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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57749 ***</div>


<h1>ALTRUISM<br />

<span class="subhead"><span class="smaller">ITS NATURE AND VARIETIES</span></span></h1>

<hr />

<p class="newpage p4 center vspace xxlarge wspace">
<span class="bold">ALTRUISM</span><br />

<span class="small">ITS NATURE AND VARIETIES</span></p>

<p class="p2 center wspace">THE ELY LECTURES FOR 1917–18</p>

<p class="p2 center vspace">BY<br />
<span class="large gesperrt1">GEORGE HERBERT PALMER</span></p>

<p class="p2 center wspace large"><span class="gesperrt1">CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</span><br />
NEW YORK  ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦  1919
</p>

<hr />

<p class="newpage p4 center vspace">
<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1919, by</span><br />
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS<br />
<br />
Published January, 1919
</p>

<div class="figcenter p2" style="max-width: 7.25em;">
<img src="images/logo.jpg" width="116" height="127" alt="Publisher's Logo" />
</div>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">v</span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="THE_ELY_FOUNDATION">THE ELY FOUNDATION</h2>
</div>

<p>The Elias P. Ely Lectureship was
founded by Mr. Zebulon Stiles Ely, May
8, 1865. The deed of gift contains the
following paragraphs:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“The undersigned gives the sum of ten thousand
dollars to the Union Theological Seminary of the
City of New York to found a Lectureship in the
same, the title of which shall be the ‘Elias P. Ely
Lectures on the Evidences of Christianity,’ on the
following conditions:</p>

<p>“The course of lectures given on this foundation
is to comprise any topics that serve to establish
the proposition that Christianity is a religion from
God, or that it is the perfect and final form of religion
for man. Among the subjects discussed may
be the nature and need of a revelation; the character
and influence of Christ and His apostles; the
authenticity and credibility of the Scriptures, miracles,
and prophecy; the diffusion and benefits of
Christianity; the philosophy of religion in its relation
to the Christian system.”</p></blockquote>

<p>Under date of May 24, 1879, Mr. Ely
addressed a communication to the Directors<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vi">vi</span>
of the Seminary in which the conditions
of the Lectureship are amplified as
follows:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“The conditions of the foundation of the Elias
P. Ely Lectureship, dated May 8, 1865, are hereby
modified, so that the course of public lectures therein
provided for, may not only be on ‘The Evidences
of Christianity,’ but on such other subjects as the
Faculty and Directors, in concurrence with the
undersigned, while living, may deem for the good
of man.”</p></blockquote>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">vii</span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="PREFACE">PREFACE</h2>
</div>

<p>I here present the substance of eight
Ely Lectures delivered in the spring of
1918 at Union Theological Seminary in
New York. They were spoken without
manuscript. In writing them out from
the stenographer’s notes I have condensed
them considerably. In these belligerent
days publishers are disposed to economize
paper and print, and readers to prize brevity
in everything except newspapers. Such
restrictions force on us loquacious bookmakers
greater regard for compactness
and lucidity, and are thus not altogether
an injury.</p>

<p>The book seeks to call attention to a
section of ethics in regard to which the
public mind greatly needs clarifying. Altruism
and egoism, socialism and individualism,
are in our time sentimentally arrayed
against one another as independent and
antagonistic agencies, each having its partisans.
A careful examination will show,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">viii</span>
I think, that the one has meaning only
when in company with its supposed rival.
I have thought to make this clearest by
tracing three stages through which the
altruistic impulse passes in every-day life,
exhibiting their varying degrees of dignity
and the helpful presence in all of them of
egoistic balance. If through my notion
of a conjunct self I have made this curious
partnership plain I shall count it no mean
contribution to our generous, sacrificial,
self-assertive, and perplexed time.</p>

<p class="sigright larger">
<span class="smcap">George Herbert Palmer.</span>
</p>

<p class="smaller">
<span class="smcap">Cambridge</span>, October 21, 1918.
</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">ix</span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2>
</div>

<table id="toc" summary="Contents">
  <tr class="small">
    <td class="tdr">CHAPTER</td>
    <td> </td>
    <td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdr top">I.</td>
    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Introduction</span></td>
    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">1</a></td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdr top">II.</td>
    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Manners</span></td>
    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">13</a></td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdr top">III.</td>
    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Gifts</span></td>
    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">32</a></td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdr top">IV.</td>
    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Defects of Giving</span></td>
    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">56</a></td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdr top">V.</td>
    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Mutuality</span></td>
    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">75</a></td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdr top">VI.</td>
    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Love</span></td>
    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">91</a></td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdr top">VII.</td>
    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Justice</span></td>
    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">110</a></td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class="tdr top">VIII.</td>
    <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Conclusion</span></td>
    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">126</a></td></tr>
</table>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">1</span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="ALTRUISM"><span class="larger">ALTRUISM<br />

<span class="subhead">ITS NATURE AND VARIETIES</span></span></h2>
</div>

<h2 id="CHAPTER_I" class="nobreak p2 vspace">CHAPTER I<br />

<span class="subhead">INTRODUCTION</span></h2>

<p>I have been moving about lately through
different parts of our country, sitting down
to dinner in many homes, and I have
everywhere found the family eating bread
made of Indian meal, rye, barley, or oatmeal.
When I have asked, “Are you especially
fond of this sort of food?” I have
pretty generally received the answer, “Why,
no! We all like wheat bread better. But
we are not eating it now, for other nations
need it.”</p>

<p>That is altruism, one of the most fundamental,
familiar, and mysterious of all the
virtues. This course of lectures will be
devoted to elucidating it. To a recognition
of it the Western mind has risen slowly.
The Greeks attached little importance to
it; for though philanthropy, regard for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">2</span>
man as man, is a Greek word, it is not a
Greek idea. Plato does not include it
among his four virtues nor anywhere lay
stress on its practice. In Aristotle’s <cite>Ethics</cite>,
it is true, there are magnificent chapters
on friendship, and friendship plays a great
part in the teaching of the Epicureans and
Stoics. But all alike speak of attachment
to another person chiefly as a means of
strength for oneself. The thought of
whole-hearted giving without correspondent
personal gain would have puzzled a Greek.</p>

<p>When we turn to the other branch of
our civilization and examine what we have
derived from the Hebrews, we find a
nearer approach to modern ideas. Commonly
enough the Hebrews speak of mercy
and grace, and pair these off against justice
and truth. Apparently when these
terms are applied to God’s dealings with
us, the second pair indicates his exact return
for what we have done for him; but
the first pair points to something over and
above, a surplusage of generosity, lying
outside the field of equal pay. God is conceived
as altruistic and we are summoned
to imitate him in this. Jesus develops the
thought to such a degree that love becomes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">3</span>
the centre of his teaching. We are
told that without it all other excellence is
worthless. We must love as God loves,
letting our sun shine on the evil and on the
good. Indeed, we must love even our enemies.</p>

<p>While modern nations have allowed such
precepts to stand as counsels of perfection
and have been ready to see in occasional
acts an embodiment of them, parallel with
them they have always recognized a contrary
and more powerful tendency, namely,
the disposition to seek one’s own. This
they have believed to be essential for carrying
on the daily affairs of life. At the
same time altruistic conduct has ever been
thought “superior,” “higher”; egoistic, as
containing nothing to call forth admiration.</p>

<p>When men, however, began to think
seriously about ethics it became impossible
to allow two such springs of action to remain
in permanent discord. Attempts were
made to bring them into harmony by showing
that the one is only a disguised form of
the other. Hobbes, for example (1588–1679),
the first in his great book, <cite>Leviathan</cite>,
to stir the English mind to ethical reflection,
maintains that altruism is strictly impossible.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">4</span>
Each of us seeks self-preservation
and acts through a passion for power.
This necessarily brings us into conflict with
our neighbors and makes of society a strife
of each with all. Such universal war is soon
seen to bring damage to every one and
social compacts arise, compromises, under
which I concede to others the right of acting
in certain ways on condition of their
allowing my action in certain others. While
this involves large sacrifice of one’s own
desires for the sake of other people, it is
endured because it pays, pays egoistically.
We gain by it the largest scope for action
our crowded world permits. But there is
nothing disinterested about it. Genuine
altruism is nowhere operative. A man
cannot escape from himself and feel another’s
pleasure as his own. As well might
I profess to feel your toothache more
keenly than my own as to declare myself
more interested in your welfare than in
that of myself. Fundamentally, each of
us must be egoistic; but we can be successfully
so only by taking others into the account.</p>

<p>This attempt of Hobbes to resolve altruism
into a larger form of egoism naturally<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">5</span>
shocked England, and a century was spent
by the English moralists in trying to prove
that the benevolent feelings are equally
original with the self-seeking. Cumberland,
Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, Butler, eagerly
demonstrated benevolence to be a
constant and independent factor of human
life; but when they attempted to show the
relation in which this stands to its seeming
opposite, they became vague. Apparently
there are two rival forces within us. Now
one acts, now the other.</p>

<p>A few of the attempts that have been
made to effect a junction of the two, and to
show how we cross from our egoistic to
altruistic desires, deserve notice. Hartley
(1705–1757) proposed an ingenious one.
The two passions become fused through
association. We are all familiar with the
man who begins to accumulate money in
order to supply his daily wants and then
by degrees withdraws his attention from
those wants and fixes it upon money itself.
What was originally a means becomes an
end. In just this way Hartley thought our
egoistic desires become transformed. To
reach satisfaction they usually require assistance
from other people. Conscious at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">6</span>
first of our dependence on others for aid,
we become by degrees interested in others
for their own sake, and finally seek to aid
them rather than have them aid us. Our
self-regarding powers and our extra-regarding
powers are thus by association
blurred into one. An important school of
ethical writers, among whom the two Mills
are the most notable, have held this view.</p>

<p>An interesting variation was adopted by
Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832). It might
be called the quantitative view. The one
thing desired by us all is happiness. We
seek to produce as much of it as possible,
paying little attention to the one on whom
it falls. Of course our primary desire looks
toward ourselves. But in seeking to increase
that bulk of happiness from which
we draw, egoism largely disappears in the
search after the greatest happiness of the
greatest number. This formula must always
be convenient and valuable in a
democratic state.</p>

<p>One of the most curious of these methods
of extracting altruistic gold from a
baser metal is that of Bishop Paley (1743–1805).
According to him we have none of
us an interest in our fellows’ happiness and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">7</span>
should never of ourselves seek it. But we
read in our Bibles the command to love our
neighbor and are told that we shall fall
into eternal misery if we do not. With
his customary audacious clearness Paley
states the matter thus: “The greatest virtue
is doing good to mankind, in obedience
to the will of God, and for the sake of everlasting
happiness.” That is, the one thing
of importance is altruistic endeavor. But
this is so alien to our disposition that it
can be brought about only through divine
interposition, making it a condition of our
own permanent enjoyment.</p>

<p>A subtler doctrine, and one much closer
to the facts of human nature, is that of
Adam Smith (1723–1790). He has observed
how large a part sympathy plays
in our ordinary affairs. If I am near a
person when he is moved by any feeling,
that feeling tends to jump across and to
become mine also. Such identification of
myself and him gives pleasure to us both.
We all have experienced how sympathy
heightens enjoyment and diminishes distress.
In sympathy two sets of feelings
become so nearly identified that the result
can be called neither egoistic nor altruistic.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">8</span>
Now I do not propose in these lectures
to combat or defend any of these theories.
No one of them seems to me to be without
weight, all deserve consideration, and something
like the operation of each I trace in
people around me. The one with which I
am in largest agreement is the last, where
Adam Smith would identify the two moral
aims. But all the theories are vitiated by
a false start, which in these lectures I wish
to avoid.</p>

<p>Each of them looks upon man in his
original estate as a self-centred being, a
distinct ego. By degrees this single person
discovers other persons about him and
learns that he must have relations with
them. The relations may be altruistic or
egoistic, but they are subsequent and supplemental.
In himself he is separate and
detached. Now, I hold that this conception
is altogether erroneous. There is no
such solitary person. One person is no
person. The smallest known unit of personality
is three, father, mother, child.
None of us came into the world in separateness,
nor have separately remained here.
Relations have encompassed us from birth.
Through them we are what we are, social<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">9</span>
beings, members of a whole. While it is
true that the ties of parentage loosen as
the child matures, these drop away only
because others, now more formative, take
him in charge. Before we have a separate
consciousness we know ourselves as members
of a family, of a state, of the community
of human kind. We never stand
alone.</p>

<p>Not that it is an error to say “I.” This,
properly, is our commonest word and commonest
thought. Only with reference to
it does anything else have value. However
interlocked the total frame of things
may be, at certain centres where relations
converge there are unique spots of consciousness
capable of estimating reality
and of sending forth modifying influences.
Such a centre of consciousness, unlike all
else, we rightly call a person, a self or ego;
and because of its importance we often fix
attention on it, withdrawing notice for the
moment from the relations which encompass
it. Such an abstraction, if clearly
understood, is entirely legitimate. I shall
frequently make use of it under the title
of the separate or abstract self. But it
should be borne in mind that it is an abstraction<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">10</span>
and that the real person is what
I shall call the conjunct or social self, made
up of that centre of consciousness and the
relations in which it stands. While these
two are usefully distinguishable, they are
not separable. When I try to detach myself
from my surroundings I know I am
attempting an impossibility. How much
would there be left of me were there no one
but this central ego, none with whom I
might communicate, no language prepared
for communication or thought, no common
affections, interests, or undertakings? Evidently
we are from the start social beings.
If with the early moralists we make the
opposite assumption, our subsequent interest
in our fellow men will never quite clear
itself of artificiality and mistake.</p>

<p>Yet while the separate self and the conjunct
self lodge in the same being, the degree
and kind of attention accorded to the
latter marks the stage of moral maturity
at which man or nation has arrived. In
certain undeveloped forms of social life the
conjunctive elements are but slightly emphasized,
while the separate self bulks
large. With the advance of morality the
opposite principle obtains. Wider and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">11</span>
more subtle relationships are seen to make
our lives our own. Many as are these
social varieties, I have thought they might
advantageously be examined under three
headings, to which I give the rather unintelligible
names of Manners, Gifts, and
Mutuality. While recognizing that every
phase of human life is altruistic in some
degree, I hold that there are higher grades
which give to the principle a prominence
and scope which the lower lack. My general
subject, then, might be entitled The
Forms and Stages of the Conjunct Self.
I begin where the conjunctive principle appears
in its narrowest range and advance
into the broader altruism only as I am
logically compelled to do so. Endeavoring
to see how small a section of human
conduct need be affected by altruism, I am
ultimately forced to make it as extensive as
life itself.</p>

<p>Maintaining, however, as I do, that the
two contrasted elements always are and
should be mutually serviceable, I naturally
have nothing to say in condemnation
of self-seeking. On the contrary, I hold it
to be praiseworthy. Rightly does Aristotle
assert that the good man is always a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">12</span>
lover of himself. But of which self is Aristotle
thinking, the conjunct or the separate?
Much of the mystery surrounding
the notion of altruism is due to confusion
on this point. For example, when a man
is charged with selfishness it is usually because
he is thought to have obtained some
advantage. But why should he not? He
is blamable only when he detaches the
thought of his own advantage from advantage
to others. My good must not be
had at another’s expense. When a plate
of apples is passed and I pick out the best
one, the wrong is not in my obtaining a
good apple but in my depriving somebody
else of one. That is selfishness. Whenever
my gain is not inconsistent with his or, as
is usually the case, actually contributes to
it, the larger the gain made by me the
better.</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">13</span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="CHAPTER_II" class="vspace">CHAPTER II<br />

<span class="subhead">MANNERS</span></h2>
</div>

<p>Where, then, does altruism appear in its
simplest form? Whenever one of us comes
into the presence of another there occurs
a subtle change of personal attitude to
which I give the name of Manners. We do
not act or speak precisely as if alone. In
all our bearing there is a marked adjustment
of one personality to another. I
take on the color of him before whom I
stand. I feel his psychological conditions
and square myself accordingly. That is, I
at once perceive that he and I are not
quite independent. An acknowledgment
of a certain community between us must
be established before either of us can be
at ease. Such acknowledgment may have
a wide or narrow scope, but it will always
imply regard for another for his own sake
and not merely regard for my sake.</p>

