A person who loses heart and hope through a personal bereavement is
like a grain of sand on the seashore complaining that the tide has
washed a neighboring grain out of sight. He is worse, for the bereaved
grain can not help itself; it has to be a grain of sand and play
the game of tide, win or lose; whereas he can quit—by watching his
opportunity can “quit a winner.” For sometimes we do beat “the man that
keeps the table”—never in the long run, but infrequently and out of
small stakes. But this is no time to “cash in” and go, for you can not
take your little winning with you. The time to quit is when you have
lost a big stake, your foolish hope of eventual success, your fortitude
and your love of the game. If you stay in the game, which you are not
compelled to do, take your losses in good temper and do not whine about
them. They are hard to bear, but that is no reason why you should be.
But we are told with tiresome iteration that we are “put here”
for some purpose (not disclosed) and have no right to retire until
“summoned”—it may be by small-pox, it may be by the bludgeon of a
blackguard, it may be by the kick of a cow; the “summoning” Power (said
to be the same as the “putting” Power) has not a nice taste in the
choice of messengers. That argument is not worth attention, for it is
unsupported by either evidence or anything resembling evidence. “Put
here.” Indeed! And by the keeper of the table! We were put here by
our parents—that is all that anybody knows about it; and they had no
authority and probably no intention.
The notion that we have not the right to take our own lives comes of
our consciousness that we have not the courage. It is the plea of the
coward—his excuse for continuing to live when he has nothing to live
for—or his provision against such a time in the future. If he were not
egotist as well as coward he would need no excuse. To one who does not
regard himself as the center of creation and his sorrows as throes of
the universe, life, if not worth living, is also not worth leaving. The
ancient philosopher who was asked why he did not die if, as he taught,
life was no better than death, replied: “Because death is no better
than life.” We do not know that either proposition is true, but the
matter is not worth considering, for both states are supportable—life
despite its pleasures and death despite its repose.
It was Robert G. Ingersoll’s opinion that there is rather too little
than too much suicide in the world—that people are so cowardly as to
live on long after endurance has ceased to be a virtue. This view
is but a return to the wisdom of the ancients, in whose splendid
civilization suicide had as honorable place as any other courageous,
reasonable and unselfish act. Antony, Brutus, Cato, Seneca—these
were not of the kind of men to do deeds of cowardice and folly. The
smug, self-righteous modern way of looking upon the act as that of a
craven or a lunatic is the creation of priests, philistines and women.
If courage is manifest in endurance of profitless discomfort it is
cowardice to warm oneself when cold, to cure oneself when ill, to drive
away mosquitoes, to go in when it rains. The “pursuit of happiness,”
then, is not an “unalienable right,” for it implies avoidance of pain.
No principle is involved in this matter; suicide is justifiable or
not, according to circumstances; each case is to be considered on its
merits, and he having the act under advisement is sole judge. To his
decision, made with whatever light he may chance to have, all honest
minds will bow. The appellant has no court to which to take his appeal.
Nowhere is a jurisdiction so comprehensive as to embrace the right of
condemning the wretched to life.
Suicide is always courageous. We call it courage in a soldier merely to
face death—say to lead a forlorn hope—although he has a chance of life
and a certainty of “glory.” But the suicide does more than face death;
he incurs it, and with a certainty, not of glory, but of reproach. If
that is not courage we must reform our vocabulary.
True, there may be a higher courage in living than in dying. The
courage of the suicide, like that of the pirate, is not incompatible
with a selfish disregard of the rights of others—a cruel recreancy to
duty and decency. I have been asked: “Do you not think it cowardly
for a man to end his life, thereby leaving his family in want?” No,
I do not; I think it selfish and cruel. Is not that enough to say
of it? Must we distort words from their true meaning in order more
effectually to damn the act and cover its author with a greater infamy?
A word means something; despite the maunderings of the lexicographers,
it does not mean whatever you want it to mean. “Cowardice” means a
shrinking from danger, not a shirking of duty. The writer who allows
himself as much liberty in the use of words as he is allowed by the
dictionary-maker and by popular consent is a bad writer. He can make
no impression on his reader, and would do better service at the
ribbon-counter.
The ethics of suicide is not a simple matter; one can not lay down laws
of universal application, but each case is to be judged, if judged
at all, with a full knowledge of all the circumstances, including
the mental and moral make-up of the person taking his own life—an
impossible qualification for judgment. One’s time, race and religion
have much to do with it. Some peoples, like the ancient Romans and
the modern Japanese, have considered suicide in certain circumstances
honorable and obligatory; among ourselves it is held in disfavor. A
man of sense will not give much attention to considerations of this
kind, excepting in so far as they affect others, but in judging weak
offenders they are to be taken into the account. Speaking generally,
I should say that in our time and country the persons here noted (and
some others) are justified in removing themselves, and that in some of
them it is a duty:
One afflicted with a painful or loathsome and incurable disease.
One who is a heavy burden to his friends, with no prospect of their
relief.
One threatened with permanent insanity.
One irreclaimably addicted to drunkenness or some similarly destructive
or offensive habit.
One without friends, property, employment or hope.
One who has disgraced himself.
Why do we honor the valiant soldier, sailor, fireman? For obedience to
duty? Not at all; that alone—without the peril—seldom elicits remark,
never evokes enthusiasm. It is because he faced without flinching the
risk of that supreme disaster, or what we feel to be such—death. But
look you: the soldier braves the danger of death; the suicide braves
death itself! The leader of the forlorn hope may not be struck. The
sailor who voluntarily goes down with his ship may be picked up
or cast ashore. It is not certain that the wall will topple until
the fireman shall have descended with his precious burden. But the
suicide—his is the foeman that has never missed a mark, his the sea
that gives nothing back; the wall that he mounts bears no man’s weight.
And his, at the end of it all, is the dishonored grave where the wild
ass of public opinion
Stamps o’er his head but can not break his sleep.