What Is Man? E-Book

Mark Twain

• Herausgeber: Andura Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

An unforgettable classic from the legendary and beloved American author, Mark Twain.

Das E-Book wird angeboten von und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

What Is Man? And Other Stories

By Mark Twain

CONTENTS:

     What Is Man?

     The Death of Jean

     The Turning-Point of My Life

     How to Make History Dates Stick

     The Memorable Assassination

     A Scrap of Curious History

     Switzerland, the Cradle of Liberty

     At the Shrine of St. Wagner

     William Dean Howells

     English as She is Taught

     A Simplified Alphabet

     As Concerns Interpreting the Deity

     Concerning Tobacco

     Taming the Bicycle

     Is Shakespeare Dead?

WHAT IS MAN?

I

a. Man the Machine. b. Personal Merit

[The Old Man and the Young Man had been conversing. The Old Man had

asserted that the human being is merely a machine, and nothing more. The

Young Man objected, and asked him to go into particulars and furnish his

reasons for his position.]

Old Man. What are the materials of which a steam-engine is made?

Young Man. Iron, steel, brass, white-metal, and so on.

O.M. Where are these found?

Y.M. In the rocks.

O.M. In a pure state?

Y.M. No--in ores.

O.M. Are the metals suddenly deposited in the ores?

Y.M. No--it is the patient work of countless ages.

O.M. You could make the engine out of the rocks themselves?

Y.M. Yes, a brittle one and not valuable.

O.M. You would not require much, of such an engine as that?

Y.M. No--substantially nothing.

O.M. To make a fine and capable engine, how would you proceed?

Y.M. Drive tunnels and shafts into the hills; blast out the iron ore;

crush it, smelt it, reduce it to pig-iron; put some of it through

the Bessemer process and make steel of it. Mine and treat and combine

several metals of which brass is made.

O.M. Then?

Y.M. Out of the perfected result, build the fine engine.

O.M. You would require much of this one?

Y.M. Oh, indeed yes.

O.M. It could drive lathes, drills, planers, punches, polishers, in a

word all the cunning machines of a great factory?

Y.M. It could.

O.M. What could the stone engine do?

Y.M. Drive a sewing-machine, possibly--nothing more, perhaps.

O.M. Men would admire the other engine and rapturously praise it?

Y.M. Yes.

O.M. But not the stone one?

Y.M. No.

O.M. The merits of the metal machine would be far above those of the

stone one?

Y.M. Of course.

O.M. Personal merits?

Y.M. _Personal_ merits? How do you mean?

O.M. It would be personally entitled to the credit of its own

performance?

Y.M. The engine? Certainly not.

O.M. Why not?

Y.M. Because its performance is not personal. It is the result of the

law of construction. It is not a _merit_ that it does the things which

it is set to do--it can't _help_ doing them.

O.M. And it is not a personal demerit in the stone machine that it does

so little?

Y.M. Certainly not. It does no more and no less than the law of its make

permits and compels it to do. There is nothing _personal_ about it; it

cannot choose. In this process of “working up to the matter” is it your

idea to work up to the proposition that man and a machine are about the

same thing, and that there is no personal merit in the performance of

either?

O.M. Yes--but do not be offended; I am meaning no offense. What makes

the grand difference between the stone engine and the steel one? Shall

we call it training, education? Shall we call the stone engine a savage

and the steel one a civilized man? The original rock contained the stuff

of which the steel one was built--but along with a lot of sulphur and

stone and other obstructing inborn heredities, brought down from the old

geologic ages--prejudices, let us call them. Prejudices which nothing

within the rock itself had either _power_ to remove or any _desire_ to

remove. Will you take note of that phrase?

Y.M. Yes. I have written it down; “Prejudices which nothing within the

rock itself had either power to remove or any desire to remove.” Go on.

O.M. Prejudices must be removed by _outside influences_ or not at all.

Put that down.

Y.M. Very well; “Must be removed by outside influences or not at all.”

 Go on.

O.M. The iron's prejudice against ridding itself of the cumbering rock.

To make it more exact, the iron's absolute _indifference_ as to whether

the rock be removed or not. Then comes the _outside influence_ and

grinds the rock to powder and sets the ore free. The _iron_ in the ore

is still captive. An _outside influence_ smelts it free of the clogging

ore. The iron is emancipated iron, now, but indifferent to further

progress. An _outside influence_ beguiles it into the Bessemer furnace

and refines it into steel of the first quality. It is educated, now--its

training is complete. And it has reached its limit. By no possible

process can it be educated into _gold_. Will you set that down?

Y.M. Yes. “Everything has its limit--iron ore cannot be educated into

gold.”

O.M. There are gold men, and tin men, and copper men, and leaden men,

and steel men, and so on--and each has the limitations of his nature,

his heredities, his training, and his environment. You can build engines

out of each of these metals, and they will all perform, but you must

not require the weak ones to do equal work with the strong ones. In

each case, to get the best results, you must free the metal from its

obstructing prejudicial ones by education--smelting, refining, and so

forth.

Y.M. You have arrived at man, now?

O.M. Yes. Man the machine--man the impersonal engine. Whatsoever a man

is, is due to his _make_, and to the _influences_ brought to bear

upon it by his heredities, his habitat, his associations. He is moved,

directed, COMMANDED, by _exterior_ influences--_solely_. He _originates_

nothing, not even a thought.

Y.M. Oh, come! Where did I get my opinion that this which you are

talking is all foolishness?

