If the world were wise, and as honest as it should be, there would be no need of caution or precept how to behave ourselves in our several stations and duties; for both the giver and the receiver would do what they ought to do on their own accord: the one would be bountiful, and the other grateful, and the only way of minding a man of one good turn would be the following of it with another. But as the case stands, we must take other measures, and consult the best we can, the common ease and relief of mankind.
If the world were wise and as honest as it should be, we wouldn't need warnings or rules about how to behave in our different roles and duties. Both the giver and the receiver would naturally do what they ought to do. One person would be generous, and the other would be grateful. The only way to remind someone of a good deed would be to follow it with another. But that's not how things are. We must take different approaches and do our best to consider the common comfort and relief of humanity.
As there are several sorts of ungrateful men, so there must be several ways of dealing with them, either by artifice, counsel, admonition, or reproof, according to the humor of the person, and the degree of the offence: provided always, that as well in the reminding a man of a benefit, as in the bestowing of it, the good of the receiver be the principal thing intended. There is a curable ingratitude, and an incurable; there is a slothful, a neglectful, a proud, a dissembling, a disclaiming, a heedless, a forgetful, and a malicious ingratitude; and the application must be suited to the matter we have to work upon. A gentle nature may be reclaimed by authority, advice, or reprehension; a father, a husband, a friend may do good in the case. There are a sort of lazy and sluggish people, that live as if they were asleep, and must be lugged and pinched to wake them. These men are betwixt grateful and ungrateful; they will neither deny an obligation nor return it, and only want quickening. I will do all I can to hinder any man from ill-doing, but especially a friend; and yet more especially from doing ill to me. I will rub up his memory with new benefits: if that will not serve, I will proceed to good counsel, and from thence to rebuke: if all fails, I will look upon him as a desperate debtor, and even let him alone in his ingratitude, without making him my enemy: for no necessity shall ever make me spend time in wrangling with any man upon that point.
As there are several sorts of ungrateful men, so there must be several ways of dealing with them. We may use tact, counsel, warning, or reproof, according to the temper of the person and the degree of the offence. But always, in reminding a man of a benefit as in bestowing it, the good of the receiver must be the chief aim. There is a curable ingratitude and an incurable one. There is the lazy, the neglectful, the proud, the dissembling (which hides the debt), the disowning, the heedless, the forgetful, and the malicious kind. And the remedy must suit the material we have to work on. A gentle nature may be reclaimed by authority, advice, or rebuke. A father, a husband, or a friend may do good in such a case. There is a sort of lazy and sluggish people who live as if they were asleep, and must be shaken and pinched to wake them. These men are between grateful and ungrateful. They will neither deny an obligation nor repay it, and they only need rousing. I will do all I can to keep any man from doing wrong, but especially a friend, and still more especially from doing wrong to me. I will refresh his memory with new benefits. If that will not serve, I will go on to good counsel, and from there to rebuke. If all fails, I will look on him as a hopeless debtor. I will even leave him alone in his ingratitude, without making him my enemy. For no necessity shall ever make me waste time wrangling with any man on that point.
Assiduity of obligation strikes upon the conscience as well as the memory, and pursues an ungrateful man till he becomes grateful: if one good office will not do it, try a second, and then a third. No man can be so thankless, but either shame, occasion, or example, will, at some time or other, prevail upon him. The very beasts themselves, even lions and tigers, are gained by good usage: beside, that one obligation does naturally draw on another; and a man would not willingly leave his own work imperfect. “I have helped him thus far, and I will even go through with it now.” So that, over and above the delight and the virtue of obliging, one good turn is a shouting-horn to another. This, of all hints, is perhaps the most effectual, as well as the most generous.
Persistent kindness affects both conscience and memory. It follows an ungrateful person until they become grateful. If one good deed doesn't work, try a second, then a third. No one can be so thankless that shame, opportunity, or example won't eventually win them over. Even wild beasts like lions and tigers respond to good treatment. One favor naturally leads to another. A person doesn't want to leave their work unfinished. "I've helped him this far, so I'll see it through to the end." Beyond the joy and virtue of helping others, one good turn calls out for another. This approach is perhaps the most effective and generous of all strategies.
