University of Virginia Library

FEELING.

There is one way of studying human nature,
which surveys mankind only as a set of instruments
for the accomplishment of personal plans.
There is another, which regards them simply as a
gallery of pictures, to be admired or laughed at as
the caricature or the beau ideal predominates. A
third way regards them as human beings, having
hearts that can suffer and enjoy, that can be improved
or be ruined; as those who are linked to
us by mysterious reciprocal influences, by the
common dangers of a present existence, and the
uncertain ties of a future one; as presenting,
wherever we meet them, claims on our sympathy
and assistance.

Those who adopt the last method are interested
in human beings, not so much by present attractions
as by their capabilities as intelligent, immortal
beings; by a high belief of what every mind
may attain in an immortal existence; by anxieties
for its temptations and dangers, and often by the
perception of errors and faults which threaten its
ruin. The two first modes are adopted by the

great mass of society; the last is the office of those
few scattered stars in the sky of life, who look
down on its dark selfishness to remind us that
there is a world of light and love.

To this class did He belong, whose rising and
setting on earth were for “the healing of the nations;”
and to this class has belonged many a
pure and devoted spirit — like him, shining to
cheer—like him, fading away into the heavens.
To this class many a one wishes to belong, who
has an eye to distinguish the divinity of virtue,
without the resolution to attain it; who, while they
sweep along with the selfish current of society,
still regret that society is not different—that they
themselves are not different. If this train of
thought has no very particular application to what
follows, it was nevertheless suggested by it, and of
its relevancy others must judge.

Look into this schoolroom. It is a warm, sleepy
afternoon in July; there is scarcely air enough to
stir the leaves of the tall buttonwood-tree before
the door, or to lift the loose leaves of the copybook
in the window; the sun has been diligently shining
into those curtainless west windows ever since
three o'clock, upon those blotted and mangled
desks, and those decrepit and tottering benches,
and that great armchair, the high place of authority.

You can faintly hear, about the door, the “craw,
craw” of some neighbouring chickens, who have
stepped around to consider the dinner-baskets, and
pick up the crumbs of the noon's repast. For a
marvel, the busy school is still, because, in truth, it
is too warm to stir. You will find nothing to disturb
your meditation on character, for you cannot
bear the beat of those little hearts, nor the bustle
of all those busy thoughts.

Now look around. Who of these is the most
interesting? Is it that tall, slender, hazel-eyed
boy, with a glance like a falcon, whose elbows rest
on his book as he gazes out on the great buttonwood-tree,
and is calculating how he shall fix his
squirrel-trap when school is out? Or is it that
curly-headed little rogue, who is shaking with repressed
laughter at seeing a chicken roll over in a
dinner-basket? Or is it that arch boy with black
eyelashes, and deep, mischievous dimple in his
cheeks, who is slyly fixing a fishhook to the skirts
of the master's coat, yet looking as abstracted as
Archimedes whenever the good man turns his
head that way? No; these are intelligent, bright,
beautiful, but it is not these.

Perhaps, then, it is that sleepy little girl, with
golden curls and a mouth like a half-blown rose-bud?
See! the small brass thimble has fallen to
the floor, her patchwork drops from her lap, her

blue eyes close like two sleepy violets, her little
head is nodding, and she sinks on her sister's
shoulder; surely it is she. No, it is not.

But look in that corner: do you see that boy
with such a gloomy countenance—so vacant, yet so
ill-natured? He is doing nothing, and he very seldom
does anything. He is surly and gloomy in
his looks and actions. He never showed any
more aptitude for saying or doing a pretty thing,
than his straight white hair does for curling. He is
regularly blamed and punished every day, and the
more he is blamed and punished, the worse he
grows. None of the boys and girls in school will
play with him, or if they do, they will be sorry for
it. And every day the master assures him that
“he does not know what to do with him,” and that
he “makes him more trouble than any boy in
school,” with similar judicious information, that
has a striking tendency to promote improvement.
That is the boy to whom I apply the title of “the
most interesting one.”

