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%])t iHafeing of^ 
 ^er0onalit5 
 
 By 
 
 Bliss Carman 
 
 AutAor of " Pi^es of Pan;' « Sappho,'' «« The 
 
 Kinship of Nature," " The Friendship of 
 
 Art;' '' The Poetry of Life," etc. 
 
 L. C. PAGE esf COMPANY 
 
 BOSTON , f\ _ MCMVIII 
 

 
 Copyright, igo6, igoy 
 By The Ess Ess Publishing Company 
 
 (incorporated) 
 
 Copyright, igo6, jgoy 
 By Gustav Stickley 
 
 Copyright, igoy 
 By The Butterick Publishing Co., Ltd. 
 
 Copyright, igo8 
 By L. C. Page & Company 
 
 (incorporated) 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 First impression, March, 1908 
 Second Impression, November, 1908 
 
 COLONIAL PRESS 
 
 EUctrotyfed afid Printed by C If. Stmotuis &* Co. 
 
 B^stfin, U.S. A. 
 
Cfje iHeasure of Jftan 
 
 He who espouses perfection 
 Must follow the threefold plan 
 Of soul and mind and body^ 
 To compass the stature of man. 
 
 For deep in the primal substance 
 With power and purpose and poise^ 
 An order under the chaos^ 
 A music beneath the noise^ — 
 
 The urge of a secret patience 
 Throbbed into rhythm and form^ 
 Till instinct attained to vision 
 And the sentient clay grew warm. 
 
 For sense was a smouldering fire^ 
 And spirit a breath of air 
 Blowing out of the darkness^ 
 Fostering reason^ s flare. 
 
 By loving^ learnings and doings 
 Being must pass and climb 
 To goodness^ to truth^ to beauty^ 
 Through energy^ space ^ and time ; 
 
 175605 
 
Eftt Mtu^nvt of JWan 
 
 Out of the infinite essence^ 
 For the eternal employ^ 
 Fashioning^ freeing^ and kindling 
 Symmetry^ wisdom^ and joy. 
 
 Wherefore the triune dominion^ — 
 Religion^ science^ and art^ — 
 We may not disrupt nor divide^ 
 Setting its kingdoms aparty 
 
 But ever with glowing ardour 
 After the ancient plan^ 
 Build the lore and the rapture 
 Into the life of man. 
 
 VI 
 
^tdatt 
 
 ffuERE was never a time, perhaps, bigger 
 with s^i*i*Hal promise than the present, nor 
 more strenuously eager to liberate the human 
 spirit for its next step forward in the arduous 
 and inspiring journey toward perfection and 
 happiness. The cause enlists the best work 
 of the best workers against just such odds as 
 have always confronted radical effort, but 
 with less stubborn resistance than in duller 
 daysj 
 
 Among the active forces of advance are the 
 thought and work of Mary Perry King, my 
 coworker in this study of The Making of 
 Personality. Her formulation of an art of 
 normalizing personal expression is original 
 and scientific, and of proven educational 
 
 vii 
 
value. From her luminous talks on the sub- 
 jects of these essays, and on the humanities 
 in general, has been taken the substance of 
 this book and of others that have appeared 
 within the last decade. Refusing joint sig- 
 nature on the title-page, Mrs. King's pref- 
 erence restricts my expression of obligation 
 to a most inadequate prefatory acknowledg- 
 ment. I welcome even this tardy and too 
 limited opportunity for signifying my appre- 
 ciation of her happy genius and my indebted- 
 ness for her wise and generous cooperation. 
 
 The first chapter indicates, as clearly as I 
 can make it, the scope and purpose of the vol- 
 ume and its underlying ideal of education and 
 personal culture. While the book does not 
 attempt to make any systematic presentation 
 of a philosophy (a task to which I am un- 
 equal), it will be found to indicate every- 
 where a triune ideal of normal well-being 
 and happiness, and to be based upon a definite 
 conception of symmetrical life and growth, — 
 a conception which attributes to aspiration, 
 
 viii 
 
effort, and education equal and coherent val- 
 ues. 
 
 The paths of mental and spiritual training 
 are well marked, and physical education itself 
 is growing rapidly in popularity and effi- 
 ciency, but the work of relating the three in 
 any coordinate personal culture has as yet 
 hardly been recognized as a desirability. 
 Such work at its best cannot be merely a pro- 
 fession, it is essentially a most subtle and com- 
 prehensive art, — the art of appreciating, in- 
 terpreting, and educating personality. 
 
 This triunistic or unitrinian philosophy, as 
 I find myself calling it to avoid a confusing 
 use of the word trinitarian, lends itself most 
 simply and practically as a standard of dis- 
 crimination and a guide in self-culture. 
 
 B. C. 
 
 Boston, February^ igo8. 
 
 IX 
 
Contents 
 
 
 V9 
 
 
 
 
 
 FAGB 
 
 I. 
 
 The Meaning of Personality . , , i 
 
 II. 
 
 The Underglow . 
 
 
 
 • 43 
 
 III. 
 
 The Lucky Pilot 
 
 
 
 , 58 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Winged Victory . 
 
 
 
 • 73 
 
 V. 
 
 The Silver String . 
 
 
 
 . 104 
 
 VI. 
 
 Rhythms of Grace 
 
 
 
 127 
 
 VII. 
 
 Beauty of the Foot 
 
 
 
 156 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Art of Walking . 
 
 
 
 185 
 
 IX. 
 
 Dancing as a Fine Art . 
 
 
 
 204 
 
 X. 
 
 The Music of Life 
 
 
 
 221 
 
 XI. 
 
 The Sorcery of the Hand 
 
 
 
 250 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Leaven of Art 
 
 
 
 257 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Designer and Builder . 
 
 
 
 278 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The Might of Manners . 
 
 
 
 289 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Use of Out-of-Doors 
 
 
 
 310 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The Dominion of Joy . , 
 
 
 
 324 
 
 XVII. 
 SCVIII. 
 
 The Growers 
 
 An Old-Fashioned Essence 
 
 
 
 342 
 353 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Genius and the Artist . 
 
 
 
 37^ 
 
iWafetng of ©ersonalitij 
 
 %fft iWeaning of personality 
 
 /There is still nothing more interesting^ 
 than perso naJit vA Selves are all that finally 
 count. ^To discerning modern eyes all of life 
 is a mere setting for the infinitely intense and 
 enthralling drama of personalities. We slave 
 and endure and dare and give ourselves to the 
 engrossing demands of business and affairs, 
 deluding ourselves for the hour with the no- 
 tion that mere activity ensures success, and 
 that deliberate achievement, if only it be 
 strenuous enough, will bring happiness. But 
 in moments of calm sanity we perceive our 
 
 I 
 
8CJ)e JHaftino of ^ttuonaUts 
 
 d 
 
 folly, and know full well that personality and 
 ^not performance is the great thing./ 
 
 Current thought attests this. Popular as- 
 piration passionately affirms it. Whatever 
 any one's philosophy of living may be, 
 whether transcendental or materialistic, the 
 first and chief concern in its pursuance is how 
 to make the most of it in making the most 
 Vand best of oneself, f^ All our social disquiet, 
 our constant turmoil in political and indus- 
 trial life, means only an attempt to give 
 larger freedom' and greater scope for the per- 
 fection of human personality. We would 
 give it room to grow, opportunity to thrive, 
 the chance to realize its ideal§/) Under the 
 stress of a divine evolutionary impulse, we 
 wish to disentangle personality from the 
 crushing monotony of mere circumstantial 
 mechanical existence. Man is not willing to 
 remain an automaton, but must somehow 
 achieve and vindicate an individual selfhood. 
 We feel sure that it is to this end that we were 
 created^ and to this end surely all progress 
 
STfie iWeaning of ^tvnonuUts 
 
 is seen to be tending. ,The seed of the gods, 
 sown in the dust of the ground, exerts its in- 
 finitesimal but mighty force to break from its 
 enveloping darkness and put forth at last the 
 perfect long-awaited flower of mankincl^ 
 y^g N ot only is this the urge underlying ourj 
 instinctive, tentative, and often irrational ef- 1 
 forts for the reform and betterment of insti- 1 
 tutions, but underlying the demand for better! 
 individual education among thinking and/ 
 cultivated people as well, (pur modern plays 
 and novels all centre about the values of 
 personality, the influence of personality, the 
 freedom of personality, the development, tri- 
 umph, or defeat, of personality. When be- 
 fore our own day were such cold psycholog- 
 ical problems as Ibsen's offered and accepted 
 as entertainment? Even such expositions as 
 Marie Bashkirtseflf's and Mary MacLane's 
 are accepted as frank statements of truth, 
 " human documents " that may help to gain 
 freedom for other personalities. 
 Of old, men were more engulfed in nature, 
 3 
 
more deeply embedded in subconsciousness 
 and dreams, more completely under the dom- 
 ination of superstitions, fears, and marvels, 
 and felt themselves more helplessly in the 
 hands of an inscrutable destiny which they 
 could neither conquer nor placate. The 
 mere fact of general existence was a lifelong 
 and perplexing wonder. There was neither 
 time nor light for the recognition and realiza- 
 tion of self. Then, too, there were more ex- 
 ternal dangers, wars, famines, pestilences, 
 which made men cling together, repressing 
 individualky.J With greater peace and as- 
 /surance of subsistence, tr-ibiii Ues and obliga- 
 tions were loosened, and the individual awoke 
 and put forth hungry self-conscious claims 
 for growth. It was not enough to be a frac- 
 tion, one must be an integer. And to-day that 
 thought, that aim, is the one supreme motive 
 force underlying our civilization, — the 
 emancipation and cultivation of personal- 
 ity. 
 
 \ln personal culture, that great task which 
 4 
 
confronts us all, and to which many of us 
 apply ourselves with so much impetuous fer- 
 vour and persistence, there is one supreme 
 truth to be constantly remembered, the three- 
 fold nature of personality, and consequently 
 its threefold perfectability in the different 
 but inseparable realms of spirit, mind, and 
 bod;^ 
 
 In cultivating personality, it is impossible^ 
 to disregard the person. For the person of \ 
 every man and woman is not merely the shell | 
 aftd^-tertefw^^t wherein the spirit dwells, but/ 
 the very substance and fibre of personality/ 
 [Walt Whitman said of his book, '' Who 
 touches this, touches a man." As truly we 
 may say of any human body, '' Who touches 
 this, touches a soul." When my friend lays 
 his hand upon my shoulder, it is my very 
 most intimate self that must respond, not 
 merely this flesh and blood whose form and 
 features are recognizable in my name^ Thj 
 culture of personality, thefel^ux, is a vei 
 complex and subtle process. It is not accoi 
 
 5 
 
.plished by the acquiring of knowledge and 
 
 I the adoption of morality alone, but by every 
 moment's life of the body, — every deed, 
 every word, every gesture, — by the delib- 
 erate training of exercise and regimen, by the 
 long course of habitual occupation, and by 
 
 \ every brief act of each i«:eyocaWe instant. 
 
 ^We not only transform our outward bodily 
 persons by what we are, making them simu- 
 lacra of our inmost selves, but in sober truth 
 our most essential selves are in their turn re- 
 flexly transformed by the reacting influence 
 of our physical habits and doings. If a 
 crabbed and malign soul makes its inevitable 
 appearance in the face, just so truly does the 
 habitual cultivation of a gracious and con- 
 siderate demeanour tend inevitably to erad- 
 icate those unhappy conditions of spirit. To 
 forget this power of the body upon the mind 
 and spirit, is to leave one-half of the re- 
 sources of education untried and miss half of 
 the opportunity of this too brief life. A 
 cheap and shallow religious optimism may 
 
 6 
 
©tie J«ean(nB of ^tvuonmt^ 
 
 bemuse itself with idle ecstasies, but it has yet 
 to demonstrate its ability to support life with- 
 out food and impart perennial vigour to the 
 mind. Dreams and aspirations are the nat- 
 ural output of the human soul, but nutrition 
 and hygiene are its proper and inevitable 
 sources of vitality. Only by the careful use 
 of these modest means, and not otherwise, can 
 we detach ourselves from our mother ground 
 and go about our rational activities in this 
 perplexing world. 
 
 The long playing of a role like Hamlet, if 
 it be well enacted, works so insidiously upon 
 the spirit of the actor as to become a formid- 
 able danger. No conscientious actor could 
 repeat the performance of such a role as Dr. 
 Jekyl and Mr. Hyde through an extended 
 run, without incurring grave responsibilities 
 to himself; while the portrayal of the charac- 
 teristic habits of Rosalind, on the other hand, 
 acts as an irresistible nervous tonic; so in- 
 eradicably is the spirit joined to the kindly 
 clay in which it was begotten. So, too, the 
 
 7 
 
persistent punchings and pommellings of 
 some forms of exercise strengthen not only 
 the habits of physical violence, but deeper 
 lying habits of aggression and pugnacity as 
 well. And it is clearly recognized that these 
 manly arts must require and inculcate a code 
 of manly honour and fair play, in order to 
 maintain our respect. When they fail to do 
 this, they become brutal and brutalizing at 
 once, and lose favour even with the most un- 
 cultivated of their devotees. The pugilist's 
 necessary self-control extends to the soul be- 
 hind the fist, and habitual grace of conduct 
 appreciably forestalls and discourages gross 
 desires. The enforced gymnastic of some 
 gracious expression, if imposed on naughty 
 children, is a more fruitful corrective than 
 most forms of punishment. If gymnastics in 
 good motion were given to criminals, it 
 would prove more reformative than most 
 moral suasion, for it would be more deep and 
 instinctive; it would be as if we should pro- 
 vide them with the mechanism of escape from 
 
 8 
 

 JEiie MtunitiQ of ^tv^onnlits 
 
 the evil aptitudes in which they are impris- 
 oned. 
 
 Both fundamentally and throughout in-* 
 finite intricacies of subdivis ions, th e m33Sg^^^^^ 
 of personality has im threefild requirement 
 and procedure^ aftdniiijivtft .ii&pf^nd mi dirfiniir^ 
 training in morality, intelligence, and phy- 
 sique, /a realization of this triune composi- 
 tion of our being and its consequent threefold 
 need of nurture and symmetrical grov^th, is 
 the most auspicious beginning of culture. It 
 weeds out all false pride in partial excellence 
 and special accomplishment; it does away 
 with mistaken prejudices as to overdevelop- 
 ment and underdevelopment in any direction 
 at the cost of general symmetry; and substi- 
 tutes a standard of normal growth with equi- 
 librium of powers, for one of excessive andL 
 exceptional cultivation and specialization 
 When once accepted as a criterion of per- 
 sonal culture, it affords the most helpful basis 
 for self-examination, and for the selection of 
 whatever kind of reinforcement one may 
 
 9 
 
sri^e M^^itiQ of ^tvuonaUts 
 
 most need at any given moment; it indicates 
 the most serviceable adjustment of conditions, 
 and the most valuable utilization of circum- 
 stances. It is a magic formula w^hich turns 
 everything into grist for the mills of life, is 
 .a remedy for hardship and a cure for de- 
 spair. 
 
 Inasmuch as wt must both get and give our 
 mpressions of personality through its phys- 
 cal expressionSj-dftd a€Uhis fact is very gen- 
 erally underestimated! it may not be amiss to 
 emphasize it. The physical side of person- 
 ality offers a medium of transmission for rea- 
 on and impulse,* a«d at the sanfie- ttf«^ i& the 
 only soil and substance through which the 
 spiritual and intellectual live and are rein- 
 f0^ced^ This surely seems sufficient reason 
 for making an appropriate and adequate 
 physical education one of the bases for the 
 culture of personality^ — a--^.c«kttfe \vfeich 
 may be begun in childhood -lo»g before self- 
 consciousness dawfts^-^r-eonscTcnce. makes- it- 
 self known. 
 
 lO 
 
The making of personality begins with/ 
 learning to breathe and move. 
 
 *' How Nature first made throb 
 Her atoms in the void," 
 
 iwe do not know, nor how the reasoning soul 
 takes on the restlessness of matter. These are 
 among the mysteries, but we know very well 
 that even before birth the human personality 
 begins to be moulded by parental will; and 
 thgj} in childhood th^ iofm^^nci fraturgti, nnd 
 habits of motion, are modified and moulded 
 as the mind and emotional nature assert them- 
 selves in the plastic little bodies. Then, of 
 course, is the time to safeguard and foster 
 natural apd right methods of breathing and 
 motion. Unfortunately we have small habit 
 of doing mat, and modern life imposes wrong 
 and unnatural habits on the child almost im- 
 perceptibly^^ a«4-<iftys of labour under ^mfa- 
 vourable conditions and at highly specialized 
 industries come to further arrest and distort 
 the growth of the young and impressionable 
 
 II 
 
physique. All the main activities of modern 
 life, most of its industries and nearly all busi- 
 ness and professional vocations, are carried 
 on under conditions so far removed from the 
 primitive circumstances of natural living, 
 that it is hardly an exaggeration to question 
 whether one person in a hundred breathes 
 and moves well. So that it is not at all pre- 
 posterous, as it might sound at first, to say that 
 we need to be taught these rudiments of ani- 
 mal existenceJ The increasing attention we 
 &re giving to physical culture and voice train- 
 ing, far from being superfluous, are of the 
 profoundest good, and must in time come to 
 form part of all elementary education as a 
 matter of course. 
 
 /Tn this, as in other fields of criticism, it is 
 only the most perfect and beautiful standards 
 that we ought to have always in mind. How- 
 ever strong and healthy we may be, there are 
 still more noble unfulfilled ambitions for the 
 physical perfection of human beauty and be- 
 ing than have ever yet been realized. It can- 
 
 12 
 
Kfft J«eanfn0 of ^tvuonuUts 
 
 not be enough that we should have a goodly 
 number of beautiful faces among our women 
 and strong bodies among our men, it must 
 become our national pride to people the land 
 with a more perfect race than the world has 
 yet seen. Of what use otherwise are our 
 boasted growth and civilization? After all, 
 wealth is made for man, not man for wealth. 
 And we are undone surely, if our great ad- 
 vantages and wonderful achievements cannot 
 be assimilated, and do not tend to make us 
 generally and individually more healthy, 
 more sane, more happy. One may be an un- 
 compromising admirer of the age and yet 
 perceive heights of perfection before it still 
 unattained. Shall we allow it to be truly said 
 that another nation is more unselfishly de- 
 voted to truth and science than we, or any 
 other people more careful of justice than our- 
 selves, or that we can be surpassed in our in- 
 stinct for beauty and art? Men and women 
 who are alive to-day in this still New World 
 of unexampled opportunity and resource, can 
 
 13 
 
8Cf|e M^Uina of Jl^tvuonulits 
 
 scarcely content themselves with any less am- 
 bitious task than the accomplishment of unri- 
 valled perfection in each and all of these 
 three directions. To do that, there can only 
 be one method employed, — the blending and 
 harmonizing of these three aims into an ideal 
 standard of symmetrical human develop- 
 ment. 
 
 That a people like the ancient Greeks 
 should have been at the same time devoted to 
 the fine arts and enamoured of physical 
 beauty, was but natural. The possession of 
 taste, the spiritual quality of appreciation 
 which made them so finely discriminating in 
 matters of art and literature, made them also 
 sensitive and fastidious in the matter of hu- 
 man beauty. Their eager and plastic intelli- 
 gence, and their devotion to all sensible love- 
 liness, were manifest in their nobility of per- 
 son, and made them give their attention most 
 assiduously to the culture of the body. The 
 Japanese in our own day are a marked in- 
 stance of the same tendency, — a people in 
 
 14 
 
whom the most highly developed art instinct 
 exists side by side with the utmost attention 
 to physical training and development. The 
 two traits are but different manifestations of 
 one quality, — a passion for perfection in all 
 the forms and colours which nature may as- 
 sume or art create. 
 
 Among Latin peoples there is a like feeling 
 for art and sensitiveness to the alluring influ- 
 ence of beauty, which often seem almost 
 wholly lacking in our more practical and 
 stolid race. Perhaps it is only dormant, 
 buried under the crushing pall of mediaeval 
 religionism laid upon it by our excellent but 
 misguided ancestors, or submerged beneath 
 the insufferable weight of business and indus- 
 trial servitude which we have evolved for 
 ourselves. Alert intelligence, prompt and 
 capable executive qualities, inventiveness, 
 courage, industry, ambition, honesty in deal- 
 ing, good nature in conduct, these are all 
 traits that make for a cleaner, more whole- 
 some life; but without equivalent discrimi- 
 
 iS 
 
nating taste, — a regard for what may be be- 
 coming, pleasing, and beautiful, as well as 
 effective, — their command of happiness is 
 most insecure, and all our strenuous endeav- 
 ours must lead but to doubtful ends and dis- 
 appointing achievements. 
 
 Our architecture, our homes, our dress, our 
 furniture, our household effects, as well as 
 our books, our music, our drama, our statues, 
 and our paintings, — all these necessary and 
 pleasant things with which we surround our- 
 selves must be not only abundant but beauti- 
 ful in order to serve all our requirements of 
 them. If they surround us in lavish profu- 
 sion, but without taste, they are but barbarous 
 treasures, exerting a debasing rather than a 
 civilizing influence over us. Everywhere we 
 are beginning to feel this more and more gen- 
 erally, and to discredit the cheap and ugly 
 products of machine labour, and to perceive 
 that art is an inherent quality in all industry 
 which is honest. 
 
 Along with this growing appreciation of 
 i6 
 
w 
 
 Efft Jtttanfnfl of J^etsoiTiiltts 
 
 art, this sensitiveness to beauty in all our sur- 
 roundings, must come an ever growing care 
 for our physical perfection. As we become 
 more and more critical of what is ugly in 
 things about us, we shall be more easily of- 
 fended by any blemish of personal appear- 
 ance, any defect in bodily vigour, any inade- 
 quacy or awkwardness or insincerity in per- 
 sonal expression. It will not seem sufficient 
 to us that a man should be possessed of inflex- 
 ible integrity and nobility of spirit; we shall 
 demand that his nobility and integrity per- '\ 
 meate his entire being, and that he bear him- ^ j 
 self accordingly and present a noble seeming 
 to the eyes of the world. Moral perfection 
 will not seem enough, while physical perfec- 
 tion is lacking. We shall not then ask every 
 man merely to be a reputable citizen, we 
 shall expect him to be an admirable and cred- 
 itable example of physical manhood as well. 
 Love of beauty has been held in disrepute 
 as a pagan ideal of life with which the less 
 we had to do the better. But as we reach a 
 
 17 
 
srtie JWaifeinfl of J^rtsonalitff 
 
 juster appreciation of our human needs, it 
 takes its place as one of the three requisite 
 factors of human character, along with the 
 love of truth and the love of goodness. And 
 it does not seem that any well-chosen care 
 we can bestow on physical education can be 
 unimportant or undignified, or that any ele- 
 ment of culture is more needful than the per- 
 fecting of our bodily powers and the main- 
 taining of them in all their normal fitness and 
 growing vigour. 
 
 ** Let us not always say, 
 * Spite of this flesh to-day 
 I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole ! * 
 As the bird wings and sings. 
 Let us cry, * All good things 
 Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh 
 helps soul!'" 
 
 /Physical culture does not emphasize phys- 
 /ical consciousness. On the contrary it mini- 
 mizes it. Just as being well dressed prevents 
 one from being conspicuous, so being well 
 [trained and in good condition physically 
 \gives one immunity from inordinate, intem- 
 
 i8 
 
perate, ill-regulated habits, and brings us to 
 a normal happy state of unselfconscious free- 
 dom. 
 
 While general lack of taste in the art of 
 living is only too prevalent, and prevents us 
 from being sensitive enough to our physical 
 defects^ the overstrained and artificial condi- 
 tions of modern life tend to aggravate those 
 defects and to make it imperative that we 
 should carefully reinforce and regulate our 
 physical knowledge and procedure, correct- 
 ing faults and supplying ourselves with legit- 
 imate standards of human excellence. Such 
 growth of ideals and of excellence can only 
 be achieved by education and training. And 
 in the domain of physical culture as in any 
 other, education must begin with the rudi- I 
 ments. The first rudiment of-— b^^uly is ' 
 health, one of the first rudiments of grace is *. 
 a good walk, the first rudiment of a pleasant i 
 speaking voice is the ability to breathe freely, j 
 
 It always seems a little absurd to us grown | 
 people at first that we should need to learn ; 
 
 X9 ' 
 
 
how to walk, or to breathe, or to speak. We 
 protest that these are matters of instinct, that 
 we can do everything of the kind much better 
 if we are allowed to do it naturally, and that 
 if we were to permit ourselves to be instructed 
 we should become affected and artificial. 
 This might be true if we were animals living 
 a free and primitive life, or if we were ideal 
 humans living a correspondingly free and de- 
 veloped life, but we are not. The condi- 
 tions under which man attained his bodily 
 form and vigour and habits of motion have 
 been dangerously modified by civilization, 
 and many of the demands which modern life 
 lays upon us tend directly to diminish our 
 physical perfection and efficiency, rather than 
 to foster and help them. There is danger 
 that we may lose the natural habits of free, 
 spontaneously graceful human motion, be- 
 cause of the lessening need and opportunity 
 for bodily exertion in many occupations, and 
 the demand for cramping and harmful excess 
 of highly specialized exertion in others. 
 
 20 
 
As human society is constituted to-day, 
 many of our most coveted occupations call 
 for no physical exertion whatever. The more 
 diligently we prosecute our nervous and se- 
 dentary callings, the less physically fit do we 
 become. While our primitive brother could 
 not devote himself to the simple business of 
 his life without growing thereby in bodily 
 health and vigour, we men and women unfor- 
 tunately cannot devote ourselves to the affairs 
 of modern life without depleting whatever 
 store of energy and health we may possess. 
 As long as we can sit upon a chair, like 
 Browning's Grammarian, " dead from the 
 waist down," we can still, after an accepted 
 fashion at least, follow our chosen pursuits. 
 We are under no such direct and imperative 
 incentive to keep ourselves strong, as they of 
 earlier simpler times encountered. 
 
 Many occupations, moreover, which do 
 call for active bodily exertion are so special- 
 ized as to cramp and distort and diminish 
 physical development rather than to help it. 
 
 21 
 
2CJie M^fiitia of j^ersonalUff 
 
 So that there is almost always and everywhere 
 a tendency towards general inefficiency and 
 physical perversion, as the natural man comes 
 under the more or less artificial conditions of 
 contemporary life, whether of luxury or la- 
 bour, — conditions no less exacting and in 
 many ways much less wholesome than of old. 
 jNeither the office, the factory, the school- 
 room, the shop, nor the drawing-room, is 
 capable of producing an admirable type of 
 physical manhood, or supplying those activ- 
 ities which call forth fine bodily powers and 
 develop them to the point of adequate per- 
 fection. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at that our motion 
 should be in danger of losing its primal 
 strength and grace, and that so many of us 
 grow awkward and constrained. Such bad 
 habits become confirmed and transmitted, 
 and we hardly even inherit symmetrical and 
 unhampered physiques or natural motion. 
 Unfortunate mannerisms of carriage and ges- 
 ture and voice are often our heritage, even if 
 
 22 
 
we acquire no new defects for ourselves. It 
 may have been natural for an Indian or a 
 South Sea Islander to walk well, with no 
 more training than his unvitiated instinct sup- 
 plied; he would have had a free, unperverted 
 body at his command; and then his walk and 
 motion would have been his natural express- 
 ive meeting of a requirement. It does not 
 by any means follow that the city-born man 
 will have the same instinctive faculty. He 
 may never have to run a step nor take a deep 
 breath in his life, nor ever have felt any in- 
 centive to realize his best personal prefer- 
 ence through bodily exertion. The need of 
 a capable sound physique is not borne in upon 
 him every hour, as it was upon men long ago 
 when all life went on out-of-doors. The pos- 
 session of grace and strength may seem 
 mildly pleasant and valuable, but it can hardly 
 appear to him an instant matter of life or 
 death. He is not hourly pressed upon by cir- 
 cumstances that call for all his best bodily 
 efforts, and so constantly develop his forces 
 
 23 
 
and faculties, his deftness, skill, strength, and 
 promptness of action. 
 
 Animals in their wild state are strong and 
 graceful of necessity, since they must move 
 with the utmost economy of motion or be 
 eliminated for their blundering. Their ex- 
 istence as individuals depends upon their per- 
 fecting to the utmost what is normal in their 
 kind. To be awkward is to stand in jeopardy 
 of the very life. To be wasteful of strength, 
 to be inadequate in motion, are sins in the 
 natural world that are visited with the dire 
 punishments of hunger and death. There 
 there is no respect for average excellence, no 
 indulgence of any fashionable weakness or 
 perversion of primal powers. 
 
 The primitive man was necessarily and nat- 
 urally graceful for similar reasons. His free, 
 wild life in the open compelled him to be 
 constantly at his best. He could not shirk, 
 nor be indifferent, nor allow himself to get 
 out of training with impunity. The world 
 about him was a huge and hostile environ- 
 
 24 
 
ment, which yielded him a living indeed, but 
 which compelled him to be always up to the 
 standard of normal manhood, and visited any 
 deflection with a ruthless punishment. His 
 life depended upon his dexterity, precision, 
 and fleetness of foot, on eye and wind and 
 agility. His physique was beautiful because 
 it was fit; and it was kept fit and normal by 
 continual exercise in the most rigorous school 
 of necessity, — a school which compelled ex- 
 peditious, effective, and unwasteful perfec- 
 tion of activity, and commensurate develop- 
 ment. 
 
 With moderns the case is very different. 
 The struggle for life is as keen as ever, but 
 its base has been shifted. It is less a case of 
 the survival of the strongest than of the 
 shrewdest. The likeliest to maintain himself 
 among his competing fellows has come to be, 
 not the man of greatest muscle, but the man 
 of keenest calculation. Modern life has be- 
 come a battle of Machiavellian wit, rather 
 than of human strength. We have not al- 
 
 25 
 
tered the law of evolution, but we have al- 
 tered its conditions and deflected its course. 
 Popular selection, instead of producing 
 strong, graceful and delightful persons, pro- 
 duces exceptional, overmentalized and often 
 malign ones. That is the unwholesome ten- 
 dency of the modern business world, against 
 which we have to guard. It is a tendency 
 that so exaggerates the mental faculties, that 
 they need more than ever before the backing 
 of strong uncompromising moral qualities, 
 and the reinforcement of vigorous physique, 
 if we are to profit by the value of our ad- 
 vancement or realize the happiness to which 
 we aspire. The universal and instinctive en- 
 joyment of outdoor life and exercise is proof 
 of the validity of any claim for wholesome 
 living, and for such education as shall help 
 us to get the utmost physical good, in health 
 and pleasure, out of our possibilities and lim- 
 itations. 
 r Since we no longer live under the rigorous 
 / necessities which produced and determined 
 
 26 
 
©tie J«ean(nfl of ^tvnonmts 
 
 our physical powers, in the course of human 
 evolution, it is not to be expected that those \ 
 powers can be retained unimpaired without ■ 
 wise and deliberate fostering. Our physical 
 development needs our most intelligent care 
 and determined cultivation. In return it can- 
 not but repay our painstaking with added 
 health and sanity and happiness. We must 
 remember, however, that the mere supplying 
 of haphazard exercise, no matter how ample 
 and stimulating, is not alone enough to pro- 
 duce the best results in physical development. 
 
 It goes without saying that our customary? 
 responsibilities allow little time out of each 
 day for physical recreation pure and simple; 
 yet even the busiest life offers more possibili- 
 ties of that sort than is realized, and would 
 gain rather than lose by the utilization of 
 every such opportunity. Then, too, there are 
 best ways of doing all the enforced work one 
 has to do, — best ways of sitting and standing 
 and breathing and moving, so as to get a min- 
 imum of detriment and a maximum of bene- 
 
 27 
 
2rt)r ifttaftCna of ^tvnon^Uts 
 
 fit from our lab^ourj even though it be drudg- 
 ery. No labour, however menial, but can be 
 made to yield its quota to our physical well- 
 being, if performed with intelligence and 
 spirit. Drudgery is in the drudge, not in the 
 task. 
 
 This is the chief use of physical education, 
 as of all other, to fit us for the perform- 
 ance of necessary work, — no mere training 
 that is made up of incoherent and unrelatable 
 gymnastic diversions, or athletic excesses, but 
 a veritable and beneficent education, as sci- 
 entific as engineering, as ethical as religion, 
 and as artistic as the best sculpture. 
 
 Such an ideal physical training would not, 
 of course, correct all the ills under which we 
 live, but it would certainly go far to help us. 
 Social ideals have to be modified, social insti- 
 tutions reformed, continually, so that life may 
 be kept balanced and sane, — so that the indi- 
 vidual may have something like a fair chance 
 for free development of all the human facul- 
 ties of body, heart, and brain. Our own age 
 
 28 
 
JCtie Mtnnins of ^tvnonnUtp 
 
 is as much in need of this healthy growth as 
 any other. But quite apart from these con- 
 siderations of social readjustment, the fact is 
 to be noted that modern life, with its distorted 
 demands, its crazy haste, and its foolish ab- 
 sorption in affairs, is directly responsible for 
 any physical deterioration, and that we can 
 only maintain our normal physical standard 
 of excellence and efficiency by deliberate and 
 adequate care. 
 
 Exercise is only the outward modifying cTr^ 
 cumstance which moulds our physical powers, 
 and must be accurately adjusted to the laws 
 of remedy and growth, in order to yield the 
 best results. It has the inward, living, con- 
 trolling force of personality to reckon with. 
 Unless we recognize this truth and proceed 
 upon it, all our systems of physical education 
 must remain futile, — as they so largely are. 
 Man's body is the product of evolution, in- 
 deed, but that evolution includes also the 
 growth of his spirit and intelligence, which 
 find their only manifestation through his 
 
 29 I 
 
physical being. Free life in the open may 
 give us opportunity for good motion and fine 
 carriage, but even under the most favourable 
 conditions habitually fine carriage and good 
 motion can only spring from nobility of char- 
 acter. Dignity, grace, dexterity are physical 
 traits, if you will, but they are incompatible 
 with an unintelligent and depraved nature. 
 We have therefore to take into consideration 
 the essential threefold unity of personality in 
 any attempt at education, — the indivisible 
 relation between body-building and charac- 
 ter-building.T We have to make sure that we 
 are well supplied with dignified and gracious 
 ideals that shall induce and stimulate worthy 
 growth of character, while inspiring and 
 establishing fine habits of plastic motion for 
 its spontaneous expression. 
 
 The cultivation of beautiful motion is an 
 avenue to the attainment of great personal 
 lQY£l+ne§s, and-i& available to all. For grace, 
 that is to say good motion, is one of the most 
 alive and potent sorts of beauty, exercising a 
 
 30 
 
JCtie Jtteaninfl of ^tvnonmts 
 
 subtle but incalculable influence; and while 
 perfection af form and feature is largely be- 
 yond our own control, the charm-of pleasing 
 motion, with the improvement in look and 
 bearing which it gives, is almost immediately 
 attainable, and is instantly impressive. We 
 are accustomed to think of a fine carriage as 
 a becoming accomplishment or a fortunate 
 accident; we seldom account it a result of .. 
 character, — an inevitable expression of indi-V-^ 
 vidual personality. It does not usually occur 
 to us to interpret what it means, and what 
 tj-afts it indicates. Yet, consciously or uncon- 
 sciously, it always conveys an impression; and 
 voluntarily or involuntarily, it always betrays 
 character. Aad, if we wish to cultivate or 
 enhance physical personal beauty, we must 
 inculcate this truth of the close relationship 
 between the physical being and the inward 
 character, and the influence of the one on the z'^') 
 other. Beauty is the expression of noble in- 
 telligence.'' 'Personal charm and grace are the 
 manifestation of fundamental values inherent 
 
 31 
 
SCfje JWaftinfl of J&tv^onulits 
 
 in the individual. It is impossible to culti- 
 vate personal beauty and physical perfection 
 in ourselves and in the race, without first hav- 
 ing ideals of perfection of spirit and under- 
 standing. The aid of goodness and truth must 
 always be enlisted to accord with our aims 
 for the achievement and maintenance of 
 beauty, whether in life or art, or personal 
 culture. To build a structure, we must first 
 have a design. Our outward self is built and 
 rebuilt, moment by moment, by our inward 
 self, and is the true expression of our thoughts 
 and emotions; just as the beautiful outward 
 world of nature is created, moment by mo- 
 ment, and is the true expression of a benefi- 
 cent purposeful energy. 
 
 'he human body in every tissue and move- 
 ment is but the living simulacrum of the 
 mind and soul that pervade it. It can never 
 be given a fair and lovely seeming, — dignity 
 and charm and grace, — by any attempt to 
 affect these attributes, since they are spiritual 
 attributes as well as physical, — manifesta- 
 
 32 
 
tions of kindly sincerity, not of selfish artifice. 
 Any body need only be made a plastic and 
 obedient vehicle or medium, faithfully re- 
 vealing fine spirit and intelligence, in order 
 to realize the utmost physical beauty of 
 which that person is capable, and to gratify 
 the most aesthetic demand. 
 
 All motion, whether self-conscious or not, 
 has meaning; and one's bearing — the pres- 
 ence with which one fronts the world — is 
 an irrefutable revelation of oneself. Per- 
 sonal beauty and graceful motion, a charm- 
 ing manner and a musical voice, are valuable 
 powers that may be cultivated and attained 
 in some degree by all, just as health and vig- 
 our may be. But they cannot be acquired as 
 mere elegant accomplishments, the affected 
 externals of a fashionable education, to be 
 learned by precept or imitation. So consid- 
 ered, they become nothing more than a trans- 
 parent veneer over ignorant vulgarity, a 
 sham polish that very badly imitates good 
 breeding. Real gracefulness of bearing, 
 
 33 
 
charm of manner and speech, are truly the 
 " outward and visible signs of an inward and 
 spiritual grace." ^^Tiey give eloquent utter- 
 ance to significant personality. Being subject 
 to definite natural laws of expression, not to 
 be learned by rote nor taught by rule,rth^y 
 must be developed as normal means of ex- 
 pression, if they are to be acquired at their 
 best; and they must only be exercised as nat- 
 ural avenues of sincere expression if they are 
 to be retained in their legitimate normal 
 freshness. When so acquired and so used, 
 they can never be artificial nor fictitious nor 
 insincere; they are then what they were 
 made to be by nature, spontaneous character- 
 istic traits of the individual^^^lending him 
 identification, distinction, and magnetism. 
 
 To cultivate fundamental means of expres- 
 sion is merely to take care of certain faculties 
 and powers already in our possession, and for 
 which we are responsible. This should con- 
 stitute a most vital and practical part of any 
 liberal education, since education surely can 
 
 34 
 
have no other aim than this, — to liberate the 
 mind and spirit, to set them free, to put them 
 in possession of their lawful dominions, to 
 help them realize and utilize themselves, to 
 increase still more their growing powers for 
 beneficent influence, so that human person- 
 ality may reach its happiest normal devel- 
 opment. Culture of the body, like culture of 
 the mind, must be a real education of the in- 
 dividual, not the mere acquisition of tricks, 
 if it is to hold its rightful place in educational 
 and general esteem and fulfil the largest 
 measure of its usefulness. 
 
 It is the quality of exercise, rather than its 
 quantity, that needs consideration. The at- 
 tention we give it is perhaps already sufficient 
 in amount; it is requisite that we should see 
 that it is adequate in value also, and that it 
 is rightly related to other branches of per- 
 sonal culture, if it is to be accredited with its 
 legitimate place and importance in any 
 scheme of human improvement. 
 
 Voice and motion are primarily faculties 
 35 
 
JSCiie i«aft(n0 of JJrtsonaUts 
 
 of expression, and can best be cultivated only 
 as such. The laws which govern their use 
 are the laws which govern all art. In the 
 person of the actor they must be brought to 
 perfection and held in readiness to be utilized 
 in his art of characterization. He exempli- 
 fies the possibility of making any discrimina- 
 tion between the art of expression and the 
 individual use of our faculties of speech and 
 motion. He reminds us that, while few of 
 us are actors portraying the moods and pas- 
 sions of imaginary characters by deliberate 
 imitation, we are all of us every instant con- 
 sciously or unconsciously betraying emotions 
 of our own. And the means at our command 
 are precisely the same as his in kind, though 
 in a much less perfect state of development 
 and control. The master of his indubitable 
 art, he makes use of no other media of expres- 
 sion than we. But with his intelligent com- 
 mand of his art he is able to express exactly 
 what he means to express, while we on the 
 other hand, through lack of such control, 
 
 36 
 
through defective education and bad habits 
 of imitation, express much that we would not 
 express, and fail to express much that we 
 think and feel and long to be accredited with. 
 The truth is, no man can speak or move with- 
 out definitely expressing something; which 
 makes it obviously desirable that expression 
 be educated and devoted to the highest hu- 
 man service. 
 
 So inexorable are the laws of expression 
 under which we live and move and have our 
 being, that the tortuous soul can never quite 
 hide any duplicity from the keen observer, 
 nor true nobility be mistaken for pinchbeck. 
 Training in the fundamental principles of 
 expression — the acquiring of good habits of 
 speech and motion, which are two most pri- 
 mary factors in expression — is therefore not 
 only a requisite part of all thorough education 
 of personality, but a constant aid in the dif- 
 ficult matter of maintaining a worthy con- 
 duct of life. It tends to make us directly 
 masters of ourselves; it gives us insight into 
 
 37 
 
/" 
 
 the thoughts and feelings of others; it vents 
 the springs of generous freedom in ourselves; 
 its principles are built into the foundation of 
 all culture, life, and art. 
 
 These are very definite reasons for main- 
 taining that wisely adapted physical educa- 
 tion is as much needed for the personality of 
 the artist, the scholar, and the man in the 
 street, as for the athlete. It should be clear 
 enough that no great achievement in art, in 
 science, or in religion, no surpassing stroke 
 of genius, nor any masterly human dealing, 
 can be expected of a puny or perverted peo- 
 ple. That in itself is enough justification for 
 scrupulous care and culture of the body. But 
 it is impossible to teach good motion and pure 
 \ musical tone-production, without thereby 
 evoking and encouraging the growth of fine 
 spirit and clear thinking. Tone and motion 
 can only be pleasing and beautiful when they 
 have sincerity of impulse behind them and 
 through them, and are executed with freedom 
 and skill. It follows inevitably that to instil 
 
 38 
 
and disseminate habits of graceful movement 
 and pleasing speech is to develop through 
 well-chosen exercise such basic qualities as 
 sincerity, dignity, and kindliness in the indi- 
 vidual, and honesty, beneficence, and effi- 
 ciency in the community. The raw, crude, 
 vulgar manners of so many young people, 
 even in grades of society where better things 
 might be expected, are oftentimes attributa- 
 ble quite as much to ill-regulated habits of 
 using the voice and the body, as to any inten- 
 tional discourtesy. And these blemishes van- ^ J 
 ish as if by magic under adequate physical 
 education, — a wise and practically selected 
 cultivation of motion and speech. An awk- 
 ward and slovenly gait, a boorish and un- 
 lovely bearing, a strident and repellent voice, 
 forbidding as they are to those who encounter 
 them, may be far more harmful in their reflex 
 influence upon the nerves and temperaments 
 of their unfortunate possessors. 
 
 Such considerations as these more than jus- 
 tify a plea for the spread of the best physical 
 
 39 
 
2rt)e i«aft(nfl of jpersonalfts 
 
 education, training that is not only good for 
 muscles and amusement, but that betters all 
 our effectiveness and satisfaction in life. The 
 evolution of such a standard of education 
 would create a necessity for teachers of such 
 surpassing wisdom and patient skill as are 
 almost nowhere to be found, and would re- 
 quire in those who professed it not only a 
 broad fund of psychological and scientific 
 knowledge, but a distinct genius for the art 
 of their calling, — an art far greater and 
 more consciously creative than it has hereto- 
 fore been considered. 
 
 To such a philosophy of education it can- 
 not seem enough that physical training should 
 be conducted as a separate and optional 
 branch of work, and be relegated to occa- 
 sional supervision of overspecialized teach- 
 ers, who, however proficient they may be in 
 gymnastics, are seldom inspired by the broad- 
 est culture. All teachers, of whatever subject, 
 should comprehend the principles of such a 
 symmetrical educational ideal, and should be 
 
 40 
 
versed in all of its rudiments at least, so that 
 they may have a wise care of the general well- 
 being of their pupils at all times. It should 
 be considered quite as much the teacher's 
 province to encourage habits of good motion 
 and fine voice as to inculcate orderly beha- 
 viour and clean morals. We should fare 
 badly if our only training in ethics were 
 derived from a half-hour's lesson on a Sunday 
 afternoon; just as inadequate for the needs 
 of the growing body must be a half-hour of 
 calisthenics once or twice a week. 
 
