The man was only one of the thousands that have stopt for a moment or two at least in front of the Phillips Brooks statue during the past week. He was a working man of about fifty, with a strong, square-jawed, bronzed face. He had evidently come over to look at the statue during the noon hour, for he had on his blue flannel shirt and carpenter’s overalls. He gazed a moment and then brushed his eyes rather furtively.“How do you like the statue?” he was asked.“It’s fine, but isn’t quite Phillips Brooks. It’s a strong face like his, but I sort of miss the light in the eyes. It isn’t as kind-looking as Phillips Brooks.”“You knew him, then?”“Yes, I knew him well. I have talked with him many times. He always spoke to me on the street. He used to always ask about the wife and baby, and now—the wife has gone on beyond, too.”He took a last look at the statue and then hurried away, for it was almost one o’clock. Just then a colored man of about forty joined the group.“Know him? Why, I knew him as well as I know my wife. I used to be charman of a house just a few doors away from his on Clarendon Street. He always said, ‘Good-morning, John,’ to me when he met me, as he was going over to the church in the morning. Of course, when I knew him he was older than the statue shows him. He never spoke to you like he was saying, ‘I’m the rich Mr. Brooks.’ He treated you just like you was as good as him.”Two messenger-boys stopt for a moment. “Who’s that man?” one asked the other.“Why, that’s a great preacher that used to preach in that church. They say he was an awfully good man. They say he could preach like anything, and yet he was just as common with folks as anybody.”An intelligent, rather elderly Hebrew was criticizing the statue very severely to several people, but he said: “I used to go to school with him. He was certainly a wonderful preacher and a very, very good man. He surely deserved the best statue Boston could ever put up for him. But I dislike the background and the other figure in this very much.”
The man was only one of the thousands that have stopt for a moment or two at least in front of the Phillips Brooks statue during the past week. He was a working man of about fifty, with a strong, square-jawed, bronzed face. He had evidently come over to look at the statue during the noon hour, for he had on his blue flannel shirt and carpenter’s overalls. He gazed a moment and then brushed his eyes rather furtively.
“How do you like the statue?” he was asked.
“It’s fine, but isn’t quite Phillips Brooks. It’s a strong face like his, but I sort of miss the light in the eyes. It isn’t as kind-looking as Phillips Brooks.”
“You knew him, then?”
“Yes, I knew him well. I have talked with him many times. He always spoke to me on the street. He used to always ask about the wife and baby, and now—the wife has gone on beyond, too.”
He took a last look at the statue and then hurried away, for it was almost one o’clock. Just then a colored man of about forty joined the group.
“Know him? Why, I knew him as well as I know my wife. I used to be charman of a house just a few doors away from his on Clarendon Street. He always said, ‘Good-morning, John,’ to me when he met me, as he was going over to the church in the morning. Of course, when I knew him he was older than the statue shows him. He never spoke to you like he was saying, ‘I’m the rich Mr. Brooks.’ He treated you just like you was as good as him.”
Two messenger-boys stopt for a moment. “Who’s that man?” one asked the other.
“Why, that’s a great preacher that used to preach in that church. They say he was an awfully good man. They say he could preach like anything, and yet he was just as common with folks as anybody.”
An intelligent, rather elderly Hebrew was criticizing the statue very severely to several people, but he said: “I used to go to school with him. He was certainly a wonderful preacher and a very, very good man. He surely deserved the best statue Boston could ever put up for him. But I dislike the background and the other figure in this very much.”
(1303)
GREATNESS CALLED FORTH
At every great call for great deeds the right man comes out of the common crowd to do it, this is the truth Sam. Walter Foss enforces in these verses:
Men seem as alike as the leaves on the trees,As alike as the bees in the swarming of bees;And we look at the millions that make up the state,All equally little and equally great,And the pride of our courage is cowed.Then fate calls for a man who is larger than men,There is a surge in the crowd—there’s a movement—and thenThere arises the man who is larger than men—And the man comes up from the crowd.The chasers of trifles run hither and yon,And the mean little days of small trifles go on,And the world seems no better at sunset than dawn,And the race still increases its plentiful spawn,And the voice of our wailing is loud.Then the great deed calls out for the great man to come,And the crowd unbelieving, sits sullen and dumb—But the great deed is done, for the great man is come—Ay, the man comes up from the crowd. (Text.)
Men seem as alike as the leaves on the trees,As alike as the bees in the swarming of bees;And we look at the millions that make up the state,All equally little and equally great,And the pride of our courage is cowed.Then fate calls for a man who is larger than men,There is a surge in the crowd—there’s a movement—and thenThere arises the man who is larger than men—And the man comes up from the crowd.The chasers of trifles run hither and yon,And the mean little days of small trifles go on,And the world seems no better at sunset than dawn,And the race still increases its plentiful spawn,And the voice of our wailing is loud.Then the great deed calls out for the great man to come,And the crowd unbelieving, sits sullen and dumb—But the great deed is done, for the great man is come—Ay, the man comes up from the crowd. (Text.)
Men seem as alike as the leaves on the trees,As alike as the bees in the swarming of bees;And we look at the millions that make up the state,All equally little and equally great,And the pride of our courage is cowed.Then fate calls for a man who is larger than men,There is a surge in the crowd—there’s a movement—and thenThere arises the man who is larger than men—And the man comes up from the crowd.
Men seem as alike as the leaves on the trees,
As alike as the bees in the swarming of bees;
And we look at the millions that make up the state,
All equally little and equally great,
And the pride of our courage is cowed.
Then fate calls for a man who is larger than men,
There is a surge in the crowd—there’s a movement—and then
There arises the man who is larger than men—
And the man comes up from the crowd.
The chasers of trifles run hither and yon,And the mean little days of small trifles go on,And the world seems no better at sunset than dawn,And the race still increases its plentiful spawn,And the voice of our wailing is loud.Then the great deed calls out for the great man to come,And the crowd unbelieving, sits sullen and dumb—But the great deed is done, for the great man is come—Ay, the man comes up from the crowd. (Text.)
The chasers of trifles run hither and yon,
And the mean little days of small trifles go on,
And the world seems no better at sunset than dawn,
And the race still increases its plentiful spawn,
And the voice of our wailing is loud.
Then the great deed calls out for the great man to come,
And the crowd unbelieving, sits sullen and dumb—
But the great deed is done, for the great man is come—
Ay, the man comes up from the crowd. (Text.)
(1304)
GREATNESS DISCOUNTED
Daniel Webster in the very height of his fame, just after his famous Bunker Hill speech, took a run down to his native village which he had not visited in so many years that he found himself quite unrecognized by his former cronies. Accosting an old friend of the Websters, he gradually, after due discussion of the weather and the crops, turned the conversation upon his own family. Thereupon his companion burst out into enthusiastic encomiums upon the virtues and abilities of Daniel’s elder brother Ebenezer, who had died young and whose early death he fittingly deplored. Daniel slipt in a modest query as to whether there was not a brother named Dan. “He never wasmuch account,” said the old gentleman, with a shake of his head. “I believe he went up to Boston and became some kind of a lawyer.”—Lippincott’s Magazine.
Daniel Webster in the very height of his fame, just after his famous Bunker Hill speech, took a run down to his native village which he had not visited in so many years that he found himself quite unrecognized by his former cronies. Accosting an old friend of the Websters, he gradually, after due discussion of the weather and the crops, turned the conversation upon his own family. Thereupon his companion burst out into enthusiastic encomiums upon the virtues and abilities of Daniel’s elder brother Ebenezer, who had died young and whose early death he fittingly deplored. Daniel slipt in a modest query as to whether there was not a brother named Dan. “He never wasmuch account,” said the old gentleman, with a shake of his head. “I believe he went up to Boston and became some kind of a lawyer.”—Lippincott’s Magazine.
