by Brett McKay
The third possible cause was that you did not rearrange your day. Idler and time-waster though you have been, still you had done something during the twenty-four hours. You went to work with a kind of dim idea that there were twenty-six hours in every day. Something large and definite has to be dropped. Some space in the rank jungle of the day has to be cleared and swept up for the new operations. Robbing yourself of sleep won’t help you, nor trying to “squeeze in” a time for study between two other times. Use the knife, and use it freely. If you mean to read or think half an hour a day, arrange for an hour. A hundred percent margin is not too much for a beginner.
MENTAL CALISTHENICS
I have dealt with the state of mind in which one should begin a serious effort towards mental efficiency, and also with the probable causes of failure in previous efforts. We come now to what I may call the calisthenics of the business, exercises which may be roughly compared to the technical exercises necessary in learning to play a musical instrument. It is curious that a person studying a musical instrument will have no false shame whatever in doing mere exercises for the fingers and wrists while a person who is trying to get his mind into order will almost certainly experience a false shame in going through performances which are undoubtedly good for him. Herein lies one of the great obstacles to mental efficiency. Tell a man that he should join a memory class, and he will hum and haw, and say, as I have already remarked, that memory isn’t everything; and, in short, he won’t join the memory class, partly from indolence, I grant, but more from false shame. (Is not this true?) He will even hesitate about learning things by heart. Yet there are few mental exercises better than learning great poetry or prose by heart. Twenty lines a week for six months: what a “cure” for debility! The chief, but not the only, merit of learning by heart as an exercise is that it compels the mind to concentrate. And the most important preliminary to self-development is the faculty of concentrating at will. Another excellent exercise is to read a page of no matter-what, and then immediately to write down—in one’s own words or in the author’s—one’s full recollection of it. A quarter of an hour a day! No more! And it works like magic.
This brings me to the department of writing. I am a writer by profession; but I do not think I have any prejudices in favour of the exercise of writing. Indeed, I say to myself every morning that if there is one exercise in the world which I hate, it is the exercise of writing. But I must assert that in my opinion the exercise of writing is an indispensable part of any genuine effort towards mental efficiency. I don’t care much what you write, so long as you compose sentences and achieve continuity. There are forty ways of writing in an unprofessional manner, and they are all good. You may keep “a full diary,” as Mr. Arthur Christopher Benson says he does. This is one of the least good ways. Diaries, save in experienced hands like those of Mr. Benson, are apt to get themselves done with the very minimum of mental effort. They also tend to an exaggeration of egotism, and if they are left lying about they tend to strife. Further, one never knows when one may not be compelled to produce them in a court of law. A journal is better. Do not ask me to define the difference between a journal and a diary. I will not and I cannot. It is a difference that one feels instinctively. A diary treats exclusively of one’s self and one’s doings; a journal roams wider, and notes whatever one has observed of interest. A diary relates that one had lobster mayonnaise for dinner and rose the next morning with a headache, doubtless attributable to mental strain. A journal relates that Mrs. _____, whom one took into dinner, had brown eyes, and an agreeable trick of throwing back her head after asking a question, and gives her account of her husband’s strange adventures in Colorado, etc. A diary is “All I, I, I, I, itself I,” (to quote a line of the transcendental poetry of Mary Baker G. Eddy). A journal is the large spectacle of life. A journal may be special or general. I know a man who keeps a journal of all cases of current superstition which he actually encounters. He began it without the slightest suspicion that he was beginning a document of astounding interest and real scientific value; but such was the fact. In default of a diary or a journal, one may write essays (provided one has the moral courage); or one may simply make notes on the book one reads. Or one may construct anthologies of passages which have made an individual and particular appeal to one’s tastes.
After writing comes thinking. (The sequence may be considered odd, but I adhere to it.) In this connexion I cannot do better than quote an admirable letter which I have received from a correspondent who wishes to be known only as “An Oxford Lecturer.” The italics (except the last) are mine, not his. He says: “Till a man has got his physical brain completely under his control—suppressing its too-great receptivity, its tendencies to reproduce idly the thoughts of others, and to be swayed by every passing gust of emotion—I hold that he cannot do a tenth part of the work that he would then be able to perform with little or no effort. Moreover, work apart, he has not entered upon his kingdom, and unlimited possibilities of future development are barred to him. Mental efficiency can be gained by constant practice in meditation—i.e., by concentrating the mind, say, for but ten minutes daily, but with absolute regularity, on some of the highest thoughts of which it is capable. Failures will be frequent, but they must be regarded with simple indifference and dogged perseverance in the path chosen. If that path be followed without intermission even for a few weeks the results will speak for themselves.”
