Perhaps the reason the game has so many attractions is the fact that life is a long story of consequences.
There are people who do not like to play the game of life seriously because they say the consequences of self-denial and self-sacrifice are too uncertain; they prefer the cowardice of inaction to the courage of purposeful living.
The folks worth while are those who, refusing to be troubled by what may or may not be the consequences of their acts, still have the pluck to go on with what they know is right. Let the results be what they may, they propose to be straightforward and true. This is the courage that counts.
There may be uncertainty as to the specific form the results of their stand may take, yet that result is sure to be pleasing and helpful.
When Washington Irving was about to return to America from Madrid, where he had been minister of the United States to the court of Spain, the Philadelphia house that had been publishing his books, discouraged by the decreasing sales, sent word to him that the public was not able to appreciate his books, and they would have to allow them to go out of print. The books had been printed directly from the type, so there were no plates which another publisher might use to bring out further editions at small expense.
The author, who was then sixty-five years of age, sorrowfully accepted the verdict of his publisher, and planned to take desk-room in the New York office of his brother, John Treat Irving, where he hoped to make a living by the practice of law.
But this was not to be. In New York was a young publisher who believed that Washington Irving's works were classics, and that the American public would buy them eagerly if properly approached. Friends told him that he might make a mistake, but he had the courage to go ahead. So he wrote to the discouraged author what must have seemed to other publishers a daring letter; he proposed to publish new editions of all Irving's old books, on condition that new books, also, be given to him; and he promised that royalties for the first year should be at least one thousand dollars, for the second year two thousand dollars, and for the third year three thousand dollars.
When Irving received the letter, he kicked over the desk in front of him, at the same time saying to his brother:
"There is no necessity, John, for my bothering with the law. Here is a fool of a publisher going to give me a thousand dollars a year for doing nothing."
But the publisher was not so foolish as he seemed. His promises were more than made good. Sales were large. Other authors were attracted, until the publishing house became one of the leaders among American publishers.
Nine years later Washington Irving had an opportunity to show his gratitude. Just before the panic of 1857 a young man whom the generous publisher had taken into partnership, involved him seriously. The defalcations were not discovered until the accidental death of the partner. Thus weakened, the firm was unable to survive the panic; its affairs were put in the hands of a receiver, and all accounts were sold. At the age of forty-two, the head of the firm bravely faced the necessity of beginning life over.
At the receiver's sale Washington Irving bought the plates of all his books. A number of publishers offered him fancy terms if he would permit them to bring out new editions, but he turned a deaf ear to their entreaties and offered the plates to their former owner, to be paid for in annual installments. Touched by the gratitude of his friend, the publisher accepted the offer.
The author never had cause to regret his action. During the years that elapsed before his death the results of the new venture were more satisfactory than ever. The courageous action of both publisher and author had been amply vindicated by results.
The best time to learn the courage that proves so effective in the struggle of life is in youth. More than fifty years ago two boys in Scotland were hunting rabbits. Tiring of the comparatively easy hunting on the ground, they looked longingly at a cliff of hard clay several hundred feet high, in whose precipitous side were many rabbit burrows. They managed to climb the cliff. At length they were making their way along an almost perpendicular parapet, cutting their way with their knives. Then one of the boys fell, with a scream, to the bottom of the cliff. There was a moment of terror. This was succeeded by a grim determination to go forward, the only way of escape. Driving his knife deep in the clay, he rested on this for a moment. That moment, it has always since seemed to him, marked the first momentous period in his life, the time when his personality first emerged into consciousness. He says: "I whispered to myself one word, 'Courage!' Then I went on with my work." At length he reached the ground.
The lesson learned at such fearful cost told emphatically on the boy's character. From that day he showed that there was in him the making of a man who would not be balked by unfavorable circumstances. He did not understand how or why, but he felt that new will-power had come to him with the appeal to himself to take courage in the face of death.
