Chapter 5

Managerial Accounting 6th

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Cost Behavior and Cost-Volume-Profit

Analysis

QUESTIONS
1. A variable cost is one that varies proportionately with the volume of activity. For
example, direct materials and direct labor (when the workers are paid for completed
units) are treated as variable costs with respect to the number of units produced.

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Solutions Manual, Chapter 5 251
2. Variable costs per unit stay the same (remain constant) when output volume changes.
This is because each unit consumes the same amount of variable costs within the
relevant range of activity.
3. Fixed costs per unit decrease when output volume increases. This is because the total
amount of fixed costs remains the same while it is being divided among more units
within the relevant range of activity.
4. Cost-volume-profit analysis is especially useful in the planning phase for a business.
This phase involves predicting the volume of sales activity, the costs to be incurred,
revenues to be received, and profits to be earned. It is also useful in what-if
(sensitivity) analysis.
5. A step-wise cost remains constant over a limited range of output activity, outside of
which it changes by a lump-sum amount, then remains constant over another limited
range of output activity, and so on. A curvilinear cost gradually changes in a nonlinear
manner in response to changes in sales volume.
6. Contribution margin ratio means that for each sales dollar a specified percent is
available to cover fixed costs and contribute to profits. To illustrate, if a company has
a 75% contribution margin ratio, then 75% (or 75¢) of each sales dollar is available to
cover fixed costs and contribute to profits.
7. Definition: Contribution margin ratio = Contribution margin / Sales price per unit. The
contribution margin ratio tells what percent of each sales dollar is available to cover
fixed costs, with the remainder being profit.
8. Definition: Unit contribution margin = Sales price per unit - Variable costs per unit.
Unit contribution margin is the per unit dollars available to cover fixed costs, with the
remainder being profit.
9. A CVP analysis for a manufacturing company is simplified by assuming that the
production and sales volumes are equal. This is the same as assuming no changes
in beginning and ending inventory levels for the period.

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252 Managerial Accounting, 6th Edition
10. The first is that although individual costs classified as fixed or variable might not
behave precisely in those patterns, some variations of individual components in the
group of fixed or variable costs may tend to offset each other. The second is that
management might reasonably assume that costs are either fixed or variable within
the relevant range of operations (or at least the period under analysis).
11. By assuming a relevant range for operating activity, management can more justifiably
assume either fixed or variable relations between costs and volume, and between
revenue and volume. The assumption also helps limit the consideration of alternative
strategies to those that call for volume levels that fall within the relevant range.
12. Three common methods for measuring cost behavior are: the scatter diagram, the
high-low method, and least-squares regression.
13. A scatter diagram is used to display the relation between past costs and sales
volumes. Management then uses the scatter diagram to identify and measure the
fixed and variable components of the cost being graphed.
14. At break-even, profits are zero. Break-even is the point where sales equals fixed plus
variable costs.
15. This line represents total cost, which equals the sum of the fixed and variable costs
at all volume levels within the company’s current capacity (relevant range). (Note:
The total cost line consists of mixed costs.)
16. Fixed costs are depicted as a horizontal line on a CVP chart because they remain the
same (constant) at all volume levels within the relevant range.
17. Company A has a contribution margin of 50% [($20,000 – $10,000) / ($20,000)] and
Company B has a contribution margin of 80% [($20,000 – $4,000) / ($20,000)]. This
means Company B will make more profit on each additional dollar of sales compared
to Company A. This is also seen by looking at operating leverage (fixed costs/total
costs). Company B’s operating leverage is higher.
18. Margin of safety reflects the expected sales in excess of the level of break-even sales.
19. Apple’s primary variable costs in making tablet computers are: labor, energy,
manufacturing and inventory-related costs. The costs of operating the plant and
equipment (e.g. depreciation) are fixed because regardless of production levels these
product costs are incurred. Identification of many other variable and fixed costs is
possible.
20. Apple designs, manufactures, and markets mobile communication and media
devices, personal computers, and portable digital music players, and sells a variety
of related software, services, peripherals, networking solutions, and third-party digital
content and applications. To adequately understand its operations, Apple should
compute break-even points for all types of products sold, that is, it should use
multiproduct break-even analysis.
21. A 65% increase in sales of a popular smartphone model of Samsung is likely viewed
as a substantial increase. When this occurs, the sales and cost structures are likely
to change. Specifically, the selling price per unit, fixed costs, and variable costs are
likely to change as the new sales volume moves out of the current relevant range.
Variable cost per unit may go down, but total fixed costs are likely to increase due to,
for example, more space needed to manage and accommodate the increase. Other
activities that may increase are order processing, post-sales service, and invoicing.

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Solutions Manual, Chapter 5 253
22. If units produced equals units sold, no conversion is necessary. If production
exceeds sales, absorption costing income can be determined by adding [increase in
units of ending inventory times the fixed costs per unit] to the variable costing
income. If production is less than sales, absorption costing income can be
determined by subtracting [decrease in units of beginning inventory times the fixed
costs per unit] from the variable costing income. This assumes that fixed cost per
unit in beginning inventory is the same as that for the period.

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254 Managerial Accounting, 6th Edition
 QUICK STUDIES
Quick Study 5-1 (10 minutes)
Series 1 Variable cost Series 3 Step-wise cost
Series 2 Fixed cost Series 4 (Mixed) Curvilinear cost

Quick Study 5-2 (10 minutes)

1. Variable 4. Variable 7. Fixed
2. Probably Mixed 5. Fixed
3. Probably Mixed 6. Fixed

Quick Study 5-3 (10 minutes)

Variable costs = $8,100 - $3,600 = $250 per maintenance hour

24 - 6
Using the low point, $3,600 = ($250/maint. hr. x 6 maint. hrs.) + fixed cost
Therefore, fixed cost = $2,100

Quick Study 5-4 (15 minutes)

1. Estimated line of cost behavior

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Solutions Manual, Chapter 5 255
Another document from Scribd.com that is
random and unrelated content:
VI. HAPPINESS
VI. HAPPINESS
WHATEVER the philosophers may say, it remains true that, from the
first hour of man’s waking consciousness until that consciousness ceases,
his most ardent desire is to be happy, and that the moment of his
profoundest regret is when he becomes convinced that on this earth
perfect happiness cannot be found. Here is the problem which gives to
the various ages of human history their special characters. Blithe are
those ages when young and progressive nations still hope for happiness,
or when men believe that in some new formula of philosophy, or of
religion, or perhaps in some new industrial programme, the secret of
human happiness has at last been found. Gloomy are those ages in
which, as in our time, great masses of people are burdened with the
conviction that all these familiar formulas have been illusions, and when
persons of the keenest insight say—as they are now saying—that the
very word happiness has in it a note of melancholy. No sooner, we are
told, does one speak of happiness than it flees from him. In its very
nature it lies beyond the sphere of practical realization.
I do not share this opinion. I believe that happiness can be found. If I
thought otherwise, I should be silent and not make unhappiness the more
bitter by discussing it. It is, indeed, true that those who talk of happiness
utter therewith a sigh, as if there were doubt whether happiness could be
attained. It is still further true that irrational views of happiness seem to
be for the present forced upon us. Only through these imperfect views
can individuals or communities approach that degree of spiritual and
material development which is the necessary foundation for real
happiness.
And here our question seems to involve a serious contradiction. For we
have, first of all, to learn from our own experience much that does not
bring us happiness. Each in his own way must pass, with the greatest of
all poets, through the “forest dark” to the “city dolent,” and climb the
steep path of the “Holy Mountain,” before he may learn how
“That apple sweet, which through so many branches
The care of mortals goeth in pursuit of,
To-day shall put in peace thy hungerings.”[4]
All this is to be attained, not through instruction, but through experience.
It is a path, and especially the latter part of it, which each must walk
alone. No visible help is on any side, and as one meets each of those
obstacles which in his own strength perhaps he could not overcome, he is
upborne by that
“... eagle in the sky, with plumes of gold,
With wings wide open, and intent to stoop,

