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Last week we recalled some sentences on self-control and some thoughts concerning those who leave home, for school, for employment, for other purposes, and cited this significant sentence: "Every man must sometime or other be trusted to himself."1
As to mental, physical and spiritual discipline, sometime ago we cited some sentences from John Locke which said: "Consent to nothing but what may be suitable to the dignity and excellency of a rational creature. . ..
We are mindful these days of young people who are moving into life's more permanent pursuits. We are mindful also of the many decisions facing those who have completed some part of their preparation, and who must now or soon decide whether to quit or how far to proceed with further preparation. It is difficult to generalize, for each case carries its own set of circumstances.
Last week, it may be recalled, we closed with a quotation from an ancient Roman writer: “Do you expect, forsooth,” he said, “that a mother will hand down to her children principles which differ from her own?”1 This compelling question could well be asked by all who contemplate marriage, and who are wise enough to […]
We have concerned ourselves somewhat these past two weeks with mothers, and daughters, and wives, and the place of women in the world, and should like to pursue the subject with these few further thoughts: In considering ideals and objectives, and the sometimes overemphasis on social considerations, and appeals merely to appearance. Ruskin wrote: “The […]
In speaking of mothers, of daughters, of wives, we should like to turn a moment or two to the place of women in the world. Of course, in some respects it has so greatly shifted—so greatly that greatly seems almost too weak a word.
In speaking to an occasion, a century or so ago, Rufus Choate left some lines on love of country that seem to have as much of meaning for love of home: "There is a love he said, "which comes uncalled for, one knows not how. It comes with the very air, the eye, the ear, the instincts, . . . the first beatings of the heart.
Today in a few sentences we should like to share some thoughts on physical fitness, on health and happiness. People may perform well despite physical frailties, despite impairments, despite ill health, and many heroically do; but this doesn't set aside the fact that a person could better think, could better serve, could better perform with all sides of himself fully functioning.
Some recent weeks ago we talked of being in the world, but not of it, and of the impossibility of pleasing all people. And now currently we recall this quotation accredited to a significant source: "I cannot give you the formula for success, but I can give you the formula for failure—try to please everybody."1
Last week we talked of never making life smaller, of never making life less, and of the obligation we have to work, to think, to produce, to enrich the world as part payment for what we have received from others, and as part payment for all that the Lord God has given.
We have talked before of the fact that there is nothing, we ever do that fails to have its effect on, others. People sometimes say that their lives are their own, and that what they do shouldn't concern anyone else. But everything, in fact, sooner or later does concern someone else.
In a moving and most meaningful utterance, the Master of mankind thus prayed for those whom the Lord God had given him: "I pray not that thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that thou shouldest keep them from the evil."1
Perhaps it is time again to say some things that have been said before and to say them gratefully and soberly in this Easter setting—for always and ever we need assurance against what otherwise would be but fleeting futility assurance that men are immortal, that justice can be counted on, that truth and intelligence, people and personality continue eternally beyond time, and that loved ones who have left us are not forever lost.
Since so constantly it has recurred, for so many centuries, we should not, perhaps, be overly awed by its coming once again—but Spring never ceases to be an unbelievable miracle and an unforgettable memory.
Sometimes we little seem to realize how much of hurt there is in irresponsible utterance, and how much of time is used in triviality of talk. On this subject Sir John Lubbock said: “One is thrown in life with a great many people who, though not actively bad, though they may not willfully lead us […]
Do we speak as well of our friends when they are absent as when they are with us? It would sometimes seem hazardous to be absent from some kinds of company because of gossip or uncomplimentary comments concerning those who aren't there.
Whenever policies or products or principles, or actions or attitudes were under consideration, a certain thoughtful observer often asked this challenging, this compelling question: "What will it do to the man?"1—not what is politic or popular or profitable only, not what is comfortable or convenient only, but what will it do to people?
A very important part of our heritage is the lessons other men have learned and left us. The principles, the experience of prophets, of patriots and others of the past are precious and priceless in their continuing constancy of counsel.
In some thoughtful lines on life, Samuel Johnson said: "Reflect that life, like every other blessing, derives its value from its use alone."1
We have talked before of beginning to be what we want to be, and of the uneasy feelings that linger inside ourselves when we leave what we should have done not only undone, but also unstarted. We all intend well—or most of us do. We sometimes dream well; We usually hope well and wish well. We sometimes plan well, but we don't always do what has to be done to bring our hopes and plans to the point of beginning. Sometimes we simply don't get going.
In a writing of half a century or so ago, Arnold Bennett said: “Philosophers have explained space. They have not explained time. It is the inexplicable raw material of everything. With it, all is possible; without it, nothing. The supply of time is truly a daily miracle. . . . You wake up in the morning, and ... your, purse is magically filled with twenty-four hours. It is yours. It is the most precious of possessions… And no one receives either more or less than you receive. . . . Moreover, you cannot draw on the future… You can only waste the passing moment. You cannot waste tomorrow; it is kept for you. You cannot waste the next hour; it is kept for you. . . . You have to live on this twenty-four hour of daily time. Out of it you have to spin health, pleasure, money, content, respect, and the evolution of your immortal soul. Its right use, its most effective use is a matter of highest urgency. . . . All depends on that."1 Thus wrote Arnold Bennett.
Seldom in life do we find ourselves living or working under ideal conditions. There are delays and distractions. There are times of waiting—waiting for people, for appointments—waiting for many reasons, both in public and private places. There are times at home and times away, in military service, for example, or on some other assignment when, after the routine duties of the day, there could be idle hours.
Today we should like to turn to the rich rewards of reading—not reading merely for the purpose of passing time, but for the purpose of discovering truth, of discovering what thoughtful men think. Reading enriches life; it enriches conversation; it enriches understanding. It perpetuates the past and teaches its lessons to the present.
Because so much is done for so many of us, both by men and machines, because we have become accustomed to so much service, the use of hands and feet, and even of minds, has, in many instances, been minimized.
One of the easiest answers to anything we don't want to do, is to say we don't have time. Sometimes this is true. Sometimes it isn't. It is deeply and desperately true that we don't have time to do everything, or to be everything, or to learn everything, or to go everywhere.
It was recorded of a certain ancient king that he lived a hundred and twenty years, and that he reigned for eighty years—longer than most men live. And then the recorder of this chronology quickly added this significant sentence: " . . . still nothing that has an end is long."1
We seem sometimes to consider people and events of the far past as something quite apart from the present. But they are nearer to us than we sometimes suppose. If we have lived twenty-five years, a century is only four times the length of the mortal life we have lived.
Herbert Spencer once said: “The preservation of health is a duty.”1 In other words, there is—on all of us—an obligation to keep free from contaminating and injurious substances and habits and influences that would impair the full and healthful functioning of the wondrous physical faculties which the Lord God has given. And in addition to […]
In recent observations we have arrived at an awareness that old age is the harvest of the years of youth; that each part of life is as natural as all others, and all make a complete picture. And one of the most valued of the harvests of life is health. We cannot always assure it unto ourselves.
A subject so greatly significant as old age is not soon exhausted—and we would add at this hour some further thoughts on this theme: "We grow old naturally," said one physician, and "the first and the most important ingredient in the prescription for growing old graciously and happily is understanding—understanding of the naturalness of the process of growing old. . .."1