A few years later he went to Brazil. A Spaniard told him that moral deterioration within six months was all but certain to come to every young man who began life there. But he was determined not to give way to bad habits. When he reached Santos, his companions urged him to give himself up to all kinds of vice; they told him that it was either this or death, or perhaps something worse than death. They emphasized their words by pointing to a young man who had determined to keep straight, and had been left to himself until he was demented. But the boy who had learned courage on the precipice made up his mind that he must live as God wished him to live, and he turned a deaf ear to all entreaties.
Another book of biography tells of a boy who delighted in playing cards with his father and mother. But when he united with the Church and became President of the Christian Endeavor Society he began to wonder if he was doing right. One night his father took up the cards and called him to play whist.
"I don't think I'll play whist any more," he said quietly. "I've been thinking that perhaps it wasn't right for me to play."
"Are you setting yourself up to judge your father and mother, young man?" his father asked, sternly.
"No, I didn't say it isn't all right for you to play," was the reply. "But you know I am President of the Christian Endeavor Society and some of the members don't think it is right to play. So I guess I'd better not."
His father looked at him thoughtfully for a minute, then picked up the cards and threw them back into the drawer.
"Charlie," he said, "I want you to understand that I think you have done a manly thing to-night, and I honor you for your courage."
That was the end of whist in that house.
Courage showed itself in much the same way in the life of J. Marion Sims, the great surgeon. He used to tell how, when he was a boy at a South Carolina School, he was able to take a stand that had its effect on his whole after-life. Many of his fellow students were sons of wealthy planters, and their habits were not always the best. On several occasions they tried to lead him into mischief. They were particularly anxious to make him a companion in their drinking bouts. Twice he gave way to their pleas, but after sorrowful experience of the results of his lapses, he decided to make a brave stand. So he said to his tempters:
"See here, boys, you can all drink, and I cannot. You like wine and I do not. I hate it; its taste is disagreeable, its effects are dreadful, because it makes me drunk. Now, I hope you all will understand my position. I don't think it is right for you to ask me to drink wine when I don't want it, and when it produces such a bad effect on me."
To say this required real courage, but the results were good, not only in himself, but also, fortunately, in some of his companions.
Those who, in early life, learn to be courageous in the face of difficult tasks will be ready for the temptation that is apt to come to most young people to compromise with what they know to be right and true, to allow an exception "just this once!" in the straightforward course they have marked out for themselves. And the worst of it is that such a temptation is apt to come without the slightest warning and to present itself in such a light that it is easy to find an excuse for yielding, and to deem it quixotic and unreasonable not to yield.
Once a young teacher who later became famous at Harvard, had occasion to censure a student who had given, as he believed, the wrong solution of a problem. On thinking the matter over at home, he found that the pupil was right and the teacher wrong. It was late at night and in the depth of winter, but he immediately started for the young man's room, at some distance from his own home, and asked for the man he had wronged. The delinquent, answering with some trepidation the untimely summons, found himself the recipient of a frank apology.
"Why, in the name of reason, do you walk a mile in the rain for a perfectly unimportant thing?" this man was asked on another occasion. "Simply because I have discovered that it was a misstatement, and I could not sleep comfortably till I put it right," was the reply.
Again the story is told of him that he borrowed a friend's horse to ride to a town where he expected to take the stage. He promised to leave the animal at a certain stable in the town. Upon reaching the place he found that the stage was several miles upon its way. This was a serious disappointment. A friend urged him to ride to the next town, where he could come up with the vehicle, promising himself to send after the borrowed horse and forward it to its owner. The temptation to accept the offer was great. The roads were ankle deep in mud, and the stage rapidly rolling on its way. The only obstacle was his promise to leave the horse at the appointed place. He declined the friendly offer, delivered the horse as he had promised, and, shouldering his baggage, set off on foot through the mud to catch the stage.
At this time he was eighteen years old, but he had learned the lesson that made him remarkably efficient and dependable through life.
