SINNERS
I take unction to myself, sometimes, in the reflection that I have a
soul to save, and in certain moments of uplift it seems to me to be
worth saving. Some folks probably call me a sinner, if not a
dreadful sinner, and I admit the fact without controversy. I do not
have at hand a list of the cardinal sins, but I suspect I might prove
an alibi as to some of them. I don't get drunk; I don't swear; I go
to church; and I contribute, mildly, to charity. But, for all that,
I'm free to confess myself a sinner. Yet, I still don't know what
sin is, or what is the way of salvation either for myself or for my
pupils. I grope around all the while trying to find this way. At
times, I think they may find salvation while they are finding the
value of _x_ in an algebraic equation, and possibly this is true. I
cannot tell. If they fail to find the value of _x_, I fall to
wondering whether they have sinned or the teacher that they cannot
find _x_.
I have attended revivals in my time, and have had good from them. In
their pure and rarefied atmosphere I find myself in a state of
exaltation. But I find myself in need of a continuous revival to
keep me at my best. So, in my school work, I feel that I must be a
revivalist or my pupils will sag back, just as I do. I find that the
revival of yesterday will not suffice for to-day. Like the folks of
old, I must gather a fresh supply of manna each day. Stale manna is
not wholesome. I suspect that one of my many sins is my laziness in
the matter of manna. I found the value of _x_ in the problem
yesterday, and so am inclined to rest to-day and celebrate the
victory. If I had to classify myself, I'd say that I am an
intermittent. I eat manna one day, and then want to fast for a day
or so. I suspect that's what folks mean by a besetting sin.
During my fasting I find myself talking almost fluently about my
skill and industry as a gatherer of manna, I suspect I am trying to
make myself believe that I'm working in the manna field to-day, by
keeping my mind on my achievement yesterday. That's another sin to
my discredit, and another occasion for a revival. When I am fasting
I do the most talking about how busy I am. If I were harvesting
manna I'd not have time for so much talk. I should not need to tell
how busy I am, for folks could see for themselves. I have tried to
analyze this talk of mine about being so busy just to see whether I
am trying to deceive myself or my neighbors. I fell to talking about
this the other day to my neighbor John, and detected a faint smile on
his face which I interpreted to be a query as to what I have to show
for all my supposed industry. Well, I changed the subject. That
smile on John's face made me think of revivals.
I read Henderson's novel, "John Percyfield," and enjoyed it so much
that when I came upon his other book, "Education and the Larger
Life," I bought and read it. But it has given me much discomfort.
In that book he says that it is immoral for any one to do less than
his best. I can scarcely think of that statement without feeling
that I ought to be sent to jail. I'm actually burdened with
immorality, and find myself all the while between the "devil and the
deep sea," the "devil" of work, and the "deep sea" of immorality. I
suppose that's why I talk so much about being busy, trying to free
myself from the charge of immorality. I think it was Virgil who said
_Facilis descensus Averno_, and I suppose Mr. Henderson, in his
statement, is trying to save me from the inconveniences of this trip.
I suppose I ought to be grateful to him for the hint, but I just
can't get any great comfort in such a close situation.
I know I must work or go hungry, and I can stand a certain amount of
fasting, but to be stamped as immoral because I am fasting rather
hurts my pride. I'd much rather have my going hungry accounted a
virtue, and receive praise and bouquets. When I am in a lounging
mood it isn't any fun to have some Henderson come along and tell me
that I am in need of a revival. A copy of "Baedeker" in hand, I have
gone through a gallery of statues but did not find a sinner in the
entire company. The originals may have been sinners, but not these
marble statues. That is some comfort. To be a sinner one must be
animate at the very least. I'd rather be a sinner, even, than a
mummy or a statue. St. Paul wrote to Timothy: "I have fought a good
fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith." There was
nothing of the mummy or the statue in him. He was just a
straight-away sinful man, and a glorious sinner he was.
I like to think of Titian and Michael Angelo. When their work was
done and they stood upon the summit of their achievements they were
up so high that all they had to do was to step right into heaven,
without any long journey. Tennyson did the same. In his poem,
"Crossing the Bar," he filled all the space, and so he had to cross
over into heaven to get more room. And Riley's "Old Aunt Mary" was
another one. She had been working out her salvation making jelly,
and jam, and marmalade, and just beaming goodness upon those boys so
that they had no more doubts about goodness than they had of the
peach preserves they were eating. Why, there just had to be a heaven
for old Aunt Mary. She gathered manna every day, and had some for
the boys, too, but never said a word about being busy.
When I was reading the _Georgics_ with my boys, we came upon the word
_bufo_ (toad), and I told them with much gusto that that was the only
place in the language where the word occurs. I had come upon this
statement in a book that they did not have. Their looks spoke their
admiration for the schoolmaster who could speak with authority.
After they had gone their ways, two to Porto Rico, one to Chili,
another to Brazil, and others elsewhere, I came upon the word _bufo_
again in Ovid. I am still wondering what a schoolmaster ought to do
in a case like that. Even if I had written to all those fellows
acknowledging my error, it would have been too late, for they would,
long before, have circulated the report all over South America and
the United States that there is but one toad in the Latin language.
If I hadn't believed everything I see in print, hadn't been so
cock-sure, and hadn't been so ready to parade borrowed plumage as my
own, all this linguistic coil would have been averted. I suppose Mr.
Henderson would send me to jail again for this. I certainly didn't
do my best, and therefore I am immoral, and therefore a sinner; _quad
erat demonstrandum_.
So, I suppose, if I'm to save my soul, I must gather manna every day,
and if I find the value of _x_ to-day, I must find the value of a
bigger _x_ to-morrow. Then, too, I suppose I'll have to choose
between Mrs. Wiggs and Emerson, between the Katzenjammers and
Shakespeare, and between ragtime and grand opera. I am very certain
growing corn gives forth a sound only I can't hear it. If my hearing
were only acute enough I'd hear it and rejoice in it. It is very
trying to miss the sound when I am so certain that it is there. The
birds in my trees understand one another, and yet I can't understand
what they are saying in the least. This simply proves my own
limitations. If I could but know their language, and all the
languages of the cows, the sheep, the horses, and the chickens, what
a good time I could have with them. If my powers of sight and
hearing were increased only tenfold, I'd surely find a different
world about me. Here, again, I can't find the value of _x_, try as I
will.
The disquieting thing about all this is that I do not use to the
utmost the powers I have. I could see many more things than I do if
I'd only use my eyes, and hear things, too, if I'd try more. The
world of nature as it reveals itself to John Burroughs is a thousand
times larger than my world, no doubt, and this fact convicts me of
doing less than my best, and again the jail invites me.