He is interesting because he is not pleasing; because
he has bad habits; because he does wrong;
because he is always likely to do wrong. He is
interesting because he has become what he is now
by means of the very temperament which often
makes the noblest virtue. It is feeling, acuteness

of feeling, which has given that countenance its expression,
that character its moroseness.

He has no father, and that long-suffering friend,
his mother, is gone too. Yet he has relations,
and kind ones too; and, in the compassionate language
of worldly charity, it may be said of him,
“He would have nothing of which to complain, if
he would only behave himself.”

His little sister is always bright, always pleasant
and cheerful; and his friends say, “Why
should not he be so too? he is in exactly the same
circumstances.” No, he is not. In one circumstance
they differ. He has a mind to feel and remember
almost everything that can pain him; she
can feel and remember but little. If you blame him
he is exasperated, gloomy, and cannot forget it.
If you blame her, she can say she has done wrong
in a moment, and all is forgotten. Her mind can
no more be wounded than the little brook where
she loves to play. The bright waters close in a
moment, and smile and prattle as merry as before.

Which is the most desirable temperament? It
would be hard to say. The power of feeling is
necessary for all that is noble in man, and yet it
involves the greatest risks. They who catch at
happiness on the bright surface of things, secure a
portion, such as it is, with more certainty; those
who dive for it in the waters of deep feeling, if they

succeed, will bring up pearls and diamonds, but if
they sink they are lost forever!

But now comes Saturday, and school is just out.
Can any one of my readers remember the rapturous
prospect of a long, bright Saturday afternoon?
“Where are you going?” “Will you come and
see me?” “We are going a fishing!” “Let us
go a strawberrying!” may be heard rising from
the happy group. But no one comes near the ill-humoured
James, and the little party going to visit
his sister “wish James was out of the way.” He
sees every motion, hears every whisper, knows,
suspects, feels it all, and turns to go home more
sullen and ill-tempered than common. The world
looks dark—nobody loves him—and he is told that
it is “all his own fault,” and that makes the matter
still worse.

When the little party arrive, he is suspicious
and irritable, and, of course, soon excommunicated.
Then, as he stands in disconsolate anger, looking
over the garden fence at the gay group making
dandelion chains, and playing baby-house under
the trees, he wonders why he is not like other
children. He wishes he were different, and yet he
does not know what to do. He looks around, and
everything is blooming and bright. His little bed
of flowers is even brighter and sweeter than ever

before, and a new rose is just opening on his rosebush.

There goes pussy too, racing and scampering,
with little Ellen after her, in among the alleys and
flowers; and the birds are singing in the trees;
and the soft winds brush the blossoms of the sweet-pea
against his cheek; and yet, though all nature
looks on him so kindly, he is wretched.

Let us now change the scene. Why is that
crowded assembly so attentive—so silent? Who
is speaking? It is our old friend, the little disconsolate
schoolboy. But his eyes are flashing with
intellect, his face fervent with emotion, his voice
breathes like music, and every mind is enchained.

Again, it is a splendid sunset, and yonder enthusiast
meets it face to face, as a friend. He is silent—
rapt—happy. He feels the poetry which God has
written; he is touched by it, as God meant that
the feeling spirit should be touched.

Again, he is watching by the bed of sickness,
and it is blessed to have such a watcher! anticipating
every want; relieving, not in a cold, uninterested
way, but with the quick perceptions, the
tenderness, the gentleness of an angel.

Follow him into the circle of friendship, and
why is he so loved and trusted? Why can you
so easily tell to him what you can say to no one
else besides? Why is it that all around him feel

that he can understand, appreciate, be touched by
all that touches them?

And when Heaven uncloses its doors of light—
when all its knowledge, its purity, its bliss, rises
on the eye and passes into the soul, who then will
be looked on as the one who might be envied—he
who can, or he who cannot feel?