thirty miles an hour, goes speeding on the highway and gets arrested.
The fine which has to be paid by father is an infinitesimal part of the
harm and hurt which is caused the parents.
You cannot sit in a draft and catch a heavy cold, without causing a
certain amount of anxiety and distress to your sister, or your wife, who
are devoted to you--if it runs into pneumonia, the hurt to them is
greater; and if you happen to die of it, that may release you from
further suffering, only to make theirs heaviest of all.
I went to a dance, last summer, at the home of a young married couple in
a fashionable community. The hostess was rather an extreme example of
the up-to-date school, with the well formed habit of looking at things
from the point-of-view of her own inclinations.
After the dancing had been going on a short while, she found she was not
in the humor for it; the men who asked her to dance didn't interest her,
and she felt like going to bed. Being a firm believer in individualism
and thinking only of herself, she quietly withdrew and went to bed.
A number of her guests had not yet arrived. When they did and sought to
greet their hostess, inquiries were made and in the end everybody was
apprised of her behavior. She imagined that it concerned only herself,
whereas the sympathy, affection, the kindly attitude which all those
people were disposed to have for her suffered a shock. A touch of
resentment and antipathy was left behind which would make itself felt in
future relations. The sympathy and affection of those about us is a part
of life too precious and necessary to our well-being to be lightly cast
aside. The loss to us and to them, however trifling in any one
instance, may in the course of time involve lasting consequences.
In the various examples we have cited so far, it has been a question of
hurting or depriving others, through lack of consideration. A similar
motive comes into play in prompting us to bestow pleasure upon others.
Human sympathy causes us to delight in the joy of those we love, just as
their sorrow saddens us. We like to give them presents, prepare
surprises for them, devise ways and means of adding to their happiness.
Such acts on our part are usually accompanied by a very sweet and lovely
feeling of sentiment. Our hearts are warmed by the thought and sight of
this good that is coming to those we love. Some cynical and shallow
reasoners like to argue that such acts are only a disguised form of
selfishness because, as we have a sympathetic share in the pleasure, we
benefit by it, ourselves. Any such argument is usually found to be no
more than a quibble on words and a pretense of cleverness. Nevertheless,
as this sort of talk is liable to crop up at any time, in connection
with human motives, and cause a confusion of idea, it may be just as
well to pause for a moment and dispose of it.
If you find our little friend Harry sobbing on a tree stump because he
has lost his apple, you feel sorry for him--because you understand and
sympathize. If you had an apple in your pocket, you would give it to
him. You are not thinking of yourself--you are thinking of him. If Jake
comes along and restores the apple and Harry stops crying and offers
Jake half, the feeling of gladness that comes to you has nothing selfish
in it at all. There is no motive or calculation of self-gratification in
the sentiments you have experienced. They are inspired, not by the
thought of your own welfare, but the welfare of another. The essence of
them is sympathy and affection.
So it is with countless acts of kindness which frequently involve the
need of denying our selfish inclinations--depriving ourselves of
personal gratifications--for the sake of helping others who are in
trouble, or bringing pleasure to those we love. The first
consideration--the true determining motive--is not any thought of the
benefit to ourselves, but the benefit to them. In every-day language the
word used to characterize such acts and feelings is generosity--and this
is properly and popularly considered the exact opposite of selfishness.
Now because it has been observed by thoughtful people that acts of
generosity are frequently accompanied by a feeling of satisfaction and
gladness, this fact has been seized upon by a certain order of
cold-blooded individuals as a pretext for distorting the truth. They
argue that this feeling of satisfaction with yourself which comes from
generosity is such a desirable thing in your eyes that you want it for
yourself--consequently when you show kindness and sympathy for others
you are obeying the same motive as the cynic, himself, who having small
sympathy for others, prefers the frank gratification of his own ego.
This, of course, is pure sophistry. But if any mind is so kinked that it
must reason that way, there is a simple answer which will suffice to
bring it through the question to the main point. Whenever the pleasure
to be derived by an individual comes to him through sympathy and
affection and consideration for the feelings of another--that sort of
pleasure is so different in its origin and its essence from the pleasure
which comes from the gratification of personal appetites and desires
that the mass of mankind has recognized the difference since the
beginning of civilization.
One kind of pleasure flows from acts of sentiment for others' sake; the
other kind is rooted in the indulgence of personal desires. The essence
of one is usually characterized as generosity; the other, selfishness.
If the cynic will promise to keep the distinction clear in his head and
stop confusing himself with quibbles or words, he may call the motives
any names he likes.
This question of consideration for others is so important and
far-reaching in its effect on human lives that no pains should be spared
to keep it from being lost sight of or misunderstood. And yet, as we
have observed, at the present time, among up-to-date individuals, it is
apparently being lost sight of, more and more. In a general way, it is
being bunched with those other old-fashioned notions and conventions
that were wont to interfere with the freedom of the individual. Why
should an emancipated ego, brought up in the modern way, be constantly
bothered by the thought of others?
