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 Mastering Rust

Mastering Rust helps the reader master the powerful Rust

programming language for creating stable and versatile applications
and projects.
Rust is a dependable and robust programming language that was
created with today’s needs in mind, which is something that several
other scripting languages lack.
Rust was developed to provide high functions comparable to
those of C and C++, and with a focus on code integrity, which is,
arguably, lacking in languages such as C. Rust is a dynamically typed
language that emphasizes performance and reliability, particularly in
parallelism and storage organization. Rust allows you to store data
on the tower or the shedload, and it recognizes the importance of
performance optimization. It permits even more effective memory
usage as well as faster memory management than most other
programming languages in its league.
Make no mistake about it – Rust is a programming language with
a strong learning curve, and is considered complicated by even the
most experienced of developers. The rewards for learning Rust are
aplenty, but the learning process itself requires a good deal of
determination and hard work.
Nonetheless, Rust aims to provide a secure, concurrent, and
practical systems language in ways that other programming
languages do not, and this is primarily why Rust is often the
preferred choice for building complex and highly stable apps. Rust
boasts of advantages over many other programming languages in
terms of expressiveness, speed, sound design, and memory storage.
Though the language is new and constantly changing with time,
there is an excellent opportunity in this field for future employment.
That said, to learn the reliable language that is Rust, you need to
have an equally reliable companion guide in your hands, and this is
where Mastering Rust comes in.
With Mastering Rust, learning Rust programming language
becomes a charm, and will undoubtedly help readers advance their
careers.
The Mastering Computer Science series is edited by Sufyan bin
Uzayr, a writer and educator with more than a decade of experience
in the computing field.
Mastering Computer Science
Series Editor: Sufyan bin Uzayr

Mastering Rust: A Beginner’s Guide

Divya Sachdeva, Faruq KC, and Aruqqa Khateib

Mastering Visual Studio Code: A Beginner’s Guide

Jaskiran Kaur, D Nikitenko, and Mathew Rooney

Mastering Django: A Beginner’s Guide

Jaskiran Kaur, NT Ozman, and Reza Nafim

Mastering Ubuntu: A Beginner’s Guide

Jaskiran Kaur, Rubina Salafey, and Shahryar Raz

Mastering KDE: A Beginner’s Guide

Jaskiran Kaur, Mathew Rooney, and Shahryar Raz

Mastering Kotlin: A Beginner’s Guide

Divya Sachdeva, Faruq KC, and Aruqqa Khateib

For more information about this series, please visit:

https://www.routledge.com/Mastering-Computer-Science/book-
series/MCS

The “Mastering Computer Science” series of books are

authored by the Zeba Academy team members, led by
Sufyan bin Uzayr.

Zeba Academy is an EdTech venture that develops courses

and content for learners primarily in STEM fields, and offers
education consulting to Universities and Institutions
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 Mastering Rust
A Beginner’s Guide

Edited by Sufyan bin Uzayr

First edition published 2023
by CRC Press
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300, Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742
and by CRC Press
4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN
CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, LLC
© 2023 Sufyan bin Uzayr
Reasonable efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, but
the author and publisher cannot assume responsibility for the validity of all
materials or the consequences of their use. The authors and publishers have
attempted to trace the copyright holders of all material reproduced in this
publication and apologize to copyright holders if permission to publish in this form
has not been obtained. If any copyright material has not been acknowledged
please write and let us know so we may rectify in any future reprint.
Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Law, no part of this book may be
reprinted, reproduced, transmitted, or utilized in any form by any electronic,
mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including
photocopying, microfilming, and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, without written permission from the publishers.
For permission to photocopy or use material electronically from this work, access
www.copyright.com or contact the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. (CCC), 222
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available on CCC please contact [email protected]
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered
trademarks and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to
infringe.

Library of Congress Cataloging–in–Publication Data

Names: Bin Uzayr, Sufyan, editor.
Title: Mastering Rust : a beginner’s guide / edited by Sufyan bin Uzayr.
Description: First edition. | Boca Raton : CRC Press, 2022. | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022020964 (print) | LCCN 2022020965 (ebook) | ISBN
9781032319049 (hbk) | ISBN 9781032319018 (pbk) | ISBN 9781003311966
(ebk)
 Subjects: LCSH: Rust (Computer program language) | Computer programming.
Classification: LCC QA76.73.R87 M355 2022 (print) | LCC QA76.73.R87 (ebook)
| DDC 005.13/3--dc23/eng/20220805
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022020964
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022020965

ISBN: 9781032319049 (hbk)

ISBN: 9781032319018 (pbk)
ISBN: 9781003311966 (ebk)
DOI: 10.1201/9781003311966
Typeset in Minion
by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India
Contents

Mastering Computer Science Series Preface

About the Editor

Chapter 1 Getting Started with Rust

WHAT EXACTLY IS RUST?
Who Rust Is for
Rust’s Increasing Popularity
What Makes the Rust Programming Language
Unique?
Concurrent Programming Has Been Simplified
Some Challenges to Overcome while
Programming in Rust
What Is the Purpose of Rust?
Why Should We Use Rust?
Features of Rust
INSTALLING RUST
Rust in Windows Installation
Installing Rust on Linux or macOS
Updating and Uninstalling Rust
RUST FIRST PROGRAM
 Procedure for Creating, Compiling, and
Running the Program
REASONS WHY RUST IS THE WAY OF THE
FUTURE
Rust vs. Other Languages
Advantages of Rust vs. C++
Advantages of Rust vs. Java
Advantages of Rust vs. Python
Advantages of Rust vs. Go
What Makes Rust the Future?
Rust Increased the Safety of Memory
Rust’s Community Is Expanding
Rust Is Quick and Adaptable
Rust Has a Wide Range of Applications
Rust Is Used by Several Large Companies

