Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

Alfred said he had never thought of it, that he had prayed as a baby, but had stopped early and never felt the need. Florence said the same. Henry said he believed in prayer, especially in prayer for strength in any undertaking. “Of course,” he went on, “I don’t expect to be helped against the other fellow, but I get strength in praying for strength.”

“I agree with you,” said Ruth, “only don’t you pray to know whether you are right or not? For you might be wrong.”

“If I thought I might be wrong,” he answered, “I wouldn’t be doing the thing I was doing.” They argued it a bit. “But,” he went on, “I have no set formula for prayer, nor a definite time.”

Virginia said: “I have always prayed. When I was little I got in the habit of saying a silly little German prayer, so that I could not go to sleep without saying something. So when the little prayer seemed too silly to me, I began saying each evening the stanza of a poem.”

“What poem?” I asked.

“The last stanza of the ‘Chambered Nautilus.’ I could not go to sleep unless I said it.”

She recited it for us.

Marian said: “It depends on what you mean by prayer. I never learned to say any, nor ever wanted to, but I do have a prayer-feeling.”

We all agreed that the prayer which asked for something definite was folly. I said prayer was getting into oneness with the vast Self around and behind us, and drawing strength from that which was ours for the asking, which _was_ ourself.

Marian said it was getting into harmony with the world.

We thought every one had that feeling of vastness, of oneness with God, at times. Virginia said she got it especially when she was by the sea.

“I feel it most,” said Marian, “when I am out of doors, and feel my close relation with nature.”

Henry said he felt it most in a big crowd of people.

“Yes,” answered Ruth; “then you feel how little all this is, and the vast, big life above it all.”

“You don’t mean, Ruth,” I asked “that you feel the crowd to be a little thing?”

“Oh, no,” she answered. “I feel it in the crowd.”

Henry said: “To be among people always arouses that feeling of sympathy.”

There are many ways of praying, I said; to speak certain words that aroused in us the prayer-feeling was a good way; but that the words were only to awaken the feeling in us, and were worth nothing by themselves. If one could feel the prayer without any words whatever, it would be just as well. Florence thought it very hard not to get to repeat words by rote. Henry said he always made a particular effort to think of the meaning of the words as he said them.

“I don’t believe,” said Virginia, “that it is so much thought as feeling. I don’t always think of the meaning of those words when I say them, but I get from them the feeling that I must have, to go to sleep.”

“And now,” I went on, “it seems especially important to get into this frame of mind just before we go to sleep. For during sleep it seems as if the bigger self were working for us. And as we go to sleep, so shall we be next day. I think that if, as you fall asleep, you ask—your vast self—for strength, for the power to do whatever you know you must do next day, and to solve whatever problems you have to solve, and then get the deep sense of prayer, you usually awaken with the strength you need, and your problems solved. Is it not so?”

Virginia said she always found that if she wanted to learn something, she had only to read it over to herself at night, without learning it, and in the morning, when she awoke, she knew it. Ruth said she found it so; that she always felt next day according to the way she had fallen asleep at night. They had various opinions. Marian said it did not matter how she fell asleep at night; if things went well in the morning, the whole day went well; if ill, then the day went ill. She loves the power of each new day. Alfred said he thought that our brains worked for us in sleep, because then the mind was free from all obstructing thoughts.

I repeated for them a little prayer I had written for a baby:

“Great Lord of life, who lives in me,
And lives in all I know,
With happy thoughts I go to sleep;
And while I sleep I grow.

“I hope to wake this coming morn
More strong, and brave and bright;
While you shall stay, both night and day,
With all I love to-night.”

They said it did not seem babyish to them. Henry, especially, liked it, and several of them wished to copy it.

I said one might have the “prayer-feeling,” the sense of the whole, so constantly that one would not need to pray, that one’s whole life might be a prayer.

The children objected to this, because they thought it would be impossible now, in our imperfect condition. Virginia said: “A person who lived that way would be a perfect saint.” Henry thought it would make one cold and unsympathetic.

“How is that possible,” I asked, “when it would be a state of constant sympathy and understanding of life?”

“No,” said Ruth; “such a person would be too much above us. I don’t think one could live so, at present. It would imply a perfection physical and mental that we have not yet reached.”

Florence said she not only thought such a state possible, but she believed there were people who lived in this way now, and that she knew such people.

Some one suggested that they must be unspeakably happy.

“No,” answered Florence; “not necessarily happy, at all.”

I said that I thought such a life would be a state of happiness.

They all agreed; Florence, too, after a moment.

Marian and Henry said they had never met people without limitations. Florence insisted she had; whereupon Marian called her a hero-worshiper. I said people’s limitations were where they failed to understand, and that we none of us understood everything. The sense of oneness would not imply, however, either perfection or apartness or superiority. One might feel everything in this way, whenever one thought of it.

Henry answered: “But how often is one not occupied? Little things distract us constantly.”

Marian said: “It means having always the sense of oneness, sympathy and understanding, and always acting, thinking and judging according to that.”