O.M. It is a quite natural opinion--indeed an inevitable opinion--but

_you _did not create the materials out of which it is formed. They are

odds and ends of thoughts, impressions, feelings, gathered unconsciously

from a thousand books, a thousand conversations, and from streams of

thought and feeling which have flowed down into your heart and brain out

of the hearts and brains of centuries of ancestors. _Personally_ you did

not create even the smallest microscopic fragment of the materials out

of which your opinion is made; and personally you cannot claim even the

slender merit of _putting the borrowed materials together_. That was

done _automatically_--by your mental machinery, in strict accordance

with the law of that machinery's construction. And you not only did not

make that machinery yourself, but you have _not even any command over

it_.

Y.M. This is too much. You think I could have formed no opinion but that

one?

O.M. Spontaneously? No. And _you did not form that one_; your machinery

did it for you--automatically and instantly, without reflection or the

need of it.

Y.M. Suppose I had reflected? How then?

O.M. Suppose you try?

Y.M. (_After a quarter of an hour_.) I have reflected.

O.M. You mean you have tried to change your opinion--as an experiment?

Y.M. Yes.

O.M. With success?

Y.M. No. It remains the same; it is impossible to change it.

O.M. I am sorry, but you see, yourself, that your mind is merely a

machine, nothing more. You have no command over it, it has no command

over itself--it is worked _solely from the outside_. That is the law of

its make; it is the law of all machines.

Y.M. Can't I _ever_ change one of these automatic opinions?

O.M. No. You can't yourself, but _exterior influences_ can do it.

Y.M. And exterior ones _only_?

O.M. Yes--exterior ones only.

Y.M. That position is untenable--I may say ludicrously untenable.

O.M. What makes you think so?

Y.M. I don't merely think it, I know it. Suppose I resolve to enter upon

a course of thought, and study, and reading, with the deliberate purpose

of changing that opinion; and suppose I succeed. _That _is not the work

of an exterior impulse, the whole of it is mine and personal; for I

originated the project.

O.M. Not a shred of it. _It grew out of this talk with me_. But for that

it would not have occurred to you. No man ever originates anything. All

his thoughts, all his impulses, come _from the outside_.

Y.M. It's an exasperating subject. The _first_ man had original

thoughts, anyway; there was nobody to draw from.

O.M. It is a mistake. Adam's thoughts came to him from the outside.

_You_ have a fear of death. You did not invent that--you got it from

outside, from talking and teaching. Adam had no fear of death--none in

the world.

Y.M. Yes, he had.

O.M. When he was created?

Y.M. No.

O.M. When, then?

Y.M. When he was threatened with it.

O.M. Then it came from _outside_. Adam is quite big enough; let us not

try to make a god of him. _None but gods have ever had a thought which

did not come from the outside_. Adam probably had a good head, but it

was of no sort of use to him until it was filled up _from the outside_.

He was not able to invent the triflingest little thing with it. He had

not a shadow of a notion of the difference between good and evil--he

had to get the idea _from the outside_. Neither he nor Eve was able to

originate the idea that it was immodest to go naked; the knowledge came

in with the apple _from the outside_. A man's brain is so constructed

that _it can originate nothing whatsoever_. It can only use material

obtained _outside_. It is merely a machine; and it works automatically,

not by will-power. _It has no command over itself, its owner has no

command over it_.

Y.M. Well, never mind Adam: but certainly Shakespeare's creations--

O.M. No, you mean Shakespeare's _imitations_. Shakespeare created

nothing. He correctly observed, and he marvelously painted. He exactly

portrayed people whom _God_ had created; but he created none himself.

Let us spare him the slander of charging him with trying. Shakespeare

could not create. _He was a machine, and machines do not create_.

Y.M. Where _was_ his excellence, then?

O.M. In this. He was not a sewing-machine, like you and me; he was

a Gobelin loom. The threads and the colors came into him _from the

outside_; outside influences, suggestions, _experiences_ (reading,

seeing plays, playing plays, borrowing ideas, and so on), framed the

patterns in his mind and started up his complex and admirable machinery,

and _it automatically_ turned out that pictured and gorgeous fabric

which still compels the astonishment of the world. If Shakespeare had

been born and bred on a barren and unvisited rock in the ocean his

mighty intellect would have had no _outside material_ to work with,

and could have invented none; and _no outside influences_, teachings,

moldings, persuasions, inspirations, of a valuable sort, and could have

invented none; and so Shakespeare would have produced nothing. In Turkey

he would have produced something--something up to the highest limit of

Turkish influences, associations, and training. In France he would have

produced something better--something up to the highest limit of the

French influences and training. In England he rose to the highest limit

attainable through the _outside helps afforded by that land's ideals,

influences, and training_. You and I are but sewing-machines. We must

turn out what we can; we must do our endeavor and care nothing at all

when the unthinking reproach us for not turning out Gobelins.

Y.M. And so we are mere machines! And machines may not boast, nor

feel proud of their performance, nor claim personal merit for it, nor

applause and praise. It is an infamous doctrine.

O.M. It isn't a doctrine, it is merely a fact.

Y.M. I suppose, then, there is no more merit in being brave than in

being a coward?

O.M. _Personal_ merit? No. A brave man does not _create_ his bravery. He

is entitled to no personal credit for possessing it. It is born to him.

A baby born with a billion dollars--where is the personal merit in that?