Dr. W. T. Grenfell has told of a hardy trapper in Labrador, the partner of a man who was easily discouraged; the arrangement was that they should share equally the hardships and the rewards of the trapping expeditions. Both were very poor. The stronger man was most unselfish in his treatment of his associate. One winter their lives were all but lost during the severity of a storm which burst on them while they were setting their traps on an ice-girt island. On reaching the mainland the timid man insisted on dissolving the partnership; he was unwilling to repeat the risks, even for the sake of his needy family. In a few days the hardy trapper revisited the traps on the mainland. To his great joy he found in one trap a magnificent silver fox, whose skin was worth five hundred dollars—a fortune to the Labrador trapper, especially welcome during that hard winter. "How glad I am the partnership has been dissolved, and that the fox is all mine," was his first thought. But first thought was not allowed to be last thought. There was a struggle. At length the decision was made that the needy man who had set the trap with him should share in the prize; the argument that he had forfeited all right to a share was not allowed to weigh against the unselfish arguments for division.
A friend of young people has told of an incident which occurred in a great Boston department store where she sought to match some dress goods. After turning away from several discourteous clerks she showed her sample to a salesman who gave respectful attention to her. Glancing at the slits cut in the side of the bit of goods, he remarked:
"That isn't one of my samples. I will ask the clerk who mailed this sample to wait on you."
"But I don't want any other clerk to wait on me," responded the women, hastily, fearing that the sample might have come originally from one of the discourteous clerks first encountered; "I want you to have this sale."
"If you had asked for goods of that quality, width and price, without showing me the sample, I could have found it for you at once," replied the clerk, with a smile, "but now, this sale belongs to the clerk who sent out the sample."
"Then I won't give you this sample to hunt it up by," said the woman, wishing to see if she could carry her point, and she proceeded to tuck the sample away in her purse.
"But I know that I have seen it, and my conscience knows it," was the clerk's comment, as he laughingly laid his hand on his heart and turned to look for the other salesman.
The purchaser went on to tell thus of the salesman's unerring loyalty to his principles: "In a moment he returned. The other clerk was at lunch. What a sigh of relief I gave! 'I will make out the sale and turn it over to him when he comes in,' he said, displaying the shining black folds of the goods I desired."
A real estate dealer in a Texas city was once tempted to be false to his principles, "just once," when he felt sure a sale depended on it. His prospective customer was a foreigner, who wished the salesman to drink with him after a trip to examine the property on Saturday and then to promise to make an engagement to continue the search next morning. But the business man was opposed to the use of liquor, and he had never done business on Sunday. What was he to do on this occasion? Would it hurt anything if he should make an exception in favor of this customer who could not be expected to understand his scruples?
The temptation was acute; but it was conquered. Respectfully but firmly the buyer was told why the salesman could not join him in taking a drink, and why he could not go with him again until Monday morning. The man went away in a rage.
Next morning the real estate man saw the foreigner in the hands of a rival. "That sale is gone!" he thought. When three days more passed without the return of the buyer he decided that he had paid heavily for being true to his better self.
But on Thursday evening the foreigner sought the conscientious real estate dealer and surprised him by saying:
"Those other fellows showed me lots of farms, but you wouldn't drink with me, nor show me land on Sunday because you think it wrong. So, maybe, I think you won't lie to me. I buy my farm of you."
Many times the reward of being true to one's conscience will not come so promptly—except in the satisfaction the man has in knowing that he has done the right thing. But the sure result is to bring him a little nearer to the great reward that must come to a man whose integrity has stood the test of years—the appreciation of those who know him and their confidence in his honor.
It is not always necessary that a man should be aquainted with another to be able to repose implicit confidence in him. A life of fearless, straightforward duty-doing will inevitably leave its record in the face. Sometimes a frank, open countenance that cannot be misread is far better than any letter of introduction.
"We are suspicious of strangers," a man said to one who had sought at his hands a favor that called for trust; then he added, with a smile, "but some faces are above suspicion," and proceeded, with overwhelming generosity, to grant far more than had been asked.
