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

O. M. No, you mean Shakespeare's imitations. Shakespeare created nothing. He correctly observed, and he marvelously painted. He exactly portrayed people whom God had created; but he created none himself. Let us spare him the slander of charging him with trying. Shakespeare could not create. He was a machine, and machines do not create.

Y. M. Where was his excellence, then?

O. M. In this. He was not a sewing-machine, like you and me; he was a Gobelin loom. The threads and the colors came into him from the outside; outside influences, suggestions, experiences (reading, seeing plays, playing plays, borrowing ideas, and so on), framed the patterns in his mind and started up its complex and admirable machinery, and it automatically turned out that pictured and gorgeous fabric which still compels the astonishment of the world. If Shakespeare had been born and bred on a barren and unvisited rock in the ocean his mighty intellect would have had no outside material to work with, and could have invented none; and no outside influences, teachings, moldings, persuasions, inspirations, of a valuable sort, and could have invented none; and so Shakespeare would have produced nothing. In Turkey he would have produced something something up to the highest limit of Turkish influences, associations, and training. In France he would have produced something better-something up to the highest limit of the French influences

and training. In England he rose to the hig a coward!" attainable through the outside helps affordecaf—she did land's ideals, influences, and training. You the merit are but sewing-machines. We must turn out v

we can; we must do our endeavor and care nothin she at all when the unthinking reproach us for not turning out Gobelins.

And ma

Y. M. And so we are mere machines! chines may not boast, nor feel proud of their performance, nor claim personal merit for it, nor applause and praise. It is an infamous doctrine.

O. M. It isn't a doctrine, it is merely a fact. Y. M. I suppose, then, there is no more merit in being brave than in being a coward?

O. M. Personal merit? No. A brave man does not create his bravery. He is entitled to no personal credit for possessing it. It is born to him. A baby born with a billion dollars-where is the personal merit in that? A baby born with nothing-where is the personal demerit in that? The one is fawned upon, admired, worshiped, by sycophants, the other is neglected and despised-where is the sense in it?/

Y. M. Sometimes a timid man sets himself the task of conquering his cowardice and becoming brave and succeeds. What do you say to that?

O. M. That it shows the value of training in right directions over training in wrong ones. Inestimably valuable is training, influence, education, in right directions-training one's self-approbation to elevate its ideals.

Y. M. But as to merit-the personal merit of the victorious coward's project and achievement?

Y. M. There isn't any. In the world's view he is Shakesperer man than he was before, but he didn't

O. M

Shakes

e the change the merit of it is not his.
M. Whose, then?

20 M.

His make, and the influences which wrought upon it from the outside.

Y. M. His make?

He was not afraid of a bull: not afraid of a There was something

O. M. To start with, he was not utterly and completely a coward, or the influences would have had nothing to work upon. cow, though perhaps of a woman, but afraid of a man. to build upon. There was a seed. No seed, no plant. Did he make that seed himself, or was it born in him? It was no merit of his that the seed was there.

Y. M. Well, anyway, the idea of cultivating it, the resolution to cultivate it, was meritorious, and he originated that.

O. M. He did nothing of the kind. It came whence all impulses, good or bad, come-from outside. If that timid man had lived all his life in a community of human rabbits, had never read of brave deeds, had never heard speak of them, had never heard any one praise them nor express envy of the heroes that had done them, he would have had no more idea of bravery than Adam had of modesty, and it could never by any possibility have occurred to him to resolve to become brave. He could not originate the idea-it had to come to him from the outside. And so, when he heard bravery extolled and cowardice derided, it woke him up. He was ashamed. Perhaps his sweetheart turned up her

nose and said, "I am told that you are a coward!" It was not he that turned over the new leaf- -she did it for him. He must not strut around in the merit of it-it is not his.

Y. M. But, anyway, he reared the plant after she watered the seed.

O. M. No. Outside influences reared it. At the command-and trembling-he marched out into the field-with other soldiers and in the daytime, not alone and in the dark. He had the influence of example, he drew courage from his comrades' courage; he was afraid, and wanted to run, but he did not dare; he was afraid to run, with all those soldiers looking on. He was progressing, you see-the moral fear of shame had risen superior to the physical fear of harm. By the end of the campaign experience will have taught him that not all who go into battle get hurt-an outside influence which will be helpful to him; and he will also have learned how sweet it is to be praised for courage and be huzza'd at with tear-choked voices as the war-worn regiment marches past the worshiping multitude with flags flying and the drums beating. After that he will be as securely brave as any veteran in the army-and there will not be a shade nor suggestion of personal merit in it anywhere; it will all have come from the outside. The Victoria Cross breeds more heroes than—

Y. M. Hang it, where is the sense in his becoming brave if he is to get no credit for it?

O. M. Your question will answer itself presently. It involves an important detail of man's make which we have not yet touched upon.

Y. M. What detail is that?

O. M. The impulse which moves a person to do things-the only impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing.

Y. M. The only one! Is there but one?

O. M. That is all.

There is only one.

Y. M. Well, certainly that is a strange enough doctrine. What is the sole impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing?

O. M. The impulse to content his own spirit—the necessity of contenting his own spirit and winning its approval.

Y. M. Oh, come, that won't do!

O. M. Why won't it?

Y. M. Because it puts him in the attitude of always looking out for his own comfort and advantage; whereas an unselfish man often does a thing solely for another person's good when it is a positive disadvantage to himself.

O. M. It is a mistake. The act must do him good, FIRST; otherwise he will not do it. He may think he is doing it solely for the other person's sake, but it is not so; he is contenting his own spirit first— the other person's benefit has to always take second place.

Y. M. What a fantastic idea! What becomes of self-sacrifice? Please answer me that.

O. M. What is self-sacrifice?

Y. M. The doing good to another person where no shadow nor suggestion of benefit to one's self can result from it.