Of Their Own Making.
I was pleased with a report of the graduation exercises at the Institution for the Improved Instruction of Deaf Mutes in New York City. Every pupil that graduated wore clothes that he or she had made with his or her own hands. That exception was a boy, who, however, had done outside work on Saturdays and thus earned the money to buy his own suit.
This, I think, is a good example for all graduates, and furnishes an admirable suggestion for all students that are preparing to graduate.
Not, of course, that everyone must literally make his own suit of clothes for commencement day, though that would not be amiss, especially for the girls. But no one is ready to leave school till he can do things and make things.
The world asks of the young candidates for positions: "What can you do? What can you make? What is the use of you?" and it will have an answer before it renders up its money or its fame. Young men and young women cannot safely step forth from their schooldays except in some suit of clothes that they themselves have fashioned-that is, some useful work that they have proved their ability to do.
Such proof is far more important than the most brilliant commencement parts without it. A Latin poem, a fine oration, honors in mathematics-all these are nothing unless there goes with them a power to use them for the good of mankind.
Cut and baste and stitch this suit of clothes, therefore, O student, and do not let the garments fall from your patient hands till they fit you to a charm. For it is very likely that this suit of clothes is the only one you will get to wear all through your life!
He Did It Differently.
In the wall that bounds the playground of the Rugby School in England, they have placed a tablet which reads as follows:
"This stone commemorates the exploit of William Webb Ellis, who, with a fine disregard for the rules of football as played in his time, first took the ball in his arms and ran with it, thus originating the distinctive feature of the Rugby game, A. D., 1823."
That is, Webb Ellis, refusing to give the orthodox kick nearly a century ago, and instead running off with the ball in his arms, struck out in a new direction, set the (foot) ball rolling, and became an immortal.
Well, immortality is gained in no other way. It is won by being original.
The world is waiting, the Kingdom of Heaven is waiting, for ardent, independent souls that will be themselves and not ape others.
Men had been bowing before the Pope, buying of him the pardon of their sins and the release of their loved ones from Purgatory. Luther "took the ball in his arms and ran with it."
Men had been selling their brothers and sisters into slavery, whipping them, torturing them, hunting the fugitives with bloodhounds. Garrison "took the ball in his arms and ran with it."
Men had centered the heavens upon this earth and narrowed their thoughts to a petty universe. Galileo "took the ball in his arms and ran with it."
Men had shrunk back from the waste of waters, and abased their manhood before the unknown monsters of the deep. Columbus "took the ball in his arms and ran with it."
Read the history of nations and of men, of art and science and religion, and everywhere you will find that the world has progressed by the method of Webb Ellis.
Nor is it in the large matters alone, but also in affairs that some might consider insignificant. For when a young man dares to break away from a godless set and take a stand for Christ, he thereby takes rank with Webb Ellis and Columbus and Luther. And when a young woman dares to disregard the sneers of fashion and minister to the outcast, she steps at once to the side of Florence Nightingale and Frances Willard and Joan of Arc and Grace Darling.
Seek the better! Seek, the best! Be bold, in that search, to leave the outworn past behind you!
With a "fine disregard" for what has been, in your own life or the lives of others, dare to be a pioneer in the Kingdom of Heaven!
The Shears and the Typewriter.
The shears and the typewriter were pleading with the editor, each desiring to be his implement. Said the shears, "You can make a better paper from clippings than from original matter." Said the typewriter, "Original matter has more force and pertinency than the best clippings." "Don't be conceited," said the shears; "everybody is wiser than anybody." "Don't be lazy," said the typewriter; "put yourself into your task." "I," declared the shears, "gather the whole world for your paper." "I," answered the typewriter, "send your thoughts into the whole world." "I am humble," the shears asserted. "I am energetic," insisted the typewriter. "Your readers," urged the shears, "would get woefully tired of your productions." The typewriter replied, "They would get still more tired of a scrap-book miscellany." "I," asserted the shears, "would make your paper a bouquet." "Better call it hash," the typewriter rejoined. "You'd wear yourself out over the typewriter," the shears warned him. "You'd stagnate with the shears," the typewriter answered. Finally, after an hour of this debate, the editor reached for the shears with his left hand and began to use the typewriter with his right hand, being ambidextrous, and having two sides to his brain. Thus he edited a paper that won the favor of many subscribers.
Your Own Thoughts.
Most men are copies of other men. No one man, of course, is a copy of any other one man, but each man is a copy of hundreds of other men, taking a bit from each.
A few men are commentaries on other men. They repeat the words of others, adding their own thoughts that have been aroused by the others. A large proportion of books are in this class—merely commentaries. So are most editorials and other articles in the periodicals. So, if you analyze them, are most poems.