“Yes,” said I, “and there is another thing that seems to me a prayer. Every creative action; that is, everything we do which brings us into relation with the world, is a prayer because it is an expression of oneness.”

Marian said: “It seems as if there were two kinds of prayer, one strength-giving and one strength-getting.”

I don’t know how we came upon the subject of circles. I said that the smallest things, as well as the largest, were prone to express themselves in a universal way, that every drop of water naturally formed itself into a sphere.

“Yes,” said Marian; “and the circle seems to stand for all life.”

Now we spoke of immortality. I asked each to tell me what he or she thought.

Virginia did not want to express her opinion. Ruth and Henry vaguely implied that they believed in immortality. Alfred said:

“I think it is very good for people, if they can believe in it.”

“That is not the question,” said I. “I believe nothing but the truth is truly good for people. What do _you_ believe?”

“I don’t believe I am immortal,” he answered, “because I see no reason to believe it.”

Florence said: “We must be immortal, because nothing dies, but is passed on. And there is something in us—I mean that which loves and knows sympathy—which we do not pass on. So I think it must be immortal.”

Marian said: “I am, so I don’t see how I could not be.”

I answered them: “Marian’s and Florence’s ideas seem to me very good. One cannot prove immortality. I have good reasons to believe it. But my best reason is not a reason at all; and if you don’t understand it, I cannot explain it to you. If I am, I must be forever. ‘I am’ means immortality. That is what Marian said, and what I believe. If I believe in the whole Self of the universe, and that Self is in me, and I am in it, then how can I die unless that Self dies? And if I believe in progress, which is toward complete understanding and wholeness of the Self, how can that progress be without me who am a part of it? Do you know who Robert Ingersoll was? Well, he, who passed for such a scoffer—though in reality he expressed only his own realization of his ignorance and his contempt for dogmatic faiths—once said: ‘I am a part of the world. Without me the world would be incomplete. In this there is hope.’ Hope, he meant, of eternal life with the world.”

The children were much impressed.

Marian said: “How can one face the horrible thought of extinction? It is unimaginable. What answer would you give,” she asked, “to those people who claim that we are immortal only in our children, in the race? I never know what to answer them, and yet I feel sure they are not right.”

“I think there are two good answers,” I said. “First, it is extremely unlikely that the race is immortal. Even if we thought our immortality unlikely, it is far more likely, and much less of an act of faith, to believe in it than to believe in race-immortality. We know that every planet dies and parches. We know that every race, every physical manifestation comes to an end, but we know that the spirit of life lives forever, and forever grows. I have heard people say that when this planet dries and freezes, men will have advanced so far in science that they will find their way in airships to another planet. But to me it seems far more unlikely than that the spirit of life, the self within us, should go on forever. The second answer seems to me to be Florence’s answer, that we are not immortal in the race, that although we give our children much, we give to no one our power of love, of understanding, of sympathy.”

Henry asked: “Don’t we give it through example and teaching?”

“We give much,” I said. “We can teach and train, but we give no one that understanding self, the power for love and sympathy, which is in us, and cannot be made.”

Henry did not see how one could find satisfaction in living for the race, since forever and ever each successive generation would be mortal and would disappear.

I said I did not believe that in a world which to us was all intellect, the intellect could die. Then I read aloud the following passage from “John Percyfield,” by C. Hanford Henderson:

“It is an old mistake, that of calling desires beliefs. But I think I have allowed for this. I have said, if death end all, if that be the truth of it, then that is what I want to believe. For no man in his right senses wishes to be either self-deceived, or other-deceived. I have doubted immortality, even disbelieved it, but now I believe it on as strong warrant as I have for any of my scientific beliefs. In one sense, immortality cannot be experienced; it is not a fact of experience in the same immediate way that certain minor scientific facts are. But neither can the paleozoic age be experienced, nor space, nor time, nor cause and effect. They are inductions from experience. And so to me is immortality. It is an induction from experience. In a world where every reality is essentially spiritual, or intellectual, whichever term you prefer, where even the study of nature, as soon as it passes from mere observation into orderly science, becomes a mental rather than a physical fact, I can only imagine the disappearance of spirit by picturing the annihilation of the universe itself. Without the mental part that we give to all of our so-called facts, they would cease to exist. It is possible that the universe does shrivel up in this way and disappear, but it is less probable, I think, than any one of the great possibilities which science rejects, and feels warranted in accepting their opposite as fact.”

I said that to me as to him it seemed as if, were there not immortality for the self, the world itself might shrivel up and disappear. A world without immortality would be a mad world, without reason; and, as everything else seems reasonable to me, I believe the world to be reasonable. I spoke, too, of the danger of believing things simply because we liked them. I told them how I had disbelieved in immortality at one time, because I suddenly found I had only believed what pleased me.

Virginia said: “I believe things because I like them. But may not that liking, that feeling, in itself be a sign of truth?”

“No,” I answered; “liking is no proof or sign.”

