"For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these, 'It might have been.'"
—Whittier.
There is not a word in the English tongue which signifies more than the word regret. It expresses every degree of pain in the gamut of sorrow, from the childish regret for a lost plaything, to the remorse which, when the sands of life are almost run, contemplates a wasted life.
There are none who have not felt its potency; no age escapes it, and such will ever be the case as long as it is human to err. But as pain and sickness are the sentinels which guard the life and health of the body, so it is regret which keeps conscience alive in man and sustains the moral faculties in the discharge of duty. Life is full of sorrowful scenes, so much that could not have been avoided; but how much added force there is to sorrow when we reflect that we are to blame—that we knew at the time that we were doing wrong—that we disregarded the warning voice of conscience, contemptuously rejected the proffered advice of others, and have nothing to extenuate the keen regret gathered with the harvest of sorrow sown by our own negligence.
The profoundest sorrow is not brought upon us by the world, by its bitterness, its malice, its injustice, or its persecution. These, indeed, affect us, and make us wiser, more weak, or more brave. We can, if we choose, repel the world's wrongs. We can laugh at the injuries inflicted upon us, and hurl defiance upon them; or, if we can not command this spirit, we may patiently endure what we do not resent. But the sorrows we bring upon ourselves by our own lack of discretion, or heedless obstinacy, when regret adds its sting, then it is that we experience what real sorrow is. We can not then repel its attacks with indifference.
Regret is the heart's sorrow for past offenses,—the soul's prompting to better actions. Have you ever stood by the grave of one dear to you, and been compelled to remember how much happier you might have made that life which has now passed beyond your reach? Has the hasty or unkind word ever come back to you and repeated itself over and over, until you would gladly have given a year of your own life to have recalled it, and made it as if it had never been? Let us remember that those who are now living may soon be dead, and beware of adding to the things done that ought not to have been done, the things undone that ought to have been done. Many a heart has languished for the tenderness withheld in life, but poured out too late in remorse and unavailing regret.
Let us be tender to our friends while they are with us,—not wait till they are gone to find out their good qualities. Let us be kind and gentle now, and not wait for regret to tell us of duty undone. The way of life is so full of occasions that call forth real regret, that it would seem that there was little danger of manifesting regret where it was uncalled for and useless. Yet such spectacles are of daily occurrence. When one has done the best he can, he should let that fact console him, and not give way to causeless regret and a wish that he had done differently.
Under the guiding light of the present it is easy enough to discover the mistakes of the past; and it would be easy to make advantageous changes were we allowed to go back and commence anew in the journey of life. But alas! this is vain. What we should do is so to learn by reason of regret from the lessons of the past that we become fully fitted for the duties of the present. Regret, if deep and hopeless, becomes remorse, which settles down over the heart with a crushing weight, driving from thence all hope, unless, indeed, the angel of forgiveness brings consolation to the soul.