PART III.
Such, then, is the true idea of the Christian life—a life not of periodic observances, or of occasional fervors, or even of splendid acts of heroism and self devotion, but of quiet, constant, unobtrusive earnestness, amid the common-place work of the world. This is the life to which Christ calls us. Is it yours? Have you entered upon it, or are you now willing to enter upon it? It is not, I admit, an imposing or an easy one. There is nothing in it to dazzle, much in its hardness and plainness to deter the irresolute. The life of a follower of Christ demands not, indeed, in our day, the courage of the hero or the martyr, the fortitude that braves outward dangers and sufferings, and flinches not from persecution and death. But with the age of persecution the difficulties of the Christian life have not passed away. In maintaining a spirit of Christian cheerfulness and contentment—in the unambitious routine of humble duties—in preserving the fervor of piety amid the unexciting cares and wearing anxieties—in the perpetual reference to lofty ends amid lowly toils—there may be evinced a faith as strong as that of the man who dies with the song of martyrdom on his lips. It is a great thing to love Christ so dearly as to be “ready to be bound and to die” for him; but it is often a thing not less great to be ready to take up our daily cross, and to live for him.
But be the difficulties of a Christian life in the world what they may, they need not discourage us. Whatever the work to which our Master calls us, he offers us a strength commensurate with our needs. No man who wishes to serve Christ will ever fail for lack of heavenly aid. And it will be no valid excuse for an ungodly life that it is difficult to keep alive the flame of piety in the world, if Christ be ready to supply the fuel.
To all, then, who really wish to lead such a life, let me suggest that the first thing to be done—that without which all other efforts are worse than vain, is heartily to devote themselves to God through Christ Jesus. Much as has been said of the infusion of religious principle and motive into our worldly work, there is a preliminary advice of greater importance still—that we be religious. Life comes before growth. The soldier must enlist before he can serve. In vain, directions how to keep the fire ever burning on the altar, if first it be not kindled. No religion can be genuine, no goodness can be constant or lasting, that springs not, as its primary source, from faith in Jesus Christ. To know Christ as my Savior—to come with all my guilt and weakness to him in whom trembling penitence never fails to find a friend—to cast myself at his feet in whom all that is sublime in divine holiness is softened, though not obscured, by all that is beautiful in human tenderness; and, believing in that love stronger than death, which, for me, and such as me, drained the cup of untold sorrows, and bore without a murmur the bitter curse of sin, to trust my soul for time and eternity into his hands—this is the beginning of true religion. And it is the reverential love with which the believer must ever look to him to whom he owes so much, that constitutes the main-spring of the religion of daily life. Selfishness may prompt to a formal religion, natural susceptibility may give rise to a fitful one, but for a life of constant fervent piety, amid the world’s cares and toils, no motive is sufficient save one—self-devoted love to Christ.
But again, if you would lead a Christian life in the world, let me remind you that that life must be continued as well as begun with Christ. You must learn to look to him not merely as your Savior from guilt, but as the friend of your secret life, the chosen companion of your solitary hours, the depository of all the deeper thoughts and feelings of your soul. You can not live for him in the world unless you live much with him apart from the world. In spiritual as in secular things, the deepest and strongest characters need much solitude to form them. Even earthly greatness, much more moral and spiritual greatness, is never attained but as the result of much that is concealed from the world—of many a lonely and meditative hour. Thoughtfulness, self-knowledge, self-control, a chastened wisdom and piety, are the fruit of habitual meditation and prayer. In these exercises heaven is brought near, and our exaggerated estimate of earthly things corrected.
But, further, in availing yourself of this divine resource amid the daily exigences of life, why should you wait always for the periodic season and the formal attitude of prayer? The heavens are not open to the believer’s call only at intervals. The grace of God’s Holy Spirit falls not like the fertilizing shower, only now and then; or like the dew on the earth’s face, only at morning and night. At all times, on the uplifted face of the believer’s spirit, the gracious element is ready to descend. Pray always; pray without ceasing. When difficulties arise, delay not to seek and obtain at once the succor you need. Swifter than by the subtle electric agent is thought borne from earth to heaven. The Great Spirit on high is in constant sympathy with the spirit beneath, and in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the thrill of aspiration flashes from the heart of man to God. Whenever anything vexes you—whenever, from the rude and selfish ways of men, any trials of temper cross your path; when your spirits are ruffled, or your Christian forbearance put to the test, be this your instant resource! Haste away, if only for a moment, to the serene and peace-breathing presence of Jesus, and you will not fail to return with a spirit soothed and calmed. Or when the impure and low-minded surround you—when, in the path of duty, the high tone of your Christian purity is apt to suffer from baser contacts—O, what relief to lift the heart to Christ! to rise on the wings of faith—even for one instant to breath the air of that region where the infinite Purity dwells, and then return with a mind steeled against temptation, ready to recoil with the instinctive abhorrence of a spirit that has been beside the throne, from all that is impure and vile. Say not, then, with such aid at your command, that religion can not be brought down to Common Life!
