"Temper is nine-tenths of Christianity."--BISHOP WILSON.
"Heaven is a temper, not a place."--DR. CHALMERS.
"And should my youth, as youth is apt I know,
Some harshness show;
All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree"--SOUTHEY.
"Even Power itself hath not one-half the might of Gentleness"
--LEIGH HUNT.
It has been said that men succeed in life quite as much by their temper
as by their talents. However this may be, it is certain that their
happiness in life depends mainly upon their equanimity of disposition,
their patience and forbearance, and their kindness and thoughtfulness
for those about them. It is really true what Plato says, that in seeking
the good of others we find our own.
There are some natures so happily constituted that they can find good in
everything. There is no calamity so great but they can educe comfort or
consolation from it--no sky so black but they can discover a gleam of
sunshine issuing through it from some quarter or another; and if the sun
be not visible to their eyes, they at least comfort themselves with the
thought that it IS there, though veiled from them for some good and wise
purpose.
Such happy natures are to be envied. They have a beam in the eye--a beam
of pleasure, gladness, religious cheerfulness, philosophy, call it what
you will. Sunshine is about their hearts, and their mind gilds with its
own hues all that it looks upon. When they have burdens to bear, they
bear them cheerfully--not repining, nor fretting, nor wasting their
energies in useless lamentation, but struggling onward manfully,
gathering up such flowers as lie along their path.
Let it not for a moment be supposed that men such as those we speak of
are weak and unreflective. The largest and most comprehensive natures
are generally also the most cheerful, the most loving, the most hopeful,
the most trustful. It is the wise man, of large vision, who is the
quickest to discern the moral sunshine gleaming through the darkest
cloud. In present evil he sees prospective good; in pain, he recognises
the effort of nature to restore health; in trials, he finds correction
and discipline; and in sorrow and suffering, he gathers courage,
knowledge, and the best practical wisdom.
When Jeremy Taylor had lost all--when his house had been plundered,
and his family driven out-of-doors, and all his worldly estate had been
sequestrated--he could still write thus: "I am fallen into the hands of
publicans and sequestrators, and they have taken all from me; what now?
Let me look about me. They have left me the sun and moon, a loving wife,
and many friends to pity me, and some to relieve me; and I can still
discourse, and, unless I list, they have not taken away my merry
countenance and my cheerful spirit, and a good conscience; they have
still left me the providence of God, and all the promises of the Gospel,
and my religion, and my hopes of heaven, and my charity to them, too;
and still I sleep and digest, I eat and drink, I read and meditate....
And he that hath so many causes of joy, and so great, is very much in
love with sorrow and peevishness, who loves all these pleasures, and
chooses to sit down upon his little handful of thorns." [171]
Although cheerfulness of disposition is very much a matter of inborn
temperament, it is also capable of being trained and cultivated like any
other habit. We may make the best of life, or we may make the worst of
it; and it depends very much upon ourselves whether we extract joy or
misery from it. There are always two sides of life on which we can look,
according as we choose--the bright side or the gloomy. We can bring the
power of the will to bear in making the choice, and thus cultivate the
habit of being happy or the reverse. We can encourage the disposition
of looking at the brightest side of things, instead of the darkest. And
while we see the cloud, let us not shut our eyes to the silver lining.
The beam in the eye sheds brightness, beauty, and joy upon life in all
its phases. It shines upon coldness, and warms it; upon suffering, and
comforts it; upon ignorance, and enlightens it; upon sorrow, and cheers
it. The beam in the eye gives lustre to intellect, and brightens beauty
itself. Without it the sunshine of life is not felt, flowers bloom in
vain, the marvels of heaven and earth are not seen or acknowledged, and
creation is but a dreary, lifeless, soulless blank.
While cheerfulness of disposition is a great source of enjoyment in
life, it is also a great safeguard of character. A devotional writer
of the present day, in answer to the question, How are we to overcome
temptations? says: "Cheerfulness is the first thing, cheerfulness is the
second, and cheerfulness is the third." It furnishes the best soil for
the growth of goodness and virtue. It gives brightness of heart and
elasticity of spirit. It is the companion of charity, the nurse of
patience the mother of wisdom. It is also the best of moral and mental
tonics. "The best cordial of all," said Dr. Marshall Hall to one of his
patients, "is cheerfulness." And Solomon has said that "a merry heart
doeth good like a medicine." When Luther was once applied to for a
remedy against melancholy, his advice was: "Gaiety and courage--innocent
gaiety, and rational honourable courage--are the best medicine for young
men, and for old men, too; for all men against sad thoughts." [172] Next
to music, if not before it, Luther loved children and flowers. The great
gnarled man had a heart as tender as a woman's.
