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ALWAYS through the ocean the ranging tides are sweeping
with flux and counterflux, like enormous arteries throbbing
under the bright vesture of the sea. There are the diurnal
tides that flow and ebb and pause and flow again continually,
hung in space by the mystery of gravitation; with the
thrust of the sun and the pull of the great ponderous
moon, they swing around the earth. But to us creepers
by the shore they seem only streaming currents or blue
or red or greenish water. Then there are the greater,
tides — properly speaking, ocean currents —
which have their bounds and frontiers, their apportioned
cycles to journey, shores to scour, islands to build,
reefs to thread, and the unknown [Page 7] depths
of unplumbed immensity to traverse.
To speak by metaphor, there are tides
of the mind also. Each man’s mind, perhaps, is
something like an insignificant rock-pool on our granite
coast. It may be sleeping idly in the sun, and you would
take it to be a mere chance rain puddle, or at best
the oversplash of storm, soon to become stagnant, to
evaporate, to pass away. But you mistake; it has somewhere
out of sight a hidden passage of communication with
the great deep, eternally breathing down the shore.
On parts of the coast where the soil permits it, as
in the Bahamas, for instance, with their coral rock
foundation, there are wells of sweet water within a
few feet of the sea, that rise and fall regularly with
the tide, yet are always fresh and wholesome to drink;
so admirable is the filtering alchemy of the earth.
There are minds of this sort, the thinkers of the race,
able to keep always in close touch with the vast profound
of truth, and able at [Page 8] the
same time to transmute it in some way into their own
limpid expression for the kindly service of man. Such
a man, whether he be poet or preacher, artist or agitator,
is more than merely “a well of English undefiled;”
he is a well of spiritual refreshment. Shakespeare,
Marcus Aurelius, Goethe, Darwin, Plato, Whitman, Browning,
Job, Virgil, Hugo, Kant, Spinoza, St. Francis —
pagan, saint, or sceptic, it matters not at all —
these were wells of the undefiled truth. They might
be the fountain springs of that stream Emerson speaks
of in his poem “Two Rivers.”
“So forth and brighter fares my stream, —
Who drink it shall not thirst
again;
No darkness stains its equal gleam,
And ages drop in it like rain.”
Yes,
and how we prize a good well! Think how many generations
have drunk from that clear fountain which Chaucer gave
to England! A new spring discovered, and we try its
taste, — first two or three put it to their [Page
9] lips, then a hundred, then perhaps a hundred
thousand, its fame is so excellent. Then, if it is really
good water, and unfailing for human need, we and our
children may drink of it for centuries.
We
read books for that same reason that we drink of a well,
I fancy. The natural element is necessary for the body;
and we bring ourselves daily into contact with the vast
primal chemic forces of the universe, else we should
perish. So, too, the mind has its necessity of nourishment;
it must be brought daily into immediate relation with
the outer vast of spiritual truth from which it springs.
It may drink from books, or it may find the sea of actual
life sufficient for it. But water it must have, sweet
or salt.
Now
there is nothing mysterious, or elect, or exclusive
in art, or books, or poetry. Our only use of these things,
our only joy in them, is this: that they put our small
selves into relation with the great tides of truth.
How a draught from Carlyle will sluice the dust [Page
10] out of one’s brain! For the mind
of every man would perish in a day if it had no channel
leading out to a source of thought! It is not a question
of right reason, or even of reason at all; it is a question
of life, of common joy and sorrow, and love and pleasure
in beauty.
It
has been said that happiness is not governed by circumstance,
that it depends on the tides of the mind. Have you not
noticed how capricious our own capacity for happiness
seems? To-day every condition may make for pleasure,
— a morning unsurpassed for loveliness, an easy
conscience, indulgent friends, a well-earned respite
from routine, wealth, plenty, amusement, — and
yet the magic moment of radiant joy fails to arrive.
The tide is setting the wrong way. To-morrow, on the
contrary, everything is adverse; it is a mean, drizzly,
unhealthy day in town, business is vexing, men are untrustworthy,
one failure follows another, out home folk berate us,
our clothes are shabby, the cars are [Page 11]
crowded to indecency; it matters not the least
in the world. From some undiscovered source, there suffuses
us a sense of joyful content, an unfathomable draught
of happiness which nothing can poison or take away.
Probably, unknown to ourselves, we have done some act
or met some thought, which put us in communication with
absolute truth. One cannot tell. It was a touch of the
tides of the mind.
But
this is certain: never, by taking thought for the outward
conditions alone, can one secure happiness, nor control
these uncharted mental tides. I dare say, however, that
we might be helped in governing the ebb and flow of
happiness by two rules. The first is thus: See that
your body is well [Page 12] cared for.
The body is the reservoir through which the tides of
the mind will flow. You must keep it clean and well
ventilated, and thoroughly repaired. To do this needs
leisure and work combined. And the second rule is very
like the first: See that every other body is well cared
for. This will give you a sufficient spiritual exercise
to ensure a wholesome thirst for happiness; and your
soul will then refuse to be put off with any of the
numerous decoctions of mere pleasure. [Page
13]
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