THE BRIGHT SIDE OF DUTY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2387, 30 November 1899, Page 55

THE BRIGHT SIDE OF DUTY.

How few speak lovingly of Duty. We hear : " Stern Duty compelled me," " I would so gladly take part in such and such a scheme, but really my, duties are so trying, they have no time for anything else," " I should have liked a quiet hour, but Duty pressed me on every hand." Sucliare a few of the sentences we hear regarding Duty, and through each you will notice an undertons of complaint.- Or, again, wo receive letters — hurried scrawls — from our friends, brought to abrupt terminations-.. , " Duty presses ; pleasure must Avait, or I could say more," " I could say so much more, but there is so much to be done," so that, putting all together, it seems that most of us have come to look upon Duty as a taskmistress — stern, rigid, and uncompromising, one that cannot be propitiated, nor yet lightly thrust aside — that must be obeyed, even though it fee grudgingly and rebelliously ; — yet all the while praise ami thanksgiving are her due. Of one thing I am confident, she is often most, deserving of our gratitude when least receiving it. Just let me show you a few pictures, and I feel sure you will agree with me. Here is a snowy bed — but its white draperies are nob whiter than the cold, dead face upon it — a face softened, refined, and almost woman-like, rendered so, not by tha touch of Death alone, but by the sorrow and pain that preceded his step. Over tha stiu form sisters are bending in that deep, still agony rf heart which rebels inwardly even whilst outwardly calm. With tha death of this loved brothei has. died all that life had held dear and precious for. them. They sit down in the numb--ness of their pain and go over and over in; thought events now rendered sacred memories by the dread touch that robbed them; of their brother and stilled bis loving liYUUg

part in their lives. Lethai'gy threatens to dethrone rebellion, making their hearts cold

and dead to all around. But a deliverer is at hand I—not1 — not one of great and dignified presence, and of majestic bearing, yet it is one strong and purposeful. She lays a hand on the bowed shoulders, and calls in the

dulled ears: The frames quiver as with pain — that is all. She presses her hand 'harder, and calls yet louder. Do you think she is^pruel thus to thrust herself upon the sanctity of grief — cruel thus harshly to bid Chose sisters dry their tears, and be up and 'doing? . Ah, no, she was ihe kindest friend among many kind ones. At her they take up life's burden once "more — grudgingly, it is true — buo faithfully, and duty well done brings its own reward ; and /though -at first they toil with listless hand ! and aching' heart, before long there comes a measure of contentment that in its turn

makes room for stray gleams of gladness, of /participation in the weal or woe of others. /Then is Duty's victory won. No danger of numbness or uselessness. God does not

mean that finy life shall cease from usefulness when some loved object passes out of ' |st, and to me it has often seemed as if 'ho causes duties to" be multiplied in order Jfchat our thoughts may be weaned from the bitter anguish of grief. , Now, we shall look into, a poor,, bare -'fcocm. There, at a little table, sits a ,W>man, her head,, bowed on her outstretched arms, resting on the table, so thath,er face is hidden from our view, but we see in the quivering, shoulders and., close-locked hands ;the strain of mental anguish. Yes, the letter lying so near has, in one -dark moment, "crushed hopes • whose -twining tendrils had 'brightened many a gloomy day. and pointed jto rifts in otherwise cloud-bound skies. jTiny and harmless as it appears, it has 'dashed to fragments structures reared in pain and weariness of mind and body — it 'has raised an adamantine wall where had jseemed to stretch a plain, broken by hills certainly, but of surmountable height, and the result is that strength and spirit alike are crushed and broken. Long the drooping figure in its pain. One voice alone anakes itself heard; one hand alone foioes jfco renewed exertions. 'Tis the voice — the Jiand.of Duty. And she is a king, restoring to fresh energy both brain and hand, till 10, as-we look, we see a change. 'Tis Duty still, but men applaud and call her by j&nother name, " Success." Here, now, is a picture of another kind altogether. It is of one whose purposes itre good, and often noble, but whose love of ease and pleasure continually lures be"yend What is good or right, threatening t« fay waste what might prove a noble life. Then by some event, or chain of events, heavy and responsible duties are laid upon 3iim — irksome, at first, in the extreme, yet proving in this instance, too, a reward and a rich one. The compulsory stop to the incessant pursuit of pleasure gives opportunity for the development of talents underlying the upper crust of frivolity, till before long they grow and assert them Belves to the exclusion of all that was

