The Map of Life Part 11

[71] _Republic_, Book V. _Politics_, Book VII.

[72] _Livre_ III. Ch. 5.

CHAPTER XV

SUCCESS

One of the most important lessons that experience teaches is that on the whole, and in the great majority of cases, success in life depends more on character than on either intellect or fortune. Many brilliant exceptions, no doubt, tend to obscure the rule, and some of the qualities of character that succeed the best may be united with grave vices or defects; but on the whole the law is one that cannot be questioned, and it becomes more and more apparent as civilisation advances. Temperance, industry, integrity, frugality, self-reliance, and self-restraint are the means by which the great ma.s.ses of men rise from penury to comfort, and it is the nations in which these qualities are most diffused that in the long run are the most prosperous. Chance and circ.u.mstance may do much. A happy climate, a fortunate annexation, a favourable vicissitude in the course of commerce, may vastly influence the prosperity of nations; anarchy, agitation, unjust laws, and fraudulent enterprise may offer many opportunities of individual or even of cla.s.s gains; but ultimately it will be found that the nations in which the solid industrial virtues are most diffused and most respected pa.s.s all others in the race. The moral basis of character was the true foundation of the greatness of ancient Rome, and when that foundation was sapped the period of her decadence began. The solid, parsimonious, and industrious qualities of the French peasantry have given their country the recuperative force which has enabled its greatness to survive the countless follies and extravagances of its rulers.

Character, it may be added, is especially pre-eminent in those kinds and degrees of success that affect the greatest numbers of men and influence most largely their real happiness--in the success which secures a high level of material comfort; which makes domestic life stable and happy; which wins for a man the respect and confidence of his neighbours. If we have melancholy examples that very different qualities often gain splendid prizes, it is still true that there are few walks in life in which a character that inspires complete confidence is not a leading element of success.

In the paths of ambition that can only be pursued by the few, intellectual qualities bear a larger part, and there are, of course, many works of genius that are in their own nature essentially intellectual. Yet even the most splendid successes of life will often be found to be due much less to extraordinary intellectual gifts than to an extraordinary strength and tenacity of will, to the abnormal courage, perseverance, and work-power that spring from it, or to the tact and judgment which make men skilful in seizing opportunities, and which, of all intellectual qualities, are most closely allied with character.

Strength of will and tact are not necessarily, perhaps not generally, conjoined, and often the first seems somewhat to impair the second. The strong pa.s.sion, the intense conviction, the commanding and imperious nature overriding obstacles and defying opposition, that often goes with a will of abnormal strength, does not naturally harmonise with the reticence of expression, the delicacy of touch and management that characterise a man who possesses in a high degree the gift of tact.

There are circ.u.mstances and times when each of these two things is more important than the other, and the success of each man will mainly depend upon the suitability of his peculiar gift to the work he has to do. 'The daring pilot in extremity' is often by no means the best navigator in a quiet sea; and men who have shown themselves supremely great in moments of crisis and appalling danger, who have built up mighty nations, subdued savage tribes, guided the bark of the State with skill and courage amid the storms of revolution or civil war, and written their names in indelible letters on the page of history, have sometimes proved far less successful than men of inferior powers in the art of managing a.s.semblies, satisfying rival interests or a.s.suaging by judicious compromise old hatreds and prejudices. We have had at least one conspicuous example of the difference of these two types in our own day in the life of the great founder of German Unity.

Sometimes, however, men of great strength of will and purpose possess also in a high degree the gift of tact; and when this is combined with soundness of judgment it usually leads to a success in life out of all proportion to their purely intellectual qualities. In nearly all administrative posts, in all the many fields of labour where the task of man is to govern, manage, or influence others, to adjust or harmonise antagonisms of race or interests or prejudices, to carry through difficult business without friction and by skilful co-operation, this combination of gifts is supremely valuable. It is much more valuable than brilliancy, eloquence, or originality. I remember the comment of a good judge of men on the administration of a great governor who was pre-eminently remarkable for this combination. 'He always seemed to gain his point, yet he never appeared to be in antagonism with anyone.' The steady pressure of a firm and consistent will was scarcely felt when it was accompanied by the ready recognition of everything that was good in the argument of another, and by a charm of manner and of temper which seldom failed to disarm opposition and win personal affection.