In conclusion, let me once more urge upon you the great lesson upon which we have been insisting. Carry religious principle into every-day life. Principle elevates whatever it touches. Facts lose all their littleness to the mind which brings principle and law to bear upon them. The chemist’s or geologist’s soiled hands are no sign of base work; the coarsest operations of the laboratory, the breaking of stones with a hammer, cease to be mechanical when intellectual thought and principle govern the mind and guide the hands. And religious principle is the noblest of all. Bring it to bear on common actions and coarse cares, and infinitely nobler even than the philosophic or scientific, becomes the Christian life. Live for Christ in common things, and all your work will become priestly work. As in the temple of old, it was holy work to hew wood or mix oil, because it was done for the altar-sacrifice or the sacred lamps; so all your coarse and common work will receive a consecration when done for God’s glory, by one who is a true priest to his temple.
Carry religion into common life, and your life will be rendered useful as well as noble. There are many men who listen incredulously to the high-toned exhortations of the pulpit; the religious life there depicted is much too seraphic, they think, for this plain and prosaic world of ours. Show these men that the picture is not a fancy one. Make it a reality. Bring religion down from the clouds. Apply to it the infallible test of experiment, and, by diffusing your daily actions with holy principles, prove that love to God, superiority to worldly pleasure, spirituality, holiness, heavenly-mindedness, are something more than the stock ideas of sermons.
The world’s scenes of business may fade on our sight, the noise of its restless pursuits may fall no more upon our ear, when we pass to meet our God; but not one unselfish thought, not one kind and gentle word, not one act of self-sacrificing love done for Jesus’ sake, in the midst of our common work, but will have left an indelible impress on the soul, which will go out with it to its eternal destiny. So live, then, that this may be the result of your labors; so live that your work, whether in the Church or in the world, may become a discipline for that glorious state of being in which the Church and the world shall become one; where work shall be worship, and labor shall be rest; where the worker shall never quit the temple, nor the worshipper the place of work, because “there is no temple therein, but the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple thereof.”
[June 24.]
THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT—MANNERS.
By ABEL STEVENS, LL.D.
With most of us manners are a chief ministry of life. If love is the very element, the essence of holiness, then holiness should produce sweetness of both mind and manners. Amiability means, etymologically, loveliness, loveableness. But is it not too often the misfortune of piety, especially in its more earnest forms, to be accompanied by unamiable severity, not to say sourness—by introspective moodiness; unnecessary rigor in petty or indifferent things; uncharitable crimination of those whose opinions of spiritual experience do not conform to our own, habitual obtrusion of our own opinions—not only repelling individual brethren, but sometimes annoying and agitating whole churches?
“Be courteous:” The sentence, though brief, is full of significance, and is divinely authoritative. It is a commandment.
Stanley, in his “Lectures on the Scotch Church,” tells a fine story about Archbishop Usher, the chronologist of sacred history. Hearing of the great genius and saintliness of Rutherford, the celebrated Scotch divine, he went incognito to the rural parsonage of the good pastor, and was received to its hospitality as a belated traveler. The household was “catechised” that evening, and the stranger took his seat among them to share the exercise. “How many commandments are there?” asked Rutherford. “Eleven,” replied Usher. Rutherford rebuked him severely for his ignorance. What had been his education, that he could make such a blunder? The next morning was Sunday, and, as the pastor went on his way through the woods toward his church, he heard fervent prayer in a thicket, and was deeply affected. Usher soon appeared coming out of it, and Rutherford had an explanation. His heart was still more deeply touched, and the archbishop was constrained to preach for him that morning. He did so on the text, “A new commandment,” etc. Rutherford was now still more deeply affected; there was, indeed, an eleventh commandment—“that ye love one another”—and he had unintentionally broken it, for he had not been courteous to his eminent visitor, in his Saturday evening catechetical rebuke, and the command to be courteous was certainly implied in the new commandment—if not, it must be a twelfth one.
It is, indeed, a “commandment” whether the eleventh modified, or a twelfth. Hannah Moore, in her essay on St. Paul, delineates him as a veritable gentleman. He knew how to rebuke audacious sin; but his writings teem with maxims inculcating gentle behavior. There was a fine touch of courtesy in his retraction of that sudden rebuke to the Jewish priest—of courteous respect for the office, if not the officer.
Manners are admitted to be, at least, “minor morals.” Minor morals! How often are they indeed major morals! As making up a great proportion of the habitual conduct of life, their influence on ourselves, as well as on others, is habitual, and, therefore, must be proportionately strong and important. Shall we, then, deem them mere minor morals? Do they not fashion us, to a great extent, for both worlds? “As a man thinketh, so is he,” is an old proverb; as a man acteth, so is he, may be more surely affirmed, especially as he acteth habitually, in the common intercourse of life, so thoroughly modified by our demeanor.
You “know a man by the company he keeps,” says another maxim; you know him still more by the habitudes which accompany him.
You know him by his manners, not merely because manners are the most habitual effect, or expression, of his character, but because they have really, to a great extent, formed his character. They are cause as well as effect.
There is, then, a profound ethical importance in manners, for their educational, their moral, effect on the man himself. A truly courteous man, a true gentleman, and especially a Christian gentleman, is the better for every act of good manners in his daily life. There is sentiment, and, in a sense, moral sentiment, at the bottom of all manners. Respect for others has some very subtle and vital affinity with self-respect; and self-respect is not self-conceit, it is respect for the moral claims of our own nature on our own conduct.
Courtesy is, then, we repeat, ethical—and much more deeply and broadly so than is usually supposed. We can not habitually violate its requisitions without injuring ourselves, as well as others. Discourtesy reacts and degenerates.
