The Price of Excellence.
By A. R. C.
Goodness is a commodity for which the possessor must pay more than the market value. Whoever attempts to lift the public sentiment above its wonted level, must expect that his efforts of self-sacrifice will be set to his debit, not to his credit. The higher qualities of character are obtained by a cost proportionate. Socrates possessed a sincerity which might be called divine. He also drank the hemlock. Kepler traced the divine footsteps on the scroll of heaven, until touched with inspiration, he exclaimed, "Almighty God, I think thy thoughts after thee." He entered his house and heard his children cry for bread. A Spanish General said of Toussaint, "He was the purest soul God ever put into a body." The price he paid for that purity, was to fall into the treacherous hands of Napoleon, and the man who "never broke his word" starved in a damp prison. Foxes had their hiding-places, and birds of the air their quiet nests, but the world's Redeemer had no resting-place. So it will ever be. If you are a minister possessed of the higher qualities of a good conscience, expect to suffer for it. If you are a lawyer, pure from all subtle devices, expect to lose your caste. For men will wear the Nessus' shirt because of its gold lace, though it grow fast to the living flesh. If you are a woman, devoting your most earnest labor to enrich the heart rather than the body, expect a life unblest in the companionship of spirit; it is your fate, but it is your laurel; wear it. He who makes the one aim of life that of usefulness, must clothe the faith of his heart in a coat of mail. But the higher qualities of genius are disturbed by none of these things. Kepler did not murmur that his children lacked bread. He broke for them the bread other men could not break. The hard earth did not hurt the bare feet of Socrates. If you must keep the fourth commandment alone, warring with neighbors, wife, and children, keep it. The seal of heaven is never set in wax. Goodness is immortal. An unmarked grave, holding the debris of innocence, may be the rich soil which is growing patience, hope, love, in the heart of a mother.—A. R. C.—in Sabbath Recorder.