What Is Comfort?
Could any one really be satisfied with the attainment and diffusion of any conceivable amount of Comfort? Or do the whole series of influences which the popular sentiment almost deifies really affect very deeply the standing calamities and the standing complaints of life? It is not difficult to bring the question to a fair test. If all the causes which we see at work around us were to continue to operate for an indefinite length of time in the utmost vigour, they would probably not raise the average standard of comfort for the whole population above the point at which the average of the better-paid professional classes stands at present. The wildest dreams of the most sanguine believer in progress on Christian principles would be more than realized if he ever saw ordinary day-labourers as well off and as intelligent as ordinary lawyers, doctors, and merchants are at present. Take, then, one reasonably prosperous person of this kind, and see whether he is in such an entirely satisfactory condition. It is clear that he is not. He neither knows whence he comes nor whither he is going, nor for what purpose he lives; or at least his knowledge upon these subjects is so indefinite, so much involved in metaphors and mysteries, that it is little more than enough to make visible the darkness in which he stands. He passes through life in a round of occupations which often fatigue and hardly ever satisfy large portions of his mind; and the very comforts which have been provided for him by so infinite a multiplicity of social devices, as often as not operate to choke and strangle his energies. We need not detail the features of a familiar picture. Every one knows the gloomy side of life, and though it is not the whole truth, it is right that its existence should be recognised. It is an insulting affectation to keep it out of sight, and to persist in crying up progress and improvement as if there was no undying worm and unquenchable fire.—Saturday Review.