The combination of qualities which, though not absolutely incompatible, are very usually disconnected, is the secret of many successful lives.

Thus, to take one of the most homely, but one of the most useful and most pleasing of all qualities--good-nature--it will too often be found that when it is the marked and leading feature of a character it is accompanied by some want of firmness, energy, and judgment. Sometimes, however, this is not the case, and there are then few greater elements of success. It is curious to observe the subtle, magnetic sympathy by which men feel whether their neighbour is a harsh or a kind judge of others, and how generally those who judge harshly are themselves harshly judged, while those who judge others rather by their merits than by their defects, and perhaps a little above their merits, win popularity.

No one, indeed, can fail to notice the effect of good-nature in conciliating opposition, securing attachment, smoothing the various paths of life, and, it must be added, concealing grave faults. Laxities of conduct that might well blast the reputation of a man or a woman are constantly forgotten, or at least forgiven, in those who lead a life of tactful good-nature, and in the eyes of the world this quality is more valued than others of far higher and more solid worth. It is not unusual, for example, to see a lady in society, who is living wholly or almost wholly for her pleasures, who has no high purpose in life, no real sense of duty, no capacity for genuine and serious self-sacrifice, but who at the same time never says an unkind thing of her neighbours, sets up no severe standard of conduct either for herself or for others, and by an innate amiability of temperament tries, successfully and without effort, to make all around her cheerful and happy. She will probably be more admired, she will almost certainly be more popular, than her neighbour whose whole life is one of self-denial for the good of others, who sacrifices to her duties her dearest pleasures, her time, her money, and her talents, but who through some unhappy turn of temper, strengthened perhaps by a narrow and austere education, is a harsh and censorious judge of the frailties of her fellows.

It is also a curious thing to observe how often, when the saving gift of tact is wanting, the brilliant, the witty, the ambitious, and the energetic are pa.s.sed in the race of life by men who in intellectual qualities are greatly their inferiors. They dazzle, agitate, and in a measure influence, and they easily win places in the second rank; but something in the very exercise of their talents continually trammels them, while judgment, tact, and good-nature, with comparatively little brilliancy, quietly and un.o.btrusively take the helm. There is the excellent talker who, by his talents and his acquirements, is eminently fitted to delight and to instruct, yet he is so unable to repress some unseemly jest or some pointed sarcasm or some humorous paradox that he continually leaves a sting behind him, creates enemies, destroys his reputation for sobriety of thought, and makes himself impossible in posts of administration and trust. There is the parliamentary speaker who, amid shouts of applause, pursues his adversary with scathing invective or merciless ridicule, and who all the time is acc.u.mulating animosities against himself, shutting the door against combinations that would be all important to his career, and destroying his chances of party leadership. There is the advocate who can state his case with consummate power, but who, by an aggressive manner or a too evident contempt for his adversary, or by the over-statement of a good cause, habitually throws the minds of his hearers into an att.i.tude of opposition. There are the many men who, by ill-timed or too frequent levity, lose all credit for their serious qualities, or who by pretentiousness or self-a.s.sertion or restless efforts to distinguish themselves, make themselves universally disliked, or who by their egotism or their repet.i.tions or their persistence, or their incapacity of distinguishing essentials from details, or understanding the dispositions of others, or appreciating times and seasons, make their wearied and exasperated hearers blind to the most substantial merits. By faults of tact men of really moderate opinions get the reputation of extremists; men of substantially kindly natures sow animosities wherever they go; men of real patriotism are regarded as mere jesters or party gamblers; men who possess great talents and have rendered great services to the world sink into inveterate bores and never obtain from their contemporaries a t.i.the of the success which is their due. Tact is not merely shown in saying the right thing at the right time and to the right people; it is shown quite as much in the many things that are left unsaid and apparently unnoticed, or are only lightly and evasively touched.