Then wheeling somewhat more, it seemed to me,

Terrible as the lightning he descended,
And snatched me upward even to the fire.”[5]
Thus the suggestions which now follow concern themselves merely with
the many misleading ways which purport to lead toward happiness, and
in which each new generation in its restless longing is tempted to go
astray.
The paths by which people journey toward happiness lie in part through
the world about them and in part through the experience of their souls.
On the one hand, there is the happiness which comes from wealth, honor,
the enjoyment of life, from health, culture, science, or art; and, on the
other hand, there is the happiness which is to be found in a good
conscience, in virtue, work, philanthropy, religion, devotion to great
ideas and great deeds.
The outward ways to happiness are, however, all, in one respect,
disappointing. They are not paths which are possible for every one to
follow, and therefore, for many cannot lead to happiness. Still further, the
possession of good things which others do not possess cannot but bring
with it to any noble soul some twinge of conscience. One who enjoys
these outward blessings, and recalls the millions of human beings by his
side who are perishing for lack of them, must be either thoroughly selfish
or profoundly unhappy. It is of such persons that Jesus is thinking when
he speaks of the “unrighteous Mammon,” and even goes on to say: “How
hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom.” No man, that
is to say, can attain to Christian happiness who attains distinction at the
cost of others. “One that is proud in heart,” says the Book of Proverbs,
“is an abomination to the Lord.”
Thus it was that Francis of Assisi, and many a saint before and after him,
resolved, at any price, to break the chains of worldly possessions. It was
a logical resolution. Wealth is the gravest of obstacles to the spiritual life,
and few men are wholly free from its solicitations or slavery. The
possession and administration of a large property, and, indeed, every
position of exceptional honor and power, induce with almost absolute
certainty a hardening of the disposition which is the very opposite of
happiness. One shudders as he observes how dull life seems to that
spiritless throng which in ever-increasing numbers visits each year the
Swiss mountains to escape the emptiness of their prosperous lives.
Such is the result of these external ways of seeking happiness. But we do
not fare much better when we turn to that form of happiness which lays
claim to a nobler and a spiritual source,—the happiness of the æsthetic
life. For the boundaries between this form of happiness and that of mere
materialism are by no means easy to define. Æsthetic enjoyment often
passes over into mere sensualism, as Goethe, the great model of æsthetic
interest, has proved to us both in his poetry—as in the case of Faust—
and in his own life. Indeed, the new school of æstheticism runs grave
risk of interpreting much in terms of art which is in fact mere
materialism. Those who thus seek happiness should recall the saying of
their illustrious predecessor, who possessed in an extraordinary degree
the capacity to attain whatever happiness in life æstheticism had to offer.
“When all is said,” remarks Goethe, “my life has been nothing but care
and work. I can even say that in my seventy-five years, I have not had
four weeks of real happiness. It has been a continuous rolling up hill of a
stone which must ever be pushed again from the bottom.” Four weeks of
happiness in seventy-five years! This man of art declares that in his view
life is nothing else than misery! There is hardly an honest day-laborer
who at the end of his life, full as it may have been of genuine troubles,
could give so poor an account of himself.
The fact is, then, that human nature seems obviously not intended for this
kind of happiness. Life is made for activity; and this kind of receptive
enjoyment, even in its highest forms, is designed merely to give flavor
and change to life, and to be sparingly used; so that those who give
themselves too confidently to such enjoyment bitterly deceive
themselves. Genuine happiness cannot be arbitrarily produced. It issues
from obedience to a genuine demand of human nature, and from
intelligent activity naturally employed. Here is the rational basis of that
faith in human equality and that contentment with the simple joys of life,
in which people to-day believe much too little, and which awhile ago
people praised with perhaps exaggerated sentiment.
Still further, as regards such æsthetic enjoyment, it is to be observed that
the level of æsthetic judgments in literature and art is now so visibly
sinking that these resources cannot long satisfy minds that can be called
educated, or nations that can be called progressive. The time may soon
come when people will weary of this “efflorescence” of science,
literature, and art; and may even wish to exchange it for a taste of
healthy barbarism. The Austrian poet Rosegger has thus described a not
impossible future: “We already see each year a great migration of people
passing from the cities to the country and the mountains, and not until
the leaves are touched with autumn color returning to the city walls. The
time will come, however, when prosperous city-folk will betake
themselves permanently to country life; and when the work-people of the
city will migrate to the wilderness and subdue it. They will abandon the
search for book-knowledge, they will find their pleasure and renewal in
physical work, they will make laws under which an independent and
self-respecting livelihood will be ensured to country-dwellers; and the
notion of an ignorant peasantry will disappear.” However this may be, it
is at least certain that we are approaching a period marked by a return to
nature, and by a taste for simplicity, such as existed at the end of the last
century, when Marie Antoinette played shepherdess with her courtiers at
the Trianon. It is a simplicity which is caricatured by the luxurious folk
who parade each summer through Switzerland in mountain dresses and
spiked shoes, and attempt an intimacy with the life of nature. Even these
folk, strange as is their attire and laughable as is their mimicry of the life
of peasants and mountaineers, find themselves as happy as their
conventional lives permit.
One other external notion of happiness may be dealt with in a word. It is
the happiness which is sought in freedom from care. Such happiness is
an ideal for those only who have never had the experience of such
freedom. For the fact is that through our cares, when not excessive, and
through our victory over cares, comes the most essential part of human
happiness. Cares of a reasonable nature do not constitute what we call
care. Many a life of the widest experience would testify that the most
unendurable experience is to be found, not in a series of stormy days, but
in a series of cloudless ones.
I pass, then, from those who seek for happiness in material and outward
conditions to those more rational inquirers who seek it in the spiritual
life. These persons expect that happiness will be secured in the doing of
their duty, in a good conscience, in personal work of public good, in
patriotism, or charity, or some form of philanthropy, or perhaps in
conformity to the teachings of their Church. And yet, a very considerable
part of the drift to pessimism which one observes in our day comes of the
experience that no one of these ways leads surely to happiness, or, at
least, that one does not get in such ways the happiness for which he
hoped. Indeed, it is perhaps still further true that a great part of the
reckless “Realism,” now so prevalent among us, comes not of the
conviction that it will make one happy, but only of the despair of finding
any other way of happiness. For if it be true that neither our work, nor
what we call our virtues, can bring peace to the soul; if outward activity,
and charity, and patriotism, are but a mockery of happiness; if religion is
for the most part only a form or a phrase, without objective certainty; if
all is thus but vanity of vanities, then indeed: “Let us eat and drink, for
to-morrow we die.”
I do not join in the condemnation with which the moralists usually meet
this view of life. I deny only the conclusions which are drawn from such
a view. I recognize the honest purpose of these modern philosophers.
They represent, at least, a sincere love of truth; they are hostile to all
mere phrases. The spirit of the modern world looks for a happiness
which is not mere philosophical composure, but which has objective
results. It demands a kind of contentment in which every human being
may have a share. In all this, the spirit of the age is wholly right, and this
demand for objective happiness which it utters is a note which has not
been heard for two thousand years. I, too, desire happiness; but I know
that one who would find the way to happiness must, first of all, and
without hesitation, throw overboard all the false idols which have
tempted him to worship them. As he dismisses the prejudices which
birth, or circumstances, or habits, have created, he takes one step after
another toward true happiness. As the Emperor Maximilian of Mexico,
one of the least fortunate persons of our day, rightly said: “The
abandoning of an untruth, or of a prejudice, brings with it forthwith a
sensation of joy.” Here, then, is our guide along this darkened road,
which without some such guidance we could not find at all.
“The happy life lies straight before our eyes,—
We see it, but we know not how to prize.”
First of all, then, we must admit that happiness does not consist in the
