{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_8932/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_8932","id":"gutenberg_8932","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8932","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Conduct of life"],"text":"Produced by Distributed Proofreaders\n\n\n\n\nLESSONS IN LIFE.\n\nA SERIES OF FAMILIAR ESSAYS.\n\n\nBY\n\nTIMOTHY TITCOMB,\nAUTHOR OF \"LETTERS TO THE YOUNG,\" \"GOLD-FOIL,\" ETC.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThe quick and cordial reception which greeted the author's\n\"Letters to the Young,\" and his more recent series of essays\nentitled \"Gold Foil,\" and the constant and substantial friendship\nwhich has been maintained by the public toward those productions,\nmust stand as his apology for this third venture in a kindred\nfield of effort. It should be--and probably is--unnecessary for\nthe author to say that in this book, as in its predecessors, he\nhas aimed to be neither brilliant nor profound. He has endeavored,\nsimply, to treat in a familiar and attractive way a few of the\nmore prominent questions which concern the life of every\nthoughtful man and woman. Indeed, he can hardly pretend to have\ndone more than to organize, and put into form, the average\nthinking of those who read his books--to place before the people\nthe sum of their own choicer judgments--and he neither expects nor\nwishes for these essays higher praise than that which accords to\nthem the quality of common sense.\n\nSPRINGFIELD, MASS., _November_, 1861.\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\nLESSON I. MOODS AND FRAMES OF MIND\nLESSON II. BODILY IMPERFECTIONS AND IMPEDIMENTS\nLESSON III. ANIMAL CONTENT\nLESSON IV. REPRODUCTION IN KIND\nLESSON V. TRUTH AND TRUTHFULNESS\nLESSON VI. MISTAKES OF PENANCE\nLESSON VII. THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN\nLESSON VIII. AMERICAN PUBLIC EDUCATION\nLESSON IX. PERVERSENESS\nLESSON X. UNDEVELOPED RESOURCES\nLESSON XI. GREATNESS IN LITTLENESS\nLESSON XII. RURAL LIFE\nLESSON XIII. REPOSE\nLESSON XIV. THE WAYS OF CHARITY\nLESSON XV. MEN OF ONE IDEA\nLESSON XVI. SHYING PEOPLE\nLESSON XVII. FAITH IN HUMANITY\nLESSON XVIII. SORE SPOTS AND SENSITIVE SPOTS\nLESSON XIX. THE INFLUENCE OF PRAISE\nLESSON XX. UNNECESSARY BURDENS\nLESSON XXI. PROPER PEOPLE AND PERFECT PEOPLE\nLESSON XXII. THE POETIC TEST\nLESSON XXIII. THE FOOD OF LIFE\nLESSON XXIV. HALF-FINISHED WORK\n\n\n\n\nLESSONS IN LIFE.\n\n\n\nLESSON I.\n\nMOODS AND FRAMES OF MIND.\n\n\n                \"That blessed mood\n   In which the burden of the mystery,\n   In which the heavy and the weary weight\n   Of all this unintelligible world\n   Is lightened.\" WORDSWORTH.\n\n  \"Oh, blessed temper, whose unclouded ray\n   Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day.\"\n   POPE.\n\n  \"My heart and mind and self, never in tune;\n   Sad for the most part, then in such a flow\n   Of spirits, I seem now hero, now buffoon.\"\n   LEIGH HUNT.\n\nIt rained yesterday; and, though it is midsummer, it is\nunpleasantly cool to-day. The sky is clear, with almost a\nsteel-blue tint, and the meadows are very deeply green. The\nshadows among the woods are black and massive, and the whole\nface of nature looks painfully clean, like that of a healthy\nlittle boy who has been bathed in a chilly room with very cold\nwater. I notice that I am sensitive to a change like this, and\nthat my mind goes very reluctantly to its task this morning.\nI look out from my window, and think how delightful it would be\nto take a seat in the sun, down under the fence, across the\nstreet. It seems to me that if I could sit there awhile, and get\nwarm, I could think better and write better. Toasting in the\nsunlight is conducive rather to reverie than thought, or I should\nbe inclined to try it. This reluctance to commence labor, and\nthis looking out of the window and longing for an accession of\nstrength, or warmth, or inspiration, or something or other not\neasily named, calls back to me an experience of childhood.\n\nIt was summer, and I was attending school. The seats were hard,\nand the lessons were dry, and the walls of the school-room were\nvery cheerless. An indulgent, sweet-faced girl was my teacher; and\nI presume that she felt the irksomeness of the confinement quite\nas severely as I did. The weather was delightful, and the birds\nwere singing everywhere; and the thought came to me, that if I\ncould only stay out of doors, and lie down in the shadow of a\ntree, I could get my lesson. I begged the privilege of trying the\nexperiment. The kind heart that presided over the school-room\ncould not resist my petition; so I was soon lying in the coveted\nshadow. I went to work very severely; but the next moment found\nmy eyes wandering; and heart, feeling, and fancy were going up and\ndown the earth in the most vagrant fashion. It was hopeless\ndissipation to sit under the tree; and discovering a huge rock on\nthe hillside, I made my way to that, to try what virtue there\nmight be in a shadow not produced by foliage. Seated under the\nbrow of the boulder, I again applied myself to the dim-looking\ntext, but it had become utterly meaningless; and a musical cricket\nunder the rock would have put me to sleep if I had permitted\nmyself to remain. I found that neither tree nor rock would lend me\nhelp; but down in the meadow I saw the brook sparkling, and\nspanning it, a little bridge where I had been accustomed to sit,\nhanging my feet over the water, and angling for minnows. It seemed\nas if the bridge and the water might do something for me, and, in\na few minutes, my feet were dangling from the accustomed seat.\nThere, almost under my nose, close to the bottom of the clear,\ncool stream, lay a huge speckled trout, fanning the sand with his\nslow fins, and minding nothing about me at all. What could a boy\ndo with Colburn's First Lessons, when a living trout, as large and\nnearly as long as his arm, lay almost within the reach of his\nfingers? How long I sat there I do not know, but the tinkle of a\ndistant bell startled me, and I startled the trout, and fish and\nvision faded before the terrible consciousness that I knew less of\nmy lesson than I did when I left the school-house.\n\nThis has always been my fortune when running after, or looking\nfor, moods. There is a popular hallucination that makes of\nauthors a romantic people who are entirely dependent upon moods\nand moments of inspiration for the power to labor in their\npeculiar way. Authors are supposed to write when they \"feel like\nit,\" and at no other time. Visions of Byron with a gin-bottle at\nhis side, and a beautiful woman hanging over his shoulder, dashing\noff a dozen stanzas of Childe Harold at a sitting, flit through\nthe brains of sentimental youth. We hear of women who are seized\nsuddenly by an idea, as if it were a colic, or a flea, often at\nmidnight, and are obliged to rise and dispose of it in some way.\nWe are told of very delicate girls who carry pencils and cards\nwith them, to take the names and address of such angels as may\nvisit them in out-of-the-way places. We read of poets who go on\nlong sprees, and after recovery retire to their rooms and work\nnight and day, eating not and sleeping little, and in some\nmiraculous way producing wonderful literary creations. The mind of\na literary man is supposed to be like a shallow summer brook, that\nturns a mill. There is no water except when it rains, and the\nweather being very fickle, it is never known when there will be\nwater. Sometimes, however, there comes a freshet, and then the\nmill runs night and day, until the water subsides, and another dry\ntime comes on.\n\nNow, while I am aware, as every writer must be, that the brain\nworks very much better at some times than it does at others, I can\ndeclare without reservation, that no man who depends upon moods\nfor the power to write can possibly accomplish much. I know men\nwho rely upon their moods, alike for the disposition and the\nability to write, but they are, without exception, lazy and\ninefficient men. They never have accomplished much, and they never\nwill accomplish much. Regular eating, regular sleeping, regular\nworking--these are the secrets of all true literary success. A\nman may throw off a single little poem by a spasm, but he cannot\nwrite a poem of three thousand lines by spasms. Spasms that\nproduce poems like this, must last from five to seven hours a day,\nthrough six days of every week, and four weeks of every month,\nuntil the work shall be finished. There is no good reason why the\nmind will not do its best by regular exercise and usage. The mower\nstarts in the morning with a lame back and with aching joints; but\nhe keeps on mowing, and the glow rises, and the perspiration\nstarts, and he becomes interested in his labor, and, at length, he\nfinds himself at work with full efficiency. He was not in the mood\nfor mowing when he began, but mowing brought its own mood, and he\nknew it would when he began. The mind is sometimes lame in the\nmorning. It refuses to go to work. Our wills seem entirely\ninsufficient to drive it to its tasks; but if it be driven to its\nwork and held to it persistently, and held thus every day, it will\nultimately be able to do its best every day. A man who works his\nbrains for a living, must work them just as regularly as the\nomnibus-driver does his horses.\n\nWe sometimes go to church and hear a preacher who depends upon his\nmoods for the power to preach his best. He preaches well, and we\nsay that he is in the mood; and then again he preaches poorly, and\nwe say that he is not in the mood. A public singer who has the\npower to move us at her will, comes into the concert-room, and\ngives her music without spirit and without making any apparent\neffort to please. We say that Madame or Mademoiselle is \"not in\nthe mood to-night.\" A lecturer has his moods, which, apparently,\nhe slips on and off as he would a dressing-gown, charming the\npeople of one town by his eloquence and elegance, and disgusting\nanother by his dullness and carelessness. We are in the habit of\nsaying that certain men are very unequal in their performances,\nwhich is only a way of saying that they are moody, and dependent\nupon and controlled by moods. I think that, in any work or walk of\nlife, a man can in a great degree become the master of his moods,\nso that, as a preacher, or a singer, or a lecturer, he can do his\nbest every time quite as regularly as a writer can do his best\nevery time. Mr. Benedict somewhat inelegantly remarked, when in\nthis country, that the reason of Jenny Lind's success was, that\nshe \"made a conscience of her art.\" If we had asked Mr. Benedict\nto explain himself, he probably would have said that she\nconscientiously did her best every time, in every place. This was\ntrue of Jenny Lind. She never failed. She sang just as well in the\nold church where the country people had flocked to greet her, as\nin the halls of the metropolis. Yet Jenny Lind was decidedly a\nwoman of moods, and indulged in them when she could afford it.\n\nThe power of the will over moods of the mind is very noticeable in\nchildren. Children often rise in the morning in any thing but an\namiable frame of mind. Petulant, impatient, quarrelsome, they\ncannot be spoken to or touched without producing an explosion of\nill-nature. Sleep seems to have been a bath of vinegar to them,\nand one would think the fluid had invaded their mouth and nose,\nand eyes and ears, and had been absorbed by every pore of their\nsensitive skins. In a condition like this, I have seen them bent\nover the parental knee, and their persons subjected to blows from\nthe parental palm; and they have emerged from the infliction with\nthe vinegar all expelled, and their faces shining like the\nmorning--the transition complete and satisfactory to all the\nparties. Three-quarters of the moods that men and women find\nthemselves in, are just as much under the control of the will as\nthis. The man who rises in the morning, with his feelings all\nbristling like the quills of a hedge-hog, simply needs to be\nknocked down. Like a solution of certain salts, he requires a rap\nto make him crystallize. A great many mean things are done in the\nfamily for which moods are put forward as the excuse, when the\nmoods themselves are the most inexcusable things of all. A man or\na woman in tolerable health has no moral right to indulge in an\nunpleasant mood, or to depend upon moods for the performance of\nthe duties of life. If a bad mood come to such persons as these,\nit is to be shaken off by a direct effort of the will, under all\ncircumstances.\n\nThere are moods, however, for which men are not responsible, and\nthe parent of these is sickness--the feeble or inharmonious\nmovements of the body. When my little boy wakes in the morning,\nhis smile is as bright as the pencil of sunlight that lies across\nhis coverlet; but when evening comes, he is peevish and fretful.\nThe little limbs are weary, and the mood is produced by weariness.\nSo my friend with a harassing cough is in a melancholy mood, and\nmy bilious friend is in a severe and savage mood, or in a dark and\ngloomy mood, or in a petulant mood, or in a fearful or foreboding\nmood. In truth, bile is the prolific mother of moods. The stream\nof life flows through the biliary duct. When that is obstructed,\nlife is obstructed. When the golden tide sets back upon the liver,\nit is like backwater under a mill; it stops the driving-wheel.\nBile spoils the peace of families, breaks off friendships, cuts\noff man from communion with his Maker, colors whole systems of\ntheology, transforms brains into putty, and destroys the comfort\nof a jaundiced world. The famous Dr. Abernethy had his hobby, as\nmost famous men have; and this hobby was \"blue pill and ipecac,\"\nwhich he prescribed for every thing, with the supposition, I\npresume, that all disease has its origin in the liver. Most moods,\nI am sure, have their birth in the derangements of this important\norgan; and while the majority of them can be controlled, there are\nothers for which their victims are not responsible. There are men\nwho cannot insult me, because I will not take an insult from them\nany more than I would from a man intoxicated. When their bile\nstarts, I am sure they will come to me and apologize.\n\nWe all have acquaintances who are men of moods. Whenever we meet\nthem, we try to determine which of their moods is dominant, that\nwe may know how to treat them. If the severe mood be on, we would\njust as soon think of whistling at a funeral as indulging in a\njest; but if the cloud be off, we have a sprightly friend and a\npleasant time with him. Goldsmith's pedagogue was a man of moods,\nand his pupils understood them.\n\n  \"A man severe he was, and stern to view;\n   I knew him well, and every truant knew:\n   _Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace\n   The day's disasters in his morning face_;\n   Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee\n   At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;\n   Full well the busy whisper, circling round,\n   Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.\"\n\nWhile I maintain that a man can generally be the master of his\nmoods, I am very well aware that but few men are; and it is wise\nfor us to know how to deal with them. The secret of many a man's\nsuccess in the world resides in his insight into the moods of men,\nand his tact in dealing with them. Modern Christian philanthropists\ntell us that if we would do good to the soul of a starving child, we\nmust first put food into his mouth, and comfortable clothing upon\nhis body. This, by way of manifesting a practical interest in his\nwelfare, and paving our way to his heart by a form of kindness which\nhe can thoroughly appreciate. But there is more in such an act than\nthis,--we change his mood. From a mood of despair or discouragement,\nwe translate him into a mood of cheerfulness and hopefulness; and\nthen we have a soul to deal with that is surrounded by the\nconditions of improvement. There is much more than divine duty and\nChristian forgiveness in the injunction: \"if thine enemy hunger, feed\nhim;  if he thirst, give him drink.\" The highest wisdom would dictate\nsuch a policy for changing his mood, and bringing him into a condition\nin which he could entertain a sense of his meanness.\n\nIt is curious to see how much fulness and emptiness of stomach\nhave to do with moods. A business man who has been at work hard\nall day, will enter his house for dinner as crabbed as a hungry\nbear--crabbed because he is as hungry as a hungry bear. The wife\nunderstands the mood, and, while she says little to him, is\ncareful not to have the dinner delayed. In the mean time, the\nchildren watch him cautiously, and do not tease him with\nquestions. When the soup is gulped, and he leans back and wipes\nhis mouth, there is an evident relaxation, and his wife ventures\nto ask for the news. When the roast beef is disposed of, she\npresumes upon gossip, and possibly upon a jest; and when, at last,\nthe dessert is spread upon the table, all hands are merry, and the\nface of the husband and father, which entered the house so pinched\nand savage and sharp, becomes soft and full and beaming as the\nface of the round summer moon. Children are very sensitive to the\ninfluence of hunger; and often when we think that we are\nwitnessing some fearful proof of the total depravity of human\nnature in a young child, we are only witnessing the natural\nexpression of a desire for bread and milk. The politicians and all\nthat class of men who have axes to grind, understand this business\nvery thoroughly. If a measure is to be carried through, and any\nman wishes to secure votes for it, he gives a dinner. If a man\nwishes for a profitable contract, he gives a dinner. If he is up\nfor a fat office, he gives a dinner. If it is desirable that a pair\nof estranged friends be brought together, and reconciled to each\nother, they are invited to a dinner. If hostile interests are to be\nharmonized, and clashing measures compromised, and divergent forces\nbrought into parallelism, all must be effected by means of a dinner.\nA good dinner produces a good mood,--at least, it produces an\nimpressible mood. The will relaxes wonderfully under the influence\nof iced champagne, and canvas-backs are remarkable softeners of\nprejudice. The daughter of Herodias took Herod at a great\ndisadvantage, when she came in and danced before him and his friends\nat his birth-day supper, and secured the head of John the Baptist.\nNo one, I presume, believes that if she had undertaken to dance before\nhim when he was hungry, she would have had the offer of a gift equal\nto the half of his kingdom. It is more than likely that, under any\nother circumstances, he would have been told to \"sit down and show\nless.\" It is by means of food and drink, and various entertainments\nof the senses, that moods are manufactured, and used as media of\napproach to the wills which it is desirable to bend or direct.\n\nI have found moods to be very poor tests of character. Having cut\nthrough the crust of a most forbidding mood, produced by bodily\nderangement or constant and pressing labor of the brain, I have\noften found a heart full of all the sweetest and richest traits of\nhumanity. I have found, too, that some natures know the door that\nleads through the moods of other natures. There are men who never\npresent their moody side to me. My neighbor enters their presence\nand finds them severe in aspect, hard in feeling, and abrupt in\nspeech. I go in immediately after, and open the door right through\nthat mood, into the genial good heart that sits behind it, and the\ndoor always flies open when I come. I know men whose mood is\nusually exceedingly pleasant. There is a glow of health upon their\nfaces. Their words are musical to women and children. They are\ncheerful and chipper and sunshiny, and not easily moved to anger;\nand yet I know them to be liars and full of selfishness. Under\ntheir sweet mood, which sound health and a not over-sensitive\nconscience and the satisfactions of sense engender, they conceal\nhearts that are as false and foul as any that illustrate the reign\nof sin in human nature. Many a Christian has times of feeling that\nGod is in a special manner smiling upon him, and communing with\nhim, and filling him with the peace and joy that only flow from\nheavenly fountains, when the truth is that he is only in a good\nmood. He is well, all the machinery of his mind and body is\nplaying harmoniously, and, of course, he feels well, and that is\nall there is about it. He is not a better Christian than he was\nwhen he slipped into the mood, and no better than he will be when\nhe slips out of it. If he really be a good Christian, his moods\noperate like clouds and blue sky. The sun shines all the time, and\nthe cloudy moods only hide it;--they do not extinguish it.\n\nThere are many sad cases of insanity of a religious character\nwhich originate in moods. A man, through a period of health, has a\nbright and cheerful religious experience. The world looks pleasant\nto him, the heavens smile kindly upon him, and the Divine Spirit\nwitnesses with his own that he is at peace and in harmony with\nGod. Joy thrills him as he greets the morning light, and peace\nnestles upon his heart as he lies down to his nightly rest. He\nfeels in his soul the influx of spiritual life from the Great\nSource of all life, as he opens it in worship and in prayer. But\nat length there comes a change. A strange sadness creeps into his\nheart. The sky that was once so bright has become dark. The prayer\nthat once rose as easily as incense upon the still morning air,\nstraight toward heaven, will not rise at all, but settles like\nsmoke upon him, and fills his eyes with tears. Something seems to\nhave come between him and his God. Strange, accusing voices are\nheard within him. However deep the agony that moves him, he cannot\nrend the cloud that interposes between him and his Maker. This,\nnow, is simply a mood produced by ill health; and I hope that\neverybody who reads this will remember it. Remember that God never\nchanges, that a man's moods are constantly changing, and that when\na man earnestly seeks for spiritual peace, and cannot find it, and\nthinks that he has committed the unpardonable sin without knowing\nit, he is bilious, and needs medical treatment. Alas! what\nmultitudes of sad souls have walked out of this hopeless mood into\na life-long insanity, when all they needed in the first place,\nperhaps, was a dose of blue pills, or half a dozen strings of\ntenpins, or a sea-voyage sufficiently rough for \"practical\npurposes.\"\n\nThis subject I find to be abundantly prolific, and I see that I\nhave been able to do hardly more than to hint at its more\nprominent aspects. It seems to me that moods only need to be\nstudied more, and to be better understood, to bring them very much\nunder the domain of our wills. A great deal is learned when we\nknow what a mood is, and know that we are subject to varying\nframes of mind, resulting from causes which affect our health. If\nI know that I am impatient and cross because I am hungry, then I\nknow how to get rid of my mood, and how to manage it until I do\nget rid of it. If I feel unable to labor, not because I am\nfeeble, but because I am not in the mood, then I have the mood in\nmy hands, to be dealt with intelligently. If my reason tell me\nthat it is only a mood that hides from me the face of my Maker, my\nreason will also tell me that my first business is to get rid of\nmy mood, and that my will must approach the work, directly or\nindirectly. We are always and necessarily in some mood of mind--in\nsome condition of passion or feeling. It is the intensification\nand the dominant influence of moods that are to be guarded against\nor destroyed. Moods are dangerous only when they obscure reason,\nand destroy self-control, and disturb the mental poise, and become\nthe media of false impressions from all the life around us and\nwithin us.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON II.\n\nBODILY IMPERFECTIONS AND IMPEDIMENTS.\n\n\n  \"I that am curtailed of this fair proportion,\n   Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,\n   Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time\n   Into this breathing world, scarce half made up.\"\n   RICHARD III.\n\n  \"None can be called deformed but the unkind.\"\n   SHAKSPEARE.\n\n  \"'Tis true, his nature may with faults abound;\n   But who will cavil when the heart is sound?\"\n   STEPHEN MONTAGUE.\n\nIt is a bright June morning. The fresh grass is loaded with dew,\nevery bead of which sparkles in the light of the brilliant sun. A\nbig, yellow-shouldered bee comes booming through the open window,\nand buzzes up and down my room, and threatens my shrinking ears,\nand then dives through the window again; and his form recedes and\nhis hum dies away, as if it were the note of a reed-stop in the\n\"swell\" of a church organ. There is such confusion in the songs of\nthe birds, that I can hardly select the different notes, so as to\nname their owners. There is a great deal of bird-singing that is\nsimply what a weaver would call \"filling.\" Robins and bobolinks\nand blue-birds and sundry other favorites furnish the warp, and\ncolor and characterize the tapestry of a flowing, vocal morning;\nwhile the little, gray-backed multitude work in the neutral ground\ntones, and bring the sweeter and more elaborate notes into\nbeautiful relief. Thus, with a little aid of imagination, I get up\nsome very exquisite fabrics--vocal silks and satins:--robins on a\nfield of chickadees; bobolinks and thrushes alternately on a\nhit-or-miss ground of blackbirds, wrens, and pewees. Into the midst\nof all this delicious confusion there breaks a note that belongs to\nanother race of creatures; and as I look from my window, and see\nthe singer, my eyes fill with tears. It is a little boy, possibly\ntwelve years old, though he looks younger, walking with a crutch.\nOne withered limb dangles as he goes. He is a cripple for life;\nyet his face is as bright and cheerful as the face of the morning\nitself; and what do you think he is singing? \"Hail Columbia, happy\nland,\" at the top of his lungs! The birds are merrily wheeling\nover his head, and diving through the air, and moving here and\nthere as freely as the wind, yet not one among them carries a\nlighter heart than that which he is jerking along by the side of\nthe little crutch.\n\nAs I see how cheerfully he bears the burden of his hopeless\nhalting, there comes back to me the story of the lame lord who\nsang a different sort of song--the lame lord who died at\nMissolonghi, and whose friend Trelawny--human jackal that he was--\nstole to his bedside after the breath had left his body, and\nexamined his clubbed feet, and then went away and wrote about\nthem. Here was a man with regal gifts of mind--a poet of splendid\ngenius--a titled aristocrat--a man admired and praised wherever\nthe English language was read--a man who knew that he held within\nhimself the power to make his name immortal--a man with wealth\nsufficient for all grateful luxuries--yet with clubbed feet; and\nthose feet! Ah! how they embittered and spoiled that man of\nmagnificent achievements and sublime possibilities! It would\nappear, from the disgusting narrative of Mr. Trelawny, that he was\nin reality the only man who had ever seen Byron's feet. Those feet\nhad been kept so closely hidden, or so cunningly disguised, that\nnobody had known their real deformity; and the poor lord who had\ncarried them through his thirty-six years of life, had done it in\nconstantly tormented and mortified pride. Those misshapen organs\nhad an important agency in making him a misanthropic, morbidly\nsensitive, unhappy, desperate man. When he sang, he did not forget\nthem; and the poor fools who turned down their shirt-collars, and\nimitated his songs, and thought they were inspired by his winged\ngenius, had under them only a pair of halting, clubbed feet.\n\nThere is a class of unfortunate men and women in the world to whom\nthe boy and the bard have introduced us. They are not all lame:\nbut they all think they have cause to be dissatisfied with the\nbodies God has given them. Perhaps they are simply ugly, and are\naware that no one can look in their faces with other thought than\nthat they are ugly. Now it is a pleasant thing to have a pleasant\nface, and an agreeable form. It is pleasant for a man to be large,\nwell-shaped, and good-looking, and it is unpleasant for him to be\nsmall, and to carry an ill-shaped form and an ugly face. It is\npleasant for a woman to feel that she has personal attractions for\nthose around her, and it is unpleasant for her to feel that no man\ncan ever turn his eyes admiringly upon her. A misshapen limb, a\nhump in the back, a withered arm, a shortened leg, a clubbed foot,\na hare-lip, an unwieldy corpulence, a hideous leanness, a bald\nhead--all these are unpleasant possessions, and all these, I\nsuppose, give their possessors, first and last, a great deal of\npain. Then there is the taint of an unpopular blood, that a whole\nrace carry with them as a badge of humiliation. I have heard of\nAfricans who declared that they would willingly go through the\npain of being skinned alive, if, at the close of the operation,\nthey could become white men. There are men of genius, with plenty\nof white blood in their veins--with only a trace of Africa in\ntheir faces--whose lives are embittered by that trace; and who\nknow that the pure Anglo Saxon, if he follows his instincts, will\nsay to him: \"Thus far,\"--(through a limited range of relations,)--\n\"but no further.\"\n\nFrom the depths of my soul I pity a man or woman who bears about\nan irremediable bodily deformity, or the mark of the blood of a\nhumiliated race. I pity any human being who carries around a body\nthat he feels to be in any sense an unpleasant one to those whom\nhe meets. I pity the deformed man, and the maimed man, and the\nterribly ugly man, and the black man, and the white man with black\nblood in him, because he usually feels that these things bear with\nthem a certain degree of humiliation. I pity the man who is not\nable to stand out in the broad sunlight, with other men, and to\nfeel that he has as goodly a frame and as fine blood and as\npleasant a presence as the average of those he sees around him. I\ndo not wonder at all that many of these persons become soured and\nembittered and jealous. A sensitive mind, dwelling long upon\nmisfortunes of this peculiar character, will inevitably become\nmorbid; and multitudes of humbler men than Lord Byron have cursed\ntheir fate as bitterly as he, and have even lifted their eyes to\nblaspheme the Being who made them.\n\nThe two instances which I have mentioned show us that there are\ntwo ways of taking misfortunes of this character; and one of them\nseems to a good deal better than the other. Between the boy who\nignored the withered leg and the crutch, and the proud poet who\npermitted a slight personal deformity to darken his whole life,\nthere is a distance like that between heaven and earth.\n\nI believe in the law of compensation. Human lot is, on the whole,\nwell averaged. A man does not possess great gifts of person and of\nmind without drawbacks somewhere. Either great duties are imposed\nupon him, or great burdens are put upon his shoulders, or great\ntemptations assail and harass him. Something in his life, at some\ntime in his life, takes it upon itself to reduce his advantages to\nthe average standard. Nature gave Byron clubbed feet, but with\nthose feet she gave him a genius whose numbers charmed the world--\na genius which multitudes of commonplace or weak men would have\nbeen glad to purchase at the price of almost any humiliating\neccentricity of person. But they were obliged to content\nthemselves with excellent feet, and brains of the common kind and\ncalibre. Providence had withered the little boy's leg, but the\nloudest song I have heard from a boy in a twelvemonth came from\nhis lips, as he limped along alone in the open street. The\ncheerful heart in his bosom was a great compensation for the\nwithered leg; and beyond this the boy had reason for singing over\nthe fact that he was forever released from military duty, and\nfiremen's duty, and all racing about in the service of other\npeople. There are individual cases of misfortune in which it is\nhard to detect the compensating good, but these we must call the\n\"exceptions\" which \"prove the rule.\"\n\nBut the best of all compensation for natural defects and\ndeformities, is that which comes in the form of a peculiar love.\nThe mother of a poor, misshapen, idiotic boy, will, though she\nhave half a score of bright and beautiful children besides,\nentertain for him a peculiar affection. He may not be able, in his\nfeeble-mindedness, to appreciate it, but her heart brims with\ntenderness for him. The delicate morsel is reserved for him; and,\nif he be a sufferer, the softest pillow and the tenderest nursing\nwill be his. A love will be bestowed upon him which gold could not\nbuy, and which no beauty of person, and no brilliancy of natural\ngifts could possibly awaken. It is thus with every case of defect\nor eccentricity of person. So sure as the mother of a child sees\nin that child's person any reason for the world to regard it with\ncontempt or aversion, does she treat it with peculiar tenderness;\nas if she were commissioned by God--as indeed she is--to make up\nto it in the best coinage that which the world will certainly\nneglect to bestow.\n\nWith the world at large, however, there are certain conditions on\nwhich this variety of compensation is rendered; and a man who\nwould have compensation for defects of person, must accept these\nconditions, or furnish them. Such a man as Lord Byron would have\nbeen offended by pity. To have been commiserated on his\nmisfortune, would have made him exceedingly angry. He would not\nallow himself to be treated as an unfortunate man. He bound up his\nfeet, and made efforts to walk that ended in intense pain, rather\nthan appear the lame man that he really was. Of course, there was\nno compensation in the tender pity and affectionate consideration\nof the world for him; nor is there any for the sad unfortunates\nwho inherit and exercise his spirit. But for all those who accept\ntheir life with all its conditions, in a cheerful spirit, who give\nup their pride, who take their bodies as God formed them, and make\nthe best of them, there is abundant compensation in the affection\nof the world. A cheerful spirit, exercised in weakness, infirmity,\ncalamity--any sort of misfortune--is just as sure to awaken a\npeculiarly affectionate interest in all observers, as a lighted\nlamp is to illuminate the objects around it. I know of men and\nwomen who are the favorites of a whole neighborhood--nay, a whole\ntown--because they are cheerful, and courageous, and self-respectful\nunder misfortune; and I know of those who are as much dreaded as\na pestilence, because they will not accept their lot--because\nthey grow bitter and jealous--and because they will persist in\ntaunts and complaints.\n\nThe number of those who are, or who consider themselves,\nunfortunate in their physical conformation, is larger than the\nmost of us suppose. I presume that at least one-half of the\nreaders of this essay are any thing but well satisfied with the\n\"tabernacle\" in which they reside. One man wishes he were a little\nlarger; one woman wishes she were a little smaller; one does not\nlike her complexion, or the color of her eyes and hair; one has a\nnose too large; another has a nose too small; one has round\nshoulders; another has a low forehead; and so every one becomes a\ncritic of his or her style of structure. When we find a man or a\nwoman who is absolutely faultless in form and features, we usually\nfind a fool. I do not remember that I ever met a very handsome man\nor woman, who was not as vain and shallow as a peacock. I recently\nmet a magnificent woman of middle age at a railroad station. She\nwas surrounded by all those indescribable somethings and nothings\nwhich mark the rich and well-bred traveller, and her face was\nqueenly--not sweet and pretty like a doll's face--but handsome and\nstylish, and strikingly impressive, so that no man could look at\nher once without turning to look again; yet I had not been in her\npresence a minute, before I found, to my utter disgust, that the\nold creature was as vain of her charms as a spoiled girl, and\ngloried in the attention which she was conscious her face\neverywhere attracted. It would seem as if nature, in making up\nmankind, had always been a little short of materials, so that, if\nspecial attention were bestowed upon the form and face, the brain\nsuffered; and if the brain received particular attention, why then\nthere was something lacking in the body.\n\nThis large class of malcontents generally find some way of\nconvincing themselves, however, that they are as good-looking as\nthe average of mankind. They make a good deal of some special\npoints of beauty, and imagine that these quite overshadow their\ndefects. Still, there is a portion of them who can never do this;\nand I think of them with a sadness which it is impossible for me\nto express. For a homely--even an ugly man--I have no pity to\nspare. I never saw one so ugly yet, that if he had brains and a\nheart, he could not find a beautiful woman sensible enough to\nmarry him. But for the hopelessly plain and homely sisters--\"these\ntears!\" There is a class of women who know that they possess in\ntheir persons no attractions for men,--that their faces are\nhomely, that their frames are ill-formed, that their carriage is\nclumsy, and that, whatever may be their gifts of mind, no man can\nhave the slightest desire to possess their persons. That there\nare compensations for these women, I have no doubt, but many of\nthem fail to find them. Many of them feel that the sweetest\nsympathies of life must be repressed, and that there is a world of\naffection from which they must remain shut out forever. It is hard\nfor a woman to feel that her person is not pleasing--harder than\nfor a man to feel thus. I would tell why, if it were necessary--\nfor there is a bundle of very interesting philosophy tied up in\nthe matter--but I will content myself with stating the fact, and\npermitting my readers to reason about it as they will.\n\nNow, if a homely woman, soured and discouraged by her lot, becomes\nmisanthropic and complaining, she will be as little loved as she\nis admired; but if she accepts her lot good-naturedly, makes up\nher mind to be happy, and is determined to be agreeable in all her\nrelations to society, she will be everywhere surrounded by loving\nand sympathetic hearts, and find herself a greater favorite than\nshe would be were she beautiful. A woman who is entirely beyond\nthe reach of the jealousy of her own sex, is an exceedingly\nfortunate woman; and if personal homeliness has won for her this\nimmunity, then homeliness has given her much to be thankful for. A\nhomely woman who ignores her face and form, cultivates her mind\nand manners, good-naturedly gives up all pretension, and exhibits\nin all her life a true and a pure heart, will have friends enough\nto compensate her entirely for the loss of a husband. Friendship\nis unmindful of faces, in the selection of its objects, even if\nlove be somewhat particular, and, sometimes, foolishly fastidious.\n\nLife is altogether too precious a gift to be thrown away. A man\nwho would permit a field to be overgrown with weeds and thorns\nsimply because it would not naturally produce roses, would be very\nfoolish, particularly if the ground should only need cultivation\nto enable it to yield abundantly of corn. Far be it from me to\ndepreciate physical symmetry and personal comeliness. They are\ngifts of God, and they are very good; but there are better things\nin this world than a good face, and better things than the\nadmiration which a good face wins. I am more and more convinced,\nas the years pass away, that the choicest thing this world has for\na man is affection--not any special variety of affection, but the\napproval, the sympathy, and the devotion of true hearts. It is not\nnecessary that this affection come from the great and the\npowerful. If it be genuine, that is all the heart asks. It does\nnot criticize and graduate the value of the fountains from which\nit springs. It is at these fountains particularly that the\nunfortunates of the world are permitted to drink. They have only\nto accept cheerfully the conditions of their lot, and to give free\nand full play to all that is good and generous in them, to secure\nin an unusual degree the love of those into whose intimate\nsociety Providence has thrown them.\n\nIt is stated by Dr. Livingstone, the celebrated explorer of\nAfrica, that the blow of a lion's paw upon his shoulder, which was\nso severe as to break his arm, completely annihilated fear; and he\nsuggests that it is possible that Providence has mercifully\narranged, that all those beasts that prey upon life shall have\npower to destroy the sting of death in the animals which are their\nnatural victims. I do not believe that this power is mercifully\nassigned to beasts of prey alone, but that the misfortunes that\nassail our limbs and forms, in whatever shape and at whatever time\nthey may come, bring with them something which lightens the blow,\nor obviates the pain, if we will accept it. There is a calm\nconsciousness in every soul, however harshly the lion's paw may\nfall upon the body which it inhabits, that it is itself\ninvulnerable--that whatever may be the condition of the body, the\nsoul cannot be injured by physical forms or forces.\n\nPhysical calamity never comes with the power to extinguish that\nwhich is essential to the highest manhood and womanhood, and never\nfails to bring with it a motive for the adjustment of the soul to\nits conditions. The little boy whose \"Hail Columbia\" has been\nringing in my ears all day, accepted the conditions of his life,\nand the sting of his calamity has departed. It is pleasant to say\nto him, and to all the brotherhood and sisterhood of ugliness and\nlameness, that there is every reason to believe that there is no\nsuch thing in heaven as a one-legged or a club-footed soul--no\nsuch thing as an ugly or a misshapen soul--no such thing as a\nblind or a deaf soul--no such thing as a soul with tainted blood\nin its veins; and that out of these imperfect bodies will spring\nspirits of consummate perfection and angelic beauty--a beauty\nchastened and enriched by the humiliations that were visited upon\ntheir earthly habitation.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON III.\n\nANIMAL CONTENT.\n\n\n  \"By sports like these are all their cares beguiled;\n   The sports of children satisfy the child.\" GOLDSMITH.\n\n  \"Ay, give me back the joyous hours\n   When I, myself, was ripening too;\n   When song, the fount flung up its showers\n   Of beauty, ever fresh and new.\" GOETHE'S FAUST.\n\nI have been watching a family of kittens, engaged in their\nexquisitely graceful play. Near them lay their mother, stretched\nat her length upon the flagging, taking her morning nap, and\nwarming herself in the sun. She had eaten her breakfast, (provided\nby no care of her own, but at my expense,) had seen her little\nfamily fed, and having nothing further to attend to, had gone off\ninto a doze. What a blessed freedom from care! Think of a family\nof four children, with no frocks to be made for them, no hair to\nbrush, no shoes to provide, no socks to knit and mend, no\nschool-books to buy, and no nurse! Think of a living being with the\nlove of offspring in her bosom, and a multitude of marvellous\ninstincts in her nature, yet knowing nothing of God, thinking not\nof the future, without a hope or an expectation, or a doubt or a\nfear, passing straight on to annihilation! At the threshold of this\ndestiny the little kittens were carelessly playing; and they are\ndoubtless still playing, while I write. They have no lessons to\nlearn, they do not have to go to Sunday-school, they entertain no\nprejudices, except against dogs which occasionally dodge into the\nyard; and I judge, by the familiar way in which they play with\ntheir mother's ears, and pounce upon her tail, that they are not\nin any degree oppressed by a sense of the respect due to a parent.\nCat and kittens will eat, and frolic, and sleep, through their\nbrief life, and then they will curl up in some dark corner and\ndie.\n\nI remember that in one of the late Mr. Joseph C. Neal's \"Charcoal\nSketches,\" he puts into the mouth of a very sad and seedy loafer\nthe expression of a wish that he were a pig, and a statement of\nthe reasons for the wish. These reasons, as I recall them, related\nto the freedom of the pig from the peculiar trials and troubles of\nhumanity. Pigs do not have to work for a living; they undertake no\nenterprizes, and of course fail in none; they eat and sleep\nthrough a period of months, and then come the knife and a grunt,\nand that is the last of them. Now I suppose this thought of Mr.\nNeal's loafer has been shared by millions of men. Not that\neverybody has at some time in his life wished he were a pig, but\nthat nearly everybody who has had his share of the troubles and\nresponsibilities of life, has looked upon simple animal\ncarelessness and content with a certain degree of envy. It is not\nnecessary to go among brutes for instances of this animal content.\nIt can be found among men. Who does not know good-natured,\nignorant, healthy fellows, who will work all day in the field,\nwhistle all the way homeward, eat hugely of course food, sleep\nlike logs, and take no more interest in the great questions which\nagitate the most of us, than the pigs they feed, and that, in\nreturn, feed them? Who has not sighed, as he has seen how easily\nthe simple wants of certain simple natures are supplied? I\nremember an old man who quite unexpectedly was drafted into the\ngrand jury, which sat in the county town less than ten miles\ndistant from his home; and this was the great event of his life.\nHe never tired of talking about it--(never tired himself, I mean,)\nand a stranger could not carry on a conversation with him for five\nminutes, without hearing of something which occurred when\n\"I was in Blanktown, on the Grand Jury.\" It is doubtful whether\nNapoleon ever contemplated a victory with the complacent\nsatisfaction that filled my old friend when he alluded to his\nconnection with \"the _grand_ jury,\" and emphasized the adjective\nwhich magnified the jury and glorified him.\n\nI confess that, when I pass through a rural town, and see the\nlaborers among the corn, and the boys driving their cattle, and\nthe girls busy in the dairies, and life passing away quietly, I\ncannot avoid a twinge of regret that it would be impossible for me\nto be content with the kind of life that I see around me,\nespecially as I know that there is one kind of pleasure--negative,\nperhaps, rather than positive--which that kind of life enjoys, and\nin which I can never share. Relief from great responsibilities,\nand contentment with humble clothing, humble fare, humble society,\nhumble aims and ambitions, humble means and humble labors--ah! how\nmany weary, overloaded men--how many disappointed hearts--have\nsighed for such a boon, and sighed knowing they could never\nreceive it.\n\nIt has been the habit of poets to surround simple pleasures and\npursuits with the golden atmosphere of romance,--not because they\nwould enjoy such pleasures and pursuits at all, but rather because\nthey are forever beyond their possession. A poet is always\nreaching toward the unattainable, and he may reach forward to the\nperfections of a life of which the best that he sees around him is\nan intimation, or backward to the animal content of a life as yet\nundisturbed by the intimation of something better. Bucolics are very\nsweet, but their writers do not believe in them. \"A nut-brown maid,\"\nwith bare, unconscious feet and ancles, is very pretty in a picture,\nbut the man who painted her ascertained that she was green, and not\nthe most entertaining of companions. The truth is, that when we have\ngot along so far that we can perceive that which is poetical and\npicturesque in the simplest form of rustic life, we have got too\nfar along to enjoy it.\n\nI suppose that much of the charm which simple animal content has\nfor us, is connected with the memories of childhood. We can all\nrecall a period of our lives when there was joy in the consciousness\nof living--when animal life, in its spontaneous overflow, flooded all\nour careless hours with its own peculiar pleasure. The light was\npleasant to our eyes, vigorous appetite and digestion made ambrosia\nof the homeliest fare, the simplest play brought delight, and\nlife--all untried--lay spread out before us in one long, golden\ndream. We now watch our children at their sports, and see but little\ndifference between their sources of happiness and those which supply\nthe kittens in their play. \"Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a\nstraw,\" they skip from pleasure to pleasure, and find delight in the\nimpulsive exercise of their little powers. We were once like them.\nLife was once as fresh, and flowing, and impulsive, and objectless,\nas it is with them; and when we are weary and oppressed with labor,\nand loaded down with responsibility, and filled with thoughts of the\ngreat destiny before us, we turn our eyes backward with a sigh for\ndays once ours, but lost forever. Lost forever! This is the romantic\npain that fills us in all our contemplations of simple animal\ncontent. It is lost to us, because we are lost to it. Like a\npassenger far out upon the sea, adventuring upon a long voyage, we\nlook back upon the fading hills of our native land, and sigh to\nthink that the breeze which bears us away can never bring us back.\n\nThe question comes to us: \"What is there in our present life to\nrepay us for this loss?\" There are multitudes who can ask this\nquestion, and answer honestly, \"Nothing.\" It is sad, but true,\nthat countless men and women have never found any thing in life\nwhich compensates them for the loss of the simple animal enjoyment\nand content of childhood. Sickness, perhaps, has imposed upon them\nyears of pain. Poverty has condemned them to labor through every\nwaking hour to win sustenance for themselves and their dependents.\nThe heart has been cheated of its idol. Friends have proved false,\nand fortune fickle. Life has gone wrong through all the avenues of\ntheir being. Yet there are others who, while looking with pleasure\nupon the innocent sports of animal life, and recalling the simple\njoys of childhood with delight, are content with the lot of\nmanhood and womanhood, and would look upon a return to their\nsimpler age as the greatest calamity that could be inflicted upon\nthem. With brows wrinkled by care and toil, and heads silvered by\npremature age, and great burdens upon heart and brain, they glory\nin a life within and before them, by the side of which the life of\nchildhood is as flavorless and frivolous as that of a fly.\n\nI have been much impressed by a passage in the \"Recreations of a\nCountry Parson,\"--which, by the way, is one of the best and\ncleverest books of its kind in the English language--in which this\nquestion is incidentally touched upon, and so happily touched\nupon, that I cannot refrain from transcribing the whole passage.\nThe writer represents himself to be seated upon a manger, writing\nupon the flat place between his horse's eyes, while the docile\nanimal's nose is between his knees; and it is the horse that he\naddresses:--\n\n\"For you, my poor fellow-creature, I think with sorrow as I write\nhere upon your head, there remains no such immortality as remains\nfor me. What a difference between us! You to your sixteen or\neighteen years here, and then oblivion!--I to my threescore and\nten, and then eternity! Yes, the difference is immense; and it\ntouches me to think of your life and mine, of your doom and mine.\nI know a house where at morning and evening prayer, when the\nhousehold assembles, among the servants there always walks in a\nshaggy little dog, who listens with the deepest attention and the\nmost solemn gravity to all that is said, and then, when prayers\nare over, goes out again with his friends. I cannot witness that\nsilent procedure without being much moved by the sight. Ah! my\nfellow-creature, this is something in which you have no part! Made\nby the same hand, breathing the same air, sustained like us by\nfood and drink, you are witnessing an act of ours which relates to\ninterests that do not concern you, and of which you have no idea.\nAnd so here we are, you standing at the manger, old boy, and I\nsitting upon it; the mortal and the immortal, close together; your\nnose on my knee, my paper on your head; yet with something between\nus broader than the broad Atlantic.\"\n\nHere we find one man pitying his poor, dumb, unconscious\ncompanion, and the little dog that trots in to attend the morning\nprayers, because their life is so brief, and, more particularly,\nbecause it is so insignificant. He recognizes the feeble likeness\nbetween himself and them, and appreciates also the tremendous\ndifference. He does not think that he would be glad to exchange\nhis lot of labor and care for their carelessness and content, but,\nreaching forward to grasp the hand of an immortal destiny, he\nsorrows that he must leave his dumb servants and companions behind\nhim.\n\nAnd this is the normal view of the question. We rise out of\nsemi-conscious infancy into a life of the senses, which goes on to\nperfection in our childhood. We come into a state in which the\nmechanism of the body enjoys its freest play, in which the senses\nimbibe their sweetest satisfactions, and in which life either\nswells into irrepressible overflowings, or subsides into careless\ncontent. Looking at her children at this period of their life,\nmany a mother has said, \"Let them play while they can; let them be\nmerry while they may; for they are seeing their happiest days.\"\nBut this animal life is not all. In its perfection it is very\nbeautiful, and it is good because God made it; but it is only the\ncoarse basis upon which rises a shaft, whiter than marble--wrought\nwith divine devices--crowned by the light of Heaven. It is only\nthose who have failed to secure a distinct perception of the\nhighest aspect of human life, and of that which makes it\ncharacteristically human life, who can say to a child that he is\nseeing his happiest days.\n\nI remember with entire distinctness the moment when the\nconsciousness possessed me that my childhood was transcended by\ninitial manhood, and I can never forget the pang that moment\nbrought me. It was on a bright, moonlight night, in midwinter,\nwhen my mates, boisterous with life, were engaged in their usual\ngames in the snow, and I had gone out expecting to share in their\nenjoyment. I had not played, or rather tried to play, five\nminutes, before I found that there was nothing in the play for me--\nthat I had absolutely exhausted play as the grand pursuit of my\nlife. Never since has the wild laugh of boyhood sounded so vacant\nand hollow, as it did to me that night. In an instant, the\ninvisible line was crossed which separated a life of purely animal\nenjoyment from a life of moral motive and responsibility, and\nintellectual action and enterprise. The old had passed away, and I\nhad entered that which was new; and I turned my steps homeward,\nleaving behind me all my companions, to spend a quiet evening in\nthe chimney-corner, and dream of the realm that was opening before\nme. Such a moment as this comes really, though not always\nconsciously, to every man and woman. To-day we are children;\nto-morrow we are not. To-day we stand in life's vestibule;\nto-morrow we are in the temple, awed by the sweep of the arches\nover us, humbled by the cross that fronts us, and smitten with\nmysteries that breathe upon us from the choir, or gaze at us from\nthe flaming windows.\n\nManhood and womanhood have their infancy entirely distinct from\nthe infancy of childhood. The child is born into the world a\nsimple, animal life--less helpful than a lamb, or a calf, or a\nkitten. There is no power in it, and but little of instinct. There\nis no form of life, bursting caul or shell, that awakes in vital\nair to such stupid, vacant helplessness, as a baby. It is out of\nthis lump of clay, with its bones only half hardened, and its\nmuscles little more than pulp, and its brain no more intelligent\nthan an uncooked dumpling, that childhood is to be made. And this\nchildhood consists of little more than a well-developed animal\norganism. Nature keeps the child playing--makes it play in the\nopen air--impels it to bring into free and joyous use all the\npowers of its little frame--and when that is done, and the\nprocreative faculty has crowned all, the child is born again, and\ncomes into a new infancy--the infancy of manhood and womanhood.\nHere a new life opens. That which gave satisfaction before, gives\nsatisfaction no longer. Love takes new and deeper channels.