A baby born with nothing--where is the personal demerit in that? The

one is fawned upon, admired, worshiped, by sycophants, the other is

neglected and despised--where is the sense in it?

Y.M. Sometimes a timid man sets himself the task of conquering his

cowardice and becoming brave--and succeeds. What do you say to that?

O.M. That it shows the value of _training in right directions over

training in wrong ones_. Inestimably valuable is training, influence,

education, in right directions--_training one's self-approbation to

elevate its ideals_.

Y.M. But as to merit--the personal merit of the victorious coward's

project and achievement?

O.M. There isn't any. In the world's view he is a worthier man than he

was before, but _he_ didn't achieve the change--the merit of it is not

his.

Y.M. Whose, then?

O.M. His _make_, and the influences which wrought upon it from the

outside.

Y.M. His make?

O.M. To start with, he was _not_ utterly and completely a coward, or the

influences would have had nothing to work upon. He was not afraid of a

cow, though perhaps of a bull: not afraid of a woman, but afraid of a

man. There was something to build upon. There was a _seed_. No seed, no

plant. Did he make that seed himself, or was it born in him? It was no

merit of _his_ that the seed was there.

Y.M. Well, anyway, the idea of _cultivating_ it, the resolution to

cultivate it, was meritorious, and he originated that.

O.M. He did nothing of the kind. It came whence _all_ impulses, good or

bad, come--from _outside_. If that timid man had lived all his life in

a community of human rabbits, had never read of brave deeds, had never

heard speak of them, had never heard any one praise them nor express

envy of the heroes that had done them, he would have had no more idea of

bravery than Adam had of modesty, and it could never by any possibility

have occurred to him to _resolve_ to become brave. He _could not

originate the idea_--it had to come to him from the _outside_. And so,

when he heard bravery extolled and cowardice derided, it woke him up. He

was ashamed. Perhaps his sweetheart turned up her nose and said, “I am

told that you are a coward!” It was not _he_ that turned over the new

leaf--she did it for him. _He_ must not strut around in the merit of it

--it is not his.

Y.M. But, anyway, he reared the plant after she watered the seed.

O.M. No. _Outside influences_ reared it. At the command--and

trembling--he marched out into the field--with other soldiers and in the

daytime, not alone and in the dark. He had the _influence of example_,

he drew courage from his comrades' courage; he was afraid, and wanted

to run, but he did not dare; he was _afraid_ to run, with all those

soldiers looking on. He was progressing, you see--the moral fear of

shame had risen superior to the physical fear of harm. By the end of

the campaign experience will have taught him that not _all_ who go into

battle get hurt--an outside influence which will be helpful to him; and

he will also have learned how sweet it is to be praised for courage and

be huzza'd at with tear-choked voices as the war-worn regiment marches

past the worshiping multitude with flags flying and the drums beating.

After that he will be as securely brave as any veteran in the army--and

there will not be a shade nor suggestion of _personal merit_ in it

anywhere; it will all have come from the _outside_. The Victoria Cross

breeds more heroes than--

Y.M. Hang it, where is the sense in his becoming brave if he is to get

no credit for it?

O.M. Your question will answer itself presently. It involves an

important detail of man's make which we have not yet touched upon.

Y.M. What detail is that?

O.M. The impulse which moves a person to do things--the only impulse

that ever moves a person to do a thing.

Y.M. The _only_ one! Is there but one?

O.M. That is all. There is only one.

Y.M. Well, certainly that is a strange enough doctrine. What is the sole

impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing?

O.M. The impulse to _content his own spirit_--the _necessity_ of

contenting his own spirit and _winning its approval_.

Y.M. Oh, come, that won't do!

O.M. Why won't it?

Y.M. Because it puts him in the attitude of always looking out for his

own comfort and advantage; whereas an unselfish man often does a thing

solely for another person's good when it is a positive disadvantage to

himself.

O.M. It is a mistake. The act must do _him_ good, _first_; otherwise

he will not do it. He may _think_ he is doing it solely for the other

person's sake, but it is not so; he is contenting his own spirit

first--the other's person's benefit has to always take _second_ place.

Y.M. What a fantastic idea! What becomes of self--sacrifice? Please

answer me that.

O.M. What is self-sacrifice?

Y.M. The doing good to another person where no shadow nor suggestion of

benefit to one's self can result from it.

II

Man's Sole Impulse--the Securing of His Own Approval

Old Man. There have been instances of it--you think?

Young Man. _Instances_? Millions of them!

O.M. You have not jumped to conclusions? You have examined

them--critically?

Y.M. They don't need it: the acts themselves reveal the golden impulse

back of them.

O.M. For instance?

Y.M. Well, then, for instance. Take the case in the book here. The man

lives three miles up-town. It is bitter cold, snowing hard, midnight.

He is about to enter the horse-car when a gray and ragged old woman, a

touching picture of misery, puts out her lean hand and begs for rescue

from hunger and death. The man finds that he has a quarter in his

pocket, but he does not hesitate: he gives it her and trudges home

through the storm. There--it is noble, it is beautiful; its grace is

marred by no fleck or blemish or suggestion of self-interest.

O.M. What makes you think that?

Y.M. Pray what else could I think? Do you imagine that there is some

other way of looking at it?

O.M. Can you put yourself in the man's place and tell me what he felt

and what he thought?

