Part 6

Others may surpass you because of greater natural endowments or larger opportunity, or both, but this should not move you from the even tenor of your way. No less faulty than the complacent, self-satisfied life is the life spoiled because of unfulfilled ambitions. We should accept ourselves, with the limitations that cannot be removed, and go about it to make, with the material at hand, the most successful life possible. The highest of all attainments, the living of a successful life, depends not upon outward circumstances, not upon opportunities, not upon freedom from annoyances or even from trials and sorrows. In the last analysis it depends upon one's power to make the best and the most of those things which belong to his portion. If one can do that, life has no terrors for him. No misfortune or disappointment can prevail against him or disturb the serenity of his soul. He can say with Henley:--

"It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul."

IX

CONFLICTING LOYALTIES

Some of the saddest yet most common tragedies enacted in life about us have their source in the conflict between duty to self and duty to others. Is it because of our innate selfishness that so many sermons need to be preached to us about our duty to others? Perhaps it is thought that duty to self is so natural that we do not need a great deal of urging or warning in that direction. At any rate, we hear much less about our duty to ourselves than about our duty to others. It is therefore not strange that some generous and over-conscientious souls should come to feel that when a conflict arises between these two kinds of duties, self should always sink out of sight. This, however, is not a reasonable view. While the words, "He who saveth his life shall lose it," are among the greatest ever uttered, yet we must remember that He who spake them gave us also the Parable of the Talents, and was wroth with the man who took his one talent and hid it in the earth.

Many an earnest seeker after right is led to protest against a view of duty so one-sided. When one is urged to surrender self, to lose self, to care naught what becomes of self, one is led to cry, "But am _I_ of no worth? Has God not given me certain responsibilities with regard to my own life, and have I not the solemn duty of rendering back the talent given me, increased as many-fold as possible?"

The answer to these questions is unmistakable. My responsibility for myself is one that no other can assume. St. Paul states clearly one of the best reasons why we have no right to ignore self. "For every man must bear his own burden." If we cannot bear our own burdens, others must bear them for us. But it is expected that we shall do more than carry our own load; for in the same chapter we are commanded, "Bear ye one another's burdens." The inconsistency is only apparent, not real.

That self is not something to be effaced and trodden under whenever possible seems to be proved by the testimony of language. Let us examine a few of the derivatives of the word "self." While some of these words suggest self-effacement, others speak in no uncertain tones of the dignity and worth of self.

_Self-centered_ is a term of reproach, but _self-reliance_ is a duty. _Self-seeking_ is base, but _self-possession_ is commendable. _Self-complacency_ and _self-esteem_ we despise, but _self-control_ and _self-confidence_ are admired. Who can respect any one who is lacking in _self-respect_? _Self-sacrifice_ is a word that brings a glow or a thrill to the heart perhaps beyond any other; yet _self-preservation_ is sometimes one's highest duty.

Evidently, then, it is your duty to efface yourself and to assert yourself; to humble yourself and to respect yourself; to sacrifice yourself and to preserve yourself. At any rate, it seems clear that self is of importance and that we cannot be complete persons without somehow regarding self.

For centuries philosophers have puzzled or disputed over the definition of selfishness. Where shall we draw the line between obligation to self and obligation to others? Jeremy Bentham, the English philosopher, went so far as to say, "Dream not that man will lift his little finger except for his own advantage." If he means that every one always seeks his own personal advantage, as he seems to, he is absurdly wrong. For proof of it you need look no further than the first mother you meet who is spending herself lavishly for her child. If he means that each one really does what he most wants to do, he is right. I once knew a girl who had a delightful habit of spending most of her allowance on others rather than on herself. No good cause that needed help ever appealed to her in vain. She was continually seeking out individual needs which she could remedy. When praise was bestowed upon one of her unselfish acts, a schoolmate remarked, "Oh, that isn't unselfishness. She really _likes_ to use her money that way." Yes, she does, but it is unselfishness none the less. Her strongest inclinations lead her in a direction not easily understood by those who have had little practice in unselfish acts. But to call her conduct selfish is like calling white black, or light darkness.

The conflict between duty to self and duty to others is at times only apparent; again, it is painfully real. To determine what is an apparent conflict and what a real is one of the difficult problems we have to solve. It is surprising how little help others, as a rule, can give us in its solution; in fact, this is one of the situations in life where we must stand alone--must make our own decisions and bear the responsibility for them. To try to follow the judgment of others often results only in bewilderment.

