I read Henderson’s novel, “John Percyfield,” and enjoyed it so much that when I came upon his other book, “Education and the Larger Life,” I bought and read it.  But it has given me much discomfort.  In that book he says that it is immoral for any one to do less than his best.  I can scarcely think of that statement without feeling that I ought to be sent to jail.  I’m actually burdened with immorality, and find myself all the while between the “devil and the deep sea,” the “devil” of work, and the “deep sea” of immorality.  I suppose that’s why I talk so much about being busy, trying to free myself from the charge of immorality.  I think it was Virgil who said Facilis descensus Averno, and I suppose Mr. Henderson, in his statement, is trying to save me from the inconveniences of this trip.  I suppose I ought to be grateful to him for the hint, but I just can’t get any great comfort in such a close situation.

I know I must work or go hungry, and I can stand a certain amount of fasting, but to be stamped as immoral because I am fasting rather hurts my pride.  I’d much rather have my going hungry accounted a virtue, and receive praise and bouquets.  When I am in a lounging mood it isn’t any fun to have some Henderson come along and tell me that I am in need of a revival.  A copy of “Baedeker” in hand, I have gone through a gallery of statues but did not find a sinner in the entire company.  The originals may have been sinners, but not these marble statues.  That is some comfort.  To be a sinner one must be animate at the very least.  I’d rather be a sinner, even, than a mummy or a statue.  St. Paul wrote to Timothy:  “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.”  There was nothing of the mummy or the statue in him.  He was just a straight-away sinful man, and a glorious sinner he was.

I like to think of Titian and Michael Angelo.  When their work was done and they stood upon the summit of their achievements they were up so high that all they had to do was to step right into heaven, without any long journey.  Tennyson did the same.  In his poem, “Crossing the Bar,” he filled all the space, and so he had to cross over into heaven to get more room.  And Riley’s “Old Aunt Mary” was another one.  She had been working out her salvation making jelly, and jam, and marmalade, and just beaming goodness upon those boys so that they had no more doubts about goodness than they had of the peach preserves they were eating.  Why, there just had to be a heaven for old Aunt Mary.  She gathered manna every day, and had some for the boys, too, but never said a word about being busy.