\nAmbition fixes its eye upon other and higher objects. Fresh\nmotives address the soul, and urge it into new enterprises. Great\ncares and responsibilities settle slowly down upon its shoulders,\nand it braces itself up to endure them. It apprehends God and its\nrelations to Him, and to its fellows; it confronts destiny; it\narms itself for the conflicts of life; it prepares for the\nstruggle which it knows will issue in a grateful success or a sad\ndisappointment; in short, it grows from man's infancy into man's\nfull estate.\n\nNow the reason why a mother looks with a sigh upon her children,\nand says that they are seeing the happiest days of their life, is\nthat she has never become a true woman. She has never grown out of\nthe infancy of her womanhood. She has never comprehended what a\nglorious thing it is to be a woman--she has not comprehended what\nit is to be a woman at all. What can be that woman's ideas of\nlife, who thinks and declares that the happiest moments of her\nexperience were those which were filled with the frolic of animal\nlife? If I felt like this, I should wish that my children had been\nborn rabbits, or squirrels, or lambs, or kittens, because they,\nhaving enjoyed the pleasures of the animal, will never awake to\nthe woes of another type of life. The real reason why any man\nsings from the heart,\n\n  \"O, would I were a boy again,\"\n\nis, that he is \"stuck\"--to use a homely but expressive word--\nbetween boyhood and manhood, and, not feeling up to his position,\nhas a very strong disposition to back out of it. The man who\nreally wishes he were a boy, is either painfully conscious of the\nloss of the purity of his boyhood, or he has the cowardly\ndisposition to shirk the responsibilities of his life. The\nromantic regard which we all entertain for the simple animal\ncontent and joy of childhood, is a very different thing to this.\nIt was Mr. Neal's loafer that really wished he were a pig; and it\nis a loafer always who would retire from man's duties and estate,\ninto the content either of childhood or kittenhood.\n\nIt is very natural that a man should be blinded and pained by\npassing from a shaded room into dazzling sunlight. It is a serious\nthing to leap from a luxurious, enervating warm bath into cold\nwater. All sudden transitions are shocking; and God has contrived\nthe transitions of our lives so that they shall be mainly gradual.\nIt is not to be wondered at that many men and women, by having\nthe responsibilities of men and women thrust upon them too early,\nare shocked, and look back upon the shady places they have left,\nand long to rest their eyes there. It is not strange that men\nrecoil from a plunge into the world's cold waters, and long to\ncreep back into the bath from which they have suddenly risen. But\nthat man or woman, having fully passed into the estate of man and\nwoman, should desire to become children again, is impossible. It\nis only the half-developed, the badly-developed, the imperfectly\nnurtured, the mean-spirited, and the demoralized, who look back to\nthe innocence, the helplessness, and the simple animal joy and\ncontent of childhood with genuine regret for their loss. I want no\nbetter evidence that a person's life is regarded by himself as a\nfailure, than that furnished by his honest willingness to be\nrestored to his childhood. When a man is ready to relinquish\nthe power of his mature reason, his strength and skill for\nself-support, the independence of his will and life, his bosom\ncompanion and children, his interest in the stirring affairs of\nhis time, his part in deciding the great questions which agitate\nhis age and nation, his intelligent apprehension of the relations\nwhich exist between himself and his Maker, and his rational hope\nof immortality--if he have one--for the negative animal content,\nand frivolous enjoyments of a child, he does not deserve the name\nof a man;--he is a weak, unhealthy, broken-down creature, or a\nbase poltroon.\n\nYet I know there are those who will read this sentence with tears,\nand with complaint. I know there are those whose existence has\nbeen a long struggle with sickness and trial--whose lives have\nbeen crowded with great griefs and disappointments--who sit in\ndarkness and impotency while the world rolls by them. They have\nseen no joy and felt no content since childhood, and many of them\nlook with genuine pity upon children, because the careless\ncreatures do not know into what a heritage of sin and sorrow they\nare entering. I have only to say to them, that the noblest\nexhibitions of manhood and womanhood I have ever seen, or the\nworld has ever seen, have been among their number. A woman with\nthe hope of heaven in her eyes, incorruptible virtue in her heart,\nand honesty in every endeavor, has smiled serenely, a million\ntimes in this world, while her life and all its earthly\nexpectations were in ruins. Patient sufferers upon beds of pain\nhave forgotten childhood years ago, and, feeding their souls on\nprayer, have looked forward with unutterable joy to the transition\nfrom womanhood to angelhood. Men, utterly forsaken by friends--\ncontemned, derided, proscribed, persecuted--have stood by their\nconvictions with joyful heroism and calm content. Nay, great\nmultitudes have marched with songs upon their tongues to the rack\nand the stake. The noblest spectacle the world affords is that of\na man or woman, rising superior to sorrow and suffering--\ntransforming sorrow and suffering into nutriment--accepting those\nconditions of their life which Providence prescribes, and building\nthemselves up into an estate from whose summit the step is short\nto a glorified humanity.\n\nBefore me hangs the portrait of an old man--the only man I ever\nloved with a devotion that has never faded, though long years have\npassed away since he died. His calm blue eyes look down upon me,\nand I look into them, and through them I look into a golden\nmemory--into a life of self-denial--into a meek, toiling, honest,\nheroic Christian manhood--into an uncomplaining spirit--into a\ngrateful heart--into a soul that never sighed over a lost joy,\nthough all his earthly enterprises miscarried. The tracery of care\nand of sickness is upon his haggard features, but I see in them,\nand in the soul which they represent to me, the majesty of\nmanliness. While I look, the kittens still play at the door, and\nthe noise of shouting children is in the street; but ah! how\nshallow is the life they represent, compared with that of which\nthis dumb canvas tells me! It is better to be a man or a woman,\nthan to be a child. It is better to be an angel than to be either.\nLet us look forward--never backward.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON IV.\n\nREPRODUCTION IN KIND.\n\n\n  \"Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.\"\n   ST. PAUL TO THE GALATIANS.\n\n  \"Ye shall know them by their fruits: Do men gather grapes of\nthorns, or figs of thistles?\"  ST. MATTHEW'S GOSPEL.\n\nIt was fitting that one of the most characteristic and beautiful\nlaws of life should be announced in the opening chapter of the\nHoly Bible. It was clothed in the form of an ordinance, as became\nit: \"Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind,\nand every thing that creepeth upon the earth, after his kind.\"\nFrom that day to this, every living thing--beast, bird and insect,\ntree, shrub and plant--has produced after its kind. It is a law\nthat runs through all animal and vegetable life. Each family in\nthe great world of living forms was created for a special purpose,\nand was intended to remain pure and distinctive until the\ntermination of its mission. Whenever the family boundaries are\noverstepped, the curse of nature is breathed upon the generative\nfunctions, and the illegitimate product dies out, or subsides into\nhopeless degeneration. The mule is a monster, and has no progeny.\n\nA plant, or a tree, never forgets itself. Cheat it of its root,\nand the stem remains faithful. The minutest twig, put out to nurse\nupon the arm of a foreign mother, feels the thrill of the great\nprimal law in its filmiest fibre, and breathes in every expression\nof its life its fidelity. If you will walk with me into the\ngarden, I will show you a mountain-ash in full bloom; but on the\ntop of it you will see a strange little cluster of pear-blossoms.\nA twig from a Seckel pear-tree was, two or three years since,\nengrafted there. It had a hard time in uniting its being to that\nof the alien ash, but it loved life, and so, at length, it\nconsented to join itself to the transplanted forest tree. It was\nweak and alone, but it kept its law. Spring bathed the ash with\nits own peculiar bloom, and autumn hung it with its clusters of\nscarlet berries, and it was hidden from sight by the redundant\nfoliage, but it kept its law. The roots of the mountain-ash,\nblindly reaching in the ground and imbibing its juices, knew\nnothing of the little orphaned twig above, that waited for its\nfood; but they could not cheat it of its law. Up to a certain\npoint of a certain bough the rising fluids came under the law of\nthe mountain-ash, and there they found a gateway, guarded by an\nangel that gave them a new commandment. \"Thus far--mountain-ash:\nbeyond--Seckel pear;\" and if, in October, you will walk in the\ngarden again with me, I will show you among the scarlet berries,\nbending heavily toward you, the clustered succulence of the\nSeckel.\n\nA seedsman may cheat you, but a seed never does. If you plant\ncorn, it never comes up potatoes. If you sow wheat, it never comes\nup rye. Wrapped up in every capsule, bound up in every kernel,\npacked into every minutest germ, is this law, written by God at\nthe beginning, \"Produce thou after thy kind.\" So the whole living\nworld goes on producing after its kind. Year after year we visit\nthe seedsman, and read the labels on his drawers and packages, and\nbear home and plant in our gardens the little homely germs that\nkeep God's law so well; and summer rewards our trust in them with\nbeautiful flowers, and autumn with bountiful fruition. Robins sang\nthe same song to the Pilgrim Fathers that they sing to us. The\nmay-flower breathes the same fragrance now that it breathed in the\nfingers of Rose Standish; and man and woman, producing after their\nkind, are the same to-day that they were three thousand years ago.\n\nNow there is a significance in all the laws of material life,\nabove and beyond their special office. They do the work they were\nset to do; they rule the life they were appointed to rule; but the\nlaws, themselves, belong to a family whose branches run through\nall intellectual, moral, and spiritual life. Laws live in groups\nno less uniformly than the existences which they inform and\ngovern. It is a law, both of animal and vegetable structures, that\nthey shall grow by what they feed on; but this law passes the\nbounds of matter, and finds its widest meaning and its most\nextended application beyond. The mind grows by what it feeds on;\nthe heart grows by what it feeds on; love, hate, jealousy,\nrevenge, fortitude, courage, grow by what they feed on;\nspirituality grows by what spirituality feeds on. Wherever growth\ngoes, through all the realm of God, this law goes; and the law\nthat every thing that produces shall produce after its kind, is\njust as universal as this. It begins in material life, and runs up\nthrough all life. Rather, perhaps, I should say, that it begins in\nspiritual life, and seeks embodiment in material life, so that we\nmay apprehend it. The clouds were in heaven before there was any\nrain, and the rain comes down from heaven to tell us what the\nclouds are made of. I might go further, and say that every form,\nof matter is but the embodiment of a divine thought, and that,\nwith that thought, there passes into matter the laws that reside\nin divine things of corresponding nature and office.\n\nBut I am becoming abstruse--quite too much so, considering the\nsimple, practical truths to which I am seeking to introduce my\nreader. I have been thinking how, in accordance with this law of\nwhich we are talking, our moods, our passions, our sympathies, our\nmoral frames and conditions, reproduce themselves, after their\nkind, in the minds and lives around us. I call my child to my knee\nin anger; I strike him a hasty blow that carries with it the\npeculiar sting of anger; I speak a loud reproof that bears with it\nthe spirit of anger; and I look in vain for any relenting in his\nflashing eyes, flushed face, and compressed lips. I have made my\nchild angry, and my uncontrolled passion has produced after its\nkind. I have sown anger, and I have reaped anger instantaneously.\nPerhaps I become still more angry, in consequence of the passion\nmanifested by my child, and I speak and strike again. He is weak\nand I am strong; but, though he bow his head, crushed into\nsilence, I may be sure that there is a sullen heart in the little\nbosom, and anger the more bitter because it is impotent. I put the\nchild away from me, and think of what I have done. I am full of\nrelentings. I long to ask his pardon, for I know that I have\noffended and deeply injured one of Christ's little ones. I call\nhim to me again, press his head to my breast, kiss him, and weep.\nNo word is spoken, but the little bosom heaves, the little heart\nsoftens, the little eyes grow tenderly penitent, the little hands\ncome up and clasp my neck, and my relentings and my sorrow have\nproduced after their kind. The child is conquered, and so am I.\n\nIf I utter fretful words, they come back to me like echoes. If I\nbristle all over with irritability, the quills will begin to rise\nall about me. One thoroughly irritable person in a breakfast-room\nspoils coffee and toast, sours milk, and destroys appetite for a\nwhole family. He produces after his kind.\n\nGenerally, a man has around him those who are like him. If he be a\nman of strong nature and positive qualities, he will plant his\nmoods and grow them in the natures next to him. Of course there\nmust be exceptions to this rule, because the will is free and man\nis reasonable, and the motive and power to pluck up unwelcome\nseed, and unpleasant growths, inheres in all men. I have known a\ngood-natured man to live with a pettish, ill-natured, jealous,\nfault-finding wife through all the years of my acquaintance with\nhim, he meantime growing no worse, and she growing no better. They\nhad voluntarily and effectually shut themselves each from the\ninfluence of the other. He had closed his spirit against that\nwhich was bad in her, and she had closed her spirit against that\nwhich was good in him; so she went on fretting through life, and\nhe very good-naturedly laughing at her. We see this thing through\nall society. We see innocent girls grow up into virtue, though\nsurrounded on every side by vicious example. We see natures and\ncharacters everywhere which refuse to receive the seed that falls\nupon them from the natures and characters of others; but this\nmakes nothing against the universality of the law we are\nconsidering. Generally, I repeat, a man has around him those who\nare like him. The soil of a social circle is usually open, and\nwhatever falls into it produces after its kind, whether it be good\nnature or ill nature, purity or impurity, faith or skepticism,\nlove or hate.\n\nIt would appear, therefore, that there is no way by which we can\nsurround ourselves by good society so readily as by being good\nourselves. If we plant good seed, we may calculate with a great\ndegree of certainty upon securing good fruit. If I plant frankness\nand open-heartedness, I expect to reap them; and I have no right\nto expect to reap them unless I plant them. If I go to a man with\nmy heart in my hand, I have good reason for expecting to meet a\nman with his heart in his hand. Frankness begets frankness, just\nas naturally and just as certainly, under the proper conditions,\nas like produces like in the animal and vegetable kingdoms. There\nare men who do every thing by indirection who meet one as warily\nas if words were traps; and pitfalls who manage a friendly\ninterview as a general would manage a campaign; and if they make\ntheir demonstration first, we are placed upon our guard. We\nunconsciously become wary and distrustful. They plant distrust and\nsecretiveness, and they produce in us after their kind. No man can\nbe treated frankly in this world unless he himself be frank. If we\nwould win confidence to ourselves, we must put confidence in\nothers. The soul is like a mirror, reflecting that which stands\nbefore it.\n\nThe young naturally take on the moods and accept and reflect the\ninfluences around them more readily than the old, just as a new\npiece of land will produce a better crop than one which is worn or\npre-occupied. A virgin mind is like a virgin soil. It contains all\nthe elements of fertility, and is adapted to the production of any\ncrop. It has been exhausted in no department of its constitution.\nIt is not occupied by roots, and shaded by foliage. It is not\nturf-bound and dry; but it is soft and open, and clean and moist,\nand ready for the reception of any seed that may fall upon it.\nUntil age brings individuality, the mind seems to have little\nchoice as to what it will receive. Then, indeed, it does reject\nmuch seed that falls upon it, and much fails to take root because\nof the pre-occupation of the surface. A sensual seed is planted in\nthe soul of a young man, and it springs up readily, and produces\nafter its kind; but the same seed tossed upon an older soil fails\nto sink and germinate, because the surface is pre-occupied, or,\nmore frequently, because that peculiar element on which the germ\nmust rely for quickening and sustentation has been exhausted. Some\nmanly or Christian grace falls upon a young mind, and quickly\nstrikes root and rises into flower and fruit; while the same grace\nthrown upon an adult mind would fail to reach the soil, through\nthe vices that cumber and choke it. It is thus that home and the\nschool-room are literally seminaries--places where seed is sown--\nand it is in these that we expect and intend that every seed shall\nproduce after its kind. Let us talk about this a little.\n\nI once heard a person say that one of his acquaintances, whom he\nnamed, had no moral right to have a child. Why was this harsh\njudgment uttered? Because he was hereditarily scrofulous, and\nwould necessarily entail upon his offspring the family taint. If\nthere were even a show of justice in this, what must be said of a\nparent who does not possess a single moral quality, that even he,\nin the selfishness of his parental love, would desire to see\nimplanted in his child? How many homes are scattered over\nChristendom in which no good seed is sown! How many selfish,\nniggardly, vicious parents are there, who, producing after their\nkind, by generation and by influence, are filling the world with\nselfish, niggardly, and vicious children! How many homes are there\nin which the gentle words of love are never heard; in which the\ntender graces of a Christian heart are never unfolded; in which a\nprayer is never uttered! How many fathers are there whose lips are\nblack with profanity and foul with obscenity, and whose lives are\nmean and unwholesome! How many mothers are there whose tongues are\nnimble with scandal and bitter with scolding, and whose brains are\nbusy with vanities and jealousies! Ah! if there be any man or\nwoman in this world who has no moral right to have a child, it is\none who has not a single trait of character desirable to be\nreproduced in a child. Scrofula may be bad, but sin is worse.\nBodily taint may be terrible, but spiritual taint is horrible.\n\nIt is a general truth, under the law that every thing produces\nafter its kind, that children become what their parents are. A\nsimple people, virtuous and healthy, will produce virtuous,\nhealthy, and true-hearted children, A luxurious people--lazy,\nsensual, wasteful--will produce children like themselves. If we go\nthrough the vicious quarters of a great city, where licentiousness\nand drunkenness and beastly vices prevail, we shall find that\nthough all die before old age, the communities are abundantly\nrecruited by the children which they produce. Men, principles,\nhabits, ideas, vices, all have children, whose features betray\ntheir parentage; so that no parent has a right to expect a child\nto be better than its father and mother. On the contrary, he has\nevery reason to believe that every thing that a child sees wrong\nin the parents, will be imitated. There is no way by which bad\nparents can bring up a family well. There must be in the parental\nlife good principles, a sweet and equable temper, a tender and\nloving disposition, a firm self-control, a pleasant deportment,\nand a conscientious devotion to duty, or these will not be found\nin the life of the children. Bad seed, sown in the quick soil of a\nchild's mind, is sure to spring up, and to bear fruit after its\nkind. No sensible man ever dreams of gathering figs from thistles,\nor grapes from bramble-bushes, and no man has the slightest right\nto suppose that he can bring up a family to be better than he is.\nThe plant will be true to the seed.\n\nWe are in the habit of hearing that the children of a certain\nneighborhood, or school, or town, are extraordinarily bad\nchildren. Great wonder is sometimes expressed in regard to such\ninstances, when, really, they are not wonderful at all. When\nchildren are unusually bad, parents are unusually bad, or, if they\nare not bad-hearted, they are wrong-headed. I ought, perhaps, to\nsay here that I have known an irascible, tyrannical, unjust and\ncruel school-teacher to spoil a neighborhood of children, when the\nparents were without any special fault, save that of failing to\nthrust him out of the charge which he had abused. But usually the\nfault is at home. If the seed planted there be good, it will\nproduce good fruit. Yet my reader will say that the best man he\never knew, had the worst children he ever saw. The truth of the\nstatement is admitted, but what do you know of the home life of\nthat family? How much unreasonable restraint has been exercised\nupon those children? From how many exhibitions of stern and\nunrelenting injustice have these children suffered? What laxity of\ndiscipline and carelessness of culture have reigned in that\nfamily? I know many who seem to be excellent men in society, but\nwho are any thing but amiable men at home. In one they are\npleasant, affable, kind, and charitable; in the other, cross-grained,\nhard, unkind, and unjust. I declare with all positiveness, that when\na family or a neighborhood of children is bad, there is a reason for it\noutside of the children. There are bad influences which descend\nupon them, and work out their natural results in them.\n\nIt is astonishing to see how long a seed will lie in the ground\nwithout germinating, and how true it will remain to its kind\nthrough untold years. Cut down a pine forest, where an oak has not\nbeen seen for a century, and oak shrubbery will spring up. Heave\nout upon the surface a pile of earth that has lain hidden from the\neyes of a dozen generations, and forthwith it will grow green with\nweeds. Plough up the prairie, and turn under the grass and flowers\nthat have grown there since the white settler can remember, and\nthere will spring from the inverted sod a strange growth that has\nhad no representative in the sunlight for long ages. Soul and soil\nare alike in this. I once heard a man say of his father, who had\nbeen dead many years--\"I hate him: I hate his memory.\" The words\nwere spoken bitterly, with a flushed face and angry eyes, yet he\nwho spoke them was one of the kindest and most placable of men.\nDeep down in his heart, under love for his mother which was almost\nworship, and under affection for wife, children, and sisters which\nwas as deep as his nature, and under multiplied friendships, there\nhad been planted this seed. The father had treated the boy harshly\nand unjustly; and the young soul was stung as the tender fruit is\nstung by an insect. Where anger and resentment were sown, anger\nand resentment were ready to spring up the moment the seed was\nuncovered. I have known men to carry through life a revenge\nplanted in their hearts by some unjust and cruel schoolmaster. How\nmany men are there are in the world who have sworn to revenge\nthemselves upon one who had stung them with anger or injustice\nwhen in childhood!\n\nSo we come to the grand lesson, that if we would have good\nchildren, we must ourselves be exactly what we would have them\nbecome; if we would govern our families, we must first govern\nourselves; if we would have only pleasant words greet our ears in\nthe home circle, we must speak only pleasant words. We should see\nto it that we plant nothing, the legitimate fruits of which we\nshall not be willing and glad to see borne in the lives of our\nchildren. If our children are bad, the fault is, ninety-nine cases\nin a hundred, our own, in some way. If we would reform society, or\nmake it better in any respect, our quickest way to do it is to\nreform and make ourselves better. If I would reap courtesy and\nhospitality and kindness and love, I must plant them; and it is\nthe sum of all arrogance to assume that I have a right to reap\nthem without planting them. A man who receives courtesy without\nexercising it, reaps that which he has not sown. He is a thief,\nand ought in justice to be kicked out of society. Blessings on the\nman who sows the seeds of a happy nature and a noble character\nbroadcast wherever his feet wander,--who has a smile alike for joy\nand sorrow, a tender word always for a child, a compassionate\nutterance for suffering, courtesy for friends and for strangers,\nencouragement for the despairing, an open heart for all--love for\nall--good words for all! Such seed produces after its kind in all\nsoils, when it finds lodgment; and that which the sower fails to\nreap, passes into hands that are grateful for the largess.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON V.\n\nTRUTH AND TRUTHFULNESS.\n\n\n  \"For truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as\na sunbeam.\" MILTON.\n\n  \"Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?\" MATTHEW PRIOR.\n\n  \"Get but the truth once uttered, and 'tis like\n   A star new-born that drops into its place,\n   And which, once circling in its placid round,\n   Not all the tumult of the earth can shake.\" LOWELL.\n\nOne of the rarest powers possessed by man is the power to state a\nfact. It seems a very simple thing to tell the truth, but, beyond\nall question, there is nothing half so easy as lying. To\ncomprehend a fact in its exact length, breadth, relations, and\nsignificance, and to state it in language that shall represent it\nwith exact fidelity, are the work of a mind singularly gifted,\nfinely balanced, and thoroughly practiced in that special\ndepartment of effort. The greatness of Daniel Webster was more\napparent in his power to state a fact, or to present a truth,\nthan in any other characteristic of his gigantic nature. It was\nthe power of truth that won for him his forensic victories.\nWhenever he was truest to truth, then was truth truest to him. He\nwas a man who implicitly believed in the power of truth to take\ncare of itself when it had been fairly presented; and the failures\nof his life always grew out of his attempts to make falsehood look\nlike truth--a field of effort in which the most gifted of his\ncotemporaries won the most brilliant of his triumphs.\n\nThe men are comparatively few who are in the habit of telling the\ntruth. We all lie, every day of our lives--almost in every\nsentence we utter--not consciously and criminally, perhaps, but\nreally, in that our language fails to represent truth, and state\nfacts correctly. Our truths are half-truths, or distorted truths,\nor exaggerated truths, or sophisticated truths. Much of this is\nowing to carelessness, much to habit, and, more than has generally\nbeen supposed, to mental incapacity. I have known eminent men who\nhad not the power to state a fact, in its whole volume and\noutline, because, first, they could not comprehend it perfectly,\nand, second, because their power of expression was limited. The\nlenses by which they apprehended their facts were not adjusted\nproperly, so they saw every thing with a blur. Definite outlines,\ncleanly cut edges, exact apprehension of volume and weight, nice\nmeasurement of relations, were matters outside of their\nobservation and experience. They had broad minds, but bungling;\nand their language was no better than their apprehensions--usually\nit was worse, because language is rarely as definite as\napprehension. Men rarely do their work to suit them, because their\ntools are imperfect.\n\nThere are men in all communities who are believed to be honest,\nyet whose word is never taken as authority upon any subject. There\nis a flaw or a warp somewhere in their perceptions, which prevents\nthem from receiving truthful impressions. Every thing comes to\nthem distorted, as natural objects are distorted by reaching the\neye through wrinkled window-glass. Some are able to apprehend a\nfact and state it correctly, if it have no direct relation to\nthemselves; but the moment their personality, or their personal\ninterest, is involved, the fact assumes false proportions and\nfalse colors. I know a physician whose patients are always\nalarmingly sick when he is first called to them. As they usually\nget well, I am bound to believe that he is a good physician; but I\nam not bound to believe that they are all as sick at beginning as\nhe supposes them to be. The first violent symptoms operate upon\nhis imagination and excite his fears, and his opinion as to the\ndegree of danger attaching to the diseases of his patients is not\nworth half so much as that of any sensible old nurse. In fact,\nnobody thinks of taking it all; and those who know him, and who\nhear his sad representations of the condition of his patients,\nshow equal distrust of his word and faith in his skill, by taking\nit for granted that they are in a fair way to get well.\n\nIt is impossible for bigots, for men of one idea, for fanatics,\nfor those who set boundaries to themselves in religious, social,\nand political creeds, for men who think more of their own selfish\ninterests than they do of truth, and for vicious men, to speak the\ntruth. We are all, I suppose, bigots to a greater or less extent.\nWe all have a creed written in our minds, or printed in our books;\nand to this we are more or less blindly attached. We set down an\narticle of faith, or adopt an opinion, and nothing is allowed to\ninterfere with it. If a sturdy fact comes along, and asks\nadmission, we turn to our creed to see if we can safely entertain\nit. If the creed says \"No,\" we say \"No,\" and the fact is turned\nout of doors, and misrepresented after it is gone. Our creeds are\nour dwellings. They come next to us, and nothing can come to us,\nor go out from us, without going through our creeds. The simple\nfact of the death of Jesus Christ upon the cross, reaching the\nmind through various creeds, and passing out again, goes through\nas many phases as there are creeds, ranging through a scale which\nat one extreme presents a God dying to redeem the lost millions of\na world, and, at the other, a benevolent, sweet-tempered man,\nyielding his life in testimony of the honesty of his teachings.\n\nNo new truth presents itself, which does not have to run the\ngauntlet of our creeds. If it get through alive, and seem disposed\nto be peaceable, and to remain subordinate to them, then we let it\nlive, and receive it into respectable society;--otherwise, we\nentreat it shamefully. Sometimes the truth is too much for us, and\nasserts its power to stand without our help, and then we\ncompromise with it. The world will turn on its axis, and wheel\naround its orbit, though we stop the mouth of the profane wretch\nwho declares it; so, after a while, we get tired of fighting the\nfact, and shape our creeds accordingly. We fight the sturdy truths\nof geology, because they interfere with our creeds, but after\nawhile the sturdy truths of geology become too sturdy for us, and\nthen we begin to patronize them, and to confer upon them the honor\nof harmonizing with our creeds. A man who has adopted the creed of\na materialist, is entirely incompetent to receive, entertain, and\nrepresent a spiritual fact. My creed is the window at which I sit,\nand look at all the world of truth outside of me. All truth is\ntinted by the medium through which it passes to reach my mind; and\nsuch is my imperfection and my weakness, that I could not raise my\nwindow immediately, and place my soul in direct, vital contact\nwith the great atmosphere of truth, if I would.\n\nBut if bigotry be such a bar to the correct perception of truth,\nwhat shall be said of self-interest and personal vices of appetite\nand passion? It is possible for no man who owns a slave and finds\nprofit in such ownership, to receive the truth touching the right\nof man to himself, and the moral wrong of slavery. We have too\nmuch evidence that even creeds must bend to self-interest, and\nthat any traffic will be regarded as morally right which is\npecuniarily profitable. Once, in the creed of the slaveholders,\nslavery was admitted to be wrong, but that was when it was looked\nupon as temporary in its character, and, on the whole, evil in its\nresults to all concerned. Now, when it is sought to be made a\npermanent institution, because it seems to be the only source of\nthe wealth of a section, it has become right; and even the\nslave-trade logically falls into the category of laudable and\nlegitimate commerce. It is impossible for a people who have allowed\npecuniary interest to deprave their moral sense to this extent,\nto perceive and receive any sound political truth, or to apprehend\nthe spirit and temper of those who are opposed to them. The same\nmay be said of the liquor traffic. The act of selling liquor is\nlooked upon with horror by those who stand outside, and who have\nan eye upon its consequences; but the seller deems it legitimate,\nand looks upon any interference with his sales as an infringement\nof his rights. Our selfish interest in any business, or in any\nscheme of profit, distorts all truth either directly or indirectly\nrelated to such business or scheme, or living in its region and\natmosphere. The President of the United States, or the governor of\nthe commonwealth, may be an excellent man; but if I want an\noffice, and he fails to appoint me to it, why I don't exactly\nregard him as such. He becomes to me a very ordinary and vulgar\nsort of man indeed; but if he give me my office, then, though he\nmay be all that his enemies think him, he seems to me to be\ninvested with a singular nobility of character that other people\ndo not apprehend at all.\n\nThe vices of humanity are sad media through which to receive\ntruth--often so opaque that no truth can reach the mind at all. It\nis impossible for a man whose affections are bestialized, whose\npractices are libertine, and whose imaginations are all impure, to\nreceive the truth that there are such things as purity and virtue,\nand that there are men and women around him who are virtuous and\npure. There is no truth which personal vice will not distort. The\napproaches to a sensual mind are through the senses, and the same\nmay be said of all minds in a general way; but the approaches to a\nsensual mind are only through the senses, and they, being\nperverted, abused, exhausted, or unduly excited, furnish the\nutterly unreliable avenues by which truth reaches the soul. The\ngrand reason why truth, published from the pulpit and the\nplatform, revealed in periodicals and books, and embodied in\npictures and statues, works no greater changes upon the minds and\nmorals of men, is, that it never gets inside of men in the shape\nin which it is uttered. It passes through such media of bigotry,\nor self-interest, or vice, that its identity and power are lost.\n\nIt is not, therefore, remarkable that so little truth is told\nwhen so little is received--that so little is expressed when so\nlittle is apprehended. The largest field will not produce an\noat-straw that will stand alone, if there be no silica in the soil,\nand the largest mind cannot express a pure truth if it has lived\nalways so encased that pure truth could not find its way into it.\nAll truth reaches our minds through various media, by which it is\nmore or less colored and refracted; and it is very rare that a man\nhas the power to embody in language and utter a truth in the\ndegree of perfection in which he received it. As I said at\nbeginning, the power to state a fact correctly, or to express a\npure truth, is among the rarest gifts of man. It never struck me\nthat David was remarkably hasty, when he said that all men were\nliars. All men are liars, in one respect or another. They are\ndivisible into various classes, which may legitimately be\nmentioned under two heads, viz., unconscious liars and conscious\nliars.\n\nOf those who lie, and suppose they are telling the truth, I have\nalready spoken. They are a large and most respectable class of\npeople, and their apology must be found in the theory I have\nadvanced; yet among these may be found men and women who will\nrequire all the amplitude of our mantles of charity to cover them.\nI have been much impressed with a passage in Dr. Bushnell's recent\nvolume, entitled \"Christian Nurture,\" which incidentally touches\nupon this subject, in the writer's characteristically powerful\nway; and as I cannot condense it, I will copy it:\n\n\"There is, in some persons who appear in all other respects to be\nChristian, a strange defect of truth, or truthfulness. They are\nnot conscious of it. They would take it as a cruel injustice were\nthey only to suspect their acquaintances of holding such an\nestimate of them. And yet, there is a want of truth in every sort\nof demonstration they make. It is not their words only that lie,\nbut their voice, air, action; their every putting forth has a\nlying character. The atmosphere they live in is an atmosphere of\npretence. Their virtues are affectations. Their compassions and\nsympathies are the airs they put on. Their friendship is their\nmood, and nothing more; and yet they do not know it. They mean, it\nmay be, no fraud. They only cheat themselves so effectually as to\nbelieve that what they are only acting is their truth. And, what\nis difficult to reconcile, they have a great many Christian\nsentiments; they maintain prayer as a habit, and will sometimes\nspeak intelligently of matters of Christian experience.\"\n\nIt was the oracular sage, Deacon Bedott, who, in view of the\nimperfections of his kind, remarked several times in his life:\n\"we are all poor creeturs\"--a remark that comes as near to being\npure truth as any we meet with outside of the Bible and the\nstandard treatises on mathematics. We are, indeed, poor creatures.\nOur highest conceptions of truth are contemptible, our best\nutterances fall short of our conceptions, and our lives are poorer\nthan our language.\n\nOf all conscious and criminal lying, I know of none that exceeds\nin malignity and magnitude that of a political campaign. In such a\nstruggle, men get in love with lies. They seek apologies for the\ncirculation of lies. They hug lies to their hearts in preference\nto truth. It is the habit of hopeful philosophers to enlarge upon\nthe benefit to our people of the annual and quadrennial contests\nfor place, which occur in our country, as if principles were the\nthings really at stake, and personalities were out of the\nquestion, as the lying politicians would have us believe. What, in\nhonesty, can be said of the leading speakers and the leading\npresses which sustain a party in a contest for power, but that\nthey studiously misrepresent their opponents, misstate their own\nmotives, give currency to false accusations, suppress truth that\ntells against them, exaggerate the importance of that which favors\nthem, seize upon all plausible pretexts for fraud, skulk behind\nsubterfuges, and lie outright when it is deemed necessary. And\nwhat can be expected more and better than this, when the leaders\nare office-seekers, who live and thrive on the grand basilar lie\nthat the motive which inspires all their action is a regard for\nthe popular good? Of course I speak generally. There are\npoliticians and presses that are above personal considerations;\nbut even these become infected with the prevalent poison of\nfalsehood that is everywhere associated with their efforts.\n\nThe social lying of the world has found multitudinous satirists,\nand furnished the staple of a whole school of writers. We touch\nour hats in token of respect to men whom in our hearts we despise.\nWe inquire tenderly for the health of persons for whom we do not\ncare a straw. We who cannot afford it wear expensive clothing, and\ndisplay grand equipage, and give costly entertainments, not\nbecause we enjoy it, but because we wish to impress upon the world\nthe belief that we can afford it. It is our way of expressing a\nlie which seems to us important to the maintenance of our social\nstanding. We receive with a kiss a visitor whom we wish were in\nGreenland, and betray her to the next who comes in. We pretend to\nourselves and our neighbors that there is nothing which we so much\nesteem as the simple friendships of life, and the straight-forward\nlove and hearty good will of the honest hearts around us, yet when\nthe rich and the titled are near, we are gladdened and flattered,\nand look with supercilious contempt upon the humble friendships\nwhich we affected to cherish supremely. In our conscience and\njudgment, we appreciate the genuine values of social life, and we\nprofess in our language to hold them in just estimation, but in\nour life and practice we honor that which is fictitious and\nconventional, apprehending in our conscience and judgment that we\nare acting a lie. Socially I cannot but believe that there is far\nmore of truthfulness in humble than in high life. The more nearly\nwe come down to hearty nature, and the further we go from, the\nartificial and conventional, the nearer do we come to truth. Truth\nis indeed at the bottom of this well, and not in the artificial\nwall that rises above it, nor the buckets that go up and down as\ncaprice or selfishness turns the windlass.\n\nBusiness lying is, after all, the most universal of any. It is\nconfined to no age and no nation. Solomon understood the world's\ngreat game when he wrote: \"It is naught, it is naught, saith the\nbuyer: but when he is gone his way, then he boasteth;\" and from\nSolomon's day down to ours, buyers have depreciated that which\nthey would purchase, and then boasted of their bargains. When two\nselfish persons meet on opposite sides of a counter, there rises\nbetween them a sort of antagonism. One is interested in selling an\narticle of merchandise at the highest practicable profit, and the\nother is interested in obtaining it at the lowest possible price.\nOf the small, cunning lies that pass back and forth over that\ncounter, of the half-truths told, and the whole truths suppressed,\nof deceptions touching the quality of goods on one side and the\nability to buy on the other, it would be humiliating to tell. If\nevery lie told in the shops, across mahogany and show-case, by\nbuyers and sellers, were nailed like base coin to the counter,\nthere would be no room for the display of goods. It is considered\nno mean compliment to a business man to say that he is sharp at a\nbargain; yet this sharpness is rarely more than the faculty of\ningenious lying. A man who sells to me an article worth only five\ndollars for twice that sum is a \"sharp man;\" but he cannot make\nsuch a sale to me without telling me, in some way, a lie. The\nprice he puts upon his merchandise is a lie, essentially, in\nitself.\n\nThere is a great deal of business lying that by long habit becomes\nunconscious. If we take up a newspaper, we shall find that quite a\nnumber of the stores around us, kept by our excellent friends,\nhave \"the largest and finest stock of goods ever displayed in the\ncity.\" We shall find that they have been selling for years at\n\"unprecedentedly low prices,\" that they are \"selling at less than\ncost,\" that they are pushing off goods at rates \"ruinously low,\"\nand that they can offer bargains to buyers that will confound\ntheir competitors. I suppose that none of these advertisers think\nthey are lying, or, if they do, that their lying is of a harmful\ncharacter. Lying in this way is supposed to be part of the\nlegitimate machinery of trade. Promising definitely to finish work\nwithout the expectation of keeping the promise, or being able to\nkeep it, is another kind of half unconscious lying. There are men\nengaged in various trades, in all communities, whose word is of no\nmore value, when in the form of a promise to finish within a\ncertain period a certain piece of work, than the fly-leaf of a\nlast year's almanac. There are men whom every one knows who will\nlie without blushing about their work, and who will stand at their\ncounter and lie all day, and then sleep with a peaceful conscience\nat night, having failed to fulfil a single pledge during their\nwaking hours. Then there are people who will promise to pay bills,\nand promise a hundred times over, and never pay, and never expect\nto pay. When a bill is presented, they promise to pay, as a matter\nof course; and that is considered as good as the gold, until it is\npresented again; and then comes another promise, and another and\nanother. The creditor knows the debtor lies, but many a debtor of\nthis kind would feel insulted and injured by any spoken doubts of\nhis truthfulness.\n\nBut the field is large, and I am already beyond the limits which I\nset for myself in these essays. It will be seen that I regard\ntruthfulness as, on the whole, a rare article in this world. It\nis in some respects necessarily so. Many men are incapable of\nstating a fact or telling a truth. They have not the power to\ncomprehend or express either. The majority of men receive truth\nthrough such media of prejudice, selfishness, bigotry, sensuality,\nand the like, that they never get it pure, and are therefore\nincapable of uttering it correctly, even when their power of\nexpression equals their power of perception, which is not commonly\nthe case. So there is a world of unconscious lying; but I am sorry\nto believe that there is just as large a world of conscious lying.\nIn politics, society, and business, the conscious and intentional\nlie abounds. \"Lord! how this world is given to lying!\"\n\nWell, all this can be improved. Men can cultivate the power to\napprehend and express truth. They can cast off the prejudice,\nselfishness, bigotry, and sensuality that prevent them from\nreceiving truth. They can refrain from conscious lying; and no one\ndoubts that the world would be greatly improved by honest efforts\ndirected to these ends. Only the naked soul, in Eternity's white\nlight, can be wholly truthful; but we can all try for it, and we\nshall find our highest account in trying.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON VI.\n\nMISTAKES OF PENANCE.\n\n\n  \"For of the soul the body form doth take,\n   For soul is form and doth the body make.\"\n   SPENSER.\n\n  \"Can sackcloth clothe a fault or hide a shame?\n   Or do thy hands make Heaven a recompense,\n   By strewing dust upon thy briny face?\n   No! though thou pine thyself with willing want,\n   Or face look thin, or carcass ne'er so gaunt;\n   Such holy madness God rejects and loathes\n   That sinks no deeper than the skin or clothes.\"\n   QUARLES.\n\n  \"Beauty is truth, truth beauty.\" KEATS.\n\nI have every reason to believe that God loves Shakers, but I do\nnot think He admires them. I do not see how He can; but perhaps\nthis is not a competent reason to offer in the premises. I saw a\nwagon-load of what I supposed to be Shakers of both sexes, riding\nalong the street, the other day; and I wondered what I should\nthink of them if I had made them. I think I should have been\nabout equally vexed and amused to see the lines that I had made\nbeautiful, disguised, and every grace-giving swell of limb and\nbust, upon which I had exercised such exquisite toil, carefully\nhidden. They sat up very straight and prim, in a very square\nwagon, behind a square-trotting horse, driven by \"right lines\" in\na pair of hands that seemed to grow out of the driver's stomach,\nwhile his elevated, rectangular elbows cut rigidly against the air\non either side. It was a vision for a painter--a house painter--\n\"a painter by trade.\" The long-haired, meek-looking men,\nwith their flat-crowned, broad-brimmed hats, straight coats and\nneutral colors, and the women with their sugar-scoop bonnets,\nwhite kerchiefs and straight waists, looked like a case of faded\nwax-figures, in prison uniform, that had \"come down to us from a\nformer generation.\"\n\nI heaved a sigh as the wagon-load of mortified and badly-dressed\nflesh passed out of sight, and wondered if the souls inside of\nthose bodies were as angular as their covering. I did not believe\nit--I do not believe it. I have no doubt that underneath those\nstraight waistcoats hearts have throbbed at the sight of woman and\nchild, and longed for home and family life, with yearnings that\ncould not be uttered. Those straightlaced sensibilities have been\nthrilled by beauty, and bathed in the grace and glory of the life\naround them. Trees have whispered to them, flowers have looked up\nand rebuked them, brooks have called to them with laughter, rivers\nhave smiled upon them in sunshine, the great sky has bent over\nthem with infinite tenderness and fulness of beauty, and they have\nfelt what they could not define. It was something very wrong, they\nsupposed, and so they buttoned their straight jackets around them,\nturned their eyes away from beholding vanity, and thought they had\ndone an excellent thing. I know that those young women, with their\nabominable clothing outside, and their crushed and abused\nsympathies inside, are unhappy, unless they have all been\nmercifully transformed into fanatics. It is useless to tell me\nthat a man can ignore or trample to death the strongest passion of\nhis nature--the strongest, the purest, and the most ennobling--and\nbe a happy man. It is useless to say that a man or woman can walk\nthrough a world of beauty--themselves the most beautiful of all\nthings--and bind themselves up in unbecoming drapery, and smother\nall their impulses to express the beauty with which God inspires\nthem, and do it with content and satisfaction. It cannot be done.\n\nSo, when this wagon-load of Shakers drove out of sight, I heaved a\nsigh, for I knew that not to be unhappy in the life which was\ntypefied in their dress and establishment, would be a greater\nmisfortune, essentially, than dissatisfaction and discontent would\nbe. If they were happy in their life, they must have become\nperverted in their natures, or indurated beyond the susceptibility\nto receive the impressions of healthy men and women. If God ever\nput any thing majestic and noble into a man, and gave him a\nfitting frame for it, He never intended that it should be hidden\nin a meal-bag, or permanently quenched under a smock-frock. In the\ninfinite variety which he has introduced into human character and\ninto human forms and faces, there is no warrant for dressing men\nin uniform, but a most emphatic protest against it. If God made\nwoman beautiful, He made her so to be looked at--to give pleasure\nto the eyes which rest upon her--and she has no business to dress\nherself as if she were a hitching-post, or to transform that which\nshould give delight to those among whom she moves, into a\nludicrous caricature of a woman's form.\n\nI repeat that I have every reason to believe that God loves\nShakers, but I do not think He admires them. If God admires the\nbodies He has made, He cannot admire them when they are covered by\nthe Shaker dress, for it spoils the looks of them, and differs\nessentially from the plan which He pursues in draping all other\nforms of life. There is no grace about it, and no beauty of color.\nGod admires clouds, I doubt not, when painted by the setting sun,\nand stars flashing in the heavens, and the flowers of myriad hues\nthat are scattered over the earth, but if these are objects of His\nspecial admiration, as they are of ours, what can He think of a\ndrab Shaker bonnet? What can He think when man and woman, the\nglory and crown of His creation, are entirely overtopped and\nthrown into the shade by birds and bees and blossoms, and go\npoking around the world in unexampled and ingeniously contrived\nugliness? What does He think of men and women who take that\npassion of love, which was intended to make them happy, and give\nthem sweet companionship, and bear young children to their arms,\nand trample it under their feet as an unholy thing, and to welcome\nto their hearts, in its stead, blackness, and darkness, and\ntempest? What does He think of lives out of which are shut all\nmeaning and all individuality, and all love and expression of\nbeauty, and all vivifying, liberalizing, and humanizing\nexperience?\n\nI owe no grudge to the Shakers. I like their apple sauce, (they\nask a thrifty price for it,) and have faith in the genuineness and\nthe generation, under favorable conditions, of their garden seeds;\nbut I object to their style of life and piety, and to every thing\noutside of Shakerdom which looks like it. I object to this whole\nidea, (and the Shakers have not monopolized it,) that God takes\ndelight in the voluntary personal mortification of His children,\nand that He approves of their going about, sad-faced and\nstraight-laced, studiously avoiding all temptation to enjoy\nthemselves.\n\nI have seen a deacon in the pride of his deep humility. He combed\nhis hair straight, and looked studiously after the main chance;\nand while he looked, he employed himself in setting a good\nexample. His dress was rigidly plain, and his wife was not\nindulged in the vanities of millinery and mantua-making. He never\njoked. He did not know what a joke was, any further than to know\nthat it was a sin. He carried a Sunday face through the week. He\ndid not mingle in the happy social parties of his neighborhood. He\nwas a deacon. He starved his social nature because he was a\ndeacon. He refrained from all participation in a free and generous\nlife because he was a deacon. He made his children hate Sunday\nbecause he was a deacon. He so brought them up that they learned\nto consider themselves unfortunate in being the children of a\ndeacon. They were pitied by other children because they were the\nchildren of a deacon. His wife was pitied by other women because\nshe was the wife of a deacon. Nobody loved him. If he came into a\ncircle where men were laughing or telling stories, they always\nstopped until he went out. Nobody ever grasped his hand cordially,\nor slapped him on the shoulder, or spoke of him as a good fellow.\nHe seemed as dry and hard and tough as a piece of jerked beef.\nThere was no softness of character--no juiciness--no loveliness\nin him.\n\nNow it is of no use for me to undertake to realize to myself that\nGod admires such a character as this. I do not doubt that He loves\nthe man, as He loves all men; but to admire his style of manhood\nand piety is impossible for any intelligent being. It lacks the\nroundness and fulness, and richness and sweetness, that belong to\na truly admirable character. Such a man caricatures Christianity,\nand scares other men away from it. Such a man ostentatiously\npresents himself as one in whose life religion is dominant. It is\nreligion that is supposed to rub down that long face, and inspire\nthat stiff demeanor, and to make him at all points an unattractive\nand unlovable man. Of course it is not religion that does any\nthing of the kind, but it has the credit of it with the world, and\nthe world does not like it. It looks around, and sees a great many\nmen who do not pretend to religion at all, and yet who are very\nlovable men. If religion can transform a pleasant man into a most\nunpleasant one, and change a free, bright, and happy home into a\ndismal place of slavery, and blot out a man's aesthetic and social\nnature, the world naturally thinks that getting religion would be\nalmost as much of a misfortune as getting some melancholy chronic\ndisease, and I do not blame it. It is not to be wondered at that\nthe world should mistake, very much, the true nature of\nChristianity, when Christians themselves entertain such grievous\nerrors about it.\n\nI suppose God is attracted to very much the same style of\ncharacter that men are. Christ loved a young man at first sight,\nwho lacked the very thing essential to his highest manhood. But\nHe loved the kind of man He saw before Him. He was upright,\nfrank-hearted, open-minded, and bright; and \"Jesus beholding him,\nloved him.