But manners are not only important as self-educational; they are powerful in their influence on others, and have, in this respect, an ethical importance: to them attaches an unavoidable responsibility.
Our children are more effectively educated at home than in the school or in the world. The daily, insinuating influence of a mother’s voice, or glance, on the morale of her child, is like the gentle air and sunlight to young plants. The roughness or gentleness of a father’s demeanor in the household may make “roughs” or gentlemen of his boys. Mutual petulance or affectionateness between the children of a family may depend almost entirely on the same qualities in the father and mother. There is scarcely anything, however apparently trivial, in the manners of the home that is not irresistibly educational. The ladder heavenward, visioned in the mind of the patriarch, is planted at the domestic hearth, and inclines over the very cradle. Are manners minor morals, then? Nay, they are the most effective education, they form one of the most potent influences of the common, human life. There are cases in which defective manners inflict an evil equivalent to certain more apparent violations of morality.
Manners are the physiognomy of the soul. Rudeness, and especially ill-tempered severity, show an inferior morale. The personal revelation of character, particularly in familiar life, is one of the most influential forces for good or ill that acts upon men. It is in life what it is in literature, only incomparably more influential, as it is more habitual and affects our more direct and more sacred relations and intercourse. We know that in literature it is the great, the distinctive, power of an author. It is the individuality, the intellectual and moral personality of a writer, that mostly makes his productions classical or otherwise. Milton, Shakspere, Goethe, Schiller, Byron, we read themselves in their style of both language and thought; and they thus mold the souls of their readers after their own image. Pascal says, that “When we see a natural style we are surprised and delighted, for, in expecting to see an author, we find a man; while those who have good taste, often, in opening a book, expecting to see a man, find only an author.” “Style is the man,” says another great French writer. And so manners are the man—the style of the man’s conduct, and immeasurable in their silent, unconscious influence on all around us. Not only do parents thus mold the hearts and lives of their children, children the hearts and lives of one another, but pastors thus act on their churches, neighbors on neighbors, and even nations on nations. “Be courteous,” is, then, we may repeat, an important moral law—a divine commandment.
It is a fallacy to suppose that manners are matters merely of social life; they belong to a man’s whole life—his public as well as his private life. They have infinitely more to do with the success of public men than is usually supposed. They affect especially and profoundly the pastoral character and success. It is a great thing to be a true evangelist; but can you be completely so without obedience to the injunction of one who was more than an evangelist, who was an apostle—“Be courteous?” A public man who outrages good manners may not be altogether a moral nuisance, but he can not well be a salutary moral power in the community. His best theoretical instruction, if he be a public teacher, may not compensate for the continuous, insidious, demoralizing influence of his manners on his habitual hearers, especially on the incipient character of children and youth. The public teacher should, above all things, be, as Cicero insisted in regard to the orator, a good man; but, next to this, he should be a genuine gentleman. This phrase ordinarily has a somewhat ambiguous application: we need not say that we are not using it in its equivocal, conventional sense. We use it in the sense of the apostle’s command—“Be courteous,”—maintain your manners, he would say. Gentleness, so incessantly enjoined in holy Scripture, is an equivalent phrase—because genuine politeness itself always includes, as its central element, gentleness (gentility), kindliness; that is to say, a certain moral sentiment of tenderness and goodwill toward all men. It is a fact, worthy of the attention of the ethical philosopher, that true manners, genuine politeness, in not only polished life, but even in the chivalry of the age of knighthood, has thus been identified with a certain moral sentiment; that “gentility” essentially means gentleness; that even the chivalry, the bravery, of the hero, has proverbially been associated with generosity. How can a public man, then, dispense with these qualities? There is not merely a conciliatory influence in good manners on the part of the public man—an influence to win a candid hearing—but there is a positive moral power in them, a power which enhances all other power.
Let us not misunderstand the word. It is courtesy, not merely the manner or appearance of courtesy, that is enjoined. What may be manners in one country or age may not be such in another. Courtesy is the same everywhere and always. Courtesy, as meant by the apostle, and instinctively recognized by refined minds, is not so much manners, as it is the underlying sentiment of manners. And manners themselves should be distinguished from mannerisms. Mannerism is sometimes a mere perversion, a caricature of manners. The highest courtesy is often seen in the avoidance of manners—in the intercourse of true gentlemen, who have so much hearty regard for one another, so much confidence in their mutual good understanding, that they spontaneously dispense with all mere forms of courtesy. Courtesy is thus supreme in its spirit, while unconcerned about its expression. It is a sort of compliment to an intimate friend for you to show that you so far confide in his courtesy as to believe that he expects not the forms of courtesy from you. Lovers are never fastidious about the etiquette of manners. The etiquette of manners seldom enters into the most holy sanctuaries or intimacies of life. It is left outside, as in the East the sandals are left at the door; but courtesy always enters, and is most at home in the homes of the heart.
Great was Paul as a theologian, all the world acknowledges; but he was equally great as an ethical philosopher. What a fine discernment of moral distinctions he had! Love was with him the “fulfilling of the law,” and love is, in his writings, the essential principle of courtesy—gentleness, kindness, sweetness of soul. When were ever better ethics given to the world than in his discourse to the Corinthians on charity? That discourse should certainly rank next to his divine Master’s Sermon on the Mount, the second great religious document in the possession of the world. Any candid skeptic must acknowledge that, would all the world conform to it, the human race would be as perfect in morals and manners as it could be. And what is this but acknowledging the divine fitness, and, therefore, truthfulness, of the document, and, indeed, of the religion which gave it birth? What courtesy could transcend that which “thinketh no evil,” which “envieth not,” which “seeketh not its own,” which “is not puffed up,” which “believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things!”
