Part 20

Honor and virtue are not the same, though true honor is always founded on virtue. Honor may take her tones and texture from the prevailing manners and customs of those around us; this renders her vacillating unless allied to virtue, which is the same in both hemispheres, yesterday as to-day. When honor is not founded on virtue she becomes essentially selfish in design, and is unworthy of her name. She is then unstable and seldom the same, for she feeds upon opinion, and will be as fickle as her food. She builds a lofty structure on the sandy foundation of the esteem of those who are, of all beings, the most subject to change. Combined with virtue she is uniform and fixed, because she looks for approbation only from Him who is the same at all times. Honor by herself is capricious in her rewards. She feeds us upon air, and often pulls down our house to build our monument. She is contracted in her views, inasmuch as her hopes are rooted on to earth, bounded by time, and terminated by death. But, when directed by virtue, her hopes become enlarged and magnified, inasmuch as they extend beyond present things—even to things eternal. In the storms and tempests of life mere honor is not to be depended on, because she herself partakes of the tumult; she also is buffeted by the waves and borne along by the whirlwind. But virtue is above the storm, and gives to honor a sure and steadfast anchor, since it is cast into heaven.

What is called policy is sometimes spoken of in the same sense as prudence, but its nature is cunning. It is a thing of many aspects and of many tongues; it can appear in any form and speak in any language. It is sometimes called management, but is not worthy of that good name, inasmuch as it is but a compound of sagacity and deceit, of duplicity and of meanness. It puts on the semblance of kindness and concern for your good, but its heart is treachery and selfishness.

This principle, strange as it may seem, is of very extensive influence. It is adopted and acted upon by multitudes, who claim to be respectable and intelligent men, and is not confined to the few or those of the baser sort. Its devotees may not be aware that this is their ruling principle of action. They mistake its meaning by giving it a wrong name. They call it prudence, discretion, wisdom. Alas! it is not guided by the high principles of integrity, which beautify and adorn those noble attributes of perfect manhood. Its appropriate name is policy, the sister of cunning, the child of deception and duplicity.

This principle of double dealing, of artful accommodation and management, is eminently characteristic of the present age. It meets every man on his blind side, and by stratagem makes a tool of him to accomplish its own wily and selfish purposes. If he is weak, it deceives him by its artifices; if he is vain, it puffs up his vanity by flattery; if he is avaricious, it allures him with the prospect of gain; if he is ambitious, it promises him promotion; if he is timid, it threatens him. Its leading maxim is, "The end justifies the means," and, in pursuing its end, it sticks at nothing that promises success. It may be traced in all departments of business and through all grades of society, from the grand councils of the nation to the little town or parish meeting. Instead of acting in open daylight, pursuing the direct and straightforward path of rectitude and duty, you see men extensively putting on false appearances, working in the dark, and carrying their plans by stratagem and deceit; nothing open, nothing direct and honest; one thing is said, and another thing is meant. When you look for a man in one place, you find him in another. With flattering lips and a double heart do they speak. Their language and conduct do not proceed from fixed principles and open-hearted sincerity, but from a spirit of duplicity and selfish policy.

Prudence, caution, and business management are not only a necessity, but are commended as the price of success in worldly affairs. They have the sanction of our best judgment, and offend no moral sense of right. But against mere policy every young man who has any desire of lasting respectability and influence ought most carefully be on his guard. Nothing can be more fatal to reputation and success in life than to acquire the character of an artful intriguer, one who does all things with the ulterior design of furthering his own ends. He may succeed for a time; but he will soon be found out, and when found out will be despised. He who acts on this principle thinks that nobody knows it; but he is wretchedly mistaken. The thin disguise that is thrown over the inner man is soon seen through by every one, and while he prides himself on being very wise and keeping his designs out of sight, all persons of the least discernment perfectly understand him, and despise him for thinking he could make fools of them.

People often mistake policy for discretion. There is a wide difference between the two traits. Policy is only the mimic of discretion, but may pass current with the mass in the same manner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit and gravity for wisdom. Policy has only private, selfish aims, and stops at nothing which may render these successful. Discretion has large and extended views, and, like a well-formed eye, commands a wide horizon. Policy is a kind of short insight that discovers the minutest objects that are close at hand, but is not able to discover things at a distance. The whole power of policy is private; to say nothing and to do nothing is the utmost of its reach. Yet men thus narrow by nature and mean by art are sometimes able to rise by the miscarriage of bravery and openness of integrity, and, watching failures and snatching opportunities, obtain advantages which belong to higher characters.

