THE GARLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3195, 9 June 1915, Page 78

THE GARLAND.

FOE THE QUIET HOUR

NO. 93,

By Duncan WkigSt, Dunedin.

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING?

Although quite a familiar phrase, and an oft-repeated query,' how many readers could correctly tell us its origin ? Talk of a puzzle, this is one. Talk of a bewildering maze, does not this query suggest one ? Life is a wonderful tangle. And with our advanced culture and rapidly developing civilisation, how complex ! And pray, who are the persons to*answer adequately two questions :—“What is Life?” Then may we expect some wellbalanced mind to answer the second —“Is Lilu Worth Living?” ■ Just suppose a case : One hundred men to-day watch from a hilltop a battle on -the plain below, and one hundred men are asked to give their impression of what they saw and heard. In the main there would be a consensus of opinion concerning the chief incidents of the day, each spectator would judtre from his own individual standpoint, but as to details there would be a wide diversity of statement, would there not ?

From the poet’s vantage ground here is how Alfred Austin puts the case :

Is life worth living? Yes, so long As there is wrong to right, Wail of the weak against the strong, Or tyranny to fight; Long as there lingers gloom to chase, Or streaming tear to dry One kindred wee, one sorrowing face, That smiles as we draw nigh.

So long as faith with freedom reigns, And loyal hope survives, And gracious charity remains To leaven lowly lives; While there is one untrodden track For intellect or will, And men are free to think and act, Life is worth living still.

For some sorely distressed 'pilgrim on life’s journey another writer has this word of good cheer ; If when for life’s prizes You’re running, you trip. Get up! start again— Keep a still upper lip!

When a man has reached the snows of winter, and fully realises that the shadows are gathering fast around him, and the long years of life lie behind him, it is surely to be expected that he will in “The Quiet Hour,” ponder the Old Book, where, with a definite purpose, it asks : —“For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appearoth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.” This is the utterance of a thorough-going, practical, inspired writer who was no idle dreamer.

It would be mistaken policy and contrary to reason and common sense to expect the youth who has bone, muscle, and sinew to answer our main interrogation, “Is Life Worth Living? as his grandfather would do. Not at all. Ex-President Roosevelt would be more in his line : “In life as in a football game, the principle to follow is ; Hit the line hard; don’t foul, and don’t shirk; but hit the line hard.” By all means let the young people—-men and maidens —have full scope while to them the morning sun is shining. But God forbid that they should ever forget the tremendously true and significant utterance of one wno was no moialist but a true seer : “Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks oi two eternities.” Just think of Byron, who at the age of 35 writes the following pathetic lines My days are in the yellow leaf, The "flowers and fruits of love arc gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone.

Nor can our query ever be considered and answered by the man, whose health is broken and his high hopes blighted, in the same manner as by the man who has steadily climbed to the top of his profession or business, whose health is vigorous, and whose prospects and influence are daily increasing. Never forget the hundreds of women who have been trampled upon and cruelly wronged—whose lives have been embittered 0 by long weary years of drudgery through neglect and wicked selfishness on the part of ill-doing husbands and sons, and self-willed, frivolous daughters as well (see daily newspapers). Are not the views of the seaman entirely different from those of the soldier in the trenches concerning life’s problems? And you would not expect the millionaire to use the same language as the pauper. Of course not. MR ANDREW CARNEGIE, the man of millions, is often sneered _ at by prejudiced and ill-informed critics. But all the same he has sound common sense and a generous soul, which millions of dollars cannot buy in the crcen market. He asks : “Did you ever think how very little the millionaire has beyond the peasant? And did you ever think how very often his additions tend not to happiness but to misery?” He honestly thinks and frankly declares that the rich are not to be envied, for truly “there is no purchase in money” of any real happiness. . . The secret of true happiness is renunciation. Like to the falling of a star. Or as the flight of eagles are; Or like the fresh spring’s gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew; Or like a wind that chases the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood. Even such is man, whose borrow’d light Is straight call’d in, and paid to-night. The wind blows out. the bubble dies, The spring emtomb’d in autumn lies; The dew dries up, the star is shot, The flight is past, and man forgot. To me the very suggestion of many writers and some poets that life is a jest —a dream—a fantasy—and little more is beyond understanding—is utterly in-

