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 box which you caused to fly
open by some concealed device he would infer a spring, and would hunt
for it and find it. Now an uncle of mine had an old horse who used to
get into the closed lot where the corn-crib was and dishonestly take
the corn. I got the punishment myself, as it was supposed that I had
heedlessly failed to insert the wooden pin which kept the gate closed.
These persistent punishments fatigued me; they also caused me to infer
the existence of a culprit, somewhere; so I hid myself and watched the
gate. Presently the horse came and pulled the pin out with his teeth
and went in. Nobody taught him that; he had observed—then thought it
out for himself. His process did not differ from Edison’s; he put this
and that together and drew an inference—and the 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 town, he sees the man enter a
house; he infers that that is the new home, and follows to inquire.
Here, now, is the experience of a gull, as related by a naturalist. The
scene is a Scotch fishing village where the gulls were kindly treated.
This particular gull visited a cottage; was fed; came next day and was
fed again; came into the house, next time, and ate with the family;
kept on doing this almost daily, thereafter. But, once the gull was
away on a journey for a few days, and when it returned the house was
vacant. Its friends had removed to a village three miles distant.
Several months later it saw the head of the family on the street there,
followed him home, entered the house without excuse or apology, and
became a daily guest again. Gulls do not rank high mentally, but this
one had memory and the reasoning faculty, you see, and applied them
Edisonially.
Y.M. Yet it was not an Edison and couldn’t be developed into one.
O.M. Perhaps not. Could you?
Y.M. That is neither here nor there. Go on.
O.M. If Edison were in trouble and a stranger helped him out of it and
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 about 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 part 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, instead of
flying the near way across lots. The distance covered was four hundred
yards. The same dog was the culprit; he had the young bird again, and
once more he had to give it up. Now the mother bird had reasoned it all
out: since the stranger had helped her once, she inferred that he would
do it again; she knew where to find him, and she went upon her errand
with confidence. Her mental processes were what Edison’s would have
been. She put this and that together—and that is all that thought _is
_—and out of them built her logical arrangement of inferences. Edison
couldn’t have 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 horse, the dog, the parrot, the
macaw, the mocking-bird, and many others. The elephant whose mate fell
into a pit, and who dumped dirt and rubbish into the pit till bottom
was raised high enough to enable the captive to step out, was equipped
with the reasoning quality. I conceive that all animals that can learn
things through teaching and drilling have to know how to observe, and
put this and that together and draw an inference—the process of
thinking. Could you teach an idiot the manual of arms, and to advance,
retreat, and go through complex field maneuvers at the word of command?
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 surely 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 and 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; and in one or two high mental
qualities she is above the reach of any man, 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 those creatures put their
this’s and thats together just as Edison would have done it and drew
the same inferences that he would have drawn. Their mental machinery
was just like his, also its manner of working. Their equipment was as
inferior to the Strasburg clock, but that is the only difference—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 call 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 two or three of her
phrases. We know when she is saying, “I have laid an egg”; we know when
she is saying to the chicks, “Run here, dears, I’ve found a worm”; we
know what she is saying when she voices a warning: “Quick! hurry!
gather yourselves under mamma, there’s a hawk coming!” We understand
the cat when she stretches herself out, purring with 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 bird or other animal that we domesticate and observe. The clearness
and exactness of the few of the hen’s speeches which we understand is
argument that she can communicate to her kind a hundred things which we
cannot 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 little 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 largest capitol or cathedral in the
world compared to man’s size. No savage race has produced architects
who could approach the ant in genius or culture. No civilized race has
produced architects who could plan a house better for the uses proposed
than can hers. Her house contains a throne-room; nurseries for her
young; granaries; apartments for her soldiers, her workers, etc.; and
they and the multifarious halls and corridors which communicate with
them are arranged and distributed with an educated and experienced eye
for convenience and adaptability.
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 has 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 hard 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 feet square, plants it, weeds
it, cultivates it, gathers the crop and stores it away.
Y.M. Instinct, all the same.
O.M. The ant discriminates between friend and stranger. Sir John
Lubbock took ants from two different nests, made them drunk with
whiskey and laid them, unconscious, by one of the nests, near some
water. Ants from the nest came and examined and discussed these
disgraced creatures, then carried their friends home and threw the
strangers overboard. Sir John repeated the experiment a number of
times. For a time the sober ants did as they had done at first—carried
their friends home and threw the strangers overboard. But finally they
lost patience, seeing that their reformatory efforts went for nothing,
and threw both friends and strangers overboard. Come—is this instinct,
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
petrified 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 result of habit; it has all the
look of reflection, thought, putting this and that together, as you
phrase it. I believe it was thought.