(1305)
GREATNESS, HEROIC
A truly great soul is the man described by Sarah Knowles Bolton in the verse below:
I like the man who faces what he mustWith heart triumphant and a step of cheer;Who fights the daily battle without fear;Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trustThat God is God; that somehow, true and just,His plans work out for mortals; not a tearIs shed when fortune, which the world holds dear,Falls from his grasp; better, with love, a crustThan living in dishonor; envies not,Nor loses faith in man; but does his best,Nor even murmurs at his humbler lot;But with a smile and words of hope, gives zestTo every toiler; he alone is greatWho by a life heroic conquers fate.
I like the man who faces what he mustWith heart triumphant and a step of cheer;Who fights the daily battle without fear;Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trustThat God is God; that somehow, true and just,His plans work out for mortals; not a tearIs shed when fortune, which the world holds dear,Falls from his grasp; better, with love, a crustThan living in dishonor; envies not,Nor loses faith in man; but does his best,Nor even murmurs at his humbler lot;But with a smile and words of hope, gives zestTo every toiler; he alone is greatWho by a life heroic conquers fate.
I like the man who faces what he mustWith heart triumphant and a step of cheer;Who fights the daily battle without fear;Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trustThat God is God; that somehow, true and just,His plans work out for mortals; not a tearIs shed when fortune, which the world holds dear,Falls from his grasp; better, with love, a crustThan living in dishonor; envies not,Nor loses faith in man; but does his best,Nor even murmurs at his humbler lot;But with a smile and words of hope, gives zestTo every toiler; he alone is greatWho by a life heroic conquers fate.
I like the man who faces what he must
With heart triumphant and a step of cheer;
Who fights the daily battle without fear;
Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trust
That God is God; that somehow, true and just,
His plans work out for mortals; not a tear
Is shed when fortune, which the world holds dear,
Falls from his grasp; better, with love, a crust
Than living in dishonor; envies not,
Nor loses faith in man; but does his best,
Nor even murmurs at his humbler lot;
But with a smile and words of hope, gives zest
To every toiler; he alone is great
Who by a life heroic conquers fate.
(1306)
GREATNESS, HUMAN, A BAUBLE
Having strayed by some odd eddy of circumstance into the House of Lords, when the King was present, John Wesley draws a picturesque little vignette of him.“I was in the robe-chamber, adjoining the House of Lords, when the King (George II) put on his robes. His brow was much furrowed with age, and quite clouded with care. And is this all the world can give even to a king, all the grandeur it can afford? A blanket of ermine round his shoulders, so heavy and cumbersome he can scarce move under it! A huge heap of borrowed hair, with a few plates of gold and glittering stones upon his head! Alas, what a bauble is human greatness!”—W. H. Fitchett, “Wesley and His Century.”
Having strayed by some odd eddy of circumstance into the House of Lords, when the King was present, John Wesley draws a picturesque little vignette of him.
“I was in the robe-chamber, adjoining the House of Lords, when the King (George II) put on his robes. His brow was much furrowed with age, and quite clouded with care. And is this all the world can give even to a king, all the grandeur it can afford? A blanket of ermine round his shoulders, so heavy and cumbersome he can scarce move under it! A huge heap of borrowed hair, with a few plates of gold and glittering stones upon his head! Alas, what a bauble is human greatness!”—W. H. Fitchett, “Wesley and His Century.”
(1307)
GREATNESS IN MEN
Edwin Markham describes a noble type of man in the following poem:
Give thanks, O heart, for the high soulsThat point us to the deathless goals—For all the courage of their cryThat echoes down from sky to sky;Thanksgiving for the armed seersAnd heroes called to mortal years—Souls that have built our faith in man,And lit the ages as they ran.Made of unpurchasable stuff.They went the way when ways were rough;They, when the traitors had deceived,Held the long purpose, and believed;They, when the face of God grew dim,Held through the dark and trusted Him—Brave souls that fought the mortal wayAnd felt that faith could not betray.Give thanks for heroes that have stirredEarth with the wonder of a word.But all thanksgiving for the breedWho have bent destiny with deed—Souls of the high, heroic birth,Souls sent to poise the shaken earth,And then called back to God againTo make heaven possible for men. (Text.)—The Independent.
Give thanks, O heart, for the high soulsThat point us to the deathless goals—For all the courage of their cryThat echoes down from sky to sky;Thanksgiving for the armed seersAnd heroes called to mortal years—Souls that have built our faith in man,And lit the ages as they ran.Made of unpurchasable stuff.They went the way when ways were rough;They, when the traitors had deceived,Held the long purpose, and believed;They, when the face of God grew dim,Held through the dark and trusted Him—Brave souls that fought the mortal wayAnd felt that faith could not betray.Give thanks for heroes that have stirredEarth with the wonder of a word.But all thanksgiving for the breedWho have bent destiny with deed—Souls of the high, heroic birth,Souls sent to poise the shaken earth,And then called back to God againTo make heaven possible for men. (Text.)—The Independent.
Give thanks, O heart, for the high soulsThat point us to the deathless goals—For all the courage of their cryThat echoes down from sky to sky;Thanksgiving for the armed seersAnd heroes called to mortal years—Souls that have built our faith in man,And lit the ages as they ran.
Give thanks, O heart, for the high souls
That point us to the deathless goals—
For all the courage of their cry
That echoes down from sky to sky;
Thanksgiving for the armed seers
And heroes called to mortal years—
Souls that have built our faith in man,
And lit the ages as they ran.
Made of unpurchasable stuff.They went the way when ways were rough;They, when the traitors had deceived,Held the long purpose, and believed;They, when the face of God grew dim,Held through the dark and trusted Him—Brave souls that fought the mortal wayAnd felt that faith could not betray.
Made of unpurchasable stuff.
They went the way when ways were rough;
They, when the traitors had deceived,
Held the long purpose, and believed;
They, when the face of God grew dim,
Held through the dark and trusted Him—
Brave souls that fought the mortal way
And felt that faith could not betray.
Give thanks for heroes that have stirredEarth with the wonder of a word.But all thanksgiving for the breedWho have bent destiny with deed—Souls of the high, heroic birth,Souls sent to poise the shaken earth,And then called back to God againTo make heaven possible for men. (Text.)—The Independent.
Give thanks for heroes that have stirred
Earth with the wonder of a word.
But all thanksgiving for the breed
Who have bent destiny with deed—
Souls of the high, heroic birth,
Souls sent to poise the shaken earth,
And then called back to God again
To make heaven possible for men. (Text.)
—The Independent.
(1308)
GREATNESS OF GOD
The following verse from “The Marshes of Glynn,” by Sidney Lanier, shows how a reverent poet can see symbols of God and His care in a marsh:
Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea?Somehow my soul seems suddenly freeFrom the weighing of life and the sad discussion of sin,By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn.Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and freeYe publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily wonGod out of knowledge and good out of infinite painAnd sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod,Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God;I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen fliesIn the freedom that fills all the space ’twixt the marsh and the skies:By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sodI will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God;Oh, like the greatness of God is the greatness withinThe range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.
Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea?Somehow my soul seems suddenly freeFrom the weighing of life and the sad discussion of sin,By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn.Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and freeYe publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily wonGod out of knowledge and good out of infinite painAnd sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod,Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God;I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen fliesIn the freedom that fills all the space ’twixt the marsh and the skies:By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sodI will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God;Oh, like the greatness of God is the greatness withinThe range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.
Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea?Somehow my soul seems suddenly freeFrom the weighing of life and the sad discussion of sin,By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn.
Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea?
Somehow my soul seems suddenly free
From the weighing of life and the sad discussion of sin,
By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn.
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and freeYe publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily wonGod out of knowledge and good out of infinite painAnd sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,
Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won
God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.
