"from this world to that which is to come" ever lose the pack
whose fastenings were so quickly dissolved when our favorite old
Pilgrim looked upon the Cross? I doubt it. I hear many people
groaning throughout the whole course of their Christian experience
with the oppressive weight of this same burden. Instead of losing
it at the sight of the cross, they hold to it, and will not let it
go. They mean well enough; but they do not understand that the
cross was reared, and the meek sufferer nailed to it, that the
burden of the penitent soul might be forever rolled off. They
carry their own sins, and never yield the pack to Him who bore it
for them "in His own body, on the tree." They are never "light and
gladsome" with a sense of great relief; and their Christian
progress is sadly impeded by the burden from which the central
truth of the Christian scheme releases them. If there be any such
thing as forgiveness, then there is such a thing as release; but I
think there are many subjects of free and full forgiveness who
insist on carrying their old, dirty packs to their graves,
staggering under them all the way.
But this is not what I started to write about. A great many men
carry their life as an author carries a book which he is writing--
never losing the sense of their burden. When a writer undertakes a
book, and feels the necessity of perfect continuity of thought and
symmetry of structure, he can never lay it wholly aside. When once
he has taken up the first chapter, and comprehended his materials
and machinery and end, he does not dare to lay down his work, or
diverge from the grand channel of his thought, until the last
chapter is finished. He can take no three months' vacation; he can
read no books that do not contribute to his progress in the chosen
direction; he can never wholly lay aside the burden that is on
him. It is like lifting upon one's shoulder the end of a long
pole, and then walking under it from end to end. The burden upon
the shoulder is not relieved until the whole length has been
passed, and it drops as we walk from under it. Such is the way
that many men, and, perhaps, most men, carry life. If their
business troubles them, they have no power to throw it off, and no
disposition to try to do it. They are entirely aware that they
gain nothing by carrying their tedious burden, but they carry it.
Not content with doing their duty, and trying their best while
actively engaged, they take home with them a long face, breathe
sighs around them in the saddest fashion, and really unfit
themselves for the healthy exercise of their reason, and the
active employment of their faculties.
With men of this stamp, it makes little difference whether they
are prosperous or otherwise. If times are good, and they really
have no fault to find with matters as they exist, they become
troubled about bad times that may possibly lie just ahead. "Oh,
it's all well enough to-day," they say, "but you can't tell what
is coming;" so they bind the burden of the future upon them, and
undertake to steal a march on God's providence. Such a thing as
doing the duty of a single day, and doing it well, and then
throwing off the burden of care, and having a good time in some
rational way, until the hour comes for the commencement of the
next day's duty, they are strangers to. They walk into their
houses with a cloud upon their faces. They have no words of cheer
for those whom they have left at home during the day. They are
moody and sullen and sad--absorbed by their troubled thoughts--
taking no interest in the schemes, and having no sympathy with the
trials, of their wives and children, and making no effort to
relieve themselves of their burdens. If they pray at all, they
practically pray like this: "Give us this day our daily bread, and
to-morrow, and next day, and the day after, and next year, and
fifty years to come; and lest Thou shouldst forget it, or neglect
to answer us, we have undertaken to look after the matter
ourselves."
To say nothing of the constant sadness, uneasiness, and discomfort
of such a life as this, to all those who lead it, and to all who
are intimately associated with them, the permanent effect of it
upon the character of its subjects is to make them selfish and
hard, and small and mean. Whatever may be their circumstances,
they become sensitive upon any expenditure of money for purposes
beyond the simplest necessities of personal and family life. This
result is both natural and inevitable. A man whose life, in and
out of his counting-room, is absorbed by business, ceases, at
last, to be any thing but a man of business; and his mind
contracts and hardens down to its central, motive idea. That which
becomes the dominant aim and the grand end of life, always
determines the character of life; and I have known young men, even
before they have approached middle age, to become mean and miserly
to such a degree as to disappoint and disgust their friends,
simply in consequence of a few years' absorption in business.
Business is not life, nor is it life's end. It is simply a means
of life; and all true living lies outside of it. Ministry is the
mission of business--ministry to necessity, to comfort, and to a
personal, family, and social life into which business never
enters, save with an unwelcome foot and a disturbing hand. This
everlasting hugging of the burden of business, is, therefore, not
only a painful task, but it is permanently damaging to all who
indulge in it.
