By means of the profits realised by these tremendous efforts, Scott saw
his debts in course of rapid diminution, and he trusted that, after a
few more years' work, he would again be a free man. But it was not to
be. He went on turning out such works as his 'Count Robert of Paris'
with greatly impaired skill, until he was prostrated by another and
severer attack of palsy. He now felt that the plough was nearing the end
of the furrow; his physical strength was gone; he was "not quite himself
in all things," and yet his courage and perseverance never failed. "I
have suffered terribly," he wrote in his Diary, "though rather in
body than in mind, and I often wish I could lie down and sleep
without waking. But I WILL FIGHT IT OUT IF I CAN." He again recovered
sufficiently to be able to write 'Castle Dangerous,' though the cunning
of the workman's hand had departed. And then there was his last tour to
Italy in search of rest and health, during which, while at Naples, in
spite of all remonstrances, he gave several hours every morning to the
composition of a new novel, which, however, has not seen the light.
Scott returned to Abbotsford to die. "I have seen much," he said on his
return, "but nothing like my own house--give me one turn more." One of
the last things he uttered, in one of his lucid intervals, was worthy of
him. "I have been," he said, "perhaps the most voluminous author of my
day, and it IS a comfort to me to think that I have tried to unsettle
no man's faith, to corrupt no man's principles, and that I have written
nothing which on my deathbed I should wish blotted out." His last
injunction to his son-in-law was: "Lockhart, I may have but a minute to
speak to you. My dear, be virtuous--be religious--be a good man. Nothing
else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here."
The devoted conduct of Lockhart himself was worthy of his great
relative. The 'Life of Scott,' which he afterwards wrote, occupied him
several years, and was a remarkably successful work. Yet he himself
derived no pecuniary advantage from it; handing over the profits of the
whole undertaking to Sir Walter's creditors in payment of debts which
he was in no way responsible, but influenced entirely by a spirit of
honour, of regard for the memory of the illustrious dead.
CHAPTER VII.--DUTY--TRUTHFULNESS.
"I slept, and dreamt that life was Beauty; I woke, and found
that life was Duty."
"Duty! wondrous thought, that workest neither by fond
insinuation, flattery, nor by any threat, but merely by
holding up thy naked law in the soul, and so extorting for
thyself always reverence, if not always obedience; before
whom all appetites are dumb, however secretly they rebel"--
KANT.
"How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will!
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
"Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death;
Unti'd unto the world by care
Of public fame, or private breath.
"This man is freed from servile bands,
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of land;
And having nothing, yet hath all."--WOTTON.
"His nay was nay without recall;
His yea was yea, and powerful all;
He gave his yea with careful heed,
His thoughts and words were well agreed;
His word, his bond and seal."
INSCRIPTION ON BARON STEIN'S TOMB.
DUTY is a thing that is due, and must be paid by every man who would
avoid present discredit and eventual moral insolvency. It is an
obligation--a debt--which can only be discharged by voluntary effort and
resolute action in the affairs of life.
Duty embraces man's whole existence. It begins in the home, where there
is the duty which children owe to their parents on the one hand, and
the duty which parents owe to their children on the other. There are, in
like manner, the respective duties of husbands and wives, of masters
and servants; while outside the home there are the duties which men
and women owe to each other as friends and neighbours, as employers and
employed, as governors and governed.
"Render, therefore," says St. Paul, "to all their dues: tribute to whom
tribute is due; custom to whom custom; fear to whom fear; honour to whom
honour. Owe no man anything, but to love one another; for he that loveth
another hath fulfilled the law,"
Thus duty rounds the whole of life, from our entrance into it until
our exit from it--duty to superiors, duty to inferiors, and duty to
equals--duty to man, and duty to God. Wherever there is power to use
or to direct, there is duty. For we are but as stewards, appointed to
employ the means entrusted to us for our own and for others' good.
The abiding sense of duty is the very crown of character. It is
the upholding law of man in his highest attitudes. Without it, the
individual totters and falls before the first puff of adversity or
temptation; whereas, inspired by it, the weakest becomes strong and full
of courage. "Duty," says Mrs. Jameson, "is the cement which binds
the whole moral edifice together; without which, all power, goodness,
intellect, truth, happiness, love itself, can have no permanence; but
all the fabric of existence crumbles away from under us, and leaves
us at last sitting in the midst of a ruin, astonished at our own
desolation."
Duty is based upon a sense of justice--justice inspired by love, which
is the most perfect form of goodness. Duty is not a sentiment, but a
principle pervading the life: and it exhibits itself in conduct and in
acts, which are mainly determined by man's conscience and freewill.
The voice of conscience speaks in duty done; and without its regulating
and controlling influence, the brightest and greatest intellect may
be merely as a light that leads astray. Conscience sets a man upon his
feet, while his will holds him upright. Conscience is the moral governor
of the heart--the governor of right action, of right thought, of right
faith, of right life--and only through its dominating influence can the
noble and upright character be fully developed.
