Part 30

Let us be tender to our friends while they are with us,—not wait till they are gone to find out their good qualities. Let us be kind and gentle now, and not wait for regret to tell us of duty undone. The way of life is so full of occasions that call forth real regret, that it would seem that there was little danger of manifesting regret where it was uncalled for and useless. Yet such spectacles are of daily occurrence. When one has done the best he can, he should let that fact console him, and not give way to causeless regret and a wish that he had done differently.

Under the guiding light of the present it is easy enough to discover the mistakes of the past; and it would be easy to make advantageous changes were we allowed to go back and commence anew in the journey of life. But alas! this is vain. What we should do is so to learn by reason of regret from the lessons of the past that we become fully fitted for the duties of the present. Regret, if deep and hopeless, becomes remorse, which settles down over the heart with a crushing weight, driving from thence all hope, unless, indeed, the angel of forgiveness brings consolation to the soul.

There are many walking the earth whose lives are shadowed by some great sorrow, to which is added the pain of regret caused by their own heedless and inconsiderate actions. With one, it is the sorrow of a reputation gone,—some act of folly swept away the fair name founded on years of honest living. With another, it is the shadow of a grave dark and deep which covers the form of one whom death claimed before he had redressed some wrong done, carelessly perhaps, and with no intention of lasting injury. Hasty and inconsiderate marriages cause much vain repining and regret. The happiness of life is gone; the hopes of a home, endearing companionship, are fled, because hasty and inconsiderate action was taken where care and study was required. Of all regrets, the remorse that must accompany the closing moments of a misspent life must possess the sharpest sting. Life and its possibilities allowed to go to waste from a lack of consideration on our part! Oh, that the young would give heed to the warning voice of experience, and thus escape the vain regrets of later years!

To escape regret, it is necessary to form the habit of doing your whole duty and avoiding impulsive actions. Pause before you say a hasty or a cruel thing. Human life is so uncertain, are you sure that you will have a chance to make it right before death will have claimed the object of your momentary anger? Tears and expressions of regret are of no avail when addressed to cold clay. Pause before doing a hasty or inconsiderate action. It may be of such a nature that you can not undo its effects. It may embitter your whole after life. Reflection is your good angel; give heed to her warning voice. How are you spending your life? Are you living as becomes a man and immortal being? Are you striving to make the most of life and its possibilities? If not, be warned in time, and turn from your ways. When life is nearly ended you will think of the past,—wonder at your actions, and sigh for the days of youth. They will not come to you again; therefore, make the most of them _now_. Thus will you spare yourself many vain regrets, and your closing days will be days of peace.

"Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies."

—POPE.

Some one has said that of all the gifts with which a beneficent Providence has endowed man the gift of memory is the noblest. Without it life would be a blank, a dreary void, an inextricable chaos, an unlettered page cast upon the vast ocean of uncertainty. Memory is the cabinet of the imagination, the treasury of reason, the registry of conscience, and the council chamber of thought. It is the only paradise we are sure of always possessing. Even our first parents could not be driven out of it. The memory of good actions is the starlight of the soul. Memory tempers prosperity by recalling past distresses, mitigates adversity by bringing up the thoughts of past joys, it controls youth and delights old age.

Memory is the golden cord binding all the natural gifts and excellences together, and though it is not wisdom in itself, still it is the primary and fundamental power without which there could be no other intellectual operations. Memory is often accused of treachery and inconstancy, when, if inquired into, the fault will be found to rest with ourselves. Although nature has wisely proportioned the strength and liberality of this gift to various intellects, yet all have it in their power to improve it by classing, by analyzing and arranging the different subjects which successively occupy their minds. By these means habits of thought and reflection are required, which will materially conduce to the invigorating of the understanding, the improvement of the mind, and the strengthening and correction of the mental powers.

A quick and retentive memory both of words and things is an invaluable treasure, and may be had by any one who will take the necessary pains. Educators sometimes in their anxiety to secure a wide range of studies fail to sufficiently impress on their scholars' minds the value of memory. This memory is one of the most valuable gifts God has bestowed upon us, and one of the most mysterious. The more it is called upon to exercise its proper function the more it is able to do, and there seems to be no limit to its power. It is not what one has learned, but what he remembers and applies that makes him wise. Still memory should be used as the storehouse, not as a lumber-room. The mind must be trained to think as well as remember, and to remember principles and outlines rather than words and sentences.