Years ago a business man unexpectedly found himself without sufficient funds to continue his journey through Europe. As this was before the days of travelers' checks or the ocean cable, he was at a loss what to do. In his uncertainty he went to an Italian banking house and asked them to cash a large draft on his home bank. After an instant's pause the request was granted. Years later the merchant again saw the accommodating banker, and asked why a stranger was given such a large sum. "In plain truth, it was just your honest face, and nothing else," was the reply. On another trip abroad the merchant had a similar experience. During a thunderstorm he took refuge with his wife in a curio shop. The English-speaking woman in charge was so cordial, and her goods were so pleasing, that the visitor said he would have liked to make some purchase, but his remaining funds were not more than sufficient for his journey home. The reply was: "Take whatever you please, sir. No one could look in your face and distrust you."
A similar story was told by a Russian Jew who entered New York a penniless immigrant. After a disheartening period of working in the sweatshop he saw an opportunity to start in business for himself. But he had no capital. At a venture he asked a business man to trust him for the stock in trade. After gazing at him closely the man said, "You have a credit face, so I will do as you ask."
It is worth while to have a face that insures confidence. But let it be remembered that the possession of such a face is not an accident; it belongs only to those who have the courage to think honestly, deal fairly and live truly.
During the boyhood of Charles Abraham Hart, who was later the youngest soldier in the War with Spain, he was on confidential terms with his mother. One day when they were visiting together, she asked him about something that had happened the winter before, which she was unable to understand. His father had given to him and to his brothers two dollars each to spend for Christmas presents. William spent the entire sum, but Charles bought cheap presents, and it was evident that he had kept back a part of the amount. Other members of the family misunderstood him, but his mother thought she knew him well enough to be sure he had done nothing selfish.
The record of the conversation between mother and son is told in the boy's biography:
"The presents you bought were very cheap presents," she said to him. "I don't think they could have cost more than seventy-five cents."
"They cost sixty-five cents," he told her.
"And your father asked what you had done with the rest of your money, and you said you didn't want to tell him."
"Yes, I remember that father thought I was stingy, too."
"Do you mind telling me now what you did with the money?"
The boy did not answer for a few moments. Then he said, quietly:
"I bought a Bible for Fred Phillips. He didn't have a good Bible, and I thought he needed one more than you and the boys needed expensive presents."
"But why didn't you tell your father?"
"Because Fred was ashamed not to be able to buy the Bible for himself, and he wouldn't take mine until I had promised that I wouldn't tell anybody that I had given it to him. Since Fred has moved to Boston, I feel he wouldn't care if I told you. I want you to know, for I just heard to-day that Fred has joined the church. Isn't that good news?"
"Yes, indeed. Perhaps your giving him the Bible helped him to do it, too. Charles, when you get to be a man, do you suppose you will always be so careless of how others may misunderstand you?"
"I am not careless of that now," he declared. "The desire to be popular is one of the things I have to fight against all the time."
What shall we choose? Comfort of service? Ease, or honorable performance of duty? The desire for popularity, or the purpose to be of use? Service is the best way to find comfort; honorable performance of duty is the sure road to the only ease worth while, and thoughtfulness for others is the open sesame to popularity.
There is nothing new in this statement. It is only one of the thousand and one possible applications of the lesson taught by the great Teacher when He said, "He that loseth his life for My sake shall find it."
The boy was wise beyond his years. He would do the important thing, no matter how it hurt. Here the thing of chief importance was looking out for the men at sea. To put them first took real courage. But what of it? That is the attitude toward life of the worker worth while; he does not stop to ask, "Is this easy?" Instead he asks, "Is this necessary? Will it be helpful?" Having answered the question he proceeds to do his best. It may hurt at first, but the time will come when it will hurt so much to leave the service undone that the inconvenience involved in doing it is lost sight of.