sense of virtue alone. This idol of the incorruptible Robespierre will not
serve us. For virtue in its completeness dwells in no human heart. One
must have but a meagre conception of virtue, or else a very limited
intellectual capacity, who finds himself always self-contented. Even the
vainest of men are not in reality contented; their vanity itself is in large
degree only a sense of uncertainty about their worth, so that they need
the constant endorsement of others to satisfy them. The maxim says that
a good conscience makes a soft pillow, and he who has this unfailing
sense of duty done no doubt has happiness; but I have not, as yet, fallen
in with such a man. My impression is that there is not one of us who has
ever, even for a single day, done his whole duty. Beyond this, I need not
go. If one of my readers says to me: “I am the man who has thus done his
duty,”—well, he may be quite right, but I do not care for that man’s
nearer acquaintance. The farther a man advances in the doing of his duty,
so much the more his conscience and perception grow refined. The circle
of his duties widens continually before him, so that he understands the
Apostle Paul, when, with perfect sincerity, and without false humility, he
speaks of himself as the “chief of sinners.”
Are, then, I ask again, philanthropy and the good deeds—public and
private—which it suggests, the secret of happiness? Love is a great
word, and the Apostle is altogether justified when in the familiar passage
of his letters he says that among the many things which perish, love
abides. But when in the same passage he says that it is possible to speak
with the tongues of angels, and give all one’s goods to feed the poor, and
even give one’s body to be burned, and yet not have love,—then we
comprehend without further explanation what he means by love. For
love is a part of God’s own being, which does not originate in the hearts
of men. One who possesses it knows well enough that it is not his own.
Even the pale human reflection of this Divine love brings happiness, but
it is a temporary happiness; and always with the perilous uncertainty of a
love which anticipates return, so that the happiness depends upon the
will of others. He, then, who yields his heart absolutely to others, and
stakes his happiness on their affection, may some day find the terrible
words of the Jewish prophet true: “Cursed be the man that trusteth in
man, and maketh flesh his arm, and whose heart departeth from the
Lord.” All this may be one day a spiritual experience, which may convert
his love into hate. That apotheosis of hate which marks the talk of many
a social agitator in our day is but the evidence of those bitter disillusions
of affection which millions have been called to feel.
Is, then, happiness to be found in work? Work is certainly one great
factor of human happiness—indeed, in one sense, the greatest; for
without work all happiness which is not mere intoxication is absolutely
denied. In order to get the capacity for happiness, one must obey the
commands: “Six days shalt thou labor,” and “In the sweat of thy face
shalt thou eat bread.” Of all seekers for happiness, the most foolish are
those who evade these two conditions. Without work no man can be
happy. In this negative statement the saying is absolutely true. And yet, it
is a greater error to suppose that work is in itself happiness, or to believe
that every work leads to happiness. It is not alone our imagination that
pictures another ideal, so that one can hardly imagine a heaven, or an
earthly paradise, as devoted to unremitting work; it is also true—and it is
much more to be remembered—that only a fool can be wholly contented
with the work that he does. One might even say that the wisest see most
clearly the incompleteness of their work, so that not one of them has
been able, at the end of his day’s work, to say of it: “Behold, it is very
good.” This mere praise of work, then, is, for the most part, only a sort of
a spur, or whip, with which one urges himself, or others, to the tasks of
life; so that even those who take pride in describing themselves as
“working-people” are much concerned to reduce as far as possible their
working day. If work were essentially the same as happiness, these
people would be seeking to prolong as much as possible the hours of
work.
Of all seekers for happiness, however, the most extraordinary are those
who look for it in the philosophy of pessimism; yet of these there are not
a few, and by no means of the baser sort. There is, however, almost
always associated with the creed of pessimism a certain false impression
of one’s own importance. It has an appearance of magnanimity to throw
overboard all one’s hopes, and to believe that everything, oneself
included, is bad. For this, at least, is true, that if all are bad, he who sees
that it is so, and admits it, is, after all, the least bad; and if he is sincerely
contented that others should regard him as bad, he may be not far from
the way to something better. Yet, pessimism as a permanent habit of
mind is, for the most part, only a mantle of philosophy through which,
when it is thrown back, there looks out the face of vanity;—a vanity
which is never satisfied and which withholds one forever from a
contented mind.
Finally, of all people who seek for happiness, the most unhappy are those
who seek it in mere conformity to religious creeds. There are many such
people in our day, and they find themselves in the end bitterly
disappointed. For all church organizations are inclined to promise more
than they can assure, and are like nets to catch all manner of fish. In a
passage from the works of the late Professor Gelzer, he remarks that, for
most church-going people, worship is nothing more than “appearing at
Court once a week to present one’s respects to the throne.” He adds that
there is the same formal service of man also; for one sometimes does this
service, or, as the Bible says, “Hath wrought a good work upon me,”
only for the better maintenance in the future of one’s own self-esteem.
I shall not contradict what so distinguished a man out of his rich
experience has said on this subject. Yet, for my own part, I must still
believe that if a human soul worships God even in the most irrational
way, and recognizes its dependence on Him, God will not forsake that
soul. I must believe, still further, that the feeblest and most superstitious
expressions of religion bring to one who, even with occasional sincerity,
persists in them, more happiness than the most brilliant philosophy of
atheism can offer. Yet this blessing bestowed upon simple souls by the
patience of God is not to be attained in its fulness by those who are
capable of larger insight. Such persons have the duty laid on them to free
the Christian Religion from the lukewarmness which for two thousand
years has afflicted it. Theirs is the duty of dissatisfaction with the forms
and formulas of the Church. No mere science of religion should content
them; for such a science alone never brought happiness to man, and still
offers to a people who do not really understand its teachings, stones
instead of bread. So long as people seek contentment in these ways, their
path to happiness must abound in disappointments; and these
disappointments become the harder to bear because people, as a rule, do
not dare to confess either to themselves, or to others, that they are thus
disappointed. They must pretend to themselves that they are satisfied
because they see no path which may lead them back to happiness and
peace.
Such, then, are some of the ways by which, with slight modifications and
combinations, the human race through all its history has sought for
happiness; and if we do not recognize these ways in history, we may find
them all with more or less distinctness in our own experience. And yet
by no one of these ways has the race found the happiness it seeks. What,
then, I ask once more, is the path to this end?
The first and the most essential condition of true happiness, I answer, is a
firm faith in the moral order of the world. If one lack this, if it be held
that the world is governed by chance or by those changeless laws of
nature which in their dealings with the weak are merciless, or if, finally,
one imagine the world controlled by the cunning and power of man,—
then there is no hope of personal happiness. In such an order of the
world, there is nothing left for the individual but to rule, or to be ruled; to
be either the anvil or the hammer; and it is hard to say which of the two
would be to an honorable man the more unworthy lot.
In national life especially, this view of the world leads to constant war
and preparation for war, and the text-book of politics becomes The
Prince of Machiavelli. From such a condition of war the only possible,
though partial, deliverance would be through some vast governmental
control, ruling with iron force and comprehending in itself all civilized
peoples. Such a State would, at least, make war between States
impossible, as it was impossible in the Roman Empire of the Cæsars, and
as Napoleon I. dreamed that it might be impossible in Europe. Every
right-minded man must inwardly protest against a view which thus robs
man in his person of his will and in his politics of his freedom; and
history also teaches, in many incidents, the emptiness and folly of such a
view. There are some persons who believe that they are forced to accept
this social creed, because the conception of the world as a moral order
does not seem to them sufficiently proved. To such persons, I can only
repeat that which is written above the entrance to Dante’s hell:
“Through me the way is to the city dolent;
Through me the way is to eternal dole;
Through me the way among the people lost.