“A holy life is made up,” says Bonar, “of a number of small things. Little words, not eloquent speeches or sermons; little deeds, not miracles nor battles, nor one great heroic act, or mighty martyrdom, make up the true Christian life. The little, constant sunbeam, not the lightning; the waters of Shiloh, ‘that go softly’ in their meek mission of refreshment, not the waters of the ‘river, strong and many,’ rushing down in torrents, noise and force, are the true symbols of a holy life. The avoidance of little evils, little sins, little inconsistencies, little weaknesses, little follies, little indiscretions and imprudences, little foibles, little indulgences of self and the flesh—the avoidance of such little things as these goes far to make up, at least, the negative beauty of a holy life.”
The aim of Christianity is to produce a sanctified and noble manhood in this world, preparatory for angelhood in a higher world. He that works well for his religion honors it, but he that lives it well honors it more, for such a life is itself the best work, and empowers all other work.
The God who created these fair heavens with the same facility as yon green sapling: he who hath bestowed on man a life of toil, of transient joys and fleeting pains, that he might not forget the higher worth of his enduring soul, and might feel that immortality waited for him beyond the grave,—he, he is one only God! his mighty name Jehovah! earth’s Creator and Judge! adored by Adam, first of men, and Adam’s sons; then by Abraham, our father. But the rites by which we serve him are obscure and dark even to our wisest men. Yet God himself prescribed our sacred types, and will in time disclose their purport.—Klopstock.
[CHINESE LITERATURE.]
[ON THE ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FILIAL DUTY.]
Confucius, sitting at leisure with his pupil, Tsang Tsan, by his side, said to him: “Do you understand how the ancient kings who possessed the greatest virtue and best moral principles, rendered the whole empire so obedient that the people lived in peace and harmony, and no ill-will existed between superiors and inferiors?” Tsang Tsan replied, “Destitute as I am of discernment, how can I understand the subject?” “Filial duty,” said the sage, “is the root of virtue, and the stem from which instruction in moral principles springs forth. The first thing which filial duty requires of us is that we preserve from all injury, and in a perfect state, the bodies which we have received from our parents. And when we acquire for ourselves a station in the world, that we regulate our conduct by correct principles, so as to transmit our names to future generations, and reflect glory on our parents: this is the ultimate aim of filial duty. Thus it commences in attention to our parents; is continued through a series of services rendered to the prince; and is completed by the elevation of ourselves. It is said in the ‘Book of Odes,’
“‘Think always of your ancestors,
Talk of and imitate their virtues.’”
—From “Hian King;” or, “Memoir on Filial Duty.”
[THE IMPROVEMENT OF ONE’S SELF.]
The ancients who wished to restore reason to its due lustre throughout the empire, first regulated the provinces which they each governed. Desirous of governing well their own kingdoms, they previously established order and virtue in their own houses; for the sake of establishing domestic order they began with self-renovation; to renovate their own minds, they first gave a right direction to their own affections; wishing to direct their passions aright, they corrected their ideas and desires, and to rectify these they enlarged their knowledge to the utmost. Now, this enlargement of knowledge consists in a most thorough and minute acquaintance with the nature of things around us. A thorough acquaintance with the nature of things around us renders knowledge deep and consummate; from thence proceed just ideas and desires; erroneous ideas once corrected, the affections of the soul move in the right direction; the passions thus rectified, the mind naturally obeys reason, and the empire of reason restored in the soul, domestic order follows, of course; from thence flows order throughout the whole province; and one province rightly governed may serve as a model for a whole kingdom.—From “Ta Hioh;” or, “Superior Lessons.”
[SENTENCES FROM CONFUCIUS.]
Grieve not that men know you not, but grieve that you are ignorant of men.
Have no friends unlike yourself.
Learning, without reflection, will profit nothing; reflection, without learning, will leave the mind uneasy and miserable.
Knowledge produces pleasure clear as water; complete virtue brings happiness, solid as a mountain; knowledge pervades all things; virtue is tranquil and happy; knowledge is delight; virtue is long life.
The sage’s conduct is affection and benevolence in operation.
The man who possesses complete virtue wishes to fix his mind therein, and also to fix the minds of others; he wishes to be wise himself and would fain render others equally wise.
Those who, searching for virtue, refuse to stay among the virtuous, how can they obtain knowledge?
In your appearance to fall below decency would be to resemble a savage rustic, to exceed it would be to resemble a fop; let your appearance be decent and moderate, then you will resemble the honorable man.
When I first began with men, I heard words and gave credit for conduct, now I hear words and observe conduct.
The perfect man is never satisfied with himself; he that is satisfied with himself is not perfect.
He that is desirous to improve is not ashamed to ask of others.
Sin in a virtuous man is like an eclipse of the sun and moon, all men gaze at it and it passes away; the virtuous man mends and the world stands in admiration of his fall.
Patience is the most necessary thing to have in this world.
—From “Lun Yu;” or, “Conversations of Confucius.”