"It is very easy to talk," says my friend, with a load upon his
shoulders, "but talking does not pay notes at the bank, and keep
creditors easy, and provide for one's family." Granted: and now
will you be kind enough to tell me how many notes you ever paid at
bank, and how much provision you ever made for your family by
"mugging" over your troubles out of business hours? If your retort
is good for any thing, mine is. You never accomplished one good
thing in your life by making yourself and others unhappy through
constant dwelling upon trouble when not engaged in active efforts
to extricate yourself from it. You never gained a single inch of
progress by dwelling upon miscarriages in business which you could
not avoid. All your absorption, all your sad reflection, all your
misgivings about the future, all your care beyond the exercise of
your best ability in action, has not only been utterly useless,
but it has injured the comfort of all around you, destroyed the
peace of your life, cheated you out of the reward of your labor,
and made a smaller, harder, meaner man of you. If any good result
could be secured by carrying the burden of your business into all
your life, then there would be some apology for it; but you know
that no such result can be secured. "It is very easy to talk," my
friend persists in saying, "but one cannot always command one's
mind, in such a matter as this." Did you ever try? Have you ever
systematically tried to do this? Is it your regular aim, after you
have discharged the business of the day, to throw off care until
the next day's business is undertaken? No? Then how do you know
whether it is easy or not?
I believe it is in the power of every man, who has not too long
abused himself, to lay aside every night his pack of mental care
and anxiety, and enter into life. Not only this, but I believe
that it is absolutely essential to his business success that he do
this. A man who dwells constantly upon the dark side of his
affairs, and is troubled and gloomy in his apprehensions
concerning the future, becomes a weak and timid man--disqualified
in many essential respects for the work of his life. His mind
needs rest and revivification. Suppose an ass were to be treated
in the manner in which men treat themselves. Suppose the burden
which we place upon him during the day were kept lashed to his
back at night, so that he must bear it, either standing or lying,
off duty as well as on. How long would he be worth any thing for
labor? The illustration is apposite in every particular. If the
mind is to be kept fit for business, it is at regular periods to
be kept out of business. A great multitude of business failures
are attributable, I have no doubt, to the debilitating and
damaging effect of carrying the burdens of business between
business hours. Men become in a measure sick and insane by
dwelling upon their affairs, when they should be receiving rest
and refreshment.
Again, men who insist upon keeping their packs upon their
shoulders, practically deny the existence of the providence of a
Being superior to themselves, and dominant in all human affairs.
If I were to say to one of these men: "you do not believe in
Providence at all," he would accuse me of a harsh judgment, and
feel injured by it; but it is certainly legitimate for me to ask
him what evidence he gives of his belief. All, indeed, profess to
believe in Providence, in a certain general way. The popular idea
is very foggy upon the matter. We somehow imagine that God knows
every thing in general and nothing in particular--that He takes
interest in, supervision of, and controlling influence over,
matters at large, with an imperial disregard of details--that He
moulds with a majestic hand the character and destiny of nations,
but never condescends to meddle with the small and insignificant
affairs of individuals. Providence, in this view, would seem to be
very much like certain tongs used in a blacksmith's shop, whose
jaws do not wholly close--convenient for handling large pieces of
iron, but incapable of grasping a nail. Or, Providence is like a
great general, who only directs the movements of large bodies of
men, deals only with the officers, and never thinks of so small a
thing as looking after the blanket of a private soldier, or
dressing a wounded finger.
It is very easy to perceive that such a Providence as this has no
practical value in every-day, individual life. Very evidently it
is not that Providence which numbers the hairs of men's heads, and
without whose notice not a sparrow falls to the ground. One is a
Providence made by men who undertake to measure God by themselves;
the other is the Providence revealed in the Bible. God exercises a
special providence, which reaches to the minutest affairs of the
most insignificant man, or we are all in a condition of essential
orphanage. A special Providence denied, and prayer becomes a
mockery, devotion a deceit, and the sense of individual
responsibility slavery to a superstitious idea. Now I do not
pretend to address myself to men who do not believe in prayer. I
know men well enough to know that there are very few of them who
do not believe in prayer, and that there are very few of them who
do not, particularly in moments of danger, pray. Deep down under
the thickest crusts of depravity there lies the conviction, always
ready to rise in painful emergencies, that God takes cognizance of
every man, and is able to help him. Smooth away the idea of
Providence as we may, into an unmeaning generality, the time
comes, in every man's life, when he recognizes the fact that God
is dealing with him; and he may as well recognize the fact all the
time as when he is driven to feel that he has no help in himself.
So, if there be a special Providence, it is a Providence to be
trusted; and the man who believes in it has no apology for
carrying a single unnecessary burden. This providence in all human
affairs, is like the principle of vitality in the vegetable world.
It does not release us from effort, in every legitimate and
needful way, for the accomplishment of our laudable purposes; but
when our efforts are complete, it takes care of the rest. What
should we think of the farmer who could never roll the burden of
his cornfield from his mind, and who, after hoeing his ground
repeatedly, and cutting or covering every weed, should go night
after night and sit up with it, and think of it, and dream of it
all the while? He has done all there is for him to do, and beyond
this he cannot control an hour of sunshine, a drop of dew, or a
single cloud-full of rain. He cannot influence the law of growth
in any particular. His field is in the control of a power entirely
above and beyond him; and every thought he gives to it, after
having done what he can for its prosperity, is utterly useless. It
is his business to trust. Having done what he can, the remainder
is in the hands of Him who feeds the springs of being with light
and heat and moisture. It is thus that man's affairs grow while he
sleeps. The hand that ministers to every plant will not fail to
minister to him for whose use the plant was made.