<p>One would expect that the words which
name a relation so normal and dignified
would be words suggestive of honor.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">14</span>
Strangely enough, they are all depreciatory.
I have sought for a word to describe
the consideration of man by man which
would be colorless, that neither praised
nor blamed, but simply fixed attention on
the fact. No such word do I find. A blot
of disparagement is on them all. I choose
Manners as on the whole the least objectionable.</p>

<p>Pass them briefly in review. When I
say a man is kind in Manners, do I not
suggest that there may be a contrast between
his outward bearing and his inner
heart? Or shall we call the relation one of
Propriety, as Adam Smith does in his masterly
discussion of this moral situation?
Propriety always stirs aversion, because it
implies that we have had little share in
establishing the standard employed. It
has been set up outside us and still we are
subjected to it. How exasperated a child
is when told to behave properly! Why
should he care for Propriety? Or shall we
say Civility? It is a scrimping, meagre
word, announcing that only so much consideration
is shown as decency requires.
When we hear a man say, “John was civil
to me,” our thought continues: “Was that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">15</span>
all? Did he go no further than that?”
How would Politeness do? More than
Manners it hints at insincerity and conduct
that hopes to gain something for itself.
Beware of a polite man. He is
likely to use you for his own ends. Might
we then talk of Good Breeding? When
any one calls me well-bred he praises my
parents, not me. The excellence on which
I pride myself has apparently come from
their training. What shall we say of Courtesy?
That it is a term of dignity, but
suggests stooping. The one with whom I
deal is accounted my inferior. Or Gentlemanliness?
To call a young fellow a gentleman
makes his heart throb. Yet the
word does not escape a certain limitation.
It uses the standard of a particular set,
“our crowd.” If my conduct does not accord
with their usages, I am not a gentleman.
The word lacks universality.</p>

<p>By such questionable terms our language
names the beautiful relation I am now to
set forth. Since Manners is on the whole
the least stained word among them, the
one most nearly neutral, I adopt it, but I
shall read into it much more meaning than
people generally intend. To cover its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">16</span>
full meaning I am obliged to frame a
statement so burdened with details that
it will hardly be recognized as anything
commonly called Manners. But it shall be
explained clause by clause, and I ask my
reader to watch whether I have introduced
anything into it which might be omitted or
omitted anything which should have been
introduced. The definition runs thus: By
Manners I mean such a voluntary conformity
to a code of conduct as, within a
fixed field of intercourse, insures to each
person the least offense and a due opportunity
of self-expression. Four elements
are here named as belonging to Manners.
I will take them up separately and in order.</p>

<p>In the first place Manners assume a settled
code, a social arrangement generally
agreed to. They are essentially systematic,
not impulsive and incidental. An exclamation
of joy uttered when I am happy
may or may not be consistent with good
manners. That depends on how fully it
has been rationalized. I am expected to
act to-day as I should wish to act to-morrow.
Expression must keep in view
the whole personality. Moreover, I must
know how other people act and bring my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">17</span>
action into measurable conformity with
theirs. If I am frequently doing what nobody
else does, I am sure to be thought
rude. I am expected to understand what
the social code demands. Perhaps the
word “code” is too formal. It pictures a
committee drawing up a plan of behavior.
Of course no such committee exists. Yet
an agreement there has been, a tacit understanding,
of how we are to behave to
one another. Any one ignorant of this understanding,
or neglectful of it, is reckoned
boorish and unfit for mannerly intercourse.
That usage and not my own liking should
direct my bearing toward others. To do
something just because I like to shows me
uncivilized. My commonest actions should
be socialized. They are expected to express
something more than my separate
self, namely, my conjunct self, showing accordance
with myself at other times and
also accordance with the persons around
me.</p>

<p>Is it well or usual to have these understandings
written down? Are manuals of
manners useful, teaching us just how to
behave in this and that situation? Such
books exist, but I believe few would willingly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">18</span>
be caught reading one. Formal
codes are not what we want. They are
not fine enough. They study moral situations
too mechanically, with too little regard
for personality. From them one
might pick up a few useful warnings about
certain bad habits not previously noticed;
but a man who followed such a manual exactly
would nowhere be a welcome guest.</p>

<p>Conformity to a standard, however, is
far from the whole of manners. Were it
so, the place to find good manners would
be the State Prison. A clear code is established
there. Each man is told precisely
what he is to do throughout the entire
day. For that reason we are hardly
justified in speaking of convict manners at
all. A prison permits no expression of the
individual life, and a second condition of
good manners was “<em>voluntary</em> conformity
to a social code.” While every child should
be trained to know how those who are
wisest and kindest are accustomed to meet
the little circumstances of daily intercourse,
still that child’s actions are worthless
if they do not bear his own stamp. Is
not this what we mean by a vulgar man?
His manners are not an expression of himself,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">19</span>
but of somebody else. Other men have
obliterated him. An evident copy is all
that remains. Fine manners play around
the correct modes, departing from them
here and there in little niceties. So far is
the code from fettering individuality that it
becomes the channel for its easiest outgo.
A graceful gentleman is enviable in his
freedom. He is at home anywhere. Every
situation has been thought out by society
beforehand. With its conclusions he has
been long acquainted and in his own way
swiftly adapts them to the delicate occasion
at hand. There is no surprise, no
awkwardness, no loss of dignity. The
separate self is not altogether suppressed,
but is present everywhere in the service of
the conjunct.</p>

<p>There appears in the definition, however,
a phrase which clogs it: “Within a fixed
field of intercourse.” Why is this necessary
and what does it mean? Manners
need to be adjusted to different occasions.
Those that are suitable to the shop do not
fit the evening party. When we meet for
the exchange of commodities or meet to
exchange good wishes and general good
cheer, we approach one another from different<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">20</span>
angles, and our manners should reflect
them appropriately. When again we
meet for discussion, the social situation is
so peculiar that nothing less than a written
code, a <cite>Cushing’s Manual</cite>, will insure freedom
for all. Left to themselves, each
person would speak as often as feeling
prompted. But such rude manners are not
allowed. No one must speak without appealing
to the chairman and receiving his
permission by word or nod. If a person
opposing me in debate makes statements
which strike me as absurd and intended to
mislead, I am not at liberty to characterize
them so. Debate could not proceed on
such terms. Every one must be respectful
and conform to a parliamentary standard.
Such a standard would be out of place in
the home. But much of the beauty of
human intercourse arises from noticing
these differences in the field and, with full
knowledge of what is customary, adapting
our manners freshly to what the occasions
require.</p>

<p>But readers will already be asking, “Why
all this pomp and circumstance? What
object can make us willing to accept such
constraint instead of approaching one another<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">21</span>
as we happen to feel.” That object
was the fourth point in my definition:
Manners are accepted “in order to insure
to each person the least offense and a due
opportunity for self-expression.” Expression
is dear to all. At least to me it is always
a pleasure to give another a piece of
my mind. This may not be a pleasure to
that other. If, then, we are to be social
beings, there must be some security that
when I am enjoying speech I cause no disturbance
to others. Accordingly, the chief
object of manners is a negative one, to
avoid offense, to put every one at ease.
Suppose the contrary; suppose A. B. asks
me to meet a group of his friends; suppose
I have a fancy for colored waistcoats and
dress of fantastic design; suppose me not
inclined to subordinate my taste to that of
others, but simply to dress as I please.
Should I not come as an intruder and disturber,
preventing my fellow guests from
thinking of anything but me? I should
not be invited again to that house. To
avoid such scenes we willingly accept a
common costume, which nobody was ever
known to admire. We go out in the evening
garbed in black. We know then what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">22</span>
to expect, securing ourselves against shock
and curbing the self-asserter. That turbulent
ego is the chief obstacle to society.
Better give up much that is of value if we
can thus be brought to conduct which
shows consideration for all around.</p>

<p>The other part of the aim of manners,
self-expression, is subordinate though desirable.
Living alone, we are small; in
contact with our fellow men, we enlarge
ourselves. Trouble is worth taking for
such a purpose. But there are dangers.
Society is possible only where mutual consideration
is shown. To be a social person
one must be altruistically minded, continually
studying another’s comfort. I am
talking with two or three old friends about
some experiences of our youth, when John
Smith joins us. We go on talking, and
soon all the company except John Smith
bursts into laughter. He naturally feels
shut out and we perceive that we have been
rude. Manners are devised to stop such
painful feelings. We leave outside social
walls whatever cannot be shared by all
alike.</p>

<p>I have been expounding here something
so familiar that it is seldom mentioned or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">23</span>
even thought of, but is usually taken as a
matter of course. Yet surely it is important
to perceive how wide is the extent
of altruism. It is nothing occasional, calling
for exceptional heroism. It is commonplace,
spread all around us, attending the
most elementary processes of existence.
We never approach one another as separate
beings, but are called on wherever we
meet to put each other at ease, whatever
may be the cost to ourselves. Well does
Bentham write: “Good breeding is that
deportment on occasions of inferior, and,
when separately taken, of trivial importance
by which those acts are abstained
from which give annoyance to others. It
is to this negative or abstinential branch
of benevolence that most of the laws of
good breeding are to be referred.” Christ
in offering the Golden Rule seems not to
be urging unusual conduct, but rather to
suggest that we carry out consistently and
as a plan of life a principle inwrought into
the very structure of our being. We are
made conjunctive. Any attempt to exhibit
the varieties of altruism must take
this beautiful fact as its starting-point.</p>

<p>No one has set forth more clearly the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">24</span>
scope and delicacy of manners than Adam
Smith in those chapters of his <cite>Moral Sentiments</cite>
which treat of Propriety. He asks
what feelings may properly be expressed in
company and what others, equally natural,
the well-mannered man suppresses. The
general principle is that those which have
their root in specific circumstances of the
individual, as, for example, the physical
experiences, should be kept in the background.
A gentleman does not talk of his
toothache or recent cold, nor does he show
his strong appetite at table. While recognizing
that all may properly be interested
in his intended marriage, he dwells on the
intensity of his affection only to the lady
herself. These are matters relating to the
separate self, while manners give expression
only to what all can share. Our ardent
personal passions, even when entirely
justified, often need to be flattened down
before they can be fit to express. Manifestations
of the social passions, kindness
and pity, are seldom improper. These
give a double opportunity for sympathy.
We share the feelings both of the sufferer
and the humane speaker. But the emotions
that terminate in ourselves, like joy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</span>
and grief, require care. On the whole,
Smith thinks we may count on sympathy
with our small joys and large griefs. Happiness
is something delightful to share, at
least until it becomes so great as to awaken
envy. And though it is disagreeable to
hear of petty annoyances, which a gentleman
passes lightly by, serious misfortune
is so much a part of the common lot that
all will sympathize in hearing of it and be
pleased that they have in this instance
escaped. The death of a relative may not
improperly put its mark on our very
clothing, but it is indecent to speak of our
vexations from servants and children.</p>

<p>Here, then, we see human society reposing
on a widely distributed and systematized
altruism. Mutual consideration is
here the rule. The apostle states it admirably:
“Look not every man on his own
things, but every man also on the things of
others.” The separate self is allowed no
place; the conjunct self is the only person
recognized. Surely, any one who undertakes
to examine the varieties of altruism
must begin with these beautiful and little-noticed
moralities.</p>

<p>Begin, but not end here. For while I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</span>
believe all that has thus far been said is
true, I see so much else to be true that I
devote a section of this chapter to a criticism
of manners. Wherein do manners
fail to embody altruism completely? In
three respects: they are trivial, self-protective,
and enfeebling. The study of these
deficiencies will show us the way to altruism
of a higher kind.</p>

<p>The triviality of manners requires no
long demonstration. All must have felt it
and, probably enough, have been surprised
at my counting such matters deserving of
a place in a serious ethical discussion. It
is as if I had devoted a section to brushing
the hair. Many things more or less connected
with the comfort of daily life we
do not talk or think much about, and such
are manners—never good until they become
instinctive. They express merely our superficial
relations with our fellows, our outward
behavior, our acts and not our motives.
The man of considerate manners
may be inwardly considerate, too; but he
may be the very reverse and have shaped
his conduct with a view to social success.
Indeed, it may truly be said that manners
become more prominent as the occasions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</span>
of human intercourse diminish in importance.
Organized “society,” in which manners
flourish, is treated as of little consequence
by the sober body of the community.
This, then, is the first defect of
manners when regarded as an embodiment
of altruism: they are of limited range and
do not necessarily involve the whole man.</p>

<p>But they are open to a graver objection.
They are fundamentally self-protective.
If my first account of them were the
whole truth, society people would be the
least selfish of mankind. That is not their
reputation, for manners are, after all,
grounded in distrust of our fellow man. I
said that the chief aim of manners was to
avoid offense; that is, we anticipate being
offended when we meet, and take precautions
against it. The need of such precautions
against the turbulent ego I have
shown already. Until I can be sure that
people will not shock me by tasteless attire
and heavy talk, that they will not unload
on me what concerns only themselves, that
they will not be tedious, didactic, or intrusive,
in short, that they will be trained
to play the social game for general enjoyment
rather than individual gain, I shall<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">28</span>
keep away from company. Manners express
these doubts. They preserve an interval
between me and those who might
press too near. Emerson says of them that
they are a contrivance of the wise for keeping
fools at a distance. No doubt they
may also express affection and pleasure in
humankind. I only assert that this is not
necessarily their meaning. They may be
mere social safeguards, restraints to which
each of us submits in Hobbistic fashion in
order to protect ourselves.</p>

<p>But there is one further point in our disparagement
of manners. He who accepts
the code, indorses, and practises it, finds
himself in the long run enfeebled. Accordingly,
a healthy nature is always a little
restive under manners. The child rebels
against being taught how to behave. He
wants to behave as nature prompts. When
full of glee he would laugh aloud, but is
told that loud laughter in company is not
proper. Is there not danger that the continual
check which manners put on exuberant
nature may, in the process of rubbing
off social excrescences, rub off much
of nature too? How large will be the “due
opportunity for self-expression” in a society<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">29</span>
whose prime aim is “the avoidance of
offense”? It must be remembered that
checking expression checks thought. We
do not develop strong interests when moving
among those who stare if we mention
them. In company, people may grow
quick, clever, neat in repartee, compliment,
and paradox, but they do not become reflective,
solid in judgment, distinctive in
individual taste. Such things come more
readily in isolation. It is wise advice
George Herbert gives:</p>

<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“By all means use sometimes to be alone.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Salute thyself. See what thy soul doth wear.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dare to look in thy chest, for ’tis thine own,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And tumble up and down what thou find’st there.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Who cannot rest till he good fellows find<br /></span>
<span class="i2">He shuts up house, turns out of doors his mind.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>The fact is that in bidding us all the
time to be regardful of others, manners
make too sharp a division between the conjunct
and the separate self; and it is disastrous
to each to be set up to the exclusion
of the other. In detachment the conjunct
self grows empty, the separate self surly
and brutish. They belong together. When
either has been unduly emphasized, it is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">30</span>
wholesome to give the other a chance.
Society, the special field for the cultivation
of manners, would soon be sterile soil were
it not abandoned during lenten intervals
and summers in the country. After meeting
a multitude of people and being obliged
to adjust ourselves to only such matters
as all can understand, what a relief it is to
be in the open fields, social conventions
dropped, responsibilities forgotten, and no
regard for others marking our words, acts,
or dress!</p>

<p>And now we see why all the words which
name the ingenious system of man’s best
approach to man contain a tinge of evil.
Every one is a disparaging term, though
meant for praise. Politeness, courtesy,
good breeding, propriety, decency, civility—manners
is the best of the long list, for
it states with less of praise or blame the
mutual consideration expected whenever
person meets person. But it is not altogether
clean. It lingers on the outside and
so suggests triviality, suspicion of our
neighbor, and the enfeebling of originality.
That these baser qualities are not inherent
in manners is true enough. A well-mannered
man may have a friendly soul. But<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</span>
he may have one of an opposite sort. Manners,
therefore, though altruistic in form,
are not necessarily altruistic in matter.
They can, accordingly, be regarded as only
the beginning of our inquiry. No human
society, it is now evident, can be formed
without recognizing the altruistic principle;
but in manners that principle may be employed
as naturally for an egoistic as for
an altruistic purpose. What we are in
search of is a situation in which a man sincerely
prefers another’s good to his own.</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">32</span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="CHAPTER_III" class="vspace">CHAPTER III<br />