It is certainly not the highest of human endowments, but it is as certainly one of the most valuable, for it is that which chiefly enables a man to use his other gifts to advantage, and which most effectually supplies the place of those that are wanting. It lies on the borderland of character and intellect. It implies self-restraint, good temper, quick and kindly sympathy with the feelings of others. It implies also a perception of the finer shadings of character and expression, the intellectual gift which enables a man to place himself in touch with great varieties of disposition, and to catch those more delicate notes of feeling to which a coa.r.s.er nature is insensible.

It is perhaps in most cases more developed among women than among men, and it does not necessarily imply any other remarkable gift. It is sometimes found among both men and women of very small general intellectual powers; and in numerous cases it serves only to add to the charm of private life and to secure social success. Where it is united with real talents it not only enables its possessor to use these talents to the greatest advantage; it also often leads those about him greatly to magnify their amount. The presence or absence of this gift is one of the chief causes why the relative value of different men is often so differently judged by contemporaries and by posterity; by those who have come in direct personal contact with them, and by those who judge them from without, and by the broad results of their lives. Real tact, like good manners, is or becomes a spontaneous and natural thing. The man of perfectly refined manners does not consciously and deliberately on each occasion observe the courtesies and amenities of good society. They have become to him a second nature, and he observes them as by a kind of instinct, without thought or effort. In the same way true tact is something wholly different from the elaborate and artificial attempts to conciliate and attract which may often be seen, and which usually bring with them the impression of manoeuvre and insincerity.

Though it may be found in men of very different characters and grades of intellect, tact has its natural affinities. Seeking beyond all things to avoid unnecessary friction, and therefore with a strong leaning towards compromise, it does not generally or naturally go with intense convictions, with strong enthusiasms, with an ardently impulsive or emotional temperament. Nor is it commonly found among men of deep and concentrated genius, intensely absorbed in some special subject. Such men are often among the most un.o.bservant of the social sides of life, and very bad judges of character, though there will frequently be found among them an almost childlike unworldliness and simplicity of nature, and an essential moderation of temperament which, combined with their superiority of intellect, gives them a charm peculiarly their own.

Tact, however, has a natural affinity to a calm, equable, and good-natured temper. It allies itself with a quick sense of opportunity, proportion, and degree; with the power of distinguishing readily and truly between the essential and the unimportant; with that soundness of judgment which not only guides men among the varied events of life, and in their estimate of those about them, but also enables them to take a true measure of their own capacities, of the tasks that are most fitted for them, of the objects of ambition that are and are not within their reach.

Though in its higher degrees it is essentially a natural gift, and is sometimes conspicuous in perfectly uneducated men, it may be largely cultivated and improved; and in this respect the education of good society is especially valuable. Such an education, whatever else it may do, at least removes many jarring notes from the rhythm of life. It tends to correct faults of manner, demeanour, or p.r.o.nunciation which tell against men to a degree altogether disproportioned to their real importance, and on which, it is hardly too much to say, the casual judgments of the world are mainly formed; and it also fosters moral qualities which are essentially of the nature of tact.

We can hardly have a better picture of a really tactful man than in some sentences taken from the admirable pages in which Cardinal Newman has painted the character of the perfect gentleman.

