GOD meant man to be happy. The sweetest music of this world is clear, ringing laughter. Beside its resonance the majestic voice of the cataract, the rolling melody of dashing billows, the gurgling ripple of the sun-kissed streams, the thrilling throb of the wild bird’s song, the merry chirp of the cheerful cricket, the lyric of the wind-tossed leaves are as nothing. Better one sudden, spontaneous outburst of childish laughter than all the symphonies and oratorios of the long centuries. Nothing can equal it. It comes with the spontaneity of a geyser, rolls out upon the atmosphere like a volley of salutes, thrills like martial music, its quick vibrations making the sunbeams tinkle like silver bells. It is contagious, causing the facial muscles of our friends to relax and begin to run and leap into the radiant smiles, their vocal cords to burst into song, and the whole world becomes a better and happier place for all mankind.
As the sunshine makes battle with shadows, so men and women should wage warfare with everything that depresses. Children have a right to laugh, and youth has a right to rejoice in the morning light of life that floods the pathway with the bright and brilliant colorings of hope. We must not be too exacting with others, neither must we endeavor to abnormally repress our own feelings. There is a restraint that is not culture and a self-control that is not temperance. Some people would be far more honest in their dealings, and have better rating in their own community, if they did not exercise such an exacting self-control over their deep feelings of honesty, justice, and brotherly love. There is a boundless strength in emotion, therefore laughter and happiness are absolutely essential. Let happy hours be golden beads, which, strung upon the silken cord of memory, will become a rosary with which to count our prayers.
Laughter is essential, because of its relationship to tears. In the truest sense pure tears and pure laughter are one. It requires a raindrop to reveal the hidden beauties of the sunbeam. Beholding the rainbow spreading its many-colored folds over the dark shoulders of the storm cloud, we utter exclamations of gladsome surprise. How marvelously beautiful it is! But every sunbeam would be a rainbow if only it had its raindrop through which to pass. It requires vapor to reveal the hidden depths and treasures of the sunbeam. Tears are to laughter what raindrops are to sunshine. They reveal the deeper meaning of our joys. Without them we should never appreciate or understand the brighter moments. When we count each hour of happiness as a golden bead, we must consider each teardrop as a crystal or polished diamond, to gleam upon the rosary of the heart.
Sincerely pity the man who has lost the art of shedding tears, for he has, through self-control, restricted his emotions, so as to exclude life’s best experiences. Without a tear-moistened eye one cannot clearly comprehend the brightness of the sky, the majesty of the sea, the commanding splendor of the mountains, or the wealth of gold that lies buried in every human heart. Without tears one can never experience the rapturous joy of truest love or holiest patriotism. The greatness of the soul is measured by the depth of its emotions, and the extent of influence is determined by the readiness with which one permits the deep emotions to shed their glory.
Herein is hidden a secret of triumphant power. The greatest victories are won, not by gun and cannon, but by deep emotions expressed in tear-dimmed eyes. Great achievements are wrought by men who can feel keenly and deeply. Behold Garibaldi conquering a great Italian city. A thousand soldiers, armed with rifles, and supported with heavy artillery, stood ready to oppose him. Commanding generals, with drawn swords, stood ready to give command to fire the moment he made his appearance. This was the day that he had announced that he would take the city. Hours passed and neither he nor his army came in sight. Finally, in the afternoon, amid a cloud of dust, a carriage is seen rapidly nearing the city. Every eye is strained to see its passenger, when lo, above the dust, rises the stalwart form of the great Italian. Without gun, sword, or protecting soldier, the great general who has come to take the city, is standing erect in an open carriage, his arms folded in peace. Each defending soldier is ready to obey command, but no command is given. In the presence of such remarkable courage each officer is motionless and speechless. No moment of Italian history was more tense. Suddenly some sympathizer shouted, “Viva la Garibaldi!” and in an instant every weapon is dropped and Garibaldi takes the city and holds it as his own. The power to advance in the face of great odds, with no weapon save a burning heart and tear-filled eyes, has wrought more victories than we know.
To cry is not weakness, for tears are evidences of strong character. We have always loved Mark Twain, enjoying his travels as much as he, and laughing away dreary hours with his bubbling humor. But humor never revealed the true man he really was. It was not until his daughter died, and he sat all alone at home on Christmas day, amid the unopened gifts, and broken hopes of life, and wrote the matchless story of her death, that the world caught glimpse of the real Mark Twain. Beholding her lying there so quietly, he said: “Would I call her back to life if I could do it? I would not. If a word would do, I would beg for strength to withhold the word. And I would have the strength; I am sure of it. In her loss I am almost bankrupt, and my life is a bitterness, but I am content; for she has been enriched with the most precious of all gifts—that gift which makes all other gifts mean and poor—death.” It required the teardrop to reveal the real character of Mark Twain.
While for our friends we would have nothing but golden hours, for ourselves the rosary of tears is the most precious treasure we possess. None other creates such a spirit of devotion, none other so thoroughly prepares us for conquest; none other opens the heart to those diviner emotions which should thrill the inner life of all. The golden beads will become tiresome, but the crystal rosary of tears will always be attractive. Count over its beads. There are the large, fast-falling tears of childhood. Tell them one by one, and behold how they bring back the holy memories and yearnings for childhood purity and childhood faith. Hold fast those blessed beads that were once kissed away by a mother’s lips, but still sparkle in the light of her precious love. There too are the glittering tears of youthful ambitions, when the heart burned with passion, the brain whirled with plans for conquest, and the eyes were moist with tears of hope. How precious those tears that have long since ceased to flow! But they are not lost. We still have them on our rosary when we offer prayer, and the touching of them revives our old-time hopes. There also are the tears of love. The busy, all-consuming fires of worldly ambition cannot dry them away. They gleam in the eye every time memory presents the portrait of that precious face. How wonderful to love until the eyes blind with tears of ecstasy!
There too are the priceless tears of sympathy. The sight of another’s wrong or sorrow unloosed the fountains of the deep, and your heart responded. In order to right the wrong you gave yourself to work of reform, and made your influence a powerful factor in the remaking of the world. There, gleaming more beautiful than all, are the tears of sorrow. They were shed at the side of the grave; they came into the eye at the sight of an empty chair. How unbearable the world until relief came in a flood of tears! Only through tears do we find the sweetest comfort.
Thus, our devotions become more helpful when we hold this rosary of priceless treasure. These beads can be purchased of no merchant; they cannot be blessed by any priest. They were wrought in the fires of our suffering, and, because we trusted him, they were blessed of God. They cannot heal the soul—only God can do that; but they help heal the soul by quickening our memories and reviving our past experiences. Let no one rob you of the beneficent influences of deep feelings, whether of joy or sorrow, for we are never so much in the spirit of prayer as when we hold in our hands the rosary of tears.