History tells us that Alexander, when setting out on one
of his expeditions of conquest, distributed his gratuities with such lavish
profusion as to lead to the question from one of his friends, "What he
reserved for himself?" His reply was, "HOPE." It was a noble response from a
lofty mind, and has served from that day to the present as an inspiration to
others—not merely when coveting and seeking some desired object—but in the
lowest ebb of adversity—and as a stimulus to the pursuit of brighter days
and happier scenes! Few men are so content and satisfied with their present
circumstances as not to wish and seek an enlargement of their felicity.
Men live more upon the past and the future—than upon the
present. Their memory, and their hope—are the chief sources of their
happiness. Poetry has seized upon both these as the subject of its verse,
and while one author has sung "The Pleasures of Memory," the muse of the
other has chosen as its theme "The Pleasures of Hope."
Perhaps there is no passion so generally indulged as
hope. Its subjects are men of all classes from the peasant to the prince—for
none are sunk so low as to be beneath its reach, nor are any elevated so
high as to be above its influence. The savage and the sage; the wild man of
the woods, whose desires do not go beyond the catching of his prey or the
gratification of his appetites, and the philosopher whose expectations
sublimely extend to some grand discovery in science—are all alike under the
power of HOPE. Its beams add splendor to the palace and enliven the gloom of
the cottage. The monarch has something more to desire—and the most forlorn
child of poverty something yet to expect. It is thus a merciful provision in
the construction of our nature, and so powerful, as well as general is its
influence—that many indulge it for themselves when none else can for them.
And as it is all but universal as regards its subjects,
so is it also in reference to its occasions. Other passions operate
by starts in particular circumstances, or in certain parts of life—but hope
seems to begin with the first dawn of reason, at the very commencement of
our capability to compare our actual, with our possible state. The babe at
his mother's bosom, when craving with hunger in sight of the supply for his
needs—though he has not yet learned to express his desires and expectations
in articulate language, nor to put his passions into words—has hope, and
expresses it by a cry and a look; it is then as strong as in manhood. We can
recollect the desires of our early years, when we had only trifles to wish
for—but trifles which were as important to us then, as the more splendid
baubles that were probably to occupy, with a change of follies—our maturer
ambition. "Mirthful hope is theirs"—is one of the expressions in reference
to the happiness of boyhood in Gray's well-known ode.
Other passions change or cease as situations change and
circumstances vary—but hope, never. And human life seems rather a transition
from hope to hope than from pleasure to pleasure—for very few sit down
contentedly to enjoy what they have—but are ever restless to gain something
which they have not.
Hope is the mainspring of human action—the lunar
influence that keeps the tide of human affairs in perpetual and healthy
motion. Without hope, all things would settle down into an offensive and
pestiferous stagnancy. Hope impels to labor, sustains it, and makes its
fatigues tolerable. Hope is the parent of enterprise, the impulse of
ambition, and the nerve of resolution. Stop any man in any department of
activity, and in any stage of his career, and ask him what is his motive for
such laborious exertion, such self-denying sacrifices, such untiring
efforts—and you will find that he is urged through his weary course by hope.
Let the last ray of hope expire, and all this energy will
as certainly and immediately stop as the piston in the cylinder of the
engine when the steam pressure ceases and the whole machinery is still. The
laborer continues day by day at his toil, wiping away the sweat of his brow,
in hope of his wages at the end of the week; the tradesman, manufacturer and
merchant are all animated by the same impulse; the scholar and philosopher
pursue their studies under the same influence. The warrior and the
tradesman, the sailor and the traveler, are all one in the motive power of
their conduct—however the objects may differ. And were an inhabitant of
another world to survey from the upper regions of our atmosphere one daily
revolution of our globe on its axis, and after surveying the endless
diversity of human pursuits, the busy activities of our race, the intense
concern, the indomitable earnestness, and the untiring labors, with which
all their pursuits were carried on, and were to ask the question, "What is
it that keeps all these countless millions in such restless motion?" the
answer would be—Hope! Let hope take her flight from our world, and her
guiding, inspiring and fostering influence be withdrawn, and all this scene
of vital activity would become an inert mass, a region of mortal dormancy, a
dead sea in which nothing could live.
