The Family Magazine. Volume 7. 1840 || +1 || +2
“I CAN'T DO IT.”
WHAT a volume of human misery is unfolded in that short sentence! What mighty efforts of undeveloped genius are chained by this conclusion of despondency when a barrier chances to interpose the onward progress of the will and sometimes of mere volition! What domestic unhappiness—what downward marches of the otherwise worthy, toward the gloomy and solitary abodes of poverty—what anxious solicitude that fills the breast of the dependent wife—what arduous wrestlings with the demon of despair—what social wretchedness—what national evils are all depicted in the spirit of that expression! It is the language only of the self-made wretched—the determination of the weak and imbecile. It is the voice of the moral coward, who, standing upon the shore of some desolate island in the stormy ocean of life, and looking out upon the billows strewn with the wrecks of earthly grandeur and human happiness, is so blinded by fear that he cannot see the gleam of hope that flickers amid the surrounding gloom. It is the articulated feelings of the traveller of the desert, who, having gained an eminence, sees nothing but a barren plain before him, thirst parching his tongue and weariness subduing his strength. But shall he lie down without hope? Nay, let him press forward, make but one more effort, and a green oasis will meet his anxious vision—a cool stream will bubble up from some unseen fountain, and he will reach his journey's end crowned with the rich reward of perseverance.
How often do we hear “I can't do it” drop from the lips of a man possessed of bodily vigor and perfect health, when he sees uplifted before him a towering mountain of sudden misfortune. Let him reverse the expression, arm himself with the sword and buckler of firm resolve, and with the eye of encouragement look beyond the mighty mass, and he will see it begin to sink, and ere he believes his task begun he will find that he has bestridden the monster, leapt over the looming barrier, and the incident forms but a brief paragraph in the history of his life.
When the Boston printer (Franklin) entered Philadelphia, carrying all his worldly possessions upon his person, and a penny loaf under his arm, had he sat down upon the cold pavement, and shrinking from the task which the finger of genius pointed out for him to perform, exclaimed, “I can't do it,” a bright star would now be absent from the constellation of American renown, and humanity might mourn the want of a shield, against the lightning's wrath. Had the young warrior of colonial America surrendered his sword to the enemies of freedom when patriot hearts were chilled upon the frozen shores of the Delaware or the snowy desert of Valley Forge, and with desponding heart cried out, “I can't do it,” the valleys of the Ohio and Mississippi might yet have been howling wilderness, ourselves humble petitioners at the feet of a potentate of a far-off island, and this noble structure of civil liberty in the west—among the mysteries yet to be revealed. But such an expression was never written in their vocabularies—it is never written in any man's vocabulary who achieves mighty things. Its spirit should be avoided by youth as a luring syren whose song will lead them from duty and teach them dalliance. They should avoid practising its precepts, for they enervate the vigorous and crush the already weak. On the other hand, let your motto be, “I will do it,” and the mountain will become a mole-hill—the torrent will dwindle into a rill—the lions that beset your path will lose their fierceness and become metamorphosed into lambs—the vultures that prey upon your vitals will become doves—your feet will find but few stumbling-blocks, and the bright star of hope will never sink below the horizon.
Are you poor, remember, the temple of fortune is open as well to the child of poverty with his mantle and girdle, as to the pampered progeny of wealth who wears upon his breast a golden star. Are you friendless, remember, moral rectitude, modest excellence, persevering industry are sure to gather around you a shining circle of kindred spirits who will accompany you with offices of kindness to the threshold of the grave, and will embalm your memory in their hearts. These are the rewards of perseverance—these are the comforts of the energetic child of misfortune. When his motto is, “I will do it,” nothing is so extensive or mysterious in science that he cannot grasp and comprehend it, nothing so great or wise in jurisprudence that he cannot participate in its honors, nothing so holy in pious duty that he may not share the plaudit, “well done thou good and faithful servant,” and nothing so noble in human nature that he may not possess it and claim the brightest “legion of honor.” We would therefore say to youth, when you feel the impulse of genius urging you to the performance of some great task, at once obey its mandates; and although the timidity of your nature may curb your steps, obey but the voice of prudence, shut your ears against the evil councils of imbecility, and whatever may be the prize, whether in the forum, the camp or the pulpit, be assured that you may count it as your own if you listen not to the song of the idle sojourner, ever upon his lips, “I can't do it.”
B. J. L.
