The last camp which we fell back upon was in a hollow near the village of Florida, where I was born—in Monroe County. Here we were warned, one day, that a Union colonel was sweeping down on us with a whole regiment at his heels. This looked decidedly serious. Our boys went apart and consulted; then we went back and told the other companies present that the war was a disappointment to us and we were going to disband. They were getting ready, themselves, to fall back on some place or other, and were only waiting for General Tom Harris, who was expected to arrive at any moment; so they tried to persuade us to wait a little while, but the majority of us said no, we were accustomed to falling back, and didn't need any of Tom Harris's help; we could get along perfectly well without him and save time too. So about half of our fifteen, including myself, mounted and left on the instant; the others yielded to persuasion and stayed—stayed through the war.

An hour later we met General Harris on the road, with two or three people in his company—his staff, probably, but we could not tell; none of them was in uniform; uniforms had not come into vogue among us yet. Harris ordered us back; but we told him there was a Union colonel coming with a whole regiment in his wake, and it looked as if there was going to be a disturbance; so we had concluded to go home. He raged a little, but it was of no use; our minds were made up. We had done our share; had killed one man, exterminated one army, such as it was; let him go and kill the rest, and that would end the war. I did not see that brisk young general again until last year; then he was wearing white hair and whiskers.

In time I came to know that Union colonel whose coming frightened me out of the war and crippled the Southern cause to that extent—General Grant. I came within a few hours of seeing him when he was as unknown as I was myself; at a time when anybody could have said, 'Grant?—Ulysses S. Grant? I do not remember hearing the name before.' It seems difficult to realise that there was once a time when such a remark could be rationally made; but there was, and I was within a few miles of the place and the occasion too, though proceeding in the other direction.

The thoughtful will not throw this war-paper of mine lightly aside as being valueless. It has this value: it is a not unfair picture of what went on in many and many a militia camp in the first months of the rebellion, when the green recruits were without discipline, without the steadying and heartening influence or trained leaders; when all their circumstances were new and strange, and charged with exaggerated terrors, and before the invaluable experience of actual collision in the field had turned them from rabbits into soldiers. If this side of the picture of that early day has not before been put into history, then history has been to that degree incomplete, for it had and has its rightful place there. There was more Bull Run material scattered through the early camps of this country than exhibited itself at Bull Run. And yet it learned its trade presently, and helped to fight the great battles later. I could have become a soldier myself, if I had waited. I had got part of it learned; I knew more about retreating than the man that invented retreating.

[1] It was always my impression that that was what the horse was there for, and I know that it was also the impression of at least one other of the command, for we talked about it at the time, and admired the military ingenuity of the device; but when I was out West three years ago I was told by Mr. A. G. Fuqua, a member of our company, that the horse was his, that the leaving him tied at the door was a matter of mere forgetfulness, and that to attribute it to intelligent invention was to give him quite too much credit. In support of his position, he called my attention to the suggestive fact that the artifice was not employed again. I had not thought of that before.



MEISTERSCHAFT

IN THREE ACTS [1]



DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

MR. STEPHENSON. MARGARET STEPHENSON. GEORGE FRANKLIN. ANNIE STEPHENSON. WILLIAM JACKSON. MRS. BLUMENTHAL, the Wirthin. GRETCHEN, Kellnerin



ACT I. SCENE I.

Scene of the play, the parlour of a small private dwelling in a village. (MARGARET discovered crocheting—has a pamphlet.)

MARGARET. (Solus.) Dear, dear! it's dreary enough, to have to study this impossible German tongue: to be exiled from home and all human society except a body's sister in order to do it, is just simply abscheulich. Here's only three weeks of the three months gone, and it seems like three years. I don't believe I can live through it, and I'm sure Annie can't. (Refers to her book, and rattles through, several times, like one memorising:) Entschuldigen Sie, mein Herr, konnen Sie mir vielleicht sagen, um wie viel Uhr der erste Zug nach Dresden abgeht? (Makes mistakes and corrects them.) I just hate Meisterschaft! We may see people; we can have society; yes, on condition that the conversation shall be in German, and in German only—every single word of it! Very kind—oh, very! when neither Annie nor I can put two words together, except as they are put together for us in Meisterschaft or that idiotic Ollendorff! (Refers to book, and memorises: Mein Bruder hat Ihren Herrn Vater nicht gesehen, als er gestern in dem Laden des deutschen Kaufmannes war.) Yes, we can have society, provided we talk German. What would conversation be like! If you should stick to Meisterschaft, it would change the subject every two minutes; and if you stuck to Ollendorff, it would be all about your sister's mother's good stocking of thread, or your grandfather's aunt's good hammer of the carpenter, and who's got it, and there an end. You couldn't keep up your interest in such topics. (Memorising: Wenn irgend moglich—mochte ich noch heute Vormittag Geschaftsfreunde zu treffen.) My mind is made up to one thing: I will be an exile, in spirit and in truth: I will see no one during these three months. Father is very ingenious—oh, very! thinks he is, anyway. Thinks he has invented a way to force us to learn to speak German. He is a dear good soul, and all that; but invention isn't his fach'. He will see. (With eloquent energy.) Why, nothing in the world shall—Bitte, konnen Sie mir vielleicht sagen, ob Herr Schmidt mit diesem Zuge angekommen ist? Oh, dear, dear George—three weeks! It seems a whole century since I saw him. I wonder if he suspects that I—that I—care for him—j-just a wee, wee bit? I believe he does. And I believe Will suspects that Annie cares for him a little, that I do. And I know perfectly well that they care for us. They agree with all our opinions, no matter what they are; and if they have a prejudice, they change it, as soon as they see how foolish it is. Dear George! at first he just couldn't abide cats; but now, why now he's just all for cats; he fairly welters in cats. I never saw such a reform. And it's just so with all his principles: he hasn't got one that he had before. Ah, if all men were like him, this world would—(Memorising: Im Gegentheil, mein Herr, dieser Stoff ist sehr billig. Bitte, sehen Sie sich nur die Qualitat an.) Yes, and what did they go to studying German for, if it wasn't an inspiration of the highest and purest sympathy? Any other explanation is nonsense—why, they'd as soon have thought of studying American history.

[Turns her back, buries herself in her pamphlet, first memorising aloud, until Annie enters, then to herself, rocking to and fro, and rapidly moving her lips, without uttering a sound.]

Enter ANNIE, absorbed in her pamphlet—does not at first see MARGARET.

ANNIE. (Memorising: Er liess mich gestern fruh rufen, und sagte mir dass er einen sehr unangenehmen Brief von Ihrem Lehrer erhalten hatte. Repeats twice aloud, then to herself, briskly moving her lips.)

M. (Still not seeing her sister.) Wie geht es Ihrem Herrn Schwiegervater? Es freut mich sehr dass Ihre Frau Mutter wieder wohl ist. (Repeats. Then mouths in silence.)

A. (Repeats her sentence a couple of times aloud; then looks up, working her lips, and discovers Margaret.) Oh, you here? (Running to her.) O lovey-dovey, dovey-lovey, I've got the gr-reatest news! Guess, guess, guess! You'll never guess in a hundred thousand million years—and more!

M. Oh, tell me, tell me, dearie; don't keep me in agony.

A. Well I will. What—do—you—think? They're here!

M. Wh-a-t! Who? When? Which? Speak!

A. Will and George!

M. Annie Alexandra Victoria Stephenson, what do you mean?

A. As sure as guns!

M. (Spasmodically embracing and kissing her.) 'Sh! don't use such language. O darling, say it again!

A. As sure as guns!

M. I don't mean that! Tell me again, that—

A. (Springing up and waltzing about the room.) They're here—in this very village—to learn German—for three months! Es sollte mich sehr freuen wenn Sie—

M. (Joining in the dance.) Oh, it's just too lovely for anything! (Unconsciously memorising:) Es ware mir lieb wenn Sie morgen mit mir in die Kirche gehen konnten, aber ich kann selbst nicht gehen, weil ich Sonntags gewohnlich krank bin. Juckhe!

A. (Finishing some unconscious memorising.)—morgen Mittag bei mir speisen konnten. Juckhe! Sit down and I'll tell you all I've heard. (They sit.) They're here, and under that same odious law that fetters us —our tongues, I mean; the metaphor's faulty, but no matter. They can go out, and see people, only on condition that they hear and speak German, and German only.

M. Isn't—that—too lovely!

A. And they're coming to see us!

M. Darling! (Kissing her.) But are you sure?

A. Sure as guns—Gatling guns!

M. 'Sh! don't, child, it's schrecklich! Darling—you aren't mistaken?

A. As sure as g—batteries! [They jump up and dance a moment—then—]

M. (With distress.) But, Annie dear!—we can't talk German—and neither can they!

A. (Sorrowfully.) I didn't think of that.

M. How cruel it is! What can we do?

A. (After a reflective pause, resolutely.) Margaret—we've got to.

M. Got to what?

A. Speak German.

M. Why, how, child?

A. (Contemplating her pamphlet with earnestness.) I can tell you one thing. Just give me the blessed privilege: just hinsetzen Will Jackson here in front of me, and I'll talk German to him as long as this Meisterschaft holds out to burn.

