The Decay of Arrogance

Arrogance. Bad, is it not? I believe we can all agree that that which the media has drawn as arrogant is, in fact that, and a very unbecoming quality to have. It may look like a boss that thinks himself infallible; giving orders, taking no feedback and taking offense when questioned then proceeding to put others so that his pedestal grows. Generally, this man is undesirable as company. But this is way too obvious. It is clear enough that this type of arrogance is sin, but even non-Christians dislike this apparent wrong doing. I believe Satan prefers a different type of arrogance. With the arrogance I formerly described, Satan (if I believed he was around) would be hard pressed to inspire any more evil at all; no, he would need something subtle. He would need arrogance that convinces those around it that it is humble.

All this, I see in every day life, like most sin. It exists in broad day light, it passes us on the street, it is our friends, our family, and most likely ourselves. We have been fed this "Media Description" of arrogance and our society praises us for not being that difficult of a person. We praise and applaud ourselves and say, "Well done, good and faithful me". That's messed up. How is it that we can assume we are not actually arrogant or have fallen into any other sin for that matter. We look at the blatant and extreme examples of sin and say, "Well I am not that so I must not have a problem with it." And then it becomes a point of pride which turns into straight up arrogance. Suddenly, we are preaching to the arrogant that we will take the moral high road. It cancels itself out. It is reminding your late friend that you waited patiently. No you did not. If you did wait patiently you would not have need to tell them.

But with arrogance it looks like a grass roots Christianity. It goes to a non-denominational church. It preaches Sola Scriptura. It does not use theology and believes it is not necessary to salvation. It preaches saved grace, through faith. All these things are well and good. In fact, I do these things. But the pitfall is comparing oneself to those who may hold a different position. It is so clear to them that they have chosen the correct position that the pleasure of the decision turns into pride. And then they are no better than the theologians who are obviously arrogant. As if they are a better Christian because they hold the right position. I have seen it both ways: A simple thinker a better Christian than a hard thinker, and hard thinker a better Christian than the simple. "I am not arrogant like that.", says he. "Well then in what way are you arrogant?", says the Saint. Make the effort to discover something terrible about yourself everyday; and let us not consider ourselves on the moral high ground for it. It is merely what we ought to do.

But another thing. Arrogance has become an under-appreciated way of thinking. A man tells you that you are wrong. Do you call him arrogant? Perhaps. How do we know? look at his heart. Does he still love you? Does it matter to him that you are wrong? Did his head grow? If not, he is not arrogant. He can say these things with all the tone of arrogance he wants, if he is still humble before God and His unknowable, unfathomable creation it matters not. He thinks he is right, but like Solomon he knows he cannot absolutely prove it. He knows the size of his brain is quite small. Making these educated guesses about big things is his hobby, not his pride. This we need more of. Men challenging other men with that contract of Christian arrogance that says, "This really does not matter to me, but here goes anyway, because I am having a good time."

An Imploring Limerick

There once was a boy named Creed,
For whom poetry had one lead;
Insulting a friend,
Was all he could lend,
Considered no less a misdeed.

By Evan Gunn Wilson

Non-descript Poetry

For a man, comfort, thy name is power,
And had we sought not less than all;
We'd maintain the insight that fools cower,
But rather find that the faithless fall.

His name though some doth have distaste,
Rumble the vowels that English placed.
If man denies from whence he came,
The more he recognized his name.
Complains that realities not clear enough,
He hardens his heart, his pathways rough.
Though that man to sin he dies,
Repents he now, to Christ relies.

By Evan Gunn Wilson

Kenneth Grahame: Of Smoking

Concerning Cigarette Smoking: It hath been well observed by a certain philosopher that this is a practice commendable enough, and pleasant to indulge in, ``when you're not smoking''; wherein the whole criticism of the cigarette is found, in a little room. Of the same manner of thinking was one that I knew, who kept by him an ample case bulging with cigarettes, to smoke while he was filling his pipe. Toys they be verily, nugæ, and shadows of the substance. Serviceable, nevertheless, as shadows sometimes be when the substance is temporarily unattainable; as between the acts of a play, in the park, or while dressing for dinner: that such moments may not be entirely wasted. That cigarette, however, which is so prompt to appear after dinner I would reprehend and ban and totally abolish: as enemy to that diviner thing before which it should pale its ineffectual fires in shame -- to wit, good drink, ``la dive bouteille''; except indeed when the liquor be bad, as is sometimes known to happen. Then it may serve in some sort as a sorry consolation. But to leave these airy substitutes, and come to smoking.