<span class="subhead">GIFTS</span></h2>
</div>

<p>Such a higher stage of altruism is that
which I have called Gifts. When we give,
we set ourselves in a low place and some
one else in a high, so intentionally putting
altruism into the matter of our action and
not merely into its form. A definition of
giving would therefore run as follows: the
diminution by ourselves of some of our
possessions, pleasures, or opportunities for
growth, so that another person may possess
more.</p>

<p>Every gift, to be a real gift, must cost
the giver something. When I have just
received an unexpectedly large payment
and am feeling particularly well off, I
might easily take pleasure in handing a
half-dollar to a beggar. But that is an
amusement, not a gift. I have experienced
no loss. For both money and beggar I
cared little, but the momentary sense of
munificence was agreeable. The act was
one of pride rather than generosity. On<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</span>
the other hand, I give a friend a book I
love, one that has deeply influenced my
life and I hope may influence his. He has
no means of obtaining a copy elsewhere.
I shall miss it, no doubt. But remembering
how long I have had it, and he not at
all, I resolve to impoverish myself for his
enrichment. The moment I hand it to
him he becomes the rich man and I the
poor. All ownership on my part ceases.
I have cut myself off from something valuable
in order to bring about a certain
superiority in him. That is the essence of
a gift. To make my friend large I make
myself small.</p>

<p>It may be said, however, that such
damage to the giver is unnecessary. Completer
giving would be that where the receiver
makes up to me my loss. But
would not my act under such conditions
cease to be a gift? It would become an
exchange, a trade, a bargain. Whether a
wise trade or a foolish, there was calculation
directed to keeping me as well off at the
close of the transaction as at the beginning.
On that account no one will call it a gift.
Or if, again, I expect positively to profit by
what I offered my friend, finding my bookshelves<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">34</span>
crowded and resolved to lead a
simpler life, my act once more will lack
the quality of a gift. Wisely I rid myself
of some superfluous possessions, but I did
so quite as much for my own advantage as
for that of my friend. It is true that often
in whole-hearted giving we find ourselves
in the end richer than before. But that
was not contemplated. What we sought
was impoverishment for another’s gain,
and it is that purpose which constitutes a
gift.</p>

<p>As regards what is given, a few words
may be well. All gifts are not of the same
grade. In thinking of them we generally
have in mind parting with a piece of property.
But this is the slenderest of gifts.
Accordingly in my definition, side by side
with possessions, I named a superior sort
of gift, pleasures. To detach a pleasure
from myself for another’s sake, and to succeed
in the difficult business of transferring
it from my enjoyment to his, is surely a
larger gift than parting with a piece of
property. Indeed, even in giving an article,
I felt the pleasure involved in it to
be the important matter. Having been
pleased with it myself I trusted it would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">35</span>
bring my friend pleasure too. The article
was a mere means, a subordinate part of
the affair. Could I convey as much pleasure
without it, the gift would gain in
delicacy. Suppose then on a beautiful
afternoon, when I have been bending over
my work all the morning, I am offered a
ride in the country. A friend is standing
beside me, and to him I turn. “You take
this seat. I do not care to go. You need
it more than I.” And knowing full well
the refreshment that will be had, I persuade
him to take my place. Here is a
gift of a higher order than a mere piece of
property. Its substance is taken more directly
out of myself.</p>

<p>But there are gifts higher still, for we
may give sections of ourselves more important
than pleasure. I may allow myself
to stagnate in order that my friend
may grow. In filling out his nature, let
him not merely use me; let his use me up.
Here altruism reaches its highest point in
self-sacrifice. Yet instances of it are common.
In almost every home in the land
something like this is going on. In many
households parents are saying: “That boy
shall have the opportunities which we always<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</span>
longed for but could not attain. He
shall go to college. A little pinching on our
part will make it possible.” And so the
boy goes joyously forth into an invigorating
world, provided by the narrowing life
of those at home. Such gifts are incomparable.
They are gifts of life-blood.</p>

<p>Or do I distort this consummate altruism
by calling it sacrifice? At least this
should be added, that true sacrifice never
knows itself to be sacrifice. Joyously the
parents send their boy forth and joyously
accept their own narrow routine. They do
so feeling that he to whom they are giving
their life is inseparable from themselves.
They have learned to merge their abstract
isolated self in him and to conceive themselves
as living the larger conjunct life
with him in his new opportunities. How
exquisitely astonished are the men in the
parable when called on to receive reward
for their generous gifts! “Lord, when saw
we thee an hungered and fed thee, or
thirsty and gave thee drink? When saw
we thee sick or in prison and came unto
thee?” They thought they had only been
following their own desires.</p>

<p>Here, then, giving seems to supersede itself,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</span>
the giver receiving quite as much as
he bestows. And some such paradox is
unavoidable so long as the thought of self
remains properly ambiguous. Our early
English moralists saw no ambiguity in it.
They understood by self the abstract,
unrelated individual. They were consequently
so puzzled by benevolence as often
to deny it altogether. In our age of social
consciousness the puzzle has largely disappeared.
We see giving to be as natural as
getting, and hardly to be distinguished
from it. But it will be well before advancing
to criticise the higher forms of altruism
to fix firmly in mind some classic statement
of the two conceptions and once for
all to see how absurd each looks from the
point of view of the other. When our
Lord hung upon the cross the jeering soldiers
cried: “He saved others; himself he
cannot save!” No, he could not; and his
inability seemed to them ridiculous, while
it was in reality his glory. His true self he
was saving, himself and all mankind, the
only self he valued.</p>

<p>Giving has always impressed mankind
as singularly noble. Indeed, in the judgment
of many it outclasses all other excellence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</span>
and is the only human action to
call forth reverence. So nearly does generosity
become identified with goodness
that if I should ask a man whether John
Smith was good to him yesterday I should
be understood to ask if he gave unselfish
attention to that man’s affairs. Goodness
in this sense, the disposition to give, will in
the popular mind cover a multitude of
sins. In how many stories have past ages
taken pleasure where the robber hero,
crafty, merciless, and generous, bestows
upon the poor plunder taken from the rich.
The man ready to give, whatever else his
quality, seemed to our ancestors always to
deserve admiration.</p>

<p>We have become suspicious. There is a
disposition to-day to question this wholesale
praise of giving and to suggest that it
is not free from danger. Instead of promoting
public welfare, generosity may sometimes
impoverish the community. It may
lead people to depend on others, instead of
standing on their own feet. And what a
general weakening follows! The two classes
into which society always tends to fall become
more sharply contrasted—the rich,
amusing themselves from time to time with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</span>
officious charity, and the poor through accepting
it steadily growing more helpless
and cringing. Our fathers, less studious
of society than we, did not perceive these
dangers, but only the evils of selfishness.
They accordingly eulogized giving, whatever
and wherever it was. If a man asks
for your outer garment, give him your inner
one also. Give without calculating results.</p>

<p>Against all this a reaction has set in. It
is now insisted that giving should no more
be freed from rational control than any
other impulse. It is too important a matter
to be left to caprice and pursued merely
to give the giver ease. It should be scientifically
treated. The circumstances should
be studied under which gifts may be permitted
and under which withheld. We
should be clear about the proper grounds
for giving. Simply because somebody takes
pleasure in giving he must not be allowed
that pleasure where it becomes detrimental
to the community at large.</p>

<p>Such are the questionings of our time.
In studying this high form of altruism I
cannot pass them by. I may fairly be
asked to indicate when it will be safe to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</span>
open the hand freely and when we had
better keep it somewhat closed. As I try
to classify the conditions of giving, I notice
that two are grounded in the nature of
the receiver and two in the nature of the
giver; and in that order I will take them up.</p>

<p>Obviously, the first condition to be considered
is the receiver’s assured need.
When we see need and have the means to
check it we naturally spring forward and
give with reference to that particular need.
If a man needs food, I do not offer him a
theatre ticket; though if I found him worn
with business and needing recreation such
a gift would be appropriate. This adaptation
is the important matter in all true
giving. “Find out men’s wants and wills,
and meet them there,” says an old poet.
To give anything that happens to come
into my mind is selfish and shows me unwilling
to take trouble for another’s sake;
that is, I am shown to lack the very spirit
of a giver. The same considerations fix the
magnitude of the gift. A small amount
given for a large need is often useless and
exasperating; a large amount for a small
need, wasteful and corrupting. Wise giving
demands an obedient mind attentive<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">41</span>
to another’s requirements and not head-strong
in insistence on one’s own way. If
there is any worth in giving, to keep that
giving clear of waste and make it as effective
as possible becomes an urgent duty.</p>

<p>I have already distinguished three varieties
of gift: articles of my own possession,
pleasures which might be mine diverted to
another, and a means of growth imparted
to another at my own cost. These form
successively higher stages of giving, the
greatest gift of all being, in my judgment,
the gift of growth. Curiously enough, Kant
denounces this as immoral. Man, he
urges, is a person, the only being, so far as
we know, who is capable of self-development.
To attempt to take away this power
and substitute another’s developing agency
is an intrusion. A man’s growth is the
business of no one but himself. If another
person can scatter a pleasure or two in his
path, it is a worthy altruistic act. But for
any one but himself to undertake his construction
is presumptuous and, indeed, impossible.
In building a house we use
plastic material, which has no will. But a
person is essentially active, self-directed,
and beyond the reach of agencies other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">42</span>
than his own. When we teachers offer to
make our pupils wiser, we promise what
we cannot perform. Ourselves we can
make wiser. To our pupils we can only
offer material for their use. We may tell
them that by devoting themselves to study
they will reach capacious lives. But such
lives we have no power to bestow. If our
suggestions are rejected, we are helpless.
Such is Kant’s extreme theory. But has
he gone far enough? Have I any more
ability to impart a pleasure? I certainly
cannot pick up a pleasure and put it into
another person, regardless of how it will
be received. There must be co-operation.
The receiver may turn it into either pleasure
or pain. Kant’s objection applies with
nearly equal force against the giving of
pleasures. In both cases we merely provide
material, subject to acceptance or rejection,
material which has proved useful
in many previous cases. I give my
friend a ticket to the theatre, bidding him
enjoy himself and get the refreshment he
needs. But I cannot be sure what he will
get. He may be bored and wish he had
stayed at home. There are great uncertainties
in gifts, for their receivers are indeed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">43</span>
persons, the least calculable of all
beings. A piece of property I can convey
to a person with some certainty that he has
received it. But whether it will mean for
him what it meant for me I cannot tell.
In all the best affairs of life there is risk.</p>

<p>If the risks in offering opportunities of
growth are somewhat greater than in the
case of other forms of gift, the need is
greater too, and the results, if accomplished,
more considerable. Arrangements for gifts
of this highest sort are often properly made
on a vast scale. They include churches,
colleges, schools, lecture-foundations, museums.
These are all public agencies for
promoting growth. The private means are
surer, family life. Yet here how often
parents will offer gifts of an inferior sort,
things or pleasures, careless whether they
meet the needs of growth. The truest
benefactor is he who is willing to disappoint
or pain us if by so doing he can open
doors for ampler powers. Our greatest
need is for enlargement. Whoever contributes
to that is our most beneficent giver.</p>

<p>But human need is only one of the two
claims to gifts grounded in the nature of
the receiver. We should likewise pay attention<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">44</span>
to numbers. If I have a loaf of
bread to give away, and all about me hungry
persons stand, I do wrong in handing
half of it to one of them for a hearty meal
and putting off the others, equally needy,
with a small slice. At the beginning I
should have studied numbers and kept a
fair distribution in mind. In these days
when every mail brings us three or four
demands for subscriptions to excellent
causes, which we would gladly aid, the
question of distribution becomes perplexing.
We wish to make our gifts go as far as
possible. If we are hardy and dutiful, we
plan according to need and number; if
weak and compliant, we meet each soliciting
letter with a formal subscription, just
enough to be counted, and feel ourselves
discharged from a difficult problem.</p>

<p>In my own experience it has been helpful
to readjust slightly the conception of number
and to consider rather the scope of a
gift. Many years ago a wealthy man in
the West, who had worked his way through
Harvard University, said to me that he
knew there were many men at Harvard of
decided worth but unable to get the full
benefit of the place through lack of funds.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">45</span>
He asked if he might leave a sum of money
with me for their benefit. I was not to
disclose his name, was to expend the money
as if it were my own, selecting the recipients
quietly through personal acquaintance
and giving account to nobody. I gladly
assented and anticipated easy and delightful
work in distributing bounty where
need was abundant. But I soon discovered
that giving money away was about as
difficult as earning it. I was to make investments,
with returns in human power
and character—called on therefore to exercise
no less pains and sagacity than if the
investment were for my own benefit. I believe
now that much of the money I at
first gave away had been better thrown
into the sea. It did little good to the one
who received it, and still less to the public.
I was too tender-hearted and fixed my
mind too exclusively on the hardships of
some particular student. Pity is dangerous
stuff for a charity administrator. Gradually
I learned that my true object of consideration
should not be the individual
student but the community. Through the
student I was to give to the public. And
would that student be a good transmitter?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">46</span>
That became my constant question. In
studying how my gifts might get the widest
scope, I gradually formulated the maxim
to help only the strong and let the feeble
sink. A merciless maxim it appears at
first, and always requiring subtlety in application.
But what right have I, in investing
property for the public good, to
ignore questions of return? A powerful
lawyer, doctor, business man, poet, minister,
or public-spirited citizen brings blessing
to a multitude, and I am allowed to
share in the shaping of that blessing. Shall
I withdraw funds from such a cause and
invest them in stock of slender security
and low interest, where they can at best
only ease the discomfort of an individual?
That would be to overlook the scope of my
gift. I used to tell my boys that the aid
was not intended for their relief, but for
the relief of society to which they must
carry forth heightened powers. And this,
I think, should be the method in all charitable
outlay if we would give to limited
means the broadest range of influence.</p>

<p>These, then, need and numbers or scope,
are the conditions of giving so far as the
receiver is concerned. By studying them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">47</span>
we learn how to proportion our gifts. Two
more remain, equally important, grounded
in the nature of the giver. They are his
ability and his knowledge; but the former,
like number, will oblige us to examine it
from a twofold point of view.</p>

<p>That we are to give only according to
our ability seems almost too obvious to
state; yet it is something we must never
lose sight of. In making this gift shall I
have enough left for that? That is our
constant question. In answering it I see
that ability is only another name for an
already accumulated wealth. If our ability
to give is to be large, we must in past
time, before the demand arose, have accumulated
stock, in which accumulation
we are likely to receive small approval
from anybody. Spending is showy and
interesting. It has a liberal air which all
commend. While engaged in it we shall
not lack those who will cheer us on. But
saving is repulsive and suspicious, seldom
calling out praise; yet it is an absolute essential
of subsequent giving. The wealth
accumulated may be of many kinds—money,
learning, sound judgment—but it
must be gathered in the dark, before the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">48</span>
demand for its use becomes clear. How
humiliating, when need arises and the disposition
to aid is upon us, to look into our
treasury and find it empty! A perplexed
soul turns to us for wise counsel and we
are obliged to tell him, if we are honest,
that we have never trained ourselves in
careful thought and should only mislead
him by random suggestions. Preparation
beforehand for the numberless occasions of
giving is the perpetual business of the generous
mind. So, at least, thought Jesus.
“For their sakes I sanctify myself.”</p>

<p>Other persons, I said, are little likely to
assist us here and are perhaps justly suspicious.
Accumulation is likely enough to
be prompted by selfishness. When a man
withdraws from his fellows every day to his
study or store, and isolated there with his
own interests regards little besides inflowing
wealth, he certainly looks self-centred,
may actually be so, and should by no
means complain if misunderstood. Being
misunderstood is, after all, not unhealthy.
Without exposing ourselves to that risk
few of us can reach our full power of altruistic
service. We need to train ourselves
for kindness in the long run, with some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">49</span>
carelessness as regards the conflicting
short.</p>