M. (Joyously.) Oh, what an elegant idea! You certainly have got a mind that's a mine of resources, if ever anybody had one.

A. I'll skin this Meisterschaft to the last sentence in it!

M. (With a happy idea.) Why Annie, it's the greatest thing in the world. I've been all this time struggling and despairing over these few little Meisterschaft primers: but as sure as you live, I'll have the whole fifteen by heart before this time day after to-morrow. See if I don't.

A. And so will I; and I'll trowel in a layer of Ollendorff mush between every couple of courses of Meisterschaft bricks. Juckhe!

M. Hoch! hoch! hoch!

A. Stoss an!

M. Juckhe! Wir werden gleich gute deutsche Schulerinnen werden! Juck—

A. —he!

M. Annie, when are they coming to see us? To-night?

A. No.

M. No? Why not? When are they coming? What are they waiting for? The idea! I never heard of such a thing! What do you—

A. (Breaking in.) Wait, wait, wait! give a body a chance. They have their reasons.

M. Reasons?—what reasons?

A. Well, now, when you stop and think, they're royal good ones. They've got to talk German when they come, haven't they? Of course. Well, they don't know any German but Wie befinden Sie sich, and Haben Sie gut geschlafen, and Vater unser, and Ich trinke lieber Bier als Wasser, and a few little parlour things like that; but when it comes to talking, why, they don't know a hundred and fifteen German words, put them all together.

M. Oh, I see.

A. So they're going to neither eat, sleep, smoke, nor speak the truth till they've crammed home the whole fifteen Meisterschafts auswendig!

M. Noble hearts!

A. They've given themselves till day after to-morrow, half-past 7 P.M., and then they'll arrive here loaded.

M. Oh, how lovely, how gorgeous, how beautiful! Some think this world is made of mud; I think it's made of rainbows. (Memorising.) Wenn irgend moglich, so mochte ich noch heute Vormittag dort ankommen, da es mir sehr daran gelegen ist—Annie, I can learn it just like nothing!

A. So can I. Meisterschaft's mere fun—I don't see how it ever could have seemed difficult. Come! We can't be disturbed here; let's give orders that we don't want anything to eat for two days; and are absent to friends, dead to strangers, and not at home even to nougat peddlers—

M. Schon! and we'll lock ourselves into our rooms, and at the end of two days, whosoever may ask us a Meisterschaft question shall get a Meisterschaft answer—and hot from the bat!

BOTH. (Reciting in unison.) Ich habe einen Hut fur meinen Sohn, ein Paar Handschuhe fur meinen Bruder, und einen Kamm fur mich selbst gekauft. [Exeunt.]

Enter Mrs. BLUMENTHAL, the Wirthin.

WIRTHIN. (Solus.) Ach, die armen Madchen, sie hassen die deutsche Sprache, drum ist es ganz und gar unmoglich dass sie sie je lernen konnen. Es bricht mir ja mein Herz ihre Kummer uber die Studien anzusehen.... Warum haben sie den Entchluss gefasst in ihren Zimmern ein Paar Tagezu bleiben?... Ja—gewiss—das versteht sich; sie sind entmuthigt—arme Kinder!(A knock at the door.) Herein!

Enter GRETCHEN with card.

GR. Er ist schon wieder da, und sagt dass er nur Sie sehen will. (Hands the card.) Auch-WIRTHIN. Gott im Himmel—der Vater der Madchen? (Puts the card in her pocket.) Er wunscht die Tochter nicht zu treffen? Ganz recht; also, Du schweigst.

GR. Zu Befehl. WIRTHIN. Lass ihn hereinkommen.

GR. Ja, Frau Wirthin! [Exit GRETCHEN.]

WIRTHIN. (Solus.) Ah—jetzt muss ich ihm die Wahrheit offenbaren.

Enter Mr. STEPHENSON.

STEPHENSON. Good-morning, Mrs. Blumenthal—keep your seat, keep your seat, please. I'm only here for a moment—merely to get your report, you know. (Seating himself.) Don't want to see the girls—poor things, they'd want to go home with me. I'm afraid I couldn't have the heart to say no. How's the German getting along?

WIRTHIN. N-not very well; I was afraid you would ask me that. You see, they hate it, they don't take the least interest in it, and there isn't anything to incite them to an interest, you see. And so they can't talk at all.

S. M-m. That's bad. I had an idea that they'd get lonesome, and have to seek society; and then, of course, my plan would work, considering the cast-iron conditions of it.

WIRTHIN. But it hasn't, so far. I've thrown nice company in their way —I've done my very best, in every way I could think of—but it's no use; they won't go out, and they won't receive anybody. And a body can't blame them; they'd be tongue-tied—couldn't do anything with a German conversation. Now, when I started to learn German—such poor German as I know—the case was very different: my intended was a German. I was to live among Germans the rest of my life; and so I had to learn. Why, bless my heart! I nearly lost the man the first time he asked me—I thought he was talking about the measles. They were very prevalent at the time. Told him I didn't want any in mine. But I found out the mistake, and I was fixed for him next time.... Oh yes, Mr. Stephenson, a sweetheart's a prime incentive.

S. (Aside.) Good soul! she doesn't suspect that my plan is a double scheme—includes a speaking knowledge of German, which I am bound they shall have, and the keeping them away from those two young fellows —though if I had known that those boys were going off for a year's foreign travel, I—however, the girls would never learn that language at home; they're here, and I won't relent—they've got to stick the three months out. (Aloud.) So they are making poor progress? Now tell me—will they learn it—after a sort of fashion, I mean—in three months?

WIRTHIN. Well, now, I'll tell you the only chance I see. Do what I will, they won't answer my German with anything but English; if that goes on, they'll stand stock-still. Now I'm willing to do this: I'll straighten everything up, get matters in smooth running order, and day after to-morrow I'll go to bed sick, and stay sick three weeks.

S. Good! You are an angel? I see your idea. The servant girl—

WIRTHIN. That's it; that's my project. She doesn't know a word of English. And Gretchen's a real good soul, and can talk the slates off a roof. Her tongue's just a flutter-mill. I'll keep my room—just ailing a little—and they'll never see my face except when they pay their little duty-visits to me, and then I'll say English disorders my mind. They'll be shut up with Gretchen's windmill, and she'll just grind them to powder. Oh, they'll get a start in the language—sort of a one, sure's you live. You come back in three weeks.

S. Bless you, my Retterin! I'll be here to the day! Get ye to your sick-room—you shall have treble pay. (Looking at watch.) Good! I can just catch my train. Leben Sie wohl! [Exit.]

WIRTHIN. Leben Sie wohl! mein Herr!



ACT II. SCENE I.

Time, a couple of days later. The girls discovered with their work and primers.

ANNIE. Was fehlt der Wirthin?

MARGARET. Das weiss ich nicht. Sie ist schon vor zwei Tagen ins Bett gegangen—

A. My! how fliessend you speak!

M. Danke schon—und sagte dass sie nicht wohl sei.

A. Good? Oh no, I don't mean that! no—only lucky for us—glucklich, you know I mean because it'll be so much nicer to have them all to ourselves.

M. Oh, naturlich! Ja! Dass ziehe ich durchaus vor. Do you believe your Meisterschaft will stay with you, Annie?

A. Well, I know it is with me—every last sentence of it; and a couple of hods of Ollendorff, too, for emergencies. Maybe they'll refuse to deliver—right off—at first, you know—der Verlegenheit wegen—aber ich will sie spater herausholen—when I get my hand in—und vergisst Du das nicht!

M. Sei nicht grob, Liebste. What shall we talk about first—when they come?

A. Well—let me see. There's shopping—and—all that about the trains, you know—and going to church—and—buying tickets to London, and Berlin, and all around—and all that subjunctive stuff about the battle in Afghanistan, and where the American was said to be born, and so on—and —and ah—oh, there's so many things—I don't think a body can choose beforehand, because you know the circumstances and the atmosphere always have so much to do in directing a conversation, especially a German conversation, which is only a kind of an insurrection, anyway. I believe it's best to just depend on Prov—(Glancing at watch, and gasping.) —half-past—seven!

M. Oh, dear, I'm all of a tremble! Let's get something ready, Annie! (Both fall nervously to reciting): Entschuldigen Sie, mein Herr, konnen Sie mir vielleicht sagen wie ich nach dem norddeutschen Bahnhof gehe? (They repeat it several times, losing their grip and mixing it all up.)

BOTH. Herein! Oh, dear! O der heilige—

Enter GRETCHEN.

GRETCHEN (Ruffled and indignant.) Entschuldigen Sie, meine gnadigsten Fraulein, es sind zwei junge rasende Herren draussen, die herein wollen, aber ich habe ihnen geschworen dass—(Handing the cards.)

M. Due liebe Zeit, they're here! And of course down goes my back hair! Stay and receive them, dear, while I—(Leaving.)

A. I—alone? I won't! I'll go with you! (To GR.) Lassen Sie die Herren naher treten; und sagen Sie ihnen dass wir gleich zuruckkommen werden. [Exit.]

