{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_17220/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_17220","id":"gutenberg_17220","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/17220","summary":null,"tags":["Canadian literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics"],"text":"Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Martin Pettit and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions\n(www.canadiana.org))\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBOHEMIAN SOCIETY.\n\nBY\n\nLYDIA LEAVITT.\n\nBROCKVILLE:\n\nTIMES PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY.\n\n\n\n\nBOHEMIAN SOCIETY.\n\n             \"She was not fair,\n     Nor beautiful,--those words express her not,\n     But, O, her looks had something excellent\n               That wants a name.\"\n\n\nIn a country house near the city of B---- lived a lady of cultivated\nmind and manners, \"a noble woman nobly planned.\" Well read and familiar\nwith such writers as Tyndall, Huxley, Spencer and other scientists, and\nbeing rather cosmopolitan in tastes, liked to gather about her, people\nwho had--as she termed it--_ideas_. At times there was a strange medley\nof artists, authors, religious enthusiasts, spiritualists,\nphilanthropists and even philosophers. On the evening of which I write\nthere was the usual peculiar gathering, and each one is expressing his\nor her views freely and unrestrainedly.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe visionary and dreamer said: \"Let me describe a modern Utopia of\nwhich I have often dreamed and thought.\n\nIn a fertile valley, surrounded on all sides by high mountains, lived a\ncommunity or body of people who had never been outside the valley. To\nthem the mountains proved an impassible barrier and they had no wish or\ndesire to penetrate beyond. For generations they had lived in this\npeaceful retreat happy and content. The ground yielded sufficient for\ntheir wants and needs. No one in this little world was richer than his\nneighbor and if one of the community fell ill each contributed something\nfrom their own supply for his or her support. They knew nothing about\nthe value of money, for here it was useless. No one dreamed of\npossessing more than his neighbor, but each and all must share alike.\nTime dealt kindly with these simple people, for they dealt kindly with\ntime, and life flowed on smoothly and pleasantly. Men and women of\nseventy years were hale and hearty, for it is not so much the _number_\nof years we live that leave their traces, as the events which transpire\nin those years; each event, each sorrow, each disappointment making an\nera and each one leaving a trace. For the inhabitants of the valley\nthere were few disappointments and fewer sorrows. If the angel of death\nentered and took one of their number, each and all took the sorrow home\nfor it was looked upon as a personal calamity when any one of the little\ncommunity was taken from them.\n\nThe sun seemed to shine brighter, the water to be clearer and more\nlimpid, the foliage more brilliant in this little world than elsewhere.\nPerhaps because the eyes of the people were undimmed by sorrow, perhaps\nbecause their souls were unclouded by sin, or perchance they were in\ncomplete harmony with nature and were able to see all her beauty, each\ncharm enhanced by something within themselves.\n\nNowhere else did the earth yield such abundant harvest. The wheat bent\nits yellow head from over weight. The trees were laden with fruit and\nhere again nature seemed to be in sympathy with her children. No sordid\nmotives, no love of gain, no thought of barter and sale entered their\nminds while sowing their fields or reaping their grain, but every one\nlabored that each and all might be benefitted. The men were strong and\nself-reliant, the women contented and happy, the children rosy and\nhealthy.\n\nEvery Sabbath morning the old church bell rang a sweet summons to meet\ntogether to worship God. One church was sufficient for all. They knew\nnothing about heresies and schisms but assembled together to hear a\nsimple story simply told. The venerable clergyman, with white hair and\nbeard, in the dimly lighted church resembled the pictures of the\nmartyrs, his face telling the story of a simple, true, pure life. His\nsermons were eloquent from their very simplicity; no need there of\nlearned dissertations, for the people would not have comprehended had he\nbeen able to give them, and had they been able to understand, their\npastor was unable to teach. It was a pleasant sight, the old men, young\nmaidens, happy matrons and rosy children assembled together in their\nquaint old fashioned dress, simple in the extreme, listening to the\nteaching of their minister.\n\nTheir amusement and pleasures were simple with no unnatural craving\nafter excitement. The ever changing sky and clouds; the mists on the\nmountain top; the purple hills and yellow waving grain; the running\nbrook; all these were sources of pleasure and amusement. To a few, the\nworld out side the valley, the numerous conjectures as to the people who\ninhabited it, gave food for thought.\n\nAt eventide the sun is setting, throwing a golden glow over the valley,\nfrom a cottage near is heard the cradle song of some happy mother\nlulling her child to sleep; in the distance can be heard the tinkling\ncow bell, and on the purple hill side the sheep have lain down to rest.\nThe sun has gone down a little lower and the shadows of the mountains\nhave lengthened until they stretch almost across the valley; the sounds\nof life have almost ceased; the child is asleep and the lullaby ended;\nthe tinkling of the bells is scarcely heard; the birds have gone to\ntheir nests, and up from the valley has risen a white mist that has\nhidden and completely covered the last sign of life. Surely a beautiful\ncovering for such a valley, a fitting mantle for so pure a people.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe morning broke dull and cloudy over the last happy day of the\npeaceful valley.\n\nA stranger from the outer world, about which they had speculated so\nmuch, appeared in their midst. Seeking a number of young men he soon\nengaged them in earnest conversation, arousing their curiosity by\ntelling them of the strange and wonderful things which transpired in the\nworld beyond the mountains; telling them of the wonderful discoveries of\nscience; the fame of many brilliant men and women, telling them of the\nadvantages of communication with the outer world, of the uselessness and\nfolly of spending their lives in so simple a manner, ridiculing their\nsimplicity, telling them that the mere youths of his country could teach\nthe venerable grandsires of the valley things of which they had never\ndreamed, telling of the advantages of extended thought and education.\nAfter many days spent in persuasion, he gained the consent of some to\nerect a large college which was immediately begun. Some of the older\nones shook their heads and asked each other the question, \"Were we not\nhappy? What more can be required?\" Thus the first seeds of discord were\nsown where all had been harmony. Laborers came from afar to aid in the\nerection of the college, and day by day the work progressed and children\nstood and gazed in open-eyed wonder at the place where they were to gain\na world of information. The work was finished; teachers came from\nforeign lands, masters of languages, teachers of science, and\nmetaphysicians to puzzle the heads of the old and weary the brain of the\nyoung. Teachers of music with massive organs for the music rooms of the\ncollege arrived, teachers of piano and harp, all of which were a\nrevelation to these simple people, who could not conceive of any sweeter\nmusic than the song of the birds, their mothers evening hymn or the soft\nsweet notes of the happy wife as she crooned her babe to sleep. The\nchildren were sent to the college and and in a short time the strife\nbegan, each one trying to excel the other. No more time to study the\neffect of the misty mountain tops, no more time to listen to the songs\nof the birds, for here within these four walls were to be found and\nlearned stranger things than they had ever thought of. After a few years\nthe youths who went to the old church could scarcely be recognized. The\nsame sweet welcome was given by the old church bell but how changed were\nthe people who assembled together! Where all had been love and faith\nbefore, there was now doubt and discord. For had they not dabbled in\nscience? Some of the more learned ones even whispered that the old\nclergyman should be replaced by a younger man, one more advanced in\nculture and training. True his head was bent and very grey, his hands\nshook and voice trembled and at times it was almost difficult to\nunderstand him, his prayer was so weak and broken. But at the bed-side\nof the sick he was always welcome, the infirmities of age were forgotten\nthere. For over half a century he had held himself in readiness to\nattend the bedside of all who might call upon him to speak cheering,\nhopeful words to the dying. But now our little community has become\neducated and they are able to criticise. As we look around the church we\nare lost in wonder as to what has come to the people. The older ones are\nsadder and a spirit of unrest seems to have seized upon the middle aged,\nwhile the very children have lost something of their charm.\n\nIn a short time factories and manufactories are running; clouds of smoke\nascend from the valley to the mountain top which had never been touched\nby anything less pure than the rain from the cloud or the mists from the\nvalley below. Nature itself was making a silent protest against the\ninvasion of her solitude. The trees which had borne abundant fruit\nbefore were barren now.\n\nThe older people shook their heads and attributed the cause to the\ndoubts and unbelief which had arisen in their lovely valley. The more\nlearned ones assigned the smoke from the factories to be the cause.\nDeath was of more frequent occurrence to the inhabitants than formerly.\nThis dread visitor came at rare intervals and to the very aged before\nthe advent of education and commerce. But now the little children and\nyouths were frequently stricken with strange diseases, which baffled all\nskill.\n\nAnd after a time enterprise steps in and a railroad is built, and with\nit every vestige of the happy valley disappears. The old church is torn\ndown, and a new one of grand proportions and elaborate workmanship is\nbuilt on the old spot. The venerable head of the clergyman has lain low\nfor many a year, and in his place stands an eloquent divine, with all\nthe modern ideas, who, in trying to prove the doctrines of his church to\nbe the true faith, leaves the doctrine of Christianity out--and that too\nhas gone; buried beneath the ruins of the old church and in the grave of\nthe old clergyman.