<p>I have been pointing out how largely our
ability to give depends on an already accumulated
wealth. But into ability enters
one thing more, tact. Without a good supply
of this, giving irritates and misses its
mark. But tact is a word of evil omen and
has such synonyms as slyness, adroitness.
I am supposed to adjust myself to the peculiarities
of somebody in order securely
to gain what he would be little disposed to
give. I have studied the windings of his
mind and know just the side on which to
approach him. I set myself in the very
best light, play on his weaknesses, and
skilfully obtain much which in his unmanaged
moods he would never think of granting.
Well, tact is often exercised in this
self-seeking fashion. But that is because
it is a great power, egoistic or altruistic. It
may be employed with either aim. A good
giver needs it no less than a selfish schemer.
How many would-be givers do we know
who come blundering up with gifts and
drop them upon us in a way which utterly
shocks and makes us unwilling to receive
them. Others have taken some trouble to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">50</span>
be kind, have acquainted themselves with
our circumstances, have been able to outflank
our delicacies and hesitations, and so
to make their gift received with the least
sense of intrusion or obligation. What an
exquisite fine art giving may be, and how
it increases altruistic power! But it is acquired
with effort and will be effective only
after it has become instinctive. As in the
case of wealth, the gaining of it must not
be postponed to the time when it is needed.
That will bring merely awkwardness and
disappointment. It must be accumulated
beforehand. One desiring altruistic skill
should be training himself perpetually: as
he walks the street, as he meets an acquaintance,
as he enters a shop, as he sits
at table. Every situation affords opportunity
for swiftly sympathetic adjustment,
for removing self-absorption and substituting
for it that generous imagination without
which no gift is acceptable. A well-equipped
giver, putting himself imaginatively
in the other man’s place, perceives
at once how his gift may be most easily received.</p>

<p>But besides ability, with its two branches
of wealth and tact, there is a final condition<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">51</span>
grounded in the giver, that of knowledge.
Of course, we cannot give properly unless
we understand the case, and the larger our
understanding the greater is our obligation
to aid. These simple truths illuminate
some moral perplexities. I read a while
ago of a famine in China. Crops had
failed and there was wide-spread suffering.
Tragic tales were reported. In the next
column of the paper was an account of airplane
construction. I found both columns
interesting. The same day a man I knew
broke his leg. An awful affair! I hurried
to his bedside and could think of nothing
else than how I might help. Then it occurred
to me how disproportioned were my
sympathies. Thousands of squalid deaths
on the other side of the globe made a spectacular
newspaper item. A broken leg next
door engrossed me and called out all my
resources. We have all had the experience
and, on first reflection, have called ourselves
selfish brutes. But I believe that
is an error. Helpful sympathy waits on
knowledge and proportions itself by this
rather than by objective need. The sufferings
of China are known to us only abstractly
and in outline, and only in outline<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">52</span>
can our sympathies be accorded. But a
case which comes under our immediate inspection,
disclosing all its significant details,
is a different matter and lays upon us
a claim of giving which the other rightly
does not. Nearness counts. Knowledge
heightens obligation. I would not defend
absorption in our narrow circle. I have
just been urging the constant enlargement
of sympathetic knowledge. But we should
never ignore the fact that the unknown is
not as the known and that only in proportion
as we know can we advantageously
help.</p>

<p>Through overlooking these necessary limitations
of human sympathy the Stoics were
led to denounce patriotism. We should
honor man as man. Why, then, regard
an American sufferer more than a Chinese?
Because he is my countryman. But that
rests philanthropy on selfishness and makes
the needy person’s relation to me of more
consequence than his suffering. The notion
of patriotism which masquerades as a
virtue should be denounced as a vice. All
will recognize in such an argument a valuable
protest against narrowness. But few
will accept the principle on which it rests.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">53</span>
All men are not alike. Relation to me does
constitute a special moral claim. Shall I
treat my mother as I would any other old
lady, as the apple woman at the corner?
I say no; and the ground of different treatment
I do not find in selfishness but in
superior knowledge. I have known my
mother ever since I was born. In early
years she studied my needs and now she is
my special charge. I comprehend what
she requires in heart, mind, and person as
I can comprehend those of no other woman.
It is at least uneconomical to lay aside all
this equipment for service and give her
only the care a stranger might receive from
me. The family tie means something. The
tie of country means something. I know
the habits of thought, the half-conscious
turns of feeling, of my own people. In
understanding a person of another nation
I go about so far, and then run up against
a brick wall, beyond which all is blind.
This measure of possible understanding is
the measure of duty. Knowledge forms
one of the two conditions of giving grounded
in the nature of the giver.</p>

<p>Such are the conditions which the modern
mind would set upon giving. Our<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">54</span>
fathers paid little attention to them. Giving
was in their eyes the crowning virtue
and they were unwilling to shut it within
bounds. Wherever need appeared they
urged one another to meet it with charity,
pretty indifferent to considerations of
knowledge, ability, or social result. The
altruistic purpose was so admirable that it
seemed to require no scrutiny in application.
But we are not content to leave anything
uncriticised and have endeavored to
rationalize even giving. Not altogether
with success, however. On examining
closely the conditions I have assembled,
certain inner conflicts will be noticed.
Take, for example, the case of need; when
another’s need is greatest my ability is
least. Ability does not accompany need,
increasing with its increase, but tends either
to remain stationary or to fall behind as
need grows. A somewhat similar conflict
is unavoidable between knowledge and
numbers. I have shown that as numbers
grow large they become empty ciphers.
The mind cannot grasp their human and
detailed significance. Regrettable as this
fact is, we had better recognize it as inevitable,
accepting as our particular charge<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">55</span>
those instances of need which lie sufficiently
near for careful inspection and leaving the
more vast and distant to be cared for by
special experts, supplied with our means
but not our ignorance. Much of our best
charity must be exercised by deputy.</p>

<p>The fact that gifts cannot be entirely
rationalized suggests a doubt whether they
can form more than a subordinate instrument
for expressing altruism. By what
means can their defects be remedied? To
answering such questions the next chapter
will be devoted.</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">56</span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="CHAPTER_IV" class="vspace">CHAPTER IV<br />

<span class="subhead">DEFECTS OF GIVING</span></h2>
</div>

<p>A colleague of mine, an excellent classical
scholar, received by bequest an admirable
collection of Latin authors. In the
writers themselves, in the choice editions,
and the appropriate bindings he took extreme
pleasure. When talking with him
about them one day I asked what he intended
to do with the books at his death.
Would he have them given to another
Latinist as fine as himself? Or would he
have them go to some college library where
any one might use them? He said the
question had often puzzled him, but he had
finally decided to send them to the auction-room.
They were books he had so much
loved that he could not bear to have them
fall into unappreciative hands. If he gave
them away, what warrant had he that they
would be prized? If they were sold, nobody
would obtain one unless he were willing
to get it by some sacrifice. This was
not a case where generosity could be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">57</span>
trusted. Probably the matter could be
more wisely settled by self-interest.</p>

<p>This instance makes evident the uncertain
character of giving. However superior
in altruistic fulness gifts are to
manners, they are unfit, unless supplemented
by some other principle, to form a
practical rule of life. Let us examine them
in detail and see wherein they fail to embody
complete altruism. In their very
nature I find them to be exceptional, irrational,
and condescending; and I will
briefly explain each of these points.</p>

<p>Giving is occasional and fragmentary. It
cannot occupy a life. The great body of
our time and attention must be directed
upon individual interests. I rise in the
morning after eight hours of sleep, go downstairs
to breakfast, take my walk for the
needed morning exercise, on returning look
over my mail and the morning paper, turn
to my studies, to my meals, to calling on a
friend. It is all egoistic. No doubt during
the day I am repeatedly summoned to attend
to other people’s affairs. Begging
letters, interruptions, engagements of a
public and business nature are not absent.
They intervene and stand out isolated in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">58</span>
my egoistic day. No doubt, too, most of
my occupation with myself—in sleep, food,
exercise, study—is a necessary preparation
for social service. All I am urging is that
social service cannot stand alone. It requires
a large individualistic background.
The care one gives to others is occasional,
one might even say exceptional. In order
to be able to meet it, our primary and preponderant
care must be given to ourselves.
Such a thing as interest in altruistic giving,
separate from personal gain and established
as an independent guiding principle,
is altogether impossible. Only at intervals
comes the generous act; in general, we are
busied with our own affairs.</p>

<p>On this inseparability of egoism and
altruism I received excellent instruction
many years ago out of the mouth of babes
and sucklings. A couple of little children,
a girl of four and a boy of five years old,
had just been tucked into their beds. Their
mother in the next room heard them talking.
Listening to learn if they needed anything,
she found them discussing one of
the vast problems for which the infant
mind seems to have a natural affinity.
They were inquiring why we were ever put<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">59</span>
into the world. The little girl suggested
we might have been sent here to help
others. “Why no, indeed, Mabel,” was
her big brother’s reply. “Of course not;
for then what would others be here for?”
Pertinent reflection, putting the answer to
one-sided altruism into a nutshell! If our
own affairs are worthless, why suppose they
can be of worth to others? It is no kindness
to bestow on another what has never
been found good for ourselves. A gift
should cost something. Something properly
valued by us we part with for another’s
sake. A strong egoistic sense, then,
is a condition of altruistic action. The
latter cannot cover the whole of a life.
No man is benevolent all the time, but exceptionally,
at intervals, when regard for
himself may safely be withdrawn.</p>

<p>A graver defect of giving is its arbitrary
character. Our reformers have been attempting
to rationalize charity and certainly
have devised methods by which
some of its worst evils may be lessened.
But until they stop it altogether they will
not rid it of irrational wilfulness. One
would say that in kind and degree my
gift should answer another’s reasonable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">60</span>
claim. But it never does. A just claim
renders a gift impossible. Gifts come from
a region outside claims, outside rational
justification. They are the expression of
arbitrary will. I give because I want to,
and the other knows he has no right
beyond my inclination to what he is receiving.
Were there legitimate grounds
for my pretended gift it would be merely
the payment of a debt and would afford
no such pleasure as does the over-and-above
of a gift. A clerk may have satisfaction
in his salary, but his feeling on
receiving his employer’s gift is something
altogether different. The gift dropped
from the sky. He had no idea it was coming.
He really had done nothing to deserve
it. Others might have had it equally
well, but by some fancy he had been picked
out for enrichment. It is this unexpectedness,
this incalculability, which makes a gift
so good. Gifts at Christmas, which have
been systematized, are of a paler order.
Even in these there is usually uncertainty
enough left to keep them agreeable. Our
regular giver may decide to give elsewhere
this year, he may forget; what he will select
we cannot guess. The important part of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">61</span>
the gift is not its intrinsic worth but its expression
of the giver’s will. Gladness over
the former springs from greed, over the
latter from gratitude. This arbitrary will
on the giver’s part and the absence of
claim in the receiver make a reasonable
gift hard to conceive. To be a gift at all
it must be capricious, undeserved, and only
occasional.</p>

<p>But there is a feature of giving more
obnoxious than either of these two, yet no
less deeply rooted in giving than exceptionality
and caprice. A gift has always
something disparaging about it. It professes
to honor, but deep in the heart of it
there is disparagement, condescension at
least. I declare another to be better than
myself, preferring that he shall be the
owner of something prized by me. Yet in
reality I retain the superior position myself
and make the one whom I honor my
dependent. Rightly did Jesus say: “It is
more blessed to give than to receive.” How
could it be otherwise? The giver is the
wealthy man, the man of power and preference;
the receiver confessedly the man of
need, passive to another’s will. The very
attempt, then, that I make to raise him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">62</span>
up and provide him with something acceptable
from my store sets him beneath
me. He lacks, I abound. At the very
moment when turning to him I say: “I
prefer you to myself and desire that you
rather than I should possess this,” I am
really also saying: “But by all right it
belongs to me and I part with it as its and
your superior.” However glad, therefore,
we may be to get our wants supplied, a
disagreeable taste is apt to lurk about the
acceptance of a gift. A good share of
humility is required of one who will be an
altogether happy receiver, a contented inferior.
Our age has discovered this and
has grown restive over charity. It would
seem that in past ages those who lacked
the things that make life worth living stood
with outstretched hands to receive them
from their rightful owners, and that those
who owned counted it a prerogative of
their station thus to assist their inferiors.
But this humble attitude of the needy is
disappearing, together with many other
traditions of aristocratic days. Our poorer
classes now have too much self-respect to
be at ease in such relations. Certainly the
poor to-day are vastly better off than at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">63</span>
any other period of the world’s history, yet
never more discontented. The new self-respect
which has come with easier conditions
makes them resent charity and
dependence. “Give us what belongs to
us,” they seem to say. “We want no
benevolence. If a better living should be
ours, we will take it as of right but not by
favor. We stand on our own feet, acknowledging
inferiority to no man.” This rejection
of charity on grounds of self-respect
is not uncommon to-day. I have met it in
administering the little trust for the benefit
of students of which I spoke. And though
I do not altogether sympathize with it, I
see in it much to honor.</p>

<p>Such are the possible humiliations of the
receiver. But the giver is exposed to
dangers hardly less. His gifts may be selfish
rather than generous. Few pleasures
are greater than giving. In it we feel our
power and catch a sense of the creative
efficiency of our will. One often gives for
the sake of indulging this self-assertion,
with small regard for the receiver. Then
too, while a true gift costs the giver something,
he who gives out of his abundance
may hardly feel the loss, though feeling full<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">64</span>
well the glow of raising the helpless to
prosperity. That glow is by no means
reprehensible. It is one of our purest
pleasures.</p>

<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“All earthly joys go less<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To the one joy of doing kindnesses.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>But it should not be reckoned as generosity.
Should we not, too, in estimating
the altruistic worth of gifts deduct the
many seeming gifts which are prompted by
shame? When asked for a subscription, I
cannot well refuse and continue to hold my
place in public esteem. <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Noblesse oblige.</i>
One must pay for dignity. It will not do,
then, to assume that giving is always an
altruistic act. It may be. Yet even where
it is genuinely addressed to improving the
condition of some needy person, the danger
is not absent of lowering the independence
of that other, of making him through our
will our conscious inferior, and accordingly
implying disparagement in our very bounty.
If in giving we always keep the better end
of the transaction for ourselves and hand
the poorer to another, few adjustments of
social life will call for more tact.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">65</span>
Yet we are all of us receivers and generally
manage to be such without loss of
dignity. Under what circumstances may
we and may we not preserve our self-respect
and still take money? If a stranger passing
me on the street hands me a five-dollar
bill, I should feel myself disgraced if it
went into my pocket. If one I did not
know wrote from a distant State his enjoyment
of a book of mine, enclosing a
check, I should return the check. If finding
a person in distress and helping him he
offered me money, I should refuse it. Independence
is dear to most of us and we
do not care to part with it on grounds so
casual. This is the condemnation of “tipping,”
that abominable practice introduced
from countries more servile than ours. It
cheapens him who gives and him who
takes. I see only four occasions where the
acceptance of money is compatible with
manhood.</p>

<p>Where misery is so abject that self-help
is impossible it is no disgrace to confess
inferiority and lean on a supporting arm.
Only we must insist that as strength returns
the arm be withdrawn. Permanent
invalidism is an insidious danger. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">66</span>
second and best accredited ground for
taking money honorably is that of money
earned. Here I give as much as I receive.
Each of the two parties at some cost gets
what he desires and each gives with reference
to another’s need. No doubt there
are degrees of dignity in the work done.
If as a physician I sell intellectual power
and special knowledge, I am naturally
honored more than if as a day laborer I
sell only physical exertion. But work and
wages are in themselves honorable, so that
if ten cents is of more consequence to me
than getting my hands dirty, I am not disgraced
by blacking another man’s shoes.</p>

<p>A third case is of almost equal importance,
though more complicated and more
liable to error. We may accept money in
trust, receiving it from an individual and
returning its results to the public. I have
already spoken of this in connection with
scholarship aids. Aids for advanced research,
whether from the government or
private foundations, are of the same nature.
To be selected for such aid is a high
honor, justified, however, only by the receiver’s
proving himself a good transmitter.
He should regard the money as given not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">67</span>
to him but through him and be sure that
ultimately it reaches some mark other than
himself. This may be accomplished by returning
an equal sum to the source from
which the aid came, by helping some other
person equally needy, or by dedicating to
public service powers raised by such aid
from ordinary to superior rank. Equivalence
should be brought about. In some
way the one benefited should put back
what he has received. If he allows it to
stick in himself, untransmitted, he is disgraced.</p>

