My life is an open book

Chapter I. Right Estimate Of Life

*' We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart throbs. He most lives Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. Life is but a means unto an end — that end. Beginning, mean and end to all things — God !" — Bailey.

We never look for any great quantity of fruit from a young tree: The apples may be large and mellow, but they will be few in number.

Hence, in order to fill our barrels and bins for winter use, we drive our wagons to the old gnarled trees of the orchard. They have lived through a half century ; they wear many a scar ; and the clubs and stones lodged in the branches, show that they have had rough treatment ; but with their long roots, huge trunks, sturdy boughs, and millions of leaves — they gather from year to 3^ear enormous stores of the crude material from which to make blossoms and fruit.

And yet, it is among the green branches of the young tree that we search for the largest and juciest apples.

And so it is with men : It generally requires long years and a broad experience to produce any very fruitful life.

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On this account, so far from expecting important deeds, or notable manifestations of wisdom and goodness from the young, most people fail to suspect that there may be anything in a youthful life worth being written and read.

It never occurs to them that genius wedded to virtue may unblushingly claim commanding prowess and dignity for its offspring ; that genius may sometimes overleap and set at nought the ordinary necessities of time, rule and patronage ; and in fulfilling its destined mission, may crowd the drama of a generation into the space of a few years.

In every department of human activity, some of the most illustrious of heroic names are of men who won immortality while they were still young.

Indeed, careful search among the folios of biography discovers that the majority of great men thought their best thoughts, and did their mightest works in early life.

Customs and institutions are hallowed by years, and paintings are clothed with richness by old age ; but it is not necessarily so with man, else time would be the most considerable factor in his history. In that case life should not be analyzed, but duration of existence only measured.

Then, the brown and hoary rock of paleozoic ages would be an object of more venerable interest than any man that ever lived ; then, the old Lombardy poplar which never gave even a seed to a sparrow, but —

" Which solemnly stands, And with deedless hands Piously points to heaven ! "

would be a more precious thing than the sweet memory of the woman whose busy hand planted it long ago to adorn the gateway of her new home.

Time should bring to every one the chastened prudence and goodness of instructive experience ; should dispel the throttling spirit of diffidence, and impart a manly self-reliance ; but, to many it brings an obstinacy of opinion and an arrogance of authority — to which they have purchased no right : and it is about impossible for such indurated and self-luminous people ever to grow either in knowledge or in grace.

Nature reveals her secrets most unreservedly to those who woo her with humblest entreaty ; while she coldly frowns upon the proud andoverwise, and defiantly hides her charms from their sight.

It is not the mind of the old, but the mind of the young that is quickest to interpret the strange whisperings heard everywhere in the physical world; and it is not the eye of the critic, but the child heart that discerns most clearly spiritual truth ;• that sees most vividly mirrored in the Bible that superlative miracle, the image of the Son of God.

Furthermore, a little child's heart may be, and alas ! sometimes is, a very Garden of Gethsemane where a mortal in crying anguish sweats great drops of blood; or it may be a wilderness battle field, to which angels in pity and admiration troop unseen to bless and crown a moral hero, of whom the world knows not.

Such truthful reflections ought to superinduce a more philosophical and humane treatment of the young ; and should at least awaken respectful inquiry concerning the wants and unasserted claims of those who display talents and energy of superior order.

Notwithstanding its splendid progress in the paths of science and civilization, our age — strange to say, has hardly glanced at the study of that nondescript creature, the hoy.

However it may be explained, certainly no apology can be offered for the damaging if not fatal neglect.

Boys cannot be studied, and in turn adequately taught and trained if regarded as one homogeneous mass of human beings ; and that system of education alone can be eminently successful which singles out the individual, and treats him as though a separate and important genus in himself.

Such was the manner of education among the Romans of the Augustan age ; and in the wonderful literary monuments of the greatest minds of that period, we find grateful acknowledgments of the wisdom and love which deemed each one in his youth worthy the personal watchcare and instruction of some able master.

Rome was quick too, to recognize and encourage with helpful honors any youth of extraordinary talents and high aspirations.

She eagerly made use of the rich materials which nature lavished upon her ; and from them realized those incomparable productions, which have been treasured near two thousand years as models for the whole world.

Unfortunately such beneficent and discriminating wisdom is now little known among men.