But the men to whom the world loves to listen think their own thoughts and say their own say. They read books, of course, but the books they write are not copies of other books or comments upon other books; they are their own books, their very own. They listen to other men, of course, and are stimulated by them, but not to the loss of their originality.
It is the easiest thing in the world to think you are original when you are not. It is easy to mistake smartness for originality, or combativeness, or pomposity. It is easy to fool the thoughtless into believing that you are original. But all of this fails to count an atom if you are not original; and the test of originality is accomplishment.
No echo ever moved men. No mere discussion of the sayings of others ever moved men. Men are moved by the words that spring from the soul of the speaker, and not by the warmed-over thoughts, the second-hand thoughts, that he may retail, however skillfully. If men are not moved by you to think their own thoughts and do their own deeds, you are not an original thinker.
You may be very useful and entirely happy. The pipe that carries the spring water from the hillside to the farm is of great service; but it is not the spring, and would be useless without the spring.
"But," you will say, "only a few can be springs. Only a few can be original."
That is not true. Everyone can think his own thoughts and speak his own words. There must be much copying. Wise and strong and beautiful lives are to be copied. There must be much commenting. We grow by discussion. But we need not end —any of us—short of the supreme glory of original thought.
Our original thought may concern only a cabbage patch or a kitchen table, but if it is original thought and we express it in an original way it will have an effect in other lives such as no amount of reflected Emerson or Carlyle could ever have. You may know some such original thinker in a humble sphere. If you do, you need no other proof of my words.
Be yourself. Use all other men to make yourself a bigger self, but be yourself. Use all other expression to show you how to express yourself, but express yourself. You have a brain in your head and not a mirror. Use it, not as a mirror, but as a brain.
Fit Phrases.
A friend of mine once remarked, in the presence of his daughter, that his wife "gave him the mitten" the first time he "popped the question."
"How did she do it, papa?" eagerly inquired the young girl. "What did she say?"
Her father turned the question aside, but the girl persisted. At last, remembering that his daughter, though young, had many admirers, he answered her: "Well, never mind what your mother said; but if anyone asks you to marry him, just tell him you are too young to think about such matters." Thereupon the girl went away perfectly satisfied.
It is amazing, and rather pathetic, to see how helpless average persons are in the need of a fit phrase. They will go groping after it in books of quotations. They will study the letters of others, and their speeches. They will torment their friends with the question, "Now just what shall I say? Just what would you say if you were in my place?" It is the "just what" that they want; not the mere idea, but the actual words. So rare is originality.
For illustration, take the modern sentence, "I'm on the water wagon now." It has undoubtedly aided the temperance cause immensely by its popularity. Young men can say it—and do say it by the thousand in all ranks of society—without arousing antagonism. There is no air of superiority about it. It has a light and lively swing, as if it were a joke. It sounds like a temporary matter, a sort of recovery from a spree; and yet the deepest earnest is usually behind it.
Evangelists have learned to make good use of this principle in their great work. They tell converts what to say next. They tell Christian workers what to say in dealing with inquirers. For instance, "I am going to join the church next communion; don't you want to join with me?" A simple question, entirely free from the "holier-than-thou" attitude; indeed, not touching the main question at all; but folks will ask that question when they would not say, "Are you a Christian?" and the first question leads in time to the second. The convert, the average convert, would not think of asking that question if the evangelist did not give him the exact wording of it.
In short, if you want people to say anything, tell them what to say. They will not say it unless they mean it; do not fear hypocrisy. Folks do not lack sincerity, but they do lack originality. Therefore, put words—good words, manly words, Christian words—into their mouths.
Something Different.
On the Boston and Albany I once happened to spy, from the swiftly flying train, the following sign—I believe it was at Pittsfield:
H. A. COOPER.
He Sells Coal. Wood Too.
I don't know Mr. Cooper from Adam, but I'm sure he has a bright wit of his own, or else someone in his employment has.
For that sign has brightness in it. I must have read hundreds of signs on that journey, but none of the others "stuck." And why? Because they were not "different"; that one was. "Wood Too"—a stroke of genius!
Young man, starting out to do things, to keep store, to teach school, to report speeches, to hammer out letters on the typewriter, to plow corn,—whatever it is, don't strike the "dead level" of monotony. The level is dead, and deadening. Rise above it, if you want to succeed. Ten thousand men can paint a sign:
H. A. COOPER. Coal and Wood.
Do you put into your sign a spark of individuality: "He Sells Coal. Wood Too."
I don't advise you to be blatant, impudent, a self-advertiser, always popping up a grinning countenance like a Jack-in-the-box. That would defeat your own ends. I simply want you to have a character of your own, and to show that character in everything you do. Be yourself. Be yourself intensely. But be yourself modestly, too.