Marian said: “But it is only because we care, because we wish to believe, that we begin to think of these things.”

“Yes,” I replied, “we must care. But then we must bravely face the truth.”

Marian told us she had never been taught anything on this subject, but that gradually her belief had grown, and that her talks with Ruth had helped her from her ideas.

I said many people believed in “personal” immortality; that is, immortality with memory, and the meeting of those we love. I do not pretend to know, or to have a definite opinion. But I think the results of life are eternal, even if not in precise memories. I asked the children for opinions. None of them seemed to believe, or care to believe, in distinct personal immortality.

Ruth said: “We would surely meet those we had loved, in that complete whole self, even though it were not as persons.”

I was surprised and glad to hear her say it. I had said to the children that they probably believed, and might easily believe, much beyond what I told them, but this was all which I believed; I would tell them no theories or surmises of mine, of which I could not feel certain. They were urgent in asking me please to tell them some theories, but I refused.

Virginia said she believed in transmigration. I think it possible, as I told her; it is in every way consistent with progress and all things in life, but I have no reason for feeling sure of it. She said: “It must be true, for if there is just so much spirit in the world, forever and ever, and if it must express itself through matter, how can there be anything but transmigration? Some time we may all live again on some other planet, in some other shape.” I said it might be so.

The children asked me whether I believed animals were immortal. I answered that as much life and self as is in them must be immortal. I observed that this idea of animal-immortality was consistent with Virginia’s belief in transmigration, that so each least creature might rise through successive stages toward its complete self.

Then I said to the children that, of course, if we believed we had been nothing before we were born, we could easily believe in extinction. But I, for one, believed, yes, knew, that I had been forever, that I was not “made” in these few years.

“Yes,” said Marian, “I could not have grown to be what I am, just since I was born.”

Henry said: “We are not concerned with the past, but with the future.”

Virginia, and the others, brought up instances of seeming to remember things from a former life, of feeling as if they had done some particular thing before, in the dim past.

Alfred had not spoken at all during this time. He now said he very much wished he could believe in immortality, but could not see any reason for doing so. I said we should have to spend the next meeting in convincing Alfred. I went on: “If we believe in the vast Self of life, and if we are a part of that awakening Self, how can we die?”

Then I read aloud Emily Brontë’s “Last Lines.”

I was glad to leave the subject open in this fashion, to give them a week for thought, and I said little more.

SIXTH MEETING

I began by reading the children’s papers. Virginia wrote the following:

“Some people have the idea that to pray means to fall upon one’s knees, fold one’s hands, lift one’s eyes to heaven, and mutter some words one doesn’t understand, sometimes in a foreign tongue. I don’t agree with them. Unconscious prayer is the only true prayer; at least, so I believe. In a great crisis a man does not go on his knees, or, if he does, he is not praying what he is saying, which is a mere parrot-cry. His prayer is what he is thinking, and what is in his heart.

“Many people say a prayer every night. In most cases this is not a true prayer, but still it brings peace and calmness, and it is lovely to be in a calm state before going to sleep. I think the reason for this is that the person who prays before going to sleep thinks himself so virtuous that he is at peace with the whole world. Then again, the person who goes to church every time he commits a sin, and prays for forgiveness, becomes careless of the wrong he does. For can he not pray and be forgiven without the least trouble?”

We had a good laugh over Virginia’s idea of prayer, which seemed to be chiefly her idea of other people’s prayer.

Then I read Henry’s paper:

“Every man must decide for himself whether or not he shall pray, for no one else can tell him, since it is a matter of feeling. If a man is relieved by prayer, then let him pray; but if he only prays from habit, he is doing wrong.

“We must not expect that our prayers will be answered by that superior power which we call God, for this will only happen when we make up our minds to gain our end, and put our heart and spirit in the work. There is a saying, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’

“Some people like to put their prayers in words, while others like to think them and feel them. Still others like to put out of their minds for a time all earthly troubles, and just think of and feel that kindness and sympathy for their fellow man; and to think of the great spiritual questions which should have such great influence on the lives of everybody, and in this way let that spirit within them get complete control of them, and that is their way of praying.

“No one can say which way is the right way, but if you do it in that way which does you the most good, for you it will be the right way.”

Henry said he thought kneeling, and the attitude of prayer, were a “pretty” custom. They were the attitude of supplication. I questioned whether the best “prayer” was a supplication, said I did not like the word “prayer” for that reason. Virginia said she thought we often “felt” a supplication, even if we did not pray nor expect an answer.

Marian had tried to get the “prayer-feeling” each night last week, but had not succeeded. She could not get calm, but thought of everything under the sun, and then fell asleep.

Virginia said: “You can’t make your mind a blank.”

I answered: “Making your mind a blank is not prayer.”

Henry thought it good to consider our spiritual problems just before going to sleep, and so get into the right state of mind. Ruth agreed.

