er
remember her except as the mother of her son, she reciprocated by
congratulating him that his books could always be had cheap in the first
editions.

He retorted, "Mamma Dear, my books will be read when butchers are using
yours for wrapping up meat." In some ways this precious pair were very
much alike.

It is very probable that Schopenhauer's mother was not so base as he
thought; and when he declared, "Woman's morality is only a kind of
prudence," he might have said the same of his own. He stood aloof from
life and said things about it. He had no wife, no child, no business, no
home--he dared not venture boldly into the tide of existence--he stood
forever on the bank, and watched the current carrying its flotsam and
jetsam to the hungry sea.

In his love for the memory of his father, and in his tender care for his
dog, we get a glimpse of depths that were never sounded. One side of his
nature was never developed. And the words of the undeveloped man are
worth what they are worth.

Schopenhauer once said to Wieland, "Life is a ticklish business--I
propose to spend my time looking at it." This he did, viewing existence
from every angle, and writing out his thoughts in terse, epigrammatic
language.

Among all the German writers on philosophy, the only one who had a
distinct literary style is Schopenhauer. Form was quite as much to him
as matter--and in this he showed rare wisdom; although I am told that
the writers who have no literary style are the only ones who despise it.
Dishes to be palatable must be rightly served: appetite--literary,
gastronomic or sexual--is largely a matter of imagination.

Schopenhauer need not be regarded as final. The chief virtue of the man
lies in the fact that he makes us think, and thus are we his debtors.

In this summary of Schopenhauer's philosophy I have had the valuable
assistance of my friend and fellow-worker in the Roycroft Shop, George
Pannebakker, a kinsman and enthusiastic admirer of the great Prophet of
Pessimism.

In talking to Mr. Pannebakker, I am inclined to exclaim, "Thou almost
persuadest me to be a pessimist!" It is unfortunate that our English
tongue contains no word that stands somewhere between pessimism and
optimism--that symbols a judicial cast of mind which sees the Truth
without blinking and accepts it without complaint. The word Pessimist
was first flung in contempt at those who dared to express unpalatable
truth. It is now accepted by a large numbe