yet diseased, the more they have had the more they have wanted. After this has gone on for some time, and after the neurons are once diseased, nothing will content them but alcohol. Yet by the use of that very alcohol the disease becomes steadily more and more serious.

In the meantime, however, the man himself may not see that a subtle weakness is undermining both the power of his brain and the strength of his character. In most cases he even thinks that he is enough of a freeman to stop taking alcohol at a moment's notice, if he should decide to do so. He cannot examine the cells of his own brain, and he does not know that his will power has been conquered by his diseased neurons.

But when some day he suddenly wakens to the discovery that he has undermined the power of his brain and weakened his character, he may wish to separate himself from the cause of his weakness. By that time, however, he may also find that already he is the hopeless victim of diseased neurons, that the alcohol habit is his master; and surely no discovery that a man ever makes about himself can be a sadder one than that.

CHAPTER XXVII

BUNDLES OF HABITS

The man himself was well dressed; he carried a goldheaded cane, wore a silk hat, and walked the streets of London as if he had always been there.

said:

Two other men passed him, and the younger "Rather a queer walk, wasn't it? A bit of a drag to one foot-not really lame, though, was he?" "No, not lame," was the answer, "simply a habit. I know the man. He spent twenty-five years of his life in prison with a ball and chain fastened to his right foot. The weight dragged it then and habit drags it now."

"Can't he help himself?" was the question. “In a way, yes. When his mind is actually fixed on the subject he walks as well as you do. But the moment his mind wanders, the moment he forgets himself, his old habit steps in and his foot drags."

"How did he get out of prison?'

"Well, you see, he was innocent after all, but they didn't know it for twenty-five years, and then they hurried to let him out. They wished to make amends, but already firm habits had been formed."

"He isn't to blame for his dragging foot then?" Not in the least, but it drags just the same." The two men passed on, but the lesson of that story can never be forgotten.

Habits of bone and muscle cling to us through life, whether we are to blame or not to blame for their establishment.

A friend of mine proved this in his own case. He had lived in Japan for thirty years. He then returned to his native town in Ohio, and from behind one day he heard the call: "Well, I declare! If that isn't John Mills! I'm glad to see you back." Mr. Mills turned, laughing, and said: "How do you know me? I've been away for thirty years, and even now you've only seen my back."

"Quite enough," was the answer, I'd know you anywhere by your walk."

"quite enough;

Multitudes of other people also betray themselves unconsciously. Judge this for yourself. Stand at a street corner some day and watch the people who pass by. If you have had any experience in this kind of examination, you will soon learn a fact or two about most of those whom you see. By their habits of walk and of expression; by their habits of gesture and of speech; by the way they wear their clothes and greet their friends; by a dozen small signs, you will come to some general conclusion about the occupation of each one who passes you.

Soldier, sailor, farmer, lawyer, carpenter, preacher, shopkeeper, commercial traveler each occupation seems to betray itself in close line with that which the muscles proclaim by their habits.

Dr. Carpenter says that our organs grow to the way in which they have been exercised; and Professor James says that we are all bundles of habits. No wonder, then, that by the time a man is thirty these habits are revealing unmistakable facts about him. He himself may, however, be entirely ignorant of their declaration. There are, in fact, men who have such high respect for their will power and their power of choice, that they expect to be able to save themselves from any chance habits at any time.

A high-school friend of mine used to be of this opinion. In a talk one day he said: "I don't believe there really is such a thing as habit. I can do the same thing in the same way as long as I please, and then when I want to change and do something else, I just change and do it."

“Do you mean walking crooked and all?" I asked. We both smiled, for he was standing crooked at that moment. "Certainly," he said. "I do it for fun most of the time. But when I go to church I just stand up and I'm as straight as anybody.”

"I fear," said I," that that notion will be your destruction; for the sad fact of the case is that, even now

and you are only fifteen-when you are straight, as you call it, you are not quite so straight as you were a year ago. You'd understand at once if you could get a side view of yourself in a mirror. It isn't simply a case of muscle, you know; it's bone that is bending, and bone is so hard that when it is finally set it is firm for life. Even dendrites and the cerebellum, even the commands of the cerebrum, will do no good after that.”

The boy looked rather serious, and I notice that since then even his week-day walk has improved.

My poor grandmother never succeeded in straightening her back. She saw what she had done to it when it was too late to make any change.

An old neighbor used to say: "Stand up straight! stand up straight! else when you're old you'll be as bent as your grandmother." This meant a good deal to me because, although I loved my sweet-faced grandmother dearly, I felt great pity for her. Somehow I thought she had always been that way, but my friend said: “Oh, no, not at all. When she was in school she was as pretty and slim and straight as anybody; but she always sat at her desk with her back and shoulders curled over, as it were. Then, finally, she began to stand and walk that way, and you see what it has come to. She's a good woman; but it's awful to have a back like that when you might have had a straight back as well as not."