 It must always be recognized that teaching 
 is^ne_of__the_greatest arts, as well as one of 
 the noblest professions. It may be claimed 
 that the task of the ideal artist is to make 
 something out of nothing, to disseminate 
 ideals by giving them reality, to increase the 
 sum of happiness in the world, to uphold 
 lofty standards of conduct, to make the god- 
 like powers of goodness and reason prevail 
 against the Titanic forces of ill; but it is 
 hardly appreciated that the task of the ideal 
 
 41 
 
teacher is equally creative and far-reaching. 
 He deals with a spiritual art, moulding plas- 
 tic personalities to human perfection by his 
 skill, his patience, his insight and his genius. 
 Such incomparable service demands the nvDst 
 comprehensive culture and devotion, and is 
 entitled to the highest honours in the gift of 
 mankind to bestow. Such a teacher is a co- 
 worker in the field with Christ and Buddha 
 and all the supremely unselfish souls who 
 have devoted their lives to the development 
 and betterment of the life of our kind. Not 
 until we recognize and encourage this essen- 
 tial status of teachers, can we expect them to 
 fulfil these ideals, or hope that schooling shall 
 yield the best possible fruits of ideal educa- 
 tion. 
 
 42 
 

 (Bt, Clje "gJ'alue of f nstinct 
 
 The value of instinct is its incorruptible 
 honesty. Reason may err and palter and vary 
 and be deceived or overborne ; sentiment may 
 grow false and stale; both may be deluded 
 by the shows of circumstance, the force of 
 tradition, the dictates of authority, the voice 
 of calumny, or the mere inertia of habit. But 
 instinct is swerved by none of these things. 
 It was the master of our destinies long ago, 
 when we were first emerging from chaos and 
 oblivion, before reason was achieved or sen- 
 timent begotten, playing the part of divinity 
 in our strong, restless, obedient, unconscious 
 
 43 
 
2rt|e iWaftinfl of jptrsonalitff 
 
 bodies, while as yet error of judgment and 
 sadness of heart were scarcely beginning to 
 be. 
 
 In the earlier world instinct taught us to 
 forage for our food, to engender and rear our 
 offspring, to preserve the precious gift of life, 
 to avoid danger, to seek joy, and to conquer 
 fear. Since then, in the long course of evo- 
 lution, as we have come to call the story of 
 man, the teaching of instinct has been over- 
 laid with a mass of other information, — all 
 the knowledge which awakening mind has 
 discovered, all the lore which the growing 
 emotions have accumulated. Instinct itself 
 has been abandoned, insulted, almost forgot- 
 ten, and its invaluable guidance set aside. 
 Life has been made so safe, so much a matter 
 of routine and comfort and custom, that our 
 realization of the need of the services of in- 
 stinct from moment to moment in daily life 
 has fallen into abeyance. We no longer rely 
 upon its fresh and prompt decisions, but refer 
 all perplexities to the slow adjudication of 
 
 44 
 
reason or the uncertain arbitration of the 
 heart. 
 
 True, it seems to be the destined aim of 
 sentient life to evolve and perfect these two 
 gifts, the power to think truly and the power 
 to feel deeply; but that is by no means a rea- 
 son for discountenancing their primitive part- 
 ner and invaluable helpmate, a keen and 
 active instinct. A little consideration of the 
 subject will show that such a loss must prove 
 fatal not only to the outward physical life of 
 the human being, but to the inward person- 
 ality itself. In '^ The Life of Reason," that 
 book full of wise things, Mr. George Santa- 
 yana says, in dealing with '^ Reason in Relig- 
 ion," " It is no accident for the soul to be 
 embodied; her very essence is to express and 
 bring to fruition the body's functions and re- 
 sources. Its instincts make her ideals and its 
 relations her world." And again in the vol- 
 ume on " Reason in Common Sense," " The 
 soul adopts the body's aims; from the body 
 
 45 
 
> 
 
 and from its instincts she draws a first hint 
 of the right means to the accepted purposes.'* 
 M. Maeterlinck, with his incomparable in- 
 sight in such matters, has given a description 
 of instinct in his essay on '^ The Psychology 
 of Accident," which leaves little more to be 
 said upon the subject, save to reinforce the 
 profound lesson which his penetrating de- 
 scription suggests. He portrays instinct as a 
 humble, tireless drudge, lodged in our mortal 
 tenement, to tend and care for all its more 
 menial necessities, unrecognized for the most 
 part, yet ever ready to spring to our assistance 
 whenever any need arises, rushing instantly 
 to the aid of its slower superior, reason, in 
 moments of peril, and retiring again unrec- 
 ognized and unencouraged to the obscure 
 corners of its dwelling. In his own words, 
 *' The danger once past, reason, stupefied, 
 gasping for breath, unbelieving, a little dis- 
 concerted, turns its head and takes a last look 
 at the improbable. Then it resumes the lead, 
 as of right, while the good savage that no one 
 
 46 
 
dreams of thanking, returns in silence to its 
 
 cave." 
 
 We have all passed through that experience 
 of being rescued by our faithful savage, and 
 feel how true this description is, — with what 
 terror we grasp that modest and surest aid, 
 and how nonchalantly we turn from it the 
 moment our panic has subsided. For the cul- 
 tivator of personality, bent on achieving the 
 most normal self-development, the point is 
 that we pay far too small heed to our savage, 
 and for the most part treat it with culpable 
 and costly neglect and contempt; when in 
 truth it is quite as important to our human 
 happiness as proud reason, which flatters itself 
 it has accomplished such wonders, or fastidi- 
 ous moral spirit, which has had unnumbered 
 temples, churches, shrines, altars, basilicas, 
 cathedrals, mosques, minsters and abbeys built 
 for its indulgence and gratification. 
 
 These pampered and sniffy aristocrats are 
 apt to regard their unassuming ally as much 
 too vulgar and anarchistic to be associated 
 
 47 
 
E^t Jttaftinfl of Jletfiionalftff 
 
 with upon equal terms, and would gladly for- 
 get him and his affairs if they could. He 
 must shift for himself, for all they care, and 
 satisfy his own wants and requirements as best 
 he can without any intentional aid from them. 
 This is the prime and monumental fault of 
 civilization, the flaw which all our philoso- 
 phy of education so far has failed to correct, 
 and which it is our most important business 
 to amend. We have somehow allowed this 
 coolness between savage and angel to grow 
 unchecked, to the great detriment of our 
 human nature. Let us be well assured that 
 we shall in no instance be able to regain or 
 maintain anything like normal perfection un- 
 til this breach is bridged, and instinct and 
 reason are brought again into fullest legiti- 
 mate accord. So only can we avert chaotic 
 and otherwise incomprehensible sadness, de- 
 terioration, and defeat from the triumvirate 
 of personality, so omnipotent when at peace 
 with itself, so vulnerable when distraught by 
 inharmony and misgovernment. 
 
 48 
 
Instinct, like any other faculty, may be edu- 
 cated and kept growing and strong by exer- 
 cise and good care, or may be allowed to be- 
 come inept and useless. Do we give instinct 
 decent care from day to day? Do we not 
 rather follow the modern fashion of discoun- 
 tenancing, repressing, and insulting it, like an 
 unwelcome and unappreciated child? Ac- 
 cording to popular supposition, instinct is an 
 endowment, something like one of the senses, 
 which we each possess in a definite and un- 
 alterable degree. But that notion is wrong. 
 Instinct is not like the hearing or the eyesight, 
 of certain more or less fixed utility in each 
 person. It is more like the mind itself, capa- 
 ble of great development under careful cul- 
 ture or of great deterioration under neglect. 
 By most people instinct is classed with the 
 least spiritual of the senses, among the least 
 noble of the faculties of man, a part of that 
 animal heritage which a false theology has 
 taught us to be ashamed of, but which indeed 
 we must foster and train with every respectful 
 
 49 
 
>< 
 
 care, as an ever essential help in human 
 growth. 
 
 Instinct is the wisdom of the senses, and the 
 censor of all our wisdom. All the experience 
 of sensation, with its subtle modifications by 
 thought and feeling, through countless gen- 
 erations of life, has gone to the making of that 
 wisdom, and been absorbed by the species in 
 its store of animal consciousness and the 
 equipment of that fundamental and indis- 
 pensable faculty which we call instinct. ^ And 
 all of our higher, later, or more rational 
 knowledge, including our thoughts, aspira- 
 tions, dreams and conclusions, are almost val- 
 ueless until they have been weighed and ap- 
 proved by instinct. ' Reason alone, splendid 
 and daring as it is, is far too erratic, youthful, 
 vain, and visionary to be entrusted with the 
 entire control of our human destiny; it must 
 for safety pay respectful heed to the more 
 deeply sympathetic judgments of instinct. 
 
 Instinct cannot become educated unless it is 
 allowed to bear some part in the problems of 
 
 50 
 
living. It is a valuable third judge with rea^ 
 son and intuition, and together, not sepa- 
 rately, they direct the affairs of the body, the 
 affairs of the mind, the affairs of the soul, and 
 adjudicate the ultimate welfare of personal- 
 ity. If instinct were thwarted and repressed, 
 and allowed to operate in the sphere of the 
 senses alone, it could not help being stultified 
 and dulled. It is only by being given free 
 scope in the widest range that it can be kept 
 happy, keen, growing, and competent. When 
 instinct is given this fair opportunity, it will 
 be found to develop and serve as wonderfully 
 and widely as either of its fellow faculties of 
 spirit and mind, and to yield its needed quota 
 to the sum of personal happiness and worth. 
 
 Instinct must help to govern not only our 
 food and clothing, but our friendships, our 
 antipathies, our vocations, our recreations, »• 
 
 our labour, and our love. Few of us know it 
 sufficiently even in its most primal and essen- /^ 
 
 tial realms.- We are so accustomed to eat and 
 dress by rule and custom that we often forget 
 
 i>, 
 
to consult instinct in the matter, greatly to our 
 disadvantage. How often we eat, not because 
 we are hungry, but because it is meal-time! 
 And how often we eat whatever is most con- 
 venient or customary, without consulting our 
 instinctive appetite at all, even when choice 
 is possible and an abundance is at our com- 
 mand. Eating and drinking should never be 
 matters of mere routine or heedless habit, but 
 always of normal sensibility. A certain reg- 
 ularity is not to be despised, but inert habit 
 should never be permitted to override the 
 alert and vital instinct, though habit also has 
 its lawful and beneficial uses. And in the 
 matter of the appetites, (it is the instinct for 
 ultimate well-being and satisfaction that is to 
 be consulted; not the momentary proclivity 
 of taste and inclination. Only a few articles 
 of food are universally wholesome and nutri- 
 tious. Each individuality has its own idio- 
 syncrasies of diet; shell-fish are poison to one, 
 strawberries to another, honey to a third, and 
 so on. These are matters for each one's in- 
 
 52 
 
stinct to learn and heed, as a most elementary 
 lesson in common sense. But a trained and 
 respected instinct will go much further, and 
 will safely guide one's preference at any time 
 for the nurture and protection of the phy- 
 sique, so as to keep it always wholesome and 
 fit. 
 
 Instinct, too, might help beneficially to reg- 
 ulate our housing and clothing more than it 
 is allowed to do. We are inclined to wear 
 our clothes according to seasonal traditions 
 and fashions, rather than according to the feel 
 of the weather and our own condition and 
 comfort. A little heed given to our natural 
 monitor would often save us from distressful 
 cold, dangerous overheating, and poisonous 
 asphyxiation; for it will unerringly warn, if 
 only we are accustomed to recognize its sig- 
 nals, the moment we step into the street or 
 crowded car, or lie down to sleep, whether 
 or not we are sufficiently or excessively pro- 
 tected. '\^^ 
 
 Quite as legitimately also is instinct entitled W'' 
 53 
 
to its voice in deciding our choice of acquaint- 
 ances and friends. An instant aversion, an 
 unreasoning but definite antipathy to this per- 
 son or that, is not as foolish as chaotic charity 
 and commercial common sense would lead us 
 to believe. And we often overpersuade our- 
 selves, against the subtle intimations of in- 
 stinctive preference, to enter into relation- 
 ships that turn out disastrously for all con- 
 cerned, and to attempt friendships that never 
 could be worth while, when, if we had ac- 
 cepted the warning of our genius, we might 
 have avoided much wasteful experiment and 
 dismay. Every personality has its natural 
 antagonisms; it could not otherwise have any 
 individual inclination, insistence, or influ- 
 ence; and it is a waste of power to incur un- 
 necessary contact with these antagonisms. It 
 is the business of instinct to avoid such waste 
 and whatever is inimical to well-being, in the 
 realm of association as in other spheres, — to 
 help us to recognize and select those person- 
 alities best suited to stimulate our happy 
 
 54 
 
growth and enjoy in their turn whatever hu- 
 man helpfulness we may possess. It is only 
 on such foundations of honest comprehension, 
 sympathy, and gladdening utility that noble 
 and lasting friendship can be maintained. 
 
 So, too, in our work and recreations. This 
 or that play may be very excellent and enjoy- 
 able for many persons, and yet not suited to 
 your needs nor mine at the moment. Ibsen, 
 for example, though an admirable dramatist, 
 a keen and beneficent analyst of the ills of the 
 age, may very possibly for you be unpleas- 
 antly superfluous; you may already have on 
 your hands, to say nothing of your heart and 
 head, more grievous problems than you can 
 relish; then instinct most wisely bids you 
 away from the theatre where his studies are 
 being presented. Be not deluded by any false 
 sense of intellectual or fashionable obligation 
 into watching his horrors. On the other hand 
 if he gives you what you need, — some help 
 to realize facts, some hint to think of things 
 about you, — obey the impulse that bids you 
 
 55 
 
Y 
 
 seek his presentation of human drama, though 
 you have to stand through whole perform- 
 ances. This same obiter dictum is true of 
 reading. Let us read nothing that we instinc- 
 tively dislike; it can do no more good than 
 food for which we have a natural distaste. 
 There is better reading wherever honest taste 
 leads; and as we gain therefrom we soon 
 come to discard the worthless readily enough. 
 Instinct would make us lords of ourselves, 
 instead of dupes of charlatans and slaves of 
 fashion. The reliance upon instinct relieves 
 one of self-consciousness, because one waits to 
 know its dictates, instead of wondering and 
 worrying. It thus makes for repose and se- 
 renity, and liberates us from fussiness, incer- 
 titude, and trepidation. To be ashamed of 
 one's instinct is like being ashamed of one's 
 nationality; it may be desirable or undesir- 
 able, but to be ashamed of it is least desirable 
 of all. Instinct is a most democratic faculty, 
 endowing us with a sort of universal language 
 or free-masonry intelligible to people of 
 
 56 
 
every race and condition. At the same time 
 it lends distinction and charm to any person- 
 ality. Habitual response to instinctive im- 
 pulse gives an air of high-bred courage to 
 conduct by taking av^ay the appearance of 
 hesitancy and calculation. When reason is 
 endorsed by comfortable assurance of instinct, 
 there is a resulting gladness that no fantasies 
 of unsubstantiated reason can hope to attain. 
 It is instinct that pronounces indisputable 
 judgment on the value of erudite opinion and 
 the worth of varied experience. ^> 
 
 57 
 

 (!^r, Cije (§uitiance of il^eason 
 
 We may exclaim with the sturdy English 
 poet, if we will, 
 
 *' I am the master of my fate, 
 I am the captain of my soul," 
 
 and still find our craft in troublous places and 
 sorry plight, if we persist in considering cap- 
 taincy all sufficient for smooth sailing. The 
 captain, while he is in responsible command 
 of his ship, is not the only person of impor- 
 tance in its service. In clear sailing on a deep- 
 sea course he may wield undisputed sway; in 
 dangerous channels and among unfamiliar 
 
 58 
 
soundings he must pass his command to a 
 pilot. It is the business of that functionary to 
 be better acquainted with the perils and intri- 
 cacies of his locality than the high-sea cap- 
 tain need be, and to keep the craft from dis- 
 aster, not from lack of seamanship but from 
 lack of knowledge. 
 
 The simile may be applied to human be- 
 ings. The primacy of the spirit is incontesta- 
 ble, but the necessity for reason is incontesta- 
 ble also. Not only must every personality be 
 captained by its soul, it must also be piloted 
 by its own intelligence. Whatever course the 
 untutored will may wish to venture upon 
 needs to be examined, adjudged and steered 
 by the understanding. Reason deals with our 
 affairs in a strictly practical fashion. It ruth- 
 lessly revises our dreamful purposes and 
 ideals, with regard to their possibility or prac- 
 ticability of accomplishment in this very real 
 world. Our captain soul would have us sail 
 on and on into some beautiful and alluring 
 glory, where all seems fair and innocent, when 
 
 59 
 
2Ci)e iWaftinfl of ^ttnonnlii^ 
 
 perhaps wiser reason must come to the rescue 
 and warn us of some sunken reef directly in 
 our path. 
 
 The soul is guileless and unsuspecting, and 
 seems to be native to a land that knows no 
 sorrow nor disappointment, no accident nor 
 evil, and to be experienced only in an eternity 
 of truth and beauty and goodness. Left to its 
 own devices, it would soon and often come 
 to disaster on the shores of this world's life. 
 It needs the more canny reason to come con- 
 stantly to its aid in all issues of its daily course. 
 In a state of ideality, we may imagine that 
 the soul might require neither chart nor pilot, 
 but could sail on its glorious w^ay unthreat- 
 ened by obstructing facts. When it came to 
 take upon itself mundane existence, however, 
 it needed some defence against the world's 
 fatalities, and so reason evolved to be its guide 
 and friend. 
 
 The spirit of man with all its soaring and 
 radiance is unsophisticated, unadapted to its 
 earthly environment, and through the best ef- 
 
 60 
 
fort of a long lifetime only begins to learn 
 the lesson of wise procedure among its daily 
 concerns. With this difficult task to accom- 
 plish, we can ill afford to overlook or slight 
 any possible means of advantage, and yet we 
 recklessly ignore and defy reason's splendid 
 help, and allow it to deteriorate day by day. 
 It has been said that if all the world could 
 stop simultaneously for five minutes and rea- 
 sonably consider the real values of life, it 
 would thereupon be immediately and wholly 
 converted to good. Human welfare is less in 
 need of new facts than of renewed habit and 
 growth of power in utilizing rationally and 
 fully those already at our command. The 
 wisdom of the cheerful woodsman who knows 
 little beyond the facts and uses of his habitat 
 is of greater human value than the encyclo- 
 pedic and chaotic information of the world- 
 wanderer, who with all his smattering cannot 
 make life seem worth while an)rwhere. The 
 manipulation of knowledge and of spirit 
 proves their worth, not the mere possession of 
 
 6i 
 
them. And reason is our supreme manipu- 
 lator. Plans approved by reason are the only 
 ones worthy all the skill that execution and 
 devotion can acquire. 
 
 When effort is thus put forth under the 
 careful guidance of reason, there is no such 
 thing as its coming to nought, even though 
 the reason be faulty and the art faltering. 
 The very rightness of the process accomplishes 
 something, if only in strengthening the habit 
 of trying in the best way. How much tardy, 
 painstaking and misguided diligence, how 
 much befogged aspiration and benighted dis- 
 content, may be avoided by simply using our 
 pilot honestly and opportunely. The sad fal- 
 lacy that reason is incompatible with inspira- 
 tion, detrimental to genius, and antagonistic 
 to art, has led us far astray in our search for 
 happiness and beauty, and has grievously re- 
 tarded human growth and gladness. 
 
 As the time for a pilot's service is at the 
 beginning and the close of a voyage, so the 
 most serviceable time for reason's help is at 
 
 62 
 
the beginning and the end of an undertaking. 
 When we have once fully embarked upon a 
 venture, it is mere childishness to cry for help, 
 to wish we had taken thought sooner, or to 
 hesitate in indecision. Main considerations 
 must be weighed before setting sail; and the 
 sum of wisdom may be profitably reckoned 
 afterward; but while we are in the midst of 
 endeavour there is little time for successful 
 calculation. 
 
 <^appiness is never the result of mere well- 
 meaning. The best intention can achieve no 
 satisfaction for itself, save through the aid of 
 intelligence and skill. \ Our utmost longing 
 for felicity will prove for ever futile, unless 
 we can supplement it with some command of 
 circumstance, some power to control condi- 
 tions and to fashion procedure to our will; 
 and this we can never do without promptitude 
 and clarity of understanding and judgment. ^ 
 Pure volition is incapable of achievement, a 
 feckless entity without mind or force, if such 
 a thing be conceivable. 
 
 63 
 
Ciie JHaitefng of J^etsonalftff 
 
 To the sincere and eager student bent upon 
 finding a genuine solution of the difRcult 
 problem of self-culture or the making of per- 
 sonality, it must surely appear that no over- 
 specialized development can make for perfec- 
 tion, but that we must foster our triune indi- 
 viduality with impartial care. Under our 
 present educational ideals there is little dan- 
 ger of mentality being neglected. In fact our 
 system concerns itself almost wholly with 
 training the mind; and with that aim in itself 
 one can find no fault. It would be wrong to 
 say that any intelligence can be overcultivated, 
 or that there can be any danger of being over- 
 educated. There is very great danger, how- 
 ever, — indeed there is every evidence, — that 
 culture and personality may be overmental- 
 ized. Many a person has been given exercise 
 of the mind out of all proportion to that be- 
 stowed either upon the physique or the spirit, 
 to the sorry undoing of the personality as a 
 living whole. Of higher education in its best 
 and symmetrical sense no one can have too 
 
 64 
 
much ; but of mere book knowledge and men- 
 tal training, which is almost all that our edu- 
 cational system offers, one may easily have a 
 disproportionate amount. The highly edu- 
 cated person, in our usual understanding of 
 the term, is proverbially inept and inefficient, 
 less well fitted for the task of securing and 
 disseminating a creditable degree of happi- 
 ness in life than many an illiterate but better 
 balanced man or woman. The developing of 
 any one of the three phases of human nature, 
 at the expense of the others, must inevitably 
 lead to such undesirable result; and while 
 our present standards of education may make 
 scholars, they will never make the happiest 
 possible human beings. To that end, educa- 
 tion must include a commensurate recognition 
 and culture of physical and spiritual values, 
 in the assurance that the mind itself cannot 
 reach even its own finest growth, unless fur- 
 thered in its progress by a refreshing spirit 
 and an invigorating body. 
 
 Inasmuch as the chief concern of life seemsil 
 65 
 
^ 
 
 2rt)t JHaftfnfl of Jpetsonalftff 
 
 to be the evolving and training of personali- 
 ties, it would seem sensible to make our mental 
 training such as will readily and efficiently 
 serve all requirements that body, mind, or 
 spirit may make upon it.^ to bring our intel- 
 ectual culture to bear upon the hourly prob- 
 lems of living and the securing of happiness; 
 to pursue our cherished schemes with success- 
 ful intelligence; in shortj^^o make reason 
 oTnrrrorTfs utmost aid not only in the sphere 
 of thought but in all the affairs of daily health 
 
 d gladness. 
 
 The setting aside of intellectual life as a 
 mere refuge from the difficulties of practical 
 well-being and well-doing, the withdrawing 
 ourselves into the enchanted kingdoms of pure 
 science, and the turning of our responsibilities 
 away from all the hard problems which beset 
 every hour, is only a begging of the question 
 of wisdom. The life of a scholarly recluse, 
 absorbed in his own intellectual preferences, 
 may be excused with specious arguments, but 
 it may also be criticized as a shirking of the 
 
 66 
 
main issues of individual conduct, of evading 
 the difficulties in the way of securing some 
 form of that healthy, helpful, and joyous life 
 which constitutes the first dignity of man. 
 Whatever gratification it may bring to the 
 scholar himself, it offers no solution of the 
 universal difficulty of best living. The book- 
 worm is as helpless as the monk, when it comes 
 to offering any effective aid to confused hu- 
 manity in its task of finding out how to make 
 success and happiness out of the materials at 
 hand. Moreover, neither of them reaches his 
 own best possible development through that 
 method of self-absorbed devotion to a single 
 phase of existence. The scholar in his knowl- 
 edge and the hermit in his sanctity are as far 
 from the ideal of normal manhood as the man 
 of many millions under his burden, of stocks 
 and bonds. /Tearnijig aad- s^n-€*ity ^j^of vast 
 value, but m^^-Atc of immediate concern to 
 y^«-^3S^ifee only in so far as rf^ey can be made 
 to illumine and better iw^mSb life.as-w^ ha^i^ 
 to live tt'to-dapaFHi--h.ec6r* What the soul and 
 
 67 
 
I mind might accomplish under other condi- 
 tions cannot profitably concera Wat all, but 
 what they can do to help us m any present 
 
 ^lace and hour is vital. Their only compre- 
 hensible value and obligation is to enrich and 
 advance the interests of normal personality in 
 its arduous progress toward perfection. 
 
 For every one, then, the question is not, 
 How much can I know, but How can I make 
 such intelligence as I have help life to the 
 utmost. Perhaps in nothing is defection at 
 this point more general and more astonishing 
 than in the all-desirable art of keeping well. 
 What can be more important than to know 
 how to care for one's health and safeguard it 
 against impairment? And yet how many of 
 us have any adequate understanding of the 
 matter, any habit of using such hygienic 
 knowledge as we may possess, or even any con- 
 viction that the matter comes within the range 
 of our responsible control? We are accus- 
 tomed to squander health without heed, and 
 without even an effort to realize how little 
 
 68 
 
rational care it would take to preserve our 
 energy from undue depletion and disease. 
 When sickness overtakes us we rush to a physi- 
 cian, and when the emergency is past we blun- 
 der on as before, without a moment's rational 
 thought given to prevent a recurrence of the 
 disaster. 
 
 In these days sickness is a disgrace. But 
 we are so fond of considering it a visitation 
 of the will of God, emotionalizing over its 
 woes, and indulging in an irrational religious 
 sentimentalism concerning them, that we can 
 hardly bring our common sense, actual knowl- 
 edge, and reasonable skill to bear upon the 
 question. Doctors are not wholly to blame if 
 they devote more time to palliating ailments 
 than to maintaining health. Most patients 
 '^ enjoy poor health," prefer pity to fair play, 
 and demand to be helped by some remedy they 
 do not understand rather than by any rational 
 prevention. If serious people actually realize 
 what detrimental clothing does to human wel- 
 fare, how can they ever condone it? If they 
 
 69 
 
 
once fully comprehended the benefits of a 
 rational attention to diet, to dress, to ventila- 
 tion, to exercise, to normal walking, talking, 
 and breathing, to tonic bathing and to sleep, 
 what would become of sickness and prema- 
 ture death? 
 
 The gain to be derived from including the 
 guidance of reason in spiritual matters fills 
 the churches of those teachers and preachers 
 who are liberal enough to try the experiment. 
 Many a sound moral lesson would be received 
 gladly were it reinforced with appreciable 
 reason rather than with appeals to discredited 
 dogmas and an impossible faith in unrealities. 
 The world is no longer to be ruled by fanat- 
 icism and superstition at the expense of its 
 growing intelligence. And this does not mean 
 that religion is to be belittled nor done away; 
 it rather means that it is to be honoured the 
 more, — its uses made more and more sane 
 and beautiful in conformity with the growth 
 of standards of goodness in the world. 
 
 We are accustomed to mistake love for a 
 70 
 
wholly supernatural or subnatural matter, and 
 to yield to it as to an emissary from Divinity, 
 beyond the province of rational guidance or 
 control. And yet from the multitudinous mis- 
 takes that are made in love's name, it would 
 seem that in no other realm of life is the wise 
 piloting of reason more necessary. The tragic 
 plight of this spiritual domain may perhaps 
 be due far less to any flaw in the quality of 
 modern feeling or any shortage of means for 
 its perfection, than to the wilful exclusion of 
 reason from all of its procedure. Those who 
 set out on voyages of loving companionship, 
 perhaps the most difficult of all adventurings, 
 should hardly expect propitious sailing with- 
 out chart or pilot. 
 
 In care of our pilot reason we may embark 
 safely not only for ultimate worthy achieve- 
 ment, but immediately upon orderly tides of 
 thought, where, as in the realm of music, 
 beauty and joy are unconstrained, — the most 
 easily attainable region where perfect happi- 
 ness is to be found. But our greatest triumphs 
 
 71 
 
in the art of living will come from following 
 the lead of our best rationality in cheerful and 
 painstaking contest against the forces of ad- 
 versity, desolation, and despair, and in ma- 
 king upon earth a home for the unextravagant 
 ideal. 
 
 72 
 

 (Bx, Cfje l^oWx of l^oist 
 
 CC " The human body is adapted to the ex- 
 pression of conscious will, and this is free- 
 dom. The perfect subordination of the body- 
 to the will is gracefulness. It is this which 
 constitutes the beauty of classic art: to have 
 every muscle under perfect obedience to the 
 will — • unconscious obedience — so that the 
 slightest inclination or desire of the soul, if 
 made an act of the will, finds expression in 
 the body." » 
 
 Dr. T. W. Harris, in his orderly and lu- 
 minous work on Psychologic Foundations 
 of Education, uses these suggestive words in 
 
 73 
 
discussing the harmonious beauty of the art 
 of sculpture as perfected by the Greeks. 
 They might well serve as a compendium of 
 philosophy for students of expression, body 
 training, and general development, so con- 
 cisely and clearly do they embody the essen- 
 tial truth underlying all art. And he adds 
 this memorable sentence, which ought to be- 
 come a watchword with all teachers of phys- 
 ical education, and indeed with all teachers 
 in all branches of education who are worthy 
 of their great profession: ''The soul is at 
 ease in the body only when it is using it as a 
 means of expression or action.^' 
 
 There we have in plain terms the secret 
 not only of the principles of art in general 
 and of the art of physical self-expression in 
 particular, but the secret of their relation to 
 intellectual and spiritual education as well. 
 There surely can be no true culture that 
 leaves the soul ill at ease. It is not enough 
 to train the understanding and fill the mind 
 with stores of knowledge. Both mind and 
 
 74 
 
2Cf)e WLitiQtXf Tittovs 
 
 spirit must be given free and adequate exer- 
 cise of their natural functions, and opportu- 
 nity for worthy expression and reinforcement 
 of their powers. Thus only can the inner life 
 with its lawful desire for activity be allowed 
 proper and beneficial scope and range, — 
 thus only can the soul be made at ease in the 
 body. This must become the purpose of all 
 culture, and it cannot be accomplished by 
 mental or moral training alone. 
 
 The body which the soul inhabits is more 
 than a mere tenement, it is an essential prop- 
 erty of the soul, the exponent and purveyor 
 of the mind, the outer aspect of personality, 
 the art medium for the manifestation of spirit 
 and intelligence; and it requires just as care- 
 ful consideration, just as wise education, and 
 just as high perfection of technique as its as- 
 sociate powers of thought and feeling. To 
 educate the human being, — to give it the 
 confidence, the delight, the satisfaction, the 
 power and repose and legitimate perfection 
 which the best culture can bring, — care 
 
 75 
 
must be taken to place at the disposal of 
 every lovely spirit and brilliant mind a 
 worthy, sensitive, and capable body, and to 
 provide each individual, so far as possible, 
 with its own appropriate physical means of 
 activity and enjoyment. 
 
 In a symmetrical cultivation of all our 
 powers, in a balanced exercise of all our fac- 
 ulties, the volatile treasure of personal happi- 
 ness is most likely to be found. If we indulge 
 a thirst for knowledge irrespective of all 
 other considerations, — at the expense of 
 health, kindliness, and comel^iness, — we are 
 doomed to find our acquisition of learn- 
 ing an unwieldy and disappointing encum- 
 brance. Such unmodulated knowledge can 
 never become wisdom, but must remain mere 
 information, bookish pedantry^, or mechan- 
 ical cleverness. All such lore can avail as 
 little as untrained thews and endurance avail 
 a dunce. We can never be personally well 
 equipped with only one-third or two-thirds 
 of developed being, but must compass the 
 
 76 
 
Zftt WLlnatXi Tutors 
 
 ideal of a triune balance and symmetry of 
 excellence, as the only adequate measure of 
 perfection for every individual who is men- 
 tally, emotionally, and physically endowed. 
 It is good to be athletic; it is good to be 
 scholarly; it is good to be honourable, pa- 
 tient, loving, and helpful. It is not best to 
 be an ignorant athlete; it is not best to be a 
 dyspeptic bookworm; it is not even best to be 
 an unhuman fanatic. Unillumined brutality, 
 selfish insatiable curiosity and vanity of 
 mind, and intolerant righteousness, are all 
 equally unlovely. It is obviously best to be 
 a man, with the strength and understanding 
 and honour of a man. 
 
 Ethical culture, mental culture, physical 
 culture, each is excellent and all are neces- 
 sary, but no one of them will suffice, indeed 
 no two of them can satisfy without the third. 
 Only in harmonious and well-balanced co- 
 operation can they further that highest per- 
 sonal development, that supreme reach of 
 ideals and growth, which may be the aim of 
 
 77 
 
any one of them. All three are of equal dig- 
 nity, importance, and delight, and no one of 
 them can attain its best efficiency without the 
 aid of the others to inspire and guide and 
 reinforce it. More than that, their spheres, 
 which seem so different, are really not dis- 
 tinct nor separable, and each must continu- 
 ally either cripple or complement the others. 
 The soul, the centre and source of volition, 
 with its perceptions and aspirations, ever 
 leading in the progress to perfection, needs to 
 be closely seconded by intelligent guidance 
 and carried to the fullest achievement by ade- 
 quate skilful execution. We need never 
 imagine that spiritual attainments can be suc- 
 cessfully forced at the expense of the guides 
 and servants of the spirit, the intellectual and 
 physical powers. We must care before we 
 can know, and we must know before we can 
 do; nor may we even be content with caring 
 and with knowledge, until we add to them 
 well-skilled effort toward the realization of 
 our ideals. In no other way can we develop 
 
 78 
 
and appreciate and enjoy the power of per- 
 sonal poise. 
 
 The practical advantage of poise and its 
 chiefest sanction is the opportunity it affords 
 for spiritual precedence, for proving the pri- 
 macy of the will and the fortunate prefer- 
 ences of the soul. It makes a vantage from 
 which the best may be attempted, a starting- 
 point from which the avenues to the fairest 
 good are seen to radiate, a condition from 
 which life may spring normally to its finest 
 stature. Poise endows us with power to stop 
 and consider, to use our intelligence and judg- 
 ment, and so improve through every contin- 
 gency. Habitual poise is the essential pre- 
 requisite of freedom for happy endeavour 
 and satisfactory growth. 
 
 A conception of the value of personal poise 
 as the worthiest ideal of education was em- 
 phasized by Cecil Rhodes in founding his 
 Oxford scholarships. It has been instinc- 
 tively felt by students themselves as a legit- 
 imate need of aspiring human nature, but it 
 
 79 
 
2rt)e iWiaitefns of J^etsonalitff 
 
 has not yet had such general authoritative 
 recognition as it deserves. Rhodes helped to 
 give it practical currency and prestige. In 
 effect his great gift is a criticism of our in- 
 complete system, and points the direction in 
 which mediaeval standards of culture are to 
 be enlarged. It calls for men in whom schol- 
 arship is to be supplemented by correspond- 
 ing physical and spiritual excellence. It de- 
 mands poise of character rather than excess 
 of learning. It is a strong, successful man's 
 endorsement of the ideal of personal poise. 
 
 If personal poise — the symmetrical devel- 
 oping and perfecting of all our capacities in 
 the building of character — could be made a 
 widely accepted ideal of culture, it would do 
 more than any specific social revolution to 
 ensure greater happiness for all mortals. 
 
 Is not such a valuation of poise really the 
 underlying principle we try to reach in all 
 attempts to simplify living? Is not the satis- 
 faction we feel in any such simplification 
 really a satisfaction at finding ourselves re- 
 
 80 
 
8Cf)e Wiinatrf Tittovs 
 
 stored to a normal poise? Are not our lives 
 apt to be unsatisfying because they are partial 
 and ill balanced, excessive in some directions 
 and falling short in others? The simple life 
 cannot be a worthy ideal if it is to mean a 
 meagre and insufficient life, but only if it is 
 to mean an undistorted and well-balanced 
 one. Perfect poise seems simple, because it 
 is so unperplexing and wholly satisfying. To 
 simplify living is only advantageous and ben- 
 eficial in so far as it permits a richer and freer 
 and more complete enjoyment of the few 
 pursuits which are vital and worth while. 
 Our average life, particularly our average 
 city life, is apt to be overwrought and ill- 
 regulated, as we all know. To return to sim- 
 pler conditions would not be to impoverish 
 human experience, but to enrich it; we should 
 gain in health, in merriment, in leisure, in 
 wisdom and length of days; we should lose 
 only our anxieties, our ailments, our ill-tem- 
 pers, and our debts. There can hardly be 
 room for choice. But such a return, let us 
 
 8i 
 
stir JHaftinfl of ^tvnonmts 
 
 remember, can only be successful if it is car- 
 ried out in conformity with the ideal of per- 
 sonal poise, and with the threefold needs of 
 personal life constantly in mind. A life 
 somewhat nearer to the earth than we live 
 now could hardly fail to be more vigorous, 
 more delightful, more normal. Instead of 
 sensational criminality, frenzied ambition, 
 and fashionable artificiality, we should be 
 able to acquire something of sincerity, come- 
 liness, and kindly joy. 
 
 Slowly but certainly the truth of this ideal 
 is coming to be recognized. The need for 
 such a standard is felt in innumerable ways, 
 though as yet we may not definitely discern 
 its import. The restless spirit of the patient 
 world, always seeking the best, has been 
 driven from one extreme point of view to an- 
 other in the long course of history, confused 
 by the clamour of the senses, the cry of the 
 soul, and the insatiable curiosity of the im- 
 perious mind. Must we not believe that it is 
 in some fortunate hour to find the ideal which 
 
 82 
 
©tie Wiinatti Tittovs 
 
 shall make possible the harmonizing of its 
 seemingly divergent aims and expedients? 
 What if the ideal of symmetrical develop- 
 ment and normal personal poise should prove 
 just the saving principle it seeks? 
 
 As poise serves as a happy criterion of ex- 
 cellence of personality, and a most advan- 
 tageous standard of culture, so in physical 
 training, physical poise provides us with the 
 only adequate standard of physical beauty 
 and efficiency. Such an ideal implies the 
 equal development and control of every por- 
 tion of the body, the culture and maintenance 
 of its every perfection, and the habitual use 
 of all its powers in harmonious accordance 
 with the most effective and economic laws of 
 motion and growth. To be able to attain 
 such poise, the body must be made strong 
 and free, must be fostered in a symmetrical 
 growth, and above all must be considered as 
 the inseparable manifestation of the inform- 
 ing mind and the indwelling spirit. More- 
 over physical poise can only be attained 
 
 83 
 
8Ciie Jtlamno of J^ersonalitff 
 
 through the ideal of personal poise. The 
 first physical need of the natural man is for 
 exercise, but for us moderns there is one thing 
 even more needed than exercise, and that is 
 bodily emancipation. It is evident that the 
 body must have freedom to stretch and read- 
 just itself in every direction before it can 
 poise itself normally and adapt its poise to 
 any and all conditions. 
 
 We speak of the mechanism of the human 
 body, with its many joints and levers, its com- 
 pensations and balances, and its complicated 
 movements, but we must beware of consider- 
 ing it too exclusively as a machine. It is so 
 far more subtle, significant, and adaptable 
 than any mere mechanical contrivance, so sen- 
 sitive, so variable, and so intelligent. There 
 is infinite ingenuity in these human mechan- 
 isms, but there are preference and sensibility 
 and responsibility as well, all within an al- 
 most incredible frailty allied with amazing 
 strength. Our bodies have many of the char- 
 acteristics of a machine, but they have also 
 
 84 
 
2Cfie WiinatXi Tittoxs 
 
 many of the traits of a self-active intelligence, 
 and must be treated accordingly. 
 
 The admirable structure of the animal 
 skeleton serves, indeed, to lend rigidity to the 
 body, but it also serves for points of attach- 
 ment of elastic muscles whose express pur- 
 pose is to modify that rigidity, just as our 
 senses modulate our thought. The muscular 
 system, under the guidance of instinct, seeks 
 to secure the safety of the individual by not 
 opposing the manifold casualties of existence 
 with an unyielding solidity, and by interpo- 
 sing an ever-ready flexibility that lessens shock 
 and avoids breakage, enabling us to pass tol- 
 erably well through a world of insensate op- 
 position, of stress and resistance and friction. 
 
 Power to spring from the ground and 
 alight again without fracturing ourselves is 
 a privilege we share with our four-footed 
 brothers of the field. In jumping they do not 
 light on rigid heels with straightly stiffened 
 legs, like a table dropped from a window. 
 A fox goes over a wall as lightly as a drift 
 
 85 
 
of snow, and even an elephant, for all his 
 huge bulk, seems to move as softly as a mould 
 of jelly. Though few of us can be as grace- 
 ful as foxes, we may all avoid cruel shocks 
 by alighting on the muscular balls of the feet 
 with spread toes and flexed knees. The im- 
 petus of the body may thus be stopped grad- 
 ually, considerately, without violence, almost 
 without impact, by the intervention of mus- 
 cular alertness, strength, and elasticity, under 
 voluntary adequate control. All poise and 
 every movement of our bodies should have 
 something of the pliancy and ease of the great 
 cats, those paragons of grace with their soft, 
 undulating strength, their powerful quies- 
 cence, and noiseless activity. 
 
 It almost goes without saying that in order 
 to move well, one must first breathe well, sit 
 well, stand well. To stand well, there are 
 two things chiefly necessary, first, that the 
 chest should be carried well up and forward, 
 and second that the weight should balance 
 pliantly over the balls of the feet and spread 
 
 86 
 
2Cf)e WHnattf Ttctots 
 
 toes, — a spirited, intelligent, adaptable body 
 on an adequate base of support. 
 
 The question of good breathing is so 
 closely related to proper carriage that the 
 two can scarcely be considered separately. 
 It is hardly possible to breathe well while sit- 
 ting or standing or lying improperly, and it 
 is not practicable habitually to stand prop- 
 erly without breathing well. Good breath- 
 ing, like fine carriage, requires that the chest 
 should be habitually upheld and automatic- 
 ally carried by the well-developed chest mus- 
 cles as high as is comfortable, that the great 
 life-giving lungs may have room for their 
 utmost utility. And this condition must be 
 maintained whether one is sitting, standing, 
 walking, running, dancing, talking, reading, 
 or working, in fact through every hour of 
 life. Particular care must be taken not to 
 thrust up the chest by overinhaling, nor by 
 holding the breath, nor by raising the shoul- 
 ders, nor by making the rib muscles tense, 
 nor yet by an undue bending backward of 
 
 87 
 
the spinal column at the small of the back. 
 The fonvard carriage and uplift of the chest 
 must be secured by exercising the pull and 
 hold of the muscles of the chest and back of 
 the neck, the stretch of the rib muscles, and 
 by swaying the whole body forward from 
 foot to crown, with a very slight mobile for- 
 ward bend at the hips. And even these direc- 
 tions must be taken with discretion. The 
 backbone is not a ramrod; and the fashion 
 of pulling the hips back and pushing the 
 chest forward with perfectly rigid spine, as 
 if the body were only jointed at the waist, is 
 as unlovely as any other abnormal posture. 
 The human body is not a flail, with only one 
 joint in the middle. At its best it is as flexible 
 as a whip. 
 
 " Light and lithe as a willow wand. 
 She danced, and the monarch held her hand,** 
 
 embodies the ideal of graceful poise; and to 
 attain it, gymnastics for poise must be taught 
 and practised until the muscles grow so fitted 
 
 88 
 
2Ci|e WLitiQt'a Ttctotff 
 
 and used to their task that good carriage be- 
 comes an unconscious habit. 
 
 Other requirements of good breathing need 
 not be detailed here, further than to say that 
 the throat and entire trunk should be kept 
 wholly unrestricted and mobile, ready for 
 automatic or well-controlled service. The 
 whole body from nose to lower abdomen is 
 needed to command the best breathing, and 
 must be given strong free play at all points 
 in order to be fully serviceable. This point 
 is so important that one of the first and last 
 words of physical culture to-day must be, 
 Breathe well. This accompanies the other 
 two injunctions, Poise well, and Move worth- 
 
 iiy- 
 
 Poise should never be mistaken as synon- 
 ymous with pose or immobility. It is simply 
 balance, the most advantageous natural ad- 
 justment, to be infinitely modified and util- 
 ized whether we are in motion or at rest. It 
 is the normal state of all being. For con- 
 venience we may distinguish three different 
 
2rtie M^IHtta of petf^onatlitfi 
 
 kinds of poise: static poise, as in a tripod; 
 dynamic poise, as in the position of the Fly- 
 ing Mercury or a runner at the start; and 
 kinetic poise, as of a bird in the air. The 
 difference between them is, of course, only a 
 question of adaptation, — transitional and 
 not fundamental; and it will be seen that 
 one melts into the other insensibly at need. 
 But the discrimination helps us to realize that 
 under no condition is perfect physical poise 
 unavailable nor unimportant, nor to be dis- 
 regarded without serious disadvantage. 
 