It is an old saying that we forget nothing, as people in fever begin suddenly to talk the language of their infancy. We are stricken by memory sometimes, and old reflections rush back to us as vivid as in the time when they were our daily talk. We think of faces, and they return to us as plainly as when their presence gladdened our eyes and their accents thrilled in our ears. Many an affection that apparently came to an end, and dropped out of life one way or another, was only lying dormant. A scent, a note of music, a voice long unheard, the stirring of the Summer breeze may startle us with the sudden revival of long forgotten feelings and thoughts.

Memory can glean, but can never renew. It brings us joys faint as the perfume of the flowers, faded and dried of the Summer that is gone. Who is there whose heart is dead to the memories of his childhood days? Old times steal upon us, quietly making us young again, even amid the din of business and the whirl of household cares! The care-worn face relaxes its tension and the saddened brow clears for a time as some well-remembered scene rushes through the mind, bringing back the childhood home and the loved faces which met around the daily board.

We love to think of days that are past if they were days of happiness, and even experience a sad pleasure in recalling days of sadness. The man or woman who loves to look back upon the direction and counsel of a wise father and faithful mother will seldom do an unworthy or unjust act. And we find the most degraded at times marveling as to what led them into sin, because the remembrance of a happy home is theirs—a home of purity, of a father's and mother's loving counsel and upright example.

When sorrow and trial, care and temptation, surround us how often do we gain courage and renewed strength by thinking of the past. The bankrupt loves to think that he started on a fair basis from the cradle. And the worldly woman, who seems plunged in the vortex of fashionable pleasure, stops to think that it was not always thus, that a devoted mother taught her nobler things, and an earnest father bade her live for some real object in life. Just that moment's reflection may sow the seed which will develop into a life of charity and good works among her fellow-mortals. And that condemned criminal—who knows what memory recalls to his view? Perhaps it was a home from whence the incense of daily prayer ascended to God—where kind words enforced a cheerful obedience to wise counsels. Disturb him not; the influence is holy—'tis memory's voice urging him to final repentance.

We love to think of the unbroken circle; the curly heads of the children, and the various dispositions that marked them; the childish employments and aspirations; the mischievous pranks and merited punishment; and the quiet hour when the mother, gathering the little ones about her, told them of the better life to come, and sought earnestly to teach them that here below we live as school children, gaining an education that shall fit us for the brighter home hereafter. But these thoughts are not altogether of joyous scenes. Change and death appeared on the scene, and strangers came to dwell in the home of our childhood.

It is strange what slight things suffice to recall the scenes of childhood. A fallen tree, a house in ruins, a pebbly bank, or the flowers by the wayside, arrest our steps, and carry the thoughts back to other days. In fancy we again visit the mossy bank by the wayside, where we so often sat for hours drinking in the beauty of the primrose with our eyes; the sheltered glen, darkly green, filled with the perfume of violets that shone in their intense blue like another sky spread upon the earth; the laughter of merry voices, are all brought back to memory by the simplest causes.

The reminiscences of youth are a trite theme, but it possesses an interest which the world can not dislodge from our breasts. If all then was not uninterrupted sunshine, yet the clouds flew rapidly by, and left no permanent shade behind them, as do those of mature years. From the covenants of friendship then we thought in after days to enjoy the benefits and treasures of love. But the forces of life have driven us asunder, and swept away all but the memory of the past. How different the contrast in thoughts and feelings then and now! Then it was the trusting confidence of childhood; now it is the doubting mind that hath tasted of the world's insincerity. We had _faith_ then, but we have _doubts_ now.

The heart must, nay, it has, grown old, and is full of cares. It will relate at length the history of its sorrows, but it has few joys to communicate. Memory seldom fails When its office is to show us the tomb of our buried hopes. Joy's recollection is no longer joy, but sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. The memory of past favors is like a rainbow—bright, beautiful, and vivid—but it soon fades away; the memory of injuries is engraved on the heart, and remains forever. The course of none has been along so beaten a road that they remember not fondly some resting-places in their journey, some turns in their path in which lovely prospects broke in upon them, some plats of green refreshing to their weary feet.

Some one has said: "Memory is ever active, ever true; alas, if it were only as easy to forget!" Memory is a faithful steward, and holds to view many scenes over which we would fain drop the curtain of oblivion and let the dust of forgetfulness cover them from view. What a relief could we but forget that angry word! The uncalled-for harshness and the passionate outbreak that went unrecalled so long that death intervened—O could we but erase their remembrance! But no, with a retaliative justice memory summons us to review them! Words which can never be recalled, deeds whose effect on others can never be effaced, how they come, one by one, showing us how useless our lives have been—how vain! Still, these memories are friends in disguise, for they are faithful monitors, and are experience's ready prompters. How much is spoken which deserves no remembrance, and which does not serve as a single link in one's existence, not calling forth one result for others' weal, or thrilling one chord with nobler impulses!

