop away and the stories
are retold second and third hand by their
descendants. With some
seventy-three years and living in a villa
instead of a house, he is a
fair target, and let him incorporate,
copyright, or patent himself as
he will, there are some of his
"works" that will go swooping up Hannibal
chimneys as long as graybeards gather about
the fires and begin with,
"I've heard father tell," or
possibly, "Once when I." The Mrs. Clemens
referred to is my mother--WAS my mother.
And here is another extract from a Hannibal
paper, of date twenty days
ago:
Miss Becca Blankenship died at the home of
William Dickason, 408 Rock
Street, at 2.30 o'clock yesterday afternoo=
n,
aged 72 years. The deceased
was a sister of "Huckleberry Finn,&qu=
ot;
one of the famous characters in Mark
Twain's TOM SAWYER. She had been a member =
of
the Dickason family--the
housekeeper--for nearly forty-five years, =
and
was a highly respected
lady. For the past eight years she had bee=
n an
invalid, but was as
well cared for by Mr. Dickason and his fam=
ily
as if she had been a near
relative. She was a member of the Park
Methodist Church and a Christian
woman.
I remember her well. I have a picture of h=
er
in my mind which was graven
there, clear and sharp and vivid, sixty-th=
ree
years ago. She was at that
time nine years old, and I was about eleve=
n. 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 fr=
ock.
She was crying. What it
was about I have long ago forgotten. But it
was the tears that preserved
the picture for me, no doubt. She was a go=
od
child, I can say that for
her. She knew me nearly seventy years ago.=
Did
she forget me, in
the course of time? I think not. If she had
lived in Stratford in
Shakespeare's time, would she have forgott=
en
him? Yes. For he was never
famous during his lifetime, he was utterly
obscure in Stratford, and
there wouldn't be any occasion to remember=
him
after he had been dead a
week.
"Injun Joe," "Jimmy Finn,&q=
uot;
and "General Gaines" were prominent and very
intemperate ne'er-do-weels in Hannibal two
generations ago. Plenty of
grayheads there remember them to this day,=
and
can tell you about them.
Isn't it curious that two "town
drunkards" and one half-breed loafer
should leave behind them, in a remote
Missourian village, a fame a
hundred times greater and several hundred
times more particularized in
the matter of definite facts than Shakespe=
are
left behind him in the
village where he had lived the half of his
lifetime?