[A BALLAD ON “PICKING TEA IN THE GARDENS IN SPRINGTIME.”]
Our household dwells amid ten thousand hills,
Where the tea north and south of the village abundantly grows.
From chinsé to kuhyü unceasingly hurried,
Each morning I must early rise to do my task of tea.
By earliest dawn, I at my toilet, only half dress my hair,
And seizing my basket pass the door while yet the mist is thick.
The little maids and graver dames, hand in hand winding along,
Ask me, “Which steep of Sunglo do you climb to-day?”
The sky is thick and the dusky twilight hides the hilltops;
The dewy leaves and cloudy buds can not be easily plucked.
We know not for whom their thirst to quench
We’re caused to labor and daily two by two to go.
In social couples each to aid her fellows, we seize the tea twigs,
And in low words urge one another, “Don’t delay,”
Lest on the topmost bough, the bud has even now grown old,
And lest with the morrow comes the drizzling, silky rain.
We’ve picked enough, the topmost boughs are sparse of leaves;
We lift our baskets filled brimful and talk of going home;
Laughing we pass along, when just against the pool
A pair of scared mallards rise and fly diverse away.
This pool has limpid water, and there deep the lotus grows;
Its little leaves are round as coins, and only yet half-blown;
Going to the jutting verge, near a clear and shallow spot,
I mark my present looks, try how of late my face appears.
My curls and hair are all awry, my face is quite begrimed;
In whose house lives the girls so ugly as your slave?
’Tis only because that every day the tea I’m forced to pick,
The soaking rains and driving winds have spoiled my early charms.
With the morning comes the wind and rain together, fierce and high,
But the little hat and basket tall still must I take along;
The tender leaflets fully picked, we to our homes return,
When each sees her fellow’s dress all soiled with miry slime.
This morn without the door, I beheld a pleasant sky;
Quickly I combed my girlish tufts and firmly set my pin;
With rapid steps away I speed towards the garden’s path,
And forgetful of the muddy way, omit to change my shoes.
When just within the garden bounds, I hear the thunder roll;
My bowing shoes are soaked quite through, yet still I can’t return;
I call my distant comrade to send my message home,
And have my green umbrella-hat set hither to me soon.
The rain is past, the outmost leaflets show their greenish veins;
Pull down a branch and the fragrant scent’s diffused around;
Both high and low the yellow golden threads are now quite culled,
And my clothes and frock are dyed with odors through and through.
The sweet and fragrant perfume’s like that from the aglaia;
In goodness and appearance my tea will be the best in Wuyuen,
When all are picked, the new buds, by next term, will burst forth,
And this morning the last third gathering is quite done.
Each picking is with toilsome labor, but yet I shun it not.
My maiden curls are all askew, my pearly fingers all benumbed;
But I only wish our tea to be of a superfine kind,
To have it equal the “sparrow’s tongue” and “dragon’s pellet.”
For a whole month when can I catch a single leisure day?
For at earliest dawn I go to pick and not till dusk return;
Then the deep midnight sees me still before the firing pan;
Will not labor like this my pearly complexion deface?
But if my face is thin my mind is firmly fixed,
So to fire my golden buds that they shall excel all besides;
But how know I who shall put them in the jewelled cup?
Whose taper fingers will give them to the maid to draw?
At a bright fire she makes the tea, her sorrows flee away;
Where shall she learn our toil who so tender picked it all?
How that without a sign the fierce winds and rains did rise,
Drenching and soaking our persons as if plunged into a bath.
But though my heaving bosom like a well-sweep rise and fall,
Still patient in my poverty and care I’ll never shun my usual toil;
My only thought shall be to have new tea well fired,
That the flag and awl be well rolled and show their whitened down.
[THE MENDER OF CRACKED CHINAWARE.]
Dramatis Personæ:
Niu Chau, a wandering tinker. Wang Niang, a young girl.
Scene: a Street.—[Niu Chau enters. Across his shoulder is a bamboo, to each end of which are suspended boxes containing the various tools and implements of his trade, and a small stool. He is dressed meanly; his face and head are painted and decorated in a fantastic manner.]
[Sings.] Seeking a livelihood by the work of my hands,
Daily do I traverse the streets of the city.
[Speaks.] Well, here I am, a mender of broken jars,
An unfortunate victim of ever-changing plans.
To repair old fractured jars
Is my sole occupation and support.
’Tis even so, I have no other employment.
[Takes his boxes from his shoulder, places them on the ground, sits beside them, and drawing out his fan, continues speaking.]
A disconsolate old man,
I am a slave to inconveniences.
For several days past,
I have been unable to go abroad,
But observing this morning a clear sky and fine air,
I was induced to recommence my street wanderings.
[Sings.] At dawn I left my home,
But as yet have had no job.
Hither and yon, and on all sides,
From the east gate to the west,
From the south gate to the north,
And all over within the walls
Have I been, but no one has called
For the mender of cracked jars.
Unfortunate man!
But this being my first visit to the city of Nanking,
Some extra exertion is necessary.
Time is lost sitting idle here,
And so to roam again I go.
[Shoulders his boxes and stool, and walks about, crying: “Plates mended! bowls mended! jars and pots neatly repaired!”]
Lady Wang (heard within).—Did I not hear the cry of the mender of cracked jars? I’ll open the door and look. [She enters, looking around] Yes, there comes the repairer of jars.