Cheerfulness is also an excellent wearing quality. It has been called
the bright weather of the heart. It gives harmony of soul, and is a
perpetual song without words. It is tantamount to repose. It enables
nature to recruit its strength; whereas worry and discontent debilitate
it, involving constant wear-and-tear. How is it that we see such men
as Lord Palmerston growing old in harness, working on vigorously to the
end? Mainly through equanimity of temper and habitual cheerfulness. They
have educated themselves in the habit of endurance, of not being easily
provoked, of bearing and forbearing, of hearing harsh and even unjust
things said of them without indulging in undue resentment, and avoiding
worreting, petty, and self-tormenting cares. An intimate friend of Lord
Palmerston, who observed him closely for twenty years, has said that he
never saw him angry, with perhaps one exception; and that was when the
ministry responsible for the calamity in Affghanistan, of which he was
one, were unjustly accused by their opponents of falsehood, perjury, and
wilful mutilation of public documents.
So far as can be learnt from biography, men of the greatest genius
have been for the most part cheerful, contented men--not eager for
reputation, money, or power--but relishing life, and keenly susceptible
of enjoyment, as we find reflected in their works. Such seem to have
been Homer, Horace, Virgil, Montaigne, Shakspeare, Cervantes. Healthy
serene cheerfulness is apparent in their great creations. Among the same
class of cheerful-minded men may also be mentioned Luther, More, Bacon,
Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michael Angelo. Perhaps they were happy
because constantly occupied, and in the pleasantest of all work--that of
creating out of the fulness and richness of their great minds.
Milton, too, though a man of many trials and sufferings, must have been
a man of great cheerfulness and elasticity of nature. Though overtaken
by blindness, deserted by friends, and fallen upon evil days--"darkness
before and danger's voice behind"--yet did he not bate heart or hope,
but "still bore up and steered right onward."
Henry Fielding was a man borne down through life by debt, and
difficulty, and bodily suffering; and yet Lady Mary Wortley Montague
has said of him that, by virtue of his cheerful disposition, she was
persuaded he "had known more happy moments than any person on earth."
Dr. Johnson, through all his trials and sufferings and hard fights with
fortune, was a courageous and cheerful-natured man. He manfully made
the best of life, and tried to be glad in it. Once, when a clergyman was
complaining of the dulness of society in the country, saying "they only
talk of runts" [17young cows], Johnson felt flattered by the observation
of Mrs. Thrale's mother, who said, "Sir, Dr. Johnson would learn to
talk of runts"--meaning that he was a man who would make the most of his
situation, whatever it was.
Johnson was of opinion that a man grew better as he grew older, and that
his nature mellowed with age. This is certainly a much more cheerful
view of human nature than that of Lord Chesterfield, who saw life
through the eyes of a cynic, and held that "the heart never grows better
by age: it only grows harder." But both sayings may be true according
to the point from which life is viewed, and the temper by which a man is
governed; for while the good, profiting by experience, and disciplining
themselves by self-control, will grow better, the ill-conditioned,
uninfluenced by experience, will only grow worse.
Sir Walter Scott was a man full of the milk of human kindness. Everybody
loved him. He was never five minutes in a room ere the little pets of
the family, whether dumb or lisping, had found out his kindness for all
their generation. Scott related to Captain Basil Hall an incident of his
boyhood which showed the tenderness of his nature. One day, a dog coming
towards him, he took up a big stone, threw it, and hit the dog. The poor
creature had strength enough left to crawl up to him and lick his feet,
although he saw its leg was broken. The incident, he said, had given
him the bitterest remorse in his after-life; but he added, "An early
circumstance of that kind, properly reflected on, is calculated to have
the best effect on one's character throughout life."
"Give me an honest laugher," Scott would say; and he himself laughed the
heart's laugh. He had a kind word for everybody, and his kindness acted
all round him like a contagion, dispelling the reserve and awe which his
great name was calculated to inspire. "He'll come here," said the keeper
of the ruins of Melrose Abbey to Washington Irving--"he'll come here
some-times, wi' great folks in his company, and the first I'll know of
it is hearing his voice calling out, 'Johnny! Johnny Bower!' And when I
go out I'm sure to be greeted wi' a joke or a pleasant word. He'll stand
and crack and laugh wi' me, just like an auld wife; and to think that of
a man that has SUCH AN AWFU' KNOWLEDGE O' HISTORY!"
