Part 19

True kindness cherishes and actively promotes all reasonable instrumentalities for doing practical good in its own time, and, looking into futurity, sees the same spirit working on for the eventual elevation and happiness of the race. It is the kindly disposed men who are the active men of the world, while the selfish and the skeptical, who have no love but for themselves, are its idlers. How easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him, and how truly is one fond heart a fountain of gladness, making every thing in its vicinity to freshen into smiles. Its effect on stern natures is like the Spring rain, which melts the icy covering of the earth, and causes it to open to the beams of heaven.

In the intercourse of social life it is by little acts of watchful kindness recurring daily and hourly—and opportunities of doing kindness if sought for are constantly starting up—it is by words, by tones, by gestures, by looks that affection is won and preserved. He who neglects these trifles, yet boasts that, whenever a great sacrifice is called for, he shall be ready to make it, will rarely be loved. The likelihood is he will not make it, and if he does, it will be much rather for his own sake than for his neighbor's. Life is made up, not of great sacrifices or duties, but of little things, in which smiles and kindness and small obligations, given habitually, are what win and preserve the heart and secure comfort. The little unremembered acts of kindness and of love are the best portion of a good man's life. Those little nameless acts which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks and little kind acts of attention do much to increase the happiness of life.

Little kindnesses are great ones. They drive away sadness, and cheer up the soul beyond all common appreciation. They are centers of influence over others, which may accomplish much good. When such kindnesses are administered in times of need, they are like "apples of gold in pictures of silver," and will be long remembered. A word of kindness in a desperate strait is as welcome as the smile of an angel, and a helpful hand-grasp is worth a hundred-fold its cost, for it may have rescued for all future the most kingly thing on earth—_the manhood of a man_.

It should not discourage us if our kindness is unacknowledged; it has its influence still. Good and worthy conduct may meet with an unworthy or ungrateful return; but the absence of gratitude on the part of the receiver can not destroy the self-approbation which recompenses the giver. The seeds of courtesy and kindness may be scattered around with so little trouble and expense that it seems strange that more do not endeavor to spread them abroad. Could they but know the inward peace which requites the giver for a kindly act, even though coldly received by the one to be benefited, they would not hesitate to let the kindly feelings, latent in us all, have free expression. Kindly efforts are not lost. Some of them will inevitably fall on good ground, and grow up into benevolence in the minds of others, and all of them will bear fruit of happiness in the bosom whence they spring. It is better never to receive a kindness than not to bestow one. Not to return a benefit is the greater sin, but not to confer it is the earlier.

The noblest revenge we can take upon our enemies is to do them a kindness. To return malice for malice and injury for injury will afford but a temporary gratification to our evil passions, and our enemies will only be rendered more and more bitter against us. But to take the first opportunity of showing how superior we are to them by doing them a kindness, or by rendering them a service, is not only the nobler way, but the sting of reproach will enter deeply into their souls, and while unto us it will be a noble retaliation, our triumph will not unfrequently be rendered complete, not only by beating out the malice that had otherwise stood against us, but by bringing repentant hearts to offer themselves at the shrine of friendship. A more glorious victory can not be gained over another man than this, that when the injury began on his part the kindness should begin on ours.

The tongue of kindness is full of pity, love, and comfort. It speaks a word of comfort to the desponding, a word of encouragement to the faint-hearted, of sympathy to the bereaved, of consolation to the dying. Urged on by a benevolent heart, it loves to cheer, console, and invigorate the sons and daughters of sorrow. Kind words do not cost much. They never blister the tongue or lips, and no mental trouble ever arises therefrom. Be not saving of kind words and pleasing acts; for such are fragrant gifts, whose perfume will gladden the heart and sweeten the life of all who hear or receive them. Words of kindness fitly spoken are indeed both precious and beautiful; they are worth much and cost little.

Kind words are like the breath of the dew upon the tender plants, falling gently upon the drooping heart, refreshing its withered tendrils, and soothing its woes. Bright oases are they in life's great desert. Who can estimate the pangs they have alleviated, or the good works they have accomplished? Long after they are uttered do they reverberate in the soul's inner chamber, and, like low, sweet strains of music, they serve to quell the memory of bitterness or of personal wrong, to lead the heart to the sunnier paths of life. And when the heart is sad, and, like a broken harp, the chords of pleasure cease to vibrate, how peculiarly acceptable then are kind words from others!

