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As a Matter of Course
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As a Matter of Course
AS A MATTER OF COURSE
by Annie Payson Call
I.
INTRODUCTION.
IN climbing a mountain, if we know the path and take it as a matter of course, we are free to enjoy the beauties of the surrounding country. If in the same journey we set a stone in the way and recognize our ability to step over it, we do so at once, and save ourselves from tripping or from useless waste of time and thought as to how we might best go round it.
There are stones upon stones in every-day life which might be stepped over with perfect ease, but which, curiously enough, are considered from all sides and then tripped upon; and the result is a stubbing of the moral toes, and a consequent irritation of the nervous system. Or, if semi-occasionally one of these stones is stepped over as a matter of course, the danger is that attention is immediately called to the action by admiring friends, or by the person himself, in a way so to tickle the nervous system that it amounts to an irritation, and causes him to trip over the next stone, and finally tumble on his nose. Then, if he is not wise enough to pick himself up and walk on with the renewed ability of stepping over future stones, he remains on his nose far longer than is either necessary or advisable.
These various stones in the way do more towards keeping a nervous system in a chronic state of irritation than is imagined. They are what might perhaps be called the outside elements of life. These once normally faced, cease to exist as impediments, dwindle away, and finally disappear altogether.
Thus we are enabled to get nearer the kernel, and have a growing realization of life itself.
Civilization may give a man new freedom, a freedom beyond any power of description or conception, except to those who achieve it, or it may so bind him body and soul that in moments when he recognizes his nervous contractions he would willingly sell his hope of immortality to be a wild horse or tiger for the rest of his days.
These stones in the way are the result of a perversion of civilization, and the cause of much contraction and unnecessary suffering.
There is the physical stone. If the health of the body were attended to as a matter of course, as its cleanliness is attended to by those of us who are more civilized, how much easier life might be! Indeed, the various trippings on, and endeavors to encircle, this physical stone, raise many phantom stones, and the severity of the fall is just as great when one trips over a stone that is not there. Don Quixote was quite exhausted when he had been fighting the windmills. One recognizes over and over the truth spoken by the little girl who, when reprimanded by her father for being fretful, said: “It isn’t me, papa, it’s that banana.”
There is also the over-serious stone; and this, so far from being stepped over or any effort made to encircle it, is often raised to the undue dignity of a throne, and not rested upon. It seems to produce an inability for any sort of recreation, and a scorn of the necessity or the pleasure of being amused. Every one will admit that recreation is one swing of life’s pendulum; and in proportion to the swing in that direction will be the strength of the swing in the other direction, and vice versa.
One kind of stone which is not the least among the self-made impediments is the microscopic faculty which most of us possess for increasing small, inoffensive pebbles to good-sized rocks. A quiet insistence on seeing these pebbles in their natural size would reduce them shortly to a pile of sand which might be easily smoothed to a level, and add to the comfort of the path. Moods are stones which not only may be stepped over, but kicked right out of the path with a good bold stroke. And the stones of intolerance may be replaced by an open sympathy,–an ability to take the other’s point of view,–which will bring flowers in the path instead.
In dealing with ourselves and others there are stones innumerable, if one chooses to regard them, and a steadily decreasing number as one steps over and ignores. In our relations with illness and poverty, so-called, the ghosts of stones multiply themselves as the illness or the poverty is allowed to be a limit rather than a guide. And there is nothing that exorcises all such ghosts more truly than a free and open intercourse with little children.
If we take this business of slipping over our various nerve-stones as a matter of course, and not as a matter of sentiment, we get a powerful result just as surely as we get powerful results in obedience to any other practical laws.
In bygone generations men used to fight and kill one another for the most trivial cause. As civilization increased, self-control was magnified into a virtue, and the man who governed himself and allowed his neighbor to escape unslain was regarded as a hero. Subsequently, general slashing was found to be incompatible with a well-ordered community, and forbearance in killing or scratching or any other unseemly manner of attacking an enemy was taken as a matter of course.
Nowadays we do not know how often this old desire to kill is repressed, a brain-impression of hatred thereby intensified, and a nervous irritation caused which has its effect upon the entire disposition. It would hardly be feasible to return to the killing to save the irritation that follows repression; civilization has taken us too far for that. But civilization does not necessarily mean repression. There are many refinements of barbarity in our civilization which might be dropped now, as the coarser expressions of such states were dropped by our ancestors to enable them to reach the present stage of knives and forks and napkins. And inasmuch as we are farther on the way towards a true civilization, our progress should be more rapid than that of our barbaric grandfathers. An increasingly accelerated progress has proved possible in scientific research and discovery; why not, then, in our practical dealings with ourselves and one another?
Does it not seem likely that the various forms of nervous irritation, excitement, or disease may result as much from the repressed savage within us as from the complexity of civilization? The remedy is, not to let the savage have his own way; with many of us, indeed, this would be difficult, because of the generations of repression behind us. It is to cast his skin, so to speak, and rise to another order of living.
Certainly repression is only apparent progress. No good physician would allow it in bodily disease, and, on careful observation, the law seems to hold good in other phases of life.
There must be a practical way by which these stones, these survivals of barbaric times, may be stepped over and made finally to disappear.
The first necessity is to take the practical way, and not the sentimental. Thus true sentiment is found, not lost.
The second is to follow daily, even hourly, the process of stepping over until it comes to be indeed a matter of course. So, little by little, shall we emerge from this mass of abnormal nervous irritation into what is more truly life itself.
II.
PHYSICAL CARE.
REST, fresh air, exercise, and nourishment, enough of each in proportion to the work done, are the material essentials to a healthy physique. Indeed, so simple is the whole process of physical care, it would seem absurd to write about it at all. The only excuse for such writing is the constant disobedience to natural laws which has resulted from the useless complexity of our civilization.
There is a current of physical order which, if one once gets into it, gives an instinct as to what to do and what to leave undone, as true as the instinct which leads a man to wash his hands when they need it, and to wash them often enough so that they never remain soiled for any length of time, simply because that state is uncomfortable to their owner. Soap and water are not unpleasant to most of us in their process of cleansing; we have to deny ourselves nothing through their use. To keep the digestion in order, it is often necessary to deny ourselves certain sensations of the palate which are pleasant at the time. So by a gradual process of not denying we are swung out of the instinctive nourishment-current, and life is complicated for us either by an amount of thought as to what we should or should not eat, or by irritations which arise from having eaten the wrong food. It is not uncommon to find a mind taken up for some hours in wondering whether that last piece of cake will digest. We can easily see how from this there might be developed a nervous sensitiveness about eating which would prevent the individual from eating even the food that is nourishing. This last is a not unusual form of dyspepsia,–a dyspepsia which keeps itself alive on the patient’s want of nourishment.
Fortunately the process of getting back into the true food-current is not difficult if one will adopt it The trouble is in making the bold plunge. If anything is eaten that is afterwards deemed to have been imprudent, let it disagree. Take the full consequences and bear them like a man, with whatever remedies are found to lighten the painful result. Having made sure through bitter experience that a particular food disagrees, simply do not take it again, and think nothing about it. It does not exist for you. A nervous resistance to any sort of indigestion prolongs the attack and leaves, a brain-impression which not only makes the same trouble more liable to recur, but increases the temptation to eat forbidden fruit. Of course this is always preceded by a full persuasion that the food is not likely to disagree with us now simply because it did before. And to some extent, this is true. Food that will bring pain and suffering when taken by a tired stomach, may prove entirely nourishing when the stomach is rested and ready for it. In that case, the owner of the stomach has learned once for all never to give his digestive apparatus work to do when it is tired. Send a warm drink as a messenger to say that food is coming later, give yourself a little rest, and then eat your dinner. The fundamental laws of health in eating are very simple; their variations for individual needs must be discovered by each for himself.
“But,” it may be objected, “why make all this fuss, why take so much thought about what I eat or what I do not eat?” The special thought is simply to be taken at first to get into the normal habit, and as a means of forgetting our digestion just as we forget the washing of our hands until we are reminded by some discomfort; whereupon we wash them and forget again. Nature will not allow us to forget. When we are not obeying her laws, she is constantly irritating us in one way or another. It is when we obey, and obey as a matter of course, that she shows herself to be a tender mother, and helps us to a real companionship with her.
Nothing is more amusing, nothing could appeal more to Mother Nature’s sense of humor, than the various devices for exercise which give us a complicated self-consciousness rather than a natural development of our physical powers. Certain simple exercises are most useful, and if the weather is so inclement that they cannot be taken in the open air, it is good to have a well-ventilated hall. Exercise with others, too, is stimulating, and more invigorating when there is air enough and to spare. But there is nothing that shows the subjective, self-conscious state of this generation more than the subjective form which exercise takes. Instead of games and play or a good vigorous walk in the country, there are endless varieties of physical culture, most of it good and helpful if taken as a means to an end, but almost useless as it is taken as an end in itself; for it draws the attention to one’s self and one’s own muscles in a way to make the owner serve the muscle instead of the muscle being made to serve the owner. The more physical exercise can be simplified and made objective, the more it serves its end. To climb a high mountain is admirable exercise, for we have the summit as an end, and the work of climbing is steadily objective, while we get the delicious effect of a freer circulation and all that it means. There might be similar exercises in gymnasiums, and there are, indeed, many exercises where some objective achievement is the end, and the training of a muscle follows as a matter of course. There is the exercise-instinct; we all have it the more perfectly as we obey it. If we have suffered from a series of disobediences, it is a comparatively easy process to work back into obedience.
The fresh-air-instinct is abnormally developed with some of us, but only with some. The popular fear of draughts is one cause of its loss. The fear of a draught will cause a contraction, the contraction will interfere with the circulation, and a cold is the natural result.
The effect of vitiated air is well known. The necessity, not only for breathing fresh air when we are quiet, but for exercising in the open, grows upon us as we see the result. To feel the need is to take the remedy, as a matter of course.
The rest-instinct is most generally disobeyed, most widely needed, and obedience to it would bring the most effective results. A restful state of mind and body prepares one for the best effects from exercise, fresh air, and nourishment. This instinct is the more disobeyed because with the need for rest there seems to come an inability to take it, so that not only is every impediment magnified, but imaginary impediments are erected, and only a decided and insistent use of the will in dropping everything that interferes, whether real or imaginary, will bring a whiff of a breeze from the true rest-current. Rest is not always silence, but silence is always rest; and a real silence of the mind is known by very few. Having gained that, or even approached it, we are taken by the rest-wind itself, and it is strong enough to bear our full weight as it swings us along to renewed life and new strength for work to come.
The secret is to turn to silence at the first hint from nature; and sleep should be the very essence of silence itself.
All this would be very well if we were free to take the right amount of rest, fresh air, exercise, and nourishment; but many of us are not. It will not be difficult for any one to call to mind half a dozen persons who impede the good which might result from the use of these four necessities simply by complaining that they cannot have their full share of either. Indeed, some of us may find in ourselves various stones of this sort stopping the way. To take what we can and be thankful, not only enables us to gain more from every source of health, but opens the way for us to see clearly how to get more. This complaint, however, is less of an impediment than the whining and fussing which come from those who are free to take all four in abundance, and who have the necessity of their own especial physical health so much at heart that there is room to think of little else. These people crowd into the various schools of physical culture by the hundred, pervade the rest-cures, and are ready for any new physiological fad which may arise, with no result but more physical culture, more rest-cure, and more fads. Nay, there is sometimes one other result,–disease. That gives them something tangible to work for or to work about. But all their eating and breathing and exercising and resting does not bring lasting vigorous health, simply because they work at it as an end, of which self is the centre and circumference.
The sooner our health-instinct is developed, and then taken as a matter of course, the sooner can the body become a perfect servant, to be treated with true courtesy, and then forgotten. Here is an instinct of our barbarous ancestry which may be kept and refined through all future phases of civilization. This instinct is natural, and the obedience to it enables us to gain more rapidly in other, higher instincts which, if our ancestors had at all, were so embryonic as not to have attained expression.
Nourishment, fresh air, exercise, rest,–so far as these are not taken simply and in obedience to the natural instinct, there arise physical stones in the way, stones that form themselves into an apparently insurmountable wall. There is a stile over that wall, however, if we will but open our eyes to see it. This stile, carefully climbed, will enable us to step over the few stones on the other side, and follow the physical path quite clearly.
III.
AMUSEMENTS.
THE ability to be easily and heartily amused brings a wholesome reaction from intense thought or hard work of any kind which does more towards keeping the nervous system in a normal state than almost anything else of an external kind.
As a Frenchman very aptly said: “This is all very well, all this study and care to relieve one’s nerves; but would it not be much simpler and more effective to go and amuse one’s self?” The same Frenchman could not realize that in many countries amusement is almost a lost art. Fortunately, it is not entirely lost; and the sooner it is regained, the nearer we shall be to health and happiness.
One of the chief impediments in the way of hearty amusement is over-seriousness. There should be two words for “serious,” as there are literally two meanings. There is a certain intense form of taking the care and responsibility of one’s own individual interests, or the interests of others which are selfishly made one’s own, which leads to a surface-seriousness that is not only a chronic irritation of the nervous system, but a constant distress to those who come under this serious care. This is taking life _au grand serieux_. The superficiality of this attitude is striking, and would be surprising could the sufferer from such seriousness once see himself (or more often it is herself) in a clear light. It is quite common to call such a person over-serious, when in reality he is not serious enough. He or she is laboring under a sham seriousness, as an actor might who had such a part to play and merged himself in the character. These people are simply exaggerating their own importance to life, instead of recognizing life’s importance to them. An example of this is the heroine of Mrs. Ward’s “Robert Elsmere,” who refused to marry because the family could not get on without her; and when finally she consented, the family lived more happily and comfortably than when she considered herself their leader. If this woman’s seriousness, which blinded her judgment, had been real instead of sham, the state of the case would have been quite clear to her; but then, indeed, there would have been no case at all.
When seriousness is real, it is never intrusive and can never be overdone. It is simply a quiet, steady obedience to recognized laws followed as a matter of course, which must lead to a clearer appreciation of such laws, and of our own freedom in obeying them. Whereas with a sham seriousness we dwell upon the importance of our own relation to the law, and our own responsibility in forcing others to obey. With the real, it is the law first, and then my obedience. With the sham, it is myself first, and then the laws; and often a strained obedience to laws of my own making.
This sham seriousness, which is peculiarly a New England trait, but may also be found in many other parts of the world, is often the perversion of a strong, fine nature. It places many stones in the way, most of them phantoms, which, once stepped over and then ignored, brings to light a nature nobly expansive, and a source of joy to all who come in contact with it. But so long as the “seriousness” lasts, it is quite incompatible with any form of real amusement.
For the very essence of amusement is the child-spirit. The child throws himself heartily and spontaneously into the game, or whatever it may be, and forgets that there is anything else in the world, for the time being. Children have nothing else to remember. We have the advantage of them there, in the pleasure of forgetting and in the renewed strength with which we can return to our work or care, in consequence. Any one who cannot play children’s games with children, and with the same enjoyment that children have, does not know the spirit of amusement. For this same spirit must be taken into all forms of amusement, especially those that are beyond the childish mind, to bring the delicious reaction which nature is ever ready to bestow. This is almost a self-evident truth; and yet so confirmed is man in his sham maturity that it is quite common to see one look with contempt, and a sense of superiority which is ludicrous, upon another who is enjoying a child’s game like a child. The trouble is that many of us are so contracted in and oppressed by our own self-consciousness that open spontaneity is out of the question and even inconceivable. The sooner we shake it off, the better. When the great philosopher said, “Except ye become as little children,” he must have meant it all the way through in spirit, if not in the letter. It certainly is the common-sense view, whichever way we look at it, and proves as practical as walking upon one’s feet.
With the spontaneity grows the ability to be amused, and with that ability comes new power for better and really serious work.
To endeavor with all your might to win, and then if you fail, not to care, relieves a game of an immense amount of unnecessary nervous strain. A spirit of rivalry has so taken hold of us and become such a large stone in the way, that it takes wellnigh a reversal of all our ideas to realize that this same spirit is quite compatible with a good healthy willingness that the other man should win–if he can. Not from the goody-goody motive of wishing your neighbor to beat,–no neighbor would thank you for playing with him in that spirit,–but from a feeling that you have gone in to beat, you have done your best, as far as you could see, and where you have not, you have learned to do better. The fact of beating is not of paramount importance. Every man should have his chance, and, from your opponent’s point of view, provided you were as severe on him as you knew how to be at the time, it is well that he won. You will see that it does not happen again.
Curious it is that the very men or women who would scorn to play a child’s game in a childlike spirit, will show the best known form of childish fretfulness and sheer naughtiness in their way of taking a game which is considered to be more on a level with the adult mind, and so rasp their nerves and the nerves of their opponents that recreation is simply out of the question.
Whilst one should certainly have the ability to enjoy a child’s game with a child and like a child, that not only does not exclude the preference which many, perhaps most of us may have for more mature games, it gives the power to play those games with a freedom and ease which help to preserve a healthy nervous system.
If, however, amusement is taken for the sole purpose of preserving a normal nervous system, or for returning to health, it loses its zest just in proportion. If, as is often the case, one must force one’s self to it at first, the love of the fun will gradually come as one ignores the first necessity of forcing; and the interest will come sooner if a form of amusement is taken quite opposite to the daily work, a form which will bring new faculties and muscles into action.
There is, of course, nothing that results in a more unpleasant state of ennui than an excess of amusement. After a certain amount of careless enjoyment, life comes to a deadly stupid standstill, or the forms of amusement grow lower. In either case the effect upon the nervous system is worse even than over-work.
The variety in sources of amusement is endless, and the ability to get amusement out of almost anything is delightful, as long as it is well balanced.
After all, our amusement depends upon the way in which we take our work, and our work, again, depends upon the amusement; they play back and forth into one another’s hands.
The man or the woman who cannot get the holiday spirit, who cannot enjoy pure fun for the sake of fun, who cannot be at one with a little child, not only is missing much in life that is clear happiness, but is draining his nervous system, and losing his better power for work accordingly.
This anti-amusement stone once removed, the path before us is entirely new and refreshing.
The power to be amused runs in nations. But each individual is in himself a nation, and can govern himself as such; and if he has any desire for the prosperity of his own kingdom, let him order a public holiday at regular intervals, and see that the people enjoy it.
IV.
BRAIN IMPRESSIONS.
THE mere idea of a brain clear from false impressions gives a sense of freedom which is refreshing.
In a comic journal, some years ago, there was a picture of a man in a most self-important attitude, with two common mortals in the background gazing at him. “What makes him stand like that?” said one. “Because,” answered the other, “that is his own idea of himself.” The truth suggested in that picture strikes one aghast; for in looking about us we see constant examples of attitudinizing in one’s own idea of one’s self. There is sometimes a feeling of fright as to whether I am not quite as abnormal in my idea of myself as are those about me.
If one could only get the relief of acknowledging ignorance of one’s self, light would be welcome, however given. In seeing the truth of an unkind criticism one could forget to resent the spirit; and what an amount of nerve-friction might be saved! Imagine the surprise of a man who, in return for a volley of abuse, should receive thanks for light thrown upon a false attitude. Whatever we are enabled to see, relieves us of one mistaken brain-impression, which we can replace by something more agreeable. And if, in the excitement of feeling, the mistake was exaggerated, what is that to us? All we wanted was to see it in quality. As to degree, that lessens in proportion as the quality is bettered. Fortunately, in living our own idea of ourselves, it is only ourselves we deceive, with possible exceptions in the case of friends who are so used to us, or so over-fond of us, as to lose the perspective.
There is the idea of humility,–an obstinate belief that we know we are nothing at all, and deserve no credit; which, literally translated, means we know we are everything, and deserve every credit. There is the idea, too, of immense dignity, of freedom from all self-seeking and from all vanity. But it is idle to attempt to catalogue these various forms of private theatricals; they are constantly to be seen about us.
It is with surprise unbounded that one hears another calmly assert that he is so-and-so or so-and-so, and in his next action, or next hundred actions, sees that same assertion entirely contradicted. Daily familiarity with the manifestations of mistaken brain-impressions does not lessen one’s surprise at this curious personal contradiction; it gives one an increasing desire to look to one’s self, and see how far these private theatricals extend in one’s own case, and to throw off the disguise, as far as it is seen, with a full acknowledgment that there may be–probably is–an abundance more of which to rid one’s self in future. There are many ways in which true openness in life, one with another, would be of immense service; and not the least of these is the ability gained to erase false brain-impressions.
The self-condemnatory brain-impression is quite as pernicious as its opposite. Singularly enough, it goes with it. One often finds inordinate self-esteem combined with the most abject condemnation of self. One can be played against the other as a counter-irritant; but this only as a process of rousing, for the irritation of either brings equal misery. I am not even sure that as a rousing process it is ever really useful. To be clear of a mistaken brain-impression, a man must recognize it himself; and this recognition can never be brought about by an unasked attempt of help from another. It is often cleared by help asked and given; and perhaps more often by help which is quite involuntary and unconscious. One of the greatest points in friendly diplomacy is to be open and absolutely frank so far as we are asked, but never to go beyond. At least, in the experience of many, that leads more surely to the point where no diplomacy is needed, which is certainly the point to be aimed at in friendship. It is trying to see a friend living his own idea of himself, and to be obliged to wait until he has discovered that he is only playing a part. But this very waiting may be of immense assistance in reducing our own moral attitudinizing.
How often do we hear others or find ourselves complaining of a fault over and over again! “I know that is a fault of mine, and has been for years. I wish I could get over it.” “I know that is a fault of mine,”–one brain-impression; “it has been for years,”–a dozen or more brain-impressions, according to the number of years; until we have drilled the impression of that fault in, by emphasizing it over and over, to an extent which daily increases the difficulty of dropping it.
So, if we have the habit of unpunctuality, and emphasize it by deploring it, it keeps us always behind time. If we are sharp-tongued, and dwell with remorse on something said in the past, it increases the tendency in the future.
The slavery to nerve habit is a well-known physiological fact; but nerve habit may be strengthened negatively as well as positively. When this is more widely recognized, and the negative practice avoided, much will have been done towards freeing us from our subservience to mistaken brain-impressions.
Let us take an instance: unpunctuality-for example, as that is a common form of repetition. If we really want to rid ourselves of the habit, suppose every time we are late we cease to deplore it; make a vivid mental picture of ourselves as being on time at the next appointment; then, with the how and the when clearly impressed upon our minds, there should be an absolute refusal to imagine ourselves anything but early. Surely that would be quite as effective as a constant repetition of the regret we feel at being late, whether this is repeated aloud to others, or only in our own minds. As we place the two processes side by side, the latter certainly has the advantage, and might be tried, until a better is found.
Of course we must beware of getting an impression of promptness which has no ground in reality. It is quite possible for an individual to be habitually and exasperatingly late, with all the air and innocence of unusual punctuality. It would strike us as absurd to see a man painting a house the color he did not like, and go on painting it the same color, to show others and himself that which he detested. Is it not equally absurd for any of us, through the constant expression of regret for a fault, to impress the tendency to it more and more upon the brain? It is intensely sad when the consciousness of evil once committed has so impressed a man with a sense of guilt as to make him steadily undervalue himself and his own powers.
Here is a case where one’s own idea of one’s self is seventy-five per cent below par; and a gentle and consistent encouragement in raising that idea is most necessary before par is reached.
And par, as I understand it, is simple freedom from any fixed idea of one’s self, either good or bad.
If fixed impressions of one’s self are stones in the way, the same certainly holds good with fixed impressions of others. Unpleasant brain-impressions of others are great weights, and greater impediments in the way of clearing our own brains. Suppose So-and-so had such a fault yesterday; it does not follow that he has not rid himself of at least part of it to-day. Why should we hold the brain-impression of his mistake, so that every time we look at him we make it stronger? He is not the gainer thereby, and we certainly are the losers. Repeated brain-impressions of another’s faults prevent our discerning his virtues. We are constantly attributing to him disagreeable motives, which arise solely from our idea of him, and of which he is quite innocent. Not only so, but our mistaken impressions increase his difficulty in rising to the best of himself. For any one whose temperament is in the least sensitive is oppressed by what he feels to be another’s idea of him, until he learns to clear himself of that as well as of other brain-impressions.
It is not uncommon to hear one go over and over a supposed injury, or even small annoyances from others, with the reiterated assertion that he fervently desires to forget such injury or annoyances. This fervent desire to forgive and forget expresses itself by a repeated brain-impression of that which is to be forgiven; and if this is so often repeated in words, how many times more must it be repeated mentally! Thus, the brain-impression is increased until at last forgetting seems out of the question. And forgiving is impossible unless one can at the same time so entirely forget the ill-feeling roused as to place it beyond recall.
Surely, if we realized the force and influence of unpleasant brain-impressions, it would be a simple matter to relax and let them escape, to be replaced by others that are only pleasant It cannot be that we enjoy the discomfort of the disagreeable impressions.
And yet, so curiously perverted is human nature that we often hear a revolting story told with the preface, “Oh, I can’t bear to think of it!” And the whole story is given, with a careful attention to detail which is quite unnecessary, even if there were any reason for telling the story at all, and generally concluded with a repetition of the prefatory exclamation. How many pathetic sights are told of, to no end but the repetition of an unpleasant brain-impression. How many past experiences, past illnesses, are gone over and over, which serve the same worse than useless purpose,–that of repeating and emphasizing the brain-impression.
A little pain is made a big one by persistent dwelling upon it; what might have been a short pain is sometimes lengthened for a lifetime. Similarly, an old pain is brought back by recalling a brain-impression.
The law of association is well known. We all know how familiar places and happenings will recall old feelings; we can realize this at any time by mentally reviving the association. By dwelling on the pain we had yesterday we are encouraging it to return to-morrow. By emphasizing the impression of an annoyance of to-day we are making it possible to suffer beyond expression from annoyances to come; and the annoyances, the pains, the disagreeable feelings will find their old brain-grooves with remarkable rapidity when given the ghost of a chance.
I have known more than one case where a woman kept herself ill by the constant repetition, to others and to herself, of a nervous shock. A woman who had once been frightened by burglars refused to sleep for fear of being awakened by more burglars, thus increasing her impression of fear; and of course, if she slept at all, she was liable at any time to wake with a nervous start. The process of working herself into nervous prostration through this constant, useless repetition was not slow.
The fixed impressions of preconceived ideas in any direction are strangely in the way of real freedom. It is difficult to catch new harmonies with old ones ringing in our ears; still more difficult when we persist in listening at the same time to discords.
The experience of arguing with another whose preconceived idea is so firmly fixed that the argument is nothing but a series of circles, might be funny if it were not sad; and it often is funny, in spite of the sadness.
Suppose we should insist upon retaining an unpleasant brain-impression, only when and so long as it seemed necessary in order to bring a remedy. That accomplished, suppose we dropped it on the instant. Suppose, further, that we should continue this process, and never allow ourselves to repeat a disagreeable brain-impression aloud or mentally. Imagine the result. Nature abhors a vacuum; something must come in place of the unpleasantness; therefore way is made for feelings more comfortable to one’s self and to others.
Bad feelings cause contraction, good ones expansion. Relax the muscular contraction; take a long, free breath of fresh air, and expansion follows as a matter of course. Drop the brain-contraction, take a good inhalation of whatever pleasant feeling is nearest, and the expansion is a necessary consequence.
As we expand mentally, disagreeable brain-impressions, that in former contracted states were eclipsed by greater ones, will be keenly felt, and dropped at once, for the mere relief thus obtained.
The healthier the brain, the more sensitive it is to false impressions, and the more easily are they dropped.
One word by way of warning. We never can rid ourselves of an uncomfortable brain-impression by saying, “I will try to think something pleasant of that disagreeable man.” The temptation, too, is very common to say to ourselves clearly, “I will try to think something pleasant,” and then leave “of that disagreeable man” a subtle feeling in the background. The feeling in the background, however unconscious we may be of it, is a strong brain-impression,–all the stronger because we fail to recognize it,–and the result of our “something pleasant” is an insidious complacency at our own magnanimous disposition. Thus we get the disagreeable brain-impression of another, backed up by our agreeable brain-impression of ourselves, both mistaken. Unless we keep a sharp look-out, we may here get into a snarl from which extrication is slow work. Neither is it possible to counteract an unpleasant brain-impression by something pleasant but false. We must call a spade a spade, but not consider it a component part of the man who handles it, nor yet associate the man with the spade, or the spade with the man. When we drop it, so long as we drop it for what it is worth, which is nothing in the case of the spade in question, we have dropped it entirely. If we try to improve our brain-impression by insisting that a spade is something better and pleasanter, we are transforming a disagreeable impression to a mongrel state which again brings anything but a happy result.
Simply to refuse all unpleasant brain-impressions, with no effort or desire to recast them into something that they are not, seems to be the only clear process to freedom. Not only so, but whatever there might have been pleasant in what seemed entirely unpleasant can more truly return as we drop the unpleasantness completely. It is a good thing that most of us can approach the freedom of such a change in imagination before we reach it in reality. So we can learn more rapidly not to hamper ourselves or others by retaining disagreeable brain-impressions of the present, or by recalling others of the past.
V.
THE TRIVIALITY OF TRIVIALITIES.
LIFE is clearer, happier, and easier for us as things assume their true proportions. I might better say, as they come nearer in appearance to their true proportions; for it seems doubtful whether any one ever reaches the place in this world where the sense of proportion is absolutely normal. Some come much nearer than others; and part of the interest of living is the growing realization of better proportion, and the relief from the abnormal state in which circumstances seem quite out of proportion in their relation to one another.
Imagine a landscape-painter who made his cows as large as the houses, his blades of grass waving above the tops of the trees, and all things similarly disproportionate. Or, worse, imagine a disease of the retina which caused a like curious change in the landscape itself wherein a mountain appeared to be a mole-hill, and a mole-hill a mountain.
It seems absurd to think of. And, yet, is not the want of a true sense of proportion in the circumstances and relations of life quite as extreme with many of us? It is well that our physical sense remains intact. If we lost that too, there would seem to be but little hope indeed. Now, almost the only thing needed for a rapid approach to a more normal mental sense of proportion is a keener recognition of the want. But this want must be found first in ourselves, not in others. There is the inclination to regard our own life as bigger and more important than the life of any one about us; or the reverse attitude of bewailing its lack of importance, which is quite the same. In either case our own life is dwelt upon first. Then there is the immediate family, after that our own especial friends,–all assuming a gigantic size which puts quite out of the question an occasional bird’s-eye view of the world in general. Even objects which might be in the middle distance of a less extended view are quite screened by the exaggerated size of those which seem to concern us most immediately.
One’s own life is important; one’s own family and friends are important, very, when taken in their true proportion. One should surely be able to look upon one’s own brothers and sisters as if they were the brothers and sisters of another, and to regard the brothers and sisters of another as one’s own. Singularly, too, real appreciation of and sympathy with one’s own grows with this broader sense of relationship. In no way is this sense shown more clearly than by a mother who has the breadth and the strength to look upon her own children as if they belonged to some one else, and upon the children of others as if they belonged to her. But the triviality of magnifying one’s own out of all proportion has not yet been recognized by many.
So every trivial happening in our own lives or the lives of those connected with us is exaggerated, and we keep ourselves and others in a chronic state of contraction accordingly.
Think of the many trifles which, by being magnified and kept in the foreground, obstruct the way to all possible sight or appreciation of things that really hold a more important place. The cook, the waitress, various other annoyances of housekeeping; a gown that does not suit, the annoyances of travel, whether we said the right thing to so-and-so, whether so-and-so likes us or does not like us,–indeed, there is an immense army of trivial imps, and the breadth of capacity for entertaining these imps is so large in some of us as to be truly encouraging; for if the domain were once deserted by the imps, there remains the breadth, which must have the same capacity for holding something better. Unfortunately, a long occupancy by these miserable little offenders means eventually the saddest sort of contraction. What a picture for a new Gulliver!–a human being overwhelmed by the imps of triviality, and bound fast to the ground by manifold windings of their cobweb-sized thread.
This exaggeration of trifles is one form of nervous disease. It would be exceedingly interesting and profitable to study the various phases of nervous disease as exaggerated expressions of perverted character. They can be traced directly and easily in many cases. If a woman fusses about trivialities, she fusses more when she is tired. The more fatigue, the more fussing; and with a persistent tendency to fatigue and fussing it does not take long to work up or down to nervous prostration. From this form of nervous excitement one never really recovers, except by a hearty acknowledgment of the trivialities as trivialities, when, with growing health, there is a growing sense of true proportion.
I have seen a woman spend more attention, time, and nerve-power on emphasizing the fact that her hands were all stained from the dye on her dress than a normal woman would take for a good hour’s work. As she grew better, this emphasizing of trivialities decreased, but, of course, might have returned with any over-fatigue, unless it had been recognized, taken at its worth, and simply dropped. Any one can think of example after example in his own individual experience, when he has suffered unnecessary tortures through the regarding of trifling things, either by himself or by some one near him. With many, the first instance will probably be to insist, with emphasis and some feeling, that they are _not_ trivialities.
Trivialities have their importance _when given their true proportion_. The size of a triviality is often exaggerated as much by neglect as by an undue amount of attention. When we do what we can to amend an annoyance, and then think no more about it until there appears something further to do, the saving of nervous force is very great. Yet, so successful have these imps of triviality come to be in their rule of human nature that the trivialities of the past are oftentimes dwelt upon with as much earnestness as if they belonged to the present.
The past itself is a triviality, except in its results. Yet what an immense screen it is sometimes to any clear understanding or appreciation of the present! How many of us have listened over and over to the same tale of past annoyances, until we wonder how it can be possible that the constant repetition is not recognized by the narrator! How many of us have been over and over in our minds past troubles, little and big, so that we have no right whatever to feel impatient when listening to such repetitions by others! Here again we have, in nervous disease, the extreme of a common trait in humanity. With increased nervous fatigue there is always an increase of the tendency to repetition. Best drop it before it gets to the fatigue stage, if possible.
Then again there are the common things of life, such as dressing and undressing, and the numberless every-day duties. It is possible to distort them to perfect monstrosities by the manner of dwelling upon them. Taken as a matter of course, they are the very triviality of trivialities, and assume their place without second thought.
When life seems to get into such a snarl that we despair of disentangling it, a long journey and change of human surroundings enable us to take a distant view, which not uncommonly shows the tangle to be no tangle at all. Although we cannot always go upon a material journey, we can change the mental perspective, and it is this adjustment of the focus which brings our perspective into truer proportions. Having once found what appears to be the true focus, let us be true to it. The temptations to lose one’s focus are many, and sometimes severe. When temporarily thrown off our balance, the best help is to return at once, without dwelling on the fact that we have lost the focus longer than is necessary to find it again. After that, our focus is better adjusted and the range steadily expanded. It is impossible for us to widen the range by thinking about it; holding the best focus we know in our daily experience does that Thus the proportions arrange themselves; we cannot arrange the proportions. Or, what is more nearly the truth, the proportions are in reality true, to begin with. As with the imaginary eye-disease, which transformed the relative sizes of the component parts of a landscape, the fault is in the eye, not in the landscape; so, when the circumstances of life are quite in the wrong proportion to one another, in our own minds, the trouble is in the mental sight, not in the circumstances.
There are many ways of getting a better focus, and ridding one’s self of trivial annoyances. One is, to be quiet; get at a good mental distance. Be sure that you have a clear view, and then hold it. Always keep your distance; never return to the old stand-point if you can manage to keep away.
We may be thankful if trivialities annoy us as trivialities. It is with those who have the constant habit of dwelling on them without feeling the discomfort that a return to freedom seems impossible.
As one comes to realize, even in a slight degree, the triviality of trivialities, and then forget them entirely in a better idea of true proportion, the sense of freedom gained is well worth working for. It certainly brings the possibility of a normal nervous system much nearer.
VI.
MOODS.
RELIEF from the mastery of an evil mood is like fresh air after having been several hours in a close room.
If one should go to work deliberately to break up another’s nervous system, and if one were perfectly free in methods of procedure, the best way would be to throw upon the victim in rapid sequence a long series of the most extreme moods. The disastrous result could be hastened by insisting that each mood should be resisted as it manifested itself, for then there would be the double strain,–the strain of the mood, and the strain of resistance. It is better to let a mood have its way than to suppress it. The story of the man who suffered from varicose veins and was cured by the waters of Lourdes, only to die a little later from an affection of the heart which arose from the suppression of the former disease, is a good illustration of the effect of mood-suppression. In the case cited, death followed at once; but death from repeated impressions of moods resisted is long drawn out, and the suffering intense, both for the patient and for his friends.
The only way to drop a mood is to look it in the face and call it by its right name; then by persistent ignoring, sometimes in one way, sometimes in another, finally drop it altogether. It takes a looser hold next time, and eventually slides off entirely. To be sure, over-fatigue, an attack of indigestion, or some unexpected contact with the same phase in another, may bring back the ghost of former moods. These ghosts may even materialize, unless the practice of ignoring is at once referred to; but they can ultimately be routed completely.
A great help in gaining freedom from moods is to realize clearly their superficiality. Moods are deadly, desperately serious things when taken seriously and indulged in to the full extent of their power. They are like a tiny spot directly in front of the eye. We see that, and that only. It blurs and shuts out everything else. We groan and suffer and are unhappy and wretched, still persistently keeping our eye on the spot, until finally we forget that there is anything else in the world. In mind and body we are impressed by that and that alone. Thus the difficulty of moving off a little distance is greatly increased, and liberation is impossible until we do move away, and, by a change of perspective, see the spot for what it really is.
Let any one who is ruled by moods, in a moment when he is absolutely free from them, take a good look at all past moody states, and he will see that they come from nothing, go to nothing, and, are nothing. Indeed, that has been and is often done by the moody person, with at the same time an unhappy realization that when the moods are on him, they are as real as they are unreal when he is free. To treat a mood as a good joke when you are in its clutches, is simply out of the question. But to say, “This now is a mood. Come on, do your worst; I can stand it as long as you can,” takes away all nerve-resistance, until the thing has nothing to clutch, and dissolves for want of nourishment. If it proves too much for one at times, and breaks out in a bad expression of some sort, a quick acknowledgment that you are under the spell of a bad mood, and a further invitation to come on if it wants to, will loosen the hold again.
If the mood is a melancholy one, speak as little as possible under its influence; go on and do whatever there is to be done, not resisting it in any way, but keep busy.
This non-resistance can, perhaps, be better illustrated by taking, instead of a mood, a person who teases. It is well known that the more we are annoyed, the more our opponent teases; and that the surest and quickest way of freeing ourselves is not to be teased. We can ignore the teaser externally with an internal irritation which he sees as clearly as if we expressed it. We can laugh in such a way that every sound of our own voice proclaims the annoyance we are trying to hide. It is when we take his words for what they are worth, and go with him, that the wind is taken out of his sails, and he stops because there is no fun in it. The experience with a mood is quite parallel, though rather more difficult at first, for there is no enemy like the enemies in one’s self, no teasing like the teasing from one’s self. It takes a little longer, a little heartier and more persistent process of non-resistance to cure the teasing from one’s own nature. But the process is just as certain, and the freedom greater in result.
Why is it not clear to us that to set our teeth, clench our hands, or hold any form of extreme tension and mistaken control, doubles, trebles, quadruples the impression of the feeling controlled, and increases by many degrees its power for attacking us another time? Persistent control of this kind gives a certain sort of strength. It might be called sham strength, for it takes it out of one in other ways. But the control that comes from non-resistance brings a natural strength, which not only steadily increases, but spreads on all sides, as the growth of a tree is even in its development.
“If a man takes your cloak, give him your coat also; if one compel you to go a mile, go with him twain.” “Love your enemies, do good to them that hurt you, and pray for them that despitefully use you.” Why have we been so long in realizing the practical, I might say the physiological, truth of this great philosophy? Possibly because in forgiving our enemies we have been so impressed with the idea that it was our enemies we were forgiving. If we realized that following this philosophy would bring us real freedom, it would be followed steadily as a matter of course, and with no more sense that we deserved credit for doing a good thing than a man might have in walking out of prison when his jailer opened the door. So it is with our enemies the moods.
I have written heretofore of bad moods only. But there are moods and moods. In a degree, certainly, one should respect one’s moods. Those who are subject to bad moods are equally subject to good ones, and the superficiality of the happier modes is just as much to be recognized as that of the wretched ones. In fact, in recognizing the shallowness of our happy moods, we are storing ammunition for a healthy openness and freedom from the opposite forms. With the full realization that a mood is a mood, we can respect it, and so gradually reach a truer evenness of life. Moods are phases that we are all subject to whilst in the process of finding our balance; the more sensitive and finer the temperament, the more moods. The rhythm of moods is most interesting, and there is a spice about the change which we need to give relish to these first steps towards the art of living.
It is when their seriousness is exaggerated that they lose their power for good and make slaves of us. The seriousness may be equally exaggerated in succumbing to them and in resisting them. In either case they are our masters, and not our slaves. They are steady consumers of the nervous system in their ups and downs when they master us; and of course retain no jot of that fascination which is a good part of their very shallowness, and brings new life as we take them as a matter of course. Then we are swung in their rhythm, never once losing sight of the point that it is the mood that is to serve us, and not we the mood.
As we gain freedom from our own moods, we are enabled to respect those of others and give up any endeavor to force a friend out of his moods, or even to lead him out, unless he shows a desire to be led. Nor do we rejoice fully in the extreme of his happy moods, knowing the certain reaction.
Respect for the moods of others is necessary to a perfect freedom from our own. In one sense no man is alone in the world; in another sense every man is alone; and with moods especially, a man must be left to work out his own salvation, unless he asks for help. So, as he understands his moods, and frees himself from their mastery, he will find that moods are in reality one of Nature’s gifts, a sort of melody which strengthens the harmony of life and gives it fuller tone.
Freedom from moods does not mean the loss of them, any more than non-resistance means allowing them to master you. It is non-resistance, with the full recognition of what they are, that clears the way.
VII.
TOLERANCE.
WHEN we are tolerant as a matter of course, the nervous system is relieved of almost the worst form of persistent irritation it could have.
The freedom of tolerance can only be appreciated by those who have known the suffering of intolerance and gained relief.
A certain perspective is necessary to a recognition of the full absurdity of intolerance. One of the greatest absurdities of it is evident when we are annoyed and caused intense suffering by our intolerance of others, and, as a consequence, blame others for the fatigue or illness which follows. However mistaken or blind other people may be in their habits or their ideas, it is entirely our fault if we are annoyed by them. The slightest blame given to another in such a case, on account of our suffering, is quite out of place.
Our intolerance is often unconscious. It is disguised under one form of annoyance or another, but when looked full in the face, it can only be recognized as intolerance.
Of course, the most severe form is when the belief, the action, or habit of another interferes directly with our own selfish aims. That brings the double annoyance of being thwarted and of rousing more selfish antagonism.
Where our selfish desires are directly interfered with, or even where an action which we know to be entirely right is prevented, intolerance only makes matters worse. If expressed, it probably rouses bitter feelings in another. Whether we express it openly or not, it keeps us in a state of nervous irritation which is often most painful in its results. Such irritation, if not extreme in its effect, is strong enough to keep any amount of pure enjoyment out of life.
There may be some one who rouses our intolerant feelings, and who may have many good points which might give us real pleasure and profit; but they all go for nothing before our blind, restless intolerance.
It is often the case that this imaginary enemy is found to be a friend and ally in reality, if we once drop the wretched state of intolerance long enough to see him clearly.
Yet the promptest answer to such an assertion will probably be, “That may be so in some cases, but not with the man or woman who rouses my intolerance.”
It is a powerful temptation, this one of intolerance, and takes hold of strong natures; it frequently rouses tremendous tempests before it can be recognized and ignored. And with the tempest comes an obstinate refusal to call it by its right name, and a resentment towards others for rousing in us what should not have been there to be roused.
So long as a tendency to anything evil is in us, it is a good thing to have it roused, recognized, and shaken off; and we might as reasonably blame a rock, over which we stumble, for the bruises received, as blame the person who rouses our intolerance for the suffering we endure.
This intolerance, which is so useless, seems strangely absurd when it is roused through some interference with our own plans; but it is stranger when we are rampant against a belief which does not in any way interfere with us.
This last form is more prevalent in antagonistic religious beliefs than in anything else. The excuse given would be an earnest desire for the salvation of our opponent. But who ever saved a soul through an ungracious intolerance of that soul’s chosen way of believing or living? The danger of loss would seem to be all on the other side.
One’s sense of humor is touched, in spite of one’s self, to hear a war of words and feeling between two Christians whose belief is supposed to be founded on the axiom, “Judge not, that ye be not judged.”
Without this intolerance, argument is interesting, and often profitable. With it, the disputants gain each a more obstinate belief in his own doctrines; and the excitement is steadily destructive to the best health of the nervous system.
Again, there is the intolerance felt from various little ways and habits of others,–habits which are comparatively nothing in themselves, but which are monstrous in their effect upon a person who is intolerant of them.
One might almost think we enjoyed irritated nerves, so persistently do we dwell upon the personal peculiarities of others. Indeed, there is no better example of biting off one’s own nose than the habit of intolerance. It might more truly be called the habit of irritating one’s own nervous system.
Having recognized intolerance as intolerance, having estimated it at its true worth, the next question is, how to get rid of it. The habit has, not infrequently, made such a strong brain-impression that, in spite of an earnest desire to shake it off, it persistently clings.
Of course, the soil about the obnoxious growth is loosened the moment we recognize its true quality. That is a beginning, and the rest is easier than might be imagined by those who have not tried it.
Intolerance is an unwillingness that others should live in their own way, believe as they prefer to, hold personal habits which they enjoy or are unconscious of, or interfere in any degree with our ways, beliefs, or habits.
That very sense of unwillingness causes a contraction of the nerves which is wasteful and disagreeable. The feeling rouses the contraction, the contraction more feeling; and so the Intolerance is increased in cause and in effect. The immediate effect of being willing, on the contrary, is, of course, the relaxation of such contraction, and a healthy expansion of the nerves.
Try the experiment on some small pet form of intolerance. Try to realize what it is to feel quite willing. Say over and over to yourself that you are quite willing So-and-so should make that curious noise with his mouth. Do not hesitate at the simplicity of saying the words to yourself; that brings a much quicker effect at first. By and by we get accustomed to the sensation of willingness, and can recall it with less repetition of words, or without words at all. When the feeling of nervous annoyance is roused by the other, counteract it on the instant by repeating silently: “I am quite willing you should do that,–do it again.” The man or woman, whoever he or she may be, is quite certain to oblige you! There will be any number of opportunities to be willing, until by and by the willingness is a matter of course, and it would not be surprising if the habit passed entirely unnoticed, as far as you are concerned.
This experiment tried successfully on small things can be carried to greater. If steadily persisted in, a good fifty per cent of wasted nervous force can be saved for better things; and this saving of nervous force is the least gain which comes from a thorough riddance of every form of intolerance.
“But,” it will be objected, “how can I say I am willing when I am not?”
Surely you can see no good from the irritation of unwillingness; there can be no real gain from it, and there is every reason for giving it up. A clear realization of the necessity for willingness, both for our own comfort and for that of others, helps us to its repetition in words. The words said with sincere purpose, help us to the feeling, and so we come steadily into clearer light.
Our very willingness that a friend should go the wrong way, if he chooses, gives us new power to help him towards the right. If we are moved by intolerance, that is selfishness; with it will come the desire to force our friend into the way which we consider right. Such forcing, if even apparently successful, invariably produces a reaction on the friend’s part, and disappointment and chagrin on our own.
The fact that most great reformers were and are actuated by the very spirit of intolerance, makes that scorning of the ways of others seem to us essential as the root of all great reform. Amidst the necessity for and strength in the reform, the petty spirit of intolerance intrudes unnoticed. But if any one wants to see it in full-fledged power, let him study the family of a reformer who have inherited the intolerance of his nature without the work to which it was applied.
This intolerant spirit is not indispensable to great reforms; but it sometimes goes with them, and is made use of, as intense selfishness may often be used, for higher ends. The ends might have been accomplished more rapidly and more effectually with less selfish instruments. But man must be left free, and if he will not offer himself as an open channel to his highest impulses, he is used to the best advantage possible without them.
There is no finer type of a great reformer than Jesus Christ; in his life there was no shadow of intolerance. From first to last, he showed willingness in spirit and in action. In upbraiding the Scribes and Pharisees he evinced no feeling of antagonism; he merely stated the facts. The same firm calm truth of assertion, carried out in action, characterized his expulsion of the money-changers from the temple. When he was arrested, and throughout his trial and execution, it was his accusers who showed the intolerance; they sent out with swords and staves to take him, with a show of antagonism which failed to affect him in the slightest degree.
Who cannot see that, with the irritated feeling of intolerance, we put ourselves on the plane of the very habit or action we are so vigorously condemning? We are inviting greater mistakes on our part. For often the rouser of our selfish antagonism is quite blind to his deficiencies, and unless he is broader in his way than we are in ours, any show of intolerance simply blinds him the more. Intolerance, through its indulgence, has come to assume a monstrous form. It interferes with all pleasure in life; it makes clear, open intercourse with others impossible; it interferes with any form of use into which it is permitted to intrude. In its indulgence it is a monstrosity,–in itself it is mean, petty, and absurd.
Let us then work with all possible rapidity to relax from contractions of unwillingness, and become tolerant as a matter of course.
Whatever is the plan of creation, we cannot improve it through any antagonistic feeling of our own against creatures or circumstances. Through a quiet, gentle tolerance we leave ourselves free to be carried by the laws. Truth is greater than we are, and if we can be the means of righting any wrong, it is by giving up the presumption that we can carry truth, and by standing free and ready to let truth carry us.
The same willingness that is practised in relation to persons will be found equally effective in relation to the circumstances of life, from the losing of a train to matters far greater and more important. There is as much intolerance to be dropped in our relations to various happenings as in our relations to persons; and the relief to our nerves is just as great, perhaps even greater.
It seems to be clear that heretofore we have not realized either the relief or the strength of an entire willingness that people and things should progress in their own way. How can we ever gain freedom whilst we are entangled in the contractions of intolerance?
Freedom and a healthy nervous system are synonymous; we cannot have one without the other.
VIII.
SYMPATHY.
SYMPATHY, in its best sense, is the ability to take another’s point of view. Not to mourn because he mourns; not to feel injured because he feels injured. There are times when we cannot agree with a friend in the necessity for mourning or feeling injured; but we can understand the cause of his disturbance, and see clearly that his suffering is quite reasonable, _from his own point of view_. One cannot blame a man for being color-blind; but by thoroughly understanding and sympathizing with the fact that red _must_ be green as he sees it, one can help him to bring his mental retina to a more normal state, until every color is taken at its proper value.
This broader sort of sympathy enables us to serve others much more truly.
If we feel at one with a man who is suffering from a supposed injury which may be entirely his own fault, we are doing all in our power to confirm him in his mistake, and his impression of martyrdom is increased and protracted in proportion. But if, with a genuine comprehension of his point of view, however unreal it may be in itself, we do our best to see his trouble in an unprejudiced light, that is sympathy indeed; for our real sympathy is with the man himself, cleared from his selfish fog. What is called our sympathy with his point of view is more a matter of understanding. The sympathy which takes the man for all in all, and includes the comprehension of his prejudices, will enable us to hold our tongues with regard to his prejudiced view until he sees for himself or comes to us for advice.
It is interesting to notice how this sympathy with another enables us to understand and forgive one from whom we have received an injury. His point of view taken, his animosity against us seems to follow as a matter of course; then no time or force need be wasted on resentment.
Again, you cannot blame a man for being blind, even though his blindness may be absolutely and entirely selfish, and you the sufferer in consequence.
It often follows that the endeavor to get a clear understanding of another’s view brings to notice many mistaken ideas of our own, and thus enables us to gain a better standpoint It certainly helps us to enduring patience; whereas a positive refusal to regard the prejudices of another is rasping to our own nerves, and helps to fix him in whatever contraction may have possessed him.
There can be no doubt that this open sympathy is one of the better phases of our human intercourse most to be desired. It requires a clear head and a warm heart to understand the prejudices of a friend or an enemy, and to sympathize with his capabilities enough to help him to clearer mental vision.
Often, to be sure, there are two points of view, both equally true. But they generally converge into one, and that one is more easily found through not disputing our own with another’s. Through sympathy with him we are enabled to see the right on both sides, and reach the central point.
It is singular that it takes us so long to recognize this breadth of sympathy and practise it. Its practice would relieve us of an immense amount of unnecessary nerve-strain. But the nerve-relief is the mere beginning of gain to come. It steadily opens a clearer knowledge and a heartier appreciation of human nature. We see in individuals traits of character, good and bad, that we never could have recognized whilst blinded by our own personal prejudices. By becoming alive to various little sensitive spots in others, we are enabled to avoid them, and save an endless amount of petty suffering which might increase to suffering that was really severe.
One good illustration of this want of sympathy, in a small way, is the waiting-room of a well-known nerve-doctor. The room is in such a state of confusion, it is such a mixture of colors and forms, that it would be fatiguing even for a person in tolerable health to stay there for an hour. Yet the doctor keeps his sensitive, nervously excited patients sitting in this heterogeneous mass of discordant objects hour after hour. Surely it is no psychological subtlety of insight that gives a man of this type his name and fame: it must be the feeding and resting process alone; for a man of sensitive sympathy would study to save his patients by taking their point of view, as well as to bring them to a better physical state through nourishment and rest.
The ability to take a nervous sufferer’s point of view is greatly needed. There can be no doubt that with that effort on the part of friends and relatives, many cases of severe nervous prostration might be saved, certainly much nervous suffering could be prevented.
A woman who is suffering from a nervous conscience writes a note which shows that she is worrying over this or that supposed mistake, or as to what your attitude is towards her. A prompt, kind, and direct answer will save her at once from further nervous suffering of that sort. To keep an anxious person, whether he be sick or well, watching the mails, is a want of sympathy which is also shown in many other ways, unimportant, perhaps, to us, but important if we are broad enough to take the other’s point of view.
There are many foolish little troubles from which men and women suffer that come only from tired nerves. A wise patience with such anxieties will help greatly towards removing their cause. A wise patience is not indulgence. An elaborate nervous letter of great length is better answered by a short but very kind note.
The sympathy which enables us to understand the point of view of tired nerves gives us the power to be lovingly brief in our response to them, and at the same time more satisfying than if we responded at length.
Most of us take human nature as a great whole, and judge individuals from our idea in general. Or, worse, we judge it all from our own personal prejudices. There is a grossness about this which we wonder at not having seen before, when we compare the finer sensitiveness which is surely developed by the steady effort to understand another’s point of view. We know a whole more perfectly as a whole if we have a distinct knowledge of the component parts. We can only understand human nature en masse through a daily clearer knowledge of and sympathy with its individuals. Every one of us knows the happiness of having at least one friend whom he is perfectly sure will neither undervalue him nor give him undeserved praise, and whose friendship and help he can count upon, no matter how great a wrong he has done, as securely as he could count upon his loving thought and attention in physical illness. Surely it is possible for each of us to approach such friendship in our feeling and attitude towards every one who comes in touch with us.
It is comparatively easy to think of this open sympathy, or even practise it in big ways; it is in the little matters of everyday life that the difficulty arises. Of course the big ways count for less if they come through a brain clogged with little prejudices, although to some extent one must help the other.
It cannot be that a man has a real open sympathy who limits it to his own family and friends; indeed, the very limit would make the open sympathy impossible. One is just as far from a clear comprehension of human nature when he limits himself by his prejudices for his immediate relatives as when he makes himself alone the boundary.
Once having gained even the beginning of this broader sympathy with others, there follows the pleasure of freedom from antagonisms, keener delight in understanding others, individually and collectively, and greater ability to serve others; and all these must give an impetus which takes us steadily on to greater freedom, to clearer understanding, and to more power to serve and to be served.
Others have many experiences which we have never even touched upon. In that case, our ability to understand is necessarily limited. The only thing to do is to acknowledge that we cannot see the point of view, that we have no experience to start from, and to wait with an open mind until we are able to understand.
Curiously enough, it is precisely these persons of limited experience who are most prone to prejudice. I have heard a man assert with emphasis that it was every one’s _duty_ to be happy, who had apparently not a single thing in life to interfere with his own happiness. The duty may be clear enough, but he certainly was not in a position to recognize its difficulty. And just in proportion with his inability to take another’s point of view in such difficulty did he miss his power to lead others to this agreeable duty.
There are, of course, innumerable things, little and big, which we shall be enabled to give to others and to receive from others as the true sympathy grows.
The common-sense of it all appeals to us forcibly.
Who wants to carry about a mass of personal prejudices when he can replace them by the warm, healthy feeling of sympathetic friendship? Who wants his nerves to be steadily irritated by various forms of intolerance when, by understanding the other’s point of view, he can replace these by better forms of patience?
This lower relief is little compared with the higher power gained, but it is the first step up, and the steps beyond go ever upward. Human nature is worth knowing and worth loving, and it can never be known or loved without open sympathy.
Why, we ourselves are human nature!
Many of us would be glad to give sympathy to others, especially in little ways, but we do not know how to go to work about it; we seem always to be doing the wrong thing, when our desire is to do the right. This comes, of course, from the same inability to take the other’s point of view; and the ability is gained as we are quiet and watch for it.
Practice, here as in everything else, is what helps. And the object is well worth working for.
IX.
OTHERS.
HOW to live at peace with others is a problem which, if practically solved, would relieve the nervous system of a great weight, and give to living a lightness and ease that might for a time seem weirdly unnatural. It would certainly decrease the income of the nerve-specialists to the extent of depriving those gentlemen of many luxuries they now enjoy.
Peace does not mean an outside civility with an inside dislike or annoyance. In that case, the repressed antagonism not only increases the brain-impression and wears upon the nervous system, but it is sure to manifest itself some time, in one form or another; and the longer it is repressed, the worse will be the effect. It may be a volcanic eruption that is produced after long repression, which simmers down to a chronic interior grumble; or it may be that the repression has caused such steadily increasing contraction that an eruption is impossible. In this case, life grows heavier and heavier, burdened with the shackles of one’s own dislikes.
If we can only recognize two truths in our relations with others, and let these truths become to us a matter of course, the worst difficulties are removed. Indeed, with these two simple bits of rationality well in hand, we may safely expect to walk amicably side by side with our dearest foe.
The first is, that dislike, nine times out often, is simply a “cutaneous disorder.” That is, it is merely an irritation excited by the friction of one nervous system upon another. The tiny tempests in the tiny teapots which are caused by this nervous friction, the great weight attached to the most trivial matters of dispute, would touch one’s sense of humor keenly if it were not that in so many cases these tiny tempests develop into real hurricanes. Take, for example, two dear and intimate friends who have lived happily together for years. Neither has a disposition which is perfect; but that fact has never interfered with their friendship. Both get over-tired. Words are spoken which sound intensely disagreeable, even cruel. They really express nothing in the world but tired nerves. They are received and misinterpreted by tired nerves on the other side. So these two sets of nerves act and react upon one another, and from nothing at all is evolved an ill-feeling which, if allowed to grow, separates the friends. Each is fully persuaded that his cutaneous trouble has profound depth. By a persistent refusal of all healing salves it sometimes sinks in until the disease becomes really deep seated. All this is so unnecessary. Through the same mistake many of us carry minor dislikes which, on account of their number and their very pettiness, are wearing upon the nerves, and keep us from our best in whatever direction we may be working.
The remedy for all these seems very clear when once we find it. Recognize the shallow-ness of the disorder, acknowledge that it is a mere matter of nerves, and avoid the friction. Keep your distance. It is perfectly possible and very comfortable to keep your distance from the irritating peculiarities of another, while having daily and familiar relations with him or her. The difficulty is in getting to a distance when we have allowed ourselves to be over-near; but that, too, can be accomplished with patience. And by keeping a nervous distance, so to speak, we are not only relieved from irritation, but we find a much more delightful friendship; we see and enjoy the qualities in another which the petty irritations had entirely obscured from our view. If we do not allow ourselves to be touched by the personal peculiarities, we get nearer the individual himself.
To give a simple example which would perhaps seem absurd if it had not been proved true so many times: A man was so annoyed by his friend’s state of nervous excitability that in taking a regular morning walk with him, which he might have enjoyed heartily, he always returned fagged out He tried whilst walking beside his friend to put himself in imagination on the other side of the street The nervous irritation lessened, and finally ceased; the walk was delightful, and the friend–never suspected!
A Japanese crowd is so well-bred that no one person touches another; one need never jostle, but, with an occasional “I beg your pardon,” can circulate with perfect ease. In such a crowd there can be no irritation.
There is a certain good-breeding which leads us to avoid friction with another’s nervous system. It must, however, be an avoidance inside as well as outside. The subterfuge of holding one’s tongue never works in the end. There is a subtle communication from one nervous system to another which is more insinuating than any verbal intercourse. Those nearest us, and whom we really love best, are often the very persons by whom we are most annoyed. As we learn to keep a courteous distance from their personal peculiarities our love grows stronger and more real; and an open frankness in our relation is more nearly possible. Strangely enough, too, the personal peculiarities sometimes disappear. It is possible, and quite as necessary, to treat one’s own nervous system with this distant courtesy.
This brings us to the second simple truth. In nine cases out of ten the cause of this nervous irritation is in ourselves. If a man loses his temper and rouses us to a return attack, how can we blame him? Are we not quite as bad in hitting back? To be sure, he began it. But did he? How do we know what roused him? Then, too, he might have poured volleys of abuse upon us, and not provoked an angry retort, if the temper had not been latent within us, to begin with. So it is with minor matters. In direct proportion to our freedom from others is our power for appreciating their good points; just in proportion to our slavery to their tricks and their habits are we blinded to their good points and open to increased irritation from their bad ones. It is curious that it should work that way, but it does. If there is nothing in us to be roused, we are all free; if we are not free, it is because there is something in us akin to that which rouses us. This is hard to acknowledge. But it puts our attitude to others on a good clean basis, and brings us into reality and out of private theatricals; not to mention a clearing of the nervous system which gives us new power.
There is one trouble in dealing with people which does not affect all of us, but which causes enough pain and suffering to those who are under its influence to make up for the immunity of the rest. That is, the strong feeling that many of us have that it is our duty to reform those about us whose life and ways are not according to our ideas of right.
No one ever forced another to reform, against that other’s will. It may have appeared so; but there is sure to be a reaction sooner or later. The number of nervous systems, however, that have been overwrought by this effort to turn others to better ways, is sad indeed. And in many instances the owners of these nervous systems will pose to themselves as martyrs; and they are quite sincere in such posing. They are living their own impressions of themselves, and wearing themselves out in consequence. If they really wanted right for the sake of right, they would do all in their power without intruding, would recognize the other as a free agent, and wait. But they want right because it is their way; consequently they are crushed by useless anxiety, and suffer superfluously. This is true of those who feel themselves under the necessity of reforming all who come in touch with them. It is more sadly true of those whose near friends seem steadily to be working out their own destruction. To stand aside and be patient in this last case requires strength indeed. But such patience clears one’s mind to see, and gives power to act when action can prove effective. Indeed, as the ability to leave others free grows in us, our power really to serve increases.
The relief to the nervous system of dropping mistaken responsibility cannot be computed. For it is by means of the nervous system that we deal with others; it is the medium of our expression and of our impression. And as it is cleared of its false contractions, does it not seem probable that we might be opened to an exquisite delight in companionship that we never knew before, and that our appreciation of human nature would increase indefinitely?
Suppose when we find another whose ways are quite different from ours, we immediately contract, and draw away with the feeling that there is nothing in him for us. Or suppose, instead, that we look into his ways with real interest in having found a new phase of human nature. Which would be the more broadening process on the whole, or the more delightful? Frequently the contraction takes more time and attention than would an effort to understand the strange ways. We are almost always sure to find something in others to which we can respond, and which awakens a new power in us, if only a new power of sympathy.
To sum it all up, the best way to deal with others seems to be to avoid nervous friction of any sort, inside or out; to harbor no ill-will towards another for selfishness roused in one’s self; to be urged by no presumptive sense of responsibility; and to remember that we are all in the same world and under the same laws. A loving sympathy with human nature in general, leads us first to obey the laws ourselves, and gives us a fellow-feeling with individuals which means new strength on both sides.
To take this as a matter of course does not seem impossible. It is simply casting the skin of the savage and rising to another plane, where there will doubtless be new problems better worth attention.
X.
ONE’S SELF.
TO be truly at peace with one’s self means rest indeed.
There is a quiet complacency, though, which passes for peace, and is like the remarkably clear red-and-white complexion which indicates disease. It will be noticed that the sufferers from this complacent spirit of so-called peace shrink from openness of any sort, from others or to others. They will put a disagreeable feeling out of sight with a rapidity which would seem to come from sheer fright lest they should see and acknowledge themselves in their true guise. Or they will acknowledge it to a certain extent, with a pleasure in their own humility which increases the complacency in proportion. This peace is not to be desired. With those who enjoy it, a true knowledge of or friendship with others is as much out of the question as a knowledge of themselves. And when it is broken or interfered with in any way, the pain is as intense and real as the peace was false.
The first step towards amicable relations with ourselves is to acknowledge that we are living with a stranger. Then it sometimes happens that through being annoyed by some one else we are enabled to recognize similar disagreeable tendencies in ourselves of which we were totally ignorant before.
As honest dealing with others always pays best in the end, so it is in all relations with one’s self. There are many times when to be quite open with a friend we must wait to be asked. With ourselves no such courtesy is needed. We can speak out and done with it, and the franker we are, the sooner we are free. For, unlike other companions, we can enjoy ourselves best when we are conspicuous only by our own absence!
It is this constant persistence in clinging to ourselves that is most in the way; it increases that crown of nervous troubles, self-consciousness, and makes it quite impossible that we should ever really know ourselves. If by all this, we are not ineffable bores to ourselves, we certainly become so to other people.
It is surprising, when once we come to recognize it, how we are in an almost chronic state of posing to ourselves. Fortunately, a clear recognition of the fact is most effectual in stopping the poses. But they must be recognized, pose by pose, individually and separately stopped, _and then ignored_, if we want to free ourselves from ourselves entirely.
The interior posing-habit makes one a slave to brain-impressions which puts all freedom out of the question. To cease from such posing opens one of the most interesting gates to natural life. We wonder how we could have obscured the outside view for so long.
To find that we cannot, or do not, let ourselves alone for an hour in the day seems the more surprising when we remember that there is so much to enjoy outside. Egotism is immensely magnified in nervous disorders; but that it is the positive cause of much nervous trouble has not been generally admitted.
Let any one of us take a good look at the amount of attention given by ourselves to ourselves. Then acknowledge, without flinching, what amount of that attention is unnecessary; and it will clear the air delightfully, for a moment at any rate.
The tendency to refer everything, in some way or another, to one’s self; the touchiness and suspicion aroused by nothing but petty jealousy as to one’s own place; the imagined slights from others; the want of consideration given us,–all these and many more senseless irritations are in this over-attention to self. The worries about our own moral state take up so great a place with many of us as to leave no room for any other thought. Indeed, it is not uncommon to see a woman worrying so over her faults that she has no time to correct them. Self-condemnation is as great a vanity as its opposite. Either in one way or another there is the steady temptation to attend to one’s self, and along with it an irritation of the nerves which keeps us from any sense of real freedom.
With most of us there is no great depth to the self-disease if it is only stopped in time. When once we are well started in the wholesome practice of getting rid of ourselves, the process is rapid. A thorough freedom from self once gained, we find ourselves quite companionable, which, though paradoxical, is without doubt a truth.
“That freedom of the soul,” writes Fenelon, “which looks straight onward in its path, losing no time to reason upon its steps, to study them, or to dwell upon those already taken, is true simplicity.” We recognize a mistake, correct it, go on and forget. If it appears again, correct it again. Irritation at the second or at any number of reappearances only increases the brain-impression of the mistake, and makes the tendency to future error greater.
If opportunity arises to do a good action, take advantage of it, and silently decline the disadvantage of having your attention riveted to it by the praise of others.
A man who is constantly analyzing his physical state is called a hypochondriac. What shall we call the man who is constantly analyzing his moral state? As the hypochondriac loses all sense of health in holding the impression of disease, so the other gradually loses the sense of wholesome relation to himself and to others.
If a man obeyed the laws of health as a matter of course, and turned back every time Nature convicted him of disobedience, he would never feel the need of self-analysis so far as his physical state was concerned. Just so far as a man obeys higher laws as a matter of course, and uses every mistake to enable him to know the laws better, is morbid introspection out of the question with him.
“Man, know thyself!” but, being sure of the desire to know thyself, do not be impatient at slow progress; pay little attention to the process, and forget thyself, except when remembering is necessary to a better forgetting.
To live at real peace with ourselves, we must surely let every little evil imp of selfishness show himself, and not have any skulking around corners. Recognize him for his full worthless-ness, call him by his right name, and move off. Having called him by his right name, our severity with ourselves for harboring him is unnecessary. To be gentle with ourselves is quite as important as to be gentle with others. Great nervous suffering is caused by this over-severity to one’s self, and freedom is never accomplished by that means. Many of us are not severe enough, but very many are too severe. One mistake is quite as bad as the other, and as disastrous in its effects.
If we would regard our own state less, or careless whether we were happy or unhappy, our freedom from self would be gained more rapidly.
As a man intensely interested in some special work does not notice the weather, so we, if we once get hold of the immense interest there may be in living, are not moved to any depth by changes in the clouds of our personal state. We take our moods as a matter of course, and look beyond to interests that are greater. Self may be a great burden if we allow it. It is only a clear window through which we see and are seen, if we are free. And the repose of such freedom must be beyond our conception until we have found it. To be absolutely certain that we know ourselves at any time is one great impediment to reaching such rest. Every bit of self-knowledge gained makes us more doubtful as to knowledge to come. It would surprise most of us to see how really unimportant we are. As a part of the universe, our importance increases just in proportion to the laws that work through us; but this self-importance is lost to us entirely in our greater recognition of the laws. As we gain in the sensitive recognition of universal laws, every petty bit of self-contraction disappears as darkness before the rising of the sun.
XI.
CHILDREN.
WORK for the better progress of the human race is most effective when it is done through the children; for children are future generations. The freedom in mature life gained by a training that would enable the child to avoid nervous irritants is, of course, greatly in advance of most individual freedom to-day. This real freedom is the spirit of the kindergarten; but Frobel’s method, as practised to-day, does not attack and put to rout all those various nervous irritants which are the enemies of our civilization. To be sure, the teaching of his philosophy develops such a nature that much pettiness is thrown off without even being noticed as a snare; and Frobel helps one to recognize all pettiness more rapidly. There are, however, many forms of nervous irritation which one is not warned against in the kindergarten, and the absence of which, if the child is taught as a matter of course to avoid them, will give him a freedom that his elders and betters (?) lack. The essential fact of this training is that it is only truly effectual when coming from example rather than precept.
A child is exquisitely sensitive to the shortcomings of others, and very keen, as well as correct, in his criticism, whether expressed or unexpressed. In so far as a man consents to be taught by children, does he not only remain young, but he frees himself from the habit of impeding his own progress. This is a great impediment, this unwillingness to be taught by those whom we consider more ignorant than ourselves because they have not been in the world so long. Did no one ever take into account the possibility of our eyes being blinded just because they had been exposed to the dust longer? Certainly one possible way of clearing this dust and avoiding it is to learn from observing those who have had less of it to contend with. Indeed, one might go so far as to say that no training of any child could be effectual to a lasting degree unless the education was mutual. When Frobel says, “Come, let us live with our children,” he does not mean, Come, let us stoop to our children; he means, Let us be at one with them. Surely a more perfect harmony in these two great phases of human nature–the child and the man–would be greatly to the advantage of the latter.
Yet, to begin at the beginning, who ever feels the necessity of treating a baby with respect? How quickly the baby would resent intrusive attentions, if it knew how. Indeed, I have seen a baby not a year old resent being transferred from one person to another, with an expression of the face that was most eloquent. Women seem so full of their sense of possession of a baby that this eloquence is not even observed, and the poor child’s nervous irritants begin at a very early age. There is so much to be gained by keeping at a respectful nervous distance from a baby, that one has only to be quiet enough to perceive the new pleasure once, to lose the temptation to interfere; and imagine the relief to the baby! It is, after all, the sense of possession that makes the trouble; and this sense is so strong that there are babies, all the way from twenty to forty, whose individuality is intruded upon so grossly that they have never known what freedom is; and when they venture to struggle for it, their suffering is intense. This is a steadily increasing nervous contraction, both in the case of the possessed and the possessor, and perfect nervous health is not possible on either side. To begin by respecting the individuality of the baby would put this last abnormal attitude of parent and child out of the question. Curiously enough, there is in some of the worst phases of this parent-child contraction an external appearance of freedom which only enhances the internal slavery. When a man, who has never known what it was in reality to give up a strong will, prides himself upon the freedom he gives to his child, he is entangling himself in the meshes of self-deception, and either depriving another of his own, or ripening him for a good hearty hatred which may at any time mean volcanoes and earthquakes to both.
This forcible resentment of and resistance to the strong will of another is a cause of great nervous suffering, the greater as the expression of such feeling is repressed. Severe illness may easily be the result.
To train a child to gain freedom from the various nervous irritants, one must not only be gaining the same freedom one’s self, but must practise meeting the child in the way he is counselled to meet others. One must refuse to be in any way a nervous irritant to the child. In that case quite as much instruction is received as given. A child, too, is doubly sensitive; he not only feels the intrusion on his own individuality, but the irritable or self-willed attitude of another in expressing such intrusion.
Similarly, in keeping a respectful distance, a teacher grows sensitive to the child, and again the help is mutual, with sometimes a balance in favor of the child.
This mistaken, parent-child attitude is often the cause of severe nervous suffering in those whose only relation is that of friendship, when one mind is stronger than the other. Sometimes there is not any real superior strength on the one side; it is simply by the greater gross-ness of the will that the other is overcome. This very grossness blinds one completely to the individuality of a finer strength; the finer individual succumbs because he cannot compete with crowbars, and the parent-child contraction is the disastrous result. To preserve for a child a normal nervous system, one must guide but not limit him. It is a sad sight to see a mother impressing upon a little brain that its owner is a naughty, naughty boy, especially when such impression is increased by the irritability of the mother. One hardly dares to think how many more grooves are made in a child’s brain which simply give him contractions to take into mature life with him; how many trivial happenings are made to assume a monstrous form through being misrepresented. It is worth while to think of such dangers, such warping influences, only long enough to avoid them.
A child’s imagination is so exquisitely alive, his whole little being is so responsive, that the guidance which can be given him through happy brain-impressions is eminently practicable. To test this responsiveness, and feel it more keenly, just tell a child a dramatic story, and watch his face respond; or even recite a Mother-Goose rhyme with all the expression at your command. The little face changes in rapid succession, as one event after another is related, in a way to put a modern actor to shame. If the response is so quick on the outside, it must be at least equally active within.
One might as well try to make a white rose red by rouging its petals as to mould a child according to one’s own idea of what he should be; and as the beauty and delicacy of the rose would be spoiled by the application of the pigment, so is the baby’s nervous system twisted and contracted by the limiting force of a grosser will.
Water the rose, put it in the sun, keep the insect enemies away, and then enjoy it for itself. Give the child everything that is consistent with its best growth, but neither force the growth nor limit it; and stand far enough off to see the individuality, to enjoy it and profit by it. Use the child’s imagination to calm and strengthen it; give it happy channels for its activity; guide it physically to the rhythm of fresh air, nourishment, and rest; then do not interfere.
If the man never turns to thank you for such guidance, because it all came as a matter of course, a wholesome, powerful nervous system will speak thanks daily with more eloquence than any words could ever express.
XII.
ILLNESS.
AS far as we make circumstances guides and not limitations, they serve us. Otherwise, we serve them, and suffer accordingly. Just in proportion, too, to our allowing circumstances to be limits do we resist them. Such resistance is a nervous strain which disables us physically, and of course puts us more in the clutches of what appears to be our misfortune. The moment we begin to regard every circumstance as an opportunity, the tables are turned on Fate, and we have the upper hand of her.
When we come to think of it, how much common-sense there is in making the best of every “opportunity,” and what a lack of sense in chafing at that which we choose to call our limitations! The former way is sure to bring a good result of some sort, be it ever so small; the latter wears upon our nerves, blinds our mental vision, and certainly does not cultivate the spirit of freedom in us.
How absurd it would seem if a wounded man were to expose his wound to unnecessary friction, and then complain that it did not heal! Yet that is what many of us have done at one time or another, when prevented by illness from carrying out our plans in life just as we had arranged. It matters not whether those plans were for ourselves or for others; chafing and fretting at their interruption is just as absurd and quite as sure to delay our recovery. “I know,” with tears in our eyes, “I ought not to complain, but it is so hard,” To which common-sense may truly answer: “If it is hard, you want to get well, don’t you? Then why do you not take every means to get well, instead of indulging first in the very process that will most tend to keep you ill?” Besides this, there is a dogged resistance which remains silent, refuses to complain aloud, and yet holds a state of rigidity that is even worse than the external expression. There are many individual ways of resisting. Each of us knows his own, and knows, too, the futility of it; we do not need to multiply examples.
The patients who resist recovery are quite as numerous as those who keep themselves ill by resisting illness. A person of this sort seems to be fascinated by his own body and its disorders. So far from resisting illness, he may be said to be indulging in it He will talk about himself and his physical state for hours. He will locate each separate disease in a way to surprise the listener by his knowledge of his own anatomy. Not infrequently he will preface a long account of himself by informing you that he has a hearty detestation of talking about himself, and never could understand why people wanted to talk of their diseases. Then in minute detail he will reveal to you his brain-impression of his own case, and look for sympathetic response. These people might recover a hundred times over, and they would never know it, so occupied are they in living their own idea of themselves and in resisting Nature.
When Nature has knocked us down because of disobedience to her laws, we resist her if we attempt at once to rise, or complain of the punishment. When the dear lady would hasten our recovery to the best of her ability, we resist her if we delay progress by dwelling on the punishment or chafing at its necessity.
Nature always tends towards health. It is to prevent further ill-health that she allows us to suffer for our disobedience to her laws. It is to lead us back to health that she is giving the best of her powers, having dealt the deserved punishment. The truest help we can give Nature is not to think of our bodies, well or ill, more than is necessary for their best health.
I knew a woman who was, to all appearances, remarkably well; in fact, her health was her profession. She was supposed to be a Priestess of Health. She talked about and dwelt upon the health of her body until one would have thought there was nothing in the world worth thinking of but a body. She displayed her fine points in the way of health, and enjoyed being questioned with regard to them. This woman was taken ill. She exhibited the same interest, the same pleasure, in talking over and dwelling upon her various forms of illness; in fact, more. She counted her diseases. I am not aware that she ever counted her strong points of health.
This illustration is perhaps clear enough to give a new sense of the necessity for forgetting our bodies. When ill use every necessary remedy; do all that is best to bring renewed health. Having made sure you are doing all you can, forget; don’t follow the process. When, as is often the case, pain or other suffering puts forgetting out of the question, use no unnecessary resistance, and forget as soon as the pain is past Don’t strengthen the impression by talking about it or telling it over to no purpose. Better forego a little sympathy, and forget the pain sooner.
It is with our nerves that we resist when Nature has punished us. It is nervous strain that we put into a useless attention to and repetition of the details of our illness. Nature wants all this nerve-force to get us well the faster; we can save it for her by not resisting and by a healthy forgetting. By taking an illness as comfortably as possible, and turning our attention to something pleasant outside of ourselves, recovery is made more rapidly.
Many illnesses are accompanied by more or less nervous strain, and its natural control will assist nature and enable medicines to work more quickly. The slowest process of recovery, and that which most needs the relief of a wholesome non-resistance, is when the illness is the result entirely of over-worked nerves. Nature allows herself to be tried to the utmost before she permits nervous prostration. She insists upon being paid in full, principal and interest, before she heals such illness. So severe is she in this case that a patient may appear in every way physically well and strong weeks, nay, months, before he really is so. It was the nerves that broke down last, and the nerves are the last to be restored. It is, however, wonderful to see how much more rapid and certain recovery is if the patient will only separate himself from his nervous system, and refuse all useless strain.
Here are some simple directions which may help nervous patients, if considered in regular order. They can hardly be read too often if the man or woman is in for a long siege; and if simply and steadily obeyed, they will shorten the siege by many days, nay, by many weeks or months, in some cases.
Remember that Nature tends towards health. All you want is nourishment, fresh air, exercise, rest, and patience.
All your worries and anxieties now are tired nerves.
When a worry appears, drop it. If it appears again, drop it again. And so continue to drop it if it appears fifty or a hundred times a day or more.
If you feel like crying, cry; but know that it is the tired nerves that are crying, and don’t wonder why you are so foolish,–don’t feel ashamed of yourself.
If you cannot sleep, don’t care. Get all the rest you can without sleeping. That will bring sleep when it is ready to come, or you are ready to have it.
Don’t wonder whether you are going to sleep or not. Go to bed to rest, and let sleep come when it pleases.
Think about everything in Nature. Follow the growing of the trees and flowers. Remember all the beauties in Nature you have ever seen.
Say Mother-Goose rhymes over and over, trying how many you can remember.
Read bright stories for children, and quiet novels, especially Jane Austen’s.
Sometimes it helps to work on arithmetic.
Keep aloof from emotions.
Think of other people.
Never think of yourself. Bear in mind that nerves always get well in waves; and if you thought yourself so much better,–almost well, indeed,–and then have a bad time of suffering, don’t wonder why it is, or what could have brought it on. Know that it is part of the recovery-process; take it as easily as you can, and then ignore it.
Don’t try to do any number of things to get yourself well; don’t change doctors any number of times, or take countless medicines. Every doctor knows he cannot hurry your recovery, whatever he may say, and you only retard it by being over-anxious to get strong. Drop every bit of unnecessary muscular tension.
When you walk, feel your feet heavy, as if your shoes were full of lead, and think in your feet.
Be as much like a child as possible. Play with children as one of them, and think with them when you can.
As you begin to recover, find something every day to do for others. Best let it be in the way of house-work, or gardening, or something to do with your hands.
Take care of yourself every day as a matter of course, as you would dress or undress; and be sure that health is coming. Say over and over to yourself: Nourishment, fresh air, exercise, rest, PATIENCE.
When you are well, and resume your former life, if old associations recall the unhappy nervous feelings, know that it is only the associations; pay no attention to the suffering, and work right on. Only be careful to take life very quietly until you are quite used to being well again.
An illness that is merely nervous is an immense opportunity, if one will only realize it as such. It not only makes one more genuinely appreciative of the best health, and the way to keep it, it opens the sympathies and gives a feeling for one’s fellow-creatures which, having once found, we cannot prize too highly.
It would seem hard to believe that all must suffer to find a delicate sympathy; it can hardly be so. To be always strong, and at the same time full of warm sympathy, is possible, with more thought. When illness or adverse circumstances bring it, the gate has been opened for us.
If illness is taken as an opportunity to better health, not to more illness, our mental attitude will put complaint out of the question; and as the practice spreads it will as surely decrease the tendency to illness in others as it will shorten its duration in ourselves.
XIII.
SENTIMENT _versus_ SENTIMENTALITY.
FREEDOM from sentimentality opens the way for true sentiment.
An immense amount of time, thought, and nervous force is wasted in sentimentalizing about “being good.” With many, the amount of talk about their evils and their desire to overcome them is a thermometer which indicates about five times that amount of thought Neither the talk nor the thought is of assistance in leading to any greater strength or to a more useful life; because the talk is all talk, and the essence of both talk and thought is a selfish, morbid pleasure in dwelling upon one’s self. I remember the remark of a young girl who had been several times to prayer-meeting where she heard the same woman say every time that she “longed for the true spirit of religion in her life.” With all simplicity, this child said: “If she longs for it, why doesn’t she work and find it, instead of coming every week and telling us that she longs?” In all probability the woman returned from every prayer-meeting with the full conviction that, having told her aspirations, she had reached the height desired, and was worthy of all praise.
Prayer-meetings in the old, orthodox sense are not so numerous as they were fifty years ago; but the same morbid love of telling one’s own experiences and expressing in words one’s own desires for a better life is as common as ever.
Many who would express horror at these public forms of sentimentalizing do not hesitate to indulge in it privately to any extent. Nor do they realize for a moment that it is the same morbid spirit that moves them. It might not be so pernicious a practice if it were not so steadily weakening.
If one has a spark of real desire for better ways of living, sentimentalizing about it is a sure extinguisher if practised for any length of time.
A woman will sometimes pour forth an amount of gush about wishing to be better, broader, nobler, stronger, in a manner that would lead you, for a moment, perhaps, to believe in her sincerity. But when, in the next hour, you see her neglecting little duties that a woman who was really broad, strong, and noble would attend to as a matter of course, and not give a second thought to; when you see that although she must realize that attention to these smaller duties should come first, to open the way to her higher aspirations, she continues to neglect them and continues to aspire,–you are surely right in concluding that she is using up her nervous system in sentimentalizing about a better life; and by that means is doing all in her power to hinder the achievement of it.
It is curious and very sad to see what might be a really strong nature weakening itself steadily with this philosophy and water. Of course it reaches a maudlin state if it continues.
His Satanic Majesty must offer this dose, sweetened with the sugar of self-love, with intense satisfaction. And if we may personify that gentleman for the sake of illustration, what a fine sarcastic smile must dwell upon his countenance as he sees it swallowed and enjoyed, and knows that he did not even have to waste spice as an ingredient! The sugar would have drowned the taste of any spice he could supply.
There is not even the appearance of strength in sentimentalizing.
Besides the sentimentalizing about ourselves in our desire to live a better life, there is the same morbid practice in our love for others; and this is quite as weakening. It contains, of course, no jot of real affection. What wholesome love there is lives in spite of the sentimentalizing, and fortunately is sometimes strong enough on one side or the other to crowd it out and finally exterminate it.
It is curious to notice how often this sham sentiment for others is merely a matter of nerves. As an instance we can take an example, which is quite true, of a woman who fancied herself desperately fond of another, when, much to her surprise, an acute attack of toothache and dentist-fright put the “affection” quite out of her head. In this case the “love” was a nervous irritant, and the toothache a counter-irritant. Of course the sooner such superficial feeling is recognized and shaken off, the nearer we are to real sentiment.
“But,” some one will say, “how are we to know what is real and what is not? I would much rather live my life and get more or less unreality than have this everlasting analyzing.” There need be no abnormal analyzing; that is as morbid as the other state. Indulge to your heart’s content in whatever seems to you real, in what you believe to be wholesome sentiment. But be ready to recognize it as sham at the first hint you get to that effect, and to drop it accordingly.
A perfectly healthy body will shed germs of disease without ever feeling their presence. So a perfectly healthy mind will shed the germs of sentimentality. Few of us are so healthy in mind but that we have to recognize a germ or two and apply a disinfectant before we can reach the freedom that will enable us to shed the germs unconsciously. A good disinfectant is, to refuse to talk of our own feelings or desires or affections, unless for some end which we know may help us to more light and better strength. Talking, however, is mild in its weakening effect compared with thinking. It is better to dribble sham sentiment in words over and over than to think it, and repress the desire to talk. The only clear way is to drop it from our minds the moment it appears; to let go of it as we would loosen our fingers and drop something disagreeable from our hands.
A good amount of exercise and fresh air helps one out of sentimentalizing. This morbid mental habit is often the result of a body ill in some way or another. Frequently it is simply the effect of tired nerves. We help others and ourselves out of it more rapidly by not mentioning the sentimentalizing habit, but by taking some immediate means towards rest, fresh air, vigorous exercise, and better nourishment.
Mistakes are often made and ourselves or others kept an unnecessary length of time in mental suffering because we fail to attribute a morbid mental state to its physical cause. We blame ourselves or others for behavior that we call wicked or silly, and increase the suffering, when all that is required is a little thoughtful care of the body to cause the silly wickedness to disappear entirely.
We are supposed to be indulging in sickly sentiment when we are really suffering from sickly nerves. An open sympathy will detect this mistake very soon, and save intense suffering by an early remedy.
Sentiment is as strengthening as sentimentality is weakening. It is as strong, as clear, and as fine in flavor as the other is sickly sweet. No one who has tasted the wholesome vigor of the one could ever care again for the weakening sweetness of the other, however much he might have to suffer in getting rid of it. True sentiment seeks us; we do not seek it. It not only seeks us, it possesses us, and runs in our blood like the new life which comes from fresh air on top of a mountain. With that true sentiment we can feel a desire to know better things and to live them. We can feel a hearty love for others; and a love that is, in its essence, the strongest of all human loves. We can give and receive a healthy sympathy which we could never have known otherwise. We can enjoy talking about ourselves and about “being good,” because every word we say will be spontaneous and direct, with more thought of law than of self. This true sentiment seeks and finds us as we recognize the sham and shake it off, and as we refuse to dwell upon our actions and thoughts in the past or to look back at all except when it is a necessity to gain a better result.
We are like Orpheus, and true sentiment is our Eurydice with her touch on our shoulder; the spirits that follow are the sham-sentiments, the temptations to look back and pose. The music of our lyre is the love and thought we bring to our every-day life. Let us keep steadily on with the music, and lead our Eurydice right through Hades until we have her safely over the Lethe, and we know sentimentality only as a name.
XIV.
PROBLEMS.
THERE are very few persons who have not I had the experience of giving up a problem in mathematics late in the evening, and waking in the morning with the solution clear in their minds. That has been the experience of many, too, in real-life problems. If it were more common, a great amount of nervous strain might be saved.
There are big problems and little, real and imaginary; and some that are merely tired nerves. In problems, the useless nervous element often plays a large part. If the “problems” were dropped out of mind with sufferers from nervous prostration, their progress towards renewed health might be just twice as rapid. If they were met normally, many nervous men and women might be entirely saved from even a bowing acquaintance with nervous prostration. It is not a difficult matter, that of meeting a problem normally,–simply let it solve itself. In nine cases out of ten, if we leave it alone and live as if it were not, it will solve itself. It is at first a matter of continual surprise to see how surely this self-solution is the result of a wholesome ignoring both of little problems and big ones.
In the tenth case, where the problem must be faced at once, to face it and decide to the best of our ability is, of course, the only thing to do. But having decided, be sure that it ceases to be a problem. If we have made a mistake, it is simply a circumstance to guide us for similar problems to come.
All this is obvious; we know it, and have probably said it to ourselves dozens of times. If we are sufferers from nervous problems, we may have said it dozens upon dozens of times. The trouble is that we have said it and not acted upon it. When a problem will persist in worrying us, in pulling and dragging upon our nerves, an invitation to continue the worrying until it has worked itself out is a great help towards its solution or disappearance.
I remember once hearing a bright woman say that when there was anything difficult to decide in her life she stepped aside and let the opposing elements fight it out within her. Presumably she herself threw in a little help on one side or the other which really decided the battle. But the help was given from a clear standpoint, not from a brain entirely befogged in the thick of the fight.
Whatever form problems may take, however important they may seem, when they attack tired nerves they must be let alone. A good way is to go out into the open air and so identify one’s self with Nature that one is drawn away in spite of one’s self. A big wind will sometimes blow a brain clear of nervous problems in a very little while if we let it have its will. Another way out is to interest one’s self in some game or other amusement, or to get a healthy interest in other people’s affairs, and help where we can.
Each individual can find his own favorite escape. Of course we should never shirk a problem that must be decided, but let us always wait a reasonable time for it to decide itself first. The solving that is done for us is invariably better and clearer than any we could do for ourselves.
It will be curious, too, to see how many apparently serious problems, relieved of the importance given them by a strained nervous system, are recognized to be nothing at all. They fairly dissolve themselves and disappear.
XV.
SUMMARY.
THE line has not been clearly drawn, either in general or by individuals, between true civilization and the various perversions of the civilizing process. This is mainly because we do not fairly face the fact that the process of civilization is entirely according to Nature, and that the perversions which purport to be a direct outcome of civilization are, in point of fact, contradictions or artificialities which are simply a going-over into barbarism, just as too far east is west.
If you suggest “Nature” in habits and customs to most men nowadays, they at once interpret you to mean “beastly,” although they would never use the word.
It is natural to a beast to be beastly: he could not be anything else; and the true order of his life as a beast is to be respected. It is natural to a man to govern himself, as he possesses the power of distinguishing and choosing, With all the senses and passions much keener, and in their possibilities many degrees finer, than the beasts, he has this governing power, which makes his whole nervous system his servant just in so far as through this servant he loyally obeys his own natural laws. A man in building a bridge could never complain when he recognized that it was his obedience to the laws of mechanics which enabled him to build the bridge, and that he never could have arbitrarily arranged laws that would make the bridge stand. In the same way, one who has come to even a slight recognition of the laws that enable him to be naturally civilized and not barbarously so, steadily gains, not only a realization of the absolute futility of resisting the laws, but a growing respect and affection for them.
It is this sham civilization, this selfish refinement of barbarous propensities, this clashing of nervous systems instead of the clashing of weapons, which has been largely, if not entirely, the cause of such a variety and extent of nervous trouble throughout the so-called civilized world. It is not confined to nervous prostration; if there is a defective spot organically, an inherited tendency to weakness, the nervous irritation is almost certain to concentrate upon it instead of developing into a general nervous break-down.
With regard to a cure for all this, no superficial remedy, such as resting and feeding, is going to prove of lasting benefit; any more than a healing salve will suffice to do away with a blood disease which manifests itself by sores on the surface of the skin. No physician would for a moment inveigle himself into the belief that the use of external means alone would cure a skin disease that was caused by some internal disorder. Such skin irritation may be easily cured by the right remedy, whereas an external salve would only be a means of repression, and would result in much greater trouble subsequently.
Imagine a man superficially cured of an illness, and then exposed while yet barely convalescent to influences which produce a relapse. That is what is done in many cases when a patient is rested, and fattened like a prize pig, and then sent home into all the old conditions, with nothing to help him to elude them but a well-fed, well-rested body. That, undeniably, means a great deal for a short period; but the old conditions discover the scars of old wounds, and the process of reopening is merely a matter of time. From all sides complaints are heard of the disastrous results of civilization; while with even a slight recognition of the fact that the trouble was caused by the rudiments of barbarism, and that the higher civilization is the life which is most truly natural, remedies for our nervous disorders would be more easily found.
It is the perversions of the natural process of civilization that do the harm; just as with so-called domesticated flowers there arise coarse abnormal growths, and even diseases, which the wholesome, delicate organism of a wild flower makes impossible.
The trouble is that we do not know our own best powers at all; the way is stopped so effectually by this persistent nervous irritation. With all its superficiality, it is enough to impede the way to the clear, nervous strength which is certainly our inheritance.
After all, what has been said in the foregoing chapters is simply illustrative of a prevalent mental skin-disorder.
If the whole world were suffering from a physical cutaneous irritation, the minds of individuals would be so concentrated on their sensations that no one could know of various wonderful powers in his own body which are now taken as a matter of course. There would be self-consciousness in every physical action, because it must come through, and in spite of, external irritation. Just in so far as each individual one of us found and used the right remedy for our skin-trouble should we be free to discover physical powers that were unknown to our fellow-sufferers, and free to help them to a similar remedy when they were willing to be helped.
This mental skin-disorder is far more irritating and more destructive, and not only leads to, but actually is, in all its forms, a sort of self-consciousness through which we work with real difficulty.
To discover its shallowness and the simplicity of its cure is a boon we can hardly realize until, by steady application, we have found the relief. The discovery and cure do not lead to a millennium any more than the cure of any skin disease guarantees permanent health. For deeper personal troubles there are other remedies. Each will recognize and find his own; but freedom, through and through, can never be found, or even looked for clearly, while the irritation from the skin disease is withdrawing our attention.
“But, friends,Truth is within ourselves: it takes no riseFrom outward things; whatever you may believe,There is an inmost centre in us allWhere truth abides in fulness; and around,Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in,This perfect clear perception which is truth.A baffling and perverting carnal meshBlinds it, and makes all error; and TO KNOWRather consists in opening out a wayWhence the imprisoned splendor may escape,Than in effecting entry for a lightSupposed to be without.”
Browning’s “baffling and perverting carnal mesh” might be truly interpreted as a nervous tangle which is nothing at all except as we make it with our own perverted sight.
