The dark days are drawing to an end.Soon it will be spring once more; I shall go out into the fields, and shake away these thoughts of discouragement and fear which have lately too much haunted my fireside.For me, it is a virtue to be self-centred; I am much better employed, from every point of view, when I live solely for my own satisfaction, than when I begin to worry about the world.The world frightens me, and a frightened man is no good for anything.Iknow only one way in which I could have played a meritorious part as an active citizen--by becoming a schoolmaster in some little country town, and teaching half a dozen teachable boys to love study for its own sake.That I could have done, I daresay.Yet, no; for I must have had as a young man the same mind that I have in age, devoid of idle ambitions, undisturbed by unattainable ideals.Living as I do now, I deserve better of my country than at any time in my working life; better, I suspect, than most of those who are praised for busy patriotism.
Not that I regard my life as an example for any one else; all I say is, that it is good for me, and in so far an advantage to the world.
To live in quiet content is surely a piece of good citizenship.If you can do more, do it, and God-speed! I know myself for an exception.And I ever find it a good antidote to gloomy thoughts to bring before my imagination the lives of men, utterly unlike me in their minds and circumstances, who give themselves with glad and hopeful energy to the plain duties that lie before them.However one's heart may fail in thinking of the folly and baseness which make so great a part of to-day's world, remember how many bright souls are living courageously, seeing the good wherever it may be discovered, undismayed by portents, doing what they have to do with all their strength.In every land there are such, no few of them, a great brotherhood, without distinction of race or faith; for they, indeed, constitute the race of man, rightly designated, and their faith is one, the cult of reason and of justice.Whether the future is to them or to the talking anthropoid, no one can say.But they live and labour, guarding the fire of sacred hope.
In my own country, dare I think that they are fewer than of old?
Some I have known; they give me assurance of the many, near and far.
Hearts of noble strain, intrepid, generous; the clear head, the keen eye; a spirit equal alike to good fortune and to ill.I see the true-born son of England, his vigour and his virtues yet unimpaired.
In his blood is the instinct of honour, the scorn of meanness; he cannot suffer his word to be doubted, and his hand will give away all he has rather than profit by a plebeian parsimony.He is frugal only of needless speech.A friend staunch to the death; tender with a grave sweetness to those who claim his love; passionate, beneath stoic seeming, for the causes he holds sacred.A hater of confusion and of idle noise, his place is not where the mob presses; he makes no vaunt of what he has done, no boastful promise of what he will do; when the insensate cry is loud, the counsel of wisdom overborne, he will hold apart, content with plain work that lies nearest to his hand, building, strengthening, whilst others riot in destruction.
He was ever hopeful, and deems it a crime to despair of his country.
"Non, si male nunc, et olim sic erit." Fallen on whatever evil days and evil tongues, he remembers that Englishman of old, who, under every menace, bore right onwards; and like him, if so it must be, can make it his duty and his service to stand and wait.
