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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6101.txt b/6101.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e9d131b --- /dev/null +++ b/6101.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4945 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Nature of Goodness, by George Herbert Palmer + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Nature of Goodness + +Author: George Herbert Palmer + +Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6101] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on November 6, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NATURE OF GOODNESS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +THE NATURE OF GOODNESS + +BY + +GEORGE HERBERT PALMER +Alford Professor of Philosophy +In Harvard University + +[Illustration: Tout bien ou rien] + + + + +1903 + + + + + +A. F. P. + +BONITATE SINGULARI MULTIS DILECTAE + +VENUSTATE LITTERIS CONSILIIS PRAESTANTI + +NUPER E DOMO ET GAUDIO MEO EREPTAE + + + + +PREFACE + + +The substance of these chapters was delivered as a course of lectures +at Harvard University, Dartmouth and Wellesley Colleges, Western +Reserve University, the University of California, and the Twentieth +Century Club of Boston. A part of the sixth chapter was used as an +address before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard, and another +part before the Philosophical Union of Berkeley, California. Several +of these audiences have materially aided my work by their searching +criticisms, and all have helped to clear my thought and simplify its +expression. Since discussions necessarily so severe have been felt as +vital by companies so diverse, I venture to offer them here to a wider +audience. + +Previously, in "The Field of Ethics," I marked out the place which +ethics occupies among the sciences. In this book the first problem of +ethics is examined. The two volumes will form, I hope, an easy yet +serious introduction to this gravest and most perpetual of studies. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER I + +THE DOUBLE ASPECT OF GOODNESS + + I. Difficulties of the investigation + II. Gains to be expected +III. Extrinsic goodness + IV. Imperfections of extrinsic goodness + V. Intrinsic goodness + VI. Relations of the two kinds +VII. Diagram + + +CHAPTER II + +MISCONCEPTIONS OF GOODNESS + + I. Enlargement of the diagram + II. Greater and lesser good +III. Higher and lower good + IV. Order and wealth + V. Satisfaction of desire + VI. Adaptation to environment +VII. Definitions + + +CHAPTER III + +SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS + + I. The four factors of personal goodness + II. Unconsciousness +III. Reflex action + IV. Conscious experience + V. Self-consciousness + VI. Its degrees + VII. Its acquisition +VIII. Its instability + + +CHAPTER IV + +SELF-DIRECTION + + I. Consciousness a factor + II. (A) The intention + III. (1) The end, aim, or ideal + IV. (2) Desire + V. (3) Decision + VI. (B) The volition + VII. (1) Deliberation +VIII. (2) Effort + IX. (3) Satisfaction + + +CHAPTER V + +SELF-DEVELOPMENT + + I. Reflex influence of self-direction + II. Varieties of change + III. Accidental change + IV. Destructive change + V. Transforming change + VI. Development + VII. Self-development +VIII. Method of self-development + IX. Test of self-development + X. Actual extent of personality + XI. Possible extent of personality + XII. Practical consequences + + +CHAPTER VI + +SELF-SACRIFICE + + I. Difficulties of the conception + II. It is impossible + III. It is a sign of degradation + IV. It is needless + V. It is irrational + VI. Its frequency + VII. Definition +VIII. Its rationality + IX. Distinguished from culture + X. Its self-assertion + XI. Its incalculability + XII. Its positive character +XIII. Conclusion + + +CHAPTER VII + +NATURE AND SPIRIT + + I. Summary of the preceding argument + II. Spirit superior to nature + III. Naturalistic tendency of the fine arts + IV. Naturalistic tendency of science and philosophy + V. Naturalism in social estimates + VI. Self-consciousness burdensome + VII. Impossibility of full conscious guidance +VIII. Advantages of unconscious action + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE THREE STAGES OF GOODNESS + + I. Advantage of conscious guidance + II. Example of piano-playing + III. The mechanization of conduct + IV. Contrast of the first and third stages + V. The cure for self-consciousness + VI. The revision of habits + VII. The doctrine of praise +VIII. The propriety of praise + + + + +I + +THE DOUBLE ASPECT OF GOODNESS + + +In undertaking the following discussion I foresee two grave +difficulties. My reader may well feel that goodness is already the +most familiar of all the thoughts we employ, and yet he may at the +same time suspect that there is something about it perplexingly +abstruse and remote. Familiar it certainly is. It attends all our +wishes, acts, and projects as nothing else does, so that no estimate +of its influence can be excessive. When we take a walk, read a book, +make a dress, hire a servant, visit a friend, attend a concert, choose +a wife, cast a vote, enter into business, we always do it in the hope +of attaining something good. The clue of goodness is accordingly a +veritable guide of life. On it depend actions far more minute than +those just mentioned. We never raise a hand, for example, unless with +a view to improve in some respect our condition. Motionless we should +remain forever, did we not believe that by placing the hand elsewhere +we might obtain something which we do not now possess. Consequently we +employ the word or some synonym of it during pretty much every waking +hour of our lives. Wishing some test of this frequency I turned to +Shakespeare, and found that he uses the word "good" fifteen hundred +times, and it's derivatives "goodness," "better," and "best," about as +many more. He could not make men and women talk right without +incessant reference to this directive conception. + +But while thus familiar and influential when mixed with action, and +just because of that very fact, the notion of goodness is +bewilderingly abstruse and remote. People in general do not observe +this curious circumstance. Since they are so frequently encountering +goodness, both laymen and scholars are apt to assume that it is +altogether clear and requires no explanation. But the very reverse is +the truth. Familiarity obscures. It breeds instincts and not +understanding. So inwoven has goodness become with the very web of +life that it is hard to disentangle. We cannot easily detach it from +encompassing circumstance, look at it nakedly, and say what in itself +it really is. Never appearing in practical affairs except as an +element, and always intimately associated with something else, we are +puzzled how to break up that intimacy and give to goodness independent +meaning. It is as if oxygen were never found alone, but only in +connection with hydrogen, carbon, or some other of the eighty elements +which compose our globe. We might feel its wide influence, but we +should have difficulty in describing what the thing itself was. Just +so if any chance dozen persons should be called on to say what they +mean by goodness, probably not one could offer a definition which he +would be willing to hold to for fifteen minutes. + +It is true, this strange state of things is not peculiar to goodness. +Other familiar conceptions show a similar tendency, and just about in +proportion, too, to their importance. Those which count for most in +our lives are least easy to understand. What, for example, do we mean +by love? Everybody has experienced it since the world began. For a +century or more, novelists have been fixing our attention on it as our +chief concern. Yet nobody has yet succeeded in making the matter quite +plain. What is the state? Socialists are trying to tell us, and we are +trying to tell them; but each, it must be owned, has about as much +difficulty in understanding himself as in understanding his opponent, +though the two sets of vague ideas still contain reality enough for +vigorous strife. Or take the very simplest of conceptions, the +conception of force--that which is presupposed in every species of +physical science; ages are likely to pass before it is satisfactorily +defined. Now the conception of goodness is something of this sort, +something so wrought into the total framework of existence that it is +hidden from view and not separately observable. We know so much about +it that we do not understand it. + +For ordinary purposes probably it is well not to seek to understand +it. Acquaintance with the structure of the eye does not help seeing. +To determine beforehand just how polite we should be would not +facilitate human intercourse. And possibly a completed scheme of +goodness would rather confuse than ease our daily actions. Science +does not readily connect with life. For most of us all the time, and +for all of us most of the time, instinct is the better prompter. But +if we mean to be ethical students and to examine conduct +scientifically, we must evidently at the outset come face to face with +the meaning of goodness. I am consequently often surprised on looking +into a treatise on ethics to find no definition of goodness proposed. +The author assumes that everybody knows what goodness is, and that his +own business is merely to point out under what conditions it may be +had. But few readers do know what goodness is. One suspects that +frequently the authors of these treatises themselves do not, and that +a hazy condition of mind on this central subject is the cause of much +loose talk afterwards. At any rate, I feel sure that nothing can more +justly be demanded of a writer on ethics at the beginning of his +undertaking than that he should attempt to unravel the subtleties of +this all-important conception. Having already in a previous volume +marked out the Field of Ethics, I believe I cannot wisely go on +discussing the science that I love, until I have made clear what +meaning I everywhere attach to the obscure and familiar word _good_. +This word being the ethical writer's chief tool, both he and his +readers must learn its construction before they proceed to use +it. To the study of that curious nature I dedicate this volume. + + + +II + +To those who join in the investigation I cannot promise hours of ease. +The task is an arduous one, calling for critical discernment and a +kind of disinterested delight in studying the high intricacies of our +personal structure. My readers must follow me with care, and indeed do +much of the work themselves, I being but a guide. For my purpose is +not so much to impart as to reveal. Wishing merely to make people +aware of what has always been in their minds, I think at the end of my +book I shall be able to say, "These readers of mine know now no more +than they did at, the beginning." Yet if I say that, I hope to be able +to add, "but they see vastly more significance in it than they once +did, and henceforth will find the world interesting in a degree they +never knew before." In attaining this new interest they will have +experienced too that highest of human pleasures,--the joy of clear, +continuous, and energetic thinking. Few human beings are so inert that +they are not ready to look into the dark places of their minds if, by +doing so, they can throw light on obscurities there. + +I ought, however, to say that I cannot promise one gain which some of +my readers may be seeking. In no large degree can I induce in them +that goodness of which we talk. Some may come to me in conscious +weakness, desiring to be made better. But this I do not undertake. My +aim is a scientific one. I am an ethical teacher. I want to lead men +to understand what goodness is, and I must leave the more important +work of attracting them to pursue it to preacher and moralist. Still, +indirectly there is moral gain to be had here. One cannot contemplate +long such exalted themes without receiving an impulse, and being +lifted into a region where doing wrong becomes a little strange. When, +too, we reflect how many human ills spring from misunderstanding and +intellectual obscurity, we see that whatever tends to illuminate +mental problems is of large consequence in the practical issues of +life. + +In considering what we mean by goodness, we are apt to imagine that +the term applies especially, possibly entirely, to persons. It seems +as if persons alone are entitled to be called good. But a little +reflection shows that this is by no means the case. There are about as +many good things in the world as good persons, and we are obliged to +speak of them about as often. The goodness which we see in things is, +however, far simpler and more easily analyzed than that which appears +in persons. It may accordingly be well in these first two chapters to +say nothing whatever about such goodness as is peculiar to persons, +but to confine our attention to those phases of it which are shared +alike by persons and things. + + + +III + + How then do we employ the word "good"? I do not ask how we ought to +employ it, but how we do. For the present we shall be engaged in a +psychological inquiry, not an ethical one. We need to get at the plain +facts of usage. I will therefore ask each reader to look into his own +mind, see on what occasions he uses the word, and decide what meaning +he attaches to it. Taking up a few of the simplest possible examples, +we will through them inquire when and why we call things good. + +Here is a knife. When is it a good knife? Why, a knife is made for +something, for cutting. Whenever the knife slides evenly through a +piece of wood, unimpeded by anything in its own structure, and with a +minimum of effort on the part of him who steers it, when there is no +disposition of its edge to bend or break, but only to do its appointed +work effectively, then we know that a good knife is at work. Or, +looking at the matter from another point of view, whenever the handle +of the knife neatly fits the hand, following its lines and presenting +no obstruction, so that it is a pleasure to use it, we may say that in +these respects also the knife is a good knife. That is, the knife +becomes good through adaptation to its work, an adaptation realized in +its cleavage of the wood and in its conformity to the hand. Its +goodness always has reference to something outside itself, and is +measured by its performance of an external task. A similar goodness is +also found in persons. When we call the President of the United States +good, we mean that he adapts himself easily and efficiently to the +needs of his people. He detects those needs before others fully feel +them, is sagacious in devices for meeting them, and powerful in +carrying out his patriotic purposes through whatever selfish +opposition. The President's goodness, like the knife's, refers to +qualities within him only so far as these are adjusted to that which +lies beyond. + +Or take something not so palpable. What glorious weather! When we woke +this morning, drew aside our curtains and looked out, we said "It is a +good day!" And of what qualities of the day were we thinking? We +meant, I suppose, that the day was well fitted to its various +purposes. Intending to go to our office, we saw there was nothing to +hinder our doing so. We knew that the streets would be clear, people +in amiable mood, business and social duties would move forward easily. +Health itself is promoted by such sunshine. In fact, whatever our +plans, in calling the day a good day we meant to speak of it as +excellently adapted to something outside itself. + +This signification of goodness is lucidly put in the remark of +Shakespeare's Portia, "Nothing I see is good without respect." We must +have some respect or end in mind in reference to which the goodness is +reckoned. Good always means good _for_. That little preposition cannot +be absent from our minds, though it need not audibly be uttered. The +knife is good for cutting, the day for business, the President for the +blind needs of his country. Omit the _for_, and goodness ceases. To be +bad or good implies external reference. To be good means to further +something, to be an efficient means; and the end to be furthered must +be already in mind before the word good is spoken. + +The respects or ends in reference to which goodness is calculated are +often, it is true, obscure and difficult to seize if one is unfamiliar +with the currents of men's thoughts. I sometimes hear the question +asked about a merchant, "Is he good?"--a question natural enough in +churches and Sunday-schools, but one which sounds rather queer on +"'change." But those who ask it have a special respect in mind. I +believe they mean, "Will the man meet his notes?" In their mode of +thinking a merchant is of consequence only in financial life. When +they have learned whether he is capable of performing his functions +there, they go no farther. He may be the most vicious of men or a +veritable saint. It will make no difference in inducing commercial +associates to call him good. For them the word indicates solely +responsibility for business paper. + +A usage more curious still occurs in the nursery. There when the +question is asked, "Has the baby been good?" one discovers by degrees +that the anxious mother wishes to know if it has been crying or quiet. +This elementary life has as yet not acquired positive standards of +measurement. It must be reckoned in negative terms, failure to +disturb. Heaven knows it does not always attain to this. But it is its +utmost virtue, quietude. + +In short, whenever we inspect the usage of the word good, we always +find behind it an implication of some end to be reached. Good is a +relative term, signifying promotive of, conducive to. The good is the +useful, and it must be useful for something. Silent or spoken, it is +the mental reference to something else which puts all meaning into it. +So Hamlet says, "There's nothing either good or bad, but thinking +makes it so." If I have in mind A as an end sought, then X is good. +But if B is the end, X is bad. X has no goodness or badness of its +own. No new quality is added to an object or act when it becomes good. + + + +IV + +But this result is disappointing, not to say paradoxical. To call a +thing good only with reference to what lies outside itself would be +almost equivalent to saying that nothing is good. For if the moment +anything becomes good it refers all its goodness to something beyond +its own walls, should we ever be able to discover an object endowed +with goodness at all? The knife is good in reference to the stick of +wood; the wood, in reference to the table; the table, in reference to +the writing; the writing, in reference to a reader's eyes; his eyes, +in reference to supporting his family--where shall we ever stop? We +can never catch up with goodness. It is always promising to disclose +itself a little way beyond, and then evading us, slipping from under +our fingers just when we are about to touch it. This meaning of +goodness is self-contradictory. + +And it is also too large. It includes more to goodness than properly +belongs there. If we call everything good which is good _for_, +everything which shows adaptation to an end, then we shall be obliged +to count a multitude of matters good which we are accustomed to think +of as evil. Filth will be good, for it promotes fevers as nothing else +does. Earthquakes are good, for shaking down houses. It is inapposite +to urge that we do not want fevers or shaken houses. Wishes are +provided no place in our meaning of good. Goodness merely assists, +promotes, is conducive to any result whatever. It marks the functional +character, without regard to the desirability of that which the +function effects. But this is unsatisfactory and may well set us on a +search for supplementary meanings. + + + +V + +When we ask if the Venus of Milo is a good statue, we have to confess +that it is good beyond almost any object on which our eyes have ever +rested. And yet it is not good _for_ anything; it is no means for +an outside end. Rather, it is good in itself. This possibility that +things may be good in themselves was once brought forcibly to my +attention by a trivial incident. Wandering over my fields with my +farmer in autumn, we were surveying the wrecks of summer. There on the +ploughed ground lay a great golden object. He pointed to it, saying, +"That is a good big pumpkin." I said, "Yes, but I don't care about +pumpkins." "No," he said, "nor do I." I said, "You care for them, +though, as they grow large. You called this a good big one." "No! On +the contrary, a pumpkin that is large is worth less. Growing makes it +coarser. But that is a good big pumpkin." I saw there was some meaning +in his mind, but I could not make out what it was. Soon after I heard +a schoolboy telling about having had a "good big thrashing." I knew +that he did not like such things. His phrase could not indicate +approval, and what did it signify? He coupled the two words _good_ and +_big_; and I asked myself if there was between them any natural +connection? On reflection I thought there was. If you wish to find the +full pumpkin nature, here you have it. All that a pumpkin can be is +set forth here as nowhere else. And for that matter, anybody who might +foolishly wish to explore a thrashing would find all he sought in this +one. In short, what seemed to be intended was that all the functions +constituting the things talked about were present in these instances +and hard at work, mutually assisting one another, and joining to make +up such a rounded whole that from it nothing was omitted which +possibly might render its organic wholeness complete. Here then is a +notion of goodness widely unlike the one previously developed. +Goodness now appears shut up within verifiable bounds where it is not +continually referred to something which lies beyond. An object is here +reckoned not as good _for_, but as good in itself. The Venus of Milo +is a good statue not through what it does, but through what it is. And +perhaps it may conduce to clearness if we now give technical names to +our two contrasted conceptions and call the former extrinsic goodness +and the latter intrinsic. Extrinsic goodness will then signify the +adjustment of an object to something which lies outside itself; +intrinsic will say that the many powers of an object are so adjusted +to one another that they cooperate to render the object a firm +totality. Both will indicate relationship; but in the one case the +relations considered are _extra se_, in the other _inter se_. +Goodness, however, will everywhere point to organic adjustment. + +If this double aspect of goodness is as clear and important as I +believe it to be, it must have left its record in language. And in +fact we find that popular speech distinguishes worth and value in much +the same way as I have distinguished intrinsic and extrinsic goodness. +To say that an object has value is to declare it of consequence in +reference to something other than itself. To speak of its worth is to +call attention to what its own nature involves. In a somewhat similar +fashion Mr. Bradley distinguishes the extension and harmony of +goodness, and Mr. Alexander the right and the perfect. + + + +VI + +When, however, we have got the two sorts of goodness distinctly +parted, our next business is to get them together again. Are they in +fact altogether separate? Is the extrinsic goodness of an object +entirely detachable from its intrinsic? I think not. They are +invariably found together. Indeed, extrinsic goodness would be +impossible in an object which did not possess a fair degree of +intrinsic. How could a table, for example, be useful for holding a +glass of water if the table were not well made, if powers appropriate +to tables were not present and mutually cooperating? Unless equipped +with intrinsic goodness, the table can exhibit no extrinsic goodness +whatever. And, on the other hand, intrinsic goodness, coherence of +inner constitution, is always found attended by some degree of +extrinsic goodness, or influence over other things. Nothing exists +entirely by itself. Each object has its relationships, and through +these is knitted into the frame of the universe. + +Still, though the two forms of goodness are thus regularly united, we +may fix our attention on the one or the other. According as we do so, +we speak of an object as intrinsically or extrinsically good. For that +matter, one of the two may sometimes seem to be present in a +preponderating degree, and to determine by its presence the character +of the object. In judging ordinary physical things, I believe we +usually test them by their serviceability to us--by their extrinsic +goodness, that is--rather than bother our heads with asking what is +their inner structure, and how full of organization they may be. +Whereas, when we come to estimate human beings, we ordinarily regard +it as a kind of indignity to assess primarily their extrinsic +goodness, _i. e_., to ask chiefly how serviceable they may be and +to ignore their inner worth. To sum up a man in terms of his labor +value is the moral error of the slaveholder. + +If, however, we seek the highest point to which either kind of +excellence may be carried, it will be found where each most fully +assists the other. But this is not easy to imagine. When I set a glass +of water on the table, the table is undoubtedly slightly shaken by the +strain. If I put a large book upon it, the strain of the table becomes +apparent. Putting a hundred pound weight upon it is an experiment that +is perilous. For the extrinsic goodness of the table is at war with +the intrinsic; that is, the employment of the table wears it out. In +doing its work and fitting into the large relationships for which +tables exist, its inner organization becomes disjointed. In time it +will go to pieces. We can, however, imagine a magic table, which might +be consolidated by all it does. At first it was a little weak, but by +upholding the glass of water it grew stronger. As I laid the book on +it, its joints acquired a tenacity which they lacked before; and only +after receiving the hundred pound weight did it acquire the full +strength of which it was capable. That would indeed be a marvelous +table, where use and inner construction continually helped each other. +Something like it we may hereafter find possible in certain regions of +personal goodness, but no such perpetual motion is possible to things. +For them employment is costly. + + + +VII + +I have already strained my readers' attention sufficiently by these +abstract statements of matters technical and minute. Let us stop +thinking for a while and observe. I will draw a picture of goodness +and teach the eye what sort of thing it is. We have only to follow in +our drawing the conditions already laid down. We agreed that when an +object was good it was good _for_ something; so that if A is good, it +must be good for B. This instrumental relation, of means to end, may +well be indicated by an arrow pointing out the direction in which the +influence moves. But if B is also to be good, it too must be connected +by an arrow with another object, C, and this in the same way with D. +The process might evidently be continued forever, but will be +sufficiently shown in the three stages of Figure 1. Here the arrow +always expresses the extrinsic goodness of the letter which lies +behind it, in reference to the letter which lies before. + +[Fig. 1] + +But drawing our diagram in this fashion and finding a little gap +between D and A, the completing mind of man longs to fill up that gap. +We have no warrant for doing anything of the sort; but let us try the +experiment and see what effect will follow. Under the new arrangement +we find that not only is D good for A, but that A, being good for B +and for C, is also good for D. To express these facts in full it would +be necessary to put a point on each end of the arrow connecting A and +D. + +[Fig. 2] + +But the same would be true of the relation between A and B; that is, +B, being good for C and for D, is also good for A. Or, as similar +reasoning would hold throughout the figure, all the arrows appearing +there should be supplied with heads at both ends. And there is one +further correction. A is good for B and for C; that is, A is good for +C. The same relation should also be indicated between B and D. So that +to render our diagram complete it would be necessary to supply it with +two diagonal arrows having double heads. It would then assume the +following form. + +[Fig. 3] + +Here is a picture of intrinsic goodness. In this figure we have a +whole represented in which every part is good for every other part. +But this is merely a pictorial statement of the definition which Kant +once gave of an organism. By an organism he says, we mean that +assemblage of active and differing parts in which each part is both +means and end. Extrinsic goodness, the relation of means to end, we +have expressed in our diagram by the pointed arrow. But as soon as we +filled in the gap between D and A each arrow was obliged to point in +two directions. We had an organic whole instead of a lot of external +adjustments. In such a whole each part has its own function to +perform, is active; and all must differ from one another, or there +would be mere repetition and aggregation instead of organic +supplementation of end by means. An organism has been more briefly +defined, and the curious mutuality of its support expressed, by saying +that it is a unit made up of cooperant parts. And each of these +definitions expresses the notion of intrinsic goodness which we have +already reached. Intrinsic goodness is the expression of the fullness +of function in the construction of an organism. + +I have elsewhere (The Field of Ethics) explained the epoch-making +character in any life of this conception of an organism. Until one has +come in sight of it, he is a child. When once he begins to view things +organically, he is--at least in outline--a scientific, an artistic, a +moral man. Experience then becomes coherent and rational, and the +disjointed modes of immaturity, ugliness, and sin no longer attract. +At no period of the world's history has this truly formative +conception exercised a wider influence than today. It is accordingly +worth while to depict it with distinctness, and to show how fully it +is wrought into the very nature of goodness. + + + +REFERENCES ON THE DOUBLE ASPECT OF GOODNESS + +Alexander's Moral Order and Progress, bk. ii. ch. ii. + +Bradley's Appearance and Reality, ch. xxv. + +Sidgwick's Methods, bk. i. ch. ix. + +Spencer's Principles of Ethics, pt. i. ch. iii. + +Muirhead's Elements of Ethics, bk. iv. ch. ii. + +Ladd's Philosophy of Conduct, ch. iii. + +Kant's Practical Reason, bk. i. ch. ii. + +The Meaning of Good, by G.L. Dickinson. + + + + +II + +MISCONCEPTIONS OF GOODNESS + +I + + +Our diagram of goodness, as drawn in the last chapter, has its special +imperfections, and through these cannot fail to suggest certain +erroneous notions of goodness. To these I now turn. The first of them +is connected with its own method of construction. It will be +remembered that we arbitrarily threw an arrow from D to A, thus making +what was hitherto an end become a means to its own means. Was this +legitimate? Does any such closed circle exist? + +It certainly does not. Our universe contains nothing that can be +represented by that figure. Indeed if anywhere such a self-sufficing +organism did exist, we could never know it. For, by the hypothesis, it +would be altogether adequate to itself and without relations beyond +its own bounds. And if it were thus cut off from connection with +everything except itself, it could not even affect our knowledge. It +would be a closed universe within our universe, and be for us as good +as zero. We must own, then, that we have no acquaintance with any such +perfect organism, while the facts of life reveal conditions widely +unlike those here represented. + +What these conditions are becomes apparent when we put significance +into the letters hitherto employed. Let our diagram become a picture +of the organic life of John. Then A might represent his physical life, +B his business life, C his civil, D his domestic; and we should have +asserted that each of these several functions in the life of John +assists all the rest. His physical health favors his commercial and +political success, while at the same time making him more valuable in +the domestic circle. But home life, civic eminence, and business +prosperity also tend to confirm his health. In short, every one of +these factors in the life of John mutually affects and is affected by +all the others. + +But when thus supplied with meaning, Figure 3 evidently fails to +express all it should say. B is intended to exhibit the business life +of John. But this is surely not lived alone. Though called a function +of John, it is rather a function of the community, and he merely +shares it. I had no right to confine to John himself that which +plainly stretches beyond him. Let us correct the figure, then, by +laying off another beside it to represent Peter, one of those who +shares in the business experience of John. This common business life + +[Fig. 4] + +of theirs, B, we may say, enables Peter to gratify his own adventurous +disposition, E; and this again stimulates his scientific tastes, F. +But Peter's eminence in science commends him so to his townsmen that +he comes to share again C, the civic life of John. Yet as before in +the case of John, each of Peter's powers works forward, backward, and +across, constructing in Peter an organic whole which still is +interlocked with the life of John. Each, while having functions of his +own, has also functions which are shared with his neighbor. + +Nor would this involvement of functions pause with Peter. To make our +diagram really representative, each of the two individuals thus far +drawn would need to be surrounded by a multitude of others, all +sharing in some degree the functions of their neighbors. Or rather +each individual, once connected with his neighbors, would find all his +functions affected by all those possessed by his entire group. For +fear of making my figure unintelligible + +[Fig 5.] + +through its fullness of relations, I have sent out arrows in all +directions from the letter A only; but in reality they would run from +all to all. And I have also thought that we persons affect one another +quite as decidedly through the wholeness of our characters as we do +through any interlocking of single traits. Such totality of +relationship I have tried to suggest by connecting the centres of each +little square with the centres of adjacent ones. John as a whole is +thus shown to be good for Peter as a whole. + +We have successively found ourselves obliged to broaden our conception +until the goodness of a single object has come to imply that of a +group. The two phases of goodness are thus seen to be mutually +dependent. Extrinsic goodness or serviceability, that where an object +employs an already constituted wholeness to further the wholeness of +another, cannot proceed except through intrinsic goodness, or that +where fullness and adjustment of functions are expressed in the +construction of an organism. Nor can intrinsic goodness be supposed to +exist shut up to itself and parted from extrinsic influence. The two +are merely different modes or points of view for assessing goodness +everywhere. Goodness in its most elementary form appears where one +object is connected with another as means to end. But the more +elaborately complicated the relation becomes, and the richer the +entanglement of means and ends--internal and external--in the +adjustment of object or person, so much ampler is the goodness. Each +object, in order to possess any good, must share in that of the +universe. + + + +II + +But the diagram suggests a second question. Are all the functions here +represented equally influential in forming the organism? Our figure +implies that they are, and I see no way of drawing it so as to avoid +the implication. But it is an error. In nature our powers have +different degrees of influence. We cannot suppose that John's +physical, commercial, domestic, and political life will have precisely +equal weight in the formation of his being. One or the other of them +will play a larger part. Accordingly we very properly speak of greater +goods and lesser goods, meaning by the former those which are more +largely contributory to the organism. In our physical being, for +example, we may inquire whether sight or digestion is the greater +good; and our only means of arriving at an answer would be to stop +each function and then note the comparative consequence to the +organism. Without digestion, life ceases; without sight, it is +rendered uncomfortable. If we are considering merely the relative +amounts of bodily gain from the two functions, we must call digestion +the greater good. In a table, excellence of make is apt to be a +greater good than excellence of material, the character of the +carpentry having more effect on its durability than does the special +kind of wood employed. The very doubts about such results which arise +in certain cases confirm the truth of the definition here proposed; +for when we hesitate, it is on account of the difficulty we find in +determining how far maintenance of the organism depends on the one or +the other of the qualities compared. The meaning of the terms greater +and lesser is clearer than their application. A function or quality is +counted a greater good in proportion as it is believed to be more +completely of the nature of a means. + + + +III + +Another question unsettled by the diagram is so closely connected with +the one just examined as often to be confused with it. It is this: Are +all functions of the same kind, rank, or grade? They are not; and this +qualitative difference is indicated by the terms higher and lower, as +the quantitative difference was by greater and less. But differences +of rank are more slippery matters than difference of amount, and +easily lend themselves to arbitrary and capricious treatment. In +ordinary speech we are apt to employ the words high and low as mere +signs of approval or disapproval. We talk of one occupation, +enjoyment, work of art, as superior to another, and mean hardly more +than that we like it better. Probably there is not another pair of +terms current in ethics where the laudatory usage is so liable to slip +into the place of the descriptive. Our opponent's ethics always seem +to embody low ideals, our own to be of a higher type. Accordingly the +terms should not be used in controversy unless we have in mind for +them a precise meaning other than eulogy or disparagement. + +And such a meaning they certainly may possess. As the term greater +good is employed to indicate the degree in which a quality serves as a +means, so may the higher good show the degree in which it is an end. +Digestion, which was just now counted a greater good than sight, might +still be rightly reckoned a lower; for while it contributes more +largely to the constitution of the human organism, it on that very +account expresses less the purposes to which that organism will be +put. It is true we have seen how in any organism every power is both +means and end. It would be impossible, then, to part out its powers, +and call some altogether great and others altogether high. But though +there is purpose in all, and construction in all, certain are more +markedly the one than the other. Some express the superintending +functions; others, the subservient. Some condition, others are +conditioned by. In man, for example, the intellectual powers certainly +serve our bodily needs. But that is not their principal office; +rather, in them the aims of the entire human being receive expression. +To abolish the distinction of high and low would be to try to +obliterate from our understanding of the world all estimates of the +comparative worth of its parts; and with these estimates its rational +order would also disappear. Such attempts have often been made. In +extreme polytheism there are no superiors among the gods and no +inferiors, and chaos consequently reigns. A similar chaos is projected +into life when, as in the poetry of Walt Whitman, all grades of +importance are stripped from the powers of man and each is ranked as +of equal dignity with every other. + +That there is difficulty in applying the distinction, and determining +which function is high and which low, is evident. To fix the purposes +of an object would often be presumptuous. With such perplexities I am +not concerned. I merely wish to point out a perfectly legitimate and +even important signification of the terms high and low, quite apart +from their popular employment as laudatory or depreciative epithets. +It surely is not amiss to call the legibility of a book a higher good +than its shape, size, or weight, though in each of these some quality +of the book is expressed. + + + +IV + +A further point of possible misconception in our diagram is the number +of factors represented. As here shown, these are but four. They might +better be forty. The more richly functional a thing or person is, the +greater its goodness. Poverty of powers is everywhere a form of evil. +For how can there be largeness of organization where there is little +to organize? Or what is the use of organization except as a mode of +furnishing the smoothest and most compact expression to powers? Wealth +and order are accordingly everywhere the double traits of goodness, +and a chief test of the worth of any organism will be the diversity of +the powers it includes. Throughout my discussion I have tried to help +the reader to keep this twofold goodness in mind by the use of such +phrases as "fullness of organization." + +Yet it must be confessed that between the two elements of goodness +there is a kind of opposition, needful though both are for each other. +Order has in it much that is repressive; and wealth--in the sense of +fecundity of powers--is, especially at its beginning, apt to be +disorderly. When a new power springs into being, it is usually chaotic +or rebellious. It has something else to attend to besides bringing +itself into accord with what already exists. There is violence in it, +a lack of sobriety, and only by degrees does it find its place in the +scheme of things. This is most observable in living beings, because it +is chiefly they who acquire new powers. But there are traces of it +even among things. A chemical acid and base meeting, are pretty +careless of everything except the attainment of their own action. +Human beings are born, and for some time remain, clamorous, obliging +the world around to attend more to them than they to it. There is ever +a confusion in exuberant life which bewilders the onlooker, even while +he admits that life had better be. + +The deep opposition between these contrasted sides of goodness is +mirrored in the conflicting moral ideals of conservatism and +radicalism, of socialism and individualism, which have never been +absent from the societies of men, nor even, I believe, from those of +animals. Conservatism insists on unity and order; radicalism on +wealthy life, diversified powers, particular independence. Either, +left to itself, would crush society, one by emptying it of initiative, +the other by splitting it into a company of warring atoms. Ordinarily +each is dimly aware of its need of an opponent, yet does not on that +account denounce him the less, or less eagerly struggle to expel him +from provinces asserted to be its own. + +By temperament certain classes of the community are naturally disposed +to become champions of the one or the other of these supplemental +ideals. Artists, for the most part, incline to the ideal of abounding +life, exult in each novel manifestation which it can be made to +assume, and scoff at order as Philistinism. + +Moralists, on the other hand, lay grievous stress on order, as if it +had any value apart from its promotion of life. Assuming that +sufficient exuberance will come, unfostered by morality, they shut it +out from their charge, make duty to consist in checking instinct, and +devote themselves to pruning the sprouting man. But this is absurdly +to narrow ethics, whose true aim is to trace the laws involved in the +construction of a good person. In such construction the supply of +moral material, and the fostering of a wide diversity of vigorous +powers, is as necessary as bringing these powers into proper working +form. Richness of character is as important as correctness. The +world's benefactors have often been one-sided and faulty men. None of +us can be complete; and we had better not be much disturbed over the +fact, but rather set ourselves to grow strong enough to carry off our +defects. + +Because ethics has not always kept its eyes open to this obvious +duality of goodness it has often incurred the contempt of practical +men. The ethical writers of our time have done better. They have come +to see that the goodness of a person or thing consists in its being as +richly diversified as is possible up to the limit of harmonious, +working, and also in being orderly up to the limit of repression of +powers. Beyond either of these limits evil begins. What I have +expressed in my diagram as the fullest organization is intended to lie +within them. + + + +V + +It remains to compare the view of goodness here presented with two +others which have met with wide approval. The competence of my own +will be tested by seeing whether it can explain these, or they it. +Goodness is sometimes defined as that which satisfies desire. Things +are not good in themselves, but only as they respond to human wishes. +A certain combination of colors or sounds is good, because I like it. +A republic we Americans consider the best form of government because +we believe that this more completely than any other meets the +legitimate desires of its people. I know a little boy who after +tasting with gusto his morning's oatmeal would turn for sympathy to +each other person at table with the assertive inquiry, "Good? Good? +Good?" He knew no good but enjoyment, and this was so keen that he +expected to find it repeated in each of his friends. It is true we +often call actions good which are not immediately pleasing; for +example, the cutting off of a leg which is crushed past the +possibility of cure. But the leg, if left, will cause still more +distress or even death. In the last analysis the word good will be +found everywhere to refer to some satisfaction of human desire. If we +count afflictions good, it is because we believe that through them +permanent peace may best be reached. And rightly do those name the +Bible the Good Book who think that it more than any other has helped +to alleviate the woes of man. + +With this definition I shall not quarrel. So far as it goes, it seems +to me not incorrect. In all good I too find satisfaction of desire. +Only, though true, the definition is in my judgment vague and +inadequate. For we shall still need some standard to test the goodness +of desires. They themselves may be good, and some of them are better +than others. It is good to eat candy, to love a friend, to hate a foe, +to hear the sound of running water, to practice medicine, to gather +wealth, learning, or postage stamps. But though each of these +represents a natural desire, they cannot all be counted equally good. +They must be tried by some standard other than themselves. For desires +are not detachable facts. Each is significant only as a piece of a +life. In connection with that life it must be judged. And when we ask +if any desire is good or bad, we really inquire how far it may play a +part in company with other desires in making up a harmonious +existence. By its organic quality, accordingly, we must ultimately +determine the goodness of whatever we desire. If it is organic, it +certainly will satisfy desire. But we cannot reverse this statement +and assert that whatever satisfies desire will be organically good. My +own mode of statement is, therefore, clearer and more adequate than +the one here examined, because it brings out fully important +considerations which in this are only implied. Whatever contributes to +the solidity and wealth of an organism is, from the point of view of +that organism, good. + + + +VI + +A second inadequate definition of goodness is that it is adaptation to +environment. This is a far more important conception than the +preceding; but again, while not untrue, is still, in my judgment, +partial and ambiguous. When its meaning is made clear and exact, it +seems to coincide with my own; for it points out that nothing can be +separately good, but becomes so through fulfillment of relations. Each +thing or person is surrounded by many others. To them it must fit +itself. Being but a part, its goodness is found in serving that whole +with which it is connected. That is a good oar which suits well the +hands of the rower, the row-lock of the boat, and the resisting water. +The white fur of the polar bear, the tawny hide of the lion, the +camel's hump, giraffe's neck, and the light feet of the antelope, are +all alike good because they adapt these creatures to their special +conditions of existence and thus favor their survival. Nor is there a +different standard for moral man. His actions which are accounted good +are called so because they are those through which he is adapted to +his surroundings, fitted for the society of his fellows, and adjusted +with the best chance of survival to his encompassing physical world. + +While I have warm approval for much that appears in such a doctrine, I +think those who accept it may easily overlook certain important +elements of goodness. At best it is a description of extrinsic +goodness, for it separates the object from its environment and makes +the response of the former to an external call the measure of its +worth. Of that inner worth, or intrinsic goodness, where fullness and +adjustment of relations go on within and not without, it says nothing. +Yet I have shown how impossible it is to conceive one of these kinds +of goodness without the other. + +But a graver objection still--or rather the same objection pressed +more closely--is this. The present definition naturally brings up the +picture of certain constant and stable surroundings enclosing an +environed object which is to be changed at their demand. No such state +of things exists. There is no fixed environment. It is always fixable. +Every environment is plastic and derives its character, at least +partially, from the environed object. Each stone sends out its little +gravitative and chemical influence upon surrounding stones, and they +are different through being in its neighborhood. The two become +mutually affected, and it is no more suitable to say that the object +must adapt itself to its environment than that the environment must be +adapted to its object. + +Indeed, in persons this second form of statement is the more +important; for the forcing of circumstances into accordance with human +needs may be said to be the chief business of human life. The man who +adapts himself to his ignorant, licentious, or malarial surroundings, +is not a type of the good man. Of course disregard of environment is +not good either. Circumstances have their honorable powers, and these +require to be studied, respected, and employed. Sometimes they are so +strong as to leave a person no other course than to adapt himself to +them. He cannot adapt them to himself. Plato has a good story of how a +native of the little village of Seriphus tried to explain Themistocles +by means of environment. "You would not," he said to the great man, +"have been eminent if you had been born in Seriphus." "Probably not," +answered Themistocles, "nor you, if you had been born in Athens." + +The definition we are discussing, then, is not true--indeed it is +hardly intelligible--if we take it in the one-sided way in which it is +usually announced. The demand for adaptation does not proceed +exclusively from environment, surroundings, circumstance. The stone, +the tree, the man, conforms these to itself as truly as it is +conformed to them. There is mutual adaptation. Undoubtedly this is +implied in the definition, and the petty employment of it which I have +been attacking would be rejected also by its wiser defenders. But when +its meaning is thus filled out, its vagueness rendered clear, and the +mutual influence which is implied becomes clearly announced, the +definition turns into the one which I have offered. Goodness is the +expression of the largest organization. Its aim is everywhere to bring +object and environment into fullest cooperation. We have seen how in +any organic relationship every part is both means and end. Goodness +tends toward organism; and so far as it obtains, each member of the +universe receives its own appropriate expansion and dignity. The +present definition merely states the great truth of organization with +too objective an emphasis; as that which found the satisfaction of +desire to be the ground of goodness over-emphasized the subjective +side. The one is too legal, the other too aesthetic. Yet each calls +attention to an important and supplementary factor in the formation of +goodness. + + + +VII + +In closing these dull defining chapters, in which I have tried to sum +up the notion of goodness in general--a conception so thin and empty +that it is equally applicable to things and persons--it may be well to +gather together in a single group the several definitions we have +reached. + +Intrinsic goodness expresses the fulfillment of function in the +construction of an organism. + +By an organism is meant such an assemblage of active and differing +parts that in it each part both aids and is aided by all the others. + +Extrinsic goodness is found when an object employs an already +constituted wholeness to further the wholeness of others. + +A part is good when it furnishes that and that only which may add +value to other parts. + +A greater good is one more largely contributory to the organism as its +end. + +A higher good is one more fully expressive of that end. + +Probably, too, it will be found convenient to set down here a couple +of other definitions which will hereafter be explained and employed. A +good act is the expression of selfhood as service. By an ideal we mean +a mental picture of a better state of existence than we feel has +actually been reached. + + + +REFERENCES ON MISCONCEPTIONS OF GOODNESS + +Alexander's Moral Order and Progress, bk. iii. ch. i. Section 10. + +Martineau's Types of Ethical Theory, vol. ii. bk. i. ch. i. Section 2. + +Mackenzie's Manual of Ethics, ch. v. Section 13 & ch. vii. Section 2. + +Janet's Theory of Morals, ch. iii. + +Dewey's Outlines of Ethics, Section lxvii. + +Spencer's Principles of Ethics, pt. i. ch. 3. + + + + +III + +SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS + +I + + +In the preceding chapters I have examined only those features of +goodness which are common alike to persons and to things. Goodness was +there seen to be the expression of function in the construction of an +organism. That is, when we ask if any being, object, or quality is +good, we are really inquiring how organic it is, how much it +contributes of riches or solidity to some whole or other. There must, +then, be as many varieties of goodness as there are modes of +constructing organisms. A special set of functions will produce one +kind of organism, a different set another; and each of these will +express a peculiar variety of goodness. If, then, into the +construction of a person conditions enter which are not found in the +making of things, these conditions will render personal goodness to +some extent unlike the goodness of everything else. + +Now I suppose that in the contacts of life we all feel a marked +difference between persons and things. We know a person when we see +him, and are quite sure he is not a thing. Yet if we were called on to +say precisely what it is we know, and how we know it, we should find +ourselves in some difficulty. No doubt we usually recognize a human +being by his form and motions, but we assume that certain inner traits +regularly attend these outward matters, and that in these traits the +real ground of difference between person and thing is to be found. How +many such distinguishing differences exist? Obviously a multitude; but +these are, I believe, merely various manifestations of a few +fundamental characteristics. Probably all can be reduced to four,-- +they are self-consciousness, self-direction, self-development, and +self-sacrifice. Wherever these four traits are found, we feel at once +that the being who has them is a person. Whatever creature lacks them +is but a thing, and requires no personal attention. I might say more. +These four are so likely to go together that the appearance of one +gives confidence of the rest. If, for example, we discover a being +sacrificing itself for another, even though we have not previously +thought of it as a person, it will so stir sympathy that we shall see +in it a likeness to our own kind. Or, finding a creature capable of +steering itself, of deciding what its ends shall be, and adjusting its +many powers to reach them, we cannot help feeling that there is much +in such a being like ourselves, and we are consequently indisposed to +refer its movements to mechanic adjustment. + +If, then, these are the four conditions of personality, the +distinctive functions by which it becomes organically good, they will +evidently need to be examined somewhat minutely before we can rightly +comprehend the nature of personal goodness, and detect its separation +from goodness in general. Such an examination will occupy this and the +three succeeding chapters. But I shall devote myself exclusively to +such features of the four functions as connect them with ethics. Many +interesting metaphysical and psychological questions connected with +them I pass by. + + + +II + +There is no need of elaborating the assertion that a person is a +conscious being. To this all will at once agree. More important is it +to inspect the stages through which we rise to consciousness, for +these are often overlooked. People imagine that they are self- +conscious through and through, and that they always have been. They +assume that the entire life of a person is the expression of +consciousness alone. But this is erroneous. To a large degree we are +allied with things. While self-consciousness is our distinctive +prerogative, it is far from being our only possession. Rather we might +say that all which belongs to the under world is ours too, while self- +consciousness appears in us as a kind of surplusage. No doubt it is by +the distinctive traits, those which are not shared with other +creatures, that we define our special character; but these are not our +sole endowment. Our life is grounded in unconsciousness, and with +this, as students of personal goodness, we must first make +acquaintance. + +Yet how can we become acquainted with it? How grow conscious of the +unconscious? We can but mark it in a negative way and call it the +absence of consciousness. That is all. We cannot be directly aware of +ourselves as unconscious. Indeed, we cannot be quite sure that the +physical things about us, even organic objects, are unconscious. If +somebody should declare that the covers of this book are conscious, +and respond to everything wise or foolish which the writer puts +between them, there would be no way of confuting him. All I could say +would be, "I see no signs of it." My readers occasionally give a +response and show that they do or do not agree with what I say. But +the volume itself lies in stolid passivity, offering no resistance to +whatever I record in it. Since, then, there is no evidence in behalf +of consciousness, I do not unwarrantably assume its presence. I save +my belief for objects where it is indicated, and indicate its absence +elsewhere by calling such objects unconscious. + +But if in human beings consciousness appears, what are its marks, and +how is it known? Ought we not to define it at starting? I believe it +cannot be defined. Definition is taking an idea to pieces. But there +are no pieces in the idea of consciousness. It is elementary, +something in which all other pieces begin. That is, in attempting to +define consciousness, I must in every definition employed really +assume that my hearer is acquainted with it already. I cannot then +define it without covert reference to experience. I might vary the +term and call it awaredness, internal observation, psychic response. I +might say it is that which accompanies all experience and makes it to +be experience. But these are not definitions. A simple way to fix +attention on it is to say that it is what we feel less and less as we +sink into a swoon. What this is, I cannot more precisely state. But in +swoon or sleep we are all familiar with its diminution or increase, +and we recognize in it the very color of our being. After my friend's +remark I am in a different state from that in which I was before. +Something has affected me which may abide. This is not the case with a +stone post, or at least there are no signs of it there. The post, +then, is unconscious. We call ourselves conscious. + +In unconsciousness our lives began, and from it they have not +altogether emerged. Yet unconsciousness is a matter of degree. We may +be very much aware, aware but slightly, vanishingly, not at all. Even +though we never existed unconsciously, we may fairly assume such a +blank terminus in order the better to figure the present condition of +our minds. They show sinking degrees moving off in that direction; +when we think out the series, we come logically to a point where there +is no consciousness at all. + +Such a point analogy also inclines us to concede. In our body we come +upon unconscious sections. This body seems to have some connection +with myself; yet of its large results only, and not of its minuter +operations, can I be distinctly aware. In like manner it is held that +within the mind processes cumulate and rise to a certain height before +they cross the threshold of consciousness. Below that threshold, +though actual processes, they are unknown to us. The teaching of +modern psychology is that all mental action is at the start +unconscious, requiring a certain bulk of stimulus in order to emerge +into conditions where we become aware of it. The cumulated result we +know; the minute factors which must be gathered together to form that +result, we do not know. I do not pronounce judgment on this +psychological question. I state the belief merely in order to show how +probable it is that our conscious life is superposed upon unconscious +conditions. + +In conduct itself