Won by an Inch.
Before me lies a very interesting newspaper clipping, headed "A Most Remarkable Racing Finish." It consists chiefly of a "snap-shot" of the concluding instant in an intercollegiate race—a quarter-mile dash—between Cornell and Harvard. The finishing tape is shown only a few inches in front of the two runners. They are reaching the tape stride for stride. On the face of each is a desperate expression. The foot of the runner wearing a big H on his sweater is advanced slightly beyond the foot of the runner with a big C. Indeed, by a supreme effort, the Harvard man won by barely an inch.
When we think of the intensity of college athletic spirit, this race means more than is at first apparent. It will go down in the annals of the two great institutions. Always it will be told how the runners were so evenly matched that they kept exact pace, and came to the tape virtually abreast. Always, also, it will be told that Bingham of Harvard won—by an inch. If the Cornell man is mentioned, it will always be with the discount of the vanquished. He was beaten, though by only an inch, and he lost the race for Cornell.
How like is all this to the race of life! We are runners, every one of us, speeding toward competitive goals. Of a hundred civil engineers, one reaches the presidency of a great railroad. Fifty others may be equally faithful. Twenty others may have equal ability. One other may have equal opportunity and equal good fortune—up to the very moment of balloting. He will lose the great prize and the other will win it. Again, here are two novelists, each a genius, and each high-minded and industrious. They find equal favor with the public and meet with equal financial returns. But one day a novel by A pleases a great man—perhaps a President of the United States—who says so with earnestness. A's publisher makes much of the commendation, and at once A's editions mount to the hundreds of thousands, while B's remain where they were. A has won—by an inch.
This favoritism of fortune comes under the observation of every worker, and at first sight it appears very discouraging. It is discouraging, and it seems unjust. With efforts substantially equal and results substantially equal, the rewards also should be substantially equal—not everything for one and nothing for the other, because of the difference of an inch. We feel that this is the way matters will be arranged when society is organized on a basis wholly just.
And the encouraging side of the subject is that this is precisely the way matters are arranged in the kingdom of God. No race run there is won by an inch. Both runners win, in such a case. Both runners receive prizes. "She hath done what she could"—that is the test of the heavenly awards. Effort and not result, purpose and not attainment, fidelity and not success—rather, effort and purpose and fidelity that are result and attainment and success—this is the law of the kingdom of God. The tape is moved toward the backward runner, if he is using all his strength, so that he crosses at the same instant with the forward runner.
Therefore the Christian can look with smiling complacency upon these races won by an inch. He has learned better valuations. He perceives the futility of such hair-breadth measurements, such superficial estimates. He remembers that the eleventh-hour laborer receives a full day's pay. Serenely he trusts himself to the great Judge, whose eye is keen for the inner as well as the outer merit, and who will award an adequate prize for every honest endeavor.
Prizes and Power.
In the old Greek days, when genius touched many heights, in architecture, in sculpture, in poetry, and in philosophy, that it has never reached since, a simple wreath of oak leaves or olive leaves was the sufficient reward of eminence. To expect to cultivate genius by offers of money would have been considered the sheerest folly, almost an impiety.
In our day, however, the many prizes offered for supreme excellence in various fields of human endeavor imply a common belief that genius can be evoked by dollars, or at least stimulated by them.
The Nobel prizes, of about $40,000 each, are the most famous illustrations of this tendency. Another example of it is the annual award to be made by Columbia University of prizes ranging from $500 to $2000 for essays, editorials, reportorial work, novels, plays, histories, biographies, and excellence in art.
True genius will not be aided by these adventitious proposals. So far as it knows them and is influenced by them it will be degraded and retarded. What is the connection between the presentation of a high ideal and two thousand dollars? Can we imagine Washington or Lincoln, Frances Willard or Garrison or Phillips Brooks or Lowell or Hawthorne or Edison, allowing for a minute their minds to be contaminated by an admixture of thought of gain with thought of their life work?
It is well to provide for the comfort of the world's great souls, if it can be done without destroying their greatness. It certainly cannot be done by any system of material rewards yet devised. Prizes and power move in different realms.