He is urged, evidently,
by something in him that transcends reason; by his soul, I presume.
Yes, it must be the soul that raps out the `Quick march!' to the
body.--`Halt! Stand at ease!' interposes the brain, and `To what
destination,' it suavely asks the soul, `and on what errand, are you
sending the body?'--`On no errand whatsoever,' the soul makes answer,
`and to no destination at all. It is just like you to be always on the
look-out for some subtle ulterior motive. The body is going out
because the mere fact of its doing so is a sure indication of
nobility, probity, and rugged grandeur of character.'--`Very well,
Vagula, have your own wayula! But I,' says the brain, `flatly refuse
to be mixed up in this tomfoolery. I shall go to sleep till it is
over.' The brain then wraps itself up in its own convolutions, and
falls into a dreamless slumber from which nothing can rouse it till
the body has been safely deposited indoors again.
Even if you go to some definite place, for some definite purpose, the
brain would rather you took a vehicle; but it does not make a point of
this; it will serve you well enough unless you are going for a walk.
It won't, while your legs are vying with each other, do any deep
thinking for you, nor even any close thinking; but it will do any
number of small odd jobs for you willingly--provided that your legs,
also, are making themselves useful, not merely bandying you about to
gratify the pride of the soul.
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