Friends and Neighbors, or Two Ways of Living in the World

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Friends and Neighbors, or Two Ways of Living in the World

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To those of our readers who feel moved or resolved by the
considerations we have named to attempt to regulate their temper, or
to cultivate one of a higher order of excellence, we would submit a
few suggestions which may assist them in their somewhat difficult
undertaking.

See, first of all, that you set as high a value on the comfort of
those with whom you have to do as you. do on your own. If you regard
your own comfort _exclusively_, you will not make the allowances
which a _proper_ regard to the happiness of others would lead you to
do.

Avoid, particularly in your intercourse with those to whom it is of
most consequence that your temper should be gentle and
forbearing--avoid raising into undue importance the little failings
which you may perceive in them, or the trifling disappointments
which they may occasion you. If we make it a subject of vexation,
that the beings among whom we tire destined to live, are not
perfect, we must give up all hope of attaining a temper not easily
provoked. A habit of trying everything by the standard of perfection
vitiates the temper more than it improves the understanding, and
disposes the mind to discern faults with an unhappy penetration. I
would not have you shut your eyes to the errors or follies, or
thoughtlessnesses of your friends, but only not to magnify them or
view them microscopically. Regard them in others as you would have
them regard the same things in you, in an exchange of circumstances.

Do not forget to make due allowances for the original constitution
and the manner of education or bringing up, which has been the lot
of those with whom you have to do. Make such excuses for Others as
the circumstances of their constitution, rearing, and youthful
associations, do fairly demand.

Always put the best construction on the motives of others, when
their conduct admits of more than one way of understanding it. In
many cases, where neglect or ill intention seems evident at first
sight, it may prove true that "second thoughts are best." Indeed,
this common slaying is never more likely to prove true than in cases
in which the _first_ thoughts were the dictates of anger And even
when the first thoughts are confirmed by further evidence, yet the
habit of always waiting for complete evidence before we condemn,
must have a calming; and moderating effect upon the temper, while it
will take nothing from the authority of our just censures.

It will further, be a great help to our efforts, as well as our
desires, for the government of the temper, if we consider frequently
and seriously the natural consequences of hasty resentments, angry
replies, rebukes impatiently given or impatiently received, muttered
discontents, sullen looks, and harsh words. It may safely be
asserted that the consequences of these and other ways in which
ill-temper may show itself, are _entirely_ evil. The feelings, which
accompany them in ourselves, and those which they excite in others,
are unprofitable as well as painful. They lessen our own comfort,
and tend often rather to prevent than to promote the improvement of
those with whom we find fault. If we give even friendly and
judicious counsels in a harsh and pettish tone, we excite against
_them_ the repugnance naturally felt to _our manner_. The
consequence is, that the advice is slighted, and the peevish adviser
pitied, despised, or hated.

When we cannot succeed in putting a restraint on our _feelings_ of
anger or dissatisfaction, we can at least check the _expression_ of
those feelings. If our thoughts are not always in our power, our
words and actions and looks may be brought under our command; and a
command over these expressions of our thoughts and feelings will be
found no mean help towards obtaining an increase of power over our
thoughts and feelings themselves. At least, one great good will be
effected: time will be gained; time for reflection; time for
charitable allowances and excuses.

Lastly, seek the help of religion. Consider how you may most
certainly secure the approbation of God. For a good temper, or a
well-regulated temper, _may be_ the constant homage of a truly
religious man to that God, whose love and long-suffering forbearance
surpass all human love and forbearance.

MANLY GENTLENESS.

WHO is the most wretched man living? This question might constitute
a very fair puzzle to those of our readers whose kind hearts have
given them, in their own experience, no clue to the true answer. It
is a species of happiness to be rich; to have at one's command an
abundance of the elegancies and luxuries of life. Then he, perhaps,
is the most miserable of men who is the poorest. It is a species of
happiness to be the possessor of learning, fame, or power; and
therefore, perhaps, he is the most miserable man who is the most
ignorant, despised, and helpless. No; there is a man more wretched
than these. We know not where he may be found; but find him where
you will, in a prison or on a throne, steeped in poverty or
surrounded with princely affluence; execrated, as he deserves to be,
or crowned with world-wide applause; that man is the most miserable
whose heart contains the least love for others.

