The Pleasures of Life: The Duty of Happiness

The Pleasures of Life by Sir John Lubbock Part One All places that the eye of heaven visits are to the wise man ports and happy havens.

Shakespeare Some murmur when their sky is clear And wholly bright to view If one small speck of dark appear In their great heaven of blue And some with thankful love are filled If but one streak of light One ray of God's good mercy gild The darkness of their night In palaces are hearts that ask In discontent and pride Why life is such a dreary task And all good things denied And hearts in poorest huts admire How love has in their aid Love that not ever seems to tire Such rich provisions made Trench Chapter One The Duty of Happiness If a man is unhappy, this must be his own fault, for God made all men to be happy.

Epictetus Life is a great gift, and as we reach years of discretion, we, most of us, naturally ask ourselves what should be the main object of our existence.Even those who do not accept the greatest good of the greatest number as an absolute rule will yet admit that we should all endeavor to contribute as far as we may to the happiness of our fellow creatures.

There are many, however, who seem to doubt whether it is right that we should try to be happy ourselves.

Our own happiness ought not, of course, to be our main object, nor indeed will it ever be secured if selfishly sought.

We may have many pleasures in life, but must not let them have rule over us, or they will soon hand us over to sorrow, and into what dangerous and miserable servitude doth he fall who suffereth pleasures and sorrows, two unfaithful and cruel commanders, to possess him successively.

I cannot, however, but think that the world would be better and brighter if our teachers would dwell on the duty of happiness as well as on the happiness of duty.

For we ought to be as cheerful as we can, if only because to be happy ourselves is a most effectual contribution to the happiness of others.

Everyone must have felt that a cheerful friend is like a sunny day, which sheds its brightness on all around, and most of us can, as we choose, make of this world either a palace or a prison.

There is no doubt some selfish satisfaction in yielding to melancholy and fancying that we are victims of fate, in brooding over grievances, especially if more or less imaginary.

To be bright and cheerful often requires an effort.

There is a certain art in keeping ourselves happy, and in this respect, as in others, we require to watch over and manage ourselves almost as if we were somebody else.

Sorrow and joy indeed are strangely interwoven.

Too often we look before and after and pine for what is not.

Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught.

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

As a nation we are prone to melancholy.

It has been said of our countrymen that they take even their pleasures sadly.

But this, if it be true at all, will, I hope, prove a transitory characteristic.

Merry England was the old saying.

Let us hope it may become true again.

We must look to the east for real melancholy.

What can be sadder than the lines with which Omar Khayyam opens his quatrains? We sojourn here for one short day or two, and all the gain we get is grief and woe, and then leaving life's problems all unsolved and harassed by regrets, we have to go.

Or the Deva's song to Prince Siddhartha in Edwin Arnold's beautiful version.

We are the voices of the wandering wind, which moan for rest and rest can never find.