I believe every one will acknowledge that his +moments of consciousness are like vivid peaks, while the great mass of +his acts--even those with which he is most familiar--occur +unconsciously. When we read a word on the printed page, how much of it +do we consciously observe? Modern teachers of reading often declare +that detailed consciousness is here unnecessary or even injurious. +Better, they say, take the word, not the letter, as the unit of +consciousness. But taking merely the letter, how minutely are we +conscious of its curvatures? Somewhere consciousness must stop, +resting on the support of unconscious experiences. Matthew Arnold has +declared conduct to be three fourths of life. If we mean by conduct +consciously directed action, it is not one fourth. Yet however +fragmentary, it is that which renders all the rest significant. + + + +III + +Just above our unconscious mental modifications appear the reflex +actions, or instincts. Here experience is translated into action +before it reaches consciousness; that is, though the actions +accomplish intelligent ends, there is no previous knowledge of the +ends to be accomplished. A flash of light falls on my eye, and the lid +closes. It seems a wise act. The brilliant light is too fierce. It +might damage the delicate organ. Prudently, therefore, I draw the +small curtain until the light has gone, then raise it and resume +communication with the outer world. My action seems planned for +protection. In reality there was no plan. Probably enough I did not +perceive the flash; the lid, at any rate, would close equally well if +I did not. In falling from a height I do not decide to sacrifice my +arms rather than my body, and accordingly stretch them out. They +stretch themselves, without intention on my part. How anything so +blind yet so sagacious can occur will become clearer if we take an +illustration from a widely different field. + +To-day we are all a good deal dependent on the telephone; though, not +being a patient man, I can seldom bring myself to use it. It has one +irritating feature, the central office, or perhaps I might more +accurately say, the central office girl. Whenever I try to communicate +with my friend, I must first call up the central office, as it is +briefly called and longly executed. Not until attention there has been +with difficulty obtained can I come into connection with my friend; +for through a human consciousness at that mediating point every +message must pass. In that central office are accordingly three +necessary things; viz., an incoming wire, a consciousness, and an +outgoing wire; and I am helpless till all these three have been +brought into cooperation. Really I have often thought life too short +for the performance of such tasks. And apparently our Creator thought +so at the beginning, when in contriving machinery for us he dispensed +with the hindering factor of a central office operator. For applied to +our previous example of a flash of light, the incoming message +corresponds to the sensuous report of the flash, the outgoing message +to the closure of the eye, and the unfortunate central office girl has +disappeared. The afferent nerve reports directly to the efferent, +without passing the message through consciousness. A fortune awaits +him who will contrive a similar improvement for the telephone. A +special sound sent into the switch-box must automatically, and without +human intervention, oblige an indicated wire to take up the uttered +words. The continuous arc thus established, without employment of the +at present necessary girl, will exactly represent the exquisite +machinery of reflex action which each of us bears about in his own +brain. Here, as in our improved telephone, the announcement itself +establishes the connections needful for farther transmission, without +employing the judgment of any operating official. + +By such means power is economized and action becomes extremely swift +and sure. Promptness, too, being of the utmost importance for +protective purposes, creatures which are rich in such instincts have a +large practical advantage over those who lack them. It is often +assumed that brutes alone are instinctive, and that man must +deliberate over each occasion. But this is far from the fact. Probably +at birth man has as many instincts as any other animal. And though as +consciousness awakes and takes control, some of these become +unnecessary and fall away, new ones--as will hereafter be shown--are +continually established, and by them the heavy work of life is for the +most part performed. Personal goodness cannot be rightly understood +till we perceive how it is superposed on a broad reflex mechanism. + + + +IV + +But higher in the personal life than unconsciousness, higher than the +reflex instincts, are the conscious experiences. By these, we for the +first time became aware of what is going on within us and without. +Messages sent from the outer world are stopped at a central office +established in consciousness, looked over, and deciphered. We judge +whether they require to be sent in one direction or another, or +whether we may not rest in their simple cognizance. Every moment we +receive a multitude of such messages. They are not always called for, +but they come of themselves. My hand carelessly falling on the table +reports in terms of touch. A person near me laughs, and I must hear. I +see the flowers on the table; smell reports them too; while taste +declares their leaves to be bitter and pungent. All this time the +inner organs, with the processes of breathing, blood circulation, and +nervous action, are announcing their acute or massive experiences. +Continually, and not by our own choice, our minds are affected by the +transactions around. Sensations occur-- + + "The eye, it cannot choose but see; + We cannot bid the ear be still; + Our bodies feel, where'er they be, + Against or with our will." + +These itemized experiences thus pouring in upon our passive selves are +found to vary endlessly also in degree, time, and locality. Through +such variations indeed they become itemized. "Therefore is space and +therefore time," says Emerson, "that men may know that things are not +huddled and lumped, but sundered and divisible." + + + +V + +Have we not, then, here reached the highest point of personal life, +self-consciousness? No, that is a peak higher still, for this is but +consciousness. Undoubtedly from consciousness self-consciousness +grows, often appearing by degrees and being extremely difficult to +discriminate. Yet the two are not the same. Possibly in marking the +contrast between them I may be able to gain the collateral advantage +of ridding myself of those disturbers of ethical discussion, the +brutes. Whenever I am nearing an explanation of some moral intricacy +one of my students is sure to come forward with a dog and to ask +whether what I have said shows that dog to be a moral and responsible +being. So I like to watch afar and banish the brutes betimes. Perhaps +if I bestow a little attention on them at present, I may keep the +creatures out of my pages for the future. + +Many writers maintain that brutes differ from us precisely in this +particular, that while they possess consciousness they have not self- +consciousness. A brute, they say, has just such experiences as I have +been describing: he tastes, smells, hears, sees, touches. All this he +may do with greater intensity and precision than we. But he is +entirely wrapped up in these separate sensations. The single +experience holds his attention. He knows no other self than that; or, +strictly speaking, he knows no self at all. It is the experience he +knows, and not himself the experiencer. We say, "The cat feels herself +warm;" but is it quite so? Does she feel herself, or does she feel +warm? Which? If we may trust the writers to whom I have referred, we +ought rather to say, "The cat feels warm" than that "she feels herself +warm;" for this latter statement implies a distinction of which she is +in no way aware. She does not set off her passing moods in contrast to +a self who might be warm or cold, active or idle, hungry or satiated. +The experience of the instant occupies her so entirely that in reality +the cat ceases to be a cat and becomes for the moment just warm. So it +is in all her seeming activities. When she chases a mouse we rightly +say, "She _is_ chasing a mouse," for then she is nothing else. Such a +state of things is at least conceivable. We can imagine momentary +experiences to be so engrossing that the animal is exclusively +occupied with them, unable to note connections with past and future, +or even with herself, their perceiver. Through very fullness of +Consciousness brutes may be lacking in self-consciousness. + +Whether this is the case with the brutes or not, something quite +different occurs in us. No particular experience can satisfy us; we +accordingly say, not "I am an experience," but "I have an experience." +To be able to throw off the bondage of the moment is the distinctive +characteristic of a person. When Shelley watches the skylark, he +envies him his power of whole-heartedly seizing a momentary joy. Then +turning to himself, and feeling that his own condition, if broader, is +on that very account more liable to sorrow, he cries,-- + + "We look before and after, + And pine for what is not." + +That is the mark of man. He looks before and after. The outlook of the +brute, if the questionable account which I have given of him is +correct, is different. He looks to the present exclusively. The +momentary experience takes all his attention. If it does not, he too +in his little degree is a person. Could we determine this simple point +in the brute's psychology, he would at once become available for +ethical material. At present we cannot use him for such purposes, nor +say whether he is selfish or self-sacrificing, possessed of moral +standards and accountable, or driven by subtle yet automatic reflexes. +The obvious facts of him may be interpreted plausibly in either way, +and he cannot speak. Till he can give us a clearer account of this +central fact of his being, we shall not know whether he is a poor +relation of ours or is rather akin to rocks, and clouds, and trees. I +incline to the former guess, and am ready to believe that between him +and us there is only a difference of degree. But since in any case he +stands at an extreme distance from ourselves, we may for purposes of +explanation assume that distance to be absolute, and talk of him as +having no share in the prerogative announced by Shelley. So regarded, +we shall say of him that he does not compare or adjust. He does not +organize experiences and know a single self running through them all. +Whenever an experience takes him, it swallows his self--a self, it is +true, which he never had. + +It is sometimes assumed that Shelley was the first to announce this +weighty distinction. Philosophers of course were familiar with it long +ago, but the poets too had noticed it before the skylark told Shelley. +Burns says to the mouse:-- + + "Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! + The present only toucheth thee: + But, ooh! I backward cast my e'e + On prospects drear! + An' forward tho' I canna see, + I guess an' fear." + +This looking backward and forward which is the ground of man's +grandeur, is also, Burns thinks, the ground of his misery; for in it +is rooted his self-consciousness, something widely unlike the itemized +consciousness of the brute. Shakespeare, too, found in us the same +distinctive trait. Hamlet reflects how God has made us "with such +discourse, looking before and after." We possess discourse, can move +about intellectually, and are not shut up to the moment. But ages +before Shakespeare the fact had been observed. Homer knew all about +it, and in the last book of the Odyssey extols Halitherses, the son of +Mastor, as one "able to look before and after." [Greek text omitted.] +This is the mark of the wise man, not merely marking off person from +brute, but person from person according to the degree of personality +attained. It is characteristic of the child to show little foresight, +little hindsight. He takes the present as it comes, and lives in it. +We who are more mature and rational contemplate him with the same envy +we feel for the skylark and the mouse, and often say, "Would I too +could so suck the joys of the present, without reflecting that +something else is coming and something else is gone." + + + +VI + +Yet after becoming possessed of self-consciousness, we do not steadily +retain it. States of mind occur where the self slips out, though vivid +consciousness remains. As I sit in my chair and fix my eye on the +distance, a daydream or reverie comes over me. I see a picture, +another, another. Somebody speaks and I am recalled. "Why, here I am! +This is I." I find myself once more. I had lost myself--paradoxical +yet accurate expression. We have many such to indicate the +disappearance of self-consciousness at moments of elation. "I was +absorbed in thought," we say; the I was sucked out by strenuous +attention elsewhere. "I was swept away with grief," i.e., I vanished, +while grief held sway. "I was transported with delight," "I was +overwhelmed with shame," and--perhaps most beautiful of all these +fragments of poetic psychology,--"I was beside myself with terror," I +felt myself, to be near, but was still parted; through the fear I +could merely catch glimpses of the one who was terrified. + +These and similar phrases suggest the instability of self- +consciousness. It is not fixed, once and forever, but varies +continually and within a wide range of degree. We like to think that +man possesses full self-consciousness, while other creatures have +none. Our minds are disposed to part off things with sharpness, but +nature cares less about sharp divisions and seems on the whole to +prefer subtle gradations and unstable varieties. So the self has all +degrees of vividness. Of it we never have an experience barely. It is +always in some condition, colored by what it is mixed with. I know +myself speaking or angry or hearing; I know myself, that is, in some +special mood. But never am I able to sunder this self from the special +mass of consciousness in which it is immersed and to gaze upon it pure +and simple. At times that mass of consciousness is so engrossing that +hardly a trace of the self remains. At times the sense of being shut +up to one's self is positively oppressive. Between the two extremes +there is endless variation. When we call self-consciousness the +prerogative of man we do not mean that he fully possesses it, but only +that he may possess it, may possess it more and more; and that in it, +rather than in the merely conscious life, the significance of his +being is found. + + + +VII + +Probably we are born without it. We know how gradually the infant +acquires a mastery of its sensuous experience; and it is likely that +for a long time after it has obtained command of its single +experiences it remains unaware of its selfhood. In a classic passage +of "In Memoriam" Tennyson has stated the case with that blending of +witchery and scientific precision of which he alone among the poets +seems capable:-- + + "The baby, new to earth and sky, + What time his tender palm is prest + Against the circle of the breast, + Has never thought that 'this is I.' + + "But as he grows he gathers much, + And learns the use of 'I' and 'me,' + And finds 'I am not what I see, + And other than the things I touch.' + + "So rounds he to a separate mind, + From whence clear memory may begin, + As thro' the frame that binds him in + His isolation grows defined." + +Until he has separated his mind from the objects around, and even from +his own conscious states, he cannot perceive himself and obtain clear +memory. No child recalls his first year, for the simple reason that +during that year he was not there. Of course there was experience +during that year, there was consciousness; but the child could not +discriminate himself from the crowding experiences and so reach self- +consciousness. At what precise time this momentous possibility occurs +cannot be told. Probably the time varies widely in different children. +In any single child it announces itself by degrees, and usually so +subtly that its early manifestations are hardly perceptible. +Occasionally, especially when long deferred, it breaks with the +suddenness of an epoch, and the child is aware of a new existence. A +little girl of my acquaintance turned from play to her mother with the +cry, "Why, mamma, little girls don't know that they are." She had just +discovered it. In a famous passage of his autobiography, Jean Paul +Richter has recorded the great change in himself: "Never shall I +forget the inward experience of the birth of self-consciousness. I +well remember the time and place. I stood one afternoon, a very young +child, at the house-door, and looked at the logs of wood piled on the +left. Suddenly an inward consciousness, 'I am a Me,' came like a flash +of lightning from heaven, and has remained ever since. At that moment +my existence became conscious of itself, and forever." + +The knowledge that I am an I cannot be conveyed to me by another human +being, nor can I perceive anything similar in him. Each must ascertain +it for himself. Accordingly there is only one word in every language +which is absolutely unique, bearing a different meaning for every one +who employs it. That is the word I. For me to use it in the sense that +you do would prove that I had lost my wits. Whatever enters into my +usage is out of it in yours. Obviously, then, the meaning of this word +cannot be taught. Everything else may be. What the table is, what is a +triangle, what virtue, heaven, or a spherodactyl, you can teach me. +What I am, you cannot; for no one has ever had an experience +corresponding to this except myself. People in speaking to me call me +John, Baby, or Ned, an externally descriptive name which has +substantially a common meaning for all who see me. When I begin to +talk I repeat this name imitatively, and thinking of myself as others +do. I speak of myself in the third person. Yet how early that +reference to a third person begins to be saturated with self- +consciousness, who can say? Before the word "I" is employed, "Johnny" +or "Baby" may have been diverted into an egoistic significance. All we +can say is that "I" cannot be rightly employed until consciousness has +risen to self-consciousness. + + + +VIII + +And when it has so risen, its unity and coherence are by no means +secure. I have already pointed out how often it is lost in moments +when the conscious element becomes particularly intense. But in morbid +conditions too it sometimes undergoes a disruption still more +peculiar. Just as disintegration may attack any other organic unit, so +may it appear in the personal life. The records of hypnotism and other +related phenomena show cases where self-consciousness appears to be +distributed among several selves. These curious experiences have +received more attention in recent years than ever before. They do not, +however, belong to my field, and to consider them at any length would +only divert attention from my proper topic. But they deserve mention +in passing in order to make plain how wayward is self-consciousness,-- +how far from an assured possession of its unity. + +This unity seems temporarily suspended on occasion of swoon or nervous +shock. An interesting case of its loss occurred in my own experience. +Many years ago I was fond of horseback riding; and having a horse that +was unusually easy in the saddle, I persisted in riding him long after +my groom had warned me of danger. He had grown weak in the knees and +was inclined to stumble. Riding one evening, I came to a little +bridge. I remember watching the rays of the sunset as I approached it. +Something too of my college work was in my mind, associated with the +evening colors. And then--well, there was no "then." The next I knew a +voice was calling, "Is that you?" And I was surprised to find that it +was. I was entering my own gateway, leading my horse. I answered +blindly, "Something has happened. I must have been riding. Perhaps I +have fallen." I put my hand to my face and found it bloody. I led my +horse to his post, entered the house, and relapsed again into +unconsciousness. When I came to myself, and was questioned about my +last remembrance, I recalled the little bridge. We went to it the next +day. There lay my riding whip. There in the sand were the marks of a +body which had been dragged. Plainly it was there that the accident +had occurred, yet it was three quarters of a mile from my house. When +thrown, I had struck on my forehead, making an ugly hole in it. Two or +three gashes were on other parts of the head. But I had apparently +still held the rein, had risen with the horse, had walked by his side +till I came to four corners in the road, had there taken the proper +turn, passed three houses, and entering my own gate then for the first +time became aware of what was happening. + +What had been happening? About twenty minutes would be required to +perform this elaborate series of actions, and they had been performed +exactly as if I had been guiding them, while in reality I knew nothing +about them. Shall we call my conduct unconscious cerebration? Yes, if +we like large words which cover ignorance. I do not see how we can +certainly say what was going on. Perhaps during all this time I had +neither consciousness nor self-consciousness. I may have been a mere +automaton, under the control of a series of reflex actions. The +feeling of the reins in my hands may have set me erect. The feeling of +the ground beneath my feet may have projected these along their way; +and all this with no more consciousness than the falling man has in +stretching out his hands. Or, on the contrary, I may have been +separately conscious in each little instant; but in the shaken +condition of the brain may not have had power to spare for gluing +together these instants and knitting them into a whole. It may be it +was only memory which failed. I cite the case to show the precarious +character of self-consciousness. It appears and disappears. Our life +is glorified by its presence, and from it obtains its whole +significance. Whatever we are convinced possesses it we certainly +declare to be a person. Yet it is a gradual acquisition, and must be +counted rather a goal than a possession. Under it, as the height of +our being, are ranged the three other stages,--consciousness, reflex +action, and unconsciousness. + + + +REFERENCES ON SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS + +James's Psychology, ch. x. + +Royce's Studies of Good and Evil, ch. vi.-ix. + +Ferrier's Philosophy of Consciousness, in his Philosophical Remains. + +Calkins's Introduction to Psychology, bk. ii. + +Wundt's Human and Animal Psychology, lect. xxvii. + + + + +IV + +SELF-DIRECTION + +I + + +In the last chapter I began to discuss the nature of goodness +distinctively personal. This has its origin in the differing +constitutions of persons and things. Into the making of a person four +characteristics enter which are not needed in the formation of a +thing. The most fundamental of these I examined. Persons and things +are unlike in this, that each force which stirs within a self- +conscious person is correlated with all his other forces. So great and +central is this correlation that a person can say, "I have an +experience," not--as, possibly, the brutes--"I am an experience." Yet +although a person tends thus to be an organic whole, he did not begin +his existence in conscious unity. Probably the early stages of our +life are to be sought rather in the regions of unconsciousness. Rising +out of unconscious conditions into reflex actions--those ingenious +provisions for our security at times when we have no directing powers +of our own--we gradually pass into conditions of consciousness, where +we are able to seize the single experience and to be absorbed in it. +Out of this emerges by degrees an apprehension of ourselves contrasted +with our experiences. Even, however, when this self-consciousness is +once established, it may on vivacious or morbid occasions be +overthrown. It by no means attends all the events of our lives. Yet it +marks all conduct that can be called good. Goodness which is +distinctively personal must in some way express the formation and +maintenance of a self-conscious life. + +But more is needed. A person fashioned in the way described would be +aware of himself, aware of his mental changes, perhaps aware of an +objective order of things producing these changes, and still might +have no real share himself in what was going on. We can at least +imagine a being merely contemplative. He sits as a spectator at his +own drama. Trains of associated ideas pass before his interested gaze; +a multitude of transactions occur in his contemplated surroundings; +but he is powerless to intervene. He passively beholds, and does +nothing. If such a state of things can be imagined, and if something +like it occasionally occurs in our experience, it does not represent +our normal condition. Our life is no mere affair of vision. Self- +consciousness counts as a factor. Through it changes arise both +without and within. I accordingly entitle this fourth chapter Self- +direction. In it I propose to consider how our life goes forth in +action; for in fact wherever self-consciousness appears, there is +developed also a centre of activity, and an activity of an altogether +peculiar kind. + +It is well known that in interpreting these facts of action the +judgment of ethical writers is divided. Libertarians and determinists +are here at issue. Into their controversy I do not desire to enter. I +mean to attempt a brief summary of those facts relating to human +action which are tolerably well agreed upon by writers of both +schools. In these there are intricacies enough. To raise the hand, to +wave it in the air, to lay it on the table again, would ordinarily be +reckoned simple matters. Yet operations so simple as these I shall +show pass through half a dozen steps, though they are ordinarily +performed so swiftly that we do not notice their several parts. In +life much is knitted together which cannot be understood without +dissection. In such dissection I must now engage. As a good pedagogue +I must discuss operations separately which in reality get all their +meaning through being found together. Against the necessary +distortions of such a method the reader must be on his guard. + + + +II + +In the total process of self-direction there are evidently two main +divisions,--a mental purpose must be formed, and then this purpose +must be sent forth into the outer world. It is there accepted by those +agencies of a physical sort which wait to do our bidding. The +formation of the mental purpose I will, for the sake of brevity, call +the intention, and to the sending of it forth I will give the name +volition. That these terms are not always confined within these limits +is plain. But I shall not force their meaning unduly by employing them +so, and I need a pair of terms to mark the great contrasted sides of +self-direction. The intention (A) shall designate the subjective side. +But those objective adjustments which fit it to emerge and seek in an +outer world its full expression I shall call the volition (B). + +For the present, then, regarding entirely the former, let us see how +an intention arises,--how self-consciousness sets to work in stirring +up activity. To gain clearness I shall distinguish three subordinate +stages, designating them by special names and numerals. + + + +III + +At the start we are guided by an end or ideal of what we would bring +about. To a being destitute of self-consciousness only a single sort +of action is at any moment possible. When a certain force falls upon +it, it meets with a fixed response. Or, if the causative forces are +many, what happens is but the well-established resultant of these +forces operating upon a being as definite in nature as they. Such a +being contemplates no future to be reached through motions set up +within it. Its motions do not occur for the sake of realizing in +coming time powers as yet but half-existent. It is not guided by +ideals. Its actions set forth merely what it steadily is, not what it +might be. Something like the opposite of all this shapes personal +acts. A person has imagination. He contemplates future events as +possible before they occur, and this contemplation is one of the very +factors which bring them about. For example: while writing here, I can +emancipate my thought from this present act and set myself to +imagining my situation an hour hence. At that time I perceive I may be +still at my writing-desk, I may be walking the streets, I may be at +the theatre, or calling on my friend. A dozen, a hundred, future +possibilities are depicted as open to me. On one or another of these I +fix my attention, thereby giving it a causal force over other present +ideas, and rendering its future realization likely. + +So enormously important is imagination. By it we effect our +emancipation from the present. Without this power to summon pictures +of situations which at present are not, we should be exactly like the +things or brutes already described. For in the thing a determined +sequence follows every impulse. There is no ambiguous future +disclosed, no variety of possibilities, no alternatives. Present +things under definite causes have but a single issue; and if the +account given of the brute is correct, his condition is unlike that of +things only in this respect, that in him curious automatic springs are +provided which set him in appropriate motion whenever he is exposed to +harm, so enabling him suitably to face a future of which, however, he +forms no image. In both brutes and things there is entire limitation +to the present. This is not the case with a person. He takes the +future into his reckoning, and over him it is at least as influential +as the past. A person, through imagination laying hold of future +possibilities, has innumerable auxiliary forces at his command. Choice +appears. A depicted future thus held by attention for causal purposes +is no longer a mere idea; it becomes an ideal. + +But in order to transform the depicted future from an idea to an +ideal, I must conceive it as rooted in my nature, and in some degree +dependent on my power. Attracted by the brilliancy of the crescent +moon, I think what sport it would be to hang on one of its horns and +kick my heels in the air. But no, that remains a mere picture. It will +not become an ideal, for it has no relation to my structure and +powers. But there are other imaginable futures,--going to Europe, +becoming a physician, writing a book, buying a house, which, though +not fully compatible with one another, still represent, each one of +them, some capacity of mine. Attention to one or the other of these +will make it a reality in my life. They are competing ideals, and +because of such competition my future is uncertain. The ambiguous +future is accordingly a central characteristic of a person. He can +imagine all sorts of states of himself which as yet have no existence, +and one of these selected as an ideal may become efficient. This first +stage, then, in the formation of the purpose, where various depicted +future possibilities are summoned for