I thought this an excellent paper, and I told Henry so. I said I was glad he had written more of musical composition than I had been able to tell him. We spoke of some of our past meetings. Florence said: “I couldn’t make Henry see the difference between wit and humor.” “I see it now,” he answered. “We discussed it in school.” “So did we,” said Marian. “Isn’t it queer?” They had been taking up drama, too, and so their club and school work harmonized. I said: “You have heard people speak of the art of life. To me it seems that to make an art of life, to live it as if it were our creation, our work of art, is the best way, the most complete and beautiful way. You remember, I spoke to you of the three ways of looking at life, of writing books, for instance: The scientific way, the philosophic way, the artistic way. One can live life in these three ways, too; but to me the artistic way seems best.” “Don’t you think,” asked Marian, “that if we lived as an art, we should be too apt to excuse ourselves?” “How do you mean, Marian?” “Because,” she went on, “we should admit the shadows in life as well as the light.” “The shadows,” I answered, “are not the wrong, the bad. How can you think so? Are shadows in a picture the mistakes in it? Shadows make the rhythm and the contrast; and in life would be repose and sleep. That necessary pulsation of activity and rest alone can make life whole and perfect.” “I see,” said Marian, “that is true.” “As for blaming ourselves for things past, I think it is silly to do so.” “What,” they asked, “is the scientific way of life?” “It is,” I answered, “living according to small definite truths, knowing certain separate things to be good or bad for us, and living according to that knowledge, without any general aim of life. It is to bathe regularly, to tell the truth carefully, to be honest, to look out for your neighbor, always because each one of these things is expedient in itself. The philosophic way is to see the final, complete good, and to want that once, to lose yourself and the beauty of your own life in the desperate effort to make the whole world perfect now. Suppose, for instance, that on Christmas a starving family came to the door of a middle-class man for food. If he were a scientist in his life he would send the poor family at once to the public food kitchen, with a ticket of recommendation, because he did not believe in indiscriminate charity and pauperism. If he were a philosopher he would be horrified at the idea of any man lacking a dinner, and without further thought would give his whole dinner to the poor, and go without, and let his children go without. That is just what Bronson Alcott did—the typical philosopher in life—who neglected his own family for the good of the universe.” “I have often known of people,” said Henry, “who went out to do charity and neglected their families.”