<p>I reserve to the last the completest
ground of acceptance, love. Where love
is, there is no superior or inferior, no giver
or receiver. The two make up a conjunct
self with mutual gain. Or shall we say
that he who loves delights to think of himself
as inferior, prides himself on it, and
would be ashamed not to look up in glowing
dependence? To him, therefore, gifts
bring no disparagement, but happy gratitude.
In such unabashed dependence most
of us spent our early years. And if as we
grew strong fewer gifts of money came to
us, their place was taken by loving tokens
more subtle, more pervasive, and coming<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">68</span>
from more sources. Possibly we may say
that only love and exchange make the taking
of money permissible, and that my first
and third grounds are only special cases of
these two. It has been well said that there
can be true giving only where the two
parties ideally change places: the giver so
putting himself in the receiver’s place that
he feels the afforded relief a personal gain;
and the receiver sharing the pleasure which
under the circumstances the giver must
feel. There is always, however, a difference
in the way we accept what comes by
exchange and what comes by love. In the
former our thought is fixed on what is received,
in the latter on him who gave.</p>

<p>Such are the characteristics of the second
stage of altruism. I proposed to study
that great principle from three points of
view which would show the successive steps
by which, without injury to the individual,
it goes on to completeness. At the very
beginning of life, and ever after, we are
called on to pay attention to others and to
subject ourselves to restrictions for their
sake. We find ourselves related or conjunct
beings, and on our frank acceptance
of these relations our power and peace depend.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">69</span>
Without the restraints of manners
life would be, as Hobbes said, “solitary,
poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” But the
ever-present altruism here is imperfect because
primarily dictated by the desire to
protect ourselves. The separate self and
the conjunct self are not necessarily united
in manners. The form of altruism may be
kept for protective purposes when there is
nothing of it within.</p>

<p>The next higher stage, however, starts
from within, the giver seeking to promote
another’s welfare at the cost of his own.
But there is always uncertainty in accomplishing
this; it extends at best only to
brief portions of life, is impossible wherever
rational claim enters, and never escapes a
suggestion of haughty disparagement. The
trouble in both of these stages is, after all,
the same. <em>Alter</em> and <em>ego</em> have been conceived
as distinct, and getting has been
separated from giving. But surely this is
unnecessary. There are mutual situations
in life where each of two parties is at once
giver and receiver. The single self may be
entirely at one with the conjunct, the conjunct
with the single. Only so in mutuality
can altruism become complete. To explaining<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">70</span>
this curious situation I shall devote
my remaining chapters. But before
doing so I wish to turn back and make
atonement for a certain erroneous light in
which I have placed these earlier stages.</p>

<p>When I was analyzing manners my readers
must have felt that those are not the
manners with which they are familiar.
They have never felt the need of barriers
between friends or thought of manners as
a protective agency. Nor in gifts have
they come upon my perplexities. Giving
and receiving have seemed to them matters
usual and pleasant, and no notion of superiority
or inferiority has entered their
heads.</p>

<p>No doubt this is a more frequent experience
than that just described. Yet my
account is correct and important. It
states the minimum of altruism which
necessarily enters into manners, what they
are when taken by themselves and unaffected
by any higher range of our being.
As soon as we become acquainted with giving,
it reacts on this earlier stage and fills
it with new meaning. Egoistic elements
are softened. Manners are used as an opportunity
for tactful giving. An atmosphere<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">71</span>
of kindness takes the place of restraint,
the formal manners I have described
being reserved for formal occasions.
Fortunately this higher civilization is now
wide-spread. Yet we can still detect what
I would call the guarded manners of some
persons and set them in contrast to the
generous manners of others. People of
guarded manners are ever mindful of their
own dignity, hold themselves somewhat
aloof, and make much of punctilio. Those
of generous manners are ready to spend
themselves freely for the pleasure of those
about them and seem able to save any occasion
from dulness with their stores of
information, wit, song, and lively anecdote.
These persons look after those less accustomed
to society and unobtrusively help
them on. But even their admirable work
is exceeded by those accustomed to mutuality.
These give us no impression of wealthy
persons imparting to us their stores. Their
work is quieter. Their manners might be
called friendly. They set every one at
ease and do not so much give as share,
appearing as much interested in our affairs
as we could be in theirs. In their
presence we are simpler, cleverer, and less<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span>
provincial than we had believed ourselves
to be.</p>

<p>In a similar way, under the influence of
mutuality gifts become transformed. Condescension
disappears. The favor is on
both sides. A giver has enjoyed something
so much that he wants his pleasure
shared. Will we take part with him?
There is no stooping, no handing down to
one below. The two parties are on a level,
joined in a mutual act. “Will you do me
the favor to accept this?” is both the language
and the feeling of the giver.</p>

<p>Matters of every-day life, so familiar that
we seldom reflect on them, I have attempted
in the preceding chapters to analyze with
something like scientific precision. By so
doing I have turned them into almost unrecognizable
abstractions. In closing, I
should like to restore them to their rightful
color, and I have searched for a passage
which might present the approach of man
to man just as we daily see it, with an intimate
blending of all three varieties of
altruism—pure manners, giving, and mutuality.
In a passage from the Eighth
Discourse of Cardinal Newman’s <cite>Idea of
a University</cite> I find what I want, expressed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">73</span>
in language of extraordinary refinement
and accuracy. It will be noticed what
prominence he gives to the negative function
of manners, how in depicting generosity
he sees the danger of condescension,
and how he finds the crowning excellence of
manners in that self-forgetting mutuality
which sets all at their ease.</p>

<p>“The true gentleman carefully avoids
whatever may cause a jar or a jolt in the
minds of those with whom he is cast: all
clashing of opinion, or collision of feeling,
all restraint or suspicion or gloom or resentment;
his great concern being to make
every one at their ease and at home. He
has his eyes on all his company: he is
tender toward the bashful, gentle toward
the distant, and merciful toward the absurd.
He can recollect to whom he is
speaking. He guards against unseasonable
allusions or topics which may irritate.
He is seldom prominent in conversation
and never wearisome. He makes fight of
favors while he does them and seems to be
receiving when he is conferring. He never
speaks of himself except when compelled,
never defends himself by a mere retort;
he has no ears for slander or gossip, is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span>
scrupulous in imputing motives to those
who interfere with him, and interprets
everything for the best. He is never mean
or little in his disputes, never takes unfair
advantage, never mistakes personalities or
sharp sayings for arguments, or insinuates
evil which he dare not say out. From a
long-sighted prudence he observes the
maxim of the ancient sage, that we should
ever conduct ourselves toward our enemy
as if he were one day to be our friend. He
has too much sense to be affronted at insults,
he is too well employed to remember
injuries, and too indolent to bear malice.
He is patient, forbearing, and resigned on
philosophical principles: he submits to pain
because it is inevitable, to bereavement because
it is irreparable, and to death because
it is destiny. If he engage in controversy
of any kind, his disciplined intellect preserves
him from the blundering discourtesy
of better perhaps, but less educated, minds
who, like blunt weapons, tear and hack instead
of cutting clean, who mistake the
point in argument, waste their strength on
trifles, misconceive the adversary, and leave
the question more involved than they
found it.”</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="CHAPTER_V" class="vspace">CHAPTER V<br />

<span class="subhead">MUTUALITY</span></h2>
</div>

<p>We have now clearly before us the two
imperfect varieties of altruism. While both
recognize and honor man’s relation to
man, from neither is regard for the separate
self excluded. Each may as well be
prompted by an egoistic aim as by an altruistic.
For though in manners we minutely
consider how we may save another
from annoyance it is always with the understanding
that we are thus ourselves
protected. Nor does giving escape a similar
self-regard. We cannot make a gift without
implying that the receiver has no right
to it, without bringing him into dependence,
therefore, on our will as his superior.
Giving, too, can only intermittently take
the place of attention to our own good. It
would exhaust itself otherwise. Jesus is
reported to have spent thirty years in acquisition,
less than three in benefaction.
Indeed, unless we heartily valued our own
possessions, pleasures, and growth we could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span>
never count them fit to constitute gifts.
It is not strange, then, that to the natural
childlike mind manners are unwelcome
and that to the disciplined reflective mind
gifts are obnoxious. It is true that these
disagreeable features are softened as higher
altruistic stages throw back an influence
over the lower; the mind disposed to give,
for example, transforming guarded manners
into generous, or even if trained in mutuality,
making them friendly and cordial. In
a similar manner, where the conjunct self
has taken the place of the separate the
proud giver is superseded by the delicate
giver. But these facts only make plain
the incompleteness of manners and giving
when taken by themselves, and demonstrate
that altruism to be really known
must be studied in that highest stage to
which I have given the name of mutuality.
To this intricate and important study I
now turn.</p>

<p>Giving fails to reach the altruism it seeks
because its generosity is confined to one of
the two parties engaged, while to the other
is assigned the inferior position of egoistic
receiver. But is this necessary? May we
not conceive of a gift without this blemish,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span>
a giving in which each side gives to the
other, thus joining giving and getting, and
abolishing all inferiority? To show how
this may be I am obliged to enter into more
detail than in explaining simpler moral situations.
I will, accordingly, offer a general
definition of mutuality and then take
up the successively completer forms in
which it is realized.</p>

<p>By mutuality, then, I mean the recognition
of another and myself as inseparable
elements of one another, each being essential
to the welfare of each. This duality
of giving has always been recognized as ennobling.
Even Jesus did not seek simply
to give, but to induce in those to whom he
gave a similar disposition. Rightly is it
counted higher than simple giving, including,
as it does, all which that contains and
more.</p>

<p>Such mutuality is most familiar to us
in certain cases which for convenience I
group together under the name of partnership.
In a partnership a specific field is
marked out within which persons agree to
consider certain of their interests common.
When Brown and I form a firm for the sale
of shoes it is understood that thenceforth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span>
he and I have no separate interest so far
as shoes are concerned. The stock in the
store does not belong to him or to me; and
if some one seeing money in the drawer
should ask whose it was, I should have to
answer, “It is not mine,” and Brown
would similarly disown it. It would be
ours. All his would be mine and mine his.
Usual thought and speech would require
considerable readjustment to fit a condition
so new. “I” and “he” would pass
largely out of use as no longer of practical
significance, “we” taking the place of
these separate symbols. “Together” would
acquire a more intimate and compulsive
meaning. Accordingly, if on some bright
morning I were inclined to go shooting instead
of appearing at the office at my usual
hour, I should know I had no right to
the sport without Brown’s concurrence,
my time being no longer mine. Mutuality
would everywhere supersede private control.
All this is familiar enough. Nobody
finds it hard to comprehend. But when the
moralist urges that higher life is possible
only as the separate self becomes merged
in a conjunct, it sounds mysterious and
seems little likely to occur.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span>
But the partnership principle is wider
than the business firm. In some degree it
enters into every bargain. Buyer and
seller establish a kind of mutuality. Suppose
a customer on coming to my store and
putting down his five dollars for a pair of
shoes should suddenly bethink himself and
say: “I wonder if you are not cheating
me. That pair of shoes cost you not more
than four dollars and seventy-five cents.
By your price you are taking twenty-five
cents more from my pocket than you are
delivering to me.” Might I not answer:
“It seems to me it is you who are cheating
me. You need those shoes more than you
need five dollars. You would give five
dollars and a quarter rather than go without
them. Are you not, then, returning to
my pocket twenty-five cents less than you
are receiving?” In reality neither of us
has cheated. We have merely made a
legitimate profit from one another. Such
mutual profit is involved in all good bargaining.
It yields a double gain. I gain
from my customer and he from me, and
both are left in better condition than before.
If he had not cared more for the
shoes than for five dollars he would not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span>
have come to my store. If I had not
counted five dollars of greater worth to
me than the shoes I should not have
parted with them. A curious situation
this, where two persons draw advantage
from one another! But every sound commercial
transaction proceeds on this assumption.
In all honest trade there is a
gainful partnership.</p>

<p>In my last chapter, after discussing gifts,
charity, and the generous soul, I promised
to turn to a moral situation higher still,
one of purer altruism. Are we then keeping
to the order proposed? Can we suppose
that a commercial transaction is of
a higher order than an act of charity? I
believe we can. As we look over the history
of civilization we certainly find gifts
understood long before trade. The savage
is a not ungenerous person. When he
takes a fancy to any one he gives pretty
freely, not, of course, through any claim
or duty but merely in deference to his
native feeling. What he cannot conceive
is the double gift, a transaction in which
each is a gainer. He is ready enough to
strip himself of advantage in behalf of one
whom he likes and is pleased when he, too,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span>
receives a gift; but that one and the same
act can yield a mutual gain he apprehends
slowly and rudely. Yet on just this condition
of mutuality all honest trade is
based. It is true I must add the adjective
“honest.” One can deceive under the
forms of trade as readily as under any
other forms. They shelter deception well.
In dealing with a customer I may have
some special information about the quality
of an article which he does not possess.
He is therefore at a disadvantage. No one
would maintain that all the operations of
commerce are of a higher moral order than
charity; but it may be said that every
<em>honest</em> mercantile transaction shows altruism
of a more thoroughgoing kind than a
gift does.</p>

<p>This may be made plainer by a contrasted
vice. Living long among college
students and observing their natural pleasure
in all sorts of moral experimentation, I
have come to believe gambling the vice
most likely to wreck character. All forms
of vice are bad enough. It is shocking to
see a young man drunk. But drunkenness
grows steadily rarer, and, after all, a drinker
remains pretty much himself when the fit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span>
is off. I have had friends of this sort who
when not in liquor showed the same interest
in worthy things as other men. But
when I see the gambling habit getting hold
of a young man I despair of him. For
several reasons it is unlikely he will be
good for much thereafter. Seldom does a
vice or virtue have only a single root. On
the one hand the gambler gives up rational
modes of guidance, ceases to calculate
clearly, lives on the unexpected, and looks
for some deliverance to drop from the
sky. A hectic anxiety takes possession of
him and disorganizes his life. But there
are results worse still. Gambling, in contrast
with honest trade, admits only a
single gain. I can gain nothing for myself
except by damaging another. I must
directly seek his harm. The tradesman
benefits himself through benefiting his customer.
His business is grounded on the
double gain. He draws profit, it is true,
from another man’s pocket, but he does
not, like the gambler, stop there. He puts
back into that pocket a little more than
the equivalent of what he took out. The
gambler breaks up this mutuality and lives
as a bandit by attack. Thus dehumanized<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span>
and shut up to his separate self he rots.
When trade allows the double gain to drop
out of sight, it too becomes gambling and
shows the same predatory tendencies. Honest
trade is a different matter. Its mutual
profit carries altruism through a community
more wholesomely than can any arbitrary
will.</p>

<p>But the partnership principle runs further
still. It is the cement which binds
together a multitude of groups. A ship’s
crew, a regiment of an army, stands in just
this mutual relationship. They represent
the will of no one of their members, yet no
one must detach his will from the whole.
A sailor cannot withdraw to-day because he
feels like reading, a soldier because the
coming attack is likely to cost his life. Under
anarchic influence something like this
was lately allowed the Russian soldier, and
the army ceased to be. It can exist only
as a conjunct affair. Our States were once
supposed to have established a Union; but
when South Carolina set up a separate will,
regardless of the rest, chaos came. How
transformed the youngster is when he goes
out with the baseball team! He does not
mind if he breaks his finger, covers himself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">84</span>
with dirt, or becomes utterly exhausted.
What does it matter if only the team wins?
There is no longer any <em>me</em>. He thinks in
conjunct terms. He will not shirk, take
himself away and leave the others to their
harm.</p>

<p>How far can such a notion of partnership
be carried? Evidently to all clubs whose
members recognize themselves as also members
one of another, each forming no decisions
of his own. Would it apply to
churches and learned societies? Not altogether,
I think. We have hitherto meant
by partnership a terminable union of specified
persons for a definite time and in
reference to a definite end. In scientific
societies, and especially in churches, we do
not limit numbers and usually expect the
union to be a permanent one. This indefiniteness
as regards time and persons is
no accident. It rightly belongs to unions
like these, which aim at developing personality.
A baseball team, a ship’s crew,
gather a specially trained company for a
particular end. When this end is attained
the union naturally ceases. Science and
righteousness are never attained, but appeal
without limitation. Perhaps, then,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">85</span>
such internal and personal associations
should not be classed as partnerships at
all, but that notion should be reserved for
unions of a more external and limited sort.</p>

