{A discourse delivered on Sunday, April 29, 1877.}
We go out in these balmy days of spring into the reviving fields, and
the eye drinks in with delight the fresh and succulent green of the
meadows; the willows begin to put forth their verdant foliage, the
brooks purl and babble of the new life that has waked in the forest:
be glad, all nature cries, summer is coming. And the freshness of the
season enters into our own hearts, our pulses beat more quickly, our
step is more buoyant. We remember all that is joyful in existence; the
arts that embellish, the aspirations that ennoble, the affections that
endear it. Golden the future lies before us; our very cares lose their
sombre hues; like the golden islands of cloud that glow in the glory of
sunset skies.
But beneath the fair semblance of nature that for a time deludes our
senses, a dark and terrible reality is concealed. Observe how pitilessly
the destructive elements pursue their path, the earthquake the tornado,
the epidemic. A few months ago a rise of the sea swept away two hundred
thousand human lives in the course of a few hours. Myriads of sentient
beings are daily cast up in the summer to perish with the first breath
of cold. In the animal world, the strong feed upon the weak, and the
remorseless struggle for existence extends even into the sphere of human
activity. At this very moment the whole of Europe is filled with
anxious alarm in view of an impending war of conquest. While industry
is paralyzed, while trade is at a stand-still, while a virulent disease
generated by starvation has broken out in Silesia, and the workmen
of Lyons have become dependent on the public charity of France, the
resources of nations, already well nigh exhausted, are drained to
prepare for the emergencies of conflict. With a secret thrill of terror
we read that beds for the wounded and millions of roubles for hospital
appliances are being voted by the municipalities of Russia. Readily the
imagination can picture to itself what these ghastly preparations mean.
It is true, so long as all is well with us, the larger evils of the
world do not greatly disturb our equanimity. Man has the happy faculty
of abstracting his attention from things remote. The accumulated woes of
a continent affect us less than some trifling accident in our immediate
vicinity. But when the messengers of evil have cast their shadows across
our threshold, when calamity has laid its heavy hand upon our shoulder,
it is then that the general unsatisfactoriness of life recurs to us with
added force in view of our own experience; the splendor fades from the
surrounding scene; every dark stain takes on a deeper blackness, and the
gloom that comes from within fills and obscures the entire field of our
vision. We have sustained financial loss, perhaps we are harrowed by
domestic discord, we are suddenly stricken in the midst of health, and
drag on long years as hopeless invalids, or worse still, we stand at the
bedside of some dear friend or kinsman, see him stretched upon the rack
of pain, and can do nothing to alleviate his sufferings; we see the end
slowly nearing; but oh, the weary waiting, the patient's agonizing cry
for death, the cruel struggle that must still intervene. And when at
last, it is over, and we have laid him away under the sod, and returned
to our desolate homes, what hope remains! Whither now, we ask, shall we
turn for consolation? Is there no outlook from this night of trouble? Is
there no winged thought, that will bear us upward from out the depths;
is there no solace to assuage our pangs?
Among the means of consolation commonly recommended the doctrine of
Immortality seems to be regarded as the most appropriate and effective.
It is needless to lament; the deceased has entered a better life. Yet a
little and you will join him to be no more parted. Nor can we deny that
to those who cordially entertain it, the belief in the soul's
immortal continuance becomes a source of pure and inexpressibly tender
satisfaction. But with a certain class of minds--and their number, I
believe, is on the increase--the consoling influence of this doctrine is
marred by the fatal uncertainty in which the whole question is involved,
and which no efforts of man have ever yet, nor ever will, avail to
remove. Christianity indeed claims to have settled the point. The Deity
himself, it avers, intervened by direct revelation from on high, to set
our doubts at rest, and Jesus when he arose on the third day forever
deprived the grave of its sting and took away our fears of the tomb. But
to those who read the books of revelations with unbiased mind, the fact
of their human authorship becomes sadly apparent, and the resurrection
itself is as difficult to prove as the doctrine which it is designed to
substantiate.
In modern times spiritualism has likewise endeavored to demonstrate to
the senses the existence of a world of souls beyond our own. But
the phenomena on which it lies are in part disputed, in part the
interpretation put upon them, must, to say the least, be regarded as
premature.
