Because a man seems uncongenial to you, who are squeamish and foolish, you have no right to shun him. We become charitable by knowing men. We learn to love those whom we have despised by rubbing against them. Do you not remember some instance of meeting a man or woman at a watering-place whom you have never previously known nor cared to know—an individual, perhaps, against whom you have entertained the strongest prejudices-but to whom you became bound by a life-long friendship through the influence of a three days' intercourse? Yet if you had not thus met, you would have carried through life the idea that it would be impossible for you to give your fellowship to such an individual. God has introduced into human character infinite variety, and for you to say that you do not love and will not associate with a man because he is unlike you, is not only foolish but wrong. You are to remember that in the precise manner and degree in which a man differs from you, do you differ from him; and that from his stand-point you are naturally as repulsive to him, as he, from your stand-point, is to you. So, leave all this talk of congeniality to silly girls and transcendental dreamers. Do your business in your own way, and concede to every man the privilege which you claim for yourself. The more you mix with men, the less you will be disposed to quarrel, and the more charitable and liberal will you become. The fact that you do not understand a man, is quite as likely to be your fault as his. There are a good many chances in favour of the conclusion, that if you fail to love an individual whose acquaintance you make, it is through your own ignorance and illiberality. So I say, meet every man honestly; seek to know him, and you will find that in those points in which he differs from you rests his power to instruct you, enlarge you, and do you good. Keep your heart open for everybody, and be sure that you shall have your reward. You shall find a jewel under the most uncouth exterior ; and associated with comeliest manners and the oddest ways and the ugliest faces, you will find rare virtues, fragrant little humanities, and inspiring heroisms. Again: you can have no influence unless you are social. A strictly exclusive man is as devoid of influence as an iceberg is of verdure. If you will take a peep at the river some bright morning, you will see, ploughing grandly along towards the great metropolis, a magnificent steamer, the silver wave peeling off from her cutwater, and a million jewels sparkling in her wake, passing all inferior barks in sublime indifference, and sending yacht and skiff dancing from her heel. Right behind her, you shall see a smaller steamer, the central motive power of a plateau of barges, loaded to their edges with the produce of thousands of well tilled acres. She has fastened herself to these barges by lines invisible to you. They may be homely things, but they contain the food of the nation. Her own speed may be retarded by this association, but the work she does for commerce is ten-fold greater than that accomplished by the grand craft that shuns abrasion as misfortune, and seeks to secure nothing but individual dignity and fast time. It is through social contact, and absolute social value alone, that you can accomplish any great social good. It is through the invisible lines which you are able to attach to the minds with which you are brought into association alone that you can tow society, with its deeply freighted interests, to the great haven of your hope. The revenge which society takes upon the man who isolates himself, is as terrible as it is inevitable. The pride which sits alone, and will do nothing for society, because society disgusts it, or because its possessor does not at once have accorded to him his position, will have the privilege of sitting alone in its sublime disgust till it drops into the grave. The world sweeps by the isolated man, carelessly, remorselessly, contemptuously. He has no hold upon society, because he is not a part of it. The boat that refuses to pause in its passage, and throw a line to smaller craft, will bring no ship into port. So let me tell you, that if you have an honourable desire in your heart for influence, you must be a thoroughly social man. You cannot move men until you are one of them. They will not follow you until they have heard your voice, shaken your hand, and fully learned your principles and your sympathies. It makes no difference how much you know, or how much you are capable of doing. You may pile accomplishment upon acquisition mountain high; but if you fail to be a social man, demonstrating to society that your lot is with the rest, a little child with a song in its mouth, and a kiss for all, and a pair of innocent hands to lay upon the knees, shall lead more hearts and change the direction of more lives than you. LETTER VI. THE ADVANTAGES OF RELIGION. "Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! OUNG men, I hate cant, and I do not know exactly how to say what I wish to say in this letter; but I desire to talk to you rationally upon the subject of religion. Now don't stop reading at the mention of this word, but read this letter through. The fact is, it is the most important letter I have undertaken to write to you. I know you, I think, very thoroughly. Life looks so good to you, and you are anticipating so much from it, that religion comes to you, and comes over you, like a shadow. You associate it with long faces, and prayer meetings, and psalm-singing, and dull sermons, and grave reproofs, and stupidity. Your companions are gay, and so are you. Perhaps you make a jest of religion; but deep down in your heart of hearts you know that you are not treating religion fairly. You know perfectly well that there is something in it for you, and that you must have it. You know that the hour will come when you will specially need it. But you wish to put it off, and "enjoy life" first. This results very much from the kind of preaching you have always listened to. You have been taught that human life is a humbug, that these things which so greatly delight you are vain and sinful, that your great business in this world is to be saved, and that you are only to be saved by learning to despise things that you love, and to love things which you despise. You feel that this is unnatural and irrational. I think it is, myself. Now let me talk to you. Go with me, if you please, to the next station-house, and look off upon that line of railroad. It is as straight as an arrow. Out run the iron lines, glittering in the sun,-out, as far as we can see, until, converging almost to a single thread, they pierce the sky. What were those rails laid in that way for? It is a road, is it? Try your cart or coach there. The axletrees are too narrow, and you go bumping along upon the sleepers. Try a wheelbarrow. You cannot keep it on the rail. But that road was made for something. Now go with me to the engine shop. What is this? We are told it is a locomotive. What is a locomotive? Why, it is a carriage moved by steam. But it is very heavy. The wheels would sink into a common road to the axle. That locomotive can |