Why do not men trust in Providence? Simply because, in their usual
moods and in their usual circumstances, they do not believe in it.
There is no other explanation. You, my friend, who carry your
burdens around on your shoulders all the time, and who, perhaps,
pray every morning and every night, do not believe in Providence.
You do not feel that you can trust Providence. You assent to all
that I say upon the subject, but, after all, your belief in
Providence has no genuine vitality. You do not believe in it as
you believe in the purity of your wife or the honor of your
friend. You do not rely upon it for an hour. You do nod your head
and say--"yes, yes;" and you think you are sincere; but you
deceive yourself. So long as you persist in carrying your pack,
which is a very unpleasant burden, as you know, you do not believe
in Providence; else you would trust in it. You are tired and
harassed by your daily labor; and it is very natural to suppose
that if you could remove your burden each evening, and place it in
the charge of one whom you believe would take care of it, you
would do it with gladness. You fail to do it, and what is the
natural conclusion? It is that your belief in Providence is a
humbug. You believe in the honor of your friend, and you trust it.
You believe in the honesty and ability of your creditor, and you
trust him. You trust every thing and everybody that you firmly
believe in; and the only reason under heaven why you do not roll
off the burden that oppresses you, every day and every hour of
your life, and commit it to the care of Providence, is, that you
do not believe in Providence.
We are in the habit of talking about the world as a world of care,
and speaking of human life as inseparably accompanied by trouble.
This is, indeed, the truth; but if we were to remove from the
world all its useless care, and take from life all its unnecessary
trouble, they would be transformed into such bright and pleasant
things that we should hardly know them. I know very few men and
women who do not bear about with them care and trouble which God
never put upon them, and which He has no desire to see upon their
shoulders. It does not belong to them. It relates to things that
are in the realm of Providence alone, or to things over which they
have no control. The future is God's, but they voluntarily take it
upon their shoulders, and try to bear it. They pluck a section of
God's eternity out of His hands, and groan with the burden. They
assume care which is not their own--which belongs to the
Controller of their lives, and the Governor of the universe. It is
care for that which is beyond human care--anxiety for that which
anxiety cannot reach--trouble about that which we can neither
make nor mend--that oppresses humanity. We can bear our daily
burdens very well. We can go through our regular hours of bodily
and mental labor, and feel the better rather than the worse for
it; but to care for that which our care cannot touch, and to be
troubled about that which is entirely beyond our sphere--this is
the burden that breaks the back of the world--this is the burden
which we bind to our shoulders with obstinate fatuity.
LESSON XXI.
PROPER PEOPLE AND PERFECT PEOPLE.
"I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind
To blow on whom I please." SHAKSPEARE.
"They say best men are moulded out of faults."
THE SAME.
"There's no such thing in nature, and you'll draw
A faultless monster which the world ne'er saw."
SHEFFIELD.
Nature calls for room and for freedom--room for her ocean and
freedom for its waves; room for her rivers and freedom for their
flowing; room for her forests and freedom for every tree to
respond to the influences of earth and sky according to its law.
Exceedingly proper things are not at all in the line of nature.
Nature never trims a hedge, or cuts off the tail of a horse.
Nature never compels a brook to flow in a right line, but permits
it to make just as many turns in a meadow as it pleases. Nature is
very careless about the form of her clouds, and masses and colors
them with great disregard of the opinions of the painters. Nature
never thinks of smoothing off her rocks, and cleaning away her
mud, and keeping herself trim and neat. She does very improper
things in a very impulsive manner. Instead of contriving some
safe, silent, and secret way to dispose of her electricity, she
comes out with a blinding flash and a stunning crash, and a rush
of rain that very likely fills the mountain streams to overflowing,
and destroys bridges and booms, and cabins and cornfields.
On the whole, though nature keeps up a respectable appearance,
I suppose that, in the opinion of my particular friend Miss Nancy,
she would be improved by taking a few lessons of a French gardener,
and reading savage criticisms on Ruskin.
I have alluded to my particular friend Miss Nancy. Perhaps I ought
to say, at starting, that Miss Nancy is a man, and that I use the
name bestowed upon him by his enemies, because it is, in a very
important sense, descriptive. Miss Nancy's boots are faithfully
polished twice a day. His linen is immaculate; and the tie of his
cravat is square and faultless. He never makes a mistake in
grammar while engaged in conversation. He is versed in all the
forms and usages of society, and particularly at home in gallant
attention to what he calls "the ladies." He seems to have lost
every rough corner, if he ever had one. In politics and religion,
he is just as proper as in social life. The most respectable
religion is his religion; and the politics that shun extremes are
his politics. I think he is what they call a conservative. At any
rate, I newer knew him to do a rash or impulsive thing, or speak
an improper word in his life. I think he is as nearly perfect as
any man I ever saw.
