WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT YOURSELF

Ohinemuri Gazette, Volume XXXII, Issue 4251, 13 April 1921, Page 1

WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT YOURSELF

By CANON LANGRIDGE

Sentimental Tommy usually pushed his way into a feminine heart with a single assertion: "Ah, but you are not like other women." The depth and the truth of that observation compelled an instant surrender. In dealing with myself, however, I have found it wise to make the very opposite assumption.

As a matter of fact, Sir James Barrie disproved the singularity, the aloofness, the quite-out-of-the-coni-mon-ness which I am sure a great many women do belive of their own souls, by drawing all his women from pne^ original, his mother. Observation of character outside ourselves is merely a peep and a run. And we must prop our eyes wide open, or we shan't see much. It needs a stern resolution not to see double, or half, or something else, or nothing at all. I think, too, that a sense of humour should be there, consenting with a smile of wide charity to see our favourite hero —-we are generally our own favourite hero — melting away like a snow man, turning like a scarecrow to an old hat and a stick, to see our courage wash off as a cork moustache, and our magnanimity pull off like Mr. Wopsle's stage stockings.

I always think that what has happened to me has happened to other people; not exactly, but in one form or another—for there is a spiritual flllotropy; the boiling water of courage and the ice of fear may be different modes of the same passion.

Have you ever noticed, for example how close to generosity lies - meanness? Whether a man shall give away millions or deny himself necessaries seems a toss up; and science, I believe, has never explained the mysterious law of heads and tails. My own impulse has been to put my hand into my pocket. I have preferred to buy rubbish rather than let my money lie. Tipping a waiter has been almost as pleasant to me as being tipped myself. A palmist assured me the other day that I was moral to the verge of extravagance.

Yet when a bit of luck tempted me to buy a few shares the greed of gold caught me by the arm—al;uost by the throat. I was seized with a fever of putting by. My butterfly days were over. I was a busy bee and a slave of the hive. Money was my honey. I forsook the pleasant paths of Bolshevism for the new Trusts. Austin Friars became, more than Jerusalem, mf happy home. I have forsaken, even in leafy country spots, Wordsworth and the cuckoo for the song of the oof-bird. I sit, like a goose, on my golden egg. Unless some good Christian bursts up my little venture, or sucks my egg, I shall die as avaricious as Byron.

' Know thyself," was the wisdom of the old philosophy. It is the only way to know men—to know man. Whenever I come across a faithful description of the feelings of tipsy legs in Dickens, or a sneer of resignation for other people's misfortunes in. Thackeray. I hear the beat of "the man's own heart. Dickens knew David Copperfield so well because he remembered his own youth, and Thackeray Major Penderm is so well because he had watched himself at the club.

There is a singular picture in "Transformation" of a sweet affinity between the wild world of wing and fur, and Donatello, the human faun. Mr. Yeat tells.us that such a sympathy is existent to-day between that world and one of the Tagores. I myself have found that- a silent seat in my little garden will win wonderful responses from almost everything that hops and runs. All that you need to do is to make no noises, and no sudden movements, I have found robins jolly good fellows, sparr,ows cheeriest visitors, nice friendly neighbours,; and even rats-amiable gossips.

I try to exercise a like surveilance upon another little world—my own heart. I .grew tired long ago with the two extreme measures of thinking myself moved by only good motives and by only bad. I remember a friend who% confessed that like others he was not perfect. "I know very well have my faults," he said, "I'm too generous and too forgiving." I had suspected the same thing of myself, but I wanted to be assured. I knew very well that we were strangely deceived by our actions and moods, that, as Hood says, "we think we're pious when we are only bilious;" that we think we are liberal when we're only lazy. That many a crown put down to charity is really, paid in advertisement. I even strongly suspected that the art of calling ugly things by pretty names is almost a national industry. That very often our spreading of the gospel Is really the pushing of a big company. That very often the white man's burden is—the black man's little property. That our passionate devotion to the rights of small nations is only felt for useful little nations—little nations that stand blessedly as buffers between us and larger nations, little nations whose skulls are providentially thickened to intercept punches mean for our own. I saw that what was sauce for the goose in Belgium was poison for the gander in Ireland. I saw that Christianity aaid drink generally walked arm in arm, and that your duty to God was largely politeness to the devil and% his friends.

So I thought I would watch and see what was going on in my garden. It has been the strangest illumination. I wonder anybody ever goes abroad on voyages of discovery. There is so much more to discover at home. Sit still and watch your heart if«you want to see a wonderful world. The nimblest little motives will peep out, pick up a crumb, or a paring, and scuttle away. Your white birds and blue' birds, your good fairies and bright angels, are as often as not impudent black devilys. T have found my love of peace was love of my own skin. My fair play was a run with the hare and a gallant hunt with the hounds. I have found most of my good turns really' done to myself—at the next turning. I have found nearly all the generosities a philanthropic hand in somebody else's pocket. Most of ray acts of courage have been performed under the whip of cowardice. My heroic charges have been devoted runs for life. I find I can trust to nothing in my character but my absolute untrustworthiness.

And yet T don't dislike myself. I know myself better; and better knowledge, oy a strange law of sympathy, is better love. And certainly I don't dislike other people. I see that they live in a foreign country and thinik they are at home. But I like them out of self-love. They are all so very like me.