GR. (Solus.) Was! Sie freuen sich daruber? Und ich sollte wirklich diese Blodsinnigen, dies grobe Rindvieh hereinlassen? In den hulflosen Umstanden meiner gnadigen jungen Damen?—Unsinn! (Pause—thinking.) Wohlan! Ich werde sie mal beschutzen! Sollte man nicht glauben, dass sie einen Sparren zu viel hatten? (Tapping her skull significantly.) Was sie mir doch Alles gesagt haben! Der Eine: Guten Morgen! wie geht es Ihrem Herrn Schwiegervater? Du liebe Zeit! Wie sollte ich einen Schwiegervater haben konnen! Und der Andere: 'Es thut mir sehr leid dass Ihrer Herr Vater meinen Bruder nicht gesehen hat, als er doch gestern in dem Laden des deutschen Kaufmannes war!' Potztausendhimmelsdonnerwetter! Oh, ich war ganz rasend! Wie ich aber rief: 'Meine Herren, ich kenne Sie nicht, und Sie kennen meinen Vater nicht, wissen Sie, denn er ist schon lange durchgebrannt, und geht nicht beim Tage in einen Laden hinein, wissen Sie—und ich habe keinen Schwiegervater, Gott sei Dank, werde auch nie einen kriegen, werde uberhaupt, wissen Sie, ein solches Ding nie haben, nie dulden, nie ausstehen: warum greifen Sie ein Madchen an, das nur Unschuld kennt, das Ihnen nie Etwas zu Leide gethan hat?' Dann haben sie sich beide die Finger in die Ohren gesteckt und gebetet: 'Allmachtiger Gott! Erbarme Dich unser?' (Pauses.) Nun, ich werde schon diesen Schurken Einlass gonnen, aber ich werde ein Auge mit ihnen haben, damit sie sich nicht wie reine Teufel geberden sollen. [Exit, grumbling and shaking her head.]

Enter WILLIAM and GEORGE.

W. My land, what a girl! and what an incredible gift of gabble!—kind of patent climate-proof compensation-balance self-acting automatic Meisterschaft—touch her button, and br-r-r! away she goes!

GEO. Never heard anything like it; tongue journalled on ball-bearings! I wonder what she said; seemed to be swearing, mainly.

W. (After mumbling Meisterschaft a while.) Look here, George, this is awful—come to think—this project: we can't talk this frantic language.

GEO. I know it, Will, and it is awful; but I can't live without seeing Margaret—I've endured it as long as I can. I should die if I tried to hold out longer—and even German is preferable to death.

W. (Hesitatingly.) Well, I don't know; it's a matter of opinion.

GEO. (Irritably.) It isn't a matter of opinion either. German is preferable to death.

W. (Reflectively.) Well, I don't know—the problem is so sudden—but I think you may be right: some kinds of death. It is more than likely that a slow, lingering—well, now, there in Canada in the early times a couple of centuries ago, the Indians would take a missionary and skin him, and get some hot ashes and boiling water and one thing and another, and by-and-by that missionary—well, yes, I can see that, by-and-by, talking German could be a pleasant change for him.

GEO. Why, of course. Das versteht sich; but you have to always think a thing out, or you're not satisfied. But let's not go to bothering about thinking out this present business; we're here, we're in for it; you are as moribund to see Annie as I am to see Margaret; you know the terms: we've got to speak German. Now stop your mooning and get at your Meisterschaft; we've got nothing else in the world.

W. Do you think that'll see us through?

GEO. Why it's got to. Suppose we wandered out of it and took a chance at the language on our own responsibility, where the nation would we be! Up a stump, that's where. Our only safety is in sticking like wax to the text.

W. But what can we talk about?

GEO. Why, anything that Meisterschaft talks about. It ain't our affair.

W. I know; but Meisterschaft talks about everything.

GEO. And yet don't talk about anything long enough for it to get embarrassing. Meisterschaft is just splendid for general conversation.

W. Yes, that's so; but it's so blamed general! Won't it sound foolish?

GEO. Foolish! Why, of course; all German sounds foolish.

W. Well, that is true; I didn't think of that.

GEO. Now, don't fool around any more. Load up; load up; get ready. Fix up some sentences; you'll need them in two minutes new. [They walk up and down, moving their lips in dumb-show memorising.]

W. Look here—when we've said all that's in the book on a topic, and want to change the subject, how can we say so?—how would a German say it?

GEO. Well, I don't know. But you know when they mean 'Change cars,' they say Umsteigen. Don't you reckon that will answer?

W. Tip-top! It's short and goes right to the point; and it's got a business whang to it that's almost American. Umsteigen!—change subject! —why, it's the very thing!

GEO. All right, then, you umsteigen—for I hear them coming.

Enter the girls.

A. to W. (With solemnity.) Guten Morgen, mein Herr, es freut mich sehr, Sie zu sehen.

W. Guten Morgen, mein Fraulein, es freut mich sehr Sie zu sehen.

[MARGARET and GEORGE repeat the same sentences. Then, after an embarrassing silence, MARGARET refers to her book and says:]

M. Bitte, meine Herren, setzen Sie sich.

THE GENTLEMEN. Danke schon.[The four seat themselves in couples, the width of the stage apart, and the two conversations begin. The talk is not flowing—at any rate at first; there are painful silences all along. Each couple worry out a remark and a reply: there is a pause of silent thinking, and then the other couple deliver themselves.]

W. Haben Sie meinen Vater in dem Laden meines Bruders nicht gesehen?

A. Nein, mein Herr, ich habe Ihren Herrn Vater in dem Laden Ihres Herrn Bruders nicht gesehen.

GEO. Waren Sie gestern Abend im Koncert, oder im Theater?

M. Nein, ich war gestern Abend nicht im Koncert, noch im Theater, ich war gestern Abend zu Hause.[General break-down—long pause.]

W. Ich store doch nicht etwa?

A. Sie storen mich durchaus nicht.

GEO. Bitte, lassen Sie sich nicht von mir storen.

M. Aber ich bitte Sie, Sie storen mich durchaus nicht.

W. (To both girls.) Wenn wir Sie storen so gehen wir gleich wieder.

A. O, nein! Gewiss, nein!

M. Im Gegentheil, es freut uns sehr, Sie zu sehen, alle beide.

W. Schon!

GEO. Gott sei dank!

M. (Aside.) It's just lovely!

A. (Aside.) It's like a poem. [Pause.]

W. Umsteigen!

M. Um—welches?

W. Umsteigen.

GEO. Auf English, change cars—oder subject.

BOTH GIRLS. Wie schon!

W. Wir haben uns die Freiheit genommen, bei Ihnen vorzusprechen.

A. Sie sind sehr gutig.

GEO. Wir wollten uns erkundigen, wie Sie sich befanden.

M. Ich bin Ihnen sehr verbunden—meine Schwester auch.

W. Meine Frau lasst sich Ihnen bestens empfehlen.

A. Ihre Frau?

W. (Examining his book.) Vielleicht habe ich mich geirrt. (Shows the place.) Nein, gerade so sagt das Buch.

A. (Satisfied.) Ganz recht. Aber—

W. Bitte empfehlen Sie mich Ihrem Herrn Bruder.

A. Ah, das ist viel besser—viel besser. (Aside.) Wenigstens es ware viel besser wenn ich einen Bruder hatte.

GEO. Wie ist es Ihnen gegangen, seitdem ich das Vergnugen hatte, Sie anderswo zu sehen?

M. Danke bestens, ich befinde mich gewohnlich ziemlich wohl.

[GRETCHEN slips in with a gun, and listens.]

GEO. (Still to Margaret.) Befindet sich Ihre Frau Gemahlin wohl?

GR. (Raising hands and eyes.) Frau Gemahlin—heiliger Gott! [Is like to betray herself with her smothered laughter, and glides out.]

M. Danke sehr, meine Frau ist ganz wohl. [Pause.]

W. Durfen wir vielleicht—umsteigen?

THE OTHERS. Gut!

GEO. (Aside.) I feel better, now. I'm beginning to catch on. (Aloud.) Ich mochte gern morgen fruh einige Einkaufe machen und wurde Ihnen seht verbunden sein, wenn Sie mir den Gefallen thaten, mir die Namen der besten hiesigen Firmen aufzuschreiben.

M. (Aside.) How sweet!

W. (Aside.) Hang it, I was going to say that! That's one of the noblest things in the book.

A. Ich mochte Ihnen gern begleiten, aber es ist mir wirklich heute Morgen ganz unmoglich auszugehen. (Aside.) It's getting as easy as 9 times 7 is 46.

M. Sagen Sie dem Brieftrager, wenn's gefallig ist, er, mochte Ihnen den eingeschriebenen Brief geben lassen.

W. Ich wurde Ihnen sehr verbunden sein, wenn Sie diese Schachtel fur mich nach der Post tragen wurden, da mir sehr daran liegt einen meiner Geschaftsfreunde in dem Laden des deutschen Kaufmanns heute Abend treffen zu konnen. (Aside.) All down but nine; set'm up on the other alley!

