[87928] in Discussion of MIT-community interests
See New Walk In Tub Options
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Walk In Tub)
Thu Sep 1 22:12:20 2016
Date: Fri, 2 Sep 2016 00:00:04 -0400
From: "Walk In Tub" <walk.in.tub@samanthas.stream>
To: <mit-talk-mtg@charon.mit.edu>
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<p align=3D"center" style=3D"font: 14px; "><span style=3D"color: #FF=
FFFF; ">Joachim took a pencil, and sat down. _Now_ he thought he should b=
e able to please his Mother; but, alas, he found to his surprise, that the =
fine faces he tried to recall had not left that vivid impression on his bra=
in which enabled him to represent them. On the contrary, he was tormented a=
nd baffled by visions of the odd forms and grotesque countenances he had so=
often pictured. He seized the Indian-rubber and rubbed out nose after nose=
to no purpose, for he never could replace them with a better. Drawing was =
his favourite amusement; and this disappointment, where he expected success=
, broke down his already depressed heart. He threw the book from him, and b=
urst into a flood of tears. " Joachim! have you drawn him? What makes =
you cry?" " I cannot draw him, Mother," sobbed the distresse=
d boy. " And why not? Just look here; here is an admirable likeness of=
squinting Joe, as you have named him. Why cannot you draw the handsome boy=
?" " Because his face is so handsome!" answered Joachim, sti=
ll sobbing. " My son," said his Mother gravely, " you have n=
ow a sad lesson to learn, but a necessary and a wholesome one. Get up, desi=
st from crying, and listen to me." Poor Joachim, who loved his mother =
dearly, obeyed. " Joachim! your Aunt, and your Cousins, and your schoo=
lfellows have all called you clever. In what does your cleverness consist? =
I will tell you. In the Reproduction of Deformity, Defects, Failings, and M=
isfortunes of every sort, that fall under your observation. A worthy employ=
ment truly! A noble ambition! But I will now tell you the truth about yours=
elf. You never heard it before, and I feel sure you will benefit now. A goo=
d or an evil Genie, I know not which, has bestowed upon you a great power; =
and you have misused it. Do you know what that power is?" Joachim shoo=
k his head, though he trembled all over, for he felt as if awaking from alo=
ng dream, to the recollection of the Genie. " It is the power of Imita=
tion, Joachim; I call it a great power, for it is essential to many great a=
nd useful things. It is essential to the orator, the linguist, the artist, =
and the musician. Nature herself teaches us the charm of _imitation_, when =
in the smooth and clear lake you see the lovely landscape around mirrored a=
nd _repeated_. What a lesson may we not read in this sight! The commones=
t pond even that reflects the foliage of the tree that hangs over it, is ca=
lling out to us to reproduce for the solace and ornament of life, the beaut=
iful works of God. But oh, my son, my dear son, you have abused this gift o=
f Imitation, which might be such a blessing and pleasure to you." =
Schiller.--" Der Kuenstler." " You might, if you chose, _imi=
tate every thing that is good, and noble, and virtuous, and beautiful_; and=
you are, instead of that, reproducing every aspect of deformity that cross=
es your path, until your brain is so stamped with images of defects, ugline=
ss, and uncouthness, that your hand and head refuse their office, when I ca=
ll upon you to reproduce the beauties with which the world is graced."=
I doubt if Joachim heard the latter part of his Mother' s speech. At the r=
ecurrence to the old sentence, a gleam of lightning seemed to shoot across =
his brain. Latent memories were aroused as keenly as if the events had but =
just occurred, and he sank at his Mother' s feet. When she ceased to speak,=
he arose. " Mother," said he, " I have been living in a clo=
ud. I have been very wrong. Besides which, I have a secret to tell you. Nay=
, my Aunt may hear. It has been a secret, and then it has been forgotten; b=
ut now I remember all, and understand far more than I once did." Here =
Joachim recounted to his Mother the whole story of her words to him, and hi=
s adventure with the Genie and the bottle; and then, very slowly, and inter=
rupted by many tears of repentance, he repeated what the Genie had said abo=
ut giving him _the power_ of imitation, adding that the use he made of it m=
ust depend on himself and the great Ruler of the heart and conscience. Ther=
e was a great fuss among the Cousins at the notion of Joachim having talked=
to a Genie; and, to tell you the truth, this was all they thought about, a=
nd soon after took their leave. The heart of Joachim' s Mother was at rest,=
however: for though she knew how hard her son would find it to alter what =
had become a habit of life, she knew that he was a good and pious boy, and =
she saw that he was fully alive to his error. " Oh Mother," said =
