the university of hard knocks-第16章

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　filmy　creation　caught　with　something　or　other。

〃We　（hands　at　half…mast　and　separating）　are　rowing　（business　of　propelling　aerial　boat　with　two　fingers　of　each　hand；　head　inclined）。　We　are　not　drifting　（hands　slide　downward）。〃

Children；　we　are　not　laughing　at　you。　We　are　laughing　at　ourselves。　We　are　laughing　the　happy　laugh　at　how　we　have　learned　these　great　truths　that　you　have　memorized；　but　not　vitalized。

You　get　the　most　beautiful　and　sublime　truths　from　Emerson's　essays。　（How　did　they　ever　have　commencements　before　Emerson？）　But　that　is　not　knowing　them。　You　cannot　know　them　until　you　have　lived　them。　It　is　a　grand　thing　to　say；　〃Beyond　the　Alps　lieth　Italy；〃　but　you　can　never　really　say　that　until　you　know　it　by　struggling　up　over　Alps　of　difficulty　and　seeing　the　Italy　of　promise　and　victory　beyond。　It　is　fine　to　say；　〃We　are　rowing　and　not　drifting；〃　but　you　cannot　really　say　that　until　you　have　pulled　on　the　oar。

O；　Gussie；　get　an　oar！




My　Maiden　Sermon


Did　you　ever　hear　a　young　preacher；　just　captured；　just　out　of　a　factory？　Did　you　ever　hear　him　preach　his　〃maiden　sermon〃？　I　wish　you　had　heard　mine。　I　had　a　call。　At　least；　I　thought　I　had　a　call。　I　think　now　I　was　〃short…circuited。〃　The　〃brethren〃　waited　upon　me　and　told　me　I　had　been　〃selected〃：　Maybe　this　was　a　local　call；　not　long　distance。

They　gave　me　six　weeks　in　which　to　load　the　gospel　gun　and　get　ready　for　my　try…out。　I　certainly　loaded　it　to　the　muzzle。

But　I　made　the　mistake　I　am　trying　to　warn　you　against。　Instead　of　going　to　the　one　book　where　I　might　have　gotten　a　sermonthe　book　of　my　experience；　I　went　to　the　books　in　my　father's　library。　〃As　the　poet　Shakespeare　has　so　beautifully　said；〃　and　then　I　took　a　chunk　of　Shakespeare　and　nailed　it　on　page　five　of　my　sermon。　〃List　to　the　poet　Tennyson。〃　Come　here；　Lord　Alfred。　So　I　soldered　these　fragments　from　the　books　together　with　my　own　native　genius。　I　worked　that　sermon　up　into　the　most　beautiful　splurges　and　spasms。　I　bedecked　it　with　metaphors　and　semaphores。　I　filled　it　with　climaxes；　both　wet　and　dry。　I　had　a　fine　wet　climax　on　page　fourteen；　where　I　had　made　a　little　mark　in　the　margin　which　meant　〃cry　here。〃　This　was　the　spilling…point　of　the　wet　climax。　I　was　to　cry　on　the　lefthand　side　of　the　page。

I　committed　it　all　to　memory；　and　then　went　to　a　lady　who　taught　expression；　to　get　it　expressed。　You　have　to　get　it　expressed。

I　got　the　most　beautiful　gestures　nailed　into　almost　every　page。　You　know　about　gesturesthese　things　you　make　with　your　arms　in　the　air　as　you　speak。　You　can　notice　it　on　me　yet。

I　am　not　sneering　at　expression。　Expression　is　a　noble　art。　All　life　is　expression。　But　you　have　to　get　something　to　express。　Here　I　made　my　mistake。　I　got　a　lot　of　fine　gestures。　I　got　an　express…wagon　and　got　no　load　for　it。　So　it　rattled。　I　got　a　necktie；　but　failed　to　get　any　man　to　hang　it　upon。　I　got　up　before　a　mirror　for　six　weeks；　day　by　day；　and　said　the　sermon　to　the　glass。　It　got　so　it　would　run　itself。　I　could　have　gone　to　sleep　and　that　sermon　would　not　have　hesitated。

Then　came　the　grand　day。　The　boy　wonder　stood　forth　and　before　his　large　and　enthusiastic　concourse　delivered　that　maiden　sermon　more　grandly　than　ever　to　a　mirror。　Every　gesture　went　off　the　bat　according　to　the　blueprint。　I　cried　on　page　fourteen！　I　never　knew　it　was　in　me。　But　I　certainly　got　it　all　out　that　day！

Then　I　did　another　fine　thing；　I　sat　down。　I　wish　now　I　had　done　that　earlier。　I　wish　now　I　had　sat　down　before　I　got　up。　I　was　the　last　man　out　of　the　churchand　I　hurried。　But　they　beat　me　outall　nine　of　them。　When　I　went　out　the　door；　the　old　sexton　said　as　he　jiggled　the　key　in　the　door　to　hurry　me；　〃Don't　feel　bad；　bub；　I've　heerd　worse　than　that。　You're　all　right；　bub；　but　you　don't　know　nothin'　yet。〃

I　cried　all　the　way　to　town。　If　he　had　plunged　a　dagger　into　me　he　would　not　have　hurt　me　so　much。　It　has　taken　some　years　to　learn　that　the　old　man　was　right。　I　had　wonderful　truth　in　that　sermon。　No　sermon　ever　had　greater　truth；　but　I　had　not　lived　it。　The　old　man　meant　I　did　not　know　my　own　sermon。