As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod,Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God;I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen fliesIn the freedom that fills all the space ’twixt the marsh and the skies:
As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod,
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God;
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies
In the freedom that fills all the space ’twixt the marsh and the skies:
By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sodI will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God;Oh, like the greatness of God is the greatness withinThe range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.
By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God;
Oh, like the greatness of God is the greatness within
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.
(1309)
GREATNESS SERVING
A mother and daughter were traveling through a forest. Overcome by the long journey, the mother fainted and fell by the wayside. As soon as consciousness was partly restored to her she sent her little child to seek out a minister. The little daughter went weeping on her way. She soon met a stranger riding a horse. The man inquired of her why she was weeping. She asked him if he were God’s minister, and he said that he was. She led him to the side of her dying mother. His bodyguard soon arrived. Reverently did they uncover as they found the King of England kneeling in prayer for the dying peasant. The greatest among them was their servant. (Text.)
A mother and daughter were traveling through a forest. Overcome by the long journey, the mother fainted and fell by the wayside. As soon as consciousness was partly restored to her she sent her little child to seek out a minister. The little daughter went weeping on her way. She soon met a stranger riding a horse. The man inquired of her why she was weeping. She asked him if he were God’s minister, and he said that he was. She led him to the side of her dying mother. His bodyguard soon arrived. Reverently did they uncover as they found the King of England kneeling in prayer for the dying peasant. The greatest among them was their servant. (Text.)
(1310)
GREATNESS, TRUE, OF A CITY
What makes a city great and strong?Not architecture’s graceful strength,Nor factories’ extended length,But men who see the civic wrongAnd give their lives to make it right,And turn its darkness into light.What makes a city full of power?Not wealth’s display nor titled fame,Not fashion’s loudly-boasted claim,But women, rich in virtue’s dower,Whose homes, tho humble, still are greatBecause of service to the state.What makes a city men can love?Not things that charm the outward sense,Nor gross display of opulence,But right, that wrong can not remove,And truth, that faces civic fraudAnd smites it in the name of God.This is a city that shall stand,A light upon a nation’s hill,A voice that evil can not still,A source of blessing to the land;Its strength not brick, nor stone, nor wood,But justice, love and brotherhood.—Author Unknown.
What makes a city great and strong?Not architecture’s graceful strength,Nor factories’ extended length,But men who see the civic wrongAnd give their lives to make it right,And turn its darkness into light.What makes a city full of power?Not wealth’s display nor titled fame,Not fashion’s loudly-boasted claim,But women, rich in virtue’s dower,Whose homes, tho humble, still are greatBecause of service to the state.What makes a city men can love?Not things that charm the outward sense,Nor gross display of opulence,But right, that wrong can not remove,And truth, that faces civic fraudAnd smites it in the name of God.This is a city that shall stand,A light upon a nation’s hill,A voice that evil can not still,A source of blessing to the land;Its strength not brick, nor stone, nor wood,But justice, love and brotherhood.—Author Unknown.
What makes a city great and strong?Not architecture’s graceful strength,Nor factories’ extended length,But men who see the civic wrongAnd give their lives to make it right,And turn its darkness into light.
What makes a city great and strong?
Not architecture’s graceful strength,
Nor factories’ extended length,
But men who see the civic wrong
And give their lives to make it right,
And turn its darkness into light.
What makes a city full of power?Not wealth’s display nor titled fame,Not fashion’s loudly-boasted claim,But women, rich in virtue’s dower,Whose homes, tho humble, still are greatBecause of service to the state.
What makes a city full of power?
Not wealth’s display nor titled fame,
Not fashion’s loudly-boasted claim,
But women, rich in virtue’s dower,
Whose homes, tho humble, still are great
Because of service to the state.
What makes a city men can love?Not things that charm the outward sense,Nor gross display of opulence,But right, that wrong can not remove,And truth, that faces civic fraudAnd smites it in the name of God.
What makes a city men can love?
Not things that charm the outward sense,
Nor gross display of opulence,
But right, that wrong can not remove,
And truth, that faces civic fraud
And smites it in the name of God.
This is a city that shall stand,A light upon a nation’s hill,A voice that evil can not still,A source of blessing to the land;Its strength not brick, nor stone, nor wood,But justice, love and brotherhood.—Author Unknown.
This is a city that shall stand,
A light upon a nation’s hill,
A voice that evil can not still,
A source of blessing to the land;
Its strength not brick, nor stone, nor wood,
But justice, love and brotherhood.
—Author Unknown.
(1311)
Greatness Unrecognized—SeeHelp, Unexpected.
GREED
The large families in this country to-day are to be found only in the industrial centers. Greedy men have considered this their opportunity, and have located great stocking and silk factories in these places for the sake of employing the children of these families.I saw in the ill-ventilated rooms of these silk-factories girls by the dozen under fourteen years of age. More than once I saw a stoop-shouldered, anemic girl, apparently not more than eleven years of age, standing all day before her machine so fatigued that she stood on one foot while she rested the other by holding it against the leg on which she was standing. To my inquiry as to her age the reply was, “The affidavit said she was fourteen.”A girl in whose machine the silk by chance became tangled was approached by a foreman with the jaw of a bulldog and a face whose every feature indicated brutality, and who poured out a stream of profanity as he threatened to dismiss her if it occurred again. These girls were the daughters of coal-miners or of a coal-miner’s widow.We are pretty generally agreed that society owes to every one equal treatment with his fellows in an effort to get a living and an equal protection in using the opportunities that exist. When one looks into the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes of veritable children to whom in so many cases the home was never the holy of holies, and where instead of the gentle voice and loving hearts of teachers there is the brutal taskmaster, one feels the need of some new Declaration of Independence.A railroad that owns and operates mines in this region, last year, in addition to an already fat dividend on its stock, declared a stock dividend of fifty per cent. Would that it were possible to print on every share of that dividend a description of the existence that is called life in this section of our land! (Text.)—Jesse Hill,Christian Endeavor World.
The large families in this country to-day are to be found only in the industrial centers. Greedy men have considered this their opportunity, and have located great stocking and silk factories in these places for the sake of employing the children of these families.
I saw in the ill-ventilated rooms of these silk-factories girls by the dozen under fourteen years of age. More than once I saw a stoop-shouldered, anemic girl, apparently not more than eleven years of age, standing all day before her machine so fatigued that she stood on one foot while she rested the other by holding it against the leg on which she was standing. To my inquiry as to her age the reply was, “The affidavit said she was fourteen.”
A girl in whose machine the silk by chance became tangled was approached by a foreman with the jaw of a bulldog and a face whose every feature indicated brutality, and who poured out a stream of profanity as he threatened to dismiss her if it occurred again. These girls were the daughters of coal-miners or of a coal-miner’s widow.
We are pretty generally agreed that society owes to every one equal treatment with his fellows in an effort to get a living and an equal protection in using the opportunities that exist. When one looks into the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes of veritable children to whom in so many cases the home was never the holy of holies, and where instead of the gentle voice and loving hearts of teachers there is the brutal taskmaster, one feels the need of some new Declaration of Independence.
A railroad that owns and operates mines in this region, last year, in addition to an already fat dividend on its stock, declared a stock dividend of fifty per cent. Would that it were possible to print on every share of that dividend a description of the existence that is called life in this section of our land! (Text.)—Jesse Hill,Christian Endeavor World.
(1312)
SeeDishonesty;Game of Greed.
Greed, Commercial—SeeCruelty.