So much for the more or less technical processes of stirring the mind from its sloth and making it exactly obedient to the aspirations of the soul. And here I close. Numerous correspondents have asked me to outline a course of reading for them. In other words, they have asked me to particularize for them the aspirations of their souls.
If he can’t himself decide on a goal he may as well curl up and expire, for the root of the matter is not in him. I will content myself with pointing out that the entire universe is open for inspection. Too many people fancy that self-development means literature. They associate the higher life with an intimate knowledge of the life of Charlotte Brontë, or the order of the plays of Shakespeare. The higher life may just as well be butterflies, or funeral customs, or county boundaries, or street names, or mosses, or stars, or slugs, as Charlotte Brontë or Shakespeare. Choose what interests you. Lots of finely-organized, mentally-efficient persons can’t read Shakespeare at any price, and if you asked them who was the author of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall they might proudly answer Emily Brontë, if they didn’t say they never heard of it. An accurate knowledge of any subject, coupled with a carefully nurtured sense of the relativity of that subject to other subjects, implies an enormous self-development. With this hint I conclude.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HONOR
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In its most primitive form, honor is simply the status or reputation of a man in the eyes of others. In the past, honor primarily focused on “saving face,” often through the use of violence. If a man tried to diminish your status through insults or physical attacks, you hit back, and hit back hard. Might made right, even if you were in reality the guilty party. In the Iliad, Achilles unleashed his wrath on Hector to defend the honor of his fallen friend Patroclus. Up into the late nineteenth century, gentlemen would meet on the “field of honor,” dueling to defend any slight (however petty) another man made towards him or the woman he loved.
But over the millennia, the meaning of honor has changed from being primarily about outward appearances to focusing on a man’s inner qualities. It isn’t enough that others perceive a man as being virtuous or truthful, a man must actually be good. While vestiges of the primitive form of honor still exist today, honor, for the most part, now means being a man of integrity.
The word integrity is related to the roots of words like integrate and entire. In Spanish it is rendered integro, meaning “whole.” Integrity therefore implies the state of being complete, undivided, intact, and unbroken. We have thus saved this virtue for last because honor pulls and bonds together all the
other virtues; it is the mark of a man who has successfully integrated all good principles. His life is a unified whole.
The man of honor is loyal, faithful, and true; he keeps his promises and fulfills his duties. His word is his bond. He does the right thing, even when no one is looking. The man of honor is who he says he is and does what he says he will do. He doesn’t deal in rationalizations or excuses and is always willing to own up and take responsibility for his mistakes and failures. He doesn’t waver when called upon to make the tough choices. He can go to sleep at night with a clear conscience and look at himself in the mirror without flinching. The man of honor knows who he is and where he is going. In short, the honorable man enjoys the supreme confidence and unsurpassed happiness that comes with having every aspect of one’s life knit together in a unity of purpose.
In a world that has lost trust in some of its most sacred and important institutions, honor is the virtue most needed and yet in shortest supply. More than ever, we need men of honor who will step up and stand for truth and right. We hope this final chapter solidifies your desire to integrate the manly virtues more fully into your life and to become a part of the growing movement of men seeking to revive the lost art of manliness.
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“A man’s got to have a code, a creed to live by, no matter his job.” —John Wayne
Three Codes of Honor
Communities often establish formal codes of honor that furnish members with a set of standards by which to live while also fostering a sense of solidarity. Below we provide examples of the honor codes of three different groups.
THE WEST POINT CADET CODE
The Cadet Code defines the “minimum standard of ethical behavior that all cadets have contracted to live by.” Cadets are expected to strive to live the Spirit of the Code, which goes beyond this standard to encompass a life of full honor and integrity. The three rules of thumb are designed to help cadets decide whether an action is honorable or not.
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The Cadet Code
“A cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do.”
Three Rules of Thumb
a. Does this action attempt to deceive anyone or allow anyone to be deceived?
b. Does this action gain or allow the gain of privilege or advantage to which I or someone else would not otherwise be entitled?
c. Would I be satisfied by the outcome if I were on the receiving end of this action?