But that which is the mainspring of exertion—is also the
consolation of the distressed. Why, even the prosperous find hope
necessary to their enjoyment. Their life, whatever accumulation of the gifts
of Providence it may contain, would still be wretched were it not elevated
and delighted by the hope of some new possession—of some enjoyment yet
ahead—by which the wish shall be at last satisfied, and the heart filled up
to its utmost extent. And if hope be necessary to the enjoyment of the sons
and daughters of prosperity, how much more to those of adversity and sorrow.
What is it that enables the tradesman, oppressed
by declining fortunes, to go on amid disappointment and defeat? Hope that
the tide in his affairs will soon turn, and prosperity come. What is it that
sustains the sufferer, to whom sleepless nights and painful days are
allotted—to bear his sufferings with patience and fortitude? Hope that the
hour of recovery and ease will soon come. What is it that helps the poor
captive to endure the gloom of the dungeon? Hope that his release will
arrive.
How beautifully is this expressed by Thomas Brown—"If we
could see all the wild visions of future deliverance, which rise, not to the
dreams merely—but to the waking thought of the galley slave, who has been
condemned to the oar for life, we would see, indeed, what it might seem
madness to every heart but his, to which these visions are, in some measure,
like the momentary possession of the freedom of which he is to be forever
deprived; and in this very madness of credulous expectation, so admirably
adapted to a misery that admits of no earthly expectation which reason can
justify—we would see at once the omnipotence of the principle of hope, and
the benevolence of Him who has fixed that principle in our mind to be the
comfort of even despair itself, or at least of miseries, of which all but
the miserable themselves would despair."
In all the varieties of human suffering there are few,
however, that are aggravated and embittered by absolute despair. This
blessed passion, hope, enters the scene of sorrow with her cup of
consolation for almost every lip, her precious balm for every wound, and in
the great hospital of bodily and mental maladies, passes like a ministering
angel from couch to couch, causing her own smiles to be reflected from the
countenances of her patients—and her words of consolation to be echoed from
their lips—instead of sighs and groans. How many sighs are every day
stifled, and how many tears are every night wiped away—by hope. There is no
happiness, then, which hope cannot promise, no difficulty which it cannot
surmount, no grief which it cannot mitigate. Hope is the wealth of
the indigent, the health of the sick, the freedom of the
captive, the panacea for all our wants, and the grand cure all for
all our woes!
There can exist no doubt that, though this passion, like
all the rest, is implanted by God in our nature, and will be found in every
human heart—yet it is stronger in some hearts than in others. Physical
organization has something to do with all the faculties of the soul, and
with the passions among the rest, which are developed with greater readiness
and force in some than in others. We see some naturally, instinctively
hopeful and buoyant—always prone to look at the bright side of things,
haunted by no specters of fear, never despondent—while a twig remains on
which the hand of hope can lay hold—and following the least glimmering ray.
Happy natures! Let those who possess them be thankful for this precious boon
of Providence. A hopeful mind is one of the greatest blessings of life, and
contributes more towards the happiness of our existence—than rank, wealth or
fame.
On the contrary, there are those whose material
organization predisposes the mind to fear, timidity and despondency. In some
cases this deepens into almost settled gloom. There is no doubt that this is
incurable—as to absolute recovery. Still, even as in bodily disease,
mitigation may be obtained, where a perfect cure is not to be looked for; so
in mental tendencies arising from what are called disordered nerves, a
therapeutic treatment may be adopted, which may greatly alleviate the
disorder—which it cannot remove.
