Chapter XV: Sentimentality and the Male

It is a long time now that the belief has been generally accepted that God made man, and, contemplating his work, realized that it was a failure for the purpose for which man was created. He then made woman. The way in which this was accomplished is full of interest to the artificer, but it does not concern me, whose lifelong study has been of the finished species; nor does the object of the creation of man, alluring as it is, tempt me to digress from the subject of his sentimental endowment. Soon after his organism was endowed with sentient possession, man was made aware that he had imperious desires which not only demanded satisfaction but which insisted upon being satisfied. It pleased the Christian church to enshroud the most vital of these God-given desires in the mantle of sin, save when its appeasement was done in conformity with the restrictions laid upon it by the church. It may quite well be that such restrictions were founded in wisdom. For a long time England maintained that it was right to restrict the franchise to owners of property of a certain value, and for many centuries the world accepted slavery without a thought that it was wrong. Ruskin spoke truly when he said: "The basest thought about man is that he has no spiritual nature, and the foolishest that he has no animal nature."

The facts around which these remarks are spun are first: God reproduced his image, and, finding that the image was incomplete and useless for the purposes for which he was created, he made him whole, as it were, by creating the female; and second: that he endowed man and woman with mental and emotional qualities which were to aid them in living their lives happily for themselves, usefully for others, and acceptably to him. The moment this endowment was made known to them the fat was in the fire. "She tempted me and I fell" has been the subject of picture and poem, story and sermon, excuse or extenuation, since time immemorial. Learned tomes and ponderous volumes have set forth specifically the difference of the sexes, more or less uselessly too, for no one needs to be convinced that there are anatomical and physiological differences. The obvious is never interesting; the pleasurable quest is pursuit of the elusive, the intangible. There are differences between the sexes that defy specific designation, for I do not admit that specificity is given to these distinctions by saying that men differ from women emotionally, morally, spiritually, ethically, or that they react differently to the same stimulus under the same circumstances, or that there are soul differences of kind and degree. We do not have to decide whether these distinctions are inherent or acquired. We have only to admit that they exist. The plain fact is that tradition and experience teach us that both the male and the female of the _genus homo_ have certain spiritual endowments, both on the emotional and the intellectual side, which have come to be looked upon as characteristic. Courage, valor, secrecy are universally considered to be characteristics of the male. On the other hand, patience, sentiment, vanity, and fickleness have become traditionally linked up with the opposite sex. Women are often braver than men, more continent, less vain, but to admit this does not diminish the acceptability of the general proposition. No one is likely to contend that either sex has a monopoly of any of these qualities, but I fancy it will readily be admitted that sentimentality, in its most flagrant display, is a more characteristic ancilla of woman than of man. Bulwer Lytton was a shrewd observer when he wrote: "There is sentiment in all women and sentiment gives delicacy to thought and tact to manner." But sentiment with men is generally acquired, an offspring of the intellectual quality, not as with the other sex, of the moral. A man considers it a term of reproach to be called sentimental; on the other hand, such designation in no way detracts from a woman's estimate of herself, nor does it derogate her in the esteem of others so long as she confines it within certain limits and so long as it does not condition her conduct. Many a man on reviewing his past recognizes that his ship of celibacy foundered upon the sandy shoals called "tender-minded." The tender-minded girl is one with a mind somewhat underdeveloped, saturated in sentimentality usually associated with a streak of obstinacy which is beyond parental influence.

With nubility there comes to every girl a wealth of emotional endowment which is often most bewildering--indeed, it upsets some unstable organizations, while to others it is merely an intoxication. It disturbs their equilibrium, it tends to break down their inhibitions and to befog the perspectives that have been so carefully developed for them, and it not infrequently roils the water of life in which they have been floating and swimming without effort to such a degree that they constitute a problem for parent and teacher. The average girl gradually throws off these disequilibrilizing effects; and the moonlight walks in the garden, or the romantic plans to spend an idyllic life in a tiny cottage covered by a rambler rose-bush far from the madding crowd, companioned by an Adonis and the poetry of Tennyson, her extravagant protestations of love for another girl, her exuberant interest in some mystic or fantastic cult, and other concomitants of this period, are given proper valuation.

She emerges into womanhood with a "head" for the intoxicating libation that wells up in her tissues, and is poured through her soul as sap wells up in a tree, even to the smallest branches preparatory to its bloom and fructification. The knowledge is borne in upon her that she can manage the new possession conformably to the canons of church, state, and society, and that the total of what has come to her at this period may be split up into qualities or possessions to which are given specific names, such as sentiment. Soon she realizes that these qualities become important assets in her display of the _ars amoris_ and they prepare the road that leads pleasantly and propitiously to the goal which shall be the fulfilment of her physiological destiny, namely, maternity via matrimony. When that gratifying stage has been reached and fulfilled she understands that sentimentality, modestly displayed, contributes largely to her success, not only in her family but in the world.