he, during the course of that evening, " how plain I see it all now! T=
he boy that stutters is a model of obedience and tenderness; I ought to hav=
e dwelt upon and imitated that, and, oh! I thought only of his stuttering. =
The boy that walks so clumsily, as well as the great fellow that lisps, are=
such industrious lads, and so advanced in learning, that the master thinks=
both will be distinguished hereafter; and I, who--(oh, my poor mother, I m=
ust confess to you)--hated to labour at any thing, and have got the boys to=
do my lessons for me; --I, instead of imitating their industry, lost all m=
y time in ridiculing their defects.--What shall--what shall I do!" The=
next morning poor Joachim said his prayers more humbly than he had ever be=
fore done in his life; and, kissing his mother, went to school. The first t=
hing he did on arriving was to go up to the big boy, who had beaten him, an=
d beg him to shake hands. The big boy was pleased, and a grim smile lighten=
ed up his face. " But, old fellow," said he, laying his hand on J=
oachim' s shoulder, " take a friend' s advice. There is good in all of=
us, depend upon it. Look out for all that' s good, and let the bad points =
take care of themselves. _You_ won' t get any handsomer, by squinting like =
poor Joe; nor speak any pleasanter for lisping like me; nor walk any better=
for apeing hobbling. But the ugliest of us have some good about us. Look o=
ut for _that_, my little lad; I do, or I should not be talking to you! I se=
e that you are honest and forgiving, though you _are_ a monkey! There now, =
I must go on with my lessons! You do yours!" Never was better advice g=
iven, and Joachim took it well, and bore it bravely; but, oh, how hard it w=
as to his mind, accustomed for so long to wander away and seek amusement at=
wrong times, to settle down resolutely and laboriously to study. He made a=
strong effort, however; and though he had often to recall his thoughts, he=
in a measure succeeded. After school-hours he begged the big boy to come a=
nd sit by him, and then he requested his old friends and companions to list=
en to a story he had to tell them. They expected something funny, and many =
a broad grin was seen; but poor Joachim' s eyes were yet red with weeping, =
and his gay voice was so subdued, the party soon became grave and wondering=
, and then Joachim told them every thing. They were delighted to hear about=
the Genie, and were also pleased to find themselves safe from Joachim' s r=
idicule. It could not be expected they should all understand the story, but=
the big boy did, and became Joachim' s greatest friend and adviser. That e=
vening our little friend, exhausted with the efforts and excitement of his =
almost first day of repentance, strolled out in a somewhat pensive mood to =
his favourite haunt, the sea shore. A stormy sunset greeted his arrival on =
the beach, but the tide was ebbing, and he wandered on till he reached some=
caverns among the cliffs. And there, as had often been his wont, he sat do=
wn to gaze out upon the waste of waters safe and protected from harm. It is=
very probable that he fell asleep--but the point could never be clearly kn=
own, for he always said it was no sleep and no dream he had then, but that,=
whilst sitting in the inmost recesses of the cave, he saw once more his ol=
d friend the Genie, who after reproaching him with the bad use he had made =
of his precious gift, gave him a world of good advice and instruction. Ther=
e is no doubt that after that time, Joachim was seen daily struggling again=
st his bad habits; and that by degrees he became able to exercise his mind =
in following after the good and beautiful instead of after the bad and ugly=
It was a hard task to him for many a long day to fix his flighty thoughts=
down to the business in hand, and to dismiss from before his eyes the ridi=
culous images that often presented themselves. But his Mother' s wishes, or=
the Genie' s advice, or something better still, prevailed. And you cannot =
think, of what wonderful use the Genie' s gift was to him then. Once turned=
in a right direction and towards worthy objects, he found it like a sort o=
f friend at his right hand, helping him forward in some of the most interes=
ting pursuits of life. Ah! all the energy he had once bestowed on imitating=
lisps and stuttering, was now engaged in catching the sounds of foreign to=
ngues, and thus taking one step towards the citizenship of the world. And i=
nstead of wasting time in gazing at the singing master' s face, that he mig=
ht ape its unnatural distortions--it was now the sweet tones of skilful har=
mony to which he bent his attention, and which he strove, and not in vain, =
to reproduce. The portfolio which he brought home to his Mother at the end =
of another half-year, was crowded with laborious and careful copies from th=
e best models of beauty and grace. And not with those only, for many a face=