O.M. I will give you another instance of thought. Franklin had a cup of
sugar on a table in his room. The ants got at it. He tried several
preventives; and ants rose superior to them. Finally he contrived one
which shut off access—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 let go and fell down into
it! Was that instinct—thought petrified by ages of inherited habit?
Y.M. No, I don’t believe it was. I believe it was a newly 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 proved by many
experiments that an ant knows a stranger ant of her own species 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 hundred 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 an affectionate welcome. How are these recognitions
made? Not by color, for painted ants were recognized. Not by smell, for
ants that had been dipped in chloroform were recognized. Not by speech
and not by antennae signs nor contacts, for the drunken and motionless
ants were recognized and the friend discriminated from the stranger.
The ants were all of the same species, therefore the friends had to be
recognized by form and feature—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 show 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, recombines, and so proceeds, stage by
stage, to far results—from the teakettle to the ocean greyhound’s
complex engine; from personal labor to slave labor; from wigwam to
palace; from the capricious chase to agriculture and stored food; from
nomadic life to stable government and concentrated authority; from
incoherent hordes to massed armies. The ant has observation, the
reasoning faculty, and the preserving adjunct of a prodigious memory;
she has duplicated man’s development and the 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 do 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 absolutely no intellectual frontier
separating Man and the Unrevealed Creatures?
O.M. That is what you are required to concede. There is no such
frontier—there is no way to get around that. Man has a finer and more
capable machine in him than those others, but it is the same machine
and works in the same way. And neither he nor those others can command
the machine—it is strictly automatic, independent of control, works
when it pleases, and when it doesn’t please, it can’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 kind.
O.M. That is about the state of it—intellectuality. There are
pronounced limitations on both sides. We can’t learn to understand much
of their language, but the dog, the elephant, etc., learn to understand
a very great deal of ours. To that extent they are our superiors. On
the other hand, they can’t learn reading, writing, 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 them.
O.M. What makes you think that?
Y.M. Now look here—let’s call a halt. I have stood the other infamies
and insanities and that is enough; I am not going to have man and the
other animals put on the same level morally.
O.M. I wasn’t going to hoist man up to that.
Y.M. This is too much! I think it is not right to jest about such
things.
O.M. I am not jesting, I am merely reflecting a plain and simple
truth—and without uncharitableness. The fact that man knows right from
wrong proves his _intellectual _superiority to the other creatures; but
the fact that he can _do _wrong proves his _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 Will?
O.M. That there is no such thing. Did the man possess it who gave the
old woman his last shilling and trudged home in the storm?
Y.M. He had the choice between succoring the old woman and leaving her
to suffer. Isn’t it so?
O.M. Yes, there was a choice to be made, between bodily comfort on the
one hand and the comfort of the spirit on the other. The body made a
strong appeal, of course—the body would be quite sure to do that; the
spirit made a counter appeal. A choice had to be made between the two
appeals, and was made. Who or what determined that choice?
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 Will: his temperament, his
training, and the daily influences which had molded him and made him
what he was, _compelled _him to rescue the 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 _fact_. 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 process: _the critical
ability to determine which of two things is nearest right and just.
Y.M. Make the difference clear, please.
O.M. The mind can freely _select, choose, point out _the right and 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 around 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 matter. 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 freely act upon the one or the
other, according to its make, and be quite indifferent to the _mind’s
_feeling concerning the matter—that is, _would _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 thing?
O.M. His temperament and training will decide what he shall do, and he
will do it; he cannot help himself, he has no authority over the
matter. Wasn’t it right for David to go out and slay Goliath?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. Then it would have been equally _right _for any one else to do it?
Y.M. Certainly.
O.M. Then it would have been _right _for a born coward to attempt it?
Y.M. It would—yes.