How beautiful to distinguish the pearls in the rush of events—this torrent of scenes both sad and pleasing! The gift of memory is diversified to different people, some having a taste for history, some for literature; others delight in politics, and so on through all the different phases of existence, with its diversity of thought and feeling. Memory has been compared to a vast storehouse. How important, then, that we inure the mind to healthful actions instead of feeding it on poisons until it will produce naught but poisonous thoughts! Look at the world of literature and science. Why not delve in its mines of glittering, genuine treasures? Inasmuch as the mind derives much of its pleasures from thoughts of the past it becomes all to provide, as far as possible, for happy reminiscences. This is the reward of right living. An aged person whose thoughts revert to a life of self-denial and exertion in virtue's ways has a source of happiness, pure and unalloyed, which is denied to him whose guiding rule of life has been selfishness.

Memory has a strange power of crowding years into moments. This is observed ofttimes when death is about to close the scene. As the sunlight breaks from the clouds and across the hills at the close of a stormy day, lighting up the distant horizon, even so does memory, when the light of life is fast disappearing in the darkness of death, break forth and illume the most distant scenes and incidents of past years. And the very clouds of sorrow which have drifted between are lighted up with a glorious light. As the soft, clear chimes of the silvery bells at the vesper hour float down on the shadowy wings of evening, even so are the thoughts of old age. They recall scenes past, their memory being all that is left now. It may be the face of a mother, the smile of a sister, a father's kind voice, all stilled by death. Many of these thoughts are too sacred to expose to the gaze of the curious; they are their only treasures; beware of drawing back the curtain which conceals them from your view.

"Auspicious hope! in thy sweet gardens grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe."

All that happens in the world is directly or indirectly brought about by hope. Not a stroke of work would be done were it not in hopes of some glorious reward. It matters not that it generally paves the way to disappointment. Phœnix-like it rises from its ashes and bids us forget the disappointment of the present in the contemplation of future delights. Hope, then, is the principal antidote which keeps our hearts from bursting under the pressure of evils.

Some call hope the manna from heaven that comforts us in all extremities; others the pleasant flatterer that caresses the unhappy with expectations of happiness in the bosom of futurity. But if hope be a flatterer she is the most upright of all the flattering parasites, since she frequents the poor man's hut as well as the palace of his superiors. It is common to all men; those who possess nothing more are still cheered by hope. When all else fails us hope still abides with us.

Used with a due prudence hope acts as a healthful tonic; intemperately indulged, as an enervating opiate. The vision of future triumph, which at first animates exertion, if dwelt upon too strongly, will usurp the place of the reality, and noble objects will be contemplated, not for their own inherent worth, or with a design of compassing their execution, but for the day-dreams they engender. Hope sheds a sweet radiance on the stream of life, and never exerts her magic except to our advantage. We seldom attain what she beckons us to pursue, but her deceptions resemble those which the dying husbandman in the fable practiced upon his sons, who, by telling them of a hidden mass of wealth which he had buried in his vineyard, led them so carefully to delve the ground that they found, indeed, a treasure, though not in gold, in wine.

Reasonable hope is endowed with a vigorous principle; it sets the head and heart to work, and animates one to do his utmost, and thus, by perpetually pushing and assuring, it puts a difficulty out of countenance, and makes a seeming impossibility give way. Human life hath not a surer friend nor, many times, a greater enemy than hope. It is the miserable man's god, which, in the hardest grip of calamity, never fails to yield him beams of comfort. It is the presumptuous man's devil, which leads him awhile in a smooth way, and then lets him break his neck on the sudden.

How many would die did not hope sustain them! How many have died by hoping too much! This wonder may we find in hope—that she is both a flatterer and a true friend. True hope is based on energy of character. A strong mind always hopes, and has always cause to hope, because it knows the mutability of human affairs, and how slight a circumstance may change the whole course of events. Such a spirit, too, rests upon itself; it is not confined to partial views, or to one particular object, and if at last all should be lost it has saved itself its own integrity and worth.