Should a young man or woman accept an education to be paid for by money toilsomely earned by self-sacrificing parents? We cannot tell until we know all the circumstances. What would be base selfishness in one case becomes in another a sacred duty. Should the daughter whose presence gives cheer leave the home for a larger sphere of usefulness? Should the widowed mother wear herself out and fill an early grave in order that her children may have the advantages which will make them intelligent and useful men and women? Should the physician sacrifice his life in order that the devastating scourge may give up its secret and other lives be saved? To what extent is it your duty to imperil your health or your life for the needs of others? There is not one of us who does not sometimes meet with such questions as these. As to minor questions involving the same principles, we encounter them every day.

Just here I wish to point out certain frequent fallacies regarding our duties and obligations. The first is, that if you greatly desire to do or to have a thing, it would therefore be selfish for you to do it or to have it. The ascetics of the Middle Ages acted on this assumption. They practiced self-denial for the sake of self-denial, without any larger aim. The ascetic sacrifices himself for nothing. I have known people who seemed to direct their lives in accordance with the same theory. (They were always women!) I once had a friend who did so. As soon as she found that she had quite set her heart upon anything, she promptly gave it up. If there was something she did not want to do, she was sure to do it, for it must be her duty. I need not point out the unintelligence of this procedure. To live with her was almost necessarily to grow selfish. Did you ever think of the bad result upon a family of having one unwisely unselfish member? Such a person unconsciously develops selfishness in the others. Excessive unselfishness defeats itself. It does not even benefit those for whom the sacrifice is made, but injures them instead. Thus foolish mothers spoil their children, wives ruin their husbands, sisters destroy the character of their brothers, and brothers even have been known to pet and humor their sisters into egregious selfishness.

It is evident, then, that duties to self and duties to others are inextricably interwoven. The thing which you want may be best for you, and may serve the interests of others as well as yourself. Securing an education, for example, may double or treble your usefulness, not only to the world in general, but to those individuals who made the sacrifice in order that you might have it.

Self-sacrifice is noble, but if it is to be worthy self-sacrifice, the end must be worthy. Nothing could be finer, for example, than to risk one's life for another human being in danger, but we have only contempt for the man who imperils his life for no worthy end. That end must always be a _larger self_, and we shall respect the person in proportion to the worth of the larger self. The family is a larger self, so is one's school, church, city. The soldier in obeying the call of his country is serving a still larger self, and this call rarely falls on deaf ears. When the interests of the individual come into conflict with the interests of the larger unit, the individual's interests must give way. Sometime all good and intelligent people will realize what only the few see now, that there is a larger self even than country, and that is, humanity. When that time comes, nation can no more be arrayed against nation in the terrors of war. There should be no conflict between loyalty to country and loyalty to humanity, and the tragedy of war is that there is such a conflict.

There are many kinds of sacrifice besides the sacrifice of life. The sacrifice of material things is of no great moment, for they are not a part of ourselves. The greatest sacrifice we can make, next to that of life itself, is the sacrifice of our own growth. Deliberately to remain small, for the sake of duty, when we might have been large, requires all the heroism of which most of us are capable. Such a sacrifice has been made times without number by parents for their children and by sons or daughters for the sake of parents dependent upon them. It has been made by martyrs for their religion, by patriots for their country. It has been made by teachers for their pupils and by doctors and nurses for their patients. If we sacrifice our own larger growth and highest self-realization,--and it is sometimes necessary,--let us see to it that the end we aim to accomplish justifies the damage to ourselves. It is to be feared that such a sacrifice is often made without due consideration of relative values. The young man or woman who gives up an education for the sake of rendering service to others should make sure that the end aimed at is one of superlative worth. The mother whom I knew, who refused to allow her daughter to carry out her cherished plan of going to college, simply because she did not want to give up her daughter's companionship for four years, was an example of pitiable and short-sighted selfishness. The sacrifice she demanded was not justified because it was for no worthy end.

Often a great sacrifice of self now will mean that one will have little to give by and by, when the need may perhaps be larger. The self you have to give now is small. Why not make it larger before any complete self-surrender? We cannot give unless we have something to give. "If you would be a great giver," says one of our philosophers, "you must first be a great person." You dream of enriching the world with your life. Then make it a rich life.

