3. Is it true that the desire for pleasure, or for selfish success, grows by what it feeds upon? Is that an argument against it as a valid aim for life?

4. Do you feel it to be true that the search for pleasure could not give sufficient zest to life?

5. Can a consistent pleasure seeker stand up, when challenged, for principle? Or if he does so, does he become actuated by some other ideal than pleasure?

6. Does the writer do justice to the persons seeking dominance over others as their ideal? Does such person not prize the dominance itself, rather than the economic goods which come from his victory? Is that a legitimate ideal?

7. Do you know of cases where excessive selfishness has been. self-defeating? Do you know of any notable cases where it has not been?

8. What reason have you for believing that riches would, or would not, make you feel that you had lived a successful life?

9. As you watch the behavior of a selfish man in a crowd, are you convinced that selfishness is a relic of a lower order of life? What is its biological reason for existing? To what extent do present social conditions modify that reason?

IN our preceding chapter we found that the strength which every red-blooded man is seeking is not to be found in pleasure, or in any other form of simply selfish conduct. Such conduct is too flabby. It is the way of the drifter and not of the fighter. It is the policy of those who, in the words of a great German writer, so govern their lives" that they may sleep well." And, being passive and pliable, it can touch no responsive chords in the bosom of the restless, courageous man for whom we are seeking a satisfying plan of life.

Desire for independence. But there is another ancient ideal which is, at least on the surface, free from this charge of cowardice. It is the ideal of independence. This ideal is as old as the race, and yet as fresh as this morning's sun. Every strong man feels its stir within his soul. Tell me, why do men wish to lay up money "for a rainy day" or against old age? Why do they often hesitate until the last extremity, or sometimes even starve, before they will appeal to charity? Why do they have such a horror of going to the almshouse? Why do strong pupils refuse help on their problems when it is offered to them and insist upon working out the difficulty for themselves? Why do men like to live in their own houses better than in rented ones, and prefer to work for themselves rather than to hire to another? Why have states always wished to be free and self-governing? Is it not because men like to feel that they are self-sufficient

and dependent upon no one? Is it not because they dread, above everything else, to hang as a parasite upon another? Yes, we all feel strong when we are independent; weak when we are the tools of external forces. And so from the dawn of history men have sought to find and to nurture the strength which they felt to become a manly man in independence. The kind of independence sought has varied from time to time and from man to man. Sometimes one has revolted against slavery to his passions, or subservience to the state, or dependence upon his fellow men, or obedience to social customs, or what not. But in every case he has felt that his dignity as a man demands that he stand up erect and clear-cut as an individual, and maintain a sublime indifference to his surroundings. But on the whole the earlier ideal was that of independence of the accidents of fortune and of human passion; the later that of independence of one's fellows and of social customs.

Independence of fortune as ethical ideal. - Ancient philosophers. It would be hard to say how early philosophers began to set forth this doctrine of indifference to circumstances as an ideal of life. Certainly the earliest of the Greek thinkers of whom we have record counseled such restraint. Even much earlier than this, the Chinese teachers and the Hebrew sages urged it. But in India, in the religion of Buddhism, it came particularly to head. Salvation, for the Buddhist, is to be found in perfect self-discipline. One must free himself from all worldly attachments. He must cease to care for any of the petty whims of fortune which may come upon him. He must crush out his passions. He must cease to care for reputation, for friends, for worldly goods, even for the welfare of his own body. It is only when he has risen above all human desires that he is fitted for heaven. To bring about this annihilation of passion the Hindoo is said to betake himself often to the hardships of the desert, to gash himself with knives, and even to lie

for hours in the hot sand beneath a burning sun. And for all this he would spurn pity. In this victory over self he is more than rewarded.

Nor has the Hindoo stood alone in this effort to win the goods of life through steeling himself against nature. Many are those who have followed in his footsteps. Among these were the Cynics and the Stoics of the Græco-Roman world, and the religious ascetics of all ages, but particularly the Christian ascetics of medieval times. Among them, too, were Spinoza, and Schopenhauer, and the Puritans of our own early history.

The Stoics. The emotions, so the Stoics, who are representative of all of these, taught, represent a disease, an imperfection, a disturbance of the reason itself. True virtue consists in living free and undisturbed; and that is only possible as we refuse to allow our will to be coerced by those external things and events which lie outside the power of the mind itself.

It is the good fortune of the wise man, not to need any good fortune. One prays thus: how shall I be released of this? another thus: How shall I not desire to be released? Another thus: How shall I not lose my little son? Thou thus: How shall I not be afraid to lose him? Turn thy prayers this way and see what comes.

True joy is a serene and sober motion and they are miserably out that take laughter for rejoicing. The seat of it is within, and there is no cheerfulness like the resolution of a brave mind that has fortune under its feet. He that can look death in the face and bid it welcome, open the door to poverty, and bridle his appetites, this is the man whom Providence has established in the possessions of inviolable delights.

The medieval Christians. How much this attitude has characterized Christian civilization, all well know. From the very first Christianity has urged men to crucify the flesh. How the ascetics of medieval times tortured themselves in order to do this is an old story to everybody. They secluded themselves in dreary deserts, or shut them

selves up in moldy monasteries. They imposed upon themselves perpetual silence, or vowed not to raise an arm for so long a period that the member became paralyzed in consequence. In every conceivable way they endeavored to mortify the flesh and its desires. And just what they did in the extreme many men in all ages, the present as well as the past, have been trying to do. And the motive for this, although often in name religious, is rather just that desire to feel that one is stronger than the things with which he deals, and is able hence to be their master.

Strength of the doctrine. For my part I can not help admiring the grim heroism that such life demands. Surely in its own way the success attained has often been worthy of a moral giant. The old Greek Cynic, Diogenes, went about with a cup from which to drink and a tub in which to live, and of these two he threw away the cup as a luxury upon seeing a child drink out of his hands. With this meager quantum of worldly goods he was abundantly satisfied. St. Francis, founder of the order of Franciscans, when asked what could afford man his sweetest experience, replied that it would be to be out on a bitterly cold night, without food or fire, and, while the storm and the sleet cut fiercely without, to find the door of the only hut in the wilderness slammed in his face. Seneca thought himself rich in being able to count the blue heavens above him as his only valued possessions. One of the Stoics says:

I must go into

I must die. Must I then die lamenting? exile; does any man then hinder me from going with smiles and cheerfulness and contentment? Tell me the secret you possess. I will not, for this is in my power. But I will put you in chains. Man, what are you talking about? Me in chains? You may fetter my leg, but my will not even Zeus himself can overpower. I will throw you into prison. My poor body, you mean. I will cut off your head. When, then, have I told you that my head alone can not be cut off?

Is not such steadfastness really to be praised?