Y.M. Easily. The sight of that suffering old face pierced his generous

heart with a sharp pain. He could not bear it. He could endure the

three-mile walk in the storm, but he could not endure the tortures his

conscience would suffer if he turned his back and left that poor old

creature to perish. He would not have been able to sleep, for thinking

of it.

O.M. What was his state of mind on his way home?

Y.M. It was a state of joy which only the self-sacrificer knows. His

heart sang, he was unconscious of the storm.

O.M. He felt well?

Y.M. One cannot doubt it.

O.M. Very well. Now let us add up the details and see how much he got

for his twenty-five cents. Let us try to find out the _real_ why of his

making the investment. In the first place _he_ couldn't bear the pain

which the old suffering face gave him. So he was thinking of _his_

pain--this good man. He must buy a salve for it. If he did not succor

the old woman _his_ conscience would torture him all the way home.

Thinking of _his_ pain again. He must buy relief for that. If he didn't

relieve the old woman _he_ would not get any sleep. He must buy some

sleep--still thinking of _himself_, you see. Thus, to sum up, he bought

himself free of a sharp pain in his heart, he bought himself free of the

tortures of a waiting conscience, he bought a whole night's sleep--all

for twenty-five cents! It should make Wall Street ashamed of itself. On

his way home his heart was joyful, and it sang--profit on top of profit!

The impulse which moved the man to succor the old woman was--_first_--to

_content his own spirit_; secondly to relieve _her_ sufferings. Is it

your opinion that men's acts proceed from one central and unchanging and

inalterable impulse, or from a variety of impulses?

Y.M. From a variety, of course--some high and fine and noble, others

not. What is your opinion?

O.M. Then there is but _one_ law, one source.

Y.M. That both the noblest impulses and the basest proceed from that one

source?

O.M. Yes.

Y.M. Will you put that law into words?

O.M. Yes. This is the law, keep it in your mind. _From his cradle to his

grave a man never does a single thing which has any_ FIRST AND FOREMOST

_object_ _but one_--_to secure peace of mind, spiritual comfort_,

_for_ HIMSELF.

Y.M. Come! He never does anything for any one else's comfort, spiritual

or physical?

O.M. No. _except on those distinct terms_--that it shall _first_ secure

_his own_ spiritual comfort. Otherwise he will not do it.

Y.M. It will be easy to expose the falsity of that proposition.

O.M. For instance?

Y.M. Take that noble passion, love of country, patriotism. A man who

loves peace and dreads pain, leaves his pleasant home and his weeping

family and marches out to manfully expose himself to hunger, cold,

wounds, and death. Is that seeking spiritual comfort?

O.M. He loves peace and dreads pain?

Y.M. Yes.

O.M. Then perhaps there is something that he loves _more_ than he loves

peace--_the approval of his neighbors and the public_. And perhaps there

is something which he dreads more than he dreads pain--the _disapproval_

of his neighbors and the public. If he is sensitive to shame he will

go to the field--not because his spirit will be _entirely_ comfortable

there, but because it will be more comfortable there than it would be

if he remained at home. He will always do the thing which will bring him

the _most_ mental comfort--for that is _the sole law of his life_.

He leaves the weeping family behind; he is sorry to make them

uncomfortable, but not sorry enough to sacrifice his _own_ comfort to

secure theirs.

Y.M. Do you really believe that mere public opinion could force a timid

and peaceful man to--

O.M. Go to war? Yes--public opinion can force some men to do _anything_.

Y.M. _Anything_?

O.M. Yes--anything.

Y.M. I don't believe that. Can it force a right-principled man to do a

wrong thing?

O.M. Yes.

Y.M. Can it force a kind man to do a cruel thing?

O.M. Yes.

Y.M. Give an instance.

O.M. Alexander Hamilton was a conspicuously high-principled man.

He regarded dueling as wrong, and as opposed to the teachings of

religion--but in deference to _public opinion_ he fought a duel. He

deeply loved his family, but to buy public approval he treacherously

deserted them and threw his life away, ungenerously leaving them to

lifelong sorrow in order that he might stand well with a foolish world.

In the then condition of the public standards of honor he could not have

been comfortable with the stigma upon him of having refused to fight.

The teachings of religion, his devotion to his family, his kindness of

heart, his high principles, all went for nothing when they stood in the

way of his spiritual comfort. A man will do _anything_, no matter what

it is, _to secure his spiritual comfort_; and he can neither be forced

nor persuaded to any act which has not that goal for its object.

Hamilton's act was compelled by the inborn necessity of contenting his

own spirit; in this it was like all the other acts of his life, and

like all the acts of all men's lives. Do you see where the kernel of the

matter lies? A man cannot be comfortable without _his own_ approval.

He will secure the largest share possible of that, at all costs, all

sacrifices.

Y.M. A minute ago you said Hamilton fought that duel to get _public_

approval.

O.M. I did. By refusing to fight the duel he would have secured his

family's approval and a large share of his own; but the public approval

was more valuable in his eyes than all other approvals put together--in

the earth or above it; to secure that would furnish him the _most_

comfort of mind, the most _self_--approval; so he sacrificed all other

values to get it.

Y.M. Some noble souls have refused to fight duels, and have manfully

braved the public contempt.

O.M. They acted _according to their make_. They valued their principles

and the approval of their families _above_ the public approval. They

took the thing they valued _most_ and let the rest go. They took

what would give them the _largest_ share of _personal contentment and

approval_--a man _always_ does. Public opinion cannot force that kind

of men to go to the wars. When they go it is for other reasons. Other

spirit-contenting reasons.