The conscience, however, may speak never so loudly, but without
energetic will it may speak in vain. The will is free to choose between
the right course and the wrong one, but the choice is nothing unless
followed by immediate and decisive action. If the sense of duty be
strong, and the course of action clear, the courageous will, upheld by
the conscience, enables a man to proceed on his course bravely, and to
accomplish his purposes in the face of all opposition and difficulty.
And should failure be the issue, there will remain at least this
satisfaction, that it has been in the cause of duty.
"Be and continue poor, young man," said Heinzelmann, "while others
around you grow rich by fraud and disloyalty; be without place or power
while others beg their way upwards; bear the pain of disappointed hopes,
while others gain the accomplishment of theirs by flattery; forego the
gracious pressure of the hand, for which others cringe and crawl. Wrap
yourself in your own virtue, and seek a friend and your daily bread. If
you have in your own cause grown gray with unbleached honour, bless God
and die!"
Men inspired by high principles are often required to sacrifice all that
they esteem and love rather than fail in their duty. The old English
idea of this sublime devotion to duty was expressed by the loyalist poet
to his sweetheart, on taking up arms for his sovereign:--
"I could love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more." [161]
And Sertorius has said: "The man who has any dignity of character,
should conquer with honour, and not use any base means even to save his
life." So St. Paul, inspired by duty and faith, declared himself as not
only "ready to be bound, but to die at Jerusalem."
When the Marquis of Pescara was entreated by the princes of Italy to
desert the Spanish cause, to which he was in honour bound, his noble
wife, Vittoria Colonna, reminded him of his duty. She wrote to him:
"Remember your honour, which raises you above fortune and above
kings; by that alone, and not by the splendour of titles, is glory
acquired--that glory which it will be your happiness and pride to
transmit unspotted to your posterity." Such was the dignified view which
she took of her husband's honour; and when he fell at Pavia, though
young and beautiful, and besought by many admirers, she betook herself
to solitude, that she might lament over her husband's loss and celebrate
his exploits. [162]
To live really, is to act energetically. Life is a battle to be fought
valiantly. Inspired by high and honourable resolve, a man must stand
to his post, and die there, if need be. Like the old Danish hero, his
determination should be, "to dare nobly, to will strongly, and never to
falter in the path of duty." The power of will, be it great or small,
which God has given us, is a Divine gift; and we ought neither to let it
perish for want of using on the one hand, nor profane it by employing
it for ignoble purposes on the other. Robertson, of Brighton, has
truly said, that man's real greatness consists not in seeking his own
pleasure, or fame, or advancement--"not that every one shall save his
own life, not that every man shall seek his own glory--but that every
man shall do his own duty."
What most stands in the way of the performance of duty, is irresolution,
weakness of purpose, and indecision. On the one side are conscience and
the knowledge of good and evil; on the other are indolence, selfishness,
love of pleasure, or passion. The weak and ill-disciplined will may
remain suspended for a time between these influences; but at length the
balance inclines one way or the other, according as the will is called
into action or otherwise. If it be allowed to remain passive, the lower
influence of selfishness or passion will prevail; and thus manhood
suffers abdication, individuality is renounced, character is degraded,
and the man permits himself to become the mere passive slave of his
senses.
Thus, the power of exercising the will promptly, in obedience to the
dictates of conscience, and thereby resisting the impulses of the lower
nature, is of essential importance in moral discipline, and absolutely
necessary for the development of character in its best forms. To acquire
the habit of well-doing, to resist evil propensities, to fight against
sensual desires, to overcome inborn selfishness, may require a long and
persevering discipline; but when once the practice of duty is learnt, it
becomes consolidated in habit, and thence-forward is comparatively easy.
The valiant good man is he who, by the resolute exercise of his
freewill, has so disciplined himself as to have acquired the habit of
virtue; as the bad man is he who, by allowing his freewill to remain
inactive, and giving the bridle to his desires and passions, has
acquired the habit of vice, by which he becomes, at last, bound as by
chains of iron.
A man can only achieve strength of purpose by the action of his own
freewill. If he is to stand erect, it must be by his own efforts; for he
cannot be kept propped up by the help of others. He is master of himself
and of his actions. He can avoid falsehood, and be truthful; he can
shun sensualism, and be continent; he can turn aside from doing a cruel
thing, and be benevolent and forgiving. All these lie within the sphere
of individual efforts, and come within the range of self-discipline. And
it depends upon men themselves whether in these respects they will be
free, pure, and good on the one hand; or enslaved, impure, and miserable
on the other.