It hath been ofttimes debated whether the morning pipe be the sweeter, or that first pipe of the evening which ``Hesperus, who bringeth all good things,'' brings to the weary with home and rest. The first is smoked on a clearer palate, and comes to unjaded senses like the kiss of one's first love; but lacks that feeling of perfect fruition, of merit recompensed and the goal and the garland won, which clings to the vesper bowl. Whence it comes that the majority give the palm to the latter. To which I intend no slight when I find the incense that arises at matins sweeter even than that of evensong. For, although with most of us who are labourers in the vineyard, toilers and swinkers, the morning pipe is smoked in hurry and fear and a sense of alarums and excursions and fleeting trains, yet with all this there are certain halcyon periods sure to arrive -- Sundays, holidays, and the like -- the whole joy and peace of which are summed up in that one beatific pipe after breakfast, smoked in a careless majesty like that of the gods ``when they lie beside their nectar, and the clouds are lightly curled.'' Then only can we be said really to smoke. And so this particular pipe of the day always carries with it festal reminiscences: memories of holidays past, hopes for holidays to come; a suggestion of sunny lawns and flannels and the ungirt loin; a sense withal of something free and stately, as of ``faint march-music in the air,'' or the old Roman cry of ``Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement.''

If there be any fly in the pipe-smoker's ointment, it may be said to lurk in the matter of ``rings.'' Only the exceptionally gifted smoker can recline in his chair and emit at will the perfect smoke-ring, in consummate eddying succession. He of the meaner sort must be content if, at rare heaven-sent intervals -- while thinking, perhaps, of nothing less -- there escape from his lips the unpremeditated flawless circle. Then ``deus fio'' he is moved to cry, at that breathless moment when his creation hangs solid and complete, ere the particles break away and blend with the baser atmosphere. Nay, some will deny to any of us terrene smokers the gift of fullest achievement: for what saith the poet of the century? ``On the earth the broken arcs: in the heaven the perfect round!''

It was well observed by a certain character in one of Wilkie Collins's novels (if an imperfect memory serveth me rightly) that women will take pleasure in scents derived from animal emanations, clarified fats, and the like; yet do illogically abhor the ``clean, dry, vegetable smell'' of tobacco. Herein the true base of the feminine objection is reached; being, as usual, inherent want of logic rather than any distaste, in the absolute, for the thing in question. Thinking that they ought to dislike, they do painfully cast about for reasons to justify their dislike, when none really exist. As a specimen of their so-called arguments, I remember how a certain fair one triumphantly pointed out to me that my dog, though loving me well, could yet never be brought to like the smell of tobacco. To whom I, who respected my dog (as Ben saith of Master Shakespeare) on this side idolatry as much as anything, was yet fain to point out -- more in sorrow than in anger -- that a dog, being an animal who delights to pass his whole day, from early morn to dewy eve, in shoving his nose into every carrion beastliness that he can come across, could hardly be considered arbiter elegantiarum in the matter of smells. But indeed I did wrong to take such foolish quibbling seriously; nor would I have done so, if she hadn't dragged my poor innocent dog into the discussion.

Of Smoking in Bed: There be who consider this a depravity -- an instance of that excess in the practice of a virtue which passes into vice -- and couple it with dram-drinking: who yet fail to justify themselves by argument. For if bed be by common consent the greatest bliss, the divinest spot, on earth, ``ille terrarum qui præter omnes angulus ridet''; and if tobacco be the true Herb of Grace, and a joy and healing balm, and respite and nepenthe, -- if all this be admitted, why are two things, super-excellent separately, noxious in conjunction? And is not the Bed Smoker rather an epicure in pleasure -- self indulgent perhaps, but still the triumphant creator of a new ``blend,'' reminding one of a certain traveller's account of an intoxicant patronised in the South Sea Islands, which combines the blissful effect of getting drunk and remaining sober to enjoy it? Yet I shall not insist too much on this point, but would only ask -- so long as the smoker be unwedded -- for some tolerance in the matter and a little logic in the discussion thereof.