To help us to move a little distance from the phantom tangle, that it may disappear before our eyes, has been the aim of this book. So by curing our mental skin-disease as a matter of course, and then forgetting that it ever existed, we may come to real life. This no one can find for another, but each has within himself the way.
THE END.
selfhelpqa-blog
Nov 26, 2019
How to Succeed, or Stepping-Stones to Fame and Fortune
New Post has been published on https://selfhelpqa.com/how-to-succeed-or-stepping-stones-to-fame-and-fortune/
How to Succeed, or Stepping-Stones to Fame and Fortune
HOW TO SUCCEED
or
Stepping-Stones to Fame and Fortune
by Orison Swett Marden
CHAPTER I.
FIRST, BE A MAN.
The great need at this hour is manly men. We want nogoody-goody piety; we have too much of it. We want men who willdo right, though the heavens fall, who believe in God, and whowill confess Him.–REV. W. J. DAWSON.
All the world cries, Where is the man who will save us? We wanta man! Don’t look so far for this man. You have him at hand.This man–it is you, it is I; it is each one of us!… How toconstitute one’s self a man? Nothing harder, if one knows nothow to will it; nothing easier, if one wills it.–ALEXANDER DUMAS.
“I thank God I am a Baptist,” said a little, short Doctor of Divinity, as he mounted a step at a convention. “Louder! louder!” shouted a man in the audience; “we can’t hear.” “Get up higher,” said another. “I can’t,” replied the doctor, “to be a Baptist is as high as one can get.”
But there is something higher than being a Baptist, and that is being a _man_.
Rousseau says: “According to the order of nature, men being equal, their common vocation is the profession of humanity; and whoever is well educated to discharge the duty of a man cannot be badly prepared to fill any of those offices that have a relation to him. It matters little to me whether my pupil be designed for the army, the pulpit, or the bar. To live is the profession I would teach him. When I have done with him, it is true he will be neither a soldier, a lawyer, nor a divine. _Let him first be a man_; Fortune may remove him from one rank to another, as she pleases, he will be always found in his place.”
“First of all,” replied the boy James A. Garfield, when asked what he meant to be, “I must make myself a man; if I do not succeed in that, I can succeed in nothing.”
“Hear me, O men,” cried Diogenes, in the market place at Athens; and, when a crowd collected around him, he said scornfully, “I called for men, not pigmies.”
One great need of the world to-day is for men and women who are good animals. To endure the strain of our concentrated civilization, the coming man and woman must have an excess of animal spirits. They must have a robustness of health. Mere absence of disease is not health. It is the overflowing fountain, not the one half full, that gives life and beauty to the valley below. Only he is healthy who exults in mere animal existence; whose very life is a luxury; who feels a bounding pulse throughout his body; who feels life in every limb, as dogs do when scouring over the field, or as boys do when gliding over fields of ice.
Dispense with the doctor by being temperate; the lawyer by keeping out of debt; the demagogue, by voting for honest men; and poverty, by being industrious.
“Nephew,” said Sir Godfrey Kneller, the artist, to a Guinea slave trader, who entered the room where his uncle was talking with Alexander Pope, “you have the honor of seeing the two greatest men in the world.” “I don’t know how great men you may be,” said the Guinea man, as he looked contemptuously upon their diminutive physical proportions, “but I don’t like your looks; I have often bought a much better man than either of you, all muscles and bones, for ten guineas.”
A man is never so happy as when he suffices to himself, and can walk without crutches or a guide. Said Jean Paul Richter: “I have made as much out of myself as could be made of the stuff, and no man should require more.”
“The body of an athlete and the soul of a sage,” wrote Voltaire to Helvetius; “these are what we require to be happy.”
Although millions are out of employment in the United States, how difficult it is to find a thorough, reliable, self-dependent, industrious man or woman, young or old, for any position, whether as a domestic servant, an office boy, a teacher, a brakeman, a conductor, an engineer, a clerk, a bookkeeper, or whatever we may want. It is almost impossible to find a really _competent_ person in any department, and oftentimes we have to make many trials before we can get a position fairly well filled.
It is a superficial age; very few prepare for their work. Of thousands of young women trying to get a living at typewriting, many are so ignorant, so deficient in the common rudiments even, that they spell badly, use bad grammar, and know scarcely anything of punctuation. In fact, they murder the English language. They can copy, “parrot like,” and that is about all.
The same superficiality is found in nearly all kinds of business. It is next to impossible to get a first-class mechanic; he has not learned his trade; he has picked it up, and botches everything he touches, spoiling good material and wasting valuable time.
In the professions, it is true, we find greater skill and faithfulness, but usually they have been developed at the expense of mental and moral breadth.
The merely professional man is narrow; worse than that, he is in a sense an artificial man, a creature of technicalities and specialties, removed alike from the broad truth of nature and from the healthy influence of human converse. In society, the most accomplished man of mere professional skill is often a nullity; he has sunk his personality in his dexterity.
“The aim of every man,” said Humboldt, “should be to secure the highest and most harmonious development of his powers to a complete and consistent whole.”
Some men impress us as immense possibilities. They seem to have a sweep of intellect that is grand; a penetrative power that is phenomenal; they seem to know everything, to have read everything, to have seen everything. Nothing seems to escape the keenness of their vision. But somehow they are forever disappointing our expectations. They raise great hopes only to dash them. They are men of great promise, but they never pay. There is some indefinable want in their make-up.
What the world needs is a clergyman who is broader than his pulpit, who does not look upon humanity with a white neckcloth ideal, and who would give the lie to the saying that the human race is divided into three classes: men, women and ministers. Wanted, a clergyman who does not look upon his congregation from the standpoint of old theological books, and dusty, cobweb creeds, but who sees the merchant as in his store, the clerk as making sales, the lawyer pleading before the jury, the physician standing over the sick bed; in other words, who looks upon the great throbbing, stirring, pulsing, competing, scheming, ambitious, impulsive, tempted, mass of humanity as one of their number, who can live with them, see with their eyes, hear with their ears, and experience their sensations.
The world has a standing advertisement over the door of every profession, every occupation, every calling: “Wanted–A Man.”
Wanted, a lawyer, who has not become the victim of his specialty, a mere walking bundle of precedents.
Wanted, a shopkeeper who does not discuss markets wherever he goes. A man should be so much larger than his calling, so broad and symmetrical in his culture, that he would not talk shop in society, that no one would suspect how he gets his living.
Nothing is more apparent in this age of specialties than the dwarfing, crippling, mutilating influence of occupations or professions. Specialties facilitate commerce, and promote efficiency in the professions, but are often narrowing to individuals. The spirit of the age tends to doom the lawyer to a narrow life of practice, the business man to a mere money-making career.
Think of a man, the grandest of God’s creations, spending his life-time standing beside a machine for making screws. There is nothing to call out his individuality, his ingenuity, his powers of balancing, judging, deciding.
He stands there year after year, until he seems but a piece of mechanism. His powers, from lack of use, dwindle to mediocrity, to inferiority, until finally he becomes a mere part of the machine he tends.
Wanted, a man who will not lose his individuality in a crowd, a man who has the courage of his convictions, who is not afraid to say “No,” though all the world say “Yes.”
Wanted, a man who, though he is dominated by a mighty purpose, will not permit one great faculty to dwarf, cripple, warp, or mutilate his manhood; who will not allow the over-development of one faculty to stunt or paralyze his other faculties.
Wanted, a man who is larger than his calling, who considers it a low estimate of his occupation to value it merely as a means of getting a living. Wanted, a man who sees self-development, education and culture, discipline and drill, character and manhood, in his occupation.
As Nature tries every way to induce us to obey her laws by rewarding their observance with health, pleasure and happiness, and punishes their violation by pain and disease, so she resorts to every means to induce us to expand and develop the great possibilities she has implanted within us. She nerves us to the struggle, beneath which all great blessings are buried, and beguiles the tedious marches by holding up before us glittering prizes, which we may almost touch, but never quite possess. She covers up her ends of discipline by trial, of character building through suffering by throwing a splendor and glamour over the future; lest the hard, dry facts of the present dishearten us, and she fail in her great purpose. How else could Nature call the youth away from all the charms that hang around young life, but by presenting to his imagination pictures of future bliss and greatness which will haunt his dreams until he resolves to make them real. As a mother teaches her babe to walk, by holding up a toy at a distance, not that the child may reach the toy, but that it may develop its muscles and strength, compared with which the toys are mere baubles; so Nature goes before us through life, tempting us with higher and higher toys, but ever with one object in view–the development of the man.
In every great painting of the masters there is one idea or figure which stands out boldly beyond everything else. Every other idea or figure on the canvas is subordinate to this idea or figure, and finds its real significance not in itself, but, pointing to the central idea, finds its true expression there. So in the vast universe of God, every object of creation is but a guide-board with an index finger pointing to the central figure of the created universe–Man. Nature writes this thought upon every leaf; she thunders it in every creation; it exhales from every flower; it twinkles in every star.
Open thy bosom, set thy wishes wide,And let in manhood–let in happiness;Admit the boundless theatre of thoughtFrom nothing up to God … which makes a man!–YOUNG.
CHAPTER II.
SEIZE YOUR OPPORTUNITY.
“The blowing winds are but our servantsWhen we hoist a sail.”
You must come to know that each admirable genius is but asuccessful diver in that sea whose floor of pearls is all yourown.–EMERSON.
Who waits until the wind shall silent keep,Who never finds the ready hour to sow,Who watcheth clouds, will have no time to reap.–HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
The secret of success in life is for a man _to be ready for hisopportunity_ when it comes.–DISRAELI.
Do the best you can where you are; and, when that isaccomplished, God will open a door for you, and a voice willcall, “Come up hither into a higher sphere.”–BEECHER.
Our grand business is, not to see what lies dimly at adistance, but to do what lies clearly at hand.–CARLYLE.
“When I was a boy,” said General Grant, “my mother one morning found herself without butter for breakfast, and sent me to borrow some from a neighbor. Going into the house without knocking, I overheard a letter read from the son of a neighbor, who was then at West Point, stating that he had failed in examination and was coming home. I got the butter, took it home, and, without waiting for breakfast ran to the office of the congressman for our district. ‘Mr. Hamer,’ I said, ‘will you appoint me to West Point?’ ‘No, —- is there, and has three years to serve.’ ‘But suppose he should fail, will you send me?’ Mr. Hamer laughed. ‘If he don’t go through, no use for you to try, Uly.’ ‘Promise me you will give me the chance, Mr. Hamer, anyhow.’ Mr. Hamer promised. The next day the defeated lad came home, and the congressman, laughing at my sharpness, gave me the appointment. Now,” said Grant, “it was my mother’s being without butter that made me general and president.” But he was mistaken. It was his own shrewdness to see the chance, and the promptness to seize it, that urged him upward.
“There is nobody,” says a Roman Cardinal, “whom Fortune does not visit once in his life; but when she finds he is not ready to receive her, she goes in at the door, and out through the window.” Opportunity is coy. The careless, the slow, the unobservant, the lazy fail to see it, or clutch at it when it has gone. The sharp fellows detect it instantly, and catch it when on the wing.
The utmost which can be said about the matter is, that circumstances will, and do combine to help men at some periods of their lives, and combine to thwart them at others. Thus much we freely admit; but there is no fatality in these combinations, neither any such thing as “luck” or “chance,” as commonly understood. They come and go like all other opportunities and occasions in life, and if they are seized upon and made the most of, the man whom they benefit is fortunate; but if they are neglected and allowed to pass by unimproved, he is unfortunate.
“Charley,” says Moses H. Grinnell to a clerk born in New York City, “take my overcoat tip to my house on Fifth Avenue.” Mr. Charley takes the coat, mutters something about “I’m not an errand boy. I came here to learn business,” and moves reluctantly. Mr. Grinnell sees it, and at the same time one of his New England clerks says, “I’ll take it up.” “That is right, do so,” says Mr. G., and to himself he says, “that boy is smart, he will work,” and he gives him plenty to do. He gets promoted, gets the confidence of business men as well as of his employers, and is soon known as a successful man.
The youth who starts out in life determined to make the most of his eyes and let nothing escape him which he can possibly use for his own advancement, who keeps his ears open for every sound that can help him on his way, who keeps his hands open that he may clutch every opportunity, who is ever on the alert for everything which can help him to get on in the world, who seizes every experience in life and grinds it up into paint for his great life’s picture, who keeps his heart open that he may catch every noble impulse and everything which may inspire him, will be sure to live a successful life; there are no ifs or ands about it. If he has his health, nothing can keep him from success.
_Zion’s Herald_ says that Isaac Rich, who gave one million and three quarters to found Boston University of the Methodist Episcopal Church, began business thus: at eighteen he went from Cape Cod to Boston with three or four dollars in his possession, and looked about for something to do, rising early, walking far, observing closely, reflecting much. Soon he had an idea: he bought three bushels of oysters, hired a wheelbarrow, found a piece of board, bought six small plates, six iron forks, a three-cent pepper-box, and one or two other things. He was at the oyster-boat buying his oysters at three o’clock in the morning, wheeled them three miles, set up his board near a market, and began business. He sold out his oysters as fast as he could get them, at a good profit. In that same market he continued to deal in oysters and fish for forty years, became king of the business, and ended by founding a college. His success was won by industry and honesty.
“Give me a chance,” says Haliburton’s Stupid, “and I will show you.” But most likely he has had his chance already and neglected it.
“Well, boys,” said Mr. A., a New York merchant, to his four clerks one winter morning in 1815, “this is good news. Peace has been declared. Now _we_ must be up and doing. We shall have our hands full, but we can do as much as anybody.”
He was owner and part owner of several ships lying dismantled during the war, three miles up the river, which was covered with ice an inch thick. He knew that it would be a month before the ice yielded for the season, and that thus the merchants in other towns where the harbors were open, would have time to be in the foreign markets before him. His decision therefore was instantly taken.
“Reuben,” he continued, addressing one of his clerks, “go and collect as many laborers as possible to go up the river. Charles, do you find Mr.—-, the rigger, and Mr.—-, the sailmaker, and tell them I want them immediately. John, engage half-a-dozen truckmen for to-day and to-morrow. Stephen, do you hunt up as many gravers and caulkers as you can, and hire them to work for me.” And Mr. A. himself sallied forth to provide the necessary implements for icebreaking. Before twelve o’clock that day, upward of an hundred men were three miles up the river, clearing the ships and cutting away ice, which they sawed out in large squares, and then thrust under the main mass to open up the channel. The roofing over the ships was torn off, and the clatter of the caulkers’ mallets was like to the rattling of a hail-storm, loads of rigging were passed up on the ice, riggers went to and fro with belt and knife, sailmakers busily plied their needles, and the whole presented an unusual scene of stir and activity and well-directed labor. Before night the ships were afloat, and moved some distance down the channel; and by the time they had reached the wharf, namely, in some eight or ten days, their rigging and spars were aloft, their upper timbers caulked, and everything ready for them to go to sea.
Thus Mr. A. competed on equal terms with the merchants of open seaports. Large and quick gains rewarded his enterprise, and then his neighbors spoke depreciatingly of his “good luck.” But, as the writer from whom we get the story says, Mr. A. was equal to his opportunity, and this was the secret of his good fortune.
A Baltimore lady lost a valuable diamond bracelet at a ball, and supposed it was stolen from the pocket of her cloak. Years afterward, she walked the streets near the Peabody Institute to get money to purchase food. She cut up an old, worn out, ragged cloak to make a hood of, when lo! in the lining of the cloak, she discovered the diamond bracelet. During all her poverty she was worth thirty-five hundred dollars, but did not know it.
Many of us who think we are poor are rich in opportunities if we could only see them, in possibilities all about us, in faculties worth more than diamond bracelets, in power to do good.
In our large eastern cities it has been found that at least ninety-four out of every hundred found their first fortune at home, or near at hand, and in meeting common everyday wants. It is a sorry day for a young man who cannot see any opportunities where he is, but thinks he can do better somewhere else. Several Brazilian shepherds organized a party to go to California to dig gold, and took along a handful of clear pebbles to play checkers with on the voyage. They discovered after arriving at Sacramento, after they had thrown most of the pebbles away, that they were all diamonds. They returned to Brazil only to find that the mines had been taken up by others and sold to the government.
The richest gold and silver mine in Nevada was sold for forty-two dollars by the owner, to get money to pay his passage to other mines where he thought he could get rich.
Professor Agassiz told the Harvard students of a farmer who owned a farm of hundreds of acres of unprofitable woods and rocks, and concluded to sell out and try some more remunerative business.
He studied coal measures and coal oil deposits, and experimented for a long time. He sold his farm for two hundred dollars and went into the oil business two hundred miles away. Only a short time afterward the man who bought the farm discovered a great flood of coal oil, which the farmer had ignorantly tried to drain off.
A man was once sitting in an uncomfortable chair in Boston talking with a friend as to what he could do to help mankind. “I should think it would be a good thing,” said the friend, “to begin by getting up an easier and cheaper chair.”
“I will do it,” he exclaimed, leaping up and examining the chair. He found a great deal of rattan thrown away by the East India merchant ships, whose cargoes were wrapped in it. He began the manufacture of rattan chairs and other furniture, and has astonished the world by what he has done with what was before thrown away. While this man was dreaming about some far off success, he at that very time had fortune awaiting only his ingenuity and industry.
If you want to get rich, study yourself and your own wants. You will find millions of others have the same wants, the same demands. The safest business is always connected with men’s prime necessities. They must have clothing, dwellings; they must eat. They want comforts, facilities of all kinds, for use and pleasure, luxury, education, culture. Any man who can supply a great want of humanity, improve any methods which men use, supply any demand or contribute in any way to their well-being, can make a fortune.
But it is detrimental to the highest success to undertake anything merely because it is profitable. If the vocation does not supply a human want, if it is not healthful, if it is degrading, if it is narrowing, don’t touch it.
A selfish vocation never pays. If it belittles the manhood, blights the affections, dwarfs the mental life, chills the charities and shrivels the soul, don’t touch it. Choose that occupation, if possible, which will be the most helpful to the largest number.
It is estimated that five out of every seven of the millionaire manufacturers began by making with their own hands the articles on which they made their fortune.
One of the greatest hindrances to advancement and promotion in life is the lack of observation and the disinclination to take pains. A keen, cultivated observation will see a fortune where others see only poverty. An observing man, the eyelets of whose shoes pulled out, but who could ill afford to get another pair, said to himself, “I will make a metallic lacing hook, which can be riveted into the leather.” He succeeded in doing so and now he is a very rich man.
An observing barber in Newark, N. J., thought he could make an improvement on shears for cutting hair, and invented “clippers” and became very rich. A Maine man was called from the hayfield to wash out the clothes for his invalid wife. He had never realized what it was to wash before. He invented the washing-machine and made a fortune. A man who was suffering terribly with toothache, said to himself, “There must be some way of filling teeth to prevent them aching;” he invented gold filling for teeth.
The great things of the world have not been done by men of large means. Want has been the great schoolmaster of the race: necessity has been the mother of all great inventions. Ericsson began the construction of a screw-propeller in a bath-room. John Harrison, the great inventor of the marine chronometer, began his career in the loft of an old barn. Parts of the first steamboat ever run in America were set up in the vestry of an old church in Philadelphia by Fitch. McCormick began to make his famous reaper in an old grist-mill. The first model dry-dock was made in an attic. Clark, the founder of Clark University of Worcester, Mass., began his great fortune by making toy wagons in a horse-shed.
Opportunities? They crowd around us. Forces of nature plead to be used in the service of man, as lightning for ages tried to attract his attention to electricity, which would do his drudgery and leave him to develop the God-given powers within him.
There is power lying latent everywhere, waiting for the observant eye to discover it.
First find out what the people need and then supply that want. An invention to make the smoke go the wrong way in a chimney might be a very ingenious thing, but it would be of no use to humanity. The patent office at Washington is full of wonderful devices, ingenious mechanism; not one in hundreds is of earthly use to the inventor or to the world, and yet how many families have been impoverished and have struggled for years mid want and woe, while the father has been working on useless inventions. These men did not study the wants of humanity. A. T. Stewart, as a boy, lost eighty-seven cents when his capital was one dollar and a half, in buying buttons and thread which people would not purchase. After that he made it a rule never to buy anything which people did not want.
The first thing a youth, entering the city to make his home there, needs to do is to make himself a necessity to the person who employs him, according to the Boston _Herald_. Whatever he may have been at home, it counts for nothing until he has done something that makes known the quality of the stuff that is in him. If he shirks work, however humble it may be, the work will soon be inclined to shirk him. But the youth who comes into a city to make his way in the world, and is not afraid of doing his best whether he is paid for it or not, is not long in finding remunerative employment. The people who seem so indifferent to employing young people from the country are eagerly watching for the newcomers, but they look for qualities of character and service in actual work before they manifest confidence or give recognition. It is the youth who is deserving that wins his way to the front, and when once he has been tested his promotion is only a question of time. It is the same with young women. There are seemingly no places for them where they can earn a decent living, but the moment they fill their places worthily there is room enough for them, and progress is rapid. What the city people desire most is to find those who have ability to take important places, and the question of gaining a position in the city resolves itself at once into the question of what the young persons have brought with them from home. It is the staying qualities that have been in-wrought from childhood which are now in requisition, and the success of the boy or girl is determined by the amount of energetic character that has been developed in the early years at home. Take up the experience of every man or woman who has made a mark in the city for the last hundred years, and it has been the sterling qualities of the home training that have constituted the success of later years.
Don’t think you have no chance in life because you have no capital to begin with. Most of the rich men of to-day began poor. The chances are you would be ruined if you had capital. You can only use to advantage what has become a part of yourself by your earning it. It is estimated that not one rich man’s son in ten thousand dies rich. God has given every man a capital to start with; we are born rich. He is rich who has good health, a sound body, good muscles; he is rich who has a good head, a good disposition, a good heart; he is rich who has two good hands, with five chances on each. Equipped? Every man is equipped as only God could equip him. What a fortune he possesses in the marvelous mechanism of his body and mind. It is individual effort that has accomplished everything worth accomplishing in this world. Money to start with is only a crutch, which, if any misfortune knocks it from under you, would only make your fall all the more certain.
CHAPTER III.
HOW DID HE BEGIN?
There can be no doubt that the captains of industry to-day,using that term in its broadest sense, are men who began lifeas poor boys.–SETH LOW.
Poverty is very terrible, and sometimes kills the very soulwithin us, but it is the north wind that lashes men intoVikings; it is the soft, luscious south wind which lulls themto lotus dreams.–OUIDA.
‘Tis a common proof,That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder–SHAKESPEARE.
“Fifty years ago,” said Hezekiah Conant, the millionaire manufacturer and philanthropist of Pawtucket, R. I., “I persuaded my father to let me leave my home in Dudley, Mass., and strike out for myself. So one morning in May, 1845, the old farm horse and wagon was hitched up, and, dressed in our Sunday clothes, father and I started for Worcester. Our object was to get me the situation offered by an advertisement in the Worcester County _Gazette_ as follows:
BOY WANTED.
WANTED IMMEDIATELY.–At the _Gazette_ Office, a well disposedboy, able to do heavy rolling. Worcester, May 7.
“The financial inducements were thirty dollars the first year, thirty-five the next, and forty dollars the third year and board in the employer’s family. These conditions were accepted, and I began work the next day. The _Gazette_ was an ordinary four-page sheet. I soon learned what ‘heavy rolling’ meant for the paper was printed on a ‘Washington’ hand-press, the edition of about 2000 copies requiring two laborious intervals of about ten hours each, every week. The printing of the outside was generally done Friday and kept me very busy all day. The inside went to press about three or four o’clock Tuesday afternoon, and it was after three o’clock on Wednesday morning before I could go to bed, tired and lame from the heavy rolling. In addition, I also had the laborious task of carrying a quantity of water from the pump behind the block around to the entrance in front, and then up two flights of stairs, usually a daily job. I was at first everybody’s servant. I was abused, called all sorts of nicknames, had to sweep out the office, build fires in winter, run errands, post bills, carry papers, wait on the editor, in fact I led the life of a genuine printer’s devil; but when I showed them at length that I had learned to set type and run the press, I got promoted, and another boy was hired to succeed to my task, with all its decorations. That was my first success, and from that day to this I have never asked anybody to get me a job or situation, and never used a letter of recommendation; but when an important job was in prospect the proposed employers were given all facilities to learn of my abilities and character. If some young men are easily discouraged, I hope they may gain encouragement and strength from my story. It is a long, rough road at first, but, like the ship on the ocean, you must lay your course for the place where you hope to land, and take advantage of all favoring circumstances.”
“Don’t go about the town any longer in that outlandish rig. Let me give you an order on the store. Dress up a little, Horace.” Horace Greeley looked down on his clothes as if he had never before noticed how seedy they were, and replied: “You see, Mr. Sterrett, my father is on a new place, and I want to help him all I can.” He had spent but six dollars for personal expenses in seven months, and was to receive one hundred and thirty-five from Judge J. M. Sterrett of the Erie _Gazette_ for substitute work. He retained but fifteen dollars and gave the rest to his father, with whom he had moved from Vermont to Western Pennsylvania, and for whom he had camped out many a night to guard the sheep from wolves. He was nearly twenty-one; and, although tall and gawky, with tow-colored hair, a pale face and whining voice, he resolved to seek his fortune in New York City. Slinging his bundle of clothes on a stick over his shoulder, he walked sixty miles through the woods to Buffalo, rode on a canal boat to Albany, descended the Hudson in a barge, and reached New York, just as the sun was rising, August 18, 1831.
For days Horace wandered up and down the streets, going into scores of buildings and asking if they wanted “a hand;” but “no” was the invariable reply. His quaint appearance led many to think he was an escaped apprentice. One Sunday at his boarding-place he heard that printers were wanted at “West’s Printing-office.” He was at the door at five o’clock Monday morning, and asked the foreman for a job at seven. The latter had no idea that the country greenhorn could set type for the Polyglot Testament on which help was needed, but said: “Fix up a case for him and we’ll see if he _can_ do anything.” When the proprietor came in, he objected to the newcomer and told the foreman to let him go when his first day’s work was done. That night Horace showed a proof of the largest and most correct day’s work that had then been done. In ten years Horace was a partner in a small printing-office. He founded the _New Yorker_, the best weekly paper in the United States, but it was not profitable. When Harrison was nominated for President in 1840, Greeley started _The Log Cabin_, which reached the then fabulous circulation of ninety thousand. But on this paper at a penny a copy, he made no money. His next venture was the New York _Tribune_, price one cent. To start it he borrowed a thousand dollars and printed five thousand copies of the first number. It was difficult to give them all away. He began with six hundred subscribers, and increased the list to eleven thousand in six weeks. The demand for the _Tribune_ grew faster than new machinery could be obtained to print it. It was a paper whose editor always tried to be _right_.
At the World’s Fair in New York in 1853 President Pierce might have been seen watching a young man exhibiting a patent rat trap. He was attracted by the enthusiasm and diligence of the young man, but never dreamed that he would become one of the richest men in the world. It seemed like small business for Jay Gould to be exhibiting a rat trap, but he did it well and with enthusiasm. In fact he was bound to do it as well as it could be done. Young Gould supported himself by odd jobs at surveying, paying his way by erecting sundials for farmers at a dollar apiece, frequently taking his pay in board. Thus he laid the foundation for the business career in which he became so rich.
Fred. Douglass started in life with less than nothing, for he did not own his own body, and he was pledged before his birth to pay his master’s debts. To reach the starting-point of the poorest white boy, he had to climb as far as the distance which the latter must ascend if he would become President of the United States. He saw his mother but two or three times, and then in the night, when she would walk twelve miles to be with him an hour, returning in time to go into the field at dawn. He had no chance to study, for he had no teacher, and the rules of the plantation forbade slaves to learn to read and write. But somehow, unnoticed by his master, he managed to learn the alphabet from scraps of paper and patent medicine almanacs, and no limits could then be placed to his career. He put to shame thousands of white boys. He fled from slavery at twenty-one, went North and worked as a stevedore in New York and New Bedford. At Nantucket he was given an opportunity to speak in an anti-slavery meeting, and made so favorable an impression that he was made agent of the Anti-Slavery Society of Massachusetts. While traveling from place to place to lecture, he would study with all his might. He was sent to Europe to lecture, and won the friendship of several Englishmen, who gave him $750, with which he purchased his freedom. He edited a paper in Rochester, N. Y., and afterward conducted the _New Era_ in Washington. For several years he was Marshal of the District of Columbia. He became the first colored man in the United States, the peer of any man in the country, and died honored by all in 1895.
“What has been done can be done again,” said the boy with no chance who became Lord Beaconsfield, England’s great prime minister. “I am not a slave, I am not a captive, and by energy I can overcome greater obstacles.” Jewish blood flowed in his veins, and everything seemed against him, but he remembered the example of Joseph, who became prime minister of Egypt four thousand years before, and that of Daniel, who was prime minister to the greatest despot of the world five centuries before the birth of Christ. He pushed his way up through the lower classes, up through the middle classes, up through the upper classes, until he stood a master, self-poised upon the topmost round of political and social power. Rebuffed, scorned, ridiculed, hissed down in the House of Commons, he simply said, “The time will come when you shall hear me.” The time did come, and the boy with no chance but a determined will, swayed the sceptre of England for a quarter of a century.
“I learned grammar when I was a private soldier on the pay of sixpence a day,” said William Cobbett. “The edge of my berth, or that of the guard-bed, was my seat to study in; my knapsack was my bookcase; a bit of board lying on my lap was my writing table, and the task did not demand anything like a year of my life. I had no money to purchase candles or oil; in winter it was rarely that I could get any evening light but that of the fire, and only my turn, even of that. To buy a pen or a sheet of paper I was compelled to forego some portion of my food, though in a state of half starvation. I had no moment of time that I could call my own, and I had to read and write amidst the talking, laughing, singing, whistling, and bawling of at least half a score of the most thoughtless of men, and that, too, in the hours of their freedom from all control. Think not lightly of the _farthing_ I had to give, now and then, for pen, ink, or paper. That farthing was, alas! a great sum to me. I was as tall as I am now, and I had great health and great exercise. The whole of the money not expended for us at market was _twopence a week_ for each man. I remember, and well I may! that upon one occasion I had, after all absolutely necessary expenses, on a Friday, made shift to have a half-penny in reserve, which I had destined for the purchase of a red herring in the morning, but when I pulled off my clothes at night, so hungry then as to be hardly able to endure life, I found that I had lost my half-penny. I buried my head under the miserable sheet and rug, and cried like a child.
“If I, under such circumstances, could encounter and overcome this task,” he added, “is there, can there be in the world, a youth to find any excuse for its non-performance?”
“I have talked with great men,” Lincoln told his fellow-clerk and friend, Greene, according to _McClure’s Magazine_, “and I do not see how they differ from others.”
He made up his mind to put himself before the public, and talked of his plans to his friends. In order to keep in practice in speaking he walked seven or eight miles to debating clubs. “Practicing polemics,” was what he called the exercise.
He seems now for the first time to have begun to study subjects. Grammar was what he chose. He sought Mentor Graham, the schoolmaster, and asked his advice.
“If you are going before the public,” Mr. Graham told him, “you ought to do it.”
But where could he get a grammar? There was but one in the neighborhood, Mr. Graham said, and that was six miles away.
Without waiting for more information the young man rose from the breakfast-table, walked immediately to the place, borrowed this rare copy of Kirkham’s Grammar, and before night was deep in its mysteries. From that time on for weeks he gave every moment of his leisure to mastering the contents of the book. Frequently he asked his friend Greene to “hold the book” while he recited, and when puzzled by a point he would consult Mr. Graham.
Lincoln’s eagerness to learn was such that the whole neighborhood became interested. The Greenes lent him books, the schoolmaster kept him in mind and helped him as he could, and even the village cooper let him come into his shop and keep up a fire of shavings sufficiently bright to read by at night. It was not long before the grammar was mastered.
“Well,” Lincoln said to his fellow-clerk, Greene, “if that’s what they call science, I think I’ll go at another.”
He had made another discovery–that he could conquer subjects.
The poor and friendless lad, George Peabody, weary, footsore and hungry, called at a tavern in Concord, N. H., and asked to be allowed to saw wood for lodging and breakfast. Half a century later he called there again, but then George Peabody was one of the greatest millionaire bankers of the world. Bishop Fowler says: “It is one of the greatest encouragements of our age, that ordinary men with extraordinary industry reach the highest stations.”
Greeley’s father, because the boy tried to yoke the off ox on the near side, said: “Ah! that boy will never get along in the world. He’ll never know enough to come in when it rains.”
He was too poor to wear stockings. But Horace persevered, and became one of the greatest editors of his century.
Handel’s father hated music, and would not allow a musical instrument in the house; but the boy with an aim secured a little spinet, hid it in the attic, where he practiced every minute he could steal without detection, until he surprised the great players and composers of Europe by his wonderful knowledge of music. He was very practical in his work, and studied the taste and sensitiveness of audiences until he knew exactly what they wanted; then he would compose something to supply the demand. He analyzed the effect of sounds and combinations of sounds upon the senses, and wrote directly to human needs. His greatest work, “The Messiah,” was composed in Dublin for the benefit of poor debtors who were imprisoned there. The influence of this masterpiece was tremendous. It was said it out-preached the preacher, out-prayed prayers, reformed the wayward, softened stony hearts, as it told the wonderful story of redemption, in sound.
A. T. Stewart began life as a teacher in New York at $300 a year. He soon resigned and began that career as a merchant in which he achieved a success almost without precedent. Honesty, one price, cash on delivery, and business on business principles were his invariable rules. Absolute regularity and system reigned in every department. In fifty years he made a fortune of from thirty to forty million dollars. He was nominated as Secretary of the Treasury in 1869, but it was found that the law forbids a merchant to occupy that position. He offered to resign, or to give the entire profits of his business to the poor of New York as long as he should remain in office. President Grant declined to accept such an offer.
Poor Kepler struggled with constant anxieties, and told fortunes by astrology for a livelihood, saying that astrology as the daughter of astronomy ought to keep her mother; but fancy a man of science wasting precious time over horoscopes. “I supplicate you,” he writes to Moestlin, “if there is a situation vacant at Tübingen, do what you can to obtain it for me, and let me know the prices of bread and wine and other necessaries of life, for my wife is not accustomed to live on beans.” He had to accept all sorts of jobs; he made almanacs, and served anyone who would pay him.
Who could have predicted that the modest, gentle boy, Raphael, without either riches or noted family, would have worked his way to such renown, or that one of his pictures, but sixty-six and three-quarter inches square (the Mother of Jesus), would be sold to the Empress of Russia, for $66,000? His Ansedei Madonna, was bought by the National Gallery for $350,000. Think of Michael Angelo working for six florins a month, and eighteen years on St. Peter’s for nothing!
Dr. Johnson was so afflicted with king’s-evil that he lost the use of one eye. The youth could not even engage in the pastimes of his mates, as he could not see the gutter without bending his head down near the street. He read and studied terribly. Finally a friend offered to send him to Oxford, but he failed to keep his promise, and the boy had to leave. He returned home, and soon afterward his father died insolvent. He conquered adverse fortune and bodily infirmities with the fortitude of a true hero.
Ichabod Washburn, a poor boy born near Plymouth Rock, was apprenticed to a blacksmith in Worcester, Mass., and was so bashful that he scarcely dared to eat in the presence of others; but he determined that he would make the best wire in the world, and would contrive ways and means to manufacture it in enormous quantities. At that time there was no good wire made in the United States. One house in England had the monopoly of making steel wire for pianos for more than a century. Young Washburn, however, had grit, and was bound to succeed. His wire became the standard everywhere. At one time he made 250,000 yards of iron wire daily, consuming twelve tons of metal, and requiring the services of seven hundred men. He amassed an immense fortune, of which he gave away a large part during his life, and bequeathed the balance to charitable institutions.
John Jacob Astor left home at seventeen to acquire a fortune. His capital consisted of two dollars, and three resolutions,–to be honest, to be industrious and not to gamble. Two years later he reached New York, and began work in a fur store at two dollars a week and his board. Soon learning the details of the business, he began operations on his own account. By giving personal attention to every purchase and sale, roaming the woods to trade with the Indians, or crossing the Atlantic to sell his furs at a great profit in England, he soon became the leading fur dealer in the United States. His idea of what constitutes a fortune expanded faster than his acquisitions. At fifty he owned millions; at sixty his millions owned him. He invested in land, becoming in time the richest owner of real estate in America. Generous to his family, he seldom gave much for charity. He once subscribed fifty dollars for some benevolent purpose, when one of the committee of solicitation said, “We did hope for more, Mr. Astor. Your son gave us a hundred dollars.” “Ah!” chuckled the rich furrier, “William has a rich father. Mine was poor.”
Elihu Burritt wrote in a diary kept at Worcester, whither he went to enjoy its library privileges, such entries as these: “Monday, June 18, headache, 40 pages Cuvier’s ‘Theory of the Earth,’ 64 pages of French, 11 hours’ forging. Tuesday, June 19, 60 lines Hebrew, 30 Danish, 10 lines Bohemian, 9 lines Polish, 15 names of stars, 10 hours’ forging. Wednesday, June 20, 25 lines Hebrew, 8 lines Syriac, 11 hours’ forging.” He mastered eighteen languages and thirty-two dialects. He became eminent as the “Learned Blacksmith,” and for his noble work in the service of humanity. Edward Everett said of the manner in which this boy with no chance acquired great learning: “It is enough to make one who has good opportunities for education hang his head in shame.”
“I was born in poverty,” said Vice-President Henry Wilson. “Want sat by my cradle. I know what it is to ask a mother for bread when she has none to give. I left my home at ten years of age, and served an apprenticeship of eleven years, receiving a month’s schooling each year, and, at the end of eleven years of hard work, a yoke of oxen and six sheep, which brought me eighty-four dollars. I never spent the sum of one dollar for pleasure, counting every penny from the time I was born till I was twenty-one years of age. I know what it is to travel weary miles and ask my fellow-men to give me leave to toil. * * * In the first month after I was twenty-one years of age, I went into the woods, drove a team, and cut mill-logs. I rose in the morning before daylight and worked hard till after dark, and received the magnificent sum of six dollars for the month’s work! Each of these dollars looked as large to me as the moon looks to-night.”
“Many a farmer’s son,” says Thurlow Weed, “has found the best opportunities for mental improvement in his intervals of leisure while tending ‘sap-bush.’ Such, at any rate, was my own experience. At night you had only to feed the kettles and keep up the fires, the sap having been gathered and the wood cut before dark. During the day we would always lay in a good stock of ‘fat-pine’ by the light of which, blazing bright before the sugar-house, in the posture the serpent was condemned to assume, as a penalty for tempting our first grandmother, I passed many a delightful night in reading. I remember in this way to have read a history of the French Revolution, and to have obtained from it a better and more enduring knowledge of its events and horrors and of the actors in that great national tragedy, than I have received from all subsequent reading. I remember also how happy I was in being able to borrow the books of a Mr. Keyes after a two-mile tramp through the snow, shoeless, my feet swaddled in remnants of rag carpet.”
“That fellow will beat us all some day,” said a merchant, speaking of John Wanamaker and his close attention to his work. What a prediction to make of a young man who started business with a little clothing in a hand cart in the streets of Philadelphia. But this youth had _the indomitable spirit of a conqueror in him_, and you could not keep him down. General Grant said to George W. Childs, “Mr. Wanamaker could command an army.” His great energy, method, industry, economy, and high moral principle, attracted President Harrison, who appointed him Postmaster-General.
Jacques Aristide Boucicault began his business life as an employé in a dry goods house in a small provincial town in France. After a few years he went to Paris, where he prospered so rapidly that in 1853 he became a partner and later the sole proprietor of the Bon Marché, then only a small shop, which became under his direction the most unique establishment in the world. His idea was to establish a combined philanthropic and commercial house on a large scale. Every one who worked for him was advanced progressively, according to his length of employment and the value of the services he rendered. He furnished free tuition, free medical attendance, and a free library for employés; a provident fund affording a small capital for males and a marriage portion for females at the expiration of ten or fifteen years of service; a free reading room for the public; and a free art gallery for artists to exhibit their paintings or sculptures. After his sudden death in 1877, his only son carried forward his father’s projects until he, too, died in 1879, when his widow, Marguerite Guerin, continued and extended his business and beneficent plans until her death in 1887. So well did this family lay the foundations of a building covering 108,000 square feet, with many accessory buildings of smaller size, and of a business employing 3600 persons with sales amounting to nearly $20,000,000 annually, that every department is still conducted with all its former success in accordance with the instructions of the founders. They are here no longer in their bodily presence, but their spirit, their ideas, still pervade the vast establishment. Everything is still sold at a small profit and at a price plainly marked, and any article which may have ceased to please the purchaser can, without the slightest difficulty, be exchanged or its value refunded.
When James Gordon Bennett was forty years old, he collected all his property, three hundred dollars, and in a cellar with a board upon two barrels for a desk, himself his own type setter, office boy, publisher, newsboy, clerk, editor, proof-reader and printer’s devil, he started the New York _Herald_. In all his literary work up to this time he had tried to imitate Franklin’s style; and, as is the fate of all imitators, he utterly failed.
He lost twenty years of his life trying to be somebody else. He first showed the material he was made of in the “Salutatory,” of the _Herald_, viz., “Our only guide shall be good, sound and practical common-sense applicable to the business and bosoms of men engaged in everyday life. We shall support no party, be the organ of no faction or coterie, and care nothing for any election or any candidate from President down to constable. We shall endeavor to record facts upon every public and proper subject stripped of verbiage and coloring, with comments when suitable, just, independent, fearless and good-tempered.”
Joseph Hunter was a carpenter, Robert Burns a ploughman, Keats a druggist, Thomas Carlyle a mason, Hugh Miller a stone mason. Rubens, the artist, was a page, Swedenborg, a mining engineer. Dante and Descartes were soldiers. Ben Johnson was a brick layer and worked at building Lincoln Inn in London with trowel in hand and a book in his pocket. Jeremy Taylor was a barber. Andrew Johnson was a tailor. Cardinal Wolsey was a butcher’s son. So were Defoe and Kirke White. Michael Faraday was the son of a blacksmith. He even excelled his teacher, Sir Humphry Davy, who was an apprentice to an apothecary.
Virgil was the son of a porter, Homer of a farmer, Pope of a merchant, Horace of a shopkeeper, Demosthenes of a cutler, Milton of a money scrivener, Shakespeare of a wool stapler, and Oliver Cromwell of a brewer.
John Wanamaker’s first salary was $1.25 per week. A. T. Stewart began his business life as a school teacher. James Keene drove a milk wagon in a California town. Joseph Pulitzer, proprietor of the New York _World_, once acted as stoker on a Mississippi steamboat. When a young man, Cyrus Field was a clerk in a New England store. George W. Childs was an errand boy for a bookseller at $4 a month. Andrew Carnegie began work in a Pittsburg telegraph office at $3 a week. C. P. Huntington sold butter and eggs for what he could get a pound or dozen. Whitelaw Reid was once a correspondent of a newspaper in Cincinnati at $5 per week. Adam Forepaugh was once a butcher in Philadelphia.
Sarah Bernhardt was a dressmaker’s apprentice. Adelaide Neilson began life as a child’s nurse. Miss Braddon, the novelist, was a utility actress in the provinces. Charlotte Cushman was the daughter of poor people.
Mr. W. O. Stoddard, in his “Men of Business,” tells a characteristic story of the late Leland Stanford. When eighteen years of age his father purchased a tract of woodland, but had not the means to clear it as he wished. He told Leland that he could have all he could make from the timber if he would leave the land clear of trees. A new market had just then been created for cord wood, and Leland took some money that he had saved, hired other choppers to help him, and sold over two thousand cords of wood to the Mohawk and Hudson River Railroad at a net profit of $2600. He used this sum to start him in his law studies, and thus, as Mr. Stoddard says, chopped his way to the bar.
It is said that the career of Benjamin Franklin is full of inspiration for any young man. When he left school for good he was only twelve years of age. At first he did little but read. He soon found, however, that reading, alone, would not make him an educated man, and he proceeded to act upon this discovery at once. At school he had been unable to understand arithmetic. Twice he had given it up as a hopeless puzzle, and finally left school almost hopelessly ignorant upon the subject. But the printer’s boy soon found his ignorance of figures extremely inconvenient. When he was about fourteen he took up for the _third time_ the “_Cocker’s Arithmetic_,” _which had baffled him at school_, and _ciphered all through it with ease and pleasure_. He then mastered a work upon navigation, which included the rudiments of geometry, and thus tasted “the inexhaustible charm of mathematics.” He pursued a similar course, we are told, in acquiring the art of composition, in which, at length, he excelled most of the men of his time. When he was but a boy of sixteen, he wrote so well that the pieces which he slyly sent to his brother’s paper were thought to have been written by some of the most learned men in the colony.
Henry Clay, the “mill-boy of the slashes,” was one of seven children of a widow too poor to send him to any but a common country school, where he was drilled only in the “three R’s.” But he used every spare moment to study without a teacher, and in after years he was a king among self-made men.
The most successful man is he who has triumphed over obstacles, disadvantages and discouragements.
It is Goodyear in his rude laboratory enduring poverty and failure until the pasty rubber is at length hardened; it is Edison biding his time in baggage car and in printing office until that mysterious light and power glows and throbs at his command; it is Carey on his cobbler’s bench nourishing the great purpose that at length carried the message of love to benighted India;–these are the cases and examples of true success.
CHAPTER IV.
OUT OF PLACE.
The high prize of life, the crowning fortune of a man, is to beborn with a bias to some pursuit, which finds him in employmentand happiness.–EMERSON.
The art of putting the right man in the right place is perhapsthe first in the science of government, but the art of findinga satisfactory position for the discontented is the mostdifficult.–TALLEYRAND.
It is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all themisfortunes of mankind were cast into a public stock, in orderto be equally distributed among the whole species, those whonow think themselves the most unhappy would prefer the sharethey are already possessed of, before that which would fall tothem by such a division.–ADDISON.
I was born to other things.–TENNYSON.
How many a rustic Milton has passed by,Stifling the speechless longings of his heart,In unremitting drudgery and care!How many a vulgar Cato has compelledHis energies, no longer tameless then,To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail.–SHELLEY.
“But I’m good for something,” pleaded a young man whom a merchant was about to discharge for his bluntness. “You are good for nothing as a salesman,” said his employer. “I am sure I can be useful,” said the youth. “How? Tell me how.” “I don’t know, sir, I don’t know.” “Nor do I,” said the merchant, laughing at the earnestness of his clerk. “Only don’t put me away, sir, don’t put me away. Try me at something besides selling. I cannot sell; I know I cannot sell.” “I know that, too,” said the principal; “that is what is wrong.” “But I can make myself useful somehow,” persisted the young man; “I know I can.” He was placed in the counting-house, where his aptitude for figures soon showed itself, and in a few years he became not only chief cashier in the large store, but an eminent accountant.
“Out of an art,” says Bulwer, “a man may be so trivial you would mistake him for an imbecile–at best, a grown infant. Put him into his art, and how high he soars above you! How quietly he enters into a heaven of which he has become a denizen, and unlocking the gates with his golden key, admits you to follow, an humble reverent visitor.”
A man out of place is like a fish out of water. Its fins mean nothing, they are only a hindrance. The fish can do nothing but flounder out of its element. But as soon as the fins feel the water, they mean something. Fifty-two per cent of our college graduates studied law, not because, in many cases, they have the slightest natural aptitude for it, but because it is put down as the proper road to promotion.
A man never grows in personal power and moral stamina when out of his place. If he grows at all, it is a narrow, one-sided, stunted growth, not a manly growth. Nature abhors the slightest perversion of natural aptitude or deviation from the sealed orders which accompany every soul into this world.
A man out of place is not half a man. He feels unmanned, unsexed. He cannot respect himself, hence he cannot be respected.
You can enter all kinds of horses for a race, but only those which have natural adaptation for speed will make records; the others will only make themselves ridiculous by their lumbering, unnatural exertions to win. How many truck and family-horse lawyers make themselves ridiculous by trying to speed on the law track, where courts and juries only laugh at them. The effort to redeem themselves from scorn may enable them by unnatural exertions to become fairly passable, but the same efforts along the line of their strength or adaptation would make them kings in their line.
“Jonathan,” said Mr. Chace, when his son told of having nearly fitted himself for college, “thou shalt go down to the machine-shop on Monday morning.” It was many years before Jonathan escaped from the shop to work his way up to the position of a man of great influence as a United States Senator from Rhode Island.
Galileo was sent to the university at Pisa at seventeen, with the strict injunction not to neglect medical subjects for the alluring study of philosophy or literature. But when he was eighteen he discovered the great principle of the pendulum by a lamp left swinging in the cathedral.
John Adams’ father was a shoemaker; and, trying to teach his son the art, gave him some “uppers” to cut out by a pattern which had a three-cornered hole in it to hang it up by. The future statesman followed the pattern, hole and all.
There is a tradition that Tennyson’s first poems were published at the instigation of his father’s coachman. His grandfather gave the lad ten shillings for writing an elegy on his grandmother. As he handed it to him, he said; “There, that’s the first money you ever earned by your poetry, and take my word for it, it will be the last.”
Murillo’s mother had marked her boy for a priest, but nature had already laid her hand upon him and marked him for her own. His mother was shocked on returning from church one day to find that the child had taken down the sacred family picture, “Jesus and the Lamb,” and had painted his own hat on the Saviour’s head, and had changed the lamb into a dog.
The poor boy’s home was broken up, and he started out on foot and alone to seek his fortune. All he had was courage and determination to make something of himself. He not only became a famous artist, but a man of great character.
“Let us people who are so uncommonly clever and learned,” says Thackeray, “have a great tenderness and pity for the folks who are not endowed with the prodigious talents which we have. I have always had a regard for dunces,–those of my own school days were among the pleasantest of the fellows, and have turned out by no means the dullest in life; whereas, many a youth who could turn off Latin hexameters by the yard, and construe Greek quite glibly, is no better than a feeble prig now, with not a pennyworth more brains than were in his head before his beard grew.”
“In the winter of 1824, there set in a great flood upon the town of Sidmouth, the tide rose to a terrible height. In the midst of this sublime and terrible storm, Dame Partington, who lived upon the beach, was seen at the door of her house, with mop and pattens, trundling her mop, squeezing out the sea-water, and vigorously pushing away the Atlantic Ocean. The Atlantic was roused. Mrs. Partington’s spirit was up: but I need not tell you the contest was unequal; the Atlantic Ocean beat Mrs. Partington. She was excellent at a slop or a puddle, but she should not have meddled with a tempest.”
How many Dame Partingtons there are of both sexes, and in every walk of life!
The young swan is restless and uneasy until she finds the element she has never before seen. Then,
“With archéd neckBetween her white wings mantling proudly, rowsHer state with oary feet.”
What a wretched failure was that of Haydon the painter. He thought he failed through the world’s ingratitude or injustice, but his failure was due wholly to his being out of place. His bitter disappointments at his half successes were really pitiable because to him they were more than failures. He had not the slightest sense of color, yet went through life under the delusion that he was an artist.
“If it is God’s will to take any of my children by death, I hope it may be Isaac,” said the father of Dr. Isaac Barrow. “Why do you tell that blockhead the same thing twenty times over?” asked John Wesley’s father. “Because,” replied his mother, “if I had told him but nineteen times, all my labor would have been lost, while now he will understand and remember.”
A man out of place may manage to get a living, but he has lost the buoyancy, energy and enthusiasm which are as natural to a man in his place as his breath. He is industrious, but he works mechanically and without heart. It is to support himself and family, _not because he cannot help it_. Dinner time does not come two hours before he realizes it; a man out of place is constantly looking at his watch and thinking of his salary.
If a man is in his place he is happy, joyous, cheerful, energetic, fertile in resources. The days are all too short for him. All his faculties give their consent to his work; say “yes” to his occupation. He is a man; he respects himself and is happy because all his powers are at play in their natural sphere. There is no compromising of his faculties, no cramping of legal acumen upon the farm; no suppressing of forensic oratorical powers at the shoemaker’s bench; no stifling of exuberance of physical strength, of visions of golden crops and blooded cattle amid the loved country life in the dry clergyman’s study, composing sermons to put the congregation to sleep.
To be out of place is demoralizing to all the powers of manhood. We can’t cheat nature out of her aim; if she has set all the currents of your life toward medicine or law, you will only be a botch at anything else. Will-power and application cannot make a farmer of a born painter any more than a lumbering draught horse can be changed into a race horse. When the powers are not used along the line of their strength they become demoralized, weakened, deteriorated. Self-respect, enthusiasm and courage ooze out; we become half-hearted and success is impossible.
Scott was called the great blockhead while in Edinburgh College. Grant’s mother called the future General and President, “Useless Grant,” because he was so unhandy and dull.
Erskine had at length found his place as a lawyer; he carried everything before him at the bar. Had he remained in the navy he would probably never have been heard from. When elected to Parliament, his lofty spirit was chilled by the cold sarcasm and contemptuous indifference of Pitt, whom he was expected by his friends to annihilate. But he was again out of his place; he was shorn of his magic power and his eloquent tongue faltered from a consciousness of being out of his place.
Gould failed as a storekeeper, tanner and surveyor and civil engineer, before he got into a railroad office where he “struck his gait.”
When extracts from James Russell Lowell’s poem at Harvard were shown his father at Rome, instead of being pleased the latter said, “James promised me when I left home, that he would give up poetry and stick to books. I had hoped that he had become less flighty.” The world is full of people at war with their positions.
Man only grows when he is developing along the lines of his own individuality, and not when he is trying to be somebody else. All attempts to imitate another man, when there is no one like you in all creation, as the pattern was broken when you were born, is not only to ruin your own pattern, but to make only an echo of the one imitated. There is no strength off the lines of our own individuality.
Anywhere else we are dwarfs, weaklings, echoes, and the echo even of a great man is a sorry contrast to even the smallest human being who is himself.
CHAPTER V.
WHAT SHALL I DO?
No man ever made an ill-figure who understood his own talents,nor a good one who mistook them.–SWIFT.
Blessed is he who has found his work,–let him ask no otherblessing.–CARLYLE.
Whatever you are by nature, keep to it; never desert your lineof talent. Be what nature intended you for, and you willsucceed; be anything else, and you will be ten thousand timesworse than nothing. –SYDNEY SMITH.
He who is false to present duty breaks a thread in the loom,and will find the flaw when he may have forgotten its cause.–BEECHER.
I am glad to thinkI am not bound to make the world go round;But only to discover and to do,With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints.–JEAN INGELOW.
“Do that which is assigned you,” says Emerson, “and you cannot hope too much or dare too much. There is at this moment for you an utterance brave and grand as that of the colossal chisel of Phidias, or trowel of the Egyptians, or the pen of Moses or Dante, but different from all these.”
“I felt that I was in the world to do something, and thought I must,” said Whittier, thus giving the secret of his great power. It is the man who must enter law, literature, medicine, the ministry, or any other of the overstocked professions, who will succeed. His certain call–that is, his love for it, and his fidelity to it–are the imperious factors of his career. If a man enters a profession simply because his grandfather made a great name in it, or his mother wants him to, with no love or adaptability for it, it were far better for him to be a day laborer. In the humbler work, his intelligence may make him a leader; in the other career he might do as much harm as a boulder rolled from its place upon a railroad track, a menace to the next express.
Lowell said: “It is the vain endeavor to make ourselves what we are not, that has strewn history with so many broken purposes, and lives left in the rough.”
“The age has no aversion to preaching as such,” said Phillips Brooks, “it may not listen to your preaching.” But though it may not listen to your preaching, it will wear your boots, or buy your flour, or see stars through your telescope. It has a use for every person, and it is his business to find out what that use is.
The following advertisement appeared several times in a paper without bringing a letter:
“WANTED.–Situation by a Practical Printer, who is competent totake charge of any department in a printing and publishinghouse. Would accept a professorship in any of the academies.Has no objection to teach ornamental painting and penmanship,geometry, trigonometry, and many other sciences. Has had someexperience as a lay preacher. Would have no objection to form asmall class of young ladies and gentlemen to instruct them inthe higher branches. To a dentist or chiropodist he would beinvaluable; or he would cheerfully accept a position as bass ortenor singer in a choir.”
At length there appeared this addition to the notice:
“P.S. Will accept an offer to saw and split wood at less thanthe usual rates.”
This secured a situation at once, and the advertisement was seen no more.
Don’t wait for a higher position or a larger salary. Enlarge the position you already occupy; put originality of method into it. Fill it as it never was filled before. Be more prompt, more energetic, more thorough, more polite than your predecessor or fellow-workmen. Study your business, devise new modes of operation, be able to give your employer points. The art lies not in giving satisfaction merely, not in simply filling your place, but in doing better than was expected, in surprising your employer; and the reward will be a better place and a larger salary.
“He that hath a trade,” says Franklin, “hath an estate; and he that hath a calling hath a place of profit and honor. A ploughman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees.”
_Follow your bent._ You cannot long fight successfully against your aspirations. Parents, friends, or misfortune may stifle and suppress the longings of the heart, by compelling you to perform unwelcome tasks; but, like a volcano, the inner fire will burst the crusts which confine it and pour forth its pent-up genius in eloquence, in song, in art, or in some favorite industry. Beware of “a talent which you cannot hope to practice in perfection.” Nature hates all botched and half-finished work, and will pronounce her curse upon it.
Your talent is your _call_. Your legitimate destiny speaks in your character.
If you have found your place, your occupation has the consent of every faculty of your being.
If possible, choose that occupation which focuses the largest amount of your experience and tastes. You will then not only have a congenial vocation, but will utilize largely your skill and business knowledge, which is your true capital.
There is no doubt that every person has a special adaptation for his own peculiar part in life. A very few–the geniuses, we call them–have this marked in an unusual degree, and very early in life.
A man’s business does more to make him than anything else. It hardens his muscles, strengthens his body, quickens his blood, sharpens his mind, corrects his judgment, wakes up his inventive genius, puts his wits to work, starts him on the race of life, arouses his ambition, makes him feel that he is a man and must fill a man’s shoes, do a man’s work, bear a man’s part in life, and show himself a man in that part. No man feels himself a man who is not doing a man’s business. A man without employment is not a man. He does not prove by his works that he is a man. A hundred and fifty pounds of bone and muscle do not make a man. A good cranium full of brains is not a man. The bone and muscle and brain must know how to do a man’s work, think a man’s thoughts, mark out a man’s path, and bear a man’s weight of character and duty before they constitute a man.
Whatever you do in life, be greater than your calling. Most people look upon an occupation or calling as a mere expedient for earning a living. What a mean, narrow view to take of what was intended for the great school of life, the great man-developer, the character-builder; that which should broaden, deepen, heighten, and round out into symmetry, harmony and beauty, all the God-given faculties within us! How we shrink from the task and evade the lessons which were intended for the unfolding of life’s great possibilities into usefulness and power, as the sun unfolds into beauty and fragrance the petals of the flower.
“Girls, you cheapen yourselves by lack of purpose in life,” says Rena L. Miner. “You show commendable zeal in pursuing your studies; your alertness in comprehending and ability in surmounting difficult problems have become proverbial; nine times out of ten you outrank your brothers thus far; but when the end is attained, the goal reached, whether it be the graduating certificate from a graded school, or a college diploma, for nine out of every ten it might as well be added thereto, ‘dead to further activity,’ or, ‘sleeping until marriage shall resurrect her.’
“Crocheting, placquing, dressing, visiting, music, and flirtations, make up the sum total for the expense and labor expended for your existence. If forced to earn your support, you are content to stand behind a counter, or teach school term after term in the same grade, while the young men who graduated with you walk up the grades, as up a ladder, to professorship and good salary, from which they swing off into law, physics, or perhaps the legislative firmament, leaving difficulties and obstacles like nebulæ in their wake.–You girls, satisfied with mediocrity, have an eye mainly for the ‘main chance’–marriage. If you marry wealthy,–which is marrying well according to the modern popular idea,–you dress more elegantly, cultivate more fashionable society, leave your thinking for your husband and your minister to do for you, and become in the economy of life but a sentient nonentity. If you are true to the grand passion, and accept with it poverty, you bake, brew, scrub, spank the children, and talk with your neighbor over the back fence for recreation, spending the years literally like the horse in a treadmill, all for the lack of a purpose,–a purpose sufficiently potent to convert the latent talent into a gem of living beauty, a creative force which makes all adjuncts secondary, like planets to their central sun. Choose some one course or calling, and master it in all its details, sleep by it, swear by it, work for it, and, if marriage crowns you, it can but add new glory to your labor.”
Dr. Hall says that the world has urgent need of “girls who are mother’s right hand; girls who can cuddle the little ones next best to mamma, and smooth out the tangles in the domestic skein when things get twisted; girls whom father takes comfort in for something better than beauty, and the big brothers are proud of for something that outranks the ability to dance or shine in society. Next, we want girls of sense,–girls who have a standard of their own regardless of conventionalities, and are independent enough to live up to it; girls who simply won’t wear a trailing dress on the street to gather up microbes and all sorts of defilement; girls who don’t wear a high hat to the theatre, or lacerate their feet with high heels and endanger their health with corsets; girls who will wear what is pretty and becoming and snap their fingers at the dictates of fashion when fashion is horrid and silly. And we want good girls,–girls who are sweet, right straight out from the heart to the lips; innocent and pure and simple girls, with less knowledge of sin and duplicity and evil-doing at twenty than the pert little schoolgirl of ten has all too often. And we want careful girls and prudent girls, who think enough of the generous father who toils to maintain them in comfort, and of the gentle mother who denies herself much that they may have so many pretty things, to count the cost and draw the line between the essentials and non-essentials; girls who strive to save and not to spend; girls who are unselfish and eager to be a joy and a comfort in the home rather than an expense and a useless burden. We want girls with hearts,–girls who are full of tenderness and sympathy, with tears that flow for other people’s ills, and smiles that light outward their own beautiful thoughts. We have lots of clever girls, and brilliant girls, and witty girls. Give us a consignment of jolly girls, warm-hearted and impulsive girls; kind and entertaining to their own folks, and with little desire to shine in the garish world. With a few such girls scattered around, life would freshen up for all of us, as the weather does under the spell of summer showers.”
CHAPTER VI.
WILL YOU PAY THE PRICE?
The gods sell anything and to everybody at a fair price.–EMERSON.
All desire knowledge, but no one is willing to pay the price.–JUVENAL.
There is no royal path which leads to geometry.–EUCLID.
There is no road to success but through a clear, strongpurpose. A purpose underlies character, culture, position,attainment of whatever sort.–T. T. MUNGER.
Remember you have not a sinew whose law of strength is notaction; you have not a faculty of body, mind, or soul, whoselaw of improvement is not energy.–E. B. HALL.
“We have but what we make, and every goodIs locked by nature in a granite hand,Sheer labor must unclench.”
“Oh, if I could thus put a dream on canvas!” exclaimed an enthusiastic young artist, pointing to a most beautiful painting. “Dream on canvas!” growled the master, “it is the ten thousand touches with the brush you must learn to put on canvas that make your dream.”
“There is but one method of attaining excellence,” said Sydney Smith, “and that is hard labor.”
“If only Milton’s imagination could have conceived his visions,” says Waters, “his consummate industry alone could have carved the immortal lines which enshrine them. If only Newton’s mind could reach out to the secrets of nature, even his genius could only do it by the homeliest toil. The works of Bacon are not midsummer-night’s dreams, but, like coral islands, they have risen from the depths of truth, and formed their broad surfaces above the ocean by the minutest accretions of persevering labor. The conceptions of Michael Angelo would have perished like a night’s phantasy, had not his industry given them permanence.”
Salvini contributes the following to the _Century_ as to his habits of study before he had established himself as a past master of tragedy: “I imposed upon myself a new method of study. While I was busying myself with the part of Saul, I read and reread the Bible, so as to become impregnated with the appropriate sentiments, manners and local color. When I took up Othello, I pored over the history of the Venetian Republic and that of the Moorish invasion of Spain. I studied the passions of the Moors, their art of war, their religious beliefs, nor did I overlook the romance of Giraldi Cinthio, in order the better to master that sublime character. I did not concern myself about a superficial study of the words, or of some point of scenic effect, or of greater or less accentuation of certain phrases with a view to win passing applause; a vaster horizon opened out before me–an infinite sea on which my bark could navigate in security, without fear of falling in with reefs.”
His method was not new, but he considered it so, and gives his opinion in quotation-marks. He speaks of characters with which, his name is not always associated by writers on the stage, but is correct, I think, in the main.
Many years ago a little boy entered Harrow school and was put in a class beyond his years, wherein all the other boys had the advantage of previous instruction. His master used to reprove his dullness, but all his efforts could not raise him from the lowest place in the class. The boy finally procured the elementary books which the other boys had studied. He devoted the hours of play and many of the hours of sleep to mastering the elementary principles of these books. This boy was soon at the head of his class and the pride of Harrow. The statue of that boy, Sir William Jones, stands to-day in St. Paul’s Cathedral; for he lived to be the greatest Oriental scholar of Europe.
“What is the secret of success in business?” asked a friend of Cornelius Vanderbilt. “Secret! there is no secret about it,” replied the commodore; “all you have to do is to attend to your business and go ahead.” If you would adopt Vanderbilt’s method, know your business, attend to it, and keep down expenses until your fortune is safe from business perils.
“Work or starve,” is nature’s motto,–and it is written on the stars and the sod alike,–starve mentally, starve morally, starve physically. It is an inexorable law of nature that whatever is not used, dies. “Nothing for nothing,” is her maxim. If we are idle and shiftless by choice, we shall be nerveless and powerless by necessity.
The mottoes of great men often give us glimpses of the secret of their characters and success. “Work! work! work!” was the motto of Sir Joshua Reynolds, David Wilkie, and scores of other men who have left their mark upon the world. Voltaire’s motto was “Toujours au travail” (always at work). Scott’s maxim was “Never be doing nothing.” Michael Angelo was a wonderful worker. He even slept in his clothes ready to spring to his work as soon as he awoke. He kept a block of marble in his bedroom that he might get up in the night and work when he could not sleep. His favorite device was an old man in a go-cart, with an hour-glass upon it, bearing this inscription: “Ancora imparo” (still I’m learning). Even after he was blind he would ask to be wheeled into the Belvidere, to examine the statues with his hands. Cobden used to say, “I’m working like a horse without a moment to spare.” It was said that Handel, the musician, did the work of a dozen men. Nothing ever daunted him. He feared neither ridicule nor defeat. Lord Palmerston worked like a slave, even in his old age. Being asked when he considered a man in his prime, he replied, “Seventy-nine,” that being his own age. Humboldt was one of the world’s great workers. In summer he arose at four in the morning for thirty years. He used to say work was as much of a necessity as eating or sleeping. Sir Walter Scott was a phenomenal worker. He wrote the “Waverley Novels” at the rate of twelve volumes a year. He averaged a volume every two months during his whole working life. What an example is this to the young men of to-day, of the possibilities of an earnest life! Edmund Burke was one of the most prodigious workers that ever lived.
George Stephenson used to work at meal time, getting out loads of coal while the miners were at dinner in order that he might earn a few extra shillings to buy a spelling-book and an arithmetic. His associates thought he was very foolish, and asked him what good it would do to learn to read and cipher. He told them he was determined to improve his mind; so he studied whenever he could snatch a minute before the engine’s fire, and in every possible situation until he had a good, practical, common-sense education.
Garibaldi’s father decided that Guiseppe should be a minister, because the boy was so sorry for a cricket which lost its leg. Samuel Morse’s father concluded that his son would preach well because he could not keep his head above water in a dangerous attempt to catch bait in the Mystic River. President Dwight told young Morse he would never make a painter, and hinted that he never would amount to much any way if he did not study more. Although under the teaching of West and Allston in London, he became a tolerable portrait painter, he did not find his sphere until returning from England on a sailing vessel, he heard Professor Jackson explain an electrical experiment in Paris, when the thought of the telegraph flashed into his mind and he found no rest, until he flashed over the wire the first message, “What hath God wrought!” on the experimental line between Baltimore and Washington: this was May 24, 1844.
William H. Vanderbilt was by far the wealthiest man in the world. Chauncey M. Depew estimated his fortune at two hundred millions. He left his eight children ten millions each, except Cornelius and William K., who had sixty-five millions each. Commodore Vanderbilt, his father, amassed a fortune of eighty millions of dollars in his own lifetime, and that too at a time when it was more difficult to make money than it is now.
Mr. C. P. Huntington is a good example of a self-made man. His father was a Connecticut farmer. The farm was left to him, but he traded it off for a lot of clocks which he peddled in mining districts for gold dust and nuggets. He and Mark Hopkins formed a partnership and opened a hardware store in California. They united with Leland Stanford in the construction of a railroad, and they all got rich rapidly. Mr. Huntington is one of the greatest railroad operators of the country. He always acted upon the principle that he would control the stock of any road in which he was interested. He is one of the most methodical men of all the millionaires of this country. He is very plain in his manner, strictly temperate, and very abstemious in his living. He said he never knew what it was to be tired.
Russell Sage used to keep a grocery store in Troy, N. Y. He finally associated himself with Jay Gould, who used to be a constant borrower of money of him. Mr. Sage probably keeps more ready money on hand than any other millionaire. He can nearly always control ten millions or more at call. He has never speculated in stocks to any extent. Mr. Sage’s word is as good as any bond. He has no taste for ordinary diversions, except driving.
Philip D. Armour, who has the appearance of a prosperous farmer, was born on a farm near Watertown, N. J. He became fired with a desire to see the “Boundless West.” His mind seemed to run to hogs, and with a financial instinct he made up his mind that there was a fortune in transporting the hogs from where they were so plenty to where there were so few of them and so many to eat them. He could now purchase every hog in the world and then have money left to buy a railroad or two.
Mrs. Hetty Green is probably the richest woman in the world. Her fortune has grown from the little industry of her father in New Bedford, Mass. She has raised the nine millions left her by her father and nine millions left her by her aunt to thirty millions. She is a woman of great ability and courage. She once took with her five millions of dollars of securities in a satchel on a street car to deposit with her banker on Wall street.
The probabilities are that billionaires will be as plentiful in the twentieth century as millionaires are to-day, through hard work, self-denial, rigid economy, method, accuracy, and strict temperance, for not one of the self-made millionaires are intemperate. John D. Rockefeller never tastes intoxicating liquor. He seems as unvarying in his method and system as the laws of the universe. Jay Gould did not use wine or intoxicating liquor of any kind. Mr. Huntington does not even drink coffee, while William Waldorf Astor merely takes a sip of wine for courtesy’s sake. Not one of the leading millionaires uses tobacco, and not one of them is profane. Very rich men are almost always honest in their dealings, so far as their word is concerned. William Waldorf Astor, until recently, has been considered the richest man in the world, but John D. Rockefeller surpasses him now, it is said. The whole wealth of Croesus was little more than the income of this modern Croesus for one year. Mr. Rockefeller controls about eighty or ninety millions of capital stock in the Standard Oil Trust. The Standard Oil Company is one of the best managed corporations in the world.
Two centuries and a quarter ago, a little, tempest-tossed, weather-beaten bark, barely escaped from the jaws of the wild Atlantic, landed upon the bleakest shore of New England. From her deck disembarked a hundred and one careworn exiles.
To the casual observer no event could seem more insignificant. The contemptuous eye of the world scarcely deigned to notice it. Yet the famous vessel that bore Cæsar and his fortunes, carried but an ignoble freight compared with that of the Mayflower. Though landed by a treacherous pilot upon a barren and inhospitable coast, they sought neither richer fields nor a more congenial climate, but liberty and opportunity.
A lady once asked Turner the secret of his great success.
“I have no secret, madam, but hard work.”
“This is a secret that many never learn, and they don’t succeed because they fail to learn it. Labor is the genius that changes the world from ugliness to beauty, and the great curse to a great blessing.”
See Balzac, in his lonely garret, toiling, toiling, waiting, waiting, amid poverty and hunger, but neither hunger, debt, poverty nor discouragement could induce him to swerve a hair’s breadth from his purpose. He could wait, even while a world scoffed.
“Mankind is more indebted to industry than to ingenuity,” says Addison; “the gods set up their favors at a price and industry is the purchaser.”
Rome was a mighty nation while industry led her people, but when her great conquests of wealth and slaves placed her citizens above work, that moment her glory began to fade, and vice and corruption, induced by idleness, doomed the proud city to an ignominious history. Even Cicero, Rome’s great orator, said, “All artisans are engaged in a disgraceful occupation;” and Aristotle said, “The best regulated states will not permit a mechanic to be a citizen, for it is impossible for one who lives the life of a mechanic, or hired servant, to practice a life of virtue. Some were born to be slaves.” But, fortunately there came a mightier than Rome, Cicero or Aristotle, whose magnificent life and example forever lifted the false ban from labor and redeemed it from disgrace. He gave dignity to the most menial service, and significance to labor.
Christ did not say, “Come unto me all ye pleasure hunters, ye indolent and ye lazy;” but “Come all ye that _labor_ and are _heavy laden_.”
Columbus was a persistent and practical, as well as an intellectual hero. He went from one state to another, urging kings and emperors to undertake the first visiting of a world which his instructed spirit already discerned in the far-off seas. He first tried his own countrymen at Genoa, but found none ready to help him. He then went to Portugal, and submitted his project to John II., who laid it before his council. It was scouted as extravagant and chimerical. Nevertheless, the king endeavored to steal Columbus’s idea. A fleet was sent forth in the direction indicated by the navigator, but, being frustrated by storms and winds, it returned to Lisbon after four days’ voyaging.
Columbus returned to Genoa, and again renewed his propositions to the Republic, but without success. Nothing discouraged him. The finding of the New World was the irrevocable object of his life. He went to Spain, and landed at the town of Palos, in Andalusia. He went by chance to a convent of Franciscans, knocked at the door and asked for a little bread and water. The prior gratefully received the stranger, entertained him, and learned from him the story of his life. He encouraged him in his hopes, and furnished him with an admission to the Court of Spain, then at Cordova. King Ferdinand received him graciously, but before coming to a decision he desired to lay the project before a council of his wisest men at Salamanca. Columbus had to reply, not only to the scientific arguments laid before him, but to citations from the Bible. The Spanish clergy declared that the theory of the antipodes was hostile to the faith. The earth, they said, was an immense flat disk; and if there was a new earth beyond the ocean, then all men could not be descended from Adam. _Columbus was considered a fool._
Still bent on his idea, he wrote to the King of England, then to the King of France, without effect. At last, in 1492, Columbus was introduced by Louis de Saint Angel to Queen Isabella of Spain. The friends who accompanied him pleaded his cause with so much force and conviction that he at length persuaded the queen to aid him.
Lord Ellenborough was a great worker. He had a very hard time in getting a start at the bar, but was determined never to relax his industry until success came to him. When he was worked down to absolute exhaustion, he had this card which he kept constantly before his eyes, lest he might be tempted to relax his efforts: “Read or Starve.”
Show me a man who has made fifty thousand dollars, and I will show you in that man an equivalent of energy, attention to detail, trustworthiness, punctuality, professional knowledge, good address, common sense, and other marketable qualities. The farmer respects his savings bank book not unnaturally, for it declares with all the solemnity of a sealed and stamped document that for a certain length of time he rose at six o’clock each morning to oversee his labors, that he patiently waited upon seasonable weather, that he understood buying and selling. To the medical man, his fee serves as a medal to indicate that he was brave enough to face small pox and other infectious diseases, and his self-respect is fostered thereby.
The barrister’s brief is marked with the price of his legal knowledge, of his eloquence, or of his brave endurance during a period of hope-deferred brieflessness.
A rich man asked Howard Burnett to do a little thing for his album. Burnett complied and charged a thousand francs. “But it took you only five minutes,” objected the rich man. “Yes, but it took me thirty years to learn how to do it in five minutes.”
“I prepared that sermon,” said a young sprig of divinity, “in half an hour, and preached it at once, and thought nothing of it.” “In that,” said an older minister, “your hearers are at one with you, for they also thought nothing of it.”
Virgil seems to have accomplished about four lines a week; but then they have lasted eighteen hundred years and will last eighteen hundred more.
Seven years Virgil is said to have expended in the composition of the Georgics, and they could all be printed in about seven columns of an ordinary newspaper. Tradition reports that he was in the habit of composing a few lines in the morning and spending the rest of the day in polishing them. Campbell used to say that if a poet made one good line a week, he did very well indeed; but Moore thought that if a poet did his duty, he could get a line done every day.
What an army of young men enters the success-contest every year as raw recruits! Many of them are country youths flocking to the cities to buy success. Their young ambitions have been excited by some book, or fired by the story of some signal success, and they dream of becoming Astors or Girards, Stewarts or Wanamakers, Vanderbilts or Goulds, Lincolns or Garfields, until their innate energy impels them to try their own fortune in the magic metropolis. But what are you willing to pay for “success,” as you call it, young man? Do you realize what that word means in a great city in the nineteenth century, where men grow gray at thirty and die of old age at forty,–where the race of life has become so intense that the runners are treading on the heels of those before them; and “woe to him who stops to tie his shoestring?” Do you know that only two or three out of every hundred will ever win permanent success, and only because they have kept everlastingly at it; and that the rest will sooner or later fail and many die in poverty because they have given up the struggle.
There are multitudes of men who never rely wholly upon themselves and achieve independence. They are like summer vines, which never grow even ligneous, but stretch out a thousand little hands to grasp the stronger shrubs; and if they cannot reach them, they lie dishevelled in the grass, hoof-trodden, and beaten of every storm. It will be found that the first real movement upward will not take place until, in a spirit of resolute self-denial, indolence, so natural to almost every one, is mastered. Necessity is, usually, the spur that sets the sluggish energies in motion. Poverty, therefore, is often of inestimable value as an incentive to the best endeavors of which we are capable.
CHAPTER VII.
FOUNDATION STONES.
In all matters, before beginning, a diligent preparation shouldbe made.–CICERO.
How great soever a genius may be, … certain it is that hewill never shine in his full lustre, nor shed the fullinfluence he is capable of, unless to his own experience headds that of other men and other ages.–BOLINGBROKE.
It is for want of the little that human means must add to thewonderful capacity for improvement, born in man, that by farthe greatest part of the intellect, innate in our race,perishes undeveloped and unknown.–EDWARD EVERETT.
If any man fancies that there is some easier way of gaining adollar than by squarely earning it, he has lost his clue to hisway through this mortal labyrinth and must henceforth wander aschance may dictate.–HORACE GREELEY.
What we do upon some great occasion will probably depend onwhat we already are; and what we are will be the result ofprevious years of self-discipline.–H. P. LIDDON.
Learn to labor and to wait.–LONGFELLOW.
“What avails all this sturdiness?” asked an oak tree which had grown solitary for two hundred years, bitterly handled by frosts and wrestled by winds. “Why am I to stand here useless? My roots are anchored in rifts of rocks; no herds can lie down under my shadow; I am far above singing birds, that seldom come to rest among my leaves; I am set as a mark for storms, that bend and tear me; my fruit is serviceable for no appetite; it had been better for me to have been a mushroom, gathered in the morning for some poor man’s table, than to be a hundred-year oak, good for nothing.”
While it yet spoke, the axe was hewing at its base. It died in sadness, saying as it fell, “Weary ages for nothing have I lived.”
The axe completed its work. By and by the trunk and root form the knees of a stately ship, bearing the country’s flag around the world. Other parts form keel and ribs of merchantmen, and having defied the mountain storms, they now equally resist the thunder of the waves and the murky threat of scowling hurricanes. Other parts are laid into floors, or wrought into wainscoting, or carved for frames of noble pictures, or fashioned into chairs that embosom the weakness of old age. Thus the tree, in dying, came not to its end, but to its beginning of life. It voyaged the world. It grew to parts of temples and dwellings. It held upon its surface the soft tread of children and the tottering steps of patriarchs. It rocked in the cradle. It swayed the limbs of age by the chimney corner, and heard, secure within, the roar of those old, unwearied tempests that once surged about its mountain life. All its early struggles and hardships had enabled it to grow tough and hard and beautiful of grain, alike useful and ornamental.
“Sir, you have been to college, I presume?” asked an illiterate but boastful exhorter of a clergyman. “Yes, sir,” was the reply. “I am thankful,” said the former, “that the Lord opened my mouth without any learning.” “A similar event,” retorted the clergyman, “happened in Balaam’s time.”
Why not allow the schoolboy to erase from his list of studies all subjects that appear to him useless? Would he not erase every thing which taxed his pleasure and freedom? Would he not obey the call of his blood, rather than the advice of his teacher? Ignorant men who have made money tell him that the study of geography is useless; his tea will come over the sea to him whether he knows where China is or not; what difference does it make whether verbs agree with their subjects or not? Why waste time learning geometry or algebra? Who keeps accounts by these? Learning spoils a man for business, they tell him; they begrudge the time and money spent in education. They want cheap and rapid transit through college for their children. Veneer will answer every practical purpose for them, instead of solid mahogany, or even paint and pine will do.
It is said that the editors of the Dictionary of American Biography who diligently searched the records of living and dead Americans, found 15,142 names worthy of a place in their six volumes of annals of successful men, and 5326, or more than one-third of them, were college-educated men. One in forty of the college educated attained a success worthy of mention, and but one in 10,000 of those not so educated; so that the college-bred man had two hundred and fifty times the chances for success that others had. Medical records, it is said, show that but five per cent. of the practicing physicians of the United States are college graduates; and yet forty-six per cent. of the physicians who became locally famous enough to be mentioned by those editors came from that small five per cent. of college educated persons. Less than four per cent. of the lawyers were college-bred, yet they furnished more than one-half of all who became successful. Not one per cent. of the business men of the country were college educated, yet that small fraction of college-bred men had seventeen times the chances of success that their fellow men of business had. In brief, the college-educated lawyer has fifty per cent. more chances for success than those not so favored; the college-educated physician, forty-six per cent. more; the author, thirty-seven per cent. more; the statesman, thirty-three per cent.; the clergyman, fifty-eight per cent.; the educator, sixty-one per cent.; the scientist, sixty-three per cent. You should therefore get the best and most complete education that it is possible for you to obtain.
Knowledge, then, is one of the secret keys which unlock the hidden mysteries of a successful life.
“I do not remember,” said Beecher, “a book in all the depths of learning, nor a scrap in literature, nor a work in all the schools of art, from which its author has derived a permanent renown, that is not known to have been long and patiently elaborated.”
“You are a fool to stick so close to your work all the time,” said one of Vanderbilt’s young friends; “we are having our fun while we are young, for when will we if not now?” But Cornelius was either earning more money by working overtime, or saving what he had earned, or at home asleep, recruiting for the next day’s labor and preparing for a large harvest later. Like all successful men, he made finance a study. When he entered the railroad business, it was estimated that his fortune was thirty-five or forty million dollars.
“The spruce young spark,” says Sizer, “who thinks chiefly of his mustache and boots and shiny hat, of getting along nicely and easily during the day, and talking about the theatre, the opera, or a fast horse, ridiculing the faithful young fellow who came to learn the business and make a man of himself, because he will not join in wasting his time in dissipation, will see the day, if his useless life is not earlier blasted by vicious indulgences, when he will be glad to accept a situation from his fellow-clerk whom he now ridicules and affects to despise, when the latter shall stand in the firm, dispensing benefits and acquiring fortune.”
“When a man has done his work,” says Ruskin, “and nothing can any way be materially altered in his fate, let him forget his toil, and jest with his fate if he will; but what excuse can you find for willfulness of thought at the very time when every crisis of fortune hangs on your decisions? A youth thoughtless, when all the happiness of his home forever depends on the chances or the passions of the hour! A youth thoughtless, when the career of all his days depends on the opportunity of a moment! A youth thoughtless, when his every action is a foundation-stone of future conduct, and every imagination a foundation of life or death! Be thoughtless in any after years, rather than now–though, indeed, there is only one place where a man may be nobly thoughtless, his deathbed. Nothing should ever be left to be done there.”
“On to Berlin,” was the shout of the French army in July, 1870; but, to the astonishment of the world, the French forces were cut in two and rolled as by a tidal wave into Metz and around Sedan. Soon two French armies and the Emperor surrendered, and German troopers paraded the streets of captured Paris.
But as men thought it out, as Professor Wells tells us, they came to see that it was not France that was beaten, but only Louis Napoleon and a lot of nobles, influential only because they bore titles or were favorites. Louis Napoleon, the feeble bearer of a great name, was emperor because of that name and criminal daring. By a series of happy accidents he had gained credit in the Crimean War, and at Magenta and Solferino. But the unmasking time came in the Franco-Prussian War, as it always comes when sham, artificial toy-men meet genuine self-made men. And such were the German leaders,–William, strong, upright, warlike, “every inch a king;” Von Roon, Minister of War, a master of administrative detail; Bismarck, the master mind of European politics; and, above all, Von Moltke, chief of staff, who hurled armies by telegraph, as he sat at his cabinet, as easily as a master moves chessmen against a stupid opponent.
Said Captain Bingham: “You can have no idea of the wonderful machine that the German army is and how well it is prepared for war. A chart is made out which shows just what must be done in the case of wars with the different nations. And every officer’s place in the scheme is laid out beforehand. There is a schedule of trains which will supersede all other schedules the moment war is declared, and this is so arranged that the commander of the army here could telegraph to any officer to take such a train and go to such a place at a moment’s notice. When the Franco-Prussian War was declared, Von Moltke was awakened at midnight and told of the fact. He said coolly to the official who aroused him, ‘Go to pigeonhole No. —- in my safe and take a paper from it and telegraph as there directed to the different troops of the empire.’ He then turned over and went to sleep and awoke at his usual hour in the morning. Every one else in Berlin was excited about the war, but Von Moltke took his morning walk as usual, and a friend who met him said, ‘General, you seem to be taking it very easy. Aren’t you afraid of the situation? I should think you would be busy.’ ‘Ah,’ replied Von Moltke, ‘all of my work for this time has been done long beforehand, and everything that can be done now has been done.'”
“A rare man this Von Moltke!” exclaims Professor Wells; “one who made himself ready for his opportunities beyond all men known to the modern world. Of an impoverished family, he rose very slowly and by his own merit. He yielded to no temptation, vice, or dishonesty, of course, nor to the greater and ever present temptation to idleness, for he constantly worked to the limit of human endurance. He was ready for every emergency, not by accident, but because he made himself ready by painstaking labor, before the opportunity came. His favorite motto was, ‘_Help yourself and others will help you_.’ Hundreds of his age in the Prussian army were of nobler birth, thousands of greater fortune, but he made himself superior to them all by extraordinary fidelity and diligence.
“The greatest master of strategy the world has ever seen was sixty-six years at school to himself before he was ready for his task. Though born with the century, and an army officer at nineteen, he was an old man when, in 1866, as Prussian chief of staff, he crushed Austria at Sadowa and drove her out of Germany. Four years later the silent, modest soldier of seventy, ready for the still greater opportunity, smote France, and changed the map of Europe. Glory and the field-marshal’s baton, after fifty-one years of hard work! No wonder Louis Napoleon was beaten by such men as he. All Louis Napoleons have been, and always will be. Opportunity always finds out frauds. It does not make men, but shows the world what they have made of themselves.”
Sir Henry Havelock joined the army of India in his twenty-eighth year, and waited till he was sixty-two for the opportunity to show himself fitted to command and skillful to plan. During those four and thirty years of waiting, he was busy preparing himself for that march to Lucknow which was to make him famous as a soldier.
Farragut,
“The viking of our western climeWho made his mast a throne,”
began his naval career as a mere boy, and was sixty-four years old before he had an opportunity to distinguish himself; but when the great test of his life came, the reserve of half a century’s preparation made him master of the situation.
Alexander Hamilton said, “Men give me credit for genius. All the genius I have lies just in this: when I have a subject in hand I study it profoundly. Day and night it is before me. I explore it in all its bearings. My mind becomes pervaded with it. Then the effort which I make the people are pleased to call the fruit of genius; it is the fruit of labor and thought.” The law of labor is equally binding on genius and mediocrity.
“Fill up the cask! fill up the cask!” said old Dr. Bellamy when asked by a young clergyman for advice about the composition of sermons. “Fill up the cask! and then if you tap it anywhere you will get a good stream. But if you put in but little, it will dribble, dribble, dribble, and you must tap, tap, tap, and then you get but a small stream, after all.”
“The merchant is in a dangerous position,” says Dr. W. W. Patton, “whose means are in goods trusted out all over the country on long credits, and who in an emergency has no money in the bank upon which to draw. A heavy deposit, subject to a sight-draft, is the only position of strength. And he only is intellectually strong, who has made heavy deposits in the bank of memory, and can draw upon his faculties at any time, according to the necessities of the case.”
They say that more life, if not more labor, was spent on the piles beneath the St. Petersburg church of St. Isaac’s, to get a foundation, than on all the magnificent marbles and malachite which have since been lodged in it.
Fifty feet of Bunker Hill Monument is under ground, unseen, and unappreciated by the thousands who tread about that historic shaft. The rivers of India run under ground, unseen, unheard, by the millions who tramp above, but are they therefore lost? Ask the golden harvest waving above them if it feels the water flowing beneath? The superstructure of a lifetime cannot stand upon the foundation of a day.
C. H. Parkhurst says that in manhood, as much as in house-building, the foundation keeps asserting itself all the way from the first floor to the roof. The stones laid in the underpinning may be coarse and inelegant, but, even so, each such stone perpetuates itself in silent echo clear up through to the finial. The body is in that respect like an old Stradivarius violin, the ineffable sweetness of whose music is outcome and quotation from the coarse fibre of the case upon which its strings are strung. It is a very pleasant delusion that what we call the higher qualities and energies of a person maintain that self-centered kind of existence that enables them to discard and contemn all dependence upon what is lower and less refined than themselves, but it is a delusion that always wilts in an atmosphere of fact. Climb high as we like our ladder will still require to rest on the ground; and it is probable that the keenest intellectual intuition, and the most delicate throb of passion would, if analysis could be carried so far, be discovered to have its connections with the rather material affair that we know as the body.
Lincoln took the postmastership for the sake of reading all the papers that came to town. He read everything he could lay his hands on; the Bible, Shakespeare, Pilgrim’s Progress, Life of Washington and Life of Franklin, Life of Henry Clay, Æsop’s Fables; he read them over and over again until he could almost repeat them by heart; but he never read a novel in his life. His education came from the newspapers and from his contact with men and things. After he read a book he would write out an analysis of it. What a grand sight to see this long, lank, backwoods student, lying before the fire in a log cabin without floor or windows, after everybody else was abed, devouring books he had borrowed but could not afford to buy!
“I have been watching the careers of young men by the thousand in this busy city of New York for over thirty years,” said Dr. Cuyler, “and I find that the chief difference between the successful and the failures lies in the single element of staying power. Permanent success is oftener won by holding on than by sudden dash, however brilliant. The easily discouraged, who are pushed back by a straw, are all the time dropping to the rear–to perish or to be carried along on the stretcher of charity. They who understand and practice Abraham Lincoln’s homely maxim of ‘pegging away’ have achieved the solidest success.”
It is better to deserve success than to merely have it; few deserve it who do not attain it. There is no failure in this country for those whose personal habits are good, and who follow some honest calling industriously, unselfishly, and purely. If one desires to succeed, he must pay the price, work.
No matter how weak a power may be, rational use will make it stronger. No matter how awkward your movements may be, how obtuse your senses, or how crude your thought, or how unregulated your desires, you may by patient discipline acquire, slowly indeed but with infallible certainty, grace and freedom of action, clearness and acuteness of perception, strength and precision of thought, and moderation of desire.
It would go very far to destroy the absurd and pernicious association of genius and idleness, to show that the greatest poets, orators, statesmen, and historians–men of the most imposing and brilliant talents–have actually labored as hard as the makers of dictionaries and arrangers of indexes; and the most obvious reason why they have been superior to other men, is, that they have taken more pains.
Even the great genius, Lord Bacon, left large quantities of material entitled “Sudden thoughts set down for use.” John Foster was an indefatigable worker. “He used to hack, split, twist, and pull up by the roots, or practice any other severity on whatever did not please him.” Chalmers was asked in London what Foster was doing. “Hard at it” he said, “at the rate of a line a week.”
When a young lawyer, Daniel Webster once looked in vain through all the libraries near him, and then ordered at an expense of $50 the necessary books, to obtain authorities and precedents in a case in which his client was a poor blacksmith. He won his case, but, on account of the poverty of his client, only charged $15, thus losing heavily on the books bought, to say nothing of his time. Years after, as he was passing through New York city, he was consulted by Aaron Burr on an important but puzzling case then pending before the Supreme Court. Webster saw in a moment that it was just like the blacksmith’s case, an intricate question of title, which he had solved so thoroughly that it was to him simple as the multiplication table. Going back to the time of Charles II., he gave the law and precedents involved with such readiness and accuracy of sequence that Burr asked, in great surprise: “Mr. Webster, have you been consulted before in this case?”
“Most certainly not. I never heard of your case till this evening.”
“Very well,” said Burr, “proceed.” And when he had finished, Webster received a fee that paid him liberally for all the time and trouble he had spent for his early client.
What the age wants is men who have the nerve and the grit to work and wait, whether the world applaud or hiss. It wants a Bancroft, who can spend twenty-six years on the “History of the United States;” a Noah Webster, who can devote thirty-six years to a dictionary; a Gibbon, who can plod for twenty years on the “Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire;” a Mirabeau, who can struggle on for forty years before he has a chance to show his vast reserve, destined to shake an empire; a Farragut, a Von Moltke, who have the persistence to work and wait for half a century for their first great opportunities; a Garfield, burning his lamp fifteen minutes later than a rival student in his academy; a Grant, fighting on in heroic silence, when denounced by his brother generals and politicians everywhere; a Field’s untiring perseverance, spending years and a fortune laying a cable when all the world called him a fool; a Michael Angelo, working seven long years decorating the Sistine Chapel with his matchless “Creation” and the “Last Judgment,” refusing all remuneration therefor, lest his pencil might catch the taint of avarice; a Titian, spending seven years on the “Last Supper;” a Stephenson, working fifteen years on a locomotive; a Watt, twenty years on a condensing engine; a Lady Franklin, working incessantly for twelve long years to rescue her husband from the polar seas; a Thurlow Weed, walking two miles through the snow with rags tied around his feet for shoes, to borrow the history of the French Revolution, and eagerly devouring it before the sap-bush fire; a Milton, elaborating “Paradise Lost” in a world he could not see, and then selling it for fifteen pounds; a Thackeray, struggling on cheerfully after his “Vanity Fair” was refused by a dozen publishers; a Balzac, toiling and waiting in a lonely garret, whom neither poverty, debt, nor hunger could discourage or intimidate; not daunted by privations, not hindered by discouragements. It wants men who can work and wait.
That is done soon enough which is done well. Soon ripe, soon rotten. He that would enjoy the fruit must not gather the flower. He who is impatient to become his own master is more likely to become his own slave. Better believe yourself a dunce and work away than a genius and be idle. One year of trained thinking is worth more than a whole college course of mental absorption of a vast series of undigested facts. The facility with which the world swallows up the ordinary college graduate who thought he was going to dazzle mankind should bid you pause and reflect. But just as certainly as man was created not to crawl on all fours in the depths of primeval forests, but to develop his mental and moral faculties, just so certainly he needs education, and only by means of it will he become what he ought to become,–man, in the highest sense of the word. Ignorance is not simply the negation of knowledge, it is the misdirection of the mind. “One step in knowledge,” says Bulwer, “is one step from sin; one step from sin is one step nearer to Heaven.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CONQUEST OF OBSTACLES.
Nature, when she adds difficulties, adds brains.–EMERSON.
Exigencies create the necessary ability to meet and conquerthem.–WENDELL PHILLIPS.
Many men owe the grandeur of their lives to their tremendousdifficulties.–SPURGEON.
The rugged metal of the mineMust burn before its surface shine.–BYRON.
When a man looks through a tear in his own eye, that is a lenswhich opens reaches in the unknown, and reveals orbs notelescope could do.–BEECHER.
No man ever worked his way in a dead calm.–JOHN NEAL.
“Kites rise against, not with, the wind.”
Then welcome each rebuff,That turns earth’s smoothness rough,Each sting, that bids not sit nor stand, but go.–BROWNING.
