Time seems a grim old humorist, with a fondness for afterthoughts. The
things that come too late are part of his sarcasm. Each generation is
engaged in correcting the errors of its predecessors, and in supplying
new blunders for its own posterity to set right. Each generation
bequeaths to its successor its wisdom and its folly, its wealth of
knowledge and its debts of error and failure. The things that come too
late thus mean only the delayed payments on old debts. They mean that
the world is growing wiser, and better, truer, nobler, and more just.
It is emerging from the dark shadows of error into the sunshine of
truth and justice. They prove that Time is weaving a beauteous fabric
from the warp and woof of humanity, made up of shreds and tangles of
error and truth.
The things that come too late are the fuller wisdom, the deferred
honors, the truer conception of the work of pioneers, the brave
sturdy fighters who battled alone for truth and were misunderstood
and unrecognized. It means the world's finer attitude toward life.
If looked at superficially, the things that come too late make us
feel helpless, hopeless, pessimistic; if seen with the eye of deeper
wisdom, they reveal to us the grand evolution march of humanity toward
higher things. It is Nature's proclamation that, in the end, Right
_must_ triumph, Truth _must_ conquer, and Justice _must_ reign. For
us, as individuals, it is a warning and an inspiration,—a warning
against withholding love, charity, kindness, sympathy, justice, and
helpfulness, till it is too late; an inspiration for us to live ever at
our best, ever up to the maximum of effort, not worrying about results,
but serenely confident that they _must_ come.
It takes over thirty years for the light of some of the stars to reach
the earth, some a hundred, some a thousand years. Those stars do not
become visible till their light reaches and reacts on human vision.
It takes an almost equal time for the light of some of the world's
great geniuses to meet real, seeing eyes. Then we see these men as
the brilliant stars in the world's gallery of immortal great ones.
This is why contemporary reputation rarely indicates lasting fame. We
are constantly mistaking fireflies of cleverness for stars of genius.
But Time brings all things right. The fame, though, brings no joy,
or encouragement, or inspiration to him who has passed beyond this
world's lights and shadows; it has the sadness of the honors that
come too late, a touch of the farcical mingled with its pathos. Tardy
recognition is better than none at all, it is better, though late, than
never; but it is so much truer and kinder and more valuable if never
late. We are so inclined to send our condemnation and our snapshot
criticisms by express, and our careful, honest commendation by slow
freight.
In October, 1635, Roger Williams, because of his inspiring pleas for
individual liberty, was ordered by the General Court of Massachusetts
to leave the colony forever. He went to Rhode Island, where he lived
for nearly fifty years. But the official conscience grew a little
restless, and a few years ago, in April, 1899, Massachusetts actually
made atonement for its rash act. The original papers, yellow, faded,
and crumbling, were taken from their pigeonhole tomb, and "by an
ordinary motion, made, seconded, and adopted," the order of banishment
was solemnly "annulled and repealed, and made of no effect whatever."
The ban, under which Roger Williams had lain for over 260 years,
was lifted. And there is no reason now, according to law, why Roger
Williams cannot enter the State of Massachusetts and reside therein.
The action was to the credit and honor of the State; it was right in
its spirit, and Roger being in the spirit for more than two centuries,
may have smiled gently and understood. But the reparation was
really—over-delayed.
The mistakes, the sin and folly of one age may be partially atoned for
by a succeeding age, but the individual stands alone. For what we do
and for what we leave undone, we alone are responsible. If we permit
the golden hours that might be consecrated to higher things to trickle
like sand through our fingers, no one can ever restore them to us.
Human affection is fed by signs and tokens of that affection. Merely
having kindly feelings is not enough, they should be made manifest in
action. The parched earth is not refreshed by the mere fact of water
in the clouds, it is only when the blessing of rain actually descends
that it awakens to new life. We are so ready to say "He knows how
much I think of him," and to assume that as a fitting substitute for
expression. We may know that the sun is shining somewhere and still
shiver for lack of its glow and warmth. Love should be constantly
made evident in little acts of thoughtfulness, words of sweetness and
appreciation, smiles and handclasps of esteem. It should be shown to
be a loving reality instead of a memory by patience, forbearance,
courtesy, and kindness.
This theory of presumed confidence in the persistence of affection
is one of the sad phases of married life. We should have roses of
love, ever-blooming, ever-breathing perfume, instead of dried roses
pressed in the family Bible, merely for reference, as a memorial of
what was, instead of guarantee of what is. Matrimony too often shuts
the door of life and leaves sentiment, consideration and chivalry on
the outside. The feeling may possibly be still alive, but it does
not reveal itself rightly; the rhymed poetry of loving has changed to
blank verse and later into dull prose. As the boy said of his father:
"He's a Christian, but he's not working much at it now." Love without
manifestation does not feed the heart any more than a locked bread-box
feeds the body; it does not illuminate and brighten the round of daily
duties any more than an unlit lamp lightens a room. There is often such
a craving in the heart of a husband or a wife for expression in words
of human love and tenderness that they are welcomed no matter from what
source they may come. If there were more courtships continued after
marriage, the work of the divorce courts would be greatly lessened.
This realization is often one of the things that come too late.
There are more people in this world hungering for kindness, sympathy,
comradeship and love, than are hungering for bread. We often refrain
from giving a hearty word of encouragement, praise or congratulation
to some one, even where we recognize that our feelings are known, for
fear of making him conceited or overconfident. Let us tear down these
dykes of reserve, these walls of petty repression, and let in the flood
of our feelings. There have been few monuments reared to the memory
of those who have failed in life because of overpraise. There is more
chiseled flattery on tombstones than was ever heard in life by the
dead those stones now guard. Man does not ask for flattery, he does
not long for fulsome praise, he wants the honest, ringing sound of
recognition of what he has done, fair appreciation of what he is doing,
and sympathy with what he is striving to do.
