But these are alien thoughts, human thoughts, and they falsely indicate that I do not want this tramp to go on living.  What would become of me if he should disintegrate?  My molecules would scatter all around and take up new quarters in hundreds of plants and animals; each would carry its special feelings along with it, each would be content in its new estate, but where should I be?  I should not have a rag of a feeling left, after my disintegration—­with his—­was complete.  Nothing to think with, nothing to grieve or rejoice with, nothing to hope or despair with.  There would be no more me.  I should be musing and thinking and dreaming somewhere else—­in some distant animal maybe—­perhaps a cat—­by proxy of my oxygen I should be raging and fuming in some other creatures—­a rat, perhaps; I should be smiling and hoping in still another child of Nature —­heir to my hydrogen—­a weed, or a cabbage, or something; my carbonic acid (ambition) would be dreaming dreams in some lowly wood-violet that was longing for a showy career; thus my details would be doing as much feeling as ever, but I should not be aware of it, it would all be going on for the benefit of those others, and I not in it at all.  I should be gradually wasting away, atom by atom, molecule by molecule, as the years went on, and at last I should be all distributed, and nothing left of what had once been Me.  It is curious, and not without impressiveness:  I should still be alive, intensely alive, but so scattered that I would not know it.  I should not be dead—­no, one cannot call it that—­but I should be the next thing to it.  And to think what centuries and ages and aeons would drift over me before the disintegration was finished, the last bone turned to gas and blown away!  I wish I knew what it is going to feel like, to lie helpless such a weary, weary time, and see my faculties decay and depart, one by one, like lights which burn low, and flicker and perish, until the ever-deepening gloom and darkness which—­oh, away, away with these horrors, and let me think of something wholesome!

My tramp is only 85; there is good hope that he will live ten years longer—­500,000 of my microbe years.  So may it be.

Oh, dear, we are all so wise!  Each of us knows it all, and knows he knows it all—­the rest, to a man, are fools and deluded.  One man knows there is a hell, the next one knows there isn’t; one man knows high tariff is right, the next man knows it isn’t; one man knows monarchy is best, the next one knows it isn’t; one age knows there are witches, the next one knows there aren’t; one sect knows its religion is the only true one, there are sixty-four thousand five hundred million sects that know it isn’t so.  There is not a mind present among this multitude of verdict-deliverers that is the superior of the minds that persuade and represent the rest of the divisions of the multitude.  Yet this sarcastic fact does not humble the arrogance nor diminish the know-it-all bulk of a single verdict-maker of the lot by so much as a shade.  Mind is plainly an ass, but it will be many ages before it finds it out, no doubt.  Why do we respect the opinions of any man or any microbe that ever lived?  I swear I don’t know.  Why do I respect my own?  Well—­that is different.