GRIEF, EXPRESSING
Great griefs can seldom be borne in silence; nor is it well that they should be. Just as the cry of pain springs to the lips ofa child when it is hurt, so the wounded spirit longs for utterance to ease its sorrow. Far from being a rebellious and unnatural desire, this longing to somehow unburden the soul in words is a merciful gift of God, who, even when he chastens, would fain temper the wind to the shorn lamb. See how the noblest souls have sought and found, not only a balm for sorrow, but sorrow’s own deeper meaning in uttering their heart’s profoundest cry. Think of that magnificent memorial poem in which Tennyson gathered up, as in a sacred urn, the fragments of his broken heart. Was his sorrow for Hallam the less, that he thus robbed it of its bitterest sting, the sting of helpless silence and hopeless brooding? Was Cicero less noble, less heroic, because, after the death of his beloved daughter Tullia, he wrote a treatise, on consolation to alleviate his sorrow? No; utterance sanctifies the grief whose pang it softens. God does not will that we should suffer in white-lipped silence. He never drives the barbed arrow into the human heart.—Zion’s Herald.
Great griefs can seldom be borne in silence; nor is it well that they should be. Just as the cry of pain springs to the lips ofa child when it is hurt, so the wounded spirit longs for utterance to ease its sorrow. Far from being a rebellious and unnatural desire, this longing to somehow unburden the soul in words is a merciful gift of God, who, even when he chastens, would fain temper the wind to the shorn lamb. See how the noblest souls have sought and found, not only a balm for sorrow, but sorrow’s own deeper meaning in uttering their heart’s profoundest cry. Think of that magnificent memorial poem in which Tennyson gathered up, as in a sacred urn, the fragments of his broken heart. Was his sorrow for Hallam the less, that he thus robbed it of its bitterest sting, the sting of helpless silence and hopeless brooding? Was Cicero less noble, less heroic, because, after the death of his beloved daughter Tullia, he wrote a treatise, on consolation to alleviate his sorrow? No; utterance sanctifies the grief whose pang it softens. God does not will that we should suffer in white-lipped silence. He never drives the barbed arrow into the human heart.—Zion’s Herald.
(1313)
GRIEF, REVEALED
Clinton Dangerfield discounts in this poem the stoicism of the age that refuses to reveal its griefs and evils:
Sad hearts are out of date. We laugh and jest,When we take wounds as well as when we strike.One can not tell the conquerors on Love’s field—Victors and vanquished look so much alike!But sometimes when the mask unguarded fallsOne sees the actor’s self behind the part,And half holds those the wiser who, of old,Washed, unashamed, with tears a broken heart. (Text.)—The Delineator.
Sad hearts are out of date. We laugh and jest,When we take wounds as well as when we strike.One can not tell the conquerors on Love’s field—Victors and vanquished look so much alike!But sometimes when the mask unguarded fallsOne sees the actor’s self behind the part,And half holds those the wiser who, of old,Washed, unashamed, with tears a broken heart. (Text.)—The Delineator.
Sad hearts are out of date. We laugh and jest,When we take wounds as well as when we strike.One can not tell the conquerors on Love’s field—Victors and vanquished look so much alike!
Sad hearts are out of date. We laugh and jest,
When we take wounds as well as when we strike.
One can not tell the conquerors on Love’s field—
Victors and vanquished look so much alike!
But sometimes when the mask unguarded fallsOne sees the actor’s self behind the part,And half holds those the wiser who, of old,Washed, unashamed, with tears a broken heart. (Text.)—The Delineator.
But sometimes when the mask unguarded falls
One sees the actor’s self behind the part,
And half holds those the wiser who, of old,
Washed, unashamed, with tears a broken heart. (Text.)
—The Delineator.
(1314)
GRIEVANCES
A man strikes me with a sword, and inflicts a wound. Suppose, instead of binding up the wound, I am showing it to everybody, and, after it has been bound up, I am taking off the bandage constantly and examining the depth of the wound, and making it fester—is there a person in the world who would not call me a fool? However, such a fool is he who, by dwelling upon little injuries or insults, cause them to agitate and influence his mind. How much better were it to put a bandage on the wound and never look at it again!
A man strikes me with a sword, and inflicts a wound. Suppose, instead of binding up the wound, I am showing it to everybody, and, after it has been bound up, I am taking off the bandage constantly and examining the depth of the wound, and making it fester—is there a person in the world who would not call me a fool? However, such a fool is he who, by dwelling upon little injuries or insults, cause them to agitate and influence his mind. How much better were it to put a bandage on the wound and never look at it again!
(1315)
I once said to a woman who had suddenly lost her best friend after years of the closest intimacy, without a quarrel or scene, and for no apparent reason, “every time he thinks of you he will be filled with remorse.” She replied, “Remorse? Not at all. He is quite sure that all the fault lies on my side. In retrospect, he has created imaginary grievance.” I indignantly protested, ready even to pity her the more. She smilingly silenced me by putting her finger on my lips, saying: “Do not pity me, I might have had grievances, but I have none; in spite of everything, mine is the better part.” And she was right.Grievances are like a double-edged sword that wounds on one side the heart it enters, on the other the heart that sends it forth, and the most unhappy heart always holds the weapon, for the point that pierces sinks into depths from whence it is difficult to draw it from the wound. In reality everybody is a victim to grievances; they that harbor as well as they who create them, and for this reason frank explanations are never resorted to. And the saddest thing of all is, that the causes are often so slight and the suffering so great, as in the case of the Neapolitan, who, having never read the works of Tasso and Ariosto, fought seventeen duels on their respective merits.—Dora Melegari, “Makers of Sorrow and Makers of Joy.”
I once said to a woman who had suddenly lost her best friend after years of the closest intimacy, without a quarrel or scene, and for no apparent reason, “every time he thinks of you he will be filled with remorse.” She replied, “Remorse? Not at all. He is quite sure that all the fault lies on my side. In retrospect, he has created imaginary grievance.” I indignantly protested, ready even to pity her the more. She smilingly silenced me by putting her finger on my lips, saying: “Do not pity me, I might have had grievances, but I have none; in spite of everything, mine is the better part.” And she was right.
Grievances are like a double-edged sword that wounds on one side the heart it enters, on the other the heart that sends it forth, and the most unhappy heart always holds the weapon, for the point that pierces sinks into depths from whence it is difficult to draw it from the wound. In reality everybody is a victim to grievances; they that harbor as well as they who create them, and for this reason frank explanations are never resorted to. And the saddest thing of all is, that the causes are often so slight and the suffering so great, as in the case of the Neapolitan, who, having never read the works of Tasso and Ariosto, fought seventeen duels on their respective merits.—Dora Melegari, “Makers of Sorrow and Makers of Joy.”
(1316)
GRIP
“He seems to have lost his grip,” said one man to another in talking of an acquaintance who had not been long in the ranks of the “middle-aged.” They both felt that their friend had talents; they longed to see him apply them with judgment and success. The term “grip” was an expressive one. Whatever one’s work may be, it can not be properly done unless the worker has firm hold of his tools. Lack of grip may often be resolved into lack of incentive, and, therefore, whoever imparts to his comrade a sufficient motive for holding fast, is doing him service of the most effectual kind.—ProvidenceJournal.
“He seems to have lost his grip,” said one man to another in talking of an acquaintance who had not been long in the ranks of the “middle-aged.” They both felt that their friend had talents; they longed to see him apply them with judgment and success. The term “grip” was an expressive one. Whatever one’s work may be, it can not be properly done unless the worker has firm hold of his tools. Lack of grip may often be resolved into lack of incentive, and, therefore, whoever imparts to his comrade a sufficient motive for holding fast, is doing him service of the most effectual kind.—ProvidenceJournal.
(1317)
Growing Old—SeeOld, How to Grow.
GROWING TOO FAST
It is said that during the wars of Frederick II of Prussia men became so scarce that they actually enrolled schoolboys. If there happened to be a child that was growing too fast the parents would be heard to say, “Don’t grow so fast or the recruiting officer will catch you.” Do not rush into responsibility. (Text.)
It is said that during the wars of Frederick II of Prussia men became so scarce that they actually enrolled schoolboys. If there happened to be a child that was growing too fast the parents would be heard to say, “Don’t grow so fast or the recruiting officer will catch you.” Do not rush into responsibility. (Text.)