Why is it that death makes us suddenly conscious of a hundred virtues
in a man who seemed commonplace and faulty in life? Then we speak
as though an angel had been living in our town for years and we had
suddenly discovered him. If he could only have heard these words while
living, if he could have discounted the eulogies at, say even sixty per
cent, they would have been an inspiration to him when weary, worn and
worried by the problems of living. But now the ears are stilled to all
earthly music, and even if they could hear our praise, the words would
be but useless messengers of love that came too late.
It is right to speak well of the dead, to remember their strength and
to forget their weakness, and to render to their memory the expressions
of honor, justice, love and sorrow that fill our hearts. But it is
the living, ever the living that need it most. The dead have passed
beyond the helpfulness; our wildest cries of agony and regret bring no
answering echo from the silences of the unknown. Those who are facing
the battle of life, still seeking bravely to do and to be,—they need
our help, our companionship, our love, all that is best in us. Better
is the smallest flower placed in our warm, living hands than mountains
of roses banked round our casket.
If we have failed in our expressions to the dead, the deep sense of
our sorrow and the instinctive rush of feeling proclaim the vacuum of
duty we now seek too late to fill. But there is one atonement that is
not too late. It is in making all humanity legatees of the kindness
and human love that we regret has been unexpended, it is in bringing
brightness, courage and cheer into the lives of those around us. Thus
our regret will be shown to be genuine, not a mere temporary gush of
emotionalism.
It is during the formative period, the time when a man is seeking to
get a foothold, that help counts for most, when even the slightest aid
is great. A few books lent to Andrew Carnegie when he was beginning
his career were to him an inspiration; he has nobly repaid the loan,
made posterity his debtor a million-fold by his beneficence in
sprinkling libraries over the whole country. Help the saplings, the
young growing trees of vigor,—the mighty oaks have no need of your aid.
The heartening words should come when needed, not when they seem only
hypocritic protestations, or dextrous preparations for future favors.
Columbus, surrounded by his mutinous crew, threatening to kill him,
alone amid the crowd, had no one to stand by him. But he neared land,
and riches opened before them; then they fell at his feet, proclaimed
him almost a god and said he truly was inspired from Heaven. Success
transfigured him—a long line of pebbly beach and a few trees made him
divine. A little patience along the way, a little closer companionship,
a little brotherly love in his hours of watching, waiting, and hoping
would have been great balm to his soul.
It is in childhood that pleasures count most, when the slightest
investment of kindness brings largest returns. Let us give the children
sunlight, love, companionship, sympathy with their little troubles and
worries that seem to them so great, genuine interest in their growing
hopes, their vague, unproportioned dreams and yearnings. Let us put
ourselves into their places, view the world through their eyes so that
we may gently correct the errors of their perspective by our greater
wisdom. Such trifles will make them genuinely happy, happier by far
than things a thousand times greater that come too late.
Procrastination is the father of a countless family of things that come
too late. Procrastination means making an appointment with opportunity
to "call again to-morrow." It kills self-control, saps mental energy,
makes man a creature of circumstances instead of their creator. There
is one brand of procrastination that is a virtue. It is never doing
to-day a wrong that can be put off till to-morrow, never performing an
act to-day that may make to-morrow ashamed.
There are little estrangements in life, little misunderstandings that
are passed by in silence between friends, each too closely armored with
pride, and enamoured with self to break. There is a time when a few
straightforward words would set it all right, the clouds would break
and the sunshine of love burst forth again. But each nurses a weak,
petty sense of dignity, the rift grows wider, they drift apart, and
each goes his lonely way, hungering for the other. They may waken to
realization too late to piece the broken strands of affection into a
new life.
The wisdom that comes too late in a thousand phases of life usually has
an irritating, depressing effect on the individual. He should charge
a large part of it to the account of experience. If no wisdom came
too late there would be no experience. It means, after all, only that
we are wiser to-day than we were yesterday, that we see all things in
truer relation, that our pathway of life has been illuminated.
The world is prone to judge by results. It is glad to be a stockholder
in our success and prosperity, but it too often avoids the assessments
of sympathy and understanding. The man who pulls against the stream may
have but a stanch two or three to help him. When the tide turns and his
craft swiftens its course and he is carried along without effort, he
finds boats hurrying to him from all directions as if he had suddenly
woke up and found himself in a regatta. The help then comes too late;
he does not need it. He himself must then guard against the temptation
of cynicism and coldness and selfishness. Then he should realize and
determine that what he terms "the way of the world" shall not be his
"way." That he will not be too late with his stimulus to others who
have struggled bravely as he has done, but who being less strong
may drop the oars in despair for the lack of the stimulus of even a
friendly word of heartening in a crisis.
The old song of dreary philosophy says: "The mill will never grind
again with the water that is past." Why should the mill expect to use
the same water over and over? That water may now be merrily turning
mill-wheels further down the valley, continuing without ceasing, its
good work. It is folly to think so much of the water that is past.
Think more of the great stream that is ever flowing on. Use that as
best you can, and when it has passed you will be glad that it came, and
be satisfied with its service.
Time is a mighty stream that comes each day with unending flow. To
think of this water of past time with such regret that it shuts our
eyes to the mighty river of the present is sheer folly. Let us make the
best we can of to-day in the best preparation for to-morrow; then even
the things that come too late will be new revelations of wisdom to use
in the present now before us, and in the future we are forming.