assessment, may be called our +fashioning of an ideal. + + + +IV + +But a second stage succeeds, the stage of desire. Indeed, though I +call it a second, it is really but a special aspect of the first; for +the ideal which I form always represents some improvement in myself. +An ideal which did not promise to better me in some way would be no +ideal at all. It would be quite inoperative. I never rise from my +chair except with the hope of being better off. Without this, I should +sit forever. But I feel uneasiness in my present position, and +conceive the possibility of not being constrained; or I think of some +needful work which remains unexecuted as long as I sit here, and that +work undone I perceive will leave my life less satisfactory than it +might be. And this imagined betterment must always be in some sense my +own. If it is a picture of the gains of some one else quite +unconnected with myself, it will not start my action. + +But it will be objected that we do often act unselfishly and in behalf +of other persons. Indeed we do. Perhaps our impulses are more largely +derived from others than from ourselves, yet from desire our own share +is never quite eliminated. I give to the poor. But it is because I +hate poverty; or because I am attracted by the face, the story, or the +supposed character of him who receives; or because I am unable to +separate my interests from those of humanity everywhere. In some +subtle form the I-element enters. Leave it out, and the action would +lose its value and become mechanical. What I did would be no +expression of self-conscious me. And such undoubtedly is the case with +much of our conduct. The reflex actions, described in the last +chapter, and many of our habits too, contain no precise reference to +our self. Intelligent, purposeful, moral conduct, however, is +everywhere shaped by the hope of improving the condition of him who +acts. We do not act till we find something within or about us +unsatisfactory. If contemplating myself in my actual conditions I +could pronounce them all good, creation would for me be at an end. To +start it, some sense of need is required. Accordingly I have named +desire as the second state in the formation of a purpose, for desire +is precisely this sense of disparity between our actual self and that +possible bettered self depicted in the ideal. + +Popular speech, however, does not here state the matter quite fully. +We often talk as if our desires were for other things than ourselves. +We say, for example, "I want a glass of water." In reality it is not +the water I want. That is but a fragment of my desire. It is water +plus self. Only so is the desire fully uttered. Beholding my present +self, my thirsty and defective self, I perceive a side of myself +requiring to be bettered. Accordingly, among imagined pictures of +possible futures I identify myself with that one which represents me +supplied with water. But it is not water that is the object of my +desire, it is myself as bettered by water. Since, however, this +betterment of self is a constant factor of all desire, we do not +ordinarily name it. We say, "I desire wealth, I desire the success of +my friend, or the freedom of my country," omitting the important and +never absent portion of the desire, the betterment of self. + +Of course a stage in the formation of the purpose so important as +desire receives a multitude of names. Perhaps the simplest is +appetite. In appetite I do not know what I want. I am blindly impelled +in a certain direction. I do not perceive that I have a suffering +self, nor know that this particular suffering would be bettered by +that particular supply. Appetite is a mere instinct. In the mechanic +structure of my being it is planned that without comprehension of the +want I shall be impelled to the source of supply. But when appetite is +permeated with a consciousness of what is lacking, I apprehend it as a +need. Through needs we become persons. The capacity for +dissatisfaction is the sublime thing in man. We can know our poor +estate. We can say, That which I am I would not be. Passing the blind +point of appetite, we come into the region of want or need; if we then +can discern what is requisite to supply this need, we may be said to +have a desire. That desire, if specific and urgent, we call a wish. + +All these varieties of desire include the same two factors: on the one +hand a recognition of present defect in ourselves, on the other +imagination of possible bettered conditions. Diminish either, and +personal power is narrowed. The richer a man's imagination, and the +more abundant his pictures of possible futures, the more resourceful +he becomes. Pondering on desire as rooted in the sense of defect, we +may feel less regret that our age is one not easily satisfied. Never +were there so many discontents, because there were never so many +aspirations. It is true there may be a devilish discontent or a divine +one. There is a discontent without definite aims, one which merely +rejects what is now possessed; and there is one which seeks what is +wisely attainable. Yet after all, it is a small price to pay for +aspiration that it is often attended by vagueness and unwisdom. + + + +V + +But before the formation of the purpose is complete it must pass +through a third stage, the stage of decision. Ideals and desires are +not enough, or rather they are too many; for there may be a multitude +of them. Certain ideals are desired for supplying certain of my wants, +others for supplying others. But on examination these many desirable +ideals will often prove conflicting; all cannot be attained, or at +least not all at once. Among them I must pick and choose, reducing and +ordering their number. This process is decision. Starting with my +ambiguous future, imagination brings multifold possibilities of good +before me. But before these can be allowed to issue miscellaneously +into action, comparison and selection reduce them to a single best. I +accordingly assess the many desirable but competing ideals and see +which of them will on the whole most harmoniously supplement my +imperfections. On that I fasten, and the intention is complete. + +All this is obvious. But one part of the process, and perhaps the most +important part, is apt to receive less attention than it deserves. In +decision we easily become engrossed with the single selected ideal, +and do not so fully perceive that our choice implies a rejection of +all else. Yet this it is--this cutting off--which rightly gives a name +to the whole operation. The best is arrived at only by a process of +exclusion in which we successively cut off such ideals as do not tend +to the largest supply of our contemplated defects. Walking by the +candy-shop, and seeing the tempting chocolates, I feel a strong desire +for them. My mouth waters. I hurry into the shop and deposit my five- +cent piece. In the evening I find that by spending five cents for the +chocolates I am cut off from obtaining my newspaper, a loss +unconsidered at the time. But to decide for anything is to decide +against a multitude of other things. Taking is still more largely +leaving. The full extent of this negative decision often escapes our +notice, and through the very fact of choosing a good we blindly +neglect a best. + + + +VI + +Here, then, are the three steps in the formation of the purpose,--the +ideal, the desire, and the decision,--each earlier one preparing the +way for that which is to follow. But an intention is altogether +useless if it pauses here. It was formed to be sent forth, to he +entrusted to forces stretching beyond the intending mind. The laws of +nature are to take it in charge. The Germans have a good proverb: "A +stone once thrown belongs to the devil." When once it parts from our +hands, it is no longer ours. It is taken up, for evil or for good, by +agencies other than our own. If we mistake the agency to which we +intrust it, enormous mischief may ensue, and we shall he helpless. +These agencies, accordingly, need careful scrutiny before being called +on to work their will. The business of scrutinizing them and of +turning over the purpose to their keeping, forms the second half (B) +of self-direction. In contrast with (A), the formation of the purpose +or the intention, this may be called the realization of the purpose, +or volition. Volition, it is true, is often employed more +comprehensively, but we shall do the term no violence if we confine +its meaning to the discharge of our subjective purpose into the +objective world. Volition then will also, under our scheme, have three +subordinate stages. + + + +VII + +The first of them I will call deliberation, in order to approximate it +as closely as possible to the preceding decision. Having now my +purpose decisively formed, I have to ask myself what physical means +will best carry it out. I summon before my mind as complete a list as +possible of nature's conveyances, and judge which of them will with +the greatest efficiency and economy execute my intention. Here I am at +a friend's house, but I have decided to go to my own. I must compare, +then, the different modes of getting there, so as to pick out just +that one which involves the least expenditure and the most certain +result. One way occurs to me which I have never tried before, a swift +and interesting way. I might go by balloon. In that balloon I could +sail at my ease over the tops of the houses and across the beautiful +river. When the tower of Memorial Hall comes in sight, I could pull a +cord and drop gently down at my own door, having meanwhile had the +seclusion and exaltation of an unusual ride. What a delightful +experience! But there is one disadvantage. Balloons are not always at +hand. I might be obliged to wait here for hours, for days, before +getting one. I dismiss the thought of a balloon. It does not +altogether suit my purpose. + +Or, I might call a carriage. So I should secure solitude and a certain +speed, but should pay for these with noise, jolting, and more money +than I can well spare. There would be waiting, too, before the +carriage comes. Perhaps I had better ask my friend to lend me his arm +and to escort me home. In this there would be dignity and a saving of +my strength. We could talk by the way, and I always find him +interesting. But should I be willing to be so much beholden to him, +and would not the wind to-day make our walk and talk difficult? Better +postpone till summer weather. And after all there is Boston's most +common mode of locomotion right at hand, the electric car. Strange it +was not thought of before! The five-cent piece saved from the +chocolates will carry me, swiftly, safely, and with independence. + +It is in this way that we go through the process of deliberation. All +the possible means of effecting our purpose are summoned for judgment. +The feasibility of each is examined, and the cost involved in its +employment. Comparison is made between the advantages offered by +different agencies; and oftentimes at the close we are in a sad +puzzle, finding these advantages and disadvantages so nearly balanced. +One, however, is finally judged superior in fitness. To this we tie +ourselves, making it the channel for our out-go. The whole process, +then, in its detailed comparison and final fixation, is identical with +that to which I have given the name of decision, except that the +comparisons of decision refer to inner facts, those of deliberation to +outer. + + + +VIII + +We now reach the climax of the whole process, effort, the actual +sending forth through the deliberately chosen channel of the ideal +desired and decided on. To it all the rest is merely preliminary, and +in it the final move is made which commits us to the deed. About it, +therefore, we may well desire the completest information. To tell the +truth, I have none to give, and nobody else has. The nature of the +operation is substantially unknown. Though something which we have +been performing all day long, we and all our ancestors, no one of us +has succeeded in getting a good sight of what actually takes place. +Our purposes are prepared as I have described, and then those +purposes--something altogether mental--change on a sudden to material +motions. How is the transmutation accomplished? How do we pass from a +mental picture to a set of motions in the physical world? What is the +bridge connecting the two? The bridge is always down when we direct +our gaze upon it, though firm when any act would cross. + +Nor can we trace our passage any more easily in the opposite +direction. When my eyes are turned on my watch, for example, the +vibrations of light striking its face are reflected on the pupil of my +eye. There the little motions, previously existing only in the +surrounding ether, are communicated to my optic nerve. This vibrates +too, and by its motion excites the matter of my brain, and then--well, +I have a sensation of the white face of my watch. But what was +contained in that _then_ is precisely what we do not understand. +Incoming motions may be transmuted into thought; or, as in effort, +outgoing thought may be transmuted into motion. But alike in both +cases, on the nature of that transmutation, the very thing we most +desire to know, we get no light. In regard to this crucial point no +one, materialist or idealist, can offer a suggestion. We may of +course, in fault of explanation, restate the facts in clumsy +circumlocution. Calling thought a kind of motion, we may say that in +action it propagates itself from the mind through the brain into the +outer world; while in the apprehension of an idea motions of the outer +world pass into the brain, and there set up those motions which we +know as thought. But after such explanations the mystery remains +exactly where it was before. How does a "mental motion" come out of a +bodily motion, or a bodily from a mental? It is wiser to acknowledge a +mystery and to mark the spot where it occurs. + +This marking of the spot may, however, illuminate the surrounding +territory. If we cannot explain the nature of the crucial act, it may +still be well to study its range. How widely is effort exercised? We +should naturally answer, as widely as the habitable globe. I can sit +in my office in Boston and carry on business in China. When I touch a +button, great ships are loaded on the opposite side of the earth and +cross the intervening oceans to work the bidding of a person they have +never seen. Perhaps some day we may send our volition beyond the globe +and enter into communication with the inhabitants of Mars. It would +seem idle, then, to talk about the limitations of volition and a +restricted range of will. But in fact that will is restricted, and its +range is much narrower than the globe. For when we consider the +matter, with precision, it is not exactly I who have operated in +China. I operate only where I am. In touching the button my direct +agency ceases. It is true that connected with that button are wires +conducting to a wide variety of consequences. But about the details of +that conduction I need know nothing. The wire will work equally well +whether I understand or do not understand electricity. Its working is +not mine, but its own. The pressure of my finger ends my act, which is +then taken up and carried forward by automatic and mechanical +adjustments requiring neither supervision nor consciousness on my +part. We might then more accurately say that my direct volition is +circumscribed by my own body. My finger tips, my lips, my nodding head +are the points where I part with full control, though indefinitely +beyond these I can forecast changes which the automatic agencies, once +set astir, will induce. + +Am I niggardly in thus confining the action of each of us within his +own body? Is the range of volition thus marked out too narrow? On the +contrary, it is probably still too wide. We are as powerless to direct +our bodies as we are to manage affairs in China. This, at least, is +the modern psychological doctrine of effort. It is now believed that +volition is entirely a mental affair, and is confined to the single +act of attention. It is alleged that when I attend to an ideal, fixing +my mind fully upon it, the results are altogether similar to what +occurred on my touching the button. Every idea tends to pass +automatically into action through agencies about which I know as +little as I do about ocean telegraphs. This physical frame of mine is +a curious organic mechanism, in which reflex actions and instincts do +their blind work at a hint from me. I am said to raise my arm. But +never having been a student of anatomy and physiology, I have not the +least idea how the rise was effected; and if I am told that nerves +excite muscles, and these in turn contract like cords and pull the arm +this way or that, the rise will not be accomplished a bit better for +the information. For, as in electric transmission, it is not I who do +the work. My part is attention. The rest is adapted automatism. When I +have driven everything else out of my mind except the picture of the +rising arm, it rises of itself, the after-effects on nerves and +muscles being apprehended by me as the sense of effort. + +We cannot, then, exercise our will with a wandering mind. So long as +several ideas are conflictingly attended to, they hinder each other. +This we verify in regrettable experiences every day. On waking this +morning, for example, I saw it was time to get up. But the bed was +comfortable, and there were interesting matters to think of. I meant +to get up, for breakfast was waiting, and there was that new book to +be examined, and that letter to be written. How long would this +require, and how should the letter be planned? But I must get up. +Possibly those callers may come. And shall I want to see them? It is +really time to get up. What a curious figure the pattern of the paper +makes, viewed in this light! The breakfast bell! Out of my head go all +vagrant reflections, and suddenly, before I can notice the process, I +find myself in the middle of the floor. That is the way. From wavering +thoughts nothing comes. But suddenly some sound, some sight, some +significant interest, raises the depicted act into exclusive vividness +of attention, and our part is done. The spring has been touched, and +the physical machinery, of which we may know little or nothing, does +its work. There it stands ready, the automatic machinery of this +exquisite frame of ours, waiting for the unconfused signal,--our only +part in the performance,--then automatically it springs to action and +pushes our purpose into the outer world. Such at least is the +fashionable teaching of psychologists to-day. Volition is full +attention. It has no wider scope. With bodily adjustments it does not +meddle. These move by their own mechanic law. Of real connection +between body and mind we know nothing. We can only say that such +parallelism exists that physical action occurs on occasion of complete +mental vision. + +No doubt this theory leaves much to be desired in the way of +clearness. What is meant by fixing the attention exclusively? Is +unrelated singleness possible among our mental pictures? Or how +narrowly must the field of attention be occupied before these strange +springs are set in motion? At the end of the explanation do not most +of the puzzling problems of scope, freedom, and selection remain, +existing now as problems about the nature and working of attention +instead of, as formerly, problems about the emergence of the intention +into outward nature? No doubt these classical problems puzzle us +still. But a genuine advance toward clarity is made when we confine +them within a small area by identifying volition with mental +attention. Nor will it be anything to the point to say, "But I know +myself as a physical creature to be involved in effort. The strain of +volition is felt in my head, in my arm, throughout my entire body." +Nobody denies it. After we have attended, and the machinery is set in +motion, we feel its results. The physical changes involved in action +are as apprehensible in our experience as are any other natural facts, +and are remembered and anticipated in each new act. + + + +IX + +Only one stage more remains, and that is an invariable one, the stage +of satisfaction. It is fortunately provided that pleasure shall attend +every act. Pleasure probably is nothing else but the sense that some +one of our functions has been appropriately exercised. Every time, +then, that an intention has been taken, up in the way just described, +carried forth into the complex world, and there conducted to its mark, +a gratified feeling arises. "Yes, I have accomplished it. That is +good. I felt a defect, I desired to remove it, and betterment is +here." We cannot speak a word, or raise a hand, perhaps even draw a +breath, without something of this glad sense of life. It may be +intense, it may be slight or middling; but in some degree it is always +there. For through action we realize our powers. This seemingly fixed +world is found to be plastic in our hands. We modify it. We direct +something, mean something. No longer idle drifters on the tide, +through our desires we bring that tide our way. And in the sense of +self-directed power we find a satisfaction, great or small according +to the magnitude of our undertaking. + +In such a catalogue of the elements of action as has just been given +there is something uncanny. Can we not pick up a pin without going +through all six stages? Should we ever do anything, if to do even the +simplest we were obliged to do six things? Have I not made matters +needlessly elaborate? No, I have not unduly elaborated. We are made +just so complex. Yet as a good teacher I have falsified. For the sake +of clearness I have been treating separately matters which go +together. There are not six operations, there is but one. In this one +there are six stages; that is, there are six points of view from which +the single operation may advantageously be surveyed. But these do not +exist apart. They are all intimately blended, each affecting all the +rest. Because of our dull faculties we cannot understand, though we +can work, them _en bloc_. He who would render them comprehensible +must commit the violence of plucking them asunder, holding them up +detachedly, and saying, "Of such diverse stuff is our active life +composed." But in reality each gets its meaning through connection +with all the others. Life need not terrify because for purposes of +verification it must be represented as so intricate an affair. It is I +who have broken up its simplicity, and it belongs to my reader to put +it together again. + + + +REFERENCE ON SELF-DIRECTION + +James's Psychology, ch. xxvi. + +Sigwart's Der Begriff des Wollen's, in his Kleine Schriften. + +A. Alexander's Theories of the Will. + +Munsterberg's Die Willenshandlung. + +Hoffding's Psychology, ch. vii. + + + + +V + +SELF-DEVELOPMENT + +I + + +Conceivably a being such, as has been described might advance no +farther. Conscious he might be, observant of everything going on +within him and without; occupied too with inducing the very changes he +observes, and yet with no aim to enlarge himself or improve the world +through any of the changes so induced. Complete within himself at the +beginning, he might be equally so at the close, his activity being +undertaken for the mere sake of action, and not for any beneficial +results following in its train. Still, even such a being would be +better off while acting than if quiet, and by his readiness to act +would show that he felt the need of at least temporary betterment. In +actual cases the need goes deeper. + +A being capable of self-direction ordinarily has capacities +imperfectly realized. Changing other things, he also changes himself; +and it becomes a part of his aim in action to make these changes +advantageous, and each act helpfully reactive. Accordingly the aim at +self-development regularly attends self-direction. I could not, +therefore, properly discuss my last topic without in some measure +anticipating this. Every ideal of action, I was obliged to say, +includes within it an aim at some sort of betterment of the actor. Our +business, then, in the present chapter is not to announce a new theme, +but simply to render explicit what before was implied. We must detach +from action the influence which it throws back upon us, the actors. We +must make this influence plain, exhibit its method, and show wherein +it differs from other processes in some respects similar. + + + +II + +The most obvious fact about self-development is that it is a species +of change, and that change is associated with sadness. Heraclitus, the +weeping philosopher of the Greeks, discovered this fact five hundred +years before Christ. "Nothing abides," he said, "all is fleeting." We +stand in a moving tide, unable to bathe twice in the same stream; +before we can stoop a second time the flood is gone. In every age this +is the common theme of lamentation for poet, moralist, common man and +woman. All other causes of sadness are secondary to it. As soon as we +have comprehended anything, have fitted it to our lives and learned to +love it, it is gone. + +Such is the aspect which change ordinarily presents. It is tied up +with grief. We regard what is precious as stable; and yet we are +obliged to confess that nothing on earth is stable--nothing among +physical things, and just as little among mental and spiritual things. +But there are many kinds of change. We are apt to confuse them with +one another, and in so doing to carry over to the nobler sorts +thoughts applicable only to the lower. In beginning, then, the +discussion of self-development, I think it will conduce to clearness +if I offer a conspectus of all imaginable changes. I will set them in +groups and show their different kinds, exhibiting first those which +are most elementary, then those more complex, and finally those so +dark and important that they pass over into a region of mystery and +paradox. + + + +III + +Probably all will agree that the simplest possible change is the +accidental sort, that where only relations of space are altered. My +watch, now lying in the middle of the desk, is shifted to the right +side, is laid in its case, or is lost in the street. I call these +changes accidental, because they in no way affect the nature of the +watch. They are not really changes in it, but in its surroundings. The +watch still remains what it was before. To the same group we might +refer a large number of other changes where no inner alteration is +wrought. The watch is now in a brilliant light; I lay my hand on it, +and it is in darkness. Its place has not been changed, but that of the +light has been. Many of the commonest changes in life are of this +sort. They are accidental or extraneous changes. In them, through all +its change, the thing abides. There is no necessary alteration of its +nature. + + + +IV + +But unhappily this is not the only species of change. It is not that +which has brought a wail from the ages, when men have seen what they +prize slip away. The common root of sorrow has been destructive +change. Holding the watch in my hand, I may drop it on the floor; and +at once the crystal, which has been so transparently protective, is +gone. If the floor is of stone, the back of the watch may be wrenched +away, the wheels of its delicate machinery jarred asunder. Destruction +has come upon it, and not merely an extraneous accident. In +consequence of altered surroundings, dissolution is wrought within. +Change of a lamentable sort has come. What before was a beautiful +whole, organically constituted in the way described in my first two +chapters, has been torn asunder. What we formerly beheld with delight +has disappeared. + +And let us not accept false comfort. We often hear it said that, after +all, destruction is an illusion. There is no such thing. What is once +in the world is here forever. No particle of the watch can by any +possibility be lost. And what is true of the watch is true of things +far higher, of persons even. When persons decay and die, may not their +destruction be only in outward seeming? We cannot imagine absolute +cessation. As well imagine an absolute beginning. There is no loss. +Everything abides. Only to our apprehension do destructive changes +occur. We are all familiar with consolation of this sort, and how +inwardly unsatisfactory it is! For while it is true that no particle +of the watch is destroyed, it is precisely those particles which were +in our minds of little consequence. Almost equally well they might +have been of gold, silver, or steel. The precious part of the, watch +was the organization of its particles, and that is gone. The face and +form of my friend can indeed be blotted out in no single item. But I +care nothing for its material items, The totality may be wrecked, and +it is that totality to which my affections cling. And so it is in the +world around--material remains, organic wholeness goes. It is almost a +sarcasm of nature that she counts our precious things so cheap, while +the bricks and mortar of which these are made--matters on which no +human affection can fasten--she holds for everlasting. The +lamentations of the ages, then, have not erred. Something tragic is +involved in the framework of the universe. In order to abide, +divulsion must occur. Destruction of organism is going on all around +us, and ever will go on. Things must unceasingly be torn apart. One +might call this destructive and lamentable change the only steadfast +feature of the world. + + + +V + +Yet after all, and often in this very process of divulsion, we catch +glimpses of a nobler sort of change, For there is a third species to +which I might perhaps give the name of transforming: change. When, for +example, a certain portion of oxygen and a certain portion of +hydrogen, each having its own distinctive qualities, are brought into +contact with one another, they utterly change. The qualities of both +disappear, and a new set of qualities takes their place. The old ones +are gone,--gone, but not lost; for they have been transformed into new +ones of a predetermined and constant kind. Only a single sort of +change is open to these elements when in each other's presence, and in +precisely that way they will always change. In so changing they do +not, it is true, fully keep their past; but a fixed relation to it +they do keep, and under certain conditions may return to it again. The +transforming changes of chemistry, then, are of a different nature +from those of the mechanic destruction just described. In those the +ruined organism leaves not a wrack behind. In chemic change something +definite is held, something that originally was planned and can he +prophesied. An end is attained: the fixed combination of just so much +oxygen with just so much hydrogen for the making of the new substance, +water. Here change is productive, and is not mere waste, as in organic +destruction. Something, however, is lost--the old qualities; for these +cannot be restored except through the disruption of the new substance, +the water in which they are combined. + + + +VI + +But there is a more peculiar change of a higher order still, that +which we speak of as development, evolution, growth. This sort of +change might be described as movement toward a mark. When the seed +begins to be transformed in the earth, it is adapted not merely to the +next stage; but that stage has reference to one farther