\n\nNow let a person pass through the valley and they will look in vain for\na vestige of the once beautiful spot. There is a-hurrying to and fro. On\nthe faces of the young can be seen lines of care and thought. The\ninnocent faces and sweet manner of the young girls have given place to a\nlook of consciousness. The pretty, quaint dresses have gone and fashion\nhas sway. The quiet, dreamy look and manner of the young men has given\nplace to a worldly air. The mists which arise from the valley are mixed\nwith the foul smoke of the factories and engines, and where all was\npeace and quietness; chaos reigns supreme.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn enthusiast is saying:\n\nPhilanthropists in many ages and many lands have put forth great and\nnoble efforts for the benefit of mankind and as we advance in knowledge\nand civilization the ways and means chosen have undergone many\nmodifications. It has dawned upon philanthropists that they must have\nsome knowledge of the religion of humanity before the change can be very\nmarked, in the lives of those they would assist. The religion of\nhumanity is the noblest, the grandest of all religions. It is the one\nwhich our Saviour taught while on earth; the one which he taught his\ndisciples to follow; one which requires no trained intellect or\ncultivated mind, but simply an understanding of the human heart, the\nhuman mind, and human passions. In it there are no creeds to learn, no\ndogmas to understand, but the simple lesson of \"Do unto others as you\nwould they should do unto you,\" which is the foundation of genuine\nreligion. Phariseeism is the curse of modern times, \"Stand aside for I\nam holier than thou,\" is the spirit too often shown among--so\ncalled--Christians. The teaching of our Saviour; his life and good words\nmean little with many persons. The story of Mary Magdalen is simply a\nstory, and conveys nothing to their minds. A supplication from such a\none as she would meet with no return. The drawing of the skirts aside\nfor fear of contamination, the cold looks and averted gaze, prove that\nat least, one noble lesson has been disregarded.\n\nIn the German town of Andernach there is a huge wooden image of the\nSaviour on the cross. And this is the legend which all the simple\npeasants believe.\n\n\"One stormy night a poor, sinful creature was wandering about the\nstreets with her babe in her arms, and she was hungry and cold, homeless\nand friendless, and no one in Andernach would take her in. And when she\ncame to the crucifix, she sat down on a stone at the foot of the cross\nand began to pray, and prayed till she fell asleep with her poor little\nbabe on her bosom. But she did not sleep long, for a bright light shone\nfull in her face, and when she opened her eyes she saw a pale man\nstanding before her. He was almost naked, and there was blood upon his\nhands and body; and great tears stood in his beautiful eyes and his face\nwas like the face of the Saviour on the cross. Not a word did he speak,\nbut he looked at the woman compassionately, and gave her a loaf of\nbread, and took the babe in his arms and kissed it.\"\n\nNo need to talk of spiritual things to people who are suffering from\nhunger and cold. If the moral nature of the poor is to be reformed,\ntheir surroundings must be improved. \"The mind becomes that which it\ncontemplates.\" It would be impossible for any one surrounded by crime\nand poverty to understand or be made to comprehend the loving kindness\nof a God who placed them in such a condition and amidst such\nsurroundings. No one, unless they were fanatics, would think of\ndistributing religious tracts to the poor half starved ignorant portion\nof a large city. The _human_ portion of their natures must be benefitted\nbefore any great results in moral improvements can be attained. Commence\nat the beginning. Teach them the laws of hygiene: teach them their duty,\nnot from any reward which they may expect in the next world, but for the\nsake of right and the happiness it will afford them in this world.\n\nI am often struck with the idea that the religion which is taught from\nour pulpits frequently helps to nourish all that is most selfish in our\nnatures. We are taught that for every kind act we perform, we may expect\na reward hereafter. In worldly matters we would have a poor opinion of a\nfriend--or one calling herself such--who for every small act of kindness\nshown us, was constantly thinking of the benefit she was to derive from\nit. Why will the reasoning not apply to spiritual matters? Such teaching\ndevelops all that is lowest in human nature. And again we are told that\nby doing certain things which are sinful in the sight of God, we may\nexpect punishment hereafter; consequently many people are deterred from\nwrong doing, simply from fear; not because of any inner consciousness of\nwrong doing, but for fear of the consequences of their sin. Would it not\nbe well to teach and train the human mind to the belief that any act\ncommitted which is injurious to ourselves or our fellow creatures is\nwrong, because the act in itself is wrong and not because we are to be\npunished in the future.\n\nImagine a prisoner, a dangerous character, who conducts himself properly\nwhile under the eye of the keeper and in sight of the lash, compelled by\nfear to conform to rules, does the work appointed him, not from a\nconsciousness of doing right, not because the doing right is a pleasure,\nbut through fear of the consequences if he disobeys. He serves his time,\nis discharged, but what kind of a citizen does he become? If fear only\nrestrains him from wrong-doing what object will he have in doing right?\nLeave out the doctrine of reward and punishment, teach and train the\nmind to something higher and holier than mere personal gratification.\nThe religion of humanity is a grand, a noble belief. To remember that\neach and every one has some claim to consideration, that the way to\nrestrain from wrong-doing is through the human heart. A warm hand clasp\nand a sympathetic tear will do more to strengthen ones belief in heaven\nthan all the tracts which were ever written. Can we believe in the\ngoodness and loving kindness of God, when we see nothing but coldness\nand selfishness in our fellow creatures. Ah believe me, the chords of\nthe human heart are very tender and if touched by a sympathetic hand\nwill produce sweet sounds but if touched by the unfriendly hand of\ncoldness and indifference, the sounds will be harsh and discordant.\nThere is no one so low, so ignorant, so fallen, but has claims upon our\nsympathies. The Turks collect every scrap of paper that comes in their\nway, because the name of God may be written upon it. Deal tenderly with\nevery fellow creature, for all are made in the image of God. A few kind\nwords have saved many lives from shipwreck. Phariseeism says to itself\nafter hearing of the sin of some poor mortal \"I am holier than that\nperson. I have never sinned in that way,\" forgetful of the fact that\nthey have never been tempted in the same way. The religion of humanity\nsays \"here is a poor mortal who has been sorely tried and tempted, we\nwill show him his error and help him to do right.\" Phariseeism sends to\nthe boy who has been arrested for stealing a loaf of bread, a tract with\n\"Thou shall not steal\" in large letters. The religion of humanity says,\n\"the boy was hungry and we will feed him.\" Phariseeism says to the poor\nshivering outcast, \"the Lord chastiseth those whom he loveth.\" The\nreligion of humanity takes her in and clothes, feeds and warms her. To\nthe poor woman who is struggling for daily bread, each day sadder than\nthe last, Phariseeism says, \"bear thy burdens meekly.\" The religion of\nhumanity says, \"we will do something to lighten her sorrow.\"\n\nPhariseeism sees nothing to condemn in itself, forgetful that the sins\nthey are committing may be greater in the sight of God than the sins\nwhich they are condemning in others.\n\nI have often thought if a magician would wave his magic wand over a pool\nof water so that, not only the features but the mind, the motives, the\npassions were reflected, what consternation it would produce in the\nminds of the Pharisee.\n\nO be charitable even as Christ was to the sins of humanity, be\nsympathetic even as He was to the sufferings of mankind; be kind even as\nHe was to the poor; be merciful even as He was to erring women, speak\ncomforting words even as He did to the weak hearted; speak cheerful\nwords even as He did to the weary and sad.\n\n     Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate\n       Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours\n     Weeping upon his bed has sate\n       He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAgain the voice of the dreamer is heard. Let us, from a slight\nelevation, watch the busy life of a large city. At early morning can be\nheard the rattling of the carts and the merry whistle of the\ndrivers--the red-faced market woman is arranging fruit temptingly in\nfront of her stall; the shopman in a small street is lowering shutters\nfrom his windows; the little old wizened woman has seated herself on the\ncurb stone with a small supply of apples and candy; the one armed beggar\nhas taken his accustomed place; the shop girls are hurrying to their\nplaces behind the counters, the brawny workman with muscles of iron,\nstrides along to his days labor, and all the work-a-day world is alert.\nA little later on the business portion of the city is abroad, the banker\nis being driven to his counting house, the wealthy shop keeper hurries\nto his place of business, and farther on the little flower girl with\nfresh violets, still wet with dew, can be seen with her basket, offering\nto the passers by the sweet contents. Now the great city is thoroughly\nawake. The miser and the beggar jostle each other on the crowded\npavement, the little children are taken out for their morning airing by\nthe white-capped nurse, a black robed nun glides along on some errand of\nmercy, with a face like a mediaeval saint, jostling her as he passes can\nbe seen the excited face of the gambler who has staked his all and lost,\nand again another flower-girl bearing her bright burden, now seen and\nagain lost sight of, looks like a bright humming bird as she flits\nalong, moving hither and thither in this strange medley of human beings.\nA group has gathered around some Italian street musicians; little ragged\nurchins are dancing in time to a merry waltz, and now the tune changes\nfrom gay to grave. Watch the expression of the dark-eyed harpist while\nhe plays, surely his thoughts have flown to his sunny Italy, so sad, so\ndreamy is his look. Even this picturesque looking street musician may\nhave a romance and may be dreaming at this moment of some sweet voiced\nItalian maiden.\n\nLater in the day all the fashionable world is astir. Elegant carriages\nwith gaily dressed occupants are dashing along. There is a carriage with\nthe paint scarcely yet dry and seated within is a red-faced vulgar\nlooking woman, the carriage, the horses, the woman, all painfully--_new_.\nAt the same time hurrying along in shabby dress and mean attire is a\nfragile delicate woman whose garb shows evidences of much mending and\npatient darning, but the shabby dress cannot hide the fact that here is\na _lady_, as with easy grace she moves down the street.