Happiness, after all, is more active than passive, and depends a good deal upon the bent which education, our own strong instincts, or the fashion of the age or the day may inculcate. I’ll warrant me, that the Crusaders thought it consisted in slicing off the heads of the Saracens—the good old monks in fasting, prayer, and hair-garments,—some of the old fathers again, in capon, burgundy, and beauty. The curate of the English Church, thinks it is the mitre and the bishop’s holy office—the bishop, in turn, the gold and the influence of the station, yet he is not wholly satisfied. Some of the Spanish girls think it consists in a rich old husband, and a handsome young cavalier; others, who will none of them, turn nuns. John Bull finds his in roast-beef, trade, and the aristocracy. Brother Jonathan in politics, progression, gold, and the cuteness of the universal Yankee nation. But what philosopher, to clinch his theory, will bring you an individual who has no longings, no aspirings to be, or do, or have something more? Who does not feel proud to excel in something?—goodness even becomes a marketable article, for praise. Virtue in rags loves incense. Every man does, or feels that he does, outdo his fellows in something. The inflation of a mind conscious of superior powers; the thought of a purse larger and deeper—of a cheek of purer roundness, whiteness, or bloom—a voice of richer powers—a name, a position, the huzzas, or the stare of the multitude—to be a lucky fellow, a great man, these make up the sum of personal gratification. But who is contented, without taxing the praise, the envy, the pockets of others? The fashionable woman, who shines in brighter jewels and more brilliant parties than her opposing friends—the merchant who chuckles over the feat of driving a sharp bargain with a brother trader, each has a standard of happiness not set down in philosophy—self-sufficiency—personal acquisition and glory—vanity all, Jeremy.
Above the roar of my little fire, I hear, from my den editorial, the tumult of the great world without, and fancy I can see the struggle going on through all the avenues of life—from the church where we have specimen preaching and fashionable morals, down to the poor boot-black, who polishes your patent boots, and praises his patent blacking. You will find all things made up to lure and dazzle the unsophisticated. At every turn you must beware of man-traps and cajolings. In a moment, and a shape you least anticipate, some brilliant fortune-seducer and ensnarer, will start up opportunely in your very path; for what your own brain does not suggest, your passion and self-love urge you to—will spring, full-armed from the head of some daring genius, who is your dear friend, and takes you in, for that reason only. The influence of a bad example in morals or business, a determination not to be outdone or to be bullied, a suggestion to excel and overtop our fellows, are poisons very flatteringly administered to our self-esteem, but certain and deadly, nevertheless. The disease is contagious, and you have been slightly bitten already; be contented, my dear boy, if you can—but be modest, be wary, be cool. Instead of trying to practice philosophical apophthegms in a world made up as ours is, try a little self-denial. Let the glitter and the huzzas of the supposed great and successful, sweep by you, but stand firm—it is a luxury worth the testing. You shall look from the banks of the stream of time, and see the dead of the slain of this world float by you, and with your staff in hand, shall walk slowly and surely onward and upward to the source of all inspiration and happiness. You can have no chance in the bold games played in this world, without a defilement of the heart—an utter loss of self-respect, a total disregard or an annihilation of conscience.
Yet your sharp fellows—what a feast of enjoyment have they, in a world made up expressly to their hands of duller clay? Men who, smiling kindly, will cheat you before your very eyes, with a consciousness of self-power, that you cannot, with all your acuteness, tell under which thimble “the little joker” happens to be. Is there rare enjoyment in this? There must be, you will think, or why is it so perseveringly followed in nearly all the dealings of man with man. Your eyes are your market, my friend—keep them open. I’ll warrant you, that my dismal friend, who is singing so sadly out in the street over his bivalves, says in his heart—“the world is mine oyster,” and has as high an opinion of his own sagacity, as any dealer in broad-cloths or sugars, and will trick you as nicely with a specimen oyster, as the best of them. You shall buy them, upon looking at the one he opens for you—but be not amazed, oh, weak and trusting purchaser, at the shrunken forms of the shell-fish when thou openest the kettle! Call not hard names after the departing vendor—it is the way of life—a specimen is the same, all the world over. The departure from the principle is the exception, not the rule.
Not to say any thing about copper, a friend of mine was ruined by Patent Pumps—not dancing shoes, for he was a Quaker—but a very plain water-pump. He invested his all, as purchaser of the right, after seeing the model, which was very ingeniously devised to supply the famishing cattle of all the farm-houses in the country, at the shortest notice, with a steady supply from never-failing wells. There were not less than thirty thousand farmers anxiously waiting at that instant to buy the article at twenty dollars each. The inventor was poor, and needed ready money, or he never would have parted with it for ten times the sum agreed to be given. The only difficulty, with the new owner, was to find logs to be bored, and men as borers—it was a bore decidedly, and nothing but energy and perseverance could have surmounted these obstacles. But somehow, though the model worked bravely—even the ruin of its owner, pumping him dry—the water was obstinate in coming above its level in large bodies, and in consequence, the enterprise was water-logged. And so failing in the water business, he became a member of the Sons of Temperance, and took his revenge by putting down that water, that wouldn’t come up. And this man was an editor, like yourself, Jeremy, with a great fund of knowledge, and should have known better—at least so his friends said, and that was all the comfort they gave him.
Tom Brown, too—you remember Tom? had a wisdom above his years, and rather an ambition to do something extravagant and new. He therefore became discontented with the slow and sure profits of a regular business, and embarked his little fortune, great experience, and goahead-a-tive-ness in a “swift-sure” line. He purchased “The Patent Steam Sand Excavator and Elevator,” designed for the very laudable purpose of taking superfluous sand from river-beds, and transferring it to the mortar-beds of the builder. Tom had fortune now by the skirts, and would not let go. People wondered what Tom and his friends were at, ploughing up and down the river with their sand-scow, but supposed that they must have a large contract from government for cleansing the beds of the rivers—taking the initiative in navigation made easy. From the quantity of sand carefully piled upon shore, it was manifest that the business was to be done, and would be, thoroughly. Tom was cautious, close, smiling, and enjoyed highly all manner of jokes, such as “Capt. Sandy Tom”—Tom’s hair was red, but he wasn’t to be—and winked knowingly to the engineer, when he came on board.
“It will never do,” said Tom, “to let the secret out to these fellows, until we get our contracts with the builders, or we shouldn’t get half-price. And in order to do that safely, on a large scale, we must first get out the sand.”
Bright thought, shrewd Tom! The engine, therefore, went on puffing, but not Tom—he kept quiet, but busy.
“If we can throw dust into their eyes,” said he, “until we get a pile, we can come the bluff game on the river-side, with a hand full of spades, ha! How do you like that, engineer?”
The engineer thought that Tom was some, at a pun.
The enterprise went on, but it came to a head too, as all enterprises will, somehow; and Tom had spent his availables. But then he had the sand, heaps—yes, mountains of it.