 That there is only one way to stand is of 
 course not true. Poise must suit its condi- 
 tions. The identical poise that befits a piano- 
 mover will not serve the dancer. The golfer 
 and the Japanese wrestler must stand differ- 
 ently. For all that, there is a normal poise 
 for the standing human figure, which gives 
 the maximum stability, combined with a 
 maximum latitude for swaying without loss 
 of balance, and from which transitions may 
 most easily be made to meet whatever de- 
 
 90 
 
©tie WLinatTi T(ctotff 
 
 mands may arise. This one way of standing 
 is generally more economically serviceable 
 than others and therefore more beautiful; 
 while there are many ways which are awk- 
 ward and injurious and essentially unlovely. 
 Good poise is a matter of utilizing the most 
 serviceable base of support without sacrific- 
 ing supple ease and readiness for action. 
 
 The best alert standing position is the one 
 which affords the body the surest and easiest 
 support, and at the same time the greatest 
 freedom and facility for prompt effective 
 movement in any direction. The position 
 which oftenest and best serves this double 
 purpose is one in which the weight is upheld 
 and forecarried over the ball of one foot, 
 while the other foot is dropped a little back, 
 resting lightly to help balance and ready to 
 swing forward at need, the knees being 
 slightly flexed and never thrown flatly back. 
 The heel of the forward foot carries almost 
 none of the weight, merely touching the 
 ground to help the balance. The heel of the 
 
 91 
 
idle foot is clear of the ground altogether. 
 The balls of the feet are not much more than 
 the length of a foot apart. The weight may 
 be swayed occasionally from the ball of one 
 advanced foot to the ball of the other, ad- 
 vanced in turn, or for rest or greater static 
 strength it may be held equally between the 
 balls of the two feet, in which case far greater 
 solidity of poise is secured. This is the basis 
 of physical poise in which the maximum sup- 
 ple stability consistent with general alertness 
 is attained. This ^' normal poise " will be 
 found most economic and untiresome, giving 
 amplest latitude for the body to sway with- 
 out toppling, and at the same time permitting 
 it to get into motion easily and without agi- 
 tation. Since it is so serviceable an adjust- 
 ment, it is as a natural consequence a graceful 
 one. 
 
 A distinctive requisite of good living poise 
 is that the weight of the body should be car- 
 ried lightly, with elation, with spirit, with 
 elasticity. Our legs, in readiness for action, 
 
 92 
 
are not stilts nor posts made to shore us up 
 above the earth. They are obedient flexible 
 springs, powerfully hinged at hip and knee 
 and (with the most powerful spring of all) 
 at the ankle. This special mechanism, par- 
 ticularly the great contractile spring in the 
 calf of the leg, which plies the ankle hinge, 
 is intended to cushion the impacts of the body 
 and let it ride springily and comfortably 
 hither and thither. To get this advantage 
 from it, we must use the mechanism properly, 
 bringing our muscles into play and keeping 
 them voluntarily under control, in sitting 
 and standing as well as in walking. When- 
 ever the body is upright, its muscles must be 
 on active duty, supporting or moving it. 
 Muscles need not be tense in order to be in 
 control, but they must be alive and ready for 
 service. They must keep the body balanced 
 and prepared for motion. In standing, this 
 can only be done when control of the weight 
 is shared by the muscles of the foot as well 
 as by those of the leg and trunk. When the 
 
 93 
 
weight is thrust down through the rigid bones 
 of the leg upon the heel, in a lazy attempt 
 to shirk muscular exertion, there can be no 
 suppleness of poise, no softness of tread, no 
 elegance of carriage, no ease nor magnetism 
 of motion. 
 
 It is true that many persons have not 
 strength enough in the foot and ankle to stand 
 and walk normally without undue fatigue; 
 but this weakness is itself the result of long 
 habits of imperfect carriage and inferior mo- 
 tion. Inefficiency is the inevitable result of 
 misuse or disuse. If we were taught cor- 
 rectly in childhood, if we never used artificial 
 heels, but gave our ankles and toes the train- 
 ing of natural free exercise, and transmitted 
 the results to our children, we should soon 
 all have the strength of leg and foot that we 
 were designed to have. We should all enjoy 
 a distinct gain in general vigour, and a cov- 
 eted access of usefulness and beauty. 
 
 In contrast with beautiful normal poise of 
 the human figure, many bad poses are preva- 
 
 94 
 
lent, in which the body is not in poise at all. 
 Modern sculpture as well as the modern 
 drawing-room is full of them. Particularly 
 unfortunate is the posture, very common in 
 society, on the stage, in dancing, and even 
 in plastic art, wherein the weight is rested 
 entirely on the heel or flat of one foot, with 
 the supporting knee sprung back and the idle 
 leg thrust forward. The body is almost in 
 unstable equilibrium. A touch would tip it 
 backward. At the same time it is quite un- 
 prepared for action. Before locomotion can 
 take place in any direction, the protruded leg 
 must be drawn in, stable equilibrium re- 
 established, and muscular control regained. 
 It is not only a most uneconomic position, 
 but an unattractive and ill-meaning one as 
 well. 
 
 Man is neither quadrupedal nor winged; 
 he is aspiring though not wholly detachable 
 from the good solid ground. He is buoyed 
 and swayed by emotions impalpable as the 
 wind, and yet he is inescapably related to the 
 
 95 
 
sure foundations of material needs. He 
 stands on the earth, this figure of glowing 
 clay, inspired with the uplifting breath of 
 the infinite. At his best he is well poised 
 between two realms. We feel this harmony 
 of adjustment in every gracious and worthy 
 presence wherein the perfection of poise is 
 achieved. It is one of the supreme triumphs 
 of art. Only think how gloriously the 
 Winged Victory takes the eye! How easily 
 she is victorious! Her splendid breast is up- 
 borne by lofty inspiration which carries her 
 forward with fluttering robes, light-footed, 
 unwavering, rejoicing almost with the free- 
 dom of the winged creatures of the air, an 
 incomparable apparition of triumphant glad- 
 ness. Of all the shapes of clay fashioned by 
 man, her poise is the noblest and most inspir- 
 ing. She lifts our drooping spirits to new 
 endeavour, to larger hope, to heights of in- 
 credible daring. And the Flying Mercury, 
 how good is his potent poise! The magic of 
 those winged sandals touches the spirit of 
 
 96 
 
^fit WLimtn TittOVS 
 
 every beholder, and we are carried away like 
 children under the spell of the fabulous old 
 legend of the messenger god, master of speed, 
 conqueror of space and time, the prototype 
 of modern ambition. As the divinity who 
 presided over commerce, too, he would have 
 an especial interest for our day; but while we 
 emulate his swiftness and shrewdness, perhaps 
 only too well, let us remember his delicacy 
 of bearing and his exquisite poise, as he hangs 
 with balanced feet light as a swallow on a 
 slant of wind. 
 
 In daily life, too, how good it is to see fine 
 poise, and alas, how rare! How it catches 
 every eye in the street, in the drawing-room, 
 upon the stage! It is the basis of fine per- 
 sonal influence, the foundation of enduring 
 beauty, the centre from which powerful im- 
 pressiveness must radiate. A large part of 
 that strange personal potency which we call 
 magnetism is the direct and inevitable result 
 of fine poise, — the victory of the " happy 
 chest." 
 
 97 
 
While personal magnetism is primarily a 
 spiritual power and has its source in the soul, 
 it yet must find its avenues of expression 
 through the body. And it is the breast that 
 is peculiarly the abode of the spirit. It is in 
 the upper part of the body, between the dia- 
 phragm and the head, that the two great 
 ceaseless life-sustaining functions are carried 
 on, — the come and go of the vital breath, 
 and the frail but enduring rhythm of the 
 heart. It is in the breast that the evidences 
 of emotion and passion are first made mani- 
 fest, — in the quickened heart-beat and per- 
 turbed breathing, — whether we be moved 
 by love or sudden indignation, by terror or 
 remorse. 
 
 This region of the breast with its acces- 
 sories, the arms, in distinction from the head, 
 which is the seat of the brain and mind, and 
 in distinction from the lower body where the 
 animal operations of nutrition, reproduction, 
 and locomotion are carried on, is eminently 
 
 98 
 
the emotional realm, and was called by Del- 
 sarte, " The zone of honour." 
 
 '^ A man of heart," we say, meaning one of 
 generous and kindly spirit. The breast is 
 almost a synonym for the dwelling-place of 
 love and hate, of hope and fear and courage. 
 It is on our mother's breast that we first learn 
 tenderness and the welling power of the feel- 
 ings. It is to our breast that we gather all 
 that is most cherished in life. It is to the 
 breast of our benignant mother earth, as we 
 call her, that we ourselves are gathered at 
 last. Hand may touch hand in acknowledg- 
 ing acquaintanceship; the arm may circle the 
 shoulder in friendship; but in deepest love 
 the breast receives the cherished head of the 
 beloved. 
 
 It is this fact, — that the breast is the centre 
 of our spiritual and expressive nature, — that 
 makes good carriage of the chest so impress- 
 ive and so important. Though you meet me 
 eye to eye, and offer me specious conversa- 
 
 9g 
 
tion, — promises or threats, — if your chest is 
 sunken, I feel there is a lack of heart in your 
 assurances. But if your chest is bravely fore- 
 carried and upborne, I can have no doubt of 
 the conviction and determination and well- 
 intentioned sincerity behind it. If a nurse 
 enters a sick-room, walking on her heels, with 
 head and abdomen protruded, while her chest 
 is a mere hollow between her shoulders, who 
 can imagine that she could ever inspire the 
 least hope or cheer in any patient? I have 
 seen a very capable actress, in the role of 
 Melisande, attempt to enlist the interest of 
 her audience in the spiritual plight of that 
 character, and fail utterly to win sympathy, 
 simply because she never once lifted her chest 
 through the whole performance. For the 
 sunken chest means more than physical weak- 
 ness; it means moral dejection, discourage- 
 ment, cowardice, and defeat, as the lifted 
 chest means not only strength, but elation, 
 courage, confidence, kindliness, and hope. 
 The sunken chest, w^hich is the indication 
 
 lOO 
 
©tie ZiZSingetr Tictotff 
 
 of the dispirited weakling, may evoke pity; 
 it can hardly elicit interest or sympathy. We 
 sympathize willingly and readily with the 
 noble in misfortune, but for the ignoble there 
 must always be a reserve in our commisera- 
 tion. Whoever would not appear ignoble 
 and risk actually becoming so, must ever pre- 
 sent a brave, happy breast to the world. 
 Since we are spiritual beings, it is respectful 
 and generous that we should meet spirit to 
 spirit, that we should show our best selves to 
 one another. 
 
 If I meet a stranger, I am glad to have 
 him approach me with so gracious and dig- 
 nified a bearing that I must instinctively rise 
 to receive him. If he struts toward me 
 throwing forward his stomach and feet first, 
 I am naturally not attracted to him. I wish 
 to meet the man, not his legs and digestion; 
 nor should I be more pleasantly prepossessed 
 if he came toward me with the shiftless walk 
 and protruded head of the absorbed and over- 
 mentalized person. In either case I perceive 
 
 lOI 
 
2rj|e i^alteino of jpersonalft^ 
 
 he is more concerned with himself than with 
 others, and is not happily infused with the 
 great universal breath of the spirit, which is 
 common to all men, and which alone vitalizes 
 every interest and sustains and ennobles life. 
 
 The importance of a good carriage, there- 
 fore, is not only a matter of health and econ- 
 omy and grace in motion; it is quite as much 
 a matter of personal influence and obligation. 
 A well-poised body, while expressing a well- 
 poised character, reacts in turn on that char- 
 acter to help and enrich the whole personal- 
 ity. To bear oneself with grace and kindly 
 dignity is to foster and breed graciousness 
 and self-respect, as well as to disseminate 
 them. 
 
 " The soul is at ease in the body only when 
 it is using it as a means of expression or ac- 
 tion." So when art would embody in beauty 
 the idea of triumph without weariness, of 
 glad elation untouched by envious defeat, of 
 high intelligence overcoming the barbarous 
 and base, — when it would add to the fairest 
 
 102 
 
2ri|e Wiinatra Tfctots 
 
 human loveliness some hint of superhuman 
 power and dominion over a region more vast 
 than earth, — it created the Victory of the 
 Wings, to be a lasting signal before our won- 
 dering eyes, and an incentive to that dignity 
 of bearing which we behold only in the rarest 
 personalities. 
 
 103 
 
5ri)e Sillier Siting 
 
 0x, ^erjsDnal '^ibxmt^ 
 
 It is evident that in the making of person- 
 ality the acquirement of poise is not enough. 
 The advice of the Latin poet, that we should 
 preserve an equal mind in the midst of dif- 
 ficulties, is excellent; but equanimity, even 
 an ideal equilibrium of all our powers, is 
 hardly a sufficient goal for human endeavour. 
 We are not aspirants of a passive and crystal- 
 line perfection, but must find our satisfactions 
 in activity, in achievement, in human inter- 
 course and relationships. We take more 
 pleasure in modifying life, in mingling with 
 the tumultuous business of the world, in leav- 
 
 104 
 
ing some traces of our impress upon the 
 events of the great human drama, than in any 
 isolation of self, however learned or holy. 
 The most blameless character must be doing, 
 if it would be glad. This is one of the un- 
 questionable laws. 
 
 To be poised is not to be immobile always, 
 for there is poise of motion as well as of rest. 
 For a mortal to cease from growth, from ac- 
 tion, from exertion, is to cease from enjoy- 
 ment and to begin to decline and perish. 
 Poise is only the springboard of performance, 
 the pou sto of the Greek mathematician, from 
 which we may move the world. It is a pre- 
 requisite of personal happiness and power, 
 the very acme of education, and yet not a suf- 
 ficient end in itself, — a most desirable con- 
 dition of being, but by no means the ultimate 
 concern of creation. The supreme artistry 
 of the cosmos in which we share, calls for 
 initiative and toil as well as for the duty of 
 self-perfection and repose. We may well di- 
 rect all the efforts for culture to the attain- 
 
 105 
 
ment of poise, but the object of culture after 
 all is only preparatory, — to put our energies 
 in the happiest condition for accomplishing 
 ideal ambitions and practical purposes in the 
 world. To be well poised is indeed a first 
 necessity, but to rest content with poise is to 
 be already touched with death. 
 
 The personality without poise is baffled, 
 chaotic, blundering, and unhappy in its own 
 bewildered inefficiency, no matter how furi- 
 ously it may strive. But the personality in 
 which poise has been secured is already on 
 the threshold of felicity, and may pass at one 
 step into the region of happy experience. 
 Whatever mischance may come to it, what- 
 ever natural sorrow may visit it with grief, 
 no irrevocable disaster can befall such a one. 
 Yet with all the universe in flux, man cannot 
 stand still; and the individual being must 
 maintain its poise from moment to moment, 
 from deed to deed, balancing and rebalan- 
 cing for self-preservation amidst the oppos- 
 ing tides of force. 
 
 io6 
 
JTi&e Sdbet Sttfnfl 
 
 But every personality is itself endowed 
 with force, with power, with preference and 
 intelligence. It cannot endure to be merely 
 passive, but must energize in order to be 
 happy. As poise is a normal state of being, 
 of the personality, and a natural ideal for it, 
 no less so is achievement. Achievement at 
 touch of need springs from poise as inevitably 
 as circling ripples spring from the placid 
 surface when a pebble is cast into a still pool. 
 Sometimes a single little seed of suggestion 
 dropped into the brooding mind is enough to 
 start a lifelong train of consequent activities. 
 If the personality be unpoised and ruffled, 
 then the circles of widening influence are 
 confused and broken and dissipated. 
 
 It is no vague figure of poetic fancy to 
 speak of personal rhythm, or to say that every 
 personality, like every violin, is possessed of 
 a marked vibratory character peculiar to it- 
 self, which is indeed the index of its excel- 
 lence, the measure of its power, and the 
 means of carrying its communications across 
 
 107 . 
 
the gulfs of space. Just as violins differ in 
 make and timbre, personalities differ in poise 
 and vibrancy. Timbre is the peculiar qual- 
 ity revealed in execution, unique in every in- 
 stance. Personal vibrancy is the peculiar 
 inseparable quality of the individual, w^hich 
 reveals itself not only in characteristic mo- 
 tion and speech, but also in that mysterious 
 form which almost defies analysis, and yet 
 accomplishes with infinite subtlety the ex- 
 pressive and impressive purposes of the per- 
 sonality as effectively as the most unmistaka- 
 ble gesture or tone. If the wonderful timbre 
 of an old Cremona cannot be duplicated nor 
 explained, how can we hope to define this 
 essential vibrancy inherent in the personali- 
 ties of men? The one depends, we say, upon 
 the fibre of the wood, its cunning form and 
 age; the other lurks in the recesses of being, 
 modified plainly by build, temperament, and 
 mentality, by inheritance and experience; 
 and both possess awesome powers beneficent 
 or malign. But does that dispel the marvel 
 
 io8 
 
of their presence or make clear the secret of 
 their lure? 
 
 There is no manifestation of life that is not 
 vibrant. Even the inorganic world vibrates 
 through all its substance, the unseen particle 
 and the unseen planet responding alike to the 
 throb of cosmic vibration, pulsating in the 
 crucible under the stir of chemic change or 
 pendulous in space under the sway of gravi- 
 tation. The great active primal forces of the 
 universe, heat, light and electricity, are, so 
 far as physicists can tell, all modes of motion 
 or vibrancy, and are convertible because they 
 are fundamentally the sam.e. They differ 
 only in the time or force or shape of their 
 vibration, and any one of them may be 
 changed iato any other as easily as we glide 
 from one tune to the next in the realm of 
 music. 
 
 We who are the complex products of this 
 natural world must be compounded only of 
 the materials and forces found within it. 
 The vibrancy of light enables us to see, the 
 
 109 
 
2riir JWaftfno of petfiionalftff 
 
 vibrancy of sound enables us to hear; out 
 taste, our smell, our touch, are only faculties 
 for recording vibrations in the universe 
 around us. The most primordial functions 
 of the living organism, breathing and circula- 
 tion of the blood, are rhythmical. Even our 
 hunger and thirst are timed to a slow peri- 
 odicity, and swing from lulled inactive ease 
 to restless demand with a certain regularity. 
 At times the flood of waking energy sweeps 
 through us like a compelling tide, and after 
 its due period of joyous accomplishment ebbs 
 away again, leaving us to fatigue, languor, 
 and sleep. The rhythm of the breath and the 
 beating of the pulse are only the more obvi- 
 ous and gross forms of personal vibration, but 
 they parallel another and more impalpable 
 sort of vibration which exists not only in the 
 person but in the personality. This latter sort 
 of vibrancy, a personal vibration which is 
 characteristic of the individual, is indeed 
 largely dependent upon physical peculiari- 
 ties, and is modified by them; its origin, its 
 
 no 
 
intensity, its quality, are always partly phys- 
 ical; yet it is equally a psychic power and a 
 revelation of the inward personality. It is 
 not possessed equally by all people, nor do 
 those who are endowed with it possess it 
 equally at all times. In many it is so slight 
 as to seem to be almost wholly wanting, so 
 that we declare at once, they have no mag- 
 netism. In others it is so strong and forceful 
 that the very air seems charged with their 
 presence, and we are aware of an almost pal- 
 pable influence radiating from them wher- 
 ever they may be. It is as variable as mood, 
 and differs in different men and women as 
 much as temper or disposition. 
 
 Vibrancy is never wholly lacking in the 
 human being, in some degree or other, but it 
 is often so faint and vague as to be almost 
 indistinguishable and inoperative. Sickness 
 impairs it, confusion and doubtfulness of 
 mind render it ineffectual, and a wilful des- 
 pondency may destroy it at its source. At its 
 best, however, it is a great power; and like 
 
 III 
 
any other supreme characteristic of human 
 clay may be cultivated with intelligent care 
 or ignored and thwarted and ruthlessly des- 
 troyed. It behooves those who have it abun- 
 dantly to guard it scrupulously as one of the 
 most precious of gifts and to use it wisely for 
 beneficent ends; while those who have it only 
 to a small degree could hardly do better than 
 attempt to increase it by educating so potent 
 an ability. 
 
 To call it personal magnetism does not ex- 
 plain this subtle power at all, nor elucidate its 
 obscure character, but it proves how familiar 
 we are with it in every-day life. Its actual 
 existence is very real and pervasive, only we 
 need to give it rational recognition and treat- 
 ment, as something quite as worthy of respect 
 and culture as any of the more salient traits 
 of personality. It is more powerful than 
 beauty, more effective than intelligence."^ 
 Serving each human being, like a prompt 
 and eager messenger, just as electricity serves 
 us in a mechanical way, it aids inestimably 
 
 112 
 
2Ct|e Sdbet Sttinfl 
 
 in all the strenuous forceful dealings of men 
 and all the glad or grievous concerns of 
 women, — that dramatic interplay of charac- 
 ter which goes to make up the sum of human 
 happiness or woe. Obscure and little re- 
 garded, often inert or degraded, but never 
 wholly dead, it resides at the very core of in- 
 dividuality, like the hidden force which 
 marks the identity of the atom and appears 
 to be almost synonymous with life itself. 
 
 To thrill with rapture or quiver with grief 
 is no mere metaphor; the whole person re- 
 sponds like a vibrant cord to the touch of 
 experience; and spirit and sense are inex- 
 tricably bound together, while life lasts, in 
 one sentient organism through which its own 
 thoughts, emotions, and sensations surge and 
 throb, and to which its created fellows call 
 and are apprehended in answering rhythms. 
 And yet personal vibrancy or personal mag- 
 netism, in the sense in which we are using 
 the term, is not to be considered as a species 
 of hypnotism, since hypnotism is an abnormal 
 
 113 
 
phenomenon produced under extreme condi- 
 tions, whereas personal magnetism is wholly 
 normal, healthy, and a quality of every-day 
 intercourse. 
 
 It may be that hypnotism is an exaggerated 
 effect of personal vibrancy deliberately em- 
 phasized and enforced; but the manifesta- 
 tion which we are here calling vibrancy or 
 magnetism, and which plays so important 
 though inconspicuous a part in every mortal 
 career, is by no means so extravagant or ex- 
 ceptional a thing. It proceeds to no such 
 extraordinary lengths as mesmerism, and yet 
 its ends are similar, for its function in human 
 economy is the serviceable communication of 
 personal influence. Its invisible but cogent 
 dictates carry inducement or authority w^her- 
 ever they go, eliciting some response wher- 
 ever they pass, either of acquiescence or dis- 
 sent. One can seldom remain wholly indif- 
 ferent to its sway when once it is recognized, 
 but must yield it some kind of acknowledg- 
 ment, whether in compliance or aversion. 
 
 114 
 
2Ci)t SiHiet String 
 
 Personal vibrancy is the automatic carrying 
 power of the individual will; it sounds the 
 personal note of the individual, and like the 
 tones of sound must mingle in harmony or 
 discord with every vibration it meets. 
 
 In all the commonplace occurrences of 
 every-day affairs, as in the crucial hours of 
 life, personal magnetism is operative and pow- 
 erful, — wherever two men meet in the street, 
 wherever business is transacted or speech ex- 
 changed, wherever eyebeams meet and looks 
 of understanding pass, wherever a gesture is 
 recognized or an inflexion observed, in liking, 
 in antipathy, and even in indifference. It 
 is the power of the orator, the sorcery of the 
 lover, the secret of the leader of forlorn 
 hopes, the resource of the anxious hostess, the 
 help of the physician, the reliance of the ad- 
 vocate, and the preacher's most telling ap- 
 peal. Personal vibrancy fires assemblies with 
 enthusiasm and touches mobs with the mad- 
 ness of fury or panic fear. Wherever a mor- 
 tal soul perceive its fellow, the transmitting 
 
 115 
 
E'^t JWafefufl of J^nfiionaUt» 
 
 power of personality is felt and exerted as a 
 vibrant vital force. 
 
 In the early days of mesmerism, the exist- 
 ence of a certain mysterious magnetic fluid 
 was postulated to account for the transmission 
 of an apparently inexplicable personal influ- 
 ence. That theory of course has long since 
 been abandoned. But in thinking of vi- 
 brancy as a personal quality, we need con- 
 ceive of it in no such material or mysterious 
 fashion. Only in its physical manifestation 
 does personal vibration become something 
 measurable to the senses. But there, indeed, 
 whether we call it personal magnetism or ani- 
 mal sympathy, it reveals itself in no dubious 
 guise, with no uncertain power, as a deter- 
 miner of choice, an indissuadable advocate 
 of preference, in comradeship, in friendship 
 and in love. To such lowly but honourable 
 origin in the great kinship of nature may our 
 mental and spiritual affinities in part be 
 traced. Responding with a glad elation to 
 an accent of sympathy, a glance of compre- 
 
 ii6 
 
hension, a touch of kindred vibrancy, and 
 ignoring quite as arbitrarily other stimuli 
 which might seem to sober judgment no less 
 compelling and delightful, the sensitive mor- 
 tal takes his way through the confusion of 
 life, choosing his associates, his companions, 
 his bosom-friends, at the bidding of an in- 
 stinct seemingly no more rational than vagu- 
 est whim. " Yet choice is not whimsical. We 
 may trust the predilections of instinct and in- 
 tuition if only they be kept fine and unde- 
 based. We may make sure that a true and 
 kindly relation is attainable first or last in the 
 rarer spheres of spirit and intelligence be- 
 tween any two beings whose senses have first 
 felt a glad response in the recognition of sym- 
 pathetic vibration, — that silver string which 
 binds together the hearts and heads and hands 
 of friends and lovers. Woven of tactile sense, 
 of iridescent light, of rhythmic sound, this 
 fine thread on which the living beads of per- 
 sonality are strung is a strand of that mighty 
 cord which holds the glowing stars to their 
 
 117 
 
2rfie i!«aftfnfl of ^tvnonnlits 
 
 centres as they circle through their purple 
 rounds. 
 
 Personal vibrancy implies and requires 
 tension. And vibrant tension implies chiefly 
 three things, power, sensibility and freedom 
 of vibration, — the power which resides in 
 energy and strength, the sensibility or deli- 
 cacy which comes of experience, and the free- 
 dom which is only born of courage. 
 
 Being inseparable from the physical as it 
 is, personal magnetism must find its chief 
 means of growth and recuperation and re- 
 enforcement in a salutary bodily culture and 
 code. Unless the physique be sound, efficient, 
 and in its best condition, personal vibrancy 
 must be impaired. The singing wire from 
 which glad music is to issue must be taut, or 
 it will not vibrate at all, and to hold it taut 
 the attachments at either end must be strong 
 and fixed. There can be no harmony, there 
 cannot even be a responsive sound from a 
 slackened string. To keep the cord of per- 
 sonal relation tuneful, therefore, its points of 
 
 ii8 
 
2CJ|t SHijet Sttfnfl 
 
 fixture must be firm. To look for adequate 
 responsiveness and potent magnetism from a 
 weak or sickly body is like expecting reso- 
 nance from punk, or resilience from a broken 
 spring. That magic power, so subtle yet so 
 inescapable, which is felt to surround every 
 forceful personality and lay a spell on all 
 who come within its range, can only have its 
 origin in the happy spontaneity of a poised 
 and wholesome body. Vigour is a prime 
 requisite of personal vibrancy. 
 
 It is good to feel that we are maintaining 
 our vigour not merely for itself alone, — not 
 only for the sensuous satisfaction of perfect 
 health, great as that benefit is. There is a 
 further satisfaction in maintaining physical 
 energy at its finest perfection, when we have 
 consciously in mind its ever present value in 
 strengthening mental vigour and spiritual 
 force, — • in enhancing personality and per- 
 sonal relations, — when we recall that health 
 is not only the basis of endurance but of influ- 
 ence and success. To consider physical vig- 
 
 119 
 
our in this light adds a noble and fascinating 
 interest to life, and stimulates the wisest care 
 of our animal selves, the magical bodies 
 which we too often misuse and degrade, and 
 which a false and iniquitous asceticism has 
 even led men to despise. 
 
 To keep the bodily instrument in healthy- 
 tone and capably vibrant, we must keep it 
 supplied first of all with food and air and 
 freedom. These are the great basic necessi- 
 ties of life, from which intelligence and joy 
 and power are to be made. The engine must 
 be kept going at its best, no matter what un- 
 happiness or misfortune may threaten. A 
 plentiful supply of the best food we can ob- 
 tain, and an abundant supply of pure cold 
 air, these are the requisites never to be omit- 
 ted. An unstinted use of cold water and 
 quiet sleep materially help us all to make the 
 most of our opportunity for success and glad- 
 ness. As much time as possible in the great 
 fresh out-of-doors, where our natures are at 
 home, is medicine for many ills and brings 
 
 1 20 
 
unguessed reinforcements of vitality to the 
 thwarted spirit. Perplexities will often van- 
 ish like a pallid sickness in open sunshine. 
 And, be it soberly said, tired nerves may be 
 wonderfully refreshed by resting or sleeping 
 on the naked ground, where all their jangling 
 rhythms may be reattuned and their discord- 
 ant pain absorbed by the great unseen mag- 
 netic currents of the earth. Our strength is 
 sapped, the very sources of our vitality are 
 cut off by floors and pavements, just as we can 
 be insulated from electricity by a rubber shoe. 
 We grow artificial and distraught in exile 
 from our native resting-place. Something 
 of the strong, instinctive, and normal life of 
 the creatures of the field is needed in the 
 finest civilization, — their natural honesty, 
 their unperverted instinct, their lawful per- 
 sistence and unembarrassed repose. We may 
 well retain, too, all that we can of the animal 
 habit of orderly motion, — that unconscious 
 adherence to a natural individual rhythm in 
 all movements which the wild things always 
 
 121 
 
exhibit and which no domestication can spoil. 
 To this end the cultivation of normal motion 
 is important, the most rhythmical exercise is 
 best. And for this reason all exercise is bene- 
 ficial only when it is adapted to the personal 
 rhythm, as well as to the other physical and 
 personal needs of the individual. 
 
 Though personal magnetism is thus pal- 
 pably physical in its basis, none the less is it 
 appreciably spiritual and rational in its com- 
 position and function, helping our personali- 
 ties to find their proper scope and wield their 
 proper influence in life. While its power is 
 rooted in strength and health, these alone are 
 far from sufficient to secure and perfect it. 
 For no matter what amount of mere animal 
 strength a man may possess, if he have not 
 discriminating sensibility and courageous 
 freedom as well, his personal value will be 
 only rudimentary. Indeed if the equation of 
 his personal make-up is lacking in any one of 
 these necessary factors, the efficiency of his 
 personal power cannot but be impaired. A 
 
 122 
 
personality, like a violin string, must have 
 free play for its vibrations and accuracy of 
 attunement along with its strength and tenac- 
 ity; otherwise it can give forth only a crip- 
 pled result. The freedom of spirit we need 
 for the maintenance of a finely strung per- 
 sonal vibrancy is a matter of daring, of hav- 
 ing the courage not only of our convictions 
 but of our instincts and aspirations, of being 
 undeterred by the puny fear of consequences 
 or by the blind old tyranny of tradition. It 
 is not enough to do our own thinking; we 
 must do our own feeling and acting also. 
 
 That factor in personal magnetism which 
 we may call sensibility, delicacy, or intelli- 
 gence of appreciation, controls the most ex- 
 quisite quality of social intercourse and hu- 
 man sympathy, and gives personality the 
 power of quick perception^ comprehension 
 and judgment. It saves personal force from 
 wasting itself on futile ends and in ill-advised 
 endeavour. However freely and resonantly 
 a string may vibrate, it will not enhance any 
 
 123 
 
harmony unless it be struck in time and tune. 
 To be off the key is as fatal in personal rela- 
 tions as in music. Much that is vigorous and 
 daring in personality is undone for want of 
 delicacy, discrimination, understanding. It 
 is the finest ingredient of personal being, this 
 delicate and subtle wisdom; and while, like 
 other endowments, it may be a gift at birth, 
 it is also product of culture and experience. 
 Children having plenty of physical health 
 and often a splendid spiritual freedom, can- 
 not have the commensurate sensitiveness of in- 
 sight which experience gives. Their merci- 
 less cruelty, their thoughtlessness, their lack 
 of understanding are the result of ignorance 
 and inexperience. 
 
 But the artist in life, who has kept his body 
 with all its forces unperverted, who has held 
 his courage high through all vicissitudes of 
 experience, will also have attained a vibrant 
 sympathy with suffering and sorrow and the 
 desolation of defeat. For the capable worker, 
 lighted by imagination, experience develops 
 
 124 
 
a liberal sympathy^ a tolerant and kindly 
 judgment, and a most sensitive understanding 
 of the lights and shades of life. Time, that 
 adds value to the violin, may also be made 
 to bring skill to the fingers of the player. 
 Else were we for ever at fault, and experience 
 might leave us where it found us. 
 
 As a practical summary it may be said that 
 personal magnetism may best be fostered and 
 retained by utilizing the natural laws of per- 
 sonal rhythm, instinctive preference, and true 
 adaptation; by never doing anything awk- 
 wardly nor in disordered haste; by never 
 violating a legitimate normal prompting or 
 intuitive choice, merely because of the infat- 
 uation of fashion or the intimidation of cus- 
 tom; by never acting without kind consid- 
 eration and liberal reason. So may our vi- 
 brancy become a legitimate power for better- 
 ment as well as a personal attainment and sajt- 
 isfaction. 
 
 Those who vibrate strongly, freely, and 
 considerately, — who avoid alike the errors 
 
 125 
 
of weakness and of violence, of wilfulness 
 and of timidity, of credulity and of intoler- 
 ance, — ^ and hold the fleeting gift of life in 
 a capable balance of powers, are the masters 
 of destiny and the benefactors of their fel- 
 lows. They learn from practice that the test 
 of success for any personality is that it shall 
 yield the delectable harmony of this triple 
 chord, sounding the notes of primordial en- 
 ergy, humane sympathy, and ideal wisdom. 
 Experience teaches them that personal vi- 
 brancy is the silver string of life upon which 
 the fairy music of happiness is made. 
 
 126 
 

 In walking or running or dancing, the 
 human body is seen at its best. Its static 
 beauty of form then takes on another loveli- 
 ness, — the charm of motion, the bewitching 
 rhythms of grace. If we are captivated by 
 its ravishing lines and tints in repose, we are 
 more deeply enslaved when those lines and 
 hues begin to move and melt through yield- 
 ing curves from poise to poise. We then per- 
 ceive the purport and power, the adaptabil- 
 ity, ease and success, of its wonderful mechan- 
 ism. If we were in love with the promise of 
 its beauty, we are (though we may not know 
 it) more completely in love with its perfec- 
 tion of graceful and facile achievement. 
 
 127 
 
More than that, there is a sorcery in timed 
 and modulated motion, which is inherent in 
 all rhythms, and which lures us to respond, 
 as surely as the charmer's pipe beguiles the 
 serpent from his coils. The cultivation of 
 grace is too fine to be achieved through arti- 
 fice or affectation, and yet it may be acquired 
 by lawful means; and while it is not so much 
 coveted as beauty is, because it is less realized, 
 it is no less potent and delightful, and is more 
 readily attainable. A properly comprehen- 
 sive physical education will develop grace as 
 certainly as vigour and strength. Indeed, 
 grace must be the ultimate test of all culture 
 of the body. 
 
 With all our attention to outdoor sports, 
 our college athletics, our innumerable schools 
 of physical training, we cannot be said to be 
 indifferent to bodily well-being, and another 
 word on the subject may even seem superflu- 
 ous. It is not the quantity of physical train- 
 ing, however, which is open to criticism, so 
 much as its quality. While the amount of 
 
 128 
 
3Ri&J>tiimj5 of <Krate 
 
 care we bestow on the culture of the body may 
 be thought sufficient, — in our colleges, at 
 least, — it is certainly for the most part lack- 
 ing in the wisest guiding educational princi- 
 ples, and is very rarely made to yield the best 
 general results. The prime mistake seems to 
 be that all except the greatest educators have 
 overlooked the possibility of the higher edu- 
 cation of motion. They have devoted them- 
 selves exclusively to developing muscular and 
 special strength, but that is very far from 
 being enough. Strength, without the habit 
 of using it with the utmost economy and ap- 
 propriateness, is only of limited advantage. 
 
 It is true that sports and athletics do culti- 
 vate motion, and in the long run do give their 
 kinds of dexterity and skill and physical effi- 
 ciency. Our great natural bodily proficiency 
 has been achieved through long ages of trial 
 and practice in work and play, and the elim- 
 ination of the inefficient. But it is not true 
 that mere exercise in itself necessarily affords 
 the most valuable education in motion or in- 
 
 129 
 
2Cf)e JHafttnfl of ^tvuonulits 
 
 duces the best motional habits. The processes 
 of natural selection are effective but ruthless, 
 and attain their purpose with entire disregard 
 for the individual. The blind cosmic forces 
 which play through us produce perfection of 
 the species in their own good time only by 
 sacrificing with supreme unconcern myriads 
 of the weak, mistaken, and ineffectual. 
 
 It is the object of education to better this 
 clumsy process, to discriminate among natural 
 tendencies, to guide and assist evolution, to 
 modify and adapt it to the crying need of each 
 particular being. One might quite as well 
 expect to become a good reader merely by 
 persistently reading aloud without instruc- 
 tion or criticism, as to hope to acquire good 
 habits of motion by unaided practice alone. 
 We forget that bad habits of motion, bad 
 habits of walking or standing, may most eas- 
 ily be acquired in childhood, and may 
 be unconsciously and tenaciously retained 
 through any amount of exercise, unless they 
 are recognized by a competent instructor and 
 
 130 
 
carefully eliminated, just as bad habits of 
 speech — unpleasant tones and inefficient 
 breathing — may be contracted in childhood 
 and retained through life, unless duly cor- 
 rected. Unguided exercise does not neces- 
 sarily eradicate faults in the individual, but 
 the faults merely tend to vitiate the exercise. 
 The exercise of any faculty is of little educa- 
 tional value, unless it is wisely directed with 
 definite educational purpose. 
 
 The average parent sees no necessity for 
 giving his child any real physical education. 
 '^ Because," he says, " the boy is not very 
 strong. I think it better to give him plenty 
 of outdoor life. Let him take his exercise as 
 Nature intended." This sounds very well, 
 but the difficulty is that Nature, while she is 
 always trying to produce normal types, sets 
 very little store by any separate life. A boy 
 may have inherited a poor physique from his 
 father and execrable habits of motion from 
 his mother. To turn him loose to exercise by 
 himself is to allow all his bad habits to be- 
 
 131 
 
2rt|e M^'fiitta of ^tvHonmts 
 
 come confirmed, and his maldevelopment to 
 be established. Nature would let him exer- 
 cise himself to death. His weak inefficient 
 body needs constant wise guidance and help; 
 without these, he might almost as well and 
 sometimes much better not exercise at all. A 
 playground without a physical director is just 
 about as useful as a schoolroom without a 
 teacher. A child can exercise his mind with- 
 out help, and does so every minute he is 
 awake, but that does not mean that he can 
 give himself a proper intellectual education. 
 No more can he learn good motion, physical 
 deftness and aptitude, merely by exercising 
 his muscles in haphazard exertion. 
 
 The 5^outh at college is not much better off. 
 He rows or runs or plays ball or uses the 
 gymnasium without any idea beyond excel- 
 ling in his favourite sport, outstripping his 
 fellows in speed, or overmatching them in 
 strength. He knows no other measure of 
 physical excellence, — no standard of beauty 
 or symmetry of development. His only in- 
 
 132 
 
centive is the natural but pernicious sense of 
 rivalry; and this leads him to specialize in 
 directions where he is already most proficient, i^ 
 
 and to neglect his development in other di- 
 rections where he needs it most. He thus • 
 exaggerates his peculiarities of build and mo- 
 tion, instead of correcting and supplementing 
 them, and thus retards his own harmonious 
 physical education. All good teachers, of 
 course, deplore this tendency and strive to 
 correct it; but since physical training is not 
 compulsory in our educational system, their 
 advice is seldom followed, the student prefer- 
 ring to follow his own mistaken will. The 
 man must beat his rivals, the college must 
 beat its sister colleges, at any cost. So that 
 college athletics, which might have so great 
 an influence for nobility and beauty in form- 
 ing American manhood, are actually always 
 too near exhibitionary gladiatorial profes- 
 sionalism, and tend to vulgarize and brutalize 
 their students. 
 
 Another danger to be avoided in physical 
 ^33 
 
education is an excess of simultaneous class- 
 work. The good to be obtained from it, of 
 course, is that it trains the pupil in habits of 
 prompt cooperation, and gives him a sense 
 of responsibility and of his relative impor- 
 tance as a unit in an organized society. It 
 teaches him to sink his identity in the general 
 identity of the class. And it is just here that 
 the danger of class work lies; for in teaching 
 the pupil to keep time with others and move 
 in unison with others, it tends to force him 
 out of his natural rhythm and characteristic 
 motion. Class drill may produce very pretty 
 results for purposes of exhibition, it may save 
 space and time in teaching; but at the same 
 time it may do violence to the individual in- 
 stinct and mechanism of every member of the 
 class. Appropriate enough in military coun- 
 tries like Germany, where discipline and the 
 state are counted all-important, it is not at 
 all appropriate in America, where the indi- 
 vidual is valued above the system, where we 
 are more concerned in making men than in 
 
 134 
 
making machines, and where we esteem effi- 
 cient spontaneity and originality more than 
 stolidity and obedience. 
 
 Perhaps the most flagrant example of the 
 evil of class drill is to be found in an extraor- 
 dinary performance in which ten or a dozen 
 men stand in a file between two poles which 
 they grasp in their hands. Then the arms 
 are moved up and down, in and out, in vari- 
 ous ways, just as they might be in many fig- 
 ures of ordinary calisthenic drill. Here the 
 performance is purely an exhibitionary feat, 
 and is worse than valueless educationally. 
 There is no possibility of any one of the per- 
 formers keeping his own rhythm and quality 
 of motion. He submits himself to an avera- 
 ging machine, which cannot but impair his 
 motional habits and trammel his spontaneous 
 vitality. He might go through the same 
 movements by himself with nothing but bene- 
 ficial results; but when he follows them in 
 this inflexible unison, he can receive nothing 
 but injury. This is an instance of the truth 
 
 135 
 
that exercise may be injurious not only when 
 it is excessive, but when it is foolish, ill-reg- 
 ulated, and not adapted to individual good. 
 
 It is of the greatest importance, therefore, 
 that all pupils should be carefully educated 
 individually before being allowed to do si- 
 multaneous work. Their peculiar traits of 
 rhythm and the manner of their motion have 
 to be considered, and their peculiar faults 
 corrected, before they can afiford to exercise 
 . in unison with others. It is no more possible 
 ' to give an individual proper physical train- 
 ing through class work alone than it is to give 
 him proper vocal training by the same means. 
 When sufficient individual motion training 
 has once been gained, it penetrates and modi- 
 fies and perfects all of our exercise and makes 
 all well-ordered activity beneficial. What- 
 ever sport we take up becomes more than 
 doubly helpful and delightful. The differ- 
 ence between a game of tennis played by a 
 young man whose motion is bad, — restricted, 
 
 136 
 
disorderly and ineffectual, — and one played 
 by a player whose motion is free and graceful 
 and adequate, is immense, — the difference 
 in enjoyment as well as in results and appear- 
 ance. There is no need for any new form 
 of exercise; we only need to apply better 
 motion to the numberless forms already exist- 
 ing. 
 
 But how, it may be asked, are we to secure 
 the exercise best suited to each individual? 
 Chiefly in two ways: by selecting exercise to 
 serve the physical needs and defects of the 
 student, so that it becomes a source of reme- 
 dial development as well as a means of 
 health; and by adapting that exercise to the 
 student's own peculiar rhythm, either to cor- 
 rect or to emphasize it so that it becomes a 
 naturally educative process, refreshing the 
 personality, as well as the physicality. The 
 first precaution is practised generally enough, 
 but the second is not even recognized as a 
 necessity; and yet the one is as needful as 
 
 137 
 
2ri|c i&^itins of i^rtsonalttff 
 
 the other if physical education is to result 
 in the production of individual happiness, 
 power, and beauty. 
 
