Part 22

It were not possible for one to adopt a more suicidal course as far as his own happiness is concerned. The relish of his life is inverted, and the objects which administer the highest satisfaction to those who are exempt from this passion give the quickest pangs to those subject to it. As when we look through glasses colored all objects partake of the glasses' color, so one moved and influenced by envy sees not the perfection of his fellow-creatures, but that they are to him odious. Youth, beauty, valor, and wisdom are, to their perverted view, but objects calculated to provoke their displeasure. What a wretched and apostate state is this—to be offended with excellence, and to hate a man because we approve him! Were not its effects so disastrous to personal character, the fit weapon wherewith to meet it were the ridicule of all sensible people. But the evil is too deeply seated to be spoken of lightly. As its cause is situated deep in the character of the individual, so its effects are far-reaching in his life.

He that is under the dominion of envy can not see perfections. He is so blinded that he is always degrading or misrepresenting things which are excellent. This brings out strongly the difference between the envious man and him who is moved by the spirit of benevolence. The envious man is tormented, not only by all the ills that befall himself, but by all the good that happens to another; whereas the benevolent man is better prepared to bear his own calamities unruffled, from the complacency and serenity he has secured from contemplating the prosperity of all around him. For the man of true benevolence the sun of happiness must be totally eclipsed before it can be darkness around him. But the envious man is made gloomy, not only by his own cloud of sorrow, but by the sunshine around the heart of another.

Other passions have objects to flatter them, and seem to content and satisfy them for a while. There is power in ambition, pleasure in luxury, and pelf in covetousness; but envy can give nothing but vexation. Envy is so base and detestable, so vile in its origin, and so pernicious in its effects, that the predominance of almost any other quality is to be preferred. It is a passion so full of cowardice and shame that nobody ever had the confidence to own it. He that envieth maketh another man's virtue his vice, and another man's happiness his torment; whereas he that rejoiceth at the prosperity of another is partaker of the same.

Envy is a sentiment that desires to equal, or excel, the efforts of its compeers, not so much by increasing our own toil and ingenuity as by diminishing the merits due to the efforts of others. It seeks to elevate itself by the degradation of others; it detests the sound of another's praise, and deems no renown acceptable that must be shared. Hence, when disappointments occur, they fall with unrelieved violence, and the consciousness of discomfited rivalry gives poignancy to the blow. Whoever feels pain in learning the good character of his neighbors will feel a pleasure in the reverse; and those who despair to rise to distinction by their virtues are happy if others can be depressed to a level with themselves.

Envy is so cruel in its pursuit that, when once hounded on, it rests not till the grave closes over its victim. There is a secure refuge against defamation, and one redeeming trait of human nature is that there every man's well-earned honors defend him against calumny. Honors bestowed upon the illustrious dead have in them no admixture of envy; but these are about the only kind of honors administered free from envy. Though the fact is to be deeply lamented, it is unfortunately true, that such is the perversion of the human heart that ofttimes the only reward of those whose merits have raised them above the common level is to acquire the hatred and aversion of their compeers. He who would acquire lasting fame, and would be remembered as one who did his duty well, must resolve to submit to the shafts of envy for the sake of noble objects.

Envy is a weed that grows in all soils and climates, and is no less luxuriant in the country than in the court. It is not confined to any rank of men or extent of fortune, but rages in the breast of those of every degree. We are as apt to find it in the humble walks of life as in the proud; as much in the sordid, affected dress as in all the silks and embroideries which the excess of age and folly of youth delight to be adorned with. Since, then, it keeps all sorts of company, and infuses itself into the most contrary natures and dispositions, and yet carries so much poison and venom with it that it ruins any life in which it finds lodgment—alienating the affections from heaven, and raising rebellion against God himself—it is worth our utmost care to watch it in all its disguises and approaches, that we may discover it at its first entrance, and dislodge it before it procures a shelter to conceal itself, and work to our confusion and shame.

"Thinkest thou the man whose mansions hold The worldling's pomp and miser's gold Obtains a richer prize Than he who, in his cot at rest, Finds heavenly peace a willing guest, And bears the promise in his breast Of treasures in the skies?"

—MRS. SIGOURNEY.

The lot of the discontented is, indeed, wretched; and truly miserable are those who live but to repine and lament, who have less resolution to resent than to complain, or else, mingling resentment and complaint together, perceive no harmony and happiness around them. They discover in the bounty and beauty of nature nothing to admire, and in the virtues and capabilities of man nothing to love and respect. A contented mind sees something good in every thing, and in every wind sees a sign of fair weather; but a discontented spirit distorts and misconstrues all things, resolutely refusing to see aught but ill in its surroundings.