How different with the opposite sex! He likewise feels the obscuring mists of sex potency and of sentimentality settling over him as puberty approaches. He is also bewildered, but it is early made clear to him by his fellows who have gone through the experience that the slightest manifestation of it will be the signal for loosing on him the floodgates of their contempt and for opening for him the sluiceways of their scorn. To be called a mollycoddle is worse than being called a sneak, a cad, or a liar, and he is made to appreciate that if he merits such designation his companions will give him the kind of reception the wedding guests gave the ancient mariner. It is borne in upon him that display of sentiment in any form whatsoever is not "manly"; so he not only suppresses sentimentality, but in order to conceal it he goes much farther and no longer treats his sisters with the same kindness and consideration as before; he withdraws his intimacies and his confidences from his mother, professes a contempt for the society of girls, and embraces every opportunity to display a furious antagonism toward sentimentality.

This period is oftentimes a trying one for the parent, and, as every one knows, it is fraught with danger to the individual, particularly if he is a weak character, because it is during these times that sinister associations and injurious habits are formed which are prejudicial to physical development and mental evolution. This is the period of life which has furnished the fertile soil in which the modern English novelist successfully sows his seed.

The average boy emerges from this period with a vision so adjusted to his immediate environment and the world that he senses things as they really are. He begins to get some idea of the purposes and value of life, its obligations and its privileges, and as the result of intuition or tuition, that happiness and usefulness, the chief aims and objects of life, stand in direct and measurable relationship to the possession and display of certain qualities which are commonly spoken of as virtues. As his mind unfolds and he is able to give relativity to these qualities, he becomes aware that sentiment in a man is not a deforming but a meritorious possession, which, when used properly, is a great asset, but that it is one of the qualities of his make-up that should not be displayed to the vulgar gaze, and is a possession which he should rarely use save to blend with other qualities to give them savor. He appreciates that sentiment gives momentum to his designs and tone to his accomplishments, while furnishing appropriate and fitting setting for their display, and with discernment he is able to distinguish clearly between sentiment and sentimentality and knows that the word sentiment is used synonymously with feeling or conviction. Sentiment is a composite of many of the virtues and is a subjective possession which, when revealed in words, action, or conduct may become sentimentality, providing the origin of these words, acts, and deeds is founded in sentiment.

The possession of sentiment, that is, of feeling, is a most desirable one so long as it does not warp the judgment, interfere with the mission, or prevent a man from doing his duty. The man or woman who is devoid of feeling is a species of monster, but the man or woman whose plan of life is based upon sentiment and whose conduct conforms to sentiment is mentally and morally unhealthy. As Lowell says: "Every man feels instinctively that all the beautiful sentiments in the world weigh less than a single lovely action." Decisions, plans of action, conduct conditioned by or founded in sentiment can be followed safely only if they are submitted to the acid test of reason before acceptation or subscription. Sentiment as a possession may be compared to a ferocious dog. He may be invaluable as a watch-dog, which adequately chained gives you a feeling of security, and at appropriate times can be unleashed to signal advantage, and accomplishes under guidance that which merits full approval; but let loose at all times he is an intolerable nuisance and may get you into one trouble after another.

The sentimentalist is a person who, in decisions, judgments, plans of action, and conduct of them, point of view in dealing with persons individually and collectively, has his conduct so colored by sentiment that his plan of action and ability and methods of its execution seem illogical and incapable of being subjected to the test of reason. Carlyle put it tersely when he said: "The barrenest of mortals is the sentimentalist."

The agonal struggle of the Great War was not necessary to convince us that very little is to be accomplished in the world single-handed. The individual can give birth to the idea, the plan, or possess the initiative which may revolutionize some phase of the activities of the world, but to carry out the idea he must have the co-operation of many. It is in securing such co-operation that he has a great opportunity to make a proper use of sentiment. There is nothing that an organizer or an administrator finds out earlier or surer than that loyalty is the cement that keeps his organization together, and the more it sets the more firm and invulnerable becomes his organization.