“What a fine profession ours would be if there were no gibbets!” said one of two highwaymen who chanced to pass a gallows. “Tut, you blockhead,” replied the other, “gibbets are the making of us; for, if there were no gibbets, every one would be a highwayman.” Just so with every art, trade, or pursuit; it is the difficulties that scare and keep out unworthy competitors.
“Life,” says a philosopher, “refuses to be so adjusted as to eliminate from it all strife and conflict and pain. There are a thousand tasks, that, in larger interests than ours, must be done, whether we want them or no. The world refuses to walk upon tiptoe, so that we may be able to sleep. It gets up very early and stays up very late, and all the while there is the conflict of myriads of hammers and saws and axes with the stubborn material that in no other way can be made to serve its use and do its work for man. And then, too, these hammers and axes are not wielded without strain or pang, but swung by the millions of toilers who labor with their cries and groans and tears. Nay, our temple building, whether it be for God or man, exacts its bitter toll, and fills life with cries and blows. The thousand rivalries of our daily business, the fierce animosities when we are beaten, the even fiercer exultation when we have beaten, the crashing blows of disaster, the piercing scream of defeat–these things we have not yet gotten rid of, nor in this life ever will. Why should we wish to get rid of them? We are here, my brother, to be hewed and hammered and planed in God’s quarry and on God’s anvil for a nobler life to come.” Only the muscle that is used is developed.
“Troubles are often the tools by which God fashions us for better things,” said Beecher. “Far up the mountain side lies a block of granite, and says to itself, ‘How happy am I in my serenity–above the winds, above the trees, almost above the flight of birds! Here I rest, age after age, and nothing disturbs me.’
“Yet what is it? It is only a bare block of granite, jutting out of the cliff, and its happiness is the happiness of death.
“By and by comes the miner, and with strong and repeated strokes he drills a hole in its top, and the rock says, ‘What does this mean?’ Then the black powder is poured in, and with a blast that makes the mountain echo, the block is blown asunder, and goes crashing down into the valley. ‘Ah!’ it exclaims as it falls, ‘why this rending?’ Then come saws to cut and fashion it; and humbled now, and willing to be nothing, it is borne away from the mountain and conveyed to the city. Now it is chiseled and polished, till, at length, finished in beauty, by block and tackle it is raised, with mighty hoistings, high in air, to be the top-stone on some monument of the country’s glory.”
“It is this scantiness of means, this continual deficiency, this constant hitch, this perpetual struggle to keep the head above water and the wolf from the door, that keeps society from falling to pieces. Let every man have a few more dollars than he wants, and anarchy would follow.”
“Do you wish to live without a trial?” asks a modern teacher. “Then you wish to die but half a man. Without trial you cannot guess at your own strength. Men do not learn to swim on a table. They must go into deep water and buffet the waves. Hardship is the native soil of manhood and self-reliance. Trials are rough teachers, but rugged schoolmasters make rugged pupils. A man who goes through life prosperous, and comes to his grave without a wrinkle, is not half a man. Difficulties are God’s errands. And when we are sent upon them we should esteem it a proof of God’s confidence. We should reach after the highest good.”
Suddenly, with much jarring and jolting, an electric car came to a standstill just in front of a heavy truck that was headed in an opposite direction. The huge truck wheels were sliding uselessly round on the car tracks that were wet and slippery from rain. All the urging of the teamster and the straining of the horses were in vain–until the motorman quietly tossed a shovelful of sand on the track under the heavy wheels, and then the truck lumbered on its way. “Friction is a very good thing,” remarked a passenger.
There is a beautiful tale of Scandinavian mythology. A hero, under the promise of becoming a demi-god, is bidden in the celestial halls to perform three test-acts of prowess. He is to drain the drinking-horn of Thor. Then he must run a race with a courser so fleet that he fairly spurns the ground under his flying footsteps. Then he must wrestle with a toothless old woman, whose sinewy hands, as wiry as eagle claws in the grapple, make his very flesh to quiver. He is victorious in them all. But as the crown of success is placed upon his temples, he discovers for the first time that he has had for his antagonist the three greatest forces of nature. He raced with thought, he wrestled with old age, he drank the sea. Nature, like the God of nature, wrestles with us as a friend, not an enemy, wanting us to gain the victory, and wrestles with us that we may understand and enjoy her best blessings. Every greatest and highest earthly good has come to us unfolded and enriched by this terrible wrestling with nature.
A curious society still exists in Paris composed of dramatic authors who meet once a month and dine together. Their number has no fixed limit, only every member to be eligible must have been hissed. An eminent dramatist is selected for chairman and holds the post for three months. His election generally follows close upon a splendid failure. Some of the world-famous ones have enjoyed this honor. Dumas, Jr., Zola and Offenbach have all filled the chair and presided at the monthly dinner. These dinners are given on the last Friday of the month, and are said to be extraordinarily hilarious.
“I do believe God wanted a grand poem of that man,” said George Macdonald of Milton, “and so blinded him that he might be able to write it.”
“Returned with thanks” has made many an author. Failure often leads a man to success by arousing his latent energy, by firing a dormant purpose, by awakening powers which were sleeping. Men of mettle turn disappointments into helps as the oyster turns into pearls the sand which annoys it.
“Let the adverse breath of criticism be to you only what the blast of the storm wind is to the eagle,–a force against him that lifts him higher.”
“I do not see,” says Emerson, “how any man can afford, for the sake of his nerves and his nap, to spare any action in which he can partake. It is pearls and rubies to his discourse. Drudgery, calamity, exasperation, want, are instructors in eloquence and wisdom. The true scholar grudges every opportunity of action passed by as a loss of power.”
“Adversity is a severe instructor,” says Edmund Burke, “set over us by one who knows us better than we do ourselves, as He loves us better too. He that wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our helper. This conflict with difficulty makes us acquainted with our object, and compels us to consider it in all its relations. It will not suffer us to be superficial.”
Strong characters, like the palm tree, seem to thrive best when most abused. Men who have stood up bravely under great misfortune for years are often unable to bear prosperity. Their good fortune takes the spring out of their energy, as the torrid zone enervates races accustomed to a vigorous climate. Some people never come to themselves until baffled, rebuffed, thwarted, defeated, crushed, in the opinion of those around them. Trials unlock their virtues; defeat is the threshold of their victory.
“Every man who makes a fortune has been more than once a bankrupt, if the truth were known,” said Albion Tourgée. “Grant’s failure as a subaltern made him commander-in-chief, and for myself, my failure to accomplish what I set out to do led me to what I never had aspired to.”
“What is defeat?” asked Wendell Phillips. “Nothing but education.” And a life’s disaster may become the landmark from which there has begun a new era, a broader life for man.
“To make his way at the bar,” said an eminent jurist, “a young man must live like a hermit and work like a horse. There is nothing that does a young lawyer so much good as to be half starved.”
We are the victors of our opponents. They have developed in us the very power by which we overcome them. Without their opposition we could never have braced and anchored and fortified ourselves, as the oak is braced and anchored for its thousand battles with the tempests. Our trials, our sorrows, and our griefs develop us in a similar way.
“Obstacles,” says Mitchell, “are great incentives. I lived for whole years upon Virgil and found myself well off.” Poverty, Horace tells us, drove him to poetry.
Nothing more unmans a man than to take away from him the spur of necessity, which urges him onward and upward to the goal of his ambition. Man is naturally lazy, and wealth induces indolence. The great object of life is development, the unfolding and drawing out of our powers, and whatever tempts us to a life of indolence or inaction, or to seek pleasure merely, whatever furnishes us a crutch when we can develop our muscles better by walking, all helps, guides, props, whatever tempts to a life of inaction, in whatever guise it may come, is a curse. I always pity the boy or girl with inherited wealth, for the temptation to hide their talents in a napkin, undeveloped, is very, very great. It is not natural for them to walk when they can ride, to go alone when they can be helped.
Quentin Matsys was a blacksmith at Antwerp. When in his twentieth year he wished to marry the daughter of a painter. The father refused his consent. “Wert thou a painter,” said he, “she should be thine; but a blacksmith–never!” “_I will be_ a painter,” said the young man. He applied to his new art with so much perseverance that in a short time he produced pictures which gave a promise of the highest excellence. He gained for his reward the fair hand for which he sighed, and rose ere long to a high rank in his profession.
Take two acorns from the same tree, as nearly alike as possible; plant one on a hill by itself, and the other in the dense forest, and watch them grow. The oak standing alone is exposed to every storm. Its roots reach out in every direction, clutching the rocks and piercing deep into the earth. Every rootlet lends itself to steady the growing giant, as if in anticipation of fierce conflict with the elements. Sometimes its upward growth seems checked for years, but all the while it has been expending its energy in pushing a root across a large rock to gain a firmer anchorage. Then it shoots proudly aloft again, prepared to defy the hurricane. The gales which sport so rudely with its wide branches find more than their match, and only serve still further to toughen every minutest fibre from pith to bark.
The acorn planted in the deep forest shoots up a weak, slender sapling. Shielded by its neighbors, it feels no need of spreading its roots far and wide for support.
Take two boys, as nearly alike as possible. Place one in the country away from the hothouse culture and refinements of the city, with only the district school, the Sunday school, and a few books. Remove wealth and props of every kind; and, if he has the right kind of material in him, he will thrive. Every obstacle overcome lends him strength for the next conflict. If he falls, he rises with more determination than before. Like a rubber ball, the harder the obstacle he meets the higher he rebounds. Obstacles and opposition are but apparatus of the gymnasium in which the fibres of his manhood are developed. He compels respect and recognition from those who have ridiculed his poverty. Put the other boy in a Vanderbilt family. Give him French and German nurses; gratify every wish. Place him under the tutelage of great masters and send him to Harvard. Give him thousands a year for spending money, and let him travel extensively.
The two meet. The city lad is ashamed of his country brother. The plain, threadbare clothes, hard hands, tawny face, and awkward manner of the country boy make sorry contrast with the genteel appearance of the other. The poor boy bemoans his hard lot, regrets that he has “no chance in life,” and envies the city youth. He thinks that it is a cruel Providence that places such a wide gulf between them. They meet again as men, but how changed! It is as easy to distinguish the sturdy, self-made man from the one who has been propped up all his life by wealth, position, and family influence, as it is for the shipbuilder to tell the difference between the plank from the rugged mountain oak and one from the sapling of the forest. If you think there is no difference, place each plank in the bottom of a ship, and test them in a hurricane at sea.
The athlete does not carry the gymnasium away with him, but he carries the skill and muscle which give him his reputation.
The lessons you learn at school will give you strength and skill in after life, and power, just in proportion to the accuracy, the clearness of perception with which you learn your lessons. The school was your gymnasium. You do not carry away the Greek and Latin text-books, the geometry and algebra into your occupations any more than the athlete carries the apparatus of the gymnasium, but you carry away the skill and the power if you have been painstaking, accurate and faithful.
“It is in me, and it _shall_ come out!” And it did. For Richard Brinsley Sheridan became the most brilliant, eloquent and amazing statesman of his day. Yet if his first efforts had been but moderately successful, he might have been content with mere mediocrity. It was his defeats that nerved him to strive for eminence and win it. But it took hard, persistent work in his case to secure it, just as it did in that of so many others.
Byron was stung into a determination to go to the top by a scathing criticism of his first book, “Hours of Idleness,” published when he was but nineteen years of age. Macaulay said, “There is scarce an instance in history of so sudden a rise to so dizzy an eminence as Byron reached.” In a few years he stood by the side of such men as Scott, Southey and Campbell. Many an orator like “stuttering Jack Curran,” or “Orator Mum,” as he was once called, has been spurred into eloquence by ridicule and abuse.
Where the sky is gray and the climate unkindly, where the soil yields nothing save to the diligent hand, and life itself cannot be supported without incessant toil, man has reached his highest range of physical and intellectual development.
The most beautiful and the strongest animals, as a rule, have come from the same narrow belt of latitude which has produced the heroes of the world.
The most beautiful as well as the strongest characters are not developed in warm climates, where man finds his bread ready made on trees, and where exertion is a great effort, but rather in a trying climate and on a stubborn soil. It is no chance that returns to the Hindoo ryot a penny and to the American laborer a dollar for his daily toil; that makes Mexico with her mineral wealth poor, and New England with its granite and ice rich. It is rugged necessity, it is the struggle to obtain, it is poverty the priceless spur, that develops the stamina of manhood, and calls the race out of barbarism. Labor found the world a wilderness and has made it a garden.
The law of adaptation by which conditions affect an organism is simple and well known. It is that which callouses the palm of the oarsman, strengthens the waist of the wrestler, fits the back to its burden. It inexorably compels the organism to adapt itself to its conditions, to like them, and so to survive them.
As soon as young eagles can fly the old birds tumble them out and tear the down and feathers from their nest. The rude and rough experience of the eaglet fits him to become the bold king of birds, fierce and expert in pursuing his prey.
Benjamin Franklin ran away and George Law was turned out of doors. Thrown upon their own resources, they early acquired the energy and skill to overcome difficulties.
Boys who are bound out, crowded out, kicked out, usually “turn out,” while those who do not have these disadvantages frequently fail to “come out.”
From an aimless, idle and useless brain, emergencies often call out powers and virtues before unknown and unsuspected. How often we see a young man develop astounding ability and energy after the death of a parent or the loss of a fortune, or after some other calamity has knocked the props and crutches from under him. The prison has roused the slumbering fire in many a noble mind. “Robinson Crusoe” was written in prison. The “Pilgrim’s Progress” appeared in Bedford Jail. The “Life and Times” of Baxter, Eliot’s “Monarchia of Man,” and Penn’s “No Cross, No Crown,” were written by prisoners. Sir Walter Raleigh wrote “The History of the World” during his imprisonment of thirteen years. Luther translated the Bible while confined in the Castle of Wartburg. For twenty years Dante worked in exile, and even under sentence of death. His works were burned in public after his death; but genius will not burn.
Adversity exasperates fools, dejects cowards, draws out the faculties of the wise and industrious, puts the modest to the necessity of trying their skill, awes the opulent, and makes the idle industrious. Neither do uninterrupted success and prosperity qualify men for usefulness and happiness. The storms of adversity, like those of the ocean, rouse the faculties, and excite the invention, prudence, skill and fortitude of the voyager. The martyrs of ancient times, in bracing their minds to outward calamities, acquired a loftiness of purpose and a moral heroism worth a lifetime of softness and security. A man upon whom continuous sunshine falls is like the earth in August: he becomes parched and dry and hard and close-grained. Men have drawn from adversity the elements of greatness. If you have the blues, go and see the poorest and sickest families within your knowledge. The darker the setting, the brighter the diamond. Don’t run about and tell acquaintances that you have been unfortunate; people do not like to have unfortunate men for acquaintances.
This is the crutch age. “Helps” and “aids” are advertised everywhere. We have institutes, colleges, universities, teachers, books, libraries, newspapers, magazines. Our thinking is done for us. Our problems are all worked out in “explanations” and “keys.” Our boys are too often tutored through college with very little study. “Short roads” and “abridged methods” are characteristic of the century. Ingenious methods are used everywhere to get the drudgery out of the college course. Newspapers give us our politics, and preachers our religion. Self-help and self-reliance are getting old fashioned. Nature, as if conscious of delayed blessings, has rushed to man’s relief with her wondrous forces, and undertakes to do the world’s drudgery and emancipate him from Eden’s curse.
CHAPTER IX.
DEAD IN EARNEST.
It is the live coal that kindles others, not the dead. Whatmade Demosthenes the greatest of all orators was that heappeared the most entirely possessed by the feelings he wishedto inspire. The effect produced by Charles Fox, who by theexaggerations of party spirit, was often compared toDemosthenes, seems to have arisen wholly from this earnestness,which made up for the want of almost every grace, both ofmanner and style.–ANON.
Twelve poor men taken out of boats and creeks, without any helpof learning, should conquer the world to the cross.–STEPHEN CARNOCK.
For his heart was in his work, and the heartGiveth grace unto every art.–LONGFELLOW.
He did it with all his heart and prospered.–II. CHRONICLES.
The only conclusive evidence of a man’s sincerity is that hegives himself for a principle. Words, money, all things elseare comparatively easy to give away; but when a man makes agift of his daily life and practice, it is plain that thetruth, whatever it may be, has taken possession of him.–LOWELL.
“The emotions,” says Whipple, “may all be included in the single word ‘enthusiasm,’ or that impulsive force which liberates the mental power from the ice of timidity as spring loosens the streams from the grasp of winter, and sends them forth in a rejoicing rush. The mind of youth, when impelled by this original strength and enthusiasm of Nature, is keen, eager, inquisitive, intense, audacious, rapidly assimilating facts into faculties and knowledge into power, and above all teeming with that joyous fullness of creative life which radiates thoughts as inspirations, and magnetizes as well as informs.”
“Columbus, my hero,” exclaims Carlyle, “royalist sea-king of all! It is no friendly environment this of thine, in the waste, deep waters; around thee mutinous discouraged souls, behind thee disgrace and ruin, before thee the unpenetrated veil of night. Brother, these wild water-mountains, bounding from their deep bases (ten miles deep, I am told), are not there on thy behalf! Meseems _they_ have other work than floating thee forward:–and the huge winds, that sweep from Ursa Major to the tropics and equator, dancing their giant-waltz through the kingdoms of chaos and immensity, they care little about filling rightly or filling wrongly the small shoulder-of-mutton sails in this cockle skiff of thine! Thou art not among articulate-speaking friends, my brother; thou art among immeasurable dumb monsters, tumbling, howling wide as the world here. Secret, far-off, invisible to all hearts but thine, there lies a help in them: see how thou wilt get at that. Patiently thou wilt wait till the mad southwester spend itself, saving thyself by dexterous science of defence the while: valiantly, with swift decision, wilt thou strike in, when the favoring east wind, the possible, springs up. Mutiny of men thou wilt sternly repress; weakness, despondency, thou wilt cheerily encourage: thou wilt swallow down complaint, unreason, weariness, weakness of others and thyself;–how much wilt thou swallow down? There shall be a depth of silence in thee, deeper than this sea, which is but ten miles deep: a silence unsoundable; known to God only. Thou shalt be a great man. Yes, my world-soldier, thou of the world marine-service,–thou wilt have to be greater than this tumultuous unmeasured world here round thee is: thou, in thy strong soul, as with wrestler’s arms, shall embrace it, harness it down; and make it bear thee on,–to new Americas, or whither God wills!”
With what concentration of purpose did Washington put the whole weight of his character into the scales of our cause in the Revolution! With what earnest singleness of aim did Lincoln in the cabinet, Grant in the field, throw his whole soul into the contest of our civil war?
The power of Phillips Brooks, at which men wondered, lay in his tremendous earnestness.
“No matter what your work is,” says Emerson, “let it be yours; no matter if you are a tinker or preacher, blacksmith or president, let what you are doing be organic, let it be in your bones, and you open the door by which the affluence of heaven and earth shall stream into you.” Again, he says: “God will not have His works made manifest by cowards. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise, shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the attempt, his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no invention, no hope.”
“I do not know how it is with others when speaking on an important question,” said Henry Clay; “but on such occasions I seem to be unconscious of the external world. Wholly engrossed by the subject before me, I lose all sense of personal identity, of time, or of surrounding objects.”
“I have been so busy for twenty years trying to save the souls of other people,” said Livingstone, “that I had forgotten that I have one of my own until a savage auditor asked me if I felt the influence of the religion I was advocating.”
“Well, I’ve worked hard enough for it,” said Malibran when a critic expressed his admiration of her D in alt, reached by running up three octaves from low D; “I’ve been chasing it for a month. I pursued it everywhere,–when I was dressing, when I was doing my hair; and at last I found it on the toe of a shoe that I was putting on.”
“People smile at the enthusiasm of youth,” said Charles Kingsley; “that enthusiasm which they themselves secretly look back at with a sigh, perhaps unconscious that it is partly their own fault that they ever lost it.”
“Should I die this minute,” said Nelson at an important crisis, “want of frigates would be found written on my heart.”
Said Dr. Arnold, the celebrated instructor: “I feel more and more the need of intercourse with men who take life in earnest. It is painful to me to be always on the surface of things. Not that I wish for much of what is called religious conversation. That is often apt to be on the surface. But I want a sign which one catches by a sort of masonry, that a man knows what he is about in life. When I find this it opens my heart with as fresh a sympathy as when I was twenty years younger.”
Archimedes, the greatest geometer of antiquity, was consulted by the king in regard to a gold crown suspected of being fraudulently alloyed with silver. While considering the best method of detecting any fraud, he plunged into a full bathing tub; and, with the thought that the water that overflowed must be equal in weight to his body, he discovered the method of obtaining the bulk of the crown compared with an equally heavy mass of pure gold. Excited by the discovery, he ran through the streets undressed, crying, “I have found it.”
Equally celebrated is his remark, “Give me where to stand and I will move the world.”
His only remark to the Roman soldier who entered his room while engaged in geometrical study, was, “Don’t step on my circle.”
Refusing to follow the soldier to Marcellus, who had captured the city, he was killed on the spot. He is said to have remarked, “My head, but not my circle.”
“Every great and commanding moment in the annals of the world,” says Emerson, “is the triumph of some enthusiasm. The victories of the Arabs after Mahomet, who, in a few years, from a small and mean beginning, established a larger empire than that of Rome, is an example. They did they knew not what. The naked Derar, horsed on an idea, was found an overmatch for a troop of cavalry. The women fought like men and conquered the Roman men. They were miserably equipped, miserably fed. They were temperance troops. There was neither brandy nor flesh needed to feed them. They conquered Asia and Africa and Spain on barley. The Caliph Omar’s walking-stick struck more terror into those who saw it than another man’s sword.”
Horace Vernet’s enthusiasm and devotion to the one idea of his life knew no bounds. He had himself lashed to the mast in a terrible gale on the Mediterranean when all others on board were seized with terror, and with great delight sketched the towering waves which threatened every minute to swallow the vessel. Several writers tell the story that a great artist, Giotto, about to paint the crucifixion, induced a poor man to let him bind him upon a cross in order that he might get a better idea of the terrible scene that he was about to put upon the canvas. He promised faithfully that he would release his model in an hour, but to the latter’s horror the painter seized a dagger and plunged it into his heart; and, while the blood was streaming from the ghastly wound, painted his death agony.
Beecher was a very dull boy and was the last member of the family of whom anything was expected. He had a weak memory, and disliked study. He shunned society and wanted to go to sea. Even when he went to college many of his classmates stood ahead of him, who have fallen into oblivion. But when he was converted his whole life changed: he was full of enthusiasm, hopefulness and zeal. Nothing was too menial for him to undertake to carry his purpose. He chopped wood, built the fire in his little church in Lawrenceburg, Ind., of only eighteen members, cleaned the lamps, swept the floor and washed the windows. He built the fire, baked, washed, when his wife was ill. The pent-up enthusiasm of his ambitious life burst the barriers of his inhospitable surroundings until he blossomed out into America’s greatest pulpit orator.
When Handel was a little boy he bought a clavichord, hid it in the attic, and went there at night to play upon it, muffling the strings with small pieces of fine woolen cloth so that the sounds should not wake the family. Michael Angelo neglected school to copy drawings which he dared not carry home. Murillo filled the margin of his school-book with drawings. Dryden read Polybius before he was ten years old. Le Brum, when a boy, drew with a piece of charcoal on the walls of the house. Pope wrote excellent verses at fourteen. Blaise Pascal, the French mathematician, composed at sixteen a tract on the conic sections.
Professor Agassiz was so enthusiastic in his work and so loved the fishes, the fowl and the cattle that it is said these creatures would die for him to give him their skeletons. His father wanted him to fit for commercial life, but the fish haunted him day and night.
Confucius said that “he was so eager in the pursuit of knowledge that he forgot his food;” and that, “in the joy of its attainment, he forgot his sorrows;” and that “he did not even perceive that old age was coming on.”
“That boy tries to make himself useful,” said an employer of the errand boy, George W. Childs. It is this trying to be useful and helpful that promotes us in life.
Once, when Mr. Harvey, an accomplished mathematician, was in a bookseller’s shop, he saw a poor lad of mean appearance enter and write something on a slip of paper and give it to the proprietor. On inquiry he found this was a poor deaf boy, Kitto, who afterward became one of the most noted Biblical scholars in the world, and who wrote his first book in the poor-house. He had come to borrow a book. When a lad he had fallen backward from a ladder thirty-five feet upon the pavement with a load of slates that he was carrying to the roof. The poor lad was so thirsty for books that he would borrow from booksellers who would loan them to him out of pity, read them and return them.
The _Youth’s Companion_ says that Mr. Edison in his new biography–his “Life and Inventions”–describes the accidental method by which he discovered the principle of the phonograph. There is a kind of accident that happens only to a certain kind of man.
“I was singing to the mouthpiece of a telephone,” Mr. Edison says, “when the vibrations of the voice sent the fine steel point into my finger. That set me to thinking. If I could record the actions of the point, and send the point over the same surface afterward, I saw no reason why the thing would not talk.
“I tried the experiment first on a slip of telegraph paper and found that the point made an alphabet. I shouted the words ‘Halloo! Halloo!’ into the mouthpiece, ran the paper back over the steel point, and heard a faint ‘Halloo! Halloo!’ in return.
“I determined to make a machine that would work accurately, and gave my assistants instructions, telling them what I had discovered. They laughed at me. That’s the whole story. The phonograph is the result of the pricking of a finger.”
It is one thing to hit upon an idea, however, and another thing to carry it out to perfection. The machine would talk, but, like many young children, it had difficulty with certain sounds–in the present case with aspirants and sibilants. Mr. Edison’s biographers say, but the statement is somewhat exaggerated:
“He has frequently spent from fifteen to twenty hours daily, for six or seven months on a stretch, dinning the word ‘Spezia,’ for example, into the stubborn surface of the wax. ‘Spezia,’ roared the inventor, ‘Pezia’ lisped the phonograph in tones of ladylike reserve, and so on through thousands of graded repetitions till the desired results were obtained.
“The primary education of the phonograph was comical in the extreme. To hear those grave and reverend signors, rich in scientific honors, patiently reiterating:
Mary had a little lamb,A little lamb, _lamb_, LAMB,
and elaborating that point with anxious gravity, was to receive a practical demonstration of the eternal unfitness of things.”
Milton, when blind, old and poor, showed a royal cheerfulness and never “bated one jot of heart or hope, but steered right onward.”
Dickens’ characters seemed to possess him, and haunt him day and night until properly portrayed in his stories.
At a time when it was considered dangerous to society in Europe for the common people to read books and listen to lectures on any but religious subjects, Charles Knight determined to enlighten the masses by cheap literature. He believed that a paper could be instructive and not be dull, cheap without being wicked. He started the _Penny Magazine_, which acquired a circulation of 200,000 the first year. Knight projected the _Penny Cyclopedia_, the _Library of Entertaining Knowledge_, _Half-Hours With the Best Authors_, and other useful books at a low price. His whole adult life was spent in the work of elevating the common people by cheap, yet wholesome, publications. He died in poverty, but grateful people have erected a noble monument over his ashes.
Demosthenes roused the torpid spirits of his countrymen to a vigorous effort to preserve their independence against the designs of an ambitious and artful prince, and Philip had just reason to say he was more afraid of that man than of all the fleets and armies of the Athenians.
Horace Greeley was a hampered genius who never had a chance to show himself until he started the _Tribune_, into which he poured his whole individuality, life and soul.
Emerson lost the first years of his life trying to be somebody else. He finally came to himself and said: “If a single man plant himself indomitably on his instincts, and there abide, the whole world will come round to him in the end.” “Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful we must carry it with us or we find it not.” “The man that stands by himself the universe stands by him also.” “Take Michael Angelo’s course, ‘to confide in one’s self and be something of worth and value.'” “None of us will ever accomplish anything excellent or commanding except when he listens to this whisper which is heard by him alone.”
Many unknown writers would make fame and fortune if, like Bunyan and Milton and Dickens and George Eliot and Scott and Emerson, they would write their own lives in their MSS., if they would write about things they have seen, that they have felt, that they have known. It is life thoughts that stir and convince, that move and persuade, that carry their very iron particles into the blood. The real heaven has never been outdone by the ideal.
Neither poverty nor misfortune could keep Linnæus from his botany.
The English and Austrian armies called Napoleon the one-hundred-thousand-man. His presence was considered equal to that force in battle.
The lesson he teaches is that which vigor always teaches–that there is always room for it. To what heaps of cowardly doubts is not that man’s life an answer.
CHAPTER X.
TO BE GREAT, CONCENTRATE.
Let every one ascertain his special business and calling, andthen stick to it.–FRANKLIN.
“He who follows two hares is sure to catch neither.”
None sends his arrow to the mark in view,Whose hand is feeble, or his aim untrue.–COWPER.
He who wishes to fulfill his mission must be a man of one idea,that is, of one great overmastering purpose, overshadowing allhis aims, and guiding and controlling his entire life.–BATE.
The shortest way to do anything is to do only one thing at atime.–CECIL.
The power of concentration is one of the most valuable ofintellectual attainments.–HORACE MANN.
The power of a man increases steadily by continuance in onedirection.–EMERSON.
Careful attention to one thing often proves superior to geniusand art.–CICERO.
“It puffed like a locomotive,” said a boy of the donkey engine; “it whistled like the steam-cars, but it didn’t go anywhere.”
The world is full of donkey-engines, of people who can whistle and puff and pull, but they don’t go anywhere, they have no definite aim, no controlling purpose.
The great secret of Napoleon’s power lay in his marvelous ability to concentrate his forces upon a single point. After finding the weak place in the enemy’s ranks he would mass his men and hurl them upon the enemy like an avalanche until he made a breach. What a lesson of the power of concentration there is in that man’s life! He was such a master of himself that he could concentrate his powers upon the smallest detail as well as upon an empire.
When Napoleon had anything to say he always went straight to his mark. He had a purpose in everything he did; there was no dilly-dallying nor shilly-shallying; he knew what he wanted to say, and said it. It was the same with all his plans; what he wanted to do, he did. He always hit the bull’s eye. His great success in war was due largely to his definiteness of aim. He knew what he wanted to do, and did it. He was like a great burning glass, concentrating the rays of the sun upon a single spot; he burned a hole wherever he went.
The sun’s rays scattered do no execution, but concentrated in a burning glass, they melt solid granite; yes, a diamond, even. There are plenty of men who have ability enough, the rays of their faculties taken separately are all right; but they are powerless to collect them, to concentrate them upon a single object. They lack the burning glass of a purpose, to focalize upon one spot the separate rays of their ability. Versatile men, universal geniuses, are usually weak, because they have no power to concentrate the rays of their ability, to focalize them upon one point, until they burn a hole in whatever they undertake.
This power to bring all of one’s scattered forces into one focal point makes all the difference between success and failure. The sun might blaze out upon the earth forever without burning a hole in it or setting anything on fire; whereas a very few of these rays concentrated in a burning glass would, as stated, transform a diamond into vapor.
Sir James Mackintosh was a man of marvelous ability. He excited in everybody who knew him great expectations, but there was no purpose in his life to act as a burning glass to collect the brilliant rays of his intellect, by which he might have dazzled the world. Most men have ability enough, if they could only focalize it into one grand, central, all-absorbing purpose, to accomplish great things.
“To encourage me in my efforts to cultivate the power of attention,” said a friend of John C. Calhoun, “he stated that to this end he had early subjected his mind to such a rigid course of discipline, and had persisted without faltering until he had acquired a perfect control over it; that he could now confine it to any subject as long as he pleased, without wandering even for a moment; that it was his uniform habit, when he set out alone to walk or ride, to select a subject for reflection, and that he never suffered his attention to wander from it until he was satisfied with its examination.”
“My friend laughs at me because I have but one idea,” said a learned American chemist; “but I have learned that if I wish ever to make a breach in a wall, I must play my guns continually upon one point.”
“It is his will that has made him what he is,” said an intimate friend of Philip D. Armour, the Chicago millionaire. “He fixes his eye on something ahead, and no matter what rises upon the right or the left he never sees it. He goes straight in pursuit of the object ahead, and overtakes it at last. He never gives up what he undertakes.”
While Horace Greeley would devote a column of the New York _Tribune_ to an article, Thurlow Weed would treat the same subject in a few words in the Albany _Evening Journal_, and put the argument into such shape as to carry far more conviction.
“If you would be pungent,” says Southey, “be brief; for it is with words as with sunbeams–the more they are condensed the deeper they burn.”
“The only valuable kind of study,” said Sydney Smith, “is to read so heartily that dinner-time comes two hours before you expected it; to sit with your Livy before you and hear the geese cackling that saved the Capitol, and to see with your own eyes the Carthaginian sutlers gathering up the rings of the Roman knights after the battle of Cannæ, and heaping them into bushels, and to be so intimately present at the actions you are reading of, that when anybody knocks at the door it will take you two or three seconds to determine whether you are in your own study or on the plains of Lombardy, looking at Hannibal’s weather-beaten face and admiring the splendor of his single eye.”
“Never study on speculation,” says Waters; “all such study is vain. Form a plan; have an object; then work for it; learn all you can about it, and you will be sure to succeed. What I mean by studying on speculation is that aimless learning of things because they may be useful some day; which is like the conduct of the woman who bought at auction a brass door-plate with the name of Thompson on it, thinking it might be useful some day!”
“I resolved, when I began to read law,” said Edward Sugden, afterward Lord St. Leonard, “to make everything I acquired perfectly my own, and never go on to a second reading till I had entirely accomplished the first. Many of the competitors read as much in a day as I did in a week; but at the end of twelve months my knowledge was as fresh as on the day it was acquired, while theirs had glided away from their recollection.”
“Very often,” says Sidney Smith, “the modern precept of education is, ‘Be ignorant of nothing.’ But my advice is, have the courage to be ignorant of a great number of things, that you may avoid the calamity of being ignorant of all things.”
“Lord, help me to take fewer things into my hands, and to do them well,” is a prayer recommended by Paxton Hood to an overworked man.
“Many persons seeing me so much engaged in active life,” said Edward Bulwer Lytton, “and as much about the world as if I had never been a student, have said to me, ‘When do you get time to write all your books? How on earth do you contrive to do so much work?’ I shall surprise you by the answer I made. The answer is this–I contrive to do so much work by never doing too much at a time. A man to get through work well must not overwork himself; or, if he do too much to-day, the reaction of fatigue will come, and he will be obliged to do too little to-morrow. Now, since I began really and earnestly to study, which was not till I had left college, and was actually in the world, I may perhaps say that I have gone through as large a course of general reading as most men of my time. I have traveled much and I have seen much; I have mixed much in politics, and in the various business of life; and in addition to all this, I have published somewhere about sixty volumes, some upon subjects requiring much special research. And what time do you think, as a general rule, I have devoted to study, to reading, and writing? Not more than three hours a day; and, when Parliament is sitting, not always that. But then, during these three hours, I have given my whole attention to what I was about.”
“The things that are crowded out of a life are the test of that life. Not what we would like, but what we long for and strive for with all our might we attain.”
“One great cause of failure of young men in business,” says Carnegie, “is lack of concentration. They are prone to seek outside investments. The cause of many a surprising failure lies in so doing. Every dollar of capital and credit, every business-thought, should be concentrated upon the one business upon which a man has embarked. He should never scatter his shot. It is a poor business which will not yield better returns for increased capital than any outside investment. No man or set of men or corporation can manage a business-man’s capital as well as he can manage it himself. The rule, ‘Do not put all your eggs in one basket,’ does not apply to a man’s life-work. Put all your eggs in one basket and then watch that basket, is the true doctrine–the most valuable rule of all.”
“A man must not only desire to be right,” said Beecher, “he must _be_ right. You may say, ‘I wish to send this ball so as to kill the lion crouching yonder, ready to spring upon me. My wishes are all right, and I hope Providence will direct the ball.’ Providence won’t. You must do it; and if you do not, you are a dead man.”
The ruling idea of Milton’s life and the key to his mental history is his resolve to produce a great poem. Not that the aspiration in itself is singular, for it is probably shared in by every poet in his turn. As every clever schoolboy is destined by himself or his friends to become Lord-Chancellor, and every private in the French army carries in his haversack the baton of a marshal, so it is a necessary ingredient of the dream of Parnassus that it should embody itself in a form of surpassing brilliance. What distinguishes Milton from the crowd of youthful literary aspirants, _audax juventa_, is his constancy of resolve. He not only nourished through manhood the dream of youth, keeping under the importunate instincts which carry off most ambitions in middle life into the pursuit of place, profit, honor–the thorns which spring up and smother the wheat–but carried out his dream in its integrity in old age. He formed himself for this achievement and no other. Study at home, travel abroad, the arena of political controversy, the public service, the practice of the domestic virtues, were so many parts of the schooling which was to make a poet.
Bismarck adopted it as the aim of his public life “to snatch Germany from Austrian oppression,” and to gather round Prussia, in a North German Confederation, all the states whose tone of thought, religion, manners and interest “were in harmony with those of Prussia.” “To attain this end,” he once said in conversation, “I would brave all dangers–exile, the scaffold itself. What matter if they hang me, provided the rope with which I am hung binds this new Germany firmly to the Prussian throne?”
It is related of Greeley that, when he was writing his “American Conflict,” he found it necessary to conceal himself somewhere, to prevent constant interruptions. He accordingly took a room in the Bible house, where he worked from ten in the morning till five in the afternoon, and then appeared in the sanctum, seemingly as fresh as ever.
Cooper Institute is the evening school which Peter Cooper, as long ago as 1810, resolved to found some day, when he was looking about as an apprentice for a place where he could go to school evenings. Through all his career in various branches of business he never lost sight of this object; and, as his wealth increased, he was pleased that it brought nearer the realization of his dream.
“See a great lawyer like Rufus Choate,” says Dr. Storrs, “in a case where his convictions are strong and his feelings are enlisted. He saw long ago, as he glanced over the box, that five of those in it were sympathetic with him; as he went on he became equally certain of seven; the number now has risen to ten; but two are still left whom he feels that he has not persuaded or mastered. Upon them he now concentrates his power, summing up the facts, setting forth anew and more forcibly the principles, urging upon them his view of the case with a more and more intense action of his mind upon theirs, until one only is left. Like the blow of a hammer, continually repeated until the iron bar crumbles beneath it, his whole force comes with ceaseless percussion on that one mind till it has yielded, and accepts the conviction on which the pleader’s purpose is fixed. Men say afterward, ‘He surpassed himself.’ It was only because the singleness of his aim gave unity, intensity, and overpowering energy to the mind.”
“The foreman of the jury, however,” said Whipple, “was a hard-hearted, practical man, a model of business intellect and integrity, but with an incapacity of understanding any intellect or conscience radically differing from his own. Mr. Choate’s argument, as far as the facts and the law were concerned, was through in an hour. Still he went on speaking. Hour after hour passed, and yet he continued to speak with constantly increasing eloquence, repeating and recapitulating, without any seeming reason, facts which he had already stated and arguments which he had already urged. The truth was, as I gradually learned, that he was engaged in a hand-to-hand–or rather in a brain-to-brain and a heart-to-heart–contest with the foreman, whose resistance he was determined to break down, but who confronted him for three hours with defiance observable in every rigid line of his honest countenance. ‘You fool!’ was the burden of the advocate’s ingenious argument. ‘You rascal!’ was the phrase legibly printed on the foreman’s incredulous face. But at last the features of the foreman began to relax, and at the end the stern lines melted into acquiescence with the opinion of the advocate, who had been storming at the defences of his mind, his heart, and his conscience for five hours, and had now entered as victor. The verdict was ‘Not guilty.'”
“He who would do some great thing in this short life must apply himself to the work with such a concentration of his forces as, to idle spectators, who live only to amuse themselves, looks like insanity.”
It is generally thought that when a man is said to be dissipated in his habits he must be a drinking man, or a gambler, or licentious, or all three; but dissipation is of two kinds, coarse and refined. A man can dissipate or scatter all of his mental energies and physical power by indulging in too many respectable diversions, as easily as in habits of a viler nature. Property and its cares make some men dissipated; too many friends make others. The exactions of “society,” the balls, parties, receptions, and various entertainments constantly being given and attended by the _beau monde_, constitute a most wasting species of dissipation. Others, again, fritter away all their time and strength in political agitations, or in controversies and gossip; others in idling with music or some other one of the fine arts; others in feasting or fasting, as their dispositions and feelings incline. But the man of concentration of purpose is never a dissipated man in any sense, good or bad. He has no time to devote to useless trifling of any kind, but puts in as many strokes of faithful work as possible toward the attainment of some definite good.
CHAPTER XI.
AT ONCE.
Note the sublime precision that leads the earth over a circuitof 500,000,000 miles back to the solstice at the appointedmoment without the loss of one second–no, not the millionthpart of a second–for ages and ages of which it traveled thatimperial road.–EDWARD EVERETT.
Despatch is the soul of business.–CHESTERFIELD.
Unfaithfulness in the keeping of an appointment is an act ofclear dishonesty. You may as well borrow a person’s money ashis time.–HORACE MANN.
By the street of by-and-by one arrives at the house of never.–CERVANTES.
The greatest thief this world has ever produced isprocrastination, and he is still at large.–H. W. SHAW.
“Oh, how I do appreciate a boy who is always on time!” says H. C. Bowen. “How quickly you learn to depend on him, and how soon you find yourself intrusting him with weightier matters! The boy who has acquired a reputation for punctuality has made the first contribution to the capital that in after years makes his success a certainty!”
“Nothing commends a young man so much to his employers,” says John Stuart Blackie, “as accuracy and punctuality in the conduct of his business. And no wonder. On each man’s exactitude depends the comfortable and easy going of his machine. If the clock goes fitfully nobody knows the time of day; and, if your task is a link in the chain of another man’s work, you are his clock, and he ought to be able to rely on you.”
“The whole period of youth,” said Ruskin, “is one essentially of formation, edification, instruction. There is not an hour of it but is trembling with destinies–not a moment of which, once passed, the appointed work can ever be done again, or the neglected blow struck on the cold iron.”
“To-morrow, didst thou say?” asked Cotton. “Go to–I will not hear of it. To-morrow! ‘t is a sharper who stakes his penury against thy plenty–who takes thy ready cash and pays thee naught but wishes, hopes and promises, the currency of idiots. _To-morrow!_ it is a period nowhere to be found in all the hoary registers of time, unless perchance in the fool’s calendar. Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society with those that own it. ‘Tis fancy’s child, and folly is its father; wrought of such stuffs as dreams are; and baseless as the fantastic visions of the evening.” Oh, how many a wreck on the road to success could say: “I have spent all my life in the pursuit of to-morrow, being assured that to-morrow has some vast benefit or other in store for me.”
“I give it as my deliberate and solemn conviction,” said Dr. Fitch, “that the individual who is tardy in meeting an appointment will never be respected or successful in life.”
“If a man has no regard for the time of other men,” said Horace Greeley, “why should he have for their money? What is the difference between taking a man’s hour and taking his five dollars? There are many men to whom each hour of the business day is worth more than five dollars.”
A man who keeps his time will keep his word; in truth, he cannot keep his word unless he _does_ keep his time.
When the Duchess of Sutherland came late, keeping the court waiting, the queen, who was always vexed by tardiness, presented her with her own watch, saying, “I am afraid your’s does not keep good time.”
“Then you must get a new watch, or I another secretary,” replied Washington, when his secretary excused the lateness of his attendance by saying that his watch was too slow.
“I have generally found that a man who is good at an excuse is good for nothing else,” said Franklin to a servant who was always late, but always ready with an excuse.
One of the best things about school and college life is that the bell which strikes the hour for rising, for recitations, or for lectures, teaches habits of promptness. Every young man should have a watch which is a good timekeeper; one that is _nearly_ right encourages bad habits, and is an expensive investment at any price. Wear threadbare clothes if you must, but never carry an inaccurate watch.
“Five minutes behind time” has ruined many a man and many a firm.
“He who rises late,” says Fuller, “must trot all day, and shall scarcely overtake his business at night.”
Some people are too late for everything but ruin; when a nobleman apologized to George III. for being late, and said, “better late than never,” the king replied, “No, I say, _better never than late_.”
“Better late than never” is not half so good a maxim as “Better never late.”
If Samuel Budgett was even a minute late at an appointment he would apologize; he was as punctual as a chronometer. Punctuality is contagious. Napoleon infused promptness into his officers every minute. What power there is in promptness to take the drudgery out of a disagreeable task.
“A singular mischance has happened to some of our friends,” said Hamilton. “At the instant when He ushered them into existence, God gave them work to do, and He also gave them a competency of time; so much that if they began at the right moment and wrought with sufficient vigor, their time and their work would end together. But a good many years ago a strange misfortune befell them. A fragment of their allotted time was lost. They cannot tell what became of it, but sure enough, it has dropped out of existence; for just like two measuring lines laid alongside the one an inch shorter than the other, their work and their time run parallel, but the work is always ten minutes in advance of the time. They are not irregular. They are never too soon. Their letters are posted the very minute after the mail is closed. They arrive at the wharf just in time to see the steamboat off, they come in sight of the terminus precisely as the station gates are closing. They do not break any engagement nor neglect any duty; but they systematically go about it too late, and usually too late by about the same fatal interval.”
Of Tours, the wealthy New Orleans ship-owner, it is said that he was as methodical and regular as a clock, and that his neighbors were in the habit of judging of the time of the day by his movements.
“How,” asked a man of Sir Walter Raleigh, “do you accomplish so much and in so short a time?” “When I have anything do, I go and do it,” was the reply. The man who always acts promptly, even if he makes occasional mistakes, will succeed when a procrastinator will fail–even if he have the better judgment.
When asked how he got through so much work, Lord Chesterfield replied: “Because I never put off till morrow what I can do to-day.”
Dewitt, pensionary of Holland, answered the same question: “Nothing is more easy; never do but one thing at a time, and never put off until to-morrow what can be done to-day.”
Walter Scott was a very punctual man. This was the secret of his enormous achievements. He made it a rule to answer all letters the day they were received. He rose at five. By breakfast time he had broken the neck of the day’s work, as he used to say. Writing to a youth who had obtained a situation and asked him for advice, he gave this counsel: “Beware of stumbling over a propensity which easily besets you from not having your time fully employed–I mean what the women call dawdling. Do instantly whatever is to be done, and take the hours of recreation after business, never before it.”
Frederick the Great had a maxim: “Time is the only treasure of which it is proper to be avaricious.”
Leibnitz declared that “the loss of an hour is the loss of a part of life.”
Napoleon, who knew the value of time, remarked that it was the quarter hours that won battles. The value of minutes has been often recognized, and any person watching a railway clerk handing out tickets and change during the last few minutes available must have been struck with how much could be done in these short periods of time.
At the appointed hour the train starts and by and by is carrying passengers at the rate of sixty miles an hour. In a second you are carried twenty-nine yards. In one twenty-ninth of a second you pass over one yard. Now, one yard is quite an appreciable distance, but one twenty-ninth of a second is a period which cannot be appreciated.
The father of the Webster brothers, before going away to be gone for a week, gave his boys a stint to cut a field of corn, telling them that after it was done, if they had any time left, they might do what they pleased. The boys looked the field over on Monday morning and concluded they could do all the work in three days, so they decided to play the first three days. Thursday morning they went to the field, but it looked so much larger than it did on Monday morning, that they decided they could not possibly do it in three days, and rather than not do it all, they would not touch it. When the angry father returned, he called Ezekiel to him and asked him why they had not harvested the corn. “What have you been doing?” said the stern father. “Nothing, father.” “And what have you been doing, Daniel?” “Helping Zeke, sir.”
How many boys, and men, too, waste hours and days “helping Zeke!”
“Remember the world was created in six days,” said Napoleon to one of his officers. “Ask for whatever you please except time.”
Railroads and steamboats have been wonderful educators in promptness. No matter who is late they leave right on the minute.
It is interesting to watch people at a great railroad station, running, hurrying, trying to make up time, for they well know when the time arrives the train will leave.
Factories, shops, stores, banks, everything opens and closes on the minute. The higher the state of civilization the prompter is everything done. In countries without railroads, as in Eastern countries, everything is behind time. Everybody is indolent and lazy.
The world knows that the prompt man’s bills and notes will be paid on the day they are due, and will trust him. People will give him credit, for they know they can depend upon him. But lack of promptness will shake confidence almost as quickly as downright dishonesty. The man who has a habit of dawdling or listlessness will show it in everything he does. He is late at meals, late at work, dawdles on the street, loses his train, misses his appointments, and dawdles at his store until the banks are closed. Everybody he meets suffers more or less from his malady, for dawdling becomes practically a disease.
“You will never find time for anything,” said Charles Buxton; “if you want time you must make it.”
The best work we ever do is that which we do now, and can never repeat. “Too late,” is the curse of the unsuccessful, who forget that “one to-day is worth two to-morrows.”
Time accepts no sacrifice; it admits of neither redemption nor atonement. _It is the true avenger._ Your enemy may become your friend,–your injurer may do you justice,–but Time is inexorable, and has no mercy.
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio:Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.‘Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more preciousThan all the crimson treasures of life’s fountain.O! let it not elude thy grasp; but, likeThe good old patriarch upon record,Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.–NATHANIEL COTTON.
CHAPTER XII.
THOROUGHNESS.
Doing well depends upon doing completely.–PERSIAN PROVERB.
He who does well will always have patrons enough.–PLAUTUS.
If a man can write a better book, preach a better sermon, ormake a better mouse-trap than his neighbor, though he build hishouse in the woods, the world will make a beaten path to hisdoor.–EMERSON.
I hate a thing done by halves. If it be right, do it boldly; ifit be wrong, leave it undone.–GILPIN.
No two things differ more than Hurry and Dispatch. Hurry is themark of a weak mind, Dispatch of a strong one. * * * Like aturnstile, he (the weak man) is in everybody’s way, but stopsnobody; he talks a great deal, but says very little; looks intoeverything, but sees nothing; and has a hundred irons in thefire, but very few of them are hot, and with those few that arehe only burns his fingers.–COLTON.
“Make me as good a hammer as you know how,” said a carpenter to the blacksmith in a New York village before the first railroad was built; “six of us have come to work on the new church, and I’ve left mine at home.” “As good a one as I know how?” asked David Maydole, doubtfully, “but perhaps you don’t want to pay for as good a one as I know how to make.” “Yes, I do,” said the carpenter, “I want a good hammer.”
It was indeed a good hammer that he received, the best, probably, that had ever been made. By means of a longer hole than usual, David had wedged the handle in its place so that the head could not fly off, a wonderful improvement in the eyes of the carpenter, who boasted of his prize to his companions. They all came to the shop next day, and each ordered just such a hammer. When the contractor saw the tools, he ordered two for himself, asking that they be made a little better than those for his men. “I can’t make any better ones,” said Maydole; “when I make a thing, I make it as well as I can, no matter whom it is for.”
The storekeeper soon ordered two dozen, a supply unheard of in his previous business career. A New York dealer in tools came to the village to sell his wares, and bought all the storekeeper had, and left a standing order for all the blacksmith could make. David might have grown very wealthy by making goods of the standard already attained; but throughout his long and successful life he never ceased to study still further to perfect his hammers in the minutest detail. They were usually sold without any warrant of excellence, the word “Maydole” stamped on the head being universally considered a guaranty of the best article the world could produce. Character is power, and is the best advertisement in the world.
“Yes,” said he one day to the late James Parton, who told this story, “I have made hammers in this little village for twenty-eight years.” “Well,” replied the great historian, “by this time you ought to make a pretty good hammer.”
“No, I can’t,” was the reply, “I can’t make a pretty good hammer. I make the best hammer that’s made. My only care is to make a perfect hammer. If folks don’t want to pay me what they’re worth, they’re welcome to buy cheaper ones somewhere else. My wants are few, and I’m ready any time to go back to my blacksmith’s shop, where I worked forty years ago, before I thought of making hammers. Then I had a boy to blow by bellows, now I have one hundred and fifteen men. Do you see them over there watching the heads cook over the charcoal furnace, as your cook, if she knows what she is about, watches the chops broiling? Each of them is hammered out of a piece of iron, and is tempered under the inspection of an experienced man. Every handle is seasoned three years, or until there is no shrink left in it. Once I thought I could use machinery in manufacturing them; now I know that a perfect tool can’t be made by machinery, and every bit of the work is done by hand.”
“In telling this little story,” said Parton, “I have told thousands of stories. Take the word ‘hammer’ out of it, and put ‘glue’ in its place, and you have the history of Peter Cooper. By putting in other words, you can make the true history of every great business in the world which has lasted thirty years.”
“We have no secret,” said Manager Daniel J. Morrill, of the Cambria Iron Works, employing seven thousand men, at Johnstown, Pa. “We always try to beat our last batch of rails. That is all the secret we’ve got, and we don’t care who knows it.”
“I don’t try to see how cheap a machine I can produce, but how good a machine,” said the late John C. Whitin, of Northbridge, Mass., to a customer who complained of the high price of some cotton machinery. Business men soon learned what this meant; and when there was occasion to advertise any machinery for sale, New England cotton manufacturers were accustomed to state the number of years it had been in use and add, as an all-sufficient guaranty of Northbridge products, “Whitin make.” Put thoroughness into your work: it pays.
“The accurate boy is always the favored one,” said President Tuttle. If a carpenter must stand at his journeyman’s elbow to be sure his work is right, or if a cashier must run over his bookkeeper’s columns, he might as well do the work himself as employ another to do it in that way.
“Mr. Girard, can you not assist me by giving me a little work?” asked one John Smith, who had formerly worked for the great banker and attracted attention by his activity.
“Assistance–work–ah? You want work?” “Yes sir; it’s a long time since I’ve had anything to do.”
“Very well, I shall give you some. You see dem stone yondare?” “Yes, sir.” “Very well; you shall fetch and put them in this place; you see?” “Yes sir.” “And when you done, come to me at my bank.”
Smith finished his task, reported to Mr. Girard, and asked for more work. “Ah, ha, oui. You want more work? Very well; you shall go place dem stone where you got him. Understandez? You take him back.” “Yes, sir.”
Again Smith performed the work and waited on Mr. Girard for payment. “Ah, ha, you all finish?” “Yes, sir.” “Very well; how much money shall I give you?” “One dollar, sir.” “Dat is honest. You take no advantage. Dare is your dollar.” “Can I do anything else for you?” “Oui, come here when you get up to-morrow. You shall have more work.”
Smith was punctual, but for the third time, and yet again for the fourth, he was ordered to “take dem stone back again.” When he called for his pay in the evening Stephen Girard spoke very cordially. “Ah, Monsieur Smit, you shall be my man; you mind your own business and do it, ask no questions, you do not interfere. You got one vife?” “Yes, sir.” “Ah, dat is bad. Von vife is bad. Any little chicks?” “Yes, sir, five living.”
“Five? Dat is good; I like five. I like you, Monsieur Smit; you like to work; you mind your business. Now I do something for your five little chicks. There: take these five pieces of paper for your five little chicks; you shall work for them; you shall mind your own business, and your little chicks shall never want five more.” In a few years Mr. Smith became one of the wealthiest and most respected merchants of Philadelphia.
It is difficult to estimate the great influence upon a life of the early formed habit of doing everything to a finish, not leaving it half done, or pretty nearly done, but completely done. Nature finishes every little leaf, even to every little rib, its edges and stem, as exactly and perfectly as though it were the only leaf to be made that year. Even the flower that blooms in the mountain dell, where no human eye will ever behold it, is finished with the same perfection and exactness of form and outline, with the same delicate shade of color, with the same completeness of beauty, as though it was made for royalty in the queen’s garden. “Perfection to the finish” is a motto which every youth should adopt.
“How did you attain such excellence in your profession?” was asked of Sir Joshua Reynolds. “By observing one simple rule, namely, to make each picture the best,” he replied.
The discipline of being exact is uplifting. Progress is never more rapid than it is when we are studying to be accurate. The effort educates all the powers. Arthur Helps says: “I do not know that there is anything except it be humility, which is so valuable, as an incident of education, as accuracy: and accuracy can be taught. Direct lies told to the world are as dust in the balance when weighed against the falsehoods of inaccuracy.”
Too many youths enter upon their business in a languid, half-hearted way, and do their work in a slipshod manner. The consequence is that they inspire neither admiration nor confidence on the part of their superiors, and cut off almost every chance of success. There is a loose, perfunctory method of doing one’s work that never merits advance, and very rarely wins it. Instead of buckling to their task with all the force they possess, they merely touch it with the tips of their fingers, their rule apparently being, the maximum of ease with the minimum of work. The principle of Strafford, the great minister of Charles I., is indicated by his motto, the one word “Thorough.” It was said of King Hezekiah, “In every work that he began, he did it with all his heart and prospered.”
The stone-cutter goes to work on a stone and most patiently shapes it. He carves that bit of fern, putting all his skill and taste into it. And by-and-by the master says, “Well done,” and takes it away and gives him another block and tells him to work on that. And so he works on that from the rising of the sun till the going down of the same, and he only knows that he is earning his bread. And he continues to put all his skill and taste into his work. He has no idea what use will be made of these few stones which he has been carving, until afterward, when, one day, walking along the street, and looking up at the front of the Art Gallery, he sees the stones upon which he has worked. He did not know what they were for, but the architect did. And as he stands looking at his work on that structure which is the beauty of the whole street, he says: “I am glad I did it well.” And every day as he passes that way, he says to himself exultingly, “I did it well.” He did not draw the design, nor plan the building, and he knew nothing of what use was to be made of his work: but he took pains in cutting those stems; and when he saw they were a part of that magnificent structure, his soul rejoiced.
Work that is not finished, is not work at all; it is merely a botch. We often see this defect of incompleteness in a child, which increases in youth. All about the house, everywhere, there are half-finished things. It is true that children often become tired of things which they begin with enthusiasm; but there is a great difference in children about finishing what they undertake. A boy, for instance, will start out in the morning with great enthusiasm to dig his garden over; but, after a few minutes, his enthusiasm has evaporated, and he wants to go fishing. He soon becomes tired of this, and thinks he will make a boat. No sooner does he get a saw and knife and a few pieces of board about him than he makes up his mind that really what he wanted to do, after all, was to play ball, and this, in turn, must give way to something else.
One watch, set right, will do to set many by; but, on the other hand, one that goes wrong may be the means of misleading a whole neighborhood. The same may be said of the example we individually set to those around us.
“Whatever I have tried to do in life,” said Dickens, “I have tried with all my heart to do well. What I have devoted myself to, I have devoted myself to completely.”
It is no disgrace to be a shoemaker, but it is a disgrace for a shoemaker to make bad shoes.
A traveler, recently returned from Jerusalem, found, in conversation with Humboldt, that the latter was as conversant with the streets and houses of Jerusalem as he was himself. On being asked how long it was since he had visited it, the aged philosopher replied: “I have never been there; but I expected to go sixty years since, and I prepared myself.”
So noted for excellency was everything bearing the brand of George Washington, that a barrel of flour marked “George Washington, Mount Vernon,” was exempted from the customary inspection in the West India ports.
Pascal, the most wonderful mathematical genius of his time, whose work on conic sections, at sixteen, Descartes refused to believe could be produced at that age, is considered to have fixed the French language, as Luther did the German, by his writings. None of his provincial letters, with the exception of the last three, was more than eight quarto pages in length, yet he devoted twenty days to the writing of a single letter, and one of them was written no less than thirteen times.
The night the Tasmania was wrecked, the captain had given the course north by west, sixty-seven degrees. He had taken account of eddies and currents. The second officer, overlooking these, ordered the helmsman to make it north by west, fifty-seven degrees, but to bring the ship around so gently that the captain wouldn’t know it. Hence her destruction.
Rev. Mr. Maley, of the Ohio Conference of the Methodist Church, had the habit of greatly exaggerating anything he talked about. His brethren at conference told him that this habit was growing on him, and rendering him unpopular in the ministry. Mr. Maley heard them patiently, and then said: “Brethren, I am aware of the truth of all you have said, and have shed barrels of tears over it.”
There is a great difference between going just right and a little wrong.
CHAPTER XIII.
TRIFLES.
In the elder days of ArtBuilders wrought with greatest careEach minute and unseen part,For the gods see everywhere.–LONGFELLOW.
Think naught a trifle, though it small appear,Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,And trifles, life.–YOUNG.
The smallest hair throws its shadow.–GOETHE.
He that despiseth small things shall fall little by little.–ECCLESIASTES.
It is the little rift within the lute,That by and by will make the music mute,And ever widening slowly silence all.–TENNYSON.
“A pebble in the streamlet scantHas turned the course of many a river:A dewdrop on the baby plantHas warped the giant oak forever.”
It is the close observation of little things which is thesecret of success in business, in art, in science, and in everypursuit of life.–SMILES.
“Only!–But then the onlysMake up the mighty all.”
“My rule of conduct has been that whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well,” said Nicolas Poussin, the great French painter. When asked the reason why he had become so eminent in a land of famous artists he replied, “Because I have neglected nothing.”
“Do little things now,” says a Persian proverb; “so shall big things come to thee by and by asking to be done.” God will take care of the great things if we do not neglect the little ones.
A gentleman advertised for a boy to assist him in his office, and nearly fifty applicants presented themselves to him. Out of the whole number he in a short time selected one and dismissed the rest. “I should like to know,” said a friend, “on what ground you selected that boy, who had not a single recommendation?” “You are mistaken,” said the gentleman, “he had a great many. He wiped his feet when he came in, and closed the door after him, showing that he was careful. He gave up his seat instantly to that lame old man, showing that he was kind and thoughtful. He took off his cap when he came in, and answered my questions promptly and respectfully, showing that he was polite and gentlemanly. He picked up the book which I had purposely laid upon the floor, and replaced it on the table, while all the rest stepped over it, or shoved it aside; and he waited quietly for his turn, instead of pushing and crowding, showing that he was honest and orderly. When I talked to him, I noticed that his clothes were carefully brushed, his hair in nice order, and his teeth as white as milk; and when he wrote his name, I noticed that his finger-nails were clean, instead of being tipped with jet, like that handsome little fellow’s, in the blue jacket. Don’t you call those letters of recommendation? I do; and I would give more for what I can tell about a boy by using my eyes ten minutes, than for all the fine letters he can bring me.”
“Least of all seeds, greatest of all harvests,” seems to be one of the great laws of nature. All life comes from microscopic beginnings. In nature there is nothing small. The microscope reveals as great a world below as the telescope above. All of nature’s laws govern the smallest atoms, and a single drop of water is a miniature ocean.
“I cannot see that you have made any progress since my last visit,” said a gentleman to Michael Angelo. “But,” said the sculptor, “I have retouched this part, polished that, softened that feature, brought out that muscle, given some expression to this lip, more energy to that limb, etc.” “But they are trifles!” exclaimed the visitor. “It may be so,” replied the great artist, “but trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle.” That infinite patience which made Michael Angelo spend a week in bringing out a muscle in a statue with more vital fidelity to truth, or Gerhard Dow a day in giving the right effect to a dewdrop on a cabbage leaf, makes all the difference between success and failure.
“Of what use is it?” people asked with a sneer, when Franklin told of his discovery that lightning and electricity are identical. “What is the use of a child?” replied Franklin; “it may become a man.”
In the earliest days of cotton spinning, the small fibres would stick to the bobbins, and make it necessary to stop and clear the machinery. Although this loss of time reduced the earnings of the operatives, the father of Robert Peel noticed that one of his spinners always drew full pay, as his machine never stopped. “How is this, Dick?” asked Mr. Peel one day; “the on-looker tells me your bobbins are always clean.” “Ay, that they be,” replied Dick Ferguson. “How do you manage it, Dick?” “Why, you see, Meester Peel,” said the workman, “it is sort o’ secret! If I tow’d ye, yo’d be as wise as I am.” “That’s so,” said Mr. Peel, smiling; “but I’d give you something to know. Could you make all the looms work as smoothly as yours?” “Ivery one of ’em, meester,” replied Dick. “Well, what shall I give you for your secret?” asked Mr. Peel, and Dick replied, “Gi’ me a quart of ale every day as I’m in the mills, and I’ll tell thee all about it.” “Agreed,” said Mr. Peel, and Dick whispered very cautiously in his ear, “Chalk your bobbins!” That was the whole secret, and Mr. Peel soon shot ahead of all his competitors, for he made machines that would chalk their own bobbins. Dick was handsomely rewarded with money instead of beer. His little idea has saved the world millions of dollars.
The totality of a life at any moment is the product mainly of little things. Trifling choices, insignificant exercises of the will, unimportant acts often repeated,–things seemingly of small account,–these are the thousand tiny sculptors that are carving away constantly at the rude block of our life, giving it shape and feature. Indeed the formation of character is much like the work of an artist in stone. The sculptor takes a rough, unshapen mass of marble, and with strong, rapid strokes of mallet and chisel quickly brings into view the rude outline of his design; but after the outline appears then come hours, days, perhaps even years, of patient, minute labor. A novice might see no change in the statue from one day to another; for though the chisel touches the stone a thousand times, it touches as lightly as the fall of a rain-drop, but each touch leaves a mark.
The smallest thing becomes respectable when regarded as the commencement of what has advanced or is advancing into magnificence. The crude settlement of Romulus would have remained an insignificant circumstance and might have justly sunk into oblivion, if Rome had not at length commanded the world.
Beecher says that men, in their property, are afraid of conflagrations and lightning strokes; but if they were building a wharf in Panama, a million madrepores, so small that only the microscope could detect them, would begin to bore the piles down under the water. There would be neither noise nor foam; but in a little while, if a child did but touch the post, over it would fall as if a saw had cut it through.
Men think, with regard to their conduct, that, if they were to lift themselves up gigantically and commit some crashing sin, they should never be able to hold up their heads; but they will harbor in their souls little sins, which are piercing and eating them away to inevitable ruin.
Lichens, of themselves of little value, prepare the way for important vegetation. They deposit, in dying, an acid which wears away the rock and prepares the mould necessary for the nourishment of superior plants.
It was but a tiny rivulet trickling down the embankment that started the terrible Johnstown flood and swept thousands into eternity. One noble heroic act has elevated a nation. Franklin’s whole career was changed by a torn copy of Cotton Mather’s Essays to Do Good. Taking up a stone to throw at a turtle was the turning point in Theodore Parker’s life. As he raised the stone something within him said, “Don’t do it,” and he didn’t. He went home and asked his mother what it was in him that said “don’t.” She told him it was conscience. Small things become great when a great soul sees them. A child, when asked why a certain tree grew crooked, answered, “Somebody trod upon it when it was a little fellow.”
By gnawing through a dike, even a rat may drown a nation. A little boy in Holland saw water trickling from a small hole near the bottom of a dike. He realized that the leak would rapidly become larger if the water was not checked, so he held his hand over the hole for hours on a dark and dismal night until he could attract the attention of passers-by. His name is still held in grateful remembrance in Holland.
We may tell which way the wind blew before the Deluge by marking the ripple and cupping of the rain in the petrified sand now preserved forever. We tell the very path by which gigantic creatures, whom man never saw, walked to the river’s edge to find their food.
The tears of Virgilia and Volumnia saved Rome from the Volscians when nothing else could move the vengeful heart of Coriolanus.
Not even Helen of Troy, it is said, was beautiful enough to spare the tip of her nose; and if Cleopatra’s had been an inch shorter Mark Antony would never have become infatuated with her wonderful charms, and the blemish would have changed the history of the world. Anne Boleyn’s fascinating smile split the great Church of Rome in twain, and gave a nation an altered destiny. Napoleon, who feared not to attack the proudest monarchs in their capitals, shrank from the political influence of one independent woman in private life, Madame de Staël.
It was a little thing for a cow to kick over a lantern left in a shanty, but it laid Chicago in ashes, and rendered homeless a hundred thousand people.
The discovery of glass was due to a mere accident–the building of a fire on the sand; and the bayonet, first made at Bayonne, in France, owes its existence to the fact that a Basque regiment, being hard pressed by the enemy, one of the soldiers suggested that, as their ammunition was exhausted, they should fix their long knives into the barrels of their muskets, which was done, and the first bayonet-charge was made.
A jest led to a war between two great nations. The presence of a comma in a deed, lost to the owner of an estate five thousand dollars a month for eight months. The battle of Corunna was fought and Sir John Moore’s life sacrificed, in 1809, through a dragoon stopping to drink while bearing despatches.
“You do no work,” said the scissors to the rivet. “Where would your work be,” said the rivet to the scissors, “if I didn’t keep you together?”
Every day is a little life; and our whole life but a day repeated. Those that dare lose a day are dangerously prodigal; those that dare misspend it, desperate. What is the happiness of your life made up of? Little courtesies, little kindnesses, pleasant words, genial smiles, a friendly letter, good wishes, and good deeds. One in a million–once in a lifetime–may do a heroic action.
We call the large majority of human lives _obscure_. Presumptuous that we are! How know we what lives a single thought retained from the dust of nameless graves may have lighted to renown?
CHAPTER XIV.
COURAGE.
Quit yourselves like men.–1 SAMUEL iv. 9.
Cowards have no luck.–ELIZABETH KULMAN.
He has not learned the lesson of life who does not every daysurmount a fear.–EMERSON.
To dare is better than to doubt,For doubt is always grieving;‘Tis faith that finds the riddles out;The prize is for believing.–HENRY BURTON.
–WalkBoldly and wisely in that light thou hast;There is a hand above will help thee on.–BAILEY’S FESTUS.
“Have hope! Though clouds environ now,And gladness hides her face in scorn,Put thou the shadow from thy brow–No night but hath its morn.”
“Our enemies are before us,” exclaimed the Spartans at Thermopylæ. “And we are before them,” was the cool reply of Leonidas. “Deliver your arms,” came the message from Xerxes. “Come and take them,” was the answer Leonidas sent back. A Persian soldier said: “You will not be able to see the sun for flying javelins and arrows.” “Then we will fight in the shade,” replied a Lacedemonian. What wonder that a handful of such men checked the march of the greatest host that ever trod the earth.
“The hero,” says Emerson, “is the man who is immovably centred.”
Darius the Great sent ambassadors to the Athenians, to demand earth and water, which denoted submission. The Athenians threw them into a ditch and told them, there was earth and water enough.
“Bring back the colors,” shouted a captain at the battle of the Alma, when an ensign maintained his ground in front, although the men were retreating. “No,” cried the ensign, “bring up the men to the colors.” “To dare, and again to dare, and without end to dare,” was Danton’s noble defiance to the enemies of France.
Shakespeare says: “He is not worthy of the honeycomb that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.”
“It is a bad omen,” said Eric the Red, when his horse slipped and fell on the way to his ship, moored on the coast of Greenland, in readiness for a voyage of discovery. “Ill-fortune would be mine should I dare venture now upon the sea.” So he returned to his house; but his young son Leif decided to go, and with a crew of thirty-five men, sailed southward in search of the unknown shore upon which Captain Biarni had been driven by a storm, while sailing in another Viking ship two or three years before. The first land that they saw was probably Labrador, a barren, rugged plain. Leif called this country Heluland, or the land of flat stones. Sailing onward many days, he came to a low, level coast thickly covered with woods, on account of which he called the country Markland, probably the modern Nova Scotia. Sailing onward, they came to an island which they named Vinland, on account of the abundance of delicious wild grapes in the woods. This was in the year 1000. Here where the city of Newport, R. I., stands, they spent many months, and then returned to Greenland with their vessel loaded with grapes and strange kinds of wood. The voyage was successful, and no doubt Eric was sorry he had been frightened by the bad omen.
“Not every vessel that sails from Tarshish will bring back the Gold of Ophir. But shall it therefore rot in the harbor? No! Give its sails to the wind!”
Men who have dared have moved the world, often before reaching the prime of life. It is astonishing what daring to begin and perseverance have enabled even youths to achieve. Alexander, who ascended the throne at twenty, had conquered the whole known world before dying at thirty-three. Julius Cæsar captured eight hundred cities, conquered three hundred nations, and defeated three million men, became a great orator and one of the greatest statesmen known, and still was a young man. Washington was appointed adjutant-general at nineteen, was sent at twenty-one as an ambassador to treat with the French, and won his first battle as a colonel at twenty-two. Lafayette was made general of the whole French army at twenty. Charlemagne was master of France and Germany at thirty. Condé was only twenty-two when he conquered at Rocroi. Galileo was but eighteen when he saw the principle of the pendulum in the swinging lamp in the cathedral at Pisa. Peel was in Parliament at twenty-one. Gladstone was in Parliament before he was twenty-two, and at twenty-four he was a Lord of the Treasury. Elizabeth Barrett Browning was proficient in Greek and Latin at twelve; De Quincey at eleven. Robert Browning wrote at eleven poetry of no mean order. Cowley, who sleeps in Westminster Abbey, published a volume of poems at fifteen. N. P. Willis won lasting fame as a poet before leaving college. Macaulay was a celebrated author before he was twenty-three. Luther was but twenty-nine when he nailed his famous thesis to the door of the bishop and defied the pope. Nelson was a lieutenant in the British navy before he was twenty. He was but forty-seven when he received his death wound at Trafalgar. Charles the Twelfth was only nineteen when he gained the battle of Narva; at thirty-six Cortes was the conqueror of Mexico; at thirty-two Clive had established the British power in India. Hannibal, the greatest of military commanders, was only thirty when, at Cannæ, he dealt an almost annihilating blow at the Republic of Rome; and Napoleon was only twenty-seven when, on the plains of Italy, he out-generaled and defeated, one after another, the veteran marshals of Austria.
Equal courage and resolution are often shown by men who have passed the allotted limit of life. Victor Hugo and Wellington were both in their prime after they had reached the age of threescore years and ten. George Bancroft wrote some of his best historical work when he was eighty-five. Gladstone ruled England with a strong hand at eighty-four, and was a marvel of literary and scholarly ability.
“Your Grace has not the organ of animal courage largely developed,” said a phrenologist, who was examining Wellington’s head. “You are right,” replied the Iron Duke, “and but for my sense of duty I should have retreated in my first fight.” That first fight, on an Indian field, was one of the most terrible on record.
Grant never knew when he was beaten. When told that he was surrounded by the enemy at Belmont, he quietly replied: “Well, then, we must cut our way out.”
When General Jackson was a judge and was holding court in a small settlement, a border ruffian, a murderer and desperado, came into the court-room with brutal violence and interrupted the court. The judge ordered him to be arrested. The officer did not dare approach him. “Call a posse,” said the judge, “and arrest him.” But they also shrank with fear from the ruffian. “Call me, then,” said Jackson; “this court is adjourned for five minutes.” He left the bench, walked straight up to the man, and with his eagle eye actually cowed the ruffian, who dropped his weapons, afterward saying: “There was something in his eye I could not resist.”
Lincoln never shrank from espousing an unpopular cause when he believed it to be right. At the time when it almost cost a young lawyer his bread and butter to defend the fugitive slave, and when other lawyers had refused, Lincoln would always plead the cause of the unfortunate whenever an opportunity presented. “Go to Lincoln,” people would say, when these bounded fugitives were seeking protection; “he’s not afraid of any cause, if it’s right.”
Abraham Lincoln’s boyhood was one long struggle with poverty, with little education and no influential friends. When at last he had begun the practice of law it required no little daring to cast his fortune with the weaker side in politics, and thus imperil what small reputation he had gained. Only the most sublime moral courage could have sustained him as President to hold his ground against hostile criticism and a long train of disaster; to issue the Emancipation Proclamation; to support Grant and Stanton against the clamor of the politicians and the press; and through it all to do the right as God gave him to see the right.
“Doubt indulged becomes doubt realized.” To determine to do anything is half the battle. “To think a thing is impossible is to make it so.” “Courage is victory, timidity is defeat.”
Don’t waste time dreaming of obstacles you may never encounter, or in crossing bridges you have not reached. Don’t fool with a nettle! Grasp with firmness if you would rob it of its sting. To half will and to hang forever in the balance is to lose your grip on life.
Execute your resolutions immediately. Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried. Does competition trouble you? work away; what is your competitor but a man? _Conquer your place in the world_, for all things serve a brave soul. Combat difficulty manfully; sustain misfortune bravely; endure poverty nobly; encounter disappointment courageously. The influence of the brave man is a magnetism which creates an epidemic of noble zeal in all about him. Every day sends to the grave obscure men, who have only remained in obscurity because their timidity has prevented them from making a first effort; and who, if they could have been induced to begin, would in all probability have gone great lengths in the career of usefulness and fame. “No great deed is done,” says George Eliot, “by falterers who ask for certainty.”
A mouse that dwelt near the abode of a great magician was kept in such constant distress by its fear of a cat that the magician, taking pity on it, turned it into a cat itself. Immediately it began to suffer from its fear of a dog, so the magician turned it into a dog. Then it began to suffer from fear of a tiger, and the magician turned it into a tiger. Then it began to suffer from its fear of huntsmen, and the magician, in disgust, said, “Be a mouse again. As you have only the heart of a mouse it is impossible to help you by giving you the body of a nobler animal.” And the poor creature again became a mouse.
Young Commodore Oliver H. Perry, not twenty-eight years old, was intrusted with the plan to gain control of Lake Erie. With great energy Perry directed the construction of nine ships, carrying fifty-four guns, and conquered Commodore Barclay, a veteran of European navies, with six vessels, carrying sixty-three guns. Perry had no experience in naval battles before this.
To believe a business impossible is the way to make it so. Feasible projects often miscarry through despondency, and are strangled at birth by a cowardly imagination. A ship on a lee shore stands out to sea to escape shipwreck. Shrink and you will be despised.
One of Napoleon’s drummer boys won the battle of Arcola. Napoleon’s little army of fourteen thousand men had fought fifty thousand Austrians for seventy-two hours; the Austrians’ position enabled them to sweep the bridge of Arcola, which the French had gained and which they must hold to win the battle. The drummer boy, on the shoulders of his sergeant (who swam across the river with him), beat the drum all the way across the river, and when on the opposite end of the bridge he beat his drum so vigorously that the Austrians, remembering the terrible French onslaught of the day before, fled in terror, thinking the French army was advancing upon them. Napoleon dated his great confidence in himself from this drum. This boy’s heroic act was represented in stone on the front of the Pantheon of Paris.
Two days before the battle of Jena Napoleon said: “My lads, you must not fear death: when soldiers brave death they drive him into the enemy’s ranks.”
Arago says, in his autobiography, that when he was puzzled and discouraged with difficulties he met with in his early studies in mathematics some words he found on the waste leaf of his text-book caught his attention and interested him. He found it to be a short letter from D’Alembert to a young person, disheartened like himself, and read: “Go on, sir, go on. The difficulties you meet with will resolve themselves as you advance. Proceed and light will dawn and shine with increasing clearness on your path.” “That maxim,” he said, “was my greatest master in mathematics.”
Overtaken near a rocky coast by a sudden storm of great violence, the captain of a French brig gave orders to put out to sea; but in spite of all the efforts of the crew they could not steer clear of the rocks, and alter struggling for a whole day they felt a violent shock, accompanied by a horrible crash. The boats were lowered, but only to be swept away by the waves. As a last resort the captain proposed that some sailors should swim ashore with a rope, but not a man would volunteer.
“Captain,” said the little twelve-year-old cabin boy, Jacques, timidly, “You don’t wish to expose the lives of good sailors like these; it does not matter what becomes of a little cabin boy. Give me a ball of strong string, which will unroll as I go on; fasten one end around my body, and I promise you that within an hour the rope shall be well fastened to the shore or I will perish in the attempt.”
Before anyone could stop him he leaped overboard. His head was soon seen like a black point rising above the waves and then it disappeared in the distance and mist, and but for the occasional pull upon the ball of cord all would have thought him dead. At length it fell as if slackened and the sailors looked at one another in silence, when a quick, violent pull, followed by a second and a third, told that Jacques had reached the shore. A strong rope was fastened to the cord and pulled to the shore, and by its aid many of the sailors were rescued.
In 1833 Miss Prudence Crandall, a Quaker schoolmistress of Canterbury, Conn., opened her school to negro children as well as to whites. The whole place was thrown into uproar; town meetings were called to denounce her; the most vindictive and inhuman measures were taken to isolate the school from the support of the townspeople; stores and churches were closed against teacher and pupils; public conveyances were denied them; physicians would not attend them; Miss Crandall’s own friends dared not visit her; the house was assailed with rotten eggs and stones and finally set on fire. Yet the cause was righteous and the opposition proved vain and fruitless. Public opinion is often radically wrong.
Staunch old Admiral Farragut–he of the true heart and the iron will–said to another officer of the navy, “Dupont, do you know why you didn’t get into Charleston with your ironclads?” “Oh, it was because the channel was so crooked.” “No, Dupont, it was not that.” “Well, the rebel fire was perfectly horrible.” “Yes, but it wasn’t that.” “What was it, then?” “_It was because you didn’t believe you could go in._”
“I have tried Lord Howe on most important occasions. He never asked me _how_ he was to execute any service entrusted to his charge, but always went straight forward and _did it_.” So answered Sir Edward Hawke, when his appointment of Howe for some peculiarly responsible duty was criticized on the ground that Howe was the junior admiral in the fleet.
There is a tradition among the Indians that Manitou was traveling in the invisible world and came upon a hedge of thorns, then saw wild beasts glare upon him from the thicket, and after awhile stood before an impassable river. As he determined to proceed, the thorns turned out phantoms, the wild beasts powerless ghosts, and the river only a shadow. When we march on obstacles disappear. Many distinguished foreign and American statesmen were present at a fashionable dinner party where wine was freely poured, but Schuyler Colfax, then Vice-President of the United States, declined to drink from a proffered cup. “Colfax does not drink,” sneered a Senator who had already taken too much. “You are right,” said the Vice-President, “I dare not.”
A Western party recently invited the surviving Union and Confederate officers to give an account of the bravest act observed by each during the Civil War. Colonel Thomas W. Higginson said that at a dinner at Beaufort, S. C., where wine flowed freely and ribald jests were bandied, Dr. Miner, a slight, boyish fellow who did not drink, was told that he could not go until he had drunk a toast, told a story, or sung a song. He replied: “I cannot sing, but I will give a toast, although I must drink it in water. It is ‘Our Mothers.'” The men were so affected and ashamed that some took him by the hand and thanked him for displaying courage greater than that required to walk up to the mouth of a cannon.
When Grant was in Houston several years ago, he was given a rousing reception. Naturally hospitable, and naturally inclined to like a man of Grant’s make-up, the Houstonites determined to go beyond any other Southern city in the way of a banquet and other manifestations of their good-will and hospitality. They made great preparations for the dinner, the committee taking great pains to have the finest wines that could be procured for the table at night. When the time came to serve the wine, the head-waiter went first to Grant. Without a word the general quietly turned down all the glasses at his plate. This movement was a great surprise to the Texans, but they were equal to the occasion. Without a single word being spoken, every man along the line of the long tables turned his glasses down, and there was not a drop of wine taken that night.
Don’t be like Uriah Heep, begging everybody’s pardon for taking the liberty of being in the world. There is nothing attractive in timidity, nothing lovable in fear. Both are deformities and are repulsive. Manly courage is dignified and graceful. The worst manners in the world are those of persons conscious “of being beneath their position, and trying to conceal it or make up for it by style.” It takes courage for a young man to stand firmly erect while others are bowing and fawning for praise and power. It takes courage to wear threadbare clothes while your comrades dress in broadcloth. It takes courage to remain in honest poverty when others grow rich by fraud. It takes courage to say “No” squarely when those around you say “Yes.” It takes courage to do your duty in silence and obscurity while others prosper and grow famous although neglecting sacred obligations. It takes courage to unmask your true self, to show your blemishes to a condemning world, and to pass for what you really are.
CHAPTER XV.
WILL-POWER.
In the moral world there is nothing impossible if we can bringa thorough will to do it.–W. HUMBOLDT.
It is firmness that makes the gods on our side.–VOLTAIRE.
Stand firm, don’t flutter.–FRANKLIN.
People do not lack strength they lack will.–VICTOR HUGO.
Perpetual pushing and assurance put a difficulty out ofcountenance and make a seeming difficulty give way.–JEREMY COLLIER.
When a firm, decisive spirit is recognized, it is curious tosee how the space clears around a man and leaves him room andfreedom.–JOHN FOSTER.
“Do you know,” asked Balzac’s father, “that in literature a man must be either a king or a beggar?” “Very well,” replied his son, “_I will be a king._” After ten years of struggle with hardship and poverty, he won success as an author.
“Why do you repair that magistrate’s bench with such great care?” asked a bystander of a carpenter who was taking unusual pains. “Because I wish to make it easy against the time when I come to sit on it myself,” replied the other. He did sit on that bench as a magistrate a few years later.
“_I will be marshal of France and a great general_,” exclaimed a young French officer as he paced his room with hands tightly clenched. He became a successful general and a marshal of France.
“There is so much power in faith,” says Bulwer, “even when faith is applied but to things human and earthly, that let a man but be firmly persuaded that he is born to do some day, what at the moment seems impossible, and it is fifty to one but what he does it before he dies.”
There is about as much chance of idleness and incapacity winning real success, or a high position in life, as there would be in producing a Paradise Lost by shaking up promiscuously the separate words of Webster’s Dictionary, and letting them fall at random on the floor. Fortune smiles upon those who roll up their sleeves and put their shoulders to the wheel; upon men who are not afraid of dreary, dry, irksome drudgery, men of nerve and grit who do not turn aside for dirt and detail.
“Is there one whom difficulties dishearten?” asked John Hunter. “He will do little. Is there one who will conquer? That kind of a man never fails.”
“Circumstances,” says Milton, “have rarely favored famous men. They have fought their way to triumph through all sorts of opposing obstacles.”
“We have a half belief,” said Emerson, “that the person is possible who can counterpoise all other persons. We believe that there may be a man _who is a match for events_,–one who never found his match,–against whom other men being dashed are broken,–one who can give you any odds and beat you.”
The simple truth is that a will strong enough to keep a man continually striving for things not wholly beyond his powers will carry him in time very far toward his chosen goal.
At nineteen Bayard Taylor walked to Philadelphia, thirty miles, to find a publisher for fifteen of his poems. He wanted to see them printed in a book; but no publisher would undertake it. He returned to his home whistling, however, showing that his courage and resolution had not abated.
In Europe he was often forced to live on twenty cents a day for weeks on account of his poverty. He returned to London with only thirty cents left. He tried to sell a poem of twelve hundred lines, which he had in his knapsack, but no publisher wanted it. Of that time he wrote: “My situation was about as hopeless as it is possible to conceive.” But his will defied circumstances and he rose above them. For two years he lived on two hundred and fifty dollars a year in London, earning every dollar of it with his pen.
His untimely death in 1879, at fifty-four, when Minister to Berlin, was lamented by the learned and great of all countries.
We are told of a young New York inventor who about twenty years ago spent every dollar he was worth in an experiment, which, if successful, would introduce his invention to public notice and insure his fortune, and, what he valued more, his usefulness. The next morning the daily papers heaped unsparing ridicule upon him. Hope for the future seemed vain. He looked around the shabby room where his wife, a delicate little woman, was preparing breakfast. He was without a penny. He seemed like a fool in his own eyes; all these years of hard work were wasted. He went into his chamber, sat down, and buried his face in his hands.
At length, with a fiery heat flashing through his body, he stood erect. “It _shall_ succeed!” he said, shutting his teeth. His wife was crying over the papers when he went back. “They are very cruel,” she said. “They don’t understand.” “I’ll make them understand,” he replied cheerfully. “It was a fight for six years,” he said afterward. “Poverty, sickness and contempt followed me. I had nothing left but the _dogged determination_ that it should succeed.” It did succeed. The invention was a great and useful one. The inventor is now a prosperous and happy man.
Napoleon was a terrible example of what the power of will can accomplish. He always threw his whole force of body and mind direct upon his work. Imbecile rulers and the nations they governed went down before him in succession. He was told that the Alps stood in the way of his armies,–“There shall be no Alps,” he said, and the road across the Simplon was constructed, through a district formerly almost inaccessible. “Impossible,” said he, “is a word only to be found in the dictionary of fools.” He was a man who toiled terribly; sometimes employing and exhausting four secretaries at a time. He spared no one, not even himself. His influence inspired other men, and put a new life into them. “I made my generals out of mud,” he said.
To think we are able is almost to be so–to determine upon attainment, is frequently attainment itself. Thus, earnest resolution has often seemed to have about it almost a savor of omnipotence. The strength of Suwarrow’s character lay in his power of willing, and, like most resolute persons, he preached it up as a system.
Before Pizarro, D’Almagro and De Luque obtained any associates or arms or soldiers, and with a very imperfect knowledge of the country or the powers they were to encounter, they celebrated a solemn mass in one of the great churches, dedicating themselves to the conquest of Peru. The people expressed their contempt at such a monstrous project, and were shocked at such sacrilege. But these decided men continued the service and afterward retired for their great preparation with an entire insensibility to the expressions of contempt. Their firmness was absolutely invincible. The world has deplored the results of this expedition, but there is a great lesson for us in the firmness of decision of its leaders. Such firmness would keep to its course and retain its purpose unshaken amidst the ruins of the world.
At the battle of Marengo the French army was supposed to be defeated; but, while Bonaparte and his staff were considering their next move, Dessaix suggested that there was yet time to retrieve their disaster, as it was only about the middle of the afternoon. Napoleon rallied his men, renewed the fight, and won a great victory over the Austrians, though the unfortunate Dessaix lost his own life on that field.
What has chance ever done in the world? Has it built any cities? Has it invented any telephones, any telegraphs? Has it built any steamships, established any universities, any asylums, any hospitals? Was there any chance in Cæsar’s crossing the Rubicon? What had chance to do with Napoleon’s career, with Wellington’s, or Grant’s, or Von Moltke’s? Every battle was won before it was begun. What had luck to do with Thermopylæ, Trafalgar, Gettysburg? Our successes we ascribe to ourselves; our failures to destiny.
A vacillating man, no matter what his abilities, is invariably pushed to the wall in the race of life by a determined will. It is he who resolves to succeed, and who at every fresh rebuff begins resolutely again, that reaches the goal. The shores of fortune are covered with the stranded wrecks of men of brilliant ability, but who have wanted courage, faith and decision, and have therefore perished in sight of more resolute but less capable adventurers, who succeeded in making port. Hundreds of men go to their graves in obscurity, who have been obscure only because they lacked the pluck to make a first effort, and who, could they only have resolved to begin, would have astonished the world by their achievements and successes. The fact is, as Sydney Smith has well said, that in order to do anything in this world that is worth doing, we must not stand shivering on the bank, and thinking of the cold and the danger, but jump in and scramble through as well as we can.
Is not this a grand privilege of man, immortal man, that though he may not be able to stir a finger; that though a moth may crush him; that merely by a righteous will, he is raised above the stars; that by it he originates a good in the universe, which the universe could not annihilate; a good which can defy extinction, though all created energies of intelligence or matter were combined against it?
A man whose moral nature is ascendant is not the subject, but the superior of circumstances. He is free; nay, more, he is a king; and though this sovereignty may have been won by many desperate battles, once on the throne, and holding the sceptre with a firm grasp, he has a royalty of which neither time nor accident can strip him.
What can you do with a man who has an invincible purpose in him; who never knows when he is beaten; and who, when his legs are shot off, will fight on the stumps? Difficulties and opposition do not daunt him. He thrives upon persecution; it only stimulates him to more determined endeavor. Give a man the alphabet and an iron will, and who shall place bounds to his achievements! Imprison a Galileo for his discoveries in science, and he will experiment with the straw in his cell. Deprive Euler of his eyesight, and he but studies harder upon mental problems, thus developing marvelous powers of mathematical calculation. Lock up the poor Bedford tinker in jail, and he will write the finest allegory in the world, or will leave his imperishable thoughts upon the walls of his cell. Burn the body of Wycliffe and throw the ashes into the Severn; but they will be swept to the ocean, which will carry them, permeated with his principles, to all lands. _The world always listens to a man with a will in him._ You might as well snub the sun as such men as Bismarck and Grant.
Hope would storm the castle of despair; it gives courage when despondency would give up the battle of life. He is the best doctor who can implant _hope_ and courage in the human soul. So he is the greatest man who can inspire us to the grandest achievements.
“Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,Which we ascribe to heaven; the fated skyGives us free scope; and only backward pullsOur slow designs when we ourselves are dull.”
“How much I could do if I only tried.”
CHAPTER XVI.
GUARD YOUR WEAK POINT.
He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty: and he thatruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.–BIBLE.
The first and best of victories is for a man to conquerhimself: to be conquered by himself is, of all things, the mostshameful and vile.–PLATO.
The worst education which teaches self-denial is better thanthe best which teaches everything else and not that.–JOHN STERLING.
Most powerful is he who has himself in his own power.–SENECA.
The energy which issues in growth, or assimilates knowledge,must originate in self and be self-directed.–THOMAS J. MORGAN.
The foes with which they waged their strifeWere passion, self and sin;The victories that laureled life,Were fought and won within.–EDWARD H. DEWART.
“I’ll sign it after awhile,” a drunkard would reply, when repeatedly urged by his wife to sign the pledge; “but I don’t like to break off at once, the best way is to get used to a thing.” “Very well, old man,” said his wife, “see if you don’t fall into a hole one of these days, with no one to help you out.”
Not long after, when intoxicated, he did fall into a shallow well, but his shouts for help were fortunately heard by his wife. “Didn’t I tell you so?” she asked. “It’s lucky I was in hearing or you might have drowned.” He took hold of the bucket and she tugged at the windlass; but when he was near the top her grasp slipped and down he went into the water again. This was repeated until he screamed: “Look here, you’re doing that on purpose, I know you are.” “Well, now, I am,” admitted the wife. “Don’t you remember telling me it’s best to get used to a thing by degrees? I’m afraid if I bring you up sudden, you would not find it wholesome.” Finding that his case was becoming desperate, he promised to sign the pledge at once. His wife raised him out immediately, but warned him that if ever he became intoxicated and fell into the well again, she would leave him there.
A man captured a young tiger and resolved to make a pet of it. It grew up like a kitten, fond and gentle. There was no evidence of its savage, bloodthirsty nature, and it seemed perfectly harmless. But one day while the master was playing with his pet, the rough tongue upon his hand started the blood from a scratch. The moment the beast tasted blood, his ferocious tiger nature was roused, and he rushed upon his master to tear him to pieces. Sometimes the appetite for drink, which was thought to be buried years ago, is roused by the taste or the smell of “the devil in solution,” and the wretched victim finds himself a helpless slave to the passion which he thought dead.
When a young man, Hugh Miller once drank the two glasses of whiskey which fell to his share at the usual treat of drink of the masons with whom he worked. On reaching home he tried to read Bacon’s Essays, his favorite book, but he could not distinguish the letters or comprehend the meaning. “The condition into which I had brought myself was, I felt, one of degradation,” said he. “I had sunk, by my own act, for the time, to a lower level of intelligence than that on which it was my privilege to be placed; and though the state could have been no very favorable one for forming a resolution, I in that hour determined that I should never again sacrifice my capacity of intellectual enjoyment to a drinking usage; and with God’s help I was enabled to hold by the determination.”
In a certain manufacturing town an employer one Saturday paid to his workmen $700 in crisp new bills that had been secretly marked. On Monday $450 of those identical bills were deposited in the bank by the saloon-keepers. When the fact was made known, the workmen were so startled by it that they helped to make the place a no-license town. The times would not be so “hard” for the workmen if the saloons did not take in so much of their wages. If they would organize a strike against the saloons, they would find the result to be better than an increase of wages, and to include an increase of savings.
How often we might read the following sign over the threshold of a youthful life: “For sale, grand opportunities, for a song;” “golden chances for beer;” “magnificent opportunities exchanged for a little sensual enjoyment;” “for exchange, a beautiful home, devoted wife, lovely children, for drink;” “for sale, cheap, all the magnificent possibilities of a brilliant life, a competence, for one chance in a thousand at the gambling table;” “for exchange, bright prospects, a brilliant outlook, a cultivated intelligence, a college education, a skilled hand, an observant eye, valuable experience, great tact, all exchanged for rum, for a muddled brain, a bewildered intellect, a shattered nervous system, poisoned blood, a diseased body, for fatty degeneration of the heart, for Bright’s disease, for a drunkard’s liver.”
