the soul of the far east-第3章

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f　self　grows　more　intense　as　we　follow　in　the　wake　of　the　setting　sun；　and　fades　steadily　as　we　advance　into　the　dawn。　　America；　Europe；　the　Levant；　India；　Japan；　each　is　less　personal　than　the　one　before。　　We　stand　at　the　nearer　end　of　the　scale；　the　Far　Orientals　at　the　other。　　If　with　us　the　I　seems　to　be　of　the　very　essence　of　the　soul；　then　the　soul　of　the　Far　East　may　be　said　to　be　Impersonality。

Curious　as　this　characteristic　is　as　a　fact；　it　is　even　more　interesting　as　a　factor。　　For　what　it　betokens　of　these　peoples　in　particular　may　suggest　much　about　man　generally。　　It　may　mark　a　stride　in　theory；　if　a　standstill　in　practice。　　Possibly　it　may　help　us　to　some　understanding　of　ourselves。　　Not　that　it　promises　much　aid　to　vexed　metaphysical　questions；　but　as　a　study　in　sociology　it　may　not　prove　so　vain。

And　for　a　thing　which　is　always　with　us；　its　discussion　may　be　said　to　be　peculiarly　opportune　just　now。　　For　it　lies　at　the　bottom　of　the　most　pressing　questions　of　the　day。　　Of　the　two　great　problems　that　stare　the　Western　world　in　the　face　at　the　present　moment；　both　turn　to　it　for　solution。　　Agnosticism；　the　foreboding　silence　of　those　who　think；　socialism；　communism；　and　nihilism；　the　petulant　cry　of　those　who　do　not；　alike　depend　ultimately　for　the　right　to　be　upon　the　truth　or　the　falsity　of　the　sense　of　self。

For　if　there　be　no　such　actual　thing　as　individuality；　if　the　feeling　we　call　by　that　name　be　naught　but　the　transient　illusion　the　Buddhists　would　have　us　believe　it；　any　faith　founded　upon　it　as　basis　vanishes　as　does　the　picture　in　a　revolving　kaleidoscope；　less　enduring　even　than　the　flitting　phantasmagoria　of　a　dream。　If　the　ego　be　but　the　passing　shadow　of　the　material　brain；　at　the　disintegration　of　the　gray　matter　what　will　become　of　us？　　Shall　we　simply　lapse　into　an　indistinguishable　part　of　the　vast　universe　that　compasses　us　round？　　At　the　thought　we　seem　to　stand　straining　our　gaze；　on　the　shore　of　the　great　sea　of　knowledge；　only　to　watch　the　fog　roll　in；　and　hide　from　our　view　even　those　headlands　of　hope　that；　like　beseeching　hands；　stretch　out　into　the　deep。

So　more　materially。　　If　individuality　be　a　delusion　of　the　mind；　what　motive　potent　enough　to　excite　endeavor　in　the　breast　of　an　ordinary　mortal　remains？　　Philosophers；　indeed；　might　still　work　for　the　advancement　of　mankind；　but　mankind　itself　would　not　continue　long　to　labor　energetically　for　what　should　profit　only　the　common　weal。　Take　away　the　stimulus　of　individuality；　and　action　is　paralyzed　at　once。　　For　with　most　men　the　promptings　of　personal　advantage　only　afford　sufficient　incentive　to　effort。　　Destroy　this　force；　then　any　consideration　due　it　lapses；　and　socialism　is　not　only　justified；　it　is　raised　instantly　into　an　axiom　of　life。　　The　community；　in　that　case；　becomes　itself　the　unit；　the　indivisible　atom　of　existence。　Socialism；　then　communism；　then　nihilism；　follow　in　inevitable　sequence。　　That　even　the　Far　Oriental；　with　all　his　numbing　impersonality；　has　not　touched　this　goal　may　at　least　suggest　that　individuality　is　a　fact。

But　first；　what　do　we　know　about　its　existence　ourselves？

Very　early　in　the　course　of　every　thoughtful　childhood　an　event　takes　place；　by　the　side　of　which；　to　the　child　himself；　all　other　events　sink　into　insignificance。　　It　is　not　one　that　is　recognized　and　chronicled　by　the　world；　for　it　is　wholly　unconnected　with　action。　　No　one　but　the　child　is　aware　of　its　occurrence；　and　he　never　speaks　of　it　to　others。　　Yet　to　that　child　it　marks　an　epoch。　So　intensely　individual　does　it　seem　that　the　boy　is　afraid　to　avow　it；　while　in　reality　so　universal　is　it　that　probably　no　human　being　has　escaped　its　influence。　　Though　subjective　purely；　it　has　more　vividness　than　any　external　event；　and　though　strictly　intrinsic　to　life；　it　is　more　startling　than　any　accident　of　fate　or　fortune。　This　experience　of　the　boy's；　at　once　so　singular　and　yet　so　general；　is　nothing　less　than　the　sudden　revelation　to　him　one　day　of　the　fact　of　his　own　personality。