Now I read Marian’s paper:

“At a meeting of the Seekers on November 8th, we discussed the subject of Prayer. Prayer is really a feeling. When we feel truly in harmony with our inner and our bigger self, the feeling we have is prayer. Prayer can be made a source of strength. If we find some way to get into the prayer-feeling every day or at night, it will be a great help to us. As we reached a conclusion on this subject very soon, we began a discussion on Immortality, which we expect to finish next week.”

Now we spoke of immortality. Although the six of us believed in it, by trying to convince Alfred we might gain much.

I asked why, or whether, it was important to have an opinion concerning immortality.

Marian said it was important for us to know, because we were interested, because we cared so much. I answered, that was one reason, and then there was another. Ruth said the other reason was that we acted according to our ideas of death, that it influenced our morality.

“Yes,” I answered, “we live according to our expectations. Think of how the false or true ideas of a future life influenced morality in ages past, of the morals, good and bad, which sprang from the idea of heaven and hell! Alfred, do you think it is important to know?”

“Yes,” said he, “it is important; but I can’t come to any conclusion. I am not convinced.”

Some people feel sure one cannot know anything about immortality, and that therefore it is not worth thinking of it at all.

Henry said: “Because one does not know a thing now is no reason why one should not try to find out. And I believe we shall know, some time. If people had felt so about other equally difficult things, we would never have got on.”

I said: “What is knowledge? We cannot _know_ immortality as an experience, through our senses; but I believe we can _know_ through our reason, just as so much other scientific knowledge is a matter of reason, of analogy, of deduction. It can’t be proved, as one might prove that two and two are four. But then I once read in a book that nothing could be proved, except the things not worth proving.

“If we saw a red rose, and we all called it a red rose, there would be no doubt of its redness. But if we differed, and some called it red, some pink, some yellow, we should soon be in grave doubt. Our eyes might be wrong. There have been so many opinions regarding immortality, because people had different ‘eyes,’ that now we are full of doubts.”

We spoke of the time when the earth was thought flat because it looked flat.

Alfred said: “Immortality of what, do you mean?”

“Immortality of everything,” I answered. “We might, of course, believe that the universe will die, will be extinct. But it is an unthinkable thought. We all believe in something eternal. We know that force does not die, but is changed and transmitted; we know that no substance is destroyed; we know that every action, every circumstance has endless consequences and endless antecedents. They—and I—are forever a part of the universe. How could we be destroyed? Why should we think that everything is immortal, excepting self, which seems the motive force?”

Alfred said: “I don’t believe it is destroyed; but it goes out of me, and that is the end of me.”

The others asked how Alfred could have agreed with us all so far, and not agree now, since it seemed to them that what we had said before, the idea of progress, implied immortality. How could he believe in the Self as God, the vast Self which comes to complete understanding, and yet believe that he, who was a part of it, that in him, and he in that, could be utterly destroyed?

He said he believed new self was always coming into the universe, and old self going out.

“Where would it come from, where would it go?” asked Virginia.

I said: “There is nothing but the universe. Everything is in it.”

He answered that he believed in progress, progress toward unity and understanding, but it passed from one person to another; it would not be himself.

“How could the whole of Self be complete unless you were there?” I asked.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I don’t see how it could be. It would not be myself.”

“No, not you, in any definite sense, but self, and yourself in that. But it does not matter whether you disagree, if you can really go onward with us, and believe with us, without believing you are immortal. For all that matters is how we live now. It is not necessary to know the future, unless you need it for the present. When I say ‘immortal’ I mean we are immortal, now, because the universe is here.”

Ruth thought that life would be meaningless if we were not immortal; that all progress, all goodness would have no sense. She said: “One might live to do good, just to be kind to others, who were also mortal. But if that were the end, there would be no meaning in it.”

Henry agreed with her, and most of the others expressed similar ideas. I said this did not prove we were immortal. But I, too, felt a limited life to be meaningless. Still, I wanted to know the truth.

Alfred saw he could not consistently believe in race immortality, but he wanted to.

Virginia said: “You know the sun will burn down some time. Every fire burns itself out. Then the world will get cold and dark. And then what becomes of the human race?”

“But,” I said, “the energy that was the sun will be in the universe, and will light other suns.”

“Energy never dies,” said Virginia. “If I put out my arm like this,” and she stretched forth her hand, “the energy that goes out from me never dies. It bounds and rebounds, and in some way goes on forever.”

“As it has been forever until now,” I said.

“No, I think it dies out,” said Alfred. “If you bounce a ball, it bounds and rebounds and then stops.”

I explained to him how energy is not destroyed, but transmitted; how nothing is ever destroyed, but all things are changed.

He believed the physical part changed and was not destroyed. Still, it was not life any more.

He said: “It is not the same thing. I am myself now, but I am not the same person I was as a little child. I am all changed.”

“Yes,” I answered him, “your body is different material, your brain and your thoughts are not the same, your shape is changed, but you are still self, and you were self then.”

“But when I die, where will I be?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I know that somehow you must be.”