Chapter 2 Common Programming Concepts

VARIABLES IN RUST
Variable Naming Rules
Syntax
IMMUTABLE
MUTABLE
Variables and Constants: What Are the
Differences?
DATA TYPES IN RUST
Variable Declaration
Scalar Types
 Integer
Illustration
Integer Range
Integer Overflow
Float
Automatic-type Casting
Number Separator
Boolean
Character
Compound Types
Tuple Type
Array Type
Accessing the Array Elements
Invalid Array Element Access
CONSTANT IN RUST
Constant Naming Convention in Rust
Constants vs. Variables
Variable and Constant Shadowing
STRING IN RUST
String Literal
String Object
Syntax
String Object – Common Methods
Illustration: new()
Illustration: to_string()
Illustration: replace()
Illustration: as_str()
 Illustration: push()
Illustration: push_str()
Illustration: len()
Illustration: trim()
Illustration: split_whitespace()
Illustration: split() string
Illustration: chars()
Concatenation of the Strings with + Operator
Illustration: String Concatenation
Illustration: Type Casting
Illustration: Format! Macro
OPERATORS IN RUST
Arithmetic Operators
Relational Operators
Logical Operators
Bitwise Operators
DECISION-MAKING IN RUST
If Statement
Syntax
If else statement
Syntax
Flowchart
Nested If
Syntax
Match Statement
Syntax
Using an “if” statement within a “let” statement
 Syntax
LOOPS IN RUST
Loop
Syntax
Exit from Loops
While Loop
Syntax
Flowchart
While Loop Disadvantages
FOR LOOP
Syntax
Distinctions between the While Loop and For
Loop
FUNCTIONS IN RUST
Function Defining
Syntax
Function Invoking
Syntax
Illustration
Returning Value from a Function
Syntax
Function with the Parameters
Pass by Value
Pass by Reference
Passing String to a Function
COMMENTS IN RUST
TUPLE IN RUST
 Destructing
ARRAY IN RUST
Array Characteristics
Array Declaration and Initialization
Syntax
Illustration: Simple Array
Illustration: Array without Data Type
Illustration: Default Values
Illustration: Array with for Loop
Illustration: Using the iter() Function
Illustration: Mutable Array
Passing Arrays as Parameters to the Functions
Illustration: Pass by Value
Illustration: Pass by Reference
The Array Declaration and Constants

Chapter 3 Understanding Ownership

WHAT EXACTLY IS OWNERSHIP?
The Stack and the Heap
Important Ownership Concepts
Rules of Ownership
Variable Scope
String Type
Memory and Allocation
Ways of Variables and Data Interact: Move
Variables and Data Interactions: Clone
Stack-Only Data: Copy
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The
Pardoner's Wallet
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The Pardoner's Wallet

Author: Samuel McChord Crothers

Release date: March 16, 2024 [eBook #73172]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Company,

1905

Credits: Alan, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file
was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PARDONER'S

WALLET ***
 By Samuel M. Crothers

THE PARDONER’S WALLET. 12mo, $1.25, net. Postage

extra.
THE ENDLESS LIFE. 16mo, gilt top, 85 cents, net. Postage
extra.
THE GENTLE READER, 12mo, $1.25, net. Postpaid, $1.37.
MISS MUFFET’S CHRISTMAS PARTY. Illustrated. Square
12mo, $1.00 net. Postpaid $1.08.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
Boston and New York.
THE PARDONER’S WALLET
 The Pardoner’s
Wallet
BY SAMUEL McCHORD CROTHERS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1905
COPYRIGHT 1905 BY SAMUEL McCHORD CROTHERS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published November 1905
 TO KATHARINE
WITH WHOM THESE THINGS HAVE
BEEN TALKED OVER
 PREFACE

T HERE is a well-grounded prejudice against a volume which

exhibits no marks of design and which turns out to be only a
fortuitous collection of essays. It is felt that the chapters brought
together under the cover of a single book should have something in
common. When one sees a number of subjects, each standing aloof
from the others, he predicts infelicity. It suggests incompatibility of
temper.
The essays brought together in “the Pardoner’s Wallet” have at least
a certain community of interest. They treat of aspects of human
nature which, while open to friendly criticism, are excusable. If the
author sometimes touches upon the foibles of his betters, he at least
has the grace to know that they are his betters.
 CONTENTS
PAGE

THE PARDONER 1
UNSEASONABLE VIRTUES 23
AN HOUR WITH OUR PREJUDICES 46
HOW TO KNOW THE FALLACIES 82
THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE PEACEMAKERS 119
THE LAND OF THE LARGE AND CHARITABLE
AIR 140
A COMMUNITY OF HUMORISTS 176
A SAINT RECANONIZED 199
AS HE SEES HIMSELF 221
A MAN UNDER ENCHANTMENT 249
THE CRUELTY OF GOOD PEOPLE 267
 THE PARDONER

With him ther rood a gentil Pardoner

Of Rouncival, his freend and his compeer,
That streight was comen fro the Court of Rome.
·································
A vernicle hadde he sowed on his cappe
His walet lay biforn him in his lappe
Bretful of pardoun.