It is best to hope only for things possible and probable; he that hopes too much shall deceive himself at last, especially if his industry does not go along with his hopes, for hope without action is a barren undoer. Hope awakens courage, but despondency is the last of all evils; it is the abandonment of good—the giving up of the battle of life with dead nothingness. When the other emotions are controlled by events hope remains buoyant and undismayed,—unchanged, amidst the most adverse circumstances. Causes that effect, with depression, every other emotion appear to give fresh elasticity to hope. No oppression can crush its buoyancy; from under every weight it rebounds; amid the most depressing circumstances it preserves its cheering influence; no disappointment can annihilate its power; no experience can deter us from listening to its sweet illusions; it seems a counterpoise for misfortune, an equivalent for every disappointment.

It springs early into existence; it abides through all the changes of life, and reaches into the futurity of time. In the midst of disappointments it whispers consolation, and in all the arduous trials of life it is a strong staff and support. If, in the warmth of anticipation, it prepares the way for the very disappointments to which it afterwards administers relief it must be confessed that, in the severer inflictions of adversity, which come upon us unlooked for, and where previously the voice of sorrow was never heard, it then appears like an angel of mercy, and frequently assuages the anguish of suffering, and wipes the dropping tears from the eyes.

Hope lives in the future, but dies in the present. Its estate is one of expectancy. It draws large drafts on a small credit, which are seldom honored when presented at the bank of experience, but have the rare faculty of passing readily elsewhere. Hope calculates its schemes for a long and durable life, presses forward to imaginary points of bliss, and grasps at impossibilities, and, consequently, very often ensnares men into beggary, ruin, and dishonor. Hope is a great calculator, but a poor mathematician. Its problems are seldom based on true data, and their demonstration is more often fictitious than otherwise.

There is a morality in every true hope which is a source of consolation to all who rightly seek it. It is a good angel within that whispers of triumph over evil, of the success of good, of the victory of truth, of the achievement of right. "It hopeth all things." It is a strong ingredient of courage. Under its guiding light what great events have been wrought to a successful completion! It is a friend of virtue. Its religion is full of glorious anticipations. It encourages all things good, great, and noble.

It is not surprising when we reflect on the nature of hope that we find it to be such a mainspring to human action. It is the parent of all effort and endeavor, 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. Every true hope which has for its object some great and noble design is an unexpressed prayer, which flies on angel's wings to the throne of God, and returns to the struggling one a precious benison of inspiration to go forth on his errand of good.

A true hope we can touch somehow through all the lights and shadows of life. It is a prophecy fulfilled in part—God's earnest money paid into our hands, that he will be ready with the whole when we are ready for it. It is the sunlight on the hill-top when the valley is dark as death; the spirit touching us, all through our pilgrimage, and then soaring away with us into the blessed life where we may expect either that the fruition will be entirely equal to the hope, or that the old glamour will come over us again, and beckon us on forever as the choicest gift heaven has to give.

"Hope deferred," saith the proverb, "maketh the heart sick." But we are prone to be too dictatorial as to how we enjoy life; too positive. We must not determine that their fulfillment must come in just the way we wish, or else we will be miserable in the grief of disappointment. It is not for man wholly to determine his steps. Sometimes what he thinks for his good turns out ill; and what he thinks a great evil develops a great blessing in disguise. It is folly, almost madness, to be miserable because things are not as we would have them, or because we are disappointed in our plans. Many of our plans must be defeated for our own good. A multitude of little hopes must every day be crushed, and now and then a great one.

But while we may be all wrong in our thoughts of the special form in which our blessing will come, we need not fail of the blessing. It may be like the mirage, shifting from horizon to horizon as we plod wearily along; but in the fullness of God's own time we shall reap if we faint not. There is always a sadness in the dying of a great hope. It is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone, shadows of the evening fall behind us, and the world seems but a dim reflection of itself—a broader shadow. We look forward into the lonely night. The soul withdraws itself. Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

Hopes and fears checker human life. The one serves to keep us from presumption, the other from despair. Hope is the last thing that dieth in man. Though it may be deceptive, yet it is of this good use to us, that while we are traveling through this life it conducts us in an easier and more pleasant way to our journey's end. There is no one so fallen but that he may have hopes; nor is any so exalted as to be beyond the reach of fears. "When faith, temperance, and other celestial powers left the earth," says one of the ancient writers, "Hope was the only goddess that stayed behind."

The man who carries a lantern in a dark night can have friends walking safely by the light of its rays, and not be defrauded himself. So he who is of cheerful disposition, and has the light of hope in his breast, can help on many others in this world's darkness, not to his own loss, but to their gain. Hope is an anchor to the soul, both sure and steadfast, that will restrain our frail bark and enable us to outride the storms of time.