“NO ROOM IN THE INN.”

Franklin Times, Volume 9, Issue 696, 3 January 1922, Page 5

“NO ROOM IN THE INN.”

•> . ■ ■ I (Thisy article arrived top late for publication in our Christmas, issue).

Once upon a time there was a physician who wrote the story 'of the Life of a Man. And it was the story of a Life of Grief which is perhaps a better story to tell than one of a grevious life. The m'an of whom it was written was one in whose veins there flawed the blood o;f kings—and yet the son of a poof but saintly woman whose husband was a carpenter. Just before the birth of the Infant* it was necessary that the woman and the man should jburney from from home to a town which, a't that time, was considered far distant, and when they reaehedj that place “there was no room for them in the Inn,” and they had perforce to seek shelter of a stable. Thus, in that humble byre the Child wks born—amid the beasts of the field, His life began its human course.

Of whart that Life held, the people c-f the town knew nothing and perhaps cared less. Sufficient for them was it that, among the fodder where the cattle nosed, a Babe drew breath. It did not cSisquieten them (that “there was no room in the Inn.” Neithev were they, of another town, to which at an early age the Child with his parents returned, at all concerned about “the carpenter’s son,” even though he waxed strong in spirit and was filled with wisdom. “The boy is father to the man” and the Man, despised and rejected, was as the Boy, and so His life led him through neglect and contumely, ridicule and abuse, weariness and pain—on and on to the Hill where Its crowning tragedy was ■ consummated And yet to-day, the lesson of that Lfe remains—time cannot dim its lustre —dynasties have come and gone—-em-pires have fitdVd into nothing —: and yet Its influence will perdure even when lawr and newer dynasties are dissolved in the cosmic dust.

And although that Influence is greater than that of any who have dwelt on this earth, we know that there are others who have lived with us., and left behind them, some power thalt will not die. This then must be the hall-mark of genius ! And genius having been defined as “intellectual endowment of the highest kind,” ilt follows then that He of whose Life I have spoken, must have been the greatest genius this world has known. Divine Genius if you like, bud Genius nevertheless.

But Genius is more than the product of the intellect. It is, as well, the fruit of the soul. “The wind bloweth where it lisiteth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but caivst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth; so is every one that is bom of the Spirit.” Therefore genius, being born not of the flesh only but also of the Spirit, does no't, with the flesh, turn to clay, but goes foil'd, beyonS the grave, a dynamic force—to refresh—to resummon —to reinspire.

When in the flesh though, why has the world always, with rare exceptions, neglected its men of Genius ? Why, for them has there been “no room in the Inn ?” In Art , in Science, in Literature, in fact in every recondite walk of life, the leaders in •thought and action have been they whom the Crowd has not* merely refused to follow and has ignored, where it has not actually persecuted in its vain attempt to dragoon genius back into the ranks of medioeity, but has even turned from them to laud and applaud the ephemeral, the superficial and the sham. Folk value the Teacher less than the Thief. For the thief can only steal their chattels, whereas the Teacher may take from them their self-importance, their self-esteem, their self-love. The mob still cries : “Not this man but Barrabas.”

' III“How dare you say the Earth is round, oh Galileo,” screamed the dogmatists of his day. “You are fit only for the mad-house.” “Do you think a thing like that will run along the rails ?” asked the contemporaries of Stephenson, as they looked at his first model of a locomotive. “What if there should be a cow on the line ?” laughed they. But his engine ran on its appointed way and the cows that gait out of its way were lucky. “You are not fit to remain in the Army,” said the Yankees to Grant, but when from South to North ’the unleashed dogs of War sped on Grant stepped in—and saved die flag. “Get back to youn gallipots, Mr Keats !” oriel the World. And the world drove Keats hack to.his gallipots -and the Grave. Yet, though he

found it riqh to die while still in the hec'tic flush of youth, he left, as a legacy to. the critical and'contemptuous' world; the matchless beauty of his deathless verse.

And so ijt happened and for that matter, happens still! Men and women of genius, despised and rejected, are still with us. “There is no room for them in the Inn.” Well, anyway, at ’this the Yuletide of the year, let us spare tq them some kindly thought to cheer them on the road towards that far distant Commonwealth where there az*e many mansions and where, in some celestial Inn, a place has been prepared for them.

“BEN BOLT.