Among the wise sayings of Epictetus we find the following: "We do not
choose our own parts in life, and have nothing to do with those parts:
our simple duty is confined to playing them well. The slave may be as
free as the consul; and freedom is the chief of blessings; it dwarfs all
others; beside it all others are insignificant; with it all others are
needless; without it no others are possible.... You must teach men that
happiness is not where, in their blindness and misery, they seek it. It
is not in strength, for Myro and Ofellius were not happy; not in wealth,
for Croesus was not happy; not in power, for the Consuls were not happy;
not in all these together, for Nero and Sardanapulus and Agamemnon
sighed and wept and tore their hair, and were the slaves of
circumstances and the dupes of semblances. It lies in yourselves; in
true freedom, in the absence or conquest of every ignoble fear; in
perfect self-government; and in a power of contentment and peace, and
the even flow of life amid poverty, exile, disease, and the very valley
of the shadow of death." [163]
The sense of duty is a sustaining power even to a courageous man.
It holds him upright, and makes him strong. It was a noble saying of
Pompey, when his friends tried to dissuade him from embarking for Rome
in a storm, telling him that he did so at the great peril of his life:
"It is necessary for me to go," he said; "it is not necessary for me to
live." What it was right that he should do, he would do, in the face of
danger and in defiance of storms.
As might be expected of the great Washington, the chief motive power in
his life was the spirit of duty. It was the regal and commanding element
in his character which gave it unity, compactness, and vigour. When
he clearly saw his duty before him, he did it at all hazards, and with
inflexible integrity. He did not do it for effect; nor did he think of
glory, or of fame and its rewards; but of the right thing to be done,
and the best way of doing it.
Yet Washington had a most modest opinion of himself; and when offered
the chief command of the American patriot army, he hesitated to accept
it until it was pressed upon him. When acknowledging in Congress the
honour which had been done him in selecting him to so important a trust,
on the execution of which the future of his country in a great measure
depended, Washington said: "I beg it may be remembered, lest some
unlucky event should happen unfavourable to my reputation, that I this
day declare, with the utmost sincerity, I do not think myself equal to
the command I am honoured with."
And in his letter to his wife, communicating to her his appointment as
Commander-in-Chief, he said: "I have used every endeavour in my power
to avoid it, not only from my unwillingness to part with you and the
family, but from a consciousness of its being a trust too great for my
capacity; and that I should enjoy more real happiness in one month with
you at home, than I have the most distant prospect of finding abroad, if
my stay were to be seven times seven years. But, as it has been a kind
of destiny that has thrown me upon this service, I shall hope that my
undertaking it is designed for some good purpose. It was utterly out
of my power to refuse the appointment, without exposing my character to
such censures as would have reflected dishonour upon myself, and given
pain to my friends. This, I am sure, could not, and ought not, to
be pleasing to you, and must have lessened me considerably in my own
esteem." [164]
Washington pursued his upright course through life, first as
Commander-in-Chief, and afterwards as President, never faltering in the
path of duty. He had no regard for popularity, but held to his purpose,
through good and through evil report, often at the risk of his power
and influence. Thus, on one occasion, when the ratification of a treaty,
arranged by Mr. Jay with Great Britain, was in question, Washington was
urged to reject it. But his honour, and the honour of his country, was
committed, and he refused to do so. A great outcry was raised against
the treaty, and for a time Washington was so unpopular that he is said
to have been actually stoned by the mob. But he, nevertheless, held it
to be his duty to ratify the treaty; and it was carried out, in despite
of petitions and remonstrances from all quarters. "While I feel," he
said, in answer to the remonstrants, "the most lively gratitude for
the many instances of approbation from my country, I can no otherwise
deserve it than by obeying the dictates of my conscience." Wellington's
watchword, like Washington's, was duty; and no man could be more loyal
to it than he was. [165] "There is little or nothing," he once said, "in
this life worth living for; but we can all of us go straight forward and
do our duty." None recognised more cheerfully than he did the duty of
obedience and willing service; for unless men can serve faithfully, they
will not rule others wisely. There is no motto that becomes the wise man
better than ICH DIEN, "I serve;" and "They also serve who only stand and
wait."
When the mortification of an officer, because of his being appointed
to a command inferior to what he considered to be his merits, was
communicated to the Duke, he said: "In the course of my military career,
I have gone from the command of a brigade to that of my regiment, and
from the command of an army to that of a brigade or a division, as I was
ordered, and without any feeling of mortification."
Whilst commanding the allied army in Portugal, the conduct of the native
population did not seem to Wellington to be either becoming or dutiful.
"We have enthusiasm in plenty," he said, "and plenty of cries of 'VIVA!'
We have illuminations, patriotic songs, and FETES everywhere. But what
we want is, that each in his own station should do his duty faithfully,
and pay implicit obedience to legal authority."