It is a pleasure to be beloved. Who has not felt this? Human
affection is priceless. A fond heart is more valuable than the
Indies. But it is a still greater pleasure to love than to be loved;
the emotion itself is of a higher kind; it calls forth our own
powers into more agreeable exercise, and is independent of the
caprice of others. Generally speaking, if we deserve to be loved,
others will love us, but this is not always the case. The love of
others towards us, is not always in proportion to our real merits;
and it would be unjust to make our highest happiness dependent on
it. But our love for others will always be in proportion to our real
goodness; the more amiable, the more excellent we become, the more
shall we love others; it is right, therefore, that this love should
be made capable of bestowing upon us the largest amount of
happiness. This is the arrangement which the Creator has fixed upon.
By virtue of our moral constitution, to love is to be happy; to hate
is to be wretched.

Hatred is a strong word, and the idea it conveys is very repulsive.
We would hope that few of our readers know by experience what it is
in its full extent. To be a very demon, to combine in ourselves the
highest possible degree of wickedness and misery, nothing more is
needful than to hate with sufficient intensity. But though, happily,
comparatively few persons are fully under the influence of this
baneful passion, how many are under it more frequently and
powerfully than they ought to be? How often do we indulge in
resentful, revengeful feelings, with all of which hatred more or
less mixes itself? Have we not sometimes entertained sentiments
positively malignant towards those who have wounded our vanity or
injured our interests, secretly wishing them ill, or not heartily
wishing them happiness? If so, we need only consult our own
experience to ascertain that such feelings are both sinful and
foolish; they offend our Maker, and render us wretched.

We know a happy man; one who in the midst of the vexations and
crosses of this changing world, is always happy. Meet him anywhere,
and at any time, his features beam with pleasure. Children run to
meet him, and contend for the honour of touching his hand, or laying
hold of the skirt of his coat, as he passes by, so cheerful and
benevolent does he always look. In his own house he seems to reign
absolute, and yet he never uses any weapon more powerful than a kind
word. Everybody who knows him is aware, that, in point of
intelligence, ay, and in physical prowess, too--for we know few men
who can boast a more athletic frame--he is strong as a lion, yet in
his demeanour he is gentle as a lamb. His wife is not of the most
amiable temper, his children are not the most docile, his business
brings him into contact with men of various dispositions; but he
conquers all with the same weapons. What a contrast have we often
thought he presents to some whose physiognomy looks like a piece of
harsh handwriting, in which we can decipher nothing but _self, self,
self_; who seem, both at home and abroad, to be always on the watch
against any infringement of their dignity. Poor men! their dignity
can be of little value if it requires so much care in order to be
maintained. True manliness need take but little pains to procure
respectful recognition. If it is genuine, others will see it, and
respect it. The lion will always be acknowledged as the king of the
beasts; but the ass, though clothed in the lion's skin, may bray
loudly and perseveringly indeed, but he will never keep the forest
in awe.