could be found on its pages in which the Mother recognized some of her son=
' s old companions. Portraits, not of the mere formation of mouths and nose=
s, which in so many cases, viewed merely as forms, are defective and unattr=
active, but portraits of the same faces, upon which the character of the in=
ward mind and heart was so stamped that it threw the mere shape of the feat=
ures far into the background. Thus with the pursuit of his favourite art, J=
oachim combined " that most excellent gift of charity; " for it w=
as now his pride and pleasure to make the charm of expression from " _=
the good points_" his old friend had talked about, triumph over any ph=
ysical defects. The very spirit and soul of the best sort of portrait paint=
ing. And here, my dear young readers, I would fain call your attention to t=
he fact of how one right habit produces another. The more Joachim laboured =
over seizing the good expression of the faces he drew from, the more he was=
led to seek after and find out the good points themselves whence the expre=
ssion arose; and thus at last it became a _Habit_ with him to try and disco=
ver every thing that was excellent and commendable in the characters of tho=
se he met; a very different plan from that pursued by many of us, who in ou=
r intercourse with each other, are but too apt to fasten with eagle-eye acc=
uracy on failings and faults. Which is a very grave error, and a very misle=
ading one, for if it does nothing else, it deprives us of all the good we s=
hould get by a daily habit of contemplating what is worthy our regard and r=
emembrance. And so strongly did Joachim' s mother feel this, and so earnest=
ly did she wish her son to understand that a power which seems bestowed for=
worldly ends, may be turned to spiritual advantage also, that when his bir=
thday came round she presented to him among other gifts, a little book, cal=
led " The Imitation of Jesus Christ." It was the work of an old f=
ellow called Thomas a Kempis, and though more practical books of piety have=
since been written, the idea contained in the title suggests a great lesso=
n, and held up before Joachim' s eyes, Him whom one of our own divines has =
since called " The Great Exemplar." This part of our little hero'=
s ' Lesson of Life,' we can all take to ourselves, and go and do likewise.=
And so I hope his story may be profitable, though we have not all of us a =
large Genie-gift of Imitation as he had. With him the excess of this power =
took a very natural turn, for though he possessed through its aid, consider=
able facilities for music and the study of languages also, the course of ev=
ents led him irresistibly to what is usually called " the fine arts.&q=
uot; And if the old dream of the royal chariot and the twelve jet black hor=
ses was never realized to him, a higher happiness by far was his, when some=
years after, he and his Mother stood in the council house of his native to=
wn; she looking up with affectionate pride while he showed her a portrait o=
f the good young King which had a few hours before been hung up upon its wa=
lls. It was the work of Joachim himself. </span></p>=20
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<p> See New Walk In Tub Options<br /> all our translations, we have insi=
sted upon calling "Moral Tales," as if in mockery of their spirit=
-- "la musique est le seul des talents qui jouissent de lui-meme; tou=
s les autres veulent des temoins." He here confounds the pleasure deri=
vable from sweet sounds with the capacity for creating them. No more than a=
ny other talent, is that for music susceptible of complete enjoyment, where=
there is no second party to appreciate its exercise. And it is only in com=
mon with other talents that it produces effects which may be fully enjoyed =
in solitude. The idea which the raconteur has either failed to entertain cl=
early, or has sacrificed in its expression to his national love of point, i=
s, doubtless, the very tenable one that the higher order of music is the mo=
st thoroughly estimated when we are exclusively alone. The proposition, in =
this form, will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own =
sake, and for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still within th=
e reach of fallen mortality and perhaps only one -- which owes even more th=
an does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness=
experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the man who=
would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude behold th=
at glory. To me, at least, the presence -- not of human life only, but of l=
ife in any other form than that of the green things which grow upon the soi=
l and are voiceless -- is a stain upon the landscape -- is at war with the =
genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark valleys, and the gr=
ay rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the forests that sigh in =
uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains that look down upon all, =
-- I love to regard these as themselves but the colossal members of one vas=
t animate and sentient whole -- a whole whose form (that of the sphere) is =
the most perfect and most inclusive of all; whose path is among associate p=
lanets; whose meek handmaiden is the moon, whose mediate sovereign is the s=
un; whose life is eternity, whose thought is that of a God; whose enjoyment=
is knowledge; whose destinies are lost in immensity, whose cognizance of o=
urselves is akin with our own cognizance of the animalculae which infest th=
e brain -- a being which we, in consequence, regard as purely inanimate and=
material much in the same manner as these animalculae must thus regard us.=
Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every hand=
-- notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood -- that=
space, and therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in the eyes =
of the Almighty. The cycles in which the stars move are those best adapted =
for the evolution, without collision, of the greatest possible number of bo=
dies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such as, within a given surf=
ace, to include the greatest possible amount of matter; -- while the surfac=
es themselves are so disposed as to accommodate a denser population than co=
uld be accommodated on the same surfaces otherwise arranged. Nor is it any =
argument against bulk being an object with God, that space itself is infini=
te; for there may be an infinity of matter to fill it. And since we see cle=
arly that the endowment of matter with vitality is a principle -- indeed, a=
s far as our judgments extend, the leading principle in the operations of D=
eity, -- it is scarcely logical to imagine it confined to the regions of th=
e minute, where we daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august=
As we find cycle within cycle without end, -- yet all revolving around on=
e far-distant centre which is the God-head, may we not analogically suppose=
in the same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all=
within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring, through self-este=
em, in believing man, in either his temporal or future destinies, to be of =
more moment in the universe than that vast "clod of the valley" w=
hich he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul for no more profo=
und reason than that he does not behold it in operation. {*2} These fancies=
, and such as these, have always given to my meditations among the mountain=
s and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a tinge of what the everyda=
y world would not fail to term fantastic. My wanderings amid such scenes ha=
ve been many, and far-searching, and often solitary; and the interest with =
which I have strayed through many a dim, deep valley, or gazed into the ref=
lected Heaven of many a bright lake, has been an interest greatly deepened =
by the thought that I have strayed and gazed alone. What flippant Frenchman=
was it who said in allusion to the well-known work of Zimmerman, that, &qu=
ot;la solitude est une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu'un pour vous dire q=
ue la solitude est une belle chose?" The epigram cannot be gainsayed; =
but the necessity is a thing that does not exist. It was during one of my l=
onely journeyings, amid a far distant region of mountain locked within moun=
tain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarn writhing or sleeping within all --=
that I chanced upon a certain rivulet and island. I came upon them suddenl=
y in the leafy June, and threw myself upon the turf, beneath the branches o=
f an unknown odorous shrub, that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. =
I felt that thus only should I look upon it -- such was the character of ph=
antasm which it wore. On all sides -- save to the west, where the sun was a=
bout sinking -- arose the verdant walls of the forest. The little river whi=
ch turned sharply in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, se=
emed to have no exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green =
foliage of the trees to the east -- while in the opposite quarter (so it ap=
peared to me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noise=
lessly and continuously into the valley, a rich golden and crimson waterfal=
l from the sunset fountains of the sky. About midway in the short vista whi=
ch my dreamy vision took in, one small circular island, profusely verdured,=
reposed upon the bosom of the stream. So blended bank and shadow there Tha=
t each seemed pendulous in air -- so mirror-like was the glassy water, that=
it was scarcely possible to say at what point upon the slope of the emeral=
d turf its crystal dominion began. My position enabled me to include in a s=
