Of every child that is born the question is soon asked: What will become of him? The fond mother has her dream within her heart from the beginning, often enough regardless of the child's capabilities. The father looks on and calculates, considering time, and place, and circumstances. The teacher or schoolmaster has other ideas, usually built upon a know- ledge of the nature as it develops. Soon the child himself begins to realize himself, comes to the use of reason, as we call it, reaches out towards ideals which he sees, whether they be true or mere phantoms, and longs to have them for his own. At first he scarcely knows what they are; at first he does not know his own powers. Gradually, by experience and humility, he learns both the one and the other, what is in itself attainable and what he may himself attain, and as he grows to manhood he aspires to build up his life accordingly.
But whatever the process of training may be, in the event the making of the man depends very much upon the child himself. "Men at some time are masters of their fate," says Shakespeare. We would like to add, not merely "at some time," but from the beginning to the end. Others may help us or thwart us; circumstances may be for us or against us. They cannot wholly make us or destroy us. We must labour at the making ourselves, and it is never wholly completed. And in the process we may recognize with ease the divisions under which the makers of themselves may be classified. Ultimately there are three — not wholly distinct, it is true. In some things a man may belong to one type, in others to another; but, generally speaking, in the matters which count most for his making — above all, in those things which count most for the making of his inner self — we shall find one or another of three characteristics prevailing, by which the whole man and his whole career are coloured.
The first type may or may not be the most common. There are few in whom some trace of it may not be found. It goes by many names. In childhood it is called self-indulgent; in youth it is weak-kneed and wanting in back-bone. The man in whom it is conspicuous is either given ugly names, or else he is pityingly condoned. It is the type that is represented by him who has an aspiration to be the best that his nature will permit him; who wishes to accomplish all that for which he has been made, but who, for one reason or another, never seems to come to anything; on one excuse or another never puts his hand to the plough, much less, having put it there, takes it back again. At school he looks on at those who succeed better than himself. Some leave him behind in studies. He attributes it to their quicker brains, their better opportunities, their greater freedom from obstacles. Others excel him in athletics. He tells himself they are stronger built, more agile, less hampered by sickliness of body. Others, again, are more cheerful and more popular with their companions. He puts it down to their natural wit, their natural fertility of mind, some gift or other which he does not possess. In youth he watches his equals leaving him behind. He solaces himself with the thought that he has not had their chances, that he has not been so fortunate in his results, that he has not their almost superhuman energy, that he has been born under an unlucky star, and must be content. In manhood, when beginnings are apparently no more, he submits to the inevitable. He was not made to succeed; his lot was cast in humdrum and humble ways; he must be content to be one of the ordinary many with nothing very special about him. Perhaps even he gives himself comfort from the thought that the ordinary many, the "unknown and the valued as nothing," are greatest in the sight of God.
If this judgment of himself were really true, there would be nothing more to be answered. But no man is ordinary, if only because of the simple fact that no two men are alike. And as for the honour of being "unknown and valued as nothing," let it be remembered that it is those who "strive to be unknown," not those who lie down under their burthen, that receive the reward of the just. A man may not, indeed, be what is called clever; he may not be fleet of foot or agile; he may not have the readiness of wit to utter a bon mot, or to make some brilliant repartee. But none of these excuses him from sitting down idle and listless; none justifies his being contented with inaction at any period of his life, drifting aimlessly like a ship without a rudder, a gossamer at the mercy of every breath of wind, a poor boneless creature that cannot stand up straight, because it has had neither energy nor courage to make itself. It has always told itself that it wished, and looked, and hoped for better things; it has known it could do better if it chose. All it has said have been only excuses, and not reasons. An uncanny nagging spirit has for ever haunted its undeserved, endless hours of resting. Jogged by this spirit, it has persistently intended to start afresh; but the day of starting has always been tomorrow, and tomorrow has never become today.
