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it recognizes our natural cravings; it speaks to our hearts and to our consciences, as well as to our wills; it comes to us as sinners needing forgiveness; it tells us of Christ the Saviour; it tells of God, the Perfect Father; it points to a glorious heaven; it bids us live with the humility and dignity, the trust and patience, the simple sincerity and the high aims that become children of God. To believe this gospel and to live in the light of it, to recognize our own weakness and to cling to God and Christ for strength, this is the way to the only independence which becomes a dependent creature, and to that living and blessed peace which is neither the impassive calm of torpor, nor the haughty serenity of pride.

CYNICISM.

[Reprinted from The Christian World Pulpit, December 6, 1876.]

THE Cynics were a sect of philosophers among the Greeks, founded by Antisthenes, who, on account of his snappish, snarling propensities, was frequently called "The Dog"; and probably enough it may have been on account of this that his school of philosophy was called the Cynic or Dog school. He was stern, proud, and unsympathetic. He taught that all human pleasure was to be despised. He was ostentatiously careless as to the opinions, the feelings, and the esteem of others. He used to appear in a threadbare dress, so that Socrates once exclaimed, "I see your pride, Antisthenes, peeping through the holes in your cloak!" His temper was morose, and his language was coarse and indecent. His disciple, Diogenes, even "bettered the instruction," living, it is said, in a tub, and peering about the streets with a lantern in the daytime, in search, as he alleged, of a man! It was part of his system to outrage common decency, and he snarled and growled even more bitterly and insolently than his predecessor. It is from this old school of philosophy that we derive the term cynicism; and we commonly apply it, nowadays, to that mood or habit

of mind which looks out upon mankind with cold and bitter feeling, which finds little or nothing to admire in human character and action, which systematically depreciates human motives, which rejoices to catch men tripping, which sneers where others reverence, and dissects where others admire, and is hard where others pity, and suspects where others praise.

It would appear to have been some such mood as this through which the Psalmist had been passing when he said "" all men are liars." With him, however, the

mood seems to have been but transient. For a time his soul was darkened by its baleful shadow—all human goodness eclipsed for him, and his own human sympathies and affections frozen. But only for a time. He does not seem to have cherished this cynical mood. On the contrary, he seems to have been conscious of its wretchedness, and to have retained the power to pray against it. I daresay there are not a few of us who have tasted somewhat of the bitterness of cynicism, or who at least have experienced certain moods of feeling which have given us a glimpse of what cynicism is. For surely that man or woman must be exceptionally blessed who has been able to pass through disappointment and sorrow with temper ever sweet and disposition never soured, and who, although confidence in individuals may have been shaken, has nevertheless always preserved a genial and trustful outlook on humanity. Most of us, however, have failed, I fear, to manifest such grace, and must have known what it is to have our sympathies and affections temporarily soiled and curdled in times of vexation and disappointment. Well is it for us when such a mood is merely a passing one, when we recognize and

feel its bitterness, and when, like the Psalmist, we retain the power to fight and to pray against it.

The great danger is lest the mood should pass into a habit-lest we should nurse it until it becomes a chronic attitude of mind, and we begin to lose the taste of its bitterness, and to take a morbid pleasure in indulging it. Distinguish, however, between cynicism and satire. No doubt the cynic is often satirical; satire is just the kind of weapon that comes ready to his hand. But the same weapon may be wielded by very different hands, and in very different causes; and satire may often be employed by men who are anything but cynical. There is such a thing as genial satire— the light and even humorous play of irony or sarcasm around some venial fault, or some peculiar excrescence of character. Then there is also the satire of moral indignation, which applies the stinging lash to manifest vices, or pours the vials of scorn on some detestable meanness, in order to make the shameless ashamed, or to infuse a healthy contempt of vice into the souls of those who are still uncontaminated by it. The old Hebrew prophets knew how to wield this weapon; and even in the pages of the New Testament it finds its fitting place. In fact, all such satire as this-whether of the genial or the vehement type-is often used by men who are passionate admirers of human excellence, and who are not only warmly attached to individuals, but also earnest lovers of their race. Whereas it is the very characteristic of cynicism that it lacks earnestness. It knows nothing of a noble scorn. Its satire is neither genial nor vehement. Even its humour is always sardonic. Its very bitterness, although intense, is unimpassioned. It is a kind of

acrid gelatine. The fully-developed cynic prides himself on his indifferentism. Remorselessly he dissects and analyzes human character and action; for, like Iago, he is "nothing, if not critical"; but his criticism has no useful end in view; he is not seeking to make others wiser or better. He is scarcely earnest enough even to care about his success in stinging and wounding! It is simply his way to pick faults and to sneer. We find the culmination of this cynicism in Goethe's "Mephistopheles"; and, indeed, the word "devil" itself means accuser "-the slanderer of God and

man.

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You will sometimes meet with a young man who has got into this indifferent, scoffing, carping, bitter habit of mind. He prides himself on having "seen life," when what he has seen has rather been-death! He fancies he knows men and women, when, in fact, a whole world of noble manhood and womanhood lies outside the range of his vision and experience. He judges of humanity from his own shallow nature and his own frivolous companionships. Burrowing like a mole underground, he sneers at the very idea of the stars. Feasting himself like a dung-fly, he cannot believe that there are any creatures that really prefer the flowers. No man is a hero to him; he seems to have lost the capacity of admiration. No woman wakes a pure and passionate love in his breast. To his eye disinterestedness, patriotism, philanthropy, missionary zeal, are only phases of selfishness. Point him to the sun; he will tell you of its spots. Point him to some exquisite statue; he will show you the flaw in the marble. Point him to a noble character; he will put some fault under his microscope. This is

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