(1318)
Growth—SeeAssimilation;Faith in God.
GROWTH, CAUSE OF
Carbon from the air entering the cells of plants comes in contact with a substance called chlorophyll resident in the cells. A wonderful change at once takes place. When the sun is shining, the carbonic acid and water contained in the cells are decomposed;i.e., separated into the parts composing them. These, with the carbon, then unite again and form a new substance very different from either the carbon or the water, viz., starch or like substance, which, with some of the mineral matters supplied through the soil water, serves as food for the protoplasm of the cells, so that the latter increase in number rapidly and thus cause the plant to grow.There is real growth of the soul of man only when the divine spirit unites with the human powers. (Text.)
Carbon from the air entering the cells of plants comes in contact with a substance called chlorophyll resident in the cells. A wonderful change at once takes place. When the sun is shining, the carbonic acid and water contained in the cells are decomposed;i.e., separated into the parts composing them. These, with the carbon, then unite again and form a new substance very different from either the carbon or the water, viz., starch or like substance, which, with some of the mineral matters supplied through the soil water, serves as food for the protoplasm of the cells, so that the latter increase in number rapidly and thus cause the plant to grow.
There is real growth of the soul of man only when the divine spirit unites with the human powers. (Text.)
(1319)
Growth, Curious—SeeObstacles, Unexpected.
GROWTH, EVIL
Educators make much of growth, nor can we over-emphasize the importance of the principle. But if the thing that is increasing is bad, then growth is a curse immeasurable. Given a spark and growth means a conflagration that ruins a city. Given a gipsy-moth in the parks of New England and growth means the devastation of the forests of a State. Given a disease, and growth means death. Given any form of sin, and growth means the wreckage of character and destiny. (Text.)—N. D. Hillis.
Educators make much of growth, nor can we over-emphasize the importance of the principle. But if the thing that is increasing is bad, then growth is a curse immeasurable. Given a spark and growth means a conflagration that ruins a city. Given a gipsy-moth in the parks of New England and growth means the devastation of the forests of a State. Given a disease, and growth means death. Given any form of sin, and growth means the wreckage of character and destiny. (Text.)—N. D. Hillis.
(1320)
Growth in Educational Work—SeeNeeds, Meeting Children’s.
GROWTH IN NATURE
Once, a half-century ago or more, a farmer and his men came down from the pastures, and for purposes of their own cut a ditch straight through the middle of the bog to the open water. The hundreds of scrawny night-herons, sitting on pale blue eggs in scraggly nests in the cedar swamp, must have heard the cedars laugh as this went on. It was the swamp’s opportunity. Where the farmer and his men with incredible labor cut and tore away the marsh-grass roots the cedars planted their seeds, and called upon the alders and the swamp-maples and the thoroughwort, the Joe Pye weed, and a host of other good citizens of the swamp to help them.So vigorous was the sortie and so well did they hold their ground, that you may trace the farmer’s wide ditch to-day only as a causeway down which the swamp has come to build a great wooden area in the midst of the bog, accomplishing in half a century what it might not have done in five times had it not been for human aid.—Winthrop Packard, “Wild Pastures.”
Once, a half-century ago or more, a farmer and his men came down from the pastures, and for purposes of their own cut a ditch straight through the middle of the bog to the open water. The hundreds of scrawny night-herons, sitting on pale blue eggs in scraggly nests in the cedar swamp, must have heard the cedars laugh as this went on. It was the swamp’s opportunity. Where the farmer and his men with incredible labor cut and tore away the marsh-grass roots the cedars planted their seeds, and called upon the alders and the swamp-maples and the thoroughwort, the Joe Pye weed, and a host of other good citizens of the swamp to help them.
So vigorous was the sortie and so well did they hold their ground, that you may trace the farmer’s wide ditch to-day only as a causeway down which the swamp has come to build a great wooden area in the midst of the bog, accomplishing in half a century what it might not have done in five times had it not been for human aid.—Winthrop Packard, “Wild Pastures.”
(1321)
Growth, Spiritual—SeeSpiritual Perturbation.
Growth Through Struggle—SeeStruggle and Growth.
GROWTH, UNCONSCIOUS
Moses, when he came down from the mountain, “wist not” that his face shone. So in much of our spiritual life, we are unconscious of the fact of growth. As a writer upon life in the fields likening the spiritual life to that of the seed says:
But all the winter through, tho it was hidden by frost and snow, the seed was growing beneath the earth; the difference is that now we can see it. And so it is with the growth of the soul. The soul is growing, tho we do not know it, in its winter weather, when all is dead and cold and dark; when the Spirit has convinced us of sin and we say, “I seem to have no part and lot with the saints, no joy nor peace; I only feel the burden of my iniquities; I question whether I am a living soul.” Ah, but the seed sown by the hand of God is growing through all those wintry days; if a man can feel and lament his weakness, his deadness, his barrenness, he is a living soul. (Text.)
But all the winter through, tho it was hidden by frost and snow, the seed was growing beneath the earth; the difference is that now we can see it. And so it is with the growth of the soul. The soul is growing, tho we do not know it, in its winter weather, when all is dead and cold and dark; when the Spirit has convinced us of sin and we say, “I seem to have no part and lot with the saints, no joy nor peace; I only feel the burden of my iniquities; I question whether I am a living soul.” Ah, but the seed sown by the hand of God is growing through all those wintry days; if a man can feel and lament his weakness, his deadness, his barrenness, he is a living soul. (Text.)
(1322)
Growths, Undesirable—SeeBarriers.
Guardian Friends—SeePledge-keeping.
GUARDS OF THE SOUL
As there is a silence that thunders, so there is a severity that is the inflection of pity and love. That is not the kindest surgeon who refuses to make the wounded soldier suffer. That is not the truest mother who lets the child work its own will and riot in selfish pleasures. It is not a little thing for a pilgrim to make his way across a dark continent. Are there serpents and wild beasts in the jungle? Then on either side of the path through the forest let thorn-bushes be planted that they may scourge the child back into the path. Is the chasm deep? A veritable abyss? Then, when the bridge is strung across the gulf, let a railing be placed on either side, with sharp prongs of iron to hold the child back from the edge of the bridge, lest in a careless mood he fall and be crusht upon the cruel rocks beneath. It is a dangerous journey that man makes through the wilderness. And God has planted on either side of the way the Ten Commandments like ten thorn-bushes, buttresses and guards, that the pilgrim may be confined to the path that leads to prosperity, safety and peace—N. D. Hillis.
As there is a silence that thunders, so there is a severity that is the inflection of pity and love. That is not the kindest surgeon who refuses to make the wounded soldier suffer. That is not the truest mother who lets the child work its own will and riot in selfish pleasures. It is not a little thing for a pilgrim to make his way across a dark continent. Are there serpents and wild beasts in the jungle? Then on either side of the path through the forest let thorn-bushes be planted that they may scourge the child back into the path. Is the chasm deep? A veritable abyss? Then, when the bridge is strung across the gulf, let a railing be placed on either side, with sharp prongs of iron to hold the child back from the edge of the bridge, lest in a careless mood he fall and be crusht upon the cruel rocks beneath. It is a dangerous journey that man makes through the wilderness. And God has planted on either side of the way the Ten Commandments like ten thorn-bushes, buttresses and guards, that the pilgrim may be confined to the path that leads to prosperity, safety and peace—N. D. Hillis.
(1323)
Guest Surprized—SeeTact.
Guidance—SeeSafety from Water-Brooks;Trust.
