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over which the yearning eye wanders in vain； seeking one single square
inch of un…enameled matteris； I am convinced； a mistake。 It may be a
home that； as the testimonials assure us； will easily wash。 It may be an
〃artistic〃 home； but the average man is not yet educated up to the
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appreciation of it。 The average man does not care for high art。 At a
certain point； the average man gets sick of high art。
So； in these coming Utopias； in which out unhappy grandchildren will
have to drag out their colorless existence； there will be too much
electricity。 They will grow to loathe electricity。
Electricity is going to light them； warm them； carry them； doctor them；
cook for them； execute them； if necessary。 They are going to be weaned
on electricity； rocked in their cradles by electricity； slapped by electricity；
ruled and regulated and guided by electricity； buried by electricity。 I may
be wrong； but I rather think they are going to be hatched by electricity。
In the new world of our progressionist teachers； it is electricity that is
the real motive…power。 The men and women are only marionettes
worked by electricity。
But it was not to speak of the electricity in them； but of the originality
in them； that I referred to these works of fiction。 There is no originality
in them whatever。 Human thought is incapable of originality。 No man
ever yet imagined a new thingonly some variation or extension of an old
thing。
The sailor； when he was asked what he would do with a fortune；
promptly replied：
〃Buy all the rum and 'baccy there is in the world。〃
〃And what after that？〃 they asked him。
〃Eh？〃
〃What would you buy after thatafter you had bought up all the rum
and tobacco there was in the worldwhat would you buy then？〃
〃After that？ Oh！ 'um！〃 （a long pause）。 〃Oh！〃 （with inspiration） 〃why；
more 'baccy！〃
Rum and tobacco he knew something of； and could therefore imagine
about。 He did not know any other luxuries； therefore he could not
conceive of any others。
So if you ask one of these Utopian…dreaming gentry what； after they
had secured for their world all the electricity there was in the Universe；
and after every mortal thing in their ideal Paradise； was done and said and
thought by electricity； they could imagine as further necessary to human
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happiness； they would probably muse for awhile； and then reply； 〃More
electricity。〃
They know electricity。 They have seen the electric light； and heard of
electric boats and omnibuses。 They have possibly had an electric shock
at a railway station for a penny。
Therefore； knowing that electricity does three things； they can go on
and 〃imagine〃 electricity doing three hundred things； and the very great
ones among them can imagine it doing three thousand things； but for them；
or anybody else； to imagine a new force； totally unconnected with and
different from anything yet known in nature； would be utterly impossible。
Human thought is not a firework； ever shooting off fresh forms and
shapes as it burns； it is a tree； growing very slowlyyou can watch it long
and see no movementvery silently； unnoticed。 It was planted in the
world many thousand years ago； a tiny； sickly plant。 And men guarded it
and tended it； and gave up life and fame to aid its growth。 In the hot days
of their youth； they came to the gate of the garden and knocked； begging
to be let in； and to be counted among the gardeners。 And their young
companions without called to them to come back； and play the man with
bow and spear； and win sweet smiles from rosy lips； and take their part
amid the feast； and dance； not stoop with wrinkled brows； at weaklings'
work。 And the passers by mocked them and called shame； and others
cried out to stone them。 And still they stayed there laboring； that the tree
might grow a little； and they died and were forgotten。
And the tree grew fair and strong。 The storms of ignorance passed
over it； and harmed it not。 The fierce fires of superstition soared around
it； but men leaped into the flames and beat them back； perishing； and the
tree grew。 With the sweat of their brow have men nourished its green
leaves。 Their tears have moistened the earth about it。 With their blood
they have watered its roots。
The seasons have come and passed； and the tree has grown and
flourished。 And its branches have spread far and high； and ever fresh
shoots are bursting forth； and ever new leaves unfolding to the light。 But
they are all part of the one treethe tree that was planted on the first
birthday of the human race。 The stem that bears them springs from the
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gnarled old trunk that was green and soft when white…haired Time was a
little child； the sap that feeds them is drawn up through the roots that twine
and twist about the bones of the ages that are dead。
The human mind can no more produce an original thought than a tree
can bear an original fruit。 As well might one cry for an original note in
music as expect an original idea from a human brain。
One wishes our friends； the critics； would grasp this simple truth； and
leave off clamoring for the impossible； and being shocked because they do
not get it。 When a new book is written； the high…class critic opens it with
feelings of faint hope； tempered by strong conviction of coming
disappointment。 As he pores over the pages； his brow darkens with
virtuous indignation； and his lip curls with the Godlike contempt that the
exceptionally great critic ever feels for everybody in this world； who is not
yet dead。 Buoyed up by a touching； but totally fallacious； belief that he
is performing a public duty； and that the rest of the community is waiting
in breathless suspense to learn his opinion of the work in question； before
forming any judgment concerning it t