A. Aber, Herr Jackson! Sie haven die Satze gemischt. Es ist unbegreiflich wie Sie das haben thun konnen. Zwischen Ihrem ersten Theil und Ihrem letzten Theil haben Sie ganz funfzig Seiten ubergeschlagen! Jetzt bin ich ganz verloren. Wie kann man reden, wenn man seinen Platz durchaus nicht wieder finden kann?

W. Oh, bitte, verzeihen Sie; ich habe das wirklich nicht beabsichtigt.

A. (Mollified.) Sehr wohl, lassen Sie gut sein. Aber thun Sie es nicht wieder. Sie mussen ja doch einraumen, das solche Dinge unertragliche Verwirrung mit sich fuhren.

[GRETCHEN slips in again with her gun.]

W. Unzweifelhaft haben Sic Recht, meine holdselige Landsmannin.... Umsteigen!

[As GEORGE gets fairly into the following, GRETCHEN draws a bead on him, and lets drive at the close, but the gun snaps.]

GEO. Glauben Sie dass ich ein hubsches Wohnzimmer fur mich selbst und ein kleines Schlafzimmer fur meinen Sohn in diesem Hotel fur funfzehn Mark die Woche bekommen kann, oder, wurden Sie mir rathen, in einer Privatwohnung Logis zu nehmen? (Aside.) That's a daisy!

GR. (Aside.) Schade! [She draws her charge and reloads.]

M. Glauben Sie nicht Sie werden besser thun bei diesem Wetter zu Hause zu bleiben?

A. Freilich glaube ich, Herr Franklin, Sie werden sich erkalten, wenn Sie bei diesem unbestandigen Wetter ohne Ueberrock ausgehen.

GR. (Relieved—aside.) So? Man redet von Ausgehen. Das klingt schon besser. [Sits.]

W. (To A.) Wie theuer haben Sie das gekauft? [Indicating a part of her dress.]

A. Das hat achtzehn Mark gekostet.

W. Das ist sehr theuer.

GEO. Ja, obgleich dieser Stoff wunderschon ist und das Muster sehr geschmackvoll und auch das Vorzuglichste dass es in dieser Art gibt, so ist es doch furchtbat theuer fur einen solcehn Artikel.

M. (Aside.) How sweet is this communion of soul with soul!

A. Im Gegentheil, mein Herr, das ist sehr billig. Sehen Sie sich nur die Qualitat an.

[They all examine it.]

GEO. Moglicherweise ist es das allerneuste das man in diesem Stoff hat; aber das Muster gefallt mir nicht.

[Pause.]

W. Umsteigen!

A. Welchen Hund haben Sie? Haben Sie den hubschen Hund des Kaufmanns, oder den hasslichen Hund der Urgrossmutter des Lehrlings des bogenbeinigen Zimmermanns?

W. (Aside.) Oh, come, she's ringing in a cold deck on us: that's Ollendorff.

GEO. Ich habe nicht den Hund des—des—(Aside.) Stuck! That's no Meisterschaft; they don't play fair. (Aloud.) Ich habe nicht den Hund des—des—In unserem Buche leider, gibt es keinen Hund; daher, ob ich auch gern von solchen Thieren sprechen mochte, ist es mir doch unmoglich, weil ich nicht vorbereitet bin. Entschuldigen Sie, meine Damen.

GR. (Aside) Beim Teufel, sie sind alle blodsinnig geworden. In meinem Leben habe ich nie ein so narrisches, verfluchtes, verdammtes Gesprach gehort.

W. Bitte, umsteigen.

[Run the following rapidly through.]

M. (Aside.) Oh, I've flushed an easy batch! (Aloud.) Wurden Sie mir erlauben meine Reisetasche heir hinzustellen?

GR. (Aside.) Wo ist seine Reisetasche? Ich sehe keine.

W. Bitte sehr.

GEO. Ist meine Reisetasche Ihnen im Wege?

GR. (Aside.) Und wo ist seine Reisetasche?

A. Erlauben Sie mir Sie von meiner Reisetasche zu bereien.

GR. (Aside.) Du Esel!

W. Ganz und gar nicht. (To Geo.) Es ist sehr schwul in diesem Coupe.

GR. (Aside.) Coupe.

GEO. Sie haben Recht. Erlauben Sie mir, gefalligst, das Fenster zu offnen. Ein wenig Luft wurde uns gut thun.

M. Wir fahren sehr rasch.

A. Haben Sie den Namen jener Station gehort?

W. Wie lange halten wir auf dieser Station an?

GEO. Ich reise nach Dresden, Schaffner. Wo muss ich umsteigen?

GR. (Aside.) Sie sind ja alle ganz und gar verruckt. Man denke sich sie glauben dass sie auf der Eisenbahn reisen.

GEO. (Aside, to William.) Now brace up; pull all your confidence together, my boy, and we'll try that lovely goodbye business a flutter. I think it's about the gaudiest thing in the book, if you boom it right along and don't get left on a base. It'll impress the girls. (Aloud.) Lassen Sie uns gehen: es ist schon sehr spat, und ich muss morgen ganz fruh aufstehen.

GR. (Aside—grateful.) Gott sei Dank dass sie endlich gehen.

[Sets her gun aside.]

W. (To Geo.) Ich danke Ihnen hoflichst fur die Ehre die Sie mir erweisen, aber ich kann nicht langer bleiben.

GEO. (To W.) Entschuldigen Sie mich gutigst, aber ich kann wirklich nicht langer bleiben.

[GRETCHEN looks on stupefied.]

W. (To Geo.) Ich habe schon eine Einladung angenommen; ich kann wirklich nicht langer bleiben.

[GRETCHEN fingers her gun again.]

GEO. (To W.) Ich muss gehen.

W. (To GEO.) Wie! Sie wollen schon wieder gehen? Sie sind ja eben erst gekommen.

M. (Aside.) It's just music!

A. (Aside.) Oh, how lovely they do it!

GEO. (To W.) Also denken Sie doch noch nicht an's Gehen.

W. (To Geo.) Es thut mir unendlich leid, aber ich muss nach Hause. Meine Frau wird sich wundern, was aus mir geworden ist.

GEO. (To W.) Meine Frau hat keine Ahnung wo ich bin: ich muss wirklich jetzt fort.

W. (To Geo.) Dann will ich Sie nicht langer aufhalten; ich bedaure sehr dass Sie uns einen so kurzen Besuch gemacht haben.

GEO. (To W.) Adieu—auf recht baldiges Wiedersehen.

W. UMSTEIGNEN!

[Great hand-clapping from the girls.]

M. (Aside.) Oh, how perfect! how elegant!

A. (Aside.) Per-fectly enchanting!

JOYOUS CHORUS. (All) Ich habe gehabt, du hast gehabt, er hat gehabt, wir haben gehabt, ihr habet gehabt, sie haben gehabt.

[GRETCHEN faints, and tumbles from her chair, and the gun goes off with a crash. Each girl, frightened, seizes the protecting hand of her sweetheart. GRETCHEN scrambles up. Tableau.]

W. (Takes out some money—beckons Gretchen to him. George adds money to the pile.) Hubsches Madchen (giving her some of the coins), hast Du etwas gesehen?

GR. (Courtesy—aside.) Der Engel! (Aloud—impressively.) Ich habe nichts gesehen.

W. (More money.) Hast Du etwas gehort?

GR. Ich habe nichts gehort.

W. (More money.) Und morgen?

GR. Morgen—ware es nothig—bin ich taub und blind.

W. Unvergleichbares Madchen! Und (giving the rest of the money) darnach?

GR. (Deep courtesy—aside.) Erzengel! (Aloud.) Darnach, mein gnadgister, betrachten Sie mich also taub—blind—todt!

ALL. (In chorus—with reverent joy.) Ich habe gehabt, du hast gehabt, er hat gehabt, wir haben gehabt, ihr habet gehabt, sie haben gehabt!



ACT III.

Three weeks later.

SCENE I.

Enter GRETCHEN, and puts her shawl on a chair. Brushing around with the traditional feather-duster of the drama. Smartly dressed, for she is prosperous.

GR. Wie hatte man sich das vorstellen konnen! In nur drei Wochen bin ich schon reich geworden! (Gets out of her pocket handful after handful of silver, which she piles on the table, and proceeds to repile and count, occasionally ringing or biting a piece to try its quality.) Oh, dass (with a sigh) die Frau Wirthin nur ewig krank bliebe!... Diese edlen jungen Manner—sie sind ja so liebenswurdig! Und so fleissig! —und so treu! Jeden Morgen kommen sie gerade um drei Viertel auf neun; und plaudern und schwatzen, und plappern, und schnattern, die jungen Damen auch; um Schlage zwolf nehmen sie Abschied; um Sclage eins kommen sie schon wieder, und plauden und schwatzen und plappern und schnattern; gerade um sechs Uhr nehmen sie wiederum Abschied; um halb acht kehren sie noche'mal zuruck, und plaudern und schwatzen und plappern und schnattern bis zehn Uhr, oder vielleicht ein Viertel nach, falls ihre Uhren nach gehen (und stets gehen sie nach am Ende des Besuchs, aber stets vor Beginn desselben), und zuweilen unterhalten sich die jungen Leute beim Spazierengehen; und jeden Sonntag gehen sie dreimal in die Kirche; und immer plaudern sie, und schwatzen und plappern und schnattern bis ihnen die Zahne aus dem Munde fallen. Und ich? Durch Mangel an Uebung, ist mir die Zunge mit Moos belegt worden! Freilich ist's mir eine dumme Zei gewesen. Aber—um Gotteswillen, was geht das mir an? Was soll ich daraus machen? Taglich sagt die Frau Wirthin, 'Gretchen' (dumb-show of paying a piece of money into her hand), 'du bist eine der besten Sprach —Lehrerinnen der Welt!' Act, Gott! Und taglich sagen die edlen jungen Manner, 'Gretchen, liebes Kind' (money-paying again in dumb-show—three coins), 'bleib' taub—blind—todt!' und so bleibe ich.... Jetzt wird es ungefahr neun Uhr sein; bald kommen sie vom Spaziergehen zuruck. Also, es ware gut dass ich meinem eigenen Schatz einen Besuch abstatte und spazieren gehe.