on, and that +to still others. It would hardly be a metaphor to declare that the +whole elm is already prophesied when its seed is laid in the earth. +For though the entire tree is not there, though in order that the seed +may become an elm it must have a helpful environment, still a certain +plan of movement elmwards is, we may say, already schemed in the seed. +Here accordingly, change--far from being a loss--is a continual +increment and revelation. And since the later stages successively +disclose the meaning of those which went before, these later stages +might with accuracy he styled the truth of their predecessors, and +those be accounted in comparison trivial and meaningless until thus +changed. This sort of change carries its past along with it. In the +destructive changes which we were lamenting a moment ago, the past was +lost and the new began as an independent affair. Even in chemic change +this was true to a certain extent. Yet there, though the past was +lost, a future was prophesied. In the case of development the future, +so far from annihilating the past, is its exhibition on a larger +scale. The full significance of any single stage is not manifest until +the final one is reached. + +I suppose when we arrive at this thought of change as expressing +development, our lamentation may well turn to rejoicing. Possibly this +may be the reason why the gloom which is a noticeable feature of the +thought of many preceding centuries has in our time somewhat +disappeared. While our ambitions are generally wider, and we might +seem, therefore, more exposed to disappointment, I think the last half +of the century which has closed has been a time of large hopefulness. +Perhaps it has not yet gone so far as rejoicing, for failure and +sorrow are still by no means extirpated. But at least the thoughts of +our day have become turned rather to the future than the past, a +result which has attended the wider comprehension of development. To +call development the discovery of our century would, however, be +absurd. Aristotle bases his whole philosophy upon it, and it was +already venerable in his time. Yet the many writers who have expounded +the doctrine during the last fifty years have brought the thought of +it home to the common man. It has entered into daily life as never +before, and has done much to protect us against the sadness of +destructive change. Perceiving that changes, apparently destructive, +repeatedly bring to light meaning previously undisclosed, we more +willingly than our ancestors part with the imperfect that a path to +the perfect may be opened. + +Is not this, then, the great conception of change which we now need to +study as self-development? I believe not. One essential feature is +omitted. In the typical example which I have just reviewed, the growth +of an elm from its seed, we cannot say that the seed expands itself +with a view to becoming a tree. That would be to carry over into the +tree's existence notions borrowed from an alien sphere. Indeed, to +assert that there has been any genuine development from the seed up to +the finished tree is to use terms in an accommodated, metaphoric, and +hypothetical way. Development there certainly has been as estimated by +an outsider, an onlooker, but not as perceived by the tree itself. It +has not known where it was going. Out of the unknown earth the seed +pushes its way into the still less known air. But in doing so it is +devoid of purpose. Nor, if we endow it with consciousness, can we +suppose it would behold its end and seek it. The forces driving it +toward that end are not conscious forces; they are mechanic forces. +Through every stage it is pushed from behind, not drawn from before. +There is no causative goal set up, alluring the seed onward. In +speaking as if there were, we employ language which can have +significance only for rational beings. We may hold that there is a +rational plan of the universe which that seed is fulfilling. But if +so, the plan does not belong to the seed. It is imposed from without, +and the seed does its bidding unawares. + + + +VII + +But we may imagine a different state of affairs. Let us assume that +when the seed sprouted it foreknew the elm that was to be. Every time +it sucked in its slight moisture it was gently adapting this +nourishment to the fulfillment of its ultimate end, asking itself +whether the small material had better be bestowed on the left bough or +the right, whether certain leaves should curve more obliquely toward +the sun, and whether it had better wave its branches and catch the +passing breeze or leave them quiet. If we could rightly imagine such a +state of things, our tree would be much unlike its brothers of the +forest; for, superintending its own development, it would be not a +thing at all but a person. We persons are in this very way entrusted +with our growth. A plan there is, a normal mode of growth, a +significance to which we may attain. But that significance is not +imposed on us from without, as an inevitable event, already settled +through our past. On the contrary, we detect it afar as a possibility, +are thus put in charge of it, and so become in large degree our own +upbuilders. Development is movement toward a mark. In self-development +the mark to be reached is in the conscious keeping of him who is to +reach it. Toward it he may more or less fully direct his course. + +And what an astonishing state of things then appears! Self-development +involves a kind of contradiction in terms. How can I build if at +present there is no I? Why should I build if at present there is an I? +Whichever alternative we take, we fall into what looks like absurdity. +Yet on that absurdity personal life is based. There is no avoiding it. +Wordsworth has daringly stated the paradox: "So build we up the being +that we are." On coming into the world we are only sketched out. Of +each of us there is a ground plan of which we progressively become +aware. Hidden from us in our early years, it resides in the minds of +our parents, just as the plan of the tree's structure is in the +keeping of nature. Gradually through our advancing years and the care +of those around us we catch sight of what we might be. Detecting in +ourselves possibilities, we make out their relation to a plan not yet +realized. We accordingly take ourselves in hand and say, "If any +personal good is to come to me, it must be of my making. I cannot own +myself till I am largely the author of myself. From day to day I must +construct, and whenever I act study how the action will affect my +betterment,--whether by performing it I am likely to degrade or to +consolidate myself." And to this process there must be no end. + +Obviously, nothing like this could occur if our actual condition were +our ideal condition. Self-development is open only to a being in whom +there are possibilities as yet unfulfilled. The things around us have +their definite constitution. They can do exactly thus and no more. +What shall be the effect of any impulse falling on them is already +assured. If the condition of the brutes is anything like that which we +disrespectfully attributed to them, then they are in the same case; +they too are shut up to fixed responses, and have in them no +unfulfilled capacities. It is the possession of such empty capacities +which makes us personal. Well has it been said that he who can +declare, "I am that I am," is either God or a brute. No human being +can say it. To describe myself as if I were a settled fact is to make +myself a thing. My life is in that which may be. The ideals of +existence are my realities, and "ought" is my peculiar verb. "Is" has +no other application to a person than to mark how far he has advanced +along his ideal line. Were he to pause at any point as if complete, he +would cease to be a person. + + + +VIII + +But it is necessary to trace somewhat carefully the method of such +self-development. How do we proceed? Before the architect built the +State House, he drew up a plan of the finished building, and there was +no moving of stone, mortar, or tool, till everything was complete on +paper. Each workman who did anything subsequently did it in deference +to that perfected design. Each stone brought for the great structure +was numbered for its place and had its jointing cut in adaptation to +the remaining stones. If, then, each one of us is to become an +architect of himself, it might seem necessary to lay out a plan of our +complete existence before setting out in life, or at whatever moment +we become aware that henceforth our construction is to be in our own +charge. Only with such a plan in hand would orderly building seem +possible. This is a common belief, but in my judgment an erroneous +one. Indeed the whole analogy of the architect and his mechanisms is +misleading. We rarely have in mind the total plan of our unrealized +being and rarely ought we to have. Our work begins at a different +point. We do not, like the architect, usually begin with a thought of +completion. Bather we are first stirred by a sense of weakness. + +In my own education I find this to be true. After some years as a boy +in a Boston public school, I went to Phillips Academy in Andover, then +to Harvard College, and subsequently to a German university, and why +did I do all this? Did I have in mind the picture of myself as a +learned man? I will not deny that such a fancy drifted through my +brain. But it was indistinct and occasional. I did not even know what +it was to be a learned man. I do not know now. The driving force that +was on me was something quite different. I found myself disagreeably +ignorant. Reading books and newspapers, I continually found matters +referred to of which I knew nothing. Looking out on the universe, I +did not understand it; and looking into the yet more marvelous +universe within, I was still more grievously perplexed. I thought life +not worth living on such terms. I determined to get rid of my +ignorance and to endure such limitations of knowledge no longer. Is +there, I asked, any place where at least a portion of my stupidity may +be set aside? I removed a little fraction at school, but revealed also +enormous expanses which I had not suspected before. I therefore +pressed on farther, and to-day am still engaged in the almost hopeless +attempt to extirpate my ignorance. What incites me continually is the +sense of how small I am, not that which a few moments ago seemed my +best incentive--the picture of myself as large. That on the whole has +had comparatively little influence. Of course I do not assert that we +are altogether without visions of a larger life. That is far from +being the case. Were it so, desire would cease. We must contrast the +poverty of the present with the fullness of a possible future, or we +should not incline to turn from that present. Yet our grand driving +force is that sense of limitation, of want or need, which was +discussed in the last chapter. And our aim is rather at a better than +at a best, at the removal of some small distinct hindrance than at +arrival at a completed goal. We come upon excellence piecemeal, and do +not, like the architect, look upon it in its entirety at the outset. + +Yet in the pursuit of this "better," the more vividly we can figure +the coming stages, the more easily will they be attained. For this +purpose the careers of those who have gone before us are helpful,-- +reports about the great ones of the past, and the revelations of +themselves which they have left us in literature and institutions. +Example is a powerful agent in making our footsteps quick and true. +But it has its dangers, and may be a means of terrifying unless we +feel that even in our low estate there are capacities allying us with +our exemplar. The first vision of excellence is overwhelming. We draw +back, knowing that we do not look like that, and we cannot bear to +behold what is so superior. But by degrees, feeling our kinship with +excellence, we are befriended. + +I would not, then, make rigid statements in regard to this point of +method. Grateful as I believe we should be for every sense of need, +this is obviously not enough. To some extent we must have in mind the +betterment which we may obtain through supplying that need. Yet I do +not think a full plan of our ultimate goal is usually desirable. In +small matters it is often possible and convenient. I plan my stay in +Europe before going there. I figure my business prospects before +forming a partnership. But in profounder affairs, I more wisely set +out from the thought of the present, and the patent need of improving +it, than from the future with its ideal perfection. Goethe's rule is a +good one:-- + + "Willst du ins Unendliebe schreiten? + So sucht das Endliche, nach allen Seiten." + +Would you reach the infinite? Then enter into finite things, working +out all that they contain. + + + +IX + +If in working them out a test is wanted to enable us to decide whether +we are working wisely or to our harm, I believe such a test may be +found in the congruity of the new with the old. Shall I by adding a +fresh power to myself strengthen those I already possess? By taking +this path, rich in a certain sort of good as it undoubtedly is, shall +I be diverted from paths where my special goods lie? Here I am, a +student of ethics. A friend calls and tells me of the charms of +astronomy, a study undoubtedly majestic and delightful. Since I desire +to take all knowledge for my province, why not hurry off at once to +study astronomy? No indeed. No astronomy for me. I draw a ring about +that subject and say, "Precious subject, fundamentally valuable for +all men. But I will remain ignorant of it, because it is not quite +congruous with the studies I already have on hand." That must be my +test: not how important is the study itself, but how important is it +for me? How far will it help me to accept and develop those +limitations to which I am now pledged? + +In this acceptance of limitation, therefore, which seems at first so +humiliating, I believe we have the starting point of all self- +development. Our very imperfections, once accepted, prove our best +means of discerning more. That is a profound remark of Hegel's that +knowledge of a limit is a knowledge beyond that limit. Let us consider +for a moment what it means. Suppose I should come upon Kaspar Hauser, +shut in his little room. "And how long have you been here," I ask. +"Ever since I was born," he answers. "Indeed! How much, then, do you +know?" "Nothing beyond the walls of this room." Might I not fairly +reply, "You contradict yourself. How can you know anything about walls +of a room unless you also know of much beyond them?" We cannot +conceive a limit except as a limit from something. Accordingly, when +we detect our ignorance we become by that very fact not ignorant. We +have gone beyond ourselves and have seen that we are not what we +should be. And this is the way of self-development. Becoming aware of +our imperfections, we by that very fact continually lay hold on +whatever perfect is within our reach. + + + +X + +When then we ask whether at any moment we are fully persons, we must +answer, No. The actual extent of personality is at any time small. It +is rather a goal than something ever attained. We have seen that it is +not to be described in terms of the verb "to be." We cannot say "I am +a person," but, only "I ought to be a person. I am seeking to be." The +great body of our life is, we know, a purely natural affair. Our +instincts, our wayward impulses, our unconnected disorderly purposes-- +these, which fill the larger portion of our existence, do not express +our personal nature. Each of them goes on its own way, neglectful of +the whole. Therefore we must confess that at no time can we account +ourselves completed persons. Justly we use such strange expressions as +"He is much of a person," "He is very little of a person." Personality +is an affair of degree. We are moving toward it, but have not yet +arrived. "Man partly is and wholly hopes to be." And can we ever +arrive? I do not see how. We are chasing a flying goal. The nearer we +approach, the farther it removes. Shall we call this fact +discouraging, then, or even say that self-development is a useless +process, since it never can be fulfilled? I think not. I should rather +specify this feature of it as our chief source of encouragement; for I +hold that only those aims which do thus contain an infinite element +and are, strictly speaking, unattainable, move mankind to passionate +pursuit. Probably all will agree that riches, fame, and wisdom are +ideals which predominantly move us, and they are all unattainable. +Suppose, some morning, when I see a merchant setting off for his +office quite too early, I ask him why he is hastening so. He answers, +"Why, there is money to be made. And as I intend to be a rich man some +day, I must leave home comforts and be prompt at my desk." But I +persist, "You have forgotten something. It occurs to me that you never +can be rich. No rich man was ever seen. Whoever has obtained a million +dollars can get a million more, and the man of two millions can become +one of three. Obviously, then, neither you nor any one can become a +completely rich man." Should I stay that merchant from his exit by +remarks of this kind? If he answered at all, he would merely say, +"Don't read too much. You had better mix more with men." + +And I should get no better treatment from the scholar, the man who is +seeking wisdom. It is true no really wise man ever was on earth, or +ever will be. But that is the very reason why we are all so +impassioned for wisdom, because every bit we seize only opens the door +to more. If we could get it in full, if some time or other, knowing +that we are now wise, we could sit down in our armchairs with nothing +further to do, it would be a death blow to our colleges. Nobody would +attend them or care for wisdom longer. An aim which one can reach, and +discover to be finally ended, moves only children. They will make +collections of birds' eggs, though conceivably they might obtain every +species in the neighborhood. But these are not the things which excite +earnest men. They run after fame, because they can never be quite +famous. They may become known to every person on their street, but +there is the street beyond. Or to every one in their town, but there +are other towns. Or if to every person on earth, there are still the +after ages. Entire fame cannot be had; and exactly on that account it +stirs every impulse of our nature in pursuit. + +Now the aim at personal perfection is precisely of this sort. As +servants of righteousness we cannot accept any other precept than "Be +ye perfect as your Father which is in heaven is perfect." But we know +such perfection to be unattainable, Yet I sometimes doubt whether we +state the matter truly so. Would it not be juster to say that +perfection can always be attained, and that it is about the only thing +which can be? We might well say of all the infinite ideals that they +differ from the finite ones simply in this, that the finite can be +attained but once, and then are ended, while the infinite are +continually attained. At no moment of his life shall the merchant be +cut off from becoming richer, or the scholar from growing wiser, or +the public benefactor from acquiring further fame. These aims, then, +are always attainable; for in them what we think of as the goal is +not, as in other cases, a single point which, once reached, renders +the rest of life useless and listless. The goal here is the line of +increase. To be moving along that line should be our daily endeavor. +Our proper utterance should be, "I was never so good as to-day, and I +hope never to be so bad again." + + + +XI + +But when we have seen how slender is our actual perfection, how slight +must be reckoned the attainment of personality at any moment, we are +brought face to face with the profound problem of its possible extent. +How far can the self be developed? Infinitely? Is each one of us an +infinite being? I will not say so. I do not like to make a statement +which runs beyond my own experience. But confining myself to this, let +us see what it will show. + +When at any time I seek to perfect myself, does my attainment of any +grade of improvement prevent or further another step? All will agree +that it simply opens a new door. Perhaps I am seeking to withdraw from +habits of mendacity, and beginning to tell the truth. Then every time +I tell the truth I shall discover more truth to tell. And will this +process ever come to an end? I have nothing to do with "evers." I can +only say that each time I try it, advance is more possible, not less +possible. In the personal life there is, if I may say so, no provision +for checkage. As I understand it, in the animal life there is such +provision. In my first chapter I was pointing out the difference +between extrinsic and intrinsic goodness; and I said that the table's +entering into use and holding objects on its top tended to destroy it, +though we might imagine a magic table in which every exercise of +function would be preservative. Now in the personal nature we find +just such a magical provision. Each time a person normally exerts +himself he makes further exertion in those normal ways more possible. + +And if this is true of all personal action within our experience, what +right have we to set a limit to it anywhere? It may not be suitable to +say that I know myself infinite, but it is certainly true that I +cannot conceive myself as finite. I can readily see that this body of +mine has in it what I have called a provision for checkage. Every time +the blood moves in my veins it leaves its little deposit. Further +motion of that blood is slightly impeded. But every time a moral +purpose moves my life, it makes the next move surer. It is impossible +to draw lines of limitation in moral development. + + + +XII + +Such, then, is the vast conception with which we have been dealing. +Goodness, to be personal, must express perpetual self-development. All +the moral aims of life may be summed up in the single word, "self- +realization." Could I fully realize myself, I should have fulfilled +all righteousness, and this view is sanctioned by the Great Teacher +when he asks, "What shall a man give in exchange for his life?"--his +life, his soul, his self. If any one fully believed this, and lived as +if all his desires were fulfilled so long as he had opportunities of +self-development, he might be said to have insured himself against +every catastrophe. Little could harm him. Whatever occurred, instead +of exclaiming, "How calamitous!" he would simply ask, "What fresh +opportunities do these strange circumstances present for enlarged +living? Let me add this new discipline to what I had before. Seeking +as I am to become expanded into the infinite, this experience +discloses a new avenue thither. All things work together for good to +them that love the Lord." + + REFERENCES ON SELF-DEVELOPMENT + +Bradley's Ethical Studies, essay vi. + +Green's Prolegomena of Ethics, bk. iii. ch. ii. + +Alexander's Moral Order and Progress, bk. iii. ch. iv. + +Muirhead's Elements of Ethics, bk. iii. ch. iii. + +Mackenzie's Manual of Ethics, pt. i. ch. vii. + +Dewey in Philos. Journal, Dec., 1893. + + + + +VI + +SELF-SACRIFICE + +I + + +The view of human goodness presented in the preceding chapter is one +which is at present finding remarkably wide acceptance. Philosophers +are often reproached with an indisposition to agree, and naturally +where inquiry is active diversity will obtain. But to-day there +appears a strange unanimity as regards the ultimate formula of ethics. +The empirical schools state this as the highest form of the struggle +for existence; the idealistic, as self-realization. The two are the +same so far as they both regard morality as having to do with the +development of life in persons. These curious beings, both also +acknowledge, can never rest till they attain a completeness now +incalculable. + +Of course there is abundant diversity in the application of such +formulae. In interpreting them we come upon problems no less urgent +and tangled than those which vexed our fathers. Who and what is a +person? How far is he detachable from nature? How far from his fellow +men? Is his individuality an illusion, and each of us only an +imperfect phase of a single universal being, so that in strictness we +must own that there is none good but one, that is God? These and +kindred questions naturally oppress the thought of our time. Yet all +are but so many attempts to push the formula of self-realization into +entire clearness. The considerable agreement in ethical formulae +everywhere noticeable shows that at least so much advance has been +made: morality has ceased to be primarily repressive, and is now +regarded as the amplest exhibit of human nature, free from every +external precept, however sacred. Man is the measure of the moral +universe, and the development of himself his single duty. + +But when we thus accept self-realization as our supreme aim, we bring +ourselves into seeming conflict with one of our profoundest moral +instincts. It is self-sacrifice that calls forth from all mankind, as +nothing else does, the distinctively moral response of reverence. +Intelligence, skill, beauty, learning--we admire them all; but when we +see an act of self-sacrifice, however small, an awe falls on us; we +bow our heads, fearful that we might not have been capable of anything +so glorious. We thus acknowledge self-sacrifice to be the very +culmination of the moral life. He who understand it has comprehended +all righteousness, human and divine. But how does self-sacrifice +accord with self-development? Will he who is busy cultivating himself +sacrifice himself? Is there not a kind of conflict between the two? +Yet can we abandon either? And if not, must not the formula of self- +realization accept modification? + +This, then, is the problem to which I must now turn: the possible +adjustment of these two imperative claims,--the claim to realize one's +self and the claim to sacrifice one's self. And I shall most easily +set my theme before my readers if I state at once the four historic +objections to the reality of self-sacrifice. I call them historic, for +they have appeared and reappeared in the history of ethics, and have +been worked out there on a great scale. While not altogether +consistent with one another, no one of them is unimportant. Together +they compactly present those conflicting considerations which must be +borne in mind when we attempt to comprehend the subtleties of self- +sacrifice. I will endeavor to state them briefly and sympathetically. + +First, self-sacrifice is psychologically impossible. No man ever +performs a strictly disinterested act, as has been shown in my chapter +on self-direction. Before desire will start, his own interest must be +engaged. In action we seek to accomplish something, and between that +something and ourselves some sort of valued connection must be felt. +Every wish indicates that the wisher experiences a need which he +thinks might be supplied by the object wished for. It is true that +wishes and wills are often directed upon external objects, but only +because we believe that our own well-being is involved in their union +with us. I devote myself to my friend as _my_ friend, counting his +happiness and my own inseparable. Were he so entirely a foreigner +that I had no interest in him, my sacrifices for him--even if +conceivable--would be meaningless. They acquire meaning only through +my sense of a tie between him and me. My service of him may be +regarded as my escape from petty selfishness into broad selfishness, +from immediate gain to remote gain. But the prospect of gain in some +form, proximate or ultimate, gain often of an impalpable and spiritual +sort, always attends my wish and will. The aim at self-realization, +however hidden, is everywhere the root of action. No belittlement of +ourselves can appear desirable except as a step toward ultimate +enlargement. Self-sacrifice in any true and thorough-going sense never +occurs. + +So cogent is this objection, and so frequently does it appear, not +only in ethical discussion but in the minds of the struggling +multitude, that he who has not faced it, and taken its truth well to +heart, can have little comprehension of self-sacrifice. But it is a +blessed fact that thousands who comprehend self-sacrifice little +practise it largely. + + + +III + +A second objection strips off the glory of self-sacrifice and regards +it as a sad necessity. While there is nothing in it to attract or be +approved, the lamentable fact is that we are so crowded together and +disposed to trample on one another that, partially to escape, we must +each agree to abate something of our own in behalf of a neighbor's +gain. We cannot each be all we would. It is a sign of our mean estate +that again and again we need to cut off sections of what we count +valuable in order to save any portion. Only by such compromises are we +able to get along with one another. He who refuses them finds himself +exposed to still greater loss. The hard conditions under which we live +appear in the fact that such restraint is inevitable. I call self- +sacrifice, therefore, a sad necessity. + +This theory of sacrifice is urged by Hobbes and by the later moralists +who follow his daring lead. It should be counted among the objections +because, while it admits the fact of self-sacrifice, it denies its +dignity. + + + +IV + +A third objection declares sacrifice to be needless. Its very +appearance rests on a misconception. We mistakenly suppose that in +abating our own for the sake of our neighbor's good, we lose. In +reality this is our true mode of enlargement. The interests of the +individual and society are not hostile or alien, but supplemental. +Society is nothing but the larger individual; so that he alone +realizes himself who enters most fully into social relations, making +the well-being of society his own. This is plain enough when we study +the working of a small and comprehensible portion of society. The +child does not lose through identification with family life. That is +his great means of realizing himself. To assume contrast and +antagonism between family interest and the interest of the child is +palpably unwarranted and untrue. Equally unwarranted is a similar +assumption in the broader ranges of society. When we talk of +sacrifice, we refer merely to the first stage and outer aspect of the +act. Underneath, self-interest is guarded, the individual giving up +his individuality only through obtaining a larger individuality still. + +Such identity of interest between society and the individual the +moralists of the eighteenth century are never tired of pointing out. +If they are right, and the identity is complete, then sacrifice is +abolished or is only a generous illusion. But these men never quite +succeeded in persuading the English people of their doctrine, at least +they never carried their thought fully over into the common mind. + + + +V + +That common mind has always thought of sacrifice in a widely different +way, but in one which renders it still more incomprehensible. Self- +sacrifice it regards as a glorious madness. Though the only act which +ever forces us to bow in reverent awe, it is insolubly mysterious, +irrational, crazy perhaps, but superb. For in it we do not deliberate. +We hear a call, we shut