 If physical training is to have any really 
 educative value, if it is to be an integral part 
 of a humane culture, it cannot rest satisfied 
 with developing strength, endurance, and 
 skill, delightful and goodly as these qualities 
 are; it must be civilizing in its tendency, and 
 help to eliminate violent impulses, minimi- 
 zing and obliterating all that is savage and 
 ferocious in our animal nature, and retaining 
 and developing all that is wholesome and 
 needful. It must, in other words, cooperate 
 with mental and moral training in the per- 
 fecting of the human being, in imposing 
 guidance, restraint, and fineness upon prim- 
 itive impulse, in securing the freedom of 
 spirit and the supremacy of reason. It must 
 not hinder human evolution by keeping alive 
 the more ruthless and blind animal propen- 
 sities, it must rather aid human progress by 
 educating instincts and directing them toward 
 
 138 
 
i^tjfftJjmfii of ©tare 
 
 noble intelligent issues; it must help us to 
 maintain strength, resourcefulness and cour- 
 age, and to discard brutality, cruelty, and 
 vindictiveness. 
 
 There is not the least doubt that physical 
 education can render great help in doing this. 
 In bodily training, as in all other realms of 
 life, it is practice that forms habit, and habit 
 that forms character. The calling of the fire- 
 man or the coast-guard must educe and stim- 
 ulate the humaner instincts, sympathy, gen- 
 erosity, kindliness, unselfishness, tenderness; 
 while it also requires no less courage and en- 
 durance than the brutalizing art of war. As 
 a vocation thus exerts so potent an influence 
 in the formation of character, even so must 
 bodily training exert a definite modifying 
 guidance. Inborn pugnacity tends to make 
 a man a fighter, and quite as surely does prac- 
 tice in boxing develop pugnacity. 
 
 Civilization does not consist of architecture 
 and wealth, but of spirituality, temper, and at- 
 titude of mind. Nevertheless we are civilized 
 
 139 
 
Ci^r i«aft(nfl of jpetsonallts 
 
 by circumstances, by the tasks which society 
 imposes upon us, quite as much as by our own 
 direct aspirations. We modify our actions 
 at the bidding of impulse and intention; and 
 our gestures, voices, and habits of motion are 
 faithfully indicative of the personality be- 
 neath; and no less certainly is our personal- 
 ity modified and moulded in turn by the re- 
 flex influence of its own acts and expressions, 
 whether spontaneous or imitative. Imitation 
 is one of Nature's rudimentary means of 
 growth; but it needs superlative standards, 
 and even then it cannot advantageously sup- 
 plant individual effort. To make any act or 
 gesture or mode of speech or motion habitual 
 through deliberate repetition is to stimulate 
 in the personality the appropriate moral qual- 
 ity or emotion of which such act or gesture 
 is the expression. The student of acting can- 
 not practise the expressions of anger, despair, 
 revenge, or love, without exciting those pas- 
 sions in his own heart. So inseparably allied 
 
 140 
 
are spirit and sense, — so interdependent are 
 their aims, their interests, and their spheres. 
 
 In order that exercise may be most helpful 
 and ensure the best results, it must be of a 
 kind which can become instinctive and auto- 
 matic. Otherwise it may necessitate a too 
 constant strain on the attention and fail to 
 produce that economy of motion which we 
 recognize as grace, and which is always pres- 
 ent when energy is allowed to play freely 
 through its physical embodiment. Men and 
 women are only ungraceful through some 
 hindrance offered to this free play of energy, 
 whether it be a physical impediment, a bad 
 habit of motional procedure, the restraint of 
 self-consciousness, or only the constrictions of 
 modern dress. 
 
 An animal may be ungraceful in our eyes, 
 but it is rarely awkward or inept in its move- 
 ments. Many of them seem to us monstrous 
 and ungainly, but of such species we must 
 remember that their world is so different 
 
 141 
 
from ours, their requirements so alien, that 
 our standards of grace and theirs can hardly 
 be the same. Judged by the inflexible de- 
 mands of its life and its surroundings, the mo- 
 tion of any perfectly normal creature will be 
 found to show the highest economy of effort. 
 And this among mortals is the criterion of 
 grace. Animal motion is good through being 
 instinctive and free, and our own motion can 
 only become graceful when those qualities 
 are ensured for it. 
 
 The body is constantly tending to adopt 
 habits either good or bad in its motional life 
 and to make them automatic; it knows and 
 profits by the secret of routine; and by pref- 
 erence it will adopt good habits rather than 
 bad, — a saving rather than a wasteful ex- 
 penditure of energy. We can have no natural 
 preference for bad habits of motion, no real 
 zest or enthusiasm in awkward actions, since 
 these can never become deeply instinctive nor 
 expressive, but must always be distasteful to 
 our normal animal consciousness and our best 
 
 142 
 
taste. We must use our bodies as they prefer 
 to be used, just as a good rider must make 
 allowances for the preference of his horse, 
 and ride him as he wishes to be ridden. 
 
 The best exercises, therefore, are those ) 
 which permit freest play to normal motion, 
 freest expression to the physical character of 
 the individual. And since the body cannot 
 repeat with pleasure any motion which is un- 
 suited to its own rhythmic preferences, but 
 does repeat gladly any motion whose rhythm 
 and form are adapted to its peculiarities, it 
 follows that the most congenial exercises are 
 those whose rhythms may be varied and 
 adapted to meet individual need. 
 
 For this reason the use of Indian clubs is 
 one of the most beneficial and delightful 
 gymnastics. They give the body something 
 to do beyond the mere stretch of muscles ob- 
 tained in calisthenic exercise without appara- 
 tus. They lure us to exertion, like riding or 
 swimming, without calling for a constant 
 effort of volition. At the same time they 
 
 143 
 
 \ 
 
demand the least possible strain or attach- 
 ment with a mechanical world. They have, 
 the guise of a work, and yet they leave the 
 body almost absolutely free in its motion. 
 They afford it an opportunity for rhythmic 
 action, and yet leave perfect liberty to mod- 
 ify that rhythm at will. They are thus truly 
 educational, inculcating the science of motion 
 and developing the art of motion at the same 
 time. Their persistent rhythms tend to do 
 away with faulty idiosyncrasies of motion, 
 and to replace a disorderly, spasmodic, cum- 
 bersome, violent, or ineffectual habit of phys- 
 ical action by one that is well-ordered, reg- 
 ular, exact and capable. The practice of In- 
 dian clubs introduces us to a world of rap- 
 turous harmonies, where energy can find a 
 pure enjoyment neither servile nor lawless. 
 Indeed, by making us accustomed to a freer 
 and at the same time a more regulated mo- 
 tion, they give us a hint of the great truth that 
 lawlessness is a hindrance and not a help to 
 liberty. Their gentle discipline rescues us 
 
 144 
 
from any possible disorderliness of motion, 
 and impresses us with the order and sym- 
 metry of freedom. They approach more 
 nearly the free art of dancing than other 
 forms of exercise, and share its power of hyp- 
 notizing the mind, fascinating the attention, 
 and so allowing the dormant animal con- 
 sciousness to emerge and grow. They teach 
 the muscles to think for themselves and to act 
 independently. They encourage good mo- 
 tion, and by making it automatic, tend to 
 make it instinctive for future use. Further 
 than that, the natural freedom which they 
 offer the body infects the spirit with gladness. 
 Their rhythms, like the rhythms of the dance, 
 awaken in the personality latent primordial 
 joy by making activity expressive, and restore 
 the soul to full possession and control of the 
 body, so that it can find there again its lawful 
 satisfactions, its sufficient avenues of expres- 
 sion, its mobile salutary means of achieve- 
 ment, its virile sustenance, its orderly reen- 
 forcement, its happy existence. 
 
 145 
 
The most graceful form of Indian club is 
 of the long-handled English pattern, nine- 
 teen inches in length, made of soft wood hol- 
 lowed for the sake of lightness, and weighing 
 not more than eight or ten ounces. This pat- 
 tern of club will be found to give far more 
 satisfactory results than the old-fashioned 
 heavy type, which weighed two or three 
 pounds at least. The heavy club compelled 
 great exertion through certain parts of the 
 swing, thus retarding the motion at points, 
 while it hurried the motion at other points of 
 the swing by the inertia of its weight. The 
 lighter club, which is also better balanced, 
 allows a more even and regular use of the 
 muscles, a smoother and more graceful mo- 
 tion, with an equal distribution of energy 
 throughout the whole circle of the swing. It 
 permits much wrist and finger work quite im- 
 possible with the heavier club; and this pos- 
 sibility of extending exercise to the very ends 
 of the fingers is important in the development 
 of a full unconscious rhythm in personal mo- 
 
 146 
 
tion. As a consequence of this better rhythm 
 and more uniform exertion, the physical de- 
 velopment produced by the lighter club is far 
 more beautiful than that produced by the 
 heavier instrument. The one gives a well- 
 rounded muscularity, at no point overexer- 
 cised, and at no point neglected, while the 
 other developed the exaggerated biceps and 
 lumpy muscles of the circus gymnast of our 
 boyhood. 
 
 In swinging clubs, the body must of course 
 be held in proper poise with the weight on 
 the balls of the feet and the chest held up as 
 in elation. Every movement must originate 
 in the breast and be transmitted not only to 
 the tips of the fingers but as far as the eyes 
 and tips of the toes; so that the whole phy- 
 sique may participate in the rhythmic exhil- 
 aration, and while the body may not actually 
 rise from the ground at each swing, it may^ at 
 least seem to be quickened by vibration and 
 elasticity in its kinetic poise. To this end the 
 body must never be tense, for in certain uses 
 
 147 
 
of the clubs, as in the pendular swing, the arm 
 learns to be as passive as a swinging rope, all 
 the impulse being given by the chest and 
 shoulder. In many movements the fingers, 
 too, are as lax as may be, and retain their hold 
 with the least possible attachment, so that the 
 exercise may more nearly approach an abso- 
 lutely " free gymnastic," — that is, a gym- 
 nastic of the body without apparatus. This 
 delicacy of poise and hold breeds grace of 
 motion, without at all diminishing the devel- 
 opment of strength. It adds skill and ecstasy 
 to crude power. 
 
 That Indian clubs may afford one of the 
 most normalizing of exercises is unquestion- 
 able. But it must be remembered that their 
 normalizing value, their power to render per- 
 sonal motion more graceful and proficient, 
 and personality thereby more effectual, de- 
 pends almost altogether on the way in which 
 they are used. They may be used to increase 
 muscular strength and manipulatory skill, 
 and still fail to have any direct effect in nor- 
 
 148 
 
3Ktlffti)ins of ©tare 
 
 malizing personal habits of motion. In order 
 that their best effects may be realized, — in 
 order that they may make personal motion 
 permanently better, and personality itself 
 more sane and normal, — they must be prac- 
 tised with an intelligent understanding of 
 their advantages, a feeling for their rhythmic 
 possibilities, which is the chief benefit they 
 secure. Unless clubs are swung with as much 
 happy zest and abandonment and apprecia- 
 tion of their graceful harmonies as one would 
 bring to the fine art of dancing, their utmost 
 benefit will be lost. Without realizing this, 
 we might practise them all our days and de- 
 rive but little improvement in grace or bear- 
 ing. But to feel the enchantment of their 
 rhythms, the sorcery of their complex har- 
 monious movements, as they wheel through 
 space in their silent arabesques; to follow 
 and obey their delicate law and yet modify 
 their evolutions at pleasure; to produce new 
 and almost infinite varieties of flying curves 
 out of their few elementary figures, is to ex- 
 
 149 
 
STijr J«aft(u0 of J^etsonalftj? 
 
 perience the veritable artistic rapture, and be 
 carried out of oneself into the region of true 
 creation where magic happens and beauty is 
 born. 
 
 Such exercise teaches the body the funda- 
 mental laws of motion, the simple and pri- 
 mary rules of grace, and leads it by a wise 
 education through subtle intricacies to a 
 happy participation in the order and freedom 
 of life. Club-swinging ought to form a part 
 of all elementary education, since it induces 
 a normal development, advantageous in itself 
 and serviceable in any commonest kind of 
 labour; while out of its physical harmonies 
 the finest personality may spring. The edu- 
 cation it provides, so basic and so requisite, 
 tending to refine our physical nature, as 
 music and mathematics do the mind, would 
 help to make every workman an artist and 
 every artist a master in his craft. Not only 
 in an ideal republic, but in this practical 
 world, the hod-carrier and the poet may bene- 
 
 150 
 
iSiftstf^mu of ©rate 
 
 fit alike by training in a field of motion where 
 the rhythms of grace are supreme. 
 
 A second form of exercise, which may well 
 supplement the use of Indian clubs, is pro- 
 vided by the medicine-ball. Here the ele- 
 ment of art is lessened, since the movements 
 are less conventional, and the rhythms less 
 pronounced; but there is a compensation for 
 this loss in the added element of sport which 
 is introduced through companionship in prac- 
 tice, and by the increased capacity for the 
 direct development of strength. The Indian 
 clubs serve to invigorate and refresh the 
 whole being, in the same way that a few min- 
 utes of good breathing will do. The med-< 
 icine-ball does more than this; in offering 
 scope for greater muscular effort, it makes an 
 excellent step from the training in pure mo- 
 tion of the Indian clubs to the applied exer- 
 tions of heavy gymnastics, athletics or actual 
 labour. It brings all the muscles into play 
 equally and well, demanding variety of poise, 
 and cultivating the beginning of judgment, 
 
 151 
 
2Ci)t JHaltefng of Jletsonalltff 
 
 promptness, responsiveness, and skill. Like 
 any other form of exercise, it should of course 
 be practised with a constant heed to the qual- 
 ity of its motions, the grace and orderliness of 
 efifort, as inculcated by the Indian clubs. 
 Every catch and throw should embody a con- 
 sciousness of rhythm and a pleasure in eco- 
 nomic and thorough motion that would lend 
 satisfaction and gladness to activity. 
 
 These forms of exercise, if rightly pursued, 
 will go far toward making good motion in- 
 stinctive and habitual, so that all tasks may be 
 undertaken and executed with an intelligent 
 and automatic economy of force. If it be 
 only scrubbing a floor or washing a window, 
 the work will be the better done for any pre- 
 vious training in orderly, regulated motion. 
 To cultivate bodily perfection for no end but 
 the perfection itself would be a vain and fool- 
 ish pursuit. Unless our sports, our athletics, 
 our whole physical education, are to have 
 some application to real life, and serve to 
 make it easier and happier, they must be sadly 
 
 152 
 
futile. But to be able to carry into daily la- 
 bour and activity an actual pleasure in every 
 motion, to feel a glad satisfaction in the exert- 
 ing of physical energy, is substantial gain. 
 Even the most uncongenial labour then loses 
 half its drudgery, and may be turned, for all 
 its disagreeableness, into positive and appre- 
 ciable benefit. 
 
 Not only does the habit of good motion, or 
 grace, give us greater ease and efficiency for 
 work; it helps us to extract a measure of 
 needful recuperative exercise from all ab- 
 sorbing daily tasks. The business man who 
 has no time for other exercise than the walk 
 of perhaps a couple of miles to and from his 
 office may make that help to keep him in 
 health, if he has learned to walk and breathe 
 well. Even sitting at a desk all day may be 
 made less exhausting and distressing if the 
 worker shall have learned to hold his or her 
 body well and to be careful to secure an abun- 
 dance of fresh air all the time, and to breathe 
 it properly. There is as much need for right 
 
 153 
 
carriage in silting as in standing; and if the 
 body is kept under control through all the 
 waking hours, — poised, alert, and vibrant, 
 without overtension and with adequate breath- 
 ing, — the quietest occupation may be made 
 to furnish enough good exercise to preserve 
 some measure of happy health. Nor will any 
 toil, short of the impossible, seem too great, 
 or leave the well-ordered being exhausted 
 without recompense and chance of recupera- 
 tion. Real joy in action is a magic lightener 
 of Titanic and distasteful tasks. 
 
 The housewife or shop-girl who has to be 
 on her feet all day does not suffer so much 
 from the excessive hours of work as from a 
 lack of such physical training as would give 
 her free animal intelligence in the use of her 
 body. Every hour, hampered by artificial 
 hindrances, is a drag and brings only weari- 
 ness and discouragement, because every move- 
 ment is wasteful and disorganizing, making 
 gladness and economic efficiency of labour 
 impossible. Just as it is not work but worry 
 
 154 
 
that wears out the mind and depresses the 
 spirit, so it is not work but ineptitude that 
 wears out the body and fatigues the willing 
 heart. 
 
 Grace is not merely an adornment of life, 
 but, like beauty, it is an inherent requisite, 
 indicating perfection of motion, as beauty in- 
 dicates perfection of form. Both are neces- 
 sities of personality and revelations of power, 
 not to be affected nor compelled, but to be 
 cultivated lawfully and revered as puissant 
 oracles of the divine. 
 
 155 
 
JSeautg of tt}t iFoot 
 
 " Great toe, little toe, three toes between. 
 All in a pointed shoe — 
 Ne'er was so tiny a fo' castle seen. 
 Nor so little room for the crew." 
 
 So might an observer of the average 
 pointed-toed shoes exclaim. 
 
 It is strange that beautiful feet are almost 
 nowhere to be seen nowadays except among 
 babies, Orientals and savages. That wonder- 
 ful human member, so strong, so patient, so 
 sensitive, so marvellously built and mathe- 
 matically contrived with its arches and levers, 
 so cunningly adapted to its ceaseless employ- 
 ment, has undeservedly become a thing of 
 shame to be covered and hidden from sight. 
 
 156 
 
m^uts of tfie iFoot 
 
 Yet what poetry and romance reside in the 
 normal naked foot! The hand itself is not 
 more beautiful nor more significant; though 
 we sing the praises of the one, while the other 
 we must never mention. Consider the service 
 of the foot, bearing us hither and thither over 
 the face of the lovely earth, up hill and down 
 valley, by road and tangled meadow, through 
 the open world, beneath the open sky, to many 
 destinations, on errands of kindness or pleas- 
 ure through all the bright business of life. 
 
 Consider how life itself has risen, like an 
 emanation from the fertile ground — first 
 through trees and plants and particoloured 
 flowers, which truly share the breath of ex- 
 istence, yet must for ever remain patiently in 
 one spot; next in the creeping and crawling 
 forms w^hich move ceaselessly over the green 
 surface of the earth with such infinite slow- 
 ness; and then finally in the creatures which 
 run and walk as they will, almost as inde- 
 pendent as the wandering clouds. They be- 
 long to the race w^hich has detached itself 
 
 157 
 
from the mighty parent, to wander between 
 heaven and earth, abiding where it will, free 
 with that power of moving on nimble feet, — 
 a power, when you think of it, scarcely less 
 extraordinary than that of certain flies to skate 
 on the smooth surface of the stream. Think 
 of the silent pad of the great cats as they move 
 to the hunt, hardly turning a stone or snap- 
 ping a twig. Think of the sure hoof of the 
 mountain climbers, passing from ledge to 
 ledge at dizzy altitudes in intrepid security, 
 or of the cunning and exquisitely sensitive 
 hoof of the deer, adapting itself to every step 
 at such swift pace; feet for all surfaces, all 
 countries, all necessities of weight and speed. 
 Think of all these animal myriads as they 
 come and go upon their business in the wild 
 places of the world, and how their feet must 
 always mark the measure of their strength. 
 
 The only greater wanderer and journeyer 
 is man himself, the incorrigible nomad. Un- 
 der tents or in palaces his abiding is hardly 
 
 158 
 
ntunts of tJie iFoot 
 
 more stable than life itself, as it fleets from 
 instant to instant. He goes forth in the morn- 
 ing of time in bands, in hordes, in armies, 
 hunting, conquering, settling; through dust, 
 through snow, through swamp or forest; by 
 trail and ford and red highway; and always 
 his tireless feet must bear him forward to his 
 goal. The anabasis of the Ten Thousand; 
 the wandering of the Israelites in the wilder- 
 ness; Napoleon's retreat from Moscow; Sher- 
 man's march to the sea; all the countless ex- 
 peditions of armed men forgotten long ago; 
 all the daring adventures of hunters, lovers, 
 explorers, seekers for gold, or mere restless 
 waifs driven by their own fatuous whim; 
 forced marches by night; leisurely rovings by 
 day; — how all these wayfarings testify to the 
 courageous, patient feet which went upon 
 them, returning in triumph or coming back 
 no more! 
 
 You think fondly of the beloved hands that 
 served and tended and solaced you; think 
 
 159 
 
also of the willing feet that have done your 
 pleasure, — run your errands, companioned 
 you on many a delightful walk, and come to 
 meet you on how many a glad return! How 
 cherishable are the feet of the beloved, with 
 all their rose-leaf delicacy of texture, their 
 network of sensibility as responsive as the 
 palm of the hand or even the life-breathing 
 lips! In the beautiful deft sandalled feet of 
 dancing-girls what enchantment lurks, what 
 a sense of power to go and come at the sweet 
 will of the spirit! They may gleam and tan- 
 talize and allure and madden the infatuated 
 beholder; yet in truth they are all the while 
 expressive of capacities for patient docility 
 and the sublime helpfulness of women. Over 
 unnumbered leagues of travel in all times, 
 under all weathers, through trackless jungles 
 with death lurking in the shadows; across 
 pathless wastes of snow with death stalking 
 naked as the wind; through all lands and sea- 
 sons and circumstances, the untiring, indom- 
 itable feet of man have gone, carrying him 
 
 i6o 
 
Utants of tiie iFoot 
 
 to the door of his desire. Think of all this, 
 and then declare whether the human foot is 
 not worthy of honour. 
 
 When we think of the foot as strong and 
 capable and performing all its tasks so thor- 
 oughly and well, we instinctively think of it 
 as beautiful. The idea of beauty is funda- 
 mentally an appreciation of absolute fitness. 
 Those things come to seem beautiful to us 
 which are exquisitely efficient, — which dis- 
 charge their functions with fascinating expe- 
 dition and economy. So that the moment we 
 reflect on the wonderful adaptability and ef- 
 fective power of the human foot, our latent 
 admiration is aroused at once^ our esthetic 
 enthusiasm is satisfied. Our popular notion 
 of a pretty foot, on the other hand, does not 
 call up a picture of the naked foot at all. It 
 means something quite different, — simply a 
 conventionalized form, a pretty shoe, a neatly 
 made article of fine kid and soft patent 
 leather, having a certain prettiness of its own 
 in line and texture, but having little relation 
 
 i6i 
 
to the human foot either in shape or in serv- 
 iceability. The modern shoe with its pointed 
 toe and high heel may be interesting as a bric- 
 a-brac, as all human fashions are interesting, 
 however extreme or bizarre; but its compara- 
 tive uselessness, its lack of anything like per- 
 fect fitness to meet the demands which will 
 be put upon it, make it essentially an inartis- 
 tic invention. As long as it remains so arti- 
 ficial in shape and so ill adapted to its re- 
 quirements, it can never be a really beautiful 
 foot-covering. It is little less than an instru- 
 ment of torture, and we wince at realizing it. 
 Strange that we should condemn the foot- 
 binding of the Chinese as cruelty, and will- 
 ingly undergo discomforts almost as excruci- 
 ating, and quite as illogical and disastrous, at 
 the mere caprice of custom! 
 
 Without freedom of action there can be 
 no beauty in these supple shapes of clay into 
 which the breath of life has been blown. The 
 average well-bred woman dare not show a 
 bare foot, so cruelly is it blemished and mis- 
 
 162 
 
Ht^nts of ti^e iFoot 
 
 shapen by her ridiculous shoe. The story is 
 told of a beautiful woman on the American 
 stage, that she lost a suitor because he once 
 chanced to see her uncovered foot. The 
 man's sense of beauty was revolted at the sight 
 of a foot, which should naturally have been 
 beautiful, deformed and disfigured by per- 
 verted and perverting shoes. The flaccid 
 throat, the small, incompetent waist, the hob- 
 bling walk and the crippled feet of fashion 
 would be disgusting if they were not so piti- 
 able and so usual. 
 
 Whenever the foot is liberated from its 
 fashionable bondage, it returns to the glad 
 service for which it is formed; and all its 
 added freedom and exercise bring back its lost 
 suppleness, strength and grace. It grows sen- 
 sitive and mobile and adequately serviceable 
 again, and so again become interesting and 
 beautiful with the beauty of life. A withered 
 member, be it hand or foot, cannot be made 
 lovely by being encased in expensive trap- 
 pings. 
 
 163 
 
2ri|r JHalKing of Jjrrfijonalitff 
 
 What is the naked human foot really like? 
 In general outline, the natural foot is three- 
 sided. It approximately fills a triangle whose 
 sides are formed by the inside straight line 
 of the foot from toe to heel, the outside 
 straight line of the foot and a straight line 
 across the toes. The two long sides of the 
 triangle meet in an apex behind the heel. 
 The point of the foot is the heel, not the toes. 
 In the naked foot of a young child, still un- 
 deformed by shoes, in the feet of all good 
 statues and paintings, and in the feet of all 
 peoples who go barefoot, this shape appears. 
 It is the normal form of the human foot, de- 
 veloped by natural use, and giving adequate 
 stability to the body; and only as our feet 
 conform to this typical three-cornered shape 
 can they make any just claim to beauty. Any 
 divergence from this free-spreading, wide- 
 toed form means inadequacy and weakness, 
 and therefore unloveliness. 
 
 Among the barefooted people of the West 
 Indies and the Orient, you may see the human 
 
 164 
 
Utauts of tfie iFoot 
 
 foot in its primitive strength and undistorted 
 beauty. If you watch a young Negress going 
 by with her burden on her head, the free 
 stride of her naked feet, her soft step, her 
 elastic, undulant body, you will have a new 
 idea of physical loveliness. You may note 
 how the foot spreads and springs with every 
 step, bearing her forward in exquisite poise, 
 with a grace and nobility of carriage quite im- 
 possible to our women of modish gowns and 
 shoes. She moves with the ease and latent 
 power of some wild creature; and watching 
 her, you grow aware how much charm lies in 
 beauty of motion, in the mobility and action 
 as well as in the statuesque perfection of the 
 human body. I have to confess that my sense 
 of what is beautiful and attractive in physical 
 perfection has found more delight in the un- 
 fettered swinging motion and free step of 
 many a dark-skinned portress through the 
 white streets of Nassau than it finds in the 
 average " at home," where women mince 
 helplessly and artificially across a room, or 
 
 165 
 
wobble unstably from chair to chair. In the 
 one case I see the alluring beauty of unspoiled 
 nature, stirring me to enthusiasm without 
 shame. In the other I see the shameful and 
 revolting perversion which foolish fashion 
 has imposed upon women of my own race. 
 I look upon the foot-bound Chinese woman 
 with pity, but without contempt. The custom 
 she obeys is a curious relic of tyranny survi- 
 ving from a darker age of the world; and the 
 very antiquity and helplessness of her enthral- 
 ment lend pathos to her sorry plight. But I 
 cannot look at the silly shoe and ugly walk 
 of the average American woman without a 
 flush of indignation, that a people which 
 prides itself on its intelligence should will- 
 ingly tolerate such crippled and ungraceful 
 usage. 
 
 There is more in this matter of graceful 
 motion than appears at first sight. Women 
 wear their absurd shoes, no doubt, to make 
 their feet look smaller, more dapper and, as 
 they suppose, more attractive; and we all 
 
 i66 
 
ntunts of tfie iFoot 
 
 tolerate the custom. But we all overlook, I 
 am sure, a very important factor in charm; 
 we forget the fascinating sorcery which re- 
 sides in graceful motion. Physical charm 
 does not consist in perfection of colouring and 
 form alone, but in perfection of motion as 
 well. The gracious and irresistible allure- 
 ment which a lovely woman exercises over the 
 hearts of any company springs quite as much 
 from her graceful mobility and nobleness of 
 bearing as from any loveliness of face or fig- 
 ure. Personal magnetism, that strange unac- 
 countable influence which plays upon us so 
 potently, yet ever eludes definition, is largely 
 a matter of freedom of poise and harmony 
 of movement — normal poise of the body, 
 whether at rest or moving with all the won- 
 derful flexions and tensions of which it is 
 capable. An elusive, irresistible power, an 
 air almost superhuman, seems to surround 
 that person whose walk and bearing approach 
 our instinctive standards of human motion at 
 its best. So eagerly do we long for beauty, 
 
 167 
 
for loveliness and power and ease and grace, 
 so intuitively do we recognize them, that 
 there is no saying what influence such deli- 
 cacy of poise and refinement of motion may 
 not wield. The woman who moves well may 
 have the world at her feet; while her rival, 
 of more beautiful lineaments but with an 
 awkward carriage and ungainly motion, may 
 retain her flawlessness, picturesque but unad- 
 mired. There is more power in the tone of 
 the voice than in the meaning of the word 
 it utters. There is more force in a gesture the 
 hand makes than in the mould of the hand 
 itself. 
 
 Now the basis of good carriage and good 
 motion, or the basis of personal magnetism, 
 is of course a strong, flexible, intelligent body 
 at the command of a worthy personality. 
 And the prime support or base of such a body 
 must be a pair of strong, flexible, intelligent 
 feet. Any foot w^hich has strength, flexibility 
 and muscular intelligence may not be the most 
 beautiful foot in the world, but having these 
 
 i68 
 
iSeatutff of tftt iFoot 
 
 qualities which go to make grace and effi- 
 ciency, it will surely be more beautiful than 
 one of more perfect mould in which those 
 requisites are wanting. Beauty, it cannot be 
 said too often, does not mean shape alone; 
 it implies charm of effectiveness and adapta- 
 bility as well. The idea of beauty includes 
 the idea of perfect fitness, perfect economy of 
 effort, perfect fulfilment of a function, per- 
 fect attainment of an end or purpose, always 
 with the least waste of energy. No foot — 
 indeed, no part of the body — can be beauti- 
 ful which is not capable of serving its natural 
 purposes gracefully; and no member can 
 gracefully serve its natural purposes or fulfil 
 its proper office to the body unless it is free. 
 
 The hand or foot — or the whole body, for 
 that matter — cannot be kept beautiful by dis- 
 use. It was designed for use, for motion, not 
 for immobility. It attained its present normal 
 beauty, its present formation, through con- 
 stant service and motion; and only by being 
 used freely and lovingly can its beauty be 
 
 169 
 
preserved and perfected. Beauty is a result 
 of continual gracefulness, an evidence of good 
 habits of motion. And good motion, beauti- 
 ful, strong, economical, intelligent, can spring 
 only from a gracious spirit finding freedom 
 of expression through an obedient, mobile 
 body. Freedom, therefore, freedom for every 
 part and member of the body, is a prime 
 requisite of beauty. 
 
 If we would have beautiful feet, we must 
 take off our restricting, debilitating shoes. If 
 we would have beautiful bodies, we must 
 abandon our corsets and high collars, for be- 
 fore we can have beauty, we must have grace; 
 before we can have grace, we must have com- 
 plete freedom of motion. We must do away 
 with all restrictions of foot and waist and 
 throat before the natural symmetry of the body 
 can be regained or preserved with all its de- 
 lightful harmonies. We must learn to admire 
 the body with all its natural spontaneous 
 power and pliability, its capacity for action, 
 its instinctive unhampered ease. We must 
 
 170 
 
JSeautff of tfft iFoot 
 
 learn to despise the pititful restrictions which 
 we have allowed fashion to put upon us. We 
 must permit ourselves, with no loss of spiri- 
 tuality, to love physical beauty as the Greeks 
 loved it, as artists and poets have always loved 
 it, and to take a sane delight in the normal 
 health and vigour and loveliness of the body. 
 That delight, in turn, will enhance and nour- 
 ish our spirituality; and he who takes care 
 to have a clean, active, wholesome physique 
 will be likely to have a clean, active, whole- 
 some mind and soul as well. Our delight in 
 physical beauty is a fine bloom of the spirit, 
 just as physical beauty itself — loveliness of 
 form and colour — is the fine bloom of bodily 
 health. And beauty of form, let us remem- 
 ber, can no more subsist without freedom of 
 air and exercise than beauty of colour can; 
 they both result from perfect health, and are 
 marks of a fine normal exuberance of being. 
 
 Hardly any decree of emancipation is more 
 needed to-day than one for the liberating of 
 the foot. We have dangerously enslaved our- 
 
 171 
 
selves with uncomfortable footgear, and until 
 we discard its perverting shackles, we can 
 never fully realize our inheritance of joyous- 
 ness in possession of the earth. We must be 
 able to stand firmly but unrigidly, as the trees 
 stand in the wind, nobly upheld, yet sensibly 
 swayed by the least motion of our surround- 
 ing atmosphere, the least breath of inspira- 
 tion, the least impulse of emotion. We must 
 be able to move without thought or hin- 
 drance, as the animals move, as primitive man 
 could move. We must be content with noth- 
 ing less than a perfect foot, such as the an- 
 tique statues have to show, such as belongs to 
 Eastern dancing-girls and the unshod dwell- 
 ers in tropic lands. How incongruous Cleo- 
 patra, or Ruth, or Helen of Troy, or the 
 Queen of Sheba, would appear in modern 
 shoes! And, more than that, their beauty 
 would be actually impaired. All the mar- 
 vellous grace, the simple strength, the fasci- 
 nation or the dignity which they must have 
 possessed, would be dissipated as they tried 
 
 172 
 
litants of tJie iFoot 
 
 to move about in our uncomfortable modern 
 dress. The glamour in which they hold our 
 imagination even now would be lost. And it 
 would be lost through bad motion, just as the 
 fascination that an eagle's flight may exercise 
 over us by its power and beauty would be lost 
 if he should be suddenly crippled in a wing 
 and come limping to earth. The spell of 
 beautiful motion would be broken. He 
 would seem no longer a wonderful creation, 
 but merely a maimed and fluttering thing in 
 the clutch of a sorry accident. We ourselves 
 are in much the same case, when we maim 
 at any point our natural freedom of body, our 
 capacity for fine and beautiful activity. 
 
 Our gain from a physical emancipation, 
 such as the loosening of our dress would se- 
 cure, would be beyond belief; for we should 
 gain not only in physical comfort, but in utter 
 relief of spirit also; we should be able to 
 inhale long drafts of happiness with every 
 breath, taste the satisfaction of being normal, 
 and feel the simple self-respect which comes 
 
 173 
 
JSTijr Jilattfno of prti^onalits 
 
 from living without affectation and in accord 
 with the deep laws of our nature. It is not 
 possible to be as serene and light-hearted, as 
 the good God intended, while our bodies are 
 fretted by ill-adapted clothing. No woman, 
 I am sure, can be quite happy in the array 
 which she is required to don for the social 
 routine. To possess her soul with anything 
 like equanimity, she must retire to dressing- 
 gown and slippers, and if she be a bond-slave 
 to fashion, she will suffer from nothing more 
 completely than from her shoes. 
 
 The ideal shoe is a barefoot shoe, following 
 the model of the naked foot, and disregard- 
 ing entirely the wholly artificial models of 
 fashionable wear. It will be made to fit the 
 foot and to interpose the very least resistance 
 to all the duties which the foot has to per- 
 form. It will be dedicated to service, not to 
 affectation; and in that way it will attain a 
 real artistic beauty such as can never invest 
 the ludicrous patterns of footwear prescribed 
 by unnatural fashion. It will meet the need 
 
 174 
 
ntunts of tt|t iFoot 
 
 of the foot for protection and warmth, and 
 yet allow as much ventilation as possible. 
 Since it must adapt itself to work, it will have 
 the utmost flexibility consistent with strength. 
 It will differ from the ordinary shoe chiefly 
 in three particulars: it will be heelless, it 
 will be broad in the toe, and it will be low- 
 cut. 
 
 If we take it for granted, as we surely may, 
 that our walk becomes more graceful and easy 
 and effectual the more nearly barefoot we can 
 go, it follows that the ideal shoe will have the 
 most pliable sole consistent with the protection 
 required, and of an even thickness through- 
 out. This matter of flexibility of the sole is 
 of prime importance in securing and main- 
 taining a good walk and carriage. Even the 
 slight thickening of the sole to form " spring 
 heels " interferes with good motion and 
 should be avoided. The Indian moccasin is 
 an ideal foot-covering in this respect; for 
 although it is too soft and light to protect a 
 sensitive foot against damp or rough travel, 
 
 175 
 
jri^e jnadteing of prtsonalfts 
 
 it allows perfectly free play to that pliant roll 
 of the foot always necessary to good walking. 
 The entirely heelless shoe not only gives free- 
 dom of motion; it also compels the muscles 
 of the toes and leg to keep the weight of the 
 body poised over the balls of the feet, — the 
 safest and sightliest balance either in walking 
 or standing. It is a fundamental help to good 
 motion and general poise, and it forces the 
 finest development of leg muscles and en- 
 hances healthful activity, which the average 
 conventional shoe makes almost impracti- 
 cable. 
 
 With a disuse of heels must come a broad- 
 ening of the toe of the shoe, for the following 
 reason: When high heels are worn, all flexi- 
 bility in the use of the foot is lost. Instead 
 of being a pliant springy support, as it is nat- 
 urally, the foot in its artificial covering be- 
 comes practically a single stump; and the 
 most beautiful woman loses caste the moment 
 she begins to walk, pegging along as if she 
 were wooden from the knees down. As soon 
 
 176 
 
IStunts of tije iFoot 
 
 as heels are discarded, however, we must take 
 care to return to a normal walk; and a nor- 
 mal walk implies an increased use of the toes 
 and the balls of the feet and a consequent 
 strengthening of all the fore part of the foot, 
 with a spreading and utilizing of the toes. 
 So that a pointed-toe shoe, which may be 
 bearable so long as the foot is used only as 
 one might use a wooden foot well-jointed at 
 the ankle, becomes intolerable as soon as we 
 attempt to carry ourselves gracefully, bring- 
 ing the balls of the feet and toes into proper 
 use. 
 
 In addition to being without heels and giv- 
 ing complete freedom to the toes and balls 
 of the feet, the ideal barefoot shoe will be 
 low-cut. High laced or button shoes are 
 worn for two reasons, both of which are erro- 
 neous. It is supposed that they give support 
 to weak ankles and warmth to cold feet. As 
 a matter of fact, they only aggravate those 
 discomforts. They make the foot colder by 
 weakening the surface reaction and interfer- 
 
 177 
 
srtje JWafeCitfl of Jlrrsonalits 
 
 ing with the circulation, and they make the 
 ankle weaker by hindering its exercise. Mus- 
 cles are strengthened by use, not by support 
 and disuse. The growing custom of keeping 
 children in " spring-heel " shoes is excellent, 
 so far as it goes; but they should always be 
 low shoes with broad toes, and are better with 
 no heels at all. It is the constricting repres- 
 sion of high, tightly buttoned shoes that gives 
 to so many children and young girls wooden 
 ankles, calfless shanks, and a flat-footed walk, 
 where we might rightfully expect shapeliness, 
 elasticity and grace. Sandals, of course, are 
 excellent for the perfect ventilation and free- 
 dom they allow, though they may not always 
 afford sufficient protection. 
 
 The normal muscular use of the feet in 
 proper shoes will prevent " flat-foot." That 
 painful malady, contrary to popular super- 
 stition, is invited rather than prevented by 
 high heels and steel supports. The artificial 
 prop and brace accustom the foot to depend 
 upon their aid, and so gradually to lose rather 
 
 178 
 
ISeauts of tfje iFoot 
 
 than gain strength; they really only aggra^ 
 vate the trouble and one who resorts to their 
 help is sure to go from bad to worse. The 
 wonderful arch of the foot breaks down 
 through being misused, not through being 
 overused. To bind it and support it only 
 interferes with its natural muscular play; so 
 that it becomes weakened and atrophied 
 through disuse, as any member would under 
 similar conditions. Whereas if it be prop- 
 erly used in an unrestricting shoe, all neces- 
 sary exercise will strengthen it. 
 
 To change from high heels and arch-sup- 
 porting shoes to free shoes, without transfer- 
 ring the poise of the body from the heels and 
 arch and stiffened knees to the balls of the 
 feet and toes and deftly flexed knees, is to pre- 
 cipitate '' flat-foot " almost inevitably. And 
 here lies the cause of discomfort and disaster 
 arising from an unguarded change to gym- 
 nasium shoes, ballet shoes, tennis shoes, and 
 heelless slippers or house shoes. Such change 
 must be made with careful readjustment of 
 
 179 
 
SEJje Jttafeing of J^ersonalits 
 
 one's habits of motion in standing and walk- 
 ing, and even then is not unlikely to be at- 
 tended with discomfort at first, as different 
 and comparatively unused sets of muscles are 
 brought into play. Of course, after damage 
 has been done, the case is complicated, and 
 the sufferer may need a surgeon's care. 
 
 The whole question of the beauty of the 
 foot and the best use of the best shoes is insep- 
 arably bound up with the question of good 
 walking and good carriage of the body, and 
 consequently also with questions of health, of 
 efficiency, of happiness for ourselves and use- 
 fulness to the world. It involves, too, the con- 
 sideration of the subtle reflex influence of 
 motion on the spirit and temper, on the tem- 
 perament and mental attitude of the indi- 
 vidual. A perfect foot is the beginning of 
 beauty, as a fine cast of the head is its crown- 
 ing attribute. Neither the vestal virgins nor 
 the nautch-girls could ever have uplifted the 
 spirit or charmed the senses, if their feet had 
 been hampered and inadequate. Goddesses 
 
 i8o 
 
m^nts of tiie iFoot 
 
 would lose their majesty and angels their per- 
 fection, if anything should mar the beauty of 
 their feet. 
 
 The tender curve and sensitive mobility of 
 the sole of a beautiful foot is one of nature's 
 subtlest beauties. A strong, soft, flexible 
 rolling tread on the balls of the feet, letting 
 them spread and contract freely with each 
 step, keeping the heels almost wholly off the 
 ground, and never allowing the weight of the 
 body to fall back on the heels and spinal col- 
 umn, is the natural process for developing 
 fine, straight feet, a genuine instep and calf 
 of the leg, a neat ankle, and curves of power 
 and spirit not only through the foot but 
 throughout the whole body. This was the 
 breeding that made shapely feet and legs to 
 match the loveliest bodies of bygone times 
 and gave us our traditions of the well-bred 
 foot. A spontaneous, easy elegance in the 
 carriage of the head depends upon elegance 
 in the development and use of the feet. The 
 absence of many wrinkles, the unanxious ease 
 
 i8i 
 
of the whole body, our perfection of physical 
 and personal development, our utmost useful- 
 ness and health, our entire symmetry and 
 poise and vigour, depend largely upon our 
 development and use of our feet. Nothing 
 can exist or happen anywhere throughout the 
 length and breadth of the body that is not in- 
 fluenced by the condition and use of the foot. 
 The relation of the nervous system to the foot 
 is often sorely realized. Few people have 
 escaped experiencing the overwhelming de- 
 moralization, mental and spiritual as well as 
 physical, that results from a hurting foot. 
 
 Speaking of Japanese workmen, Lafcadio 
 Hearn says, ^' Nature has given him perfect 
 feet that can spring him over fifty miles a 
 day without pain; a stomach whose chemistry 
 can extract ample nourishment from food on 
 which no European could live; and a con- 
 stitution that scorns heat, cold, and damp 
 alike, because still unimpaired by unhealthy 
 clothing, by superfluous comforts, by the 
 habit of seeking warmth from grates and 
 
 182 
 
mauts of ttie iFoot 
 
 stoves, and by the habit of wearing leather 
 shoes. 
 
 " It seems to me that the character of our 
 footgear signifies more than is commonly sup- 
 posed. The footgear represents in itself a 
 check upon individual freedom. It signifies 
 this even in costliness; but in form it signifies 
 infinitely more. It has distorted the Western 
 foot out of the original shape, and rendered 
 it incapable of the work for which it was 
 evolved. The physical results are not limited 
 to the foot. Whatever acts as a check, di- 
 rectly or indirectly, upon the organs of loco- 
 motion must extend its effects to the whole 
 physical constitution. Does the evil stop even 
 there? Perhaps we submit to conventions the 
 most absurd of any existing in any civiliza- 
 tion because we have too long submitted to 
 the tyranny of shoemakers. There may be 
 defects in our politics, in our social ethics, in 
 our religious system, more or less related to 
 the habit of wearing leather shoes. Submis- 
 sion to the cramping of the body must cer- 
 
 183 
 
tainly aid in developing submission to the 
 cramping of the mind." 
 
 After experimenting with footwear for 
 many years, experience leaves one eager to 
 impart this grain of knowledge, — that no 
 material comfort can equal the luxury of a 
 well-fitting, broad-toed, flexible, heelless shoe. 
 Of course, the secret is that a good barefoot 
 shoe enables us to walk naturally and to find 
 in simple natural exercises not only health, 
 but sanity and happiness as well. If I were 
 a fairy and asked to bestow one gift on the 
 man and woman of the twentieth century, I 
 would give them each a pair of model shoes. 
 
