Mosses from an old manse
trustingly to whatever right thing is too evident to be mistaken. Then
again, though the heart be large, yet the mind is often of such
moderate dimensions as to be exclusively filled up with one idea. When
a good man has long devoted himself to a particular kind of
beneficence—to one species of reform—he is apt to become narrowed into
the limits of the path wherein he treads, and to fancy that there is no
other good to be done on earth but that self-same good to which he has
put his hand, and in the very mode that best suits his own conceptions.
All else is worthless. His scheme must be wrought out by the united
strength of the whole world’s stock of love, or the world is no longer
worthy of a position in the universe. Moreover, powerful Truth, being
the rich grape juice expressed from the vineyard of the ages, has an
intoxicating quality, when imbibed by any save a powerful intellect,
and often, as it were, impels the quaffer to quarrel in his cups. For
such reasons, strange to say, it is harder to contrive a friendly
arrangement of these brethren of love and righteousness, in the
procession of life, than to unite even the wicked, who, indeed, are
chained together by their crimes. The fact is too preposterous for
tears, too lugubrious for laughter.
But, let good men push and elbow one another as they may during their
earthly march, all will be peace among them when the honorable array of
their procession shall tread on heavenly ground. There they will
doubtless find that they have been working each for the other’s cause,
and that every well-delivered stroke, which, with an honest purpose any
mortal struck, even for a narrow object, was indeed stricken for the
universal cause of good. Their own view may be bounded by country,
creed, profession, the diversities of individual character—but above
them all is the breadth of Providence. How many who have deemed
themselves antagonists will smile hereafter, when they look back upon
the world’s wide harvest field, and perceive that, in unconscious
brotherhood, they were helping to bind the selfsame sheaf!
But, come! The sun is hastening westward, while the march of human
life, that never paused before, is delayed by our attempt to rearrange
its order. It is desirable to find some comprehensive principle, that
shall render our task easier by bringing thousands into the ranks where
hitherto we have brought one. Therefore let the trumpet, if possible,
split its brazen throat with a louder note than ever, and the herald
summon all mortals, who, from whatever cause, have lost, or never
found, their proper places in the wold.
Obedient to this call, a great multitude come together, most of them
with a listless gait, betokening weariness of soul, yet with a gleam of
satisfaction in their faces, at a prospect of at length reaching those
positions which, hitherto, they have vainly sought. But here will be
another disappointment; for we can attempt no more than merely to
associate in one fraternity all who are afflicted with the same vague
trouble. Some great mistake in life is the chief condition of
admittance into this class. Here are members of the learned
professions, whom Providence endowed with special gifts for the plough,
the forge, and the wheelbarrow, or for the routine of unintellectual
business. We will assign to them, as partners in the march, those lowly
laborers and handicraftsmen, who have pined, as with a dying thirst,
after the unattainable fountains of knowledge. The latter have lost
less than their companions; yet more, because they deem it infinite.
Perchance the two species of unfortunates may comfort one another. Here
are Quakers with the instinct of battle in them; and men of war who
should have worn the broad brim. Authors shall be ranked here whom some
freak of Nature, making game of her poor children, had imbued with the
confidence of genius and strong desire of fame, but has favored with no
corresponding power; and others, whose lofty gifts were unaccompanied
with the faculty of expression, or any of that earthly machinery by
which ethereal endowments must be manifested to mankind. All these,
therefore, are melancholy laughing-stocks. Next, here are honest and
well intentioned persons, who by a want of tact—by inaccurate
perceptions—by a distorting imagination—have been kept continually at
cross purposes with the world and bewildered upon the path of life. Let
us see if they can confine themselves within the line of our
procession. In this class, likewise, we must assign places to those who
have encountered that worst of ill success, a higher fortune than their
abilities could vindicate; writers, actors, painters, the pets of a
day, but whose laurels wither unrenewed amid their hoary hair;
politicians, whom some malicious contingency of affairs has thrust into
conspicuous station, where, while the world stands gazing at them, the
dreary consciousness of imbecility makes them curse their birth hour.
To such men, we give for a companion him whose rare talents, which
perhaps require a Revolution for their exercise, are buried in the tomb
of sluggish circumstances.
Not far from these, we must find room for one whose success has been of
the wrong kind; the man who should have lingered in the cloisters of a
university, digging new treasures out of the Herculaneum of antique
lore, diffusing depth and accuracy of literature throughout his
country, and thus making for himself a great and quiet fame. But the
outward tendencies around him have proved too powerful for his inward
nature, and have drawn him into the arena of political tumult, there to
contend at disadvantage, whether front to front, or side by side, with
the brawny giants of actual life. He becomes, it may be, a name for
brawling parties to bandy to and fro, a legislator of the Union; a
governor of his native state; an ambassador to the courts of kings or
queens; and the world may deem him a man of happy stars. But not so the
wise; and not so himself, when he looks through his experience, and
sighs to miss that fitness, the one invaluable touch which makes all
things true and real. So much achieved, yet how abortive is his life!