All hope abandon, ye who enter in!”[6]

I go on to say, however, that formal proof of this moral order of the
world is impossible. The ancient Hebrews believed that one could not
look upon the face of God and live, and Christianity, in its turn, offers us
no formal proof of the character of God. The only path that leads to the
proof of God is that which is followed in the Sermon on the Mount:
“Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.” Here is a proof
which any one may test whose heart is pure; while from those who
merely reason about God’s order of the world He hides Himself, and no
man may rend by force the veil that covers Him.
If, then, one begins simply to live as in a moral world, his path to
happiness lies plainly before him. The door is open and no man can shut
it. Within his heart there is a certain stability, rest, and assurance, which
endure and even gather strength amid all outward storms. His heart
becomes, as the Psalmist says, not froward or fearful, but “fixed.” The
only peril from which he now has to guard himself is the peril of
regarding too seriously the changeful impressions and events of each
day. His desire must be to live resolutely in one even mood, and to look
for his daily share of conscious happiness not in his emotions, but in his
activity. Then for the first time he learns what work really is. It is no
more to him a fetish, to be served with anxious fear; it is no longer an
idol through which he worships himself; it is simply the natural and
healthy way of life, which frees him not only from the many spiritual
evils which are produced by idleness, but also from numberless physical
evils which have the same source. Happy work is the healthiest of human
conditions. Honest sweat on the brow is the source of permanent and
self-renewing power and of light-heartedness; and these together make
one really happy. Indeed, the later discoveries of medical science are
teaching us that physical health is secured only by a high degree of
power of resistance against enemies which life cannot avoid. But this
power of resistance—as one may soon discover—is not a merely
physical capacity; it is quite as much a moral quality and in large part the
product of moral effort. Here, then, are two secrets of happiness which
are fundamentally inseparable: Life directed by faith in the permanent
moral order of the world, and Work done in that same faith. Beyond
these two, and one other which I shall mention later, all other ways of
happiness are secondary, and indeed all else comes of its own accord,
according to one’s special needs, if only one holds firmly to these
primary sources of spiritual power.
I go on to mention a few of these subordinate rules for happiness which
may be deduced from the experience of life. They are mere maxims of
conduct to which many others might be added.
We need, for instance, to be at the same time both brave and humble.
That is the meaning of the strange word of the Apostle: “When I am
weak, then am I strong.” Either quality alone does more harm than good.
Again, one must not make pleasure an end, for pleasure comes of its own
accord in the right way of life, and the simplest, the cheapest, and the
most inevitable pleasures are the best.
Again, one can bear all troubles, except two: worry and sin.
Further, all that is really excellent has a small beginning. The good does
not show its best at once.
Finally, all paths which it is best to follow, are entered by open doors.
There are, it must be added, some difficulties and problems which
thoughtful people should take into account in their intercourse with
others. One must not hate other people, or, on the other hand, idolize
them, or take their opinions, demands, and judgments too seriously. One
must not sit in judgment on others, or, on the other hand, submit himself
to their judgment. One must not court the society of those who think
much of themselves. Indeed, I may say in general that, except in certain
callings, one should not cultivate acquaintance with great people, or fine
people, with the rich, or the fashionable, but so far as possible, without
repelling them, should avoid their company. Among the best sources of
happiness is the enjoyment found in small things and among humble
people; and many a bitter experience is avoided by the habit of an
unassuming life. The best way to have permanent peace with the world is
not to expect much of it; not to be afraid of it; so far as one can without
self-deception see the good in it; and to regard the evil as something
powerless and temporary which will soon defeat itself.
In short, I may in conclusion say, that one must not take this life too
seriously. As soon as we live above it, much of it becomes unimportant,
and if the essentials are secure we must not care too much for the
subordinate. Many of the best people suffer from this magnifying of
trifles, and especially from their dependence on other people’s opinions;
and this lack of proportion makes for such people each day’s work much
more difficult than it would otherwise be.
I have said that these practical rules might be indefinitely multiplied. But
they are all, as I have also said, in reality superfluous. For if the soil of
the heart is fertilized, as I have already described, then these fruits of life
grow out of it spontaneously, and serve the special needs of the
individual. The essential question concerns the soil itself, without which
not one of these practical fruits can grow. Thus I may say in general that
I take no great interest in what people call systems of morals, or in the
rules of conduct which they prescribe. A system of morals either issues
spontaneously from a habit of mind, which in its turn issues from a view
of life, attained even through the death of one’s old self; or else such a
system is nothing but a series of beautiful maxims, pleasant to hear, good
to record in diaries and calendars, but incapable of converting the human
heart.
I do not care to multiply the material for these collections of maxims. I
shall only add one last and solemn truth. It is this,—that under the
conditions of human life unhappiness also is necessary. Indeed, if one
cared to state it in a paradox, he might say that unhappiness is essential
to happiness. In the first place, as the experience of life plainly shows,
unhappiness is inevitable, and one must in one way or another reconcile
himself to it. The most to which one can attain in this human lot is
perfect adjustment to one’s destiny; that inward and permanent peace
which, as Isaiah says, is like an “overflowing stream.” It is this peace and
this alone which Christ promises to his disciples, and it is this, and no
outward satisfaction, which the Apostle Paul expects for his fellow-
Christians, when, at the end of his unpeaceful life, he prays that “the
peace of Christ may rule” in their hearts.
Thus, for real happiness the outward issue of events may come to have
no high importance. Stoicism endeavored to solve the problem of
happiness by developing insensibility to pain, but its endeavor was vain.
The problem of happiness is to be solved in quite another way. One must
accept his suffering and unhappiness, and adjust himself to them. And to
this end one is, first of all, helped by considering what unhappiness
implies, and by living consistently above the sway of momentary feeling.
For unhappiness does us good in no less than three ways,—ways which
are cumulative in their effect. It is, in the first place, a punishment, the
natural consequence of our deeds. It is, thus considered, a part of those
deeds themselves, and therefore must follow them as surely as a logical
consequence follows its premise. Unhappiness is, secondly, a cleansing
process, waking us to greater seriousness and greater receptivity to truth.
Thirdly, unhappiness recalls us to self-examination and fortifies us by
disclosing what is our own strength, and what is God’s strength. By no
other experience does one attain that spiritual courage which is far
removed from self-confidence and very near to humility. In a word, it
must be said that the deeper life of man and that noble bearing which we
remark in some people, and which no one, whatever be his station, can
falsely assume, are attained only through faithful endurance of
misfortune. That word of the Apostle Paul, “We glory in tribulations,” is,
like many of his sayings, absolutely unintelligible to any one who has
not experienced what renewal of power and what profound happiness
may be discovered through misfortune itself. It is a form of happiness
which one never forgets if he has once really experienced it.
This, then, is the riddle of life which perplexes many a man and turns
him from the right way,—that good people do not get the good things
which might seem to them their due.
“The prophet host, the martyr throng,
Reckoned, the world as dross,
Despised the shame, endured the wrong,
Counting their gain, their loss;
And He, to whom they sang their song,
Was nailed upon the cross.”
Suffering, then, lies on the road to life, and one must expect to meet it if
he would be happy. Many a person, when he sees this lion in his path,
turns about and contents himself with something less than happiness.
And yet it is also true, as experience teaches, that in our misfortunes, as
in our enjoyments, imagination greatly outruns reality. Our pain is
seldom as great as our imagination pictures it. Sorrow is often the gate
which opens into great happiness. Thus the true life calls for a certain
severity of dealing, as if one should say to himself: “You may like to do
this thing, or you may not like to do it, but you must do it”; and true
education rests on these two foundation stones,—love of truth and
courage for the right. Without them, education is worthless. It is like the
kingdom of God which is to be taken by violence, “And the violent take
it with force.” And thus, of all the human qualities which lead to
happiness, certainly the most essential is courage.
We look back, then, finally, over what has been said, and repeat what a
gifted authoress of our time, Gisela Grimm, has said in her drama of Old
Scotland: “Happiness is communion with God, and the central spiritual
quality which attains this communion is courage.” Other happiness than
this is not to be found on earth, and if there were happiness without these
traits, it would not be the happiness we should desire. And this kind of
happiness is real. It is not, like every other dream of happiness, an
illusion from which sooner or later one must wake. It does not issue from
our achievements or our compulsions. On the contrary, when we have
once accepted and made our own the view of life which I have described,
and have ceased to look about us for some other view, then happiness
comes to us by the way. It is a stream of inward peace; broadening as we
grow older, first enriching our own souls and then pouring itself forth to
bless other lives.
This is the goal to which our life must attain, if it hope for happiness, and
to this goal it can attain. Indeed, if once the first decision be made, and
the first steps taken, then, as Dante says:
... “This mount is such, that ever
At the beginning down below ’tis tiresome,
And aye the more one climbs, the less it hurts.
Therefore, when it shall seem so pleasant to thee,
That going up shall be to thee as easy
As going down the current in a boat,
Then at this pathway’s ending thou wilt be.”[7]
Below at the foot of the mountain the fixed decision is demanded. There
one must absolutely determine to pay any price which shall be asked for
the happiness which is real. No further step can be taken without this
first resolution, and by no easier path has any one attained the happiness
he sought. Goethe, the teacher of those who sought happiness in other
ways, admitted—as I have said—that in seventy-five years of life he had
had four weeks of content, and no one who has followed him can, at the
end of life, when asked what his conscience testifies, make better reply.
We, on the other hand, should be able, at the last, to say: “The days of
our years are threescore years and ten, and though we be so strong as to
come to fourscore years, and though there has been much labor and
sorrow, still it has been a life of happiness.”
VII. THE MEANING OF LIFE
VII. THE MEANING OF LIFE
THIS is the question of questions. A man must be wholly superficial or
wholly animal who does not at some time in his life ask what is the
meaning of his life. Yet, sad to say, most men end their lives without
finding an answer. Some repeat, in their darker moods, the melancholy
confession of a mediæval philosopher: “I live, but know not how long; I
die, but know not when; I depart, but know not whither. How is it
possible for me to fancy myself happy!” Others drive from their minds
these morbid reflections which, as they say, “lead to nothing,” and
repeat: “Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.”
Even among what we call cultivated people, where education has made a
profounder view accessible, the number of those who find the meaning
of life is by no means large. After some vain and superficial attempts to
save themselves they yield at last, and often far too soon, to the pitiful
programme of self-indulgence. And what is their next step? It is to
pursue consistently this programme. But there is not long left the health
which is necessary for this life of eating and drinking, and then in
throngs they make their pilgrimages, the women at the front, to Pastor
Kneipp, or Dr. Metzger, or some other infallible healer, hoping for a
quick restoration and a second chance to waste their lives.
Still others there are who have not the means to adopt this plan of life.
Many of these seek a substitute for it in some form of social scrambling;
or if this fails, commit themselves to the new doctrine of economics,
according to which the only real problem of life is the “stomach
problem,” and which teaches that in satisfying the stomach the social
ideals of the race will be also satisfied.
Still others there are who are more subtle and more critical. They have
come to see how impracticable are all these schemes to redeem life from
its troubles. Thus, after they have tried many half-way measures, they
come at last to the confession of the wisest of kings: “Vanity of vanities,
all is vanity.” They commit themselves to scepticism concerning any
meaning in life and to the worship of non-existence. To them the end of
life is to be Nirvana, annihilation, the forgetfulness of that which life has
been; and they fancy that they have attained a very noble attitude toward
life when, after many years of sharp contention with their healthy human
nature, which steadily protests against these subtle negations, they are
able at last to repeat the words of the Hindoo sage:

“Through birth and rebirth’s endless round

I ran and sought, but never found
Who framed and built this house of clay.
What misery!—birth for ay and ay!

O builder! thee at last I see!

Ne’er shalt thou build again for me.

Thy rafters all are broken now,

Demolished lies thy ridgepole, low.