O.M. You know that no born coward ever would have attempted it, don’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 determining that it would be _right
_to try it?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. Then if by reason of his inborn cowardice 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 contend 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_. But it has nothing to do with
_intellectual perceptions of right and wrong, _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 obeys, 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-called material thing that
you want is merely a symbol: you want it not for _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 sight, 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 in 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 failed of that, the whole of
its value was gone. There are no _material _values; 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 value 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 fail of that, you discover that
its value is gone. There is that pathetic tale of the man who labored
like a slave, unresting, unsatisfied, until he had accumulated a
fortune, and was happy over it, jubilant about it; then in a single
week a pestilence swept away all whom he held dear and left him
desolate. His money’s value was gone. He realized that his joy in it
came not from the money itself, but from the spiritual contentment he
got out of his family’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 things,
little or big, majestic or trivial—there are no exceptions. Crowns,
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 authorities, jurisdictions, and
responsibilities of its own, and when he is 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 true. 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 common 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 admires it.
O.M. So _you _divide the Me yourself. Everybody does; everybody must.
What, then, definitely, is the Me?
Y.M. I think it must consist of just those two parts—the body and the
mind.
O.M. You think so? If you say “I believe the world is round,” who is
the “I” that is speaking?
Y.M. The mind.
O.M. If you say “I grieve for the loss of my father,” who is the “I”?
Y.M. The mind.
O.M. Is the mind exercising an intellectual function when it examines
and accepts the evidence that the world is round?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. Is it exercising an intellectual function 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 affected by physical influences?
Y.M. No.
O.M. Does the mind remain sober with the body is drunk?
Y.M. Well—no.
O.M. There _is _a physical effect present, then?
Y.M. It looks like it.
O.M. A cracked skull has resulted in a crazy mind. Why should it 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, how do you know it?
Y.M. I feel it.
O.M. But you do not feel it until a nerve reports the hurt to the
brain. Yet the brain is the seat of the mind, is it not?
Y.M. I think so.
O.M. But isn’t spiritual enough to learn what is happening in 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 again 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 this 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,”
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 serve 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 ones acting automatically in accordance with the impulses of an
interior Master who is built out of born-temperament and an
accumulation of multitudinous outside influences and trainings; a
machine whose _one _function is to secure the spiritual contentment of
the Master, be his desires good or be they evil; a machine whose Will
is absolute and must be obeyed, and always _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, lodged in a man, which compels the
man to content its desires. It may be called 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.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 than 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 man’s good.
O.M. True. Trained or untrained, it cares nothing for the man’s good,
and never concerns itself about it.
Y.M. It seems to be an _immoral _force seated in the man’s moral
constitution.
O.M. It is a _colorless _force seated in the man’s moral constitution.
Let us call it an instinct—a blind, unreasoning instinct, which cannot
and does not distinguish between good morals and bad ones, and cares
nothing for results to the man provided its own contentment be secured;
and it will _always _secure that.
Y.M. It seeks money, and it probably considers 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 _advantage. In _all _cases it seeks
a _spiritual _contentment, let the _means _be what they may. Its
desires are determined by the man’s temperament—and it is lord over
that. Temperament, Conscience, Susceptibility, Spiritual Appetite, are,
in fact, the same thing. Have you ever heard of a person who cared
nothing for money?
Y.M. Yes. A scholar who would not leave his garret and his books to
take a place in a business house at a large salary.
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 endures solitude, hunger, cold,
and manifold perils, to content his autocrat, who prefers these things,
and prayer and contemplation, to money or to any show or luxury that
money can buy. Are there others?
Y.M. Yes. The artist, the poet, the scientist.
O.M. Their autocrat prefers the deep pleasures of these occupations,
either well paid or ill paid, to any others in the market, at 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 one set of Temperaments
seek the contentment of the spirit, and that alone; and this is exactly
the case with the other set. Neither set seeks anything _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 same 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 years, the Master inside of me
has half-intended to order me to set them to paper and publish them. Do
I have to tell you why the order has remained unissued, or can you
explain so simple a thing without my help?
Y.M. By your doctrine, it is simplicity itself: outside influences
moved your interior Master to give the order; stronger outside
influences deterred him. Without the outside influences, neither of
these impulses could ever have been born, since a person’s brain is
incapable or originating an idea within itself.
O.M. Correct. Go on.
Y.M. The matter of publishing or withholding is still in your Master’s
hands. If some day an outside influence shall determine him to publish,
he will give the order, and it will be obeyed.
O.M. That is correct. Well?
Y.M. Upon reflection I have arrived at the conviction that 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 form 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 out of man, it takes the pride
out of him, it takes the heroism out of him, it denies him all personal
credit, all applause; it not only degrades him to a machine, but allows
him no control over the machine; makes a mere coffee-mill of him, and
neither permits him to supply the coffee nor turn the crank, his sole
and piteously humble function being to grind coarse or fine, according
to his make, outside impulses doing the rest.