This abiding ideal of duty seemed to be the governing principle of
Wellington's character. It was always uppermost in his mind, and
directed all the public actions of his life. Nor did it fail to
communicate itself to those under him, who served him in the like
spirit. When he rode into one of his infantry squares at Waterloo, as
its diminished numbers closed up to receive a charge of French cavalry,
he said to the men, "Stand steady, lads; think of what they will say of
us in England;" to which the men replied, "Never fear, sir--we know our
duty."
Duty was also the dominant idea in Nelson's mind. The spirit in which
he served his country was expressed in the famous watchword, "England
expects every man to do his duty," signalled by him to the fleet before
going into action at Trafalgar, as well as in the last words that passed
his lips,--"I have done my duty; I praise God for it!"
And Nelson's companion and friend--the brave, sensible, homely-minded
Collingwood--he who, as his ship bore down into the great sea-fight,
said to his flag-captain, "Just about this time our wives are going to
church in England,"--Collingwood too was, like his commander, an ardent
devotee of duty. "Do your duty to the best of your ability," was the
maxim which he urged upon many young men starting on the voyage of life.
To a midshipman he once gave the following manly and sensible advice:-
"You may depend upon it, that it is more in your own power than in
anybody else's to promote both your comfort and advancement. A strict
and unwearied attention to your duty, and a complacent and respectful
behaviour, not only to your superiors but to everybody, will ensure you
their regard, and the reward will surely come; but if it should not,
I am convinced you have too much good sense to let disappointment sour
you. Guard carefully against letting discontent appear in you. It will
be sorrow to your friends, a triumph to your competitors, and cannot be
productive of any good. Conduct yourself so as to deserve the best that
can come to you, and the consciousness of your own proper behaviour will
keep you in spirits if it should not come. Let it be your ambition to
be foremost in all duty. Do not be a nice observer of turns, but ever
present yourself ready for everything, and, unless your officers are
very inattentive men, they will not allow others to impose more duty on
you than they should."
This devotion to duty is said to be peculiar to the English nation; and
it has certainly more or less characterised our greatest public men.
Probably no commander of any other nation ever went into action with
such a signal flying as Nelson at Trafalgar--not "Glory," or "Victory,"
or "Honour," or "Country"--but simply "Duty!" How few are the nations
willing to rally to such a battle-cry!
Shortly after the wreck of the BIRKENHEAD off the coast of Africa, in
which the officers and men went down firing a FEU-DE-JOIE after seeing
the women and children safely embarked in the boats,--Robertson of
Brighton, referring to the circumstance in one of his letters, said:
"Yes! Goodness, Duty, Sacrifice,--these are the qualities that England
honours. She gapes and wonders every now and then, like an awkward
peasant, at some other things--railway kings, electro-biology, and other
trumperies; but nothing stirs her grand old heart down to its central
deeps universally and long, except the Right. She puts on her shawl very
badly, and she is awkward enough in a concert-room, scarce knowing a
Swedish nightingale from a jackdaw; but--blessings large and long upon
her!--she knows how to teach her sons to sink like men amidst sharks
and billows, without parade, without display, as if Duty were the most
natural thing in the world; and she never mistakes long an actor for a
hero, or a hero for an actor." [166]
It is a grand thing, after all, this pervading spirit of Duty in a
nation; and so long as it survives, no one need despair of its future.
But when it has departed, or become deadened, and been supplanted by
thirst for pleasure, or selfish aggrandisement, or "glory"--then woe to
that nation, for its dissolution is near at hand!
If there be one point on which intelligent observers are agreed more
than another as to the cause of the late deplorable collapse of France
as a nation, it was the utter absence of this feeling of duty, as well
as of truthfulness, from the mind, not only of the men, but of the
leaders of the French people. The unprejudiced testimony of Baron
Stoffel, French military attache at Berlin, before the war, is
conclusive on this point. In his private report to the Emperor, found
at the Tuileries, which was written in August, 1869, about a year
before the outbreak of the war, Baron Stoffel pointed out that the
highly-educated and disciplined German people were pervaded by an ardent
sense of duty, and did not think it beneath them to reverence sincerely
what was noble and lofty; whereas, in all respects, France presented a
melancholy contrast. There the people, having sneered at everything,
had lost the faculty of respecting anything, and virtue, family life,
patriotism, honour, and religion, were represented to a frivolous
generation as only fitting subjects for ridicule. [167] Alas! how terribly
has France been punished for her sins against truth and duty!