\n\nThe afternoon is somewhat advanced and the occasional glimpses which we\nget of the flower girl show that her basket has been replenished but she\ndoes not move quite so quickly as in the morning. Her limbs are getting\nweary, and there is a pathetic little note in her voice now as she\noffers her flowers for sale.\n\nBut see! on the bridge is the figure of a woman. No need to hear her\nhistory, the face tells its own story of sin and misery. She is looking\ndown at the river which flows sluggishly on; down perhaps at her own\nreflection in the water, down perhaps deeper still into her own soul.\nThe face is hardened and set and there is scarcely a trace of womanly\nlikeness left. A life of sin and shame has almost obliterated all that\nis good in her nature, almost I say, for no one, no matter how low or\ndegraded, can be wholly bad. But here it is difficult to discern one\nsoft look, as she leans wearily over the railing of the bridge--a\nsilent, sad, sin-stained creature. Soon there is a sound of wheels and\ngay laughter and a carriage rolls by, and there can be no mistaking the\nnature and errand of the occupants. A young girl, with sweet, pure face,\nall in white, with white flowers in her hair and carrying a bouquet of\nwhite flowers in her hand, is being driven towards the church. Passing\nthe solitary woman on the bridge she picks a beautiful flower from the\nbouquet she is carrying and tosses it at her feet, for she wishes to-day\nto make all whom she sees as happy as herself. A little of the hard\nlook leaves the woman's face as she stoops to pick the flower.\nMechanically she follows the carriage, with stealthy steps and bated\nbreath she enters the church, choosing a dark corner where she will not\nbe observed, she sits listening to the clergyman as he proceeds with the\nmarriage rites and not until all is over and the lovely bride is passing\ndown the aisle on the arm of her husband, does she dare to raise her\neyes, and as she does so they meet the pure frank gaze of the lovely\ngirl who smiles in her face as she recognizes the woman to whom she\nthrew the flower.\n\nThe woman sits in her dark corner. Of what can she be thinking? Her head\nis bowed and on her face is a look of agony. What a hell has arisen in\nher breast! Her thoughts have wandered to her country home which she has\nnot seen for years.--To the time when she was as pure as the young girl,\nwho just pronounced her marriage vows; to the mother's blessing as she\nsaw her young daughter depart for the great city; to the early days when\nshe first arrived and worked honestly for her bread; to the pride she\nfelt over the first money she sent home to her old mother. Her thoughts\nwandered back to the time when men and women turned to look at her fresh\nrosy face on the street, wondering at her beauty which partook so\nlargely of the wild rose and mountain daisy. Could this be the same\nwoman, with the hardened face and form covered with rags? It seemed so\nlong ago. Then came the thoughts of striving with temptation, then the\npromises made and broken, of ruin and shame, then of the long illness,\nof dreadful poverty, and at last she sees herself as she is, a ruined,\nhomeless, sin-stained creature. Oh the misery, the agony! What hell can\nbe greater than this! While she is still sitting there the bell begins\nto toll, and soon there is a procession moving slowly up the aisle and\nfour young boys are carrying a little coffin. It too is covered with\nwhite flowers, placed there by loving hands. In the coffin is a little\nwaxen form almost covered with the same beautiful flowers.\n\nThe clergyman who had read the marriage ceremony, is now repeating the\nlast sad rites for the dead. Again they take up their burden and move\nslowly down the aisle. As the coffin passes the woman, one of the white\nflowers drops almost at her feet. She stoops reverently and picks it up;\nalmost hesitatingly as if afraid her touch will soil its purity, and\nplacing it tenderly by the side of the bridal flower she walks slowly\nfrom the church. Watch her move along hurriedly, till she comes to a\nnarrow alley and stops in front of a wretched tenement house. Entering\nquickly she passes up the rickety stairs and goes into a room where\nthere is a little child upon a wretched bed. Sickness and poverty have\nalmost finished their work. The child is sleeping and the woman steals\nsoftly to the bed side and places the white flowers on its breast Even\nas she does so the little creature smiles in its sleep. Perhaps the\nhappy smiling face of the lovely bride has visited it in its slumber,\nor the spirit of the dead babe has come with the flowers, to take the\nhand of the sick child and lead it \"across the river.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI hear the voice of the Pessimist.\n\nPessimism is increasing daily. Any person who takes time to think on the\nsubject can not fail to see that human misery is increasing. With all\nthe boasted advantages of civilization, it has failed to bring happiness\ninto the lives of the people. The more enlightened people become, the\nmore they will recognize the fact that knowledge does not bring\nhappiness. Scientific discoveries do not tend to lighten the load of\nhuman misery. Since\n\n         \"Man's disobedience, and the fruit\n     Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste\n     Brought death into the world--and all our woe.\"\n\nsin has gone on increasing, consequently there has been more\nunhappiness. People are asking themselves daily, \"is life worth living,\"\nand most persons answer in the negative. Are there any who grasp the\nprize for which they have struggled? If there are a few who succeed in\nreaching to the height to which they aspire, they find happiness is just\nas much beyond their reach as when they first started in their career.\nIn the middle ages the magicians who created monsters were haunted by\nthem forever after. We are all haunted by dreams and shadows. The dreams\nof happiness and the shadows of disappointments. Looking back upon our\npast and taking a retrospective glance at years gone by we find our\nlives have been made up not of _great_ events--but of a succession of\ndisappointments. Each one is haunted by a phantom or ideal which they\nare vainly striving to reach but seldom attain. The garden of hope seems\nto bear well; we put forth our hands to reach the fruit and we find we\nhave only the ashes of Dead Hopes.\n\nAs Shelly says:\n\n     \"First our pleasures, die--and then\n     Our hopes, and then our fears--and when\n     These are dead, the debt is due\n     Dust claims dust--and we die too.\"\n\nIt is bitter mockery to say that the man who struggles for daily bread\nis happy. He may do his work uncomplainingly, but he cannot be happy. He\ngets to be but little better that a machine and does his work\nmechanically, perhaps never looking into his own heart, to ask the\nquestion, \"Is this a happy life?\" Some writer has said that there are\ntwo classes of people, those who are driven to death and those who are\nbored to death. There can be no sympathy between the rich and poor.\nThere is an impassible gulf that can never be crossed. The man who has\nnever known the want of money cannot know the sorrows and struggles of\nthe poor. Each must go his own way, the poor man to his pallet of straw;\nthe rich man to his bed of down.\n\nIn the world of dreams all are equal. It is an unreal world, true, but\nto many it is the happiest. In it there are no distinctions. The woman\nwho is old and wrinkled and gray, who has known nothing but hard work\nand sorrow in this world, in the land of dreams finds pleasure she has\nnever known. In spirit, she is in pleasant places, carried back perhaps\nto scenes she loved in childhood, to the old home; sees pleasant faces\nof the almost forgotten dead, is carried above and beyond the world of\nreality into the dim shadowy land of dreams. Then comes the waking, and\nwith the waking the regret of what \"might have been.\"\n\nIn this land of dreams the rich may travel with the poor, may revisit\nthe same old scenes, see the same faces of the dead, leave all that is\n\"earth earthy,\" and the spirit or soul wander abroad, over land and seas\nand in dreams kneel again at a mother's knee repeating the prayer she\ntaught and which has long since been forgotten, to awake with regret to\nthe cares which riches bring.\n\nThere is one more journey which the rich and the poor take together and\nthat is down and through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.\n\nIt is a curious study to watch the faces one meets in a large city or\ntown. Every face has a history, every life a story, if we but take the\ntrouble to read. The face is but an index of the heart, and even in the\nheart of the happiest the \"muffled drums are beating.\"\n\nAs Longfellow so beautifully expresses it in \"Hyperion\" \"and then mark!\nhow amid the chorus of a hundred voices and a hundred instruments--of\nflutes and drums, and trumpets--this unreal shout and whirlwind of the\nvexed air, you can so clearly distinguish the melancholy vibration of a\nsingle string touched by the finger--a mournful sobbing sound. Ah this\nis indeed human life! where in the rushing noisy crowd, and sounds of\ngladness, and a thousand mingling emotions, distinctly audible to the\near of thought, are the pulsations of some melancholy string of the\nheart, touched by an invisible hand.\"\n\nAn Optimist, a pleasant, sweet faced woman, with a voice like the chime\nof silver bells, is saying:\n\n\"It is only to morbid and diseased minds that existence looks colorless.\nPeople who live too much within themselves, whose imagination becomes\ndisordered see only the dark side of life. It was not intended that life\nshould be all sunshine and no shadow.\"\n\n         \"For life is one, and in its warp and woof,\n     There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair,\n     And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet\n     Where there are sombre colors.\"\n\nDark clouds must appear in the life of each, and one of the great\nlessons of life is to learn to bear disappointments philosophically, not\nsit down with folded hands and watch the clouds approaching until our\nvision becomes obscured. There is sunshine in the lives of each and\nevery one if they will but see it, and banish vain regrets and useless\nrepinings. Inertia causes a vast deal of trouble.\n\n     \"Lose this day loitering, t'will be the same story\n     To morrow, and the rest more dilatory\n     The indecision brings its own delays.\n     Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute!\n     What you can do or think you can, begin it!\n     Only engage, and then the mind grows heated.\n     Begin it, and the work will be completed.\"\n\nFortunately the day of fine ladyism has passed and there are noble women\nwho are not afraid nor ashamed to take upon themselves the duties and\nresponsibilities of life, women who do their work well and faithfully,\nduties that perhaps in themselves are not noble, but by the manner in\nwhich they are done the work in itself is elevated. The common laborer\nwho does his work well and to the best of his ability is more to be\ncommended than the President who puts but half his energy in his duties.