From some experience in the homes of working-men, and other homes
too, we are led to think that much of the harsh and discordant
feeling which too often prevails there may be ascribed to a false
conception of what is truly great. It is a very erroneous impression
that despotism is manly. For our part we believe that despotism is
inhuman, satanic, and that wherever it is found--as much in the
bosom of a family, as on the throne of a kingdom. We cannot bring
ourselves to tolerate the inconsistency with which some men will
inveigh against some absolute sovereign, and straight-way enact the
pettiest airs of absolutism in their little empire at home. We have
no private intimacy with "the autocrat of all the Russias," and may,
with all humility, avow that we do not desire to have any; but this
we believe, that out of the thousands who call him a tyrant, it
would be no difficult matter to pick scores who are as bad, if not
worse. Let us remember that it is not a great empire which
constitutes a great tyrant. Tyranny must be measured by the strength
of those imperious and malignant passions from which it flows, and
carrying this rule along with us, it would not surprise us, if we
found the greatest tyrant in the world in some small cottage, with
none to oppress but a few unoffending children, and a helpless
woman. O! when shall we, be just!--when shall we cease to prate
about wrongs inflicted by others, and magnified by being beheld
through the haze of distance, and seek to redress those which lie at
our own doors, and to redress which we shall only have to prevail
upon ourselves to be just and gentle! Arbitrary power is always
associated either with cruelty, or conscious weakness. True
greatness is above the petty arts of tyranny. Sometimes much
domestic suffering may arise from a cause which is easily confounded
with a tyrannical disposition--we refer to an exaggerated sense of
justice. This is the abuse of a right feeling, and requires to be
kept in vigilant check. Nothing is easier than to be one-sided in
judging of the actions of others. How agreeable the task of applying
the line and plummet! How quiet and complete the assumption of our
own superior excellence which we make in doing it! But if the task
is in some respects easy, it is most difficult if we take into
account the necessity of being just in our decisions. In domestic
life especially, in which so much depends on circumstances, and the
highest questions often relate to mere matters of expediency, how
easy it is to be "always finding fault," if we neglect to take
notice of explanatory and extenuating circumstances! Anybody with a
tongue and a most moderate complement of brains can call a thing
stupid, foolish, ill-advised, and so forth; though it might require
a larger amount of wisdom than the judges possessed to have done the
thing better. But what do we want with captious judges in the bosom
of a family? The scales of household polity are the scales of love,
and he who holds them should be a sympathizing friend; ever ready to
make allowance for failures, ingenious in contriving apologies, more
lavish of counsels than rebukes, and less anxious to overwhelm a
person with a sense of deficiency than to awaken in the bosom, a
conscious power of doing better. One thing is certain: if any member
of a family conceives it his duty to sit continually in the censor's
chair, and weigh in the scales of justice all that happens in the
domestic commonwealth, domestic happiness is out of the question. It
is manly to extenuate and forgive, but a crabbed and censorious
spirit is contemptible.

There is much more misery thrown into the cup of life by domestic
unkindness than we might at first suppose. In thinking of the evils
endured by society from malevolent passions of individuals, we are
apt to enumerate only the more dreadful instances of crime: but what
are the few murders which unhappily pollute the soil of this
Christian land--what, we ask, is the suffering they occasion, what
their demoralizing tendency--when compared with the daily effusions
of ill-humour which sadden, may we not fear, many thousand homes? We
believe that an incalculably greater number are hurried to the grave
by habitual unkindness than by sudden violence; the slow poison of
churlishness and neglect, is of all poisons the most destructive. If
this is true, we want a new definition for the most flagrant of all
crimes: a definition which shall leave out the element of time, and
call these actions the same--equally hateful, equally diabolical,
equally censured by the righteous government of Heaven--which
proceed from the same motives, and lead to the same result, whether
they be done in a moment, or spread out through a series of years.
Habitual unkindness is demoralizing as well as cruel. Whenever it
fails to break the heart, it hardens it. To take a familiar
illustration: a wife who is never addressed by her husband in tones
of kindness, must cease to love him if she wishes to be happy. It is
her only alternative. Thanks to the nobility of our nature, she does
not always take it. No; for years she battles with cruelty, and
still presses with affection the hand which smites her, but it is
fearfully at her own expense. Such endurance preys upon her health,
and hastens her exit to the asylum of the grave. If this is to be
avoided, she must learn to forget, what woman should never be
tempted to forget, the vows, the self-renunciating devotedness of
impassioned youth; she must learn to oppose indifference, to neglect
and repel him with a heart as cold as his own. But what a tragedy
lies involved in a career like this! We gaze on something infinitely
more terrible than murder; we see our nature abandoned to the mercy
of malignant passions, and the sacred susceptibilities which were
intended to fertilize with the waters of charity the pathway of
life, sending forth streams of bitterest gall. A catalogue of such
cases, faithfully compiled, would eclipse, in turpitude and horror,
all the calendars of crime that have ever sickened the attention of
the world.