Somewhere　about　the　time　when　sensation　is　giving　place　to　sensitiveness　as　the　great　self…educator；　and　the　knowledge　gained　by　the　five　bodily　senses　is　being　fused　into　the　wisdom　of　that　mental　one　we　call　common　sense；　the　boy　makes　a　discovery　akin　to　the　act　of　waking　up。　　All　at　once　he　becomes　conscious　of　himself；　and　the　consciousness　has　about　it　a　touch　of　the　uncanny。　　Hitherto　he　has　been　aware　only　of　matter；　he　now　first　realizes　mind。　　Unwarned；　unprepared；　he　is　suddenly　ushered　before　being；　and　stands　awe…struck　in　the　presence　ofhimself。

If　the　introduction　to　his　own　identity　was　startling；　there　is　nothing　reassuring　in　the　feeling　that　this　strange　acquaintanceship　must　last。　　For　continue　it　does。　　It　becomes　an　unsought　intimacy　he　cannot　shake　off。　　Like　to　his　own　shadow　he　cannot　escape　it。　To　himself　a　man　cannot　but　be　at　home。　　For　years　this　alter　ego　haunts　him；　for　he　imagines　it　an　idiosyncrasy　of　his　own；　a　morbid　peculiarity　he　dare　not　confide　to　any　one；　for　fear　of　being　thought　a　fool。　　Not　till　long　afterwards；　when　he　has　learned　to　live　as　a　matter　of　course　with　his　ever…present　ghost；　does　he　discover　that　others　have　had　like　familiars　themselves。

Sometimes　this　dawn　of　consciousness　is　preceded　by　a　long　twilight　of　soul…awakening；　but　sometimes；　upon　more　sensitive　and　subtler　natures；　the　light　breaks　with　all　the　suddenness　of　a　sunrise　at　the　equator；　revealing　to　the　mind's　eye　an　unsuspected　world　of　self　within。　　But　in　whatever　way　we　may　awake　to　it；　the　sense　of　personality；　when　first　realized；　appears　already；　like　the　fabled　Goddess　of　Wisdom；　full　grown　in　the　brain。　　From　the　moment　when　we　first　remember　ourselves　we　seem　to　be　as　old　as　we　ever　seem　to　others　afterwards　to　become。　　We　grow；　indeed；　in　knowledge；　in　wisdom；　in　experience；　as　our　years　increase；　but　deep　down　in　our　heart　of　hearts　we　are　still　essentially　the　same。　　To　be　sure；　people　pay　us　more　deference　than　they　did；　which　suggests　a　doubt　at　times　whether　we　may　not　have　changed；　small　boys　of　a　succeeding　generation　treat　us　with　a　respect　that　causes　us　inwardly　to　smile；　as　we　think　how　little　we　differ　from　them；　if　they　but　knew　it。　For　at　bottom　we　are　not　conscious　of　change　from　that　morning；　long　ago；　when　first　we　realized　ourselves。　　We　feel　just　as　young　now　as　we　felt　old　then。　　We　are　but　amused　at　the　world's　discrimination　where　we　can　detect　no　difference。

Every　human　being　has　been　thus　〃twice　born〃：　once　as　matter；　once　as　mind。　　Nor　is　this　second　birth　the　birthright　only　of　mankind。　All　the　higher　animals　probably；　possibly　even　the　lower　too；　have　experienced　some　such　realization　of　individual　identity。　　However　that　may　be；　certainly　to　all　races　of　men　has　come　this　revelation；　only　the　degree　in　which　they　have　felt　its　force　has　differed　immensely。　　It　is　one　thing　to　the　apathetic；　fatalistic　Turk；　and　quite　another　matter　to　an　energetic；　nervous　American。　　Facts；　fancies；　faiths；　all　show　how　wide　is　the　variance　in　feelings。　　With　them　no　introspective　＇greek＇cnzhi　seauton　overexcites　the　consciousness　of　self。　　But　with　us；　as　with　those　of　old　possessed　of　devils；　it　comes　to　startle　and　stays　to　distress。　　Too　apt　is　it　to　prove　an　ever…present；　undesirable　double。　　Too　often　does　it　play　the　part　of　uninvited　spectre　at　the　feast；　whose　presence　no　one　save　its　unfortunate　victim　suspects。　　The　haunting　horror　of　his　own　identity　is　to　natures　far　less　eccentric　than　Kenelm　Chillingly's　only　too　common　a　curse。　　To　this　companionship；　paradoxical　though　it　sound；　is　principally　due　the　peculiar　loneliness　of　childhood。　　For　nothing　is　so　isolating　as　a　persistent　idea　which　one　dares　not　confide。

And　yet；stranger　paradox　still；was　there　ever　any　one　willing　to　exchange　his　personality　for　another's？　　Who　can　imagine　foregoing　his　own　self？　　Nay；　do　we　not　cling　even　to　its　outward　appearance？　　Is　there　a　man　so　poor　in　all　that　man　holds　dear　that　he　does　not　keenly　resent　being　accidentally　mistaken　for　his　neighbor？　　Surely　there　must　be　something　more　than　mirage　in　this　deep…implanted；　widespread　instinct　of　human　race。

But　however　strong　the　conviction　now　o