The more thoroughly you do nothing when there is nothing to do, the better you can do something when there is something to do.
The very cream of life comes from rest. The blush, the aroma, the shine of your best work lie in the hours of idleness massed behind it. The secret of brilliant work is in throwing every atom of your reserve force into it. Perpetual exertion begets mediocrity.
“Keep fit.”
That is a better rule than “Keep at it.”
The secret of prophecy is to find what is right, and prophesy that.
It is very simple. What is wrong will go down.
The cosmic spiritual laws are just as accurate, just as sure-footed, as the laws of gravitation and chemical reaction.
Any institution that is founded on non-facts, any government that is maintained in violation of plain human rights, any system, any propaganda, that depends upon cheating, lying, or injustice, is certain at length to fail.
The certainty of the defeat of Prussian militarism is not based on its inferiority in numbers, wealth, and resources, but upon the moral rottenness of its ideas. It will come to grief, not because of its lack of force—it would make no difference if it were a hundred times stronger—but because it is based on principles which to humanity are intolerable.
If the Hohenzollern crowd had met no resistance in Belgium, if they had conquered Paris as they hoped, if they had crushed England, if they had realized to the full their dream of dominance over Europe and the whole world, their structure would have crumbled just the same, because it would have been reared upon violence, inhumanity, faithlessness, and fraud.
In the little affairs of a day it seems sometimes as if the wicked prosper. The gambler is flush, the lecher flourishes, the swindler gets away with his swag, and the pirate, the assassin, and the robber feast on their booty. But when this sort of thing is stretched out over any considerable space of time or territory, so that the cosmic laws, which move slowly, have a chance, it is sure to break down.
What we call righteousness and justice is just as much a part of nature as the physical laws. It is just as true and certain that lying brings disgrace, robbery cannot be made a permanent basis of business, uncleanness ends in shame, tyranny brings revolution, and cruelty eventuates in counter-cruelty and insecurity, as that water runs down hill and flame mounts upward.
It is the glory of the Hebrew that he first saw and made clear to the world these spiritual verities. His Bible is a book of spiritual chemistry and physics.
When he said that “the ungodly shall not stand,” “the covenant with hell shall be disannulled,” “though hand join in hand the wicked shall not go unpunished,” and “be not deceived, God is not mocked, for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap,” he was not indulging in sentiment, but he had a real vision of cosmic law.
It was the supreme genius of Jesus that He saw the majestic certainty and fatefulness of this law, and recommended to His followers that they let it alone, and trust in it.
“Vengeance is mine, I will avenge, saith the Lord.” Time, evolution, destiny, nature, God—all these flow onward as irresistible tides, and even the inventive ferocity of an efficient nation gone mad cannot stop nor delay them.
The Prussian military steam-roller could only get so far, then it had to stop. The steam-roller of spiritual law carries on.
I have discovered where heaven is.
Wherever you are, it is somewhere else.
It is the land of the unattainable, the island that has never been discovered, the shore no ship has ever reached.
Who has found that moment, spoken of by Goethe, where one can say, “Let this moment last forever”?
We were sitting on the top of the mountain, on the platform in front of the little inn, Anushka and I, looking far out over the successive ranges of the Sierras that extended wave-like everywhere. The sun was brilliant. The air was warm. Around us was spread a panorama as beautiful as mortal eyes had ever seen. I was about to ask Anushka if she was happy, when she pointed to a spot over the farthest peaks where the clouds touched the mountain-tops and a gleam of sunshine blessed them, and said:
“There! My soul is yonder. Do you see that spot? It is the dwelling-place of light ineffable. All is peace and joy there. I think that must be heaven.”
“You are right,” I answered. “That is heaven—from here. But when you get there you will find it only mist. From here those clouds are white and gold, and angels fly among them. If you could reach them you would find it bleak and cold, with only rocks and snow-drifts and desolation about you.
“Then perhaps you might see, farther on in the distance, another point full of glory. If you flew to that you would find your glory-point just as far away as ever.