The obligations of gentleness and kindness are extensive as the
claims to manliness; these three qualities must go together. There
are some cases, however, in which such obligations are of special
force. Perhaps a precept here will be presented most appropriately
under the guise of an example. We have now before our mind's eye a
couple, whose marriage tie was, a few months since, severed by
death. The husband was a strong, hale, robust sort of a man, who
probably never knew a day's illness in the course of his life, and
whose sympathy on behalf of weakness or suffering in others it was
exceedingly difficult to evoke; while his partner was the very
reverse, by constitution weak and ailing, but withal a woman of whom
any man might and ought to have been proud. Her elegant form, her
fair transparent skin, the classical contour of her refined and
expressive face, might have led a Canova to have selected her as a
model of feminine beauty. But alas! she was weak; she could not work
like other women; her husband could not _boast_ among his shopmates
how much she contributed to the maintenance of the family, and how
largely she could afford to dispense with the fruit of his labours.
Indeed, with a noble infant in her bosom, and the cares of a
household resting entirely upon her, she required help herself, and
at least she needed, what no wife can dispense with, but she least
of all--_sympathy_, forbearance, and all those tranquilizing virtues
which flow from a heart of kindness. She least of all could bear a
harsh look; to be treated daily with cold, disapproving reserve, a
petulant dissatisfaction could not but be death to her. We will not
say it _was_--enough that she is dead. The lily bent before the
storm, and at last was crushed by it. We ask but one question, in
order to point the moral:--In the circumstances we have delineated,
what course of treatment was most consonant with a manly spirit;
that which was actually pursued, or some other which the reader can
suggest?

Yes, to love is to be happy and to make happy, and to love is the
very spirit of true manliness. We speak not of exaggerated passion
and false sentiment; we speak not of those bewildering,
indescribable feelings, which under that name, often monopolize for
a time the guidance of the youthful heart; but we speak of that pure
emotion which is benevolence intensified, and which, when blended
with intelligence, can throw the light of joyousness around the
manifold relations of life. Coarseness, rudeness, tyranny, are so
many forms of brute power; so many manifestations of what it is
man's peculiar glory not to be; but kindness and gentleness can
never cease to be MANLY.

Count not the days that have lightly flown,
The years that were vainly spent;
Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own,
When thy spirit stands before the Throne,
To account for the talents lent.

But number the hours redeemed from sin,
The moments employed for Heaven;--
Oh few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.

Will the shade go back on the dial plate?
Will thy sun stand still on his way?
Both hasten on; and thy spirit's fate
Rests on the point of life's little date:--
Then live while 'tis called to-day.

Life's waning hours, like the Sibyl's page,
As they lessen, in value rise;
Oh rouse thee and live! nor deem that man's age
Stands on the length of his pilgrimage,
But in days that are truly wise.

SILENT INFLUENCE.

"HOW finely she looks!" said Margaret Winne, as a lady swept by them
in the crowd; "I do not see that time wears upon her beauty at all."

"What, Bell Walters!" exclaimed her companion. "Are you one of those
who think her such a beauty?"

"I think her a very fine-looking woman, certainly," returned Mrs.
Winne; "and, what is more, I think her a very fine woman."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Hall; "I thought you were no friends?"

"No," replied the first speaker; "but that does not make us
enemies."

"But I tell you she positively dislikes you, Margaret," said Mrs.
Hall. "It is only a few days since I knew of her saying that you
were a bold, impudent woman, and she did not like you at all."

"That is bad," said Margaret, with a smile; "for I must confess that
I like her."

"Well," said her companion, "I am sure I could never like any one
who made such unkind speeches about me."

"I presume she said no more than she thought," said Margaret,
quietly.

"Well, so much the worse!" exclaimed Mrs. Hall, in surprise. "I hope
you do not think that excuses the matter at all?"

"Certainly, I do. I presume she has some reason for thinking as she
does; and, if so, it was very natural she should express her
opinion."

"Well, you are very cool and candid about it, I must say. What
reason have you given her, pray, for thinking you were bold and
impudent?"

"None, that I am aware of," replied Mrs. Winne, "but I presume she
thinks I have. I always claim her acquaintance, when we meet, and I
have no doubt she would much rather I would let it drop."

"Why don't you, then? I never knew her, and never had any desire for
her acquaintance. She was no better than you when you were girls,
and I don't think her present good fortune need make her so very
scornful."

"I do not think she exhibits any more haughtiness than most people
would under the same circumstances. Some would have dropped the
acquaintance at once, without waiting for me to do it. Her social
position is higher than mine, and it annoys her to have me meet her
as an equal, just I used to do."

"You do it to annoy her, then?"

