the sense of virtue alone. This idol of the incorruptible Robespierre
will not serve us. For virtue in its completeness dwells in no human
heart. One must have but a meagre conception of virtue, or else a very
limited intellectual capacity, who finds himself always self-contented.
Even the vainest of men are not in reality contented; their vanity
itself is in large degree only a sense of uncertainty about their
worth, so that they need the constant endorsement of others to satisfy
them. The maxim says that a good conscience makes a soft pillow, and
he who has this unfailing sense of duty done no doubt has happiness;
but I have not, as yet, fallen in with such a man. My impression is
that there is not one of us who has ever, even for a single day, done
his whole duty. Beyond this, I need not go. If one of my readers says
to me: “I am the man who has thus done his duty,”--well, he may be
quite right, but I do not care for that man’s nearer acquaintance.
The farther a man advances in the doing of his duty, so much the more
his conscience and perception grow refined. The circle of his duties
widens continually before him, so that he understands the Apostle Paul,
when, with perfect sincerity, and without false humility, he speaks of
himself as the “chief of sinners.”
Are, then, I ask again, philanthropy and the good deeds--public and
private--which it suggests, the secret of happiness? Love is a great
word, and the Apostle is altogether justified when in the familiar
passage of his letters he says that among the many things which perish,
love abides. But when in the same passage he says that it is possible
to speak with the tongues of angels, and give all one’s goods to feed
the poor, and even give one’s body to be burned, and yet not have
love,--then we comprehend without further explanation what he means by
love. For love is a part of God’s own being, which does not originate
in the hearts of men. One who possesses it knows well enough that it
is not his own. Even the pale human reflection of this Divine love
brings happiness, but it is a temporary happiness; and always with
the perilous uncertainty of a love which anticipates return, so that
the happiness depends upon the will of others. He, then, who yields
his heart absolutely to others, and stakes his happiness on their
affection, may some day find the terrible words of the Jewish prophet
true: “Cursed be the man that trusteth in man, and maketh flesh his
arm, and whose heart departeth from the Lord.” All this may be one day
a spiritual experience, which may convert his love into hate. That
apotheosis of hate which marks the talk of many a social agitator in
our day is but the evidence of those bitter disillusions of affection
which millions have been called to feel.
Is, then, happiness to be found in work? Work is certainly one great
factor of human happiness--indeed, in one sense, the greatest; for
without work all happiness which is not mere intoxication is absolutely
denied. In order to get the capacity for happiness, one must obey the
commands: “Six days shalt thou labor,” and “In the sweat of thy face
shalt thou eat bread.” Of all seekers for happiness, the most foolish
are those who evade these two conditions. Without work no man can be
happy. In this negative statement the saying is absolutely true. And
yet, it is a greater error to suppose that work is in itself happiness,
or to believe that every work leads to happiness. It is not alone our
imagination that pictures another ideal, so that one can hardly imagine
a heaven, or an earthly paradise, as devoted to unremitting work; it
is also true--and it is much more to be remembered--that only a fool
can be wholly contented with the work that he does. One might even say
that the wisest see most clearly the incompleteness of their work, so
that not one of them has been able, at the end of his day’s work, to
say of it: “Behold, it is very good.” This mere praise of work, then,
is, for the most part, only a sort of a spur, or whip, with which one
urges himself, or others, to the tasks of life; so that even those
who take pride in describing themselves as “working-people” are much
concerned to reduce as far as possible their working day. If work were
essentially the same as happiness, these people would be seeking to
prolong as much as possible the hours of work.
Of all seekers for happiness, however, the most extraordinary are those
who look for it in the philosophy of pessimism; yet of these there
are not a few, and by no means of the baser sort. There is, however,
almost always associated with the creed of pessimism a certain false
impression of one’s own importance. It has an appearance of magnanimity
to throw overboard all one’s hopes, and to believe that everything,
oneself included, is bad. For this, at least, is true, that if all are
bad, he who sees that it is so, and admits it, is, after all, the least
bad; and if he is sincerely contented that others should regard him as
bad, he may be not far from the way to something better. Yet, pessimism
as a permanent habit of mind is, for the most part, only a mantle of
philosophy through which, when it is thrown back, there looks out the
face of vanity;--a vanity which is never satisfied and which withholds
one forever from a contented mind.