In our generation, a youth may possess the finest native intellect, he may be a novel, and exquisitely complicated masterpiece — evidently fashioned for some great and special purpose ; nevertheless he must pass through the same invariable discipline as the multitude ; and at

RIGHT ESTIMATE OP LIFE. 21

school must scramble to procure his mental porridge from the common class bowl of everlasting Pythagorean beans.

Having run far ahead of his fellows, should he dare come forth with clear eye, strong arm, and unconventional sling to undertake great things for God and humanity, — not all men will hail him with delight, — and few will cheer him on.

It may be that his own brethren will deride his girlish cheeks, cruelly exaggerate every semblance of mistake, and with pious regret cast a darkly ominous horoscope of his future career.

If he protest and rebel ; if he question the infallibility of those who have made for themselves papal caps; if he modestly suggest that possibly the fathers left some veins of truth undiscovered, immediately some would be Bossuet will thunder against him the charge and verdict of treason and heresy.

The popular manner of estimating persons and authorities is irrational and full of mischief. Men should receive consideration for their intrinsic might and worth ; and not for their race, or profession, or for the long time that they may have existed under the sun. Nor should it be thought impossible for one to be truly great, unless he may have won renown on the crowded and dusty highway of the world.

Many of the most potent forces of the universe are veiled and noiseless.

History would be more righteous and useful did it wander more among quiet rural scenes, and oftener visit the humble homes of the simple people ; did it take more pictures of childhood life, and note with thoughtful sym-

22 RIGHT ESTIMATE OP LIFE

pathy the condition, hopes, dreams, trials and meritorious efforts of the young.

As it is, History is to a deplorable extent evil-minded and does not rate nien and things aright.

The standards of measurement are wrong, and the proper tests of worth are not applied to character.

She hears only the loud sounds, and sees none but the garish colors of life.

She delights most to gather around her the children of fashion and vanity, and has a morbid taste for the story of violence and blood.

And in all this, she is true to the prescriptive ethical code of worldly society, for what comparatively is the silent individual to the noisy crowd, — the ill-clad peasant to the empurpled prince, — the unsophisticated youth to the desperate pretender of high-sounding deeds 1

Several years ago, in a winter night away out West a brave boy volunteered to go fifteen miles across the mountains to get medicine for a widow's sick child.

There were strong rough men there, and all were touched with pity, but they shrunk back from the perilous undertaking.

She had no claim upon the boy, save that which sometimes a great heart freely accords suffering humanity.

He trudged on through the night, the bitter cold and deep snow ; he climbed over jagged peaks, and passed through dismal forests of pine ; he delayed not for rest, and when a day and night had gone, when the now almost crazed mother and some miners of the camp sat in hopeless silence near the moaning fever-tossed child — they were suddenly startled by a shout in the valley.

The grand souled boy had returned !

His whole body ached from the toil and cold ; his face and hands were cracked and bleeding, and one poor foot was so badly frosted, that he became a limping cripple for life.

But, he got the medicine, and saved the life of the little orphan girl.

A more chivalrous soul than he, old King Arthur never dubbed knight of the Round Table !

Here indeed, was a character more refreshingly beautiful than is the rare little plant, sometimes found blooming high up on those same mountains with its fragrant blue bells dangling above the snow.

And yet no telegram ever told the nation of his unselfish heroism, and no brilliant assembly tendered him an ovation.

Let some aimless traveler return from wandering thousands of miles over the earth ; simply because he has visited remote regions, and mayhap can add a curious mite of ancient pottery to our collection in the museum, we at once hail him with loud enthusiasm, — furnish him with a luxurious bath, put soft sandals upon his feet, and costly raiment on his body, while we ridiculously invest his every word with charming interest.

One of the most incomprehensible mysteries is man's poor and perverted conception of the meaning and end of life, his blind insensibility to real greatness, and to the glory of that soft light, which has been beaming on the nation for over eighteen hundred years.

Under the fatal spell of ignorance and sin he attributes to things material and perishing the weighty importance that belongs only to things spiritual and eternal.

The writer recently saw in a Mexican roadside encampment an eagle tied with a string to a stake.

The sight could not be other than intolerable — the very genius of freedom in bonds and down in the dust!

After much persuasion and the gift of a piece of silver, the owner was induced to cut the string and allow the eagle its liberty.

Now according to all tradition, the noble bird would shake his wings with dignity — gaze for a moment at the sky — slowly lift himself up into the air, and after one wild scream of joy — at last sweep away for a glorious flight miles and miles above the purple hills.

