THE HIGHEST IDEAL
the dumb beasts have a sagacity that sometimes our own. And the art of the bird building his nest and the bees making their honey-comb, can not be surpassed by the art of man. What is that mysterious, elusive quality then? Social accomplishments, charm? These may be rendered repulsive by selfishness, conceit,—by an inflated, assertive, aggressive Ego.
What is it, my dear Materialist, that draws you in your unconsciousness to me? I heard you once in Madison Square expounding wholesale the negations of the day; I saw you afterwards feeding the birds in the park. And I see you every day, though your name is not trumpeted in the daily press, giving of your mite to charity. There must be a flaw somewhere in your material philosophy. For if you are in yourself a sort of detached cosmos, why take the trouble to establish these little attachments between you and the outside world?
I think I understand you, forgive the boast, better than you understand your-