\n\nWhat can be more pitiful than the apathy and utter uselessness of the\nwould-be fine lady who is _ennuied_ to the last degree; one perhaps with\ngood ability who is conscious of the fact that she is capable of\nsomething better, would like to turn her attention to something useful,\nbut is restrained from doing so by the fear of what \"society\" will say.\nAny society which is worth knowing will extend the right hand of\nfellowship to the self-reliant noble woman, much more readily than to\nthe useless nonentity. Life to be pleasant must have an aim, an object,\nand every one has been given some talent to make use of and for such he\nor she must answer at \"the last great day.\"\n\nLife can not but be pleasant to those who make nature a study. There is\na vast book open before us and every one who chooses can open a page.\nThe study will never grow monotonous, for nature is constantly changing\nand with lavish hand showers upon her children from her great store\nhouse innumerable blessings, to those who \"see books in running brooks,\nsermons in stones and good in everything.\"\n\nFrom the fern by the way side to the study of psychology--the most\nfascinating of all studies--there is something in which all can interest\nthemselves, but more especially for women, for to me this seems woman's\nkingdom. With much quicker perceptive faculties than men, they are\nbetter able to see the finer more delicate portion of nature's handiwork\nand mysteries. Unfortunately in small towns if a woman tries to\ninvestigate spiritualism, she is immediately called a spiritualist. If\nshe takes an interest in mesmerism and psychology, she is called\nvisionary. If she takes an interest in the religious discussion of the\nday, she is called an atheist. If she takes an interest in pathology she\nis called _strong minded_, and who does not abhor the so-called strong\nminded woman. A woman may be essentially womanly and take an interest in\nall these things. Brain was given to woman for reason and investigation,\nand \"I rather choose to endure the wounds of those darts which envy\ncasteth at novelty, than to go on safely and sleepily in the easy ways\nof ancient mistakings.\" Life cannot but be pleasant to those who are\nfond of books, \"our silent companions.\" They speak a language all their\nown and we can find companionship for every mood, grave, gay, dreamy,\ndiscursive, philosophical and scientific.\n\nIf you are a busy worker in a large city and wish a breath of country\nair, a breeze from the meadow, a ramble along a country road, read\nWhittier's \"Among the Hills.\"\n\n     \"Pleasant it was when woods were green\n       And winds were soft and low,\n     To lie amid some sylvan scene\n     Where shadows dark--and sunlight sheen,\n       Alternate come and go.\"\n\nIf you are weary with brain work and seek repose, read Longfellow.\n\n     \"And the cares that infest the day,\n     Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,\n     And as silently steal away.\"\n\nIf in an heroic mood read Milton.\n\n     \"For with thee\n     Certain my resolution is to die,\n     How can I live without thee? how forgo\n     Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined.\"\n\nIf fortune has smiled upon you and flattery falls sweet on your ear, and\nyou are in danger of forgetting the final end of all ambition read\n\"Grays Elegy.\"\n\n     \"Can storied urn, or animated bust\n     Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?\n     Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust\n     Or flattery sooth the dull cold ear of death?\"\n\nIf you wish to be transported to the mystic cloud-land of fancy, read\nHawthorne.\n\n\"Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange\nthings that almost happen. He knew not that a phantom of wealth had\nthrown a golden hue upon its waters. Nor that one of death had\nthreatened to crimson them with his blood, all in the brief hour since\nhe lay down to sleep.\"\n\nTo a dreamy and poetic mind what can be more exquisite than these few\nlines: \"The next morning Hieronymus put the scroll into his bosom, and\nwent his way in search of the Fountain of Oblivion. A few days brought\nhim to the skirts of the Black forest. He entered, not without a feeling\nof dread, that land of shadows, and passed onward under melancholy pines\nand cedars, whose branches grew abroad and mingled together, and, as\nthey swayed up and down, filled the air with solemn twilight and a sound\nof sorrow. As he advanced into the forest the waving moss hung, like\ncurtains, from the branches overhead, and more shut out the light of\nheaven; and he knew the Fountain of Oblivion was not far off. Even then\nthe sound of falling waters was mingling with the roar of the pines\nabove him; and ere long he came to a river, moving in solemn majesty\nthrough the forest, and falling with a dull, leaden sound into a\nmotionless stagnant lake, above which the branches of the forest met and\nmingled, forming perpetual night. This was the Fountain of Oblivion.\nUpon its brink the Student paused, and gazed into the dark waters with a\nsteadfast look. They were limpid waters dark with shadows only. And as\nhe gazed, he beheld, far down in their silent depths, dim and\nill-defined outlines, wavering to and fro, like the folds of a white\ngarment in the twilight. Then more distinct and permanent shapes\narose,--shapes familiar to his mind, yet forgotten and remembered\nagain, as the fragments of a dream; till at length, far, far below him\nhe beheld the great City of the Past, with silent marble streets, and\nmoss-grown walls, and spires uprising with a wave-like, flickering\nmotion. And, amid the crowd that thronged those streets he beheld faces\nonce familiar and dear to him; and heard sorrowful, sweet voices\nsinging, O' forget us not! forget us not!' and then the distant,\nmournful sound of funeral bells, that were tolling below, in the City of\nthe Past.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn artist is speaking:\n\nA person may be a true artist, who has never made a stroke with a brush.\nAny one who can blend colors harmoniously or produce effective contrasts\nin dress, or even in so trivial a thing as fancy work, is an artist.\nAgain, one may _paint_ for years without the slightest knowledge of, or\ntaste for true art. In painting a portrait, something more is required\nthan the mere likeness, something besides pink and white prettiness.\nPerhaps in two or three centuries an artist is born, one who in painting\na portrait produces almost a living, breathing creature; and is able by\nhis magic touch, to paint in the thoughts which flit through the brain;\nthe feelings which move the heart, and is able to read almost the very\nsoul.\n\nMany years ago a poor struggling painter in an Italian studio, conceived\nthe idea of painting a picture of the Madonna. He shut his doors to\nvisitors in order to give full play to his imagination. Days and nights\nwere spent in dreaming and working, until he lost consciousness of the\nouter world and only lived for his work, for this picture, he was sure\nwould make him famous. Days rolled into weeks and weeks into months, and\nstill the realization of his dream seemed as far off as when he first\nbegan. The figure was standing with hands clasped and head bent in\nhumble submission to the Divine will; the graceful, easy repose of the\nlimbs, every curve and line was perfect. But the face! It seemed at\ntimes as if he had accomplished the great task, yet the expression\nalways eluded his most earnest efforts, the heavenly expression of the\nDivine mother was wanting. At last, after many failures and vain\nefforts, it occurred to him to open his doors to visitors and perchance\nhe could catch the longed-for expression from the faces of the women who\nmight visit him. As soon as it was announced that the artist had opened\nhis doors, people came from neighboring towns and cities, attracted as\nmuch by the desire to see the strange person whom they thought a\nmonomaniac, as by the wish to see the picture. Women of rank and fashion\narrived daily, and it was a curious study to watch the intent gaze which\nhe fixed upon them, hoping, praying, in each one to find the desired\nexpression. Occasionally he would request some beautiful woman to remain\nstanding in a certain attitude, when he fancied he had caught the look\nfor which he was striving, but it always proved unsatisfactory, for\noften the stately robes covered an aching heart which told its story\nvery plainly on the canvass. Again a lovely girl would be asked to pose,\nbut here alas was disappointment, for oftentimes the face expressed\nprettiness, but nothing more. Then again the canvass reflected the image\nof some worldly-wise woman with selfishness stamped upon it. Again the\nlook of envy stared him in the face, or pride mocked at him while he\nstruggled vainly on. As the last resort a young mother and her child\nwere requested to favor him with a sitting. Here he thought \"I shall\nsurely succeed.\" He worked steadily on and success seemed at last before\nhim. The last stroke of the brush had been made and stepping back to\nview the work, his heart sank within him, for here he had succeeded in\ncatching the look of lovely maternity, with the expression of the\nearthly mother imprinted thereon, but the combination of human love and\nDivine motherhood was wanting.\n\nJust at nightfall, sick at heart, weary and discouraged, he wandered\nout into the streets, going on and on until he found himself in the\nportion of the city inhabited by the very poor; passing an old church,\nhe was attracted toward it, scarcely knowing how or why. On entering the\ndoor, he saw a woman dressed in rags, kneeling before the altar. The man\ngazed in wonder and awe, for here amidst poverty and distress, he had\nfound the expression vainly sought after, for weeks and months. In the\nface before him, there was no envy, hatred or selfishness, no vain glory\nor hypocracy, but the resigned look of one who suffered but bowed,\nmeekly to the chastizement. At eventide, and alone, she had brought her\nsufferings to the foot of the Cross.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI hear the voice of the Cynic.\n\nFriendship is a myth. In prosperity and sunshine you find yourself\nsurrounded by flatterers and so called friends, but let the waves of\nadversity beat about and threaten to engulf you--then stretch forth\nyour hands for the friends you have known and you will find yourself\nstranded and--alone. There may be a few timid, shrinking creatures who\nfeel they would like to give the right hand of fellowship, but popular\nopinion and example prove too much for their weak natures and it is but\ncharity to let them go.\n\n\"There are times when we are even inclined to smile at our own misery,\nbut it is the smile which brings wrinkles instead of dimples.