\" There are men whom one cannot help loving and admiring\nthough they lack a great many things--things very \"needful\" to\nmake them perfect men. Now I put it to good, conscientious,\nChristian men and women, whether they do not take more pleasure in\nthe society of a warm-hearted, generous, chivalrous, well-fed, man\nof the world, than in the society of any of that class of\nChristians of whom the deacon I have mentioned is a type. I know\nthey do, and they cannot help it. There is more of that which\nbelongs to a first-class Christian character in the former than in\nthe latter, and if I were called upon to test the two men by\ncommanding them respectively to sell what they have and give to\nthe poor, I should be disappointed were the deacon to behave the\nbest. A character which religion does not fructify--does not\nsoften, enlarge, beautify, and enrich--is not benefited by\nreligion--or, rather, has not possessed itself of religion. God\nloves that which is beautiful and attractive in character, just as\nmuch as we do, and it makes no difference where he sees it. He\ndoes not dislike the amiable traits of a sinner because he is a\nsinner, nor does he admire those traits of a Christian which we\nfeel to be contemptible, simply because they belong to a\nChristian. A Christian sucked dry of his humanity, is as juiceless\nand as flavorless as a sucked orange, and I believe that God\nregards him in the same light that we do. He will save such I\ndoubt not, for their faith; and, in the coming world, they will\nlearn what they do not know here; but the question whether they\nare as well worth saving as some of their neighbors, may, I think,\nbe legitimately entertained. In saying this, I mean to be neither\nlight or irreverent. I mean simply to indicate that some men are\nworth a great deal more to themselves and to their fellows than\nothers.\n\nSo, when I look abroad upon the world, and see men shaving their\nheads, and wearing nasty hair shirts, and shutting themselves up\nin cells, and living lives of celibacy, and when I see women\nretiring from the world which they were sent to adorn, populate,\nand bless, and Shakers driving around in square wagons and\nstudiously ugly garments, and Christians who should know better\nabandoning all the bright and cheerful things of life, and feeling\nthat there is merit in mortification, I cannot but feel that God\nlooks down upon it all with sadness and pity. After doing every\nthing in His power to make His children happy--after filling the\nworld with good things for their use, and giving them abundant\nfaculties for enjoying them--after endowing them with beauty, and\na sense of that which is beautiful--it must be sad to Him to see\nthem wandering about in strange disguises, hugging to their\nhalf-rebellious hearts the awful mistake that, however much they\nmay suffer, they are gaining favor thereby in the sight of their\nMaker. Of course, I believe in self-denial, and in the nobility\nof self-denial, for the good of others; but I believe that all\nself-denial that partakes of the character of penance, in whatever\nform and under whatever circumstances it may develop itself, is\nalways a thing of mischief, and always a thing of error. It has its\nbasis in the miserable theory that there is something in the\npassions and appetites with which God has constituted man that is\nessentially bad--a theory as impious as it is injurious--as\nfatal to all just conceptions of the divine Being and of man's\nrelations to Him, as to all human happiness.\n\nEvery thing which is truly admirable is good, and good and\ndesirable in the degree by which it is admirable. A beautiful face\nand form are admirable, and just as good as they are admirable--\njust as good in their element of beauty. They are good for that\nquality, and in that quality, which excites our admiration. A\nbeautiful bonnet, a beautiful dress, a beautiful brooch or\nnecklace, are all admirable, and good because they are admirable,\nor good because every thing admirable is necessarily good. A\nfamily over which the father presides with tender dignity, and in\nwhich the mother moves with love's divinest ministry--where the\nfaces of innocent children are shining, while their voices make\nmusic sweeter than the morning songs of birds--is admirable, and\nit is good in all those respects which make it admirable. A\nwell-dressed man or woman is admirable, and that thing is good in\nitself which makes them so. A man who carries his heart in his\nhand, who deals both justly and generously by men, who bears a\nsunny face and pleasant words into society, whose cultured mind\nenriches freely all with whom it is brought into relation, who has\nabundant charity for the weak and erring, and who takes life and\nwhat it brings him contentedly, is an admirable man, and good in\nall the points which make him admirable. A house that presents a\nharmonious and handsome interior to the eye of the passenger, and\nwhose exterior combines equal convenience and elegance, is\nadmirable, and, by that token, good.\n\nNow these very simple propositions have their correlatives, which\nit is not necessary to set down in order, any further than fairly\nto illustrate my point. Things that are not admirable are not\ngood. If the dress of a Shaker is not admirable, it is not good.\nIf that sort of life which is led in a cloister, by monks or nuns,\nis not admirable, it is not good. If a man who professes to be a\nChristian lives a life out of which is shut all with which an\nunsophisticated humanity sympathizes--a life barren of attractive\nfruit--a life bare in all its surroundings--a life with no genial\noutflow and expression--a life of niggardly negatives rather than\nof generous positives--then that life is not admirable, and if it\nbe not admirable it cannot be good in those respects. A man may\ncarry along with such a life as this a spotless conscience and a\nstrict devotion to apprehended duty, and these may be admirable\nand good, but the other characteristics cannot be either; and\nhowever much God may approve his honest heart and honest endeavor,\nHe cannot admire the style of manhood in which they have their\ndull and difficult illustration. The idea that I wish definitely\nto convey is this: that on the basis of a right heart, God would\nhave us build up a bright, generous, genial, expressive Christian\ncharacter, and use gratefully and gladly all those things which He\nhas prepared to make life cheerful and admirable. I believe a\nsaint ought to have a better tailor than a sinner, and be in all\nmanly ways a better fellow. I believe a true Christian should be\nin every thing that constitutes and belongs to a man the most\nadmirable man in the world.\n\nI have an idea that God looks with the same kind of contempt on\nthe prominent characteristics of certain styles of Christian men\nand women, that men of the world do. There is nothing admirable in\ncant and whine, and nasal psalm-singing, and men whose hearts are\nlivers and whose blood is bile; and I cannot believe that He\nblames people for not admiring them, and not being attracted to\nthem. I do not believe that an admirable Christian life is\nrepulsive to the men of the world. I believe that wherever the\nhuman mind recognizes a rounded, chastened, rich, and outspoken\nChristian character, whether it belong to manhood or womanhood, it\nadmires it, and feels attracted to it, by the degree in which it\nadmires it. I believe, moreover, that the Christianity which\ndiscards as vanities those things which God has provided for the\npleasure of His children, and mortifies the love of beauty, and\nadopts the theory that God is pleased with penance, and degrades,\nabuses, and traduces the body to win greater sanctity of soul, and\nfinds a sin in every sweet of sense, is a bastard Christianity.\nGod is not the God of the dead, but of the living.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON VII.\n\nTHE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.\n\n\n  \"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard\n   Are sweeter; therefore ye soft pipes play on;\n   Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,\n   Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tones.\"\n   JOHN KEATS.\n\n  \"I am as free as Nature first made man.\" DRYDEN.\n\n                 \"What she wills to do or say\n   Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best.\"  MILTON.\n\nIt was the sarcastic remark of a crusty old parson of Connecticut\nthat woman has the undoubted right to shave and sing bass, if she\nchooses to do so. I question the right of bearded man to shave\nhimself, and I will not concede that woman has a superior right,\nbased on inferior necessities; but believing that man has an\nundoubted right to sing bass, I am inclined to accord the same\nright to woman. Woman is a female man, and there is no reason\nthat I know of why she should not have the same rights, precisely,\nthat a male man has. I claim for myself, and for man, the\nprivilege of singing treble, under certain circumstances; and why\nshould I not accord to woman the right to sing bass? The brave old\nchorals of Germany would hardly be sung with much effect were the\nairs denied to the masculine voice, yet if it be man's prerogative\nto sing bass, it is surely woman's to sing treble. If it be\nusurpation for her to grope among the gutturals of the masculine\nclef, it is gross presumption for him to attempt to leap the\nfive-rail fence that stands between him and high C. I put this\nconsideration forward for the purpose of stopping every caviller's\nmouth upon the subject, until I present arguments of a broader and\nmore comprehensive character, in support of woman's right to sing\nbass.\n\nIt is claimed by those who deny woman's right to sing bass that\nshe is needed for the treble and alto parts. Needed by whom?\nNeeded by man? But who gave man the right to set up his needs as\nthe law of woman's life? If man needs treble and alto, I hope he\nmay get them. He has the undoubted right to sing both parts to\nsuit his own fancy, or to hire others to do it for him. Man needs\nbuttons on his shirts, and clean linen, but for the life of me I\ncannot see why that need defines a woman's duty in any respect.\nLet him do his own washing, and sew on his own buttons. Suppose a\nwoman should need to have hooks and eyes sewed upon her dress, as\nsome of them do, sometimes, after taking a very long breath, would\nthat determine it to be man's duty to sew them on? \"It is a poor\nrule that will not work both ways.\" This is one of the illustrations of\nman's selfishness--that he sets up his needs as the rule by which the\nrights of one-half of the human race are to be determined.\n\nThis same selfishness of man will demand that I reconsider this\ntalk, and will accuse me of sophistry. It will declare that I do\nnot state the case fairly. It will say that woman needs money with\nwhich to buy her dresses and procure her food, and strong hands to\nlabor for her and protect her, and that these needs do indeed\ndefine man's duty with respect to her. But I place all this on the\nground of gallantry and humanity. Of course, we are all very glad\nto do these things, you know,--we who have human feelings--but\nwoman has no right to them, based upon her need--particularly if\nshe be a woman who insists, as I do, upon her indefeasible right\nto sing bass. I know that it helps things along for a woman to\nlook after a man's linen and buttons, and do his fine work\ngenerally, because she seems to have a kind of natural knack at\nthe business. I am aware that it is exceedingly pleasant to hear a\nwoman sing treble, if she sings it well, but I am talking, be it\nremembered, of woman's right to sing bass. Let us stick to the\nquestion.\n\nThe enemies of this highest among the rights of woman are fond of\nalluding to the fact that only here and there a woman can be found\nwho wishes to avail herself of her right, and practically to enter\nupon the work of singing bass. The large majority of women prefer\nto sing the soprano, while a few, of moderate views, adopt alto as\na kind of compromise. But what has this fact to do with the matter\nof right in the premises? Most people prefer beef-steak without\nonions, but I never knew that fact to be brought forward as an\nargument against the right of a man to eat it with onions. It is\npossible, indeed, that if people were more accustomed to eating\nbeef-steak with onions, or those savory vegetables were less\nobjectionable in their style of perfume, there would be a majority\nin favor of the associated luxuries. We must remember, too, in\nconsidering this aspect of the question, that woman is, to a\ncertain extent, a creature of whims. (She is exceedingly apt to\nadopt a practice because it is fashionable.) If it were\nfashionable for woman to sing bass, how long would it be before\nthe lower tones would find full development? And how long would it\nbe before the men themselves would repeat those words of the\nimmortal bard:--\n\n                             \"Her voice was ever soft,\n  Gentle and _low_,--An excellent thing in woman\"?\n\nAfter all, this sort of argument against woman's right to sing\nbass answers itself. If the preference of women generally for the\nsoprano and alto be a good reason for their confining themselves\nto the performance of those parts, then a change of preference\nwould be a valid reason for their leaving them. If individual\nright goes with general preference, then the pillars of the\nuniverse are uprooted, or we have no pillars worth mentioning. I\nsuppose that women generally prefer in-door to out-of-door\nemployments--labor that draws less upon muscle, and more upon\ningenuity and delicate-fingered facility; but that settles nothing\nas to their right to engage in muscular toils in the open air. The\nGerman peasant-woman has labored out-of-doors for many generations.\nThe result has been the gradual approach to each other of her hips\nand shoulders, the extinguishment of that portion of her person known\nas the waist, and some noticeable flatness over the cerebral organs;\nbut the German peasant-woman has her right, and that is worth any\nsacrifice, you know. If she prefers hoeing cabbages to spinning flax,\nwho shall hinder her? If all women should prefer hoeing cabbages to\nspinning flax, or any variety of yarn, who shall hinder them? So far\nas man is concerned, woman has a right to grow her shoulders just as\nnear her hips, and wear a head as flat as she pleases. In short, the\ngeneral preference of women with respect to any thing decides no\nquestion of individual right, whatever.\n\nI will not admit that the general preference of women for private\nlife imposes any obligation upon any woman to abstain from public\nlife, or affects in any way her right to enter upon public life. I\nam aware that one would not like to have one's wife or sister an\nopera-singer, or a public dancer, or a preacher, or a doctor in\ngeneral practice, or a circus-rider, or a popular lecturer, or an\nactress; but I am talking about the question of right. Most women\nwould shrink from war--from its fatigues, its dangers, its bloody\nstrife; but Joan of Arc asserted her right to go into war; and her\nname is engrossed upon the scroll of fame. All women have the same\nright to go to war that she had. I confess that I should like to\nsee a regiment of women six feet high, officered by women, all\ndressed in Balmorals illustrating the national colors, marching to\nbattle in as close order as the peculiarity of their garments would\npermit, and accompanied by a corps of cavalry in sidesaddles.\nSuch an assertion of woman's right would be grand beyond\ndescription. I should not care to live on very intimate terms with\nthe colonel of the regiment, but I don't know as that has any thing\nto do with this question.\n\nI was talking, however, about the right of women to sing bass, and\nmust go on. It is declared by those who oppose this right that\nwoman has no natural organs and aptitudes for bass. This is the\nstrong-point of the enemy, but it amounts to nothing. If woman\nfails, apparently, in organs and aptitudes for this part, it only\nshows what long years of abuse will accomplish. Let us never\nforget in this discussion that woman is only a female man, that\nthere is no such thing as \"sex of soul,\" and that woman's vocal\norgans are built exactly like man's--as much like man's as her\nhands and her feet and her head are like his--a little smaller,\nperhaps,--that's all. It is a familiar fact, I presume, that the\nlittle colts born of South American dams take to ambling as their\nnatural step, simply because the men of South America have taught\nthe fathers and mothers of these colts to amble through uncounted\ngenerations. Now in North America we train horses to trot, and the\nconsequence is that amblers are scarce, and in most cases have to\nbe educated to their gait. This is the way in which nature adapts\nherself to popular want and popular usage. The large variety of\napples which load our orchards were developed from the insignificant\ncrab, and the peach was the child of the almond, or the almond of\nthe peach--I have forgotten which. Now I suppose (with some feeble\ndoubts about it) that man and woman started exactly together, that\nher singing treble better than she does bass results from usage,\nand that her singing treble rather than bass was purely a matter of\naccident at first. All analogy teaches me that if she had begun on\nbass, and the other part had been given to man, we should be hearing\ntoday of Ma'lle Patti, \"the charming new baritone,\" and \"the\nmagnificent basso,\" Madame Jenny Lind Goldschmidt, while admiring\ncrowds would toss flowers to Carl Formes, \"the unapproachable\nsoprano,\" or Mario, \"the king of contraltos.\"\n\nI suppose that those who maintain that woman has no natural organs\nand aptitudes for singing bass, would say that she has no natural\norgans and aptitudes for boxing and playing at ball. Just because\nwoman holds her fists the wrong side up, as if she were kneading\nbread rather than flesh, it is claimed that she was not made for\nthe \"manly art of self-defence,\" and from the wholly incompetent\nfacts that she cannot throw a ball three feet against a common\nnorth-west wind, and is not as fleet as a deer, it is judged that\nshe has no right to engage in base-ball. But suppose all women had\nbeen accustomed to boxing and playing ball as much as the men have\nbeen; would they not have arrived at corresponding excellence? I\nknow that as women are now (and they please me exceedingly) they\nhave not muscle to \"hit from the shoulder\" with force sufficient\nto make them formidable antagonists; and I am aware that they lack\nsomething in the length of limb requisite for the rapid locomotion\nof the ball-ground; but they have never had a chance. See what\nthe washerwomen have done for themselves. They seem to be a\nseparate race of beings, for they all have large arms, and\nshoulders that would do honor to Tom Sayers. I have seen negro\nslave women at work in the field, with a muscular development that\nwould be the envy of a Bowery boy. The washerwoman and the field\nslave show what can be done by cultivation. I know that their\nstyle of figure is not quite so attractive as I have seen, and I\nknow that wherever there is an extraordinary tax upon muscle there\nis an extraordinary repression of mind and blunting of the\nsensibilities, but it must be remembered that we are talking about\nrights, now. I claim and maintain, (I may as well come out with\nthe whole of it,) that a woman has a right to do any thing she\nchooses to do, with perhaps the unimportant exception of becoming\nthe father of a family.\n\nThe truth is that women have never had a fair chance. They can do\nany thing they are trained to do. The proper physical culture of\nwoman, carried on through a competent number of generations, would\ndevelop her beyond all our present conceptions. She would be\nlikely to arrive at a high condition of muscle and a low condition\nof mind, very unlike our present idea of the noblest type of\nwomanhood; but very possibly our ideals of womanhood are\nconventional, or traditional. She has hands, and has a right to\nuse them; a tongue, and the right to wag it in her own way;\npowers corresponding to those of man in all important respects,\nand the right to develop and employ them according to her taste\nand choice. I deny, to man, the privilege of defining the rights\nand duties of woman. A woman is mistress of her own actions and\njudge of her own powers and aptitudes; and if any woman thinks\nthat she can do a man's work better than what society considers\nher own, then she has an undeniable right to do it, if she can get\nit to do, and is willing to accept the work with the conditions\nthat attend it.\n\nI am a firm believer in \"woman's rights\"--especially her right to\ndo as she pleases. It is possible that, before the law, she is not\nin possession of all her rights, but all wrongs in this direction\nwill be corrected as time progresses. I speak particularly at this\ntime of her right to sing bass, because it is a representative\nright, and covers, as with a lid, a whole chest full of others.\nYet while I claim this right, I confess that I should not care to\nsee it exercised to any great extent, for I think that treble is,\nby all odds, the finer and more attractive part in music. Is it\nworth while to exercise the right of singing bass, when it costs a\ngood deal to get up a voice for it, and when treble comes natural\nand easy, and is very much pleasanter to the ear? Bass would be a\nbad thing for a lullaby, and could only silence a baby by scaring\nit. If I should have committed to me the melodies of the world, I\nwould care very little about my right to sing those subordinate\nparts that gather around them in obedient harmonies. At least, I\nthink I would, unless some upstart man should deny my right to\nsing any thing but melodies. If it were committed to me to sing\nlike a bird, I would not care, I think, to exercise my right to\nroar like a bull. If I can witch the ears and win the hearts of\nmen and women by doing that which I can do easily and naturally\nand well, then I shall do best not to exercise my right to do that\nwhich I can only do difficultly, and unnaturally, and ill.\n\nWoman, in my apprehension, is the mistress, not alone of the\nmelody of music, but of the melody of life. Whatever it may be\npossible to do by cultivation and a long course of development, it\nis doubtful whether a woman would ever sing bass well. I am aware\nthat she has the right, and the organs, but I question whether her\nbass would amount to any thing--whether it would be worth singing.\nWhen women talk with me about their right to vote, and their right\nto practise law, and their right to engage in any business which\nusage has assigned to man, I say \"yes--you have all those rights.\"\nI never dispute with them at all. Indeed, you see how I have put\nmyself forward as the defender of these same rights; yet I should\nbe sorry to see them exercised by the women I admire and love.\nIt is all very well to say that the presence of woman at the ballot-box\nwould purify it, and restrain the manners of the men around it; but\nI have seen enough of the world to learn that all human influence\nis reciprocal and reactionary. Man and the ballot-box might gain, but\nwoman would lose, and men and the ballot-box themselves would lose\nin the long run. The ballot-box is the bass, and it should be man's\nbusiness to sing it, while woman should give him home melody with\nwhich it should harmonize.\n\nIn the matter of rights, I suppose that I should not differ\nmaterially with any strong-minded woman; but I have always\nobserved that the most truly lovable, humble, pure-hearted,\nGod-fearing and humanity-loving women of my acquaintance, never\nsay any thing about these rights, and scorn those of their sex\nwho do. I have never known a woman who was at once satisfied in her\naffections and discontented with her woman's lot and her woman's\nwork. There is a weak place, or a wrong place, or a rotten place,\nin the character or nature of every woman who stands and howls\nupon the spot where her Creator placed her, and neglects her own\ntrue work and life while claiming the right to do the work and\nlive the life of man. I will admit all the rights that such a\nwoman claims--all that I myself possess--if she will let me alone,\nand keep her distance from me. She may sing bass, but I do not\nwish to hear her. She is repulsive to me. She offends me.\n\nI believe in women. I believe they are the sweetest, purest, most\nunselfish, best part of the human race. I have no doubt on this\nsubject, whatever. They do sing the melody in all human life, as\nwell as the melody in music. They carry the leading part, at least\nin the sense that they are a step in advance of us, all the way in\nthe journey heavenward. I believe that they cannot move very widely\nout of the sphere which they now occupy, and remain as good as they\nnow are; and I deny that my belief rests upon any sentimentality,\nor jealousy, or any other weak or unworthy basis. A man who has\nexperienced a mother's devotion, a wife's self-sacrificing love,\nand a daughter's affection, and is grateful for all, may be weakly\nsentimental about some things, but not about women. He would help\nevery woman he loves to the exercise of all the rights which hold\ndignity and happiness for her. He would fight that she might have\nthose rights, if necessary; but he would rather have her lose her\nvoice entirely, than to hear her sound a bass note so long as a\ndemi-semi-quaver.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON VIII.\n\nAMERICAN PUBLIC EDUCATION.\n\n\n               \"Keen are the pangs\n   Advancement often brings. To be secure,\n   Be humble. To be happy, be content.\" JAMES HURDIS.\n\n  \"For not that which men covet most is best;\n   Nor that thing worst which men do most refuse.\n   But fittest is that each contented rest\n   With that they hold.\" SPENSER.\n\n  \"Men have different spheres. It is for some to evolve great\nmoral truths, as the Heavens evolve stars, to guide the sailor on\nthe sea and the traveller on the desert; and it is for some, like\nthe sailor and the traveller, simply to be guided.\"--BEECHER.\n\nA venerable gentleman who once occupied a prominent position in a\nleading New England college, was remarking recently upon the\ndifficulty which he experienced in obtaining servants who would\nattend to their duties. He had just dismissed a girl of sixteen,\nwho was so much \"above her business\" as to be intolerable. The\ngirl's father, who was an Englishman, called upon him for an\nexplanation. The employer told his story, every word of which the\nfather received without question, and then remarked, with\nconsiderable vehemence: \"_It is all owing to those cursed public\nschools_.\" The father retired, and the old professor sat down\nand thought about it; and the result of his thinking did not\ndiffer materially from that of the father. It was not, of course,\nthat there was any thing in the studies pursued which had tended\nto unfit the girl for her duties. It was very possible indeed for\nthe girl to have been a better servant in consequence of her\nintelligence. There was nothing in English grammar or the\nmultiplication table to produce insubordination and discontent.\nThere was nothing in the whole case that tended to condemn public\nschools, as such; but it was the spirit inculcated by the teachers\nof public schools, which had spoiled this girl for her place, and\nwhich has spoiled, and is still spoiling, thousands of others.\n\nLet us look for a moment into the influence of such a motto as the\nfollowing, written over a school-house door--always before the\neyes of the pupils, and always alluded to by school committees and\nvisitors who are invited to \"make a few remarks\":\n\n  _\"Nothing is impossible to him who wills.\"_\n\nThis abominable lie is placed before a room full of children and\nyouth, of widely varying capacities, and great diversity of\ncircumstances. They are called upon to look at it, and believe in\nit. Suppose a girl of humble mental abilities and humble\ncircumstances looks at this motto, and says: \"I 'will' be a lady.\nI 'will' be independent. I 'will' be subject to no man's or\nwoman's bidding.\" Under these circumstances, the girl's father,\nwho is poor, removes her from school, and tells her that she must\nearn her living. Now I ask what kind of a spirit she can carry\ninto her service, except that of surly and impudent discontent?\nShe has been associating in school, perhaps, with girls whom she\nis to serve in the family she enters. Has she not been made unfit\nfor her place by the influences of the public school? Have not her\ncomfort and her happiness been spoiled by those influences? Is her\nreluctant service of any value to those who pay her the wages of\nher labor?\n\nIt is safe, at least, to make the proposition that public schools\nare a curse to all the youth whom they unfit for their proper\nplaces in the world. It is the favorite theory of teachers that\nevery man can make of himself any thing that he really chooses to\nmake. They resort to this theory to rouse the ambition of their\nmore sluggish pupils, and thus get more study out of them. I have\nknown entire schools instructed to aim at the highest places in\nsociety, and the most exalted offices of life. I have known\nenthusiastic old fools who made it their principal business to go\nfrom school to school, and talk such stuff to the pupils as would\ntend to unfit every one of humble circumstances and slender\npossibilities for the life that lay before him. The fact is\npersistently ignored, in many of these schools, established\nemphatically for the education of the people, that the majority of\nthe places in this world are subordinate and low places. Every boy\nand girl is taught to \"be something\" in the world, which would be\nvery well if being \"something\" were being what God intended they\nshould be; but when being \"something\" involves the transformation\nof what God intended should be a respectable shoemaker into a very\nindifferent and a very slow minister of the Gospel, the harmful\nand even the ridiculous character of the instruction becomes\napparent.\n\nThere are two classes of evil results attending the inculcation of\nthese favorite doctrines of the school teachers--first, the\nunfitting of men and women for humble places; and, second, the\nimpulsion of men of feeble power into high places, for the duties\nof which they have neither natural nor acquired fitness. There are\nno longer any American girls who go out to service in families.\nThey went into mills from the chamber and the kitchen, but now\nthey have left the mills, and their places are filled by Scotch\nand Irish girls. Why is this? Is it because that among the\nAmerican girls there are none of poverty, and of humble powers?\nIs it because they are not wanted? Or is it because they have\nbecome unfitted for such services as these, and feel above them?\nIs it not because they have become possessed of notions that would\nrender them uncomfortable in family service, and render any\nfamily they might serve uncomfortable? An American servant, who\ngood-naturedly accepts her condition, and knows and loves her place,\nwho is willing to acknowledge that she has a mistress, and who\nenters into her department of the family life as a harmonious and\nhappy member, may exist, but I do not know her. People have ceased\ninquiring for American servants. They would like them, generally,\nbecause they are intelligent and Protestant, but they cannot get\nthem because they are unwilling to accept service, and the\nobligations and conditions it imposes. Where all the American girls\nare, I do not know. I can remember the time when thrifty farmers,\nmechanics, and tradesmen took wives from the kitchens of gentlemen\nwhere they were employed,--good, intelligent, self-respectful women\nthey were, too--who became modest mistresses of thrifty families\nafterward;--but that is all done with now. Under the present mode\nof education, nobody is fitted for a low place, and everybody is\ntaught to look for a high one.\n\nIf we go into a school exhibition, our ears are deafened by\ndeclamation addressed to ambition. The boys have sought out from\nliterature every stirring appeal to effort, and every extravagant\npromise of reward. The compositions of the girls are of the same\ngeneral tone. We hear of \"infinite yearnings,\" from the lips of\ngirls who do not know enough to make a pudding, and of being\npolished \"after the similitude of a palace\" from those who do not\ncomprehend the commonest duties of life. Every thing is on the\nhigh-pressure principle. The boys, all of them, have the general\nidea that every thing that is necessary to become great men is to\ntry for it; and each one supposes it possible for him to become\nGovernor of the State, or President of the Union. The idea of\nbeing educated to fill a humble office in life is hardly thought\nof, and every bumpkin who has a memory sufficient for the words\nrepeats the stanza:--\n\n  \"Lives of great men all remind us\n    We can make our lives sublime,\n   And departing, leave behind us\n    Footprints on the sands of time.\"\n\nThere is a fine ring to this familiar quatrain of Mr. Longfellow,\nbut it is nothing more than a musical cheat. It sounds like truth,\nbut it is a lie. The lives of great men all remind us that they\nhave made their own memory sublime, but they do not assure us at\nall that we can leave footprints like theirs behind us. If you do\nnot believe it, go to the cemetery yonder. There they lie--ten\nthousand upturned faces--ten thousand breathless bosoms. There was\na time when fire flashed in those vacant orbits, and warm\nambitions pulsed in those bosoms. Dreams of fame and power once\nhaunted those hollows skulls. Those little piles of bones that\nonce were feet ran swiftly and determinedly through forty, fifty,\nsixty, seventy years of life; but where are the prints they left?\n\"He lived--he died--he was buried\"--is all that the headstone\ntells us. We move among the monuments, we see the sculpture, but\nno voice comes to us to say that the sleepers are remembered for\nany thing they ever did. Natural affection pays its tribute to its\ndeparted object, a generation passes by, the stone grows gray, and\nthe man has ceased to be, and is to the world as if he had never\nlived. Why is it that no more have left a name behind them? Simply\nbecause they were not endowed by their Maker with the power to do\nit, and because the offices of life are mainly humble, requiring\nonly humble powers for their fulfilment. The cemeteries of one\nhundred years hence will be like those of to-day. Of all those now\nin the schools of this country, dreaming of fame, not one in\ntwenty thousand will be heard of then,--not one in twenty thousand\nwill have left a footprint behind him.\n\nNow I believe that a school, in order to be a good one, should be\none that will fit men and women, in the best way, for the humble\npositions that the great mass of them must necessarily occupy in\nlife. It is not necessary that boys and girls be taught any less\nthan they are taught now. They should receive more practical\nknowledge than they do now, without a doubt, and less of that\nwhich is simply ornamental, but they cannot know too much. An\nintelligent gardener is better than a clod-hopper, and an educated\nnurse is better than an ignorant one; but if the gardener and the\nnurse have been spoiled for their business and their condition, by\nthe sentiments which they have imbibed with their knowledge, they\nare made uncomfortable to themselves, and to those whom they\nserve. I do not care how much knowledge a man may have acquired in\nschool, that school has been a curse to him if its influence has\nbeen to make him unhappy in his place, and to fill him with futile\nambitions.\n\nThe country has great reason to lament the effect of the kind of\ninstruction upon which I have remarked. The universal greed for\noffice is nothing but an indication of the appetite for\ndistinction which has been diligently fed from childhood. It is\nastonishing to see the rush for office on the occasion of the\nchange of a State or National Administration. Men will leave quiet\nand remunerative employments, and subject themselves to mean\nhumiliations, simply to get their names into a newspaper, and to\nachieve a little official importance and social distinction. This\ndesire for distinction seems to run through the whole social body,\nas a kind of moral scrofula, developing itself in various ways,\naccording to circumstances and peculiarities of constitution. The\nconsequence is that politics have become the pursuit of small men,\nand we no longer have an opportunity to put the best men into\noffice. The scramble for place among fools is so great and so\nsuccessful, that men of dignity and modesty retire from the field\nin disgust. Everybody wants to \"be something,\" and in order to be\nsomething, everybody must leave his proper place in the world, and\nassume a position which God never intended he should fill. Look in\nupon a State legislature once, and you will find sufficient\nillustration of my meaning. Not one man in five of the whole\nnumber possesses the first qualification for making the laws of a\nState, and half of them never read the constitution of the\ncountry. I mean no contempt for the good, honest men of whom our\nState legislatures are principally composed, but I wish simply to\nsay that there is nothing in their quality of mind, habits of\nthought, intellectual power, or style of pursuits that fits them\nfor the great and momentous functions of legislation. They are\nthere, a set of \"nobodies,\" mainly for the purpose of becoming\n\"somebodies,\" and not for any object connected with the good of\nthe State.\n\nSomehow, all the students in all our schools get the idea, that a\nman in order to be \"somebody\" must be in public life. Now think of\nthe fact that the millions attending school in this country have\nin some way acquired this idea, and that only one in every one\nthousand of these is either needed in public life, or can win\nsuccess there. Let this fact be realized, and it is easy to see\nthat the nine hundred and ninety-nine will feel that they are\nsomehow cheated out of their birthright. They desired to be in\npublic life, and be \"somebody,\" but they are not, and so their\nlife grows tame and tasteless to them. They are disappointed. The\nmen solace themselves with a petty justice's commission, or a town\noffice of some kind, and the women--some of them--talk about\n\"woman's rights,\" and make themselves notorious and ridiculous at\npublic meetings. I think women have rights which they do not at\npresent enjoy, but I have very little confidence in the motives of\ntheir petticoated champions, who court mobs, delight in notoriety,\nand glory in their opportunity to burst away from private life,\nand be recognized by the public as \"somebodies.\" I insist on\nthis:--that private and even obscure life is the normal condition\nof the great multitude of men and women in this world; and that,\nto serve this private life, public life is instituted. Public life\nhas no legitimate significance save I as it is related to the\nservice of private life. It requires peculiar talents and peculiar\neducation, and brings with it peculiar trials; and the man best\nfitted for it would be the last man confidently to assert his fitness\nfor it.\n\nThousands seek to become \"somebodies\" through the avenues of\nprofessional life; and so professional life is full of \"nobodies.\"\nThe pulpit is crowded with goodish \"nobodies\"--men who have no\npower--no unction--no mission. They strain their brains to write\ncommon-places, and wear themselves out repeating the rant of their\nsect and the cant of their schools. The bar is cursed with\n\"nobodies\" as much as the pulpit. The lawyers are few; the\npettifoggers are many. The bar, more than any other medium, is\nthat through which the ambitious youth of the country seek to\nattain political eminence. Thousands go into the study of law, not\nso much for the sake of the profession, as for the sake of the\nadvantages it is supposed to give them for political preferment.\nAn ambitious boy who has taken it into his head to be \"somebody,\"\nalways studies law; and as soon as he is \"admitted to the bar\" he\nis ready to begin his political scheming. Multitudes of lawyers\nare a disgrace to their profession, and a curse to their country.\nThey lack the brains necessary to make them respectable, and the\nmorals requisite for good neighborhood. They live on quarrels, and\nbreed them that they may live. They have spoiled themselves for\nprivate life, and they spoil the private life around them. As for\nthe medical profession, I tremble to think how many enter it\nbecause they have neither piety enough for preaching, nor brains\nenough to practice law. When I think of the great army of little\nmen that is yearly commissioned to go forth into the world with a\ncase of sharp knives in one hand, and a magazine of drugs in the\nother, I heave a sigh for the human race. Especially is all this\nlamentable when we remember that it involves the spoiling of\nthousands of good farmers and mechanics, to make poor professional\nmen, while those who would make good professional men are obliged\nto attend to the simple duties of life, and submit to preaching\nthat neither feeds nor stimulates them, and medicine that kills or\nfails to cure them.\n\nThere must be something radically wrong in our educational system,\nwhen youth are generally unfitted for the station which they are\nto occupy, or are forced into professions for which they have no\nnatural fitness. The truth is that the stuff talked to boys and\ngirls alike, about \"aiming high,\" and the assurances given them,\nindiscriminately, that they can be any thing that they choose to\nbecome, are essential nuisances. Our children all go to the public\nschools. They are all taught these things. They all go out into\nthe world with high notions, and find it impossible to content\nthemselves with their lot. They had hoped to realize in life that\nwhich had been promised them in school, but all their dreams have\nfaded, and left them disappointed and unhappy. They envy those\nwhom they have been taught to consider above them, and learn to\ncount their own lives a failure. Girls starve in a mean poverty,\nor do worse, because they are too proud to work in a chamber, or\ngo into a shop. American servants are obsolete, all common\nemployments are at a discount, the professions are crowded to\noverflowing, the country throngs with demagogues, and a general\ndiscontent with a humble lot prevails, simply because the youth of\nAmerica have had the idea drilled into them that to be in private\nlife, in whatever condition, is to be, in some sense, a \"nobody.\"\nIt is possible that the schools are not exclusively to blame for\nthis state of things, and that our political harangues, and even\nour political institutions, have something to do with it.\n\nWhat we greatly need in this country is the inculcation of soberer\nviews of life. Boys and girls are bred to discontent. Everybody is\nafter a high place, and nearly everybody fails to get one; and,\nfailing, loses heart, temper, and content. The multitude dress\nbeyond their means, and live beyond their necessities, to keep up\na show of being what they are not. Farmers' daughters do not love\nto become farmers' wives, and even their fathers and mothers\nstimulate their ambition to exchange their station for one which\nstands higher in the world's estimation. Humble employments are\nheld in contempt, and humble powers are everywhere making high\nemployments contemptible. Our children need to be educated to\nfill, in Christian humility, the subordinate offices of life which\nthey must fill, and taught to respect humble callings, and to\nbeautify and glorify them by lives of contented and glad industry.\nWhen public schools accomplish an end so desirable as this, they\nwill fulfil their mission, and they will not before. I seriously\ndoubt whether one school in a hundred, public or private,\ncomprehends its duty in this particular. They fail to inculcate\nthe idea that the majority of the offices of life are humble, that\nthe powers of the majority of the youth which they contain have\nrelation to those offices, that no man is respectable when he is\nout of his place, and that half of the unhappiness of the world\ngrows out of the fact, that, from distorted views of life, men are\nin places where they do not belong. Let us have this thing\naltogether reformed.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON IX.\n\nPERVERSENESS.\n\n\n  \"Because she's constant, he will change.\n    And kindest glances coldly meet,\n   And all the time he seems so strange,\n    His soul is fawning at her feet.\"\n   COVENTRY PATMORE.\n\n  \"All that we seem to think of is to manage matters so as to do as\nlittle good and plague and disappoint as many people as possible.\"\n--HAZLITT.\n\nIt seems to me, either that there is a great deal of human nature\nin a pig, or that there is a great deal of pig in human nature. I\nfind myself always sympathizing with a pig that wishes to go in an\nopposite direction to that in which its owner would drive it. It\nwould be a sufficient reason for me to desire to go eastward, that\na man was behind me, with an oath in his mouth and a very heavy\nboot on his foot, endeavoring to drive me westward. We are jealous\nof our freedom. We naturally rise in opposition to a will that\nundertakes to command our movements. This is not the result of\neducation at all; it is pure human nature. Command a child--who\nshall be only old enough to understand you--to refrain from some\nspecial act, and you excite in his heart a desire to do that act;\nand he will have, nine times in ten, no reason for his desire to\ndo it but your command that he shall not. The youngest human soul\nthat has a will at all, takes the first occasion to declare its\nindependence.\n\nNow, I believe this principle in human nature to be, in itself,\ngood. It is that which declares a man's right to himself--that\nwhich asserts personal liberty in thought, will, and movement. I\nbelieve it existed in Adam and Eve, and that it is more than\nlikely that the tree of the knowledge of good and evil was\ndespoiled because our beautiful great-grandmother, (for whom I\nconfess much sympathy and affection,) was forbidden to touch it.\nIt is a principle which should always be carefully distinguished\nfrom perverseness, in all our dealings with young and old, and in\nall our estimates of human character. When a child obeys a man, or\nwhen one man obeys another, it should always be for good and\nsufficient reason. Neither child nor man should be expected to\nsurrender his right to himself without the presentation to him of\nthe proper motive. When, yielding to this motive, the soul\nconsents to be directed or led, it becomes obedient. Compulsion\nmay secure conformity, but never obedience. If I, as a child or\nman, am to yield myself to the direction of any other man, that\nman is bound to present to me an adequate motive for the\nsurrender. God throws upon me personal responsibility--gives me to\nmyself--and no man, parent or otherwise, can make me truly\nobedient without giving me the motive for obedience. When a child\nor a man fails to yield to the legitimate motives of obedience, he\nis perverse, and it is about perverseness in some of its forms of\nmanifestation that I propose to talk in this article.\n\nAt starting, I must give perverseness a somewhat broader meaning\nthan that thus far indicated. I will say that that person is\nperverse who, from vanity, or pride of opinion and will, or\nmalice, or any mean consideration, refuses to yield his conduct\nand himself to those motives and influences which his reason and\nconscience recognize to be pure and good and true. In its least\naggravated form, perhaps, we find it among lovers. Women will\nsometimes persistently ignore a passion which they know has taken\nfull possession of them, and grieve the heart that loves them by a\ncoldness and indifference which they do not feel at all. Rather\nthan acknowledge their affection for one whose loss would kill\nthem, or, what would be the same thing, kill the world for them,\nthey have lied, grown sick, and gone nearly insane. This is a\nperverseness very uncommon. Sometimes lovers have been very tender\nand devoted so long as a doubt of ultimate mutual possession\nremained to give zest to their passion, but the moment this doubt\nhas been removed, one or the other has become incomprehensibly\nindifferent.\n\nI have noticed that very few married pairs are matches in the\nmatter of warmth and expression of passion between the parties.\nThe man will be all devotion and tenderness--brimming with\nexpressions of affection and exhibitions of fondness, and the\nwoman all coolness and passivity, or (which is much more common)\nthe woman will be active in expression, lavishing caresses and\ntendernesses upon a man who very possibly grows harder and colder\nwith every delicate proof that the whole wealth of his wife's\nnature is poured at his feet, as a libation upon an altar. It is\nhere that we see some of the strangest cases of perverseness that\nit is possible to conceive. I know men who are not bad men--who,\nI suppose, really love and respect their wives--and who would deny\nthemselves even to heroism to give them the comforts and luxuries\nof life, yet who find themselves moved to reject with poorly-covered\nscorn, and almost to resent, the varied expressions of affection to\nwhich those wives give utterance. I know wives who long to pour\ntheir hearts into the hearts of their husbands, and to get sympathetic\nand fitting response, but who are never allowed to do it. They live\na constrained, suppressed, unsatisfied life. They absolutely pine\nfor the privilege of saying freely what they feel, in all love's varied\nlanguages, toward men who love them, but who grow harder with\nevery approach of tenderness and colder with every warm, invading\nbreath. A shower that purifies the atmosphere, and refreshes the\nface of heaven itself, sours cream, just as love's sweetest expression\nsours these men.\n\nI have known wives to walk through such an experience as this into\na condition of abject slavery--to waste their affection without\nreturn, until they have become poor, and spiritless, and mean. I\nhave known them to lose their will--to become the mere dependent\nmistresses of their husbands--to be creeping cravens in dwellings\nwhere it should be their privilege to move as radiant queens. I\nhave known them thrown back upon themselves, until they have\nbecome bitter railers against their husbands--uncomfortable\ncompanions--openly and shamelessly flouting their affection. I do\nnot know what to make of the perverseness which induces a man to\nrepel the advances of a heart which worships him, and to become\nhard and tyrannical in the degree by which that heart seeks to\nexpress its affection for him. There are husbands who would take\nthe declaration that they do not love their wives as an insult,\nyet who hold the woman who loves them in fear and restraint\nthrough their whole life. I know wives who move about their houses\nwith a trembling regard to the moods and notions of their\nhusbands--wives who have no more liberty than slaves, who never\nspend a cent of money without a feeling of guilt, and who never\ngive an order about the house without the same doubt of their\nauthority that they would have if they were only housekeepers,\nemployed at a very economical salary. I can think of no proper\npunishment for such husbands except daily ducking in a horse-pond,\nuntil reformation. Yet these asses are so unconscious of their\ndetestable habits of feeling and life, that, probably, not one of\nthem who reads this will think that I mean him, but will wonder\nwhere I have lived to fall in with such outlandish people.\n\nThe most precious possession that ever comes to a man in this\nworld is a woman's heart. Why some graceful and most amiable women\nwhom I know will persist in loving some men whom I also know, is\nmore than I know. I will not call their love an exhibition of\nperverseness, though it looks like it; but that these men with\nthese rich, sweet hearts in their hands, grow sour and snappish,\nand surly and tyrannical and exacting, is the most unaccountable\nthing in the world. If a pig will not allow himself to be driven,\nhe will follow a man who offers him corn, and he will eat the\ncorn, even though he puts his feet in the trough; but there are\nmen--some of them of Christian professions--who take every\ntenderness their wives bring them, and every expression of\naffection, and every service, and every yearning sympathy, and\ntrample them under feet without tasting them, and without a look\nof gratitude in their eyes. Hard, cold, thin-blooded, white-livered,\ncontemptible curmudgeons--they think their wives weak and\nfoolish, and themselves wise and dignified! I beg my readers to\nassist me in despising them. I do not feel adequate to the task of\ndoing them justice.\n\nThere is another exhibition of perverseness which we sometimes see\nin families. There will be, perhaps, from two to half a dozen\nsisters in a family, amiable all of them. Now, think of the\nreasons which should bind them together in the tenderest sympathy.\nThey were born of the same mother, they were nursed at the same\nheart, they were cradled under the same roof by the same hand,\nthey have knelt at the side of the same father, their interests,\ntrials, associates, standing--every thing concerning their family\nand social life--are the same. The honor of one intimately\nconcerns the honor of the other, yet I have known such families of\nsisters fly apart the moment they became in any way independent of\neach other, as if they were natural enemies. I have seen them take\nthe part of a friend against any member of the family band, and\nbecome disgusted with one another's society. Where matters have\nnot gone to this length, I have seen sisters who would never\ncaress each other, or, by any but the most formal and dignified\nmethods, express their affection for each other. I have seen them\nlive together for months and years as inexpressive of affection\nfor each other as cattle in a stall,--more so: for I have seen a\ncow affectionately lick her neighbor's ear by the half-hour, while\namong these girls I have failed to see a kiss, or hear a tender\nword, or witness any exhibition of sisterly affection whatever.\n\nOne of the most common forms of perverseness, though one of the\nmost subtle and least known, is that shown by people who study to\nshut everybody out from a knowledge of their nature and their\nlife. They make it their grand end and aim to appear to be exactly\nwhat they are not, to appear to believe exactly what they do not\nbelieve, and to appear to feel what they do not feel at all. This\nis not because they are ashamed of themselves, or because they\nreally have any thing to conceal. They have simply taken on this\nform of perverseness. They will not, if they can help it, allow\nany man to get inside of their natures and characters. If they\nwrite you a letter, they will mislead you. They will say to you\nirreverent and shocking things, to prove to you that they are\nbold, and unfeeling, and unthoughtful, when they tremble at what\nthey have written, and really show by their language that they are\nafraid, and full of feeling, and very thoughtful. If they have a\nsentiment of love for anybody, they take it as a dog would a bone,\nand go and dig a hole in the ground and bury it, only resorting to\nit in the dark, for private crunching. Very likely they will try\nto make you believe that they live a most dainty and delicate life\n--that the animals of the field, and the fowls of the air love\nthem, and come at their call--that clouds arrange themselves in\nheaven for their benefit, and are sufficiently paid for the effort\nby their admiration--that flowers excite them to frenzy--a very\nfine frenzy, indeed--and that all sounds shape themselves to music\nin their souls. They would have you think that they live a kind of\ncharmed life--that the sun woos them, and the moon pines for them,\nand the sea sobs because they will not come, and the daisies wait\nlovingly for their feet, yet, if you knew the truth, you would see\nthat they sit discontentedly among the homeliest surroundings of\ndomestic life, with their sleeves rolled up--confound them!\n\nThis variety of perverseness seems very inexplicable. I have seen\nmuch of it, but do not know what to make of it. There is doubtless\nsomething morbid in it. It is often carried to such extremes, and\nmanaged so artfully, that multitudes are deceived by it. I know\nof some very beautiful natures that pass in the world for rough\nand coarse. I know men who have the reputation of being hard and\nharsh, yet who are, inside, and in their own consciousness, as\ngentle and sensitive as women--who put on a stern air and a\nrepellent manner, when they are really yearning for sympathy. I\nhave seen this air and manner broken through and battered down by\na friendly man, who found what he suspected behind it--a generous,\nwarm, noble heart. This perverseness seems to be akin to that of\nthe miser who knows he is rich, takes his highest delight in being\nrich, and yet dresses meanly, and fares like a beggar rather than\nbe thought rich. Women hide themselves more than men. They are\ngenerally more sensitive, and their life and circumscribed habits\nhave a tendency to the formation of morbid moods, and this among\nthe number.