Yet the time was, when France possessed many great men inspired by
duty; but they were all men of a comparatively remote past. The race
of Bayard, Duguesclin, Coligny, Duquesne, Turenne, Colbert, and Sully,
seems to have died out and left no lineage. There has been an occasional
great Frenchman of modern times who has raised the cry of Duty; but his
voice has been as that of one crying in the wilderness. De Tocqueville
was one of such; but, like all men of his stamp, he was proscribed,
imprisoned, and driven from public life. Writing on one occasion to his
friend Kergorlay, he said: "Like you, I become more and more alive to
the happiness which consists in the fulfilment of Duty. I believe there
is no other so deep and so real. There is only one great object in the
world which deserves our efforts, and that is the good of mankind." [168]
Although France has been the unquiet spirit among the nations of Europe
since the reign of Louis XIV., there have from time to time been honest
and faithful men who have lifted up their voices against the turbulent
warlike tendencies of the people, and not only preached, but endeavoured
to carry into practice, a gospel of peace. Of these, the Abbe de
St.-Pierre was one of the most courageous. He had even the boldness to
denounce the wars of Louis XIV., and to deny that monarch's right to
the epithet of 'Great,' for which he was punished by expulsion from
the Academy. The Abbe was as enthusiastic an agitator for a system of
international peace as any member of the modern Society of Friends. As
Joseph Sturge went to St. Petersburg to convert the Emperor of Russia to
his views, so the Abbe went to Utrecht to convert the Conference sitting
there, to his project for a Diet; to secure perpetual peace. Of course
he was regarded as an enthusiast, Cardinal Dubois characterising his
scheme as "the dream of an honest man." Yet the Abbe had found his dream
in the Gospel; and in what better way could he exemplify the spirit
of the Master he served than by endeavouring to abate the horrors
and abominations of war? The Conference was an assemblage of men
representing Christian States: and the Abbe merely called upon them to
put in practice the doctrines they professed to believe. It was of no
use: the potentates and their representatives turned to him a deaf ear.
The Abbe de St.-Pierre lived several hundred years too soon. But he
determined that his idea should not be lost, and in 1713 he published
his 'Project of Perpetual Peace.' He there proposed the formation of
a European Diet, or Senate, to be composed of representatives of all
nations, before which princes should be bound, before resorting to arms,
to state their grievances and require redress. Writing about eighty
years after the publication of this project, Volney asked: "What is
a people?--an individual of the society at large. What a war?--a duel
between two individual people. In what manner ought a society to act
when two of its members fight?--Interfere, and reconcile or repress
them. In the days of the Abbe de St.-Pierre, this was treated as a
dream; but, happily for the human race, it begins to be realised." Alas
for the prediction of Volney! The twenty-five years that followed the
date at which this passage was written, were distinguished by more
devastating and furious wars on the part of France than had ever been
known in the world before.
The Abbe was not, however, a mere dreamer. He was an active practical
philanthropist and anticipated many social improvements which have since
become generally adopted. He was the original founder of industrial
schools for poor children, where they not only received a good
education, but learned some useful trade, by which they might earn an
honest living when they grew up to manhood. He advocated the revision
and simplification of the whole code of laws--an idea afterwards carried
out by the First Napoleon. He wrote against duelling, against luxury,
against gambling, against monasticism, quoting the remark of Segrais,
that "the mania for a monastic life is the smallpox of the mind." He
spent his whole income in acts of charity--not in almsgiving, but in
helping poor children, and poor men and women, to help themselves. His
object always was to benefit permanently those whom he assisted. He
continued his love of truth and his freedom of speech to the last. At
the age of eighty he said: "If life is a lottery for happiness, my lot
has been one of the best." When on his deathbed, Voltaire asked him
how he felt, to which he answered, "As about to make a journey into the
country." And in this peaceful frame of mind he died. But so outspoken
had St.-Pierre been against corruption in high places, that Maupertius,
his Successor at the Academy, was not permitted to pronounce his ELOGE;
nor was it until thirty-two years after his death that this honour was
done to his memory by D'Alembert. The true and emphatic epitaph of the
good, truth-loving, truth-speaking Abbe was this--"HE LOVED MUCH!"
Duty is closely allied to truthfulness of character; and the dutiful man
is, above all things, truthful in his words as in his actions. He says
and he does the right thing, in the right way, and at the right time.
There is probably no saying of Lord Chesterfield that commends itself
more strongly to the approval of manly-minded men, than that it is truth
that makes the success of the gentleman. Clarendon, speaking of one of
the noblest and purest gentlemen of his age, says of Falkland, that he
"was so severe an adorer of truth that he could as easily have given
himself leave to steal as to dissemble."
It was one of the finest things that Mrs. Hutchinson could say of her
husband, that he was a thoroughly truthful and reliable man: "He never
professed the thing he intended not, nor promised what he believed out
of his power, nor failed in the performance of anything that was in his
power to fulfil."
Wellington was a severe admirer of truth. An illustration may be given.