I HAVE no plea to make for this fourteenth-century pardoner. He was an

impudent vagabond, trafficking in damaged goods. One did not need
to be a Lollard in order to see that he was a reprehensible character.
Discerning persons in need of relics would go to responsible dealers
where they could be assured of getting their money’s worth. This glib-
tongued fellow peddling religious articles from door to door lived on the
credulity of untraveled country people. He took advantage of their
weaknesses. Many a good wife would purchase a pardon she had no
need of, simply because he offered it as a bargain. This was all wrong.
We all know how the business of indulgence-selling was overdone. There
was a general loss of confidence on the part of the purchasing public; and
at last in the days of the too enterprising Tetzel there came a disastrous
slump. There was no market for pardons, even of the gilt-edged varieties.
Since then very little has been doing in this line, at least among the
northern nations.
The pardoner richly deserved his fate. And yet there are times when one
would give something to see the merry knave coming down the road.
I suppose that the nature of each individual has its point of moral
saturation. When this point is reached, it is of no use to continue
exhortation or rebuke or any kind of didactic effort. Even the finest quality
of righteous indignation will no longer soak in. With me the point of moral
saturation comes when I attend successively more meetings of a
reformatory and denunciatory character than nature intended me to profit
by. If they are well distributed in point of time, I can take in a
considerable number of good causes and earnestly reprobate an equal
number of crying evils. But there is a certain monotony of rebuke which I
am sure is not beneficial to persons of my disposition. That some things
are wrong I admit, but when I am peremptorily ordered to believe that
everything is wrong, it arouses in me a certain obstinacy of contradiction.
I might be led to such a belief, but I will not be driven to it. I rebel
against those censors of manners and morals who treat all human
imperfectnesses with equal rigor. To relax even for an instant the
righteous frown over the things that are going wrong, into an indulgent
smile at the things that are not nearly so bad as they seem, is in their
eyes nothing less than compounding a felony. If they would allow proper
intervals between protests, so that the conscience could cool down, all
would be well. But this is just what they will not allow. The wheels must
go round without intermission until progress is stopped by the
disagreeable accident of “a hot box.”
You remember after Mrs. Proudie had given her guests a severe lesson in
social ethics, the Signora asked in her hearing,—
“‘Is she always like this?’
“‘Yes—always—madam,’ said Mrs. Proudie, returning; ‘always the same—
always equally adverse to impropriety of conduct of every description.’”
Mrs. Proudie was an excellent woman according to her light, yet
Barchester would have been a happier place to live in had her light been
less constant. A little flicker now and then, a momentary relief from the
glare, would have been appreciated.
It is when the note of personal responsibility has been forced beyond my
ability that I feel beneath my inherited Puritanism the stirring of a vague
Papistry. Instead of joining another protesting society beginning with that
feverish particle “anti,” how delightful it would be to go out and dicker
with a well-conditioned pardoner

Streight comen fro the Court of Rome!

Wearied with diatribes and resolutions, one falls back upon the guileless
bargainings of Simple Simon.
“Let me taste your ware,” say I.
“Show me first your penny,” says the pardoner.
There is a renewal of one’s youth in this immortal repartee.
There is no greater relief than to go out and buy something, especially if
one can buy it cheap. A great part of the attractiveness of the mediæval
indulgences lay in the fact that you could buy them. They would not have
seemed the same if they had been given away, or if you had to work
them out like a road tax. To go out and buy a little heart’s ease was an
enticement.
Then again, the natural man, when he has to do with an institution, is in
a passive rather than in an active mood. If it is instituted for his
betterment, he says, “Let it better me.” It seems too bad that in the end
it should throw all the responsibility back upon himself.
A delightful old English traveler criticises the methods of transportation he
found in vogue in parts of Germany. He says that on the Rhine it was
customary to make the passengers do the rowing. “Their custome is that
the passengers must exercise themselves with oares and rowing, alternis
vicibus, a couple together. So that the master of the boate (who methinks
in honestie ought either to do it himself or to procure some others to do it
for him) never roweth but when his turne commeth. This exercise both
for recreation and health sake is I confesse very convenient for man. But
to be tied unto it by way of strict necessitie when one payeth well for his
passage was a thing that did not a little distaste my humour.”
This is the trouble which many of us find in the modern methods of doing
good. There are all sorts of organizations which promise well. But no
sooner have we embarked on a worthy undertaking than we find that we
are expected to work our passage. The officers of the boat disclaim all
further responsibility, leaving that to private judgment. It is the true
Protestant way and it works excellently well, when it works at all. It offers
a fine challenge to disinterested virtue. But there are occasions when the
natural man rebels. To have so much put upon him doth “not a little
distaste his humour.” He longs for the good old times when there were
thinkers who were not above their business, and who when he was at his
wit’s end would do his thinking for him. It’s the same way with being
excused for his shortcomings. Of course on a pinch he can excuse
himself, but he generally makes a pretty poor job of it. It would be much
more satisfactory to have a duly authorized person who, for a
consideration, would assume the whole responsibility. Of course if he had
done something that was really unpardonable, that would be another
matter. The law would have to take its course. But there are a great many
venial transgressions. What he wants is some one who can assure him
that they are venial.
Let no good Protestant take offense at the finding of a Pardoner’s Wallet
in this twentieth century. It is only a wallet containing tentative
suggestions concerning things pardonable. Nothing is authoritatively
signed and sealed.
Of one thing let the good Protestant take notice. I would have my
pardoner know his place. He must not meddle with things too high for
him. He has no right to deal with the graver sins or to speak for a higher
power. He must not speak even in the name of the Church, which has
worthier spokesmen than he. In a book on indulgences the author says,
“On the subject of elongated, centenary, and millenary pardons, it would
take too much space to enlarge.” I should rule out all such ambitious
plans, not only from lack of space but on conscientious grounds.
My pardoner should confine himself to a more modest task. He should be
the spokesman not of any ecclesiastical power, but only of ordinary and
errant human nature. There are sins against eternal law that must at all
times be taken seriously. The trouble with us poor mortals is that, even in
our remorse, we do not take very long views. The judgment that seems
most terrible to us is that of the people who live next door. The
transgressions which loom largest are offenses against social conventions
and against our own sensitive vanity. The pangs of remorse for an act of
remembered awkwardness are likely to be more poignant than those
which come as retribution for an acknowledged crime.
Here is ample room for a present-day pardoner. I should like to hear him
make the cheery proclamation of his trade.
“Good friends: You are not what you would like to be. You are not what
you think you are. You are not what your neighbors think you are,—or
rather, you are not what you think your neighbors think you are. Your
foibles, your peccadillos, your fallacies, and your prejudices are more
numerous than you imagine. But take heart of grace, good people. These
things are not unpardonable. We indulgencers have learned to make
allowances for human nature. Let’s see what’s in my wallet! No crowding!
Each will be served in his turn.”