If we pause and examine this attitude of mind, dispassionately, from
another angle, a possible explanation suggests itself. There may be two
reasons, of a distinct and different sort why any given person might
fail to feel the significance of so vital a part of life.
In the first place, some natures may be rather lacking in the qualities
of affection and sympathy. All people are not alike, in this respect, by
any means. Some are instinctively warm-hearted and intense in their
feelings--others are naturally inclined to coldness and indifference. To
a cold nature, the woes or pleasures of others are of comparatively
minor consequence. There is no rush of heart-felt sympathy, if the
supply is so thin and weak that it hardly suffices for the needs of
self.
That is one explanation of how certain natures, if left to their own
resources, can be lacking in consideration.
But if we are right in assuming that the general run of human nature is
much the same to-day as it has always been, there ought to be the same
instincts of sympathy and affection, the same kind of warm-hearts among
our new generation, as there were in the time of our grandmothers. As
consideration for others is founded on these, there must be some other
explanation for the lack of consideration which is a growing tendency,
obvious to all.
The truth of the matter seems to be that consideration for others is not
a primitive instinct like hunger or thirst; nor is it a simple, inborn
quality or impulse, like affection or sympathy. It requires a certain
amount of thoughtfulness, reflection and control of self, in order to
transfer one's attention from one's own inclination and interest to the
welfare of another, especially when that other is not at hand to offer a
reminder or make an appeal.
But under proper guidance, through enlightenment and constant exercise,
this faculty is susceptible of such development that it may in time
permeate the mind, become an essential part of the character, a sort of
second nature, just as real and solid, and infinitely more lovely than
the instincts which it dominates.
The capacity and capability necessary for this development are present
to a greater or less extent in all human natures. But through neglect
and mismanagement and lack of enlightenment and exercise, they may
shrivel and fade and contribute very little to beauty of character, or
the joy of living.
In the light of the foregoing observations, there is nothing in the
attitude of the new generation toward this whole question which remains
incomprehensible, or even very puzzling. Their advanced ideas, when
sifted down, would seem to signify no more than insufficient development
of the finer and better side of their natures, and a lack of
understanding concerning the important rôle which affection and sympathy
are capable of playing in the search for happiness. This part of their
training and education has been neglected, somehow, in the confusion
arising from lost traditions and standards. An essential and beautiful
part of their humanity has been allowed to shrivel away until it has
been lost sight of in their calculations.
In all the past periods of our civilization, when obedience and
discipline held sway, no such over-sight was likely to occur. One of the
first lessons repeatedly and forcibly impressed upon every growing
individual was the necessity of considering other people's wishes. There
were three people at least, who had always to be considered--mother,
father and God. Consideration of these would be rewarded and lack of
consideration, sooner or later, was sure to bring punishment.
In this old-fashioned way--crudely, if you will, but nevertheless with
relative effectiveness--a habit of mind, was established, involving
self-control, which readily became second nature. It became almost
instinctive to pause in the presence of temptation or selfish
inclination, and consider the effect upon others. Once this habit was
formed, the teachings of mother and father, of Sunday school, church and
Bible all tended to develop it and extend its application--love your
fellows, let your sympathy and affection flow out to them, consider
their welfare, in all that you do, and you will be blessed and happy.
How is that habit of mind--that second nature--being acquired to-day and
how will it be acquired in the future, among people who have ceased to
respect the traditions of the past and are pleased to accept the idea of
the freedom of the individual, the right to gratify yourself and every
inclination, without fear or favor?
Must there be a return to the old-fashioned methods and beliefs? Nothing
is more unlikely. As a reaction against the present tendency, there may
be efforts on the part of some well-intentioned people to return to the
régime of obedience, discipline and the fear of God. But such reactions
do not usually last very long. The next step that will help toward the
real solution of the problem must be forward, not backward. The
underlying reason why the old formulas have been losing their prestige
is probably because there were fallacies and crudities contained in them
which humanity has outgrown.
You might look back with longing to the happy state you were in when you
believed in Santa Claus, but after you have reached a certain age, all
the king's horses and all the king's men cannot bring Santa Claus back
to you again.
V
FAITH
If the life of man were confined to the exercise of his senses and
material instincts, there would be no problems of conduct. There would
be perceptions and sensations,--some pleasant, others disagreeable.
Appetites and desires would make themselves felt and he would seek to
satisfy them.
The underlying motive of all his acts would be to prolong life, go
toward pleasure and away from pain.
All about us are living things--plants, fish, animals--whose existence,
as far as we know, seems limited to these simple considerations. They
form part of man's life--one side of his nature--the animal side.
