(In a contentious time when loyalty is demanded by some, commanded by others, we yearn for lowered quantities of disrespect and higher quantities of respect, less heat and more light. Because kind words are conspicuously lacking in our public dialogue, this seems to be a good time to consider Dr. Frank Crane’s thoughts on—-)

PRAISE

Praise is never wholly undeserved.

Don’t be afraid. No bonds were ever broken by appreciative remarks.

Go ahead. Say it. You can hardly come to contact with anybody without nothing some commendable thing.

And if any criticism, any salt or sour word comes up in your throat, swallow it back.

What a vast, kindly benevolent, bottomless pit is the pit of the great Unsaid!  It is the Gehenna valley* of our lives, where lie the burnt refuse of our unkindness.

You are full of gentle thoughts and gentle words, only you do not realize how full until you begin to speak.

Unstop your generous impulses. Turn on the fountain of your praise.

For this world of human hearts is dry and dusty. Most men and women go about smitten with   cruel thirst. The sons and daughters of men perish for appreciation.

Then water them. Sprinkle them with the gentle rain of your admiring glances and warm smiles on the just and upon the unjust, with heaven’s indiscrimination.

Contwist you, smile!

We Americans are an odd lot.  We are soft as wax in our hearts, full of generous feeling, hungry to help the next man. But we hate to admit it.

I have walked the city street, in lonely moods, and searched the face of every passer-by for a human look. But it was dreary picking. Men glanced at me and looked quickly away. Women never looked at all.  Only a woman or two of Mrs. Warren’s profession. ** And I have wondered if it is not sheer loneliness, mere desire to see a lightened face, even if it must be bought, and not a taste for vice, that leads men to take up with crepuscular creatures.

For souls are purchased with kindness. Every cordial gesture you make to a man gives you a property-right to a portion of his soul.

Mine are the people I have loved, if only for a moment. They constitute my estate. I own them. I do not own my purse.

“’Twas mine, ‘tis his, and has been slave to thousands.” I do not own my house, the contents of my strong box, my furniture and pictures, no, nor the wife I have legally bound to me, nor the children I have begotten, save in so far as I love them.

There is but one right and title in the court of souls. It is love. It is appreciation. Anything or anybody in this world belongs to the one who appreciates it, or him, or her. No other claim will stand in the great assizes.

And I do not own those who appreciate me; they own me. It is the lover, and not the beloved, that has the best end of the bargain. Love is its own reward.

Hence, get rich. Pile up property. Be a soul millionaire. Do this by the practice of appreciation.  Be an appreciation expert. The wider, more refined, subtler, keener your power to see the praiseworthiness of men and things, the wealthier you are…

Compliment. Appreciate. Praise. But me no buts. No praise is ever wholly undeserved.

*A reference to a valley in Jerusalem where, according to the Hebrew Bible, the godless kings of Judah turned children into burning sacrifices. The Old Testament Book of Jeremiah says the valley is cursed. Some ancient literature refers to it as something like Hell, other writings saying it is more like a purgatory of sorts.

**Mrs. Warren’s Profession, an 1893 play by George Bernard Shaw, is about the operator of a brothel.