Virginia and Alfred—in fact, all the children—had a long discussion. Alfred said, in speaking of a horse which had been buried in the woods, and over which ferns had grown, “but the ferns were not the horse”—a sensible remark. He said: “When you move your hand, the energy that goes onward is not the hand. And so, when I die, the self that goes out of me may be a force, but it will go out of me, it will not be I.”

“But you yourself,” I said, “are the life, the force, the self, which goes forth, which moves all things.”

Here the children, being left to themselves, went up into thin air. They argued the possibility of nothingness. Virginia told how when she was a little child she used to imagine what would happen if there were no earth. They each described how they couldn’t imagine nothing, and what happened when they tried. Ruth told how one couldn’t imagine perfect unity and understanding, either. I stopped them, and said it made not the least difference in any fact whether they could or couldn’t imagine it. Virginia, the little artist and mystic, said she thought in childhood one touched the truth unconsciously. The others all denied this. I said it was a pleasant and comfortable thought.

Now I said there was one other interesting thing I wanted to speak of, and that was memory. Most people believe we remember nothing from before birth. This is not true. Our whole body, our very being, is a memory. Florence said: “It is a race memory. Often we find it easy to do a thing we never did before, because our ancestors did it.”

“Yes,” I answered, “instinct is a memory. The fact that we are here at all, our minds, our thinking, as well as our bodies, are a memory. We ourselves, our present bodies, are a consequence of the lives before us, a memory from the endless past.”

“We are what they lived,” said Ruth, “as our bodies shall be what we live, not what we think on the surface, but what we live.”

“Yes,” I answered, “but after a while we do live our thoughts.”

Henry said life was a repetition with progress. “But in the one-celled animal,” he asked, “was life an expression of mind?”

“I don’t know,” I said; “but it seems to me self or will must be at the bottom of all motion. I read a theory lately, in an ‘evolution’ book, that was very interesting. It is this: That consciousness or desire is the source of all development, and that lower creatures are conscious of acts which to us are automatic. The lowest creature, which is a mere bag or stomach, would then be conscious of itself, whereas in us the consciousness of primal organs is swamped and lost in our more intense nervous consciousness. Thus, from the first, consciousness and will might be the source of progress, as they are now.”[2]

They all thought it a plausible and interesting theory. Marian said:

“It seems likely. For do not babies have difficulty in walking, and are conscious of every step, whereas we do it almost automatically?”

“Yes,” I said; “it might be the same with the race.”

I insisted that one could know the truth in certain directions, if one were willing to admit absolute ignorance in others. I felt sure I was immortal, but I had not the least idea how. I would not build up a heaven, hell or universe of the dead, because all these conjectures were likely to be false. I said one could know much and learn more only by admitting one’s limitations.

Of course one could not know, I said, but I myself did not believe in personal immortality with definite memory. It might be so, or it might not.

“I think it is not so,” said Marian, “for we remember nothing definite from before birth.”

“But,” I said, “I feel sure that memory, the essence of memory, will go on; just as our bodies and selves are a memory, so whatever we are in this life will have its consequences, and we will be forever according to what we are now. All progress is a memory—and a prophecy.”

I spoke, too, of the endless stream of every least action, how the least word, once spoken, is a spring of eternal consequence, how each moment is tremendously important. I reminded Marian how she had once said school was so short, it did not much matter what one did; and I had answered her, all life was short.

“Some people think actions under certain conditions—in foreign lands, for instance—do not count.”

Virginia said she lived to enjoy herself, no matter what death might be, but her enjoyment included making others happy. I said, that was the only good way to live, to enjoy oneself, and have a very big idea of what enjoyment meant.

In talking we stumbled across difficult, confusing words, “God,” “truth,” “eternity.” Ruth said: “We ought to invent a new language, a code of symbols, for everything in the old language has so many acquired meanings, is so used up.”

“We have made almost a code of our own,” said Marian.

Alfred had said nothing to let me know whether or not he had been convinced of immortality. It will be interesting to hear what he has thought during the week.

We had now finished the first and fundamental part of what we meant to do; we would now test everything by that standard.

“It is strange,” said Marian, “how everything we have said has sprung from just one thing.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“Our idea of God,” she answered.

I said that, according to my prediction, we scarcely found it necessary to use the word God.

Marian answered: “It is because the word has so many meanings, is so easily misunderstood. But we know what we mean without saying it. My Sunday-school teacher said God took a personal interest in each one. I don’t believe that,” she went on, “except as we are in ourselves, and take an interest in ourselves. That idea of hers puts God, as it were, outside and apart.”

I questioned Ruth concerning Christian Science. She said our idea corresponded altogether with hers; it was the application which would probably differ, and we had not yet spoken of that. “We will do so now,” I answered. I asked the others if they would not like to have Ruth speak, in a meeting later on, of Christian Science. They all said that they would like it.

Next we will consider art, creative genius, in relation to our idea. I was glad the children agreed with me in preferring this to moral disputations. I said I thought the longer we waited to speak of moral questions, the larger view we would take of them. I wanted to avoid pettiness.