The second type is much more common, particularly, perhaps, in this generation, when getting on is so much the fashion. It is the type of those who do more than merely wish, and then idly stand still. They determine to succeed, but their success must be in their own particular way. Whether or not it is actually the best waj r matters little. Whether success is to be gained at the sacrifice of others is secondary. Such things must happen, and in these days every man must look to himself. Whether even for the man himself it is best, it is futile, he holds it, to inquire. Somehow or other he must get on; that is the matter of first importance. Some particular way of getting on has taken his fancy; to pause now and reconsider is to lose precious time. In a child this tendency of mind is an unlovely thing. We blame it as self-seeking, if not worse. Even in those who are grown up, when it is too flagrant, when it settles down to mere self-preferment, to mere money-making, and the like, we may, indeed, envy, but we feel ourselves justified in at least affecting to condemn. But when it is not too manifest we condone, we even give it honourable names. There is too much fellow-feeling between it and ourselves for our judgment upon it to be too rigorous. We more than half encourage it in children; in youth we call it worthy ambition; in a man, if only he succeeds, we crown it with honour. No wonder that so many take it as their rule of action, for it is the rule that is sanctioned by the whole world's estimate of life. Right or wrong, a man must get what he wants; that is his business here. If he were to fail, he might be more a man. That is not to the point. Were he to succeed along some other course, more fruitful, perhaps, but less according to his inclination, he might deserve better of his fellow-men. He cannot now afford to chop and change. Success in his own present course may entail misfortune to others, much ultimate regret to himself. The first is not his affair, and as for the second, let the future look after itself.
Such is the second type of men, the characteristic type of our present generation, whether or not it is the most common. It is a type that can harden the human heart into steel. Nothing can make a man so hard as the worship of success. It is true it brings with it a certain sense of satisfaction — that is, if only it succeeds. But if it fails! and everyone does not succeed. The greater number fail altogether. Probably none reach the final goal of their ambitions. But even if they partially succeed, the result is very different from that which they expected. There is always disappointment mingled with the victory; there is always the little more that might have made al] the difference; always the disillusionment that comes with every triumph; always the sense that, after all, if they had chosen another road, they might have gone much farther. Such a man may accept the situation, and say that he is content; but his contentment demands an act of the will; it is not the spontaneous result of a nature satisfied.
And there is a third type, which is the type of a very man. It is the type that is guided by the desire to do the right thing, whatever the right thing may be. To a man of this type getting-on is not the all-in-all; it is not even everything to keep what belongs to himself. He knows that in the world there are other men besides himself, other interests besides his own. He knows that right and wrong are not subjective matters only; that he may not define them just as they suit his convenience; that others, too, have rights, and others have wrongs, and theirs may have the greater claim; that in the long-run right can never interfere with itself, wrong will prove its own condemnation; that one man's self-seeking is no sanction for the same in another; that if he fails in consequence, because of the unequal contest, he does a nobler thing, is a nobler man, lives a nobler life, than if he succeeded by any less worthy tactics; that he honours the man who goes down in such a struggle more than his unscrupulous rival who succeeds; that failure, not success, is both the making and the proof of the hero, whether in the end it is rewarded or not — failure by death on the field of battle, failure by death in an Antarctic blizzard, failure by death on a leper island, failure by martyrdom, or in any other way, when standing for truth against injustice. These are the things even this world knows how to honour; therefore, the man in whom they are most alive is a man in the fullest sense.