Moreover we should remember that even if by some unknown means the fact
of immortality could be established, the question of our re-union with
friends in the hereafter, in which alone the heart of the mourner is
interested, would still remain an open one and might be answered in the
negative. The belief in immortality has been held in this way by some of
the greatest intellects of the human race, Spinoza among the rest. If we
knew that we shall continue to live, we should not therefore know how
we shall continue to live. Perhaps it might prove that all our previous
connections would be severed; and who can tell what new phases of
existence, what endless metamorphoses might await us among the infinite
possibilities of Eternity.
So deep seated is the sense of uncertainty concerning our fate beyond
the tomb, that no religion, however great the control which it exerted
over men, has ever been able to banish it entirely from their hearts.
The most ardent Christian is hardly less anxious than the infidel to
retain those who are dear to him in life. He prays as fervently for
their health as though their present state were the sum total of their
existence. And yet he should rather hail the day of death as a day of
thanksgiving, and rejoice that those whom he loves have been translated
to a sphere every way so much more desirable than our own. No, the
natural feeling cannot be suppressed, loss is felt to be loss, and death
remains death. No hope of a happier condition in the world to come, no
confidence in the promises and prophesies of faith, can efface the sense
of present bereavement, and as we all alike feel it, so are we all,
believers and unbelievers, interested in seeking the means of its
present relief.
Some of the most fervid, religious natures of the past endeavored to
escape the sorrows of the world by having recourse to the cruel remedy
of asceticism. The ascetic ponders the origin of suffering; he sees
that the desire for pleasure is the cause of pain. Were we not eager to
possess we should not regret to lose. He cuts the gordian knot saying,
abjure desire! When you cease to want, you shall no longer be bruised.
There are certain wants inherent in the body--the want of food,
drink, sleep; the heart has its needs--friendship, sympathy; the
mind--knowledge, culture. All these should be subdued. We should eat
and drink the coarsest in quality and the least possible in quantity; we
should avoid the attachments of love; we should be poor in spirit, and
despise wisdom. The ascetic ideal took firm root in Christianity at an
early period of its history. The extravagance of the Egyptian anchorites
is well known. The "pillar saint," St. Simeon, who is said to have
passed some thirty years of his life on the summit of a column twenty
yards in height, taking only the scantiest nourishment, eschewing
ablutions, covered with filth and sores, was worshipped as a holy man by
the multitude and his example was followed by others, though with less
rigor, during a period of nearly a thousand years. Among the Hindoos,
too, the ascetic ideal acquired a baneful ascendency. We can hardly
credit the tales that have come to us concerning the insane fanaticism
which raged amongst this people. To what tortures of body and soul did
they subject themselves, what cruel ordeals did they invent in order to
steel themselves against the inevitable sufferings of life. It was their
beau-ideal to achieve a state bordering upon absolute unconsciousness,
in which the power of sensation might be entirely blunted, and even the
existence of the physical man be forgotten.
This, indeed, is a capital remedy, a species of heroic treatment that
attains its end. Man becomes passive in pain, incapable of sorrow,
unmoved by any loss. But with the pains, the joys of existence have
likewise fled. The human being walks as a shadow among shadows, a
soulless substance, the wretched semblance of his former self. Who would
not rather bear the heaviest ills that flesh is heir to, than purchase
his release at such a cost.