“So heaven flies before us. To us heaven is on Venus, or Saturn, or Arcturus; to the inhabitants of those spheres, who knows? Maybe heaven is on Tellus.”
“That,” she said, “seems a bitter view.”
“Not at all,” I returned. “It is the only view that makes happiness eternal. The one everlasting faculty of mankind is anticipation. The one inexhaustible fountain of joy is hope. Those whose happiness is located in the land of hope will always be happy.
“Heaven is in the future, because the future is infinite. Besides, the future is the only time when we can be happy without alloy. The past, even as to the pleasantest moments of it, is always a little sad. So no one’s heaven is in the past. The present is fleeting, sinking every minute into the darkness of the past. So no man’s heaven is in the present. In the future alone is pure, ideal, untainted joy.
“We are born pilgrims and strangers. The birds of the air have nests, and the foxes have holes, but man has not where to lay his head. He is the gypsy of the universe. He is the bird of passage of the world.”
“But I have been happy,” protested Anushka.
“Possibly,” I said. “But what keys you up to live, what stimulates and inspires you, is not the happiness you have had, but the happiness you expect to have.
“The surest, stablest thing in life is heaven. It rests upon the enduring stones of hope. Its pillars are all of the alabaster of anticipation. It is a city of eternity, not of time. Therefore it is that its gates are never shut, night nor day.”
You say, my dear Anushka, that you have nothing but your dreams; you are full of dreams; drunk every day with ideals. And you speak of this as if it were a weakness, something to be ashamed of.
You are young. All your years slant upward. Before you life stretches out as a vast untried adventure. Love is yet to come, and success, and a career. Let me, who am over the hillcrest and on the westering slope, talk to you a bit.
And looking back on all that I have had and felt and lived, let me say to you that the best of all was the dream. Not what I got but what I longed for, not what I attained unto but what I aimed at, these are my harvest, my treasures.
I fished in the sea, but the biggest fish got away. I hunted in the wood, but the brightest birds, the fleetest deer, were those I glimpsed and saw as they vanished.
The things I have seen, gazed at with full vision, were cheap and tawdry compared to those that flashed by and were caught only by the tail of my eye.
What I have done is a poor compromise. What I dreamed of doing was wonderful. I have composed music such as the angels might covet to sing. I have painted pictures, carved statues, built palaces, such as no hands of flesh could accomplish.
I have said words that broke hearts with their infinite tragedy, and healed them again with their divine accent of consolation. I have written books that swayed the world’s heart as the summer wind bends the wheat-field.
But it was all in the realm of might-have-been, beyond the mountains of the possible.
This real self I am afraid for you to know. It is so commonplace. I am just a man, and the worse for wear. I am not a bit splendid nor dazzling, but by way of being shop-worn.
It is only my beautiful secret that comforts me to take of what I dreamed; it is only this that encourages me to take my journey hopefully among the stars when my release comes; perhaps there, in some cozy planet among the Pleiades, or dwelling as a pure flame among the fire-spirits that play about the petals of Dante’s Rose of Heaven, perhaps there I shall find a pot of gold at the end of my rainbow.
But as far as this earthly career is concerned, Anushka, the rainbow has been more worth than the gold. Yet I am not sad nor disillusioned, for, listen, I still have my dreams, my skies of may-be still overarch with infinitude my earth that is.
What I have is pitiful enough. Ah, but what I thought I was getting! I am as one who gathers shells and sea-beauties and takes them home, and finds them withered, yet remembers the day on the shore. You recall what the poet said?
“I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea—born treasures home,
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore
With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.”
So hold your dreams, Anushka, and never let them go, for when you are old they will be the best residue of life.
The Sabbath, said the Teacher, was made for Man, and not man for the Sabbath.
The bearin’s of which, as Dickens would say, is in its application.
Any Institution was made for Man, and not Man for the Institution.
The college, for instance. No, friend Procrustes, whilst we appreciate your zeal to make a record for yourself as President, yet we would remind you that we are sending our boy to your University for the good He can get out of it, and not for the benefit He can be to it. He is not there for you to find out how far He falls short of your standards, nor what glory He can add to his Alma Mater; He is there for You to find out what’s in Him, and to develop that. We don’t care a hang about your grand old traditions and things, except as they help you in being the making of our particular pup.