ingle view both the eastern and western extremities of the islet; and I obs=
erved a singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all o=
ne radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eyes=
of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was shor=
t, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were lithe,=
mirthful, erect -- bright, slender, and graceful, -- of eastern figure and=
foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There seemed a deep =
sense of life and joy about all; and although no airs blew from out the hea=
vens, yet every thing had motion through the gentle sweepings to and fro of=
innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for tulips with win=
gs. {*4} The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest s=
hade. A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all things. =
The trees were dark in color, and mournful in form and attitude, wreathing =
themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes that conveyed ideas of mor=
tal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the deep tint of the cypress,=
and the heads of its blades hung droopingly, and hither and thither among =
it were many small unsightly hillocks, low and narrow, and not very long, t=
hat had the aspect of graves, but were not; although over and all about the=
m the rue and the rosemary clambered. The shade of the trees fell heavily u=
pon the water, and seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths o=
f the element with darkness. I fancied that each shadow, as the sun descend=
ed lower and lower, separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it b=
irth, and thus became absorbed by the stream; while other shadows issued mo=
mently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus entombed=
This idea, having once seized upon my fancy, greatly excited it, and I lo=
st myself forthwith in revery. "If ever island were enchanted," s=
aid I to myself, "this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays=
who remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs? -- or=
do they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying=
, do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God, little by l=
ittle, their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow, exhau=
sting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to the wat=
er that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys upon, may =
not the life of the Fay be to the death which engulfs it?" As I thus m=
used, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to rest, and eddying =
currents careered round and round the island, bearing upon their bosom larg=
e, dazzling, white flakes of the bark of the sycamore-flakes which, in thei=
r multiform positions upon the water, a quick imagination might have conver=
ted into any thing it pleased, while I thus mused, it appeared to me that t=
he form of one of those very Fays about whom I had been pondering made its =
way slowly into the darkness from out the light at the western end of the i=
sland. She stood erect in a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the=
mere phantom of an oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbea=
ms, her attitude seemed indicative of joy -- but sorrow deformed it as she =
passed within the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the=
islet and re-entered the region of light. "The revolution which has j=
ust been made by the Fay," continued I, musingly, "is the cycle o=
f the brief year of her life. She has floated through her winter and throug=
h her summer. She is a year nearer unto Death; for I did not fail to see th=
at, as she came into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed=
up in the dark water, making its blackness more black." And again the=
boat appeared and the Fay, but about the attitude of the latter there was =
more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy. She floated again fro=
m out the light and into the gloom (which deepened momently) and again her =
shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and became absorbed into its bla=
ckness. And again and again she made the circuit of the island, (while the =
sun rushed down to his slumbers), and at each issuing into the light there =
was more sorrow about her person, while it grew feebler and far fainter and=
more indistinct, and at each passage into the gloom there fell from her a =
darker shade, which became whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length wh=
en the sun had utterly departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former =
self, went disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood,=
and that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for darkness fell over an =
things and I beheld her magical figure no more. </p>=20
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