The observant man will not calculate any essential difference from mere appearances. The light laughter that bubbles on the lips, often mantles over brackish depths of sadness, and the serious look may be the sober veil that covers a divine peace. The bosom may ache beneath diamond broaches, or a blithe heart dance under coarse wool sacks. By a kind of fashionable discipline the eye is taught to brighten, the lip to smile, and the whole countenance to emanate the semblance of friendly welcome, while the bosom is unwarmed by a single spark of genuine kindness and good-will. Grief and anxiety lie hidden under the golden robes of prosperity, and the gloom of calamity is often cheered by the secret radiations of hope and comfort, as in the works of nature the bog is sometimes covered with flowers and the mine concealed in barren crags. Beware, so long as you live, of judging men by the outward appearance.

But nothing feigned or violent can last long. Life becomes manifest. It will declare itself, and at last the worthless disguises are worn off. Hence, the lesson that the wise man should learn is to guard against mere appearances in others, but for himself to pursue the straightforward, open course, and in a world of deceit and intrigue show himself a man that can be relied on. Thus will his life be influential for good, and after he is gone his memory will be revered as that of an upright man.

There is one quality which brings to its possessor naught but ridicule, or, what is still worse, positive dislike: it is sometimes called self-conceit, but more commonly and more forcibly expressed by egotism.

Egotism and skepticism are always miserable companions in life, and are especially unlovable in youth. The egotist is next door to a fanatic. Constantly occupied with self, he has no thoughts to spare for others. He refers to himself in all things, thinks of himself, and studies himself, until his own little self becomes his ruling principle of action. The pests of society are egotists. There are some men whose opposition can be reckoned upon against every thing that has not emanated from themselves. He that falls in love with himself will have no rivals. The egotist's code is, Every thing for himself, nothing for others. Hence it is by reason of their selfishness that they find the world so ugly, because they can only see themselves in it.

An egotist is seldom a man of brilliant parts. A talented or sensible man is apt to drop out of his narration every allusion to himself. He is content with putting his theme on its own ground. You shall not tell me you have learned to know most men. Your saying so disproves it. You shall not tell me by their titles what books you have read. You shall not tell me your house is the best and your pictures the finest. You shall make me feel it. I am not to infer it from your conversation. It is a false principle, because we are entirely occupied with ourselves, we must equally occupy the thoughts of others. The contrary inference is but the fair one. We are such hypocrites that whatever we talk of ourselves, though our words may sound humble, our hearts are nearly always proud. When all is summed up, a man never speaks of himself without loss; his accusation of himself is always believed, his praises never. This love of talking of self is a disease that, like influenza, falls on all constitutions. It is allowable to speak of yourself, provided you do not continually advance new arguments in your favor. But abuse of self is nearly as bad, since we can not help suspecting that those who abuse themselves are, in reality, angling for approbation.

Ofttimes we dislike egotism in others simply because of our own. We feel it a slight, when we are by, that one should talk of himself, or seek to entertain us with his own interests instead of asking us ours. He who thinks he can find in himself the means of doing without others is much mistaken. But he who thinks others can not do without him is still more mistaken. Conceit is the most contemptible and one of the most odious qualities in the world. It is vanity drawn from all other shifts, and forced to appeal to itself for admiration. It is to nature what paint is to beauty; it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would improve. He who gives himself airs of importance exhibits the credentials of impotence. He that fancies himself very enlightened because he sees the deficiency of others may be very ignorant because he has not studied his own. In the same degree as we overrate ourselves we shall underrate others; for injustice allowed at home is not likely to be corrected abroad.

It is this unquiet love of self that renders us so sensitive. It is an instrument useful, but dangerous. It often wounds the hand that makes use of it, and seldom does good without doing harm. The sick man who sleeps ill thinks the night long. We exaggerate all the evils which we encounter; they are great, but our sensibility increases them. Man should not prize himself by what he has; neither should others prize him by what he professes to have, or what he by vigorous talk constantly lays claim to possess. We should seek the more valuable qualities which lie hidden in his true self. He mistakes who values a jewel by its golden frame, or a book by its silver clasps, or a man by reason of his estates or profession.