'It is almost a definition of a gentleman to say he is one who never inflicts pain.... He carefully avoids whatever may cause a jar or a jolt in the minds of those with whom he is cast--all clashing of opinion or collision of feeling, all restraint or suspicion or gloom or resentment; his great concern being to make everyone at ease and at home. He has his eyes on all his company; he is tender towards the bashful, gentle towards the distant, and merciful towards the absurd; he can recollect to whom he is speaking; he guards against unreasonable allusions or topics that may irritate; he is seldom prominent in conversation, and never wearisome. He makes light of favours while he does them, and seems to be receiving when he is conferring. He never speaks of himself except when compelled, never defends himself by a mere retort; he has no ears for slander or gossip, is scrupulous in imputing motives to those who interfere with him, and interprets everything for the best. He is never mean or little in his disputes, never takes an unfair advantage, never mistakes personalities or sharp sayings for arguments, or insinuates evil which he dare not say out.... He has too much good sense to be affronted at insult; he is too busy to remember injuries, and too indolent to bear malice.... If he engages in controversy of any kind his disciplined intellect preserves him from the blundering discourtesy of better though less educated minds, who, like blunt weapons, tear and hack instead of cutting clean.... He may be right or wrong in his opinion, but he is too clear-headed to be unjust; he is as simple as he is forcible, and as brief as he is decisive. Nowhere shall we find greater candour, consideration, indulgence. He throws himself into the minds of his opponents, he accounts for their mistakes. He knows the weakness of human nature as well as its strength, its province, and its limits.'[73]

I have said at the beginning of this chapter that character bears, on the whole, a larger part in promoting success than any other things, and that a steady perseverance in the industrial virtues seldom fails to bring some reward in the directions that are most conducive to human happiness. At the same time it is only too evident that success in life is by no means measured by merit, either moral or intellectual. Life is a great lottery, in which chance and opportunity play an enormous part.

The higher qualities are often less successful than the medium and the lower ones. They are often most successful when they are blended with other and inferior elements, and a large share of the great prizes fall to the unscrupulous, the selfish, and the cunning. Probably, however, the disparity between merit and success diminishes if we take the larger averages, and the fortunes of nations correspond with their real worth much more nearly than the fortunes of individuals. Success, too, is far from being a synonym for happiness, and while the desire for happiness is inherent in all human nature, the desire for success--at least beyond what is needed for obtaining a fair share of the comforts of life--is much less universal. The force of habit, the desire for a tranquil domestic life, the love of country and of home, are often, among really able men, stronger than the impulse of ambition; and a distaste for the compet.i.tions and contentions of life, for the increasing responsibilities of greatness, and for the envy and jealousies that seldom fail to follow in its trail, may be found among men who, if they chose to enter the arena, seem to have every requisite for success. The strongest man is not always the most ardent climber, and the tranquil valleys have to many a greater charm than the lofty pinnacles of life.

FOOTNOTE:

[73] Newman's _Scope and Nature of University Education_, Discourse IX.

CHAPTER XVI

TIME

Considering the countless ages that man has lived upon this globe, it seems a strange thing that he has so little learned to acquiesce in the normal conditions of humanity. How large a proportion of the melancholy which is reflected in the poetry of all ages, and which is felt in different degrees in every human soul, is due not to any special or peculiar misfortune, but to things that are common to the whole human race! The inexorable flight of time; the approach of old age and its infirmities; the shadow of death; the mystery that surrounds our being; the contrast between the depth of affection and the transitoriness and uncertainty of life; the spectacle of the broken lives and baffled aspirations and useless labours and misdirected talents and pernicious energies and long-continued delusions that fill the path of human history; the deep sense of vanity and aimlessness that must sometimes come over us as we contemplate a world in which chance is so often stronger than wisdom; in which desert and reward are so widely separated; in which living beings succeed each other in such a vast and bewildering redundance--eating, killing, suffering, and dying for no useful discoverable purpose,--all these things belong to the normal lot or to the inevitable setting of human life. Nor can it be said that science, which has so largely extended our knowledge of the Universe, or civilisation, which has so greatly multiplied our comforts and alleviated our pains, has in any degree diminished the sadness they bring. It seems, indeed, as if the more man is raised above a purely animal existence, and his mental and moral powers are developed, the more this kind of feeling increases.