It is true the type is not common. Not every man is a hero, whatever he might be or might once have been. Time saps enthusiasm. Winners of the Victoria Cross are more often young than old. Indulgence saps the power to give and the power to make an effort. It becomes easier to submit and justify one's submission than to stand up and be shot "for nothing." But here, at least, in whatever else it must yield place, youth has the advantage over age. It can make itself be, and it can make itself do, what more matured years can- not; and when a man stands up for the right, and takes the consequences, then we know what a man can be. Of the first and second type we have no more to add. Whatever they are, however comfortable, however prosperous, the honour we pay them cannot be more than lip service. But the third is an ideal, and makes us look. It makes us wish many things for ourselves, whether we can aspire to it or not. But can we not? That is, indeed, the whole question. We may think it is too much for us; we may fancy we have lost our opportunity; we may say our day for such making is past; we may reckon up our failures, and ask whether, with such a record, success can ever be hoped for. In a hundred ways we may plead to be dismissed, and suffered to remain second or third rate. But human nature pleads against itself. It answers that the power that has made can also unmake; that the creature which has voluntarily accepted the yoke can also set itself free. It is true we cannot all be heroes, if by heroism is meant something that depends upon accidental gifts, something that must shine conspicuously before the eyes of other men. But if it means a constant aspiration for the right; if it means a steady march towards it, no matter what may tempt us to look elsewhere; if it means an unflinching refusal to be beaten, however often the enemy may have us down; if it means a strong determination that the right thing shall be done in us and by us, at whatever cost to ourselves - then yes, even we can be heroes, even we can never be conquered, and not to be conquered is to win.
If in the natural order it is true that men in the making fall under three types more or less, equally is it true in the supernatural. The spiritual side of man has its counterpart in the material. The natural virtues are not wholly distinct from the supernatural, they need but readjustment for grace to make them the same. The whole man is neither the one nor the other, but is both combined. Christ our Lord came not to destroy, but to perfect. Grace does not eliminate human nature, but takes what it finds, and lifts it up, and the methods of growth along both planes are parallel. The man of no natural spirit will never make a Saint, neither will the man who, with all his spirit, nevertheless seeks his own ends, however seemingly good those ends may be. It is only the hero, even judged by natural standards, that will do supernatural deeds of heroism. This at first may sound a hard saying, but is heroism easy, and is sanctity different from any other kind of heroism? If it were, there would be many more Saints, as Saint Teresa very clearly told her followers.
But whether it is hard or not is beside our present purpose. We would rather examine the parallel that exists between the supernatural life and the natural. How the three types seen in the one are no less seen in the other. Of these, the first includes a large number — perhaps the greatest number of all. It may not at once be easily distinguished. At the outset the spiritual life is often smooth enough, and offers little opportunity for seeing differences. We begin with our first notions of what is good and right. With these first notions human nature easily concurs, for, in spite of all that is said against it, human nature in itself is good, and tends to goodness. When supernaturalized, it still remains complacent, so long as it is left alone. But grace has a way of being troublesome. It never leaves a soul quite satisfied with itself or with the smooth and easy path it is treading. It is for ever asking for more; it is not content with an oblation that costs the giver nothing; it tells the soul that receives it the only gift to God worth giving is the gift that He Himself desires — that is the only gift worthy of a man. When that is realized, then comes the rub; then one can begin to see to which type a soul makes up its mind to belong.
Or, rather, we should say that the first type is of those who never make up their minds at all. There is a calling of grace in their hearts, but its words convey no meaning to their minds. They hear it, as it were, at a distance, but they make no effort to draw nearer. They may suspect its message, but they cannot be quite sure, and they prefer to remain in doubt. If they listened more carefully, they might know, but they suspect that the knowledge might, just here and just now, be inconvenient. Of course, they do not utterly wish to reject the call; they would not be accused of throwing God's grace away. Some day they mean to be better men; some day they will set about it in good earnest. Even now, if they knew what precisely had to be done, they would try to do it; but for the present they do not know, for the present they have other things on hand, and they can only act according to their lights. So they argue with themselves, with their backs turned to the light, seeing darkness where in reality is only their own shadow. So the morning of life expands into the noontide, and the labourer stands idle; the noon draws on to evening, and he tells himself that now it is too late. He will try again tomorrow, but the tomorrow on which he will begin never, never dawns.
