fitful outbreaks of ill-temper. Fools, lunarians, the weak-minded, and
the ignorant are irascible, impatient, and possess an ungovernable
disposition; great hearts and wise are calm, forgiving, and serene. To
hear one perpetual round of complaint and murmuring, to have every
pleasant thought scared away by this evil spirit, is a sore trial. It
is, like the sting of a scorpion, a perpetual nettle destroying your
peace, rendering life a burden. Its influence is deadly, and the purest
and sweetest atmosphere is contaminated into a deadly miasma wherever
this evil genius prevails. It has been truly said that, while we ought
not to let the bad temper of others influence us, it would be as
reasonable to spread a blister upon the skin and not expect it to draw,
as to think a family not suffering because of the bad temper of any of
its inmates. One string out of tune will destroy the music of an
instrument otherwise perfect, so if all the members of a family do not
cultivate a kind and affectionate disposition there will be discord and
every evil work.
To say the least, such a disposition is a most unfortunate one. It
bespeaks littleness of soul and ignorance of mankind. It is far wiser to
take the more charitable view of our fellow-men. Life takes its hue in a
great degree from the color of our own minds. If we are frank and
generous the world treats us kindly. If, on the contrary, we are
suspicious, men learn to be cold and cautious toward us. Let a person
get the reputation of being touchy, and every body is under more or less
restraint in his or her presence. The people who fire up easily miss a
deal of happiness. Their jaundiced tempers destroy their own comfort as
well as that of their friends. They always have some fancied slight to
brood over. The sunny, serene moments of less selfish dispositions never
visit them. True wisdom inculcates the necessity of self-control in all
instances. Much may be affected by cultivation. We should learn to
command our feelings, and act prudently in all the ordinary concerns of
life. This will better prepare us to meet sudden emergencies with
calmness and fortitude.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: ENVY.]
[Illustration]
Envy is the daughter of Pride, the author of murder and revenge, the
beginner of secret sedition, and the perpetual tormentor of virtue. Envy
is the slime of the soul, a venom, a poison or quicksilver, which
consumeth the flesh and dryeth up the marrow of the bones. It is
composed of odious ingredients, in which are found meanness, vice, and
malice, in about equal proportions. It wishes the force of goodness to
be strained, and that the measure of happiness be abated. It laments
over prosperity, pines at the visit of success, is sick at the sight of
health. Like death, it loves a shining mark; like the worm, it never
runs but to the fairest fruits; like a cunning bloodhound, it singles
out the fattest deer in the flock.
Envy is no less foolish than it is detestable. It is a vice which keeps
no holiday, but is always in the wheel and working out its own disquiet.
It loves darkness rather than light, because its deeds are evil.
Scorpions can be made to sting themselves to death when confined within
a circle of fire. Even such is envy; for when surrounded on all sides by
the brightness of another's prosperity it speedily destroys itself. He
whose heart is imbued with the spirit of envy loseth much of the
pleasures of life. The envious man is in pain upon all occasions which
ought to give him pleasure.
It were not possible for one to adopt a more suicidal course as far as
his own happiness is concerned. The relish of his life is inverted, and
the objects which administer the highest satisfaction to those who are
exempt from this passion give the quickest pangs to those subject to it.
As when we look through glasses colored all objects partake of the
glasses' color, so one moved and influenced by envy sees not the
perfection of his fellow-creatures, but that they are to him odious.
Youth, beauty, valor, and wisdom are, to their perverted view, but
objects calculated to provoke their displeasure. What a wretched and
apostate state is this—to be offended with excellence, and to hate a
man because we approve him! Were not its effects so disastrous to
personal character, the fit weapon wherewith to meet it were the
ridicule of all sensible people. But the evil is too deeply seated to be
spoken of lightly. As its cause is situated deep in the character of the
individual, so its effects are far-reaching in his life.