Dr. Arnold was a man of the same hearty cordiality of manner--full of
human sympathy. There was not a particle of affectation or pretence of
condescension about him. "I never knew such a humble man as the doctor,"
said the parish clerk at Laleham; "he comes and shakes us by the hand as
if he was one of us." "He used to come into my house," said an old woman
near Fox How, "and talk to me as if I were a lady."
Sydney Smith was another illustration of the power of cheerfulness. He
was ever ready to look on the bright side of things; the darkest cloud
had to him its silver lining. Whether working as country curate, or as
parish rector, he was always kind, laborious, patient, and exemplary;
exhibiting in every sphere of life the spirit of a Christian, the
kindness of a pastor, and the honour of a gentleman. In his leisure he
employed his pen on the side of justice, freedom, education, toleration,
emancipation; and his writings, though full of common-sense and bright
humour, are never vulgar; nor did he ever pander to popularity or
prejudice. His good spirits, thanks to his natural vivacity and stamina
of constitution, never forsook him; and in his old age, when borne down
by disease, he wrote to a friend: "I have gout, asthma, and seven other
maladies, but am otherwise very well." In one of the last letters he
wrote to Lady Carlisle, he said: "If you hear of sixteen or eighteen
pounds of flesh wanting an owner, they belong to me. I look as if a
curate had been taken out of me."
Great men of science have for the most part been patient, laborious,
cheerful-minded men. Such were Galileo, Descartes, Newton, and Laplace.
Euler the mathematician, one of the greatest of natural philosophers,
was a distinguished instance. Towards the close of his life he became
completely blind; but he went on writing as cheerfully as before,
supplying the want of sight by various ingenious mechanical devices,
and by the increased cultivation of his memory, which became exceedingly
tenacious. His chief pleasure was in the society of his grandchildren,
to whom he taught their little lessons in the intervals of his severer
studies.
In like manner, Professor Robison of Edinburgh, the first editor of the
'Encyclopaedia Britannica,' when disabled from work by a lingering
and painful disorder, found his chief pleasure in the society of his
grandchild. "I am infinitely delighted," he wrote to James Watt, "with
observing the growth of its little soul, and particularly with its
numberless instincts, which formerly passed unheeded. I thank the French
theorists for more forcibly directing my attention to the finger of God,
which I discern in every awkward movement and every wayward whim. They
are all guardians of his life and growth and power. I regret indeed that
I have not time to make infancy and the development of its powers my
sole study."
One of the sorest trials of a man's temper and patience was that which
befell Abauzit, the natural philosopher, while residing at Geneva;
resembling in many respects a similar calamity which occurred to Newton,
and which he bore with equal resignation. Amongst other things, Abauzit
devoted much study to the barometer and its variations, with the object
of deducing the general laws which regulated atmospheric pressure.
During twenty-seven years he made numerous observations daily, recording
them on sheets prepared for the purpose. One day, when a new servant was
installed in the house, she immediately proceeded to display her zeal
by "putting things to-rights." Abauzit's study, amongst other rooms, was
made tidy and set in order. When he entered it, he asked of the servant,
"What have you done with the paper that was round the barometer?" "Oh,
sir," was the reply, "it was so dirty that I burnt it, and put in its
place this paper, which you will see is quite new." Abauzit crossed his
arms, and after some moments of internal struggle, he said, in a tone
of calmness and resignation: "You have destroyed the results of
twenty-seven years labour; in future touch nothing whatever in this
room."
The study of natural history more than that of any other branch of
science, seems to be accompanied by unusual cheerfulness and equanimity
of temper on the part of its votaries; the result of which is, that
the life of naturalists is on the whole more prolonged than that of
any other class of men of science. A member of the Linnaean Society has
informed us that of fourteen members who died in 1870, two were over
ninety, five were over eighty, and two were over seventy. The average
age of all the members who died in that year was seventy-five.
