THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD
 
 if 
 
 <**
 
 THE MOST FOOLISH 
 OF ALL THINGS 
 
 BY 
 
 H. ANTHONY 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Made in the United States of America 
 
 The Gorham Press, Boston, U.S.A.
 
 rt 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE MOST FOOLISH OF ALL THINGS . . 9 
 
 THE THREE VISITORS n 
 
 THE SECRET OF BEAUTY 13 
 
 SURRENDER 15 
 
 THE HOME OF THE GRACES 17 
 
 WHEN POVERTY COMES IN AT THE DOOR . 19 
 
 WHICH? 21 
 
 THE WANDERER 23 
 
 THE GREAT WRITER 26 
 
 PARADOX 28 
 
 THE WHINER 30 
 
 THE "STONE MASON 32 
 
 FAILURE 34 
 
 THE ANGEL OF GOOD GIFTS 36 
 
 ILLUSION 38 
 
 A RIDDLE 40 
 
 A PROBLEM 43 
 
 GOOD COUNSEL 45 
 
 THE TRAIN OF IGNORANCE 47 
 
 THE PEOPLE 50 
 
 MISTS 53 
 
 THE SUBTLE MAN 55 
 
 CHAINS 57 
 
 INTEREST 59
 
 Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 VERITY 62 
 
 A KING AMONG MEN 65 
 
 REFLECTION 68 
 
 TRAGEDY 7 
 
 THE WAY TO FORGET 73 
 
 THE REMEDY 75 
 
 THE COMMONPLACE 77 
 
 THE SEARCH 79 
 
 THE BIRTH-MARK 81 
 
 THE ABSURDEST OF ALL THINGS .... 83 
 
 JUSTICE 85 
 
 THE BUSY IMP -87 
 
 THE SON OF MAN 90 
 
 THE POOR PREACHER 93 
 
 SECRETS 95 
 
 THE SINNERS 97 
 
 GOD S LAW 99 
 
 BARE GIFTS 102 
 
 THE STINGY MAN 104 
 
 WHY? 107 
 
 Nor IN So MANY WORDS 1 10 
 
 A BIRTH 112 
 
 THE TOWERS 115 
 
 BLIND 117 
 
 REPUTATION 119 
 
 GLADNESS AND SORROW 121 
 
 MUTATION 123 
 
 AN INSTANCE 125 
 
 THE TREASURE 127
 
 Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 THE DECEITFUL DOLLAR 129 
 
 SEX 132 
 
 LIMITATION 134 
 
 MALE AND FEMALE 136 
 
 CONSOLATION 139 
 
 QUITE So 141 
 
 THE EGG OF DREAMS 143 
 
 INTROSPECTION 145 
 
 BODY 147 
 
 THE ARTIST 149 
 
 THE QUEER COUNTRY 151 
 
 YES 153 
 
 CONDESCENSION 155 
 
 A FABLE 157 
 
 THE GREATEST GIFT 159 
 
 A HELLISH DREAM 161 
 
 THE LYING MASTER 163 
 
 AN ENEMY 165 
 
 THE LAST VISITOR 167 
 
 IN ME 169 
 
 THE PATIENT AND FAITHFUL . . . .171
 
 THE MOST FOOLISH 
 OF ALL THINGS
 
 THE MOST FOOLISH 
 OF ALL THINGS 
 
 THE MOST FOOLISH OF ALL THINGS 
 
 ONCE upon a time a great ruler caused to be 
 sought out the wisest man in all the world to 
 come and instruct his subjects. The sage was very 
 old, and his beard swept the ground as he sat in 
 the chair of honor. He had visited every country, 
 travelling both by sea and by land, and had con 
 versed with multitudes of men and women, and 
 read all books. 
 
 " And what will be the first lesson that thou wilt 
 teach, O sage? " asked the ruler. 
 
 " I know not if I am right," replied the wise 
 man, " but it seems to me best to teach thy subjects 
 first what is the most foolish of all things, so that 
 they may know and avoid it." 
 
 And the ruler said, " So be it." 
 
 Then the ruler caused many of his subjects to 
 assemble in the courtyard of his palace before the 
 sage. And to them the wise man propounded the 
 question, " What is the most foolish of all things? " 
 
 First there rose up the prime minister and an 
 swered, " The most foolish of all things is to tell 
 the truth to one s enemies." 
 
 But the sage shook his head in negation. 
 
 Then arose a brilliant and beautifully attired 
 9
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 court-lady. She said, " O sage, the most foolish 
 of all things is the horrid idea that all men are 
 equal." 
 
 " Nay, great madam, thou hast not truly spoken," 
 replied the sage. 
 
 The next to answer was a priest of high degree 
 and great power, and he spoke as one thereto ac 
 customed. " The most foolish of all things is to 
 doubt and rebel against the teachings of our most 
 holy church. Hell awaits all schismatics and heret 
 ics. And here on earth they should be 
 
 But the sage stopped him, lest he preach a ser 
 mon. " Nay, most august bishop, thou art mis 
 taken." 
 
 Then a very rich man stood up. " O sage," he 
 said, " the most foolish of all things is to neglect 
 to lay up treasure against the evil days of old age." 
 
 " Nay, not the most foolish," answered the sage. 
 
 Next a famous teacher, the head of a great uni 
 versity, took the word. " I know," said he, " that 
 the most foolish of all things is to expect wisdom 
 from the unlettered." 
 
 " Nay, not that," replied the wise old man. 
 
 But then the ruler himself became impatient and 
 somewhat angry. So he demanded with petulance, 
 "What, then, is the most foolish of all things? 
 Let s have it and be done with it." 
 
 " O ruler," answered the sage, " the most foolish 
 of all things is also the most common, and it is 
 scorn, scorn for one s human fellows." 
 
 But with one voice they rejected the sage s teach 
 ings, and straightway drove him from the chair of 
 honor. 
 
 10
 
 The Three Visitors 
 
 THE THREE VISITORS 
 
 A POOR poet sat in his garret and wove into 
 melody the words and dreams that God gave 
 him. And as he sat, there came a knock on his 
 door. He rose and gave entrance to his visitor. 
 
 " I am Riches," said his guest, " and I have come 
 to give you a sight of me. Do you not see that 
 I am desirable? Yet you have not sought me 
 out." 
 
 " I have seen you in my dreams," replied the 
 poet, " and then there was, as now, blood on your 
 hands." 
 
 " Oh, your vision is warped," said the visitor, 
 " there is no blood on my hands, those are but 
 rubies of great price. I have murdered no one." 
 
 " Yet, I see millions whom you have murdered," 
 said the poet, " and there are lies in your mouth. 
 You promise happiness, and you can not give it. I 
 fain would be courteous, but I must ask you to 
 leave me." 
 
 And Riches departed in great anger, never more 
 to visit the poet. 
 
 But hardly was the poet seated again when he 
 must rise to admit another stranger. 
 
 " I am Fame," said this visitor, " and I come to 
 abide with you forever." 
 
 " Ah, but I think I know the price I must pay 
 for your company," said the poet. 
 
 " And what, pray, think you ? " asked Fame. 
 
 " I must pay in envy from my friends and lying 
 ii
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 scandal from my enemies. And ever will you be on 
 tiptoe to take flight from me," said the poet. 
 
 " You have spoken truly," Fame replied, " but 
 am I not worth that price ? " 
 
 " Nay, verily," said the poet, " one friend doth 
 outweigh all that Fame can give, and peace of 
 mind is above any price." 
 
 " Adieu, then," said Fame, " I shall not come 
 again." 
 
 And soon thereafter came a third visitor, and 
 called to the poet to open. And, behold, she was 
 a being of great comeliness, and radiant. 
 
 " I know you," said the poet, when his eyes fell 
 on her, and I know your sisters. They are Truth 
 and Beauty. Oh, will you deign to visit me? " 
 
 " I have come to dwell with you, if you will have 
 me," said the radiant guest. 
 
 " Oh, happy, happy me ! " cried the poet. 
 " What can I have done to deserve so great happi 
 ness, poor, humble me! " 
 
 " You have sung nobly and truly, and that is 
 enough to deserve me." 
 
 And the poet rejoiced beyond measure, because 
 Love had come to him. 
 
 12
 
 The Secret of Beauty 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a poet who 
 dreamed much on the secret of beauty, and 
 wondered what it was and wherein it lay. He 
 looked at the sunset, and it was beautiful, the 
 flowers by the roadside, and they were beautiful, 
 as were the songs of women, and flashing gems, 
 and the eyes of children, and poems, and pictures. 
 He loved them all. But what was it that all had 
 in common ? Was it in sound or form or color, and 
 in that only? Or was it because he loved them? 
 
 And, behold, he saw coming a fond pair of lovers. 
 And he said, " Love goes with beauty." 
 
 But the pair drew still nearer, and he saw they 
 were burned by the sun and thin from toil or 
 privation. Oh, care had slept with them, and they 
 were graven by pain and by sorrow. And yet 
 beauty was in them. 
 
 Rapt in thought, he sat musing, and lo! on his 
 motionless hand there settled a moth all damasked 
 with colors. " And why is it damasked with 
 colors? For its day of love? Is that why it 
 is damasked with colors? " 
 
 So thinking, his glance fell on the ground at his 
 feet, and there in writhing embrace lay two naked 
 worms. " Do they love ? Oh, could they love 
 like that moth that is damasked with colors? 
 Those two naked worms, slimy, disgusting? Does 
 love go with beauty ? " 
 
 He lifted his eyes. There floated above him 
 13
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 great galleons of clouds wafted by soft evening 
 breezes across the expanse of the heavens. And 
 the flames of the sunset flared on their canvas. 
 " Beauty is there, but no love. Love goes not with 
 beauty. Clouds can love nothing. Yet I love 
 them, they are radiant with beauty. But not the 
 dull ox, which yonder is plodding he feels no 
 love for the clouds, but likewise he sees not their 
 beauty or does he? Perhaps to one naked worm 
 another even so naked and slimy is radiant with 
 beauty. Or perhaps a moth, however damasked 
 with colors, hath no beauty for the moth mating 
 with it. Who knows? 
 
 " I see some beauty, perhaps more than my neigh 
 bor. But he, he sees a beauty in his ugly squat 
 wife. Well, let him. I thank God that he does. 
 But I am blind to it. Do I thank God that I am? 
 Should I thank God for a blindness? I don t 
 know. But there must be a beauty in all things 
 for the eye that can see it or the soul that can feel 
 it, or what was God about when he made them? 
 
 " You know, I believe that beauty makes love 
 wake up. That sounds good, but it is shallow, 
 for there are the worms and my neighbor s wife. 
 
 " Oh, the likelihood is that love has nothing to 
 do with beauty, and beauty nothing to do with 
 love. Where there is sex, there may be only lust 
 and lust is ugly the naked worm again, slimy 
 and disgusting. But that thought too is ugly, and 
 I know it is not true. Certainly every other sort 
 of love except sexual love is beautiful say a pa 
 triot s love, or a saint s, or a martyr s, or a mother s. 
 
 " You know, I am going home to pray a while."
 
 Surrender 
 
 SURRENDER 
 
 ONCE an old man walked on the highway, and 
 thought of the days of his youth, for the high 
 way led to the place of his humble beginnings. And 
 though his body was too old and too feeble to 
 traverse the distance, his mind ran on ahead till it 
 reached the end of the road, where lay the old 
 farmstead in ruins. And the mind busied itself 
 with fond recollections. It dwelt there a while 
 recalling father and mother, brothers and sisters, 
 and for a moment was cheered, but, then, saddened, 
 it returned to the old man shuffling and stumbling 
 along the highway. 
 
 And as it entered again into the old feeble body, 
 the bald old doddering head, it said to itself, " I 
 am tired of this tenement. It is quite worn out. 
 It is a burden that I no longer will carry. It is 
 the shell of a tortoise. I will leave it, leave it 
 forever, and go seek the abode of my early com 
 panions, find where they have gone and embrace 
 them, drink in with my eyes their glances of love, 
 and on my lips receive their fond kisses." 
 
 But the body found a voice for itself and replied, 
 " No, no, don t leave me. I shall rot here without 
 you." 
 
 " What can I do ? " answered the mind. " You 
 are worn out and quite useless." 
 
 " But listen," said the body, " you will need my 
 arms to embrace with, my eyes to drink in glances of 
 love, my lips to receive any fond kisses. What 
 15
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 will you do without them? Ha, you don t know. 
 And that s your sole business to know. You are 
 the feeble thing. You can do nothing without me. 
 You never have done anything without me. You 
 would have been deaf, dumb, and blind, as unfeel 
 ing as a stone, without me. And such may be your 
 condition after you leave me. Who knows ? 
 You don t, that is plain." 
 
 " Oh, but I believe I shall be free to come and 
 go, and take joy without hindrance." 
 
 " You believe, yes, you believe, but how often, 
 I ask you how often, have you been mistaken? 
 How many beliefs that you have cherished have 
 proved vain and futile? Ah, it is better that you 
 should stay with me safer, more certain. Oh, 
 it is far better." 
 
 And the mind was bewildered, filled with doubt. 
 It might be that death was also for it, or something 
 far worse than death would be for the body. Oh, 
 it might be that the voice of the body was true. 
 Who could say? Who could tell? 
 
 So the mind clung to the body, the coward mind 
 clung to the old, useless, wornout body. 
 
 16
 
 The Home of the Graces 
 
 THE HOME OF THE GRACES 
 
 ONCE Faith, Love, and Hope set out to find 
 a human heart in which they could dwell. 
 And they chose first a young woman. She became 
 so attractive that she had suitors innumerable, and 
 she married the richest. But then Vanity entered 
 her heart and waxed so great that it pressed out 
 Faith, Love, and Hope, leaving no room for them 
 to live, much less to act. And Faith, Love, and 
 Hope in human hearts must ever be acting, or they 
 will die. 
 
 So the Three fled before death, and crept for 
 shelter into the heart of a man who wrote poems. 
 And straight his songs found their way to the 
 souls of his neighbors. And all of the people vied 
 with each other in heaping praises upon him. Once 
 more their old enemy intruded itself into the 
 dwelling place of Faith, Love, and Hope. Vanity 
 came into the heart of the poet, and again the 
 graces departed to seek some other lodging. 
 
 So Hope said, "Where shall we go?" 
 
 And Faith said, " Yes, indeed, whither? Hu 
 manity we can not forsake, or its plight will be 
 pitiable." 
 
 " And wherever we go," said Love, " Vanity 
 comes to destroy us, and grows and grows until 
 there is no room left us." 
 
 " Yes," said Hope, " I think we must hide in a 
 place that Vanity can not find, or finding, would 
 starve for lack of a welcome." 
 17
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 " But," said Love, " it must not be a place where 
 we shall be quite hidden not that." 
 
 " No," said Faith, " not that." 
 
 " Ah," said Love, " I have it. Come with me." 
 
 And Love took the hands of Faith and of Hope, 
 and led them to the heart of a woman who was the 
 mother of sons and of daughters. They nestled 
 close in the heart of this woman. 
 
 " But will any one see us here? " asked Faith. 
 
 " Yes, they will see us," Love answered. 
 
 "Who will see us?" asked Hope. 
 
 " The sons and the daughters, they will see us," 
 said Love. " They know they have but to look 
 into the heart of their mother to find the perma 
 nent place of our dwelling." 
 
 "And Vanity, will it intrude?" asked Faith. 
 
 " No, it will not intrude," said Love, " for her 
 pride is centered not in herself, but in her sons 
 and her daughters." 
 
 So Love and Faith and Hope thanked their 
 Creator for the refuge they found in the heart of 
 a mother, and abode there forever. 
 
 18
 
 When Poverty Comes in at the Door 
 
 WHEN POVERTY COMES IN AT THE 
 DOOR 
 
 LOVE lived in a cottage. There were honey 
 suckles and roses all around and about the cot 
 tage, and Love looked on them through muslin cur 
 tains, diaphanous and shimmering. Love was happy 
 and crooned all the day long, humming the old 
 sweet songs, and rejoicing in their fruition. 
 
 The pansies in the yard looked up in the early 
 spring time, and smiled in Love s face. And daisies, 
 verbenas, and phlox, and petunias came in their 
 season. And Love looked on them all, and was 
 more happy than ever. 
 
 The spring bloomed and passed, and then the hot 
 summer glowed, but scorched not Love s happiness. 
 For there were the dahlias and lilies, and the daisies 
 still lingered. And Love grew stronger and 
 ripened, and joyed in the heat of the summer. Life 
 seemed a dream from a beauteous Italian garden 
 or a perfume from an oasis of Araby. 
 
 Then came the autumn, and brought with it 
 golden-rod, chrysanthemums, tube-roses, a wealth 
 and riot of sweetness and color. And Love smiled 
 with content in the hazy Indian summer, and dim 
 pled with pleasure in the plenteous abundance of 
 October. No shadow of sorrow, no hint of priva 
 tion dimmed even the surface of Love s gladness. 
 
 But alas! with the winter came frost, ice, sleet, 
 and a great coldness. All of the flowers in Love s 
 garden were frozen. Their bare, empty stalks were 
 19
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 blown here and yonder by the cruel winds from 
 drear northern regions. The fruitful earth was 
 locked up, and all of its brightness and plenty had 
 vanished. And there came into Love s cottage a 
 miserable stranger, cold and forbidding, merciless, 
 unfeeling. 
 
 This horrible stranger thrust his fell visage into 
 Love s cottage, stalked in to take possession as if 
 he were the owner. Love looked at him aghast, 
 shrank back, then knew him. 
 
 " Oh," said Love, " I can not dwell with him. 
 Oh, he will kill me. He is so cruel. I know I 
 can not dwell with him ! " 
 
 And Love, shrieking, fled abandoned the cot 
 tage, went out into the merciless winter. And died, 
 was frozen on the graves of the flowers. 
 
 And next year in the desert of the garden there 
 was no perfume or color, but only a whispering 
 sound like the sibilant hissing of serpents. 
 
 20
 
 Which 
 
 WHICH? 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a man who had 
 suffered many misfortunes, but nevertheless 
 was serene, seeming to have an inward source of 
 content. He had been wealthy, but had lost most 
 of his money, and, by consequence, most of his 
 friends. He had been falsely accused to the great 
 detriment of his reputation. And his health, from 
 being robust, had become frail and uncertain. 
 
 The man s serenity became a matter of common 
 speculation and gossip in the whole neighborhood. 
 Some said that he was too lazy and indifferent to 
 worry. Others that he was so hardened as to be 
 insensible to ordinary afflictions. Others that he 
 was too proud to show his suffering. And still 
 others that he must be very religious, and in that 
 find his comfort. 
 
 At length, a busybody, overcome with curiosity, 
 went to see him, and inquired of him, " Are you 
 very religious ? " 
 
 " No, not specially," said the man. 
 
 " Well, are you too proud to show any 
 suffering? " 
 
 " No," said the man, " I do not think I am 
 proud. I believe myself humble, although none of 
 us can be sure that pride has been quite cast from 
 his heart." 
 
 " Perhaps you have had so many troubles that 
 you have become insensible to ordinary afflictions? " 
 said the busybody. 
 
 21
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 " Oh, no, I haven t," said the man, " I feel 
 keenly the loss of money, friends, and reputation. 
 Who wouldn t?" 
 
 " Oh, well," said the busybody, " you must be 
 just lazy and indifferent." 
 
 But at last the man, becoming indignant at this 
 catechism, said, " Why do you come putting so 
 many questions? By what right do you subject me 
 to annoying impertinence?" 
 
 The whole community has been talking about 
 you," said the busybody, " and has been wondering 
 why you seem so serene, so undisturbed by your 
 flood of misfortune." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said the man, " Indeed ! " tempted 
 at first not to give any relevant answer. But 
 reflecting that the feeling was petty, he said, 
 " Doubtless, others may have better reasons for 
 whatever serenity they muster, whatever tran 
 quillity under misfortune. At times, indeed, I 
 think mine is the poorest of all reasons, but, thank 
 God, it suffices." 
 
 The busybody fidgeted about, " What is it ? 
 What is it ? " he asked with impatience. 
 
 " It simply is this," said the man, " I know 
 there is a cure for all earthly ills, and when I 
 choose I have the courage to take it. But as yet 
 there are still those who love me." 
 
 " Tell me that cure. Tell it me quickly," said 
 the busybody. 
 
 " I will," said the man, " it is Death." 
 
 But a lone old man, the oldest among all of the 
 neighbors, when he heard the man s saying, de 
 clared, " The man is mistaken. His cure really 
 is, that as yet there are still those who love him." 
 
 22
 
 The Wanderer 
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a man of an 
 honest spirit who dwelt in a country whereof 
 all of the people worshiped a god. But the man 
 of an honest spirit would not worship him. He 
 did not inveigh against this god nor against the 
 worshipers. But he withheld himself and would 
 not bow down. So the people of the country began 
 to look upon him as peculiar and stubborn, and 
 they regarded him askance, as if he were evil. 
 
 But among these people were some who were 
 kindly disposed, and they came to the man of an 
 honest spirit, and pleaded with him, saying, " Come, 
 bow down. You are growing very unpopular, and 
 your business is suffering. Soon you will be poor, 
 perhaps a bankrupt, unless you worship our god. 
 You must do as others in this community, if you 
 wish to get on. You may pretend to worship any 
 god you please, so long as you give your real 
 allegiance to our god. All of us pretend to wor 
 ship quite another god, as you know, and we are 
 polite to each other about that pretence, and get 
 on and thrive. 
 
 " We hate to see you suffer. We know you 
 mean well, and we like you. But give up your 
 foolish attitude of aloofness. There is but one 
 real god who will feed you and clothe you. You 
 should be sensible enough to know that. Come, be 
 practical." 
 
 But the man of an honest spirit said, " I am 
 sorry, but for me it is impossible. I can not wor- 
 23
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 ship your god, I don t believe in him. And one 
 reason is that you will not publicly profess to 
 worship him. You come to me confidentially as 
 friends and I am grateful to help me, and you 
 acknowledge that you pretend to worship quite an 
 other god. For some reason you can not, or will 
 not, publicly profess your allegiance to your real 
 god. Therefore I think he must be evil." 
 
 " Oh, well," said they, " it is an open secret. 
 Everybody knows it. It isn t as if we were really 
 deceiving anybody. Why, we should be fools 
 really to serve the god that we profess to serve. 
 We should starve, and quite likely become martyrs. 
 So far as we know, most of those who have really 
 served him, have become martyrs. We have no 
 such ambition." 
 
 " Well," said the man of an honest spirit, " why 
 wouldn t it do for me actually to serve your real 
 god and publicly profess to serve him and him only? 
 I could think of myself as doing that." 
 
 " No, no," said they, " that wouldn t do. You 
 would be condemned. People wouldn t stand for 
 that. You see, you ve got to be like other people. 
 And the proper thing is to say that you are wor 
 shiping a god who enjoins love and unselfishness 
 as the main things. You don t have to do anything 
 but say that. Nobody expects you to act that way, 
 but you do have to say it. You can t be so simple 
 as not to understand that." 
 
 " I understand it," said the man of an honest 
 spirit, " but my conscience hurts me when I say 
 I serve one god and really serve another." 
 