He that is under the dominion of envy can not see perfections. He is so
blinded that he is always degrading or misrepresenting things which are
excellent. This brings out strongly the difference between the envious
man and him who is moved by the spirit of benevolence. The envious man
is tormented, not only by all the ills that befall himself, but by all
the good that happens to another; whereas the benevolent man is better
prepared to bear his own calamities unruffled, from the complacency and
serenity he has secured from contemplating the prosperity of all around
him. For the man of true benevolence the sun of happiness must be
totally eclipsed before it can be darkness around him. But the envious
man is made gloomy, not only by his own cloud of sorrow, but by the
sunshine around the heart of another.
Other passions have objects to flatter them, and seem to content and
satisfy them for a while. There is power in ambition, pleasure in
luxury, and pelf in covetousness; but envy can give nothing but
vexation. Envy is so base and detestable, so vile in its origin, and so
pernicious in its effects, that the predominance of almost any other
quality is to be preferred. It is a passion so full of cowardice and
shame that nobody ever had the confidence to own it. He that envieth
maketh another man's virtue his vice, and another man's happiness his
torment; whereas he that rejoiceth at the prosperity of another is
partaker of the same.
Envy is a sentiment that desires to equal, or excel, the efforts of its
compeers, not so much by increasing our own toil and ingenuity as by
diminishing the merits due to the efforts of others. It seeks to elevate
itself by the degradation of others; it detests the sound of another's
praise, and deems no renown acceptable that must be shared. Hence, when
disappointments occur, they fall with unrelieved violence, and the
consciousness of discomfited rivalry gives poignancy to the blow.
Whoever feels pain in learning the good character of his neighbors will
feel a pleasure in the reverse; and those who despair to rise to
distinction by their virtues are happy if others can be depressed to a
level with themselves.
Envy is so cruel in its pursuit that, when once hounded on, it rests not
till the grave closes over its victim. There is a secure refuge against
defamation, and one redeeming trait of human nature is that there every
man's well-earned honors defend him against calumny. Honors bestowed
upon the illustrious dead have in them no admixture of envy; but these
are about the only kind of honors administered free from envy. Though
the fact is to be deeply lamented, it is unfortunately true, that such
is the perversion of the human heart that ofttimes the only reward of
those whose merits have raised them above the common level is to acquire
the hatred and aversion of their compeers. He who would acquire lasting
fame, and would be remembered as one who did his duty well, must resolve
to submit to the shafts of envy for the sake of noble objects.
Envy is a weed that grows in all soils and climates, and is no less
luxuriant in the country than in the court. It is not confined to any
rank of men or extent of fortune, but rages in the breast of those of
every degree. We are as apt to find it in the humble walks of life as in
the proud; as much in the sordid, affected dress as in all the silks and
embroideries which the excess of age and folly of youth delight to be
adorned with. Since, then, it keeps all sorts of company, and infuses
itself into the most contrary natures and dispositions, and yet carries
so much poison and venom with it that it ruins any life in which it
finds lodgment—alienating the affections from heaven, and raising
rebellion against God himself—it is worth our utmost care to watch it
in all its disguises and approaches, that we may discover it at its
first entrance, and dislodge it before it procures a shelter to conceal
itself, and work to our confusion and shame.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: DISCONTENT.]
"Thinkest thou the man whose mansions hold
The worldling's pomp and miser's gold
Obtains a richer prize
Than he who, in his cot at rest,
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,
And bears the promise in his breast
Of treasures in the skies?"
—MRS. SIGOURNEY.
[Illustration]
The lot of the discontented is, indeed, wretched; and truly miserable
are those who live but to repine and lament, who have less resolution to
resent than to complain, or else, mingling resentment and complaint
together, perceive no harmony and happiness around them. They discover
in the bounty and beauty of nature nothing to admire, and in the virtues
and capabilities of man nothing to love and respect. A contented mind
sees something good in every thing, and in every wind sees a sign of
fair weather; but a discontented spirit distorts and misconstrues all
things, resolutely refusing to see aught but ill in its surroundings.