\n\nOf the perverseness of partisanship in politics much is written, and\nmy pen need not dip into it; but there is a perverseness exhibited by\nChristian churches in their quarrels that should be exposed and\ndiscussed, because some people have an impression that it may\npossibly be piety. \"For _dum squizzle_, read _permanence_,\"\nsaid an editor, correcting a typographical error that had found its\nway into his journal. It seems as strange that perverseness should\nbe mistaken for piety, as that \"permanence\" should be mistaken for\n\"dum squizzle,\" but I believe it often is. Let some little cause of\ndisturbance arise, and become active in a church, and it is astonishing\nhow both parties go to work and pray over it. The pastor, perhaps,\nhas said something on the subject of slavery, or he does not preach\ndoctrine enough, or he preaches the wrong sort of doctrine, or he\ndoes not visit his people enough, or there is \"a row\" about the\nsinging, or about a change in the hymn-books, or about repairing\nthe church, or buying an organ, or something or other, and\nstraightway sides are taken, and the wills of both parties get\nroused. It is sometimes laughable--it would always be, only that\nit is too sad--to see how quickly both parties grow pious, as they\ngrow perverse. It would seem, as the strife waxes hot, that the\nglory of God was never so much in their hearts as now. They pray\nwith fervor, they are constant in their public religious duties,\nthey pass through the most scrupulous self-examinations, and then\nfight on to the bitter end; believing, I suppose, that they are\nreally doing God service, when they are only gratifying their own\nperverse wills.\n\nChurches have been ruined, or divided, or crippled in their power,\nby a cause of quarrel too insignificant to engage the minds of\nsensible worldly men for an hour. I have heard it said that church\nquarrels are the most violent of all quarrels, because religious\nfeelings are the strongest feelings of our nature. I confess that\nI do not see the force of this statement, for it does not appear\nto me that religious feelings have much to do with these quarrels.\nI can much more easily see why all personal differences should be\nadjusted peaceably in a church, for there it is supposed that the\nindividual will is subordinated to the cause of religion and the\ngeneral good. The real basis of the bitterness of church quarrels\nis women. There are no others, except neighborhood quarrels, in\nwhich women mingle, and a neighborhood quarrel will at once be\nrecognized as more like a church quarrel than any other. Women\nhave strong feelings, are attracted or repulsed through their\nsensibilities, conceive keen likes and dislikes, do not stop to\nreason, and are, of course, the readiest and the most devoted\npartisans. If the mouths of the women could only be smothered in a\nchurch quarrel, it would be settled much easier. Of all the\nperverse creatures in this world, a woman who has thoroughly\ncommitted herself to any man, or any cause, is the least tractable\nand reasonable. I hope this statement will not offend my sweet\nfriends, because it is so true that I cannot conscientiously\nretract it.\n\nWhat the books call pride of opinion, is, nine cases in ten,\nsimple perverseness. I know a most venerable public teacher of\nphysiology, whose early theory of the production of animal heat--\nvery ridiculous in itself--is still yearly announced from his\ndesk, notwithstanding the fact that the whole world has received\nanother, whose soundness is demonstrated beyond all question. As\nhe, year after year, declares his belief that animal heat is\nproduced by corpuscular friction in the circulating blood, there\nis a twinkle of the eyes among his amused auditors which says very\nplainly--\"the old gentleman does not believe this, himself.\" The\nyoungest student before him knows better than to give his theory\na moment's consideration. Well, the old Doctor is not alone. The\nworld is full of this kind of thing. Men adhere to old opinions\nand old policies long after they have learned that they are\nshallow or untenable, not from a genuine pride of opinion, (I\ndoubt very much whether there really is any thing that should be\ncalled pride of opinion,) but from genuine perverseness of\ndisposition. Men will give, in some heated moment, an opinion\ntouching some one's character or powers, and, though that opinion\nbe proved to be wrong a thousand times, they will never\nacknowledge that they have made a mistake. This is simple\nperverseness, of the meanest variety. There are some kinds of\nperverseness which impress one not altogether unpleasantly, but\nthis affects a man with equal anger and disgust.\n\nPerverseness is a sign of weakness--nay, an element of weakness--\nin man or woman. It is no legitimate part of a true character. The\ngenerous, outspoken man, who is not afraid to show himself, and\nwhat there is in him, who cares more about the right way than his\nway, who throws away an opinion as he would throw away an old hat,\nthe moment he finds it is worthless, and who good-naturedly allows\nthe frictions of society to straighten out all the kinks there are\nin him, is the strong man always, and always the one whom men\nlove. Perverseness is really moral strabismus, and I am shocked to\nthink what a multitude of squint-eyed souls there will be, when we\ncome to look into one another's faces in the \"undress of\nimmortality.\"\n\n\n\n\nLESSON X.\n\nUNDEVELOPED RESOURCES.\n\n\n  \"The world is God's seed-bed. He has planted deep and\nmultitudinously, and many things there are which have not yet\ncome up.\"--BEECHER.\n\nOne of the richest and best of the smaller class of American\ncities is New Bedford; and the secret of its wealth and beauty is\n_oil_. It is but a few years since the immense fleet of vessels\nthat made that thrifty port their home went out with certainty of\nsuccess in their dangerous enterprises, and came back loaded\ndown with spoil. All that beautiful wealth was won from the\ndeep, and for years as many ships came and went as there were\ndwellings to give them speed and welcome. But the glory and the\ngain of the whale-fishery are past. The noble prey, too\npersistently and mercilessly pursued, has retired northward, and\nhidden among the icebergs. Now, when a ship's crew win a cargo,\nthey win it from the clutches of eternal frost. It seems certain\nthat the fishery will dwindle, year after year, until, at last,\nonly a few adventurers will linger near the pole, to watch for\nthe rare game that once furnished light for the civilized world.\nAll this is very unpleasant for New Bedford; but are we to have\nno more oil? Is nature failing? Will the time come when people must\nsit in darkness?\n\nA few months ago a man in Pennsylvania took it into his head to\nprobe the ground for the source of a certain oil that made its\nappearance upon the surface. Down, down into the bowels of the\nearth he thrust his steam-driven harpoon, until he touched the\nliving fountain of oil, which, gushing up, half drowned him. Now,\nall the region round about him swarms with industry. Thousands of\nmen are hurrying to and fro; the puff of the engine is heard\neverywhere; tens of thousands of barrels of oil are rolled out and\nturned into the channels of commerce; eager-eyed speculators\nthrong all the converging avenues of travel, and a waiting world\nof consumers take the oil as fast as it is produced. Men in\nVirginia, New York, and Ohio are awaking to the consciousness\nthat, while they have been paying for oil from the far Pacific,\nthey have been living within three hundred feet of deposits\ngreater than all the cargoes that ever floated in New Bedford\nharbor. For hundreds, and, probably, for thousands of years, men\nhave walked over these deposits with no suspicion of their\nexistence. Geologists have looked wise, as is their habit, but\nhave given no hint of them.\n\nThe simple truth appears to be that when, in the history of the\nworld, it became necessary for these firmly-fastened store-houses\nof oil to be uncovered, they were uncovered. Nature had held them\nfor untold thousands of years for just this emergency. When the\nwhales ceased spouting, the earth took up the business; and \"here\nshe blows\" and \"there she blows\" are heard in Tideoute and\nTitusville, while New Bedford sits sadly by the sea, and thinks of\nlong absent crews to whom the cry has become strange.\n\nI cannot but look upon this discovery of oil in the earth as one\nof the most remarkable and instructive revelations of the age. It\nhas shown to me that, whenever human necessity demands any thing\nof the world of matter, the demand will be honored. Whenever\nanimal life, or the muscle of man or brute, has shown itself\nunequal to the wants of an age, Nature has always responded to the\ncry for help. Inventors are only men who act as pioneers, and who\ngo forward to see what the human race will want next, and to make\nthe necessary provisions. An inventor has profound faith in the\nexhaustless resources of nature. He knows that if he bores far\nenough, and bores in the right direction, he will find that which\nthe world needs. He is often no more than the discoverer of a\nsecret which nature has kept for the satisfaction of the wants of\nan age. A lake yoked to a coal-bed would generally be voted a slow\nteam, but the inventor of the steam engine saw how it could be\nmade a very fast and a very powerful one; and we who live now are\nable to see that the discovery was made at the right time, and\nthat, for the emergencies of this latter day, it has really\nquadrupled the power of civilized man.\n\nThink how nature has risen grandly up to meet every occasion for\nnew resources. The revolution wrought by steam in the business of\nthe world created great wants, every one of which was filled as\nsoon, as felt. Quicker modes of communicating thought were needed\nto give us all the advantages of the increased facility of\ncarriage, and Mr. Morse was permitted to uncover the telegraph.\nMore money was wanted for the increased business of the world, and\nthe gold fields of California and Australia were unveiled. It has\nalways been so. In the march of the human race along the track of\nhistory, nature has pulled aside the veil in which she hides her\ntreasures, to display that which she has kept in store for every\nepoch. In all the future I have no doubt that whenever oil shall\nbe wanted, oil will be had for the boring. The world is fitted up\nwith supplies for all the probable and possible wants of the human\nrace. We are treading every day upon the lids of great secrets\nthat await the wants of the larger style and finer type of life\nthat lie before us. Discovery has but just begun, and will, I\ndoubt not, be as rife in future ages as in this. There is no end\nof it: yet the world is a thing to be weighed and measured. It is\nso many miles around it, and so many miles through it. Never mind;\nit has more in it than humanity can exhaust.\n\nWhen we talk of the material world, especially in its relation to\nthe constantly developing wants of man, we talk simply of the\nkitchen and larder of humanity. We have not ascended into the\ndrawing-room, or conservatory. The moment we step out of the\nconsideration of manifested nature, we come into a world which may\nneither be weighed nor measured--the world of thought. I suppose\nthat no author has ever entered a large library and stood in its\nalcoves and studied its titles long without asking himself the\nquestion: \"what is there left for me to do?\" It seems as if men\nhad been reaching in all directions for the discovery of thought\nsince time began, and as if there were absolutely nothing new to\nbe said upon any subject. Yet every age has always demanded its\npeculiar food, and every age has managed to get it. Certain great\nand peculiarly fruitful subjects, blowing in the sea of thought,\nhave attracted whole fleets of authors for many years, and they\nare doubtless chased away no more to return; but, here and there,\nwhile time shall last, strong men will bore down to deposits of\nthought unsuspected by any of the preceding generations of men,\nand there will gush up streams to light the nations of the world.\nFor the world of thought is, by its nature, exhaustless. The world\nof thought is the world in which God lives, and it is infinite\nlike himself. We reach our hands out into the dark in any\ndirection, and find a thought. It was God's before it was ours;\nand on beyond that thought, lies another, and still another, _ad\ninfinitum_. If our arms were long enough, we should be able to\ngrasp them as well as the first. All that it wants is the long arm\nto give us the command of deposits that would astonish the world.\nAuthors have become eminent according to their power to reach\nfurther than others out into the infinite atmosphere of thought\nwhich envelops them.\n\nAuthors, like inventors, are rarely more than discoverers. If God,\nwho is omniscient, sees all truth, and apprehends the relations of\nevery truth to every other truth, all an author can do is, of\ncourse, to find out what God's thoughts are. And every age is\ncertain to find out the thought that is essential to it. When the\nworld had exhausted Aristotle, and the wide school of philosophers\nwho embraced him in their systems, Bacon, self-instituted, stepped\nbefore the world as its teacher. He came when he was wanted, and\nhis age gave him audience, and took the better path which he\npointed out to it. It was in the golden age of the drama--the age\nin which the drama was what it never was before, and will never be\nagain--a great agent of civilization--that Shakspeare appeared. We\ncall his plays creations, but surely they were not his. He no more\nthan discovered them. The reason why they stir us so much is that\nGod created them. His age wanted them, and he had the insight into\nthe world of thought which enabled him to enter in and lead them\nout. The reason why we have not had any great dramatist since, is,\nthat succeeding ages have not needed one. The great men of later\nages have not recognized the drama as a want of their particular\ntime. I am aware that there is nothing in this to feed human\npride, but I do not recognize food for human pride as a want of\nany age.\n\nWe are in the habit of talking of the old authors; and we read\nthem as if we supposed them wiser than ourselves. We try to feed\non the thought which they discovered, but it is in the main very\ninnutritious fodder, and the world is learning the fact. We read\nand reverence old books less, and read and regard newspapers a\ngreat deal more. The thought which our own age produces is that\nwhich we are learning to prize most. We buy beautiful editions of\nScott, but we read Dickens and Thackeray and Mrs. Stowe, in weekly\nand monthly numbers. Milton, in half-calf, stands upon the shelves\nof our library undisturbed, while we cut the leaves of \"Festus;\" and\nKeats and Byron and Shelley are all pushed aside that we may\nconverse with Longfellow and Mrs. Browning. It is not, perhaps,\nthat the later are the greater, but, being informed with the spirit\nof the age in which we have our life, moving among the facts which\nconcern us, and conscious of our want, they apprehend the true\nrelations of their age to the world of thought around them. They see\nwhere the sources of oil are exhausted, and bore for new deposits.\nIt is a comfort to know that they can never bore in vain.\n\nWe may be sure that literature will always be as fresh as it has\nbeen. It is possible that we may never have greater men than\nShakspeare and Milton, and Dante and Goethe; but there is nothing\nto hinder our having men just as great. Those who are to come will\nonly bore in different directions, and find new deposits.\nShakspeare and Milton were great writers, but the fields they\noccupied were their own. They do not resemble each other in any\nparticular. Dante and Goethe were great writers, but there are no\npoints of resemblance between them. When Scott was issuing his\nwonderful series of novels, it seemed to his cotemporaries, I\nsuppose, that there was no field left for a successor; yet\nDickens, in the next generation, won as many readers and as much\nadmiration as he, in a field whose existence Scott never\nsuspected. Very different is the world of thought from the world\nof matter, in the fact that its deposits are found in no\nparticular spot. The mind can go out in quest of thought in no\ndirection without reward; and every man receives from his age\nmotive and culture which peculiarly prepare him for the work of\nsupplying its needs. There are some who seem to think that the\ngolden age of literature is past--that nothing modern is worthy of\nnotice, and that it is one of the vices of the age that we discard\nso much the teachings of the literary fathers. But the world of\nthought is exhaustless, and we have only to produce a finer\ncivilization than the world has ever seen, to secure, as its\nconsummate flower, a literature of corresponding excellence.\n\nWhat has been said of the world of matter and the world of\nthought, may be said, and is implied, of the world of men. We are\naccustomed to say that great emergencies make great men. But this\nis not true. Great men are always found to meet great emergencies:\nbut God makes them, and leads them through a course of discipline\nwhich prepares them for their work. It is one of the remarkable\nfacts of history, so patent that all have seen and acknowledged\nit, that to meet every great epoch a man has been prepared. I mean\nit in no irreverent or theological sense when I say that there has\nbeen a series of Christs, whose appearance has denoted the\ndeparture of old dispensations and the inauguration of new. Men\nhave arisen who have torn down temples, and demolished idols, and\nswept away systems, and knocked off fetters, and introduced their\nage into a freer, better, and larger life; and it will always be\nso while time shall last. Men will arise equal to the wants of\ntheir age wherever men are civilized. The causes which produce\nemergencies are the agents which educate men to meet them; and\nnature is prodigal of her material among men, as among the things\nmade for his service.\n\nWhen, in the history of Christianity, it became necessary to re-assert\nand emphasize the truth that \"the just shall live by faith,\" Luther\nwas raised up; and nothing is more apparent to the student than that\nthe age which produced him demanded him--that he fitted into his\nage, supplied its wants, and cut a new channel, through which the\nrichest life of the world has flowed for centuries. He found his country\ntied up to formalism, scholasticism, and tradition; and by strokes as\nremarkable for boldness as strength he set it free. He stands at the\nhead of a great historical epoch, which was prepared to receive and\ncrown him. In another field, we have, even in this day, a reformer\nwhom his age has called for, and who will surely do in the world of\nart what Luther did in religion. No one can read Ruskin, and mark his\nenthusiasm, his splendid power, his earnestness, his love of truth,\nhis reverence for nature, and above all, his love of God, without\nfeeling that he has a great mission to fulfil in the world. I bow myself\nin homage before this man, and acknowledge his credentials. He\nspeaks with authority, and not as the common run of scribes, at all.\nFearlessly he tears the mask away from conventionalism and pretension,\nsparing neither age nor nation, and scattering critics right and left\n\n  \"Like chaff from the threshing-floor.\"\n\nIt seems to me that the sight of this single, unsupported man,\nplunging boldly into a fight with a whole world full of liars and\nlies, thrusting right and left, anxious only for the triumph of\ntruth, and everywhere devoutly recognizing God and his glory, and\nChrist and his honor, as the ultimate end of true art, is one of\nthe most striking and beautiful the world has ever seen. Was there\nnot need of him? Had not art become superstitious and infidel and\nmissionless? Had it not faded to little more than the repetition\nof old inanities, traditional mannerisms, stereotyped lies? Ruskin\ncame to tell his age that art was doing nothing toward making the\nworld better--that, instead of lifting the heart toward God, and\nenlarging the field of human sympathy, it was only ministering to\nthe vanity of men--that nature was dishonored that men might win\nthe applause of vulgar crowds by falsehood and trickery. Nobly\nhas he done and nobly is he still doing his work; and the world is\nreading him. It matters not that critics carp, and scold, and\nwhine--the world is reading, and will regard him. The eternal\ntruth of God and nature is on his side; and we are to see, as I\nfirmly believe, resulting from his noble labors, a beautiful\nresurrection of art from the grave in which its friends have laid\nit. It shall come forth, though now bound hand and foot, and be\nrestored to the sisterhood whose happiness it is to serve and sit\nat the feet of Jesus Christ.\n\nBut time and space would fail to give illustrations of the truth\nthat God has always a man ready for an emergency. It is not\nnecessary to speak of Washington. It would not be wise, perhaps,\nto speak of the first Napoleon, because men differ so widely in\ntheir estimate of his work. But of the last Napoleon, it may be\nsaid that he furnishes one of the most notable instances the world\nhas ever seen of a man prepared for his age. I suppose that no one\nbelieves that there is another man in existence who could have\ndone for France, and would have done for Europe, under the\ncircumstances, what Louis Napoleon has done. Never did the central\nfigure of an elaborate piece of mosaic fit more nicely into its\nplace, than did Louis Napoleon into the complicated affairs of his\nage. They were made for him, and he for them.\n\nShall the world of matter never fail--shall the world of thought\nbe exhaustless--shall men be found for all the emergencies of their\nrace, and, yet, shall divine truth be contained in a nut-shell?\nMust the human soul lack food--fresh food--because a generation\nlong gone has decided that only certain food is fit for the human\nsoul? I believe that the Bible is a revelation of divine truth to\nmen, and, believing this, I believe that its most precious deposits\nhave hardly been touched. I believe that in it, there is special food\nprepared for all the wide variety of human souls, and that, as\ngeneration after generation passes away, new deposits will be struck,\nso rich in illuminating power that their discoverers will wonder\nthey had never been seen before. I know that just before me, or\nsomewhere before me, there is a generation of men who will think\nless of being saved, and more of being worth saving, less of dogma,\nand more of duty, less of law, and more of love; whose worship will\nbe less formal, and more truthful and spiritual, and whose God will\nbe a more tender and considerate father, and less a lawgiver and a\njudge. For such a generation, there exists a deposit of divine truth\nalmost unknown by Christendom. Only here and there have men gathered\nit, floating upon the surface. The great deposit waits the touch of\nanother age.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XI.\n\nGREATNESS IN LITTLENESS.\n\n\n    \"This earth will all its dust and tears\n     Is no less his than yonder spheres;\n     And rain-drops weak and grains of sand\n     Are stamped by his immediate band.\"\n     STERLING.\n\n                \"There is a power\n  Unseen, that rules the illimitable world;\n  That guides its motions, from the brightest star\n  To the least dust of this sin-tainted world.\"\n  THOMSON.\n\nInfinity lies below us as well as above us. There is as much\nessential greatness in littleness as in largeness. Mont Blanc--\nmassive, ice-crowned, imperial--is a great work of nature; yet it\nis only an aggregation of materials with which we are thoroughly\nfamiliar. It is only a larger mountain than that which lies within\nsight of my window. A dozen Monadnocks or Ascutneys or Holyokes,\nmore or less, make a Mont Blanc, with glaciers and avalanches and\nbrooding eternity of frost. Such greatness, though it impresses me\nmuch, is not beyond my comprehension. It can be reckoned by cubic\nmiles. So with the sea: it is only an expanse of water larger than\nthe river that winds through the meadows. It is great, but it is\nonly an aggregate of numerable quantities that my eyes can\nmeasure, and my mind comprehend. These are great objects, and they\nare great particularly because they are large. They are above me,\nand they lead me upward toward creative infinity.\n\nIf I turn my eyes in the other direction, however, I lose myself\nin infinity quite as readily. If I pick up a pebble at the foot of\nMont Blanc, and undertake the examination of its structure,--the\nelements which compose it, the relations of those elements to each\nother, the mode of their combination--I am lost as readily as I\nshould be in following the footsteps of the stars. If I undertake\nto look through a drop of water, I may be arrested at first,\nindeed, by the sports and struggles of animalcular life; but at\nlength I find myself gazing beyond it into infinitude--using it as\na lens through which the Godhead becomes visible to me. I can\ndissect from one another the muscles and arteries and veins and\nnerves and vital viscera of the human body, but the little insect\nthat taps a vein upon my hand does it with an instrument and by\nthe operation of machinery which are beyond my scrutiny. They\nbelong to a life and are the servants of instincts which I do not\nunderstand at all.\n\nThese thoughts come to me, borne by certain memories. I know a\nvenerable gentleman of Buffalo--Dr. Scott--who did, and who still\ndoes, very great things in a very small way. At the age of seventy\nhe\nbecame conscious of decaying power of vision. Being professionally a\nphysician and naturally a philosopher, he conceived the idea that\nthe eye might be improved by what he denominated a series of\n\"ocular gymnastics.\" He therefore undertook to exercise his eyes\nupon the formation of minute letters--working upon them until the\norgans began to be weary, and then, like a prudent man, resting for\nhours. By progressing slowly and carefully, he became, at last,\nable to do wonders in the way of fine writing, and also became able\nto read the newspapers without glasses. (Here's a hint for some\nclever Yankee--as good as a fortune.) Now, reader, prepare for a\nlarge story; but be assured that it is true, and that my hands have\nhandled and my eyes seen the things of which I tell you. At the age\nof seventy-one, Dr. Scott wrote upon an enamelled card with a stile,\non space exactly equal to that of one side of a three-cent\npiece,--The Lord's Prayer, the Apostles' Creed, the Parable of the\nTen Virgins, the Parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus, the Beatitudes,\nthe fifteenth Psalm, the one hundred and twentieth Psalm, the one\nhundred and thirty-third Psalm, the one hundred and thirty-first\nPsalm, and the figures \"1860.\" Every word, every letter, and every\npoint, of all these passages was written exquisitely on this minute\nspace; and that old man not only saw every mark he made, but had the\ndelicacy of muscular action and steadiness of nerve to form the\nletters so beautifully that they abide the test of the highest\nmagnifying power. They were, of course, written by microscopic\naid.\n\nNow who believes that it does not require more genius and skill to\nexecute this minute work than it does to bore a Hoosac tunnel, or\nbuild a Victoria bridge, or put a dam across the Connecticut, or\nconstruct an Erie canal? I do not speak of the relative importance\nof the great works and the small, but of the relative amount and\nquality of the power that is brought to bear upon them. In a very\nimportant sense the greatest thing a man can do is the most\ndifficult thing he can do. The most difficult thing a man can do\nmay not be the most useful, or in any sense the most important;\nbut it will measure and show the limits of his power. Work grows\ndifficult as it goes below a man, quite as rapidly as it does when\nit rises above him. It costs as much skill to make a dainty bit of\njewelry as it does to carve a colossal statue. It actually costs\nmore power to make the chain of gold that holds the former, than\nit does to forge the clumsy links by which the latter is dragged\nto its location. Thus, whether man goes down or up, he soon gets\nbeyond the sphere of his power. The further he can carry himself\nin either direction the more does he demonstrate his superiority\nover the majority of men. The more difficult the task which he\nperforms the further does he reach toward infinity.\n\nIn the town of Waltham there is a manufactory of watches which I\nhave examined with great interest. It is here undertaken to\norganize the skill which has been achieved by thousands of patient\nhands, and submit it to machinery; and it is done. Every thing is\nso systematized, and the operations are carried on with such\nexactness, that, among a hundred watches, corresponding parts may\nbe interchanged without embarrassment to the machinery. The\ndifferent parts are passed from hand to hand, and from machine to\nmachine, each hand and each machine simply doing its duty, and\nwhen from different and distant rooms these parts are assembled,\nand cunning fingers put them together, every wheel knows its\nplace, and every pivot and every screw its home, though it be\npicked without discrimination from a dish containing ten thousand.\nYet among these parts there are screws of which it takes one\nhundred and fifty thousand to make a pound, and shafts and\nbearings which are so delicately turned that five thousand\nshavings will only extend a lineal inch along the steel. This is\nthe way American watches are made, and this is the way in which\nthe highest practicable perfection is reached in the manufacture\nof these pocket monitors.\n\nHere we have small work, organized, and great elaboration of\nrelated details. When Dr. Scott wrote his passages on the card,\nhis work was very simple. He did only one thing--he made letters.\nWhen he had made letter after letter until the little space was\nfilled, his work was done. It was not a part of some complicated\nand inter-dependent whole, related to a thousand other parts in\nother hands. I suppose it may be as delicate work to drill a jewel\nwith a hair of steel, armed with paste of diamond-dust, as to\nwrite \"Our Father\" under a microscope; but when the jewel has to\nbe drilled with relation to the reception of a revolving metallic\npivot, the process becomes very much nicer. So here are a hundred\nprocesses going on at the same time, in different parts of a\nbuilding, all related to each other, each delicate almost beyond\ndescription, and effected with such precision that a mistake is so\nmuch an exception that it is a surprise. I have seen the huge\nsteam engines at Scranton which furnish power for the blast of the\nfurnaces there, and their magnitude and power and most impressive\nmajesty of movement have made me tremble; yet as works of man they\nare no greater than a Waltham watch.\n\nIt seems to me that man occupies a position just half way between\ninfinite greatness and infinite littleness, and that he can\nneither ascend nor descend to any considerable degree without\nbringing up against a wall which shows where man ends and God\nbegins. It seems, too, that that kind of human power which can\nreach down deepest into the infinite littleness, is more\nremarkable than that which rises highest toward the infinite\ngreatness. It is a more difficult and a more remarkable thing to\nwrite the Lord's Prayer on a single line less than an inch long,\nthan it would be to paint it on the face of the Palisades, upon a\nline a mile long, in letters the length of the painter's ladder. I\nhave heard of a watch so small that it was set in a ring, and worn\nupon the finger; and such a watch seems very much more marvellous\nto me than the engines of the Great Eastern.\n\nWe are in the habit of regarding God as the author of all the\ngreat movements of the universe, but as having nothing to do\ndirectly with the minor movements. Mr. Emerson becomes equally\nflippant and irreverent when he speaks of a \"pistareen Providence.\"\nWe kindly take the Creator and upholder of all things under our\npatronage, and say, \"it is very well for him to swing a star into\nspace, and set bounds to the sea, and order the goings of great\nsystems, and even to minister to the lives of great men, but when\nit comes to meddling with the little affairs of the daily life of\na thousand millions of men, women, and children--pshaw! He's\nabove all that.\"\n\nNot so fast, Mr. Emerson! The real reason why you and all those\nwho are like you do not believe in God's intimate cognizance and\nadministration of human affairs is, that you cannot comprehend\nthem. You have not faith enough in God to believe that he is able\nto maintain this knowledge of human affairs, this interest in\nthem, and the power and the disposition to mould them to divine\nissues. You are willing to admit that God can do a few great\nthings, but you are not willing to admit that he can do a great\nmany little things. It is well enough, according to your notion,\nfor God to make a mastodon, or a megatherium, but quite\nundignified for him to undertake a mosquito or a horse-fly. It\nwould not compromise His reputation with you were you to catch Him\nlighting a sun, or watching with something of interest the rise\nand fall of a great nation, but actually to listen to the prayer\nof a little child, and to answer that prayer with distinctness of\npurpose and definite exercise of power, would not, in your\nopinion, be dignified and respectable business for a being whom\nyou are proud to have the honor of worshipping!\n\nI do not know how these people who do not believe in the intimate\nspecial providence of God can believe in God at all. I can\nconceive how God could rear Mont Blanc, but I cannot conceive how\nHe could make a honey bee, and endow that honey bee with an\ninstinct--transmitted since the creation from bee to bee, and\nswarm to swarm--which binds it in membership to a commonwealth,\nand enables it to build its waxen cells with mathematical\nexactness, and gather honey from all the flowers of the field. It\nis when we go into the infinity below us that the infinite power\nand skill become the most evident. When the microscope shows us\nlife in myriad forms, each of which exhibits design; when we\ncontemplate vegetable life in its wonderful details; when\nchemistry reveals to us something of the marvellous processes by\nwhich vitality is fed, we get a more impressive sense of the power\nand skill of the Creator than we do when we turn the telescope\ntoward the heavens. Yet Mr. Emerson would have us believe that the\nBeing who saw fit to make all these little things, to arrange and\nthrow into relation all these masses of detail, to paint the\nplumage of a bird, and the back of a fly, as richly as he paints\nthe drapery of the descending sun, does not condescend to take\npractical interest in the affairs of men and women! My God, what\nblindness! Bird, bee, blossom--be my teacher. I do not like Mr.\nEmerson's lesson.\n\nThe logical sequence of disbelief in what Mr. Emerson calls a\n\"pistareen Providence\" is a belief in pantheism or polytheism.\nThere is certainly nothing ridiculous in the faith that the Being\nwho contrived and arranged, and adjusted the infinite littlenesses\nof creation, and ordained their laws, and who continues their\nexistence, maintains an intimate interest in the only intelligent\ncreatures he has placed in this world. The little bird that sings\nto me, the bee that bears me honey, the blossom that brings me\nperfume, all testify to me that He who created them will not\nneglect nor forget His own child. If I look up into the firmament,\nand send my imagination into its deep abysses, and think that\nfurther than even dreams can go, those abysses are strewn with\nstars; if I think of comets coming and going with the rush of\nlightning, and yet occupying whole centuries in their journey; or\nif I only sit down by the sea, and think of the waves that kiss\nother shores thousands of miles away, I am oppressed by a sense of\nmy own littleness. I ask the question whether the God who has such\nlarge things in His care, can think of me--a speck on an infinite\naggregate of surface--a mote uneasily shifting in the boundless\nspace. I get no hope in this direction; but I look down, and find\nthat the shoulders of all inferior creation are under me, lifting\nme into the very presence of God. I find that God has been at work\nbelow me, in a mass of minute and munificent detail, by the side\nof which my life is great and simple, and satisfyingly significant.\n\nSo, if I may not believe in a \"pistareen Providence,\" I must make\na God of the universe itself, or pass into the hands of many Gods\nthe world's creation and governance. If the God that made the bee,\nand the ant, and the daisy, made me, then He is not above taking\ncare of me, and of maintaining an interest in the smallest affairs\nof my life. The faith that lives in reason is never stronger than\nwhen it stands on flowers. There is not a fly that floats, nor a\nfish that swims, nor an animalcule that navigates its little drop\nof sea-spray, but bears a burden of hope to despairing humanity.\n\"If God so clothe the grass which to-day is, and tomorrow is cast\ninto the oven,\" then what, Mr. Emerson?\n\nThis subject is a very large one, and I can present only one more\nphase of it. A great multitude--the larger part, in fact--of the\nhuman race are engaged in doing small work. It may be a comfort\nfor them to know that the Almighty Maker of all things has done a\ngreat deal of the same kind of work, and has not found it unworthy\nor unprofitable employment. Let them remember that it is just as\nhard to do a small thing well as a large thing, and that the\ndifficulty of a deed is the gauge of the power required for its\ndoing. Let them remember that when they go down, they are going\njust as directly toward infinity as when they go up, and that\nevery man who works Godward, works in honor.\n\nIt was a very forcible reflection to which a visitor at Niagara\nFalls gave utterance, when he said that, considering the relative\npower of their authors, he did not regard the cataract as so\nremarkable a piece of work as the Suspension Bridge; and it may be\nsaid with truth that there is no work within the power of man--so\nsmall that God has not been below it in a work smaller and\npossibly humbler still,--certainly humbler when we consider the\ninfinite majesty and the ineffable dignity of His character. My\nmaid is too proud to go into the street for a pail of milk; my God\nsmiles upon me in flowers from the very gutter. My neighbor thinks\nit beneath him to till the soil, working with his hands, but the\nBeing who made him, breathes upon that soil, and works in it, that\nit may bear food to keep human dignity from starving. There are\nmen who set themselves above driving a horse, no part of which the\nKing of the universe was above making. Ah! human pride! Alas!\nhuman dignity! I do not know what to make of you.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XII.\n\nRURAL LIFE.\n\n\n \"Going into a village at night, with the lights gleaming on each\nside of the street, in some houses they will be in the basement\nand nowhere else.\"--BEECHER.\n\n  \"The little God o' the world jogs on the same old way,\n   And is as singular as on the world's first day.\n   A pity 'tis thou shouldst have given\n   The fool, to make him worse, a gleam of light from heaven;\n   He calls it reason, using it\n   To be more beast than ever beast was yet.\n   He seems to me, (your grace the words will pardon,)\n   Like a long-legged grasshopper, in the garden,\n   Forever on the wing, and hops and sings\n   The same old song, as in the grass he springs.\"\n   GOETHE'S FAUST.\n\nIt is a common remark that a railroad car is an excellent place in\nwhich to study human nature; but the particular phase of human\nnature which is usually presented there is not, I think,\nsufficiently attractive to engage a man who desires to maintain a\ngood opinion of his race. I would as soon think of studying human\nnature in a pig-pen as in a railroad car. I do not like to study\neven my own nature there, for I find that the more I ride, the\nmore selfish I become, and the more desirable it seems to me that\nI should occupy the space usually assigned to four men, viz,: two\nseats for my feet, and two for such other portions of my person as\nare not required for spanning the space between the sofas. It must\nbe a matter of regret to most persons, I am sure, that they are\nnot large enough to cover twice as many seats as they do, and thus\ndrive those who travel with them into more close and inconvenient\nquarters. Whenever I witness an instance of genuine, self-sacrificing\npoliteness in a railroad car, I become aware that there is at least one\nman on the train who has travelled very little. No; when I travel I turn\nmy observation upon things outside--upon the farms and streams, and\nmountains and forests, and towns and villages through which the\ntrain bears me. I am particularly interested in the faces of those\nwho gather at the smaller stations to gaze at the passengers, get\nthe papers, and feel the rush, for a single moment, of the world's\ngreat life. I love to listen to the smart remarks of some rustic wit in\nshirt-sleeves, who, if the train should happen to be behind time,\nintimates to the brakeman that the old horse didn't have his\nallowance of oats that morning, or commiserates the loneliness of\nthe conductor of a train not crowded with passengers, all of which\nis intended for the ears of a village girl who stands in the door\nof the \"Ladies' Room,\" with the tip of a parasol in her teeth, and\na hat on her head that was jaunty last year.\n\nRiding into the country recently, I saw at one of these little\nstations a pair of young men, leaning against the station-house.\nThey had evidently been waiting for the approach of the train, but\nthey did not stir from their positions. They were young men whose\nlife had been spent in severe and unremitting toil. Their hands\nwere large, and coarse, and brown; their faces and necks were\nbronzed; their clothing was of the commonest material and pattern,\nand was old and patched besides; and they had a hard look\ngenerally. There was the usual bustle about them, but they did not\nseem to mind it. At last, they started, and these are the words\nthat one of them spoke: \"Come, Bob, let's go over and see if we\ncan't tuck away some of that grub.\" So both turned their backs\nupon the train, and upon me; and as they went over to see if they\ncouldn't \"tuck away some of that grub,\" I got a view of their\nheavy shoulders, and their shambling, awkward gait. A pair of old\ndraft horses, going out in the morning to take their places in\nfront of their truck, would not move more stiffly than those\nfellows moved.\n\nNow these young men taught me nothing, for I had seen many such\nbefore; but through them I took a fresh and a very impressive\nglimpse into a style of life that abounds among the rural\npopulation of America, and shows but feeble signs of improvement.\nThese men, who, when they eat, only \"tuck away grub,\" of course\n\"go to roost\" when they sleep. They call the sun \"Old Yaller,\"\nnaming him in honor of a favorite ox. When they undress themselves\n\"they peel off,\" as if they were onions or potatoes; and when they\nput themselves into their Sunday clothing, they \"surprise their\nbacks with a clean shirt.\" When they marry, they \"hitch on,\" as if\nmatrimony were a sled, and a wife were a saw-log. Every thing in\ntheir life is brought down to the animal basis, and why should it\nnot be? They labor as severely as any animal they own; they are\nproud of their animal strength and endurance; they eat, and work,\nand sleep, like animals, and they do nothing like men. Their\nframes are shaped by labor; and they are only the best animals,\nand the ruling animals, on their farms. As between the wives and\nchildren who live in their houses, and the horses and cattle that\nlive in their barns, the latter have the easier time of it.\n\nHaving brought every thing down to the animal basis in their homes\nand in their lives, their intercourse with other men will\nnaturally betray the ideas upon which they live. They are usually\nvery blunt men, who \"never go round\" to say any thing, but who\nblurt out what they have to say in a manner entirely regardless\nof the feelings of others. They enter each other's houses with\ntheir hats on, and \"help themselves\" when they sit at each other's\ntables, and affect great contempt for the courtesies and forms of\npolite life. They are exceedingly afraid of being looked upon as\n\"stuck up;\" and if they can get the reputation of being able to\nmow more grass, or pitch more hay, or chop and pile more wood, or\ncradle more grain, than any of their neighbors, their ambition is\nsatisfied. There is no dignity of life in their homes. They cook\nand eat and live in the same room, and sometimes sleep there, if\nthere should be room enough for a bed. There is no family life\nthat is not associated with work, and no thought of any life that\nis not connected with bodily labor; and if they sit down five\nminutes, either at home or at church, they go to sleep. Their\nhighest intellectual exercise is that which is called out by the\nprocess of swapping horses, and the selling of their weekly\nproduct of eggs and butter at the highest market price. They\ninvariably call their wives--\"the old woman,\" or \"she;\" and if\nthey should stumble into saying, \"my dear,\" in the presence of a\nneighbor, they would blush at being self-convicted of unjustifiable\npoliteness and unpardonable weakness.\n\nThese men have learned to read, but they rarely read any thing,\nexcept the weekly newspaper, taken exclusively for the probate\nnotices. The only books in their houses are the Bible and two\nor three volumes forced upon them at unguarded moments by\nbook-agents, who made the most of internal wood-cuts, and external\nDutch metal to place them in possession of the \"History of the\nWorld,\" or the \"Lives of the Presidents,\" or some other production\nequally extensive and comprehensive. There is no exhibition of\ntaste about their dwellings. Every thing is brought down to the\nhard standard of use. If their wives should desire a border for\nflowers, they regard them as very silly, and look upon their\nattempts to \"fix up things\" as a great waste of labor. They never\ngo out with their wives to mingle in the social life of their\nneighborhood; and if the wives of their neighbors come to spend an\nafternoon, they harness their horses, and drive off to attend to\nsome distant business that will detain them until the women get\naway. It is useless to say to me that this is an extreme picture,\nfor I know what I am writing about, and know that I am painting\nfrom the life. I know that there are hundreds of thousands of\nAmerican farmers whose life and whose ideas of life are cast upon\nthese models. Some of these are as coarse and hard as I paint\nthem, and others are only a little better. Such a farmer's boy is\nbrought up to the idea that work is the grand thing in life. Work,\nindeed, is supposed by him to be pretty much all of life. It is\nsupposed to spoil farmers to get any thing but work into their\nheads; and scientific agriculturists will bear witness that they\nhave been obliged to fight the popular prejudices against \"book\nfarming\" at every step of their progress. They will also testify\nthat the improvements made in farming and in the implements of\nagriculture have not been made by farmers themselves, but by\noutsiders--mechanics, and men of science--who have marvelled at\nthe brainless stupidity which toiled on in its old track of\nunreasoning routine, and looked with suspicion and discouragement\nupon innovations. The reason why the farmer has not been foremost\nin improving the instruments and methods of his own business, is,\nthat his mind has been unfitted for improvement by the excessive\nlabors of his body. A man whose whole vital energy is directed to\nthe support of muscle has, of course, none to direct to the\nsupport of thought. A man whose strength is habitually exhausted\nby bodily labor becomes, at length, incapable of mental exertion;\nand I cannot help feeling that half of the farmers of the country\nestablish insuperable obstacles to their own improvement by their\nexcessive toil. They are nothing more than the living machines of\na calling which so far exhausts their vitality that they have\nneither the disposition nor the power to improve either their\ncalling or themselves.\n\nTo a student or a literary man, it is easy to explain the\nnecessity of the proper division of the nervous energies between\nthe mind and the body. Any student or literary man who has a daily\nmental task to do, will do it before he exercises his body to any\ngreat extent. If I wished to unfit my mind for a day of literary\nlabor, I would use the hoe in my garden for an early hour in the\nmorning. If I wished utterly to unfit a pupil for his daily task\nof study, I would put him through an exhausting walk before\nbreakfast. The direction of all the nervous energies to the\nsupport of the muscular system, and the necessary draft upon the\ndigestive and nutritive functions to supply the muscular waste,\nleave the mind temporarily a bankrupt. I have never seen a man who\nwas really remarkable for acquired muscular power, and, at the\nsame time, remarkable for mental power. A man may be born into the\nworld with a fine muscular system and a fine brain, and in early\nlife his muscular system may have a fine development. Such a man\nmay subsequently have a remarkable mental development, but this\ndevelopment will never be accompanied by large and regular\nexpenditures of muscular power. If I wished to repress the mental\ngrowth and manifestation of a man, I would undertake to educate\nhim up to the point of lifting eight or ten kegs of nails. There\nis danger at first of overdoing our \"muscular Christianity\"--\ndanger of getting more muscle than Christianity; and there is a\ngood deal more danger of overdoing our muscular intellectuality.\nThe difference between the kind and amount of exercise necessary\nto produce a healthy machine and the kind and amount necessary to\nproduce a powerful one, is very great. We are never to look for\ngreat intellectuality in a professor of gymnastics, nor to expect\nthat the time will come when a man will not only walk a thousand\nmiles in a thousand hours, but compose a poem of a thousand lines\nat the same time.\n\nIf the temporary diversion of the nervous energy from the brain\nhave this effect, what must a permanent diversion accomplish? It\nwill accomplish precisely what is indicated by the look and\nlanguage of our two young friends at the station-house. It will\ndevelop muscle for the uses of a special calling, and make ugly\nand clumsy men of those who should be symmetrical; and at the same\ntime it will repress mental development, and permanently limit\nmental growth--at least, so long as the mind shall be associated\nwith the body. I suppose that every fecundated germ of human being\nis endowed with a certain possibility of development--a\ncomplement of vital energy which will be expended in various\ndirections, according to the circumstances which may surround it\nand the will of its possessor. If it shall be mainly expended upon\nthe growth and sustentation of muscle, it will not be expended\nupon the growth and sustentation of mind; and I have no hesitation\nin saying that it is an absolute impossibility for a man who\nengages in hard bodily labor every day to be brilliant in\nintellectual manifestation. The tide of such a man's life does not\nset in that direction. An hourglass has in it a definite quantity\nof sand; and when I turn it over, that sand falls from the upper\napartment into the lower; and while it occupies that position it\nwill continue to fall until the former is exhausted and the latter\nis filled. Moreover, it will never take its place at the other end\nof the instrument, until it is turned back. It is precisely thus\nwith a human constitution. The grand vital current moves only in\none direction, and when it is moving toward muscle it is not\nmoving toward mind, and when it is moving toward mind it is not\nmoving toward muscle. This fact is illustrated sufficiently by the\nphenomena of digestion. After a man has eaten a hearty dinner, he\nbecomes dull, even to drowsiness or perfect sleep. Why? Simply\nbecause the tide of nervous energy sets towards digestion, and\nthere is not enough left to carry on mental or voluntary muscular\noperations.\n\nA resident of a city riding into the country, especially if he be\nan intellectual man, and engaged in intellectual pursuits, will be\nthrilled by what he sees around him. The life of the farmer, planted\nin the midst of so much that is beautiful, having to do with nature's\nmarvellous miracles of germination and growth, moving under the\nopen heaven with its glory of sky and meteoric change, and\naccompanied by the songs of birds and all characteristic rural sights\nand sounds, will seem to him the sweetest and the most enviable\nthat falls to human lot. But the hard-working farmer sees nothing\nof this. What cares he for birds, unless they pull up his corn?\nWhat cares he for skies, unless he can make use of them for drying\nhis hay, or wetting down his potatoes? The beautiful changes of\nnature do not touch him. His sensibilities are deadened by hard\nwork. His nervous system is all imbedded in muscle, and does not lie\nnear enough to the surface to be reached by the beauty and music\naround him. All he knows about a daisy is that it does not make\ngood hay; and he draws no appreciable amount of the pleasure\nof his life from those surroundings which charm the sensibilities of\nothers.\n\nWe are in the habit of regarding the farming population of the\ncountry as the most moral and religious of any, yet if we look at\nthem critically, we shall find that their piety is of a negative,\nrather than a positive character. They are men in the first place\nwho have very few temptations, either from without or from within.\nThere are no professional tempters around them to lure them into\nthe more seductive paths of sin. The woman whose steps take hold\non hell does not pass their doors; the gambler spreads no snares\nfor them; no gilded palace invites them to music and intoxicating\ndraughts; they are not maddened by ambition; and they have no\nvanity that leads them to degrading and ruinous display. If they\nare little assailed from without, they are not more moved toward\nvice from within. The fact that their vital energies are all\nexpended upon labor relieves them from the motives of temptation.\nMen whose muscles are overworked have no vitality to expend upon\nvices. The devil cannot make much out of a man who is both tired\nand sleepy. If we inquire of the ministers who have charge of\nrural parishes, they will usually tell us that an audience of\nmechanics is better than an audience of farmers, and that the\nmiscellaneous audience of a city is better than either. It is\nimpossible for men who have devoted every bodily energy they\npossess to hard labor during the waking hours of six days, to go\nto church and keep brightly awake on the seventh. Country\nministers will also admit that they have in their parishes less\nhelp in social and conference meetings than the pastors of city\nparishes, and that no great movements of benevolence ever\noriginate in, or are carried on by, rural churches.\n\nAs a matter of course, life cannot have much dignity or much that\nis characteristically human in it unless it be based upon active\nintellectuality, genuine sensibility, a development of the finer\naffections, and positive Christian virtue. When a man is a man, he\nnever \"tucks in grub.\" When a man lies down for rest and sleep he\ndoes not \"go to roost.\" To a man, marriage is something more than\n\"hitching on,\" and a dirty shirt is a good deal more of a\n\"surprise\" to a man's back than a clean one. There is no doubt\nabout the fact that a life whose whole energies are expended in\nhard bodily labor is such a life as God never intended man should\nlive. I do not wonder that men fly from this life and gather into\nthe larger villages and cities, to get some employment which will\nleave them leisure for living. Life was intended to be so adjusted\nthat the body should be the servant of the soul, and always\nsubordinate to the soul. It was never meant by the Creator that\nthe soul should always be subordinate to the body, or sacrificed\nto the body.