[Dons her shawl. Exit. L.]

Enter WIRTHIN. R.

WIRTHIN. That was Mr. Stephenson's train that just came in. Evidently the girls are out walking with Gretchen;—can't find them, and she doesn't seem to be around. (A ring at the door.) That's him. I'll go see. [Exit. R.]

Enter STEPHENSON and WIRTHIN. R.

S. Well, how does sickness seem to agree with you?

WIRTHIN. So well that I've never been out of my room since, till I heard your train come in.

S. Thou miracle of fidelity! Now I argue from that, that the new plan is working.

WIRTHIN. Working? Mr. Stephenson, you never saw anything like it in the whole course of your life! It's absolutely wonderful the way it works.

S. Succeeds? No—you don't mean it.

WIRTHIN. Indeed I do mean it. I tell you, Mr. Stephenson, that plan was just an inspiration—that's what it was. You could teach a cat German by it.

S. Dear me, this is noble news! Tell me about it.

WIRTHIN. Well, it's all Gretchen—ev-ery bit of it. I told you she was a jewel. And then the sagacity of that child—why, I never dreamed it was in her. Sh-she, 'Never you ask the young ladies a question—never let on—just keep mum—leave the whole thing to me,' sh-she.

S. Good! And she justified, did she?

WIRTHIN. Well, sir, the amount of German gabble that that child crammed into those two girls inside the next forty-eight hours—well, I was satisfied! So I've never asked a question—never wanted to ask any. I've just lain curled up there, happy. The little dears! they've flitted in to see me a moment, every morning and noon and supper-time; and as sure as I'm sitting here, inside of six days they were clattering German to me like a house afire!

S. Sp-lendid, splendid!

WIRTHIN. Of course it ain't grammatical—the inventor of the language can't talk grammatical; if the dative didn't fetch him the accusative would; but it's German all the same, and don't you forget it!

S. Go on—go on—this is delicious news—

WIRTHIN. Gretchen, she says to me at the start, 'Never you mind about company for 'em,' sh-she—'I'm company enough.' And I says, 'All right —fix it your own way, child;' and that she was right is shown by the fact that to this day they don't care a straw for any company but hers.

S. Dear me; why, it's admirable!

WIRTHIN. Well, I should think so! They just dote on that hussy—can't seem to get enough of her. Gretchen tells me so herself. And the care she takes of them! She tells me that every time there's a moonlight night she coaxes them out for a walk; and if a body can believe her, she actually bullies them off to church three times every Sunday!

S. Why, the little dev—missionary! Really, she's a genius!

WIRTHIN. She's a bud, I tell you! Dear me, how she's brought those girls' health up! Cheeks?—just roses. Gait?—they walk on watch-springs! And happy?—by the bliss in their eyes, you'd think they're in Paradise! Ah, that Gretchen! Just you imagine our trying to achieve these marvels!

S. You're right—every time. Those girls—why, all they'd have wanted to know was what we wanted done, and then they wouldn't have done it—the mischievous young rascals!

WIRTHIN. Don't tell me? Bless you, I found that out early—when I was bossing.

S. Well, I'm im-mensely pleased. Now fetch them down. I'm not afraid now. They won't want to go home.

WIRTHIN. Home! I don't believe you could drag them away from Gretchen with nine span of horses. But if you want to see them, put on your hat and come along; they're out somewhere trapseing along with Gretchen. [Going.]

S. I'm with you—lead on.

WIRTHIN. We'll go out the side door. It's towards the Anlage. [Exit both. L.]

Enter GEORGE and MARGARET. R. Her head lies upon his shoulder, his arm is about her waist; they are steeped in sentiment.

M. (Turning a fond face up at him.) Du Engel!

GEO. Liebste!

M. Oh, das Liedchen dass Du mir gewidmet hast—es ist so schon, so wunderschon. Wie hatte ich je geahnt dass Du ein Poet warest!

GEO. Mein Schatzchen!—es ist mir lieb wenn Dir die Kleinigkeit gefallt.

M. Ah, es ist mit der zartlichsten Musik gefullt—klingt ja so suss und selig—wie das Flustern des Sommerwindes die Abenddammerung hindurch. Wieder—Theuerste!—sag'es wieder.

GEO. Du bist wie eine Blume!—So schon und hold und rein—Ich schau' Dich an, und WehmuthSchleicht mir ins Herz hinein. Mir ist als ob ich die HandeAufs Haupt Dir legen sollt', Betend, dass Gott Dich erhalte, So rein und schon und hold.

M. A-ch! (Dumb-show sentimentalisms.) Georgie—

GEO. Kindchen!

M. Warum kommen sie nicht?

GEO. Das weiss ich gar night. Sie waren—

M. Es wird spat. Wir mussen sie antreiben. Komm!

GEO. Ich glaube sie werden recht bald ankommen, aber—[Exit both. L.]

Enter GRETCHEN, R., in a state of mind. Slumps into a chair limp with despair.

GR. Ach! was wird jetzt aus mir werden! Zufallig habe ich in der Ferne den verdammten Papa gesehen!—und die Frau Wirthin auch! Oh, diese Erscheinung—die hat mir beinahe das Leben genommen. Sie suchen die jungen Damen—das weiss ich wenn sie diese und die jungen Herren zusammen fanden—du heileger Gott! Wenn das gescheiht, waren wir Alle ganz und gar verloren! Ich muss sie gleich finden, und ihr eine Warnung geben! [Exit. L.]

Enter ANNIE and WILL, R., posed like the former couple and sentimental.

A. Ich liebe Dich schon so sehr—Deiner edlen Natur wegen. Dass du dazu auch ein Dichter bist!—ach, mein Leben ist ubermassig reich geworden! Wer hatte sich doch einbilden konnen dass ich einen Mann zu einem so wunderschonen Gedicht hatte begeistern konnen?

W. Liebste! Es ist nur eine Kleinigkeit.

A. Nein, nein, es ist ein echtes Wunder! Sage es noch einmal—ich flehe Dich an.

W. Du bist wie eine Blume!—So schon und hold und rein—Ich schau' Dich an, und WehmuthSchleicht mir ins Herz hinein. Mir ist als ob ich die HandeAufs Haupt Dir legen sollt', Betend, dass Gott Dich erhalt, So rein und schon und hold.

A. Ach, es ist himmlisch—einfach himmlisch. [Kiss.] Schreibt auch George Gedicht?

W. Oh, ja—zuweilen.

A. Wie schon!

W. (Aside.) Smouches 'em, same as I do! It was a noble good idea to play that little thing on her. George wouldn't ever think of that —somehow he never had any invention.

A. (Arranging chairs.) Jetzt will ich bei Dir sitzen bleiben, und Du—

W. (They sit.) Ja—und ich—

A. Du wirst mir die alte Geschichte, die immer neu bleibt, noch wieder erzahlen.

W. Zum Beispiel, dass ich Dich liebe!

A. Wieder!

W. Ich—sie kommen!

Enter GEORGE and MARGARET.

A. Das macht nichts. Fortan! [GEORGE unties M.'s bonnet. She reties his cravat—interspersings of love-pats, etc., and dumb show of love-quarrellings.]

W. Ich liebe Dich.

A. Ach! Noch einmal!

W. Ich habe Dich vom Herzen lieb.

A. Ach! Abermals!

W. Bist Du denn noch nicht satt?

A. Nein! (The other couple sit down, and MARGARET begins a retying of the cravat. Enter the WIRTHIN and STEPHENSON, he imposing silence with a sign.) Mich hungert sehr, ich verhungre!

W. Oh, Du armes Kind! (Lays her head on his shoulder. Dumb-show between STEPHENSON and WIRTHIN.) Und hungert es nicht mich? Du hast mir nicht einmal gesagt—

A. Dass ich Dich liebe? Mein Eigener! (Frau WIRTHIN threatens to faint—is supported by STEPHENSON.) Hore mich nur an: Ich liebe Dich, ich liebe Dich—

Enter GRETCHEN.

GR. (Tears her hair.) Oh, dass ich in der Holle ware!