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Philosopher is saying:\n\n\"Time in its resistless onward sweep\" has taught us many things; has\ndisabused our minds of many false ideas and erroneous views, has opened\na new world to the thinking mind--a world of thought. When God created\nman he gave to him the divine instinct of reason, by which all persons,\nhigh and low, rich and poor, can solve for herself and himself the great\nproblem of life. Very young children can only see objects that come\nwithin easy range of their vision; they are in the world of instinct,\nbut after a time their vision becomes enlarged, they are able to see a\ngreater distance, and in the larger space; more to arrest the eye--then\ncomes consciousness. After consciousness--reason. The minds of many\nadults are still in their infancy, only seeing in a small circle the\nthings by which they are surrounded and in close proximity. Others are\nin a state of consciousness and nothing more. They live, they breath,\nthey have their being, but the great mysteries which surround them, the\nwonderful problems of life, are as nothing to them. Then again there is\nthe mind that has reached the height of reason, and to that mind what a\nvast world has opened before it. The wonderful works of an all-wise\nCreator, the mysteries of nature that are so perplexing, are all open\nfor the investigation of the reasoning thinking mind.\n\n\"The venomous insect beneath our feet, and the noblest and best of our\ndomestic animals; the terrible forces of the earth, the tornado and\nvolcano; the gently murmuring spring and the boisterous ocean; the\nforest monarch and the pale forget-me-not within its shade, are all\nwitnesses of a creative power.\"\n\nFrom the animalculae up to Gods noblest work, man, there is the evidence\nof an all-ruling power and intelligence. Interwoven and interlined\nthrough all nature's great mysteries there is the mark of an invisible\nhand and all-seeing power, which rules and guides the universe.\n\n     \"That very law which moulds a tear\n       And bids it trickle from its source,\n     That law preserves the earth a sphere\n       And guides the planets in their course.\"\n\nIt is by reason and investigation that we are permitted to partially\nunderstand the strange mysteries of a wonderful world. Each one must\nreason for himself or what better are they intellectually, than the\nchild who only sees and cannot understand? Had it not been for\ninvestigation and reason, we would still have believed the earth to be\nflat, and in the rising and setting of the sun.\n\nThere is a law governing all things. There is a connecting link between\nearth, air and sea, between flowers, beasts and birds, between mankind\nand all animals, and inanimate things, a mysterious joining of mind to\nmatter. It is an intangible something, perhaps an electrical current,\nbut certain it is that the line is there and unbroken, and between every\nhuman creature whom God has made, there is the same unbroken chain,\nwhich can be followed up link by link, step by step, until we find\nourselves on the boundaries of the next world and perhaps beyond; who\ncan tell? The chain may be unbroken even then.\n\nWhat matters it if I do not believe?--perhaps because I do no not\nunderstand your creeds, your dogmas. What matters it if I do not\ninterpret the working of Gods ways in the same manner which you do?\n\nThere is the same principle guiding us all, and we bow the head\nreverently to the one God who \"is the same yesterday, to day and\nforever.\"\n\nNations, like individuals, pass through the usual form of youth,\nmanhood, old age, and decay. Religion, like nations and individuals,\npasses through the regular gradation, first of infancy, when religious\nideas and thoughts are crude in the extreme; the age of Puritanism, when\ninnocent women and children are burned at the stake for witchcraft, when\nwith gloomy faces and in unsightly dress the poor fanatics sacrificed\nevery pleasure on the altar of duty; the time when Sunday was a day of\nhorror to children from its gloom, a day when every innocent amusement\nwas forbidden. After religion's infancy comes youth. At that stage, the\nabsurd dress and gloomy faces were not considered essential adjuncts to\nreligion, but free discussion was not allowed upon religious subjects.\nEverything must be taken for granted, without any investigation on the\npart of the people. After youth comes manhood, the time when reason has\nfull sway, when superstition and credulities form no part of religious\nteaching and thought. People are able to think, to reason for\nthemselves. After the age of manhood, comes old age and that is the\nstage of agnosticism. Questions are being asked, and ideas propounded\nwhich must not be overlooked nor treated with contempt. All questions\nasked in a fair spirit, must be answered in a fair manner. It is not\nsufficient to say, \"it is so\", but good and tangible reasons must be\ngiven to prove the truth of an assertion. We are now in the stage of\n\"old age.\" Agnosticism and Infidelity are wide spread. After old age\ncomes decay and the decline of the absolutely orthodox. From time\nimmemorial, every religion has passed through the same gradation, of\ninfancy, youth, old age and decay finally comes _philosophy_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA Swedenborgian is speaking:\n\nDown by the sounding sea, in a lonely cottage, lives a woman, so\nwrinkled, old and bent that even death seems to have forgotten her\nexistence. It would be difficult to imagine that once she was a beauty,\nbut true it is that many years ago no fresher, fairer maiden could be\nfound than this same strange old woman. Sixty years ago she had a sailor\nlover, who loved her truly and well. On his return after every cruise it\nwas a sight to soften the heart of even the hardest, to witness the\njoyful meeting, the lovers kiss, in which there was no shame, the tears\nof joy in which there was no weakness; the heartfelt pleasure of two\nhonest hearts. But the partings were soon to be over, for after the next\nvoyage the young lovers were to be wedded. The simple wedding dress was\nmade and all was ready. With gay snatches of song, and merry feet the\nyoung girl flitted about the house, impatiently waiting the day which\nwas to bring her lover. There was only one more day of waiting and\n\"to-morrow, to-morrow he comes,\" she sang. Early in the evening dark\nclouds formed in the sky, the wind began to moan, the waves beat high\nupon the shore, the murmuring winds changed to howling blasts, the waves\nrolled mountains high, the spirits of the sea and air seemed to have\narisen in their fury, doors rattled, houses shook on their\nfoundations--and to-morrow came, but no lover. The wedding clothes were\nlaid away, and the day which was to have seen the young girl made a\nhappy wife, found her a heart-broken stricken woman; and now she must\ntake up her burden, and from month to month and year to year, carry this\nleaden weight called a heart.\n\nThe years rolled by taking with them her girlish beauty, and leaving in\nits place the wrinkles of time and sorrow. As time passed the idea took\npossession of her that her lover would still come back. True the vessel\nin which he sailed had been wrecked, but still there lingered the one\nfaint hope, and every night she lit the lamp and placed it in the\nwindow as she had done in her youth, as the beacon light for the absent\nlove. As time passed she followed her father to the grave and in a short\ntime stood by the bed of her dying mother. And now she was alone in her\nloneliness and desolation. Every year when the day came which was to\nhave been her wedding day, the white dress, which had grown yellow with\nage, was taken out, folded and flowers scattered over it as carefully as\nwe would sprinkle flowers over a child's grave, for in the box in which\nthe garment lay, were buried all her hopes. Does it not seem strange\nthat one can live on year after year, with no hope, no joy; waken in the\nmorning with the thought that \"here is another day to be passed over,\"\nanother night with the sad dreams and gloomy awaking.\n\nAt the approach of a storm, when the clouds began to gather, the\nsolitary woman could be seen standing on the shore gazing long and\nearnestly over the dark waters. But at last it was with difficulty that\nshe dragged herself to the beach and her hands trembled so that she\ncould scarcely light the lamp for the window, but she said to herself\n\"he will surely come,\" for if faith, hope and long suffering, if patient\nwaiting, prayers and longing have power to affect disembodied spirits,\nmy faith will surely be rewarded.\n\nAnd now another year has passed and again the anniversary of the sad day\nhas dawned. With trembling, withered hands, she once more unfolds the\nwedding dress. She must make one more visit to the shore, for she feels\nit will be for the last time, as with slow uncertain steps she drags\nherself along. And now as night approaches she is too ill to light the\nlamp.\n\nNeighbors miss the accustomed light, find the lonely woman too ill to\nrise, and they know that in a few hours all will be over. They lit the\nlamp to humor the whim of a dying woman. The winds began to moan\nfitfully; the waves could be heard dashing on the shore, while the\nlightning flashed and illuminated the room in which the woman lay. There\nis something weird in the whole scene--the lighted lamp for the lover,\ndead over half a century, the dying woman, the moaning wind, and the\nsound of the waters. And now she is muttering in her dreams, and talking\nto her lover, she has forgotten all the years that have passed, and is\nbidding him a joyous welcome and while the storm is at its height, a\nsmile of tenderness has passed over the face of the old creature, making\nher look almost young, when the door opens; a figure in a wet winding\nsheet, with hair in which was mingled sea weed, glides to the bed-side,\na whispered utterance from the dying woman, \"he has come,\" the figure\nmoves again to the door. An invisible power has extinguished the light,\nand the flame of the lamp and the woman's soul, have gone out together,\nwhile from the bedside to the door there is the trail of wet garments.\n\nAgain I hear the voice of the Cynic.\n\nThis is an age of shoddyism, and it is difficult at times to distinguish\nthe real from the sham. The woman who is covered with jewelry, looking\nlike a travelling doorplate, is the kind from whom we expect the bow to\nvary, in coldness or cordiality, according to the clothes we wear, or\nthe entertainments we are able to give. With such people money means\neverything, brains and breeding being secondary considerations. And it\nis very amusing on meeting Madam Shoddy to note the look with which she\nscans one from head to foot, balancing in her mind the cost of each\narticle of apparel, her mind wholly given up to dollars and cents, and\nwoe unto the person, who does not come up to the proper standard, of\npounds, shillings and pence.\n\nIn talking with such a one you will find their conversation frequently\ninterlarded with the use of the words _ladies_ and _gentlemen_. But\nmadam shoddy does really very little actual harm, all these things being\na harmless sort of imbecility.