The passions may all be made subject to discipline—and
may be all nurtured or repressed. It is of immense importance to know
this. Mental tendencies may be controlled. Let those who dwell only in the
'border country of hope'—whose tendency is to despondency and gloom, and who
are prone to look on the dark side of things; who, in venturing into the
shadowy regions of futurity, rarely see anything but shapes and forms of
evil; whose predictions are all, like those of Cassandra, of evil
things—learn that this state of a hopeful mind, is more within the reach of
remedies than they imagine. Let them not yield themselves up the unresisting
captives of this sad distemper. They must struggle against this morbid
tendency to fear, and gloom, and despondency. If the soil of their nature be
unfriendly to the growth of hope, they must do as good farmers do with their
bad soils—that is, bestow more skill and labor upon the cultivation. Such
ground will not, of course, be ever so prolific as better land—but it may be
much improved, and made to be remunerative. So a gloomy and desponding mind
may be greatly improved, and though it may never, even in temporal matters,
attain to the full assurance of hope—it may yet acquire a greater measure of
hope.
Despondency will grow like everything else—with
indulgence. And so will hope. Bodily health has something to do with this,
and whatever can strengthen the constitution will tend to remove a tendency
to depression. Early rising, plenty of exercise, attention to diet, constant
occupation, watchfulness against the disheartening passions of the
soul—will, by the blessing of God—go a great way towards counteracting a
tendency to gloom and despondency—and strengthening a hopeful disposition.
Even in matters of true religion, pious people are not
aware how many of their doubts and fears—their dark and gloomy states of
mind—are produced by physical derangement. Hope may be cultivated then—but
the misfortune is, that they who stand most in need of this cultivation are
least disposed to undertake it. There is a sluggishness about such people
which it is difficult to rouse. It is hard I know, to hope against hope, and
requires an effort of mind, a determination of will, which people in this
state of mind are very much disinclined to make. Yet, as it is essential to
their comfort and well-being— is what they should endeavor to accomplish.
As hope from its very nature is so great and urgent a
power in the human mind, it requires—like the dynamics of mechanical
force—to be placed under a proper direction and control. When
injudicious in its choice of objects, and unrestrained in its impulses—what
wild projects it has formed! What insane schemes it has devised! And on what
absurd enterprises has it adventured! How many of its dupes, after they have
blown their soon exploded bubbles, has it led to ruin! The 'follies of hope'
might form a theme for the moralist—as well as its 'pleasures' to the poet.
Well and wisely, therefore, should we hold the reins of this passion.
True it is that even hope's excesses and frustrations are
better than its extinction—but these may be avoided by a little caution. Dr.
Johnson, in one of those ingenious allegories with which he has adorned and
enlivened the pages of his 'Rambler', has one which he calls the "Garden of
Hope," in which hope is represented as seated upon an eminence, while a vast
multitude are seen pressing on to obtain the gifts which the goddess has to
bestow. Each supposing that her smile was directed specially to himself, and
triumphing in his own superiority to others, who had conceived the same
confidence from the same mistake. The entrance to the garden was by two
gates, Reason and Imagination. From the gate of Reason there was an ascent
by the hill of Difficulty, up which those who were wise and cautious, were
led by the hand of Fortitude. These received the prize from the hand of the
goddess, and were led by Wisdom to the 'bowers of Content'. The rest who had
not entered by the gate of Reason, retired with regret and disappointment.
Let us then take care that in seeking the gifts of hope, we enter the garden
by the gate of Reason. (To both Addison and Johnson I am indebted for some
of ideas in this chapter.)
Reason will lead us to take care, that the objects of our
hope are worth the pains we take to possess them. It is for a
lamentation to see on what worthless objects multitudes are exhausting their
energies. What miserable trifles inflame their desires and raise their
expectations! How wise and how necessary, before we fix our hope upon
anything, is it to pause and ask, "Will it, by fruition, remunerate me for
the expenditure of time, effort and money?"
Another exercise of reason in regard to hope is, to
inquire if its object is attainable. I know that the illusion of desire
is so strong, that some consider objects within their reach—which everyone
else perceives to be utterly unattainable.
I am not unmindful that very some—either from an excess
of timidity, from a lethargic indolence, or a stupid indifference—lose
opportunities for promoting their interests which Providence has thrown in
their way. They cry in idleness, "There is no hope," and do nothing—because
they expect nothing. "Expect great things, attempt great things," is a
motto, the inspiration of which has raised multitudes from poverty and
obscurity—to wealth and importance. The man who has soul enough to hope for
something great, possesses in part the means for obtaining it.
