# What Is Man? and Other Essays ## Part 4 Book page: https://www.cyberlibrary.org/en/books/what-is-man-and-other-essays-70/index.md Y.M. (_After a reflective pause) _Temperament. Well, I see one must allow for temperament. It is a large factor, sure enough. My mother is thoughtful, and not hot-tempered. When I was dressed I went to her room; she was not there; I called, she answered from the bathroom. I heard the water running. I inquired. She answered, without temper, that Jane had forgotten her bath, and she was preparing it herself. I offered to ring, but she said, “No, don’t do that; it would only distress her to be confronted with her lapse, and would be a rebuke; she doesn’t deserve that—she is not to blame for the tricks her memory serves her.” I say—has my mother an Interior Master?—and where was he? O.M. He was there. There, and looking out for his own peace and pleasure and contentment. The girl’s distress would have pained _your mother. _Otherwise the girl would have been rung up, distress and all. I know women who would have gotten a No. 1 _pleasure _out of ringing Jane up—and so they would infallibly have pushed the button and obeyed the law of their make and training, which are the servants of their Interior Masters. It is quite likely that a part of your mother’s forbearance came from training. The _good _kind of training—whose best and highest function is to see to it that every time it confers a satisfaction upon its pupil a benefit shall fall at second hand upon others. Y.M. If you were going to condense into an admonition your plan for the general betterment of the race’s condition, how would you word it? _Admonition_ O.M. Diligently train your ideals _upward _and _still upward _toward a summit where you will find your chiefest pleasure in conduct which, while contenting you, will be sure to confer benefits upon your neighbor and the community. Y.M. Is that a new gospel? O.M. No. Y.M. It has been taught before? O.M. For ten thousand years. Y.M. By whom? O.M. All the great religions—all the great gospels. Y.M. Then there is nothing new about it? O.M. Oh yes, there is. It is candidly stated, this time. That has not been done before. Y.M. How do you mean? O.M. Haven’t I put _you first, _and your neighbor and the community afterward? Y.M. Well, yes, that is a difference, it is true. O.M. The difference between straight speaking and crooked; the difference between frankness and shuffling. Y.M. Explain. O.M. The others offer you a hundred bribes to be good, thus conceding that the Master inside of you must be conciliated and contented first, and that you will do nothing at _first hand _but for his sake; then they turn square around and require you to do good for _other’s _sake _chiefly_; and to do your duty for duty’s _sake_, chiefly; and to do acts of _self_-_sacrifice_. Thus at the outset we all stand upon the same ground—recognition of the supreme and absolute Monarch that resides in man, and we all grovel before him and appeal to him; then those others dodge and shuffle, and face around and unfrankly and inconsistently and illogically change the form of their appeal and direct its persuasions to man’s _second-place _powers and to powers which have _no existence _in him, thus advancing them to _first _place; whereas in my Admonition I stick logically and consistently to the original position: I place the Interior Master’s requirements _first_, and keep them there. Y.M. If we grant, for the sake of argument, that your scheme and the other schemes aim at and produce the same result—_right living—_has yours an advantage over the others? O.M. One, yes—a large one. It has no concealments, no deceptions. When a man leads a right and valuable life under it he is not deceived as to the _real _chief motive which impels him to it—in those other cases he is. Y.M. Is that an advantage? Is it an advantage to live a lofty life for a mean reason? In the other cases he lives the lofty life under the _impression _that he is living for a lofty reason. Is not that an advantage? O.M. Perhaps so. The same advantage he might get out of thinking himself a duke, and living a duke’s life and parading in ducal fuss and feathers, when he wasn’t a duke at all, and could find it out if he would only examine the herald’s records. Y.M. But anyway, he is obliged to do a duke’s part; he puts his hand in his pocket and does his benevolences on as big a scale as he can stand, and that benefits the community. O.M. He could do that without being a duke. Y.M. But would he? O.M. Don’t you see where you are arriving? Y.M. Where? O.M. At the standpoint of the other schemes: That it is good morals to let an ignorant duke do showy benevolences for his pride’s sake, a pretty low motive, and go on doing them unwarned, lest if he