Ingratitude, the most popular sin of humanity, is forgetfulness of the
heart. It is the revelation of the emptiness of pretended loyalty. The
individual who possesses it finds it the shortest cut to all the other
vices.
Ingratitude is a crime more despicable than revenge, which is only
returning evil for evil, while ingratitude returns evil for good.
People who are ungrateful rarely forgive you if you do them a good
turn. Their microscopic hearts resent the humiliation of having been
helped by a superior, and this rankling feeling filtering through their
petty natures often ends in hate and treachery.
Gratitude is thankfulness expressed in action. It is the instinctive
radiation of justice, giving new life and energy to the individual
from whom it emanates. It is the heart's recognition of kindness that
the lips cannot repay. Gratitude never counts its payments. It realizes
that no debt of kindness can ever be outlawed, ever be cancelled,
ever paid in full. Gratitude ever feels the insignificance of its
instalments; ingratitude the nothingness of the debt. Gratitude is the
flowering of a seed of kindness; ingratitude is the dead inactivity of
a seed dropped on a stone.
The expectation of gratitude is human; the rising superior to
ingratitude is almost divine. To desire recognition of our acts of
kindness and to hunger for appreciation and the simple justice of a
return of good for good, is natural. But man never rises to the dignity
of true living until he has the courage that dares to face ingratitude
calmly, and to pursue his course unchanged when his good works meet
with thanklessness or disdain.
Man should have only one court of appeals as to his actions, not "what
will be the result?" "how will it be received?" but "is it right?" Then
he should live his life in harmony with this standard alone, serenely,
bravely, loyally and unfalteringly, making "right for right's sake"
both his ideal and his inspiration.
Man should not be an automatic gas-machine, cleverly contrived to
release a given quantity of illumination under the stimulus of a
nickel. He should be like the great sun itself which ever radiates
light, warmth, life and power, because it cannot help doing so,
because these qualities fill the heart of the sun, and for it to have
them means that it must give them constantly. Let the sunlight of our
sympathy, tenderness, love, appreciation, influence and kindness ever
go out from us as a glow to brighten and hearten others. But do not
let us ever spoil it all by going through life constantly collecting
receipts, as vouchers, to stick on the file of our self-approval.
It is hard to see those who have sat at our board in the days of our
prosperity, flee as from a pestilence when misfortune darkens our
doorway; to see the loyalty upon which we would have staked our life,
that seemed firm as a rock, crack and splinter like thin glass at the
first real test; to know that the fire of friendship at which we could
ever warm our hands in our hour of need, has turned to cold, dead, gray
ashes, where warmth is but a haunting memory.
To realize that he who once lived in the sanctuary of our affection,
in the frank confidence where conversation seemed but our soliloquy,
and to whom our aims and aspirations have been thrown open with no
Bluebeard chamber of reserve, has been secretly poisoning the waters of
our reputation and undermining us by his lies and treachery, is hard
indeed. But no matter how the ingratitude stings us, we should just
swallow the sob, stifle the tear, smile serenely and bravely, and—seek
to forget.
In justice to ourselves we should not permit the ingratitude of a
few to make us condemn the whole world. We pay too much tribute to a
few human insects when we let their wrong-doing paralyze our faith
in humanity. It is a lie of the cynics that says "_all_ men are
ungrateful," a companion lie to "_all_ men have their price." We must
trust humanity if we would get good from humanity. He who thinks all
mankind is vile is a pessimist who mistakes his introspection for
observation; he looks into his own heart and thinks he sees the world.
He is like a cross-eyed man, who never sees what he seems to be looking
at.
Confidence and credit are the cornerstones of business, as they are
of society. Withdraw them from business and the activities and
enterprises of the world would stop in an instant, topple and fall
into chaos. Withdraw confidence in humanity from the individual, and
he becomes but a breathing, selfish egotist, the one good man left,
working overtime in nursing his petty grudge against the world because
a few whom he has favored have been ungrateful.
