THE BENEFIT OF THOUGHT.
The worst as well as the best of us in this world, sometimes love to stop and think. The bad man, wanting every fine feeling, and mostly giving his passions the rein, and suffering them to lead him, to the exclusion of what is beautiful in morals and religion, will sometimes be struck with the contrast between himself and others, and give a few moments to thought. Besides, there are, from the mutual relation of mind and body, certain states of physical feeling, which seem to make men pause, and set them thinking, whether they will or not. In fact, this seems a provision of nature, and it is a benevolent one; for men who think a great deal, are improved by it; and if so, it is obviously a kind plan of our Maker, who, by giving us constitutions susceptible of the changes in the natural world, leads us, thereby, to pause awhile, and familiarize ourselves with that which is wisest and best in the constitutions of our souls.
That a man is improved by thinking much, few will deny. If he sits and thinks upon his secular concerns, or employs himself in ambitious speculations, or upon any other of the subjects which beguile the greater part of the human family, we would not say he was improved, at least, but little, by it. But we think a man who now and then gives himself to solitude, will not employ his mind thus. It is a law of our natures, that earthly objects, even the best, and purest, if pursued long, and obtained in profusion, have a tendency to induce satiety and disgust. Most men have had experience of this; for few are there, we think, who have not, after calculating long on the delights of a prospective good, found on its attainment, its comparative worthlessness and insufficiency. Now the man who devotes a few moments to reflection, will have this great inducement to lead his mind off from such subjects as tend only to make him the more of a worldling, viz. that they cannot satisfy. Moreover, if he does not know, or does not remember this, as the result of former experience, he will (unless he be yoked with fetters of ironto the world, and his whole character be different from that of other men) if at first, in his retirement, he gives his mind up to outward objects, or to such as serve his worst passions—after a while, even then, experience the same, or something of the same satiety. The mind then turns somewhere else, for it must have nourishment; and whither, but into itself. It is thus, retirement puts a man in the way of being better.
Now the mind abstracted from outward, every-day objects, or such as have dominion over it through the medium of the senses, will soon become acquainted with its own noble faculties. It certainly is a truth, and every thinking man will remark it as he mingles with men, that they all seem unconscious of their natures. A wiser than man has revealed to us, and Philosophy tells us, that there are fountains of bliss in ourselves; and that if we taste of these, we shall look upon those things which constitute most of the enjoyment of our race, as worth little or nothing. Of this truth, we say, men seem ignorant. A being with half our natural faculties, would be capacitated for about as much bliss as most men take. The extent of many, we may say of most of the human family’s ideas of happiness, might almost be comprehended by a sagacious animal. Does it not consist mainly, in securing such a portion of worldly substance, as shall make them comfortable? It is so, manifestly. Now let me ask, if this, in the scale of being, elevates us much above brutes. Brutes do all this; and it might be remarked without much hazard, that, instinct taken into account, they take a higher stand than we do. Retirement, however, turning the mind into itself, as remarked above, tends to correct this evil; and did society think more, its condition would instantly be improved. Thought opens new sources of thought; these sources other sources, increasing in tenfold ratio: and this unravels that which is so often esteemed a mystery by many, viz. that men, once devoted to books, can never be brought back to business men; and, furthermore, it shows an egregious error in those who account for this devotion, on the grounds of habit. That we are creatures of habit in a great degree, none will deny; but that habit can be broken, is as readily admitted—whereas, this devotion was never known to be lessened.
The man who thinks much, in addition to the discovery of his great mental powers, discovers, also, his great moral capacities. Things that once struck him as strange in his moral constitution, and which, as they seemed inexplicable, he had so often dismissed with a glance, he now discovers, are so many evidences of a relationship to the Divine being: all is illuminated which, before, was so dark: the film passes from his eye: what he thought but a stagnant pool, he finds, now, is an ocean whose waters are limpid and sweet, the bottom of which is strewn with the richest and rarest shells: every exertion reveals to him a new treasure, until he wonders within himself at that perversity and blindness, which couldpass over, undiscovered, such deep sources of improvement. Now one result of all this is, that he gains a just sense of the dignity of his being. We know how fashionable it is, to decry human nature; and we doubt not we shall receive censure, for turning off from such a beaten path. The great and good, of almost all time, have rather preferred to find fault, than bestow on it eulogium. But it seems to us, an abuse, and a perversion, for looking over society as we do, and catching here and there so many evidences of bright and heroic virtues as are presented—we cannot follow the fashion, and say, every man is altogether bad. There is every thing in the soul which is noble: it bears the imprint of a divine hand: and though its fair phasis be soiled, and blackened, as doubtless it is, by transgression, there are, nevertheless, some intelligent spots left, to show its divine origin.