In few if any periods of the world's history has it been more perceptible in literature than at present. Physical const.i.tution and temperament have a vast and a humiliating power of deepening or lightening it, and the strength or weakness of religious belief largely affects it, yet the best, the strongest, the most believing, and the most prosperous cannot wholly escape it. Sometimes it finds its true expression in the lines of Raleigh:

Even such is time; which takes in trust Our youth, our joys, and all we have!

And pays us nought but age and dust, Which in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days; And from which grave and earth and dust, The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.

Sometimes it takes the tone of a lighter melancholy touched with cynicism:

La vie est vaine: Un peu d'amour, Un peu de haine, Et puis--bon jour.

La vie est breve, Un peu d'espoir, Un peu de reve, Et puis--bon soir.[74]

There are few sayings which deserve better to be brought continually before our minds than that of Franklin: 'You value life; then do not squander time, for time is the stuff of life.' Of all the things that are bestowed on men, none is more valuable, but none is more unequally used, and the true measurement of life should be found less in its duration than in the amount that is put into it. The waste of time is one of the oldest of commonplaces, but it is one of those which are never really stale. How much of the precious 'stuff of life' is wasted by want of punctuality; by want of method involving superfluous and repeated effort; by want of measure prolonging things that are pleasurable or profitable in moderation to the point of weariness, satiety, and extravagance; by want of selection dwelling too much on the useless or the unimportant; by want of intensity, growing out of a nature that is listless and apathetic both in work and pleasure. Time is, in one sense, the most elastic of things. It is one of the commonest experiences that the busiest men find most of it for exceptional work, and often a man who, under the strong stimulus of an active professional life, repines bitterly that he finds so little time for pursuing some favourite work or study, discovers, to his own surprise, that when circ.u.mstances have placed all his time at his disposal he does less in this field than in the hard-earned intervals of a crowded life. The art of wisely using the spare five minutes, the casual vacancies or intervals of life, is one of the most valuable we can acquire. There are lives in which the main preoccupation is to get through time. There are others in which it is to find time for all that has to be got through, and most men, in different periods of their lives, are acquainted with both extremes. With some, time is mere duration, a blank, featureless thing, gliding swiftly and insensibly by. With others every day, and almost every hour, seems to have its distinctive stamp and character, for good or ill, in work or pleasure. There are vast differences in this respect between different ages of history, and between different generations in the same country, between town and country life, and between different countries. 'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay' is profoundly true, and no traveller can fail to be insensible to the difference in the value of time in a Northern and in a Southern country. The leisure of some nations seems busier than the work of others, and few things are more resting to an overwrought and jaded Anglo-Saxon nature than to pa.s.s for a short season into one of those countries where time seems almost without value.

On the whole there can be little doubt that life in the more civilised nations has, in our own generation, largely increased. It is not simply that its average duration is extended. This, in a large degree, is due to the diminished amount of infant mortality. The improvement is shown more conclusively in the increased commonness of vigorous and active old age, in the mult.i.tude of new contrivances for economising and therefore increasing time, in the far greater intensity of life both in the forms of work and in the forms of pleasure. 'Life at high pressure' is not without its drawbacks and its evils, but it at least means life which is largely and fully used.

All intermissions of work, however, even when they do not take the form of positive pleasure, are not waste of time. Overwork, in all departments of life, is commonly bad economy, not so much because it often breaks down health--most of what is attributed to this cause is probably rather due to anxiety than to work--as because it seldom fails to impair the quality of work. A great portion of our lives pa.s.ses in the unconsciousness of sleep, and perhaps no part is more usefully spent. It not only brings with it the restoration of our physical energies, but it also gives a true and healthy tone to our moral nature.

Of all earthly things sleep does the most to place things in their true proportions, calming excited nerves and dispelling exaggerated cares.

How many suicides have been averted, how many rash enterprises and decisions have been prevented, how many dangerous quarrels have been allayed, by the soothing influence of a few hours of steady sleep!

'Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care' is, indeed, in a careworn world, one of the chief of blessings. Its healing and restorative power is as much felt in the sicknesses of the mind as in those of the body, and, in spite of the authority of Solomon, it is probably a wise thing for men to take the full measure of it, which undoctored nature demands. The true waste of time of the sluggard is not in the amount of natural sleep he enjoys, but in the time idly spent in bed when sleep has ceased, and in misplaced and mistimed sleep, which is not due to any genuine craving of the body for rest, but simply to mental sluggishness, to lack of interest and attention.

Some men have claimed for sleep even more than this. 'The night-time of the body,' an ancient writer has said, 'is the day-time of the soul,'

and some, who do not absolutely hold the old belief that it is in the dreams of the night that the Divine Spirit most communicates with man, have, nevertheless, believed that the complete withdrawal of our minds from those worldly cares which haunt our waking hours and do so much to materialise and harden our natures is one of the first conditions of a higher life. 'In proportion,' said Swedenborg, 'as the mind is capable of being withdrawn from things sensual and corporeal, in the same proportion it is elevated into things celestial and spiritual.' It has been noticed that often thoughts and judgments, scattered and entangled in our evening hours, seem sifted, clarified, and arranged in sleep; that problems which seemed hopelessly confused when we lay down are at once and easily solved when we awake, 'as though a reason more perfect than reason had been at work when we were in our beds.' Something a.n.a.logous to this, it has been contended, takes place in our moral natures. 'A process is going on in us during those hours which is not, and cannot be, brought so effectually, if at all, at any other time, and we are spiritually growing, developing, ripening more continuously while thus shielded from the distracting influences of the phenomenal world than during the hours in which we are absorbed in them.... Is it not precisely the function of sleep to give us for a portion of every day in our lives a respite from worldly influences which, uninterrupted, would deprive us of the instruction, of the spiritual reinforcements, necessary to qualify us to turn our waking experiences of the world to the best account without being overcome by them? It is in these hours that the plans and ambitions of our external worldly life cease to interfere with or obstruct the flow of the Divine life into the will.'[75]

Without, however, following this train of thought, it is at least sufficiently clear that no small portion of the happiness of life depends upon our sleeping hours. Plato has exhorted men to observe carefully their dreams as indicating their natural dispositions, tendencies, and temptations, and--perhaps with more reason--Burton and Franklin have proposed 'the art of procuring pleasant dreams' as one of the great, though little recognised, branches of the science of life.

This is, no doubt, mainly a question of diet, exercise, efficient ventilation, and a wise distribution of hours, but it is also largely influenced by moral causes.

Somnia quae mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, Nec delubra deum, nec ab aethere numina mittunt, Sed sibi quisque facit.

To appease the perturbations of the mind, to live a tranquil, upright, unremorseful life, to cultivate the power of governing by the will the current of our thoughts, repressing unruly pa.s.sions, exaggerated anxieties, and unhealthy desires, is at least one great recipe for banishing from our pillows those painful dreams that contribute not a little to the unhappiness of many lives.

An a.n.a.logous branch of self-culture is that which seeks to provide some healthy aliment for the waking hours of the night, when time seems so unnaturally prolonged, and when gloomy thoughts and exaggerated and distempered views of the trials of life peculiarly prevail. Among the ways in which education may conduce to the real happiness of man, its power of supplying pleasant or soothing thoughts for those dreary hours is not the least, though it is seldom or never noticed in books or speeches. It is, perhaps, in this respect that the early habit of committing poetry--and especially religious poetry--to memory is most important.

In estimating the value of those intermissions of labour which are not spent in active enjoyment one other consideration may be noted. There are times when the mind should lie fallow, and all who have lived the intellectual life with profit have perceived that it is often in those times that it most regains the elasticity it may have lost and becomes most prolific in spontaneous thought. Many periods of life which might at first sight appear to be merely unused time are, in truth, among the most really valuable.