GUIDANCE, GOD’S
In the stern of a sea-going vessel,At morning, at noon and at night,I saw there a sturdy old boatswainWho stood and uplifted his sightTo the mast that was towering above him,While pendulant hung from his lipThe whistle whose shrill intonationsDetermined the course of the ship.And I wondered at what he was gazingTill, stepping behind him, I stoodAnd followed his angle of visionHigh up on the pillar of wood;And there, far above the attractionOf body of iron or steel,Was fastened a compass whose needleCorrected the man at the wheel.O wonderful lesson of science,That crystaled in parable there,And brought in its transparent visionThe meaning and purpose of prayer!I, too, am adrift on the ocean,My compass, the spirit of man,And with hand on the wheel of life’s rudder,I only can steer as I can.But, praise to God’s infinite goodness,Thy compass above I can see—The needle of truth that Thy spiritHolds true for the spirit of me.Unswerved by earth’s baser attraction,It points to the glories that shine;I read it at morning and evening,And reckon my bearings from Thine. (Text.)
In the stern of a sea-going vessel,At morning, at noon and at night,I saw there a sturdy old boatswainWho stood and uplifted his sightTo the mast that was towering above him,While pendulant hung from his lipThe whistle whose shrill intonationsDetermined the course of the ship.And I wondered at what he was gazingTill, stepping behind him, I stoodAnd followed his angle of visionHigh up on the pillar of wood;And there, far above the attractionOf body of iron or steel,Was fastened a compass whose needleCorrected the man at the wheel.O wonderful lesson of science,That crystaled in parable there,And brought in its transparent visionThe meaning and purpose of prayer!I, too, am adrift on the ocean,My compass, the spirit of man,And with hand on the wheel of life’s rudder,I only can steer as I can.But, praise to God’s infinite goodness,Thy compass above I can see—The needle of truth that Thy spiritHolds true for the spirit of me.Unswerved by earth’s baser attraction,It points to the glories that shine;I read it at morning and evening,And reckon my bearings from Thine. (Text.)
In the stern of a sea-going vessel,At morning, at noon and at night,I saw there a sturdy old boatswainWho stood and uplifted his sightTo the mast that was towering above him,While pendulant hung from his lipThe whistle whose shrill intonationsDetermined the course of the ship.
In the stern of a sea-going vessel,
At morning, at noon and at night,
I saw there a sturdy old boatswain
Who stood and uplifted his sight
To the mast that was towering above him,
While pendulant hung from his lip
The whistle whose shrill intonations
Determined the course of the ship.
And I wondered at what he was gazingTill, stepping behind him, I stoodAnd followed his angle of visionHigh up on the pillar of wood;And there, far above the attractionOf body of iron or steel,Was fastened a compass whose needleCorrected the man at the wheel.
And I wondered at what he was gazing
Till, stepping behind him, I stood
And followed his angle of vision
High up on the pillar of wood;
And there, far above the attraction
Of body of iron or steel,
Was fastened a compass whose needle
Corrected the man at the wheel.
O wonderful lesson of science,That crystaled in parable there,And brought in its transparent visionThe meaning and purpose of prayer!I, too, am adrift on the ocean,My compass, the spirit of man,And with hand on the wheel of life’s rudder,I only can steer as I can.
O wonderful lesson of science,
That crystaled in parable there,
And brought in its transparent vision
The meaning and purpose of prayer!
I, too, am adrift on the ocean,
My compass, the spirit of man,
And with hand on the wheel of life’s rudder,
I only can steer as I can.
But, praise to God’s infinite goodness,Thy compass above I can see—The needle of truth that Thy spiritHolds true for the spirit of me.Unswerved by earth’s baser attraction,It points to the glories that shine;I read it at morning and evening,And reckon my bearings from Thine. (Text.)
But, praise to God’s infinite goodness,
Thy compass above I can see—
The needle of truth that Thy spirit
Holds true for the spirit of me.
Unswerved by earth’s baser attraction,
It points to the glories that shine;
I read it at morning and evening,
And reckon my bearings from Thine. (Text.)
(1324)
Thomas F. Porter, in the BostonGlobe, expresses in these verses the confidence of faith in God’s guidance:
It matters not what course my ship may go,That leaves the port ’neath skies so calm and clear;Tho later threatening winds may wildly blow,Of harm I have no fear.The storm may beat in fury ’round my bark,The ocean’s spray up to the masthead leap,The way be long, the night be starless dark,Secure my course I keep.It matters not how swift may be the tide,Tho lightning cleave with lurid flame the sky;But that my ship will every storm outride,On this I can rely.Nor does it matter when the goal I gain,Nor if the ship be stript of every mast,My heart no lips will murmur nor complain,When safe the anchor’s cast.Why, there is such a flood of hope in me,To doubting hearts this much I will reveal:The Hand that launched my bark on life’s great seaIs ever at the wheel.
It matters not what course my ship may go,That leaves the port ’neath skies so calm and clear;Tho later threatening winds may wildly blow,Of harm I have no fear.The storm may beat in fury ’round my bark,The ocean’s spray up to the masthead leap,The way be long, the night be starless dark,Secure my course I keep.It matters not how swift may be the tide,Tho lightning cleave with lurid flame the sky;But that my ship will every storm outride,On this I can rely.Nor does it matter when the goal I gain,Nor if the ship be stript of every mast,My heart no lips will murmur nor complain,When safe the anchor’s cast.Why, there is such a flood of hope in me,To doubting hearts this much I will reveal:The Hand that launched my bark on life’s great seaIs ever at the wheel.
It matters not what course my ship may go,That leaves the port ’neath skies so calm and clear;Tho later threatening winds may wildly blow,Of harm I have no fear.
It matters not what course my ship may go,
That leaves the port ’neath skies so calm and clear;
Tho later threatening winds may wildly blow,
Of harm I have no fear.
The storm may beat in fury ’round my bark,The ocean’s spray up to the masthead leap,The way be long, the night be starless dark,Secure my course I keep.
The storm may beat in fury ’round my bark,
The ocean’s spray up to the masthead leap,
The way be long, the night be starless dark,
Secure my course I keep.
It matters not how swift may be the tide,Tho lightning cleave with lurid flame the sky;But that my ship will every storm outride,On this I can rely.
It matters not how swift may be the tide,
Tho lightning cleave with lurid flame the sky;
But that my ship will every storm outride,
On this I can rely.
Nor does it matter when the goal I gain,Nor if the ship be stript of every mast,My heart no lips will murmur nor complain,When safe the anchor’s cast.
Nor does it matter when the goal I gain,
Nor if the ship be stript of every mast,
My heart no lips will murmur nor complain,
When safe the anchor’s cast.
Why, there is such a flood of hope in me,To doubting hearts this much I will reveal:The Hand that launched my bark on life’s great seaIs ever at the wheel.
Why, there is such a flood of hope in me,
To doubting hearts this much I will reveal:
The Hand that launched my bark on life’s great sea
Is ever at the wheel.
(1325)
Guidance, Spiritual—SeeSpirit, Winds of the.
GUIDANCE EVILWARD
A story is told of certain mariners who followed the direction of their compass, believing it to be infallibly right as a guide, till they arrived at an enemy’s port, where they were seized and made slaves. The secret was that the wicked captain, in order to betray the ship and to beguile them into obliquities, had hidden a large loadstone at a little distance on one side of the needle. (Text.)
A story is told of certain mariners who followed the direction of their compass, believing it to be infallibly right as a guide, till they arrived at an enemy’s port, where they were seized and made slaves. The secret was that the wicked captain, in order to betray the ship and to beguile them into obliquities, had hidden a large loadstone at a little distance on one side of the needle. (Text.)
(1326)
Guide and Traveler—SeeConfidence.
GUIDE, THE PERFECT
Once I was out with a guide climbing a mountain, and the guide himself lost his way. He was compelled, greatly chagrined, to beat about for quite a while till he found it. This could never happen to Christ.Sometimes a guide in the Alps, in spite of all his care, loses the life of a traveler. The unfortunate man may slip and the rope may break; or, if the rope holds, he may be heavy enough to drag down his guide with him into the crevasse.When a traveler hesitated to place his foot in the hand of a guide who asked him to step upon it out over a precipice when rounding a perilous turn, the guide reassured him by saying, “This hand never lost a life.” That was true of the guide, but it did not prove that he never would lose a life.