were made acquainted with the actual motive which prompted them he might shut up his purse and cease to be good? Y.M. But isn’t it best to leave him in ignorance, as long as he _thinks _he is doing good for others’ sake? O.M. Perhaps so. It is the position of the other schemes. They think humbug is good enough morals when the dividend on it is good deeds and handsome conduct. Y.M. It is my opinion that under your scheme of a man’s doing a good deed for his _own _sake first-off, instead of first for the _good deed’s _sake, no man would ever do one. O.M. Have you committed a benevolence lately? Y.M. Yes. This morning. O.M. Give the particulars. Y.M. The cabin of the old negro woman who used to nurse me when I was a child and who saved my life once at the risk of her own, was burned last night, and she came mourning this morning, and pleading for money to build another one. O.M. You furnished it? Y.M. Certainly. O.M. You were glad you had the money? Y.M. Money? I hadn’t. I sold my horse. O.M. You were glad you had the horse? Y.M. Of course I was; for if I hadn’t had the horse I should have been incapable, and my _mother _would have captured the chance to set old Sally up. O.M. You were cordially glad you were not caught out and incapable? Y.M. Oh, I just was! O.M. Now, then— Y.M. Stop where you are! I know your whole catalog of questions, and I could answer every one of them without your wasting the time to ask them; but I will summarize the whole thing in a single remark: I did the charity knowing it was because the act would give _me _a splendid pleasure, and because old Sally’s moving gratitude and delight would give _me _another one; and because the reflection that she would be happy now and out of her trouble would fill _me _full of happiness. I did the whole thing with my eyes open and recognizing and realizing that I was looking out for _my _share of the profits _first_. Now then, I have confessed. Go on. O.M. I haven’t anything to offer; you have covered the whole ground. Can you have been any _more _strongly moved to help Sally out of her trouble—could you have done the deed any more eagerly—if you had been under the delusion that you were doing it for _her _sake and profit only? Y.M. No! Nothing in the world could have made the impulse which moved me more powerful, more masterful, more thoroughly irresistible. I played the limit! O.M. Very well. You begin to suspect—and I claim to _know _—that when a man is a shade _more strongly moved _to do _one _of two things or of two dozen things than he is to do any one of the _others_, he will infallibly do that _one _thing, be it good or be it evil; and if it be good, not all the beguilements of all the casuistries can increase the strength of the impulse by a single shade or add a shade to the comfort and contentment he will get out of the act. Y.M. Then you believe that such tendency toward doing good as is in men’s hearts would not be diminished by the removal of the delusion that good deeds are done primarily for the sake of No. 2 instead of for the sake of No. 1? O.M. That is what I fully believe. Y.M. Doesn’t it somehow seem to take from the dignity of the deed? O.M. If there is dignity in falsity, it does. It removes that. Y.M. What is left for the moralists to do? O.M. Teach unreservedly what he already teaches with one side of his mouth and takes back with the other: Do right _for your own sake, _and be happy in knowing that your _neighbor _will certainly share in the benefits resulting. Y.M. Repeat your Admonition. O.M. _Diligently train your ideals upward and still upward toward a summit where you will find your chiefest pleasure in conduct which, while contenting you, will be sure to confer benefits upon your neighbor and the community._ Y.M. One’s _every _act proceeds from _exterior influences_, you think? O.M. Yes. Y.M. If I conclude to rob a person, I am not the _originator _of the idea, but it comes in from the _outside_? I see him handling money—for instance—and _that _moves me to the crime? O.M. That, by itself? Oh, certainly not. It is merely the _latest _outside influence of a procession of preparatory influences stretching back over a period of years. No _single _outside influence can make a man do a thing which is at war with his training. The most it can do is to start his mind on a new tract and open it to the reception of _new _influences—as in the case of Ignatius Loyola. In time these influences can train him to a point where it will be consonant with his new character to yield to the _final _influence and do that thing. I will put the case in a form which will make my theory clear to you, I think. Here are two ingots of virgin gold. They shall represent a couple of characters which have been refined and perfected in the virtues by