Adanson, the French botanist, was about seventy years old when the
Revolution broke out, and amidst the shock he lost everything--his
fortune, his places, and his gardens. But his patience, courage,
and resignation never forsook him. He became reduced to the greatest
straits, and even wanted food and clothing; yet his ardour of
investigation remained the same. Once, when the Institute invited him,
as being one of its oldest members, to assist at a SEANCE, his answer
was that he regretted he could not attend for want of shoes. "It was a
touching sight," says Cuvier, "to see the poor old man, bent over the
embers of a decaying fire, trying to trace characters with a feeble hand
on the little bit of paper which he held, forgetting all the pains of
life in some new idea in natural history, which came to him like
some beneficent fairy to cheer him in his loneliness." The Directory
eventually gave him a small pension, which Napoleon doubled; and at
length, easeful death came to his relief in his seventy-ninth year. A
clause in his will, as to the manner of his funeral, illustrates the
character of the man. He directed that a garland of flowers, provided by
fifty-eight families whom he had established in life, should be the
only decoration of his coffin--a slight but touching image of the more
durable monument which he had erected for himself in his works.
Such are only a few instances, of the cheerful-working-ness of great
men, which might, indeed, be multiplied to any extent. All large
healthy natures are cheerful as well as hopeful. Their example is also
contagious and diffusive, brightening and cheering all who come within
reach of their influence. It was said of Sir John Malcolm, when he
appeared in a saddened camp in India, that "it was like a gleam of
sunlight,.... no man left him without a smile on his face. He was 'boy
Malcolm' still. It was impossible to resist the fascination of his
genial presence." [173]
There was the same joyousness of nature about Edmund Burke. Once at a
dinner at Sir Joshua Reynolds's, when the conversation turned upon
the suitability of liquors for particular temperaments, Johnson said,
"Claret is for boys, port for men, and brandy for heroes." "Then," said
Burke, "let me have claret: I love to be a boy, and to have the careless
gaiety of boyish days." And so it is, that there are old young men, and
young old men--some who are as joyous and cheerful as boys in their
old age, and others who are as morose and cheerless as saddened old men
while still in their boyhood.
In the presence of some priggish youths, we have heard a cheerful old
man declare that, apparently, there would soon be nothing but "old boys"
left. Cheerfulness, being generous and genial, joyous and hearty, is
never the characteristic of prigs. Goethe used to exclaim of goody-goody
persons, "Oh! if they had but the heart to commit an absurdity!" This
was when he thought they wanted heartiness and nature. "Pretty dolls!"
was his expression when speaking of them, and turning away.
The true basis of cheerfulness is love, hope, and patience. Love evokes
love, and begets loving kindness. Love cherishes hopeful and generous
thoughts of others. It is charitable, gentle, and truthful. It is a
discerner of good. It turns to the brightest side of things, and its
face is ever directed towards happiness. It sees "the glory in the
grass, the sunshine on the flower." It encourages happy thoughts, and
lives in an atmosphere of cheerfulness. It costs nothing, and yet is
invaluable; for it blesses its possessor, and grows up in abundant
happiness in the bosoms of others. Even its sorrows are linked with
pleasures, and its very tears are sweet.
Bentham lays it down as a principle, that a man becomes rich in his own
stock of pleasures in proportion to the amount he distributes to others.
His kindness will evoke kindness, and his happiness be increased by his
own benevolence. "Kind words," he says, "cost no more than unkind ones.
Kind words produce kind actions, not only on the part of him to whom
they are addressed, but on the part of him by whom they are employed;
and this not incidentally only, but habitually, in virtue of the
principle of association.".... "It may indeed happen, that the effort
of beneficence may not benefit those for whom it was intended; but when
wisely directed, it MUST benefit the person from whom it emanates. Good
and friendly conduct may meet with an unworthy and ungrateful return;
but the absence of gratitude on the part of the receiver cannot destroy
the self-approbation which recompenses the giver, and we may scatter the
seeds of courtesy and kindliness around us at so little expense. Some of
them will inevitably fall on good ground, and grow up into benevolence
in the minds of others; and all of them will bear fruit of happiness
in the bosom whence they spring. Once blest are all the virtues always;
twice blest sometimes." [174]
The poet Rogers used to tell a story of a little girl, a great favourite
with every one who knew her. Some one said to her, "Why does everybody
love you so much?" She answered, "I think it is because I love everybody
so much." This little story is capable of a very wide application; for
our happiness as human beings, generally speaking, will be found to be
very much in proportion to the number of things we love, and the number
of things that love us. And the greatest worldly success, however
honestly achieved, will contribute comparatively little to happiness,
unless it be accompanied by a lively benevolence towards every human
being.
Kindness is indeed a great power in the world. Leigh Hunt has truly said
that "Power itself hath not one half the might of gentleness." Men are
always best governed through their affections. There is a French proverb
which says that, "LES HOMMES SE PRENNENT PAR LA DOUCEUR," and a coarser
English one, to the effect that "More wasps are caught by honey than by
vinegar." "Every act of kindness," says Bentham, "is in fact an exercise
of power, and a stock of friendship laid up; and why should not power
exercise itself in the production of pleasure as of pain?"