My heart, demolished too, I ween,

An end of all desire hath seen.”[8]

Such is the final word of their philosophy. Neither light nor hope is left
for human life. He does the best who earliest recognizes the hopelessness
of life and hastens to its end.
Human nature, however, is so abounding in life and so eager for life that
except in those transitory and morbid conditions which we have come to
describe as fin de siècle moods, it is never long content to interpret
experience in terms of universal bankruptcy. On the contrary, it insists
that the problem of philosophy must be in the future, as it has been in the
past, the shedding of light on the meaning of life. It is a problem which
philosophy has often answered with mere phrases, which have brought
no meaning or comfort to the troubled heart of man, and it is not
surprising that since the climax of this hollow formalism was reached in
Hegel, there has been a natural distrust of philosophy.
And what is it in this speculative philosophy which creates this distrust?
It is its attempt to regard the universe as self-explanatory. Here, even at
the present time, is one of the fundamental propositions of most
philosophizing, against which no argument may be permitted. It seems
an essential assumption of philosophy; since if other ways of explanation
of the universe were superadded, philosophy as an independent science
would seem to be superfluous. Is it certain, however, that the
subordination of philosophy thus apprehended would be, after all, a great
misfortune? What the human mind is concerned about is not the
perpetuation of philosophy as a science, but the discovery of some
meaning in life itself, its destiny, its past and its future; and one is quite
justified in losing interest in any science which does not in the end
contribute to the interpretation and amelioration of human life. We have
a right to demand of philosophy that she contribute to this end, and that
she shall speak also with some degree of simplicity of language,
dismissing the attempt to satisfy with empty and unintelligible phrases
the hunger of the soul for fundamental truth.
And yet, from the time of Plato to that of Hegel, Schopenhauer, and
Nietzsche, the making of phrases has been the special business of
philosophy. It has created a language of its own, which separates it as by
an impenetrable hedge from the region of men’s common talk; and when
one translates such language into the familiar speech of his own time,
where words have a definite meaning, it is as though he withdrew from a
veiled goddess the disguise which gave her all her power and dignity.
The fact is that abstract philosophy has never explained to any
satisfaction either the existence or the development of the world; still
less has philosophy brought into unity these two conceptions, and
interpreted them through a single cause. On the contrary, the history of
philosophy has been a history of words, conveying no real interpretation,
and it would seem as if in the thousands of years of philosophic
speculation either some interpretation should have been attained or that
there should at last be heard the confession that philosophy can throw no
further light on these fundamental facts. Here, it would seem, we should
reach the end of philosophy, and should assume that the first cause of
things is unknowable.
Philosophy, however, has seldom consented to this confession of
impotence. On the contrary, it has repeatedly reverted to some absolute
assumption of an adequate cause which lies behind the possibility of
proof. Sometimes it is the assumption of a vital Substance, one and
unchangeable; sometimes it is the assumption of an infinite concourse of
atoms. Yet such conceptions are in the highest degree elusive, and force
us to inquire whence such substance, be it simple or infinitely divided,
comes, how it becomes quickened with life, and how it imparts the life it
has. The transition from such mere movements of atoms to phenomena
of feeling or thought or will, makes a leap in nature which no man has in
the remotest degree proposed to explain. On the contrary, instead of
bridging such a chasm the most famous inquirers simply record the
melancholy confession: “Ignoramus, ignorabimus.”
Sometimes, again, philosophy has taught, with many and large words,
that the meaning of the world resides in an opposition between Being
and Not-being. This is no new doctrine and it is at least intelligent and
intelligible. Yet what we really need to know concerns Being alone. It is
the world that lies before our eyes that interests us. How has this world
come to be, we ask, or is it perhaps a mere illusion, the mirage of our
own thought, with no reality but that which our own minds assign, as
people in their despair have sometimes believed it to be? As for Non-
existence, what rational interest has this for us? Is it even an intelligible
conception? Does it not rather set before us a contradiction which we
may conceive, but can never verify, and which has for life itself no
significance at all?
Still other philosophers invite us to turn from the outward world whose
final cause thus eludes us, and to consider our own self-conscious nature,
the Ego, concerning which no one can doubt and which no philosophy is
needed to prove. Yet no sooner does this poor Ego issue from its own
self-consciousness and, as it were, take a step into the outward world, as
though to interpret through itself the meaning of life, than it becomes
aware that some further and external cause is necessary to explain even
the Ego to itself.
Finally, philosophy, in its search for the meaning of life, bows to the
authority of natural science and proposes to interpret experience through
some doctrine of development, or evolution, or heredity, or natural
selection. All that exists, it announces, comes of some primitive
protoplasm, or even of some single primitive cell. Yet still there presses
the ancient question how such cells may have been made and how there
has been imparted to them their infinite capacity for life and growth. It is
the question which the keen and practical Napoleon asked as he stood a
century ago under the mystery of the stars in Egypt. Turning to the
scholar Monge, he said: “Qui a fait tout cela?” To such a question neither
abstract philosophy nor natural science has as yet given and, so far as we
can judge, will ever give any answer.
To interpret the world, then, by itself or through itself is impossible, for
there is in the world itself no final cause. If the mind of man is the final
interpreter of the world, then it becomes itself the God it seeks, and the
philosophers become the object of a kind of worship. Here, indeed, is the
outcome of much philosophy to-day. If, however, the philosophers have
any power of observation, they soon discover one positive barrier to this
excessive self-importance. It is the humbling consciousness of limitation
in their own powers and in their own hold on life itself; the inevitable
impression, which no human praise can remove, of their own defects; the
impossibility of finding a meaning even for their own lives within those
lives themselves.
Here is the weakness of that pantheism which, from the time of Spinoza,
has so largely controlled speculative thought, and, from the time of
Hegel, Schopenhauer, and Goethe, has been the prevailing creed of
cultivated people, so far as they concern themselves with philosophy. No
form of philosophy is so demoralizing in its ethical consequences as this.
It breeds contempt of moral activity; it forfeits the right of the will to
oppose what is evil and to create what is good. Sooner or later the
corollary of such a faith appears in some form of superstition, crude but
compelling,—like hypnotism or spiritualism, or the vulgar and noisy
substitutes for religion which are now so conspicuous. Thus the cycle of
philosophical speculation fulfils itself, and returns after centuries to the
same point at which it began. The final form of truth may come to be,
not the systems of abstract philosophy or of speculative theology, which
have proved so misleading and unsatisfying, but simply a summing-up of
the experience of mankind, as it has affected human destiny through the
history of the world; and in this experience we have a philosophy better
than abstractions, and always within one’s reach.
And where do we find this philosophy which discovers the meaning of