Concerning Cigars: That there be large sums given for these is within common knowledge. 1 d., 2 d., nay even 4 d., is not too great a price, if a man will have of the finest leaf, reckless of expense. In this sort of smoking, however, I find more of vainglory and ostentation than solid satisfaction; and its votaries would seem to display less a calm, healthy affection for tobacco than (as Sir T. Browne hath it) a ``passionate prodigality.'' And, besides grievous wasting of the pocket, atmospheric changes, varyings in the crops, and the like, cause uncertainty to cling about each individual weed, so that man is always more or less at the mercy of Nature and the elements -- an unsatisfactory and undignified position in these latter days of the Triumphant Democracy. But worst and fatallest of all, to every cigar-smoker it is certain to happen that once in his life, by some happy combination of time, place, temperament, and Nature -- by some starry influence, maybe, or freak of the gods in mocking sport -- once, and once only, he will taste the aroma of the perfect leaf at just the perfect point -- the ideal cigar. Henceforth his life is saddened; as one kissed by a goddess in a dream, he goes thereafter, as one might say, in a sort of love-sickness. Seeking he scarce knows what, his existence becomes a dissatisfied yearning; the world is spoiled for him, its joys are tasteless: so he wanders, vision-haunted, down dreary days to some miserable end.

Yet, if one will walk this path and take the risks, the thing may be done at comparatively small expense. To such I would commend the Roman motto, slightly altered -- Alieni appetens, sui avarus. There be always good fellows, with good cigars for their friends. Nay, too, the boxes of these lie open; an the good cigar belongs rather to him that can appreciate it aright than to the capitalist who, owing to a false social system, happens to be its temporary guardian and trustee. Again there is a saying -- bred first, I think, among the schoolmen at Oxford -- that it is the duty of a son to live up to his father's income. Should any young man have found this task too hard for him, after the most strenuous and single-minded efforts, at least he can resolutely smoke his father's cigars. In the path of duty complete success is not always to be looked for; but an approving conscience, the sure reward of honest endeavour, is within reach of all.

Poetry from Tobacco in Song and Story

The theme of these poems ought to be apparent. Sight them as often as you can.

"She"

Yes, Dear,
I fear,
I love another, strange to say.
Brunette.
This pet,
And I am with her night and day.
Just now,
I vow,
I pressed her fondly to my lips;
The kiss,
Was bliss,
And thrilled me to my finger tips!
Don't pout,
She's out,
And You are sweeter, love, by far,
Altho'
By Jo!
"She" was an awful good cigar!

By Carl Werner.

A Bachelor's Soliloquy

My oldest pipe, mt dearest girl,
Alas! Which shall it be?
For she has said that I must choose,
Betwixt herself and thee.

Farewell, old pipe; for many years,
You've been my closest friend,
And ever ready at my side,
Thy solace sweet to lend.

No more from out thy weedy bowl,
When fades the twilight's glow,
Will visions fair and sweet arise,
Or fragrant fancies flow.

No more by flickering candle light,
Thy spirit I'll evoke,
To build my castle in the air,
With wreaths of wav'ring smoke.

And so farewell, a long farewell -
Until the wedding's o'er,
And then I'll go on smoking thee,
Just as I did before.

by Edmund Day

Choosing a Wife by a Pipe of Tobacco

Tube, I love thee as my life;
By thee I mean to choose a wife.
Tube, thy color let me find,
In her skin and in her mind.
Let her have a shape as fine;
Let her breath be sweet as thine;
Let her, when her lips I kiss,
Burn like thee to give me bliss;
Let her in some smoke or other,
All my failings kindly smother.
Often when my thoughts are low,
Send them where they ought to go;
When to study I incline,
Let her aid be such as thine;
Such as thine the charming power,
In the vacant social hour.
Let her live to give delight,
Ever warm and ever bright;
Let her deeds, whene'er she dies,
Mount as incense to the skies.

From Gentleman's Magazine

Seneca on Providence

The following quotes in italics are said by Seneca, the stoic philosopher. Whats left is merely my reiteration, agreement and approval of what he said; and occasionally there will be a slight sense of accusation towards the reader. I am already not apologizing.

'Without an antagonist prowess fades away.'

If everything were like a hot knife through butter, merit would be non-existent. No man would be honorable for he never completed a thing above himself. An automaton incapable of doing poorly or even excellently.

