Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1913-07-25
LOST IN THE CROWDS
Not So Bad as Being Lost Out Of the
Crowd.

Not So Bad as Being Lost Out Of the
Crowd.
It Is a familiar sensation, that OF
being one among or against 80 many.
1t Is hard to walk In a thronged street
and escape it. The railway train,
filled with people going to divided
duties, to various destinations and de-
stinies; the tense, impatient "bleach-
ers" at a baseball game; the congre-
CATION seated in a church, the audi
ence at a play-all these suggest
our infinite personal inconsequence.
Where is there room on earth for the
homes and the labors Of so many? ?
How can they all extract q living? ?
Why should 1t make any difference
who breaks leg or a neck, when
there are so many able-bodied substi-
tutes constantly pressing forward?
The ferry-boat, the excursion steam
er, the trolly car Of homeward re-
turning toilers, the esplanade OF loiter-
ers and merrymakers, all promote the
reflection that there are "multitudes,
in the valley of decision" and our
own little personal unit seems as
small as these minute sub -diyis-
ions into which the philosophy of
chemistry is cutting up the atom.
Why were we brought on earth to be
so insignificant? II we should fall by
the wayside, who would notice? Who
cares If we live or die, If we are lost
or found, IL we breathe or stifle. If we
suffer or rejoice? ~ sa &
The emphatic difference between
barbarism and civilization is that be-
tween the callous neglect and the
tender nurture Of the individual.
Kings of Ashantee or Dahomey, chiefs
Of aboriginal America, princes and
satraps Of the era Of Ghengis Kahn,
cared nothing for one little life shifted
out, one voice forever silenced. one
body bleaching on the plains, prey of
the vulture or the carrion crow. They
grimly took the side Of the inexor-
able law Of the survival Of the fittest;
their gross and brutal justice knew no
tempering Of mercy; choosers Of the
slain, they gave the word and the
blood ran in lone frontier settlements
or in the city's streets, and households
were left desolate. All for what?
That the terror of name might
spread, and a quickening fear might
run before them to prepare the way
Of conquest and revenge. Under the
binding brightness Of a throne, who
was the individual man-to say moth
ing of a woman or a child still re-
cent humaner enlightened centuries? ?
We think the golden age was when
Augustus ruled, and Virgil smote his
sounding lyre-but we are only now
emerging into the unclouded day of
an age when each of us shall be all
that was meant to be, and have his
own fair chance, and receive his share,
and live his own life in the pure air
of innocent freedom.
In Matthew Arnold's great poem,
Rugby Chapel" 1t is told where and
what was the secret Of the power Of
the life of the poets father, ARNOLD
Of Rugby" The meaning Of that life
of a man among boys was that he did
not care merely for the working out
Of his own salvation. the earning of
his selfish personal passage to Para
disc. He did not care to voyage
thither unaccompanied-he wanted to
bring his whole flock with him. That
should be true it seems. Of any
worthy shepherd of the sheep, Of
any faithful curacy Of human souls.
1t must be true Of any reasonable and
conscientious ruler devoutly consider
ate of his duty to all the people. What
touched the heart of Lincoln when he
faced a crowd was not his own exalta-
ton, but their need. the sense Of the
popular dependence on him all but
overwhelmed him. He was great be-
cause he OWNED their thoughts, inter-
preted their wishes, studied their
minds, and made their hopes and fears
his own. In the lesser republics of
any school room there is the ever
present problem of individualizing the
pupil-singling out the unit from the
group. and giving to the particular
need of one while bearing in mind the
good of the greater number. The
ninety and nine may be known for
the cheerful, normal, obvious lot they
are-but the hundredth one may be a
tortured wanderer, alone, "the sun
gone down." and the whole sweep of
the sky one impenetrable blackness.
What is even worse than being lost IN
the crowd, he is lost out of the crowd.
They are together, in the light, the
warmth, the comfort; his portion is
the starving, chilly solitude. 1t
must be someone's business to go forth
and look for him-and If the search
er cannot bring the wanderer back,
he can at least destroy the wander
ers isolation and be his link with life
and all the world.
Often there is one whom we long
to change, to regain to the felicity
that we enjoy. We think we have
failed, because we cannot make a
convert and bring the outcast, the
pariah, the Ishmaelite and the unre-
generate to our point Of view. But
is it not something to have establish
ed the contact? Is it not something
to be the vital link between belief and
disbelief, between probity and iniqui-
ty, between light and darkness, life
and death? Who knows what the
mere handclasp across the abyss be-
tween a soul and soul may not mean
You do not need to bring another
wholly to your own way Of thinking
to do him good, as John Wesley real
lied when he nobly wrote Of the true
catholic spirit. 1t is our business in
this crowded world not to mourn be-
cause there are so many of us, but
rather to rejoice in the circumstance.
1t means that we may not have our
own way always-and that does us