Friction is Always Rhythmic [pp. 419-421]

THE LADLES' REPOSIzToRy.
that feed and grow England. The pieces of
glass and flannel are passive, common things
till friction makes their latent powers burn;
so hinderances that rasp the brain are found
again, measure for measure, in rhythmic light ning, great thoughts and deeds. The cadences
of Paradise Lost are the time-keepings of a
spirit shut from lilght. Evenness most often
means mediocrity. Infant minds look from
infant faces. Flesh samples character. Fur rows are more reliable than dimples. We try
to avoid the ups and downs, but the chances
are they mark all that's worth marking in our
lives. Equilibrium is a good thing, but it must
be overcome, one side must be heavier than
the other, before we can have motion. Distinguished people are not distinguished for even
developmnent of brain. The mind must have
fulcrums for its levers. There must be valleys
in order to be mountains, let the mountains be
grainite or thought.
Walter Scott thus describes a bit of Englishl scenery: "On the summit of a hillock
there still remained part of a circle of rough,
unhewn stones-the ruin of an ancient Druidical temple. Seven stood upright; the rest
had been dislodged from their places, and lay,
some prostrate near their former sites, and
others on the side of the hill. One large stone
only had found its way to the bottom, and in
stopping the course of a small brook which
glided smoothly round the foot of the eminence
gave, by its opposition, a sweet voice of murmutr to the placid and elsewhere silent streamlet." In this touch of nature each may find
himself. The hills and the ruins are not wanting. They are away beyond our ken, formed by
the hands of our ancestry, perhaps, and some
day when our peaceful, sunny life glides quietly on, from the very hill-side we are kissing
straight falls the great, rough stone, and plants
its cold weight in the very depths of our being.
The lwhite foam splashes hiigh; the stream is
broken and its brightness dimmed by something the stone found, but did not bring. By
and by the darkness sinks again, the parted
waters come together, life flows on, but its
channel is chlanged, and ever after we sinig.
Oblivion is the price we pay for placid lives.
To him who does not understand there is
wxihl discord in the tempest and volcano. But
the tempest's black blast brings order into the
disordered elements, and scatters the pestilence
that hangs in stagnant air. The groaning and
the shaking of the earthquake and volcano signal the impinging of great, rough-hewn forces
that must meet and interchange their forms in
order to maintain the unity of the universe.
In all of Nature's voices there is not a wave
untimed or out of place.
The snow, white and cold, is shoveled away,
the frozen earth is shaped into narrow walls.
From her warm bosom, within those walls
dark and desolate, the mother lays her darling
child. Thlrough her soul grief surges wild as
the tempest, deep as the earthquake. To her
the world is all dliscordant, and life an awful
mockery. Roses are thlorns, because they re mind her of her own blighlted bud. At last
have we found a place where the life-stops
refuse their melody. There may be harmony
in the death of old age, whose numbers have
all been sung, but why should the laugh of a
child be frozen, that trill of the bird at the twili,ght's soft hush, that music that dwells in the
heart of a shell? The monster death it is who
breaks the rhythm of life. We can not bridge
the grave. When it opens to take in our dead
we go dlown with them, and the song we were
singing is left on the other side. It is mockery
to talk of the harmony and completeness of existence, when at every step we stumble over
the tombstones of our brothers, and at last fall,
with our work unfinished, into the opern grave
that waits for us. The harps of those who
enter the river are hushed forever, while those
who weep on the shore strike discordant notes,
with weary fingers, on broken strings. So we
think, but so we should not think. Death, no
longer a monster, but a kind teacher, takes the
monotones of our life, places here and there a
rest just where it is needed-the grave of a
little one, or a strong one who has walked by
our side. Our tears make the minor tones;
the blending of all makes the melody, in which
our graves and our tears are the most precious
part, while fi-om the further side of every open
sepulcher sounds the voice that first broke on
the Syrian air, "I am the resurrection."
The rubs of this life always sing. Listen in
the laboratory of Faraday and the workshop
of Stevenson. Hark to the Mississippi flatboat and the New England anvil. The wayside clover blossoms, not because of care, but
in spite of neglect. It pushes its way through
the trodden soil, and makes its whiteness out
of the common dust. Most of us think poverty a curse. Strange if eternity reverses
things; strange if our enemy be, after all, our
best friend, because, forsooth, he makes us
exert ourselves to get away from him; strange
if, after all, our best friend be our worst enemy, because we are content to sit forever at
his feet, while our own jewels are ungathered.
Bravely bare the breast to the blows; the
divinest music shall be timed by the blood
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