The year's at the Spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seren;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his heaven—
All's right with the world.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
In passing over a mountain trail one's point of observation is often changed. Sometimes the traveler finds himself upon the edge of a precipice, looking down into dark and narrow valleys. Sometimes he climbs the heights and looks abroad over a superb and varied panorama of grand peaks and broad horizons. In our experiences of life we find that everything related to our happiness depends upon our point of view. We may lift up our eyes unto the hills even when walking in the valley of the shadow. We have wings; like the dove we can fly away and be at rest. We can dwell in the confines of personal suffering, or gain the higher table-lands from which we can see the glory that excelleth in the universal life spread out before us.
The world is wearied with complaints of "hard times," "financial depression," and "social discontent." We are always looking to the future for remedies that never come. Let us open our eyes awhile to the possibilities of the present, and lay aside the smoked glasses of prejudice and ignorance through which we have looked at life. Let us identify God and man as inseparably united,— learn to unfold our latent powers and study the higher gospel of true worldliness. We will perceive that the Banquet of Life is always spread. Nature herself goes out into the highways and hedges to compel us to come in. None is really shut out from the feast except the self-exiled. All cause of suffering is in the individual himself. Life in very truth is opulence and equity.
—Chalres B. Newcomb. Boston, Nov. 1,1897.
"The Bacon, the Spinoza, the Hume, Schelling, Kant, or whosoever propounds to you a philosophy of the mind is only a more or less awkward translator of things in your consciousness which you have also your way of seeing, perhaps of denominating. Say, then, instead of too timidly pouring into his obscure sense, that he has not succeeded in rendering back to you your consciousness. He has not succeeded, now let another try. If Plato cannot, perhaps Spinoza will. If Spinoza cannot, then perhaps Kant. Anyhow, when at last it is done, you will find it is no recondite but a simple, natural, common state which the writer restores to you." —Emerson's "Intellect"