\n\nBut at the hands of Madam Snob, one will not fare as well, for having\nnothing noble in her own nature she is constantly picking flaws in the\ncharacter of others. Madam Snob will entertain you with a long account\nof her family connections. Poor soul she is constantly resurrecting the\nremains of dead and gone ancestors; her life is spent in the charnel\nhouse, being very careful however, to let the remains of a certain few\nrest in peace, while she rattles the dry bones of her favored ones in\nour face, until we are tempted to cry \"peace.\" At last our curiosity is\naroused, and we make inquiries as to these noble ancestors, and find the\noverwhelming fact--that they had been born! and that they had died! very\nnoble of them to have been born, and very heroic, to have died. If the\nsuccessors would follow their illustrious example in the last act, the\nworld would still exist. But you say \"this is harmless and only another\nform of idiocy.\" True if it stopped there, no harm would be done. But\ndid any one ever know Madam Snob to stop there? After having visited her\nfamily vault, you are requested to enter the abode of your neighbor's\ndead, and then your turn will come next and you are asked by madam to\nunearth your dead. Now to people who know little and care less about\ntheir great, great, great grandfather, all this is very amusing. If the\nBible be true, and who can doubt it? there was an ark built in which\nGod's chosen were placed for safety. Now any one is safe in saying \"my\nancestry dates from the ark\" but I think it would be rather difficult\nfor a person to trace their ancestry from the time the chosen few\nstepped from the ark to dry land, down to the present time. But every\none has some imagination, and in order to gratify Madam Snob's\ncuriosity, just make use of it. Tell her some were hanged, some were\ndrowned, some were in prison for debt, one fought in the War of the\nRoses, one was killed in a street brawl, another hanged for treason.\nTell her--well tell her anything that will satisfy her curiosity, for\nthere are times when an elastic conscience is excusable. There is\nanother Madam Snob, who not knowing in the slightest degree what\nconstitutes a lady, is ignorant of the fact that a lady is civil to\neveryone; this madam is uncivil to her servants, but does not hesitate\nto gossip with them, is careless, in speech and manner, in the presence\nof inferiors, in fact is guided wholly in matters of civility by the\nposition in which the people are in, whom she is with; is constantly\ntalking of _society_, and turning up her aristocratic nose at\ntrades-people and in nine cases out of ten, her father was a cobbler, or\nkept a peanut stand, neither of which would do her any harm, if she only\nknew that \"silence is golden.\" We say, _that_ is the lowest form of\n_snob feminine_ and rarely met with.\n\nThere is another form of snobbery which is not so easily recognized, and\nrequires a good judge of human nature to detect. This Madam Snob is one\nwho should be a lady, for by education and good breeding she is entitled\nto the name. Now, she really possess a good, kind heart, is kind to the\npoor, tries to do her duty, but away down, under several layers of good\nintentions, there is a little taint of snobbery, and she really has not\nthe moral courage to rid herself of it. This Mrs. Snob may have a large\ncircle of friends, but to each one she accords a different reception; to\nall she is kind, remember, but you can judge of her opinion of different\nones, from the invitations which she issues. First in her estimation,\ncome the fashionable people, those she asks to her dinner parties; then\nthe people whose position in life is not very good, she asks to\nluncheon; then at last, come those whom she really does not know how to\nplace, and they are the ones she asks to meet her alone.\n\nNow this poor woman, for whom I have a degree of pity, not unmixed with\ncontempt, is in a constant struggle with herself, in her desire to do\nwhat she thinks to be right, and at the same time, do everything that\nher neighbors do, for she is bound hand and foot and dare not make an\nindependent move. But if Mrs. Fitznoodle were to do certain things, Mrs.\nFitzsnob would follow her example, and the people who are asked to meet\ntheir hostess--alone, might find themselves seated around the mahogany\nwith Mr. and Mrs. Fitznoodle and daughters and a select circle of little\nNoodles.\n\nAgain, Mrs. Fitznoodle, with several marriageable daughters, is\nconstantly on the lookout for unwary young men, ignoring the fact of\ntheir want of brains, lack of breeding, and wholly regardless of the\nfact that they have no \"family\" connections, but she spreads her net and\nperhaps succeeds in catching this \"eligible\" young man. Mrs. Fitzsnob\nimmediately sees something in that young man to admire, and seeks his\nacquaintance, and much to his surprise, and to the surprise of everyone\nelse, he finds himself for the first time in what is termed _good\nsociety_. Now this Mrs. Fitzsnob is not a _rara avis_, but is frequently\nmet with. Yet how many ladies do we see? We meet many calling\nthemselves such, who do not hesitate to talk scandal, to injure their\nneighbors; to ridicule people, to accept of hospitality and comment\nill-naturedly upon it, to talk slang. All these things and more, people\ndo who call themselves, ladies. There are houses on which should be\nplaced signs, as on pest houses, and whose occupants should be labelled\n\"dangerous,\" for their tongues are more dangerous than the sting of the\nadder, and they are in so-called \"society.\" Heaven save the mark!\n\nWoman, the most perfect of all God's work, why do you not scourge\nsociety of scandal mongers, of snobs? Why do you not _dare_ to do what\nyou think and know to be right? Why will you allow yourselves to be\nruled and guided by the opinion of others? A woman's instinct is her\nsafest guide; if she follows it she will not err.\n\nIt is not women alone, who are tainted with snobbishness and shoddyism,\nbut how frequently we see it in men, generally those who have very\nlittle brain and often in those whom the world calls self-made-men. Now\nthere is nothing in the world so aggressive as the same self-made-man.\nThe air with which he moves along, as though upon him depended the\nrevolution of the world on its axis, and the safety and welfare of its\ninhabitants. He never allows himself, nor others, to forget the fact\nthat he is self-made. The laborer, who, by dint of hard work and\neconomy, has succeeded in making a little money; with what eagerness he\ntries to gain some petty office, and in a few years his daughters will\ntell us that they \"belong to the old families.\" How much old families\nhave got to answer for! It would sound refreshing in this age of\nsnobbery, to see some one who did not consider themselves \"as belonging\nto one of the old families.\" The male snob has developed within the past\nyear, into the dude. By a process of evolution, which Darwin undoubtedly\ncould have traced, we have him before us in all his beauty. To commence,\nfirst, he must have a little money, with that he buys a tight fitting\nsuit of clothes, a diamond ring, a gold headed cane, a very small hat,\ncarries his arms akimbo, and in all the perfection of loveliness, he\nstands out, a thing apart from the rest of humanity. Perhaps in two or\nthree centuries, the process of evolution taking place all the time,\nsomething may be put into the small cranium, which will be called a\n\"brain,\" but it must evolute rapidly or the sun will have cooled, and\nthere will be another glacial period before that event takes place.\n\nThen we have before us the man with three hundred dollars a year income,\nwho apes the manner of the gentleman of leisure.\n\nAnd now again we have what may be called an intellectual snob; the man\nwho has a fair share of brain, but not sufficient to make a name for\nhimself, not enough to make himself distinguished in any way. So where\nhonest candor would expose him, he apes the manner of clever men,\nallowing himself to get decidedly \"out at elbows,\" to wear clothes\nwhich decidedly require brushing, seats himself in a corner as though\npondering some weighty matter, tries to look profound--when he probably\nlooks simply, stupid. This is intellectual snobbishness. How many people\nwe meet who cover their ignorance by a look of profundity.\n\nWhen will people learn that snobbery is the evidence of a small mind,\nand that shoddyism is the proof of a vulgar one? How long before people\nwill be convinced of the fact, that, education, talent, and good\nbreeding, are the most essential requisites for success.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe psychologist says.\n\nIn dreams, and profound reveries we forget our surroundings, we travel\nover land and seas, through sunny lands, and many persons tell us that\nit is simply the mind which creates, the mind which travels. Not so; it\nis the soul which journeys forth and is actually in those places, having\nleft the body while it wanders alone.\n\nA person lying dangerously ill, suffering acute pain, is given a\nnarcotic and after a time, sleep is produced. The pain-racked body lies\nthere motionless as a lump of clay, pain is forgotten but the soul takes\na journey, and for a time revels in joy, flits through a shady grove, or\nstops for a moment beside a running brook, scales lofty heights or\nlingers in a lovely valley; the effect of the narcotic wears off, pain\nreturns and the pleasant vision is ended. Now the mind could not have\ncreated these pleasant scenes, for as everyone knows, there is complete\nsympathy between the body and mind, and a diseased, pain-tossed body,\nwould produce a diseased mind. Between sleep and death there is a\nwonderful similarity. In sleep the soul wanders forth and returns to the\nbody, in death it journeys over the broad sea of eternity into the great\nunknown. Have you ever stood at the bedside of a dying child and seen\nthe look of joy that passes over its face? In many instances the child\nbeing too young to reason, too young to create for itself pleasant\nscenes. Then what could have produced the ecstatic joy? I stood by the\nbed of a dying child, a mere infant. The little sufferer had lain\nunconscious during the day, efforts were made to arouse it, the mother\nwas bending over the bed anxious for one look of recognition, but the\nefforts were useless, the stupor continued until suddenly, to the\nsurprise of the watchers, the little creature raised its hand, and\npointed upward, with a smile of perfect joy, and at that moment the soul\nwinged its flight.\n\nMaterialists will say the child had been told of the beauties of\nanother world, and at the last moment memory and reason returned, and\nthe beauties which had been depicted, were suddenly recalled to mind.\nBut in this instance the child was too young to have been told pleasing\nstories; and the mind could not have created for itself a vision. Then\nwhat was it? At the moment of dissolution the soul had flitted through\nthe gates of the eternal city.