F. W. BOREHAM

DREAMS AT SUNSET (Epworth Press 1954) 22-27

The Saratoga

The problem was an acute one. It all happened at Parattah Junction in Tasmania. I was travelling on the south-bound express. Having enjoyed a good dinner in the refreshment-rooms, I discovered that I still had five minutes before the train resumed its journey.

At that very moment, the north-bound express arrived. How better could I spend my spare five minutes than by strolling along the platform on the chance of meeting somebody I knew? And, surely enough, beside one of the central carriages, I caught sight of a young lady, a minister's daughter, at whose home I had often been a guest.

I

I saw at a glance that she was in dire distress.

"Why, Efie!" I exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, I'm in serious trouble," she replied. "I've lost my Saratoga!"

"That's dreadful," I assented, sympathetically. "But look, you take the front part of the train and I'll take the back, and we'll meet again here in a minute or two!"

I hurried along the carriages that I had assigned to myself, looking high and low for the elusive Saratoga. I sincerely hoped that Effie would find it in that portion of the train that I had allotted to her, for I had to confess to myself that I felt seriously handicapped in my own search by the lamentable circumstances that I had no shadow of an idea as to what a Saratoga was!

It sounded as if it might be a special breed of dog, and I poked with my stick among the bags and boxes hoping that, with a frightened yelp, the little beast would dash out at me. But then again, it might be an article of jewellery, and, for that reason, I scrutinized the asphalt of the platform and the floors of the carriages in the frantic hope that I might detect a sudden glitter. But then, I reminded myself, a Saratoga might conceivably be some mysterious part of a lady's wearing apparel, and it was because of this possibility that, fearing to embarrass her, I had refrained from asking Effie for exact particulars of the missing treasure.

At any rate I searched my half of the train as closely as my limited time would allow, and, on returning to our appointed rendezvous, was delighted to find Effie with her face beaming and the precious Saratoga at her feet. How was I to know that a Saratoga was a species of suitcase? I congratulated her, waved her a hurried goodbye; and caught my own train by the skin of my teeth.

But, to my dying day, I shall never forget the sensation of searching eagerly for a thing without possessing the faintest clue as to what that thing might be.

II

My experience that day resembles the universal search for happiness. If asked what they were seeking, nine people out of ten-perhaps ninety-nine out of a hundred- would reply that they are seeking happiness. Do they know what they are looking for? Would they recognize it if they saw it? Or is their passionate quest like my own wild pursuit of the Saratoga?

What is it to be happy? Are most people happy? Is happiness more difficult of attainment than it used to be? Little by little we have allowed the idea of happiness to crystallize into a philosophy of life. On the first of January we wish each other a happy New Year: we greet each individual birthday with a desire for many happy returns: we assure every prospective bride and bridegroom of our hope that they will be ecstatically happy: and, once a year, our enthusiasm for our ideal becomes like a river that has burst its banks; the usual term seems pitifully inadequate: and we crave for one another actual merriment at Christmas. What, precisely, have we in mind when we exchange these exuberant salutations?

In her novel All Passion Spent, the Hon. V. Sackville West takes as her heroine Lady Slane, a charming old dowager of eighty-eight. Lady Slane was seldom annoyed; but she hated being asked by casual callers if her long life had been a happy one. The authoress herself pokes fun at the word. It is, she declares, a strange clicking word, with its short vowel and its spitting double 'p's' and its pert tip-tilted 'y' at the end, to express in two syllables a whole summary of life. Had Lady Slane been happy? she asks. It was an unanswerable question. There had been moments in which she had been deliriously, madly, uncontrollably happy; but then again, there had been days of abject wretchedness, days spent in the lowest depths of despair.

The aged peeress maintained that nobody could speak of life as a whole as either happy or unhappy. It is, she used to tell her visitors, like a beautiful lake offering its even surface to many reflections, now gilded by the sun, now silvered by the moon, now darkened by a cloud, and again roughened by a ripple. Yet, she added, it is always a plane, always level, keeping its bounds, not to be rolled up into a tight, hard ball, small enough to be held in the hand, which was what people were trying to do when they asked if one's life had been happy or unhappy.

III

Somebody has suggested that we should take a census on happiness. Let every man be invited to tell us whether or not he finds life to his taste. Sir William Robertson Nicoll once attempted something of the kind and was astonished at the result. The experiment convinced him that most people are extremely happy. Most people, indeed, are happier than they know. Many of those to whom the questionnaire was submitted confessed that, until they attempted to analyse their emotions, they did not realize how happy they actually were.

Sir Alfred Fripp, an eminent surgeon, laid it down as an axiom that happiness is an art which any student, with a little pains, may acquire. Success, Sir Alfred pointed out, cannot come to everybody, nor health; but happiness is within any- body's grasp, even though health and wealth elude him. "It is distinctly an art," he insisted. "As an art, it requires fostering by practice till it becomes a habit" Any man or woman may master it.

To assist eager students to attain proficiency in this preeminently desirable craft, Sir Alfred lays down a number of rules. Briefly epitomized, they may be stated as follows: I. Always be yourself. 2. Consider the feelings of others. 3. Keep the faith and simplicity of youth. 4. Don't cross bridges till you come to them. 5. Be patient with fools. 6. Keep your friendships in repair. 7. Don't get dragged into quarrels and controversies. 8. Remember that it takes all kinds of people to make a world. 9. Try to understand the man you condemn: to know all is to forgive all. 10. Maintain your independence, 11. Guard your sense of humour and your sense of proportion. 12.Never brood over the past: memory consists in the art of forgetting.

IV

All this leads us up the grassy slopes of an Eastern hillside. The disciples, like all their fellow-men, craved the secret of happiness. We all know what happened. It reminds me of a story from early American history. It was a sultry day: the little meeting-house was crowded; and, to render conditions more tolerable, the doors and windows stood wide open. Whilst the meeting was in progress, the red men emerged silently from the woods and crept like snakes across the open space that surrounded the building. Their chief, the terrible Black Eagle, was at their head. Gliding towards the open door, he was determined to observe the disposition of those within, and at the right moment, to give the signal for the impending massacre.

But, as he paused beside the portal, he heard a voice -subdued, reverent and stately-reading some strange and wondrous words. The sentences to which he listened in astonishment were these:

Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled ...

and. so on.

As stealthily as he had come, Black Eagle crept away. "If these be the laws of the white men," he said, "let them live and teach the red men the same holy doctrine!"

They had found the long-sought secret of happiness. For happiness, as the Beatitudes show, must be rooted in a noble character; such a character can issue only from an exalted faith; but, depend upon it, the man who possesses that faith and develops that character will enjoy a happiness that stands sublimely independent of all the bludgeonings of circumstance.