And now in setting forth our own view of this mighty problem of human
sorrow, let us bear in mind that our private hardships and those general
evils which we see enacted on a scale of such appalling magnitude in
the world around us, must be considered together, for the same cause
constantly gives rise to both. It is of the utmost importance that
we should weigh well what we have a right to expect, and ponder the
conditions on which humanity holds the tenure of its existence. Perhaps
our deepest disappointments are often due to the fact that we ask more
than we have any legitimate title to receive, and judge the scheme of
the Universe according to false analogies and preconceived notions which
the constitution of things does not bear out. We are subject to two
laws, the one the law of nature, the other that of morality: the two
clash and collide, and a conflict ensues. Theology labors to show that
this conflict is apparent rather than real, to admit it would seem to
impugn the justice of the Deity. Thus we read in the Old Testament that
when the sufferer Job protested his innocence, his friends assailed his
veracity, and persisted in holding the bare fact of his misfortune as
unimpeachable evidence of his sinfulness. And thus the Psalmist assures
us, that he has grown old and never seen the righteous man in want. The
experience of the Psalmist must have been limited indeed! The conflict
exists, however it may be denied. Nature is indifferent to morality,
goes on regardless. The great laws that rule the Kosmos, act upon this
planet of ours, nor heed our presence. If we chance to stand in the way,
they grind us to pieces with grim unconcern: the earth opens, the
volcano sends forth its smoldering fires, populous cities are
overwhelmed, locusts devastate the country; they do not pause before the
field of the righteous; they have no moral preference. The seeds of
disease also are scattered broadcast over the land, and the best, often
those whom we can least afford to lose, are taken. These are the hostile
forces, and against these man must contend. To them he opposes his
intellect, his moral energy; he seeks to adapt himself to his place in
the universe. He discovers that these foes are blind, not necessarily
his enemies, if he can trace their path. If he can read the secret of
their working, they cease to threaten him; he holds them with the reins
of intellect, and binds them to his chariot, and behold like swift
steeds they carry him whithersoever it pleases him, and on, on, they
draw his car of progress. In this manner the sway of man's genius is
extended on earth. Already life is far easier than it was among our
ancestors ten thousand years ago; the epidemic is checked by wise
sanitary regulations, greater justice prevails in government, and the
means of happiness are extended over wider areas of the population. What
we thus behold realized on a partial scale, we conceive in our visions
of the future to be indefinitely prolonged, the course of development
leading to higher and higher planes, healthier conditions, wiser laws,
nobler manners. The moral order will thus increase on earth. The moral
order never is, but is ever becoming. It grows with our growth, and to
bring on the triumph of intellect over mechanism, of responsible
morality over irresponsible force, is our mission. The purpose of man's
life is not happiness, but worthiness. Happiness may come as an
accessory, we dare never make it an end. There is that striving for the
perfect within us: in it we live, by it we are exalted above the clod;
it is the one and only solace that never fails us, and the experience of
progress in the past, the hope of greater progress in the future, is the
redeeming feature of life. But the condition of all progress is
experience; we must go wrong a thousand times before we find the right.
We struggle, and grope and injure ourselves until we learn the uses of
things. Pain therefore becomes a necessity, but it acquires in this view
a new and nobler meaning, for it is the price humanity pays for an
invaluable good. Every painful sickness, every premature death, becomes
the means of averting sickness and death hereafter. Every form of
violence, every social wrong, every inmost tribulation, is the result of
general causes and becomes a goad in the sides of mankind, pressing them
on to correct the hoary abuses it has tolerated, the vicious principles
of government, education and economy to which it has conformed. Wide as
the earth is the martyrdom of man, but the cry of the martyr is the
creaking of the wheel which warns us that the great car of human
progress is in motion.
If we keep duly in mind the position which the human race occupies over
against nature, we shall not accuse fate. Fate is our adversary; we
must wrestle with it, we are here to establish the law of our own higher
nature in defiance of fate. And this is the prerogative of man, that he
need not blindly follow the law of his being, but that he is himself the
author of the moral law, and creates it even in acting it out. We are
all soldiers in the great army of mankind, battling in the cause of
moral freedom; some to fight as captains, others to do valiant service
in the ranks; some to shout the paean of victory, others to fall on the
battle field or to retire wounded or crippled to the rear. But as in
every battle so too in this, the fallen and the wounded have a share
in the victory; by their sufferings have they helped, and the greenest
wreath belongs to them.
