Yes, and because of the Uneducated Hearts of their wives, husbands grow seedy, silly and old. Why, one can tell, almost, by the looks of a man--his posture, his very clothes--whether or not his wife truly loves him. For many a wife, dubbed by his undiscerning friends a shrew, a harridan, has proved her real interest in him by so ballyragging him for his faults that he has, despite himself, improved to meet her criticism, become ambitious, become persevering and successful--while as many others have been slowly kissed and praised into an intellectual apathy; most affectionately murdered by the Uneducated Heart. Ah, ’tis not only cats and lap dogs that are killed with kindness! There is another side to the Mary and Martha story. I know them well, those two sisters. Mary loves Martha well, she will tell you, and be shocked at your question. But dear Martha is, before her time, an old woman, round-shouldered, bowed down by caring for others. In the years, has Mary ever said, “Straighten up, dear! You are growing crooked.” Not once. Her own head high, she walks beside a sister almost deformed--whom, with an Educated Heart, she could have saved from ugliness. AND by this time you’ll understand of course that the Educated Heart isn’t really educated at all, in the sense that it has had to learn how to be kind. It merely is wise. Its gesture is instinctive, its knowledge innate. But, you ask, can’t the uneducated heart be instructed? Don’t the churches and Sunday-schools teach How to be Good? How about the books of Ethics? Ah, the trouble with them all is that they teach what to do, but not how to do it. And the trouble with this little study will be, perhaps, if you and I don’t look out, that it will educate us as to others’ faults but lead us to forget our own. It’s so easy to be petulant and critical; it’s so easy to deny that we ourselves are morally round-shouldered. If you have even the rudiments of a heart culture, long before this you will be saying to yourself: Have _I_ an Educated Heart? SO, if you are not content with increasing your chest expansion or your biceps, if you want to enlarge that mystic organ whence flows true kindness, you must cultivate your imagination, you must learn to put yourself in another’s place, think his thoughts. There is but one substitute for imagination, and that is experience. If you have deeply suffered, perhaps you may have found from your very pain, what real kindness is. Like Confucius you may have learned politeness from the impolite. And if you haven’t--well, I scarcely think it should be necessary for you to break a leg or inoculate yourself with the germs of typhoid. You might do a great deal, really, by exercising just your common sense.