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Page 9
Some years ago, in conversation with a missionary who had spent many
years in China, I asked him, having this subject in my mind, whether he
thought that his converts were capable of receiving Christianity in the
sense in which he himself held the faith. His answer, which he
illustrated by instances, was that the heathen conceptions and
propensities could not be entirely eradicated; and that, under
unfavorable circumstances, the most trusted converts would sometimes
relapse into a condition as bad as ever they had known.
It is also a matter of common assertion that our American Indians, after
years of training in the society of civilized life, are generally ready
to fall back at once to their old ways. What we call civilization is to
them but an easy-fitting garment.
I do not know what is the belief of scholars regarding the comparative
age of the different minor divisions--sub-branches, as Sinnett calls
them--of the Aryan race. I imagine, however, that of the European
sub-branches, the Celtic is practically the oldest. The Italic or
Hellenic may have broken off from the parent stem earlier than the
Celtic, but they have not wandered so far away, and have not been so
isolated from the influence of later migrations. The Celtic race has
mingled its blood with the Iberian in Spain and with many elements in
Gaul and Italy; but in the northwest of Europe, on its own peculiar
isle, it seems to have remained, if not purer than elsewhere, at least
less affected by mixture with later, that is, higher, races.
What is the practical use of all this study? Ever since I first read
Esoteric Buddhism, my attention has been turned to the confirmation of
its theory of human development. As I ride in the horse-car, as I walk
on the street, still more constantly as I stand before one class after
another in the school-room, I am struck with the thought that here,
behind the face I am looking into, is a human soul whose capacities are
limited--a soul that _cannot_ grasp the thought which catches like
a spark upon the mind of its next neighbor. Yet that half-awakened soul
is destined to work its way through all the phases of human possibility,
and reach at last the harbor of peace. This thought should make one
ashamed to be impatient or negligent. Why should one lose patience with
this boy's inability to learn, more than at the inanimate obstacle in
one's pathway? How can one be unfaithful in one's effort, when it may be
the means of lessening the number of times that that poor soul must pass
through earthly life?
Do I believe in the teachings of this book? I do not know. So far as the
doctrine of repeated incarnation goes, I hold it to be not inconsistent
with Christianity; but rather an explanation of Christ's coming upon
earth at the precise time when he did. I still hold the subject of
Buddhistic philosophy as a matter for very serious and edifying
reflection.
* * * * *
COLONEL FLETCHER WEBSTER.
By Charles Cowley, LL.D.
FLETCHER WEBSTER, son of Daniel and Grace (Fletcher) Webster,
was born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, July 23, 1813. He was but three
years old when his father removed to Boston, where he was fitted for
college in the Public Latin School,--the nursery of so many eminent men.
On the seventeenth of June, 1825, when Lafayette laid the cornerstone
of the monument on Bunker Hill, when Daniel Webster delivered one of the
most famous of his orations, Fletcher Webster, then twelve years old,
was present. "The vast procession, impatient of unavoidable delay, broke
the line of march, and, in a tumultuous crowd, rushed towards the
orator's platform," which was in imminent danger of being crushed to the
earth. Fletcher Webster was only saved from being trampled under foot,
by the thoughtful care of George Sullivan, who lifted the boy upon his
own shoulders, shouting, "Don't kill the orator's son!" and bore him
through the crowd, and placed him upon the staging at his father's feet.
It required the utmost efforts of Daniel Webster to control that
multitudinous throng. "Stand back, gentlemen!" he repeatedly shouted
with his double-bass voice; "you must stand back!" "We can't stand back,
Mr. Webster; it is impossible!" cried a voice in the crowd. Mr. Webster
replied, in tones of thunder: "On Bunker Hill nothing is impossible."
And the crowd stood back.
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