Niu Chau.—Pray have you a jar to mend? I have long been seeking a job. Did you not call?
Lady W.—What is your charge for a large jar; and how much for a small one?
Niu Chau.—For large jars, one mace five.
Lady W.—And for small ones?
Niu Chau.—Fifty pair of cash.
Lady W.—To one mace five and fifty pair of cash, add nine candareens, and a new jar may be had.
Niu Chau.—What, then, will you give?
Lady W.—I will give one candareen for either size.
Niu Chau.—Well, lady, how many cash can I get for this candareen?
Lady W.—Why, if the price be high, you will get eight cash.
Niu Chau.—And if low?
Lady W.—You will get but seven cash and a half.
Niu Chau.—O, you wicked, tantalizing thing!
[Sings.] Since leaving home this morning,
I have met but with a trifler,
Who, in the shape of an old wife,
Tortures and gives me no job;
I’ll shoulder again my boxes, continue my walk,
And never again will I return to the house of Wang.
[He moves off slowly.]
Lady W.—Jar-mender! return, quickly return; with a loud voice I entreat you; for I have something on which I wish to consult with you.
Niu Chau.—What is it on which you wish to consult me?
Lady W.—I will give you a hundred cash to mend a large jar.
Niu Chau.—And for mending a small one?
Lady W.—And for mending a small one, thirty pair of cash.
Niu Chau.—One hundred and thirty pair—truly, lady, this is worth consulting about. Lady Wang, where shall I mend them?
Lady W.—Follow me. [They move toward the door of the house.]
[Sings.] Before walks the Lady Wang.
Niu Chau.—And behind comes the pu-kang (or jar-mender).
Lady W.—Here, then, is the place.
Niu Chau.—Lady Wang, permit me to pay my respects. [Bows repeatedly in a ridiculous manner.] We can exchange civilities. I congratulate you; may you prosper.
Lady W.—Here is the jar; now go to work and mend it.
Niu Chau.—[Takes the jar in his hand and tosses it about, examining it.] This jar has certainly a very appalling fracture.
Lady W.—Therefore it requires the more care in mending.
Niu Chau.—That is self evident.
Lady W.—Now Lady Wang will retire again to her dressing-room,
And after closing the doors, will resume her toilet.
Her appearance she will beautify,
On the left, her hair she will comb into a dragon’s-head tuft,
On the right she will arrange it tastefully with flowers,
Her lips she will color with blood-red vermilion,
And a gem of chrysoprase will she place in the dragon’s-head tuft;
Then, having completed her toilet, she will return to the door,
And sit down to look at the jar mender.
[Exit.]
[Niu Chau sits down, straps the jar on his knee, and arranges his tools before him, and as he drills holes for the clamps, sings—]
Every hole drilled requires a pin,
And every two holes drilled requires pins a pair.
As I raise my head and look around—
[At this moment Lady Wang returns, beautifully dressed, and sits down by the door]
There sits, I see, a delicate young lady,
Before she had the appearance of an old wife,
Now she is transformed into a handsome young girl;
On the left, her hair is combed into a dragon’s head tuft,
On the right it is adorned tastefully with flowers.
Her lips are like plums, her mouth is all smiles,
Her eyes are brilliant as the phœnix’s; and
She stands on golden lilies, but two inches long.
[The jar at this moment falls, and is broken to pieces.]
[Speaks.] Heigh-ya! Here then is a dreadful smash.
Lady W.—You have but to replace it with another, and do so quickly.
Niu Chau.—For one that was broken, a good one must be given. Had two been broken, then were a pair to be supplied; an old one being smashed, a new one must replace it.
Lady W.—You have destroyed the jar, and return me nothing but words. Give me a new one, then you may return home, not before.
Niu Chau.—Here on my knees upon the hard ground, I beg Lady Wang, while she sits above, to listen to a few words. Let me receive pardon for the accident her beauty has occasioned, and I will at once make her my wife.
Lady W.—Impudent old man! How presume to think that I ever can become your wife!
Niu Chau.—Yes, it is true, I am somewhat older than Lady Wang, yet would I make her my wife.
Lady W.—No matter, then, for the accident, but leave me now at once.
Niu Chau.—Since you have forgiven me, I again shoulder my boxes,
And I will go elsewhere in search of a wife;
And here, before high heaven, I swear never again to come near the house of Wang.
You a great lady! You are but a vile, ragged girl,
And will yet be glad to take up with a much worse companion.
[Going away, he suddenly throws off his upper dress, and appears as a handsome young man.]
Lady W.—Henceforth give up your wandering profession,
And marry me. Quit the trade of a jar-mender.
With the Lady Wang pass happily the remainder of your life.
[They embrace and exeunt.]
—Chi. Rep., vol. VI., p. 576.
[JAPANESE LITERATURE.]
[TRANSLATIONS FROM JAPANESE MYTHOLOGY.]
