gospel, keep clean the 'outside of the cup and the platter,'—but alas! how is it within? Not a few of us,—living, as we do, in a land where soap and water are abundant and cheap—would blush, if the whole story were told.
This chapter, if extended so far as to embrace the whole subject of cleanliness of person, dress, and apartments, and cold and warm bathing, would alone fill a volume; a volume too, which, if well prepared, would be of great value, especially to all young men. But my present limits do not permit of any thing farther. In regard to cold bathing, however, allow me to refer you to two articles in the third volume of the Annals of Education, pages 315 and 344, which contain the best directions I can give on this subject.
There are many things which, viewed without any reference to prevailing habits, manners, and customs, appear utterly unworthy of attention; and yet, after all, much of our happiness will be found to depend upon them. We are to remember that we live—not alone, on the earth—but among a multitude, each of whom claims, and is entitled to his own estimate of things. Now it often happens that what we deem a little thing, another, who views the subject differently, will regard as a matter of importance.
Among the items to which I refer, are many of the customary salutations and civilities of life; and the modes of dress. Now it is perfectly obvious that many common phrases which are used at meeting and separating, during the ordinary interviews and concerns of life, as well as in correspondence, are in themselves wholly unmeaning. But viewed as an introduction to things of more importance, these little words and phrases at the opening of a conversation, and as the language of hourly and daily salutation, are certainly useful. They are indications of good and friendly feeling; and without them we should not, and could not, secure the confidence of some of those among whom we are obliged to live. They would regard us as not only unsocial, but selfish; and not only selfish, but proud or misanthropic.
On account of meeting with much that disgusts us, many are tempted to avoid society generally. The frivolous conversation, and still more frivolous conduct, which they meet with, they regard as a waste of time, and perhaps even deem it a duty to resign themselves to solitude. This, however, is a great mistake. Those who have been most useful to mankind acted very differently. They mingled with the world, in hopes to do something towards reforming it. The greatest of philosophers, as well as of Christians;—even the Founder of Christianity himself—sat down, and not only sat down, but ate and drank in the society of those with whose manners, and especially whose vices, he could have had no possible sympathy.
Zimmerman, who has generally been regarded as an apostle of solitude, taught that men ought not to 'reside in deserts, or sleep, like owls, in the hollow trunks of trees.' 'I sincerely exhort my disciples,' says he, 'not to absent themselves morosely from public places, nor to avoid the social throng; which cannot fail to afford to judicious, rational, and feeling minds, many subjects both of amusement and instruction. It is true, that we cannot relish the pleasures and taste the advantages of society, without being able to give a patient hearing to the tongue of folly, to excuse error, and to bear with infirmity.'
In like manner, we are not to disregard wholly, our dress. It is true that the shape of a hat, or the cut of a coat may not add to the strength of the mind, or the soundness of the morals; but it is also true that people form an opinion often from our exterior appearance; and will continue to do so: and first impressions are very difficult to be overcome. If we regard our own usefulness, therefore, we shall not consider the fashion or character of our dress as a little thing in its results. I have said elsewhere that we ought neither to be the first nor the last in a fashion.
We should remember, also, that the world, in its various parts and aspects, is made up of little things. So true is this, that I have sometimes been very fond of the paradoxical remark, that 'little things are great things;' that is, in their results. For who does not know that throughout the physical world, the mightiest results are brought about by the silent working of small causes? It is not the tornado, or the deluge, or even the occasional storm of rain, that renews and animates nature, so much as the gentle breeze, the soft refreshing shower, and the still softer and gentler dews of heaven.
So in human life, generally, they are the little things often, that produce the mightier results. It is he who takes care of pence and farthings, not he who neglects them, that thrives. It is he alone who guards his lips against the first improper word,—trifling as it may seem—that is secure against future profanity. He who indulges one little draught of alcoholic drink, is in danger of ending a tippler; he who gives loose to one impure thought, of ending the victim of lust and sensuality. Nor is it one single gross, or as it were accidental act, viewed as insulated from the rest—however injurious it may be—that injures the body, or debases the mind, so much as the frequent repetition of those smaller errors, whose habitual occurrence goes to establish the predominating choice of the mind, or affection of the soul.
Avoid then, the pernicious, the fatal error, that little things are of no consequence: little sums of money, little fragments of time, little or trifling words, little or apparently unimportant actions. On this subject I cannot help adopting—and feeling its force too,—the language of a friend of temperance in regard to those who think themselves perfectly secure from danger, and are believers in the harmlessness of little things. 'I tremble,' said he, 'for the man that does not tremble for himself.'
There is doubtless much difference of native temperament. One person is easily excited, another, more slowly. But there is a greater difference still, resulting from our habits.
If we find ourselves easily led into anger, we should be extremely careful how we indulge the first steps that lead towards it. Those who naturally possess a mild temper may, with considerable safety, do and say many things which others cannot. Thus we often say of a person who has met with a misfortune, 'It is good enough for him;' or of a criminal who has just been condemned to suffer punishment, 'No matter; he deserves it.' Or perhaps we go farther, and on finding him acquitted, say, 'He ought to have been hanged, and even hanging was too good for him.'
Now all these things, in the mouths of the irritable, lead the way to an indulgence of anger, however unperceived may be the transition. It is on this principle that the saying of St. John is so strikingly true; 'He that hateth his brother is a murderer;' that is, he that indulges hatred has the seeds within him, not only of out-breaking anger, but of murder.
It is on this account that I regret the common course taken with children in relation to certain smaller tribes of the animal creation. They are allowed not only to destroy them,—(which is doubtless often a duty,) but to destroy them in anger; to indulge a permanent hatred towards them; and to think this hatred creditable and scriptural. When such feelings lead us to destroy even the most troublesome or disgusting reptiles or insects in anger, we have so far prepared the way for the indulgence of anger towards our fellow creatures, whenever their conduct shall excite our displeasure.
We can hence see why he who has a violent temper should always speak in a low voice, and study mildness and sweetness in his tones. For loud, impassioned, and boisterous tones certainly excite impassioned feelings. So do all the actions which indicate anger. Thus Dr. Darwin has said that any individual, by using the language and actions of an angry person, towards an imaginary object of displeasure, and accompanying them by threats, and blows, with a doubled or clinched fist, may easily work himself into a rage. Of the justice of this opinion I am fully convinced, from actual and repeated experiments.
If we find ourselves apt to be angry, we should endeavor to avoid the road which leads to it. The first thing to be done, is to govern our voice. On this point, the story of the Quaker and the merchant may not be uninstructive.
A merchant in London had a dispute with a Quaker gentleman about the settlement of an account. The merchant was determined to bring the action into court,—a course of proceeding to which the Quaker was wholly opposed;—he therefore used every argument in his power to convince the merchant of his error; but all to no purpose.
Desirous of making a final effort, however, the Quaker called at the house of the merchant, one morning, and inquired of the servant if his master was at home. The merchant hearing the inquiry from the