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA study in sombre tints:\n\nIn one of the large cities in the wretched portion where men, women and\nchildren hive together, there lived--or existed--a little boy, so small,\nso insignificant, that the people with whom he came in contact would\nscarcely have considered him worthy of mention. He was a wee specimen of\nhumanity with flaxen hair and blue eyes, and people who stopped to\nnotice him at all, saw something so strange, so pathetic in the childish\nlook, that they involuntarily turned to look again. He spent the days\nselling matches; the nights he spent as he could, in empty boxes, on\nbundles of straw, in miserable alleys, anywhere, where night overtook\nhim. There was no one to make enquiries, for he was alone, alone in the\ngreat city, alone in the world. One stormy night a woman found her way\nto one of the wretched tenement houses, bearing in her arms a tiny\nburden. One of the inhabitants, more kindly than the rest, took her in,\ngave her the only bed they had, a pallet of straw, on which she lay for\na few days, making no complaint, giving little trouble. The women saw at\na glance that she was a different order of being from themselves, that\nshe belonged to another world than theirs. But by what chance had she\nwandered there? Questions were asked but no answers returned. She simply\nasked to be left alone. In a short time she died, leaving behind the\nlittle bundle of humanity, bequeathing to him nothing but her own\nsensitive nature, the same blue eyes and flaxen hair, and the name\n\"Ned,\" nothing more. They buried her in the potter's field, and a life's\ntragedy was ended. Little Ned lived among them, getting more blows than\nkind words, nearly always hungry, but never complaining. If they gave\nhim food he ate it; if he got none, he never murmured. The rough women,\ninvoluntarily, lowered their voices when little Ned was present, for\nthere was something they could never comprehend about the strange child.\nThey felt he was with them but not of them. He was unlike the children\nin the street, never seeking, but shunning their society. After a time\nhe was old enough to go on the street and sell matches, and it was a\nrelief to the women when he was gone, for then there was no restraint,\nand the little lonely waif was turned adrift. Little Ned seemed never\nquite alone, for he frequently talked alone, asked questions which\nseemed to have been answered--in fact lived in a world, peopled by his\nown childish fancy, and passed unharmed through danger and sin, where\none, more conscious of evil, would have fallen. How unlike the world he\nwas in, was the one he pictured to himself. At night he crawled into\nempty boxes, scarcely knowing what it was to go to sleep without feeling\nhungry, but the Goddess of dreams wove golden threads through the brain\nof little Ned, weaving her most brilliant colors, through the warp and\nwoof of his childish dreams, as if in compensation for the sombre colors\nand gloom of his waking moments, and no child lying on his bed of down,\nplaced there by the careful hands of nurse, and receiving the mother's\ngood night kiss, ever had sweeter, purer dreams, than the friendless,\nhomeless match-seller on his bed of straw. Mothers, do you ever think\nwhen you see your children safe in their warm beds, of the numberless\nlittle waifs in large cities, whose resting places are pallets of straw,\nwhose good night kisses are the cold breath of poverty?\n\nThere was very little variety in the life of little Ned. Waking in the\nmorning, he would start out with the matches, selling them if he could,\nif not, hunger, to which he was so accustomed, was his companion. So\nfrom day to day it was the same story, the only variation, the only\nchange was in his dreams and visions; hunger could not deprive him of\nthat solace, the cold could not freeze the warm fancies and\nimaginations. One morning in early spring little Ned awoke from his\npleasant dreams and started on his route. Passing numberless people,\nsome stopped to look at him carefully, for his face had such a strange\nlook, his eyes had such a dreamy expression, and at times he smiled to\nhimself as he moved along. But people did not stop long, for who in a\nlarge, busy city has time to enquire into the life and means of living\nof a little match seller. All day long, he trudged his weary way, and\ntowards night-fall he found himself nearer the suburbs than he had ever\nbeen before. He passes a house which is brilliantly lighted, and strains\nof gay music reach his ear. Moving to the window, which was open, he\ngazes with open-eyed wonder at the scene within. It is evidently a\nchildren's party for little fairy forms are flitting about in a merry\ndance, and all is light, warmth and happiness, while outside with his\nface pressed close to the window stands little Ned. His flaxen hair is\nblown by the wind, his blue eyes open to their widest extent as he looks\nat the gay scene, of which he forms no part. Inside, all is happiness,\noutside is the gloom of night, and the desolate figure of little Ned. He\nturns away with a sigh, turns away from the happiness he has never\nknown, into the darkness with which he is so familiar. He has grown\nvery hungry, having eaten nothing since noon. Seeing a woman before a\nhandsome carriage, he tells his story, but it falls on stony ground, the\nwoman has nothing to give, and leaves him standing there, while she\ndries away. \"O, the rarity of Christian charity!\" Such are the women\nwhose names very often head the list of subscriptions for Christian\nmissions, but who turn a deaf ear to the sorrows of people at their own\ndoor; but if they give to the poor in secret no one will know it, while\nif they head a list with a large sum, they will be called good Christian\nwomen.\n\nLittle Ned starts again, trudging bravely on, foot-sore and hungry, and\nnow he is in a strange part of the city, a place entirely new to him. A\nlarge building attracts his attention, and the sounds of voices reach\nhis ear. Going to the door he sees a clergyman--a young man--talking\nearnestly to a group of rough looking men, evidently working men. The\nspeaker does not stand aloof from them as though afraid to come in\ncontact with them, but is talking freely, and has succeeded in getting\ntheir undivided attention, has won their hearts by his sympathy with\nthem, has shown them that he is like themselves--subject to human errors\nand weakness, and these rough men are listening attentively, as they\nwould never do to lengthy discourses about things of which they knew\nnothing. Here was a Christian--thank heaven there are such--who has not\nplaced himself on a lofty pedestal, while the hearers feel that he is\nfar from them both in heart and sympathy, but they feel that he is a\nman like themselves; he has touched the human part of their natures, and\nthe rest will be easy. Little Ned listened, for the minister was\nspeaking of things with which the listeners were familiar; of sin, of\nsorrow, of temptations, speaking cheerful words of comfort, leading them\nstep by step to something higher and holier than they had ever dreamed\nof. At last, in language they could all understand, he told them of\nanother life, another world where sin and sorrow could not enter. The\nchild listened, and as he left the building hunger and fatigue were\nforgotten. Only half comprehending what the clergyman had said, only\nremembering in a confused way that he had spoken of a brighter world;\none wholly unlike this one, one in which there would be no more hunger\nand cold, no more blows and harsh usage, the little fellow started in\nsearch, resolved to find it. Surely it could not be very difficult to\nfind, and it must be some place outside this great city. Little Ned\nstarted on his search, going towards the open country, toward the place\nwhere the moon was rising, never doubting, never fearing, but that he\nwould succeed. Day after day he wandered on, eating berries which he\nfound by the wayside, and occasionally asking for something to eat. He\nslept in the open air, for he knew no fear; his brain still weaving the\ngolden threads; still talking to invisible spirits; his face looking so\nspiritual that one was not surprised that strange tongues spoke a\nstrange language to the lonely boy. He has wandered on until his feet\nare sore and a feeling of weariness steals over him; he looks around\nand finds that he is no nearer than when he started to the bright world\nwhich the clergyman had talked about. So he resolves to turn, to go back\nto the place where he had seen the minister, and ask him to show him the\nway. Back he turns on his long journey. Step by step, slowly and wearily\nhe trudges along, his eyes have grown larger, his skin more transparent,\nand each day finds him a little weaker, but he feels that he must go on.\nStrange voices are speaking to him more frequently than ever, and his\ndreams are filled with visions of the new world of which he has heard,\nand now he has almost reached his journeys end, but it requires a great\neffort for him to move, he is so foot-sore and weary, but the voices are\nurging him on and at last the building is in sight. He drags himself\nwearily to the door. It is night and the door is open--the place is\ndeserted, but he throws himself down on the floor with a sigh of\ncontentment. The next morning they found him with his hands clasped and\nface upturned to the skies. The blue eyes were opened wide, the lips\nparted in a happy smile, and poor little lonely Ned had found the\n\"bright world.\"\n\nThe Poet says:\n\nSo many abler tongues and pens than mine have chosen the St. Lawrence as\na theme on which they have written love songs, romances and legends,\nthat it would ill-become me to even attempt the subject. A writer, many\nyears ago, while paddling up the river and among the Islands, expressed\nhimself thus: \"As the sun set below the islands the full moon rose in\nall her beauty. The light evening breeze had subsided into a calm; not a\nbreath of air ruffled the glassy waters.\n\nImpressed with the solemnity of the scene, I could not refrain from\nwishing that here, at least, Nature might be permitted to reign\nunmolested, but the solitary watch-fires of the recent settlers gave\nproof that though his tenure was yet but frail, man! rapacious and\nindefatigable man! was fast establishing usurpation.\" This was written\nmany years ago. What would be the astonishment of the writer, if he\ncould revisit the scene. Would he think it improvement or desecration?\nOn the islands cottages are built, and well kept lawns, sloping down to\nthe water, are brightened by the bright dresses of women and children,\nand in some places the modern game of lawn tennis is being played, and\neverything shows that Nature has not been allowed to reign unmolested.\nSteamboats are plying from place to place; pleasure seekers lift their\nvoices to hear the sounds re-echoed from island to island, from shore to\nshore, until the faint reverberation is lost among the murmuring pines.\nSurely the crags and trees, the pines and poplars, are tempted to\nreturn the echo as a protest against this invasion. If the sensibilities\nwere quickened to the sounds of nature, the words re-echoed would be\n\"leave us alone in our solitude.\"\n\nThe St. Lawrence does not speak to our hearts of deep tragedies, but\nbreathes into the soul a spirit of love.\n\n\"When Eve plucked death from the tree of life and brought tears of\nsorrow upon earth, Adam was driven out into the world to mourn with her,\nand taste from the bitter spring that we drink to-day.