The spirit of discontent is very unfortunate; it is even worse, for it is wicked as well as weak. The very entertainment of the thought is enervating, paralyzing, destructive of all that is worthy of success, in the present business of the entertainer. To accomplish any thing beyond what the common run of business or professional men perform requires the utmost concentration of the mind on the matter in hand. There is no room in the thoughts for repining over the misfortunes of one's self, or wishes for an exchange of places with another. Indeed, it might be truthfully predicated that the indulgers of such wishes would fail utterly in the new sphere, could they achieve their desires.

Nearly every one we meet wishes to be what he is not, and every man thinks his neighbor's lot happier than his own. Through all the ramifications of society all are complaining of their condition, finding fault with their particular calling. "If I were only this, or that, or the other, I should be content," is the universal cry. Open the door to one discontented wish and you know not how many will follow. The boy apes the man; the man affects the ways of boyhood. The sailor envies the landsman; the landsman goes to sea for pleasure. The business man who has to travel about wishes for the day to come when he can "settle down," whilst the sedentary man is always wanting a chance to flit about and travel, which he thinks would be his greatest pleasure. Town people think the country glorious; country people are always wishing that they might live in town.

We are told that it is one property required of those who seek the philosopher's stone that they must not do it with any covetous desire to be rich, for otherwise they shall never find it. But most true it is, that whosoever would have this jewel of contentment (which turns all into gold; yea, want into wealth), must come with minds divested of all ambitious and covetous thoughts, else they are never likely to obtain it. The foundation of content must spring up in a man's own mind, and he who has so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by changing aught but his own disposition will waste his life in fruitless efforts, and multiply the griefs which he proposes to remove.

Contentment is felicity. Few are the real wants of man. Like a majority of his troubles they are more imaginary than real. If the world knew how much felicity dwells in the cottage of the poor, but contented, man—how sound he sleeps, how quiet his rest, how composed his mind, how free from care, and how joyful his heart—they would never more admire the noises and diseases, the throngs of passions, and the violence of unnatural appetites that fill the houses of the luxurious, and the hearts of the ambitious.

Enjoy the blessings if God sends them, and the evils of it bear patiently and sweetly, for this day is ours. Always something of good can yet be found, however apparently hopeless the situation. There is scarcely any lot so low but there is something in it to satisfy the man whom it has befallen, Providence having so ordered things that in every man's cup, how bitter soever, there are some cordial drops—some good circumstances—which, if wisely extracted, are sufficient for the purpose he wants them—that is, to make him contented and, if not happy, resigned.

Contentment often abides with little, and rarely dwells with abundance. "Peace and few things are preferable to great professions and great cares." Such was the maxim of the Stoics. Nature teaches us to live, but wisdom teaches us to live contented. Contentment is the wealth of nature, for it gives every thing we either want or need. A quiet and contented mind is the supreme good; it is the utmost felicity a man is capable of in this world; and the maintaining of such an uninterrupted tranquillity of spirit is the very crown and glory of wisdom. The point of aim for our vigilance to hold in view is to dwell upon the brightest parts in every prospect, to call off the thoughts when running upon disagreeable objects, and strive to be pleased with the present circumstances surrounding us.

Half the discontent in the world arises from men regarding themselves as centers instead of the infinitesimal elements of circles. When you feel dissatisfied with your circumstances contemplate the condition of those beneath you. One who wielded as much influence as was possible in this republic of ours says: "There are minds which can be pleased by honors and preferments, but I can see nothing in them save envy and enmity. It is only necessary to possess them to know how little they contribute to happiness. I had rather be in a cottage with my books, my family, and a few old friends, dining upon simple bacon and hominy, and letting the world roll on as it likes, than to occupy the highest place which human power can give."

Some make the sorry mistake of confounding under the term contentment that fatal lack of energy which repels all efforts for the improvement of one's condition. Improvement can only be won by continuous efforts for advancement, and a true contentment is not to rest satisfied, to hope for nothing, to strive for nothing, or to rest in inglorious ease, doing nothing for your own or other's intellectual or moral good. Such a state of feeling is only allowable where nature has fixed an impassable and well-ascertained barrier to all further progress, or where we are troubled by ills past remedying. In such cases it is the highest philosophy not to fret or grumble when, by all our worrying, we can not help ourselves a jot or tittle, but only aggravate an affliction that is incurable. To soothe the mind to patience is, then, the only resource left us, and thrice happy is he who has thus schooled himself to meet all reverses and disappointments.

