The Golden Censer Part 1

The Golden Censer.

by John McGovern.

PREFACE.

I take pleasure in laying before my readers a volume the aim of which is to lighten the cares of to-day and heighten the hopes of to-morrow.

Every human aspiration which is not an _ignis fatuus_ or fool's beacon is built on the realities of to-day. Every young person evincing talents in any direction hears predictions which are alone built on what he is doing at present. He takes this hope and redoubles his efforts. He usually succeeds--therefore, the inherited universality of hope.

Looking thus upon hope as a beautiful edifice rising above the foundations of our lives, I have striven to give my special attention to the duties of to-day, those stones whereon the structure is reared, that the first cruel tempest of adversity may not transport an unsubstantial fabric, like the palace of Aladdin, into the deserts of despair.

I have also tried to show that the lesson, so true in a proper view of this life, is also applicable to the far grander vista of eternity which, in the mind of philosopher as well as divine, lies so clearly before us.

In a Hard-Pan Series of ten chapters I have endeavored to point out, to the young men just starting in practical life, some things less general in their scope than the other thoughts spread forth in the book. The necessity of arming our youth with those qualities which lead to business success has made me confident that this attempt would be approved by the general reader.

Wherever a writer versed in the deep mysteries of the heart has left his thoughts on record, and they have fallen under my eye, I have eagerly chained them to my humble chariot, always, when possible, giving the authorship of the idea. The value of a thoroughly good admonition is frequently enhanced by the knowledge that it comes from the mouth of a thoroughly good man.

THE GOLDEN CENSER.

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer, Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

--Edgar Poe.

[Ill.u.s.tration A] golden censer swings in the Temple of Life, making holy its halls and grateful its corridors. This fountain of our well-being is Duty. There is little true pleasure in the world which does not flow, either directly or remotely, from its depths.

It shall be the object of this volume to point out and name a few of the balms which burn in this Unseen Censer--a few of the lines of action which render our memories sweet and forever pleasant if they be wrapt in such perfume.

THE PALACE OF THE SOUL.

When the incense of a man's good actions spreads through the palace of the soul, "the powers that wait on n.o.ble deeds" light up the edifice with radiance brought from other worlds. In the eye of a good man--in the window of the palace of his soul--we behold an occupant who fears no duty. We are fascinated, and gather about, anxious to peer in upon the fortunate possessor. Therein lies the happiness and the force of good example.

But let the Censer burn low, and flicker in final sickliness; the great bell called Conscience, hanging in the dome, strikes an alarm that rocks the building. How oft the solemn tocsin sounds! It drives us to our duty! Let us be thankful its clangor is so harsh!

THE FATHER OF HIS COUNTRY,

the man whose heart was torn each time his soldiers' feet did bleed--the man who stood like a rock between the despot and the down-trodden--that man, at the end of the career which glorified him, and which, with reflected glory will light the annals of all coming centuries--that kind, good man, George Washington, could not discern the separating line between Duty and human happiness. "The consideration that human happiness and moral duty," he said, "are inseparately connected, will always continue to prompt me to promote the progress of the one by inculcating the practice of the other."

LET US KEEP THE GOLDEN CENSER BURNING

with the frankincense of our highest endeavors. "Let us," as Theodore Parker once said, "do our duty in our shop, or our kitchen, the market, the street, the office, the school, the home, just as faithfully as if we stood in the front rank of some great battle, and we knew that victory for mankind depended on our bravery, strength, and skill. When we do that, the humblest of us will be serving in that great army which achieves the welfare of the world."

THE SOLDIER GOES FORTH

with his loins girded, hoping to conquer in the hard battles of life.

Let the incense of Duty cling to his garments and keep him clean from selfish contagion. How lovely the picture of that old man of Goldsmith's time, swinging the Golden Censer before the hearts that throbbed in unison with him:

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And as a bird each fond endearment tries,

To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Our duty was created with us. It is a pleasure to live. What then should be the pleasure to think there is a place for us--a duty beneficently made that gives us rights with our fellow-creatures? What though the duty may try your soul and stagger your capabilities? "Skillful pilots gain their reputation from storms and tempests." Bear up with patient courage--"the bird that flutters least is longest on the wing." "Duty is the stern daughter of the voice of G.o.d."

Let us then, upon entering this stately Temple of Life, cast into the Golden Censer our courage, our hope, our energy, our love, our industry, and all those qualities which go to make the air around us redolent with the fragrance of the achievements of life. It cannot then well be that we shall lack in allegiance to our Maker, our country, or ourselves.

"Duties are ours; events are G.o.d's."

"On parent knee, a naked, newborn child, Weeping thou satst while all around thee smiled; So live that, sinking in thy last long sleep, Calm thou mayst smile while all around thee weep."

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

Age steals Upon us like a snowstorm in the night: How drear life's landscape now!--Henry Guy Carleton.

Whose hand, Like the base Judean, threw a pearl away Richer than all his tribe.--Shakspeare.

We are intrusted with a few short years, and yet with more than we deserve. It is our misfortune to value those fleeting moments only when our stock of them is in danger of utter exhaustion.

When the bright, beautiful days have vanished, and we find that, like the base Judean's pearl, those days were richer than all our tribe--our Vanderbilts, our Stanfords, and our Goulds--then we turn, in human kindness, to our younger a.s.sociates, and sound our warning in their ears. According as our earnestness impresses them, they listen or they hearken not. A golden thought which the young should learn by heart, would run thus: _However highly I have valued this day, I have "sold it on a rising market," and too cheaply. It would grow in value as I looked back upon it, even if I were to live to my eightieth year_. This may not seem true to you, who wish for Sat.u.r.day night, that you may receive your salary,--or to you, who long for Sunday, that you may gaze into a pair of eyes that have deep beauties for you--but when your mother in your babyhood, said a certain letter was "A,"

YOU HAD TO ACCEPT THE STATEMENT

without reservation, or you would not now be able to exercise the grandest of human faculties--to read, to glean the thoughts of the ages, and to receive, without toiling through the rugged regions of experience, the impressions and the inspirations which have come to man through all his labors and his pains. Sir William Hamilton has well said that implicit belief is at the foundation of all human happiness--the knowledge of the mind, as well as the certainty of the future life.

The mind is rarely broad enough in youth to survey the field of life with an impartial view. "The years creep slowly by, Lorena," was written in the true youthful, spendthrift spirit.

"COAL-OIL JOHNNY"

was left, as he supposed, inexhaustible riches. He threw away his money as many of us throw away our lives, and his money lasted him two years.

Had his life been equally at his disposal, he would have been in the hands of the pale Receiver, Death, when his oil-wells pa.s.sed to other owners. Having so precious a pearl, therefore, as this life, let us make its setting a thing of beauty. Let us invest our moments as

THE WISE MAN,

who, instead of buying on time and paying eight per cent. interest, saves his earnings and puts them out at eight per cent. interest, thus reaping a difference of sixteen per cent., or nearly one-sixth of his yearly surplus. Every idea put into your head is invested at interest.

Every expenditure of time which is a waste is a payment of interest, a corroding, double-acting agency of evil to your welfare.