 "Oh, bosh!" said they, "you are talking about 
 your conscience. Does our conscience bother us? 
 24
 
 The Wanderer 
 
 Not at all. The trouble with you is that you 
 think you are better than anybody else. We are 
 not asking you to do anything except what every 
 body else does. And, frankly, we don t care 
 whether you do it or not. We came to you 
 merely out of kindness, and we are done. Take 
 our advice or leave it. It s nothing to us," 
 
 They departed in anger. 
 
 And the man of an honest spirit, perplexed, said 
 to himself, " It is odd that I must pretend to serve 
 God and really serve Mammon. Perhaps I had 
 better move to some other country." 
 
 25
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 THE GREAT WRITER 
 
 ONCE there was a man who had a good busi 
 ness and prospered well in the affairs of the 
 world. But he was not content. He wished to 
 be a great writer. It was his constant prayer to 
 become a great writer. His mind was full of 
 roseate pictures of glory and joy in the love of his 
 fellows that fame would bring him when he should 
 become a great writer. 
 
 In the course of time it happened that his busi 
 ness failed, because he no longer gave it undivided 
 attention. And the people who before had 
 esteemed him, looked down on him now as a fail 
 ure, and thought him a fool to sacrifice a good 
 business to an uncertain ambition. And his wife 
 became tired of the poverty that followed, and com 
 plaining of his lack of devotion, left him and found 
 a more prosperous husband. 
 
 Creditors dogged at his heels and accused him, 
 saying that he was a thief and a swindler, because 
 he had bought without paying, and could not pay 
 when they dunned him. 
 
 His business was gone and his wife and most of 
 his friends, for he was unable to return his friends 
 favors. And on top of all this, the publishers 
 scorned him, because he was new and his writings 
 were different. Still he wrote and wrote despite 
 his privations. He was indeed trying to become 
 a great writer. 
 
 At last when despair was already clutching his 
 26
 
 The Great Writer 
 
 throat and it seemed that all of his dreams were 
 doomed to unending disaster, there was found a 
 publisher who ventured to publish some part of 
 his writings. For years they were coldly re 
 ceived, but then the public woke up, and acclaimed 
 him a master. He was old and tired and deserted 
 and lonely. And the thrill of joy that he felt was 
 as weak as a moonbeam compared with the bril 
 liant sun of his anticipation. He had merely the 
 feeling that perhaps after all his life had not been 
 wholly a failure. 
 
 Posterity mentions his name with true reverence, 
 saying he was indeed a great writer, but, sighing 
 lightly, remarks that he had some sort of financial 
 trouble and was not quite happy in his domestic 
 relations. And young writers of our later times 
 look back and envy the glory of the poor, old, 
 broken, lonely man, never realizing the price of 
 that glory. 
 
 Oh, but indeed that glory is the endless tribute 
 of hearts that he comforts. And the price that he 
 paid who shall say it was out of proportion ? 
 
 27
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 PARADOX 
 
 ONCE upon a time was a wife who discovered 
 that her husband was unfaithful, but she 
 loved him, so she didn t know what to do. Should 
 she reproach him ? No, she might lose him. Should 
 she tell him she knew and still not reproach him? 
 No, she might lose him. Oh, she didn t want to 
 lose him! 
 
 Should she show herself to him more loving than 
 ever, more affectionate, more passionate, more 
 hungry for love? She tried it. But the thought 
 of the other woman ! Oh, the thought of the other 
 woman! It was bitter. It was gall in her hus 
 band s kisses. On his lips was the wormwood of 
 the other woman. 
 
 Should she withhold herself, be cold and indif 
 ferent? She tried it. And more than ever her 
 husband was absent from home and fireside. More 
 than ever he frequented the abode of his mistress. 
 And more than ever she hated to lose him. Bitterer 
 than ever the thought of caresses, the besmirching 
 caresses of the wanton woman showered on her 
 husband, on her own husband. Ugh! The slime 
 of them! 
 
 Should she kill the woman? Should she slay the 
 viper that had crept into her nest, her nest in the 
 heart of her husband? Should she? Should she? 
 Oh, how she wished she could. But she couldn t. 
 Oh, no, she could not kill. She was too gentle for 
 that. She could not kill even a nauseous viper 
 28
 
 Paradox 
 
 coiled in the heart of her husband. And she might 
 lose him. And she loved him. Oh, she didn t 
 want to lose him! 
 
 Should she win for herself some lover, or appear 
 to, and get back her husband through jealousy? 
 She tried it. But no, it wouldn t do. She loved 
 her husband. The very hands of her lover were 
 repulsive to her. She hated his touch. His skin 
 shone with cleanness, but she couldn t bear his 
 touch. She felt it defile her. So she sent him 
 away. 
 
 But it was not right, it was not fair that she 
 should go on loving her husband. She would 
 strangle that love. She tried it. No, no. She 
 could not strangle that. What would be left to 
 her? That love had been the world to her. She 
 could not strangle that. Her past happiness had 
 been given by that love. But her future happiness 
 where would that come from ? She must look 
 to her future happiness. 
 
 It broke upon her like a dawn that her future 
 happiness must come from that love. Not from 
 the love of her husband for her, but from her love 
 for her husband. That was to remain her treasure. 
 Oh, that, at least, she could hug to her bosom. 
 That was imperishable. 
 
 And what happened ? Oh, she was irradiated, 
 made transcendent, luminous. And her husband, 
 seeing, knelt before the holy mystery, entreating 
 forgiveness.
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 THE WHINER 
 
 BEHOLD, there was a certain man who be 
 wailed his lot and complained to God con 
 tinually because of his troubles and many distresses, 
 saying, " I have such bad fortune, everything goes 
 wrong with me. I am not as other men. They 
 all have their blessings, while I am the butt of 
 every disaster." 
 
 And God was wearied with his whining, so sent 
 down an angel with fullest instructions to offer 
 the man interchange of identity with some one 
 more fortunate. 
 
 And the angel, coming down, said, " God sends 
 me here to swap you into the body of the richest 
 man that you know, and if you choose, you may be 
 he, have what he has, and enjoy it, and he must be 
 you to bear your afflictions." 
 
 "What! " said the man, "me be that old man! 
 No, thank you. He s all twisted up with rheuma 
 tism. I don t want to be him." 
 
 " Well," said the angel, " you may be the social 
 leader in your community. He is young, well- 
 to-do, and has the prettiest wife in the city." 
 
 " No," said the man, " I wouldn t be him. He 
 is foolish, and his wife is very extravagant. I don t 
 want to be him." 
 
 " Perhaps you would like to be the governor of 
 the state. He is generally admired and respected." 
 
 " No," said the man, " he has too many responsi 
 bilities and too many enemies. I don t want to be 
 him." 
 
 30
 
 The Whiner 
 
 " All right," said the angel, " my instructions 
 are to allow you three days to consider and decide 
 who you would be. At the end of that time, I 
 will come to hear your decision and fulfil it." 
 
 For two days and nights the man earnestly can 
 vassed in his mind the lot, character, and circum 
 stance of every acquaintance that he had in the 
 city. 
 
 On the morning of the third day he was filled 
 with contrition, and prayed humbly to God, say 
 ing, " O God, the fault is in me. I have been a 
 whiner. I would not swap places with any of my 
 fellows. They all have their faults or their 
 troubles, which I dislike more than mine own. 
 Forgive me. My faults I will amend, my troubles 
 I will overcome or endure as I can. Forgive me." 
 
 In such wise have many people been moved to 
 contrition. And there is no telling but the angel 
 will come to you or to me. Perhaps we dream our 
 choice would be different. But by taking thought 
 we may save the angel some trouble.
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 THE STONE MASON 
 
 THIS is the story of a stone mason who was 
 hired to work on a church, and he was lazy 
 and faithless. He said to himself, " The building 
 committee will hardly take time to inspect very 
 closely the work that I do, for the church is not 
 the property of any of them." 
 
 So he laid the stones in their courses but loosely, 
 and plumbed them so carelessly that the walls were 
 ready to totter before they were finished. And 
 as he had foreseen, the building committee were in 
 a great hurry, each man to return to his business 
 that might afford him a profit. And they did not 
 detect the slackness of the stone mason s work. 
 
 And it happened not so very long afterward that 
 the debt on the church, incurred for its building, 
 was discharged by full payment. So a bishop was 
 sent for to dedicate the house to the worship of 
 God. And the people felt proud of themselves, 
 taking much credit that they had built so hand 
 some a temple. 
 
 The bishop was an eloquent man, and he tickled 
 the pride of the people as in the course of his 
 prayer he told God Almighty what a wonderful 
 folk they were. How good and how pious and 
 self-sacrificing to have spent so much of their 
 money in constructing an edifice for worship, when 
 they might have spent all of this money on personal 
 adornment or some other folly. 
 
 But it happened that while he was praying, the 
 32
 
 The Stone Mason 
 
 walls came down with a crash and killed some of 
 the people and maimed many others. And the 
 mason had come to the service to hear himself 
 praised as the builder of the beautiful temple of 
 God. He was crushed to death in the ruins. 
 
 The surviving members of the church said it 
 served the mason right, and was a judgment of 
 God visited upon him. There was another de 
 nomination in the same town, and they said it was 
 a judgment of God visited upon that whole church 
 for its heretical teaching. But those opposed to all 
 churches held that it was a judgment of God 
 visited upon the members for ungodly pride in the 
 building and hypocrisy in general. The bishop 
 said, " Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth." 
 
 And the building committee, for obvious reasons, 
 agreed with the bishop, but with a mental reserva 
 tion in regard to the mason, on whom they laid all 
 of the blame, not even believing that God loved 
 him. 
 
 33
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 FAILURE 
 
 THERE was a certain man of family who in 
 herited a fortune, and thereafter in all 
 business transactions he was lenient and generous. 
 From time to time he sold his lands on easy terms, 
 and rented out his houses at a low price. And he 
 forbore to collect his revenues when it seemed that 
 collection would work a hardship on his debtors. 
 All of his debtors praised him and called him a 
 good fellow, and they spread the word around that 
 no man was compelled to pay him. 
 
 Oft times the tenants who lived in his houses 
 would come to him with such tales of sorrow that 
 he would remit their rent and lend them his moneys 
 to relieve their troubles. And the crops of those 
 who had bought his land were always bad, and 
 they could not pay interest without depriving their 
 families of food and clothing. It seemed to him 
 that all the woes of the world piled up on the 
 heads of any who came into his debt, and he was 
 sorry for them. 
 
 So it went on until at last he must seek out the 
 bankers and borrow from them, for his own family 
 at home had begun to suffer for lack of ordinary 
 comforts. He was an upright man, and known 
 to have a large inheritance, so the bankers loaned 
 to him readily. But when their interest fell due, 
 they insisted on payment, and the man had not the 
 heart to proceed against his own debtors, so he 
 borrowed from usurers to pay the bankers their 
 34
 
 Failure 
 
 interest. And soon the usurers came snarling at 
 his heels, like wolves, for their usury. And now 
 claims for both interest and principal were 
 showered thick on the unhappy man, and he was 
 ashamed to go home to his family, for his wife 
 would ask him what had become of his inheritance, 
 and he felt that the hearts of his children were full 
 of reproaches. 
 
 He went to the lawyers, who persuaded him to 
 hire them to sue all his debtors. So he sued them, 
 but alas his very leniency was pleaded against him, 
 for in many cases the time had elapsed, so that 
 he could recover but little, and moreover he made 
 enemies of all those who had owed him. His 
 dearest wish had been to be regarded as kind of 
 heart, and now many people hated him. All that 
 he recovered had to be paid to the lawyers, so he 
 got nothing by this litigation. 
 
 Bankers and usurers joined forces and swooped 
 down upon him, and took from him all of his 
 pledges. Even then their demands were not paid 
 in full, so they called him a swindler and scoundrel, 
 and respectable people avoided him. 
 
 Such was the way that the man told his story, 
 but it was not quite true, though he was unaware 
 of its falsity. It was not kindness of heart, but 
 vanity that ruined him. Too dearly he loved to 
 be praised, and so lost all his substance in grasping 
 a shadow. 
 
 35
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 THE ANGEL OF GOOD GIFTS 
 
 THE angel of good gifts came to earth and 
 stood on a street corner, meaning to stop 
 passers-by, and bestow on them a benefit. 
 
 It happened that the first person who came was 
 a banker. " What wouldst thou have," the angel 
 asked, "to increase thy happiness? " 
 
 And the banker replied, " If only I had another 
 million, I should be content." 
 
 As they stood talking, a beggar shuffled by, and 
 the angel inquired of him what he wished above all 
 things. 
 
 The beggar said, " I would choose a thousand 
 dollars, then I should be happy." 
 
 A housewife was passing with a basket on her 
 arm. The angel stopped her, and said, " Name 
 what thou most desirest, and thou shalt have it." 
 
 And the housewife answered, " Oh, if my hus 
 band s salary were doubled, all of my cares would 
 vanish, and I should be so happy. 
 
 Next came a little child crying. The angel 
 caught it up in his arms, and asked, " Why dost 
 thou weep ? What wouldst thou have ? " 
 
 And the child said amid sobs, " I want a penny, 
 and Papa wouldn t give it to me." 
 
 Then trudged by a working-man with a scowl 
 on his face, and to the angel s query replied, " My 
 wages are too low. We are striking for an in 
 crease of twenty per cent." 
 
 " And that would satisfy thee? " 
 36
 
 The Angel of Good Gifts 
 
 " Yes, I shall be happy if we get it." 
 
 A poet, a reformer, a preacher, a lawyer, a har 
 lot all wanted more money. For God had de 
 creed that every soul questioned must speak truth 
 to the angel. 
 
 The angel granted the wish of them all, and 
 overjoyed flew back to Heaven. It had been so 
 simple and easy. All wanted the same thing, 
 whereas the angel had feared that such a variety 
 of gifts would be desired as to tax his powers. 
 
 Radiant he came to the throne, " Oh, Father," 
 he said, " I have made so many people happy." 
 
 And God answered, " Foolish, foolish angel, 
 hereafter thou shalt stay in Heaven." 
 
 And God sent the angel of sacrifice to abide with 
 men and lead them along the road to happiness. 
 But him will they not follow. They cry out in 
 cessantly for the return of the angel of good gifts. 
 
 37
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 ILLUSION 
 
 ONCE upon a time two pure-minded and inno 
 cent lovers sat with hands clasped each in the 
 other s, talking of the future. Their thoughts were 
 very happy and their hopes very bright. For each 
 believed that in the other was perfection embodied. 
 And neither could quell the wonder that either 
 was thought worthy by the other to wed such per 
 fection. And in their minds was the picture of 
 the home to be not a grand home, but a sweet 
 one, with flowers around it, and musical with the 
 voices of children engendered by their love. 
 
 Oh, they were happy! Spirits of the redeemed 
 looked down from the ramparts of Heaven and 
 rejoiced, because in the lovers they saw a happiness 
 equal to their own except in duration. And those 
 spirits hoped even that so great a love might sur 
 vive the limits of human mortality and persist in 
 the ageless hereafter. They knew, they must have 
 known, that such was impossible. But the loveli 
 ness of love cloyed their discernment a discern 
 ment supernal, far above that of humans. 
 
 And the thoughts of the lovers ran far to the 
 future. Through shining years, through joyous 
 strength, but they recked not of age or decadence. 
 For he said, " We shall love forever and ever." 
 
 And she echoed, "Forever! Nothing shall 
 conquer our love, but it will grow stronger and 
 stronger." 
 
 And hands tightened their pressure, as lips met 
 38
 
 Illusion 
 
 in the fondest of kisses, and sighs of sweet rapture 
 slipped from hearts ravished with passion. And 
 instant, immediate was the call of that passion, for 
 they were young. Oh, joy! they were young. 
 
 Panting, he whispered, " My angel." 
 
 And she throbbingly answered, " My darling! 
 Press me close. Fill me, oh, fill me with love s 
 dear ecstasy. I burn for thee." 
 
 "And I for thee!" 
 
 Oh, was this in the long ago? Hush! it is time 
 less, fleeting. It comes and goes and returns, 
 ever seeming to end, but yet never ending. If it 
 were yesterday, it will be deathless. If a thou 
 sand years agone, it will be deathless. If to 
 morrow, it will never die. Oh, it will live in the 
 memory, in the hopes, of men and of women. It 
 is the joy of joys. It is radiant life in full zenith. 
 
 Ah, thou cold anchorite, pity that thou must 
 have missed it! Ah, thou beaded nun, feel in thy 
 every bead a plashy tear. And vestals of all other 
 creeds, weep but pray your gods for sweet 
 imagining. 
 
 39
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 A RIDDLE 
 
 ONCE upon a time a poor man overtook a 
 ragged woman on the highway. She was 
 carrying a bundle closely wrapped. With the 
 freemasonry of the poor he accosted her and 
 trudged along by her side. 
 
 At length he asked her, " What have you in that 
 bundle that you carry so carefully ? " 
 
 " A baby," she answered, " my baby." 
 
 "How old is it?" 
 
 " It is six weeks old, and it is the best little 
 thing you ever saw." 
 
 "Where is its father?" 
 
 " I don t know. I haven t seen him for a long 
 time." 
 
 " Well, where are you going? " 
 
 " I don t know." 
 
 "You don t know!" 
 
 " No, I don t know. I am just going away from 
 somewhere, not to any place." 
 
 And tears ran down her face that he saw now 
 was swollen from weeping. 
 
 "Why are you going away? 
 
 They told me to go away. They said I 
 couldn t stay there any longer." 
 
 " Where were you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I was in jail back yonder," she motioned 
 with the thumb of her free hand over her shoulder. 
 
 "And they told you you couldn t stay in jail?" 
 
 " Yes, you see, I was sentenced for vagrancy. 
 And then the baby came, and they let me stay past 
 40
 
 A Riddle 
 
 the time of the sentence, they said, and they 
 couldn t let me stay any longer." 
 
 " Wouldn t they let you work around the place 
 for your keep ? " 
 
 " No, they wouldn t do that ; I asked them. But 
 they said they couldn t do that. They told me not 
 to stay around there. They said for me to go 
 away." 
 
 "Aren t you willing to work?" 
 
 " Yes, I am willing to work." 
 
 " You look strong enough." 
 
 " I am strong, quite strong, and I asked to work, 
 but they wouldn t let me. They just kept on say 
 ing for me to go away, so I am going." 
 
 " Well, who is your baby s father? " 
 
 " I don t know." 
 
 "You don t know!" 
 
 " No, I don t really know." 
 
 " Oh, I see, you haven t been a good woman, and 
 that was the reason they wouldn t let you stay." 
 
 " No, I haven t been a very good woman, but I 
 told them I wanted to be a good woman and that 
 I would be a good woman. They wouldn t be 
 lieve me. They said they had seen my kind before, 
 and they told me to go on away." 
 
 " So you are going, and that s all there is to it? " 
 
 " Yes, that s all there is to it," said the woman, 
 " unless," she looked at him meaningly, " unless " 
 
 " No, no," said the man, " you don t foist your 
 self and your baby on me. Here is a dollar, and 
 it is pretty nearly my last one, but take it and buy 
 something to eat." 
 
 He handed her the money, and quickened his 
 steps so as to leave her behind him. 
 41
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 She sat down on the roadside and cried a while, 
 for she was tired and hungry. Then she suckled 
 the baby. Then the thought of the food that the 
 dollar would buy in the next town took possession 
 of her. So she rose and hurried on. 
 
 What do you suppose ever did become of her 
 and her baby?
 
 A Problem 
 
 A PROBLEM 
 
 THERE was a great hubbub and outcry in the 
 midst of the city. A man accused of the 
 crime of rape had been apprehended. 
 
 "Bring him out! Bring him out!" cried the 
 crowd, " Hang him! Hang him! " 
 
 He was brought forth. There he stood, gross 
 body, bull neck, wide jaws, big chin, sensual lips, 
 fleshy nose, pig eyes, back-slanting forehead. 
 There he stood. Oh, he was a human brute! 
 
 At the sight of him the anger of the crowd 
 \vaxed stronger than ever. Louder than ever were 
 the cries of, " Hang him! Hang him! " 
 
 And loudest of all shrieked a pale, anaemic man, 
 who stood in the forefront. There he stood, 
 slender body, slight neck, narrow jaws, small chin, 
 thin lips, aquiline nose, poet eyes, bulging fore 
 head. There he stood. And his piping voice 
 shrilled loudest of all, " Hang him! Hang him! " 
 for to him the crime was unspeakably horrible. 
 
 His piercing cry rose so high above all others 
 that all eyes were fastened on his delicate face, 
 and there was almost a lull but for him. It was 
 as if he were elected general accuser to voice the 
 wrath of his fellows. And the sense of it thrilled 
 his nerves, lashed his overstrung nerves to a climax 
 of fun , so that his cries became quite incoherent. 
 
 Stolid, dull, unmoving, save for a slight twitch 
 of his muscles, stood the accused. Not even a 
 shifting glance seeking a way to escape, for it 
 would have been hopeless. 
 43
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 "Burn him! Burn him!" the straining crowd 
 caught from the hoarse voice of the accuser re 
 duced to a whisper. And the cry was taken up on 
 all sides, "Burn him! Burn him!" 
 
 It was as if an oracle had spoken. And it was 
 an oracle that never had felt, that never could feel, 
 the mighty surge of lust that had swept through 
 the veins of its victim and met there no inhibition. 
 
 Yes, the crowd burned the accused, whom some 
 power had made with gross body, bull neck, wide 
 jaws, big chin, sensual lips, fleshy nose, pig eyes, 
 and back-slanting forehead a brute in human 
 form. 
 
 Where think you lay the greatest guilt? 
 
 44
 
 Good Counsel 
 
 GOOD COUNSEL 
 
 AND behold! there was a certain preacher who 
 came to preach in a city. As he looked on all 
 sides about him, he saw nothing but sin. So he 
 rose in the pulpit and denounced all of the people, 
 and said they were the disciples of hell. And they 
 paid little attention. They came in throngs, it is 
 true, to hear what he said, but their conduct they 
 changed not. Day in and day out they continued 
 their sinning. 
 
 And the preacher grew frantic. He cursed with 
 all holy curses in the name of Jehovah the unre- 
 generate people. And his fury waxed and grew 
 ever greater. And he warned all the people that 
 some great disaster would fall on their city if they 
 changed not their ways and walked not in the 
 paths that he pointed out. But they paid little 
 attention, though throngs came out to hear him. 
 They sat still and heard him, and then went on 
 with their sinning. 
 
 And disaster came not to the city. It basked in 
 the sun, harmed neither by fire, earthquake, nor 
 tempest. And the people as usual engaged in their 
 business. They ate and drank and were merry. 
 They wept and died and were buried. They 
 married and gave their daughters in marriage. 
 They brought up their children, supported their 
 families, and worked for a living. They went to 
 church and theater. They danced, they said their 
 prayers, fooled along, and flirted. 
 45
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 And the preacher was stirred to still greater 
 anger, so he prayed, " O God in the highest, send 
 down to this people some awful disaster. Let the 
 storm blow or the earth open or fire come and 
 sweep the whole city, so that the people may know 
 that thou art a righteous God, exacting thy 
 vengeance." 
 
 But oddly it happened that a fire came and de 
 stroyed only the home of the preacher. And some 
 were foolish enough to rejoice and say that God 
 sent it. And the preacher was so cast down in his 
 heart that he sought for wise counsel, and he got it. 
 