With almost palsied hand, at a temperance meeting, John B. Gough signed the pledge. For six days and nights in a wretched garret, without a mouthful of food, with scarcely a moment’s sleep, he fought the fearful battle with appetite. Weak, famished, almost dying, he crawled into the sunlight; but he had conquered the demon which had almost killed him. Gough used to describe the struggles of a man who tried to leave off using tobacco. He threw away what he had, and said that was the end of it; but no, it was only the beginning of it. He would chew camomile, gentian, tooth-picks, but it was of no use. He bought another plug of tobacco and put it in his pocket. He wanted a chew awfully, but he looked at it and said, “You are a _weed_, and I am a _man_. I’ll master you if I die for it;” and he did, while carrying it in his pocket daily.
There was an abbot that desired a piece of ground that lay conveniently for him. The owner refused to sell; yet with much persuasion he was contented to let it. The abbot hired it and covenanted only to farm it for one crop. He had his bargain, and sowed it with acorns–a crop that lasted three hundred years. So Satan asks to get possession of our souls by asking us to permit some small sin to enter, some one wrong that seems of no great account. But when once he has entered and planted the seeds and beginnings of evil, he holds his ground.
“Teach self-denial and make its practice pleasurable,” says Walter Scott, “and you create for the world a destiny more sublime than ever issued from the brain of the wildest dreamer.”
Thomas A. Edison was once asked why he was a total abstainer. He said, “I thought I had a better use for my head.”
Byron could write poetry easily, for it was merely indulging his natural propensity; but to curb his temper, soothe his discontent, and control his animal appetites was a very different thing. At all events, it seemed so great to him that he never seriously attempted self-conquest. Let every youth who would not be shipwrecked on life’s voyage cultivate this one great virtue, “self-control.” There is nothing so important to a youth starting out in life as a thoroughly trained and cultivated will; everything depends upon it. If he has it, he will succeed; if he does not have it, he will fail.
“The first and best of victories,” says Plato, “is for a man to conquer himself; to be conquered by himself is, of all things, the most shameful and vile.”
“Silence,” says Zimmerman, “is the safest response for all the contradiction that arises from impertinence, vulgarity, or envy.”
“He is a fool who cannot be angry,” says English, “but he is a wise man who will not.”
Seneca, one of the greatest of the ancient philosophers, said that “we should every night call ourselves to account. What infirmity have I mastered to-day? what passion opposed? what temptation resisted? what virtue acquired?” and then he follows with the profound truth that “our vices will abate of themselves if they be brought every day to the shrift.” If you cannot at first control your anger, learn to control your tongue, which, like fire, is a good servant, but a hard master.
It does no good to get angry. Some sins have a seeming compensation or apology, a present gratification of some sort, but anger has none. A man feels no better for it. It is really a torment, and when the storm of passion has cleared away, it leaves one to see that he has been a fool. And he has made himself a fool in the eyes of others too.
The wife of Socrates, Xanthippe, was a woman of a most fantastical and furious spirit. At one time, having vented all the reproaches upon Socrates her fury could suggest, he went out and sat before the door. His calm and unconcerned behavior but irritated her so much the more; and, in the excess of her rage, she ran upstairs and emptied a vessel upon his head, at which he only laughed and said that “so much thunder must needs produce a shower.” Alcibiades, his friend, talking with him about his wife, told him he wondered how he could bear such an everlasting scold in the same house with him. He replied, “I have so accustomed myself to expect it, that it now offends me no more than the noise of carriages in the street.”
It is said of Socrates, that whether he was teaching the rules of an exact morality, whether he was answering his corrupt judges, or was receiving sentence of death, or swallowing the poison, he was still the same man; that is to say, calm, quiet, undisturbed, intrepid–in a word, wise to the last.
“It is not enough to have great qualities,” says La Rochefoucauld; “we should also have the management of them.” No man can call himself educated until every voluntary muscle obeys his will.
“You ask whether it would not be manly to resent a great injury,” said Eardley Wilmot; “I answer that it would be manly to resent it, but it would be Godlike to forgive it.”
“He who, with strong passions, remains chaste; he who, keenly sensitive, with manly power of indignation in him, can be provoked, and yet restrain himself and forgive–these are strong men, the spiritual heroes.”
To feel provoked or exasperated at a trifle, when the nerves are exhausted, is, perhaps, natural to us in our imperfect state. But why put into the shape of speech the annoyance which, once uttered, is remembered; which may burn like a blistering wound, or rankle like a poisoned arrow? If a child be crying or a friend capricious, or a servant unreasonable, be careful what you say. Do not speak while you feel the impulse of anger, for you will be almost certain to say too much, to say more than your cooler judgment will approve, and to speak in a way that you will regret. Be silent until the “sweet by and by,” when you will be calm, rested, and self-controlled.
But self-respect must be accompanied by self-conquest, or our strong feelings may prove but runaway horses. He who would command others must first learn to obey, and he who would command his own powers must learn to be submissive to the still small voice within. Discipline the passions, curb pride and impatience, restrain all hasty impulses. Deny yourself the gratification of any desire not sanctioned by reason. Shame and its consequent degradation follow the loss of our own good opinion rather than the esteem of others. Too many yield in the perpetual conflict between temptation to gratify the coarser appetites and aspiration for the good, the true, and the beautiful. Voices unheard by those around us whisper “Don’t,” but too often self-respect is lost, the will lies prostrate, and the debauch goes on. Such battles must be fought by all; be ours the victory born of self-control, aided by that Heaven which always helps him who prays while putting his own shoulder to the wheel.
No man had a better heart or more thoroughly hated oppression than Edmund Burke. He possessed neither experience in affairs, nor a tranquil judgment, nor the rule over his own spirit, so that his genius, under the impulse of his bewildering passions, wrought much evil to his country and to Europe, even while he rendered noble service to the cause of commercial freedom, to Ireland, and to America.
Burns could not resist the temptation to utter his clever sarcasms at another’s expense, and one of his biographers has said that he made a hundred enemies for every ten jokes he made. But Burns could no more control his appetite than his tongue.
“Thus thoughtless follies laid him lowAnd stained his name.”
Xanthus, the philosopher, told his servant that on the morrow he was going to have some friends to dine, and asked him to get the best thing he could find in the market. The philosopher and his guests sat down the next day at the table. They had nothing but tongue–four or five courses of tongue–tongue cooked in this way, and tongue cooked in that way, and the philosopher lost his patience, and said to his servant, “Didn’t I tell you to get the best thing in the market?” He said, “I did get the best thing in the market. Isn’t the tongue the organ of sociality, the organ of eloquence, the organ of kindness, the organ of worship?” Then Xanthus said, “To-morrow I want you to get the worst thing in the market.” And on the morrow the philosopher sat at the table, and there was nothing there but tongue–four or five courses of tongue–tongue in this shape, and tongue in that shape–and the philosopher again lost his patience, and said, “Didn’t I tell you to get the worst thing in the market?” The servant replied, “I did; for isn’t the tongue the organ of blasphemy, the organ of defamation, the organ of lying?”
“I can reform my people,” said Peter the Great, “but I cannot reform myself.” He forbade all Russians to wear beards, and to quell the insurrection which resulted, he had 8000 revolters beheaded. With a hatchet he began the ghastly work. He had his own son beheaded.
He who cannot resist temptation is not a man. He is wanting in the highest attributes of humanity. The honor and nobleness of the old “knight-errantry” consisted in defending the innocence of men and protecting the chastity of women against the assaults of others. But the truer and nobler knighthood protects the property and the character, the innocence and the chastity of others against one’s self. We should all be posted upon our weak points, for after all there are many emergencies in life when these weak points, not our strong ones, will measure our manhood and our strength. Many a woman whom a mouse would frighten out of her wits would not shrink from assisting in terrible surgical operations in our city or war hospitals, and many an officer and soldier who would walk up to the cannon’s mouth without a tremor in battle, would not dare to say his soul was his own in a society parlor. Many a great statesman has quailed before the ringer of scorn of a fellow-Congressman, and has been completely cowed by a hiss from the gallery or a ridiculing paragraph in a newspaper. We all have tender spots, weak spots, and a man can never know his strength who does not study his weaknesses.
“Violent passions and ardent feelings are seldom found united with complete self-command; but when they are they form the strongest possible character, for there is all the power of clear thought and cool judgment impelled by the resistless energy of feeling. This combination Washington possessed; for in his impetuosity there was no foolish rashness, and in his passion no injustice. Besides, whatever violence there might be within, the explosion seldom came to the surface, and when it did it was arrested at once by the stern mandate of his will. He never lost the mastery of himself in any emergency, and in ‘ruling his spirit’ showed himself greater than in ‘taking a city.’
“It is one of the astonishing things in his life that, amid the perfect chaos of feeling into which he was thrown,–amid the distracted counsels and still more distracted affairs that surrounded him,–he never once lost the perfect equilibrium of his own mind. The contagion of fear and doubt and despair could not touch him. He did not seem susceptible to the common influences which affect men. His soul poised on its own centre, reposed calmly there through all the storms that beat for seven years on his noble breast. The ingratitude and folly of those who should have been his allies, the insults of his foes, and the frowns of fortune never provoked him into a rash act, or deluded him into a single error.”
Horace Mann says that there must be a time when the vista of the future, with all its possibilities of glory and of shame, first opens to the vision of youth. Then is he summoned to make his choice between truth and treachery; between honor and dishonor; between purity and profligacy; between moral life and moral death. And as he doubts or balances between the heavenward or hellward course; as he struggles to rise or consents to fall; is there in all the universe of God a spectacle of higher exultation or of deeper pathos? Within him are the appetites of a brute and the attributes of an angel; and when these meet in council to make up the roll of his destiny and seal his fate, shall the beast hound out the seraph? Shall the young man, now conscious of the largeness of his sphere and of the sovereignty of his choice, wed the low ambitions of the world, and seek, with their emptiness, to fill his immortal desires? Because he has a few animal wants that must be supplied, shall he become all animal,–an epicure and an inebriate,–and blasphemously make it the first doctrine of his catechism,–“the Chief End of Man?”–to glorify his stomach and enjoy it? Because it is the law of self-preservation that he shall provide for himself, and the law of religion that he shall provide for his family, when he has one, must he, therefore, cut away all the bonds of humanity that bind him to his race, forswear charity, crush down every prompting of benevolence, and if he can have the palace and equipage of the prince, and the table of a sybarite, become a blind man, and a deaf man, and a dumb man, when he walks the streets where hunger moans and nakedness shivers?
The strong man is the one who ever keeps himself under strict discipline, who never once allows the lower to usurp the place of the higher in him; who makes his passions his servants and never allows them to be his master; who is ever led by his mind and not by his inclinations. He drills and disciplines his desires and keeps the roots of his life under ground, and never allows them to interfere with his character. He is never the slave of his inclinations, nor the sport of impulse. He is the commander of himself and heads his ship due north even in the wildest tempests of passion. He is never the slave of his strongest desire.
A noted teacher has said that the propensities and habits are as teachable as Latin and Greek, while they are infinitely more essential to happiness. We are very largely the creatures of our wills. By constantly looking on the bright side of things, by viewing everything hopefully, by setting the face as a flint every hour of every day toward all that is harmonious and beautiful in life, and refusing to listen to the discord or to look at the ugly side of life, by constantly directing the thought toward what is noble, grand and true, we can soon form habits which will develop into a beautiful character, a harmonious and well-rounded life. We are creatures of habit, and by knowing the laws of its formation we can, in a little while, build up a network of habit about us, which will protect us from most of the ugly, selfish and degrading things of life. In fact, the only real happiness and unalloyed satisfaction we get out of life, is the product of self-control. It is the great guardian of all the virtues, without which none of them is safe. It is the sentinel, which stands on guard at the door of life, to admit friends and exclude enemies.
“I call that mind free,” says Channing, “which jealously guards its intellectual rights and powers, which calls no man master, which does not content itself with a passive or hereditary faith, which opens itself to light whencesoever it may come, which receives new truth as an angel from heaven, which, whilst consulting others, inquires still more of the oracle within; itself, and uses instructions from abroad, not to supersede, but to quicken and exalt its own energies. I call that mind free which is not passively framed by outward circumstances, which is not swept away by the torrent of events, which is not the creature of accidental impulse, but which bends events to its own improvement, and acts from an inward spring, from immutable principles which it has deliberately espoused. I call that mind free which protects itself against the usurpations of society, which does not cower to human opinion, which feels itself accountable to a higher tribunal than man’s, which respects a higher law than fashion, which respects itself too much to be the slave or tool of the many or the few. I call that mind free which through confidence in God and in the power of virtue has cast off all fear but that of wrong-doing, which no menace or peril can enthrall, which is calm in the midst of tumults, and possesses itself though all else be lost. I call that mind free which resists the bondage of habit, which does not mechanically repeat itself and copy the past, which does not live on its old virtues, which does not enslave itself to precise rules, but which forgets what is behind, listens for new and higher monitions of conscience, and rejoices to pour itself forth in fresh and higher exertions. I call that mind free which is jealous of its own freedom, which guards itself from being merged in others, which guards its empire over itself as nobler than the empire of the world.”
CHAPTER XVII.
STICK.
Patience is the courage of the conqueror; it is the virtue,_par excellence_, of Man against Destiny, of the One againstthe World, and of the Soul against Matter. Therefore this isthe courage of the Gospel; and its importance, in a socialview–its importance to races and institutions–cannot be tooearnestly inculcated.–BULWER.
Perpetual pushing and assurance put a difficulty out ofcountenance, and make a seeming impossibility give way.–JEREMY COLLIER.
To bear is to conquer fate.–CAMPBELL.
The nerve that never relaxes, the eye that never blenches, thethought that never wanders,–these are the masters of victory.–BURKE.
Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labor and to wait.–LONGFELLOW.
“How long did it take you to learn to play?” asked a young man of Geradini. “Twelve hours a day for twenty years,” replied the great violinist. Layman Beecher’s father, when asked how long it took him to write his celebrated sermon on the “Government of God,” replied, “About forty years.”
“If you will study a year I will teach you to sing well,” said an Italian music teacher to a pupil who wished to know what can be hoped for with study; “if two years, you may excel. If you will practice the scale constantly for three years, I will make you the best tenor in Italy; if for four years, you may have the world at your feet.”
Perceiving that Caffarelli had a fine tenor voice and unusual talent, a teacher offered to give him a thorough musical education free of charge, provided the pupil would promise never to complain of the course of instruction given. The first year the master gave nothing but the scales, compelling the youth to practice them over and over again. The second year it was the same, the third, and the fourth, the conditions of the bargain being the only reply to any question in relation to a change from such monotonous drill. The fifth year the teacher introduced chromatics and thorough bass, and, at its close, when Caffarelli looked for something more brilliant and interesting, the master said: “Go, my son, I can teach you nothing more. You are the first singer of Italy and of the world.” The _mastery_ of scales and diatonics gave him power to sing anything.
“Keep at the helm,” said President Porter; “steer your own ship, and remember that the great art of commanding is to take a fair share of the work. Strike out. Assume your own position. Put potatoes in a cart, over a rough road, and the small ones go to the bottom.”
“Never depend upon your genius,” said John Ruskin, in the words of Joshua Reynolds; “if you have talent, industry will improve it; if you have none, industry will supply the deficiency.”
“The only merit to which I lay claim,” said Hugh Miller, “is that of patient research–a merit in which whoever wills may rival or surpass me; and this humble faculty of patience when rightly developed may lead to more extraordinary development of ideas than even genius itself.”
Titian, the greatest master of color the world has seen, used to say: “White, red and black, these are all the colors that a painter needs, but he must know how to use them.” It took fifty years of constant, hard practice to bring him to his full mastery.
“How much grows everywhere if we do but wait!” exclaims Carlyle. “Not a difficulty but can transfigure itself into a triumph; not even a deformity, but if our own soul have imprinted worth on it, will grow dear to us.”
Persistency is characteristic of all men who have accomplished anything great. They may lack in some other particular, have many weaknesses, or eccentricities, but the quality of persistence is never absent in a successful man. No matter what opposition he meets or what discouragements overtake him, he is always persistent. Drudgery cannot disgust him, obstacles cannot discourage him, labor cannot weary him. He will persist, no matter what comes or what goes; it is a part of his nature. He could almost as easily stop breathing.
It is not so much brilliancy of intellect or fertility of resource as persistency of effort, constancy of purpose, that makes a great man. Persistency always gives confidence. Everybody believes in the man who persists. He may meet misfortunes, sorrows and reverses, but everybody believes that he will ultimately triumph because they know there is no keeping him down. “Does he keep at it, is he persistent?” is the question which the world asks of a man.
Even the man with small ability will often succeed if he has the quality of persistence, where a genius without persistence would fail.
“How hard I worked at that tremendous shorthand, and all improvement appertaining to it,” said Dickens. “I will only add to what I have already written of my perseverance at this time of my life, and of a patient and continuous energy which then began to be matured within me, and which I know to be the strong point of my character, if it have any strength at all, that there, on looking back, I find the source of my success.”
“I am sorry to say that I don’t think this is in your line,” said Woodfall the reporter, after Sheridan had made his first speech in Parliament. “You had better have stuck to your former pursuits.” With head on his hand Sheridan mused for a time, then looked up and said, “It is in me, and it shall come out of me.” From the same man came that harangue against Warren Hastings which the orator Fox called the best speech ever made in the House of Commons.
“The man who is perpetually hesitating which of two things he will do first,” said William Wirt, “will do neither.” The man who resolves, but suffers his resolution to be changed by the first counter-suggestion of a friend–who fluctuates from opinion to opinion, from plan to plan, and veers like a weather-cock to every point of the compass, with every breath of caprice that blows, can never accomplish anything great or useful. Instead of being progressive in anything, he will be at best stationary, and, more probably, retrograde in all.
Great writers have ever been noted for their tenacity of purpose. Their works have not been flung off from minds aglow with genius, but have been elaborated and elaborated into grace and beauty, until every trace of their efforts has been obliterated. Bishop Butler worked twenty years incessantly on his “Analogy,” and even then was so dissatisfied that he wanted to burn it. Rousseau says he obtained the ease and grace of his style only by ceaseless inquietude, by endless blotches and erasures. Virgil worked eleven years on the Æneid. The note-books of great men like Hawthorne and Emerson are tell-tales of enormous drudgery, of the years put into a book which may be read in an hour. Montesquieu was twenty-five years writing his “Esprit de Louis,” yet you can read it in sixty minutes. Adam Smith spent ten years on his “Wealth of Nations.” A rival playwright once laughed at Euripides for spending three days on three lines, when he had written five hundred lines. “But your five hundred lines in three days will be dead and forgotten, while my three lines will live forever,” replied Euripides.
Sir Fowell Buxton thought he could do as well as others, if he devoted twice as much time and labor as they did. Ordinary means and extraordinary application have done most of the great things in the world.
Defoe offered the manuscript of Robinson Crusoe to many booksellers and all but one refused it. Addison’s first play, Rosamond, was hissed off the stage, but the editor of the Spectator and Tattler was made of stern stuff and was determined that the world should listen to him, and it did.
David Livingstone said: “Those who have never carried a book through the press can form no idea of the amount of toil it involves. The process has increased my respect for authors a thousand-fold. I think I would rather cross the African continent again than undertake to write another book.”
“For the statistics of the negro population of South America alone,” says Robert Dale Owen, “I examined more than a hundred and fifty volumes.”
Another author tells us that he wrote paragraphs and whole pages of his book as many as fifty times.
It is said of one of Longfellow’s poems that it was written in four weeks, but that he spent six months in correcting and cutting it down. Bulwer declared that he had rewritten some of his briefer productions as many as eight or nine times before their publication. One of Tennyson’s pieces was rewritten fifty times. John Owen was twenty years on his “Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews;” Gibbon on his “Decline and Fall,” twenty years; and Adam Clark, on his “Commentary,” twenty-six years. Carlyle spent fifteen years on his “Frederick the Great.”
A great deal of time is consumed in reading before some books are prepared. George Eliot read 1000 books before she wrote “Daniel Deronda.” Allison read 2000 before he completed his history. It is said of another that he read 20,000 and wrote only two books.
Virgil spent several years on the Georgics, which could be printed in two columns of an ordinary newspaper.
“Generally speaking,” said Sydney Smith, “the life of all truly great men has been a life of intense and incessant labor. They have commonly passed the first half of life in the gross darkness of indigent humility,–overlooked, mistaken, condemned by weaker men,–thinking while others slept, reading while others rioted, feeling something within them that told them they should not always be kept down among the dregs of the world. And then, when their time has come, and some little accident has given them their first occasion, they have burst out into the light and glory of public life, rich with the spoils of time, and mighty in all the labors and struggles of the mind.”
Malibran said: “If I neglect my practice a day, I see the difference in my execution; if for two days, my friends see it; and if for a week, all the world knows my failure.” Constant, persistent struggle she found to be the price of her marvelous power.
“If I am building a mountain,” said Confucius, “and stop before the last basketful of earth is placed on the summit, I have failed.”
“Young gentlemen,” said Francis Wayland, “remember that nothing can stand day’s work.”
America will never produce any great art until our resources are developed and we get more time. As a people we have not yet learned the art of patience. We do not know how to wait. Think of an American artist spending seven, eight, ten, and even twelve years on a single painting as did Titian, Michael Angelo and many of the other old masters. Think of an American sculptor spending years and years upon a single masterpiece, as did the Greeks and Romans. We have not yet learned the secret of working and waiting.
“The single element in all the progressive movements of my pencil,” said the great David Wilkie, “was persevering industry.”
The kind of ability which most men rank highest is that which enables its possessor to do what he undertakes, and attain the object of his ambition or desire.
“The reader of a newspaper does not see the first insertion of an ordinary advertisement,” says a French writer. “The second insertion he sees, but does not read; the third insertion he reads; the fourth insertion he looks at the price; the fifth insertion he speaks of it to his wife; the sixth insertion he is ready to purchase, and the seventh insertion he purchases.”
The large fees which make us envy the great lawyer or doctor are not remuneration for the few minutes’ labor of giving advice, but for the mental stores gathered during the precious spare moments of many a year while others were sleeping or enjoying holidays. A client will frequently object to paying fifty dollars for an opinion written in five minutes, but such an opinion could be written only by one who has read a hundred law books. If the lawyer had not previously read those books, but should keep a client waiting until he could read them with care, there would be fewer complaints that fees of this kind are not earned.
We are told that perseverance built the pyramids on Egypt’s plains, erected the gorgeous temple at Jerusalem, inclosed in adamant the Chinese Empire, scaled the stormy, cloud-capped Alps, opened a highway through the watery wilderness of the Atlantic, leveled the forests of the new world, and reared in its stead a community of States and nations. Perseverance has wrought from the marble block the exquisite creations of genius, painted on canvas the gorgeous mimicry of nature, and engraved on a metallic surface the viewless substance of the shadow. Perseverance has put in motion millions of spindles, winged as many flying shuttles, harnessed thousands of iron steeds to as many freighted cars, and sent them flying from town to town and nation to nation; tunneled mountains of granite, and annihilated space with the lightning’s speed. Perseverance has whitened the waters of the world with the sails of a hundred nations, navigated every sea and explored every land. Perseverance has reduced nature in her thousand forms to as many sciences, taught her laws, prophesied her future movements, measured her untrodden spaces, counted her myriad hosts of worlds, and computed their distances, dimensions, and velocities.
“Whoever is resolved to excel in painting, or, indeed, in any other art,” said Reynolds, “must bring all his mind to bear upon that one object from the moment that he rises till he goes to bed.”
“If you work hard two weeks without selling a book,” wrote a publisher to an agent, “you will make a success of it.”
“Know thy work and do it,” said Carlyle; “and work at it like a Hercules. One monster there is in the world–an idle man.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
SAVE.
If you want to test a young man and ascertain whether naturemade him for a king or a subject, give him a thousand dollarsand see what he will do with it. If he is born to conquer andcommand, he will put it quietly away till he is ready to use itas opportunity offers. If he is born to serve, he willimmediately begin to spend it in gratifying his rulingpropensity.–PARTON.
The man who builds, and lacks wherewith to pay,Provides a home from which to run away.–YOUNG.
Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thoushalt sell thy necessaries.
For age and want save while you may:No morning sun lasts a whole day.–FRANKLIN.
Whatever be your talents, whatever be your prospects, neverspeculate away on a chance of a palace that which you may needas a provision against the workhouse.–BULWER.
“What do you do with all these books?” “Oh, that library is my ‘one cigar a day,'” was the response. “What do you mean?” “Mean! Just this: when you bothered me so about being a man, and learning to smoke, I’d just been reading about a young fellow who bought books with money that others would have spent in smoke, and I thought I’d try and do the same. You remember, I said I should allow myself one cigar a day.” “Yes.” “Well, I never smoked. I just put by the price of a five-cent cigar every day, and as the money accumulated I bought books–the books you see there.” “Do you mean to say that those books cost no more than that? Why there are dollars’ worth of them.” “Yes, I know there are. I had six years more of my apprenticeship to serve when you persuaded me to ‘be a man.’ I put by the money I have told you of, which of course at five cents a day amounted to $18.25 a year or $109.50 in six years. I keep those books by themselves, as a result of my apprenticeship cigar-money; and if you’d done as I did, you would by this time have saved many, many more dollars than that, and been in business besides.”
If a man will begin at the age of twenty and lay by twenty-six cents every working day, investing at 7 per cent. compound interest, he will have thirty-two thousand dollars when he is seventy years old. Twenty cents a day is no unusual expenditure for beer or cigars, yet in fifty years it would easily amount to twenty thousand dollars. Even a saving of one dollar a week from the date of one’s majority would give him one thousand dollars for each of the last ten of the allotted years of life. “What maintains one vice would bring up two children.”
Who does not feel honored by his relationship to Dr. Franklin, whether as a townsman or a countryman, or even as belonging to the same race? Who does not feel a sort of personal complacency in that frugality of his youth which laid the foundation for so much competence and generosity in his mature age; in that wise discrimination of his outlays, which held the culture of the soul in absolute supremacy over the pleasures of the sense; and in that consummate mastership of the great art of living, which has carried his practical wisdom into every cottage in Christendom, and made his name immortal? And yet, how few there are among us who would not disparage, nay, ridicule and contemn a young man who should follow Franklin’s example.
Washington examined the minutest expenditures of his family, even when President of the United States. He understood that without economy none can be rich, and with it none need be poor.
Napoleon examined his domestic bills himself, detected overcharges and errors.
Unfortunately Congress can pass no law that will remedy the vice of living beyond one’s means.
“We are ruined,” says Colton, “not by what we really want, but by what we think we do. Therefore never go abroad in search of your wants; if they be real wants, they will come home in search of you; for he that buys what he does not want will soon want what he cannot buy.”
“I hope that there will not be another sale,” exclaimed Horace Walpole, “for I have not an inch of room nor a farthing left.” A woman once bought an old door-plate with “Thompson” on it because she thought it might come in handy some time. The habit of buying what you don’t need because it is cheap encourages extravagance. “Many have been ruined by buying good pennyworths.”
Barnum tells the story of one of his acquaintances, whose wife would have a new and elegant sofa, which in the end cost him thirty thousand dollars. When the sofa reached the house it was found necessary to get chairs “to match,” then sideboards, carpets, and tables, “to correspond” with them, and so on through the entire stock of furniture, when at last it was found that the house itself was quite too small and old-fashioned for the furniture, and a new one was built “to correspond” with the sofa and _et ceteras_: “thus,” added my friend, “running up an outlay of $30,000 caused by that single sofa, and saddling on me in the shape of servants, equipage, and the necessary expenses attendant on keeping up a fine ‘establishment’ a yearly outlay of eleven thousand dollars, and a habit of extravagance which was a constant menace to my prosperity.”
Cicero said: “Not to have a mania for buying, is to possess a revenue.” Many are carried away by the habit of bargain-buying. “Here’s something wonderfully cheap; let’s buy it.” “Have you any use for it?” “No, not at present; but it is sure to come in useful, some time.”
“Annual income,” says Macawber, “twenty pounds; annual expenditure, nineteen six, result–happiness. Annual income, twenty pounds; annual expenditure, twenty pounds ought and six, result–misery.”
“Hunger, rags, cold, hard work, contempt, suspicion, unjust reproach, are disagreeable,” says Horace Greeley; “but debt is infinitely worse than them all.”
“If I had but fifty cents a week to live on,” said Greeley, “I’d buy a peck of corn and parch it before I’d owe any man a dollar.”
To find out uses for the persons or things which are now wasted in life is to be the glorious work of the men of the next generation, and that which will contribute most to their enrichment.
Economizing “in spots” or by freaks is no economy at all; it must be done by management.
Let us learn the meaning of economy. Economy is a high, humane office, a sacrament, when its aim is great; when it is the prudence of simple tastes, when it is practiced for freedom, or love or devotion. Much of the economy we see in houses is of a base origin, and is best kept out of sight. Parched corn eaten to-day that I may have roast fowl for my dinner on Sunday, is a baseness, but parched corn and a house with one apartment, that I may be free of all perturbations, that I may be serene and docile to what the mind shall speak, and girt and road-ready for the lowest mission of knowledge or good will, is frugality for gods and heroes.
Like many other boys P. T. Barnum picked up pennies driving oxen for his father, but unlike many other boys he would invest these earnings in knick-knacks which he would sell to others on every holiday, thus increasing his pennies to dollars.
The eccentric John Randolph once sprang from his seat in the House of Representatives, and exclaimed in his piercing voice, “Mr. Speaker, I have found it.” And then, in the stillness which followed this strange outburst, he added, “I have found the Philosopher’s stone: it is _Pay as you go_.”
In France, all classes, the men as well as the women, study the economy of cookery and practice it; and there, as many travelers affirm, the people live at one-third the expense of Englishmen or Americans. There they know how to make savory messes out of remnants that others would throw away. There they cook no more for each day than is required for that day. With them the art ranks with the fine arts, and a great cook is as much honored and respected as a sculptor or a painter. The consequence is, as ex-Secretary McCullough thinks, a French village of 1000 inhabitants could be supported luxuriously on the waste of one of our large American hotels, and he believes that the entire population of France could be supported on the food which is literally wasted in the United States. Professor Blot, who resided for some years in the United States, remarks, pathetically, that here, “where the markets rival the best markets of Europe, it is really a pity to live as many do live. There are thousands of families in moderately good circumstances who have never eaten a loaf of really good bread, nor tasted a well-cooked steak, nor sat down to a properly prepared meal.”
There are many who think that economy consists in saving cheese parings and candle ends, in cutting off two pence from the laundress’ bill, and doing all sorts of little, mean, dirty things. Economy is not meanness. The misfortune is also that this class of persons let their economy apply only in one direction. They fancy they are so wonderfully economical in saving a half-penny, where they ought to spend two-pence, that they think they can afford to squander in other directions. _Punch_, in speaking of this “one idea” class of people, says, “They are like a man who bought a penny herring for his family’s dinner, and then hired a coach and four to take it home.” I never knew a man to succeed by practicing this kind of economy. True economy consists in always making the income exceed the out-go. Wear the old clothes a little longer, if necessary; dispense with the new pair of gloves, live on plainer food if need be. So that under all circumstances, unless some unforeseen accident occurs, there will be a margin in favor of the income. A penny here and a dollar there placed at interest go on accumulating, and in this way the desired result is obtained.
“I wish I could write all across the sky in letters of gold,” says Rev. William Marsh, “the one word, savings bank.”
Boston savings banks have $130,000,000 on deposit, mostly saved in driblets. Josiah Quincy used to say that the servant girls built most of the palaces on Beacon street.
“Nature uses a grinding economy,” says Emerson, “working up all that is wasted to-day into to-morrow’s creation; not a superfluous grain of sand for all the ostentation she makes of expense and public works. She flung us out in her plenty, but we cannot shed a hair or a paring of a nail but instantly she snatches at the shred and appropriates it to her general stock. Last summer’s flowers and foliage decayed in autumn only to enrich the earth this year for other forms of beauty. Nature will not even wait for our friends to see us, unless we die at home. The moment the breath has left the body she begins to take us to pieces, that the parts may be used again for other creations.”
“So apportion your wants that your means may exceed them,” says Bulwer. “With one hundred pounds a year I may need no man’s help; I may at least have ‘my crust of bread and liberty.’ But with £5000 a year I may dread a ring at my bell; I may have my tyrannical master in servants whose wages I cannot pay; my exile may be at the fiat of the first long-suffering man who enters a judgment against me; for the flesh that lies nearest my heart some Shylock may be dusting his scales and whetting his knife. Every man is needy who spends more than he has; no man is needy who spends less. I may so ill manage, that with £5000 a year I purchase the worst evils of poverty–terror and shame; I may so well manage my money, that with £100 a year I purchase the best blessings of wealth: safety and respect.”
CHAPTER XIX.
LIVE UPWARD.
“Do what thou dost as if the stake were heaven,And this thy last deed ere the judgment day.”
If you wish to reach the highest begin at the lowest.–PUBLIUS SYRUS.
What is a man,If his chief good, and market of his time,Be but to sleep, and feed? A beast, no more.Sure He, that made us with such large discourse,Looking before, and after, gave us notThat capability and godlike ReasonTo rust in us unused.–SHAKESPEARE.
Ambition is the spur that makes man struggle with destiny. Itis heaven’s own incentive to make purpose great and achievementgreater.–ANONYMOUS.
“Not failure, but low aim, is crime.”
“Endeavor to be first in thy calling, whatever itmay be; neither let anyone go before thee in welldoing.”
O may I join the choir invisibleOf those immortal dead who live againIn minds made better by their presence; liveIn pulses stirred to generosity,In deeds of daring rectitude, in scornFor miserable aims that end with self,In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,And with their mild persistence urge man’s searchTo vaster issues.–GEORGE ELIOT.
“Alexander, Cæsar, Charlemagne and myself have founded empires,” said Napoleon to Montholon at St. Helena; “but upon what did we rest the creations of our genius? Upon force. Jesus Christ alone founded his empire on love, and at this moment millions of men would die for Him. I die before my time and my body will be given back to worms. Such is the fate of him who has been called the great Napoleon. What an abyss between my deep misery and the eternal kingdom of Christ, which is proclaimed, loved and adored, and which is extended over the whole earth. Call you this dying? Is it not rather living? The death of Christ is the death of a God.”
“No true man can live a half life,” says Phillips Brooks, “when he has genuinely learned that it is a half life. The other half, the higher half, must haunt him.”
“Ideality,” says Horace Mann, “is only the _avant courier_ of the mind; and where that in a healthy and normal state goes I hold it to be a prophecy that realization can follow.”
“If the certainty of future fame bore Milton rejoicing through his blindness, or cheered Galileo in his dungeon,” writes Bulwer, “what stronger and holier support shall not be given to him who has loved mankind as his brothers and devoted his labors to their cause?–who has not sought, but relinquished, his own renown?–who has braved the present censures of men for their future benefit, and trampled upon glory in the energy of benevolence? Will there not be for him something more powerful than fame to comfort his sufferings and to sustain his hopes?”
“If I live,” wrote Rufus Choate in his diary in September, 1844, “all blockheads which are shaken at certain mental peculiarities shall know and feel a reasoner, a lawyer and a man of business.”
I have read that none of the humbler races have the muscle by which man turns his eye upward, though I am not anatomist enough to be sure of the fact.
“Show me a contented slave,” says Burke, “and I will show you a degraded man.”
“They truly are faithful,” says one writer, “who devote their entire lives to amendment.”
General Grant said of the Chinese Wall: “I believe that the labor expended on this wall could have built every railroad in the United States, every canal and highway, and most, if not all, our cities.”
“The real benefactors of mankind,” says Emerson, “are the men and women who can raise their fellow beings out of the world of corn and money, who make them forget their bank account by interesting them in their higher selves; who can raise mere money-getters into the intellectual realm, where they will cease to measure greatness and happiness by dollars and cents; who can make men forget their stomachs and feast on being’s banquet.”
“Men are not so much mistaken in desiring to advance themselves,” said Beecher, “as in judging what will be an advance, and what the right method of obtaining it. An ambition which has conscience in it will always be a laborious and faithful engineer, and will build the road and bridge the chasms between itself and eminent success by the most faithful and minute performances of duty. The liberty to go higher than we are is given only when we have fulfilled amply the duty of our present sphere. Thus men are to rise upon their performances and not upon their discontent. And this is the secret and golden meaning of the command to be _content_ in whatever sphere we are placed. It is not to be the content of indifference, of indolence, of unambitious stupidity, but the content of industrious fidelity. When men are building the foundations of vast structures they must needs labor far below the surface, and in disagreeable conditions. But every course of stone which they lay raises them higher; and at length, when they reach the surface, they have laid such solid work under them that they need not fear now to carry up their walls, through towering stories, till they overlook the whole neighborhood. A man proves himself fit to go higher who shows that he is faithful where he is. A man that will not do well in his present place, because he longs to be higher, is fit neither to be where he is nor yet above it; he is already too high and should be put lower.”
Do that which is assigned thee and thou canst not hope too much, or dare too much. What a man does, that he has. In himself is his might. Don’t waste life on doubts and fears. Spend yourself on the work before you, well assured that the performance of this hour’s duties will be the best preparation for the hours or ages that follow it.
Tradition says that when Solomon received the gift of an emerald vase from the Queen of Sheba he filled it with an elixir which he only knew how to prepare, one drop of which would prolong life indefinitely. A dying criminal begged for a drop of the precious fluid, but Solomon refused to prolong a wicked life. When good men asked for it they were refused, or failed to obtain it when promised, as the king would forget or prefer not to open the vase to get but a single drop. When at last the king became ill, and bade his servants bring the vase, he found that the contents had all evaporated. So it is often with our hope, our faith, our ambition, our aspiration.
A man cannot aspire if he looks down. God has not created us with aspirations and longings for heights to which we cannot climb. Live upward. The unattained still beckons us toward the summit of life’s mountains, into the atmosphere where great souls live and breathe and have their being. Even hope is but a promise of the possibility of its own fulfillment. Life should be lived in earnest. It is no idle game, no farce to amuse and be forgotten. It is a stern reality, fuller of duties than the sky of stars. You cannot have too much of that yearning which we call aspiration, for, even though you do not attain your ideal, the efforts you make will bring nothing but blessing; while he who fails of attaining mere worldly goals is too often eaten up with the canker-worm of disappointed ambition. To all will come a time when the love of glory will be seen to be but a splendid delusion, riches empty, rank vain, power dependent, and all outward advantages without inward peace a mere mockery of wretchedness. The wisest men have taken care to uproot selfish ambition from their breasts. Shakespeare considered it so near a vice as to need extenuating circumstances to make it a virtue.
Who has not noticed the power of love in an awkward, crabbed, shiftless, lazy man? He becomes gentle, chaste in language, energetic. Love brings out the poetry in him. It is only an idea, a sentiment, and yet what magic it has wrought. Nothing we can see has touched the man, yet he is entirely transformed.
Not less does ambition completely transform a human being, for a woman thirsting for fame can work where a man equally resolute would faint. He despises ease and sloth, welcomes toil and hardship, and shakes even kingdoms to gratify his master passion. Mere ambition has impelled many a man to a life of eminence and usefulness; its higher manifestation, aspiration, has led him beyond the stars. If the aim be right the life in its details cannot be far wrong. Your heart must inspire what your hands execute, or the work will be poorly done. The hand cannot reach higher than does the heart.
But do not strive to reach impossible goals. It is wholly in your power to develop yourself, but not necessarily so to make yourself a king. How many Presidents of the United States or Prime Ministers of England are chosen within the working lifetime of a man? What if a thousand young men resolve to become President or Prime Minister? While such prizes are within your reach, remember that your will must be tremendous and your qualifications of the highest order, or you cannot hope to secure them. Too many are deluded by ambition beyond their power of attainment, or tortured by aspirations totally disproportionate to their capacity for execution. You may, indeed, confidently hope to become eminent in usefulness and power, but only as you build upon a broad foundation of self-culture; while, as a rule, specialists in ambition as in science are apt to become narrow and one-sided. Darwin was very fond of poetry and music when young, but after devoting his life to science, he was surprised to find Shakespeare tedious. He said that, if he were to live his life again, he would read poetry and hear music every day, so as not to lose the power of appreciating such things.
God asks no man whether he will accept life. That is not the choice. You _must_ take it. The only choice is _how_.
“When I found I was black,” said Dumas, “I resolved to live as if I were white, and so force men to look below my skin.”
In the collection of the Massachusetts Historical Society is a prospectus used by Longfellow in canvassing, on one of the blank leaves of which are the skeleton stanzas of “Excelsior,” which he was evidently evolving as he trudged from house to house.
“Disregarding the honors that most men value and looking to the truth,” said Plato, “I shall endeavor in reality to live as virtuously as I can; and, when I die, to die so. And I invite all other men to the utmost of my power; and you, too, I invite to this contest, which, I affirm, surpasses all contests here.”
“Did you ever hear of a man who had striven all his life faithfully and singly toward an object, and in no measure obtained it?” asked Thoreau. “If a man constantly aspires, is he not elevated? Did ever a man try heroism, magnanimity, truth, sincerity, and find that there was no advantage in them,–that it was a vain endeavor?”
“O if the stone can only have some vision of the temple of which it is to be a part forever,” exclaimed Phillips Brooks, “what patience must fill it as it feels the blows of the hammer, and knows that success for it is simply to let itself be wrought into what shape the master wills.”
Man never reaches heights above his habitual thought. It is not enough now and then to mount on wings of ecstasy into the infinite. We must habitually dwell there. The great man is he who abides easily on heights to which others rise occasionally and with difficulty. Don’t let the maxims of a low prudence daily dinned into your ears lower the tone of your high ambition or check your aspirations. Hope lifts us step by step up the mysterious ladder, the top of which no eye hath ever seen. Though we do not find what hope promised, yet we are stronger for the climbing, and we get a broader outlook upon life which repays the effort. Indeed, if we do not follow where hope beckons, we gradually slide down the ladder in despair. Strive ever to be at the top of your condition. A high standard is absolutely necessary.
CHAPTER XX.
“SAND.”
I shall show the cinders of my spiritsThrough the ashes of my chance.–SHAKESPEARE.
Perseverance is a virtueThat wins each god-like act, and plucks successE’en from the spear-proof crest of rugged danger.–WILLIAM HARVARD.
Never say “Fail” again.–RICHELIEU.
It is the one neck nearer that wins the race and shows theblood; the one pull more of the oar that proves the “beefinessof the fellow,” as Oxford men say; it is the one march morethat wins the campaign; the five minutes’ more persistentcourage that wins the fight. Though your force be less thananother’s, you equal and out-master your opponent if youcontinue it longer and concentrate it more.–SMILES.
“I know no such unquestionable badge and ensign of a sovereignmind as that tenacity of purpose which, through all changes ofcompanions, or parties, or fortunes, changes never, bates nojot of heart or hope, but wearies out opposition and arrives atits port.”
“Well done, Tommy Brooks!” exclaimed his teacher in pleased surprise when the dunce of the school spoke his piece without omitting a single word. The other boys had laughed when he rose, for they expected a bad failure. But when the rest of the class had tried, the teacher said Tommy had done the best of all, and gave him the prize.
“And now tell me,” said she, “how you learned the poem so well.”
“Please, ma’am, it was the snail on the wall that taught me how to do it,” said Tommy. At this the other pupils laughed aloud, but the teacher said: “You need not laugh, boys, for we may learn much from such things as snails. How did the snail teach you, Tommy?”
“I saw it crawl up the wall little by little,” replied the boy. “It did not stop nor turn back, but went on, and on; and I thought I would do the same with the poem. So I learned it little by little, and did not give up. By the time the snail reached the top of the wall, I had learned the whole poem.”
“I may here impart the secret of what is called good and bad luck,” said Addison. “There are men who, supposing Providence to have an implacable spite against them, bemoan in the poverty of old age the misfortunes of their lives. Luck forever runs against them, and for others. One with a good profession lost his luck in the river, where he idled away his time a-fishing. Another with a good trade perpetually burnt up his luck by his hot temper, which provoked all his employes to leave him. Another with a lucrative business lost his luck by amazing diligence at everything but his own business. Another who steadily followed his trade, as steadily followed the bottle. Another who was honest and constant to his work, erred by his perpetual misjudgment,–he lacked discretion. Hundreds lose their luck by indulging sanguine expectations, by trusting fraudulent men, and by dishonest gains. A man never has good luck who has a bad wife. I never knew an early-rising, hard-working, prudent man, careful of his earnings and strictly honest, who complained of his bad luck. A good character, good habits, and iron industry are impregnable to the assaults of the ill luck that fools are dreaming of. But when I see a tatterdemalion creeping out of a grocery late in the forenoon with his hands stuck into his pockets, the rim of his hat turned up, and the crown knocked in, I know he has had bad luck,–for the worst of all luck is to be a sluggard, a knave, or a tippler.”
“You have a difficult subject,” said Anthony Trollope at Niagara Falls, to an artist who had attempted to draw the spray of the waters. “All subjects are difficult,” was the reply, “to a man who desires to do well.” “But yours, I fear, is impossible,” said Trollope. “You have no right to say so till I have finished my picture,” protested the artist.
“Tell Louisa to stick to her teaching; she can never succeed as a writer.” When her father delivered the rejected manuscript of a story sent to James T. Fields, editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_, with the above message, Miss Alcott said, “Tell him I _will_ succeed as a writer, and some day I shall write for the _Atlantic_.” Not long after she sent an article to the _Atlantic_ and received a check for $50. With the money she said she bought “a second hand carpet for the parlor, a bonnet for her sister, shoes and stockings for herself.” Her father was calling upon Longfellow some time after this, when Longfellow took the _Atlantic_, and said, “I want to read to you Emerson’s fine poem upon Thoreau’s flute.” Mr. Alcott interrupted him with delight and said, “My daughter Louisa wrote that.”
“Men talk as if victory were something fortunate,” says Emerson. “_Work is victory._ Wherever work is done victory is obtained. _There is no chance and no blanks._ You want but one verdict; if you have your own, you are secure of the rest. But if witnesses are wanted, witnesses are near.”
“Young gentlemen,” said Francis Wayland, “remember that nothing can stand day’s work.”
Alexander the Great exclaimed to his soldiers, disaffected after a long campaign, “Go home and tell them that you left Alexander to conquer the world alone.”
“We discount only our own bills, and not those of private persons,” said the cashier of the Bank of England, when a large bill was offered drawn by Anselm Rothschild of Frankfort, on Nathan Rothschild of London. “Private persons!” exclaimed Nathan, when told of the cashier’s remark; “I will make these gentlemen see what sort of private persons we are.” Three weeks later he presented a five-pound note at the bank at the opening of the office. The teller counted out five sovereigns, looking surprised that Baron Rothschild should have troubled himself about such a trifle. The baron examined the coins one by one, weighing them in the balance, as he said “the law gave him the right to do,” put them into a little canvas bag, and offered a second, then a third, fourth, fiftieth, thousandth note. When a bag was full he handed it to a clerk in waiting, and proceeded to fill another. In seven hours he had changed £21,000, and, with nine employes of his house similarly engaged, had occupied the tellers so busily in changing $1,050,000 worth of notes that no one else could receive attention. The bankers laughed, but the next morning Rothschild appeared with his nine clerks and several drays to carry away the gold, remarking, “These gentlemen refuse to pay my bills; I have sworn not to keep theirs. They can pay at their leisure, only I notify them that I have enough to employ them for two months.” The smiles faded from the features of the bank officials, as they thought of a draft of $55,000,000 in gold which they did not hold. Next morning notice was given in the newspapers that the Bank of England would pay Rothschild’s bills as well as its own.
“Well,” said Barnum to a friend in 1841, “I am going to buy the American Museum.” “Buy it!” exclaimed the astonished friend, who knew that the showman had not a dollar; “what do you intend buying it with?” “Brass,” was the prompt reply, “for silver and gold have I none.”
Every one interested in public entertainments in New York knew Barnum, and knew the condition of his pocket; but Francis Olmstead, who owned the Museum building, consulted numerous references all telling of “a good showman, who would do as he agreed,” and accepted a proposition to give security for the purchaser. Mr. Olmstead was to appoint a money-taker at the door, and credit Barnum toward the purchase with all above expenses and an allowance of fifty dollars per month to support his wife and three children. Mrs. Barnum gladly assented to the arrangement, and offered, if need be, to cut down the household expenses to a little more than a dollar a day. Some six months later Mr. Olmstead happened to enter the ticket office at noon, and found Barnum eating for dinner a few slices of bread and some corned beef. “Is this the way you eat your dinner?” he asked.
“I have not eaten a warm dinner since I bought the Museum, except on the Sabbath; and I intend never to eat another until I get out of debt.” “Ah! you are safe, and will pay for the Museum before the year is out,” said Mr. Olmstead, slapping the young man approvingly on the shoulder. He was right, for in less than a year Barnum had paid every cent out of the profits of the establishment.
A noted philosopher said: “The favors of fortune are like steep rocks; only eagles and creeping things mount to the summit.” Lord Campbell, who became Chief Justice and Lord Chancellor of England and amassed a large fortune, began life as a drudge in a printing office. A little observation shows us that, as a rule, the men who accomplish the most in the world are the most useful, and sensible members of society, the men who are depended upon most in emergencies, the men of backbone and stamina, the bone and sinew of their communities; the men who can always be relied upon, who are healthiest and happiest, are, as a rule, of ordinary mental calibre and medium capacity. But with persistent and untiring industry, these are they, after all, who carry the burdens and reap the prizes of life. It is the men and women who keep everlastingly at it, who do not believe themselves geniuses, but who know that if they ever accomplish anything great, they must do it by common drudgery and persistent industry and with an unwavering aim in one pursuit. Those who believe themselves geniuses are apt to scatter their efforts and thus fritter away their great energies without accomplishing anything in proportion to their high promise. Often the men who promise the most pay the least.
Mrs. Frank Leslie often refers to the time she lived in her carpetless attic while striving to pay her husband’s obligations. She has fought her way successfully through nine lawsuits, and has paid the entire debt. She manages her ten publications entirely herself, signs all checks and money-orders, makes all contracts, looks over all proofs, and approves the make-up of everything before it goes to press. She has developed great business ability, which no one dreamed she possessed.
A little boy was asked how he learned to skate. “Oh, by getting up every time I fell down,” he replied.
The boy Thorwaldsen, whose father died in the poorhouse, and whose education was so scanty that he had to write his letters over many times before they could be posted, by his indomitable perseverance, tenacity and grit, fascinated the world with the genius which neither his discouraging father, poverty, nor hardship could repress.
“It is all very well,” said Charles J. Fox, “to tell me that a young man has distinguished himself by a brilliant first speech. He may go on, or he may be satisfied with his first triumph; but show me a young man who has not succeeded at first, and nevertheless has gone on, and I will back that young man to do better than most of those who have succeeded at the first trial.”
It was the last three days of the first voyage of Columbus that told. All his years of struggle and study would have availed nothing if he had yielded to the mutiny. It was all in those three days. But what days!
“Often defeated in battle,” said Macaulay of Alexander the Great, “he was always successful in war.” He might have said the same of Washington, and, with appropriate changes, of all who win great triumphs of any kind.
One of the greatest preachers of modern times, Lacordaire, failed again and again. Everybody said he would never make a preacher, but he was determined to succeed, and in two years from his humiliating failures he was preaching in Notre Dame to immense congregations.
Orange Judd was a remarkable example of success through grit. He earned corn by working for farmers, carried it on his back to mill, brought back the meal to his room, cooked it himself, milked cows for his pint of milk per day, and lived on mush and milk for months together. He worked his way through Wesleyan University, and took a three years’ post-graduate course at Yale.
Oh, the triumphs of this indomitable spirit of the conqueror! This it was that enabled Franklin to dine on a small loaf in the printing-office with a book in his hand. It helped Locke to live on bread and water in a Dutch garret. It enabled Gideon Lee to go barefoot in the snow, half starved and thinly clad. It sustained Lincoln and Garfield on their hard journeys from the log cabin to the White House.
The very reputation of being strong-willed, plucky, and indefatigable is of priceless value. It often cowes enemies and dispels at the start opposition to one’s undertakings which would otherwise be formidable.
“When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you, till it seems as if you could not hold on a minute longer,” said Harriet Beecher Stowe, “never give up then, for that’s just the place and time that the tide’ll turn.”
“Never despair,” says Burke, “but if you do, work on in despair.”
Once when Marshal Ney was going into battle, looking down at his knees which were smiting together, he said, “You may well shake; you would shake worse yet if you knew where I am going to take you.”
“Go it, William!” an old boxer was overheard saying to himself in the midst of a fight; “at him again!–never say ‘die’!”
A striking incident is related of the early experience of George Law, who, in his day, was one of the most conspicuous financiers and capitalists of New York City. When he was a young man he went to New York, poor and friendless. One day he was walking along the streets, hungry, not knowing where his next meal would come from, and passed a new building in course of erection. Through some accident one of the hod carriers fell from the structure and dropped dead at his feet. Young Law, in his desperation, applied for the job to take the dead man’s place, and the place was given him. He went to work, and this was how one of the wealthiest and shrewdest New York business men got his start.
See young Disraeli, sprung from a hated and persecuted race; without opportunity, pushing his way up through the middle classes, up through the upper classes, until he stands self-poised upon the topmost round of political and social power. Scoffed, ridiculed, rebuffed, hissed from the House of Commons, he simply says, “The time will come when you will hear me.” The time did come, and the boy with no chance swayed the sceptre of England for a quarter of a century.
If impossibilities ever exist, popularly speaking, they ought to have been found somewhere between the birth and the death of Kitto, that deaf pauper and master of Oriental learning. But Kitto did not find them there. In the presence of his decision and imperial energy they melted away. Kitto begged his father to take him out of the poorhouse, even if he had to subsist like the Hottentots. He told him that he would sell his books and pawn his handkerchief, by which he thought he could raise about twelve shillings. He said he could live upon blackberries, nuts and field turnips, and was willing to sleep on a hayrick. Here was real grit. What were impossibilities to such a resolute will? Patrick Henry voiced that decision which characterized the great men of the Revolution when he said, “Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!”
Look at Garrison reading this advertisement in a Southern paper: “Five thousand dollars will be paid for the head of W. L. Garrison by the Governor of Georgia.” Behold him again; a broadcloth mob is leading him through the streets of Boston by a rope. He is hurried to jail. See him return calmly and unflinchingly to his work, beginning at the point at which he was interrupted. Note this heading in the _Liberator_, the type of which he set himself in an attic on State Street, in Boston: “I am in earnest, I will not equivocate, I will not excuse, I will not retreat a single inch, and I will be heard.” Was Garrison heard? Ask a race set free largely by his efforts. Even the gallows erected in front of his own door did not daunt him. He held the ear of an unwilling world with that burning word “freedom,” which was destined never to cease its vibrations until it had breathed its sweet secret to the last slave.
At a time when abolitionists were dangerously unpopular, a crowd of brawny Cape Cod fishermen had made such riotous demonstrations that all the speakers announced, except Stephen Foster and Lucy Stone, had fled from an open-air platform. “You had better run, Stephen,” said she; “they are coming.” “But who will take care of you?” asked Foster. “This gentleman will take care of me,” she replied, calmly laying her hand within the arm of a burly rioter with a club, who had just sprung upon the platform. “Wh–what did you say?” stammered the astonished rowdy, as he looked at the little woman; “yes, I’ll take care of you, and no one shall touch a hair of your head.” With this he forced a way for her through the crowd, and, at her earnest request, placed her upon a stump and stood guard with his club while she delivered an address so effective that the audience offered no further violence, and even took up a collection of twenty dollars to repay Mr. Foster for the damage his clothes had received when the riot was at its height.
“Luck is ever waiting for something to turn up,” says Cobden; “labor, with keen eyes and strong will, will turn up something. Luck lies in bed, and wishes the postman would bring him the news of a legacy; labor turns out at six o’clock, and with busy pen or ringing hammer lays the foundation of a competence. Luck whines; labor whistles. Luck relies on chance; labor, on character.”
There is no luck, for all practical purposes, to him who is not striving, and whose senses are not all eagerly attent. What are called accidental discoveries are almost invariably made by those who are looking for something. A man incurs about as much risk of being struck by lightning as by accidental luck. There is, perhaps, an element of luck in the amount of success which crowns the efforts of different men; but even here it will usually be found that the sagacity with which the efforts are directed and the energy with which they are prosecuted measure pretty accurately the luck contained in the results achieved. Apparent exceptions will be found to relate almost wholly to single undertakings, while in the long run the rule will hold good. Two pearl-divers, equally expert, dive together and work with equal energy. One brings up a pearl, while the other returns empty-handed. But let both persevere and at the end of five, ten or twenty years it will be found that they succeeded almost in exact proportion to their skill and industry.
Lincoln, being asked by an anxious visitor what he would do after three or four years if the rebellion was not subdued, replied: “Oh, there is no alternative but to keep pegging away.”
“It is in me and it shall come out,” said Sheridan, when told that he would never make an orator, as he had failed in his first speech in Parliament. He became known as one of the foremost orators of his day.
It takes great courage to fight a lost cause when there is no hope even of victory. To contest every inch of ground with as much persistency and enthusiasm as if we were assured of victory; this is true courage.
The world admires the man who never flinches from unexpected difficulties, who calmly, patiently, and courageously grapples with his fate; who dies, if need be, at his post.
President Chadbourne put grit in place of his lost lung, and worked thirty-five years after his funeral had been planned.
Henry Fawcett put grit in place of eyesight, and became the greatest Postmaster-General England ever had.
Prescott also put grit in place of eyesight, and became one of America’s greatest historians. Francis Parkman put grit in place of health and eyesight, and became the greatest historian of America in his line. Thousands of men have put grit in place of health, eyes, ears, hands, legs, and yet have achieved marvelous success. Indeed, most of the great things of the world have been accomplished by grit and pluck. You cannot keep a man down who has these qualities. He will make stepping-stones out of his stumbling-blocks, and lift himself to success.
Grit and pluck are not always exhibited only by poor boys who have no chance, for there are many notable examples of pluck, persistence and real grit among youth in good circumstances, who never have to fight their way to their own loaf. Mr. Mifflin, who has recently become the head of the celebrated publishing firm of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., is a notable example of persistency, push and grit. After graduating at Harvard and traveling abroad, he was determined, although not obliged to work for a living, to get a position at the Riverside Press in Cambridge. He called upon the late Mr. Houghton and asked him for a situation. Mr. Houghton told him that he had no opening, and that, even if he had, he did not believe that a graduate from Harvard who had money and who had traveled abroad would ever be willing to begin at the bottom and do the necessary drudgery, for boy’s pay. Mr. Mifflin protested that he was not afraid of hard work, and that he was willing to do anything and take any sort of a position, if he could only learn the business. But Mr. Houghton would not give him any encouragement. Again and again Mr. Mifflin came to the Riverside Press, and pressed his suit, but to no purpose. Mr. Mifflin persuaded his father to intercede for him, but Mr. Houghton succeeded in convincing him that it would be very unwise for his son to attempt it. But young Mifflin was determined not to give up. Finally, Mr. Houghton, out of admiration for his persistence and pluck, made a place for him, which had been occupied by a boy, for $5 a week.
Young Mifflin took hold of the work with such earnestness, and showed so much pluck and determination, that Mr. Houghton soon called him into the office and raised his pay to $9 a week from the time he began. Although the young man lived in Boston, he was always at the Riverside Press in Cambridge early in the morning, and would frequently remain after all the others had gone. Mr. Houghton happened to go in late one night, after everybody had gone, as he supposed, and was surprised to find Mr. Mifflin there, taking one of the presses apart. Of course such a young man would be advanced. These are the boys who become the heads of firms.
It is victory after victory with the soldier, lesson after lesson with the scholar, blow after blow with the laborer, crop after crop with the farmer, picture after picture with the painter, and mile after mile with the traveler, that secures what all so much desire–SUCCESS.
Stick to the thing and carry it through. Believe you were made for the place you fill, and that no one else can fill it as well. Put forth your whole energies. Be awake, electrify yourself; go forth to the task. Only once learn to carry a thing through in all its completeness and proportion, and you will become a hero. You will think better of yourself; others will think better of you. The world in its very heart admires the stern, determined doer.
CHAPTER XXI.
ABOVE RUBIES.
The best way to settle the quarrel between capital and labor isby allopathic doses of Peter-Cooperism.–TALMAGE.
In the sublimest flights of the soul, rectitude is neversurmounted, love is never outgrown.–EMERSON.
“One ruddy drop of manly blood the surging sea outweighs.”
Virtue alone out-builds the pyramids:Her monuments shall last when Egypt’s fall.–YOUNG.
He believed that he was born, not for himself, but for thewhole world.–LUCAN.
Wherever man goes to dwell, his character goes with him.–AFRICAN PROVERB.
The spirit of a single mindMakes that of multitudes take one direction,As roll the waters to the breathing wind.–BYRON.
“No, say what you have to say in her presence, too,” said King Cleomenes of Sparta, when his visitor Anistagoras asked him to send away his little daughter Gorgo, ten years old, knowing how much harder it is to persuade a man to do wrong when his child is at his side. So Gorgo sat at her father’s feet, and listened while the stranger offered more and more money if Cleomenes would aid him to become king in a neighboring country. She did not understand the matter, but when she saw her father look troubled and hesitate, she took hold of his hand and said, “Papa, come away–come, or this strange man will make you do wrong.” The king went away with the child, and saved himself and his country from dishonor. Character is power, even in a child. When grown to womanhood, Gorgo was married to the hero Leonidas. One day a messenger brought a tablet sent by a friend who was a prisoner in Persia. But the closest scrutiny failed to reveal a single word or line on the white waxen surface, and the king and all his noblemen concluded that it was sent as a jest. “Let me take it,” said Queen Gorgo; and, after looking it all over, she exclaimed, “There must be some writing underneath the wax!” They scraped away the wax and found a warning to Leonidas from the Grecian prisoner, saying that Xerxes was coming with his immense host to conquer all Greece. Acting on this warning, Leonidas and the other kings assembled their armies and checked the mighty host of Xerxes, which is said to have shaken the earth as it marched.
“I fear John Knox’s prayers more than an army of ten thousand men,” said Mary, Queen of Scotland.
“The man behind the sermon,” said William M. Evarts, “is the secret of John Hall’s power.” In fact if there is not a man with a character behind it nothing about it is of the slightest consequence.
Thackeray says, “Nature has written a letter of credit upon some men’s faces which is honored wherever presented. You can not help trusting such men; their very presence gives confidence. There is a ‘promise to pay’ in their very faces which gives confidence, and you prefer it to another man’s indorsement.” _Character is credit._
In the great monetary panic of 1857, a meeting was called of the various bank presidents of New York City. When asked what percentage of specie had been drawn during the day, some replied fifty per cent., some even as high as seventy-five per cent., but Moses Taylor of the City Bank said: “We had in the bank this morning, $400,000; this evening, $470,000.” While other banks were badly “run,” the confidence in the City Bank under Mr. Taylor’s management was such that people had deposited in that institution what they had drawn from other banks. Character gives confidence.
“There is no such thing as a small country,” said Victor Hugo. “The greatness of a people is no more affected by the number of its inhabitants than the greatness of an individual is measured by his height.”
“It is the nature of party in England,” said John Russell, “to ask the assistance of men of genius, but to follow the guidance of men of character.”
“A handful of good life,” says George Herbert, “is worth a bushel of learning.”
“I have read,” Emerson says, “that they who listened to Lord Chatham felt that there was something finer in the man than anything which he said.” It has been complained of Carlyle that when he has told all his facts about Mirabeau they do not justify his estimate of the latter’s genius. The Gracchi, Agis, Cleomenes, and others of Plutarch’s heroes do not in the record of facts equal their own fame. Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Walter Raleigh are men of great figure and of few deeds. We cannot find the smallest part of the personal weight of Washington in the narrative of his exploits. The authority of the name of Schiller is too great for his books. This inequality of the reputation to the works or the anecdotes is not accounted for by saying that the reverberation is longer than the thunder-clap; but something resided in these men which begot an expectation that outran all their performance. The largest part of their power was latent. This is that which we call character,–a reserved force which acts directly by presence, and without means. What others effect by talent or eloquence, the man of character accomplishes by some magnetism. “Half his strength he puts not forth.” His victories are by demonstration of superiority, and not by crossing bayonets. He conquers, because his arrival alters the face of affairs. “O Iole! how didst thou know that Hercules was a god?” “Because,” answered Iole, “I was content the moment my eyes fell on him. When I beheld Theseus, I desired that I might see him offer battle, or at least drive his horses in the chariot-race; but Hercules did not wait for a contest; he conquered whether he stood, or walked, or sat, or whatever else he did.”
“Show me,” said Omar the Caliph to Amru the warrior, “the sword with which you have fought so many battles and slain so many infidels.” “Ah,” replied Amru, “the sword without the arm of the master is no sharper nor heavier than the sword of Farezdak the poet.” So one hundred and fifty pounds of flesh and blood without character is of no great value.
“No man throws away his vote,” says Francis Willard, “when he places it in the ballot-box with his conviction behind it. The party which elected Lincoln in 1860 polled only seven thousand votes in 1840. Revolutions never go backward, and the fanaticisms of to-day are the victories of to-morrow.”
“O sir, we are beaten,” exclaimed the general in command of Sheridan’s army, retreating before the victorious Early. “No, sir,” replied the indignant Sheridan; “you are beaten, but this army is not beaten.” Drawing his sword, he waved it above his head, and pointed it at the pursuing host, while his clarion voice rose above the horrid din in a command to charge once more. The lines paused, turned,–
“And with the ocean’s mighty swing,When heaving to the tempest’s wing,They hurled them on the foe;”
and the Confederate army was wildly routed.
When war with France seemed imminent, in 1798, President Adams wrote to George Washington, then a private citizen in retirement at Mount Vernon: “We must have your name, if you will permit us to use it; there will be more efficacy in it than in many an army.” Character is power.
When Pope Paul IV. heard of the death of Calvin he exclaimed with a sigh, “Ah, the strength of that proud heretic lay in–riches? No! Honors? No! But nothing could move him from his course. Holy Virgin! With two such servants, our Church would soon be mistress of both worlds.”
Eighteen hundred years ago, when night closed over the city of Pompeii, a lady sat in her house nursing her son of ten years of age. The child had been ill for some days; his form was wasted, his little limbs were shrunk; and we may imagine with what infinite anxiety she watched every motion of the helpless one, whose existence was so dear. What did take place we know with an exactness very remarkable. That distant mountain which reared its awful head on the shore of the bay, Vesuvius, was troubled that same night with an eruption, and threw into the air such clouds of pumice-stones that the streets and squares of Pompeii became filled, and gradually the stones grew higher and higher, until they reached the level of the windows. There was no chance of escape then by the doors; and those who attempted to get away stepped out of their first floor windows and rushed over the sulphurous stones–a short distance only, for they were quickly overpowered by the poisonous vapors and fell dead. After the stones there fell ashes, and after ashes hot water fell in showers, which changed the ashes into clay. Those who ran out of their houses during the fall of stones were utterly consumed, while those who waited until the ashes began to fall perished likewise, but their bodies were preserved by the ashes and water which fell upon them. The Pompeiian mother we have mentioned opened the window of her house when she thought the fall of stones was over, and with the child in her arms took a few hurried steps forward, when, overpowered by the sulphur, she fell forward, at which moment the shower of ashes began to fall, and quickly buried mother and child. The hot water afterward changed into a mould; the ashes and the sun baked the fatal clay to such a degree of hardness that it has endured to the present day. A short time ago the spot where mother and child lay was found, liquid plaster-of-Paris was poured into the mould formed by the bodies, and then the mould was broken up, leaving the plaster-cast whole. Thus one touching incident in the terrible tragedy of eighteen centuries ago has been preserved for the admiration and respect of posterity. _The arms and legs of the child showed a contraction and emaciation which could only result from illness._ Of the mother only the right arm was preserved; she fell upon the ashes, and the remaining portion of her body was consumed. _But the right hand still clasped the legs of the child_; on her arm were two gold bracelets, and on her fingers were two gold rings–one set with an emerald, the other with a cut amethyst. This touching illustration of _a mother’s love_ now rests in the museum of the celebrated city.
“I was sitting with Grant once,” says General Fisk, “when a major-general entered, dressed in the uniform of his rank, who said: ‘Boys, I have a good story to tell you. I believe there are no ladies present.’ Grant said, ‘No, but there are gentlemen present.'”
Mr. George W. Childs, in referring to this trait, said:
“Another great trait of his character was his purity in every way. I never heard him express or make an indelicate allusion in any way or shape. There is nothing I ever heard that man say that could not be repeated in the presence of women.”
The writer has heard of several incidents illustrating his answer to impure stories. On one occasion, when Grant formed one of a dinner-party of American gentlemen in a foreign city, conversation drifted into references to questionable affairs, when he suddenly rose and said, “Gentlemen, please excuse me; I will retire.”
When Attila, flushed with conquest, appeared with his barbarian horde before the gates of Rome in 452, Pope Leo alone of all the people dared go forth and try to turn his wrath aside. A single magistrate followed him. The Huns were awed by the fearless majesty of the unarmed old man, and led him before their chief, whose respect was so great that he agreed not to enter the city, provided a tribute should be paid to him.
Wellington said that Napoleon’s presence in the French army was equivalent to forty thousand additional soldiers, and Richter said of the invincible Luther, “His words were half battles.”
“I know no great men,” says Voltaire, “except those who have rendered great services to the human race.” Men are measured by what they do; not by what they seem or possess.
Francis Horner, of England, was a man of whom Sydney Smith said, that “the ten commandments were stamped upon his forehead.” The valuable and peculiar light in which Horner’s history is calculated to inspire every right-minded youth is this: he died at the age of thirty-eight, possessed of greater influence than any other private man, and admired, beloved, trusted, and deplored by all except the heartless and the base. No greater homage was ever paid in Parliament to any deceased member. How was this attained? By rank? He was the son of an Edinburgh merchant. By wealth? Neither he nor any of his relatives ever had a superfluous sixpence. By office? He held but one; and that for only a few years, of no influence, and with very little pay. By talents? His were not splendid, and he had no genius. Cautious and slow, his only ambition was to be right. By eloquence? He spoke in calm, good taste, without any of the oratory that either terrifies or seduces. By any fascination of manner? His was only correct and agreeable. By what was it, then? Merely by sense, industry, good principles and a good heart, qualities which no well constituted mind need ever despair of attaining. It was the force of his character that raised him; and this character was not impressed on him by nature, but formed, out of no peculiarly fine elements, by himself. There were many in the House of Commons of far greater ability and eloquence. But no one surpassed him in the combination of an adequate portion of these with moral worth. Horner was born to show what moderate powers, unaided by anything whatever except culture and goodness, may achieve, even when these powers are displayed amidst the competition and jealousies of public life.
A hundred years hence what difference will it make whether you were rich or poor, a peer or a peasant? But what difference may it not make whether you did what was right or what was wrong?
At a large dinner-party given by Lord Stratford after the Crimean War, it was proposed that every one should write on a slip of paper the name which appeared most likely to descend to posterity with renown. When the papers were opened everyone of them contained the name of Florence Nightingale.
Professor Blackie, of the University of Edinburgh, said to a class of young men: “Money is not needful; power is not needful; liberty is not needful; even health is not the one thing needful; but character alone is that which can truly save us, and if we are not saved in this sense, we certainly must be damned.” It has been said that “when poverty is your inheritance, virtue must be your capital.”
“Hence it was,” said Franklin, speaking of the influence of his known integrity of character, “that I had so much weight with my fellow-citizens. I was but a bad speaker, never eloquent, subject to much hesitation in my choice of words, hardly correct in language, and yet I generally carried my point.”
When a man’s character is gone, all is gone. All peace of mind, all complacency in himself is fled forever. He despises himself. He is despised by his fellow-men. Within is shame and remorse; without neglect and reproach. He is of necessity a miserable and useless man; he is so even though he be clothed in purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every day. It is better to be poor; it is better to be reduced to beggary; it is better to be cast into prison, or condemned to perpetual slavery, than to be destitute of a good name or endure the pains and the evils of a conscious worthlessness of character.
The time is soon coming when, by the common consent of mankind, it will be esteemed more honorable to have been John Pounds, putting new and beautiful souls into the ragged children of the neighborhood while he mended his father’s shoes, than to have sat upon the British throne. The time now is when, if Queen Victoria, in one of her magnificent progresses through her realms, were to meet that more than American queen, Miss Dix, in her “circumnavigation of charity” among the insane, the former should kneel and kiss the hand of the latter; and the ruler over more than a hundred millions of people should pay homage to the angel whom God has sent to the maniac.
“At your age,” said to a youth an old man who had honorably held many positions of trust and responsibility, “both position and wealth appear enduring things; but at mine a man sees that nothing lasts but character.”
Several eminent clergymen were discussing the qualities of self-made men. They each admitted that they belonged to that class, except a certain bishop, who remained silent, and was intensely absorbed in the repast. The host was determined to draw him out, and so, addressing him, said: “All at this table are self-made men, unless the bishop is an exception.” The bishop promptly replied, “I am not made yet,” and the reply contained a profound truth. So long as life lasts, with its discipline of joy or sorrow, its opportunities for good or evil, so long our characters are being shaped and fixed.
Milton said: “He who would write heroic poems, must make his whole life an heroic poem.” We are responsible for our thoughts, and unless we could command them, mental and moral excellence would be impossible.
Charles Kingsley has well said: “Let any one set his heart to do what is right and nothing else, and it will not be long ere his brow is stamped with all that goes to make up the heroic expression, with noble indignation, noble self-restraint, great hopes, great sorrows, perhaps even with the print of the martyr’s crown of thorns.”
Said James Martineau: “God insists on having a concurrence between our practice and our thoughts. If we proceed to make a contradiction between them, He forthwith begins to abolish it, and if the will will not rise to the reason, the reason must be degraded to the will.”
“When I say, in conducting your understanding,” says Sidney Smith, “love knowledge with a great love, with a vehement love, with a love co-eval with life–what do I say but love innocence, love virtue, love purity of conduct, love that which, if you are rich and great, will vindicate the blind fortune which has made you so, and make them call it justice; love that which, if you are poor, will render your poverty respectable, and make the proudest feel that it is unjust to laugh at the meanness of your fortunes; love that which will comfort you, adorn you, and never quit you–which will open to you the kingdom of thought, and all the boundless regions of conception as an asylum against the cruelty, the injustice, and the pain that may be your lot in the world–that which will make your motives habitually great and honorable, and light up in an instant a thousand noble disdains at the very thought of meanness and of fraud?”
The Arabs express this by a parable that incarnates, as is their wont, the Word in the recital. King Nimrod, say they, one day summoned his three sons into his presence. He ordered to be set before them three urns under seal. One of the urns was of gold, another of amber, and the third of clay. The king bade the eldest of his sons choose among the urns that which appeared to him to contain the treasure of greatest price. The eldest chose the vase of gold, on which was written the word “Empire.” He opened it and found it full of blood. The second chose the amber vase whereon was written the word “Glory.” He opened it and found it contained the ashes of the great men who had made a sensation in the world. The third son took the only remaining vase, the one of clay; he found it quite empty, but on the bottom the potter had written the word “God.” “Which of these vases weighs the most?” asked the king of the courtiers. The men of ambition replied it was the vase of gold; the poets and conquerors, the amber one; the sages that it was the empty vase, because a single letter of the name God weighs more than the entire globe. We are of the opinion of the sages. We believe the greatest things are great but in the proportion of divinity they contain.
“Although genius always commands admiration,” says Smiles, “character most secures respect. The former is more the product of brain-power, the latter of heart-power; and in the long run it is the heart that rules in life. Men of genius stand to society in the relation of its intellect, as men of character of its conscience; and while the former are admired, the latter are followed.
“Commonplace though it may appear, this doing of one’s duty embodies the highest ideal of life and character. There may be nothing heroic about it; but the common lot of men is not heroic. And though the abiding sense of duty upholds man in his highest attitudes, it also equally sustains him in the transaction of the ordinary affairs of every-day existence. The most influential of all the virtues are those which are the most in request for daily use. They wear the best and last the longest. We can always better understand and appreciate a man’s real character by the manner in which he conducts himself toward those who are the most nearly related to him, and by his transaction of the seemingly commonplace details of daily duty, than by his public exhibition of himself as an author, an orator, or a statesman. Intellectual culture has no necessary relation to purity or excellence of character.
“On the contrary, a condition of comparative poverty is compatible with character in its highest form. A man may possess only his industry, his frugality, his integrity, and yet stand high in the rank of true manhood.
“Character is property. It is the noblest of possessions. It is an estate in the general good-will and respect of men; and they who invest in it–though they may not become rich in this world’s goods–will find their reward in esteem and reputation fairly and honorably won. Without principles, a man is like a ship without rudder or compass, left to drift hither and thither with every wind that blows.”
What a contrast is afforded by the lives of Bacon and More. Bacon sought office with as much desire as More avoided it; Bacon used as much solicitation to obtain it as More endured to accept it, and each, when in it, was equally true to his character. More was simple, as Bacon was ostentatious. More was as incorruptible as Bacon was venal. More spent his private fortune in office, and Bacon spent the wages of corruption there. Both left office poor in worldly goods; but while More was rich in honor and good deeds, Bacon was poor in everything; poor in the mammon for which he bartered his integrity; poor in the gawd for which he sacrificed his peace; poor in the presence of the worthless; covered with shame in the midst of the people; trusting his fame to posterity, of which posterity is only able to say, that the wisest of men was adviser to the silliest of kings, yet that such a king had a sort of majesty when morally compared with the official director of his conscience. Both More and Bacon served each a great purpose for the world. More illustrated the beauty of holiness; Bacon expounded the infinitude of science. Bacon became the prophet of intellect; More, the martyr of conscience. The one pours over our understandings the light of knowledge; but the other inflames our hearts with the love of virtue.
All have read of the proud Egyptian king who ordered a colossal staircase built in his new palace, and was chagrined to find that he required a ladder to climb from one step to the next. A king’s legs are as short as those of a beggar. So, too, a prince’s ability to enjoy the pleasures of life is no greater than that of a pauper.
“All that is valuable in this world is to be had for nothing. Genius, beauty, health, piety, love, are not bought and sold. The richest man on earth would vainly offer a fortune to be qualified to write a verse like Milton, or to compose a melody like Mozart. You may summon all the physicians, but they cannot procure for you the sweet, healthful sleep which the tired laborer gets without price. Let no man, then, call himself a proprietor. He owns but the breath as it traverses his lips and the idea as it flits across his mind; and of that breath he may be deprived by the sting of a bee, and that idea, perhaps, truly belongs to another.”
“We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths:In feelings, not in figures on a dial.We should count time by heart-throbs. He most livesWho thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best;And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest.”
CHAPTER XXII.
MORAL SUNSHINE.
I have gout, asthma, and seven other maladies, but am otherwisevery well.–SIDNEY SMITH.
The inborn geniality of some people amounts to genius.–WHIPPLE.
This one sits shivering in fortune’s smile,Taking his joy with bated, doubtful breath;This other, gnawed by hunger, all the whileLaughs in the teeth of death.–T. B. ALDRICH.
There is no real life but cheerful life.–ADDISON.
Next to the virtue, the fun in this world is what we can leastspare.–AGNES STRICKLAND.
Joy in one’s work is the consummate tool.–PHILLIPS BROOKS.
Joy is the mainspring in the wholeOf endless Natures calm rotation.Joy moves the dazzling wheels that rollIn the great timepiece of Creation.–SCHILLER.
“He is as stiff as a poker,” said a friend of a man who could never be coaxed or tempted to smile. “Stiff as a poker,” exclaimed another, “why he would set an example to a poker.”
Even Christians are not celebrated for entering into the _joy_ of their Lord.
We are told that “Pascal would not permit himself to be conscious of the relish of his food; he prohibited all seasonings and spices, however much he might wish for and need them; and he actually died because he forced his diseased stomach to receive at each meal a certain amount of aliment, neither more nor less, whatever might be his appetite at the time, or his utter want of appetite. He wore a girdle armed with iron spikes, which he was accustomed to drive in upon his body (his fleshless ribs) as often as he thought himself in need of such admonition. He was annoyed and offended if any in his hearing might chance to say that they had just seen a beautiful woman. He rebuked a mother who permitted her own children to give her their kisses. Toward a loving sister, who devoted herself to his comfort, he assumed an artificial harshness of manner for the _express purpose_, as he acknowledged, of revolting her sisterly affection.”
And all this sprung from the simple principle that earthly enjoyment was inconsistent with religion.
We should fight against every influence which tends to depress the mind, as we would against a temptation to crime. A depressed mind prevents the free action of the diaphragm and the expansion of the chest. It stops the secretions of the body, interferes with the circulation of the blood in the brain, and deranges the entire functions of the body. Scrofula and consumption often follow protracted depressions of mind. That “fatal murmur” which is heard in the upper lobes of the lungs in the first stages of consumption, often follows depressed spirits after some great misfortune or sorrow. Victims of suicide are almost always in a depressed state from exhausted vitality, loss of nervous energy, dyspepsia, worry, anxiety, trouble, or grief.
“Mirth is God’s medicine,” says a wise writer; “everybody ought to bathe in it. Grim care, moroseness, anxiety–all the rust of life, ought to be scoured off by the oil of mirth.” It is better than emery. Every man ought to rub himself with it. A man without mirth is like a wagon without springs, in which one is caused disagreeably to jolt by every pebble over which it runs. A man with mirth is like a chariot with springs, in which one can ride over the roughest roads and scarcely feel anything but a pleasant rocking motion.
“I have told you,” said Southey, “of the Spaniard who always put on spectacles when about to eat cherries, in order that the fruit might look larger and more tempting. In like manner I make the most of my enjoyments; and though I do not cast my eyes away from my troubles, I pack them in as small a compass as I can for myself, and never let them annoy others.” We all know the power of good cheer to magnify everything.
Travelers are told by the Icelanders, who live amid the cold and desolation of almost perpetual winter, that “Iceland is the best land the sun shines upon.”
“You are on the shady side of seventy, I expect?” was asked of an old man. “No,” was the reply, “I am on the sunny side; for I am on the side nearest to glory.”
A cheerful man is pre-eminently a useful man. He does not cramp his mind, nor take half-views of men and things. He knows that there is much misery, but that misery need not be the rule of life. He sees that in every state people may be cheerful; the lambs skip, birds sing and fly joyously, puppies play, kittens are full of joyance, the whole air full of careering and rejoicing insects; that everywhere the good outbalances the bad, and that every evil has its compensating balm.
“Bishop Fénelon is a delicious man,” said Lord Peterborough; “I had to run away from him to prevent his making me a Christian.”
Hume, the historian, never said anything truer than–“To be happy, the person must be cheerful and gay, not gloomy and melancholy. A propensity to hope and joy is real riches; one to fear and sorrow, real poverty.”
Dr. Johnson once remarked with his point and pith that the custom of looking on the bright side of every event was better than having a thousand pounds a year income. But Hume rated the value in dollars and cents of cheerfulness still higher. He said he would rather have a cheerful disposition always inclined to look on the bright side of things than to be master of an estate with 10,000 pounds a year.
“We have not fulfilled every duty, unless we have fulfilled that of being pleasant.”
“If a word or two will render a man happy,” said a Frenchman, “he must be a wretch indeed, who will not give it. It is like lighting another man’s candle with your own, which loses none of its brilliancy by what the other gains.”
The sensible young man, in theory at least, chooses for his wife one who will be able to keep his house, to be the mother of sturdy children, one who will of all things meet life’s experiences with a sweet temper. It is impossible to imagine a pleasant home with a cross wife, mother or sister, as its presiding genius. And it is a rule, with exceptions, that good appetite and sound sleep induce amiability. If, with these advantages, a girl or woman, boy or man, is still snappish or surly, why it must be due to her or his total depravity.
Some things she should not do; she shouldn’t dose herself, or study up her case, or plunge suddenly into vigorous exercise. Moderation is a safe rule to begin with, and, indeed, to keep on with–moderation in study, in work, in exercise, in everything except fresh air, good, simple food, and sleep. Few people have too much of these. The average girl at home can find no more sanitary gymnastics than in doing part of the lighter housework. This sort of exercise has object, and interest, and use, which raises it above mere drill. Add to this a merry romp with younger brothers and sisters, a brisk daily walk, the use for a few moments twice a day of dumb bells in a cool, airy room, and it is safe to predict a steady advance toward that ideal state of being in which we forget our bodies and just enjoy ourselves.
“It is not work that kills men,” says Beecher; “it is worry. Work is healthy; you can hardly put more on a man than he can bear. But worry is rust upon the blade. It is not movement that destroys the machinery, but friction.”
Helen Hunt says there is one sin which seems to be everywhere, and by everybody is underestimated and quite too much overlooked in valuations of character. It is the sin of fretting. It is as common as air, as speech; so common that unless it rises above its usual monotone we do not even observe it. Watch any ordinary coming together of people, and we see how many minutes it will be before somebody frets–that is, makes more or less complaint of something or other, which probably every one in the room, or car, or on the street corner knew before, and which most probably nobody can help. Why say anything about it? It is cold, it is hot, it is wet, it is dry, somebody has broken an appointment, ill-cooked a meal; stupidity or bad faith somewhere has resulted in discomfort. There are plenty of things to fret about. It is simply astonishing, how much annoyance and discomfort may be found in the course of every-day living, even of the simplest, if one only keeps a sharp eye out on that side of things. Some people seem to be always hunting for deformities, discords and shadows, instead of beauty, harmony and light. We are born to trouble, as sparks fly upward. But even to the sparks flying upward, in the blackest of smoke, there is a blue sky above, and the less time they waste on the road, the sooner they will reach it. Fretting is all time wasted on the road.
About two things we should never fret, that which we cannot help, and that which we can help. Better find one of your own faults than ten of your neighbor’s.
It is not the troubles of to-day, but those of to-morrow and next week and next year, that whiten our heads and wrinkle our faces.
“Every man we meet looks as if he’d gone out to borrow trouble, with plenty of it on hand,” said a French lady driving in New York.
The pendulum of a certain clock began to calculate how often it would have to swing backward and forward in the week and in the month to come; then looking further into the future, it made a calculation for a year, etc. The pendulum got frightened and stopped. Do one day’s work at a time. Do not worry about the trouble of to-morrow. Most of the trouble in life is borrowed trouble, which never actually comes.
“As all healthy action, physical, intellectual and moral, depends primarily on cheerfulness,” says E. P. Whipple, “and as every duty, whether it be to follow a plow or to die at the stake, should be done in a cheerful spirit, the exploration of the sources and conditions of this most vigorous, exhilarating and creative of the virtues may be as useful as the exposition of any topic of science or system of prudential art.”
Christ, the great teacher, did not shut Himself up with monks, away from temptation of the great world outside. He taught no long-faced, gloomy theology. He taught the gospel of gladness and good cheer. His doctrines are touched with the sunlight, and flavored with the flowers of the fields. The birds of the air, the beasts of the field, and happy, romping children are in them. True piety is cheerful as the day.
Cranmer cheers his brother martyrs, and Latimer walks with a face shining with cheerfulness to the stake, upholds his fellow’s spirits, and seasons all his sermons with pleasant anecdotes.
“Nothing will supply the want of sunshine to peaches,” said Emerson, “and to make knowledge valuable, you must have the cheerfulness of wisdom.”
In answer to the question, “How shall we overcome temptation,” a noted writer said, “Cheerfulness is the first thing, cheerfulness is the second, and cheerfulness is the third.” A habit of cheerfulness, enabling one to transmute apparent misfortunes into real blessings, is a fortune to a young man or young woman just crossing the threshold of active life. He who has formed a habit of looking at the bright, happy side of things, who sees the glory in the grass, the sunshine in the flowers, sermons in stones, and good in everything, has a great advantage over the chronic dyspeptic, who sees no good in anything. His habitual thought sculptures his face into beauty and touches his manner with grace.
We often forget that the priceless charm which will secure to us all these desirable gifts is within our reach. It is the charm of a sunny temper, a talisman more potent than station, more precious than gold, more to be desired than fine rubies. It is an aroma, whose fragrance fills the air with the odors of Paradise.
“It is from these enthusiastic fellows,” says an admirer, “that you hear–what they fully believe, bless them!–that all countries are beautiful, all dinners grand, all pictures superb, all mountains high, all women beautiful. When such a one has come back from his country trip, after a hard year’s work, he has always found the cosiest of nooks, the cheapest houses, the best of landladies, the finest views, and the best dinners. But with the other the case is indeed altered. He has always been robbed; he has positively seen nothing; his landlady was a harpy, his bedroom was unhealthy, and the mutton was so tough that he could not get his teeth through it.”
“He goes on to talk of the sun in his glory,” says Izaak Walton, “the fields, the meadows, the streams which they have seen, the birds which they have heard; he asks what would the blind and deaf give to see and hear what they have seen.”
Of Lord Holland’s sunshiny face, Rogers said: “He always comes to breakfast like a man upon whom some sudden good fortune has fallen.”
But oh, for the glorious spectacles worn by the good-natured man!–oh, for those wondrous glasses, finer than the Claude Lorraine glass, which throw a sunlit view over everything, and make the heart glad with little things, and thankful for small mercies! Such glasses had honest Izaak Walton, who, coming in from a fishing expedition on the river Lea, burst out into such grateful little talks as this: “Let us, as we walk home under the cool shade of this honeysuckle hedge, mention some of the thoughts and joys that have possessed my soul since we two met. And that our present happiness may appear the greater, and we more thankful for it, I beg you to consider with me, how many do at this very time lie under the torment of the gout or the toothache, and this we have been free from; and let me tell you, that every misery I miss is a new blessing.”
The hypochondriac who nurses his spleen never looks forward cheerfully, but lounges in his invalid chair, and croaks like a raven, foreboding woe. “Ah,” says he, “you will never succeed; these things always fail.”
The Thug of India, whose prayer is a homicide, and whose offering is the body of a victim, is melancholy.
The Fijiian, waiting to smash the skull of a victim, and to prepare a bakola for his gods, is gloomy as fear and death.
The melancholy of the Eastern Jews after their black fast, and the ill-temper of monks and nuns after their Fridays and Wednesdays, is very observable; it is the recompense which a proud nature takes out of the world for its selfish sacrifice. Melancholia is the black bile which the Greeks presumed overran and pervaded the bodies of such persons; and fasting does undoubtedly produce this.
“I once talked with a Rosicrucian about the Great Secret,” said Addison. “He talked of it as a spirit that lived in an emerald, and converted everything that was near it to the highest perfection. ‘It gives lustre to the sun,’ said he, ‘and water to the diamond. It irradiates every metal, and enriches lead with the property of gold. It brightens smoke into flame, flame into light, and light into glory. A single ray dissipates pain and care from the person on whom it falls.’ Then I found his great secret was Content.”
My crown is in my heart, not on my head:Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,Nor to be seen: my crown is called content:A crown it is, that seldom kings enjoy.–SHAKESPEARE.
Yet, with a heart that’s ever kind,A gentle spirit gay,You’ve spring perennial in your mind,And round you make a May.–THACKERAY.
CHAPTER XXIII.
HOLD UP YOUR HEAD.
Thoroughly to believe in one’s own self, so one’s self werethorough, were to do great things.–TENNYSON.
If there be a faith that can remove mountains, it is faith inone’s own power.–MARIE EBNER-ESCHENBACH.
Let no one discourage self-reliance; it is, of all the rest,the greatest quality of true manliness.–KOSSUTH.
It needs a divine man to exhibit anything divine. * * * Trustthyself; every breast vibrates to that iron string. Accept theplace that divine Providence has found for you, the society ofyour contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men havealways done so. * * * Nothing is at last sacred but theintegrity of our own mind.–EMERSON.
This above all,–to thine own self be true;And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.–SHAKESPEARE.
“Yes,” said a half-drunken man in a cellar to a parish visitor, a young girl, “I am a tough and a drunkard, and am just out of jail, and my wife is starving; but that doesn’t give you the right to come into my house without knocking to ask questions.”
Another zealous girl declared in a reform club in New York City that she always went to visit the poor in her carriage, with the crest on the door and liveried servants. “It gives me authority,” she said. “They listen to my words with more respect.”
The Fräulein Barbara, who founded the home for degraded and drunken sailors in London, used other means to gain influence over them. “I too,” she would say, taking the poor applicant by the hand when he came to her door, “I, too, as well as you, am one of those for whom Christ died. We are brother and sister, and will help each other.”
An English artist, engaged in painting a scene in the London slums, applied to the Board of Guardians of the poor in Chelsea for leave to sketch into it, as types of want and wretchedness, certain picturesque paupers then in the almshouse. The board refused permission on the ground that “a man does not cease to have self-respect and rights because he is a pauper, and that his misfortunes should not be paraded before the world.”
The incident helps to throw light on the vexed problem of the intercourse of the rich with the poor. Kind but thoughtless people, who take up the work of “slumming,” intent upon elevating and reforming the needy classes, are apt to forget that these unfortunates have self-respect and rights and sensitive feelings.
“But I am not derided,” said Diogenes, when some one told him he was derided. “Only those are ridiculed who feel the ridicule and are discomposed by it.”
Dr. Franklin used to say that if a man makes a sheep of himself the wolves will eat him. Not less true is it that if a man is supposed to be a sheep, wolves will very likely try to eat him.
“O God, assist our side,” prayed the Prince of Anhalt-Dessau, a general in the Prussian service, before going into battle. “At least, avoid assisting the enemy, and leave the result to me.”
“If a man possesses the consciousness of what he is,” said Schelling, “he will soon also learn what he ought to be; let him have a theoretical respect for himself, and a practical will soon follow.” A person under the firm persuasion that he can command resources virtually has them. “Humility is the part of wisdom, and is most becoming in men,” said Kossuth; “but let no one discourage self-reliance; it is, of all the rest, the greatest quality of true manliness.” Froude wrote: “A tree must be rooted in the soil before it can bear flowers or fruit. A man must learn to stand upright upon his own feet, to respect himself, to be independent of charity or accident. It is on this basis only that any superstructure of intellectual cultivation worth having can possibly be built.”
“I think he is a most extraordinary man,” said John J. Ingalls, speaking of Grover Cleveland. “While the Senate was in session to induct Hendricks into office, I had an opportunity to study Cleveland, as he sat there like a sphinx. He occupied a seat immediately in front of the vice-president’s stand, and from where I sat, I had an unobstructed view of him.
“I wanted to fathom, if possible, what manner of a man it was who had defeated us and taken the patronage of the government over to the democracy. We had a new master, so to speak, and a democrat at that, and I looked him over with a good deal of curiosity.
“There sat a man, the president of the United States, beginning his rule over the destinies of sixty millions of people, who less than three years before was an obscure lawyer, scarcely known outside of Erie County, shut up in a dingy office over a livery stable. He had been mayor of the city of Buffalo at a time when a crisis in its affairs demanded a courageous head and a firm hand and he supplied them. The little prestige thus gained made him the democratic nominee for governor, and at a time (his luck still following him) when the Republican party of the State was rent with dissensions. He was elected, and (still more luck) by the unprecedented and unheard of majority of nearly 200,000 votes. Two years later his party nominated him for president and he was elected.
“There sat this man before me, wholly undisturbed by the pageantry of the occasion, calmly waiting to perform his part in the drama, just as an actor awaits his cue to appear on a stage. It was his first visit to Washington. He had never before seen the Capitol and knew absolutely nothing of the machinery of government. All was a mystery to him, but a stranger not understanding the circumstances would have imagined that the proceedings going on before him were a part of his daily life.
“The man positively did not move a limb, shut an eye or twitch a muscle during the entire hour he sat in the Senate chamber. Nor did he betray the faintest evidence of self-consciousness or emotion, and as I thought of the dingy office over the livery stable but three years before he struck me as a remarkable illustration of the possibilities of American citizenship.
“But the most marvelous exhibition of the man’s nerve and of the absolute confidence he has in himself was yet to come. After the proceedings in the Senate chamber Cleveland was conducted to the east end of the Capitol to take the oath of office and deliver his inaugural address. He wore a close buttoned Prince Albert coat, and between the buttons he thrust his right hand, while his left he carried behind him. In this position he stood until the applause which greeted him had subsided, when he began his address.
“I looked for him to produce a manuscript, but he did not, and as he progressed in clear and distinct tones, without hesitation, I was amazed. With sixty millions of people, yes, with the entire civilized world looking on, this man had the courage to deliver an inaugural address making him President of the United States as coolly and as unconcernedly as if he were addressing a ward meeting. It was the most remarkable spectacle this or any other country has ever beheld.”