Y.M. Always spirit-contenting reasons?

O.M. There are no others.

Y.M. When a man sacrifices his life to save a little child from a

burning building, what do you call that?

O.M. When he does it, it is the law of _his_ make. _He_ can't bear to

see the child in that peril (a man of a different make _could_), and so

he tries to save the child, and loses his life. But he has got what he

was after--_his own approval_.

Y.M. What do you call Love, Hate, Charity, Revenge, Humanity,

Magnanimity, Forgiveness?

O.M. Different results of the one Master Impulse: the necessity of

securing one's self approval. They wear diverse clothes and are subject

to diverse moods, but in whatsoever ways they masquerade they are the

_same person_ all the time. To change the figure, the _compulsion_ that

moves a man--and there is but the one--is the necessity of securing the

contentment of his own spirit. When it stops, the man is dead.

Y.M. That is foolishness. Love--

O.M. Why, love is that impulse, that law, in its most uncompromising

form. It will squander life and everything else on its object. Not

_primarily_ for the object's sake, but for _its own_. When its object is

happy _it_ is happy--and that is what it is unconsciously after.

Y.M. You do not even except the lofty and gracious passion of

mother-love?

O.M. No, _it _is the absolute slave of that law. The mother will go

naked to clothe her child; she will starve that it may have food; suffer

torture to save it from pain; die that it may live. She takes a

living _pleasure_ in making these sacrifices. _She does it for that

reward_--that self-approval, that contentment, that peace, that comfort.

_She would do it for your child_ IF SHE COULD GET THE SAME PAY.

Y.M. This is an infernal philosophy of yours.

O.M. It isn't a philosophy, it is a fact.

Y.M. Of course you must admit that there are some acts which--

O.M. No. There is _no_ act, large or small, fine or mean, which springs

from any motive but the one--the necessity of appeasing and contenting

one's own spirit.

Y.M. The world's philanthropists--

O.M. I honor them, I uncover my head to them--from habit and training;

and _they_ could not know comfort or happiness or self-approval if they

did not work and spend for the unfortunate. It makes _them_ happy to

see others happy; and so with money and labor they buy what they are

after--_happiness, self-approval_. Why don't miners do the same thing?

Because they can get a thousandfold more happiness by _not_ doing it.

There is no other reason. They follow the law of their make.

Y.M. What do you say of duty for duty's sake?

O.M. That _it does not exist_. Duties are not performed for duty's

_sake_, but because their _neglect_ would make the man _uncomfortable_.

A man performs but _one_ duty--the duty of contenting his spirit, the

duty of making himself agreeable to himself. If he can most satisfyingly

perform this sole and only duty by _helping_ his neighbor, he will do

it; if he can most satisfyingly perform it by _swindling_ his neighbor,

he will do it. But he always looks out for Number One--_first_;

the effects upon others are a _secondary_ matter. Men pretend to

self-sacrifices, but this is a thing which, in the ordinary value of

the phrase, _does not exist and has not existed_. A man often honestly

_thinks_ he is sacrificing himself merely and solely for some one else,

but he is deceived; his bottom impulse is to content a requirement of

his nature and training, and thus acquire peace for his soul.

Y.M. Apparently, then, all men, both good and bad ones, devote their

lives to contenting their consciences.

O.M. Yes. That is a good enough name for it: Conscience--that

independent Sovereign, that insolent absolute Monarch inside of a man

who is the man's Master. There are all kinds of consciences, because

there are all kinds of men. You satisfy an assassin's conscience in one

way, a philanthropist's in another, a miser's in another, a burglar's

in still another. As a _guide_ or _incentive_ to any authoritatively

prescribed line of morals or conduct (leaving _training_ out of the

account), a man's conscience is totally valueless. I know a kind-hearted

Kentuckian whose self-approval was lacking--whose conscience was

troubling him, to phrase it with exactness--_because he had neglected

to kill a certain man_--a man whom he had never seen. The stranger had

killed this man's friend in a fight, this man's Kentucky training made

it a duty to kill the stranger for it. He neglected his duty--kept

dodging it, shirking it, putting it off, and his unrelenting conscience

kept persecuting him for this conduct. At last, to get ease of mind,

comfort, self-approval, he hunted up the stranger and took his life. It

was an immense act of _self-sacrifice_ (as per the usual definition),

for he did not want to do it, and he never would have done it if he

could have bought a contented spirit and an unworried mind at

smaller cost. But we are so made that we will pay _anything_ for that

contentment--even another man's life.

Y.M. You spoke a moment ago of _trained_ consciences. You mean that we

are not _born_ with consciences competent to guide us aright?

O.M. If we were, children and savages would know right from wrong, and

not have to be taught it.

Y.M. But consciences can be _trained_?

O.M. Yes.

Y.M. Of course by parents, teachers, the pulpit, and books.

O.M. Yes--they do their share; they do what they can.

Y.M. And the rest is done by--

O.M. Oh, a million unnoticed influences--for good or bad: influences

which work without rest during every waking moment of a man's life, from

cradle to grave.

Y.M. You have tabulated these?

O.M. Many of them--yes.

Y.M. Will you read me the result?

O.M. Another time, yes. It would take an hour.

Y.M. A conscience can be trained to shun evil and prefer good?

O.M. Yes.

Y.M. But will it for spirit-contenting reasons only?

