Honor

Honor, in the broad sense these books give it, takes in reputation, credit, fame and glory, and also their contraries, shame and disgrace. Together these are the regard in which others hold us. Few ideas run so continuously through the Harvard Classics. Telemachus sets out from Ithaca so that he may be well spoken of among men¹. The Geats mourn Beowulf as the king most eager for praise². A Union officer after Gettysburg records states quarrelling over who had won the foremost honors of the field³. Philosophers dissect honor, saints flee it, knights die for it, satirists mock it, and economists reckon it as part of a wage.

The first question is what honor is. Hobbes gives the boldest answer. To honour a man is to value his power outwardly⁴. Honour therefore consists only in the opinion of power, so that great deeds are honourable whether just or unjust⁵, and titles are marks of value set by the sovereign⁶. Manzoni’s Count lives by this rule: his reputation for power cannot allow a nephew of his to be worsted⁷. Against Hobbes stands the view that honor reveals real worth. Bacon calls it the revealing of virtue⁸, and Browne holds that true esteem follows desert, not fortune⁹. Pope says that honor and shame arise from acting one’s part well, whatever one’s condition¹⁰, and Channing rests dignity on personal worth rather than rank¹¹. A third view treats honor as neither power nor virtue but imagination. Pascal observes that we live an imaginary life in others’ minds and would even be cowards to gain a name for bravery¹². Rousseau contrasts civilized man, who lives in the opinion of others, with the savage, who lives within himself¹³. Goldsmith finds praise circulating in France like a currency¹⁴, and Andersen’s ducks defer to the one with the red rag¹⁵.

From these definitions comes the contrast between true and false honor. Confucius distinguishes real eminence from fame won behind a mask of love¹⁶. Aesop’s jay is stripped of his borrowed plumes¹⁷. More’s Utopians mistake gold-laden ambassadors for bondmen¹⁸. The Christian authors move the measure of true honor from men to God. For Thomas à Kempis a man is only what he is in God’s eyes¹⁹. Manzoni’s friar sets Don Rodrigo’s honour in men’s sight against honour in God’s²⁰. Milton’s Christ places true glory in God’s approval of the just man, as with Job and Socrates²¹. Lessing complicates the contrast. Minna calls Tellheim’s wounded honour a phantom²², yet Tellheim insists that honour is neither conscience nor the testimony of others²³. It seems to be something between the two, and harder to define than either.

Whatever honor is, the desire for it is treated as rooted in human nature. Pascal says that everyone, philosophers included, wants admirers²⁴, and that brutes do not admire one another as men do²⁵. Rousseau makes this universal craving the source of both our virtues and our vices²⁶. Carlyle sees the instinct to gaze at the distinguished as holding society together, even though it often mistakes a polished tankard for the sun²⁷. Ruskin calls the love of praise the strongest motive of human effort²⁸. The craving shows itself as emulation: Themistocles lies sleepless over Miltiades’ trophy²⁹, Caesar weeps that Alexander did so much by his age³⁰, and Cellini counts it his chief reward to rival a great artist³¹.

The most candid testimony comes from those who confess the passion. Augustine admits that he delights in praise and grieves at dispraise³², and calls the praise of men a daily furnace³³. Cicero finds praise sweetest from men who are themselves praised³⁴. Burke owns that no philosophy makes him insensible to such distinction³⁵. Franklin confesses his vanity and even defends it as productive of good³⁶.

Is fame worth seeking? The Stoic answer is no. Marcus Aurelius calls fame only sound and echo³⁷. Those who praise us are leaves soon to fall³⁸, and it is absurd to covet the praise of a posterity we will never see³⁹. Epictetus calls fame the empty noise of madmen⁴⁰. Dante makes worldly fame a shifting wind, Cimabue eclipsed by Giotto⁴¹, and Carlyle notes how the enormous popularity of Lope de Vega and Kotzebue faded⁴².