 184 
 
TJKJfK 
 
 ffilje art of Walking 
 
 The delightful art of walking, the happy 
 vagabondage which Stevenson and Whitman 
 praised so well, the most innocent of pastimes, 
 the simplest of exercises, is in danger of fall- 
 ing into disuse in our multiplicity of modern 
 sports. Tennis, golf, bicycling, riding, yacht- 
 ing, motoring, all call us in their different 
 ways in the pursuit of diversion or health, 
 until the love of the open foot-road is become 
 almost old-fashioned. Yet there they lie, all 
 the highways and paths and trails running 
 out from before our very feet to overlace the 
 earth, to carry us whither we will, with all 
 their old allurement of the golden age of gip- 
 sydom before steam carriages were invented 
 
 i8S 
 
2CJie JHaftfnfl of Ji^tvuon^lxts 
 
 or electricity discovered. The art of walking 
 may be temporarily outrivalled, but it cannot 
 be lightly neglected, and the wise will always 
 hold it in high esteem, — so primary a benefit 
 is it, and so essential to all womanly elegance 
 and manly dignity. 
 
 An idea that shall help us to walk well 
 is to think of the walk as a moderated run 
 rather than to think of the run as a modifica- 
 tion of the walk. Fancy the Flying Mercury 
 changing feet, and you have an ideal run. 
 Fancy that run slackened in speed, and you 
 have a godlike walk. 
 
 The run is, of course, the natural human 
 gait whenever speed is required; and as the 
 rate of speed is lowered, it passes by a gradual 
 transition into the normal walk. The run is 
 our legitimate highest form of locomotion, 
 developed under the keen stress of the exi- 
 gencies of life; and as such it represents our 
 utmost efficiency of motion, and exhibits the 
 most graceful economy of strength in action. 
 As we watch it in children and in the games 
 
 i86 
 
2CJ|t art of WiuWina 
 
 of our athletic youth, the run lends a touch 
 of glamour and additional charm to the 
 beauty of the figure, altogether lacking in our 
 starched and restricted demeanour; it carries 
 us back to the days of freedom and sincerity. 
 Our almost complete disuse of the run in civi- 
 lization was inevitable, but none the less has 
 surely been detrimental to the quality of our 
 motion in general and to our walk in partic- 
 ular. As the ease and security of life in- 
 creased, we became a race of walkers; and 
 now as the means of transit are multiplied, 
 we walk less and less. As a consequence of 
 this decreased necessity for muscular effort, 
 we have lost much of the spring and endur- 
 ance which belong to us by natural right. 
 There is the greater need, therefore, that such 
 walking as we do should be done thoroughly 
 well, since grace and beauty are only the fine 
 flowers of motion and strength. 
 
 The mechanics of walking, like the science 
 underlying any art, may not be as interesting 
 as the art itself; yet it is none the less neces- 
 
 187 
 
sary, if we would practise the art correctly. 
 The first requisite of good walking is a good 
 poise. If the body is well poised at each point 
 of its motion, the motion itself must be good. 
 The process of walking, w^hich has been de- 
 scribed as a series of falls, is, to be somewhat 
 more accurate, a series of falls and recover- 
 ies, so insensibly merged that there is no say- 
 ing where the fall ends and the recovery be- 
 gins. In walking we are in a continuous 
 state of changing equilibrium. We pass 
 gradually from one position to another, yet 
 should never be out of poise. We are play- 
 ing with gravity. The instant we lose poise 
 our step becomes a stumble, and we ourselves 
 the sport of gravity, no longer its self-con- 
 trolled masters. A good walker spins the 
 earth deftly beneath his feet, as an acrobat 
 in a circus spins a barrel or a painted ball. 
 
 This simile suggests something of the light- 
 ness and ecstasy to be acquired in walking, 
 and gives us an imaginary guide for our mo- 
 tion so far as the feet are concerned. For 
 
 1 88 
 
^ftt art of WLuimna 
 
 our other requisite of good walking, a proper 
 carriage of the chest, a suggestion may be 
 gained by balancing a stout pole about eight 
 or ten feet long vertically from the chest. Of 
 course an imaginary pole will do quite as well 
 as a real one, if not better, for it will not in- 
 terfere at all with the carriage of the head. 
 Between these two attempts — the endeavour 
 to keep the chest well lifted and carried for- 
 ward, and the endeavour to keep the earth 
 as far below us as possible — lies the achieve- 
 ment of good walking. Between these tw^o 
 diverse extremes we shall master that ease and 
 strength of action which is so fascinating in 
 all good motion, and attain a natural dignity 
 of mien which no affectation can bestow. 
 
 Instruction in the exact technique of walk- 
 ing might be epitomized as follows: — From 
 a normal standing position, with the greater 
 part of the weight on one foot (the left, for 
 example), slightly in advance of the right, 
 lift the body gently on the balls of the feet 
 and let it sway forward. As it sways out of 
 
 189 
 
2Cfie JHaftltifl of ^tvnonulits 
 
 balance, the right leg will instinctively come 
 forward to save it from falling. If this right 
 leg be allowed to swing freely of its own 
 weight, like a rope, sagging at the knee and 
 slack at the ankle, and if at the same time the 
 body be lifted high on the ball of the left foot, 
 the right foot (the trailing end of the rope) 
 will clear the ground as it swings past the 
 left; and the first part of the foot to touch the 
 ground in this first step will be, not the heel 
 of the foot, but the ball, — the tip of the rope. 
 The moment the ball of the right foot touches 
 the ground, it resists, and receiving the weight 
 of the body gently, with softly flexed knee, 
 lowers it until the heel also touches the 
 ground lightly, and the first step has been 
 taken. 
 
 Meanwhile the forward impetus of the 
 body has not been retarded, and the left leg 
 is now swinging forward in its turn. The left 
 foot must have room to swing clear of the 
 ground; and, to meet that necessity, the body, 
 which has just been lowered by the strong 
 
 190 
 
muscles of the right leg and foot, must imme- 
 diately be lifted again by those same muscles. 
 The left leg swings to the front; the chang- 
 ing weight is again caught and lowered on the 
 left foot; the second step has been taken, and 
 the walk is under way. 
 
 If this rough analysis seems to overempha- 
 size one or two crucial points in the walk, 
 such as a greater use of the ankle joint and 
 of the powerful lifting muscles of the calf 
 of the leg and ball of the foot than we are 
 accustomed to, it should be said that it is 
 hardly possible to lay too much stress on the 
 importance of these essentials. It is just in 
 them that we generally fall short. To walk 
 well, — indeed, to move well at all, — we 
 need not only strength but strength well or- 
 dered; and nowhere is our locomotion so 
 faulty and inefficient as in our use of the leg, 
 the ankle and the foot. 
 
 Analysis makes clear the important part 
 played by the strong, sensitive, flexible ball 
 of the foot and toes, which spread and almost 
 
 191 
 
8Ctie JHaftfnfl of J^ersonalitff 
 
 grasp the earth as they exercise their exqui- 
 site control of balance and support, — a power 
 which can never be exercised at all in narrow 
 shoes. It also ensures the straight tread of 
 the Indian; since, when the foot is swung for- 
 ward freely and loosely in the direction in 
 which we are going, it falls naturally parallel 
 to our line of progress. The turned-out toe 
 is insisted upon by dancing masters rightly 
 enough, in consideration of an audience in 
 front, to whom profile contours are more 
 pleasing than straight lines, and because in 
 dancing the body is constantly moving from 
 side to side, and the leading foot should point 
 in the direction in which the motion is to take 
 place. The old military standing position, 
 ^' heels together and toes out," which threw 
 the weight upon the heels, was long permitted 
 by instructors in gymnastics in class drill, for 
 the purpose of facilitating diversity of exer- 
 cise. In the normal walk, however, wherein 
 we wish to go straight ahead, the turning out 
 of the toes is an anomaly and should never be 
 
 192 
 
of 
 
 y 
 
srtie art of WLalUina 
 
 taught. It ought to be clearly understood 
 and carefully borne in mind that the standing 
 position of the dancing-school is to be used 
 only when specifically required, and that 
 when it becomes habitual it leads to bad gen- 
 eral poise, an awkward walk, and injurious 
 physical results. That a wrong method of 
 standing should be inculcated in schools of 
 physical culture, simply' to facilitate certain 
 drill exercises, is unwarrantable, inasmuch as 
 the establishing of good habits of general mo- 
 tion is more important than the artificial in- 
 tricacies of any diverting or exhibitionary 
 drill. If a drill necessitates bad poise at any 
 time, then it is a bad drill and should be 
 abandoned. 
 
 It will be noticed, also, that our descrip- 
 tion of ideal walking does not fit the require- 
 ments of the heel-and-toe walk as practised 
 by athletes. That particular gait is an arti- 
 ficial one, and has been adopted for a specific 
 reason. The natural walk, as has been said, 
 is only a modified run, and lapses into the 
 
 193 
 
run so gradually that the exact point of dif- 
 ference is not easily perceptible. The patent 
 difference between a walk and a run is this, 
 of course, that in the walk both feet are never 
 oE the ground at the same time. In order to 
 render this difference perfectly plain and un- 
 questionable in contests, athletes have re- 
 quired the heel-and-toe step, wherein the heel 
 strikes the ground first. With this gait it is 
 almost impossible to get sufficient spring to 
 lift both feet from the ground at the same 
 time, and so the possibility of the walker 
 breaking into a run is almost nil. The tax 
 on him, however, is something terrific. He 
 hunches along, thumping on his heels, and 
 almost dislocating his entire anatomy at every 
 step. The racking strain to the whole system 
 from such an abnormal locomotion is an in- 
 tolerable violence to nature. Nature fitted us 
 to run when we are in a hurry; and to push 
 the slower gait quite beyond the limits of its 
 intended use is to sin against the laws of na- 
 ture and common sense. Like any other vio- 
 
 194 
 
ffiDe art of Wi^lUina 
 
 lence, it can only be injurious and wasteful of 
 energy; and being so harmful, it cannot but 
 be ungraceful. Nothing is more ungainly 
 and less pleasant to watch than a heel-and-toe 
 contest. Yet this discordant method of walk- 
 ing, only less furious in speed, is the one we 
 use every day, almost without exception. It 
 is a slovenly habit, only too readily acquired 
 through muscular inefficiency, disordering 
 footgear, or heedless imitation or laziness. 
 
 Our fashions prescribe one ridiculous man- 
 ner of walking and then another year after 
 year, but almost no one thinks it worth while 
 to learn to walk normally. There can be no 
 uniform fashion of good walking. The nor- 
 mal walk is not a matter of caprice, but of 
 art; it lends itself to the infinite varieties of 
 character, and becomes in each instance ex- 
 pressive of the individual; so that we recog- 
 nize and even interpret a man by his gait as 
 easily as by his voice. Both are unmistakably 
 characteristic of him and could belong to no 
 one else. A friend is known by his step be- 
 
 195 
 
fore he crosses the threshold. Words may be 
 marshalled and pressed into the service of 
 falsehood, and may deceive the unwary; but 
 our tones and motions are more instinctive, 
 less deliberate, and will betray us in spite of 
 ourselves to any keen observer. No two 
 voices are alike, nor any two walks, but every 
 one in his own person — in bearing, demean- 
 our, speech, gesture and motion — is the man- 
 ifestation of a distinct personality and cannot 
 be identical with another. To try to assume^ 
 therefore, any capricious mode of speech or 
 any affected fashion of walking is fruitless; 
 it is easier to change the part which destiny 
 has set us to play than to conceal the individ- 
 ual characteristics she has given us to play 
 with. 
 
 On the stage, along Fifth Avenue, in our 
 drawing-rooms, at our summer resorts, what 
 innumerable examples of ugly walking and 
 ungainly carriage one sees! Women who 
 flop, and wiggle, and hump, and mince, and 
 lope, and stride, and hardly ever one who 
 
 196 
 
8CJ|e art of WLalUina 
 
 walks like an immortal human being! One 
 sees well-bred girls stumping along a country 
 road in thick-soled men's shoes, affecting a 
 so-called manly stride, because they fancy it 
 seems athletic, and because it is considered 
 " smart " to be mannish. Even so, they are 
 far from manliness; they imitate the gross, 
 uncultivated motion which bespeaks a low 
 type of physicality characteristic of the pugi- 
 list and the roustabout; and of course they 
 only succeed in looking ridiculous. Though 
 they may be pretty girls, their affectation of 
 a manner and motion not native in them — 
 not characteristic and unconscious and ex- 
 pressive of themselves — makes them ludi- 
 crous. It is not necessary to be a man in order 
 to be strong and healthy; and it is impossible 
 to be graceful and affected at the same time. 
 
 In justice, it ought to be added that many 
 men make the same mistake of affecting a 
 walk that does not belong to them. It is, per- 
 haps, one of the lesser follies of an imitative 
 youth, when we long to play a part in the 
 
 197 
 
2ribe iWafeinfl of ^ersonalitj? 
 
 world, and must ape this or that ideal of our 
 busy imagination. But, as Browning says, — 
 
 ** Best be yourself, imperial, plain and true.'* 
 
 And no walk can be normal or beautiful 
 which does not belong distinctively to its user, 
 which is not just as inseparably his own or her 
 own as the expression of the eyes. The in- 
 finite and distinguishing varieties of walk de- 
 pend on the infinitely varied proportions of 
 length of limb and strength of muscle and 
 quality of energy in different persons. 
 
 Many a capable actor fails of his efiPect by 
 not knowing the inalienable meaning of mo- 
 tion and the significance of a walk. Wishing 
 to impress us with a sense of dignity, he often 
 comes strutting and stamping on high heels, 
 quite forgetting that true dignity is easy, re- 
 poseful, assured, and elastic, not assertive nor 
 unyielding; and that the jarring thump of 
 his heel-hitting tread is enough to shatter any 
 possible illusion of majesty or elegance. Real 
 majesty of bearing is not to be assumed easily. 
 
 198 
 
sri^e art of S2la^litefn0 
 
 It appears only as the cloak and habit of true 
 majesty of character, — • thorough worth and 
 nobility of heart. 
 
 A distinguished American critic, who wit- 
 nessed the coronation ceremony at Westmin- 
 ster, has declared that Queen Alexandra in 
 that assemblage of younger and more daz- 
 zling beauties, held an unquestionable su- 
 premacy of royal elegance and grandeur by 
 her every movement of unassuming, unaf- 
 fected dignity. It was said of Adelaide Neil- 
 son that to see her walk was like listening to 
 exquisite music, so well rhythmed and elo- 
 quent was her motion. Madame Duse's great- 
 est preeminence as an artist is her genius of 
 mobility, her wonderful capacity for expres- 
 sion through motion and pose. Majestic mo- 
 tion was never more wonderfully exemplified 
 than in Salvini's walk in the character of 
 Othello. Though he played the part in bare 
 feet, his tread was impressive with a dignity 
 that no high-heeled boot would permit. It 
 was simply an untrammelled expression or 
 
 199 
 
8ri)e JHaftfnfl of J^ersonalitff 
 
 revelation of the dignity of character of 
 which the man himself was capable; and 
 that capacity, that quality of innate dignity, 
 required only natural transmission, transla- 
 tion from feeling into motion, to give it as- 
 tounding power. The great actor must be 
 equally a master of good motion and of 
 speech, since motion is quite as important a 
 medium of expression as voice. 
 
 To ensure good normal walking the free- 
 dom of the foot is the first essential, but no 
 less essential is the freedom of the entire 
 body; for walking brings every muscle into 
 play, and the whole torso and head have to 
 be controlled and mobilized every moment 
 through the strong muscles of the neck and 
 trunk. This needs freedom of the waist and 
 throat, as well as of the foot and ankle; and 
 when we realize the values of breathing and 
 the increased use of the lungs and diaphragm 
 necessitated by walking, the need for this free- 
 dom becomes imperative. The spread of cul- 
 tivated taste in matters of art has shown us 
 
J!Ciie art of 23Zllalltein0 
 
 how unbeautiful the deformed waist and 
 pointed foot really are, in themselves and in 
 their efifects upon poise and personal expres- 
 sion, — how pitiably deficient compared with 
 the superb strength of the Winged Victory 
 or the ideal sufficiency of the Venus of Melos. 
 How magnificent the Victory is in her loose- 
 girdled bearing, seeming almost to tread on 
 air, — the very embodiment of the soul of 
 walking arrested for an age-long instant in 
 mid-glory! 
 
 How shall we regain such power and per- 
 fection of grace and beauty? How attain 
 that fine-poised loveliness of body which the 
 old Greeks left recorded for us in their 
 sculpture as standard of physical excellence? 
 Surely not by the use of corsets and cosmetics, 
 but perhaps by cultivating as they did all the 
 bodily faculties in a life including free mus- 
 cular activity and physical art. The Greeks 
 were the finest exponents of physical culture, 
 because they saw its fundamental relation to 
 total culture, and held it in the honour which 
 
 20 1 
 
2C|)e MuUina of ^tvuonalits 
 
 is its due. They respected physical beauty 
 just as instinctively as all natural men and 
 women respect it. They had not been inocu- 
 lated with that false and shameful asceticism 
 which sprang up in the Dark Ages and cast 
 its blight over the sacred natural joy of life. 
 They knew well the inherent dependence of 
 beauty of form upon loveliness of spirit, and 
 cultivated each with assiduous care. Their 
 love of beauty was only another phase of their 
 eager and undarkened love of truth. Their 
 devotion to athletics sprang consistently from 
 their feeling for art, and their eminence in 
 art in turn was fostered and enriched by that 
 very untrammelled devotion. 
 
 It will be so in our own case. We shall 
 grow gradually nearer perfection of physical 
 strength and beauty, as we live more and more 
 nearly in accordance with our best instincts, 
 putting away shams, discarding prejudices, 
 and throwing off the tyranny of whatever im- 
 positions are too rigid and hampering for fine 
 personal development. No small part of this 
 
 202 
 
JTtie art of 2imalft(nfl 
 
 just, profitable and very becoming liberation 
 of the spirit, this delightful enhancement of 
 personality, will come to us through securing 
 the utmost perfection and service of the sim- 
 ple and practicable art of good walking. 
 
 203 
 

 When David danced before the Lord he 
 was making use of one of the most primitive 
 methods for giving vent to the joyous energy 
 that was in him. That natural expression of 
 vigorous gladness was so common that it 
 could not but find a place in all early cere- 
 monials and religious rites. When Salome 
 danced before Herod at his birthday feast, 
 her triumph was tribute to the facile power 
 of her art. 
 
 Though we have abandoned the use of 
 dancing in our sober, more intellectual relig- 
 ion, the tendency to express heights of feeling 
 in rhythmic motion shows itself in almost any 
 perfervid religious revival among simple and 
 
 204 
 
Bantina as a Jftm art 
 
 unrestrained people. And a resort to patting 
 and drums, to kneeling and bowing and sing- 
 ing as a means of freeing the spirit and an 
 elevation toward holiness, is by no means ex- 
 tinct. We still make use of rhythm for the 
 inducement of mood, though we fail to give 
 it scientific recognition or to regulate it as a 
 legitimate aid. 
 
 That an art so potent and subtle as dancing 
 should often have been turned to ill account 
 was to have been expected, yet that was hardly 
 a sufficient reason for condemning it without 
 reserve and banishing it to the limbo of the 
 forbidden. So strong and delicate an instru- 
 ment for influencing personality and arousing 
 emotion ought rather to be treated with tena- 
 cious respect and made the object of a wise 
 and fostering care. We do not ban electricity 
 because it is dangerous, nor shun the service 
 of fire because it is terrible and destructive 
 when unmastered. So with the arts; those 
 great and primordial manifestations of psy- 
 chic energy are to be guarded, indeed, with 
 
 205 
 
every wise precaution, but they are none the 
 less to be used most gratefully for forwarding 
 and facilitating the purposes of human life 
 in its struggle toward happiness and wisdom. 
 Like the elements of outward nature, they are 
 the Titanic ministers of man, rendering in- 
 calculable aid when properly employed, and 
 equally incalculable harm when left to op- 
 erate in a wayward and unregulated manner. 
 To make them outcasts from our world of 
 activity is mere childish petulance; to the 
 mature and sane mind they must always seem 
 worthy not only of use but of study and hon- 
 our. While ever alive to their baleful possi- 
 bilities, we should still rejoice without stint 
 in the exercise of their legitimate powers, and 
 cherish them with loving reverence. To do 
 this is only to make the most of our native 
 endowments, — the resources of the great un- 
 known universe of being from which we are 
 sprung. To neglect it is surely to be foolish 
 and cowardly and inept in dealing with the 
 vital forces of creation which have been given 
 
 206 
 
into our hands. The artist in life need feel 
 no panic in the presence of the gods; for 
 though it becomes him to go modestly and 
 without presumption, he is after all in the 
 house of his kindred, and while the lords of 
 being have little liking for undue assurance, 
 they have less for cringing timidity. 
 
 The reinstating of dancing in its rightful 
 place among the liberal and humanizing arts 
 is greatly to be desired, and any tendency in 
 that direction is most welcome. The prac- 
 tice of the art as developed in the modern bal- 
 let is admirable so far as it goes; its semi-pop- 
 ularity proves how universal and ineradicable 
 our love of expressive motion is, how eagerly 
 we respond to its appeal, and how gladly we 
 encourage it to beautiful achievement, even 
 when it dwindles to bleak artificiality and 
 conventionalization. But the modern ballet 
 is only a stiffened relic of the art of dancing 
 compared to what may be accomplished in 
 reviving it as a popular amusement and re- 
 storing it to its lawful position of honour and 
 
 207 
 
enthusiastic pride in people's hearts as one 
 of their loveliest and most salutary pleas- 
 ures. 
 
 Motion as an art includes the walk, but it 
 only reaches its highest achievement in dan- 
 cing. Walking is primarily a utilitarian pro- 
 cedure, with other aims and purposes beside 
 personal expression; its expressive intent is 
 secondary. Dancing, on the contrary, is 
 quite superfluous from the utilitarian point of 
 view; it has no practical service in view; its 
 sole purpose is the expression of feeling. In 
 the first instance, it is the mere physical in- 
 stinctive manifestation of pleasure, a mute 
 but unmistakable indication of the gladness 
 of life. Later, it becomes more complex, co- 
 herent, articulate and intelligible; it serves 
 not only as a vent for an impulsive ebullition 
 of animal spirits, but as an avenue for the 
 definite expression of varied emotions, — it 
 serves as a means to convey their infection and 
 fascination to others; and it takes its appro- 
 priate place among the fine arts as one of the 
 
 208 
 
most charming and winsome dialects in the 
 language of ecstasy. 
 
 The artistic dancer uses bodily motion as a 
 poet uses words, as a musician uses tones, as a 
 painter uses colours, — as an appeal not so 
 much to our reason as to our sense and spirit, 
 — as a means of enlivening and gladdening 
 our nature, making us more sensitive to 
 beauty, more spontaneous in glad emotion, 
 more sane and balanced in general well-be- 
 ing. This service of harmonizing us with 
 ourselves, freeing us from irritation and fa- 
 tigue and discordant vexation, is what art 
 always does for us, and what dancing does 
 most wholesomely when properly cultivated. 
 As it shares with the other arts the right to be 
 called liberal and fine, it deserves an equally 
 important place in our education, our social 
 life, our serious regard. 
 
 That dancing is the legitimate sister of 
 Music and Poetry is indisputable. Her birth- 
 right is not less authentic than theirs, nor her 
 origin less divine, while the realm of her in- 
 
 209 
 
heritance lies more within the enjoyment of 
 aU. If not the wisest of the immortal nine, 
 she is the gayest, most human, debonair, and 
 alluring. To the sorceries of her rhythmic 
 motion, to the silent but inescapable witch- 
 eries of her melting curves, to the languid or 
 impassioned glamour that she weaves, every 
 son of man is responsive. She alone shares 
 with her twin-born Music the power to 
 charm the wildest heart, and foster even in 
 the rudest mind some elements of civility. 
 Poetry may enlarge our horizon, making us 
 serene and wise; architecture may remind us 
 of the spacious nobility and order of the uni- 
 verse; painting and sculpture may help us 
 to a more vivid delight in the colour and 
 form and loveliness of the world; and acting 
 may stir our sympathy with its mimic follies 
 and woes; but dancing is preeminently the 
 preceptress of unmitigated joy. She is the 
 epitome of happy moments, embodying the 
 innocent abandon of our unrestrained rap- 
 ture. The hours sacred to her are those 
 
 2IO 
 
which are free from care. It is to her that we 
 instinctively turn when the soul leaps for 
 gladness. It is she who teaches us that perfect 
 fusion of sense and spirit, without which no 
 art is possible and no life is fortunate. She 
 personifies that creative rapture which was in 
 the beginning, when the morning stars sang 
 together and all the sons of God shouted for 
 
 joy- 
 Terpsichore is not only the Muse of dan- 
 cing, but the goddess of all motion. She pre- 
 sides over dancing mote and whirling leaf, as 
 well as over the jig and the minuet. The 
 wheeling hawk hanging on balanced wings 
 above some dark ravine, the fleet innumerable 
 droves of the sea that glimmer and dart 
 through their dusky silent firmament, the 
 clever tumblers in the circus, the happy chil- 
 dren in the street keeping time to the hurdy- 
 gurdy, the flying thistle seed, the drifting 
 snow, the sand that travels in the tide, and the 
 recurring planets in their vast career, — all 
 are biddable devotees of her cult, paying 
 
 211 
 
2CJie iUa^ftiufl of petfiianaltts 
 
 obedience to her mighty law, whose first ob- 
 ligation is poise, whose final realization is 
 freedom. For poise is ever the first step 
 toward perfection, as significant beauty is the 
 last. To follow her commandments, keeping 
 proper time, proper force and form, in every 
 motion we create, is to bring ourselves, body 
 and spirit and understanding, hourly into 
 happier accord with the orderly rhythms of 
 infinitude. By so doing we lose timidity and 
 strangeness and distrust of ourselves; we 
 learn number, proportion, accuracy, skill; 
 and we become assured, gracious, composed 
 and glad. For art not only holds the keys 
 to the realm of beauty, but to the realms of 
 knowledge and benevolence as well. This 
 is the truth which every artist divines, and 
 which all must one day come to perceive. 
 
 We have lost much of our respect for the 
 pure fine art of dancing, because we have al- 
 lowed It to become debased and corrupted. 
 When the Puritan put the blight of his anath- 
 ema upon it, he worked an almost irrevocable 
 
 212 
 
injury. That was one of the enormities with 
 which his soured righteousness afflicted the 
 earth, one of the ill effects of his narrow big- 
 otry which we are left to undo. Dancing 
 might be put out of countenance for a time, 
 but no fanaticism could irrevocably over- 
 throw a genuine deep and beneficent human 
 activity. For dancing is more than a custom; 
 it is not confined to any race or civilization; 
 it is native to man; it answers a primary need 
 in his being, — an ineradicable necessity for 
 self-expression; and like all the arts it has 
 an unquestionable, almost mysterious, power 
 to influence his life. It must, therefore, take 
 its lawful position again and be honoured as 
 it was in other times, when it had its due place 
 in sacred ceremonial as well as in daily life. 
 Not that we need revive the dance as a relig- 
 ious rite, but we must recognize, just as the 
 ancients did, just as the savages still do, the 
 religious element inherent in motion, and its 
 great power in the spiritual realm. Having, 
 as it surely has, so potential an influence for 
 
 213 
 
Eftt JHalteino of Petf^onalitfi 
 
 good or ill, surely we are bound to cultivate, 
 liberate, refine and ennoble it, in order that 
 we may generally practise it, and may be cul- 
 tivated, liberated, refined and ennobled by it 
 in turn. The wise and loving practice of an 
 art is the making of the artist. 
 
 As dancing comes to be revived among us, 
 restored to its lawful standing, it must resume 
 its place in our regard as one of the most de- 
 lightful of pastimes and beneficial of recrea- 
 tions. It is peculiarly fitted to become a dis- 
 tinctive national amusement with Americans; 
 its grace and spirit and gaiety should supply 
 a most becoming exercise for our buoyant and 
 volatile exuberance. We might have dancing 
 clubs, just as we now have tennis clubs. It 
 might become as great a distinction to excel 
 as a dancer as it is now to excel in golf or 
 baseball. 
 
 Dancing as an exercise is more desirable 
 than most sports, for the simple reason that 
 it is an art as well as an exercise, and the prac- 
 tice of it cannot but be more helpful and sat- 
 
 214 
 
lamina as u Jfint art 
 
 isfying than the pursuit of sports which are 
 more wholly physical in their requirements. 
 Most of our sports and playgrounds demand 
 accuracy, skill, bodily vigour, and even such 
 temperamental characteristics as patience and 
 good nature; they cannot, however, afiford an 
 outlet and avenue of expression for the higher 
 personality, nor a means for its cultivation, 
 such as the arts always supply. Athletics 
 generally leave one side of our nature, the 
 spiritual or emotional side, entirely unexer- 
 cised. That is why our young college giants 
 are often so persistently mere huge and grace- 
 less barbarians. They have given themselves 
 with commendable diligence to the cultivation 
 of thews and brawn, daring and endurance, 
 and after all they are only fit for the arena; 
 they have none of that grace and nobility of 
 person which were so prized by the Greeks, 
 — none of that imposing beauty which mo- 
 tion, when infused with the aspirations of the 
 spirit, can do so much to develop, and which 
 uninspired motion can so easily destroy. 
 
 2IS 
 
It seems a pity that so beautiful an art, so 
 delightful an amusement, should be relegated 
 to formal dress occasions and not enjoyed 
 much more frequently on the spur of any 
 happy moment. A moderate amount of good 
 dancing would be enough to keep women in 
 health, to say nothing of its value for mental 
 stimulation and balance. And there can be 
 no more ideal and practically salutary exer- 
 cise and recreation for children and adults 
 than barefoot dancing, practised in unre- 
 stricting cleanly clothing, and with only the 
 simplest sandal protection for the otherwise 
 bare feet, — a pastime in which no pointed 
 shoe, no hampering garment, increases the 
 difficulty of delightful achievement, nor de- 
 tracts from its benefit. Such dancing gives 
 bodily and emotional freedom and nervous 
 relief as well as stimulus to expression within 
 the limits of orderly beauty; it helps to legit- 
 imate and happy expenditure of restless ac- 
 tivity; it leads to lines of pleasurable benefit 
 energies which might otherwise be either un- 
 
 216 
 
^untina as a iFtne art 
 
 reasonably repressed or vented in uncouth 
 violence and discordant noise. 
 
 We are all of us very much in the same 
 boat, and often are not much wiser than chil- 
 dren, nor much more capable of helping our- 
 selves. We think the heavens are unkind, the 
 tangle of life impossible, and ourselves in 
 some dire extremity of woe or complication, 
 when in reality all we need is a touch of in- 
 spiring, harmonizing, and genuinely recuper- 
 ative exercise. The elation to be gained from 
 freeing our manacled bodies and refreshing 
 them with some beautiful and happy motion 
 is almost unbelievable. 
 
 A few years ago in New York a number of 
 women gave a Greek dance as a studio 
 performance for the entertainment of their 
 friends. In the freedom of the classical cos- 
 tume, the sandalled foot and loosely robed 
 figure, they found unexpected opportunity for 
 natural and expressive motion. Their under- 
 taking became a delight they had never 
 dreamed of, revealing to them the ecstasy of 
 
 217 
 
free and spontaneous mobility which belongs 
 to all natural things, and which man alone 
 has seen fit to deform and cripple and de- 
 fraud. Their pleasure was something more 
 than the simple physical exhilaration of exer- 
 cise; they were touched with the divine fire 
 of inspiration, the primal creative impulse 
 which all artists know. This was their mem- 
 orable return for a few hours given to the 
 glad art of dancing. 
 
 More recently Miss Duncan and Miss St. 
 Denis have demonstrated the imperishable 
 interest we all must have in dancing as a fine 
 art. Their practical success in barefoot dan- 
 cing should be a substantial encouragement 
 to the culture and pursuit of the art for its 
 own valuable sake. Their performances were 
 open to criticism naturally, but the spirit of 
 their undertaking cannot be too much praised. 
 Miss St. Denis has still a good deal to learn 
 about the meanings of motions and the ma- 
 king of magic, but it must be remembered in 
 her favour that there is almost no one from 
 
 218 
 
TBuntlns ^^ ^ iFtne art 
 
 whom she could learn these secrets. Her 
 dancing lacks sorcery and charm as yet, power 
 to fascinate as well as to astonish ; she has the 
 cleverness which arouses interest and makes 
 one admire, but not the touch of rapture 
 which would carry one away, as all competent 
 art should. She has, in other words, an ex- 
 cellent technique, a plastic mobility, but no 
 passion and no adequate mastery of the ex- 
 pressional values of various motions. So that 
 while her dancing may dazzle by its bril- 
 liance, it cannot enthrall. Nevertheless her 
 intelligent and unaided endeavour in an al- 
 most deserted field of art was most admirable 
 and worthy of all its success. 
 
 For several years Wellesley College has 
 been giving a pictorial dance at each Com- 
 mencement. In these interpretive dances, 
 which are held out-of-doors in the beautiful 
 grounds of the college, the parts are all taken 
 by the students; and, while not a recognized 
 part of the academic procedure, it might well 
 become as settled a custom as the yearly Se- 
 
 219 
 
nior Dramatics among the students of Smith. 
 Such extra-academic performances, which af- 
 ford means of actual training in the arts, are 
 likely to be of far more value to the student 
 than a great deal of her theoretic knowledge 
 acquired in '' Arts Courses," which are not 
 courses in art at all. 
 
 Dancing in its finest development, with all 
 its scope, bewitchment, power, and satisfac- 
 tions, has nearly become one of the lost arts; 
 but instances of a reviving interest in it here 
 and there point to a hopeful future when one 
 of the most lovely of the arts shall come to its 
 own again, bringing back solace and gaiety 
 and innocent ardour to an overmentalized 
 world. 
 
 220 
 
X 
 
 ©It JWueit of fife 
 
 A BRILLIANT woman once said to me, '' Life 
 without abandon, to me is a dance without 
 music." And I knew instantly what she 
 meant, with that delight one always feels in 
 the perception of a fresh statement of truth. 
 
 It was a poet's phrase, and as all good poe- 
 try will, it illumined the mind at once with a 
 radiant conviction, and left itself in the mem- 
 ory as a perpetual word of wisdom. Every 
 day everywhere I am constantly having it 
 borne in upon me how true the saying is; and 
 as I hear of incidents in the lives of my 
 friends, or of their friends, and as I watch the 
 expression of men and women going by me 
 in the street or gathered in public places, 
 
 321 
 
zrije iWaftlng of J^etsonalftff 
 
 light-hearted with elation or depressed with 
 complaining, I find myself repeating, not 
 without something of the resigned detachment 
 of the philosopher, '' Life without abandon 
 is a dance without music." 
 
 But what do we mean by abandon? I mean 
 a free and unrestrained yielding of oneself, 
 at any given moment, to the best promptings 
 of the instinct, the reason, and the spirit, — 
 a happy and ready accepting of the best dic- 
 tates of conscience, the delicate monitions of 
 kindliness and taste. We commonly speak of 
 an abandoned person, in the evil sense of the 
 word, as one wholly given over to the control 
 of the baser passions, — one in whom the 
 malign forces which dwell in humanity have 
 gained another of their sorry victories. And 
 just as such a one goes down-hill with ever- 
 increasing speed, unchecked by fear or hesi- 
 tation or scruple, so one who consciously 
 yields with a happy abandon to the beneficent 
 and goodly powers at work in human per- 
 
 222 
 
SEfie JHusic of Hift 
 
 sonalities may mount to heights of developed 
 manhood or womanhood by a sheer momen- 
 tum of reasonable joy. It is not the part of 
 abandon to falter or shuffle or count the cost, 
 nor to be laggard in well-doing nor lukewarm 
 in appreciation. To be potent in abandon and 
 to cultivate it is to be instant in action, gen- 
 erous in deed, confident of resource, and pos- 
 sessed by an invincible faith in the ultimate 
 triumph of all that is just, beautiful, and 
 kindly in life. 
 
 One who lives with abandon lives with no- 
 bility, sincerity, and freedom. The deep 
 wells of life are Licxliaustible, and those who 
 draw from their sweet waters most lavishly 
 are most sure of being sustained and re- 
 freshed. It is only the timorous and mean 
 and calculating who ever imagine those 
 magic springs can run dry, or fancy there are 
 narrow limits to human possibilities. When 
 the dandelions fail to reappear with the 
 spring-time, when the fogs cease to blow over 
 
 223 
 
the face of the sea, the sources of mortal 
 knowledge and aspiration may also cease and 
 fail, but not till then. 
 
 It is so easy to distinguish where music has 
 gone out of a life, and where it still lingers 
 with its enrapturing possession of the person- 
 ality! Here go by, the dejected mien, the 
 dispirited walk, the drooping shoulders and 
 slovenly gait, the eyes bent upon the ground, 
 the head bowed in hopelessness; these are 
 they who for one cause or another have lost 
 the first fine abandon which is the natural 
 heritage of every mortal born into a beautiful 
 world; they have ceased to make magic 
 music in their personalities; and while they 
 still go through the motions of living, they 
 are scarcely more than automata moving to a 
 joyless mechanical rhythm, creatures of rou- 
 tine, puppets dancing without a tune. Pity 
 them, for they are the unfortunates of the 
 great army of triumphant humanity, — not 
 only the deserters and stragglers from the 
 ranks, but the weak, the ignorant, the ill-ad- 
 
 224 
 
Ef^t mnuit of affe 
 
 vised, the wayward, who have somehow 
 strayed beyond the sound of the fifes and 
 drums and go plodding on out of step and 
 forlorn, perhaps wilfully searching for free- 
 dom, perhaps only vainly looking for rest, 
 and never guessing that all their wayfaring 
 must be bound in misery unless they can re- 
 cover the strain of that high inspiriting music 
 they have lost, and which somewhere far in 
 the van is still calling them to enthusiastic 
 allegiance, still marking an irresistible beat 
 for their steps to follow. 
 
 If there are many in whom the music of 
 life is hushed or jangled, there are more in 
 whom it is resonant and alluring still. For 
 among the multitude of the silenced tuneless 
 personalities, pace for pace with the discord- 
 ant and disheartened, moves the splendid 
 company of confident men and spirited 
 women, those who walk with springing step 
 and uplifted chest, with dancing eyes and 
 traces of rapture in their bearing. They may 
 not always be radiant with rejoicing, they 
 
 225 
 
may even be sorely touched by natural sor- 
 row, but in any case they carry themselves 
 w^ith a freedom and intensity, with an alert- 
 ness and vibrancy, that bespeak the undefeated 
 soul and the mind still free from the blight 
 of dissonance and disillusion. One sees at a 
 glance that they have not surrendered to mis- 
 fortune, nor been tainted by any inward cor- 
 ruption of fear or despair or ruthless cruelty. 
 If black pessimism has ever whispered in 
 their ears, it has not been able to mark them 
 for its own. For them the bands are still 
 playing enlivening airs, as the human pag- 
 eant files along in its tatterdemalion cele- 
 bration of living. Whether they be going 
 afoot or on horseback, in velvet or in rags, 
 seems to matter but lightly to them. The one 
 great fact is that they are filled with the music 
 of life. Never having allowed themselves to 
 become unstrung, their resonant personalities 
 are still played upon in the rapturous har- 
 monies of beneficent, joyous being. 
 
 Music of life is everywhere, and those who 
 226 
 
Zf^t JWufiiic of affe 
 
 have apprehended its presence in themselves 
 and in others are in possession of an inval- 
 uable knowledge. It must always seem to 
 them of the first importance to maintain their 
 power of abandon, of rapture, of resonance, 
 at all hazards, let their actual fortune be what 
 it may. They will make any sacrifice, forego 
 any material advantage, disrupt any bondage, 
 to save their natural responsiveness, — their 
 zest, their vibrancy, their faculty of individ- 
 ually reechoing to the concord of existence. 
 To be out of tune with themselves and inca- 
 pable of sharing in the mighty music of hu- 
 man life, whether that music be glad or sad, 
 sorry or triumphant, must appear to them as 
 the greatest of human misfortunes, for they 
 will truly apprehend such injury and deteri- 
 oration as a fatal beginning of death. 
 
 Abandon in life — vivacity, animation, ar- 
 dour — is like music in that it gives and de- 
 mands enlarged scope and freedom for action, 
 and introduces us into an ideal world, where 
 the will may find free play without harm, 
 
 227 
 
where '' nothing beautiful is extravagant, 
 nothing delightful unworthy." Those who 
 walk the world in a cloak of unsurrendered 
 rapture, however worn and threadbare their 
 actual garments may be, are in possession of 
 ampler opportunities and enjoy purer and 
 more generous rewards than any unfair ex- 
 travagance can command. They always have 
 hope and faith and charity, because by some 
 means they always keep attuned to unpolluted 
 life, to nature, to the world, to society, to truth 
 and beauty, and never permit themselves to be 
 severed from the great choral unison of fel- 
 low beings, nor cease from bearing part in the 
 divine vibrancy of living. They may have 
 griefs in plenty and adversities without end, 
 but they will not live in tuneless despair, they 
 will not become passive automata ruled by 
 rote. Dance they must, and they refuse to 
 dance without music. 
 
 This metaphor of the musicalness of life is 
 applicable to many things. The music of 
 wealth is the freedom it gives us, the power 
 
 228 
 
Ciie iWttfiifc of aife 
 
 of realizing our generous impulses immedi- 
 ately and without hindrance, as in an ideal 
 world. The music of night is its space and 
 mystery and the liberation it offers the spirit 
 from the unimaginative limitations of the 
 day. They miss its music who do not yield 
 to that fascination of vast majestic leisure and 
 solemnity, as those miss the music of wealth 
 who carry on their affairs, on whatever scale, 
 in a spirit of penurious fretful timidity, with- 
 out ever hearing the melody of spontaneous 
 generosity and the greater harmony which 
 would arise from making the utmost use of 
 their resources, whatever they may be. The 
 music of a great festival like Christmas is the 
 spirit of renewed joy and kindliness which 
 it celebrates. We miss that music altogether 
 if we allow ourselves to make a burden of 
 the day through petty selfishness or pride or 
 greed, if we are unwilling to take pains for 
 the enjoyment of others, if we let ourselves 
 grow disgusted from a few hours' shopping, 
 if we fear to give the little that we can afford 
 
 229 
 
joyously, or if we demand material excesses. 
 Great and worthy music is not produced 
 without care and thought, nor sustained with- 
 out efifort. 
 
 The music of life is written in the key of 
 the ideal, in the time of the possible, and with 
 the cadences of personality. To be without 
 ideals is to be incapable of appreciating or 
 reproducing this magic music. Its very 
 source is ideality, its whole aim is to make 
 use of the encouragement we derive from 
 imaginary perfection, and to bring happiness 
 actually to pass. Its rhythm, therefore, must 
 not be impossible of performance; for ideals 
 which are incapable of any practical realiza- 
 tion are hardly ideals properly, but only fan- 
 cies and phantasmagoria of the fertile mind. 
 Moreover, it is only when the music of life 
 shows a personal cadence, only when it is 
 modified by this or that personality, that it 
 has individual interest and significance. Per- 
 sonal cadence is what transforms the music 
 of life into popular (or unpopular) melody. 
 
 230 
 
©fje mnnit of Hift 
 
 Abandon in life finds its most opportune 
 and appropriate field in the middle realm 
 of the spirit, midway between high-pitched 
 thought and low-tensioned physicality. True, 
 it has its affinities, its roots and blossoms, in 
 both these regions; it could not be born with- 
 out taking thought of some object for an ar- 
 dour and enthusiasm to attach to, and it could 
 not be maintained without some pleasurable 
 realization; but its service belongs chiefly 
 to the emotional world. As the human voice 
 shows its rarest beauty in the middle register, 
 so the music we make of our lives shows its 
 loveliest qualities when it is modulated to the 
 compass and solace of the soul, between the 
 extremes of attenuated thought and crude 
 sensation. It can afford to make sparing use 
 both of the deepest bass notes of the senses and 
 the keen, thin treble of mentality. In the 
 generous middle octaves where the chords of 
 the heart are strung, it finds its most congenial 
 and potential sphere, and while daring to 
 sound all notes throughout the range of be- 
 
 231 
 
ing, uses most successfully and frequently 
 those that are most sympathetic to human 
 weal and woe. 
 