Believe in yourself; you may succeed when others do not believe in you, but never when you do not believe in yourself.
“Ah! John Hunter, still hard at work!” exclaimed a physician on finding the old anatomist at the dissecting table. “Yes, doctor, and you’ll find it difficult to meet with another John Hunter when I am gone.”
“Heaven takes a hundred years to form a great genius for the regeneration of an empire and afterward rests a hundred years,” said Kaunitz, who had administered the affairs of his country with great success for half a century. “This makes me tremble for the Austrian monarchy after my death.”
“Isn’t it beautiful that I can sing so?” asked Jenny Lind, naïvely, of a friend.
“My Lord,” said William Pitt in 1757 to the Duke of Devonshire, “I am sure that I can save this country and that nobody else can.” He did save it.
What seems to us disagreeable egotism in others is often but a strong expression of confidence in their ability to attain. Great men have usually had great confidence in themselves. Wordsworth felt sure of his place in history and never hesitated to say so. Dante predicted his own fame. Kepler said it did not matter whether his contemporaries read his books or not. “I may well wait a century for a reader since God has waited six thousand years for an observer like myself.” “Fear not,” said Julius Cæsar to his pilot frightened in a storm, “thou bearest Cæsar and his good fortunes.”
When the Directory at Paris found that Napoleon had become in one month the most famous man in Europe they determined to check his career, and appointed Kellerman his associate in command. Napoleon promptly, but respectfully, tendered his resignation, saying, “One bad general is better than two good ones; war, like government, is mainly decided by tact.” This decision immediately brought the Directory to terms.
Emperor Francis was extremely anxious to prove the illustrious descent of his prospective son-in-law. Napoleon refused to have the account published, remarking, “I had rather be the descendant of an honest man than of any petty tyrant of Italy. I wish my nobility to commence with myself and derive all my titles from the French people. I am the Rudolph of Hapsburg of my family. My patent of nobility dates from the battle of Montenotte.”
When Napoleon was informed that the British Government had decreed that he should be recognized only as general, he said, “They cannot prevent me from being myself.”
An Englishman asked Napoleon at Elba who was the greatest general of the age, adding, “I think Wellington.” To which the Emperor replied, “He has not yet measured himself against me.”
“Well matured and well disciplined talent is always sure of a market,” said Washington Irving; “but it must not cower at home and expect to be sought for. There is a good deal of cant, too, about the success of forward and impudent men, while men of retiring worth are passed over with neglect. But it usually happens that those forward men have that valuable quality of promptness and activity, without which worth is a mere inoperative property. A barking dog is often more useful than a sleeping lion.”
“Self-respect is the early form in which greatness appears.”
“You may deceive all the people some of the time,” said Lincoln, “some of the people all the time, but not all the people all the time.” We cannot deceive ourselves any of the time, and the only way to enjoy our own respect is to deserve it. What would you think of a man who would neglect himself and treat his shadow with the greatest respect?
“Self-reliance is a grand element of character,” says Michael Reynolds. “It has won Olympic crowns and Isthmian laurels; it confers kinship with men who have vindicated their divine right to be held in the world’s memory.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
BOOKS AND SUCCESS.
Ignorance is the curse of God,Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.–SHAKESPEARE.
Prefer knowledge to wealth; for the one is transitory, theother perpetual.–SOCRATES.
If a man empties his purse into his head, no man can take itaway from him. An investment in knowledge always pays the bestinterest.–FRANKLIN.
My early and invincible love of reading, I would not exchangefor the treasures of India.–GIBBON.
If the crowns of all the kingdoms of the empire were laid downat my feet in exchange for my books and my love of reading, Iwould spurn them all.–FÉNELON.
Who of us can tellWhat he had been, had Cadmus never taughtThe art that fixes into form the thought,–Had Plato never spoken from his cell,Or his high harp blind Homer never strung?–BULWER.
When friends grow cold and the converse of intimates languishesinto vapid civility and common-place, these only continue theunaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us with thattrue friendship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow.–WASHINGTON IRVING.
“Do you want to know,” asks Robert Collyer, “how I manage to talk to you in this simple Saxon? I read Bunyan, Crusoe, and Goldsmith when I was a boy, morning, noon, and night. All the rest was task work; these were my delight, with the stories in the Bible, and with Shakespeare, when at last the mighty master came within our doors. The rest were as senna to me. These were like a well of pure water, and this is the first step I seem to have taken of my own free will toward the pulpit. * * * I took to these as I took to milk, and, without the least idea what I was doing, got the taste for simple words into the very fibre of my nature. There was day-school for me until I was eight years old, and then I had to turn in and work thirteen hours a day. * * * * From the days when we used to spell out Crusoe and old Bunyan there had grown up in me a devouring hunger to read books. It made small matter what they were, so they were books. Half a volume of an old encyclopædia came along–the first I had ever seen. How many times I went through that I cannot even guess. I remember that I read some old reports of the Missionary Society with the greatest delight.
“There were chapters in them about China and Labrador. Yet I think it is in reading, as it is in eating, when the first hunger is over you begin to be a little critical, and will by no means take to garbage if you are of a wholesome nature. And I remember this because it touches this beautiful valley of the Hudson. I could not go home for the Christmas of 1839, and was feeling very sad about it all, for I was only a boy; and sitting by the fire, an old farmer came in and said: ‘I notice thou’s fond of reading, so I brought thee summat to read.’ It was Irving’s ‘Sketch Book.’ I had never heard of the work. I went at it, and was ‘as them that dream.’ No such delight had touched me since the old days of Crusoe. I saw the Hudson and the Catskills, took poor Rip at once into my heart, as everybody has, pitied Ichabod while I laughed at him, thought the old Dutch feast a most admirable thing, and long before I was through, all regret at my lost Christmas had gone down with the wind, and I had found out there are books and books. That vast hunger to read never left me. If there was no candle, I poked my head down to the fire; read while I was eating, blowing the bellows, or walking from one place to another. I could read and walk four miles an hour. The world centred in books. There was no thought in my mind of any good to come out of it; the good lay in the reading. I had no more idea of being a minister than you elder men who were boys then, in this town, had that I should be here to-night to tell this story. Now, give a boy a passion like this for anything, books or business, painting or farming, mechanism or music, and you give him thereby a lever to lift his world, and a patent of nobility, if the thing he does is noble. There were two or three of my mind about books. We became companions, and gave the roughs a wide berth. The books did their work, too, about that drink, and fought the devil with a finer fire.”
“In education,” says Herbert Spencer, “the process of self-development should be encouraged to the fullest extent. Children should be led to make their own investigations, and to draw their own inferences. They should be _told_ as little as possible, and induced to _discover_ as much as possible. Humanity has progressed solely by self-instruction; and that to achieve the best results each mind must progress somewhat after the same fashion, is continually proved by the marked success of self-made men.”
“My books,” said Thomas Hood, “kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon. The associate of Pope and Addison, the mind accustomed to the noble though silent discourse of Shakespeare and Milton, will hardly seek or put up with low or evil company or slaves.”
“When I get a little money,” said Erasmus, “I buy books, and if any is left, I buy food and clothes.”
“Hundreds of books read once,” says Robertson, “have passed as completely from us as if we had never read them; whereas the discipline of mind got by writing down, not copying, an abstract of a book which is worth the trouble fixes it on the mind for years, and, besides, enables one to read other books with more attention and more profit.”
“This habit of reading, I make bold to tell you,” says Trollope, “is your pass to the greatest, the purest, and the most perfect pleasures that God has prepared for His creatures. Other pleasures may be more ecstatic; but the habit of reading is the only enjoyment I know, in which there is no alloy.”
The Bible was begun in the desert in Arabia ages before Homer sang and flourished in Asia Minor. Millions of books have since gone into oblivion. Empires have risen and fallen. Revolutions have swept over and changed the earth. It has always been subject to criticism and obloquy. Mighty men have sought its overthrow. Works of Greek poets who catered to men’s depraved tastes have, in spite of everything, perished. The Bible is a book of religion; and can be tried by no other standard.
“Read Plutarch,” said Emerson, “and the world is a proud place peopled with men of positive quality, with heroes and demi-gods standing around us who will not let us sleep.”
“There is no business, no avocation whatever,” says Wyttenbach, “which will not permit a man, who has an inclination, to give a little time, every day, to the studies of his youth.”
“All the sport in the park,” said Lady Jane Grey, “is but a shadow of that pleasure I find in Plato.”
“In the lap of Eternity,” said Heinsius, “among so many divine souls, I take my seat with so lofty a spirit and such sweet content, that I pity all the great ones and rich men, that have not this happiness.”
“Death itself divides not the wise,” says Bulwer. “Thou meetest Plato when thine eyes moisten over the Phædo. May Homer live with all men forever!”
“When a man reads,” says President Porter, “he should put himself into the most intimate intercourse with his author, so that all his energies of apprehension, judgment and feeling may be occupied with, and aroused by, what his author furnishes, whatever it may be. If repetition or review will aid him in this, as it often will, let him not disdain or neglect frequent reviews. If the use of the pen, in brief or full notes, in catchwords or other symbols, will aid him, let him not shrink from the drudgery of the pen and the commonplace book.”
“Reading is to the mind,” says Addison, “what exercise is to the body. As by the one health is preserved, strengthened and invigorated, by the other, virtue (which is the health of the mind) is kept alive, cherished and confirmed.”
“There is a world of science necessary in choosing books,” said Bulwer. “I have known some people in great sorrow fly to a novel, or the last light book in fashion. One might as well take a rose draught for the plague! Light reading does not do when the heart is really heavy. I am told that Goethe, when he lost his son, took to study a science that was new to him. Ah! Goethe was a physician who knew what he was about.”
“When I served when a young man in India,” said a distinguished English soldier and diplomatist; “when it was the turning point in my life; when it was a mere chance whether I should become a mere card-playing, hooka-smoking lounger, I was fortunately quartered for two years in the neighborhood of an excellent library, which was made accessible to me.”
“Books,” says E. P. Whipple, “are lighthouses erected in the great sea of time.”
“As a rule,” said Benjamin Disraeli, “the most successful man in life is the man who has the best information.”
“You get into society, in the widest sense,” says Geikie, “in a great library, with the huge advantage of needing no introductions, and not dreading repulses. From that great crowd you can choose what companions you please, for in the silent levees of the immortals there is no pride, but the highest is at the service of the lowest, with a grand humility. You may speak freely with any, without a thought of your inferiority; for books are perfectly well-bred, and hurt no one’s feelings by any discriminations.” Sir William Waller observed, “In my study, I am sure to converse with none but wise men, but abroad it is impossible for me to avoid the society of fools.” “It is the glorious prerogative of the empire of knowledge,” says Webster, “that what it gains it never loses. On the contrary, it increases by the multiple of its own power; all its ends become means, all its attainments help to new conquests.”
“At this hour, five hundred years since their creation,” says De Quincey, “the tales of Chaucer, never equaled on this earth for their tenderness and for life of picturesqueness, are read familiarly by many in the charming language of their natal day, and by others in the modernization of Dryden, of Pope, and Wordsworth. At this hour, one thousand eight hundred years since their creation, the pagan tales of Ovid, never equaled on this earth for the gayety of their movement and the capricious graces of their narrative, are read by all Christendom.”
“There is no Past so long as Books shall live,” says Lytton.
“No wonder Cicero said that he would part with all he was worth so he might live and die among his books,” says Geikie. “No wonder Petrarch was among them to the last, and was found dead in their company. It seems natural that Bede should have died dictating, and that Leibnitz should have died with a book in his hand, and Lord Clarendon at his desk. Buckle’s last words, ‘My poor book!’ tell a passion that forgot death; and it seemed only a fitting farewell when the tear stole down the manly cheeks of Scott as they wheeled him into his library, when he had come back to Abbotsford to die. Southey, white-haired, a living shadow, sitting stroking and kissing the books he could no longer open or read, is altogether pathetic.”
“No entertainment is so cheap as reading,” says Mary Wortley Montagu; “nor any pleasure so lasting.” Good books elevate the character, purify the taste, _take the attractiveness out of low pleasures_, and lift us upon a higher plane of thinking and living. It is not easy to be mean directly after reading a noble and inspiring book. The conversation of a man who reads for improvement or pleasure will be flavored by his reading; but it will not be about his reading.
Perhaps no other thing has such power to lift the poor out of his poverty, the wretched out of his misery, to make the burden-bearer forget his burden, the sick his sufferings, the sorrower his grief, the downtrodden his degradation, as books. They are friends to the lonely, companions to the deserted, joy to the joyless, hope to the hopeless, good cheer to the disheartened, a helper to the helpless. They bring light into darkness, and sunshine into shadow.
“Twenty-five years ago, when I was a boy,” said Rev. J. A. James, “a school-fellow gave me an infamous book, which he lent me for only fifteen minutes. At the end of that time it was returned to him, but that book has haunted me like a spectre ever since. I have asked God on my knees to obliterate that book from my mind, but I believe that I shall carry down with me to the grave the spiritual damage I received during those fifteen minutes.”
Did Homer and Plato and Socrates and Virgil ever dream that their words would echo through the ages, and aid in shaping men’s lives in the nineteenth century? They were mere infants when on earth in comparison with the mighty influence and power they now yield. Every life on the American continent has in some degree been influenced by them. Christ, when on earth, never exerted one millionth part of the influence He wields to-day. While He reigns supreme in few human hearts, He touches all more or less, the atheist as well as the saint. On the other hand who shall say how many crimes were committed the past year by wicked men buried long ago? Their books, their pictures, their terrible examples, live in all they reach, and incite to evil deeds. How important, then, is the selection of books which are to become a part of your being.
Knowledge cannot be stolen from us. It cannot be bought or sold. We may be poor, and the sheriff may come and sell our furniture, or drive away our cow, or take our pet lamb, and leave us homeless and penniless; but he cannot lay the law’s hand upon the jewelry of our minds.
“Good books and the wild woods are two things with which man can never become too familiar,” says George W. Cable. “The friendship of trees is a sort of self-love and is very wholesome. All inanimate nature is but a mirror, and it is greater far to have the sense of beauty than it is to be only its insensible depository.
“The books that inspire imagination, whether in truth or fiction; that elevate the thoughts, are the right kind to read. Our emotions are simply the vibrations of our soul.
“The moment fiction becomes mendacious it is bad, for it induces us to believe a lie. Fiction purely as fiction must be innocent and beautiful, and its beauty must be more than skin deep. Every field of art is a playground and we are extra pleased when the artist makes that field a gymnasium also.”
Cotton Mather’s “Essay to do Good” read by the boy Franklin influenced the latter’s whole life. He advised everybody to read with a pen in hand and to make notes of all they read.
James T. Fields visited Jesse Pomeroy, the boy murderer, in jail. Pomeroy told him he had been a great reader of “blood and thunder” stories; that he had read sixty dime novels about scalping and other bloody performances; and he thought there was no doubt that these books had put the horrible thoughts into his mind which led to his murderous acts.
Many a boy has gone to sea and become a rover for life under the influence of Marryat’s novels. Abbott’s “Life of Napoleon,” read at the age of seven years, sent one boy whom I knew to the army before he was fourteen. Many a man has committed crime from the leavening, multiplying influence of a bad book read when a boy. The chaplain of Newgate prison in London, in one of his annual reports to the Lord Mayor, referring to many fine-looking lads of respectable parentage in the city prison, said that he discovered that “all these boys, without exception, had been in the habit of reading those cheap periodicals” which were published for the alleged amusement of youth of both sexes. There is not a police court or a prison in this country where similar cases could not be found. One can hardly measure the moral ruin that has been caused in this generation by the influence of bad books.
In the parlor window of the old mossy vicarage where Coleridge spent his dreamy childhood lay a well-thumbed copy of that volume of Oriental fancy, the “Arabian Nights,” and he has told us with what mingled desire and apprehension he was wont to look at the precious book, until the morning sunshine had touched and illuminated it, when, seizing it hastily, he would carry it off in triumph to some leafy nook in the vicarage garden, and plunge delightedly into its maze of marvels and enchantments.
Beecher said that Ruskin’s works taught him the secret of seeing, and that no man could ever again be quite the same man or look at the world in the same way after reading him. Samuel Drew said, “Locke’s ‘Essay on the Understanding’ awakened me from stupor, and induced me to form a resolution to abandon the groveling views I had been accustomed to maintain.” An English tanner, whose leather gained a great reputation, said he should not have made it so good if he had not read Carlyle. The lives of Washington and Henry Clay, which Lincoln borrowed from neighbors in the wilderness, and devoured by the light of the cabin fire, inspired his life. In his early manhood he read Paine’s “Age of Reason,” and Volney’s “Ruins,” which so influenced his mind that he wrote an essay to prove the unreliability of the Bible. These two books nearly unbalanced his moral character. But, fortunately, the books which fell into his hands in after years corrected this evil influence. The trend of many a life for good or ill, for success or failure, has been determined by a single book. The books which we read early in life are those which influence us most. When Garfield was working for a neighbor he read “Sinbad the Sailor” and the “Pirate’s Own Book.” These books revealed a new world to him, and his mother with difficulty kept him from going to sea. He was fascinated with the sea life which these books pictured to his young imagination. The “Voyages of Captain Cook” led William Carey to go on a mission to the heathen. “The Imitation of Christ” and Taylor’s “Holy Living and Dying” determined the character of John Wesley. “Shakespeare and the Bible,” said John Sharp, “made me Archbishop of York.” The “Vicar of Wakefield” awakened the poetical genius in Goethe.
“I have been the bosom friend of Leander and Romeo,” said Lowell. “I seem to go behind Shakespeare, and to get my intelligence at first hand. Sometimes, in my sorrow, a line from Spenser steals in upon my memory as if by some vitality and external volition of its own, like a blast from the distant trump of a knight pricking toward the court of Faerie, and I am straightway lifted out of that sadness and shadow into the sunshine of a previous and long-agone experience.”
“Who gets more enjoyment out of eating,” asks Amos R. Wells, “the pampered millionaire, whose tongue is the wearied host of myriads of sugary, creamy, spicy guests, or the little daughter of the laborer, trotting about all the morning with helpful steps, who has come a long two miles with her father’s dinner to eat it with him from a tin pail? And who gets the more pleasure out of reading, the satiated fiction-glutton, her brain crammed with disordered fragments of countless scenes of adventure, love and tragedy, impatient of the same old situations, the familiar characters, the stale plots–she or the girl who is fired with a love for history, say, who wants to know all about the grand old, queer old Socrates, and then about his friends, and then about the times in which he lived, and then about the way in which they all lived, then about the Socratic legacy to the ages? Why, will that girl ever be done with the feast? Can you not see, looking down on her joy with a blessing, the very Lord of the banquet, who has ordered all history and ordained that the truth He fashions shall be stranger always than the fiction man contrives? Take the word of a man who has made full trial of both. Solid reading is as much more interesting and attractive than frivolous reading as solid living is more recreative than frivolous living.”
“I solemnly declare,” said Sidney Smith, “that but for the love of knowledge, I should consider the life of the meanest hedger and ditcher as preferable to that of the greatest and richest man in existence; for the fire of our minds is like the fires which the Persians burn in the mountains, it flames night and day, and is immortal, and not to be quenched! Upon something it must act and feed–upon the pure spirit of knowledge, or upon the foul dregs of polluting passions. Therefore, when I say, in conducting your understanding, love knowledge with a great love, with a vehement love, with a love co-eval with life–what do I say but love innocence, love virtue, love purity of conduct, love that which, if you are rich and great, will vindicate the blind fortune which has made you so, and make men call it justice; love that which, if you are poor, will render your poverty respectable, and make the proudest feel it unjust to laugh at the meanness of your fortunes; love that which will comfort you, adorn you, and never quit you–which will open to you the kingdom of thought, and all the boundless regions of conception, as an asylum against the cruelty, the injustice, and the pain that may be your lot in the world–that which will make your motives habitually great and honorable, _and light up in an instant a thousand noble disdains at the very thought of meanness and of fraud_?”
Do I feel like hearing an eloquent sermon? Spurgeon and Beecher, Whitefield, Hall, Collyer, Phillips Brooks, Canon Farrar, Dr. Parker, Talmage, are all standing on my bookcase, waiting to give me their greatest efforts at a moment’s notice. Do I feel indisposed, and need a little recreation? This afternoon I will take a trip across the Atlantic, flying against the wind and over breakers without fear of seasickness on the ocean greyhounds. I will inspect the world renowned Liverpool docks; take a run up to Hawarden, call on Mr. Gladstone; fly over to London, take a run through the British Museum and see the wonderful collection from all nations; go through the National Art Gallery, through the Houses of Parliament, visit Windsor Castle and Buckingham Palace, call upon Queen Victoria, the Prince of Wales; take a run through the lake region and call upon the great writers, visit Oxford and Cambridge; cross the English Channel, stop at Rouen, where Joan of Arc was burned to death by the English, take a flying trip to Paris, visit the tomb of Napoleon, the Louvre Gallery; take a peep at one of the greatest pieces of sculpture in existence, the Venus de Milo (which a rich and ignorant person offered to buy if they would give him a fresh one), take a glance at some of the greatest paintings in existence along the miles of galleries; take a peep into the Grand Opera House, the grandest in the world (to make room for which 427 buildings were demolished), promenade through the Champs de Elysée, pass under the triumphal arch of Napoleon, take a run out to Versailles and inspect the famous palace of Louis XIV., upon which he spent perhaps $100,000,000.
Do I desire to hear eloquent speeches? Through my books I can enter the Parliament and listen to the thrilling oratory of Disraeli, of Gladstone, of Bright, of O’Connor; they will admit me to the floor of the Senate, where I can hear the matchless oratory of a Webster, of a Clay, of a Calhoun, of a Sumner, of Everett, of Wilson. They will pass me into the Roman Forum, where I can hear Cicero, or to the rostrums of Greece, where I may listen spell-bound to the magic oratory of a Demosthenes.
“No matter how poor I am,” says Channing; “no matter though the prosperous of my own time will not enter my obscure dwelling; if the sacred writers will enter and take up their abode under my roof; if Milton will cross my threshold to sing to me of paradise, and Shakespeare to open to me the worlds of imagination and the workings of the human heart, and Franklin to enrich me with his practical wisdom,–I shall not pine for the want of intellectual companionship, and I may become a cultivated man, though excluded from what is called the best society in the place where I live.”
“With the dead there is no rivalry,” says Macaulay. “In the dead there is no change. Plato is never sullen; Cervantes is never petulant; Demosthenes never comes unseasonably; Dante never stays too long; no difference of political opinion can alienate Cicero; no heresy can excite the horror of Bossuet.”
“Heed not the idle assertion that literary pursuits will disqualify you for the active business of life,” says Alexander H. Everett. “Reject it as a mere imagination, inconsistent with principle, unsupported by experience.”
The habit of reading may become morbid. There is a novel-reading disease. There are people who are almost as much tied to their novels as an intemperate man is tied to his bottle. The more of these novels they read, the weaker their minds become. They remember nothing; they read for the stimulus; their reasoning powers become weaker and weaker, their memory more treacherous. The mind is ruined for healthy intellectual food. They have no taste for history or biography, or anything but cheap, trashy, sensational novels.
The passive reception of other men’s thoughts is not education. Beware of intellectual dram drinking and intellectual dissipation. It is emasculating. Beware of the book which does not make you determined to go and do something and be something in the world.
The great difference between the American graduate and the graduates from the English universities is that the latter have not read many books superficially, but a few books well. The American graduate has a smattering of many books, but has not become master of any. The same is largely true of readers in general; they want to know a little of everything. They want to read all the latest publications, good, bad and indifferent, if it is only new. As a rule our people want light reading, “something to read” that will take up the attention, kill time on the railroad or at home. As a rule English people read more substantial books, older books, books which have established their right to exist. They are not so eager for “recent publications.”
Joseph Cook advises youth to always make notes of their reading. Mr. Cook uses the margins of his books for his notes, and marks all of his own books very freely, so that every volume in his library becomes a notebook. He advises all young men and young women to keep commonplace books. We cannot too heartily recommend this habit of taking notes. It is a great aid to memory, and it helps wonderfully to locate or to find for future use what we have read. It helps to assimilate and make our own whatever we read. The habit of taking notes of lectures and sermons is an excellent one. One of the greatest aids to education is the habit of writing out an analysis or a skeleton of a book or article after we have read it; also of a sermon or a lecture. This habit has made many a strong, vigorous thinker and writer. In this connection we cannot too strongly recommend the habit of saving clippings from our readings wherever possible of everything which would be likely to assist us in the future. These scrap-books, indexed, often become of untold advantage, especially if in the line of our work. Much of what we call genius in great men comes from these note-books and scrap-books.
How many poor boys and girls who thought they had “no chance” in life have been started upon noble careers by the grand books of Smiles, Todd, Mathews, Munger, Whipple, Geikie, Thayer, and others.
You should bring your mind to the reading of a book, or to the study of any subject, as you take an axe to the grindstone; not for what you get from the stone, but for the sharpening of the axe. While it is true that the facts learned from books are worth more than the dust from the stone, even in much greater ratio is the mind more valuable than the axe. Bacon says: “Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man; and, therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men wise; poets witty; the mathematics subtle; natural philosophy deep; morals grave; logic and rhetoric able to contend.”
CHAPTER XXV.
RICHES WITHOUT WINGS.
Walk worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called.–EPH. iv. I.
Abundance consists not alone in material possession, but in anuncovetous spirit.–SELDEN.
Less coin, less care; to know how to dispense with wealth is topossess it.–REYNOLDS.
Rich, from the very want of wealth,In heaven’s best treasures, peace and health.–GRAY.
Money never made a man happy yet; there is nothing in itsnature to produce happiness. The more a man has, the more hewants. Instead of filling a vacuum, it makes one.–FRANKLIN.
There are treasures laid up in the heart, treasures of charity,piety, temperance, and soberness. These treasures a man takeswith him beyond death, when he leaves this world.–BUDDHIST SCRIPTURES.
“It is better to get wisdom than gold; for wisdom is betterthan rubies, and all things that may be desired are not to becompared to it.”
“Better a cheap coffin and a plain funeral after a useful,unselfish life, than a grand mausoleum after a loveless,selfish life.”
I ought not to allow any man, because he has broad lands, tofeel that he is rich in my presence. I ought to make him feelthat I can do without his riches, that I cannot bebought–neither by comfort, neither by pride,–and although Ibe utterly penniless, and receiving bread from him, that he isthe poor man beside me.–EMERSON.
“I don’t want such things,” said Epictetus to the rich Roman orator who was making light of his contempt for money-wealth; “and besides,” said the stoic, “you are poorer than I am, after all. You have silver vessels, but earthenware reasons, principles, appetites. My mind to me a kingdom is, and it furnishes me with abundant and happy occupation in lieu of your restless idleness. All your possessions seem small to you; mine seem great to me. Your desire is insatiate, mine is satisfied.”
“Lord, how many things are in the world of which Diogenes hath no need!” exclaimed the stoic, as he wandered among the miscellaneous articles at a country fair.
“One would think,” said Boswell, “that the proprietor of all this (Keddlestone, the seat of Lord Scarsfield) must be happy.” “Nay, sir,” said Johnson, “all this excludes but one evil, poverty.”
“What property has he left behind him?” people ask when a man dies; but the angel who receives him asks, “What good deeds hast thou sent before thee?”
“What is the best thing to possess?” asked an ancient philosopher of his pupils. One answered, “Nothing is better than a good eye,”–a figurative expression for a liberal and contented disposition. Another said, “A good companion is the best thing in the world;” a third chose a good neighbor; and a fourth, a wise friend. But Eleazar said: “A good heart is better than them all.” “True,” said the master; “thou hast comprehended in two words all that the rest have said, for he that hath a good heart will be contented, a good companion, a good neighbor, and will easily see what is fit to be done by him.”
“My kingdom for a horse,” said Richard III. of England amid the press of Bosworth Field. “My kingdom for a moment,” said Queen Elizabeth on her death-bed. And millions of others, when they have felt earth, its riches and power slipping from their grasp, have shown plainly that deep down in their hearts they value such things at naught when really compared with the blessed light of life, the stars and flowers, the companionship of friends, and far above all else, the opportunity of growth and development here and of preparation for future life.
Queen Caroline Matilda of Denmark wrote on the window of her prison, with her diamond ring: “Oh, keep me innocent; make others great.”
“These are my jewels,” said Cornelia to the Campanian lady who asked to see her gems; and she pointed with pride to her boys returning from school. The reply was worthy the daughter of Scipio Africanus and wife of Tiberius Gracchus. The most valuable production of any country is its crop of men.
“I will take away thy treasures,” said a tyrant to a philosopher. “Nay, that thou canst not,” was the retort; “for, in the first place, I have none that thou knowest of. My treasure is in heaven, and my heart is there.”
Some people are born happy. No matter what their circumstances are they are joyous, content and satisfied with everything. They carry a perpetual holiday in their eye and see joy and beauty everywhere. When we meet them they impress us as just having met with some good luck, or that they have some good news to tell you. Like the bees that extract honey from every flower, they have a happy alchemy which transmutes even gloom into sunshine. In the sick room they are better than the physician and more potent than drugs. All doors open to these people. They are welcome everywhere.
We make our own worlds and people them, while memory, the scribe, faithfully registers the account of each as we pass the milestones dotting the way. Are we not, then, responsible for the inhabitants of our little worlds? We should fill them with the true, the beautiful and the good, since we are endowed with the faculty of creating.
“Genius,” says Whipple, “may almost be defined as the faculty of acquiring poverty.” It is the men of talent who make money out of the work of the men of genius. Somebody has truly said, that the greatest works have brought the least benefit to their authors. They were beyond the reach of appreciation before appreciation came.
There is an Eastern legend of a powerful genius, who promised a beautiful maiden a gift of rare value if she would pass through a field of corn and, without pausing, going backward, or wandering hither and thither, select the largest and ripest ear,–the value of the gift to be in proportion to the size and perfection of the ear she should choose. She passed through the field, seeing a great many well worth gathering, but always hoping to find a larger and more perfect one, she passed them all by, when, coming to a part of the field where the stalks grew more stunted, she disdained to take one from these, and so came through to the other side without having selected any.
A man may make millions and be a failure still. Money-making is not the highest success. The life of a well-known millionaire was not truly successful. He had but one ambition. He coined his very soul into dollars. The almighty dollar was his sun, and was mirrored in his heart. He strangled all other emotions and hushed and stifled all nobler aspirations. He grasped his riches tightly, till stricken by the scythe of death; when, in the twinkling of an eye, he was transformed from one of the richest men who ever lived in this world to one of the poorest souls that ever went out of it.
Lincoln always yearned for a rounded wholeness of character; and his fellow lawyers called him “perversely honest.” Nothing could induce him to take the wrong side of a case, or to continue on that side after learning that it was unjust or hopeless. After giving considerable time to a case in which he had received from a lady a retainer of two hundred dollars, he returned the money, saying: “Madam, you have not a peg to hang your case on.” “But you have earned that money,” said the lady. “No, no,” replied Lincoln, “that would not be right. I can’t take pay for doing my duty.”
Agassiz would not lecture at five hundred dollars a night, because he had no time to make money. Charles Sumner, when a senator, declined to lecture at any price, saying that his time belonged to Massachusetts and the nation. Spurgeon would not speak for fifty nights in America at one thousand dollars a night, because he said he could do better: he could stay in London and try to save fifty souls. All honor to the comparative few in every walk of life who, amid the strong materialistic tendencies of our age, still speak and act earnestly, inspired by the hope of rewards other than gold or popular favor. These are our truly great men and women. They labor in their ordinary vocations with no less zeal because they give time and thought to higher things.
King Midas, in the ancient myth, asked that everything he touched might be turned to gold, for then, he thought, he would be perfectly happy. His request was granted, but when his clothes, his food, his drink, the flowers he plucked, and even his little daughter, whom he kissed, were all changed into yellow metal, he begged that the Golden Touch might be taken from him. He had learned that many other things are intrinsically far more valuable than all the gold that was ever dug from the earth.
The “beggarly Homer, who strolled, God knows when, in the infancy and barbarism of the world,” was richer far than Croesus and added more wealth to the world than the Rothschilds, the Vanderbilts and Goulds.
An Arab who fortunately escaped death after losing his way in the desert, without provisions, tells of his feelings when he found a bag full of pearls, just as he was about to abandon all hope. “I shall never forget,” said he, “the relish and delight that I felt on supposing it to be dried wheat, nor the bitterness and despair I suffered on discovering that the bag contained pearls.”
It is an interesting fact in this money-getting era that a poor author, or a seedy artist, or a college president with frayed coat-sleeves, has more standing in society and has more paragraphs written about him in the papers than many a millionaire. This is due, perhaps, to the malign influence of money-getting and to the benign effect of purely intellectual pursuits. As a rule every great success in the money world means the failure and misery of hundreds of antagonists. Every success in the world of intellect and character is an aid and profit to society. Character is a mark cut upon something, and this indelible mark determines the only true value of all people and all their work. Dr. Hunter said: “No man was ever a great man who wanted to be one.” Artists cannot help putting themselves and their own characters into their works. The vulgar artist cannot paint a virtuous picture. The gross, the bizarre, the sensitive, the delicate, all come out on the canvas and tell the story of his life.
Who would not choose to be a millionaire of deeds with a Lincoln, a Grant, a Florence Nightingale, a Childs; a millionaire of ideas with Emerson, with Lowell, with Shakespeare, with Wordsworth; a millionaire of statesmanship with a Gladstone, a Bright, a Sumner, a Washington?
Some men are rich in health, in constant cheerfulness, in a mercurial temperament which floats them over troubles and trials enough to sink a shipload of ordinary men. Others are rich in disposition, family, and friends. There are some men so amiable that everybody loves them; some so cheerful that they carry an atmosphere of jollity about them. Some are rich in integrity and character.
“Who is the richest of men?” asked Socrates. “He who is content with the least, for contentment is nature’s riches.”
“Do you know, sir,” said a devotee of Mammon to John Bright, “that I am worth a million sterling?” “Yes,” said the irritated but calm-spirited respondent, “I do; and I know that it is all you are worth.”
A bankrupt merchant, returning home one night, said to his noble wife, “My dear, I am ruined; everything we have is in the hands of the sheriff.” After a few moments of silence the wife looked into his face and asked, “Will the sheriff sell you?” “Oh, no.” “Will the sheriff sell me?” “Oh, no.” “Then do not say we have lost everything. All that is most valuable remains to us–manhood, womanhood, childhood. We have lost but the results of our skill and industry. We can make another fortune if our hearts and hands are left us.”
“We say a man is ‘made’,” said Beecher. “What do we mean? That he has got the control of his lower instincts, so that they are only fuel to his higher feelings, giving force to his nature? That his affections are like vines, sending out on all sides blossoms and clustering fruits? That his tastes are so cultivated that all beautiful things speak to him, and bring him their delights? That his understanding is opened, so that he walks through every hall of knowledge, and gathers its treasures? That his moral feelings are so developed and quickened that he holds sweet commerce with Heaven? O, no–none of these things. He is cold and dead in heart, and mind, and soul. Only his passions are alive; but–he is worth five hundred thousand dollars!
“And we say a man is ‘ruined.’ Are his wife and children dead? O, no. Have they had a quarrel, and are they separated from him? O, no. Has he lost his reputation through crime? No. Is his reason gone? O, no; it is as sound as ever. Is he struck through with disease? No. He has lost his property, and he is ruined. The _man_ ruined! When shall we learn that ‘a man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth?'”
“How is it possible,” asks an ancient philosopher, “that a man who has nothing, who is naked, houseless, without a hearth, squalid, without a slave, without a city, can pass a life that flows easily? See, God has sent you a man to show you that it is possible. Look at me who am without a city, without a house, without possessions, without a slave; I sleep on the ground; I have no wife, no children, no prætorium, but only the earth and heavens, and one poor cloak. And what do I want? Am I not without sorrow? Am I not without fear? Am I not free? When did any of you see me failing in the object of my desire? or even falling into that which I would avoid? Did I ever blame God or man? Did I ever accuse any man? Did any of you ever see me with a sorrowful countenance?”
“You are a plebeian,” said a patrician to Cicero. “I am a plebeian,” replied the great Roman orator; “the nobility of my family begins with me, that of yours will end with you.” No man deserves to be crowned with honor whose life is a failure, and he who lives only to eat and drink and accumulate money is surely not successful. The world is no better for his living in it. He never wiped a tear from a sad face, never kindled a fire upon a frozen hearth. There is no flesh in his heart; he worships no god but gold.
Why should I scramble and struggle to get possession of a little portion of this earth? This is my world now; why should I envy others its mere legal possession? It belongs to him who can see it, enjoy it. I need not envy the so-called owners of estates in Boston and New York. They are merely taking care of my property and keeping it in excellent condition for me. For a few pennies for railroad fare whenever I wish I can see and possess the best of it all. It has cost me no effort, it gives me no care; yet the green grass, the shrubbery, and the statues on the lawns, the finer sculptures and paintings within, are always ready for me whenever I feel a desire to look upon them. I do not wish to carry them home with me, for I could not give them half the care they now receive; besides, it would take too much of my valuable time, and I should be worrying continually lest they be spoiled or stolen. I have much of the wealth of the world now. It is all prepared for me without any pains on my part. All around me are working hard to get things that will please me, and competing to see who can give them the cheapest. The little I pay for the use of libraries, railroads, galleries, parks, is less than it would cost to care for the least of all I use. Life and landscape are mine, the stars and flowers, the sea and air, the birds and trees. What more do I want? All the ages have been working for me; all mankind are my servants. I am only required to feed and clothe myself, an easy task in this land of opportunity.
There is scarcely an idea more infectious or potent than the love of money. It is a yellow fever, decimating its votaries and ruining more families in the land, than all the plagues or diseases put together. Instances of its malevolent power occur to every reader. Almost every square foot of land of our continent during the early buccaneer period (some call it the march of civilization), has been ensanguined through the madness for treasure. Read the pages of our historian Prescott, and you will see that the whole anti-Puritan history of America resolves itself into an awful slaughter for gold. Discoveries were only side issues.
Speak, history, who are life’s victors? Unroll thy long scroll and say, have they won who first reached the goal, heedless of a brother’s rights? And has he lost in life’s great race who stopped “to raise a fallen child, and place him on his feet again,” or to give a fainting comrade care; or to guide or assist a feeble woman? Has he lost who halts before the throne when duty calls, or sorrow, or distress? Is there no one to sing the pæan of the conquered who fell in the battle of life? of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife? of the low and humble, the weary and broken-hearted, who strove and who failed, in the eyes of men, but who did their duty as God gave them to see it?
“We have yet no man who has leaned _entirely_ on his character, and eaten angel’s food,” said Emerson; “who, trusting to his sentiments, found life made of miracles; who, working for _universal aims_, found himself fed, he knew not how; clothed, sheltered, and weaponed, he knew not how, and yet it was done by his own hands.”
At a time when it was considered dangerous to society in Europe for the common people to read books and listen to lectures on any but religious subjects, Charles Knight determined to enlighten the masses by cheap literature. He believed that a paper might be instructive and not be dull, cheap without being wicked. He started the “Penny Magazine,” which acquired a circulation of two hundred thousand the first year. Knight projected the “Penny Cyclopedia,” the “Library of Entertaining Knowledge,” “Half-Hours with the Best Authors,” and other useful works at a low price. His whole adult life was spent in the work of elevating the common people by cheap, yet wholesome publications. He died in poverty, but grateful people have erected a noble monument over his ashes.
How many rich dwellings there are, crowded with every appointment of luxury, that are only glittering caverns of selfishness and discontent! “Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.”
“No man can tell whether he is rich or poor by turning to his ledger,” says Beecher. “It is the heart that makes a man rich. He is rich or poor according to what he _is_, not according to what he _has_.”
If our thoughts are great and noble, no mean surroundings can make us miserable. It is the mind that makes the body rich.
Howe’er it be, it seems to me,‘Tis only noble to be good.Kind hearts are more than coronets,And simple faith than Norman blood.–TENNYSON.
Be noble! and the nobleness that liesIn other men, sleeping, but never dead,Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.–LOWELL.
selfhelpqa-blog
Aug 10, 2019
Toasts and Forms of Public Address
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Toasts and Forms of Public Address
TOASTS AND FORMS OF PUBLIC ADDRESS FOR THOSE WHO WISH TO SAY THE RIGHT THING IN THE RIGHT WAY
by William Pittenger
INTRODUCTION
The author of this manual has at various intervals prepared several treatises relating to the art of speech. Their wide circulation is an indication of the demand for works upon this subject. They were intended to embrace the principles which govern speech-making in the forum, in the pulpit, or at the bar. While these do not differ essentially from the principles applicable to occasions where the object is only entertainment, yet there are certain well-defined differences which it is the purpose of this little volume to point out. We hope thus to render the same service to a person who is called upon to offer or respond to a toast in a convivial assembly, as the author’s previous volumes rendered to those preparing to speak upon subjects of a serious and practical nature.
That help is needed, and may be afforded, no one will deny. A novice called upon to participate in the exercises of a public banquet, an anniversary, or other entertainment, unless he has an experienced friend to give him a few hints or advice, is apt to be dismayed. He does not even know how to make a start in the work of preparation, and his sense of inability and fear of blundering go far to confuse and paralyze whatever native faculty he may have. A book like this comes to him at such a time as reinforcements to a sorely pressed army in the very crisis of a battle. As he reads, some ideas which seem practical, flash upon him. He learns what others before him have done. If he is to offer a toast, he examines the list furnished in this volume, finding one perhaps that pleases him, or one is suggested which is better adapted to his purpose than any in the book, and he wonders at the stupidity of the author in omitting it. Soon he becomes quite interested in this suggested toast, and compares it with those in the list to find out wherein it differs. Thus gradually and unconsciously he has prepared himself for the part he is to perform.
Or if invited to respond to a toast, he passes through a similar experience. He may find the outline of a speech on that very topic; he either uses it as it is printed or makes an effort to improve it by abridgment or enlargement. Next he looks through the treasury of anecdotes, selects one, or calls to mind one he has read elsewhere which he considers better. He then studies both of them in their bearings on the subject upon which he is to speak, and longs for the hour to arrive, when he will surprise and delight his friends by his performance. He rises to speak conscious that he knows a great deal, not only about the toast assigned to him, but about other toasts as well–feels that he has something to say which, at least, will fill in the time, and save him from confusion and discredit. He even hopes to win applause by means of the stories and happy turns with which his speech is interspersed.
He has thus satisfactorily taken the first step toward becoming a ready and entertaining after-dinner speaker. The sense of knowing how to do what is expected of him has a wonderfully quieting effect upon his nerves; and thus the study of this book will greatly add to the confidence of a speaker, and the effectiveness of his delivery. Whatever graces of manner he possesses will become available, instead of being subverted by an overmastering fear.
It is not easy to mention all the uses of such a manual. One who has been accustomed to speaking, but fears he is getting into a rut, can turn to this text-book and find something which is _not_ so distressingly his own, that his friends expect him to parade it before them on all occasions.
He may glance over the outline of a speech altogether new and strange to him, and endeavor to adapt it to his own use; or he may weave together fragments of several speeches, or take the framework of one and construct upon it a speech which will enable him to make a new departure. A writer sometimes, after years of practice, finds it difficult to begin the composition of some simple reception or commemorative address; but the reading of a meagre outline, not one word or idea of which may be directly used, serves to break the spell of intellectual sloth or inertia, and starts him upon his work briskly and hopefully.
The field covered by the present volume is not entirely unoccupied. One of the earliest publications in this line is an anonymous English work, very dignified and conservative. The speeches it furnishes are painstaking, but a trifle heavy, and savor so much of English modes of expression, as well as thought and customs, as to be poorly adapted to this country. Two works have appeared in this country, also, one being intended apparently for wine parties only; the other, while containing a number of gem-like little speeches, fails to give the aid which is sought by the ordinary tyro, and is calculated rather to discourage him; giving him the impression that it is more difficult to become an acceptable after-dinner speaker than he had ever supposed. While a few of the best things in the latter volume are availed of, a different method is pursued in the present work. Outlines of speeches are preferred to those which are fully elaborated; and the few plain rules, by which a thing so informal and easy as an after-dinner speech may be produced, are so illustrated as to make their application almost a matter of course. Good-humor and brevity, an outline and a story–what more is needed, unless it be that serene self-confidence which enables a speaker to say even foolish and absurd things, with the assurance that all goes down at a public dinner? What if you are not the most brilliant, humorous, and stirring speaker of the evening? Aim to fill your place without discredit; observe closely those who make a great success; the next time you may have a better outline or more telling story, and become, before you know it, the leader of the evening.
It is not intended to give rules or directions for the order either of drinking or feasting. That field is fully occupied. But the custom of making addresses at the close of a feast has, been so thoroughly established, and so frequent are these occasions, that a gentleman is not fully equipped for a place in society, if he cannot gracefully offer or respond to a toast, or preside at a gathering where toasts or other forms of after-dinner speaking are expected. It is the aim of this manual to help the beginner in this field.
AFTER-DINNER SPEECHES–ANCIENT AND MODERN
An idea of the real meaning of after-dinner speaking may be obtained from the feudal feasts of earlier times. The old lord or baron of the Middle Ages partook of his principal meal in the great hall of his castle, surrounded by guests, each being assigned his place in formal order and with no small degree of ceremony. This hall was the main feature of the castle. There all the family and guests met on frequent festal occasions, and after the feasting and the hour of ceremony and more refined entertainment was over, retired to rest in comparatively small and humble apartments adjoining, though sometimes they would simply wrap their cloaks about them, and lie down to sleep on the rushes that littered the floor of the great hall.
After the “rage of hunger was appeased”–which then, as in our day, and back even as far as the time of the ancient Greeks, was the first business in order–came the social hour, which meant much to the dwellers in those dull, comfortless old barracks–for the great castles of that day were little better than barracks. The chief gave the signal for talk, music, or story, previous to which, any inquiries or conversation, other than the briefest question and answer about the food or other necessary things, would have been considered inappropriate and disrespectful. There probably was present some guest, who came under circumstances that awakened the strongest curiosity or who had a claim upon his entertainer. Such a guest was placed at the board in a position corresponding to his rank.
After resting and partaking of the repast, it was pertinent to hear what account he could give of himself, and courtesy permitted the host to levy an intellectual tax upon him, as a contribution to the joy of the hour. Seated at the head of the table the chief, or, in his absence, a representative, made the opening speech–the address of welcome, to use the term familiar to ourselves. This might be very brief or at considerable length; it might suggest inquiries of any of the company or merely pledge an attentive and courteous hearing to whatever the guest might utter; it might refer to the past glory of the castle and its lord, or vaunt its present greatness and active occupation.
But whatever form it might take it was sure to consist–as addresses of welcome in all ages have done–of two words, by dexterously using which, any man can make a good speech of this character. These two words are “We” and “You;” and all else not connected with these is irrelevant and useless. They do not constitute two parts of the same speech but ordinarily play back and forth, like a game of battledore. Who “we” are; what “we” have done; how “we” saw “you;” what “we” have heard of “you;” how great and good “you” are thought to be; the joy at “your” coming; what “we” now want to learn of “you;” what “we” wish “you” to do; how “we” desire a longer stay or regret the need of an early departure–all is a variation of the one theme–“we” and “you.”
The old Baron probably said all of this and much more in a lordly way, occupying a longer or shorter time, without ever dreaming that he was making a speech. It was his ordinary after-dinner talk to those whom chance or fortune brought within his walls. Or, if he prided himself upon being a man of few words, scorning these as fit only for women and minstrels, he would simply remind the guest that he was now at liberty to give such an account of himself, and to prefer such requests as seemed agreeable to him.
The guest was then expected to respond, though this by no means was the rule. The host might wish first to call out more of his own intellectual treasures. This he would do by having other occupants of the castle speak further words of welcome, or would call upon a minstrel to sing a song or relate some deed of chivalry.
When the guest at last rises to speak, it is still the two pronouns with slightly changed emphasis that play a conspicuous part. The “we” may become “I;” but this is no essential change. Where “I” or “we” have been; what “I” have done, suffered, or enjoyed; how and why “I” came here; how glad “I” am to be here; what “I” have known and heard of “you;” how “we” may help each other; what great enterprises “we” can enter upon; how thankful for the good cheer and good words “we” hear.
In the baronial hall, which foreshadowed the family fireside of later days, the drinking was free and copious whilst the other portions of the entertainment were of a general character and quite protracted. Mirth, song, the rude jest, anecdotes of the chase or of a battle, or a rehearsal of the experiences of every-day life, were all in place. Sometimes, the guests, overpowered by their libations, are said to have fallen under the table and to have slumbered there till surprised by the pale morning light. There was little need of ceremony in such feasts, and there is little need of formality or constraint in the far different festal occasions of the present time.
When no guest, either by chance or invitation came to the castle, less variety could be given to the after-dinner entertainment, and many expedients were required to pass the long hours that sometimes hung heavily on their hands. Then the use of “Toasts” became an important feature. The drinking also was expected to arouse interest, but if it went on in silence and gloom or amid the buzz of trivial conversation in different parts of the hall the unity of the hour was marred and the evening was voted dull–the lord himself then having no more honor than his meanest vassal. But the toast–no matter how it originated–remedied all this. A compliment and a proverb, a speech and a response, however rude, fixed the attention of every one at the table, and enabled the lord to retain the same leadership at the feast that he had won in the chase or in battle. He might himself propose a toast of his own choice or give another permission to propose it. He might then designate some humorous or entertaining clansman to respond; he might either stimulate or repress the zeal of the guests, and give unity to each part of the entertainment and to the whole feast. For these reasons the toast rose into popularity, and is now often used–possibly it might be said generally used if our own country alone be considered–even when no drinking at all is indulged in.
Let us now take a look at an after-dinner hour of the present day; one of the very latest and most approved pattern. The contrast will not be without interest and value. The fare at the dinner is always inviting. The company is large. Good speakers are secured in advance. Each is given an appropriate toast, either to propose or respond to. Suppose it is a New England society celebrating Forefathers’ Day in New York. The chairman (who is usually the president of the society) rises, and by touching a bell, rapping on the table, or in some other suitable manner, attracts all eyes to himself. He then asks the meeting to come to order, or if he prefers the form, to give attention. Then he utters a few graceful commonplaces, and calls upon a guest to offer the leading toast–not always the chief or most interesting one. When one is reached in which there is a lively interest, some distinguished person such as Chauncey M. Depew, the prince of after-dinner speakers, comes to the front. We give an outline of one of his addresses on Forefathers’ Day, delivered December 22d, 1882, in response to the toast, “The Half Moon and the Mayflower.”
In reading this address the “We” and “You” cannot fail to be noted. Mr. Depew said he did not know why he should be called upon to celebrate his conquerors. The Yankees had overcome the Dutch, and the two races are mingled. The speaker then introduced three fine stories–one at the expense of the Dutch who are slow in reaching their ends. A tenor singer at the church of a celebrated preacher said to Mr. Depew, “You must come again, the fact is the Doctor and myself were not at our best last Sunday morning.” The second related to the inquisitiveness of a person who expressed himself thus to the guide upon the estate of the Duke of Westminster: “What, you can’t tell how much the house cost or what the farm yields an acre, or what the old man’s income is, or how much he is worth? Don’t you Britishers know anything?” The third story, near the close, set off Yankee complacency. A New England girl mistook the first mile-stone from Boston for a tombstone, and reading its inscription “1 M. from Boston,” said “I’m from Boston; how simple; how sufficient.”
The serious part of the discourse was a rapid statement of the principles represented by the Dutch pioneer ship “Half Moon” and the Pilgrim “Mayflower;” the elements of each contributed to national character and progress. (For speech in full see _Depew’s Speeches_, Vol. I.)
Other toasts and responses followed; eloquence and humor mingled until the small hours of the night. Probably not one of that pleased and brilliant assemblage for a moment thought that they were doing at this anniversary what their old, barbaric ancestors did nightly, while resting after a border foray or Viking sea raid.
THE VALUE OF A GOOD STORY AND HOW TO INTRODUCE IT.
No matter how inexperienced a speaker may be or how stammering his utterance, if he can tell a good story, the average dinner party will pronounce him a success, and he will be able to resume his seat with a feeling of satisfaction. The efforts often made to bring in an entertaining story or a lively anecdote are sometimes quite amusing, but if they come in naturally the effect will unquestionably be happy. Almost any story, by using a little skill, can be adapted to nearly every occasion that may arise. We may mention a few among which a speaker can scarcely fail to find something to serve his purpose.
It is necessary always to be thoroughly familiar with the story and to understand its exact point. No matter how deliberately or with what difficulty you approach that part of your speech where the fun is to be introduced–yet, when that point _is_ reached there must be no hesitation. It is well to memorize carefully the very words which express the pun, or the flash of wit or humor which is the climax of the story. The story itself may be found in such a manual as this, or in some volume of wit and humor.
There is no disadvantage in using wit gathered from any source, if it has not been so often used as to be completely worn out. When a good story is found anywhere and fully memorized and all its bearings and fine points thoroughly understood, there are two ways of getting it before an audience. The direct way is to say frankly that you have read a story and will tell it. This will answer very nicely when called upon for a speech. Few festive audiences are unwilling to accept a story for a speech, and a proposal to compromise on such terms is very likely in itself to bring applause. But the story in this case should be longer than if it is given as part of a speech. If, however, it should prove a failure, your performance will make a worse impression than when a poor story is introduced into a speech, although the story may only feebly illustrate any portion of it.
For these as well as other reasons most persons will prefer to make an address, even if it be very brief, and will endeavor to make the story fit into it. All stories that suggest diffidence, modesty, backwardness, or unwillingness to undertake great things, can be introduced to show how reluctant the speaker is to attempt a speech, and if these characteristics are only slightly referred to in the story it may still be used effectively and will leave a favorable impression.
If a topic, a toast, or a sentiment is given for a response, any of them may suggest a story; and after a good story has been told–one that has real point–it will be better to stop without making any attempt at application or explanation.
A great help is often found in the utterances of previous speakers. If these have done well, they may be complimented, and the compliment so contrived as to lead directly up to the story that is lying in wait; or something being said with which you heartily agree–however slight a portion of the address it may be–this harmony of views can be used in the same manner. On the other hand, if you disagree with any of the speakers, the mere reference to it will excite a lively interest. If this difference is used, not as the basis of a serious argument, but only to drag in a story illustrating the disagreement, the story will nevertheless appear to be very appropriate.
If you happen to be the first speaker, you are by no means without resources. You can then imagine what other speakers are going to say, and if you can slip in a humorous or good-natured hit at the expense of some of the prominent speakers, it will be, highly relished. If you describe what they are likely to say it will be enjoyed, while if you should happen to mention the very opposite this will be set down as your intention. You may even describe the different speakers, and be reminded of things that will bring in the prepared story very appropriately.
The writer once knew of a very dull speaker, who scored a great success in a popular meeting, by describing the eloquent speaker who was to follow. He began by telling how he was accustomed when a boy to take a skiff and follow in the wake of a steamer, to be rocked in its waves, but once getting before the huge vessel his boat was swept away, and he was nearly drowned. This unfortunately was his situation now, and he was in danger of being swept aside by the coming flood of eloquence. But he asked who is this coming man? It was the first time he had heard of him–then followed the story he had been trying to work in–a story wherein the eloquent man was described as “one who could give seventeen good reasons for anything under heaven.” The story was a great success. In dumb show, the speaker he referred to begged for mercy. This only delighted the audience still more, and when the dull speaker finished it was admitted that, for once, he had escaped being stupid or commonplace. He had also forced upon the next speaker the necessity of removing the unpleasant effects of the jokes made at his expense, a task that required all his cleverness.
The manner of introduction by the chairman, his name or general position, the appearance of any one of the guests, the lateness or earliness of the hour, events of the day that attract interest, the nature of the entertainment or assemblage–all of these will offer good hooks by which to draw in the story. But let the story be good and thoroughly mastered. Of course the work of adaptation will be much easier if you have several stories in reserve. A story must not be repeated so often that it becomes known as belonging to you, for then a preceding speaker might get a laugh on you by telling it as yours, leaving you bankrupt.
Jones and Smith once rode several miles in a carriage, together, to a town where both were to make addresses. Jones was quite an orator; Smith had a very retentive memory. Jones asked Smith about his speech, but Smith professed not to have fully decided upon his topic, and in turn asked Jones the same question. Jones gave a full outline of his speech, Smith getting him to elaborate it by judicious inquiries as to how he would apply one point and illustrate another. The ride thus passed pleasantly for both parties. Smith was called upon to speak first, and gave with telling effect what he had gathered from Jones, to the delight of everybody, but poor Jones, who listened in utter consternation, and had not strength enough left even to reclaim his stolen property.
If your speech is to be a story it is especially advisable to have a reserve on hand, for stories are easily copied and apt to be long remembered. Care also must be taken that the story is not one with which persons generally are familiar. A gentleman was in the habit of telling a story which has already been quoted, the point of which lies in the phrase “I’m from Boston.” Some of his more intimate companions, in self-defense, would exclaim when he proposed a story, “Is it a mile from Boston?”
The definition of the toast itself or of any of the words in the sentiment which is the speaker’s topic may be made the occasion for drawing in the illustrative story.
The manner of ending a good story is also worthy of careful study. When an audience is applauding a palpable “hit,” it does not seem an appropriate time to stop and take one’s seat; but it often is the best course. To do this appears so abrupt that the novice is apt to make a further effort to finish up the subject till he has finished up his audience as well. An attempt to fully discuss a topic, under such circumstances, is not successful once in a hundred times. The best course is to follow an apt story by some proverb, a popular reference, or a witty turn, and then to close. But no abruptness will be disliked by your hearers half so much, as the utterance of a string of commonplaces, after you have once secured their attention. The richness of the dessert should come at the close, not at the beginning, of the oratorical feast.
THE PURPOSE OF AFTER-DINNER SPEAKING
Briefly stated, it is to bring into one focus the thought of an assembly. While the good things of the table may be satisfactory, and conversation free and spontaneous, there is yet need of some expedient for making all thought flow in one channel, and of blending the whole company into a true unity. There is one way, and only one, of doing this–the same that is used to produce unity of action and thought in any assembly, for whatever purpose convened. When the destinies of empires are at stake, when great questions that arise among men are to be solved, the art of speech must be called into play. So after a good dinner has been enjoyed, the same potent agency finds a field, narrower, indeed, but scarcely less operative. And this object–of causing a whole assembly to think the same thoughts and turn their attention to a common topic–is often well attained even when the speeches do not aspire to great excellence or pretension to eloquence.
A commonplace illustration will make our meaning clear. Suppose a great reception, where many rooms are filled with invited guests. There is conversation, but only by groups of two or three persons; refreshments are served; larger groups begin to gather around prominent persons, but there is the same diversity of sentiment and purpose that is to be found in a chance crowd in a public park. The guests are not in one place, with one accord. But now, on some pretext, the power of public speech is evoked; perhaps a toast is offered and responded to, or a more formal address of welcome or congratulation, or anything else suitable to the occasion. The subject and the manner of introduction are not material, so that the living, speaking man is brought face to face with his fellows; at once, instead of confusion and disorder, all is order and harmony. The speaker may hesitate in the delivery of his message, but his very embarrassment will in some instances contribute to harmonize the thought of the assembly even more powerfully than a more pretentious address. But a good and appropriate speech will indelibly fix the thought, and be far more satisfactory.
Where no particular kind of address is indicated by the nature of the assemblage, stories and humor will generally be highly appreciated. A good story has some of the perennial interest that surrounds a romance, and if it is at the same time humorous, an appeal is made to another sentiment, universal in the human breast. If people thrill with interest in unison, or laugh or cry together for a time, or merely give attention to the same thoughts, there will arise a sense of fellowship and sympathy which is not only enjoyable, but is the very purpose for which people are invited to assemblies.
More ordinary after-dinner speeches succeed by the aid of humorous stories than by all other means combined. In a very ingenious book of ready-made speeches the turning point of nearly every one depends upon a pun or other trick of speech. While this is carrying the idea a little too far, still it fairly indicates the importance placed upon sallies of wit or humor as a factor in speech-making. The fellowship that comes from laughing at the same jokes and approving the same sentiments may not be the most intimate or the most enduring, but it is often the only kind possible, and should be prized accordingly.
The chief use of toasts is to call out such speeches, and thus lead the thought of the assembly along pleasant and appropriate channels–all prearranged, yet apparently spontaneous.
A long speech is selfish and unpardonable. It wearies the guests, destroys variety, and crowds others out of the places to which they have been assigned and are entitled. When the speaking is over, the company will have been led to contemplate the same themes, and will have rejoiced, sympathized, and laughed in unison.
SOME A B C DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING SPEECHES, TOASTS, AND RESPONSES
1. Do not be afraid or ashamed to use the best helps you can get. Divest yourself of the idea that all you need is to wait till a toast is proposed and your name called, and then to open your mouth and let the eloquence flow forth. The greatest genius in the world _might_ succeed in that way, but would not be likely to venture it. Use a book and study your subject well.
2. Generally, it is not well to memorize word for word either what you have written or obtained from a book, unless it is a pun or a story where the effect depends upon verbal accuracy. But be sure to memorize toasts, sentiments, and titles absolutely. To know the substance of your speech well, with one or two strong points in it, is better than to have a flowery oration weighing down your memory.
3. If you are a novice (and these directions are given to no others), do not aim to make a great speech, but to say a few things modestly and quietly. A short and unassuming speech by a beginner is sure of applause. Eloquence, if you have it in you, will come later through practice and familiarity with your subject.
4. If you can’t remember or find a good story, invent one! Perhaps you have scruples as to the latter. But a story is not a lie; if so, what would become of the noble tribe of novel-writers! Mark Twain gives a very humorous account of the way in which he killed his conscience. Probably many speakers who retail good things might make confession in the same direction.
But why is it not as reputable to invent one’s own story as to tell the story some one else has invented? Does the second telling improve its morality? Rather give heed to the quality of the story. This, and not its origin, is the really important matter to consider.
5. Success in after-dinner speaking is difficult or easy to attain according to the way you go about it. If you think you must startle, rouse, and electrify your hearers, or, worse still, must instruct them in something _you_ think important, but about which they care nothing, your efforts are likely to be attended by a hard and bitter experience. But if, when a prospective speech-occasion looms up, you will reflect upon the sentiment you wish to propose, or will get a friend to do a little planning and suggest the easiest toast or topic, and then attempt to say just a little, you will probably come off with flying colors.
6. When you rise, do not be in a hurry. A little hesitation has a better effect than too much promptness and fluency, and a little stammering or hesitation, it may be added, will have no bad effect. In beginning, your manner can without disadvantage be altogether lost sight of, and if you have something to say the substance of which is good, and has been carefully prearranged, you will be able to give utterance to it in some form; grammatical mistakes or mispronunciation, where there is no affectation, as well as an occasional repetition, will rarely be noticed.
7. Above all, remember it may be assumed that your hearers are your friends, and are ready to receive kindly what you have to say. This will have a wonderfully steadying effect on your nerves. And if your speech consists only of two or three sentences slowly and deliberately uttered, they will at least applaud its brevity, and give you credit for having filled your place on the programme respectably.
It has been often said that Americans are greatly ahead of the English in general speech-making, but in pleasant after-dinner talking and addresses they are much inferior. Probably this was once true, but if so, it is true no longer. The reason of any former deficiency was simply want of practice, without which no speech-making can be easy and effective. But the importance of this kind of oratory is now recognized, and, with proper efforts to cultivate and master it, Americans are taking the same high rank as in other forms of intellectual effort. Lowell and Depew are acknowledged as peers of any “toast-responder” or “after-dinner orator” the world has ever seen. One of the chief elements of their charm consists in the good stories they relate. Whoever has a natural faculty, be it ever so slight, as a storyteller, will, if he gathers up and appropriates the good things that he meets with, soon realize that he is making rapid progress in this delightful field, and that he gains much more than mere pleasure by his acquisitions.
The best entertainments are not those which merely make a display of wealth and luxury. Quiet, good taste, and social attractions are far better. The English wit, Foote, describes a banquet of the former character. “As to splendor, as far as it went, I admit it: there was a very fine sideboard of plate; and if a man could have swallowed a silversmith’s shop, there was enough to satisfy him; but as to all the rest, the mutton was white, the veal was red, the fish was kept too long, the venison not kept long enough; to sum up all, everything was cold except the ice, and everything sour except the vinegar.” Excellence in the quality of the viands is not to be disregarded in the choicest company. A celebrated scholar and wit was selecting some of the choicest delicacies on the table, when a rich friend said to him, “What! do philosophers love dainties?” “Why not?” replied the scholar; _”do you think all the good things of this world were made only for blockheads?”_
HOLIDAY SPEECHES
FOURTH OF JULY
At a Fourth of July banquet, or celebration, toast may be offered to “The Flag,” to “The Day,” to “Independence,” to “Our Revolutionary Fathers,” to “The Nation,” to any Great Man of the Past, to “Liberty,” to “Free Speech,” to “National Greatness,” to “Peace,” to “Defensive War,” to any of the States, to “Washington” or “Lafayette,” to “Our Old Ally, France,” to any of the “Patriotic Virtues,” to “The Army and The Navy,” to the “Memory of any of the Battles by Land or Sea.” Appropriate sentiments for any of these may easily be devised or may be found in the miscellaneous list in this volume. “The Constitution and the Laws” or something similar should not be omitted.
SOME ITEMS THAT WOULD BE APPROPRIATE IN RESPONDING TO THESE TOASTS.
Their order and character will depend upon the special topic.
Our present prosperity–the greatness and resources of our country as compared with those of the Revolutionary epoch–the slow growth of the colonies–the rapid growth of the States and the addition of new States continually–what was gained by independence–did we do more than simply prevent tyranny–the advantages an independent country possesses over a colony, such as Canada–the perils of independence and the responsibility of power–the romantic early history of the country–the wars that preceded the Revolutionary conflict–the character of the struggle–the slenderness of our resources compared with the mighty power of Britain–our ally, France–what that nation gained and lost by joining in our quarrel–the memories of Washington and Lafayette–the principles at stake in the Revolution–the narrow view our fathers took of the issue at first, and the manner in which they were led first to independence and then to nationality–some phases of the struggle–its critical points–Trenton and Valley Forge–Saratoga and Yorktown–our responsibilities and duties–the questions of that day enumerated and compared with the burning questions of the present day (which we do not enumerate here, but which the speaker may describe or even argue if the nature of his audience, or time at his disposal permits)–the future greatness of the nation–the probability of the acquisition of new territory.
Laughable incidents either from history or illustrations from any source, must not be forgotten, for if the speech be more than a few minutes long they are absolutely indispensable.
OUTLINE OF A SPEECH IN RESPONSE TO THE TOAST “THE DAY WE CELEBRATE”
The Fourth of July has been a great day ever since 1776. Before that year the Fourth of this month came and went like other days. But then a great event happened: an event which made a great difference to the entire world; the boundaries of many countries would be very different to-day if the important event of that day had not transpired. It was a terrible blow to the foes of humanity and even to many weak-kneed friends. The exhortation of one of the signers of the Declaration on that day, “We must all hang together,” with the grim but very reasonable rejoinder, “If we do not, we will assuredly hang separately.” The bloodshed and suffering which followed and which seem to be the only price at which human liberty and advancement can be procured. We had to deal with our old friends the English very much as the peace-loving Quaker did with the pirate who boarded his ship; taking him by the collar Broad-brim dropped him over the ship’s side into the water, saying, “Friend, thee has no business on this ship.” We have shown that we own and can navigate the ship of State ourselves, and now we are willing to welcome here not only John Bull but all nations of the world when they have any friendly business with us.
The gunpowder that has been consumed. First, during the Revolutionary war and the second war with England; and then the powder that has been exploded by small and large boys in the hundred and odd Fourths that have followed.
OUTLINE OF A SPREAD-EAGLE SPEECH IN A FOREIGN LAND
We are so far from home that we can’t hear the eagle scream or see the lightning in his eye. Only from the almanac do we know that this is the day of all days on which he disports himself. He was a small bird when born, more than a hundred years ago, but has grown lively till his wings reach from ocean to ocean, and it only requires a little faith to see him stretch himself clear over the Western Hemisphere and the adjacent islands. Other birds despised him on the first great Fourth, but these birds of prey, vultures, condors and such like, with crows, as well as the smaller Republican eagles born since, are humble enough to him now. The British lion himself having been so often scratched and clawed by this fowl, has learned to shake his mane and wag his tail rather amiably in our eagle’s presence, even if he has to give an occasional growl to keep his hand in. We are proud of this bird, though we are far from home, and to-day send our heartiest good wishes across the sea to the land we love the best.
OUTLINE OF A RESPONSE TO THE TOAST, “OUR COUNTRY”
The field here is very wide. All the history of the country is appropriate, but can only be glanced at, though a good speech might be made by dwelling at length on some romantic incident in its history. The size and richness of the country from the green pine forests of Maine to the golden orange groves of California; or the prophecy of the manifest greatness of coming destiny. Here the old but laughable story can be brought in easily about the raw Irishman who saw a pumpkin for the first time, and was told that it was a mare’s egg, and generously given one. He had the misfortune, however, to drop it out of his cart, when it rolled down-hill, struck a stump, burst and frightened a rabbit, which bounded away followed by Pat, shouting: “Shtop my colt; sure and if he is so big and can run so fast now, when just born, what a rousing horse he will be when grown up!”
But our country has more than merely a vast area. She has made advances in science, art, literature, and culture of all kinds, and is destined to play a chief part in the drama of the world’s progress.
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MEMORIAL DAY
The celebration of this day has become general and has assumed a special and beautiful character. It might have been feared that angry passions engendered by civil strife would predominate, but the very reverse of this is true. Kindness and charity, tender memories of the sacrifices of patriotism, the duty of caring for the living and of avoiding all that might lead again to the sad necessity of war, are the sentiments nearly always inculcated.
The following are a few of the toasts that may be given at celebrations, or banquets, or at the exercises that form a part of the annual decorating of soldiers’ graves:
The Martyred Dead–the Regiments locally represented–the Army and Navy–any Dead Soldier especially prominent–the Union Forever–the Whole Country–Victory always for the Right–the Surviving Soldiers and Sailors–Unbroken Peace–the Commander-in-Chief, and other officers locally honored–any special battle whose field is near at hand–the Flag with all its Stars undimmed.
SKETCH OF A SPEECH IN RESPONSE TO THE TOAST, “OUR HONORED DEAD”
Time in its rapid flight tests many things. Thirty years ago the Southern Confederacy, like a dark cloud full of storm and thunderings, covered the Southern heavens. Statesmen planned, preachers prayed, women wept, and armies as brave as ever formed in line fought, for its establishment. Blood flowed freely, and the roar of battle filled the whole land. Many wise men thought it would continue for ages, but lo! it has disappeared. Nothing remains to its adherents but a memory–mournful, pathetic, and bitter.
How different with the Old Flag that we love. It had been tested before, but this was its supreme trial. It had been victorious in several wars. It had sheltered new and expanding States, it had fostered higher forms of civilization, and represented peoples and interests that were complex and varied; but in our Civil War it was assailed as never before. The test was crucial, but nobly was it borne. Men died in ranks as the forest goes down before the cyclone. What sharp agony in death, and what long-continued suffering and bereavement this implies. But the result was decisive–a strengthening of the power and grandeur of the nation that sometimes seems to be only too great and unquestioned.
We have no wish by any word of ours to revive bitter feeling or stir up strife. This hallowed day has been from the first a peacemaker. Men, standing with uncovered heads in the presence of the dead, do not care to utter words of reproach for the irrevocable past. We, wearing the blue, can say to the scarred veteran wearers of the gray: “You fought well for the lost cause. But the case was fairly tried in the awful court of war. It took four years for the jury to agree, but the verdict has been given–a verdict against your cause–and there is no higher court and no appeal. There is no resurrection for the dead Confederacy; but we can offer you something better–an equal part in the life and destiny of the most glorious nation time has yet produced.” And on their side the gray can reply, in the words of Colonel Grady, the eloquent orator of the South, in his speech at Atlanta: “We can now see that in this conflict loss was gain, and defeat real and substantial victory; that everything we hoped for and fought for, in the new government we sought to establish, is given to us in greater measure in the old government our fathers founded.”
We do not meet on these Memorial Days to weep for the dead, as we did while wounds were yet fresh. Time has healed the scars of war, and we can calmly contemplate the great lesson of patriotic devotion, and rejoice that the nation to which we belong produced men noble enough to die for that which they valued so much. Neither do I care to say anything of human slavery, the institution that died and was buried with the Confederacy. I had enough to say about it while it was living. Let the dead past bury its dead.
But we are here to foster patriotism, in view of the most tremendous sacrifice ever willingly made by a people on the altar of nationality. That the sacrifices of the Civil War deserve this rank will appear from the fact that they were made–in the main–by volunteers. We were not fighting directly to defend our altars and our fires; we were not driven to arms to repel an invading foe; we were not hurried to the field by king or noble; but in the first flush of manhood we offered ourselves to preserve unimpaired the unity, the purity, the glory of our nation. So far as I have turned over the leaves of the volume of time, I have found nothing in all the past like this. Therefore, standing before the highest manifestation of earthly patriotism, viewing it crowned in all the glory of self-sacrifice, by a faithfulness which was literally in the case of hundreds of thousands “unto death,” we ask: “What is there that justifies a nation in exacting or accepting (when freely offered) such tribute of the life-blood of its people?”
The two things of inestimable value which our government furnishes and which we ought to preserve even with life itself, if the sacrifice is needed, are liberty and law, or rather liberty _in_ law. The old world gave law, without which human society cannot exist. But it was accompanied with terrible suffering–as when “order reigned in Warsaw.” Such law came from masters, and made the mass of the people slaves. We have an equal perfection of law, order, subordination, but it rises side by side with liberty The people govern themselves–not in one form of government alone but in affairs national, State, county, down to the smallest school district and a thousand voluntary societies. In each the methods by which the people’s will may be made supreme in designated affairs are clearly defined, so that the whole of united human effort is brought under the dominion of law, even such things as general education, and yet each affair is in the hands of the people directly concerned. For thousands of years the principles of our complex and wonderful system of co-ordinated government have been growing up till they have reached their fullest perfection on our soil, and we breathe their beneficence as we breathe the air of heaven. Men are willing to die by the tens of thousands that this liberty under law may not perish from the world.
… Comrades and Citizens:–We move forward to new issues and new responsibilities. Grave dangers are now upon us. God grant that they may not need to be met and settled in the rude shock of war. The time for wisdom, for clear-sighted patriotism is–_now_. Labor and capital, the foundations of law and order; the complex civilization of a nation which now talks by lightning, and is hurled by steam over plains and mountains, and which, doubtless, will soon fly through the air–all these are to be settled by the men now on the stage of action. We cannot do better than to tell you, to settle them in the spirit of the men whose great sacrifices we to-day commemorate.
OUTLINE OF A SPEECH BY CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW, ON A DECORATION [MEMORIAL] DAY.
This is one of the most interesting of national celebrations, appealing not to pride, but to tender personal memories. But we must not give ourselves up wholly to sadness or mourning. The story of issues and results must be told.
Why did our heroes die? On account of the cancer of slavery and the resulting doctrine of State Rights. Nationality and liberty, the opposite view. The former was the party of action, and, therefore, though in a minority, it was bolder and more determined. But the shell of materialism dropped from the North, and it was aroused with electric energy when Sumter was fired on; there was no passion, only such fervid resolve to preserve our nation as the world never before saw. The struggle over, there were no State trials, no prisons nor scaffolds, and the Republic, though bleeding at every pore, said to the conquered enemy, “Come and share fully with us all the blessings of our preserved institutions,” and thus won a second victory greater than the first.
The wonderful intelligence of the volunteer–story of Napoleon’s soldier–“Dead on the field of honor.”
The Grand Army of the elect–the heroes of history, some of whom are enumerated–the actual value to a nation of such heroism. To-day all that belongs to the strife is forgiven, but its lessons are too noble and precious ever to be forgotten. We can all, North and South, read with enthusiasm the story of each varied and romantic campaign.
The Confederate women first began decorating the graves of their dead with flowers, and did not pass by the Union graves near their late foes. This touched the heart of the nation as nothing else could have done, and enmity melted away, and the observance of the day has become universal.
The two great national heroes–Washington, with his wise, foresighted “Farewell Address;” Lincoln, with his gentle spirit, his martyr death, and his tender words, “With malice towards none, with charity for all.” Washington the Founder, Lincoln the Preserver.
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WASHINGTON’S BIRTHDAY
APPROPRIATE TOASTS
To Washington–to The Great Men of Revolutionary Times–to The Great Man who could not do what many modern Politicians can do–_tell a lie_–to The Childless Father of Eighty Millions of people–to The American Model Statesman–to The Greatest of Good Men and the Best of Great Men.
THOUGHTS FOR A SPEECH IN RESPONSE TO THE TOAST “WASHINGTON: GREAT AS A SOLDIER, GREATER AS A STATESMAN, GREATEST AS A PURE PATRIOT”
Indian, French, and English enemies. He had to make the armies with which he conquered. He was always a safe commander, but full of enterprise also–his character made the Union of the States and the Constitution possible. His character the best inheritance of the American people. Other men as great, possibly in some instances greater in a single field–his greatness shown in the wide union of the noblest kinds of greatness, all in harmony.
HUMOROUS RESPONSE BY BENJAMIN F. BUTLER TO THE TOAST, “OUR FOREFATHERS”
“While venerating their lofty patriotism, may we emulate them in their republican simplicity of manners.” He declared that a great deal had been said at one time and another about the democratic simplicity of our forefathers. Suppose that the gentlemen of the present day should go back to some of the customs of the forefathers. Suppose a man should go to a ball nowadays in the costume in which Thomas Jefferson, “that great apostle of democratic simplicity,” once appeared in Philadelphia. What a sensation he would create with his modest (?) costume of velvet and lace, with knee-breeches, silk stockings, silver shoe-buckles, and powdered wig. “Even the great father of his country had a little style about him,” said the speaker. “It was a known fact that he never went to Congress when he was President unless he went in a coach and six, with a little cupid on the box bearing a wreath of flowers. The coach must be yellow and the horses white, and then the President’s secretary usually followed in a coach drawn by four horses. When Washington ascended the steps to enter the doors, he always stopped for a moment and turned slowly around to allow an admiring people to see the father of their country. Oh! our forefathers were saturated with modesty and simplicity. The people of the present day have retrograded greatly from the simplicity of their Revolutionary ancestors. I can remember when it was impossible, years before the war, to hold a night session of Congress. It was impossible because the members of Congress attended dinners, and lingered over their wine. They attended dinners very like the one we have just enjoyed, and yet there is not a man in this company who is unfitted to attend to any public or private duties that might demand his attention. Yes, it is true that we have departed from the old customs, but we have advanced and not retrograded. The world has changed, but it has changed for the better. It is growing better every day, and don’t let anybody forget it.”
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CHRISTMAS
APPROPRIATE TOASTS
The Day of Good-will–to The Cold Weather without and the Warm Hearts within–to The Christmas Tree, which grows in a Night and is plucked in the Morning by the gladdest of fingers–to The Day in which Religion gives sweetness to Social Life–Christmas Gifts; may they bless the Giver not less than the Receiver–to The Oldest of our Festivals, which grows mellower and sweeter with the passage of the centuries–to St. Nicholas [or Santa Claus], the only saint Protestants worship–to A Merry Day that leaves no heart-ache–to A Good Christmas, may sleighing, gifts, and feasting crowd out all gambling and drunkenness.
SPEECH-THOUGHTS
The good cheer enjoyed on this merriest day of the year. How the little people look forward to it. It comes to the older ones as a joy, and yet tender and sad with the memories of other Christmases. The religious and the secular elements of the day. The countries where it is most observed. The long contest between the two days, Thanksgiving and Christmas. The compromise that Massachusetts and Virginia, New England and the South, have unanimously agreed upon; namely, to keep both days.
SELECTED OUTLINE OP AN EFFECTIVE LITTLE CHRISTMAS SPEECH
The speaker assumes that the observance of the day is becoming obsolete, and that there are persons who wish it to die out. The assumption, though rather strained, affords the opportunity to demolish this man of straw. “All other kings may go, but no one can spare King Christmas, or St. Nicholas, his prime minister. School-rooms and nurseries would rebel. And plum pudding is too strongly entrenched in Church and State to be dislodged. Washington Irving, with his _Sketch Book_, would protest. Best argument of all is the worth of the Christmas entertainments. Here’s to the Festival of Festivals, and long may its honors be done by such hosts as entertain us to-day.”
THANKSGIVING
Coming at the beginning of the farmer’s rest, when the harvest is all gathered, this is a very joyous festival, and more than any other abounds in family reunions. Any toast therefore is appropriate which tells of the harvest, of fertility, of the closing year, of the family pride and traditions, of pleasure to young and old. At dinner, turkey and mince or pumpkin pie will of course be served, and these national favorites must not be forgotten by the toastmaker.
This day, too, has an official and governmental flavor given to it by the State and national proclamations which fix the date and invite its observance. Usually, these enumerate the blessings enjoyed by the whole country during the year, and suggest topics peculiarly fitting for toasts. It is perhaps not too much to say that Thanksgiving is distinctly _the_ American Festival, and should be honored accordingly.
TOASTS
To The Inventor of Pumpkin Pie–to Peace with all Nations–to The Rulers of our Country–to The Farmer–to Full Stomachs and Merry Hearts–to their Excellencies, the President and the Governor; may we obey all their commands as willingly as when they tell us to feast–Abounding Plenty; may we always remember the Source from which our benefits come–Our two National Fowls, the American Eagle and the Thanksgiving Turkey; may the one give us peace for all our States and the other a piece for all our plates–The Turkey and the Eagle; we love to have the one soar high, but wish the other to roost low–The Great American Birds; may we have them where we love them best, the Turkeys on our tables and the Eagles in our pockets.
THOUGHTS FOR A THANKSGIVING SPEECH
The manner in which the day was first instituted. The sore struggles and the small beginnings of that day compared with the greatness and abounding prosperity of the present. The warfare between Christmas and Thanksgiving, the one being thought the badge of popery and prelacy. The Battle of the Pies, pumpkin and mince, terminating in a treaty of peace and alliance; and now we can enjoy the nightmare by feasting on both combined! The national blessings of the year; the poorest have more now than kings and emperors had five hundred years ago. Exemption from wars. Internal peace. Willingness and habit of settling every domestic dispute by the ballot, and not the bullet. The increasing tendency to arbitrate between nations, thus avoiding the horrors of war. The beneficence of our government and the ease with which its operations rest upon our shoulders. The wonderful progress of science and invention, and the manner in which these have added to the comfort of all the people.
SELECTED OUTLINE FOE A THANKSGIVING SPEECH
Why we ought to be grateful to the old Puritans, with all their faults. Their unsuccessful warfare on plum pudding, which, like truth, “crushed to earth,” rose again. Their discovery and enshrining of Turkey. On this day the Nation gathers as a family at the Thanksgiving board, and from all parts of the world the wanderers come home to the family feast. The duty of Happiness, joined to gratitude, is emphasized this day. The closing toast, “The Federal Eagle and the Festal Turkey; may we always have peace under the wings of the one, and be able to obtain a piece from the breast of the other.”
PRESENTATION ADDRESSES
Giving a present is a kind and graceful act, and should be accompanied by a simple, short, and unaffected speech. “Take this” would have the merit of brevity, but would fail in conveying any information as to _who_ gave, why they gave _to the recipient_, and why _that_ present was selected rather than another, and why _the speaker_ was chosen to make the presentation. All of these items form a part of nearly every presentation address, whilst some of them belong to all.
The novice will find much help in preparing his proposed speech by selecting a few items that are generally appropriate; afterward he can include anything which his own genius or wishes may suggest.
He may say that an abler speaker might have been selected for the pleasant duty, but not one who could enter into it more heartily or with more good wishes. He can refer to any circumstance which, if told briefly, will show why he has been selected, notwithstanding his reluctance or sense of unworthiness; or why he is pleased that the selection has fallen upon him. Such reference is usually effective.
Then the nature of the gift may be described. Here is an easy field for a little pleasantry. If a watch, it can be said, “Your friends are growing a little suspicious of you, and, after due deliberation, they have determined to a place _a watch_ upon you.” If a cane is the article in hand, then the painful duty of administering punishment for offenses by _caning_ is in order. A ring will afford an opportunity for many verbal plays. The ring of friends about the recipient, the true ring of a bell, or of an uncracked vase, a political ring–any of these can be made to lead up to the little hoop of gold. The fineness of the material, its sterling and unvarying value, the inscription on it, any specialty in its form–all these will be found rich in suggestion. Silverware of any kind may also be considered as to the form of the article, the use to which it is to be put, and the purity of the metal. Hardly any article can be thought of which will not allow some pleasant puns or _bon mots_. If a book is given, we bring the person “to book,” and the book to him. Job wished that his enemy might write a book; we, more charitable, wish our friend to read a book, and now offer him a good one for the purpose. The author or the title will, if closely examined, yield some matter for play on words.
The army presents of sword or banner, while usually more serious, do not forbid the same kind of badinage.
But this should form only a small portion of the speech, and consist merely of two or three well-studied sentences, to be uttered slowly, so that their double meaning may have time to sink in, and appear also as if they were just thought of. A good anecdote should be introduced at this point. It must be short, tinged with humor, and, if it succeeds in arousing the attention of the hearers, it will be of great value. If it is very appropriate or highly illustrative, these qualities will compensate for humor. Indeed, a felicitous anecdote will make the whole speech a success, if the speech is not continued too long afterward. Better suffer the extreme penalty of reading every anecdote in this volume, and of searching for hours in other fields, than fail to get the right one; but if unsuccessful invent one for the occasion!
The good qualities of the recipient must not be overlooked, especially those in recognition of which the present is given. If anything in the nature of the present itself can be made symbolic of these assumed good or great qualities, it will be a happy circumstance. And while flattery should not be excessive or too palpable, it is seldom indeed that a large dose of “pleasant things” will not be well received by all parties on such an occasion.
The expression of kindly feeling and good wishes always affords a favorable opportunity for closing. Perhaps, however, a more striking conclusion can be made by taking advantage of the very moment when the present is handed over to the recipient, accompanying this act with a hearty wish for its long retention and its happy use in the manner its nature indicates. Wishing a ring to be worn as a memento of friendship, a watch to mark the passage of happy hours, a cane not to be needed for support, but only as a treasured ornament, a sword to be worn with honor and only to be unsheathed at the call of duty or of patriotism, etc.
The reception of a gift is more easy than the presentation, but is at the same time more embarrassing. The reception is easier, because the essential part of the response is to say “Thank you,” which are very easy words to utter if the givers are real friends and the present is an appropriate one. It is more embarrassing because it is always harder to receive a favor gratefully than to give one. If the gift is a surprise, there is no harm in saying so, though if it is not a surprise, it is not advisable to tell an untruth about it. The recipient may say he is embarrassed, and his embarrassment–whether real or feigned–will create sympathy for him. Besides, he can ask for indulgence with more grace than the preceding speaker, as he is supposed to be taken by surprise. He may be so overcome with emotion as to break down altogether, and yet he will be loudly applauded.
A still stronger reason for this disparity is that the speaker representing the givers has been selected, probably out of a large company, to make his speech, and is thus expected to do it well; but the receiver occupies _his_ position for a reason that has no connection whatever with his speech-making powers. If he succeeds in expressing his gratitude and goodwill to those who have been so generous he will have served the essential purpose of his speech; but if, in addition, he can gather up the points made in the presentation speech, assenting to its general principles, accepting the humorous charges for which he is to be watched, caned, stoned (when a diamond or other stone is given), or put to the sword, and gently deprecates the serious flattery offered, he will be regarded as doing exceedingly well. One phrase he will not be likely to omit, unless “he loses his head” altogether–“When I look upon this, I will always remember the feelings of this hour, the kind words uttered, the appreciation shown.” This word “appreciation.” with the reiteration of thanks, will make a very fitting conclusion.
ADDRESSES OF WELCOME
In our country the number of voluntary associations that visit similar associations, or meet at special times and places is very large. Often such associations are furnished with free board and lodging by the people of the place where the assemblage occurs. Facilities for assemblage and enjoyment are offered and other privileges tendered that are highly appreciated. Religious bodies, church and philanthropic societies, military and fire companies, athletic and social clubs, various orders and educational societies, political bodies, these form only a small proportion of the endless number of organizations convening and gathering at different centres, gatherings which serve to keep all parts of our country in close touch.
It is needless to furnish model speeches for each of these, for the same general line of remark is adapted to all. The changes of illustration demanded by the character of the association to be welcomed, and for which responses are to be made, will be readily understood, and a little study of the name and character of the place of meeting will make the necessary local allusions quite easy. The welcome and response for a fire company, or a baseball club, will not differ much from that for a Christian Endeavor Society. A few general hints and a little investigation by the novice will put him on the right track in either case.
ADDRESS OF WELCOME
A clear statement about those who extend the welcome and of those who are to be welcomed is appropriate. This may be expanded advantageously by giving a few of the characteristics of each, greater latitude being allowed in complimenting those who are welcomed than those who entertain. It is bad taste to spend more time in telling our guests how good and great we are than in expressing the exalted opinion we have of them for their noble work, their great fame, or their high purpose; or in declaring the pleasure we feel and the honor we have in entertaining them. The warmth of the welcome extended should be expressed in the fullest manner, and as this is the central purpose of the whole address, it will bear _one repetition_. A good illustrative story, brief but pointed, may be worked in somewhere, perhaps in connection with a modest depreciation of our own fitness or ability adequately to express the strong feelings of those we represent, though if one can be found having a connection with the visitors themselves, it will be still better. What we wish our visitors to do while with us may also be appropriately referred to. If there are places of interest for them to visit, work for them to do, or special entertainments provided,–here is additional matter for remark. All these items may be run through in a few minutes, and then the address should close. The most bungling and formal welcome, if short, will be enjoyed more and be more applauded than the most graceful and eloquent one unduly prolonged. Should however, in spite of this warning, more “filling in” be desired of an appropriate character, it may be found almost without limit in setting forth the claim of the cause which both the visitors and the entertainers represent–athletic sports, religion, benevolence, education, or what not.
ADDRESS IN RESPONSE
This may be still more brief than the address of welcome. To say that the reception is hearty, that it gives pleasure and is gratefully received and appreciated, is all that is essential. An invitation to return the visit should not be forgotten, if circumstances are such that it can be appropriately made. Then the speaker has an opportunity to review any portion of the preceding speech and express his indorsement of any of the assertions made. He should not dissent from them, unless this dissent can be made the means of a little adroit flattery by placing a higher estimate upon the entertainers and their services than their own speaker has done, or by modestly disclaiming some of the praise that has been given. The novice must avoid being carried too far by this fascinating review, both as to the quantity and the quality of the disagreement.
A closing sentence may be, “Allow me once more, most heartily, to thank you for this generous welcome to–your homes–your headquarters–to the hospitalities of your city,” as the case may be.
WEDDING AND OTHER ANNIVERSARIES
Another wide field for the oratory of entertainment is to be found in the various celebrations that mark the passage of specific or notable portions of time–centennial, semi-centennial, and quadrennial; likewise weddings, annual, tin, paper, crystal, silver, and golden. The speeches for these differ widely in character. They may take the form of congratulatory addresses, of toasts and responses, or more formal addresses. All dedications come in the same category. Generally the shorter intervals call for light and humorous speeches, while the longer ones demand something more grave and thoughtful.
The following speech and response for a wooden (fifth) wedding anniversary is taken from a volume of ready made speeches. It is a fine example of that wit and play upon words which is never more suitable or more highly appreciated than on such an occasion.
SPEECH FOR A WOODEN WEDDING
If it is a good maxim not to halloo till you are out of the woods, our kind host and hostess must be very quiet this evening, for it seems to me that they are in the thick of it. If their friends had been about to burn them alive instead of to wish them joy on their fifth wedding-day, they could scarcely have brought a greater quantity of combustible material to the sacrifice. What shall we say to them on this ligneous occasion? Of course, we must congratulate them on their willingness to renew their matrimonial vows after five years of double-blessedness. In this age of divorce it is something worthy of note, that a pair who have been one and inseparable for even so short a period as the twentieth part of a century, should stand up proudly before the world and propose to strengthen the original compact with a new one. They look as happy and contented as if they had never heard of Chicago, or seen those tempting little advertisements in the newspapers that propose to separate man and wife with immediate dispatch for a reasonable consideration. Instead of going to court to cut the nuptial bond in twain, it appears that they have been _courting_ for five years with the view of being remarried this evening. Vaccination, it is said, wears out in seven years, but matrimony, we see, in this instance, at least, takes a stronger hold of the parties inoculated as time rolls on; and although in this case they are willing to go through the operation again, it is not for the sake of making assurance doubly sure, but in order to enjoy marriage as a luxury. With this happy specimen of a wooden wedding before them our young unmarried friends will see that they can go into the _joinery_ business with but little risk of getting into the wrong box. In fact, it is because connubial bliss beats every other species of felicity all hollow that we have met this evening to requite it with hollow-ware. In the name of all their friends I affectionately congratulate the doubly-married pair on their past happiness and future prospects, and hope they may live to celebrate their fiftieth wedding day and receive a _golden_ reward.
BRIDEGROOM IN REPLY
“For self and partner”–as men associated in business sometimes conclude their letters–I offer to you and all our friends who have obliged us with their presence, the thanks of the firm which renews its articles of partnership this evening. We welcome you heartily to our home, well knowing that your kind wishes are not like–your useful and elegant tokens of remembrance–_hollow-ware_. When Birnam Wood came to Dunsinane, Macbeth was conquered, and it seems to me that you have come almost as well provided with timber as Macduff and Malcolm were. Your articles, however, although of wood, are not of the Burn ’em kind, and I am not such a Dunce inane as to decline accepting them. Indeed, my wife, who, notwithstanding her matrimonial vows, has a _single eye_–to housekeeping–would not permit me to refuse them were I so inclined. She knows their value better than I do, and with the assistance of her kitchen cabinet will, I have no doubt, employ them usefully.
The speech closes with thanks and good wishes in return.
TOASTS
A toast may be given either with or without sentiment attached, and in either case a response equally fitting; but in the former the subject is narrowed and defined by the nature of the sentiment. Yet the speaker need not hold himself closely to the sentiment, which is often made rather a point of departure even by the ablest speakers. Indeed, the latitude accorded to after-dinner speeches is very great, and a sentiment which gives unity and direction to the speech made in response to it is, on that account, of great value.
To illustrate these points we will take the toast “Our Flag.” A speech in response would be practically unlimited in scope of treatment. Anything patriotic, historical or sentimental, which brings in some reference to the banner, would be appropriate. But let this sentiment be added: “May the justness and benevolence which it represents ever charm the heart, as its beauty charms the eye,” and the outline of a speech is already indicated. Has our nation always been just and kind? Where and how have these qualities been most strikingly manifested? Why have we seemed sometimes to come short of them, and how should such injustice or harsh dealing be remedied, with as much rhetorical admixture of the waving folds and the glittering stars as the speaker sees fit to employ.
From these considerations may be deduced the rule that when the proposer of a toast wishes to leave the respondent the freedom of the whole subject he will give the toast alone, or accompanied by a motto of the most non-committal character. But if he wishes to draw him out in a particular direction he will put the real theme in the sentiment that follows the toast.
SENTIMENTS SUGGESTED BY A TOAST
Years ago a speaker provoked a controversy (maliciously and with no good excuse) which scarcely came short of blows, by proposing as a toast the name of a general of high rank, but who was unfortunate in arms. He was a candidate for office. Added to the toast was the sentiment, “May his political equal his military victories.” This was in bad taste, indeed, but it shows the use that can be made of the sentiment, when added to a toast, in fixing attention in a certain direction.
The number of sentiments suggested by the common and standard toasts is unlimited. Take the toast “Home,” as an example.
Home: The golden setting in which the brightest jewel is “Mother.”
Home: A world of strife shut out, and a world of love shut in.
Home: The blossoms of which heaven is the fruit.
Home: The only spot on earth where the fault and failings of fallen humanity are hidden under a mantle of charity.
Home: An abode wherein the inmate, the superior being called man, can pay back at night, with fifty per cent. interest, every annoyance that he has met with in business during the day.