Whom shall we choose for his companion? Some weak framed blacksmith,
perhaps, whose delicacy of muscle might have suited a tailor’s
shopboard better than the anvil.
Shall we bid the trumpet sound again? It is hardly worth the while.
There remain a few idle men of fortune, tavern and grog-shop loungers,
lazzaroni, old bachelors, decaying maidens, and people of crooked
intellect or temper, all of whom may find their like, or some tolerable
approach to it, in the plentiful diversity of our latter class. There
too, as his ultimate destiny, must we rank the dreamer, who, all his
life long, has cherished the idea that he was peculiarly apt for
something, but never could determine what it was; and there the most
unfortunate of men, whose purpose it has been to enjoy life’s
pleasures, but to avoid a manful struggle with its toil and sorrow. The
remainder, if any, may connect themselves with whatever rank of the
procession they shall find best adapted to their tastes and
consciences. The worst possible fate would be to remain behind,
shivering in the solitude of time, while all the world is on the move
towards eternity. Our attempt to classify society is now complete. The
result may be anything but perfect; yet better—to give it the very
lowest praise—than the antique rule of the herald’s office, or the
modern one of the tax-gatherer, whereby the accidents and superficial
attributes with which the real nature of individuals has least to do,
are acted upon as the deepest characteristics of mankind. Our task is
done! Now let the grand procession move!
Yet pause a while! We had forgotten the Chief Marshal.
Hark! That world-wide swell of solemn music, with the clang of a mighty
bell breaking forth through its regulated uproar, announces his
approach. He comes; a severe, sedate, immovable, dark rider, waving his
truncheon of universal sway, as he passes along the lengthened line, on
the pale horse of the Revelation. It is Death! Who else could assume
the guidance of a procession that comprehends all humanity? And if
some, among these many millions, should deem themselves classed amiss,
yet let them take to their hearts the comfortable truth that Death
levels us all into one great brotherhood, and that another state of
being will surely rectify the wrong of this. Then breathe thy wail upon
the earth’s wailing wind, thou band of melancholy music, made up of
every sigh that the human heart, unsatisfied, has uttered! There is yet
triumph in thy tones. And now we move! Beggars in their rags, and Kings
trailing the regal purple in the dust; the Warrior’s gleaming helmet;
the Priest in his sable robe; the hoary Grandsire, who has run life’s
circle and come back to childhood; the ruddy School-boy with his golden
curls, frisking along the march; the Artisan’s stuff jacket; the
Noble’s star-decorated coat;—the whole presenting a motley spectacle,
yet with a dusky grandeur brooding over it. Onward, onward, into that
dimness where the lights of Time which have blazed along the
procession, are flickering in their sockets! And whither! We know not;
and Death, hitherto our leader, deserts us by the wayside, as the tramp
of our innumerable footsteps echoes beyond his sphere. He knows not,
more than we, our destined goal. But God, who made us, knows, and will
not leave us on our toilsome and doubtful march, either to wander in
infinite uncertainty, or perish by the way!
FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND
“Dickon,” cried Mother Rigby, “a coal for my pipe!”
The pipe was in the old dame’s mouth when she said these words. She had
thrust it there after filling it with tobacco, but without stooping to
light it at the hearth, where indeed there was no appearance of a fire
having been kindled that morning. Forthwith, however, as soon as the
order was given, there was an intense red glow out of the bowl of the
pipe, and a whiff of smoke came from Mother Rigby’s lips. Whence the
coal came, and how brought thither by an invisible hand, I have never
been able to discover.
“Good!” quoth Mother Rigby, with a nod of her head. “Thank ye, Dickon!
And now for making this scarecrow. Be within call, Dickon, in case I
need you again.”
The good woman had risen thus early (for as yet it was scarcely
sunrise) in order to set about making a scarecrow, which she intended
to put in the middle of her corn-patch. It was now the latter week of
May, and the crows and blackbirds had already discovered the little,
green, rolledup leaf of the Indian corn just peeping out of the soil.
She was determined, therefore, to contrive as lifelike a scarecrow as
ever was seen, and to finish it immediately, from top to toe, so that
it should begin its sentinel’s duty that very morning. Now Mother Rigby
(as everybody must have heard) was one of the most cunning and potent
witches in New England, and might, with very little trouble, have made
a scarecrow ugly enough to frighten the minister himself. But on this
occasion, as she had awakened in an uncommonly pleasant humor, and was
further dulcified by her pipe tobacco, she resolved to produce
something fine, beautiful, and splendid, rather than hideous and
horrible.
“I don’t want to set up a hobgoblin in my own corn-patch, and almost at
my own doorstep,” said Mother Rigby to herself, puffing out a whiff of
smoke; “I could do it if I pleased, but I’m tired of doing marvellous
things, and so I’ll keep within the bounds of every-day business just
for variety’s sake. Besides, there is no use in scaring the little
children for a mile roundabout, though ’tis true I’m a witch.”
It was settled, therefore, in her own mind, that the scarecrow should