Our subject for next week grew naturally out of this week’s talk. I said: “As a drop of water can be a sphere as perfect as the suns and planets, so each smallest thing, if it be perfect in itself, typifies the universe. You must realize that in an infinite universe there is really no such thing as size.”

“There is only comparative size,” said Virginia.

“Yes,” I answered; “and it is with this idea in mind that I wish to consider beauty, and the definite separate creation. I shall want to know next week what each of you means by beauty, or thinks beautiful.”

Marian—thinking of the personal side immediately—said: “I think it’s because most people are homely, that we think some beautiful.”

We were amused at that. I said I did not mean personal beauty in particular. Then they asked, did I mean artistic beauty? I meant beauty in anything. I would want to know what made certain things seem beautiful to us.

Virginia said: “I think there is nothing so beautiful as taking a deep, deep breath. That brings beautiful thoughts into my head, and makes everything right.”

This remark did not seem pertinent to any of us. Virginia insisted, too, that she thought a man was an artist, even if he could not express himself; that to have artistic thoughts made one an artist. I answered, it might be so; work itself was not good art unless it was a good expression, no matter what the artist might be. Virginia explained: “I mean an artist is more interesting than his work, sometimes.”

Florence said: “A beautiful thing—in art—is a complete thing, complete and perfect in itself.”

“I don’t think so,” answered Virginia. “If you were to sketch a tree—without finishing it at all—and that sketch were your whole idea of the tree as you saw it, then it would be no sketch, but a finished picture. A thing is a sketch until you have altogether expressed your idea. But then, no matter how sketchy it may look, it is finished.”

I had to interpret Florence to Virginia. I said: “Florence did not mean completeness in the sense of exactness. She meant that the tree, no matter how indicated, must seem to us so complete, in a world of its own, as to leave nothing lacking or intruding; that everything in the picture is there in relation to the tree, and the whole makes a perfect little world. If there were suggestions of other things which had nothing to do with the tree, such as there always are in life, it would not be a perfect picture. You said it must be a complete expression of the artist’s thought. That is just the completeness Florence means. It must be a complete, self-sufficient harmonious vision of a tree. And harmony means wholeness, doesn’t it?”

“For instance,” said Florence, “even the smallest and most trivial poem would be beautiful if it were perfect in itself—and complete. Take Leigh Hunt’s ‘Jenny Kissed Me,’ such a little thing, and yet beautiful, telling the delights of a kiss. And then take ‘Faust,’ which is much larger and deeper; and yet each is perfect in its way, though ‘Faust’ expresses so much more.”

“Have you read ‘Faust’?” I answered her.

“No,” she said, “but I know all about it.” _I_ knew that she had got her ideas ready-made from “brother Arthur,” and I was amused. But I did not wish to be hurried into the midst of my subject without beginning at the beginning, so I cut the discussion as short as might be.

Marian said: “I don’t understand what they mean.”

I told her she would understand when we had talked it over, that I only wanted her, before next week, to settle her own ideas as to what she thought beautiful.

Florence repeated: “Beauty is completeness.”

“I think,” said Marian, “I begin to see what Florence means by that. Like the drop of water.”

I like to suggest the subject for the following week at the close of each meeting, and, if possible, to speak enough of it to give them a starting-place for their thoughts.

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[2] Cope’s theory, in “Darwinism To-day,” Kellog, p. 287.

SEVENTH MEETING

Ruth brought with her a “Christian Science” prayer. I said I would read it aloud at the meeting on Christian Science. One line in the prayer was, “purified from the flesh.” Ruth guessed, before I said anything, that I objected to this line. She believes the body is “something to be overcome.” All the others and myself disagreed with her.

I said: “I, who believe in endless progress, believe the means themselves to be good and wonderful. Unless this moment were good, nothing it led to could be wholly good.”

Ruth said: “The body is something unreal, unessential, which we do not keep.”

I answered: “We keep nothing but what we always possessed, the power of growth.” Ruth says we get certain new truths, and then keep them. She tries to think that my idea and Christian Science agree in every way, except that we use different language. But she has doubts and qualms. Then we spoke of “New Thought.” I said I thought most of what is called so was unanswerably true, only there seemed to be an enmity between “New Thought” and good English. Marian agreed with me. She said she could have no respect for a man who used poor English. I would not say that, for I had received too much information from men who did not know how to give it. But, I said, I had often missed information rather than rewrite a book for myself mentally, before I could read it. Marian’s father had read aloud to her, from a “New Thought” book, this sentence: “The seen is unreal, and the unseen is real.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said. “Do you?”

“No,” I answered; “I believe everything is real, the seen and the unseen. There is nothing but reality.”

I also said my chief objection to all these cults was that they insisted too often on physical health as the aim of life. Virginia said: “But just think, if we had not to be concerned about our bodies any more, if we were perfectly well, how much we could do!”