In some cases it must be carried more home: as in that of Julius Cæsar, who, as he was hearing a cause, the defendant finding himself pinched; “Sir,” says he, “do not you remember a strain you got in your ankle when you commanded in Spain; and that a soldier lent you his cloak for a cushion, upon the top of a craggy rock, under the shade of a little tree, in the heat of the day?” “I remember it perfectly well,” says Cæsar, “and that when I was ready to choke with thirst, an honest fellow fetched me a draught of water in his helmet.” “But that man, and that helmet,” says the soldier, “does Cæsar think that he could not know them again, if he saw them?” “The man, perchance, I might,” says Cæsar, somewhat offended, “but not the helmet. But what is the story to my business? you are none of the man.” “Pardon me, Sir,” says the soldier, “I am that very man; but Cæsar may well forget me: for I have been trepanned since, and lost an eye at the battle of Munda, where that helmet too had the honor to be cleft with a Spanish blade.” Cæsar took it as it was intended: and it was an honorable and a prudent way of refreshing his memory. But this would not have gone down so well with Tiberius: for when an old acquaintance of his began his address to him with, “You remember, Cæsar.” “No,” says Cæsar, (cutting him short,) “I do not remember what I WAS.” Now, with him, it was better to be forgotten than remembered; for an old friend was as bad as an informer. It is a common thing for men to hate the authors of their preferment, as the witnesses of their mean original.
In some cases the reminder must be pressed closer home. Take the case of Julius Caesar. As he was hearing a lawsuit, the defendant found himself hard pressed. “Sir,” he said, “do you not remember a strain you got in your ankle when you commanded in Spain? And that a soldier lent you his cloak for a cushion on top of a craggy rock, under the shade of a little tree, in the heat of the day?” “I remember it perfectly well,” said Caesar, “and that when I was ready to choke with thirst, an honest fellow fetched me a drink of water in his helmet.” “But that man, and that helmet,” said the soldier, “does Caesar think he would not know them again if he saw them?” “The man, perhaps, I might,” said Caesar, somewhat offended, “but not the helmet. But what is the story to my business? You are not the man.” “Pardon me, Sir,” said the soldier, “I am that very man. But Caesar may well forget me. For I have had my skull trepanned since, and lost an eye at the battle of Munda, where that helmet too had the honor to be split by a Spanish blade.” Caesar took it as it was meant, and it was an honorable and a prudent way of refreshing his memory. But this would not have gone down so well with Tiberius. An old acquaintance once began his address to him with, “You remember, Caesar.” “No,” said Caesar, cutting him short, “I do not remember what I WAS.” With him, it was better to be forgotten than remembered, for an old friend was as bad as an informer. It is common for men to hate those who raised them, as witnesses of their humble origins.
There are some people well enough disposed to be grateful, but they cannot hit upon it without a prompter; they are a little like school-boys that have treacherous memories; it is but helping them here and there with a word, when they stick, and they will go through with their lesson; they must be taught to be thankful, and it is a fair step, if we can but bring them to be willing, and only offer at it. Some benefits we have neglected; some we are not willing to remember. He is ungrateful that disowns an obligation, and so is he that dissembles it, or to his power does not requite it; but the worst of all is he that forgets it. Conscience, or occasion, may revive the rest; but here the very memory of it is lost. Those eyes that cannot endure the light are weak, but those are stark blind that cannot see it. I do not love to hear people say, “Alas! poor man, he has forgotten it,” as if that were the excuse of ingratitude, which is the very cause of it: for if he were not ungrateful, he would not be forgetful, and lay that out of the way which should be always uppermost and in sight. He that thinks as he ought to do, of requiting a benefit, is in no danger of forgetting it. There are, indeed, some benefits so great that they can never slip the memory; but those which are less in value, and more in number, do commonly escape us. We are apt enough to acknowledge that “such a man has been the making of us;” so long as we are in possession of the advantage he has brought us; but new appetites deface old kindnesses, and we carry our prospect forward to something more, without considering what we have obtained already. All that is past we give for lost; so that we are only intent upon the future. When a benefit is once out of sight, or out of use, it is buried.
