Lessons in Life - A Series of Familiar Essays

Timothy Titcomb

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• Publié par: vuen
• Publié le: 01 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 41
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lessons in Life,
by Timothy Titcomb
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Title: Lessons in Life A Series of Familiar EssaysAuthor: Timothy Titcomb
Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8932]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of
schedule] [This file was first posted on August 26,
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Edition: 10
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG
EBOOK LESSONS IN LIFE ***
Produced by Distributed ProofreadersLESSONS IN LIFE.
A SERIES OF FAMILIAR ESSAYS.
BY
TIMOTHY TITCOMB, AUTHOR OF "LETTERS TO
THE YOUNG," "GOLD-FOIL," ETC.PREFACE.
The quick and cordial reception which greeted the
author's "Letters to the Young," and his more
recent series of essays entitled "Gold Foil," and the
constant and substantial friendship which has been
maintained by the public toward those productions,
must stand as his apology for this third venture in a
kindred field of effort. It should be—and probably is
—unnecessary for the author to say that in this
book, as in its predecessors, he has aimed to be
neither brilliant nor profound. He has endeavored,
simply, to treat in a familiar and attractive way a
few of the more prominent questions which
concern the life of every thoughtful man and
woman. Indeed, he can hardly pretend to have
done more than to organize, and put into form, the
average thinking of those who read his books—to
place before the people the sum of their own
choicer judgments—and he neither expects nor
wishes for these essays higher praise than that
which accords to them the quality of common
sense.
SPRINGFIELD, MASS., November, 1861.
CONTENTS.
LESSON I. MOODS AND FRAMES OF MINDLESSON II. BODILY IMPERFECTIONS AND
IMPEDIMENTS LESSON III. ANIMAL CONTENT
LESSON IV. REPRODUCTION IN KIND LESSON
V. TRUTH AND TRUTHFULNESS LESSON VI.
MISTAKES OF PENANCE LESSON VII. THE
RIGHTS OF WOMAN LESSON VIII. AMERICAN
PUBLIC EDUCATION LESSON IX.
PERVERSENESS LESSON X. UNDEVELOPED
RESOURCES LESSON XI. GREATNESS IN
LITTLENESS LESSON XII. RURAL LIFE LESSON
XIII. REPOSE LESSON XIV. THE WAYS OF
CHARITY LESSON XV. MEN OF ONE IDEA
LESSON XVI. SHYING PEOPLE LESSON XVII.
FAITH IN HUMANITY LESSON XVIII. SORE
SPOTS AND SENSITIVE SPOTS LESSON XIX.
THE INFLUENCE OF PRAISE LESSON XX.
UNNECESSARY BURDENS LESSON XXI.
PROPER PEOPLE AND PERFECT PEOPLE
LESSON XXII. THE POETIC TEST LESSON XXIII.
THE FOOD OF LIFE LESSON XXIV. HALF-
FINISHED WORKLESSONS IN LIFE.
LESSON I.
MOODS AND FRAMES OF MIND.
"That blessed mood
In which the burden of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lightened." WORDSWORTH.
"Oh, blessed temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day."
POPE.
"My heart and mind and self, never in tune;
Sad for the most part, then in such a flow
Of spirits, I seem now hero, now buffoon."
LEIGH HUNT.
It rained yesterday; and, though it is midsummer, it
is unpleasantly cool to-day. The sky is clear, with
almost a steel-blue tint, and the meadows are very
deeply green. The shadows among the woods are
black and massive, and the whole face of nature
looks painfully clean, like that of a healthy little boy
who has been bathed in a chilly room with very
cold water. I notice that I am sensitive to a changelike this, and that my mind goes very reluctantly to
its task this morning. I look out from my window,
and think how delightful it would be to take a seat
in the sun, down under the fence, across the
street. It seems to me that if I could sit there
awhile, and get warm, I could think better and write
better. Toasting in the sunlight is conducive rather
to reverie than thought, or I should be inclined to
try it. This reluctance to commence labor, and this
looking out of the window and longing for an
accession of strength, or warmth, or inspiration, or
something or other not easily named, calls back to
me an experience of childhood.
It was summer, and I was attending school. The
seats were hard, and the lessons were dry, and
the walls of the school-room were very cheerless.
An indulgent, sweet-faced girl was my teacher; and
I presume that she felt the irksomeness of the
confinement quite as severely as I did. The
weather was delightful, and the birds were singing
everywhere; and the thought came to me, that if I
could only stay out of doors, and lie down in the
shadow of a tree, I could get my lesson. I begged
the privilege of trying the experiment. The kind
heart that presided over the school-room could not
resist my petition; so I was soon lying in the
coveted shadow. I went to work very severely; but
the next moment found my eyes wandering; and
heart, feeling, and fancy were going up and down
the earth in the most vagrant fashion. It was
hopeless dissipation to sit under the tree; and
discovering a huge rock on the hillside, I made my
way to that, to try what virtue there might be in ashadow not produced by foliage. Seated under the
brow of the boulder, I again applied myself to the
dim-looking text, but it had become utterly
meaningless; and a musical cricket under the rock
would have put me to sleep if I had permitted
myself to remain. I found that neither tree nor rock
would lend me help; but down in the meadow I saw
the brook sparkling, and spanning it, a little bridge
where I had been accustomed to sit, hanging my
feet over the water, and angling for minnows. It
seemed as if the bridge and the water might do
something for me, and, in a few minutes, my feet
were dangling from the accustomed seat. There,
almost under my nose, close to the bottom of the
clear, cool stream, lay a huge speckled trout,
fanning the sand with his slow fins, and minding
nothing about me at all. What could a boy do with
Colburn's First Lessons, when a living trout, as
large and nearly as long as his arm, lay almost
within the reach of his fingers? How long I sat there
I do not know, but the tinkle of a distant bell
startled me, and I startled the trout, and fish and
vision faded before the terrible consciousness that
I knew less of my lesson than I did when I left the
school-house.
This has always been my fortune when running
after, or looking for, moods. There is a popular
hallucination that makes of authors a romantic
people who are entirely dependent upon moods
and moments of inspiration for the power to labor
in their peculiar way. Authors are supposed to write
when they "feel like it," and at no other time.
Visions of Byron with a gin-bottle at his side, and abeautiful woman hanging over his shoulder,
dashing off a dozen stanzas of Childe Harold at a
sitting, flit through the brains of sentimental youth.
We hear of women who are seized suddenly by an
idea, as if it were a colic, or a flea, often at
midnight, and are obliged to rise and dispose of it
in some way. We are told of very delicate girls who
carry pencils and cards with them, to take the
names and address of such angels as may visit
them in out-of-the-way places. We read of poets
who go on long sprees, and after recovery retire to
their rooms and work night and day, eating not and
sleeping little, and in some miraculous way
producing wonderful literary creations. The mind of
a literary man is supposed to be like a shallow
summer brook, that turns a mill. There is no water
except when it rains, and the weather being very
fickle, it is never known when there will be water.
Sometimes, however, there comes a freshet, and
then the mill runs night and day, until the water
subsides, and another dry time comes on.
Now, while I am aware, as every writer must be,
that the brain works very much better at some
times than it does at others, I can declare without
reservation, that no man who depends upon
moods for the power to write can possibly
accomplish much. I know men who rely upon their
moods, alike for the disposition and the ability to
write, but they are, without exception, lazy and
inefficient men. They never have accomplished
much, and they never will accomplish much.
Regular eating, regular sleeping, regular working—
these are the secrets of all true lit