If a man receives a counterfeit dollar he does not straightway lose his
faith in all money,—at least there are no such instances on record in
this country. If he has a run of three or four days of dull weather he
does not say "the sun ceases to exist, there are surely no bright days
to come in the whole calendar of time."
If a man's breakfast is rendered an unpleasant memory by some item of
food that has outlived its usefulness, he does not forswear eating. If
a man finds under a tree an apple with a suspicious looking hole on
one side, he does not condemn the whole orchard; he simply confines
his criticism to that apple. But he who has helped some one who,
later, did not pass a good examination on gratitude, says in a voice
plaintive with the consciousness of injury, and with a nod of his head
that implies the wisdom of Solomon: "I have had my experience, I have
learned my lesson. This is the last time I will have faith in any man.
I did this for him, and that for him, and now, look at the result!"
Then he unrolls a long schedule of favors, carefully itemized and
added up, till it seems the pay-roll of a great city. He complains of
the injustice of one man, yet he is willing to be unjust to the whole
world, making it bear the punishment of the wrong of an individual.
There is too much vicarious suffering already in this earth of ours
without this lilliputian attempt to extend it by syndicating one man's
ingratitude. If one man drinks to excess, it is not absolute justice
to send the whole world to jail.
The farmer does not expect every seed that he sows in hope and faith
to fall on good ground and bring forth its harvest; he is perfectly
certain that this will not be so, cannot be. He is counting on the
final outcome of many seeds, on the harvest of all, rather than on the
harvest of one. If you really want gratitude, and must have it, be
willing to make many men your debtors.
The more unselfish, charitable and exalted the life and mission of the
individual, the larger will be the number of instances of ingratitude
that must be met and vanquished. The thirty years of Christ's life was
a tragedy of ingratitudes. Ingratitude is manifest in three degrees of
intensity in the world—He knew them all in numberless bitter instances.
The first phase, the simplest and most common, is that of thoughtless
thanklessness, as was shown in the case of the ten lepers healed in
one day—nine departed without a word, only _one_ gave thanks.
The second phase of ingratitude is denial, a positive sin, not the
mere negation of thanklessness. This was exemplified in Peter, whose
selfish desire to stand well with two maids and some bystanders, in
the hour when he had the opportunity to be loyal to Christ, forgot his
friendship, lost all thought of his indebtedness to his Master, and
denied Him, not once or twice, but three times.
The third phase of ingratitude is treachery, where selfishness grows
vindictive, as shown by Judas, the honored treasurer of the little band
of thirteen, whose jealousy, ingratitude, and thirty pieces of silver,
made possible the tragedy of Calvary.
These three—thanklessness, denial and treachery—run the gamut of
ingratitude, and the first leads to the second, and the second prepares
the way for the third.
We must ever tower high above dependence on human gratitude or we
can do nothing really great, nothing truly noble. The expectation of
gratitude is the alloy of an otherwise virtuous act. It ever dulls
the edge of even our best actions. Most persons look at gratitude as
a protective tariff on virtues. The man who is weakened in well-doing
by the ingratitude of others, is serving God on a salary basis. He is
a hired soldier, not a volunteer. He should be honest enough to see
that he is working for a reward; like a child, he is being good for a
bonus. He is really regarding his kindness and his other expressions of
goodness as moral stock he is willing to hold only so long as they pay
dividends.
There is in such living always a touch of the pose; it is waiting for
the applause of the gallery. We must let the consciousness of doing
right, of living up to our ideals, be our reward and stimulus, or life
will become to us but a series of failures, sorrows and disappointments.