Some people are naturally grateful, but they need reminders. They're like students with poor memories. Give them a hint when they get stuck, and they'll remember their lesson. They need to be taught gratitude. It's progress if we can just make them willing to try. We've neglected some favors. Others we don't want to remember. Someone is ungrateful if they deny an obligation, pretend it doesn't exist, or refuse to repay it when they can. But the worst person is the one who forgets completely. Conscience or circumstances might wake up the others, but here even the memory is gone. Eyes that can't handle bright light are weak, but eyes that can't see light at all are completely blind. I hate hearing people say, "Poor man, he's forgotten it," as if forgetting excuses ingratitude. Forgetting is actually what causes it. If he weren't ungrateful, he wouldn't forget. He'd keep that favor visible and top of mind. Someone who truly thinks about repaying a favor won't forget it. Some favors are so great they can never slip from memory. But smaller, more frequent ones usually escape us. We're quick to say "that man made me what I am" as long as we still benefit from his help. But new desires erase old kindnesses. We look ahead to something better without considering what we've already gained. We write off everything in the past as lost. We only focus on the future. Once a favor is out of sight or no longer useful, it's buried and forgotten.
It is the freak of many people, they cannot do a good office but they are presently boasting of it, drunk or sober: and about it goes into all companies what wonderful things they have done for this man, and what for the other. A foolish and a dangerous vanity, of a doubtful friend to make a certain enemy. For these reproaches and contempts will set everybody’s tongue a walking; and people will conclude that these things would never be, if there were not something very extraordinary in the bottom of it. When it comes to that once, there is not any calumny but fastens more or less, nor any falsehood so incredible, but in some part or other of it, shall pass for a truth. Our great mistake is this, we are still inclined to make the most of what we give, and the least of what we receive; whereas we should do the clean contrary. “It might have been more, but he had a great many to oblige. It was as much as he could well spare; but he will make it up some other time,” etc. Nay, we should be so far from making publication of our bounties, as not to hear them so much as mentioned without sweetening the matter: as, “Alas, I owe him a great deal more than that comes to. If it were in my power to serve him, I should be very glad of it.” And this, too, not with the figure of a compliment, but with all humanity and truth. There was a man of quality, that in the triumviral proscription, was saved by one of Cæsar’s friends, who would be still twitting him with it; who it was that preserved him, and telling him over and over, “you had gone to pot, friend, but for me.” “Pr’ythee,” says the proscribed, “let me hear no more of this, or even leave me as you found me: I am thankful enough of myself to acknowledge that I owe you my life, but it is death to have it rung in my ears perpetually as a reproach; it looks as if you had only saved me to carry me about for a spectacle. I would fain forget the misfortune that I was once a prisoner, without being led in triumph every day of my life.”
Many people have a strange habit. They can't do a good deed without bragging about it right away, whether they're drunk or sober. They go around telling everyone what wonderful things they've done for this person and that person. This is foolish and dangerous vanity. It turns a questionable friend into a certain enemy. These boasts and put-downs get everyone talking. People will conclude that something very unusual must be behind it all. Once that happens, any slander will stick to some degree. Even the most unbelievable lies will be accepted as truth in some form. Our big mistake is this: we always try to make the most of what we give and the least of what we receive. We should do exactly the opposite. "It could have been more, but he had many people to help. It was as much as he could spare, but he'll make it up another time," and so on. We should be so far from advertising our generosity that we shouldn't even let it be mentioned without softening the matter. We should say things like, "I owe him much more than that. If I could serve him better, I'd be very glad to." And this shouldn't be just polite talk, but spoken with real humanity and truth. There was a nobleman who was saved during the triumviral proscription by one of Caesar's friends. This friend kept reminding him of it, telling him over and over, "You would have been finished, friend, if not for me." "Please," said the man who had been proscribed, "let me hear no more of this, or just leave me as you found me. I'm grateful enough to acknowledge that I owe you my life. But it's torture to have it constantly thrown in my ears as a reproach. It seems like you only saved me to parade me around as a spectacle. I'd like to forget the misfortune of once being a prisoner, without being led in triumph every day of my life."