When afflicted by deafness he consulted a celebrated aurist, who, after
trying all remedies in vain, determined, as a last resource, to inject
into the ear a strong solution of caustic. It caused the most intense
pain, but the patient bore it with his usual equanimity. The family
physician accidentally calling one day, found the Duke with flushed
cheeks and bloodshot eyes, and when he rose he staggered about like a
drunken man. The doctor asked to be permitted to look at his ear, and
then he found that a furious inflammation was going on, which, if not
immediately checked, must shortly reach the brain and kill him. Vigorous
remedies were at once applied, and the inflammation was checked. But the
hearing of that ear was completely destroyed. When the aurist heard of
the danger his patient had run, through the violence of the remedy
he had employed, he hastened to Apsley House to express his grief and
mortification; but the Duke merely said: "Do not say a word more about
it--you did all for the best." The aurist said it would be his ruin
when it became known that he had been the cause of so much suffering and
danger to his Grace. "But nobody need know anything about it: keep your
own counsel, and, depend upon it, I won't say a word to any one." "Then
your Grace will allow me to attend you as usual, which will show the
public that you have not withdrawn your confidence from me?" "No,"
replied the Duke, kindly but firmly; "I can't do that, for that would be
a lie." He would not act a falsehood any more than he would speak one.
[169]
Another illustration of duty and truthfulness, as exhibited in the
fulfilment of a promise, may be added from the life of Blucher. When he
was hastening with his army over bad roads to the help of Wellington, on
the 18th of June, 1815, he encouraged his troops by words and gestures.
"Forwards, children--forwards!" "It is impossible; it can't be done,"
was the answer. Again and again he urged them. "Children, we must get
on; you may say it can't be done, but it MUST be done! I have promised
my brother Wellington--PROMISED, do you hear? You wouldn't have me BREAK
MY WORD!" And it was done.
Truth is the very bond of society, without which it must cease to exist,
and dissolve into anarchy and chaos. A household cannot be governed by
lying; nor can a nation. Sir Thomas Browne once asked, "Do the devils
lie?" "No," was his answer; "for then even hell could not subsist." No
considerations can justify the sacrifice of truth, which ought to be
sovereign in all the relations of life.
Of all mean vices, perhaps lying is the meanest. It is in some cases
the offspring of perversity and vice, and in many others of sheer moral
cowardice. Yet many persons think so lightly of it that they will order
their servants to lie for them; nor can they feel surprised if, after
such ignoble instruction, they find their servants lying for themselves.
Sir Harry Wotton's description of an ambassador as "an honest man sent
to lie abroad for the benefit of his country," though meant as a satire,
brought him into disfavour with James I. when it became published; for
an adversary quoted it as a principle of the king's religion. That it
was not Wotton's real view of the duty of an honest man, is obvious from
the lines quoted at the head of this chapter, on 'The Character of a
Happy Life,' in which he eulogises the man
"Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill."
But lying assumes many forms--such as diplomacy, expediency, and moral
reservation; and, under one guise or another, it is found more or less
pervading all classes of society. Sometimes it assumes the form of
equivocation or moral dodging--twisting and so stating the things said
as to convey a false impression--a kind of lying which a Frenchman once
described as "walking round about the truth."
There are even men of narrow minds and dishonest natures, who pride
themselves upon their jesuitical cleverness in equivocation, in their
serpent-wise shirking of the truth and getting out of moral back-doors,
in order to hide their real opinions and evade the consequences of
holding and openly professing them. Institutions or systems based upon
any such expedients must necessarily prove false and hollow. "Though
a lie be ever so well dressed," says George Herbert, "it is ever
overcome." Downright lying, though bolder and more vicious, is even less
contemptible than such kind of shuffling and equivocation.
Untruthfulness exhibits itself in many other forms: in reticency on the
one hand, or exaggeration on the other; in disguise or concealment; in
pretended concurrence in others opinions; in assuming an attitude of
conformity which is deceptive; in making promises, or allowing them
to be implied, which are never intended to be performed; or even in
refraining from speaking the truth when to do so is a duty. There are
also those who are all things to all men, who say one thing and do
another, like Bunyan's Mr. Facing-both-ways; only deceiving themselves
when they think they are deceiving others--and who, being essentially
insincere, fail to evoke confidence, and invariably in the end turn out
failures, if not impostors.
Others are untruthful in their pretentiousness, and in assuming merits
which they do not really possess. The truthful man is, on the contrary,
modest, and makes no parade of himself and his deeds. When Pitt was
in his last illness, the news reached England of the great deeds of
Wellington in India. "The more I hear of his exploits," said Pitt, "the
more I admire the modesty with which he receives the praises he merits
for them. He is the only man I ever knew that was not vain of what he
had done, and yet had so much reason to be so."
So it is said of Faraday by Professor Tyndall, that "pretence of all
kinds, whether in life or in philosophy, was hateful to him." Dr.
Marshall Hall was a man of like spirit--courageously truthful, dutiful,
and manly. One of his most intimate friends has said of him that,
wherever he met with untruthfulness or sinister motive, he would expose
it, saying--"I neither will, nor can, give my consent to a lie." The
question, "right or wrong," once decided in his own mind, the right
was followed, no matter what the sacrifice or the difficulty--neither
expediency nor inclination weighing one jot in the balance.