Once I was out with a guide climbing a mountain, and the guide himself lost his way. He was compelled, greatly chagrined, to beat about for quite a while till he found it. This could never happen to Christ.
Sometimes a guide in the Alps, in spite of all his care, loses the life of a traveler. The unfortunate man may slip and the rope may break; or, if the rope holds, he may be heavy enough to drag down his guide with him into the crevasse.
When a traveler hesitated to place his foot in the hand of a guide who asked him to step upon it out over a precipice when rounding a perilous turn, the guide reassured him by saying, “This hand never lost a life.” That was true of the guide, but it did not prove that he never would lose a life.
Of Christ’s hand stretched out to help us it may be said truly: “This hand never lost a life, and never can lose one.”—Amos R. Wells, inThe Christian Endeavor World.
(1327)
Guides—SeeExperience, Value of.
Guides and Prayer—SeeBlessing the Ropes.
GUILT
The only thing needed to show guilt or innocence is sufficient light:
Aaron Burr once defended a prisoner charged with murder, and as the trial proceeded it became too manifest to him that the guilt of the murder lay between the prisoner and one of the witnesses for the prosecution. He accordingly subjected this witness to a searching and relentless cross-examination; and then, as he addrest the jury in the gathering dusk of evening, he brought into strong relief every fact that bore against this witness, and suddenly seizing two candelabra from the table, he threw a glare of light on the witness’s face, and exclaimed, “Behold the murderer, gentlemen!” Alarmed and conscience-stricken, the man reeled as from a blow, turned ghastly pale, and left the court. The advocate concluded his speech in a tone of triumph, and the jury acquitted the prisoner. (Text.)—Croake James, “Curiosities of Law and Lawyers.”
Aaron Burr once defended a prisoner charged with murder, and as the trial proceeded it became too manifest to him that the guilt of the murder lay between the prisoner and one of the witnesses for the prosecution. He accordingly subjected this witness to a searching and relentless cross-examination; and then, as he addrest the jury in the gathering dusk of evening, he brought into strong relief every fact that bore against this witness, and suddenly seizing two candelabra from the table, he threw a glare of light on the witness’s face, and exclaimed, “Behold the murderer, gentlemen!” Alarmed and conscience-stricken, the man reeled as from a blow, turned ghastly pale, and left the court. The advocate concluded his speech in a tone of triumph, and the jury acquitted the prisoner. (Text.)—Croake James, “Curiosities of Law and Lawyers.”
(1328)
HABIT
Says Jeremiah, “Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard his spots? then may ye also do good, that are accustomed to evil.” The last chapter in the biography of habits is its enthronement, its tyranny over the will. The tragedy of every habit is that instead of being an aid to the will, it becomes its master. Donald Sage Mackay, in “The Religion of the Threshold,” says:
Henry Drummond once told of a man who had gone to a London physician to consult about his eyes. The physician looked into the man’s eyes with a delicate ophthalmoscope, and then said quietly to the man. “My friend, you are practising a certain sin, and unless you give it up, in six months you will be blind.” For a moment the man stood trembling in the agony of discovery, and then, turning to the sunlit window, he looked out and exclaimed, “Farewell, sweet light, farewell!”
Henry Drummond once told of a man who had gone to a London physician to consult about his eyes. The physician looked into the man’s eyes with a delicate ophthalmoscope, and then said quietly to the man. “My friend, you are practising a certain sin, and unless you give it up, in six months you will be blind.” For a moment the man stood trembling in the agony of discovery, and then, turning to the sunlit window, he looked out and exclaimed, “Farewell, sweet light, farewell!”
(1329)
A man named Patch, having been charged with murder, his solicitor carefully examined the premises and situation, and came to the conclusion that the murderer must have been a left-handed man. The solicitor informed Sergeant Best, in consultation, that he had noticed Patch, when taking his dinner, using his knife with the left hand. In a conference before the trial, the sergeant prest the prisoner to say whether he was not left-handed, but he protested he was not. When the prisoner was arraigned at the bar on the day of trial, and was called on to plead, he answered, “Not guilty,” and at once, of course unconsciously, held up his left hand.—Croake James, “Curiosities of Law and Lawyers.”
A man named Patch, having been charged with murder, his solicitor carefully examined the premises and situation, and came to the conclusion that the murderer must have been a left-handed man. The solicitor informed Sergeant Best, in consultation, that he had noticed Patch, when taking his dinner, using his knife with the left hand. In a conference before the trial, the sergeant prest the prisoner to say whether he was not left-handed, but he protested he was not. When the prisoner was arraigned at the bar on the day of trial, and was called on to plead, he answered, “Not guilty,” and at once, of course unconsciously, held up his left hand.—Croake James, “Curiosities of Law and Lawyers.”
(1330)
Slowly and insidiously do the evil habits grow until they become as gnarled crooked trees which none may straighten; little by little the gossamer thread becomes a cart-rope which none may break; imperceptibly does the film of ice spread over the river, holding the waters before long in a grasp which Niagara could not burst. The character is stereotyped; the life moves in deep downward grooves. Says the modern determinist, “By habit the mind is reduced into servitude.” Says the apostle, “We are sold under sin.”—W. L. Watkinson, “The Transfigured Sackcloth.”
Slowly and insidiously do the evil habits grow until they become as gnarled crooked trees which none may straighten; little by little the gossamer thread becomes a cart-rope which none may break; imperceptibly does the film of ice spread over the river, holding the waters before long in a grasp which Niagara could not burst. The character is stereotyped; the life moves in deep downward grooves. Says the modern determinist, “By habit the mind is reduced into servitude.” Says the apostle, “We are sold under sin.”—W. L. Watkinson, “The Transfigured Sackcloth.”
(1331)
SeeRoutine.
HABIT AUTOMATIC
If a sleeping-plant is placed in a dark room after it has gone to sleep at night, it will be found next morning in the light-position, and will again assume the nocturnal position as evening comes. We have, in fact, what seems to be a habit built by the alternation of day and night. The plant normally drops its leaves at the stimulus of darkness and raises them at the stimulus of light. But here we see the leaves rising and falling in the absence of the accustomed stimulation. This is the characteristic par excellence of habit. When a series of actions are compelled to follow each other by applying a series of stimuli they become organically tied together, or associated, and follow each other automatically, even when the whole series of stimuli are not acting.—The Scientific American.
If a sleeping-plant is placed in a dark room after it has gone to sleep at night, it will be found next morning in the light-position, and will again assume the nocturnal position as evening comes. We have, in fact, what seems to be a habit built by the alternation of day and night. The plant normally drops its leaves at the stimulus of darkness and raises them at the stimulus of light. But here we see the leaves rising and falling in the absence of the accustomed stimulation. This is the characteristic par excellence of habit. When a series of actions are compelled to follow each other by applying a series of stimuli they become organically tied together, or associated, and follow each other automatically, even when the whole series of stimuli are not acting.—The Scientific American.
(1332)
HABIT, BREAKING
A story is told of an English minister who offered a prize to the boy who would write the best composition in five minutes on “How to Overcome a Habit.”At the expiration of five minutes the compositions were read. The prize went to a lad of nine years. The following is his essay:“Well, sir, habit is hard to overcome. If you take off the first letter, it does not change ‘a bit.’ If you take off another, you still have a ‘bit’ left. If you take off still another the whole of ‘it’ remains. If you take off another, it is wholly used up; all of which goes to show that if you want to get rid of habit you must throw it off altogether.”
A story is told of an English minister who offered a prize to the boy who would write the best composition in five minutes on “How to Overcome a Habit.”
