The Art of Manliness - Manvotionals: Timeless Wisdom and Advice on Living the 7 Manly Virtues

by Brett McKay

  From my great-grandfather, not to have frequented public schools, and to have had good teachers at home, and to know that on such things a man should spend liberally.

  From my governor, to be neither of the green nor of the blue party at the games in the Circus, nor a partizan either of the Parmularius or the Scutarius at the gladiators’ fights; from him too I learned endurance of labour, and to want little, and to work with my own hands, and not to meddle with other people’s affairs, and not to be ready to listen to slander.

  From Diognetus, not to busy myself about trifling things, and not to give credit to what was said by miracle-workers and jugglers about incantations and the driving away of daemons and such things; and not to breed quails for fighting, nor to give myself up passionately to such things; and to endure freedom of speech; and to have become intimate with philosophy; and to have been a hearer, first of Bacchius, then of Tandasis and Marcianus; and to have written dialogues in my youth; and to have desired a plank bed and skin, and whatever else of the kind belongs to the Grecian discipline.

  From Rusticus I received the impression that my character required improvement and discipline; and from him I learned not to be led astray to sophistic emulation, nor to writing on speculative matters, nor to delivering little hortatory orations, nor to showing myself off as a man who practises much discipline, or does benevolent acts in order to make a display; … and not to walk about in the house in my outdoor dress, nor to do other things of the kind; and to write my letters with simplicity, like the letter which Rusticus wrote from Sinuessa to my mother; and with respect to those who have offended me by words, or done me wrong, to be easily disposed to be pacified and reconciled, as soon as they have shown a readiness to be reconciled; and to read carefully, and not to be satisfied with a superficial understanding of a book; nor hastily to give my assent to those who talk overmuch; and I am indebted to him for being acquainted with the discourses of Epictetus, which he communicated to me out of his own collection.

  From Apollonius I learned freedom of will and undeviating steadiness of purpose; and to look to nothing else, not even for a moment, except to reason; … and to see clearly in a living example that the same man can be both most resolute and yielding, and not peevish in giving his instruction; and to have had before my eyes a man who clearly considered his experience and his skill in expounding philosophical principles as the smallest of his merits; and from him I learned how to receive from friends what are esteemed favours, without being either humbled by them or letting them pass unnoticed.

  From Sextus, a benevolent disposition, and the example of a family governed in a fatherly manner, and the idea of living conformably to nature; and gravity without affectation, and to look carefully after the interests of friends, and to tolerate ignorant persons, and those who form opinions without consideration: he had the power of readily accommodating himself to all, so that intercourse with him was more agreeable than any flattery; and at the same time he was most highly venerated by those who associated with him: and he had the faculty both of discovering and ordering, in an intelligent and methodical way, the principles necessary for life; and he never showed anger or any other passion, but was entirely free from passion, and also most affectionate; and he could express approbation without noisy display, and he possessed much knowledge without ostentation.

  From Alexander the grammarian, to refrain from fault-finding, and not in a reproachful way to chide those who uttered any barbarous or solecistic or strange-sounding expression; but dexterously to introduce the very expression which ought to have been used, and in the way of answer or giving confirmation, or joining in an inquiry about the thing itself, not about the word, or by some other fit suggestion.

  From Fronto I learned to observe what envy, and duplicity, and hypocrisy are in a tyrant, and that generally those among us who are called Patricians are rather deficient in paternal affection.

  From Alexander the Platonic, not frequently nor without necessity to say to any one, or to write in a letter, that I have no leisure; nor continually to excuse the neglect of duties required by our relation to those with whom we live, by alleging urgent occupations.

  From Catulus, not to be indifferent when a friend finds fault, even if he should find fault without reason, but to try to restore him to his usual disposition; and to be ready to speak well of teachers, as it is reported of Domitius and Athenodotus; and to love my children truly.

  From my brother Severus, to love my kin, and to love truth, and to love justice; and through him I learned to know Thrasea, Helvidius, Cato, Dion, Brutus; and from him I received the idea of a polity in which there is the same law for all, a polity administered with regard to equal rights and equal freedom of speech, and the idea of a kingly government which respects most of all the freedom of the governed; I learned from him also consistency and undeviating steadiness in my regard for philosophy; and a disposition to do good, and to give to others readily, and to cherish good hopes, and to believe that I am loved by my friends; and in him I observed no concealment of his opinions with respect to those whom he condemned, and that his friends had no need to conjecture what he wished or did not wish, but it was quite plain.