The first man was Izanagi, the first woman Izanami. Standing together on the floating bridge of heaven, the male plunged his jeweled falchion, or spear, into the unstable waters beneath them, and withdrawing it, the trickling drops formed an island, upon which they descended. The creative pair, or divine man and woman, designing to make this island a pillar for a continent, separated—the male to the left, the female to the right—to make a journey round the island. At their meeting, the female spirit spoke first, “How joyful to meet a lovely man!” The male spirit, offended that the first use of the tongue had been by a woman, required the circuit to be repeated. On their second meeting, the man cried out, “How joyful to meet a lovely woman!” They were the first couple; and this was the beginning of the art of love, and of the human race. The island (Awaji) with seven other large, and many thousand small ones, became the Everlasting Great Japan. The Heaven-illuminating Goddess was their first child. She shone beautifully, and lighted the heavens and the earth. Her father, therefore, transferred her from earth to heaven, and gave her the ethereal realm to rule over. At this time the earth was close to heaven, and the goddess easily mounted the pillar, on which heaven rested, to her kingdom.
The second child became the Goddess of the Moon. Of their third child, a boy, they entertained the highest hopes. He grew up, however, to be a most mischievous fellow, killing people, pulling up their trees, and trampling down their fields. He grew worse as he grew up. He was made ruler over the blue sea; but he never kept his kingdom in order. He let his beard grow down over his bosom. He cried constantly; and the land became a desert, the rivers and seas dried up, and human beings died in great numbers. His father, inquiring the reason of his surly behavior, was told that he wished to go to his mother, who was in the region under the earth. He then made his son ruler over the kingdom of night. The august scape-grace still continued his pranks, unable to refrain from mischief. One day, after his sister, the Sun-goddess, had planted a field with rice, he turned a wild horse loose, which trampled down and spoiled all her work. Again, having built a store house for the new rice, he defiled it so that it could not be used. At another time, his sister was sitting at her loom, weaving. Sosanoö, having skinned a live horse by drawing its skin off from the tail to the head, flung the reeking hide over the loom, and the carcass in the room. The goddess was so frightened that she hurt herself with the shuttle, and, in her wrath, retired to a cave, closing the mouth with a large rock. Heaven, earth, and the four quarters became enshrouded in darkness, and the distinction between day and night ceased.
The gods create great confusion and noise pretending to be very merry when the Sun-goddess within, unable to account for the ill-timed mirth, since heaven and earth were in darkness, rose, and approaching the rocky door, listened to the honeyed words of one of the gods, who was praising her. Impelled further by curiosity, she opened the door, slightly, and asked why Uzumé danced and the gods laughed? Uzumé replied, “I dance because there is an honorable deity who surpasses your glory.” As she said this, the exceedingly beauteous god Futodama showed the mirror. The Sun-goddess within, astonished at her own loveliness, which she now first beheld in the reflection, stepped out a little further to gratify her curiosity. The God of Invincibly Strong Hands, who stood concealed, pulled the rock door open, caught her by the hand, and dragged her forth. The wisest of the gods, who superintended the whole proceedings, took a rope of twisted rice-straw, passed it behind her, and said, “Do not go behind this.” Then they removed the Sun-goddess to her new palace, and put a straw rope around it to keep off evil gods. Her wicked brother was punished by having each particular hair of his head pulled out, and his finger and toe nails extracted. He was then banished.
Another legend says the Sun-goddess spoke to Sosanoö (the Moon-goddess), who reigned jointly with her over the high plain of heaven, and said, “I have heard that there is a food-possessing goddess in the central country of luxuriant reedy moors (Japan). Go and see.” Descending from heaven, she came to the august abode of the Goddess of Food, and asked for refreshment. The goddess, creating various forms of food, such as boiled rice from the land, fish from the sea, beasts, with coarse and fine hair, from the hills, set them on a banqueting-table before Sosanoö, who, enraged at the manner of the creation of the food, killed her.
Reporting the matter in heaven, Amaterasŭ was angry at Sosanoö, and degraded her (the Moon-goddess) from joint rule, and condemned her to appear only at night, while she, the Sun-goddess, slept. Amaterasŭ then sent a messenger the second time to see whether the Food-goddess was really dead. This was found to be the case. Out of the dead body were growing, millet on the forehead; silk-worms and a mulberry-tree on the eyebrows; grass on the eyes; on the belly, rice, barley, and large and small beans; The head finally changed into a cow and horse. The messenger took them all, and presented them to Amaterasŭ. The Sun-goddess rejoiced, and ordained that these should be the food of human beings, setting apart rice as the seed of the watery fields, and the other cereals as the seed of the dry fields. She appointed lords of the villages of heaven, and began for the first time to plant the rice-seeds. In the autumn the drooping ears ripened in luxuriant abundance. She planted the mulberry-trees on the fragrant hills of heaven, and rearing silk-worms, and chewing cocoons in her mouth, spun thread. Thus began the arts of agriculture, silk-worm rearing, and weaving.
[JAPANESE PROVERBS.]
Good doctrines need no miracles.
The fortune-teller can not tell his own fortune.
The doctor does not keep himself well.
To give an iron club to a devil is to give riches to a bad man.
While the hunter looks afar after birds, they fly up and escape at his feet.
The ignorant man is gentle.
Every one suffers either from his pride or sinfulness.
Even a calamity left alone for three years may turn into a fortune.
Birds flock on the thick branches.
Heaven does not kill a man.
Having inquired seven times, believe the common report.
The poet, though he does not go abroad, sees all the renowned places.
Don’t trust a pigeon to carry grain.
There is no medicine for a fool.
If you keep a tiger you will have nothing but trouble.
The more words; the less sense.
Who steals money is killed; who steals a country is a king.
