The Pen-Holder.
Some day—it is just barely possible —some group of persons, mindful of my eminent services to society, will combine to give me a new fountain pen. I have heard of such presents. Others have received them, men no more deserving than I am; and why should not my turn come around?
Now we are forbidden by a courteous proverb to look a gift horse in the mouth. Lest I should be tempted to so boorish an act, let me record my preference for gift horses. In short, I hope no one will ever give me a "gold-mounted fountain pen."
I often hear of such inflictions, bestowed solemnly upon supposedly deserving recipients, and I am always sorry for them. The more gold-mounted the pen, the higher rises my tide of sympathy.
The smoothness of an ordinary rubber fountain pen is very grateful to the hand. Besides, hard rubber though it is, fancy at least imparts to it something of the pliancy that all descendants of gutta percha should possess. The pen yields itself gently to my caressing pressure, and a day's writing does not tire my fingers.
But "gold-mounted!" The fates forefend! My shrinking flesh can even now feel the angular carvings, the rasping projections of upstart metal, the hard and unyielding yellow nuisance! My fingers can even now feel the needlessly intruding weight of that costly addition. How could a thought ever progress, compelled to push before it such a gilded burden? Was a great poem ever written with such a fountain pen? or a smoothly flowing essay? Verily, no!
For it is a general rule, I suppose, in all work, that simple tools are the best. The less there is of the tool, the better, provided there is enough of it to do its work well. Inlays of ivory would spoil the violin. An artist wants no flashing gems on his palette to withdraw his mind from his picture. When an athlete is about to run a race he takes off his necktie. The goal, the goal's the thing; and the means, the tools, the accouterments, are to be forgotten.
So it is, so it must be, with us, when we yield ourselves as obedient pens into the hand of the Great Author. He does not want us gold-mounted. He does not care for our adornment in any way, by genius, power, or skill. He cares for but one thing,—plain obedience; just that we are pliant to His hand, and allow ourselves to be moved where He wants to move us, and write His thoughts upon the outspread, white, blue-lined sheets of time. And we can all do that.
The Great Level.
Henry Drummond had an enviable way of putting the truth pungently. Most men would better quote Drummond than write their own literature. For example:
"The maximum achievement of any man's life, after it is all over, is to have done the will of God. No man or woman can do any more with a life; no Luther, no Spurgeon, no Wesley, no Melanchthon, can have done any more with their lives, and a dairymaid or a scavenger can do as much."
This is the fundamental level of the kingdom of God—rather, the democracy of God. It is a high level, and we all can reach it. If we reach it, the most ambitious of us ought to be supremely satisfied.
We talk about striking "a dead level." This is a live level.
We talk about doing "our level best." This is our level best.
We talk about being "level-headed." This is being level-headed.
To many the thought that this high level of character and attainment is within the reach of all serves to cheapen it. Lincoln will be there; Phillips Brooks and Moody and Florence Nightingale and Frances Willard will be there. But so also may the bootblack be there, and the grocer.
This thought condemns the thinker. It shows at once the low level on which he lives, and the essential crudity of his mind.
If you do not look up to anyone who does the will of God,—anyone, however lowly his lot; look up to him with delight and admiration,—then no one should look up to you, but all men and angels should look down upon you with sorrow and disgust.
A Soldier—Sent.
Large numbers of Americans, while not assuming to pass upon the disagreement between Major-General Leon and Wood and President Wilson's Administration, have yet sympathized with the gallant soldier as he has been moved from post to post, always to one a little inferior in dignity and opportunity than the one he has been obliged to leave. General Wood's conduct during those trying experiences has been admirable; he has remained cheerful and serene, and has refused to criticize President Wilson. Demoted from the Department of the East, then demoted from the Department of the Southeast and placed in charge of a small training camp for draft troops in Kansas, his only public comment, made to an interviewer, has been, "I am a soldier, and go where I am sent."
Now that is fine, both in spirit and in expression. The disastrous mutinies and wholesale disobedience in Russia illustrate the opposite spirit and the ruin it inevitably brings. In business the strict carrying out of orders is the pathway of advancement. The obedient pupil is the one that masters the subject. Everywhere respect for lawful authority is a potent secret of progress. Everywhere obedience is one of the best evidences of a fine character, a character held in steady control, powers under the strict discipline of their owner.
Nor is it otherwise in the spiritual life. Every Christian is a soldier on duty. It is the business of every Christian to go where he is sent by his Commander. The order may appear to be demotion; he may be sent from wealth to poverty, from health to sickness, from fame to obscurity, from ease to hardship; but he is a good soldier of Jesus Christ, and he goes where he is sent. Moreover, he goes cheerfully, without faultfinding, and promptly.
Going where we are sent ought to be the happiest thing in the world, for Jesus Christ, our Captain, always goes with us.