Finally, of all people who seek for happiness, the most unhappy are
those who seek it in mere conformity to religious creeds. There are
many such people in our day, and they find themselves in the end
bitterly disappointed. For all church organizations are inclined to
promise more than they can assure, and are like nets to catch all
manner of fish. In a passage from the works of the late Professor
Gelzer, he remarks that, for most church-going people, worship is
nothing more than “appearing at Court once a week to present one’s
respects to the throne.” He adds that there is the same formal
service of man also; for one sometimes does this service, or, as the
Bible says, “Hath wrought a good work upon me,” only for the better
maintenance in the future of one’s own self-esteem.
I shall not contradict what so distinguished a man out of his rich
experience has said on this subject. Yet, for my own part, I must still
believe that if a human soul worships God even in the most irrational
way, and recognizes its dependence on Him, God will not forsake that
soul. I must believe, still further, that the feeblest and most
superstitious expressions of religion bring to one who, even with
occasional sincerity, persists in them, more happiness than the most
brilliant philosophy of atheism can offer. Yet this blessing bestowed
upon simple souls by the patience of God is not to be attained in
its fulness by those who are capable of larger insight. Such persons
have the duty laid on them to free the Christian Religion from the
lukewarmness which for two thousand years has afflicted it. Theirs is
the duty of dissatisfaction with the forms and formulas of the Church.
No mere science of religion should content them; for such a science
alone never brought happiness to man, and still offers to a people who
do not really understand its teachings, stones instead of bread. So
long as people seek contentment in these ways, their path to happiness
must abound in disappointments; and these disappointments become the
harder to bear because people, as a rule, do not dare to confess either
to themselves, or to others, that they are thus disappointed. They must
pretend to themselves that they are satisfied because they see no path
which may lead them back to happiness and peace.
Such, then, are some of the ways by which, with slight modifications
and combinations, the human race through all its history has sought
for happiness; and if we do not recognize these ways in history, we may
find them all with more or less distinctness in our own experience. And
yet by no one of these ways has the race found the happiness it seeks.
What, then, I ask once more, is the path to this end?
The first and the most essential condition of true happiness, I answer,
is a firm faith in the moral order of the world. If one lack this, if
it be held that the world is governed by chance or by those changeless
laws of nature which in their dealings with the weak are merciless, or
if, finally, one imagine the world controlled by the cunning and power
of man,--then there is no hope of personal happiness. In such an order
of the world, there is nothing left for the individual but to rule, or
to be ruled; to be either the anvil or the hammer; and it is hard to
say which of the two would be to an honorable man the more unworthy lot.
In national life especially, this view of the world leads to constant
war and preparation for war, and the text-book of politics becomes
The Prince of Machiavelli. From such a condition of war the only
possible, though partial, deliverance would be through some vast
governmental control, ruling with iron force and comprehending in
itself all civilized peoples. Such a State would, at least, make war
between States impossible, as it was impossible in the Roman Empire of
the Cæsars, and as Napoleon I. dreamed that it might be impossible in
Europe. Every right-minded man must inwardly protest against a view
which thus robs man in his person of his will and in his politics of
his freedom; and history also teaches, in many incidents, the emptiness
and folly of such a view. There are some persons who believe that they
are forced to accept this social creed, because the conception of the
world as a moral order does not seem to them sufficiently proved.
To such persons, I can only repeat that which is written above the
entrance to Dante’s hell:
“_Through me the way is to the city dolent;
Through me the way is to eternal dole;
Through me the way among the people lost._
* * * * *
_All hope abandon, ye who enter in!_”[6]
I go on to say, however, that formal proof of this moral order of the
world is impossible. The ancient Hebrews believed that one could not
look upon the face of God and live, and Christianity, in its turn,
offers us no formal proof of the character of God. The only path that
leads to the proof of God is that which is followed in the Sermon on
the Mount: “Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.”