How to engender such loyalty is a problem that each person confronted with it must solve for himself. Some do it by meriting the respect and admiration of their coworkers and subordinates by display of such qualities as kindliness, justice, generosity, consideration of the welfare of their fellows, while others encompass it by the whole-hearted and unselfish way in which they give themselves to the work. Some do it quite impersonally and may possibly not be on terms of intimacy with any member of their organization. This does not necessarily mean that they hold themselves aloof from those with whom they come in contact; on the contrary, there may exist a genial comradeship from which mutual respect, admiration, and possibly even affection are developed. Some few develop loyalty from personal contact on the basis of sentimentality. They proceed upon the plan that if they cannot secure the personal admiration and affection of those associated with them, impelling them to do their best because of this relationship rather than for the good of the cause, they have not been completely successful in their accomplishment. To this end they not infrequently resort to a display of sentimentality which is distressing to the impartial onlooker. That great dissector of the morals and motives of men, Thackeray, said: "One tires of a sentimentalist who is always pumping the tears from his eyes or your own." They lavish praise upon those who have not merited it, substituting adulation for admonition; they profess a confidence that is not justified by results; they claim to see only virtues in every individual who is drawn into the sacred circle of their employment or association. Should they have suspicions that some in their circle are not deserving of confidence or do not have the qualities from which loyal, useful associates can be made, they delude themselves with the belief that they can engender a sufficient desire in the inadequate one to compel him to be loyal and efficient in order that the confidence and admiration of the chief may be requited.

People who work together should respect each other, and by it employer and employee should be linked together. If a more intimate relation flows naturally from this respect, well and good, but there should not be the slightest attempt made to engender it on a sentimental basis. The rugged mind of Carlyle eschewed the sentimental. He stated: "The sentimental by and by will have to give place to the practical."

Most men if they strive sufficiently to make others like them can succeed in their endeavor, but a man should be liked for the inherent virtues or laudable qualities that he possesses and not for the semblance of them which he assumes for a special purpose. We like a man because he is trustworthy, loyal, efficient, reliable, truthful, co-operative, sympathetic, understanding, but we do not necessarily like him because some one else tells us that we ought to like him, particularly if we have found that he does not possess any of the qualities we desire and which would have made him acceptable. The sentimentalist is often guided in his decisions and in his conduct relative to others by the fear that, if he apprises the individual of the reason why he no longer wishes to keep up business or professional relations with him, the individual thus treated will devote some time afterward to tarnishing the lustre of his halo.

The sentimentalist fears especially the criticism, disparagement, and possibly one might say the malignity of those from whom he chooses to separate after they have been weighed and found wanting. It is not that he fears that injury will be done him, because not infrequently his career is so successful that it can withstand an enormous amount of disparagement and criticism without detrimental impression. The disparagement of such individuals can do him no harm save in the humiliation to his pride when it is brought home to him that he has not been able to make the leopard change his spots. Self-interest is the subconscious motive that often leads to a display of sentimentality. The sentimentalist realizes that allegations of merit and of capacity are "things that are graceful in a friend's mouth but blushing in a man's own," and as such praise is the breath of his nostrils he will go to great lengths to achieve its accomplishment. But, though he may be deceived by flattery, there are others who know that "on ne trouve jamais l'expression d'un sentiment qui l'on n'a pas; l'esprit grimace et le style aussi." He is the easy prey for those who appeal to his vanity or to his susceptibility to flattery, to advance their own or others' projects and interests, and he may be led into doing things which his sober judgment tells him are not desirable, because he feels that he must not run the risk of lowering himself in the estimate of the individual from whom he has accepted adulation, reverence, or adoration.

When the male sentimentalist habituates himself to this worshipful attitude from the other sex he becomes covered with points which Achilles had only immediately above the heel. The sex which has long been popularly known as the weaker has an inherited or acquired code of morality which permits them to make demands of the sentimental man which a mere man, unless base, would scorn, and now that the sex has been emancipated we begin to feel that they should come out in the open and play fair. If they want to rely for their successes upon the weapons that have been vouchsafed them heretofore, they should not have the privileges which they are asking for and receiving to-day. Heaven knows no one is more desirous that they should have what they ask for in that direction than I am, but they should not use their sex quality to take an unfair advantage. Thus oftentimes one who merits the designation of "pillar of strength and tower of fire" becomes a reed in the emotional wind that blows from the designing woman. She may not be designing in a malignant sense; she may merely enjoy the display of power. It is remarkable what a sentimentalist will put up with in the shape of indignity and inefficiency rather than run the risk of being impaired in the esteem of one who has this kind of influence over him. Emerson, one of our deepest thinkers, said: "Man is the will and woman is the sentiment. In this ship of humanity will is the rudder and sentiment the sail; when woman affects to steer, the rudder is only the masked sail."

There is nothing more Jove-like than virility and continency, but a man saturated with sentimentality produces a sensation akin to that which the child experiences when she finds her doll is stuffed with sawdust.

Sentiment in a man is like scent in a rose. It is the finishing touch to perfection; when it is deficient it thrills one no more than the painted flower; when it is excessive the heaviness of its enervating odor is oppressive.