acceptance of the condition would not have insured him condemnation, but apotheosis.
It becomes clear, then, that suicide is sometimes not only justifiable but praiseworthy; and men make that justification or praise dependent upon the motive with which life is surrendered. To determine whether the voluntary termination of life is reprehensible or laudable, an answer must first be given to the question whether the act is selfish or unselfish, whether the motive is egoistic or altruistic. If the object is to save others from suffering, the act is justifiable. If the object is merely to save one's self from suffering, the act is unjustifiable.
This distinction between motives seems to be the true one, whether we look at suicide from the purely moral or from the religious and Christian standpoint. Take the Christian apothegm, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend," or, to put it still more tersely, "The greatest love is shown by altruistic suicide," and discover, if you can, where the line is to be drawn. Does it mean that a man should lay down his life only when, by so doing, lie saves the lives of others? Then he may not submit to death, though by so doing he saves millions from slavery—nay, though by so doing he saves a world from slavery. Then he may not abandon life, though by that act he rescues others from eternal agony. Then he must not prefer death to dishonor, but dishonor to death. Then he must hold his own life as more valuable than the welfare of his race. If a promise were made, with the certainty of fulfillment, that should any human being voluntarily submit to death pain would disappear from the world, do you think that he who should give his life in exchange for the happiness of a world would be branded with the mark of crime?
But, if we take the next step and assert that there are other motives, besides the wish to save the lives of others, which will justify a man in voluntarily terminating his own life, where shall we draw the line? If a man may die for the happiness of a world, may he die for the happiness of a million? If he may die for the happiness of a million, may he die for the happiness of a thousand? If he may die for the happiness of a thousand, may he die for the happiness of ten? If he may die for the happiness of ten, may he die for the happiness of one? At what point does the happiness of others accumulate to such an extent as to exceed in value a human life?
Let us suppose a case—one of which experience furnishes numerous examples: A man, through some misfortune, finds himself wrecked and shattered in body; transformed into a living fixture. He can no longer support himself. He becomes a burden for some one to carry. If he is sure that the burden is borne willingly, he may consent to live. But suppose that the shoulders of the bearer ache, and that when death lifts the burden from him he draws a sigh of relief. May not the burden itself provide the way of escape and throw itself from the shoulders of its unwilling bearer to the shoulders of death? Or, take