our ears to prudence, and with courageous +blindness as regards damage of our own, we hasten headlong to meet the +needs of others. To reckon heroism, to count, up opposing gains and +losses, balancing them one against another in order clear-sightedly to +act, is to render heroism impossible. Into it there enters an element +of insanity. The sacrificer must feel that he cares nothing for what +is rational, but only for what is holy, for his duty. The rational and +the holy,--in the mind of him who has not been disturbed by theoretic +controversy these two stand in harsh antithesis, and the antithesis +has been approved by important ethical writers of our time. The +rational man is, of course, needed in the humdrum work of life. His +assertive and sagacious spirit clears many a tangled pathway. But he +gets no reverence, the characteristic response of self-sacrifice. This +is reserved for him who says, "No prudence for me! I will he admirably +crazy. Let me fling myself away, so only there come salvation to +others." + +Such, then, are the four massive objections: self-sacrifice is unreal +psychologically, aesthetically, morally, or rationally: But negative +considerations are not enough. No amount of demonstration of what a +thing is not will ever reveal what it is. Objections are merely of +value for clearing a field and marking the spots on which a structure +cannot be reared. The serious task of erecting that structure +somewhere still remains. To it I now address myself. + + + +VI + +What we need to consider first is the reality and wide range of self- +sacrifice. The moment the term is mentioned there spring up before our +minds certain typical examples of it. We see the soldier advancing +toward the battlefield, to stake his life for a country in whose +prosperity he may never share. We see the infant falling into the +water, and the full-grown man flinging in after it his own assured and +valued life in hopes of rescuing that incipient and uncertain thing, a +little child. Yes, I myself came on a case of heroism hardly less +striking. I was riding my bicycle along the public street when there +dashed past me a runaway horse with a carriage at his heels, both +moving so madly that I thought all the city was in danger. I pursued +as rapidly as I could, and as I neared my home, saw horse and carriage +standing by the sidewalk. By the horse's head stood a negro. I went up +to him and said, "Did you catch that horse?" "Yes, sir," he answered. +"But," I said, "he was going at a furious pace." "Yes, sir." "And he +might have run you down." "Yes, sir, but I know horses, and I was +afraid he would hurt some of these children." There he stood, the big +brown hero, unexalted, soothing the still restive horse and unaware of +having done anything out of the ordinary. I entered my house ashamed. +Had I possessed such skill, would I have ventured my life in such a +fashion? + +Such are some of the shining examples of self-sacrifice which occur to +us at the first mention of the word. But we shall mislead ourselves if +we confine our thoughts to cases so climactic, triumphant, and +spectacular. Deeds like these dazzle and do not invite to full +analysis of their nature. Let us turn to affairs more usual. + +I have happened to know intimately members of three professions-- +ministers, nurses, teachers-and I find self-sacrifice a matter of +daily practice with them all. To it the minister is dedicated. He must +not look for gain. He has a salary, of course; but it is much in the +nature of a fee, a means of insuring him a certain kind of living. And +while it is common enough to find a minister studying how he may make +money in his parish, it is commoner far to find one bent on seeing how +he can make righteousness prevail there, though it overwhelm him. The +other professions do not so manifestly aim at self-sacrifice. They are +distinctly money-making. They exact a given sum for a given service. +Still, in them too how constantly do we see that that which is given +far outruns that which is paid for. I have watched pretty closely the +work of a dozen or more trained nurses, and I believe it Would be hard +to find any class in the community showing a higher average of +estimable character. How quiet they are under the most irritating +circumstances! How fully they pour themselves into the lives of their +patients! How prompt is the deft hand! How considerate the swift +intelligence! Their hearts are aglow over what can be given, not over +what can be got. A similar temper is widely observable among teachers, +especially among those of the lower grades. Paid though they are for a +certain task, how indisposed they are to limit themselves to that task +or to confine their care of their children to the schoolroom! The +hard-worked creatures acquire an intimate interest in the little lives +and, heedless of themselves, are continually ready to spend and be +spent for those who cannot know what they receive. Among such teachers +I find self-sacrifice as broad, as deep, as genuine, if not so +striking, as that of the soldier in the field. + +Evidently, then, self-sacrifice may be wide-spread and may permeate +the institutions of ordinary life; being found even in occupations +primarily ordered by principles of give and take, where it expresses +itself in a kind of surplusage of giving above what is prescribed in +the contract. In this form it enters into trade. The high-minded +merchant is not concerned merely with getting his money back from an +article sold. He interests himself in the thoroughly excellent quality +of that article, in the accommodation of his customers, the soundness +of his business methods, and the honorable standing of his firm. And +when we turn to our public officials, how frequent it is--how frequent +in spite of what the newspapers say--to find men eager for the public +good, men ready to take labor on themselves if only the state may be +saved from cost and damage! + +But I still underestimate the prevalence of the principle. Our +instances must be homelier yet. Each day come petty citations to self- +sacrifice which are accepted as a matter of course. As I walk to my +lecture-room somebody stops me and says, "What is the way to Berkeley +Street?" Do I reprovingly answer, "You must have made a mistake. I +have no interest in Berkeley Street. I think it is you who are going +there, and why are you putting me to inconvenience merely that you may +the more easily find your way?" Should I answer so, he would think and +possibly say, "There are strange people in Cambridge, remoter from +human kind than any known elsewhere." Every one would feel +astonishment at the man who declined to bear his little portion of a +neighbor's burden. Our commonest acceptance of society involves self- +sacrifice, and in all our trivial intercourse we expect to put +ourselves to unrewarded inconvenience for the sake of others. + + + +VII + +What I have set myself to make plain in this series of graded examples +is simply this: self-sacrifice is not something exceptional, something +occurring at crises of our lives, something for which we need +perpetually to be preparing ourselves, so that when the great occasion +comes we may be ready to lay ourselves upon its altar. Such +romanticism distorts and obscures. Self-sacrifice is an everyday +affair. By it we live. It is the very air of our moral lungs. Without +it society could not go on for an hour. And that is precisely why we +reverence it so--not for its rarity, but for its importance. Nothing +else, I suppose, so instantly calls on the beholder for a bowing of +the head. Even a slight exhibit of it sends through the sensitive +observer a thrill of reverent abasement. Other acts we may admire; +others we may envy; this we adore. + +Perhaps we are now prepared to sum up our descriptive account and +throw what we have observed into a sort of definition. I mean by self- +sacrifice any diminution of my own possessions, pleasures, or powers, +in order to increase those of others. Naturally what we first think of +is the parting with possessions. That is what the word charity most +readily suggests, the giving up of some physical object owned by us +which, even at the moment of giving, we ourselves desire. But the gift +may be other than a physical object. When I would gladly sit, I may +stand in the car for the sake of giving another ease. But the greatest +conceivable self-sacrifice is when I give myself: when, that is, I in +some way allow my own powers to be narrowed in order that those of +some one else may be enlarged. Parents are familiar with such +exquisite charity, parents who put themselves to daily hardship +because they want education for their boys. But they have no monopoly +in this kind. I who stand in the guardianship of youth have frequent +occasion to miss a favorite pupil, boy or girl, who throws up a +college training and goes home--often, in my judgment, mistakenly--to +support, or merely to cheer, the family there. Of course such gifts +are incomparable. No parting with one's goods, no abandonment of one's +pleasures, can be measured against them. Yet this is what is going on +all over the country where devoted mother, gallant son, loyal husband, +are limiting their own range of existence for the sake of broadening +that of certain whom they hold dear. + + + +VIII + +But when we have thus assembled our omnipresent facts and set them in +order for cool assessment, the enigma of self-sacrifice only appears +the more clearly. Why _should_ a man sacrifice himself? Why +voluntarily accept loss? Each of us has but a single life. Each feels +the pressure of his own needs and desires. These point the way to +enlargement. How, then, can I disinterestedly prefer another's gain? +Each of us is penned within the range of his solitary consciousness, +which may be broadened or narrowed but cannot be passed. It is +incumbent on us, therefore, to study our own enrichment. Anticipating +whatever might confirm or crumble our being, we should strenuously +seize the one and reject the other. Deliberately to turn toward loss +would seem to be crazy. What should a man accept in exchange for his +life? + +Here is the difficulty, a difficulty of the profoundest and most +instructive sort. If we could see our way clearly through it, little +in ethics would remain obscure. The common mode of meeting it is to +leave it thus paradoxical. Self-sacrifice banishes rationality and is +a glorious madness. But such a conclusion is a repellent one. How can +it be? Reason is man's distinctive characteristic. While brutes act +blindly, while the punctual physical universe minutely obeys laws of +which it knows nothing, usually it is open to man to judge the path he +will pursue. Shall we then say that, though reason is a convenience in +all the lower stretches of life, when we reach self-sacrifice, our +single awesome height, it ceases? I cannot think so. On the contrary, +I hold that in self-sacrifice we have a case not of glorious madness, +but of somewhat extreme rationality. How, then, is rational contrasted +with irrational guidance? As we here approach the central and most +difficult part of our discussion, clearness will oblige me to enter +into some detail. + +When a child looks at a watch, he sees a single object. It is +something there, a something altogether detached from his +consciousness, from the table, from other objects around. It is a +brute fact, one single thing, complete in itself. Such is the child's +perception. But a man of understanding looks at it differently. Its +detached singleness is not to him the most important truth in regard +to it. Its meaning must rather be found in the relations in which it +stands, relations which, seeming at first to lie outside it, really +enter into it and make it what it is. The rational man would +accordingly see it all alive with the qualities of gold, brass, steel, +the metals of which it is composed. He would find it incomprehensible +apart from the mind of its maker, and would not regard that mind and +watch as two things, but as matters essentially related. Indeed, these +relations would run wider still, and reason would not rest satisfied +until the watch was united to time itself, to the very framework of +the universe. Apart from this it would be meaningless. In short, if a +man comprehends the watch in a rational way he must comprehend it in +what may he called a conjunct way. The child might picture it as +abstract and single, but it could really be known only in connection +with all that exists. Of course we pause far short of such full +knowledge. Our reason cannot stretch to the infinity of things. But +just so far as relations can be traced between this object and all +other objects, so much the more rational does the knowledge of the +watch become. Rationality is the comprehending of anything in its +relations. The perceptive, isolated view is irrational. + +But if this is true of so simple a matter as a watch, it is doubly +true of a complex human being. The child imagines he can comprehend a +person too in isolation, but rational proverb-makers long ago told us, +"One person, no person." Each person must be conceived as tied in with +all his fellows. We have seen how in the case of the watch we were +almost obliged to abandon the thought of a single object and to speak +of it as a kind of centre of constitutive relations. A plexus of ties +runs in every direction, and where these cross there is the watch. So +it is among human beings. If we try for a moment to conceive a person +as single and detached, we shall find he would have no powers to +exercise. No emotions would be his, whether of love or hate, for they +imply objects to arouse them, no occupations of civilized life, for +these involve mutual dependency. From speech he would be cut off, if +there were nobody to speak to; nor would any such instrument as +language be ready for his use, if ancestors had not cooperated in its +construction. His very thoughts would become a meaningless series of +impressions if they indicated no reality beside themselves. So empty +would be that fiction, the single and isolated individual. The real +creature, rational and conjunct man, is he who stands in living +relationship with his fellows, they being a veritable part of him and +he of them. Man is essentially a social being, not a being who happens +to be living in society. Society enters into his inmost fibre, and +apart from society he is not. Yet this does not mean that society, any +more than the individual, has an independent existence, prior, +complete, and authoritative. What would society be, parted from the +individuals who compose it? No more than an individual who does not +embody social relationships. The two are mutual conceptions, different +aspects of the same thing. We may view a person abstractly, fixing +attention on his single centre of consciousness; or we may view him +conjunctly, attending to his multifarious ties. + +Now what is distinctive of self-sacrifice is that it insists in a +somewhat extreme way on this second and rational mode of regard. It is +a frank confession of interlocking lives. It says, "I have nothing to +do with the abstract, isolated, and finite self. That is a matter of +no consequence. What I care about is the conjunct, social, and +infinite self--that self which is inseparable from others. Where that +calls, I serve." The self-sacrificing person knows no interest of his +own separate from those of his father and mother, his wife and +children. He cannot ask what is good for himself and set it in +contrast with what is good for them. For his own broader existence is +presented in these dear members of his family. And such a man, so far +from being mad, is wise as few of us are. Glorious indeed is the self- +sacrificer, because he is so sane, because in him all pettiness and +detachment are swept away. He appears mad only to those who stand at +the opposite point of view, but in his eyes it is they who are +ridiculous. In fact, each must be counted crazy or wise according to +the view we take of what constitutes the real person. + +I remember a story current in our newspapers during the Civil War. +Just before a battle, an officer of our army, knowing of what +consequence it was that his regiment should hold its ground, hastened +to the rear to see that none of his men were straggling. He met a +cowardly fellow trying to regain the camp. Turning upon him in a +passion of disgust, he said, "What! Do you count your miserable little +life worth more than that of this great army?" "Worth more to me, +sir," the man replied. How sensible! How entirely just from his own +point of view, that of the isolated self! Taking only this into +account, he was but a moral child, incapable of comprehending anything +so difficult as a conjunct self. He imagined that could he but save +this eating, breathing, feeling self, no matter if the country were +lost, he would be a gainer. What folly! What would existence be worth +outside the total inter-relationship of human beings called his land? +But this fact he could not perceive. To risk his separate self in such +a cause seemed absurd. Turn for a moment and see how absurd the +separate self appears from the point of view of the conjunct. When our +Lord hung upon the cross, the jeering soldiers shouted, "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. + + + +IX + +Now it is this strange complexity of our being, compelling us to view +ourselves in both a separate and a conjunct way, which creates all the +difficulty in the problem of self-sacrifice. But I dare say that when +I have thus shown the reality and worth of the conjunct self, it will +be felt that self-sacrifice is altogether illusory; for while it seems +to produce loss, it is in fact the avoidance of what entails +littleness. So says Emerson:-- + + "Let love repine and reason chafe, + There came a voice without reply: + 'T is man's perdition to be safe + When for the truth he ought to die." + +Have we not, then, by explaining the rationality of self-sacrifice, +explained away the whole matter and practically identified it with +self-culture? There is plausibility in this view--and it has often +been maintained--but not complete truth. For evidently the emotions +excited by culture and sacrifice are directly antagonistic. Toward a +man pursuing the aim of culture we experience a feeling of approval, +not unmixed with suspicion, but we give him none of that reverent +adoration which is the proper response to sacrifice. And if the +feelings of the beholder are contrasted, so also are the psychological +processes of the performer. The man of culture starts with a sense of +defect which he seeks to supplement; the sacrificer, with a sense of +fullness which he seeks to empty. He who turns to self-culture says, +"I have progressed thus far. I have gained thus much of what I would +acquire. But still I am poor. I need more. Let me gather as abundantly +as possible on every side." But the thought of him who turns to self- +sacrifice is, "I have been gaining, but I only gained to give. Here is +my opportunity. Let me pour out as largely as I may." He contemplates +final impoverishment. Accordingly I was obliged to say in my +definition that the self-sacrificer seeks to heighten another's +possessions, pleasures, or powers at the cost of his own. Undoubtedly +at the end of the process he often finds himself richer than at the +beginning. Perhaps this is the normal result; but it is not +contemplated. Psychologically the sacrificer is facing in a different +direction. + + + +X + +Yet, though the motive agencies of the two are thus contrasted, I +think we must acknowledge that sacrifice no less than culture is a +powerful form of self-assertion. To miss this is to miss its essential +character, and at the same time to miss the safeguards which should +protect it against waste. For to say, "I will sacrifice myself" is to +leave the important part of the business unexpressed. The weighty +matter is in the covert preposition _for_.--"I will sacrifice myself +_for_," An approved object is aimed at. We are not primarily +interested in negating ourselves. Only our estimate of the importance +of the object justifies our intended loss. This object should +accordingly be scrutinized. Self-sacrifice is noble if its end is +noble, but become reprehensible when its object is petty or +undeserving. Omit or overlook that word _for_, and self-sacrifice +loses its exalted character. It sinks into asceticism, one often most +degrading of moral aberrations. In asceticism we prize self-sacrifice +for its own sake. We hunt out what we value most; we judge what would +most completely fulfill our needs; and then we abolish it. Abolish it +for what? For nothing but the mere sake of abolishing. This is to turn +morality upside down; and in place of the Christian ideal of abounding +life, to set up the pessimistic aim of impoverishment. There is +nothing of this kind in self-sacrifice. Here we assert ourselves, our +conjunct selves. We estimate what will be best for the community of +man and seek to further this at whatever cost to our isolated +individuality. By this dedication to a deserving object sacrifice is +purified, ennobled, and made strong. We speak of the glorious deed of +him who plunges into the water to save a child. But it is a foolish +and immoral thing to risk one's life for a stone, a coin, or nothing +at all. "Is the object deserving?" we must ask, "or shall I reserve +myself for greater need?" + +Too easily does our sympathetic and sentimental age, recklessly +eulogistic of altruism, hurry into self-sacrifice. Altruism in itself +is worthless. That an act is unselfish can never justify its +performance. He who would be a great giver must first be a great +person. Our men, and still more our women, need as urgently the gospel +of self-development as that of self-sacrifice; though the two are +naturally supplemental. Our only means of estimating the propriety and +dignity of sacrifice is to inquire how closely connected with +ourselves is its object. Until we can justify this connection, we have +no right to incur it, for genuine sacrifice is always an act of self- +assertion. In saving his regiment and contributing his share toward +saving his country, the soldier asserts his own interests. He is a +good soldier in proportion as he feels these interests to be his; +while the deserter is condemned, not for refusing to give his life to +an alien country and regiment, but because he was small enough to +imagine that these great constituents of himself were alien. I tell +the man on the street the way home because I cannot part his +bewilderment from my own. The problem always is, What may I suitably +regard as mine? And in solving it, we should study as carefully that +for which we propose to sacrifice ourselves as anything which we might +seek to obtain. Triviality or lack of permanent consequence is as +objectionable in the one case as in the other. The only safe rule is +that self-sacrifice is self-assertion, is a judgment as regards what +we would welcome to be a portion of our conjunct self. + +Perhaps an extreme case will show this most clearly. Jesus prayed, +"Not my will, but thine, be done." He did not then lose his will. He +asserted and obtained it. For his will was that the divine will should +be fulfilled, and fulfilled it was. He set aside one form of his will, +his private and isolated will, knowing it to be delusive. But his true +or conjunct will--and he knew it to be his true one--he abundantly +obtained. It is no wonder, then, that in explaining these things to +his disciples he says, "My meat it is to do the will of my Father." +That is always the language of genuine self-sacrifice. The act is not +complete until the sense of loss has disappeared. + + + +XI + +Yet while I hold that self-sacrifice is thus the very extreme of +rationality, grounding as it does all worth in the relational or +conjunct selfhood, I cannot disguise from myself that it contains an +element of tragedy too. This my readers will already have felt and +will have begun to rebel against my insistence that self-sacrifice is +the fulfillment of our being. For though it is true that when +opposition arises between the conjunct and separate selves our largest +safety is with the former, the very fact that such opposition is +possible involves tragedy. One part of the nature becomes arrayed +against another. We must die to live. Our lower goods are found +incompatible with our higher. Pleasure, comfort, property, friends, +possibly life itself, have become hostile to our more inclusive aims +and must be cast aside. It is true that when the tragic antithesis is +presented and we can reach our higher goods only by loss of the lower, +hesitation is ruin. It is true too that on account of that element of +self-assertion to which I have drawn, attention, the genuine +sacrificer is ordinarily unaware of any such tragedy. But none the +less tragedy is there. To suppose it absent would strip sacrifice of +what we regard as most characteristic. + +Nor can we pause here. Those who would call self-sacrifice a glorious +madness have still further justification. A leap into the dark we must +at least admit it to be, For trace it rationally as far as we may, +there always remains uncertainty at the close. There is, for example, +uncertainty about ultimate results. The mother toiling for her child, +and neglecting for its sake most of what would render her own life +rich, can never know that this child will grow up to power. The day +may come when she will wish it had died in childhood. The glory of her +action is bound up with this darkness. Were the soldier, marching to +the field, sure that his side would be victorious, he would be only +half a hero. The consequences of self-sacrifice can never be certain, +foreseen, calculable. There must be risk. Omit it, and the sacrifice +disappears. Indeed nothing in life which calls forth high admiration +is free from this touch of faith and courage, this movement into the +unknown. It is at the very heart of self-sacrifice. + +But besides the unknown character of the result there is usually +uncertainty as regards the cost. The sacrificer does not give +according to measure. I do not say I will attend to this sick person +up to such and such a point, but when that point is reached I shall +have done enough. This would hardly be self-sacrifice. I rather say, +"Here I am. Take me, use me to the full, spend of me whatever you +need. How much that will be, I do not know." So there is an element of +darkness in ourselves. + +And possibly I ought to mention a third variety of these +incalculabilities of sacrifice. We do not plan the case. A while ago, +meeting a literary man whose product is of much consequence to the +community and himself, I asked him how his book was coming on. +"Badly," he answered. "Just now an aged relative has fallen ill. There +is no other place where she can be properly disposed, and so she has +been brought to my house. I must care for her, my home will be much +broken up, and my work must be set aside." I said, "Is that your duty? +Have you not a more important obligation to your book?" But he +answered, "One cannot choose a duty." I did not fully agree. I think +we should carefully weigh duties, even if we do not choose them. +Morality would otherwise become the sport of accident. But I perceive +that in the last analysis no duty is made by ourselves. It is given us +by something more authoritative than we, something which we cannot +alter, fully estimate, or without damage evade. Necessity is laid upon +us, sometimes an invading necessity. We are walking our well-ordered +path, pursuing some dear aims, when harsh before us stands a waiting +duty, bidding us lay aside that in which we are engaged and take it. I +have said I believe a degree of scrutiny is needful here. We should +ask, what for? We should correlate the new duty with those already +pledged. And probably an interrupting duty is less often the one it is +well to follow than one which has had something of our time and care. +Few fresh calls can have the weighty claim of loyalty to obligation +already incurred. But, after all, that on which we finally decide has +not sprung from our own wishes. It subjects those wishes to itself. +Standing over against us, it summons us to do its bidding, and allows +us no more to be our own self-directed masters. + + + +XII + +Summing up, then, the jarring characteristics of self-sacrifice,--its +frequency, rationality, assertiveness, nearness to self--culture; yes, +and its darker traits of risk, immeasurability, and authoritativeness, +--does it not begin to appear that I have been calling it by a wrong +name? Self-sacrifice is a negative term. It lays stress on the thought +that I set myself aside, become in some way less than I was before. And +no doubt through all this intricate discussion certain belittlements +have been acknowledged, though these have also been shown to lie along +the path of largeness. There are, therefore, in self-sacrifice both +negative and positive elements. But why select its name from the +subordinate part? Why turn to the front its incidental negations? This +is topsy-turvy nomenclature. Better blot the word self-sacrifice from +our dictionaries. Devotion, service, love, dedication to a cause, +--these words mark its real nature and are the only descriptions of it +which its practicers will recognize. That damage to the abstract self +which chiefly impresses the outsider is something of which the +sacrificer is hardly aware. How exquisitely astonished are the men in +the parable when called 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. + +Perhaps the most admirable case of self-sacrifice is that in which no +single person appears who is profited by our loss. The scholar, the +artist, the scientific man dedicate themselves to the interests of +undifferentiated humanity. They serve their undecipherable race, not +knowing who will obtain gains through their toils. In their sublime +benefactions they study the wants of no individual person, not even of +themselves. Yet, turn to a man of this type and try to call his +attention to the privations he endures, and what will be his answer? +"I have no coat? I have no dinner? I have little money? People do not +honor me as they honor others? Yes, I believe I lack these trifles. +But think what I possess! This great subject; or rather, it possesses +me. And it shall have of me whatever it requires." + +In such service of the absolute is found the highest expression of +self-sacrifice, of social service, of self-realization. The doctrine +that though union with a reason and righteousness not exclusively our +own each of us may hourly be renewed is the very heart of ethics. + + + +XIII + +I have attempted to cut out a clear path through an ethical jungle +overgrown with the exuberance of human life. I have not succeeded, and +it is probably impossible to succeed. In the subject itself there is +paradox. Conflicting elements enter into the very constitution of a +person. To trace them even imperfectly one must be patient of +refinements, accessible to qualifications, and ever ready to admit the +opposite of what has been laboriously established. We all desire +through study to win a swift simplicity. But nature abhors simplicity: +she complicates; she forces those who would know to take pains, to +proceed cautiously, and to feel their way along from point to point. +This I have tried to do; and