What Is Man? and Other Essays
He is entitled to no personal credit for possessing it. It is born to
him. A baby born with a billion dollars—where is the personal merit in
that? A baby born with nothing—where is the personal demerit in that?
The one is fawned upon, admired, worshiped, by sycophants, the other is
neglected and despised—where is the sense in it?
Y.M. Sometimes a timid man sets himself the task of conquering his
cowardice and becoming brave—and succeeds. What do you say to that?
O.M. That it shows the value of _training in right directions over
training in wrong ones_. Inestimably valuable is training, influence,
education, in right directions—_training one’s self-approbation to
elevate its ideals_.
Y.M. But as to merit—the personal merit of the victorious coward’s
project and achievement?
O.M. There isn’t any. In the world’s view he is a worthier man than he
was before, but _he_ didn’t achieve the change—the merit of it is not
his.
Y.M. Whose, then?
O.M. His _make_, and the influences which wrought upon it from the
outside.
Y.M. His make?
O.M. To start with, he was _not_ utterly and completely a coward, or
the influences would have had nothing to work upon. He was not afraid
of a cow, though perhaps of a bull: not afraid of a woman, but afraid
of a man. There was something to build upon. There was a _seed_. No
seed, no plant. Did he make that seed himself, or was it born in him?
It was no merit of _his_ that the seed was there.
Y.M. Well, anyway, the idea of _cultivating_ it, the resolution to
cultivate it, was meritorious, and he originated that.
O.M. He did nothing of the kind. It came whence _all_ impulses, good or
bad, come—from _outside_. If that timid man had lived all his life in a
community of human rabbits, had never read of brave deeds, had never
heard speak of them, had never heard any one praise them nor express
envy of the heroes that had done them, he would have had no more idea
of bravery than Adam had of modesty, and it could never by any
possibility have occurred to him to _resolve_ to become brave. He
_could not originate the idea_—it had to come to him from the
_outside_. And so, when he heard bravery extolled and cowardice
derided, it woke him up. He was ashamed. Perhaps his sweetheart turned
up her nose and said, “I am told that you are a coward!” It was not
_he_ that turned over the new leaf—she did it for him. _He_ must not
strut around in the merit of it —it is not his.
Y.M. But, anyway, he reared the plant after she watered the seed.
O.M. No. _Outside influences_ reared it. At the command—and
trembling—he marched out into the field—with other soldiers and in the
daytime, not alone and in the dark. He had the _influence of example_,
he drew courage from his comrades’ courage; he was afraid, and wanted
to run, but he did not dare; he was _afraid_ to run, with all those
soldiers looking on. He was progressing, you see—the moral fear of
shame had risen superior to the physical fear of harm. By the end of
the campaign experience will have taught him that not _all_ who go into
battle get hurt—an outside influence which will be helpful to him; and
he will also have learned how sweet it is to be praised for courage and
be huzza’d at with tear-choked voices as the war-worn regiment marches
past the worshiping multitude with flags flying and the drums beating.
After that he will be as securely brave as any veteran in the army—and
there will not be a shade nor suggestion of _personal merit_ in it
anywhere; it will all have come from the _outside_. The Victoria Cross
breeds more heroes than—
Y.M. Hang it, where is the sense in his becoming brave if he is to get
no credit for it?
O.M. Your question will answer itself presently. It involves an
important detail of man’s make which we have not yet touched upon.
Y.M. What detail is that?
O.M. The impulse which moves a person to do things—the only impulse
that ever moves a person to do a thing.
Y.M. The _only_ one! Is there but one?
O.M. That is all. There is only one.
Y.M. Well, certainly that is a strange enough doctrine. What is the
sole impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing?
O.M. The impulse to _content his own spirit_—the _necessity_ of
contenting his own spirit and _winning its approval_.
Y.M. Oh, come, that won’t do!
O.M. Why won’t it?
Y.M. Because it puts him in the attitude of always looking out for his
own comfort and advantage; whereas an unselfish man often does a thing
solely for another person’s good when it is a positive disadvantage to
himself.
O.M. It is a mistake. The act must do _him_ good, _first_; otherwise he
will not do it. He may _think_ he is doing it solely for the other
person’s sake, but it is not so; he is contenting his own spirit
first—the other’s person’s benefit has to always take _second_ place.
Y.M. What a fantastic idea! What becomes of self—sacrifice? Please
answer me that.
O.M. What is self-sacrifice?
Y.M. The doing good to another person where no shadow nor suggestion of
benefit to one’s self can result from it.
II
Man’s Sole Impulse—the Securing of His Own Approval
Old Man. There have been instances of it—you think?
Young Man. _Instances_? Millions of them!
O.M. You have not jumped to conclusions? You have examined
them—critically?
Y.M. They don’t need it: the acts themselves reveal the golden impulse
back of them.
O.M. For instance?
Y.M. Well, then, for instance. Take the case in the book here. The man
lives three miles up-town. It is bitter cold, snowing hard, midnight.
He is about to enter the horse-car when a gray and ragged old woman, a
touching picture of misery, puts out her lean hand and begs for rescue
from hunger and death. The man finds that he has a quarter in his
pocket, but he does not hesitate: he gives it her and trudges home
through the storm. There—it is noble, it is beautiful; its grace is
marred by no fleck or blemish or suggestion of self-interest.