\n\nI am perfectly aware that I am not revealing pleasant truths. We\nare very much in the habit of glorifying rural life, and praising\nthe intelligence and virtue of rural populations; and if they\nbelieve us, they cannot receive what I write upon this subject\nwith pleasure. But the question which interests these people most\nis not whether my statements are pleasant but whether they are\ntrue. Is the philosophy sound? Are the facts as they are\nrepresented to be? Does a severe and constant tax upon the\nmuscular system repress mental development, and tend to make life\nhard and homely and unattractive? Is this the kind of life\ngenerally which the American farmer leads? Is not the American\nfarmer, generally, a man who has sacrificed a free and full mental\ndevelopment, and all his finer sensibilities and affections, and a\ngenerous and genial family and social life, and the dignities and\ntasteful proprieties of a well-appointed home, to the support of\nhis muscles? I am aware that there are instances of a better life\nthan this among the farmers, and I should not have written this\narticle if those instances had not taught me that this everlasting\ndevotion to labor is unnecessary. There are farmers who prosper in\ntheir calling, and do not become stolid. There are farmers who are\ngentlemen--men of intelligence--whose homes are the abodes of\nrefinement, whose watchward is improvement, and whose aim it is to\nelevate their calling. If there be a man on the earth whom I\nhonestly honor it is a farmer who has broken away from his slavery\nto labor, and applied his mind to his soil.\n\nMind must be the emancipator of the farmer. Science, intelligence,\nmachinery--these must liberate the white bondman of the soil from\nhis long slavery. When I look back and see what has been done for\nthe farmer within my brief memory, I am full of hope for the\nfuture. The plough, under the hand of science, is become a new\ninstrument. The horse now hoes the corn, digs the potatoes, mows\nthe grass, rakes the hay, reaps the wheat, and threshes and\nwinnows it; and every day adds new machinery to the farmer's\nstock, to supersede the clumsy implements which once bound him to\nhis hard and never-ending toil. When a farmer begins to use\nmachinery and to study the processes of other men, and to apply\nhis mind to farming so far as he can make it take the place of\nmuscle, then he illuminates his calling with a new light, and\nlifts himself into the dignity of a man. If mind once gets the\nupper hand, it will serve itself and see that the body is properly\ncared for. Intelligent farming is dignified living. For a farmer\nwho reads and thinks, and studies and applies, nature will open\nthe storehouse of her secrets, and point the way to a life full of\ndignity and beauty, and grateful and improvable leisure.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XIII.\n\nREPOSE.\n\n\n  \"Peace, greatness best becomes; calm power doth guide\n   With a far more imperious stateliness\n   Than all the swords of violence can do,\n   And easier gains those ends she tends unto.\" DANIEL.\n\n  \"When headstrong passion gets the reins of reason,\n   The force of nature, like too strong a gale,\n   For want of ballast oversets the vessel.\" HIGGONS.\n\n                     \"Give me that man\n   That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him\n   In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of hearts,\n   As I do thee.\" SHAKSPEARE.\n\nMrs. Flutter Budget was at church last Sunday, She always is at\nchurch; and she never forgets her fan. I have known her for many\nyears, and have never known her to be in church without a fan in\nher hand, and some article upon her person that rustled\nconstantly. Her black silk dress is death to devotion over the\nspace of twenty feet on all sides of her. She fixes the wires in\nthe bonnets of her little girls, then takes their hats off\nentirely, then wipes their noses, then shakes her head at them,\nthen makes them exchange seats with each other, then finds the\ntext and the hymns for them, then fusses with the cricket, and\nthen fans herself unremittingly until she can see something else\nto do. During all this time, and throughout all these exercises,\nthe one article of dress upon her fidgety person that has rustle\nin it, rustles. It chafes against the walls of silence as a caged\nbear chafes, with feverish restlessness, against the walls of his\ncell; and as if the annoyance of one sense were not sufficient,\nshe seems to have adopted a bob-and-sinker style of trimming, for\nhat and dress, and hair and cloak, and every thing that goes to\nmake up her externals. Little pendants are everywhere--little\ntassels, and little balls, and little tufts--at the end of little\ncords; and these are all the time bobbing up and down, and\ntrembling, and threatening to bob up and down, like--\n\n  \"The one red leaf, the last of its clan\n   That dances as often as dance it can,\n   Hanging so light, and hanging so high,\n   On the topmost bough that looks up at the sky.\"\n\nAny person who sits near Mrs. Flutter Budget, or undertakes to\nlook at her during divine service, loses all sense of repose, and\nall power of reflection. The most solemn exercises in which the\nmind engages cannot be carried on with a fly upon the nose, and\nany teasing of a single sense, whether of sight, or sound, or\ntouch, is fatal to religious devotion. I presume that if the\npastor wishes to find the most sterile portion of his field, he\nneeds only to ascertain the names of those who occupy pews in the\nvicinity of this lively little lady. Her husband died two years\nago, of sleeplessness, and a harassing system of nursing.\n\nThe Flutter Budgets are a numerous family in America. They are not\nall as restless as Madame, but the characteristics of the blood\nare manifest among them all. They never know repose; and, what is\nworse than this, they dread if they do not despise it. They are\nimmense workers--not that they do more work, and harder than their\nneighbors, but they make a great fuss about it, and are always at\nit. They rise early in the morning, and they sit up late at night;\nand they do this from year's end to year's end, whether they\nreally have any thing to do or not. They cannot sit still. They\nhave an unhealthy impression that it is wrong for them not to be\n\"doing something\" all the time. Nothing in the world will make\nthem so uncomfortable and so restless as leisure. Mrs. Flutter\nBudget could no more sit down without knitting-work, or a sock to\ndarn, in her hands, than she could fly. As she has many times\nremarked, she would die if she could not work. To her, and to all\nof her name and character, constant action seems to be a\nnecessity. The craving of the smoker for his pipe or cigar, the\nincessant hankering of the opium-eater for his drug, the terrible\nthirst of the drunkard for his cups--all these are legitimate\nillustrations of the morbid desire of the Budgets for action or\nmotion. The man who has the habit of using narcotics is not more\nrestless and unhappy without his accustomed stimulus, than they\nare with nothing to do. In truth, I believe the desire for action\nmay become just as morbid a passion of the soul as that which most\ndegrades and demoralizes mankind.\n\nIf I were called upon to define happiness, I could possibly give\nno definition that would shut out the word repose. I do not mean\nby this that no person can be happy except in a state of repose,\nbut I mean, rather, that no man can be happy to whom repose is\nimpossible. The highest definition of happiness would probably\ndesignate the consciousness of healthy powers harmoniously\nemployed as among its prime elements; but there can be no\nhappiness that deserves its name without the consciousness of\npowers that are able to subside from harmonious action into\npainless repose. I know a little girl who plays out of doors at\nnight as long as she can see, and who, when called into the house,\ntakes up a book with restless greed for mental excitement, and\nthen begs to be read to sleep after she has been required to put\ndown her book and go to bed. She would be called a happy child by\nthose who see her playing among her mates, yet it is easy to\nperceive that her happiness is limited to a single attitude and\ncondition of body and mind. A happier child than she is one who\ncan enjoy open-air play, and then quietly sit down at her mother's\nside and enjoy rest. That is an inharmonious and unhealthy state\nof mind which chafes with leisure; and he is an unhappy man who\ncannot sit down for a moment without reaching for a newspaper, or\nlooking about him for some quid for his morbid mind to chew upon.\nSo I count no man truly happy who cannot contentedly sit still\nwhen circumstances release his powers from labor, and who does not\nreckon among the rewards of labor a peaceful repose.\n\nNo; Mrs. Flutter Budget is not a happy woman; and, as I have\nintimated before, she seriously interferes with the happiness and\nthe spiritual prosperity of those about her. When she can find\nnothing to do, then she worries. Those children of hers are\nworried nearly to death. If, in their play, they get any dirt upon\ntheir faces, they are sent immediately to make themselves clean.\nIf they soil their clothes, they are shut up until reduced to a\nproper state of penitence. They are kept out of all draughts of\nair for fear of a cold; and if they should take cold, why, they\nmust take medicine of the most repulsive character as a penalty.\nIf they cough out of the wrong corner of their mouths, she\nsuspects them of croupy intentions; and if they venture, at some\nunguarded moment, on a cutaneous eruption, they are immediately\ncharged with the measles, or accused of small-pox. If they quietly\nsit down for a moment of repose, she apprehends sickness, and\nstirs them about to shake it off. Even sleep is not sacred to her,\nfor if she finds a flushed face among the harassed little\nslumberers, she wakes its owner to make affectionate inquiries.\nHer husband, as I have already stated, died two years ago. She\nworked upon his nervous system to such an extent that he was glad\nto be rid of the world, and of her. I think a man would die, after\nawhile, with constantly looking at the motion of a saw-mill. The\njar of a locomotive makes the toughest iron brittle at last; and\nthe wear and tear of a restless wife are beyond the strongest\nman's endurance.\n\nI have noticed that persons who have influence upon the minds of\nothers, maintain constantly a degree of repose. I do not mean that\nthose have most influence who use their powers sparingly, but that\na certain degree of mental repose--or what may possibly be called\nimperturbableness--is necessary to influence. Mrs. Flutter Budget\nalways talks in a hurry, and talks of a thousand things, and is\neasily excited. Her neighbor, carefully avoiding the causes which\nruffle her, and preserving the poise of her faculties, insists on\nher point quietly, and carries it. The repose of equanimity is a\ncharm which dissolves all opposition. The mind which shows itself\nopen to influences from every quarter, and is swayed by them, is\nnot its own master. The mind that never rests is invariably full\nof freaks and caprices. The mind that has no repose shows its\ndependence and its lack of self-control. There cannot go out of\nsuch a mind as this a positive influence, any more than there can\ngo forth from a candle a steady light, when it stands flickering\nand flaring in the wind, having all it can do to keep its flame\nfrom extinction. There must be that repose of mind which springs\nfrom conscious self-control and consciousness of the power of\nself-control, under all ordinary circumstances, before a man can\nhope to have influence of a powerful character upon the minds\nabout him. The driver of a coach-and-six, with all the ribbons in\nhis hands, and a thorough knowledge of his horses and his road,\nsits upon his box in repose; and that repose inspires me with\nconfidence in him; but if he should be constantly on the look-out\nfor some trick, and constantly examining his harnesses, and\nconstantly fussy and uneasy, I should lose my confidence in him,\nand wish I were in anybody's care but his.\n\nWe do not need to be taught that a restless mind is not a reliable\nmind. There is an instinct which tells us this. There can be no\nreliableness of character without repose. If I should wish to take\na ride, and two horses should be led before me to choose from, I\nwould take the one that stands still, waiting for his burden and\nhis command, rather than the one that occupies the road and his\ngroom with his caracoling and curveting and other signs of\nrestlessness. I should be measurably sure that one would bear me\nthrough my journey safely and speedily, and that the other would\neither throw me, or wear himself out, and so fail of giving me\ngood service. Saint Peter was a restless man--an impatient man. He\nwas always the most impulsive, and the most ready to act, as the\nservant of the high priest had occasion to remember; but he both\nlied and denied his Lord. It was John reposing upon the breast of\nJesus, who most drew forth the Lord's affection. Martha, worrying\nabout the house, cumbered with much serving, chose a part inferior\nto that of Mary who reposed at the feet of Jesus. It is only in\nrepose that the powers of the mind are marshalled for great\nenterprises and for progress. It is in repose, when passion is\nsleeping and reason is clear-eyed, that the military chieftain\nmarks out his campaign and arranges his forces. He is a poor\ncommander who throws his troops into the field, and fights without\norder, or struggles for no definite end; and there are multitudes\nof men who throw themselves into life with an immense splutter,\nand fight the fight of life with a great deal of noise, but who\nnever make any progress, because they have never drawn upon repose\nfor a plan.\n\nRepose is the cradle of power. It is the fashion to say that great\nmen are men of great passions, as if their passions were the cause\nrather than the concomitant of their greatness. Great elephants\nhave great legs, but the legs do not make the elephants great.\nGreat legs, however, are required to move great elephants, and\nwherever we find great elephants, we find great legs. Small men\nsometimes have great passions, and these passions may so far\novercome them that they shall be the weakest of the weak. The\npossession of great passions is often a disadvantage to weak men\nand strong men alike, because they furnish so many assailable\npoints for outside forces. A fortress may be very strongly built,\nbut if its doors are open, and scaling ladders are run permanently\ndown from its walls for the accommodation of invading forces, its\nstrength will be of very little practical advantage. Great\npassions are oftener the weak, than the strong points of great\nmen. Now I do not believe it possible for a man to exercise a high\ndegree of power upon the hearts and minds of others, and, at the\nsame time, be under the influence of any variety of passion. A man\ncannot be the shivering subject of an outside force, acting upon\nhim through his passions, and at the same time a centre of\neffluent power. Action and passion are opposed to each other; and\nwhen one has possession of the soul the other is wanting. They\ninvolve two distinct attitudes of the mind, as truly as do\nthanksgiving and petition.\n\nThe world often finds fault with great men because they are cold;\nbut they could not be great men if they were not cold. A physician\nis often preferred by a family or patient because he is \"so\nsympathizing,\" as they call it. They forget that a physician is\nnecessarily untrustworthy in the degree that he is sympathetic\nwith his patients. A physician may be thoroughly kind, and out of\nhis kindness there may grow a gentle manner which seems to spring\nfrom sympathy; but I say unhesitatingly that in the degree by\nwhich a physician is sympathetic with his patients, is he unfitted\nfor his work. A dentist who feels, in sympathy, the pain that he\ninflicts upon a child, is unfitted to perform his operation. The\nsurgeon who sensitively sympathizes with a man whose diseased or\ncrushed limb it has fallen to his lot to remove, has lost a\nportion of his power and skill, and has become a poorer surgeon\nfor his sympathy. Physicians themselves show that they understood\nthis when a case for medical or surgical treatment occurs in their\nown families. If their wives or their children are sick, they\ncannot control their sympathies; and the moment they are aware of\nthis, they lose all confidence in themselves. They cannot reduce\nthe fracture of a child's limb, or prescribe for a wife lying\ndangerously ill, because their sympathies are so greatly excited\nthat their judgment is good for nothing. In other words, they are\nin an attitude or condition of passion--they are moved and wrought\nupon by outside forces, to such a degree that they cannot act.\n\nIf an orator rise in his place, and show by the agitation of his\nnerves, his broken sentences, and his choked utterances, that\nemotion is uppermost in him, he has no more power upon his\naudience than a baby. We pity his weakness, or we sympathize with\nhim; but he cannot move us. He is a mastered man, and until he can\nchoke down his passion he cannot master us. A man rises in an\naudience in a state of furious excitement, and fumes, and yells,\nand gesticulates, but he only moves us to pity, or disgust, or\nlaughter. His passion utterly deprives him of power. We call Mr.\nGough an actor, as he undoubtedly is; and we pretend to be\ndisgusted with him for simulating every night, for a hundred\nnights in succession, the emotions which move us. We forget that\nif Mr. Gough should really become the subject of the passions\nwhich he illustrates, he would lose his power upon us, and kill\nhimself besides. He takes care never to be mastered, and takes\ncare also that all the machinery which he uses shall contribute to\nhis mastery of us. I do not deny that passion may be made\ntributary to the power of men. Oil is tributary to the power of\nmachinery by lubricating its points of friction; and warmth, by\nbringing its members into more perfect adjustment; but if the\nmachinery were made to wade in oil, or were heated red hot, oil\nand heat would be a damage to it.\n\nI repeat the proposition, then, that repose is the cradle of\npower. The man who cannot hold his passions in repose--in perfect\nrepose--can never employ the measure of his power. These \"cold\nmen,\" as the world calls them, are the men who move and control\ntheir race. But it is not necessary to cling to great men for the\nillustration of my subject. To say that a Christian philanthropist\nshould not be a sympathetic man would be to say that he should not\nbe a man at all; but nothing is more certain than that if a man\nshould surrender himself to his sympathies it would kill him. In a\nworld where sin and its bitter fruits abound as they do in this,\nwhere little children cry for bread, and whole races are sunk in\nbarbarism, and villainy preys upon virtue, and the innocent suffer\nin the place of the guilty, and sickness lays its hand upon\nmultitudes, and pain holds its victims to a life-long bondage, and\ndeath leads throngs daily to the grave, and leaves other throngs\nwild with grief, a sensitively sympathetic man, surrendering\nhimself to all the influences that address him, would lose all\npower to help the distressed, or even to speak a word of comfort.\nWe are to apprehend the woes of others through our sympathies, and\nto hold those sympathies in such repose that all the power of our\nnatures will be held ready for, and subject to, intelligent\nministry. The woman who faints at the sight of blood is not fit\nfor a hospital. The man who grows pale at hearing a groan, will\nnot do for a surgeon. If we mean to do any thing in this world for\nthe good of men, we must first compel our sympathies and our\npassions into repose.\n\nThat which is true of power in this matter is true of judgment. It\nis a widely bruited aphorism that \"all history is a lie,\" and this\naphorism had its birth in the fact that historians become, as it\nwere, magnetized by the characters with which they deal. A man who\nwrites the life of Napoleon finds himself either sympathizing with\nhim, or roused into antipathy by him. In short, he becomes the\nsubject of a passion, wrought upon him by the character which he\ncontemplates and undertakes to paint; and from the moment this\npassion takes possession of him, he becomes unfitted to write an\nimpartial and reliable word about him. All positive historical\ncharacters have all possible historical portraits, simply because\nthe writers are subjects of passion. It is because no man can\nwrite of positive characters without being the subject of an\ninfluence from them, that no man can be an impartial historian,\nand that all history must necessarily be a lie. If ever a perfect\nhistory shall be written, it will be written by one whose passions\nare under entire control, and kept in a condition of profound\nrepose--who will look at a historical character as he would upon\nan impaled beetle in an entomological collection. A man is no\ncompetent judge of a character, either in history or in life, with\nwhich he strongly sympathizes. I have known many a man utterly\nunfitted to read the proofs of the villainy of one to whom he had\nsurrendered his sympathies. A woman in love is a very poor judge\nof character. She can see nothing but excellence where others see\nnothing but shallowness and rottenness.\n\nOnce more, there is no dignity without repose. A restless, uneasy\nman, can never be a dignified man. There can be no dignity about a\nman or a woman who fumes, and frets, and fusses, and is full of\nfreaks and caprices. Dignity of manners is always associated with\nrepose. Mrs. Flutter Budget always enters a drawing-room as if she\nwere a loaded doll, tossed in by the usher, and goes dodging and\ntipping about to get her centre of gravity, without getting it. Her\nqueenly neighbor comes in as the sun rises--calmly, sweetly, steadily,\nand all hearts bow to her dignified coming. What would an Archbishop\nbe worth for dignity, who should be continually scratching his ears,\nand brushing his nose, and crossing and re-crossing his legs, and\ndrumming with his fingers? Who would not deem the ermine degraded\nby a chief justice who should be constantly twitching about upon his\nbench? It is a fact that has come under the observation of the least\nobservant, that the moment a man surrenders himself to his passions\nhe loses his dignity. A fit of anger is as fatal to dignity as a dose of\narsenic to life. A fit of mirthfulness is hardly less fatal. So it is in\nrepose, and particularly in the repose of the passions, that we find\nthe happiness, the influence, the power, and the dignity of our life.\nLet us cultivate repose.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XIV.\n\nTHE WAYS OF CHARITY.\n\n\n  \"The Holy Supper is kept indeed,\n   In whatso we share with another's need;\n   Not that which we give, but what we share.\n   For the gift without the giver is bare:\n   Who bestows himself, with his alms feeds three,--\n   Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.\"\n   LOWELL.\n\n  \"It may not be our lot to wield\n   The sickle in the ripened field;\n   Nor ours to hear on summer eves,\n   The reaper's song among the sheaves;\n   Yet, when our duty's task is wrought,\n   In unison with God's great thought,\n   The near and future blend in one,\n   And whatsoe'er is willed is done.\"\n   WHITTIER.\n\nI have come to entertain very serious doubts about my \"orthodoxy\"\non the subject of doing good. If I know my own motives, I\ncertainly have a desire to do good; but this desire is yoke fellow\nwith the perverse wish to do it in my own way. I do not feel\nmyself inclined to accept the prescriptions of those who have\ntaken out patents for various ingenious processes in this line of\neffort. My attention has just been attracted to this subject, by\nthe perusal of a long story, which must be not far from the one\nhundred and ninety-ninth that I have read during the past twenty\nyears, all tipped with the same general moral. A good-natured\nlady, in easy circumstances, and of benevolent impulses, is\nappealed to by a poor man in the kitchen. She feeds him, gives him\nclothes, sends him away rejoicing, and feels good over it. The man\ncomes again and again, tells pitiful stories, excites her\nbenevolence of course, and secures a reasonable amount of\nadditional plunder. Months pass away; and being out upon a walk\none pleasant afternoon, and finding herself near the poor man's\nresidence, the fair benefactress calls upon him. She finds the\nwife (who was reported dead) very comfortable indeed, and the\ndestitute family of four children reduced to a single fat and\nsaucy baby, and the poor liar himself smelling strongly of rum.\nThen come the denouement, and a grand tableau: lady very much\ngrieved and astonished--wife, who has known nothing of her\nhusband's tricks, exceedingly bewildered--fuddled husband, blind\nwith rum and remorse, owns up to his meanness and duplicity. He\nfound (as he confessed) that he could work upon the lady's\nsympathies, got to lying and couldn't stop, and, finally, felt so\nbadly over the whole operation, that he took to drink to drown his\nconscience! _Moral:_ Women should not help poor people without\ngoing to see them, and finding out whether they lie.\n\nNow that woman did exactly as I should have done, under the same\ncircumstances. In the first place, I should never have had the\nheart to doubt a man who carried an honest face, and was cold,\nhungry, and ragged. I should have regarded his condition as a\nclaim upon my charity. In the second place, I should have had no\ntime to call upon his family, and satisfy myself with regard to\ntheir circumstances; and in the third place, I should have felt\nvery delicate about putting direct questions to them if I had. The\nsame story tells incidentally of one of these men who do good in\nthe proper way. He visited a house which presented all the signs\nof poverty; but the angel of mercy was too 'cute' to be taken in;\nso he walked up stairs. Every thing presenting there the same\naspect of abject poverty that prevailed below, the angel of mercy\nlooked around him, and discovered a ladder leading to the garret.\nThe angel of mercy \"smelt a rat,\" and mounted the ladder. In the\ngarret he found half a cord of wood, and any quantity of goodies\nfor the table. Another denouement and tableau. _Moral:_ as\nbefore. If the story has taught me any thing, it is that it is my\nduty to question every beggar that comes to my door, visit his\nhouse, explore it from cellar to garret, and satisfy myself of\nthe truth or falsehood of his representations. Otherwise, my\ncharity goes for nothing, and I do my beggar an absolute\nunkindness. In other words, while the law holds every man innocent\nuntil he is proved to be guilty, charity holds every man guilty\nuntil he is proved to be innocent.\n\nIt has become the fashion in certain circles to decry that\nbenevolence which sits at home in slippers, and gives its money\nwithout seeing where it goes; but it is forgotten that the money\ndispensed in slippers was earned in boots, and that the man who\nhas money to give, has usually so much business on hand that he\ncan make no adequate personal examination of the cases which are\nreferred to his charity. I can never forget Mr. Dickens' Cheeryble\nBrothers, who were so very much obliged to a friend for calling\nupon them, and telling them of the circumstances of a poor family.\nIt was taken as a great personal kindness when they were informed\nhow and where they could relieve want and distress. They had no\ngenius for going about and looking up cases of charity, but their\nhearts leaped at the opportunity to do good. They did their work\nin their counting-room, and had no time and no talent for visiting\nthose whom they benefited; but who would question either the\ngenuineness or the judiciousness of their benevolence? The\napplications for aid made at the doors of our dwellings come\noftener to the mistresses of those dwellings than to the masters;\nand these mistresses, four times in five, are women with the care\nof children on their hands, or household duties which demand\nalmost constant attention. If a beggar come to the door, they are\ngrateful for the opportunity to afford relief; but they have no\ntime to visit another quarter of the town, to learn whether their\ncharities have been well bestowed, nor do they withhold their\ncharities through fear of being imposed upon.\n\nIn my judgment, the character and circumstances of a man determine\nhis office in the work of charitable relief. I know there are some\npersons who have a peculiar natural adaptation to the work of\nvisiting the subjects of sickness and of need. Their presence and\ntheir sympathy are grateful to those to whom they delight to\nminister. They are masters and mistresses of all those thrifty\neconomies which enable them to manage for the poor. They have\ngenuine administrative talent in this particular department. They\nare cheerful and active, and sympathetic and ingenious; and they\ncan do more for a poor, discouraged family with ten dollars than\nothers can do with fifty. I do not suppose that these people are\none whit more benevolent than those whose purses are always open\nto the poor, and who at the same time would feel very awkward upon\na visit of charity, and would make the family visited feel as\nawkward as themselves. The poor we have always with us; and every\nman and woman who possesses means for their relief owes a duty to\nthem which is to be discharged in the most efficient way. If I\nhave money, and do not feel that I am the proper person to look\nafter the details of its dispensation, I will put it into the\nhands of one more competent to the business, and I will rationally\nconclude that I have done my duty. In the mean time, if a man come\nto my door, and ask for the supply of his immediate necessities,\nhe shall not be turned empty away because I do not happen to have\nthe means at hand for verifying his story.\n\nI know that there are multitudes of tender-hearted women--women of\nabounding benevolence and sensitive conscience--who are troubled\nupon this subject. They have a desire to do good, and to do it in\nthe right way; but, somehow, they find if impossible to do it\naccording to the views of the story-writers. They are any thing\nbut rugged in health, perhaps, or they have a dependent family of\nyoung children around them, or the care of their dwellings absorbs\ntheir time. They fail to find the opportunity to visit the poor,\nor they do not feel themselves adapted to the office; and still\nthey carry about with them the uncomfortable suspicion that they\nare meanly shrinking from duty. My thought upon this point is that\nmy duties never conflict with one another, and that if I can do\ngood in one way better than another, then that is my way to do\ngood. I shall not permit the story-writers to prescribe for me,\nnor shall I allow them to make me uncomfortable.\n\nThere is a class of men and women in all Protestant communities\nwho think it a very neat thing to do good at random. They sow\nbroadcast of cheap seed, content to reap nothing at all, and\npleasantly disappointed if they find here and there a stalk of\ncorn to reward their sowing. They do not prepare their ground,\nthey do not cultivate it at all, but they sow, hoping that in some\nopen place a seed may fall and germinate. Some of these people\nregard this method of doing good as a kind of holy stratagem--a\nChristian trick--which takes the devil at a disadvantage. I once\nknew a kind old gentleman who did a business that brought him\nconsiderably into contact with rough and profane persons; and as\nhe wished to do something for them, he kept his pockets filled\nwith little printed cards entitled \"The Swearer's Prayer;\" and\nwhenever an oath came out, the utterer was immediately presented\nwith this card with a little story on it, and a statement that \"to\nswear is neither brave, polite, nor wise.\" I very well remember\nhearing the old gentleman say that, though he had given away\nhundreds of these cards, he had never learned that one of them had\ndone any good. I do not wonder at it. It was a sneaking way of\ndoing good, or of trying to. If the old man had remonstrated\npersonally with these swearing fellows, and told them that their\nhabit was both vulgar and wicked, does any one suppose that the\nresult would have been so unsatisfactory? He had not pluck enough\nto do this; so he gave them a card, and they either threw it in\nhis face or threw it away. But then, the cards didn't cost much!\n\nI have been much interested in watching a car-load of passengers,\nwhile receiving each from the hands of a professional distributor\na religious tract. All have received the gift politely, in\ndeference to the motive which prompted, or was supposed to prompt,\nits bestowal; yet I have never failed to perceive that politeness\nwas really taxed in the matter. Now let me be candid, and confess\nthat I was never pleasantly impressed by being presented with a\ntract in a railroad car. This fact cannot be attributed to any\nlack of disposition to contemplate religious subjects; but there\nis something which tells me that it is improper and indelicate for\nany man to come into a public vehicle, and thrust upon me and upon\nmy fellow-passengers a set of motives and opinions on religion\nwhich may or may not accord with my own and theirs--just as it\nhappens. I think the natural action of the mind is to brace itself\nagainst influences sought to be sprung upon it in this manner;\nand I am yet to be convinced that this indiscriminate and\nwholesale distribution of religious tracts in railroad stations\nand public conveyances is not doing, and has not done, more harm\nthan good. I know that multitudes of men--not vicious--are\ndisgusted with it, and offended by it, and that there is\nsomething--call it what you may--in the emotions excited by the\npresentation of a tract under such ill-chosen circumstances, which\ncounteracts any good influence it was intended to produce. A\ngentleman will receive a tract politely, and read it or not\naccording to his whim; but it will be very apt to disgust him with\nthe style of Christianity which it represents.\n\nI am aware that the secretary and the agents of the tract\nsocieties make very encouraging reports of the results of their\noperations. I am always interested in these details, and do not\ndiscredit at all the statements which they make. Nay, I am\nconvinced that in certain departments of their effort they are\nsuccessful in doing much good. I believe that their noble army of\ncolporteurs, going from lonely neighborhood to neighborhood, and\ncarrying with them an unselfish, devoted life, and the living\nvoice of prayer, exhortation, and counsel, win many souls to\nChristian virtue. I am willing to acknowledge, further, that here\nand there a tract, chance-sown, may fall into ground ready to\nreceive it; but I have a right to question whether the same\noutlay of effort and money, applied directly in other fields,\nwould not bring very much larger returns. My point is that in all\nefforts to do good, in this way, appropriateness of time and place\nis always to be consulted. I once took my seat in a dentist's\nchair to have an operation performed upon my teeth. If I remember\ncorrectly, an ugly fang was to be removed,--at any rate, pain was\ninvolved in the matter; but no sooner was the dentist's arm around\nmy head, and his instrument in my mouth, than the well-meaning and\nzealous operator began to question me upon the subject of personal\nreligion. Now it seemed quite as bad to undertake to propagate\nChristianity at the point of a surgical instrument, as it would be\nto win proselytes by the sword; and the utter incongruity of the\ntwo operations disgusted me. At any rate, _I changed my dentist_.\nI felt like the man who found upon his landlady's table an article\nof butter that was inconveniently encumbered with hair, and who\ninformed her that he had no objection to hair, but would prefer to\nhave it served upon a separate dish.\n\nA good many years ago, I read a Sunday-school book entitled, if I\nremember correctly, \"Walks of Usefulness.\" It represented a man\ngoing out into the street, and \"pitching into\" every person he met\nwith, upon the subject of religion, or starting a conversation and\nimmediately giving it a spiritual twist. I thought then that he\nwas a remarkably ingenious man--a wonderful story-teller, to say\nthe least of him. I am inclined to think now that he romanced a\nlittle. Every operation was so neatly done, and turned out so\nwell, that I really suspect it was pure fiction. I have this to\nsay, at any rate, that if he did and said what he professed to\nhave done and said, under the circumstances which he described, he\nowed it to the politeness of those whom he addressed that he was\nnot dismissed with a decided rebuff, and told to go about his\nbusiness. \"A word fitly spoken, how good it is!\" Ah yes! how very\ngood it is! Christian zeal is no excuse for bad taste, nor is\nChristian effort exempt from the laws of fitness and propriety\nwhich attach to human effort of other aims in other fields. If I\nwish to reach a man's mind upon any important subject, and\ncircumstances do not favor me, I wait for circumstances to change,\nor I pave my way to his mind by a series of carefully-adjusted\nefforts. Abrupt transitions of thought and feeling, and violent\ninterruptions of the currents of mental life and action, are never\nfavorable to reflection. If I wish to cheer a man who is bowed to\nthe earth in grief for the loss of a companion, I will not break\nin upon his mourning with a lively tune upon a fiddle. If I wish\nto attract him to a religious life, I will not interrupt the flow\nof his innocently social hours by some terrible threat or warning.\nIn truth, I know of nothing that calls for more care, or nicer\ndiscrimination, or choicer address, than a personal attempt to\nmove an irreligious mind in a religious direction. The word of\ngold should always have a setting of silver.\n\nThere seems to be a prevalent disposition in the religious world\nto do good by indirection and stratagem. If a man can reach one\nmind by scattering ten thousand tracts, the result is more\ngrateful than it would be if that mind were reached by direct\npersonal effort without any tracts; and it makes a larger and more\ninteresting show in the reports. This disposition is manifest in\nthe matter of charitable fairs. The women of a religious society\nwill make up a batch of little-or-nothings, freeze a few cans of\nice cream, hire a hall, and advertise a sale. We all go, and buy\nthings that we do not want, with a good-natured and gallant\ndisregard of prices, and the footings of receipts are published in\nthe newspapers. The charitable women feel pleasantly about it, and\nthink that they have done a great deal of good at a small cost,\nwithout remembering that all the money they have made has cost\nsomebody the amount of the declared figures. It seems to be a\ngreat deal pleasanter to get possession of the money in this way,\nthan it would be to obtain it by a general subscription. They\nforget that all they have done is to obtain a subscription by a\ngraceful and attractive stratagem, and that the motives which they\nhave pocketed with the money would not stand the test of a\nscrupulous analysis. The main point seems to be to get the money,\nand do the good with the least possible sense of sacrifice; as a\nman goes to a charitable ball, and pays two dollars for the\nprivilege of dancing all night, in order to give a shilling of\nprofits to the widow and fatherless without feeling the burden of\nthe charity.\n\nOf all the means of doing good, I know of none so repulsive as\nthat which is purely professional. I think we do not have so much\nof this in these days as our fathers had. Our pastors are more\nthoroughly our companions and friends than they used to be. They\ndo not assume to be our dictators and censors as they did in the\nearlier days of Puritanism. The idea of the regular parochial\nvisit is essentially changed. But I know clergymen, even now, who\nvisit the house of mourning professionally, and give their\nprofessional consolation in a professional way, and depart feeling\nthat they have faithfully performed their professional duty. I\nknow clergymen who go round from house to house with their\nprofessional inquiries, and do up any quantity of professional\nwork in a day. The family come in, (those who do not run away,)\nand take seats around the room, and answer questions, and listen\nto a prayer, and then they bid their pastor a good afternoon with\na sense of relief, and go about their business again, while he\npushes on to his next parishioner, and repeats the professional\ntask. It is all a dry and unfruitful formality on the part of the\nfamilies visited, and a professionally-discharged duty on the\npart of the pastor, and a pitifully-ridiculous caricature of the\nvisit of a religious teacher to his disciples every way. What\nshall be said of an interview of which the pastor's part consisted\nof these words: \"Very late spring--Hem!\" (looking out of the\nwindow)--\"who is building that barn?--potatoes seem to be getting\nalong very well;\" (turning to a member of the family)--\"Jane, how\ndo you enjoy your mind?\" A spiritual frame that could stand such a\ntransition as that, without taking a fatal cold, must be based\nupon a very sound constitution, and toughened by frequent\nrepetition of the process.\n\nI suppose there will always be obtuse men in the pastoral office--\nmen who know no way of getting into a sensitive soul except by\nknocking in the door and walking in with their boots on; but all\nsuch men are out of their place. The souls of an average people--\ntied to the tasks of life, burdened by care, oppressed by\nroutine, and depressed in many instances by bodily weakness--need\nsympathy more than counsel, and encouragement and inspiration more\nthan a solemn, professional catechetical probing of their\nreligious state. But I think, as I have already said, that the\nworld is improving in this matter. Our pastors are more social,\nmore facile, more appreciative of the fact that, in all their\npersonal intercourse with their people, they must win love and\ngive sympathy if they would do good in the line of their\nprofession.\n\nSo much in the vein of criticism; and if I am asked what guide a\nman shall have in the matter of doing good in the world, I shall\nanswer: a loving, honest, and brave heart, and a mind that judges\nfor itself. The heart that loves its fellow-men will move its\npossessor to do good; and the mind that thinks and judges for\nitself will decide in what direction its efforts ought to be made.\nIf a man be moved to do good, he will do it, and his heart will\nlead him in the right direction. Under a mistaken sense of duty,\ninculcated by incompetent counsellors, men find themselves in\nfields of benevolent action to which they are very poorly adapted;\nand the world is full of these blunders; but an honestly-loving\nheart and an ordinarily clear brain, that nobody has been allowed\nto meddle with and muddle, will tell a man where he belongs and\nwhat he ought to do. If a man have a gift for ministering to the\nsick, let him do it. If he have a gift for dealing personally with\nthe poor, let him do that. If he have a gift for making money, and\nnone for properly applying his charities, let him hand his money\nto those who are competent to dispense it. I do not believe that\nmany loving hearts, coupled with unsophisticated judgments, are\nengaged in indiscriminate and random efforts to act for religious\nends upon the minds they meet with. I believe that with all such\nhearts and judgments there is connected a sense of that which is\nfit and proper in time, place, and circumstance, so that wherever\nthey strike they leave their mark. I believe that such hearts and\njudgments will scorn to do that by indirection which they can do\nbetter directly, and that if it be fit and proper for them to\noffer reproof to a man, they will do it by the brave word of\nmouth, and not sneak up to him and put a card or a tract into his\nhand. I believe that men with such hearts and judgments would\nprefer making a subscription directly to a charitable object, to\nmaking one indirectly by paying double price for articles they do\nnot want. And last, I think that pastors, with such hearts and\njudgments, are not at all in danger of becoming coldly professional\nin their noble duties. A life in any sphere that is the expression\nand outflow of an honest, earnest, loving heart, taking counsel only\nof God and itself, will be certain to be a life of beneficence in\nthe best possible direction.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XV.\n\nMEN OF ONE IDEA.\n\n\n  \"Cultivate the physical exclusively, and you have an athlete\nor a savage; the moral only, and you have an enthusiast or a maniac;\nthe intellectual only, and you have a diseased oddity--it may be a\nmonster. It is only by wisely training all three together that the\ncomplete man can be formed.\"--SAMUEL SMILES.\n\nWhen the heats of summer have dried up the streams, and cataracts\nonly trickle and drip, and the dams of brooks and rivers cease to\npour the arching crystal from their lips, I have always loved to\nexplore the forsaken water-courses. An imprisoned fish, a shell\nwith rainbow lining, a curiously-worn rock, a strangely-tinted\nand grotesquely-fashioned stone--these are always objects of\ninterest. Then to sit down upon a ledge that has been planed off\nby ice, and smoothed by the tenuous passage of an ocean's\npalpitating volume, and watch the shrunken stream slipping around\nits feet, and hear the gurgle of the faintly-going water, and\ngrowl so drowsy with the song that it breaks at last into\nsurprising articulations, and talks and laughs, and shouts and\nsings--ah! this, indeed, is enchantment! There are few men,\nI suppose, so fortunate as to have enjoyed a country breeding,\nwho do not recall scenes like this,--who do not remember a\nhalf-holiday, at least, spent in the bed of a summer stream,\nand at the feet of scanty cataracts, making fierce attacks on\nwater snakes, watching lizards lying among the stones of an old\nraceway, creeping up, hat in hand, to a gauze-winged devil's needle\nthat shivered on a sunny point of rock, and looked as if it might\nbe the ghost of a humming-bird, starting to mark the sudden flight\nand hear the chattering cry of the king-fisher as he darted\nthrough the shadows and disappeared, and noting the slim-legged\nwagtail, racing backward and forward upon the border of the\nstream.\n\nAmong the objects of interest very often, if not always, to be\nfound at the feet of dams and cataracts, are what people call\n\"pot-holes.\" They are round holes worn in the solid rock by a\nsingle stone, kept in motion by the water. Some of them are very\nlarge and others are small. When the stream becomes dry, there\nthey are, smooth as if turned out by machinery, and the hard,\nround pebbles at the bottom by which the curious work was done.\nEvery year, as the dry season comes along, we find that the holes\nhave grown larger and the pebbles smaller, and that no freshet\nhas been found powerful enough to dislodge the pebbles and release\nthe rock from their attrition. Now if a man will turn from the\ncontemplation of one of these pot-holes, and the means by which it\nis made, and seek for that result and that process in the world of\nmind which most resemble them, I am sure that he will find them in\na man of one idea. In truth, these scenes that I have been\npainting were all recalled to me by looking upon one of these men,\nstudying his character, and watching the effect of the single idea\nby which he was actuated. \"There,\" said I, involuntarily, \"is a\nmoral pot-hole with a pebble in it; and the hole grows larger and\nthe pebble smaller every year.\"\n\nI suppose it is useless to undertake to reform men of one idea.\nThe real trouble is that the pebble is in them; and whole freshets\nof truth are poured upon them, only with the effect to make it\nmore lively in its grinding, and more certain in its process of\nwearing out itself and them. The little man who, when ordered by\nhis physician to take a quart of medicine, informed him with a\ndeprecatory whimper, that he did not hold but a pint, illustrates\nthe capacity of many of those who are subjects of a single idea.\nThey do not hold but one, and it would be useless to prescribe a\nlarger number. In a country like ours, in which every thing is new\nand everybody is free, there are multitudes of self-constituted\ndoctors, each of whom has a nostrum for curing all physical and\nmoral disorders and diseases,--a patent process by which humanity\nmay achieve its proudest progress and its everlasting happiness.\nThe country is full of hobby-riders, booted and spurred, who\nimagine they are leading a grand race to a golden goal, forgetful\nof the truth that their steeds are tethered to a single idea,\naround which they are revolving only to tread down the grass and\nwind themselves up, where they may stand at last amid the world's\nridicule, and starve to death.\n\nMan cannot live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds\nout of the mouth of God, whether spoken through nature or\nrevelation. There is no one idea in all God's universe so great\nand so nutritious that it can furnish food for an immortal soul.\nVariety of nutriment is absolutely essential, even to physical\nhealth. There are so many elements that enter into the structure\nof the human body, and such variety of stimuli requisite for the\nplay of its vital forces, that it is necessary to lay under\ntribute a wide range of nature; and fruits and roots and grain,\nbeasts of the field, fowls of the air, and fish of the sea, juices\nand spices and flavors, all bring their contributions to the\nperfection of the human animal, and the harmony of its functions.\nThe sailor, kept too long upon his hard biscuit and salt junk,\ndegenerates into scurvy. The occupant of the Irish hovel who\nlives upon his favorite root, and sees neither bread nor meat,\ngrows up with weak eyes, an ugly face, and a stunted body. It is\nprecisely thus with a man who occupies and feeds his mind with a\nsingle idea. He grows mean and small and diseased with the diet.\nThe soul bears relation to such a wealth of truth, such a\nmultitude of interests cluster about it, it has such variety of\nelements--as illustrated by its illimitable range of action and\npassion--it touches and receives impressions from all other souls\nat such an infinite variety of points, that it is simply absurd to\nsuppose that one idea can feed it, even for a day.\n\nA mind that surrenders itself to a single idea becomes essentially\ninsane. I know a man who has dwelt so long upon the subject of a\nvegetable diet that it has finally taken possession of him. It is\nnow of such importance in his eyes that every other subject is\nthrown out of its legitimate relations to him. It is the constant\ntheme of his thought--the study of his life. He questions the\nproperties and quantities of every mouthful that passes his lips,\nand watches its effects upon him. He reads upon this subject\neverything he can lay his hands on. He talks upon it with every\nman he meets. He has ransacked the whole Bible for support to his\ntheories; and the man really believes that the eternal salvation\nof the human race hinges upon a change of diet. It has become a\nstandard by which to decide the validity of all other truth. If\nhe did not believe that the Bible was on his side of the question,\nhe would discard the Bible. Experiments or opinions that make\nagainst his faith are either contemptuously rejected or\ningeniously explained away. Now this man's mind is not only\nreduced to the size of his idea, and assimilated to its character,\nbut it has lost its soundness. His reason is disordered. His\njudgment is perverted--depraved. He sees things in unjust and\nillegitimate relations. The subject that absorbs him has grown out\nof proper proportions, and all other subjects have shrunk away\nfrom it. I know another man--a man of fine powers--who is just as\nmuch absorbed by the subject of ventilation; and though both of\nthese men are regarded by the community as of sound mind, I think\nthey are demonstrably insane.\n\nIf we rise into larger fields, we shall find more notable\ndemonstration of the starving effect of the entertainment of a\nsingle idea. Scattered throughout the country we shall find men\nwho have devoted themselves to the cause of temperance, or\nabstinence from intoxicating liquors. Here is a grand, a humane, a\nmost worthy and important cause; yet temperance as an idea is not\nenough to furnish food for a human soul. Some of these men have\nonly room in them for one idea, and, so far as they are concerned,\nit might as well be temperance as any thing, though it is bad for\nthe cause; but the majority of them were, at starting, men of\ngenerous instincts, a quick sense of that which is pure and true,\nand a genuine love of mankind. They dwelt upon their idea--they\nlived upon it for a few years--and then they \"showed their\nkeeping.\" If I should wish to find a narrow-minded, uncharitable,\nbigoted soul, in the smallest possible space of time, I would look\namong those who have made temperance the specialty of their\nlives--not because temperance is bad, but because one idea is bad;\nand the men afflicted by this particular idea are numerous and\nnotorious. They have no faith in any man who does not believe\nexactly as they do. They accuse every man of unworthy motives who\nopposes them. They permit no liberty of individual judgment and no\nrange of opinion; and when they get a chance, they drive\nlegislation into the most absurd and harmful extremes. Men of one\nidea are always extremists, and extremists are always nuisances. I\nmight truthfully add that an extremist is never a man of sound\nmind.\n\nThe whole tribe of professional agitators and miscalled reformers\nare men of one idea. That these men do good, sometimes directly\nand frequently indirectly, I do not deny; and it is equally\nevident that they do a great deal of harm, the worst of which,\nperhaps, falls upon themselves. Like the charge of a cannon, they\ndo damage to an enemy's fortifications, but they burn up the\npowder there is in them, and lose the ball. Like blind old Samson,\nthey may prostrate the pillars of a great wrong, but they crush\nthemselves and the Philistines together. The greatest and truest\nreformer that ever lived was Jesus Christ; but ah! the difference\nbetween his broad aims, universal sympathies, and overflowing\nlove, and the malignant spirit that moves those who angrily beat\nthemselves to death against an instituted wrong! As an illustration,\nlook at those who have been the prominent agitators of the slavery\nquestion in this country for the last twenty years. Are they men of\ncharity? Are they Christian men? Is not invective the chosen and\naccustomed language of their lips? Do they not follow those against\nwhom they have opposed themselves, whether for good cause or\notherwise, into their graves with a fiendish lust of cruelty, and do\nthey not delight to trample upon great names and sacred memories?\nAre they men whom we love? Do we feel attracted to their society?\nTeachers of toleration, are they not the most intolerant of all men\nliving? Denouncers of bigotry, are they not the most fiercely bigoted\nof any men we know? Preachers of love and good will to men, do\nthey not use more forcibly than any other class the power of words\nto wound and poison human sensibilities?\n\nIt is not the quality of the idea which a man entertains that\nkills him. Freedom for every creature that bears God's image--the\nbreaking of the rod of the oppressor and letting the oppressed go\nfree--this is a good idea. It is so great, so broad, so full, so\nflowing, that a world of men might gather around it for a time as\nthey do around Niagara, and grow divine in its majestic music and\nthe vision of the wreath of light which heaven holds above it. If\na man undertake to live upon a single idea, it really makes very\nlittle difference to him whether that idea be a good or a bad one.\nA man may as well get scurvy on beans as beef. I suppose a diet of\npotatoes would be quite as likely to support life comfortably as a\ndiet of peaches. It is because the human soul cannot live upon one\nthing alone, but demands participation in every expression of the\nlife of God, that it will dwarf and starve upon even the grandest\nand most divine idea.\n\nThe agitators and reformers are very ready to see the dwarfing\neffect of a single idea or a single range of ideas upon the\nChristian ministry, and a large number of Christian men. I admit\nthe accuracy of their observations in this matter, and, admitting\nthis, I can certainly ask the question whether they hope to escape\ndepreciation when the Christian idea--the divinest of all---is\ninsufficient of itself to make a man, and fill him, and give him\nall desirable health and wealth and growth. As I have touched upon\nthis point, I may say that it is coming to be understood that a\nman or a minister, in order to be a Christian, must be something\nelse--that Christianity received into nature and life is only one\nof the elements of manhood--and that a man may become starved and\nmean and bigoted and essentially insane by feeding exclusively\nupon religion. What means the vision of these sapless, sad, and\nsanctimonious Christians--these poor, thin, stingy lives--but\nthat all ideas save the religious one have been shut out from\nthem? Is it not notorious that a minister who has fed exclusively\nupon religion is a man without power upon the hearts and minds of\nmen? Is it not true that he has most efficiency in pulpit\nministration who has the largest knowledge of and sympathy with\nmen, the broadest culture, and the widest acquaintance with all\nthe ideas that enter as food and motive into human life? Is it not\ntrue that in the life-long, absorbing anxiety and carefulness of\na multitude of souls to secure their salvation, those souls are\nconstantly becoming less valuable, and thus--to use the language\nof the market--less worth saving?