But, after all, Miss Nancy is not a popular man. He will probably
live and die an old bachelor, because all the women will persist
in laughing at him. He is certainly good-looking, his dress is
unexceptionable, his manners are "as good as they make them,"
and his morals are as proper as his manners; yet I have not yet seen
the woman who would speak a pleasant word of my friend. He is
decidedly a "woman's man," yet no woman will own him, and no
woman feels comfortable with him. His language is so carefully
guarded against all impropriety of style and structure, that she
feels as if he were criticizing every word she utters, as well as
measuring his own. His manners are so very proper that they are
formal and constrained, and make her uncomfortable. His sentiments
and opinions are so very conservative, that they have no vitality in
them. With a curious perverseness, the most gentle and accomplished
women will turn from him with a sense of relief, to join in the society
of a hearty fellow with a loud laugh and a dash of slang, and a free
and easy way with him. It may be difficult to explain all this, but
it is true. An exceedingly proper man is never a popular man. That
life which is controlled by rigid and unvarying rules, and regulated
by conventionalities in every minute particular, and restrained in
every impulse by notions of propriety, is unlovely and unnatural,
and can never he otherwise.
The instincts of men are always right in this and all cognate
matters. All formalism is offensive to good taste. The painter
does not study landscape in a garden. Formal isles, closely-trimmed
trees, rose hushes on the top of tall sticks, flowers tied to
supports, vines trained upon trellises, lakes with clipped and
pebbled margins and India-rubber swans--these are not picturesque.
There is no more inspiration in them than there would be in a row
of tenement houses in the city. The painter looks for beauty out
where nature reigns undisturbed amid her imperfections,--where the
aisles are made by the deer going to his lick; where the trees are
never trimmed save by the lightning or the hurricane; where the
rose-bushes spread their branches and the vines trail themselves
at liberty; and where the lake looks up into the faces of trees
centuries old, and hems itself in with thickets of alders and
green reaches of flags and rushes, and throbs to the touch of the
mountain breeze, while on its bosom
"The black duck, with her glossy breast
Sits swinging silently."
A little child whose head is piled with laces and ribbons,
whose dress is a mass of embroidery, and who is booted and gloved
and otherwise oppressed by parental vanity and extravagance, is
not picturesque, any further than its face goes. The portrait
painter will cling to the face and let the clothes alone. All
this I trickery of art, brought into comparison or contrast with
the simple beauty of nature, is offensive. Yet a little beggar
boy, with an old straw hat on, and with bare, brown feet, and a
burnt shoulder which his torn shirt refuses to cover, would be a
painter's joy. Here would be drapery that he would delight to
paint, simply because there would be no formality about it. It is
impossible for us to know how ridiculous a dress-coat is until we
see it in a statue. We are obliged to put all our modern sages and
heroes into togas and blankets and long cloaks in order to make
them presentable to posterity.
We never find groups of accordant, striking facts like these--and
their number could be largely increased--without finding that they
are all strung together by an important law. All life demands room
and freedom--freedom to manifest itself in every way, according to
the law of its being and the range of its circumstances. All life
is individual and characteristic, and comes reluctantly under the
sway of outside forces. It is not natural to be proper, or to love
propriety. In saying this I simply mean that it is against nature to
bring one's individuality under the curbing and controlling hands
of others--to make the notions of the world the law and limit of
one's liberty, and to square every word and every act by arbitrary
rules imposed by cliques and customs. A man who has been
clipped in all his puttings-forth, and modelled by outside hands
and outside influences, until it is apparent that he is governed
from without rather than from within, is just as unnatural an object
as a tree that has been clipped and tied and bent until its top has
grown into the form of a cube. Thus the reason why Miss Nancy
is not popular, and why the women refuse to delight in him, is,
that he is not his own master--that he has, in himself, no independent
life. It is not proper that he give utterance to his impulses;--so
he suppresses them. It is not proper that he frankly reveal the
emotions of his heart; so he conceals them. It is not proper that
he enter enthusiastically into any work or any pleasure; so he is
a constant check to the enthusiasm of others. It is not proper
that he speak the words that spring to his lips when his weak
sensibilities are touched; so he studies his language, and shapes
his phrases to the accepted models. Thus is he shortened in on
every side, until his individuality is all gone, and the humanity
in him becomes as characterless as its expression. Every utterance
of his life is made with a well-measured reference to certain
standards to which he is an acknowledged slave.