O.M. What makes you think that?
Y.M. Pray what else could I think? Do you imagine that there is some
other way of looking at it?
O.M. Can you put yourself in the man’s place and tell me what he felt
and what he thought?
Y.M. Easily. The sight of that suffering old face pierced his generous
heart with a sharp pain. He could not bear it. He could endure the
three-mile walk in the storm, but he could not endure the tortures his
conscience would suffer if he turned his back and left that poor old
creature to perish. He would not have been able to sleep, for thinking
of it.
O.M. What was his state of mind on his way home?
Y.M. It was a state of joy which only the self-sacrificer knows. His
heart sang, he was unconscious of the storm.
O.M. He felt well?
Y.M. One cannot doubt it.
O.M. Very well. Now let us add up the details and see how much he got
for his twenty-five cents. Let us try to find out the _real_ why of his
making the investment. In the first place _he_ couldn’t bear the pain
which the old suffering face gave him. So he was thinking of _his_
pain—this good man. He must buy a salve for it. If he did not succor
the old woman _his_ conscience would torture him all the way home.
Thinking of _his_ pain again. He must buy relief for that. If he didn’t
relieve the old woman _he_ would not get any sleep. He must buy some
sleep—still thinking of _himself_, you see. Thus, to sum up, he bought
himself free of a sharp pain in his heart, he bought himself free of
the tortures of a waiting conscience, he bought a whole night’s
sleep—all for twenty-five cents! It should make Wall Street ashamed of
itself. On his way home his heart was joyful, and it sang—profit on top
of profit! The impulse which moved the man to succor the old woman
was—_first_—to _content his own spirit_; secondly to relieve _her_
sufferings. Is it your opinion that men’s acts proceed from one central
and unchanging and inalterable impulse, or from a variety of impulses?
Y.M. From a variety, of course—some high and fine and noble, others
not. What is your opinion?
O.M. Then there is but _one_ law, one source.
Y.M. That both the noblest impulses and the basest proceed from that
one source?
O.M. Yes.
Y.M. Will you put that law into words?
O.M. Yes. This is the law, keep it in your mind. _From his cradle to
his grave a man never does a single thing which has any_ FIRST AND
FOREMOST _object_ _but one_—_to secure peace of mind, spiritual
comfort_, _for_ HIMSELF.
Y.M. Come! He never does anything for any one else’s comfort, spiritual
or physical?
O.M. No. _except on those distinct terms_—that it shall _first_ secure
_his own_ spiritual comfort. Otherwise he will not do it.
Y.M. It will be easy to expose the falsity of that proposition.
O.M. For instance?
Y.M. Take that noble passion, love of country, patriotism. A man who
loves peace and dreads pain, leaves his pleasant home and his weeping
family and marches out to manfully expose himself to hunger, cold,
wounds, and death. Is that seeking spiritual comfort?
O.M. He loves peace and dreads pain?
Y.M. Yes.
O.M. Then perhaps there is something that he loves _more_ than he loves
peace—_the approval of his neighbors and the public_. And perhaps there
is something which he dreads more than he dreads pain—the _disapproval_
of his neighbors and the public. If he is sensitive to shame he will go
to the field—not because his spirit will be _entirely_ comfortable
there, but because it will be more comfortable there than it would be
if he remained at home. He will always do the thing which will bring
him the _most_ mental comfort—for that is _the sole law of his life_.
He leaves the weeping family behind; he is sorry to make them
uncomfortable, but not sorry enough to sacrifice his _own_ comfort to
secure theirs.
Y.M. Do you really believe that mere public opinion could force a timid
and peaceful man to—
O.M. Go to war? Yes—public opinion can force some men to do _anything_.
Y.M. _Anything_?
O.M. Yes—anything.
Y.M. I don’t believe that. Can it force a right-principled man to do a
wrong thing?
O.M. Yes.
Y.M. Can it force a kind man to do a cruel thing?
O.M. Yes.
Y.M. Give an instance.
O.M. Alexander Hamilton was a conspicuously high-principled man. He
regarded dueling as wrong, and as opposed to the teachings of
religion—but in deference to _public opinion_ he fought a duel. He
deeply loved his family, but to buy public approval he treacherously
deserted them and threw his life away, ungenerously leaving them to
lifelong sorrow in order that he might stand well with a foolish world.
In the then condition of the public standards of honor he could not
have been comfortable with the stigma upon him of having refused to
fight. The teachings of religion, his devotion to his family, his
kindness of heart, his high principles, all went for nothing when they
stood in the way of his spiritual comfort. A man will do _anything_, no
matter what it is, _to secure his spiritual comfort_; and he can
neither be forced nor persuaded to any act which has not that goal for
its object. Hamilton’s act was compelled by the inborn necessity of
contenting his own spirit; in this it was like all the other acts of
his life, and like all the acts of all men’s lives. Do you see where
the kernel of the matter lies? A man cannot be comfortable without _his
own_ approval. He will secure the largest share possible of that, at
all costs, all sacrifices.
Y.M. A minute ago you said Hamilton fought that duel to get _public_
approval.
O.M. I did. By refusing to fight the duel he would have secured his
family’s approval and a large share of his own; but the public approval
was more valuable in his eyes than all other approvals put together—in
the earth or above it; to secure that would furnish him the _most_