Here is a proof which any one may test whose heart is pure; while
from those who merely reason about God’s order of the world He hides
Himself, and no man may rend by force the veil that covers Him.
If, then, one begins simply to live as in a moral world, his path to
happiness lies plainly before him. The door is open and no man can shut
it. Within his heart there is a certain stability, rest, and assurance,
which endure and even gather strength amid all outward storms. His
heart becomes, as the Psalmist says, not froward or fearful, but
“fixed.” The only peril from which he now has to guard himself is
the peril of regarding too seriously the changeful impressions and
events of each day. His desire must be to live resolutely in one even
mood, and to look for his daily share of conscious happiness not in
his emotions, but in his activity. Then for the first time he learns
what work really is. It is no more to him a fetish, to be served
with anxious fear; it is no longer an idol through which he worships
himself; it is simply the natural and healthy way of life, which frees
him not only from the many spiritual evils which are produced by
idleness, but also from numberless physical evils which have the same
source. Happy work is the healthiest of human conditions. Honest sweat
on the brow is the source of permanent and self-renewing power and of
light-heartedness; and these together make one really happy. Indeed,
the later discoveries of medical science are teaching us that physical
health is secured only by a high degree of power of resistance against
enemies which life cannot avoid. But this power of resistance--as one
may soon discover--is not a merely physical capacity; it is quite as
much a moral quality and in large part the product of moral effort.
Here, then, are two secrets of happiness which are fundamentally
inseparable: Life directed by faith in the permanent moral order of
the world, and Work done in that same faith. Beyond these two, and one
other which I shall mention later, all other ways of happiness are
secondary, and indeed all else comes of its own accord, according to
one’s special needs, if only one holds firmly to these primary sources
of spiritual power.
I go on to mention a few of these subordinate rules for happiness which
may be deduced from the experience of life. They are mere maxims of
conduct to which many others might be added.
We need, for instance, to be at the same time both brave and humble.
That is the meaning of the strange word of the Apostle: “When I am
weak, then am I strong.” Either quality alone does more harm than good.
Again, one must not make pleasure an end, for pleasure comes of its own
accord in the right way of life, and the simplest, the cheapest, and
the most inevitable pleasures are the best.
Again, one can bear all troubles, except two: worry and sin.
Further, all that is really excellent has a small beginning. The good
does not show its best at once.
Finally, all paths which it is best to follow, are entered by open
doors.
There are, it must be added, some difficulties and problems which
thoughtful people should take into account in their intercourse with
others. One must not hate other people, or, on the other hand, idolize
them, or take their opinions, demands, and judgments too seriously.
One must not sit in judgment on others, or, on the other hand, submit
himself to their judgment. One must not court the society of those who
think much of themselves. Indeed, I may say in general that, except
in certain callings, one should not cultivate acquaintance with great
people, or fine people, with the rich, or the fashionable, but so far
as possible, without repelling them, should avoid their company. Among
the best sources of happiness is the enjoyment found in small things
and among humble people; and many a bitter experience is avoided by the
habit of an unassuming life. The best way to have permanent peace with
the world is not to expect much of it; not to be afraid of it; so far
as one can without self-deception see the good in it; and to regard the
evil as something powerless and temporary which will soon defeat itself.
In short, I may in conclusion say, that one must not take this life too
seriously. As soon as we live above it, much of it becomes unimportant,
and if the essentials are secure we must not care too much for the
subordinate. Many of the best people suffer from this magnifying
of trifles, and especially from their dependence on other people’s
opinions; and this lack of proportion makes for such people each day’s
work much more difficult than it would otherwise be.
I have said that these practical rules might be indefinitely
multiplied. But they are all, as I have also said, in reality
superfluous. For if the soil of the heart is fertilized, as I
have already described, then these fruits of life grow out of it
spontaneously, and serve the special needs of the individual. The
essential question concerns the soil itself, without which not one
of these practical fruits can grow. Thus I may say in general that
I take no great interest in what people call systems of morals, or
in the rules of conduct which they prescribe. A system of morals
either issues spontaneously from a habit of mind, which in its turn
issues from a view of life, attained even through the death of one’s
old self; or else such a system is nothing but a series of beautiful
maxims, pleasant to hear, good to record in diaries and calendars, but
incapable of converting the human heart.