years of diligent right training. Suppose you wanted to break down these strong and well-compacted characters—what influence would you bring to bear upon the ingots? Y.M. Work it out yourself. Proceed. O.M. Suppose I turn upon one of them a steam-jet during a long succession of hours. Will there be a result? Y.M. None that I know of. O.M. Why? Y.M. A steam-jet cannot break down such a substance. O.M. Very well. The steam is an _outside influence, _but it is ineffective because the gold _takes no interest in it. _The ingot remains as it was. Suppose we add to the steam some quicksilver in a vaporized condition, and turn the jet upon the ingot, will there be an instantaneous result? Y.M. No. O.M. The _quicksilver _is an outside influence which gold (by its peculiar nature—say _temperament, disposition) cannot be indifferent to. _It stirs up the interest of the gold, although we do not perceive it; but a _single _application of the influence works no damage. Let us continue the application in a steady stream, and call each minute a year. By the end of ten or twenty minutes—ten or twenty years—the little ingot is sodden with quicksilver, its virtues are gone, its character is degraded. At last it is ready to yield to a temptation which it would have taken no notice of, ten or twenty years ago. We will apply that temptation in the form of a pressure of my finger. You note the result? Y.M. Yes; the ingot has crumbled to sand. I understand, now. It is not the _single _outside influence that does the work, but only the _last _one of a long and disintegrating accumulation of them. I see, now, how my _single _impulse to rob the man is not the one that makes me do it, but only the _last _one of a preparatory series. You might illustrate with a parable. _A Parable_ O.M. I will. There was once a pair of New England boys—twins. They were alike in good dispositions, feckless morals, and personal appearance. They were the models of the Sunday—school. At fifteen George had the opportunity to go as cabin-boy in a whale-ship, and sailed away for the Pacific. Henry remained at home in the village. At eighteen George was a sailor before the mast, and Henry was teacher of the advanced Bible class. At twenty-two George, through fighting-habits and drinking-habits acquired at sea and in the sailor boarding-houses of the European and Oriental ports, was a common rough in Hong-Kong, and out of a job; and Henry was superintendent of the Sunday-school. At twenty-six George was a wanderer, a tramp, and Henry was pastor of the village church. Then George came home, and was Henry’s guest. One evening a man passed by and turned down the lane, and Henry said, with a pathetic smile, “Without intending me a discomfort, that man is always keeping me reminded of my pinching poverty, for he carries heaps of money about him, and goes by here every evening of his life.” That _outside influence _—that remark—was enough for George, but _it _was not the one that made him ambush the man and rob him, it merely represented the eleven years’ accumulation of such influences, and gave birth to the act for which their long gestation had made preparation. It had never entered the head of Henry to rob the man—his ingot had been subjected to clean steam only; but George’s had been subjected to vaporized quicksilver. V More About the Machine Note.—When Mrs. W. asks how can a millionaire give a single dollar to colleges and museums while one human being is destitute of bread, she has answered her question herself. Her feeling for the poor shows that she has a standard of benevolence; there she has conceded the millionaire’s privilege of having a standard; since she evidently requires him to adopt her standard, she is by that act requiring herself to adopt his. The human being always looks down when he is examining another person’s standard; he never find one that he has to examine by looking up. _The Man-Machine Again_ Young Man. You really think man is a mere machine? Old Man. I do. Y.M. And that his mind works automatically and is independent of his control—carries on thought on its own hook? O.M. Yes. It is diligently at work, unceasingly at work, during every waking moment. Have you never tossed about all night, imploring, beseeching, commanding your mind to stop work and let you go to sleep?