Much of the seeming ingratitude in life comes from our magnifying
of our own acts, our minifying of the acts of others. We may have
overestimated the importance of something that we have done; it may
have been most trivial, purely incidental, yet the marvellous working
of the loom of time brought out great and unexpected results to the
recipient of our favor. We often feel that wondrous gratitude is due
us, though we were in no wise the inspiration of the success we survey
with such a feeling of pride. A chance introduction given by us on the
street may, through an infinity of circumstances, make our friend a
millionaire. Thanks may be due us for the introduction, and perhaps not
even that, for it might have been unavoidable, but surely we err when
we expect him to be meekly grateful to us for his subsequent millions.
The essence of truest kindness lies in the grace with which it is
performed. Some men seem to discount all gratitude, almost make it
impossible, by the way in which they grant favors. They make you feel
so small, so mean, so inferior; your cheeks burn with indignation in
the acceptance of the boon you seek at their hands. You feel it is like
a bone thrown at a dog, instead of the quick, sympathetic graciousness
that forestalls your explanations and waives your thanks with a smile,
the pleasure of one friend who has been favored with the opportunity
to be of service to another. The man who makes another feel like an
insect reclining on a red-hot stove while he is receiving a favor, has
no right to expect future gratitude,—he should feel satisfied if he
receives forgiveness.
Let us forget the good deeds we have done by making them seem small in
comparison with the greater things we are doing, and the still greater
acts we hope to do. This is true generosity, and will develop gratitude
in the soul of him who has been helped, unless he is so petrified in
selfishness as to make it impossible. But constantly reminding a man
of the favors he has received from you almost cancels the debt. The
care of the statistics should be his privilege; you are usurping his
prerogative when you recall them. Merely because it has been our good
fortune to be able to serve some one, we should not act as if we held
a mortgage on his immortality, and expect him to swing the censor of
adulation forever in our presence.
That which often seems to us to be ingratitude, may be merely our own
ignorance of the subtle phases of human nature. Sometimes a man's
heart is so full of thankfulness that he cannot speak, and in the very
intensity of his appreciation, mere words seem to him paltry, petty,
and inadequate, and the depth of the eloquence of his silence is
misunderstood. Sometimes the consciousness of his inability to repay,
develops a strange pride—genuine gratitude it may be, though unwise
in its lack of expression—a determination to say nothing, until the
opportunity for which he is waiting to enable him to make his gratitude
an actuality. There are countless instances in which true gratitude has
all the semblance of the basest ingratitude, as certain harmless plants
are made by Nature to resemble poison-ivy.
Ingratitude is some one's protest that you are no longer necessary to
him; it is often the expression of rebellion at the discontinuance
of favors. People are rarely ungrateful until they have exhausted
their assessments. Profuse expressions of gratitude do not cancel an
indebtedness any more than a promissory note settles an account. It is
a beginning, not a finality. Gratitude that is extravagant in words is
usually economical in all other expression.
No good act performed in the world ever dies. Science tells us that no
atom of matter can ever be destroyed, that no force once started ever
ends; it merely passes through a multiplicity of ever-changing phases.
Every good deed done to others is a great force that starts an unending
pulsation through time and eternity. We may not know it, we may never
hear a word of gratitude or of recognition, but it will all come back
to us in some form as naturally, as perfectly, as inevitably, as echo
answers to sound. Perhaps not as we expect it, how we expect it, nor
where, but sometime, somehow, somewhere, it comes back, as the dove
that Noah sent from the Ark returned with its green leaf of revelation.
Let us conceive of gratitude in its largest, most beautiful sense, that
if we receive any kindness we are debtor, not merely to one man, but
to the whole world. As we are each day indebted to thousands for the
comforts, joys, consolations, and blessings of life, let us realize
that it is only by kindness to all that we can begin to repay the debt
to one, begin to make gratitude the atmosphere of all our living and a
constant expression in outward acts, rather than in mere thoughts. Let
us see the awful cowardice and the injustice of ingratitude, not to
take it too seriously in others, not to condemn it too severely, but
merely to banish it forever from our own lives, and to make every hour
of our living the radiation of the sweetness of gratitude.