The Church was made for Man, and not Man for the Church. And if your meeting-house is just occupied in keeping itself up, parson, why, close it up and start a hennery, and help Hoover. We don’t care about how much money you raise, nor how beautiful are your vestments, nor how high your theology, nor how numerous your membership, nor how gay your stained glass. Are you helping friend Man? Are you making him sober, industrious, clean, and honest? Are you developing in him a civic conscience? Or are you simply being good—so good you’re good for nothing? Come, produce! Or quit!
The House was made for Man, Ma, and not Man for the House. Let the boys play marbles in the dining-room, and the girls have their beaux in the parlor, and grandpa smoke his pipe in the kitchen, and everybody raid the ice-box at 11 p. m. if they want to; what better use can carpets be put to than that children’s knees should wear them out a-gleemaking, and what are sofas for if not for spooning, and kitchen-warmth and cheer if not for old folk homing? Use the old home up, and get a better product—of love and laughter and undying memories.
Books were made for Man, and not Man for Books. Use ’em. Thumb ’em. Mark ’em. Go to bed with ’em. Carry ’em on trains. And don’t own books that cannot be carried down through the Valley of Every-day as the soul’s lunch-basket.
The most perfect Ornament is that which is of the most perfect Service to Man. No cane is so beautiful as the one grandfather wore smooth on a thousand walks; no chair so lovely as that one mother consecrated by many a night of rocking the baby; no table so priceless as that one where father used to write; no pipe so pretty as the one he smoked; no dress so charming as that one that still has the wrinkles in it worn there by the little girl gone—gone forever into heaven, or womanhood.
It’s the human touch that beautifies. Nothing can be warmly beautiful that is not, or was not, useful.
And Democracy is beautiful because it exists for the welfare of the People that compose it, and not for the glory of the Dynasty that rules it.
The State was made for Man, and not Man for the State.
Everything is disputable. I am willing to entertain arguments in support of any proposition whatsoever.
If you want to defend theft, mayhem, adultery, or murder, state your case, bring on your reasons; for in endeavoring to prove an indefensible thing you discover for yourself how foolish is your thesis.
But it is essential to any controversy, if it is to be of any use, first, that the issue be clearly understood by both sides.
Most contentions amount merely to a difference of definition. Agree, therefore, exactly upon what it is you are discussing. If possible, set down your statements in writing.
Most argument is a wandering from the subject, a confusion of the question, an increasing divergence from the point. Stick to the matter in hand.
When your adversary brings in subjects not relevant, do not attempt to answer them. Ignore them, lest you both go astray and drift into empty vituperation.
For instance, President Wilson, in the “Lusitania” incident, called Germany’s attention to the fact that her submarines had destroyed a merchant ship upon the high seas, the whole point being that this had been done without challenge or search and without giving non-combatant citizens of a neutral country a chance for their lives. Germany’s reply discussed points that had no bearing upon this issue, such as various acts of England. Mr. Wilson, in his reply, wisely refused to discuss these irrelevant things, an example of intelligent controversy.
Keep cool. The worse your case, the louder your voice.
Be courteous. Avoid epithets. Do not use language calculated to anger or offend your opponent. Such terms weaken the strength of your position.
A controversy is a conflict of reasons, not of passions. The more heat the less sense.
Keep down your ego. Do not boast. Do not emphasize what you think, what you believe, and what you feel; but try to put forth such statements as will induce your opponent to think, believe, and feel rationally.
Wait. Give your adversary all the time he wants to vent his views. Let him talk himself out. Wait your turn, and begin only when he is through.
Agree with him as far as you can. Give due weight, and a little more, to his opinions. It was the art of Socrates, the greatest of controversialists, to let a man run the length of his rope, that is, to talk until he had himself seen the absurdity of his contention.
Most men argue simply to air their convictions. Give them room. Often when they have fully exhausted their notions they will come gently back to where you want them. They are best convinced when they convince themselves.