The spirit of discontent is very unfortunate; it is even worse, for it
is wicked as well as weak. The very entertainment of the thought is
enervating, paralyzing, destructive of all that is worthy of success, in
the present business of the entertainer. To accomplish any thing beyond
what the common run of business or professional men perform requires the
utmost concentration of the mind on the matter in hand. There is no room
in the thoughts for repining over the misfortunes of one's self, or
wishes for an exchange of places with another. Indeed, it might be
truthfully predicated that the indulgers of such wishes would fail
utterly in the new sphere, could they achieve their desires.
Nearly every one we meet wishes to be what he is not, and every man
thinks his neighbor's lot happier than his own. Through all the
ramifications of society all are complaining of their condition, finding
fault with their particular calling. "If I were only this, or that, or
the other, I should be content," is the universal cry. Open the door to
one discontented wish and you know not how many will follow. The boy
apes the man; the man affects the ways of boyhood. The sailor envies the
landsman; the landsman goes to sea for pleasure. The business man who
has to travel about wishes for the day to come when he can "settle
down," whilst the sedentary man is always wanting a chance to flit about
and travel, which he thinks would be his greatest pleasure. Town people
think the country glorious; country people are always wishing that they
might live in town.
We are told that it is one property required of those who seek the
philosopher's stone that they must not do it with any covetous desire to
be rich, for otherwise they shall never find it. But most true it is,
that whosoever would have this jewel of contentment (which turns all
into gold; yea, want into wealth), must come with minds divested of all
ambitious and covetous thoughts, else they are never likely to obtain
it. The foundation of content must spring up in a man's own mind, and he
who has so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by
changing aught but his own disposition will waste his life in fruitless
efforts, and multiply the griefs which he proposes to remove.
Contentment is felicity. Few are the real wants of man. Like a majority
of his troubles they are more imaginary than real. If the world knew how
much felicity dwells in the cottage of the poor, but contented, man—how
sound he sleeps, how quiet his rest, how composed his mind, how free
from care, and how joyful his heart—they would never more admire the
noises and diseases, the throngs of passions, and the violence of
unnatural appetites that fill the houses of the luxurious, and the
hearts of the ambitious.
Enjoy the blessings if God sends them, and the evils of it bear
patiently and sweetly, for this day is ours. Always something of good
can yet be found, however apparently hopeless the situation. There is
scarcely any lot so low but there is something in it to satisfy the man
whom it has befallen, Providence having so ordered things that in every
man's cup, how bitter soever, there are some cordial drops—some good
circumstances—which, if wisely extracted, are sufficient for the
purpose he wants them—that is, to make him contented and, if not happy,
resigned.
Contentment often abides with little, and rarely dwells with abundance.
"Peace and few things are preferable to great professions and great
cares." Such was the maxim of the Stoics. Nature teaches us to live, but
wisdom teaches us to live contented. Contentment is the wealth of
nature, for it gives every thing we either want or need. A quiet and
contented mind is the supreme good; it is the utmost felicity a man is
capable of in this world; and the maintaining of such an uninterrupted
tranquillity of spirit is the very crown and glory of wisdom. The point
of aim for our vigilance to hold in view is to dwell upon the brightest
parts in every prospect, to call off the thoughts when running upon
disagreeable objects, and strive to be pleased with the present
circumstances surrounding us.
Half the discontent in the world arises from men regarding themselves as
centers instead of the infinitesimal elements of circles. When you feel
dissatisfied with your circumstances contemplate the condition of those
beneath you. One who wielded as much influence as was possible in this
republic of ours says: "There are minds which can be pleased by honors
and preferments, but I can see nothing in them save envy and enmity. It
is only necessary to possess them to know how little they contribute to
happiness. I had rather be in a cottage with my books, my family, and a
few old friends, dining upon simple bacon and hominy, and letting the
world roll on as it likes, than to occupy the highest place which human
power can give."