* * * * * *
If I were a duly licensed pardoner, I should have a number of nicely
engraved indulgences for what are called sins of omission. Not that I
should attempt to extenuate the graver sort. I should not hold out false
hopes to thankless sons or indifferent husbands. To be followed by such
riff-raff would spoil my trade with the better classes. I should not have
anything in my wallet for the acrimonious critic, who brings a railing
accusation against his neighbor, and omits to sign his name. Some
omissions are unpardonable.
I should, at the beginning, confine my traffic to those sins which easily
beset conscientious persons about half past two in the morning. We have
warrant for thinking that the sleep of the just is refreshing. This is
doubtless true of the completely just; but with the just man in the making
it is frequently otherwise. There is a stage in his strenuous moral career
which is conducive to insomnia.
Having gone to sleep because he was tired, he presently awakes for the
same reason. He is, however, only half awake. Those kindly comforters,
Common-sense, Humor, and Self-esteem, whose function it is to keep him
on reasonably good terms with himself while he is doing his necessary
work, are still dozing.
Then Conscience appears,—a terrible apparition. There is a vague
menace in her glance. The poor wretch cowers beneath it. Then is
unrolled the lengthening list of the things left undone which ought to
have been done. Every unwritten letter and uncalled call and unattended
committee meeting and unread report emerges from the vasty deep and
adds its burden of unutterable guilt. The Thing That Was Not Worth
Doing arises and demands with insatiate energy that it be done at once.
The Thing Half-done, because there was no time to finish it, appears with
wan face accusing him of its untimely taking off. The Stitch not Taken in
Time appears with its pitiful ninefold progeny all doomed because of a
moment’s inattention. It seems that his moral raiment, instead of being
put together with an eye to permanency, has been stitched on a single-
thread machine and the end of the seam never properly fastened. Now
he is pulling at the thread, and he sees the whole fabric unraveling before
his eyes.
His past existence looms before him as a battlefield with a perpetual
conflict of duties,—each duty cruelly slain by its brother duty. While the
wailing of these poor ghosts is in his ears he cannot rest. And yet he
knows full well that at half past two in the morning the one inexorable
duty is that he should go to sleep. Conscience points to this as another
duty left undone. Then begins a new cycle of self-reproach.
At such times the sight of an indulgence neatly framed hanging upon the
bedroom wall would be worth more than it would cost. It would save
doctor’s bills.
Even in our waking hours there is a tendency for the sins of omission and
the sorrows of omission to pile up in monstrous fashion. There is a
curious ingenuity which some persons have in loading themselves with
burdens which do not belong to them, and in extracting melancholy
reflections out of their good fortune. They will not frankly accept a
blessing in its own proper form,—it must come to them in a mournful
disguise. Poets seem particularly subject to these inversions of feeling.
Here are some lines entitled “Two Sorrows:”—

Before Love came my eyes were dim with tears

Because I had not known her gentle face.
Softly I said, “But when across the years
Her smile illumes the darkness of my place,
All grief from my poor heart she will efface.”

Now Love is mine—she walks with me for aye

Down paths of primrose and blue violet,
But on my heart at every close of day
A grief more keen than my old grief is set.
I weep for those who have not found Love yet.

There is a fine altruism about this sentiment that one cannot but respect;
yet I should hate to live with a person who felt that way. One would not
venture on any little kindness for fear of opening a new floodgate of
tears.
I should feel like urging another point of view. It is true that you are
happy, happier than you deserve. But don’t get morbid about it; take it
cheerfully. It’s not your fault. It seems selfish, you say, to enjoy your
blessings when there aren’t enough to go round among all your fellow
beings. Why, my dear fellow, that’s the only way to make them go
around. What if, theoretically, it is a little selfish? We will readily pardon
that for the sake of the satisfaction we get out of seeing you have a good
time. We much prefer that you should allow us to sympathize with you in
your happiness, rather than that you should inflict upon us too much
sympathy for our deprivations.

* * * * * *
There is opportunity for a thriving trade in indulgences for necessarily
slighted work. I emphasize the idea of necessity, for I am aware of the
danger of gross abuse if poets and painters should get the notion that
they may find easy absolution for the sin of offering to the public
something less than their best. Their best is none too good. We must not,
through misdirected charity, lower the standards of self-respecting artists.
But some of us are not artists. The ordinary man is compelled to spend
most of his time on pot-boilers of one kind or another. When the pot is
merrily boiling, and all the odds and ends are being mingled in a savory
stew, I would allow the ordinary man some satisfaction. As fingers were
made before forks, so mediocrity was made before genius. Has mediocrity
no right to enjoy its own work, just because it is not the very best?
We of the commonalty who are fitted to live happily in the comparative
degree, allow ourselves to be bullied by the superlative. There are uneasy
spirits who trouble Israel. They continually quote the maxim that
whatever is worth doing is worth doing well. It is a good maxim in its
way, and causes no particular hardship until our eyes are opened and we
see what it means to do anything superlatively well. When we are shown
by example the technical excellence which is possible in the simplest
forms of activity, and the extent to which we fall short, we are appalled.
It is a wonder that we keep going at all when we consider the slovenly
way we breathe. And yet breathing, though it well might engage all our
attention, is only one of the things we have to do.
I attribute a good deal of the sense of stress in modern life to the new
standards of excellence that are set in regard to the multifarious activities
which make up our daily lives. We have to do a hundred different things.
This is not particularly trying so long as it is merely touch and go. In our
amateurish way we rather enjoy the variety. But when a hundred experts
beset us, each one of whom has made a life study of a particular act, we
are bowed in contrition. There is no good in us but good intentions, and
they cannot save us. Our life story is summed up like that of the
unfortunate sparrow in the tragical history of Cock Robin:

His aim then he took

But he took it not right.

