Y.M. Stop where you are! I know your whole catalog of questions, and I
could answer every one of them without your wasting the time to ask
them; but I will summarize the whole thing in a single remark: I did
the charity knowing it was because the act would give _me _a splendid
pleasure, and because old Sally’s moving gratitude and delight would
give _me _another one; and because the reflection that she would be
happy now and out of her trouble would fill _me _full of happiness. I
did the whole thing with my eyes open and recognizing and realizing
that I was looking out for _my _share of the profits _first_. Now then,
I have confessed. Go on.
O.M. I haven’t anything to offer; you have covered the whole ground.
Can you have been any _more _strongly moved to help Sally out of her
trouble—could you have done the deed any more eagerly—if you had been
under the delusion that you were doing it for _her _sake and profit
only?
Y.M. No! Nothing in the world could have made the impulse which moved
me more powerful, more masterful, more thoroughly irresistible. I
played the limit!
O.M. Very well. You begin to suspect—and I claim to _know _—that when a
man is a shade _more strongly moved _to do _one _of two things or of
two dozen things than he is to do any one of the _others_, he will
infallibly do that _one _thing, be it good or be it evil; and if it be
good, not all the beguilements of all the casuistries can increase the
strength of the impulse by a single shade or add a shade to the comfort
and contentment he will get out of the act.
Y.M. Then you believe that such tendency toward doing good as is in
men’s hearts would not be diminished by the removal of the delusion
that good deeds are done primarily for the sake of No. 2 instead of for
the sake of No. 1?
O.M. That is what I fully believe.
Y.M. Doesn’t it somehow seem to take from the dignity of the deed?
O.M. If there is dignity in falsity, it does. It removes that.
Y.M. What is left for the moralists to do?
O.M. Teach unreservedly what he already teaches with one side of his
mouth and takes back with the other: Do right _for your own sake, _and
be happy in knowing that your _neighbor _will certainly share in the
benefits resulting.
Y.M. Repeat your Admonition.
O.M. _Diligently train your ideals upward and still upward toward a
summit where you will find your chiefest pleasure in conduct which,
while contenting you, will be sure to confer benefits upon your
neighbor and the community._
Y.M. One’s _every _act proceeds from _exterior influences_, you think?
O.M. Yes.
Y.M. If I conclude to rob a person, I am not the _originator _of the
idea, but it comes in from the _outside_? I see him handling money—for
instance—and _that _moves me to the crime?
O.M. That, by itself? Oh, certainly not. It is merely the _latest
_outside influence of a procession of preparatory influences stretching
back over a period of years. No _single _outside influence can make a
man do a thing which is at war with his training. The most it can do is
to start his mind on a new tract and open it to the reception of _new
_influences—as in the case of Ignatius Loyola. In time these influences
can train him to a point where it will be consonant with his new
character to yield to the _final _influence and do that thing. I will
put the case in a form which will make my theory clear to you, I think.
Here are two ingots of virgin gold. They shall represent a couple of
characters which have been refined and perfected in the virtues by
years of diligent right training. Suppose you wanted to break down
these strong and well-compacted characters—what influence would you
bring to bear upon the ingots?
Y.M. Work it out yourself. Proceed.
O.M. Suppose I turn upon one of them a steam-jet during a long
succession of hours. Will there be a result?
Y.M. None that I know of.
O.M. Why?
Y.M. A steam-jet cannot break down such a substance.
O.M. Very well. The steam is an _outside influence, _but it is
ineffective because the gold _takes no interest in it. _The ingot
remains as it was. Suppose we add to the steam some quicksilver in a
vaporized condition, and turn the jet upon the ingot, will there be an
instantaneous result?
Y.M. No.
O.M. The _quicksilver _is an outside influence which gold (by its
peculiar nature—say _temperament, disposition) cannot be indifferent
to. _It stirs up the interest of the gold, although we do not perceive
it; but a _single _application of the influence works no damage. Let us
continue the application in a steady stream, and call each minute a
year. By the end of ten or twenty minutes—ten or twenty years—the
little ingot is sodden with quicksilver, its virtues are gone, its
character is degraded. At last it is ready to yield to a temptation
which it would have taken no notice of, ten or twenty years ago. We
will apply that temptation in the form of a pressure of my finger. You
note the result?
Y.M. Yes; the ingot has crumbled to sand. I understand, now. It is not
the _single _outside influence that does the work, but only the _last
_one of a long and disintegrating accumulation of them. I see, now, how
my _single _impulse to rob the man is not the one that makes me do it,
but only the _last _one of a preparatory series. You might illustrate
with a parable.
_A Parable_
O.M. I will. There was once a pair of New England boys—twins. They were
alike in good dispositions, feckless morals, and personal appearance.
They were the models of the Sunday—school. At fifteen George had the
opportunity to go as cabin-boy in a whale-ship, and sailed away for the
Pacific. Henry remained at home in the village. At eighteen George was
a sailor before the mast, and Henry was teacher of the advanced Bible
class. At twenty-two George, through fighting-habits and
drinking-habits acquired at sea and in the sailor boarding-houses of
the European and Oriental ports, was a common rough in Hong-Kong, and
out of a job; and Henry was superintendent of the Sunday-school. At
twenty-six George was a wanderer, a tramp, and Henry was pastor of the
village church. Then George came home, and was Henry’s guest. One
evening a man passed by and turned down the lane, and Henry said, with
a pathetic smile, “Without intending me a discomfort, that man is
always keeping me reminded of my pinching poverty, for he carries heaps
of money about him, and goes by here every evening of his life.” That
_outside influence _—that remark—was enough for George, but _it _was
not the one that made him ambush the man and rob him, it merely
represented the eleven years’ accumulation of such influences, and gave
birth to the act for which their long gestation had made preparation.
It had never entered the head of Henry to rob the man—his ingot had
been subjected to clean steam only; but George’s had been subjected to
vaporized quicksilver.
V