O.M. It _can't_ be trained to do a thing for any _other_ reason. The

thing is impossible.

Y.M. There _must_ be a genuinely and utterly self-sacrificing act

recorded in human history somewhere.

O.M. You are young. You have many years before you. Search one out.

Y.M. It does seem to me that when a man sees a fellow-being struggling

in the water and jumps in at the risk of his life to save him--

O.M. Wait. Describe the _man_. Describe the _fellow-being_. State if

there is an _audience_ present; or if they are _alone_.

Y.M. What have these things to do with the splendid act?

O.M. Very much. Shall we suppose, as a beginning, that the two are

alone, in a solitary place, at midnight?

Y.M. If you choose.

O.M. And that the fellow-being is the man's daughter?

Y.M. Well, n-no--make it someone else.

O.M. A filthy, drunken ruffian, then?

Y.M. I see. Circumstances alter cases. I suppose that if there was no

audience to observe the act, the man wouldn't perform it.

O.M. But there is here and there a man who _would_. People, for

instance, like the man who lost his life trying to save the child from

the fire; and the man who gave the needy old woman his twenty-five cents

and walked home in the storm--there are here and there men like that who

would do it. And why? Because they couldn't _bear_ to see a fellow-being

struggling in the water and not jump in and help. It would give _them_

pain. They would save the fellow-being on that account. _They wouldn't

do it otherwise_. They strictly obey the law which I have been insisting

upon. You must remember and always distinguish the people who _can't

bear_ things from people who _can_. It will throw light upon a number of

apparently “self-sacrificing” cases.

Y.M. Oh, dear, it's all so disgusting.

O.M. Yes. And so true.

Y.M. Come--take the good boy who does things he doesn't want to do, in

order to gratify his mother.

O.M. He does seven-tenths of the act because it gratifies _him_ to

gratify his mother. Throw the bulk of advantage the other way and the

good boy would not do the act. He _must_ obey the iron law. None can

escape it.

Y.M. Well, take the case of a bad boy who--

O.M. You needn't mention it, it is a waste of time. It is no matter

about the bad boy's act. Whatever it was, he had a spirit-contenting

reason for it. Otherwise you have been misinformed, and he didn't do it.

Y.M. It is very exasperating. A while ago you said that man's conscience

is not a born judge of morals and conduct, but has to be taught and

trained. Now I think a conscience can get drowsy and lazy, but I don't

think it can go wrong; if you wake it up--

_A Little Story_

O.M. I will tell you a little story:

Once upon a time an Infidel was guest in the house of a Christian widow

whose little boy was ill and near to death. The Infidel often watched

by the bedside and entertained the boy with talk, and he used these

opportunities to satisfy a strong longing in his nature--that desire

which is in us all to better other people's condition by having them

think as we think. He was successful. But the dying boy, in his last

moments, reproached him and said:

“_I believed, and was happy in it; you have taken my belief away, and

my comfort. Now I have nothing left, and I die miserable; for the

things which you have told me do not take the place of that which I have

lost_.”

And the mother, also, reproached the Infidel, and said:

“_My child is forever lost, and my heart is broken. How could you do

this cruel thing? We have done you no harm, but only kindness; we made

our house your home, you were welcome to all we had, and this is our

reward.”_

The heart of the Infidel was filled with remorse for what he had done,

and he said:

“_It was wrong--I see it now; but I was only trying to do him good. In

my view he was in error; it seemed my duty to teach him the truth_.”

Then the mother said:

“_I had taught him, all his little life, what I believed to be the

truth, and in his believing faith both of us were happy. Now he is

dead,--and lost; and I am miserable. Our faith came down to us through

centuries of believing ancestors; what right had you, or any one, to

disturb it? Where was your honor, where was your shame_?”

Y.M. He was a miscreant, and deserved death!

O.M. He thought so himself, and said so.

Y.M. Ah--you see, _his conscience was awakened_!

O.M. Yes, his Self-Disapproval was. It _pained_ him to see the mother

suffer. He was sorry he had done a thing which brought _him_ pain. It

did not occur to him to think of the mother when he was misteaching

the boy, for he was absorbed in providing _pleasure_ for himself, then.

Providing it by satisfying what he believed to be a call of duty.

Y.M. Call it what you please, it is to me a case of _awakened

conscience_. That awakened conscience could never get itself into that

species of trouble again. A cure like that is a _permanent_ cure.

O.M. Pardon--I had not finished the story. We are creatures of _outside

influences_--we originate _nothing_ within. Whenever we take a new line

of thought and drift into a new line of belief and action, the impulse

is _always_ suggested from the _outside_. Remorse so preyed upon the

Infidel that it dissolved his harshness toward the boy's religion and

made him come to regard it with tolerance, next with kindness, for the

boy's sake and the mother's. Finally he found himself examining it.

From that moment his progress in his new trend was steady and rapid. He

became a believing Christian. And now his remorse for having robbed the

dying boy of his faith and his salvation was bitterer than ever. It gave

him no rest, no peace. He _must_ have rest and peace--it is the law of

nature. There seemed but one way to get it; he must devote himself to

saving imperiled souls. He became a missionary. He landed in a pagan

country ill and helpless. A native widow took him into her humble home

and nursed him back to convalescence. Then her young boy was taken

hopelessly ill, and the grateful missionary helped her tend him. Here

was his first opportunity to repair a part of the wrong done to the

other boy by doing a precious service for this one by undermining his

foolish faith in his false gods. He was successful. But the dying boy in

his last moments reproached him and said:

“_I believed, and was happy in it; you have taken my belief away, and

my comfort. Now I have nothing left, and I die miserable; for the

things which you have told me do not take the place of that which I have

lost_.”