Against this stands the heroic answer. Athene urges Telemachus to valour so that men unborn may praise him⁴³. Beowulf holds that winning glory before death is a warrior’s worthiest fate⁴⁴. Dante’s Virgil warns that fame is not won lying on down⁴⁵. The moderns grant fame’s usefulness more coolly. For Hobbes the desire of posthumous fame prompts laudable actions⁴⁶. Bacon allows that vainglory helps perpetuate fame and spurs courage⁴⁷.

Between these answers some writers seek a middle course. Pliny holds that glory should follow from actions, not move them⁴⁸. Others separate audiences: Bacon says the praise of the many favours show, while praise from persons of judgment endures⁴⁹, and Cellini prizes above all the commendation of able artists⁵⁰. Still others profess indifference. Confucius bids us grieve not at being unknown⁵¹. Descartes prefers repose to fame⁵², and Emerson’s man needs only his own verdict⁵³. Burke, however, calls fame a luxury for those at ease while insisting that men instinctively shun disgrace⁵⁴. The deepest writers leave the question in tension. Milton calls fame the last infirmity of noble mind and places true fame in Jove’s judgment⁵⁵. Pascal calls the pursuit of glory at once man’s greatest baseness and his greatest mark of excellence⁵⁶. Plutarch’s Cicero sees glory as an endless pursuit and yet stays fond of praise⁵⁷.

Christian teaching turns the whole question around. Paul bids him who glories to glory in the Lord⁵⁸, and he himself glories in weakness⁵⁹. In Luke the humble are exalted⁶⁰. Thomas à Kempis’s humble man rejoices to be despised⁶¹. Pascal finds in Christ both the greatest renown and the greatest ignominy⁶². Yet humility has its own trap. Augustine sees that even contempt of vainglory becomes a source of vainglory⁶³, and Woolman suspects that he perseveres partly from fear of disgrace⁶⁴. The paradox works outward as well: in Manzoni the penitent’s humility wins a public veneration that protects him⁶⁵.

The warrior’s code makes honor its chief concern. Socrates cites Achilles, who feared dishonour more than death⁶⁶. The Gita holds infamy worse than death for the noble⁶⁷. Tacitus reports that the German who survives his fallen prince carries lasting infamy⁶⁸. Wiglaf tells the cowards that death is better than a life of shame⁶⁹, and Roland refuses to sound his horn lest he dishonour his lineage⁷⁰. Lovelace’s soldier could not love his lady so well did he not love honour more⁷¹. Chivalry joined courtesy to courage. The Black Prince serves his captive king humbly and awards him the prize of prowess⁷². But the code decays. Burke laments that the age of chivalry is gone⁷³, and Carlyle sees chivalrous valour shrinking into punctilio⁷⁴. Cervantes makes the decay comic: Quixote fears that gunpowder will rob him of renown⁷⁵ and argues by the laws of single combat that a beating with pack-staves is no disgrace⁷⁶.

Military glory has its critics too. Machiavelli says crimes may win power but not glory⁷⁷. The Utopians count glory won in war contrary to true glory⁷⁸. Milton calls conquerors plagues of mankind⁷⁹, and Southey sets Marlborough’s praise against the misery of the war⁸⁰. Macaulay adds that the point of honor itself varies: courage in the north, ingenuity in Italy⁸¹.

A man’s word is a point of honor in these books. Cellini keeps his parole at the risk of his life, saying that a man, unlike a monk, must keep his word^82,83. Volsung holds it seemly to keep troth once given⁸⁴. Bacon finds no vice that covers a man with shame so much as perfidy⁸⁵, and Locke calls a lie incompatible with the name of a gentleman⁸⁶. Debts follow the same rule. Tacitus records that the Germans call it honour to pay gambling debts⁸⁷. Adam Smith judges that a state’s honour is ill served by disguising bankruptcy⁸⁸. Lessing’s Werner calls Tellheim’s refusal to be a debtor a silly notion of nobility⁸⁹.