Our capacity for imperfectness seems absolutely unlimited. The effort

taken to achieve success in one direction is from another point of view a
dissipation of energy. It is so much power withdrawn from another
possible achievement. The most versatile men do not do all things equally
well, and while the world calls them successful they are inwardly
conscious of their manifold failures. Mr. Balfour as Prime Minister of the
British Empire has had much to gratify his ambition, but he takes the
public into his confidence and confesses that he is a bitterly disappointed
man. For, in addition to other accomplishments, he plays golf, a game
that develops a conscience of its own. He plays well, but his conscience
tells him that he does not play as well as he might. “I belong,” he says,
“to that unhappy class of beings forever pursued by remorse, who are
conscious that they threw away in youth opportunities that were open to
them of beginning golf at a time of life when alone the muscles can be
attuned to the full perfection required by the most difficult game that
perhaps exists.”
Surely there must be a way by which such vain regrets may be stilled.
Life has its inevitable compromises. We cannot always be at our best.
Take such a simple matter as that of masticating our food. Before I had
given much thought to it, I should have said that it was something worth
doing and worth doing well. When I learned that Mr. Gladstone was
accustomed to chew each morsel of food thirty-two times, I thought it
greatly to his credit. For a man who had so many other things to do, that
seemed enough.
But when I read a book of some three hundred pages containing the
whole duty of man in regard to chewing, I was disheartened. Mr.
Gladstone appeared to be a mere tyro guilty of bolting his food. “The
author has found that one fifth of the midway section of the garden
young onion, sometimes called shallot, has required seven hundred and
twenty-two mastications before disappearing through involuntary
swallowing.”
The author evidently did his whole duty by that young onion, and yet I
should have pardoned him if he had done something less. That doctrine
of his about involuntary swallowing being the only kind that is morally
justifiable, seems to me to be too austere. If we have to swallow in the
end, why not show a cheerful willingness?

* * * * * *
Not only do those need comfort who do less than is expected of them,
those who do more are often in an equally sorry plight. Their excellences
make them obnoxious to their neighbors, and are treated as
unpardonable offenses. I would have a special line of indulgences for that
class of people known as the “unco guid.” I know no persons more in
need of charity, and who get so little of it. Every man’s hand is against
them, especially every hand that wields the pen of a ready writer. They
seem predestinated to literary reprobation, and that without regard to
their genuinely good works or to their continuance in the same. And yet
the whole extent of their crime is that, being in some respects better than
their neighbors, they are painfully aware of the fact. It is because they
have tasted of the forbidden knowledge of their own moral superiority
that their fall is deemed irremediable.
I confess that, in spite of all that has been said against them, I have a
tender feeling for them. They are persecuted for self-righteousness
without the benefit of any beatitude. Why should we consider it
unpardonable to be fully cognizant of one’s undoubted virtues? Of course
unconscious virtue is the more paradisiacal, while conscious virtue often
rubs one the wrong way. But while there are so many worse things in the
world, why should we mind a little thing like that?
We listen to Dumas’ swashbuckling heroes recounting their
transgressions. We know that they are not so bad as they would have us
believe, but we think no worse of them for that. But let a thoroughly
respectable man draw attention to his own fine qualities, and we treat
every deviation from exact fact as a crime. When he indulges in some
exaggeration and pictures himself as rather better than he is, we cry,
“Hypocrite!” If he claims possession of some single virtue which does not,
in our judgment, harmonize with some of his other characteristics, we
treat him as if he had stolen it. And yet, poor fellow! he may have come
honestly by this bit of finery, though he has not been able to get other
things to match it. All this is unkind.
Whatever one may think of the “unco guid,” every right-minded person
must agree with me that something ought to be done for the peace of
mind of the quiet, respectable, good people who bear the heat and
burden of the day. I have in mind the people who pay taxes, and build
homes, and support churches and schools and hospitals, and now and
then go to the theatre. They are as likely as not to be moderately well to
do, and if they are not, nobody knows it. When times are hard with them,
they keep their own counsels and go about with head erect and the best
foot forward. You may see multitudes of these people every day.
As a class, these people are sadly put upon. They are criticised not only
for their own shortcomings, but for those of all their irresponsible fellow
citizens. If anything goes wrong they are sure to hear about it, for they
listen to sermons, and read the newspapers, and attend meetings. No
reformer can be truly eloquent who does not point his finger at his hearer,
and say, “Thou art the man!” Now, unfortunately, the real delinquents are
usually absent, and the right-minded, conscientious hearer of the word,
who is doing all he can for social regeneration, even to the verge of
nervous prostration, has to act as substitute. He has been so often
assured that he is the guilty man that, by and by, he comes to believe it.
He walks to church with his family only to be told that it is his fault, and
the fault of those like him, that other people have gone off in their
automobiles. Perhaps, if he had walked differently, he might have made
church-going more attractive to them. The evils of intemperance are laid
at his door. It is not worth while to blame the drunkard or the saloon-
keeper; they are not within ear-shot. As to pauperism and vice, every one
knows that they arise from social conditions; and pray who is responsible
for these conditions unless it be the meek man who sits in the pew,—at
least, he is the only one who can readily be made to assume the
responsibility.
There is something wholesome in all this if it be not overdone. I, myself,
like to have my fling at the man who is trying to do his duty, and to twit
him occasionally for not doing more. It keeps him from self-
righteousness. But sometimes it is carried too far, and the poor man
staggers under a load of vicarious guilt.
I especially hate to see the man who is trying to do his duty given over to
the censures of those who do not try. There is something very harsh in
the judgment of the ne’er-do-well upon his well-to-do brother. His attitude
is the extreme of phariseeism, as he contrasts his own generous and
care-free nature with the pickayunish prudence which he scorns. To be
sure, his brother in the end pays his debts for him, but he does it with a
narrow scrutiny which robs the act of its natural charm. His acts of
helpfulness are marred by a tendency to didacticism. All these things are
laid up against him.
But allowance should be made for the difference in condition. Ne’er-do-
wellness is an expansive state. There are no natural limits to it. It
develops broad views, and its peculiar virtues have a free field. It is
different with well-to-doness, which is a precarious condition with a very
narrow margin of safety. The ne’er-do-well can afford to be generous,
seeing that his generosity costs him nothing. He is free from all belittling
calculations necessary to those who are compelled to adjust means to
ends,—he is indifferent to ends and he has no means.
When the morally responsible person finds himself too much put upon, I
would grant him a generous indulgence. After all, I would tell him, the
prudential virtues are not so bad. It is a good deal of an achievement to
make both ends meet. I am not disposed to be too hard on those who
accomplish this, even though I may think a little fullness in their moral
garments might be more becoming.
I should also make provision for the pardon of those good people who are
harshly judged because their virtues are unseasonable. But their case
involves delicate considerations that can best be treated in another
chapter.
 UNSEASONABLE VIRTUES