The best thing in traveling is a companion; in the world, kindness.
The gods have their seat on the brow of a just man.
Proof is better than discussion.
The world is just as a person’s heart makes it.
If you hate anyone, let him live.
Excess of politeness becomes impoliteness.
Poverty can not overtake diligence.
Making an idol does not give it a soul.
Beware of a beautiful woman; she is like red pepper.
Pearls unpolished shine not.
Even a monkey sometimes falls from a tree.
Send the child you love most on a journey.
Live under your own hat.
Hearing is paradise; seeing is hell.
When life is ruined for the sake of money’s preciousness, the ruined life cares naught for the money.
The tongue is but three inches long, yet it can kill a man six feet high.
[RAIKO AND THE ONI.]
The wonderful story of “Raiko and the Oni” is one of the most famous in the collection of Japanese grandmothers. Its power to open the mouths and distend the oblique eyes of the youngsters long after bed-time, is unlimited.
Long, long ago there was a great war between the Genji and Heiké, in which many men were killed. One of the Genji warriors, named Raiko, could not find any one valiant enough to fight with him, and so he wished to find a ghoul to slay. Now, there lurked at the palace gate a fierce ghoul, which he sent his retainer, Watanabé Tsuna, to kill. Now, Tsuna was, next to Raiko, the strongest man in the whole country, and was not afraid of the ghoul. When he went out to the gate, the oni seized him by the helmet, but Tsuna caught the ghoul’s arm with the left hand, and, with his sword in his right hand, cut off the limb. The ghoul was so frightened that it ran away, leaving its hairy arm and claws. Tsuna was very proud of his victory, and kept the arm as a trophy, carefully packed in a fine box. One day an old woman came to see the hero, saying she had heard of his feat, and would like to see the wonderful limb which he, by his valor, had cut off. Now, Tsuna was always good-natured to old people and good children, being only angry with wicked robbers and demons, and so he opened the box to show the old lady his treasure. Now, this old woman was nothing more than a ghoul in disguise. No sooner had Tsuna opened his box than she snatched the limb, and flew away with it through the smoke-hole in the roof, changing, as she flew, into her true shape—that of a hideous ghoul.
At this time Raiko was sick, and a three-eyed ghoul came to torment him, knowing he was very weak; but Raiko drew his sword, which he always kept at his side, and gave the ghoul a lusty cut that sent him, all bloody and howling, away. His retainers followed the tracks of blood to a great cave, in which they found a colossal spider, which Raiko succeeded in killing.
Shu-ten dōji was another ghoul which Raiko, with his retainers, went to slay. Raiko went to his cave, and asked for a night’s lodging. He found there a great red man, with long red hair, drinking strong saké out of a huge trencher which would hold several tubfuls. After a while the ghoul got drunk, and fell asleep. Raiko then drew his sword and cut off the monster’s head. His retainers helped him to carry it out, and it was paraded with great pomp where every one could see it. It was bigger than the great lion’s head which used to be carried through the streets of Yedo at the great festival procession of Kanda Miō Jin, which it required twenty men to carry. It had frightful horns and tusks, and devoured many people.
Raiko was a Kugé, and one of the bravest warriors of all time. Brave men such as he long ago killed all the wicked things in Japan, so that good little children might go to sleep, and not be afraid of the ghouls coming to take them from papa, mamma, brothers, sisters, and grandmothers.
[DELIVERANCE: NIRVANA.]
A pilgrim through eternity—
In countless births have I been born,
And toiled the architect to see,
Who builds my soul’s live house in scorn.
Oh, painful is the road of birth
By which, from house to house made o’er,
Each house displays the kind and worth
Of the desires I loved before.
Dear architect! I now have seen thy face,
And seized thy precept’s law.
Of all the houses which have been
Not one again my soul can draw.
Thy rafters crushed, thy ridge-pole, too,
Thy work, O builder, now is o’er!
My spirit feels Nirvâna true,
And I shall transmigrate no more.—Buddha.
[End of Required Reading for June.]
[JUNE.]
By ELLEN O. PECK.
Open thy gates, O summer,
The air is balmy and sweet,
And a radiant guest is ready
To enter with fairy feet.
’Tis June with her brow of sunshine,
And her wealth of green and gold,
With drapery graceful and flowing,
And flowers in every fold.
O beautiful June! Thou art come again!
O month of joy! O month of pain!
Thy face is the face of my darling
That lies beneath thy flowers,
And that comes to me with thy coming
On the wings of the golden hours;
The years are swift in passing
But the memories fondly stay,
And time has no power to rob me
Though it bear my youth away;
For, framed like thee in choicest gold
Is the face of my love which can not grow old.
Thy lilies were clasped in her fingers—
Not whiter the lilies than they—
When under thy skies which were weeping
They laid my darling away.
There I planted a delicate rose-tree,
Which thy coming calls to bloom,
Each year a sweet reminder
Of her heart’s own sweet perfume.
Not fairer the bloom of these flowers of the sun,
Than the radiant life of my beautiful one.
And I read anew at thy coming
Sweet lessons of love and truth,
With the bitter lines of sorrow
I learned in my happy youth.
God sends a message golden
Each year in thy glowing train,
I would not fail in grasping
Though with good it brings me pain.
While I grieve for the beauty earth holds no more
I catch a gleam of the heavenly shore.