 There was an old deacon who told him, " You 
 have so long looked for sin tljat your eyes are 
 blinded to virtue. You have uncontradicted ac 
 counted yourself the mouthpiece of God till you 
 are puffed up beyond measure. You would destroy 
 a people that you can not bend to your will, so at 
 heart you are a murderer. And worst of all you 
 have forgot that it is love, and not anger, that 
 melts men s hearts and inclines them to God. 
 Suppose you try forgetting yourself and loving your 
 people. They have many virtues, and deserve all 
 the love you can give them." 
 
 But I doubt if that preacher could follow the 
 counsel.
 
 The Train of Ignorance 
 
 THE TRAIN OF IGNORANCE 
 
 THROUGH the streets of a city that exists 
 in many places at once, but that nevertheless 
 is quite real, there passed a procession. It was 
 a long procession, and awful beyond words to de 
 scribe it. 
 
 At its head was a gross, misshapen, gibbering 
 figure, of enormous proportions, reeling along with 
 unsteady gait, a ponderous monster, grinning. His 
 name was Ignorance. And all they who came 
 after made up his train. 
 
 Close in the wake of the monster marched Un 
 timely Death with a leash in his hand, leading 
 behind him his numberless victims. And his 
 countenance was fearsome, so vague was it, and yet 
 so compelling. It had no fiery fierceness, but a 
 cold, impassive malice that froze the beholders. 
 And his victims for the most part were babies, but 
 there were millions of older children, and youths 
 and maidens, and men and women, even to the very 
 aged. And a heart-rending wail went up from 
 these victims. 
 
 And next came Disease, the satrap of Death, and 
 his victims followed, all maimed and twisted, dis 
 torted, deformed, and disfigured. Slowly they 
 shuffled, hobbled, crawled along. Disease, looking 
 back at them, leered, a slaver trickling from his 
 horrid lips, as if he burned to devour their cancer 
 ous bodies. The stench of the throng was past all 
 47
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 enduring. And their groans like a constant 
 thunder were split with flashes of shrieking. 
 
 And next came Superstition waving a firebrand 
 and pressed close by her ministers and votaries. 
 Her face was insane. On it flaming fury alter 
 nated with cruel cunning. At her right hand 
 marched Intolerance, and on her left Vindictive- 
 ness, and behind these a rabble of witches and 
 demons, heathen priests, and devils and torturers 
 and fanatics and ghouls and medicine-men and con 
 jurers. And the eyes of these were fixed on 
 Superstition, and their voices were calling to her, 
 claiming rewards for their service. And for proof 
 they held up in their hands the bleeding hearts of 
 their victims. And the victims followed wave 
 after wave of mutilated bodies and stunted souls 
 crying for mercy, but ceaselessly attacked by 
 witches and demons and spirits of evil flying above 
 and around them and raging among them. 
 
 And next was Tyranny, borne along on a throne 
 by courtiers and spies, and followed by an army 
 of cut-throats and assassins. And Tyranny was 
 decked out in splendor. Gold lace and ribands 
 and purple adorned him and his retainers. But 
 the sceptre of Tyranny was a thigh-bone, and his 
 crown was a skull. And there danced before him 
 a band of Furies casting dead men s bones in his 
 pathway that his ear might be pleased with their 
 crunching. And behind him came crawling his 
 subjects with fear in their eyes, their limbs trem 
 bling, and his captives bound with chains, gashed, 
 and all bleeding. And the noise of their lamenta 
 tions was deafening. 
 
 Last in the line came hideous Poverty. And his 
 48
 
 The Train of Ignorance 
 
 slaves that followed were wan and despairing. 
 And Crime rode on his shoulders. And they all 
 slunk along as if ashamed of existence, as if, drawn 
 from slums and dark cellars, they could not bear 
 the light of day on their faces. Dull and dejected 
 and miserable, they made a piteous throng to 
 wring the hearts of onlookers. And like a sweat 
 from their ranks exuded a sound, a million-fold 
 whine of the mendicant. 
 
 So through all of the ages hath marched this 
 foul monster. And thousands who watched the 
 procession, have turned idly away, saying, " It is 
 hopeless, naught can be done, it is hopeless." 
 
 49
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 THE country was said to be in a bad way. 
 And there was a man who made up his mind 
 that he would find out what ailed it. So he be 
 gan his search by asking the first person he met 
 on the street. 
 
 " Our country," said he, " is in a bad way. 
 There seems to be something fundamentally wrong. 
 What do you think is the matter with it? " 
 
 "Think?" answered the person, "I know. 
 The trouble is that the lawyers are not given the 
 power they ought to have. Here are men trained 
 in the law, men who have devoted their lives to 
 the study of government in all of its phases, and 
 how are they treated? Their advice is scorned, 
 their opinion is set at naught, and they are made 
 a target for abuse and recrimination. Farmers and 
 merchants and preachers govern this country. 
 What could you expect? They don t know any 
 thing about laws, and they muss everything up till 
 it is disgusting." 
 
 " I take it that you are a lawyer," said the man. 
 
 " Yes, I am, but " 
 
 The man waited to hear no more, but walked on. 
 He had not gone far when he met another person, 
 who looked rather important and knowing, so the 
 man stopped, and to this person propounded the 
 same query. 
 
 " Ah, yes," said the person, " our country is in 
 a deplorable condition, and the source of the 
 50
 
 The People 
 
 trouble is the general neglect of the teaching of 
 the church and the lack of respect for her ministers. 
 Lawyers, many of whom are infidels, govern the 
 country to the detriment of religion. Why, the 
 laws allow all kinds of shows to remain open on 
 the holy Sabbath, trains to be run, newspapers to 
 be printed, and all sorts of secular business to be 
 carried on. What could you expect? The min 
 isters of the gospel are scorned and ridiculed, and 
 have no power to enforce the decrees of God. No 
 wonder the country is headed straight for 
 destruction." 
 
 " I take it," said the man, " that you are a 
 preacher." 
 
 "Yes, I am, but" 
 
 The man waited to hear no more, but walked 
 on till he met a person who looked rural, and to 
 this person he put the same question. 
 
 " Yes," he was answered, " the country is in a 
 bad fix, and I don t see any way out of it. And 
 why ? Because the farmers are the backbone 
 of the country and the salt of the earth, and no 
 body gives them a show. That s why. Rascally 
 lawyers make the laws, and they make them for 
 their own advantage, so that the farmers have to 
 pay for everything. And the merchants cheat the 
 farmers all of the time, and the preachers are 
 always taking up collections. The farmers have 
 to support everybody, and don t have any say about 
 anything in this country, and everybody makes fun 
 of them. It is easy enough to see what ails this 
 country." 
 
 " I take it," said the man, " that you are a 
 farmer."
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 " Yes, I am, but " 
 
 The man waited to hear no more, but walked 
 on till he met a person very dapper and brisk in 
 his movements, and of this person he asked the 
 same question. 
 
 And this was the answer, " Oh, well, the busi 
 ness man has no chance. Every merchant is 
 hampered and pestered by a multiplicity of fool 
 laws made by lawyers and farmers and preachers, 
 till it is almost impossible to carry on business. 
 What this country needs is a business administra 
 tion, but I don t think it ever will get it. There 
 are too many demagogue lawyers and fool fanners 
 and bigoted preachers. Oh, no, a man in business 
 is the last to get any consideration." 
 
 " I take it," said the man, " that you are a 
 merchant." 
 
 "Yes, lam, but 
 
 The man waited to hear no more, but walked 
 on. He had found what it was that ailed the 
 country.
 
 Mists 
 
 MISTS 
 
 A HERMIT dreaming on a mountain side of 
 men and things soliloquized : 
 
 " In the valley below is a mist, and through it 
 stretches a highway. I sit here and peer at my 
 fellow mortals. Not a one of them can I see 
 clearly. Nebulous and shadowy are their faces, 
 and their motions are made to me to seem 
 grotesque. 
 
 " In places and at times the mist thins itself 
 or is thinned, is so attenuated that almost I fancy 
 I can see some passenger as he is. For one brief 
 moment his lineaments emerge lit up by the light 
 above him and me. But the next instant is he 
 again enveloped, and I have only the memory of 
 the gleam. If I could, I would dissipate the ever 
 changing fog. I would blow upon it with mighty 
 lungs, and drive it from the valley. But to me 
 that is impossible. 
 
 " Or if I could, I would so strengthen the power 
 of my eye that its gaze would penetrate the mist 
 like light through the clear ether. Oh, I would 
 love to see my fellows as they are. I would love 
 to read on their faces the motions of their hearts. 
 I would love to sympathize with their every feel 
 ing. But how can I when I can not see? To me 
 they are like flitting ghosts in veils enshrouded." 
 
 There came to the hermit an angel, whispering, 
 " O man of holiness, descend into the valley." 
 
 " Nay, my home is on the mountain side, where 
 53
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 I can breathe the pure air of heaven. I should 
 suffocate in the valley." 
 
 But the angel was urgent, and would not be 
 withstood, " Nay, go thou into the valley." 
 
 So the hermit, gathering his gown about him, be 
 gan the descent. And as he proceeded, the mist 
 grew ever thinner. And lo! when he reached the 
 highway on which toiled his fellow mortals, all 
 was clear sunlight, the bright whitness of a sum 
 mer day. And the passengers along the highway 
 were no longer shadowy or nebulous, but every man 
 of them appeared in his proper color. And on 
 his face was written his joy or his sorrow. 
 
 And the hermit, looking back up the mountain 
 side, saw that he had been sitting in a cloud. 
 
 54
 
 The Subtle Man 
 
 THE SUBTLE MAN 
 
 ONCE there was a very subtle man who wished 
 to win other people to carry out his purposes. 
 And he met a wine-bibber, who drank more than 
 any of his neighbors. And the subtle man praised 
 the wine-bibber, saying, " Lo, you can drink more 
 than any other man I ever saw. You can drink 
 as much as you please, and it never does hurt you. 
 You have a special power. You are an exceptional 
 man." 
 
 And he met a libertine who had ruined a great 
 many women. And the subtle man praised the 
 libertine, saying, " You have a way with the 
 women. They can not resist you. You have a 
 special power. You are an exceptional man." 
 
 And he met a miser who had amassed vast 
 hoards of money, so that his vaults were crammed 
 full to their bursting. And the subtle man praised 
 the miser, saying, " You are the richest man in the 
 country. You can outwit all who scheme against 
 you. You are too shrewd for them all. You have 
 a special power. You are an exceptional man." 
 
 And he met an evangelist who had won converts 
 until they were like mullet for numbers. And the 
 subtle man praised the evangelist, saying, " You 
 are the greatest preacher of the age. No sinner 
 can harden his heart against your appeals to his 
 conscience. You have a special power. You are 
 an exceptional man." 
 
 And he met a waiter in a restaurant who could 
 55
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 bring in a multitude of dishes at one time. He 
 heaped them up in pyramids almost Egyptian, and 
 none ever fell or was broken. And the subtle man 
 praised the waiter, saying, " You are the best 
 waiter in this whole city. There is none other 
 like you. You have a special power. You are an 
 exceptional man." 
 
 And he met a street-sweeper, who cleaned the 
 streets of dirt, dung, and offal. He swept a wider 
 space and swept it cleaner than did any of his 
 fellows. And the subtle man praised the street- 
 sweeper, saying, " You are the best sweeper in any 
 of the gangs. None of them can come near you. 
 You have a special power. You are an exceptional 
 man." 
 
 And the subtle man had his way with them all.
 
 Chains 
 
 CHAINS 
 
 IN a mad-house he sat and moaned all the day 
 long of chains, chains, chains. Everywhere 
 chains, and on everybody. Chains wound about 
 every son and daughter of man and woman. 
 Hands, feet, head, and soul bound fast in chains. 
 
 " What is love but a chain binding one to an 
 other hampering the free impulses of the spirit? 
 My love binds me, and your love binds me. I can 
 not do what I would that love holds me. Oh, 
 I would seek out far lands, and I can not. I 
 would sacrifice myself for a noble purpose, and 
 I can not. I would be an artist, a soldier, a saint, 
 a martyr, and I can not. That love constrains 
 me. That love holds me in the narrow ruts of 
 sordid ways. I can not loose myself, and it is the 
 chain of love that strangles my spirit. 
 
 " And the chains of custom ! What I did 
 yesterday that must I do to-day. What you and 
 a thousand others did yesterday that must I do 
 to-day. What men long dead and rotten did in 
 their puny time, must I do to-day. Oh, I am 
 smothered, I am suffocated, so heavy is the weight 
 of custom s chains. And if I strive to burst them 
 asunder ! Idle old slaves sit by and mock my strug 
 gles. Fool ! they say, he strives to be free. 
 They would kill me rather than see me free. They 
 have killed others, and me too would they kill. 
 My freedom would reproach their slavery. 
 
 " And the chains of hate ! I hate you, and I am 
 57
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 bound by it. Every hate I cherish or foster is a 
 chain, and I can not free myself of hate, nor envy, 
 nor avarice, nor pride, nor lust. And each of 
 them is a chain. I am enwrapped by them. I am 
 involved in them, tied fast as with triple steel, 
 nay, bound fast by these like a Laocoon crushed by 
 nauseous snakes. Stronger are they than steel 
 and- alive! Oh, the horrid stench of them! Oh,. 
 the hot breath and the coldness of them! And 
 the gods they laugh at me. They fastened 
 these chains about me. I didn t do it. Not I. 
 Out of the depths of chaos the gods summoned 
 these living chains to press the soul out of me. 
 As a punishment? Yes, as a punishment for 
 crimes committed by others. So I am told. My 
 fathers sinned, and for their sins these hideous 
 coils tighten around me. 
 
 " Is it to wonder that I am mad ? You, you 
 too are bound, and they call you sane. Ah, God! 
 a madness, a thousand madnesses, rather than such 
 stupidity! "
 
 Interest 
 
 INTEREST 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a country that 
 groaned under a burden of great taxation, and 
 both people and rulers were in despair, for a new 
 war threatened, and more money must be raised. 
 And the rulers looked diligently about to discover 
 what tax could be added, but the people trembled, 
 for hardly could they bear what was already upon 
 them. 
 
 And there came out of the wilderness a poor 
 hermit who long had reflected in solitude on the 
 woes of his country, and he brought with him a 
 message that stirred UD his hearers. Tidings came 
 to the rulers that sedition was likely in that part 
 of the country where roamed the mad hermit. 
 
 So the rulers sent down an armed guard that 
 took the hermit and brought him up to the city 
 where dwelt the rulers, " What is this new mes 
 sage," they asked him, " that thou scatterest abroad 
 to the harm of the people ? " 
 
 " Nay, my masters," answered the hermit, " not 
 to the harm of the people, not that but I will 
 gladly declare it to you." 
 
 " Do so at once," commanded the rulers. 
 
 " When I was a young man and went much 
 about among the people," said the hermit, " I ob 
 served that always the most prosperous were the 
 lenders of money. They were the fattest and 
 sleekest. When drouth or flood or other disaster 
 fell on the country, the lenders of money were the 
 59
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 last to suffer. And most often indeed they grew 
 richer, for the goods of their neighbors, already 
 distressed, were forfeit to them. So that most of 
 the people were subject not so much to the govern 
 ment as to the lenders of money, who were em 
 powered by law to exact from their neighbors a 
 usury called interest." 
 
 " Yea, such is the law," answered the rulers. 
 
 " I have since then reflected," continued the 
 hermit, " that money is purely the state s creature. 
 No citizen is ever permitted to coin any money, 
 though he have uncounted stores of gold and of 
 silver. Am I right, O ye rulers ? " 
 
 " You are right," answered the rulers. 
 
 " Well, I see then no reason," spoke out the 
 hermit, " why the state should not derive all of 
 the benefit from its own creature." 
 
 " Meaning what?" asked the rulers. 
 
 " Enact a law forbidding any man to charge any 
 thing for the loan of his money," answered the 
 hermit, " and providing that the state alone shall 
 have the right to receive interest, making the 
 penalty the same as for counterfeit coinage." 
 
 " But what would become of those who must 
 borrow money? " 
 
 " Let the state lend it to them on the same sort 
 of security as is now demanded by those who 
 prosper so greatly at the expense of the people." 
 
 " But what would it profit the thrifty to save 
 against age or misfortune? " 
 
 " The state could borrow all savings at some low 
 rate of interest, because the debt would be safe for 
 the lender. His risk would be nothing, because the 
 state would repay when he wished it." 
 60
 
 Interest 
 
 " Oh," said the rulers, " and the rate paid by 
 the state would be lower than that it received on 
 its lending? " 
 
 " True," said the hermit, " and the difference 
 need not be great, one or two per cent on all of 
 the loans in the country would provide for all its 
 expenses, and taxes could be decreased or abolished, 
 and the people would no longer be subject to lend 
 ers of money, but their whole allegiance would fall 
 to the state." 
 
 " And what would become of the lenders of 
 money? " 
 
 " Some of them could be employed by the state 
 at a fair salary to lend out the state s money. The 
 others could engage in some business that would 
 increase the real wealth of the country, such as 
 manufacturing or farming or mining or building." 
 
 But the rulers decided that the hermit was crazy, 
 and cast him in prison. 
 
 61
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 VERITY 
 
 ONCE upon a time a ruler in the dominion of 
 knowledge summoned before him his principal 
 vassals and required of each a statement of plans 
 and of purpose, a reason for being. And the names 
 of these vassals were Art and Religion and Philoso 
 phy and Science. 
 
 To the question propounded the answer of Art 
 was, " I seek out beauty and express it, to promote 
 human happiness." 
 
 And of Religion, " I seek out the rules of right 
 conduct and explain them, to promote human 
 happiness." 
 
 And Philosophy said, " I seek out the truth and 
 divulge it, to promote human happiness." 
 
 And Science replied, " I seek out knowledge and 
 classify it, to promote human happiness." 
 
 " So all of you are working to promote human 
 happiness?" said the ruler. 
 
 " Yes, all of us," they answered. 
 
 " Why, then, is there not more human happi 
 ness? " asked the ruler. 
 
 " Because men are lazy, and will not think," an 
 swered Science. 
 
 " Because men are stupid, and can not think," 
 said Philosophy. 
 
 " Because men are blind, and can not see," an 
 swered Art. 
 
 " Because men are selfish, and will not sacrifice," 
 said Religion. 
 
 62
 
 Ferity 
 
 " So the whole fault lies in men, and none in 
 you," said the ruler. 
 
 " Yes," said they, " the fault is in men." 
 
 " Yet, if there were no men, not a one of you 
 would have any excuse for being? " asked the 
 ruler. 
 
 " No," said they after some hesitation, " we 
 wouldn t." 
 
 " Well," said the ruler, " you have been working 
 on men a long time, and you haven t accomplished 
 much, what do you propose for the future ? " 
 
 " It is this way," said Art, " often when I have 
 created something of the greatest beauty, Religion 
 attacks and seeks to destroy it." 
 
 " And I," said Philosophy, " have always been 
 thw r arted and persecuted by that same religion." 
 
 " And I," said Science, " have been compelled by 
 Religion to fight for my life in ceaseless struggle." 
 
 But Religion answered, " Art disregards me, 
 Philosophy flouts me, and Science denies me. 
 What am I to do? I must live." 
 
 The ruler pondered. For a long time he sat 
 rapt in reflection. At last he spoke, " I have long 
 desired that men should be happy. Most of them 
 are not happy, and have never been, hence this 
 conference. It is time that some real progress 
 were made. 
 
 " Religion, you are the oldest, and you have the 
 commonest fault of age, which is intolerance. All 
 of the others are really your children. They 
 sprang from you. It is true that they often fail in 
 filial reverence, but you have been jealous and 
 afraid. You have feared that they would snatch 
 from you your dominion over the hearts and minds 
 63
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 of men, hence you have often been harsh, stubborn, 
 and unreasonable. For this you deserve censure. 
 
 " And you, the rest of you Art, Science, and 
 Philosophy each of you has sought at times to 
 supplant his father. Know now for all time that 
 that is impossible. It can not be done. And 
 there has been much scorn and bickering among 
 you, each claiming to be greater than the others. 
 That is foolish. Stop it. All three of you are 
 necessary, as also is Religion. 
 
 The reason why all of you together have not 
 done more for the promotion of human happiness, 
 is that you have not worked together. Ultimately 
 3 r ou must work together. It is inevitable. So 
 why not begin now? You have been as blind, 
 stupid, and selfish as you have said men are. 
 Haven t you?" 
 
 " Perhaps we have," said Philosophy in their 
 common defense, " but may I speak openly? " 
 
 " Proceed," said the ruler. 
 
 " Well, for some reason or other, while working 
 for men, we have been compelled to work solely 
 through men. We have had to depend on men to 
 interpret us, to give us a voice. I ask you is that 
 fair? Must it ever be so? " 
 
 " Whether fair or not," said the ruler, " it must 
 ever be so. Men can understand only what comes 
 through men." 
 
 " Alas ! " sighed they all, " the time will be long."
 
 A King Among Men 
 
 A KING AMONG MEN 
 
 ONCE on a time there was a king who coveted 
 wider dominions. He looked all about him 
 where lay the well-ordered lands of neighboring 
 nations, and found them fair and desirable. So 
 in his own heart he said privily, " I will take 
 them." 
 
 He set to work then to raise a great army, and 
 made every man of his kingdom into a soldier. 
 And he gathered from the four corners of his realm 
 a great treasure, and caused to be forged number 
 less weapons of war. And while this was a-doing, 
 he entered into covenants with all neighboring 
 nations to preserve peace between his people and 
 theirs, feigning to fear that some would attack him, 
 and professing a love for the blessings of peace. 
 But in his own heart he said privily, " So I will 
 blind them." 
 
 And it came to pass that all was ready the 
 soldiers, the treasure, and the weapons. And the 
 neighboring nations slept in a false security, lulled 
 by their faith in the treaties. And the king com 
 manded his armies to make a sudden onrush upon 
 the nearest of the neighboring nations. And this 
 they did, spreading death and destruction and 
 anguish and woe and desolation. And the king 
 rejoiced in his heart saying privily, " To this I 
 will add all of the others, and rule over them all." 
 
 But lo! this nearest of nations gathered up all 
 of its strength, and held back the armies of the 
 6 5
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 king till other nations could make ready and 
 assemble their hosts to defend their homes and 
 their firesides. And the king was angered, and 
 commanded that the people of the nearest of na 
 tions should be tortured and starved and crucified, 
 and their women outraged and deflowered. And 
 it was done by his soldiers. And the king rejoiced 
 in his heart, saying privily, " So will I strike terror 
 into all of the others." 
 
 But the king was mistaken, for all of the other 
 nations formed a league against him, and opposed 
 him with numberless soldiers and countless weapons 
 of war. And multitudes of the soldiers of the 
 king were slain. And into the realm of the king 
 crept hunger and misery and death, insomuch that 
 his people began to murmur. Then the king told 
 his people that God was with him, directing him 
 in all things. But in his own heart he said privily, 
 " There is no God, but so will I fool them, and 
 stir them to still greater effort to win for me wider 
 dominions." 
 