T HERE are certain philosophers who have fallen into the habit of
speaking slightingly of Time and Space. Time, they say, is only a poor
concept of ours corresponding to no ultimate reality, and Space is little
better. They are merely mental receptacles into which we put our
sensations. We are assured that could we get at the right point of view
we should see that real existence is timeless. Of course we cannot get at
the right point of view, but that does not matter.
It is easy to understand how philosophers can talk in that way, for
familiarity with great subjects breeds contempt; but we of the laity cannot
dismiss either Time or Space so cavalierly. Having once acquired the time-
habit, it is difficult to see how we could live without it. We are
accustomed to use the minutes and hours as stepping-stones, and we
pick our way from one to another. If it were not for them, we should find
ourselves at once beyond our depth. It is the succession of events which
makes them interesting. There is a delightful transitoriness about
everything, and yet the sense that there is more where it all comes from.
To the unsophisticated mind Eternity is not the negation of Time; it is
having all the time one wants. And why may not the unsophisticated mind
be as nearly right in such matters as any other?
In a timeless existence there would be no distinction between now and
then, before and after. Yesterdays and to-days would be merged in one
featureless Forever. When we met one another it would be impertinent to
ask, “How do you do?” The chilling answer would be: “I do not do; I am.”
There would be nothing more to say to one who had reduced his being to
such bare metaphysical first principles.
I much prefer living in Time, where there are circumstances and incidents
to give variety to existence. There is a dramatic instinct in all of us that
must be satisfied. We watch with keen interest for what is coming next.
We would rather have long waits than to have no shifting of the scenes,
and all the actors on the stage at once, doing nothing.
An open-minded editor prints the following question from an anxious
reader in regard to a serial story appearing in his paper: “Does it make
any difference in reading the serial whether I begin with Saturday’s
chapter and read backward toward Monday, or should the tale be read as
the chapters appear?”
The editor assures his subscriber that the story is of such uniform
excellence that it would read well in either direction. In practical affairs
our dramatic instinct will not allow us this latitude. We insist upon certain
sequences. There is an expectancy that one thing will lead up to another.
We do not take kindly to an anti-climax or to an anachronism. The
Hebrew sage declares, “He hath made everything beautiful in his time.”
That is in the right time, but alas for the beautiful thing that falls upon
the wrong time! It is bewitched beyond all recognition by the old
necromancer who has power to make “ancient good uncouth.”
It is just here that charity requires that we should discriminate. There is a
situation that demands the services of a kind-hearted indulgencer. Ethics
has to do with two kinds of offenses: one is against the eternal and
unchanging standards of right and wrong, and the other against the
perpetually varying conditions of the passing day. We are continually
confusing the two. We visit upon the ancient uncouth good which comes
honestly stumbling on its belated journey toward the perfect, all the
condemnation that properly belongs to willful evil. It is lucky if it gets off
so easily as that, for we are likely to add the pains and penalties which
belong to hypocritical pretense. As for a premature kind of goodness
coming before there is time properly to classify it, that must expect
martyrdom. Something of the old feeling about strangers still survives in
us. We think it safer to treat the stranger as an enemy. If he survives our
attacks we may make friends with him.
Those good people who, in their devotion to their own ideals, have
ignored all considerations of timeliness, have usually passed through sore
tribulations. They have been the victims of cruel misunderstandings.
Such, for example, was Saint Cerbonius. Cerbonius is one of the October
saints. October is a good month for saints. The ecclesiastical calendar
gives us a sense of spiritual mellowness and fruitfulness. The virtues
celebrated are without the acidity which belongs to some other seasons:
witness Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Teresa, Saint Luke, the beloved
physician, Saint John Capistran, of whom it is written, “he had a singular
talent for reconciling inveterate enemies and inducing them to love one
another.” Cerbonius has a modest place in this autumnal brotherhood;
indeed, in some Lives of the Saints, he is not even mentioned, and yet he
had the true October spirit. Nevertheless, his good was evil spoken of,
and he came near to excommunication, and all because of his divergence
from popular custom in the matter of time.
It seems that he lived towards the end of the sixth century, and that he
was bishop of Piombino. Very soon a great scandal arose, for it was
declared that the bishop was neglecting his duties. At the accustomed
hour the citizens came to the cathedral for their devotions, only to find
the chancel devoid of clergy. Cerbonius and his priests were at that
moment comfortably seated at breakfast. Each succeeding morning
witnessed the same scene. The bishop was evidently an infidel scoffing at
the rites of religion. Appeal was made to Rome, and legates were
appointed who confirmed the astounding rumors. At last Cerbonius went
to Rome to plead his cause; but only by a special miracle was his
character cleared. The miracle induced the authorities to look into the
matter more carefully, and it was found that Cerbonius, instead of
neglecting his duties, had been carried away by holy zeal. While the