Still, reason shows us that there is a limit to the
attainableness of an object—and a wise man will consider where the limit is
fixed—and will not waste his energies in seeking to pass it. Many have lost
objects which were attainable—in hoping for those which were
unattainable—and have thus made themselves the martyrs of disappointment,
when with more wisdom and moderation they might have been the happy
partakers of success.
Great care should be taken to guard against the
'illusions of imagination'. Addison gives a somewhat amusing but a
striking illustration of this, in the following fable—"Alnaschar was a very
idle man, who never would set his hand to any business during his father's
life. When his father died, he left him to the value of a hundred drachmas
in Persian money. Alnaschar, in order to make the best of it, laid it out in
glasses, bottles, and finest earthenware. These he piled up in a large open
basket, and acquiring a very little shop, placed the basket at his feet, and
leaned his back against the wall in the expectation of customers. As he sat
in this position, with his eyes upon the basket, he fell into a most amusing
train of thought, and was overheard by one of his neighbors as he talked to
himself in the following manner—This basket,' says he, 'cost me a hundred
drachmas, which is all I have in the world. I shall quickly make two hundred
of it. These two hundred drachmas will, in a very little while, rise to four
hundred, which will, of course, amount in time to four thousand. Four
thousand drachmas cannot fail of making eight thousand. As soon as, by these
means, I am master of ten thousand, I will lay aside my trade of glassman,
and become a jeweler. I shall then deal in diamonds, pearls, and all sorts
of rich stones. When I have got together as much wealth as I can well
desire, I will make a purchase of the finest house I can find, with lands,
servants and horses. I shall then begin to enjoy myself, and be famous in
the world. I will not, however, stop there—but will continue my business,
until I have got together a hundred thousand drachmas. When I have got a
hundred thousand drachmas, I shall naturally set myself on the footing of a
prince, and will demand the King's daughter in marriage. I will let him
know, at the same time, that it is my intention to make him a present of a
thousand pieces of gold on my marriage.'
"Alnaschar was entirely swallowed up in this fantastical
vision of 'imaginary hopes', when, putting out his foot, he accidentally
struck the basket of fragile glassware—which was the foundation of all his
imaginary grandeur. And knocking over the glassware, broke them into ten
thousand pieces."
Few, it will be admitted, carry up this baseless
structure of 'imaginary hope' to such a height as did the self-deluded
Persian. But how many, in their measure, deceive themselves with vain
imaginations! Hope, more than almost any other passion, is addicted to this
practice of "building castles in the air". It tells a flattering tale, which
credulity loves to listen to, and though its fallacious promises have so
often failed, yet as men love to be deceived, they still hearken to its
deceitful voice.
It is by no means my intention to lessen the
influence—but only to guide the operations, of this 'solace of affliction'
and 'stimulus of industry'; not to weaken its power within the sphere of
possibilities—but only to prevent its energies from being exhausted on
impossibilities. Hope is too valuable a thing to be wasted on unattainables.
It is needed for objects which may be gained by it, and cannot be gained
without it. We should guard as much as possible from employing it on things
which lie beyond our reach, since it is then sure to be disappointed, and
every fresh disappointment weakens its spring, even for objects which may be
legitimately considered as within its sphere; while every instance of
success encourages fresh exertion of hope, and leads on to other
achievements.
"If we hope for things which are at too great a distance
from us—it is possible we may be intercepted by death in our progress
towards them. If we hope for things we have not thoroughly considered the
value of—our disappointment will be greater than our pleasure in the
fruition of them. If we hope for what we are not likely to possess—we act
and think in vain, and make life a greater dream and shadow than it really
is. Many of the miseries and misfortunes of life proceed from our lack of
consideration in one or all of these particulars. They are the rocks on
which the optimistic tribe of lovers daily split, and on which the bankrupt,
the politician, the scientist, and the artist are cast away in every age.
Men of warm imaginations and towering thoughts are apt to overlook the goods
of fortune which are near them—for something that glitters in the distance.
They neglect solid and substantial happiness—for what is showy and
superficial; and spurn the good which is within their reach—for that which
they are not capable of attaining."