Part 9

That we make not fatal mistake let us remember that no talent is properly invested unless done so with a reverent purpose. Talents may be invested aimlessly and without results. To bring paying dividends the investment must be backed by a life having a noble purpose. To illustrate, if you were compelled to sum up your entire life in one sentence, what would you be able to say of yourself? What one predominant characteristic do you recognize as being the index of your life? You reply, “I am a student.” Is that all you can say? You have invested brains, are an educated man, but is that all?

Unless you have applied your intellect to successfully solving some problem for those who, denied your blessings, are ignorant and superstitious, your knowledge is valueless and will be buried with you. You may be a toiler, but unless you have tugged away and lifted, with all your might, at the world’s burdens, your strength will go with you to the grave. If your investment of the æsthetic does not make the world more beautiful, it is valueless. Are you successful in business? Is that all that can be said? You may be worth many millions of dollars, but if your gold has never gleamed in true philanthropy it will crumble into dust with your body. You may be good, but unless your goodness expresses itself in sacrificial service, it is worthless.

That which is enduring demands, not the investment of talents alone, but the investment of the whole life. To give your talents indifferently marks you, not as an investor, but as a spender, and anyone can spend money, especially inherited money. To make an investment demands a whole life centered upon one holy and noble purpose, for which one spares neither toil nor sacrifice, energy nor time, until the united efforts become permanent in the world and forever identify your name with that noble purpose. To invest wisely is to endow one’s name until it stands out the rich embodiment of some worthy purpose, as the name “Dante” stands for poetry, the name “Abraham Lincoln” stands for the emancipation of the slaves, the name “Garibaldi” stands for liberty, the names of Peabody and Shaftesbury stand for benevolence, and the names of Wesley and Moody stand for the redemption of a world.

XXIII

THOUGHT PLANTING

There is nothing more common, and seemingly insignificant, than the planting of a garden. There are the simple upturning of the sod, the mellowing of the soil, and the burial of a hard-shelled seed. Let a chemist analyze the soil, and a scientist examine the seed, and they will be unable to find anything signifying relationship between the two. There is nothing, so far as the human eye can see, to suggest that the combination of seed and soil would be other than the combination of stone and stubble. But when once planted all the universe knows about the little brown seed. The earth and the seed were made for each other, and no sooner do they come in proper contact than the whole universe is set in motion about and for the development of that buried germ. There is not a cloud floating afar nor a star gleaming mildly in the distant blue that does not exist for that tiny seed until, through the ministration of sunbeam and moonlight, shower and baptismal dew, the seed arises, clothed in the glory of a resurrection, to lift itself in right royal grandeur above the clod.

No one can explain how the inanimate can thus become living tissue, but the sun keeps warming its leaves with caresses, and the kindly winds bring tribute from distant lands; and the guarding stars keep sending their benign forces, and the cool hand of the darkness offers its chalice of dew, so that the seed becomes a tree, whose nectar attracts the bees and butterflies, and whose wide-extending branches become the home and playground of the birds.

There is nothing seemingly more insignificant than the planting of a garden unless it be the beginning of a good and useful life. It is simply planting a thought in an ordinary human brain. The wise philosopher may examine the thought and pronounce it quite commonplace; the grammarian may test it and say that it could be constructed in a more exact and polished manner; the physiologist may examine the brain and pronounce the texture of its convolutions as being most ordinary. There is nothing anywhere to indicate that the combination of that particular thought and that particular brain could result in anything particularly extraordinary. The possessor of the brain may feel no different after the planting of the thought and have no presentiment of what it shall mean to him in the years that follow. But the whole universe knows about the thought planting. As the stars remember the buried seed, so all the divine forces of earth and heaven are set to work about the planted thought. Days and weeks may pass without the world observing any appreciable results, and it may even forget the planting. But God has not forgotten. He is remembering it, guarding it with divine care, and the results will appear sooner than we think.

That is the reason, I believe, that Christ took the mustard seed for the foundation of a parable. The seed is not only one of the smallest, being so little that it can slip unnoticed from your grasp, and hide within the crevice of a clod, mocking your solicitous search, but it is of most rapid growth. Within a fortnight it will overshadow the garden, and before the season is ended will tower twelve to fifteen feet in height, its sturdy branches affording shelter, and protected nests, for many birds. Divine thoughts within the brain are capable of this marvelous development. The planting may be an unattractive thing to do; the mind itself may be as unresponsive as the soil at the first planting of the seed, but God has not forgotten his truth, and all the universe is working for its fullest development. Soon, very soon, will it manifest its marvelous nature by rapid growth and bloom.

