Edward FitzGerald once sadly confessed that, as life went on,
days of perfect delight--a beautiful scene, a melodious music, the
society of those whom he loved best--brought him less and less joy,
because he felt that they were passing swiftly, and could not be
recalled. And of course the imaginative nature which lives
tremulously in delight will be most apt to portend sadness in hours
of happiness, and in sorrow to anticipate the continuance of sorrow.
That is an inevitable effect of temperament; but we must not give
way helplessly to temperament, or allow ourselves to drift wherever
the mind bears us. Just as the skilled sailor can tack up against
the wind, and use ingenuity to compel a contrary breeze to bring him
to the haven of his desire, so we must be wise in trimming our sails
to the force of circumstance; while there is an eager delight in
making adverse conditions help us to realise our hopes.
The timid soul that loves delight is apt to say to itself, "I am
happy now in health and circumstances and friends, but I lean out
into the future, and see that health must fail and friends must
drift away; death must part me from those I love; and beyond all
this, I see the cloudy gate through which I must myself pass, and I
do not know what lies beyond it.
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