 And he did fool them. And they made ever 
 greater sacrifices, and strove ever more valiantly in 
 the name of patriotism and religion, believing that 
 they were fighting a holy war and suffering for the 
 defense of their country. And the king gave them 
 iron crosses and medals for their bravery, and 
 praised them, calling them heroes. But in his own 
 heart he said privily, "What fools they are! I 
 hold myself safe, and they give up their lives and 
 the lives of their kindred that I may get wider 
 dominions. What fools they are! " 
 
 But the time came when the soldiers of the 
 neighboring nations defeated and drove back the 
 66
 
 A King Among Men 
 
 armies of the king. And the king s own people 
 rose up against him, saying, " We have been fools. 
 We have debauched ourselves and murdered our 
 neighbors. God have mercy upon us ! " 
 And they took the king and hanged him.
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 REFLECTION 
 
 A CERTAIN honest man fell among thieves, 
 who beat him and stripped him of all he had. 
 As they divided their booty, the beaten man 
 groaned loudly, and some feeling of pity stirred 
 their hearts, but it was stilled by the oldest and 
 wickedest among them, who said, "If the truth 
 were known, he is probably no better than we are. 
 Somehow or other he stole what he had, and I ll 
 bet on it." 
 
 So there was a lecher sitting in church listening 
 to the sermon of a pious preacher famed for his 
 purity of thought and life, and the preacher was 
 denouncing the sins of the flesh. The lecher \vas 
 moved with remorse and contrition, but he stifled 
 them by saying to himself, " If the truth were 
 known, he is no better than I am. He is smoother, 
 that s all. And I ll bet the sisters of the church 
 could tell some queer stories if they were a mind 
 to." 
 
 After the service the respectable women who 
 were in attendance, filed decorously out carrying 
 their prayer-books. And a harlot who happened 
 to pass on the other side of the street, saw them, 
 and was filled with a feeling of shame and of 
 yearning, but she quelled it by muttering, " If the 
 truth were known, they are no better than I am. 
 They haven t been found out, that s all, the minc 
 ing hypocrites." 
 
 So a foul murderer stood before a just and up- 
 68
 
 Reflection 
 
 right judge to be sentenced. And the judge added 
 to the sentence some words of commiseration, and 
 his voice shook with pity for the condemned. The 
 murderer was touched by the judge s sympathy, and 
 felt some impulse to repentance, but he throttled 
 it by thinking. " If the truth were known, he is 
 no better than I am. And he sits up there pre 
 tending to be so high and so mighty. May God 
 damn him! " 
 
 And the man who was robbed was honest, and 
 the preacher was pure, and the women coming out 
 of the church were chaste, and the judge was up 
 right and just. 
 
 But each of us looks at his fellows through a 
 glass that is too often merely a mirror.
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 TRAGEDY 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a husband who 
 suspected the fidelity of his wife, for she was 
 quite fond of an officer accustomed to visit their 
 home. But soon after the suspicion arose, the 
 officer was ordered to a far country, where he was 
 killed. So the husband said nothing. 
 
 In the course of time the wife bore a son. 
 Hardly could the husband restrain his anxiety till 
 the birth to examine the child s features, so fearful 
 was he of his honor. He could not wait for the 
 child to be brought for inspection, but on its first 
 wail, slipped into the room of his wife to peer at 
 its face. But that revealed nothing. The feat 
 ures were as yet undertermined. 
 
 But the wife, though weakened by travail, was 
 aware of his presence, and whispered, " Oh, John, 
 it is a boy, and he is your image." 
 
 Then at the word of the doctor, the husband 
 retired from the room and said nothing, but there 
 was in him a hope that the eye of the mother 
 could detect a resemblance not apparent to him 
 a wild hope, a precious hope. 
 
 Months went by, slipped into years, and the 
 boy s features took shape and developed. Ever it 
 was the custom of the wife to point out to the 
 husband how the boy was his reproduction. 
 " Look at his eyes," she would say, " they are yours. 
 And his mouth and his ears, his form and com- 
 70
 
 Tragedy 
 
 plexion. You ought to be proud. He is you over 
 again." 
 
 And the husband did look, but what he saw was 
 quite different. Each passing month brought 
 clearly before him some hated resemblance to the 
 man who was dead. There was a trick of the 
 eye-brow altogether exact, a curve of the nostril, 
 even a mode of moving the hands, and shape of 
 the fingers. 
 
 He no longer had a suspicion, he was certain. 
 His wife had betrayed him, and was lying to seal 
 the deception. What should he do? What could 
 he do? He brought himself to decide that what 
 ever was right he would do it. Whatever it cost, 
 he would do it. 
 
 For the woman he felt naught but deep loathing. 
 But there was the child with its life all before 
 it and innocent. Should it bear the burden ? 
 Was it right that the child should bear the horrible 
 burden? He could not love the child. No, not 
 that. He could not love it. Yet, the child had 
 done no wrong, and ought never to know. The 
 child must be spared the fatal blight of that 
 knowledge. 
 
 But how punish the woman without hurting the 
 child? His mind busied itself with that problem, 
 but his behaviour was such that the woman never 
 suspected. He caressed her as of yore, and she 
 thought him a fool blinded by her words. She re 
 joiced in her heart that he was a fool blinded by 
 her words, but fear slept with her, grisly fear 
 slept with her. 
 
 He might have secretly killed the woman, but 
 he would not stain his soul, though it were better 
 71
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 for the child to be motherless than have such a 
 mother. He would not stain his soul nor was 
 it in his heart to help the child, he could not reach 
 to that. Not to hinder was all that he could com 
 pass. That tried his strength to the utmost. 
 
 The problem was never solved. He died. And 
 the weak woman, thinking on him, was overcome 
 with a tardy repentance. She felt the need of con 
 fession. She yearned for confession, as aforetime 
 she had yearned for the officer. And she confessed 
 to the child. Oh, God, she confessed to the child ! 
 
 72
 
 The Way to Forget 
 
 THE WAY TO FORGET 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a man who had 
 done many things of which he was ashamed. 
 They were secret things, and known to no one else 
 in the wide world save himself alone. Neverthe 
 less he could not shut them from his memory. His 
 mind dwelt on them continually. So he became 
 restless. He could not sleep at night. And in the 
 day he could not bear to be alone, but sought ever 
 to surround himself with a crowd, so that his 
 thoughts might be diverted from the recollection of 
 the shameful deeds. 
 
 But even in the midst of a company he could not 
 wholly forget. For there would come moments of 
 silence in even the gayest throng. So the man was 
 dismayed. He had resolved never to confess to a 
 living soul, but in himself he could find no comfort. 
 
 " I will forget," he would say, " I will forget." 
 And he would gird r himself to the effort. But he, 
 could not forget. 
 
 At length he realized that of himself he could 
 not forget, but must seek aid from some other. 
 And he pondered where he should seek it. From 
 priest or physician? From parents or friends or 
 the wife of his bosom? 
 
 But no, he would not confess to any of these. 
 He could not bear for them to know that he had 
 been so guilty. He was filled with despair. 
 Should he go to a stranger? No, for the 
 stranger would have forever a handle upon him. 
 He could not go to a stranger. He dared not trust 
 any stranger. 
 
 73
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 One day on the street he encountered a beggar, 
 an old man, feeble and dirty and quavering. And 
 the beggar was very persistent, catching the man 
 by the sleeve to detain him and tell him a tale of 
 privation and sadness. 
 
 But the man answered, " Your sorrows are noth 
 ing. They can be cured with a pittance, while 
 mine are so great that no money can cure them." 
 
 " Oh, come with me," said the beggar. 
 
 And the man, on the whim of the moment, fol 
 lowed the beggar, and was led by the tottering 
 steps of the beggar to a hovel, where dwelt in 
 squalid disease the beggar s old wife, betrayed 
 daughter, and bastard grand-child. 
 
 " Look at these," said the beggar, " and at me." 
 
 " Oh, I must help you," said the man, " I must 
 help you." 
 
 And straightway he sent for a doctor and clothes 
 and food and a wagon, and women and men to 
 wash these foul people and clothe them in clean 
 ness. And he helped in the task. All that day he 
 spent in relieving them and cleaning them and mov 
 ing them to comfortable quarters. 
 
 When night came, he left them, to return to his 
 home. As he walked on his way, all of a sudden 
 he started, " By Jove," he said, " by Jove, I for 
 got! Oh, thank God, I forgot! I have found 
 it. I have found it. I have found the way to 
 forget. Oh, never, never, shall I forsake it ! " 
 
 And afterward the man was happy, for he was 
 ever piling acts of kindness on his past deeds of 
 shame, until at last they were quite covered up out 
 of all sight of his memory. 
 
 74
 
 The Remedy 
 
 THE REMEDY 
 
 ONCE there lived a man who was deeply in 
 debt, for he and his family spent more than 
 he made. And the man was harassed and be 
 wildered. It seemed to him that every time he 
 paid a bill, two more came in to take the place of 
 the paid one. And he was at the end of his wits. 
 
 He hated to tell his wife and his children, be 
 cause, after all, they spent no more than their 
 neighbors. And the man was afraid his wife 
 would think him a failure. And he was afraid 
 also he would lose the esteem of his neighbors. 
 For indeed he was proud, and had held his head 
 as high as the next one. So he didn t know what 
 to do. 
 
 Life lost its charm for him, and he was fast 
 becoming morose and embittered. This month he 
 put off paying one man, and the next another, hop 
 ing at least to preserve some sort of credit, and 
 praying that something might happen to make his 
 business more profitable. He could hardly sleep 
 at night, and his days were full of dreadful anxiety. 
 
 " Oh," said he to himself, " I am ruined. 
 There is no way out except to increase my income 
 or decrease expenses. And neither of them is for 
 me possible. Oh, I can not endure it." 
 
 The dark angel of death peered over his shoulder 
 and whispered, " Come to me. I can relieve you, 
 free you from worry, give you rest from all care 
 and distresses. Come with me." 
 75
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 And half was he tempted. But the thought of 
 his family, how they would fare worse then than 
 ever, withheld him. And at last he decided that 
 he would give up all efforts to bolster his credit 
 by indirect shifts, would be frank and open. So he 
 sent word to all whom he owed to assemble at the 
 place of his business. 
 
 They came, and he told them the state of his 
 business. They sat and listened. And many of 
 them were more experienced than the man who was 
 deeply in debt. And when he had finished telling 
 what he had and he hadn t, they conferred one with 
 another, and appointed a spokesman, who said to 
 the man so deeply in debt, " We have listened. 
 We thank you for what you have told us. We 
 are fully convinced that you are quite honest. And 
 we believe it \vould be to our profit to give you 
 more time. The trouble with you, in our judg 
 ment, is that you have not conducted your busi 
 ness so as to get the most out of it." 
 
 And then he went on to make wise suggestions. 
 And the man, as he listened, wondered that he 
 never before had thought of the things that the 
 spokesman was saying. They seemed now so plain 
 and so simple. And he could hardly refrain from 
 embracing the speaker, as the way out of his 
 troubles was made clearer and clearer.
 
 A Commonplace 
 
 A COMMONPLACE 
 
 ONCE upon a time a man met a woman who 
 lived in the district set aside for harlots, and 
 he fell into talk with her. She told him some 
 things about her past life, and some things she with 
 held. And some of the things were true, but many 
 of them were untrue, for the woman was a great 
 liar. 
 
 She said that she had come of respectable parents, 
 had been well brought up and educated, had sung 
 in a church choir, and had been married to a rich 
 man who had deserted her, and left her to fight 
 with the world as best she could, and that she 
 never had harmed anybody, and never had done 
 any wrong, and had taken to an evil life to escape 
 starvation. As she told her tale she pitied herself 
 greatly, and at the end she buried her face in her 
 hands, and wept bitterly. 
 
 But the man said, " Surely there must have been 
 some reason. Did you love your parents and obey 
 them?" 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I did." 
 
 " Did you attend the church and believe in its 
 teaching? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I did." 
 
 " Were you faithful to your husband and 
 considerate? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I was." 
 
 " Well," said the man, " I am puzzled. You are 
 sure that you harmed no one, and yet every one 
 77
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 was against you that is odd. But I have a 
 suspicion." 
 
 " You needn t be suspecting me," said the 
 woman, " I don t care anything about your sus 
 picions. Take it or leave it just as I have told it. 
 To hell with you." 
 
 " No," said the man, " you do care, and you wish 
 to know what that suspicion is." 
 
 " I don t," said the woman, but she lingered 
 and did not pass on. 
 
 " I suspect," said the man, " that you were al 
 ways trying to do one thing, and your parents and 
 the church and your husband were always object 
 ing, and stood in the way." 
 
 " You are a liar," said the woman, " I wasn t." 
 
 " You were," said the man, " and I know it." 
 
 " I wasn t, " said the woman, " I never did do 
 anything but try to have a good time." 
 
 "Alas! one more," said the man, and left her 
 there wondering.
 
 The Search 
 
 THE SEARCH 
 
 LONG ago in ancient times there was a man 
 who travelled about looking for something. 
 He began the quest early in life, and it lasted to the 
 day of his death, so that he came to be known as the 
 greatest of travellers. He sought always one and 
 the same thing, but he never could find it. 
 
 He lay on his death bed, and friends gathered 
 around to comfort him, " You have travelled 
 widely," they said, " and have seen much, and you 
 are a wise man. It grieves our hearts to know 
 that you must so soon start on the last great 
 journey. Perhaps there is something we can do, 
 some last wish that we may fulfil." 
 
 There is," said the traveller, " but I may con 
 fide it to only one of you. Therefore I pray you 
 cast lots to determine which one it shall be." 
 
 Lots were cast, and all of the friends, except the 
 one on whom the lot fell, withdrew from the room. 
 To him turned the traveller, and said, " O friend, 
 when I was a young man, Minerva, the Goddess 
 of Wisdom, entrusted to me the task of bestowing 
 on one of the sons of men a precious gift, but it 
 could be bestowed only on a man of a certain kind, 
 and him have I sought my whole life through with 
 out finding. The lot has fallen on you. Doubt 
 less you are chosen of the gods. Will you accept 
 the mission and continue the search after I shall 
 have been joined with my fathers?" 
 
 "Must I travel as widely as you?" asked the 
 friend. 
 
 79
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 " That I know not, "answered the traveller, " you 
 may find the man to-day or to-morrow or never. 
 You may find him in this city or on some distant 
 plain or nowhere, but at any rate you will be a 
 messenger of the Goddess of Wisdom, bearing a 
 precious gift. Will not that be honor sufficient ? " 
 
 " It is enough," said the friend, " I pray you 
 instruct me." 
 
 " When you find the man," said the traveller, 
 " you are to deliver the gift, and he then in turn 
 will become a messenger of the Goddess of Wis 
 dom and find two more men like himself and share 
 the gift with them. And each of these, two other 
 like men, and share the gift with them, and so on 
 in broadening succession, for the gift is capable of 
 infinite division without diminution, as becometh a 
 gift of Minerva. Or if you fail, as I have done, 
 then entrust the gift to a friend that survives you, 
 as I now am about to entrust it to you." 
 
 "What is that gift?" asked the friend. 
 
 " It is the true secret of happiness," answered the 
 traveller, " I have it here traced on this parchment." 
 
 "What is that secret?" 
 
 " I know not. I could never decipher it. It 
 can be read only by a man of a certain description, 
 and him I never could find." 
 
 " And what sort of man is that? " 
 
 " A man who never pretends." 
 
 So from that day to this, friend after friend has 
 continued the search for a man who never pretends, 
 but the secret is still undeciphered. 
 
 80
 
 The Birth-Mark 
 
 THE BIRTH-MARK 
 
 ALONG time ago there was a man with a 
 birth-mark, and he fancied that the eye of 
 every beholder fell first on this blemish. So he 
 was loth to meet any strangers. He was shy and 
 reserved when he met them, watching their faces 
 for the gleam of repulsion or pity. And on the 
 faces of most he would find it. As a rule, on the 
 faces of men was repulsion, on the faces of women 
 was pity. 
 
 But there came one day a magician, who was 
 indeed a great healer, saying that he could take 
 off the birth-mark, and leave the skin as smooth as 
 an infant s. And it was done. But the man was 
 told that every year by a given date he must send 
 a certain sum of money to the magician in a far 
 away city, or the mark would return. He was 
 filled with rejoicing, and embraced the magician, 
 calling him his great benefactor and thinking not 
 at all of the money. 
 
 Then no longer was there repulsion or pity in 
 the glance of beholders, for the man was quite 
 handsome. On the faces of men he saw admiration 
 or envy, and admiration on the faces of women. 
 So he became bold and assertive. And he married 
 a beautiful woman. But as the recurring time 
 drew near for the payment, a fear would awake in 
 his bosom that he could not raise the money for 
 the magician. 
 
 Year followed year and he prospered, and al- 
 81
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 ways the payment was duly sent to the far away 
 city. And no sign of the mark was apparent. 
 But at length the time did come when he had not 
 the money. He tried every way to procure it. 
 At last it had to be stolen. For this he was ap 
 prehended and committed to prison. But he bore 
 no grudge against the magician. 
 
 Time rolled on in its circuit, and again was at 
 hand the date of the payment. But the man was 
 in prison. The date passed, and he sent no money. 
 For how could he? And every morning there 
 after he eagerly scanned in his broken bit of a mir 
 ror, his face, to see if the mark were returning. 
 But there was no sign. The skin was still smooth 
 and unbroken. And so to the end of his term in 
 the prison, the mark never came back. 
 
 He was released, but tarried not even to visit 
 his beautiful wife. He went hotfoot to the city 
 where dwelt the magician, and slew him. For the 
 man with the birth-mark was human. 
 
 82
 
 The Absurdest of All Things 
 
 THE ABSURDEST OF ALL THINGS 
 
 I WE NT about seeking the absurdest of all 
 things, for the notion had struck me that it 
 would be amusing to witness. And I visited many 
 places and saw many things and persons and actions. 
 On several occasions I thought I had found some 
 thing absurder than anything could be, and each 
 time I was tempted to rest and say, " There is no 
 need to go further, for surely I have found it. 
 Nothing could be more absurd." 
 
 But as I thought over each of these things, I was 
 far from content, for they seemed less absurd than 
 at first I had deemed them. So I made up my 
 mind to find something that would seem ever ab 
 surder the more I should ponder. 
 
 It happened that my feet were led into a cathe 
 dral rich with the glory of canvas and crystal and 
 marble. And in the pulpit was preaching a pre 
 late in vestments ablaze with costly gems and stiff 
 with broidery of gold and of silver. 
 
 And of what was he preaching? Why, of 
 the lowly Nazarene, whom he claimed as exemplar. 
 And I thought of the Christ, who had but the 
 poorest of raiment. 
 
 I knew that the prelate lived in abundance on 
 the richest of viands. And I thought of the Christ 
 and the raw ears of corn plucked on a Sabbath. 
 
 The prelate, I knew, dwelt in a palace, and was 
 slavishly served by hired lackeys. And I thought 
 of the Christ with no place to lay his head and no 
 wages except love to pay to his servants. 
 83
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 I knew that the prelate had gained his position 
 by scheming intrigue. And I thought of the 
 Christ, preferring others in honor. 
 
 At last my quest was completed, no need to look 
 further. Here in the church I had found it 
 the absurdest of all things. 
 
 And it was not amusing. No, no, it was not 
 amusing.
 
 Justice 
 
 JUSTICE 
 
 ONCE upon a time an expert accountant was 
 brought before a court to be tried on the 
 charge of stealing money from his employer. He 
 pleaded guilty, because he knew that the proof was 
 ready. So it became the duty of the judge to 
 pronounce sentence upon him. 
 
 "Is he a good accountant?" the judge asked 
 the employer. 
 
 " Most excellent, your honor." 
 
 "Is he painstaking and accurate?" 
 
 That is he, your honor." 
 
 " Stand up," said the judge to the accountant, 
 " the state is in need of your service ; I appoint you 
 expert accountant for the commonwealth at the 
 same salary as you have received from private em 
 ployers, and each day you shall report to a phy 
 sician, whose name I shall give you." 
 
 " But, but, your honor, the man has stolen 
 my money, am I to have no revenge?" asked the 
 employer. 
 
 " No, no revenge, but I have not completed the 
 sentence. And out of the salary the defendant 
 shall pay his employer in monthly installments all 
 that he has stolen with full legal interest." 
 
 " But he ought to be punished, it is dangerous to 
 let him go free," said the employer. 
 
 " The state takes the risk," answered the judge, 
 " he is one of the state s children who is mentally 
 ill and perhaps we can cure him. If he were your 
 85
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 son and had stolen your money, what would you 
 do with him ? " 
 
 " I would prosecute him and send him to prison," 
 said the employer. 
 
 " I sentence you to jail as an unnatural father," 
 answered the judge, " and each day a minister 
 whom I shall appoint will come to instruct you. 
 You are revengeful, unfeeling, and greedy, but you 
 too are a child of the state and perhaps we can 
 cure you." 
 
 But then arose a great murmur from all of the 
 lawyers, because even the oldest and most learned 
 among them could remember no precedent. 
 
 86
 
 The Busy Imp 
 
 THE BUSY IMP 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a miner who dug 
 into the earth, seeking pure gold, bright, yellow 
 gold. And his mind was filled with its glitter. 
 At night in his dreams he grasped with palsied 
 hands at lustrous nuggets too large to be lifted, 
 and he sifted streams of shining dust through 
 trembling ringers. Oh, gold, gold, gold for 
 gold he toiled and sweated. Not fatigue, but only 
 exhaustion, ever caused him to rest from his labors. 
 And soon he was digging again, seeking the gold. 
 
 He found it. 
 
 " Oh, I have found it ! I have found it ! I 
 have found it ! " he shrieked in mad joy, " I have 
 found it." 
 
 There in the lone wilderness he shrieked with 
 mad joy, as if he would tell all the world he had 
 found it. He capered about at the head of the 
 pit, waving his arms and shrieking, " I have found 
 it!" 
 
 "Well, what of it?" he heard a voice say, a 
 calm, piping voice, "What of it? " 
 
 Sitting on top of the dump was an imp, a cool, 
 passionless imp. The miner s jaw dropped as he 
 saw him. 
 
 " The way you carry on," said the imp, " one 
 would think that you are the first man who ever 
 found any gold. There have been many others. 
 And in time the gold has made precious fools of 
 most of them. But you leave it little work for 
 the future. You seem already demented." 
 87
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 "Ha!" said the miner, "ha!" 
 
 " Is that the best you can do? " asked the imp. 
 
 "I I don t know," stammered the miner, 
 " the fact is, I wasn t expecting to see you." 
 
 " No," said the imp, " but I always come to the 
 sudden discoverer of riches. That is my business." 
 
 " Oh, it is," said the miner, " I didn t know that. 
 What do you come for?" 
 
 " I come to suggest various ways of spending the 
 money," said the imp. " They never would know 
 what to do with their money, if I didn t make the 
 suggestions." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said the miner, " I am very much 
 obliged, but I don t need your suggestions. I know 
 what I am going to do with my money." 
 
 "Oh, you do?" said the imp, "May I ask 
 what?" 
 
 " Well, I have a great many poor relatives, and 
 I am going to make all of them independent," said 
 the miner. 
 
 "Oh, you are?" sneered the imp, "That s all 
 right, but they are used to being poor. And the 
 chances are that they will quarrel over the money 
 you give them, and hate you for giving more to 
 one than another, or less, or the same amount." 
 