Who can rightly estimate the ultimate effect of one kind word fitly spoken? One little word of tenderness gushing in upon the soul will sweep long-neglected chords and awaken the most pleasant strains. Kind words are like jewels in the heart, never to be forgotten, but perhaps to cheer by their memory a long, sad life, while words of cruelty are like darts in the bosom, wounding and leaving scars that will be borne to the grave by their victim. Speak kindly in the morning; it lightens all the cares of the day, and makes the household and other affairs move along more smoothly. Speak kindly at night; for it may be that before dawn some loved one may finish his or her space of life, and it will be too late to ask forgiveness. Speak kindly at all times; it encourages the downcast, cheers the sorrowing, and very likely awakens the erring to earnest resolves to do better, with strength to keep them. Always leave home with kind words; for they may be the last. Kind words are the bright flowers of earthly existence; use them, and especially around the fireside circle. They are jewels beyond price, and powerful to heal the wounded heart, and make the weighed-down spirit glad.

Doing good is the only certain happy action of a man's life. The very consciousness of well-doing is in itself ample reward for the trouble we have been put to. The enjoyment of benevolent acts grows upon reflection. Experience teaches this so truly, that never did any soul do good but he came readier to do the same again with more enjoyment. Never was love or gratitude or bounty practiced but with increasing joy, which made the practicer more in love with the fair act.

If there be a pleasure on earth which angels can not enjoy, and which they might almost envy man the possession of, it is the power of relieving distress. If there be a pain which devils might almost pity man for enduring, it is the death-bed reflection that we have possessed the power of doing good, but that we have abused and perverted it to purposed ill. He who has never denied himself for the sake of giving has but glanced at the joys of benevolence. We owe our superfluity, and to be happy in the performance of our duty we must exceed it. The joy resulting from the diffusion of blessings to all around us is the purest and sublimest that can ever enter the human mind, and can be understood only by those who have experienced it. Next to the consolation of divine grace it is the most sovereign balm to the miseries of life, both in him who is the object of it, and in him who exercises it.

In all other human gifts and possessions, though they advance nature, yet they are subject to excess. For so we see, that by aspiring to be like God in power, the angels transgressed and fell; by aspiring to be like God in knowledge man transgressed and fell; but by aspiring to be like God in goodness or love neither man nor angels ever did or shall transgress, for unto that imitation we are called. A life of passionate gratification is not to be compared with a life of active benevolence. God has so constituted our natures that a man can not be happy unless he is or thinks he is a means of doing good. We can not conceive of a picture of more unutterable wretchedness than is furnished by one who knows that he is wholly useless in the world.

A man or woman without benevolence is not a perfect being; they are only a deformed personality of true manhood or womanhood. In every heart there are many tendencies to selfishness; but the spirit of benevolence counteracts them all. In a world like this, where we are all so needy and dependent, where our interests are so interlocked, where our lives and hearts overlap each other and often grow together, we can not live without a good degree of benevolence. We do most for ourselves when we do most for others; hence our highest interests, even from a purely selfish point of view, are in the paths of benevolence. And in a moral sense we know "that it is more blessed to give than to receive." Good deeds double in the doing, and the larger half comes back to the donor. A large heart of charity is a noble thing, and the most benevolent soul lives nearest to God. Selfishness is the root of evil; benevolence is its cure. In no heart is benevolence more beautiful than in youth; in no heart is selfishness more ugly. To do good is noble; to be good is more noble. This should be the aim Of all the young. The poor and the needy should occupy a large place in their hearts. The sick and suffering should claim their attention. The sinful and criminal should awaken their deepest pity. The oppressed and downtrodden should find a large place in their compassion.

Woman appears in her best estate in the exercise of benevolent deeds. How sweet are her soothing words to the disconsolate! How consoling her tears of sympathy to the mourning! How fresh her spirit of hope to the discouraged! How balmy the breath of her love to the oppressed! Man, too, appears in his best light and grandest aspect when he appears as the practical follower of Him who went about doing good. He who does these works of practical benevolence is educating his moral powers in the school of earnest and glorious life. He is laying the foundation for a noble and useful career. He is planting the seeds of a charity that will grow to bless and save the sufferings of our fellow-men.

Liberality consists less in giving profusely than in giving judiciously, for there is nothing that requires so strict an economy as our benevolence. Liberality, if spread over too large a surface, produces no crop. If over one too small it exuberates in rankness and in weeds. And yet it requires care to avoid the other extreme. It is better to be sometimes mistaken than not to exercise charity at all. Though we may chance sometimes to bestow our beneficence on the unworthy it does not take from the merit of the act. It is not the true spirit of charity which is ever rigid and circumspect, and which always mistrusts the truth of the necessities laid open to it. Be not frightened at the hard word, "impostor." "Cast thy bread upon the waters." Some have unawares entertained angels.