Shame is treated as a check on conduct. Hobbes reads shame in the young as a sign of the love of good reputation⁹⁰. Burke holds that shame restrains even tyrants⁹¹. Locke calls the shame of doing amiss the only true restraint belonging to virtue⁹². Marcus Aurelius, by contrast, thinks concern for reputation a mean motive for avoiding faults⁹³, and Kant suspects that fear of disgrace may secretly move the will⁹⁴. Shame can also drive men to wrongdoing. Augustine boasted of sins he had not committed so as not to be despised⁹⁵, and Andersen’s courtiers praise invisible cloth for fear of seeming stupid⁹⁶. The fall from glory is the gravest shame of all. Job is made a byword by base youths⁹⁷. Pliny judges the loss of a reputation once won worse than never having had one⁹⁸. Emerson observes that a warrior once foiled is razed from the book of honor⁹⁹.

For women and families, honor becomes chastity and the household name. Nausicaa fears the gossip of baser folk¹⁰⁰. Euripides’ Phaedra would die rather than shame her husband and children¹⁰¹, whereas Racine’s Oenone ranks reputation above conscience itself¹⁰². Cervantes’ tale of the curious husband states the doctrine outright: women’s honour consists in the good opinion held of them¹⁰³, and a husband shares his wife’s disgrace¹⁰⁴. Browning’s Tresham kills to keep the escutcheon unblotted¹⁰⁵, and his sister indicts the code that made him do it¹⁰⁶. The duel draws the same divided judgment. Hobbes names reputation a cause of quarrel over a word or smile¹⁰⁷, Jonson mocks dueling as a geometry¹⁰⁸, and Tennyson condemns the “Christless code”¹⁰⁹.

Envy and slander attack the eminent. Plutarch shows ostracism humbling Themistocles¹¹⁰, and Socrates expects envy to destroy him¹¹¹. Bacon notes that death extinguishes envy¹¹². Sheridan’s Sir Peter wants a preservation act for fame, like the laws against poaching¹¹³, and Webster’s fable teaches that reputation once lost is never found again¹¹⁴. Dying Hamlet begs Horatio to clear his name¹¹⁵. Some escape envy by giving credit away: Franklin hides his authorship of the library scheme and finds that reputation comes to him later¹¹⁶.

Honors conferred by states and princes raise the old dispute between merit and birth. Aristides holds that valour, not ancestry, confers worth¹¹⁷. Cellini prefers founding his family’s honour to squandering a great one¹¹⁸. Burke sets merit fresh from the mint of honour against the Duke of Bedford’s inheritance¹¹⁹, though he also denies that every occupation is honourable¹²⁰. Pascal distinguishes the outward homage owed to rank from the inner esteem owed only to real qualities¹²¹. Smith treats honor economically: it forms part of the reward of honourable professions, while disgrace raises the pay of trades such as the butcher’s¹²².

The hunger for posthumous fame is perhaps the most persistent theme of all. Achilles’ tomb and funeral games win him renown among men to come¹²³. Cicero longs for a historian to do for his consulship what Homer did for Achilles¹²⁴. Walton holds the desire for a memory that outlives life too deeply rooted in human nature to be killed¹²⁵. Even so, Dante’s traitor Bocca would rather go unnamed than have his shame published¹²⁶. Milton says Shakespeare needs no tomb to witness his name¹²⁷, and Addison mocks bad epitaphs¹²⁸. Wordsworth argues that the fame of select spirits comes slowly, through opposition¹²⁹. Macaulay notes that Machiavelli’s name passed from proverbial infamy to a monument in Santa Croce¹³⁰. Gray reflects that obscure villagers may have been Miltons whose fame was denied them¹³¹.

The moderns finally build esteem into theory. Rousseau makes the valuing of public esteem the first step toward inequality¹³², and says that once esteem mattered, contempt wounded more than injury¹³³. Locke calls esteem and disgrace the most powerful incentives for children¹³⁴, admitting that reputation is not the true measure of virtue, only the nearest to it¹³⁵. Bacon analyzes fame as rumor and a political force¹³⁶. Burke warns that a sense of honour cannot form where its standard keeps changing¹³⁷.

The questions remain open. It is not settled whether honor follows power, virtue or fancy. It is not settled whether the love of it ennobles or corrupts, or whether it can be put to use, as Locke and Mill hope¹³⁸, without becoming the master Pascal feared.