Avoid tricks, catches, and the like. Do not take advantage of your opponent’s slip of the tongue. Let him have the impression that you are treating him fairly.
Do not get into any discussion unless you can make it a sincere effort to discover the truth, and not to overcome, out-talk, or humiliate your opponent.
Do not discuss at all with one who has his mind made up beforehand. It is usually profitless to argue upon religion, because as a rule men’s opinions here are reached not by reason but by feeling or by custom. Nothing is more interesting and profitable, however, than to discuss religion with an open-minded person, yet such a one is a very rare bird.
If you meet a man full of egotism or prejudices, do not argue with him. Let him have his say, agree with him as you can, and for the rest—smile.
Controversy may be made a most friendly and helpful exercise, if it be undertaken by two well-tempered and courteous minds.
Vain contention, on the contrary, is of no use except to deepen enmity.
Controversy is a game for strong minds; contention is a game for the weak and undisciplined.
There are times, said Eb Hopkins, when you want to Let Things Alone, and then again there are times when you want to Meddle.
I lean mostly to lettin’ ’em alone, myself.
As I git older I notice that most things sorta cure ’emselves, if you leave ’em lay.
I used to butt in frequent when young, but since I passed the draft age I kinda lost my taste for fixin’ things.
I suppose they’s some would call me a coward, and a sidestepper, and an opportunist, and a trimmer, and all that—I dunno—maybe I am—but I’ve had my eye on old Mr. Time for lo, these many years, and I’ve observed that, as a mender of bones, hearts, political differences, and religious quarrels, he is like A. Ward’s kangaroo, “seldom ekaled and never surpassed.”
The way to teach a boy how to swim is to throw him into the water and go away. Then he has to learn, right off.
There was old man Eustis and his wife, over Sanford way, that had no end o’ trouble over their boy. They was always workin’ with him and lecturin’ him and rasslin’ in prayer over him, and he was just carousin’ and actin’ up like all the time; till the old folks up and died, and then they was nobody cared a whoop for the boy, whether he hung hisself or not, and he had the first good spell o’ lettin’ alone he’d ever had in his life, and he just turned right around and straightened up and now he owns a bank, and is deacon in the church, and everything.
Of course, you can’t always let things alone, but in case of doubt it’s trumps.
As I read history, it seems to me that Lettin’ Folks Alone has been the secret of the success of the English-speakin’ peoples. Gov’ment Control of everything from wheat-cakes to railroads may be comin’, and it may be best, but I’m personally a leetle skittish of it.
The English race’s idea of Law and Gov’ment is to have as leetle of ’em as possible. The German idea is to have everything and everybody regulated, down to drawin’ their breath. And they’re tryin’ it out now, to see which idea will whip.
The Almighty does a heap o’ Lettin’ Folks Alone. Anybody can go to the dogs that wants to. The gates of the Bad Place are open day and night. It looks to me very much as if what saves a man must come from the inside of him, and if he ain’t got nothin’ inside that will rouse up and save him, he ain’t worth savin’, and Nature is anxious to shovel him out in the discard just as soon as possible.
So I says, Let ’em Alone. The good ones’ll come to the top, and the bad ones will drown, and they’ll make fertilizer, and p’raps that’s what they’re intended for.
Thus spake Eb Hopkins.
The hand of civilization has lain hard upon those professions wherein the outlaw spirit once found expression. The riproaring pirates have been swept from the seven seas. Bandits have been chased from the mountains. Robbers no longer infest the woods, and smugglers have deserted the caves. About all that is left for the poor wicked man is the gypsy bands in the country and the criminal class in the city.
Too little attention has been given to that primeval and persistent trait of human nature, the love of outlawry. That it is in the blood of all of us is shown by the fact that it breaks out in every boy. No boy wants to be a banker or a grocer when he grows up; they all want to become pirates, bandits, or circus clowns.
They are supposed to get over this as they mature, but a lot of it still lingers under the vests of the most respectable members of society.
