The Art of Being Happy: In a Series of Letters from a Father to His Children: with Observations and CommentsDroz, Joseph
Philosophy
The Art of Being Happy: In a Series of Letters from a Father to His Children: with Observations and Comments
Droz, Joseph
Happiness
A being endowed with such intense emotions, as man; and so placed,
as to have them so strongly called forth by the relations he
contracts: so much in the dark in regard to his origin, his end and
everything about him, conscious, that he must shortly leave home,
all that he loves, the view of the earth and the sky, and that
body, which long habit has taught him to consider as himself, to
molder back to the soil, should naturally be expected to have this
tendency to melancholy. Beautifully said the fabulist, ‘that he who
formed us, moistened the clay of our structure not with water but
tears.’ The natural expression of the human countenance in sleep
is shaded with a slight veil of melancholy. It has been observed,
that the national music of all people, and, more especially, of
the uncivilized tribes, is on a key of melancholy. Most of the
voices of the animal tribes are of this cast. The strain of the
nightingale is the deepest expression of this sentiment. Religion
should be the grand re-agent, in bringing light and cheerfulness to
a universe of sadness and death, by presenting new views of that
universe, its author, his beneficence, and the ultimate hope of the
soul.
‘See truth, love and mercy in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden’s first bloom;
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending.
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.’
Note 52, page 149.
With the honorable exception of some towns and districts in our
country, the epitaphs and monumental inscriptions are utterly
beneath criticism. The greater portion are from Watts, and the
other minor poets, too often little more than extravagant, coarse,
miserable conceits. Here and there, a beautiful quotation from
the Bible, such as ‘Blessed are the dead, who die in the Lord;’
‘Man cometh forth, like a flower, and is cut down,’ only serve
to render the worthlessness of the remainder more conspicuous
by contrast. What adds to the unpleasant effect is, that no
inconsiderable portion of them are absolutely misspelt, to say
nothing of the punctuation. Strange, that survivors should incur
the expense of a slab, and permit a stone-cutter to select, spell,
and point the inscriptions. It is to be hoped, that some competent
writer will, ere long, take in hand this matter, so vital to the
literary reputation of our country, and introduce a thorough and
general reform, by wiping away this national stain, and introducing
that beautiful and sublime simplicity, which ought always to
characterize monumental inscriptions.
Akin to the bad taste of this sort, is the slovenly manner in which
our church-yards are kept, in whole sections of the country. Who
has not felt pain, at seeing many and even most of these places
sacred to memory, in the western county especially, uninclosed,
trampled upon by cattle, and the narrow heap of turf disturbed by
swine?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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