'God's attitude to good men is a Father's; His love for them is a manly love. "Let them be harassed by toil and sorrow and loss," says he, "that so they may acquire true strength."'

Had we not been kicked out of paradise we would never learned our error. To know where we fall short of the glory of God is a fantastic gift to receive. It is not a malevolent God torturing us, but a loving God training us.

'Among the many magnificent sayings of our friend Demetrius is the following, which I have just heard; it still rings and reverberates in my ears. "No one is more unhappy, in my judgment," says he, "than a man who has never met with adversity."'

Those who live the luxurious life of endless pleasure fail their God and themselves to be accomplished. To have never exerted themselves to finish a project because everything was brought to them on a silver platter is a very sad living.

'A gladiator counts it a disgrace to be matched with an inferior; he knows that a victory devoid of danger is a victory devoid of glory.'

To where protective gear when executing a stunt is much like this. If there is no risk there is no glory. Don't make your kids wear helmets, otherwise you will raise timid children with no chest.

'Soldiers glory in their wounds and gladly vaunt themselves over the blood they were privileged to shed.'

No better thing to receive in battle than a scar. Tattoos? Please . . . . Slight non life threatening pain deserves no applause.

'Do not, I beseech you, dread the things which the immortal gods apply to our souls like goads; disaster is virtues opportunity.'

Like before, only in the face of calamity can we truly gauge a man's moral behavior. If they can't handle their will being beaten, they were never good men in the first place.

'And no man in such a detachment will say, "The general has treated me badly," but rather, "The general thinks well of me." Similarly, those told off to undergo what cowards and weaklings would weep over should say, "God has judged us fit subjects to try how much human nature can endure."'

If you are ordered to succeed through Hell, I couldn't imagine a greater honor. Christ went through Hell; are we not instructed to be Christ like? (Don't take this one out of context, or too far.)

'All excesses are injurious, but immoderate prosperity is the most dangerous of all. It affects the brain, it conjures empty fantasies up in the mind, and it befogs the distinction between true and false with a confusing cloud.'

Medications to relieve pain used in excess is cowardly and stupefying. Go on an illusory trip to a place where nothing harms you and pain is non-existent and tell me how great of an individual you are. Fools.

'Death by starvation comes gently, gluttony makes men explode.'

Which would you choose? Be honest.

'By suffering misfortune the mind grows able to belittle suffering.'

The more pain and thought, the more stoicism creeps in to help.

'What grounds do you have to complain of me, you who have opted for righteousness?'

This is quite Lewisian but who are we to speak to the gods "Till We Have Face?"

'The men you look upon as happy, if you could see not their outward appearance but their inward nature, are wretched, squalid, mean, well groomed on the surface like their own house walls . . . . But when something happens to set them awry and uncover them, then one can see what a mass of genuine foulness their adventitious glitter concealed.'

The most unhappy have the best disguises. Don't be fooled by them and their lifestyle. They wouldn't know the first rule to happiness.

'Even as you pray for life, study death.'

It is no problem to want to live comfortably, but know that it is not your right and may be taken away. And know why it happens as such.

Quatrains - From the Nuart

To Me -

Hail to the King, Baby.
And kiss the ring, maybe.
Defy my law and burn,
At third degree and learn.

- By Evan Gunn Wilson

To Imps -

What makes some repelled by love?
Perhaps the judging God above?
Love needed humble thoughts provoke,
At once, the imp, his pride evokes.

- By Evan Gunn Wilson

To The Father -

To him who smote the first born of Egypt,
For his steadfast love endures forever.
From us our right to life untimely ript,
For God's power forever and ever,
Amen.

- By Evan Gunn Wilson

Of Us -

Don't take that line where it belongs;
It came all well, exhausted songs.
We end the day with poetry crass,
To grace our minds, critique at last.
With pen in hand,
Surveyed the land,
Did little justice to his creation.
With all forgot,
The young head hot,
Go on to write of their salvation.

Of their salvation they wrote too vague,
And so one lad went on, he said,
"Let us write to our lovers fair,
To all be men, the gentle we bear."
At that they laugh'd,
Then smiles half'd,
Then thirded, quartered then grinned no more.
Since they all had thought,
That only they sought,
A fine lady's love to breathe as feign'd before.

