The Rev. W. A. Crokat, one of Bishop John Wordsworth’s chaplains, writes of him: “One of the things that made the deepest impression at the time was his absolute trust in a man when he once accepted him into his confidence. It was such as would make any man ashamed even to seem to come short of it. Trust in money matters, and trust in confidential matters where others were concerned, seemed at times almost greater than they ought to be. But it arose so evidently from the simple goodness of the Bishop’s heart; his sense of the greatness of the work entrusted to himself was so real, and his wish that others younger than himself should take their full share in their more limited sphere was so strong, that one’s own ideals of work were unconsciously raised to a higher level.” [Note: E. W. Watson, Life of Bishop John Wordsworth, 184.]
1. Such trustfulness is the mark not only of a good but also of a great man. It is the secret of secrets in the successful career of Lord Roberts of Kandahar. One memorable instance of it may be quoted from his autobiography. Who can tell what troubles it prevented, even what disasters it averted, in the years to come? It is very probable for one thing that the history of the Mutiny would have been different had Roberts pursued a different policy at this time.
“Of the many subjects discussed and measures adopted during this, the last year of Lord Dufferin’s Viceroyalty, I think the scheme for utilizing the armies of Native States, as an auxiliary force for the service of the Empire, was the most important both from a political and military point of view. The idea was, in the first instance, propounded by Lord Lytton, who appointed a committee to consider the pros and cons of the question. I was a member of that committee, but at that time I, in common with many others, was doubtful as to the wisdom of encouraging a high state of efficiency amongst the troops of independent States; the excellent work, however, done by the Native Contingent I had with me in Kuram, and the genuine desire of all ranks to be allowed to serve side by side with our own soldiers, together with the unmistakable spirit of loyalty displayed by Native Rulers when war with Russia was imminent in 1885, convinced me that the time had arrived for us to prove to the people of India that we had faith in their loyalty, and in their recognition of the fact that their concern in the defence of the Empire was at least as great as ours, and that we looked to them to take their part in strengthening our rule and in keeping out all intruders.” [Note: Lord Roberts, Forty-One Years in India, 523.]
“To the best of my belief, therefore, I was the first European who had ever been seen in the Vizeeree Thull; yet my full confidence in the honour of Swahn Khan, who undertook to guide me, may be gathered from the circumstance that I took with me only five-and-twenty horsemen, and those at his request, in case of any casual opposition from tribes over whom the Vizeeree had no control. I pause upon this apparently trifling incident, for no foolish vanity of my own, but for the benefit of others; for hoping, as I earnestly do, that many a young soldier glancing over these pages will gather heart and encouragement for the stormy lot before him, I desire above all things to put into his hand the staff of confidence in his fellow-man.
Candid, and generous, and just,
Boys care but little whom they trust—
An error soon corrected;
For who but learns in riper years,
That man, when smoothest he appears,
Is most to be suspected?
is a verse very pointed and clever, but quite unworthy of ‘The Ode to Friendship,’ and inculcating a creed which would make a sharper or a monk of whoever should adopt it. The man who cannot trust others is, by his own showing, untrustworthy himself. Suspicious of all, depending on himself for everything, from the conception to the deed, the ground-plan to the chimney-pot, he will fail for want of the heads of Hydra and the hands of Briareus. If there is any lesson that I have learnt from life, it is that human nature, black or white, is better than we think it; and he who reads these pages to a close will see how much faith I have had occasion to place in the rudest and wildest of their species, how nobly it was deserved, and how useless I should have been without it.” [Note: H. B. Edwardes, A Year on the Punjab Frontier, quoted by Ruskin, Works, xxxi. 411]
2. Does trust in one’s fellow-men pay? It does not always win, certainly. We may find ourselves the victims of misplaced confidence. But if we have kept within us a living soul and a healthy mind, it will be better worth our while to have failed than to have lost these in our so-called success. “There is a spring of year-long blessedness in the very nature of faith itself. The most brilliant and unshadowed life that can be lived under the sun, if it lack trust, has a scathing anathema in it.” So says a wise and good writer of our times, and he says the truth. Those who are always protecting themselves by low views of human nature forget that there is nothing so dangerous as to sink into a miserably minded man who disbelieves in the world he has to live in, and distrusts the men he has to deal with. This is to escape the risk of battle only to fall into the certainty of disease; it is to choose to be a spiritual neurotic rather than a wounded soldier.
(1) It is sometimes the best policy.
I have mentioned Sadik Mahommed Khan. He was a servant of the Maharajah, appointed to do duty with the Nazim of Mooltan, and, when the rebellion broke out, was drawing pay from both. . . Moolraj expected him to side with him, but, though unable to escape, on account of his house and family, he refused to set his seal to the oath of rebellion on the Koran, and the very day that I arrived before Mooltan, Sadik and his father took their hawks on their wrists, and, under pretence of hunting, issued forth from the city and joined me. It is an incident illustrative of those strange uncertain times that, two days afterwards, he was my faithful henchman at Suddoosam, and, being well mounted, was often the only man by my side.