At the expiration of five minutes the compositions were read. The prize went to a lad of nine years. The following is his essay:
“Well, sir, habit is hard to overcome. If you take off the first letter, it does not change ‘a bit.’ If you take off another, you still have a ‘bit’ left. If you take off still another the whole of ‘it’ remains. If you take off another, it is wholly used up; all of which goes to show that if you want to get rid of habit you must throw it off altogether.”
(1333)
HABIT IN WORK
All his life Mark Twain was an inveterate smoker, and one of the most leisurely men in the world. An old pressman, who was once printer’s devil in an office where Mark was editorial writer, tells this anecdote of his habits of work. “One of my duties was to sweep the room where editors worked. Every day Mark would give me a nickel to get away from him. He would rather die in the dust than uncross his legs. One day he gave me a nickel to dot an ‘i’ in his copy for him. He certainly did enjoy life, that man did.”—New YorkEvening Post.
All his life Mark Twain was an inveterate smoker, and one of the most leisurely men in the world. An old pressman, who was once printer’s devil in an office where Mark was editorial writer, tells this anecdote of his habits of work. “One of my duties was to sweep the room where editors worked. Every day Mark would give me a nickel to get away from him. He would rather die in the dust than uncross his legs. One day he gave me a nickel to dot an ‘i’ in his copy for him. He certainly did enjoy life, that man did.”—New YorkEvening Post.
(1334)
HABIT, PHYSIOLOGICAL CONSEQUENCES OF
The following bit of information is fromLa Nature:
Men of a singular race have been discovered in New Guinea, and the governor, it seems, has promised to send some specimens to London. Living as they do in the marshes, these men have no need to walk. On the other hand, the marshes are covered with a growth that prevents navigation in canoes. The men have built huts in trees, and as organs of prehension alone are useful to them, their lower limbs have almost atrophied. These natives have only feeble and withered legs and feet, while the chest and arms are of normal development. They can scarcely stand upright, and they walk like large apes. They thus give the impression of cripples who have been deprived of the use of their lower extremities.
Men of a singular race have been discovered in New Guinea, and the governor, it seems, has promised to send some specimens to London. Living as they do in the marshes, these men have no need to walk. On the other hand, the marshes are covered with a growth that prevents navigation in canoes. The men have built huts in trees, and as organs of prehension alone are useful to them, their lower limbs have almost atrophied. These natives have only feeble and withered legs and feet, while the chest and arms are of normal development. They can scarcely stand upright, and they walk like large apes. They thus give the impression of cripples who have been deprived of the use of their lower extremities.
(1335)
HABIT, THE POWER OF
Samuel Adjai Crowther, an African slave-boy who became a bishop, delighted to tell to his children the story of how he put on his first shoes. In “The Black Bishop” Jesse Page gives the story in the bishop’s own words. Four of the pupils in the missionary’s school had been promoted to the position of monitors. This was at Fourah Bay College, under Rev. Charles Haensel:
To give effect to our position, we were allowed to wear shoes. Strong, stout shoes, with very thick soles, were procured andgiven to us; they were called “Blucher shoes.”On a Saturday afternoon we were called, received a pair each, and were told to wear them every Sunday to church at St. George’s Cathedral, a distance of about three miles.Never having had shoes on before, we began practising in our dormitory that evening. None of us could move a step after lacing up on our feet the unwieldy articles, and consequently we were objects of laughter to our pupils.An idea struck me which I at once put into execution. Crawling to a corner of the room, I first knelt down, then holding on to the wall for support, I stood up, and still being supported by the wall, I stept round the room many times, the others following my example, till we were able to leave the wall, stand alone, or move about without support.You can well imagine what a burden this was to us, and after losing sight of the college, we sat on the grass, took off the shoes, walked barefoot, and put them on only at the porch of the church. We did the same on returning to college. After some months’ practise we were able to move better in them, but complained how they hurt our feet, and would rather be without them. But after some months we invested in the purchase of boots ourselves, and were always careful to buy those that made noise and creaked as we walked, to our great delight and the admiration of our pupils.—The Youth’s Companion.
To give effect to our position, we were allowed to wear shoes. Strong, stout shoes, with very thick soles, were procured andgiven to us; they were called “Blucher shoes.”
On a Saturday afternoon we were called, received a pair each, and were told to wear them every Sunday to church at St. George’s Cathedral, a distance of about three miles.
Never having had shoes on before, we began practising in our dormitory that evening. None of us could move a step after lacing up on our feet the unwieldy articles, and consequently we were objects of laughter to our pupils.
An idea struck me which I at once put into execution. Crawling to a corner of the room, I first knelt down, then holding on to the wall for support, I stood up, and still being supported by the wall, I stept round the room many times, the others following my example, till we were able to leave the wall, stand alone, or move about without support.
You can well imagine what a burden this was to us, and after losing sight of the college, we sat on the grass, took off the shoes, walked barefoot, and put them on only at the porch of the church. We did the same on returning to college. After some months’ practise we were able to move better in them, but complained how they hurt our feet, and would rather be without them. But after some months we invested in the purchase of boots ourselves, and were always careful to buy those that made noise and creaked as we walked, to our great delight and the admiration of our pupils.—The Youth’s Companion.
(1336)
Helen M. Winslow declares that it was her intention from childhood to become a writer, and that she early obtained a position on the staff of a city newspaper. During a period covering several years she had charge of twenty-eight columns a week, on three papers, all of which she filled without help from subordinates. She worked eight hours a day in a dark, dingy office, and six more in her “den” at home every night, going to theaters from twice to five times a week, and working all day Sunday to bring up the ends. She edited news-columns, fashion, health, dramatic, hotel, book-review, railroad, bicycle, fancy-work, kitchen, woman’s club, society, palmistry and correspondence departments, and withal kept up an editorial column for eight years. Then she started a journal of her own. She worked like a slave for seven years more, wrote articles, editorials, read manuscripts and books, kept up an enormous correspondence, solicited most of her advertisements, and went to the printing-office every issue to attend personally to the details of “make-up” and proof-reading.“But you have had your day,” a younger woman said to her, “why grumble now?” “Because it was not the day I wanted, and I only meant to make it the stepping-stone to something better. I did not want to be a newspaper woman and nothing more; and now that I have leisure for something more, I find my mental faculties, instead of being sharpened for further use, dulled. I have done desultory work so long I can not take up anything more thorough. I have been a ‘hack’ too many years. I can not be a race-horse now.” (Text.)
Helen M. Winslow declares that it was her intention from childhood to become a writer, and that she early obtained a position on the staff of a city newspaper. During a period covering several years she had charge of twenty-eight columns a week, on three papers, all of which she filled without help from subordinates. She worked eight hours a day in a dark, dingy office, and six more in her “den” at home every night, going to theaters from twice to five times a week, and working all day Sunday to bring up the ends. She edited news-columns, fashion, health, dramatic, hotel, book-review, railroad, bicycle, fancy-work, kitchen, woman’s club, society, palmistry and correspondence departments, and withal kept up an editorial column for eight years. Then she started a journal of her own. She worked like a slave for seven years more, wrote articles, editorials, read manuscripts and books, kept up an enormous correspondence, solicited most of her advertisements, and went to the printing-office every issue to attend personally to the details of “make-up” and proof-reading.
“But you have had your day,” a younger woman said to her, “why grumble now?” “Because it was not the day I wanted, and I only meant to make it the stepping-stone to something better. I did not want to be a newspaper woman and nothing more; and now that I have leisure for something more, I find my mental faculties, instead of being sharpened for further use, dulled. I have done desultory work so long I can not take up anything more thorough. I have been a ‘hack’ too many years. I can not be a race-horse now.” (Text.)
(1337)
Hair-splitting—SeeWord-juggling.
Hand, Use of Right—SeeTradition.
Handicap of Ill Health—SeeBody, Mastering the.
HANDICAPS, OVERCOMING