Some make the sorry mistake of confounding under the term contentment
that fatal lack of energy which repels all efforts for the improvement
of one's condition. Improvement can only be won by continuous efforts
for advancement, and a true contentment is not to rest satisfied, to
hope for nothing, to strive for nothing, or to rest in inglorious ease,
doing nothing for your own or other's intellectual or moral good. Such a
state of feeling is only allowable where nature has fixed an impassable
and well-ascertained barrier to all further progress, or where we are
troubled by ills past remedying. In such cases it is the highest
philosophy not to fret or grumble when, by all our worrying, we can not
help ourselves a jot or tittle, but only aggravate an affliction that is
incurable. To soothe the mind to patience is, then, the only resource
left us, and thrice happy is he who has thus schooled himself to meet
all reverses and disappointments.
When ills admit of a remedy it is the veriest sarcasm upon contentment
to bid you suffer them. It is a mockery of content not to strive to
improve your condition as much as possible. True contentment bids you be
content with what you have, not with what you are; not to be sighing and
wishing for things unattainable, but to cheerfully and contentedly
accept the facts of your position, and then, if the way opens for
improvement, to accept it at once; not to sit moping over your ill luck
and many misfortunes, but, having done the best you can, rest content
with the result; not to be murmuring because your lines are not cast in
as pleasant places as your neighbor's, but strive to discover the
pleasures and happiness to be found in your present condition, and with
a manly and contented spirit dwell therein until providence opens a more
excellent way, when it is your duty to embrace it. But do not make the
fatal mistake of hiding behind the word contentment your lack of energy
and pluck.
Contentment is the true gold which passes current among the wise the
world over, while supine satisfaction is but the base counterfeit of the
nobler metal, and brings its possessor into scorn and contempt.
[Illustration: DECEPTION.]
[Illustration]
Deceit and falsehood, whatever conveniences they may for a time promise
or produce, are in the sum of life obstacles to happiness. Those who
profit by the cheat distrust the deceiver, and the act by which kindness
was sought puts an end to confidence. Nothing can compete with human
deceitfulness. Its origin is always to be found in the motives of those
who are actuated only by a spirit of thorough selfishness. When men have
some personal end to accomplish, then is seen the full flower of deceit.
When they have some enemy, opponent, or rival to punish, then deceit
puts on its most sturdy appearance.
That form of deceit which is cunningly laid and unworthily carried on
under the disguise of friendship is, of all others, the most detestable.
There can be no greater treachery than first to raise a confidence, and
then deceive it. A man can not be justified in deceiving, misleading, or
overreaching his neighbors. Still less, then, is he justified in
inspiring confidence by smooth words and a gracious manner, only that he
may further his own selfish end by breaking the trust placed in him.
Nothing can be more unjust than to play upon the belief of a confiding
person, to make him suffer for his good opinion, and fare the worse for
thinking you an honest man.
A course of deception always defeats the true end of society. Society is
a great compact designed to promote the good of man, and to elevate him
in dignity, refinement, and intelligence. But too often it is understood
solely as a cunning contrivance to palm off unreal virtues and to
conceal real defects. Dignity is too often only pretension, refinement
an artificial gloss, and intelligence only verbal display, based upon
knowledge barely sufficient to make a show. All is vanity and disguises,
empty mockeries and hollow-hearted nullities. But the heart of man is
such a sorry mixture of good and bad that we are only too willing to
urge on the race, striving to see who can be the most deceitful of all.
Those whom we live with are like actors on a stage; they assume whatever
dress and appearance may suit their present purpose, and they speak and
act in keeping with this character.
Man is as naturally set on ambition as the bee is to gather honey. In
the mad haste to stand well in the eyes of the public and third parties,
they are prone to assume any disguise or counterfeit any virtue by which
they may accomplish their selfish ends. They are afraid of slight
outward acts which will injure them in the eyes of others, but are
utterly heedless of the tide of evil, of hatred, jealousy, and revenge,
which throb in their souls to their own condemnation and shame. They are
more troubled by the outward and external effects of an evil course of
life than by the evil itself. It is the love of approbation and not the
conscience that enacts the part of a moral sense in this case.