Kindness does not consist in gifts, but in gentleness and generosity
of spirit. Men may give their money which comes from the purse, and
withhold their kindness which comes from the heart. The kindness that
displays itself in giving money, does not amount to much, and often
does quite as much harm as good; but the kindness of true sympathy, of
thoughtful help, is never without beneficent results.
The good temper that displays itself in kindness must not be confounded
with softness or silliness. In its best form, it is not a merely passive
but an active condition of being. It is not by any means indifferent,
but largely sympathetic. It does not characterise the lowest and most
gelatinous forms of human life, but those that are the most highly
organized. True kindness cherishes and actively promotes all reasonable
instrumentalities for doing practical good in its own time; and,
looking into futurity, sees the same spirit working on for the eventual
elevation and happiness of the race.
It is the kindly-dispositioned men who are the active men of the
world, while the selfish and the sceptical, who have no love but for
themselves, are its idlers. Buffon used to say, that he would give
nothing for a young man who did not begin life with an enthusiasm of
some sort. It showed that at least he had faith in something good,
lofty, and generous, even if unattainable.
Egotism, scepticism, and selfishness are always miserable companions
in life, and they are especially unnatural in youth. The egotist is
next-door to a fanatic. Constantly occupied with self, he has no thought
to spare for others. He refers to himself in all things, thinks of
himself, and studies himself, until his own little self becomes his own
little god.
Worst of all are the grumblers and growlers at fortune--who find that
"whatever is is wrong," and will do nothing to set matters right--who
declare all to be barren "from Dan even to Beersheba." These grumblers
are invariably found the least efficient helpers in the school of life.
As the worst workmen are usually the readiest to "strike," so the least
industrious members of society are the readiest to complain. The worst
wheel of all is the one that creaks.
There is such a thing as the cherishing of discontent until the feeling
becomes morbid. The jaundiced see everything about them yellow. The
ill-conditioned think all things awry, and the whole world out-of-joint.
All is vanity and vexation of spirit. The little girl in PUNCH, who
found her doll stuffed with bran, and forthwith declared everything to
be hollow and wanted to "go into a nunnery," had her counterpart in real
life. Many full-grown people are quite as morbidly unreasonable. There
are those who may be said to "enjoy bad health;" they regard it as a
sort of property. They can speak of "MY headache"--"MY backache," and
so forth, until in course of time it becomes their most cherished
possession. But perhaps it is the source to them of much coveted
sympathy, without which they might find themselves of comparatively
little importance in the world.
We have to be on our guard against small troubles, which, by
encouraging, we are apt to magnify into great ones. Indeed, the chief
source of worry in the world is not real but imaginary evil--small
vexations and trivial afflictions. In the presence of a great sorrow,
all petty troubles disappear; but we are too ready to take some
cherished misery to our bosom, and to pet it there. Very often it is the
child of our fancy; and, forgetful of the many means of happiness which
lie within our reach, we indulge this spoilt child of ours until
it masters us. We shut the door against cheerfulness, and surround
ourselves with gloom. The habit gives a colouring to our life. We grow
querulous, moody, and unsympathetic. Our conversation becomes full of
regrets. We are harsh in our judgment of others. We are unsociable, and
think everybody else is so. We make our breast a storehouse of pain,
which we inflict upon ourselves as well as upon others.
This disposition is encouraged by selfishness: indeed, it is for the
most part selfishness unmingled, without any admixture of sympathy
or consideration for the feelings of those about us. It is simply
wilfulness in the wrong direction. It is wilful, because it might be
avoided. Let the necessitarians argue as they may, freedom of will and
action is the possession of every man and woman. It is sometimes our
glory, and very often it is our shame: all depends upon the manner in
which it is used. We can choose to look at the bright side of things,
or at the dark. We can follow good and eschew evil thoughts. We can be
wrongheaded and wronghearted, or the reverse, as we ourselves determine.
The world will be to each one of us very much what we make it. The
cheerful are its real possessors, for the world belongs to those who
enjoy it.