“Yes,” I answered, “that is true; but still it is not an end, but only a means.”

This was all before the meeting. Alfred had come very early, as usual, and told me he “thought” he believed as I did concerning immortality.

I opened the meeting by reading Marian’s paper:

“On Sunday, November 15th, the Seekers held a regular meeting. Our discussion was on Immortality. Most of us agreed that our self, our real or inner self, is immortal. In the first place, if this self in us and in every one should die there would be nothing left, because that is the real, the life-giving power. Moreover, if we were not immortal, what would be the use of life? Some people argue that we leave part of ourselves and the impressions of our characters to other generations, and so on. However, science has (almost) proved that the race is not immortal, and at least, it is harder to believe that it is, than to believe in the immortality of the real self. Personally, I feel that my real self is immortal, and that I will go on being. We do not attempt to picture any future state. This discussion is the only one in which we did not all agree.”

Next I read Henry’s paper:

“To-day we continued our talk on Immortality. Immortality is entirely a matter of faith, but the different ideas concerning it have influenced the fates of nations.

“The mind realizes so much that it does not accomplish, that it seems as though there must be a continuance of spiritual action after what we call death. If the spirit did not continue to exist, what would be the purpose of our life? Some say our purpose is to pave the walk of life for our descendants. Indeed, we do want those who come after us to find life pleasant and worth while living, but that alone would not be a sufficient purpose, for why need there be descendants? Why was there anybody in the beginning? And besides this, we have more reason to believe in the mortality of the race than for any of our beliefs in regard to the soul. Science teaches us that certain of the planets, which were once habitable, are now no longer so. This may some day happen to our planet, and then the race for which we have worked will cease to be. Although we do live for the race, we live more for the spirit. We have already said that we are part of one great union. If this is true there must be immortality, for when part of the spirit ceased to be, there would no longer be a great, perfect union.”

I said to Henry: “Your papers never begin as if they were going to be right, but they end especially well. You always keep the best for the last.”

Now we went on to our subject of beauty. What, I asked, was the one truly beautiful perfect thing, the thought of which gives us more delight than any other?

They said—bit by bit—that it was complete understanding, unity, sympathy.

I said I believed every beautiful thing was one which symbolized this completeness, something that in itself seemed complete and perfect and fulfilled. It took some time to explain this. Florence, of course, already understood it. Virginia and Marian caught at it as a new and elusive and valuable idea. All except Henry saw what I meant. Marian had said, even before I expressed this idea, that beauty was symmetry.

Henry said: “I don’t see what you mean, or why you need question it. A beautiful thing is one that gives us a thrill of delight.”

“Yes,” I answered, “certainly. That is like saying a thing is red because it has a red color. What I want to know is why things delight us with their beauty, so that we may make a standard from these, whereby to judge all things.”

I stopped them when they began to speak of special works of art, because, I insisted, we would first speak of beauty in all things in the world.

Virginia said: “When I am in a field among animals, playing with them all, that to me seems beautiful. I do feel sympathy with them, but it isn’t completeness.”

“No,” I answered, “and it isn’t beautiful, though it is delightful in another way. Beauty is something apart from us, which we see and hear, and which wakes in us a sense of completeness, of harmony within itself, as if _there_ were the whole world, nothing lacking, nor yet too much. A landscape, for instance.”

“It is sometimes not beautiful at all,” said Henry.

“No,” I answered, “surely not. A landscape, no matter how beautiful and wonderful, would be spoiled by a big sign on the nearest tree, advertising ‘Babbitt’s Soap.’”

“Or a sign ‘To Let,’” said Henry.

“Yes,” I answered, “though that might not be as bad, yet that, too, would be inharmonious, and suggest all sorts of irrelevant things.”

“But,” said Henry, “a burnt wood is harmonious, I suppose, and yet it would be ugly.”

“Not always,” said I, “not if it were blended into the landscape, and mellowed.”

“No,” Henry answered, “perhaps not, if the colors were beautiful.”

“But if it were ugly,” I said, “it would be inharmonious. A newly burnt forest suggests death and desolation in the midst of life and summer—an incongruity. It suggests destruction where the thought is most unwelcome and horrible.”

“Then,” said Marian, “it is not the thing itself, but the feeling which it gives us, that is beautiful.”

“Yes,” I said, “it gives us the thrill of that complete joy. We seem to see something which is what cannot be; complete harmony. The sight of the sea makes Virginia feel so. And you, the out-of-doors.”

Virginia said: “I have sometimes thought beauty is light, because the sun is most beautiful—and, at night, the moon.”

“But,” said I, “if there were no shadows and no darkness, sun and moon would not be beautiful.”

“Then contrast?” she asked.

I said: “There must be contrast in all beautiful things, because without contrast we could not have completeness.”

“Yes,” she said, “in pictures it is so.”

“A small thing,” I went on, “might symbolize completeness, as well as a large one. A dog, in his way, a beautiful Scotch collie, for instance, might be as beautiful as a man.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Ruth.