 This does not mean, however, that any mel- 
 ody can ever be made in the music of life 
 without the command of the whole gamut. 
 The low strong notes, when needed, are in- 
 dispensable to give force and body; the fine 
 high notes to give clarity, definition and 
 finesse. It is hardly possible to feel the aban- 
 don of life without giving it some expression 
 in voice or gesture, in speech or conduct, and 
 without being influenced by it in imagination 
 and thought It is vital to the very essence 
 of abandon that it should be shared by the 
 whole personality without restriction. A 
 strange sort of abandon that would be which 
 stopped short with the impulse and never 
 found vent in actual expression, nor ever had 
 any effect on our ideas! Persons may accen- 
 tuate one tone or another in human relation- 
 ships, they may chiefly exchange thought or 
 oflfer sympathy, but not magnetically or mu- 
 
©tie JWufiifc of aife 
 
 sically until the whole personality is harmoni- 
 ously represented in the intercourse. You 
 may form an acquaintanceship in a distant 
 place by correspondence, but there can be no 
 true fellowship or friendship until you meet 
 eye to eye and hand to hand. The primitive 
 wholesome instinct of the senses must be sat- 
 isfied, as well as the more tenuous require- 
 ments of spirit and intelligence, for in its 
 sphere and at its best it is quite as fastidious 
 and trustworthy as they. 
 
 Thus it is that men drink together to bind 
 a bargain, or shake hands upon a transaction. 
 The discussion of the subject and the final 
 agreement to which it leads are mere proc- 
 esses of understanding, where personal bias 
 need play no part. But after the terms have 
 been settled, and if the men feel a liking for 
 each other, they instinctively turn to some 
 natural physical expression of their unanim- 
 ity and good fellowship; there is a relaxa- 
 tion of insistence; the senses begin to beg for 
 their part in the compact; then the glasses 
 
 233 
 
2rj|e JHatftin0 of l&tvnonulits 
 
 are filled and, " Here's luck to the venture!" 
 They find gladness in that abandon and be- 
 come participants in the music to which the 
 world goes round. Or the music may only 
 find vent in the altered tones of the voice. 
 After hours spent in strenuous discussion, 
 where brows are knit in close attention, where 
 tones are high-pitched and looks intent, when 
 a settlement is reached the tenseness of atmos- 
 phere is relieved at once; voices, looks, man- 
 ners change and become free, glad, spontane- 
 ous and attuned. 
 
 So, too, in affairs of the heart, as our grand- 
 sires called them, there is no assurance of a 
 happy concord short of the ultimate test; and 
 many a marriage has proved a pitiable dis- 
 aster because the consenting mind and spirit 
 led the senses blindfold into a relation from 
 which they revolted without compromise. 
 There is no foretelling the preference of in- 
 stinct, and in these sacred matters, to do vio- 
 lence to instinct because of any supposed ob- 
 ligation to duty or advantage or self-interest 
 
 234 
 
a^fie mnnit of 2L(fe 
 
 is an abhorrent wrong punishable by death, 
 — sometimes death of the body, sometimes 
 death of the soul. How often, too, — perhaps 
 how much more often — the opposite calam- 
 ity occurs, when the too eager and willing 
 senses find themselves responding to a seem- 
 ingly kindred individual, only to discover 
 when too late that there could be no harmony 
 of feeling or understanding. Nature has ar- 
 ranged that the body shall know its own kith^ 
 and kin, as the mind and soul know theirs, 
 with an instinct that is imperious and une- 
 quivocating. It is this possibility of diver- 
 gence between sense and spirit that works 
 such havoc in our destinies, unless we learn 
 at least to try to introduce some rational uni- 
 son among our correlated but only half recon- 
 ciled powers through their appropriate and 
 symmetrical education. 
 
 '' But after all," you will ask, " are not folk 
 born with their characters and temperaments 
 already formed? Can one change personal- 
 ity? Can those who are naturally morose 
 
 235 
 
ever become cheerful, or the sullen become 
 sunny of temper? " 
 
 It is taking a great deal for granted, per- 
 haps, to say that these seeming miracles can 
 be wrought. And yet what else is education, 
 but a process of forming character and 
 moulding personality? If education did 
 nothing but inform the mind it would be 
 but a doubtful good. The chief function of 
 life, perhaps, is to change and modulate per- 
 sonality, — to evoke its beneficent qualities 
 and restrain its dangerous deflections, to cul- 
 tivate it, to complete it, to perfect it in poten- 
 tiality and poise. To doubt the teachableness 
 of the soul is to be guilty of the ultimate skep- 
 ticism. You or I may be stolid and inflexible, 
 tenacious of our own wills, refusing to learn 
 wisdom of experience or to grow in grace as 
 we grow in years, but the spirit of man is not 
 so intractable. Our stolidity may be a matter 
 of fear or small vanity or dulness of mind. 
 But the spirit of humanity is, in the long ac- 
 count, glad, gracious, malleable, fearless, and 
 
 236 
 
Ef^t iWtt6(c of 2i(fe 
 
 eager. It unfolds itself to seek new knowl- 
 edge, as the leaves unfold themselves upon the 
 hills to take the winds of spring. 
 
 Would you be counted among the music- 
 makers of life, among the company of the 
 joyous and triumphant whom all their fellows 
 welcome and no destiny can defeat? I know 
 only one way of attaining to that happy state 
 of being, if we have it not, — the way in 
 which everything is accomplished, — and 
 that is by deliberate endeavour. It requires 
 most careful procedure throughout the three 
 distinct though inseparable registers of living. 
 As the first requisite to tunefulness in a mu- 
 sical instrument is resonance, so the first re- 
 quisite to tunefulness in a personality is re- 
 sponsiveness of character. There is needed 
 the ready and open spirit, willing and eager 
 to respond in harmony when played upon by 
 life, by beauty, by companionship, — glad to 
 reply with alert appreciation to every kindly 
 advance, every beneficent influence. We con- 
 tribute to the music of life or not, as we will. 
 
 237 
 
It is first of all a matter of volition and spiri- 
 tuality. The soulless being could make no 
 human music. 
 
 After the voluntary desire comes the need 
 of mental attunement, and in this we gain 
 help by keeping ourselves surrounded by the 
 masters. The culture of books and art famil- 
 iarizes us with the best music of life that has 
 been made throughout the centuries. Wher- 
 ever there is a fine picture or building or 
 statue to be seen, or any beautiful product of 
 craftsman's skill, there is a trace of its crea- 
 tor's personality, — a record of the music he 
 could make out of life. The ^neid is not 
 only the story of the founding of Rome, it is 
 the musical score of Virgil's noble personal- 
 ity, left for our happiness and encouragement, 
 to tell us how serene a strain, how glad and 
 prosperous a harmony, that exquisite mortal 
 was capable of, and how well he could accord 
 with his own world and time. So, too, of 
 any sincere work of art, — Paradise Lost, 
 the Sistine Madonna, The Ring and the 
 
 238 
 
Srtie Jttttsfc of ISLitt 
 
 Book, the famous Ninth Symphony, Whis- 
 tler's portrait of his mother, the Winged 
 Victory, the Taj Mahal, — the many thou- 
 sand vestiges of itself that the joyous creative 
 impulse has left upon the earth. These are 
 so many rhapsodies of significant and delight- 
 ful melodies struck by original composers 
 from the mighty medium of existence, and 
 bequeathed to their fellows as possessions of 
 incalculable value for ever. Their worth 
 cannot be measured, for their influence is un- 
 told, and to nothing can we give many hours 
 more profitably than to their study and enjoy- 
 ment. Yet must our enjoyment and our study 
 be without envy or servility, for each one of 
 us may be, indeed must be, a creator in some 
 sort. A delightful garden, a lovely home, a 
 well-served meal, or an arrangement of fresh 
 flowers in a stone jug, may be our contribu- 
 tion to the loveliness and happiness of the 
 world, and serve as our message of joyance 
 to those around us. 
 
 Much has been written of bedside books 
 239 
 
srtie JWafting of ^tvnonalits 
 
 for the late hours of candle-light, — books of 
 solace and peace suitable to induce rest and 
 invite sleep to uneasy brains. But there 
 should be morning books on the same shelves, 
 volumes of inspiration and tonic cheer for 
 our waking hours, when the spirit is unstrung 
 and the mind unattuned. A brave, coura- 
 geous thought or a happy inspired fancy when 
 we first open our eyes, strikes a fine key-note 
 for the soul to vibrate to, and helps us to set 
 out upon the old road again to a quickstep. 
 Can one read an essay of Emerson's or a lyric 
 of Wordsworth's without hearing the fifes 
 and flutes begin to sound, or turn a page of 
 Marcus Aurelius without thrilling as to a 
 bugle-call? And will not a passage from 
 Isaiah or The Leaves of Grass lift up one's 
 head like a roll of drums? Surely a day 
 begun on such a note must come to a more 
 tranquil, happy, brave and successful conclu- 
 sion than one begun in a haphazard or dis- 
 cordant strain. While without this assistance 
 we might take up the work of the day in a 
 
 240 
 
mt mnnit ot Hift 
 
 dumb silence or sadly out of tune, by the po- 
 tent aid of such suggestive themes we should 
 be enabled to go gladly about our affairs, 
 making a music of contentment within our- 
 selves, vibrant, hopeful, and possessed. 
 
 There is a third requisite, however, to be 
 secured, before any harmonious rhythmic 
 music can issue from these wondrous person- 
 alities of ours, and that is perfection of phy- 
 sique. We cannot all have equally beautiful 
 bodies, but we can all make the utmost of 
 those we have, and by right care and culture 
 make them sufficiently wholesome, plastic, 
 and expressive to serve our needs. Without 
 such care and training, we shall have only a 
 marred and uncomely instrument at our com- 
 mand for the spirit to play upon. The soul 
 may be never so eager and responsive, the 
 mind never so receptive and cultivated, they 
 must still be foiled in the making of the best 
 music, any vibrant personal melody, if the 
 body is ill or weak or hampered by restraint, 
 or restricted by habit. All our exuberance 
 
 241 
 
and wisdom must be given a free and normal 
 physicality through which to express them- 
 selves before their expression can become ade- 
 quate, effective, and vibrant, — before the 
 personality of which they form the inward 
 part can create its own motif in life. Their 
 generous, impulsive abandon, their spontane- 
 ous gladness or sorrow, their impassioned ec- 
 stasy or doubt, will be stifled and mutilated if 
 forced to find their only vent through an ill- 
 conditioned, insensitive or immobile body. 
 Not even a god could play upon a checked 
 and broken reed. 
 
 All these things are within the reach of 
 every man and woman to accomplish in some 
 measure. Any one surely can cultivate a 
 cheerful responsiveness of spirit. Any one 
 can own at least one wise book. Any one can 
 command enough exercise and fresh air and 
 cold water to ensure bodily health and come- 
 liness. And yet out of such few and simple 
 elements as these may the immortal music of 
 life be evolved, — a little happiness of heart, 
 
 242 
 
sri^e Jttttsk of a(fe 
 
 a little understanding, and a modicum of care 
 of these sensitive instruments on which we are 
 to play. 
 
 When some measure of this reconciliatioi 
 has taken place in any personality, how capa- 
 ble of delightful melody it becomes, — how 
 responsive to an innocent and happy abandon! 
 Then, indeed, is the fine music of life made 
 possible. Then, indeed, may that thrice for- 
 tunate individual give thanks to the gods, for 
 the music-makers in life are superior to cir- 
 cumstance. Possessed of so lovable a talent, 
 so indestructible an asset, they are everywhere 
 welcome for a charm that is never outworn. 
 Whether they be wise or foolish, calamity 
 cannot embitter them, nor age render them 
 unlovely. Having once become thus attun- 
 able, life plays upon them with all its infi- 
 nitely variable phases, only to produce new 
 measures of the infinite harmony. And 
 through their power of music-making, their 
 capacity of transmuting every experience into 
 some intelligible theme, either of gladness or 
 
 243 
 
2Ctie Jttal^fng of ^tvuonalits 
 
 sorrow, they escape the monotony, the tedious 
 insignificance of those who are discordant or 
 mute. A nature in which such an adjustment 
 has taken place may become as tuneful as an 
 old violin ; it mellows with years ; so that to 
 the end of life its ever-enriching tempera- 
 mental tone gives forth, to wise and gentle 
 evocation, strains of rarest music. 
 
 When two such personalities meet and find 
 themselves in harmony in all the realms of 
 being, — unanimous, congenial, and at one in 
 the delicate register of sense, — so that their 
 individual melodies may blend and mingle 
 with perfect freedom and without disparity 
 or discordance, the greater eternal music of 
 life begins to be heard in all its purity and be- 
 witchment. There can then be no jarring nor 
 disunion in those two fortunate ones, no fatal 
 blighting conflict between spirit and sense in 
 either life, to tear it asunder as so many lives 
 are torn, — no stirring of the blood while the 
 heart is cold, no leaping of the emotional soul 
 while the pulses still sleep, and neither infat- 
 
 244 
 
sri^e Mnuit of atft 
 
 uation nor rapture without the glad, appre- 
 ciative assent of the vigilant yet amenable 
 mind. If love is the only source of abandon, 
 the primal note in every melodious person- 
 ality, it is also surely abundant sanction and 
 sufficient fulfilment of the soul's greatest 
 rhapsodies. 
 
 It is easy to recall in human history mem- 
 orable names of characters who were verily 
 permeated with the music of life. That, as 
 a modern instance, was Stevenson's rare dis- 
 tinction. There was the frailest of mortals, 
 in no way exceptionally favoured by worldly 
 circumstance, an invalid all his days, yet abso- 
 lutely refusing to live without abandon. In 
 spite of sickness or hard fortune, he would not 
 dance without a tune, and made music every 
 hour he was alive. There are myriads like 
 him unknown to fame, cheery, brave, diligent 
 souls, who will not succumb to dreariness, 
 weariness, skepticism, nor despair. It may 
 only be your Chinese laundryman, the porter 
 who makes up your berth, the boy who runs 
 
 245 
 
your elevator, or the first cabby you pick up 
 at the curb, who has the magic gift of tuneful 
 joyousness that, unreasonable as it may seem, 
 will nevertheless make him a more desirable 
 acquaintance for the hour than lugubrious 
 brokers or unctuous divines. And consider, 
 in comparison (if report be true, poor gentle- 
 man!), such an inharmonious character as 
 Carlyle's. It is a pity that so sturdy a soul 
 should become a byword for crabbed unhap- 
 piness, but he comes to mind as an example 
 of the type which is never happy, never makes 
 music in life. His physical frailties were too 
 great for him to overcome. A constant strife 
 between body and soul, fretted by dyspepsia 
 and railing against fate, make sad personal 
 discord. He was among those who, for all 
 their strength, have a mighty handicap to con- 
 tend against in their own lack of harmony. 
 The world is full of them, jangling, dissonant 
 beings, corroded by peevish discouragement, 
 incapable of evolving any concord in them- 
 selves and unable to produce any resonant joy- 
 
 246 
 
©tie Jtluf^ic of mu 
 
 ousness to sweeten their noise or gladden their 
 silence or in any way heighten the pleasure of 
 their fellows. For them no task is easy, no 
 matter how great their genius. Though they 
 were emperors or prelates, they would still 
 be merely slaves and drudges of the world, 
 full of dissonance and resentment, feeling the 
 very gift of existence to be a bane. 
 
 Abandon means fervour, ecstasy, enchant- 
 ment of the mind, fascination of the will, 
 enravishment of the senses, vital generosity, 
 recklessness of spirit, the fearlessness of intel- 
 ligence. It constitutes the good measure of 
 life needed for great growth that is the main- 
 spring of progress, in science, in religion, and 
 in art. Without some overabundance of im- 
 pulsive ardour we should only stand still, 
 having barely enough energy to carry us 
 through from day to day, from birth to death. 
 And yet the quality of abandon I am thinking 
 of is not an attribute only of youth or of an 
 excess of physical vigour. You may see many 
 old persons who continually make music in 
 
 247 
 
8Cfie JWafefng of ^tvuonnlits 
 
 their beings as they sit by the fire all day long 
 with their reading or their dreams. It is not 
 that they have never known sorrow ; they may 
 have borne many grievous burdens; but the 
 central spirit within them has never been in- 
 fected with the sullen discontent which makes 
 happiness for ever impossible. Whatever 
 evil destiny may have befallen them they have 
 confronted with fortitude, never acknowledg- 
 ing the supremacy of hatred or harm, temper- 
 ing instead of mutilating the fibre of their 
 being, and so remaining always resonant with 
 goodness and gaiety and a courage of endur- 
 ance that no frailty can destroy. They have 
 never ceased, and need never cease from the 
 ever welcome music-making of life, though 
 many of their younger neighbours, perhaps 
 more fortunate than they, with far less cause 
 for the lassitude of despondency, may be cod- 
 dling their moping souls in unbeautiful taci- 
 turnity. 
 
 Possibly these unfortunates never felt what 
 abandon means, nor ever heard the entrancing 
 
 248 
 
STJit JHui^ft Of Hife 
 
 music of life calling to them throughout the 
 world. But as I see such folk living in deso- 
 late loneliness, dwelling, as it were, in the 
 silent halls of gloomy exclusion, unlovely and 
 unloving, harbouring to the last their grudge 
 against the world, and as I contrast their de- 
 feat with the happy triumph of those sunny 
 dispositions who never refrain from sweet- 
 voiced fervency of enthusiasm even in age, I 
 shake my head, repeating to myself, " Life 
 without abandon is a dance without music." 
 
 249 
 

 It is written in the Book of St. Kavin, 
 ^' The eye for science, the mouth for relig- 
 ion, and the hand for art." 
 
 As the eye is the index of perception, and 
 the mouth the symbol of desire, so the hand 
 is typical of developed power and reveals the 
 skill and efficiency of the personality. As the 
 eye serves intelligence in the cause of truth, 
 and the mouth serves the soul in the cause of 
 goodness, so the hand serves in the making of 
 beauty. With the eye we observe and reflect. 
 With the mouth we shape our innermost 
 yearning, our aspirations, thanksgivings, 
 dreams, exultations, hopes, and despairs. 
 With the hand we mould the plastic world 
 
 250 
 
cue Sottetff of tiie l^antr 
 
 to our will, to give form and permanence to 
 our ideals. 
 
 In no other way is the supremacy of man 
 so clearly shown as in the possession of hands. 
 Arts, cities, empires, civilizations are the 
 work of his hands. With his naked hands he 
 has remade the world. By the skill of his 
 hands he holds dominion over the sea, and 
 makes a garden of the desert. The round 
 earth is covered with traces of his handiwork, 
 and history is nothing but a record of his 
 craftsmanship. Man has grown in justice 
 and understanding, but in nothing is he 
 greater than in the embodying of his love and 
 his thought, — in the fair and meaningful 
 things he has fashioned to please his imagi- 
 nation and satisfy his longing. 
 
 Mammoth ships plying through the sea 
 under the stars, titanic engines racing east 
 and west with their freighted trains, magic 
 wonders of electric machinery in a hundred 
 forms, thousands of implements for innumer- 
 able purposes, all seeming so vast and omnip- 
 
 251 
 
otent, and all controlled by the same dimin- 
 utive, significant hand that contrived them 
 w^ith such painstaking ingenuity and fondness. 
 Watch a great steam dredge at work, or a 
 great steam derrick lifting girder or monolith 
 into place, with a precision that almost seems 
 rational and a strength that is like a cosmic 
 force, and then suddenly realize that it is con- 
 trolled by a hand of frail flesh and bone held 
 intelligently on the gear. 
 
 To the student of personality the hand is 
 one of the most interesting and distinctive fea- 
 tures. One can scarcely call it anything else, 
 so sensitive is it in its response to emotion, so 
 expressive and tvpical o^ character. Not only 
 does it betray its calling and occupation, it 
 also bears unmistakably the impress of the 
 personality behind it. Like the face, it is only 
 a plastic mask through which the individual- 
 ity speaks and is recognized. Whether or not 
 there is justification for the more elaborate 
 and exact pretensions of chiromancy, it offers 
 
 252 
 
artie Sorcevff of ttie ?^anlr 
 
 sufficiently rich field of study in the general 
 unmistakable characteristics of the hand. 
 
 The hand may be a great beauty of per- 
 sonal expression or a great blemish. It need 
 not have ideal shapeliness, size, colour, nor 
 texture, in order to be lovely, and it may be 
 most unpleasing in character and expression, 
 while in size, colour, texture, and shape it is 
 almost faultless. Many a statically flawless 
 hand, like many a perfectly formed face, is 
 beautiful only until it begins to speak, when 
 its charm vanishes in incongruity and our dis- 
 appointment makes it seem unlovely or even 
 repellent. Awkward and inappropriate mo- 
 tion and gestures unerringly reveal unlovely 
 causes, — a fact that should be reckoned with 
 in education. 
 
 Pleasing hands can be made or marred at 
 will. No other feature, except the mouth, is 
 so controllable, so amenable to development 
 and to education in expression, so sensitive to 
 the formative influences of habit. Our eyes 
 
 253 
 
change but little and with difficulty, under 
 the slow process of a humanizing education, 
 and we have almost the same eyes in maturity 
 that we had in youth, but we begin to make 
 our mouth and hands from our earliest years. 
 So accurate a record of personal habits, pre- 
 dilections, and propensities is the hand, that 
 to perfect the expression of any given hand 
 would be to materially modify the education 
 of the individual. The hand is most readily 
 educated, if not to perfection, at least to cor- 
 rection of its worst habits. And well-edu- 
 cated hands have ease and dignity and interest 
 which give them a distinction beyond mere 
 beauty. However small or large a hand is, 
 it need never be embarrassed, if its faults have 
 been corrected by good training. 
 
 A supremely competent, adequate, clever 
 hand is a rare distinction. The hand of the 
 sculptor, the surgeon, the violinist, how elo- 
 quently each speaks of its noble artistry. And 
 the hand of the actor may be half his fortune. 
 Not long ago I witnessed an amateur per- 
 
 254 
 
formance of " The Heir-at-Law," in which 
 Dr. Pangloss was played admirably by a man 
 who had the most astonishingly expressive 
 and well-educated hands I have ever seen on 
 the stage. He was a teacher of reading by 
 profession, and in this role showed admirable 
 talent as an actor. In his hands it amounted 
 to genius, so convincing were they, so grace- 
 ful, so ready and inevitable in their gestures. 
 On the other hand, there are persons into 
 whose presence one cannot come without be- 
 ing at once unpleasantly aware of their hands, 
 which seem aggressive and malign in some 
 abnormal way, and infect one with an instinc- 
 tive apprehension. 
 
 The aristocracy of the hand is not a mat- 
 ter of whiteness and inutility, but of adequacy 
 and finesse. The competent hand of a black- 
 smith or a carpenter, if it is strong and cun- 
 ning in its craft, is more goodly to see than 
 the pale ineffectual hand of idleness and va- 
 pidity. The self-conscious curlings and atti- 
 tudinizings of anxious underbred hands are 
 
 255 
 
2Cf)r M^'^ina of ^tvuonulits 
 
 no help toward elegance. The Chinese, who 
 as a people have beautiful hands, and set par- 
 ticular store by the significance of hands, con- 
 sider white hands generally inelegant and 
 inefficient, and indicative of crude, immature 
 racial development. The smooth and shapely 
 Chinese hand is as carnal, capable, and unim- 
 passioned as the race itself; while the thin, 
 nervous, knobby little hands of the Japanese 
 are characteristic of a people overtrained in 
 unselfish serviceability. 
 
 There is love in the voice, there is under- 
 standing in the eye, but in the hand there is 
 a touch of that happy primordial sympathy 
 out of which human relationships are made. 
 The hand has not only refashioned the world 
 into a place more habitable and fair, but daily 
 it does the bidding of kindliness to make life 
 itself more glad and easy. It cares for its 
 children and its helpless, it cherishes those 
 it loves, it offers welcome to the stranger, and 
 in the eternal struggle for liberation it turns 
 back oppression, injustice, and defeat. 
 
 256 
 
xm 
 
 S'ije ^taUn of ^rt 
 
 We talk so much about art nowadays that 
 the average man in an average mood is apt 
 to be betrayed into some disgust with the 
 topic. '^ In the name of common sense, what 
 is all this pother about? Our grandparents 
 didn't talk about art, and they got along very 
 well. Isn't there a lot of feeble cant regard- 
 ing the whole subject? Shouldn't we be just 
 as well off if no one ever heard of art, but 
 went about the wholesome tasks of every day 
 in the good old cheerful, thoughtless fashion, 
 without any doubts or discussions of the mat- 
 ter? " 
 
 Unfortunately we cannot do that if we 
 would. We are born into a time of unrest 
 
 257 
 
and agitation, when all matters are under 
 trial to be sifted for their worth. We must 
 be skeptics and experimenters without stabil- 
 ity of creed or certainty of procedure in the 
 process of learning. The complexity of life 
 has begotten a perplexity of thought, and the 
 older ways of another century are no longer 
 feasible. However weary we may grow of 
 argument and analysis, of canvassing new 
 projects in religion, in sociology, in education, 
 in science, in philosophy, or in art, the burden 
 of quest is upon us. Without recreancy to an 
 inherited trust, we cannot abandon the search 
 for truth. What the nineteenth century be- 
 gan in its splendid w^ork in science, we must 
 push to symmetrical proportions in religion 
 and art, that is to say in sentiment and in life, 
 as well as we can. 
 
 Art is a great pleasure. It may have what- 
 ever other obligations you will; it may be 
 asked to edify and instruct and ennoble, to 
 espouse great causes, to decorate proud and 
 barbarous civilizations, to express premoni- 
 
8rj|e Heatjen of itrt 
 
 tions of the divine, or to serve the humblest 
 craftsman in his need; but still its first con- 
 cern will always be to render satisfaction 
 to inarticulate but imperious cravings for 
 beauty. The longing for aesthetic fitness and 
 the enjoyment of it are instincts as deep and 
 primitive as hunger itself, and they have been 
 no less real in their effect upon life. To se- 
 cure for them their due satisfaction is not only 
 a legitimate aim, but one of the most delight- 
 ful activities to which we can turn our eager 
 energy. One who is a lover of art in any form 
 is a devotee of a pure and ancient cult, which 
 superstition and bigotry and the pedantic 
 wrangling of the schools have not been able 
 to annihilate. He is partaker in an imme- 
 morial universal religion, whose doctrines are 
 renewed by every breath of the sweet wind 
 of heaven, whose traditions are drawn from 
 the twelve corners of the world, and whose 
 invisible altars are fed by the fires of an inex- 
 tinguishable ardour. 
 
 Ah, no, we are wrong, to grow impatient 
 259 
 
over continued discussion of so great a theme! 
 There are sober considerations in the subject 
 which must appeal to every sane being, and 
 which lead to the belief that a just under- 
 standing of all that art implies would do more 
 than any one thing to increase the happiness 
 of men. Not a knowledge of the fine arts 
 merely, but the knowledge and practice of art 
 in every province of daily living; not only a 
 cultivation of one or more of the arts, whether 
 fine or industrial, but the habitual use of art 
 in affairs everywhere at all hours. A rational 
 art of life is the consummate flowering of 
 human endeavour. To cultivate it may well 
 be our persistent care, since it will make, to 
 any personality, so rich and incomparable a 
 return. 
 
 An art of living, however, is as it were a 
 generalization of art, and calls into execution, 
 through conduct, those qualities of mind and 
 temper and equipment which every good ar- 
 tist must possess. A supreme artist is an artist 
 not alone in his painting or his music, but in 
 
 260 
 
srjje aeatien of art 
 
 his every act and undertaking. He will have 
 learned from the pursuit of his chosen calling 
 such a love of perfection, such a sense of or- 
 der, such an appreciation of aptness and pro- 
 portion, that he will make all of his life as 
 harmonious and lovely as his work. Some 
 persons, indeed, have this passion for perfec- 
 tion in the conduct of daily life, this genius 
 for the art of living, so fully developed that 
 they are not impelled to find a vent for their 
 creative talents in the pursuit of any one of 
 the specific arts. But whether one be an artist 
 in conduct or in clay, the characteristics re- 
 quired and fostered, and the principles ma- 
 terialized by artistry, are much the same. It 
 is a matter of devotion to spirit and outlook, 
 to inspiration and aspiration. The real artist 
 delights in perfect execution and finds happy 
 satisfaction in adjusting means to ends, in 
 finding adequate expression through any me- 
 dium, and is never satisfied with anything ill 
 done. " Only the best is good enough," must 
 be his uncompromising motto. 
 
 261 
 
Do you think it would be an exaggeration 
 to say that most of the faults of modern civili- 
 zation spring from a lack of artistic appreci- 
 ation? Why this endless strife between those 
 who have and those who have not? Why, 
 but for the fact that we all make mistakes 
 about happiness, supposing that it must de- 
 pend upon possessions, whereas it rests much 
 more upon individual ability to discriminate 
 wisely and to live selectively? Our incorri- 
 gible mania for wealth comes from this mis- 
 apprehension. The most inveterate and typ- 
 ical money-getter is notoriously a man of few 
 resources within himself and of little essential 
 culture. Why shouldn't he chase his golden 
 prize? He knows nothing better to do with 
 his time, no other way to seek necessary pleas- 
 ure of living. Poor fellow, he is often enough 
 desperately in need of a little real happiness, 
 of some touch of real gladness which he can- 
 not buy. He is often enough as simple and 
 kindly as he is capable, and his chief error is 
 one of ignorance. Having the crude idea, 
 
 262 
 
2Cfie Heatien of art 
 
 common to uncultivated minds, that in order 
 to enjoy life one only need own the earth and 
 have all its pleasures at command, he does 
 not find out until too late that to own is not 
 inevitably to command. He has not discov- 
 ered that enjoyment does not depend wholly 
 upon good fortune, but is equally a matter of 
 temperament and character. He does not 
 know what the artist in life could tell him^ 
 that happiness, while it is naturally evoked 
 by pleasure, is essentially the product of per- 
 sonality, and results only from a fortunate 
 adjustment between the soul and its surround- 
 ings. 
 
 This being so, it is the part of simple wis- 
 dom to care for that adjustment. Such a task 
 is eminently a matter requiring the most com- 
 prehensive and subtle art; and when once this 
 possibility is realized, it will no longer seem 
 sensible to give wastefully of one's days, one's 
 health and honesty and humanity, to the ac- 
 cumulation of possessions. It will come to 
 the mind like a breath of inspiration, that 
 
 263 
 
every moment of activity, every hour of efifort, 
 may be caused to yield an adequate gladness 
 without anxiety, and that conduct from day 
 to day may be made a fine art which shall 
 dignify and ennoble life under whatever cir- 
 cumstances. The inward triumph of the 
 spirit, its native delight in all simple unex- 
 travagant beauty, will then begin to make it- 
 self felt, — the elation of the artist, an uplift- 
 ing of the heart in joyousness such as Words- 
 worth meant, when he wrote in his poem 
 about the daffodils, — 
 
 ** For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 In vacant or in pensive mood. 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
 And dances with the daffodils." 
 
 There would come to any one who honestly 
 tried to master the haphazard trend of events 
 by confronting them with a rational skill, the 
 same satisfaction which an artist must experi- 
 ence in seeing his work grow from chaos to 
 
 264 
 
8ri|t aeaUen of Slrt 
 
 ordered and meaningful loveliness beneath 
 his hand. And conversely there would come 
 to him who diligently cultivated an apprecia- 
 tion of the fine arts an informing sense of pur- 
 pose and proportion, and a love of perfection, 
 which could not but make themselves felt in 
 every undertaking of that sentient personal- 
 ity. 
 
 This is no more than the object at which 
 all culture aims, — the imparting to person- 
 ality of a power to deal with life on fair 
 terms. To be wholly without culture is to be 
 wholly at the mercy of circumstances, incapa- 
 ble of securing happiness by any wise means, 
 incapable even of making a creditable liveli- 
 hood. For culture must be considered a wide 
 term, applicable to our most elementary ca- 
 pacities as to our most refined. To be culti- 
 vated is, not to possess extraordinary learning, 
 but to possess a personality adequately 
 equipped to appreciate and meet the demands 
 of life successfully, — not only with the prim- 
 itive success which means a comfortable or 
 
 265 
 
luxurious living, but with the higher suc- 
 cess which implies a sanity and joyousness of 
 life. 
 
 Through symmetrical culture we attain 
 the point of view of the happiest and wisest 
 ones of the earth, wherever they have left 
 record of their gladness or wisdom. Through 
 a cultivated acquaintance with art in all its 
 works of beauty we come to be infused with 
 the enthusiasm, the insight, the sincerity, the 
 glad and prospering spirit of the masters 
 great and goodly, who saw what was best in 
 life and had the incomparable gift of making 
 that boon apparent to others. So the beauti- 
 ful products o*f art, pictures, statues, operas, 
 dramas, poems, churches and houses, old rugs 
 and furniture, silverware, jewels, carvings, 
 tapestries, costume, when they are eminently 
 excellent, become so many foci for the spread 
 of that happy state of being which the orig- 
 inal artists experienced in creating them. All 
 who encourage and educate themselves to be- 
 come appreciators of such things, to know 
 
 266 
 
?rj|e aeaben of Mvt 
 
 their value and feel their influence, undergo 
 a change and refinement of character which 
 a crude manner of living, however strenuous 
 or extravagant, can never exert. They are 
 able to add to the physical and fundamental 
 power, with which primitive life endows us, 
 the loftier and subtler attributes of a culture 
 both intellectual and moral which it is the 
 chief aim of any civilization to bestow. In 
 so doing they become initiates, or at least nov- 
 ices, in the joyous cult of creative art; they 
 come to understand the satisfaction which 
 artists take in perfection, and to attempt the 
 development of it through daily affairs. 
 
 Specialized artists are not as a class the 
 happiest of mortals. But that is because they 
 fail to relate their ideals naturally to life, 
 rather than because they are vowed to the 
 exacting standards of perfection. Unhappi- 
 ness comes upon them, as it would upon any 
 one else, in consequence of folly and indiffer- 
 ence and wilfulness and mistake; and their 
 devotion to art^ which is often held to be the 
 
 267 
 
2rfir iWaftfitfl of J^rrsonaUts 
 
 cause of their misfortunes, is in reality the 
 only mitigating factor in their lives. When 
 an artist makes a ruin of his career, it is not 
 art that is to blame, but his own bungling 
 irrationality. It would be truer to say that 
 he missed happiness, because his art was too 
 partial and wayward and short-sighted. 
 Great artistry, such indeed as does not often 
 make itself manifest, if it should take posses- 
 sion of a man, would not dissipate itself in 
 unreasonable creations of empty and fantastic 
 beauty, but would permeate the man's whole 
 nature, touching his mind as well as his spirit 
 and his senses, and making him sane and 
 happy as well as inspired. 
 
 We need not look on the artistic tempera- 
 ment, therefore, with Philistine supercilious- 
 ness. For in itself it is a wholly excellent 
 quality, needing only to be balanced by some 
 sober traits of common sense of which the 
 practical man claims the monopoly. Prac- 
 tical common sense avoids many disasters and 
 insures useful creature comforts. By itself, 
 
 268 
 
8Ciie aeatitn of ^tt 
 
 however, unmixed with warmer and more 
 spirited characteristics, it may be a very bleak 
 and joyless equipment. It needs, for its per- 
 fecting, the complementary strength of ar- 
 dour, the touch of fearless elation, unspoiled 
 faith, and imagination, a sensitiveness to 
 beauty and an aspiring loving-kindness, that 
 are perennial. To be effective for happiness, 
 common sense must be winged with a touch 
 of artistry. When once this truth is realized 
 it will never be undervalued nor discarded. 
 The leaven of art in life glorifies human 
 effort and achievement by infusing beauty 
 through every undertaking, by instilling can- 
 dour in the mind, and by filling the heart with 
 a gladness that could not have been foretold. 
 Art is a paper lantern, perishable but indis- 
 pensable, whose flame is goodness, whose light 
 is truth, whose sides are patterned with shapes 
 of beauty, and whose office is to illumine and 
 make festal for us the rough and devious road 
 to perfection. Without art we must remain 
 sombre and dispirited wanderers, distracted 
 
 269 
 
amid the mazes of a meaningless and hostile 
 world. With it we may do much to unravel 
 a significance from the dark oracles of fate, 
 and render existence not only bearable but 
 biddable, glad, and fair. Art in its widest 
 sense covers all provinces of life, and with 
 religion and science forms a sort of philo- 
 sophic trinity representing all that man may 
 do or feel or know. But just as many men's 
 emotions and thoughts never rise to the level 
 of religion and science, so most men's acts and 
 work rarely rise to the level of art. In 
 achievement art gives the final hint of magic 
 which differentiates a man from a machine, 
 — that evidence of variable human mind 
 which no automaton can ever reproduce. 
 The glory of art is only that it makes earth 
 more habitable and humanity more divine. 
 
 The business of art is to afford joyance. 
 When it fails of this, it is bankrupt altogether, 
 being unable to meet its legitimate obliga- 
 tions. Since few can live as joyously as they 
 would, what a shame it is that great gifts of 
 
 270 
 
STfje Hea^ben of art 
 
 expression should ever be wasted on heinous 
 and joyless subjects! Think of the hideous 
 and revolting plays with which an impover- 
 ished dramatic art overloads our stage in an 
 attempt to stimulate sensation, regardless of 
 beauty, regardless of the whole truth, and 
 more than all regardless of that inward core 
 of human love which is only goodness under 
 another name! Good art is not an expensive 
 thing, weighed in the scales of the counting- 
 house. Yet it is priceless in that it cannot be 
 bought with any amount of money alone. 
 There must always some love go with its 
 price. And while it becomes one of the chief 
 requisites of a happy life to surround our- 
 selves with art, that does not mean that we 
 must have costly trappings and outfit and ex- 
 pensive homes. A modest apartment on 
 which thought and care and taste have been 
 lavished with loving generosity may be a 
 beautiful home where one is thankful to be 
 made welcome; while across the Park some 
 monstrous pile of stone may lift itself against 
 
 271 
 
the sky, a monument of pathetic ambition, a 
 warehouse full of costly and unlovely mer- 
 chandise, an offence to taste and an affront to 
 moderation. 
 
 Good taste is no respecter of prices; it 
 knows values, appreciates worth, and reveres 
 beauty wherever it finds it. Nor does it ever 
 grudge to pay the utmost cost for beauty in 
 patience, toil, painstaking, and devotion. It 
 will gladly lavish a whole day in rearrang- 
 ing a room, matching a colour scheme, or 
 finding an inevitable cadence. He is but a 
 slovenly artist in letters who will not wait a 
 week for the irresistible word, if need be, 
 though knowing all the while that genius 
 would have found it on the instant. Taste, 
 which plays our good angel in matters of 
 beauty, is as scrupulous as conscience, as un- 
 erring as reason, and guides our senses in the 
 disputable ways between the unlovely and the 
 desirable, just as those sensitive, incorrupti- 
 ble monitors of the soul and mind guide us 
 in the regions of conduct and of thought. 
 
 272 
 
It is no sign of good taste, however, to pur- 
 sue some petty art to the exclusion of all other 
 obligations, but indicates the old false notion 
 that art is something elegant and genteel con- 
 ferring a superiority on those who follow it. 
 Whereas the truth is we should all be artists, 
 artists in our own life and artists in our own 
 work, however inconspicuous that work may 
 be. An artist is any one who glorifies his 
 occupation. It is no evidence of artistic apti- 
 tude to spend days and years in playing the 
 ineffectual amateur, while all personal af- 
 fairs are allowed to run as they will; it is 
 rather an indication of a self-indulgent, ir- 
 rational nature. An instinct for the art of 
 living is greater than an overemphasized 
 single talent or personal preference, and its 
 obligations are more primary, more impor- 
 tant, and more closely bound up with the 
 problem of happiness. Creative art can have 
 no character nor value nor beauty, if the life 
 that nourishes it has not first its due order and 
 significance and seemliness. The tent must 
 
 273 
 
2ri^e M^^itiS of ^tvnon^lits 
 
 be pitched and the fire lighted before we can 
 expect the goddess. To muddle or neglect 
 the first duties of life is fundamentally and 
 to the highest degree inartistic, since it throws 
 us back into a chaos from which neither 
 beauty nor joyance can spring, and where the 
 creative impulse, however genuine, must 
 eventually perish of morbid sickness. 
 
 Literary and artistic folk are almost pro- 
 verbial for carelessness in dress and demean- 
 our and the small amenities of life, and often 
 think it a mark of distinction to be so. Mag- 
 nifying their own art, often with a praise- 
 worthy singleness of devotion, they forget that 
 the art of life is a larger matter, including 
 their own particular craft, imposing its limits 
 and reservations, as it bestows its facilities and 
 advantages, on all alike. Painters often dress 
 unnecessarily unbecomingly, though their 
 taste is fully trained to befitting appropriate- 
 ness in colour and costume in any key of cost 
 or requirement. Poets and writers, whose 
 chief concern is wisdom, are often among 
 
 274 
 
2Ci)t Htni^tn of ^xt 
 
 the most unwise of men in the conduct of their 
 own lives. While women, who one would 
 suppose might always be credited with per- 
 sonal nicety and loveliness, often seem to 
 fancy that absorption in music or letters or 
 painting gives them the liberty to be disor- 
 derly, distrait, untidy, and irresponsible. 
 
 It is such false procedure and thoughtless 
 reasoning that bring art and ideals into dis- 
 repute, and cause havoc in the lives of so 
 many artists. A sober realization of the ne- 
 cessity and desirableness of an art of individ- 
 ual living would make such mistaken over- 
 emphasis impossible. The great thing is to 
 keep one's mettle from becoming distem- 
 pered, and this is not to be done by evading 
 and ignoring the requirements and desirabil- 
 ities of actual life, but by meeting and master- 
 ing them. To overindulge an artistic bent to 
 the limit of its capacity is to induce a self- 
 dissatisfaction, a mordant fretfulness of spirit, 
 and ultimate disappointment; while the mod- 
 ifying and regulating of special capability, 
 
 275 
 
through the successful handling of practical 
 concerns, affords a training which is most 
 likely to insure a masterly success in the 
 chosen art. 
 
 Art as a revivifying element in life plays a 
 part similar to nature's in her tonic recreative 
 influence. We must dwell in the sun and 
 open air, within sound of the trees and be- 
 neath the touch of the sweet wind and the 
 rain, shunning too much of the sedentary, de- 
 teriorating life of houses, if we would grow 
 sound and glad and sane. Just as truly we 
 must not be wholly given over to out-of-doors, 
 nor be satisfied with maintaining a primitive 
 animal wholesomeness. Life for the modern 
 is not so simple as that. There are inerad- 
 icable hungers of the mind to be satisfied, pas- 
 sionate desires of the soul for legitimate grati- 
 fication in creative art, unconquerable and 
 goodly aesthetic impulses which must not be 
 defrauded of their development. Let us have 
 an ample life in the open, to keep us sane and 
 strong and sweet; but life in art also, to keep 
 
 276 
 
srije aeaben of att 
 
 us interested, growing, civilized, and humane. 
 Only under influences tending to cultivate 
 symmetrically the body and the intelligence 
 can the spirit be most bravely fostered and 
 happiness most surely emerge. 
 
 277 
 
^m^mt aittr Jiuiftret 
 
 It is easy to be an impractical dreamer. 
 There have been seers and prophets in all ages, 
 but there have also been ineffectual vision- 
 aries who wasted their lives in idle speculation 
 and moody discontent, lost among the clouds. 
 It is easy, too, to be absorbed wholly in prac- 
 tical affairs and put dreams aside altogether, 
 as many men do from sheer faintness of heart 
 at the prospect of unremitting toil which ex- 
 istence demands. But it is not easy to be both 
 inspired and practical at the same time, for 
 that implies a nice balance of appreciation 
 under the supervision of an unbiassed judg- 
 ment. 
 
 It is easy to build castles in the air; one 
 278 
 
may spend whole days in that seductive occu- 
 pation; and it is almost equally easy to lay 
 one brick upon another without giving 
 thought to anything except the mortar be- 
 tween them. But he is master of his world 
 who can both plan and achieve, who keeps his 
 plans within the bounds of the achievable, and 
 brings his achievements up to the require- 
 ments of his plans. His castles, though pro- 
 jected in Spain, he sees reproduced, perhaps 
 after long years and perdurable patience, 
 from the solid ground before his eyes. 
 
 In '' The Last Ride Together " you may 
 read: 
 
 ** What hand and brain went even paired ? 
 What heart alike conceived and dared ? 
 What act proved all its thought had been ? " 
 
 And it is true and natural that some must be 
 preeminently designers, and others preemi- 
 nently builders; yet each must gain a modi- 
 cum of the capacity of the other, for the best 
 efficiency and cooperation, and for rendering 
 the best service to the world. We must spe- 
 
 279 
 
STije J«afefnfl of ^tvuonulits 
 
 cialize, indeed, for the finest productivity in 
 the liberal arts and industries. But it is not 
 good for a man to specialize so closely and 
 excessively as to lose his breadth of under- 
 standing and sympathy, and impair the nor- 
 mal completeness of his own nature and de- 
 velopment. For after all, the arts exist for 
 man, and not man for the arts. And the full- 
 est and finest art of all, the art of life, de- 
 mands that w^henever our pursuits begin to 
 w^ork more harm than benefit, we should 
 change or amend them. 
 