If, in addition to this life of the senses, we concede to man a brain, a
thinking apparatus, which enables him to remember, compare, calculate,
the question of his conduct at any given time is apt to become more
complicated, through considerations of reason. As we have seen in our
previous discussions, his brain may decide him to forego a present
pleasure, in order to escape a future pain; or to endure a present pain,
for the sake of a future pleasure.
Still, the mere addition of a reasoning mind, would in no way alter the
nature of the underlying motive. The considerations would still remain
purely animal--prolonging life, getting the greatest sum of pleasure,
avoiding the greatest sum of pain.
It is not until we begin to take note of the sympathies, affections,
generous emotions of which man is capable, that we recognize another and
inner nature, which may be concerned and moved by considerations that
don't depend upon sensations, or selfish instincts and are not, in their
very essence, animal at all. In every day language, this is the heart
and the heart-life of man. It is as far removed from the brain, as it is
from the senses. The brainiest people may be the least affectionate and
the least generous--just as the most sensual people may so be.
We have seen, in discussing this side of human nature, the bearing it
has on the conduct of the individual. More delicate and more complicated
motives and considerations are introduced into the problem through its
influence. Its essence is sweeter, finer, less obvious and more
elevating than the instincts which the brute beasts share with us.
But sensations, calculations and sympathetic emotions are still not
enough to explain some of the most important questions and decisions
that enter into the life of man. Above and beyond all these, deeper,
vaguer, more complicated and more inspiring, is another function or
quality--another side of his nature--which distinguishes him completely
from all the other earthly creatures. This is the spiritual side, the
soul,--the home of conscience, honor, responsibility, idealism.
Let us begin with some simple examples:
If a big bully kicks a little boy; or a man deserts his friend in the
hour of need; or an innocent person is sent to prison;--a feeling of
protest arises within me. It tells me such things ought not to be. They
are not right, they are wrong.
My self-interest has nothing to do with it. As far as I am personally
concerned, none of these things makes the slightest difference.
If I turn to my intellect, that offers me no explanation. It tells me
that the bully is only obeying his natural instincts, in the same way a
cat does when it springs on a mouse. It is logical and proper for each
and every living thing to act in accordance with its impulses. As for
the man who deserts his friend, he is merely looking out for himself--a
perfectly reasonable thing for any one to do. When we come to the third
case, my intellect tells me that the person sent to prison was given a
fair trial in accordance with the laws--the evidence was against
him--and he was adjudged guilty. Because I happen to know that he was
innocent, does that make the occurrence any less reasonable? As I was
not concerned in it, I cannot be held accountable, so what difference
does it make to me?
My affections give me the same negative response as my self-interest and
my reason. The bully, the small boy; the man and his friend; the
innocent person--they are strangers to me; no personal attachment
applies to any of them.
And yet the feeling within me is unmistakable. Where does it come from?
That other side of my nature, where dwells the sense of right and wrong.
It is just as vague and mysterious, but just as real as another kind of
sense to which it may be compared. This other sense also baffles the
intellect, but it is none the less generally recognized and accepted.
Certain kinds of music, sunsets, moonlight nights, paintings, arouse in
me a delicate feeling of pleasure, mixed with admiration. It is not
only my physical sensations which are involved--my eyes and my ears--but
something deeper within me which seems to be quite apart from reason or
intellect.
Also my interest and attention are by no means confined to the
sensations which I am experiencing; I consider the things themselves and
call them beautiful. Certain other sounds and sights strike me as
discordant, or unpleasant, and I call them ugly. And the faculty within
me which determines this, I call a sense of Beauty.
In the same way, this other sense within me is appealed to by certain
deeds and qualities of men. That which is fine, just, generous, noble, I
call right; another sort of thing, of a contrary tendency, I call wrong.
And the faculty, itself, I call a sense of right and wrong.
Suppose an individual walking along a road, wondering how he is going to
raise fifty dollars which he needs very badly, comes upon an automobile
standing in a lonely spot; and then sees a lady who has been picking
wild-flowers, get into the automobile and after fussing with her
flowers, her wrap, her hand-bag and handkerchief, let drop some small
object to the ground, before driving away. He strolls up to the spot and
picks up the object, which proves to be a purse containing eighty
dollars in bank-notes. There is no one in sight, and after a moment's
hesitation, obeying an impulse of self-interest, he pockets the money,
throws the purse into the bushes and turns his steps another way.
As far as his self-interest and his intellect are concerned, they agree
in telling him he is very lucky. He has obtained the money which he
wanted, he has broken no law, and there is not the slightest risk or
danger of any sort involved in his conduct. He can pay his debt and have
money to spare, with every reason to feel happy over his good fortune.