A young man won local fame as a bicycle long-distance rider. But over-fatigue, possibly coupled with neglect, caused contraction of certain muscles. He was unable to stand erect. He walked with bent back, like an old man. "What useful work can he do, handicapped as he is?" his friends asked.
But he did not lose courage. He continued to smile and make cheer for others. Finally he secured work in the office of the supervisor of a National Forest. And he made good. Most of his activities were at the desk; when he sat there his back was normal.
According to the idea of many, it would have been enough for the crippled man to look out for himself. What could he do for others? But he had not been trained in such a school; the cheerfulness that enabled him to be useful made it impossible for him to see another in need and not plan to do something for him.
The man who needed him was at hand—a cripple, whose feet were clumsy, misshapen. No one else thought that anything could be done for him but to speak dolefully and to assure him that he was fortunate in having parents and brothers who would look out for him.
But the man in the Forestry Service urged the cripple to apply for a summer appointment on the rocky, windy summit of a mountain nine thousand feet high. There it would be his duty to keep a vigilant eye on the forest stretching far away below his lofty eyrie, and to report the start of a forest fire. At first he laughed at the idea; had he not been told that he could never hope to do anything useful? Yet as he listened to his friend his eyes began to sparkle. Finally he dared to agree to make application for the position.
During the winter months the forester spent many evenings with his friend, coaching him in some of the lore of the forests, giving him books to read, and showing him what his specific duties would be, and how to perform them.
In the spring the situation was secured, and when the season of forest fires came the young man bravely climbed the steep trail over the snow to his lonely cabin. An able-bodied man is able to make the climb from the end of the wagon road in much less than an hour; the cripple required more than five hours to reach the top. Then he took up his residence there, cooking his own food, making his observations from morning until night, receiving his mother and his brothers when from time to time they came to see how he was getting on and to help him in some of the rougher tasks about the cabin. They thought they would need to speak words of cheer to a lonely, discouraged man, but they soon learned their error; not only did he have cheer enough for himself, but he was able to send his visitors away happier than when they came because of their contact with the man for whom life had been made over by the acts of a thoughtful friend, a friend whose own courage had been increased by his efforts to encourage a friend.
In a volume of short stories published some years ago there is included the vivid narrative of two humble citizens of an Irish village, a husband and wife, upon whom hard times have come. The husband is too feeble to make his living as of old at his trade as a road-mender. Their only hope is a son in America, and not a word comes from him, so they are compelled to go to the poor house.
Friends condole with them, and they are sad enough to suit the notions of those who feel that an awful ending is coming to their lives. One of the saddest of their friends is their physician who dreads going to see the unhappy old people in their new home. At last, however, he drives to the entrance to the poor farm. There he has his first surprise. Instead of seeing the disreputable place he had been accustomed to, he notices that the gate is on its hinges, the weeds by the side of the driveway are no longer in evidence, and an attempt has been made to give the house itself a more presentable appearance. About the doors are no discontented-looking old people, quarreling with one another. And when the wife of the poor farm keeper answers his knock at the door, the doctor hardly recognizes her; instead of a discouraged-looking slattern she is actually neat and cheerful looking.
"You wonder what has happened here, don't you?" the woman remarks. "It's all because of those blessed old folks you are asking for. They were disheartened, just at first, but soon they began to do helpful things for the rest of the folks. That cheered us all up, and it's made a different place of the farm."
The doctor's errand that day is to take word to the couple that their son from America wishes them to spend the remainder of their days with him. He has expected them to be overjoyed by the news. But, after talking together of the invitation, they assure him that their place is where they are. "We be road-mending here, making ways smoother for the folks that have rough traveling," is the explanation. "We think we ought to bide at the farm."