Oh! the pride and folly of a great fortune, that turns benefits into injuries! that delights in excesses, and disgraces every thing it does! Who would receive any thing from it upon these terms? the higher it raises us, the more sordid it makes us. Whatsoever it gives it corrupts. What is there in it that should thus puff us up? by what magic is it that we are so transformed, that we do no longer know ourselves? Is it impossible for greatness to be liberal without insolence? The benefits that we receive from our superiors are then welcome when they come with an open hand, and a clear brow; without either contumely or state; and so as to prevent our necessities. The benefit is never the greater for the making of a bustle and a noise about it: but the benefactor is much the less for the ostentation of his good deeds; which makes that odious to us, which would otherwise be delightful. Tiberius had gotten a trick, when any man begged money of him, to refer him to the senate, where all the petitioners were to deliver up the names of their creditors. His end perhaps was, to deter men from asking, by exposing the condition of their fortunes to an examination. But it was, however, a benefit turned unto a reprehension, and he made a reproach of a bounty.
Oh! The pride and foolishness of great wealth turns good deeds into insults! It delights in excess and disgraces everything it touches. Who would want to receive anything from it under these conditions? The higher wealth raises us, the more corrupt it makes us. Whatever it gives, it ruins. What is there about wealth that should make us so arrogant? What magic transforms us so completely that we no longer recognize ourselves? Is it impossible for the powerful to be generous without being insulting? We welcome benefits from our superiors when they come with an open hand and a friendly face. They should come without scorn or arrogance, and they should meet our needs before we have to ask. A benefit is never greater for making a big show about it. But the giver becomes much less admirable through such displays of his good deeds. This makes hateful what would otherwise be delightful. Tiberius had developed a habit when anyone asked him for money. He would refer them to the senate, where all petitioners had to reveal the names of their creditors. His purpose was perhaps to discourage people from asking by exposing their financial situation to examination. But this turned a benefit into a criticism. He made a gift into a source of shame.
But it is not enough yet to forbear the casting of a benefit in a man’s teeth; for there are some that will not allow it to be so much as challenged. For an ill man, say they, will not make a return, though it be demanded, and a good man will do it of himself: and then the asking of it seems to turn it into a debt. It is a kind of injury to be too quick with the former: for to call upon him too soon reproaches him, as if he would not have done it otherwise. Nor would I recall a benefit from any man so as to force it, but only to receive it. If I let him quite alone, I make myself guilty of his ingratitude: and undo him for want of plain dealing. A father reclaims a disobedient son, a wife reclaims a dissolute husband; and one friend excites the languishing kindness of another. How many men are lost for want of being touched to the quick? So long as I am not pressed, I will rather desire a favor, than so much as mention a requital; but if my country, my family, or my liberty, be at stake, my zeal and indignation shall overrule my modesty, and the world shall then understand that I have done all I could, not to stand in need of an ungrateful man. And in conclusion the necessity of receiving a benefit shall overcome the shame of recalling it. Nor is it only allowable upon some exigents to put the receiver in mind of a good turn, but it is many times for the common advantage of both parties.
But it is not yet enough to refrain from throwing a benefit in a man’s teeth. For some will not allow it even to be asked for. A bad man, they say, will not make a return even when it is demanded, and a good man will do it of himself. And then asking for it seems to turn it into a debt. It is a kind of injury to press too quickly. For to call on a man too soon reproaches him, as if he would not have done it otherwise. Nor would I ask a benefit back from any man so as to force it from him, but only so as to receive it. If I leave him entirely alone, I make myself guilty of his ingratitude, and ruin him for want of plain dealing. A father reclaims a disobedient son, and a wife reclaims a dissolute husband. One friend stirs up the fading kindness of another. How many men are lost for want of being touched to the quick? As long as I am not hard pressed, I would rather ask a new favor than so much as mention a return. But if my country, my family, or my liberty is at stake, my zeal and indignation shall overrule my modesty. Then the world shall understand that I did all I could to avoid needing an ungrateful man. And in the end, the necessity of receiving a benefit shall overcome the shame of asking for it back. It is not only allowable in certain emergencies to remind the receiver of a kindness. It is often to the common advantage of both parties.