But that eagle did no such thing : He lazily circled about in the air a few times, and then suddenly pounced down upon the body of a dead goat. To my disgust there he stood groveling in dirt and blood ; but, one listening to him delightedly cawing and shrieking over his prize, might have supposed that the kingly creature had just found an eyrie of gold in the blue mountains of the sky.

In religious fervor it has been exultingly proclaimed that " our age longs to be religious ; the multitudes are turning their eyes heavenward ; the souls of men cry out for God," and we would fain believe it, but after all is there not serious cause for thinking that such statements are the sanguine assertions of pious optimism ?

Carefully considering his conduct do we not find a thousand proofs, that ''man is of the earth earthy " where there is one suggestion that his spirit is seeking after God and immortality ?

And now. Oh ! man, walking through this land of the shadow of death, is there aught beside the hope of heaven

EIGHT ESTIMATE OP LIFE. 25

to satisfy the infinite longings of the soul ; and can human life have any real gladness, or any glory, or any sublime end except in the transfiguring beauty of the Lord our God !

Standing before the blaze of the revelation of Jesus Christ what awful yet joyous significance is seen in this our life on earth.

In that light, what profit is there in pretended greatness? What charm has age without wisdom, and eminence without virtue ?

What are the years that ripen no precious fruit and garner no golden grain ; and what is the life of man or woman unless glorified by the faith and hope and love of a little child?

"It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make men better be ; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear.

A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night :

— It was the plant and flower of light."

Chapter II. Man— The Book Maker

" I would gladly, after my death, have that which never happened to any other author — all my thoughts given to the world ; not one should be concealed." — J. Paul Richter.

" What thou art in the sight of God, that thou truly art."

— Thomas A. Kempis.

There is a quaint Spanish tradition, which relates the story of a child, who by sad accident was left upon an unpeopled island.

With its vast plains and forests, its mountains and lakes ; its perpetual air of balm, and its indigenous fruits, the island might have been a fit home for a nation ; but the little boy was the only human being upon all its soil.

After a few days of bewildering grief, by that rebound of feeling natural to children in vigorous health, he became submissively accustomed, and in a manner reconciled to his lonely lot. Hunger and suffering soon instinctively aroused him to the work of self-preservation. He learned to pluck the delicious fruit that hung in wild profusion around him, for food. He had found a small cave in the rock near the beach, in which he made for

himself a bed of dry leaves and grasses.

He spent the long days in watching the booming waves roll up against the shore ; in wandering to gather fruit and flowers; in childishly courting the society of the animals and beautiful birds that lived in the forests. They soon lost their shy timidity, and many of them after a while became so strangely fond of his presence that they lingered ever about his cave.

Here in solitude he grew up to rugged manhood ; still, ever dreaming vaguely of the great world of men — somewhere over the waters, he knew not where.

Although, untutored by men, he was endowed by nature with strong intellect ; and from his constant habit of talking to himself, to the waves and the sympathetic animals ; from deep meditation upon the silent lessons of earth and sky, he unconsciously grew to be a philosopher and poet of rarely brilliant powers.

** The humblest reed that trembles in the marsh, If heaven select it for its instrument, May shed celestial music on the breeze, as clearly As the pipe — whose virgin gold Befits the lips of Phoebus."

Often would there steal over this isolated being a tightly stretched longing to see again the peopled world, and the want of human fellowship would at times send piteous wails from his heart. He knew nothing of sin, of falsehood and cruelty, but the childlike man was full of innocence and benevolence.

At last one morning, after long years, there came a ship to the shore, and he fearlessly hastened to reveal himself to the crew. At first, somewhat overawed, they shrunk back from him ; and gazing upon him in his wild, nude state with curious wonderment, they concluded that he was a specimen of some hitherto unknown race of savage men. However, by broken speech and rude gesture he finally succeeded in making them comprehend his melancholy history. They gladly took him on board, and carried him back to the civilized world. Philosophers, statesmen, poets and priests hailed him as a rich discovery, a proper subject for closest examination and study.

Patiently did they endeavor to learn all that could be drawn out concerning his life ; and especially his impressions and thoughts received from and in nature, uninfluenced by the society and teachings of men.

This astonished delight in a person so novel is not of difficult explanation — for an eager curiosity concerning the distant and unknown is common to mankind.

