rtedly to the open road, or even operating a
rather unwholesome sewing-machine all day in silence, is better for
consecutiveness of mind than a never-ending round of offices, clubs,
committees, servants, dinners, teas, and receptions, to each of which
one is a little late.

In diffusing knowledge of, and enthusiasm for, this knack of
concentration, Arnold Bennett's little books on mental efficiency have
done wonders for the art of auto-comradeship. Their popular
persuasiveness has coaxed thousands on thousands of us to go in for a
few minutes' worth of mental calisthenics every day. They have
actually cajoled us into the painful feat of glancing over a page of a
book and then putting it down and trying to retrace the argument in
memory. Or they have coaxed us to fix on some subject--any
subject--for reflection, and then scourge our straying minds back to
it at every few steps of the walk to the morning train. And we have
found that the mental muscles have responded at once to this
treatment. They have hardened under the exercise until being left
alone has begun to change from confinement in the same cell with that
worst of enemies who has the right to forge one's own name--into a
joyful pleasure jaunt with a totally different person who, if not
one's best friend, is at least to be counted on as a trusty,
entertaining, resourceful, unselfish associate--at times, perhaps, a
little exacting--yet certainly a far more brilliant and generally
satisfactory person than his companion.

No matter what the ignorant or the envious may say, there is nothing
really unsocial in a moderate indulgence in the art of auto-comradeship.
A few weeks of it bring you back with a fresher, keener appreciation of
your other friends and of humanity in general than you had before
setting forth. In the continuous performance of the psalm of life such
contrasts as this of solos and choruses have a reciprocal advantage.

But auto-comradeship must not be overdone, as it was overdone by the
mediaeval monks. Its delights are too delicious, its particular vintage
of the wine of experience too rich, for long-continued consumption.
Consecutive thought, though it is one of man's greatest pleasures, is
at the same time perhaps the most arduous labor that he can perform.
And after a long period of it, both the Auto-Comrade and his companion
become exhausted and, perforce, less comradely.

Besides the incidental exhaustion, there is another reason why this