\n\nI cannot fail, however unwilling, to see much that is dry and\nstiff and unlovely in the style of Christianity around me. It has\nno attraction for me. I do not like the people who illustrate it;\nand the reason is, not that they have got too much of Christianity,\nbut that they have not got enough of any thing else. Flour is good,\nbut flour is not bread. If I am to eat flour, I must eat it as bread;\nand either milk or water must be used to make it bread. If a little\nmilk is used, the bread will be dry and heavy and hard. If a good\ndeal is used, the flour will be transformed into a soft and plastic mass,\nwhich will rise in the heat, and come to my lips a sweet and fragrant\nmorsel. Christianity is good, but it wants mixing with humanity before\nit will have a practical value. If only a little humanity be mixed with\nit, the product will be dry and tasteless; but if it be combined with\nthe real milk of humanity, and enough of it, the result will be a loaf\nfit for the tongues of angels. No: the divinest idea that has yet been\napprehended by the human mind is not enough for the human mind.\nThat which God made to be fed by various food cannot be fed with\nsuccess or safety by a single element. We cannot build a house of\ndry bricks. It takes lime and sand and water in their proper proportions\nto hold the bricks together.\n\nThis selection of a single idea from the great world of ideas to\nwhich the mind is vitally related, and making it food and drink,\nand motive and pivotal point of action, and supreme object of\ndevotion, is mental and moral suicide. It makes that a despotic\nking which should be a tributary subject. It enslaves the soul to\na base partisanship. It is right to make money, and it is right to\nbe rich when wealth is won legitimately; but when money becomes\nthe supreme object of a man's life, the soul starves as rapidly\nas the coffers are filled. It is right to be a temperance man and\nan anti-slavery man, and an advocate of any special Christian\nreform; but the effect of adopting any one of these reforms as the\nsupreme object of a man's pursuit, never fails to belittle him.\nOne of the most pitiable objects the world contains is a man of\ngenerous natural impulses grown sour, impatient, bitter, abusive,\nuncharitable, and ungracious, by devotion to one idea, and the\nfailure to impress it upon the world with the strength by which it\npossesses himself. Many of these fondly hug the delusion to\nthemselves that they are martyrs, when, in fact, they are only\nsuicides. Many of these look forward to the day when posterity\nwill canonize them, and lift them to the glory of those who were\nnot received by their age because they were in advance of their\nage. So they regard with contempt the pigmy world, wrap the\nmantles of their mortified pride about them, and lie down in a\ndelusive dream of immortality.\n\nWhether the effect of devotion to a single idea be disastrous or\notherwise to the devotees, nothing in all history is better\nproved--nothing in all philosophy is more clearly demonstrable--\nthan the fact that it is a damage to the idea. If I wished to\ndisgust a community with any special idea, I would set a man\ntalking about it and advocating it who would talk of nothing\nelse. If I wished to ruin a cause utterly, I would submit it to\nthe advocacy of one who would thrust it into every man's face, who\nwould make every other cause subordinate to it, who would refuse\nto see any objections to it, who would accuse all opponents of\nunworthy motives, and who would thus exhibit his absolute slavery\nto it. Men have an instinct which tells them that such people as\nthese are not trustworthy--that their sentiments and opinions are\nas valueless as those of children. If they talk with a pleasant\nspirit, we good-naturedly tolerate them; if they rant and scold\nand denounce, we hiss them if we think it worth while, or we\napplaud them as we would the feats of a dancing bear. If they say\ndevilish things in a heavenly sort of way, and clothe their black\nmalignities in silken phrases, we hear them with a certain kind of\npleasure, and take our revenge in despising them, and feeling\nmalicious towards the cause they advocate. It would kill us to\ndrink Cologne water, but the perfume titillates the sense, and so\nwe sprinkle it upon our handkerchiefs.\n\nNo great cause can be forwarded by the advocacy of men who have no\ncharacter, and no man can devote himself to an idea without the\nloss of character. When a man comes forward to promulgate an idea,\nwe inquire into his credentials. How large a man is this? How\nbroad are his sympathies? How wide is his knowledge? What\nrelation does he bear to the great world of ideas among which\nthis is only one, and very likely a comparatively unimportant one?\nIs he so weak as to be possessed by this idea, or does he possess\nit, and entertain a rational comprehension of its relations to\nhimself and the community? I know that multitudes of good men have\nbeen so disgusted with the one-sided, partisan character of the\nadvocates of special ideas and special reforms, that they would\nhave no association with them. We have only to learn that a man\ncan see nothing but his pet idea, and is really in its possession,\nto lose all confidence in his judgment. When in a court of justice\na man testifies upon a point that touches his personal interests\nor feelings or relations, we say that his testimony is not\nvaluable--not reliable. It decides nothing for us. We say that the\nevidence does not come from the proper source. We do not expect\ncandor from him, for we perceive that his interests are too deeply\ninvolved to allow sound judgment and utterly truthful expression.\nIt is precisely thus with all professional agitators and\nreformers--all devotees of single ideas. They are personally so\nintimately connected with their idea--have been so enslaved by\ntheir idea--are so interested in its prosperity---that they are\nnot competent to testify with relation to it.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XVI.\n\nSHYING PEOPLE.\n\n\n           \"It is jealousy's peculiar nature\n  To swell small things to great; nay, out of naught\n  To conjure much: and then to lose its reason\n  Amid the hideous phantoms it has formed.\" YOUNG.\n\n  \"I will not shut me from my kind;\n    And, lest I stiffen into stone,\n    I will not eat my heart alone,\n   Nor feed with sighs a passing wind.\"\n   TENNYSON.\n\n  \"Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is\nwilling.\" LONGFELLOW.\n\n\nReader, did you ever drive a horse that had the mean habit of\nshying? If so, then you will remember how constantly he was on the\nlookout for objects that would frighten him. He would never wait\nfor the bugbear to show its head; but he conjured it up at every\npoint. Every hair upon his sides seemed transformed into an eye;\nand there was not a colored stone, nor a stick of wood, nor a bit\nof paper, nor a small dog, nor a shadow across the road, nor any\nthing that introduced variety into his passage, that did not seem\nto be endowed with some marvellous power of repulsion. First he\ndodged to the right, after having foreseen the evil from afar, and\nwrought himself up to a fearful pitch of sidelong excitement; and\nthen he dodged to the left, having been surprised into passing a\ncat without alarm; and so, dodging to the right and left, he has\nhalf worried the life out of you. Being constantly on guard, and\nalways watching for objects of alarm, and suspicious of dangers in\ndisguise, he has had no difficulty in maintaining a condition of\npermanent fright, which has worked itself off in spasms of shying.\nTo a man who has driven a horse up to a locomotive without danger\nor fear, such an animal as this seems to be unworthy of the name\nof a horse; and to one who has read of the spirit and fearlessness\nof the war-horse, a shying horse seems to be the most contemptible\nof his race.\n\nWell, I have met shying men, and I meet them upon the sidewalk\nalmost every day. I have watched them from afar, and known by\ntheir eyes and a certain preparatory nervousness of body, that\nthey would \"shy\" at me. I have been conscious, however, that there\nwas nothing in me to shy at. I have had no pistols in my pocket,\nand no Bowie knife under my coat-collar. I have been innocent of\nany intention to leap upon and throttle them. I have had no\npurpose to trip their heels by a sudden \"flank movement,\" and not\neven the desire to knock their hats off. Indeed, I have felt\ntoward them a degree of friendliness and kindness which I would\nhave been very glad to express, had they afforded me an\nopportunity; but they were shying men by nature, or by habit, or\nby whim. So far as I have been able to ascertain the causes of\ntheir infirmity, it is the result of a suspicion that they are not\nquite as good as other people, and a belief that other people\nunderstand the fact. Far be it from me to deny that their\nsuspicions touching themselves are well-grounded; but that is no\nreason why other people should not speak to them politely. There\nis a class of men and women who are always looking out for, and\nexpecting, slights from those whom they suppose to be their\nsuperiors. They get a suspicion that a certain man feels above\nthem; so when they pass him in the street, they shy at him--go\naround him--will not give him an opportunity to be polite to them.\nThey are martyrs, as they suppose, to unjust social distinctions.\nThey act as if they were painfully uncertain as to whether they\nare men and women or spaniels.\n\nNow by the side of the person who carries an unsuspicious,\nself-respectful, open face, into any presence, such people as\nthese seem unworthy of the race to which they belong. It is not\nthe bold, brassy, self-asserting man who is their superior, because\nhis sort of offensive forwardness originates in even a worse state\nof mind and heart than the habit of shying. When a man shies, he\nonly suspects that he is inferior to his surroundings. When a man\noffensively puts himself forward, and talks loudly among his\nbetters, he knows he is mean, and knows that he is not where he\nbelongs. You will find a professional gambler to be a loudmouthed\nman, who not only does not shy at his betters, but who seeks all\nconvenient opportunities for associating with them, and claiming\nan equality with them. The shying man is one who has not much\nrespect for himself, who is envious and jealous of others, and\nwho, however strongly he may protest against the charge, has the\nmost abject respect for social position and arbitrary social\ndistinctions. If he see a man who either assumes or seems to be\nabove him, it is a reason in his mind why that man should not\nnotice him. The result is that decent men soon take him at his own\nvaluation, and notice him no more than they would a dog; and they\nserve him right.\n\nI know of no more thankless task than the attempt to assure shying\npeople that we love them, respect them, and are glad to continue\ntheir acquaintance. The instances in which old school-mates meet\nin the journey of life with a sickening coolness, in consequence\nof changed circumstances and relations, are of every-day\noccurrence. Two persons who separated at the school-house door in\ndawning manhood, with equal prospects, come together later in\nlife. One has risen in the world, has won hosts of friends, has\nbeen put forward by them into public office, perhaps, and has\nacquired a competence. The other has remained upon the old\nhomestead, has had a hard life, and has won neither distinction\nnor wealth. The fortunate man grasps the hand of the other with\nall the cordiality of his nature and of his honest friendship; but\nhe meets a reserve which may be almost sullen. He strives to call\nup the scenes gone by--the old school-sports--the school\ncompanions, boys and girls--the old neighborhood friendships--but\nthey will not come. All attempts to touch the heart of his former\nschoolmate, and bring him into sympathy through the power of\nassociation, fail. The poor fool suspects his friend of\npatronizing him, and he will not be patronized. Feeling that his\nfriend has got along in the world better than himself, he cannot\nunderstand why he should not be regarded as an inferior, and\ntreated as such. Thenceforward, the fortunate man must seek the\nsociety of the unfortunate man, or he will never have it. The\nformer may give practical recognition of entire equality, to the\nbest of his ability, but it will avail nothing, for the latter\nwill not \"toady\" to his friend, nor be \"patronized\" by him. At\nlast the fortunate man becomes tired of the effort to make his\nunfortunate friend understand him, and he kicks him and his memory\naside, and calls it a friendship closed forever, without fault\nupon his part.\n\nI have often wished that it could be understood by these people\nwho are so uncertain in regard to their position, and so\nsuspicious that everybody has the disposition to slight them, and\nso much afraid of being patronized, and so averse to the thought\nof \"toadying\" that they stand stiffly aloof from the society which\nthey envy, and so much offended with people for feeling above\nthem, that their sentiments and feelings are sufficient reasons\nfor society to hold them in contempt. There is a lack of\nself-respect--a meanness--in their position, that is really a\nsufficient apology for treating them with entire social neglect.\nThey habitually misconstrue those among whom they move; they are\nexacting of attention to the last degree; they are always\nuncomfortable, and they are ready to take offense at the smallest\nfancied provocation. I have now in my mind an artisan whom I had\noccasion to get acquainted with a dozen years ago; and I have\ncompelled him to speak to me every time I have met him since. I\nreally do not know what he had done to make him regard himself so\ncontemptuously, but I think he has never to this day fully\nbelieved that I have the slightest respect for him. He has tried\nto dodge me. He has shied repeatedly, but I have compelled him to\nmake me a good-natured bow, till he begins to like it, I think--\ntill he expects it, at least.\n\nMany children are bred to the idea that certain families are\nsocially above them. They are taught from their cradles to\nconsider themselves in a certain sense inferior. How few American\nchildren are taught that there is no degradation in poverty, and\nthat a humble employment and an obscure position are entirely\nconsistent with self-respect, under all circumstances, in whatever\nsociety. I do not mean to say that they have not heard their\nparents remark that they were \"as good as anybody.\" There is\nenough of this talk; and it is precisely this which teaches\nchildren that they are born to what their parents consider\ndishonor,--inferiority to their neighbors. It is impossible for\nchildren who have been bred in this way ever to outgrow, entirely,\ntheir feeling of inferiority. The people who are entirely\nself-respectful never have any thing to say about their position in\nthe presence of their children; and it is a cruel thing to teach a\nchild, not that there is a grade of society which is actually\nabove him, but that the persons who occupy that grade look down\nupon him--and, in the constitution of society, have the right to\nlook down upon him--with contempt. To see an honest lad in humble\nclothing actually awed by finding himself in the presence of a\nwell-dressed child of affluence, is very pitiful; and there are\nthousands of these poor boys who, having won wealth and\ndistinction, never in their consciousness lose their early estate\nsufficiently to feel at home with those among whom the advance of\nfortune has brought them.\n\nA thoroughly self-respectful person will command respect anywhere.\nA man who carries into the world an unsuspecting, unassuming face,\nwho is polite to everybody, minds his own business, and does not\nshow by his demeanor that he bears about with him a sense of\ndegradation and inferiority, and who gives evidence that he\nconsiders himself a man, and expects the treatment due to a man,\nwill secure politeness and respect from every true gentleman and\ngentlewoman in the world. The man who shies, and suspects, and\nenvies, and is full of petty jealousies, and is always afraid that\nhe shall not get all that is due to him in the way of polite\nattention, and manifests a feeling of great uncertainty and\nanxiety concerning his own social position, is sure to be shunned\nat last, and he will well deserve his fate. No real gentleman, and\nno true gentlewoman, ever has feelings like these. It is only\nthose who are neither, and who do not deserve the position of\neither, that are troubled in this way. I give it as a deliberate\njudgment that there is far less of contempt for the poor and\nobscure among what are denominated the higher classes of society\nthan there is of envy and hatred of the rich and renowned among\nthe poor and humble; and that the principal bar to a more cordial\nand gentle intercourse between the two classes, is the lack of\nself-respect which pervades the latter, and the mean, degrading\nhumility which they manifest in all their relations with those\nwhom they consider above their level.\n\nAmerican society is mixed--heterogeneous--more so, probably, than\nthat of any other country. There is no such thing as well-defined\nclassification. There is no nobility, no gentry, no aristocracy,\nno peasantry. The owners of palaces were bred in log cabins; men\nof learning are the children of boors; and one can never tell by a\nman's position and relations in society into what style of life he\nwas born. The boy goes into the city from his father's farm,\ncarrying only a hardy frame, a good heart, and a suit of homespun,\nand twenty years frequently suffice to establish him as a man of\nfortune, and marry him to a woman of fashion. There is no bar to\nprogress in any direction for the ambitious man, except lack of\nbrains and tact. Society erects no barriers of caste which define\nthe bounds of his liberty. Notwithstanding this, there is always,\nin every place, a body of people who assume to be \"the best\nsociety.\" The claim to the title is rarely well substantiated, and\nis based on different ideas in different places. We shall find in\nsome places, that society crystallizes around the idea of wealth;\nin others, around the idea of literary culture; in others, around\ncertain religious views, so that, as it may happen, the \"best\nsociety\" is constituted of the Presbyterian, or Episcopalian, or\nUnitarian, or other sectarian element. In other places, an old\nfamily name is the central power, and, in others still, a certain\nstyle of family life attracts sympathetic materials which assume\nthe position of \"the best society.\"\n\nWhatever may be the central idea of the self-constituted elite,\nthey are always the objects of the envy of a large number of\nminds. Silly people \"lie awake nights\" to get into the best\nsociety. Those who are securely in, of course sleep soundly in\ntheir safety and their self-complacency; and those who are too low\nto think of rising to it, and those who do not care for it, go\nthrough the six to ten hours of their slumber \"without landing,\"\nas the North River boatmen say. But a middle class, who range\nalong the ragged edges of society, know no rest. They sail along\nin an uncertain way, like the moon on the border of a cloud--\nsometimes in and sometimes out--feeling naked and very much\nexposed among the stars, and rather foggy and confused in the\ncloud, as if, after all, they did not belong there. It is in this\nclass that we meet with shying men and shying women. It is in this\nclass that we find heart-burnings, and jealousies, and envyings,\nand sensitive misunderstandings. It is a sort of purgatory through\nwhich the rising man and woman pass to reach the paradise of their\nhope, and from which an unhappy soul is never lifted. These people\ndo not stop to inquire whether they have any sympathy, or any\nthing in common with the society which they seek--whether they\nwould be lost, or whether they would be at home in it. They do not\neven seem to suspect that much of that which is called the best\nsociety, is the last society that a sensible, good man should\nseek.\n\nLet us suppose that wealth is the central idea of the best\nsociety, and then let the aspirant to this society ask himself\nwhether he has wealth. Has he a fine house and an elegant turnout?\nDoes he dress expensively, and is he able to give costly\nentertainments? Is he prepared to unite, on a plane of perfect\nequality, with those who give the law to this society? If so, it\nwill not be necessary for him to seek it, for the society will\nseek him,--that is, if he be an agreeable man. If he be very rich\nindeed, why, it is not necessary that he be agreeable at all. But\nsuppose literary culture be the central force of this society--has\nthe aspirant any fitness for, or sympathy with it? Can he meet\nthose who form this society as an equal, or mingle in it as a\nthoroughly sympathetic element? Would he feel happy and at home in\na literary atmosphere? Those questions indicate a legitimate\ndirection of inquiry, touching every case of this kind. Multitudes\nof those who are dissatisfied with their position have nothing in\ncommon with the society to which they aspire, and would be so much\nout of place there that they would be very unhappy. My idea, then,\nis, that so far as society is concerned, men and women naturally\nfind their own place. A true gentleman and a genuine gentlewoman,\nwherever they may appear, and whoever they may be, are as readily\nknown as any objects; and really good society recognizes its\naffinities for them at once. They do not have to seek for a place,\nfor they fall into their place as naturally as a soldier falls\ninto, and joins step with, his company.\n\nNow what can be meaner than the jealousy which sits in the circle\nwhere it is really most at home, and regards with its green and\ngreedy eyes, a circle for which it has no affinities, except the\naffinities which envy has for that which it considers above\nitself? It is a meanness, too, which has two sides to it. It is\nnotorious that the black overseer upon the plantation is severer\nwith his companions in slavery than a white man would be, and it\nis just as notorious that the man who has abjectly bowed before\nthe distinction of wealth and social standing, always becomes\ninsufferably pretentious when fortune or favor lifts him to the\nplace of his desire. The man who shies those he esteems his\nbetters is always a proud man at heart, or if the adjective be\nallowable, an aristocratic man; and he is very careful to preserve\nhis position of comparative respectability with relation to those\nbelow him. He will always be found to be pretentious in his own\ncircle, and supercilious with relation to those in lower life. Is\nit not true that half of the neighborhood quarrels that take\nplace, and three-quarters of the slander, and all the gossip that\nare indulged in, result from these petty jealousies between\ncircles, and the sensitiveness that is felt regarding social\nstanding on the part of those who are not quite so high in the\nworld as they would like to be?\n\nI can only notice briefly the shying that is done by the other\nside of society. In effect, I have done this already, perhaps, but\nit is proper to say directly that there are many moving in what is\ncalled the best society, who, with a suspicion that they do not\nbelong there, or a feeling that their position is not secure\nthere, shy a humble man when they meet him, and dodge all vulgar\nassociations. I suppose that no true gentleman is ever afraid of\nbeing mistaken for any thing else. A gentleman knows that there is\nnothing which is more unlike the character of a gentleman than the\nsupercilious treatment of the humble, and the fear of losing caste\nby treating every class with kindness and politeness. I recognize\nno difference between the two shying classes--the men who shy\ntheir fellow-men because they are high, and the men who shy their\nfellow-men because they are low. Both are mean, both are unmanly,\nand both are deficient in the self-respect necessary to the\nconstitution of a gentleman. There are no better friends in the\nworld--no men who understand each other better--none who meet and\nconverse more freely at their ease--none who have more respect for\neach other--than a genuine gentleman and a self-respectful humble\nman, who knows his place in the social scale, and is abundantly\nsatisfied with it. There is no need of any intercourse between\nmen, of whatever difference of social standing, less dignified and\ngentle than this.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XVII.\n\nFAITH IN HUMANITY.\n\n\n  \"Say, what is honor? 'Tis the finest sense\n   Of justice which the human mind can frame,\n   Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim,\n   And guard the way of life from all offense,\n   Suffered or done.\" WORDSWORTH.\n\n  \"A child of God had rather ten thousand times suffer for Christ,\nthan that Christ should suffer by Him.\"--JOHN MASON.\n\n  \"For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along\n   Round the earth's electric circle the swift flash of right or\n     wrong;\n   Whether conscious or unconscious, yet humanity's vast frame\n   Through its ocean-sounded fibres feels the gush of joy or\n     shame;--\n   In the gain or loss of one race, all the rest have equal claim.\"\n   LOWELL.\n\nOne of the most reliable supports of that which is best in man is\nfaith in other men. In truth, I believe that no man can lose his\nfaith in men and women, and remain as good a man as he was before\nthe loss. Better evidence that a man is rotten in some portion of\nhis character, or rotten clean through his character, cannot be\nfound than real, or pretended, loss of faith in his fellows. When\na young man tells me that he has no doubt that certain persons,\npublicly reputed to be good, take sly drinks in their own closets,\nand descend into grosser indulgences when in strange places; that\nthe best men are hypocrites; that there is no such thing as\nwomanly virtue; and that appetite and selfishness outweigh\neverywhere principle and manly honor, I know that, ninety-nine\ntimes in one hundred, he finds a reason in his own heart and life\nfor his declarations. I know that he simply wishes to maintain a\ncertain degree of self-respect, and that he finds no way to do\nthis save by bringing everybody around him down to his own level.\nA man who has lost his virtue, and is still suffering under the\nblows of conscience, is very both to believe that there is any\nvirtue in the world.\n\nYet there are circumstances in which faith in humanity is lost\nwithout fault, though never without damage, on the part of the\nloser; and very sad cases they are. I remember an abused,\nbroken-hearted, and forsaken wife, who declared to me her belief\nthat her husband was no worse than other men (pleasant for me,\nwasn't it?)--that there was not a man in the world who could\nwithstand temptation, or who would have done differently from her\nhusband under the same circumstances. Why was this? She had loved\nthis man with all the devotion of which her warm woman's heart was\ncapable; she had respected him as an embodiment of all manly\nqualities; he had impersonated her _beau ideal_. If he--the\npeerless, the prince--could fall, and forsake, and forget, who\nwould not? He who had once been to her the noblest and best man in\nthe world, could never become worse than the rest of the world.\nNow one of the foulest wrongs and one of the deepest injuries\nwhich this man had inflicted upon his wife was the destruction of\nher faith in men. He had not only blotted out her faith in him,\nbut he had blotted out her faith in humanity, and, of course, her\nfaith in herself. What safeguards of her own virtue fell when her\nfaith in man was destroyed, she did not know; but, in her\ninnermost consciousness, she must have grown careless of herself--\npossibly desperate.\n\nHardly a month passes by in which we do not hear of some\ndefalcation, some lapse from integrity, by a man who, through many\nyears of business life, had maintained an untarnished reputation.\nI have half a dozen such cases in my memory now, and I do not know\nwhat to make of them. When I see a character standing to-day above\nall reproach, compacted through many years of manly, honest,\nChristian living, overthrown to-morrow, and trodden in the mire, I\nam shocked. If such men fall, where are we to look for those who\nwill not? If such men, with worthy natures, and long practice of\nvirtue, and myriad motives for the maintenance of an unspotted\ncharacter, yield to temptation, and are suddenly overthrown, what\nreason have I to suppose that my partner, my brother, myself,\nshall escape? I am scared, and grow cautious, and suspicious.\n\nDid you ever think that there is one individual, at least, in the\nworld--that possibly there are ten individuals, possibly one\nhundred, possibly more--who believe that you are, as a man or a\nwoman, just as nearly right as you can be? Did you ever think that\nthere are people who pin their faith to you, who believe in you,\nwho trust you, and that among those people your own reputation is\nidentified with the reputation of the race? I care not how humble\na man may be, there are always those who trust in him. Think of\nthe trust which a family of children repose in their parents, and\nof the faith which the parents have in their children. Very humble\nthe parents may be--very untrustworthy as moral guides, and\njudges, and authorities; but if they were angels, with the light\nof heaven in their eyes, they would not be more confided in and\nrelied upon by the little ones who cling to their knees. So, at\nall ages, we garner our faith in individuals; and so, all men and\nwomen, however humble and unworthy they may be, become the objects\nand recipients of this faith.\n\nNow, if there be ten men and women who have garnered their faith\nin me--who believe in me, through and through--and whose faith in\nall humanity would be sadly shocked, if I should fall, and prove\nto them that their confidence had been entirely misplaced, then I\nhold for those ten persons the reputation of the human race in my\nhands. If you, my reader, have attracted to yourself the honest\nfaith of a thousand hearts, then you hold in your hands, for those\nhearts, the good name of humanity. Upon the shoulders of each man\nin the community, there rests a great responsibility. He has not\nonly his own reputation to take care of, but he has the reputation\nof his race. If all mankind are to be thought more meanly of by\nmankind, to be less trusted, and less loved, because I have been\nuntrue, though my untruth touch but one person directly, I commit\na great crime against my race. Yet this crime is nothing by the\nside of that which I commit against those who have trusted in me.\nIt injures them to think meanly of mankind--to have their\nconfidence shaken in humanity--much more than it injures humanity\nto be thought meanly of. A man may as well stab me as to destroy\nmy faith in my kind, for the comfort and happiness of my life\ndepend upon the maintenance of this faith.\n\nThere are not a few men and women in this world who are thoroughly\nconscious that not only their immediate personal friends think\nbetter of them than they deserve, but that the community--all who\nknow them--accord to them a higher excellence of heart and life\nthan they really possess. There are some who seem fitted by nature\nto attract the affection, and secure the respect of all those with\nwhom they come into contact, in a very remarkable degree; and,\nyet, these persons may be painfully conscious, all the while, that\nthey are not so good as they are thought to be. They are not\nhypocrites; they have never intended to deceive anybody; they have\nnever pretended to be what they are not; but people believe in\nthem without limit. A person who has this power of attracting the\nconfidence of men has forced upon him an immense responsibility.\nTo say nothing of his duty to himself and his God, he owes it to\nhis race to be, or to become, as good as he seems. It is\nessentially a crime against humanity for one who draws the hearts\nof men to him easily, to do any thing which will tend to\ndepreciate their estimate of his character. A man should carry a\nlife thus extravagantly over-estimated, as he would carry a cup of\nwine--careful that none be spilled, and careful that no impurity\nfall into it. It is a great blessing to be loved and respected--\nnay to be admired for admirable qualities--and when men are\ngenerous enough to pay in advance for excellence, they should\nnever be cheated in the amount and quality of the article.\n\nThere is such a thing as honor among men; there are such things\nas modesty, truth, and integrity. They are qualities that belong\nto humanity, irrespective of religion and of Christian culture.\nThere are men so true to their higher natures that I would trust\nthem with my name, my gold, my children, my all, without a doubt.\nI am proud to claim kinship with such men. They confer dignity\nupon the race of which I am a member. I am glad to take their\nhands in mine. Suppose one of these--or such things have been--\nshould deceive me, and I should discover that my name had been\nabused, my gold wasted or stolen, and my children ruined by this\nman: could I ever trust again? Should I not be humiliated? Should\nI not feel disgraced? Should I ever be willing to let another man\ninto my heart? Should I not doubt whether there are, indeed, such\nthings as honor, and modesty, and truth, and integrity, in the\nworld; and thus doubting, would not the strongest defences of my\nown virtue be thrown down? The truth is, that no man can do an\nunmanly thing without inflicting an injury on the whole human\nrace. No man can say \"I will do as I choose, and it will be\nnobody's business.\" Every man's sin is everybody's business,\nliterally. Every sin shakes men's confidence in men, and becomes,\nwhatever its origin, the enemy of mankind; and all mankind have a\nright to make common cause in its extermination.\n\nI once heard a careless fellow say that he \"professed nothing and\nlived up to it;\" but \"professing nothing\" does not exonerate a man\nat all, so far as relates to the personal maintenance of honor,\npurity, and truth. The man who would excuse a lapse from virtue,\nor any obliquity of conduct, on the ground that he did not profess\nany thing, simply announces to me the execrable proposition that\nevery man has a kind or degree of right to be a rascal until he\npledges himself to be something better. There are altogether too\nmany men in the world who am keeping themselves easy with the\nthought that if they are not very good, they never pretended or\nprofessed to be,--as if this failure publicly to pronounce\nthemselves on the side of the highest morality, were a sufficient\napology for minor delinquencies! It seems to be a poultice of\npoppies to some sensitively inflamed consciences, that, whatever\nthey may have done, they have never broken promises voluntarily\nmade, to do right--as if there were a release from the obligation\nto do right, in failing to make the promise! If it will help a man\nto do right, publicly to profess to do right, and to do good to\nother men by placing his influence on the right side, then the\nfirst duty a man owes to his race, is to make this declaration.\nBut I will not linger here, because my words have led me to the\ndiscussion of the obligations of those who have made a profession\nof Christianity, and taken upon themselves the vows of Christian\nchurch-membership.\n\nWhen a man joins a Christian church, he becomes related to that\nchurch in the same way that nature makes him related to humanity.\nThe reputation of the church is placed in his keeping. He cannot\ndo an unchristian thing without injury to the church, or without\ndepreciating, in the eyes of the world, every other member. Think\nwhat a blow is inflicted upon the church of Jesus Christ by such\nscandalous immoralities as some of its most prominent members have\nbeen guilty of--by forgeries, and adulteries, and drunkenness!\nThese cases are not common, but when they occur, they are blows\nunder which the church reels. The outside world looks on, and\nscoffs: \"Aha! That's your Christianity, is it?\"\n\nI declare that I do not know of a position that more strongly\nappeals to a man's personal honor than that of membership in a\nChristian church. Even if a man in such a position should say\nwithin himself: \"This costs more than it comes to. I love my vices\nmore than I love the Master whose name I profess. Either openly or\nsecretly, I will give rein to my appetites and passions\"--he\nshould be arrested by the consideration that he proposes to do\nthat which will wound the feelings, and degrade the position, and\ninjure the influence, of thousands of the best men and women in\nthe world; that he proposes to inflict an irreparable injury upon\na cause which has never injured him, and whose office it is to\nsave him, and all mankind. Perhaps he is so weak, and temptation\nis so strong, that he feels, in the stress of his trial, that he\ncan afford to perjure his own soul; but if he does, he has no\nright to wound others. Better fight the devil until the animal\nwithin us bleeds at every vein--until it dies, if that must be--\nthan \"offend one of these little ones.\" A man who will join a\nchurch, and then lead an unchristian life, not only demonstrates\nbefore the world his hypocrisy, but he voluntarily undertakes to\nprove that he has no personal honor. An honorable man will\nsacrifice himself always before he will voluntarily inflict injury\nupon a cause he has pledged himself to sustain, and upon men and\nwomen whose good name is in his hands. When a member of a church\nhas become so hardened in a course of bad living, that no pang\ncomes to him when he thinks of the injury he is inflicting upon\nthe Christian church, he is bad enough for a prison. I would not\ntrust him the length of my arm.\n\nWe have had, within the last ten years, too many notable instances\nof falls from virtue among the clergy; and every fall has been\nlike an avalanche. They come from a point so near to heaven, and\nfall so far, that mountain-sides are scarred and whole communities\nwhelmed by the calamity. It takes, often, many years for the\nvillages that lie at their feet to smile again. All Christendom\nfeels the shock, and mourns with downcast eyes the consequences. I\nfreely grant that, as a class, the American clergy, of all\ndenominations, are the purest and best men whom I know; but I\ncannot resist the conviction that there are many of them who\nforget what the responsibility is that rests upon them. It was the\nremark of an aged clergyman, retired from pulpit duties, that if\nhe were a layman he should watch with more anxiety and carefulness\nthan laymen do the relations that exist between pastors and the\nwomen of their flock. I do not understand this as a statement that\nthere is any general looseness of conduct among the clergy at all;\nbut as one which covers a kind of impropriety for which there is\nno name and no punishment. There are women whose affection for\ntheir husbands is uprooted through their intercourse with their\npastors. There shall never be an improper word spoken; there shall\nnever be a deed committed that would bring a blush to the most\nsensitive cheek; yet a susceptible woman in the society of a\nminister of strong and magnetic sympathies, may become as passive\nas a babe. Led toward him by her religious nature, attracted and\nheld by his intellectual power and the graces of his language,\nyielding to him her confidence, it is not strange that, before she\nis aware, she is a captive without a captor, a victim without an\nenemy, a wreck without a destroyer.\n\nNow I know that there is not a pastor of a strong and graceful and\nsympathetic nature who reads these words without understanding\nwhat I mean--who does not know that there are women in his\ncongregation who are, either consciously or unconsciously, the\nslaves of his will. I have no doubt that there are some such\npastors who will read this essay with a flush of guilt upon their\nfaces. They have never meant these women any ill--they would not\nharm them for the world--but they are conscious of a selfish and\nmost unchristianly pleasure in these conquests of female natures--\nthese parlor triumphs, God forgive them! Perhaps they go further,\nand, by the lingering, fervent pressure of a hand, or the glance\nof an eye, or the utterance of some bit of gallantry or flattery,\nsend into a woman's heart an unwomanly and an unchristian thought.\nPerhaps they take special delight in the society of some half a\ndozen female members of their flock, and find themselves dressing\nfor them--betraying to them their weaknesses--opening, in various\nways, avenues by which the quick eyes and instincts of these women\ncan see directly into them. The number of pastors is not small, I\nthink, who are not aware that there is one woman, or that there\nare some women, who know more of what is in them, to their\ndisadvantage, than any man--that before certain lenient--possibly\nsad and forgiving eyes--they stand as men who indulge in\nessentially unchristian vanities of purpose and life.\n\nOf all woman-killers in this world, I know of none so disgusting\nas one whose chosen profession it is to preach the Gospel of\nJesus Christ. A clerical fop, a ministerial gallant, a man who\npreaches the love of God on Sunday, and lays snares for an\ninnocent heart on Monday afternoon, is a disgrace to Christianity,\nand a sad burden to the Christian cause. Does such a man think\nthat he can add a little zest to a leisure hour and a humdrum\nlife, by toying with a tender friendship, and giving lease and\nlatitude to his desire for personal conquest, and yet that no one\nshall know it? Ah, the fallacy! I know of eminent clergymen--\nearnest workers--who, by yielding to this desire once, have been\nshorn of their power for good forever, so far as those are\nconcerned who really know them and their weakness. There are\nministers in America before whom strong men tremble, and great\ncongregations bow themselves, who could be laughed to scorn and\nsmothered in a cloud of blushes, by some girl to whom, in a weak\nmoment, they betrayed the vain heart that beats within them. Ah!\nye men of the black coat and the white neck-cloth--toying with\nwomen, under whatever disguise; indulging in the vanity of\npersonal power, however ingeniously you mask it, is not for you.\nYou can never do it without an injury to the religion which you\nprofess to preach. If you find that you are too weak to resist\nthese temptations--and they are great to such as you--then you\nshould leave the desk forever. You, at least, are bound in\npersonal honor to quit the public advocacy of a cause which your\nprivate life dishonors.\n\nEasy to preach, you say? Easier to preach than practise? Nobody\nknows it better than I--unless it be you. I do not expect perfection\nin this world, of anybody;--I do not expect impossibilities of anybody.\nBut there are certain duties which men owe to humanity and their race,\nand which members of Christian churches and teachers of Christian\nchurches owe to Christianity and to their brotherhood, which are\npossible to be performed, and which I insist upon. I do not appeal\nto the highest motives--at least I do not appeal to religious motives.\nI appeal to personal honor. I say that every man, high or low, is bound\nin honor so to conduct himself as not to disgrace humanity--as not to\nshake the confidence of men in human honor. I say that every man\nwho belongs to a Christian church--no matter what his internal life\nmay be--is bound in honor so to carry himself before men and women,\nthat the Christian name receive no damage and the Christian cause no\nprejudice in their eyes. Every man carries the burden of his race and\nhis brotherhood; and if he be a man, he will neither ignore it nor try\n to shake it off.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XVIII.\n\nSORE SPOTS AND SENSITIVE SPOTS.\n\n\n  \"Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased;\n   Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;\n   Raze out the written troubles of the brain?\"\n   SHAKSPEARE.\n\n                \"I have gnashed\n  My teeth in darkness till returning morn,\n  Then cursed myself till sunset; I have prayed\n  For madness as a blessing; 'tis denied me.\"\n  BYRON.\n\n    _Alessandra_. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing\n  Thy happiness--what ails thee, cousin of mine?\n  Why didst thou sigh so deeply?\n    \"_Castiglione_. Did I sigh?\n  I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,\n  A silly--a most silly fashion I have\n  When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh?\"\n  POE.\n\nThere is a hill opposite to my window, up which, during all the\nlong and weary day, horses are drawing heavy loads. The majority\nof them crawl patiently along, with their heads down and with\nreeking flanks and shoulders, pausing occasionally as the\nwater-bars brace the wheels, and impatient only with the flies that\nvex their ears, and the insufficiency of their short and stumpy\ntails to protect their quivering sides. Some of these animals are\nnot so patient, but are nervous and spasmodic and unhappy. I have\nnoticed one among them particularly, that has a very bad time every\nmorning with his first load. He is what the teamsters call\n\"balky,\" though evidently an excellent horse. Much coaxing and not\na little whipping seem necessary to get him started; and then he\nplunges into his work as if he were determined to tear his harness\nand his load all in pieces. I notice that there are certain\nunusual fixtures about his collar, and learn that the poor animal\nhas a galled shoulder, so raw and inflamed that all his first\nefforts in the morning are attended by pain, and that he only\nworks well after the flesh has become benumbed by pressure. I ask\nhis driver why he does not turn the creature into the pasture, and\nlet the ulcer heal, and am told that he has been treated thus\nrepeatedly, but that it always returns when labor is resumed.\nThere is a livery stable that I visit frequently; and while I wait\nto be served I notice what the grooms are doing. I see that when\nthe currycomb or brush touches a certain spot upon the horse's\nskin there is a cringe, and usually a kick and a squeal,--\npossibly a harmless nip at the groom's shoulder. I learn, too,\nthat there is a certain place upon the back of every horse that\nthe grooms are not permitted to bathe with cold water.\n\nThese sore spots and tender spots and sensitive spots on horses\nhave very faithful counterparts in the minds and characters of\nmen. I do not know that I ever met a man who had not on him,\nsomewhere, a sore spot, or a tender spot, or a sensitive spot--a\nspot that would either gall under the collar of labor, or bring on\nhysterics if harshly rubbed, or communicate a damaging shock to\nthe nervous system when suddenly cooled. Very few men arrive at\nthirty-five years of age without getting galled, and very few\nentirely recover from the abrasion while they live. The spot never\nthoroughly heals, and the old collar only needs to be put on, even\nafter the longest period of rest, to develop the ulcer in the same\nold place. I heard a young clergyman preach recently, and I\ninstantly learned that he had a sore spot under his collar. He was\na young man of fine powers, bold intellect, a strong love of\nfreedom, and a will determined to do honor to his convictions. He\nhad formed his own opinion upon certain points of doctrine, and\nhad insisted upon it in the presence of his elders. The\nconsequence was that he had been bitterly opposed, and was with\ngreat difficulty settled over his parish. The screws had been put\ntightly down upon him, and he had felt, in the very depths of his\nsensitive soul, that the liberty wherewith Christ had made him\nfree had been tampered with. So he could neither pray nor preach\nwithout showing that he had a sore spot on him. He did not betray\nit by refusing to draw at all; but he drew violently, as if he had\nbeen hitched to the leg of an obtuse Doctor of Divinity, and\nintended to give all the other Doctors of Divinity notice to get\nout of the way. Now that sore spot on that young man's shoulder is\nsure to color all his efforts from this time henceforth, until he\nputs on another kind of collar. The same old sting will be in all\nhis preaching--a tinge of personal feeling--that the masses of\nthose who hear him preach will not understand, and that he, at\nlast, will become unconscious of. Ministers have more sore places\nunder their harnesses than any class of men I know of.\n\nA minister who has adopted unpopular views, and, in his advocacy\nof them, has rubbed against the fixed opinions or prejudices of\nthe people to which he is called to preach, is very sure to get\nsore; and he will either wince with the friction or oppose himself\nto it with violence. His soreness will always be calling attention\nto that which caused it, so that if his wound was procured in the\nadvocacy of some infernal doctrine like \"infant damnation,\" why,\ninfant damnation will seem to become a very precious doctrine to\nhim, and he will always be talking about it, and enforcing it. If\nhe has preached against slavery, or intemperance, or any other\npublic wrong or popular vice, and been fiercely and persistently\nopposed by any portion of his charge, he will betray the sore\nunder his collar on all occasions, and very possibly become so\nfractious and violent that his flock will be obliged to turn him\nout to pasture. A minister who gets sore under the friction of any\nparticular collar seems to feel that it is necessary for him to\nwear that particular collar all the time; and he fails to remember\nthat the reason why he has so much feeling with this collar on, is\nthat it has made him sore. Not unfrequently he becomes so\nsensitive and so nervous that he kicks out of the traces, and runs\naway with, and smashes up, the vehicle to which he is attached.\n\nNo small degree of the sourness and bitterness and violence of the\nadvocates of special reforms comes from wearing too long the\ncollar of the public apathy, or the public contempt. The men are\nvery few, who, with the consciousness of being actuated by a good\nmotive, can work against opposition a long time, without getting\nsore, and without betraying their soreness, either by stubbornness\nor violence. Touch them anywhere but upon the galled spot, and\nthey will be as calm as clocks, and as good-natured as kittens;\ntouch them there, and we are sure to get a kick and a squeal, and\na nip at the shoulder. Heartless practical jokers understand where\n\"the raw\" is, and know exactly what to say to provoke a galled\nman to make a fool of himself.\n\nThe conscience is very liable to become sore with friction. One\nentire section of the American nation became sore, even to\nmadness, with working in the collar of the world's condemnation.\nThe slave States of America were very comfortable with slavery so\nlong as they could hold it with self-respect, and so long as the\nworld regarded them rather with sympathy and pity than with\ncondemnation. As the popular opinion against slavery strengthened\nand became intensified, both in this and other countries, they\nbecame sore and sensitive. First, they tucked a constitutional rag\nbetween the collar and the skin; and as that did not seem to\nrelieve them, they lined it with leaves from human philosophy; and\nphilosophy soon wearing out, they tore their Bibles into pieces\nfor materials with which to soften the cushion, and set the\nChristian church to making padding. Every thing failing to produce\nthe desired result, and relieve them of their pain, they refused\nto draw their portion of the national load, kicked the Union in\npieces, and ran away. They will never be happy again until slavery\nis abolished, or the attitude of the nation and of the world\ntowards slavery is changed. This sore under the collar will never\nheal, either in or out of the Union, until the cause shall in some\nway be removed.\n\nIt is the same with individuals as with peoples. A man cannot long\nwear a collar that presses upon his conscience, without getting\nthrough the skin--down upon the raw. When a man who sells liquor\nto his neighbors for drink, voluntarily apologizes to me for it,\nor justifies himself in it, I know very well that his conscience\nhas a raw place upon it, and that it gives him trouble. When a\nwoman takes particular pains to tell me that she is exceedingly\neconomical, and that she really has had nothing for a year, I\ncannot but conclude that she has been making some expenditure, or\nsome series of expenditures, that she knows she cannot afford, and\nthat there is a raw place upon her conscience in consequence. In\ntruth, I have never known a woman who wished to impress me with a\nsense of her rigid economy, who was not more anxious to convince\nherself of it than me. When a man undertakes to soften the\ncharacter of any crime by apologies, and by arguments, it is\ninvariably for the purpose of relieving its pressure upon a galled\nconscience, or shaping it to a different place. I am afraid the\nmen are few who have escaped a galled spot upon their consciences.\n\nPride has had a terrible time of it in the world. It is, perhaps,\nthe most sensitive spot in human nature. Collars, curry-combs, and\ncold water have alike served to torment it. A great multitude of\nmen and women have been obliged to work in the collar of poverty,\nagainst a galled pride, during all their life. They never start in\nthe morning without flinching, and never work without violence,\nuntil their pride has become entirely benumbed by pressure. Ah! if\nsociety could be unveiled, how few would be found with pride free\nfrom scars and raw places! I once heard a simple boy tell a young\nman that his legs were crooked; and though the lad was very\ninnocent, and only supposed that he had made and announced a\npleasant discovery, he had, alas! hit the man's pride on the very\ncentre of its soreness and sensitiveness. One never knows, in\nlarge things, where he will hit the sensitive places in the pride\nof those he meets; but in little things he is pretty sure to learn\nit concerning everybody. It is always safe to suppose that a very\nsmall man is sore on the subject of bodily dimensions. It will\nnever do for a tall man to propose to measure altitude with him in\nthe presence of women. It is never safe to inquire the age of any\nlady whom one knows to be more than twenty-five years old. There\nis not one man or woman in a hundred who possesses an unpleasant\npersonal peculiarity, without getting a galled spot upon personal\npride in consequence. A long nose, a squint eye, a clumsy foot, a\nlow forehead, a hump in the back--any one of these will not bear\nmention in the presence of its possessor.\n\nIt is quite amusing to witness the various methods resorted to for\ncheating the world with regard to these sore places in personal\npride. Men who are conscious that they do not possess a particle of\nmusical taste, and are really ignorant of the difference between\nDundee and Yankee Doodle, will profess to be \"very fond of music,\"\nand will not unfrequently convince themselves that they are so. Men\nwho are exceedingly sensitive touching any eccentricities of person,\nwill be constantly joking about their own long noses, or red hair,\nor big feet, and run on about them in the pleasantest sort of way,\nand persist in doing it on all occasions, as if the matter were\nexceedingly amusing to them, when the fact is that their pride is\nvery sore in that particular spot. A woman who has passed her hour\nof bloom, and feels with sensitive pain the creeping on of ancient\nmaidenhood, will talk charmingly, and with superfluous iteration,\nabout the usefulness of old maids, and the independence of their\nlot--determined to cover up the galled spot that burns upon the\nsurface of her personal pride. The trick of keeping up the\nappearances of wealth, after wealth is departed, is a familiar one;\nand though if rarely deceives, it is likely to be persisted in to\nthe end of time. It is often very pitiful to witness the ingenuity\nof the efforts that are made to cover from public observation the\nsoreness of personal pride, caused by a change of circumstances.\nThe Hepsibah Pynchons abound in houses of less than seven gables.