I have mentioned religious belief as an element in the formation of character. The doctrine of no religious teacher has ever exercised such a dominating and controlling force in the formation of character in the civilized world, as have the doctrines of Christ. Before His advent the learned world received the philosophy of Aristotle, as a sufficient basis of moral doctrine and civic virtue. But that philosophy, great as it was, and impinging as it often did on the domain of absolute truth, has as a system of moral conduct, given way or been subordinated to the clear, direct yet simple enunciation of Christ, summed up in that grand and universally applicable rule of individual and civil conduct: "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you." A character in which this doctrine forms the basis will always respond to the demands of honor and right.
These observations must answer as a preface, or, as Horace Greely once styled such performances, as "preliminary egotism."
Autobiography
I was born in the Genesee Valley, Livingstone County, State of New York, on the second day of May, A. D. 1827. I was number two of a family of eight children,—six boys and two girls. My mother, while not in the popular sense an educated woman, having but a common-school education, had, as the philosopher Hobbes termed it, a large amount of "round-about common-sense." While she gave, as a religious mother, her assent to Solomon's declaration that he who spares the rod spoils the child, it was only in the most flagrant instances of disobedience that she put the doctrine in practice. She was firm, consistent, and truthful, indulging in no unfulfilled threats or promises of punishment in case of non-compliance with her orders. In fact, she acted upon the principle that certainty and not severity of punishment was the preventative of disobedience. Her all-prevailing governing power was affection—love,—thus exemplifying the teaching of the Master that "he who loveth Me keeps My commandments." I say it now, after eighty years of memory, that we obeyed her because we loved her. She has gone to her reward. My observation and experience is that the mother's influence over her sons, if she be a true and affectionate mother, is far stronger than that of the father. Her love is ever present in the conflict of life; it remains as an enduring and restraining force against evil, and a powerful impulse in favor of honor and right. Someone has said that there are but three words of beauty in the English language: "Mother, Home, Heaven."
My father owned a farm of forty acres in the Genesee Valley, and I first saw the light of day in a plain but comfortable frame house. Back of it, and between two and three rods from it, quietly ran in a narrow channel a flower-strewn and almost grass-covered spring brook, whose clear and pure waters, about a foot in depth, were used for domestic and farm purposes. I mention this brook because connected with it is my first memory. I fell into that brook one day when I was about three years old, and would have drowned had it not been for the timely arrival of my mother. As the years advanced, observation extended, experience increased and enlarged, and I became a parent myself, I have often considered how many children would have reached manhood or womanhood's estate wanting the almost divine affection and ceaseless vigilance of a mother's love.
The next circumstance in my life distinctly remembered occurred some two or three months after the water-incident stated above. Running and romping through the kitchen one day, I tripped and fell, striking my forehead on the sharp edge of a skillet, making a wound over an inch in length and cutting to the bone. The profuse flow of blood alarmed me; but my mother, who was not at all a nervous woman but calm, thoughtful and resourceful in the presence of difficulties, soon staunched the flow of blood and drew the bleeding lips of the gaping wound together. The doctor soon after added his skill; then Nature intervened; and, to use the stately language of court, the incident, as well as the wound, was closed.
I have stated these two events not as very important factors in the history of a life, but because they illustrate the teaching of mental philosophy, that memory's power of retention and in individual's ability to recall any particular fact depends upon the intensity of emotion attending that fact or event. Especially is this true of our youth and early manhood, when our emotional nature is active, vigorous and strong. In after years our emotional nature is not so active and not so readily aroused; still it exists, a latent but potent factor in memory's domain. Given the requisite intensity, it will still write in indelible characters the history of events on the tablets of memory.
Memory is of two kinds—local and philosophical. Local memory is the ability to retain and recall isolated and non-associated facts. The vast mass of early facts accumulated in memory's store-house rests upon this emotional principle. As the years increase and the mind matures, other principles become purveyors for that store-house. The laws of classification and association become in after years the efficient agencies of the cultivated mind to furnish the data for reflection and generalization. The operation of these laws constitutes philosophic memory. But such facts have no pathos,—no coloring. The recalled facts of our youthful days have a thrill in them; not always of joy, sometimes of sorrow. I must, however, dismiss these imperfect thoughts on mental philosophy, and return to autobiography.