almost without the aid of an architect; higgledy-piggledy, anyhow.  But occasionally the architect did step in and design something.  Here and there among your habits you will find one that you consciously and of deliberate purpose initiated and persevered with—­doubtless owing to some happy influence.  What is the difference between that conscious habit and the unconscious habits?  None whatever as regards its effect on the sum of your character.  It may be the strongest of all your habits.  The only quality that differentiates it from the others is that it has a definite object (most likely a good object), and that it wholly or partially fulfils that object.  There is not a man who reads these lines but has, in this detail or that, proved in himself that the will, forcing the brain to repeat the same action again and again, can modify the shape of his character as a sculptor modifies the shape of damp clay.

But if a grown man’s character is developing from day to day (as it is), if nine-tenths of the development is due to unconscious action and one-tenth to conscious action, and if the one-tenth conscious is the most satisfactory part of the total result; why, in the name of common sense, henceforward, should not nine-tenths, instead of one-tenth, be due to conscious action?  What is there to prevent this agreeable consummation?  There is nothing whatever to prevent it—­except insubordination on the part of the brain.  And insubordination of the brain can be cured, as I have previously shown.  When I see men unhappy and inefficient in the craft of living, from sheer, crass inattention to their own development; when I see misshapen men building up businesses and empires, and never stopping to build up themselves; when I see dreary men expending precisely the same energy on teaching a dog to walk on its hind-legs as would brighten the whole colour of their own lives, I feel as if I wanted to give up the ghost, so ridiculous, so fatuous does the spectacle seem!  But, of course, I do not give up the ghost.  The paroxysm passes.  Only I really must cry out:  ’Can’t you see what you’re missing?  Can’t you see that you’re missing the most interesting thing on earth, far more interesting than businesses, empires, and dogs?  Doesn’t it strike you how clumsy and short-sighted you are—­working always with an inferior machine when you might have a smooth-gliding perfection?  Doesn’t it strike you how badly you are treating yourself?’

Listen, you confirmed grumbler, you who make the evening meal hideous with complaints against destiny—­for it is you I will single out.  Are you aware what people are saying about you behind your back?  They are saying that you render yourself and your family miserable by the habit which has grown on you of always grumbling.  ’Surely it isn’t as bad as that?’ you protest.  Yes, it is just as bad as that.  You say:  ’The fact is, I know it’s absurd to grumble.  But I’m like that.  I’ve tried to stop