I do not care to multiply the material for these collections of maxims.
I shall only add one last and solemn truth. It is this,--that under
the conditions of human life unhappiness also is necessary. Indeed,
if one cared to state it in a paradox, he might say that unhappiness
is essential to happiness. In the first place, as the experience of
life plainly shows, unhappiness is inevitable, and one must in one way
or another reconcile himself to it. The most to which one can attain
in this human lot is perfect adjustment to one’s destiny; that inward
and permanent peace which, as Isaiah says, is like an “overflowing
stream.” It is this peace and this alone which Christ promises to
his disciples, and it is this, and no outward satisfaction, which the
Apostle Paul expects for his fellow-Christians, when, at the end of his
unpeaceful life, he prays that “the peace of Christ may rule” in their
hearts.
Thus, for real happiness the outward issue of events may come to
have no high importance. Stoicism endeavored to solve the problem of
happiness by developing insensibility to pain, but its endeavor was
vain. The problem of happiness is to be solved in quite another way.
One must accept his suffering and unhappiness, and adjust himself to
them. And to this end one is, first of all, helped by considering what
unhappiness implies, and by living consistently above the sway of
momentary feeling. For unhappiness does us good in no less than three
ways,--ways which are cumulative in their effect. It is, in the first
place, a punishment, the natural consequence of our deeds. It is,
thus considered, a part of those deeds themselves, and therefore must
follow them as surely as a logical consequence follows its premise.
Unhappiness is, secondly, a cleansing process, waking us to greater
seriousness and greater receptivity to truth. Thirdly, unhappiness
recalls us to self-examination and fortifies us by disclosing what is
our own strength, and what is God’s strength. By no other experience
does one attain that spiritual courage which is far removed from
self-confidence and very near to humility. In a word, it must be said
that the deeper life of man and that noble bearing which we remark in
some people, and which no one, whatever be his station, can falsely
assume, are attained only through faithful endurance of misfortune.
That word of the Apostle Paul, “We glory in tribulations,” is, like
many of his sayings, absolutely unintelligible to any one who has not
experienced what renewal of power and what profound happiness may be
discovered through misfortune itself. It is a form of happiness which
one never forgets if he has once really experienced it.
This, then, is the riddle of life which perplexes many a man and turns
him from the right way,--that good people do not get the good things
which might seem to them their due.
“_The prophet host, the martyr throng,
Reckoned, the world as dross,
Despised the shame, endured the wrong,
Counting their gain, their loss;
And He, to whom they sang their song,
Was nailed upon the cross._”
Suffering, then, lies on the road to life, and one must expect to meet
it if he would be happy. Many a person, when he sees this lion in
his path, turns about and contents himself with something less than
happiness. And yet it is also true, as experience teaches, that in
our misfortunes, as in our enjoyments, imagination greatly outruns
reality. Our pain is seldom as great as our imagination pictures it.
Sorrow is often the gate which opens into great happiness. Thus the
true life calls for a certain severity of dealing, as if one should
say to himself: “You may like to do this thing, or you may not like
to do it, but you must do it”; and true education rests on these two
foundation stones,--love of truth and courage for the right. Without
them, education is worthless. It is like the kingdom of God which is to
be taken by violence, “And the violent take it with force.” And thus,
of all the human qualities which lead to happiness, certainly the most
essential is courage.
We look back, then, finally, over what has been said, and repeat what
a gifted authoress of our time, Gisela Grimm, has said in her drama
of Old Scotland: “Happiness is communion with God, and the central
spiritual quality which attains this communion is courage.” Other
happiness than this is not to be found on earth, and if there were
happiness without these traits, it would not be the happiness we
should desire. And this kind of happiness is real. It is not, like
every other dream of happiness, an illusion from which sooner or
later one must wake. It does not issue from our achievements or our
compulsions. On the contrary, when we have once accepted and made our
own the view of life which I have described, and have ceased to look
about us for some other view, then happiness comes to us by the way.