So；　children；　when　you　prepare　your　commencement　oration；　write　about　what　you　know　best；　what　you　have　lived。　If　you　know　more　about　peeling　potatoes　than　about　anything　else；　write　about　〃Peeling　Potatoes；〃　and　you　are　most　likely　to　hear　the　applause　peal　from　that　part　of　your　audience　unrelated　to　you。

Out　of　every　thousand　books　published；　perhaps　nine　hundred　of　them　do　not　sell　enough　to　pay　the　cost　of　printing　them。　As　you　study　the　books　that　do　live；　you　note　that　they　are　the　books　that　have　been　lived。　Perhaps　the　books　that　fail　have　just　as　much　of　truth　in　them　and　they　may　even　be　better　written；　yet　they　lack　the　vital　impulse。　They　come　out　of　the　author's　head。　The　books　that　live　must　come　out　of　his　heart。　They　are　his　own　life。　They　come　surging　and　pulsating　from　the　book　of　his　experience。

The　best　part　of　our　schooling　comes　not　from　the　books；　but　from　the　men　behind　the　books。

We　study　agriculture　from　books。　That　does　not　make　us　an　agriculturist。　We　must　take　a　hoe　and　go　out　and　agricult。　That　is　the　knowing　in　the　doing。




You　Must　Live　Your　Song


〃There　was　never　a　picture　painted；　There　was　never　a　poem　sung；　But　the　soul　of　the　artist　fainted；　And　the　poet's　heart　was　wrung。〃


So　many　young　people　think　because　they　have　a　good　voice　and　they　have　cultivated　it；　they　are　singers。　All　this　cultivation　and　irritation　and　irrigation　and　gargling　of　the　throat　are　merely　symptoms　of　a　singermerely　neckties。　Singers　look　better　with　neckties。

They　think　the　song　comes　from　the　diaphragm。　But　it　comes　from　the　heart；　chaperoned　by　the　diaphragm。　You　cannot　sing　a　song　you　have　not　lived。

Jessie　was　singing　the　other　day　at　a　chautauqua。　She　has　a　beautiful　voice；　and　she　has　been　away　to　〃Ber…leen〃　to　have　it　attended　to。　She　sang　that　afternoon　in　the　tent；　〃The　Last　Rose　of　Summer。〃　She　sang　it　with　every　note　so　well　placed；　with　the　sweetest　little　trills　and　tendrils；　with　the　smile　exactly　like　her　teacher　had　taught　her。　Jessie　exhibited　all　the　machinery　and　trimmings　for　the　song；　but　she　had　no　steam；　no　song。　She　sang　the　notes。　She　might　as　well　have　sung；　〃Pop；　Goes　the　Weasel。〃

The　audience　politely　endured　Jessie。　That　night　a　woman　sang　in　the　same　tent　〃The　Last　Rose　of　Summer。〃　She　had　never　been　to　Berlin；　but　she　had　lived　that　song。　She　didn't　dress　the　notes　half　so　beautifully　as　Jessie　did；　but　she　sang　it　with　the　tremendous　feeling　it　demands。　The　audience　went　wild。　It　was　a　case　of　Gussie　and　Bill　Whackem。

All　this　was　gall　and　wormwood　to　Jessie。　〃Child；〃　I　said　to　her；　〃this　is　the　best　singing　lesson　you　have　ever　had。　Your　study　is　all　right　and　you　have　a　better　voice　than　that　woman；　but　you　cannot　sing　〃The　Last　Rose　of　Summer〃　yet；　for　you　do　not　know　very　much　about　the　first　rose　of　summer。　And　really；　I　hope　you'll　never　know　the　ache　and　disappointment　you　must　know　before　you　can　sing　that　song；　for　it　is　the　sob　of　a　broken…hearted　woman。　Learn　to　sing　the　songs　you　have　lived。〃

Why　do　singers　try　to　execute　songs　beyond　the　horizon　of　their　lives？　That　is　why　they　〃execute〃　them。




The　Success　of　a　Song…Writer


The　guest　of　honor　at　a　dinner　in　a　Chicago　club　was　a　woman　who　is　one　of　the　widely　known　song…writers　of　this　land。　As　I　had　the　good　fortune　to　be　sitting　at　table　with　her　I　wanted　to　ask　her；　〃How　did　you　get　your　songs　known？　How　did　you　know　what　kind　of　songs　the　people　want　to　sing？〃

But　in　the　hour　she　talked　with　her　friends　around　the　table　I　found　the　answer　to　every　question。　〃Isn't　it　good　to　be　here？　Isn't　it　great　to　have　friends　and　a　fine　home　and　money？〃　she　said。　〃I　have　had　such　a　struggle　in　my　life。　I　have　lived　on　one　meal　a　day　and　didn't　know　where　the　next　meal　was　coming　from。　I　know　what　it　is　to　be　left　alone　in　the　world　upon　my　own　resources。　I　have　had　years　of　struggle。　I　have　been　sick　and　discouraged　and　down　and　out。　It　was　in　my　little　back…room；　the　only　home　I　had；　that　I　began　to　write　songs。　I　wrote　them　for　my　own　relief。　I　was　writing　my　own　life；　just　what　was　in　my　own　heart　and