  From Maximus I learned self-government, and not to be led aside by anything; and cheerfulness in all circumstances, as well as in illness; and a just admixture in the moral character of sweetness and dignity, and to do what was set before me without complaining. I observed that everybody believed that he thought as he spoke, and that in all that he did he never had any bad intention; and he never showed amazement and surprise, and was never in a hurry, and never put off doing a thing, nor was perplexed nor dejected, nor did he ever laugh to disguise his vexation, nor, on the other hand, was he ever passionate or suspicious. He was accustomed to do acts of beneficence, and was ready to forgive, and was free from all falsehood; and he presented the appearance of a man who could not be diverted from right rather than of a man who had been improved. I observed, too, that no man could ever think that he was despised by Maximus, or ever venture to think himself a better man. He had also the art of being humorous in an agreeable way.

  “I mean to make myself a man, and if I succeed in that, I shall succeed in everything else.” —James A. Garfield

  Manhood

  FROM MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD AND OTHER POEMS, 1895

  By John M. Morse

  From the zenith afar, with its vertical ray—

  Shines the sun in its splendor, the glory of day.

  Tho’ dark clouds should arise to bedim its clear light,

  They are scattered away by its power and might.

  In the noontide of life there is strength for the hour;

  It is then that man reaches his zenith of power.

  With an arm for the conflict, a brain that can plan—

  All his trials but make him a manlier man.

  Like the oak on the hillside, majestic in form:

  Like the ship on the ocean, prepared for the storm;

  When that storm would engulf, or would dash to the ground,

  They come forth from the conflict with victory crowned.

  What a power for good is a man in his prime,

  Who will stand for the right with a firmness sublime;

  Who will stand in his place with truth’s banner unfurled,

  Who will let his light shine for the good of the world.

  When an enemy threatens the life of the State,

  When all own, with sad hearts, that the peril is great;

  When devouring flames shoot up higher and higher,

  And destruction stalks forth as a fiend in the fire—

  When by famine or sword, or by pestilence dread,

  Many thousands are called to lie down with the dead.

  When gross evils abound, and the wicked increase,

  And we sigh for the joys and the triumphs of peace—

  In such perilous times man’s true manhood appears:

  It has grown with his growth and has
strengthened with years.

  When his country needs help—when the danger is nigh—

  He is ready, if need be, to dare and to die!

  When the fiend in the fire has his victims at bay,

  Or when famine and sword by the thousands would slay;

  Or when pestilence—swift—for its victims would fly—

  Then true manhood shines forth, brightest star in the sky.

  “The greatest thing a man can possibly do in this world is to make the most possible out of the stuff that has been given him. This is success, and there is no other. It is not a question of what someone else can do or become which every youth should ask himself, but what can I do? How can I develop myself into the grandest possible manhood?” —Orison Swett Marden

  Manliness in the Life of Jack London

  FROM THE BOOK OF JACK LONDON

  By Charmian London, 1921

  Manliness involves living a life of arete, the excellence born from seeking to use up every last drop of one’s potential and abilities.

  Jack London led such a life. His supposed credo was:

  “I would rather be ashes than dust!

  I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.

  I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

  The function of man is to live, not to exist.

  I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.

  I shall use my time.”

  And use his time he did. London saw the life of man as a struggle against the harshness of nature; a man had to ever be working to escape its unmerciful hand. To that end, London led a life of great hustle and adventure. Emerging from a childhood of poverty, he was a largely self-educated man willing to do everything and anything to get ahead and make the most of life. He labored 12–18 hours a day in a mill, laundry, and cannery, shoveled coal at a power station, bought his own sloop and took to the seas as a sailor and oyster pirate, spent time as a hobo, and sought for riches as a prospector in the rugged Alaskan wilderness. When he began to pursue his true dream—making a living as a writer—he faced one rejection after another.

  But London prevailed, writing over fifty books (The Call of the Wild being his most famous) and hundreds of short stories, serving as a wartime correspondent, and becoming the highest paid writer of his time. Success allowed him to pursue other endeavors—ranching and farming, horseback riding, sailing, and traveling to name a few. His was a life not without faults or struggles, but when London died at age 40 from uremia, he had accomplished and experienced more in those few decades than many men do when given twice as much time.

  In this first selection, W. B. Hargrave, who spent time with Jack London during the Klondike Gold Rush, recalls his impressions of the man. A portrait of London as sharp in mind, rugged in spirit, and zealous for life, it offers a rich snapshot of manliness.

  It was in October of 1897 that I first met him … No other man has left so indelible an impression upon my memory as Jack London. He was but a boy then, in years … But he possessed the mental equipment of a mature man, and I have never thought of him as a boy except in the heart of him … the clean, joyous, tender, unembittered heart of youth. His personality would challenge attention anywhere. Not only in his beauty for he was a handsome lad but there was about him that indefinable something that distinguishes genius from mediocrity. Though a youth, he displayed none of the insolent egotism of youth; he was an idealist who went after the attainable; a dreamer who was a man among strong men; a man who faced life with superb assurance and who could face death serenely imperturbable. These were my first impressions; which months of companionship only confirmed.