Should an angel from some star-world come on an open visit to the people of earth, all men would be seized with a most irrepressible desire to see him ; and to hear all that he could be induced to disclose concerning his own mysterious existence.

And would not the revelation of such a sublime life flash and shine like a pillar of fire in this dark world? It would for a little time, and excite tremendous interest ; but it would then, by familiarity, lose its novelty, and men would cease to regard it. This thirst for the unknown is very queer in some of its leadings. It gives only now and then a vacant glance at that which is near, but zealously puts out its eyes gazing upon the remote. It magnifies the strange, and dwarfs the common.

It is said that there are those living within the sound of the awful roar of Niagara, who never give a passing thought to that marvellous work of nature. Strangers stand wrapped in mute amazement, gazing upon the mighty waters rushing, thundering over the terrible precipice; and in tlie stormy roar, spell-bound, they seem to hear earth's sublimest hymn of Omnipotence.

There are many people living in the region of the Mammoth Cave who never cared to enter it. They have seen hundreds of eager visitors come and go with each summer. They have often heard of those magnificent halls and chambers, which, by the light even of torches, outshine the l3^rical glory of the Moorish Alhambra ; but they have never been tempted to go and see for themselves the far-famed wonder. The same people would be elated by an opportunity to cross the ocean and look upon the Alps

Many a man devotes years to learning the names, position, shape, colors and movements of the heavenly bodies, who would consider it beneath the dignity of his profession to bestow an hour's study upon a garden plant, or in devising a kite for his boy. Scientists may be met here and there, unable to tell a column of trap rock from a ledge of limestone ; but they would be thrown into ecstasies could they possibly obtain a piece of the moon even the size of a man's hand.

Now, each human being is in himself a store of wonders, a miniature world — an epitome of universal experience — a cosmos worthy the prying ken of a Humboldt ; and while all pertaining to it is of transcendant importance, that cosmos remains unexplored. Nothing can be less doubtful, and naore inexplicable, than our ignorance of men.

For, after all, how very little we do know, even of those with whom we are most intimately associated.

The life we know is but the outside — the river flowing above ground. The words we learn, and the actions we behold, are no more than surface ripples upon the water. The eye cannot penetrate the deeply hidden springs, and there look upon thought and feeling — the source of all that is said and done.

This unsatisfactory ignorance cannot be attributed solely to inattention, for it must be owing in part, at least, to a more seriously discouraging cause. Men are unwilling to be known, and hence studiously keep themselves under cover of disguise. They live a sort of dual life, the inner and the outer, the private and the public, the seen and the not seen. These, two, are not unfrequently surprisingly different.

As the word person ^ which originally meant only the mask, afterward the character played by an actor, in time came to denote the actor himself, so it is with the apparent life of men. They choose to impersonate a character, and often become so identified with that which they have assumed, that they themselves lose all acquaintance with the real self; and in the language of Pope, " The human persons are as fictitious as the airy ones."

If men and society could for a season be so constituted that every act should be seen, and every thought be known, perhaps, evil would be repressed, and virtue greatly increased upon the earth. Those bent on wicked deeds have been known to steal away abashed and rebuked before the discovery and look of a child.

Were it possible, by miracle, suddenly to remove all bodies from their spirits ; and compel every one to gaze upon his own and other's naked souls — insufferable would be the disclosure. Society would be shaken from its present foundations, and for a time the darkness and confusion of chaos would prevail. But from out the troubled night might come a glorious morning for the human race.

Dark secrecy is the chief element in the condition most favorable to sin ; and the consciousness of sin is the powerful advocate of dissimulation. They either go hand in hand, or follow immediately upon each other's footsteps.

In the poetic account of the primeval couple in Paradise, we find that man's first thrill of shame was for his nakedness, and as naturally as we lift the hand involuntarily to shield the eye from a sudden light, so, unconsciously attempting to hide the stained spirit — he made aprons of fig-leaves to cover his blushing body. The true motive of that action, and of his hiding among the trees of the garden, is generally overlooked. Conscience sent the blush to his cheek and brow, and rendered him a wretched coward, ashamed to be seen. He could not bear to have it known that he had fallen from his princely estate of innocence ; and had it been possible, he would have concealed forever his ruin from God and the angels. The children inherited the proud spirit and bitter portion of their great first father.