 When it comes to the consideration of 
 standards of personal culture and precepts of 
 conduct, the sanest criterion must be to keep 
 our ideals and actions in close accord. Ideals 
 are good, but they are not all equally good, 
 and those are best for our life here and now 
 which can be realized in some degree by pos- 
 sible effort. It is a dangerous habit to in- 
 dulge in dreams which can never be accom- 
 plished — as if a mariner on the Atlantic 
 should occupy his time in plotting courses 
 
 280 
 
among the South Sea Islands. There can 
 never be any radical divergence between the 
 different elements of a man's nature and life 
 v^ithout injury therefrom. To lead one life 
 in dream and another in reality is a fatal du- 
 plicity, innocent though it seem. 
 
 It is in youth that we are most subject to 
 the seductions of vague, magnificent and elu- 
 sive ideals. We are easily carried away by 
 the splendour of looming possibilities, sus- 
 tained by enormous ambitions, and impatient 
 of the plodding prosaic measures of our sires. 
 We scoff lightly at their methods of prudence 
 and hold practicality generally in imperious 
 contempt. Life is all poetry to our inexperi- 
 ence, and we are very willing to take its intox- 
 ication of beauty, without asking for its fun- 
 damental structure of reasonableness and ex- 
 cellence. Whatever is humdrum or rational 
 seems to partake too much of the earth for 
 our fastidious fancy. We chafe at caution, 
 demur at the authority of tradition, and are 
 
 281 
 
eager to disrupt the world in the confident 
 belief that we could 
 
 " Remold it nearer to the heart's desire." 
 
 As we mature, however, we learn a juster 
 estimate of things; we perceive that, however 
 faulty this world may be, it is the one we have, 
 and it is folly not to make the best of it. To 
 that end we come to value ideals in propor- 
 tion to their applicability to life. We see that 
 they are of little use unless they can be made 
 practical aids to daily life, and we begin to 
 select from our vasty dreams those which can 
 be translated into action or art. We learn 
 that the soul must condescend to live, and that 
 its daily task is the merging of the ideal in the 
 actual, and the gradual transforming of the 
 actual into the ideal. Dreamful youth grows 
 aware that this is the sanction of life; lays 
 aside its noble scorn of the practical; submits 
 itself to the stern inevitable law of rational- 
 ity; and pours its energies, not into the pur- 
 suit of vain and futile imaginings, but into the 
 
 282 
 
accomplishment of possible and immediate 
 betterment. As Thoreau remarked, youth 
 gets together the materials for a bridge to the 
 moon, and maturity uses them to build a 
 wood-shed. 
 
 In thus resigning our too exclusive occupa- 
 tion with dreams we are not recreant to any 
 lofty obligation; we are, in fact, progressing 
 upon the pathway of perfection. We are 
 merely discriminating among our ideals, dis- 
 carding the less useful, in order that the more 
 valuable may be cultivated and realized. 
 The garden of our being needs careful weed- 
 ing and thinning out and keeping in order, 
 just as a flower bed does. If the story of the 
 cosmos shows any intelligible significance or 
 trend or purpose, it is surely this — a constant 
 embodying of thoughts in actions, a constant 
 attempt to crown longing with fulfilment, a 
 continuous and unflagging effort to bring 
 about the realization of ideals. This is the 
 one strand of revelation which runs through 
 all history of nature and man, and we are only 
 
 283 
 
2CJ)e M^UitiQ of ^tvuonnlitp 
 
 in close relationship with universal tenden- 
 cies when we are engaged in some such em- 
 ployment — in putting our convictions into 
 practice, in making our dreams come true. 
 
 Whatever there is of beauty in the world 
 must have been imagined before it was 
 wrought; whatever there is of truth must 
 have been postulated before it was verified; 
 whatever there is of good must have been de- 
 sired before it was brought about. And what- 
 ever there is to be of these things in the future 
 for the benefit of men can only come to pass 
 in the same way, by being imagined first and 
 then made actual. 
 
 " All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist. 
 Not its semblance, but itself," 
 
 says Browning; and we are not properly men 
 nor women until we give ourselves without 
 reserve to the furthering of that great cosmic 
 scheme, adding our energies to the energy of 
 the universe, in helping beauty to be born, 
 and knowledge to appear, and the longing 
 
 284 
 
spirit to find happiness and satisfaction in 
 creative activity and growth. 
 
 Nature herself produces phenomena with 
 a seemingly wasteful prodigality, but we have 
 hardly her time or resource at our command, 
 and so we must economize our endeavours 
 and not spend too many hours in weaving pat- 
 terns of ineffectual dream. Many a man 
 misses success only by a hair's-breadth, so lit- 
 tle it takes to deflect destiny and turn good 
 fortune into defeat. He may be full of kind- 
 liness and unselfish ambitions and splendid 
 imaginings, and yet never have realized the 
 futility of a life given over to contemplation 
 devoid of deeds. He spends hours in musing 
 upon schemes of happiness and perfection, 
 only to feel the profound dissatisfaction 
 which must come with a surfeit of inaction. 
 He grows more and more timid and distrust- 
 ful of his powers, the more he abstains from 
 energizing. He gives his will no exercise, 
 and falls daily into a state of feverish hesita- 
 tion or supine despondency. He deludes him- 
 
 285 
 
STfje JHaftinfl of ^tv^onuUts 
 
 self with childish dreams of unaccomplish- 
 able greatness, while all about him lie actual 
 benefits and possibilities only waiting to be 
 utilized. He misses the substance of life in 
 reaching for the shadow, and passes joyless 
 years simply because he does not know where 
 joy resides. The materials from which hap- 
 piness can be built are ready to his hand, only 
 needing an intelligent will to put them in 
 place; but he is too absorbed in contemplat- 
 ing the plan of his impalpable architecture 
 to pay heed to the realities of construction. 
 So his whole life crumbles in failure for want 
 of industry and a sense of values and propor- 
 tion. 
 
 The fate of the man without ideals, on the 
 other hand, is hardly more to be envied. He 
 is so engrossed in the execution of business or 
 afifairs that he takes no time to look upon his 
 work, to question whether it is good or not, 
 he brings to it no spring of delight and but 
 a petty ambition ; he has no thought beyond 
 the gain of the moment; he Is too dull to see 
 
 286 
 
that his work can be anything more than mere 
 drudgery, or that he himself is not the mere 
 sport of cruel fate. Without a glint of the 
 divine dream of perfection, he can hardly be 
 entrusted to execute the commonest task as it 
 should be executed, while for large enter- 
 prises he is sadly unfitted. But I must think 
 that such men are not as common as we might 
 suppose, and that there are really few who 
 are not illumined at times by fitful gleams of 
 inspiration. 
 
 There are many, however, belonging to a 
 third class, who have both industry and imag- 
 ination, a genius for practical activity as well' 
 as for ideals. And it will sometimes happen 
 that these characters, aware of two diverse 
 trends of nature in themselves, may attempt 
 to dissever these two tendencies, and to lead 
 two lives, one of every-day prosaic affairs, 
 and one of lawless fancy, expecting the unreal 
 splendours of the one to compensate them for 
 the actual difficulties, disorder, and discour- 
 agement of the other. It is a similarly pa- 
 
 287 
 
thetic fallacy that leads us to imagine a 
 heaven where the ordinary activities of the 
 world do not obtain, where all our human 
 powers are to be in some mysterious way laid 
 aside without detracting from our capacity 
 for enjoyment, where we are to dwell in a 
 state of passive beatitude, yet without any op- 
 portunity to employ those energies and capac- 
 ities whose exercise forms our only happiness 
 in this world. 
 
 The hopeless incongruity of this idea does 
 not strike us, nor does it often occur to us to 
 emparadise the present, as a certain good, and 
 let the future take care of itself. Yet the 
 purest satisfaction to be found in life lies in 
 bringing our best dreams to pass, — in giving 
 useful form and timely existence to what we 
 have imagined of good and fair. This is the 
 service of the true idealist, the heroic dreamer, 
 the man worthy to dwell in a world of rich 
 possibilities, in fellowship with the indom- 
 itable designers-and-builders of the immemo- 
 rial past and the future that is to be. 
 
 288 
 
tEijt Mi0 of MannttB 
 
 That " Manners make the man " is a say- 
 ing with truth deeper than mere common- 
 place observation in its sound philosophy. 
 Neither Chesterfield himself, that paragon of 
 deportment, nor the incomparable Barney 
 McGee, in his 
 
 " Chesterfield's way with a touch of the Bowery,'* 
 
 can be imagined without the potent manners 
 that were natural and characteristic and 
 memorable in them. For good manners can- 
 not be donned nor laid aside like a coat. 
 Whether ceremonious or simple, they are the 
 expressive and appropriate garment and pro- 
 tection of personality; and it is one of the 
 
 289 
 
^i)t J«afefn0 of J?ttfiionalU» 
 
 tests for them at their best that they are ha- 
 bitual and can never be misjudged as being 
 assumed or affected. The least touch of affec- 
 tation or insincerity is fatal to their value. 
 To have bad manners or '' no manners " is to 
 announce oneself a boor; but to use false 
 manners is to betray sad ineptitude. 
 
 When manners are real and actually reveal 
 the inner personality, how^ mighty they are! 
 So potent are they, indeed, that wg are often 
 carried away by them, and our judgment is 
 dazzled by our enthusiasm, in response to the 
 sv^ay they exercise over the senses of common 
 humanity. The might of manners is as great 
 as the majesty of mind or the supremacy of 
 soul. 
 
 There is no denying the palpable pleasure 
 of excellent manners, their ease, their advan- 
 tage, their charm and grace and economy, and 
 the distinction they confer upon the plainest 
 dealing. But a headlong and headstrong age, 
 devoted to achievement for mere achieve- 
 ment's sake, is apt to consider them superflu- 
 
 290 
 
ous after all — a mark of lightness and arti- 
 ficiality, if not of effeminacy. Our ingrown 
 virtues are prone to arrogance and an over- 
 weening self-reliance, and are too ready to 
 discount the veritable though subtle power 
 which manners possess. Truculent merit, as- 
 sured of its own unassailable honesty, and re- 
 enforced perhaps by an abundance of physical 
 vigour, scorns to employ any suavity of de- 
 meanour, any graciousness or tact in present- 
 ing itself, for fear of seeming to concede an 
 atom of its own angular integrity. 
 
 The mistake is not an uncommon nor an 
 incomprehensible one, but it is a grave error 
 none the less. For manners are not an arti- 
 fice, but an art of true behaviour, inherent in 
 all procedure, and as clearly related to fine 
 feeling and wise purpose as speech is related 
 to thought. They form the very embodiment 
 of personality when it seeks for social expres- 
 sion, and are every whit as essential as good 
 intention or intelligence. Manners are to 
 ethics what the shell is to the sea-urchin, not 
 
 291 
 
merely a domicile to be changed at will, but 
 a structural part of the very being, — an out- 
 ward formation at once protecting and identi- 
 fying the individual within. They interpret 
 our meaning and transmit our emotions even 
 more truly than words, thus making possible 
 for the spiritual prisoner in the flesh a life 
 of interesting and pleasurable relationships. 
 No one is insignificant who has distinguished 
 manners. And no one need be misunderstood 
 who will make his own manners expressive 
 of his meanings. 
 
 Manners, if we will cultivate them as they 
 deserve, give us the means of escaping from 
 the doom of miserable loneliness, unintelli- 
 gence and brutality which would otherwise 
 be ours, and which is the fate of all repressed 
 and thwarted beings. They are sanctioned 
 not only by a code of courtesy and considera- 
 tion for others, but even more by the authentic 
 joyous freedom which they offer ourselves. 
 
 The master of good manners is everywhere 
 welcome for his service. Awkward situations 
 
 292 
 
©tie MiSftt of JWanntrs 
 
 vanish at his approach, embarrassments are 
 removed, and the air is cleared as if by elec- 
 tric magic. Such an influential force is in 
 itself no small asset in any personal account. 
 Far deeper, however, than this obvious social 
 power, and much more permanently valuable, 
 is the serene poise and inward balance of 
 spirit, the glad sense of capability and satis- 
 faction, which must always accompany the 
 possession of good manners and their scrupu- 
 lous practice. 
 
 In the last analysis, to live without manners 
 would be as detrimental to the soul as it 
 would be to the body to live without exercise. 
 They form a legitimate medium for the activ- 
 ity of our spiritual selves, just as necessary and 
 just as adequate as the world of work and play 
 is for the activity of our physical powers. 
 And while manners without an intelligent 
 morale are indeed but a lantern without a 
 candle, the noblest morality without compe- 
 tent manners to convey its beneficent purpose 
 can be but an ineffectual light. 
 
 293 
 
Sije iHaftiufl of J^ersonalitj? 
 
 There are many who live like dark lan- 
 terns all their lives, bearing about with them 
 a store of illuminating knowledge which they 
 never show. They are often of excellent abil- 
 ity and irreproachable habits, but without 
 elasticity, generosity, vivacity, or any accus- 
 tomed power of self-expression. They may 
 be philosophers, scientists, farmers, or of any 
 trade or occupation. It is not a question of 
 calling, but of culture and character. Born 
 perhaps with a naturally shrinking or sullen 
 disposition, that unfortunate tendency has 
 never been corrected in them by an adequate 
 cultivation of pliancy, courtesy, and ease. 
 For lack of that liberalizing freedom which 
 manners bestow, they are never at home in 
 their environment, but are either self-con- 
 sciously excited or morose, without ever 
 knowing where the cause of much of their 
 unhappiness lies. Careers are often marred 
 and stunted for want of a sufficient and cov- 
 eted means of expression for admirable pow- 
 ers. Disappointed people, not realizing what 
 
 294 
 
this lack is, are filled with wonder as they see 
 themselves gradually outstripped by their in- 
 feriors, persons of less force, less intelligence 
 and less aspiration, but expressing better what 
 they are and what they want. 
 
 Even more to be regretted is the case of 
 those who deliberately despise manners and al- 
 together discount their value, who find them- 
 selves well placed in the world, with well- 
 mannered people all about them, and yet from 
 a mere exaggeration of the ego, or from a lack 
 of comprehension of life, or from an inborn 
 defect of taste and the delicacy of the artist, 
 insist that rough-and-ready is always well 
 enough, and honesty of purpose need take no 
 account of the prejudices and sensibilities 
 through which it has to take its way. Many 
 a man has wrecked a brilliant career and nul- 
 lified all his own great efforts solely by disre- 
 gard of good manners. What to do to ensure 
 success he knew very well ; why to do it he 
 also knew; but that how it was to be accom- 
 plished was of equal consequence he did not 
 
 295 
 
8r]^e JHa^ftfng of JJetrsonalftg 
 
 know at all. Yet they symbolize a trinity of 
 conduct, these three small words, and indicate 
 a science, a religion, and an art of life, no one 
 of which is greater or less than the other. 
 
 What are good manners? How are they 
 to be enlisted, and what is the secret of com- 
 manding so enviable a possession? To be 
 without them is to be unequipped in any com- 
 pany and to act as a discordant and disquiet- 
 ing, if not an actually disrupting, element. 
 To have them in perfection is to possess the 
 faculty of putting oneself in harmonious rela- 
 tion to all persons and circumstances, and of 
 abandoning oneself to the spontaneous re- 
 quirement of any occasion. Not to be anxious 
 for oneself and so become self-conscious, re- 
 strained and embarrassed, nor to be violent 
 or effusive and so embarrassing to others, but 
 to yield to time and place and situation what- 
 ever they may demand in order to make the 
 occasion happy and free; in some such mood 
 as that lie the sources of good manners, of 
 
 296 
 
t!tfft Jll(gi|t of M^nntvn 
 
 courteous bearing, and the effective presenta- 
 tion of personality. 
 
 How then, you ask, can the day be carried 
 by one whose preference and best judgment 
 are pitted against the judgment and prefer- 
 ence of ten others, each as much entitled to 
 consideration as oneself? Not by bullying 
 and self-insistence, for that would only whet 
 their opposition. Not by palpable truckling 
 and insincere concessions, for these would 
 only win contempt. Better, by an even regard 
 for the point at issue and a well-mannered 
 devotion to impersonal right. 
 
 Those remarkable women who make them- 
 selves memorable in the minds of their con- 
 temporaries and in history by their social 
 power, who hold their salons, charm their 
 guests, delight and sway their friends with 
 such incomparable skill, never accomplish 
 it, you may be sure, by worrying about them- 
 selves. One drop of self-consciousness would 
 annul their magic. Such leaders must yield 
 
 297 
 
with a happy abandon to the spirit of every 
 occasion, shaping and controlling it with as 
 subtle a mastery and as essential a genius as 
 any other artist bestows upon his creations. 
 How great and unsuspected are many of the 
 difficulties they must meet and surmount, yet 
 how charming and apparently easy are the 
 triumphs they secure! 
 
 It is not for them to sit by and criticize in 
 passive enjoyment. They have no time to 
 worry whether or no their own toilette is un- 
 rivalled, nor to sulk if the soup is not hot 
 enough, nor to flurry over details. The spirit 
 of the hour must engross all their attention 
 and effort from instant to instant. All petty 
 mishaps must be settled before or after the 
 occasion. While the function is in progress 
 it demands all the mettle of the successful 
 hostess to keep the atmosphere alive and the 
 interest free. A canoeman in a rapid has no 
 time to worry about the colour of his hunting- 
 shirt, nor to fret because the tobacco was left 
 at the last camping-place; his wits are busy 
 
 298 
 
8rj)e JHfflijt of JWannets 
 
 enough avoiding the dangers that are strewn 
 thick about him; hidden ledges, jagged rocks, 
 sweeping undercurrents, and climbing waves 
 absorb all his attention and prove or disprove 
 his skill. 
 
 To forget oneself in the larger interest of 
 the event, to be capable of sincere and serv- 
 iceable abandonment to the exigency of the 
 moment, this is the secret of good manners. 
 In heroic cases how impressive it is! What 
 a large part of the power of all great men 
 have been their manners! The traditions of 
 Alexander, Hannibal, Napoleon, Pericles, 
 Dante — of most of the worthies of old or 
 later time — teem with instances of the com- 
 pelling potency of apt and unequivocal man- 
 ner. Such men had the art of doing things, 
 as well as the inclination and foresight. They 
 knew the importance of method, and never 
 dreamed of depending on force or intelli- 
 gence alone. Good manners are infectious 
 and help our dearest wishes and ideals to 
 spread and germinate in hosts of other per- 
 
 299 
 
sonalities unconsciously in a primitive way, 
 unattainable by any mere argument however 
 unanswerable or any compulsion however 
 overwhelming. Our logic may be flawless, 
 our will indomitable, even events themselves 
 all in our favour, and still success in any en- 
 deavour will be most difficult if we have not 
 the saving grace of a competent manner to 
 supplement our purposes and execute our 
 cherished plans. 
 
 There is no faculty more indispensable to 
 success in the intricate diplomacy of life than 
 the power of fine abandon. It helps us to 
 yield to the inevitable without a grouch. If 
 we miss our train, let us amuse ourselves by 
 watching the crowd until the next one leaves. 
 When fate blocks the highroad it is idle to 
 sit down peevishly in the dust; better take to 
 a circuitous footpath at once and enjoy the 
 flowers we would otherwise have missed. 
 
 The abandon which underlies good man- 
 ners is more than mere self-effacement, for it 
 requires a positive appreciation of the deci- 
 
 300 
 
sive claim of the moment and an unreluctant 
 giving of one's best self to that inexorable 
 demand. It implies a capacity not only for 
 unselfishly yielding petty individual prefer- 
 ence, but for generally and unfeignedly ap- 
 preciating and furthering a common cause, 
 and is an ennobling trait never to be found 
 in mean or calculating characters. The talent 
 for behaviour varies in races as in individuals, 
 and lends to those who possess it an irresist- 
 ibly endearing charm. It is a source, rather 
 than a product, of civilization, emancipating 
 the heart and liberalizing the mind. 
 
 Some of the most prominent nations seem 
 to be conspicuously deficient in the distinc- 
 tion of good manners, while others far more 
 primitive appear to have them in an eminent 
 degree. One cannot help thinking of the 
 Latin peoples, with their inherent grace of 
 doing, as conspicuously proficient in this re- 
 gard, in comparison with nations of other 
 stocks, less volatile and less alert. The man- 
 ners of Old Spain are proverbial, and many 
 
 301 
 
^ftt iHlamng of J^etsonalfts 
 
 a traveller has felt in modern Italy or France 
 a charm of gracious manners that compen- 
 sated for many inconveniences. 
 
 An aptitude for good manners may appear 
 as unmistakably among the illiterate as among 
 the most cultivated. The Negro, for exam- 
 ple, has an almost incomparable genius for 
 manners. The interest which the men and 
 women of that race take in ceremonious cour- 
 tesy, in kindly expression, in the small amen- 
 ities that make up, after all, so much of pleas- 
 urable life, in social behaviour and personal 
 diplomacy, is a most marked and lovable 
 trait. To '' forget your manners " is with 
 them a serious imputation, and we may profit- 
 ably emulate their gay and spontaneous ease, 
 their dramatic sincerity and politic grace. 
 Have we not all known coloured people 
 whose manners put our own to shame? As 
 a child, I myself had a Negro nurse in the 
 North, a tall young woman, an aristocrat of 
 her race, whose careful speech and courtly 
 manner I remember most vividly, though I 
 
 302 
 
sriie illf0i)t of JHannets 
 
 fear I have often fallen short of the example 
 she constantly set her young charge in the use 
 of unfailing politeness and scrupulous Eng- 
 lish. 
 
 In a different way, of a different sort, how 
 excellent are the Indian's manners at his best! 
 The majestic dignity of many an old chief 
 could only be matched in the House of Lords, 
 so surely do brave blood and breeding tell. 
 Your self-made man is seldom finished to the 
 extent of manners. As compared with the 
 finest product of the Old World or the New, 
 he is like a statue of Rodin's, so different from 
 the classic — very potential, very significant, 
 very striking, if you will, but not fully 
 emerged from crude formlessness. The la- 
 tent power is all there, — the thought and 
 originality, — but they have not been brought 
 to perfection. They await their release in 
 delectable manners, in finished form which is 
 the ultimate achievement of art. 
 
 Good manners are not necessarily formal 
 nor conventional nor correct. They may 
 
 303 
 
often make themselves felt even through the 
 difficult media of awkwardness and bad 
 grammar. They have a syntax of their own, 
 whose principles are apprehended by the 
 heart and transcend the inflexible usage of 
 the academy. For them there is no such thing 
 as tyranny of custom. At the right moment, 
 with force of human sincerity, they may 
 change the rules of etiquette, they may over- 
 rule the decisions of punctilio with a look, and 
 alter the devices of convention with a word. 
 Under the exigency of loving exuberance they 
 may cast cramping dogmas of behaviour to 
 the winds and disclose a new revised rubric 
 of conduct. Good manners can never fear 
 innovations, for their very existence and all 
 their right procedure are based upon the finest 
 intuition of the moment. They are fresh 
 and refreshing as the loveliest morning, and 
 original as the personality they clothe. The 
 best manners, however, maintain distinction 
 and originality through gracious recognition 
 
 304 
 
of accepted codes and graceful adaptation to 
 them. 
 
 Good manners are a revelation of good 
 feelings; and to have good feelings and a 
 desire to make them known is to possess the 
 first elements of good manners. Actually to 
 attain them, two things more are needed, — a 
 knowledge of usages and an adequate and 
 adaptive expressional skill. That is to say, 
 in order to be well mannered one must have 
 three requisites, — the humane prompting, 
 the understanding, and the art. When these 
 become habitual and instinctive they result in 
 manners that are well bred as well as good. 
 
 The command of expression, which must 
 supplement the generous wish before one can 
 acquire the perfection of elegant manners, is 
 something that people are wont to think of 
 slightingly as an artificial and superfluous ac- 
 complishment. As a matter of fact, excel- 
 lence of expression is no less valuable than 
 excellence of thought or intention. It mat- 
 
 305 
 
ters little how kindly disposed you may be 
 in your heart toward me, if you make me feel 
 uncomfortable by your brusquerie or boor- 
 ishness. Expression is quite as necessary, 
 quite as incumbent a responsibility, and quite 
 as deserving of respect and cultivation, as the 
 inward prompting of kindliness itself. The 
 best manners require not only a kindly spirit 
 and intelligence but also a plastic and intel- 
 ligent body for their manifestation. And that 
 is not to be had at its best without care, edu- 
 cation and training. 
 
 To move and speak with all the convincing 
 beauty of motion and purity of tone that the 
 best manners imply requires superior culture 
 of body and voice. There may be a natural 
 aptitude for these qualities in fortunate in- 
 stances, but there must always be advantage 
 from education as well. Rules of deportment 
 have their uses, but they can no more produce 
 good manners than an excellent recipe can 
 produce a good pudding. Material and ma- 
 nipulation are indispensable. The physical 
 
 306 
 
training which facilitates good manners also 
 evolves the spirit of good nature which must 
 underlie them. This is the real reason of the 
 importance of a code of conduct and a scru- 
 pulous insistence upon the keeping of that 
 code. The best impulses which arise in hu- 
 man instinct are thereby steadied and made 
 habitual, effective, and dominant. 
 
 Instances of the power of manners both 
 grotesque and beautiful appear about us every 
 day. A young and popular American actress, 
 cultivated and well born, was recently enter- 
 tained by her friends at a small dinner in one 
 of our best restaurants. She arrived amid a 
 flurry of smiling welcomes, and found a huge 
 bundle of American Beauty roses upon her 
 table. Heaven knows what sentiment of ap- 
 preciation she sought to convey to her hosts 
 by the act, but she laid the flowers in her chair 
 and sat upon them throughout the evening. 
 
 A few months ago New York entertained 
 a Japanese dignitary with much civic hospi- 
 tality, and among other notable places in the 
 
 307 
 
^ftt JHafefnfl of Jlrrfiionalfts 
 
 metropolis took him to see Grant's tomb on 
 Riverside Drive. Instead of turning away 
 when his visit to the resting-place of the illus- 
 trious dead was over^ he kept his face toward 
 the monument, walking backward down the 
 steps and well past the immediate vicinity, 
 as a mark of respect to a great man and to 
 a nation's pride in his memory! To our more 
 abrupt and hurried way of thinking there 
 may seem to be a touch of the fantastic in such 
 an elaborate ceremonialism, but on deeper 
 consideration how fearlessly natural and spon- 
 taneous we feel that tribute of reverence to 
 have been! To be rude or inexpressive where 
 some instinctive manifestation of gentle cour- 
 tesy were more natural as well as more be- 
 coming is to stifle the springs of human cour- 
 age and beneficence at their inmost source. 
 
 That a generous and general practice of 
 good manners stimulates and disseminates fine 
 aspiration, nobility of character, and grace of 
 living, is beyond question; and until appre- 
 ciation of that truth becomes more wide- 
 
 308 
 
spread among individuals and nations, not all 
 the sterling qualities of heart and brain can 
 avert the consequences of rudeness, nor justify 
 arrogant infatuation with a mannerless age. ■ 
 
 2>09 
 
XV 
 
 Uu of ©ut-of-Boot0 
 
 That we should need to recall the use of 
 out-of-doors is of itself a criticism of our con- 
 temporary mode of life and a confession of 
 our indoor dangers. So habited have we be- 
 come to living under roofs and behind glass, 
 that living out-of-doors is strange and un- 
 usual. We turn to it only occasionally and 
 then as to a novelty, as if we were about to 
 make a journey into a foreign country. The 
 wholesome sting of a sharp autumn morning 
 strikes fear into our flinching bones, and we 
 huddle and dodge from cover to cover, as if 
 the open heaven were our enemy. At the 
 
 310 
 
first drop of temperature from torrid summer 
 heat, we rush for overcoats and clamber into 
 closed cars, in very fright at the freshening 
 of God's breath upon us. 
 
 The old Germanic superstition as to the 
 poison of the night dissipates but slowly. You 
 may still find many persons who will not sleep 
 with their windows open for fear of the 
 " night air," nor within reach of moonlight 
 for fear of lunacy. In the West Indies the 
 Negroes shut themselves up to sleep in their 
 cabins, with every door and window closely 
 battened down to keep out the evil spirits, 
 despite the beauty and warmth of the tropic 
 night. The luminous wheeling stars and the 
 great shield of the moon cannot tempt them 
 to leave so much as a chink uncovered. It is 
 piteous to have such unwholesome fears. Our 
 good friends, the skeptical doctors, are teach- 
 ing us better, with their fresh-air treatment 
 of pneumonia, tuberculosis, and kindred 
 scourges. 
 
 Do not let us be afraid of out-of-doors! 
 311 
 
sri^e Jtlal^fng of petri^onalits 
 
 After all, there is our freest safety. We were 
 born and nurtured in the open for aeons before 
 cities were thought of or suburbs invented. 
 We had ridge-poles, it is true, and hearth- 
 stones, tepees, and wigwams and igloos, but 
 we had no sewer gas nor soft coal smoke nor 
 dinning noise of streets. Our life was derived 
 from a nature whose sunlight and oxygen are 
 unlimited, where pure water is abundant, and 
 where food, if scarce, is at least not adulter- 
 ated. We have harnessed the earth and mod- 
 ified her powers for our own uses, making it 
 possible for a thousand men to live where 
 formerly hardly a hundred could survive, but 
 we have not been altogether wise with our 
 cleverness; and in the flush of triumphant 
 civilization we are in danger of forgetting 
 some of the old essential benefits of humanity. 
 Air and sunlight and water in abundant 
 purity are built into the tissue of these bodies 
 of ours by the secret chemistry of nature, and 
 there can never be any manufacturing a sat- 
 isfactory existence without a plentiful supply 
 
 312 
 
2rtit Urn of ®ut=of=:3l9oots 
 
 of them. Nothing takes their place and we 
 only cheat ourselves if we think to do without 
 them. We may put up with factory-made 
 commodities and all the impositions of com- 
 merce, if we will, but there is no substitute 
 for open air. It is not only a choice between 
 outdoors and indoors, it is a choice between 
 out-of-doors and death. 
 
 It is more a matter of self-preservation than 
 of anything else. In the universe of animal 
 existence to which we belong, the great nat- 
 ural elements and laws are inescapable. It 
 is not strange, since we are sprung from the 
 operation of these laws and forces and ele- 
 ments, that we must inevitably lose through 
 any divorcing or alienating of ourselves from 
 their beneficent powers. We are not wholly 
 animal, it is true, but we are fundamentally 
 so; and our spiritual strain which we so cher- 
 ish and seek to cultivate can never be made 
 to grow away from its physical base and 
 source. Surely it is short-sighted to wantonly 
 weaken and destroy that strain through which 
 
 3-^3 
 
our being is materialized and kept growing. 
 There can be no saving the soul alive, either 
 for men or nations, if the body be allowed to 
 sicken in ignorance or neglect. And yet how 
 people cling to the fallacy that growth of the 
 spirit and the mind may be induced without 
 regard to the health and normal wealth of the 
 body, through which they move and learn and 
 have their being. As well believe that roses 
 will grow without roots, as that human happi- 
 ness and know^ledge can ever reach their de- 
 sired perfection in a puny race or in an inade- 
 quate physique. 
 
 To breathe deeply, to sleep soundly, to walk 
 well, to be unflurried and undespairing, to 
 take from the bounty of the earth only so 
 much as will serve just needs, — these are 
 some of the things we learn at nature's knee 
 and forget in our greed. 
 
 One need not be a detractor of our own 
 time to praise justly the more primitive life 
 of the open. Life in ages gone was more 
 perilous than it is to-day. In those small 
 
 314 
 
JJTtie Wiut of ®ttt=of=:®ootfii 
 
 classic and mediaeval cities^ whose names are 
 surrounded with such picturesque glamour, 
 life was doubtless more unwholesome than in 
 our own Babylons. In our sanitation, our phi- 
 lanthropy, and our multifold conveniences, 
 we have outstripped them beyond measure; 
 and yet there remain the elemental needs to 
 be remembered and respected. Our social 
 customs, habits, usages, our personal require- 
 ments and fashions of living, all change with 
 the centuries; our ideals, thoughts, senti- 
 ments, ambitions have changed many times 
 with changing civilizations; but the great 
 primordial human hungers and wants are no 
 other to-day than they were in Eden. And it 
 is really in unconscious obedience to those 
 deeper necessities that we rebel against many 
 of the demands which civilization imposes 
 upon us, and turn to nature for relief from 
 the petty exactions and disordering complex- 
 ities of life with which we have become en- 
 cumbered. 
 " Going back to nature," does not mean 
 315 
 
ari^e JHaWnfl of IHvuonalits 
 
 going back to savagery nor to barbarism nor 
 to any pestilential past; it only means open- 
 ing the doors and windows, and stepping out 
 to reclaim each his share of the riches of 
 earth's sufficiency, the leisure and sunlight 
 and gladness which have been from the begin- 
 ning only waiting to be utilized and enjoyed. 
 ♦ We go back to nature every time w^e take a 
 deep breath and stop worrying, every time we 
 allow instinct to save us from some foolish 
 indiscretion of greed or heedlessness or bad 
 habit. A tiled bath-room is not essentially a 
 menace to health; neither is a roll-top desk, 
 nor a convenient electric light, nor any one 
 of the hundred luxuries we have become hab- 
 ited to. As the good emperor might have 
 remarked, " Even in a modern hotel life may 
 be lived well." All of our triumphs of me- 
 chanical genius are so many means of living 
 the more easily, if only we make use of them 
 appreciatively, instead of being mastered and 
 undone by them. When a luxury becomes a 
 burden it ceases to be a luxury. That would 
 
 316 
 
seem to be a very simple piece of logic, yet 
 it is not always easy to follow, and we are apt 
 to cling to our supposed luxuries long after 
 they have grown to be nuisances. It is chiefly 
 a matter of selection, adaptation, and elimina- 
 tion, of taking what is good and discarding 
 what is harmful in the great flood of com- 
 modities which civilization brings to our serv- 
 ice. 
 
 The benefit of out-of-doors is not that it 
 takes us away from civilization, but that it 
 restores us to ourselves. Its profound essen- 
 tial satisfactions build themselves into the 
 character and become part of the personal- 
 ity. All that suits out-of-doors is so elemental 
 and normal that living within its mighty 
 influence must gladden and normalize and 
 deepen our natural selves, renewing our 
 worth in temper, in health, and in sanity. 
 
 Houses were made for shelter, not for con- 
 finement; for freedom, not restraint; they 
 were intended to enlarge our sphere of activ- 
 ities, not to diminish them. They were to 
 
 317 
 
provide us a protection against the elements, 
 so that busy, happy life could go on unhin- 
 dered by extremes of climate. After food, 
 shelter is the first requisite, — the first trace 
 of himself which man imposes upon the nat- 
 ural world, and the most primitive and last- 
 ing evidence of the handiwork which grows 
 into all the arts of all the centuries. Houses 
 foster the family and facilitate progress if we 
 do not abuse their protection. We have with- 
 drawn into their still and comfortable re- 
 cesses, slept in their warm chambers, toasted 
 ourselves over their easy fires, read by their 
 unflickering lights, and eaten from their over- 
 bountiful boards so long, that we are grown 
 pale, timid, peevish, and thankless withal. 
 
 We have kept ourselves away from the 
 wind and the sun and the lashing rain, from 
 the feel of the earth under foot and the sense 
 of the leaves and stars overhead, until we no 
 longer know the keen and simple joys of being 
 alive. We have set up barriers against the 
 inclemency of nature, and cowered before her 
 
 318 
 
severe austerity, until now we have forgot- 
 ten how indispensable is all her kindly nur- 
 ture, how tonic her rugged ways, how full 
 of solace her assuaging calm. 
 
 Houses were only made to live in when it 
 is too cold or too hot or too wet to live out-of- 
 doors. At any other time out-of-doors is best. 
 Out-of-doors is the only place where a man 
 can breathe and sleep and eat to perfection, 
 keeping the blood red in the cheek; and those 
 are the three prime factors in the life of hu- 
 mans, the three first great rhythms of our be- 
 ing. It is almost impossible to get enough 
 fresh pure air inside of four walls, and it is 
 not possible at all to keep the wholesome flush 
 of health in rooms unvisited by daily sun and 
 breeze. 
 
 To sleep out-of-doors for a month is better 
 than a pampered trip to Europe. In this cli- 
 mate one must have a roof, of course; but 
 any piazza that is open to three-quarters of 
 the heavens will serve as a bedroom ; and the 
 gain in happiness is unbelievable. With an 
 
 3^9 
 
abundant supply of good air sleep soon grows 
 normal, deep, untroubled and refreshing, so 
 that we open our eyes upon the world as 
 gladly as a hunter or any pagan shepherd in 
 the morning of the w^orld. Too often we 
 grow anxious and flustered and harried with 
 distractions; the goblin of worry becomes an 
 inseparable companion indoors; and we 
 groan in spirit that the universe is all awry; 
 when in truth half a dozen deep breaths of 
 clean air lend a different complexion to life. 
 Our anxieties are nearly all artificial, and are 
 bred indoors, under the stifling oppression of 
 walls and roofs, to the maddening clangour 
 of pavements, and a day in the open will often 
 dispel them like a bad dream. 
 
 We are crowded and hustled and irritated 
 to the point of physical desperation. In our 
 thoroughfares and marts, our tenements and 
 tiny apartments, our shops and street cars, we 
 revert pretty closely to the jostling of the 
 original herd and pack. Is it any wonder that 
 we should throw back to a primitive ruthless- 
 
 320 
 
SCJje JKse of 0uUoumoovu 
 
 ness in the stress and haste of competition? 
 Can you ask for manners in the midst of a 
 scrimmage, or look for moral steadiness in a 
 nervous wreck? With more air and sun and 
 ground, we find fewer instances of immoral- 
 ity and despair. For a return to nature is a 
 return to good nature. 
 
 True, we cannot at once incontinently leave 
 our tasks and wander at will out into the 
 green world whenever the wind sets from a 
 pleasant quarter; but for all that, there are 
 many steps that we may take toward reestab- 
 lishing our divine heritage and rightful por- 
 tion in the delectable commonwealth of out- 
 of-doors. And the best use we can make of it 
 will surely consist in wholesome normalizing 
 exercise, — not necessarily in living out-of- 
 doors more than we do at present, but in 
 living there more wholesomely and naturally. 
 A drive through the park, to take the least 
 promising example, may be made a means of 
 recuperation and health, or it may be almost 
 worthless. To sit well in the carriage, breath- 
 
 321 
 
ing freely and deeply, is one thing; to sink 
 among the cushions, hardly breathing at all, 
 is quite another. Many a woman takes her 
 afternoon drive with almost no benefit at all, 
 — except to the horses. Just so one may walk 
 or ride or play tennis with such unfortunate 
 habits of motion as to gain little good from 
 the exertion; while a better trained physique, 
 with less expenditure of time and energy, 
 would easily obtain more beneficial results. 
 
 Out-of-doors is the birthright of every man 
 and woman alive. The roads are free, if the 
 land is not yet; there is plenty of life in the 
 open air to be had for the taking; and with 
 a little thought we may all increase our share 
 in that inheritance of uncounted benefit. No 
 land has a finer out-of-doors than this. Win- 
 ter or summer, there is hardly a corner of it 
 that will not afiford you tolerant and kindly 
 treatment, and reward your confidence a 
 thousand fold. The seaboard, the mountains, 
 the great plains, the farmland valleys, the 
 noble rivers, the forests, the deserts — they 
 
 322 
 
srtie Wlut of ©ttt=of=3ioorfii 
 
 are all good to live in. Where we have not 
 polluted and profaned them, they retain the 
 purity and majesty of clean creation; and 
 they are ever waiting to reinforce us with 
 their nobility and strength, to soothe our fret- 
 ted nerves, to console us with their leisurely 
 endurance, to inspire us again with something 
 of the natural dignity we have lost. They 
 will discount our clever practices and shifty 
 ways, but they will teach us instead methods 
 of thought and conduct, a poise of character, 
 better befitting our preeminence as human 
 beings. When we breathe and move freely 
 once more, we shall begin to realize our pos- 
 sibilities of greater happiness. 
 
 3^3 
 
^\)t dominion of 3oij 
 
 It does not need a philosopher to note how 
 volatile happiness is, how variable and seem- 
 ingly beyond control. Its sources are hidden 
 among the springs of life; its volume and 
 current, because they are so largely unmate- 
 rial and essential, appear uncertain; and like 
 those rivers w^hich lose themselves in the des- 
 ert, its radiant stream is often dissipated in 
 arid distractions and confusing cares. Pure 
 as a mountain brook in its origin, it too often 
 frets itself away in tortuous channels, mud- 
 died by passions, perverted by mistakes, or 
 contaminated by resentment and regret. 
 
 Happiness is an essence w^hich is so readily 
 extracted from life at times that one might 
 
 324 
 
®i^e Bomfnfon of 31 os 
 
 suppose its formula easy to discover. But it 
 is not so. Being secretes happiness out of ex- 
 perience as the bees secrete honey from the 
 flowers of the meadows; not promiscuously, 
 of course, nor indiscriminately, and always 
 with consummate ease. The process of its 
 distillation, like the production of honey, is 
 veritable magic, and belongs among the nat- 
 ural mysteries. 
 
 We know in truth very little of the making 
 of this divine extract; for the most part we 
 are willing to take it without question and 
 spend it without care; and we are almost 
 equally ignorant of any rules for its preserva- 
 tion, though it escapes more quickly than any 
 other aroma. It may appear in response to 
 the wizardries of beauty, the summons of 
 truth, or the impetuous demands of desire; 
 and seemingly without rhyme or reason it 
 may depart as quickly and inevitably as it 
 came, leaving only the vaguest recognition of 
 the conditions that invite it. Certain general 
 laws which govern happiness are plain 
 
 325 
 
enough for all to understand, and philoso- 
 phers have essayed to formulate its compo- 
 nents and stimuli; but how are we to com- 
 mand it with any surety, or guard against its 
 dissipation? 
 
 With such knowledge we should be lords of 
 as much of the empire of destiny as any sane 
 man need wish. This is that secret which no 
 oracle ever could declare, that enigma which 
 no sage could ever solve, the one problem 
 which absorbs the emperor and the hod-car- 
 rier, the philanthropist and the vagrant, the 
 duchess and the drab, — every living figure 
 in the whole tatterdemalion pageant of hu- 
 manity, — with equal persistence and almost 
 equal disappointment. You may write me 
 learned treatises and expound pedantic mo- 
 ralities on the nature and sources of happi- 
 ness, but what I want is a plain answer to a 
 plain question. How can I be happy at will? 
 
 If I commit murder or theft or any crime 
 against my fellow mortal, it is easy to foresee 
 that I shall be unhappy; for other beings are 
 
 326 
 
©tir Bomfnfon of 3Jo» 
 
 only extensions of myself, part of the same 
 spirit, parcel of the same stuff, and I know 
 instinctively that any violence against them is 
 an outrage against the laws of my own being 
 and an offence to my own spirit. You need 
 not explain to me that nothing but unhappi- 
 ness can spring from evil doing. I know that 
 very well already. For I know better than 
 any one can tell me that the evil deed is born 
 in blackness of heart, and that happiness only 
 visits a soul innocent of malice. Again, if I 
 violate my instincts, I know I shall be un- 
 happy, — if I eat or drink inordinately, if I 
 am unreasonable and wayward and lawless in 
 my habits, and fail to give rational care to my 
 physical well-being. As a child I learned 
 that I must not put my hand in the fire; as 
 a man I am learning that I must not harm 
 any one else ; and the first law does not seem 
 any more arbitrary to me than the second. 
 They both seem natural and inevitable and 
 I begin to perceive that we cannot be happy 
 in transgression. 
 
 327 
 
Not to transgress, however, is hardly 
 enough to ensure happiness. The laws of in- 
 hibition are not guide posts on the road to 
 the land of heart's desire, but only danger 
 signals; they point nowhere, they are only 
 warnings against disaster, and while they may 
 save the wayfarer from destruction, they ad- 
 vance him little on the highway of perfection. 
 You may abstain from every indiscretion, vio- 
 late no rule of health, and still be an ineffec- 
 tual stay-at-home. You may keep every one 
 of the shalt-not commandments, and remain 
 a gloomy prig for all that. 
 