It is doubtful whether any human being wants to sin. What he wants is to escape from respectability.
Few men drink liquor for the love of it. A vast deal of alcohol is consumed just because it seems devilish. When the host tips his guest the wink and stealthily leads the way to the back-closet under the stairs and produces a black bottle, how the flavor of the liquor is improved by the vicious delight in evading the watchfulness of the members of the Women’s Temperance Society gathered in the parlor!
Few boys would learn to smoke if it were not impressed upon them that smoking perverts their morals and brings them to an early grave. For just the wild waywardness of doing something desperate they will sneak behind the barn and make themselves sick with father’s pipe.
How many a marriage has gone wrong because of the irrepressible desire of human beings to make moral excursions might be an interesting subject for speculation. There is a cantankerous rebellion in the average human being toward anything that is legalized, even ecstatic bliss.
The criminal class is supposed to be confined to a few low-browed persons well known to the police. But all criminality does not lie within this corral. There are propensities in all of us that differ but little from those in the professional law-breaker.
There are many earnest souls occupied in trying to do people good.
There are nine million societies, more or less, organized to improve and to ameliorate.
There are preachers, missionaries, evangelists, reformers, exhorters, viewers-with-pride, and pointers-with-alarm without number wrestling with sinners.
All forms of industry are booming these days in the U. S. A., but the uplift business is still several laps ahead.
It seems ungracious to say a word to any enthusiastic person who is engaged in so laudable an enterprise as that of rescuing the perishing, feeding the hungry, and healing the sick.
And yet, when you take time to think right through to the bottom of things, you must come to the conclusion that there is but one real, radical and effective way to help your fellow-men, and that is the way called justice.
If I want to redeem the world I can come nearer my object, and do less harm, by being just toward myself and just toward everybody else, than by “doing good” to people.
The only untainted charity is justice.
Often our ostensible charities serve but to obscure and palliate great evils.
Conventional charity drops pennies in the beggar’s cup, carries bread to the starving, distributes clothing to the naked. Real charity, which is justice, sets about removing the conditions that make beggary, starvation, and nakedness.
Conventional charity plays Lady Bountiful; justice tries to establish such laws as shall give employment to all, so that they need no bounty.
Charity makes the Old Man of the Sea feed sugar-plums to the poor devil he is riding and choking; justice would make him get off his victim’s back.
Conventional charity piously accepts things as they are, and helps the unfortunate; justice goes to the legislature and changes things.
Charity swats the fly; justice takes away the dung-heaps that breed flies.
Charity gives quinine in the malarial tropics; justice drains the swamps.
Charity sends surgeons and ambulances and trained nurses to the war; justice struggles to secure that internationalism that will prevent war.
Charity works among slum wrecks; justice dreams and plans that there be no more slums.
Charity scrapes the soil’s surface; justice subsoils.
Charity is affected by symptoms; justice by causes.
Charity assumes evil institutions and customs to be a part of “Divine Providence,” and tearfully works away at taking care of the wreckage; justice regards injustice everywhere, custom-buttressed and respectable or not, as the work of the devil, and vigorously attacks it.
Charity is timid and is always passing the collection-box; justice is unafraid and asks no alms, no patrons, no benevolent support.
“It is presumed,” says Henry Seton Merriman, “that the majority of people are willing enough to seek the happiness of others; which desire leads the individual to interfere with his neighbor’s affairs, while it burdens society with a thousand associations for the welfare of mankind or the raising of the masses.”
The best part of the human race does not want help, nor favor, nor charity; it wants a fair chance and a square deal.
Charity is man’s kindness.
Justice is God’s.
Compiled for Wm. H. Wise by John T. Hoyle, Professor of Practical English, Carnegie Institute of Technology.
Note.—In this index, all notations refer first to the volume, and then to the page of the volume. Thus, Will Power, I, 12, means that the reference to Will Power will be found on page 12 of Volume I. The titles of the Essays are in every instance printed in italic capitals and lower case; thus, Great Man, The, I, 28, means that the essay appearing under that title is to be found in Volume I, on page 28.
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z