The Book Has Never Been
Written Which Is To Be Accepted Without Any Allowance.
Christ
was a sublime actor on the stage of the world.
He knew what he
was thinking of when he said, "Heaven and earth shall pass away,
but my words shall not pass away." I draw near to him at such a
time. Yet he taught mankind but imperfectly how to live; his
thoughts were all directed toward another world. There is
another kind of success than his. Even here we have a sort of
living to get, and must buffet it somewhat longer. There are
various tough problems yet to solve, and we must make shift to
live, betwixt spirit and matter, such a human life as we can.
A healthy man, with steady employment, as wood-chopping at fifty
cents a cord, and a camp in the woods, will not be a good subject
for Christianity. The New Testament may be a choice book to him
on some, but not on all or most of his days. He will rather go
a-fishing in his leisure hours. The Apostles, though they were
fishers too, were of the solemn race of sea-fishers, and never
trolled for pickerel on inland streams.
Men have a singular desire to be good without being good for
anything, because, perchance, they think vaguely that so it will
be good for them in the end. The sort of morality which the
priests inculcate is a very subtle policy, far finer than the
politicians, and the world is very successfully ruled by them as
the policemen. It is not worth the while to let our imperfections
disturb us always. The conscience really does not, and ought not
to monopolize the whole of our lives, any more than the heart or
the head. It is as liable to disease as any other part. I have
seen some whose consciences, owing undoubtedly to former
indulgence, had grown to be as irritable as spoilt children, and
at length gave them no peace. They did not know when to swallow
their cud, and their lives of course yielded no milk.
Conscience is instinct bred in the house,
Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin
By an unnatural breeding in and in.
I say, Turn it out doors,
Into the moors.
I love a life whose plot is simple,
And does not thicken with every pimple,
A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,
That makes the universe no worse than 't finds it.
I love an earnest soul,
Whose mighty joy and sorrow
Are not drowned in a bowl,
And brought to life to-morrow;
That lives one tragedy,
And not seventy;
A conscience worth keeping,
Laughing not weeping;
A conscience wise and steady,
And forever ready;
Not changing with events,
Dealing in compliments;
A conscience exercised about
Large things, where one _may_ doubt.
I love a soul not all of wood,
Predestinated to be good,
But true to the backbone
Unto itself alone,
And false to none;
Born to its own affairs,
Its own joys and own cares;
By whom the work which God begun
Is finished, and not undone;
Taken up where he left off,
Whether to worship or to scoff;
If not good, why then evil,
If not good god, good devil.
Goodness!
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