The progressive development of man is vitally depe on iion. It is the most important product of his creative brain. Its ultimate purpose is the plete mastery of mind over the material world, the harnessing of the forces of nature to human needs. This is the difficult task of the ior who is often misuood and unrewarded. But he finds ample pensation in the pleasing exercises of his powers and in the knowledge of being one of that exceptionally privileged class without whom the race would have long ago perished iter struggle against pitiless elements.
Speaking for myself, I have already had more than my full measure of this exquisite enjoyment, so much that for many years my life was little short of tinuous rapture. I am credited with being one of the hardest workers and perhaps I am, if thought is the equivalent of labor, for I have devoted to it almost all of my waking hours. But if work is interpreted to be a definite performan a specified time acc tid rule, then I may be the worst of idlers. Every effort under pulsion demands a sacrifice of life-energy. I never paid such a price. On the trary, I have thrived on my thoughts.
In attempting to give a ected and faithful at of my activities in this series of articles, I must dwell, however relutly, on the impressions of my youth and the circumstances as which have been instrumental iermining my career.
Our first endeavors are purely instinctive, promptings of an imagination vivid and undisciplined. As we grow older reason asserts itself and we beore and more systematid designing. But those early impulses, tho not immediately productive, are of the greatest moment and may shape our very destinies. Indeed, I feel now that had I uood and cultivated instead of suppressing them, I would have added substantial value to my bequest to the world. But not until I had attained manhood did I realize that I was an ior.
This was due to a number of causes. In the first place I had a brother who was gifted to araordinary degree—one of those rare phenomena of mentality which biological iigation has failed to explain. His premature death left my parents dissolate.
We owned a horse which had beeed to us by a dear friend. It was a magnifit animal of Arabian breed, possessed of almost human intelligence, and was cared for aed by the whole family, having on one occasion saved my father''s life under remarkable circumstances. My father had been called one winter night to perform an urgent duty and while crossing the mountains, ied by wolves, the horse became frightened and ran away, throwing him violently to the ground. It arrived home bleeding and exhausted, but after the alarm was sounded immediately dashed off agaiurning to the spot, and before the searg party were far on the way they were met by my father, who had recovered sciousness and remounted, not realizing that he had been lying in the snow for several hours. This horse was responsible for my brother''s injuries from which he died. I withe tragic se and altho fifty-six years have elapsed since, my visual impression of it has lost none of its force. The recolle of his attais made every effort of mine seem dull in parison.
Anything I did that was creditable merely caused my parents to feel their loss more keenly. So I grew up with little fiden myself. But I was far from being sidered a stupid boy, if I am to judge from an i of which I have still a strong remembrance. One day the Aldermen were passing thru a street