<p>If I am right in this, it may help to
explain the hesitation many readers must
have felt over my eulogy of business methods
as examples of altruism. Certainly we
all know that commerce has a barbarous
side. Nowhere else among civilized human
beings does selfishness become so ruthless.
The possibility of this comes through two
limitations which partnership sets on mutuality.
When Brown and I established
our firm we limited the persons involved to
himself and me, and even we were to have
relations only so far as concerned the sale
of shoes. Within these two limits mutuality
was complete, but it did not extend
beyond. Supported thus by one another,
we two were able to contend with the rest
of the world as neither could alone. Together
we could push our interests with
little regard to the general interests of the
town. If other trades suffered, we need
not care so long as the shoe business flourished,
and still less need we care if our
prosperity crowded out of existence the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">86</span>
shoe store on the opposite side of the street.
Such clear limitation of an altruistic horizon
is always dangerous. In many restricted
unions the danger is noticeable. A family
warmly considerate of its own members
often shows small sympathy for persons
beyond its bounds. A ball club, a secret
society will practise trickeries on other
leagues which their members as individuals
would scorn. In trade, too, the matter is
made worse by a second limitation. My
partner and I understand that our mutuality
operates only with reference to the sale
of shoes. We do not merge our lives. We
keep a sharp line drawn between them and
our business. Possibly enough I may have
little respect for Brown. As a person I
may think so meanly of him that when he
suggests being asked to my house and
meeting my wife and children I find an
excuse for not inviting him. He is excellent
so far as selling shoes is concerned, but
personal relations are quite another thing.
Here again the narrowing of the field within
which mutuality operates lessens its dignity
and intensifies its aggressive power.</p>

<p>No wonder, then, we are apt to picture
trade as a conscienceless struggle of competitors<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">87</span>
for private gain. But the picture
is disproportionate and erroneous. Savagery
is possible here, but so is much else.
Commerce has a deep ethical ground and
wide ethical opportunities, co-operation being
as essential to it as competition. It
exists only through service to the community.
The mutual relations of partnership
are constantly being extended, single trades
organizing to promote their common interests,
and chambers of commerce overseeing
the business of a whole city. Those
who engage in trade are no less human
beings than their fellows and are continually
discovering that honorable and high-minded
methods of conducting business are
in the long run profitable. The very competitions
that arise are useful promoters of
efficiency, and the general government
stands ready in the background to fix
limits beyond which greed shall not go.
There are, in short, many circumstances in
the life of trade which to a good degree
neutralize the limitations which I have
pointed out in its application of the principle
of mutuality.</p>

<p>That principle, too, runs far beyond the
field of partnership. Partnership brings<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">88</span>
persons into mutual relations only with
reference to certain external ends. Brown
and I joined only those fragments of our
lives which were connected with the sale
of shoes. We might join extensive portions,
might merge not merely our occupations
but all our personal interests. In him I
might discover what contributes to my
best growth and he find no less in me. In
this way we should reach a new species of
existence to which the definition of mutuality
previously given would apply in a
higher sense. I should here recognize another
and myself as more completely constituent
members of one another, each being
essential to the welfare of each. Here
no new elements enter which were not included
in partnership. There as here identification
of interests appears, the abolition
of mine and thine, the double gain; only
here there is no restriction of the field.
The lives are identified throughout their
full depth and extent. They do not merely
collaborate for a specific purpose.</p>

<p>Such is the attitude of love, so familiar,
so mysterious, so potent in developing
whatever is best in us. In it both egoism
and altruism have ample room. If I loved<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">89</span>
Brown, I should not hesitate to own that I
sought him for my own advantage, though
I should also bid him to take of me all
he wanted—the more, the better. And I
should expect the same double response
from him. Edmund Spenser has stated the
matter with great precision in his “Hymn
in Honor of Beauty”:</p>

<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“For love is a celestial harmony<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of likely hearts composed of stars’ consent,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which join together in sweet sympathy<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To work each other’s joy and true content,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which they have harboured since their first descent<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Out of their heavenly bowers, where they did see<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And know each other here beloved to be.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Spenser intends by “harmony” what I
have meant by mutuality, something where
several different parts belong together and
reach their full significance in union. If the
two hearts are similar and each merely repeats
what the other contains, there is no
mutual profit. They must fit one another,
and in this fitting there is always something
of the unknown. They cannot of
themselves entirely create the union. The
“stars’ consent” must be added. Heaven<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">90</span>
must shine upon them. Spenser even suggests
that their adaptation to one another
is not begun in this world, but is merely
recognized here as having been ever of old.
Once known it brings them full content.</p>

<p>This, then, is the topic to which we now
turn. It is that which the ethical teachers
of every age have counted fundamental.
With Jesus it supersedes all else. Writers
as unlike as the Catholic statesman Augustine,
the Jew Spinoza, the Puritan Jonathan
Edwards see in love the fulfilment of
righteousness. “Love God and do as you
please,” says Augustine. It is something
we all experience and few understand. In
it there are paradoxes not found elsewhere.
Delicate analysis will be needed to bring
out all that it involves, to show, too, how
even here limitations creep in. To this
puzzling and attractive work I devote the
next chapter.</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">91</span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="CHAPTER_VI" class="vspace">CHAPTER VI<br />

<span class="subhead">LOVE</span></h2>
</div>

<p>In the <cite>Symposium of Plato</cite> Socrates is
made to say that he can profess knowledge
of only a single subject, love, but that
through acquaintance with this he has a
key to unlock all wisdom. And certainly
if Socrates understood love he deserves to
be reckoned among the wise. Few have
looked into it soberly. To those who are
not experiencing it, it is a jest; to those
who are, a blind passion. Novelists exploit
it for cash; poets, on the whole its most
serious students, too often for graceful
fancies. Saint Paul’s compact sentences
give more of its substance than can be had
in the same compass elsewhere. In undertaking
an analysis of it I believe I can best
fix attention on its more important ethical
features if I ask a series of simple questions
about it and then develop their complicated
answers.</p>

<p>(1) How does love differ from liking?
Quantitatively. The degree of emotion expressed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">92</span>
by love is out of all proportion to
that of liking. I love my friends and like
their surroundings; I like this gift and
love the giver. An exchange of terms in
either of these sentences would make moral
nonsense. Liking touches only the surface;
I like strawberries. Loving goes all
through; I love my old servant. Of course,
then, loving includes liking, though liking
may or may not be accompanied by loving;
and equally, of course, loose talkers, who
do not know what they mean, will try to
be impressive by using the weightier word.
I love automobiling, I love the opera, I love
ice-cream; these are all forms of silly exaggeration
which no one will seriously defend.</p>

<p>But there is a reason for this quantitative
difference. An additional factor enters
into love and greatly increases its depth.
Love always implies the possibility of the
loved one’s knowledge and his capacity for
response. It is applicable therefore primarily
to persons and the higher animals,
and only in a metaphoric way suits things.
No doubt the response often fails, but it
is always desired and sought. Love seeks
to establish a personal tie. No one ever
loved without wishing to be loved.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">93</span>
Furthermore, between love and liking
there is a sharp contrast of mental attitude.
In liking, my thoughts are on myself; in
loving, on another. I like whatever brings
me pleasure or profit. But Browning
rightly asks: “How can one love but what
he yearns to help?” That is, what we love
always seems to us to have such worth as
calls on us for protection and the offering
up of ourselves. To the lover it appears
august, superior, and supplemental to anything
possessed by himself. It fills him
with awe and a spirit of sacrifice. Spenser
addresses his lady as “My dear dread.”
There is nothing of this in liking. Our
thoughts are there fixed on ourselves,
heedless of the condition of whatever furnishes
us profit. Oxen we like, because
they supply our tables and till our fields.
What matter if in doing so they perish?
We tend the dog we love and do not let
him be harmed in our service. In short,
loving is our forthgoing toward one possessing
a worth preferred above our own;
liking, our feeling toward anything from
which we derive benefit, even though inferior
in general worth to ourselves.</p>

<p>On account of this difference love cannot<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">94</span>
be confined to persons. Seeing a little
girl tending her rose-bush and asking her
if she likes it, I shall probably receive the
indignant reply: “No, I love it.” She
means: “I think as much about giving to
it as of getting from it.” It would be improper
to ask a painter, a scholar, if he likes
his work. If he follows it for gain he is
untrue to it; he can really succeed only
when he loves it, <i>i.e.</i>, gives himself heartily
to it. In many cases, therefore, where
profit is abundant, it would be a kind of
impiety to speak of liking. I like my
mother, I like God. Certainly! None
gives ampler ground for liking. But for
that very reason my mind should be set
on the appropriate outgo in return. However
much the patriot may like his country,
<i>i.e.</i>, recognize the opportunities it affords
for life, he loves it more. Perhaps
in all these cases where impersonal beings
are loved we inwardly attribute personality
to them and feel that we receive from
them as much love as we give.</p>

<p>For that is an essential in love: it contemplates
mutuality. The loved one looks
up to the lover as truly as the lover does
to the loved. Each counts himself inferior
and only through the other capable of possessing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">95</span>
worth. “She is my essence and I
leave to be, if I be not through her fair
influence,” says Shakespeare’s Valentine;
and had love reached its completion, Sylvia
would have expressed no less. This double
action is characteristic of love, while liking
has only a single end. If we will speak accurately,
then, we shall acknowledge that
the real object loved is neither member of
the pair but just this mutuality, the “togetherness,”
which blots out regard for any
separate self and fills each with passion for
the conjunct. “To the desire and pursuit
of the whole the name of love is given,”
says Plato in the <cite>Symposium</cite>. In his
“Clasping of Hands” George Herbert
charmingly develops the puzzling reciprocity
of love when he tries to comprehend
his relation to God:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">96</span></p><div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Lord, thou art mine, and I am thine<br /></span>
<span class="i2">If mine I am; and thine much more<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Than I or ought or can be mine.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Yet to be thine doth me restore,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So that again I now am mine,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And with advantage mine the more,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Since this being mine brings with it thine,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And thou with me dost thee restore.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If I without thee would be mine,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I neither should be mine nor thine.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Lord, I am thine, and thou art mine;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So mine thou art that something more<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I may presume thee mine than thine.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For thou didst suffer to restore<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Not thee, but me, and to be mine,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And with advantage mine the more;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Since thou in death wast none of thine,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Yet then as mine didst me restore.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh be mine still! Still make me thine!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or rather make no thine and mine!”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>Of course such a poem can have only
two stanzas, and these must closely parallel
each other in every part. The resulting
definition of love, making it the completed
form of mutuality, would run as follows:
love is the joint service of a common life.</p>

<p>(2) Is the lover, then, an unselfish person
and does altruism, here reaching its highest
pitch, exclude all egoistic regard? On
the contrary, it includes and magnifies it.
I have said that love always involves liking,
the knowledge that an object has
brought me gain and is capable of bringing
more. In his loved one the lover knows a
source of incomparable joy. Were his lady
once his, it would matter little what else
might happen. Never before has he conceived
a good so great, and he knows that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">97</span>
hardships shared with her would be better
than the most favorable fortune alone. He
is therefore an eager seeker. Such a passion
to possess is seen in no one else. Yet
the opposite may be said with equal truth.
He has lost all selfishness. No one is so
generous as he, so ready for self-sacrifice.
To please and benefit the loved one is all
his care. Let what he gives have cost him
little, and he is dissatisfied. He longs to
suffer for her sake. These are not marks of
self-seeking. But they do indicate that
the lover has reached a new conception of
self, for which he is even more ardent than
ever he was for the old. That old separate
self he now despises, and knows that only
as he loses it in the loved one will he have
any worth. Until he has thoroughly cut
himself off from his own detached interests
he will be unworthy of her. A scrap of
Persian verse, translated by Bronson Alcott,
states the matter well: “One knocked
at the beloved’s door, and a voice asked
from within, ‘Who is there?’ And he answered,
‘It is I.’ Then the voice said,
‘This room will not hold me and thee’;
and the door was not opened. Then went
the lover into the desert, and fasted and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">98</span>
prayed in solitude. And after a year he
returned and knocked again at the door.
And again the voice asked, ‘Who is there?’
And he said, ‘It is thyself.’ And the
door was opened to him.” In the mutuality
of love egoism and altruism are
reconciled. Each of the lovers acquires a
new apprehension of self, which conjunct
being bears in the mind of each the name
of the beloved.</p>

<p>(3) Is the lover in his own estimate rich
or poor? Incredibly rich in what he has
received, but in comparison with his lady
how poor! She is immeasurably his superior.
How she stooped so low is his
daily wonder. But his own inferiority does
not disturb him. “Love envieth not. Is
not easily puffed up.” On the contrary, he
rejoices in emptying himself and seeing
how all that is worth while in him proceeds
from her. Yet the lover is a paradoxical
fellow, full of contradictions and scorning
consistency. He prizes himself as he never
did before and daily takes on a new importance.
Never till he loved was he so
watchful of his looks, speech, clothes,
manners. What he brings to her must be
of the finest, and he is pleased to discover<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">99</span>
in himself excellences hitherto unsuspected
which she may well accept. Tennyson well
paints the aspiring lover in “Maud”:</p>

<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“So dark a mind within me dwells,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And I make myself such evil cheer<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That if I be dear to some one else<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then some one else may have much to fear.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But if I be dear to some one else,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then I should be to myself more dear.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shall I not care for all that I think,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yea, even for wretched meat and drink,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If I be dear, if I be dear, to some one else?”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>

<p>(4) When once established, is love permanent?
Certainly not. Being a personal
affair it has no routine fixity, but
must continually be created afresh. Effort
is in it, intention, readiness to put aside
temporary fancies and to practise a loyal
patience. It is true that in the wise these
practices themselves become habitual and
love therefore a matter of happy course.
No action is excellent which ceases when
not consciously pressed. From the quiet
of assured love old lovers look back on the
anxious fervors of early days and acknowledge
them meagre and immature. Yet
still within call they keep the resolute will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">100</span>
and guard against decay. For just as my
readers find it difficult to hold the thought
of the conjunct self steadily in mind and
are obliged to resist its tendency to disintegrate
into separate selves, so do lovers
also. By degrees the sense of mutuality
may decline, independent interests arise,
and then one of the lower altruistic forms
may take the place of this its highest. A
pair may feel themselves drawing apart
and, finding less and less in common, may
gradually content themselves with a kind of
partnership in place of love. Or one, disturbed
over the breach of affection, may
seek to repair it by acts of generosity. He
may be liberal in granting his company,
his friendly cheer, to the slightly distant
loved one. But that, too, is a slipping
down. The two are then no longer in
equality. Perfect love knows no giving.
What is there to give? All mine is thine,
all thine is mine. Together we share, not
give. But as we detach ourselves little by
little, the old separate self comes back and
we hand something across the chasm. How
sad when exuberant love thus declines into
intentional giving, altering “because it
alteration finds and bending with the remover<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">101</span>
to remove”! But sadder still is it
when to formerly abundant love the guarded
altruism of manners succeeds and each is
satisfied to treat the other with watchful
politeness. This is the last stopping-place
before confessed bankruptcy.</p>

<p>(5) But is not love always open to repair
through duty? Being the highest
embodiment of morality it would naturally
seem peculiarly alive to duty. But the
very opposite is the case. It has, in fact, a
strange aversion to duty. Any suspicion
that we are expected to love a certain person
alienates us from him. We cannot
force ourselves to love even when we see
it to be desirable; nor can we expel love
when we find it unreturned or unworthy.
Love insists on freedom, a certain absence
of constraint, either from a person, from
circumstance, from collateral advantages, or
even from our own volition. Like giving,
it recognizes no claim. “Love is a present
to a mighty king,” says Herbert. It cannot
be bought or sold. But though so little
submissive to obligation, it is highly
sensitive to suggestion and unclamorous
appeal. Indeed, it soon perishes when
fresh suggestion is withheld. Indirectly,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">102</span>
therefore, and accepting time for an ally,
we can control love. I have repeatedly
spoken of intention, rational guidance, resourceful
care, as necessities if we would
have a wise and lasting love. Those who
complain of its decay have generally themselves
to blame. They have imagined it
constituted once for all and, while they
would be glad to have it continue, have
taken little pains for that fresh renewal on
which its life is staked. “Keep on courting,”
said a sagacious mother to a young
bridegroom on his wedding-day. And
what has here been said of marital love
applies also, with adaptations, to the love of
God and the love of our fellow men. Nowhere
will love submit to the direct command
of duty. But indirectly, gradually,
through suggestion and considerate modes
of approach, it is well within our control.
The Golden Rule, bidding us love God and
our neighbor, is not a psychological blunder.</p>