The true measure of success always lies between two extremes. Egotism and overweening self-conceit are indeed deplorable blemishes in any character; but we, perhaps, forget that he who is totally destitute of them presents but a sorry figure in the world's battle-field. He lacks individuality, and lacks the courage to push forward his own interests. In this aggressive age it will not do to be destitute of a right degree of self-confidence. Lacking this, men are too often deterred from taking that position for which their talents eminently fit them, and at last have only vain regrets as they contemplate life's failures. Egotism is as distinct and separate from a manly self-confidence in one's own powers as the unsightly block of marble is to the finished statuette, which consists, indeed, of the same materials as the former, but so softened and modified as to be an object of admiration to all. Nor is it difficult to draw the dividing lines. Egotism exultingly proclaims to all, "Look at me. What strength, what ability, what talents are mine! Who so graceful? who so gifted? who so competent to be placed in position of honor or authority as I? I am sure of success. Behold my triumph!" The man who is withal modest, yet feels that he possesses acquisitions and gifts, says: "True, the way is long, the time discouraging, but what has been done can be done. I can but make the effort, and go forward to the best of my ability; and if so be I fail, with a brave heart and a cheerful face I will do what duty points out; but if success crowns my efforts, I will so use my advantages that all may be benefited."

There is no vice or folly that requires so much nicety and skill to manage as vanity, nor any which, by ill-management, makes so contemptible a figure. The desire of being thought wise is often a hindrance to being so, for such a one is often more desirous of letting the world see what knowledge he hath than to learn of others that which he wants. Men are more apt to be vain on account of those qualities which they fondly believe they have than of those which they really possess Some would be thought to do great things who are but tools or instruments, like the fool who fancied he played upon the organ when he only blew the bellows.

Be not so greedy of popular applause as to forget that the same breath which blows up a fire may blow it out again. Vanity, like laudanum and other poisonous medicines, is beneficial in small, though injurious in large, quantities. Be not vain of your want of vanity. When you hear the phrase, "I may say without vanity," you may be sure some characteristic vanity will follow in the same breath. The most worthless things are sometimes most esteemed. It is not all the world that can pull an humble man down, because God will exalt him. Nor is it all the world that can keep a proud man up, because God will debase him.

Vanity feeds voraciously and abundantly on the richest food that can be served up, or can live on less and meaner diet than any thing of which we can form a conception. The rich and the poor, learned and ignorant, strong and weak,—all have a share in vanity. The humblest Christian is not free from it, and when he is most humble the devil will flatter his vanity by telling him of it. On the other hand, it is with equal relish that it feeds upon vulgarity, coarseness, and fulsome eccentricity,—every thing, in short, by which a person can attract attention. It often takes liberality by the hand, prompts advice, administers reproof, and sometimes perches visibly and gayly on the prayers and sermons in the pulpit. It is an ever-present principle of human nature—a wen on the heart of man; less painful, but equally loathsome as a cancer. It is of all others the most baseless propensity.

O vanity, how little is thy force acknowledged or thine operations discerned! How wantonly dost thou deceive mankind under different disguises! Sometimes thou dost wear the face of pity; sometimes of generosity; nay, thou hast the assurance to put on the robes of religion and the glorious ornaments that belong only to heroic virtue. Vanity is the fruit of ignorance. It thrives most in those places never reached by the air of heaven or the light of the sun. It is a deceitful sweetness, a fruitless labor, a perpetual fear, a dangerous honor; her beginning is without providence, but her end not without repentance. Vanity is so constantly solicitous of self that even where its own claims are not interested it indirectly seeks the aliment which it loves by showing how little is deserved by others.

Charms which, like flowers, lie on the surface—such as preserve figure and dress—conduce to vanity. On the contrary, those excellencies which lie down, like gold, and are discovered with difficulty—such as profoundness of intellect and morality—leave their possessors modest and humble. Vanity ceases to be blameless, even if it is not ennobled, when it is directed to laudable objects, when it prompts us to great and generous actions. Vanity is, indeed, the poison of agreeableness, yet even a poison, when skillfully employed, has a salutary effect in medicine; so has vanity in the commerce and society of the world.

Some intermixture of vainglorious tempers puts life into business, and makes a fit composition for grand enterprises and hazardous endeavors; for men of solid and sober natures have more of the ballast than the sail. Vanity is, in one sense, the antidote to conceit, for, while the former makes us all nerve to the opinions of others, the latter is perfectly satisfied with its opinion of itself. A vain man can not be altogether rude. Desirous as he is of pleasing he fashions his manners after those of others. Therefore, let us give vanity fair quarter wherever we meet with it, being persuaded that it is often productive of good to its possessor, and to others who are within its sphere of action.