Thus the old people took the way of conquering unhappiness made known so long ago by Him who set the example of finding joy in caring for other people, the way taken by a modern follower of His who wrote home from the army:
"I cast my lot where I knew the road would be rough, and why should I complain? It seems to me at times that I must give way to my lower self and let the work slip off my back on others perhaps more tired than myself. But I have a tender, kind Father in heaven who tells me that my way is right. I have very little to uphold me in this work away from my friends. My happy moments are those which I spend with my Bible during my night watches, or thinking of happy days gone by, or building me air-castles for days to come. I am happy, too, when I read the little verse written in the front of my Testament, and so thankful for the power to understand it:
Yet there are those who insist that it is the duty of one whose lot is hard to be morose and sad; that by covering his sadness with the gladness of service he is making a cheat of himself! In verse a writer with insight has pilloried such critics:
There are people who spend so much time looking for the large, spectacular opportunities for serving others, that they pass by as unworthy of notice the opportunities for doing what seem to be little kindnesses. Fortunately, however, there are people who are so taken up with rendering what they call little services, that they have no time to worry because the big opportunities do not come their way.
A magazine writer tells of one of these doers of simple kindnesses:
"I was the shabbiest girl in the office," she says. "It was no one's fault and no one's shame that we were poor. I had intelligence enough to know that. I knew, too, what a sacrifice mother had made to pay for my tuition at business school. Still, the knowledge of my shabby clothes forced itself upon me, particularly my old black skirt! Mother had cleaned it and pressed it and cleaned it, but it seemed bent with age, and all the office girls looked so fresh and pretty in their trim business suits. I imagined all the first morning that they were pitying me and felt them looking at my shabbiness, and during noon hour I was so miserable; but when I went back next morning, I noticed that one of the girls had on nearly as old clothes as I did, and she was so nice to me that I fancied she was glad I had come because of our mutual poverty. Not until after I earned enough money to buy some suitable, nice clothes did I realize that the 'poor girl,' as I thought her, had drifted back into the prettiest, most tasteful clothes worn by any of the girls. She had only borne me company at a most trying time, and she knew, because her fellow-workers all admired her, that the little object lesson would keep them from hurting my feelings. The day has come now when new clothes are usual, when I may even achieve an appearance that is known as 'stylish.' But in my office, when a girl comes in shabby, painfully sensitive, as I was, I 'bear her company' until the better times shall come."
From another observer comes the story of the simple deeds of kindness done by a company of young people in Brooklyn to a young woman married to an elderly and uncongenial man. She showed symptoms of taking her life into her own hands. She felt that the world owed her happiness, and she was tempted to take it anywhere it might be found, especially in one undesirable direction. She was poor and outside of many ordinary social pleasures. The word was passed along the line that Mrs. D. . . needed especial attention and friendliness shown her. Immediately one girl, whose notice was in itself a compliment, invited her to attend a concert with her. Two more volunteered to see her home from Sunday school, and call for her as well. Books were loaned her, calls made, and in brief, a rope of warm sturdy hands steadying her over the hard place in the road, until she found herself and settled down to the duty she was on the point of leaving forever.
The widespread hunger for such little kindnesses was shown one day when a New York man accosted in Central Park a poor foreigner, who could speak little English. Noting that the man looked dejected, he offered him his hand. Then he asked the man if he was in need. "No, I don't need money," was the reply; "I was just hungry for a handshake." Blessings on those who are not too busy to think of the poor who are hungry for the little services they can render.
If they could know the ultimate effect of some of their deeds, these would not always seem insignificant. The man who is always on the lookout for little chances for service is more apt to perform services that are of great importance, than the man who spends his time dreaming of big things he will do some day.
When an urgent call went out from Washington for physicians to go to France for hospital work among the men of the American Expeditionary Force, a specialist in a city of the Middle West decided to respond. Of course some of his friends told him he was foolish; they urged that he was needed for service at home. "Let doctors go who can be spared better than you," they said. "Think of the great work you are doing—work that will be more than ever necessary because thousands of others are leaving practices and going to the Front. Think of your past—how you worked your way through medical college at cost of severe toil; think of your family and the increasing demands on you; think of the future—what will become of your lucrative practice?"
The specialist did think of these things; he had delayed decision because the arguments had presented themselves forcibly to his own mind.