A second fallacy often held is that obligations for which one is not likely to be called to account until the distant future are less binding than those which make their claim felt now. None of us acknowledge that we so regard duty; but if we do not, it is difficult to account for some of our actions. For the sake of fashion or of vanity modes of dress are often followed which are bound to result in impairment of health. Wrong habits of eating injure the digestion, late hours drain the vitality. Thus we buy present gratification at the cost of our future welfare. To no other class of persons is it as important to say this as to girls. Many a girl acts as if she believed that she would have no use for any health or strength after she was thirty years old, and so were willing to squander all she had in a few months or years. She should remember that she will need at least as much each year of her threescore and ten as she does this year. There will be people in the future to whom she will owe obligation, just as there are now, some of whom are yet unborn. When we are inclined to overwork, the same arguments should apply. Why spend one's self in a single effort? Why not take account of the work that must be done in future years? I have known short-sighted young people who spent their entire capital of health in getting an education, only to live thenceforth lives of impaired usefulness.

One of the questions which the most conscientious of us must constantly ask ourselves is to what extent we should share whatever material possessions we may have with those less fortunate than ourselves. The needy are all about us and the claims of suffering humanity are insistent. The call must not fall on deaf ears. For some this call has seemed so imperative as to make them surrender all they had for the sake of alleviating distress or of making life more worth while for a few of their fellow beings. Too many go to the other extreme and admit no obligation to their fellow men.

Here are some questions in social ethics for you to ask yourself: Have I a right to live in a fine house, to have expensive clothing, and to spend money on travel and other pleasures when there are so many people in the world suffering for the necessities of life? To my mind the answer is, I have a right to spend money on myself only so far as it will make me a person of greater value to the world. If I should give away everything I have to those whose need is greater than mine, and live in a hovel, only a few out of the vast number of the needy would be benefited and I should be unfitted to accomplish the work in life which I am in duty bound to accomplish. What shall we say, however, of those who all through life are consumers and not producers, who add nothing to the world, but continually take from it? What further shall we say, if, in addition to being a non-producer, one is wasteful of that which has been produced by others, using it for self-indulgence and selfish pleasure? I have a friend who was once criticized for her simple and inexpensive clothing. Her reply was, "How can I spend much money for clothes when there are so many young people in the world suffering for an education?"

It seems to me, then, that loyalty to self demands that we should regard self as nearly as possible in an impersonal way. We must not ask for more than our share, yet we should take our portion just as we should expect another to do, not for our own pleasure or selfish ambition, but in order that we may be able to render the largest possible service to our day and generation. By these questions test every benefit you seek for yourself and especially every luxury that tempts you: Have I a _right_ to this benefit or this luxury? That is, can I take it and at the same time be just to others? If the answer is in the affirmative, a further question should be asked: Will it help me to become a more valuable person? If the answer is in the negative, then, even though you have a right to it, your larger privilege is to surrender that right.

X

THE VALUE OF DISCIPLINE

One of the most frequent and least satisfactory answers given to students in reply to the question _why_ a certain subject must be studied, or a given course of conduct pursued, is, "It is good discipline." That statement is probably true, but it is sometimes difficult for the questioner to understand. He asks, What is discipline? And why has it the virtue claimed for it?

By discipline I suppose we mean the subordination of the self to something outside of the self, or, at least, the subordination of the self to law, even though that law be self-made. The psychologist could explain to you that the law of habit is the controlling factor in all discipline. The thing that has been done many times is finally done with ease, is perhaps done automatically. Ease, as some one has said, is the lovely result of forgotten toil. The laws that apply in learning to play the piano or to ride a bicycle are not different from those involved in the training of the intellect or the will.

It is not necessary to point out the very evident truth, that no school could command the respect of its students for a single day if it had no discipline. Whether the regulations are made by the students themselves or by a higher power, there must not only be subordination of the whims and caprices of each student to his own higher interests, but there must be subordination of the will of each individual to the common good. No school community could furnish the proper conditions for growth whose members did exactly as they pleased unless each pleased to consider the rights of others as sacred as his own. Whether from alien compulsion or from some inner law, each must make his contribution to the welfare of the whole. The result is system and order that enables each to go his way, free to put forth his best effort. Each member of the community must give up a portion of his own freedom for the common good, that common good being for him a much larger freedom. Students sometimes think too much about the freedom they surrender and not enough about the benefits that surrender secures.