Another result of patient thought is, a man discovers his proper relationship to society. Self-knowledge tends greatly to remove selfishness. By it, he learns his obligation, not only to God, but man; he begins to see how impossible it is, to live an isolated being; and he begins to feel, in its full force, that beautiful truth, that he is a part of the great chain which links society together. In proportion as he feels this, must his selfishness give place to nobler feelings. No man exhibits a more unprepossessing ignorance, than he who sets at nought the opinions, and feelings of others. He becomes an object of pity, and even contempt, to every thinking man; for so little is required to see his error, that we despise his oversight. If men did but know it, it is the cause of a large portion of the unhappiness of life. Society never finds a person in its midst, entirely wrapped in self, and scorning its good will, but it leaves such to the fate they merit, viz. to test their ill grounded belief, and see if theycanlive, setting at nought the doctrine of mutual dependence. No! men were made dependent—mutually dependent—and it is the loveliest thing in morals that it is so; for just so far as it is recognized, is selfishness destroyed, and harmony established among men. This doctrine ought to be held up more than it is, especially in this nation: it would serve to correct and counteract, if any thing can do it, that spirit of self-interest, always the result of popular and free institutions.
The moral powers are greatly improved, also, by thought, and as a consequence, the moral taste. It is unfortunate, we think, that so much should have been said, and written, as there has been, on beauty and taste, and moral beauty, and moral taste, so often left out of the account. The order and harmony in Nature, has never wanted admirers; and eulogists, by scores, are found, to speak of high deeds, and heroic attachments. In the Arts, too, the ideal symmetry of Phidias; the burning canvass of Michael Angelo; and the fabulous shell of Orpheus—these have never lacked encomium. On the contrary, there has been something like a mad emulation among men,from the bright era of Grecian Pericles until now, to invent epithets of admiration. But how are high deeds and heroic virtues ennobled—what added grace and dignity is afforded the Fine Arts, when the principles of moral beauty are associated! Our object here, however, shall not be to discover, why moral taste is neglected, but rather to find out some principles by which it may be seen, and improved, wherever there is a wish for its culture. Taste is doubtless an inherent faculty; and, if the doctrine of innate ideas is admitted, then moral taste is an inherent faculty. Now every thing which relates to morals, affects moral taste; they cannot be dissociated: hence, would you look for its liveliest exercise, you will take the most elevated character. In such you will observe it, not in great display, but in the thousand little offices of life,
‘Those little, nameless, unremember’d actsOf kindness and of love.’
‘Those little, nameless, unremember’d actsOf kindness and of love.’
‘Those little, nameless, unremember’d actsOf kindness and of love.’
‘Those little, nameless, unremember’d acts
Of kindness and of love.’
It checks them, at every little departure from rectitude, and is a good and efficient guide, in all their intercourse with men. If a man wouldimprovehis moral taste, let him, instead of that pernicious habit of revery to which there are so many inducements, especially in retirement, give his thoughts to the excellence of moral virtues: let him look at those sparks of beauty, so to speak, sometimes struck off from heroic characters, in trying circumstances: let him trace them in their two-fold results, as affecting others, and then refracting on himself; and much have we mistaken the human mind, if the practice do not benefit him. We are not aware of the extent of the benefit of a taste rightly understood, and rightly directed, because it is so very subtle and delicate; nevertheless, those many imperceptible advances which it makes against an ill regulated mind, operate powerfully as a whole, and do modify the disposition to a degree little dreamed of. It improves a man’swholecharacter, and throws a charm around it, not otherwise, than as the flush sometimes seen lying along the sky of evening, which, thrown down to the earth by the atmosphere, gives it all a mellow glow of beauty.