By Evan Gunn Wilson

Hannay Discourses on America - Mr. Standfast

'Say Dick,' he said shyly, 'what do you truly think of our Americans? You've seen a lot of them, and I'd value your views.' His tone was that of a bashful author asking for an opinion on his first book.

'I'll tell you what I think. You're constructing a great middle class army, and that's the most formidable fighting machine on earth. This kind of war doesn't want the Berserker so much as the quiet fellow with a trained mind and a lot to fight for. The American ranks are filled with all sorts, from cow punchers to college boys, but mostly with decent lads that have good prospects in life before them and are fighting because they feel they're bound to, not because they like it. It was the same stock that pulled through in your Civil War. We have a middle class division, too - Scottish Territorials, mostly clerks and shopmen and engineers and farmer's sons. When I first struck them my only crab was that the officers weren't much better than the men. It's still true, but the men are super excellent, and consequently so are the officers. That division gets top marks in the Boche calender for sheer fighting devilment. . . . . And, please God, that's what your American Army's going to do. You can wash out the old idea of a regiment of scallawags commanded by dukes. That was right enough, maybe, in the days when you hurrooshed into battle waving a banner, but it don't do with high-explosives and a couple of million men on each side and a battle front of five hundred miles. The hero of this war is the plain man out of the middle classes, who wants to get back to his home and is going to use all the brains and grit he possesses to finish the job soon.'

- John Buchan

A Sign of Pretension

Recently film and TV actor, Hugh Laurie, released a Blues album that on select songs features Jazz and Blues legends such as Dr. John and Sir Tom Jones. This confuses people who have not followed Laurie's career; they may see an actor merely making a feeble attempt to be multi-talented in the arena of the liberal arts. How dare he. What audacity possesses an already wealthy man to venture into the musical realm without license or warrant or even a day pass? He just out right and did it. Inside the album booklet Laurie made a note of this; and it follows:

"I was not born in Alabama in the 1890s. You may as well know this one now. I've never eaten grits, cropped a share, or ridden a boxcar. No gypsy woman attended my birth and there's no hellhound on my trail, as far as I'm aware. Let this record show that I am a white, middle-class Englishman, openly trespassing on the music and myth of the American south.

if that weren't bad enough, I'm also an actor: one of those pampered ninnies who can't find his way through and airport without a babysitter. I wouldn't be surprised to find that I've got some Chinese characters tattooed on my arse. Or elbow. Same thing.

Worst of all, I've I have broken an important rule of art, music, and career paths: actors are supposed to act, and musicians are supposed to music. That's how it works. You don't buy fish from a dentist, or ask a plumber for financial advice, so why listen to an actor's music?

The answer is - there is no answer. If you care about pedigree then you should try elsewhere, because I have nothing in your size."

- Hugh Laurie

What was he communicating? That his Blues music is terrible? No, not at all. Simply, he says that if you are the kind of person who demands that Blues be done by troubled aging black men and acting be done by bratty self centered actors you had best not listen to his album, because you wont like it. Oh, the humanity! Or rather the pretension. Ought we demand that? Should we right off all paradoxical career breakers on the account that they are out of place? That since they aren't genuine they wont produce anything worth while? By no means! That would be the soul of pretension. You can imagine the hipster blabbing on about how they only listen to Robert Johnson (because that is the only Blues guitarist they have heard of), because he really "had the blues" or "walked the walk". Is great music reserved for specific feelings? I think not. Music as an art is a thing studied and not exclusively a thing felt. The sentiment may inspire the music and it may be the by product, but it does not write the music. Talent, skill and knowledge write the music; only that it may be good enough to evoke a particular feeling.

And so did Hugh Laurie. Listening to his album, which is not perfect, gave me a breath of fresh air. He had the Blues nailed. The man is a fantastic pianist. I never had the feeling that he was trying too hard. I hope for another record out of him; even in his comedy sketch show with Stephen Fry I was waiting for his regular musical performance not just for the humor but to catch his craft of a musician. Though he played the same song at the end of every episode I enjoyed it every time. I recognized his passion for the art.

So to Hugh Laurie I tip my hat with an expression that says, "Well done good and faithful artist". I urge you all (who enjoy the Blues) to give it a listen and post back what might be said of it.