comprehensible. Tell the men in the trenches so and then flee for your life. Longfellow’s hackneyed lines need not here be quoted ; “Life is earnest,’’ etc. Neither in this nor any other vital question would I presume to dogmatise, and never would 1 foolishly assume the position of an authority cr censor. Nevertheless, my sympathies are with the Sage of Chelsea, who affirms that life is a great reality, and quotes the lines : In Being’s floods, in Action’s storm I walk and work, above, beneath — Work and weave in endless motion! Birth and Death, An infinite ocean; A seizing and giving . The fire of Living. ’Tis thus at the roaring Loom of Time I ply And weave for God the garment thou seest Him by. But both as sage and philosopher Thomas Carlyle is careful to apply his teaching thus : Of twenty millions that have read and spouted this thunder speech of the Erdgeist are there yet twenty units of us that have learned the meaning thereof ? Ay, there’s the rule, and therein lies the real crux of the whole question. Less spouting, more action. ' Hustle is the order of the day. Armchair philosophy counts for nothing in the firing line. He most lives Who thinks most —feels the noblest, —acts the best. Live well, and fear no sudden fate; When God calls virtue to the grave, Alike ’tis justice, soon or late, Mercy alike to kill or save. Virtue unmoved can hear the call And face the flash that melts the ball. Pope. Every man who goes through life with his eyes open knows quite well what misery and pain are brought to homes, and to individuals, through notions of life that are not only wrong, but absurd; and also by extravagance by persons who ought to be well satisfied with moddsty, frugality, and simplicity. The Scotch lady who asserted jocularly that in the olden days of Edinburgh the well-to-do merchants lived above their shops and were happy; nowadays, she added, most of them live above their incomes and often are miserable!-—was a true sage, was she not?

A FRENCHMAN would instruct us too :

“Most of the luxuries and many 'of the so-called comforts of life are not only indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind. Our life is frittered away by detail. . . . Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity!' Instead of a million, count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumbnail. Simplicity! Simplicity !’ 3 Can it be done ? Who will try ? How sweet and simple and natural would life be if the dictum of Kingsley were carried into effect on both sides of the sea! Be good, sweet maid, and lot who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them all day long; And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song WHAT IS TRUE LIFE ?

‘‘The mere kpse of years” (says Ja'mes Martineau) “is not life. To eat and drink and sleep, to be exposed to darkness and the light, to pace round in the mill of habit, and to turn thought into an instrument of trade—-this is not life.

“Knowledge, truth, love, beauty, goodness alone can give true vitality to the mechanism of existence. The life of mirth that vibrates through the heart, the tears that freshen the dry wastes within, the music that brings childhood back, the doubt which makes us meditate, the death which startles us with mystery, the hardship -Which forces us to struggle, the anxiety that ends. in trust —are the true nourishment of our natural being.”

Our cradle is the starting- place, Life is the running of the race; We reach the goal When, in the mansions of the blest, Death leaves to its eternal rest The weary soul. A RETROSPECT.

Savs Richter : ”A truly Christian man can look calmlv down like an eternal sun the autumn of his existence —the more sand has passed through the hour-glass of life, the more clearly can he see through the emoty glass. “Earth, too, is to him a beloved spot, a beautiful meadow, the scene of his childhood’s sports', and he hangs upon this mother of our first life with the love with which a bride, full of childhood’s recollections, clings to a beloved mother’s breast, the evening before the day on which she resigns herself to the bride* groom’s' heart.’’

’Tis -not. for man to trifle, Life is brief And sin is here. An nge is but the falling of a leaf— A dropping tear. We bave no time to sport away the hours,— All must be earnest in a world like ours.

Not many lives, but only one, have we— Frail fleeting man! How sacred should that one life ever be— That narrow' span! Day after day filled up with blessed toil, Hour after hour still bringing in new spoil, Dr H. Bonar.