There was no virtue that Dr. Arnold laboured more sedulously to instil
into young men than the virtue of truthfulness, as being the manliest of
virtues, as indeed the very basis of all true manliness. He designated
truthfulness as "moral transparency," and he valued it more highly than
any other quality. When lying was detected, he treated it as a great
moral offence; but when a pupil made an assertion, he accepted it with
confidence. "If you say so, that is quite enough; OF COURSE I believe
your word." By thus trusting and believing them, he educated the young
in truthfulness; the boys at length coming to say to one another: "It's
a shame to tell Arnold a lie--he always believes one." [1610]
One of the most striking instances that could be given of the character
of the dutiful, truthful, laborious man, is presented in the life of
the late George Wilson, Professor of Technology in the University of
Edinburgh. [1611] Though we bring this illustration under the head of
Duty, it might equally have stood under that of Courage, Cheerfulness,
or Industry, for it is alike illustrative of these several qualities.
Wilson's life was, indeed, a marvel of cheerful laboriousness;
exhibiting the power of the soul to triumph over the body, and almost to
set it at defiance. It might be taken as an illustration of the saying
of the whaling-captain to Dr. Kane, as to the power of moral force over
physical: "Bless you, sir, the soul will any day lift the body out of
its boots!"
A fragile but bright and lively boy, he had scarcely entered manhood ere
his constitution began to exhibit signs of disease. As early, indeed,
as his seventeenth year, he began to complain of melancholy and
sleeplessness, supposed to be the effects of bile. "I don't think I
shall live long," he then said to a friend; "my mind will--must work
itself out, and the body will soon follow it." A strange confession for
a boy to make! But he gave his physical health no fair chance. His life
was all brain-work, study, and competition. When he took exercise it was
in sudden bursts, which did him more harm than good. Long walks in the
Highlands jaded and exhausted him; and he returned to his brain-work
unrested and unrefreshed.
It was during one of his forced walks of some twenty-four miles in
the neighbourhood of Stirling, that he injured one of his feet, and he
returned home seriously ill. The result was an abscess, disease of the
ankle-joint, and long agony, which ended in the amputation of the
right foot. But he never relaxed in his labours. He was now writing,
lecturing, and teaching chemistry. Rheumatism and acute inflammation of
the eye next attacked him; and were treated by cupping, blisetring, and
colchicum. Unable himself to write, he went on preparing his lectures,
which he dictated to his sister. Pain haunted him day and night,
and sleep was only forced by morphia. While in this state of general
prostration, symptoms of pulmonary disease began to show themselves. Yet
he continued to give the weekly lectures to which he stood committed
to the Edinburgh School of Arts. Not one was shirked, though their
delivery, before a large audience, was a most exhausting duty. "Well,
there's another nail put into my coffin," was the remark made on
throwing off his top-coat on returning home; and a sleepless night
almost invariably followed.
At twenty-seven, Wilson was lecturing ten, eleven, or more hours
weekly, usually with setons or open blister-wounds upon him--his "bosom
friends," he used to call them. He felt the shadow of death upon him;
and he worked as if his days were numbered. "Don't be surprised," he
wrote to a friend, "if any morning at breakfast you hear that I am
gone." But while he said so, he did not in the least degree indulge in
the feeling of sickly sentimentality. He worked on as cheerfully and
hopefully as if in the very fulness of his strength. "To none," said he,
"is life so sweet as to those who have lost all fear to die."
Sometimes he was compelled to desist from his labours by sheer debility,
occasioned by loss of blood from the lungs; but after a few weeks' rest
and change of air, he would return to his work, saying, "The water is
rising in the well again!" Though disease had fastened on his lungs, and
was spreading there, and though suffering from a distressing cough,
he went on lecturing as usual. To add to his troubles, when one day
endeavouring to recover himself from a stumble occasioned by his
lameness, he overstrained his arm, and broke the bone near the shoulder.
But he recovered from his successive accidents and illnesses in the most
extraordinary way. The reed bent, but did not break: the storm passed,
and it stood erect as before.
There was no worry, nor fever, nor fret about him; but instead,
cheerfulness, patience, and unfailing perseverance. His mind, amidst all
his sufferings, remained perfectly calm and serene. He went about his
daily work with an apparently charmed life, as if he had the strength
of many men in him. Yet all the while he knew he was dying, his chief
anxiety being to conceal his state from those about him at home, to
whom the knowledge of his actual condition would have been inexpressibly
distressing. "I am cheerful among strangers," he said, "and try to live
day by day as a dying man." [1612]
He went on teaching as before--lecturing to the Architectural Institute
and to the School of Arts. One day, after a lecture before the latter
institute, he lay down to rest, and was shortly awakened by the rupture
of a bloodvessel, which occasioned him the loss of a considerable
quantity of blood. He did not experience the despair and agony that
Keats did on a like occasion; [1613] though he equally knew that the
messenger of death had come, and was waiting for him. He appeared at
the family meals as usual, and next day he lectured twice, punctually
fulfilling his engagements; but the exertion of speaking was followed by
a second attack of haemorrhage. He now became seriously ill, and it
was doubted whether he would survive the night. But he did survive;
and during his convalescence he was appointed to an important public
office--that of Director of the Scottish Industrial Museum, which
involved a great amount of labour, as well as lecturing, in his capacity
of Professor of Technology, which he held in connection with the office.