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THE BOY SCOUT OATH AND LAW
The Boy Scouts of America have been pledging the same oath and striving to live the same law for one hundred years.
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The Oath
On my honor, I will do my best
To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law;
To help other people at all times;
To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake and morally straight.
The Law
A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.
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OATH OF THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE
The oath taken by King Arthur and his band of noble knights, as imagined by Howard Pyle in his retelling of their legendary tales.
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Then all the knights arose, and each knight held up before him the cross of the hilt of his sword, and each knight spake word for word as King Arthur spake. And this was the covenant of their Knighthood of the Round Table: That they would be gentle unto the weak; that they would be courageous unto the strong; that they would be terrible unto the wicked and the evil-doer; that they would defend the helpless who should call upon them for aid; that all women should be held unto them sacred; that they would stand unto the defence of one another whensoever such defence should be required; that they would be merciful unto all men; that they would be gentle of deed, true in friendship, and faithful in love. This was their covenant, and unto it each knight sware upon the cross of his sword, and in witness thereof did kiss the hilt thereof.
“A man’s character is the reality of himself; his reputation, the opinion others have formed about him; character resides in him, reputation in other people; that is the substance, this is the shadow.” —Henry Ward Beecher
Character Is the Measure of the Man
FROM THE SUCCESSFUL MAN IN HIS MANIFOLD RELATIONS WITH LIFE, 1886
By J. Clinton Ransom
Passing along the paths of a cemetery and reading the inscriptions upon the tombstones, one is impressed with the fact that men are soon forgotten when they die. They are laid to rest and their names chronicled upon slabs and statues to mark the place where they lie. But the statues do not preserve their names any more than they do the lifeless limbs slowly crumbling to dust beneath. Only one, or perhaps two, in a thousand dead will live in the memory of those who come after. Only these are deemed worthy to have their names written upon the page of history. The other countless dead are all forgotten almost as soon as the grass grows green upon their graves. The few live on in worthy deeds, the many die because there is nothing to live for. This persistence of worthy living in the memory of men is a good illustration of the eternal persistence of character. In life, people never fully understand the workings of this law.
But character is only the final result of life. It is the end attained after life’s activities are over. It is the culmination of principle carried into deeds. It has been forming since we drew our first breath, and shall be forming until the dews of death have fallen upon the eyelids. And at last the character is the measure of the man. All that a man is and does; his habits and appetites; his imaginings, reasonings and memories; his faith, his hope, his love, are blended together in character, as wires are sometimes united under a trip-hammer into a bar of steel.
Character is, then, a blending of many elements, a composite growth of principle, action and sentiment, and when complete it represents that which is permanent in the life of a man. Then character comes to have a reflex action upon life; its effect is cumulative and tends to become settled in certain fixed lines of principle and duty. It is this that makes character the final test of manhood, and gives it a value in successful life; for when these lines of duty are once definitely marked out the man does not easily depart from them, and men come to have confidence in his integrity and ability. When a man has shown that he acts right under a given emergency, such is our confidence in this permanence of character, that we instinctively believe that he will continue to act rightly to the end of life. Good character then is a priceless possession and the best possible exponent of a good and honorable career. It is, indeed, according to the stability and might of this character that one succeeds or fails. No matter how ingenuous the toil of labor, or how transcendent the accomplishment to one of trivial character, if there be no force behind them, both are thrown away and wasted. Character is the force behind the keen-edged tools that accomplishes the work. If it be founded upon principles of eternal truth, it is well.
“Do not consider anything for your interest which makes you break your word, quit your modesty, or inclines you to any practice which will not bear the light, or look the world in the face.” —Marcus Aurelius
Myself
FROM THE FRIENDLY WAY, 1917
By Edgar Guest
I have to live with myself, and so
I want to be fit for myself to know;
I want to be able as days go by
Always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don’t want to stand with the setting sun
And hate myself for the things I’ve done.
I don’t want to keep on a closet shelf
A lot of secrets about myself,
And fool myself as I come and go
Into thinking that nobody else will know
The kind of man I really am;
I don’t want to dress myself up in sham.
I want to go out with my head erect,
I
want to deserve all men’s respect;
But here in the struggle for fame and pelf,
I want to be able to like myself.
I don’t want to think as I come and go
That I’m bluster and bluff and empty show.
I never can hide myself from me,
I see what others may never see,
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself—and so,
Whatever happens, I want to be
Self-respecting and conscience free.