Home: The place where the great are sometimes small, and the small often great.
Home: The father’s kingdom; the child’s paradise; the mother’s world.
Home: The jewel casket containing the most precious of all jewels–domestic happiness.
Home: The place where you are treated best and grumble most.
Home: It is the central telegraph office of human love, into which run innumerable wires of affection, many of which, though extending thousands of miles, are never disconnected from the one great terminus.
Home: The centre of our affections, around which our hearts’ best wishes twine.
Home: A little sheltered hollow scooped out of the windy hill of the world.
Home: A place where our stomachs get three good meals daily and our hearts a thousand.
MISCELLANEOUS TOASTS
These might be multiplied indefinitely, but a sufficient number are given to serve as hints to the person who is able to make his own toasts, yet seeks a little aid to lift him out of the common rut.
Marriage: The happy estate which resembles a pair of shears; so joined that they cannot be separated; often moving in opposite directions, yet always punishing any one who comes between them.
Marriage: The gate through which the happy lover leaves his enchanted ground and returns from paradise to earth.
Woman: The fairest work of the great Author; the edition is large, and no man should be without a copy.
Woman: She needs no eulogy; she speaks for herself.
Woman: The bitter half of man. (A sour bachelor’s toast.)
Wedlock: May the single all be married and all the married be happy. Love to one, friendship to many, and good-will to all.
The Lady we love and the Friend we trust.
May we have the unspeakable good Fortune to win a true heart, and the Merit to keep it.
Friendship: May its bark never founder on the rocks of deception.
Friendship: May its lamp ever be supplied by the oil of truth and fidelity.
Unselfish Friendship: May we ever be able to serve a friend, and noble enough to conceal it.
Firm Friendship: May differences of opinion only cement it.
May we have more and more Friends and Need them less and less.
May our Friend in sorrow never be a Sorrowing friend.
Active Friendship: May the hinges of friendship never grow rusty.
To our Friends: Whether absent on land or sea.
Our Friends: May the present have no burdens for them and futurity no terrors.
Our Friends: May we always have them and always know their value.
Friends: May we be richer in their love than in wealth, and yet money be plenty.
A Friend: May we never want one to cheer us, or a home to welcome him.
Good Judgment: May opinions never float in the sea of ignorance.
Careful Kindness: May we never crack a joke or break a reputation.
Enduring Prudence: May the pleasures of youth never bring us pain in old age.
Deliverance in Trouble: May the sunshine of hope dispel the clouds of calamity.
Successful Suit: May we court and win all the Daughters of Fortune except the eldest–Miss Fortune.
Here’s a Health to Detail, Retail, and Curtail–indeed, all the tails but tell-tales.
The Coming Millennium: When great men are honest and honest men are great.
Our Merchant: May he have good trade, well paid. May the Devil cut the toes of all our foes, That we may know them by their limping.
May we Live to learn well and Learn to live well.
A Placid Life: May we never murmur without cause, and never have cause to murmur.
May we never lose our Bait when we Fish for compliments.
A Better Distribution of Money: May Avarice lose his purse and Benevolence find it.
May Care be a stranger and Serenity a familiar friend to every honest heart.
May Fortune recover her eyesight and be able to distribute her gifts more wisely and equally.
May Bad Example never attract youthful minds.
May Poverty never come to us without rich compensations and hope of a speedy departure.
Our Flag: The beautiful banner that represents the precious _mettle_ of America.
American Eagle, The: The liberty bird that permits no liberties.
American Eagle, The: May she build her nest in every rock peak of this continent.
American Valor: May no war require it, but may it be always ready for every foe.
American People, The: May they live in peace and grow strong in the practice of every virtue.
Our Native Land: May it ever be worthy of our heartiest love, and continue to draw it forth without stint.
(A spread-eagle toast.) The Boundaries of Our Country: East, by the Rising Sun; north, by the North Pole; west, by all Creation; and south, by the Day of Judgment.
Our Lakes and Rivers: Navigable waters that unite all the States and render the very thought of their separation absurd.
Our Sons and Daughters: May they be honest as brave and modest as fair.
America and the World: May our nation ever enjoy the blessings of the widest liberty, and be ever ready to promote the liberties of mankind.
Discontented Citizens: May they speedily leave their country for their country’s good.
America:
“Our hearts, our hopes are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith, triumphant o’er our fears, Are all with thee, are all with thee.”
The Patriot:
“Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land; Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand?”
Our Country: Whether bounded by Canada or Mexico, or however otherwise bounded and described; be the measurement more or less, still Our Country; to be cherished in our hearts and defended by our lives.
Our Country: In our intercourse with foreign nations may she always be in the right; and if not, may we ever be true patriots enough to get her into the right at any cost.
Our Country: May we render due reverence and love to the common mother of us all.
The Ship of State:
“Nail to the mast her holy flag; Set every threadbare sail; And give her to the God of Storms, The lightning and the gale.”
Columbia: My country, with all thy faults, I love thee still.
Webster’s Motto: Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable.
True Patriotism: May every American be a good citizen in peace, a valiant soldier in war.
Our Country: May our love of country be without bounds and without a shadow of fear.
Our Statesmen: May they care less for party and for personal ambition than for the nation’s welfare.
Failure to Treason: May he who would destroy his country for a mess of pottage never get the pottage!
The Penalty of Treason: May he who would uproot the tree of Liberty be the first one crushed by its fall.
The Nation: May it know no North, no South, no East, no West, but only one broad, beautiful, glorious land.
America:
Dear Country, our thoughts are more constant to thee, Than the steel to the star and the stream to the sea.
Our Revolutionary Fathers: May their sons never disgrace their parentage.
Our Town: The best in the land; let him that don’t like it leave it.
The Tree of Liberty: May every American citizen help cultivate it and eat freely of its fruit.
The Emigrant: May the man that doesn’t love his native country speedily hie him to one that he can love.
The American Eagle: It is not healthful to try to deposit salt on his venerable tail.
California: The land of golden rocks and golden fruits.
Ohio: The second Mother of Presidents.
Vermont: A State of rocks, but producing men, women, maple sugar, and horses.
“The first are strong, the last are fleet, The second and third are exceedingly sweet, And all are uncommonly hard to beat.”
Texas: The biggest of States, and one of the very best.
New York: Unrivalled if numbers in city and State be the test.
Our Navy: May it always be as anxious to preserve peace as to uphold the honor of the flag in war.
Our Army: May it ever be very small in peace, but grow to mighty dimensions and mightier achievement in war.
Our Country: May the form of liberty never be used to subvert the principles of true freedom.
Our Voters: May they always have a standard to try their rulers by, and be quick to punish or reward justly.
Fortune: A divinity to fools, a helper to wise men.
The Present: Anticipation may be very agreeable but participation is more practical.
The Present Opportunity: We may lay in a stock of pleasures for use in memory, but they must be kept carefully to prevent mouldering.
Philosophy: It may conquer past or present pain but toothache, while it lasts, laughs at philosophy.
Our Noble Selves: Why not toast ourselves and praise ourselves since we have the best means of knowing all the good in ourselves?
Charity: A link from the chain of gold that angels forge.
Our Harvests: May the sunshine of plenty dispel the clouds of care.
Virtue: May we have the wit to discover what is true and the fortitude to practice what is good.
Our Firesides: Our heads may not be sharpened at colleges, but our hearts are graduates of the hearths.
The True Medium: Give us good form, but not formality.
The Excesses of Youth: They are heavy drafts upon old age, payable with compound interest about thirty years from date.
The Best of Good Feeling: May we never feel want nor want feeling.
Our Incomes: May we have a head to earn and hearts to spend.
Forbearance: May we have keen wit, but never make a sword of our tongues to wound the reputation of others.
Wit: A cheap and nasty commodity when uttered at the expense of modesty and courtesy.
Cheerfulness and Fortitude: May we never give way to melancholy, but always be merry at the right places.
Generosity: May we all be as charitable and indulgent as the Khan of Tartary, who, when he has dined on milk and horseflesh, makes proclamation that all the kings and emperors of earth have now his gracious permission to dine.
Economy: The daughter of Prudence, the sister of Temperance, and the parent of Independence.
Fidelity and Forgiveness: May our injuries be written in sand and our gratitude for benefits in rock.
A Good Memory: May it always be used as a storehouse and never as a lumber-room.
A Health to Our Dearest: May their purses always be heavy and their hearts always be light.
The Noblest Qualities: Charity without ostentation and religion without bigotry.
Discernment of Character: May Flattery never be permitted to sit in the parlor while Plain and Kindly Dealing is kicked out into the woodshed.
False Friends: May we never have friends who, like shadows, keep close to us in the sunshine only to desert us in a cloudy day or in the night.
A Competence: May we never want bread to make a toast or a good cook to prepare it.
The Man we Love: He who thinks most good and speaks least ill of his neighbors.
Human Nature as the Best Study: He who is learned in books alone may know how some things ought to be, but he who reads men learns how things are.
Metaphysics the Noblest of the Sciences: “When a mon wha’ kens naething aboot ony subject, takes a subject that nae mon kens onything aboot and explains it to anither mon still more ignorant–that’s Metaphysics.”
The Deeds of Men: The best interpreters of their motives.
Love and Affection: The necessary basis for a happy life.
Charity: A mantle of heavenly weaving used to cover the faults of our neighbors.
Charitable Allowances: May our eyes be no keener when we look upon the faults of others than when we survey our own.
Cheerful Courage: “May this be our maxim whene’er we are twirled, A fig for the cares of this whirl-a-gig world.”
A Golden Maxim: To err is human, to forgive divine.
Prudence in Speech: The imprudent man reflects upon what he has said, the wise man upon what he is going to say.
Thought and Speech: It is much safer to always think what we say than always to say what we think.
Everybody: May no one now feel that he has been omitted.
Fame: The great undertaker who pays little attention to the living but makes no end of parade over the dead.
The Chatterbox: May he give us a few brilliant flashes of silence.
Discretion in Speech: May we always remember the manner, the place, and the time.
A Happy Future: May the best day we have seen be worse than the worst that is to come.
HUMOROUS TOASTS.
To a Fat Friend: May your shadow never grow less.
May every Hair of your head be as a shining Candle to light you to glory.
Long Life to our Friends: May the chicken never be hatched that will scratch on their graves.
Confusion to the Early Bird: May it and the worm both be picked up.
The Nimble Penny: May it soon grow into a dime and then swell into a dollar.
To a Sovereign: not the kind that sits on a throne, but the one that lies in our pocket.
Our Land: May we live happy in it and never be sent out of it for our country’s good.
Three Great Commanders: May we always be under the orders of General Peace, General Plenty, and General Prosperity.
The Three Best Doctors: May Doctor Quiet, Doctor Diet, and Doctor Good Conscience ever keep us well.
The Health of that wise and good Man who kept a Dog and yet did his own barking!
Here’s to the health of —-: The old bird that was not caught with chaff.
The Health of those we Love the beet; Our noble selves.
MISCELLANEOUS ADDRESSES
Every year new occasions arise that point to a new order of celebrations. Until recently there were no centennial celebrations. Once inaugurated these suggested semi-centennial and quarter-century ones, and as the country advanced in years there came the bi-centennial and ter-centennial. And the attention of the civilized globe was called to our fourth-centennial by the unrivalled and wonderful display at the World’s Exhibition in Chicago.
In this chapter are given outlines of a miscellaneous character, some original and some selected.
OUTLINE OF CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW’S ADDRESS AT THE CENTENNIAL OF CAPTURE OF ANDRÉ
This is a good model for the semi-centennial or centennial of any noted event.
Being in the open air the speaker referred to the grand scenery, almost the same as one hundred years before.
Effect on the nation’s heart of such Revolutionary commemorations.
Small events influence the currents of history. Thermopylæ and its 300; _the three plain farmers who preserved American liberty_.
The orator then sketched compactly but vividly the critical situation of 1780, and tells at length the story of Arnold’s treason, its frustration by the capture of André and his pathetic fate. This “one romance of the Revolution” is a thrilling tale, and all adornment is given to it. The account of the struggle to save André’s life gives the interest of controversy, as does the defense of Washington’s course. The anecdote and the illustrative parallel are both supplied by the case of Captain Nathan Hale, executed by the English as an American spy. The address closes with a fitting tribute to André’s three captors, whose modest monument marked the spot, and a very effective quotation of William of Orange’s heroic oath at his coronation, “I will maintain.”
OUTLINE OF SPEECH BY GOVERNOR FORAKER AT THE DEDICATION OF OHIO’S MONUMENT TO THE ANDREWS RAIDERS, AT CHATTANOOGA
Why this monument and this dedication. The story of the raid, the suffering of the raiders, and heroism of those who died.
The controversial part covered two points–the military value of the raid, and the manner in which the raiders had been treated by the enemy while prisoners.
The illustrative setting was the historic background of Chattanooga and the contrasts of war and peace.
OUTLINE OF ADDRESS BY CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW AT DINNER ON THE 70TH BIRTHDAY OF JOHN JAY
Not on the programme–pleasantry with Mr. Choate (President) about his railroad fees. Mr. Choate wants it made the rule for all ex-presidents of the club to have a dinner on their 70th birthday. This will help them to live at least that long, as Gladstone and Bismarck, when they had an object, have lived on in spite of the doctors!
Depew, a native of the same county as three generations of Jays. Services of the Revolutionary Jay.
_The Anecdote_.–General Sherman yesterday told a beautiful young girl–Generals always interested in beautiful young girls–that he would be willing to throw away all he was doing or had done to start at her time of life again. But the nation could not permit that, nor could it in the case of John Jay–closing words of tribute and esteem to the guest of the evening.
OUTLINE OF ADDRESS BY CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW AT THE RECEPTION TO HENRY M. STANLEY BY THE LOTUS CLUB
The speaker jests about his own locks whitened by the cares of railroading, and the raven hair of the reporters–where do they get their dye?
Stanley’s lecture fee, $250.–Lotus Club gets one for only the price of a dinner!
Stanley a great artist in his descriptions as well as a great traveler.
Americans a nation of travelers.–This makes railroads prosperous! What some reporters have done.
The motive makes heroism.–Livingstone the missionary–his rescue by Stanley.
The civilized Africa of the future with Stanley for its Columbus.
SPEECHES AT A DINNER GIVEN TO THE RELIGIOUS PRESS
Toast.–“The Religious Press and Literature.”
First, what are sound views of literature; second, what is a religious paper? The speaker used two illustrations bound in one. A great book is the Nilometer which measures intellectual life as the original Nilometer measured the life and fertility of the land of Egypt. A description of the rise of the Nile and of the _Divine Comedy_ of Dante, as such a measurer of the life of the Middle Ages, made up the speech.
Toast.–“Religious Press and Questions of the Day.”
Eternity begins _here_. The paper must show on which side of any question the right lies. It should go even further than this. It should cover a wider range of topics and aim to secure the attention of the general public to the questions it discusses and so entitle it to circulate more widely.
Toast.–“Should Religious Papers Make Money?”
If I may make the paying papers, anybody may make the others. Money losing–soon comes, _hic jacet_. Money making proves usefulness and renders the issue of a paper possible. Letter from the oldest editor of New York in which he says the editor is under life sentence to hard labor.
Toast.–“The Religious Paper and Scholarship.”
He laments that he has no letter from an editor to read (like the last speaker), and tells a story of a Methodist, on request, praying for rain; and when a terrible storm came, the man who asked, was heard to murmur: “How these Methodists do exaggerate.” This was to show the excellence of the dinner. Two other stories were used by the speaker, about the length and discursiveness of his talk. The people need and will read deep, accurate, and scholarly productions. There ought to be a general paper for such. Something has been done in that direction by two religious papers.
The speaker treated his topic by giving a semi-humorous review of the preceding speeches. He showed how denominational traits affected each item in the work of the paper. He did not make just the kind of a paper _he_ liked best, for some people were of the same taste as Artemus Ward, who always ordered _hash_ at a restaurant, because he then knew what he was getting! The speaker also referred ironically to the mistaken idea that church papers could not pay, and gave striking instances to the contrary. He concluded that denominational papers may be as successful in their line as those purely undenominational and independent.
RESPONSE TO THE TOAST, “THE NAVY: OUR COUNTRY’S BEST WALL OF DEFENSE”
1. The disasters which different ports of our country have experienced from invading forces during three great wars. No foe now on this continent which we need fear–our enemies, if any, will come by sea.
2. The defense by fortified harbors cannot be relied on, for when one place is defended another may be attacked, and the coast-line is so great that an unguarded spot may be found. But our glorious navy will seek the foe at any and every point.
3. Past glory of the Navy. Paul Jones in the Revolutionary War singeing John Bull’s beard at his own fireside. 1812. The ships of iron that kept the Confederate States engirdled and forbade outside meddling with domestic troubles.
4. The Navy, by showing the world that we are impregnable, should be the best promoter of a solid peace.
RESPONSE TO THE TOAST, “GENERAL JACKSON: A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH, BUT A DIAMOND”
1. The hero of New Orleans, though rough, was a strong and great man. Stories about him always popular. His indorsing State papers “O.K.” when he approved them, and saying that these letters meant “_oll korrect_.” The victor and the spoils.
2. His connection with great questions, such as the currency and nullification. Popularity with his own party.
3. Proved to be a great commander by the manner in which he used his very slender resources at the battle of New Orleans–the backwoods riflemen and the breastworks of cotton.
RESPONSE TO THE TOAST, “THE WORKING MAN: MAY HE LOVE HIS WORK AND HAVE PLENTY OF IT, WITH GOOD WAGES PROMPTLY PAID”
1. For a healthy man a reasonable amount of work is no misfortune, but a blessing. Idleness is a curse, and leads to all kinds of evil. (See story in Anecdote No. 21 at end of this volume–of the tramp who earned seventy-five cents and quit work because he feared that he could not bear the curse of riches! Not many of us have this kind of fear.)
2. Toil with pen and brain as real, and may be as exhausting as with the hand and foot.
3. But to defraud a workman of one cent of his earnings is a peculiarly atrocious crime. How this may be done indirectly. All persons who believe in this toast should deal justly and fairly, and try to hold others to the same rule.
4. The true workman wants work and fair play; not patronage and flattery, but sympathy and friendship.
A NOMINATING SPEECH
The great conventions that nominate candidates for the Presidency of the United States furnish examples on the largest scale of the nominating speech. But officers of societies of almost any character may be nominated in addresses that are very similar. The following outline of a speech of general character may be easily modified to suit any case in which such help is desired.
_Mr. Chairman_: It gives me great pleasure to place before you, the name of a candidate who is so well qualified and so fully deserving of this honor, and of every other, that may be conferred upon him, as —-. In giving him your votes, you can make no mistake. [Here state previous offices held, or trusts filled, or other evidences of fitness for the post in view.] In addition, I am happy to state that he represents [here name locality, section, class, or opinion, being careful to adduce only those which will be pleasing to the persons whose votes are sought.] On his behalf, I can promise faithful service, and the prompt discharge of every duty. Others may have as much zeal for the cause: some may have as long a training for the duties of this office; a few may possibly have as legitimate a claim upon any honors or rewards in your gift, but where else can you find such a combination of claims?
The illustrative anecdote will naturally be of the candidate himself, of his popularity, availability, or other good quality, or of some person or element strongly supporting him.
SPEECH ACCEPTING A NOMINATION
1. An honor of which any man must be deeply sensible as well as proud. The importance or high character of the body making the nomination.
2. The degree of surprise felt that the candidate should be preferred to so many worthy competitors. W by the honor is especially prized, and the reasons, if any; why the candidate would have preferred a different selection.
3. The motives which make him willing to bear the burdens entailed by this nomination.
4. The hope of being able to support his competitors for other offices, or other terms of this office.
5. With all his sense of unworthiness, the candidate dares not set up his judgment against that of the honorable body which has named him, for the office of —-, and he therefore bows to their decision and gratefully accepts the [unexpected?] honor conferred upon him. Should the people–not for his sake, but for the sake of the cause represented–have the intelligence and good judgment [of which there is not a shadow of doubt?] to indorse the nomination, he will exert all the power he possesses, to faithfully fill the position their choice has bestowed upon him.
SPEECH IN A POLITICAL CANVASS
No form of speech is so easy as a political address in a hot campaign. The people know enough of the general argument in advance, to appreciate a strong statement of it, or the addition of new items. They already have much of that interest in the theme that other classes of speakers must first seek to arouse. The tyro makes his feeble beginnings in the sparsely settled portions of the country, but the polished orator is welcomed by large audiences at the centres of population, and wins money, fame, and possibly a high office. Americans have many opportunities of hearing good speeches of this character, and not only become competent judges, but learn to emulate such examples.
1. A bright story, a personal incident, a local “hit,” or, best of all, a quick, shrewd caricature of some feature of the opposing party, will gain attention and half win the battle. A speaker was once called upon to make an address after a political opponent had taken his seat. This man at one time strongly indorsed a measure to which his own party was bitterly opposed. The measure was defeated notwithstanding his opposition, and he was obliged to sanction his party’s action. The audience being familiar with this, the speaker referred to it by saying: “Oh! _he_ approves, does he! Imagine a kicked, cuffed, pounded, and dragged across a road, bracing himself at every step, but forced over at last and tied to a post; then imagine _that mule_ straightening himself up and saying, ‘Thank Heaven, we crossed that road, didn’t we?’ It was difficult to move the mule, he was obstinate, but it made no difference. My opponent was obstinate too, but what did it avail!”
2. The criticism of our opponents’ platform or principles. Their fallacies, mistakes, and misrepresentations.
3. Their history. How they have carried out all their bad and dangerous doctrines, but have slurred over and allowed to drop out of sight their promises of good.
4. The contrast. Plain statement [and there is nothing more effective in a speech than a plain, dear, and condensed statement] of the opposing issues.
5. The man. [The personal element in a canvas nearly always overshadows political doctrine, except when a new party or new measure is rising into prominence.] Our men brilliant, able, safe. Our opponents the opposite. [Public character only should be criticized. Gossip, scandal, slander are abominable, and seldom well received by any audience. Poison, the assassin’s dagger, and the spreading of infamous stories do not belong to honorable warfare.]
SPEECH AFTER A POLITICAL VICTORY. SELECTED
1. We are masters of the field. Completeness of victory [told in military language].
2. Sympathy for the defeated. We will treat their leaders with Good Samaritan generosity, but we invite the rank and file to enlist with us, unless they prefer to go home and pray for better luck next time.
3. Only by joining us can they get a nibble at the spoils. Probably they will, for many of them are men of seven principles–five loaves and two fishes. The “cohesive power of public plunder.”
4. We must not be careless after victory, but reorganize, be vigilant, keep our powder dry. The “outs” are hungry, and an enemy will fight terribly for rations. “Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better.”
5. Now let us all rejoice over the defeat of a party many of whose members we respect personally, but which, as a whole, we regard as an immense nuisance.
SPEECH AFTER A POLITICAL DEFEAT. SELECTED
My Political Brethren: You seem to be in the dumps! Don’t like the figures; wish they were a cunningly devised fable. How did it happen? Big vote and intolerable cheating cooked our goose. But we are india-rubber and steel springs, and no amount of hard usage can take the fight out of us.
Let our opponents laugh! We are not savage–would not hurt a hair of their heads personally, but politically will skin them alive next time. But we prefer to convert them, and hope they will hear our speakers as often as possible before the next election.
A CHAIRMAN’S OR PRESIDENT’S SPEECH
At a public meeting some one interested in the object for which it has convened calls the assembly to order. After securing attention he proposes the name of some person as chairman or president. When the nomination is seconded he takes the vote and announces the election. It will then be in order for the person chosen to take a position facing the assembly and to make a brief speech.
“Ladies and Gentlemen: I have no wish to disparage your judgment, although I think it might have been exercised to better advantage by electing some of the able persons I see before me. But I thank you for this honor, which I appreciate the more highly and accept the more readily because of say deep interest in the question of —-, which is now before us. First, however, please nominate a secretary.”
When, however, the president or chairman elected is himself a prime mover in the business for which the meeting is called, it will be perfectly proper for him to extend his speech, upon accepting the chair, by stating clearly but briefly the object of the meeting; or, if he prefers, he may ask some one in whose powers of plausible and persuasive statement he has confidence to do this in his place. Formal argument is not advisable in the opening speech; but the best argument consists in giving a compact statement and ample information. In this way the cause may be half won by the chairman’s speech or the speech of his proxy.
A GENERAL OUTLINE FOE ALL OCCASIONS
_The Introduction_. The speaker’s modesty or inability, the lateness of the hour, the merit of preceding speeches, the literary treats that are to follow, the character of the dinner, personal allusion to the president or to the audience–_but not all of these in one address_.
_The Discussion_. Here refer to the toast or theme–be sure to put in a humorous anecdote. Make it as appropriate as possible, but don’t fail to bring it in. Get up a short controversy: set up a man of straw if you can find nobody else, and then make an onslaught upon him; but _be sure he has no friends in the audience_!
_Conclusion_. A graceful compliment to some one, a reference to an expected speaker, or a word indicating the part of your subject of which you will not treat, or give a _very_ quick summary of what you have already said.
ILLUSTRATIVE AND HUMOROUS ANECDOTES
With a number of the following anecdotes a few suggestions are given as to the manner in which they may be used. The habit of thinking how a good story may be brought into an address should be formed, after which these hints will be superfluous. At the outset they may help to form the habit.
1. INDEPENDENCE OF A MONOPOLY
[A good illustration of complete independence. It can be used as a humorous description of a monopoly or as a compliment to a man who has complete control of his own affairs.]
An inquisitive passenger on a railroad recently had the following dialogue:
“Do you use the block system on this road?” inquired the passenger.
“No, sir,” replied the conductor, “we have no use for it.”
“Do you use the electric or pneumatic signals?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you a double track?”
“No.”
“Well, of course, you have a train dispatcher, and run all trains by telegraph?”
“No.”
“I see you have no brakeman. How do you flag the rear of your train if you are stopped from any cause between stations?”‘
“We don’t flag.”
“Indeed! What a way to run a railroad! A man takes his life in his hand when he rides on it. This is criminally reckless!”
“See here, mister! If you don’t like this railroad you can get off and walk. I am president of this road and its sole owner. I am also board of directors, treasurer, secretary, general manager, superintendent, paymaster, trackmaster, general passenger agent, general freight agent, master mechanic, ticket agent, conductor, brakeman, and boss. This is the Great Western Railroad of Kentucky, six miles long, with termini at Harrodsburg and Harrodsburg Junction. This is the only train on the road of any kind, and ahead of us is the only engine. We never have collisions. The engineer does his own firing, and runs the repair shop and round-house all by himself. He and I run this railway. It keeps us pretty busy, but we’ve always got time to stop and eject a sassy passenger. So you want to behave yourself and go through with us, or you will have your baggage set off here by the haystack!”
2. EXPLANATION
[To ridicule extravagant explanations that do not explain–or unreasonable pretensions to antiquity.]
An old Scotch lady, who had no relish for modern church music, was expressing her dislike to the singing of an anthem in her own church one day, when a neighbor said: “Why, that is a very old anthem! David sang that anthem to Saul.” To this the old lady replied: “Weel, weel! I noo for the first time understan’ why Saul threw his javelin at David when the lad sang for him.”
3. RIDING A HOBBY
[To illustrate hobby-riding–very appropriate where many toasts and speeches run in one line.]
A boy in Buffalo, N. Y., who was asked to write out what he considered an ideal holiday dinner _ménu_, evolved the following:
Furst Corse. Mince pie. Second Corse. Pumpkin pie and turkey. Third Corse. Lemon pie, turkey, and cranberries Fourth Corse. Custard pie, apple pie, chocolate cake and plum pudding. Dessert. Pie.
4. HOBSON’S CHOICE
[Suitable caricature for any one who tries to make merit of doing what he cannot help.]
“If my employer does not retract what he said to me this morning I shall leave his store.” “Why, what did he say?” “He told me to look for another place.”
5. WHEN TO BE SILENT
[A silent guest might tell this to show that he had found a way to be of greatest service at a banquet.]
Mrs. Penfield–“My husband has found a way by which he says I am of the greatest help to him in his literary work.”
Mrs. Hillaire–“How nice that must be for you, my dear! But how are you able to do it?”
Mrs. Penfield–“As soon as I see him at his desk I go into another room and keep perfectly quiet until he has finished.”
6. PAYING FOR YOUR WHISTLE
[Would be a good answer to one who gave a compliment, and tried in that way to shove off a speech or other duty upon the one complimented.]
McSwatters–“It’s very funny.”
Mrs. McSwatters–“What is?”
McSwatters–“Why, when the doctor treats me I always have to pay for it.”
7. GOOSE-CHASE
[Would come in well after several had declined to speak, the goose being the one who finally consents and tells the story.]
A lady had been looking for a friend for a long time without success. Finally, she came upon her in an unexpected way. “Well,” she exclaimed, “I’ve been on a perfect wild-goose chase all day long, but, thank goodness, I’ve found you at last.”
8. THE PERPLEXED SAGE
[To show that the chairman may safely confide in his own power to manage such poor material as the person who tells the story assumes himself to be.]
“And now what is it?” asked the sage, as the young man timidly approached. “Pray, tell me,” asked the youth, “does a woman marry a man because of her confidence in the man, or because of her confidence in her ability to manage him?” For once the sage had to take the question under advisement.
9. QUICK THOUGHT
[The following illustrates the advantages of a happy retort, the importance of a felicitous phrase, or of quick thought and ready speech. It might be said that the preceding speaker was as ready as:]
When Napoleon (then a student at Brienne) was asked how he would supply himself with provisions in a closely-invested town, he answered, without a moment’s hesitation, “From the enemy,” which so pleased the examiners that they passed him without further questions.
10. [The Russian General Suvaroff is said to have promoted one of his sergeants for giving substantially the same answer.]
The Emperor Paul, of Russia, was so provoked by the awkwardness of an officer on review that he ordered him to resign at once and retire to his estate. “But he has no estate,” the commander ventured. “Then give him one!” thundered the despot, whose word was law, and the man gained more by his blunders than he could have done by years of the most skillful service.
11. [The anger of an actor took the same turn as that of the Czar.]
Colley Cibber once missed his “cue,” and the confusion that followed spoiled the best passage of Betterton, who was manager as well as actor. He rushed behind the scenes in a towering passion, and exclaimed, “Forfeit, Master Colley; you shall be fined for such stupidity!” “It can’t be done,” said a fellow-actor, “for he gets no salary.” “Put him down for ten shillings a week and fine him five!” cried the furious manager.
12. INSIGNIFICANT THINGS
[The need of accuracy, or how insignificant things sometimes change the meaning, is shown by the following.]
A merchant of London wrote his East India factor to send him 2 or 3 apes; but he forgot to write the “r” in “or,” and the factor wrote that he had sent 80, and would send the remainder of the 2 0 3 as soon as they could be gathered in.
13. A very well-known writer had a similar experience. He was selling copies of his first literary venture, and telegraphed to the publisher to send him “three hundred books at once.” He answered. “Shall I send them on an emigrant train, or must they go first-class? Had to scour the city over to get them. You must be going into the hotel business on a great scale to need so many Cooks.” I was bewildered; but all was explained when a copy of the dispatch showed that the telegraph clerk had mistaken the small “b” for a capital “C.”
14. MAKING AN EXCUSE; OR, JOHNNY PEEP
[A guest pleading to be excused from a speech or a song might say that he wanted to be accounted as “Johnny Peep” in the following story which Allan Cunningham tells of Robert Burns.]
Strolling one day in Cumberland the poet lost his friends, and thinking to find them at a certain tavern he popped his head in at the door. Seeing no one there but three strangers, he apologized, and was about to retire, when one of the strangers called out, “Come in, Johnny Peep.” This invitation the convivial poet readily accepted, and spent a very pleasant time with his newly-found companions. As the conversation began to flag, it was proposed that each should write a verse, and place it, together with two-and-six pence, under the candlestick, the best poet to take the half-crowns, while the unsuccessful rhymers were to settle the bill among them. According to Cunningham, Burns obtained the stakes by writing:
“Here am I, Johnny Peep; I saw three sheep, And these three sheep saw me. Half-a-crown apiece Will pay for their fleece, And so Johnny Peep goes free.”
15. STERN LOGIC
[Probably this boy would have seen the necessity of avoiding such rich banquets as this.]
“Say, ma, do they play base-ball in heaven?”
“Why, no, my dear; of course not. Why do you ask?”
“Huh! Well, you don’t catch me being good and dying young then; that’s all.”
16. MISTAKEN BREVITY
[“Brevity is the soul of wit;” and calculation and economy are very commendable; but they may be carried to extremes. This may be used when the last speaker has closed a little abruptly.]
This is the message the telegraph messenger handed a young man from his betrothed “Come down as soon as you can; I am dying. Kate.”
Eight hours later he arrived at the summer hotel, to be met on the piazza by Kate herself.
“Why, what did you mean by sending me such a message?” he asked.
“Oh!” she gurgled, “I wanted to say that I was dying to see you, but my ten words ran out, and I had to stop.”
17. CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME
Breslau, a celebrated juggler, being at Canterbury with his troupe, met with such bad success that they were almost starved. He repaired to the church wardens, and promised to give a night’s takings to the poor if the parish would pay for hiring a room, etc. The charitable bait took, the benefit proved a bumper, and the next morning the church wardens waited upon the wizard to touch the receipts. “I have already disposed of dem,” said Breslau; “de profits were for de poor. I have kept my promise, and given de money to my own people, who are de poorest in dis parish!”
“Sir!” exclaimed the church wardens, “this is a trick.”
“I know it,” replied the conjurer; “I live by my tricks.”
18. CHARITY; OR, A GOOD WORD FOR EVERY ONE–EVEN THE DEVIL.
[It is well to feel charitably and kindly at all times, but especially at a dinner party.]
A friend said to a Scotchman who was celebrated for possessing these amiable qualities, “I believe you would actually find something to admire in Satan himself.” The canny Scot replied, “Ah! weel, weel, we must a’ admit, that auld Nick has great energy and perseverance.”
[If the chairman has been very persistent in calling out reluctant speakers, the foregoing would be a good story to turn the laugh upon him.]
19. INGENIOUS REASON
[The Scotchman referred to in the last anecdote was as ingenious in finding a reason as the boy mentioned in the following:]
“Can you suggest any reason why I should print your poem?” said the overbearing editor.
The dismal youth looked thoughtful, and then replied:
“You know I always inclose a stamp for the return of rejected manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you print it you can keep the stamp.”
20. AMBIGUITY OF WORDS
[The equivocal use of words in our language.]
Recently a west-bound train on the Fitchburg (Mass.) Railroad had just left the town of Athol When the conductor noticed among the new passengers a young man of intelligent appearance. He asked for the young man’s fare, and the latter handed him a ticket to Miller’s Falls and with it a cent. For a moment the conductor suspected a joke, but a look at the passenger’s face convinced him to the contrary.
“What is this cent for?” the conductor asked.
“Why, I see,” answered the young fellow, “that the ticket isn’t good unless it is stamped, and as I don’t happen to have a stamp with me I give you the cent instead. You can put it on, can’t you?”
The good-natured conductor handed back the coin with a smile, remarking that it was a small matter, and he would see that it was all right.
21. USELESS REGRET
[Persons who pretend to regret something without making a real effort to better it are hit off by this anecdote.]
A father called his son rather late in the morning, and finding him still abed, indignantly demanded: “Are you not _ashamed_ to be caught asleep this time of day?”
“Yes, rather,” returned the ingenious youth, “but I’d ruther _be ashamed_ than git up.”
22. NO HAPPINESS IN WEALTH
[The great advantage of being fully adapted to one’s situation and contented with it.]
There are people who cannot hold their heads under the influence of sudden riches. They immediately begin to degenerate. They have become so used to humble circumstances that wealth is a curse. Here is a case:
A tramp, for some mysterious reason, had accepted an offer to work about the place, for which he was to receive his meals, sundry old clothes, and 25 cents a day in cash. For the first two or three days he did very well, and he was paid 50 cents on account. He did not spend the money, but he began to grow listless and sad, and at the end of the week he interviewed his employer.
“You’ve been very kind to me, sir,” he said, “and I want to thank you for what you have done.”
“That’s all right,” was the reply. “I’m glad to be able to help you.”
“I know that, sir, and I appreciate it, but I shall have to give it all up, sir.”
“What’s that for? Don’t I pay you enough?”
“Oh! yes, sir; that isn’t it. I have 75 cents left, sir, but I find that money doesn’t bring happiness, sir, and I guess I’ll resign and go back to the old ways, sir. Wealth is a curse to some people, sir, and I fancy I belong to that class. Good-bye, sir.” And he shambled off down the path and struck the highway.
23. SHORT BUT POINTED
[Splendid for a speaker called up rather late in the evening–even if he should make a short speech afterward.]
Being nobody in particular, a Mr. Bailey was placed last on the list of the speakers. The chairman introduced several speakers whose names were not on the list, and the audience were tired out when he said, “Mr. Bailey will now give you his address.”
“My address,” said Mr. Bailey, rising, “is No. 45 Loughboro Park, Brixton Road, and I wish you all good night.”
24. REASONING IN A CIRCLE
[This is very common, as in the case of the heroine of this story.]
The director of a Chicago bank tells how his wife overdrew her account at the bank one day last month. “I spoke to her about it one evening,” said he, “and told her she ought to adjust it at once. A day or two afterward I asked her if she had done what I suggested. ‘Oh! yes,’ she answered. ‘I attended to that matter the very next morning after you spoke about it. I sent the bank my check for the amount I had overdrawn.'”
25. EXTREME ECONOMY
[Economy is a great virtue, but it should not be extreme.]
An old lady of Massachusetts was famed in her native township for health and thrift. To an acquaintance who was once congratulating her upon the former she said:
“We be pretty well for old folks, Josiah and me. Josiah hasn’t had an ailin’ time for fifty years, ‘cept last winter. And I ain’t never suffered but one day in my life, and that was when I took some of the medicine Josiah had left over, so’s how it shouldn’t be wasted.”
26. SENSIBLE TO THE LAST
[How we commend those who take our standards and help us.]
A story is told of a late Dublin doctor, famous for his skill and also his great love of money. He had a constant and profitable patient in an old shopkeeper in Dame Street. This old lady was terribly rheumatic and unable to leave her sofa. During the doctor’s visit she kept a £1 note in her hand, which duly went into Dr. C.’s pocket. One morning he found her lying dead on the sofa. Sighing deeply, the doctor approached, and taking her hand in his, he saw the fingers closed on his fee. “Poor thing,” he said as he pocketed it, “sensible to the last.”
27. FISHING FOR A COMPLIMENT
[Fishing for compliments is sometimes dangerous.]
A well-known Congressman, who was a farmer before he went into politics, was doing his district not long ago, and in his rambles he saw a man in a stumpy patch of ground trying to get a plow through it. He went over to him, and after a brief salutation he asked the privilege of making a turn or two with the plow. The native shook his head doubtfully as he looked at his visitor’s store clothes and general air of gentleman of elegant leisure, but he let him take the plow. The Congressman sailed away with it in fine style, and plowed four or five furrows before the owner of the field could recover his surprise. Then he pulled up and handed the handles over to the original holder.
“By gravy, mister,” said the farmer, admiringly, “air you in the aggercultural business?”
“No,” laughed the statesman.
“Y’ain’t selling plows?”
“No.”
“Then what in thunder air you?”
“I’m the member of Congress from this district.”
“Air you the man I voted for and that I’ve been reading about in the papers doin’ legislatin’ and sich in Washington?”
“Yes.”
“Well, by hokey, mister,” said the farmer, as he looked with admiration over the recently-plowed furrows, “ef I’d a had any idea that I was votin’ fer a waste of sich good farmin’ material I’d voted fer the other candidate as shore as shootin’.”
28. BEYOND EXPRESSION
[When called on for a speech one may answer the chairman in the words of this lady:]
She was in her room when some people came to call. Her husband received the company, and after awhile said to his daughter, who was playing about the room:
“Go up-stairs and tell your mamma that Mr. and Mrs. Blank have come to call.”
The child went, and after a while returned and began to play again.
“Did you tell your mamma that Mr. and Mrs. Blank are here?” asked the father.
“Oh! yes.”
“And what did she say?”
The little girl looked up, and after a moment’s hesitation, exclaimed:
“She said–well, she said, ‘O dear!'”
29. THE TOAST OF THE EVENING
[The comment upon this incident by the editor is not less amusing than the speech.]
It is not always a pleasant thing to be called upon suddenly to address a public meeting of any sort, as is amusingly illustrated by the following speech at the opening of a free hospital by one who was certainly not born an orator:
“Gentlemen–ahem–I–I–I rise to say–that is, I wish to propose a toast, which I think you’ll all say–ahem–I think, at least, that this toast is, as you’ll say, the toast of the occasion. Gentlemen, I belong to a good many of these things, and I say, gentlemen, that this hospital requires no patronage–at least, what I mean is, you don’t want any recommendation. You’ve only got to be ill–got to be ill.”
“Now, gentlemen, I find by the report” (turning over the leaves in a fidgety way) “that from the year seventeen–no eighteen–no, ah, yes, I’m right–eighteen hundred and fifty–no, it’s a ‘3’–thirty-six–eighteen hundred and thirty-six, no less than one hundred and ninety-three millions–no! ah!” (to a committeeman at his side) “Eh? oh, yes, thank you–yes–one hundred and ninety-three thousand–two millions–no” (after a close scrutiny at the report) “two hundred and thirty-one–one hundred and ninety-three thousand, two hundred and thirty-one! Gentlemen, I beg to propose–success to this admirable institution!”
To what the large and variously stated figures referred no one in the audience ever felt positive, but all agreed, as he had said they would, that this was the toast of the evening.
30. BEE LINE
[He knew how to escape from more than one kind of fire.]
A soldier on guard in South Carolina during the war was questioned as to his knowledge of his duties.
“You know your duty here, do you, sentinel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, now, suppose they should open on you with shells and musketry, what would you do?”
“Form a line, sir.”
“What! one man form a line?”
“Yes, sir; form a bee-line for camp, sir.”
31. VENTRILOQUISM
[“Take the good the Gods provide.”]
At Raglan Castle, said Mr. Ganthony, the ventriloquist, I gave an entertainment in the open air, and throwing my voice up into the ivy-covered ruins, said: “What are you doing there?”
To my amazement a boy answered: “I climbed up ‘ere this mornin’ just to see the folk and ‘ear the music; I won’t do no harm.”
I replied: “Very well, stay there, and don’t let any one see you, do you hear?”
The reply came: “Yes, muster, I ‘ear.”
This got me thunders of applause. I made up my mind to risk it, so I bowed, and the boy never showed himself.
32. A SLIGHT MISTAKE
[Orders should be strictly obeyed.]
A celebrated German physician, according to a London paper, was once called upon to treat an aristocratic lady, the sole cause of whose complaint was high living and lack of exercise. But it would never have done to tell her so. So his medical advice was:
“Arise at five o clock, take a walk in the park for one hour, then drink a cup of tea, then walk another hour, and take a cup of chocolate. Take breakfast at eight.”
Her condition improved visibly, until one fine morning the carriage of the baroness was seen to approach the physician’s residence at lightning speed. The patient dashed up to the doctor’s house, and on his appearing on the scene she gasped out:
“O doctor! I took the chocolate first!”
“Then drive home as fast as you can,” directed the astute disciple of Æsculapius, rapidly writing a prescription, “and take this emetic. The tea must be underneath.”
The grateful patient complied. She is still improving.
33. PRESENCE OF MIND
[A fine story to illustrate the value (money value) of presence of mind.]
A witty person whom Bismarck was commissioned by the Emperor to decorate with the Iron Cross of the first class, discomfited the Chancellor’s attempt to chaff him. “I am authorized,” said Bismarck, “to offer you one hundred thalers instead of the cross.” “How much is the cross worth?” asked the soldier. “Three thalers.” “Very well, then, your highness, I’ll take the cross and ninety-seven thalers.” Bismarck was so surprised and pleased by the ready shrewdness of the reply that he gave the man both the cross and the money.
34. JOKE ON A DUDE
[A good story for one who has some power of personation, for the dudes get little sympathy.]
A crowded car ran down the other evening. Within was a full-blown, eye-glassed, drab-gaitered dude, apparently satisfied that he was jammed in among an admiring community. On the rear platform a cheery young mechanic was twitting the conductor and occasionally making a remark to a fresh passenger. Everybody took it in good part as a case of inoffensive high spirits, all but the dude, who evinced a strong disgust.
When the young man called out to an old gentleman, “Sit out here, guvinor, on the back piazza,” or to another, “Don’t crowd there; stay where the breezes blow,” the dude looked daggers, and at last, grabbing the conductor’s elbow and indicating the young man by a nod of the head, evidently entered a protest. Every one saw it. So did the young man, and he gathered his wits together like a streak to finish that dude. He did it all with an imperturbable good humor and seriousness which would carry conviction to the most doubting.
“Well, I never!” he began, poking his head inside the doorway with an air of comic surprise. “Jes’ to see you a-sitting there, dressed up like that. Catch on to them gaiters, will you? Ain’t you got the nerve to go up and down Broadway fixed up like that, and your poor father and mother workin’ hard at home? Ain’t you ‘shamed o’ yourself, and your father a honest, hard-workin’ driver, and your mother a decent, respectable washwoman? Y’ ain’t no good, or you wouldn’t have gev up your place, and I think I’ll go look after it myself and put a decent man in it.”
He stepped off the car as if bent on doing this at once, and the dude, unable to resist the ridicule of the situation or defend the attack, hastily stepped off after him.
35. NEWSPAPER REPORTER
[Equally good for a missionary meeting or a gathering of newspaper men.]
A young journalist was requested to write something about the Zenana Mission. He assured the readers of the paper that among the many scenes of missionary labor, none had of late attracted more attention than the Zenana Mission, and assuredly none was more deserving of this attention. Comparatively few years had passed since Zenana had been opened up to British trade, but already, owing to the devotion of a handful of men and women, the nature of the inhabitants had been almost entirely changed. The Zenanese, from being a savage people, had become, in a wonderfully short space of time, practically civilized; and recent travelers to Zenana had returned with the most glowing accounts of the continued progress of the good work in that country. He then branched off into the “laborer-worthy-of-his-hire” side of this great work, and the question was aptly asked if the devoted laborers in that remote vineyard were not deserving of support. Were civilization and Christianity to be snatched from the Zenanese just when both were within their grasp? So on for nearly half a column the writer meandered in the most orthodox style, just as he had done scores of times before when advocating certain missions. Some one who found him the next day running his finger down the letter Z, in the index to the “Handy Atlas,” with a puzzled look upon his face, knew he had had a letter from the editor.
36. HOW A WOMAN PROPOSED
[A variation of the old and always pleasing theme.]
They were dining off fowl in a restaurant. “You see,” he explained, as he showed her the wishbone, “you take hold here. Then we must both make a wish and pull, and when it breaks the one who has the bigger part of it will have his or her wish granted.” “But I don’t know what to wish for,” she protested. “Oh! you can think of something,” he said. “No, I can’t,” she replied; “I can’t think of anything I want very much.” “Well, I’ll wish for you,” he exclaimed. “Will you, really?” she asked. “Yes.” “Well, then, there’s no use fooling with the old wishbone,” she interrupted, with a glad smile, “you can have me.”
37. LUCKY ANSWER
[Certainly Thompson would be a lawyer, ready for any emergency.]
In times past there was in a certain law school an aged and eccentric professor. “General information” was the old gentleman’s hobby. He held it as incontrovertible that if a young lawyer possessed a large fund of miscellaneous knowledge, combined with an equal amount of common sense, he would be successful in life. So every year the professor put on his examination papers a question very far removed from the subject of criminal law. One year it was, “How many kinds of trees are there in the college yard?” the next, “What is the make-up of the present English cabinet?”
Finally the professor thought he had invented the best question of his life. It was, “Name twelve animals that inhabit the polar regions.” The professor chuckled as he wrote this down. He was sure he would “pluck” half the students on that question and it was beyond a doubt that that opprobrious young loafer Thompson would fail. But when the professor read the examination papers, Thompson, who had not answered another question, was the only man who had solved the polar problem. This was Thompson’s answer: “Six seals and six polar bears.” Thompson got his degree with distinction.
38. DOUBLE EDUCATION
A young doctor, wishing to make a good impression upon a German farmer, mentioned the fact that he had received a double education, as it were. He had studied homoeopathy, and was also a graduate of a “regular” medical school. “Oh! dot vas noding,” said the farmer, “I had vonce a calf vot sucked two cows, and he made nothing but a common schteer after all.”
39. REMNANTS
[This and the preceding have a little spice of ill-nature, and while enjoyable must be applied carefully.]
Wife–“Such a dream as I had last night, dear!”
Husband–“May I hear about it?”
“Well, yes; I dreamed I was in a great establishment where they sold husbands. They were beauties; some in glass cases and marked at fearful prices, and others were sold at less figures. Girls were paying out fortunes, and getting the handsomest men I ever saw. It was wonderful.”
“Did you see any like me there, dear?”
“Yes; just as I was leaving I saw a whole lot like you lying on the remnant counter.”
40. INDIRECT AND DIRECT
[The following instances show that it is necessary to heed indirect as well as direct meanings.]
Mr. Callon, M. P. for Louth, Ireland, a stanch opponent of the Sunday Closing and Permissive Bill and personally a great benefactor to the Revenue, replying to the Irish Attorney-General, said: “The facts relied on by the learned gentleman are very strange. Now, Mr. Speaker, _I swallow a good deal_. [‘Hear, hear,’ ‘Quite true,’ ‘Begorra, you can,’ and roars of laughter.] I repeat, _I can swallow a great deal_ [‘Hear, hear,’ and fresh volleys of laughter], but I can’t swallow that.” A few nights before, in a debate which had to do with the Jews, Baron de Worms had just remarked, “_We owe much to the Jews_,” when there came a feeling groan from a well-known member in his back corner, “_We do_.”
41. AN UNMARRIED MAN’S WIFE
At a dinner at Delmonico’s, after the bottle had made its tenth round, one of the company proposed this toast: “To the man whose wife was never vixenish to him!” A wag of an old bachelor jumped up and said: “Gentlemen, as I am the only _unmarried_ man at this table, I suppose that that toast was intended for me.”
42. A DILEMMA
“I am no good unless I strike,” said the match. “And you lose your head every time you do strike,” said the box.
43. COURAGEOUS GIRL
[The following is a good instance of an elaborate story and a sharp retort.]
It is not always safe to presume upon the timidity or ignorance of folks. The most demure may be the most courageous. A gentleman who attempted to play a practical joke in order to test the courage of a servant, was nonplused in a very unexpected way. Here is his story:
I am very particular about fastening the doors and windows of my house. I do not intend to leave them open at night as an invitation to burglars to enter. You see, I was robbed once in that way last year, and I never mean to be again; so when I go to bed I like to be sure that every door and window is securely fastened.
Last winter my wife engaged a big, strong country girl, and the new-comer was very careless about the doors at night. On two or three occasions I came down-stairs to find a window up or the back door unlocked. I cautioned her, but it did her no good. I therefore determined to frighten her. I got some false whiskers, and one night about eleven o’clock I crept down the back-stairs to the kitchen, where she was. She had turned down the gas, and was in her chair by the fire fast asleep, as I could tell by her breathing, but the moment I struck a match she awoke.
I expected a great yelling and screaming, but nothing of the sort took place. She bounced out of her seat with a “You villain!” on her lips, seized a chair by the back, and before I had made a move she hit me over the head, forcing me to my knees. I tried to get up, tried to explain who I was, but in vain. Before I could get out of the room she struck me again, and it was only after I had tumbled up the back-stairs that she gave the alarm. Then she came up to my room, rapped at the door, and coolly announced:
“Mr. —-, please get up. I’ve killed a burglar.”
44. MORAL SUASION
“What are your usual modes of punishment?” was among the questions submitted to a teacher in rural district in Ohio. Her answer was, “I try moral suasion first, and if that does not work I use capital punishment.”
As it was a neighborhood where moral suasion had not been a success, and the children were scarce the committee took no risks.
45. CUTE BOY
The teacher in geography was putting the class through a few simple tests:
“On which side of the earth is the North Pole?” he inquired.
“On the north side,” came the unanimous answer.
“On which side is the South Pole?”
“On the south side?”
“Now, on which side are the most people?”
This was a poser, and nobody answered. Finally, a very young scholar held up his hand.
“I know,” he said, hesitatingly, as if the excess of his knowledge was too much for him.
“Good for you,” said the teacher, encouragingly; “tell the class on which side the most people are.”
“On the outside,” piped the youngster, and whatever answer the teacher had in her mind was lost in the shuffle.
46. PERPLEXED
Bob–“Hello! I’m awfully glad to see you!” Dick–“I guess there must be some mistake. I don’t owe you anything, and I am not in a condition to place you in a position to owe me anything!”
47. BEN FRANKLIN’S OYSTERS
Benjamin Franklin was not unlike other boys in his love for sophomoric phrases. It is related that one day he told his father that he had swallowed some acephalus molluscus, which so alarmed him that he shrieked for help. The mother came in with warm water, and forced half a gallon down Benjamin’s throat with the garden pump, then held him upside down, the father saying, “If we don’t get those things out of Bennie he’ll be poisoned sure.” When Benjamin was allowed to get his breath he explained that the articles referred to were oysters. His father was so indignant that he whipped him for an hour for frightening the family. Franklin never afterward used a word with two syllables when a monosyllable would do.
48. FAMILY AFFAIRS
“Newlywed seems to find particular delight in parading his little family affairs before the eyes of his acquaintances,” “Does he? What are they? Scandals?” “Nop, twins.”
49. A BURGLAR’S EXPERIENCE
A New York paper prints this extract from the reminiscences of a retired burglar:
“I think about the most curious man I ever met,” said the retired burglar, “I met in a house in eastern Connecticut, and I shouldn’t know him, either, if I should meet him again unless I should hear him speak. It was so dark where I met him that I never saw him at all. I had looked around the house down-stairs, and actually hadn’t seen a thing worth carrying off. It was the poorest house I ever was in, and it wasn’t a bad-looking house on the outside, either. I got up-stairs and groped around a little, and finally turned into a room that was darker than Egypt. I had not gone more than three steps in this room when I heard a man say:
“‘Hello, there.’
“‘Hello,’ says I.
“‘Who are you?’ says the man; ‘burglar?’
“And I said yes; I did do something in that line occasionally.
“‘Miserable business to be in, ain’t it?’ said the man. His voice came from a bed over in the corner of the room, and I knew he hadn’t even sat up.
“And I said, ‘Well, I dunno. I got to support my family some way.’
“‘Well, you’ve just wasted a night here,’ says the man. ‘Did you see anything down-stairs worth stealing?’
“And I said no, I hadn’t.
“‘Well, there’s less up-stairs,’ says the man; and then I heard him turn over and settle down to go to sleep again. I’d like to have gone over there and kicked him, but I didn’t. It was getting late, and I thought, all things considered, that I might just as well let him have his sleep out.”
50. HITTING A LAWYER
“Have you had a job to-day, Tim?” inquired a well-known legal gentleman of the equally well-known, jolly, florid-faced old drayman, who, rain or shine, summer or winter, is rarely absent from his post.
“Bedad, I did, sor.”
“How many?”
“Only two, sor.”
“How much did you get for both?”
“Sivinty cints, sor.”
“Seventy cents! How in the world do you expect to live and keep a horse on seventy cents a day?”
“Some days I have half a dozen jobs, sor. But bizness has been dull to-day, sor. On’y the hauling of a thrunk for a gintilman for forty cints an’ a load av furniture for thirty cints; an’ there was the pots an’ the kittles, an’ there’s no telling phat; a big load, sor.”
“Do you carry big loads of household goods for thirty cents?”
“She was a poor widdy, sor, an’ had no more to give me. I took all she had, sor; an’ bedad, sor, a lyyer could have done no better nor that, sor.”
51. CUTTING SHORT A PRAYER
Many a spiritual history is condensed into a miniature in the following:
Two fishermen–Jamie and Sandy–belated and befogged on a rough water, were in some trepidation lest they should never get ashore again. At last Jamie said:
“Sandy, I’m steering, and I think you’d better put up a bit of a prayer.”
Sandy said: “I don’t know how.”
Jamie said: “If you don’t I’ll just chuck ye overboard.”
Sandy began: “O Lord, I never asked onything of Ye for fifteen year, and if Ye’ll only get us safe back I’ll never trouble Ye again.”
“Whist, Sandy,” said Jamie, “_the boat’s touched shore; don’t be beholden to onybody_.”
52. UNREMITTING KINDNESS
Jerrold was asked if he considered a man kind who remitted no funds to his family when away. “Oh! yes. _Unremitting kindness_,” said he.
53. AMUSING BLUNDER
One of the passengers on board the ill-fated “Metis” at the time of the disaster was an exceedingly nervous man, who, while floating in the water, imagined how his friends would acquaint his wife of his fate. Saved at last, he rushed to the telegraph office and sent this message: “Dear P—-, I am saved. _Break it gently to my wife._”
54. COMPLIMENT TO A LADY
[How nicely this might fit into a ladies’ party.]
Sidney Smith, the cultivated writer and divine, who, when describing his country residence, declared that he lived twelve miles from a lemon, was told by a beautiful girl that a certain pea in his garden would never come to perfection. “Permit me then,” said he, taking her by the hand, “_to lead perfection to the pea_.”
55. TOO SLIM
[The great evil of mixing religion and politics are well set forth in the following incident:]
“Gabe,” said the governor to an old colored man, “I understand that you have been ousted from your position of Sunday-school superintendent.”
“Yes, sah, da figured aroun’ till da got me out. II was all a piece of political work, though; and I doan see why de law of de lan’ doan prevent de Sunday-schools an’ churches from takin’ up political matters!”
“How did politics get you out?”
“Yer see, some time ago, when I was a candidate for justice ob de peace, I gin’ a barbecue ter some ob my frien’s. De udder day da brung up de fack an’ ousted me.”
“I don’t see why the fact that you gave a barbecue to your friends should have caused any trouble.”
“Neider does myse’f, boss; but yer see da said dat I stole de hogs what I barbecued. De proof wa’nt good, an’ I think dat da done wrong in ackin’ upon sech slim testimony. Da said dat I cotch de hogs in a corn fid’. I know dat wan’t true, ‘case it was a wheat fid’ whar I cotch ’em.”
56. A FAST-DAY TOAST
On one of the fast-days–a cold, bleak one, too–Father Foley, a popular and genial priest, on his way from a distant visitation, dropped in to see Widow O’Brien, who was as jolly as himself, and equally as fond of the creature comforts, and, what is better, well able to provide them. As it was about dinner-time, his reverence thought he would stay and have a “morsel” with the old dame; but what was his horror to see served up in good style a pair of splendid roast ducks!
“Oh! musha, Mistress O’Brien, what have ye there?” he exclaimed, in well-feigned surprise.
“Ducks, yer riverence.”
“Ducks! roast ducks! and this a fast-day of the holy Church!”
“Wisha! I never thought of that; but why can’t we eat a bit of duck, yer riverence?”
“Why? Because the Council of Trint won’t lave us–that’s why.”
“Well, well, now, but I’m sorry fur that, fur I can only give ye a bite of bread and cheese and a glass of something hot. Would that be any harrum, sir?”
“Harrum! by no manes, woman. Sure we must live any way, and bread and cheese is not forbid!”
“Nayther whiskey punch?”
“Nayther that.”
“Well, thin, yer riverence, would it be any harrum fur me to give a toast?”
“By no manes, Mrs. O’Brien. Toast away as much as ye like, bedad!”
“Well, thin, _here’s to the Council of Trint, fur if it keeps us from atin’, it doesn’t keep us from drinkin’_!”
57. THE SUN STANDING STILL
James Russell Lowell, when concluding an after-dinner speech in England, made a happy hit by introducing the story of a Methodist preacher at a camp-meeting, of whom he had heard when he was young. He was preaching on Joshua ordering the sun to stand still: “My hearers,” he said, “there are three motions of the sun; the first is the straightforward or direct motion of the sun, the second is the retrograde or backward motion of the sun, and the third is the motion mentioned in our text–‘the sun stood still.’ Now, gentlemen, I do not know whether you see the application of that story to after-dinner oratory. I hope you do. The after-dinner orator at first begins and goes straight forward–that is the straightforward motion of the sun; next he goes back and begins to repeat himself a little, and that is the retrograde or backward motion of the sun; and at last he has the good sense to bring himself to an end, and that is the motion mentioned in our text of the sun standing still.”
58. NEUTRALIZING POISON
Col. John H. George, a New Hampshire barrister, tells a good story on himself. Meeting an old farmer recently whom he had known in his youth, the old fellow congratulated the Colonel on his youthful appearance.
“How is it you’ve managed to keep so fresh and good-looking all these years?” quoth he.
“Well,” said George, “I’ll tell you. I’ve always drank new rum and voted the Democratic ticket.”
“Oh! yes,” said the old man, “_I see how it is; one pizen neutralizes the other!_”
59. GENERAL BUTLER AND THE SPOONS
While General Butler was delivering a speech in Boston during an exciting political campaign, one of his hearers cried out: “How about the spoons, Ben?” Benjamin’s good eye twinkled merrily as he looked bashfully at the audience, and said: “Now, don’t mention that, please. _I was a Republican when I stole those spoons._”
60. MAKING MOST OF ONE’S CAPITAL
[One should always make the most of his capital, as this orator did.]
“Fellow-citizens, my competitor has told you of the services he rendered in the late war. I will follow his example, and I shall tell you of mine. He basely insinuates that I was deaf to the voice of honor in that crisis. The truth is, I acted a humble part in that memorable contest. When the tocsin of war summoned the chivalry of the country to rally to the defense of the nation, I, fellow-citizens, animated by that patriotic spirit that glows in every American’s bosom, hired a substitute for that war, and the bones of that man, fellow-citizens, now lie bleaching in the valley of the Shenandoah!”
61. MEETING HALF-WAY
[But the following man could get even more out of an unpromising situation.]
“Now, I want to know,” said a man whose veracity had been questioned by an angry acquaintance, “just why you call me a liar. Be frank, sir; for frankness is a golden-trimmed virtue. Just as a friend, now, tell me why you called me a liar.”
“Called you a liar because you are a liar,” the acquaintance replied.
“That’s what I call frankness. Why, sir, if this rule were adopted over half of the difficulties would be settled without trouble, and in our case there would have been trouble but for our willingness to meet each other half-way.”
62. UNFORTUNATE MISTAKE
Judge —-, who is now a very able Judge of the Supreme Court of one of the great States of this Union, when he first “came to the bar,” was a very blundering speaker. On one occasion, when he was trying a case of replevin, involving the right of property to a lot of hogs, he addressed the jury as follows:
“Gentlemen of the jury, there were just twenty-four hogs in that drove–just twenty-four, gentlemen–_exactly twice as many as there are in that jury-box_!” The effect can be imagined.
63. TAKEN AT HIS WORD
A pretentious person said to the leading man of a country village, “How would a lecture by me on Mount Vesuvius suit the inhabitants of your village?” “Very well, sir; very well, indeed,” he answered; “a lecture by you on Mount Vesuvius would suit them a great deal better than a lecture by you in this village.”
64. BRAGGING VETERANS
In warning veterans against exaggerating, a gentleman at a Washington banquet related the following anecdote of a Revolutionary veteran, who, having outlived nearly all his comrades, and being in no danger of contradiction, rehearsed his experience thuswise: “In that fearful day at Monmouth, although entitled to a horse, I fought on foot. With each blow I severed an Englishman’s head from his body, until a huge pile of heads lay around me, great pools of blood on either side, and my shoes were so full of the same dreadful fluid that my feet slipped beneath me. Just then I felt a touch upon my shoulder, and, looking up, who should I behold but the great and good Washington himself! Never shall I forget the majesty and dignity of his presence, as, pressing his hand upon me, he said, ‘My young friend, restrain yourself, and for heaven’s sake do not make a slaughter-house of yourself.'”
65. EXCHANGING MINDS
Heinrich Heine, the German poet, apologizing for feeling dull after a visit from a professor said: “I am afraid you find me very stupid. The fact is, Dr. —- called upon me this morning, and _we exchanged our minds_.”
66. BUYING A LAWYER
[The willingness to pay full value for an article is a trait of character always appreciated.]
Lawyer B—- called at the office of Counselor F—-, who has had considerable practice in bankruptcy, and said: “See here, F—-, I want to know what the practice is in such and such a case in bankruptcy.”
F—-, straightening himself up and looking as wise as possible, replied: “Well, Mr. B—-, I generally get paid for telling what I know.”
B—- put his hand into his pocket, drew forth half a dollar, handed it to F—-, and said: “Here, tell me _all_ you know, and _give me the change_.”
67. WOULD NOT SAVE IT
In the old town of W—-, in the Pine-tree State, lived one of those unfortunate lords of creation who had, in not a very long life, put on mourning for three departed wives. But time assuages heart-wounds, as well as those of the flesh. In due time a fourth was inaugurated mistress of his heart and house. He was a very prudent man, and suffered nothing to be wasted. When the new mistress was putting things in order, while cleaning up the attic she came across a long piece of board, and was about launching it out of the window, when little Sadie interposed, and said: “Oh! don’t, mamma! _that is the board papa lays out his wives on, and he wants to save it!_” Nevertheless, _out it went_.
68. WIDOW OUTWITTED
In a Western village a charming, well-preserved widow had been courted and won by a physician. She had children. The wedding-day was approaching, and it was time the children should know they were to have a new father. Calling one of them to her, she said: “Georgie, I am going to do something before long that I would like to talk about with you.”
“Well, ma, what is it!”
“I am intending to marry Dr. Jones in a few days, and–”
“Bully for you, ma! _Does Dr. Jones know it?_”
Ma caught her breath, but failed to articulate a response.
69. TOO KIND
[Where can we find a more touching manifestation of mutual benevolence than the following.]
In New Jersey reside two gentlemen, near neighbors and bosom friends, one a clergyman, Dr. B—-, the other a “gentleman of means” named Wilson. Both were passionately fond of music, and the latter devoted many of his leisure hours to the study of the violin. One fine afternoon our clerical friend was in his study, deeply engaged in writing, when there came along one of those good-for-nothing little Italian players, who planted himself under his study window, and, much to his annoyance, commenced scraping away on a squeaky fiddle. After trying in vain for about fifteen minutes to collect his scattered thoughts, the Doctor descended to the piazza in front of the house, and said to the boy:
“Look here, sonny, you go over and play awhile for Mr. Wilson. Here is ten cents. He lives in that big white house over yonder. He plays the violin, and likes music better than I do.”
“Well,” said the boy, taking the “stamp,” “_I would, but he just gave me ten cents to come over and play for you!_”
70. NOT FOOLED TWICE
San Francisco boasts of a saloon called the Bank Exchange, where the finest wines and liquors are dispensed at twenty-five cents a glass, with lunches thrown in free. A plain-looking person went in one morning and called for a brandy cocktail, and wanted it _strong_. Mr. Parker, as is usual with him, was very considerate, and mixed the drink in his best style, setting it down for his customer. After the cocktail had disappeared the man leaned over the bar and said that he had no change about him then, but would have soon, when he would pay for the drink. Parker politely remarked that he should have mentioned the fact before he got the drink; when his customer remarked: “I tried that on yesterday morning with one of your men, but he would not let me have the whiskey, so you could not play that dodge on me again!” This was too good for Parker, and he told the customer he was welcome to his drink, and was entitled to his hat in the bargain, if he wanted it.
71. BITING SARCASM
Standing on the steps at the entrance to one of the grand hotels at Saratoga, a young gentleman, in whom the “dude” species was strongly developed, had been listening with eager attention to the bright things which fell from the lips of the well-known wit and orator, Emory A. Storrs.
At last our exquisite exclaimed: “Er–Mr. Storrs,–I–er–wish, oh! how I–er–_wish_! that I had your–er–cheek.”
Mr. Storrs instantly annihilated him with: “It is a most fortunate dispensation of Providence that you have not. For, _with my cheek and your brains_, you would be kicked down these steps in no time!”
72. INCORRIGIBLE NEIGHBOR
A lady in California had a troublesome neighbor, whose cattle overrun her ranch, causing much damage. The lady bore the annoyance patiently, hoping that some compunction would be felt for the damage inflicted. At last she caught a calf which was making havoc in her garden, and sent it home with a child, saying, “Tell Mrs. A. that the calf has eaten nearly everything in the garden, and I have scarcely a cabbage left.”
The feelings of the injured lady may be imagined when she received this reply: “The cabbage nearly all eaten! Well, I must get over and borrow some before it is all gone!”
73. DISGUSTED OFFICER
Some years since a party of Indians drove off all the live-stock at Fort Lancaster. A few days afterward Captain —- was passing through the post, and stopped a couple of days for rest. While there an enthusiastic officer took him out to show him the trail of the bad Indians, how they came, which way they went, etc. After following the trail for some distance the Captain turned to his guide and exclaimed: “Look here; if you want to find any Indians, you can find them; _I haven’t lost any_, and am going back to camp.”
74. IRATE PRISONER
A man arrested for stealing chickens was brought to trial. The case was given to the jury, who brought him in guilty, and the judge sentenced him to three months’ imprisonment. The jailer was a jovial man, fond of a _smile_, and feeling particularly good on that particular day, considered himself insulted when the prisoner looking around his cell told him it was dirty, and not fit for a hog to be put in. One word brought on another, till finally the jailer told the prisoner if he did not behave himself he would put him out. To which the prisoner replied: “I will give you to understand, sir, I have as good a right here as you have!”
75. TRUTHFUL PRISONER
The eccentric old King of Prussia, father of Frederick the Great, while visiting the Potsdam prison, was much interested in the professions of innocence the prisoners made. Some blamed their conviction on the prejudice of judges; others, upon the perjury of witnesses or the tricks of bad companions. At length he accosted a sturdy, closely-fettered prisoner with the remark, “I suppose you are innocent, too.”
“No, your Majesty,” was the unexpected response. “I am guilty, and richly deserve all I get.”
“Here, you turnkey,” thundered the monarch, “come and turn out this rascal, quick, before he corrupts this fine lot of innocent and abused people that you have about you.”
76. RULING PASSION
There are persons now living in Bennington who remember old Billy B—-, of whom it might be said he furnished an example of the “ruling passion strong in death.” When very ill, and friends were expecting an early demise, his nephew and a man hired for the occasion had butchered a steer which had been fattened; and when the job was completed the nephew entered the sick-room, where a few friends were assembled, when, to the astonishment of all, the old man opened his eyes, and turning his head slightly, said, in a full voice, drawing out the words:
“What have you been doing?”
“Killing the steer,” was the reply.
“What did you do with the hide?”
“Left it in the barn; going to sell it by-and-by.”
“Let the boys drag it around the yard a couple of times; it will make it weigh heavier.”
And the good old man was gathered unto his fathers.
77. BAD SPECULATION
[This is told of bears, rattlesnakes, etc., as well as Indians.]
At a recent festive occasion a gentleman who was making a few remarks was repeatedly interrupted by another one of the company. He bore it patiently at first, but finally said that it reminded him of a story he had heard. He said that a man, whom business had called away a short distance from his home in the city, thought he would pay his way back again by purchasing a number of hogs and driving them home. He did so, but when he and the hogs arrived at their destination the market for the latter had fallen considerably in price, and the hogs had also lost weight on the journey. It was remarked to him that he had made rather a bad speculation. “Yes–well, yes,” he answered reflectively. “Yes–but then, you see, _I had their company all the way_!”
78. SATISFIED WITH HIS SITUATION
[The following may not be strictly true, but it well illustrates that there is always a lower depth in misfortune, and–that Western roads are often somewhat muddy.]
Some years ago, when riding along one of the almost impassable roads in the far West, I observed a dark-looking object lying in the middle of the road, and my natural curiosity impelled me to dismount and examine it. It proved to be a hat, somewhat muddy and dilapidated, but emphatically a hat. On lifting it up, to my surprise I found that it covered a head–a human head–which protruded sufficiently out of the mud to be recognizable as such. I ventured to address the evidently wide-awake head, and remarked that it seemed to be in a pretty bad sort of a fix.
“Wa’al, yes!” the lips replied; “you’re about right thar, stranger; _but then I ain’t anyway near as bad off as the horse that’s under me_!”
79. A GOOD WORD FOR THE DEVIL
A conference preacher one day went into the house of a Wesleyan Reformer, and saw the portraits of three expelled ministers suspended from the walls.
“What!” said he, “have you got them hanging there?”
“Oh! yes,” was the answer; “they are there.”
“Ah! well; but one is wanted to complete the set.”
“Pray, who is that?”
“Why, the devil, to be sure.”
“Ah!” said the Reformer, “but he is not yet expelled from the Conference.”
80. MARRYING A WIDOW
In Cadiz, Ohio, a preacher was summoned to the hotel to make an expectant couple one. In the course of the preliminary inquiries the groom was asked if he had been married before, and admitted that he had been–three times. “And is this lady a widow,” was also asked, but he responded promptly and emphatically, “No, sir; _I never marry widows_.”
81. A GOOD SALE
Several years ago there resided in Saratoga County a lawyer of considerable ability and reputation, but of no great culture, who had an unusually fine taste in paintings and engravings–the only evidence of refinement he ever exhibited. A clergyman of the village in which he lived, knowing his fondness for such things, introduced to him an agent of a publishing house in the city who was issuing a pictorial Bible in numbers. The specimen of the style of work exhibited to the lawyer was a very beautiful one, and he readily put down his name for a copy. But in the progress of the publication the character of the engravings rapidly deteriorated, much to the disgust of the enlightened lawyer. The picture of Joseph, very indifferently done, provoked him beyond endurance, and seizing several of the numbers he sallied forth to reproach the parson for leading him into such a bad bargain. “Look at these wretched scratches,” said he, turning the pages over, “and see how I have been imposed upon! Here is a portrait of Joseph, whom his brethren sold to the Egyptians for twenty pieces of silver; and let me tell you, parson, _if Joseph looked like that it was a mighty good sale_!”
82. TRIUMPHS OF MEDICINE
A priest was called upon by a superstitious parishioner, who asked him to do something for her sick cow. He disclaimed knowing anything about such matters, but could not put her off. She insisted that if he would only say some words over the cow, the animal would surely recover. Worn out with importunity, he seized his book in desperation, walked around the four-legged patient several times, repeating in a sonorous voice the Latin words, which mean, “If you die, you die; and if you live, you live,” and rushed off disgusted. But the woman was delighted, and sooth to say the cow quickly recovered.
But in time the good man himself was taken sick, and grew rapidly worse. His throat was terribly swollen, and all medical aid was exhausted. The word passed around the parish that the priest must die. When Bridget heard the peril of her favorite pastor she was inspired by a mighty resolve. She hurried to the sick-room, entered against the protest of the friends who were weeping around, and with out a word to any one with her strong hands dragged his reverence’s bed to the middle of the floor, and with the exact copy of his very gestures and voice marched around the bed, repeating the sonorous and well-remembered Latin phrase, “If you die, you die; and if you live, you live.” The priest fell into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and in his struggle for breath and self-control the gathering in his throat broke and his life was saved!
Mighty are the triumphs of medicine!
83. TIT FOR TAT
An old fellow in a neighboring town, who is original in all things, especially in excessive egotism, and who took part in the late war, was one day talking to a crowd of admiring listeners, and boasting of his many bloody exploits, when he was interrupted by the question:
“I say, old Joe, how many of the enemy did you kill during the war?”
“How many did I kill sir? _how many_ enemies did I kill? Well, I don’t know just ‘zactly _how_ many; but I know this much–I killed as many o’ them _as they did o’ me_!”
84. SLEEPING ON TOP
During a homeward trip of the “Henry Chauncey,” from Aspinwall, the steerage passengers were so numerous as to make them uncomfortable. As for sleeping accommodation, it was aptly described by a Californian, who approached the captain, and said:
“I should like to have a sleeping-berth, if you please.”
“Why, where have you been sleeping these last two nights since we left?”
“Wa’al, I’ve been sleeping a-top of a sick man; _but he’s better now, and won’t stand it no longer_!”
85. SAMBO AND THE LAWYER
In a Macon (Ga.) court the other day a lawyer was cross-examining a negro witness, and was getting along fairly well until he asked the witness what his occupation was. “I’se a carpenter, sah.” “What kind of a carpenter?” “They calls me a jackleg carpenter, sah.” “What is a jackleg carpenter?” “He is a carpenter who is not a first-class carpenter, sah.” “Well, explain fully what you understand a jackleg carpenter to be,” insisted the lawyer. “Boss, I declare I dunno how ter splain any mo’ ‘cept to say hit am jes’ the same difference ‘twixt you an’ a fust-class lawyer.”
86. SIXTY-CENT NAP
On board a train in the West an eccentric preacher wanted a sleeping-berth, but had only sixty cents, while the lowest price was a dollar. Naturally he did not get on very fast with the porter; but after wearing out the patience of that functionary in vain efforts to stretch the sixty cents, the conductor was sent for. All proposals to borrow, to pledge an old Waterbury watch, and other financial expedients failed; but the circle was squared when the preacher said, “I’ll lie down, and _when I have slept sixty cents worth, you send that bed-shaker to rout me out_.” The procession started for the sleeper amid the hilarity of the passengers, but the tradition is that he slept the whole night through and far into the morning.
87. PREFERRED TO WALK
A great traveler once found himself on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. He was at once beset by boatmen, who wanted to take him out to sail on the waters where Christ had walked. He yielded to their importunities, and returned to the shore in about an hour. But his devout meditations were greatly disturbed when he was told that the charge was $10. With energy he declared that it was robbery, that it was not worth so much to sail all over their little lake, and demanded, “What makes you charge so dreadfully?” “Why,” said the innocent boatman, “because dese ese de lake were de Saviour walked on de water.” “Walked! walked! did He? Well, if the boatmen of that day charged as you fellows do, I should think He _would_ walk.”
88. HORACE GREELEY’S JOKE
On one occasion a person, who wished to have a little fun at the expense of his constituency, said in a group where Horace Greeley was standing: “Mr. Greeley and I, gentlemen, are old friends. We have drunk a good deal of brandy and water together.” “Yes,” said Mr. Greeley, “that is true enough. You drank the brandy, and I drank the water.”
89. DOCTORS AND DEADHEADS
Fifty years ago the principal avenue of Detroit had a toll-gate close to the entrance of the Elmwood Cemetery road. As this cemetery had been laid out some time previous to the construction of the plank road, it was arranged that all funeral processions should be allowed to pass along the latter toll-free. One day as a well-known physician stopped to pay his toll, he observed to the gate-keeper:
“Considering the benevolent character of our profession, I think you ought to let physicians pass free of charge.”
“No, no, doctor,” replied the man; “we can’t afford that. You send too many ‘deadheads’ through here as it is.”
The story traveled, and the two words became associated.
90. BOOMING A TOWN
They tell a story of a man who came into Omaha one day, and wanted to trade his farm for some city lots. “All right,” replied the real-estate agent, “get into my buggy, and I’ll drive you out to see some of the finest residence sites in the world–water, sewers, paved streets, cement sidewalks, electric light, shade trees, and all that sort of thing,” and away they drove four or five miles into the country. The real-estate agent expatiated upon the beauty of the surroundings, the value of the improvements made and projected, the convenience of the location, the ease and speed with which people who lived there could reach town, and the certainty of an active demand for such lots in the immediate future. Then, when he was breathless, he turned to his companion, and asked:
“Where’s your farm?”
“We passed it coming out here,” was the reply. “It’s about two miles nearer town.”
91. ATHLETIC NURSE
Young Wife–“Why, dear, you were the stroke oar at college, weren’t you?”
Young Husband–“Yes, love.”
“And a prominent member of the gymnastic class?”
“I was leader.”
“And quite a hand at all athletic exercises?”
“Quite a hand? My gracious! I was champion walker, the best runner, the head man at lifting heavy weights, and as for carrying–why, I could shoulder a barrel of flour and–”
“Well, love, just please carry the baby for a couple of hours, I’m tired.”
92. TOO PREMATURE
[Anything rather premature may be illustrated by the following:]
A spring bird that had taken time by the forelock flew across the lawn near this city one day last week. His probable fate is best described in this pathetic verse, author unknown:
“The first bird of spring Essayed for to sing; But ere he had uttered a note He fell from the limb, A dead bird was him, The music had friz in his throat.”
93. A BEWILDERED IRISHMAN
The poet Shelley tells an amusing story of the influence that language “hard to be understood” exercises on the vulgar mind. Walking near Covent Garden, London, he accidentally jostled against an Irish navvy, who, being in a quarrelsome mood, seemed inclined to attack the poet. A crowd of ragged sympathizers began to gather, when Shelley, calmly facing them, deliberately pronounced:
“I have put my hand into the hamper, I have looked on the sacred barley, I have eaten out of the drum. I have drunk and am well pleased. I have said, ‘Knox Ompax,’ and it is finished.”
The effect was magical, the astonished Irishman fell back; his friends began to question him. “What barley?” “Where’s the hamper?” “What have you been drinking?” and Shelley walked away unmolested.
94. OBEYING ORDERS
When General Sickles, after the second battle of Bull Run, assumed command of a division of the Army of the Potomac, he gave an elaborate farewell dinner to the officers of his old Excelsior Brigade.
“Now, boys, we will have a family gathering,” he said to them, as they assembled in his quarters. Pointing to the table, he continued: “Treat it as you would the enemy.”
As the feast ended, an Irish officer was discovered by Sickles in the act of stowing away three bottles of champagne in his saddle-bags.
“What are you doing, sir,” gasped the astonished General.
“Obeying orders, sir,” replied the captain, in a firm voice: “You told us to treat the dinner as we would the enemy, and you know, General, what we can’t kill we capture.”
95. A SPEECH FROM THE REAR PLATFORM
An Irish street-car conductor called out shrilly to the passengers standing in the aisle:
“Will thim in front plaze to move up, so that thim behind can take the places of thim in front, an’ lave room for thim who are nayther in front nor behind?”
96. A WAY OUT OF IT
“What’s the matter with you,” asked a gentleman of a friend whom he met. “You looked puzzled and worried.”
“I am,” said the friend. “Maybe you can help me out”
“Well, what is it?”
“I am subject at intervals,” said the friend, “to the wildest craving for beefsteak and onions. It has all the characteristics of a confirmed drunkard’s craving for rum. This desire came upon me a few minutes ago, and I determined to gratify it. Then suddenly I remembered that I had promised to call this evening on some ladies, and I must keep that promise. Yet my stomach is shouting for beefsteak and onions, and I am wavering between duty and appetite.”
“Can’t you wait until after the call?” asked the gentleman, solicitously.
“Never,” said the friend, earnestly.
“Can’t you postpone the call?”
“Impossible,” declared the friend.
“Well,” said the gentleman, “I’ll tell you what to do: go to John Chamberlin’s café; order your beefsteak and onions, and eat them. When you get your bill it will be so big that it will _quite take your breath away_.”
97. THE EXTENT OF SCIENCE
“And now,” said the learned lecturer on geology who had addressed a small but deeply attentive audience at the village hall, “I have tried to make these problems, abstruse as they may appear, and involving in their solution the best thoughts, the closest analysis, and the most profound investigations of our noblest scientific men for many years; I have tried, I say, to make them seem comparatively simple and easily understood, in the light of modern knowledge. Before I close this lecture I shall be glad to answer any questions that may occur to you as to points that appear to need clearing up or that may have been overlooked.”
There was a silence of a few moments, and then an anxious-looking man in the rear of the hall rose up.
“I would take it as a favor,” he said, “if you could tell me whether science has produced as yet any reliable and certain cure for warts.”
98. WHAT’S IN A NAME?
One of the managers of a home for destitute colored children tells a funny story about the institution. She went out there to see how things were getting along, and found a youngster as black as the inside of a coal mine tied to a bed-post, with his hands behind him.
“What is that boy tied up there for?” she demanded of the attendant.
“For lying, ma’am. He is the worstist, lyingest nigger I ever seen.”
“What’s his name?
“George Washington, ma’am,” was the paralyzing reply.
99. STILL ROOM FOR RESEARCH
“What is this new substance I hear so much about?” asked the eminent scientist’s wife.
“What new substance, my dear?”
“The element in the air that has just been detected.”
“Oh! that, my dear,” he answered, beaming over his spectacles with the good nature of superior wisdom, “is known as argon!”
“Oh!”
“Yes; its discovery is one of the most remarkable triumphs of the age. It has revolutionized some of the old theories, or at least it will revolutionize them before it gets through.”
“What is it?”
“It’s–er–a–did you say, what is it?”
“I said that.”
“Well–ahem–you see, we haven’t as yet discovered much about it except its name.”
100. HE WAS “‘PISCOPAL”
An Episcopal clergyman passing his vacation in Indiana met an old farmer who declared that he was a “‘Piscopal.”
“To what parish do you belong?” asked the clergyman.
“Don’t know nawthin’ ’bout enny parish,” was the answer.
“Well, then,” continued the clergyman, “what diocese do you belong to?”
“They ain’t nawthin’ like that ’round here,” said the farmer.
“Who confirmed you, then?” was the next question.
“Nobody,” answered the farmer.
“Then how are you an Episcopalian?” asked the clergyman.
“Well,” was the reply, “you see it’s this way: Last winter I went down to Arkansas visitin’, and while I was there I went to church, and it was called ‘Piscopal, and I he’rd them say ‘that they left undone the things what they’d oughter done and they had done some things what they oughten done,’ and I says to myself, says I: ‘That’s my fix exac’ly, and ever since I considered myself a ‘Piscopalian.”
The clergyman shook the old fellow’s hand, and laughingly said:
“Now I understand, my friend, why the membership of our church is so large.”
101. JOHNNY’S EXCUSE
A little girl brought a note to her school-teacher one morning, which read as follows. “Dear teacher, please excuse Johnny for not coming to school today. He is dead.” Johnny was excused.
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Aug 10, 2019
Thought-Culture or Practical Mental Training
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Thought-Culture or Practical Mental Training
THOUGHT-CULTURE or PRACTICAL MENTAL TRAINING
by William Walker Atkinson
CHAPTER I.
THE POWER OF THOUGHT
In other volumes of this series we have considered the operations of the human mind known as Will, Memory, etc. We now approach the consideration of those mental activities which are concerned with the phenomena of _thought_–those activities which we generally speak of as the operation of the intellect or reason.
What is thought? The answer is not an easy one, although we use the term familiarly almost every hour of our waking existence. The dictionaries define the term “Thought” as follows: “The act of thinking; the exercise of the mind in any way except sense and perception; serious consideration; deliberation; reflection; the power or faculty of thinking; the mental faculty of the mind; etc.” This drives us back upon the term, “to think” which is defined as follows: “To occupy the mind on some subject; to have ideas; to revolve ideas in the mind; to cogitate; to reason; to exercise the power of thought; to have a succession of ideas or mental states; to perform any mental operation, whether of apprehension, judgment, or illation; to judge; to form a conclusion, to determine; etc.”
Thought is an operation of the intellect. The intellect is: “that faculty of the human soul or mind by which it receives or comprehends the ideas communicated to it by the senses or by perception, or other means, as distinguished from the power to feel and to will; the power or faculty to perceive objects in their relations; the power to judge and comprehend; also the capacity for higher forms of knowledge as distinguished from the power to perceive and imagine.”
When we say what we “think,” we mean that we exercise the faculties whereby we compare and contrast certain things with other things, observing and noting their points of difference and agreement, then classifying them in accordance with these observed agreements and differences. In _thinking_ we tend to classify the multitude of impressions received from the outside world, arranging thousands of objects into one general class, and other thousands into other general classes, and then sub-dividing these classes, until finally we have found mental pigeon-holes for every conceivable idea or impression. We then begin to make inferences and deductions regarding these ideas or impressions, working from the known to the unknown, from particulars to generalities, or from generalities to particulars, as the case may be.
It is this faculty or power of thought–this use of the intellect, that has brought man to his present high position in the world of living things. In his early days, man was a much weaker animal than those with whom he was brought into contact. The tigers, lions, bears, mammoths, and other ferocious beasts were much stronger, fiercer, and fleeter than man, and he was placed in a position so lacking of apparent equal chance of survival, that an observer would have unhesitatingly advanced the opinion that this weak, feeble, slow animal must soon surely perish in the struggle for existence, and that the “survival of the fittest” would soon cause him to vanish from the scene of the world’s activities. And, so it would have been had he possessed no equipment other than those of the other animals; viz., strength, natural weapons and speed. And yet man not only survived in spite of these disadvantages, but he has actually conquered, mastered and enslaved these other animals which seemed likely to work his destruction. Why? How?
This feeble animal called _man_ had within him the elements of a new power–a power manifested in but a slight degree in the other animals. He possessed an intellect by which he was able to deduce, compare, infer–reason.
His lack of natural weapons he overcame by borrowing the idea of the tooth and claw of the other animals, imitating them in flint and shaping them into spears; borrowing the trunk of the elephant and the paw of the tiger, and reproducing their blow-striking qualities in his wooden club. Not only this but he took lessons from the supple limbs and branches of the trees, and copied the principle in his bow, in order to project its minature spear, his arrow. He sheltered himself, his mate and his young, from the fury of the storm, first by caves and afterwards by rude houses, built in inaccessible places, reached only by means of crude ladders, bridges, or climbing poles. He built doors for his habitations, to protect himself from the attacks of these wild enemies–he heaped stones at the mouth of his caves to keep them out. He placed great boulders on cliffs that he might topple them down on the approaching foe. He learned to hurl rocks with sure aim with his strong arm. He copied the floating log, and built his first rude rafts, and then evolved the hollowed canoe. He used the skins of animals to keep him warm–their tendons for his bowstrings. He learned the advantages of cooperation and combined effort, and thus formed the first rudiments of society and social life. And finally–man’s first great discovery–he found the art of fire making.
As a writer has said: “For some hundreds of years, upon the general plane of self-consciousness, an ascent, to the human eye gradual but from the point of view of cosmic evolution rapid, has been made. In a race large-brained, walking-erect, gregarious, brutal, but king of all other brutes, man in appearance but not in fact, was from the highest simple-consciousness born the basic human faculty, self-consciousness and its twin, language. From these and what went with these, through suffering, toil and war; through bestiality, savagery, barbarism; through slavery, greed, effort, through conquests infinite, through defeats overwhelming, through struggle unending; through ages of aimless semi-brutal existence, through subsistence on berries and roots; through the use of the casually found stone or stick; through life in deep forests, with nuts and seeds, and on the shores of waters with mollusks, crustaceans and fish for food; through that greatest, perhaps, of human victories, the domestication and subjugation of fire; through the invention and art of bow and arrow; through the training of animals and the breaking of them to labor; through the long learning which led to the cultivation of the soil; through the adobe brick and the building of houses therefrom; through the smelting of metals and the slow birth of the arts which rest upon these; through the slow making of alphabets and the evolution of the written work; in short, through thousands of centuries of human life, of human aspiration, of human growth, sprang the world of men and women as it stands before us and within us today with all its achievements and possessions.”
The great difference between thought as we find it in man, and its forms among the lower animals lies in what psychologists have called “progressive thought.” The animals advance but little in their thinking processes but rest content with those of their ancestors–their thought seems to have become set or crystallized during the process of their evolution. The birds, mammals and the insects vary but little in their mental processes from their ancestors of many thousand years ago. They build their nests, or dens, in almost precisely the same manner as did their progenitors in the stone-age. But man has slowly but steadily progressed, in spite of temporary set-backs and failures. He has endeavored to progress and improve. Those tribes which fell back in regard to mental progress and advancement, have been left behind in the race, and in many cases have become extinct. The great natural law of the “survival of the fittest” has steadily operated in the life of the race. The “fittest” were those best adapted to grapple with and overcome the obstacles of their environment, and these obstacles were best overcome by the use of the intellect. Those tribes and those individuals whose intellect was active, tended to survive where others perished, and consequently they were able to transmit their intellectual quality to their descendants.
Halleck says: “Nature is constantly using her power to kill off the thoughtless, or to cripple them in life’s race. She is determined that only the fittest and the descendants of the fittest shall survive. By the ‘fittest’ she means those who have thought and whose ancestors have thought and profited thereby. Geologists tell us that ages ago there lived in England bears, tigers, elephants, lions and many other powerful and fierce animals. There was living contemporaneous with them a much weaker animal, that had neither the claws, the strength, nor the speed of the tiger. In fact this human being was almost defenceless. Had a being from another planet been asked to prophesy, he would undoubtedly have said that this helpless animal would be the first to be exterminated. And yet every one of those fierce creatures succumbed either to the change of climate, or to man’s inferior strength. The reason was that man had one resource denied to the animals–the power of progressive thought. The land sank, the sea cut off England from the mainland, the climate changed, and even the strongest animals were helpless. But man changed his clothing with the changing climate. He made fires; he built a retreat to keep off death by cold. He thought out means to kill or to subdue the strongest animals. Had the lions, tigers or bears the power of progressive thought, they could have combined, and it would have been possible for them to exterminate man before he reached the civilized stage…. Man no longer sleeps in caves. The smoke no longer fills his home or finds its way out through the chinks in the walls or a hole in the roof. In traveling, he is no longer restricted to his feet or even to horses. For all this improvement man is indebted to _thought_. That has harnessed the very vibrations of the ether to do his bidding.”
And thus we see that man owes his present place on earth to his Thought-Culture. And, it certainly behooves us to closely consider and study the methods and processes whereby each and every man may cultivate and develop the wondrous faculties of the mind which are employed in the processes of Thought. The faculties of the Mind, like the muscles of the body, may be developed, trained and cultivated. The process of such mental development is called “THOUGHT-CULTURE,” and forms the subject of this book.
CHAPTER II.
THE NATURE OF THOUGHT
It was formerly considered necessary for all books on the subject of thought to begin by a recital of the metaphysical conceptions regarding the nature and “thingness” of Mind. The student was led through many pages and endless speculation regarding the metaphysical theories regarding the origin and inner nature of Mind which, so far from establishing a fixed and definite explanation in his mind, rather tended toward confusing him and giving him the idea that psychology was of necessity a speculative science lacking the firm practical basis possessed by other branches of science. In the end, in the words of old Omar, he “came out the door through which he went.”
But this tendency has been overcome of late years, and writers on the subject pass by all metaphysical conceptions regarding the nature of Mind, and usually begin by plunging at once into the real business of psychology–the business of the practical study of the mechanism and activities of the mind itself. As some writer has said, psychology has no more concern with the solution of the eternal riddle of “What is Mind?” than physics with the twin-riddle of “What is Matter?” Both riddles, and their answers, belong to entirely different branches and fields of thought than those concerned with their laws of operation and principles of activity. As Halleck says: “Psychology studies the phenomena of mind, just as physics investigates those of matter.” And, likewise, just as the science of physics holds true in spite of the varying and changing conceptions regarding the nature of matter, so does the science of psychology hold true in spite of the varying and changing conceptions regarding the nature of Mind.
Halleck has well said: “If a materialist should hold that the mind was nothing but the brain, and that the brain was a vast aggregation of molecular sheep herding together in various ways, his hypothesis would not change the fact that sensation must precede perception, memory and thought; nor would the laws of the association of ideas be changed, nor would the fact that interest and repetition aid memory cease to hold good. The man who thought his mind was a collection of little cells would dream, imagine, think and feel; so also would he who believed his mind to be immaterial. It is very fortunate that the same mental phenomena occur, no matter what theory is adopted. Those who like to study the puzzles as to what mind and matter really are must go to metaphysics. Should we ever find that salt, arsenic and all things else are the same substance with a different molecular arrangement, we should still not use them interchangeably.”
For the purposes of the study of practical psychology, we may as well lay aside, if even for the moment, our pet metaphysical conceptions and act as if we knew nothing of the essential nature of Mind (and indeed Science in truth does _not_ know), and confine ourselves to the phenomena and manifestations of Mind which, after all, is the only way in which and by which we can know anything at all about it. As Brooks says: “The mind can be defined only by its activities and manifestations. In order to obtain a definition of the mind, therefore, we must observe and determine its various forms of activity. These activities, classified under a few general heads and predicated of the unseen something which manifests them, will give us a definition of mind.”