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, kindliness, 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 and yellow, and
makes several shades and tints of red by modifying the elemental red.
There are several elemental colors; they are all in the rainbow; out of
them we manufacture and name fifty shades of them. You have named the
elementals of the human rainbow, and also one _blend _—heroism, which
is made out of courage and magnanimity. Very well, then; which of these
elements does the possessor of it manufacture for himself? Is it
intellect?
Y.M. No.
O.M. Why?
Y.M. He is born with it.
O.M. Is it courage?
Y.M. No. He is born with it.
O.M. Is it majesty of build, beauty of countenance?
Y.M. No. They are birthrights.
O.M. Take those others—the elemental moral qualities—charity,
benevolence, magnanimity, kindliness; fruitful seeds, out of 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 make him claim glory,
praise, flattery, for every valuable thing he possesses—_borrowed
_finery, the whole of it; no rag of it earned by himself, not a detail
of it produced by his own labor. _You _make man a humbug; have I done
worse by him?
Y.M. You have made a machine of him.
O.M. Who devised that cunning and beautiful mechanism, a man’s hand?
Y.M. God.
O.M. Who devised the law by which it automatically hammers out of 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 works automatically, interests
itself in what it pleases, regardless of its will or desire, labors all
night when it likes, deaf to his appeals for mercy? God devised all
these things. _I_ have not made man a machine, God made him a machine.
I am merely calling attention to the fact, nothing more. Is it wrong to
call attention to the fact? Is it a crime?
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 him, ambitioned him to
higher and higher flights; in a word, made his life worth the living.
But by your scheme, all this is abolished; he is degraded to a machine,
he is a nobody, his noble prides wither to mere vanities; let him
strive as he may, he can never be any better than his humblest and
stupidest neighbor; he would never be cheerful again, his life would
not be worth the living.
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 with an unhappy temperament,
nothing can make him happy; if he is born with a happy temperament,
nothing can make him unhappy.
Y.M. What—not even a degrading and heart-chilling system of beliefs?
O.M. Beliefs? Mere beliefs? Mere convictions? They are powerless. 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; Adams has always been
cheerless, hopeless, despondent. As young fellows both tried country
journalism—and failed. Burgess didn’t seem to mind it; Adams couldn’t
smile, he could only mourn and groan over what had happened and torture
himself with vain regrets for not having done so and so instead of so
and so—_then _he would have succeeded. They tried the law—and failed.
Burgess remained happy—because he couldn’t help it. Adams was
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; Adams the reverse. And we do absolutely know
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; both have
been zealous Republicans; both have been zealous Mugwumps. Burgess has
always found happiness and Adams unhappiness in these several political
beliefs and in their migrations out of them. Both of these men have
been Presbyterians, Universalists, Methodists, Catholics—then
Presbyterians again, then Methodists again. Burgess has always found
rest in these excursions, and Adams unrest. They are trying Christian
Science, now, with the customary result, the inevitable result. No
political or religious belief can make Burgess unhappy or the other man
happy. I assure you it is purely a matter of temperament. Beliefs are
_acquirements_, temperaments are _born_; beliefs are subject to change,
nothing whatever can change temperament.
Y.M. You have instanced extreme temperaments.
O.M. Yes, the half-dozen others are modifications of the extremes. But
the law is the same. Where the temperament is two-thirds happy, or
two-thirds unhappy, no political or religious beliefs can change the
proportions. The vast majority of temperaments are pretty equally
balanced; the intensities are absent, and this enables a nation to
learn to accommodate itself to its political and religious
circumstances and like them, be satisfied with them, at last prefer
them. Nations do not _think_, they only _feel_. They get their feelings
at second hand through their temperaments, not their brains. A nation
can be brought—by force of circumstances, not argument—to reconcile
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
Americans, the South Americans, the Japanese, the Chinese, the Hindus,
the Turks—a thousand wild and tame religions, every kind of government
that 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,
each despising all the others, each an ass and not suspecting it, each
proud of its fancied supremacy, each perfectly sure it is the pet of
God, each without undoubting confidence summoning Him to take command
in time of war, each surprised when He goes over to the enemy, but by
habit able to excuse it and resume compliments—in a word, the whole
human 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 human race cheerful? You know it
is. Considering what it can stand, and be happy, you do me too much
honor when you think that _I_ 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.