life not through speculative reasoning but through the interpretation of
experience, and which observes in experience a spiritual power creating
and maintaining both the world and the individual? This is the view of
life which had its origin in Israel and was fulfilled in Christianity. It
cannot indeed be called in the technical sense a philosophy, for
philosophy would feel itself called upon to explain still further that
Cause which it thus reached. Theology as a positive science meets the
same fate as philosophy. It cannot prove its God, as philosophy cannot
interpret the world or human life in or through themselves. What people
call ontology, or the proofs of the being of God, is no real science, and
convinces none but him who is already pledged. It is in the nature of God
to be beyond our interpretations. A god who could be explained would
not be God, and a man who could explain God would not be man. The
legitimate aim of life is not to see God as He is, but to see the affairs of
this world and of human life somewhat as God might see them. It is,
therefore, no new thing to question whether theology can be fairly called
a science at all. On this point, for instance, the evidence of Christ is in
the negative, and the theological speculations of Christians are, in fact,
not derived from him. They proceed, on the contrary, from the Apostle
Paul, who applied to the proving of Christianity the subtlety of
theological training which he had received under Judaism; and even in
his case it must be remembered that his teaching was directed to
convince those who had been, like him, trained in the theology of Israel.
It must not be imagined, therefore, that the final Cause of the world
which we call God, can be philosophically proved. Faith in God is first
of all a personal experience. Nothing should disguise this proposition,
though it is the stone of offence where many stumble who are seeking an
adequate meaning of life. Nothing can be done to help those who refuse
this experience. No argument can convince them. There is no
philosophical refutation of a determined atheism.
Here is an admission which must gravely affect not only our religious
and philosophical relations with others, but even our practical and
political life. Here is the fundamental difference between people of the
same nation, or condition, or time, or even family. In other differences of
opinion there may be found some common ground, but between faith and
denial there is no common ground, because we are dealing with a
question of the will and because the human will is free. The saying of
Tertullian, that the human soul is naturally Christian, is in a literal sense
quite untrue. Every man who reflects on his responsibilities recognizes
that he is not naturally Christian. He is, at the most, only possibly
Christian, as Tertullian perhaps meant to say. He is capable of becoming
Christian through the experience of life. Atheism and Christianity are
equally accessible to the nature of man.
Faith in God, then, is a form of experience, not a form of proof. If
experience were as unfruitful as proof, then faith in God would be
nothing more than a nervous condition, and the answer of Festus—“Paul,
thou art beside thyself!”—would be the just estimate of a faith like that
of Paul. Each period of history has in fact produced many a Festus,
sedulously guarding his reason and conscience against all that cannot be
proved. Other faith, however, than that which proceeds from experience
is not expected by God from any man; while to every man, in his own
experience and in the witness of history, this faith is abundantly offered.
There is, therefore, in the refusal of faith a confession, not merely of
intellectual error, but of moral neglect; and many a man who has
surrendered his faith would be slow to confess to others how well aware
he is that the fault is his own.
Here, then, is the first step toward the discovery of the meaning of life. It
is an act of will, a moral venture, a listening to experience. No man can
omit this initial step, and no man can teach another the lesson which lies
in his own experience. The prophets of the Old Testament found an
accurate expression for this act of will when they described it as a
“turning,” and they went on to assure their people of the perfect inward
peace and the sense of confidence which followed from this act. “Look
unto me, and be ye saved,” says Isaiah; “Incline your ear, and come unto
me: hear, and your soul shall live.” From that time to this, thousands of
those who have thus changed the direction of their wills have entered
into the same sense of peace; while no man who has thus given his will
to God has ever felt himself permanently bewildered or forsaken.
Here, also, in this free act of the will, is attained that sense of liberty
which in both the Old and New Testaments is described as
“righteousness.” It is a sense of initiative and power, as though one were
not wholly the subject of arbitrary grace, but had a certain positive
companionship with God. It is what the Old Testament calls a
“covenant,” involving mutual rights and obligations. No man, however,
who accepts this relation is inclined to urge overmuch his own rights,
knowing as he well does that his part in the covenant falls ever short and
is even then made possible only through his steady confidence in God.
Grace, unearned and undeserved, he still knows that he needs; yet behind
this grace lies ever the initiative of personal “turning,” and the free
assertion of the will as the first step toward complete redemption. To say
with Paul that a man is “justified by faith,” or to emphasize as Luther
does, even more strongly, the province of grace, is to run some risk of
forgetting the constant demand for an initial step of one’s own.
This step once taken, both the world in which one lives and one’s own
personal life get a clear and intelligible meaning. On the one hand stands
the free will of God, creating and directing the world, not restricted by
the so-called laws of nature, yet a God of order, whose desires are not
arbitrary or lawless. On the other hand is the free will of man, with the
free choice before it of obedience or refusal;—a will, therefore, which
may choose the wrong though it may not thereby thwart the Divine
purpose. The evil-doer, if impenitent, must suffer, but his evil is
converted into good. In such a philosophy what is a wisely adjusted
human life? It is a life of free obedience to the eternal and unchangeable
laws of God; a life, therefore, which attains through self-discipline
successive steps of spiritual power. Life on other terms brings on a
progressive decline of spiritual power and with this a sense of self-
condemnation. What is the happy life? It is a life of conscious harmony
with this Divine order of the world, a sense, that is to say, of God’s
companionship. And wherein is the profoundest unhappiness? It is in the
sense of remoteness from God, issuing into incurable restlessness of
heart, and finally into incapacity to make one’s life fruitful or effective.
If, then, we are at times tempted to fancy that all this undemonstrable
experience is unreal, or metaphysical, or purposeless, or imaginary, it is
best to deal with such returning scepticism much as we deal with the
selfish or mean thoughts which we are trying to outgrow. Let all these
hindrances to the higher life be quietly but firmly repelled. The better
world we enter is indeed entered by faith and not by sight; but this faith
grows more confident and more supporting, until it is like an inward
faculty of sight itself. To substitute for this a world of the outward senses
is to find no meaning in life which can convey confidence and peace. It
is but to embitter every noble and thoughtful nature with restless doubts
from which there is no escape.
Such was religion as it disclosed itself to the early Hebrews. Soon,
indeed, that religion was overgrown by the formalism which converted
its practical teaching into mere prohibitions or mere mechanism; but
behind these abuses of later history lay the primitive simplicity of
spiritual liberty and life. Such also was the historical beginning of the
Christian religion. The mission of Christ, like that of each genuine
reformer, was to recall men to their original consciousness of God; and it
is perhaps the greatest tragedy of history, while at the same time the best
proof of the free will of man, that the Hebrew people, to whom Christ