It is strictly in accordance with the view we have taken, that we behold
in the performance of duty the solace of affliction. All of us have
felt, after some great bereavement, the beneficent influence of mere
labor: even the mechanical part of duty affords us some relief. The
knowledge that something must be done calls us away from brooding over
our griefs, and forces us back into the active currents of life. The
cultivation of the intellect also is a part of man's duty, and stands us
in great stead in times of trouble. We should seek to accustom the mind
to the aspect of large interests. In the pursuit of knowledge there is
nothing of the personal: into the calm and silent realm of thought the
feelings can gain no entrance. There, after the first spasms of emotion
have subsided, we may find at least a temporary relief,--there for hours
we drink in a happy oblivion. But more is needed, and the discharge of
the duties of the heart alone can really console the heart. There is
this secret in the affections, that they constantly add to our strength.
Constant communion between allied natures leads to their mutual
enrichment by all that is best in either. But when the rude hand of
death interferes, we are as a stream whose outlet is barred, as a
creeper whose stay is broken. A larger channel is needed then into which
the waters of our love may flow, a firm support, to which the tattered
tendrils of affection may cling anew. True, the close and intimate bond
that unites friend to friend can have no substitute, but the warm love
that obtains in the personal relations may be expanded into a wider
and impersonal love, which, if less intense, is broader, which, if less
fond, is even more ennobling. The love you can no longer lavish on one,
the many call for it. The cherishing care you can no longer bestow
upon your child, the neglected children of the poor appeal for it; the
sympathy you can no longer give your friend, the friendless cry for it.
In alleviating the misery of others, your own misery will be alleviated,
and in healing you will find that there is cure.
This remedy is suggested in an ancient legend related of the Buddha, the
great Hindoo reformer, who was so deeply affected by the ills of human
life.* There came to him one day a woman who had lost her only child.
She was wild with grief, and with disconsolate sobs and cries called
frantically on the prophet to give back her little one to life. The
Buddha gazed on her long and with that tender sympathy which drew all
hearts to him, said, "Go my daughter, get me a mustard seed from a house
into which death has never entered, and I will do as thou hast bidden
me." And the woman took up the dead child, and began her search. From
house to house she went saying, "Give me a mustard seed, kind folk, a
mustard seed for the prophet to revive my child." And they gave her
what she asked, and when she had taken it, she inquired whether all were
gathered about the hearth, father and mother and the children; but the
people would shake their heads and sigh, and she would turn on her way
sadder than before. And far as she wandered, in town and village, in
the crowded thoroughfare, and by the lonely road side, she found not the
house into which death had never entered. Then gradually as she went on,
the meaning of the Buddha's words dawned upon her mind; gradually as she
learned to know the great sorrow of the race every where around her,
her heart went out in great yearning sympathy to the companions of her
sorrow; the tears of her pity fell free and fast, and the passion of
her grief was merged in compassion. She had learned the great lesson of
renunciation; had learned to sink self in the unselfish.
* We have ventured to offer this interpretation of the
legend in an article published in the Atlantic Monthly for
June, 1875, from which the account in the text is taken.
From the depths of the heart the stream of grief rises resistless, the
dams and dykes of reason are impotent to stay its course. Prepare a
channel therefore to lead out its swelling tide away to the great ocean
of mankind's sorrow, where in commingling it shall be absorbed.
The consolations of the Ideal are vigorous: they do not encourage idle
sentiment: they recommend to the sufferer, action. The loss indeed as we
set out by saying, remains a loss, and no preaching or teaching can ever
make it otherwise. The question is, whether it shall weaken and embitter
us, or become the very purification of our souls, and lead us to grander
and diviner deeds, lead us to raise unto the dead we mourn, a monument
in our lives that shall be better than tiny pillared chapel or storied
marble tomb.
Thus from whatever point we start, we arrive at the same conclusion
still: "not in the creed but in the deed!" In the deed is the pledge of
the sacredness of life; in the deed is the reward of our activities in
health; in the deed our solace, and our salvation even in the abysmal
gulfs of woe. In hours of great sorrow we turn in vain to nature for an
inspiring thought. We question the sleepless stars; they are cold
and distant: the winds blow, the rivers run their course, the seasons
change; they are careless of man. In the world of men alone do we find
an answering echo to the heart's needs. Let us grasp hands cordially and
look into each other's eyes for sympathy, while we travel together on
our road toward the unknown goal. To help one another is our wisdom, and
our renown, and our sweet consolation.