importunity of his mother, who starved him to it, Arthur
went back to his clerkship, but soon returned and made terms, agreeing
not to call on his mother, in consideration of a pound a week. He took
lessons in Greek and Latin of a retired professor, attended lectures,
fell in love with an actress--vowed he would marry her, but, luckily for
her, he didn't.

When he was twenty-one, his mother turned over to him his patrimony,
amounting to about fourteen thousand dollars; and suggested that he
leave Weimar and make his fortune elsewhere--the world was wide.

His money was invested so it brought him an income of seven hundred
dollars a year. And here seems a good place to say that Schopenhauer's
income was never over a thousand dollars a year until after he was
fifty-six years of age. Although he could not make money, yet he had
inherited from his father an ability to care for it. Throughout his life
he kept exact books of account, never ran in debt, and never allowed
his expenditures to outrun his income, thus complying with Charles
Dickens' recipe for happiness.

In still another way he revealed that he could apply philosophy to daily
life: he exercised regularly in the open air, took long walks, was
absurdly exact about his cold baths, and like Kant, served the neighbors
as a chronometer, so they set their clocks at three when they saw him
going forth for a walk. And in the interests of truth, we will have to
make the embarrassing admission that the great Apostle of Pessimism was
neither a dyspeptic nor an invalid--if he was ever aware that he had a
stomach we do not hear of it.

* * * * *

The life of Schopenhauer is the life of a recluse--a visionary--a hermit
who lost himself amid the maze of city streets, and moved solitary in
the throng. Berlin, Dresden, Hamburg, Gottingen, Frankfort, engaged him,
and from one to the other he turned, looking for the rest he never
found, and which he knew he would never find, so in the vain search
there was no disappointment. He was always happiest when most miserable,
for then were his theories proved.

A single room in a lodging-house sufficed, and this room always had the
appearance of being occupied by a transient. He had few books,
accumulated no belongings in way of domestic ballast, persistently
giving away things that were presented to him, satisfied if he had a
chair, a bed, and a table upon which to write; getting his own
breakfast, di