\"\n\n\"Then angels on their wings, bore the silent Eden to the eternal spheres\non high, and placed it in the heavens--but in passing through space,\nthey dropped along the way, to mark their course, some flowers from the\ngarden divine. These flowers of changing hues, falling into the great\nriver, became the Thousand Isles--the Paradise of the St. Lawrence.\"\n\nIt is a study to watch the different expressions and manners of the\npeople whom we meet. There is the woman who, on meeting makes one feel\nthat they have passed through some difficult surgical operation, her\nlook is so hard and penetrating, like the surgeon's knife. Then another\nwith an expression so benevolent, so charitable, that one is inclined to\nturn again to catch one more glimpse of the kindly face. A little\nfarther on we see a young girl, with a look so joyous and happy, so\nentirely free from care, that we are impelled to search for the rosy\nglasses through which she views life. Time, the dispeller of all golden\nhued visions, has left her mind untouched, and she retains the joyous\ndreams of youth.\n\nThere is another with a look of discontent, amounting to almost misery.\nThe rose-colored glasses have been broken early, and she is gazing\nthrough the murky, cloudy atmosphere of discontent. Another young girl\nis passing, and look closely! her face is a study, with its varying\nexpression, reflecting every passing mood, then gay, now sad. The world\neither hardens or breaks the heart. Which process is her heart\nundergoing? In a few years, meeting her again, the face will be the page\non which the story will be written in full, either in sombre tints or\ngolden gleams.\n\nOnce more look at the daintily dressed woman coming down the street. She\nwas made for sunshine and happiness, adversity would kill her. There are\nwomen who give one the impression that they should have all the good\ngifts which the gods provide, should be carefully looked after, tenderly\ncared for, they will share your joys, but no need to tell them your\nsorrows, for what can they know of sorrow? they whose feet have always\ntravelled in smooth places. Refinement of manner and delicacy of feeling\nare essential qualities for every lady; but spare us the \"dainty\" woman.\nIn hospitals there are women, educated and refined, who witness sights\ndaily which cause them to sicken and shudder, but they are none the less\nrefined, because they look upon the suffering of some poor mortal, none\nthe less ladies, because they assist in alleviating the distress of\ntheir own kind. But \"dainty,\" they can not be, thank heaven! It is the\ndainty woman who, if she sees a diseased, shabbily dressed mortal in\ntrouble, passes quickly to the other side for fear of contamination, if\nshe sees a child in distress hesitates, before offering help, to see if\nit is cleanly, and then the hand she offers is so nerveless, helpless\nand lifeless, so weak and vacillating that perhaps it would have been\njust as well had she gone on her dainty way.\n\nAgain there are people who shut themselves in an armour of selfishness,\nimpervious alike to gaunt poverty and hollow-eyed sorrow. From the crown\nof their heads to the soles of their feet is their world, they can\nneither see nor hear beyond it. The good qualities of their neighbors\nare seen through the large end of a telescope, appearing very small and\na long way off, while their own are magnified until they at last look\nupon themselves as being the personification of all that is good and\nholy, and it is very amusing to study such a one, to watch her manner of\naddressing others. From the lofty pedestal of her own conceit, she\nallows some poor mortal to approach her shrine, but her manner says, \"so\nfar shalt thou come and no farther.\" Of what is she afraid? Has she fear\nof contamination? Is her goodness and purity of such a perishable nature\nthat she fears pollution? Do not fear. If you possess innate goodness\nand womanly qualities you can pass through dangers unharmed, you can\nwalk in the midst of sin and it will not touch you, you can take the\nhand of vice and it will leave no stain. From the height of your own\npurity do not look with scorn upon some less fortunate mortal, do not\nturn away in disgust, but examine closely, and underlying the outer\ncrust of wickedness and sin, you will be astonished at the amount of\ngood you can find, even in the most depraved. The human heart is a\nstrange compound, made up of love and hate, of joy and sorrow, hope and\ndespair, and who is able to read it? Who is able to understand the\nsorrows, struggles and temptations of others, and who is competent to\ntake upon himself the task of judging?\n\nEvery beat of the heart gives us a glimpse, either of heaven inspired\nlove, or hell-born hate, of the sun-lit river of joy, or the gloom of\nsorrow, the golden gleam of hope or the stagnant pool of despair. Is it\nnot strange that in all the workings of nature there is complete\nharmony; the whispering trees, the murmuring winds, the lowing herds,\nall speak a language of their own, while man is the only animal which\nmakes war with his kind? The love of riches, the desire of gain, the\npride of ambition takes possession of his mind to the exclusion of all\nelse. In battle, soldiers walk over the dead bodies of friends and foes\nalike, unmoved, the only thought, the only desire is to win; the groans\nof the dying are drowned in the exultant shouts of the living as they\nfind themselves victorious. In the battle of life there are many who, in\ntheir desire to win at all hazards, walk over the bodies of fallen\nenemies, and heed not the groans of even their friends. In all this\nworry and strife, all the weariness of body and brain, how few stop to\nenquire of themselves the means they are taking to attain their aim.\nSome have taken a step higher by walking over the body of a brother who\nhas fallen by the wayside, wearied and heart sore, and if he succeeds in\nreaching the top-most rung of the ladder, envious tongues and slanderous\nepithets will reach him there, while if he falls he will carry with him\nthe sneers and taunts of his fellow men. In this vast universe there is\nroom for all, no need to jostle and crowd your neighbor. If he succeeds,\nwhile you fail, it will not better your condition to slander and vilify;\nif he fails while you win you will never regret having offered the hand\nin good will and fellowship. Many a heart has been softened, many a\nburden made lighter, by a few kind, cheerful words. There are none so\nlow, none so degraded, as to be beneath consideration. To take the hand\nof the hardest criminal will not contaminate--vice is not contagious.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJoaquin Miller says:\n\n     Is it worth while that we jostle a brother,\n       Bearing his load on the rough road of life?\n     Is it worth while that we jeer at each other,\n       In blackness of heart that we war to the knife?\n       God pity us all in our pitiful strife.\n\n     God pity us all as we jostle each other,\n       God pardon us all for the triumph we feel,\n     When a fellow goes down 'neath his load on the heather,\n       Pierced to the heart by words keener than steel\n       And mightier far for woe than for weal.\n\n     Were it not well, in his brief little journey,\n       On over the isthmus, down into the tide,\n     We give him a fish instead of a serpent,\n       Ere folding the hands to be and abide\n       Forever, and aye, in dust at his side?\n\n     Look at the roses saluting each other;\n       Look at the herds all in peace on the plain,\n     Man, and man only, makes war on his brother\n       And laughs in his heart at his perils and pain,\n       Shamed by the beasts that go down on the plain.\n\n     It is worth while that we battle to humble\n       Some poor fellow down into the dust?\n     God pity us all! Time too soon will tumble\n       All of us together, likes leaves in the gust,\n       Humbled, indeed, down into the dust.\n\nA woman was speaking who was dressed in soft white which clung to her\nslight form, and gave one the idea of a statue; a Galatea without a\nsoul.\n\nFatalism had wound its slimy folds about her and she was unable to free\nherself from its chilling embrace. There is an old German legend which\nruns thus, \"Vineta was an old fortified place by the sea and the capital\nof an ancient nation. Her dominion extended over the neighboring coasts\nand over the waves where she ruled supreme. Unparallelled in splendor\nand greatness, countless treasures flowed in to her from other lands,\nbut pride presumption and the sins of her inhabitants brought down the\nchastisement of Heaven upon her and she sank, swallowed up by the\nwaves.\" The sailors still affirm that the fortress of Vineta lies\nuninjured at the bottom of the sea. They say that deep down in the\nwater, they catch a glimpse of towers and cupolas, hear the bells ring,\nand at enchanted hours, the whole fairy city rises out of the depths and\nshows itself to a favored few. The old legend tells us that the one who\nhas once looked on the lost Vineta, has once heard the sounds of her\nbells, is pursued all his life by a longing which bears him no rest\nuntil the enchanted city rises before him once more--or draws him down\nbelow unto the depths. The unfortunate person who has once gazed upon\nthe ghastly ruins of Fatalism, knows no peace, but like the legend of\nVineta, it will drag him down to misery and destruction.\n\nThe lady was saying:\n\nWe are but clay in the hands of the potter. Nothing we do can change the\ncurrent of our lives. The hand of Fate is over all, leading us on,\nwhether it be for good or for ill. From the cradle to the grave, from\nbirth to death, there is a power ruling our destinies. In infancy our\ncradles are rocked by the invisible hand of fate, in middle age we are\ndriven by it, in old age we are led by the same hand. I see before me a\nvessel starting out under full sail. The sky is clear; the air soft and\nbalmy, and everything speaks of a favorable voyage, but when in\nmid-ocean, the sky grows dark, the wind arises, the waves roll higher\nand higher; soon the vessel gets beyond control, and the sailors find\nthemselves drifting towards the breakers. Efforts are redoubled, all\nthat human energy can do is done, but of no avail. Fate is beckoning\nthem onward to their doom. We see a boy starting out in life full of\nyouthful hopes and buoyant in health, happiness and strength. He sees in\nhis mind's eye a thousand chances of success. Life is before him and\nthere is one haven he must reach before his ambition is gratified. About\nmidway in his career he stops. Clouds gather and he finds he has been\ndriven from his course by adverse winds and tides--struggle as he may\nhis efforts are futile for fate has intervened. The hand of destiny has\nled him, perhaps to misery, perchance to happiness, but which-ever it\nproves to be, he finds there is a hand, shaping, ruling, guiding, and\nthat is the hand of Fate.","title":"Bohemian Society","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":15823}