 In the garden of the heart innocence and 
 abstinence are hardly the finest flowers of con- 
 duct; they are but cleanly soil from which 
 such flowers may be induced to spring. The 
 virtue of a man is the strength of his essen- 
 tial spirit, not his mere harmlessness or pas- 
 sivity. Just as the only test for the virtue of 
 salt is its savour, so the only test for the vir- 
 tue of the heart is its joy. There is no happi- 
 ness for us humans save in the normal exer- 
 
 328 
 
sri^e dominion of 3Joff 
 
 cise of our senses, our intelligence, our emo- 
 tions. If we claim that privilege for all men, 
 we shall have an ample serviceable creed 
 enough, and if we attempt to secure it, we 
 shall have a happy enough task. 
 
 The direct pursuit of pleasure, or to de- 
 mand happiness, may indeed be futile; but 
 the instinctive pursuit of our activities is not 
 futile, unless it be ill-advised; and from such 
 pursuit, when it is wisely ordered, some es- 
 sence of happiness is inevitably derived. 
 Happiness comes to us not as a reward of 
 merit, but as a proof of worth. It is not a 
 recompense for abnegation, but a natural sat- 
 isfaction in normal life, an incalculable result 
 of real deserving. It is not to be found in 
 violation of fundamental laws, for the simple 
 reason that those laws, so far from being arbi- 
 trary restrictions imposed upon the human 
 spirit, are merely the inherent laws of its own 
 development and growth. 
 
 The Dominion of Joy is divided into three 
 provinces or states — the state of mind, or the 
 
 329 
 
8rtie iWal^fng of ^tvnonulits 
 
 Province of Truth, the state of spirit, or the 
 Province of Goodness, and the state of body, 
 or the Province of Beauty. Like any worldly 
 realm, its boundaries are invisible and its in- 
 terrelations various. There is no saying 
 where the province of sense ends and the 
 province of mind begins, nor where either of 
 them joins the province of soul. These de- 
 marcations exist in theory only, on the map 
 of the imagination. As a matter of fact, you 
 may pass from one to the other and never 
 know it, just as you may cross the line from 
 New York into Connecticut without perceiv- 
 ing any difference. While each phase of be- 
 ing may have its own peculiar traits and beau- 
 ties and resources, with its own necessary laws 
 and customs, industries and appurtenances, 
 they are all equally under an interactive gov- 
 ernment throughout — the great triune code 
 of manners, morals and meditations. 
 
 The Dominion of Joy is as wide as the uni- 
 verse in which we dwell. Wherever the foot 
 may tread and the soul subsist, there its be- 
 
 330 
 
srtie dominion of 3Jos 
 
 neficent power may extend. Its terminus is 
 no nearer than the outmost star that glimmers 
 within the sweep of vision. A flower by the 
 wayside, a moonrise over the roofs of the city, 
 a quiet sunset among the purple hills, the sud- 
 den flash of a passing glance in the street, the 
 scent of some remembered perfume, a breath 
 of spring wind stirring the blind at an open 
 window, the blessing of a beggar, the sight 
 of a masterpiece in a museum, news of an old 
 friend, a strain of music, the skill of an acro- 
 bat, or a seasonable word — any one of these 
 ordinary occurrences, if we be capable of ap- 
 preciating it, may transport us instantly to 
 the borders of this dominion, invest us with 
 a cloak of happiness, and disclose to us a mo- 
 mentary glimpse of immortality. 
 
 The Dominion of Joy is neither a despot- 
 ism nor a democracy, yet it is wider than any 
 commonalty and finer than any aristocracy. 
 It confers upon its citizens the freedom of the 
 world, and gives them a distinction of bear- 
 ing, an air of radiance, a compelling power, 
 
 331 
 
2CJie MuUlns of ^tvuonulits 
 
 such as no other aristocracy can bestow. 
 There may be degrees in its social order, but 
 the poorest of those who live within its rule 
 is a more charming figure than joyless em- 
 peror or sombre king. 
 
 Yet the great ones of the earth may be 
 greatest in its peerage, too; for as the blame- 
 less Roman said, '^ Even in a palace life may 
 be lived well." Joydom is not founded on the 
 fanaticism of scullions, nor on the haughty 
 ruthlessness of the strong, but on the basis of 
 every man's normality. It has no peculiar 
 costume, no compulsory language, no racial 
 features, no traits of character by which its 
 inhabitants may be told. Its only signs are 
 the laughing lip, the kindling eye, the kindly 
 hand, and the foot that is light upon the pave- 
 ment. 
 
 Inhabitants of the Dominion of Joy belong 
 to a primitive tribe whose type is universal. 
 They may vary in stature and in colour, in 
 contour and in motion, in gesture, voice and 
 habit; they may be black or red or yellow or 
 
 332 
 
SCfie mominlon of 3Jo» 
 
 white, Hindu, Malay, Celt, Slav or Negro; 
 but under these trivial marks of latitude they 
 are all of one breed, betrayed by the eager 
 step and the radiant glance. Though speech 
 may be a babel of many languages, there is 
 no mistaking the elemental meaning of the 
 tone of happiness, the inflexion which signi- 
 fies content. Before mind had anything to say 
 to mind or any words to say it in, heart had 
 its confidences with its fellow heart in soft 
 caress and crooning love-note. And to-day, 
 so lasting are these traditions of joy, that pro- 
 testation and eloquence are superfluous be- 
 tween friends, and vain between those who 
 have become estranged. 
 
 Beauty is the common tongue in the Do- 
 minion of Joy, — beauty with its elements of 
 truth and its finish of graciousness, — and 
 speech in that language has an instant pass- 
 port to the hearts of men. No expression of 
 beauty can fail of appreciation; no matter 
 what its dialect may be, its welcome is secure. 
 Its place prepared, its worth established. 
 
 333 
 
Eftt JHafting of l^tvnonnUts 
 
 Moreover, those who give their days and 
 nights to the study and practice of beauty, to 
 the creation of loveliness in any form, are 
 thereby naturalized in the Dominion of Joy 
 and take on unconsciously the guise of its 
 gladsomeness. Those who cause beauty to 
 gladden in the world are rewarded by the 
 afterglow of happiness in themselves, so near 
 is dust to dream, so truly are human achieve- 
 ments a part of the divine. 
 
 There are many roads that lead to the Do- 
 minion of Joy through its different provinces, 
 some of them broad and sumptuous, others 
 inconspicuous and half hidden from view, 
 some thronged day long with travellers, oth- 
 ers unfrequented save by an occasional way- 
 farer. But those who are really wise confine 
 themselves to no single province of the great 
 realm, for they know there is an unwritten law 
 of the Dominion to the effect that no one shall 
 be allowed to thrive exclusively in any one 
 of its precincts, but all who grow within its 
 borders must share in all its influences and 
 
 334 
 
JCl^e dominion of 3Joff 
 
 have some knowledge of all its resources. 
 Sensualists have tried to preempt the delight- 
 ful Province of Beauty; pedants have at- 
 tempted to monopolize the Province of 
 Truth; and bigots have endeavoured to usurp 
 the Province of Goodness; but all have found 
 their purposes equally vain. For it matters 
 not by what road one may first approach the 
 Dominion of Joy, once within its borders, 
 one must learn allegiance to its federal pow- 
 ers, and not merely to its partial interests. 
 
 The clamour of the imagination and the 
 senses for pleasure, the call of the mind for 
 satisfaction in reason, and the cry of the spirit 
 for loving-kindness, often seem to imply a 
 distraction in our nature. In reality these are 
 not diverse demands, nor contradictory, but 
 essentially identical, variously conveying the 
 single wish of the personality for happiness. 
 And never by degrading any one of them, nor 
 by debauching any one, can anything more 
 than a damaged and perishable happiness be 
 obtained or preserved. For happiness, that 
 
 33S 
 
Stie il«aite{n0 of ^tvnonnllts 
 
 simple test of successful effort, is abiding only 
 where it is harmonious and where it may 
 freely range through all the regions of being. 
 It cannot be obtained from any pursuit of 
 the intellectual life, however single-minded 
 and diligent, if that pursuit is carried on at 
 the expense of health and generosity. No 
 following of the so-called holy life can secure 
 happiness if the body be marred and broken 
 with wilful tyrannies and degradation, and 
 the mind insulted and restrained from its law- 
 ful reasonableness and natural convictions. 
 Much less can the nimble senses cling to hap- 
 piness for more than a moment at a time, re- 
 gardless of our respect for truth and our love 
 of impersonal goodness. Happiness is at 
 home only where soul and mind help flesh, 
 and flesh helps them. 
 
 It is not easy to retain the franchise of this 
 Dominion of Joy, though no mortal is by 
 birth ineligible for that fine privilege. Some 
 indeed are born to it by good fortune of in- 
 heritance; and even they may lose it by per- 
 
 33^ 
 
JTi^e Homfnfon of 3os 
 
 versity or neglect. But those who do not con- 
 form so easily to its radiant governance, its 
 serene and fostering atmosphere, may never- 
 theless prolong their sojourn there, if they 
 will take some precautions, and be at some 
 pains to achieve so delectable and so noble a 
 triumph. 
 
 Happiness, let us admit, is not a relative 
 thing, as pleasure is, but a positive condition 
 of the spirit regardless of surroundings, a 
 fundamental state of being in which normal 
 personality finds the justification and value of 
 life. A man may be happy in the face of 
 death, and wretched amid luxury. Frail 
 women have gone to the scaffold for a be- 
 loved cause with a smile upon their lips, and 
 sturdy men have dragged out wretched years 
 in palatial discontent. You may environ a 
 man with all the comfort that pampered fancy 
 can imagine, and still fail to ensure to him 
 a moment's unmitigated joy. You may toss 
 him upon a desert or transport him to Siberia 
 with equal impunity, without destroying his 
 
 337 
 
happy poise of being, if he happens to be one 
 of the fortunate children of the kingdom of 
 
 joy- 
 Pleasure depends upon material things, 
 
 upon circumstances and events, and may be 
 had in some measure even by the desolate, the 
 selfish, the evil-minded. It is often a pallia- 
 tion of unhappiness, often a distraction of the 
 desperate, but it can never be a substitute for 
 veritable happiness of soul and essential peace 
 of mind. Joy cannot visit the malicious, the 
 selfish, the cowardly, the sullen, nor the dis- 
 pirited, though two mortals talking together 
 through the grating of a prison door may 
 know the purest happiness. It only needs that 
 their minds and spirits should be free and 
 capable of being happy together; then con- 
 ditions need not matter too much, nor count 
 for a hopeless weight in the balance. Being 
 that is not capable of happiness under all cir- 
 cumstances, cannot be sure of it under any 
 circumstances. 
 
 Since earthly joy is coterminous with life, 
 33^ 
 
8Ciie Bontfnfon of 3ios 
 
 and life is in the moment and the hour, the 
 protection of happiness needs to be a daily 
 consideration. To create some little bit of 
 beauty every day, even if it is no more than 
 rearranging the flowers in a jar or making a 
 habitation more bright and clean; to serve 
 goodness every day by even the smallest act 
 of courtesy and kindness; and every day to 
 learn some fresh fragment of pure truth — 
 these are lines of the necessary procedure for 
 those who seek naturalization and growth in 
 the Dominion of Joy. 
 
 To enhance the loveliness of the world of 
 form and colour as it lies about us, to widen 
 the world of our knowledge and gain some 
 helpfulness of wisdom and understanding, 
 and above all to gladden and enlarge the 
 world of sympathy and love where tender 
 hearts have their tenure and questing spirits 
 find their encouragement to hope: here is a 
 threefold hourly task for the strongest of 
 souls, yet not beyond the compass of the frail- 
 est of mortals, and here is a magic talisman, 
 
 339 
 
with which the pilgrim artist or apprentice 
 upon the highways or the byways of perfec- 
 tion need never go far astray. 
 
 But, O mortal, whenever it comes to you 
 to dwell in that enchanted country, have a 
 care, I beg of you, to cherish your good for- 
 tune with incorruptible devotion. For if once 
 you lose that mystic franchise, that impalpa- 
 ble prerogative of joy, that warrant and pre- 
 scription of glory, you will not find it easy to 
 be regained. Do no violence to your sense of 
 beauty, lest you imperil it; profess no belief 
 which you do not really hold; cling to no 
 creed which does outrage to your reason; nor 
 in any way ofifend against sincerity, lest you 
 imperil it; and above all stifle no welling 
 love within your own heart, nor dismay the 
 priceless love of another, lest you imperil joy 
 beyond repair. Such misdealing makes wan- 
 derers and outcasts, self-exiled for ever from 
 felicity, to range through a world to them for 
 ever commonized and degraded, where there 
 
 340 
 
!!Ci|r Bominfon of 3op 
 
 is neither glamour nor elation nor courage 
 nor hope. 
 
 The death of happiness in life is for every 
 personality the insidious but fatal beginning 
 of annihilation, the seed of infection and de- 
 cay to which immortality must succumb. Joy 
 must be for ever a part of the ideal, of which 
 Mr. Santayana speaks so nobly, " He who 
 lives in the ideal and leaves it expressed in 
 society, or in art, enjoys a double immortality. 
 The eternal has absorbed him while he lived, 
 and when he is dead, his influence brings 
 others to the same absorption, making them 
 through that ideal identity with the best in 
 him, reincarnations and perennial seats of all 
 in him which he could rationally hope to res- 
 cue from destruction." And it behoves all 
 those who would perpetuate the sacred fire 
 of life, to nurture through all hazards its 
 glowing core of happiness. 
 
 341 
 

 We have had The Seekers, The Spenders, 
 The Spoilers, The Sowers, treated of and ex- 
 plained in fiction, but as yet, so far as I know, 
 no one has written of The Growers. 
 
 The subject is a suggestive one. Even the 
 title gives a fillip to thought. The growers 
 are all those fortunate ones who, whether con- 
 sciously so or not, have kept themselves truly 
 and persistently in harmony with great na- 
 ture. They have carefully cherished the mys- 
 terious seed of aspiration, which is the secret 
 of growth, neither allowing it to atrophy un- 
 sown by hoarding it away in the dark closet 
 of discouragement, nor impoverishing it 
 through spendthrift dissipation. Normal 
 
 342 
 
growers are not priggish nor niggardly, 
 neither are they ignobly wasteful of what is 
 more precious than gold. They are endowed 
 with the instinct, the impulse, the curiosity 
 which only constant development and a meas- 
 ure of lawful freedom can satisfy, and which 
 must die if continually thwarted or repressed. 
 The growers are all those natural children 
 of the earth, whether simple or complex, who 
 have cultivated the most fundamental princi- 
 ples of responsible living, a capacity for im- 
 provement and a hunger for perfection. And 
 it is this trait of rational painstaking that 
 lends the most sterling distinction to person- 
 ality and differentiates leaders from follow- 
 ers, helpfulness from dependence, and the in- 
 dividual from the mass. 
 
 For growers there can be neither stagna- 
 tion nor decay. They are like thrifty trees in 
 the forest, deep rooted in the common soil of 
 life from which they spring, deriving nour- 
 ishment from the good ground of sympathy, 
 stimulation and refreshment from the free 
 
 343 
 
winds of aspiration, producing perennially 
 the flower and fruitage of gladness and well- 
 being proper to their kind and enriching the 
 earth. They are the normal ones, at once the 
 exemplars of all that is best in their species, 
 and the perpetuators of all that is most val- 
 uable. Between the growers of the human 
 and the forest world, however, there is this 
 distinction, that while the monarchs of the 
 woods grow only to the limit of their prime, 
 the spiritual and mental growth of mortals 
 may be unarrested throughout a lifetime. 
 That is the glory of our human heritage, and 
 the encouragement to our faith in our ow^n 
 venturesome essay. The power of growth is 
 our talisman against dismay, wherewith to 
 confront old age with interest, circumstance 
 with equanimity, and the unknown without 
 fear. And perhaps it may be impossible to 
 bring to the extreme bound of our lifetime 
 any more warrantable satisfaction than to 
 have been a grower all one's days. 
 
 The growers are like the trees in that they 
 344 
 
make use of such means as they have to fur- 
 ther their life. A tree may sprout in ground 
 far from congenial to it, and among condi- 
 tions that are often largely disadvantageous. 
 Still it neither sulks nor despairs. It proceeds 
 to grow with as much determination as if it 
 were in the most favourable environment. 
 True, its difficult position or inappropriate 
 soil may hamper or mar its growth, so that it 
 will never reach the fine perfection which 
 belongs to its type, but it will grow never- 
 theless. It does the best it can with its life, 
 taking advantage of every possible opportu- 
 nity, and making the most of whatever air and 
 light and soil it can reach. 
 
 Just so with human growers. They use 
 their wits to cultivate their aspirations and 
 powers. They employ to the utmost such 
 powers as they have, and fret themselves not 
 at all over faculties or talents or opportuni- 
 ties that are not theirs. They are too busy 
 benefiting by what is, to speculate idly on 
 what might be, or to repine wastefully for 
 
 345 
 
SCJie JWaftfnfl of Jlrtfiionalitff 
 
 what is not. Aspiration is the seed of growth, 
 but it must be farmed carefully like any other 
 crop. It is not enough to have lofty ambi- 
 tions and ideals, if we do nothing about them. 
 They must be put in practice or they will not 
 contribute to growth. It is in making our 
 ideals actual that we attain success in life, and 
 experience growth of personality. Many a 
 well-endowed mortal has failed for lack of 
 effort, while less fortunate ones have reached 
 splendid heights of achievement and growth 
 by dint of cultivating the modicum of powers 
 that belonged to them. Making use of the 
 advantages at hand, to the very utmost in 
 every moment and place, is the secret of the 
 seemingly magic process of success. 
 
 Thus the growers live in conformity with 
 the universal trend of life, having a working 
 faith that its mighty laws are friendly and 
 benign. They overcome obstacles not by an- 
 tagonism but by utilization. Having done 
 their utmost to harmonize their living with 
 immutable laws, they feel secure in the benefi- 
 
 346 
 
cence of life, and have no fear of destiny. 
 Here is ground for a contentment quite unlike 
 the dulness of stagnation ; a basis of buoyant 
 well-being, and a perennial interest in all that 
 influences development. Growers can never 
 be hesitating, fretful, distracted, nor unlovely 
 for long, since some new truth, some un- 
 looked-for beauty, some fresh spring of emo- 
 tion, is sure to touch their interest, refresh 
 their sympathy, reinspire their enthusiasm, 
 and requicken their whole being to gladder 
 activity once more. To their ears it must al- 
 ways sound like sober philosophy to say, 
 
 "The world is so full of a number of things, 
 I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings," 
 
 since hardly anything can exist or happen 
 that is not capable of being transmuted into 
 food for growth in their wise conduct of life. 
 There are many different ways of growth, 
 spiritual, mental, material, — all beneficent, 
 all leading to ultimate perfection when 
 rightly followed, and all necessary for a sym- 
 
 347 
 
2rtie iWatftinfl of ^tvnon^Utp 
 
 metrical development. We all admit that it 
 is hardly enough, in the history of any indi- 
 vidual, that there should be a progress in ma- 
 terial affairs alone. One may steadily im- 
 prove one's worldly condition through life, 
 and remain personally but little bettered at 
 the close. The advancement in circumstances 
 must be accompanied, pace for pace, by an 
 advance in intelligence and feeling. Every 
 day '' to earn a little and to spend a little less," 
 as Stevenson says, is good, proverbial philos- 
 ophy, and if it be parallelled in matters of the 
 mind and heart, becomes an invaluable word 
 of wisdom. To grow a little more reasonable 
 and a little more kindly day by day is an es- 
 sential part of the truest prosperity. 
 
 The material value of this salutary thrift 
 goes without saying, and one need only recall 
 the riches of character in one's most stimula- 
 ting friends, to be convinced of its equal de- 
 sirability in the less tangible realm of per- 
 sonal culture and influence. 
 
 To our complex human nature symmetrical 
 348 
 
growth seems the fittest ideal, — a balanced 
 development that prevents the limitations of 
 distortion and the friction of discord, and se- 
 cures the freedom of poise. The lack of an 
 ideal of symmetrical culture is to blame for 
 such imperfect maturity as we find for exam- 
 ple in persons who exhibit an overinsistent 
 instinct for self-preservation, protecting and 
 furthering their own animal indulgence, re- 
 gardless of cost to others; in those who are 
 so greedy of mind that they neglect the care 
 of practical things; and in those again who 
 are overdeveloped emotionally through un- 
 controlled avidity of sentiment and feeling. 
 
 The best growers are those rare and fortu- 
 nate mortals who have divined the incom- 
 parable value of a symmetrical culture, and 
 take constant care to utilize the avenues of 
 growth in each of these three directions with 
 equal solicitude. They know, or at least they 
 instinctively feel, that any stultification in the 
 development of one part of that composite 
 miracle called personality means an inevita- 
 
 349 
 
JTJje JHafefng of ^ttnonnlits 
 
 ble injury to the other two, and that none must 
 be preferred or forced singly at the cost of the 
 others, but that they can only be brought 
 nearer to the measure of perfection by being 
 helped and freed and cultivated harmoni- 
 ously. This is the law of perfect growth. 
 
 Growers are the only people for whom we 
 need feel no anxiety. If they are our friends, 
 no matter for how long they may drop out 
 of sight, it is certain that at our next meeting 
 we shall not find them deteriorated nor 
 worsted by life, w^hatever adversities or sor- 
 rows they may have had to face. For all for- 
 tune, both ill and good, is converted into 
 means of growth by some secret chemistry of 
 the soul, known (if not actually understood) 
 by all personalities that are intelligently alive. 
 However often they may change their address 
 or their philosophy, they can never be worse 
 off. They move their belongings from place 
 to place, only to better their estate; they trans- 
 fer their convictions and enthusiasms " from 
 
 350 
 
©tie eftotoerfii 
 
 creed to larger creed " only to widen their 
 outlook and refresh their faith. 
 
 Again, growers are the only people who 
 need never be afraid, — neither of misfor- 
 tune, sorrow, defeat, unkindness, nor the 
 shadow of death; for deterioration is the only 
 veritable evil that can befall a personality. 
 There is neither injury nor fault that cannot 
 be outgrown. But when we cease to grow, 
 it is a calamity indeed, and just cause for hu- 
 man dread. Fear and despair and anger and 
 ignorance and worry and meanness are fatal, 
 because they arrest growth, arrest spiritual 
 and mental activity, even arrest digestion, and 
 so are inimical to life and happiness. Any 
 one of them may be truly called a partial 
 death, since it causes a dissolution of some 
 glad and natural emotion, beclouding the 
 mind and involving the vital processes in 
 temporary disaster. When the mind is un- 
 hinged by terror, or the heart is frozen by 
 grief, the body can neither eat nor sleep, and 
 
 351 
 
our whole being is torn from its proper en- 
 vironment of rational and kindly sensibility, 
 beginning at once to wither and die like a 
 wounded sapling or a broken flower. 
 
 And who so well as the growers can afford 
 to drift? They need have no fear of being 
 carried out of their course, for they are in the 
 main current of life, and not in an eddy or by- 
 water. Whither the mighty river of existence 
 may be carrying them, perhaps they never 
 inquire. They only know that they are being 
 borne onward by its titanic sweep, in some 
 glad, free, lawful way that makes for ever- 
 widening horizons of happiness. 
 
 352 
 
an 
 
 ®Iir-;ffa0]^toneir ^^untt 
 
 The modest and most essential virtues of 
 the soul are like those old-fashioned flowers 
 we used to love in dim half-forgotten sum- 
 mers of the past. They sweeten the character 
 that fosters them, and under the magic process 
 of life yield extracts more potent than the 
 subtlest perfumes. 
 
 Can there be any one who does not remem- 
 ber the pitchers and bowls full of pansies and 
 stocks and mignonette, of roses and poppies 
 and nasturtiums, of heliotrope and sweet peas 
 and lilies-of-thc-valley, in odorous darkened 
 rooms of some old country house far away 
 
 353 
 
from the noise of town, among the elms and 
 the hay-fields and the silver rivers. 
 
 In early morning the windows, which had 
 stood open all night to blessed cool of trees 
 and stars and shrubbery and drenching dew, 
 would be closed by some gentle hand, and the 
 green shutters drawn against the mounting 
 glare of day, to retain in hall and parlour and 
 dining-room something of the peace and re- 
 freshment of the hours of sleep, — in the 
 lovely twilight of these most human sanctu- 
 aries, — while the blazing midday of North- 
 ern summer bathed all the garden world in 
 pure unmitigated golden heat. The only 
 sound to break that almost solemn quiet was 
 the chatter of purple martins in their dimin- 
 utive houses above the lawn, or the sharp thin 
 note of the yellow warbler, as hot and intense 
 as the breath of noon itself, or perhaps the 
 sudden dry clacking of a locust driving his 
 fairy mowing machine under the spacious 
 blue. 
 
 Indoors, in that grateful stillness, beads of 
 354 
 
icy water gathered on the brown stone jug on 
 the sideboard, and the scent and colour of 
 homelike companionable blossoms filled the 
 dwelling with friendliness and charm. They 
 were so still, so delicate, so fresh, so vivid, 
 so eloquent of loving and sedulous care! As 
 their fragrance gave a last touch of grace to 
 the gleaming mahogany and silver of those 
 hushed colonial rooms, the remembrance of 
 them must perpetually haunt the chambers 
 of the mind. 
 
 Of all the personal qualities which fragrant 
 virtues go to distil, the most complex, while 
 seemingly the simplest and surely the most 
 irresistible, is the old-fashioned essence we 
 call loveliness. 
 
 This fine quality, so easy to recognize yet 
 so difficult to define, does not at once betray 
 to the casual sense its component principles, 
 and we are at a loss to realize exactly whereof 
 it is made. Only after living and learning 
 does the realization come to us that loveliness 
 is distilled from a blending of kindliness, sin- 
 
 355 
 
SCfie ittaftfnfl of J^etsonalits 
 
 cerity, and comeliness, — or as a poet might 
 say, from the lilac of love, the iris of truth, 
 and the carnation of beauty. 
 
 The lilac may well stand for the emblem 
 of kindliness. It comes so inspiringly with 
 the opening of the year, when all the forces 
 of the ground are awakening from their cold 
 lethargy, and the beneficent earth is renewing 
 her elemental life. In that time of universal 
 joyance and exuberant hope, the lilac puts 
 forth her generous beauty to the world, ma- 
 king a paradise of many a dooryard in the 
 spring. In our Northern spring-time many 
 loved flowers come early to the woods and 
 garden beds, proclaiming with their bright- 
 ness that the season of birds and leaves is here 
 once more; and yet for all the encouragement 
 of these welcome vanguards, there remains a 
 chill in the air, a reluctance in the earth, a 
 flinching in our skins, and a hesitation in our 
 hearts. But when the blessed lilac blooms 
 under the window, we are assured that the 
 joy of summer is really at our doors, windows 
 
 356 
 
are thrown open, and a warm gladness takes 
 possession of indoors and out. The lilac, like 
 all true kindliness, is so abundant yet so unos- 
 tentatious, so sweet yet so subtle, so common 
 yet so fine, so exquisite and so hardy! It 
 grows without coddling in the humblest spot, 
 lavishing all its wonderful delicacies of scent 
 and colour, all its rich luxuriance of foliage, 
 to glorify the poorest environment; and yet 
 quite as becomingly will it deck the costliest 
 table or the prettiest head with a touch of 
 something untellably rare and precious. The 
 children may gather it in armfuls without 
 stint, while the wisest can never outlive the 
 gladdening magic of its kindly charm. 
 
 To the artist, the lover of orderly revela- 
 tions of truth in shapes of beauty, the iris has 
 always been dear for its stately blending of 
 symmetry and grace. It lends itself more 
 serviceably than any other flower to the exi- 
 gencies of decoration and design. Its tripli- 
 cate petals, symbolic of the threefold nature 
 of all perfection and the regularity of law 
 
 357 
 
2rtje i^alKing of ^tvuonmtsi 
 
 which must underlie all freedom, have been 
 reproduced in myriad modifications through 
 many centuries of art. As the trefoil, it has 
 served to symbolize the trinitarian faith in 
 countless reproductions of ecclesiastical ar- 
 chitecture and ornament. As the fleur-de-lis, 
 it is invested with memorable associations of 
 historic glory. Through immemorial leg- 
 endry its triune flower appears as the mys- 
 tical symbol of sex, full of occult significance 
 and implications of joyous life. As the com- 
 mon blue flag, it decorates our wilding mead- 
 ows with a shred of heavenly azure cast down 
 upon the young and springing world of green, 
 beguiling imagination on many a summer 
 morning with a strange spell, — as of a supra- 
 mundane loveliness, — which always attaches 
 to blue flowers. It is the joy of the designer, 
 giving itself so pleasingly to interpretation 
 of his fertile fancy, and adding its eloquent 
 symbolism to myriad devices in wood, in 
 leather, in pigments, in precious metals and 
 plastic clay. Like a good model, it is not only 
 
 358 
 
an mXf^ffuu'^ionttf lEnntntt 
 
 a convenience, but an incitement and an aid 
 to invention, adaptable yet original and sug- 
 gestive, definite and calculable yet full of 
 flowing grace. There must be in all triune 
 forms, whether in nature or in art, a profound 
 and subtle satisfaction to the mind, since no 
 other form — neither duplicate, fivefold, nor 
 multifold — so suggests the triplicate sym- 
 metrical structure of all supreme beauty. 
 The pure colour and delicate fragrance of 
 the iris, with its simple yet luxuriant sym- 
 metry, conspire to make it a fitting symbol of 
 sincerity and truth. 
 
 To distinguish between the comely and the 
 beautiful requires some nicety in the usage of 
 words, though any of us will feel sure of 
 knowing the difference, so long as we are not 
 asked for definitions. And while we readily 
 accede the supremacy to beauty, it is still true 
 that a comeliness that is sincere and kind may 
 transcend many unsound beauties. Comeli- 
 ness, to be exact, differs from beauty and 
 grace, combining something of each of those 
 
 359 
 
attributes, and adding and emphasizing cer- 
 tain distinctions and qualifications of its own, 
 — serviceability, fitness, becomingness, fresh- 
 ness, and above all a scrupulous wholesome- 
 ness and freedom from taint. 
 
 As a type of pure comeliness, w^hat flower 
 surpasses the carnation? To the rose no doubt 
 must be accorded her unquestioned preemi- 
 nence of beauty. Her name has been imme- 
 morially a synonym for all that is most desira- 
 ble and ravishing to human sense. She is the 
 undisputed empress of the flowery world, 
 magnificent and unrivalled. But next to her 
 consider the carnation's claim to popular sov- 
 ereignty. Consider their masses of opulent 
 bloom, their long delicate bluish leaves and 
 stems, their stimulating cleanly perfume, their 
 variegated colour as they nod in homely clus- 
 ters in their well tilled beds, or sway with 
 cheery sufficiency from the simplest vase, and 
 declare whether any of their sisters are more 
 comely than they, or can better satisfy that 
 craving for sensuous refreshment which the 
 
 360 
 
loveliness of flowers has helped to engender 
 in us, and must for ever help to slake. 
 
 Loveliness is not perfection. It requires 
 only human possibilities, — kindliness of 
 heart, frankness of disposition, fitness of per- 
 son. It is warm, impulsive, quite fallible, 
 often sad, but never unkind. It does not even 
 affect omniscience, content if it can but secure 
 an acceptable sincerity and fair dealing in 
 the conduct of life. It does not pine for flaw- 
 lessness, if it can but have faithfulness, pains- 
 taking, good cheer, and growth toward a 
 noble dream. 
 
 As old-fashioned flowers are simpler and 
 commoner than many overfostered favourites 
 of the hour, and yet never lose their perennial 
 essence of loveliness, but rather become en- 
 riched and endeared as associations and mem- 
 ories gather about them, so these old-fashioned 
 qualities of kindliness, sincerity, and comeli- 
 ness, which go to make up personal loveliness, 
 are not really superseded by any amount of 
 " temperament," " esprit," " style," or what- 
 
 361 
 
ever characteristic may be in current vogue 
 in the jargon of the hour. The quality of be- 
 ing " chic," for instance, does not include all 
 that comeliness implies; a friend may be 
 '' sympatico " (that admirable and delightful 
 trait!) and yet not have all the tonic charm 
 comprehended in kindliness; and no charac- 
 teristic of the mind can ever take the place of 
 human sincerity. The newer modes, whether 
 in flowers or graces, cannot supplant the old 
 essentials. Fashions change, but the things 
 that fashion life are unchanging. 
 
 One is often surprised at finding beauty 
 where there is neither soul nor intelligence 
 at all commensurate with the physical seem- 
 ing, and in such instances one instinctively 
 hesitates to use the adjective " lovely," as sy- 
 nonymous with " beautiful." For loveliness, 
 as we habitually think of it, contains other 
 attributes besides physical ones, being made 
 up of a modicum of beauty, actuated by a 
 generous heart and inspired by an incorrupt- 
 
 362 
 
an ®lJr=:iFafiiJ|fonelr lEnnmtt 
 
 ible loyalty. This subtle composite charm 
 does not necessarily affect us in the same way 
 that surpassing beauty does, suddenly over- 
 coming us by its sheer supremacy and often 
 leaving our riper judgment bewildered and 
 void. Loveliness pleases and satisfies without 
 reservation or reaction. While it is within 
 the power of beauty to astonish the senses, 
 only loveliness can delight the soul and con- 
 tent the mind as well as charm the eye. 
 
 To the lover of beauty in old days Aphro- 
 dite was immortal and divine, and remnants 
 of her liberal cult may still lurk in our pagan 
 blood, haunting the imagination at times with 
 an alluring spell. The immemorial rites of 
 that worship are not to be revived. Our skep- 
 tic days call for a more rational religion. 
 Meanwhile we credulous and practical mod- 
 erns, still not altogether unmindful of endur- 
 ing loveliness, might recall the three immor- 
 tal Graces, offer them sane devotion under 
 their names of Comeliness, Sincerity, and 
 
 363 
 
Kindliness, and enroll ourselves in the order 
 of the carnation, the cult of the iris, the fel- 
 lowship of the lilac. 
 
 What mainly distinguishes these essential 
 ingredients of loveliness is that they are all 
 attainable practical virtues, rather than ab- 
 stractions, — human rather than divine attri- 
 butes. Kindliness is practical love, sincerity 
 and comeliness are the every-day forms of the 
 truth and beauty which we think of as eternal. 
 And loveliness itself is a most human essence, 
 rather than an angelic one. We endow celes- 
 tial beings in fancy with shining, preeminent, 
 and supreme perfections, but reserve the liv- 
 able properties of this-world loveliness for 
 the children of mortals. 
 
 Gentle, warm and generous natures lay a 
 sorcery upon us with a look or a tone, or trans- 
 port us by a hand-touch beyond the confines 
 of sorrow and dismay, while far more per- 
 fectly beautiful but less loving and under- 
 standing beings leave us indifferent and un- 
 moved. Time as it passes betrays the loveless 
 
 3^4 
 
spirit and the unlighted mind by unmistak- 
 able signs; the eyes grow hard, the mouth 
 unsmiling or mean, the brow sullen or super- 
 cilious, and the general mien becomes furtive, 
 dejected, or querulous. But the kindly spirits 
 who put love and care into the daily practice 
 of life, increase in loveliness as the years go 
 by, and age only lends them a more indubita- 
 ble and magic comeliness. Their beauty is 
 not the mere insensate mask of appearance, 
 whose flawless hues must pale, its texture 
 change, its lines droop, beginning to wilt even 
 in the moment of maturity, like a soulless 
 flower; it is the subtle and registering simu- 
 lacrum of the ever-growing intelligence and 
 spirit, whose loving thoughts and feelings it 
 reveals from moment to moment in valuable 
 and memorable expressions of loveliness. 
 The plainest features grow more comely with 
 years, through habits of loveliness, — by be- 
 ing made continually the instruments of sin- 
 cere and kindly lives. 
 
 Of all the qualities that can enlist our en- 
 365 
 
thusiasm for a personality, sincerity is surely 
 the noblest and most rare. It is only through 
 sincerity that mortals can attain anything like 
 a permanent tenure of happiness, and come 
 to breathe that paradisal air in which fearless 
 intelligences dwell. Sincerity is to conduct 
 what truth is to science, what unselfishness is 
 to religion, what devotion is to art, the core 
 upon whose soundness all other worth de- 
 pends. As a single error may invalidate a 
 whole fabric of reasoning, so a drop of insin- 
 cerity may vitiate all the effect of an attract- 
 ive character, nullifying beauty, weakening 
 love, and involving the personality and all its 
 relationships in disaster. It is sincerity that 
 supplies the preservative ingredient in love- 
 liness, that keeps it stable and sweet under all 
 conditions and for any length of time, keeping 
 its goodness from the insidious inroads of sad- 
 ness, and its beauty from the deterioration of 
 futility and disappointment. 
 
 That comeliness should be so potent a part 
 of loveliness is natural enough, since it is the 
 
 366 
 
ain ®lir=iFafi5i|fone5 Essence 
 
 senses after all that supply the nourishment 
 of our dreams and suggest the trend of our 
 ideals. It is useless to delude ourselves with 
 the belief that the spiritual life needs nothing 
 more than virtue for its sustenance, and may 
 be lived in a state of fatuous beatitude quite 
 removed from actualities. Such a dreary and 
 fantastic conception of existence could only 
 have been devised by the dark rabid theology 
 of the middle ages, that midnight of man's 
 reason. Strange as it seems, there are still 
 here and there fanatical minds which can de- 
 cry the excellence of beauty, keeping alive the 
 mistaken old cant which declares it to be an 
 evil and a snare. This is no more than an 
 ascetic and fanatical pose, without any real 
 ground of conviction; for we must all enjoy 
 the aesthetic stimulus of beauty and feel the 
 religion of its innocent good, unless we are 
 perverted or mad. 
 
 But the instinct of humanity is never to be 
 defrauded for long. The sternest Puritan 
 must have felt in his heart that his hatred of 
 
 367 
 
2rj|e JHamufi of ^ttnonnUts 
 
 beauty was traitorous to honest goodness and 
 at enmity with benign truth. Is not the deep 
 unhappiness in the lives of bigots a proof of 
 the unnatural and monstrous falseness of their 
 doctrines? We need to be constantly trained 
 and exhorted to an honest and generous mo- 
 rality, but comeliness is an unquestionable 
 good which we must instinctively approve 
 and admire. No healthy intelligence can be- 
 lieve that disregard of physical welfare can 
 be other than injurious and crippling to men- 
 tal and spiritual growth. Our intuitive ad- 
 miration of the beautiful is too deep and pri- 
 mordial to be other than wholesome and legit- 
 imate, and productive of salutary results. 
 And we must make ourselves happy by free- 
 ing our minds from the unfortunate notion 
 that somehow personality is to be miracu- 
 lously endowed with angelic perfections, 
 through vigorously neglecting to cultivate the 
 perfections that are possible to it here and 
 now, — by getting rid of the delusion that 
 our instincts are evil and our senses corrupt, 
 
 368 
 
and that the aspirations and purposes of the 
 soul and mind can be best served by meagre, 
 inadequate bodies. 
 
 The practical cultivation of gladdening 
 and helpful loveliness needs no extraordinary 
 wealth, no exceptional opportunities, no fa- 
 voured habitat or environment, no peculiar 
 advantage of air or season. In any garden 
 of the spirit its growth may spring and flour- 
 ish with modest rapture and invincible pow- 
 ers. Comeliness glorifies a cotton gown as 
 enchantingly as it does a Paris ^' creation." 
 One may wear clothes worth a ransom, and 
 still be unlovely, even uncomely, — dowdy, 
 mean, undesirable, and ashamed. It costs 
 very little money but considerable nicety to 
 be comely, — to be clean, cared for, and in 
 keeping with just requirement. To be sin- 
 cere and kindly is equally inexpensive mone- 
 tarily, and more costly in unselfish effort and 
 wisdom, yet not unattainable for the least of 
 us even in a confusing and distracting world. 
 
 And always before us within constant touch 
 369 
 
8Ct)^ IWafein© of ^tv^onulxts 
 
 of enjoyment is that enheartening and suffi- 
 cient reward for all efforts in self-culture, — 
 a sense of our own small share of unequivocal 
 though unobtrusive success and contentment; 
 always about us, the loveliness of life, its 
 blossoms flowering in choicest and humblest 
 places, fragrant and perfect, and distilling for 
 our rapture the potent essence whose perva- 
 sive magic makes Eden everywhere. 
 
 370 
 
©enius anir tiie Artist 
 
 No more misleading definition was ever 
 formulated than the familiar one which de- 
 clares genius to be an infinite capacity for 
 taking pains. That is the one thing that ge- 
 nius is not. A capacity for taking pains may 
 be a characteristic of every conscientious 
 worker, but is in no way an essential distinct- 
 ive trait of genius. 
 
 The very essence of genius is its spontaneity, 
 its inspiration, its power of instant and inex- 
 plicable coordination and achievement. Its 
 processes are incomprehensible even to itself. 
 It cannot take pains, for it is an immediate 
 force like gravity, and works without effort 
 or consciousness of exertion. It is indeed an 
 
 371 
 
infinite capacity, but it can only have been 
 confused with patient painstaking because in 
 the eternal course of creation infinite patience 
 and infinite desire must be supposed to be 
 parts of infinite wisdom. Among men genius 
 is more often spasmodic, uncertain, fluctua- 
 ting as the tide and erratic as the wind, sus- 
 ceptible to stimulus and amenable to sugges- 
 tion and education, but intolerant of routine, 
 impatient of restraint, and accommodating it- 
 self with difficulty to the stereotyped require- 
 ments of conventional toil in a workaday 
 world. 
 
 The woes of genius are proverbial. And 
 the many annoyances, misfortunes, and dis- 
 tresses which usually beset its most marked 
 possessors are charged unreasoningly to the 
 inherent character of genius itself. But this 
 is surely an error. It is not the unfortunate 
 man's genius that involves him in unhappi- 
 ness, but his lack of a rationally ordered and 
 well balancing education adapted to his ex- 
 ceptional needs. Far from being the cause 
 
 372 
 
<!!;niiiif$ attn tf^t Artist 
 
 of his undoing, his genius is often the only 
 source of satisfaction and happiness he has; 
 and its exercise and influence afford him the 
 only refuge possible to his otherwise chaotic 
 and ill-regulated life. 
 
 The dictates of genius are never unsound. 
 Its tremendous urge is a veritable breath of 
 the life-spirit, infinitely wise, benign, and 
 powerful, making only for good, for beauty, 
 for enlightenment in the life of the individual 
 and in the life of the race. It can only seem 
 chaotic or malign when perverted by faulty 
 art, when thwarted in exercising itself, when 
 stultified and harried by unfortunate environ- 
 ment or inharmonious training. Genius often 
 seems mad only because its possessor is inade- 
 quately educated for handling his treasure, in- 
 capable of arranging any modus vivendi be- 
 tween himself and the world. Small wonder 
 that the bungler of such a blessing should be 
 distracted and distraught by such failure. 
 
 The precious gift of genius is not so infre- 
 quent as is said. Not all genius is in the realm 
 
 373 
 
of fine art or in public or famous or conspic- 
 uous activities. It may show itself in the sim- 
 plest service of humanity, and all genius is 
 richly valuable and exquisitely pleasing. The 
 genius of motherliness, that soothes and sus- 
 tains the whole weary world! The genius of 
 merrymaking that suns out the dark places 
 whenever it comes near! The genius of un- 
 selfishness that gilds the dullest efifort! The 
 genius of making happiness out of the unlike- 
 liest odds and ends saved from the wreckage 
 of our disappointments! The genius of inge- 
 nuity, — how well balanced it must be, how 
 modestly it works its miracles! The many- 
 sided genius of home-making and child-rear- 
 ing! The sturdy genius of dependability! 
 Unacclaimed, unappreciated, unappraised, 
 but never wholly unrequited, these bits of 
 life-spirit work against unreasoning obstruc- 
 tion and confusion to save the world! Who 
 has not some genius, and what might it not 
 grow to, if it were happily educated! How 
 
 374 
 
better can one serve the world than through 
 the happy bent of one's genius? 
 
 Genius is the spontaneous coordination, of 
 inspiration, aspiration, and execution, and re- 
 quires for its perfect development the finest, tX 
 most harmonious culture of the spirit, the in- 
 telligence, and the senses. Why not, there- 
 fore, so educate every one in the art of living . 
 as to establish avenues through which genius 
 could free itself and develop to the incalcu- 
 lable good of the world? Genius must be 
 educated and supplied with adequate comple- 
 mentary capacities in order that it may be 
 saved from torture and frustration; and the 
 artist, that is to say, every one of us, should 
 be so educated that genius may emerge and 
 find an unobstructed vent for its purpose and 
 dream. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 375 
 
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