\n\nThere is probably no harness so apt to gall the shoulder of personal\npride as that of ambition. The number of men in the world whose\npersonal pride has a sore on it, inflicted by disappointed ambition,\nis sadly large. I have seen many a worthy man utterly spoiled by his\nfailure to reach the political, social, or literary eminence at\nwhich he has aimed. Thenceforward, his hand has been against every\nman, and he has imagined that every man's hand has been against him.\nAll who contributed to his defeat, and all in any way associated\nwith them, have become the subjects of his hatred and his\nanimadversion. He has retired into himself, sneering at every\nthing and everybody, doubtful of the sincerity of all friendly\nprofessions, and regarding himself as \"a passenger,\" while the\npoor fools among whom he once so gladly numbered himself, chase\nthe baubles by which his life has been so miserably cheated of its\nmeed. It is very hard for a proud man, with a strong will, to\nfeel that he has been baffled and beaten; and a really noble man,\ndefeated in his objects by trickery and meanness, will sometimes\nbecome half insane with the wound which his pride has received. He\nwill never forget it; and the old sore can never be touched, even\nin the most accidental way, without calling the fire into his eye,\nand the color into his cheek. In the domain of politics, \"sore\nheads\" notoriously abound, and I suppose they always will.\n\nLiterary life is probably as prolific of failures, and as full of\n\"sore heads\" as political. The number of men and women who are\nambitious of literary distinction, and who make great efforts to\nwin it, is very large--larger than the world outside of the\npublisher's private office dreams of. The number of manuscripts\nrejected and never published is greater than the number published;\nand of those which are published, not one in ten satisfies, in its\nsuccess, the ambition of its author. I suppose that it is within\nthe bounds of truth to say that nine authors in every ten are\ndisappointed men--men whose personal pride is wounded, who believe\nthat the world has treated them unjustly, and who cherish a sore\nspot on their personal pride as long as they live. Some of these\nrefuse to draw in any harness, and give themselves up to poverty\nand laziness, as the victims of the world's undiscriminating\nstupidity. Some become critics of the works of successful authors,\nand take their revenge in the hearty abuse of their betters.\nOthers enter into other departments of effort, but carry with them\nthrough life the belief that they are out of their place, and the\nconviction that if they had been born in a nobler age they would\nhave been recognized as the geniuses they imagine themselves to\nbe.\n\nThere is still another class which get sore with drawing in a\nharness that God puts upon them, and in the adoption of which they\nhave had nothing to do. A man of poetic sensibilities finds himself\nengaged in the pursuit of some humdrum calling. He sees how\nbeautiful poetry is; he feels its influence upon his soul; but\nhe has no power to create it. Another feels something of the\ndivinity of music, but muscular facility has been denied to him so\nthat he cannot play, and his voice is harsh or feeble so that he\ncannot sing. He melts and glows under the sway of eloquence, and\nworships at a distance the power of the orator over the hearts and\nminds of men; but he knows that if he were in the orator's place,\nhe would break down and become the object even of his own\ncontempt. Great susceptibilities these people have--passive\nspirits--open to all good impressions, appreciative of that which\nis best in nature and art, yet without the power to act. They must\nalways be plates to receive the picture, and never suns and\ncameras to imprint it. They must always live within sight of great\nand beautiful powers, but never have the privilege of wielding\nthem. Doomed to the attitude of receptivity, they see that they\ncan never change it; and that they can never be to others what\nothers are to them. Thus they grow sore with the thought of their\nweakness, and a sense of the circumscription of their faculties.\nThey see wonderful things--they apprehend the grace and the glory\nof great actions--but they can achieve nothing. Many of these walk\nas in a dream through life--with a sense of wings upon their\nshoulders, clipped or lashed down. They see their companions\nrising, but they cling to the earth, and feel the difference as a\nhumiliation. Alas! how many souls chafe against the consciousness\nof inferior powers, till even the fine susceptibilities with which\nnature endowed them are destroyed!\n\nThere would seem to be no end of the causes which produce sore and\ntender and sensitive spots upon the human soul. I have said\nnothing of grief and love and pity and anger, and a whole brood of\npowerful passions, but they are all operative toward the results\nwhich we are discussing. The cure for these sensitive sores is\nobvious enough. I would prescribe for a man as I would for a\nhorse--go out to pasture, or adopt another kind of collar, and\nnever wear the old one again. If a man has become sore by working\nagainst the apathy, the misconceptions, the misconstructions, and\nthe prejudices of the world, so that he feels the galling burden\nof the collar in all his actions, let him change his style of\nlabor until the ulcer heal. If the conscience becomes sore,\nrelieve it of that which made it sore, and never believe that\npadding can effect a cure. Even wounded pride will heal if we let\nit alone, and refrain from opening the wound on all occasions, and\nrubbing it against the causes which inflicted it. All the natural\npeculiarities of our constitution which wound our pride may be\nhappily got along with by ignoring them. If my neighbor is a\nlovable man, I do not love him any the less because he wears a\nlong nose, and I should never think of it if he were not always\njoking about it, and trying to convince me that it did not offend\nhim. A man who quarrels with his own constitution, and questions\nthe benevolence that adjusted it to its conditions, quarrels with,\nand questions, his Maker. I believe there are no sorenesses of the\nsort we are considering which time or change will not heal.\n\nIt seems to me a very melancholy thing for a man to carry a mental\nulcer with him through life--to feel its prick and pang in every\neffort--to be conscious of its presence every hour--to be engaged in\ncovering it from sight, or in the attempt to deceive the world with\nregard to it. Life is altogether too good a thing to be spoiled by a\nlittle sore, or a large one, when there exists an obvious mode of\ncure. It is our immense and intense self-consciousness that stands\nin our way always in this matter. The truth is that the world does\nnot think half so much about us as we imagine it does. A man may\nwalk through the city of New York with a face \"as homely as a\nhedge-fence,\" thinking about it all the time, and wondering what\npeople think of it, and not a man of all the throng will even see\nit. It is so in the world at large. Our personal peculiarities, our\npersonal failures, our personal weaknesses, our personal affairs\ngenerally possess very little interest for others. They have enough\nto do in taking care of themselves, and have weaknesses, and\nfailures, and peculiarities enough of their own; and if the world\nshould spurn our well-meant efforts in its behalf, why, let it go.\nIt mends nothing to get sore and sensitive over it. When a man truly\nlearns how little important he is in the world, he is generally\nbeyond the danger of becoming galled by his harness, whatever it may\nbe.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XIX.\n\nTHE INFLUENCE OF PRAISE.\n\n\n  \"Now I praise you, brethren, that ye remember me in all things,\nand keep the ordinances as I delivered them unto you.\"--ST. PAUL.\n\n  \"O popular applause! What heart of man\n   Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms?\"\n   COWPER.\n\n  \"_Arbaces_. Why now, you flatter.\n  \"_Mardonius_. I never understood the word.\"\n   A KING AND NO KING.\n\n            \"Praising what is lost\n   Makes the remembrance dear.\" SHAKSPEARE.\n\nIt is pleasant to be praised. The man does not live who is\ninsensible to honest praise. The love of approbation is as natural\nto every human soul as the love of offspring, or the love of\nliberty. It was planted there by God's hand, and it is as useful\nand important in its fruit, as it is fragrant and beautiful in its\nflower. I repeat that the man does not live who is insensible to\nhonest praise. That great orator who seems to be a king in the\nworld, independent of his race, holding dominion over human\nhearts, lifted far above the necessity of the plaudits of those\naround him, will pause with gratified and grateful ear, to listen\nto expressions of approval and admiration from the humblest lips.\nThe greatest mind drinks praise as a pleasant draught, if it be\nhonest and deserved. Perhaps you think that Doctor of Divinity who\nweighs two hundred pounds more or less, and is clad in glossy\nbroad-cloth, and lifts his shining forehead above a white cravat,\nas Mont Blanc pierces a belt of cloud, and talks articulated\nthunder, and veils his wisdom behind gold-mounted spectacles, and\nmoves among men with ineffable dignity, is above the need of, and\nthe appetite for, praise. Ah! you don't know the soft old heart\nunder that satin waistcoat! It can be made as warm and gentle and\ngrateful, with just and generous praise, as that of a boy. Nay,\nthe barber who takes his reverent nose between his thumb and\nfinger, and sweeps the beard from his benevolent chin, understands\nexactly what to say in order to draw from his pocket an extra\nsixpence. There is no head so high, there is no neck so stiff,\nthere is no back so straight, that it will not bend to take the\nflowers which praise tosses upon its path.\n\n\"It's a sign of weakness, after all,\" sighs my friend, who is not\npraised quite as much as he would like to be. Begging your pardon,\nsir, it is no such thing. The strongest Being in the universe--\nthe God of the universe--is the one who demands, receives, and\naccepts the most praise. Listen for a moment to those marvellous\nascriptions which rise to Him from the bosom of Christendom as\nceaselessly and beautifully as clouds from the Heaven-reflecting\nocean: \"Thou art the King, immortal, invisible. Thou art the\nSource of all life, the Author of all being, the Fountain of all\nlight and love and joy. Thou art Love itself; Thou art the Sum of\nall perfections. For what Thou art, we worship Thee; for what Thou\nhast done for us, in Thy infinite loving-kindness, we praise Thee.\nWe bless Thy Holy Name. We call upon our souls and all within us\nto magnify Thy name forever and ever.\" The Bible itself has given\nus almost numberless forms of expression into which we may cast\nour divinest adoration, and the broadest outpourings of our\nhearts. The poets of all ages have been touched to their finest\nutterances in the rapture of worship and of praise.\n\nNow why should God want praise of us? It certainly is not because\nHe is weak. Can it be because He wishes by means of it to produce\nsome desired effect in us? Is there no hearing of this praise in\nHeaven? Are we who sing and shout mere brawlers, who get a little\nstrength of lungs by the exercise? There are some poor souls,\ndoubtless, who believe this, as they believe that prayer has\nsignificance only as a moral exercise, and effect only as it\nreacts upon the soul. I believe that praise is pleasant to Him who\nsits upon the throne--that the honest and sincere expressions of\nlove and adoration, and gratitude and praise, that rise to Him\nfrom the earth are at least shining ripples upon the soundless\nocean of His bliss. Out from Him proceed, through myriad channels\nof effluence, the expressions of His love for those whom He has\nmade and endowed with intelligence; and I believe that it is\nrequisite for His happiness that back along these lines of\nmanifestation there should flow a tide of grateful recognition and\nadoring praise. Even a God would pine in loneliness and despair if\nthere should come back no echoes to His loving voice--no refluent\nwave to the mighty bosom which makes all shores vocal with its\nbreath and beating. God demands of all men that which all men owe\nto Him--that which His perfections and His acts deserve.\n\nThis love of approbation in men, then, is Heaven-born and Godlike.\nThe desire for approbation is as legitimate as the desire for\nfood. I do not suppose that it should be greatly a motive of\naction--perhaps it should never be; but when a man from a good\nmotive does a good thing, he desires the approval of the hearts\nthat love him, and he receives their expressions of praise with\ngrateful pleasure. Nay, if these expressions of praise are denied\nto him, he feels in a certain sense wronged. He feels that\njustice has not been done him--that there is something due to him\nthat has not been paid. I met a friend the other day who unveiled\nhis heart to me; and I caught in the vision his heart's sense of\nthe world's injustice. He had been a very poor boy, and had been\nbred under a poor boy's disadvantages; but a strong will, a good\nheart, fine talents, and a favoring fortune, brought to him gold,\nand lands, and equipage. They brought these not only, but they\nbrought the power to be a benefactor of his native town. He won\ncompetence for himself, and then he became a public-spirited\ncitizen, and did that for his home which no other man had done.\nNow he felt that he had done for himself and for those around him\nnobly; and it was natural that he should desire some response--\nsome expression of praise. He did not get it. People either envied\nhim, or they misconstrued his actions; and he felt that his\ntownsmen had been and were unjust---that they owed him something\nwhich they had failed to pay.\n\nThe world is so much accustomed to confound praise with flattery\nthat if I were to go to a man with an honest tribute like this:\n\"My friend, I admire you very much; I think you possess noble\ntalents, fine tastes, and an excellent heart; and I regard your\ncourse of action and your life with the warmest approval,\" he\nwould, nine times in ten, look into my face either with\nastonishment, or amusement, or offense. He would not know whether\nI intended to insult him or to practice a joke upon him. Praise\nbetween man and man is so rare that we neither know how to bestow\nit nor how to receive it. This is carried to such an extent that\none-half of the family life of Christendom is deprived of it. The\nhusbands who never have a word of praise for their wives, the\nwives who never have a word of praise for their husbands, and the\nparents who only find fault with their children, are, I fear, in\nthe majority. I know that the women are numberless who devote\nthemselves throughout all their life to the comfort, the\nhappiness, and the prosperity of their husbands, and who lie down\nin their graves at last, thirsty for their praise. Their patient\nand ceaseless ministry is taken as a matter of course, without the\nslightest recognition of its value as the expression of a loving\nand devoted heart. Now I believe that praise is due to the love\nand unselfish devotion of a wife, just as really as it is to the\nloving-kindness and beneficent ministry of God, differing only in\nkind and degree. Husbands may die worth millions, and leave it all\nto their wives, (subject to the usual contemptible provision that\nthey do not marry again,) and yet be shamefully indebted to them\nforever and forever.\n\nChildren are often spoiled because they get no credit for what\nthey do. Of censure, they get their due; but of praise, never.\nThey do a thing which they feel to be praiseworthy, but it is not\nnoticed. When a child takes pains to do well, it feels itself paid\nfor every endeavor by praise; and the most unsophisticated child\nknows when praise is its due. It often comes to its mother's knee\nin natural simplicity, and asks for it. It is very well for men to\nsay that \"virtue is its own reward,\" and that the highest\nsatisfactions are those which spring from a sense of duty\naccomplished; but praise is pleasant and precious to men who not\nonly say this, but feel it. Many a noble and sensitive pastor is\ndisheartened because no one of the multitude which he so carefully\nand constantly feeds, ever tells him, with an open, honest\nutterance, his good opinion of him, and his satisfaction with his\nlabors. Many an excellent author toils over his work in secret\ndistrust, and issues it in fear and trembling, feeling that a word\nof praise will exalt him into a grateful and fruitful joy, and\nthat an unjust and unkind criticism will half kill him.\n\nIt is true that the mind is unhealthy which lives on praise; and\nit is just as true that he is mean and unjust who fails to award\npraise to those who earn it. The appetite for praise may become\njust as morbid and greedy by improper stimulus and abuse, as any\nother natural and legitimate appetite. It frequently does so, in\nthose who associate it very intimately with success and gain.\nActors and public singers, and all those whose success in life and\nwhose pecuniary income depend upon the amount of popular praise\nthey can win, are very apt to become greedy of praise, and will\nnot unfrequently receive it in its most disgusting forms. There\nare lecturers and public speakers who depend upon praise for\nstrength to speak an hour--men who, if their performances are\nrepetitions, wait at certain points for applause, as a horse,\ntravelling over a familiar road, stops always at certain hills to\nrest and take breath, and at certain wayside cisterns to drink.\nMany of these men demand praise, talking about themselves\ncontinually, and begging assent to their self-laudations. In these\ncases, praise becomes the dominant motive, and degrades and\nbelittles its subjects always. The voluntary profanity and the\nimpure jests that so often offend the ears of decent people at the\ntheatre, are put forth to call out a cheer from groundlings whose\npraise is always essential disgrace. The jealousy and the\nquarrelsomeness of authors, actors, and singers, result from the\nfact that praise has become so much the motive of their life that\nthey grudge the applause awarded to their fellows.\n\nThe difference between praise and flattery is as wide as that\nbetween praise and blame. Praise is a legitimate tribute to worth\nand worthy doing. It is entirely unselfish in its motive. It is\nthe discharge of a debt. Flattery originates always in a selfish\nmotive, and seeks by falsehood to feed an unhealthy desire for\npraise. A man whom it is proper to praise cannot be flattered, and\na man who can be flattered ought not to be praised. It is always\nsafe to praise a man who really deserves praise. Such a man\nusually knows how much he deserves, and will take only the exact\namount. Indeed, he will be very particular to give back the right\nchange. The flatterer is like the man who stands behind a bar to\ndeal out poison to a debased appetite for gain. The man who utters\nhonest praise is noble; the man who receives it does so without\nhumiliation, and is made strong by it. The flatterer is always a\nscoundrel, and the glad receiver of his falsehoods is always a\nfool--natural or otherwise.\n\nThe desire for praise is often very strong in those who never do\nany thing to deserve it, and who are never ready to award it to\nthose who have earned it. There are men in every community who are\nuniversally recognized as supremely selfish, yet supremely greedy\nof praise. This desire does not arise from over-indulgence in the\narticle, for they never had even a taste of it. They are known to\nbe selfish and hard and mean, yet they long for praise and\npopularity, with a desire that is almost ludicrous. They never\ngive a dollar to the poor, they never deny themselves for the good\nof others, they are shut up in themselves--without any good or\ngreat or generous qualities--yet they clutch at every word that\nsounds like praise as if they were starved. The only use of the\ndesire in these men is to furnish the world with a nose by which\nto lead them.\n\nIt is a mistake to suppose that praise should be rendered directly\nin all cases to the persons to whom it is due, for the relations\nbetween debtor and creditor may be such as to forbid it. I may be\na humble admirer of some great and good man, who has been the doer\nof great and good deeds, but my personal relations to him may be\nsuch that it is not proper for me to approach him, and pay my\ntribute into his hands. Men are often careful of the channels\nthrough which the response to their deeds, in the hearts of other\nmen, reaches them; but I may discharge my debt, nevertheless, by\nsounding their praise in other ears. It is usually the work of\nthose who stand next to a man, to gather up the tributes of a\ngrateful and admiring community or people, and bear them to him to\nwhom they belong. Because I may not approach a praiseworthy man,\nwith the offering which I feel to be his due, it is none the less\nincumbent upon me to discharge the debt. Just and generous praise\nwill come from every just and generous nature in some form, and\nwill be deposited in some bosom subject to the draft of the owner.\n\nIt is not easy for any man to work alone, out of the sight of\nhis fellows, and beyond the recognition of his deeds. However\nself-sufficient he may be, he is stronger, and he feels stronger,\nin the approbation of generous and appreciative hearts. We are very\nmuch in the habit of thinking that men of great minds and noble\ndeeds and self-reliant natures do not need the approval of other\nminds, and do not care for it; but God never lifted any man so far\nabove his fellows that their voices were not the most delightful\nsounds that reached him. If this be true of great natures, how\nmuch more evidently true is it of smaller natures! We, the people\nof the world, go leaning on each other; and we totter sometimes,\neven to falling, when a shoulder drops from underneath our hand.\nWe need encouragement with every step. In the path of worthy\ndoing, we need some loving voice to witness with our approving\nconsciences, that we have done that which becomes us as men and\nwomen. We long to hear the sentence, \"well done, thou good and\nfaithful servant,\" from day to day; and when we hear it, we are\nready for further labor. We need also to give this daily meed of\npraise to those who deserve it, that we may keep ourselves\nunselfish, and root out from ourselves all niggardliness. We owe\nit to ourselves to pay off every debt as soon as it is incurred,\nand never, under any selfish motive, to withhold it.\n\nIt is notorious that the finest spirits of the world, and the\nworld's greatest benefactors, have gone through life unrecognized.\nThey have lain down in their graves at last without having\nreceived a tithe of the debt which their generation owed to them.\nWhen the turf has closed over their bosoms, and the mean\njealousies of their cotemporaries have been vanquished by death,\nthen whole nations have thronged to do them honor. Songs have been\nsung to their memory; and the words of praise which would have\ndone so much to cheer and strengthen them once, are poured out in\nabundance when the need of them is past. Stately monuments are\nerected to them, and their children are petted and caressed, and a\ntardy, jealous, and hypocritical world strives to win self-respect\nby the payment of a debt long overdue. \"Speak nothing but good of\nthe dead\" is a proverb that had its birth in the world's sense of\nits own meanness,--the consciousness that it had not done justice\nto the dead while they were living. Many a man is systematically\nabused during all his active life, only to lie down in his grave\namid the laudations of a nation. I know of nothing in all the\nexhibitions of human nature meaner than this. It amounts to a\nvirtual confession of fraud. It is the acknowledgment of a debt,\nwhich, while the creditor could get any benefit from it, the world\nrefused to pay. Posthumous fame may be a very fine thing; but I\nhave never known a really worthy man, with a healthy nature and a\nhealthy character, who did not prize far above it the love, the\nconfidence, and the praise of the generation to which he gave his\nlife.\n\nIt is the mark of a noble nature to be quick to recognize that\nwhich is praiseworthy in others, and ready on the moment to award\nto it its fitting meed. Such a nature looks for that which is good\nin men, sees it, encourages it, and gives it the strength of its\nindorsal. All that is noble in other men thrives in the presence\nof such a nature as this. It is sunshine and showers and healthful\nbreezes to all that is amiable and laudable in the souls around\nit. Woman grows more womanly and lovable and happy in its\npresence. Men grow heroic and unselfish by its side. Children\ngather from it encouragement and inspiration, and impulse and\ndirection into a beautiful life. What knows the charming wife whom\nwe lay in the tomb, of the tears we shed above her, of the\nendearments we lavish upon her memory, and of the praises of her\nvirtue with which we burden the ears of our friends? This same\nwife would have drunk such expressions during her life with\nsatisfaction and gratification beyond expression. Why can death\nalone teach us that those whom we love are dear? Why must they be\nplaced forever beyond our sight before our lips can be unsealed?\nWhy must it be that in our public, social, and family life we have\npenalties in abundance, but no rewards--censure in profusion, but\nno praise--fault-finding without stint of freedom, but approbation\ndealt out by constrained and niggardly hands?\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XX.\n\nUNNECESSARY BURDENS.\n\n\n  \"I groan beneath this cowardice of heart\n   Which rolls the evil to be borne to-day\n   Upon to-morrow, loading it with gloom.\"\n   ALEXANDER SMITH.\n\n  \"There are two ways of escaping from suffering; the one by\nrising above the causes of conflict, the other by sinking below\nthem; for there is quiet in the soul when all its faculties are\nharmonized about any centre. The one is the religious method; the\nother is the vulgar, worldly method. The one is called Christian\nelevation; the other, stoicism.\"--BEECHER.\n\nThere were few houses of the old time in New England that did not\ncontain a well-thumbed volume of the Pilgrim's Progress; and there\nwere few children who did not become acquainted with its contents,\neither through its text or its pictures. I am sure that all the\nchildren felt as I did--very tired with sympathy for the poor\npilgrim who was obliged to lug that ugly pack from picture to\npicture, and very \"glad and lightsome\" when at last it fell from\nhis shoulders, and went tumbling down the hill. We did not marvel\nthat \"he stood still awhile, to look and wonder,\" or that \"he\nlooked, and looked again, even till the springs that were in his\nhead sent the waters down his cheeks.\" It was a great thing for a\nman who was bent on progress to be freed from an unnecessary\nburden; and it may be pleasant to know that at the foot of the\nhill of life the same sepulchre which swallowed the burden of\nBunyan's Pilgrim, so that he \"saw it no more,\" still stands open,\nand has room in it for all the burdens of all the pilgrims there\nare in the world.\n\nI wonder whether all the pilgrims who have undertaken the journey\n\"from this world to that which is to come\" ever lose the pack\nwhose fastenings were so quickly dissolved when our favorite old\nPilgrim looked upon the Cross? I doubt it. I hear many people\ngroaning throughout the whole course of their Christian experience\nwith the oppressive weight of this same burden. Instead of losing\nit at the sight of the cross, they hold to it, and will not let it\ngo. They mean well enough; but they do not understand that the\ncross was reared, and the meek sufferer nailed to it, that the\nburden of the penitent soul might be forever rolled off. They\ncarry their own sins, and never yield the pack to Him who bore it\nfor them \"in His own body, on the tree.\" They are never \"light and\ngladsome\" with a sense of great relief; and their Christian\nprogress is sadly impeded by the burden from which the central\ntruth of the Christian scheme releases them. If there be any such\nthing as forgiveness, then there is such a thing as release; but I\nthink there are many subjects of free and full forgiveness who\ninsist on carrying their old, dirty packs to their graves,\nstaggering under them all the way.\n\nBut this is not what I started to write about. A great many men\ncarry their life as an author carries a book which he is writing--\nnever losing the sense of their burden. When a writer undertakes a\nbook, and feels the necessity of perfect continuity of thought and\nsymmetry of structure, he can never lay it wholly aside. When once\nhe has taken up the first chapter, and comprehended his materials\nand machinery and end, he does not dare to lay down his work, or\ndiverge from the grand channel of his thought, until the last\nchapter is finished. He can take no three months' vacation; he can\nread no books that do not contribute to his progress in the chosen\ndirection; he can never wholly lay aside the burden that is on\nhim. It is like lifting upon one's shoulder the end of a long\npole, and then walking under it from end to end. The burden upon\nthe shoulder is not relieved until the whole length has been\npassed, and it drops as we walk from under it. Such is the way\nthat many men, and, perhaps, most men, carry life. If their\nbusiness troubles them, they have no power to throw it off, and no\ndisposition to try to do it. They are entirely aware that they\ngain nothing by carrying their tedious burden, but they carry it.\nNot content with doing their duty, and trying their best while\nactively engaged, they take home with them a long face, breathe\nsighs around them in the saddest fashion, and really unfit\nthemselves for the healthy exercise of their reason, and the\nactive employment of their faculties.\n\nWith men of this stamp, it makes little difference whether they\nare prosperous or otherwise. If times are good, and they really\nhave no fault to find with matters as they exist, they become\ntroubled about bad times that may possibly lie just ahead. \"Oh,\nit's all well enough to-day,\" they say, \"but you can't tell what\nis coming;\" so they bind the burden of the future upon them, and\nundertake to steal a march on God's providence. Such a thing as\ndoing the duty of a single day, and doing it well, and then\nthrowing off the burden of care, and having a good time in some\nrational way, until the hour comes for the commencement of the\nnext day's duty, they are strangers to. They walk into their\nhouses with a cloud upon their faces. They have no words of cheer\nfor those whom they have left at home during the day. They are\nmoody and sullen and sad--absorbed by their troubled thoughts--\ntaking no interest in the schemes, and having no sympathy with the\ntrials, of their wives and children, and making no effort to\nrelieve themselves of their burdens. If they pray at all, they\npractically pray like this: \"Give us this day our daily bread, and\nto-morrow, and next day, and the day after, and next year, and\nfifty years to come; and lest Thou shouldst forget it, or neglect\nto answer us, we have undertaken to look after the matter\nourselves.\"\n\nTo say nothing of the constant sadness, uneasiness, and discomfort\nof such a life as this, to all those who lead it, and to all who\nare intimately associated with them, the permanent effect of it\nupon the character of its subjects is to make them selfish and\nhard, and small and mean. Whatever may be their circumstances,\nthey become sensitive upon any expenditure of money for purposes\nbeyond the simplest necessities of personal and family life. This\nresult is both natural and inevitable. A man whose life, in and\nout of his counting-room, is absorbed by business, ceases, at\nlast, to be any thing but a man of business; and his mind\ncontracts and hardens down to its central, motive idea. That which\nbecomes the dominant aim and the grand end of life, always\ndetermines the character of life; and I have known young men, even\nbefore they have approached middle age, to become mean and miserly\nto such a degree as to disappoint and disgust their friends,\nsimply in consequence of a few years' absorption in business.\nBusiness is not life, nor is it life's end. It is simply a means\nof life; and all true living lies outside of it. Ministry is the\nmission of business--ministry to necessity, to comfort, and to a\npersonal, family, and social life into which business never\nenters, save with an unwelcome foot and a disturbing hand. This\neverlasting hugging of the burden of business, is, therefore, not\nonly a painful task, but it is permanently damaging to all who\nindulge in it.\n\n\"It is very easy to talk,\" says my friend, with a load upon his\nshoulders, \"but talking does not pay notes at the bank, and keep\ncreditors easy, and provide for one's family.\" Granted: and now\nwill you be kind enough to tell me how many notes you ever paid at\nbank, and how much provision you ever made for your family by\n\"mugging\" over your troubles out of business hours? If your retort\nis good for any thing, mine is. You never accomplished one good\nthing in your life by making yourself and others unhappy through\nconstant dwelling upon trouble when not engaged in active efforts\nto extricate yourself from it. You never gained a single inch of\nprogress by dwelling upon miscarriages in business which you could\nnot avoid. All your absorption, all your sad reflection, all your\nmisgivings about the future, all your care beyond the exercise of\nyour best ability in action, has not only been utterly useless,\nbut it has injured the comfort of all around you, destroyed the\npeace of your life, cheated you out of the reward of your labor,\nand made a smaller, harder, meaner man of you. If any good result\ncould be secured by carrying the burden of your business into all\nyour life, then there would be some apology for it; but you know\nthat no such result can be secured. \"It is very easy to talk,\" my\nfriend persists in saying, \"but one cannot always command one's\nmind, in such a matter as this.\" Did you ever try? Have you ever\nsystematically tried to do this? Is it your regular aim, after you\nhave discharged the business of the day, to throw off care until\nthe next day's business is undertaken? No? Then how do you know\nwhether it is easy or not?\n\nI believe it is in the power of every man, who has not too long\nabused himself, to lay aside every night his pack of mental care\nand anxiety, and enter into life. Not only this, but I believe\nthat it is absolutely essential to his business success that he do\nthis. A man who dwells constantly upon the dark side of his\naffairs, and is troubled and gloomy in his apprehensions\nconcerning the future, becomes a weak and timid man--disqualified\nin many essential respects for the work of his life. His mind\nneeds rest and revivification. Suppose an ass were to be treated\nin the manner in which men treat themselves. Suppose the burden\nwhich we place upon him during the day were kept lashed to his\nback at night, so that he must bear it, either standing or lying,\noff duty as well as on. How long would he be worth any thing for\nlabor? The illustration is apposite in every particular. If the\nmind is to be kept fit for business, it is at regular periods to\nbe kept out of business. A great multitude of business failures\nare attributable, I have no doubt, to the debilitating and\ndamaging effect of carrying the burdens of business between\nbusiness hours. Men become in a measure sick and insane by\ndwelling upon their affairs, when they should be receiving rest\nand refreshment.\n\nAgain, men who insist upon keeping their packs upon their\nshoulders, practically deny the existence of the providence of a\nBeing superior to themselves, and dominant in all human affairs.\nIf I were to say to one of these men: \"you do not believe in\nProvidence at all,\" he would accuse me of a harsh judgment, and\nfeel injured by it; but it is certainly legitimate for me to ask\nhim what evidence he gives of his belief. All, indeed, profess to\nbelieve in Providence, in a certain general way. The popular idea\nis very foggy upon the matter. We somehow imagine that God knows\nevery thing in general and nothing in particular--that He takes\ninterest in, supervision of, and controlling influence over,\nmatters at large, with an imperial disregard of details--that He\nmoulds with a majestic hand the character and destiny of nations,\nbut never condescends to meddle with the small and insignificant\naffairs of individuals. Providence, in this view, would seem to be\nvery much like certain tongs used in a blacksmith's shop, whose\njaws do not wholly close--convenient for handling large pieces of\niron, but incapable of grasping a nail. Or, Providence is like a\ngreat general, who only directs the movements of large bodies of\nmen, deals only with the officers, and never thinks of so small a\nthing as looking after the blanket of a private soldier, or\ndressing a wounded finger.\n\nIt is very easy to perceive that such a Providence as this has no\npractical value in every-day, individual life. Very evidently it\nis not that Providence which numbers the hairs of men's heads, and\nwithout whose notice not a sparrow falls to the ground. One is a\nProvidence made by men who undertake to measure God by themselves;\nthe other is the Providence revealed in the Bible. God exercises a\nspecial providence, which reaches to the minutest affairs of the\nmost insignificant man, or we are all in a condition of essential\norphanage. A special Providence denied, and prayer becomes a\nmockery, devotion a deceit, and the sense of individual\nresponsibility slavery to a superstitious idea. Now I do not\npretend to address myself to men who do not believe in prayer. I\nknow men well enough to know that there are very few of them who\ndo not believe in prayer, and that there are very few of them who\ndo not, particularly in moments of danger, pray. Deep down under\nthe thickest crusts of depravity there lies the conviction, always\nready to rise in painful emergencies, that God takes cognizance of\nevery man, and is able to help him. Smooth away the idea of\nProvidence as we may, into an unmeaning generality, the time\ncomes, in every man's life, when he recognizes the fact that God\nis dealing with him; and he may as well recognize the fact all the\ntime as when he is driven to feel that he has no help in himself.\n\nSo, if there be a special Providence, it is a Providence to be\ntrusted; and the man who believes in it has no apology for\ncarrying a single unnecessary burden. This providence in all human\naffairs, is like the principle of vitality in the vegetable world.\nIt does not release us from effort, in every legitimate and\nneedful way, for the accomplishment of our laudable purposes; but\nwhen our efforts are complete, it takes care of the rest. What\nshould we think of the farmer who could never roll the burden of\nhis cornfield from his mind, and who, after hoeing his ground\nrepeatedly, and cutting or covering every weed, should go night\nafter night and sit up with it, and think of it, and dream of it\nall the while? He has done all there is for him to do, and beyond\nthis he cannot control an hour of sunshine, a drop of dew, or a\nsingle cloud-full of rain. He cannot influence the law of growth\nin any particular. His field is in the control of a power entirely\nabove and beyond him; and every thought he gives to it, after\nhaving done what he can for its prosperity, is utterly useless. It\nis his business to trust. Having done what he can, the remainder\nis in the hands of Him who feeds the springs of being with light\nand heat and moisture. It is thus that man's affairs grow while he\nsleeps. The hand that ministers to every plant will not fail to\nminister to him for whose use the plant was made.\n\nWhy do not men trust in Providence? Simply because, in their usual\nmoods and in their usual circumstances, they do not believe in it.\nThere is no other explanation. You, my friend, who carry your\nburdens around on your shoulders all the time, and who, perhaps,\npray every morning and every night, do not believe in Providence.\nYou do not feel that you can trust Providence. You assent to all\nthat I say upon the subject, but, after all, your belief in\nProvidence has no genuine vitality. You do not believe in it as\nyou believe in the purity of your wife or the honor of your\nfriend. You do not rely upon it for an hour. You do nod your head\nand say--\"yes, yes;\" and you think you are sincere; but you\ndeceive yourself. So long as you persist in carrying your pack,\nwhich is a very unpleasant burden, as you know, you do not believe\nin Providence; else you would trust in it. You are tired and\nharassed by your daily labor; and it is very natural to suppose\nthat if you could remove your burden each evening, and place it in\nthe charge of one whom you believe would take care of it, you\nwould do it with gladness. You fail to do it, and what is the\nnatural conclusion? It is that your belief in Providence is a\nhumbug. You believe in the honor of your friend, and you trust it.\nYou believe in the honesty and ability of your creditor, and you\ntrust him. You trust every thing and everybody that you firmly\nbelieve in; and the only reason under heaven why you do not roll\noff the burden that oppresses you, every day and every hour of\nyour life, and commit it to the care of Providence, is, that you\ndo not believe in Providence.\n\nWe are in the habit of talking about the world as a world of care,\nand speaking of human life as inseparably accompanied by trouble.\nThis is, indeed, the truth; but if we were to remove from the\nworld all its useless care, and take from life all its unnecessary\ntrouble, they would be transformed into such bright and pleasant\nthings that we should hardly know them. I know very few men and\nwomen who do not bear about with them care and trouble which God\nnever put upon them, and which He has no desire to see upon their\nshoulders. It does not belong to them. It relates to things that\nare in the realm of Providence alone, or to things over which they\nhave no control. The future is God's, but they voluntarily take it\nupon their shoulders, and try to bear it. They pluck a section of\nGod's eternity out of His hands, and groan with the burden. They\nassume care which is not their own--which belongs to the\nController of their lives, and the Governor of the universe. It is\ncare for that which is beyond human care--anxiety for that which\nanxiety cannot reach--trouble about that which we can neither\nmake nor mend--that oppresses humanity. We can bear our daily\nburdens very well. We can go through our regular hours of bodily\nand mental labor, and feel the better rather than the worse for\nit; but to care for that which our care cannot touch, and to be\ntroubled about that which is entirely beyond our sphere--this is\nthe burden that breaks the back of the world--this is the burden\nwhich we bind to our shoulders with obstinate fatuity.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XXI.\n\nPROPER PEOPLE AND PERFECT PEOPLE.\n\n\n             \"I must have liberty\n   Withal, as large a charter as the wind\n   To blow on whom I please.\" SHAKSPEARE.\n\n  \"They say best men are moulded out of faults.\"\n   THE SAME.\n\n  \"There's no such thing in nature, and you'll draw\n   A faultless monster which the world ne'er saw.\"\n   SHEFFIELD.\n\nNature calls for room and for freedom--room for her ocean and\nfreedom for its waves; room for her rivers and freedom for their\nflowing; room for her forests and freedom for every tree to\nrespond to the influences of earth and sky according to its law.\nExceedingly proper things are not at all in the line of nature.\nNature never trims a hedge, or cuts off the tail of a horse.\nNature never compels a brook to flow in a right line, but permits\nit to make just as many turns in a meadow as it pleases. Nature is\nvery careless about the form of her clouds, and masses and colors\nthem with great disregard of the opinions of the painters. Nature\nnever thinks of smoothing off her rocks, and cleaning away her\nmud, and keeping herself trim and neat. She does very improper\nthings in a very impulsive manner. Instead of contriving some\nsafe, silent, and secret way to dispose of her electricity, she\ncomes out with a blinding flash and a stunning crash, and a rush\nof rain that very likely fills the mountain streams to overflowing,\nand destroys bridges and booms, and cabins and cornfields.\nOn the whole, though nature keeps up a respectable appearance,\nI suppose that, in the opinion of my particular friend Miss Nancy,\nshe would be improved by taking a few lessons of a French gardener,\nand reading savage criticisms on Ruskin.\n\nI have alluded to my particular friend Miss Nancy. Perhaps I ought\nto say, at starting, that Miss Nancy is a man, and that I use the\nname bestowed upon him by his enemies, because it is, in a very\nimportant sense, descriptive. Miss Nancy's boots are faithfully\npolished twice a day. His linen is immaculate; and the tie of his\ncravat is square and faultless. He never makes a mistake in\ngrammar while engaged in conversation. He is versed in all the\nforms and usages of society, and particularly at home in gallant\nattention to what he calls \"the ladies.\" He seems to have lost\nevery rough corner, if he ever had one. In politics and religion,\nhe is just as proper as in social life. The most respectable\nreligion is his religion; and the politics that shun extremes are\nhis politics. I think he is what they call a conservative. At any\nrate, I newer knew him to do a rash or impulsive thing, or speak\nan improper word in his life. I think he is as nearly perfect as\nany man I ever saw.\n\nBut, after all, Miss Nancy is not a popular man. He will probably\nlive and die an old bachelor, because all the women will persist\nin laughing at him. He is certainly good-looking, his dress is\nunexceptionable, his manners are \"as good as they make them,\"\nand his morals are as proper as his manners; yet I have not yet seen\nthe woman who would speak a pleasant word of my friend. He is\ndecidedly a \"woman's man,\" yet no woman will own him, and no\nwoman feels comfortable with him. His language is so carefully\nguarded against all impropriety of style and structure, that she\nfeels as if he were criticizing every word she utters, as well as\nmeasuring his own. His manners are so very proper that they are\nformal and constrained, and make her uncomfortable. His sentiments\nand opinions are so very conservative, that they have no vitality in\nthem. With a curious perverseness, the most gentle and  accomplished\nwomen will turn from him with a sense of relief, to join in the society\nof a hearty fellow with a loud laugh and a dash of slang, and a free\nand easy way with him. It may be difficult to explain all this, but\nit is true. An exceedingly proper man is never a popular man. That\nlife which is controlled by rigid and unvarying rules, and regulated\nby conventionalities in every minute particular, and restrained in\nevery impulse by notions of propriety, is unlovely and unnatural,\nand can never he otherwise.\n\nThe instincts of men are always right in this and all cognate\nmatters. All formalism is offensive to good taste. The painter\ndoes not study landscape in a garden. Formal isles, closely-trimmed\ntrees, rose hushes on the top of tall sticks, flowers tied to\nsupports, vines trained upon trellises, lakes with clipped and\npebbled margins and India-rubber swans--these are not picturesque.\nThere is no more inspiration in them than there would be in a row\nof tenement houses in the city. The painter looks for beauty out\nwhere nature reigns undisturbed amid her imperfections,--where the\naisles are made by the deer going to his lick; where the trees are\nnever trimmed save by the lightning or the hurricane; where the\nrose-bushes spread their branches and the vines trail themselves\nat liberty; and where the lake looks up into the faces of trees\ncenturies old, and hems itself in with thickets of alders and\ngreen reaches of flags and rushes, and throbs to the touch of the\nmountain breeze, while on its bosom\n\n  \"The black duck, with her glossy breast\n     Sits swinging silently.\"\n\nA little child whose head is piled with laces and ribbons,\nwhose dress is a mass of embroidery, and who is booted and gloved\nand otherwise oppressed by parental vanity and extravagance, is\nnot picturesque, any further than its face goes. The portrait\npainter will cling to the face and let the clothes alone. All\nthis I trickery of art, brought into comparison or contrast with\nthe simple beauty of nature, is offensive. Yet a little beggar\nboy, with an old straw hat on, and with bare, brown feet, and a\nburnt shoulder which his torn shirt refuses to cover, would be a\npainter's joy. Here would be drapery that he would delight to\npaint, simply because there would be no formality about it. It is\nimpossible for us to know how ridiculous a dress-coat is until we\nsee it in a statue. We are obliged to put all our modern sages and\nheroes into togas and blankets and long cloaks in order to make\nthem presentable to posterity.\n\nWe never find groups of accordant, striking facts like these--and\ntheir number could be largely increased--without finding that they\nare all strung together by an important law. All life demands room\nand freedom--freedom to manifest itself in every way, according to\nthe law of its being and the range of its circumstances. All life\nis individual and characteristic, and comes reluctantly under the\nsway of outside forces. It is not natural to be proper, or to love\npropriety. In saying this I simply mean that it is against nature to\nbring one's individuality under the curbing and controlling hands\nof others--to make the notions of the world the law and limit of\none's liberty, and to square every word and every act by arbitrary\nrules imposed by cliques and customs. A man who has been\nclipped in all his puttings-forth, and modelled by outside hands\nand outside influences, until it is apparent that he is governed\nfrom without rather than from within, is just as unnatural an object\nas a tree that has been clipped and tied and bent until its top has\ngrown into the form of a cube. Thus the reason why Miss Nancy\nis not popular, and why the women refuse to delight in him, is,\nthat he is not his own master--that he has, in himself, no independent\nlife. It is not proper that he give utterance to his impulses;--so\nhe suppresses them. It is not proper that he frankly reveal the\nemotions of his heart; so he conceals them. It is not proper that\nhe enter enthusiastically into any work or any pleasure; so he is\na constant check to the enthusiasm of others. It is not proper\nthat he speak the words that spring to his lips when his weak\nsensibilities are touched; so he studies his language, and shapes\nhis phrases to the accepted models. Thus is he shortened in on\nevery side, until his individuality is all gone, and the humanity\nin him becomes as characterless as its expression. Every utterance\nof his life is made with a well-measured reference to certain\nstandards to which he is an acknowledged slave.\n\nA scrupulously proper man is often a self-deceiver, and not\nunfrequently an intentional deceiver of others. I do not say that\nhe is necessarily a scoundrel or a fool. He may be very little of\neither, and he may be a little of both. These two words, which\nsound rather roughly, will give us, I think, a faithful index to\nhis character. A man who is punctiliously proper has usually\nbecome so in consequence of an attempt to cover up his mental\ndeficiencies or his moral obliquities. Punctilious propriety is\nalways pretentious, and pretentiousness is always an attempt at\nfraud. A shallow mind is very apt to clothe itself with propriety\nas with a garment. A brain that cannot handle large things very\noften undertakes to manage a multiplicity of little things, and\nruns naturally into those minute proprieties of life which are\nshowy, and which appear to the ignorant to indicate great powers\nand acquisitions in reserve. Most proper men are nothing but a\nshell, although many of them pass with the world for more. Their\nlife is all on the outside, and is placed and kept there for show.\nWe approach them, and very frequently find them so well guarded\nthat we do not get a look into their emptiness for a long time. We\nexamine them as we would a hillside strewn with fragments and\nplanted with boulders of marble. We are obliged to dig to learn\nwhether the signs we see are from an out-cropping ledge, or an\noutside deposition. Sometimes the plunge of a single question will\nreveal the whole story. A man with large brains and a large life\nin him has something to do besides attending to the notions of\nother people. He has at least no motive to deceive the world by\nstriving to appear to be more than he is.\n\nI have said that there are some men who are punctiliously proper\nfor the purpose of covering their moral obliquities. The virtue of\na prude is always to be suspected. \"So you have been looking after\nthe bad words,\" was savage old Dr. Johnson's reply to the very\nproper woman who found fault with him for introducing so many\nindecent words into his dictionary. There are few men who have not\nfrequently, during their lives, broken their way through a crust\nof punctilious propriety into hearts full of all the blackness of\nsensuality and sin. The world is full of hypocrisy, and hypocrisy\nis nothing more than appearing to be what one is not. Indeed, I\nbelieve that one of the strongest motives operative in the world\nto render men scrupulously proper in their deportment and behavior\nis sin. I make no hesitation in saying that shallowness and\nsensuality are the leading ingredients in the majority of the\nexceedingly proper characters with which I am acquainted.\n\nLeaving this particular phase of my subject, I wish to call\nattention to the well-recognized fact that all perfect people are\nbores. A perfect character in a novel has no more power over a\nreader--no more foothold among his sympathies--than a proposition\nin mathematics would have. Of all stupid creations that the brain\nof man has given birth to, there are none so stupid as the perfect\nmen and women whom we find upon the pages of fiction. Sometimes we\nfind in actual life a character so symmetrical, so rounded off at\nthe corners, and smoothed at the edges, and polished on the sides,\nand unexceptionable in all its manifestations, that we cannot find\nfault with it; yet we find it impossible for us to love it. Such a\ncharacter gets beyond the reach of our sympathies. Human affection\nis like ivy. It cannot cling to glass; it must plant its feet in\nimperfections. It is not to be denied that imperfection is the\ntrue flavor of humanity. The mind refuses to sympathize where it\ndoes not exist. What the world would call a perfect man--what\nwould be adjudged a perfect man by the best standards--would be as\ntasteless as a last year's apple. A perfect woman could no more be\nloved than she could be hated. I never saw a man with a perfect\nface--a face modelled so symmetrically and so perfectly that no\nfault could be found with it--who was not more or less a numskull.\nA pretty man is always a pretty fool; and the more symmetrical the\nfeatures of a woman are, the more does she approach to the style\nof beauty and expression and native gifts of a porcelain doll. The\nmind and the character can be so symmetrical that they will lose\nall charm and all significance. They descend into simple\nprettiness, which is simple insipidity.\n\nI say that imperfection is the true flavor of humanity. In\nexplanation, I ought to say that all individuality is either based\nupon it or pre-supposes it. For instance: the preponderance of\ncertain powers and qualities of mind and character in me, over\ncertain other powers and qualities, and the weakness and\nimperfection of these latter as related to the former, and to the\nindividualities of others, make my individuality what it, is. If\nin me all mental and moral powers were in equipoise--if I were a\nsymmetrical man, as the first Adam may possibly have been--I\nshould have no individuality, no qualities that would distinguish\nme--no weaknesses that would furnish footholds for human\nsympathy--no freshness and flavor. A whole world full of perfect\nmen and women, each one like every other, would be unutterably\nstupid. Where there is no weakness there is no individuality;\nwhere there is no individuality there is no true humanity; where\nthere is no true humanity there is no sympathy; and where there is\nno sympathy there is no pleasure. We demand that a man shall live\naccording to his law--develop himself according to his law--\nmanifest and express himself according to his law; and then he\nwill become the object of our sympathy or antipathy, according to\nour law. We demand that the true flavor of every individuality\nshall be declared, and not be masked by the imposition of\nconventional regulations.