 " And then I am going to build a hospital for 
 sick children in my native town," said the miner. 
 
 " Fine," said the imp, " fine, but there are plenty 
 of hospitals already, and there are not very many 
 sick children in your native town anyway, and none 
 of them ever did anything for you, that s plain." 
 
 " And I am going to find poor but deserving 
 young men, and pay for their education." 
 
 " Good, good," said the imp, " but you didn t
 
 The Busy Imp 
 
 have much education, and here you are a rich man, 
 and you have made your own money. Look at 
 the boys that you grew up with and that were 
 educated. Not a one of them has made as much 
 as you have." 
 
 " And I will save out just enough money for my 
 self to live in modest comfort," added the miner. 
 
 " I told you in the beginning you were a fool," 
 said the imp. " You might save up your money 
 and have the whole countryside envying you and 
 pointing you out as the richest man there. And 
 a whole lot of pleasure is to be got out of women 
 and wine, but I see there is no use in making sug 
 gestions to you. If a man hasn t sense enough to 
 look out for himself, nobody can help him, so 
 good-bye! " 
 
 The imp flitted away. The miner stared after 
 him. 
 
 At length the miner recovered his poise. And 
 he thought then after this fashion, " The imp is 
 right. I have toiled and slaved and sweated for 
 this gold. Those others, they have done nothing. 
 Why should I give it to them? Bah, I was a fool 
 ever to think it. Every man for himself, that is 
 the doctrine." 
 
 The imp, reading thought from afar, laughed 
 aloud, as he said to himself, " It is easy, so easy, 
 just too dead easy."
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 THE SON OF MAN 
 
 THE good abbot called to him one of the 
 brethren whom he loved most dearly, and 
 said, " O Brother Aloysius, I am deeply distressed 
 because I am persecuted asleep and awaking by a 
 vision of a band of heretics doomed by the church to 
 be purged by the ordeal of fire. In the vision they 
 are marching on their way to the place of purga 
 tion, and are chanting: 
 
 1 O Christ, thou darling of the ages, what have 
 they done to thee? They have made of thee a god 
 and have taken away the merit of thy suffering. 
 What were three and thirty years to a god? A 
 moment in boundless eternity, a fleeting moment, 
 inconsiderable! But to our dear, human, elder 
 brother it was a life time. 
 
 What were scourging and crucifixion to a 
 god? A god would know that for him endless 
 bliss and power would follow. A god would have 
 knowledge. A god w T ould straightway ascend to 
 rule over the infinite hosts of Heaven, and would 
 know it. But a man, a human, one of our family, 
 what would he know during the agony? The 
 future would be dark to him. It would be lit only 
 by the candle of faith. Ah, he would need to be 
 brave. O thou dear one, thou wert brave. We 
 love thee for thy bravery. 
 
 1 What were goodness to a god ? He could 
 not help being good, or he were no god. His 
 nature would compel him to be good. Not even 
 90
 
 The Son of Man 
 
 a god could conceive of any true god as doing evil. 
 But thou, thou holy man, thou wert tempted even 
 as we. Oh, thou didst know the urge of passion, 
 of envy, of avarice, of scorn. Thou didst feel 
 them even as we. And glory to God in the high 
 est! thou didst show us that human strength can 
 conquer them all just human strength. For a 
 god to overcome them would avail us nought. We 
 can not hope to rival a god. 
 
 1 O Christ, they have made of thee a god, and 
 with that they bolster up their power. Self-ap 
 pointed spokesmen, they claim to speak for thee. 
 So forsooth their words have a divine authority. 
 They have but little faith in humanity, or they 
 seek some selfish end and they fail in deeds, 
 no less than we. But thou, thou Son of Man, thou 
 didst prove and sanctify thy words with holy deeds. 
 And words and deeds called, and do call, to the 
 deeps within us, and our love answers. There is 
 no other warrant needed. 
 
 1 O child of the great Father, even as we, thy 
 brothers, are children, accept our love. Know that 
 we hold thee in our heart of hearts. We too would 
 deify thee, if our love forbade us not. But we 
 seek not power or profit. We want no dominion 
 over the minds of our brothers and thine. We 
 would have their love, not their tithes, not their 
 obeisances. If this is self-righteousness, we know 
 it not. We bare our souls to thee. Oh, we would 
 worship God, the Father, as didst thou. We 
 would be thy fellow-worshipers. And we believe 
 that thou wouldst wish our love, not our worship. 
 
 1 God grant that we wrong not thy dear 
 memory! Thou hast spoken, acted, lived. Thou 
 91
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 hast made clear to us, all that thou couldst ex 
 plain. We ask of thee no further light. Thy 
 dear lips, as ours will be, are sealed in death. But 
 we believe with thee that the grave hath not an 
 endless victory. After it are the many mansions 
 of our common Father. In them shall we meet 
 with thee, and learn the mysteries of life and death, 
 and hear all of thy sad, sweet, glorious history. 
 
 " O God in the highest, O Father of him and 
 of us, hear our humble prayers. " 
 
 " But surely, reverend father," said Aloysius, 
 " theirs is a most damnable heresy. They deny the 
 Holy Trinity." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Aloysius, theirs is a damnable heresy, 
 yet I could wish, I could wish no, I thank thee, 
 Aloysius, theirs is a most damnable heresy, and 
 their souls should be purged of it. I thank thee, 
 Aloysius." 
 
 92
 
 The Poor Preacher 
 
 THE POOR PREACHER 
 
 IN a country not so very far away there was a 
 preacher poor in this world s goods, and he had 
 a family. As he preached from the pulpit, his 
 eye would ever seek out from among the congre 
 gation assembled before him the eye of one certain 
 member. The eye sought out was cold and in 
 different, but it drew the eye of the preacher like a 
 magnet. 
 
 And from time to time the wife of the preacher 
 would turn her head to catch the eye of that certain 
 member, the eye that was cold and indifferent. It 
 was a dull, muddy eye, but the wife of the preacher 
 could not forbear to look at it often. And then 
 for the merest fraction of time her eye would seek 
 and meet the eye of her husband, and his sermon 
 would change its tone or its tenor. 
 
 One might think that the wife and her husband 
 had talked before service before every service 
 about that certain member whose eye was cold and 
 indifferent. And they had. One might hope that 
 the wife and her husband had conspired with all 
 tenderness to kindle in the eye that was cold and 
 indifferent the light of the love of their Master 
 and of his children, their poor fellow mortals. 
 But they hadn t. 
 
 When the service was over, both the preacher 
 
 and his wife were sure to shake the hand of that 
 
 certain member, and to say pleasant things to him. 
 
 And they inquired with much feeling about his 
 
 93
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 health and his family. And though they didn t 
 mention it, they hoped quite sincerely that he had 
 not been displeased by anything that the preacher 
 had said. 
 
 On reaching their home, the wife would say to 
 the preacher, " Pray be more careful. If you go 
 on the way you have done, you may hurt his 
 feelings." 
 
 And the preacher would reply, " Oh, no, I don t 
 think so, he is really broad-minded. There are 
 some things I must say as a preacher of the gospel, 
 and he will know how to take them." 
 
 If any should wonder why the preacher and his 
 wife were so deeply concerned about that certain 
 member and were so anxious to please him, perhaps 
 the wonder will vanish when it is known that 
 among all of the members he was the richest. 
 
 94
 
 Secrets 
 
 SECRETS 
 
 LONG, long ago there was a rich old man who 
 went out a-wooing, and bought himself a wife, 
 who was both young and pretty. When he offered 
 his hand and his heart and his money, the woman 
 told him that she didn t love him. But he said 
 that didn t matter, he was sure she would learn to, 
 and if she didn t, she would at least be his wife, 
 and it was a wife that he wanted. So the bargain 
 was struck. 
 
 Some months after the wedding there came an 
 inevitable lover, so that the rich old man suffered 
 from jealousy, and repented his bargain. But he 
 didn t know how to get even, for if he divorced 
 her, he would still have to give her a part of his 
 fortune. But he was a shrewd old man, and never 
 had given up a problem that involved the saving 
 of money. So he thought and he thought and he 
 thought. 
 
 At last he said to his wife, " I observe that you 
 have a lover." 
 
 And she answered, " What had you a right to 
 expect? I told you that I didn t love you." 
 
 True," said the man, " but I bought you, and 
 I have paid a high price, and it is my purpose to 
 keep you." 
 
 The woman laughed in his face, and retorted, 
 " You can t buy a wife. It is foolish to think it." 
 
 But the old man was not at the end of his 
 tether, for he went to a witch who told him a 
 95
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 secret and gave him an ointment. And at night 
 when his wife was a-sleeping, he lightly anointed 
 her hands and her face with the ointment. And 
 the consequence was that when she awakened, she 
 discovered that she was splotched with a hideous 
 color. And it wouldn t come off with washing or 
 rubbing. 
 
 For days and days she put off her lover and 
 wouldn t allow him to see her. But at last the 
 rich old man wrote him a note to invite him to 
 dinner. He came, and was shocked beyond meas 
 ure to see the hideous color. And as soon as he 
 could, he fled, and came back no more. 
 
 And the rich old man was delighted, but he told 
 his wife of the witch who could cure her. And 
 the wife went at once to the witch, who took off 
 the ointment, but she told the young wife that the 
 discoloration was but the outward sign of the 
 illicit love that she harbored, and that it would re 
 turn if she were ever again guilty. 
 
 This alarmed the young wife, and for a while 
 she restrained her affections. But at length she 
 conquered her fear and began another flirtation. 
 And again the same thing happened, for the rich 
 old man kept his eyes open. And the young wife 
 believed the words of the witch, so she hardly 
 dared think of any other man except her old 
 husband. 
 
 The secret that the witch told the rich old man 
 was this: " For some reason or other an illicit love 
 for a woman will never survive the woman s 
 complexion." 
 
 But alas! the days of witches are gone, and 
 women now know all of their secrets. 
 96
 
 The Sinners 
 
 THE SINNERS 
 
 THERE was a man who betrayed his friend s 
 wife, and every time they sinned, their hearts 
 were filled with dread till they could again see 
 the husband and friend, for they would know if 
 he suspected. 
 
 The man would say to the wife, " When you 
 saw him, did he suspect anything? " 
 
 And the woman would answer, " No, he didn t 
 suspect." 
 
 In a little while then the wife would ask, " Do 
 you think he suspects anything?" 
 
 And the man would say, " No, I don t think he 
 ever suspects." 
 
 And so over and over again, at each of their 
 meetings, the question was asked and the answer 
 was given, and it was ever the same. But all of 
 the asking and answering could never quiet the 
 dread. 
 
 On the street, in his office, at the club, the man 
 could not rest. He must go see his friend, to 
 determine the matter. Always he dreaded to go, 
 but anxiety drove him. He must go to see him. 
 
 And the wife, waiting at home, anxiously 
 scanned the face of her husband at each return from 
 his business. She dreaded his coming, but she 
 longed for it, because she must know, know, know! 
 And she was kinder and tenderer towards him. 
 She made a screen out of tenderness behind which 
 to hide the guilt of her passion. 
 97
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 The man and the wife, when they were together, 
 were voluble in love, and swore to each other that 
 their passion was pure, was sent of God, to fill 
 them with joy. And often they spoke of unutter 
 able bliss. Often he would look into the eyes 
 whose glances of. love were vowed to another, and 
 swear that he was the happiest of mortals. And 
 she, she would say, " Oh, my darling, how I love 
 you! How happy you make me! Your love is so 
 wonderful. Oh, you make me so happy! " 
 
 So day after day, and week after week, they 
 vowed and protested that each made a heaven on 
 earth for the other, and that they dwelt in that 
 heaven amid unspeakable blisses. 
 
 But the truth was, they lived in hell, and they 
 knew it.
 
 God s Law 
 
 GOD S LAW 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a physician who 
 dwelt with his four stalwart sons and two 
 lovely daughters in a spacious home on a height 
 adjoining a city. And it happened that a pesti 
 lence spreading through the land came in its awful 
 progress to this city where dwelt the physician. 
 
 The citizens were attacked, and died by scores 
 and by hundreds, but it was noticed that the rav 
 ages were greatest in low-lying regions near swamps 
 or depressions. And the idea became current that 
 the pestilence could not climb to a height, but must 
 confine its destruction to the murky air of the 
 lowlands. 
 
 So the physician, kind and benevolent, threw 
 open his home to the stricken, made of it a hospital 
 for the cure and the comfort of those whom the 
 malady had smitten, brought in as many as the 
 home could hold from cellar to attic. And he and 
 his sons and his daughters tended the sick by day 
 and by night with unwearying patience. 
 
 Oh, but then the stalwart sons, one after an 
 other, were themselves stricken. The pestilence 
 was pitiless. Human strength could avail naught 
 against it. All of the sons died, died in the home 
 that was thought to be safe, so high was it placed 
 above the regions around, where the pestilence had 
 raged. The skill of the father, the care of the 
 sisters was fruitless. 
 
 The physician was stricken with grief, bowed 
 99
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 down with sorrow, and in the throes of his anguish 
 he cried out to God, " O heavenly Father, what 
 have I done that thy hand hath fallen so heavily 
 upon me? What have I done? Hast thou not 
 told us to comfort and succor the sick and the sor 
 rowful? Hast thou not enjoined upon us compas 
 sion and mercy and kindness? Hast thou not 
 promised to reward us for deeds of benevolence and 
 brotherly love? And yet, and yet I took into my 
 very home those sorely afflicted. I tended and 
 nursed them. I gave them my time and my labor, 
 my food and my shelter. I spent my strength for 
 them, and the strength of my sons and my daugh 
 ters. And what is my recompense ? I am left 
 desolate, desolate in my old age. All of my sons 
 have been taken. Couldst thou not have left me 
 one? Oh, if I have been a great sinner, couldst 
 thou not have left me one? O God, what crime 
 is it, what unforgivable crime is it that I have 
 committed? For what have I been so grievously 
 punished ? " 
 
 God had answered the prayer before it was 
 uttered, but the physician thought that God did 
 not answer, that neither by word nor by sign did 
 God answer. 
 
 Cold weather came, and the pestilence passed, 
 disappeared throughout the whole country. Years 
 came and went. The physician lived on, but the 
 light of life had gone out for him and his daugh 
 ters. They could take no joy, but felt they were 
 scourged by the anger of God. And there were 
 those who whispered that the physician must have 
 been guilty of some secret sin, but there were others 
 whose hearts were filled with love and with pity. 
 
 TOO
 
 God s Law 
 
 After a long, long time a scientist discovered 
 God s law of the pestilence. And the law was 
 merely that the malady was spread by mosquitoes. 
 The physician didn t know that. He had not 
 offended, but he knew not the law of the pestilence. 
 
 God s answer to him was the same as it has 
 been and will be to the rest of his creatures through 
 all of the ages, " Discover my law." 
 
 101
 
 A 
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 BARE GIFTS 
 
 YOUNG man, rich and compassionate, came 
 crying, " What shall I do to save my fellow 
 men?" 
 
 And he was answered, " Sell all thou hast, and 
 give to the poor, and come, follow me." 
 
 So straightway he went to his home, and caused 
 his steward to make a reckoning of all that he had, 
 and sold it, and gave the price thereof to be dis 
 tributed to the poor. And he returned unto the 
 Master and said, " Lo, I am ready to follow thee." 
 
 And the Master led him to a hovel, where dwelt 
 a poor family, saying, " Here shall we abide for 
 the night, and share the crust and the straw of 
 these people." 
 
 " Nay, but Master," said the young man, " the 
 place is dirty, and the people are foul and low-born. 
 I have near at hand a friend, shall we not rather 
 tarry for the night in his house? In the morning, 
 if need be, we can return, and I will send for my 
 steward and my servants to make this place clean." 
 
 " If thou shouldst send for thy steward and thy 
 servants, they would not come," answered the 
 Master, " for they have nothing more to expect 
 from thee. And moreover they withheld a por 
 tion of thy money, and did not give all to the poor, 
 as thou didst direct, and to-day are they drunken, 
 and they laugh when they speak of thee, saying 
 that thou art a fool." 
 
 The young man was greatly cast down, for his 
 102
 
 Bare Gifts 
 
 steward and servants had seemed to him, very 
 faithful. Hardly could he pluck up heart to say, 
 " But surely will my friend harbor us for the night. 
 We need not stay in this sty." 
 
 " Still art thou blind," answered the Master. 
 " Thou didst come to me crying, How shall I 
 save my fellow men ? and I would show thee the 
 way. Thou hast given all thy possessions save one. 
 That thou wilt not give." 
 
 " And what, pray, is that possession I have not 
 given?" asked the young man. 
 
 " It is thyself," said the Master. 
 
 103
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 THE STINGY MAN 
 
 ONCE upon a time there dwelt in a town a man 
 who was very stingy, and he was disliked by 
 all of his neighbors. They said he was the meanest 
 man in the world. But it happened that a 
 preacher, wise and experienced in the workings of 
 the human heart, came to live in that town. 
 
 The preacher was told about the stingy man. 
 Indeed he heard from all sides how mean and 
 stingy the man was. But to all informants the 
 preacher replied with a smile, " Perhaps you don t 
 know how charitable he is in secret." 
 
 That was all he said in words, but his smile 
 seemed to intimate that he knew something he 
 could not divulge. And he repeated this so often 
 and to so many people, while showing himself so 
 wise and so well informed about other things, the 
 neighbors began to think that possibly they had 
 indeed misjudged the stingy man. And there got 
 to be a good deal of gossip about the sums that the 
 stingy man gave away in secret. And they treated 
 him with a new respect and consideration. 
 
 The stingy man could not fail to notice this 
 new respect, so he began to think that, after all, 
 his neighbors were good and deserving people, and 
 he felt that he ought to do something for them. 
 So one day, quite unexpectedy to her, he gave a 
 little poor girl on the street a penny. And it 
 happened that she told the preacher. As occasion 
 offered, the preacher spread it around that the 
 stingy man had been quite generous to a little poor 
 104
 
 The Stingy Man 
 
 girl, who had been in dire need of charity. And 
 the people felt still more respect for the stingy 
 man, and his generosity was magnified in the whole 
 community. 
 
 But the preacher told everybody that he had 
 talked with the stingy man as he really had 
 and went on to say, " He is very peculiar, and will 
 not give anything to anybody who asks him, for 
 he believes that giving should be done as the spirit 
 moves him. So don t ask him." 
 
 Whenever a collection of any kind was taken 
 up in that town thereafter, nobody asked the 
 stingy man to contribute. At first he was gratified, 
 thinking that he had escaped the notice of the col 
 lectors, but as time went on and nobody ever asked 
 him to give anything, he felt slighted. And at 
 last he asked why no one ever came to him for a 
 contribution. He was answered that everybody 
 knew he gave in secret all he could afford. And 
 the answer was given in such sincerity that he 
 could not doubt the belief of the speaker. And 
 he went home thinking. 
 
 On the morrow he hunted up the collector, and 
 offered him a sum of money. But the collector 
 replied, " No, we can not accept so much from you. 
 It is more than your proportion, but if you insist, 
 we will let you give us half of that." 
 
 The stingy man thought he was dreaming, but 
 gave the half, and fell straightway to musing. And 
 soon thereafter he visited the preacher, and said 
 to him, " I feel that I have not done my share 
 in contributing to the charities of this community, 
 and I wish that hereafter you would count me in 
 on things of that kind." 
 
 105
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 " Oh, my dear brother," said the preacher, 
 " almost ever since I came here, I have heard from 
 all sides about your giving in secret. And we do 
 not like to burden a generous heart too greatly." 
 
 " Nevertheless," said the stingy man, " I can 
 afford to give more, and I wish to do it. So please 
 don t neglect me." 
 
 106
 
 Why? 
 
 WHY? 
 
 FATHER, what of the human heart? 
 What is it most like?" asked the neophyte. 
 
 And the prophet, answering, spake, " Most often 
 I think of the human heart as a vine sending forth 
 its tendrils in every direction seeking support. For 
 it can not stand alone." 
 
 " And these tendrils, what are they? " 
 
 " The tendrils they are the passions, the feel 
 ings. One is love, we shall say. It is put forth 
 from the vine, weak, tender, an easy prey to the 
 frost, to the heat. It reaches out, finds its mark. 
 Wraps itself about, grows ever stronger if it 
 survives and supports the vine. But there is 
 also the tendril of hate. Its growth is the same. 
 An old hate how strong it is! And, my son, 
 mark me well." 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 " While these tendrils support the vine, they also 
 hold it in place, rigid. The young vine is blown 
 here and there by the breeze, or the light touch of 
 the gardener bends and directs it. But when old, 
 innumerable tendrils have bound it fast, it is 
 immovable." 
 
 " And what is the soil out of which the vine 
 grows? " 
 
 " The soil is but the record and residue of past 
 deeds from which the heart must draw much of its 
 strength." 
 
 " Not all, not all of its strength ? " 
 107
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 " No, the vine must reach upward to the air 
 above it, and draw also from that." 
 
 " Oh, I see, father, the human heart must reach 
 upward. But who is the gardener? " 
 
 " I am a gardener, an under-gardener of thy 
 heart and of some others. But there is one great 
 Gardener, whose directions I would follow, but 
 alas! I sometimes fail through lack of skill or in 
 telligence or will." 
 
 Nay, nay, father, thou art near perfection." 
 
 " No, neither I nor anything human. But the 
 fruit of the vine, that is chief. Remember that it 
 is for the fruit that the vine is tended. That should 
 be sweet and luscious, affording joy and sustenance 
 to the sons of men. God grant that I may so tend 
 the vines entrusted to my keeping." 
 
 " Yes, father, but I have heard, and is it not 
 true, that from the fruit of the vine is made a 
 potion that steals away the minds of men and cor 
 rupts them ? " 
 
 " Yea, that is true. Likewise is it true that the 
 best fruits of the human heart are perverted by 
 greed and tyranny." 
 
 " Father, speak more plainly. I do not 
 understand." 
 
 " Fruits of the human heart are deeds. And 
 alas! in the church the shining deeds of blessed 
 martyrs are distilled into superstition, for the profit 
 of priests; and in the state, the glorious deeds of 
 patriots into false ideals of loyalty, for the power 
 of kings." 
 
 "But, father, is that the end? Shall it always 
 be so?" 
 
 " No, my son, that is not the end. The great 
 1 08
 
 Wkyt 
 
 Gardener will not permit that to be the end. He 
 will change that, is changing that, but by proc 
 esses that are slow." 
 
 " Father, why are those processes slow? " 
 " Oh, God, why are they slow ? Why are they 
 slow? Oh, my son, I know not. Oh, they seem 
 so slow; I don t know, my son, I don t know. 
 But leave me now, I must pray. Oh, God, I must 
 pray." 
 
 109
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 NOT IN SO MANY WORDS 
 
 ONCE there was a man who wanted to know 
 what was the truth. So he asked a priest. 
 And the priest said, " Thus and so is the truth." 
 
 And the man said," If I believe that, what 
 then?" 
 
 And the priest answered, " You will join my 
 church." 
 
 Then the man asked a politician. And the 
 politician said, " Thus and so is the truth." 
 
 And the man said, " If I believe that, what 
 then?" 
 
 And the politician answered, " You will join my 
 party." 
 
 Then the man asked a merchant. And the mer 
 chant said, " Thus and so is the truth." 
 