When ills admit of a remedy it is the veriest sarcasm upon contentment to bid you suffer them. It is a mockery of content not to strive to improve your condition as much as possible. True contentment bids you be content with what you have, not with what you are; not to be sighing and wishing for things unattainable, but to cheerfully and contentedly accept the facts of your position, and then, if the way opens for improvement, to accept it at once; not to sit moping over your ill luck and many misfortunes, but, having done the best you can, rest content with the result; not to be murmuring because your lines are not cast in as pleasant places as your neighbor's, but strive to discover the pleasures and happiness to be found in your present condition, and with a manly and contented spirit dwell therein until providence opens a more excellent way, when it is your duty to embrace it. But do not make the fatal mistake of hiding behind the word contentment your lack of energy and pluck.

Contentment is the true gold which passes current among the wise the world over, while supine satisfaction is but the base counterfeit of the nobler metal, and brings its possessor into scorn and contempt.

Deceit and falsehood, whatever conveniences they may for a time promise or produce, are in the sum of life obstacles to happiness. Those who profit by the cheat distrust the deceiver, and the act by which kindness was sought puts an end to confidence. Nothing can compete with human deceitfulness. Its origin is always to be found in the motives of those who are actuated only by a spirit of thorough selfishness. When men have some personal end to accomplish, then is seen the full flower of deceit. When they have some enemy, opponent, or rival to punish, then deceit puts on its most sturdy appearance.

That form of deceit which is cunningly laid and unworthily carried on under the disguise of friendship is, of all others, the most detestable. There can be no greater treachery than first to raise a confidence, and then deceive it. A man can not be justified in deceiving, misleading, or overreaching his neighbors. Still less, then, is he justified in inspiring confidence by smooth words and a gracious manner, only that he may further his own selfish end by breaking the trust placed in him. Nothing can be more unjust than to play upon the belief of a confiding person, to make him suffer for his good opinion, and fare the worse for thinking you an honest man.

A course of deception always defeats the true end of society. Society is a great compact designed to promote the good of man, and to elevate him in dignity, refinement, and intelligence. But too often it is understood solely as a cunning contrivance to palm off unreal virtues and to conceal real defects. Dignity is too often only pretension, refinement an artificial gloss, and intelligence only verbal display, based upon knowledge barely sufficient to make a show. All is vanity and disguises, empty mockeries and hollow-hearted nullities. But the heart of man is such a sorry mixture of good and bad that we are only too willing to urge on the race, striving to see who can be the most deceitful of all. Those whom we live with are like actors on a stage; they assume whatever dress and appearance may suit their present purpose, and they speak and act in keeping with this character.

Man is as naturally set on ambition as the bee is to gather honey. In the mad haste to stand well in the eyes of the public and third parties, they are prone to assume any disguise or counterfeit any virtue by which they may accomplish their selfish ends. They are afraid of slight outward acts which will injure them in the eyes of others, but are utterly heedless of the tide of evil, of hatred, jealousy, and revenge, which throb in their souls to their own condemnation and shame. They are more troubled by the outward and external effects of an evil course of life than by the evil itself. It is the love of approbation and not the conscience that enacts the part of a moral sense in this case.

Though a man may never give them outward expression, still, if he harbors in his breast all manner of evil thoughts, they will be potent in shaping his character. Though he may disguise them by artful words and a gracious bearing, still they are there, and their effect is as direful as though their expression was open and plain to all. Society at large may be less injured by the latent existence of evil than by its public expression; but the man himself is as much injured by the cherished thoughts of evil as by the open commission of it, and sometimes even more. For evil brought out ceases to disguise itself, and appears as hideous as it is in reality; but the evil that lurks and glances through the soul avoids analysis and evades detection.

Hypocrisy and deception are so near akin to each other that you can not wound the one without touching the sensibilities of the other. A hypocrite lives in society in the same apprehension as the thief who lies concealed in the midst of the family he is to rob, for he fancies himself perceived when he is least so; every motion alarms him; he is suspicious that every one who enters the room knows where he is hid and is coming to seize him. Thus, as nothing hates so valiantly as fear, many an innocent person who suspects no evil intended him is detested by him who intends it.