A man should fear when he enjoys only what good he does publicly, lest it should prove to be the publicity rather than the charity that he loves. We have more confidence in that benevolence which begins in the home and diverges into a large humanity than in the world-wide philanthropy which begins at the outside and converges into egotism. A man should, indeed, have a generous feeling for the welfare of the whole world, and should live in the world as a citizen of the world. But he may have a preference for that particular part in which he lives. Charity begins at home, but it may and _ought_ to go abroad; still we have no respect for self-boasting charity which neglects all objects of commiseration near and around it, but goes to the end of the world in search of misery for the sake of talking about it.

Generosity during life is a very different thing from generosity in the hour of death. One proceeds from genuine liberality and benevolence; the other from pride or fear. He that will not permit his wealth to do any good to others while he is living prevents it from doing any good to himself when he is gone. By an egotism that is suicidal and has a double edge he cuts himself off from the truest pleasures here, and the highest pleasures hereafter. To pass a whole life-time without performing a single generous action till the dying hour, when death unlocks the grasp upon earthly possessions, is to live like the Talipat palm-tree of the East, which blossoms not till the last year of its life. It then suddenly bursts into a mass of flowers, but emits such an odor that the tree is frequently cut down to be rid of it. Even such is the life of those who postpone their munificence until the close of their days, when they exhibit a late efflorescence of generosity, which lacks the sweet-smelling perfume which good deeds should possess. And when it appears, like the Talipat flower, it is a sure sign that death is at hand. They surrender every thing when they see they can not continue to keep possession, and are at last liberal when they can no longer be parsimonious. The truly generous man does not wish to leave enough to build an imposing monument, since there is so much sorrow and suffering to be alleviated. They enjoy the pleasure of what they give by giving it when alive and seeing others benefited thereby.

A conqueror is regarded with awe, the wise man commands our esteem, but it is the benevolent man who wins our affection. A beneficent person is like a fountain watering the earth and spreading fertility; it is, therefore, more delightful and more honorable to give than to receive. The last, best fruit which comes to late perfection, even in the kindliest soul, is tenderness towards the hard, forbearance towards the unforbearant, warmth of heart towards the cold, philanthropy towards the misanthropic.

Veracity, or the habitual observance of truth, is a bright and shining quality on the part of any one who strives to make the most of life's possibilities. It irradiates all of his surroundings, making plain the path of duty, and hence the path which leads to the most enduring success. It is the bond of union and the basis of human happiness. Without this virtue, there is no reliance upon language, no confidence in friendship, no security in promises and oaths.

Truth is always consistent with itself, and needs nothing to help it out. It is always near at hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop out before we are aware; whereas a lie is troublesome, and sets a man's invention upon the rack; and one trick needs many more to make it good. It is dangerous to deviate far from the strict rule of veracity, even on the most trifling occasions. However guileless may be our intentions, the habit, if indulged, may take root, and gain on us under the cover of various pretenses, till it usurps a leading influence. Nothing appears so low and mean as lying and dissimulation; and it is observable that only weak animals endeavor to supply by craft the defects of strength which nature has given them. Dissimulation in youth is the forerunner of perfidy in old age. Its first appearance is the fatal omen of growing depravity and future shame. It degrades parts and learning, obscures the luster of every accomplishment, and sinks us into contempt.

The path of falsehood is a perplexing maze. After the first departure from sincerity, it is not in our power to stop. One artifice unavoidably leads on to another, till, as the intricacies of the labyrinth increase, we are left entangled in our snare. Falsehood is difficult to be maintained. When the materials of a building are solid stone, very rude architecture will suffice; but a structure of rotten materials needs the most careful adjustment to make it stand at all. The love of truth and right is the grand spring source of integrity. The study of truth is perpetually joined with the love of virtue. For there is no virtue which derives not its original from truth; as, on the contrary, there is no vice which has not its beginning in a lie. Truth is the foundation of all knowledge and the cement of all society.

Strict veracity requires something more than merely the speaking of truth. There are lying looks as well as lying words; dissembling smiles, deceiving signs, and even a lying silence. Not to intend what you speak is to give your heart the lie with your tongue; and not to perform what you promise is to give your tongue the lie with your actions. Deception exhibits itself in many forms—in reticency on the one hand or exaggeration on the other; in disguise or concealment; in pretended concurrence in others' opinions; in assuming an attitude of conformity which is deceptive; in making promises, or in allowing them to be implied, which are never intended to be performed; or even in refraining from speaking the truth when to do so is a duty. There are also those who are all things to all men, who say one thing and do another. But those who are essentially insincere fail to evoke confidence, and, in the end discover that they have only deceived themselves while thinking they were deceiving others.

