But there is one further point in our disparagement of manners. He who accepts the code, indorses, and practises it, finds himself in the long run enfeebled. Accordingly, a healthy nature is always a little restive under manners. The child rebels against being taught how to behave. He wants to behave as nature prompts. When full of glee he would laugh aloud, but is told that loud laughter in company is not proper. Is there not danger that the continual check which manners put on exuberant nature may, in the process of rubbing off social excrescences, rub off much of nature too? How large will be the “due opportunity for self-expression” in a society whose prime aim is “the avoidance of offense”? It must be remembered that checking expression checks thought. We do not develop strong interests when moving among those who stare if we mention them. In company, people may grow quick, clever, neat in repartee, compliment, and paradox, but they do not become reflective, solid in judgment, distinctive in individual taste. Such things come more readily in isolation. It is wise advice George Herbert gives:
“By all means use sometimes to be alone.
Salute thyself. See what thy soul doth wear.
Dare to look in thy chest, for ’tis thine own,
And tumble up and down what thou find’st there.
Who cannot rest till he good fellows find
He shuts up house, turns out of doors his mind.”
The fact is that in bidding us all the time to be regardful of others, manners make too sharp a division between the conjunct and the separate self; and it is disastrous to each to be set up to the exclusion of the other. In detachment the conjunct self grows empty, the separate self surly and brutish. They belong together. When either has been unduly emphasized, it is wholesome to give the other a chance. Society, the special field for the cultivation of manners, would soon be sterile soil were it not abandoned during lenten intervals and summers in the country. After meeting a multitude of people and being obliged to adjust ourselves to only such matters as all can understand, what a relief it is to be in the open fields, social conventions dropped, responsibilities forgotten, and no regard for others marking our words, acts, or dress!
And now we see why all the words which name the ingenious system of man’s best approach to man contain a tinge of evil. Every one is a disparaging term, though meant for praise. Politeness, courtesy, good breeding, propriety, decency, civility—manners is the best of the long list, for it states with less of praise or blame the mutual consideration expected whenever person meets person. But it is not altogether clean. It lingers on the outside and so suggests triviality, suspicion of our neighbor, and the enfeebling of originality. That these baser qualities are not inherent in manners is true enough. A well-mannered man may have a friendly soul. But he may have one of an opposite sort. Manners, therefore, though altruistic in form, are not necessarily altruistic in matter. They can, accordingly, be regarded as only the beginning of our inquiry. No human society, it is now evident, can be formed without recognizing the altruistic principle; but in manners that principle may be employed as naturally for an egoistic as for an altruistic purpose. What we are in search of is a situation in which a man sincerely prefers another’s good to his own.
CHAPTER III
GIFTS
Such a higher stage of altruism is that which I have called Gifts. When we give, we set ourselves in a low place and some one else in a high, so intentionally putting altruism into the matter of our action and not merely into its form. A definition of giving would therefore run as follows: the diminution by ourselves of some of our possessions, pleasures, or opportunities for growth, so that another person may possess more.
Every gift, to be a real gift, must cost the giver something. When I have just received an unexpectedly large payment and am feeling particularly well off, I might easily take pleasure in handing a half-dollar to a beggar. But that is an amusement, not a gift. I have experienced no loss. For both money and beggar I cared little, but the momentary sense of munificence was agreeable. The act was one of pride rather than generosity. On the other hand, I give a friend a book I love, one that has deeply influenced my life and I hope may influence his. He has no means of obtaining a copy elsewhere. I shall miss it, no doubt. But remembering how long I have had it, and he not at all, I resolve to impoverish myself for his enrichment. The moment I hand it to him he becomes the rich man and I the poor. All ownership on my part ceases. I have cut myself off from something valuable in order to bring about a certain superiority in him. That is the essence of a gift. To make my friend large I make myself small.
It may be said, however, that such damage to the giver is unnecessary. Completer giving would be that where the receiver makes up to me my loss. But would not my act under such conditions cease to be a gift? It would become an exchange, a trade, a bargain. Whether a wise trade or a foolish, there was calculation directed to keeping me as well off at the close of the transaction as at the beginning. On that account no one will call it a gift. Or if, again, I expect positively to profit by what I offered my friend, finding my bookshelves crowded and resolved to lead a simpler life, my act once more will lack the quality of a gift. Wisely I rid myself of some superfluous possessions, but I did so quite as much for my own advantage as for that of my friend. It is true that often in whole-hearted giving we find ourselves in the end richer than before. But that was not contemplated. What we sought was impoverishment for another’s gain, and it is that purpose which constitutes a gift.
As regards what is given, a few words may be well. All gifts are not of the same grade. In thinking of them we generally have in mind parting with a piece of property. But this is the slenderest of gifts. Accordingly in my definition, side by side with possessions, I named a superior sort of gift, pleasures. To detach a pleasure from myself for another’s sake, and to succeed in the difficult business of transferring it from my enjoyment to his, is surely a larger gift than parting with a piece of property. Indeed, even in giving an article, I felt the pleasure involved in it to be the important matter. Having been pleased with it myself I trusted it would bring my friend pleasure too. The article was a mere means, a subordinate part of the affair. Could I convey as much pleasure without it, the gift would gain in delicacy. Suppose then on a beautiful afternoon, when I have been bending over my work all the morning, I am offered a ride in the country. A friend is standing beside me, and to him I turn. “You take this seat. I do not care to go. You need it more than I.” And knowing full well the refreshment that will be had, I persuade him to take my place. Here is a gift of a higher order than a mere piece of property. Its substance is taken more directly out of myself.