\n\nIf every tree in the world were perfect, according to any\nrecognized standard, then all the trees would be alike, and would\ncease to be attractive and picturesque. We keep all perfect things\nout of pictures, because they are formal and tasteless. A bran new\ncottage, with a picket fence around it, and every thing cleaned up\nabout it, is too perfect to be picturesque. An old, tumble-down\nmill, with rude and rotten timbers, and a wheel outside, is\ndecidedly picturesque, because its imperfections make it informal.\nThe most unattractive of all houses is a model house. A house that\nno man can find fault with, is a house that no man can love. It is\nprecisely thus with human character and with men. A proper,\nperfect, \"model\" man, is an unlovable man. A sphere cannot be made\nto fit an angle, and a spherical character has no point of\nsympathy with one that is thrown into the angles necessary for\nindividuality. So we neither love symmetry and perfection in men,\naccording to any recognized standard, nor the appearance of them.\nWe demand not only that men shall have individuality, but that\nthey shall express it in their language and their lives. In\nsociety we demand variety; and in order to have it, men must act\nout themselves. The harmony and sweetness of social life consist\nin the adjustment of the strong points of some to the weak points\nof others.\n\nWith these facts so very evident as they must be to all thoughtful\nminds, it is strange that such an effort is made to bring all men\nto a certain standard and style of life. I do not believe there is\na country on the face of the earth where public opinion and\nfashion and conventional and individual notions, exercise so\ndespotic a sway as they do in America. There is, in this \"free\ncountry,\" no play to individuality tolerated. No room is made for\nthe peculiarities of a man--no freedom is given to his mode of\nmanifestation. A man who has peculiar manners, and whose style of\nindividuality is marked, has no room allowed to him at all. He is\nvery likely to be called a fool, and laughed at by his inferiors.\nWe take no pains to look through the outside to find the heart and\nsoul, and refuse to see excellence behind manifestations that\noffend our notions or our tastes. We go to hear a preacher, and if\nhe do not happen to have the externals, and the style of delivery\nwhich we most admire, we condemn him at once. We make no room for\nhis individuality, and allow to it no freedom of manifestation.\nRoom and freedom--that which the ocean has, that which the rivers\nhave, that which the forest has, and that from which all of them\nderive their beauty and their glory--room and freedom are denied\nto men by men who need both, quite as much as their fellows.\n\nThe choicest food of the gossips is the personal peculiarities of\ntheir acquaintances. The grand staple of ridicule is this same\nindividuality, whose importance I have endeavored to illustrate.\nAll the small wits of society busy themselves upon the eccentricities\nof those around them. Church and creed, party and platform,\nfashion and custom, all direct themselves against the development\nof individuality. Sensitive natures shrink before such an array of\ninfluences, and retire into themselves, drawing back and keeping\nin check all their out-reaching individuality. Many a man, indeed,\nwho would face a cannon's mouth without trembling, flinches\nwhen beset by ridicule. It is not the fault of society that the\nwhole race of mankind are not reduced to a dead level of character,\nand a tasteless uniformity of life. Were it not that God does His\nwork so strongly, it would have been undone long ago. As it is, we\nalways have a few men and women who are true enough to God and\nthemselves to keep the world from stagnation, and give zest to life.\nThey sometimes shock Miss Nancy, but as they do not happen\nto care what Miss Nancy thinks of them, they manage to live\nand do something to keep Miss Nancy's friends from settling into\nchronic inanity.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XXII.\n\nTHE POETIC TEST.\n\n\n      \"I walked on, musing with myself\n  On life and art, and whether, after all,\n  A larger metaphysics might not help\n  Our physics--a completer poetry\n  Adjust our daily life and vulgar wants\n  More fully than the special outside plans,\n  Phalansteries, material institutes,\n  The civil conscriptions and lay monasteries,\n  Preferred by modern thinkers.\" MRS. BROWNING.\n\nThe highest poetry is the purest truth. To learn whether any thing\nis as it ought to be, we have only to learn whether it is truly\npoetical. It is a popular fallacy to suppose that poetical things\nare necessarily fanciful, or imaginative, or sentimental in other\nwords, that poetry resides in that which is both baseless and\nvalueless. In the popular thought, poetry is shut out of the realm\nof truth and reality. The reason, I suppose, is, that poetry demands\nmore of truth and harmony and beauty than is commonly found in the\nactualities of human life.\n\nLet us suppose that in a country journey we arrive at the summit\nof a hill, at whose foot lies a charming village imbosomed in\ntrees from the midst of which, rises the white spire of the\nvillage church. If we are in a poetical mood, we say: \"How\nbeautiful is this retirement! This quiet retreat, away from the\nworld's distractions and great temptations, must be the abode of\ndomestic and social virtue--the home of contentment, of peace, and\nof an unquestioning Christian faith. Fortunate are they whose lot\nit is to be born and to pass their days here, and to be buried at\nlast in the little graveyard behind the church.\" As we see the\nchildren playing upon the grass, and the tidy matrons sitting in\ntheir doorways, and the farmers at work in the fields, and the\nquiet inn, with its brooding piazzas like wings waiting for the\nshelter of its guests, the scene fills us with a rare poetic\ndelight. In the midst of our little rapture, however, a\ncommunicative villager comes along, and we question him. We are\nshocked to learn that the inn is a very bad place, with a drunken\nlandlord, that there is a quarrel in the church which is about to\ndrive the old pastor away, that there is not a man in the village\nwho would not leave it if he could sell his property, that the\nwomen give a free rein to their propensity for scandal, and that\nhalf of the children of the place are down with the measles.\n\nThe true poet sees things not always as they are, but as they\nought to be. He insists upon congruity and consistency. Such a\nlife should be in such a spot, under such circumstances; and no\nunwarped and unpolluted mind can fail to see that the poet's ideal\nis the embodiment of God's will. The poet's Indian is very\ndifferent from the real native American who has been exposed to\nthe corrupting influences-of the white man's civilization. The\npoet insists on seeing in the American Indian a noble manhood,\nsimple tastes, freedom from all conventionality, heroic fortitude,\nand all those romantic qualities which a free forest life seems so\nwell calculated to engender. He looks upon the deep, mysterious\nwoods, traversed by nameless streams; the majestic mountains,\nhaunted by shadows; the broad lakes, swept only by the wind and\nthe wild man's oar, and he says: \"it is fitting, and only fitting,\nthat out of such a realm should come such a life.\" Which is the\nbetter and the more truthful Indian--that of the poet, or he who\ndrank the rum of our fathers and then scalped them? The poet's\nvillage is the model village, and the poet's Indian is the model\nIndian. Both are built of the best and truest materials that God\nfurnishes, and we see that when the actual village and the real\nIndian are tried by the poetic standard, they are tried by the\nseverest standard that can be applied to them. The poet's ideal\nembodies God's ideal of a village and an Indian.\n\nThe grand, basilar idea of American institutions is human\nequality--the idea embodied in the American Declaration of\nIndependence, that men are created free and equal, each with an\nindependent, and all with a co-ordinate, right to life, liberty,\nand the pursuit of happiness. There is in this idea the highest\npoetry, because it is the transcendent truth; and there is no true\npoetry this side of the highest truth. Poetry follows the\nuniversal law, and is dependent for its quality upon its\nmaterials. In the degree in which its materials are fictitious and\nartificial, is it poor and false. The Pilgrim's Progress is\nessentially better poetry than the Paradise Lost, because it\ncontains more of the truth as it is in the divine life of man.\n\nThe poetic test, then, is practically a very valuable one, in all\nthe important matters that relate to our life. Much of that which\nis miscalled poetry has been based upon arbitrary and artificial\ndistinctions in human society and human lot. The poet has often\nsung of thrones and palaces, of kings and queens, of men and women\nof gentle blood, of barons and knights and squires, of retainers\nand dependents, of patricians and plebeians, and thus drawn his\ngrand interest from distinctions in which God and Nature have had\nno hand. There may be romance, fancy, imagination, sentiment, and\neven instruction in such compositions as these, but there is no\npoetry. They have not in them the immortal life and the motive\npower of truth. We have only to carry distinctions thus attempted\nto be glorified to their logical results to land in the slavery of\nthe masses to the over-mastering few. Now there never was, and\nthere never can be, any poetry in slavery. Since time began no\ntrue poet has undertaken to write a line in praise of slavery.\nPoets have always been, and they must necessarily forever be, the\nprophets and priests of freedom. Multitudes of men have undertaken\nto justify slavery by the Bible, by expediency, by history, by\nnecessity, by philosophy, by the constitution of the country; but\nno man ever undertook to justify it by poetry. The most brilliant\nprize offered by a national committee for the best poem in praise\nof human slavery, would not be able to draw forth a single\nstanza from any man capable of writing a line of true poetry.\nPhilosophical defences of slavery can be purchased, political\njustifications can be had at the small price of a small office,\nand Christian apologies to order, but, thank God! not one line in\npraise of slavery could be written by a true poet, if the wealth\nof the world were to be his reward.\n\nWe have in the present age a sickly, sentimental humanity which is\nbusily endeavoring to pervert the sense and love of justice in\nmankind. It regards the disposition to do wrong as a disease, to\nbe treated with appropriate emollients applied over the heart, or\nsome gentle opiate or alterative taken through the ears. It pities\nthe murderer, and aims to give the impression to him and to the\nworld that he is a victim to the barbarous instincts of society in\nthe degree by which his punishment is made severe. It aims to\ntransform prisons into comfortable asylums, where those who have\nbeen so unfortunate as to burn somebody's house, or steal\nsomebody's horse, or insert a dirk under somebody's waistcoat, may\nretire and repent of their little follies, and in the mean time\nget better food and lodging than they were ever able to steal.\nPunishment--retribution--these are words which make them shudder.\nNothing in their view is proper but such treatment of the\ncriminal, be it soft or severe, as will contribute to his\nreformation. The criminal has forfeited no rights, and society has\nno claims upon him, if he only repents; and all punishment\ninflicted beyond the measure necessary to secure repentance is\ncruel. We have a great deal of this; and more or less it is\nmodifying theological systems and vitiating public policy. It is\ncarried to such an extent, often, as to make of the greatest\ncriminals notable martyrs. Society and the victim of wrong-doing\nare both forgotten in sympathy for the wrong-doer.\n\nNow these sentimental sympathizers with criminals, call\nthemselves Christians, and are not willing to believe that any man\ncan, in a truly Christian spirit, oppose their theories and their\ninfluence. They have been able to blind almost every sense in a\nman except the poetic sense; but to this they appeal in vain.\n\"Poetic justice\" maintains its purity. The reader of a novel, no\nmatter how good or how bad he may be, demands that the villain of\nthe book shall be punished as a matter of justice alike to him.\nand to those who have been his victims. Nothing but justice--\nnothing but a fitting retribution--will satisfy. The poetic\ninstinct demands a perfect system of rewards and punishments, and\nis as little satisfied when a hero succeeds indifferently, as when\na scoundrel fails to be punished according to his deserts. There\nis no poetic fitness without justice--retribution, pound for\npound, and measure for measure. Set any audience that can be\ngathered to watching a play in which criminal and crafty art is\nmade to meet and master a guileless spirit and pollute a spotless\nwomanhood, and the sympathies of the vilest will follow the\nvictim, and, in the end, demand the punishment of the victor.\nNothing will seem to any audience so entirely out of place as kind\nand gentle treatment toward the artful brute, and nothing more\noutrageously unjust than the idea that repentance is the principal\nend of his punishment. The poetic instinct of fitness once\nthoroughly roused, as it is in a story, a poem, or a play, will\nbe satisfied with nothing but full suffering for every sin. Now I\nwould trust this poetic instinct of fitness further than I would\nall the sympathies of the humanitarians, all the sophistries of\nthe philosophers, all the subtleties of the theologians, and all\nthe milder virtues of Christianity itself. To me, it is as\nauthoritative as a direct revelation from God, and is equivalent\nto it.\n\nAgain, nothing is more apparent in American character and American\nlife than a growing lack of reverence. It begins in the family,\nand runs out through all the relations of society. The parent may\nbe loved, but he is much less revered than in the olden time.\nParental authority is cast off early, and age and gray hairs do\nnot command that tender regard and that careful respect that they\ndid in the times of the fathers. In politics, it is the habit to\nspeak in light and disrespectful terms of those whose experience\ngives them the right to counsel and command. Young men talk\nflippantly of \"fossils,\" and \"old fogies,\" and wonder why men who\nhave been buried once will not remain quietly in their graves. Of\ncourse, when such a spirit as this prevails, there can be no\nreverence for authority, no respect for place and position, and no\ngenuine and hearty loyalty. We nickname our Presidents; and \"old\nBuck\" and \"old Abe\" are spoken of as familiarly as if they were a\npair of old oxen we were in the habit of driving. Every man\nconsiders himself good enough for any place, and great enough to\njudge every other man. If a pastor does not happen to suit a\nparishioner, the parishioner has no feeling of reverence for him\nthat would hinder him from telling him so to his face. Every man\nconsiders himself not only as good and as great as any other man,\nbut a little better and a little greater. No being but God is\nrevered, and He, I fear, not overmuch. What we call \"Young\nAmerica\" is made up of about equal parts of irreverence, conceit,\nand that popular moral quality familiarly known as \"brass.\"\n\nIt is the habit to applaud Young America--to magnify the superior\nwisdom and efficiency of young men, to treat old age familiarly,\nand to compel those of superior years to ignore the honors with\nwhich God has crowned them. \"Every dog has his day,\" we say, and\nwe are impatient of a man who declines to step into retirement the\nmoment that his hair turns gray, to make room for some specimen of\nYoung America with a snub nose and a smart shirt-collar. Now,\nhowever this irreverence may be justified--and it is not only\njustified but shamelessly gloried in--it is not poetical. Poetry\ncannot be woven of improprieties. A people bowing with reverence\nto those in authority, and regarding with profound respect high\nofficial station; a family of children clinging, even through a\nlong manhood and womanhood, around the form of an aged parent with\nassiduous attentions and tender reverence; a community or a nation\nof young men looking to age for wisdom and for counsel; universal\nrespect for years on the part of the young--these are, and must\nforever remain, poetical. Out of reverence can be woven the most\nbeautiful pictures which the poet's brain can conceive; but Young\nAmerica can no more excite poetic sentiment, or inspire poetic\nimaginations, than the sham Havana it smokes, or the mongrel horse\nit drives. There is no poetry in an irreverent character, or in an\nirreverent community. Irreverence in any form will not stand the\npoetic test.\n\nAmericans boast habitually of their country, and their boastings\nalways assume the poetic form. The ballot-box that they talk about\nis the ballot-box that ought to be and not the ballot-box that is.\nOne would think, to hear what is said of the ballot-box, that it\nliterally shines with glory, so that every American freeman who\nmarches up to it to deposit the paper embodiment of his will,\nglows like a God in its light, and grows godlike by his act. If we\nare to believe Mr. Whittier, the poor voter sings on election day:\n\n  \"The proudest now is but my peer,\n    The highest not more high;\n  To-day, of all the weary year,\n    A king of men am I.\n\n  To-day, alike are great and small,\n    The nameless and the known;\n  My palace is the people's hall,\n    The ballot-box my throne!\"\n\nThis is a very splendid sort of a ballot-box, and he is a very\nfine sort of an American who sings about it; but what are the\nfacts? There are a good many chances that the box stands in a\ncorner grocery, and that the poor voter is led up to deposit his\npriceless ballot so drunk that he cannot walk without help. Mr.\nWhittier would have us believe that the poor voter sings:\n\n  \"To-day shall simple manhood try\n    The strength of gold and land;\n  The wide world has not wealth to buy\n    The power in my right hand.\"\n\nThe truth is that gold and land try the very \"simple manhood\" as\na rule, and very much less than the wide world is sufficient to\nbuy the power in a great multitude of poor voters' hands. The\npoet sees what the ballot-box may be, ought to be, and, in some\nrare instances, really is. He unerringly seizes upon the dignity\nand majesty of self-government, the equal rights and privileges\nof manhood, and the dissipation of all distinctions in the exercise\nof the political franchise among freemen. The great truth of\nhuman equality inspires him, and he uses the ideal and possible\nballot-box to illustrate it, and thus furnishes the standard by\nwhich the real ballot-box is to be judged.\n\nThe poetical view of our American system of government is that all\nmen have a voice in the government; that we choose our own rulers\nand make our own laws; that no man has a hereditary right to rule,\nand that men are selected for the service of the people, in the\nconstruction and the execution of the laws, because of their\nfitness for office. Outside of this view, the American system of\ngovernment has no beauty and no foundation in truth and justice.\nIf we undertake to argue with a monarchist, we never bring forward\nany other. It has in it the essential element of poetry, because\nit does justice to the nature and character of man, and describes\na perfect political society. The poetical view of the American\nsystem of government, is, then, the highest view. It covers the\nsovereignty of the citizen, and the wisdom of the popular voice.\nAround this idea the poets have woven their noblest songs; but\nagain we ask what are the facts? The people are led by the nose by\npoliticians; and not one officer of the government in one hundred\nis chosen to his place because of his fitness for it. The people\ndo not nominate those who shall rule them, or those who shall make\nlaws for them. Those whom the politicians do not nominate for\noffice, nominate themselves. The political machinery of America\npractically takes the choice of rulers and officers out of the\nhands of the people, and puts it into the hands of a set of\nself-appointed leaders, whose patriotism is partisanship, and whose\nprincipal aim is to serve themselves and their friends, and use\nthe people for accomplishing their purposes. No greater fiction\nwas ever conceived than the pleasant one that the people of\nAmerica govern America. The people of America, except in certain\npolitical revolutions, have always been governed by a company of\nself-appointed and irresponsible men, whose principal work was to\ngrind axes for themselves. The poetry of American politics is then\nthe severest standard by which to judge the reality of American\npolitics.\n\nReligious freedom is another poetical idea in which the American\nglories. It is essentially a poetical thought that every man is\nfree to worship God according to the dictates of his own\nconscience--that there is no Church to domineer over the State,\nand no State to domineer over the Church, that the Bible is free,\nand that each individual soul is responsible only to its Maker.\nThis great and beautiful liberty stirs us when we think of it as\nmusic would stir us, breathed from heaven itself. It is grand,\nGod-begotten, belonging in the eternal system of things, full of\ninspiration. This religious freedom we claim as Americans. Some of\nus enjoy it; but the number is not large. The freedom of the sect\nis not greatly circumscribed, but the freedom of the individual is\nhardly greater in America than it is in those countries where an\nestablished church lays its finger upon every man. I would as\nsoon be the slave of the Pope or the Archbishop as the slave of a\nsect. I would as readily put my neck under the yoke of a national\nchurch as under the yoke of a sect. It does not mend the matter\nthat the multitude are willing slaves, and it certainly mars the\nmatter that the sects themselves do what they can, in too many\ninstances, to circumscribe each the other's liberty. Sects are\nreligiously and socially proscribed by sects. Take any town in\nAmerica that contains half a dozen churches, representing the same\nnumber of religious denominations, and it will be found that, with\none, and that probably the dominant sect, it will be all that a\nman's reputation and position are worth to belong to another sect.\nPerfect religious freedom in America there undoubtedly is; but it\nis the possession of only here and there an individual. Prevalent\nuncharitableness and bigotry are incompatible with the existence\nof religious liberty anywhere.\n\nIt is thus that the poetic instinct grasps at truth and beauty,\nand fitness and harmony, wherever it sees it, and it is thus that\nit furnishes us (subordinate only to special, divine revelation)\nwith the most delicate tests of human institutions, customs, and\nactions. Litmus-paper does not more faithfully detect the presence\nof an acid than the poetic instinct detects the false and foul in\nall that makes up human life. All that is grand and good, all\nthat is heroic and unselfish, all that is pure and true, all that\nis firm and strong, all that is beautiful and harmonious, is\nessentially poetical, and the opposite of all these is at once\nrejected by the unsophisticated poetic instinct.\n\nVerily the poets of the world are the prophets of humanity! They\nforever reach after and foresee the ultimate good. They are\nevermore building the paradise that is to be, painting the\nmillennium that is to come, restoring the lost image of God in the\nhuman soul. When the world shall reach the poet's ideal, it will\narrive at perfection; and much good will it do the world to\nmeasure itself by this ideal, and struggle to lift the real to its\nlofty level.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XXIII.\n\nTHE FOOD OF LIFE.\n\n\n  \"To the soul time doth perfection give,\n    And adds fresh lustre to her beauty still;\n   And makes her in eternal youth to live\n    Like her which nectar to the Gods doth fill.\n   The more she lives, the more she feeds on truth;\n    The more she feeds, the strength doth more increase;\n   And what is strength, but an effect in youth\n    Which, if time nurse, how can it ever cease?\"\n   SIR J. DAVIES.\n\nA horse can live, and do a good deal of dull work, on hay; but\nspirit and speed require grain. There is no self-supplied,\nperennial fountain within the animal that enables him to expend\nmore in the way of muscular power than he receives in the way of\nmuscular stimulus and nourishment. Food, in its quality and\namount, up to the limit of healthful digestion, is set over\nagainst, and exactly measures, under ordinary circumstances, the\nquality and amount of labor of which a horse is capable. So, a\ncow can live on straw and corn-stalks; but it would not be\nreasonable to suppose that she would give any considerable amount\nof milk upon so slender a diet. We do not expect rich milk, in\nlarge quantities, to be yielded by a cow that is not bountifully\nfed with the most nutricious food. The same fact attaches to land.\nWe cannot get out of land more than there is in it; and having\nonce exhausted it, we are obliged to put into it, in fertilizers,\nall we wish to take from it in the form of vegetable growths.\nWherever there is an outgo, there must be an equal income, or\nexhaustion will be the inevitable consequence.\n\nThe principle which these familiar facts so forcibly illustrate is a\nvery important one, in its connection with human life. We cannot get\nany more out of human life than we put into it. All civilization is\nan illustration of what can be accomplished by feeding the human\nmind. All barbaric and savage life is an illustration of mental and\nmoral starvation. The differences among mankind are the results of\ndifferences in the nourishment upon which their minds are fed.\nEunice Williams, who was taken captive by the savages of Canada a\nhundred and fifty years ago, was the daughter of a most godly\nminister, of the old Puritan stamp; but a very few years of savage\nfeeding made her a savage. Her mind was cut off from all other\nvarieties of nourishment, and could only tend to savage issues. She\nkept a knowledge of her history, and many years after her capture\nrevisited her home, accompanied by her tawny husband; but no\npersuasions could call her from her savage life and companionship.\nThe conversion of men from heathenism to Christianity and Christian\ncivilization is accomplished by introducing new food into their\nmoral and mental diet. \"A change of pastures makes fat calves,\" we\nare told; and any one who has noticed the effect upon an active mind\nof its translation from one variety of social and moral influences\nto another, will recognize the truth of the proverb.\n\nIf a man will call up his acquaintances, one by one, and mentally\nmeasure the results of their lives, he will be astonished to see how\nsmall those results are. He will also see that they are, under\nordinary circumstances, in the exact proportion to the amount, and\nin correspondence with the variety, of the food they take in. It is\nastonishing to see how little it takes to keep some people, and how\nvery little such people become on their diet. A man who shuts\nhimself away from all social life, and lays by his reading, and\ndeclines all food that addresses itself to his sensational and\nemotional nature, and refuses that bread of life which comes down\nfrom heaven, and feeds himself only with relation to the\naccomplishment of some petty work, will become as thin and scrawny,\nmentally and morally, as the body of a half-starved Hottentot. It is\nthe one curse of rural life that it does not have a sufficiency and\na sufficient variety of food. The same scenes, the same faces, the\nsame limited range of books, the same dull friends, exhausted long\nago--no new nourishment for powers cloyed with their never-varying\nfood--these are what make rural life, as it is usually lived,\nunattractive and most unfruitful. The fruits--the issues--of this\nlife cannot be greater than the food it gets, and the food is very\nscanty. It is not necessary that it should be so, and sometimes it\nis not so; but the rule of common rural life is insufficiency of\nmental food, and consequent poverty of manifestation.\n\nThe utilitarian habits of New England, originating in necessity, and\nfar outliving the circumstances in which they had their birth, have\ntended more than any other cause to make New England character\nunlovable. The saving of half-pence to add to one's store, and the\ndenial to one's self and children of that which will delight the\nfamished senses, and stir the thin emotions, and enlarge the range\nof experience, is the direct way of arriving at meanness of life.\nThere are those who will not allow their families to cultivate\nflowers, because flowers are not useful, and they involve a waste of\ntime and land. They will not have an instrument of music in their\nhouses, because music is not useful, and it involves an expenditure\nof money, and the throwing away of a great deal of time. They will\nnot buy pictures, because pictures are not useful, and because they\ncost money; so that many a rich man's parlor is as bare of ornament\nas a tomb would be. They will not attend a lecture, because, though\nit might furnish them with mental food for a month, it would not\nbring their shillings back to them. They will not attend a concert,\nbecause a concert is not useful. They will not hire a minister who\npossesses fine gifts--gifts that would enrich them mentally,\nmorally, and socially--because they cannot afford it. So they take\nup with ministerial dry nursing, and one another's dry experiences,\nas spiritual food, in order to save a few more dollars.\n\nThere are a few of the severer virtues that will live upon a diet of\nthis kind. Endurance, industry, a negative purity, thrift,\nintegrity--these can live, and do live, after a sort, on a plain and\nscanty diet, and these, as we know, abound in New England. But\ngenerosity, hospitality, charity, liberality--all those qualities\nthat enrich the character, and all those virtues that enlarge it and\ngive it fulness and beauty and attractiveness, are always wanting\namong the class that sacrifices every thing for use. More cannot be\ngot out of any life than is put into it. Modern chemistry analyzes\nsoils, and ascertains exactly what they need to make them produce\nbountifully of any kind of grains and fruits. Wheat cannot be grown\non land that does not contain the constituents of wheat; and if it\nbe desirable to grow wheat, those constituents must be added to the\nsoil. If any mental soil does not produce those vital manifestations\nand results which characterize a large, rich, and attractive life,\nthen the constituents of that life must be introduced as nutriment.\n\nOne of the common experiences in the world of authorship is the\nwriting of a single successful book, and the failure of all that\nfollow it from the same pen. The explanation is, that the first book\nis the result of a life of feeding, and those that follow it come\nfrom an exhausted mind. There are many writers who, as soon as they\nbegin to write, stop feeding, and in a very short time write\nthemselves out. The temptation of the writer is to seclusion. His\nlabors in a measure unfit him for social life, and for mingling in\nthe every-day affairs of men. He is apt to become warped in his\nsentiments, and morbid in his feelings, and to grow small and weak\nas his works increase. The greatest possible blessing to an author\nis compulsory contact with the world--every-day necessity to meet\nand mingle with men and women--social responsibilities and business\ncares, and the consequent necessity of keeping up with the events\nand the literature of his time. An author in this position not only\nkeeps a healthy mind, but he takes in food every day which his\nindividuality assimilates to itself, and utters as the expression of\nits life. I have no belief that Shakspeare would ever have given us\nhis immortal plays, but for the necessities which brought him so\nmuch into contact with men. Outside of his authorship, he lived an\nactive, practical life--trod the boards of a theatre, managed men,\nlooked after his money, rubbed against society in multiplied ways--\nand kept himself strong, healthy, and abundantly fed with that food\nwhich was necessary to him.\n\nShakspeare had genius, it is true, but genius without food is quite\nas helpless as a barren acre. All great geniuses are immense\nfeeders. All true and healthy geniuses fasten for food upon every\nthing and every body. Their antennas are always out for the\napprehension of ideas, and their mouths always open for their\nreception. Walter Scott was engaged in the active duties of the\nlegal profession when writing his novels, and there was not a legend\nof Scotland, nor a bit of history or gossip, nor an old story-teller\nthat lived within fifty miles of him, that he did not lay under\ntribute for mental food. It is declared, to the everlasting disgrace\nof Goethe, that he practiced upon the affections of women, even to\nold age, that he might gather food for poetry. Byron traversed\nEurope in search of adventure, and rummaged the scenes of legend and\nstory for food for his voracious senses and sensibilities. His\nChilde Harold is nothing but the record of his tireless foraging.\nAll men who have produced much have fed bountifully.\n\nThe writers are few in whom we do not notice something painfully\nwanting. We do not always understand what it is, but we know that,\nwhile we may accord to them good sense, and even genius, they fail\nto satisfy us. There is some good thing which they lack--something\nunbalanced and partial and one-sided about them. We presume that\nthis is often the result of a constitutional defect, but in most\ninstances it is attributable to insufficient nourishment in some\ndepartment of their nature. \"All but,\" is the appropriate epitaph\nfor the tombstone of many an author; and if we look carefully into\nhis history we shall find an answer to the question: \"All but what?\"\nWe shall find, perhaps, that he is a recluse, that his social nature\nis not fed at all, and that be is, of course, unsympathetic. This is\na very frequent cause of dissatisfaction with an author, as it\nalways gives a morbid tinge to his writings. Dickens is eminently a\nsocial man, and eminently healthy and sympathetic. Possibly an\nauthor may starve his senses and become purely reflective, yielding\nup his points of contact with the outside world, and shutting the\nchannels by which the qualities of things find their way to his\nmind. Not unfrequently a man's domestic affections may be starved,\nor ill fed, and if so, the fact is sure to be betrayed in his\nwritings. And if a writer's religious nature be starved, it\ninvariably vitiates all his characteristic works. No man who shuts\nout God and heaven from his life can write without betraying the\npoverty of his diet. If an author would write satisfactorily,\ntouching all kinds of human nature and all sides of human nature, he\nmust feed every department of his own nature, for he has nothing to\ngive that he does not receive.\n\nAs in animal, so in mental life, there are gormandizing and\ngluttony, tending always to paralysis of voluntary effort. The\ndevouring of facts, as they are found both in nature and in books,\nindulgence in social pleasures immoderately and constantly, pietism\nthat feeds exclusively upon the things of religion, the feasting of\nthe imagination upon the creations of fiction--all these are\ndebilitating; and a blessed thing to the world is it that they unfit\nthe mind for writing at all, as the overfeeding of the body unfits\nits organs for labor. Plethoric minds do not trouble the world with\nbooks, or with conversation, or with preaching. Activity simply\ndemands food enough, and in sufficient variety, to feed its powers\nwhile operative, from day to day. This is the reason why immensely\nlearned men have rarely done much for the world. Many of them have\nwon reputations, like remarkably fat steers, for breadth of back and\ndepth of brisket, but they are never known to move more than their\nown enormous bulks. Beyond a certain point of mental feeding, over\nand above the necessities of labor, the mind gets sleepy and clumsy.\n\nI have alluded to authors, particularly, because, unlike the world\nin general, they give form and record to their life. The masses of\nmen live as authors live, but their lives are not put down in books,\nso that the public may read and measure them. We will suppose that\ntwo men are fed upon the same diet. Each shall have sufficient food\nfor his religious, social, esthetic, domestic, sensational, and\nemotional natures, yet only one of them shall embody in books the\nlife which he draws from these varieties of nourishment. The other\nlives essentially the same life, but it fails of record. It may be\nas rich, and characteristic, in every particular, as that of the\nauthor, but it fails of artistic form because, perhaps, he lacks the\npeculiar mental gift required for its construction. So the real life\nof the author and the life of his reader may be the same, the one\nhaving advantage over the other in no particular, and the fact that\none is embodied in artistic forms conferring upon it no essential\nexcellence. What I have said about authors, therefore, applies to\nall mankind, engaged in whatever calling or profession. If any\nportion of any man's nature be not well fed, he will betray the fact\nin his life. Poverty of food in any particular will surely bring\npoverty of manifestation in that department of life which is\ndeprived of its natural nourishment.\n\nA familiar illustration of the failure of a life to secure its\nappropriate food, will be found in men and women who live unmarried.\nAn old bachelor will sooner or later betray the fact that his finer\naffections are starved. It is next to impossible for him to hide\nfrom the world the wrong to which he is subjecting himself. His\ncharacter will invariably show that it is warped and weak and lame,\nand his life will be barren of all those manifestations which flow\nfrom domestic affections abundantly fed. Here and there, one like\nWashington Irving will nourish a love transplanted to Heaven, and\nbring around him the sweet faces and delicate natures of women, to\nminister to a thirsting heart, and preserve, as he did, his\ngeniality and tenderness to the last; but such as he are\ncomparatively few. An old bachelor, voluntarily single, always\nbetrays a nature badly fed in one of its important departments. So,\ntoo, those who marry, but who are not blest with children, betray\nthe lack of food. Many of these hunger through life for children to\nfeed their affections, and take on peculiarities that betray the\nfact that something is wrong with them. Some adopt children in order\nto supply a want which seems imperative, and others take pets of\ndifferent kinds to their bosoms, ranging through the scale from\nbirds to bull-dogs. It is a familiar trick of starved faculties and\naffections to take on a morbid appetite, and feed themselves on the\nstrangest of supplies.\n\nSo, if a man would live a full and generous life, he must supply it\nwith a full and generous diet. So far as his ability will go, he\nshould make his home the embodiment of his best taste. There should\nbe abundant meaning in its architecture. There should be pictures\nupon its walls, and books upon its shelves and tables. All the\ndomestic and social affections should be abundantly fed there. His\ntable should be a gathering place for friends. Music should minister\nto him. He should bring himself into contact with the great and wise\nand good, who have embalmed their lives in the varied forms of art.\nThe facts that live in the earth under his feet, the beauty that\nspreads itself around him, and all those truths which appeal to his\nreligious nature, are food which should minister to his life. An\nirreligious man--no matter what his genius may be--is always a\nstarveling. An unsocial man can by no possibility lead a true life.\nA man's nature should be thrown wide open at every point, to drink\nin the nourishment that comes from the healthy sources of supply;\nand thus only may his life become abundantly rich and beautiful. I\nrepeat the proposition that I started with: we cannot get more out\nof human life than we put into it.\n\nThere is another aspect of this subject that I have barely space to\nallude to. The illustration with which this article opens, touching\nthe effects of hay and grain respectively upon the life of the\nhorse, suggests that the food with which our bodies are nourished\nmay have an important bearing upon our mental and moral life. Of\nthis I have no doubt. Coarse food, made of material but feebly\nvitalized, makes coarse men and women. Muscular tissues not formed\nfrom choice material, brains built of poor stuff, nervous fibres to\nwhich the finest and most delicate food has not ministered, are not\nthe instruments of the highest grade of mental life. The\ndispensation of sawdust is passed away. It is pretty well understood\nthat the most complicated, the noblest, and the finest creature in\nthe world requires the best food the world can produce; and that he\nrequires it in great variety. If a man leads simply an animal life--\neating, working, and sleeping--let him feed as animals do; but if he\nlives a life above animals, as a social and religious being, then\nlet him take food that gives pleasure to his palate, and pluck and\npower to all the instruments of his mind. Hay may answer very well\nfor a mind that moves at the rate of only three miles an hour; but a\nmile was never yet made \"inside of 2:40\" without grain.\n\n\n\n\nLESSON XXIV.\n\nHALF-FINISHED WORK.\n\n\n           \"Ah God! well, art is long!\n  And life is short and fleeting.\n  What headaches have I felt and what heart-beating,\n  When critical desire was strong.\n  How hard it is the ways and means to master\n  By which one gains each fountain head!\n  And ere one yet has half the journey sped\n  The poor fool dies--O sad disaster!\"\n  BROOKS' TRANSLATION OF FAUST.\n\nMankind are \"nothing, if not critical;\" and nothing would seem to\nbe criticism with them but fault-finding. It is astonishing to see\nwhat a number of architects there are in the world--how many people\nthere are who feel competent to give an opinion upon buildings in\ncourse of erection on the public streets. If a dwelling is going up,\nthere is not a day of its progress in which its builder or architect\nis not convicted of being a fool, by any number of wise people who\njudge him on the evidence of a half-finished structure. When the\ndwelling is completed, it usually \"looks better than they ever\nsupposed it could;\" but they learn nothing from this, though the\nproverb that \"only fools criticize half-finished work\" is a good\ndeal older than they are. Every man who builds is obliged to take\nthis running fire of fault-finding. Passing a new church recently,\nin the company of an architect, I asked him what he thought of the\nbuilding. \"I can tell better when the staging is down,\" was his\nreply. He knew enough not to criticize half-finished work, while\nprobably a hundred men, knowing nothing of architecture whatever,\nhad, during that very day, freely given their opinion of the\nbuilding in the most unqualified way.\n\nDid it ever occur to the reader of this essay that nearly all the\njudgments that are made up and expressed in this world relate to\nhalf-finished work? We hear a great deal of criticism indulged in with\nregard to American society. I have no doubt that this criticism is just,\nin a certain sense, but American society is only a half-finished\nstructure. If it had arrived at the end of improvement and growth;\nif the elements which enter into it had already organized themselves\nin their highest form; if the creation of a high, refined, and beautiful\nsociety were not a thing of time; if such a society did not depend\nupon the operation of forces that require a great range of influences\nand circumstances, then the criticism might be entirely just; but it is\nas unreasonable to expect a high grade of social life in America,\nat this point of American history, as it is to expect perfection in a\nchurch before the carpenters get out of it, and the staging is down.\nWealth, learning, culture, leisure--these cannot be so combined in\nthis country yet as to give us the highest grade and style of social\nlife. We are all at work upon the structure, and unless American\nideas are incurably bad, and we are faithless to our duties, American\nsociety will be good when the work upon it is completed. No society\nis to be condemned so long as it is progressive toward a goodly\ncompleteness.\n\nMen and women are always judging one another before they are\nfinished. A raw boy, with only the undeveloped elements of manhood\nin him, is denounced as a dunce. A light-hearted, sportive girl,\nwith an incontinent overflow of spirits, is condemned as a hoiden.\nNeither boy nor girl is half made. There is only the frame-work of\nthe man and woman up, and it does not appear what they are to\nbecome. A young man is wild, and judged accordingly. It is not\nremembered that there are various modifying influences to be\nbrought to bear upon him, before he will be a man. We see the bold\noutline of a new house, and we say that it is not beautiful.\nSoon, however, a piazza is built here, and a dormer is pushed out\nthere, and gracefully modelled chimneys pierce the roof, and\ncornice and verandah and tower are added, until the structure\nstands before us complete in beauty, convenience, and strength.\nWhen we condemn a young man we do not stop to think that he is not\ndone,--that there is a wife to place upon one side of him, and\nchildren to be grouped upon the other, and sundry relations to be\nadjusted before we can tell any thing about him at all.\n\nThere is nothing more common in experience and observation than\nthe partiality felt by young and unmarried men for the society of\nmarried women, and the love of unmarried young women for the\nsociety of married men. I suppose that nearly every young man and\nyoung woman has a time of feeling that all the desirable matches\nin the world are disposed of, and that the marriageable young\npersons left are really very insipid companions. This is entirely\nnatural, but exceedingly unreasonable. To expect a man to be as\nmuch of a man without a wife as with one, is just as reasonable as\nto expect a half-finished house to be as beautiful as a finished\none. It is impossible for an unmarried man, other things being\nequal, to be as agreeable a companion as a married man; and lest I\nbe suspected of a jest in this statement, I wish to assure my\nreader that I am entirely in earnest. Intimate contact with the\nnature of a good woman, in the relation of marriage, is just as\nnecessary to the completeness of manhood, as the details of an\narchitectural design are to the homely conveniences around which\nthey are made to cluster. Every man is a better man for having\nchildren, and the more he extends those relations which grow out\nof the family life, the more does he open up to culture and carry\nto completeness the very choicest portions of his manly nature. It\nis natural, therefore, that the unmarried woman should become\npossessed of the notion that all the desirable men are married,\nand that the unmarried man should be the subject of a similar mistake\nwith relation to the other sex. It must be remembered that men and\nwomen are made desirable by matrimony, and that half-finished work\nshould not be subjected to any sweeping judgments.\n\nMen and women are always turning out differently from what we\nexpected and predicted they would. Men who have been laughed at\nand slighted during all their early life, become, quite to our\nsurprise, very important and notable persons, and we are mortified\nto ascertain that we have been criticizing half-finished men. The\ncollege faculty give a diploma to some very slow young man, with\ngreat reluctance, but in the course of twenty years he completes\nhimself, and when he comes back to honor them with a visit they\nmake very low bows to him. All young people are pieces of\nunfinished work, to be judged very carefully, and always to be\nregarded as incomplete. We can say that we do not like their\ngeneral style, as we would say that we do not like the style of an\nunfinished house. Grecian may not be to our liking, and we may\nprefer Gothic.\n\nIt seems to me that the Christian Church suffers more from the\njudgments of those who criticize unfinished work than any\norganized body of men and women. Here is an organization whose\nmembers do not pretend to perfection; whose whole theory forbids\nany such idea. They are disciples--learners of the Divine Master.\nThey are members of a school in which none ever arrives at fulness\nof knowledge. Their prayer is that they may grow; and they know\nthat if they have the true life in them they will grow while they\nlive. If there is one thing in the world of which they are\npainfully conscious, it is that they are pieces of unfinished\nwork. Some of the members are very much lower in the scale of\ncompleteness than others. In some there is only a confused pile of\ntimber and bricks. In others only a part of the frame is up, or\nthe walls are hardly more than begun. In others, perhaps, the roof\nis on. In comparatively few do we see the outlines all defined and\nthe rooms in a good degree of completeness. In none of them is\nthere a perfected structure, and none see and acknowledge their\nincompleteness more than those whose characters are farthest\nadvanced toward perfection.\n\nNow I put it to the world outside of the Christian Church to say\nif it has been entirely fair, and just in its judgments of the\nChurch. Has it not judged Christianity by these imperfect\ndisciples, and has it not condemned these imperfect disciples\nbecause they are not what they never pretended to be? Has it not\ncriticized half-finished work, and condemned, not only the work,\nbut Christianity itself, because this work was not up to the\nsample? It is very common to hear men say that such and such a\nChristian is no better than the average of people outside of the\nChristian Church, thus condemning the genuineness of his character\nbecause he is not a perfect Christian. A house is a house, even if\nit be only half-finished. At least, it is not any thing else; and\nas Christians cannot by any possibility be perfected on the\ninstant, it follows that the large majority of Christians must be\nin various stages of progress--nay, that most of this large\nmajority are not even half-finished. The Christian Church itself\nis a piece of unfinished work, and every individual member is the\nsame. It is not pretended that either is any thing else. I never\nknew a Christian to set himself up as a pattern. So far as I know,\nthey are very shy of pretension, and deprecate nothing more than\nthe thought that anybody should take them for finished specimens\nof the work of Christianity in human life and character.\n\nA sermon upon any important subject is always a piece of\nunfinished work. I once heard a famous preacher say that he could\npreach throughout his whole life on the text, \"the heart is deceitful\nabove all things and desperately wicked,\" and even then have\nsomething left to say. The statement illustrates the many-sidedness\nof truth, and the multitude of its relations to the life of the individual\nand the world. Any sensible preacher knows that, within the compass\nof a single sermon, he can only present a single aspect of a great\nand important truth, yet he is criticized as if it had been expected\nthat the work of a dozen volumes could be crowded into the\n utterances of half an hour. What is called an \"exhaustive\" sermon\nwould exhaust an audience long before it would its subject. A sermon\nis only the dab of a brush upon a great picture, and if it gives a\nsingle striking view of a single great truth, it accomplishes its object.\nIt must necessarily be an unfinished piece as regards its exposition\nof truth; and the same may be said of any essay on any subject.\nEvery writer begins in the middle of things, and leaves off in the\nmiddle of things; and every thing he writes relates at some point to\nevery thing that everybody has written. No man cleans up the field\nover which he walks, and leaves nothing to be said; and the best\nwe do is unfinished work.\n\nThere are those who, in view of the sin and suffering which appear\non every hand, are moved to impugn the goodness and love of Him\nwho created the world by His power, and sustains and orders it by\nHis providence. Millions are whelmed in the darkness of\nheathenism; other millions are bound by the chains of slavery; the\noppressor is clothed in purple and fine linen; the beautiful and\ninnocent are the victims of treacherous lust; children cry for\nbread beneath the windows of luxury; justice is denied to the poor\nby men who take bribes of wealth; and deceit circumvents and\nbaffles honor. Such a world as this the critics condemn as a\nfailure, which reflects alike upon the benevolence and power of\nits Maker; but these men have an eminent place among the fools who\ncriticize half-finished work. If they could have witnessed the\ncreation of the earth, and watched it through all the processes by\nwhich it was prepared for the reception of the human race, they\nwould doubtless have been quite as critical as they are now, and\nquite as unreasonable. Suppose a man should visit his pear-trees\nin midsummer, and on tasting the fruit upon them, should condemn\nthem and order them to be cut down and removed--how should we\ncharacterize his folly? He has criticized half-finished fruit, and\nmade a fatal mistake. It is just as unreasonable to condemn a\nhalf-finished world as a half-finished pear. Human society must be\nbrought to perfection by regularly instituted and slowly operating\nprocesses. It may take as long to perfect society as it did to\ncreate the world that it lives on; and God is not to be found\nfault with for the flavor of a fruit slowly ripening beneath the\nlight of His smile and the warmth of His love, but not yet fully\nripe.\n\nMr. Buckle has undertaken to write a history of civilization, or,\nrather, he has commenced to write an introduction to a history of\ncivilization. His progress has not been great, and he doubtless\nrealizes that he has undertaken a task which he can never finish.\nHe will probably labor upon it while he lives, and then some other\ndaring man will take up the thread where he will drop it, and go\non until he in turn will be obliged to relinquish his unfinished\ntask to a successor. When the work shall be finished, after its\noriginal design, it will doubtless be found to be antiquated. It\nundertook to organize a half-finished life--to reason upon forces\nthat had only half revealed their nature and their power--to\ndevelop principles whose relations were imperfectly known. In\nshort, it must necessarily prove to be a half-finished history of\na half-finished civilization, whose every newly-opened event will\nthrow a modifying light on all that shall have preceded it.\n\nWe have, therefore, but little finished work in this world. Not a\nfinished character lives among mankind. No nation of the world\nillustrates a consummate civilization. All presentations of truth,\nof whatever nature and relation, are necessarily incomplete. Life\nis too short, comprehension too limited in its grasp, and\nexpression too feeble or too clumsy, to allow the mind fully to\norganize, vitalize, and fill out to roundness and just proportion,\na single creature of legitimate art. It is, therefore, literally\ntrue that the criticisms of the world are the judgments of the\nworld's half-finished men on the world's half-finished affairs.\nImperfection sits in judgment on incompleteness, and the natural\nconsequence is that criticism, in whatever field of demonstration,\nis little more than a record of notions which assume to array\nthemselves against other notions, which may be better or worse\nthan those that oppose them.\n\nIt is with a depressing sense of the incompleteness of these\nlessons in life, that I now indite their closing paragraph. I\ncannot but be aware that the criticisms I have indulged in relate\nvery largely to half-finished work, and I painfully feel that they\nare the product of a most imperfect judgment. If the reader has\nfound them kind, charitable, hopeful--tending toward that which is\ngood--and lenient toward human frailty, loyal to common sense, and\nfaithful to virtue; if he has found in them that which leaves him\na larger and a more liberal man--advanced in some degree toward\nthat perfection which we are ever striving for, but which we never\nreach, then my aim has been accomplished, bid him God speed!\n\nTHE END.","title":"Lessons in Life; A Series of Familiar Essays","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":81264}