people of Piombino were still in their beds, Cerbonius and his clergy
would be celebrating mass. As for breakfast, that was quite late in the
day.
It is easy to be wise after the event, and now that the matter has been
cleared up it is evident that all the religion was not on one side. Taking a
large view of the subject, we see that in the course of the twenty-four
hours the bishop spent as much time in the church as the most
scrupulous parishioner could ask. But it was just this large view that they
were unwilling to take. With them it was now or never. They judged his
character by the cross-section which they took at one particular hour.
I suppose that, had I lived in Piombino, I should have been a moderate
anti-Cerbonian. Cerbonius was in error, but not in mortal sin. He was
guilty of a heresy that disturbed the peace of the church,—that of early
rising. So long as early rising is held only as a creed for substance of
doctrine and set forth as a counsel of perfection, it may be tolerated, but
when the creed becomes a deed it awakens fanatical opposition. This
breeds schism. A person cannot be popular who gets the reputation of
being a human alarm clock. The primitive instinct in regard to an alarm
clock is to stop it. If Cerbonius had possessed the tact necessary to a
man in his position, he would not only have done his duty, but he would
have done it at the time most convenient to the greatest number. His
virtue was unseasonable; but between a man of unseasonable virtue and
an abandoned character who has no virtue at all, there is a great
difference. It is just this difference which the majority of people will not
see. They make no distinction between one who deliberately offends
against the eternal verities and one who accidentally tramples upon a
temporary verity that he didn’t know was there.
Most of our quarrels do not concern absolute right and wrong; they arise
from disputes about the time of day. Two persons may have the same
qualities and convictions and yet never agree. An ironical fate sets them
at cross purposes and they never meet without irritating contradictions. It
is all because their moods do not synchronize. One is always a little too
slow, the other a little too fast. When one is in fine fettle the other is just
beginning to get tired. They are equally serious, but never on the same
occasion, and so each accuses the other of heartless frivolity. They have
an equal appreciation of a pleasantry, but they never see it at the same
instant. One gives it an uproarious welcome when the other is speeding
the parting guest.
Two quick-tempered people may live together very comfortably so long as
they lose their tempers simultaneously; they are then ready to make up
at the same time. They get on like an automobile, by a series of small
explosions accurately timed. But when a quick-tempered person is
unequally yoked with one who is slow to wrath, the case is difficult. The
slowness causes continual apprehension. The fuse burns so deliberately
that it seems to have gone out and then the explosion comes. In such
cases there can be no adequate explanation. The offender would
apologize if he could remember what the offense was, and he doesn’t
dare to ask.
Said one theologian to another: “The difference between us is that your
God is my Devil.” This involved more than the mere matter of
nomenclature. It upset the spiritual time-table and caused disastrous
collisions. When one good man set forth valiantly to fight the Devil, the
other would charge him with disturbing his worship.
The fact that one man’s work is another man’s play is equally fruitful in
misunderstandings. The proverbial irritability of the literary and artistic
tribes arises in part from this cause. They feel that they are never taken
seriously. When we go to a good play we find it so easy to be amused
that we do not realize what hard work it is for those whose business it is
to be amusing. The better the work, the more effortless it seems to us.
On a summer afternoon we take up a novel in a mood which to the
conscientious novelist seems sacrilege. He has thrown all the earnestness
of his nature into it, and he wants his message to be received in the same
spirit. We have earnestness of nature too, but we have expended it in
other directions. Having finished our work, we take our rest by reading
his. It is a pleasant way to pass the time. This enrages the novelist, and
he writes essays to rebuke us. He calls us Philistines and other hard
names, and says that we are incapable of appreciating literary art.
But what is our offense? We have used his work for our own purpose,
which was to rest our minds. We got out of it what at the time we
needed. Does he not act in very much the same way? Did we not see him
at the town-meeting when a very serious question concerning the
management of the town poor-house was to be settled? It was a time
when every good citizen should have shown his interest by speaking an
earnest word. Unmindful of all this, he sat through the meeting with the
air of an amused outsider. He paid little attention to the weighty
arguments of the selectmen, but noted down all their slips in grammar.
He confessed unblushingly that he attended the meeting simply to get a
little local color. What is to become of the country when a tax-payer will
take the duties of citizenship so lightly?
These recriminations go on endlessly. Because we do not see certain
qualities in action, we deny their existence. The owl has a reputation for
sedentary habits and unpractical wisdom, simply because he keeps
different business hours from those to which we are accustomed. Could
we look in on him during the rush time, we would find him a hustling
fellow. He has no time to waste on unremunerative meditation. This is his
busy night. How ridiculous is the sleepiness of the greater part of the
animal world! There is the lark nodding for hours on his perch. They say
he never really wakes up—at least, nobody has seen him awake.