M. Ich liebe Dich, ich liebe Dich! Ah, ich bin so glucklich dass ich nicht schlafen kann, nicht lesen kann, nicht reden kann, nicht—

A. Und ich! Ich bin auch so glucklich dass ich nicht speisen kann, nicht studieren, arbeiten, denken, schreiben—

S. (To Wirthin—aside.) Oh, there isn't any mistake about it —Gretchen's just a rattling teacher!

WIRTHIN. (To Stephenson—aside.) I'll skin her alive when I get my hands on her!

M. Komm, alle Verliebte! [They jump up, join hands, and sing in chorus—] Du, Du, wie ich Dich liebe, Du, Du, liebest auch mich! Die, die zartlichsten Triebe—

S. (Stepping forward.) Well! [The girls throw themselves upon his neck with enthusiasm.]

THE GIRLS. Why, father!

S. My darlings! [The young men hesitate a moment, they they add their embrace, flinging themselves on Stephenson's neck, along with the girls.]

THE YOUNG MEN. Why, father!

S. (Struggling.) Oh, come, this is too thin!—too quick, I mean. Let go, you rascals!

GEO. We'll never let go till you put us on the family list.

M. Right! hold to him!

A. Cling to him, Will! [GRETCHEN rushes in and joins the general embrace, but is snatched away by the WIRTHIN, crushed up against the wall, and threatened with destruction.]

S. (Suffocating.) All right, all right—have it your own way, you quartette of swindlers!

W. He's a darling! Three cheers for papa!

EVERYBODY. (Except Stephenson, who bows with hand on heart) Hip—hip —hip: hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!

GR. Der Tiger—ah-h-h!

WIRTHIN. Sei ruhig, you hussy!

S. Well, I've lost a couple of precious daughters, but I've gained a couple of precious scamps to fill up the gap with; so it's all right. I'm satisfied, and everybody's forgiven—[With mock threats at Gretchen.]

W. Oh, wir werden fur Dich sorgen—dur herrliches Gretchen!

GR. Danke schon!

M. (To Wirthin.) Und fur Sie auch; denn wenn Sie nicht so freundlich gewesen waren, krank zu werden, wie waren wir je so glucklich geworden wie jetzt?

WIRTHIN. Well, dear, I was kind, but I didn't mean it. But I ain't sorry—not one bit—that I ain't. [Tableau.]

S. Come, now, the situation is full of hope, and grace, and tender sentiment. If I had in the least poetic gift, I know I could improvise under such an inspiration (each girl nudges her sweetheart) something worthy to—to—Is there no poet among us? [Each youth turns solemnly his back upon the other, and raises his hands in benediction over his sweetheart's bowed head.]

BOTH YOUTHS AT ONCE. Mir ist als ob ich die HandeAufs Haupt Dir legen sollt'—[They turn and look reproachfully at each other—the girls contemplate them with injured surprise.]

S. (Reflectively.) I think I've heard that before somewhere.

WIRTHIN. (Aside.) Why, the very cats in Germany know it!

(Curtain.)

[1] [EXPLANATORY.] I regard the idea of this play as a valuable invention. I call it the Patent Universally-Applicable Automatically Adjustable Language Drama. This indicates that it is adjustable to any tongue, and performable in any tongue. The English portions of the play are to remain just as they are, permanently; but you change the foreign portions to any language you please, at will. Do you see? You at once have the same old play in a new tongue. And you can keep changing it from language to language, until your private theatrical pupils have become glib and at home in the speech of all nations. Zum Beispiel, suppose we wish to adjust the play to the French tongue. First, we give Mrs. Blumenthal and Gretchen French names. Next, we knock the German Meisterschaft sentences out of the first scene, and replace them with sentences from the French Meisterschaft—like this, for instance: 'Je voudrais faire des emplettes ce matin; voulez-vous avoir l'obligeance de venir avec moi chez le tailleur francais?' And so on. Wherever you find German, replace it with French, leaving the English parts undisturbed. When you come to the long conversation in the second act, turn to any pamphlet of your French Meisterschaft, and shovel in as much French talk on any subject as will fill up the gaps left by the expunged German. Example—page 423, French Meisterschaft: On dirait qu'il va faire chaud. J'ai chaud. J'ai extremement chaud. Ah! qu'il fait chaud! Il fait une chaleur etouffante! L'air est brulant. Je meurs de chaleur. Il est presque impossible de supporter la chaleur. Cela vous fait transpirer. Mettons-nous a l'ombre. Il fait du vent. Il fait un vent froid. Il fait un tres agreable pour se promener aujourd'hui. And so on, all the way through. It is very easy to adjust the play to any desired language. Anybody can do it.



MY BOYHOOD DREAMS

The dreams of my boyhood? No, they have not been realised. For all who are old, there is something infinitely pathetic about the subject which you have chosen, for in no greyhead's case can it suggest any but one thing—disappointment. Disappointment is its own reason for its pain: the quality or dignity of the hope that failed is a matter aside. The dreamer's valuation of the thing lost—not another man's—is the only standard to measure it by, and his grief for it makes it large and great and fine, and is worthy of our reverence in all cases. We should carefully remember that. There are sixteen hundred million people in the world. Of these there is but a trifling number—in fact, only thirty-eight millions—who can understand why a person should have an ambition to belong to the French army; and why, belonging to it, he should be proud of that; and why, having got down that far, he should want to go on down, down, down till he struck the bottom and got on the General Staff; and why, being stripped of this livery, or set free and reinvested with his self-respect by any other quick and thorough process, let it be what it might, he should wish to return to his strange serfage. But no matter: the estimate put upon these things by the fifteen hundred and sixty millions is no proper measure of their value: the proper measure, the just measure, is that which is put upon them by Dreyfus, and is cipherable merely upon the littleness or the vastness of the disappointment which their loss cost him. There you have it: the measure of the magnitude of a dream-failure is the measure of the disappointment the failure cost the dreamer; the value, in others' eyes, of the thing lost, has nothing to do with the matter. With this straightening out and classification of the dreamer's position to help us, perhaps we can put ourselves in his place and respect his dream—Dreyfus's, and the dreams our friends have cherished and reveal to us. Some that I call to mind, some that have been revealed to me, are curious enough; but we may not smile at them, for they were precious to the dreamers, and their failure has left scars which give them dignity and pathos. With this theme in my mind, dear heads that were brown when they and mine were young together rise old and white before me now, beseeching me to speak for them, and most lovingly will I do it. Howells, Hay, Aldrich, Matthews, Stockton, Cable, Remus—how their young hopes and ambitions come flooding back to my memory now, out of the vague far past, the beautiful past, the lamented past! I remember it so well—that night we met together—it was in Boston, and Mr. Fiends was there, and Mr. Osgood, Ralph Keeler, and Boyle O'Reilly, lost to us now these many years—and under the seal of confidence revealed to each other what our boyhood dreams had been: reams which had not as yet been blighted, but over which was stealing the grey of the night that was to come—a night which we prophetically felt, and this feeling oppressed us and made us sad. I remember that Howells's voice broke twice, and it was only with great difficulty that he was able to go on; in the end he wept. For he had hoped to be an auctioneer. He told of his early struggles to climb to his goal, and how at last he attained to within a single step of the coveted summit. But there misfortune after misfortune assailed him, and he went down, and down, and down, until now at last, weary and disheartened, he had for the present given up the struggle and become the editor of the Atlantic Monthly. This was in 1830. Seventy years are gone since, and where now is his dream? It will never be fulfilled. And it is best so; he is no longer fitted for the position; no one would take him now; even if he got it, he would not be able to do himself credit in it, on account of his deliberateness of speech and lack of trained professional vivacity; he would be put on real estate, and would have the pain of seeing younger and abler men intrusted with the furniture and other such goods—goods which draw a mixed and intellectually low order of customers, who must be beguiled of their bids by a vulgar and specialised humour and sparkle, accompanied with antics. But it is not the thing lost that counts, but only the disappointment the loss brings to the dreamer that had coveted that thing and had set his heart of hearts upon it, and when we remember this, a great wave of sorrow for Howells rises in our breasts, and we wish for his sake that his fate could have been different. At that time Hay's boyhood dream was not yet past hope of realisation, but it was fading, dimming, wasting away, and the wind of a growing apprehension was blowing cold over the perishing summer of his life. In the pride of his young ambition he had aspired to be a steamboat mate; and in fancy saw himself dominating a forecastle some day on the Mississippi and dictating terms to roustabouts in high and wounding terms. I look back now, from this far distance of seventy years, and note with sorrow the stages of that dream's destruction. Hay's history is but Howells's, with differences of detail. Hay climbed high toward his ideal; when success seemed almost sure, his foot upon the very gang-plank, his eye upon the capstan, misfortune came and his fall began. Down—down—down—ever down: Private Secretary to the President; Colonel in the field; Charge d'Affaires in Paris; Charge d'Affaires in Vienna; Poet; Editor of the Tribune; Biographer of Lincoln; Ambassador to England; and now at last there he lies—Secretary of State, Head of Foreign Affairs. And he has fallen like Lucifer, never to rise again. And his dream—where now is his dream? Gone down in blood and tears with the dream of the auctioneer. And the young dream of Aldrich—where is that? I remember yet how he sat there that night fondling it, petting it; seeing it recede and ever recede; trying to be reconciled and give it up, but not able yet to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be a horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the others, fell; then fell again, and yet again, and again and again. And now at last he can fall no further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle, and is only a poet. No one would risk a horse with him now. His dream is over. Has any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I must doubt it. Look at Brander Matthews. He wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day? Nothing but a professor in a university. Will he ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable. Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young dream? He hoped to be a barkeeper. See where he has landed. Is it better with Cable? What was Cable's young dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell around and crack the whip. What is he to-day? Nothing but a theologian and novelist. And Uncle Remus—what was his young dream? To be a buccaneer. Look at him now. Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-have-beens, how pathetic! The heart-secrets that were revealed that night now so long vanished, how they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet privacies, how they endeared us to each other! We were under oath never to tell any of these things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate when speaking with persons whom I thought not worthy to hear them. Oh, our lost Youth—God keep its memory green in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the indignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!



TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE

Sleep! for the Sun that scores another Day Against the Tale allotted You to stay, Reminding You, is Risen, and now Serves Notice—ah, ignore it while You stay!

The chill Wind blew, and those who stood before The Tavern murmured, 'Having drunk his Score, Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold, The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more

'Come, leave the Cup, and on the Winter's Snow Your Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw: Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it, Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow.'

While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine, I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine, 'O Youth, O whither gone? Return, And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine.'

In this subduing Draught of tender green And kindly Absinth, with its wimpling Sheen Of dusky half-lights, let me drown The haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.

For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief, We pay some day its Weight in golden Grief Mined from our Hearts. Ah, murmur not —From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!

The Joy of Life, that streaming through their Veins Tumultuous swept, falls slack—and wanes The Glory in the Eye—and one by one Life's Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.

Whether one hide in some secluded Nook —Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook —'Tis one. Old Age will search him out—and He —He—He—when ready will know where to look.

From Cradle unto Grave I keep a House OF Entertainment where may drowse Bacilli and kindred Germs—or feed—or breed Their festering Species in a deep Carouse.

Think—in this battered Caravanserai, Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day, How Microbe after Microbe with his Pomp Arrives unasked, and comes to stay.

Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the Lust Of masticating, once, now own Disgust Of Clay-Plug'd Cavities—full soon our Snags Are emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.

Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow, And fat, like over-riped Figs—we know The Sign—the Riggs' Disease is ours, and we Must list this Sorrow, add another Woe;

Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough, And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and off Our fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat —We scoffered before, but now we may not scoff.

Some for the Bunions that afflict us prate Of Plasters unsurpassable, and hate To Cut a corn—ah cut, and let the Plaster go, Nor murmur if the Solace come too late.

Some for the Honours of Old Age, and some Long for its Respite from the Hum And Clash of sordid Strife—O Fools, The Past should teach them what's to Come:

Lo, for the Honours, cold Neglect instead! For Respite, disputatious Heirs a Bed Of Thorns for them will furnish. Go, Seek not Here for Peace—but Yonder—with the Dead.

For whether Zal and Rustam heed this Sign, And even smitten thus, will not repine, Let Zal and Rustam shuffle as they may, The Fine once levied they must Cash the Fine.

O Voices of the Long Ago that were so dear! Fall'n Silent, now, for many a Mould'ring Year, O whither are ye flown? Come back, And break my heart, but bless my grieving ear.

Some happy Day my Voice will Silent fall, And answer not when some that love it call: Be glad for Me when this you note—and think I've found the Voices lost, beyond the Pall.

So let me grateful drain the Magic Bowl That medicines hurt Minds and on the Soul The Healing of its Peace doth lay—if then Death claim me—Welcome be his Dole!

SANNA, SWEDEN, September 15th.

Private.—If you don't know what Riggs's Disease of the Teeth is, the dentist will tell you. I've had it—and it is more than interesting. M.T.

EDITORIAL NOTE

Fearing that there might be some mistake, we submitted a proof of this article to the (American) gentlemen named in it, and asked them to correct any errors of detail that might have crept in among the facts. They reply with some asperity that errors cannot creep in among facts where there are no facts for them to creep in among; and that none are discoverable in this article, but only baseless aberrations of a disordered mind. They have no recollection of any such night in Boston, nor elsewhere; and in their opinion there was never any such night. They have met Mr. Twain, but have had the prudence not to intrust any privacies to him—particularly under oath; and they think they now see that this prudence was justified, since he has been untrustworthy enough to even betray privacies which had no existence. Further, they think it a strange thing that Mr. Twain, who was never invited to meddle with anybody's boyhood dreams but his own, has been so gratuitously anxious to see that other people's are placed before the world that he has quite lost his head in his zeal and forgotten to make any mention of his own at all. Provided we insert this explanation, they are willing to let his article pass; otherwise they must require its suppression in the interest of truth.

P.S.—These replies having left us in some perplexity, and also in some fear lest they distress Mr. Twain if published without his privity, we judged it but fair to submit them to him and give him an opportunity to defend himself. But he does not seem to be troubled, or even aware that he is in a delicate situation. He merely says: 'Do not worry about those former young people. They can write good literature, but when it comes to speaking the truth, they have not had my training.—MARK TWAIN.' The last sentence seems obscure, and liable to an unfortunate construction. It plainly needs refashioning, but we cannot take the responsibility of doing it.—EDITOR.



IN MEMORIAM

OLIVIA SUSAN CLEMENS

DIED AUGUST 18, 1896; AGED 24

In a fair valley—oh, how long ago, how long ago!— Where all the broad expanse was clothed in vines, And fruitful fields and meadows starred with flowers, And clear streams wandered at their idle will; And still lakes slept, their burnished surfaces A dream of painted clouds, and soft airs Went whispering with odorous breath, And all was peace—in that fair vale, Shut from the troubled world, a nameless hamlet drowsed.

Hard by, apart, a temple stood; And strangers from the outer world Passing, noted it with tired eyes, And seeing, saw it not: A glimpse of its fair form—an answering momentary thrill— And they passed on, careless and unaware.

They could not know the cunning of its make; They could not know the secret shut up in its heart; Only the dwellers of the hamlet knew; They knew that what seemed brass was gold; What marble seemed, was ivory; The glories that enriched the milky surfaces— The trailing vines, and interwoven flowers, And tropic birds a-wing, clothed all in tinted fires— They knew for what they were, not what they seemed: Encrustings all of gems, not perishable splendours of the brush. They knew the secret spot where one must stand— They knew the surest hour, the proper slant of sun— To gather in, unmarred, undimmed, The vision of the fane in all its fairy grace, A fainting dream against the opal sky.

And more than this. They knew That in the temple's inmost place a spirit dwelt, Made all of light! For glimpses of it they had caught Beyond the curtains when the priests That served the altar came and went.

All loved that light and held it dear That had this partial grace; But the adoring priests alone who lived By day and night submerged in its immortal glow Knew all its power and depth, and could appraise the loss If it should fade and fail and come no more.

All this was long ago—so long ago!

The light burned on; and they that worshipped it, And they that caught its flash at intervals and held it dear, Contented lived in its secure possession. Ah, How long ago it was!

And then when they Were nothing fearing, and God's peace was in the air, And none was prophesying harm, The vast disaster fell: Where stood the temple when the sun went down Was vacant desert when it rose again!

Ah yes! 'Tis ages since it chanced! So long ago it was, That from the memory of the hamlet-folk the Light has passed— They scarce believing, now, that once it was, Or if believing, yet not missing it, And reconciled to have it gone.

Not so the priests! Oh, not so The stricken ones that served it day and night, Adoring it, abiding in the healing of its peace: They stand, yet, where erst they stood Speechless in that dim morning long ago; And still they gaze, as then they gazed, And murmur, 'It will come again; It knows our pain—it knows—it knows— Ah surely it will come again.

S.L.C.

LAKE LUCERNE, August 18, 1897.



WHAT IS MAN? AND OTHER ESSAYS OF MARK TWAIN (Samuel Langhorne Clemens, 1835-1910)



CONTENTS:

What Is Man?

The Death of Jean

The Turning-Point of My Life

How to Make History Dates Stick

The Memorable Assassination

A Scrap of Curious History

Switzerland, the Cradle of Liberty

At the Shrine of St. Wagner

William Dean Howells

English as She is Taught

A Simplified Alphabet

As Concerns Interpreting the Deity

Concerning Tobacco

Taming the Bicycle

Is Shakespeare Dead?



WHAT IS MAN?

I

a. Man the Machine. b. Personal Merit

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

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

Young Man. Iron, steel, brass, white-metal, and so on.

O.M. Where are these found?

Y.M. In the rocks.

O.M. In a pure state?

Y.M. No—in ores.

O.M. Are the metals suddenly deposited in the ores?

Y.M. No—it is the patient work of countless ages.

O.M. You could make the engine out of the rocks themselves?

Y.M. Yes, a brittle one and not valuable.

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

Y.M. No—substantially nothing.

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

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

O.M. Then?

Y.M. Out of the perfected result, build the fine engine.

O.M. You would require much of this one?

Y.M. Oh, indeed yes.

O.M. It could drive lathes, drills, planers, punches, polishers, in 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 machine that it does so little?

