But we have so little faith to-day, that I hardly doubt that there is chiming in the ears of many in this audience the refrain:—“This is all sentiment and doesn’t help us to deal with hard facts.” We ought, however, to hesitate, I think, before consigning this view to the babies’ limbs. It may be after all that the Sermon on the Mount was not pure eccentricity, nor Christ a Don Quixote. Of the two counsels, ‘Get religion,’ and ‘Get money,’ there is yet something to be said in support of the former. Carlyle fairly exculpates the nobility of Scotland for their cold treatment of the poet, Burns. “Had they not,” he asks, “their game to preserve; their borough interests to strengthen, dinners to eat and give?... Let us pity and forgive them. The game they preserved and shot, the dinners they ate and gave, the borough interests they strengthened, the little Babylons they severally builded by the glory of their might are all melted, or melting back into the primeval chaos, as man’s merely selfish endeavors are bound to do.”
And after all, who are the poor? Let history answer! Is thrift taxed, which seems able to bear, or prodigality, which spares nothing? Do we tax clear-headed temperance, or the wretched drunkard, whose starving wife and babes, by reason of the penny of internal revenue, lose one more crust of bread? Upon whose shoulders falls the lash of scorn and punishment? Upon those of the able man, who never tries to do his best, or upon the ill-born, ill-bred creature’s only, whose best is so little above society’s arbitrary passing mark, that to slip at all is to fall below it? I have often thought that in the words, “The poor always ye have with you,” is contained, far from a curse, the greatest pledge of the world’s salvation; for except that hunger, cold, sorrow and disease walk among us, the bond of sympathy which binds us to our fellow-man slackens, and the heart grows dead and cold.
One night during the long period of hardship which the missionaries experienced in the conversion of England, a snow-storm drove Cuthbert’s boat on the coast of Fife. “The snow closes the road along the shore, mourned his comrades, the storm bars our way over sea.” “There is still the pathway of heaven that lies open,” said Cuthbert. It is even so with us. Can we regret it? Surely the problem is greatly simplified. While our minds are fixed upon survival, no path is clear, and we weary ourselves walking along roads which either lead nowhere at all, or bring us back to our starting point. But, with only right living in view, there is no mistaking the way; for there has always been a straight road ahead of us, which we could follow if we would. It is hard to keep plodding along the narrow path, when fields of wealth and power stretch away on either side, but, happily for us, these are about all fenced in, even the great Sahara desert is fenced in. We cannot be tyrants if we would, nor can we despoil our fellows for they are as poor as we. Our road is made smooth before us. God has not led us into temptation. We ought then to come nearer than other peoples to a Christian life, to that better community, where one half of the world is not happy while the other half is miserable.
Of the little guidance which is needed, a part we may get from others, a part from ourselves. From the English, before their entrance upon their progressive stage, we may learn the importance of two bonds, that of the family, and that of the neighborhood. National, state, even municipal organization is denied us. The village is the highest unit of population in which we may hope to develop our political instincts. The village gave birth to literature, manners and customs; as indeed it did to all institutions, political and social; for, let us not forget, that for centuries, the western European peoples, so powerful to-day, had, except in time of war, no other life than that of villagers. Deeper yet in our nature the family has its source. To it we owe our earliest expressions of chivalry, care and protection; of obedience, loyalty, devotion, faith.
The basis upon which the historic monogamous family rests is reverence for parents and respect for women: the basis upon which the village community rests is the common ownership of land;—and it is in just those great countries of Europe, where common ownership of land longest prevailed, namely, in Russia and Germany, that great cities are fewest and the inequality of wealth, least. In such village communities we would be strong enough to resist single handed aggression, yet too weak to warrant persecution; rich enough to escape the degradation of unending toil, though not rich enough to arouse in our oppressors the spirit of avarice. He who seeks to maintain himself in his social privileges and political rights must have in reserve abundant means of subsistence, and beyond this, rugged manhood. If he is going to defend himself in the possession of anything which another covets, he must be prepared to fight down the whole decline from civilization to savagery.
Not only would the village community furnish us with centres of resistance to oppression, but what is of greater importance, with custom, and tradition, that understanding among men and between generations which is stronger than law. It is the peculiar weakness of our efforts at organization, that they proceed from the minds and wills of a few individuals, and not from any popular demand, and until our many society constitutions, in part at least, codify existing customs, it is like making ropes of sands to expect our organizations to endure, or our articles to bind.
In the cities, where so many of us now live, the village community is no longer available, and the replacing of it is one of the serious tasks before us. Men who will help to solve this and other like problems are desperately needed. Without armies and without government as we are, leaders, whether statesmen diplomats, politicians or orators, we can well depense with; without national life of any sort, national organizations to control our political, social, religious, literary or scientific affairs may easily be spared. But quiet, earnest, trained workers, who will help to improve our family life, and bring into communion even small groups of families, are destined to be the pioneers of our civilization.
To confer any lasting benefit upon our people, however, patient deliberation and foresight are needed. I appeal to our unselfish men and women no longer to limit their discussions to the events which this month or year brings forth. The present is always a bad time for consideration. What hunter can aim his gun at a bird which rises from beneath his feet? Will he not rather fire at a bird which is coming or going? We are gathered here tonight as amateur historians and prophets, to review the past and lay plans for the future. But let me quickly relieve myself of the charge of encouraging rash projects or empty theories. I am proposing no vast schemes; I believe it useless to do so. We move through life, with our backs toward, to the engine, and see all that we see after it has passed. The reason, the imagination, with their creative powers, picture for themselves the world that lies before, but so swift and so unremitting is our progress, that the new revelations constantly pouring in alter the premises before a conclusion can be reached. Only the most gifted geniuses can draw in the vaguest outline a picture of the future which the flight of time will prove to be true. For the most part, our spiders’ webs of theory are remorselessly cut down by the scythe of time. It is good to investigate sociological problems, and devise means for guiding our course safely through perils, but in our moments of pride, we would do wisely to reflect, that it is as though we were playing at chess with God as our adversary. All efforts to improve our state are bountiful, which are made after prayer, but other plans than those conceived in a spirit of humility and obedience to God’s law are, when we are mindful of His jealousy, at once foolish and terrible.
CHARLES C. COOK.