"Not by any means. I would much rather she would feel, as I do, that
the difference between us is merely conventional, and might bear to
be forgotten on the few occasions when accident throws us together.
But she does not, and I presume it is natural. I do not know how my
head might be turned, if I had climbed up in the world as rapidly as
she has done. As it is, however, I admire her too much to drop her
acquaintance just yet, as long as she leaves it to me."

"Really, Margaret, I should have supposed you had too much spirit to
intrude yourself upon a person that you knew wished to shake you
off; and I do not see how you can admire one that you know to be so
proud."

"I do not admire her on account of her pride, certainly, though it
is a quality that sits very gracefully upon her," said Margaret
Winne; and she introduced another topic of conversation, for she did
not hope to make her companion understand the motives that
influenced her.

"Bold and impudent!" said Margaret, to herself, as she sat alone, in
her own apartment. "I knew she thought it, for I have seen it in her
looks; but she always treats me well externally, and I hardly
thought she would say it. I know she was vexed with herself for
speaking to me, one day, when she was in the midst of a circle of
her fashionable acquaintances. I was particularly ill-dressed, and I
noticed that they stared at me; but I had no intention, then, of
throwing myself in her way. Well," she continued, musingly, "I am
not to be foiled with one rebuff. I know her better than she knows
me, for the busy world has canvassed her life, while they have never
meddled with my own: and I think there are points of contact enough
between us for us to understand each other, if we once found an
opportunity. She stands in a position which I shall never occupy,
and she has more power and strength than I; else she had never stood
where she does, for she has shaped her fortunes by her own unaided
will. Her face was not her fortune, as most people suppose, but her
mind. She has accomplished whatever she has undertaken, and she can
accomplish much more, for her resources are far from being
developed. Those around her may remember yet that she was not always
on a footing with them; but they will not do so long. She will be
their leader, for she was born to rule. Yes; and she queens it most
proudly among them. It were a pity to lose sight of her stately,
graceful dignity. I regard her very much as I would some beautiful
exotic, and her opinion of me affects me about as much as if she
were the flower, and not the mortal. And yet I can never see her
without wishing that the influence she exerts might be turned into a
better channel. She has much of good about her, and I think that it
needs but a few hints to make life and its responsibilities appear
to her as they do to me. I have a message for her ear, but she must
not know that it was intended for her. She has too much pride of
place to receive it from me, and too much self-confidence to listen
knowingly to the suggestions of any other mind than her own.
Therefore, I will seek the society of Isabel Walters whenever I can,
without appearing intrusive, until she thinks me worthy her notice,
or drops me altogether. My talent lies in thinking, but she has all
the life and energy I lack, and would make an excellent actor to my
thought, and would need no mentor when her attention was once
aroused. My usefulness must lie in an humble sphere, but hers--she
can carry it wherever she will. It will be enough for my single life
to accomplish, if, beyond the careful training of my own family, I
can incite her to a development of her powers of usefulness. People
will listen to her who will pay no attention to me; and, besides,
she has the time and means to spare, which I have not."

"Everywhere, in Europe, they were talking of you, Mrs. Walters,"
said a lady, who had spent many years abroad, "and adopting your
plans for vagrant and industrial schools, and for the management of
hospitals and asylums. I have seen your name in the memorials laid
before government in various foreign countries. You have certainly
achieved a world-wide reputation. Do tell me how your attention came
first to be turned to that sort of thing? I supposed you were one of
our fashionable women, who sought simply to know how much care and
responsibility they could lawfully avoid, and how high a social
station it was possible to attain. I am sure something must have
happened to turn your life into so different a channel."

"Nothing in particular, I assure you," returned Mrs. Walters. "I
came gradually to perceive the necessity there was that some one
should take personal and decisive action in those things that it was
so customary to neglect. Fond as men are of money, it was far easier
to reach their purses than their minds. Our public charities were
quite well endowed, but no one gave them that attention that they
needed, and thus evils had crept in that were of the highest
importance. My attention was attracted to it in my own vicinity at
first; and others saw it as well as I, but it was so much of
everybody's business that everybody let it alone. I followed the
example for awhile, but it seemed as much my duty to act as that of
any other person; and though it is little I have done, I think that,
in that little, I have filled the place designed for me by
Providence."

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