This multitudinous vice of deception takes on many forms. Hypocrisy is but one, though it is perhaps as much detested as any. But it is a lamentable fact that scarcely any thing is really what it is represented to be. As there are so many strange anomalies in human nature, we are not surprised when we discover the shallowness of so many apparently sincere pretensions, the worthlessness of what appears so fair. When it is all carefully summed up, it is found always easier to be than merely appear to be. He who pretends to great acquirements is worse put to it to conceal his ignorance than would have sufficed to have made him master of many sciences.

Those who strive by outward appearances to carry an impression of wealth and station beyond their real income are compelled, by their lavish expenditures in aid of the deception, to a strict economy in seclusion, whereas, were they content to exercise a judicious economy at all times, they would soon be placed in that position they so much long for. As for the hypocrite, surely this is the most foolish deception of all, since the hypocrite is at pains to put on the appearance of virtue, he pretends to morality, to pure friendship and esteem, and is more anxious that his outward walk and conversation shall savor of these virtues than if he were at heart possessed of them.

Since, then, a course of deception puts us to more straits than ever the open course, is it not true, then, in every-day life as well as individual acts, "honesty is the best policy?" Why purchase the base imitation of noble virtues, and derive from them naught but ridicule and dislike, when no greater outlay would procure for us the true metals, which bring peace of mind and the honor and esteem of all.

We all of us scorn a busybody, and scarcely have words of contempt strong enough to express our feelings towards one who is constantly meddling in what in no way concerns him. There are some persons so unfortunately disposed that they can not rest easy until they have investigated their neighbors' business in all of its bearings, and even neglect their own to attend to his.

This trait of character is directly allied to envy on the one hand and to slander on the other. Envy incites in us a desire to possess the good fortune that we discover falling to others. Meddling is satisfied when it discovers all the minutiæ of others' affairs, and may be so utterly devoid of energy as to care but little whether it can acquire the good or not. Meddling is directly incited by egotism; for that unfortunately leads not only to undue confidence in one's own abilities, but, what is worse, to a feeling that you are a little better able to attend to the affairs of others than they themselves.

Slander, too, oft takes its rise in the curious busyings of those who are interfering where there is no call for their services. There is such a tendency in human nature to flaunt abroad the faults of others, that no sooner does one who systematically intermeddles, discover some failing—and he or she is sure to do this, since it is human to err—than they straightway hasten to lay before others the fruits of their investigations. And thus is given to the public the petty defects of some home life, which, by constant repetition, soon assumes gigantic size, as snow-balls rolled over and over by boys; and so, at length, the happiness of some home circle is destroyed by the malicious and poison-giving officiousness of busybodies.

Neglecting our own affairs and meddling with those of others is the source of many troubles. Those who blow the coals of others' strife may chance to have the sparks fly in their own face. We think more of ourselves than of others, but sometimes more for others than ourselves. People are often incited to meddling by the desire of having "something to tell;" but, if you notice, they are but narrow-minded and ignorant people, who talk about persons and not things. Mere gossip is always a personal confession either of malice or imbecility, and the refined should not only shun it, but by the most thorough culture relieve themselves of all temptation to indulge in it. It is a low, frivolous, and too often a dirty business. There are neighborhoods in which it rages like a pest. Churches are split in pieces by it; neighbors are made enemies by it for life. In many persons it degenerates into a chronic disease, which is practically incurable. Be on your guard against contracting so pernicious a habit.

A person who constantly meddles means to do harm, and is not sorry to find he has succeeded. He is a treacherous supplanter and underminer of the peace of all families and societies. This being a maxim of unfailing truth, that nobody ever pries into another man's concerns but with a design to do, or to be able to do, him a mischief. His tongue, like the tails of Samson's foxes, carries firebrands, and is enough to set the whole field of the world in a flame. To meddle with another's privileges and prerogatives is vexatious; to meddle with his interests is injurious; to meddle with his good name unites and aggravates both evils.

There is, perhaps, not a more odious character in the world than a go-between, by which we mean the creature who carries to the ear of one neighbor every injurious observation that happens to drop from the mouth of another. Such a person is the slanderer's herald, and is altogether more odious than the slanderer himself. By this vile officiousness he makes that poison effective which else would be inert; for three-fourths of the slanderers in the world would never injure their object except by the malice of go-betweens, who, under the mask of a double friendship, act the part of a double traitor. The less business a man has of his own, the more he attends to the business of his neighbors.