announced that he was expressly sent, could not, as a whole, bring
themselves to obey his call. They were held in bondage by their
accumulated formalism, as many a man has been ever since. They could
not rise to the thought of a worship which was in spirit and in truth. Had
they, with their extraordinary gifts, been able to hear Christ’s message,
they would have become the dominant nation of the world.
And what is to be said of those Gentile peoples who listened more
willingly to the message of Christ, those “wild olive trees,” as St. Paul
calls them, which were grafted on the “broken branches”? They also
have had the same history. They also, in their own way, have become
enslaved by the same formalism; and they also must regain their liberty
through the return of individual souls to a personal experience of the
method of Christ.
Here is the evidence of the indestructible truth and the extraordinary
vitality of the Christian religion. To subdue its opponents was but a slight
achievement; for every positive truth must in the end prevail. Its real
conflict has been with the forces of accumulated opinion, of superfluous
learning, of sickly fancies among its friends, and with the intellectual
slavery to which these influences have led. Through these obstructions
the light and power of genuine Christianity have broken like sunshine
through a mist; and with such Christianity have appeared in history the
political liberty on which the permanence of civilization rests, the
philosophical truth which solves the problems of human life, and the
present comfort for the human heart, beyond the power of misfortune to
disturb.
We reach, then, a philosophy of life which is not speculative or fanciful,
but rests on the facts of history. This is “the way, the truth, and the life.”
Better is it for one if he finds this “way” without too many companions
or professional guides, for many a religious teaching, designed to show
the way, has repelled young lives from following it. As one follows the
way, he gains, first of all, courage, so that he dares to go on in his search.
He goes still further, and the way opens into the assurance that life, with
all its mystery, is not lived in vain. He pushes on, and the way issues into
health, not only of the soul but even of the body; for bodily health is
more dependent on spiritual condition than spiritual condition on bodily
health; and modern medicine can never restore and assure health to the
body if it limit its problem to physical relief alone. Nor is even this the
end of the “way” of Christ. It leads not only to personal health, but to
social health as well; not by continually inciting the masses to some
social programme, but by strengthening the individuals of which the
masses are made. Here alone is positive social redemption; while the
hopes that turn to other ways of social reform are for the most part
deceptive dreams.
Finally, the way is sure to lead every life which follows it, and is willing
to pay the price for the possession of truth, into the region of spiritual
peace. No other way of life permits this comprehensive sense of peace
and assurance. Apart from it we have but the unremitting and bitter
struggle for existence, the enforcement of national self-seeking, the
temporary victory of the strong, the hell of the weak and the poor; yet, at
the same time, no peace even for the strong, who have their little day of
power, but live in daily fear that this power will fail and leave them at
the mercy of the wolves, their neighbors. Meantime, on every page of the
world’s history, and in the experience of daily life, God writes the
opposite teaching, that out of the midst of evil issues at last the mastery
of the good; and that, in modern as in ancient time, the meek both inherit
and control the earth. History is not a record of despotic control like that
of a Roman Cæsar, effective and intelligent, but necessarily involving a
progressive degeneration of his subjects; it is a story of progressive
amelioration in moral standards and achievements; and this fact of moral
progress is the most convincing proof of the being of God.
Thus it happens that to one who loves liberty and who reads history, the
logic of thought leads to faith in God. Without such faith it is difficult to
believe in human progress through freedom, or to view the movement of
the modern world with hope. Without such faith the popular agitations of
the time are disquieting and alarming, and the only refuge of the spirit is
in submission to some human authority either of Church or of State.
Without such faith it would be increasingly impossible to maintain a
democratic republic like Switzerland in the midst of the autocratic
monarchies of Europe. With profound truthfulness the Swiss Parliament
at Aarau opened its session with these simple words: “Our help is in the
Lord our God, who hath made heaven and earth.” And, finally, without
political liberty there would be but a brief survival of religious liberty
itself, and it too would be supplanted by a condition of servitude. A
State-Church is a self-contradictory expression. State and Church alike
need self-government for self-development. A free Church and a free
State are not only most representative of Christianity, but are beyond
doubt the forms of Christian citizenship which are to survive. Not
compulsion, nor any form of authority, will in the end dominate the
world, but freedom, in all its forms and its effects. The end of social
evolution is to be the free obedience of men and nations to the moral
order of the world.
And yet, we must repeat, the secret of true progress is not to be found in
an achievement of philosophy, or a process of thought; but in a historical
process, a living experience. To each man’s will is offered the choice of
this way which leads to personal recognition of the truth and personal
experience of happiness. To each nation the same choice is presented. No
philosophy or religion has real significance which does not lead this way.
No man can rightly call it mere misfortune, or confess his unbelief with
sentimental regret, when he misses the way and forfeits his peace of
mind. His pessimism is not, as he fondly thinks, a mark of distinction; it
is, on the contrary, as a rule, an evidence of moral defect or weakness,
and should stir in him a positive moral scorn.
What is it, then, which makes one unable to find the way of Jesus? It is,
for the most part, either unwillingness to make a serious effort to find it,
or disinclination to accept the consequences of the choice. To take up
with some philosophical novelty, involving no demand upon the will; to
surrender oneself to the pleasures of life; to attach oneself, with
superficial and unreflecting devotion, to some form of Church or sect;—
how much easier is any one of these refuges of the mind than serious
meditation on the great problems of life and the growth of a personal
conviction! And yet, how unmistakable have been the joy, and the
strength to live and to die, and the peace of mind and sense of right
adjustment to the Universe, which those have found who have followed
with patience the way I have described! In the testimony of such souls
there is complete accord. Consciously or unconsciously, every heart
desires the satisfactions which this way of life can give, and without
these satisfactions of the spirit no other possessions or pleasures can
insure spiritual peace.
What infinite pains are taken by people in the modern world for the sake
of their health of body or the welfare of their souls! For health of body
they go barefoot in the daytime or sleep in wet sheets at night; for the
good of their souls they go on pilgrimages and into retreats, or submit
themselves to other forms of spiritual exercise. They go even farther in
their pious credulity. There is not a hardship or a folly, or a risk of body
or soul, or any form of martyrdom, which is not accepted by thousands
in the hope that it will save their souls. And all the time the simple way
to the meaning of life lies straight before their feet,—a way, however, let
us last of all remember, which it is not enough to know, but which is
given us to follow. This is the truth which a scholar of the time of Luther
teaches, though he himself had not fully attained the truth. Not, he
writes, by knowing the way but by going it, is the meaning of life to be
found. He put into the mouth of Christ his lesson:

“Why art thou then so faint of heart,

O man of little faith?
Have I not strength to do My part
As God’s word promiseth?

Why wilt thou not return to Me

 Whose pity will receive?
Why seek not Him whose grace can free
And every fault forgive?

Why was it hard the way to find,

Which straight before thee ran?
Why dost thou wander as though blind?
’Tis thine own choice, O man!”
NOTES
 NOTES
NOTE 1

“Friedrich Max von Klinger,” says Professor Hilty, “was

born in 1752, at Frankfort. His family were poor, and after he
had with difficulty pursued his studies at the University of
Giessen, he became at first a play-writer for a travelling
company. He then served during the Bavarian War of
Succession in a corps of volunteers. Later he became reader
and travelling companion to the Czarevitch Paul of Russia,
afterwards the Emperor. He was made Director of the corps of
cadets of the nobility, as well as of the Emperor’s pages, and
of the girls’ school for the nobility. Under Alexander I. he was
also made Curator of the University of Dorpat. In all these
relations of life, which were as difficult as can be imagined, in
his contact with actors, crown-princes, Czars, noble pages
and women of the court, diplomats and professors—who,
taken together, are certainly not of the classes most easy to
deal with—and living at a court thoroughly degraded and
beset by self-seekers of the lowest kind as was the court of
Catherine II., von Klinger preserved his candid character and
moral courage and gained the high respect of his
contemporaries. In Goethe’s Wahrheit und Dichtung, he
mentions von Klinger as follows: ‘This maintenance of a
sterling character is the more creditable when it occurs in the
midst of worldly and business life and when a way of conduct
which might appear to many curt and abrupt, being
judiciously followed, accomplishes its ends. Such was his
character. Without subservience (which, indeed, has never
been a quality of the natives of Frankfort) he attained to the
most important positions, was able to maintain himself there
and to continue his services with the highest approval and
gratitude of his noble patrons. Through all this, he never
forgot either his old friends or the paths which he had come.’
In the later years of his life, Goethe renewed the study of von
Klinger’s writings, ‘which recalled to me his unwearied
activity and his remarkable character.’”