Memphis daily appeal. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1847-1886, 1869-02-28
SUNDAY PEA
MR.. POGGELTmORPE.
BY HENRY WARD BEEcHER,
From lhe New York Lsarsr.l

From The New York Ledger
1t is not wise to make sport of men.
If it does not hurt them, it surely wall
injure US. " To make game Of any
thing is a very expressive phrase. To
hunt a man. to watch for his habits, to
caricature his expression, to ridicule his
weakness, and in short, to make game
of him, is apt to destroy that justice and
fair dealing which are necessary to good
fellowship. And yet what shall We do?
There are men who oblige US either to
criticise or to quarrel, or in some mild
way to cover their weaknesses and faults
with a gentle ridicule. A fault which
excites in US a good natured mirth
hardly seems any more a fault. Bitter
criticism and scOrnful railery are to be
reserved for serious offences Of a high
grade Of guilt. But those inequalities
and weaknesses in our friends which,
like little stones in a good road, jolt and
jar our progress with them, are generally
best treated with good natured and even
complimentary persiRage.
Vanity, especially, is lawful prey. 1t
would seem, too, as if good natured
banter was a natural penalty appointed
for sin of that kind. Vanity is an in
discreet lust of praise. 1t is well paid
of and punished by gOOd-natured
ridicule.
Mr.. Pogglethorpe is a good friend of
mine, as you will see by the way l shall
pick him to pieces. He has a kind
heart, and, when his Own interests are
not concerned, he is generous. Being
some few years older than l am, and
having a reputation, and a deserved one,
for good scholarship, he pa%tronizes me.
l never 90 to his study that he does not
treat me to portions of his last sermon
as though l had not enough of that food
at home. He ~recounts all the happy
turns of conversation he has lately
made. He never leaves out those little
repartees and those keen thrusts In
which he seems to himself always a
victor. l look upon him with envy.
How happy he is himself How fortu-
nate must that disposition be that glows
and cOrruscates with such a summer of
self-gratulatiOn | wonder if he ever
thinks meanly of himself or Of his
achievements? Does he ever turn away
in disgust from all his performances, as
poor and worthless? Does he ever mar
vel what he was born for, and what use
there is in his continuing to live? Does
he respect men who decry him, and enter
tain contempt for those who praise him =?
Does be feel about one a week that he
has mistaken his calling-that he never
has done anything and never shall do
anything.
In a lower sphere l have seen some
thing analogous to this. l refer to the
much misunderstood hen. Nothing that
l see all summer long, seems to me so
entirely contented with itself as a hen.
Hens put on no airs, for they need none.
They seem immensely busy all day about
trifes. There is a bGstling industry in
scratching, there Is such a look of sharp
discernment when a speck turns up, and
they are so content with their own Groom
ing and singing, that one cannot watch
them without a smile.
But, of all their doings, nothing fills
them with such wonder as the laying Of
an egg. The hen steals into her nest
the most perfect silence. Patiently
she awaits the event. Once sure of the
event, she feels all the JOY of a discov-
erer, the enthusiasm of an inventor. and
the vanity of an author She has laid a
world. 1t Is more an era than an egg
This is creation, She listens. Shall
celebrate the event? It shall
not die unknown. Of she flies with ex-
lberance of noise, with an intensity Of
and excitement Of delight, that
seems to say, "A new thing " " A Won
ierful thing " " An admirable thing %
8 And l did it!'
She pumps down from the hay-mow.
She goes proclaiming aloud her marvel
luck, till the neighborhood echoes
Ter cackles. The hens in the barn-yard,
xpecting the same favor in their turn,
IL join and eackle. The cock with i'm
satisfaction, moves about cack-
qwi facet per alum tacit per Sc"
Tomorrow it will be just so again
The egg of to-day hides the egg Of
yesterday. The wonder is never stale. T
The JOY breaks out afresh on each occa- ]
ion, as if there had never been another {
UGH experience! /
These are the Poggelthorpes of the i
arm. Or is it that Poggelthorpe is the c
Ien of the pulpit? Every day he lays '
n egg, and Sunday he lays two! =