I believe that the inquiry, though +intricate, primarily scientific, and only partially successful, need +not altogether lack practical consequence. Our age is bewildered +between heroism and greed. To each it is drawn more powerfully than +any age preceding. Neither of the two does it quite comprehend. If we +can render the nobler somewhat more intelligible, we may increase the +confidence of those who now, half-ashamed, follow its glorious but +blindly compulsive call. + + + +REFERENCES ON SELF-SACRIFICE + +Spencer's Principles of Ethics, pt. i. ch. xi., xii. + +Bradley's Appearance and Reality, p. 414-429. + +Paulsen's Ethics, bk. ii. ch. 6. + +Wundt's Facts of the Moral Life, ch. iii., Section 4 (g). + +Sidgwick's Methods, concluding chapter. + +Kidd's Social Evolution, ch. 5. + +S. Bryant in Journal of Ethics, Apr. 1893. + +Bradley in Journal of Ethics, Oct. 1894. + +Mackenzie, in Journal of Ethics, Apr. 1895. + + + + +VII + +NATURE AND SPIRIT + +I + + +At this culmination of our long discussion, a discussion much confused +by its necessary mass of details, it may be well to pause a moment, to +fix attention on the great lines along which we have been moving, and +to mark the points on which they appear to converge. We have regarded +goodness as divided into two very unequal parts. The first two +chapters treated of goodness in general, a species which being shared +alike by persons and things is in no sense distinctive of persons. The +last four chapters have been given to the more complex task of +exploring the goodness of persons. + +In things we found that goodness consists in having their manifold +parts drawn into integral wholeness. And this is true also of persons. +But the modes of organization in the two cases were so unlike as to +require long elucidation. Our conclusion would seem to be that while +goodness is everywhere expressive of organization, personal conduct is +good only when consciously organized, guided, and aimed at the +development of a social self. We have seen how self-consciousness lies +at the foundation of personality, sharply discriminating persons from +things. We have seen too that wherever it is present, the person +curiously directs himself, passing through all the varieties of +purposive activity which were catalogued in the chapter on self- +direction. But such activity implies a being of variable, not of fixed +powers, a being accordingly capable of enlargement, and with +possibilities in him which every moment renders real. This progressive +realization of himself, this development, he--so far as he is good-- +consciously conducts. And finally we found in the person the strange +fact that he conceives of his good self as essentially in conjunction +with his fellow man, and recognizes that parted off and in separate +abstractness he is no person at all. Accordingly personal +organization, direction, enlargement, conjunction. Under our analysis +two antithetic worlds emerge, a world of nature and of spirit, the +former guided by blind forces, the latter self-managed. Unlike +spiritual beings, natural objects are under alien control; have not +the power of development, and when brought into close conjunction with +others are liable to disruption. + + + +II + +Accepting this vital distinction, we see that the work of spiritual +man will consist in progressively subjugating whatever natural powers +he finds within him and without, rendering them all expressive of +self-conscious purpose. for we men are not altogether spiritual; in us +two elements meet. Our spirituality is superposed on a natural basis. +Like things, we have our natural aptitudes, blind tendencies, +established functions of body and mind. These are all serviceable and +organic; but to become spiritual all need to be redeemed, or drawn +over into the field of consciousness, where our special stamp may be +set upon them. When we speak of a good act, we mean an act which shows +the results of such redemption, one whose every part has been studied +in relation to every other part, and has thus been made to bear our +own image and superscription. + +And this is essentially the Christian ideal, that spirit shall be lord +of nature. I ought to reject my natural life, accounting it not my +life at all. Until shaped by myself, it is merely my opportunity for +life, material furnished, out of which my true and conscious life may +be constructed. Widely is this contrasted with the pagan conceptions, +where man appears with powers as fixed as the things around him. +Indeed, in many forms of paganism there is no distinction between +persons and things. They are blended. And such blending usually +operates to the disparagement of the person; for things being more +numerous, and their laws more urgent, the powers of man become lost in +those of nature. Or if distinction is made, and men in some dim +fashion become aware that they are different from things, still it is +the tendency of paganism to subordinate person to nature. The child is +sacrificed to the sun. The sun is not thought of as existing for the +child. From the Christian point of view everything seems turned upside +down. Man is absorbed in natural forces, natural forces are reverenced +as divine, and self-consciousness--if noticed at all--is regarded as +an impertinent accident. + +In the Christian ideal all this is reversed. Man is called to be +master of himself, and therefore of all else. The many beautiful +adjustments of the natural world are thought to possess dignity only +so far as they accept the conscious purposes put by us in their +keeping. And in man himself goodness is held to exist only in +proportion as his conduct expresses fullness of self-consciousness, +fullness of direction, and fullness of conscious conjunction with +other persons. I do not see how we can escape this conclusion. The +careful argumentation through which the previous chapters have brought +us obliges us to count conduct valuable in proportion as it bears the +impress of self-conscious mind. + + + +III + +Yet it must be owned that during the last few centuries doubts have +arisen about the justice of this Christian ideal. The simple +conception of a world of spirit and a world of nature arrayed against +each other, the one of them exactly what the other is not, the world +of spirit the superior, the world of nature to be frowned on, used +possibly, but always in subordination to spiritual purposes,--this +view, dominant as it was in the Middle Ages, and still largely +influential, has been steadily falling into disrepute. There is even a +tendency in present estimates to reverse the ancient valuation and +allow superiority to nature. Such a transformation is strikingly +evident in those sensitive recorders of human ideals, the Fine Arts. +Let us see what at different times they have judged best worthy of +record. + +Early painting dealt with man alone, or rather with persons; for +personality in its transcendent forms--saints, angels, God himself-- +was usually preferred above little man. Except the spiritual, nothing +was regarded as of consequence. The principle of early painting might +be summed in the proud saying, "On earth there is nothing great but +man; in man there is nothing great but mind." It is true when man is +thus detached from nature he hardly appears to advantage or in his +appropriate setting. But the early painters would tolerate nothing +natural near their splendid persons. They covered their backgrounds +with gilding, so that a glory surrounded the entire figure, throwing +out the personality sharp and strong. Nothing broke its effect. But +after all, one comes to see that we inhabit a world; nature is +continually about us, and man really shows his eminence most fully +when standing dominant over nature. Early painting, accordingly, began +to set in a little landscape around the human figures, contrasting the +person with that which was not himself. But an independent interest +could not fail to spring up in these accessories. By degrees the +landscape is elaborated and the figure subordinated. The figure is +there by prescription, the landscape because people enjoy it. Nature +begins to assert her claims; and man, the eminent and worthy +representative of old ideals, retires from his ancient prominence. + +When the Renaissance revolted against the teachings of the mediaeval +church, the disposition to return to nature was insolently strong. +Natural impulses were glorified, the physical world attracted +attention, and even began to be studied. Hitherto it had been thought +deserving of study only because in a few respects it was able to +minister to man. But in the Renaissance men studied it for its own +sake. Gradually the distinction between man and nature grew faint, so +that a kind of pantheism arose in which a general power, at once +natural and spiritual, appeared as the ruler of all. We individual men +emerge for a moment from this great central power, ultimately +relapsing into it. Nature had acquired coordinate, if not superior, +rights. Yet the full expression of this independent interest in nature +is more recent than is usually observed. Landscape painting goes back +but little beyond the year sixteen hundred. It is only two or three +centuries ago that painters discovered the physical world to be worthy +of representation for its own sake. + +As the worth of nature thus became vindicated in painting, parallel +changes were wrought in the other arts. Arts less distinctly rational +began to assert themselves, and even to take the lead. The art most +characteristic of modern times, the one which most widely and +poignantly appeals to us, is music. But in music we are not distinctly +conscious of a meaning. Most of us in listening to music forget +ourselves under its lulling charms, abandon ourselves to its spell, +and by it are swept away, perhaps to the infinite, perhaps to an +obliteration of all clear thought. Is it not largely because we are so +hard pressed under the anxious conditions of modern life that music +becomes such an enormous solace and strength? I do not say that no +other factors have contributed to the vogue of music, but certainly it +is widely prized as an effective means of escape from ourselves. Music +too, though early known in calm and elementary forms, has within the +last two centuries been developed into almost a new art. + +Of all the arts poetry is the most strikingly rational and articulate. +Its material is plain thought, plain words. We employ in it the +apparatus of conscious life. Poetry was therefore concerned in early +times entirely with things of the spirit. It dealt with persons, and +with them alone. It celebrated epic actions, recorded sagacious +judgments, or uttered in lyric song emotions primarily felt by an +individual, yet interpreting the common lot of man. But there has +occurred a great change in poetry too, a change notable during the +last century but initiated long before. Poetry has been growing +naturalistic, and is to-day disposed to reject all severance of body +and spirit. The great nature movement which we associate with the +names of Cowper, Burns, and Wordsworth, has withdrawn man's attention +from conscious responsibility, and has taught him to adore blind and +vast forces which he cannot fully comprehend. We all know the +refreshment and the deepening of life which this mystic new poetry has +brought. But it is hard to say whether poetry is nowadays a spiritual +or a natural art. Many of us would incline to the latter view, and +would hold that even in dealing with persons it treats them as +embodiments of natural forces. Our instincts and unguided passions, +the features which most identify us with the physical world, are +coming more and more to be the subjects of modern poetry. + + + +IV + +Nature, meanwhile, that part of the universe which is not consciously +guided, has become within a century our favorite field of scientific +study. The very word science is popularly appropriated to naturalistic +investigation. Of course this is a perversion. Originally it was +believed that the proper study of mankind was man. And probably we +should all still acknowledge that the study of personal structure is +as truly science as study of the structure of physical objects. Yet so +powerfully is the tide setting toward reverence for the unconscious +and the sub-conscious that science, our word for knowledge, has lost +its universality and has taken on an almost exclusively physical +character. + +Perhaps there was only one farther step possible. Philosophy itself, +the study of mind, might be regarded as a study of the unconscious. +And this step has been taken. Books now bear the paradoxical title +"Philosophy of the Unconscious," and investigation of the sub- +conscious processes is perhaps the most distinctive trait of +philosophy to-day. More and more it is believed that we cannot +adequately explore a person without probing beneath consciousness. The +blind processes can no longer be ruled out. Nature and spirit cannot +be parted as our fathers supposed they might. Probably Kant is the +last great scholar who will ever try to hold that distinction firm, +and he is hardly successful. In spite of his vigorous antitheses, +hints of covert connection between the opposed forces are not absent. +Indeed, if the two are so widely parted as his usual language asserts, +it is hard to see how his ethics can have mundane worth. Curiously +enough too, at the very time when Kant was reviving this ancient +distinction, and offering it as the solid basis of personal and social +life, the opposite belief received its most clamorous announcement, +resounding through the civilized world in the teachings of Rousseau. +Rousseau warns us that the conscious constructions of man are full of +artifice and deceit, and lead to corruption and pain. Conscious +guidance should, consequently, be banished, and man should return to +the peace, the ease, and the certainty of nature. + + + +V + +Now I do not think it is worth while to blame or praise a movement so +vast as this. If it is folly to draw an indictment against a nation, +it is greater folly to indict all modern civilization. We must not say +that philosophy and the fine arts took a wrong turn at the +Renaissance,--at least it is useless to call on them now to turn back. +The world seldom turns back. It absorbs, it re-creates, it brings new +significance into the older thought. All progress, Goethe tells us, is +spiral,--coming out at the place where it was before, but higher up. +No, we cannot wisely blame or praise, but we may patiently study and +understand. That is what I am attempting to do here. The movement +described is no negligible accident of our time. It is world-wide, and +shows progress steadily in a single direction. + +In order, however, to prove that such a change in moral estimates has +occurred, it was hardly necessary to survey the course of history. The +evidence lies close around us, and is found in the standards of the +society in which we move. Who are the people most prized? Are they the +most self-conscious? That should be the case if our long argument is +sound. Our preceding chapters would urge us to fill life with +consciousness. In proportion as consciousness droops, human goodness +becomes meagre; as our acts are filled with it, they grow excellent. +These are our theoretic conclusions, but the experience of daily life +does not bear them out. If, for example, I find the person who is +talking to me watches each word he utters, pauses again and again for +correction, choosing the determined word and rejecting the one which +instinctively comes to his lips, I do not trust what he says, or even +listen to it; while he is shaping his exact sentences I attend to +something else. In general, if a man's small actions impress us as +minutely planned, we turn from him. It is not the self-reflecting +persons, cautious of all they do, say, or think, who are popular. It +is rather those instinctively spontaneous creatures characterized by +abandon--men and women who let themselves go, and with all the wealth +of the world in them, allow it to come out of itself--that we take to +our hearts. We prize them for their want of deliberation. In short, we +give our unbiased endorsement not to the spiritual or consciously +guided person, but to him, on the contrary, who shows the closest +adjustment to nature. + + + +VI + +Yet even so, we have gone too far afield for evidence. First we +surveyed the ages, then we surveyed one another. But there is one +proof-spot nearer still. Let us survey ourselves. I am much mistaken +if there are not among my readers persons who have all their lives +suffered from self-consciousness. They have longed to be rid of it, to +be free to think of the other person, of the matter in hand. Instead +of this, their thoughts are forever reverting to their own share in +any affair. Too contemptible to be avowed, and more distressing than +almost any other species of suffering, excessive self-consciousness +shames us with our selfishness, yet will not allow us to turn from it. +When I go into company where everybody is spontaneous and free, easily +uttering what the occasion calls for, I can utter only what I call for +and not at all what the occasion asks. Between the two demands there +is always an awkward jar. When tortured by such experiences it does +not soothe to have others carelessly remark, "Oh, just be natural!" +That is precisely what we should like to be, but how? That little +point is continually left unexplained. Yet obviously self- +consciousness involves something like a deadlock. For how can one +consciously exert himself to be unconscious and try not to try? We +cannot arrange our lives so as to have no arrangement in them, and +when shaking hands with a friend, for example, be on our guard against +noticing. Once locked up in this vicious circle, we seem destined to +be prisoners forever. That is what constitutes the anguish of the +situation. The most tyrannical of jailers--one's self--is over us, and +from his bondage we are powerless to escape. The trouble is by no +means peculiar to our time, though probably commoner forty years ago +than at any other period of the world's history. But it had already +attracted the attention of Shakespeare, who bases on it one of his +greatest plays. When Hamlet would act, self-consciousness stands in +his way. The hindering process is described in the famous soliloquy +with astonishing precision and vividness, if only we substitute our +modern term "self-consciousness" for that which was its ancient +equivalent:-- + + "Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; + And thus the native hue of resolution + Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; + And enterprises of great pith and moment + With this regard their currents turn awry, + And lose the name of action." + +And such is our experience. We, too, have purposed all manner of +important and serviceable acts; but just as we were setting them in +execution, consideration fell upon us. We asked whether it was the +proper moment, whether he to whom it was to be done was really needy, +or were we the fit doer, or should it be done in this way or that. We +hesitated, and the moment was gone. Self-consciousness had again +demonstrated its incompetence for superintending a task. Many of us, +far from regarding self-consciousness as a ground of goodness, are +disposed to look upon it as a curse. + + + +VII + +Before, however, attempting to discover whether our theoretic +conclusions may he drawn into some sort of living accord with these +results of experience, let us probe a little more minutely into these +latter, and try to learn what reasons there may be for this very +general distrust of self-consciousness as a guide. Hitherto I have +exhibited that distrust as a fact. We always find it so; our neighbors +find it so, the ages have found it so. But why? I have not pointed out +precisely the reasons for the continual fact. Let me devote a page or +two to rational diagnosis. + +To begin with, I suppose it will be conceded that we really cannot +guide ourselves through and through. There are certain large tracts of +life totally unamenable to consciousness. + +Of our two most important acts, and those by which the remaining ones +are principally affected, birth and death, the one is necessarily +removed from conscious guidance, and the other is universally +condemned if so guided. We do not--as we have previously seen--happen +to be present at our birth, and so are quite cut off from controlling +that. Yet the conditions of birth very considerably shape everything +else in life. We cannot, then, be purely spiritual; it is impossible. +We must be natural beings at our beginning; and at the other end the +state of things is largely similar, for we are not allowed to fix the +time of our departure. The Stoics were. "If the house smokes," they +said, "leave it." When life is no longer worth while, depart. But +Christianity will not allow this. Death must be a natural affair, not +a spiritual. I am to wait till a wandering bacillus alights in my +lung. He will provide a suitable exit for me. But neither I nor my +neighbors must decide my departure. Let laws of nature reign. + +And if these two tremendous events are altogether removed from +conscious guidance, many others are but slightly amenable to it. The +great organic processes both of mind and body are only indirectly, or +to a partial extent, under the control of consciousness. A few +persons, I believe, can voluntarily suspend the beating of their +hearts. They are hardly to be envied. The majority of us let our +hearts alone, and they work better than if we tried to work them. +Though it is true that we can control our breathing, and that we +occasionally do so, this also in general we wisely leave to natural +processes. A similar state of affairs we find when we turn to the mind +itself. The association of ideas, that curious process by which one +thought sticks to another and through being thus linked draws after it +material for use in all our intellectual constructions, goes on for +the most part unguided. It would be plainly useless, therefore, to +treat our great distinction as something hard and fast. Nature and +spirit may be contrasted; they cannot be sundered. Spirit removed from +nature would become impotent, while nature would then proceed on a +meaningless career. + +Then too there are all sorts of degrees in consciousness. No man was +ever so conscious of himself and his acts that he could not be more +so. When introspection is causing us our sharpest distress, it may +still be rendered more minute. That is one cause of its peculiar +anguish. We are always uncertain whether our troubles have not arisen +from too little self-consciousness, and we whip ourselves into greater +nicety and elaborateness of personal observation. Varying through a +multitude of degrees, the fullness of consciousness is never reached. +A more thorough exercise of it is always possible. At the last, nature +must be admitted as a partner in the control of our lives, and her +share in that partnership the present age believes to be a large one. + + + +VIII + +For could we always consciously steer our conduct, we should be unwise +to do so. Consciousness hinders action. Acts are excellent in +proportion as they are sure, swift, and easy. When we undertake +anything, we seek to do exactly that thing, reach precisely that end, +and not merely to hit something in the neighborhood. Occasions, too, +run fast, and should be seized on the minute. Action is excellent only +when it meets the urgent and evasive demands of life. Faltering and +hesitation are fatal. Nor must action unduly weary. Good conduct +effects its results with the least necessary expenditure of effort. +When there are so many demands pressing upon us, we should not allow +ourselves to become exhausted by a single act, but should keep +ourselves fresh for further needs. Efficient action, then, is sure, +swift, and easy. + +Now the peculiarity of self-consciousness is that it hinders all this +and makes action inaccurate, slow, and fatiguing. Inaccuracy is almost +certain. When we study how something is to be done, we are apt to lay +stress on certain features of the situation, and not to bring others +into due prominence. It is difficult separately to correlate the many +elements which go to make up a desired result. Sometimes we become +altogether puzzled and for the moment the action ceases. When I have +had occasion to drive a screw in some unusual and inconvenient place, +after setting the blade of the screw-driver into the slot I have asked +myself, "In which direction does this screw turn?" But the longer I +ask, the more uncertain I am. My only solution lies in trusting my +hand, which knows a great deal more about the matter than I. When we +once begin to meditate how a word is spelled, how helpless we are! It +is better to drop the question, and pick up the dictionary. In all +such cases consideration tends to confuse. + +It tends to delay, too, as everybody knows. To survey all the +relations in which a given act may stand, to balance their relative +gains and losses, and with full sight to decide on the course which +offers the greatest profit, would require the years of Methuselah. But +at what point shall we cut the process short? To obtain full +knowledge, we should pass in review all that relates to the act we +propose; should inquire what its remoter consequences will be, and how +it will affect not merely myself, my cousin, my great-grandchild, but +the man in the next street, city, or state. There is no stopping. To +carry conscious verification over a moderate range is slow business. +If on the impulse of occasion we dash off an action unreflectingly, +life will be swift and simple. If we try to anticipate all +consequences of our task it will be slow and endless. + +Nor need I dwell on the fatigue such conscious work involves. In +writing a letter, we usually sit down before our paper, our minds +occupied with what we would say. We allow our fingers to stroll of +themselves across the page, and we hardly notice whether they move or +not. If anybody should ask, "How did you write the letter _s?_" we +should be obliged to look on the paper to see. But suppose, instead +of writing in this way, I come to the task to-morrow determined to +superintend all the work consciously. How shall I hold my pen in the +best possible manner? How shape this letter so that each of its curves +gets its exact bulge? How give the correct slant to what is above or +below the line? I will not ask how long a time a letter prepared in +this fashion would require, or whether when written it would be fit to +read, for I wish to fix attention on the exhaustion of the writer. He +certainly could endure such fatigue for no more than a single epistle. +The schoolboy, when forced to it, seldom holds out for more than half +a page, though he employs every contortion of shoulder, tongue, and +leg to ease and diversify the struggle. + +A dozen years ago some nonsense verses were running through the +papers,--verses pointing out with humorous precision the very +infelicities of conscious control to which I am now directing +attention. They put the case thus:-- + + "The centipede was happy, quite, + Until the toad for fun + Said, 'Pray which leg comes after which?' + This worked her mind to such a pitch + She lay distracted in a ditch, + Considering how to run." + +And no wonder! Problems so complex as this should be left to the +disposal of nature, and not be drawn over into the region of spiritual +guidance. But the complexities of the centipede are simple matters +when compared with the elaborate machinery of man. The human mind +offers more alternatives in a minute than does the centipede in a +lifetime. If spiritual guidance is inadequate to the latter, and is +found merely to hinder action, why is not the blind control of nature +necessary for the former also? Our age believes it is and, ever +disparaging the conscious world, attaches steadily greater consequence +to the unconscious. "It is the unintelligent me," writes Dr. O. W. +Holmes, "stupid as an idiot, that has to try a thing a thousand times +before he can do it and then never knows how he does it, that at last +does it well. We have to educate ourselves through the pretentious +claims of intellect into the humble accuracy of instinct; and we end +at last by acquiring the dexterity, the perfection, the certainty +which those masters of arts, the bee and the spider, inherit from +nature." + + + +REFERENCES ON NATURE AND SPIRIT + +Green's Prolegomena, Section 297. + +Dewey's Study of Ethics, Section xli. + +Seth's Study of Ethical Principles, pt. i. ch. 3, Section 6. + +Alexander's Moral Order and Progress, bk. i. ch. i. Section iii. + +Earle's English Prose, p. 490-500. + +Palmer in The Forum, Jan. 1893. + + + + +VII + +THE THREE STAGES OF GOODNESS + +I + + +Such is the mighty argument conducted through several centuries in +behalf of nature against spirit as a director of conduct. I have +stated it at length both because of its own importance and because it +is in seeming conflict with the results of my early chapters. But +those results stand fast. They were reached with care. To reject them +would be to obliterate all distinction between persons and things. +Self-consciousness is the indisputable prerogative of persons. Only so +far as we possess it and apply it in action do we rise above the +impersonal world around. And even if we admit the contention in behalf +of nature as substantially sound, we are not obliged to accept it as +complete. It may be that neither nature nor spirit can be dispensed +with in the supply of human needs. Each may have its characteristic +office; for though in the last chapter I have been setting forth the +superiorities of natural guidance, in spiritual guidance there are +advantages too, advantages of an even more fundamental kind. Let us +see what they are. + +They may be summarily stated in a single sentence: consciousness alone +gives fresh initiative. Disturbing as the influence of consciousness +confessedly is, on its employment depends every possibility of +progress. Natural action is regular, constant, conformed to a pattern. +In the natural world event follows event in a fixed order, Under the +same conditions the same result appears an indefinite number of times. +The most objectionable form of this rigidity is found in mechanism. I +sometimes hear ladies talking about "real lace" and am on such +occasions inclined to speak of my real boots. They mean, I find, not +lace that is the reverse of ghostly, but simply that which bears the +impress of personality. It is lace which is made by hand and shows the +marks of hand work. Little irregularities are in it, contrasting it +with the machine sort, where every piece is identical with every other +piece. It might be more accurately called personal lace. The machine +kind is no less real--unfortunately--but mechanism is hopelessly dull, +says the same thing day after day, and never can say anything else. + +Now though this coarse form of monotonous process nowhere appears in +what we call the world of nature, a restriction substantially similar +does; for natural objects vary slowly and within the narrowest limits. +Outside such orderly variations, they are subjected to external and +distorting agencies effecting changes in them regardless of their +gains. Branches of trees have their wayward and subtle