Lying is in some cases the offspring of perversity and vice, and in many others of sheer moral cowardice. Plutarch calls lying the vice of a slave. There is no vice, says Lord Bacon, that so covers a man with shame as to be found false and perfidious. Every lie, great or small, is the brink of a precipice, the depth of which nothing but Omniscience can fathom. Denying a fault always doubles it. All that a man can get by lying and dissembling is that he will not be believed when he speaks the truth. A liar is subject to two misfortunes, neither to believe nor to be believed. If falsehood, says Montaigne, like truth, had but one face, we should be upon better terms; for we should then take the contrary of what the liar says for certain truth.

We are not called upon to speak all that we know; that would be folly. But what a man says should be what he thinks; otherwise it is knavery. No wrong is ever made better, but always worse, by a falsehood. Even when detection does not follow, suspicion is always created. Wrong is but falsehood put in practice. The Chinese have a proverb which says, "A lie has no legs, and can not stand;" but it has wings and can fly far and wide. You never can unite, though you may try ever so hard, the antagonistic elements of truth and falsehood. The man who forgets a great deal that has happened has a better memory than he who remembers a great deal that never happened.

After all, the most natural beauty in the world is honesty and moral truth; for all beauty is truth. True features make the beauty of a face, and true proportions the beauty of architecture, as true measure that of harmony and music. In poetry, truth still is the perfection. Fiction must be governed by truth, and can only please by its resemblance to truth. The appearance of reality is necessary to agreeably represent any passion, and to be able to move others we must be moved ourselves, or at least seem to be so upon some probable ground. Falsehood itself is never so susceptible as when she baits her hook with truth, and no opinions so fatally mislead us as those that are not wholly wrong. No watch so effectually deceives the wearer as those that are sometimes right.

Such are the imperfections of mankind that the duplicities, the temptations, and the infirmities that surround us have rendered the truth, and nothing but the truth, as hazardous and contraband a commodity as a man can possibly deal in. Colton says that "pure truth, like pure gold, has been found unfit for circulation;" and another has said, "It is dangerous to follow truth too near lest she should kick out your teeth." The trouble consists not in obeying the behests of strict veracity, but in lack of prudence and ordinary caution. While all we tell should be the truth, it is not always necessary to tell all the truth, unless the other one have a right to know. Silence is always an alternative with truth. Remember that the silken cords of love must ever be linked with those of truth; otherwise they will but gall and irritate, instead of guiding into paths of rectitude.

A man of honor! What a glorious title is that! Who would not rather have it than any that kings can bestow? It is worth all the gold and silver in the world. He who merits it wears a jewel within his soul and needs none upon his bosom. "His word is as good as his bond," and if there were no law in the land one might deal just as safely with him. To take unfair advantage is not in him. To quibble and guard his speech so that he leads others to suppose that he means something that he does not mean, even while they can never prove that it is so, would be impossible to his frank nature. His speeches are never riddles. He looks you in the eye and says straight out the things he has to say, and he does unto others the things he would that they should do to him.

He is a good son and a good brother. Who ever heard him betray the faults and follies of his near kindred? And with his friends he proves himself true, and will not betray the trust friendship imposes on him. And with strangers you do not find him too curious about the affairs of others, or too eager to impart information accidentally gleaned by him. Real honor and esteem are not difficult to be obtained in the world. They are best won by actual worth and merit rather than by art and intrigue, which runs a long and ruinous race, and seldom seizes upon the prize at last. Clear and round dealing is the honor of man's nature, and mixture of falsehood is like alloy in coin of gold and silver, which may make the metal work the better, but it embaseth it.

Honor, like reputation and character, displays itself in little acts. It is of slow growth. Anciently the Romans worshiped virtue and honor as gods; they built two temples, which were so seated that none could enter the temple of honor without passing through the temple of virtue, thus symbolizing the truth that all honor is founded on virtue. He whose soul is set to do right finds himself more firmly bound by the principle of honor than by legal restraints—much more at ease when bound by the law than when bound by his conscience. He who is actuated by false principles of honor does not feel thus. True honor is internal, false honor external. The one is founded on principles, the other on interests. The one does not ostentatiously proclaim its lofty aims; it prefers that its conduct and actions demonstrate its purposes. He who is moved by false honor is constantly worried lest some one should doubt that he was a man of honor. He is so busily engaged in sustaining his reputation against fancied attacks on his honor that he finds but little time to devote to the exercise of those acts which a fine sense of honor would impel him to do. Such a one may be a libertine, penurious, proud—may insult his inferiors and defraud his creditors—but it is impossible for one possessed of true honor to be any of these.