Here is a little lass, living among the forests of Domremy. Day by day she watches the soldiers of hostile powers tramping along the dusty highways to devastate the land she loves so dearly. Her heart aches as she sees her people languishing helplessly under the heavy yoke of oppression. Standing with tear-filled eyes one day she hears an old man say: “God will one day raise a deliverer for the French.” Amid the dust arising from the tramping of an invading army a thought was planted in the mind of a child.

Here is a little girl at Ledbury, near the Malvern Hills, sitting in her father’s dooryard, looking at the mysterious letters of a Greek book, whose secrets refuse to yield themselves to her inquisitive brain. Disappointed, she buries her face in her book and weeps, only to be found by a kind friend who picks her up and whispers in her ear: “There, do not cry. A little girl can learn Greek if she tries.” The world goes along as usual, not knowing that a new thought has been planted, and that girls may learn Greek as readily as do the boys.

Here is a little boy, standing by a harpsichord, watching his father’s fingers find the notes upon the ivory keyboard. His soul is filled with delight as he listens to the melodies that arise. Beholding the nervous twitch of the tiny fingers longing to earnestly and reverently touch the music-making keys, the father bends low, and says: “Be patient, son, and keep loving your music, for some day you will be a great musician.”

Here is a little boy drawing with charcoal upon the white walls of his mother’s kitchen, while a precious old grandmother sits watching the young artist. Taking him in her arms, she said, “Do not paint to rub out, paint for eternity.” Commonplace words uttered in a commonplace home by a very commonplace old lady.

Here is a bright-eyed little boy kneeling at his mother’s side to say his prayers. Having finished his petitions, the Christian mother says, encouragingly, as she strokes his head, “Only be good, my precious boy, and God will use you to help the thousands.”

We have seen these five persons putting ordinary thoughts in what seem to be ordinary brains. These five children felt no enraptured thrill, the ones who sowed the thoughts did not remember the day. But all the universe of spiritual power knew about the planting, and consequently the seeds grew. Watch the little girl among the forests of Domremy, leaning against the trees, buried in thought, and listening to the voices that ever speak of redeeming France. Watch the little girl bending over her Greek book, day after day, finding the key that unlocks the beauty of Homer and Thucydides. Watch the little lad sitting past the midnight hour, his long curls falling in rich folds about his face as he bends over the harpsichord awakening the slumbering strings. Watch the little lad gathering clays of various colors and grinding them into paint, which shall, at the touch of his brush, awaken angels upon the canvas. Watch the little lad who learned to pray at his mother’s knee, gathering the students of Oxford about him to spend the evening hour in prayer. God has not forgotten the good thoughts sown in the days gone by, and all the spiritual forces of the heavens are working for their most complete development. Soon the little lass of Domremy, obedient to the call of the voices, mounts her charger and compels King Charles, the invader, to flee and give back the government of France to her people. Soon the little girl who studied so diligently to learn Greek will become Mrs. Elizabeth Browning, to make the centuries happy with the music of her poems. Soon the little lad at the harpsichord will become the mighty Mozart, whose music lingers like the sweet fragrance of dew-wet flowers. Soon will the little boy, drawing with charcoal, begin to paint for eternity, and the “Angelus” and “The Man with a Hoe” begin their deathless career, as a tribute to toil, and an eternal protest against oppression. Soon the boy of Epworth and the youth of Oxford will become John Wesley, the leader of the great revival which swept England at a critical period and directed her on the right track.

No one can understand the mystery of the growing seed, or the greater mystery of the growing thought, but each individual can have such a love for childhood and its future that he will guard with jealous care each word that leaves his lip, determined that in the sowing nothing but good seed shall find lodgment in any heart. An evil thought planted in a child’s mind grows into a ruined life and blasted character. Let not even the idle word be an evil one for fear of the harvest. What an incentive to become good husbandmen planting righteous thoughts in the minds of childhood, looking forward to harvests that shall never end!

XXIV

THE ROSARY OF TEARS

God meant man to be happy. The sweetest music of this world is clear, ringing laughter. Beside its resonance the majestic voice of the cataract, the rolling melody of dashing billows, the gurgling ripple of the sun-kissed streams, the thrilling throb of the wild bird’s song, the merry chirp of the cheerful cricket, the lyric of the wind-tossed leaves are as nothing. Better one sudden, spontaneous outburst of childish laughter than all the symphonies and oratorios of the long centuries. Nothing can equal it. It comes with the spontaneity of a geyser, rolls out upon the atmosphere like a volley of salutes, thrills like martial music, its quick vibrations making the sunbeams tinkle like silver bells. It is contagious, causing the facial muscles of our friends to relax and begin to run and leap into the radiant smiles, their vocal cords to burst into song, and the whole world becomes a better and happier place for all mankind.

