her, statesman, seer,--of the word of inspiration and the act of
leadership! How shall one who feels in him the power and sees the need;
who grasps in his hand the keen sickle, yet is held back, while before
his eyes the fields are white with the harvest which threatens, unreaped,
to perish,--how shall he reconcile himself to his lot? How escape the
thought that he and all mankind are but playthings in the grasp of cruel
and ironic fate?

What, then, does the world most need of us? Is it wisdom, or
statesmanship, or executive power? These things it greatly needs. But
most of all it needs character. Most of all it needs that quality of
personality which is moulded by the interplay of loyal will with the
shifting course of outward event. For our wisest thoughts the world can
very well wait, or do without them altogether; almost certainly some one
else has thought them and said them. Our executive power to be added to
the world's work,--it is but a fly's strength contributed to a
steam-engine. One thing the universe asks of us, which no one else can
give,--_ourselves_; our highest and fullest self. It is not what we do
externally, but what we are, that measures our worth. The real and
lasting value of a word or an act depends largely on the weight of
character behind it. And in character no higher effect is wrought out
than that which comes through endurance and heroic passivity. To stand
long before closed doors of opportunity and keep serene; to see work
waiting, see others working, and in patience and self-control to bide
one's time,--that is more than to do any work; it is to be a man. The
time comes when manhood finds itself to be power.

A brook goes singing on its way, marking its course through forest and
field with a track of beauty and freshened life. Men throw a dam across
its path, and through many a long day its course is stopped and its
waters silently accumulate. And the brook says, "Alas for my lost
freedom and service! Alas for the rush and sparkle and joy of my
cascades! Alas for the parched meadows, the unwatered ferns and mosses!"
But the day comes when with a cataract leap it crosses its barrier;
meadow and mosses and ferns revive; and now the stored power of the
stream is turning great mills and grinding bread for men.

Washington rode as a subordinate in Braddock's army; ignorance commanded
and knowledge looked on powerless until the mischief was done. Twenty
years of quiet follo