<p>(6) How does friendship differ from
love? Like love, it differs from partnership
through having an entirely personal
basis. Within its limits partnership is as
genuinely mutual as love itself, but its
mutuality refers to ends outside the personal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">103</span>
lives. These remain detached and
individual, merely co-operating for a time
to accomplish an external purpose. In
both love and friendship the personalities
merge. Their interests become identified,
so that one of the parties without the other
is but a fragmentary being.</p>

<p>But friendship differs from love in the
degree of intensity of its emotion and in
the extent of the tract of life covered. In
these respects it more nearly resembles
liking. We all know how slight a friendly
feeling may be, even when entirely genuine.
This is because of the well-recognized
limits of friendship, limits sometimes narrow,
sometimes broad. I take John for my
friend on account of his wit, James for his
scholarship, Henry for discussion of art,
Charles for theology. Outside these matters
we have little in common. If I try to
introduce these friends to other sides of
me, I know that our friendship would be
strained. Love knows no such limits. In
it there is no holding back. There the more
we give the more we have. Not that in
friendship we set up such limits by our
own volition, as is done in partnership.
The limits are ingrained in the persons,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">104</span>
and beyond them we know it is futile to
press. When two natures have certain
sides that fit, to the advantage of each, a
friendship springs up. But how embarrassing
when some friend whom we greatly
value has limitations which oblige us to
pause and he, not perceiving them, attributes
to our adverse will the failure in
full mutual accord! Because of its narrow
bounds and because it is sought for individual
gain, friendship is of far wider
currency than love. We make and drop
our friendships with comparative ease,
hardly from the first expecting them to be
lasting. But a love to which we contemplated
an end, either in extent or duration,
would be already ended. The Greeks
justly eulogized friendship as our best security
in an uncertain world. And, obviously,
he is imprudent who does not surround
himself with a protecting band of
friends.</p>

<p>Let me, in closing this section, call attention
to these varieties of personal contact,
all of which are desirable. We all
need a multitude of acquaintances, can,
indeed, hardly have too many. These are
persons whose faces and names we know,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">105</span>
with something of their occupations and
history. While we know them only on the
outside our impressions of them are favorable,
and their nod, smile, or passing greeting
brightens the moment and makes us
feel at one with our species. These do not
attain the rank of friends, to whom we expose
sections of our lives, in whose characters
we see admirable traits which are
less developed in ourselves, and on whom
we lean in times of doubt, trouble, and
ignorance. Such steadying friends will not
be a large company and should be chosen
deliberately, not through juxtaposition, but
on grounds of merit and adaptation to our
needs. Closer than these, however, should
come our intimates, one or two, those to
whom we give whole-hearted love. From
such an intimate we hide nothing, not even
our faults. To him we express our half-thoughts,
make up our minds in company
with his, find excellence easy in his presence
and yet, to our daily astonishment,
see that he obtains as much from us as we
from him. Him we love. He is another
self, and all that is ours is his also.</p>

<p>Such, then, is love and such its varieties
and shadings. Parted from mutuality, altruism<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">106</span>
has little worth. Only where love
is, where the conjunct self has taken the
place of the separate self, is altruism completely
realized. In such love morality attains
its goal. Accordingly, in every age
those most impassioned for the formation
of character have exalted love as its central
principle. The first to perceive its
importance and to begin an exploitation of
its labyrinths was Plato. To love he has
dedicated three of his Dialogues. In the
first of them, the delightful little piece
called <cite>Lysis</cite>, he busies himself with the
contradictions of love. He does not seek
to establish a positive doctrine. No conclusion
is reached, but the enigmatic character
of love is brought out with extraordinary
vividness. The greatest of his love
dialogues, and one which has profoundly
influenced all subsequent ages, is the <cite>Symposium</cite>,
beautifully translated by the poet
Shelley under the name of <cite>The Banquet</cite>.
Socrates and his friends assembling one
evening, it is proposed that instead of
general conversation they shall talk on
some specific subject, and love is selected.
One speaker after another reports what he
has seen in love—its dignity, its heavenly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">107</span>
and earthly types, its universality as an
underlying principle of physical nature,
the supposed origin of the separate self
and its subsequent desire for completion,
love as the organizer of human life. Then
Socrates points out how the true significance
of love lies in its passion for perfection
and how it continually supersedes its
lower forms in the interest of what is larger.
The most obscuring of these lower forms,
the least regardful of anything beyond itself,
is that instinctive passion between the
sexes which tries to monopolize the name
of love. Friendship is more intelligent.
Unities of a still wider and firmer kind are
disclosed in the social, artistic, and scientific
impulses. These are all prompted by
love and follow increasing grades of beauty.
Religion, however, alone reveals the full
significance of these struggles toward conjunction;
for God is the only complete
wholeness, and every endeavor to unite
with other things or persons is but a blind
seeking after him. Love appears once
more in the <cite>Phædrus</cite>, where its deeper
implications are traced in connection with
rhetoric and general philosophy.</p>

<p>At the time of the Renaissance Marcilius<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</span>
Ficinus translated the <cite>Symposium of
Plato</cite> and carried its influence into all the
literatures of western Europe. Edmund
Spenser reflects that influence in his two
superb hymns in <cite>Honor of Love</cite> and in
<cite>Honor of Beauty</cite>. A vivacious modern
statement of the ancient doctrine is that
of R. W. Emerson in his <cite>Essay on Love</cite>;
and an amusing disparagement of love, as
that which interferes with the comforts
and conveniences of the separate self, appears
in Bacon’s <cite>Essay on Love</cite>. It has
been well said that any one who imagines
Shakespeare’s plays were written by Bacon
should read this essay and follow it with
<cite>Romeo and Juliet</cite>. Of course, all the poets
linger in the neighborhood of love and declare
it to be that which makes the world
go round. One of them, the mid-Victorian
Coventry Patmore, made himself its expositor
and devoted his entire product to
the systematic analysis of its every phase.
Perhaps to heighten the impression of veracity,
he has made the verse of his early
volumes, entitled <cite>The Angel in the House</cite>,
approach as nearly as possible to prose,
while his later volume, <cite>The Unknown Eros</cite>,
treats the same matter in a series of rapturous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</span>
odes. Admiring them both as I do
in an age when they are both out of fashion,
I take up <cite>The Angel in the House</cite> when
in a psychological mood I am not disturbed
by absurdity, and turn to <cite>The Unknown
Eros</cite> when my ear craves music and I welcome
the Platonic madness.</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="CHAPTER_VII" class="vspace">CHAPTER VII<br />

<span class="subhead">JUSTICE</span></h2>
</div>

<p>Before advancing further it may be
well to survey the tangled ground already
traversed; for in mutuality, the third great
section of Altruism, I have not been able
to employ the simple treatment which
Manners and Giving received. The principle
throughout is precise and uniform.
Within a specified field the interests of two
or more persons are to be accounted identical,
so that a double gain becomes possible,
altruism transforming itself into egoism
and egoism into altruism. This is the common
principle which shapes every form of
mutuality. But the extent of the fields
specified differs so widely as to give rise to
forms of very unlike moral value, which
deserve separate examination.</p>

<p>In the field of partnership, for example,
it is understood that the union will not
continue indefinitely and that it has been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">111</span>
brought about for attaining some external
end. Partnership, bargaining, voluntary
association would not come into existence
were it not for the prospect of mutual gain.
If one party alone gains, we see that some
unfairness has occurred. Yet because in
these unions mutuality is restricted to a
small group and to the accomplishment of
external purposes, they often become engines
for a selfishness more intense than
their separate members would approve.
A popular proverb exaggerates but little in
saying that corporations have no souls.</p>

<p>But such perilous restrictions are unnecessary.
There can be mutuality without
them. Instead of referring to an external
end, unions can be formed for an
internal purpose. The very lives and aspirations
of two persons may be joined.
That is unnecessary in business relations.
I may dislike my partner personally, yet
judge it wise to identify my commercial
interests with his. When I make a purchase
at a shop I do not inquire about the
character of the dealer. With that I have
no concern. His life is his, mine mine.
Our mutual relation touches only the value
of the article purchased. And something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</span>
similar is true of our voluntary associations.
I join my political club in the hope
of furthering public interests; but, to tell
the truth, I am often ashamed of my associates
there. We have a common aim,
but personally I will keep myself as clear
from my fellow workers as possible. Under
none of the conditions which I have
called partnership do lives merge. To
these unions for definable ends a termination
is sometimes set, sometimes indefinitely
anticipated.</p>

<p>Now, in the case of love, these restrictions
are done away. Accordingly the
whole principle of mutuality comes out
there with a lucidity, power, and moving
appeal which it cannot possibly have in the
briefly planned arrangements of trade. For
though love often passes away, no such
cessation is contemplated. The eternal
vows of lovers have always been a subject
of jest. No doubt limited marriages have
been proposed. But I suspect if they ever
come about, what we mean by love will be
omitted. It would strike most of us as
absurd for me to ask Mary to join me in
identifying our lives for a single year,
sharing during that time our home, our<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">113</span>
aims, our inmost thoughts, but always intending
at the end of that time to go our
separate ways, unable to say “we.” External
relations can be formed, dropped,
and resumed, the persons involved remaining
unaffected. That is not true of
interior relations. These fashion a new
personality to which old forms of morals,
even old forms of language, no longer apply.
Before advancing to explain as my
final topic the special modifications of mutuality
which fit it for a world principle,
let me sum up the whole doctrine of love
in some majestic lines attributed to Shakespeare.
In 1601 a curious book appeared
called <cite>Chester’s Love’s Martyr</cite>, containing
a poem to which Shakespeare’s name was
affixed. This single fact, and the unlikelihood
that any one else had such compulsive
power over words, are our only
grounds for thinking Shakespeare wrote the
piece. It is entitled “The Phœnix and the
Turtle,” and allegorically describes the funeral
of a pair of married lovers, the man
denoted by the turtle, the woman by the
phœnix. I quote only the funeral chant,
omitting the picturesque introduction and
the solemn ending:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">114</span></p>

<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="iq">“Here the anthem doth commence;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Love and constancy is dead,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Phœnix and the turtle fled<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In a mutual flame from thence.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So they loved as love in twain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had the essence but in one.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Two distincts, division none,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Number there in love was slain.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hearts remote, yet not asunder,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Distance, and no space was seen<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Twixt the turtle and his queen;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But in them it were a wonder.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So between them love did shine<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That the turtle saw his right<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Flaming in the phœnix’ sight;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Either was the other’s mine.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Property was thus appalled,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That the self was not the same.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Single nature’s double name<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Neither two nor one was called.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Reason, in itself confounded,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Saw division grow together.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To themselves, yet either—neither,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Simple were so well compounded<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">That it cried how true a twain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Seemeth this concordant one!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Love hath reason, reason none,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If what parts can so remain.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="in0"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">115</span>
What audacity of word and precision of
thought! With what accuracy the paradoxes
of love are stated! “To themselves,
yet either—neither.” In the first stanza
the sacred word “mutual” is introduced.
Where else in our language is the conjunct
self so completely set forth?</p>

<p>Yet we cannot pause even here. To
make love a principle capable of universal
application, it will need to be reconstituted
and, while retaining its mutuality, to
be stripped of sundry restrictions.</p>

<p>For love is ever selective. It chooses one
and leaves another. It is exercised only
toward definite persons, a little group, preferably
two. The smaller the number the
warmer the love. But what we are trying
to discover is how altruism may penetrate
the whole of life, organizing society and
the state. That was our ambitious ideal,
and love is not comprehensive enough for
it. When we give ourselves up to the
single person or small group fitted to receive
our love, will there not be the same
danger as appeared in the discussion of
partnership, that the rest of the world will
be shut out? A pair of lovers is notoriously
unpleasing to everybody except themselves.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">116</span>
In that little world of theirs they
are so engrossed with the joint service of a
common life that what happens in the
needy world beyond is hardly noticed.
Love of this sort is pretty far removed
from universal altruism.</p>

<p>Nor is this danger confined to the passion
of man for woman. Broader types of
love show the same exclusive absorption.
Each member of a household may be devoted
to the rest and find his own gain
through devotion to theirs. Here love attains
a peculiarly beautiful mutuality. But
it is still circumscribed. The family becomes
sufficient for itself. Other families
do not count. Love has been selective and,
fixing its ardor on certain persons, shuts
out the rest. Even the love of God and
his children may narrow itself to interest
in those only who approach him in the
same way as ourselves. Our religious sympathy
may not extend beyond our sect.
Similar perils beset national love or patriotism.</p>

<p>No doubt in all these cases the narrower
field may provide training for the broader;
but so long as love is selective and waits
upon personal interest it will be hard<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">117</span>
pressed by conditioning accident. Rightly
does Spenser declare that for the combinations
of love the stars’ consent is necessary.
Circumstance, juxtaposition, plays a large
part at the beginning of love. The one
who would interest me may not happen to
come my way; and I cannot love one whom
I do not know. Obtaining such knowledge,
too, even in regard to one very near, is
uncertain business. I see some one who
calls out what is best in me and am confident
that joining with her will bring
about a glorious life for us both. But can
I be sure? An error in estimating will ruin
not me alone but her too, whom I would
honor. Knowledge, an important condition
of love, is hard indeed to obtain.
Nor in reckoning the hindrances to love as
a universal principle can we pass by the
mysteries of temperament. Many a person
have we known to be lovable whom
we could never love. Peculiarities of inheritance,
training, habit, instinctive feeling
in two persons, while not diminishing
their worth, may render hopeless their
adaptation to one another.</p>

<p>Selective love, then, hampered by its
need of acquaintance, nearness, and knowledge,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">118</span>
can never become a universal principle,
binding mankind together. It shows,
however, what we want. Nowhere else
does altruistic fervor attain such depth.
But it lacks breadth and is possible only
within narrow bounds. We have been
seeking to extend mutuality, the double
gain, the abolition of both egoism and altruism,
far beyond those bounds and reach
a method by which mankind as a whole
might engage in the joint service of a common
life. Such an ideal would preserve all
characteristics of love except its limitations.
But the removal of these will affect it so
deeply as to oblige a new name. I call it
Justice.</p>

<p>Let us examine a case where mutualistic
conduct shows traits beyond the reach of
selective love. I go to a shoemaker and
ask for a pair of shoes. He hands me a
pair, I pay his price, and carry them home.
As I come to wear them, I find them admirably
made. They give me greater comfort
than I have ever had before and wear
longer. The leather appears to have been
selected with care, and every nail and stitch
to have received attention. I return to
their maker and say: “That was a remarkable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">119</span>
pair of shoes. Did you make them
specially for me? Perhaps you have known
me before, have taken a fancy to me, and
so have been willing to put yourself to all
this trouble for my convenience. That is
the way with love. It takes burdens on
itself to relieve another.” How astonished
the dealer would be at such talk! Would
he not answer: “I had no thought of you,
but I made the shoes as well as I could.
It is my business.” “But,” I continue, “if
you never know to whom your shoes will
go, why take such pains?” “Because I
mean to be true to my job and not shirk
my part in the ongoing of the world. If I
do bad work somebody, I don’t know who,
will suffer. I mean to be a good shoemaker.”
Here is professional responsibility.
The man deals justly with his unknown
public.</p>

