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_
comfort of mind, the most _self_—approval; so he sacrificed all other
values to get it.
Y.M. Some noble souls have refused to fight duels, and have manfully
braved the public contempt.
O.M. They acted _according to their make_. They valued their principles
and the approval of their families _above_ the public approval. They
took the thing they valued _most_ and let the rest go. They took what
would give them the _largest_ share of _personal contentment and
approval_—a man _always_ does. Public opinion cannot force that kind of
men to go to the wars. When they go it is for other reasons. Other
spirit-contenting reasons.
Y.M. Always spirit-contenting reasons?
O.M. There are no others.
Y.M. When a man sacrifices his life to save a little child from a
burning building, what do you call that?
O.M. When he does it, it is the law of _his_ make. _He_ can’t bear to
see the child in that peril (a man of a different make _could_), and so
he tries to save the child, and loses his life. But he has got what he
was after—_his own approval_.
Y.M. What do you call Love, Hate, Charity, Revenge, Humanity,
Magnanimity, Forgiveness?
O.M. Different results of the one Master Impulse: the necessity of
securing one’s self approval. They wear diverse clothes and are subject
to diverse moods, but in whatsoever ways they masquerade they are the
_same person_ all the time. To change the figure, the _compulsion_ that
moves a man—and there is but the one—is the necessity of securing the
contentment of his own spirit. When it stops, the man is dead.