—you who perhaps imagine that your mind is your servant and must obey your orders, think what you tell it to think, and stop when you tell it to stop. When it chooses to work, there is no way to keep it still for an instant. The brightest man would not be able to supply it with subjects if he had to hunt them up. If it needed the man’s help it would wait for him to give it work when he wakes in the morning. Y.M. Maybe it does. O.M. No, it begins right away, before the man gets wide enough awake to give it a suggestion. He may go to sleep saying, “The moment I wake I will think upon such and such a subject,” but he will fail. His mind will be too quick for him; by the time he has become nearly enough awake to be half conscious, he will find that it is already at work upon another subject. Make the experiment and see. Y.M. At any rate, he can make it stick to a subject if he wants to. O.M. Not if it find another that suits it better. As a rule it will listen to neither a dull speaker nor a bright one. It refuses all persuasion. The dull speaker wearies it and sends it far away in idle dreams; the bright speaker throws out stimulating ideas which it goes chasing after and is at once unconscious of him and his talk. You cannot keep your mind from wandering, if it wants to; it is master, not you. _After an Interval of Days_ O.M. Now, dreams—but we will examine that later. Meantime, did you try commanding your mind to wait for orders from you, and not do any thinking on its own hook? Y.M. Yes, I commanded it to stand ready to take orders when I should wake in the morning. O.M. Did it obey? Y.M. No. It went to thinking of something of its own initiation, without waiting for me. Also—as you suggested—at night I appointed a theme for it to begin on in the morning, and commanded it to begin on that one and no other. O.M. Did it obey? Y.M. No. O.M. How many times did you try the experiment? Y.M. Ten. O.M. How many successes did you score? Y.M. Not one. O.M. It is as I have said: the mind is independent of the man. He has no control over it; it does as it pleases. It will take up a subject in spite of him; it will stick to it in spite of him; it will throw it aside in spite of him. It is entirely independent of him. Y.M. Go on. Illustrate. O.M. Do you know chess? Y.M. I learned it a week ago. O.M. Did your mind go on playing the game all night that first night? Y.M. Don’t mention it! O.M. It was eagerly, unsatisfiably interested; it rioted in the combinations; you implored it to drop the game and let you get some sleep? Y.M. Yes. It wouldn’t listen; it played right along. It wore me out and I got up haggard and wretched in the morning. O.M. At some time or other you have been captivated by a ridiculous rhyme-jingle? Y.M. Indeed, yes! “I saw Esau kissing Kate, And she saw I saw Esau; I saw Esau, he saw Kate, And she saw—” And so on. My mind went mad with joy over it. It repeated it all day and all night for a week in spite of all I could do to stop it, and it seemed to me that I must surely go crazy. O.M. And the new popular song? Y.M. Oh yes! “In the Swee-eet By and By”; etc. Yes, the new popular song with the taking melody sings through one’s head day and night, asleep and awake, till one is a wreck. There is no getting the mind to let it alone. O.M. Yes, asleep as well as awake. The mind is quite independent. It is master. You have nothing to do with it. It is so apart from you that it can conduct its affairs, sing its songs, play its chess, weave its complex and ingeniously constructed dreams, while you sleep. It has no use for your help, no use for your guidance, and never uses either, whether you be asleep or awake. You have imagined that you could originate a thought in your mind, and you have sincerely believed you could do it. Y.M. Yes, I have had that idea. O.M. Yet you can’t originate a dream-thought for it to work out, and get it accepted? Y.M. No. O.M. And you can’t dictate its procedure after it has originated a dream-thought for itself? Y.M. No. No one can do it. Do you think the waking mind and the dream mind are the same machine? O.M. There is argument for it. We have wild and fantastic day-thoughts? Things that are dream-like? Y.M. Yes—like Mr. Wells’s man who invented a drug that made him invisible; and like the Arabian tales of the Thousand Nights. O.M. And there are dreams that are rational, simple, consistent, and unfantastic? Y.M. Yes. I have dreams that are like that. Dreams that are just like real life; dreams in which there are several persons with distinctly differentiated characters—inventions of my mind and yet strangers to me: a vulgar person; a refined one; a wise person; a fool; a cruel person; a kind and compassionate one; a quarrelsome person; a peacemaker; old persons and young; beautiful girls and homely ones. They talk in character, each preserves his own characteristics. There are vivid fights, vivid and biting insults, vivid love-passages; there are tragedies and comedies, there are griefs that go to one’s heart, there are sayings and doings that make you laugh: indeed, the whole thing is exactly like real life. O.M. Your dreaming mind originates the scheme, consistently and artistically develops it, and carries the little drama creditably