As the lightning sometimes shimmers faintly through the blackest clouds, so through all the oblivion of ages there still comes ever and anon to humanity a dim recollection of the period when man stood but little lower than the angels. He feels that he is not the happy and exalted creature he was designed to be. Often too weak to attempt to rise above sin, and too proud to acknowledge his shameful condition, he sees no other alternative than to march through life under false colors. The inscrutable mystery is, that he not only becomes reconciled to his degrading choice, but in many cases by some potent illusion, or from the pleasing temporary rewards of successfully acting a false part, he is persuaded that he does wisely and well.

Conscience, stultified or dead, no longer gives law to his life, and he utterly fails to discriminate between right and wrong.

When we quietly reflect upon Hagar's exclamation, " Thou God seest me!" who can be so weak as to imagine that flimsy veils can mock the eye of Omnipotence? David, in a passage, which for its awful burden and sublimity of language can hardly be found equaled elsewhere in universal literature, proclaims the absolute impossibility of hiding any thing from God :

" Lord thou hast searched me, and known me. Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising; thou understandest my thoughts afar off. Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways. For there is not a word in my tongue, but lo ! Lord, thou knowest it altogether. Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me : it is high, I cannot attain unto it. "Whither shall I go from thy spirit, or whither shall I flee from thy presence ? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there ; if I make my bed in the unseen world, thou art there ! If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. If I sa}"", surely the darkness shall cover me ; even the night shall he light above me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee ; but the night shineth as the day ; the darkness and the light are alike to thee!"

These instructive words should be painted upon the walls of all our homes, and be woven into the memory of every child in the nation. A full persuasion of their truth would render people less anxious about vain appearance, and more concerned with stern realities. They would be led to despise the cloaks of pretension, and to strive to live true and brave lives. It would certainly be a most powerful incentive to virtue, to be ever mindful that we are in full view of a .sleepless and watching eye ; that our actions are seen, and our thoughts heard in heaven.

If the dogma of modern science be true that, " All things are but altered — nothing dies," then what stupendous importance inheres in all that we do, and all that we are.

Each star in the immensity of space sends out its every flash, as a picture star, sailing on the wings of light through journeys of awful ages. And

" Were a star quenched on high, For ages would its light, Still traveUng downward from the sky, Shine on our mortal sight."

The most delicate fern prints its shadowy photograph upon the everlasting rocks ; and our every fugitive thought leaves some tint or shade of color ; and every seemingly insignificant act is a steel chisel, cutting some trace upon the character which we fashion for eternity.

" E'en a snowflake lets a shadow fall, As softly to the earth it sinks to rest."

Hence the humblest life may start concentric and everwidening waves of influence, for good or evil, that shall only break against the shores of the eternal ocean.

Our theatre of action is not bounded by earth and time. Man lives, acts, and then dies; but his life inaugurates a force whose influence cannot perish — until time shall be no more ; until all things shall be made new, and former things have forever passed away.

By an inevitable necessity of our nature and condition, we are a race of bookmakers. Each human being must contribute one volume to the library of the universe. Man composes, but the angels of God print and bind the works in volumes imperishable. Happy, forever, they whose lives shall be eloquent treatises on truth and goodness — who had the moral courage to live as God's men. But woe to them whose books shall be dark stories of shame, falsehood and sin: whose whole life was one miserable struggle to appear to be that which they took no pains actually to be.

''And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God ; and the books were opened ; and another book was opened — which is the Book of Life ; and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works."

In the light of the preceding reflections, the writer proposes to tell the story of the good and eloquent young shepherd Berty Stover. Several years have quicklypassed since he left us, and to-day the rank summer grass is waving over the crook that fell from his hands ; but hundreds scattered through the land still remember his dear face, sweet voice and thrilling words. And this memory is alone enough to rekindle love, and awaken something of that enthusiasm for virtue and godliness, which we always felt when he stood as a messenger of grace before us. His history will be given faithful to life ; for the brush of fancy shall touch no fiojure, and the hand of squeamish taste shall not hide a single leaf. From childhood, through youth to early manhood, and at the grave to the edge of "The land o' the leal," step by step will we follow him. The old home ; his %ther, and family, and the sainted mother, of whom he so often spoke with words of singular beauty and pathos ; the village school, and his days at college ; his trials and afflictions, as well as his joys and solid triumphs ; the gifted young woman whom he loved with a love more royal and beautiful than that of Abelard ; his faith and the " Current Reformation; " his sparkling letters, with a few of his essays, orations and sermons, and his original opinions of public men and things, shall all claim our attention in passing.