From the above, we detect another truth. There are in society, certain little observances, which tend to regulate it—such as the forms of etiquette; which observances, it is deemed can best be learnedinsociety. This we deem a very pernicious doctrine. It is reasoning from wrong premises; and falsedatain moral, assuredly bring about as wrong deductions, as in physical science. The very object to be attained, viz. the regulation of society, not only goes to show, that it is something which is extraneous, but presupposes that it can never be found there: and yet we are told, that politeness is the result of social intercourse. But this we believe not. So far from it, we believe that true politeness isneverlearned there. Society is nothing but a hot bed—what grows in it, is rankand unwholesome. True, there is a something passing for politeness, very meaningless, and very stiff; but it is, at the same time, so very shallow, that men of sense make no pretensions to it: andthisis learnedinsociety. True politeness is of another growth. It is the offspring of correct principle; and any thing springing from such a source, we may not be much afraid of. True politeness is nothing but a refined kind of humanity; and give a man a kind heart, and one regulated by correct taste; and never fear, but he has that which will make his way any where, to the utter exclusion of these danglers on the skirts of good breeding. It is a sad thing, that we have such an abundance ofmannersin the world, and so littlecharacter: that men think so little, they have mostly become frivolous and superficial: that frivolous and superficial manners, best become them. This is true however. Wehavelost the substance, and taken the shadow; and now, in groping for it, we have got a substitute, without one of the virtues of its expatriated pre-occupant.
But though the age is not one marked by any very severe exercise of thought, and though utilitarian principles are threatening to sweep away almost every kind of speculative knowledge, yet we are not greatly fearful as to the result. The system is revolving, and a better succession will soon be among us. And why? Our hope is, in the fast increasing intelligence of the world. Though we might, and, did we give our mind, we should, find complaint, in respect to many of the features of the spirit of the day, deeming it too clamorous, and active, as having a tendency to injure what is pure and beautiful, in the ideal world—still, intelligence is fast and widely diffused; and on the whole, doubtless, the good will predominate. Those rank plants among us, such as false taste, sickly sensibility, affectation, and the like, will be crowded out by those of healthier growth, and society put on a new aspect; while, as evils, we shall have too much of a captious, matter-of-fact atmosphere, which rejects every thing not immediately communicated, through the medium of the senses. This, however, will be counteracted in some degree, by the few thatdothink: and, further, by thatotherfew, who in all states of society hold their own, uncontaminated by that which is about them. These are they who bring into existence with them, those susceptibilities of harmony in the natural and moral world—minds, which separate them from their fellows—feelings, which earth never appreciates—and aspirations, which carry them up to breathe in a purer atmosphere, where the bustle, ‘and hoarse enginery of Life’ cannot come. These, we say, have an influence in society, though they are above it—‘birds of heavenly plumage fair,’ that, stooping occasionally from higher regions, appear for a moment, and then are gone.
In conclusion: the benefit of thought is most manifest, in that proper self-confidence, without which, there is no real dignity of character. To be a growing man, is to be a confident one; andthe secret of greatness, lies in the consciousness of the ability to be great. We should be sorry to advocate folly,—modesty, we are taught from our cradles, is a virtue,—but by some unaccountable process, the thing has got to signifying something, better designated sheepishness; and hence, we have ananimalvirtue. Different from these, however, are our ideas of modesty. True modesty is that proper appreciation of one’s own powers, which leads him never to offend, either by bashfulness or presumption: now, who so likely to hit the mark, as he who knows the strength of the bow. The workings of a great mind, conscious of its capacities—and its aspirations for eminence, are, in distinction to the greatness of little men, as opposite as possible—the one a mighty river, always overflowing, and enriching the soil through which it moves, with its abundant and generous fullness—the other an insignificant stream, always within its banks, as grudging the smallest pittance to the scene around. To be a modest man in a certain usage, is to be an ignorant one—for to underrate one’s self, and be honest in it, is to show ignorance of self; and he who knows not himself, has skipped the first page in the book of wisdom: but to be a modest man in a right sense, is to be a wise one—for it is a knowledge of self (which we suppose constitutes a wise man) that enables one to seize upon and retain, his proper station in society. It is this latter kind of modesty which is commendable. It is that of great men. It is that which, meet it where we will, we love to praise. Milton could stop, mid-word in one of his loudest invectives against the rotten fabric of Episcopacy, and speak of himself as ‘a poet sitting in the high regions of his fancy, with his garlands and singing robes about him’—and, with voice like the wild note of prophecy, proclaim ‘the great argument,’ as yet sleeping in the darkness of his vision; and of his confidence to produce a work ‘that posterity should not willingly let die.’ Was this folly? and yet, it was a full appreciation of what the great God had given him. No! It was knowledge—knowledge at home—knowledge gained by thought—the knowledge of energies proud enough, to build up a colossal monument to posterity—and he did it.
These are some of the advantages, we think, of a substantial knowledge of ourselves; and when we look at the age, and see how headlong it is, and how dangerously practical it is becoming; too much cannot be said, and too loudly it cannot be spoken, that there is need of more reflection, and more forethought.