* * * * * *
There is a pedagogical theory according to which each individual in his
early life repeats quite accurately the history of mankind up to date. He
passes through all the successive stages in the history of the race, with a
few extra flourishes now and then to indicate the surprises which the
future may have in store for us. The history of civilization becomes, for
the initiated, the rehearsal of the intensely interesting drama of the
nursery and the schoolroom. It lacks the delicacy of the finished
performance, but it presents the argument clearly enough and suggests
the necessary stage business. The young lady who attempts to guide a
group of reluctant young cave-dwellers from one period in human culture
to another is not surprised at any of their tantrums. Her only anxiety is
lest some form of barbarism appropriate to their condition may have been
skipped. Her chief function is like that of the chorus in the Greek tragedy,
to explain to the audience each dramatic situation as it unfolds.
I should not like to take the responsibility of running such an excellent
theory into the ground, yet it does seem to me that it might be carried
further. Granted that childhood is innocent savagery and that adolescence
is gloriously barbaric, what is the matter with mature life? Does it not
have any remnants of primitiveness? Does not Tennyson write of “the
gray barbarian”?
The transitions from primitive savagery to civilization which took the race
centuries to accomplish are repeated by the individual, not once but many
times. After we get the knack of it, we can run over the alphabet of
human progress backwards as well as forwards.
Exit Troglodyte. Enter Philosopher discoursing on disinterested virtue.
Reënter Troglodyte. Such dramatic transformations may be expected by
merely changing the subject of the conversation.
I remember sitting, one Sunday afternoon, on a vine-covered piazza
reading to a thoughtful and irascible friend. The book was Martineau’s
“Endeavors after the Christian Life.” In the middle of the second discourse
my friend’s dog rushed into the street to attack the dog of a passer-by. It
was one of those sudden and unpredictable antipathies to which the
members of the canine race are subject. My friend, instead of preserving
a dignified neutrality, rushed into the fray in the spirit of offensive
partisanship, and instantly became involved in an altercation with the
gentleman on the sidewalk. Canes were brandished, fierce threats were
exchanged, and only by the greatest efforts were the Homeric heroes
separated. Returning to his chair, my friend handed me the book, saying,
“Now let us go on with our religion.” The religion went on as placidly as
aforetime. There was no sense of confusion. The wrath of Achilles did not
disturb the calm spirituality of Martineau. Each held the centre of the
stage for his own moment, and there was no troublesome attempt to
harmonize them. Why should there be? Martineau was not talking about
dogs.
I know no greater luxury than that of thinking well of my fellow-men. It is
a luxury which a person in narrow circumstances, who is compelled to live
within the limits of strict veracity, sometimes feels to be beyond his
means. Yet I think it no harm to indulge in a little extravagance in this
direction. The best device for seeing all sorts and conditions of men to
advantage is to arrange them in their proper chronological order.
For years it was the custom to speak disparagingly of the “poor whites” of
our Southern mountains. Shut off from the main currents of modern life,
they seemed unpardonably unprogressive. They were treated as mere
degenerates. At last, however, a keener and kindlier observer hit upon a
happy phrase. These isolated mountaineers, he said, have retained the
characteristic habits of a former generation. They are our “contemporary
ancestors.” Instantly everything was put in a more favorable light; for we
all are disposed to see the good points in our ancestors. After all, the
whole offense with which these mountain people are charged is that they
are behind the times. In our bona-fide contemporaries this is a grave
fault, but in our ancestors it is pardonable. We do not expect them to live
up to our standards, and so we give them credit for living up to their
own.
In this case we agree to consider fifty miles of mountain roads, if they be
sufficiently bad, as the equivalent of rather more than a hundred years of
time. Behind the barrier the twentieth century does not yet exist. Many
things may still be winked at for which the later generation may be
sternly called to repentance. Then, too, the end of the eighteenth century
has some good points of its own. These contemporary ancestors of ours
are of good old English stock, and we begin to look upon them with a
good deal of family pride.
But when we once accept poor roads as the equivalent of the passage of
time, putting people at the other end into another generation, there is no
knowing what we may come to in our charitable interpretations. For there
are other equally effective non-conductors of thought. By the simple
device of not knowing how to read, a man cuts off some thousands of
culture years and saves himself from no end of intellectual distractions.
He becomes the contemporary of “earth’s vigorous, primitive sons.” If to
his illiteracy he adds native talent and imagination, there is a chance for
him to make for himself some of those fine old discoveries which we lose
because we got the answer from some blabbing book before we had
come to the point of asking the question. Of course the danger is that if
he has native talent and imagination he will learn to read, and it must be
confessed that for this reason we do not get such a high order of
illiterates as formerly.
I once made the acquaintance of an ancient Philosopher. His talents were
for cosmogony, and his equipment would have been deemed ample in the
days when cosmogony was the fashion. He had meditated much on the
genesis of things and had read nothing, so that his speculations were
uncontaminated by the investigations of others. He was just the man to
construct a perfectly simple and logical theory of the universe, and he did
it. His universe was not like that of which our sciences give us imperfect
glimpses, but it was very satisfactory to him. He was very fair in dealing
with facts; he explained all that could be explained by his system. As the
only criterion of a fact which he recognized was that it agreed with his
system, there was none left over to trouble him. His manner of thought
was so foreign to that of our time that his intellectual ability was not
widely appreciated; yet had his birth not been so long delayed, he might
have been the founder of a school and have had books written about him.
For so far as I could learn, his views of the four elements of earth, air,
fire, and water, were very much like those of the early Greek physicists.
Had I taken him as a fellow American, I should have dismissed him as not
up to date; but considering him in the light of an ancient sage, I found
much in him to admire.
Once upon the coast of Maine I came upon a huge wooden cylinder.
Within it was a smaller one, and in the centre, seated upon a swinging
platform, was the owner of the curious contrivance. He was a mild-eyed,
pleasant-spoken man, whom it was a pleasure to meet. He explained that