aining ten grains of asperity, and he
replies in a particular tone containing eleven grains, the consequences
will be explosive. He knows, on the other hand, that if he replies in a
tone containing only one little drop of honey, the consequences may not
be unworthy of two reasonable beings. He knows this. His brain is fully
instructed. And lo! his brain, while arguing that women are really too
absurd (as if that was the point), is sending down orders to the muscles
of the throat and mouth which result in at least eleven grains of
asperity, and conjugal relations are endangered for the day. He didn't
want to do it. His desire was not to do it. He despises himself for
doing it. But his brain was not in working order. His brain ran
away--'raced'--on its own account, against reason, against desire,
against morning resolves--and there he is!

That is just one example, of the simplest and slightest. Examples can be
multiplied. The man may be a young man whose immediate future depends on
his passing an examination--an examination which he is capable of
passing 'on his head,' which nothing can prevent him from passing if
only his brain will not be so absurd as to give orders to his legs to
walk out of the house towards the tennis court instead of sending them
upstairs to the study; if only, having once safely lodged him in the
study, his brain will devote itself to the pages of books instead of
dwelling on the image of a nice girl--not at all like other girls. Or
the man may be an old man who will live in perfect comfort if only his
brain will not interminably run round and round in a circle of
grievances, apprehensions, and fears which no amount of contemplation
can destroy or even ameliorate.

The brain, the brain--that is the seat of trouble! 'Well,' you say, 'of
course it is. We all know that!' We don't act as if we did, anyway.
'Give us more brains, Lord!' ejaculated a great writer. Personally, I
think he would have been wiser if he had asked first for the power to
keep in order such brains as we have. We indubitably possess quite
enough brains, quite as much as we can handle. The supreme muddlers of
living are often people of quite remarkable intellectual faculty, with a
quite remarkable gift of being wise for others. The pity is that our
brains have a way of 'wandering,' as it is politely called.
Brain-wandering is indeed now recognised as a specific disease. I wonder
what you, O business man with an office in Ludgate C