At last, however, his mind was made up. He would go to France. He would leave his patients in charge of two capable friends who would do everything possible to turn over, on the return of the volunteer, the lucrative office practice built up through many years.
He spent six months in camp with the members of the hospital unit of which he was given charge. Just before he went "over there" a friend said to him:
"It is fortunate that your practice is to be cared for so efficiently."
"What's that?" was the reply. "Oh, you mean the colleagues who took over my patients? They, too, have enlisted, and will soon be going abroad."
"But what of your $35,000 income?" was the dismayed rejoinder. "Surely you haven't the courage to give up all that!"
The major snapped his fingers, and said, with a smile, "That for the practice! It is my business to respond to my country's call. Don't talk of the sacrifice. What if I do have to start all over again when I come home? Just now I don't have to think about that."
This incident came to mind when reading in a popular weekly a telling story, camouflaged as to names, location and business, but recorded as the experience of a captain of industry. The story made him a manufacturer of shoes who, in the beginning, was rejoicing that his plants were running full time, turning out so many shoes for the regular trade that the profits of the year were bound to be tremendous. With others, he heard the plea of the Government for shoes for the soldiers. Carefully he assured himself that he would not need to respond; there were many manufacturers who would rush headlong for government contracts. When he learned that there were not enough volunteers he felt uncomfortable. Then, to his relief, he was asked to take the chairmanship of the subcommittee on shoes of the State Council of Defense.
"I'll do it!" he decided. "That will let me out honorably. As chairman I shall be criticized if I bid on the contracts myself."
Of course he learned his mistake. At length he decided to turn over one of his six plants to government contracts. The decision made him feel quite virtuous. Content was his only a little while, however. So he decided to devote another plant. Yet when he made his figures he thought he would add five cents a pair to his bid, as an extra margin of safety. Again his calculations were upset when his son told him that he had enlisted.
"That wasn't necessary," the father said. "What made you do it?"
"Why, dad, you know you'd expect me to feel ashamed if you didn't do just every little thing you could in a business way to help win this war—if you held back a shoe that would help the Government or charged a cent more than you ought to. You furnish the shoes and I'll furnish the shoots!"
Of course more had to be done after that. Soon half the plants were enlisted for the country. Surely nothing more could be asked than that he should go fifty-fifty, half for the country and half for himself.
The remainder of the story can be imagined—in one form it was lived out in the experience of millions. "Why don't you have done with that half-way patriotism?" came a voice that he could not silence.
The battle between Patriotism and Private Profits was decided gloriously—in the only possible manner. Away with fifty per cent. patriotism! Every one of the plants was put on Government orders.
Naturally there were those who asked, "Was such a sacrifice necessary?" But the reply was convincing.
That is the question that has been asked of Christians ever since the day when Christ said to Peter and Andrew, "Follow me." Our hearts are stirred by the simple record of what followed: "Straightway they left their nets,"—their livelihood, their associates, their families, their position in the world, everything—"and followed Him." The question was put to Prince Gallitzin when he renounced title and fortune and went to the mountains of Pennsylvania to make a home for some of his oppressed Russian countrymen. The words were hurled at the son of a wealthy English brewer, because he decided that if he would obey Christ fully he must renounce the source of his wealth as well as the money that had been made in an unrighteous business. The inquiry was heard many times by Matthias W. Baldwin, the builder of Old Ironsides and founder of the Baldwin Locomotive Works, when he gave up the making of jewelry because he thought that, as a Christian man, he ought to make his talents count for something more worth-while, and later on when he insisted on borrowing from the banks in time of financial panic to pay his pledges to Christian work.
Still the query persists, as it will persist long as the world stands.
You have heard it yourself, if you, like Caleb of old, are trying to follow God wholly. "Was the sacrifice necessary?"
Beware of the question, for it is a temptation to slack service, though often spoken by one who would show himself a friend. Necessary? Of course. Isn't it involved in courageous following of Christ?