Perhaps you have sometimes for the moment grown a little restive under discipline--who of us has not?--and have longed for the time when you could do just as you please. There are, doubtless, times when even the most faithful student longs to "play truant." Yet holding one's self to definite and stated tasks is the surest road to the largest freedom.

As there is no royal road to learning, so, also, there is none to mental insight and acumen. You must think, compare, reason, remember. You must learn accuracy and precision. When the facts more or less laboriously acquired in school and college have been for the most part forgotten, the mind, if it has been really disciplined, still retains the power of grappling with new problems and solving them. This power is worth all it costs. The value it adds to life can hardly be overestimated. It gives an independence and a mastery over things that can be gained in no other way. It is the means of providing resources that make life vastly more worth living. It increases one's usefulness to the world many-fold. Such mental training may be had, too, by most of us if we are willing to pay the price. The majority of people, however, are not willing to do that, and therefore those who are generally find themselves in positions of leadership.

The training of the will is just as important as the training of the intellect; nay, more important, since thought is powerless until put into action. Essential as it is that the average citizen should be a trained thinker, even more so is it that he be a person of right action. Yet the two kinds of training need not be set over against each other as if one needed to choose between them. They should go hand in hand.

It is difficult to say which is the source of greater danger in a community, the weak and nerveless will, or the strong but perverse will. Our prisons, penitentiaries, and reform schools are recruited for the most part from the ranks of the weak of mind and will. In every community the many are easily led by the few. This is true in social life and perhaps doubly true in political life, as we in America know to our cost. That the perverse will may easily grow into the wicked will, bent only on selfish and base ends, there is constant proof in the world about us. Such men as those designated by a former President as "malefactors of great wealth" belong to this class. Tyrants and despots are made of men of strong but unregulated will. To this class belong the overbearing and autocratic everywhere, who always insist upon having their own way regardless of the rights or the feelings of others. Without fully realizing it, many a family has among its members one whose will rules the household, not because it is the wisest will, but because it is the most determined.

"Man is made great or little by his will," said Schiller. The disciplined will has gained the power of attention and of industry, has learned method, accuracy, and dispatch in doing work. It has acquired patience and perseverance and knows how to resist, to persist, to attack and to conquer obstacles. "My imagination would never have served me as it has," said Charles Dickens, "but for the habit of commonplace, humble, patient, daily, toiling, drudging attention." "Genius," said George Eliot, "is a vast capacity for receiving discipline." If even the great writers admit, as many of them do, that their work is the result of long and patient self-discipline, surely in the more ordinary walks of life that kind of training may not be despised.

To have a work that we love is one of the supreme things to be desired in life. It must be admitted, however, that the majority of the world's workers find little pleasure in their task. Yet the next best thing to doing one's work with enjoyment is to _do_ it--even without enjoyment. This takes strength of will, more strength of will, indeed, than many possess. This is one of the reasons (though not the only one) why there are always and everywhere so many persons out of employment. The number of such persons who have to be taken care of by the charity of the State, simply because they cannot or will not hold themselves to labor of any kind, is appalling.

But even the most favored of us, congenial though our work may be, have duties to perform every day that are not especially pleasurable. A few years ago Dr. Eliot, then President of Harvard College, addressed a body of laboring men on "The Joy of Labor." He tried to show them that they should not expect pleasure in every detail of their work, but rather in seeing its larger relationships, and in working toward a certain definite goal. He said that among the men of his acquaintance, those whose work seemed to him most enviable had much to do in the course of each day that could by no means be called pleasurable and that had to be done by sheer effort of will. The men whom he was addressing, he remarked, probably regarded his own work as wholly delightful; yet that was by no means the case, as the larger part of each day's work was drudgery, and his joy in doing it came only through realizing its importance in the scheme of the whole. It is the disciplined will which enables us to do the disagreeable or the uninteresting thing uncomplainingly. The scientist at work in his laboratory, the lawyer preparing his brief, the business man toiling by day and often by night in his office, give most of their time to uninteresting details. Yet the difference between success and failure usually lies in one's ability or lack of ability to hold himself to uninspiring details.

Does the mother who has the care of a family need a disciplined will? Who, indeed, needs it more? In whose life is there more of petty detail and unending drudgery? Where is there greater need of the wide outlook and the large vision? In this case it is the vision of a perfect home which glorifies the petty details and the drudgery.

"Who sweeps a room as for thy laws Makes that and the action fine."