Had he been a traitor, he might have killed me at any moment. But I heard, his story, believed it, trusted him, and was rewarded by invaluable service throughout the rest of the rebellion.
Yet it was as hard to trust in those days as it was necessary.
The very moment before this battle of Suddoosam I was dipping my head into a pail of water, preparatory to putting on a thick turban, so as to keep my brains cool as long as possible in the sun, when Sadik Mahommed’s own uncle insisted on speaking to me.
Lifting my dripping head out of the pail, I listened to the old man’s solemn warnings to be on my guard; “for,” said he, “all these men, like my nephew, who have come over from the enemy are here by Moolraj’s orders and consent. You are drawn into a trap. Half your soldiers are friends, and half are foes, and, like rice and split peas, they are all mixed up in one dish. If there is not some treachery in this day’s fight, my name is not Surbulund Khan! The idea was not pleasant, and I soused my head under water again, desperately; but soon came up, wrung out the water, clapped a turban over my wet hair, and thanked the old gentleman for his information, which was too late to be useful, mounted my horse, and—never found out any of the traitors from that day to this! [Note: Life and Letters of Major-General Sir Herbert B. Edwardes, i. 130.]
(2) Even if not always best as a matter of policy, it is right to take the highest view of things. And when we come to consider the actual risks, even as regards outward success, we find them not so great as they appeared. Between man and man there are two ways of dealing. Every man has both good and evil in him, and the question for all who would influence the conduct of others is which of these two they shall take to be the real truth of the man’s character, which represents most accurately his real self. It is a question of leverage. Are we to appeal for leverage to a man’s worst or to his best? Those who take the former course try to get him upward into right conduct by suspicious watchfulness, by bullying and threatening him into goodness, by hard and cold commandments. To do this is to appeal to the worst that is in him, to his fear and cowardice and subserviency. It may succeed. In some desperate cases it may be the only way. But in the vast majority of cases it is the wrong way, and it will fail to produce anything but a mechanical and slavish character. On such terms no man will ever do his best. To do his best a man needs to be trusted.
Every one desires, deep down in his soul, to be good and true. We do, in the hearts of us, love the best things best. Until you remember that, and count upon it for leverage, you will never get any one to put spirit and enthusiasm into his work. As a rule people will do pretty much what they feel is expected of them. He who is thoroughly discouraged, who sees his work going down the stream, and feels that nobody sees any good in him, will never be anything better than a failure and a disappointment. But set tasks for such a man, within his range. Judge him competent, and let him find to his surprise that somebody believes in him, and he will be a new creature. Every man is shy about his best self. Often that best is buried deep below the fragments of broken attempts at manhood. He hardly dares to take his best self seriously. He will not speak about his most worthy things.
Those who trust him do him the incalculable service of impressing upon him the reality of his best. Let him but grasp that fact, and there is nothing too high to hope for him.
Now, in our dealings with our fellow-men which is the better working hypothesis: to assume with David, in his haste, that all men are liars, or to prefer to believe that on the whole all men are not liars? Which will best serve to redeem the fallen, and steady the tempted, and inspire the timid? Give your brother man your confidence. Provoke him to love and to good works by the good which you look to see in him. And you that are fathers and mothers ennoble the child whom you are training by appealing to that which is noble in him. Amid all his faults and waywardness, strive to love him with an unextinguishable hope and trust.
In those early. days Jerry McAuley set an inestimable value upon every token of trust in him. He had been so long hunted and dogged and accustomed to the thought that he was an outcast and outlaw whom nobody would trust out of sight with the value of a cent, that it was a new and sweet experience to him to be trusted. What a moral invigorator a little timely confidence and reliance on his honour was to him, and may be to others in like circumstances, as illustrated in one or two incidents, was often referred to in his public testimonies. He used to say, after telling what a miserable wretch, and moral and physical wreck he was before Jesus picked him up, “Just look at me now [holding open his coat and making a comical gesture of looking himself over], I have everything a man could wear. I have plenty to eat, a good home and good clothes, and I am respected and trusted. Think of Jerry McAuley, the biggest bum that used to hang out around this ward, turned into a respectable citizen. Why, a few years ago, if a man with five dollars in his pocket met me coming down the street, he’d cross over on the other side, and lucky for him too; but now I go down town, walk into a big banking-house, take an armchair, put up one leg over the other, and talk with the boss as big as life; and they don’t set any detectives to watch me either, or send for a policeman to run me out. This is what Jesus has done for me—made a man of me; and He will do it for you too if you will let Him.” [Note: R. M. Offord, Jerry McAuley, 165]
Sir George Henschel tells a story of Mr. Harry Brewster, an American artist, who made his home in Paris and in Rome. “He was both philosopher and poet, and not only was both but lived both.” This is the story:
