_ The exercise of concentrating the mind (to which at least half an hour a
day should be given) is a mere preliminary, like scales on the piano.
Having acquired power over that most unruly member of one's complex
organism, one has naturally to put it to the yoke. Useless to possess an
obedient mind unless one profits to the furthest possible degree by its
obedience. A prolonged primary course of study is indicated.
Now as to what this course of study should be there cannot be any question;
there never has been any question. All the sensible people of all ages are
agreed upon it. And it is not literature, nor is it any other art, nor is it
history, nor is it any science. It is the study of one's self. Man, know
thyself. These words are so hackneyed that verily I blush to write them.
Yet they must be written, for they need to be written. (I take back my
blush, being ashamed of it.) Man, know thyself. I say it out loud. The
phrase is one of those phrases with which everyone is familiar, of which
everyone acknowledges the value, and which only the most sagacious put
into practice. I don't know why. I am entirely convinced that what is more
than anything else lacking in the life of the average well-intentioned man
of to-day is the reflective mood.
We do not reflect. I mean that we do not reflect upon genuinely important
things; upon the problem of our happiness, upon the main direction in which
we are going, upon what life is giving to us, upon the share which reason has
(or has not) in determining our actions, and upon the relation between our
principles and our conduct.
And yet you are in search of happiness, are you not? Have you discovered it?
The chances are that you have not. The chances are that you have already
come to believe that happiness is unattainable. But men have attained it.
And they have attained it by realising that happiness does not spring from
the procuring of physical or mental pleasure, but from the development of
reason and the adjustment of conduct to principles.
I suppose that you will not have the audacity to deny this. And if you admit
it, and still devote no part of your day to the deliberate consideration of your
reason, principles, and conduct, you admit also that while striving for a
certain thing you are regularly leaving undone the one act which is necessary
to the attainment of that thing.
Now, shall I blush, or will you?
Do not fear that I mean to thrust certain principles upon your attention. I care
not (in this place) what your principles are. Your principles may induce you to
believe in the righteousness of burglary. I don't mind. All I urge is that a life
in which conduct does not fairly well accord with principles is a silly life; and
that conduct can only be made to accord with principles by means of daily
examination, reflection, and resolution. What leads to the permanent sorrow-
fulness of burglars is that their principles are contrary to burglary. If they
genuinely believed in the moral excellence of burglary, penal servitude would
simply mean so many happy years for them; all martyrs are happy years for
them; all martyrs are happy, because their conduct and their principles agree.
As for reason (which makes conduct, and is not unconnected with the making
of principles), it plays a far smaller part in our lives than we fancy. We are
supposed to be reasonable but we are much more instinctive than reasonable.
And the less we reflect, the less reasonable we shall be. The next time you
get cross with the waiter because your steak is over-cooked, ask reason to
step into the cabinet-room of your mind, and consult her. She will probably
tell you that the waiter did not cook the steak, and had no control over the
cooking of the steak; and that even if he alone was to blame, you accomplished
nothing good by getting cross; you merely lost your dignity, looked a fool in
the eyes of sensible men, and soured the waiter, while producing no effect
whatever on the steak.
The result of this consultation with reason (for which she makes no charge)
will be that when once more your steak is over-cooked you will treat the
waiter as a fellow-creature, remain quite calm in a kindly spirit, and politely
insist on having a fresh steak. The gain will be obvious and solid.
In the formation or modification of principles, and the practice of conduct,
much help can be derived from printed books (issued at sixpence each and
upwards). I mentioned in my last chapter Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus.
Certain even more widely known works will occur at once to the memory.
I may also mention Pascal, La Bruyere, and Emerson. For myself, you do
not catch me travelling without my Marcus Aurelius. Yes, books are
valuable. But not reading of books will take the place of a daily, candid,
honest examination of what one has recently done, and what one is about
to do--of a steady looking at one's self in the face (disconcerting though
the sight may be).
When shall this important business be accomplished? The solitude of the
evening journey home appears to me to be suitable for it. A reflective
mood naturally follows the exertion of having earned the day's living.
Of course if, instead of attending to an elementary and profoundly important
duty, you prefer to read the paper (which you might just as well read while
waiting for your dinner) I have nothing to say. But attend to it at some time
of the day you must. I now come to the evening hours. _