We criticized, and found lacking, according to our standard, the beauty of prize bulldogs; the teeth were too suggestive of strife and biting, the spots unsymmetrical, and so on. They spoke of many instances of beauty in things, especially the beauty of little children, and fitted them to this new standard.

Marian said: “A drop of water is so symmetrical and harmonious, so beautiful in the sunshine; and yet, on a dark day, on the sidewalk, it is not beautiful.”

I explained even that. I showed her how a drop on the sidewalk was not a drop, but a daub, how it suggested all sorts of ugly and incongruous things. “But,” I said, “if we take the trouble to look at a drop hanging from anything, say from a leaf, we shall always find it beautiful.”

She agreed to that. Then she said: “Don’t you think we sometimes do think of our own life as a beautiful thing?”

“Yes,” I answered. “There are moments when our own life suddenly seems complete, when we feel an artist’s delight in it, and for a while we, and the whole world with us, seem to have reached what we longed for.”

Florence asked: “Don’t you think it is usually when we are having a very good, jolly time?”

Marian answered quickly: “No, not at all.”

I understood what Marian meant, and did not attempt, naturally, to explain it to the others.

Now we all agreed, every one of us, that completeness and harmony were beauty. But the children had started time and again to bring up instances in art which to them seemed not to fit, and which they thoroughly misunderstood.

“You see,” I said, “that the beautiful thing is the same as that which seems to us most true and good.”

Marian said again that one idea seemed to cover everything, and that we came to conclusions quickly.

“Now I will tell you,” I said, “what I mean by art and the artist. In speaking of art here to-day I mean not only painting—as one of you thought—but everything which expresses beauty; poetry, the novel and drama, sculpture, music, acting. You see the difference between science and art?”

“Science gives us knowledge,” said Marian.

“Yes,” I answered, “or, rather, science gives us facts, truths, but never at all the complete truth. It gives us parts as parts, never the whole. Philosophy, on the other hand, does what we are doing here. It reaches out for the complete whole, for understanding, for unity, but it knows well that it can never attain the end. It reaches out for the complete good, and is satisfied with nothing less than that unattainable whole. But art does another thing; it tells us a lie—the most wonderful lie in the world—truer than any truth. It says: Look, here is completeness, harmony, wholeness, in this one small shape. And we know it cannot be so, but still we feel it to be there. That lie gives us, as no truth can, the thing we long for, and know to be most true.

“Now, what do you mean by the word genius? What is genius?” I asked.

“Usually,” said Virginia, “a genius is a crank. There is a girl in my art class who is the frousiest, queerest crank in the world, and every one calls her a genius.”

“Geniuses are often queer,” said Henry.

Ruth said, too, that many geniuses were anything but great and good in their private lives.

“Well,” I answered, “I am surprised by your definition of a genius. But perhaps you will be more surprised, and sorry you said so much, when I tell you that I consider every one of you a genius.”

“Oh, my,” said Virginia, “how nice! I wish I were.”

I said: “What we usually call genius is but a larger power of understanding, a sense of unity, of the relations of things. And we all have that, in some degree. So we all have genius. It is not a matter of quality but of quantity. We are all the same stuff, only some more and some less.”

Henry said I might use the word in that sense, but he didn’t think it was the true meaning. He said: “What definition is in the dictionary?” We had no dictionary at hand, so I tried to prove my definition true without a dictionary, and I succeeded.

I said: “There is no gulf between the genius and the stupid looker-on. Don’t you see why there could not be?”

“I see,” said Marian; “it is because the looker-on would have to have some genius, or else——” She could not finish.

“Just so, Marian,” I went on; “or else he could not appreciate the artist’s work. It is the genius in the onlooker that appreciates the genius in the artist. And in so far as you can appreciate the genius of Shakespeare, in so far you have the same sort of genius.”

“Then,” said she, “art makes us recognize ourselves.”

“Yes,” I answered, “our bigger selves.”

“So one might speak,” she said, “of a person developing his genius for music, or his genius for painting, and so on?”

“Yes,” I answered; “and you see how easily and well one can use the word in that sense.”

Ruth asked: “If the great genius is really one who understands better than the rest of us, and has a more harmonious vision, how is it that so many geniuses are incomplete and very imperfect in their personal lives?”

“I think it is,” I said, “for the same reason that I gave you for disease in highly developed beings.”

“I see,” said Marian; “it is one part developed at the expense of another.”

They wanted to know why so many artists were peculiar, erratic, “Bohemian”—Marian used that word. Virginia spoke again of the happy-go-lucky people down at the art league.

I said I thought one reason for this manner among artists was that, as they were always looking for the new, the beautiful—which is ever new—they had no patience with so-called respectable people, who clung to old things because they were old, and so these artists often purposely went to the other extreme.

I said: “You must see that there is the tendency in all of us to make of life a work of art, to live a complete, beautiful life.”

“I know some people,” said Virginia, “whose lives do not seem to me in the least artistic.”