  He was one of the few adventurers, of the thousands whom the lure of gold enticed to the frozen fastnesses of the Klondike, whose hardihood and pluck scaled the summit of Chilkoot Pass that year. His cabin was on the bank of the Yukon, near the mouth of the Stewart River. I remember well the first time I entered it. London was seated on the edge of a bunk, rolling a cigarette. He smoked incessantly and it would have taken no Sherlock Holmes to tell what the stains on his fingers meant. One of his partners, Goodman, was preparing a meal, and the other, Sloper, was doing some carpentry work. From the few words which I overheard as I entered, I surmised that Jack had challenged some of Goodman’s orthodox views, and that the latter was doggedly defending himself in an unequal contest of wits. Many times afterward I myself felt the rapier thrust of London’s, and knew how to sympathize with Goodman.

  Jack interrupted the conversation to welcome me, and his hospitality was so cordial, his smile so genial, his goodfellowship so real, that it instantly dispelled all reserve. I was invited to participate in the discussion, which I did, much to my subsequent discomfiture.

  That day—the day on which our friendship began—has become consecrated in my memory. I find it difficult to write about Jack without laying myself open to the charge of adulation. During the course of my life … I have met men who were worth while; but Jack was the one man with whom I have come in personal contact who possessed the qualities of heart and mind that made him one of the world’s overshadowing geniuses.

  He was intrinsically kind and irrationally generous …. With an innate refinement, a gentleness that had survived the roughest of associations. Sometimes he would become silent and reflective, but he was never morose or sullen. His silence was an attentive silence. I have known him to end a discussion by merely assuming the attitude of a courteous listener, and when his indiscreet opponent had tangled himself in the web of his own illogic, and had perhaps fallen back upon invective to bolster his position, Jack would calmly roll another cigarette, and throwing his head back, give vent to infectious laughter—infectious because it was never bitter or derisive …. He was always good-natured; he was more—he was charmingly cheerful. If in those days he was beset by melancholia, he concealed it from his companions.

  Inasmuch as Louis Savard’s cabin was the largest and most comfortable it became the popular meeting place for the denizens of the camp. Louis had constructed a large fireplace, and my recollections of London are intertwined with the many hours we spent together in front of its cheerful light. Many a long night he and I, outlasting the vigil of the others, sat before the blazing spruce logs, and talked the hours away. A brave figure of a man he was, lounging by the crude fireplace, its light playing on his handsome features—a face that one would look at twice even in the crowded city street. In appearance older than his years; a body lithe and strong; neck bared at the throat; a tangled cluster of brown hair that fell low over his brow and which he was wont to brush back impatiently when engaged in animated conversation; a sensitive mouth, but lips, nevertheless, that could set in serious and masterful lines; a radiant smile, marred by two missing teeth (lost, he told me, in a fight on shipboard); eyes that often carried an introspective expression; the face of an artist and a dreamer, but with strong lines denoting will power and boundless energy. An outdoor man—in short, a real man, a man’s man.

  He had a mental craving for the truth. He applied one test to religion, to economics, to everything. “What is the truth?” “What is just?” It was with these questions that he confronted the baffling enigma of life. He could think great thoughts. One could not meet him without feeling the impact of a superior intellect.

  Many and diverse were the subjects we discussed, often with the silent Louis as our only listener. Our views did not always coincide, and on one occasion when argument had waxed long and hot and London had finally left us, with only the memory of his glorious smile to salve my defeat, Louis looked up from his game of solitaire (which I think he played because it required no conversation) and became veritably verbose. This is what he said: “You mak’ ver’ good talk, but zat London he too damn smart for you.”

  Jack London on Man’s Infinite Potential

  EXCERPT FROM THE IRON HEEL

  By Jack London, 1908
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  The second selection pertaining to Jack London’s idea of manliness comes from London’s fictional novel, The Iron Heel, published in 1908. The narrator, Avis Everhard, describes her husband and shares his favorite poem, one which speaks to the infinite power and potential of man and the desire to live life to the fullest:

  But he had pride. How could he have been an eagle and not have pride? His contention was that it was finer for a finite mortal speck of life to feel Godlike, than for a god to feel godlike; and so it was that he exalted what he deemed his mortality. He was fond of quoting a fragment from a certain poem. He had never seen the whole poem, and he had tried vainly to learn its authorship. I here give the fragment, not alone because he loved it, but because it epitomized the paradox that he was in the spirit of him, and his conception of his spirit. For how can a man, with thrilling, and burning, and exaltation, recite the following and still be mere mortal earth, a bit of fugitive force, an evanescent form? Here it is:

  “Joy upon joy and gain upon gain

  Are the destined rights of my birth,

  And I shout the praise of my endless days

  To the echoing edge of the earth.

  Though I suffer all deaths that a man can die

  To the uttermost end of time,

  I have deep-drained this, my cup of bliss,

  In every age and clime—

  The froth of Pride, the tang of Power,

  The sweet of Womanhood!

  I drain the lees upon my knees,

  For oh, the draught is good;