curvatures, and +are anything but mechanical in outline. But none the less are they +helpless, unprogressive, and incapable of learning. The forces which +play upon them, being various, leave a truly varied record. But each +of these forces was an invariable one, and their several influences +cannot be sorted, judged, and selected by the tree with reference to +its future growth. Criticism and choice have no place here, and +accordingly anything like improvement from year to year is impossible. + +The case of us human beings would be the same if we were altogether +managed by the sure, swift, and easy forces of nature. Progress would +cease. We should move on our humdrum round as fixedly constituted, as +submissive to external influence, and with as little exertion of +intelligence as the dumb objects we behold. Every power within us +would be actual, displayed in its full extent, and involving no +variety of future possibility. We should live altogether in the +present, and no changes would be imagined or sought. From this dull +routine we are saved by the admixture of consciousness. For a gain so +great we may well be ready to encounter those difficulties of +conscious guidance which my last chapter detailed. Let the process of +advance be inaccurate, slow, and severe, so only there be advance. For +progress no cost is too great. I am sometimes inclined to congratulate +those who are acute sufferers through self-consciousness, because to +them the door of the future is open. The instinctive, uncritical +person, who takes life about as it comes, and with ready acceptance +responds promptly to every suggestion that calls, may be as popular as +the sunshine, but he is as incapable of further advance. Except in +attractiveness, such a one is usually in later life about what he was +in youth; for progress is a product of forecasting intelligence. When +any new creation is to be introduced, only consciousness can prepare +its path. + +Evidently, then, there are strong advantages in guidance through the +spirit. But natural guidance has advantages no less genuine. Human +life is a complex and demanding affair, requiring for its ever- +enlarging good whatever strength can be summoned from every side. +Probably we must abandon that magnificent conception of our ancestors, +that spirit is all in all and nature unimportant. But must we, in +deference to the temper of our time, eliminate conscious guidance +altogether? May not the disparagement of recent ages have arisen in +reaction against attempts to push conscious guidance into regions +where it is unsuitable? Conceivably the two agencies may be +supplementary. Possibly we may call on our fellow of the natural world +for aid in spiritual work. The complete ideal, at any rate, of good +conduct unites the swiftness, certainty, and ease of natural action +with the selective progressiveness of spiritual. Till such a +combination is found, either conduct will be insignificant or great +distress of self-consciousness will be incurred. Both of these evils +will be avoided if nature can be persuaded to do the work which we +clearly intend. That is what goodness calls on us to effect. To +showing the steps through which it may be reached the remainder of +this chapter will be given. + + + +II + +Let us, then, take a case of action where we are trying to create a +new power, to develop ourselves in some direction in which we have not +hitherto gone. For such an undertaking consciousness is needed, but +let us see how far we are able to hand over its work to +unconsciousness. Suppose, when entirely ignorant of music, I decide to +learn to play the piano. Evidently it will require the minutest +watchfulness. Approaching the strange instrument with some uneasiness, +I try to secure exactly that position on the stool which will allow my +arms their proper range along the keyboard. There is difficulty in +getting my sheet of music to stand as it should. When it is adjusted, +I examine it anxiously. What is that little mark? Probably the note C. +Among these curious keys there must also be a C. I look up and down. +There it is! But can I bring my finger down upon it at just the right +angle? That is accomplished, and gradually note after note is +captured, until I have conquered the entire score. If now during my +laborious performance a friend enters the room, he might well say, "I +do not like spiritual music. Give me the natural kind which is not +consciously directed." But let him return three years later. He will +find me sitting at the piano quite at my ease, tossing off notes by +the unregarded handful. He approaches and enters into conversation +with me. I do not cease my playing; but as I talk, I still keep my +mind free enough to observe the swaying boughs outside the window and +to enjoy the fragrance of the flowers which my friend has brought. The +musical phrases which drop from my fingers appear to regulate +themselves and to call for little conscious regard. + +Yet if my friend should try to show me how mistaken I had been in the +past, attempting to manage consciously what should have been left to +nature, if he should eulogize my natural action now and contrast it +with my former awkwardness, he would plainly be in error. My present +naturalness is the result of long spiritual endeavor, and cannot be +had on cheaper terms; and the unconsciousness which is now noticeable +in me is not the same thing as that which was with me when I began to +play. It is true the incidental hardships connected with my first +attack on the piano have ceased. I find myself in possession of a new +and seemingly unconscious power. An automatic train of movements has +been constructed which I now direct as a whole, its parts no longer +requiring special volitional prompting. But I still direct it, only +that a larger unit has been constituted for consciousness to act upon. +The naturalness which thus becomes possible is accordingly of an +altogether new sort; and since the result is a completer expression of +conscious intention, it may as truly be called spiritual as natural. + + + +III + +It has now become plain that our early reckoning of actions as either +natural or spiritual was too simple and incomplete. Conduct has three +stages, not two. Let us get them clearly in mind. At the beginning of +life we are at the beck and call of every impulse, not having yet +attained reflective command of ourselves. This first stage we may +rightly call that of nature or of unconsciousness, and manifestly most +of us continue in it to some extent and as regards certain tracts of +action throughout life. Then reflection is aroused; we become aware of +what we are doing. The many details of each act and the relations +which surround it come separately into conscious attention for +assessment, approval, or rejection. This is the stage of spirit, or +consciousness. But it is not the final stage. As we have seen in our +example, a stage is possible when action runs swiftly to its intended +end, but with little need of conscious supervision. This mechanized, +purposeful action presents conduct in its third stage, that of second +nature or negative consciousness. As this third is least understood, +is often confused with the first, and yet is in reality the complete +expression of the moral ideal and of that reconciliation of nature and +spirit of which we are in search, I will devote a few pages to its +explanation. + +The phrase negative consciousness describes its character most +exactly, though the meaning is not at once apparent. Positive +consciousness marks the second stage. There we are obliged to think of +each point involved, in order to bring it into action. In piano- +playing, for example, I had to study my seat at the piano, the music +on the rack, the letters of the keyboard, the position of my fingers, +and the coordination of all these with one another. To each such +matter a separate and positive attention is given. But even at the +last, when I am playing at my ease, we cannot say that consciousness +is altogether absent. I am conscious of the harmony, and if I do not +direct, I still verify results. As an entire phrase of music rolls off +my rapid fingers, I judge it to be good. But if one of the notes +sticks, or I perceive that the phrase might be improved by a slightly +changed stress, I can check my spontaneous movements and correct the +error. There is therefore a watchful, if not a prompting, +consciousness at work. It is true that, the first note started, all +the others follow of themselves in natural sequence. Though I withdraw +attention from my fingers, they run their round as a part of the +associated train. But if they go awry, consciousness is ready with its +inhibition. I accordingly call this the stage of negative +consciousness. In it consciousness is not employed as a positive +guiding force, but the moment inhibition or check is required for +reaching the intended result, consciousness is ready and asserts +itself in the way of forbiddal. This third stage, therefore, differs +from the first through having its results embody a conscious purpose; +from the second, through having consciousness superintend the process +in a negative and hindering, rather than in a positive and prompting +way. It is the stage of habit. I call it second nature because it is +worked, not by original instincts, but by a new kind of associative +mechanism which must first be laboriously constructed. + +Years ago when I began to teach at Harvard College, we used to regard +our students as roaring animals, likely to destroy whatever came in +their way. We instructors were warned to keep the doors of our lecture +rooms barred. As we came out, we must never fail to lock them. So +always in going to a lecture, as I passed through the stone entry and +approached the door my hand sought my pocket, the key came out, was +inserted in the keyhole, turned, was withdrawn, fell back into my +pocket, and I entered the room. This series of acts repeated day after +day had become so mechanized that if on entering the room I had been +asked whether on that particular day I had really unlocked the door, I +could not have told. The train took care of itself and I was not +concerned in it sufficiently for remembrance. Yet it remained my act. +On one or two occasions, after shoving in the key in my usual +unconscious fashion, I heard voices in the room and knew that it would +be inappropriate to enter. Instantly I stopped and checked the +remainder of the train. Habitual though the series of actions was, and +ordinarily executed without conscious guidance, it as a whole was +aimed at a definite end. If this were unattainable, the train stopped. + +All are aware how large a part is played by such mechanization of +conduct. Without it, life could not go on. When a man walks to the +door, he does not decide where to set his foot, what shall be the +length of his step, how he shall maintain his balance on the foot that +is down while the other is raised. These matters were decided when he +was a child. In those infant years which seem to us intellectually so +stationary, a human being is probably making as large acquisitions as +at any period of his later life. He is testing alternatives and +organizing experience into ordered trains. But in the rest of us a +consolidation substantially similar should be going on in some section +of our experience as long as we live. For this is the way we develop: +not the total man at once, but this year one tract of conduct is +surveyed, judged, mechanized; and next year another goes through the +same maturing process. Not until such mechanization has been +accomplished is the conduct truly ours. When, for example, I am +winning the power of speech, I gradually cease to study exactly the +word I utter, the tone in which it is enunciated, how my tongue, lips, +and teeth shall be adjusted in reference to one another. While +occupied with these things, I am no speaker. I become such only when, +the moment I think of a word, the actions needed for its utterance set +themselves in motion. With them I have only a negative concern. +Indeed, as we grow maturer of speech, collocations of words stick +naturally together and offer themselves to our service. When we +require a certain range of words from which to draw our means of +communication, there they stand ready. We have no need to rummage the +dimness of the past for them. Mechanically they are prepared for our +service. + +Of course this does not imply that at one period we foolishly believed +consciousness to be an important guide, but subsequently becoming +wiser, discarded its aid. On the contrary, the mechanization of second +nature is simply a mode of extending the influence of consciousness +more widely. The conclusions of our early lectures were sound. The +more fully expressive conduct can be of a self-conscious personality, +so much the more will it deserve to be called good. But in order that +it may in any wide extent receive this impress of personal life, we +must summon to our aid agencies other than spiritual. The more we +mechanize conduct the better. That is what maturing ourselves means. +When we say that a man has acquired character, we mean that he has +consciously surveyed certain large tracts of life, and has decided +what in those regions it is best to do. There, at least, he will no +longer need to deliberate about action. As soon as a case from this +region presents itself, some electric button in his moral organism is +touched, and the whole mechanism runs off in the surest, swiftest, +easiest possible way. Thus his consciousness is set free to busy +itself with other affairs. For in this third stage we do not so much +abandon consciousness as direct it upon larger units; and this not +because smaller units do not deserve attention, but because they have +been already attended to. Once having decided what is our best mode of +action in regard to them, we wisely turn them over to mechanical +control. + + + +IV + +Such is the nature of moral habit. Before goodness can reach +excellence, it must be rendered habitual. Consideration, the mark of +the second stage, disappears in the third. We cannot count a person +honest so long as he has to decide on each occasion whether to take +advantage of his neighbor. Long ago he should have disciplined himself +into machine-like action as regards these matters, so that the +dishonest opportunity would be instinctively and instantly dismissed, +the honest deed appearing spontaneously. That man has not an amiable +character who is obliged to restrain his irritation, and through all +excitement and inner rage curbs himself courageously. Not until +conduct is spontaneous, rooted in a second nature, does it indicate +the character of him from whom it proceeds. + +That unconsciousness is necessary for the highest goodness is a +cardinal principle in the teaching of Jesus. Other teachers of his +nation undertook clearly to survey the entirety of human life, to +classify its situations and coolly to decide the amount of good and +evil contained in each. Righteousness according to the Pharisees was +found in conscious conformity to these decisions. Theirs was the +method of casuistry, the method of minute, critical, and instructed +judgment. The fields of morality and the law were practically +identified, goodness becoming externalized and regarded as everywhere +substantially the same for one man as for another. Pharisaism, in +short, stuck in the second stage. Jesus emphasized the unconscious and +subjective factor. He denounced the considerate conduct of the +Pharisees as not righteousness at all. It was mere will-worship. Jesus +preached a religion of the heart, and taught that righteousness must +become an individual passion, similar to the passions of hunger and +thirst, if it would attain to any worth. So long as evil is easy and +natural for us, and good difficult, we are evil. We must be born +again. We must attain a new nature. Our right hand must not know what +our left hand does. We must become as little children, if we would +enter into the kingdom of heaven. + +The chief difficulty in comprehending this doctrine of the three +stages lies in the easy confusion of the first and the third. Jesus +guards against this, not bidding us to be or to remain children, but +to become such. The unconsciousness and simplicity of childhood is the +goal, not the starting-point. The unconsciousness aimed at is not of +the same kind as that with which we set out. In early life we catch +the habits of our home or even derive our conduct from hereditary +bias. We begin, therefore, as purely natural creatures, not asking +whether the ways we use are the best. Those ways are already fixed in +the usages of speech, the etiquettes of society, the laws of our +country. These things make up the uncriticised warp and woof of our +lives, often admirably beautiful lives. When speaking in my last +chapter of the way in which our age has come to eulogize guidance by +natural conditions, I might have cited as a striking illustration the +prevalent worship of childhood. Only within the last century has the +child cut much of a figure in literature. He is an important enough +figure to-day, both in and out of books. In him nature is displayed +within the spiritual field, nature with the possibilities of spirit, +but those possibilities not yet realized. We accordingly reverence the +child and delight to watch him. How charming he is, graceful in +movement, swift of speech, picturesque in action! Enviable little +being! The more so because he is able to retain his perfection for so +brief a time. + +But we all know the unhappy period from seven to fourteen when he who +formerly was all grace and spontaneity discovers that he has too many +arms and legs. How disagreeable the boy then becomes! Before, we liked +to see him playing about the room. Now we ask why he is allowed to +remain. For he is a ceaseless disturber; constantly noisy and +constantly aware of making a noise, his excuses are as bad as his +indiscretions. He cannot speak without making some awkward blunder. He +is forever asking questions without knowing what to do with the +answers. A confused and confusing creature! We say he has grown +backward. Where before he was all that is estimable, he has become all +that we do not wish him to be. + +All that _we_ do not wish him to be, but certainly much more what God +wishes him to be. For if we could get rid of our sense of annoyance, +we should see that he is here reaching a higher stage, coming into his +heritage and obtaining a life of his own. Formerly he lived merely the +life of those about him. He laid a self-conscious grasp on nothing of +his own. When now at length he does lay that grasp, we must permit him +to be awkward, and to us disagreeable. We should aid him through the +inaccurate, slow, and fatiguing period of his existence until, having +tested many tracts of life and learned in them how to mechanize +desirable conduct, he comes back on their farther side to a childhood +more beautiful than the original. Many a man and woman possesses this +disciplined childhood through life. Goodness seems the very atmosphere +they breathe, and everything they do to be exactly fitting. Their acts +are performed with full self-expression, yet without strut or +intrusion of consciousness. Whatever comes from them is happily +blended and organized into the entirety of life. Such should be our +aim. We should seek to be born again, and not to remain where we were +originally born. + + + +V + +In what has now been said there is a good deal of comfort for those +who suffer the pains of self-consciousness, previously described. They +need not seek a lower degree of self-consciousness, but only to +distribute more wisely what they now possess. In fullness of +consciousness they may well rejoice, recognizing its possession as a +power. But they should take a larger unit for its exercise. In meeting +a friend, for example, we are prone to think of ourselves, how we are +speaking or poising our body. But suppose we transfer our +consciousness to the subject of our talk, and allow ourselves a hearty +interest in that. Leaving the details of speech and posture to +mechanized past habits, we may turn all the force of our conscious +attention on the fresh issues of the discussion. With these we may +identify ourselves, and so experience the enlargement which new +materials bring. When we were studying the intricacies of self- +sacrifice, we found that the generous man is not so much the self- +denier or even the self-forgetter, but rather he who is mindful of his +larger self. He turns consciousness from his abstract and isolated +self and fixes it upon his related and conjunct self. But that is a +process which may go on everywhere. Our rule should be to withdraw +attention from isolated minutiae, for which a glance is sufficient. +Giving merely that glance, we may then leave them to themselves. +Encouraging them to become mechanized, we should use these mechanized +trains in the higher ranges of living. The cure for self-consciousness +is not suppression, but the turning of it upon something more +significant. + + + +VI + +Every habit, however, requires perpetual adjustment, or it may rule us +instead of allowing us instead to rule through it. We do well to let +alone our mechanized trains while they do not lead us into evil. So +long as they run in the right direction, instincts are better than +intentions. But repeatedly we need to study results,--and see if we +are arriving at the goal where we would be. If not, then habit +requires readjustment. From such negative control a habit should never +be allowed to escape. This great world of ours does not stand still. +Every moment its conditions are altering. Whatever action fits it now +will be pretty sure to be a slight misfit next year. No one can be +thoroughly good who is not a flexible person, capable of drawing back +his trains, reexamining them, and bringing them into better adjustment +to his purposes. + +It is meaningless, then, to ask whether we should be intuitive and +spontaneous, or considerate and deliberate. There is no such +alternative. We need both dispositions. We should seek to attain a +condition of swift spontaneity, of abounding freedom, of the absence +of all restraint, and should not rest satisfied with the conditions in +which we were born. But we must not suffer that even the new nature +should be allowed to become altogether natural. It should be but the +natural engine for spiritual ends, itself repeatedly scrutinized with +a view to their better fulfillment. + + + +VII + +The doctrine of the three stages of conduct, elaborated in this +chapter, explains some curious anomalies in the bestowal of praise, +and at the same time receives from that doctrine farther elucidation. +When is conduct praiseworthy? When may we fairly claim honor from our +fellows and ourselves? There is a ready answer. Nothing is +praiseworthy which is not the result of effort. I do not praise a lady +for her beauty, I admire her. The athlete's splendid body I envy, +wishing that mine were like it. But I do not praise him. Or does the +reader hesitate; and while acknowledging that admiration and envy may +be our leading feelings here, think that a certain measure of praise +is also due? It may be. Perhaps the lady has been kind enough by care +to heighten her beauty. Perhaps those powerful muscles are partly the +result of daily discipline. These persons, then, are not undeserving +of praise, at least to the extent that they have used effort. Seeing a +collection of china, I admire the china, but praise the collector. It +is hard to obtain such pieces. Large expense is required, long +training too, and constant watchfulness. Accordingly I am interested +in more than the collection. I give praise to the owner. A learned man +we admire, honor, envy, but also praise. His wisdom is the result of +effort. + +Plainly, then, praise and blame are attributable exclusively to +spiritual beings. Nature is unfit for honor. We may admire her, may +wish that our ways were like hers, and envy her great law-abiding +calm. But it would be foolish to praise her, or even to blame when her +volcanoes overwhelm our friends. We praise spirit only, conscious +deeds. Where self-directed action forces its path to a worthy goal, we +rightly praise the director. + +Now, if all this is true, there seems often-times a strange +unsuitableness in praise. We may well decline to receive it. To praise +some of our good qualities, pretty fundamental ones too, often strikes +us as insulting. You are asked a sudden question and put in a +difficult strait for an answer. "Yes," I say, "but you actually did +tell the truth. I wish to congratulate you. You were successful and +deserve much praise." But who would feel comfortable under such +eulogy? And why not? If telling the truth is a spiritual excellence +and the result of effort, why should it not be praised? But there lies +the trouble. I assumed that to be a truth-teller required strain on +your part. In reality it would have required greater strain for +falsehood. It might then seem that I should praise those who are not +easily excellent, since I am forbidden to praise those who are. And +something like this seems actually approved. If a boy on the street, +who has been trained hardly to distinguish truth from lies, some day +stumbles into a bit of truth, I may justly praise him. "Splendid +fellow! No word of falsehood there!" But when I see the father of his +country bearing his little hatchet, praise is unfit; for George +Washington cannot tell a lie. + +Absurd as this conclusion appears, I believe it states our soundest +moral judgment; for praise never escapes an element of disparagement. +It implies that the unexpected has happened. If I praise a man for +learning, it is because I had supposed him ignorant; if for helping +the unfortunate, I hint that I did not anticipate that he would regard +any but himself. Wherever praise appears, we cannot evade the +suggestion that excellence is a matter of surprise. And as nobody +likes to be thought ill-adapted to excellence, praise may rightly be +resented. + +It is true, there is a group of cases where praise seems differently +employed. We can praise those whom we recognize as high and lifted up. +"Sing praises unto the Lord, sing praises," the Psalmist says. And our +hearts respond. We feel it altogether appropriate. We do not disparage +God by daily praise. No, but the element of disparagement is still +present, for we are really disparaging ourselves. That is the true +significance of praise offered to the confessedly great. For them, the +praise is inappropriate. But it is, nevertheless, appropriate that it +should be offered by us little people who stand below and look up. +Praising the wise man, I really declare my ignorance to be so great +that I have difficulty in conceiving myself in his place. For me, it +would require long years of forbidding work before I could attain to +his wisdom. And even in the extreme form of this praise of superiors, +substantially the same meaning holds. We praise God in order to abase +ourselves. Him we cannot really praise. That we understand at the +start. He is beyond commendation. Excellence covers him like a +garment, and is not attained, like ours, by struggle through +obstacles. Yet this difference between him and us we can only express +by trying to imagine ourselves like him, and saying how difficult such +excellence would then be. We have here, therefore, a sort of reversed +praise, where the disparagement which praise always carries falls +exclusively on the praiser. And such cases are by no means uncommon, +cases in which there is at least a pretense on the praiser's part of +setting himself below the one praised. But praise usually proceeds +down from above, and then, implicitly, we disparage him whom we +profess to exalt. + +Nor do I see how this is to be avoided; for praise belongs to goodness +gained by effort, while excellence is not reached till effort ceases +in second nature. To assert through praise that goodness is still a +struggle is to set the good man back from our third stage to our +second. In fact by the time he really reaches excellence praise has +lost its fitness, goodness now being easier than badness, and no +longer something difficult, unexpected, and demanding reward. For this +reason those persons are usually most greedy of praise who have a +rather low opinion of themselves. Being afraid that they are not +remarkable, they are peculiarly delighted when people assure them that +they are. Accordingly the greatest protection against vanity is pride. +The proud man, assured of his powers, hears the little praisers and is +amused. How much more he knows about it than they! Inner worth stops +the greedy ear. When we have something to be vain about, we are seldom +vain. + + + +VIII + +But if all this is true, why should praise be sweet? In candor most of +us will own that there is little else so desired. When almost every +other form of dependence is laid by, to our secret hearts the good +words of neighbors are dear. And well they may be! Our pleasure +testifies how closely we are knitted together. We cannot be satisfied +with a separated consciousness, but demand that the consciousness of +all shall respond to our own. A glorious infirmity then! And the +peculiar sweetness which praise brings is grounded in the +consciousness of our weakness. In certain regions of my life, it is +true, goodness has become fairly natural; and there of course praise +strikes me as ill-adjusted and distasteful. I do not like to have my +manners praised, my honesty, or my diligence. But there are other +tracts where I know I am still in the stage of conscious effort. In +this extensive region, aware of my feebleness and hearing an inward +call to greater heights, it will always be cheering to hear those +about me say, "Well done!" Of course in saying this they will +inevitably hint that I have not yet reached an end, and their praises +will displease unless I too am ready to acknowledge my incompleteness. +But when this is acknowledged, praise is welcome and invigorating. I +suspect we deal in it too little. If imagination were more active, and +we were more willing to enter sympathetically the inner life of our +struggling and imperfect comrades, we should bestow it more liberally. +Occasion is always at hand. None of us ever quite passes beyond the +deliberate, conscious, and praise-deserving line. In some parts of our +being we are farther advanced, and may there be experiencing the peace +and assurance of a considerable second nature. But there too perpetual +verification is necessary. And so many tracts remain unsubdued or +capable of higher cultivation that throughout our lives, perhaps on +into eternity, effort will still find room for work, and suitable +praises may attend it. + + + +REFERENCES ON THE THREE STAGES OF GOODNESS + +James's Psychology, ch. iv. + +Bain's Emotions and the Will, ch. ix. + +Wundt's Facts of the Moral Life, ch. iii. + +Stephen's Science of Ethics, ch. vii. Section iii. + +Martineau's Types of Ethical Theory, pt. ii. bk. i. ch. iii. + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Nature of Goodness, by George Herbert Palmer + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NATURE OF GOODNESS *** + +This file should be named 6101.txt or 6101.zip + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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