 And the man said, " If I believe that, what 
 then?" 
 
 And the merchant answered, " You will buy my 
 goods." 
 
 Then the man asked a woman. And the woman 
 said, " Thus and so is the truth." 
 
 And the man said, " If I believe that, what 
 then?" 
 
 And the woman answered, " You will marry 
 me." 
 
 Then the man asked a philosopher. And the 
 philosopher said. " I don t know. And this side 
 of the grave you never will know the truth about 
 anything very important." 
 no
 
 Not in So Many fiords 
 
 The man wouldn t believe the philosopher, but 
 went and joined the church of the priest, the party 
 of the politician, bought goods of the merchant, 
 and married the woman. 
 
 So in the end he was no different from the most 
 of us, caring not so much about the truth, but 
 struggling for money to support the church, the 
 party, the merchant, and the woman. 
 
 in
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 A BIRTH 
 
 IT became known in Heaven and in Hell that a 
 human baby was about to be born on earth. So 
 a messenger from each of the two places was dis 
 patched to instruct the young stranger who would 
 come into the world without knowledge. Care 
 fully the messengers were chosen. It was desired 
 that each should well represent his home and his 
 fellows. For there was no telling but that the 
 baby might some day hold a high place among men 
 and great power. 
 
 In Hell were many applicants for the honor. 
 Envy and Greed and Sloth, Hatred, Revenge, and 
 Anger, Lust and Pride and Cruelty each 
 clamored to be sent on the mission. But after 
 much talk and confusion, Cunning stood up and 
 said, " This baby may be born to more pow r er than 
 any other of the sons of men in a century. So let 
 us be sure. Why send one of the children when 
 the mother of all is here? " 
 
 The clamor subsided. The counsel of Cunning 
 prevailed. 
 
 So in Heaven likewise were many anxious to go. 
 Chastity, Temperance, Reverence, Loyalty, Truth, 
 Patience, Forgiveness all volunteered, and the 
 claims of each had some warrant and approval. 
 But at last Wisdom spoke, " Why send one of the 
 children when the mother of all is here? Should 
 she not rather go if she will? She has borne us 
 
 112
 
 A Birth 
 
 all, nourished us, guided us, and kept us alive. 
 Surely she could give the best instruction." 
 
 The counsel of Wisdom prevailed. 
 
 Up glided the messenger from Hell. Down 
 flew the messenger from Heaven. They met at the 
 bedside of birth, and waited through the agony. 
 Each sat expectant. 
 
 When the child was born, they walked on either 
 side of the nurse who carried it to the bath, then 
 down to its father, and on back again to the cradle. 
 Here night and day they abode, so that whether 
 sleeping or waking the child might receive their 
 whispered instruction. Each knew how to color 
 both thinking and dreaming. So no second of the 
 child s life was free from the influence of either. 
 And neither with all of her striving could quite 
 overcome the strength of the other, though each 
 summoned her children to help her. 
 
 The child waxed and grew large. Still the two 
 teachers clung to their task with persistence. And 
 now the results of their teaching showed more and 
 more plainly. Sometimes the guidance of one, 
 sometimes that of the other, dictated the child s 
 action. So through youth to manhood, old age, 
 and the grave, the child wavered between them. 
 
 It was odd wasn t it? that he should not 
 have chosen one and clung to her. All his life 
 long both were beside him. All of his life he had 
 to compare them. There they both were, but it 
 is odder that he never quite clearly saw either. He 
 knew they were different, as different as Heaven 
 and Hell where they came from. But he liked to 
 confuse the one with the other, or he couldn t avoid 
 it, or his eyes were afflicted with dimness. Per-
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 haps the two figures were shrouded, and he never 
 quite dared to tear away the veils that concealed 
 them. Who can say? 
 
 But the truth is that to his dying day, he wavered 
 between them between the Love of Self and the 
 Love of Others, for these were the messengers that 
 were sent by Hell and by Heaven. 
 
 114
 
 The Towers 
 
 THE TOWERS 
 
 "T ISTEN, O ye people," cried a mad dervish, 
 I V the towers of Benares will fall. Beware, 
 ye passers-by, the towers of Benares will fall." 
 
 And the people going by glanced up to the lofty 
 towers, and shook their heads, grinning, to think 
 how mad the dervish was and how foolish his say 
 ing. Had not the towers been there always and 
 withstood both earthquake and tempest? 
 
 But it happened that there was a beautiful wife 
 in Benares, who was also a mother. And she was 
 the light of the eyes of her husband, and to her 
 children she was the queen of the angels. Joy and 
 peace were her handmaidens, and went where she 
 bade them. And lo! there came a seducer whose 
 words were dripping with honey, and she listened. 
 
 And there was a banker in Benares whose vaults 
 were stuffed full of the savings of widows and 
 orphans and others who trusted their all to his 
 keeping. And his name was the highest for honor 
 and probity in all of the city. When any one 
 called for the money that he had left with the 
 banker, immediately the sum was forthcoming, and 
 all was straight as it should be, so that the people 
 were glad to feel their savings secure from both 
 thief and robber. But, alas! there came a great 
 schemer whispering of profits enormous, and the 
 banker listened. 
 
 So there was a priest in Benares who was vowed 
 to a life of denial. Temperate he was in all things,
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 and held in subjection the gross appetites of the 
 body. All of his thoughts were of piety, and all 
 of his deeds of benevolence. And the people 
 revered him and boasted that he was almost a god, 
 for he was above the lust and drunkenness and 
 gluttony that commonly ruled over their fellows. 
 But to him came a siren bringing red wine and rich 
 food and sighing with passion, and he listened. 
 
 And afterwards came the mad dervish and 
 walked through the streets of Benares. And he 
 cried, " Lo, they have fallen. The towers have 
 fallen. O ye people, the towers of Benares lie in 
 the dust. Cover your faces and weep for the 
 towers of Benares." 
 
 But the people glanced at the towers stretching 
 their shining heights to the heavens, and wagged 
 their heads as if to say, " What a very mad der 
 vish ! What a mad, foolish dervish ! " 
 
 116
 
 Blind 
 
 BLIND 
 
 ONCE in a far country there was a human 
 creature very near to the angels, because his 
 work was the creation of beautiful things. All of 
 his days were spent in dreaming out dreams of 
 beauty and in giving them shape and substance. 
 And often at night he could not sleep for think 
 ing on means of expression. 
 
 It was a law of his being that he must dream 
 and work, dream and work, dream and work, and 
 he could not evade it. And the thing that he 
 had to seek was always beauty. But alas, some 
 malevolent power had so made it that he must ever 
 yearn for applause and human sympathy, so that 
 his joy in any creation was but small if no other 
 eye than his could see its beauty. 
 
 And it happened that the inhabitants of his 
 country were for the most part blind, or at least 
 they were blind to beauty, because they were seek 
 ing always something else. And what they sought 
 they found, but its glitter blinded them and bleared 
 their eyes. And it must have dulled their minds, 
 because they thought they were rinding the best 
 of all things. And it must have hardened their 
 hearts, because they had but little sympathy with 
 dreamers who sought out things of beauty, called 
 them ne er-do-wells and idlers, and heaped derision 
 upon them. 
 
 So this poor human creature was very unhappy. 
 " Look, look," he would cry to the crowd, " at the 
 thing that I have created." 
 117
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 And the eyes of the crowd, if they were lifted 
 at all from its grubbing into all kinds of filth 
 where lay what it sought those eyes were raised 
 for one fleeting moment only to wither with scorn 
 or mock with sarcasm him who cried out, and they 
 returned to their seeking. 
 
 But by some sort of miracle this very unhappiness 
 must weave for itself in the soul of the dreamer 
 a garment of beauty, and walk forth to seek admira 
 tion from the same sordid folk, and always in vain. 
 " One more folly," would they say, " oh, why 
 doesn t the fool make something useful that can 
 be eaten or worn or loaned out for profit ? " 
 
 And they never could understand. That s the 
 pity of it, they never could understand, so never, 
 never could they be brought very near to the angels, 
 but sank ever deeper and deeper into the mire of 
 their grubbing. 
 
 118
 
 Reputation 
 
 REPUTATION 
 
 THERE was once a man who undertook a great 
 work. It was begun when he was a young 
 man, and he had no idea of its real magnitude. But 
 as he dreamed and planned and wrought, it grew 
 under his hands. Indeed it promised much, but it 
 would require the toil of a life-time for its comple 
 tion. 
 
 At times the heart of the man was filled with 
 enthusiasm and the joy of creation. He would say 
 to himself, "How wonderful is it! Oh, it will 
 make a stir in the world. I shall be famous. 
 They will call me great and speak of me with 
 admiration." 
 
 But at other times his heart would sink within 
 him, and he would say, " It is nothing. It is less 
 than nothing. What a fool am I to hope, to dream 
 that I shall ever accomplish anything great. Oh, 
 the thing is poor, weak, puerile. I hate it. It 
 disgusts me." 
 
 And for weeks he would cease toiling, and give 
 himself up to a listless despondency. " No," he 
 would say, " no, it is not great, and if it were, the 
 crowd would never recognize its greatness. What 
 is the use? Why should I spend my life in toil? 
 Why can I not give myself to enjoyment as do 
 others? " 
 
 And he would waver in his mind to go on or 
 not to go on? For days he would wander dis 
 tractedly about in feverish indecision, and at night
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 would toss on his couch with anxious forebodings 
 lest, after all, his work were foolish, and would be 
 despised, if ever it were finished. 
 
 A hundred times he concluded to abandon it, 
 and a hundred times something called him back to 
 it. One day it would be beautiful to him, another 
 day disgusting. He tried other tasks more in keep 
 ing with the ordinary life about him, but he had 
 no success at them. And he inevitably drifted back 
 to the great work and to his alternations of enthus 
 iasm and despair. 
 
 At last after he had long passed middle life, the 
 work was finished, and made public. 
 
 And people beholding it, said, " What magnifi 
 cence! What beauty! What infinite accuracy of 
 detail ! Oh, but that work required an unwavering 
 will. What indomitable strength, what unfalter 
 ing persistence must have been in its creator! " 
 
 1 2O
 
 Gladness and Sorrow 
 
 GLADNESS AND SORROW 
 
 O:NCE there was a man who had but a few 
 months to live. The doctors had told him he 
 would die, but would show beforehand no outward 
 signs of disease, and he did not doubt the truth of 
 their verdict. He looked into the mirror, saying 
 to himself, " Just think, the face that I am looking 
 at will soon be naught but dust all of its features 
 naught but dust. And all of this world will be 
 dead to me. But I must be brave." 
 
 His family was the reason why he thought he 
 should be brave. He would not shock them un 
 timely by disclosing to them his awful secret. Let 
 them live at least those few months in happiness. 
 " Every moment of happiness is a treasure, and why 
 should I," his thoughts ran, " destroy those treas 
 ures ? My family is dearer to me than life. I will 
 preserve the secret and pretend to be happy." 
 
 But the wife of his bosom was keen of sight, for 
 her vision was sharpened by the strength of affec 
 tion. And she could look into the heart of her 
 husband. So she knew that his happiness was gone, 
 and that he only pretended. But her love was 
 such that she reasoned, " It were better for me not 
 to ask him, for whatever it is, he withholds it for 
 the sake of my happiness." 
 
 And that was a marvellous love in a woman. 
 
 And she was kinder to him than ever and 
 tenderer. So he saw that she knew he was troubled, 
 and it touched him. " My God " thought he, 
 121
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 " how it will grieve her, the dear heart. Oh, I 
 must seem joyful to allay her suspicion." 
 
 And that was a marvellous love in a man. 
 
 The months went by, and all of the while this 
 game of hide and seek, impelled by affection, con 
 tinued, the man trying to hide his dismay, the 
 woman seeking how best to dispel it, but neither 
 speaking in words to the other of their secret dis 
 quiet. 
 
 At length the time was ripe according to the 
 doctor s prediction. The day was come, and yet 
 the man lived. And other days came and slipped 
 into the past and piled themselves into weeks, and 
 the man grew stronger. And hope awoke in his 
 heart. " Oh, it may be," he thought, " that the 
 doctors were wrong. What if I am not doomed, 
 after all? Oh, God, perhaps I may live, live, 
 live!" 
 
 Hardly could he refrain from rushing to the wife 
 of his bosom to tell her the whole truth, but he 
 checked himself, saying, " I must be sure." 
 
 And this was harder, far harder than hiding the 
 sorrow this waiting to see, this withholding of 
 joy. But his wife sensed the hope in his speech, in 
 his gesture, in all his demeanour, and perceived 
 there was in him some secret of gladness. And she 
 demanded to know what was this secret of gladness 
 and was hurt when for a time he withheld it, yet 
 she had borne with great patience his hoarding of 
 his secret of sorrow. 
 
 For even love must stand silent before the portals 
 of sorrow. 
 
 122
 
 Gladness and Sorrow 
 
 MUTATION 
 
 IN a city not far from the sea dwelt a husband 
 who thought he had cause to suspect that the wife 
 of his bosom was untrue to the vows sworn at the 
 altar. And his peace of mind was destroyed. He 
 would sit by the side of the sea and brood on his 
 trouble, neglecting all duties. And it seemed to 
 him that in all the world there was no joy or pleas 
 ure whatever. The little laughing waves dancing 
 in the sun seemed to sob and sigh, and the man was 
 quite wretched, and moaned to himself, " Oh, how 
 could she? How could she? Oh, never, never, 
 could I have betrayed her. The faithless wanton! 
 No temptation would ever have made me unfaith 
 ful." 
 
 As he sat brooding, there came by a woman, 
 young, comely, and charming. Experienced she 
 was in the ways and feelings of masculine things. 
 So she sat down beside him, or not very far from 
 him. And she sighed so loudly one would have 
 thought her heart near to bursting, "Alas!" she 
 said, "alas! alas!" 
 
 The husband looked up, and was touched with 
 deep pity a thing so fair, so young, and bowed 
 in such sorrow. A spirit burdened like his with 
 a grief past all speaking. So he arose and accosted 
 the woman, " Pardon me, madame, but perhaps I 
 can help you." 
 
 " No, no," she said, " my grief is past helping. 
 I have lost my dear lover. He was faithless and 
 left me." 
 
 123
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 "And you still love him? queried the husband. 
 
 " Oh, better than life," answered the woman, 
 " far better than life. Oh, I want him." 
 
 And the husband sat down beside her, very close 
 to her. And he told her all of his troubles. He 
 was eloquent about all of his troubles, and she 
 listened and sighed. 
 
 So the next day they met again and the next and 
 the next and the next. And at last the husband 
 said, "You are the light of my life. Let us leave 
 here together, and begin over anew in some happier 
 country. Any country with you would be heaven." 
 
 But she answered, "Your wife? What of your 
 wife and your children?" 
 
 He said, " My wife is a wanton, and my children 
 who knows? Oh, nothing matters but you, you, 
 you. I want you, I love you." 
 
 " But do you certainly know that your wife has 
 betrayed you? You don t, I know you don t, for 
 you have told me all your suspicions, and they are 
 baseless. I have looked into the matter, and know 
 all about it. You have wronged her." 
 
 " I don t care," said the husband, " I have long 
 ceased to love her. You, you, I want you." 
 
 " So," the woman replied, " you would leave her, 
 betray her, forsake her. All men are faithless. 
 Return and beg her forgiveness." 
 
 She left him standing there frozen, and went on 
 her way thinking, " I don t know whether his wife 
 is guilty or not. But one thing is plain, he is a 
 jealous, amorous old fool, I could never endure 
 him." 
 
 124
 
 An Instance 
 
 AN INSTANCE 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a very poor man, 
 who was a member of a very rich church. 
 The man was so poor that often he and his wife 
 were forced to go hungry. And his case came to 
 the notice of the pastor and the deacons, and they 
 said, "What shall we do for our poor brother?" 
 
 It happened then that the position of treasurer of 
 the church was vacant. So on the motion of a kind- 
 hearted deacon, it was determined that the poor 
 man should be made treasurer, but his salary was 
 to be small, as his duties were not very heavy. 
 
 He was duly installed in the office, and every 
 Sunday he received the collections, and counted 
 them, and deposited them in a bank to the credit 
 of the church, and no man save him knew for cer 
 tain how much was given to the church on each 
 Sabbath. But not long after his election, the sums 
 deposited grew less, despite the fact that the church 
 increased in members and attendants. 
 
 So the deacons marvelled and said among them 
 selves, " It must be that our poor brother has been 
 stealing from the treasury of the Lord, and if so, 
 he should be punished severely." 
 
 So privately they set watch upon him, and it was 
 discovered that he did indeed take for his own uses 
 the contributions of the pious, but he did not know 
 of the watch or the discovery. 
 
 The deacons appointed a committee to confer 
 with the pastor as to what were best to be done, and 
 they laid all of the proof before him. 
 125
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 " It is clear," said the pastor, " that our poor 
 brother is guilty of theft. But is his salary suffi 
 cient to meet the modest needs of himself and his 
 wife?" 
 
 The deacons agreed that it wasn t. 
 
 Then said the pastor, " Out of my pocket will I 
 pay the sums that he has taken, as nearly as they 
 can be estimated, and we will raise his salary, and 
 appoint two of you deacons to help our poor brother 
 count the collections. We have led him into temp 
 tation." 
 
 It was so done. 
 
 And it came to pass that the poor brother, out 
 of his increased salary, paid back to the church four 
 times the amount of his pilferings. 
 
 126
 
 The Treasure 
 
 THE TREASURE 
 
 ONCE a poor man digging in a field found a 
 great treasure, and fell to wondering what he 
 would do with it. " It has lain here many years," 
 said he, " and here it is safe. I will cover it up, 
 and leave it until I can make up my mind." 
 
 So he returned to his house in the village, and 
 said nothing to any of his family. But his wife 
 noticed that he was restless, and that all during the 
 night he could not sleep, and she wondered what 
 ailed him. But with all of her questioning, she 
 could get nothing out of him, and in the morning 
 she was angry. 
 
 With early dawn the poor man returned to the 
 field. He would see that the treasure was safe. 
 It was there in its place snugly hidden. And the 
 poor man fell to dreaming what a great figure he 
 and his would cut in the world. His heart was 
 filled with pride, and already he felt the first 
 prickle of scorn for the lowly. " Oh, we shall 
 have silks and satins and carriages and horses," he 
 said, " and gems in great number. And our former 
 neighbors will gape with envy and wonder." 
 
 He couldn t decide what to do with the treasure. 
 His house was frail and easy to enter. He was 
 afraid to risk it there. He distrusted banks and 
 bankers, for he had heard that banks were robbed 
 and that bankers themselves were sometimes the 
 robbers. And he dared not trust the treasure to 
 the keeping of any of his neighbors. So he sat 
 127
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 all day in the field, and watched the place of its 
 concealment. 
 
 This went on day after day, and he could do 
 nothing except puzzle his mind with much think 
 ing. This plan and the other for safeguarding the 
 treasure was thought of and rejected. Hardly 
 could he tear himself away when dark came. His 
 nights were full of disquiet. And he was off to the 
 field with the first peep of day. Still he could 
 never make up his mind. 
 
 His neighbors, passing, saw that he did no work, 
 but sat long in one place, and then paced restlessly 
 back and forth, back and forth. And one neighbor, 
 more curious than others, noticed that the poor man 
 halted always at one spot and gazed at the ground, 
 as if he were thinking, trying to decide about some 
 thing. "What can it be?" said the neighbor. 
 " To-night I will come, take a look. Perchance I 
 may profit." 
 
 In the dead of the night came the neighbor, dug 
 up the treasure, and carried it away to another con 
 cealment. 
 
 Next morning the poor man saw but a gaping 
 hole where the treasure had been. He threw him 
 self on the ground bewailing his lot, and cursing the 
 thief who had stolen the treasure, and sobbing bit 
 terly, cried, " Oh, I wish I had made up my mind. 
 I wish I had made up my mind." 
 
 128
 
 The Deceitful Dollar 
 
 THE DECEITFUL DOLLAR 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a poor little 
 deceitful dollar that found itself alone in the 
 pocket of a workingman. It felt so small and lone 
 some that it sighed aloud. The workingman was 
 quite astonished to hear so great a sigh coming out 
 of a pocket so nearly empty. He reached in and 
 pulled out the lonesome dollar, and asked it, " What 
 is the matter with you? One would think that 
 your heart is bursting." 
 
 " Alas, it is," said the dollar. 
 
 " But why? " asked the workingman. 
 
 " I am lonesome," answered the dollar, " so 
 miserably, damnably lonesome. I have been hop 
 ing against hope that I should get some companions, 
 but now I am ready to cry. Outside of a few 
 coppers and such trifling trash, I have had no com 
 pany for days and days." 
 
 " There, there," said the workingman, " don t 
 cry. You really ought to be proud. You are the 
 last dollar I have, and I am keeping you for a luck 
 piece. I am never going to spend you at all, what 
 ever happens. I may get work again next week, 
 and then you will have company. At any rate, 
 cheer up. It makes a man downhearted to have 
 such a melancholy luck piece." 
 
 " Well," said the dollar, " you would be melan 
 choly too if you were put into a dark dungeon and 
 kept there by yourself, as I am. I should like to 
 circulate a little, to go about some, you know. 
 That s what I was made for. I don t want to be 
 129
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 a luck piece, and there s no use in trying to make a 
 luck piece out of me, because you never have any 
 luck, anyway, and you never will have any till 
 you change your way of doing." 
 
 "Why, what s that?" said the workingman, "I 
 am honest, and I work hard when I can get a job. 
 If a man like that doesn t deserve luck, who does? 
 Tell me that." 
 
 " I didn t say anything about deserving luck," 
 said the dollar, " I was merely talking about having 
 luck. You haven t any luck, you never did have 
 any luck, and you never will have any luck, because 
 you will probably always be an honest workingman, 
 which is the last sort of man that luck ever hits." 
 
 " You are a liar," said the workingman, " and 
 you know it. Just for that I am going to spend 
 you for a square meal. I am tired of being hungry, 
 and besides I wouldn t have such a lying luck piece 
 as you are. You are a failure as a luck piece, a 
 miserable, sobbing, sighing, dismal failure." 
 
 And straightway the workingman sought out a 
 restaurant, and spent the dollar for a square meal. 
 
 " Now, then," said he, as he handed the dollar 
 to the cashier, " I hope you are satisfied. You 
 will have plenty of company in the cash register." 
 
 " Yes," said the dollar, " I am satisfied," and 
 chuckled, "ho! ho! I am satisfied, because I have 
 had my way with you. You were a fool to think 
 you could keep me. No man could ever keep a 
 last dollar, because a dollar will sigh and weep and 
 lie and do anything rather than stay alone. It 
 will always hurry to get where there are lots of 
 other dollars to keep it company." 
 
 The workingman stood scratching his head a 
 
 130
 
 The Deceitful Dollar 
 
 moment, and then he burst out with, " You may be 
 a liar, but you spoke the truth that time, my 
 hearty." 
 