As the sunshine makes battle with shadows, so men and women should wage warfare with everything that depresses. Children have a right to laugh, and youth has a right to rejoice in the morning light of life that floods the pathway with the bright and brilliant colorings of hope. We must not be too exacting with others, neither must we endeavor to abnormally repress our own feelings. There is a restraint that is not culture and a self-control that is not temperance. Some people would be far more honest in their dealings, and have better rating in their own community, if they did not exercise such an exacting self-control over their deep feelings of honesty, justice, and brotherly love. There is a boundless strength in emotion, therefore laughter and happiness are absolutely essential. Let happy hours be golden beads, which, strung upon the silken cord of memory, will become a rosary with which to count our prayers.

Laughter is essential, because of its relationship to tears. In the truest sense pure tears and pure laughter are one. It requires a raindrop to reveal the hidden beauties of the sunbeam. Beholding the rainbow spreading its many-colored folds over the dark shoulders of the storm cloud, we utter exclamations of gladsome surprise. How marvelously beautiful it is! But every sunbeam would be a rainbow if only it had its raindrop through which to pass. It requires vapor to reveal the hidden depths and treasures of the sunbeam. Tears are to laughter what raindrops are to sunshine. They reveal the deeper meaning of our joys. Without them we should never appreciate or understand the brighter moments. When we count each hour of happiness as a golden bead, we must consider each teardrop as a crystal or polished diamond, to gleam upon the rosary of the heart.

Sincerely pity the man who has lost the art of shedding tears, for he has, through self-control, restricted his emotions, so as to exclude life’s best experiences. Without a tear-moistened eye one cannot clearly comprehend the brightness of the sky, the majesty of the sea, the commanding splendor of the mountains, or the wealth of gold that lies buried in every human heart. Without tears one can never experience the rapturous joy of truest love or holiest patriotism. The greatness of the soul is measured by the depth of its emotions, and the extent of influence is determined by the readiness with which one permits the deep emotions to shed their glory.

Herein is hidden a secret of triumphant power. The greatest victories are won, not by gun and cannon, but by deep emotions expressed in tear-dimmed eyes. Great achievements are wrought by men who can feel keenly and deeply. Behold Garibaldi conquering a great Italian city. A thousand soldiers, armed with rifles, and supported with heavy artillery, stood ready to oppose him. Commanding generals, with drawn swords, stood ready to give command to fire the moment he made his appearance. This was the day that he had announced that he would take the city. Hours passed and neither he nor his army came in sight. Finally, in the afternoon, amid a cloud of dust, a carriage is seen rapidly nearing the city. Every eye is strained to see its passenger, when lo, above the dust, rises the stalwart form of the great Italian. Without gun, sword, or protecting soldier, the great general who has come to take the city, is standing erect in an open carriage, his arms folded in peace. Each defending soldier is ready to obey command, but no command is given. In the presence of such remarkable courage each officer is motionless and speechless. No moment of Italian history was more tense. Suddenly some sympathizer shouted, “Viva la Garibaldi!” and in an instant every weapon is dropped and Garibaldi takes the city and holds it as his own. The power to advance in the face of great odds, with no weapon save a burning heart and tear-filled eyes, has wrought more victories than we know.

To cry is not weakness, for tears are evidences of strong character. We have always loved Mark Twain, enjoying his travels as much as he, and laughing away dreary hours with his bubbling humor. But humor never revealed the true man he really was. It was not until his daughter died, and he sat all alone at home on Christmas day, amid the unopened gifts, and broken hopes of life, and wrote the matchless story of her death, that the world caught glimpse of the real Mark Twain. Beholding her lying there so quietly, he said: “Would I call her back to life if I could do it? I would not. If a word would do, I would beg for strength to withhold the word. And I would have the strength; I am sure of it. In her loss I am almost bankrupt, and my life is a bitterness, but I am content; for she has been enriched with the most precious of all gifts--that gift which makes all other gifts mean and poor--death.” It required the teardrop to reveal the real character of Mark Twain.