Vanity pervades the whole human family to a greater or less degree, as the atmosphere does the globe. It is so anchored in the heart of man that not only in the lower walks of life but in the higher all wish to have their admirers. Those who write against it wish to have the glory of writing well, and those who read it wish the glory of reading well. Vanity calculates but poorly on the vanity of others. What a virtue we should distill from frailty! what a world of pain we would save our brethren, if we would suffer our weakness to be the measure of theirs!

We would rather contend with pride than vanity, because pride has a stand-up way of fighting. You know where it is. It throws its black shadow on you, and you are not at a loss where to strike. But vanity is such a delusive and multified failing that men who fight vanities are like men who fight midgets and butterflies. It is much easier to chase them than to hit them. Vanity may be likened to the mouse nibbling about in the expectation of a crumb; while pride is apt to be like the butcher's dog, who carries off your steak and growls at you as he goes. Pride is never more offensive than when it condescends to be civil; whereas vanity, whenever it forgets itself, naturally assumes good humor.

Extinguish vanity in the mind, and you naturally retrench the little superfluities of garniture and equipage. The flowers will fall of themselves when the root that nourishes them is destroyed. We have nothing of which we should be vain, but much to induce humility. If we have any good qualities they are the gift of God. Let every one guard against this all-pervading principle, and teach their children that it is the shadow of a shade.

There is nothing in the world so malignant and destructive in its nature and tendency as selfishness. It has done all the mischief of the past, and is destined to do all the mischief of the unseen future. It has destroyed the temporal and eternal interests of millions in times past, and it is morally certain that it will destroy the interests of millions yet to come. It is the source of all the sins of omission and commission which are found in the world. We shall not see a wrong take place but that the actor is moved by his own private, personal, and selfish nature.

Selfishness is a vice utterly at variance with the happiness of him who harbors it, for the selfish man suffers more from his selfishness than he from whom that selfishness withholds some important benefit. He that sympathizes in all the happiness of others perhaps himself enjoys the safest happiness, and he who is warned by all the folly of others has perhaps attained the soundest wisdom. But such is the blindness and suicidal selfishness of mankind that things so desirable are seldom pursued, things so accessible seldom attained. The selfish person lives as if the world were made altogether for him, and not he for the world; to take in every thing, and part with nothing.

Selfishness contracts and narrows our benevolence, and causes us, like serpents, to infold ourselves within ourselves, and to turn out our stings to all the world besides. As frost to the bud and blight to the blossom, even such is self-interest to friendship, for confidence can not dwell where selfishness is porter at the gate. The essence of true nobility is neglect of self. Let the thought of self pass in, and the beauty of a great action is gone, like the bloom from a soiled flower. Selfishness is the bane of all life. It can not enter into any life—individual, family, or social—without cursing it. It maintains its ground by tenacity and contention, and engenders strife and discord where all before was peace and harmony.

Few sins in the world are punished more constantly or more certainly than that of selfishness. It dwarfs all the better nature of man. It takes from him that feeling of kindly sympathy for others' good, which is one of the most pleasing traits of manhood, and in its stead sets up self as the one whose good is to be chiefly sought. It makes self the vortex instead of the fountain, so that, instead of throwing out, he learns only to draw in. These withering effects are to be seen not only in the high roads and public places of life, but in the nooks and by-lanes as well. Not alone among conquerors and kings, but among the humble and obscure; in the dissembling artifices of trade; in the unsanctified lust of wealth; in the devoted pursuit of station and power; confederated with the worst feelings and most depraved designs.

In proportion as we contract and curtail our feelings, so do we confine and limit our minds. If all our thoughts, plans, and purposes tend only to the advancement of self, we may be sure they will become as insignificant as their object, and instead of embracing in their scope the welfare of many, rendering us an object of endearment to others, they will become dwarfed and conceited, and fall far short of the liberality and public spirit by which we attach others to our cause. Unselfish and noble acts are the most radiant epochs in the history of souls, points from which we date a larger growth of thought and feeling. When wrought in earliest youth, they lie in the memory of age, like the coral islands, green and sunny, waving with the fruits of a southern clime amidst the melancholy waste of water.