But if the spiritual side of his nature is at all developed, he is apt
to be tormented by a vague, persistent feeling of another kind. It tells
him he has done something unworthy of his better self. In every day
language, we say he is troubled by his conscience.
It not infrequently happens that individuals who have done wrong are so
affected by this feeling that they make restitution and confession when
they are safely beyond the reach of detection.
Neither the intellect nor self-interest plays any part in such conduct,
which is contrary to the advice of both. It is inspired uniquely by this
soul-feeling, called conscience.
Slightly different from this, but belonging to the same family, is the
sentiment of honor.
A number of years ago, a young man whom I knew, happened to go to a
notorious gambling house in New York, with a couple of companions. One
of these young men was a member of a wealthy family and had been
frequently to this place, where he was always most welcome. My friend
held a clerical position in a financial institution, was making his own
living, and at the time had about fifteen hundred dollars in the bank,
which represented his entire worldly assets. It was late at night, the
young men had been to a party and were in rather a hilarious and
reckless mood when they started playing roulette. After they used up the
money they had with them, they were allowed to continue playing on
credit, chips being supplied to them as called for. My friend, after
losing more than he could afford, was urged by desperation to keep on
trying to recoup, and when he finally left the house, in the early hours
of the morning, he had lost ten thousand dollars. That was the situation
which faced him in his sober senses, the next day.
A gambling debt has no standing in law. No legal claim of any kind could
be made against him and he was perfectly aware of the fact. The
proprietor of the establishment was a thoroughly unscrupulous
individual with a shady record, and the games played there were open to
a suspicion of crookedness. My friend had previously been told that. He
had only to let the loss go unpaid and ignore the whole incident,
without the slightest fear of consequences, so far as honest people were
concerned.
But this young man felt that such conduct would not be honorable. So he
went to the place again, explained to the proprietor his financial
situation and promised to pay off as much as he could, year by year,
until the debt was cancelled. It took him five years to accomplish this,
and during that time, he stuck faithfully to a resolve not to touch a
card or gamble in any way. Later on the young man became vice-president
of one of the largest financial institutions in America, a position
which he still holds. He had then, and still has a sense of honor.
Many a gentleman of good breeding and fine feelings has told deliberate
lies and perjured himself under oath, in order to shield the reputation
of a lady. Even though he may be under no personal obligation to the
lady in question, but merely an accidental witness of some occurrence, a
certain kind of man feels compelled by his sense of honor to protect
her. It is not honest to tell a lie, it is a legal offense to perjure
one's self; there is no reason of the intellect to make you bear false
witness and defeat the ends of justice for the sake of an individual,
who may have done wrong and be deserving of punishment.
Yet so it is and among those who share this sense there is a beauty and
nobility about such conduct which is akin to that of a sunset or moonlit
night.
Let us take an example of a more commonplace kind in the business world.
Suppose a certain individual, Jones, living in a small community has a
coal yard. When the autumn comes, Jones's bins are piled high and in
addition to this, Jones has several carloads of coal on a siding, and
numerous other carloads in transit. Jones's brother, who is interested
in a coal mine, has advised Jones that as there is prospect of a miner's
strike, he had better get his full winter's supply in advance, with a
little extra and this has been so arranged. The strike takes place as
predicted and then owing to war conditions in Europe, there comes a coal
shortage throughout the land.
With the arrival of the first touch of winter various people in the
community begin sending orders to Jones. In the meantime, he has been
doing a little thinking. His customers have got to have coal and they've
got to buy it from him. Under existing conditions, there is no other
way for them to procure it, at any price. So to speak, he holds them in
the hollow of his hand.
His entire supply has cost him five dollars a ton and he had figured to
sell it at six, which would allow him his usual satisfactory profit. But
now it dawns upon him that if he refuses to sell a single ton of it for
less than twenty dollars, his people will have to pay that, or freeze,
and he will make more profit in this one winter than all the rest of the
years put together.
So he makes up his mind to put up his price to twenty dollars and to
meet all complaints by replying with a shrug that he is not asking any
one to buy--they are free to get their coal elsewhere.
Is not Jones perfectly honest? Would any business man of the present day
blame him? Is he not entitled to make all the money he can, in
accordance with the laws? Is there not every reason for his intellect to
approve of his shrewdness in taking advantage of his opportunity?
But suppose Jones's mother is a sweet, old-fashioned lady whom he has
always loved and revered; and suppose upon learning of the situation,
she calls her son to her side, takes his hand in hers and talks to him
in this wise:
"My son, these people are all dependent upon you, to keep from
freezing. They are entirely at your mercy. To take advantage of helpless
people and fleece them of their savings, because unexpected
circumstances have placed them in your power, is not the kind of thing I
could bear to see you do. It does not seem to me quite worthy or
honorable."