through—all without help or suggestion from you? Y.M. Yes. O.M. It is argument that it could do the like awake without help or suggestion from you—and I think it does. It is argument that it is the same old mind in both cases, and never needs your help. I think the mind is purely a machine, a thoroughly independent machine, an automatic machine. Have you tried the other experiment which I suggested to you? Y.M. Which one? O.M. The one which was to determine how much influence you have over your mind—if any. Y.M. Yes, and got more or less entertainment out of it. I did as you ordered: I placed two texts before my eyes—one a dull one and barren of interest, the other one full of interest, inflamed with it, white-hot with it. I commanded my mind to busy itself solely with the dull one. O.M. Did it obey? Y.M. Well, no, it didn’t. It busied itself with the other one. O.M. Did you try hard to make it obey? Y.M. Yes, I did my honest best. O.M. What was the text which it refused to be interested in or think about? Y.M. It was this question: If A owes B a dollar and a half, and B owes C two and three-quarter, and C owes A thirty—five cents, and D and A together owe E and B three-sixteenths of—of—I don’t remember the rest, now, but anyway it was wholly uninteresting, and I could not force my mind to stick to it even half a minute at a time; it kept flying off to the other text. O.M. What was the other text? Y.M. It is no matter about that. O.M. But what was it? Y.M. A photograph. O.M. Your own? Y.M. No. It was hers. O.M. You really made an honest good test. Did you make a second trial? Y.M. Yes. I commanded my mind to interest itself in the morning paper’s report of the pork-market, and at the same time I reminded it of an experience of mine of sixteen years ago. It refused to consider the pork and gave its whole blazing interest to that ancient incident. O.M. What was the incident? Y.M. An armed desperado slapped my face in the presence of twenty spectators. It makes me wild and murderous every time I think of it. O.M. Good tests, both; very good tests. Did you try my other suggestion? Y.M. The one which was to prove to me that if I would leave my mind to its own devices it would find things to think about without any of my help, and thus convince me that it was a machine, an automatic machine, set in motion by exterior influences, and as independent of me as it could be if it were in some one else’s skull. Is that the one? O.M. Yes. Y.M. I tried it. I was shaving. I had slept well, and my mind was very lively, even gay and frisky. It was reveling in a fantastic and joyful episode of my remote boyhood which had suddenly flashed up in my memory—moved to this by the spectacle of a yellow cat picking its way carefully along the top of the garden wall. The color of this cat brought the bygone cat before me, and I saw her walking along the side-step of the pulpit; saw her walk on to a large sheet of sticky fly-paper and get all her feet involved; saw her struggle and fall down, helpless and dissatisfied, more and more urgent, more and more unreconciled, more and more mutely profane; saw the silent congregation quivering like jelly, and the tears running down their faces. I saw it all. The sight of the tears whisked my mind to a far distant and a sadder scene—in Terra del Fuego—and with Darwin’s eyes I saw a naked great savage hurl his little boy against the rocks for a trifling fault; saw the poor mother gather up her dying child and hug it to her breast and weep, uttering no word. Did my mind stop to mourn with that nude black sister of mine? No—it was far away from that scene in an instant, and was busying itself with an ever-recurring and disagreeable dream of mine. In this dream I always find myself, stripped to my shirt, cringing and dodging about in the midst of a great drawing-room throng of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen, and wondering how I got there. And so on and so on, picture after picture, incident after incident, a drifting panorama of ever-changing, ever-dissolving views manufactured by my mind without any help from me—why, it would take me two hours to merely name the multitude of things my mind tallied off and photographed in fifteen minutes, let alone describe them to you. O.M. A man’s mind, left free, has no use for his help. But there is one way whereby he can get its help when he desires it. Y.M. What is that way? O.M. When your mind is racing along from subject to subject and strikes an inspiring one, open your mouth and begin talking upon that matter—or—take your pen and use that. It will interest your mind and concentrate it, and it will pursue the subject with satisfaction. It will take full charge, and furnish the words itself. Y.M. But don’t I tell it what to say?