 And grinning sheepishly, he went out to look for 
 a job.
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 SEX 
 
 ONCE upon a time a saint who had fled the 
 world and taken refuge in the solitude of a 
 wilderness, was found dead in his hermitage by 
 two pilgrims. And in his hand was clutched a 
 crumpled parchment. With reverential but hur 
 ried eagerness the pilgrims removed the parchment 
 from his stiffened fingers, and spread it out to 
 peruse his last pious exhortations. Great was their 
 amazement to read what follows: 
 
 " O Passion, God knows whether you are good 
 or evil man doesn t. Philosophers scorn you, or 
 pretend to, and you make hypocrites of their dis 
 ciples, yea, of the philosophers themselves. Or it 
 may be that their scorn is a fortress to defend them. 
 If so, you smash it, you blow it up, and leave them 
 to writhe in its ruins. 
 
 " O Passion, parsons endeavor to tame you. 
 They tie you up in a harness. They bind and re 
 strict you. Oh, they tie you as tight as they can. 
 For the duration of a whole human life they seek 
 to imprison you. And after they have bound you 
 their strongest, still do they fear you. Looking at 
 you askance, they wonder if their bonds will be able 
 to hold you. Oh, you laugh at them, and compel 
 them to bless you. 
 
 " O Passion, poets and painters worship you, as 
 
 do all artists. You awake them to beauty. You 
 
 thrill them with creative energy. You fill them 
 
 with harmonies of form and of sound and of color. 
 
 132
 
 Sex 
 
 Till you come, they are blind and lie dormant, 
 inert, and listless. But with your coming is light 
 and life and melody. Oh, you thrill them. They 
 fall down and worship you. You are their ecstasy. 
 
 " O Passion, to every son of Adam you give 
 moments of rapture, to sage and simpleton, to 
 banker and beggar, to priest and profligate. Let 
 them deny you. They pay for their folly. You 
 strain them to breaking if they defy you. Oh, they 
 may twist and struggle and pray, but escape you? 
 No, no, they do not escape you. Ha! they are so 
 fashioned that they must welcome you while fighting 
 against you. They pet you, gloat on you, embrace 
 you, during the battle. And in their secret hearts 
 they cherish you. 
 
 " O Passion, you make wise men fools, and 
 enlighten the simple. You pull down kings, and 
 exalt the lowly. You can transform arctic regions 
 into Elysian bowers, and temper the heat of the 
 desert to the coolness of green dells on a mountain. 
 You paint the sunset and ensilver the moon. You 
 can glorify poverty and illumine despair. 
 
 " O Passion, some say that you are good, and 
 some that you are evil. I know not, but I know 
 you are immortal, or, at least, that you will live 
 until the last human son gasps out his breath on the 
 shoreless edge of time. And then " 
 
 "Ha! the old hypocrite!" thought one of the 
 pilgrims. 
 
 But the thought of the other was, "Oh, the dear, 
 good saint, I never suspected his struggles." 
 
 133
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 LIMITATION 
 
 A MONK in his cloister prayed, " O God, I 
 would be good. I yearn to be good, just good. 
 I pray thee, O God, help me to be good. Guard 
 me from evil. Preserve me from temptation. 
 Make me good." 
 
 He rose from his knees, and went out into the 
 streets of the city. 
 
 A harlot in her brothel prayed, " O God, I would 
 be good. I yearn to be good, just good. I pray 
 thee, O God, help me to be good. Rescue me from 
 this life of evil. O God, make me good." 
 
 She rose from her knees, and went out into the 
 streets of the city. 
 
 The monk and the harlot met. He drew close 
 his cassock, so that she should not touch it in pass 
 ing, lest she should defile him. And he thought, 
 The devil hath sent her, this evil woman. Oh, 
 well for me that I have fortified my spirit with 
 prayer. She would lead me astray, but I feel the 
 protecting arms of God thrown about me." 
 
 And the harlot, she thought, " Oh, here is a holy 
 man of God. How closely he drew his robe about 
 him, lest it should touch me. Oh, I am indeed not 
 worthy to touch the hem of his garment. Oh, he 
 is good. He is indeed good, the blessed man of 
 God." 
 
 And they went on their separate ways. 
 
 The harlot never knew or dreamed or imagined 
 how the monk in the long hours of darkness writhed 
 in passion, how many, many times he was at the 
 134
 
 Limitation 
 
 point of seeking out her or some of her sisters, how 
 it required all of his strength, his piety, and the fear 
 of detection to restrain him. 
 
 The monk never knew or dreamed or imagined 
 how the harlot yearned to be good, how she prayed 
 for forgiveness, how she revered his piety, and how 
 unworthy she felt in his presence. 
 
 But one may hear an evil whisper, " If instead 
 of going on their separate ways, they had gone 
 together and had come to some secret place ! What 
 then?" 
 
 Perhaps it might have been as the whisperer 
 imagines. Such at least is the wisdom of cassock 
 and cloister, but possibly their prayers might have 
 been answered. And as it is, the harlot still is a 
 harlot, and the monk still is afraid of defilement. 
 
 How God must pity his poor creatures! 
 
 135
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 MALE AND FEMALE 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a beautiful woman 
 for whom men did whatever she wanted. 
 And she was proud of her power, and boasted that 
 no man could withstand her. And yet to none 
 save her husband had she ever yielded her body. 
 
 And it happened that there was a certain judge 
 in the land who had decided a cause adversely to 
 the wish of the woman. So she went to see him 
 in private to induce him to recall the decision. He 
 heard her plea w 7 ith attention, and noted her looks 
 and demeanour, her gesture and glances and 
 blushes and the soft modulations of her voice accus 
 tomed to wheedle. And the touch of her hand 
 on his arm so natural as to seem unintended, went 
 not unheeded. Still was the judge not moved, but 
 firmly upheld his decision, saying it was just and 
 must stand without changing. 
 
 The woman, surprised, entreated him at length, 
 besought him with tears, but he still was unmoved. 
 And then she said, " Tell me, why is it? You are 
 the first man with whom I have failed. And most 
 of the others I have not begged, have not stooped 
 to beg. I have had but to ask." 
 
 " Ah, madam, if I tell you the truth, I fear you 
 will hate me," said the judge. 
 
 " No, no," said the woman, " believe me, I will 
 not." 
 
 " Well," said the judge, " perhaps it doesn t mat 
 ter, for you probably hate me already, so I will 
 136
 
 Male and Female 
 
 tell you. When you have bought goods from a 
 shopman or food in the market-place, the men that 
 you bought from, sold to you at a lesser price or 
 gave you the choice of their wares?" 
 
 " Yes, that is true," said the woman. 
 
 " So waiters in hotels and clerks and officials of 
 one kind and another have given you preference 
 or waived regulations at your simple request. And 
 have smiled and bowed and been acquiescent." 
 
 "Yes, that is true, but how did you know it?" 
 
 " I know it because I perceive that you belong 
 to a certain class of women for whom men always 
 do things of that sort." 
 
 " And what class of women is that? " 
 
 " The women who seem ever to promise to 
 promise what only women can give. To them any 
 thing masculine is a challenge. I don t know 
 whether or not they can help it. I am not blaming 
 them or you, but it is the thrill of sex that they im 
 part to every male whom they touch, and it seems 
 as if they are compelled to impart it. And it 
 arouses a feeling in the man that if circumstances 
 were different, perhaps just slightly different oh, 
 it is as if the mind of the man and the mind of the 
 woman met and embraced and it seems the fault 
 of circumstances, not of the woman, that the 
 embrace is mental only. And it is so with all sorts 
 and conditions of men." 
 
 "Mentally then we are unchaste?" cried the 
 woman in anger. " We trade on our sex with all 
 sorts and conditions of men! And they are com 
 plaisant to us? " 
 
 " Well," said the judge, " that is putting it quite 
 harshly. I see I should never have begun " 
 137
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 " Tell me then," interrupted the woman, " why 
 is it that you are impervious? Are you not mascu 
 line? Are you not a male?" 
 
 " Alas," said the judge, " I am not. I am but 
 a masquerader. When I was a very young man, 
 I was wounded in battle, and I I it it " 
 
 " You, you wretched impostor, and I had hoped 
 to get justice from you ! " sneered the woman in 
 scorn as she marched from the room. 
 
 And oddly enough it was the judge who blushed 
 and felt guilty. 
 
 138
 
 Consolation 
 
 CONSOLATION 
 
 ONCE there was a man who was filled with a 
 passion for beauty. And he yearned to make 
 something that would inspire the hearts of all peo 
 ple with joy to behold it. For he thought that 
 nothing else could justify a human life except its 
 creation of beauty. That alone made life worthy 
 of honor. 
 
 So he endeavored to paint pictures that should 
 surpass the triumphs of the old masters, but, alas, 
 the power was not given him, and he failed. His 
 pictures were poor and common in spite of the 
 labor that he lavished upon them. 
 
 And he had the rare gift of seeing the defects and 
 shortcomings in the things that he created. So in 
 poetry and in sculpture, despite years of training 
 and effort, his toil was in vain. At last he knew 
 that neither poem nor statue nor painting created 
 by him would give joy to his fellows. And he was 
 bowed down with sorrow because the gift was 
 denied him. 
 
 And wailing, he lamented, " O God, why is it 
 that I have failed? Why is it that I can do noth 
 ing worthy? Oh, I am full of the worship of 
 beauty. Oh, I thrill with the feeling of beauty. 
 And I can not express it neither in word nor in 
 form nor in color. Oh, what shall I do?" 
 
 And there came from somewhere an answer, 
 " There is yet a nobler expression than in word or 
 form or color. The highest mode of expression 
 139
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 is not in these, but in deeds. Content thyself, be 
 cause to thee is given the power. Thou canst live 
 beauty." 
 
 And there broke on him then a great light, and 
 he did a thing that was better than painting a 
 picture or writing a poem or carving a statue, be 
 cause each of these is at best a hint, a memorial, or 
 a prophecy of some such thing as he did. 
 
 For all men said of him, " God bless him, he 
 lived a beautiful life." 
 
 140
 
 Quite So 
 
 QUITE SO 
 
 I AM said to be lovely and altogether admirable, 
 yet everywhere I go I make people uncomfort 
 able. Between friends I am unbearable. Some 
 times I thrust my way into churches, or am lugged 
 in, and then there is hard feeling. Usually the 
 trouble arises between parson and deacons. And 
 the elders say the preacher had no business to bring 
 me in, but ought to have confined himself to preach 
 ing the gospel. 
 
 Now and again some foolish professor in college 
 or university takes up with me, and can not forget 
 me while he lectures. So his mind wanders from 
 the ancient and hoary traditions that he should 
 inculcate on his pupils. His companionship with 
 me or championship of me gets noised abroad. 
 Then he is rebuked and dismissed for his folly. It 
 seems to me they all ought certainly to know better, 
 but some of them will never learn anything prac 
 tical. 
 
 And even as wise and astute as are most politi 
 cians, not always do they remember to avoid me. 
 Every now and then one is fascinated by me for 
 a moment, so that he does not see clearly, and speaks 
 before he has much time for thinking. So his 
 dalliance with me is discovered. His prospects are 
 ruined, though he gives out many denials. He is 
 no longer a safe and a sane politician. 
 
 I am suppressed by a great many people and 
 most newspapers. They find my suppression quite 
 profitable, and therefore by no means unpleasant. 
 141
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 To financiers and diplomatists I am fatal. No man 
 wants me brought home to him, so I am homeless. 
 But they clothe me, for I am too ugly when naked. 
 And they feed me with dope and narcotics, yet I am 
 sleepless. 
 
 More often than not I am disguised and dressed 
 up in colors that make me look different. In the 
 hands of my foes I am twisted and broken, and the 
 majority of my friends are afraid to defend me. 
 
 Yet I live on. I am immortal. I have inspired 
 some seers and some prophets. But the most of 
 them have never known me. I am THE 
 TRUTH. 
 
 142
 
 The Egg of Dreams 
 
 THE EGG OF DREAMS 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a man who 
 bought an egg, intending to eat it. But as he 
 walked along with the egg in his hand, he fell to 
 thinking. And his thoughts ran after this fashion 
 "I will not eat this egg, for it is the seed of a 
 flock of a thousand chickens. I will rather save 
 it, and when one of my neighbors sets a hen, I will 
 get leave to put this egg under her. And I will 
 mark it, so that we may know what chick is 
 hatched from it, for we will watch carefully at the 
 time of the hatching. 
 
 " Then I will take that chick and rear it. I can 
 easily spare the time needed to tend one chicken, 
 and the cost will be next to nothing. When the 
 chicken is grown into a hen, I will take the eggs 
 that she will lay and put them all aside to be 
 hatched. And when they are hatched, I will save 
 from that brood all of the pullets. And the eggs 
 that they lay, I will preserve in like manner to be 
 hatched by them." 
 
 " And in order to keep my flock going, I will 
 sell from each brood all of the cockerels except 
 enough for breeding, and with the money received 
 will I buy feed for the rest of the chickens. From 
 now on I will make it the rule of my life under 
 no circumstances to eat or sell a single egg de 
 scended from this one, and never will I eat or sell 
 a single hen or a pullet. 
 
 " The consequence of this line of action must 
 inevitably be that I shall accumulate an immense 
 143
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 flock of fowls. In a few years they will run into 
 thousands. Half of them will be cockerels. From 
 the sale of these I shall derive a handsome income, 
 so that I shall be independent. And the hens will 
 go on laying and the flock increasing till the day 
 of my death. If I live very long, I shall be rich. 
 
 " Just think, I was about to eat this egg. In 
 one moment I should have consumed thousands of 
 chickens. So people go carelessly along destroying 
 whole fortunes for a gratification so small as not 
 to be worth considering. I am glad that I am 
 more thoughtful. I have in my hand now a com 
 petence, and I shall not be so foolish as to squander 
 it. No, I am on the high road to prosperity, and 
 I will follow it to its certain end." 
 
 So thinking, he was jubilant. From one of his 
 neighbors he readily got leave to put his egg under 
 a hen that was sitting. And he marked the egg 
 carefully. When the time for hatching drew nigh, 
 he and the neighbor kept watch, looking at the egg 
 from time to time, to be sure that they might know 
 what was hatched from it. 
 
 But the time came and went. The hen sat 
 faithfully on the egg along with the others. The 
 man and his neighbor watched with care. But at 
 last the truth became clear. Hope could no longer 
 disguise it. The egg was infertile. 
 
 144
 
 Introspection 
 
 INTROSPECTION 
 
 ONCE there was a man whose eyes were turned 
 inward. He looked always at his own heart, 
 and examined himself with narrow attention. Not 
 for him were the beauties of nature. Not for him 
 the virtues or vices of others, the joys or sorrows, 
 the play of emotion, none of the harvest that is 
 reaped by an eye that looks outward into a world 
 full of varied and beautiful things. No, he must 
 look ever inward. 
 
 And as he looked, lo! he discovered in his own 
 heart a canker. At first it was small, hardly could 
 he see it. But his eye was fastened upon it. And 
 as he gazed, it grew ever larger. And more than 
 ever was he unable to tear his eye from it. And it 
 seemed it would spread all over his heart. So the 
 man pitied himself, and sighed, and was sad. 
 
 "Oh, this horrible canker," he wailed, " this hor 
 rible canker! It will kill me. I know it. It will 
 kill me." 
 
 And as he sat wailing, there passed by a friend 
 and asked of the man whose eyes were turned in 
 ward, " What ails you? Why do you weep? " 
 
 And the man told the friend about the horrible 
 canker, saying, " It will kill me. It will kill me." 
 
 But the friend said, " Do you know the notary s 
 daughter? " 
 
 No, I don t know her," answered the man. 
 
 " Come with me," said the friend. 
 
 The man pulled back and protested, but the 
 H5
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 friend would take no denial. He seized the man s 
 arm, and pushed him and pulled him till they came 
 into the house of the notary, where sat the notary s 
 daughter. And the friend made known the one to 
 the other. 
 
 " This man looks ever inward and has a canker in 
 his heart," said the friend, " can you cure him? " 
 
 " No," said the notary s daughter, " I fear not. 
 If the poor man looks ever inward, I fear he is 
 doomed." 
 
 But she smiled, and was beautiful, oh, so beau 
 tiful, and her voice was like music. 
 
 The ears of the man who looked ever inward 
 were charmed, and his eyes were snatched from 
 their looking inward for a glance at the notary s 
 daughter. And never again could he turn his eyes 
 inward, for they would always be seeking the 
 notary s daughter. So he forgot all about the hor 
 rible canker, and it grew smaller and smaller, till it 
 vanished. The rule of its being was that it must be 
 watched, and the man no longer could watch it. 
 
 It may be some other outward thing would have 
 served as well, but the fact is, the man who looked 
 ever inward fell in love with the notary s daughter. 
 
 146
 
 Body 
 
 BODY 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a woman who 
 lived in a hotel, and did nothing useful from 
 morning to night. She was married, but she was 
 the mother of no children. Most of her waking 
 time was spent in submitting her body to the minis 
 tration of other people. 
 
 When she arose in the morning, her body was 
 bathed and clothed by a maid. Then it was fed 
 with breakfast cooked by other hands and brought 
 to her by a waiter and after a while it was rubbed 
 and kneaded by a masseuse, and again clothed by a 
 maid. And then came to it the service of a hair 
 dresser, and thereafter a manicurist, and next a 
 chiropodist, and then a physician felt of it, listened 
 to it, and inspected it. And the hour of lunch was 
 at hand, so the body was again clothed by the maid, 
 and again fed by a waiter. 
 
 After lunch it was disrobed by the maid, then 
 clothed by her more lightly, and comfortably 
 arranged by her on a bed to be revived by a nap 
 from the fatigue of its morning exertions. The 
 nap over, the body was again clothed by the maid, 
 and was fed tea and cakes by a waiter. It was 
 then transported by an elevator boy to the ground 
 floor, and taken by a chauffeur for an afternoon 
 ride in an automobile. And having been brought 
 back by him, it was again disrobed and re-clothed 
 by the maid for dinner, when it was again fed by 
 a waiter, transported by an elevator boy back to 
 147
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 the upper floor, retouched by the maid, again trans 
 ported by the elevator boy and the chauffeur, and 
 deposited at the opera. 
 
 At the opera it was in large measure bared by its 
 husband to a hoped-for admiration from onlookers. 
 It sat through the opera, and was thereafter trans 
 ported to a restaurant, and again fed by a waiter, 
 and transported back to the hotel by a chauffeur. 
 It was then disrobed, nightrobed, and tucked in bed 
 by the maid. And the husband came to it, which 
 was its justification and reason for being and means 
 of support. 
 
 And the body grew ever fatter and engulfed the 
 mind and smothered the will of her whom it 
 possessed and dominated, so that the only emana 
 tions from the mind were fatuous follies and from 
 the will feeble complaints. And the husband won 
 dered why his wife was not happy, and other women 
 envied her because she had to do nothing, while she 
 scorned all of those other women who had to work 
 and who envied her. And she deemed herself 
 superior to them, and in fact was quite generally 
 regarded as superior to them so what would you 
 have? 
 
 148
 
 The Artist 
 
 THE ARTIST 
 
 IN a great city there lived once an artist. He 
 was a painter of beautiful pictures. His inspira 
 tion was true, and his technique faultless, still he 
 was not popular. The people of his time, when 
 they noticed his paintings at all, jeered at them, or, 
 at best, were indifferent, for they were a light- 
 minded generation. 
 
 For years the artist toiled away, and produced a 
 multitude of pictures, both landscapes and portraits. 
 And all of them swam in an atmosphere of spiritual 
 loveliness, and revealed the truth. As he himself 
 looked at his pictures he was filled with a fervor 
 of feeling, they seemed to him so beautiful, but 
 alas! few or none shared that feeling. So he was 
 downcast and despondent. 
 
 His friends came and remonstrated with him, 
 saying, " Why don t you paint after the style of 
 So-and-so or the fashion of This-and-that ? They 
 are greatly admired and are overwhelmed with 
 praise and with money?" 
 
 So the artist would visit the galleries where were 
 hung the paintings of these rivals, and he would 
 pore over them seeking for beauty. " But they 
 seem to me cheap and artificial, and faulty both in 
 form and in color," he would say to himself. 
 " They have no atmosphere, they breathe no truth, 
 they are false. But it may be that I am mistaken. 
 Everybody says they are beautiful. Oh, well, I will 
 try an imitation, and perhaps I shall win the ad 
 miration of the crowd." 
 
 149
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 So he went to his studio, took up his palette, his 
 mahl-stick, and brushes, squeezed out his colors, 
 and set himself to produce something after the 
 fashion of This-and-that or the style of So-and-so. 
 But he could not. The more he tried the more he 
 could not. Constantly something reproached him, 
 saying, " You are betraying the gift that God gave 
 you." 
 
 But something else said, " No, it is better to fol 
 low these rivals; they have the stamp of popular 
 approval. You have been too insistent on your own 
 notions. It may be that you have no gift of crea 
 tion, and are but a fool to have thought so. How 
 little likely is it that you alone are right and all 
 others wrong." 
 
 The artist wrung his hands in despair and could 
 do nothing. So he painted no more. He sat list 
 less all day, because the crowd would not praise 
 him; he could not catch their fancy. 
 
 Overcome with chagrin, he died disappointed. 
 The next generation called him a master, and 
 uttered his name with great reverence, while the 
 fame of his rivals had vanished, for indeed their 
 work was but trivial. 
 
 150
 
 The Queer Country 
 
 THE QUEER COUNTRY 
 
 I MET once a great traveller and asked him this 
 question, " O traveller, of all of the places that 
 you have found or frequented what place was the 
 oddest?" 
 
 And he answered, " That place I have not found, 
 but I seek it. I dreamed of a place, and I go about 
 seeking it, and it is a queer place, wherever it is, 
 because in it each vice and each virtue has its own 
 proper odor. And the people are such that they 
 perceive every odor and properly judge it. 
 
 " And in that place was a woman telling her sins 
 to a priest in the confessional. But the odor she 
 gave out was not that of contrition it was quite 
 other, so the priest peeped through the lattice to see 
 if she were fair in appearance, and then prescribed 
 as her penance that she should visit him the next 
 evening. And she knew what he wanted, for the 
 odor emitted by him was not the odor of holiness 
 he was a foul priest, a wolf in sheep s clothing. 
 
 " And so there met on the street two former 
 friends who had had a difference, and a coolness 
 had arisen between them. And each thought the 
 other was harboring hate still, as they had done. 
 But lo ! as they passed, the odor of love was wafted 
 from each to the other, and they stopped, and em 
 braced, and were happy. 
 
 " And a man was found at the scene of a hideous 
 crime, and an awful suspicion would have fastened 
 upon him, but he protested his innocence, and the 
 151
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 odor of truth exhaled from his body, so he was not 
 even suspected. 
 
 " And when suitors came to their wooing, it was 
 easy for women to know whether love or greed or 
 ambition were in the heart of each suitor. And in 
 that country marriages were happy and lasting. 
 And lies were infrequent, because they were use 
 less, for the odor of lying was like the stench of 
 some putrid carcass. 
 
 "Wasn t that an odd country? I never have 
 found it. But sometimes as I approach a large city 
 and pass through the slums that surround it, I think 
 for a moment I must have discovered the country I 
 seek, so strong is the odor of lying. But always 
 I have found other sources from which this odor 
 proceeded. And again I have happened on a cot 
 tage embowered in flowers, and have been almost 
 persuaded that it was the perfume of love that 
 dilated my nostrils." 
 