.worthless in the character. Men's lives are safely bound by golden chain Of Duty : annchored thus they ride secure 3?hrougli waves of sorrow, though a rock-bound shore Lies near. In proud and heedless moments they would fain Be free. All, sorry freedom! Fettered, they attain J[he truest, highest life, which men can live, A life of duty. . . .

Look yet again, and you shall see a widow cowering in the utter desolation of heart which has fallen on her as the footsteps of those who carried out her dead husband have died away. Through a mist of tears she sees a wide, wide desert wherein grows no sweet, bright thing — it is the great desert of loneliness, devoid alike of Beauty and of music : her sense of alonenoss Jbhreatens to numb her faculties. Suddenly there is a sound of child voices, shrill in, jdispute, or pathetic in sobbing — the voices of her children, and at the sound Duty triumphs over pain and sorrow, and she goes out from the chamber where had lain er loved dead to comfort, guide, and control — reaping, as the years go by, a full Jreward.

I seem to hear some weary voioe, hard discouragement, cry out, " You speak of the reward which follows duty. I have faithfully done Duty's bidding till brain and heart, and hand are sick and -weary. 1 pave walked in Jhe paths she pointed out, Inventing neither to the right hand ndr to the left. I have spelled out, through bitter all the hard, dry lessons she appointed mo, till now I know them .well — and what Js my reward? Not one has said, 'Well done,' not one has cheered me as my steps jrew weary on the road, or even bidden ne God speed, nor have any aided me as I earned my hard lesson — the lesson Duty set p.e. I am tjrod of dn.ty now, and

pleasure ; tired of useful herbs, and want flowers." I wonder if you would care to hear a few lines which i learned and loved long before life had unfolded any of its great realities for me —

January winds were blowing * Cold, by Tweed's fair riverside, And the swollen waters, flowing Cheerless, mingled with the tide — Ocean wavelet, dark and changeful, Like some fitful, troubled dream, Met the river's tribute vengeful, - With an agonising scream. "Winter, woeful, weird, and weary, Wound a mantle roimd the scene, And through clouds all dark and dreary, Straggling sunbeams shone between. * So 1 thought, and wandered lonely, Sure this world is cold and dark, And the starbeam's lustre only Yields a feeble, flickering spark. But a snowdrop's spotless bsauty, Sweetly springing at my feet, Seemed to whisper " Do your Duty, God can make your life more sweet." Yes,' and will, too. You will find some day lighted and warmed by a sunbeam, brightened by a "snow-spotless beauty." Your steadfast adherence to Dtity will win the day. The fair, sweet flowers of appreciation will bloom in your garden, and beside it the strong, . bright blossoms of encouragement, to cheer you on, shall ring out from eveiy one of their dancirig bells a brave "Well done." So now, sad, unappreciated hearts, he brave and strong a little longer, and soon you, too, will say Duty brings its reward. But we must not think that Duty always drives, always compels. There are those who\ meet her demands gladly. A friend once spoke to me of " the gladsomeness of laboiir," and I liked the expression. Duty is very sweet to those who meet it in such a spirit, nor does it then exhaust brain and hand' to the same extent. I think everyone of us can bring into our work much of joy. The great thing is to realise the importance of every duty, however trifling it may seem ; to feel that it has the grandness of dignity, simply because it is a part of our appointed labour, without which we would imperfectly fill our sphere. It takes many kinds of work to make a perfect whole, nor need any part of it be regarded as mean ' or valueless, or be anything but perfect in its place. The lowly mignonette has its sphere as well as the stately lily, the humble violet as well as the queenly rose, and each are perfect.