The act of consciousness determines the existence of Mind in the person experiencing it. No one can be conscious of thought and, at the same time, deny the existence of mind within himself. For the very act of denial, in itself, is a manifestation of thought and consequently an assertion of the existence of mind. One may assert the axiom: “I think, therefore, I have a mind;” but he is denied the privilege of arguing: “I think, therefore, I have no mind.” The mind has an ultimate and final knowledge of its own existence.
The older view of Mind is that it is a something higher than matter which it uses for its manifestation. It was held to be unknowable in itself and to be studied only through its manifestations. It was supposed to involve itself, to become involved, in some way in matter and to there manifest itself in an infinitude of forms, degrees, and variations. The materialistic view, which arose into prominence in the middle of the Nineteenth Century, held, on the contrary, that Mind was merely an activity or property of Matter–a function of matter akin to extension and motion. Huxley, voicing this conception said: “We have no knowledge of any thinking substance apart from an extended substance…. We shall, sooner or later, arrive at a mechanical equivalent of consciousness, just as we have arrived at a mechanical equivalent of heat.” But, Huxley, himself, was afterwards constrained to acknowledge that: “How it is that anything so remarkable as a state of consciousness comes about by the result of irritating nervous tissue, is just as unaccountable as the appearance of the _jinnee_ when Aladdin rubbed his lamp.”
The most advanced authorities of the day, are inclined to the opinion that both Matter and Mind are both differing aspects of some one fundamental Something; or, as some of the closest thinkers state it, both are probably two apparently differing manifestations or emanations of an Underlying Something which, as Spencer says: “transcends not only our reason but also our imagination.” The study of philosophy and metaphysics serves an important purpose in showing us _how much we do not know_, and why we do not know–also in showing us the fallacy of many things we had thought we did know–but when it comes to telling us the real “why,” actual cause, or essential nature of _anything_, it is largely a disappointment to those who seek fundamental truths and ultimate reasons. It is much more comfortable to “abjure the ‘Why’ and seek the ‘How'”–if we can.
Many psychologists classify the activities of the mind into three general divisions; _viz._, (1) Thinking; (2) Willing; (3) Feeling. These divisions, which result from what is known as “the tri-logical classification,” were first distinctly enunciated by Upham although Kant had intimated it very plainly. For many years before the favored division was but two-fold the line of division being between the _cognitive_, or knowing, activities, and the _conative_, or acting, activities, generally known as the Understanding and the Will, respectively. It took a long time before the authorities would formally recognize the great field of the Feelings as forming a class by themselves and ranking with the Understanding and the Will. There are certain sub-divisions and shadings, which we shall notice as we proceed, some of which are more or less complex, and which seem to shade into others. The student is cautioned against conceiving of the mind as a thing having several compartments or distinct divisions. The classification does not indicate this and is only intended as a convenience in analyzing and studying the mental activities and operations. The “I” which feels, thinks and acts is the same–one entity.
As Brooks well says: “The mind is a self-conscious activity and not a mere passivity; it is a centre of spiritual forces, all resting in the background of the ego. As a centre of forces, it stands related to the forces of the material and spiritual universe and is acted upon through its susceptibilities by those forces. As a spiritual activity, it takes the impressions derived from those forces, works them up into the organic growth of itself, converts them into conscious knowledge and uses these products as means to set other forces into activity and produce new results. Standing above nature and superior to its surroundings, it nevertheless feeds upon nature, as we may say, and transforms material influences into spiritual facts akin to its own nature. Related to the natural world and apparently originating from it, it yet rises above this natural world and, with the crown of freedom upon its brow, rules the natural obedient to its will.”
In this book, while we shall fully and unquestionably recognize the “tri-logical classification” of the activities of the Mind into the divisions of Thinking, Willing and Feeling, respectively, nevertheless, we shall, for convenience, use the term “Thought” in its broadest, widest and most general sense, as: “The power or faculty of thinking; the mental faculty; the mind,” rather than in its narrower and particular sense of: “the understanding or cognitive faculty of the mind.” Accordingly, we shall include the cultivation of the mental activities known as Attention, Perception, Imagination, etc., together with the strictly cognitive faculties, under the general term of Thought-Culture.
CHAPTER III.
PHASES OF THOUGHT
We have seen that the Mind is that something within us which Thinks, Feels and Wills. There are various phases of these three forms of activity. These phases have often been called “the faculties of the mind,” although many authorities decry the use of this term, holding that it gives an impression of _several parts or divisions_ of the mind, separate and distinct from each other, whereas these phases are merely the several _powers or forms of activity_ of the Mind. Every manifestation of mental activity falls under one of the three before-mentioned general forms, i.e., Thinking, Feeling and Willing, respectively. Every manifestation of mental activity is either that of the Intellect, the Feelings, or the Will. Let us consider the first of these three general forms of mental activity–the Intellect.
The _Intellect_ is defined as: “That faculty or phase of the human mind by which it receives or comprehends the ideas communicated to it by the senses or by perception, or other means, as distinguished from the power to feel and to will; the power or faculty to perceive objects in their relations; the power to judge and comprehend; also the capacity for higher forms of knowledge as distinguished from the power to perceive and imagine.” The term itself is derived from the Latin term _intellectus_, the primary meaning of which is “to choose between,” which primary meaning will give the true essential meaning of the term in its present usage; namely, the faculty or phase of the mind by which we “choose between” things or by which we _decide_.
The phase or faculty of Intellect concerns itself with Thinking, in the particular and narrower sense of that term. Its products are _thoughts_, _mental images_ and _ideas_. An _idea_ or _mental image_ is a mental conception of anything, as for instance our conception which we express by the terms, _man_, _animal_, _house_, _etc._ Sometimes the word _idea_ is used to express merely the abstract or generalized conception of the thing, as, for instance, _Man_ in the sense of “all men;” while _mental image_ is used in the sense of the mental conception of some one particular thing, as a “_a man_;” it being held that no mental image can be had of a generalization. A _thought_ is held to be a mental product arising from a combination of two or more ideas or mental images, as for instance: “A horse is an animal;” “a man is a biped;” etc.
The Intellect is held to embrace and include a number of minor phases or faculties, such as Perception, Understanding, Imagination, Memory, Reason and Intuition, which are explained as follows:
_Perception_ is that faculty of the Mind which interprets the material presented to it by the senses. It is the power whereby we gain our knowledge of the external world, as reported to us by the channels of sense. Through Perception we are able to form ideas and mental images, which in turn lead to thoughts. The objects of which we become conscious through Perception are called _percepts_, which form the bases of what we call _concepts_, or ideas.
_Understanding_ is that faculty of the Mind by the means of which we are able intelligently to compare the objects presented to it by Perception, and by which we separate them into parts by analysis, or to combine them into greater classes, or wholes, by synthesis. It produces ideas, both abstract and general; also concepts of truths, laws, principles, causes, etc. There are several sub-phases of Understanding, which are known as: Abstraction, Conception or Generalization, or Judgment and Reasoning, respectively, which are explained as follows:
_Abstraction_ is that faculty of the Mind which enables it to abstract, or draw off, and consider apart from an object, a particular _quality_ or _property_ of an object, thus making of the quality or property a distinct object of thought apart from the original object. Thus are the _abstract ideas_ of _sweetness_, _color_, _hardness_, _courage_, _beauty_, etc., which we have abstracted or _drawn off_ from their original associations, either for the purpose of putting them out of sight and consideration, or else to view and consider them by themselves. No one ever tasted “sweetness” although one may have tasted _sweet things_; no one ever saw “red,” although one may have seen _red things_; no one ever saw, heard, tasted or felt “courage” in another, although one may have seen _courageous people_. Abstract ideas are merely the mental conception of _qualities_ or _properties_ divorced from their associated objects by Abstraction.
_Conception_ or Generalization is that faculty of the Mind by which it forms and groups together several particular ideas in the form of _a general idea_. By the processes of Conception we form _classes_ or _generalizations_ from particular ideas arising from our _percepts_. First, we _perceive_ things; then we _compare_ them with each other; then we abstract their particular qualities, which are not common to the several objects; then we _generalize_ them according to their resemblances; then we _name_ the generalized concept. From these combined processes we form a Concept, or _general idea_ of the class of things to which the particular things belong. Thus from subjecting a number of cows to this process, we arrive at the general Concept of “Cow.” This general Concept includes all the qualities and properties _common to all cows_, while omitting those which are not common to the class. Or, we may form a concept of Napoleon Bonaparte, by combining his several qualities and properties and thus form a _general idea_ of the man.
_Judgment_ is that faculty of the Mind whereby we determine the agreement or disagreement between two concepts, ideas, or objects of thought, by comparing them with each other. From this comparison arises the judgment, which is expressed in the shape of a logical _proposition_: “The horse is an animal;” or “the horse is not a cow.” Judgment is also used in forming a concept, in the first place, for we must _compare qualities_ before we can form a _general idea_.
_Reasoning_ is that faculty of the Mind whereby we compare two Judgments, one with the other, and from the comparison deduce a third Judgment. This is a form of indirect or mediate comparison, whereas the Judgment is a form of immediate or direct comparison. From this process of Reasoning arises a result which is expressed in what is called a Syllogism, as for instance: “All dogs are animals; Carlo is a dog; therefore, Carlo is an animal.” Or expressed in symbols: “A equals C; and B equals C;” therefore, “A equals B.” Reasoning is of two kinds or classes; _viz._, Inductive and Deductive, respectively. We have explained these forms of Reasoning in detail in another volume of this series.
_The Feelings_ are the mental faculties whereby we experience emotions or feelings. Feelings are the experiencing of the agreeable or disagreeable nature of our mental states. They can be defined only in their own terms. If we have never experienced a feeling, we cannot understand the words expressing it. Feelings result in what are called emotion, affection and desire. An emotion is the simple feeling, such as joy, sorrow, etc. An affection is an emotion reaching out toward another and outside object, such as envy, jealousy, love, etc. A desire is an emotion arising from the _want_ of some lacking quality or thing, and the inclination to possess it.
_Memory_ is the faculty of the Mind whereby we retain and reproduce, or consciously revive any kind of past mental experience. It has two sub-phases; _viz._, Retention and Recollection, respectively. It manifests in the storing away of mental images and ideas, and in the reproduction of them at a later period of time, and also of the recognition of them as objects of past experience.
_Imagination_ is the faculty of the Mind whereby we represent (_re-pre-sent_) as a mental image some previously experienced idea, concept or image. Its activities are closely allied and blended with those of the Memory. It has the power not only of reproducing objects already perceived but also another power of _ideal creation_ whereby it _creates_ new combinations from the materials of past experience. It is a faculty, the importance of which is but little understood by the majority of men. Inasmuch as the mental image must always precede the material manifestation, the cultivation of the Imagination becomes a matter of great importance and worthy of the closest study.
_Intuition_ is the faculty of the Mind whereby it evolves what have been called Primary Truths or Primary Ideas. By Primary Ideas are meant the ideas of Space, Time, Cause, Identity, etc. By Primary Truths are meant the so-called “Self-Evident Truths” of geometry, mathematics and logic. Under the head of Intuition are also sometimes included the activities of the Subconscious or Superconscious regions of the mind, of which we have spoken in detail in a volume under that name of this series. Some authorities hold to the older idea of “Innate Ideas” by which is meant that every human being is born with the knowledge of certain fundamental truths, unconnected with any experience. Others hold that these ideas are simply the result of the experience of the race, transmitted to us as “germ ideas” which must grow by experience and exercise.
* * * * *
That each and every faculty of the Mind may be strengthened and developed by Culture and Exercise is now held to be a fact by nearly every authority worthy of that name. Just as the physical muscle may be cultivated by the proper methods, so may the mental faculties be strengthened and cultivated by the appropriate methods and means. Inasmuch as the majority of the race are deficient in the development of one or more of the leading mental faculties, it becomes a matter of great interest and importance that all should acquaint themselves with the means whereby their deficiencies may be corrected and remedied. We shall now proceed to the consideration of Thought-Culture in general, and then to the consideration of the culture of each particular general faculty, in detail.
CHAPTER IV.
THOUGHT-CULTURE
Thought-Culture is based upon two general scientific facts which may be stated as follows:
I. The brain centres of thought may be developed by exercise. While we do not assert that the brain and the mind are identical, it is nevertheless a scientific truth that “the brain is the organ of the mind” and that one of the first requisites for a good mind is a good brain. It has been proven by experiment that the brain-cells concerned in special mental activities multiply in proportion to the active use of the special faculties employed in the mental operation. It has also been ascertained that disuse of special faculties of the mind tends to cause a process akin to atrophy in the brain-cells concerned in the particular activity, so that it becomes difficult to think clearly along those particular lines after a long period of disuse. Moreover, it is known that the education and mental culture of a child is accompanied by an increase and development of the brain-cells connected with the particular fields of thought in which the child is exercised.
There is a close analogy between the exercise of the brain-cells and the exercise of the muscles of the body. Both respond to reasonable exercise; both are injured by overwork; both degenerate by disuse. As Brooks says: “The mind grows by its own inherent energies. Mental exercise is thus the law of mental development. As a muscle grows strong by use, so any faculty of the mind is developed by its proper use and exercise. An inactive mind, like an unused muscle, becomes weak and unskilful. Hang the arm in a sling and the muscle becomes flabby and loses its vigor and skill; let the mind remain inactive and it acquires a mental flabbiness that unfits it for any severe or prolonged activity. An idle mind loses its tone and strength like an unused muscle; the mental powers go to rust through idleness and inaction. To develop the faculties of the mind and secure their highest activity and efficiency, there must be a constant and judicious exercise of these faculties. The object of culture is to stimulate and direct the activity of the mind.”
Experiments conducted by scientists upon dogs have shown that in the case of dogs specially trained to unusual mental activity, there has been a corresponding increase of the number of active brain-cells in the particular parts of the brain concerned with those mental activities. Microscopic examination of the brain tissues showed the greatest difference between the brain structure of the trained dogs and untrained ones of the same brood. So carefully were the experiments conducted that it was possible to distinguish between the dogs trained in one set of activities from those trained in another. Biologists have demonstrated the correctness of the brain-cell development theory beyond reasonable doubt, and ordinary human experience also adds its testimony in its favor.
In view of the above, it will be seen that by intelligent exercise and use any and all faculties of the mind may be developed and cultivated, just as may any special muscle of the body. And this exercise can come only from actual use of the faculties themselves. Development must come from within and not from without. No system of outward stimulation will develop the faculties of the mind–they may be cultivated only by an exercise in their own particular field of work. The only way to exercise any particular faculty of thought is to _think_ through that faculty.
II. Not only are the brain-cells developed by exercise, but it also appears to be a fact that the mind appears actually to be _nourished_ by knowledge of the outside world of things. The raw material of thought is taken into the mind and there is digested by the thought-processes, and is afterward actually _assimilated_ by the mind in a manner strikingly similar to the processes of the physical organs of nutrition. A mind to be at its best must be supplied with a normal amount of mental nourishment. Lacking this, it tends to become weak and inefficient. And, likewise, if its owner is a mental glutton and furnishes too much nourishment, particularly of a rich kind, there is a tendency toward “mental dyspepsia” and indigestion–the mind, unable to assimilate the mental food furnished it, is inclined to rebel. Moreover, if the mind be supplied with mental food of only one kind–if the mind is confined to one narrow field of thought–it weakens and the mental processes become impaired. In many ways is this curious analogy apparent.
Not only does the mind need development, but it also needs intelligent cultivation. For it may be _developed_ by improper objects of thought just as well as by the proper ones. A rich field will grow tares and weeds as well as good grain or fruit. Thought-culture should not be confined to the _development of a strong and active mind_, but should be also extended to the _cultivation of a wise and intelligent mind_. Strength and Wisdom should be combined. Moreover there should be sought a harmonious and normal development. A one-sided, mental development is apt to produce a “crank,” while a development in unhealthy mental fields will produce an abnormal thinker tending dangerously near to the line of insanity. Some “one-idea” men have great mental power and development, but are nevertheless unbalanced and impractical. And insane persons often have strongly developed minds–developed abnormally.
Some authorities, holding special theories regarding the nature of mind, hold that Thought-Culture is merely a _training_ of the faculties rather than a _creation_ of new mental power, inasmuch as the mind cannot be built up from the outside. This is a curious combination of truth and error. It is true that the mind cannot be built up from outside material, in the sense of creating _new mind_, but it is also true that in every mind there is the potentiality of growth and development. Just as the future oak is said to be in the acorn, so are the potentialities of mind-growth in every mind waiting for nourishment from outside and the proper cultivation. Brooks has well stated this, as follows: “The culture of the mind is not creative in its character; its object is to develop existing possibilities into realities. The mind possesses innate powers which may be awakened into a natural activity. The design of culture is to aid nature in improving the powers she has given. No new power can be created by culture; we can increase the activity of these powers, but cannot develop any new activities. Through these activities new ideas and thoughts may be developed, and the sum of human knowledge increased; but this is accomplished by a high activity of the natural powers with which the mind is endowed, and not by the culture of new powers. The profound philosopher uses the same faculties that the little child is developing in the games of the nursery. The object of culture is to arouse the powers which nature has given us into a normal activity and to stimulate and guide them in their unfolding.”
In connection with the objection above mentioned, it may be said that while the development of the mind must come from within itself, rather than from without, nevertheless, in order to develop, it must have the nourishing material from the outside world in order to grow. Just as the body can grow from within only by the aid of nourishment from outside, so the mind, while growing from within, needs the material for thought which can come only from without itself. Thought requires “things” upon which to exercise itself–and upon which it is nourished. Without these outside objects, it can have no exercise and can receive no nourishment. Thought consists in the perception, examination and comparison of _things_, and the consequent building up new combinations, arrangements and syntheses. Therefore, the perceptive faculties are most necessary to Thought, and their culture is most necessary in the general work of Thought-Culture.
It must not be lost sight of that in Thought-Culture there is necessary a variety of exercises and forms of nourishment. What will develop one faculty will exert but a faint effect upon others. Each needs its own particular kind of exercise–each its particular kind of mental nourishment. While it is true that there is a certain benefit gained by the entire mind from an exercise of any of its parts, this effect is but secondary in importance. A man well developed mentally has been developed in each faculty, each in its own way. The faculty of perception requires objects of perception; the faculty of imagination requires objects of imagination; the faculty of reasoning requires objects of reasoning; and so on, each requiring objects of exercise and nourishment of its own kind–in its own class. In some persons some of the faculties are well developed while others are deficient. It follows that in such a case the weak faculties should be developed first, that they be brought up to the general standard. Then a further general development may be undertaken if desired. Moreover, in general development, it will be found that certain faculties will respond more readily to the cultivation given, while others will be slow to respond. In such cases wisdom dictates that a greater degree of exercise and nourishment be given to the slower and less responsible faculties, while the more responsive be given but a lighter development. In Thought-Culture as in physical culture, the less developed and slower responding parts should be given special attention.
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In the following chapters we shall point out the methods and exercises calculated to develop the several faculties of the mind to the best advantage, in each case giving general advice along the lines of the cultivation of the particular faculty which will serve as general instruction regarding its culture. The student should carefully study the entire work before he attempts to specialize in the development of any particular faculty. The particular work may be aided by an acquaintance with the entire field of Thought-Culture for many of the faculties shade into each other in their activities and are always more or less interdependent. For, be it remembered, the mind is a _whole_, and not a mere aggregation of many parts. To understand the parts, one must study the whole–to understand the whole, one must study the parts.
CHAPTER V.
ATTENTION
Attention is not a faculty of the mind in the same sense as perception, abstraction, judgment, etc., but is rather in the nature of an act of will concerned in the focusing of the consciousness upon some object of thought presented or represented to the mind. In some respects it bears a resemblance to Abstraction, inasmuch as it sets aside some particular object for the consideration of the consciousness, to the exclusion of other objects. Wayland explains attention as a condition of mind in which the consciousness is excited and directed by an act of the will. Hamilton says: “Consciousness may be compared to a telescope; Attention is the pulling out and pressing in of the tubes in accommodating the focus of the eye;” and also that: “An act of attention, that is an act of concentration, seems thus necessary to every exertion of consciousness, as a certain contraction of the pupil is requisite to every exertion of vision…. Attention then is to consciousness what the contraction of the pupil is to sight, or to the eye of the mind what the microscope or telescope is to the bodily eye…. It constitutes the better half of all intellectual power.”
Brodie says that: “It is Attention, much more than any difference in the abstract power of reasoning, which constitutes the vast difference which exists between minds of different individuals.” Butler says: “The most important intellectual habit that I know of is the habit of attending exclusively to the matter in hand…. It is commonly said that genius cannot be infused by education, yet this power of concentrated attention, which belongs as a part of his gift to every great discoverer, is unquestionably capable of almost indefinite augmentation by resolute practice.” And Beattie says: “The force wherewith anything strikes the mind is generally in proportion to the degree of attention bestowed upon it.”
Realizing the importance of attention, the student will naturally wish to cultivate the power of bestowing it when necessary. The first role in the cultivation of the attention is that the student shall carefully acquire _the habit of thinking of or doing but one thing at a time_. This first rule may seem easy, but in practice it will be found very difficult of observance, so careless are the majority of us in our actions and thinking. Not only will the trouble and care bestowed upon the acquiring of this habit of thought and action be well repaid by the development of the attention, but the student will also acquire a facility for accomplishing his tasks quickly and thoroughly. As Kay says: “There is nothing that contributes more to success in any pursuit than that of having the attention concentrated on the matter in hand; and, on the contrary, nothing is more detrimental than when doing one thing to have the mind taken up with something else.” And as Granville says: “A frequent cause of failure in the faculty of attention is striving to think of more than one thing at a time.” Kay also well says: “If we would possess the power of attention in a high degree, we must cultivate the habit of attending to what is directly before the mind, to the exclusion of all else. All distracting thoughts and feelings that tend to withdraw the mind from what is immediately before it are therefore to be carefully avoided. This is a matter of great importance, and of no little difficulty. Frequently the mind, in place of being concentrated on what is immediately before it, is thinking of something else–something, it may be, that went before or that may come after, or something quite alien to the subject.”
The following principles of the application of the attention have been stated by the authorities:
I. The attention attaches more readily to interesting than to uninteresting things.
II. The attention will decline in strength unless there is a variation in the stimulus, either by a change of object or the developing of some new attribute in the object.
III. The attention, when tired by continuous direction toward some unvarying object, may be revived by directing it toward some new object or in allowing it to be attracted and held by some passing object.
IV. The attention manifests in a two-fold activity; _viz._ (1) the concentration upon some one object of thought; and (2) the shutting out of outside objects. Thus, it has its positive and negative sides. Thus, when a man wishes to give his undivided attention to one speaker in a crowd of speaking individuals, he acts positively in focusing his consciousness upon the selected individual, and negatively by refusing to listen to the others.
V. The attention is not a faculty, but a means of using any faculty with an increased degree of efficiency.
VI. The degree of attention possessed by an individual is an indication of his power of using his intellect. Many authorities have held that, in cases of genius, the power of concentrated attention is usually greatly developed. Brooks says: “Attention is one of the principal elements of genius.” Hamilton says: “Genius is a higher capacity of attention.” Helvetius says: “Genius is nothing but protracted attention.” Chesterfield says: “The power of applying our attention, steady and undissipated, to a single object is a sure mark of superior genius.”
The attention may be cultivated, just as may be the various faculties of the mind, by the two-fold method of Exercise and Nourishment; that is, by using and employing it actively and by furnishing it with the proper materials with which to feed its strength. The way to exercise the attention is _to use it frequently_ in every-day life. If you are listening to a man speaking, endeavor to give to him your undivided attention, and, at the same time, to shut out from your consciousness every other object. In working, we should endeavor to use the attention by concentrating our interest upon the particular task before us to the exclusion of all else. In reading, we should endeavor to hold our minds closely to the text instead of hastily glancing over the page as so many do.
Those who wish to cultivate their attention should take up some line of study in which it is necessary to fasten the attention firmly for a time. A half-hour’s study in this way is worth more than hours of careless reading so far as the cultivation of the attention is concerned. Mathematics is most valuable in the direction of developing the power of attention. Gibbon says: “After a rapid glance on the subject and distribution of a new book, I suspend the reading of it which I only resume after having myself examined the subject in all its relations.”
Some writers have held that the attention may be developed by the practice of selecting the voice of one person speaking among a crowd of speakers, and deliberately shutting out the other sounds, giving the whole attention to the particular speaker; or, in the same manner, selecting one singer in a church choir or band of singers; or one musical instrument in an orchestra; or one piece of machinery making sounds in a room filled with various machines, etc. The practice of so doing is held to strengthen one’s powers of concentration and attention.
Draper says: “Although many images may be simultaneously existing upon the retina, the mind possesses the power of singling out any one of them and fastening attention upon it, just as among a number of musical instruments simultaneously played, one, and that perhaps the feeblest, may be selected and its notes exclusively followed.” And as Taylor says: “In a concert of several voices, the voices being of nearly equal intensity, regarded merely as organic impressions on the auditory nerve, we select one, and at will we lift out and disjoin it from the general volume of sound; we shut off the other voices–five, ten and more–and follow this one alone. When we have done so for a time, we freely cast it off and take up another.” Carpenter says: “The more completely the mental energy can be brought into one focus and all distracting objects excluded, the more powerful will be the volitional effort.”
Many authorities hold that the attention may be best applied and exercised by analyzing an object mentally, and then considering its parts one by one by a process of abstraction. Thus, as Kays says: “An apple presents to us form, color, taste, smell, etc., and if we would obtain a clear idea of any one of these, we must contemplate it by itself and compare it with other impressions of the same kind we have previously experienced. So in viewing a landscape, it is not enough to regard it merely as a whole, but we must regard each of its different parts individually by itself if we would obtain a clear idea of it. We can only obtain a full and complete knowledge of an object _by analyzing it and concentrating the attention upon its different parts, one by one_.” Reid says: “It is not by the senses immediately, but rather by the power of _analyzing and abstraction_, that we get the most simple and the most distinct notions of objects of sense.” And, as Brown says: “It is scarcely possible to advance even a single step in intellectual physics without the necessity of performing _some sort of analysis_.” In all processes requiring analysis and examination of parts, properties or qualities, the attention is actively employed. Accordingly, it follows that such exercises are best adapted to the work of developing and cultivating the attention itself. Therefore, as a parting word we may say: _To develop and cultivate the power of attention and concentration, (1) Analyze; (2) Analyze; and (3) Analyze. Analyze everything and everybody with which or whom you come in contact._ There is no better or shorter rule.
The student will also find that the various directions and the advice which we shall give in the succeeding chapters, regarding the cultivation of the various faculties, are also adapted to the development of the attention, for the latter is brought into active play in them. And, likewise, by developing the attention, one may practice the future exercises with greater effect.
CHAPTER VI.
PERCEPTION
In preceding chapters we have seen that in the phase of mental activity in which the Intellect is concerned, the processes of which are known as “Thought” in the narrower sense of the term, there are several stages or steps involving the use of several faculties of the mind. The first of these steps or stages is called _Perception_.
Many persons confuse the idea of Sensation and Perception, but there is a clear distinction between them. Sensations arise from nerve action–from the stimulation of nerve substance–which gives rise to a peculiar effect upon the brain, which results in an elementary form of consciousness. An authority says: “Sensation is the peculiar property of the nervous system in a state of activity, by which impressions are conveyed to the brain or sensorium. When an impression is made upon any portion of the bodily surface by contact, heat, electricity, light, or any other agent, the mind is rendered conscious of this by sensation. In the process there are three stages–reception of the impression at the end of the sensory nerve, the conduction of it along the nerve trunk to the sensorium, and _the change it excites in the sensorium itself, through which is produced sensation_.”
Just why and how this nerve action is translated into consciousness of an elementary kind, science is unable to explain. Our knowledge is based in a great part, or entirely, upon impressions which have been received over the channel of the senses–sensations of sight, hearing, tasting, smelling and touch. Many authorities hold that all of the five senses are modifications of the sense of touch, or feeling; as for instance, the impression upon the organs of sight is really in the nature of a delicate touch or feeling of the light-waves as they come in contact with the nerves of vision, etc. But, although sensations give us the raw materials of thought, so to speak, they are not _knowledge_ in themselves. Knowledge arises from the operation of Perception upon this raw material of Sensation.
But yet, Sensation plays a most active part in the presentation of the raw material for the Perceptive faculties, and must not be regarded as merely a physiological process. It may be said to be the connecting link between the physical and the mental activities. As Ziehen says: “It follows that the constitution of the nervous system is an essential factor in determining the quality of sensation. This fact reveals the obvious error of former centuries, first refuted by Locke, though still shared by naive thought today, that the objects about us themselves are colored, warm, cold, etc. As external to our consciousness, we can only assume matter, vibrating with molecular motion and permeated by vibrating particles of ether. The nervous apparatus selects only certain motions of matter or of ether, which they transform into that form of nerve excitation with which they are familiar. It is only this nerve excitation that we perceive as red, warm or hard.”
Passing from Sensation to Perception, we see that the latter interprets the reports of the former. Perception translates into consciousness the impressions of Sensation. Perception, acting through one or more of the mental faculties, gives us _our first bit of real knowledge_. Sensation may give us the impression of a small moving thing–Perception translates this into the thought of _a cat_. Sensation is a mere _feeling_–Perception is the _thought_ arising from that feeling. A Percept is the product of Perception, or in other words, our _idea_ gained through Perception. The majority of our percepts are complex, being built up from a number of minor percepts; as for instance, our percept of _a peach_ is built up from our minor percepts of the form, shape, color, weight, degree of hardness, smell, taste, etc., of the peach, each sense employed giving minor percepts, the whole being combined in the conscious as the whole percept of that particular peach.
Brooks says: “All knowledge does not come directly from perception through the senses, however. We have a knowledge of external objects, and we have a knowledge that transcends this knowledge of external objects. Perception is the _immediate_ source of the first kind of knowledge, and the _indirect_ source of the second kind of knowledge. This distinction is often expressed by the terms _cause_ and _occasion_. Thus perception is said to be the _cause_ of our knowledge of objects, since it is the immediate source of such knowledge. Perception is also said to be the _occasion_ of the ideas and truths of intuition; for, though in a sense necessary to these ideas, it is not the source of them. Perception also furnishes the understanding with materials out of which it derives ideas and truths beyond the field of sense. As thus attaining a knowledge of external objects, affording material for the operations of the understanding, and furnishing the occasion for the activity of the intuitive power, _perception may be said to lie at the basis of all knowledge_.”
Perception is of course manifest in all persons. But it varies greatly in degree and power. Moreover, it may be developed and cultivated to a great degree. As Perception is an interpretation of the impression of the senses, we often confuse the cultivation of Perception with the development of the senses themselves. Two persons of equally perfect sense of sight may vary greatly in their degree of Perception of sight impressions. One may be a most careless observer, while the other may be a very close observer and able to distinguish many points of interest and importance in the object viewed which are not apparent to the first observer. Cultivation of Perception is cultivation of the _mental background of the senses_, rather than of the sense organs themselves. The Perception accompanying each sense may be developed and cultivated separately from that accompanying the others.
The majority of persons are very careless observers. They will _see_ things without _perceiving_ the qualities, properties, characteristics, or parts which together make up those things. Two persons, possessed of equal degrees of eyesight, will walk through a forest. Both of them will _see_ trees. To one of them there will be but trees perceived; while to the other there will be a perception of the different species of trees, with their varying bark, leaves, shape, etc. One perceives simply a “pile of stone,” which to the perception of another will be recognized as granite, marble, etc. Brooks says: “Very few persons can tell the difference between the number of legs of a fly and of a spider; and I have known farmers’ boys and girls who could not tell whether the ears of a cow are in front of her horns, above her horns, below her horns, or behind her horns.” Halleck says of a test in a schoolroom: “Fifteen pupils were sure that they had seen cats climb trees and descend them. There was a unanimity of opinion that the cats went up head first. When asked whether the cats came down head or tail first, the majority were sure that the cats descended as they were never known to do. Anyone who had ever noticed the shape of the claws of any beast of prey could have answered that question without seeing an actual descent. Farmers’ boys, who have often seen cows and horses lie down and rise, are seldom sure whether the animals rise with their fore or hind feet first, or whether the habit of the horse agrees with that of the cow in this respect.”
Brooks well says: “Modern education tends to the neglect of the culture of the perceptive powers. In ancient times people studied nature much more than at present. Being without books, they were compelled to depend upon their eyes and ears for knowledge; and this made their senses active, searching and exact. At the present day, we study books for a knowledge of external things; and we study them too much or too exclusively, and thus neglect the cultivation of the senses. We get our knowledge of the material world second-hand, instead of fresh from the open pages of the book of nature. Is it not a great mistake to spend so much time in school and yet not know the difference between the leaf of a beech and of an oak; or not be able to distinguish between specimens of marble, quartz, and granite? The neglect of the culture of the perceptive powers is shown by the scholars of the present time. Very few educated men are good observers; indeed, the most of them are sadly deficient in this respect…. They were taught to think and remember; but were not taught to use their eyes and ears. In modern education, books are used too much like spectacles, and the result is the blunting of the natural powers of perception.”
The first principle in the Cultivation of Perception is the correct use of the Attention. The intelligent control of voluntary attention is a prerequisite to clear and distinct perception. We have called your attention to this matter in the preceding chapter. Halleck says: “A body may be imaged on the retina without insuring perception. There must be an effort to concentrate the attention upon the many things which the world presents to our senses…. Perception, to achieve satisfactory results, must summon the will to its aid to concentrate the attention. Only the smallest part of what falls upon our senses at any time is actually perceived.”
The sense of sight is perhaps the one of the greatest importance to us, and accordingly the cultivation of Perception with regard to impressions received through the eye is the most important for the ordinary individual. As Kay says: “To see clearly is a valuable aid even to thinking clearly. In all our mental operations we owe much to sight. To recollect, to think, to imagine, is to see internally,–to call up more or less visual images of things before the mind. In order to understand a thing it is generally necessary to see it, and what a man has not seen he cannot properly realize or image distinctly to his mind…. It is by the habitual direction of our attention to the effects produced upon our consciousness by the impressions made upon the eye and transmitted to the sensorium that our sight, like our other senses, is trained.” Bain says: “Cohering trains and aggregates of the sensations of sight make more than any other thing, perhaps more than all other things put together, the material of thought, memory and imagination.” Vinet says: “The child, and perhaps the man as well, only knows well what is shown him, and the image of things is the true medium between their abstract idea and his personal experience.” This being the case, advice concerning the Cultivation of Perception must needs be directed mainly to the cultivation of the perception of sight-impressions.
Brooks says: “We should acquire the habit of observing with attention. Many persons look at objects with a careless, inattentive eye. We should guard against the habit of careless looking. We should fix the mind upon the object before us; we should concentrate the attention upon that upon which we are looking. Attention, in respect to Perception, has been compared to a burning glass; hold the sun-glass between the sun and a board and the concentrated rays will burn a hole through the latter. So attention concentrates the rays of perceptive power and enables the mind to penetrate below the surface of things.”
The best authorities agree in the idea that the Perception may be best cultivated by acquiring the habit of examining things in detail. And, that this examination in detail is best manifested by examining the parts going to make up a complex thing, separately, rather than examining the thing as a whole. Halleck says regarding this point: “To look at things intelligently is the most difficult of all arts. The first rule for the cultivation of accurate perception is: Do not try to perceive the whole of a complex object at once. Take the human face for example. A man holding an important position to which he had been elected offended many people because he could not remember faces, and hence failed to recognize individuals the second time he met them. His trouble was in looking at the countenance as a whole. When he changed his method of observation, and noticed carefully the nose, mouth, eyes, chin and color of hair, he at once began to find recognition easier. He was no longer in danger of mistaking A for B, since he remembered that the shape of B’s nose was different, or the color of his hair at least three shades lighter. This example shows that another rule can be formulated: Pay careful attention to details…. To see an object merely as an undiscriminated mass of something in a certain place is to do no more than a donkey accomplishes as he trots along.”
Brooks says regarding the same point: “To train the powers of observation we should practice observing minutely. We should analyze the objects which we look at into their parts, and notice these parts. Objects present themselves to us as wholes; our definite knowledge of them is gained by analysis, by separating them into the elements which compose them. We should therefore give attention to the details of whatever we are considering; and thus cultivate the habit of observing with minuteness…. It is related of a teacher that if, when hearing a class, some one rapped at the door, he would look up as the visitor entered and from a single glance could tell his appearance and dress, the kind of hat he wore, kind of necktie, collar, vest, coat, shoes, etc. The skillful banker, also, in counting money with wondrous rapidity, will detect and throw from his pile of bills the counterfeits which, to the ordinary eye, seem to be without spot or blemish.”
One of the best methods of developing and cultivating the faculty of Perception is to take up some study in which the perceptive faculties _must be_ employed. Botany, physics, geology, natural history give splendid exercise in Perception, providing the student engages in actual experimental work, and actual observation, instead of confining himself to the textbooks. A careful scientific study and examination of _any kind of objects_, in a manner calculated to bring out the various points of resemblance and difference, will do most to develop the Perception. Training of this kind will develop these powers to a high degree, in the case of small children.
Drawing is also a great help to the development of Perception. In order to draw a thing correctly we must of necessity examine it in detail; otherwise we will not be able to draw it correctly. In fact, many authorities use the test of drawing to prove the degree of attention and Perception that the student has bestowed upon an object which he has been studying. Others place an object before the pupil for a few minutes, and then withdraw it, the pupil then being required to draw the object roughly but with attention to its leading peculiarities and features. Then the object is again placed before the pupil for study, and he is then again required to draw from memory the additional details he has noticed in it. This process is repeated over and over again, until the pupil has proved that he has _observed_ every possible detail of interest in the object. This exercise has resulted in the cultivation of a high degree of perception in many students, and its simplicity should not detract from its importance. Any person may practice this exercise by himself; or, better still, two or more students may combine and endeavor to excel each other in friendly rivalry, each endeavoring to discover the greatest number of details in the object considered. So rapidly do students improve under this exercise, that a daily record will show a steady advance. Simple exercises in drawing are found in the reproduction, from memory, of geography maps, leaves of trees, etc.
Similar exercises may be found in the practice of taking a hasty look at a person, animal or building, and then endeavoring to reproduce in writing the particular points about the person or thing observed. This exercise will reveal rapid progress if persisted in. Or, it may be varied by endeavoring to write out the contents of a room through which one has walked.
The majority of our readers remember the familiar story of Houdin, who so cultivated the faculty of Perception that he was able to pass by a shop-window and afterward state in detail every object in the window. He acquired this power by gradual development, beginning with the observation of a single article in the window, then two, then three and so on. Others have followed his method with great success. Speaking of Houdin’s wonderful Perception, Halleck says: “A wide-awake eagle would probably see more of a thing at one glance than would a drowsy lizard in a quarter of an hour. Extreme rapidity of Perception, due to careful training, was one of the factors enabling Houdin and his son to astonish everybody and to amass a fortune. He placed a domino before the boy, and instead of allowing him to count the spots, required him to give the sum total at once. This exercise was continued until each could give instantaneously the sum of the spots on a dozen dominoes. The sum was given just as accurately as if five minutes had been consumed in adding.” Houdin, in his Memoirs relating the above facts regarding his own methods, states with due modesty, that many women far excel him in this respect. He says: “I can safely assert that a lady seeing another pass at full speed in a carriage will have had time to analyze her toilette from her bonnet to her shoes, and be able to describe not only the fashion and quality of the stuffs, but also say if the lace be real or only machine made.”
There are a number of games played by children which tend to the cultivation of the Perception, and which might well be adapted for the use of older people. These games are based on the general principle of the various participants taking a brief view of a number of objects displayed in one’s hand, on a table, in a box, etc., and then stating what he or she has seen. There will be noticed a wonderful difference in the degree of Perception manifested by the various participants. And, equally interesting will be the degrees of progress noted after playing this game over several times, allowing time for rest between the series of games. It is a fact well known in police circles that thieves often train boys in this way, following this course by another in which the lads are expected to take in the contents of a room, the windows, locks, etc., at a glance. They are then graduated into spies looking out the details of the scenes of future robberies.
In our volume of this series, devoted to the consideration of the Memory, we have related a number of exercises and methods, similar to those given above, by which the Perception may be cultivated. Perception plays a most important place in memory, for upon the clearness of the percepts depends to a great degree the clearness of the impressions made upon the memory. So close is the connection between Memory and Perception that the cultivation of one tends to develop the other. For instance, the cultivation of the Memory necessitates the sharpening of the Perception in the direction of obtaining clear original impressions; while the cultivation of Perception naturally develops the Memory by reason of the fact that the latter is used in testing and proving the clearness and degree of Perception. This being the case, those who find that the exercises and methods given above are too arduous may substitute the simple exercise of remembering as many details as possible of things they see. This effort to impress the memory will involuntarily bring into action the perceptive faculties in the acquirement of the original impressions, so that in the end the Perception will be found to have developed.
Teachers and those having to do with children should realize the great value of the cultivation of Perception in the young, and thus establishing valuable habits of observation among them. The experience and culture thus acquired will prove of great value in their after life. As Brooks well says on this subject: “Teachers should appreciate the value of the culture of the perceptive powers, and endeavor to do something to afford this culture. Let it be remembered that by training the powers of observation of pupils, we lead them to acquire definite ideas of things, enable them to store their minds with fresh and interesting knowledge, lay the foundation for literary or business success, and thus do much to enhance their happiness in life and add to the sum of human knowledge.”
CHAPTER VII.
REPRESENTATION
Sensation and Perception, as considered in the preceding chapter, are what are called by psychologists “Processes of Presentation.” By Presentation is meant the direct offering to the consciousness of mental images or objects of thought. If there were no faculty of the mind capable of retaining and _re_-presenting to the consciousness the impression or record of Perception, we could never progress in knowledge, for each percept would be new each time it was presented and there would be no recognition of it as having been previously perceived, nor would there be any power to voluntarily recall any percept previously acquired. In short, we would be without that power of the mind called Memory.
But, fortunately for us as thinkers, we possess the power of Representation; that is, of reproducing past perceptions and experiences in the shape of _mental images_ or pictures, “in the mind’s eye,” so to speak, which relieves us of the necessity of directly and immediately perceiving an object each time we desire or are required to think of it. The processes whereby this becomes possible are called the processes of Representation, for the reason that by them past experiences of Perception are _re_-presented to the consciousness.
The subject of Representation is closely bound up with that of Memory. Strictly speaking, Representation may be said to be one phase of Memory; Association of Ideas another; and the authorities prefer to treat the whole subject under the general head of Memory. We have written a work on “Memory” which forms one of the volumes of the present series, and we have no intention, or desire, to repeat here the information given in that work. But we must consider the subject of Representation at this point in order to maintain the logical unity of the present general subject of Thought-Culture. The student will also notice, of course, the close relation between the processes of Representation and those of the Imagination, which we shall consider in other chapters of this work.
Memory has several phases, the usual classification of which is as follows: (1) Impression; (2) Retention; (3) Recollection; (4) Representation, and (5) Recognition. Each phase requires the operation of special mental processes. _Impression_ is the process whereby the impressions of Perception are recorded or stamped upon the subconscious field of mentality, as the impress of the die upon the wax. _Retention_ is the process whereby the subconsciousness _retains_ or holds the impressions so received. _Recollection_ is the process by which the mind _re-collects_ the impressions retained in the subconsciousness, bringing them again into consciousness as objects of knowledge. _Representation_ is the process whereby the impressions so re-collected are _pictured or imaged_ in the mind. _Recognition_ is the process whereby the mind _recognizes_ the mental image or picture so re-presented to it as connected with its past experience.
As we have stated, we have considered the general subject of Memory in another volume of this series and, therefore, shall not attempt to enter into a discussion of its general subject at this place. We shall, accordingly, limit ourselves here to a brief consideration of the phase of Representation and its cultivation.
Representation, of course, depends upon the preceding phases of Memory known as Impression, Retention and Recollection. Unless the Impression is clear; unless the Retention is normal, there can be no Representation. And unless one _recollects_ there can be no Representation. Recollection (which is really a re-collection of percepts) must precede Representation in the shape of mental images or pictures. Recollection re-collects the mental materials out of which the image is to be constructed. But, as Brooks says: “It is not to be assumed that knowledge is retained as a picture; but that it is _recreated_ in the form of a picture or some other mental product when it is recalled.” The process is analogous to the transmutation of the sound-waves entering the receiver of a telephone, into electrical-waves which are transmitted to the receiver, where they are in turn re-transmuted to sound-waves which enter the ear of the listener. It will be seen at once that there is the closest possible relation between the processes of Representation and those of Memory–in fact, it is quite difficult to draw a clear line of division between them. Some make the distinction that Representation furnishes us with an exact reproduction of _the past_; while Imagination combines our mental images into _new products_. That is, Representation merely _reproduces_; while Imagination _creates_ by forming new combinations; or Representation deals with a reproduction of the Actual; while Imagination deals with the Ideal.
Wundt speaking of this difficult distinction says: “Psychologists are accustomed to define _memory images_ as ideas which _exactly reproduce_ some previous perception, and _fancy images_ as ideas consisting of a combination of elements taken from a whole number of perceptions. Now memory images in the sense of this definition simply do not exist…. Try, for instance, to draw from memory some landscape picture which you have only once seen, and then compare your copy with the original. You will expect to find plenty of mistakes and omissions; but you will also invariably find that you have put in a great deal which was not in the original, but which comes from landscape pictures which you have seen somewhere else.”
While we generally speak of Representation _picturing_ the recollected percepts, still, we must not make the mistake of supposing that it is concerned with, or limited to, only mental pictures. We are able to _represent_ not only visual percepts but also sounds, smells, tastes or feelings, often so vividly that they appear as almost actually existent. We may also even _represent_, symbolically the processes of reasoning, mathematical operations, etc. In short nearly, if not all experiences which are possible in Presentation are also possible in Representation.
The phase of Representation, in the processes of Memory, is of course subject to the general laws of the Cultivation of Memory which we have stated in detail in our previous volume on that subject. But there are some special points of development and cultivation which may be considered briefly in this place. In the first place the importance of Attention and clear Perception, as necessary precedents for clear Representation, may be emphasized. In order to form clear mental images of a thing we must have perceived it clearly in the first place. The advice regarding the use of the Attention and Perception given in preceding chapters need not be repeated here, but special attention should be directed toward them in connection with the processes of Representation. If we wish to cultivate the Representative faculties, we must begin by cultivating the Presentative faculties.
Then again we must remember what we have said elsewhere about the facts of development through (1) Use; and (2) Nourishment, in all mental faculties. We must begin to _use_ the faculties of Representation in order to exercise them. We must give them _nourishment_ in the shape of objects of mental food. That is to say we must furnish these faculties with _materials_ with which they may grow and develop, and with exercise in order to strengthen the mental-muscle and also to give the faculties the opportunity to “acquire the knack.” The exercises and methods recommended in our chapter on Perception will furnish good _material_ for the Representative faculties’ growing requirements. By _perceiving_ the details of things, one is able to reproduce clear mental images of them. In studying an object, always carry in your mind the fact that you wish to _reproduce_ it in your mind later. In fact, if you have the opportunity, let your mind “repeat it to itself” as soon as possible after the actual occurrence and experience. Just as you often murmur to yourself, or else write down, the name of a person or place which you have just heard, in order that you may recollect it the better thereafter, so it will be well for you to “mentally repeat” to yourself the experiences upon which you wish to exercise your Representative faculties.
As to the matter of development and cultivation by Use, we would advise that you begin gradually to train your mind to _reproduce_ the experiences of the day or week or month, at intervals, until you feel that you are developing a new power in that direction. Tonight, if you try you will find that you can reproduce but a very small part of today’s happenings with any degree of clearness. How clearly can you image the places you have been, the appearances of the people you have met, the various details of persons and things which you perceived during the experiences of the day? Not very clearly, we dare say. Try again, and you will find that you will be able to add new details. Keep it up until you feel tired or think that you have exhausted all the possibilities of the task. Tomorrow, try it again, and you will find that the second day’s experiences are more clearly reproduced in your mind. Each day should find you a little more advanced, until you get to a place where the normal degree of power is attained, when the advance will be slower.
Then, at the end of the week, review its experiences. Do the same the following week. At the end of the month, take a hasty mental trip over the month’s experiences. And so on. Exercise, in moderation, along these lines will work wonders for you. Not only will it develop the Representation, but your powers of observation and your general memory will be found to be improved. And, moreover, in “chewing the mental cud” you will think of many things of interest and importance in connection with your work, etc., and your general mental efficiency will be increased for the faculties of the mind are interdependent and share benefits with each other.
CHAPTER VIII.
ABSTRACTION
As we have seen, the first stage or step in the process of Thought is that called Perception, which we have considered in the preceding chapter. Perception, as we have seen, is the process by which we gain our first knowledge of the external world as reported to us by the channels of sense. The Perceptive faculties interpret the material which is presented to us by the senses. Following upon Perception we find the processes resulting from the exercise of the group of faculties which are classified under the general head of Understanding.
Understanding is the faculty, or faculties, of the mind by means of which we intelligently examine and compare the various _percepts_, either separating them by analysis, or else combining them by synthesis, or both, and thus securing our general ideas, principles, laws, classes, etc. There are several sub-phases of Understanding which are known to psychologists and logicians as: (1) Abstraction; (2) Conception or Generalization; (3) Judgment, and (4) Reasoning, respectively. In this chapter we shall consider the first of these sub-phases or steps of Understanding, which is known as “Abstraction.”
Abstraction is that faculty of the mind by which we abstract or “draw off,” and then consider apart, the particular qualities, properties, or attributes of an object, and thus are able to consider _them_ as “things” or objects of thought. In order to form _concepts_ or general ideas, from our _percepts_ or particular ideas, we must consider and examine two common points or qualities which go to make up _differences and resemblances_. The special examination or consideration of these common points or qualities result in the exercise of Abstraction. In the process of Abstraction we mentally “draw away” a quality of an object and then consider it as a distinct object of thought. Thus in considering a flower we may _abstract_ its qualities of fragrance, color, shape, etc., and think of these as things independent of the flower itself from which they were derived. We think of _redness_, _fragrance_, etc., not only in connection with the particular flower but as _general qualities_. Thus the qualities of redness, sweetness, hardness, softness, etc., lead us to the abstract terms, _red_, _sweet_, _hard_, _soft_, _etc._ In the same way courage, cowardice, virtue, vice, love, hate, etc., are abstract terms. No one ever saw one of these things–they are known only in connection with objects, or else as “abstract terms” in the processes of Thought. They may be known as qualities, and expressed as predicates; or they may be considered as abstract things and expressed as nouns.
In the general process of Abstraction we first draw off and set aside all the qualities which are _not common_ to the general class under consideration, for the concept or general idea must comprise only the qualities common to its class. Thus in the case of the general idea of horse, size and color must be abstracted as non-essentials, for horses are of various colors and sizes. But on the other hand, there are certain qualities which _are common to all horses_, and these must be abstracted and used in making up the concept or general idea.
So, you see, in general Abstraction we form two classes: (1) the unlike and not-general qualities; and (2) the like or common qualities. As Halleck says: “In the process of Abstraction, we draw our attention away from a mass of confusing details, unimportant at the time, and attend only to qualities common to the class. Abstraction is little else than centering the power of attention on some qualities to the exclusion of others…. While we are forming concepts, we abstract or draw off certain qualities, either to leave them out of view or to consider them by themselves. Our dictionaries contain such words as purity, whiteness, sweetness, industry, courage, etc. No one ever touched, tasted, smelled, heard, or saw purity or courage. We do not, therefore, gain our knowledge of these through the senses. We have seen pure persons, pure snow, pure honey; we have breathed pure air, tasted pure coffee. From all these different objects we have abstracted the only like quality, the quality of being pure. We then say we have an idea of _purity_, and that idea is an abstract one. It exists only in the mind which formed it. No one ever saw _whiteness_. He may have seen white clouds, snow, cloth, blossoms, houses, paper, horses, but he never saw _whiteness_ by itself. He simply abstracted that quality from various white objects.”
In Abstraction we may either (1) abstract a quality and set it aside and apart from the other qualities under consideration, as being non-essential and not necessary; or we may (2) abstract a quality and hold it in the mind as essential and necessary for the concept which we are forming. Likewise, we may abstract (1) all the qualities of an object _except one_, and set them aside that we may consider the _one_ quality by itself; or we may (2) abstract the one particular quality and consider it to the exclusion of all its associated qualities. In all of these aspects we have the same underlying process of considering a quality apart from its object, and apart from its associated qualities. The mind more commonly operates in the direction of abstracting one quality and viewing it apart from object and associated qualities.
The importance of correct powers of Abstraction is seen when we realize that all concepts or general ideas are but combinations of abstract qualities or ideas. As Halleck says: “The difference between an _abstract idea_ and a _concept_ is that a concept may consist of a bundle of abstract ideas. If the class contains more than one common quality, so must the concept; it must contain as many of these abstracted qualities as are common to the class. The concept of the class _whale_ would embody a large number of such qualities.” As Brooks says: “If we could not abstract, we could not _generalize_, for abstraction is a condition of generalization.” The last-mentioned authority also cleverly states the idea as follows: “The products of Abstraction are _abstract ideas_, that is, ideas of qualities in the abstract. Such ideas are called _Abstracts_. Thus my idea of some particular color, or hardness, or softness, is an abstract. Abstract ideas have been wittily called ‘the ghosts of departed qualities.’ They may more appropriately be regarded as the spirits of which the objects from which they are derived are the bodies. In other words, they are, figuratively speaking, ‘the disembodied spirits of material things.'”
The cultivation of the faculty of Abstraction depends very materially, in the first place, upon the exercise of Attention and Perception. Mill holds that Abstraction is primarily a result of Attention. Others hold that it is merely the mental process by which the attention is directed exclusively to the consideration of one of several qualities, properties, attributes, parts, etc. Hamilton says: “Attention and Abstraction then are only the same process viewed in different relations. They are, as it were, the positive and negative poles of the same act.” The cultivation of Attention is really a part of the process of the cultivation of the faculty of Abstraction. Unless the Attention be directed toward the object and its qualities we will be unable to perceive, set aside, and separately consider the abstract quality contained within it. In this process, as indeed in all other mental processes, Attention is a prerequisite. Therefore, here, as in many other places, we say to you: “Begin by cultivating Attention.”
Moreover, the cultivation of the faculty of Abstraction depends materially upon the cultivation of Perception. Not only must we _sense_ the existence of the various qualities in an object, but we must also _perceive_ them in consciousness, just as we perceive the object itself. In fact, the perception of the object is merely a perception of its various qualities, attributes and properties, for the object itself is merely a composite of these abstract things, at least so far as its perception in consciousness is concerned. Try to think of _a horse_, without considering its qualities, attributes and properties, and the result is merely _an abstract horse_–something which belongs to the realm of unreality. Try to think of _a rose_ without considering its color, odor, shape, size, response to touch, etc., and you have simply _an ideal rose_ which when analyzed is seen to be a _nothing_. Take away the qualities, properties and attributes of anything, and you have left _merely a name_, or else a transcendental, idealistic, something apart from our world of sense knowledge. Thus it follows that in order to _know_ the qualities of a thing in order to classify it, or to form a general idea of it, we _must_ use the Perception in order to interpret or translate the sense-impressions we have received regarding them. Consequently the greater our power of Perception the greater must be the possibility of our power of Abstraction.
Beyond the cultivation, use and exercise of the Attention and the Perception, there are but few practical methods for cultivating the faculty of Abstraction. Of course, _exercise_ of the faculty will develop it; and _the furnishing of material for its activities_ will give it the “nourishment” of which we have spoken elsewhere. Practice in distinguishing the various qualities, attributes and properties of objects will give a valuable training to the faculty.
Let the student take any object and endeavor to analyze it into its abstract qualities, etc. Let him try to discover qualities hidden from first sight. Let him make a list of these qualities, and write them down; then try to add to the list. Two or more students engaging in a friendly rivalry will stimulate the efforts of each other. In children the exercise may be treated as a game. _Analysis of objects into their component qualities, attributes and qualities–the effort to extract as many adjectives applicable to the object_–this is the first step. The second step consists in _transforming these adjectives into their corresponding nouns_. As for instance, in a rose we perceive the _qualities_ which we call “redness,” “fragrance,” etc. We speak of the rose as being “red” or “fragrant”–then we think of “redness,” or “fragrance” as abstract qualities, or things, which we express as nouns. Exercise and practice along these lines will tend to cultivate the faculty of Abstraction. By knowing qualities, we know the things possessing them.
CHAPTER IX.
ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS
Having formed general ideas, or Concepts, it is important that we associate them with other general ideas. In order to fully _understand_ a general idea we must know its associations and relations. The greater the known associations or relations of an idea, the greater is our degree of understanding of that idea. If we simply know many thousands of separated general ideas, without also knowing their associations and relations, we are in almost as difficult a position as if we merely knew thousands of individual percepts without being able to classify them in general concepts. It is necessary to develop the faculty of associating ideas into groups, according to their relations, just as we group particular ideas in classes. The difference, however, is that these group-ideas do not form classes of a genus, but depend solely upon associations of several kinds, as we shall see in a moment.
Halleck says: “All ideas have certain definite associations with other ideas, and they come up in groups. There is always an association between our ideas, although there are cases when we cannot trace it…. Even when we find no association between our ideas, we may be sure that it exists…. An idea, then, never appears in consciousness unless there is a definite reason why this idea should appear in preference to others.” Brooks says: “One idea or feeling in the mind calls up some other idea or feeling with which it is in some way related. Our ideas seem, as it were, to be tied together by the invisible thread of association, so that as one comes out of unconsciousness, it draws another with it. Thoughts seem to exist somewhat in clusters like the grapes of a bunch, so that in bringing out one, we bring the entire cluster with it. The law of association is thus the tie, the thread, the golden link by which our thoughts are united in an act of reproduction.”
The majority of writers confine their consideration of Association of Ideas to its relation to Memory. It is true that the Laws of Association play an important part in Memory Culture, but Association of Ideas also form an important part of the general subject of Thought-Culture, and especially in the phase of the latter devoted to the development of the Understanding. The best authorities agree upon this idea and state it positively. Ribot says: “The most fundamental law which regulates psychological phenomena is the Law of Association. In its comprehensive character it is comparable to the law of attraction in the physical world.” Mill says: “That which the law of gravitation is to astronomy, that which the elementary properties of the tissues are to physiology, the Law of Association of Ideas is to psychology.”
There are two general principles, or laws, operative in the processes of Association of Ideas, known as (1) Association by Contiguity; and (2) Association by Similarity, respectively.
Association by Contiguity manifests particularly in the processes of memory. In its two phases of (1) Contiguity of Time; and (2) Contiguity of Space, respectively, it brings together before the field of consciousness ideas associated with each by reason of their time or space relations. Thus, if we remember a certain thing, we find it easy to remember things which occurred immediately before, or immediately after that particular thing. Verbal memory depends largely upon the contiguity of time, as for instance, our ability to repeat a poem, or passage from a book, if we can recall the first words thereof. Children often possess this form of memory to a surprising degree; and adults with only a limited degree of understanding may repeat freely long extracts from speeches they have heard, or even arbitrary jumbles of words. Visual memory depends largely upon contiguity of space, as for instance our ability to recall the details of scenes, when starting from a given point. In both of these forms of association by contiguity the mental operation is akin to that of unwinding a ball of yarn, the ideas, thus associated in the sequence of time or place, following each other into the field of consciousness. Association by Contiguity, while important in itself, properly belongs to the general subject of Memory, and as we have considered it in the volume of this series devoted to the last mentioned subject, we shall not speak of it further here.
Association by Similarity, however, possesses a special interest to students of the particular subject of the culture of the Understanding. If we were compelled to rely upon the association of contiguity for our understanding of things, we would understand a thing merely in its relations to that which went before or came after it; or by the things which were near it in space–we would have to unwind the mental ball of time and space relations in order to bring into consciousness the associated relations of anything. The Association of Similarity, however, remedies this defect, and gives us a higher and broader association. Speaking of Association of Similarity, Kay says: “It is of the utmost importance to us in forming a judgment of things, or in determining upon a particular line of conduct, to be able to bring together before the mind a number of instances of a _similar_ kind, recent or long past, which may aid us in coming to a right determination. Thus, we may judge of the nature or quality of an article, and obtain light and leading in regard to any subject that may be before us. In this way we arrange and classify and reason by induction. _This is known as rational or philosophical association._”
Halleck says: “An eminent philosopher has said that man is completely at the mercy of the association of his ideas. Every new object is seen in the light of its associated ideas…. It is not the business of the psychologist to state what power the association of ideas _ought_ to have. It is for him to ascertain what power it _does_ have. When we think of the bigotry of past ages, of the stake for the martyr and the stoning of witches, we can realize the force of Prof. Ziehen’s statement: ‘We cannot think as we _will_, but we _must_ think as just those associations which happen to be present prescribe.’ While this is not literally true, it may serve to emphasize a deflecting factor which is usually underestimated.”
Locke says: “The connection in our minds of ideas, in themselves loose and independent of one another, has such an influence, and is of so great force, to set us awry in our actions, as well moral as natural, passions, reasonings, and notions themselves, that, perhaps, there is not any one thing that deserves more to be looked after.” Stewart says: “The bulk of mankind, being but little accustomed to reflect and to generalize, associate their ideas chiefly according to their more obvious relations, and above all to the casual relations arising from contiguity in time and place; whereas, in the mind of a philosopher ideas are commonly associated according to those relations which are brought to light in consequence of particular efforts of attention, such as the relations of cause and effect, or of premises and conclusion. Hence, it must necessarily happen that when he has occasion to apply to use his acquired knowledge, time and reflection will be requisite to enable him to recollect it.”
This Association by Similarity, or the “rational and philosophical association of ideas,” may be developed and cultivated by a little care and work. The first principle is that of _learning the true relations of an idea_–its various logical associations. Perhaps the easiest and best method is that adopted and practiced by Socrates, the old Greek philosopher, often called “the Socratic method”–the Method of Questioning. By questioning oneself, or others, regarding a thing, the mind of the person answering tends to unfold its stores of information, and to make new and true associations. Kays says: “Socrates, Plato, and others among the ancients and some moderns, have been masters of this art. The principle of asking questions and obtaining answers to them may be said to characterize all intellectual effort…. The great thing is to ask the right questions, and to obtain the right answers.” Meiklejohn says: “This art of questioning possessed by Dr. Hodgson was something wonderful and unique, and was to the minds of most of his pupils a truly obstetric art. He told them little or nothing, but showed them how to find out for themselves. ‘The Socratic method,’ he said, ‘is the true one, especially with the young.'”
But this questioning must be done logically, and orderly, and not in a haphazard way. As Fitch says: “In proposing questions it is very necessary to keep in view the importance of arranging them in the exact order in which the subject would naturally develop itself in the mind of a logical and systematic thinker.” A number of systems have been formulated by different writers on the subject, all of which have much merit. The following System of Analysis, designed for the use of students desiring to acquire correct associations, was given in the volume of this series, entitled “Memory,” and is reproduced here because it is peculiarly adapted to the cultivation and development of the faculty of discovering and forming correct associations and relations between ideas:
SYSTEM OF ANALYSIS
When you wish to discover what you really _know_ regarding a thing, ask yourself the following questions about it, examining each point in detail, and endeavoring to bring before the mind _your full knowledge_ regarding that particular point. Fill in the deficiencies by reading some good work of reference, an encyclopedia for instance; or consulting a good dictionary, or both:
I. Where did it come from, or originate?
II. What caused it?
III. What history or record has it?
IV. What are its attributes, qualities or characteristics?
V. What things can I most readily associate with it? What is it most like?
VI. What is it good for–how may it be used–what can I do with it?
VII. What does it prove–what can be deduced from it?
VIII. What are its natural results–what happens because of it?
IX. What is its future; and its natural or probable end or finish?
X. What do I think of it, on the whole–what are my general impressions regarding it?
XI. What do I know about it, in the way of general information?
XII. What have I heard about it, and from whom, and when?
The following “Query Table,” from the same volume, may be found useful in the same direction. It is simpler and less complicated than the system given above. It has well been called a “Magic Key of Knowledge,” and it opens many a mental door:
QUERY TABLE
Ask yourself the following questions regarding the thing under consideration. It will draw out many bits of information and associated knowledge in your mind:
I. What? II. Whence? III. Where? IV. When? V. How? VI. Why? VII. Whither?
Remember, always, that the greater the number of associated and related ideas that you are able to group around a concept, the richer, fuller and truer does that concept become to you. The concept is a _general idea_, and its attributes of “generality” depend upon the associated facts and ideas related to it. The greater the number of the view points from which a concept may be examined and considered, the greater is the degree of knowledge concerning that concept. It is held that everything in the universe is related to every other thing, so that if we knew _all_ the associated ideas and facts concerning a thing, we would not only know that particular thing _absolutely_, but would, besides, know _everything_ in the universe. The chain of Association is infinite in extent.
CHAPTER X.
GENERALIZATION
We have seen that Sensation is translated or interpreted into Perception; and that from the Percepts so created we may “draw off,” or separate, various qualities, attributes and properties by the analytical process we call Abstraction. Abstraction, we have seen, thus constitutes the first step in the process of what is called Understanding. The second step is called Generalization or Conception.
Generalization, or Conception, is that faculty of the mind by which we are able to combine and group together several particular ideas into one general idea. Thus when we find a number of particular objects possessing the same general qualities, attributes or properties, we proceed to _classify_ them by the process of Generalization. For instance, in a number of animals possessing certain general and common qualities we form a concept of a class comprising those particular animals. Thus in the concept of cow, we include _all cows_–we know them to be cows because of their possession of certain general class qualities which we include in our concept of _cow_. The particular cows may vary greatly in size, color and general appearance, but they possess the common general qualities which we group together in our general concept of _cow_. Likewise by reason of certain common and general qualities we include in our concept of “Man,” _all men_, black, white, brown, red or yellow, of all races and degrees of physical and mental development. From this generic concept we may make race concepts, dividing men into Indians, Caucasians, Malays, Negroes, Mongolians, etc. These concepts in turn may be divided into sub-races. These sub-divisions result from an analysis of the great concept. The great concept is built up by synthesis from the individuals, through the sub-divisions of minor concepts. Or, again, we may form a concept of “Napoleon Bonaparte” from the various qualities and characteristics which went to make up that celebrated man.
The product of Generalization or Conception is called a _Concept_. A Concept is expressed in a word, or words, called “A Term.” A Concept is more than a mere _word_–it is _a general idea_. And a Term is more than a mere word–it is _the expression of a general idea_.
A _Concept_ is built up from the processes of Perception, Abstraction, Comparison and Generalization. We must first perceive; then analyze or abstract qualities; then compare qualities; then synthesize or classify according to the result of the comparison of qualities. By perceiving and comparing the qualities of various individual things, we notice their points of resemblance and difference–the points wherein they agree or disagree–wherein they are alike or unlike. Eliminating by abstraction the points in which they differ and are unlike; and, again by abstraction, retaining in consideration the points in which they resemble and are alike; we are able to group, arrange or classify these “_alike things_” into _a class-idea_ large enough to embrace them all. This class-idea is what is known as a General Idea or a Concept. This Concept we give a general name, which is called a Term. In grammar our particular ideas arising from Percepts are usually denoted by proper nouns–our general ideas arising from Concepts are usually denoted by common nouns. Thus “John Smith” (particular; proper noun) and “Man” (general; common noun). Or “horse” (general; common), and “Dobbin” (particular; proper).
It will be seen readily that there must be lower and higher concepts. Every class contains within itself lower classes. And every class is, itself, but a lower class in a higher one. Thus the high concept of “animal” may be analyzed into “mammal,” which in turn is found to contain “horse,” which in turn may be sub-divided into special kinds of horses. The concept “plant” may be sub-divided many times before the concept “rose” is obtained, and the latter is capable of sub-division into varieties and sub-varieties, until at last a particular flower is reached. Jevons says: “We classify things together whenever we observe that they are like each other in any respect and, therefore, think of them together…. In classifying a collection of objects, we do not merely put together into groups those which resemble each other, but we also divide each class into smaller ones in which the resemblance is more complete. Thus the class of _white substances_ may be divided into those which are solid and those which are fluid, so that we get the two minor classes of solid-white, and fluid-white substances. It is desirable to have names by which to show that one class is contained in another and, accordingly, we call the class which is divided into two or more smaller ones, the _Genus_; and the smaller ones into which it is divided, the _Species_.”
Every Genus is a Species of the class next higher than itself; and every Species is a Genus of the classes lower than itself. Thus it would seem that the extension in either direction would be infinite. But, for the purposes of finite thought, the authorities teach that there must be a Highest Genus, which cannot be the Species of a higher class, and which is called the _Summum Genus_. The _Summum Genus_ is expressed by terms such as the following: “Being;” “Existence;” “The Absolute;” “Something;” “Thing;” “The Ultimate Reality,” or some similar term denoting the state of being _ultimate_. Likewise, at the lowest end of the scale we find what are called the Lowest Species, or _Infima Species_. The Infima Species are always _individuals_. Thus we have the _individual_ at one end of the scale; and _The Absolute_ at the other. Beyond these limits the mind of man cannot travel.
There has been much confusion in making classifications and some ingenious plans have been evolved for simplifying the process. That of Jevons is perhaps the simplest, when understood. This authority says: “All these difficulties are avoided in the _perfect logical method of dividing each Genus into two Species, and not more than two, so that one species possesses a particular quality, and the other does not_. Thus if I divide dwelling-houses into those which are made of brick and those which are not made of brick, I am perfectly safe and nobody can find fault with me…. Suppose, for instance, that I divide dwelling-houses as below:
Dwelling-House | –+——+——-+——-+——-+– | | | | | Brick Stone Earth Iron Wood
“The evident objection will at once be made, that houses may be built of other materials than those here specified. In Australia, houses are sometimes made of the bark of gum-trees; the Esquimaux live in snow houses; tents may be considered as canvas houses, and it is easy to conceive of houses made of terra-cotta, paper, straw, etc. All logical difficulties will, however, be avoided _if I never make more than two species at each step_, in the following way:–
Dwelling-House | +—-+—-+ | | Brick Not-Brick | +—-+—-+ | | Stone Not-Stone | +—-+—-+ | | Wooden Not-Wooden | +—-+—-+ | | Iron Not-Iron
“It is quite certain that I must in this division have left a place for every possible kind of house; for if a house is not made of brick, nor stone, nor wood, nor iron, it yet comes under the species at the right hand, which is not-iron, not-wooden, not-stone, and not-brick…. This manner of classifying things may seem to be inconvenient, but it is in reality the only logical way.”
The student will see that the process of Classification is two-fold. The first is by Analysis, in which the Genus is divided into Species by reason of _differences_. The second is by Synthesis, in which individuals are grouped into Species, and Species into the Genus, by reason of _resemblances_. Moreover, in building up general classes, which is known as Generalization, we must first _analyze_ the individual in order to ascertain its _qualities, attributes and properties_, and then _synthesize_ the individual with other individuals possessing like qualities, properties or attributes.
Brooks says of Generalization: “The mind now takes the materials that have been furnished and fashioned by comparison and analysis and unites them into one single mental product, giving us the general notion or concept. The mind, as it were, brings together these several attributes into a bunch or package and then ties a mental string around it, as we would bunch a lot of roses or cigars…. Generalization is an _ascending_ process. The broader concept is regarded as higher than the narrower concept; a concept is considered as higher than percept; a general idea stands above a particular idea. We thus go up from particulars to generals; from percepts to concepts; from lower concepts to higher concepts. Beginning down with particular objects, we rise from them to the general idea of their class. Having formed a number of lower classes, we compare them as we did individuals and generalize them into higher classes. We perform the same process with these higher classes and thus proceed until we are at last arrested in the highest class, that of Being. Having reached the pinnacle of Generalization, we may descend the ladder by reversing the process through which we ascend.”
A Concept, then, is seen to be a _general idea_. It is a general thought that embraces _all the individuals_ of its own class and has in it all that is common to its own class, while it resembles _no_ particular individual of its class in _all_ respects. Thus, a concept of _animal_ contains within itself the minor concepts of _all animals_ and the animal-quality of all animals–yet it differs from the _percept_ of any one particular animal and the minor concepts of minor classes of animals. Consequently a concept or general idea cannot be _imaged_ or mentally pictured. We may picture a percept of any particular thing, but we cannot picture a general idea or concept because the latter does not partake of the _particular_ qualities of any of its class, but embraces all the general qualities of the class. Try to picture the general idea, or concept, of Man. You will find that any attempt to do so will result in the production of merely _a man_–some particular man. If you give the picture dark hair, it will fail to include the light-haired men; if you give it white skin, it will slight the darker-skinned races. If you picture a stout man, the thin ones are neglected. And so on in every feature. It is impossible to form a correct general class picture unless we include every individual in it. The best we can do is to form a sort of _composite_ image, which at the best is in the nature of a symbol representative of the class–an ideal image to make easier the _idea_ of the general class or term.
From the above we may see the fundamental differences between a Percept and a Concept. The Percept is the mental image of a real object–a particular thing. The Concept is merely a _general idea_, or general notion, of the common attributes of a class of objects or things. A Percept arises directly from sense-impressions, while a Concept is, in a sense, a pure thought–an abstract thing–a mental creation–an ideal.
A Concrete Concept is a concept embodying the common qualities of a class of objects, as for instance, the concrete concept of _lion_, in which the general class qualities of all lions are embodied. An Abstract Concept is a concept embodying merely some one quality generally diffused, as for instance, the quality of _fierceness_ in the general class of lions. _Rose_ is a concrete concept; _red_, or _redness_, is an abstract concept. It will aid you in remembering this distinction to memorize Jevons’ rule: “_A Concrete Term is the name of a Thing_; _an Abstract Term is the name of a Quality of a Thing_.”
A Concrete Concept, including all the particular individuals of a class, must also contain all the common qualities of those individuals. Thus, such a concept is composed of the ideas of the particular individuals and of their common qualities, in combination and union. From this arises the distinctive terms known as the _content_, _extension_ and _intension_ of concepts, respectively.
The _content_ of a concept is _all that it includes–its full meaning_. The _extension_ of a concept depends upon its _quantity_ aspect–it is its property of including numbers of individual objects within its content. The _intension_ of a concept depends upon its _quality_ aspect–it is its property of including class or common qualities, properties or attributes within its content.
Thus, the _extension_ of the concept _horse_ covers all individual horses; while its _intension_ includes all qualities, attributes, and properties common to all horses–class qualities possessed by all horses in common, and which qualities, etc., make the particular animals _horses_, as distinguished from other animals.
It follows that the larger the number of particular objects in a class, the smaller must be the number of general class qualities–qualities common to all in the class. And, that the larger the number of common class qualities, the smaller must be the number of individuals in the class. As the logicians express it, “the greater the extension, the less the intension; the greater the intension, the less the extension.” Thus, _animal_ is narrow in intension, but very broad in extension; for while there are many animals there are but very few qualities common to _all_ animals. And, _horse_ is narrower in extension, but broader in intension; for while there are comparatively few horses, the qualities common to all horses are greater.
The cultivation of the faculty of Generalization, or Conception, of course, depends largely upon _exercise_ and _material_, as does the cultivation of every mental faculty, as we have seen. But there are certain rules, methods and ideas which may be used to advantage in developing this faculty in the direction of clear and capable work. This faculty is developed by all of the general processes of thought, for it forms an important part of all thought. But the logical processes known as Analysis and Synthesis give to this faculty exercise and employment particularly adapted to its development and cultivation. Let us briefly consider these processes.
* * * * *
_Logical Analysis_ is the process by which we examine and unfold the meaning of Terms. A Term, you remember, is the verbal expression of a Concept. In such analysis we endeavor to unfold and discover the _quality-aspect_ and the _quantity-aspect_ of the content of the concept. We seek, thereby, to discover the particular general idea expressed; the number of particular individuals included therein; and the properties of the class or generalization. Analysis depends upon division and separation. Development in the process of Logical Analysis tends toward clearness, distinctness, and exactness in thought and expression. Logical Analysis has two aspects or phases, as follows: (1) _Division_, or the separation of a concept according to its _extension_, as for instance the analysis of a genus into its various species; and (2) _Partition_, or the separation of a concept into its component qualities, properties and attributes, as for instance, the analysis of the concept _iron_ into its several qualities of color, weight, hardness, malleability, tenacity, utility, etc.
There are certain rules of Division which should be observed, the following being a simple statement of the same:
I. _The division should be governed by a uniform principle._ For instance it would be illogical to first divide men into Caucasians, Mongolians, etc., and then further sub-divide them into Christians, Pagans, etc., for the first division would be according to the principle of race, and the second according to the principle of religion. Observing the rule of the “uniform principle” we may divide men into races, and sub-races, and so on, without regard to religion; and we may likewise divide men according to their respective religions, and then into minor denominations and sects, without regard to race or nationality. The above rule is frequently violated by careless thinkers and speakers.
II. _The division should be complete and exhaustive._ For instance, the analysis of a genus should extend to every known species of it, upon the principle that _the genus is merely the sum of its several species_. A textbook illustration of a violation of this rule is given in the case of the concept _actions_, when divided into _good-actions_ and _bad-actions_, but omitting the very important species of _indifferent-actions_. Carelessness in observance of this rule leads to fallacious reasoning and cloudy thinking.
III. _The division should be in logical sequence._ It is illogical to skip or pass over intermediate divisions, as for instance, when we divide _animals_ into _horses_, _trout and swallows_, omitting the intermediate division into _mammals_, _fish and birds_. The more perfect the sequence, the clearer the analysis and the thought resulting therefrom.
IV. _The division should be exclusive._ That is, the various species divided from a genus, should be reciprocally exclusive–should exclude one another. Thus to divide _mankind_ into _male_, _men and women_, would be illogical, because the class _male_ includes _men_. The division should be either: “_male and female_;” or else: “men, women, boys, girls.”
The exercise of Division along these lines, and according to these rules, will tend to improve one’s powers of conception and analysis. Any class of objects–any general concept–may be used for practice. A trial will show you the great powers of unfoldment contained within this simple process. It tends to broaden and widen one’s conception of almost any class of objects.
There are also several rules for Partition which should be observed, as follows:
I. _The partition should be complete and exhaustive._ That is, it should unfold the full meaning of the term or concept, so far as is concerned its several general qualities, properties and attributes. But this applies only to the qualities, properties and attributes which are _common_ to the class or concept, and not to the minor qualities which belong solely to the various sub-divisions composing the class; nor to the accidental or individual qualities belonging to the separate individuals in any sub-class. The qualities should be _essential_ and not _accidental_–general, not particular. A famous violation of this rule was had in the case of the ancient Platonic definition of “Man” as: “A two-legged animal without feathers,” which Diogenes rendered absurd by offering a plucked chicken as a “man” according to the definition. Clearness in thought requires the recognition of the distinction between the general qualities and the individual, particular or accidental qualities. Red-hair is an accidental quality of a particular man and not a general quality of the class _man_.
II. _The partition should consider the qualities, properties and attributes_, according to the classification of logical division. That is, the various qualities, properties and attributes should be considered in the form of genus and species, as in Division. In this classification, the rules of Division apply.
It will be seen that there is a close relationship existing between Partition and Definition. Definition is really a statement of the various qualities, attributes, and properties of a concept, either stated in particular or else in concepts of other and larger classes. There is perhaps no better exercise for the cultivation of clear thought and conception than Definition. In order to define, one must exercise his power of analysis to a considerable extent. Brooks says: “Exercises in logical definition are valuable in unfolding our conception. Logical definition, including both the genus and the specific difference, gives clearness, definiteness and adequacy to our conceptions. It separates a conception from all other conceptions by fixing upon and presenting the essential and distinctive property or properties of the conception defined. The value of exercises in logical definition is thus readily apparent.”
If the student will select some familiar term and endeavor to define it correctly, writing down the result, and will then compare the latter with the definition given in some standard dictionary, he will see a new light regarding logical definition. Practice in definition, conducted along these lines, will cultivate the powers of analysis and conception and will, at the same time, tend toward the acquiring of correct and scientific methods of thought and clear expression.
Hyslop gives the following excellent Rules of Logical Definition, which should be followed by the student in his exercises:
“I. A definition should state the essential attributes of the species defined.
“II. A definition must not contain the name or word defined. Otherwise the definition is called _a circulus in definiendo_ (defining in a circle).
“III. The definition must be exactly equivalent to the species defined.
“IV. A definition should not be expressed in obscure, figurative or ambiguous language.
“V. A definition must not be negative when it can be affirmative.”
_Logical Synthesis_ is the exact opposite of Logical Analysis. In the latter we strive to separate and take apart; in the former we strive to bind together and combine the particulars into the general. Beginning with individual things and comparing them with each other according to observed points of resemblance, we proceed to group them into species or narrow classes. These classes, or species, we then combine with similar ones, into a larger class or genus; and then, according to the same process, into broader classes as we have shown in the first part of this chapter.
The process of Synthesis is calculated to develop and cultivate the mind in several directions and exercises along these lines will give a new habit and sense of orderly arrangement, which will be most useful to the student in his every-day life. Halleck says: “Whenever a person is comparing a specimen to see whether it may be put in the same class with other specimens, he is _thinking_. Comparison is an absolutely essential factor of thought, and classification demands comparison. The man who has not properly classified the myriad individual objects with which he has to deal, must advance like a cripple. He, only, can travel with seven-league boots, who has thought out the relations existing between these stray individuals and put them into their proper classes. In a minute a business man may put his hand on any one of ten thousand letters if they are properly classified. In the same way, the student of history, sociology or any other branch, can, if he studies the subjects aright, have all his knowledge classified and speedily available for use…. In this way, we may make our knowledge of the world more minutely exact. We cannot classify without seeing things under a new aspect.”
The study of Natural History, in any or all of its branches, will do much to cultivate the power of Classification. But one may practice classification with the objects around him in his every-day life. Arranging things mentally, into small classes, and these into larger, one will soon be able to form a logical connection between particular ideas and general ideas; particular objects and general classes. The practice of classification gives to the mind a constructive turn–a “building-up” tendency, which is most desirable in these days of construction and development. Regarding some of the pitfalls of classification, Jevons says:
“In classifying things, we must take great care not to be misled by outward resemblances. Things may seem to be very much like each other which are not so. Whales, porpoises, seals and several other animals live in the sea exactly like fish; they have a similar shape and are usually classed among fish. People are said to go whale-fishing. Yet these animals are not really fish at all, but are much more like dogs and horses and other quadrupeds than they are like fish. They cannot live entirely under water and breathe the air contained in the water like fish, but they have to come up to the surface at intervals to take breath. Similarly, we must not class bats with birds because they fly about, although they have what would be called wings; these wings are not like those of birds and in truth bats are much more like rats and mice than they are like birds. Botanists used at one time to classify plants according to their size, as trees, shrubs or herbs, but we now know that a great tree is often more similar in its character to a tiny herb than it is to other great trees. A daisy has little resemblance to a great Scotch thistle; yet the botanist regards them as very similar. The lofty growing bamboo is a kind of grass, and the sugarcane also belongs to the same class with wheat and oats.”
Remember that analysis of a genus into its component species is accomplished by a separation according to _differences_; and species are built up by synthesis into a genus because of _resemblances_. The same is true regarding individual and species, building up in accordance to points of resemblance, while analysis or separation is according to points of difference.
The use of a good dictionary will be advantageous to the student in developing the power of Generalization or Conception. Starting with a species, he may build up to higher and still higher classes by consulting the dictionary; likewise, starting with a large class, he may work down to the several species composing it. An encyclopedia, of course, is still better for the purpose in many cases. Remember that Generalization is a prime requisite for clear, logical thinking. Moreover, it is a great developer of Thought.
CHAPTER XI.
JUDGMENT
We have seen that in the several mental processes which are grouped together under the general head of Understanding, the stage or step of Abstraction is first; following which is the second step or phase, called Generalization or Conception. The third step or phase is that which is called Judgment. In the exercise of the faculty of Judgment, we determine the agreement or disagreement between two concepts, ideas, or objects of thought, by comparing them one with another. From this process of comparison arises the Judgment, which is expressed in the shape of a logical Proposition. A certain form of Judgment must be used, however, in the actual formation of a Concept, for we must first compare qualities, and make a judgment thereon, in order to form a general idea. In this place, however, we shall confine ourselves to the consideration of the faculty of Judgment in the strictly logical usage of the term, as previously stated.
We have seen that the expression of a concept is called a Term, which is the _name_ of the concept. In the same way when we compare two terms (expressions of concepts) and pass Judgment thereon, the expression of that Judgment is called a Proposition. In every Judgment and Proposition there must be two Terms or Concepts, connected by a little word “is” or “are,” or some form of the verb “to be,” in the present tense indicative. This connecting word is called the Copula. For instance, we may compare the two terms _horse_ and _animal_, as follows: “A horse is an animal,” the word _is_ being the Copula or symbol of the _affirmative_ Judgment, which connects the two terms. In the same way we may form a _negative_ Judgment as follows: “A horse is not a cow.” In a Proposition, _the term of which something is affirmed_ is called the Subject; and _the term expressing that which is affirmed of the subject_ is called the Predicate.
Besides the distinction between affirmative Judgments, or Propositions, there is a distinction arising from _quantity_, which separates them into the respective classes of _particular_ and _universal_. Thus, “_all_ horses are animals,” is a _universal_ Judgment; while “_some_ horses are black” is a particular Judgment. Thus all Judgments must be either _affirmative_ or _negative_; and also either _particular_ or _universal_. This gives us four possible classes of Judgments, as follows, and illustrated symbolically:
1. Universal Affirmative, as “All A is B.”
2. Universal Negative, as “No A is B.”
3. Particular Affirmative, as “Some A is B.”
4. Particular Negative, as “Some A is not B.”
The Term or Judgment is said to be “_distributed_” (that is, extended universally) when it is used in its fullest sense, in which it is used in the sense of “each and every” of its kind or class. Thus in the proposition “Horses are animals” the meaning is that “_each and every_” horse is an animal–in this case the _subject_ is “distributed” or made universal. But the _predicate_ is _not_ “distributed” or made universal, but remains particular or restricted and implies merely “some.” For the proposition does not mean that the class “_horses_” includes _all_ animals. For we may say that: “_Some_ animals are _not_ horses.” So you see we have several instances in which the “distribution” varies, both as regards the subject and also the predicate. The rule of logic applying in this case is as follows:
1. In _universal_ propositions, the _subject_ is distributed.
2. In _particular_ propositions, the _subject_ is _not_ distributed.
3. In _negative_ propositions, the _predicate_ is distributed.
4. In _affirmative_ propositions, the _predicate_ is _not_ distributed.
A little time devoted to the analysis and understanding of the above rules will repay the student for his trouble, inasmuch as it will train his mind in the direction of logical distinction and judgment. The importance of these rules will appear later.
Halleck says: “Judgment is the power revolutionizing the world. The revolution is slow because nature’s forces are so complex, so hard to be reduced to their simplest forms, and so disguised and neutralized by the presence of other forces. The progress of the next hundred years will join many concepts, which now seem to have no common qualities. If the vast amount of energy latent in the sunbeams, in the rays of the stars, in the winds, in the rising and falling of the tides, is treasured up and applied to human purposes, it will be a fresh triumph for judgment. This world is rolling around in a universe of energy, of which judgment has as yet harnessed only the smallest appreciable fraction. Fortunately, judgment is ever working and silently comparing things that, to past ages, have seemed dissimilar; and it is constantly abstracting and leaving out of the field of view those qualities which have simply served to obscure the point at issue.” Brooks says: “The power of judgment is of great value to its products. It is involved in or accompanies every act of the intellect, and thus lies at the foundation of all intellectual activity. It operates directly in every act of the understanding; and even aids the other faculties of the mind in completing their activities and products.”
The best method of cultivating the power of Judgment is the exercise of the faculty in the direction of making comparisons, of weighing differences and resemblances, and in generally training the mind along the lines of Logical Thinking. Another volume of this series is devoted to the latter subject, and should aid the student who wishes to cultivate the habit of logical and scientific thought. The study of mathematics is calculated to develop the faculty of Judgment, because it necessitates the use of the powers of comparison and decision. Mental arithmetic, especially, will tend to strengthen, and exercise this faculty of the mind.
Geometry and Logic will give the very best exercise along these lines to those who care to devote the time, attention and work to the task. Games, such as chess, and checkers or draughts, tend to develop the powers of Judgment. The study of the definitions of words in a good dictionary will also tend to give excellent exercise along the same lines. The exercises given in this book for the cultivation and development of the several faculties, will tend to develop this particular faculty in a general way, for the exercise of Judgment is required at each step of the way, and in each exercise.
Brooks says: “It should be one of the leading objects of the culture of young people to lead them to acquire the habit of forming judgments. They should not only be led to see things, but to have opinions about things. They should be trained to see things in their relations, and to put these relations into definite propositions. Their ideas of objects should be worked up into thoughts concerning the objects. Those methods of teaching are best which tend to excite a thoughtful habit of mind that notices the similitudes and diversities of objects, and endeavors to read the thoughts which they embody and of which they are the symbols.”
The exercises given at the close of the next chapter, entitled “Derived Judgments,” will give to the mind a decided trend in the direction of logical judgment. We heartily recommend them to the student.
The student will find that he will tend to acquire the habit of clear logical comparison and judgment, if he will memorize and apply in his thinking the following excellent _Primary Rules of Thought_, stated by Jevons:
“I. _Law of Identity_: The same quality or thing is _always_ the same quality or thing, no matter how different the conditions in which it occurs.
“II. _Law of Contradiction_: Nothing can at the same time and place _both_ be and not be.
“III. _Law of Excluded Middle_: Everything must _either_ be, or not be; there is no other alternative or middle course.”
Jevons says of these laws: “Students are seldom able to see at first their full meaning and importance. All arguments may be explained when these self-evident laws are granted; and it is not too much to say that _the whole of logic will be plain to those who will constantly use these laws as their key_.”
CHAPTER XII.
DERIVED JUDGMENTS
As we have seen, a Judgment is obtained by comparing two objects of thought according to their agreement or difference. The next higher step, that of logical Reasoning, consists of the comparing of two ideas through their relation to a third. This form of reasoning is called _mediate_, because it is effected through the _medium_ of the third idea. There is, however, a certain process of Understanding which comes in between this mediate reasoning on the one hand, and the formation of a plain judgment on the other. Some authorities treat it as a form of _reasoning_, calling it _Immediate Reasoning_ or Immediate Inference, while others treat it as a higher form of Judgment, calling it Derived Judgment. We shall follow the latter classification, as best adapted for the particular purposes of this book.
The fundamental principle of Derived Judgment is that ordinary Judgments are often so related to each other that one Judgment may be derived directly and immediately from another. The two particular forms of the general method of Derived Judgment are known as those of (1) Opposition; and (2) Conversion; respectively.
In order to more clearly understand the logical processes involved in Derived Judgment, we should acquaint ourselves with the general relations of Judgments, and with the symbolic letters used by logicians as a means of simplifying the processes of thought. Logicians denote each of the four classes of Judgments or Propositions by a certain letter, the first four vowels–A, E, I and O, being used for the purpose. It has been found very convenient to use these symbols in denoting the various forms of Propositions and Judgments. The following table should be memorized for this purpose:
_Universal Affirmative_, symbolized by “A.” _Universal Negative_, symbolized by “E.” _Particular Affirmative_, symbolized by “I.” _Particular Negative_, symbolized by “O.”
It will be seen that these four forms of Judgments bear certain relations to each other, from which arises what is called opposition. This may be better understood by reference to the following table called the Square of Opposition:
A CONTRARIES E +————————+ |\ / | | \ /S | | C\ /E | | O\ /I | | N\ /R | | T\ /O | S| R\ /T |S U| A\ /C |U B| \ /I |B A| \ /D |A L| \ / |L T| / \ |T E| / D\ |E R| / I\ |R N| /A C\ |N S| /R T\ |S | /T O\ | | /N R\ | | /O I\ | | /C E\ | | / S\ | |/ \ | +————————+ I SUB-CONTRARIES O
Thus, A and E are _contraries_; I and O are _sub-contraries_; A and I, and also E and O are _subalterns_; A and O, and also E and I are _contradictories_.
The following will give a symbolic table of each of the four Judgments or Propositions with the logical symbols attached:
(A) “All A is B.”
(E) “No A is B.”
(I) “Some A is B.”
(O) “Some A is not B.”
The following are the rules governing and expressing the relations above indicated:
I. Of the Contradictories: _One must be true, and the other must be false_. As for instance, (A) “All A is B;” and (O) “Some A is not B;” cannot both be true at the same time. Neither can (E) “No A is B;” and (I) “Some A is B;” both be true at the same time. They are _contradictory_ by nature,–and if one is true, the other must be false; if one is false, the other must be true.
II. Of the Contraries: _If one is true the other must be false; but, both may be false_. As for instance, (A) “All A is B;” and (E) “No A is B;” cannot both be true at the same time. If one is true the other _must_ be false. _But_, both may be _false_, as we may see when we find we may state that (I) “_Some_ A is B.” So while these two propositions are _contrary_, they are not _contradictory_. While, if one of them is _true_ the other must be false, it does not follow that if one is _false_ the other must be _true_, for both _may be false_, leaving the truth to be found in a third proposition.
III. Of the Subcontraries: _If one is false the other must be true; but both may be true_. As for instance, (I) “Some A is B;” and (O) “Some A is not B;” may both be true, for they do not contradict each other. But one or the other must be true–they can not both be false.
IV. Of the Subalterns: _If the Universal (A or E) be true the Particular (I or O) must be true_. As for instance, if (A) “All A is B” is true, then (I) “Some A is B” must also be true; also, if (E) “No A is B” is true, then “Some A is not B” must also be true. The Universal carries the particular within its truth and meaning. But; _If the Universal is false, the particular may be true or it may be false_. As for instance (A) “All A is B” may be false, and yet (I) “Some A is B” may be either true or false, without being determined by the (A) proposition. And, likewise, (E) “No A is B” may be false without determining the truth or falsity of (O) “Some A is not B.”
But: _If the Particular be false, the Universal also must be false_. As for instance, if (I) “Some A is B” is false, then it must follow that (A) “All A is B” must also be false; or if (O) “Some A is not B” is false, then (E) “No A is B” must also be false. But: _The Particular may be true, without rendering the Universal true_. As for instance: (I) “_Some_ A is B” may be true without making true (A) “_All_ A is B;” or (O) “Some A is not B” may be true without making true (E) “No A is B.”
The above rules may be worked out not only with the symbols, as “All A is B,” but also with _any_ Judgments or Propositions, such as “All horses are animals;” “All men are mortal;” “Some men are artists;” etc. The principle involved is identical in each and every case. The “All A is B” symbology is merely adopted for simplicity, and for the purpose of rendering the logical process akin to that of mathematics. The letters play the same part that the numerals or figures do in arithmetic or the _a_, _b_, _c_; _x_, _y_, _z_, in algebra. Thinking in symbols tends toward clearness of thought and reasoning.
_Exercise_: Let the student apply the principles of Opposition by using any of the above judgments mentioned in the preceding paragraph, in the direction of erecting a Square of Opposition of them, after having attached the symbolic letters A, E, I and O, to the appropriate forms of the propositions.
Then let him work out the following problems from the Tables and Square given in this chapter.
1. If “A” is true; show what follows for E, I and O. Also what follows if “A” be _false_.
2. If “E” is true; show what follows for A, I and O. Also what follows if “E” be _false_.
3. If “I” is true; show what follows for A, E and O. Also what follows if “I” be _false_.
4. If “O” is true; show what follows for A, E and I. Also what happens if “O” be _false_.
CONVERSION OF JUDGMENTS
Judgments are capable of the process of Conversion, or _the change of place of subject and predicate_. Hyslop says: “Conversion is the transposition of subject and predicate, or the process of immediate inference by which we can infer from a given preposition another having the predicate of the original for its subject, and the subject of the original for its predicate.” The process of converting a proposition seems simple at first thought but a little consideration will show that there are many difficulties in the way. For instance, while it is a true judgment that “All _horses_ are _animals_,” it is not a correct Derived Judgment or Inference that “All _animals_ are _horses_.” The same is true of the possible conversion of the judgment “All biscuit is bread” into that of “All bread is biscuit.” There are certain rules to be observed in Conversion, as we shall see in a moment.