“In the large households of Italy, particularly, I think, in Rome, it is not unusual for a family to have a major-domo, that is to say, a sort of superior cook-housekeeper who, besides his salary, gets a certain sum per month to run the house on. Brewster’s establishment in that splendid old ‘Palazzo Antici Mattei’ in Rome was founded on that system. His was the good luck of having a major-domo who not only gave him every satisfaction as such, but whom he also esteemed as a man, and who, in his turn, seemed greatly and almost affectionately attached to his master. It was therefore a great shock to Brewster when one day, in examining the books which were brought to him at regular intervals for that purpose, he seemed to detect some irregularities in the keeping of the accounts. At first he ascribed it to a probable oversight on his own part, and, loath to believe in the possibility of dishonesty on that of the trusted servant, waited for the next occasion, and again the next, until, alas, he could no longer reject the proofs in his hands. There was no doubt the man had for some time past deliberately and systematically deceived and robbed him. Having grown to be sincerely fond of the man, the discovery caused Brewster pain amounting to a real grief. This he carried about with him for several days, unable to decide on the course that would appear the best to be taken in a matter which affected him very deeply. At last his mind was made up. Seated before the writing-table in his study, the proofs of the man’s guilt spread before him, he rang the bell and asked for the major-domo to be sent to him. The man entered, visibly turning pale at the sight of his master’s serious face, and evidently divining the reason for this unwonted summons. There was an ominous silence in the lofty room as the two men faced each other, until Brewster broke it by quietly telling his servant how great a grief it was to him to have found that for some months past he had been cheated by him that he could only assume the salary he had been paying him had bees insufficient, and that from that day on he would double it. . . . That was all. Doubtless a risky thing to do; one which might, in nine cases out of ten, have proved an utter failure. But Brewster knew the sort of nature he had to deal with. There were no words of response from the servant. Prostrating himself before his master and kissing his hands, he silently sobbed until Brewster bade him get up. The man then left the room as one in a daze—not only a better, but a good man for the rest of his life.” [Note: G. Henschel, Musings and Memories of a Musician, 381]
(3) It is God’s way. The policy of God has been to save men by trusting them. His method of salvation has been to commit to the unworthy an incomparable gift and a great task—the gift of Christ and the task of Life., And, after all is said, surely God knows best, and He has chosen to take this risk. How long will it be till we learn that the foolishness of God is wiser than men? “The Eternal also is wise,” to quote with a difference a famous passage, “you and I are not the only wise ones.”
But the policy of God may be judged by its own history. Looking down the long vista of the past, the eye falls upon the Cross of Jesus Christ, standing erect above the wreckage of two thousand years. Why is the Cross, that symbol of apparent failure, still conspicuous, while most of the successes which took the eyes of men are forgotten? Christ was God’s great trust to man, the paramount act of confidence, and the Cross is the frightful monument of man’s broken faith. Yet that supreme betrayal has awakened the world’s conscience, and brought back the noblest spirits of all those two thousand years in shame and penitence to the feet of the Crucified. That Cross has settled for ever the question of the wisdom of God’s policy of trust in man. It was the supreme trust and the supreme betrayal, and round it are gathered an innumerable company of men whom it has made trustworthy.
Because of Thy strong faith, I kept the track
Whose sharp-set stones my strength had wellnigh spent;
I could not meet Thy eyes if I turned back:
So on I went.
Because Thou wouldst not yield belief in me,
The threatening crags that rose my way to bar
I conquered inch by crumbling inch—to see
The goal afar.
And though I struggle toward it through hard years,
Or flinch, or falter blindly, yet within,
“You can,” unwavering my spirit hears:
And I shall win. [Note: W. T. A. Barber, The Morning of Life, 31.]
(4) And it is the way of Christ. When He “ate and drank with publicans and sinners,” He saw the possibilities of goodness and of blessedness that lay beneath all the vice and misery. He had His word of stern severity for the respectable, self-righteous Pharisee; but you never find Christ railing bitterly or scornfully against mankind. For the fallen He had a heart to pity and a hand to help. His love detected the elements of goodness that lay smouldering in the ashes. They tell us that “love is blind”; but be sure that hatred or even indifference is far blinder. Love may sometimes be blind to faults, but it has a quick eye for excellences. It has a quick eye, too, for the possibilities of character, for the ideal that lies within the actual, for the perfect statue that may yet be chiselled- out of the marble. You cannot see the best that is in any man or woman until you look through the eyes of love. And therefore, if at any time we begin to feel the chill of the cynical mood creeping over us, let us place ourselves anew by the side of Christ, and try to feel a little of what He feels as He looks down on our weak, struggling, tempted, sorrowing humanity.
Carlyle was in gloomy humour and finding fault with everything, therefore Sterling defended with equal universality. At last Carlyle shook his head and pronounced, “Woe to them that are at ease in Zion.” Sterling was reminded of a poem which Goethe has translated, which introduces the carcase of a dead dog, which one after another approaches, expressing disgust at the smell, the appearance, etc.; at last Christ passes, looks on it, and says, “What beautiful white teeth it has!” [Note: Caroline Fox: Her Journals and. Letters, i. 322.]