There is a second type of spiritual-mindedness, of all the one that makes most show of being in earnest, but also the one that is most apt to proclaim its disappointment and failure. The man belonging to this type has grasped quite well the meaning, and the fascination, and the glory, and the fruitf ulness of the supernatural life. He has recognized the greatness of the Saints, the whole new world opened up by the insight of prayer, the invincible strength that is developed by personal independence and self-renunciation, the successfulness of failure, the joy of suffering, the might of littleness, and all the other paradoxes which are "to the Jews a stumbling-block, and to the Gentiles foolishness, but unto them that are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God." He has recognized all this, and he has determined that he will be a member of this camp. He will take hold of the spiritual, of the supernatural; he will bring it into his life; he will adapt his life to this perspective; he will advance in spiritual experience, in prayer, in mortification, in good works, in self-sacrifice, in knowledge and love of God. Indeed, he has long since done so. Already he has made many an effort; he has a worthy list of sacrifices to show, a worthy record of battles that he has fought. If he cannot boast of many glorious victories, not many elevations in prayer, not many consolations in his work, he rests on the assurance of spiritual writers, who tell him that this may in itself be a mark of Divine approval.
But there is one exception in it all. A man of this calibre is exposed to one great danger, and few indeed are those who escape it. It pursues everyone who aspires to the spiritual end, it pursues everyone to the end. Not only does it hide itself successfully; it pleads with a pathos that can scarcely be resisted that it is no danger, that it is human nature's rightful rest. One who can determine what he will do can also determine what he will not. He can make up his mind what he will win, but he can also settle with himself what shall be the price beyond which he will not go. He can reason pros and cons, profits and losses, advantages and their opposites; and he can tell himself, without using any words, almost without letting himself know that he is hinting it, that there are certain things, there is at least one certain thing, he cannot forgo, no matter what may be the prize at stake. Some things, he says, are now part of himself, or at least part of the oneness of his life. To part with them would not be generosity; it would be foolish, almost suicidal, perhaps even tempting God. In any case, God cannot be so hard as to demand this superhuman sacrifice. Other things he can bring himself to surrender; he can even give God an equivalent in kind. This one thing he cannot; it is too trifling, it is too much his own. The Power that asks it asks for more than human nature is capable of giving. So he goes on, affecting to be convinced that he is justified, unaffectedly refusing to admit the possibility of error. He does not argue the matter; it is safer to assume that there can be no other side. Against this one tiny atom that he retains for himself he puts the many things, the great things he has given, and is still ready to give; and he satisfies himself that if everything is not wholly on his side, at all events the balance is overwhelmingly in his favour.
So he goes on from beginning to end. In most cases he will not be distinguishable from others. He will make progress in his way; he will be a "good" man "according to his lights," as the phrase goes. If he fails in this point or that, it will be put down to the weakness of human nature. In all this he will be like his fellow-men. Even the Saints must be given some kind of margin; and whether or not he responds to the one grace that matters, who can tell? That none but his own soul can answer; and even his soul, if he is persistent and determined, can be put to silence. If he will but refuse to hear, there comes at last a time when hearing is scarcely possible. In noise and confusion, or with muffling and deadening of sound, the cry may be cut off altogether. Such is the second type — the type of failures, great and small. It has many grades, from great sinners who will do all but give up their dominating passion, to those on the verge of sanctity, who fail because of some trifling bondage to step across the border; but for all alike, whether they be sinners or potential Saints, it is unworthy.
The third type alone is noble. It is no less ambitious than its predecessor; indeed, it is more. It has made up its mind no less; it has done more. But it differs from the other in this — that it must put no limit to the price that may be demanded. It has no secret possession of its own; no heirloom or treasure with which it will not part. It has lost itself and its own claims in the vast otherness of this world and the next; or, rather, it has lost itself, and this world besides, in the vast otherness of the next. "AEterna non caduca," said one little hero fired with this understanding. " Quid hoc ad aeternitatem I" said another; and life, according to that motto, produced heroism of the very highest grade. Such a life does not merely keep back anything for itself; it forgets that there is anything to keep, or that there is a self to serve. Man loves and honours selflessness. There is no selflessness to match that which has drowned itself in eternity.