Y.M. Certainly not. It does no more and no less than the law of its make permits and compels it to do. There is nothing 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 machine 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 offense. What makes the grand difference between the stone engine and the steel one? Shall we call it training, education? Shall we call the stone engine a savage and the steel one a civilized man? The original rock contained the stuff of which the steel one was built—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 any DESIRE to remove. Will you take note of that phrase?

Y.M. Yes. I have written it down; "Prejudices which 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 INDIFFERENCE 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 further progress. An OUTSIDE INFLUENCE beguiles it into the Bessemer furnace and refines it 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 cannot 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 strong 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 ORIGINATES nothing, not even a thought.

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

O.M. It is a quite natural opinion—indeed an inevitable opinion—but YOU did not create the materials out of which it is formed. They are odds and ends of thoughts, impressions, feelings, gathered unconsciously from a thousand books, a thousand conversations, and from streams of thought and feeling which have flowed down into your heart and brain out of the hearts and brains of centuries of ancestors. PERSONALLY you did not create even the smallest microscopic fragment of the materials out of which your opinion is made; and personally you cannot claim even the slender merit of PUTTING THE BORROWED MATERIALS TOGETHER. 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 that 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 reflection 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—as an experiment?

Y.M. Yes.

O.M. With success?

Y.M. No. It remains the same; it is impossible to change it.

O.M. I am sorry, but you see, yourself, that your mind is merely a machine, nothing more. You have no command over it, it has no command over itself—it is worked SOLELY FROM THE OUTSIDE. That is the law of its make; it is the law of all machines.

Y.M. Can't I EVER change one of these automatic opinions?

O.M. No. You can't yourself, but EXTERIOR INFLUENCES can do it.

Y.M. And exterior ones ONLY?

O.M. Yes—exterior ones only.

Y.M. That position is untenable—I may say ludicrously untenable.

O.M. What makes you think so?

Y.M. I don't merely think it, I know it. Suppose I resolve to enter 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 originates 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 enough; 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 shadow 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 knowledge 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 material obtained OUTSIDE. It is merely a machine; and it works automatically, not by will-power. IT HAS NO COMMAND OVER ITSELF, ITS OWNER HAS NO COMMAND OVER IT.

Y.M. Well, never mind Adam: but certainly Shakespeare's creations—

O.M. No, you mean Shakespeare's IMITATIONS. Shakespeare created nothing. He correctly observed, and he marvelously painted. He exactly portrayed people whom GOD had created; but he created none himself. Let us spare him the slander of charging him with trying. Shakespeare could not create. HE WAS A MACHINE, AND MACHINES DO NOT CREATE.

Y.M. Where WAS his excellence, then?

O.M. In this. He was not a sewing-machine, like you and me; he was 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 fabric which still compels the astonishment of the world. If Shakespeare had been born and bred on a barren and unvisited rock in the ocean his mighty intellect would have had no OUTSIDE MATERIAL to work with, and could 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 would have produced something better—something up to the highest limit of the French influences and training. In England he rose to the highest 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 merit 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 his 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 demerit 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 training, 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 victorious coward's project and achievement?

O.M. There isn't any. In the world's view he is a worthier man than he was before, but HE didn't achieve the change—the merit 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 SEED. 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 all his life in a community of human rabbits, had never read of brave deeds, had never heard speak of them, had never heard any one praise them nor express envy of the heroes that had done them, he would have had no more idea of bravery than Adam had of modesty, and it could never by any possibility have occurred to him to RESOLVE to become brave. He COULD NOT ORIGINATE THE IDEA—it had to come to him from the OUTSIDE. And so, when he heard bravery extolled and cowardice derided, it woke him up. He was ashamed. Perhaps his sweetheart turned up her nose and said, "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 also 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 past the worshiping multitude with flags flying and the drums beating. After that he will be as securely brave as any veteran in the army—and there 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 NECESSITY 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 looking out for his own comfort and advantage; whereas an unselfish man often 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 place.

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.



II

Man's Sole Impulse—the Securing of His Own Approval

Old Man. There have been instances of it—you think?

Young Man. INSTANCES? Millions of them!

O.M. You have not jumped to conclusions? You have examined them—critically?

Y.M. They don't need it: the acts themselves reveal the golden impulse back of them.

O.M. For instance?

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

O.M. What makes you think that?

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

O.M. Can you put yourself in the man's place and tell me what he felt and what he thought?

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

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 storm.

O.M. He felt well?

Y.M. One cannot doubt it.

O.M. Very well. Now let us add up the details and see how much he got for his twenty-five cents. Let us try to find 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 for 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 relief 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 bought 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 FIRST 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 country, patriotism. A man who loves peace and dreads pain, leaves his pleasant home and his weeping family and marches out to manfully expose himself to hunger, cold, wounds, and death. Is that seeking spiritual comfort?

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. And 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 will bring him the MOST mental comfort—for that is THE SOLE LAW OF HIS LIFE. 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 force some men to do ANYTHING.

Y.M. ANYTHING?

O.M. Yes—anything.

Y.M. I don't believe that. Can it force a right-principled man to do 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 opposed to the teachings of religion—but in deference to PUBLIC OPINION he fought a duel. He deeply loved his family, but to buy public approval he treacherously deserted them and threw his life away, ungenerously leaving them to lifelong sorrow in order that he might stand well with a foolish world. In the then condition of the public standards of honor he could not have been comfortable with the stigma upon him of having refused to fight. The teachings of religion, his devotion to his family, his kindness of heart, his high principles, all went for nothing when they stood in the way of his spiritual comfort. A man will do 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 goal 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 costs, 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 other 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. They valued their principles and the approval of their families ABOVE the public approval. They took the thing they valued MOST and let the rest go. They took what would give them the LARGEST share of PERSONAL CONTENTMENT AND APPROVAL—a man ALWAYS does. Public opinion cannot force that kind of men to go to the wars. When they go it is for other reasons. Other spirit-contenting reasons.

Y.M. Always spirit-contenting reasons?

O.M. There are no others.

Y.M. When a man sacrifices his life to save a little child from 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 different make COULD), and so he tries to save the child, and loses his life. 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 they 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 stops, 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 ITS 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 THAT 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 yours.

O.M. It isn't a philosophy, it is a fact.

Y.M. Of course you must admit that there are some acts which—

O.M. No. There is NO act, large or small, fine or mean, which 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 happiness 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 labor 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 sake?

O.M. That IS DOES NOT EXIST. Duties are not performed for duty's SAKE, but because their NEGLECT would make the man UNCOMFORTABLE. A man performs but ONE duty—the duty of contenting his spirit, the duty of making himself agreeable to himself. If he can most satisfyingly perform this sole and only duty by HELPING his neighbor, he will do it; if he can most satisfyingly perform it by SWINDLING 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 else, but he is deceived; his bottom impulse is to content a requirement of his nature and training, and thus acquire peace for his soul.

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 it: Conscience—that independent Sovereign, that insolent absolute Monarch inside of a man who is the man's Master. There are all kinds of consciences, because there are all kinds of men. You satisfy an assassin's conscience in one way, a philanthropist's in another, a miser'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 troubling 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, putting it off, and his unrelenting conscience kept persecuting him for this conduct. At last, to get ease of mind, comfort, self-approval, he hunted up the stranger and took his life. It was an immense act of SELF-SACRIFICE (as per the usual definition), for he did not want to do it, and he never would have done it if he could have bought a contented spirit and an unworried mind at smaller cost. But we are so made that we will pay ANYTHING for that contentment—even 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 what they can.

Y.M. And the rest is done by—

O.M. Oh, a million unnoticed influences—for 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 hour.

Y.M. A conscience can be trained to shun evil and prefer good?

O.M. Yes.

Y.M. But will it for spirit-contenting reasons only?

O.M. It CAN'T be trained to do a thing for any OTHER reason. The 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 before you. Search one out.

Y.M. It does seem to me that when a man sees a fellow-being struggling in the water and jumps in at the risk of his life to save him—

O.M. Wait. Describe the MAN. Describe the FELLOW-BEING. State if there is an AUDIENCE present; or if they are ALONE.

Y.M. What have these things to do with the splendid act?

O.M. Very much. Shall we suppose, as a beginning, that the two 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 wouldn't perform it.

O.M. But there is here and there a man who WOULD. People, for instance, like the man who lost his life trying to save the child from the fire; and the man who gave the needy old woman his twenty-five cents and walked home in the storm—there are here and 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 distinguish the people who CAN'T BEAR things from people who CAN. It will throw light upon a number of apparently "self-sacrificing" cases.

Y.M. Oh, dear, it's all so disgusting.

O.M. Yes. And so true.

Y.M. Come—take the good boy who does things he doesn't want to do, in order to gratify his mother.

O.M. He does seven-tenths of the act because 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 the house of a Christian widow whose little boy was ill and near to death. The Infidel often watched by the bedside and entertained the boy with talk, and he used these opportunities to satisfy a strong longing in his nature—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 KINDNESS; WE MADE OUR HOUSE YOUR HOME, YOU WERE WELCOME TO ALL WE HAD, AND THIS IS OUR 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 TRYING 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?"