Though a man may never give them outward expression, still, if he
harbors in his breast all manner of evil thoughts, they will be potent
in shaping his character. Though he may disguise them by artful words
and a gracious bearing, still they are there, and their effect is as
direful as though their expression was open and plain to all. Society at
large may be less injured by the latent existence of evil than by its
public expression; but the man himself is as much injured by the
cherished thoughts of evil as by the open commission of it, and
sometimes even more. For evil brought out ceases to disguise itself, and
appears as hideous as it is in reality; but the evil that lurks and
glances through the soul avoids analysis and evades detection.
Hypocrisy and deception are so near akin to each other that you can not
wound the one without touching the sensibilities of the other. A
hypocrite lives in society in the same apprehension as the thief who
lies concealed in the midst of the family he is to rob, for he fancies
himself perceived when he is least so; every motion alarms him; he is
suspicious that every one who enters the room knows where he is hid and
is coming to seize him. Thus, as nothing hates so valiantly as fear,
many an innocent person who suspects no evil intended him is detested by
him who intends it.
This multitudinous vice of deception takes on many forms. Hypocrisy is
but one, though it is perhaps as much detested as any. But it is a
lamentable fact that scarcely any thing is really what it is represented
to be. As there are so many strange anomalies in human nature, we are
not surprised when we discover the shallowness of so many apparently
sincere pretensions, the worthlessness of what appears so fair. When it
is all carefully summed up, it is found always easier to be than merely
appear to be. He who pretends to great acquirements is worse put to it
to conceal his ignorance than would have sufficed to have made him
master of many sciences.
Those who strive by outward appearances to carry an impression of wealth
and station beyond their real income are compelled, by their lavish
expenditures in aid of the deception, to a strict economy in seclusion,
whereas, were they content to exercise a judicious economy at all times,
they would soon be placed in that position they so much long for. As for
the hypocrite, surely this is the most foolish deception of all, since
the hypocrite is at pains to put on the appearance of virtue, he
pretends to morality, to pure friendship and esteem, and is more anxious
that his outward walk and conversation shall savor of these virtues than
if he were at heart possessed of them.
Since, then, a course of deception puts us to more straits than ever the
open course, is it not true, then, in every-day life as well as
individual acts, "honesty is the best policy?" Why purchase the base
imitation of noble virtues, and derive from them naught but ridicule and
dislike, when no greater outlay would procure for us the true metals,
which bring peace of mind and the honor and esteem of all.
[Illustration: INTERMEDDLING.]
[Illustration]
We all of us scorn a busybody, and scarcely have words of contempt
strong enough to express our feelings towards one who is constantly
meddling in what in no way concerns him. There are some persons so
unfortunately disposed that they can not rest easy until they have
investigated their neighbors' business in all of its bearings, and even
neglect their own to attend to his.
This trait of character is directly allied to envy on the one hand and
to slander on the other. Envy incites in us a desire to possess the good
fortune that we discover falling to others. Meddling is satisfied when
it discovers all the minutiæ of others' affairs, and may be so utterly
devoid of energy as to care but little whether it can acquire the good
or not. Meddling is directly incited by egotism; for that unfortunately
leads not only to undue confidence in one's own abilities, but, what is
worse, to a feeling that you are a little better able to attend to the
affairs of others than they themselves.
Slander, too, oft takes its rise in the curious busyings of those who
are interfering where there is no call for their services. There is such
a tendency in human nature to flaunt abroad the faults of others, that
no sooner does one who systematically intermeddles, discover some
failing—and he or she is sure to do this, since it is human to
err—than they straightway hasten to lay before others the fruits of
their investigations. And thus is given to the public the petty defects
of some home life, which, by constant repetition, soon assumes gigantic
size, as snow-balls rolled over and over by boys; and so, at length, the
happiness of some home circle is destroyed by the malicious and
poison-giving officiousness of busybodies.