It is a stream of inward peace; broadening as we grow older, first
enriching our own souls and then pouring itself forth to bless other
lives.
This is the goal to which our life must attain, if it hope for
happiness, and to this goal it can attain. Indeed, if once the first
decision be made, and the first steps taken, then, as Dante says:
... “_This mount is such, that ever
At the beginning down below ’tis tiresome,
And aye the more one climbs, the less it hurts.
Therefore, when it shall seem so pleasant to thee,
That going up shall be to thee as easy
As going down the current in a boat,
Then at this pathway’s ending thou wilt be._”[7]
Below at the foot of the mountain the fixed decision is demanded. There
one must absolutely determine to pay any price which shall be asked
for the happiness which is real. No further step can be taken without
this first resolution, and by no easier path has any one attained the
happiness he sought. Goethe, the teacher of those who sought happiness
in other ways, admitted--as I have said--that in seventy-five years of
life he had had four weeks of content, and no one who has followed him
can, at the end of life, when asked what his conscience testifies, make
better reply. We, on the other hand, should be able, at the last, to
say: “The days of our years are threescore years and ten, and though we
be so strong as to come to fourscore years, and though there has been
much labor and sorrow, still it has been a life of happiness.”
VII. THE MEANING OF LIFE
VII. THE MEANING OF LIFE
This is the question of questions. A man must be wholly superficial or
wholly animal who does not at some time in his life ask what is the
meaning of his life. Yet, sad to say, most men end their lives without
finding an answer. Some repeat, in their darker moods, the melancholy
confession of a mediæval philosopher: “I live, but know not how long;
I die, but know not when; I depart, but know not whither. How is it
possible for me to fancy myself happy!” Others drive from their minds
these morbid reflections which, as they say, “lead to nothing,” and
repeat: “Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.”
Even among what we call cultivated people, where education has made a
profounder view accessible, the number of those who find the meaning
of life is by no means large. After some vain and superficial attempts
to save themselves they yield at last, and often far too soon, to the
pitiful programme of self-indulgence. And what is their next step? It
is to pursue consistently this programme. But there is not long left
the health which is necessary for this life of eating and drinking, and
then in throngs they make their pilgrimages, the women at the front,
to Pastor Kneipp, or Dr. Metzger, or some other infallible healer,
hoping for a quick restoration and a second chance to waste their lives.
Still others there are who have not the means to adopt this plan of
life. Many of these seek a substitute for it in some form of social
scrambling; or if this fails, commit themselves to the new doctrine
of economics, according to which the only real problem of life is the
“stomach problem,” and which teaches that in satisfying the stomach the
social ideals of the race will be also satisfied.
Still others there are who are more subtle and more critical. They have
come to see how impracticable are all these schemes to redeem life
from its troubles. Thus, after they have tried many half-way measures,
they come at last to the confession of the wisest of kings: “Vanity
of vanities, all is vanity.” They commit themselves to scepticism
concerning any meaning in life and to the worship of non-existence. To
them the end of life is to be Nirvana, annihilation, the forgetfulness
of that which life has been; and they fancy that they have attained
a very noble attitude toward life when, after many years of sharp
contention with their healthy human nature, which steadily protests
against these subtle negations, they are able at last to repeat the
words of the Hindoo sage:
“_Through birth and rebirth’s endless round
I ran and sought, but never found
Who framed and built this house of clay.
What misery!--birth for ay and ay!_
_O builder! thee at last I see!
Ne’er shalt thou build again for me._
_Thy rafters all are broken now,
Demolished lies thy ridgepole, low._
_My heart, demolished too, I ween,
An end of all desire hath seen._”[8]
Such is the final word of their philosophy. Neither light nor hope
is left for human life. He does the best who earliest recognizes the
hopelessness of life and hastens to its end.