energy bring personal loss and pain. This is the good side of
war, in so far as it calls for "volunteers." And for morality
life is a war, and the service of the highest is a sort of cosmic
patriotism which also calls for volunteers. Even a sick man,
unable to be militant outwardly, can carry on the moral warfare.
He can willfully turn his attention away from his own future,
whether in this world or the next. He can train himself to
indifference to his present drawbacks and immerse himself in
whatever objective interests still remain accessible. He can
follow public news, and sympathize with other people's affairs.
He can cultivate cheerful manners, and be silent about his
miseries. He can contemplate whatever ideal aspects of existence
his philosophy is able to present to him, and practice whatever
duties, such as patience, resignation, trust, his ethical system
requires. Such a man lives on his loftiest, largest plane. He
is a high-hearted freeman and no pining slave. And yet he lacks
something which the Christian par excellence, the mystic and
ascetic saint, for example, has in abundant measure, and which
makes of him a human being of an altogether different
denomination.

The Christian also spurns the pinched and mumping sick-room
attitude, and the lives of saints are full of a kind of
callousness to diseased conditions of body which probably no
other human records show. But whereas the merely moralistic
spurning takes an effort of volition, the Christian spurning is
the result of the excitement of a higher kind of emotion, in the
presence of which no exertion of volition is required. The
moralist must hold his breath and keep his muscles tense; and so
long as this athletic attitude is possible all goes