And the mother, also, reproached the missionary, and said:

“_My child is forever lost, and my heart is broken. How could you do

this cruel thing? We had done you no harm, but only kindness; we made

our house your home, you were welcome to all we had, and this is our

reward_.”

The heart of the missionary was filled with remorse for what he had

done, and he said:

“_It was wrong--I see it now; but I was only trying to do him good. In

my view he was in error; it seemed my duty to teach him the truth_.”

Then the mother said:

“_I had taught him, all his little life, what I believed to be the

truth, and in his believing faith both of us were happy. Now he is

dead--and lost; and I am miserable. Our faith came down to us through

centuries of believing ancestors; what right had you, or any one, to

disturb it? Where was your honor, where was your shame_?”

The missionary's anguish of remorse and sense of treachery were as

bitter and persecuting and unappeasable, now, as they had been in the

former case. The story is finished. What is your comment?

Y.M. The man's conscience is a fool! It was morbid. It didn't know right

from wrong.

O.M. I am not sorry to hear you say that. If you grant that _one_ man's

conscience doesn't know right from wrong, it is an admission that there

are others like it. This single admission pulls down the whole doctrine

of infallibility of judgment in consciences. Meantime there is one thing

which I ask you to notice.

Y.M. What is that?

O.M. That in both cases the man's _act_ gave him no spiritual

discomfort, and that he was quite satisfied with it and got pleasure out

of it. But afterward when it resulted in _pain_ to _him_, he was sorry.

Sorry it had inflicted pain upon the others, _but for no reason under

the sun except that their pain gave him pain_. Our consciences take _no_

notice of pain inflicted upon others until it reaches a point where it

gives pain to _us_. In _all_ cases without exception we are absolutely

indifferent to another person's pain until his sufferings make us

uncomfortable. Many an infidel would not have been troubled by that

Christian mother's distress. Don't you believe that?

Y.M. Yes. You might almost say it of the _average_ infidel, I think.

O.M. And many a missionary, sternly fortified by his sense of duty,

would not have been troubled by the pagan mother's distress--Jesuit

missionaries in Canada in the early French times, for instance; see

episodes quoted by Parkman.

Y.M. Well, let us adjourn. Where have we arrived?

O.M. At this. That we (mankind) have ticketed ourselves with a number of

qualities to which we have given misleading names. Love, Hate, Charity,

Compassion, Avarice, Benevolence, and so on. I mean we attach misleading

_meanings_ to the names. They are all forms of self-contentment,

self-gratification, but the names so disguise them that they distract

our attention from the fact. Also we have smuggled a word into the

dictionary which ought not to be there at all--Self-Sacrifice. It

describes a thing which does not exist. But worst of all, we ignore and

never mention the Sole Impulse which dictates and compels a man's every

act: the imperious necessity of securing his own approval, in every

emergency and at all costs. To it we owe all that we are. It is our

breath, our heart, our blood. It is our only spur, our whip, our goad,

our only impelling power; we have no other. Without it we should be

mere inert images, corpses; no one would do anything, there would be

no progress, the world would stand still. We ought to stand reverently

uncovered when the name of that stupendous power is uttered.

Y.M. I am not convinced.

O.M. You will be when you think.

III

Instances in Point

Old Man. Have you given thought to the Gospel of Self--Approval since we

talked?

Young Man. I have.

O.M. It was I that moved you to it. That is to say an _outside

influence_ moved you to it--not one that originated in your head. Will

you try to keep that in mind and not forget it?

Y.M. Yes. Why?

O.M. Because by and by in one of our talks, I wish to further impress

upon you that neither you, nor I, nor any man ever originates a thought

in his own head. _The utterer of a thought always utters a second-hand

one_.

Y.M. Oh, now--

O.M. Wait. Reserve your remark till we get to that part of our

discussion--tomorrow or next day, say. Now, then, have you been

considering the proposition that no act is ever born of any but a

self-contenting impulse--(primarily). You have sought. What have you

found?

Y.M. I have not been very fortunate. I have examined many fine and

apparently self-sacrificing deeds in romances and biographies, but--

O.M. Under searching analysis the ostensible self-sacrifice disappeared?

It naturally would.

Y.M. But here in this novel is one which seems to promise. In the

Adirondack woods is a wage-earner and lay preacher in the lumber-camps

who is of noble character and deeply religious. An earnest and practical

laborer in the New York slums comes up there on vacation--he is leader

of a section of the University Settlement. Holme, the lumberman, is

fired with a desire to throw away his excellent worldly prospects and

go down and save souls on the East Side. He counts it happiness to make

this sacrifice for the glory of God and for the cause of Christ. He

resigns his place, makes the sacrifice cheerfully, and goes to the East

Side and preaches Christ and Him crucified every day and every night to

little groups of half-civilized foreign paupers who scoff at him. But he

rejoices in the scoffings, since he is suffering them in the great

cause of Christ. You have so filled my mind with suspicions that I was

constantly expecting to find a hidden questionable impulse back of all

this, but I am thankful to say I have failed. This man saw his duty, and

for _duty's sake_ he sacrificed self and assumed the burden it imposed.

O.M. Is that as far as you have read?