It must, however, be admitted that there are cases beyond the reach of
the moralist. Once, when a miserable-looking dyspeptic called upon a
leading physician and laid his case before him, "Oh!" said the doctor,
"you only want a good hearty laugh: go and see Grimaldi." "Alas!" said
the miserable patient, "I am Grimaldi!" So, when Smollett, oppressed
by disease, travelled over Europe in the hope of finding health, he
saw everything through his own jaundiced eyes. "I'll tell it," said
Smellfungus, "to the world." "You had better tell it," said Sterne, "to
your physician." The restless, anxious, dissatisfied temper, that is
ever ready to run and meet care half-way, is fatal to all happiness and
peace of mind. How often do we see men and women set themselves about as
if with stiff bristles, so that one dare scarcely approach them without
fear of being pricked! For want of a little occasional command over
one's temper, an amount of misery is occasioned in society which is
positively frightful. Thus enjoyment is turned into bitterness, and
life becomes like a journey barefooted amongst thorns and briers and
prickles. "Though sometimes small evils," says Richard Sharp, "like
invisible insects, inflict great pain, and a single hair may stop a vast
machine, yet the chief secret of comfort lies in not suffering trifles
to vex us; and in prudently cultivating an undergrowth of small
pleasures, since very few great ones, alas! are let on long leases." [175]
St. Francis de Sales treats the same topic from the Christian's point
of view. "How carefully," he says, "we should cherish the little virtues
which spring up at the foot of the Cross!" When the saint was asked,
"What virtues do you mean?" he replied: "Humility, patience, meekness,
benignity, bearing one another's burden, condescension, softness
of heart, cheerfulness, cordiality, compassion, forgiving injuries,
simplicity, candour--all, in short of that sort of little virtues. They,
like unobtrusive violets, love the shade; like them are sustained by
dew; and though, like them, they make little show, they shed a sweet
odour on all around." [176]
And again he said: "If you would fall into any extreme, let it be on
the side of gentleness. The human mind is so constructed that it resists
rigour, and yields to softness. A mild word quenches anger, as water
quenches the rage of fire; and by benignity any soil may be rendered
fruitful. Truth, uttered with courtesy, is heaping coals of fire on the
head--or rather, throwing roses in the face. How can we resist a foe
whose weapons are pearls and diamonds?" [177]
Meeting evils by anticipation is not the way to overcome them. If we
perpetually carry our burdens about with us, they will soon bear us
down under their load. When evil comes, we must deal with it bravely and
hopefully. What Perthes wrote to a young man, who seemed to him inclined
to take trifles as well as sorrows too much to heart, was doubtless good
advice: "Go forward with hope and confidence. This is the advice given
thee by an old man, who has had a full share of the burden and heat of
life's day. We must ever stand upright, happen what may, and for this
end we must cheerfully resign ourselves to the varied influences of this
many-coloured life. You may call this levity, and you are partly right;
for flowers and colours are but trifles light as air, but such levity is
a constituent portion of our human nature, without which it would sink
under the weight of time. While on earth we must still play with earth,
and with that which blooms and fades upon its breast. The consciousness
of this mortal life being but the way to a higher goal, by no means
precludes our playing with it cheerfully; and, indeed, we must do so,
otherwise our energy in action will entirely fail." [178]
Cheerfulness also accompanies patience, which is one of the main
conditions of happiness and success in life. "He that will be served,"
says George Herbert, "must be patient." It was said of the cheerful and
patient King Alfred, that "good fortune accompanied him like a gift of
God." Marlborough's expectant calmness was great, and a principal secret
of his success as a general. "Patience will overcome all things," he
wrote to Godolphin, in 1702. In the midst of a great emergency, while
baffled and opposed by his allies, he said, "Having done all that is
possible, we should submit with patience."
Last and chiefest of blessings is Hope, the most common of possessions;
for, as Thales the philosopher said, "Even those who have nothing else
have hope." Hope is the great helper of the poor. It has even been
styled "the poor man's bread." It is also the sustainer and inspirer
of great deeds. It is recorded of Alexander the Great, that when he
succeeded to the throne of Macedon, he gave away amongst his friends
the greater part of the estates which his father had left him; and when
Perdiccas asked him what he reserved for himself, Alexander answered,
"The greatest possession of all,--Hope!"
The pleasures of memory, however great, are stale compared with those
of hope; for hope is the parent of all effort and endeavour; and "every
gift of noble origin is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath." It
may be said to be the moral engine that moves the world, and keeps it in
action; and at the end of all there stands before us what Robertson of
Ellon styled "The Great Hope." "If it were not for Hope," said Byron,
"where would the Future be?--in hell! It is useless to say where the
Present is, for most of us know; and as for the Past, WHAT predominates
in memory?--Hope baffled. ERGO, in all human affairs it is Hope, Hope,
Hope!" [179]