While for our friends we would have nothing but golden hours, for ourselves the rosary of tears is the most precious treasure we possess. None other creates such a spirit of devotion, none other so thoroughly prepares us for conquest; none other opens the heart to those diviner emotions which should thrill the inner life of all. The golden beads will become tiresome, but the crystal rosary of tears will always be attractive. Count over its beads. There are the large, fast-falling tears of childhood. Tell them one by one, and behold how they bring back the holy memories and yearnings for childhood purity and childhood faith. Hold fast those blessed beads that were once kissed away by a mother’s lips, but still sparkle in the light of her precious love. There too are the glittering tears of youthful ambitions, when the heart burned with passion, the brain whirled with plans for conquest, and the eyes were moist with tears of hope. How precious those tears that have long since ceased to flow! But they are not lost. We still have them on our rosary when we offer prayer, and the touching of them revives our old-time hopes. There also are the tears of love. The busy, all-consuming fires of worldly ambition cannot dry them away. They gleam in the eye every time memory presents the portrait of that precious face. How wonderful to love until the eyes blind with tears of ecstasy!

There too are the priceless tears of sympathy. The sight of another’s wrong or sorrow unloosed the fountains of the deep, and your heart responded. In order to right the wrong you gave yourself to work of reform, and made your influence a powerful factor in the remaking of the world. There, gleaming more beautiful than all, are the tears of sorrow. They were shed at the side of the grave; they came into the eye at the sight of an empty chair. How unbearable the world until relief came in a flood of tears! Only through tears do we find the sweetest comfort.

Thus, our devotions become more helpful when we hold this rosary of priceless treasure. These beads can be purchased of no merchant; they cannot be blessed by any priest. They were wrought in the fires of our suffering, and, because we trusted him, they were blessed of God. They cannot heal the soul--only God can do that; but they help heal the soul by quickening our memories and reviving our past experiences. Let no one rob you of the beneficent influences of deep feelings, whether of joy or sorrow, for we are never so much in the spirit of prayer as when we hold in our hands the rosary of tears.

XXV

THE HEARTHSTONE OF THE HEART

Speaking to a young man who was about to assume the more weighty responsibilities of religious work and living, Paul bade him stir up the coals of genius, and build a fire of enthusiasm that would warm and set aglow with holy zeal his every endeavor. “I put thee in remembrance that thou stir up the gift of God, which is in thee.” As the housewife stirs the living coals out of the dead ashes of the old fireplace, and fans them until they glow with sparkling fervor, setting aflame the newly placed faggots, making the room radiant with good cheer as shadows dance along the walls and ice melts from the frost-screened windowpanes, so out of the dead ashes of past enthusiasm he was to stir up the living coals of his best gifts until they snapped, and sparkled, and burst aflame, filling the heart with brightness, and creating an atmosphere that would melt the ices of indifference from the windows of his soul, and give him a clear vision of a great wide world. Yea, as in the days of Paul, one would take a dying torch, and placing it to his lips, pour out his breath upon it until it burst in flame, that he might have a torch of burning fire to guide his footsteps through the darkness of the starless midnight or to flash a message to the people living upon the distant hilltop, or to kindle the fireplace wood until the cold corners of the house breathed a hearty welcome to the tired and frozen travelers, so the young man was to take the divine elements of the soul, breathe upon them the breath of prayer and devotion, until they blazed and burned and cast abroad their helpful influence.

Within each human heart, however covered with the smothering ashes of sin, are God-made sparks of celestial fire that long to rise on wings of flame and make heroic battle with oppressive darkness. There are too many lives which, through carelessness, never burn bright, but, like smoldering flax, slowly eat themselves away, darkening and corrupting the very air they should illumine. When they began the Christian life they were radiant with hope, beaming with enthusiasm, and flashing with chivalric courage; but the spirit of worldliness choked and smothered them, until now, like the dead hearthstone of some shell-torn house upon the battle line, they offer to a worn-out world no hope of hospitality. To guard against this choking of the soul, this smoldering of genius, this reckless burning out of the priceless gifts of God, Paul urges all young men to stir up these coals and fan them into radiant and glowing character.

It is not the will of God that any life be formal and indifferent. How much all forms of life, plant, and animal owe to the hidden fires within the bosom of the planet, no scientist has been bold enough to state; but this we know about mankind, without the inner fires of burning thought and all-consuming zeal there is no productivity. And no life need be cold-hearted. For the hearthstone of every heart there are three divine qualities that should burn with all the intensity and fervor as in the hearts of ancient seer and prophet.