THE SINNER.
No man can order his life, for it comes flowing over him from behind.But if it lay before us, and we could watch its current approaching from a long distance, what could we do with it before it had reached the now? In like wise a man thinks foolishly who imagines he could have done this and that with his own character and development, if he had but known this and that in time.Were he as good as he thinks himself wise he could but at best have produced a fine cameo in very low relief: with a work in the round, which he is meant to be, he could have done nothing.The one secret of life and development, is not to devise and plan, but to fall in with the forces at work--to do every moment's duty aright--that being the part in the process allotted to us; and let come--not what will, for there is no such thing--but what the eternal Thought wills for each of us, has intended in each of us from the first.If men would but believe that they are in process of creation, and consent to be made--let the maker handle them as the potter his clay, yielding themselves in respondent motion and submissive hopeful action with the turning of his wheel, they would ere long find themselves able to welcome every pressure of that hand upon them, even when it was felt in pain, and sometimes not only to believe but to recognize the divine end in view, the bringing of a son into glory; whereas, behaving like children who struggle and scream while their mother washes and dresses them, they find they have to be washed and dressed, notwithstanding, and with the more discomfort: they may even have to find themselves set half naked and but half dried in a corner, to come to their right minds, and ask to be finished.
At this time neither Gibbie nor Donal strove against his creation--what the wise of this world call their fate.In truth Gibbie never did; and for Donal, the process was at present in a stage much too agreeable to rouse any inclination to resist.He enjoyed his new phase of life immensely.If he did not distinguish himself as a scholar, it was not because he neglected his work, but because he was at the same time doing that by which alone the water could ever rise in the well he was digging: he was himself growing.
Far too eager after knowledge to indulge in emulation, he gained no prizes: what had he to do with how much or how little those around him could eat as compared with himself? No work noble or lastingly good can come of emulation any more than of greed: I think the motives are spiritually the same.To excite it is worthy only of the commonplace vulgar schoolmaster, whose ambition is to show what fine scholars he can turn out, that he may get the more pupils.
Emulation is the devil-shadow of aspiration.The set of the current in the schools is at present towards a boundless swamp, but the wise among the scholars see it, and wisdom is the tortoise which shall win the race.In the mean time how many, with the legs and the brain of the hare, will think they are gaining it, while they are losing things whose loss will make any prize unprized! The result of Donal's work appeared but very partially in his examinations, which were honest and honourable to him; it was hidden in his thoughts, his aspirations, his growth, and his verse--all which may be seen should I one day tell Donal's story.For Gibbie, the minister had not been long teaching him, before he began to desire to make a scholar of him.Partly from being compelled to spend some labour upon it, the boy was gradually developing an unusual facility in expression.His teacher, compact of conventionalities, would have modelled the result upon some writer imagined by him a master of style; but the hurtful folly never got any hold of Gibbie: all he ever cared about was to say what he meant, and avoid saying something else; to know when he had not said what he meant, and to set the words right.It resulted that, when people did not understand what he meant, the cause generally lay with them not with him; and that, if they sometimes smiled over his mode, it was because it lay closer to nature than theirs: they would have found it a hard task to improve it.
What the fault with his organs of speech was, I cannot tell.His guardian lost no time in having them examined by a surgeon in high repute, a professor of the university, but Dr.Skinner's opinion put an end to question and hope together.Gibbie was not in the least disappointed.He had got on very well as yet without speech.It was not like sight or hearing.The only voice he could not hear was his own, and that was just the one he had neither occasion nor desire to hear.As to his friends, those who had known him the longest minded his dumbness the least.But the moment the defect was understood to be irreparable, Mrs.Sclater very wisely proceeded to learn the finger-speech; and as she learned it, she taught it to Gibbie.
As to his manners, which had been and continued to be her chief care, a certain disappoinment followed her first rapid success: she never could get them to take on the case-hardening needful for what she counted the final polish.They always retained a certain simplicity which she called childishness.It came in fact of childlikeness, but the lady was not child enough to distinguish the difference--as great as that between the back and the front of a head.As, then, the minister found him incapable of forming a style, though time soon proved him capable of producing one, so the minister's wife found him as incapable of putting on company manners of any sort, as most people are incapable of putting them off--without being rude.It was disappointing to Mrs.Sclater, but Gibbie was just as content to appear what he was, as he was unwilling to remain what he was.Being dumb, she would say to herself he would pass in any society; but if he had had his speech, she never could have succeeded in making him a thorough gentleman:
he would have always been saying the right thing in the wrong place.
