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Page 41
XVII.
A LITTLE SERMON ON FAILURES.
If we study the history of men with patience, it becomes evident that
no great work has ever been done in the world save by those who have
met with bitter rebuffs and severe trials at the beginning of their
career. It seems as though the ruling powers imposed an ordeal on
every human being, in order to single out the strong and the worthy
from the cowardly and worthless. The weakling who meets with trouble
uplifts his voice in complaint and ceases to struggle against
obstacles; the strong man or woman remains silent and strives on
indomitably until success is achieved. It is strange to see how many
complaining weaklings are living around us at this day, and how
querulous and unjust are the outcries addressed to Fate, Fortune, and
Providence. We are the heirs of the ages; we know all about the brave
souls that suffered and strove and conquered in days gone by, and yet
many who possess this knowledge, and who have the gift of expression
at its highest, spend their time in one long tiresome whimper. Half
the poetry of our time is rhythmic complaint; young men who have
hardly had time to look round on the splendid panorama of life profess
to crave for death, and young women who should be thinking only of
work and love and brightness prefer to sink into languor. There is no
curing a poet when once he takes to being mournful, for he hugs his
own woe with positive pleasure, and all his musical pathos is simply
self-pity.
When Napoleon said, "You must not fear Death, my lads. Defy him, and
you drive him into the enemy's ranks!" he uttered a truth which
applies in the moral world as on the battle-field. The sudden panic
which causes battalions of troops to hesitate and break up in
confusion is paralleled by the numbing despair which seems to seize on
the forces of the soul at times. Brave men gaze calmly on the trouble
and think within themselves, "Now is the hour of trial; it is needful
to be strong and audacious;" weak men drop into hopeless lassitude,
and the few who happen to be foolish as well as weak rid themselves of
life. I dare say that hardly one of those who read these lines has
escaped that one awful moment when effort appears vain, when life is
one long ache, and when Time is a creeping horror that seems to lag as
if to torture the suffering heart. We need only turn to the vivid
chapter of modern life to see the utter folly of "giving in." Let us
look at the life-history of a statesman who died some years ago in our
country, after wielding supreme power and earning the homage of
millions. When young Benjamin D'Israeli first entered society in
London, he found that the proud aristocrats looked askance at him. He
came of a despised race, he had no fortune, his modes of acting and
speaking were strange to the cold, self-contained Northerners among
whom he cast his lot, and his chances looked far from promising. He
waited and worked, but all things seemed to go wrong with him; he
published a poem which was laughed at all over the country; he strove
to enter Parliament, and failed again and again; middle age crept on
him, and the shadows of failure seemed to compass him round. In one
terrible passage which he wrote in a flippant novel called "The Young
Duke" he speaks about the woful fate of a man who feels himself full
of strength and ability, and who is nevertheless compelled to live in
obscurity. The bitter sadness of this startling page catches the
reader by the throat, for it is a sudden revelation of a strong man's
agony. At last the toiler obtained his chance, and rose to make his
first speech in the House of Commons. He was then long past thirty
years of age; but he had the exuberance and daring of a boy. All the
best judges in the Commons admired the opening of the oration; but the
coarser members were stimulated to laughter by the speaker's strange
appearance. D'Israeli had dressed himself in utter defiance of all
conventions; he wore a dark green coat which came closely up to his
chin, a gaudy vest festooned with chains, and glittering rings. His
ringlets were combed in a heavy mass over his right shoulder; and it
is said that he looked like some strange actor. The noise grew as he
went on; his finest periods were lost amid howls of derision, and at
last he raised his arms above his head, and shouted, "I sit down now;
but the time will come when you will hear me!" A few good men consoled
him; but most of his friends advised him to get away out of the
country that his great failure might be forgotten. Now here was cause
for despair in all conscience; the brilliant man had failed
disastrously in the very assembly which he had sworn to master, and
the sound of mockery pursued him everywhere. His hopes seemed
blighted; his future was dim, he was desperately and dangerously in
debt, and he had broken down more completely than any speaker within
living memory. Take heart, all sufferers, when you hear what follows.
For eleven long years the gallant orator steadily endeavoured to
repair his early failure; he spoke frequently, asserted himself
without caring for the jeers of his enemies, and finally he won the
leadership of the House by dint of perseverance, tact, and intellect.
We cannot tell how often his heart sank within him during those weary
years; we know nothing of his forebodings; we only know that outwardly
he always appeared alert, vigorous, strenuously hopeful. At last his
name was known all over the world, and, after his death, a traveller
who rode across Asia Minor was again and again questioned by the wild
nomads--"Is your great Sheikh dead?" they asked. The rumour of our
statesman's power had traversed the earth. Men of all parties
acknowledge the indomitable courage of this man who refused to resign
the struggle even when the very Fates seemed to have decreed his ruin.
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