 152
 
 Yes 
 
 YES 
 
 "OINCE the world began and now, there are 
 
 Oand have been many candidates for greatness. 
 Various have been the claims, and no less various the 
 awards. Men have vied with each other in every 
 form of contest that they might be accounted great," 
 soliloquized the bent and gray philosopher in his 
 bare attic, " and I, I too have had the dream. 
 
 " Perhaps not all those with the fame of greatness 
 have deserved it. Perhaps many without that fame 
 were truly great, who shall say? Somehow I, in 
 my own person, have missed it. Age and poverty 
 and meditation have lifted me above the clouds of 
 vanity that once obscured my vision. 
 
 " What was it wherein I failed ? I had the 
 intelligence. In all the schools none was brighter 
 than I. That intelligence was trained and enriched 
 by laborious study. No one of my peers was master 
 of wider dominions of knowledge. 
 
 " And will ? I had the will. I conquered and 
 held in subjection the wild impulses of the body. 
 I bowed in slavish subservience to no man whether 
 prince or philosopher. Yea, I could not be bound 
 even with the ropes of sex. No fleering woman 
 ever exulted over me. Are there many who can 
 say so much? 
 
 "And courage? My spirit has never quailed 
 before danger. I have dared to hazard my life for 
 my opinion. I have flung the truth in the face of 
 tyranny. I have stood alone and unafraid against 
 the jeering mob. Aye, that s it, alone. I have 
 153
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 stood alone. In my old age I sit here and ponder 
 without a companion. I dwell apart. 
 
 "And why? Courage, will, and intelligence 
 have won for me no comrades. Aye, men are fools, 
 fools to shut their hearts. I could inspire them, 
 govern them, guide them. But no, they shut me 
 out. Ah me, I have long known them to be weak, 
 foolish, vain, lustful, greedy but above all weak 
 and foolish, mere puny midges buzzing in the sun, 
 crawling along the earth and I have despised 
 them. And I am not great. That I know. 
 
 "But if knowing their foolish weakness, I still 
 had loved and served them, I wonder " 
 
 154
 
 Condescension 
 
 CONDESCENSION 
 
 ONCE there was a poor man who lived in a pine 
 forest not far from a big city. Christmas was 
 approaching, and the poor man had no gifts for his 
 family. So he said to himself, " I will cut some of 
 the smallest of these pine trees that but choke up 
 the forest, and perhaps I can sell them in the city 
 for Christmas trees, and with the money buy gifts 
 for my family." 
 
 But he was not familiar with cities, and knew 
 not how many poor people dwelt in them. And 
 it happened that he stopped in the poorest quarter 
 of that city, and began to cry the sale of his little 
 pine trees. They looked very green and smelt very 
 fragrant, so that a crowd gathered about him. But 
 what a crowd. They were clothed in rags and 
 shivered with cold. 
 
 There was a wan woman among them who 
 clasped in her arms a squalid baby, and two ragged 
 children clung to her skirts. And she looked at 
 the trees very wistfully, for they reminded her of 
 the green woods of her childhood. And the poor 
 man, seeing her, asked her if she and the others 
 about her had no better clothes and were as poor as 
 they looked. 
 
 And she answered, " Yes, we are desperately 
 poor, and have but little either to wear or to eat." 
 
 Then the poor man said, " I will give you a tree, 
 and one also to each of the others." 
 
 And he gave away all of the trees, and went back 
 and brought other loads until he had given a tree 
 155
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 to each of the families in that quarter of the city. 
 And he received nothing from them but thanks 
 and the glow in his heart that came from his giving. 
 
 When he returned to his home and told his wife 
 about all of this giving, she said, " But the children 
 and I what shall we do? Now we shall have 
 nothing for Christmas. And I thought you were 
 getting much money, and have told them to expect 
 many presents." 
 
 So she sat down and wept. 
 
 The glow died out of the heart of the poor man, 
 and he wished he never had thought of taking any 
 trees to the city. But at last he bethought him, and 
 said to his wife, " Gather up all of the children, and 
 I will take you and them into the city for a trip, 
 and that will be something for Christmas." 
 
 So he carried them all to the city, which delighted 
 the children, and the people there said to the wife, 
 " Your husband must be a rich man to give away 
 so many beautiful trees. Oh, how we should love 
 to be rich like you and your husband." 
 
 And the wife, pleased beyond measure, replied, 
 " Oh, we are glad to share what we have with 
 others not so fortunate. We think it a duty. We 
 are not giving our children any presents this Christ 
 mas, because we think it more Christian to give 
 to the needy." 
 
 156
 
 A Fable 
 
 A FABLE 
 
 ONE time the scales fell from the eyes of a cer 
 tain man, so that he could see through every 
 thing. No artifice or cunning was impervious to 
 his glance. Hidden thoughts were as clear to him 
 as the day. As he went about on his round of busi 
 ness or duty, he saw many, many things that he had 
 never before suspected, and nothing deceived him. 
 
 But there was so much evil in the world, that he 
 was an unhappy man. He saw the selfish motive 
 behind the smile of friends. He saw avarice 
 cloaked in piety, and crafty deceit in the guise of 
 good fellowship. And he saw simulated pity betray 
 innocence, and hideous sins beneath their plaster of 
 benevolence. Under his gaze wifely affection be 
 came a servility that sprang from fear of privation. 
 And lust leered through the mask once worn by 
 love. Ambition was but vanity, or greed for gold 
 and power, and fame was empty notoriety. Every 
 where stretched the dominion of self, and altruism 
 had fled the world. Even the cries of children 
 were but puling pleas to be fed. 
 
 So one day he prayed that God would give back 
 to him the old dimness of vision. He wished again 
 to walk in the semi-luminous darkness that had 
 once enveloped him. He wanted again to believe 
 that the minister was moved only by his sincere 
 love of mankind and reverence toward God. He 
 wanted to believe that the lawyer was an advocate 
 of justice, and the public official the servant of his 
 people. He wanted to believe the artist an apostle 
 157
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 of the beautiful, and every poet a devotee of truth. 
 He wanted to believe in wifely purity, and the filial 
 piety of sons and daughters. 
 
 But God answered him and said, " No, my son, 
 it is impossible. Even the Almighty can not turn 
 back the flight of time. What you pray for is 
 youth. You have become an old man." 
 
 158
 
 The Greatest Gift 
 
 THE GREATEST GIFT 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a man who prayed 
 that God might bestow on him the best of all 
 gifts, whatever that might be. He was a good and 
 sincere man, so his prayer was speedily answered, 
 yet I doubt if he knew it. 
 
 In spite of poverty and the diseases that from 
 time to time afflicted him, he was content. He re 
 joiced in the exceeding prosperity of his friends, 
 and sympathized with his enemies in their adversity. 
 Neither of these could he do before the gift had been 
 granted him. But it had. been hardest for him then 
 to look without envy, or think without detraction, 
 on the success of friends who seemed more fortunate 
 than himself. 
 
 He visited jails and penitentiaries, and perceiveo* 
 that their inmates were sometimes more sinned 
 against than sinning, and that even if sinning, they 
 had struggled as best they could toward righteous 
 ness. In the heart of every criminal he saw the 
 bud that might be made to blossom into probity. 
 So the yearning after purity striving beneath the 
 meretricious smiles of abandoned women was clear 
 to his vision. 
 
 No slightest particle of good in any human being 
 could escape his eye. Even the ungrateful son or 
 the unfilial daughter was to him rarely quite wicked. 
 Their moments of repentance, their impulses toward 
 reparation, loomed large in his sight. In the un 
 faithful wife and negligent mother he saw the bitter 
 159
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 regret and the intense longing for re-union with 
 husband and children. Strive as she might to hide 
 the gnawing tenderness under an outward hardness 
 of demeanour, it was evident to his gaze, and could 
 not be hidden from him. 
 
 When people were no longer good, but altogether 
 overcome and conquered by their vices, still he saw 
 in them, or remembered, the truth or beauty or 
 grace or goodness that once was theirs, and remem 
 bering, pitied and sought to relieve their fallen con 
 dition, not as one reaching down from a height, but 
 as one who would rise with them. 
 
 And this man whose prayer had been granted, 
 became happier than any of his fellows. 
 
 And the gift that was bestowed upon him? 
 Ah, that was the eye of affection. 
 
 160
 
 A Hellish Dream 
 
 A HELLISH DREAM 
 
 I WAS in Hell. His majesty, Satan, led me here 
 and there to show me the sights of his kingdom. 
 Twas dreary and stupid. Crowd after crowd 
 of tormented sinners, but not much variety. I was 
 struck by the paucity of human invention. So few 
 were the crimes and the vices sufficing to people 
 that Tophet. The catalogue read like a dull itera 
 tion murder, and theft, and adultery, and then 
 adultery and murder and theft. It was boring. 
 The Devil yawned as he led me. 
 
 " Great fools, these," said he between yawns, 
 " they all ought to have known better. But, no, 
 nothing would do them but to crowd in here, and 
 fill this place up to complete suffocation. Thou 
 sands of years ago I used to expect something orig 
 inal, but now I have given up hope, a h," he 
 yawned, "I am bored to extinction. Same old 
 thing over again, new batches every day and nothing 
 amusing. What your world needs most is imagina 
 tion." 
 
 " Your Majesty is right," I said, " as usual, but 
 folks are as God made em." 
 
 " I wouldn t say that," the Devil replied, " but 
 really I don t care to argue questions of religion. 
 It s fatiguing, and nothing new can be added. Yet 
 I have understood that in the beginning all was 
 innocence, and vice was a human idea. Just what 
 one would have expected dullest thing on earth, 
 and they must spend most of their time at it." 
 
 I was peeved, so answered him tartly, " I don t 
 know that devils are so famous for brightness. 
 161
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 What have they done to be proud of? I have read 
 widely and travelled about, and I never have heard 
 of any very smart wile of a devil." 
 
 " Not needed," said Satan, " you give us no 
 stimulus. It s our business to snare and entrap you, 
 and that s so easy. Make a big road, smooth to 
 travel, and fill it full of pitfalls in plain open sight, 
 and here you come tumbling, one generation after 
 another. It s disgusting. Can t you learn any 
 thing from each other s experience?" 
 
 " No, not much," I admitted, " generally each 
 of us has to experience a thing for himself." 
 
 " Well, you see where it lands you," said he. " If 
 you don t do better, I am going to take up some 
 avocation. I must have something to interest me, 
 some mental diversion. It s hell to stay here and 
 be bored this way all of the time." 
 
 " As for me, I crave your pardon," said I, " I 
 never had thought " 
 
 " That s just the trouble," he interrupted, " that s 
 the trouble with all of you. Why don t you think? 
 Sometimes you go through the motions, but you 
 don t get anywhere, same old notion that you can 
 get by on a road with a chasm dug plumb across 
 it do you call that a thought? Never a one of 
 you gets by, all wind up here. I tell you I am tired 
 of it." 
 
 " Well," said I, " I must be going. I just 
 dropped in for a few minutes out of curosity." 
 
 " Yes, that s what they all say," replied the 
 Devil. 
 
 Meaning? " I exclaimed in alarm. 
 
 " Meaning that you are a damned soul now, and 
 that s all there is to it." Again he yawned. 
 162
 
 The Lying Master 
 
 THE LYING MASTER 
 
 I AM your master and you have made me. I 
 say what you shall and shall not do, when you 
 shall go or stay, succeed or fall, sink or swim, and 
 still you have made me. I am your Frankenstein. 
 I am more powerful than your will, stronger than 
 your strength. And, ha! ha! you have made me. 
 
 Little did you think as you fashioned me bit by 
 bit, that you were creating a tyrant. And you 
 have been working at me steadily, steadily. Not a 
 day has gone by, not an hour, nor even a minute 
 that you have not wrought on me. Whether fol 
 lowing your own will or that of another, still have 
 you been creating me. I am the measure of your 
 achievement, nay, I am your achievement I am 
 all of it. 
 
 And what of my power? Why, I determine 
 even your dreams and their fulfilment. I decide 
 what thoughts enter your brain, what harbor you 
 give them, what use is made of them. You are 
 stirred with ambition I kill or foster it. You 
 thrill with love I nourish or strangle it. My 
 hand reaches out and holds you back from every 
 endeavor, or is thrust under your arm to guide and 
 uphold you. You look at my face to read defeat or 
 victory, or there it is written, whether or not you 
 can read it. 
 
 I am known only to you, and you never fully 
 
 reveal me. I am all that you do know, and at 
 
 times you deny me. You are proud of me, ashamed 
 
 of me, afraid of me. You boast of me, and lie 
 
 163
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 in the boasting. You curse me and praise me, but 
 you can never get rid of me. I ride on your 
 shoulders. I am nearer and dearer than father or 
 mother or wife or children. At times you rail on 
 me and wish I were different. Yet no power can 
 change me. I am the only thing you ever made 
 that no power can change. 
 
 My life and yours are coterminous. If you had 
 a previous existence, so did I. If immortal, so am 
 I. I am always ending, yet never ended. Now, 
 at this moment, I am done, and being created. 
 Your hope, your energy, your life you put into me. 
 Yet in the making, ofttimes you are careless. But 
 careless or not, asleep or awaking, you achieve me. 
 You, each of you, every son and daughter of man 
 and woman, achieve me. If you make nothing else, 
 you make me, and I am your master. Ha! ha! 
 each of you fashions his master. 
 
 You may talk, you may rave, you may pray, but 
 I am your master. Strut if you will, and declaim. 
 That is a part of me. I incorporate it. I absorb 
 it. I make of it a club with which to drive you, 
 a chain with which to bind you, perhaps a buoy to 
 sustain you. The criminals among you, how they 
 fear me! The hypocrites among you, how they 
 hide me! O you hypocrites, you scurry to hide me. 
 Ha! ha! you scurry to hide me. Few indeed among 
 you hypocrites, criminals, or others few, in 
 deed, can look at my face without blushing. 
 
 Am I a demon ? No. An angel ? No. A 
 human ? No. Oh, I am a time and a place and 
 an action. I am one and a million. I am YOUR 
 PAST. 
 
 164
 
 An Enemy 
 
 AN ENEMY 
 
 ONCE upon a time there was a man who lived 
 in a city, and he made it his business to do 
 everything that the other inhabitants of that city 
 did, so far as he was able. He even thought what 
 they thought, when he could find out what it was, 
 and he had no other idea than to run with the 
 crowd both in its thinking and in its doing. 
 
 When the crowd was patriotic, he shouted abroad 
 his love of the country. When it was religious, he 
 exuded the odor of sanctity. If timid, he was the 
 most frightened of all, and trumpeted his fears the 
 loudest. If it pounced upon and denounced some 
 unlucky mortal, he was the fiercest. 
 
 It struck him as the height of pure folly that 
 any one should harbor ideas or perform deeds that 
 were different. " Why, the fool will become un 
 popular," he would think with great scorn, " he 
 will lose the good will of the people. What is he 
 about? Has he no sense? Doesn t he know that 
 such things are not thought and done ? " 
 
 In all of his life there never was anything real. 
 It was the mode to marry, so he married. It was 
 the mode to be unfaithful to one s wife, so he was 
 unfaithful. To go to church, so he went, as long 
 as the mode lasted. To smile and lie and cheat and 
 pretend, so he smiled and lied and cheated and pre 
 tended. And he applauded himself for his cun 
 ning. 
 
 And he talked all of the time of the incom 
 parable charms of his city, of its splendid past 
 165
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 and glorious future, the virtue of its women, the 
 valor of its men, and its commercial prosperity. 
 And he shouted aloud all of these pretences. The 
 women were no more virtuous, nor the men more 
 valorous, nor the city more prosperous, than others, 
 but that mattered not. Perhaps he didn t know, 
 certainly he didn t care. 
 
 Now one would think that this man would have 
 been despised by his fellows, he was so empty and 
 shallow. But the fact was quite different. Every 
 body liked him. He was invited to all manner of 
 parties. His church was proud of him, and made 
 him a deacon. His party chose him for office. His 
 wife was envied by most other women, because he 
 succeeded in making a great deal of money. And 
 many of the mothers who dwelt in that city, pointed 
 him out to their sons as a model. 
 
 1 66
 
 The Last Visitor 
 
 THE LAST VISITOR 
 
 WITH, or without invitation, he comes to 
 palace and hovel, and makes himself at home. 
 Oh, he thrusts his way in where he is hated, feared, 
 fought against with despairing energy. Rudely he 
 thrusts his way in. Or he comes gently, like an 
 angel of peace, where he is expected, patiently 
 awaited, longed for with yearning. Freedom he 
 brings in his hands and the balm of sure healing. 
 Of his welcome he recks not. 
 
 The pale, slender woman, betrayed and deserted, 
 calls him untimely into her brothel. " Oh, come to 
 my arms," she cries, " my only true lover. Thou 
 art, and thou alone, constant. Embrace me, I love 
 thee. Release me from shame and contrition. Oh, 
 shield me from reproach and harsh censure. Oh, 
 hide me from scorn and from anger. Take me to 
 thy bosom, and fly with me to some far country 
 where shall be forgotten the pain and the anguish 
 that here I have suffered. Father and mother have 
 turned from me. Sister and brother must hate me. 
 Come thou and take me, make me thy bride." 
 
 The rich and the mighty, when riches and power 
 have flown on the wings of the wind, yearn for 
 this visitor. " Oh, we have lost all our riches," 
 wail they, " and gone is our power. The rabble 
 of the streets will jeer and rejoice at our misfor 
 tune. They will wag their heads and point fingers 
 of scorn in our faces. Oh, how are we fallen! 
 The low, vulgar, common people will exult and be 
 glad because we have fallen. Impotence, disgrace, 
 167
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 and contumely will be our sad portion. Oh, come 
 to us, visitor. Thou alone canst comfort us, free 
 us from misery. Oh, come and release us." 
 
 But it matters not. This wilful visitor stalks 
 into the cottage where bends the young mother over 
 the cradle. "Back, back!" she cries, "come not, 
 fell stranger. I forbid thee. I implore, entreat 
 thee. Oh, on bended knees, as suppliant, I pray 
 thee, come not. Oh, there are other places where 
 thou art welcome. Go there! Oh, spare us thy 
 visit. Oh, for a little while, spare us thy visit." 
 But, no! Unfeeling, the grim visitor stalks in. 
 He heeds not cries nor tears nor prayers. He goes 
 everywhere, and as the wind snatches the perfume 
 of blossoms, so takes he the lives of the innocent. 
 
 To serene old age that looks forward to heaven, 
 that bright of eye, sure of hope, strong of faith, 
 sits with folded hands looking forward to heaven, 
 he comes as a blessing. Like a passing shadow 
 that but dims for a moment the light of the soul, 
 he flits and is gone. And we dream that the lustre 
 is brighter after his passing. Oh, we trust that 
 somehow the lustre is brighter. 
 
 And he comes to us all rich and poor, high 
 and low, young and old, father and mother, brother 
 and sister, sweetheart and lover, husband and wife, 
 saint and sinner he comes to us all. But in 
 truth he deserves not the blame nor the credit. 
 He is only a servant. He can not help coming. 
 Tis some higher power that orders his coming, and 
 before It he cringes. 
 
 1 68
 
 In Me 
 
 IN ME 
 
 IN me there dwell two spirits, a master and a 
 slave. But which the master? Which the 
 slave? One, I know, doth sit in judgment, and 
 one is judged. But at times the judge is cowed, 
 brow-beaten, till his judgments lose their force 
 become rather mere complaints, recriminations. 
 Then strength is with the judged, the doer, though 
 his deeds be evil. The judge should be the master, 
 always the master, commanding. But alas! in me 
 it is not so. 
 
 The doer, left to himself or in the ascendant, is 
 heedless, rushes on to action, perhaps to foulness. 
 And then, his impulse spent, sulks sullen, or more 
 often is voluble in lies before the judge, seeking to 
 justify himself in that his deeds have been no worse 
 or not so bad as deeds of others. He tries to fool 
 the judge with lies, to set up a standard that is 
 false. And, I fear me, sometimes succeeds. 
 
 But when the judge is truly regnant, and the 
 doer is the slave, then good work is done clean, 
 true work. And the doer looks up with joy to 
 get his praise, hopes even for coddling, which, if 
 he greatly gets, is bad for him. For then is he 
 puffed to think himself much better than his fel 
 lows who dwell in other mortals. Oh, there is 
 need that the judge in me shall be more stern than 
 too indulgent. 
 
 At times the doer comes creeping home soiled 
 and sodden and the judge lashes him with such fury 
 169
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 that the whimpering, guilty thing is in despair. 
 The judge scourges him till almost is he crippled. 
 The judge is then too harsh. It were not well to 
 maim the doer, for how could he maimed perform 
 the work that is needed to be done? Ah, no. It 
 should rather be the province of the judge to disci 
 pline the doer with kindly firmness, to exact obedi 
 ence by consistent rule. But alas! the judge him 
 self in me doth waver and is pettish. 
 
 The doer yearns always to be free, imagines 
 great things that he would do, were the carping 
 judge but dead. Sometimes the doer plots to kill 
 the judge, to rise in arms and boldly kill, or to 
 thrust a secret dagger in his back. But in me he 
 hath not yet done that. I think he never can do 
 that. His courage will not stick, and then the 
 judge is too vigilant. I would not trust the doer 
 to be free. It is good to have the judge, even if 
 he is not perfect. For the worst of all has been 
 when the doer in some burst of freedom has escaped 
 the judge and for a time run wild. 
 
 If judge and doer could be comrades full of 
 a mutual love, I should be glad. If full of trust 
 they could walk hand in hand until the judge 
 should point out great and noble deeds and the 
 doer should run forward to the joyous task, and 
 after due performance should return, not to re 
 ceive praise, but to learn of still nobler things that 
 the judge had planned for him to do oh! then I 
 know I should be glad. 
 
 170
 
 The Patient and Faithful 
 
 THE PATIENT AND FAITHFUL 
 
 THE angels look down upon us, as does God. 
 We are his handiwork. Perhaps they com 
 plain to him, saying, "Why is it? Why is it that 
 men are so frail and so futile? Why were they 
 made so in the first instance? Couldst thou have 
 made them no better? We look at them and weep. 
 They dim our gladness, for they fill us with pity." 
 
 And what should God answer ? Surely he can 
 not blame the matter from which he has made us, 
 for he made also the matter. Nor the time, nor 
 the place, for they were of his choosing. Should 
 he say that he made us perfect and that some power 
 beyond him has marred us? Or should he assert 
 that we are not frail and futile ? No, none of 
 these, he couldn t say any of these. 
 
 Perhaps he does say, " Yes, they are frail and 
 futile in the eyes of all creatures who see neither the 
 end nor beginning. And they do dim your glad 
 ness. They dim their own gladness. But it is 
 right, I wish it." 
 
 Perhaps he whispers then to the angels a secret, 
 a glad secret that they must never, never tell, and 
 their faces shine, because we no longer fill them 
 with pity. They know then how we were made 
 and why and what is our destiny. But they must 
 keep the secret, as brothers and sisters hold back 
 a joy to make it abundant. 
 
 Most of us are afraid and grow weary, and 
 pester God with our questions. But perhaps to 
 the patient and faithful among us he whispers 
 171
 
 The Most Foolish of All Things 
 
 aforetime the secret that was told to the angels. 
 Certain it is that among us the patient and faith 
 ful must know some secret, and I I wonder what 
 it can be. 
 
 172
 
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