<p>And in such professional responsibility
we pass from individual love to that noble
public love which I have ventured to call
Justice. Love remains, but it is now universal
love, love freed from selection and
without those restrictions of knowledge,
circumstance, and temperament on which
selection is based. No doubt in individual<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">120</span>
love there is an intimacy and a wealth of
feeling which this case has not. But in it
selfishness is also more pronounced. Knowing
John well, I am confident that in joining
my life with his, and with his only, we
shall both be enriched. But the shoemaker
carries his blessing to the unknown
and joins himself rather with the public
good. He gets his gain by giving gain to
those whom he has never seen. It is true
that the transaction may be partly explained
on the grounds already noticed.
An exchange has occurred by which buyer
and seller have alike profited. But something
more than calculation of profit has
gone into these shoes. They would have
sold readily with half the care. But this
man respected business standards, was
something more than a trader, gave not by
equivalent measure, and was more concerned
over possible danger to his customers
than over extra labor for himself.
That is the essence of professionalism.
While frankly seeking mutual gain and declining
anything one-sided, it abandons all
thought of exact equivalence, keeping in the
foreground standards of excellence approved
by its group and looking to public service.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">121</span>
Or is there in the professional man something
still deeper than the characteristics
just mentioned, something of which these
are but the outgrowth? The professional
man enjoys his work and would rather do
it than not. Many of us, perhaps most, are
driven to work by the need to live. We will
do that work faithfully and not disappoint
those who depend on us. But we often
think of work as toil, do as little of it as
possible, and find our enjoyment quite outside
it. Days of freedom from that toil
are eagerly anticipated. How different is
the professional spirit! It took up its
work originally not as a task but as a
chance to gratify a personal interest. To
following that interest through all its windings
its heart has been given. Throughout
there has been a passion for perfection,
never realized, never abandoned. Each
day carries accomplishment forward and
discloses wider ranges into which skill
might extend. Hardship, lack of gain,
failure to be recognized are matters of
slender consequence. The work itself is its
own rich reward.</p>

<p>Such is professional responsibility at its
best. It is responsibility to no individual,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">122</span>
not even so much to the general public as
to the profession chosen. Perhaps we
catch the spirit most readily among artists
and scholars, who proverbially show little
regard for financial results. But even
where regard for money is patent and
necessary, this professional spirit is often
also present.</p>

<p>I am ill and call a physician. He comes
to my bedside day by day, studies my case
with elaborate care, gives up large amounts
of precious time to my whims, and never
allows his moods to intrude, so that on my
recovery I cannot help saying: “What a
sympathetic person you are! I do not
see how you can hold an interest in so
many people and feel their afflictions as if
they were your own.” Such a remark
would be as inadequate as if I had said:
“You have thoroughly earned your fee.”
Both would be true, and both would point
to motives which might rightly influence
him. But into that complex motive would
go a third factor more influential still, if
he was a worthy physician. He cares for
the healing art. Of course he is unwilling
that I, this individual person, should suffer.
But it is not the “me” element nor the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">123</span>
money element which made him take his
trouble. He would have done the same
for a stranger. And this impartial attitude
is, on the whole, best. Personal sympathy
is often disturbing. Let him coolly survey
me as a case of typhus fever, and I shall
get his best service. Through me he relieves
suffering, obtains for himself a due
income, gains larger knowledge of disease
and skill in combating it; in short, meets
the responsibilities of an arduous and interesting
profession.</p>

<p>One may wonder why I call this impersonal
extension of love Justice. Because
justice seeks to benefit all, but all alike.
It knows no persons, or rather it knows
every one as a person and insures each his
share in the common good. All the altruism
of love is here, but without love’s arbitrary
selection and limited interest. We
do wrong in thinking of justice as chiefly
concerned with penalties. These are incidental,
inflicted on those who refuse to
find their gain in the gain of others. The
main work of justice is its equal distribution
of advantage and its insistence that
each individual shall be faithful to what he
undertakes for the benefit of all. Justice<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">124</span>
is therefore thoroughgoing love, its mutuality
guarded, rationalized, stripped of
personal bias, and brought near us through
the avenues of our special work.</p>

<p>Only we must not confine the professions
to the four usually reckoned: teaching,
preaching, medicine, and the law. The
professional spirit may vitalize work of
every sort. Here is a poor man to whom
few enjoyments are open, who goes out
morning after morning to shovel gravel or
to engage in some other labor equally uninteresting.
He earns his two or three
dollars a day, takes it home, and hands
it to his slatternly wife. Once he was
drawn to her by romantic love. With her
he figured a real union, each continually
happy in the sight of the other and each
day bringing to both an inward joy. He
did not know her. He had neither the opportunity
nor the ability to study her
temperament and learn whether it was adjustable
to his. It proved not to be so.
Children came, cares increased, she neglected
herself, her home, her husband.
There was no longer any warmth of affection
between them. But still he goes on
working for her unmurmuringly. She is a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">125</span>
wife and mother, he a husband and father.
To these relationships he will be faithful.
Is not his a larger love than that of the
courtship? I do not see that we can say
so. But it is love of a different sort and a
very noble sort. We called love the joint
service of a common life. Though she no
longer joins him, he joins the community
in maintaining the family tie. What keeps
him going is his professional responsibility.
Being a good husband is the task assigned
him in the general division of labor.
He recognizes its justice, controls his temper,
and patiently meets the hardship involved.
I cannot see how there is less professional
responsibility here than in the case
of the shoemaker or physician. Indeed,
wherever any one is true to his specific
task, puts his heart into it, works not for
money alone nor through interest in a single
individual, but, without calculating any
equivalence between what he gives and receives,
studies how he may most fully perform
the work to which he has been called,
that man is exhibiting professional responsibility,
honoring love, and exalting
justice in a way to deserve profound reverence.</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">126</span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 id="CHAPTER_VIII" class="vspace">CHAPTER VIII<br />

<span class="subhead">CONCLUSION</span></h2>
</div>

<p>Love is so often proclaimed as a social
panacea that I have thought it well to
subject it to a careful criticism and indicate
its defects when regarded as a complete
embodiment of altruism. Some of
those defects are incidental. Since it is
an affair of human beings it cannot fail to
show the imperfections characteristic of
such wayward creatures. Seldom does even
marriage, love’s best opportunity, attain
that full mutuality which I have eulogized.
Self-assertion intrudes early. The interests
of one or the other party become predominant,
and mutuality gradually declines.
When the simple-minded man was
told that in marriage two persons become
one, he naturally enough asked: “Which
one?” Yet if the completely conjunct life
is rare, it is precious as an ideal for directing
conduct. We often speak of love
as something we fall into. Rather it is
something to be made, developed, steadily<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">127</span>
approximated. The best marriages are accomplished
works of art, yielding large rewards
through all their progressive stages.
But love is ever unstable. Unwatched, it
slips down among the lower forms of altruism.</p>

<p>These defects of love are, however, but
incidental and such as are common in all
man’s undertakings. There is nothing in
love which can render it immune from
human infirmity. But there are also in it
certain fundamental defects which prevent
it from becoming an organizing world-principle.
At least before it can weld individuals
into societies and states it must
undergo large transformation and appear
rather as justice than domestic affection.
For love is naturally selective and individual,
picking out one and rejecting another.
It does not offer its bounty alike
to all. Private altruism, it might be called,
so that it always seems indelicate to speak
of it in public. It concerns only those
immediately involved and only their most
intimate experiences. From such limitations
it needs to be freed before it can become
formative over society. All that is
conjunctive in it must be retained and only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">128</span>
its exclusions removed. In this way general
justice will supplement individual love.
All the varieties of mutuality are alike in
joining self-regard with extra-regard. They
differ only in the extent of that extra-regard.</p>

<p>In my last chapter I began the discussion
of that superpersonal love which I called
Justice. It is concerned with functions
rather than individuals, and love is thus
extended to a multitude who still remain
unknown. To keep the framework of
society steady large co-operation is required,
each of its members becoming responsible
for the working of some one
among its many functions and having his
own well-being bound up with its. To
that function each is to devote himself as
the lover does to his lady, and through it he
sends his benefactions abroad to whoever
stands in need. Such is the ideal of professional
responsibility; and whether seen
in shoemaker, doctor, or head of a family,
it is something of wider scope and more
generous impulse than private love.</p>

<p>Yet even in professional responsibility an
element of selection remains. After studying
the needs of the community I pick out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">129</span>
what work I will do. On some single need
I fasten—the need of settling quarrels, and
I become a lawyer; the need of instruction,
and I become a teacher; the needs of the
breakfast-table, and I become a grocer. In
all these cases my service is given not to
man as man, but only to a section of men,
to those who are conscious of a certain
specific need. It is possible, however, to
extend justice and, not confining attention
to wants already known, to endeavor to
enlarge the whole intellectual horizon of
our fellows. Thus love becomes peculiarly
impersonal and creative.</p>

<p>For example, when I become an artist or
scientific man I do not know precisely
what I shall contribute to the good of the
public. The public itself has experienced
no want of the wares which I shall furnish.
In devoting myself to the higher mathematics
I am pursuing something for which
a practical application may never be found.
But that uncertainty should not hold me
back. I know that the mind of man moves
off in that direction. I will follow and see
how far it can be pressed. These investigations
I am making in astronomy are
curious. They satisfy my passion for knowing.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">130</span>
Believing they will satisfy that passion
in others also, I ask no more. Passing
beyond the immediate application of my
results, I simply aim at developing persons
more fully as persons, so that their
capacity for knowledge may be increased.
Just so does the artist attempt to reveal
aspects of beauty hitherto unperceived.
When he furnishes what has been done before,
what men have learned to enjoy and
now demand, he is a professional workman
and belongs in the preceding class. But a
true artist explores phases of unacknowledged
beauty. Having himself seen what
others have not seen, he takes the risk of
announcing it, certain that if it is comprehended
he will open men’s eyes to fresh
enjoyment. Rightly therefore do we hold
artists and scientific men in high honor as
enlargers of humanity. We see that altruism
like theirs calls for risk and special disinterestedness.
They are discoverers, going
out into wide lands, far from sure what
will be found there, but ready to sacrifice
themselves for possible human betterment.
Intellectual soldiers, we may call them, accepting
the risks of doubtful battle. Theirs
is a lofty altruism, and none the less because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">131</span>
success may bring them fame and
fortune.</p>

<p>Perhaps I strain the word justice in applying
it to them, yet they as truly as the
professional man do not pick out individuals
as receivers of their benefits. Indeed,
that absence of particularity so emphasized
in justice goes to such a degree with
them that their work seems to proceed
from the spirit of science or spirit of beauty
rather than from a particular person. They
strike us as transcending their age, their
own peculiarities, and to embody the conjunct
self of humanity.</p>

<p>Still another form of justice, or of love,
which passes beyond the individual, is the
service of institutions. Artists, scientific
and professional men all follow interests of
their own, believing, however, that their
work in the long run will benefit the public.
But in the service of institutions not
only does the public receive a benefit, it
fixes also what our work toward bringing
it about shall be. Personal choice, therefore,
altogether disappears. The action is
conjunctive throughout. But to understand
this dark saying we must bring clearly
before our minds what an institution is. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">132</span>
is a large term which we are apt to allow
to fill out a big gap in our knowledge.</p>

<p>I mean by institutions those fairly permanent
relations between persons which
past experience has established for the promotion
of human welfare and successive
generations have approved. Ever since
civilization began men have been experimenting
how to live together most helpfully.
The results, tested by the induction
of ages, become the inherited habits of individuals
and the institutions of society.
Maintained through passing years, criticised,
readjusted to meet more fully the
needs they were intended to fulfil, they
furnish each of us a working capital as
soon as we enter the world. We are not
obliged to decide in childhood whether to
have three meals a day, whether man’s
dress shall differ from woman’s, whether
to have provision made for our instruction,
worship, settlement of quarrels, safety on
the street. These matters were considered
before we were born, and judgments about
them form our most precious inheritance.
It is a veritable bank stock of experience on
which to draw for our support. We accept
it all as a thing of course at first, then begin<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">133</span>
to scrutinize it, asking how far these
particular institutions save social friction,
open avenues for enlarged activity, and
how far that which once served these ends
serves them no more.</p>

<p>Such institutions are intended for the
general good. By identifying ourselves
with them we both share in that good and
exercise an impartial love for mankind.
For these have an influence over men unequalled
by any other agency. They fashion
us in our unconscious years and carry
forward our purposes in years of discretion.
To comprehend their consolidated
wisdom and conform ourselves to it will be
our chief means of serving our fellow men;
to neglect or weaken them through individual
caprice is to be an enemy of society.
Only we must discriminate in our
modes of strengthening. An institution is
not proved good by the bare fact of its
existence. Perhaps the presumption should
be in its favor, for it could hardly get itself
established if injurious. But its original
adaptation to human wants is unstable,
and strengthening it will really mean fitting
it more neatly to present circumstances.
To maintain its outward form when it no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">134</span>
longer serves its purpose is to be unfaithful
to it. Constructive criticism is constantly
required if institutions are to be
kept sweet and wholesome. Only it should
be borne in mind that changes in the framework
of society can best come about
slowly and only at the desire of large groups
of those affected. Presumptuous, indeed,
is he who will attempt to stand outside any
of our fundamental institutions. The setting
up of his individual will against the
general will proves him no true socialist.
He should remember that since everybody
is wiser than anybody his first business is
to conform to the institutions into which
he is born, then to study elaborately their
meaning, and finally to persuade his fellows
to join in readjusting them with a
view to their more effective working. Our
love for our fellow men is shown each day
in our maintenance, critical study, and reform
of the social institutions around us.
They survive only through our constant
approval, are too important to be neglected
or lightly set aside, and too liable to decay
to be left uncriticised.</p>

<p>It is obvious, however, that institutions
are of many grades of importance. Some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">135</span>
are fundamental, as the family, property,
democracy; others are local and individual,
as Harvard University, Boston, the Episcopal
Church, the Democratic Party. As
they become narrower our acceptance of
them changes its character, affectionate
loyalty playing a larger part, dutiful obedience
less. A member of a college, for example,
comes to think of it almost as a
person, symbolized in Alma Mater, and
gives to it the loving devotion he would
feel for a revered friend. Members of institutions
so individual are apt to take
their membership as something like a personal
trust and to pride themselves on
fidelity to it. But because such institutions
are of limited range and not applicable
to all mankind, failure in allegiance to
them is generally regarded not as a moral
lapse, but as an error of judgment.</p>

<p>Such are some of the aspects of justice,
the impartial love of our fellow men. When
we are commanded to love our neighbor as
ourself, we cannot excuse ourselves by
saying that love does not move by command
but takes its own way according to
individual temperament. Even of the
simpler forms of love this is only partially<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">136</span>
true; wisdom, purpose, and patience being
also essentials of permanence even in our
private loves. But that public love to
which we are summoned is no mere emotion,
arising blindly and passing with the
mood. It is the rational acceptance of our
place in a social organization where all are
dependent on each. A good synonym for
what I have called justice would be public-mindedness.</p>

<p>And in this extended and superpersonal
love altruism attains its fullest and steadiest
expression. But so does egoism, too.
That abstract egoism, it is true, which
seeks its own gain regardless of that of
others, is submerged. It was always fictitious,
and rapidly conducted him who
pursued it to emptiness. But that conjunct
self, the person constituted through
relations, finds in this justicial love his
large opportunity. In like manner the
abstract and sentimental <em>alter</em>, figured as
that uncriticisable idol to which individual
interests must daily be offered up, is
overthrown and shown to have reality only
in the degree in which it fosters personal
life. Socialism which does not promote
individuality, individuality which does not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">137</span>
tend toward an ever-completer social consciousness,
are alike delusive. Each must
find its justification in the service it is able
to render to its pretended foe. Pure gifts,
to individuals or the state, are rightly objects
of suspicion. Only when transmuted
by mutuality can they be kept free from
taint.</p>

<p>Such at least is the doctrine of this
book. In it there is nothing new. Vaguely,
waveringly, and with but a half understanding,
I believe it has ever guided the
best endeavors of mankind. I have only
hoped to drag it into clearer light by a
novel sort of approach. The dangers of
that mode of approach I readily see and
wish my readers also to see. As a pedagogue
I have torn apart things which
belong together and have separately exhibited
our protective, generous, and identifying
impulses as successively different aspects
of the altruistic life. In this way we
teachers are obliged to proceed, picking to
pieces a concrete whole, even when our
aim is to show wholeness. But my readers
will not be so simple as to imagine that
things occur in experience so disjointed as
on my pages. Life is more closely compacted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">138</span>
than our expositions. Higher stages
and lower move forward together, assisting
one another. The disparagements
which I put on the lower varieties of altruism
these deserve only so far as they are
detached from the higher. In conjunction,
the higher altruisms ennoble the lower and
are themselves enriched and diversified
by whatever inferior stages they absorb.
Among the ingredients of character none
can safely be thrown away. We study
ethics merely to find a place where each
may be helpful to all.</p>

<div class="chapter"><div class="transnote">
<h2 id="Transcribers_Note" class="nobreak p1">Transcriber’s Notes</h2>

<p>Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained; occurrences
of inconsistent hyphenation have not been changed.</p>
</div></div>








<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57749 ***</div>

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