From this time forward, his "dear museum," as he called it, absorbed
all his surplus energies. While busily occupied in collecting models
and specimens for the museum, he filled up his odds-and-ends of time
in lecturing to Ragged Schools, Ragged Kirks, and Medical Missionary
Societies. He gave himself no rest, either of mind or body; and "to die
working" was the fate he envied. His mind would not give in, but
his poor body was forced to yield, and a severe attack of
haemorrhage--bleeding from both lungs and stomach [1614]--compelled him
to relax in his labours. "For a month, or some forty days," he wrote--"a
dreadful Lent--the mind has blown geographically from 'Araby the blest,'
but thermometrically from Iceland the accursed. I have been made a
prisoner of war, hit by an icicle in the lungs, and have shivered and
burned alternately for a large portion of the last month, and spat blood
till I grew pale with coughing. Now I am better, and to-morrow I give
my concluding lecture [16on Technology], thankful that I have contrived,
notwithstanding all my troubles, to carry on without missing a lecture
to the last day of the Faculty of Arts, to which I belong." [1615]
How long was it to last? He himself began to wonder, for he had long
felt his life as if ebbing away. At length he became languid, weary, and
unfit for work; even the writing of a letter cost him a painful effort,
and. he felt "as if to lie down and sleep were the only things worth
doing." Yet shortly after, to help a Sunday-school, he wrote his 'Five
Gateways of Knowledge,' as a lecture, and afterwards expanded it into
a book. He also recovered strength sufficient to enable him to proceed
with his lectures to the institutions to which he belonged, besides on
various occasions undertaking to do other people's work. "I am looked
upon as good as mad," he wrote to his brother, "because, on a hasty
notice, I took a defaulting lecturer's place at the Philosophical
Institution, and discoursed on the Polarization of Light.... But I like
work: it is a family weakness."
Then followed chronic malaise--sleepless nights, days of pain, and
more spitting of blood. "My only painless moments," he says, "were when
lecturing." In this state of prostration and disease, the indefatigable
man undertook to write the 'Life of Edward Forbes'; and he did it, like
everything he undertook, with admirable ability. He proceeded with
his lectures as usual. To an association of teachers he delivered a
discourse on the educational value of industrial science. After he
had spoken to his audience for an hour, he left them to say whether
he should go on or not, and they cheered him on to another half-hour's
address. "It is curious," he wrote, "the feeling of having an audience,
like clay in your hands, to mould for a season as you please. It is a
terribly responsible power.... I do not mean for a moment to imply that
I am indifferent to the good opinion of others--far otherwise; but to
gain this is much less a concern with me than to deserve it. It was
not so once. I had no wish for unmerited praise, but I was too ready to
settle that I did merit it. Now, the word DUTY seems to me the biggest
word in the world, and is uppermost in all my serious doings."
This was written only about four months before his death. A little later
he wrote, "I spin my thread of life from week to week, rather than from
year to year." Constant attacks of bleeding from the lungs sapped his
little remaining strength, but did not altogether disable him from
lecturing. He was amused by one of his friends proposing to put him
under trustees for the purpose of looking after his health. But he
would not be restrained from working, so long as a vestige of strength
remained.
One day, in the autumn of 1859, he returned from his customary lecture
in the University of Edinburgh with a severe pain in his side. He was
scarcely able to crawl upstairs. Medical aid was sent for, and he was
pronounced to be suffering from pleurisy and inflammation of the lungs.
His enfeebled frame was ill able to resist so severe a disease, and he
sank peacefully to the rest he so longed for, after a few days' illness:
"Wrong not the dead with tears!
A glorious bright to-morrow
Endeth a weary life of pain and sorrow."
The life of George Wilson--so admirably and affectionately related by
his sister--is probably one of the most marvellous records of pain and
longsuffering, and yet of persistent, noble, and useful work, that is
to be found in the whole history of literature. His entire career
was indeed but a prolonged illustration of the lines which he himself
addressed to his deceased friend, Dr. John Reid, a likeminded man, whose
memoir he wrote:--
"Thou wert a daily lesson
Of courage, hope, and faith;
We wondered at thee living,
We envy thee thy death.
Thou wert so meek and reverent,
So resolute of will,
So bold to bear the uttermost,
And yet so calm and still."
CHAPTER VIII.--TEMPER.
"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]