The Subject of a judgment is, of course, _the term of which something is affirmed_; and the Predicate is _the term expressing that which is affirmed of the Subject_. The Predicate is really an expression of an _attribute_ of the Subject. Thus when we say “All horses are animals” we express the idea that _all horses_ possess the _attribute_ of “animality;” or when we say that “Some men are artists,” we express the idea that _some men_ possess the _attributes_ or qualities included in the concept “artist.” In Conversion, the original judgment is called the Convertend; and the new form of judgment, resulting from the conversion, is called the Converse. Remember these terms, please.
The two Rules of Conversion, stated in simple form, are as follows:
I. Do not change the quality of a judgment. The quality of the converse must remain the same as that of the convertend.
II. Do not distribute an undistributed term. No term must be distributed in the converse which is not distributed in the convertend.
The reason of these rules is that it would be contrary to truth and logic to give to a converted judgment a higher degree of quality and quantity than is found in the original judgment. To do so would be to attempt to make “twice 2” more than “2 plus 2.”
There are three methods or kinds of Conversion, as follows: (1) Simple Conversion; (2) Limited Conversion; and (3) Conversion by Contraposition.
_In Simple Conversion_, there is no change in either quality or quantity. For instance, by Simple Conversion we may convert a proposition by changing the places of its subject and predicate, respectively. But as Jevons says: “It does not follow that the new one will always be true if the old one was true. Sometimes this is the case, and sometimes it is not. If I say, ‘some churches are wooden-buildings,’ I may turn it around and get ‘some wooden-buildings are churches;’ the meaning is exactly the same as before. This kind of change is called Simple Conversion, because we need do nothing but simply change the subjects and predicates in order to get a new proposition. We see that the Particular Affirmative proposition can be simply converted. Such is the case also with the Universal Negative proposition. ‘No large flowers are green things’ may be converted simply into ‘no green things are large flowers.'”
_In Limited Conversion_, the quantity is changed from Universal to Particular. Of this, Jevons continues: “But it is a more troublesome matter, however, to convert a Universal Affirmative proposition. The statement that ‘all jelly fish are animals,’ is true; but, if we convert it, getting ‘all animals are jelly fish,’ the result is absurd. This is because the predicate of a universal proposition is really particular. We do not mean that jelly fish are ‘all’ the animals which exist, but only ‘some’ of the animals. The proposition ought really to be ‘all jelly fish are _some_ animals,’ and if we converted this simply, we should get, ‘some animals are all jelly fish.’ But we almost always leave out the little adjectives _some_ and _all_ when they would occur in the predicate, so that the proposition, when converted, becomes ‘_some_ animals are jelly fish.’ This kind of change is called Limited Conversion, and we see that a Universal Affirmative proposition, when so converted, gives a Particular Affirmative one.”
In Conversion by Contraposition, there is a change in the position of the negative copula, which shifts the expression of the quality. As for instance, in the Particular Negative “Some animals are not horses,” we cannot say “Some horses are not animals,” for that would be a violation of the rule that “no term must be distributed in the converse which is not distributed in the convertend,” for as we have seen in the preceding chapter: “In Particular propositions the _subject_ is _not_ distributed.” And in the original proposition, or convertend, “animals” is the _subject_ of a Particular proposition. Avoiding this, and proceeding by Conversion by Contraposition, we convert the Convertend (O) into a Particular Affirmative (I), saying: “Some animals are not-horses;” or “Some animals are things not horses;” and then proceeding by Simple Conversion we get the converse, “Some things not horses are animals,” or “Some not-horses are animals.”
The following gives the application of the appropriate form of Conversion to each of the several four kind of Judgments or Propositions:
(A) _Universal Affirmative_: This form of proposition is converted by Limited Conversion. The predicate not being distributed in the convertend, it cannot be distributed in the converse, by saying “all.” (“In affirmative propositions the _predicate_ is _not_ distributed.”) Thus by this form of Conversion, we convert “All horses are animals” into “Some animals are horses.” The Universal Affirmative (A) is converted by limitation into a Particular Affirmative (I).
(E) _Universal Negative_: This form of proposition is converted by Simple Conversion. In a Universal Negative _both terms are distributed_. (“In universal propositions, the _subject_ is distributed;” “In negative propositions, the _predicate_ is distributed.”) So we may say “No cows are horses,” and then convert the proposition into “No horses are cows.” We simply convert one Universal Negative (E) into another Universal Negative (E).
(I) _Particular Affirmative_: This form of proposition is converted by Simple Conversion. For _neither term is distributed_ in a Particular Affirmative. (“In particular propositions, the _subject_ is _not_ distributed. In affirmative propositions, the _predicate_ is _not_ distributed.”) And neither term being distributed in the convertend, it must not be distributed in the converse. So from “Some horses are males” we may by Simple Conversion derive “Some males are horses.” We simply convert one Particular Affirmative (I), into another Particular Affirmative (I).
(O) _Particular Negative_: This form of proposition is converted by Contraposition or Negation. We have given examples and illustrations in the paragraph describing Conversion by Contraposition. The Particular Negative (I) is converted by contraposition into a Particular Affirmative (I) which is then simply converted into another Particular Affirmative (I).
There are several minor processes or methods of deriving judgments from each other, or of making immediate inferences, but the above will give the student a very fair idea of the minor or more complete methods.
_Exercise_: The following will give the student good practice and exercise in the methods of Conversion. It affords a valuable mental drill, and tends to develop the logical faculties, particularly that of Judgment. The student should _convert_ the following propositions, according to the rules and examples given in this chapter:
1. All men are reasoning beings. 2. Some men are blacksmiths. 3. No men are quadrupeds. 4. Some birds are sparrows. 5. Some horses are vicious. 6. No brute is rational. 7. Some men are not sane. 8. All biscuit is bread. 9. Some bread is biscuit. 10. Not all bread is biscuit.
CHAPTER XIII.
REASONING
In the preceding chapters we have seen that in the group of mental processes involved in the general process of Understanding, there are several stages or steps, three of which we have considered in turn, namely: (1) Abstraction; (2) Generalization or Conception; (3) Judgment. The _fourth_ step, or stage, and the one which we are now about to consider, is that called Reasoning.
_Reasoning_ is that faculty of the mind whereby we compare two Judgments, one with the other, and from which comparison we are enabled to form a third judgment. It is a form of indirect or mediate comparison, whereas, the ordinary Judgment is a form of immediate or direct comparison. As, when we form a Judgment, we compare two concepts and decide upon their agreement or difference; so in Reasoning we compare two Judgments and from the comparison we draw or produce a new Judgment. Thus, we may reason that the particular dog “Carlo” is an animal, by the following process:
(1) _All_ dogs are animals; (2) Carlo is a dog; therefore, (3) Carlo is an animal. Or, in the same way, we may reason that a whale is not a fish, as follows:
(1) _All_ fish are cold-blooded animals; (2) A whale is _not_ a cold-blooded animal; therefore, (3) A whale is _not_ a fish.
In the above processes it will be seen that the third and final Judgment is derived from a comparison of the first two Judgments. Brooks states the process as follows: “Looking at the process more closely, it will be seen that in inference in Reasoning involves a comparison of relations. We infer the relation of two objects from their relation to a third object. We must thus grasp in the mind two relations and from the comparison of these two relations we infer a third relation. The two relations from which we infer a third, are judgments; hence, Reasoning may also be defined as the process of deriving one judgment from two other judgments. We compare the two given judgments and from this comparison derive the third judgment. This constitutes a single step in Reasoning, and an argument so expressed is called a _Syllogism_.”
The _Syllogism_ consists of three propositions, the first two of which express the grounds or basis of the argument and are called the _premises_; the third expresses the inference derived from a comparison of the other two and is called the _conclusion_. We shall not enter into a technical consideration of the Syllogism in this book, as the subject is considered in detail in the volume of this series devoted to the subject of “Logic.” Our concern here is to point out the natural process and course of Reasoning, rather than to consider the technical features of the process.
Reasoning is divided into two general classes, known respectively as (1) _Inductive Reasoning_; (2) _Deductive Reasoning_.
_Inductive Reasoning_ is the process of arriving at a general truth, law or principle from a consideration of many particular facts and truths. Thus, if we find that a certain thing is true of a great number of particular objects, we may infer that the same thing is true of _all_ objects of this particular kind. In one of the examples given above, one of the judgments was that “all fish are cold-blooded animals,” which general truth was arrived at by Inductive Reasoning based upon the examination of a great number of fish, and from thence assuming that _all_ fish are true to this general law of truth.
_Deductive Reasoning_ is the reverse of Inductive Reasoning, and is a process of arriving at a particular truth from the assumption of a general truth. Thus, from the assumption that “all fish are cold-blooded animals,” we, by Deductive Reasoning, arrive at the conclusion that the particular fish before us must be cold-blooded.
Inductive Reasoning proceeds upon the basic principle that “_What is true of the many is true of the whole_,” while Deductive Reasoning proceeds upon the basic principle that “_What is true of the whole is true of its parts_.”
Regarding the principle of _Inductive Reasoning_, Halleck says: “Man has to find out through his own experience, or that of others, the major premises from which he argues or draws his conclusions. By induction, we examine what seems to us a sufficient number of individual cases. We then conclude that the rest of these cases, which we have not examined, will obey the same general law. The judgment ‘All men are mortal’ was reached by induction. It was observed that all past generations of men had died, and this fact warranted the conclusion that all men living will die. We make that assertion as boldly as if we had seen them all die. The premise, ‘All cows chew the cud,’ was laid down after a certain number of cows had been examined. If we were to see a cow twenty years hence, we should expect to find that she chewed the cud. It was noticed by astronomers that, after a certain number of days, the earth regularly returned to the same position in its orbit, the sun rose in the same place, and the day was of the same length. Hence, the length of the year and of each succeeding day was determined, and the almanac maker now infers that the same will be true of future years. He tells us that the sun on the first of next December will rise at a given time, although he cannot throw himself into the future to verify the conclusion.”
Brooks says regarding this principle: “This proposition is founded on our faith in the uniformity of nature; take away this belief, and all reasoning by induction fails. The basis of induction is thus often stated to be _man’s faith in the uniformity of nature_. Induction has been compared to a ladder upon which we ascend from facts to laws. This ladder cannot stand unless it has something to rest upon; and this something is our faith in the constancy of nature’s laws.”
There are two general ways of obtaining our basis for the process of Inductive Reasoning. One of these is called Perfect Induction and the other Imperfect Induction. Perfect Induction is possible only when we have had the opportunity of examining every particular object or thing of which the general idea is expressed. For instance, if we could examine every fish in the universe we would have the basis of Perfect Induction for asserting the general truth that “all fishes are cold-blooded.” But this is practically impossible in the great majority of cases, and so we must fall back upon more or less Imperfect Induction. We must assume the general law from the fact that it is seen to exist in a very great number of particular cases; upon the principle that “What is true of the many is true of the whole.” As Halleck says regarding this: “Whenever we make a statement such as, ‘All men are mortal,’ without having tested each individual case or, in other words, without having seen every man die, we are reasoning from _imperfect_ induction. Every time a man buys a piece of beef, a bushel of potatoes or a loaf of bread, he is basing his action on inference from imperfect induction. He believes that beef, potatoes and bread will prove nutritious food, although he has not actually tested those special edibles before purchasing them. They have hitherto been found to be nutritious on trial and he argues that the same will prove true of those special instances. Whenever a man takes stock in a new national bank, a manufactory or a bridge, he is arguing from past cases that this special investment will prove profitable. We instinctively believe in the uniformity of nature; if we did not we should not consult our almanacs. If sufficient heat will cause phosphorus to burn today, we conclude that the same result will follow tomorrow if the circumstances are the same.”
But, it will be seen, much care must be exercised in making observations, experiments and comparisons, and in making generalizations. The following general principles will give the views of the authorities regarding this:
Atwater gives the two general rules:
_Rule of Agreement_: “If, whenever a given object or agency is present, without counteracting forces, a given effect is produced, there is a strong evidence that the object or agency is the cause of the effect.”
_Rule of Disagreement_: “If when the supposed cause is present the effect is present, and when the supposed cause is absent the effect is wanting, there being in neither case any other agents present to effect the result, we may reasonably infer that the supposed cause is the real one.”
_Rule of Residue_: “When in any phenomena we find a result remaining after the effects of all known causes are estimated, we may attribute it to a residual agent not yet reckoned.”
_Rule of Concomitant Variations_: “When a variation in a given antecedent is accompanied by a variation of a given consequent, they are in some manner related as cause and effect.”
Atwater says, of the above rules, that “whenever either of these criteria is found, free from conflicting evidence, and especially when several of them concur, the evidence is clear that the cases observed are fair representatives of the whole class, and warrant a valid universal inductive conclusion.”
We now come to what is known as Hypothesis or Theory, which is an assumed general principle–a conjecture or supposition founded upon observed and tested facts. Some authorities use the term “theory” in the sense of “a verified hypothesis,” but the two terms are employed loosely and the usage varies with different authorities. What is known as “the probability of a hypothesis” is the proportion of the number of facts it will explain. The greater the number of facts it will explain, the greater is its “probability.” A Hypothesis is said to be “verified” when it will account for all the facts which are properly to be referred to it. Some very critical authorities hold that verification should also depend upon there being no other possible hypotheses which will account for the facts, but this is generally considered an extreme position.
A Hypothesis is the result of a peculiar mental process which seems to act in the direction of making a sudden anticipatory leap toward a theory, after the mind has been saturated with a great body of particular facts. Some have spoken of the process as almost _intuitive_ and, indeed, the testimony of many discoverers of great natural laws would lead us to believe that the Subconscious region of the mind is most active in making what La Place has called “the great guess” of discovery of principle. As Brooks says: “The forming of hypotheses requires a suggestive mind, a lively fancy, a philosophic imagination, that catches a glimpse of the idea through the form, or sees the law standing behind the fact.”
Thomson says: “The system of anatomy which has immortalized the name of Oken, is the consequence of a flash of anticipation which glanced through his mind when he picked up in a chance walk the skull of a deer, bleached and disintegrated by the weather, and exclaimed, after a glance, ‘It is part of a vertebral column.’ When Newton saw the apple fall, the anticipatory question flashed through his mind, ‘Why do not the heavenly bodies fall like this apple?’ In neither case had accident any important share; Newton and Oken were prepared by the deepest previous study to seize upon the unimportant fact offered to them, and show how important it might become; and if the apple and the deer-skull had been wanting, some other falling body, or some other skull, would have touched the string so ready to vibrate. But in each case there was a great step of anticipation; Oken thought he saw the type of the whole skeleton in a single vertebra, whilst Newton conceived at once that the whole universe was full of bodies tending to fall.”
Passing from the consideration of Inductive Reasoning to that of Deductive Reasoning we find ourselves confronted with an entirely opposite condition. As Brooks says: “The two methods of reasoning are the reverse of each other. One goes from particulars to generals; the other from generals to particulars. One is a process of analysis; the other is a process of synthesis. One rises from facts to laws; the other descends from laws to facts. Each is independent of the other; and each is a valid and essential method of inference.”
_Deductive Reasoning_ is, as we have seen, dependent upon the process of deriving a particular truth from a general law, principle or truth, upon the fundamental axiom that: “What is true of the whole is true of its parts.” It is an analytical process, just as Inductive Reasoning is synthetical. It is a descending process, just as Inductive Reasoning is ascending.
Halleck says of Deductive Reasoning: “After induction has classified certain phenomena and thus given us a major premise, we proceed deductively to apply the inference to any new specimen that can be shown to belong to that class. Induction hands over to deduction a ready-made major premise, _e.g._ ‘_All scorpions are dangerous_.’ Deduction takes this as a fact, making no inquiry about its truth. When a new object is presented, say a possible scorpion, the only troublesome step is to decide whether the object is really a scorpion. This may be a severe task on judgment. The average inhabitant of the temperate zone would probably not care to risk a hundred dollars on his ability to distinguish a scorpion from a centipede, or from twenty or thirty other creatures bearing some resemblance to a scorpion. Here there must be accurately formed concepts and sound judgment must be used in comparing them. As soon as we decide that the object is really a scorpion, we complete the deduction in this way:–‘_All scorpions are dangerous_; _this creature is a scorpion_; _this creature is dangerous_.’ The reasoning of early life must be necessarily inductive. The mind is then forming general conclusions from the examination of individual phenomena. Only after general laws have been laid down, after objects have been classified, after major premises have been formed, can deduction be employed.”
What is called _Reasoning by Analogy_ is really but a higher degree of Generalization. It is based upon the idea that if two or more things resemble each other in many particulars, they are apt to resemble each other in other particulars. Some have expressed the principle as follows: “Things that have some things in common have other things in common.” Or as Jevons states it: “The rule for reasoning by analogy is that if two or more things resemble each other in many points, they will probably resemble each other also in more points.”
This form of reasoning, while quite common and quite convenient, is also very dangerous. It affords many opportunities for making false inferences. As Jevons says: “In many cases Reasoning by Analogy is found to be a very uncertain guide. In some cases unfortunate mistakes are committed. Children are sometimes killed by gathering and eating poisonous berries, wrongly inferring that they can be eaten, because other berries, of a somewhat similar appearance, have been found agreeable and harmless. Poisonous toadstools are occasionally mistaken for mushrooms, especially by people not accustomed to gather them…. There is no way in which we can really assure ourselves that we are arguing safely by analogy. The only rule that can be given is this, _that the more things resemble each other, the more likely is it that they are the same in other respects, especially in points closely connected with those observed_.”
Halleck says: “In argument or reasoning we are much aided by the habit of searching for hidden resemblances. We may here use the term _analogy_ in the narrower sense as a resemblance of ratios. There is analogical relation between autumnal frosts and vegetation on the one hand, and death and human life on the other. Frosts stand in the same relation to vegetation that death does to life. The detection of such a relation cultivates thought. If we are to succeed in argument, we must develop what some call a sixth sense for the detection of such relations…. Many false analogies are manufactured and it is excellent thought training to expose them. The majority of people think so little that they swallow false analogies just as newly-fledged robins swallow small stones dropped into their open mouths…. The study of poetry may be made very serviceable in detecting analogies and cultivating the reasoning powers. When the poet brings clearly to mind the change due to death, using as an illustration the caterpillar body transformed into the butterfly spirit, moving with winged ease over flowing meadows, he is cultivating our apprehension of relations, none the less valuable because they are beautiful.”
There are certain studies which tend to develop the power or faculty of _Inductive Reasoning_. Any study which leads the mind to consider classification and general principles, laws or truth, will tend to develop the faculty of deduction. Physics, Chemistry, Astronomy, Biology and Natural History are particularly adapted to develop the mind in this particular direction. Moreover, the mind should be directed to an inquiry into the _causes_ of _things_. Facts and phenomena should be observed and an attempt should be made not only to classify them, but also to discover general principles moving them. Tentative or provisional hypotheses should be erected and then the facts re-examined in order to see whether they support the hypotheses or theory. Study of the processes whereby the great scientific theories were erected, and the proofs then adduced in support of them, will give the mind the habit of thinking along the lines of logical induction. The question ever in the mind in Inductive Reasoning is “_Why?_” The dominant idea in Inductive Reasoning is the Search for Causes.
* * * * *
In regard to the pitfalls of Inductive Reasoning–the fallacies, so-called, Hyslop says: “It is not easy to indicate the inductive fallacies, if it be even possible, in the formal process of induction…. It is certain, however, that in respect to the subject-matter of the conclusion in inductive reasoning there are some very definite limitations upon the right to transcend the premises. We cannot infer anything we please from any premises we please. We must conform to certain definite rules or principles. Any violation of them will be a fallacy. These rules are the same as those for material fallacies in deduction, so that the fallacies of induction, whether they are ever formal or not, are at least material; that is they occur whenever equivocation and presumption are committed. There are, then, two simple rules which should not be violated. (1) The subject-matter in the conclusion should be of the same general kind as in the premises. (2) The facts constituting the premises must be accepted and must not be fictitious.”
One may develop his faculty or power of _Deductive Reasoning_ by pursuing certain lines of study. The study of Mathematics, particularly in its branch of Mental Arithmetic is especially valuable in this direction. Algebra and Geometry have long been known to exercise an influence over the mind which gives to it a logical trend and cast. The processes involved in Geometry are akin to those employed in Logical reasoning, and must necessarily train the mind in this special direction. As Brooks says: “So valuable is geometry as a discipline that many lawyers and others review their geometry every year in order to keep the mind drilled to logical habits of thinking.” The study of Grammar, Rhetoric and the Languages, are also valuable in the culture and development of the faculty of Deductive Reasoning. The study of Psychology and Philosophy have value in this connection. The study of Law is very valuable in creating logical habits of thinking deductively.
But in the study of Logic we have possibly the best exercise in the development and culture of this particular faculty. As Brooks well says: “The study of Logic will aid in the development of the power of deductive reasoning. It does this first by showing the method by which we reason. To know how we reason, to see the laws which govern the reasoning process, to analyze the syllogism and see its conformity to the laws of thought, is not only an exercise of reasoning, but gives that knowledge of the process that will be both a stimulus and a guide to thought. No one can trace the principles and processes of thought without receiving thereby an impetus to thought. In the second place, the study of logic is probably even more valuable because it gives practice in deductive thinking. This, perhaps, is its principal value, since _the mind reasons instinctively without knowing how it reasons_. One can think without the knowledge of the science of thinking, just as one can use language correctly without a knowledge of grammar; yet as the study of grammar improves one’s speech, so the study of logic cannot but improve one’s thought.”
The study of the common _fallacies_, such as “Begging the Question,” “Reasoning in a Circle,” etc., is particularly important to the student, for when one realizes that such fallacies exist, and is able to detect and recognize them, he will avoid their use in framing his own arguments, and will be able to expose them when they appear in the arguments of others.
The fallacy of “Begging the Question” consists in assuming as a proven fact something that has not been proven, or is not accepted as proven by the other party to the argument. It is a common trick in debate. The fact assumed may be either the particular point to be proved, or the premise necessary to prove it. Hyslop gives the following illustration of this fallacy: “_Good institutions should be united_; Church and State are good institutions; therefore, Church and State should be united.” The above syllogism seems reasonable at first thought, but analysis will show that the major premise “Good institutions should be united” is a mere assumption without proof. Destroy this premise and the whole reasoning fails.
Another form of fallacy, quite common, is that called “Reasoning in a Circle,” which consists in assuming as proof of a proposition the proposition itself, as for instance, “This man is a rascal, _because he is a rogue_; he is a rogue, _because he is a rascal_.” “We see through glass, _because it is transparent_.” “The child is dumb, _because it has lost the power of speech_.” “He is untruthful, _because he is a liar_.” “The weather is warm, _because it is summer_; it is summer, _because the weather is warm_.”
These and other fallacies may be detected by a knowledge of Logic, and the perception and detection of them strengthens one in his faculty of Deductive Reasoning. The study of the Laws of the Syllogism, in Logic, will give to one a certain habitual sense of stating the terms of his argument according to these laws, which when acquired will be a long step in the direction of logical thinking, and the culture of the faculties of deductive reasoning.
In concluding this chapter, we wish to call your attention to a fact often overlooked by the majority of people. Halleck well expresses it as follows: “Belief is a mental state which might as well be classed under _emotion_ as under thinking, for it combines both elements. Belief is a part inference from the known to the unknown, and part feeling and emotion.” Others have gone so far as to say that the majority of people employ their intellects merely to _prove_ to themselves and others that which they _feel to be true_, or _wish to be true_, rather than to ascertain what is _actually true_ by logical methods. Others have said that “men do not require _arguments_ to convince them; they want only _excuses_ to justify them in their feelings, desires or actions.” Cynical though this may seem, there is sufficient truth in it to warn one to guard against the tendency.
Jevons says, regarding the question of the culture of logical processes of thought: “Monsieur Jourdain, an amusing person in one of Moliere’s plays, expressed much surprise on learning that he had been talking prose for more than forty years without knowing it. Ninety-nine people out of a hundred might be equally surprised on hearing that they had long been converting propositions, syllogizing, falling into paralogisms, framing hypotheses and making classifications with genera and species. If asked if they were logicians, they would probably answer, No. They would be partly right; for I believe that a large number even of educated persons have no clear idea of what logic is. Yet, in a certain way, every one must have been a logician since he began to speak. It may be asked:–If we cannot help being logicians, why do we need logic books at all? The answer is that there are logicians, and _logicians_. All persons are logicians in some manner or degree; but unfortunately many people are bad ones and suffer harm in consequence. It is just the same in other matters. Even if we do not know the meaning of the name, we are all _athletes_ in some manner or degree. No one can climb a tree or get over a gate without being more or less an athlete. Nevertheless, he who wishes to do these actions really well, to have a strong muscular frame and thereby to secure good health and personal safety, as far as possible, should learn athletic exercises.”
CHAPTER XIV.
CONSTRUCTIVE IMAGINATION
From the standpoint of the old psychology, a chapter bearing the above title would be considered quite out of place in a book on Thought-Culture, the Imagination being considered as outside the realm of practical psychology, and as belonging entirely to the idealistic phase of mental activities. The popular idea concerning the Imagination also is opposed to the “practical” side of its use. In the public mind the Imagination is regarded as something connected with idle dreaming and fanciful mental imaging. Imagination is considered as almost synonomous with “Fancy.”
But the New Psychology sees beyond this negative phase of the Imagination and recognizes the positive side which is essentially constructive when backed up with a determined will. It recognizes that while the Imagination is by its very nature _idealistic_, yet these ideals may be made real–these subjective pictures may be materialized objectively. The positive phase of the Imagination manifests in planning, designing, projecting, mapping out, and in general in erecting the mental framework which is afterward clothed with the material structure of actual accomplishment. And, accordingly, it has seemed to us that a chapter on “Constructive Imagination” might well conclude this book on Thought-Culture.
Halleck says: “It was once thought that the imagination should be repressed, not cultivated, that it was in the human mind like weeds in a garden…. In this age there is no mental power that stands more in need of cultivation than the imagination. So practical are its results that a man without it cannot possibly be a good plumber. He must image short cuts for placing his pipe. The image of the direction to take to elude an obstacle must precede the actual laying of the pipe. If he fixes it before traversing the way with his imagination, he frequently gets into trouble and has to tear down his work. Some one has said that the more imagination a blacksmith has, the better will he shoe a horse. Every time he strikes the red-hot iron, he makes it approximate to the image in his mind. Nor is this image a literal copy of the horse’s foot. If there is a depression in that, the imagination must build out a corresponding elevation in the image, and the blows must make the iron fit the image.”
Brodie says: “Physical investigation, more than anything else, helps to teach us the actual value and right use of the imagination–of that wondrous faculty, which, when left to ramble uncontrolled, leads us astray into a wilderness of perplexities and errors, a land of mists and shadows; but which, properly controlled by experience and reflection, becomes the noblest attribute of man, the source of poetic genius, the instrument of discovery in science, without the aid of which Newton would never have invented fluxions nor Davy have decomposed the earths and alkalies, nor would Columbus have found another continent.”
The Imagination is more than Memory, for the latter merely reproduces the impressions made upon it, while the Imagination gathers up the material of impression and weaves new fabrics from them or builds new structures from their separated units. As Tyndall well said: “Philosophers may be right in affirming that we cannot transcend experience; but we can at all events carry it a long way from its origin. We can also magnify, diminish, qualify and combine experiences, so as to render them fit for purposes entirely new. We are gifted with the power of imagination and by this power we can lighten the darkness which surrounds the world of the senses. There are tories, even in science, who regard imagination as a faculty to be feared and avoided rather than employed. But bounded and conditioned by cooperant reason, imagination becomes the mightiest instrument of the physical discoverer. Newton’s passage from a falling apple to a falling moon was, at the outset, a leap of the imagination.”
Brooks says: “The imagination is a creative as well as a combining power…. The Imagination can combine objects of sense into new forms, but it can do more than this. The objects of sense are, in most cases, merely the materials with which it works. The imagination is a plastic power, moulding the things of sense into new forms to express its ideals; and it is these ideals that constitute the real products of the imagination. The objects of the material world are to it like clay in the hands of the potter; it shapes them into forms according to its own ideals of grace and beauty…. He, who sees no more than a mere combination in these creations of the imagination, misses the essential element and elevates into significance that which is merely incidental.”
Imagination, in some degree or phase, must come before voluntary physical action and conscious material creation. Everything that has been created by the hand of man has first been created in the _mind_ of man by the exercise of the Imagination. Everything that man has wrought has first existed in his mind as an _ideal_, before his hands, or the hands of others, wrought it into material _reality_. As Maudsley says: “It is certain that in order to execute consciously a voluntary act we must have in the mind a conception of the aim and purpose of the act.” Kay says: “It is as serving to guide and direct our various activities that mental images derive their chief value and importance. In anything that we purpose or intend to do, we must first of all have an idea or image of it in the mind, and the more clear and correct the image, the more accurately and efficiently will the purpose be carried out. We cannot exert an act of volition without having in the mind an idea or image of what we will to effect.”
Upon the importance of a scientific use of the Imagination in every-day life, the best authorities agree. Maudsley says: “We cannot do an act voluntarily unless we know what we are going to do, and we cannot know exactly what we are going to do until we have taught ourselves to do it.” Bain says: “By aiming at a new construction, we must clearly conceive what is aimed at. Where we have a very distinct and intelligible model before us, we are in a fair way to succeed; in proportion as the ideal is dim and wavering we stagger and miscarry.” Kay says: “A clear and accurate idea of what we wish to do, and how it is to be effected, is of the utmost value and importance in all the affairs of life. A man’s conduct naturally shapes itself according to the ideas in his mind, and nothing contributes more to his success in life than having a high ideal and keeping it constantly in view. Where such is the case one can hardly fail in attaining it. Numerous unexpected circumstances will be found to conspire to bring it about, and even what seemed at first hostile may be converted into means for its furtherance; while by having it constantly before the mind he will be ever ready to take advantage of any favoring circumstances that may present themselves.”
Simpson says: “A passionate desire and an unwearied will can perform impossibilities, or what seem to be such, to the cold and feeble.” Lytton says: “Dream, O youth, dream manfully and nobly, and thy dreams shall be prophets.” Foster says: “It is wonderful how even the casualities of life seem to bow to a spirit that will not bow to them, and yield to subserve a design which they may, in their first apparent tendency, threaten to frustrate. When a firm decisive spirit is recognized it is curious to see how space clears around a man and leaves him room and freedom.” Tanner says: “To believe firmly is almost tantamount in the end to accomplishment.” Maudsley says: “Aspirations are often prophecies, the harbingers of what a man shall be in a condition to perform.” Macaulay says: “It is related of Warren Hastings that when only seven years old there arose in his mind a scheme which through all the turns of his eventful life was never abandoned.” Kay says: “When one is engaged in seeking for a thing, if he keep the image of it clearly before the mind, he will be very likely to find it, and that too, probably, where it would otherwise have escaped his notice.” Burroughs says: “No one ever found the walking fern who did not have the walking fern in his mind. A person whose eye is full of Indian relics picks them up in every field he walks through. They are quickly recognized because the eye has been commissioned to find them.”
Constructive Imagination differs from the phases of the faculty of Imagination which are akin to “Fancy,” in a number of ways, the chief points of difference being as follows:
The Constructive Imagination is always exercised in the pursuance of _a definite intent and purpose_. The person so using the faculty starts out with the idea of accomplishing certain purposes, and with the direct intent of thinking and planning in that particular direction. The fanciful phase of the Imagination, on the contrary, starts with no definite intent or purpose, but proceeds along the line of mere idle phantasy or day-dreaming.
The Constructive Imagination _selects its material_. The person using the faculty in this manner abstracts from his general stock of mental images and impressions those particular materials which fit in with his general intent and purpose. Instead of allowing his imagination to wander around the entire field of memory, or representation, he deliberately and voluntarily selects and sets apart only such objects as seem to be conducive to his general design or plan, and which are logically associated with the same.
The Constructive Imagination operates upon the lines of _logical thought_. One so using the faculty subjects his mental images, or ideas, to his _thinking faculties_, and proceeds with his imaginative constructive work along the lines of Logical Thought. He goes through the processes of Abstraction, Generalization or Conception, Judgment and the higher phases of Reasoning, in connection with his general work of Constructive Imagination. Instead of having the objects of thought before him in material form, he has them represented to his mind _in ideal form_, and he works upon his material in that shape.
The Constructive Imagination is _voluntary_–under the control and direction of the will. Instead of being in the nature of a dream depending not upon the will or reason, it is directly controlled not only by reason but also by the will.
The Constructive Imagination, like every other faculty of the mind, may be developed and cultivated by Use and Nourishment. It must be exercised in order to develop its mental muscle; and it must be supplied with nourishment upon which it may grow. Drawing, Composing, Designing and Planning along any line is calculated to give to this faculty the exercise that it requires. The reading of the right kind of literature is also likely to lead the faculty into activity by inspiring it with ideals and inciting it by example.
The mind should be supplied with the proper material for the exercise of this faculty. As Halleck says: “Since the imagination has not the miraculous power necessary to create something out of nothing, the first essential thing is to get the proper perceptional material in proper quantity. If a child has enough blocks, he can build a castle or a palace. Give him but three blocks, and his power of combination is painfully limited. Some persons wonder why their imaginative power is no greater, when they have only a few accurate ideas.” It thus follows that the active use of the Perceptive faculties will result in storing away a quantity of material, which, when represented or reproduced by the Memory, will give to the Constructive Imagination the material it requires with which to build. The greater the general knowledge of the person, the greater will be his store of material for this use. This knowledge need not necessarily be acquired at first hand from personal observation, but may also be in the nature of information acquired from the experience of others and known through their conversation, writings, etc.
The necessity of forming clear concepts is very apparent when we come to exercise the Constructive Imaginative. Unless we have clear-cut ideas of the various things concerned with the subject before us, we cannot focus the imagination clearly upon its task. The general ideas should be clearly understood and the classification should be intelligent. Particular things should be clearly seen in “the mind’s eye;” that is, the power of visualization or forming mental images should be cultivated in this connection. One may improve this particular faculty by either writing a description of scenes or particular things we have seen, or else by verbally describing them to others. As Halleck says: “An attempt at a clear-cut oral description of something to another person will often impress ourselves and him with the fact that our mental images are hazy, and that the first step toward better description consists in improving them.”
Tyndall has aptly stated the importance of visualizing one’s ideas and particular concepts, as follows: “How, for example, are we to lay hold of the physical basis of light since, like that of life itself, it lies entirely without the domain of the senses?… Bring your imaginations once more into play and figure a series of sound-waves passing through air. Follow them up to their origin, and what do you there find? A definite, tangible, vibrating body. It may be the vocal chords of a human being, it may be an organ-pipe, or it may be a stretched string. Follow in the same manner a train of ether waves to their source, remembering at the same time that your ether is matter, dense, elastic and capable of motions subject to and determined by mechanical laws. What then do you expect to find as the source of a series of ether waves? Ask your imagination if it will accept a vibrating multiple proportion–a numerical ratio in a state of oscillation? I do not think it will. You cannot crown the edifice by this abstraction. The scientific imagination which is here authoritative, demands as the origin and cause of a series of ether waves a particle of vibrating matter quite as definite, though it may be excessively minute, as that which gives origin to a musical sound. Such a particle we name an atom or a molecule. I think the seeking intellect, when focused so as to give definition without penumbral haze, is sure to realize this image at the last.”
By repeatedly exercising the faculty of Imagination upon a particular idea, we add power and clearness to that idea. This is but another example of the familiar psychological principle expressed by Carpenter as follows: “The continued concentration of attention upon a certain idea gives it a dominant power.” Kay says: “Clearness and accuracy of image is only to be obtained by repeatedly having it in the mind, or by repeated action of the faculty. Each repeated act of any of the faculties renders the mental image of it more clear and accurate than the preceding, and in proportion to the clearness and accuracy of the image will the act itself be performed easily, readily, skillfully. The course to be pursued, the point to be gained, the amount of effort to be put forth, become more and more clear to the mind. It is only from what we have done that we are able to judge what we can do, and understand how it is to be effected. When our ideas or conceptions of what we can do are not based on experience, they become fruitful sources of error.”
Galton says: “There is no doubt as to the utility of the visualizing faculty where it is duly subordinated to the higher intellectual operations. A visual image is the most perfect form of mental representation wherever the shape, position and relation of objects in space are concerned. It is of importance in every handicraft and profession where design is required. The best workmen are those who visualize the whole of what they propose to do before they take a tool in their hands.”
Kay says: “If we bear in mind that every sensation or idea must form an image in the mind before it can be perceived or understood, and that every act of volition is preceded by its image, it will be seen that images play an important part in all our mental operations. According to the nature of the ideas or images which he entertains will be the character and conduct of the man. The man tenacious of purpose is the man who holds tenaciously certain ideas; the flighty man is he who cannot keep one idea before him for any length of time, but constantly flits from one to another; the insane man is he who entertains insane ideas often, it may be, on only one or two subjects. We may distinguish two great classes of individuals according to the prevailing character of their images. There are those in whose mind sensory images predominate, and those whose images are chiefly such as tend to action. Those of the former class are observant, often thoughtful, men of judgment and, it may be, of learning; but if they have not also the active faculty in due force, they will fail in giving forth or in turning to proper account their knowledge or learning, and instances of this kind are by no means uncommon. The man, on the other hand, who has ever in his mind images of things to be done, is the man of action and enterprise. If he is not also an observant and thoughtful man, if his mind is backward in forming images of what is presented to it from without, he will be constantly liable to make mistakes.”
Galton says of the faculty of visualization: “Our bookish and wordy education tends to repress this valuable gift of nature. A faculty that is of importance in all technical and artistic occupations, that gives accuracy to our perceptions and justness to our generalizations, is starved by lazy disuse, instead of being cultivated judiciously in such a way as will, on the whole, bring the best return. I believe that a serious study of the best method of developing and using this faculty without prejudice to the practice of abstract thought in symbols, is one of the many pressing desiderata in the yet unformed science of education.”
This consideration of the faculty of, and culture of, the Imagination, may appropriately be concluded by the following quotation from Prof. Halleck, which shows the danger of misuse and abuse of this important faculty. The aforesaid well-known authority says: “From its very nature, the imagination is peculiarly liable to abuse. The common practices of day-dreaming or castle-building are both morally and physically unhealthful. We reach actual success in life by slow, weary steps. The day-dreamer attains eminence with one bound. He is without trouble a victorious general on a vast battlefield, an orator swaying thousands, a millionaire with every amusement at his command, a learned man confounding the wisest, a president, an emperor or a czar. After reveling in these imaginative sweets, the dry bread of actual toil becomes exceedingly distasteful. It is so much easier to live in regions where everything comes at the magic wand of fancy. Not infrequently these castle-builders abandon effort in an actual world. Success comes too slow for them. They become speculators or gamblers, and in spite of all their grand castles, gradually sink into utter nonentities in the world of action…. The young should never allow themselves to build any imaginative castle, unless they are willing by hard effort to try to make that castle a reality. They must be willing to take off their coats, go into the quarries of life, chisel out the blocks of the stone, and build them with much toil into the castle walls. If castle-building is merely the formation of an ideal, which we show by our effort that we are determined to attain, then all will be well.”
It will be seen that, in reality, the Cultivation of the Imagination is rather the training and intelligent direction of that faculty, instead of the development of its power. The majority of people have the faculty of Imagination well developed, but to them it is largely an untrained, fanciful self-willed faculty. Cultivation is needed in the direction of bringing it under the guidance of the reason, and control by the will. Thought-Culture in general will do much for the Imagination, for the very processes employed in the development and cultivation of the various other faculties of the mind will also tend to bring the Imagination into subjection and under control, instead of allowing it to remain the wild, fanciful irresponsible faculty that it is in the majority of cases. Use the faculty of Imagination as a faculty of _Thought_, instead of a thing of _Fancy_. Attach it to the _Intellect_ instead of to the _Emotions_. Harness it up with the other faculties of Thought, and your chariot of Understanding and Attainment will reach the goal far sooner than under the old arrangement. Establish harmony between Intellect and Imagination, and you largely increase the power and achievements of both.
FINIS.
selfhelpqa-blog
Aug 9, 2019
Nerves and Common Sense
New Post has been published on https://selfhelpqa.com/nerves-and-common-sense/
Nerves and Common Sense
NERVES AND COMMON SENSE
by Annie Payson Call
CHAPTER I
_Habit and Nervous Strain_
PEOPLE form habits which cause nervous strain. When these habits have fixed themselves for long enough upon their victims, the nerves give way and severe depression or some other form of nervous prostration is the result. If such an illness turns the attention to its cause, and so starts the sufferer toward a radical change from habits which cause nervous strain to habits which bring nervous strength, then the illness can be the beginning of better and permanent health. If, however, there simply is an enforced rest, without any intelligent understanding of the trouble, the invalid gets “well” only to drag out a miserable existence or to get very ill again.
Although any nervous suffering is worth while if it is the means of teaching us how to avoid nervous strain, it certainly is far preferable to avoid the strain without the extreme pain of a nervous breakdown.
To point out many of these pernicious habits and to suggest a practical remedy for each and all of them is the aim of this book, and for that reason common examples in various phases of every-day life are used as illustrations.
When there is no organic trouble there can be no doubt that _defects of character, inherited or acquired, are at the root of all nervous illness._ If this can once be generally recognized and acknowledged, especially by the sufferers themselves, we are in a fair way toward eliminating such illness entirely.
The trouble is people suffer from mortification and an unwillingness to look their bad habits in the face. They have not learned that humiliation can be wholesome, sound, and healthy, and so they keep themselves in a mess of a fog because they will not face the shame necessary to get out of it. They would rather be ill and suffering, and believe themselves to have strong characters than to look the weakness of their characters in the face, own up to them like men, and come out into open fresh air with healthy nerves which will gain in strength as they live.
Any intelligent man or woman who thinks a bit for himself can see the stupidity of this mistaken choice at a glance, and seeing it will act against it and thus do so much toward bringing light to all nervously prostrated humanity.
We can talk about faith cure, Christian Science, mind cure, hypnotism, psychotherapeutics, or any other forms of nerve cure which at the very best can only give the man a gentle shunt toward the middle of the stream of life. Once assured of the truth, the man must hold himself in the clean wholesomeness of it by actively working for his own strength of character _from his own initiative._ There can be no other permanent cure.
I say that strength of character must grow from our own initiative, and I should add that it must be from our own initiative that we come to recognize and actively believe that we are dependent upon a power not our own and our real strength comes from ceasing to be an obstruction to that power. The work of not interfering with our best health, moral and physical, means hard fighting and steady, never-ending vigilance. But it pays–it more than pays! And, it seems to me, this prevailing trouble of nervous strain which is so much with us now can be the means of guiding all men and women toward more solid health than has ever been known before. _But we must work for it!_ We must give up expecting to be cured.
CHAPTER II
_How Women can keep from being Nervous_
MANY people suffer unnecessarily from “nerves” just for the want of a little knowledge of how to adjust themselves in order that the nerves may get well. As an example, I have in mind a little woman who had been ill for eight years–eight of what might have been the best years of her life–all because neither she nor her family knew the straight road toward getting well. Now that she has found the path she has gained health wonderfully in six months, and promises to be better than ever before in her life.
Let me tell you how she became ill and then I can explain her process of getting well again. One night she was overtired and could not get to sleep, and became very much annoyed at various noises that were about the house. Just after she had succeeded in stopping one noise she would go back to bed and hear several others. Finally, she was so worked up and nervously strained over the noises that her hearing became exaggerated, and she was troubled by noises that other people would not have even heard; so she managed to keep herself awake all night.
The next day the strain of the overfatigue was, of course, very much increased, not only by the wakeful night, but also by the annoyance which had kept her awake. The family were distressed that she should not have slept all night; talked a great deal about it, and called in the doctor.
The woman’s strained nerves were on edge all day, so that her feelings were easily hurt, and her brothers and sisters became, as they thought, justly impatient at what they considered her silly babyishness. This, of course, roused her to more strain. The overcare and the feeble, unintelligent sympathy that she had from some members of her family kept her weak and self-centered, and the ignorant, selfish impatience with which the others treated her increased her nervous strain. After this there followed various other worries and a personal sense of annoyance–all of which made her more nervous.
Then–the stomach and brain are so closely associated–her digestion began to cause her discomfort: a lump in her stomach, her food “would not digest,” and various other symptoms, all of which mean strained and overwrought nerves, although they are more often attributed merely to a disordered stomach. She worried as to what she had better eat and what she had better not eat. If her stomach was tired and some simple food disagreed with her all the discomfort was attributed to the food, instead of to the real cause,–a tired stomach,–and the cause back of that,–strained nerves. The consequence was that one kind of wholesome food after another was cut off as being impossible for her to eat. Anything that this poor little invalid did not like about circumstances or people she felt ugly and cried over. Finally, the entire family were centered about her illness, either in overcare or annoyance.
You see, she kept constantly repeating her brain impression of overfatigue: first annoyance because she stayed awake; then annoyance at noises; then excited distress that she should have stayed awake all night; then resistance and anger at other people who interfered with her. Over and over that brain impression of nervous illness was repeated by the woman herself and people about her until she seemed settled into it for the rest of her life. It was like expecting a sore to get well while it was constantly being rubbed and irritated. A woman might have the healthiest blood in the world, but if she cut herself and then rubbed and irritated the cut, and put salt in it, it would be impossible for it to heal.
Now let me tell you how this little woman got well. The first thing she did was to take some very simple relaxing exercises while she was lying in bed. She raised her arms very slowly and as loosely as she could from the elbow and then her hands from the wrist, and stretched and relaxed her fingers steadily, then dropped her hand and forearm heavily, and felt it drop slowly at first, then quickly and quietly, with its own weight. She tried to shut her eyes like a baby going to sleep, and followed that with long, gentle, quiet breaths. These and other exercises gave her an impression of quiet relaxation so that she became more sensitive to superfluous tension.
When she felt annoyed at noises she easily noticed that in response to the annoyance her whole body became tense and strained. After she had done her exercises and felt quiet and rested something would happen or some one would say something that went against the grain, and quick as a wink all the good of the exercises would be gone and she would be tight and strained again, and nervously irritated.
Very soon she saw clearly that she must learn to drop the habit of physical strain if she wanted to get well; but she also learned what was more–far more–important than that: that _she must conquer the cause of the strain or she could never permanently drop it._ She saw that the cause was resentment and resistance to the noises–the circumstances, the people, and all the variety of things that had “made her nervous.”
Then she began her steady journey toward strong nerves and a wholesome, happy life. She began the process of changing her brain impressions. If she heard noises that annoyed her she would use her will to direct her attention toward dropping resistance to the noises, and in order to drop her mental resistance she gave her attention to loosening out the bodily contractions. Finally she became interested in the new process as in a series of deep and true experiments. Of course her living and intelligent interest enabled her to gain very much faster, for she not only enjoyed her growing freedom, but she also enjoyed seeing her experiments work. Nature always tends toward health, and if we stop interfering with her she will get us well.
There is just this difference between the healing of a physical sore and the healing of strained and irritated nerves With the one our bodies are healed, and things go on in them about the same as before. With the other, every use of the will to free ourselves from the irritation and its cause not only enables us to get free from the nervous illness, but in addition brings us new nerve vigor.
When nervous illness is met deeply enough and in the normal way, the result is that the nerves become stronger than ever before.
Often the effect of nervous strain in women is constant talking. Talk–talk–talk, and mostly about themselves, their ailments, their worries, and the hindrances that are put in their way to prevent their getting well. This talking is not a relief, as people sometimes feel. It is a direct waste of vigor. But the waste would be greater if the talk were repressed. The only real help comes when the talker herself recognizes the strain of her talk and “loosens” into silence.
People must find themselves out to get well–really well–from nervous suffering. The cause of nervous strain is so often in the character and in the way we meet circumstances and people that it seems essential to recognize our mistakes in that direction, and to face them squarely before we can do our part toward removing the causes of any nervous illness.
Remember it is not circumstances that keep us ill. It is not people that cause our illness. It is not our environment that overcomes us. It is the way we face and deal with circumstances, with people, and with environment that keeps our nerves irritated or keeps them quiet and wholesome and steady.
Let me tell the story of two men, both of whom were brought low by severe nervous breakdown. One complained of his environment, complained of circumstances, complained of people. Everything and every one was the cause of his suffering, except himself. The result was that he weakened his brain by the constant willful and enforced strain, so that what little health he regained was the result of Nature’s steady and powerful tendency toward health, and in spite of the man himself.
The other man–to give a practical instance–returned from a journey taken in order to regain the strength which he had lost from not knowing how to work. His business agent met him at the railroad station with a piece of very bad news. Instead of being frightened and resisting and contracting in every nerve of his body, he took it at once as an opportunity to drop resistance. He had learned to relax his body, and by doing relaxing and quieting exercises over and over he had given himself a brain impression of quiet and “let go” which he could recall at will. Instead of expressing distress at the bad news he used his will at once to drop resistance and relax; and, to the surprise of his informant, who had felt that he must break his bad news as easily as possible, he said “Anything else?” Yes, there was another piece of news about as bad as the first. “Go on,” answered the man who had been sick with nerves; “tell me something else.”
And so he did, until he had told him five different things which were about as disagreeable and painful to hear as could have been. For every bit of news our friend used his will with decision to drop the resistance, which would, of course, at once arise in response to all that seemed to go against him.
He had, of course, to work at intervals for long afterward to keep free from the resistance; but the habit is getting more and more established as life goes on with him, and the result is a brain clearer than ever before in his life, a power of nerve which is a surprise to every one about him, and a most successful business career.
The success in business is, however, a minor matter. His brain would have cleared and his nerve strengthened just the same if what might be called the business luck had continued to go against him, as it seemed to do for the first few months after his recovery. That everything did go against him for some time was the greatest blessing he could have had. The way he met all the reverses increased his nerve power steadily and consistently.
These two men are fair examples of two extremes. The first one did not know how to meet life. If he had had the opportunity to learn he might have done as well as the other. The second had worked and studied to help himself out of nerves, and had found the true secret of doing it.
Some men, however, and, I regret to say, more women, have the weakening habit so strong upon them that they are unwilling to learn how to get well, even when they have the opportunity. It seems so strange to see people suffer intensely–and be unwilling to face and follow the only way that will lead them out of their torture.
The trouble is we want our own way and nervous health, too, and with those who have once broken down nervously the only chance of permanent health is through learning to drop the strain of resistance when things do not go their way. This is proved over and over by the constant relapse into “nerves” which comes to those who have simply been healed over. Even with those who appear to have been well for some time, if they have not acquired the habit of dropping their mental and physical tension you can always detect an overcare for themselves which means dormant fear–or even active fear in the background.
There are some wounds which the surgeons keep open, even though the process is most painful, because they know that to heal really they must heal from the inside. Healing over on the outside only means decay underneath, and eventual death. This is in most cases exactly synonymous with the healing of broken-down nerves. They must be healed in causes to be permanently cured. Sometimes the change that comes in the process is so great that it is like reversing an engine.
If the little woman whom I mentioned first had practiced relaxing and quieting exercises every day for years, and had not used the quiet impression gained by the exercises to help her in dropping mental resistances, she never would have gained her health.
Concentrating steadily on dropping the tension of the body is very radically helpful in dropping resistance from the mind, and the right idea is to do the exercises over and over until the impression of quiet openness is, by constant repetition, so strong with us that we can recall it at will whenever we need it. Finally, after repeated tests, we gain the habit of meeting the difficulties of life without strain–first in little ways, and then in larger ways.
The most quieting, relaxing, and strengthening of all exercises for the nerves comes in deep and rhythmic breathing, and in voice exercises in connection with it. Nervous strain is more evident in a voice than in any other expressive part of man or woman. It sometimes seems as if all other relaxing exercises were mainly useful because of opening a way for us to breathe better. There is a pressure on every part of the body when we inhale, and a consequent reaction when we exhale, and the more passive the body is when we take our deep breaths the more freely and quietly the blood can circulate all the way through it, and, of course, all nervous and muscular contraction impairs circulation, and all impaired circulation emphasizes nervous contraction.
To any one who is suffering from “nerves,” in a lesser or greater degree, it could not fail to be of very great help to take half an hour in the morning, lie flat on the back, with the body as loose and heavy as it can be made, and then study taking gentle, quiet, and rhythmic breaths, long and short. Try to have the body so loose and open and responsive that it will open as you inhale and relax as you exhale, just as a rubber bag would. Of course, it will take time, but the refreshing quiet is sure to come if the practice is repeated regularly for a long enough time, and eventually we would no more miss it than we would go without our dinner.
We must be careful after each deep, long breath to rest quietly and let our lungs do as they please. Be careful to begin the breaths delicately and gently, to inhale with the same gentleness with which we begin, and to make the change from inhaling to exhaling with the greatest delicacy possible–keeping the body loose.
For the shorter breaths we can count three, or five, or ten to inhale, and the same number to exhale, until we have the rhythm established, and then go on breathing without counting, as if we were sound asleep. Always aim for gentleness and delicacy. If we have not half an hour to spare to lie quietly and breathe we can practice the breathing while we walk. It is wonderful how we detect strain and resistance in our breath, and the restfulness which comes when we breathe so gently that the breath seems to come and go without our volition brings new life with it.
We must expect to gain slowly and be patient; we must remember that nerves always get well by ups and downs, and use our wills to make every down lead to a higher up. If we want the lasting benefit, or any real benefit at all when we get the brain impression of quiet freedom from these breathing exercises, we must insist upon recalling that impression every time a test comes, and face the circumstances, or the person, or the duty with a voluntary insistence upon a quiet, open brain, rather than a tense, resistant one.
It will come hard at first, but we are sure to get there if we keep steadily at it, for it is really the Law of the Lord God Almighty that we are learning to obey, and this process of learning gives us steadily an enlarged appreciation of what trust in the Lord really is. There is no trust without obedience, and an intelligent obedience begets trust. The nerves touch the soul on one side and the body on the other, and we must work for freedom of soul and body in response to spiritual and physical law if we want to get sick nerves well. If we do not remember always a childlike attitude toward the Lord the best nerve training is only an easy way of being selfish.
To sum it all up–if you want to learn to help yourself out of “nerves” learn to rest when you rest and to work without strain when you work; learn to loosen out of the muscular contractions which the nerves cause; learn to drop the mental resistances which cause the “nerves,” and which take the form of anger, resentment, worry, anxiety, impatience, annoyance, or self-pity; eat only nourishing food, eat it slowly, and chew it well; breathe the freshest air you can, and breathe it deeply, gently, and rhythmically; take what healthy, vigorous exercise you find possible; do your daily work to the best of your ability; give your attention so entirely to the process of gaining health for the sake of your work and other people that you have no mind left with which to complain of being ill, and see that all this effort aims toward a more intelligent obedience to and trustfulness in the Power that gives us life. Wholesome, sustained concentration is in the very essence of healthy nerves.
CHAPTER III
_”You Have no Idea how I am Rushed”_
A WOMAN can feel rushed when she is sitting perfectly still and has really nothing whatever to do. A woman can feel at leisure when she is working diligently at something, with a hundred other things waiting to be done when the time comes. It is not all we have to do that gives us the rushed feeling; it is the way we do what is before us. It is the attitude we take toward our work.
Now this rushed feeling in the brain and nerves is intensely oppressive. Many women, and men too, suffer from it keenly, and they suffer the more because they do not recognize that that feeling of rush is really entirely distinct from what they have to do; in truth it has nothing whatever to do with it.
I have seen a woman suffer painfully with the sense of being pushed for time when she had only two things to do in the whole day, and those two things at most need not take more than an hour each. This same woman was always crying for rest. I never knew, before I saw her, that women could get just as abnormal in their efforts to rest as in their insistence upon overwork. This little lady never rested when she went to rest; she would lie on the bed for hours in a state of strain about resting that was enough to tire any ordinarily healthy woman. One friend used to tell her that she was an inebriate on resting. It is perhaps needless to say that she was a nervous invalid, and in the process of gaining her health she had to be set to work and kept at work. Many and many a time she has cried and begged for rest when it was not rest she needed at all: it was work.
She has started off to some good, healthy work crying and sobbing at the cruelty that made her go, and has returned from the work as happy and healthy, apparently, as a little child. Then she could go to rest and rest to some purpose. She had been busy in wholesome action and the normal reaction came in her rest. As she grew more naturally interested in her work she rested less and less, and she rested better and better because she had something to rest from and something to rest for.
Now she does only a normal amount of resting, but gets new life from every moment of rest she takes; before, all her rest only made her want more rest and kept her always in the strain of fatigue. And what might seem to many a very curious result is that as the abnormal desire for rest disappeared the rushed feeling disappeared, too.
There is no one thing that American women need more than a healthy habit of rest, but it has got to be real rest, not strained nor self-indulgent rest.
Another example of this effort at rest which is a sham and a strain is the woman who insists upon taking a certain time every day in which to rest. She insists upon doing everything quietly and with–as she thinks–a sense of leisure, and yet she keeps the whole household in a sense of turmoil and does not know it. She sits complacently in her pose of prompt action, quietness and rest, and has a tornado all about her. She is so deluded in her own idea of herself that she does not observe the tornado, and yet she has caused it. Everybody in her household is tired out with her demands, and she herself is ill, chronically ill. But she thinks she is at peace, and she is annoyed that others should be tired.
If this woman could open and let out her own interior tornado, which she has kept frozen in there by her false attitude of restful quiet, she would be more ill for a time, but it might open her eyes to the true state of things and enable her to rest to some purpose and to allow her household to rest, too.
It seems, at first thought, strange that in this country, when the right habit of rest is so greatly needed, that the strain of rest should have become in late years one of the greatest defects. On second thought, however, we see that it is a perfectly rational result. We have strained to work and strained to play and strained to live for so long that when the need for rest gets so imperative that we feel we must rest the habit of strain is so upon us that we strain to rest. And what does such “rest” amount to? What strength does it bring us? What enlightenment do we get from it?
With the little lady of whom I first spoke rest was a steadily-weakening process. She was resting her body straight toward its grave. When a body rests and rests the circulation gets more and more sluggish until it breeds disease in the weakest organ, and then the physicians seem inclined to give their attention to the disease, and not to the cause of the abnormal strain which was behind the disease. Again, as we have seen, the abnormal, rushed feeling can exist just as painfully with too much and the wrong kind of rest as with too much work and the wrong way of working.
We have been, as a nation, inclined toward “Americanitis” for so long now that children and children’s children have inherited a sense of rush, and they suffer intensely from it with a perfectly clear understanding of the fact that they have nothing whatever to hurry about. This is quite as true of men as it is of women. In such cases the first care should be not to fasten this sense of rush on to anything; the second care should be to go to work to cure it, to relax out of that contraction–just as you would work to cure twitching St. Vitus’s dance, or any other nervous habit.
Many women will get up and dress in the morning as if they had to catch a train, and they will come in to breakfast as if it were a steamer for the other side of the world that they had to get, and no other steamer went for six months. They do not know that they are in a rush and a hurry, and they do not find it out until the strain has been on them for so long that they get nervously ill from it–and then they find themselves suffering from “that rushed feeling.”
Watch some women in an argument pushing, actually rushing, to prove themselves right; they will hardly let their opponent have an opportunity to speak, much less will they stop to consider what he says and see if by chance he may not be right and they wrong.
The rushing habit is not by any means in the fact of doing many things. It asserts itself in our brains in talking, in writing, in thinking. How many of us, I wonder, have what might be called a quiet working brain? Most of us do not even know the standard of a brain that thinks and talks and lives quietly: a brain that never pushes and never rushes, or, if by any chance it is led into pushing or rushing, is so wholesomely sensitive that it drops the push or the rush as a bare hand would drop a red-hot coal.
None of us can appreciate the weakening power of this strained habit of rush until we have, by the use of our own wills, directed our minds toward finding a normal habit of quiet, and yet I do not in the least exaggerate when I say that its weakening effect on the brain and nerves is frightful.
And again I repeat, the rushed feeling has nothing whatever to do with the work before us. A woman can feel quite as rushed when she has nothing to do as when she is extremely busy.
“But,” some one says, “may I not feel pressed for time when I have more to do than I can possibly put into the time before me ?”
Oh, yes, yes–you can feel normally pressed for time; and because of this pressure you can arrange in your mind what best to leave undone, and so relieve the pressure. If one thing seems as important to do as another you can make up your mind that of course you can only do what you have time for, and the remainder must go. You cannot do what you have time to do so well if you are worrying about what you have no time for. There need be no abnormal sense of rush about it.
Just as Nature tends toward health, Nature tends toward rest–toward the right kind of rest; and if we have lost the true knack of resting we can just as surely find it as a sunflower can find the sun. It is not something artificial that we are trying to learn–it is something natural and alive, something that belongs to us, and our own best instinct will come to our aid in finding it if we will only first turn our attention toward finding our own best instinct.
We must have something to rest from, and we must have something to rest for, if we want to find the real power of rest. Then we must learn to let go of our nerves and our muscles, to leave everything in our bodies open and passive so that our circulation can have its own best way. But we must have had some activity in order to have given our circulation a fair start before we can expect it to do its best when we are passive.
Then, what is most important, we must learn to drop all effort of our minds if we want to know how to rest; and that is difficult. We can do it best by keeping our minds concentrated on something simple and quiet and wholesome. For instance, you feel tired and rushed and you can have half an hour in which to rest and get rid of the rush. Suppose you lie down on the bed and imagine yourself a turbulent lake after a storm. The storm is dying down, dying down, until by and by there is no wind, only little dashing waves that the wind has left. Then the waves quiet down steadily, more and more, until finally they are only ripples on the water. Then no ripples, but the water is as still as glass. The sun goes down. The sky glows. Twilight comes. One star appears, and green banks and trees and sky and stars are all reflected in the quiet mirror of the lake, and you are the lake, and you are quiet and refreshed and rested and ready to get up and go on with your work–to go on with it, too, better and more quietly than when you left it.
Or, another way to quiet your mind and to let your imagination help you to a better rest is to float on the top of a turbulent sea and then to sink down, down, down until you get into the still water at the bottom of the sea. We all know that, no matter how furious the sea is on the surface, not far below the surface it is absolutely still. It is very restful to go down there in imagination.
Whatever choice we may make to quiet our minds and our bodies, as soon as we begin to concentrate we must not be surprised if intruding thoughts are at first constantly crowding to get in. We must simply let them come. Let them come, and pay no attention to them.
I knew of a woman who was nervously ill, and some organs of her body were weakened very much by the illness. She made-up her mind to rest herself well and she did so. Every day she would rest for three hours; she said to herself, “I will rest an hour on my left side, an hour on my right side, and an hour on my back.” And she did that for days and days. When she lay on one side she had a very attractive tree to look at. When she lay on the other she had an interesting picture before her. When she lay on her back she had the sky and several trees to see through a window in front of the bed. She grew steadily better every week–she had something to rest for. She was resting to get well. If she had rested and complained of her illness I doubt if she would have been well to-day. She simply refused to take the unpleasant sensations into consideration except for the sake of resting out of them. When she was well enough to take a little active exercise she knew she could rest better and get well faster for that, and she insisted upon taking the exercise, although at first she had to do it with the greatest care. Now that this woman is well she knows how to rest and she knows how to work better than ever before.
For normal rest we need the long sleep of night. For shorter rests which we may take during the day, often opportunity comes at most unexpected times and in most unexpected ways, and we must be ready to take advantage of it. We need also the habit of working restfully. This habit of course enables us to rest truly when we are only resting, and again the habit of resting normally helps us to work normally.
A wise old lady said: “My dear, you cannot exaggerate the unimportance of things.” She expressed even more, perhaps, than she knew.
It is our habit of exaggerating the importance of things that keeps us hurried and rushed. It is our habit of exaggerating the importance of ourselves that makes us hold the strain of life so intensely. If we would be content to do one thing at a time, and concentrate on that one thing until it came time to do the next thing, it would astonish us to see how much we should accomplish. A healthy concentration is at the root of working restfully and of resting restfully, for a healthy concentration means dropping everything that interferes.
I know there are women who read this article who will say; “Oh, yes, that is all very well for some women, but it does not apply in the least to a woman who has my responsibilities, or to a woman who has to work as I have to work.”
My answer to that is: “Dear lady, you are the very one to whom it does apply!”
The more work we have to do, the harder our lives are, the more we need the best possible principles to lighten our work and to enlighten our lives. We are here in the world at school and we do not want to stay in the primary classes.
The harder our lives are and the more we are handicapped the more truly we can learn to make every limitation an opportunity–and if we persistently do that through circumstances, no matter how severe, the nearer we are to getting our diploma. To gain our freedom from the rushed feeling, to find a quiet mind in place of an unquiet one, is worth working hard for through any number of difficulties. And think of the benefit such a quiet mind could be to other people! Especially if the quiet mind were the mind of a woman, for, at the present day, think what a contrast she would be to other women!
When a woman’s mind is turbulent it is the worst kind of turbulence. When it is quiet we can almost say it is the best kind of quiet, humanly speaking.
CHAPTER IV
_Why does Mrs. Smith get on My Nerves?_
IF you want to know the true answer to this question it is “because you are unwilling that Mrs. Smith should be herself.” You want her to be just like you, or, if not just like you, you want her to be just as you would best like her.
I have seen a woman so annoyed that she could not eat her supper because another woman ate sugar on baked beans. When this woman told me later what it was that had taken away her appetite she added: “And isn’t it absurd? Why shouldn’t Mrs. Smith eat sugar on baked beans? It does not hurt me. I do not have to taste the sugar on the beans; but is it such an odd thing to do. It seems to me such bad manners that I just get so mad I can’t eat!”
Now, could there be anything more absurd than that? To see a woman annoyed; to see her recognize that she was uselessly and foolishly annoyed, and yet to see that she makes not the slightest effort to get over her annoyance.
It is like the woman who discovered that she spoke aloud in church, and was so surprised that she exclaimed: “Why, I spoke out loud in church!” and then, again surprised, she cried: “Why, I keep speaking aloud in church!”–and it did not occur to her to stop.
My friend would have refused an invitation to supper, I truly believe, if she had known that Mrs. Smith would be there and her hostess would have baked beans. She was really a slave to Mrs. Smith’s way of eating baked beans.
“Well, I do not blame her,” I hear some reader say; “it is entirely out of place to eat sugar on baked beans. Why shouldn’t she be annoyed?”
I answer: “Why should she be annoyed? Will her annoyance stop Mrs. Smith’s eating sugar on baked beans? Will she in any way–selfish or otherwise–be the gainer for her annoyance? Furthermore, if it were the custom to eat sugar on baked beans, as it is the custom to put sugar in coffee, this woman would not have been annoyed at all. It was simply the fact of seeing Mrs. Smith digress from the ordinary course of life that annoyed her.”
It is the same thing that makes a horse shy. The horse does not say to himself, “There is a large carriage, moving with no horse to pull it, with nothing to push it, with–so far as I can see–no motive power at all. How weird that is! How frightful!”–and, with a quickly beating heart, jump aside and caper in scared excitement. A horse when he first sees an automobile gets an impression on his brain which is entirely out of his ordinary course of impressions–it is as if some one suddenly and unexpectedly struck him, and he shies and jumps. The horse is annoyed, but he does not know what it is that annoys him. Now, when a horse shies you drive him away from the automobile and quiet him down, and then, if you are a good trainer, you drive him back again right in front of that car or some other one, and you repeat the process until the automobile becomes an ordinary impression to him, and he is no longer afraid of it.
There is, however, just this difference between a woman and a horse: the woman has her own free will behind her annoyance, and a horse has not. If my friend had asked Mrs. Smith to supper twice a week, and had served baked beans each time and herself passed her the sugar with careful courtesy, and if she had done it all deliberately for the sake of getting over her annoyance, she would probably have only increased it until the strain would have got on her nerves much more seriously than Mrs. Smith ever had. Not only that, but she would have found herself resisting other people’s peculiarities more than ever before; I have seen people in nervous prostration from causes no more serious than that, on the surface. It is the habit of resistance and resentment back of the surface annoyance which is the serious cause of many a woman’s attack of nerves.
Every woman is a slave to every other woman who annoys her. She is tied to each separate woman who has got on her nerves by a wire which is pulling, pulling the nervous force right out of her. And it is not the other woman’s fault–it is her own. The wire is pulling, whether or not we are seeing or thinking of the other woman, for, having once been annoyed by her, the contraction is right there in our brains. It is just so much deposited strain in our nervous systems which will stay there until we, of our own free wills, have yielded out of it.
The horse was not resenting nor resisting the automobile; therefore the strain of his fright was at once removed when the automobile became an ordinary impression. A woman, when she gets a new impression that she does not like, resents and resists it with her will, and she has got to get in behind that resistance and drop it with her will before she is a free woman.
To be sure, there are many disagreeable things that annoy for a time, and then, as the expression goes, we get hardened to them. But few of us know that this hardening is just so much packed resistance which is going to show itself later in some unpleasant form and make us ill in mind or body. We have got to yield, yield, yield out of every bit of resistance and resentment to other people if we want to be free. No reasoning about it is going to do us any good. No passing back and forth in front of it is going to free us. We must yield first and then we can see clearly and reason justly. We must yield first and then we can go back and forth in front of it, and it will only be a reminder to yield every time until the habit of yielding has become habitual and the strength of nerve and strength of character developed by means of the yielding have been established.
Let me explain more fully what I mean by “yielding.” Every annoyance, resistance, or feeling of resentment contracts us in some way physically; if we turn our attention toward dropping that physical contraction, with a real desire to get rid of the resistance behind it, we shall find that dropping the physical strain opens the way to drop the mental and moral strain, and when we have really dropped the strain we invariably find reason and justice and even generosity toward others waiting to come to us.
There is one important thing to be looked out for in this normal process of freeing ourselves from other people. A young girl said once to her teacher: “I got mad the other day and I relaxed, and the more I relaxed the madder I got!”
“Did you want to get over the anger?” asked the teacher.
“No, I didn’t,” was the prompt and ready answer.
Of course, as this child relaxed out of the tension of her anger, there was only more anger to take its place, and the more she relaxed the more free her nerves were to take the impression of the anger hoarded up in her; consequently it was as she said: the more she relaxed the “madder” she got. Later, this same little girl came to understand fully that she must have a real desire to get over her anger in order to have better feelings come up after she had dropped the contraction of the anger.
I know of a woman who has been holding such steady hatred for certain other people that the strain of it has kept her ill. And it is all a matter of feeling: first, that these people have interfered with her welfare; second, that they differ from her in opinion. Every once in a while her hatred finds a vent and spends itself in tears and bitter words. Then, after the external relief of letting out her pent-up feeling, she closes up again and one would think from her voice and manner–if one did not look very deep in–that she had only kindliness for every one. But she stays nervously ill right along.
How could she do otherwise with that strain in her? If she were constitutionally a strong woman this strain of hatred would have worn on her, though possibly not have made her really ill; but, being naturally sensitive and delicate, the strain has kept her an invalid altogether.
“Mother, I can’t stand Maria,” one daughter says to her mother, and when inquiry is made the mother finds that what her daughter “cannot stand” is ways that differ from her own. Sometimes, however, they are very disagreeable ways which are exactly like the ways of the person who cannot stand them. If one person is imperious and demanding she will get especially annoyed at another person for being imperious and demanding, without a suspicion that she is objecting vehemently to a reflection of herself.
There are two ways in which people get on our nerves. The first way lies in their difference from us in habit–in little things and in big things; their habits are not our habits. Their habits may be all right, and our habits may be all right, but they are “different.” Why should we not be willing to have them different? Is there any reason for it except the very empty one that we consciously and unconsciously want every one else to be just like us, or to believe just as we do, or to behave just as we do? And what sense is there in that?
“I cannot stand Mrs. So-and-so; she gets into a rocking-chair and rocks and rocks until I feel as if I should go crazy!” some one says. But why not let Mrs. So-and-so rock? It is her chair while she is in it, and her rocking. Why need it touch us at all?
“But,” I hear a hundred women say, “it gets on our nerves; how can we help its getting on our nerves?” The answer to that is: “Drop it off your nerves.” I know many women who have tried it and who have succeeded, and who are now profiting by the relief. Sometimes the process to such freedom is a long one; sometimes it is a short one; but, either way, the very effort toward it brings nervous strength, as well as strength of character.
Take the woman who rocks. Practically every time she rocks you should relax, actually and consciously relax your muscles and your nerves. The woman who rocks need not know you are relaxing; it all can be done from inside. Watch and you will find your muscles strained and tense with resistance to the rocking. Go to work practically to drop every bit of strain that you observe. As you drop the grossest strain it will make you more sensitive to the finer strain and you can drop that–and it is even possible that you may seek the woman who rocks, in order to practice on her and get free from the habit of resisting more quickly.
This seems comical–almost ridiculous–to think of seeking an annoyance in order to get rid of it; but, after laughing at it first, look at the idea seriously, and you will see it is common sense. When you have learned to relax to the woman who rocks you have learned to relax to other similar annoyances. You have been working on a principle that applies generally. You have acquired a good habit which can never really fail you.
If my friend had invited Mrs. Smith to supper and served baked beans for the sake of relaxing out of the tension of her resistance to the sugar, then she could have conquered that resistance. But to try to conquer an annoyance like that without knowing how to yield in some way would be, so far as I know, an impossibility. Of course, we would prefer that our friends should not have any disagreeable, ill-bred, personal ways, but we can go through the world without resisting them, and there is no chance of helping any one out of them through our own resistances.
On the other hand a way may open by which the woman’s attention is called to the very unhealthy habit of rocking–or eating sugar on beans–if we are ready, without resistance, to point it out to her. And if no way opens we have at least put ourselves out of bondage to her. The second way in which other people get on our nerves is more serious and more difficult. Mrs. So-and-so may be doing very wrong–really very wrong; or some one who is nearly related to us may be doing very wrong–and it may be our most earnest and sincere desire to set him right. In such cases the strain is more intense because we really have right on our side, in our opinion, if not in our attitude toward the other person. Then, to recognize that if some one else chooses to do wrong it is none of our business is one of the most difficult things to do–for a woman, especially.
It is more difficult to recognize practically that, in so far as it may be our business, we can best put ourselves in a position to enable the other person to see his own mistake by dropping all personal resistance to it and all personal strain about it. Even a mother with her son can help him to be a man much more truly if she stops worrying about and resisting his unmanliness.
“But,” I hear some one say, “that all seems like such cold indifference.” Not at all–not at all. Such freedom from strain can be found only through a more actively affectionate interest in others. The more we truly love another, the more thoroughly we respect that other’s individuality.
The other so-called love is only love of possession and love of having our own way. It is not really love at all; it is sugar-coated tyranny. And when one sugar-coated tyrant’ antagonizes herself against another sugar-coated tyrant the strain is severe indeed, and nothing good is ever accomplished.
The Roman infantry fought with a fixed amount of space about each soldier, and found that the greater freedom of individual activity enabled them to fight better and to conquer their foes. This symbolizes happily the process of getting people off our nerves. Let us give each one a wide margin and thus preserve a good margin for ourselves.
We rub up against other people’s nerves by getting too near to them–not too near to their real selves, but too near, so to speak, to their nervous systems. There have been quarrels between good people just because one phase of nervous irritability roused another. Let things in other people go until you have entirely dropped your strain about them–then it will be clear enough what to do and what to say, or what not to do and what not to say. People in the world cannot get on our nerves unless we allow them to do so.
CHAPTER V
_The Trying Member of the Family_
“TOMMY, don’t do that. You know it annoys your grandfather.”
“Well, why should he be annoyed? I am doing nothing wrong.”
“I know that, and it hurts me to ask you, but you know how he will feel if he sees you doing it, and you know that troubles me.”
Reluctantly and sullenly Tommy stopped. Tommy’s mother looked strained and worried and discontented. Tommy had an expression on his face akin to that of a smouldering volcano.
If any one had taken a good look at the grandfather it would have been very clear that Tommy was his own grandson, and that the old man and the child were acting and reacting upon one another in a way that was harmful to both; although the injury was, of course, worse to the child, for the grandfather had toughened. The grandfather thought he loved his little grandson, and the grandson, at times, would not have acknowledged that he did not love his grandfather. At other times, with childish frankness, he said he “hated him.”
But the worst of this situation was that although the mother loved her son, and loved her father, and sincerely thought that she was the family peacemaker, she was all the time fanning the antagonism.
Here is a contrast to this little story An old uncle came into the family of his nephew to live, late in life, and with a record behind him of whims and crotchets in the extreme. The father and mother talked it over. Uncle James must come. He had lost all his money. There was no one else to look after him and they could not afford to support him elsewhere where he would be comfortable. They took it into account, without offence, that it was probably just as much a cross to Uncle James to come as it was to them to have him. They took no pose of magnanimity such as: “Of course we must be good and offer Uncle James a home,” and “How good we are to do it!” Uncle James was to come because it was the only thing for him to do. The necessity was to be faced and fought and conquered, and they had three strong, self-willed little children to face it with them. They had sense enough to see that if faced rightly it would do only good to the children, but if made a burden to groan over it would make their home a “hornets’ nest.” They agreed to say nothing to the children about Uncle James’s peculiarities, but to await developments.
Children are always delighted at a visit from a relative, and they welcomed their great-uncle with pleasure. It was not three days, however, before every one of the three was crying with dislike and hurt feelings and anger. Then was the time to begin the campaign.
The mother, with a happy face, called the three children to her, and said “Now listen, children. Do you suppose I like Uncle James’s irritability any better than you do?”
“No,” came in a chorus; “we don’t see how you stand it, Mother.”
Then she said: “Now look here, boys, do you suppose that Uncle James likes his snapping any better than we do?”
“If he does not like it why does he do it?” answered the boys.
“I cannot tell you that; that is his business and not yours or mine,” said the mother; “but I can prove to you that he does not like it. Bobby, do you remember how you snapped at your brother yesterday, when he accidentally knocked your house over?”
“Yes!” replied Bobby.
“Did you feel comfortable after it?” “You bet I didn’t,” was the quick reply.
“Well,” answered the mother, “you boys stop and think just how disagreeable it is inside of you when you snap, and then think how it would be if you had to feel like that as much as Uncle James does.”
“By golly, but that would be bad,” said the twelve-year-old.
“Now, boys,” went on the mother, “you want to relieve Uncle James’s disagreeable feelings all you can, and don’t you see that you increase them when you do things to annoy him? His snappish feelings are just like a sore that is smarting and aching all the time, and when you get in their way it hurts as if you rubbed the sore. Keep out of his way when you can, and when you can’t and he snaps at you, say: ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ like gentlemen, and stop doing what annoys him; or get out of his way as soon as you can.”
Uncle James never became less snappish. But the upright, manly courtesy of those boys toward him was like fresh air on a mountain, especially because it had become a habit and was all as a matter of course. The father and mother realized that Uncle James had, unconsciously, made men of their boys as nothing else in the world could have done, and had trained them so that they would grow up tolerant and courteous toward all human peculiarities.
Many times a gracious courtesy toward the “trying member” will discover good and helpful qualities that we had not guessed before. Sometimes after a little honest effort we find that it is ourselves who have been the trying members, and that the other one has been the member tried. Often it is from two members of the family that the trying element comes. Two sisters may clash, and they will generally clash because they are unlike. Suppose one sister moves and lives in big swings, and the other in minute details. Of course when these extreme tendencies are accented in each the selfish temptation is for the larger mind to lapse into carelessness of details, and for the smaller mind to shrink into pettiness, and as this process continues the sisters get more and more intolerant of each other, and farther and farther apart. But if the sister who moves in the big swings will learn from the other to be careful in details, and if the smaller mind will allow itself to be enlarged by learning from the habitually broader view of the other, each will grow in proportion, and two women who began life as enemies in temperament can end it as happy friends.
There are similar cases of brothers who clash, but they are not so evident, for when men do not agree they leave one another alone. Women do not seem to be able to do that. It is good to leave one another alone when there is the clashing tendency, but it is better to conquer the clashing and learn to agree.
So long as the normal course of my life leads me to live with some one who rubs me the wrong way I am not free until I have learned to live with that some one in quiet content. I never gain my freedom by running away. The bondage is in me always, so long as the other person’s presence can rouse it. The only way is to fight it out inside of one’s self. When we can get the co-operation of the other so much the better. But no one’s co-operation is necessary for us to find our own freedom, and with it an intelligent, tolerant kindliness.
“Mother, you take that seat. No, not that one, Mother–the sun comes in that window. Children, move aside and let your grandmother get to her seat.”
The young woman was very much in earnest in seeing that her mother had a comfortable seat, that she had not the discomfort of the hot sun, that the children made way for her so that she could move into her seat comfortably. All her words were thoughtful and courteous, but the spirit and the tone of her words were quite the reverse of courteous. If some listener with his eyes shut had heard the tone without understanding the words he might easily have thought that the woman was talking to a little dog.
Poor “Mother” trotted into her seat with the air of a little dog who was so well trained that he did at once what his mistress ordered. It was very evident that “Mother’s” will had been squeezed out of her and trampled upon for years by her dutiful daughter, who looked out always that “Mother” had the best, without the first scrap of respect for “Mother’s” free, human soul.
The grandchildren took the spirit of their mother’s words rather than the words themselves, and treated their grandmother as if she were a sort of traveling idiot tagged on to them, to whom they had to be decently respectful whenever their mother’s eye was upon them, and whom they ignored entirely when their mother looked the other way.
It so happened that I was sitting next to this particular mother who had been poked into a comfortable seat by her careful daughter. And, after a number of other suggestions had been poked at her with a view to adding to her comfort, she turned to me and in a quaint, confidential way, with the gentle voice of a habitual martyr, and at the same time a twinkle of humor in her eye, she said “They think, you know, I don’t know anything.”
And after that we had a little talk about matters of the day which proved to me that “Mother” had a mind broader and certainly more quiet than her daughter. I studied the daughter with interest after knowing “Mother” better, and her habitual strain of voice and manner were pathetic. By making a care of her mother instead of a companion, she was not only guilty of disrespect to a soul which, however weak it may have been in allowing itself to be directed in all minor matters, had its own firm principles which were not overridden nor even disturbed by the daughter’s dominance. If the daughter had only dropped her strain of care and her habit of “bossing” she would have found a true companion in her mother, and would have been a healthier and happier woman herself.
In pleasant contrast to this is the story of a family which had an old father who had lost his mind entirely, and had grown decrepit and childish in the extreme. The sons and daughters tended him like a baby and loved him with gentle, tender respect. There was no embarrassment for his loss of mind, no thought of being distressed or pained by it, and because his children took their father’s state so quietly and without shame, every guest who came took it in the same way, and there was no thought of keeping the father out of sight. He sat in the living-room in his comfortable chair, and always one child or another was sitting right beside him with a smiling face. Instead of being a trying member of the family, as happens in so many cases, this old father seemed to bring content and rest to his children through their loving care for him.
Very often–I might almost say always–the trying member of the family is trying only because we make her so by our attitude toward her, let her be grandmother, mother, or maiden aunt. Even the proverbial mother-in-law grows less difficult as our attitude toward her is relieved of the strain of detesting everything she does, and expecting to detest everything that she is going to do. With every trying friend we have, if we yield to him in all minor matters we find the settling of essential questions wonderfully less difficult.
A son had a temper and the girl he married had a temper. The mother loved her son with the selfish love with which so many mothers burden their children, and thought that he alone of all men had a right to lose his temper. Consequently she excused her son and blamed her daughter-in-law. If there were a mild cyclone roused between the two married people the son would turn to his mother to hear what a martyr he was and what misfortune he had to bear in having been so easily mistaken in the woman he married. Thus the mother-in-law, who felt that she was protecting her poor son, was really breeding dissension between two people who could have been the best possible friends all their lives.
The young wife very soon became ashamed of her temper and worked until she conquered it, but it was not until her mother-in-law had been out of this world for years that her husband discovered what he had lost in turning away from his wife’s friendship, and it was only by the happy accident of severe illness that he ever discovered his mistake at all, and gained freedom from the bondage of his own temper enough to appreciate his wife.
If, however, the wife had yielded in the beginning not only to her husband’s bad temper but also to the antagonism of her mother-in-law, which was, of course, annoying in many petty ways, she might have gained her husband’s friendship, and it is possible that she might, moreover, have gained the friendship of her mother-in-law.
The best rule with regard to all trying members of the family is to yield to them always in non-essentials; and when you disagree in essentials stick to the principle which you believe to be right, but stick to it without resistance. Believe your way, but make yourself willing that the trying member should believe her way. Make an opportunity of what appears to be a limitation, and, believe me, your trying member can become a blessing to you.
I go further than that–I truly believe that to make the best of life every family should have a trying member. When we have no trying member of our family, and life goes along smoothly, as a matter of course, the harmony is very liable to be spurious, and a sudden test will all at once knock such a family into discord, much to the surprise of every member. When we go through discord to harmony, and once get into step, we are very likely to keep in step:
Be willing, then, make yourself willing, that the trying member should be in the way. Hope that she will stay in your family until you have succeeded in dropping not only all resistance to her being there, but every resistance to her various ways in detail. Bring her annoying ways up to your mind voluntarily when you are away from her. If you do that you will find all the resistances come with them and you can relax out of the strain then and there. You will find that when you get home or come down to breakfast in the morning (for many resistances are voluntarily thrown off in the night) you will have a pleasanter feeling toward the trying member, and it comes so spontaneously that you will be surprised yourself at the absence of the strain of resistance in you.
Believe me when I say this: the yielding in the non-essentials, singularly enough, gives one strength to refuse to yield in principles. But we must always remember that if we want to find real peace, while we refuse to yield in our own principles so long as we believe them to be true, we must be entirely willing that others should differ from us in belief.
CHAPTER VI
_Irritable Husbands_
SUPPOSE your husband got impatient and annoyed with you because you did not seem to enter heartily into the interests of his work and sympathize with its cares and responsibilities and soothe him out of the nervous harassments. Would you not perhaps feel a little sore that he seemed to expect all from you and to give nothing in return? I know how many women will say that is all very well, but the husband and father should feel as much interest in the home and the children as the wife and mother does. That is, of course, true up to a certain point, always in general, and when his help is really necessary in particular. But a man cannot enter into the details of his wife’s duties at home any more than a woman can enter into the details of her husband’s duties at his office.
Then, again, my readers may say: “But a woman’s nervous system is more sensitive than a man’s; she needs help and consolation. She needs to have some one on whom she can lean.” Now the answer to that will probably be surprising, but an intelligent understanding and comprehension of it would make a very radical difference in the lives of many men and women who have agreed to live together for life–for better and for worse.
Now the truth is man’s nervous system is quite as sensitive as a woman’s, but the woman’s temptation to emotion makes her appear more sensitive, and her failure to control her emotions ultimately increases the sensitiveness of her nerves so that they are more abnormal than her husband’s. Even that is not always true The other day a woman sat in tears and distress telling of the hardness of heart, the restlessness, the irritability, the thoughtlessness, the unkindness of her husband. Her face was drawn with suffering. She insisted that she was not complaining, that it was her deep and tender love for her husband that made her suffer so. “But it is killing me, it is killing me,” she said, and one who saw her could well believe it. And if the distress and the great strain upon her nerves had kept on it certainly would have made her ill, if not have actually ended her life with a nervous collapse.
The friend in whom she confided sat quietly and heard her through. She let her pour herself out to the very finish until she stopped because there was nothing more to say. Then, by means of a series of gentle, well-adapted questions, she drew from the wife a recognition–for the first time–of the fact that she really did nothing whatever for her husband and expected him to do everything for her. Perhaps she put on a pretty dress for him in order to look attractive when he came home, but if he did not notice how well she looked, and was irritable about something in the house, she would be dissolved in tears because she had not proved attractive and pleased him. Maybe she had tried to have a dinner that he especially liked; then if he did not notice the food, and seemed distracted about something that was worrying him, she would again be dissolved in tears because he “appreciated nothing that she tried to do for him.”
Now it is perfectly true that this husband was irritable and brutal; he had no more consideration for his wife than he had for any one else. But his wife was doing all in her power to fan his irritability into flame and to increase his brutality. She was attitudinizing in her own mind as a martyr. She was demanding kindness and attention and sympathy from her husband, and because she demanded it she never got it.
A woman can demand without demanding imperiously. There is more selfish demanding in a woman’s emotional suffering because her husband does not do this or that or the other for her sake than there is in a tornado of man’s irritability or anger. You see, a woman’s demanding spirit is covered with the mush of her emotions. A man’s demanding spirit stands out in all its naked ugliness. One is just as bad as the other. One is just as repulsive as the other.
It is a radical, practical impossibility to bring loving-kindness out of any one by demanding it. Loving-kindness, thoughtfulness, and consideration have got to be born spontaneously in a man’s own mind to be anything at all, and no amount of demanding on the part of his wife can force it.
When this little lady of whom I have been writing found that she had been demanding from her husband what he really ought to have given her as a matter of course, and that she had used up all her strength in suffering because he did not give it, and had used none of her strength in the effort to be patient and quiet in waiting for him to come to his senses, she went home and began a new life. She was a plucky little woman and very intelligent when once her eyes were opened. She recognized the fact that her suffering was resistance to her husband’s irritable selfishness, and she stopped resisting.
It was a long and hard struggle of days, weeks, and months, but it brought a very happy reward. When a man is irritable and ugly, and his wife offers no resistance either in anger or suffering, the irritability and ugliness react upon himself, and if there is something better in him he begins to perceive the irritability in its true colors. That is what happened to this man. As his wife stopped demanding he began to give. As his wife’s nerves became calm and quiet his nerves quieted and calmed. Finally his wife discovered that much of his irritability had been roused through nervous anxiety in regard to his business about which he had told her nothing whatever because it “was not his way.”
There is nothing in the world that so strengthens nerves as the steady use of the will to drop resistance and useless emotions and get a quiet control. This woman gained that strength, and to her surprise one day her husband turned to her with a full account of all his business troubles and she met his mind quietly, as one business man might meet another, and without in the least expressing her pleasure or her surprise. She took all the good change in him as a matter of course.
Finally one day it came naturally and easily to talk over the past. She found that her husband from day to day had dreaded coming home. The truth was that he had dreaded his own irritability as much as he had dreaded her emotional demanding. But he did not know it–he did not know what was the matter at all. He simply knew vaguely that he was a brute, that he felt like a brute, and that he did not know how to stop being a brute. His wife knew that he was a brute, and at the same time she felt throughly convinced that she was a suffering martyr. He was dreading to come home and she was dreading to have him come home–and there they were in a continuous nightmare. Now they have left the nightmare far, far behind, and each one knows that the other has one good friend in the world in whom he or she can feel entire confidence, and their friendship is growing stronger and clearer and more normal every day.
It is not the ceremony that makes the marriage: the ceremony only begins it. Marriage is a slow and careful adjustment. A true story which illustrates the opposite of this condition is that of a man and woman who were to all appearances happily married for years. They were apparently the very closest friends. The man’s nerves were excitable and peculiar, and his wife adjusted herself to them by indulging them and working in every way to save him from friction. No woman could stand that constant work of adjustment which was in reality maladjustment, and this wife’s nerves broke down unexpectedly and completely.
When our nerves get weak we are unable to repress resistance which in a stronger state we had covered up. This wife, while she had indulged and protected her husband’s peculiarities, had subconsciously resisted them. When she became ill her subconscious resistance came to the surface. She surprised herself by growing impatient with her husband. He, of course; retorted. As she grew worse he did not find his usual comfort from her care, and instead of trying to help her to get well he turned his back on her and complained to another woman. Finally the friction of the two nervous systems became dangerously intense. Each was equally obstinate, and there was nothing to do but to separate The woman died of a broken heart, and the man is probably insane for the rest of his life.
It was nothing but the mismanagement of their own and each other’s nerves that made all this terrible trouble. Their love seemed genuine at first, and could certainly have grown to be really genuine if they had become truly adjusted. And the saddest part of the whole story is that they were both peculiarly adapted to be of use to their fellow-men. During the first years of their life their home was a delight to all their friends.
Tired nerves are likely to close up a man or make him irritable, complaining, and ugly, whereas the tendency in a woman is to be irritable, complaining, and tearful. Now of course when each one is selfishly looking out for his or her comfort neither one can be expected to understand the other. The man thinks he is entirely justified in being annoyed with the woman’s tearful, irritable complaints, and so he is–in a way. The woman thinks that she has a right to suffer because of her husband’s irritable ugliness, and so she has–in a way. But in the truest way, and the way which appeals to every one’s common sense, neither one has a right to complain of the other, and each one by right should have first made things better and clearer in himself and herself.
Human nature is not so bad–really in its essence it is not bad at all. If we only give the other man a real chance. It is the pushing and pulling and demanding of one human being toward another that smother the best in us, and make life a fearful strain. Of course there is a healthy demanding as well as an unhealthy demanding, but, so far as I know, the healthy demanding can come only when we are clear of personal resistance and can demand on the strength of a true principle and without selfish emotion. There is a kind of gentle, motherly contempt with which some women speak of their husbands, which must get on a man’s nerves very painfully. It is intensely and most acutely annoying. And yet I have heard good women speak in that way over and over again. The gentleness and motherliness are of course neither of them real in such cases. The gentle, motherly tone is used to cover up their own sense of superiority.
“Poor boy, poor boy,” they may say; “a man is really like a child.” So he may be–so he often is childish, and sometimes childish in the extreme. But where could you find greater and more abject childishness than in a woman’s ungoverned emotions?
A woman must respect the manliness of her husband’s soul, and must cling to her belief in its living existence behind any amount of selfish, restless irritability, if she is going to find a friend in him or be a friend to him. She must also know that his nervous system may be just as sensitive as hers. Sometimes it is more sensitive, and should be accordingly respected. Demand nothing and expect nothing, but hold him to his best in your mind and wait.
That is a rule that would work wonderfully if every woman who is puzzled about her husband’s restlessness and lack of interest in home affairs would apply it steadily and for long enough. It is impossible to manufacture a happy, sympathetic married life artificially–impossible! But as each one looks to one’s self and does one’s part fully, and then is willing to wait for the other, the happiness and the sympathy, the better power for work and the joyful ability to play come–they do come; they are real and alive and waiting for us as we get clear from the interferences.
“Why doesn’t my husband like to stay with me when he comes home? Why can’t we have nice, cozy times together?” a wife asks with sad longing in her eyes.
And to the same friend the husband (who is, by the way, something of a pig) says: “I should be glad to stay with Nellie often in the evening, but she will always talk about her worries, and she worries about the family in a way that is idiotic. She is always sure that George will catch the measles because a boy in the next street has them, and she is always sure that our children do not have the advantages nor the good manners that other children have. If it is not one thing it is another; whenever we are alone there is something to complain of, and her last complaint was about her own selfishness.” Then he laughed at what he considered a good joke, and in five minutes had forgotten all about her.
This wife, in a weak, selfish little way, was trying to give her husband her confidence, and her complaint about her own selfishness was genuine. She wanted his help to get out of it. If he had given her just a little gracious attention and told her how impossible it was really to discuss the children when she began the conversation with whining complaint, she would have allowed herself to be taught and their intercourse would have improved. On the other hand, if the wife had realized that her husband came home from the cares of his business tired and nervous, and if she had talked lightly and easily on general subjects and tried to follow his interests, when his nerves were rested and quiet she might have found him ready and able to give her a little lift with regard to the children.
It is interesting and it is delightful to see how, as we each work first to bear our own burdens, we not only find ourselves ready and able to lighten the burdens of others but find others who are helpful to us.
A woman who finds her husband “so restless and irritable” should remember that in reality a man’s nervous system is just as sensitive as a woman’s, and, with a steady and consistent effort to bear her own burdens and to work out her own problems, should prepare herself to lighten her husband’s burdens and help to solve his problems; that is the truest way of bringing him to the place where he will be glad to share her burdens with her as well as his own.
But we want to remember that there is a radical difference between indulging another’s selfishness, and waiting, with patient yielding, for him to discover his selfishness himself, and to act unselfishly from his own free will.
CHAPTER VII
_Quiet vs. Chronic Excitement_
SOME women live in a chronic state of excitement all the time and they do not find it out until they get ill. Even then they do not always find it out, and then they get more ill.
It is really much the same with excitable women as with a man who thinks he must always keep a little stimulant in himself in order to keep about his work. When a bad habit is established in us we feel unnatural if we give the habit up for a moment–and we feel natural when we are in it–but it is poison all the same.
If a woman has a habit of constantly snuffing or clearing her throat, or rocking a rocking chair, or chatt