Y.M. Yes.

O.M. Let us read further, presently. Meantime, in sacrificing

himself--_not_ for the glory of God, _primarily_, as _he_ imagined, but

_first_ to content that exacting and inflexible master within him--_did

he sacrifice anybody else_?

Y.M. How do you mean?

O.M. He relinquished a lucrative post and got mere food and lodging in

place of it. Had he dependents?

Y.M. Well--yes.

O.M. In what way and to what extend did his self-sacrifice affect

_them_?

Y.M. He was the support of a superannuated father. He had a young sister

with a remarkable voice--he was giving her a musical education, so that

her longing to be self-supporting might be gratified. He was furnishing

the money to put a young brother through a polytechnic school and

satisfy his desire to become a civil engineer.

O.M. The old father's comforts were now curtailed?

Y.M. Quite seriously. Yes.

O.M. The sister's music-lessens had to stop?

Y.M. Yes.

O.M. The young brother's education--well, an extinguishing blight fell

upon that happy dream, and he had to go to sawing wood to support the

old father, or something like that?

Y.M. It is about what happened. Yes.

O.M. What a handsome job of self-sacrificing he did do! It seems to me

that he sacrificed everybody _except_ himself. Haven't I told you that

no man _ever_ sacrifices himself; that there is no instance of it upon

record anywhere; and that when a man's Interior Monarch requires a thing

of its slave for either its _momentary_ or its _permanent_ contentment,

that thing must and will be furnished and that command obeyed, no matter

who may stand in the way and suffer disaster by it? That man _ruined his

family_ to please and content his Interior Monarch--

Y.M. And help Christ's cause.

O.M. Yes--_secondly_. Not firstly. _He_ thought it was firstly.

Y.M. Very well, have it so, if you will. But it could be that he argued

that if he saved a hundred souls in New York--

O.M. The sacrifice of the _family_ would be justified by that great

profit upon the--the--what shall we call it?

Y.M. Investment?

O.M. Hardly. How would _speculation_ do? How would _gamble_ do? Not

a solitary soul-capture was sure. He played for a possible

thirty-three-hundred-per-cent profit. It was _gambling_--with his

family for “chips.” However let us see how the game came out. Maybe we

can get on the track of the secret original impulse, the _real_ impulse,

that moved him to so nobly self--sacrifice his family in the Savior's

cause under the superstition that he was sacrificing himself. I will

read a chapter or so.... Here we have it! It was bound to expose itself

sooner or later. He preached to the East-Side rabble a season, then went

back to his old dull, obscure life in the lumber-camps “_hurt to the

heart, his pride humbled_.” Why? Were not his efforts acceptable to the

Savior, for Whom alone they were made? Dear me, that detail is _lost

sight of_, is not even referred to, the fact that it started out as a

motive is entirely forgotten! Then what is the trouble? The authoress

quite innocently and unconsciously gives the whole business away. The

trouble was this: this man merely _preached_ to the poor; that is not

the University Settlement's way; it deals in larger and better things

than that, and it did not enthuse over that crude Salvation-Army

eloquence. It was courteous to Holme--but cool. It did not pet him,

did not take him to its bosom. “_Perished were all his dreams of

distinction, the praise and grateful approval_--” Of whom? The

Savior? No; the Savior is not mentioned. Of whom, then? Of “his

_fellow-workers_.” Why did he want that? Because the Master inside of

him wanted it, and would not be content without it. That emphasized

sentence quoted above, reveals the secret we have been seeking, the

original impulse, the _real_ impulse, which moved the obscure and

unappreciated Adirondack lumberman to sacrifice his family and go on

that crusade to the East Side--which said original impulse was this,

to wit: without knowing it _he went there to show a neglected world the

large talent that was in him, and rise to distinction_. As I have warned

you before, _no_ act springs from any but the one law, the one motive.

But I pray you, do not accept this law upon my say-so; but diligently

examine for yourself. Whenever you read of a self-sacrificing act or

hear of one, or of a duty done for _duty's sake_, take it to pieces and

look for the _real_ motive. It is always there.

Y.M. I do it every day. I cannot help it, now that I have gotten

started upon the degrading and exasperating quest. For it is hatefully

interesting!--in fact, fascinating is the word. As soon as I come across

a golden deed in a book I have to stop and take it apart and examine it,

I cannot help myself.

O.M. Have you ever found one that defeated the rule?

Y.M. No--at least, not yet. But take the case of servant--tipping in

Europe. You pay the _hotel_ for service; you owe the servants _nothing_,

yet you pay them besides. Doesn't that defeat it?

O.M. In what way?

Y.M. You are not _obliged_ to do it, therefore its source is compassion

for their ill-paid condition, and--

O.M. Has that custom ever vexed you, annoyed you, irritated you?

Y.M. Well, yes.

O.M. Still you succumbed to it?

Y.M. Of course.

O.M. Why of course?

Y.M. Well, custom is law, in a way, and laws must be submitted

to--everybody recognizes it as a _duty_.

O.M. Then you pay for the irritating tax for _duty's_ sake?

Y.M. I suppose it amounts to that.

O.M. Then the impulse which moves you to submit to the tax is not _all_

compassion, charity, benevolence?

Y.M. Well--perhaps not.

O.M. Is _any_ of it?

Y.M. I--perhaps I was too hasty in locating its source.

O.M. Perhaps so. In case you ignored the custom would you get prompt and